.
After he’d had his dinner with Mrs. pel’Esla, and after Cousin Anthora had come to the nursery to visit—not him, of course, but the twins, though she kindly stopped for a game of skittles . . .
After he’d washed behind his ears, said his own good-nights to Shindi and Mik; and slid into bed, remembering to thank Mrs. pel’Esla for her service this day . . .
And after he’d lain awake for a little while, listening to the soft noises that Mrs. pel’Esla made as she put things to rights in the common room; wishing that he was in the dormitory he had shared with his cousins at Runig’s Rock, which Grandaunt would doubtless tell him was a great piece of nonsense . . .
After he had not cried—or only a little—because he was all alone—which of course he couldn’t be, safe in-House and under Tree, surrounded by kin—he slid into a doze, remembering how it had been, at the Rock.
They’d had lessons, of course—Grandfather Luken and Grandaunt Kareen had been very strict about lessons. Just because they were in hiding from Korval’s enemies, Grandaunt had said often, was no reason to descend into savagery.
They’d had math; history, planetary and galactic; languages, the High Tongue, Trade, Terran, and hand-talk; systems-and-repair; dance; melant’i drills; weapon lore and practice.
His favorites had been weapon lore and dance, though he wasn’t nearly as proficient as Quin and Padi. Grandfather had said he did well in keeping up with the others, who were, after all, so much older, and more advanced in their studies.
That made him feel good.
Practice was hardest. They had to pretend, which should have been easy, but the things they pretended—that Korval’s enemies had found them, there in the fastness of the Rock, and that they had to run away, to the ship that Quin and Padi would pilot. There was the order of retreat—Quin leading, because he was First Board, then Syl Vor, carrying the twins in their special basket, and Padi covering them both. That was right: the pilot, who kept the ship safe; then the passengers, who were under the pilot’s care; then copilot, guarding pilot and ship.
There was nothing scary about pretending that— every body knew the order of ship precedence.
The scary part though—behind them would come Grandfather and Grandaunt, delaying the enemy in any way they could, so that the pilots and Syl Vor with the babies had time to gain the ship.
They pretended that Grandfather . . . fell, and they . . . they pretended to leave him, the pilots sealing the hatch behind Grandaunt Kareen. They pretended that Grandaunt was lost. They pretended that neither elder gained the hatch by the time the pilots’ count was done, and the greatest good for ship and folk came down to Quin’s sole choice . . .
One of the twins—Mik, by the little catch in the voice—was beginning a complaint. Syl Vor stirred, hoping he hadn’t pulled the webbing too tight, and then the sound, unmistakable, of the hatch sealing tight—
Caught in the web of memory, Syl Vor choked, crying out, “Wait!” and that woke him to his own bed, where he lay, heart roaring in his ears, and his cheeks wet with tears.
He concentrated like Padi had taught him—concentrated on breathing slow and deep. It was hard, but he kept at it until he was limp beneath the blankets, and told himself that it was pretend—that it had always been pretend; that Grandaunt and Grandfather were safe, just as he was, and the babies his charges; and Quin, and Padi . . .
No longer deafened by his own heartbeat, Syl Vor heard a small sound, and knew that part of his dreaming had been real.
Quietly, he slipped out of bed and ghosted across the dark common room, to the little alcove where the twins slept. Syl Vor peered ’round the corner. A night-dim on the corner table gave the room a faint, pearly glow. Mrs. pel’Esla, usually to hand, was at this moment absent. Doubtless, she had not gone far, and would return quickly to comfort
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