Colemenoport
Wayfarer
Mist frothed around her—lavender mist, laced with tendrils of indigo blue, bright yellow, and mahogany—streaming, surging, and dreadfully busy.
For a moment, Padi wondered if she had achieved Healspace, or had again bumbled into some other place altogether, only this time, there was no Tekelia to meet her.
“Healspace,” she said aloud, “comes from within.”
Father’s Healspace, that she had entered at his invitation, to assist in Healing Vanz, had been filled with mists of varying shades of pink. There had been motion, but nothing so energetic as what she was seeing—no. Father’s mist had boiled, flaring silver as it dissolved the terrible working that would have made Vanz nothing but the extension of a villain’s will.
In fact, Healspace had acted as an extension of Father’s will.
Which meant that—this…
Padi eyed the cheerful, energetic chaos surrounding her with fond dismay.
Which meant that this display was a reflection of her will and intent.
“Really, Padi, you might try for a little order,” she murmured, and closed her eyes. Carefully, she reviewed a pilot’s calming exercise, and felt serenity flow into her.
When she opened her eyes again, the fog was still largely lavender, shot with bright ribbons and dark, but its movement was less frenetic, a slow swirling that was at once soothing and exuberant.
She laughed suddenly and rose up on her toes, spreading her arms wide, as if she would take flight, while the mist caressed her cheeks, and swirled ’round her waist.
Briefly, she wondered if she could fly here, as well as under the Ribbons, but the moment passed, and she settled back into center, suddenly sober.
It appeared that she had found Healspace—or, if Dyoli was to be believed, her Healspace. But that had been only the first step in her plan.
Now that she was here, however, she found she had…qualms regarding the second step. It came to her that she did not know the protocols. Did one ask permission before one called? How precisely did one call? Was it a whisper, a yearning, or—
To her right, the mist became slightly agitated, flowing from lavender to silver-spangled pink.
A figure formed within the agitation, and took one step forward, the mist falling behind.
“Hello, Padi.”
“Father!”
She threw herself forward, and it seemed that the mist did support her, so that she flew into his arms, hugging him as tightly as he hugged her.
“Did I—did I wake you?”
“Not quite,” he murmured, and she felt a light pressure, as if he rested his cheek against her hair.
They stood so for a moment—or a year. Padi felt the slight easing of his embrace, and the absence of that light pressure. She sighed, and released him, stepping back until Father caught her hands, and they stood among the dancing mists, facing each other.
“I see that you found Healspace,” he said, gently. “My congratulations.” He turned his head, surveying the area; she saw his gaze settle on the dancing colors.
“Ribbons?” he asked.
Padi sighed. “I think so? But, truly, Father, I’ve only just arrived, myself.”
He laughed.
“Well, then. You will have to tell me, when you know.”
“Yes, I will,” she said, her voice going to a whisper. She had wanted him, wanted to talk to him, yet, now that he was here, she scarcely knew what to say.
“May I Look at you, child?” Father asked softly.
Padi raised her chin.
“Yes, please. May I—may I See, too?”
“Certainly,” he said, and stepped back, his hands slipping out of hers.
Between them, the mist boiled lavender, pink, and silver. Working energy, Padi thought, taking note of how the colors changed and flowed.
A tapestry formed against silvery fog, a weaving of bright threads and dark—not so steadfast as Vanz’s pattern, nor anything so intricate as Father’s.
“I am much older than you are,” Father murmured, as if he had heard her thought, and in this place, Padi realized, he may well have done.
She brought her attention to the tapestry that was her own inner self, finding that she could name the threads now; there was Quin, Aunt Anthora, Priscilla, Father himself, and the many others of her kin; valued associates—Jes, Mar Tyn, Dyoli, Dil Nem. One broad thread was a rich, deep brown. Padi Looked closer, and felt a sense of Vanz informing it.
And then there was the wide, bold thread that tied her to Tekelia.
Padi felt Father’s attention touch it; felt, rather than heard, him sigh.
“Tekelia says that it can be undone,” she said.
Father blew out a breath, setting silver mist spiraling into lavender.
“That might be,” he said, “but I am not the Healer to attempt it.” She felt his attention rest on her.
“Do you wish it undone, Daughter?”
“No,” Padi said, and felt the echo of her certainty roll through the foggy landscape.
“Then there’s nothing more to be said.” Father paused. “I offer information.”
“I am more than willing to receive information,” she assured him fervently, and this time she felt his laughter at her core.
“Tekelia is correct: Heart-links may be cut. I myself cut the links I share with Priscilla. Mind you, I was of the opinion that I was going to die very soon, which was an important factor in my reasoning.
“It meant I could make the cut close to myself, thus sparing Priscilla most of the pain of separation.”
Breath-caught, Padi asked, “Was…dying…important to your plan?”
“Well, yes. If I failed to die, the link would grow back, exposing Priscilla to our enemy. As you can see, I did fail to die, so it was fortunate our enemy found other business to occupy her.”
“I wonder if Tekelia knows about the links growing back.”
“Possibly not. Heart-links are not lightly severed. There may exist a reason less dire than mine to do so, but to separate those who are so intimately bonded, knowing that such links regrow—it could only be done to inflict pain, or perhaps to disorder someone in order to gain an advantage.”
Padi drew breath, meaning to ask—and turned her head, drawn by a change in the quality of the mists.
“Ah,” Father said softly, “we are approaching time, I fear. Even Healspace is not forever. Have we accomplished what you wished for in this meeting?”
“Yes,” Padi said slowly. “Only—I wanted you to know, Father, that I will miss you!”
He extended a hand, fingertips caressing her cheek.
“And I will miss you, Daughter. It’s not a clean break, you know. We will certainly still be in communication, and if nothing but a face-to-face meeting will do—well, you are a pilot, and my routes are filed with the Guild.”
Padi laughed. “Yes, of course.”
Father smiled, took one step backward into a bank of silver-shot pink—and was gone.