“Is there anything I can do to help?” she asked.
Lanaril made a soft sound of amusement, her gaze still on the moon path. “So very polite and diplomatic, as always. You are quite a study, Ekatya.”
There was nothing she could say to that, so she remained silent. And though it wasn’t intentional, her quiet presence seemed to be what Lanaril needed, for she began to speak.
“One of the great debates among templars—among all Alseans who believe, really—is why Fahla allows terrible things to happen to good people. I resolved that for myself a long time ago, because it never made sense to me that Fahla would be monitoring all of our individual lives. I cannot support the idea of our Goddess managing us down to the last soul. If she’s powerful enough to do it, why would she? Surely she must be paying attention to the bigger issues instead, guiding us as a people, not as individuals. And I would rather believe that I have autonomy, that my decisions are my own and I’m not being nudged one way or another by a goddess who has already mapped out my fate.”
She shifted, resting on one arm and facing Ekatya. “But I believe there are certain individuals she does monitor. Individuals who are important to the bigger issues. Andira is one. We needed her in order to survive the Voloth invasion, and we need her to see us through this difficult time as we learn to live in a universe that is no longer just ours. Her divine tyree bond with Salomen is no coincidence. It’s what saved her during her challenge, what kept her on the State Chair when we need her so much. And I believe Fahla watches you and Lhyn as well.”
Though startled, Ekatya said nothing. Lanaril had the look of one who was not done.
“She chose you, Ekatya. She brought you here to save us. And it was your passion and outside point of view that helped convince Andira to break Fahla’s covenant. We needed you as much as we needed Andira—and we needed Lhyn to convince you to stay. It seems we also needed her to be our voice among your people.”
She shook her head and turned back to the sea. “But if Fahla is watching Lhyn, how could this have happened? How could she allow such pain and terror to be visited upon such a peaceful, kind, loyal person? At first I thought perhaps Fahla’s power doesn’t extend past Alsea. Perhaps she cannot affect events in the Protectorate. But then I remembered that she brought you here from the Protectorate. And she gave you a bond, an Alsean bond, that saved Lhyn and pulled her out of that horrible place. So she was watching, and she did have the power to affect the outcome. Which puts me right back at the beginning of the question. How could she let Lhyn suffer like that?”
Wiping away another tear, she gave a shaky laugh. “So the Lead Templar of Blacksun is having a crisis of faith. And I have no idea why I’m telling you all of this.”
Ekatya didn’t either. She was the last person on Alsea equipped to handle this conversation. Instead, she focused on the one thing she was now certain of.
“You really care for her.”
“Of course I do. She’s my friend.”
“She cares for you as well. Very much. She wants you to be our bond minister.”
Lanaril straightened and faced her. “She told me earlier. I would be honored.”
“The problem is…” Ekatya sighed. The words were not coming, so she tried a different tack. “I’ve spent too much time being suspicious of people who didn’t deserve it. I wasted six months—I mean, a little over four of your moons—not trusting Ensign Bellows, and I regret that so much now. If I had known how soon I would lose him…” The breeze blew her hair across her face, and she idly pushed it behind her ear. “I just hate that I wasted so much time. And then I did the same thing with Dr. Wells. At least that one didn’t take as long; we only wasted eighteen days. But it probably would have been much longer if she hadn’t come to me with that bottle of iceflame. And now I’m doing it with you.”
Lanaril’s intake of breath was audible.
“Lhyn trusts you,” Ekatya continued, watching her closely. “And I want to as well, because I know how much you mean to her. But I don’t know how to do that when I can’t forgive you.”
Unlike Andira, Lanaril did not show her emotions in her eyes. “What have I done that requires your forgiveness?” she asked evenly.
“You agreed to empathically force her to leave me, to stay on Alsea. You would have betrayed that kind, loyal person you were just having a crisis of faith over. Yet you call her a friend and act like it was never an issue.”
Lanaril took a step back, her whole body telegraphing shock, and Ekatya thought with some satisfaction that she wasn’t entirely made of stone after all.
“You—how do you—oh, Fahla. Andira told you.”
“Andira had the integrity to tell me immediately. I knew before the Battle of Alsea.”
Lanaril stared, a symphony of emotions playing across her suddenly expressive face until she hid it in her hands.
“Great Goddess above,” she murmured, her words slightly muffled. “Of all the—what a perfect lesson she is teaching tonight.”
She lifted her head and walked to the door of the cabin. Sliding it open, she called, “Lhyn? Would you join us, please?”
Chills ran down Ekatya’s arms, leaving bumps in their wake. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare do this to her; I swear I will—”
“What’s going on?” Lhyn asked, stepping through the door. “Oh, wow. Look at the moon path. I didn’t even notice that until now.”
Ekatya glared daggers at Lanaril. If the woman had a speck of empathic ability, she was surely feeling the murderous thoughts.
Lanaril closed the door and said, “Ekatya knows.”
“Knows what?” Lhyn was smiling as she looked between them, but when Lanaril tapped her own forehead with two fingers and then pointed them at Lhyn, the smile dropped. “No. No, what have you—Lanaril!”
Ekatya watched in confusion as Lhyn rounded furiously on her friend.
“You swore in the name of Fahla! Is this what your word is worth? How could you?”
“I didn’t tell her! She’s known since before the Battle of Alsea. And she knows whose strategy that was,” Lanaril added meaningfully.
“She—what?” Lhyn swiveled toward Ekatya. “You knew all along? Everything?”
“Wait.” Ekatya shook her head, trying to come to grips with a truth she could not believe. “Are we all talking about the same thing?”
Lhyn looked at Lanaril, who nodded.
Ekatya steadied herself against the railing. “How…?”
“I told her before you left Alsea.” Lanaril had recovered her poise. “You expected me to ask forgiveness—I did. But I asked it of the one person who could give it.”
Lhyn crossed the deck and took Ekatya’s hand in hers. “You look like you just fell out of a shuttle. I’m a little shocked, too. I’ve been trying to protect you from this for two years.”
“Why?” Ekatya managed. “Why did I need protecting?”
“Because Andira is so important to you. I thought it would destroy your friendship.”
Ekatya laughed, because what else could she do? “Andira is the one who told me. When we had our challenge fight.”
“You’re kidding me.” Lhyn’s eyes brightened before her expression fell into a frown. “I don’t understand, then. You were ready to kill her just because you thought she empathically forced me. Then you turned around and supported her in everything, so I knew you couldn’t have found out the truth. But if you knew that was really the plan, and the only reason they didn’t go through with it was because I decided to stay…how did you come out of that fight as friends?”
“Because—oh, Shippers, Lhyn, I can hardly explain it to myself. We talked about it, and then she Shared with me so I could feel your emotions, and after that I just…I didn’t think I could judge her when she already felt so guilty. Especially when I had nearly done a terrible thing myself.”
“But you judged me,” Lanaril said.
Lhyn’s head snapped around as if she had forgotten Lanaril was there. When she turned back, Ekatya cringed at the realization in her eyes. “Is that why you were so rude to her today? Right after she helped me with my panic attack? Ekatya—”
“I know.” Ekatya held up her hands, trying to forestall the censure.
“You owe her an apology.”
She knew that too, but it was the last thing she wanted to do right now.
“That’s not necessary,” Lanaril said. “She was protecting you. It’s what a tyree does. I should have realized what that was about.”
“No, you shouldn’t.” Ekatya could not bear compassion from this woman. “How were you supposed to know? Fucking Hades, I didn’t even understand it myself. I knew it was hypocritical, holding you to a different standard, but I couldn’t—” She released an inarticulate growl of frustration. “It just made me so angry that Andira has felt guilty about it all this time, and you…didn’t.”
“Oh, she did,” Lhyn said.
“But it seems that I had an easier resolution, because I was able to go to Lhyn. If Andira was keeping this a secret with you, then…” Lanaril trailed off as Ekatya tipped her head back and groaned.
“I made her keep it a secret. I made it worse than it had to be. And Salomen knows now, and she thought I should tell you, but I made her promise, too.”
Lhyn snorted. Then she bent over, holding her stomach, and laughed in a way Ekatya had not heard for months. “Oh, stars!” she gasped, and pointed at Ekatya. “Warship captain and diplomat.” Pointing toward herself, she said, “Scientist trained to observe the smallest details.” She turned to Lanaril. “Counselor and high empath. And Andira is a consummate politician and diplomat, and also a high empath. And somehow we all missed this. We spent two years killing ourselves keeping a secret that everyone already knew.”
When she put it that way…
Ekatya began to laugh as well, and Lanaril soon joined in. When Andira and Salomen came out to see what the noise was about, Ekatya watched her friend undergo much the same reaction that she had, though she didn’t seem to share the amusement.
While Andira was recovering, Salomen asked the impossible question.
“Yet you still feel safe here?”
Every bit of Ekatya’s humor drained away as she waited.
“I do,” Lhyn said. “I always have. And maybe I’m a grainbird, or a little insane, but I’d already made up my mind to die with all of you if it came to that. I never believed Ekatya would leave me here, but if she did, it seemed a just punishment for what I brought to Alsea.”
“You were not responsible—”
“Andira, stop.” Lhyn’s voice was sharp. “Let’s not discuss responsibility, all right? Or we’ll be here all night comparing our mistakes and misdeeds. We all have things to feel guilty about.” She gazed around the group. “When Lanaril asked my forgiveness, I thought, who can I ask forgiveness from? I brought an invasion on your heads. I would have done anything to save you from the Voloth. So finding out that you planned to force me to stay—it didn’t really register as an event I needed to worry about. If I’m about to murder someone and they threaten me with a knife, am I supposed to feel aggrieved that they’re defending themselves?”
Ekatya shook her head and smiled. Only Lhyn would come up with that.
“This is about something I wanted to do anyway. You didn’t go through with it because you didn’t have to. Even if you had, it would have been temporary. I’ve had more recent experience with someone trying to force me, and it was not temporary at all.”
No one spoke. No one seemed able to look at her.
“I know what I’m talking about, because I asked Lanaril to empathically force me so I could see what that really meant.”
“You what?” Ekatya almost shouted.
Lhyn shrugged. “I was curious.”
Ekatya slapped a hand to her forehead. “I can’t believe it. Wait, yes I can.” She lifted her head, noting that Andira looked equally shocked. “What happened?”
“I forced her to stop asking questions and leave the temple,” Lanaril said. “It was the most aberrant behavior I could think of that would still be harmless to her. Then I followed her out the door and reversed it.”
“It was a remarkable sensation,” Lhyn said. “You have no idea how much I itched to write about it, but that was one thing I never dared put into a file. What was so fascinating about it was that I really didn’t want to ask any more questions. And when Lanaril reversed it, I couldn’t imagine how I had ever thought that way. It was seamless, and there were zero lasting effects.”
“That’s not quite the same…” Andira began, only to be stopped by a look from Lhyn.
“Don’t insult my intelligence. I know it would have been different. Probably by a few orders of magnitude, but it doesn’t matter because it didn’t happen. Can we all please just drop this? I’m the one it concerns, and the only reason I’ve given it any thought at all was because I worried about the two of you.” She gestured between Andira and Ekatya. “But you’re obviously fine, so let’s just…be done with it. I want to be done. I’m not a shekking victim. Stop protecting me.”
After a long moment of silence, Andira ventured, “That’s a difficult order for two warriors who love you. One of whom is your tyree.”
Lhyn’s expression softened. “I accept that point. Let me rephrase: stop protecting me from this specific thing. There’s so much else for us to think about! Like the reappearance of divine tyrees in Alseans—in mid empaths, no less—and the sudden appearance of a form of telepathy in at least two Gaians. And the fact that Ekatya crashing the Caphenon seems to have been the catalyst for all of it. Both of our cultures are changing, and we’re right at the center of it.” She pointed at the moon path dancing on the water. “We’re standing here looking into our future, and we have no idea what it will be except that it won’t be like the past. So let’s stop looking back.”
Salomen stepped up, pulled Lhyn in by her shoulders, and kissed her cheek. “Thank you. I didn’t want to keep another secret.” She turned toward the open door and asked, “Is anyone hungry? We have bread with grainstem powder, cheese, and sweetfruit. And a little bit of Jarnell’s fruit drink.”
Andira watched her go, then crossed over to Lhyn. “If you ever want a seat on the Council, tell me. I would take great joy in unleashing you on them.” She kissed Lhyn’s cheek as well, but did not let go of her shoulders as she spoke in a quieter tone. “I understand your need to move forward. And I will abide by it, but before we close this, please…let me apologize.”
“You don’t—”
“Please.”
Lhyn closed her mouth and nodded.
After an awkward moment of hesitation, Andira stepped back and straightened. “That was the most difficult decision I have ever made. It was so unjust, sacrificing an innocent to save the rest. I know you don’t see yourself as innocent,” she added as Lhyn shook her head. “But I did. I still do. When you chose to stay, of your own accord, you—” She stopped, clenching her jaw.
“Andira,” Lhyn said softly. She reached out and drew Andira’s fisted hands forward, coaxing them open before holding them in her own.
“When you chose to stay,” Andira tried again, her voice rasping, “you didn’t just save yourself. You saved me, too.”
Lhyn slowly pulled her closer.
“I’m sorry,” Andira choked out as she gave in to the embrace.
“I know. I forgive you.”
Andira closed her eyes and went very still.
“I’m sorry, too.” Lhyn rubbed one hand up and down her back. “I guess I was trying to avoid this, because I didn’t want you to feel this way, but I should have known better. And I should have spoken to you before we left Alsea, when Lanaril came to me. You’ve carried a bur
den you didn’t need to. Will you forgive me for that?”
“Of course,” Andira said instantly.
Lhyn smiled. “You say that like it’s so easy.”
“It is.”
“Then believe me when I say it’s exactly that easy to forgive you.”
Ekatya watched them with an uncomfortably tight throat, thinking of all the times she had insisted on keeping this secret, so sure that she was right and never understanding the true cost. For two years she had tried to protect Lhyn, only to find that Lhyn had never needed it.
When did good intentions turn into arrogance?
“She spoke the truth,” Lanaril murmured next to her. “She is not a victim.”
Andira let go, turned without meeting anyone’s eyes, and vanished into the cabin.
Lhyn stood looking after her for a moment, then gazed skyward and took a deep breath before facing Ekatya and Lanaril. “Are we done with this?”
Lanaril raised her hands. “I’m done.”
“Ekatya?”
“More than done.”
“Good. I’m ready for some of that bread. We need to find out how they keep it so fresh here; that’s worth a treaty all by itself.” Lhyn walked inside.
Ekatya rubbed the back of her neck, not quite able to look Lanaril in the eye.
“How is it that you warriors always seem to find bondmates who leave you with the same stupefied expression?”
She glanced up to find a knowing look trained on her. “Not all of us. Just the lucky ones.”
“True words.” Lanaril sobered. “Do I still need to ask your forgiveness?”
Ekatya shook her head. “Now I feel like an asshead.”
“A what?”
Realizing that she had fallen into Common slang, she said, “A grainbird. Except stronger. Much stronger.”
“Ah. A dokker’s backside?”
“That’ll do.”
Lanaril smiled, the slow, serene smile that had so irritated Ekatya only yesterday. Now she found it oddly reassuring.