Diadem from the Stars (8 page)

“Mmm.”

He looked at the window, then sat up hurriedly. “Moon-set!”

“I know.”

“You have to get back. If Qumri found you again …”

“Let her.”

“Don't underestimate that hate, my dear. It's had as long as you to grow. She'll get you flayed.”

She rubbed her hands up and down her arms, the pleasant glow that had illumined her body deadening to ash. “Ai-Jahann. There's just no way. I've got to get out of this valley.”

“I know. Better than you, Leyta. I know the Atash nau-ta-vallud.” He slid down to the corner and dug in the straw. “Here. This is your mother's book. I brought it for you.”

She took the battered volume and examined it curiously. “You think she planned for this to happen?”

He spread out his hands and shook his head. “I never knew what was in her head.”

She tucked the book inside her sleeve so that it rested in the pouch that formed part of the sleeve hem. Tilting her head, she looked him over and chuckled. “You look like a worn-out satyr, my love, with that straw in your hair. Here, let me.…” She pulled the hay out of his tumbled curls, delighting once again in the feel of his soft springy hair.

He grinned at her. “Should see yourself, muklis.”

Below, a horse snorted and moved restlessly in his stall.

“Dawn's coming,” Aleytys said slowly. With a sigh, she teetered onto her feet. “We'd better go.”

“Leyta. Ay-mi. Leyta!” Twanit's agitated voice bounced around in the fog numbing her brain. As small strong hands shook her violently, she groaned and swatted feebly.

“Wake up, Leyta. Wake up.”

“Go 'way,” Aleytys mumbled. As waves of tiredness sloshed over her head she pulled the quilts tight around her body and tried to ignore the sharp little voice sawing at her ears.

“Oh, Leyta!” Twanit snatched the quilts off and buried her hands in Aleytys's tangled mop of hair. She gave a wretched little gasp and tugged hard.

As pain exploded in her head, Aleytys flopped up and swung wildly at her tormenter. Twanit let go and backed away, her face pale and resolute. “Leyta. Get dressed. Quickly.” Her mobile lips twitched nervously. “And wash your feet,” she blurted. “I … I won't say anything, but Qumri's … she … she'll be here soon if you don't …”

Aleytys rubbed her eyes and tried to scrub the scum from her brain. “Thanks, Ti,” she muttered. She swallowed a yawn. “What time's it?”

“Almost sa'at humam. You wouldn't wake up.”

“Yeah.” Aleytys stretched and suddenly realized she wasn't wearing her nightgown. She closed her eyes and smiled a long contented smile as memory after memory spread warmth gently through her.

“W-wash your feet, Leyta. Be sure. Before Qumri sees.…” Twanit blushed and stared at the floor “A-and … and if you go out again at night, please don't throw your clothes in a heap, Leyta.” The words, whispered and hesitant, tumbled out in an agitated rush. “I-I pushed them in your closet. I hope you don't mind, but I could hear Qumri's feet. I barely got back in bed before she pushed the door open and stared in at you, and I yelled, and she backed out, but she saw you like … like you were … without your nightgown, and her face was awful. Be careful, please be careful, Leyta. She …” She made a helpless little sound and fled from the room.

When Aleytys slipped into the hall a little later it looked empty. She sighed with relief and headed for the stairwell.

“Aleytys.”

She grimaced and turned to the sound. Ziraki walked down the hall, his footsteps booming ominously. She clutched at the carved knob on top of the newel post, not afraid exactly—he'd always been a friend as far as he dared—but he looked serious enough to start shivers climbing her spine.

“Aleytys, stay in your room today.” His lined intelligent face crinkled into a sad smile. “Azdar said tell you.”

“All the damn day? Again?”

His dark eyes sank into their net of laugh wrinkles. “All the damn day.”

“What about Qumri? If I'm not scrubbing floors in a little while, she'll come looking for me. I don't think that's a good idea.”

“Azdar said he'd take care of her.”

“First time, if he does it,” she said scornfully.

“Aleytys, just do what he said, will you?”

“Hai! She's crazy, you know.”

“So-so. It's only a few days, Aleytys. I'll see you get food, bring you something to read.”

“Thanks. I—Keep Qumri off my back?”

“A promise, Aleytys.”

She slid a forefinger along the deep grooves in the knob. “I never did have a passion for scrubbing floors.”

“Thanks, Aleytys.” He rested his hand on hers for a moment. “I'm sorry.” She watched him walk away. Halfway down the hall he looked back at her. “I wish …” He spread out his hands helplessly.

“I know.” She watched him walk away.

Back inside the small room, Aleytys pulled the quilts up and flopped down on her back. “What'm I supposed to do, count the cracks on the walls?” She turned restlessly onto her stomach, then over again on her back. “Ai-Aschla.” She bounced up and down until the leather lacing shrieked in protest. “Aaaaagh!” She slammed her fists down on the mattress. “Why the hell was I born?”

But the walls held no answer to that. They closed in around her until her head threatened to burst; the blood throbbed, beat, beat across her temples; her skin twitched restlessly; invisible bugs crawled over her, stirring the fine hairs along her arms; her fingers and toes jerked and trembled.… After a while she straightened out her cramped legs and sighed.

Slowly, raggedly, her racing body gentled into a heavy lethargy. She linked her hands behind her head and stared at the ceiling. “I could catch up on my sleep.”

Winding across one corner of the ceiling's plaster was a crack whose path she'd traced a hundred times before, a pleasant echo of the course the Raqsidan took through the valley. She sighed. “I'll miss my river. And Vajd.…”

She slid off the bed and turned the mattress back. The old leather book looked squashed but otherwise intact. As she picked it up, crumbs from the binding powdered her fingers and drifted in a rusty cloud to the floor. She let the mattress fall and rubbed her hands over the disintegrating cover until all the easily dislodged dust was knocked off.

As she leafed through the pages she wrinkled her nose at the remnants of the mold stain and stared curiously at the pale brown writing scarcely darker than the age-discolored paper; then she settled back onto the bed and stretched out on her stomach and rested the book rather precariously on her pillow. On the end pages there was writing in much darker ink.
The letter,
she thought. For a moment she looked up, conscious suddenly of an odd feeling of foreboding that made her reluctant to start reading. She pressed her lips together resolutely.

Aleytys—

Good start,
she thought,
gets right to the point.
She closed her eyes and swallowed the bitterness of abandonment for the thousandth time.

My beautiful baby …

Not so beautiful you bothered to keep me,
she thought.

At least, when you read this, you won't be a baby anymore. Try to understand, my dear. I want you with me, I really do. You're the only child I've ever borne, a part of me. But …

Aleytys gritted her teeth.
If you gave a damn for me,
she thought,
you could have taken me. This's for Vajd. He needn't think I believe everything he says, he's still got you on his mind, always will have. You won a bigger piece of him than any woman ever will.

Aleytys, I'm a selfish woman. When I want to make excuses for myself, I say it's a racial trait, inborn in every Vryhh that ever was. Unfortunately, my dear, that's not just an excuse. It's something you're probably going to have to face in yourself. It's not an attractive feature, I admit.

Since you're reading this, you must know I left the Raqsidan to get back to my own people—or, more precisely, to the kind of life I'm accustomed to leading. If I were any kind of mother, I suppose I'd try to come back for you.

Aleytys rubbed her fingers across the last words.
That's me,
she thought,
everybody wants me.

Well, daughter, I won't be coming. I can't stand the thought of ever coming back to this valley. Once I get off this revolting piece of dirt, I'm going to forget it ever existed.

We're wanderers, we Vrya, spacefarers. It's a proud name, child, a grand thing to be a Vryhh of Vrithian. The stars are our sea marks, the universe our home. To be trapped on a single world—the very thought makes my hand shake. I have to get back, Aleytys, I've no choice. If you have anything at all of me in you, you should be raging to get out of that day and day and day agony of boredom. With all those blind and deaf clods stifling you.

Aleytys rested her hands on the pages and stared at the wall, remembering the times her soul had slipped from her body and spilled along the water.
From my mother,
she thought,
some of it.… I wonder what else
.… She blinked and smoothed her hands over the old musty paper.

Enough of this. When you can't stand the valley any longer, come find me.… I hope I scared them enough so you weren't given to some earth crawler.… Come find me. It won't be easy. But you'll get there if you've enough Vryhh in you. Enough Vryhh. That's a question. Aleytys, there aren't many Vryhh-worldbound hybrids around. We're proud of our blood and chary of spreading it around. However, with this limited data source, here's what you
could
expect.

Chances are your life will be extended considerably beyond what's normal for your father's people. Vrya … never mind. Take my advice. Even if you decide not to look me up, if you find yourself with the years passing looking like a fledgling maiden, don't spend too much time in any one place. People tend to show their nastier side to those they envy, those having gifts, talents, wealth, or anything else they crave, especially—oh, esspecially—long life and unfading youth. Time will show if you've got this from me, my dear. Take care.

Aleytys blinked.
Hmm,
she thought,
maybe I do have something I owe her after all. I wonder what other little surprises she has for me.

Memory, faster than ordinary reflexes; a thirst amounting to an obsession for knowing; an instinct for constructs, machines of all kinds; a translating ability—you learn new languages in minutes rather than weeks; strength of body beyond the ordinary, at least among people of comparable planet size; and endurance. I could extend this list for pages, but you'll find out from living what you've got from me. And from your father's people. Those dream-singers of yours … there's a strong esper strain in your people.

I am Shareem Atennanthan of Vrithian. That means, my dear, that I was born to clan Tennanth on the world Vrithian, which swings around a sun we call Avennar. I won't say where that is. Too many greedy men want to know.

“Ai-Aschla!” Aleytys snorted in disgust. “Shows just how much she really wants to see me show up.”

The Vrya are wanderers. I named you Aleytys, my dear, with the hope in my heart that you were born true to the blood I gave you. I must be honest. I don't want to see you if you're all Raqsidan.

You'd have no place on Vrithian. We're a claustrophobic race; ties turn us vicious like trapped rats. Another terribly, unattractive trait, but we live with it. I'm afraid, my dear, that you're sure to inherit this because it seems to be just about our most outstanding character trait. I'm sorry. It's a difficult thing to accept about oneself. No ties ever. No real sharing of life. We have our communion, brief touches mind to mind, body to body, but we can't endure continued closeness. Marriage—at least as you know it there in the valley—that's impossible for us. I tried to protect you from that, my dear.

But what about how I feel about Vajd?
Aleytys thought, staring blankly at the headboard. “I could live with him,” she whispered. But deep down inside her an uneasy uncertainty stirred to life.
How can I know?
she thought. She shivered and went on reading.

If you feel this in yourself, come to me. You may think I'm cruel because I demand you make your own way across the stars to a world whose precise location is perhaps the best-kept secret in the universe. But I have a reason. If you can't fit in, there's no use your coming here. I told you before, if you're not enough Vryhh, I don't want to see you. Come. Love, even affection, I don't promise. How can I? I don't know the person you've become. My fault, I know, but there it is. I do promise understanding and help. First thing, get off Jaydugar. I'll talk about that later.

Assuming you make it off planet, there're other things you need to know. Memorize these figures, 89-060 Duhbe-Thrall 64 Aurex Corvi 1007.47. With these any spaceflyer can get you to Ibex.

I can't give you the coordinates of Vrithian, just the thought of those numbers lying around is enough to turn my blood to ice.

When you get to Ibex, go to a man in the port city Yastroo called Kenton Esgard. Tell him your story. Convince him. That's up to you. If you can do this, he'll arrange for the next Vryhh happening by to take you to Vrithian. Ibex is one of our nodes of passage. By the way, keep that secret, my dear. It's not news we want passed around.

I wish I understood what you're talking about, Mother,
Aleytys thought. She reread the last passage.
Maybe it'll make sense when I'm actually walking through it.
She shrugged and read on.

Now. How do you get yourself off Jaydugar? More or less the same way I do—I hope. Far as I can tell sentient life here on this damn ball of dirt is all imported. You can't possibly know how unlikely that is, my dear, all these different peoples scattered over the face of this mantrap world. The caravan came, I think, from the Callan-Sedir. The nomads from Kiraguz and Shanshan. Your own valley people from the Parshta-Finish before the star Ahazh went nova. The sea people from Yill. And then there are the desert hounds on the other continent, and the marvelous kaleidoscope of multi-shaped and talented sentients in the cities on the eastern coast. As if this world were a huge magnet for people. Fascinating. I hope I never see the place again. I crashed here on Jaydugar with no way to get off. I think
that
more than anything else brought on my sickness. You should remember that sickness of mine because that's the only reason you were conceived, my child. Funny, that crash. I got a very odd feeling from this place. Almost as if it tickled my ship off course. A feeling of purpose. Strange. But to get back to what I was saying. Some three thousand years ago—a thousand of your triple-years—a ship fled precariously ahead of an exploding sun. The book this letter is written in is the logbook of that ship, a Romanchi empire trader that came stuffed with refugees and almost inevitably dumped itself and them on this flypaper world. A Romanchi trader—luck for me. And you. Fire, flood, the battering of years—nothing destroys one of those. Even after this time the emergency beacon should be working.