Dutiful Passage
Langlast Departure
I
It started with a walk in the rain, himself and his oathsworn, across a dim port plaza. Rounded paving stones made for treacherous footing, and he was preoccupied; impatient, his thoughts on the end of the mission, on the next day’s joyous reunion with his lifemate and his ship.
Mincing across the wet stones, he knew how this would end; knew that the rain, the plaza, the man at his shoulder, were all part of a terrible memory, replayed as a dream, now that one of them was safe. Knowing that he dreamed, he tried to wake; felt the piercing agony of a headache behind his eyes, and redoubled his efforts.
“Right here, isn’t it, sir?”
The voice pulled him back into the dream; he glanced up at the mosaic flower above the shop door.
“Thank you, Vanner,” he heard himself say. “I think I must be more tired than I know.”
He took a breath, and turned toward the door.
He panicked then, and threw himself wholesale into the effort of trying to alter the future—shouting aloud at his dream-self to turn away, to run, to grab Vanner’s arm and—
But it was no use. The dream rolled on, inexorable, toward its foreknown tragedy.
He opened the door, as he had done, awake, and was doomed to do, again, asleep: walking down the aisle lined by gem-filled cases, to the back of the store, where the proprietor awaited him.
Spirit and soul afire, he fell, though that had been the least of the things that had happened in that place—and lost consciousness.
He tried to shout himself into sense, but the dream rolled on, crushing his feeble attempts to wake back into a world where this was the past, and not the living present.
He did not scream when Vanner died, murdered by his own hand, though he surely did so when the links he had cut rebounded against his soul, and the lash struck—struck, and struck again.
“Shan.”
Even as he felt his life ebbing, and the frail flutter of wings inside his chest . . . Even as another power, glittering dark and diamond-sharp, harried him toward defeat—even then, he heard her voice; grasped it and held to it with all of his remaining strength.
“Shan. Wake now, love.”
So simple a thing, he thought, as a cool hand cupped his cheek. With her touch, the dream unraveled, and he was free.
Free to open his eyes; free to draw a deep, shuddering breath, as he looked up into her face. He had fallen asleep in his chair. Foolish thing to have done.
“Priscilla,” he said, his voice raw. “I do beg your pardon.”
“Because you had a nightmare?” she asked, slim eyebrows arching over black eyes.
He blew out a breath, nothing so humorous as a laugh.
“Because I had a nightmare, again,” he told her. “Really, of all the bad habits you might have expected me to adopt, screaming in my sleep cannot have been among the first dozen.”
“I don’t know that I’ve ever wanted you to adopt any more bad habits at all,” his lifemate said meditatively. “I’m perfectly satisfied with those that came with.”
He did manage something nearer a laugh this time.
“Wretch.”
She smiled, and he was struck to the heart.
It was a weary thing, that smile, filigreed with worry he could See clearly even in his diminished state. He raised a hand to touch her face.
“Do not overspend yourself, Priscilla,” he said gently.
“Now, how would I do that?” she asked, with almost credible lightness. “I’ll have you know that no less a person than the first mate has informed me that my melant’i as dramliza and Healer stands before my melant’i as captain.”
“There’s an impertinence,” he murmured, sliding his fingers into the storm-cloud curls over her ear.
“Well, yes; but she’s right. For the moment. She’s a perfectly competent officer, and an excellent pilot. I don’t expect that anything very terrible will happen before we make the Jump point, do you? And she does have Lonan and Dil Nem as backup.”
She gave him a slight smile. “Not to mention myself.”
“Indeed.” He closed his eyes, trying to recall the schedule, but it eluded him. Such forgetfulness was new since . . . well, and Lina had said that he might expect such lapses, had she not? He had taken wounds. In fact, he had nearly died. There were consequences to such adventures, such as low energy and a vulnerability to nightmares. He would recover, in time; his body would heal, his memory would rebound, the nightmares would fade, his gift would reassert itself as strong, or stronger, than ever.
All this, Lina promised, though she failed of committing to when. Pressed, she had obliged him with vot’itzen—in Low Liaden, as one might speak to a child—which meant in good time.
So, in the midst of acquiring new bad habits, he must exert himself to acquire a new, good habit.
Patience.
Priscilla bent, kissed his forehead, and straightened to glance about the office.
“May I give you a glass of wine?”
“Thank you,” he said. “Wine would be welcome.”
She moved across the room, and he stood, trying to shake himself into order or, at the very least, divest himself of the clinging strands of the dream. The memory.
The shame.
“Here you are.”
She offered him a glass of the red, and when he had taken it in hand, she raised her glass in salute.
“To your good health.”
It was apt, he thought; certainly he would accept all and any assistance toward good health. He raised his glass a deal less jauntily.
“To the good health of all,” he said.
They drank. Priscilla curled into a corner of the couch, and he sat beside her.
“How fares Padi?” he asked.
He was to have met Priscilla at the half-shift, for a glass of wine and a shared sleep period. Upon his arrival in the master trader’s office, fresh from the war bridge, and a piloting sim, he’d found that Priscilla had left a message—she was stopping to visit Padi in sickbay, and would be a few minutes behind him, whereupon he had sat down in his chair and fallen asleep.
In truth, he would have liked to visit Padi—his child, his apprentice in trade, nascent wizard and none too happy with that newly realized state of her being. The Healers presiding over his case had declared it prudent that he and Padi not meet until she was released from quarantine. Padi therefore resided under Lina’s care, in sickbay, another situation he was certain met with less than her full approval.
Still, it had been agreed among the ship’s Healers—Lina, Priscilla, and himself—that it was best, given the sudden and forceful onset of Padi’s gifts, and her first use of those gifts—that she remain under observation for three ship-days. It was an arbitrary number, as even the assembled Healers acknowledged, while also acknowledging that three days was very likely the limit of what Padi’s patience would bear.
“Padi is testy, but well,” Priscilla said in answer to his question, “and still terribly bright. She’s mastered the basic control level, and has informed Lina that acquiring her trader’s ring remains her first and most important life goal. Any instruction touching upon her newly manifest gifts must take second place.”
“That,” said Shan, “is what got her into trouble in the first place.”
Priscilla looked at him blandly. “She promises, most faithfully, that she will not wall off her gifts a second time.”
“Excellent. Learning has taken place.”
Priscilla laughed, and raised her glass. They drank again, sharing a wry smile.
“On your topic,” Priscilla said, “Padi does . . . strongly question the wisdom of severing her link to you.”
“Surely Lina explained that she cannot nourish two forever.”
“It’s Padi’s feeling that she has too much for one, far too much for her needs, and that she would willingly give all she has to you.”
“A filial child,” he said, bland in his turn. “I had hoped to show her the benefits of her gifts. She sees them only as a hindrance to her heart’s desire.”
He paused, staring for a moment into his wine.
“How if Lina were to confide that Healers are forever entangled with those they Heal? Padi cannot, in a word, be rid of me now.”
Priscilla sipped consideringly.
“Padi might find the information interesting, though immaterial to her case.”
“Likely correct,” Shan said with a sigh.
They were quiet then, each occupied with their own thoughts. Shan’s stayed with his daughter. Padi was going to require a skillful hand in her training. Coming into so much power after hiding from herself for so long, and now to be so grudging in its acceptance . . .
Lina was not inept. Priscilla was herself a Witch of Sintia—a lapsed Witch of Sintia, he corrected himself. She had power, training, and control within the spectrums available to Liaden dramliz, though Priscilla’s gifts, so she believed, came to her from an all-knowing and compassionate Goddess. She had received rigorous training as a novice and was in her turn a meticulous teacher.
If it came to that, he was accounted a good teacher, though he might not be quite so effective while recovering from his near murder.
It was possible—perhaps even likely—he thought, without enthusiasm, that Padi was going to require the considerable resources of a full Healer Hall for Sorting.
And if she was found to be a dramliza, the Hall would train her for a life-work that did not include trade.
“Are there any full dramliza who are also traders?” Priscilla asked.
So their thoughts had been running in tandem, after all. Shan moved his shoulders.
“If there are, I have never heard of them. Which argues that they are very good at concealing their natures.” He sighed, rueful. “And I have just made Padi’s point for her.”
“Yes.” Priscilla paused, and put a gentle hand on his knee. “Matters will clarify, once we identify her spectrum. We only need to wait until her gift settles and we can See her properly.”
He nodded, stared blankly at the glass in his hand before lifting it to finish the last of the wine.
“Shan, you should rest.”
Yes, he admitted to himself; he should rest. But he was beginning to distrust sleep, knowing what awaited him there.
Before he had spent his talent dry in a desperate bid to Heal a dire enemy of his House, he might have taken himself to Healspace and woven a self-Heal, or put himself into a Healing sleep. Now, even those small things were beyond him, and his Sight—which he had depended upon since he had come halfling as a Healer—was depleted to the point of blindness.
Lina had also promised that these wounds would heal, vot’itzen. In the meanwhile, he bid fair to being useless—
No, he thought, catching himself up sternly. That was rankest self-pity. He was a pilot of Korval; he was a master of trade. He was the lifemate of Priscilla Delacroix y Mendoza. These were not trivialities. He was more—he was other than his gifts, though that argument again came perilously close to Padi’s chosen line of rebellion.
Padi—in her ignorance, new-come to her powers, Seeing with Healer’s eyes, as direct in her solving as any other born under Clan Korval’s Tree-and-Dragon—had sought to Heal him of psychic exhaustion by the simple expedient of producing a link—say, rather, a conduit—between them, and feeding him her power. An intuitive act, so all three of the more experienced Healers had agreed—intuitive and dangerous, for both donor and recipient.
Never less than thorough in her undertakings, Padi had formed a sturdy, and more importantly, a strong connection. It had taken both Lina and Priscilla, working carefully, hours to dismantle it, after they had separated Padi’s energies from his. Shan thought Padi had not actively worked against the Healers, though she certainly had not tried to assist them.
“I can,” Priscilla said softly, “give you a dreamless rest.”
He looked at her, curled into the corner of the couch, empty glass held loosely between long fingers. She was tired, even to non-Healer eyes, and his first thought was to decline her offer.
While dragons—most especially Korval Dragons—wished to protect those under their wing, they did not come easily to being protected. He knew that, though he was not accustomed to thinking himself so very much a Dragon.
Still, he took a deep breath, and thought a second time.
There were facts, to wit: He had been wounded, physically. Rest was necessary to recuperation. He was the clan’s master trader and would soon be needed at his post, in good health and clear mind. Therefore . . .
He inclined his head.
“I accept the gift.”
“Thank you,” she said softly.
She put her glass, and his, on the table next to the couch. Then, she rose, and held a hand down to him. He took it, and tried not to be ashamed, that he needed her support to rise.
A few minutes later, they were together in their bed, she curled around him, so comfortable and usual that he was already drowsing, soothed by her warmth and her nearness. Sighing, he drifted toward sleep.
There came the splash of rain against his face; he tensed toward waking—
And relaxed, utterly, into deep and dreamless sleep.
Shan went to sleep eagerly, like a starving man reaching for a crust of bread. Priscilla, however, lay awake, holding him against her, looking at him—at the unique tapestry of his soul—and thinking dire thoughts.
He had taken—no! he had inflicted horrific damage upon himself. She could see the half-healed lacerations, the bruising, the tears, where he had slashed through threads, bindings, the very fabric of his soul, in his frenzy to be certain that, should he be trapped and subverted, the enemy would take no other captives through him.
It was very true that a Healer formed a bond—became entangled—with every soul they Healed. There were a hundred and more such threads woven into the tapestry of Shan, each glowing with energies peculiar to itself, enriching, and enriched by, the mutual bond.
She could see the link that they shared—broad; weighted with love, trust, and their years together, as partners and lovers. It blazed bright, even now, after he had severed it in his need to keep her safe. Nothing could truly sever that link, which he must have known. But, there, he had been playing against time. If he had lost his gamble with death, it would not have mattered that the severing could only be temporary; that the link would reestablish itself stronger than ever before.
Priscilla sighed and curled closer to him in body, as she gazed more nearly upon his soul.
She could see the link he shared with Padi; and all the others of his kin, brighter than the threads of those he had Healed, if not so bright as the lifemate bond.
There was a new thread.
In fact, there were two—more slender than the kin-links, yet more intimate; two black threads woven tightly into the endlessly fascinating tapestry that was Shan. Two threads that together had a name.
Tarona Rusk.
A powerful dramliza, Tarona Rusk, and a woman of great and abiding evil, who had it as her life’s object to destroy Clan Korval.
A woman to whom Priscilla was indebted, for having snatched Shan back from the edge of his death.
After he had Healed Tarona of what may have been her . . . delusion. Priscilla doubted it was within even Shan’s scope to Heal evil.
And now, these two threads, these two very strong threads, that linked her lifemate and her love to a woman lost in wickedness.
She thought, not for the first time, that she should excise the things, but upon looking closely, she conceded, as she had done before, that she could not be certain she would not harm Shan in the process.
It was, she thought, disquieting, even worrying. But she could not solve it tonight. Indeed, she could not—ought not—solve it herself. Shan kept his own soul, as she kept hers. If, when he was fully returned to himself, he wished to excise those threads, she would gladly give him what assistance he asked.
That settled once more, Priscilla sighed, closed her Inner Eyes, and breathed herself into sleep.
II
Padi had asked Lina if she might return to her own quarters. She had asked very politely, and without any ill temper.
Of course, demonstrating a sweet and reasonable temper was not at all the same as moderating one’s so-called gift, but it did show good intent, especially as it was control which Lina was at such pains to teach her.
Despite it being a skill Padi needed to perfect quickly, for the safety of ship and crew, Lina was not happy to be teaching her control. Even Padi could see that. It had, so she thought, to do with Padi having confined her gift for so very long. Lina feared the damage that might have been done, and did not care to do more. So, Lina was cautious, and conflicted, and if they had been engaged in trade, Padi flattered herself that she could have used that to her own advantage.
Sadly, she and Lina were not at trade. Lina was a Healer, and it was her current task to give Padi a grounding in basic dramliz practice.
Padi had applied herself to her lessons. The result, so she was told, was a steady, implacable . . . brightness, which she understood was much to be preferred over the random sparking and flickering which had been the shape of her gift when it had first manifested. Lina had even said that she was managing nicely.
Which was when Padi had asked if she might be allowed to return to her own cabin, and to sleep in her own bed . . .
And, to say truth, Lina had considered the request, though she had at last denied it.
“I regret,” she had said gently. “Given the manner in which your gift manifested at last, it is to the ship’s best benefit that we proceed conservatively.”
The manner in which her gift manifested—that meant that Padi had not only destroyed her beautiful unbreakable bowl, but flying shards from its destruction had killed two people.
Even worse, all that had happened while the bowl was in her cabin on the Passage, and Padi herself, and her intended assassins, had been on the planet surface.
That had been, as even Padi understood, something quite out of the ordinary. Grudgingly, she admitted that Lina was right to be conservative—even very conservative. She foresaw a lengthy course in the dramliz arts in her future, to which she must apply herself diligently if she ever had any hope of returning to her proper work as a trader.
That thought had fretted her, too, though she had been careful not to allow Lina to suspect, as they said their dream-wells.
Father—the Passage’s master trader . . . Father had been hurt—severely hurt—by a dramliza—by an enemy dramliza, if one could find a proper way to think of such a thing. But there, the Department of the Interior, who had taken Korval for its enemy, and whose operatives were not uniformly stupid, though that was hard to recall—the Department of the Interior had subverted to their cause not only pilots or Scouts, like Uncle Val Con; or anyone else they felt might be useful to them, but they had stolen dramliz and that . . . was something Padi didn’t want to think about . . . much . . . just yet.
In any wise, Father had been wounded; he was the master trader, she was his apprentice; he not only required her assistance, it was her duty to give it. Certainly, that was plain to the dullest of intelligences—and no one could count Lina or Priscilla dull. They were intelligent, resourceful, and accomplished persons, and yet—
And yet—here she was, in sickbay, taking lessons to control a gift she did not want, instead of supporting the master trader and the ship.
Padi sighed, and folded back the blankets on her bed.
Priscilla—Father’s lifemate and a powerful dramliza in her own right—Priscilla had come to see her, just as Lina was leaving for her rest period.
At Padi’s invitation, she had taken the chair. Padi perched on the edge of the bed. Father, Priscilla said, was as well as possible. Not only had he been physically wounded, but he had spent far too much of his own energy Healing—Healing!—the DOI’s dramliza. Priscilla had read her outrage and commented that it had been a complicated situation, but after all, the DOI’s dramliza had behaved with honor, and had Healed Father of the wounds which would certainly have killed him, so Balance was served, leaving only consequences to be dealt with.
Padi did not offer her opinion of consequences, but inclined her head so that Priscilla went on.
It would be some time—how much time, neither she nor Lina could foretell—before Father regained the full use of his gifts. He was likely to regain his physical strength very quickly, Priscilla said, thanks to the intervention of the DOI’s dramliza. He had taken one session in the autodoc, to stabilize him, with another session scheduled in twenty-four hours. If that second session failed to bring him fully up to his template, other therapies would be employed, in consultation with Keriana, their chief med tech.
That was all very well, Padi thought. Of course Priscilla would take care of Father, that was beyond questioning. It was only that she, Padi, could have—would have!—returned his gift completely, but Lina and Priscilla had broken the link she’d made.
She quite understood that it wasn’t the prettiest or the best-crafted link; she had no training in such things. But she had so much energy, and she didn’t want any of it. And Father—Father was a Healer; his talent was like breath to him; he cared about it—a sense that was as useful and as natural to him as his eyes—whereas her talent was—an intruder; at best an unwelcome guest.
“We understand,” Priscilla murmured just then, as if she had read Padi’s thoughts—which was not impossible. “You wanted to help. Your instincts do you honor. Unfortunately, neither Lina nor I could properly See what you had done or how the construct was made, or could understand how to regulate the flow. It was—in our opinions—all too possible that you would deplete yourself as Shan had depleted himself, giving us the same problem to solve, in unknown terrain. Lina and I know what Shan’s gift is, what it looks like, its texture; its weight. You—we haven’t even Seen your full pattern yet; you’re so very bright. We might have hurt you—hurt you badly—if we were to attempt a Healing.”
“You decided to be conservative,” Padi said, not meaning it, perhaps, to sound quite that sour. Priscilla gave her a wry smile.
“I’m afraid so, yes.”
“Lina says that I’m to stay here, because that’s conservative.”
“That was not Lina’s decision alone,” Priscilla told her. “We all three talked about it, and decided that a day or two of isolation would best serve the ship, the crew, the Healers—”
She smiled again.
“And you.”
“Me,” Padi repeated, thinking of her usual schedule, her studies, the reading—
“Yes, you,” Priscilla said. “A few days to allow your gift to—settle—will help you settle. There’s always a period of dislocation after a talent arrives—even a small and well-behaved talent.”
Padi grinned, half unwilling.
“And I have not got a small and well-behaved talent.”
“No,” Priscilla admitted, and then, very Father-like, really, “though that can hardly surprise anyone.”
“Now,” she said briskly. “The master trader is concerned that you’ll fall behind in your studies, which he won’t allow. Tomorrow, you will resume your work—he has, I believe, sent a reading list to your screen. While he expects that you will complete the list, he cautions that you must not stint the exercises Lina brings to you.”
Padi caught her breath.
A reading list. She had scarcely looked for such a gift!
She inclined her head.
“I swear that Lina’s lessons will come first,” she said earnestly. Perhaps too earnestly.
In any case, Priscilla laughed and rose, bade her dream well—and left the cubicle.
So, that was that. Priscilla was gone, and Lina was sleeping in the next cubicle—and that was an inconvenience for Lina, too, who had her own quarters and bed-friends, which she would surely prefer to a cubicle in sickbay, while she kept close watch over a surly newborn dramliza.
Padi sighed and stretched out on the cot. The lights dimmed obligingly, and the music she’d chosen from the library wafted softly on the cooling air. She pulled the blanket up over her shoulder, tried to settle her head on the pillow—and sat bolt upright, staring at the man in the dark, much-patched cloak and breeches, who was leaning very much at his ease against the wall, moving a worn red gaming token over the back of his hand.
Her eye was drawn, and for a long moment, she could not look away.
Father played this game, with a marker very like. Across the back of his right hand, the red token would walk until it reached the end of its path, whereupon it would—vanish, only to appear again, walking along the back of the left hand.
The token vanished. Padi drew a breath and looked up into the stranger’s face—
But he was not a stranger, or not entirely so. No matter his hair was black, and long enough to braid, instead of crisp and white; nor that his eyes were black, rather than silver blue; and his clothing tattered, when Father was never anything but impeccably groomed—the face, the stance, the way the token marched across his hand—one received the impression that the man before her could have been Father in only slightly different circumstances, and besides—
She had seen him before.
“You,” she said quietly, aware of Lina in the next cubicle, and the monitors, which would pick up her voice and also supply news of a third person in the unit.
“You never told me your name.”
He looked to her, one eyebrow raised, a shade more sardonic than Father might be, as if, for this one, there had been too much strife, and too little food, too often in his life, which hardships had worn away a layer of gentleness, exposing a lean edginess.
“There was scarcely time for introductions,” he said now, and his voice was precisely Father’s, smooth and beautiful, like being wrapt in velvet silk.
“There’s time now,” she pointed out, when he said nothing further.
“Agreed. I am called Lute. What is your name?”
She considered him.
“I think you must know my name,” she said carefully.
“Ah, do you? Have they taught you yet that names are to conjure by?”
Padi frowned. “That may be the case with the . . . tradition in which Priscilla came to terms with her gifts. Liaden dramliz receive their gifts from a different source.”
There was an arrested pause.
“A different source,” Lute mused, his eyes on the game token, which walked to the edge of his hand, tumbled off—and vanished. Almost, Padi saw where it went—felt, perhaps, a tiny flash of power as it displaced itself.
“That is an interesting question of philosophy, child. Do you argue that the source of talent, of energy, of magic . . . limits itself to the rules of culture?”
Padi bit her lip.
“I would argue that the dramliza shapes the power, according to her character and her need,” she said slowly. “You’ll understand that I am . . . unschooled. But the lessons I have thus far received suggest that there is no single rule set.”
Lute nodded gravely. “There is something in what you say.”
Padi sighed. “I did say I was unschooled.”
He bowed his head.
“I was fairly warned. Heed me though, child, you are already past pretty games of philosophy. Yours was a wakening heard ’round infinity. You shattered the meditations of saints, brought senior practitioners to their knees, and felled novices like so many skittles. Possibly, you woke the dead. Surely, the Living Names, and others of their sort, heard you. We are all fortunate that the Iloheen failed the crossing to this universe, else that world would have been engulfed and every soul living there unmade.”
She stared at him, stomach suddenly cramped, and fingers icy. She had endangered a world? Simply by doing what all of her elders assured her was the correct and responsible thing to have done?
“The Iloheen?” she whispered. “Who are they?”
He shook his head.
“No one who will vex you here, and I am a brute to bring that threat before you.” He extended a long, supple hand. “Shall I take it away?”
“No.” She took a deep breath. “Thank you. I think I’d better remember everything I can.”
“Wise, as well as bold. To return to the point—you have given the entire waking universe notice of your power. Will you give them your true-name as well, or will you invest in another, as your shield and armor?”
“As I understand it, I erred greatly in hiding myself away,” she said slowly. “If the . . . whole universe has already heard me, then I am identified, am I not?”
“You erred in hiding yourself from yourself,” Lute said sternly. “That is never wise. Misdirecting an enemy is merely self-defense.”
He tipped his head. “What is your name, child?”
She blinked at him thoughtfully. “Are you an enemy?”
“Would your father have sent an enemy to protect you in his absence, even in extremity?”
“He might have,” Padi said seriously. “If he felt you would adhere to the terms.”
Lute laughed.
“True enough. I strive not to be an enemy, and I take the task which was laid upon me seriously—to protect Shan yos’Galan’s daughter.”
He had, Padi admitted, helped her when she had been under attack by agents of the DOI. And Father had said he had asked him to go to her and do what he could to protect her.
She looked up to find him watching her out of night-black eyes.
“My name is Padi yos’Galan.”
“Thank you,” he said solemnly. “Will you allow me to give you a gift? I swear on my name that it will be entirely benign.”
“What is my benefit?” she asked, trader-wise.
“You will sleep as sound and safe tonight as I may arrange, which will, in turn, allow me to pursue the task your father laid upon me.” He put his hand over his heart and bowed slightly. “Heart’s ease is my benefit.”
“Surely, he can’t have meant for you to guard me—forever,” Padi objected.
“Very possibly he did not, but we cannot be completely certain. You will ask him as soon as may be, and we will make adjustments.”
Padi weighed her ignorance, the past actions of this man, and the fact that Father had trusted him.
“Done,” she said.
“Excellent. Lie down, please, close your eyes, and take three deep breaths.”
She curled back under the blanket, closed her eyes, and opened them again to find him leaning close.
“Why hasn’t Lina come in to find why you are here?” she asked.
He smiled slightly.
“Because I’m not here, of course. Close your eyes.”
That was easy to do, when her lids were so heavy. Padi sighed, took a breath; another—
And slipped over into sleep.