The two ninedays after what was now called the Battle of Alsea were a dizzying blur. Tal concluded that her task list was the world’s first perpetual motion machine, never shrinking no matter how hard she worked to cross items off. And it was impossible to make anything a priority, because everything was equally important.
They had to remove the mines they’d laid around their cities, which had done their jobs to devastating effect whenever a ground pounder had stepped on one. Tal wished a few more of them had stepped in the right places, saving the effort of removal. Though the triggers had been designed for the immense weight of the ground pounders, that didn’t make the job of digging them up a safe one. As far as she was concerned, the battle wasn’t really over until the last mine had been pulled out.
They’d begun repairs on buildings—and in some cases, entire city blocks—that had been damaged in the shelling. At times Tal could forget how much devastation the ground pounders had managed to inflict, since her own city was almost entirely unscathed. But when she toured the hard-hit cities of Port Calerna, Whitesun, and Redmoon, she was aghast at the destruction. Vids and reports didn’t do it justice, but standing in front of an eight-hundred-cycle-old caste house that was now a pile of rubble brought tears to her eyes. They had been so very, very fortunate in fighting off this invasion, but the price was still high.
On the other hand, not a single temple had been hit. Given that they were the largest buildings in every city except Blacksun, where the State House was larger, this was something of a miracle. The templars pointed to it as proof of Fahla’s direct involvement in the battle: she had not allowed her houses to be touched by the Voloth. Tal’s communication team advised her to jump on that theme and declare that the pristine condition of the temples was also evidence that Fahla had approved the temporary breaking of her covenant. Tal thought that was a cynical use of a miracle, but she was too much of a politician to say no. The messaging went out, and within a nineday her team reported with great satisfaction that it was working. The voices calling her a war criminal had quieted somewhat, unwilling to publicly argue with a statement that so many Alseans took to heart.
Two villages in the plains north of Blacksun Basin were nearly wiped out by crashing Voloth fighters that had come down far from any Alsean-controlled ground pounders, and three more in central Pallea had suffered the same fate. The Natural Disaster Response Agency was working at a feverish pace to provide food, shelter, and clothing to those who had lost their homes. The healers were overworked to a ridiculous degree, taking care of casualties not just from the battle, but also from the many accidents that had occurred during the mass movements of people both out of and back into the cities.
The state funeral for warrior and scholar dead was the biggest in modern Alsean history, taking place over a four-day period in Blacksun, Whitemoon, Whitesun, and Redmoon. They had so many fatalities to honor that it took the combined fleets of all four cities to perform the Flight of the Return at each event. The transports were so thick in the skies that they blotted out the sun, a sight that put a lump in Tal’s throat every time. A commemorative vid of the highlights from the four ceremonies was selling as fast as the government public station could produce it, with all profits going to the assistance fund for those who had fought and suffered.
Tal attended the ceremonies accompanied by what was left of her Guards. Prior to the battle she’d sent them all over Argolis to head up the high empath units, or in Micah’s case, to shepherd a unit of scholar caste empaths. Her people were among the most highly trained in the Alsean Defense Force; it had made no sense to keep them around her when they were desperately needed elsewhere. More of them had returned than she’d had any right to expect, but she’d lost Parksor, Nicolo, Betany, Sofrensenner, and Continal. Each loss hit her hard, but the worst of all was Continal. Micah was testing out new pilots, and every time one of their voices sounded over the state transport com, she felt Continal’s absence keenly. He had been a solid, assured pilot who was never intimidated by her title. These new pilots were all too young and too jumpy around her.
She took some solace from the fact that Continal had died a hero. The crafter caste, which was busy designing war memorials all over the planet, had proposed one to be placed near the new ground floor entrance planned for the Caphenon. It would be a sculpture of an Alsean fighter in mid-collision with a Voloth fighter. Three spotlights shining upward from the point of impact would symbolize the Return of the pilots who gave their lives to save the Caphenon, and their names and ranks would be inscribed in the base.
It was as close to immortality as a warrior could hope to get, and Tal could not have wished better for him. But when she saw the proposal, she had to lock her office door for half a hantick until she could get control of her front.
There were four hundred and forty-six Voloth prisoners to deal with, most of whom were being kept sedated as an act of mercy while they tried to figure out what to do with them. On the positive side, they also had one hundred and eighty intact or reparable ground pounders, and quite a few of the sane Voloth prisoners were anxious to help them learn about the technology and weaponry if it meant they could see “their” empaths again. That was a line Tal wasn’t sure they should ever cross, but at this point she’d retired her emergency powers, so it was up to the Council to decide. It was currently the topic of a hot debate.
Also being debated were the negotiations with the Protectorate. Shantu and a significant percentage of the warrior councillors were fiercely opposed to any negotiations at all, on the grounds that the Protectorate had not only brought the Voloth to Alsea, but had then turned its back on them until it realized that Alsea had something it wanted. “We didn’t need their help then; we don’t need it now” was a common refrain. Tal understood their position, and in private she would admit to a strong desire to tell the Protectorate negotiators just where they could shove their treaty offers. But that was her anger speaking, not her common sense. If Alseans were to break out of their gravity well and join the other races in space, they would need technological assistance. And if there was one thing she was certain of, it was that Alsea should never again be a sitting target, with none of her own people out there to keep watch or help stop attacks before they reached the planet.
Fortunately, the other five castes were open to negotiations, and Shantu’s warrior bloc was outvoted. They still made enough noise that Tal had to incorporate some of their demands into the Alsean offer, largely because Shantu’s political power was so strong. She’d made him the commander of the Pallean forces, with his center of operations at Whitesun, and it was because of him that Whitesun had survived as well as it had. The Voloth had dropped a hundred and fifty ground pounders there, and with no Caphenon to stop them before they could land, the battle at Whitesun had been the worst of all. Shantu was a hero and the darling of Alsea’s second-largest city.
Captain Serrado and her crew were indispensable in these ninedays of insanity. They offered their translation services with the Voloth prisoners, their matter printers to help with repairs, and their engineering know-how to understand the ground pounders. Candini and Baldassar asked to be trained on cargo transports and were soon helping with relief flights as well as deliveries of repair materials.
Most helpful of all was the assistance of Lhyn and Captain Serrado in the negotiations. The Protectorate representatives had Alsean language chips installed, eliminating one source of confusion, but Tal was at a disadvantage. Not only did she not have the political or technological knowledge to make sure Alsea wasn’t taken advantage of, but she couldn’t use her empathic senses over a quantum com. It was like flying a transport blindfolded, and she despised it. But she trusted Serrado and Lhyn, and they made it very clear that they were on the Alsean side of the table. With their assistance, and the fact that the Protectorate was desperate to get its hands on the nanoscrubbers, Tal was reasonably certain that she was wringing out every concession she could.
Serrado certainly thought so.
“You realize that you’ve completely upended the Non-Interference Act,” she said after evenmeal one night. Lhyn was over at Blacksun Temple, speaking with Lanaril, and Serrado had invited Tal to keep her company.
“I thought you did that.”
“Funny, you are. I just crashed a ship here and locked it up when I left. I certainly didn’t give you blueprints for fusion core technology, surf engines, matter printers…” She shook her head. “You’re the first non-FTL world to vault right over the Act and into parity with Protectorate races. Or you will be once you get started building your fleet. Speaking of which, has there been any progress on the great orbit debate?”
“No, it’s still going strong. And I still don’t know which side I’m on. Shuttles would be more expensive, harder to scale up for the numbers we’d need, and require far more maintenance. The space elevator makes more sense in terms of expense, cargo capacity, and ease of maintenance, not to mention the time factor. We’ve already got the nanotechnology for the cable; we just needed a few hints in the manufacturing department for the sheer scale of it. But I can’t shake the feeling that it’s a terrible idea to put our entire orbital capacity in one or two elevators. A couple of missiles from the Voloth and that would be the end of that.”
“Then don’t choose. Build both. You can have space elevators for cargo and a smaller fleet of shuttles as fast transport for personnel and small cargo loads, not to mention emergency backup. As for the exposure factor of the space elevators, you’ll have the same issue with orbital shipyards. No matter what you do, building infrastructure in orbit means you’re exposed to orbital attack—that is, if anyone feels it’s worthwhile to attack you. I’d say that having the capacity to destroy a ship’s hullskin would make most Expansionists think twice about trying it.”
“So long as that threat keeps them at bay long enough for us to get our infrastructure built. This is not going to be done quickly.”
“No. But in the meantime, I know where you can get some nice surplus Fleet ships for a reasonable price.” Serrado raised her eyebrows rakishly, and Tal chuckled.
“I’d guess you have all sorts of shady acquaintances from wandering around space stations.”
“I wish. It’s a bit difficult for a Fleet captain to make any shady acquaintances at all. Being the shining representative of military order doesn’t exactly open those kinds of doors.”
Tal watched her, sensing the grief that always accompanied the captain’s thoughts of Fleet. “If you could go back, would you?”
“I don’t know. I know I can’t go back to the way it was. What Lhyn and I had before wasn’t satisfying even then; it would be worse now. And I’m no closer to figuring out a way to balance a Fleet career with a non-Fleet relationship. Neither is she.”
“Is that why you haven’t told her you’re tyrees?”
“It never seems to be the right time. It’s not a concept she’ll accept easily, and…well, she still hasn’t recovered her trust.”
Tal looked down at the glass of spirits in her hand.
“Just spit it out, Lancer Tal. You’ve had that look on your face several times over the last three ninedays. It can’t be healthy to keep that inside, whatever it is.”
Startled, she glanced up and found a knowing gaze on her. “Sometimes I forget how well you can read emotions.”
“I may be sonsales, but I’m not literally blind.”
“There have been times when I’ve questioned whether you’re really sonsales.”
“That’s because you depend too much on your empathic senses and forget about all the others. My senses have been telling me for quite some time that there’s something you’re dying to know but afraid to ask.”
“Afraid?”
“Sorry. Reluctant.”
“Better,” Tal said, fooling neither herself nor her friend. She fidgeted with her glass, turning it a few times as she tried to find the right words. “Why haven’t you told Lhyn what we were prepared to do to her? She trusts me, yet I’m the one who—” She stopped, unable to say it even now. “It just feels backwards. You’re the one she should trust.”
Serrado gave her a sad smile. “That’s why. Because she needs someone to trust that way, and right now it isn’t me.”
“So you’re giving me what you can’t have.”
“More like I’m not taking something away from her that she needs.”
Either way it was humbling. “Thank you. I know you’re doing it for her, but…it’s a beautiful act of love and I’m benefitting from it. Her friendship means a great deal to me.”
“It’s not a sacrifice. And she’s not the only one who trusts you. You’ve earned it, so stop feeling so damned guilty.”
Tal had to chuckle, because it shouldn’t have been a surprise that Serrado would see that as well. “Wouldn’t it be lovely if we could simply order our emotions out of the way?”
“I’ve tried. It doesn’t work.”
“It doesn’t work for us either. So we front them instead.”
“You may front them from Alseans, but only because they don’t know you.” Serrado pointed at her own eyes. “Your emotions are right here.”
“They are?” No one had ever told her that.
“Yes. But I get the feeling that most people don’t look at you that closely. They look at the persona instead.”
Tal nodded. “It’s just a different kind of front.”
“And not many people see past it, do they?”
“Micah does.” She felt a familiar signature brush her senses. “Lhyn is in the building.”
The door opened a few ticks later and Lhyn blew in, full of news about what she’d learned from Lanaril.
Tal sat back and listened, absorbing the dissonance that was always present in their emotions. It was deep enough that she’d never have sensed it in an Alsean without probing, but the way the Gaians broadcast everything, even their unrecognized emotions were on the wind for anyone to feel.
She couldn’t be a bystander to this anymore. It looked to her as if they’d never resolve it. All they had was words, and they weren’t even using those.
Patting the couch cushion next to her, she said, “Lhyn, I need to tell you something.”
A burst of alarm came from Serrado, who was now straight-backed in her own chair. Tal gave her a reassuring nod.
“What’s going on?” Lhyn sat down and looked at her expectantly.
“Do you remember, when Captain Serrado walked on that shuttle and tried to leave, that I told you she’d come back?”
Lhyn’s emotions dimmed, as if she were shutting down. “I’m not likely to forget it.”
“I know you’re not. There’s something I didn’t tell you at the time. I wasn’t guessing about her coming back, and it wasn’t a platitude to make you feel better. She couldn’t leave, because a tyree would never leave her bondmate in danger. As long as you were still here, she couldn’t go.”
She watched the realization dawn.
“You think…no, that’s not possible. We’re not empathic.”
“That’s what makes it so surprising. But there’s no doubt you’re tyrees.”
“But…how can that be? I don’t even—” Lhyn stopped, and Serrado closed her eyes in pain.
“Only because you can’t feel it,” Tal said. “Would you like to?”
Serrado’s eyes flew open. “Lancer Tal, you can’t. The last time put you in the healing center.”
“I’m not on the edge of exhaustion, and that’s not what I’m proposing. It was taxing then because I had to project emotions that weren’t mine. I don’t have to do that now. I can just connect the two of you.”
“You mean, like a bond minister?” Lhyn asked in astonishment.
“That’s exactly what I mean.”
The emotions tumbled over each other until one rose ascendant.
“Then yes. Whatever is there, I’d love to feel it. That is, if Ekatya is willing.”
“If I’m—” Serrado shook her head. “I’d hoped by now you wouldn’t have to ask. Of course I’m willing, but I’m not entirely convinced it won’t be hard on the Lancer. It takes energy to make that connection, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, but it won’t come from me. It will come from you.”
“How does that work?” Lhyn wanted to know, while Serrado fixed Tal with a skeptical look.
“I’m not certain. I’ve never had the privilege of doing it before—at least, not with permission. But I accidentally did it after the battle with the first ground pounder, when I touched palms with both of you at the same time. The power coming out of you almost knocked my legs out from under me.”
“I don’t remember that,” Lhyn said.
“That’s because she hid it too well. You front on several levels, Lancer Tal.”
“Requirement of the job. But I’m not fronting now. I want to do this. We owe you so much, and I…have a personal debt.”
After a pause, Serrado nodded at Lhyn, eliciting a bright smile that faded a moment later.
“Now I’m nervous,” Lhyn confessed. “If it doesn’t work, I’ll be crushed.”
“I promise you it will work.”
“A promise from a politician?” But her spirits were rising, along with her sense of anticipation. “I’d rather hear that from a warrior.”
Tal held out her forearm, smiling when Lhyn took it in a respectable warrior’s clasp. “On my honor as a warrior.”
“Then I’m ready.”
“So am I,” Serrado said, “but you’re going to have to tell me what to do. I expect Lhyn already knows.”
“She needs bare skin. In the ceremonies, they always wear robes or shirts that fasten in front so the bond minister can touch the skin over their hearts. I have to change my shirt.” Lhyn was off the couch and heading for the bedroom almost before she finished speaking, leaving Serrado looking down at her own shirt.
“Good thing I wore the zip front today.” She pulled the zipper down, baring a smooth expanse of skin, and Tal wondered if this might not be such a good idea after all.
“You’ll need to sit here, next to Lhyn,” she said, standing up and pointing to her former seat.
“They stand in the ceremony,” Lhyn called from the bedroom.
“That’s because they’re also connecting all of the guests,” Tal answered. “You don’t have any.”
Serrado came around the low table and sat on the sofa. “You’re sure this isn’t going to hurt you?”
“I’m sure.”
Lhyn reappeared in a shirt with half the buttons undone. “Will this work?”
“That’s perfect.” Tal waited for her to sit next to the captain before pulling the table closer and taking her own seat, her knees brushing the couch in the space between them. “As Lhyn said, I’m going to rest my hands over your hearts. You’ll complete the connection by putting your hands on the back of my neck. But don’t do that until I tell you.”
They nodded and scooted closer, their legs touching hers. She closed her eyes, taking time to center herself. If her experience in the strategy room was any indicator, she’d need all her concentration to keep her blocks intact against the emotional force she was about to tap into. She wished she’d thought to ask Lanaril about this before making her rash offer, but it was too late now.
She reached for Lhyn first, sliding her hand in the opening of her shirt and resting it against the swell of her left breast. Lhyn held still, watching her with a trust she didn’t deserve. It took a few pipticks before she could bring herself to reach for Serrado, and she hoped no one noticed the slight trembling of her hand.
The moment she made contact with Serrado’s skin, the raw power electrified her body, stiffening her spine. Her intake of breath was audible, and they both looked at her in concern.
“It’s fine,” she said, though the hitch in her voice didn’t convince them. “Just give me a piptick.”
Her hand wasn’t yet in position, and as she carefully moved onto the curve of Serrado’s breast, the power intensified. It shouldn’t have; Gaians didn’t have the empathic neural network that Alseans had. But clearly something was there—or at least, it was in these two women.
The torrent of emotions washed over her, sucking away her control. Only once in her life had she attended a tyree bonding ceremony, and while it had been an incredible experience, it was nothing like this. Either the bond minister or the bondmates themselves had guided the Sharing, but the Gaians had no ability and Tal had never done this before.
“Lancer Tal,” Serrado said sharply. “It’s been more than a few pipticks. Tell us what’s happening or I put an end to this.”
Tal hadn’t detected their mounting worry; the sheer strength of their emotions was overwhelming her ability to parse them. But now that Serrado’s anxiety had spiked out of the background, she used it as a guide for separating the rest.
“I’m all right. It’s just so…immense. Great Mother, the power of you two…” She took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and inhaled again. By the third breath she was gaining control over the energy coursing through her body. She envisioned it recharging her muscles, fueling her brain, shoring up her blocks, strengthening every part of her until she was ready to send it out again. Then she lowered her head.
“Make the connection,” she said.
Their hands felt cool as they slid onto her neck, and a moment later their heads came to rest against hers. It startled her until she realized it was a more natural position, allowing each of them to support the others.
And now she had an outlet. With one more deep breath, she released the power in her body.
“Oh my stars,” Lhyn gasped.
“Great galaxies. It’s so strong…”
“Because I’m not projecting remembered emotions. This is you, as you are in this moment. Now stop worrying about me and think about each other. What do you want your tyree to know?”
It didn’t take them long to adapt, and the ticks that followed were so profound in their intimacy that Tal knew she would never feel anything like it again. All her life she’d dreamed of a tyree bond, of being part of something so blessed by Fahla. But this had to be the next best thing. She might be a mere guest, but the emotions were inside her as well. For as long as she could hold this connection, the warmth, the love, the sense of being utterly indispensable to another’s well-being—these were hers, too.
And they melted the small, hard cores of betrayal that both women still harbored. For all of Serrado’s understanding of Lhyn’s needs, she’d never understood her own.
“Ekatya,” Lhyn whispered at last. “I didn’t realize…I’m so sorry.”
“I am, too.”
“I know you are. I actually know. Why can’t we have this all the time? The time and heartache we could have saved—”
“No, we couldn’t. There are no words that could communicate this.”
“Not when the trust was lost, I suppose.”
“Not ever. They’re just words. We have to believe in the emotions behind them, and I—” Serrado’s voice cracked. “I never believed you felt like this. Not until Lancer Tal Shared with me, and then I thought it was too late.”
“I didn’t think you did, either. Not in my heart. I hoped, and Shippers know I wanted it, but there was always this little voice…”
“Do you believe me now?”
“Yes,” Lhyn murmured. “How could I not?”
Serrado made a small sound, the only outward sign of the profound shift taking place in her heart. “We can’t forget this,” she whispered.
“We won’t.” This time, Lhyn’s belief was absolute.
They fell silent then, reveling in their shared experience, and Tal felt it all. The astonishing part, the part she hadn’t remotely envisioned, was that the strength of their bond grew while she held them in her hands. It had already been strong enough to overwhelm her, but that was before they’d felt the truth in each other.
Love feeds love, her mother had often told her. She’d never really understood that until now.
A chuckle rumbled up before she could stop it, startling the others.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “but I was just thinking about a certain assumption Captain Serrado once made. Do you still think anyone could possibly come between you?”
“Not in this lifetime. I was an idiot.”
“Yes, you were,” Lhyn said, but her voice held no edge, only the exasperated affection that was flowing through their link.
“In my defense, I didn’t have the Alsean advantage. And now I can see just how big an advantage that is. What you showed me in our Sharing—it wasn’t half the strength of this.”
“Believe me, I know.” Tal’s body had been buzzing with it for what felt like half a hantick.
“That’s twice now you’ve given me a gift beyond price. And considering what we’re doing at the moment, I really think you should start calling me Ekatya.”
“Finally. I wondered how long it would take you. She was calling me Lhyn more than a moon ago.”
“Yes, but you’re not representing Fleet and the Protectorate.”
“Ekatya, you’re practically in a threesome here. I hardly think you’re representing Fleet and the Protectorate right now.”
Tal laughed so hard she nearly lost her positioning, and that seemed to be the cue for the others. They released her neck and she straightened, wincing as her back protested being bent for so long. Carefully, she pulled her hands away and dropped them in her lap, feeling diminished with the loss of the connection. But there seemed to be some echoes of the link still connecting the two Gaians, its residual power humming quietly to her senses.
“Oh, ouch,” Lhyn said as she rested against the cushion. “No wonder they stand at bonding ceremonies.”
Tal checked her wristcom. “They also don’t hold the connection for forty-five ticks.”
“It was that long? Wow, that flew by.”
Serrado—Ekatya, Tal reminded herself—was watching her silently.
“I would be honored to call you Ekatya,” Tal said. “And you’re right, given what we’ve just experienced, formality has no place between us. Please call me Andira.”
“Me too?” Lhyn asked.
“Of course, you too.” Tal pushed the table back and stood, gratefully stretching her spine. “And now I think the two of you have more to discuss, without me in the room. So if you’ll…” She trailed off as Ekatya held up a hand.
“Andira, you’ve shared so much with us. Will you let me share something with you before you go?”
Tal nodded, wondering what she had in mind to make her so serious.
“I know your culture limits this in adults,” Ekatya continued as she stood up. “But mine doesn’t. We can give them to anyone who is special to us, and I want to give one to you. Please accept this as the gift I mean it to be. It’s the only way I have to demonstrate how much your friendship means to me.”
Tal was still trying to figure out what that meant when Ekatya moved in and wrapped her up in a warmron.
A warmron!
Hesitantly, she raised her arms and slid them around Ekatya’s back. It should have been an egregious violation of their tyree bond, but Ekatya was warm and pliant, and Lhyn looked on with an approving smile.
“Good,” Ekatya said. “But you need to relax more. You’re stiff as a support beam.”
“That’s difficult when it feels as if I’m breaking fifteen laws.”
“You’re not breaking any laws,” Lhyn said. “You’re engaging in a cultural exchange.”
Ekatya tightened her grip and rested their heads together. “Thank you, my friend,” she whispered.
It was the my friend that did it. For the first time, it occurred to Tal just how much Ekatya had reached out of her own comfort zone in their interactions, first in the training room and now here. Perhaps it was her turn.
“You’re welcome,” she said, tightening her own grip. Then she gave in, allowing herself to relax and absorb the sheer pleasure of holding Ekatya in her arms. If this was a test of her resistance, well, she’d just have to fail.
“Better,” Ekatya murmured. She ran a hand up to the back of Tal’s head, holding them impossibly closer, and Tal felt chills all the way to her toes. One more squeeze and Ekatya let go, stepping back with a wide smile on her face. “Once you relax, you give a very nice warmron. And I think I just corrupted the Lancer.”
You have no idea, Tal thought. She chuckled to cover her discomposure. “Not a single person on Alsea would dream of doing what you just did. But I wish they would.”
“You’re usually more accurate than that,” Lhyn said as she rose. “There’s at least one other person.” And before Tal knew what was happening, she was swept into her second-ever illicit warmron.
With their height difference, she could tuck her head beneath Lhyn’s chin. This time she relaxed quickly, finding it easier when the warmron wasn’t so charged with temptation.
Not once in her adult life had she considered embracing a woman she hadn’t joined with, but now she wondered about the limitations. A joining could be as simple as a mutual release for pleasure, but her first Sharing with Ekatya was ten times more intimate, and what they’d just finished was the most intimate thing she’d ever done, clothed or not. Why was a warmron allowed for one but not the other?
“If this is what I get for linking you, we could do it again tomorrow,” she said.
Lhyn rubbed a gentle hand up and down her back. “You’d never have to ask permission. I’d jump at the chance any time you’re willing to offer.”
“So would I,” Ekatya said.
Tal felt dazed when she was released, but cycles of diplomatic experience got her through the farewells. Ekatya escorted her to the door and stopped her as she crossed the threshold.
“Consider your debt paid,” she said in a low voice. “I know she would say the same.”
“Are you ever going to tell her?”
“No. And I hope you won’t let your guilt push you into telling her yourself. You wouldn’t be doing her any favors.”
“I know. So the matter is closed.”
Ekatya hesitated. “Not quite yet. I need to ask you one thing.”
“Missiles away.”
The Gaian phrase lightened Ekatya’s serious mood, but not for long. “You said a tyree bond can’t be broken from the outside. I understand that now. But what would have happened if you’d had to do what you planned? Would she…I mean, would we—?”
“Yes,” Tal said. “Not even empathic force can break a tyree bond. Even if I were the worst person on Alsea and forced her to love me, the only way I could keep her at my side would be to make sure she never saw you. Because the first time she did, that bond would wake. She’d be drawn to you without knowing why. No matter how many stones you throw in the water, you cannot dam the ocean.”
Ekatya leaned against the doorframe. “I hardly know what to do with that. It’s as if I just walked into a room stacked floor to ceiling with gifts, and they all have my name on them. It’s so overwhelming that I don’t know which one to open first.”
Tal looked past her to Lhyn, who was still in the living area and speaking into a pad, no doubt recording her experience of the first dual Gaian Sharing. “Open that one,” she suggested.
Ekatya followed her gaze and turned back with a smile. “Believe me, I will. But that’s the easy part.”
“It’s not a ship, and you’re not the captain. You don’t have to know how it all works. Just accept the gift Fahla gave you. She knows what she’s doing.”
“Maybe she does. If anything could convert me to the Seeder side of the argument, it would be your Fahla.” She straightened and added, “But that’s a conversation for another time. As for that prior matter—it’s closed.”
They shook on it, a comfortable warrior’s clasp, and said their good nights. Ekatya walked back inside, and just before the door clicked shut, Tal heard Lhyn’s voice.
“Wow, nice view. Do I get to unzip that last little bit?”
Tal leaned against the wall by their door and closed her eyes, needing a moment to get that vision out of her head.
Who was she kidding; she’d never get that out of her head. With a sigh, she pushed off the wall and headed back to her own very empty quarters.