Throwing a thick, muscled arm around lanky Parsh’s bony shoulders, Kail squeezed him good-naturedly, coaxing a pained flush in his pale cheeks. “I was just extending an invitation to Parsh to join our group next week. He’s never been to Yyn before.”
Rena rolled her eyes. “Parsh isn’t the only one.”
When Jacob materialized beside Rena, Kail scrutinized him, probably comparing the newcomer with himself. Rena made her own comparison, deciding that two men couldn’t be more different. Kail, with his ruddy, clean-shaven complexion and shoulder-length curly blond-brown hair, evinced the strength of an arena wrestler, while darker Jacob stood taller than Kail but had a ropy muscularity that suited him for springball.
“Of course you haven’t been to Yyn, or we’d have had our wedding night already.” He winked at her.
Jacob looked genuinely puzzled, so Parsh explained the custom that on solstice night a couple need only take one of the thousands of Auster’s candles lighted at the ruins to be granted the privileges of married couples. The “blessing” lasted only until morning, in accordance with the legend. Rena felt Jacob’s eyes on her as Parsh explained, in his usual delicate terms, that the tradition typically resulted in a host of births in late fall.
“Why doesn’t Jacob join our group?” Parsh asked. “He’s not Bajoran. He’s a writer. He might find a story at Yyn. Besides, Halar would enjoy his company.”
Without moving his eyes from Rena’s face, Jacob nodded. “I’d like that. Count me in.”
The prospect of spending solstice caught between Kail’s expectations of sex and Jacob’s mind games pushed Rena too far. She shoved her basket at Parsh and announced that Marja needed her back at the bakery immediately. Kail called after her as she marched back up the hill, but Rena ignored him. If he cared about her feelings, let him prove it. Let Jacob prove it, too. Through the bakery doors and down the hall past Topa’s room, she blew past Marja, and stomped up the stairs to her room.
“We’ll have customers soon!” Marja called after her.
“I’m working on Topa’s memorial,” she said, and slammed her bedroom door. Once inside, she threw herself down on the floor and pulled her art supplies—charcoal, pastels—out from beneath her bed. Then she cast them aside and settled on paints. No amount of searching uncovered a canvas or even a large sheet of hardcopy, so she yanked the plain sheet off her bed and tacked two adjoining corners to the wall with hairpins shoved deep into the plaster. Stretching the sheet out the rest of the length of the wall, she affixed the remaining corners similarly. The rising morning temperature started making the attic room uncomfortably warm. Rena didn’t care. She peeled down to her chemise and started painting.
She didn’t think about strokes or composition or colors as she laid down a thick layer of black-green, the color of Mylea’s ocean churned up by a storm. Blue—Topa’s eyes—came next, followed by angry reds and gashes of yellow. Flecks of paint stuck to her eyelashes: she brushed them aside with her forearm, leaving a rainbow of smudges on her skin. If Marja had called her, Rena hadn’t heard. The shadows lengthened with the changing light. If she felt hunger pangs or thirst, Rena ignored them. She knew only the demands of her brush and the shifting kaleidoscope of emotions pouring out in colors on her wall. At last she came to the browns—the warm, soothing brown of soil, soaked with water, peaty with leaves and dried moss. The color of her father’s skin, the color of Jacob’s skin, the color of her own. And when the last dab of paint left her palette, in the dimming of the day, she collapsed, weary, on the ground, and scooted back against the opposite wall to see what she had created. She had no idea what had been born of her brush, she only knew that she couldn’t go on without it being poured out of her body into something outside of herself. Jacob’s words returned to her. She cursed aloud. Why in the name of the Prophets did it keep coming back to Jacob?
…You weren’t screaming about preserving Bajor, you were screaming like someone who was having her soul—herpagh —torn out of her. Tell me again that you need to give up your art….
She removed the duranjalamp from her knapsack and lit the flame. She watched the firelight shadows leap and flicker over her painting. She began the benediction to honor the dead.
“Ralanon Topa propeh va nara eshuks hala-kan vunek.”
But I want to honor you, Topa.She buried her face in her hands. Prophets show me the way that I might do both.
Asarem
“I’m sorry, First Minister, but the answer is no.”
Asarem stared at the monitor in the center of her office’s conference table, shocked into silence by Magistrate Sorati’s response. “Teru, I…I don’t understand,” she finally succeeded in saying. “You wanted this appointment. You didn’t flinch once when you appeared before the Chamber Selection Committee…”
“Yes, for all the good that did me,”Sorati said wryly.
“…but as I said, they’re no longer part of the equation,” Asarem finished. “Under the present circumstances I have unassailable authority to appoint the person of my choice to represent Bajor on the Federation Council. I’ve chosen you.”
“And I must respectfully decline, First Minister. My circumstances have changed.”
“May I know in what way?”
Sorati hesitated.
“Teru, please,” Asarem said. “At least tell me why. Help me to understand this.”
“It’s Herek.”
“Your husband.”
Sorati nodded. “Our marriage has been troubled these last few years. In truth, had my appointment to the Federation Council gone through last month, it likely would have ended us, and I was prepared to accept that. We had grown apart, and I knew Herek would not have wanted to leave Bajor. Nor would it have been fair to ask him to accept years of separation. But when the nomination failed…”Sorati seemed to grope for the right words. “…we rediscovered one another. It felt like we were being given another chance. Our love is renewed, and I find I am unwilling to jeopardize it now for my career. I am truly sorry to disappoint you, First Minister, and I remain honored to have been your first choice for such an important post.”
Asarem mustered a smile. “You need never apologize for loving your husband, Teru,” she said finally. “My loss, after all, is Herek’s gain, and I’m content to be the one defeated in such a contest. I rejoice for your happiness, and I wish you both well.”
Tears formed in Sorati’s eyes. “Thank you, First Minister.”
Asarem closed the connection and sat back. Raising her voice, she called out “Theno!” and then looked across the table to see Ledahn frowning at her. “What?” she asked.
“You didn’t try very hard to change her mind,” he noted.
Theno appeared at the door leading into the anteroom. “First Minister, there isa comm system.”
“Just bring me the list of all Bajoran diplomats with at least five years of offworld experience.”
“Yes, First Minister.”
“In fact,” Ledahn went on, “you didn’t try at all.”
“What should I have done?” Asarem said. “Asked her to put her world ahead of her family?”
“Yes,” Ledahn said pragmatically.
Asarem shook her head. “That sounds easy in theory, but I know better. I don’t want to argue about this, Muri. Sorati is out of the picture. Let’s move on.”