Moon nodded serenely, although he was not really certain her confidence ran any deeper than his own. “Yes,” she said. “You have been given the stardrive, and we have been given the use of the sibyl network.”
Gundhalinu felt the words pass through the listeners behind him like a sword. Mutterings of disbelief, questions in Sandhi, filled his ears. He heard a low, querulous voice accuse “that renegade bitch”—Jerusha PalaThion—of treason, of handing over the forbidden secret of enlightenment to the miserable primitives of Tiamat.
He turned, taking a step up onto the dais so that he stood looking down on his companions as he ordered them sharply into silence. “Listen to me,” he said softly, in Sandhi. “How the people of this world learned the truth about the sibyl network is unimportant—it’s meaningless, it’s in the past. Do you understand me? Recriminations are pointless—the secret is out. Nothing can change that.” He held them with his eyes. “And frankly, I believe it no longer matters. As the Queen said, everything has changed about our relationship with this world. We no longer need ignorance as a weapon to control them during our absence—because there will be no Hegemonic absence, ever again. To keep the truth about the sibyls secret would be immoral—and not only that, it will be impossible, now.”
There were more muttered protests, dark looks, abrupt angry motions; but the patch held. He stood his ground, staring them down until all protest subsided. He turned back to face the waiting Tiamatans, wondering how much, if anything, they had understood. He remembered that Moon knew some Sandhi, and so did Jerusha PalaThion. From Moon’s expression, she had at least guessed what the reaction to her words had been.
And he realized, and suddenly appreciated, the intent behind her blunt revelation—the risk she had taken to deliver the message that she was neither ignorant of the truth, nor of their part in suppressing it. That she was in charge of her people’s future; that she was not afraid. And he recognized the other message that lay hidden within the words: That she trusted him … that she was not afraid to test him, or to rely on him. He smiled inwardly, and was suddenly aware that he was still standing on the dais—standing on her ground now, and not with his own people. He stepped down, still keeping her gaze. “Then both our peoples must learn to accept that the inevitable has come to pass for us, Lady—and make the best of it.”
“Yes,” she said, and sat down, the motion full of control and grace. “So it seems.” Her hands closed over the convolutions of the throne arms.
“There will be far too many other questions about every aspect of the reopening of Tiamat to begin addressing them here,” he said, pressing on. “Perhaps we can set up a schedule of preliminary meetings, with our advisors. But first I’d like to present my staff, with your permission.”
She nodded, leaning back as she did, as if some part of her were instinctively shrinking away from contagion.
“NR Vhanu, Commander of Police for the Tiamat sector …”He went on through the introductions; listening, watching, trying to gauge the responses of her people and his own as each of his administrators made a brief bow, and spoke a few awkward words in Tiamatan.
Moon replied with guarded solicitude, her eyes frequently glancing away from the face of yet another alien-looking stranger to his face. When he had finished she rose from the throne again, and introduced the small gathering of advisors who surrounded her on the dais. She named Jerusha PalaThion as her Chief of Constables, and the blind woman, Fate Ravenglass, as the head of something she called the Sibyl College. There were a handful of civic leaders, both Winters and Summers—Tor Starhiker, the woman who had stared at him as if she knew him, among them. There were other sibyls, including a man with a Winter clan affiliation.
“…and my family—” she said at last. “You have met my daughter already, I think.” She smiled briefly at Ariele, who shifted from foot to foot beside the throne, looking restless and uncomfortable as she met Gundhalinu’s eyes. “And my pledged—” he felt her almost selfconsciously using the Tiamatan word, and not the offworlder term “husband,” “Sparks Dawntreader Summer.”
Gundhalinu met Dawntreader’s gaze, realizing as he did that he had been avoiding it. Dawntreader’s expression was neutral now, under control. There was no real recognition in his gaze to match the suspicion.
“I believe we’ve met,” Gundhalinu said, unable to stop the words.
“Where?” Dawntreader asked, taken by surprise.
“In a dark alley.”
“I don’t remember you,” Dawntreader said flatly.
“Do you still play the flute?”
Dawntreader’s expression changed suddenly, as realization filled his eyes. He glanced at Jerusha PalaThion, away again as she nodded. He grimaced. “Yes,” he said finally.
“My son also plays the flute,” Moon said, gesturing someone else forward from behind the crystal throne.
A boy stepped up beside her almost reluctantly; it was difficult to tell, looking at him, whether he was younger or older than the girl. Gundhalinu struggled to control his response, seeing a second nearly grown child of the lover he had left behind so long ago; yet another reminder that she had been someone else’s wife through all these years, and not his own.
But as the dark-haired boy stopped at his mother’s side and raised his head, Gundhalinu felt astonishment pass through him like light through a prism.
“This is my son.…” Moon said. “Tammis.” And all at once her voice seemed oddly changed, distorted by the same emotion, and he knew that she saw what he saw, as he met the boy’s stare—met eyes too much like his own looking back at him from a face where they did not belong, the face of another man’s son.
“A pleasure,” he murmured; seeing curiosity and uncertainty begin to seep into the boy’s expression, as if he almost realized the same thing. Gundhalinu glanced at Sparks Dawntreader, saw that the sudden surprise had spread to his face; saw his surprise darken. Gundhalinu looked back at Moon again; at the change that had come over her own face, at once anguish and wonder, as she looked at them both; looked at them, all three…. I had forgotten your eyes.
He looked from face to face again, suddenly comprehending the real change he had forced on all of their lives, including his own … and that it was far more evocable than he had ever imagined.
PART II: THE RETURN
After such knowledge; what forgiveness?
…Unnatural vices
Are fathered by our heroism. Virtues
Are forced upon us by our impudent crimes.
These tears are shaken from the wrath-bearing tree.
—T. S. Eliot
TIAMAT: Carbuncle
“Jerusha PalaThion to see you, sir,” the disembodied voice of his aide informed him.
“Send her in.” BZ Gundhalinu rose from the chair behind his desk/terminal, where he had been sitting for what his body told him was far too long. He stretched, hearing joints crack, shaking the fog of data and fatigue out of his head.
His aide, Stathis, showed Jerusha PalaThion into his office. Nearly six months had passed since his arrival on Tiamat, and this was the first time she had entered this room. She paused just inside the door, taking in her surroundings with the unthinking glance of a trained observer before she looked back at him. “Justice Gundhalinu,” she said, with a nod and a sudden, slightly bemused smile. Her hand moved almost imperceptibly, as if she had felt the urge to salute him, and he read incredulity as well as pride in her gaze.