CHAPTER ELEVEN

Passenger

The second half of their journey felt more difficult than the first. It was hard to say exactly why. Why would the way down from the mountains bother her so much more than the way up? Was the Road so different? Why would it take so long for the haze of nausea to recede when at last they reached the flats? Thank the Twins for Yoral, who provided her with juice and foods to nibble on.

At the moment, they were in another forest, spikier and sparser than the Yrindonna forest which covered Pelismara. Yoral had most recently given her a sour candy to suck on. Della rolled the last sliver of it around her mouth, and opened the padded case that held her final purchase from the Marketplace: an oval tray with an array of miniature sculptures forming a spiral from the center to the edge.

“That’s beautiful work,” Tagaret said, as she set it on her lap.

She smiled. “I finally found a worthy successor to our old set.” The tray was simultaneously a map of the solar system and a complete set of icons of the Celestial Family. Its dark wood had been engraved with concentric elliptical grooves, and in carefully placed cradles along their paths rested the deities, exquisite sculptures each the size of an eight-orsheth coin. Father Varin was at the center, wrought in gold, his gnashing teeth hidden in favor of his gentle life-giving smile. Mai the Right, in bronze, began the outward spiral, followed by Plis the Warrior in iron—if she rotated them just right, their armored forms faced one another sternly.

The Kartunnen she’d bought the set from had told her that each city was represented in the materials; he’d found them in raw form at the Marketplace, worked them, and then returned with the final piece to sell. Beside Plis the Warrior rested the Silent Sister, rendered in fossil-rich stone from Herketh, with Mother Elinda in Daronvel silver as her own smaller elliptical companion. Next were the holy Twins, Bes the Ally and Trigis the Resolute, rendered in lapis and malachite from Peak. Heile the Merciful had been carved into a green beryl from Pelismara, and Sirin the Luck-Bringer into Vitett red marble. His incomparable love, the comet Eyn, traveled the only ellipse that didn’t quite align with the others, and was carved in white marble from Erin. The dark wood of the tray itself came from a tree species of the Safe Harbor region.

“It’s too extravagant for a conversation piece, unfortunately.”

“That’s all right,” Tagaret said. “It’s the perfect way to remember our voyage together.”

“Maybe I could take one or two of the icons to talk about with the Lowers.”

She replaced the tray in its box but, unwilling to hide it entirely, picked up the graceful depiction of Mother Elinda and tested the weight of the silver in her hand.

She shouldn’t have. Maybe because she held the Mother of Souls, this time when the flutter hit her in the stomach, she recognized it for what it was, and dropped the icon of Elinda onto the floor with a gasp.

“Oh, merciful Heile, no!”

She had to get out.

If I screamed, maybe they would stop. Maybe I could run out the door . . .

Into what?

Struggling not to hyperventilate or throw up, she fumbled her seatbelt off and leapt for the bathroom. Oh, gods, mistake—the tiny space inside was a thousand times worse, a trap she recognized from all the times she’d filled it with vomit or blood. But how could she go back out with Tagaret there? She found a strange latch on the side wall that looked like it might be for Imbati, and pulled it.

The wall gave way, dumping her through into the baggage compartment. It was dark in here, full of cases and boxes, all strapped down so they wouldn’t shift with the floater’s movements. The hum of the vehicle was louder than in the main compartment. She was alone.

But not truly alone. The flutter was still there. If she could, she’d have torn it out of her with her bare hands. Instead, she sank to her knees, curled over the defective inner moon that made her a failure to herself, to her partner, to the future of the Grobal Race. She clenched her fists, shaking.

Don’t pretend you’re a child. I know what you are, traitor: nothing but blood and death. Like last time. Like every time, year after year after year.

Light sliced across the darkened space. A soft voice spoke.

“Mistress, I’m here.”

She tried to speak, and almost choked. “Y-Yoral . . .” She tried again. “Yoral, I’m—” The words dissolved on her tongue and turned into a moan.

“I know, Mistress.” He went to one of the stacked cases, opened it, and pulled out a small device the size of his hand.

“You know?” She should have realized; he always knew.

“Months already. Are you in distress?”

Distress, yes, but what he meant was—horrors flashed through her mind, and she clenched her teeth against nausea—not this. “No. I felt movement, that’s all.”

“May I perform one brief check?” Yoral asked. “I’ll omit the ones Bestao took care of.”

She gulped a deep breath. “Yes.”

Della braced one hand on a luggage rack, and lowered her trousers enough for him to press the device against her stomach. It emitted a soft pulsing sound that cut into the floater’s hum.

“Thank you, Mistress,” he said.

“Yoral, you can’t let them order me into a bed,” she said. “You can’t let them drug me.”

“I can see no reason for us to consider this an emergency,” Yoral said. “Besides, at the moment, that would be difficult.”

She almost laughed—almost. “Well, but we won’t be in a floater forever.” A new dimension of the nightmare hit. “Heile have mercy, we’ll be in Selimna!”

A vision of Tagaret flashed into her mind, shy-eyed, saying, No one has children in the provinces. The two of us will be enough.

“Sirin and Eyn help me.”

Yoral was silent for some time. Finally he said, “Mistress, you are not known to the Selimna Society. They won’t expect anyone to have traveled in your condition.”

“But what if—” She shook her head. “No; they have hospitals in Selimna. Of course they do. When we need them.”

“Excellent ones, Mistress. There is no law against having a child in the provinces.”

She shook her head. It’s not a child. “So we won’t tell anyone, not a soul, unless we have to.” He knew better than anyone what would happen if people found out.

Yoral bowed. “My heart is as deep as the heavens. No word uttered in confidence will escape it.”

She didn’t want to return to the main floater compartment. She’d rather climb out of her own skin. Nevertheless, she allowed her Yoral to help her onto her feet. To lead her back through the bathroom. To lead her back to her seat.

She couldn’t bear to look at Tagaret. She would have to tell him. How could she possibly tell him?

“You’re safe, Lady,” Yoral said quietly. “I’m sorry this voyage has made you so anxious.”

“Th—thank you, Yoral.” By the time she’d said his name, her voice worked almost normally.

Yoral seated her again, and she pulled the seatbelt across herself, swallowing hard at the way her belly curved over the strap. Why hadn’t she noticed before?

No, don’t panic again . . .

She focused on breathing evenly. One breath. Two.

“I love you,” Tagaret whispered. His arm found its way around her shoulders. Bless him, he didn’t ask any questions.

Every time, it was worse. One more restriction, one more humiliation, the price she paid rising higher and higher so maybe this time she’d keep the pregnancy. And while she lay supine under doctor’s orders, she could only watch Tagaret’s agony for her at war with his hopes—hopes that inevitably ended up torn in bloody fragments.

The one time she’d got close, there had been nothing human to keep.

Here she was, soon to arrive in their new city, and desperate to run away. She laid her hand gently against her stomach.

Movement does not mean soul, small thing. Mother Elinda has turned her back on me. Nothing you can do will make me hope.