In former times, when she had danced menfri'at with Trilla, her immediate response to such an attack was to avoid it at all costs, even diving to the floor and curling into a ball, her arms folded over her head.
Today, without even a thought for the pain, she half-turned, accepting the glancing strike across her shoulder as she lunged back along that admirably straight line, her hand connecting solidly with her partner's chest. The force of the blow sent them spinning apart. Aelliana came 'round as fast as she was able, anticipating a blow from the rear, or perhaps a snatch at free-flowing hair. Ran Eld had caught her that way—
Trilla was standing flat-footed, her hand up in the sign for pause.
“Bravo!” she called. “You've been listening, after all!”
“I had always listened.” Aelliana shook her hair out of her face. “It was only that today, I could—access what I'd learned.”
“Well done.” Daav's deep voice came from behind.
Aelliana turned, and smiled to see him lounging against a tool cart, his arms crossed over his chest, pride plain on his face.
“I think the pilot may be ready for the next level, Master Trilla. What say you?”
“I agree, Master Daav. I agree!” She gave Aelliana a grin of sheer deviltry.
“Come again tomorrow, Pilot, and we'll dance indeed!”
“Ought I to be terrified?” Aelliana asked, though the prospect exhilarated rather than frightened.
Trilla laughed. “It depends on how apt a student you are.” She fished a rag from her back pocket, glancing to them each in turn.
“Your pardons,” she said, and dabbed at the sweat on her forehead.
“Pilot?” Daav said. “Did you want to do that inspection, now?”
“You had wanted to do the inspection, as I recall it,” Aelliana answered. “But I will gladly stand by and watch.”
“Fair enough,” he said, and came out of his lean with boneless grace, melting immediately into a bow to the pilot's honor.
“After you.”
The walk to Ride the Luck's coldpad had been quiet, with Daav abstracted. Twice, Aelliana began to ask after Clonak, and twice thought better of it.
When we reach the ship, she thought. Then, surely, he will tell me.
She climbed the ramp first, and slotted the key, looking up at him over her shoulder as the hatch slid open.
“We will need to have a set made for you,” she said. “Do I apply to the Guild?”
“Jon can make another set of keys for you just as easily as the Guild—and charge you half the price.”
“I will commission Jon, then,” she said, turning 'round by the pilot's station. “My copilot should have access to our ship.”
He closed his eyes briefly. “Aelliana . . . ”
“No, we have decided it, van'chela. You shall sit copilot on this, our ship. It only remains to know our cargo and our destination.”
“Simple matters,” he said, giving her a smile that was, perhaps, not utterly false. He turned toward the corridor to the rear of the chamber.
“Well, then,” he said, suddenly brisk, “let us survey what we—”
“Daav.”
He paused, but did not look at her. Aelliana bit her lip, stomach suddenly tight. It was bad news, then. One did not like to think—no. One did not know what to think. And apparently Daav was not going to tell her what had transpired, absent a direct question.
“Clonak,” she said, carefully. “What did he say?”
Daav sighed, and did turn to look at her, his face carefully bland.
“He said that he wished you every joy, Aelliana.”
That was true, she felt that it was so. However, it was too thin a truth to hide the pain at the back of Daav's eyes.
“There's something else,” she said, watching him; listening with all of her senses.
“Indeed. He leaves very soon on a mission—a security mission—and is much involved in preparation.”
A chill washed over her, damply; she spoke before she had consciously named the emotion.
“That distresses you. Why?”
Daav sighed and walked toward her. “You are becoming far too adept at this,” he commented, “else all my skills are failing at once.”
She took a breath, tasting his dismay.
“I think—I think that I am still reaping the Healers' benefit,” she said slowly, “and . . . perhaps . . . the tree's.”
One well-marked brow lifted as he shook his head. “I had warned you that the tree was meddlesome.”
“So you had,” she replied with what calmness she could manage. “But you were going to tell me why you are so . . . very worried.”
“Clonak volunteers as security to a trade mission bound for Deluthia, which, in the recent past, has demonstrated a certain . . . hostility to Liaden trade missions. The security team that supported the last attempt at Deluthia—fared badly.”
But this hardly seemed like Clonak, Aelliana thought. For one who enjoyed his comfort so much to put himself into such peril?
“Why?” she asked. “Why is he accepting—volunteering for—so dangerous a mission? Surely, there are other—” It struck her then, full knowledge, as if the thought had passed from Daav's mind into hers.
“It's me.” Her hand moved, her fingers gripped his arm, and she read the truth out of him.
“Clonak . . . loves . . . me? How is that possible?” Her knees were weak—not fear, she thought, dully, but shock—and a tithe of shame.
“I must—” She groped behind her for the pilot's chair, spun it and sat, staring at the deck plates, her thoughts in turmoil.
After a moment, she looked up to meet Daav's eyes.
“I don't know what I must do,” she said, her voice small in her own ears.
He dropped to one knee next to her chair, and looked seriously into her face.
“Nor do I, except to allow him to pursue his own destiny.” A smile glimmered, far back in his eyes. “I did wring a promise from him, that he would endeavor not to get himself killed.”
“That was well done,” Aelliana conceded, with a ripple of her own humor.
“Thank you.” He sighed. “Truly, Aelliana, Clonak is fully capable. I think we must trust him to come back to us, and in better condition than he now stands.”
“Is he—badly hurt?” she asked.
“He has taken a wound,” Daav acknowledged. “Serious, but I think not fatal.”
“That I could—I would never harm him of my own will!” Aelliana burst out. She felt a sudden need to throw things, excepting that nothing lay to hand. “I—I honor him, and I value him. Perhaps it is love, of a kind, but . . . ”
“It is possible,” Daav said softly, “to love more than one. Greater or lesser is a clumsy ruler. So it is that I love Clonak, and Olwen, Frad and Jon, Er Thom, Anne, and Shan.”
There was no need to ask it; she knew the answer. Yet it seemed her tongue had a will of its own.
“And—me?”
“You . . . ” He lifted his hand and cupped her cheek. “If I measured each of my loves against what I feel for you, it would seem that I had never loved anyone at all.”
A thrill of emotion accompanied that, all edges and pinpricks. Aelliana took a breath.
“Van'chela, this thing that we are—is it—well?”
He smiled, slow and warm. “I think it is very well, indeed,” he murmured, and leaned over to kiss her.
The touch of his lips ignited her; she leaned in hungrily, with one hand pulling him close, and closer still.
Daav made a noise that might have been a purr or a growl, his lips on her throat now. He pressed forward; the chair began to recline, yielding beneath their combined weight.
Open, you stupid, mewling brat! Her husband's voice shouted from memory; accompanied by the sensation of being pinned by a weight greater than hers, her legs thrust wide—
Quick as a breath, the memory was gone, and it was Daav holding her, pressing her down, and she wanted, wanted—
She raised a hand and put it flat against his chest.
“Wait . . . ” she whispered.
He froze where he was; she felt the care he took, and what it cost him to straighten away from her and sit back on his heels.