It was late when she closed the old book and returned it to its place among its fellows. That done, she stretched, hands high over her head, feet above the floor, chair tipped nearly horizontal. For the count of ten, she held the position, taut, every muscle straining. On eleven, she went abruptly limp, breath exploding outward in a "hah!" that echoed along the metal walls.
The chair snapped back to vertical and she laughed, using one hand to push the wild tumble of dark hair up out of her face. The other hand she held negligently downward, palm out, fingers curled in silent summons at the comb that had deserted its duty and now lay on the floor three feet beyond her languid grasp.
Thus summoned, the comb flew to her hand. She used it to anchor the hastily twisted knot of her hair, fingers lingering along the satiny wood. This was a precious object—carved by Daav yos'Phelium, Val Con's true-father, to adorn the hair of his own dear lady. It had come to Anthora on her halfling nameday, given by Val Con. Thus, the gift was thrice precious and it was the ornament she wore most often.
She stretched again, somewhat less heroically and accompanied by a yawn, then gently came erect. Youngest of the yos'Galans, she had inherited the full body of their Terran mother without the height necessary to satisfactorily complete the effect. Still, she was of Korval, and a pilot of the line, light on her feet and elegant in her bearing.
She turned now, spinning a graceful circle, and called aloud, "Lord Merlin? Come, sir. We walk and then we sleep."
Her voice came back from the metal walls, deep and nappy as velvet, with a ring that glittered off the edge of the ear and might, after all, have been the walls.
From somewhere down within the books came a "Mmerwef!" and the thump of something solid striking carpet. A moment later, a rather large gray cat sauntered 'round the edge of a shelf and looked up at her out of round golden eyes.
Anthora smiled and moved toward the door, the cat flowing along at her ankle. He waited patiently while she worked the pressure-latch and followed her into the paneled hallway, then waited again while she canceled the lighting and sealed the library tight.
Duty done, the cat and the woman walked down the hallway and out into the inner garden.
The garden was lit by star-shine—well enough for one who knew the way. Anthora walked slowly, savoring the night air, cool with the scent of growing things. Down and 'round the path she walked, til she came to the center, the heartplace, of the garden, and here she left the path, and moved across the moss to lay her hand against Jelaza Kazone, Jela's Fulfillment, known to the World as Korval's Tree.
"Good evening, Elder," she murmured, and felt her palm grow warm, where it lay against the bark. She breathed deeply of the cool, minty scent and leaned back, settling her shoulders comfortably. At her feet, in a vee made by two shallow roots, Merlin tucked himself, front feet under his chest, golden eyes slits of satisfaction.
In the minty dark, Anthora closed her eyes. Purposefully, she filled her lungs with the scented air, Jelaza Kazone warming her back through the house tunic she wore. Slowly, as if of their own volition, her hands rose, palms vulnerable to the stars.
Anthora opened her Inner Eyes across the dazzle of the galaxy and in nightly ritual, began to count.
There, the cool flame that was Nova, blurred by the veiling of hyperspace. And, there—Shan, warm as a hug. Through him, less Seen than extrapolated, Anthora found Priscilla. And there—there was Cousin Pat Rin, aloof, as ever.
It was a foolish ritual in its way, there being no aid she might send to those so distant, should she find them in distress. She lived in no little dread, who was considered the heedless one, of the night she might count one frail candle missing and nothing she could do to recover the flame.
Still, she persisted, taking comfort where it was offered—and so far tonight she had counted four—Nova, Shan, Priscilla, Pat Rin—safe, for now, and treasured.
So, onward. She took another deliberately deep breath and cast her mind out once more. Val Con . . . She found him, his flame brilliant as before the Wrongness, which Anthora now knew was named the Department of Interior, and at his shoulder a bonfire, which was Miri—his-lifemate, whom Anthora had yet to embrace in a sister's welcome.
Well enough, six, and herself made seven. She brought her thought toward an easier goal, touched the children—Quin, Padi, Syl Vor, Mik and Shindi—and Great-aunt Kareen yos'Phelium, and Cousin Luken bel'Tarda, bright, all bright, in their safeplaces, then took deeper breath and flung her mind wider still.
She had first noted this one during her pregnancy with the twins. In that heightened state of power, it had been as plain to her as a comet on the horizon. Now, it was the glitter of a jeweled pinhead, sometimes sensed, sometimes seen, and sometimes lost entirely in the clamor of the worlds intervening. Tonight, she thought she would miss it, then caught a flash of its unique glitter, at the extreme edge of her ability to read.
There was no name to put to this tiny gem of flame, yet she welcomed it as she welcomed the flames of her named and known kin and dreaded its loss as nearly.
So then, of adults, counted and known, nine. Of children, the full complement of five. Clan Korval, numbering precisely fourteen, from the eldest to the youngest. The warmth at her back grew briefly warmer and Anthora smiled as she lowered her hands.
Fifteen, of course. One did not discount the Tree.
But even with the Tree, it did seem few—very few, indeed. No skill that lay to her hand would reveal the number of those who hunted them—but she guessed them to be far in excess of—fifteen.
She opened her eyes and stepped away from the Tree, but without the spring of joy the counting of her kin most usually gave her. Instead, she bade the Tree good evening in a tone that was nearly somber, and went softly across the mossy carpet to the paved path, where she paused and glanced back.
"Lord Merlin?"
The cat opened his eyes, stood, stretched and sauntered to her, stropping once against her leg before preceding her down the path, to the house and bed.