Dragon Song
Dock A
In a word, they were sent to assist, not to replace, him.
Jen Sin put his cup down with very great care, and looked, first at Ren Zel, then at Anthora.
“Cousins, I must be plain. I am a danger, to the clan and to the clan’s interests on this station. The more who arrive, the more dangerous I become—to all and to everything. Tinsori Light…”
He closed his eyes, horrified to find himself near to weeping.
“I have been compromised,” he said, speaking as simply as he was able, perilously close to the children’s mode, “in ways that I hope you are not—are never—able to understand. You must, however, believe me. I am…unreliable, and becoming more so.”
“The delm,” Anthora said firmly, “sent you a Healer, Cousin Jen Sin. My brother Val Con said to me that you are Korval’s guarantee against treachery.”
It was—no. He would not laugh. Once begun, he would not stop.
“Is the delm mad?” he asked, instead, which was not well done of him.
Anthora raised an eyebrow.
“All delms are understood to be mad, given their duty. However, the current Korval does not aspire to Theonna’s honors.”
“Small comfort, if they will not see their danger, nor be advised—”
He stopped, hearing again what she had just said; understanding what he had read in the file.
“You are a Healer. The delm would have me Healed.”
Horror washed through him. He came to his feet without registering that he had done so, or that he was moving away from her, until his back hit the wall.
“Well, that is hardly flattering. I assure you that I am a very good Healer.”
“And I would have you remain so,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Cousin, you must not—you must not—attempt to Heal me. Tinsori Light seeded me with itself. I am—I must assume that I am infectious.”
A chime sounded.
Ren Zel rose and walked over to the screen set in the galley wall.
“Dragon Song, Ren Zel dea’Judan,” he said.
“Pilot dea’Judan, this is B. Joyita, comm officer on Bechimo, with a message from Captain Waitley. She asks the kindness of a call, at earliest convenience.”
Ren Zel smiled. “I will call Captain Waitley as soon as I have poured another cup of tea.”
“I will inform her. Joyita out.”
Ren Zel came to the table, refreshed his cup, and looked to his lifemate.
“Unless you would like to speak to Theo.”
“Please tell Theo that I will come to her presently. For right now, there is this.”
“Indeed.”
He left the galley, carrying his teacup with him.
Jen Sin watched him go with a faint sense of disbelief. He shifted slightly against the wall.
Anthora folded her hands on the table, and considered him out of stern silver eyes.
“You might sit, Cousin Jen Sin,” she said mildly. “And have some more tea.”
“Swear to me that you will not attempt a Healing.”
“Certainly I will perform no such drama. You know very well that Healers must have permission to work. I am quite clever enough to apprehend that you will see me damned first.”
He glared at her.
“No, Cousin,” he said sharply. “In fact, I would not see you damned.”
She was silent for a long moment, that silver gaze resting on his face. He was aware of a small, particular warmth emanating from his chest, melting away the horror that had mastered him.
“Come and sit, Cousin.”
He sighed, weary in the absence of terror, and went back to the table.
“Thank you,” she murmured, and refreshed their cups.
Setting the pot aside, she raised her cup to sip. He followed suit.
“Perhaps it would be useful for me to tell you what I See,” Anthora said, putting her cup down.
He raised his head quickly to meet her eyes.
“I do not give permission for a Healing,” he said, firmly.
She shook her head and showed him a stern palm.
“You do know that I can See you perfectly well? It is not interaction, it is observation, precisely the same as beholding your face.”
He took a breath, not knowing what he might present to her Sight. Certainly, he did not wish to horrify—but as she sat there, she seemed perfectly calm and at ease.
“I wonder if hearing observations garnered by senses I do not possess will—forgive me, Cousin—confuse me.”
“There is a certain amount of approximation involved, language being what it is. But you know, you may ask for clarification, if I fail to make sense.”
He had, Jen Sin thought, best know it all. Surely, it could not be any more terrible than his imaginings.
He bowed his head, and folded his hands on the table.
“Of your kindness, Cousin. Tell me what you See.”
“Ren Zel! Are you all right?”
Theo was sitting slightly forward as she looked into the screen. Behind her, he saw the edge of a bunk, which told him that she was in her cabin. Her face displayed concern—but of course it did. The last time she had seen him, he had been recently resurrected from the dead.
“I am well, yes. Anthora is presently with Jen Sin, but has promised herself the pleasure of coming to you soon.”
Theo was seen to smile.
“I’ll look forward to it. I’m glad she’s with Jen Sin. He’s—do you think she can help him?”
“Perhaps she can,” Ren Zel said, sitting back in his chair. “Is he in need?”
Theo snorted lightly. “All I can say is he’s tired. And he’s been so worried about protecting the universe from Tinsori Light—the old Tinsori Light—that he thinks it’s dangerous for him to leave.”
She turned slightly, picked up a mug from off-screen, and sipped. Ren Zel did the same.
“I offered him the key to Spiral Dance,” she said, turning back to the screen, “so he wouldn’t be without a ship. I thought it might—well. It turned bad, fast.”
Ren Zel took a breath.
“Did he hurt you?”
“No—nothing like that. But he panicked, told me to put the key away and get out.”
“What did you do?”
An eyebrow rose.
“Put the key away and got out.”
“Very wise. Did he come after you?”
“What? No. He’s not violent—”
She paused, brows knit.
“He’s just—worn out,” she produced finally, which Ren Zel thought extraordinarily apt.
“Then, we will work to give him time to rest,” he said gently. “We were sent to help, after all.”
She smiled.
“So were we.”
Anthora raised her cup, and Looked at the man before her.
Ren Zel’s inspired offer of tea had given her time to assimilate the shock of beholding their long-thought-lost cousin waiting at the end of the ramp. A threadbare fellow he was, indeed—not in terms of leathers or grooming, but in those patterns and strands visible to a Healer’s Inner Eyes, and as necessary to life as food and drink.
She had prepared herself for desolation, and been momentarily relieved to see that Jen Sin’s inner tapestry was largely intact. Then she had Seen that the colors which should have informed it with vibrancy and joy were absent, leaving him a study in amber and brown, lashed together with coarse black thread.
She had since had opportunity to study him more closely. The tarnished rod of his will was dented, but strong. Standing straight, despite numerous nicks and scars, were the twin pillars of humor and duty, woven together with an iridescent ribbon that was his need to protect. And there—just there—was something that looked like new leaves, tentative and bright.
“You have,” she said, because she should say something before he suspected her of attempting a Healing.
“You have lately eaten from the Tree.”
“A Tree, as I am told.” Jen Sin’s voice was rough, and he paused to sip tea. “In the case, the Tree that travels with our Cousin Theo.”
“Ah,” Anthora said, reaching for her own cup, “that Tree.”
“Is there a problem?”
“Not at all, you only remind me of a lapse. I must present myself to Theo’s Tree. How business does catch one up! On our topic, Cousin Jen Sin, I See that you are largely intact, but sadly faded. There are some artifacts of which I am uncertain—black lace, sewn…crudely, given what one is accustomed to Seeing. Almost, I would think it a repair undertaken by someone new to their craft, only I see no underlying damage, only coarse stitches over sections of your pattern—”
She looked at him sharply. “You understand that what Healers See is the pattern—the tapestry—of you, the connections that bind and support you”—very few of those, but no need to say it, for surely he knew his own losses—“the markers left by joy, abuse, and contentment?”
“Yes,” he said softly, “I do understand that. You interest me, Cousin—this faded pattern—perhaps it is in pale brown and yellow?”
She considered him closely. “Indeed.”
“I have recently seen the like,” he said. “You will understand that during my time here, I had been accustomed to wearing…memory beads. This was to allow the ruling intelligence of the Light to remake me, after murdering me at whim. I have recently had those beads off and given them into the care of Seignur Veeoni, who specializes in such devices. She showed me an image of a bead from those I had worn, and it is remarkably like what you have described. The black threads you report—those are the Light’s inclusions. We do not know what they do, but, in the case of the Old Light, it was wise to assume that anything he made had malicious intent.”
“Thus the fear of contagion,” she nodded, looked down into her teacup, and up to meet his eyes. “I would be interested in seeing these memory beads. Will Seignur Veeoni show them to me, do you think?”
“She may. Her first offer was that she would clean them for me. At the time she showed me the image, she confessed herself to be unable, just at the moment, to do so.”
He offered her a smile, faint, but willing.
“I do not believe that Seignur Veeoni values failure.”
Anthora grinned.
“Well, why should she? Failure is extremely inconvenient, after all.”
“So it is.”
“There was nothing bright green—like leaves, I mean, Cousin—in the image you were shown?”
He glanced aside, perhaps consulting his memory.
“Brown, amber, the veriest threads of green—not many, and nothing so bold as leaves. The black was quite thick—sediment, I would have said, not thread.”
“I See something far more robust than threads,” Anthora said. “I will accept sediment—there is a certain feeling of…stickiness to the black work.”
Jen Sin inclined his head.
“Theo had not yet arrived, when I had the beads off. It had been a…very long time since I had tasted fruit from the Tree.”
“Ah.” She frowned, her Inner Eye tracing that thin pattern, marking the new, bright green growth.
“I hope you will forgive me if this is a breach, but I am about to be optimistic. If the new growth I See, as we sit here together, is the work of a Tree, we may see you Healed—eventually—without fear of contagion.”
He closed his eyes, and she Saw a wave of weariness wash through him.
“Eventually,” he murmured, “is perhaps a problem.”
She Looked at him again—so faded, with that dented core of honor, and the pale skeletons of kindness and humor. She reached out to put her hand over his.
He looked up, black eyes wide, but he did not pull away.
A small victory, Anthora thought, and smiled at him.