Val Con entered the room with unnatural scuffling to avoid startling the aging woman, and bowed when she looked up.
"Zhena Trelu?"
She smiled, relief washing her face. "Cory," she said, using the short form, as she had been doing since their second day with her. He had raised a brow at the first usage but had not protested, and Cory he had become.
"Did you find the child?" she asked him. "Is she all calmed down? I'm sorry I upset her—likely I was a bit sharp myself—but that girl has the wind's own temper with her!"
The man's brows pulled together slightly as he moved farther into the room. "Only noise," he said in his laborious Benish. "Like Borril. Sees something, maybe bad—makes noise. Maybe bad something goes away . . ." He perched on the arm of Jerry's reading chair, eyes intent.
Zhena Trelu sniffed. "Bad! Meri knows I'm not going to hurt her."
Cory moved his shoulders. "Here, things are not home. Miri is—" He sighed sharply, tipping his hands out toward her in a gesture she had come to know well the last five days.
"She's homesick, you mean. Misses her home." She drank down rest of her tea and set the cup aside. "Of course she is, poor child. I'll try to be more patient with her, Cory. You tell her that for me, will you?"
"Yes." But still he waited, watching her.
"What else? Are you hungry? I made you some sandwiches—they're on the kitchen table. You know where the milk is."
From the floor at her feet Borril gave vent to a heartrending groan. Cory laughed, then looked up again.
"Zhena Trelu. I ask—for Miri. Is there in your house—these . . ."
He swept a slender hand at the book-covered wall—Jerrel's books, mostly; dusty since his death. "For childs?"
"Children," she corrected, "Might have a few around from when Granic—my son—was a little boy. Why?"
"For Miri," he said. "To learn the words."
"Books to help her learn words?" she repeated. "But you're doing so well!"
"For Miri, Zhena Trelu," Cory told her for the third time.
She sighed. "You're a patient boy. All right, I'll look around and see if I still have any of Granic's old books."
He tipped his head. "Soon, Zhena Trelu?"
"Well, I—" She bridled, staring at him. He met her eyes calmly, his own a clear and bottomless green.
After a moment, Zhena Trelu sighed and pushed carefully out of her chair. "All right, Cory," she said, with a touch of acid. "Soon."
After supper, Zhena Trelu left the two of them to clean up and went to pursue Granic's old storybook collection through the attic, grumbling audibly as she went up the skinny stairs.
Miri ran water into the sink and started to wash while Val Con cleared the table. She turned her head to smile at him. "I feel better," she said, which was not quite a lie. She did feel better—a little. The headache was gone, which was a big plus; but she was still as jumpy as a Merc without kynak.
Val Con finished the glass he had been drying and set it aside. "After we are done with this, if you like, I can show you a way to make living here—easier, perhaps."
She looked at him doubtfully, not sure that she really needed to learn something else right now; and he tipped his head, catching her eyes on his.
"I promise not to give you a headache," he said solemnly. She gave a wan grin. "Okay," she said. "What the hell."
Brrrinngg!
Miri whirled, ready to charge, staring at the black box on the opposite wall. Until that moment it had always been silent.
It repeated its shrill noise, and Val Con had his hand on it; then he was lifting the top part away and bringing it to his ear.
"Zhena Trelu's house," he said carefully in Benish.
A pause filled with tiny crackles, then a woman's voice spoke, high-pitched in amazement. "What? Who is that? Where's Estra?"
Val Con sighed gently. "Zhena Trelu's house," he repeated clearly. "Cory. Attic."
There was another pause on the line, and he turned to look at Miri, standing tense by the sink. He wrinkled his nose, which made her laugh, and then the voice on the phone was spouting more questions.
"Cory? What are you doing there, Cory? Where are you from?" The amazement had been replaced by avaricious curiosity.
Gossip, Val Con thought darkly and withheld another sigh. "Work. Home. Who is that?"
"What!" the voice exclaimed, though it apparently did not expect to be answered, because it rushed right on. "This is Athna Brigsbee. You tell Estra that I'm on the phone and want to talk to her right away."
"Stay," he said, as if she were Borril, and let the receiver down to dangle by its cord. Leisurely he went down the long hallway, up the stairs, and to the thin attic stairway.
"Zhena Trelu?"
There was a thump and a rustle from above. "What?"
"Athna Brigsbee on the phone to talk to you right away."
"Wind take the woman!" Zhena Trelu grumped, and Val Con grinned. "Tell her to hold on, Cory. I'll be there soon."
"Yes." And he was gone, soundless, down the stairs and back to the kitchen.
"Hold on," he told Athna Brigsbee. "Zhena Trelu is here soon." He let the receiver back down without waiting for an answer, picked up his towel, and began drying the mountain of clean dishes Miri had produced.
By the time Zhena Trelu reached the dangling receiver, it was making indignant noises, which the two diligent workers at the sink seemed not to hear.
"Young man? Young man! Pick up this phone, young man! Just what do you think—"
"Hello, Athna," Zhena Trelu said, unable to resist a grin at Cory, who raised a brow and continued drying dishes.
"Estra? Well, thank goodness! I was terrified. That rude man . . .Who is he, Estra? I asked, of course . . ."
I just bet you did, Zhena Trelu thought. "Cory and his zhena are helping me out around the place. You know it's been threatening to fall down around my ears these last couple winters. Thought I'd get everything all lined up and then maybe sell it, come spring." She stopped, surprised at herself.
"Well, that's lovely for you, dear," Athna Brigsbee said. "I know how hard it's been for you to keep everything up since poor Jerrel passed on." Zhena Trelu gritted her teeth: Jerry and Athna had not been the best of friends.
"But tell me about them, Estra," the voice in her ear continued. "Where are they from? I asked Cory, but all he said was 'home.'" She gave a shrill little laugh.
Good for you, Cory, Zhena Trelu thought. "They don't speak Benish very well. They're refugees—survivors of that volcano and earthquake they had over in Porlint last year."
"But, Estra," Zhena Brigsbee protested, "when I talked about how we should all get together and do something about those poor people right after the disaster you were—well, I won't mince words. You were cold, Estra. And now to take two refugees into your house—and they don't even speak the language!"
There was a pause that Zhena Trelu spitefully refused to fill, then Athna took up her thread again, voice lowered. "Are you sure they're married, Estra? The stories I've heard! People taking refugees into their homes who turn out to be thieves, or murderers . . ."
"Meri and Cory aren't thieves," Zhena Trelu snapped. "And I sincerely doubt they're murderers. Just a young married couple that happened to need help the same time I needed help, so we're helping each other." She took a breath, trying to force the irritation down. "Athna, I really am going to have to go."
"Of course! But we must get together—say on Artas? I'll bring a nice scuppin salad and some brownies, and the four of us can have a lovely dinner and a nice talk—it's been such a long time, Estra! Well, I won't keep you any longer—I'll see you on Artas, for dinner. Take care of yourself, dear." The line went dead, leaving Zhena Trelu gasping in outrage.
Athna Brigsbee was coming to visit in two days? There was no stopping her, of course. That sharp nose smelled gossip, and she would not rest until she ferreted out every bit of information possible about Cory and Meri and then did her best to make that information known throughout Gylles and the neighboring county.
Zhena Trelu returned the receiver to its hook, turned toward the sink—and gasped as she saw the young couple as a stranger would see them.
Meri was putting away pans while Cory finished the drying, both dressed in the tight-fitting leather garments that were the only clothes they owned. As Zhena Trelu watched, Meri picked up the heavy iron skillet and bent to put it into the oven. The zhena tried to imagine the expression on Athna Brigsbee's face, were she presented with such a spectacle during her visit, and was almost tempted to allow the situation to continue.
"Meri," she said, shaking herself and moving toward the stove and the tea kettle. "Cory."
They turned to look at her, the girl drifting closer to the man's side, eyes great and gray in her thin face.
"Winter's coming," Zhena Trelu said, trying to talk slowly enough for Meri to understand, "and you're going to need warmer clothes. We'll go to town tomorrow and buy you something nice. Better clothes," she added, as she saw Cory's irrepressible eyebrow slide upward.
"Zhena Trelu," he murmured. "Buy is—" He tipped his hands out. "We not buy, maybe."
She frowned at him. "You don't have any money to buy clothes, is that it?" She shook her head, feigning irritation. "All the work you two have been doing around this place? Did you think you were working for nothing, Cory?"
"Dinner," Meri said unexpectedly. "Supper. Bed."
"For the little bit the pair of you eat," the older woman informed her with feeling, "I got the best end of that bargain. I owe you a few clothes—couple jackets, maybe. That should make us even for what you've done so far, all right?"
Meri looked at her husband, who moved his shoulders in that foreign gesture of his and bowed slightly. "Thank you, Zhena Trelu."
"You're welcome," she said, unaccountably touched.
Cory reached out and took the girl's hand, and the two of them slipped out of the kitchen, leaving only a soft "Good night" drifting behind them.
"Good night, children," Zhena Trelu said quietly, and turned to run water into the kettle.
"You should be as comfortable as possible," Val Con told Miri softly. "Later, you will be able to do this at any time, but to learn it is better to be at ease." He sat cross-legged in the middle of the double bed and smiled at her. "Perhaps you should unbraid your hair and take your boots off. Take off all of your clothes, if you will feel better so."
Miri grinned as she unbraided her hair. "I'd hate to tempt you like that."
"I," he said austerely, "am above such things. It is not for you to think that Scouts might be human."
She made the bow of student to teacher, hamming it, eyes very round. "Forgive me, Commander, I'll remember."
"Do so," he directed. Then he grinned. "I shall endeavor to keep my thoughts pure."
She shook her hair and combed rapid fingers through it, then sat on the wall-bench and yanked off her boots before shedding the rest of her clothes. "Now what?"
He patted the bed at his side. "Come lie down."
She lay on her back, eyes tight on his face, right hand fisted between her breasts.
"You are comfortable?" he asked. "Not cold? It is better if you put your arms at your sides and let your hands relax." He reached to brush the clinging copper threads from her cheeks; his fingers touched her lips lightly. "I promise you, cha'trez, this is a good thing—pretty and friendly—not at all frightening. Even I was able to learn it the first time."
She gave a gurgle of laughter and composed herself as he had suggested.
"Good," Val Con murmured, noting how tense her muscles still were. "Now I will tell you what will happen, then I will show you the way, and then I will ask that you repeat the process by yourself while I watch. All right?"
"Okay." Her eyes were on his, and he folded his hands on his knees, making no effort to break that link between them.
"The name of this technique," he said softly, "is 'The Rainbow.' It is a way of relaxing mind and body so that one may improve concentration and think—more rightly. People who are tense and confused make mistakes. And tension and confusion leach joy from life, which is a thing to be avoided. We should strive for more joy, not less—and that is what the Rainbow is for." He found his voice taking on the proper rhythm, found himself speaking the same words he had heard from Clonak ter'Meulen, all those years before.
"What you must do," he told Miri, "is picture the colors of the rainbow, one by one: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple, violet; and use the—key—of each color to relax more deeply. By the time you reach the end of the rainbow you will feel very nice indeed: warm and comfortable, perhaps a little as if you were floating. You will then walk down the stairway and through the door. That is what will happen." He lifted a brow. "Shall we continue?"
Miri was frowning "You're gonna hypnotize me?"
"No. I help you relax. Each person's Rainbow is unique. I may show you the way because of the superficial similarity of the color structure. But your Rainbow is yours, cha'trez. There is no danger. If you should become frightened or uncomfortable—or simply wish to go no further—you need only open your eyes. It is your will that commands, not mine."
"Got it." She closed her eyes, then opened them with a sigh. Her left hand had curled into a fist while he was talking, and she flexed it open before looking back at him with a ragged grin. "Well, let's give it a spin and see what comes up."
"All right." He smiled. "Close your eyes now, Miri, and breathe deeply. Try not to think of anything specific, but let the thoughts flutter by, unconsidered . . ." He closed his own eyes briefly, feeling for the proper rhythm and words. Wily old man, Clonak ter'Meulen, he thought; I wonder where you are now.
"Miri," he began gently. "Please visualize the color red. Hold it before your mind's eye. Tell me when you have it firm."
"Now," she said instantly.
"Good. Hold it; let it fill your head, pushing away all those little, half-formed thoughts. Let there be only red. There is only red. Warm, happy red, filling your thoughts entirely.
"Now," he said after a moment, "let the red flow down through your body, starting at the top of your head, warming and relaxing you—down through your face, your throat, your shoulders—warm, friendly, relaxing red . . ."
And so he took her through the Rainbow, slowly, gently, watching the tension ease out of her, her face soften, her breathing slow. He reminded her at yellow and again at purple, as Clonak had once reminded him, that she might open her eyes and return, should she so desire, but she did not choose that path.
"You are now concentrating on the color violet," he said softly. "The end of the Rainbow. How do you feel, cha'trez?"
"Nice," she murmured, voice slightly fuzzy. "Warm and kind of—cloudy-feeling. Safe." She smiled a little. "I'm glad we're closer here."
He tipped a brow at that but replied gently, "I am glad, also. Look about you now, Miri. Do you see the stairway?"
"Standing on the top stair," she told him, voice entirely unsurprised. "It goes down a way."
"Will it make you feel—unsafe—to walk down?"
"No," she said unhesitatingly. "Should I?"
"If you wish to, Miri."
"Okay." A slight pause, then she said, "Val Con?"
"Yes."
"There's a door."
"So?" he murmured. "What sort of door?"
"Old-time door—all shiny, dark-brown wood and a big brass knob. There's a keyhole as big as my fist."
"Why not go in? Or would you rather return now?"
"I'd rather go in," she said definitely. "But I don't have a key to fit this beast—"
"Perhaps in your pouch," he suggested softly.
"Naw, I don't have a key like—" Her brows twitched over closed eyes. "I'll be damned."
There was a longish pause before she said again, "Val Con?" Wonder and excitement filled her voice.
"Yes, cha'trez."
"It's a library," she breathed. "You never saw so many books—tapes and bound—and a desk and a chair—big and soft—candles—little knickknack things and—uh-oh."
"What is wrong?" He expended the effort necessary to keep his voice smooth.
"I'm in trouble, boss—there's a Belansium planetscape in here."
He grinned. "I do not think you need worry. Does the room please you?"
"Please—it's wonderful! Is yours like this?"
"Everyone's room is different," he told her gently, firmly refusing to consider the shambles his own must be in, if it still existed at all. "I am happy that you are happy."
He paused, then decided on a departure from Clonak's technique. "Miri?"
"Yo."
"May I give you a gift?"
Her brows contracted slightly. "A gift? Why?"
He winced. "It gives me joy to do so," he said very gently. "Will you allow it?"
"Yes."
"Thank you," he said seriously. "Look on the seat of your chair. Do you see the book there? Not a large book—very thin, in fact. Bound, with paper pages . . ."
"Here it is!" After a moment she went on, hesitantly. "Val Con? It's—it's beautiful. You sure you want to give it to me?"
He extended a hand, stopping just short of touching her near-sleeping face. "I wish it," he said gently, "with all my heart." He paused. "Listen, now, and I will tell you about this book. You will see that each of the pages is blank, except for the first four, where I have written something for you."
"Yes."
"Good. The first page, that says 'Sleep,' does it not?"
"Yes," she agreed once more.
"And the next," he continued, "says 'Study;' the third, 'Relax;' and the fourth, 'Return.' Is that correct?"
"Exactly correct."
"Very good. Now, what you may do, whenever you come to your library, is look at this book and choose what you will do. If you choose to sleep, you need only open to that page, concentrate on the word there—and you will sleep. If you wish to allow your mind to review and integrate the day's affairs—or if you wish to work on a particular problem—you will open to the page marked 'Study,' concentrate on the word, and your mind will be ready to learn.
"If you find yourself growing tense, you might wish to go to your library and regard 'Relax.' And, if you wish to return to the world outside your room, you need only bring your attention to the fourth page, and you will awaken." He waited a moment to let it all sink in.
"Miri, please open your gift to the page on which I have written 'Return.' Concentrate on it . . ."
She took a sudden sharper breath, then her eyes flickered open, and she smiled at him, very gently.
He smiled back. "Hello, Miri."
"Hi." She stretched, catlike, her smile widening to a grin as she extended a hand and touched his scarred cheek. "You're beautiful."
He raised a brow. "I am happy that I please you," he murmured. "How do you feel?"
"Wonderful. This gimmick might not help me talk to Zhena Trelu, but if I feel this relaxed every time I go down and come back, we're up."
"But it will help you talk to Zhena Trelu. If you choose to do so, you may go to your library and concentrate on 'Study' and 'Sleep.' Then you will be able to assign your attention to sorting and making sense of all that has come to pass—today, for instance—while your body and your waking mind rest. Tomorrow you will then have access to all of today's data, not just a jumbled mess that you have no time to sort through."
"If you say so." Her brows twitched together in a frown. "Where'd you learn this gag?"
He unfolded his legs and stretched out beside her, head pillowed on an arm, eyes level with hers. "It is a Scout thing. A man named Clonak ter'Meulen taught me, when my uncle hired him to make Shan a master pilot."
"Your uncle hired a Scout to teach your cousin to pilot?"
"Oh, no—Shan had been a pilot for years! He merely required tutoring to attain his master's rank, and Uncle Er Thom would settle for no less. As for hiring a Scout . . ." He moved his shoulders. "Clonak desired passage; my uncle desired his son to have the best tutor available. So a bargain was struck."
"And he just taught you this Rainbow thing on the side?"
"Of his kindness. He had known my father, you see, and he was much taken with Shan and me. I achieved my third class that trip, under his training." He stroked her cheek lightly. "Will you do a thing for me now?"
"Do my best."
He smiled. "Will you go through the exercise again, while I watch? And when you achieve your library, would you assign your concentration to 'Sleep'? The past days have been very hard for you—I am sorry that I did not understand how hard, so that we could have resolved this sooner. And tomorrow we are to go to town and buy clothes, which may prove trying for us all . . ."
Miri laughed and laid her lips firmly against his; he felt her fingers in his hair, and a quickening of his own blood. When she leaned back, the laughter was still in her eyes. "Sure you want me to go to sleep?"
"Alas," he murmured, half smiling in regret and admiration.
"Slave driver." But she rolled onto her back and closed her eyes. In a little while, the rhythm of her breathing told him that she was asleep; and in an even shorter while, he followed her.