Damia (40 page)

“Grandmother!” Damia cried in protest, for she
knew
that Afra and she were already bonded.

“Damia, stop doodling and start eating. You’ll have more soup, Afra,” she said in one of her quick shifts of mood. “When you’ve finished, I suggest that a gentle walk about the cabin will be about all the physical activity you’ll be able for today. THEN,” and she shook a stern finger at each, “you will rest in the porch hammocks so I’m sure that you
are
resting.”

“No quarrel there,” Afra said with a droll grin of apology to Damia.

“Hear me, Damia? Give him a chance to regain his strength!”

“Grandmother!”

“Don’t grandmother me, young woman. Learn the joys of anticipation!”

A slight shake of Afra’s head cooled Damia’s heated response. And the warm look in his yellowy eyes promised her that he’d make it all up to her later.

*   *   *

“It is peaceful here,” Afra said as he and Damia obediently took their stroll. He had linked his warm, long fingers in hers and such tactile contact was unusually reassuring, and curiously satisfying. Almost as good as the now forbidden mental link would be. Especially since the touch-sense of Afra had taken on an added dimension—no longer merely cool-green-comfortable-secure: a vibrancy threaded through the cool-green, and “comfortable” had definitely lazy-sensual elements, while “secure” had intensified into a deeply rooted foundation that could never be attacked. Occasionally Afra’s long thigh brushed against her leg, and their bodies swayed together, to touch at the hip, while her shoulder often encountered his arm.

Damia took in little of their surroundings during that slow saunter: she just reveled in the purely physical contact with a subtly altered Afra. She still couldn’t believe her stupidity. But then, Afra’d
always
been part of her life: how could she have known he’d assume such a vital role in the rest of her life? She refused to consider problems. Nothing must mar this tranquil moment.

They rounded the corner of the cabin and made for the short flight of stairs to the veranda where two hammocks swung idly in the afternoon breeze. The few stairs put an unexpected strain on her thighs. She thought of the big daddies she had once so effortlessly transported. Well, she’d do them again! She was even panting a bit when they reached the porch. So was Afra, so she didn’t feel
quite so decrepit. But this was a splendid spot for napping, shaded as it was from the direct rays of the sun.

Afra held the cords of one hammock while she eased herself into it. Then he bent and, at the last moment, altered his target and kissed the side of her neck.

“Your mouth, love, is far too inviting,” he said with a low laugh, and set her hammock to rocking.

“Why are the swings set so far apart? I want to keep in touch,” she complained, extending her arm as far as it would go toward him. He laughed as he settled himself and, with one quick push, set his hammock into a gentle swing.

“We’re to rest, remember, love? And since I want nothing more than to be rested . . .” and he laughed softly, suggestively, “I’ll obey.”

Surprising her, Afra began to hum a melody she faintly recognized. And hearing it, she fell asleep.

Afra almost botched his attempt to invoke that old preconditioning: in the first place, he couldn’t sing and laugh at the same time and then, when Damia’s breathing obediently slowed to a sleep rhythm, he was both surprised and gratified that that old trigger still worked.

He let the lullaby die away, watching Damia’s face, which still showed the marks of her ordeal and grief. He hadn’t liked to see her so painfully thin, either, but Isthia’s threatened diet ought to repair that damage. He wished he could restore her as easily as he had put her to sleep. He sighed, and clasped his hands behind his head, shifting his gaze to the cabin’s incredibly serene setting. Gradually he became aware of discrete sounds: Isthia moving about inside; insect and bird song drifting from the trees; the soughing of the breeze. He was also calm within himself for the first time in years: perhaps, he amended, in his adult life. Certainly since Damia’s ripening sexuality had stunned him—what was it, only seven years ago?

Last night had been completely unexpected: a boon he could never have anticipated—a boon which might yet cause him more anguish than he had already endured. And yet,
this
time Afra Lyon had no intention of standing patiently
by and permitting Damia’s incredible gift of love to be wrenched from his grasp.

Hadn’t she come to him of her own volition? Seen him with eyes no longer clouded by old perceptions and the anathema of “familiarity”? And her dear nonsense about sharing her mental strength with him? Well, he’d just see if that was ever needed! How devoutly he hoped that Isthia’s prognosis was correct! Keeping up with Damia would require Afra Lyon in top form.

On the other hand, Damia might have turned to him as an anodyne to the devastating experience of misjudging Sodan, and Larak’s loss. They had been so close, those two. Had she turned to her oldest and most trusted friend only for solace? No, Afra told himself, he had not misjudged the look on Damia’s face, the amazement in her eyes as she had
really
looked at him, Afra Lyon; the way her hands had caressed him were revelations for them both. She had undergone a shift, a realignment of senses, a translation of preconceptions that had been far-reaching. That he had shifted from old family friend to potential lover years before was immaterial: in her eyes, she herself had made the final adjustment to accepting the steadfast and silent love he had for her.

Afra smiled wryly. He had stunned Damia with his mention of twenty-eight Towered years. But his love had to face the fact that he was twenty-four years her senior. Rowan would mention it and possibly Jeff. He did wonder how they were going to receive the news. He could hear the Rowan roaring—she’d have to break in a new assistant—unless she could persuade Gollee to stay. Or install Veswind? Would she be willing for another from the Lyon line?

Afra smiled again as he remembered how often Jeff had teased him about starting his own family. Jeff had never had Damia in mind for Afra’s mate, but would he really object? Damia
was
younger by over two decades, but how much could that matter?

Especially now that Damia had gone through such a tempering and maturing crisis. Afra saw it in the lingering
sadness in her eyes, heard it in her subtly altered voice, felt it in her abandoned response to their impassioned consummation. He wished she had not been subjected to such a harsh, unforgiving, sacrificial rite of passage. He could have wished it had been easier on her—but surely both Rowan and Jeff would recognize her new maturity. Afra shifted restlessly, his thoughts turning to the unexpected victim. Dear, dear Larak! That vibrant, amiable, loving boy, gone in a flash of alien anger. Afra forced himself to face that hideous moment, if only to defuse the emotional burden, but his mind refused to focus. In fact, it hurt . . .

Afra
, came Isthia’s admonition,
don’t think about that yet. You can’t alter what has happened.

He didn’t try to reach her telepathically, just let his reply sit in his public mind.
I must, however, confront what did happen and sort it out for peace of mind.

Not now, not today or for several weeks to come
, Isthia replied, and what she did next, Afra never knew but sleep overcame him. To achieve the restoration of her patients, Isthia wouldn’t cavil at planting a few irresistible suggestions of her own.

*   *   *

“Tomorrow you can catch your own,” Isthia told them as she served them a dinner of fish, tiny vegetables, and a salad of mixed greens, “and scavenge your greens from my garden. I ask only that you eat everything you catch and pick. You know the drill on Deneb, Damia.”

“Waste not, want not,” Damia dutifully chanted as the delectable odor of the panfried fish made her mouth water. “Fish is brain food, Afra,” she added pedantically. “High protein, low fat. Is there a limit on a day’s catch?”

Isthia snorted. “Of course not. I stocked the lake myself, so it’s not part of the official resources.”

Damia leaned across the table to Afra, her eyes dancing with mischief. “That means that Isthia reserves the right to fish the lake to herself. Deneb can’t use it in time of famine.”

“Deneb hasn’t endured a famine, has it?” Afra was astonished enough to stop eating.

“Of course not,” Damia said.

“Famine and planetary emergency.”

“Such as the Beetles?” Afra asked.

“Exactly,” and Isthia looked slightly grim. “First they filled our lakes with contaminants, then they blasted them dry. Took years to get our reservoirs rebuilt and full. So a fish-stocked lake can be considered a natural resource and could be added to planetary food reserves. Fortunately, I made sure I had a few perks.”

“This isolated site is one?” Afra asked.

“Took me nearly a year to find exactly the right land when the grant was bestowed,” Isthia said, “but it’s worth every bit of the fuss it caused.”

“Fuss? With all you’ve done for Deneb?” Damia said, indignant.

“That’s why there was so much fuss,” Isthia replied, and related to them the struggles she had had with local and central administration, builders, naturalists, as well as medical boards that did not want her so far from population centers. “I was blocked on minor points for nearly another two years. But I got the place I wanted, where I wanted it, and no one can revoke my title to it, nor my heirs.”

“What do we fish for?” Afra asked.

“Rainbow sparklers,” Isthia replied. “Bait your hooks and throw ’em in. The fish eventually get interested.”

“It’s a novel idea to catch one’s dinner, too,” Afra added.

“You can, though, can’t you? It’s not something Capellans are against?” Damia asked, realizing how little she really knew about Afra Lyon.

“No,” he assured her with a grin, “nothing in my upbringing prevents me from fishing for food.”

“I’ll show you the lake after we eat. There’ll be light enough,” Isthia said. “In fact, watching the sunset there can be rather spectacular.”

And that evening Deneb put on quite a display for them. The lake was reached by a narrow track that threaded its way through a thick stand of Denebian softwoods: single-trunk
spires with short, full-leaved branches. The lake, dewdrop in shape, was deceptively large, for Isthia led them out at its narrow end where the tributary stream flowed down from the hills to their right.

“I’ve constructed a perch,” Isthia said, directing them along the bank to their left, where several large flat black rocks formed an irregular bench.

Some sort of spidery, multi-legged insects skimmed across the lake and occasionally an aquatic denizen broke the surface into ripples, snagging the water runner. Sleepy avian and nocturnal bug noises punctuated the evening air as they seated themselves.

Afra threw a jacket across Damia’s shoulders, for the air at the lakeside was chillier than at the protected cabin. She leaned into his touch, avid for physical contact. He settled his arm about her shoulders and drew her against him as if this casual sort of contact was long established. Afra was having no trouble, she thought, with their new relationship. His fingers pressed against her arm and she glanced at him, suspicious that he was disobeying Isthia. He bent his head toward her.

“A touch is just a touch, Damia love,” he said quietly, “so don’t get fussed. More than you, I can’t afford to risk the healing process.”

Damia shot a quick look at her grandmother who was sitting, with the discretion of a duenna, at the opposite end of the rock couch. Isthia gave every evidence of ignoring them. Which, Damia realized, was probably genuine. Isthia would hate having to leave this place with its insured solitude. She must remember to thank her for that sacrifice.

“Sacrifice,” Damia thought, her heart heavy. So many little things reminded her of Larak. Once again Afra’s fingers took a new hold on her arm and she shook her head of such wounding reflections.

“See!” Isthia pointed at the cloud formation now tinged with a delicate shade of peach as the sun began its final descent behind the hills.

So they watched, awed by the beauty, by the silence of
the wood and lake about them, a reverence for the display and for the tranquillity of the night to come. When the last color faded from cloud and sky, Isthia sighed, a sound of intense satisfaction, and rose.

“Don’t stay too long. There’s a chill in the night air,” she said, and thrusting one handlight at them, she departed, playing hers on the track as she made her way back to the cabin.

For Damia, who had always been physically restless, this sort of inactivity was novel, yet she would not have broken the quiet mood for anything on any world she had ever trod. What was even more amazing was that she was sharing—truly sharing—this magical serenity with Afra. From the corner of her eye she snuck a peek at him and saw, in the crepuscular twilight, that he reflected her own tranquillity. Why had she never noticed what a strong profile he had: a high, straight forehead, a straight nose jutting at a fine angle, the generous gap between nose and upper lip, and the strong, well-modeled, wide mouth, the firm chin and jawline. He had nice ears, too. But there were undeniable flecks of white in his blondy hair. Not much but noticeable.

Self-consciously, she fingered back the white-flecked lock that always fell across her face

“I’ve got more white hair than you,” she remarked.

“But not in the same number of years, love,” he replied equably.

“Is that going to matter?” she asked anxiously.

He looked down at her, smiling at her concern. “It oughtn’t but it’s bound to come up. Does my seniority bother you?”

“You’re always ‘Afra’ to me,” she said, surprised at how she identified him within herself.

He chuckled. “As you have always been inimitably ‘Damia’ to me. D’you know? I heard you protest your birth.”

“That’s not fair!” She did not like him to remind her of moments like that.

“When does ‘fair’ enter into any relationship? Suffice it
to say, that I have known you since the first breath you drew and strangely enough, it makes you dearer to me.”