“You look very fierce,” said Olivenko.
“Thinking of Mother,” said Param.
“It must have been devastating,” said Olivenko, “to have her turn on you.”
“I always knew what she was,” said Param. “I shouldn’t have been surprised.” And then, quite suddenly, she found herself crying. “I don’t know why I—please don’t touch me—it’s just that I—”
“It’s all right,” said Olivenko. “You’ve been very calm through everything. You’re entitled to unwind a little now.”
“But there’s still danger, there’s still . . .”
Olivenko said nothing.
Param felt herself swaying. She put out a hand and found his arm, leaned on him. In a moment she found that he had led her to a place where they could sit on a part of one of the machines.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“I’m not,” he said. “I’m glad.”
She faced him then, startled, prepared to be angry.
“Glad that you didn’t disappear,” said Olivenko. “Glad that you trusted me enough to stay.”
Param shook her head. “I can’t speed up time when I’m crying. Or slow myself down, or whatever it is I do. That’s why I learned not to let myself cry or scream. Instead I vanish. Only I’m trying not to. Trying not to let it be a habit.”
“You want to do it only when you decide,” said Olivenko.
“Yes,” said Param.
“You’re not crying now,” said Olivenko. “But you’re still angry with your mother.”
“Angry at myself for letting her take me by surprise,” said Param.
“She’s your mother. Of course her plotting against you took you by surprise.”
“She’s not my mother, she’s Hagia Sessamin. She does things for royal reasons, not personal sentimentality.”
“That’s the lie she tells herself to excuse her crimes,” said Olivenko. “You can believe her if you want, but I don’t. I think she acts only for personal reasons, and never once thinks of the kingdom.”
Param felt her anger flare up, but stopped herself from speaking sharply. How could she defend her mother after what the woman had done to her?
“It’s like your father,” said Olivenko. “The best man I ever knew. He said that he was pursuing a way through the Wall for the benefit of the whole kingdom. He talked about how the opening of the border would free everyone, widen the world. But it was all very vague. What he really wanted was to find some reason to exist.”
“He was Sissamik,” said Param. “That’s a reason to exist.”
“It’s an office. A title. He told me once—just once, mind you—that he was a mere decoration on the costume of a deposed queen. An accessory, like shoes, like a hat. If his wife ruled, he would still have no power; since she did not, he was worse than useless.”
“He was wonderful,” said Param. “He was the only one who treated me like . . .”
“Like a daughter.”
“Like a little girl,” said Param. “But yes, like a daughter.”
“He found you fascinating. ‘She’ll be Sessamin someday, after her mother, and if she has power she’ll have the power to be a monster if she wants, like her great-grandmother, the boy-killer.’ ”
“He said that?”
“It wasn’t an insult—it was one of her self-chosen titles. She killed all her male relatives so that no man could rival her daughter for the Tent of Light. She chose Knosso to be your mother’s consort, and left strict instructions that he was to be killed after he fathered two daughters.”
“Two?”
“Just in case,” said Olivenko. “Your mother bore Rigg instead, and then Knosso never quite managed to sire another child on her. So he never found out whether someone would have carried out old Aptica Sessamin’s command. There had been a revolution in the meantime, but that didn’t mean some old royalist wouldn’t try to fulfill the old lady’s wish.”
“He must have talked very candidly with you.”
“More like he forgot I was there, and talked to himself. He wanted to do something great. Maybe he did—but then he died, so he didn’t get to enjoy the fruits of his labor. He passed through the Wall, and then drowned. Was there a moment there in which he said, ‘I did it!’ and savored his triumph? Or was it all just the hands of the monsters from the sea, dragging him down?”
“I thought you said he was unconscious.”
“That’s what the learned doctors declared, but I suspect it was only to console your mother. I think he was struggling. I think he was awake.”
“How awful.”
“Awful for a few moments, and then he was dead. The cruelest means of dying still ends the same. With release.”
“Release,” said Param. “It sounds pleasant.”
“And yet I don’t want to do it,” said Olivenko. “Not now, not ever. Miserable as I sometimes am in this life, I like being alive.” He held up his hands. “I’m used to having these fingers do my bidding. I don’t even have to ask them. Before I even think of what I want, before I could put my wishes into words, they’re already obeying me. My feet, too. My eyes open when I want to see, and close when I want to sleep. Such obedient servants. I’d miss them.”
“So you think some part of you will persist after death?”
“If not, I won’t know it,” said Olivenko. “And if so, then I’ll miss my hands and feet and eyes and also lunch. I’ll miss food. And sleep. And waking up.”
“Maybe death is better.”
“Not according to the advertisements.”
“What advertisements?”
“You see? If it were better, there’d be advertisements.”
“Why bother to advertise, since everyone’s going to do it anyway?”
“I didn’t think of that,” said Olivenko ruefully.
Param chuckled, and then realized she was amused. That, for a moment, she was something like happy. “Well, thank you for that,” said Param.
“The laugh was your own,” said Olivenko. “I was merely ridiculous.”
“It was kind of you to be ridiculous for me.”
They talked on, the easy conversation of new friends, each telling about experiences that illustrated some point they were making, spinning out the yarns of their lives and weaving them together haphazardly into a sort of homespun that wrapped them both and made them feel warm. Through it all, Olivenko only rarely looked at her; whether it was deference to her rank or sensitivity to her shyness or a kind of shyness of his own, she didn’t know. But it allowed her to look at him fully, frankly, deciding that as grown men went, he was not bad looking. Manly enough in the cut of his jaw and the strength of his neck, but still with the eyes of a scholar, a kind of distance, as if he could see things that ordinary people never saw.
And what did he see? He had seen Father, and liked him, and cared about him.
And he sees me. And likes me. And . . .
Param felt herself blush a little and she turned away. She felt herself coasting along the edge of slow time, but did not step over. She remained here with him.
“Thanks for not leaving,” said Olivenko.
“You knew?” Param said softly.
“I don’t know what you thought of,” said Olivenko, “or what you saw, but you turned away and froze. Like a deer, the moment before it leaps away. I was afraid you were going to leave.”
“I might have,” said Param. “But I decided not to fear you.”
“Yes, that’s what everyone decides,” said Olivenko. “I’m not much of a soldier, not much of a guard.”
“But you’re guarding me,” said Param. “I’m not supposed to fear you.”
“Well, that’s good then,” said Olivenko. And then he went off on a story about a time when he challenged a drunk who was trying to stray into the wrong part of the city, and the drunk showed his contempt by urinating on him.