There were, in addition to Conran, about fifty Jacobites living in Sahala—the only survivors, he told her, of a band that used to be about four times as strong. She was shocked to learn of Bael’s campaign of extermination, though she found this easier to believe than tales of orbiting spaceships. Gretchen had hated Bael, though she had managed to conceal that violent emotion for most of Luanda’s life, and Reuben also had ascribed terrible crimes to the Archangel. Lucinda did not doubt that Bael had ferociously hunted down the Jacobites; he would have considered it his duty.
It was not surprising that those fifty survivors looked at her askance, and so Lucinda made little effort to get to know them. Oh, once or twice at Conran’s invitation, she joined them when the whole group assembled in the evenings, but she was fairly uncomfortable at these events. They spoke ardently about their beliefs, contemptuously of the complacent Samarians who were too thickheaded to listen to reason, idealistically of how they would bring the truth to every last soul on the mainland. Lucinda left these meetings even less in sympathy with their cause than she had been before. They were zealots, or possibly madmen; she trusted them very little more than they trusted her.
On the whole, she felt more at ease with the Edori. The house she lived in was an Edori house, owned by people who were in some remote manner relatives of Reuben. Then again, from what she could tell, all Edori considered themselves kin, so perhaps they did not in fact have blood ties. She had not completely figured out how the inmates of the house were related. There were two older women who appeared to be in their sixties; a young woman about Lucinda’s age, who had a baby boy; and a young man who did not seem to be brother, son, or lover to any of the others. They treated each other with great affection mixed with hilarity. They loved nothing so much as a joke at another’s expense, though none of the tricks were ever cruel.
None of them were ever in the house if they could help it. They spent most of their time in the garden, in the town commons visiting their friends, or off on pursuits Lucinda had not yet identified. Though constructed solidly enough, the house had an impermanent feel, as if at any point its residents might dismantle its stones, cart its components along with them on some impromptu journey, and rebuild the whole thing somewhere else on a more satisfactory site. The furnishings were exotic, colorful, and completely unplanned, so that a red print sofa warred with the blues and grays of a handwoven rug. No one ever gave a thought to mealtime until someone in the house admitted to hunger, and then two or three of them would throw together a dinner from whatever ingredients happened to be in the cupboard.
But none of this discomposed them or made them add a little foresight to their days. On the contrary, Lucinda had never met such happy, carefree, spontaneous people. They made her laugh. They made her feel welcome.
They reminded her of Reuben.
He would be gone at least two weeks, he had told her the evening before the day he had to depart again. The Wayward had stayed in port a week while Maurice gathered his next cargo, but that time had gone by wickedly fast. He hated to leave her among strangers, especially since she had been whisked so abruptly away from home, but he knew she would be cared for here. He would not worry while she was among his people. And he did not say, but she heard the unspoken words, the warning behind his farewell: I am a sailor. I am Edori. I will always return to you, but I will always sail away again. If she were to love him, she would have to expect to be left behind over and over again.
And it seemed obvious that she loved him.
Nights, when the manic fervor of the Jacobites had left her cold and the cheerful charm of the Edori had failed to warm her, she lay in her bed and dreamed again of the hours she had spent with Reuben. They had been a week on The Wayward, traveling between Angel Rock and Ysral, and during that week Lucinda had learned what it meant to take an Edori lover. She had not often lain with a man, for it had not been possible to take casual bedmates from the small population of Angel Rock, but she had a little experience gained from likable strangers who had visited the port. But those encounters were nothing like making love to an Edori.
There had not been room enough for both of them on the narrow bunk in the ship’s cramped cabin. So Reuben had spread layer after layer of blankets on the hard floor, creating a mattress of quilt and cotton. And he had pulled her down beside him and covered himself with her white wings and buried his face in the blond fall of her hair. She had thought she would be shy or nervous, but she was neither. She ran her fingers through the black silk of his hair and laughed when he murmured incomprehensible endearments in the Edori language. Then caught her breath as he began to run his hands slowly, intently over the curves and hollows of her body.
No, nothing in her past had prepared her for the utter annihilation and rebirth of making love to an Edori. Or perhaps, more truly, nothing had prepared her for the ecstasy of being in love.
And the complete desolation of seeing the loved one walk away.
When she could think about anything besides how much she missed Reuben and how little she understood the Jacobites, she turned her mind to speculation about what she should do with the rest of her life. Much as she liked the Edori, she did not envision living in this little house forever. And she had a hard time picturing herself gradually succumbing to the illicit allure of the Jacobite enterprise. Could she return to Angel Rock? And when? And if she did, what then? Would she spend the rest of her life mooning over Reuben, violently happy on the few days a year that The Wayward was in port, dreamily depressed every other hour of her life? How would she occupy her time? Running the Manor, cooking and cleaning for mainland guests? Perhaps Reuben and Maurice and the others would allow her to travel with them from city to city, continent to continent—but how would that be any more fulfilling?
It seemed unlikely that she could return to Samaria, at least as long as Bael and Omar were in power. And what would she do in Samaria, anyway?
What would she do anywhere? What was her purpose in life?
It was when her thoughts reached this tangled conclusion that she could stand it no longer. She flung herself into the cerulean sky and flew until she was dizzy. She thought she could outrun her thoughts, but they inevitably kept pace beside her, until she had exhausted herself so much that she could no longer think.
But one thing she did have to say for Ysral: It was simply beautiful.
Of course, legend had long described the small continent as rich, warm, and exquisite, and in this case, legend had not lied. It was situated on a slightly more southern plane than Samaria, and so, summer and winter, it was wrapped in idle, sultry breezes. Its soil was fertile and imaginative, and everything seemed to grow there, from the standard crops that could be found on Samaria to flowers and grains of the most amazing hue and variety. The Edori, of course, were lazy farmers, most of them preferring to live off the largesse of the undomesticated land, but even their haphazard attempts at raising corn and wheat and soybeans were met with fabulous success. The rivers ran with water so sweet that even the children preferred it, and nowhere was there hunger or need or want.
But there were the marks of man’s presence, a thing which, Reuben had told her, had caused bitter dissension among the Edori. For centuries, the credo of the Edori had been to live in harmony with the earth, in harmony with man, and for that reason they had failed to build permanent structures and turned their backs on farming. But in Ysral, the corelli had built cities—small ones, to be sure, but immobile nonetheless—and altered the landscape to suit them. And the renegade scientists had moved the Augustine school to Ysral, and evidences of scientific advancement were everywhere.
For instance, Edori in Sahala could communicate via a mysterious transmitter with their families not only in nearby Covallah but traveling throughout the remote sections of the continent. They could drive mobile vehicles that were quieter, smaller, and faster than anything Lucinda had seen on the mainland. They had developed remarkable recording equipment that caught her voice one night in an imp
romptu concert and played it back for her the very next minute.
“All of this takes energy and creates waste,” Boyce told her gloomily one evening when she asked about a swift little car she’d seen racing away from the city. Boyce was the young man who lived in the house with her. He seemed both attracted to and repelled by the new technology, though he had been able to explain to her every single thing she’d asked about. “We have always prided ourselves on offering no hurt to the people around us—or the land. But to power our vehicles, we use fuel that we dig from the earth, doing who knows what harm to the soil beneath? And everything we manufacture has left behind some residue—some gas, or toxin, or pile of burned waste. There is not much now, but if we continue at this rate, what then? What kind of evil will we have created?”
Lucinda nodded soberly, though she was not really clear on the problem. She had asked him to take her to the Augustine school and he had said he would, but not for another week or two. It was, she learned, almost a daylong ride away (and that if they borrowed one of the fast little cars), and Boyce had other projects under way at the moment. But soon, he promised. Lucinda had sighed. She had learned very quickly that the Edori had no concept of haste. She supposed she would be older than her aunt Gretchen before Boyce finally escorted her to the university.
A small voice at the back of her head gave her a brief, chiding lecture: You have scarcely been here two weeks, and already you’re bored and looking for entertainment, it said. You will have to learn how to amuse yourself better than this.
But then, the very next day, diversion arrived in a form she would never have dreamed possible.
She had been with Boyce and two young Jacobites who were friends of his, helping them go through some old history books Conran had found. Conran had wanted to know if the books had any value, if they should be shipped to the Augustine school, kept here, or thrown away, and he had suggested Lucinda be invited to help catalog them. She couldn’t imagine why, except she supposed her view of history was very different from the Jacobites’. Obediently, she had spent most of the day with the other three, leafing idly through page after page of rather dry historical renderings, and listening to the other three talk about electronics. It had not been the most exciting afternoon of her life.
And then suddenly a young Jacobite woman burst into the room, flushed with excitement and important news. “Did you hear? They’ve found Tamar! They’ve just brought her to Conran’s house.”
“Who’s Tamar?” Boyce asked a second before Lucinda could voice the words, but the Jacobites were on their feet.
“Where did they find her? How did she get here?” one of them demanded.
“Tamar! Conran thought she was dead!” the other said.
“No, she’s here, she’s fine. Although she hurt her head a few days ago, Reuben says, and she—”
“Reuben!” Lucinda and Boyce exclaimed in unison. Now they, too, were on their feet, and all four of them had impatiently pushed aside their books.
“Is Reuben back?” Lucinda asked breathlessly, while Boyce said, “How did she end up on The Wayward?”
“I don’t know the details, I just came up to tell you,” the girl said, turning for the door. The others came hurrying after her.
There was a small, agitated crowd outside of Conran’s house, growing larger by the minute. Whoever this Tamar was, she was certainly popular, Lucinda thought. Not that she cared about missing Jacobite women returned from the grave. But if Reuben was back a whole week early, that was miraculous news indeed.
He was there; she could pick out his tall, well-balanced body even from a distance, even in a pack of Edori. She was so focused on him that for a moment she did not take in an even more astonishing sight: an angel, standing a little to one side of the main knot of people, explaining something to one of Conran’s friends.
What strange coincidence would bring two angels to the Jacobite stronghold of Sahala within two weeks of each other?
As she drew closer she was able to identify the angel, although she did not know him well: Jared, the leader of the host at Monteverde. She could think of no reason he would be here. She increased her pace to a run (it was too short a distance to reasonably fly) and made it to the edge of the crowd before Boyce or the others.
Reuben saw her. He looked straight at her and held her eyes with a gaze that might have been speculation and might have been warning. In any case, it was not the expression of joyful welcome she expected, and it stopped her cold. But then his face softened and he motioned her forward, and she gently pushed her way through the crowd to his side.
But when she arrived, he was not looking at her. Like everyone else, he was watching a painfully thin young woman who was improbably dressed in an exotic silver outfit and speaking in a low voice to Conran. She had her back to the angel and so Lucinda could not see her face, and she looked inquiringly back at Reuben.
“Tamar,” the Edori said, and the mortal turned his way.
And Lucinda stared at a young woman with her own eyes and her own face, who stared back at her as if she had been knifed in the heart.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
If Conran had not taken her arm, Tamar knew, she would have fallen backward onto the hard stone of the walkway. Vertigo again; but this time caused by the shock of an unbelievable vision. That was her face, that angel’s face. That was the outline of her cheek and the color of her eyes. That was her very expression, stupefied and incredulous. The angel put a hand to her mouth in a mirror image of Tamar’s own gesture.
No one spoke for what seemed like hours. Of all the people who could have stepped forward to offer explanations, it was the angel who first gathered her wits into a coherent sentence. “So you did not die when our mother did,” the angel said slowly. “I wonder who it is, then, that they found in her arms that night.”
More madness; the words made utterly no sense. Perhaps she was dreaming again. She had had such dark, fantastical dreams ever since that Jansai had struck her on the head at Azolay. They would come over her, waking or sleeping, and sometimes she had a hard time distinguishing nightmare from reality. That must be what was happening now.
But Conran was speaking. “She knows nothing about that,” he said sharply. “She was never told who her mother was or that someone like you existed.”
The angel spoke again in that same slow, marveling tone; she had a voice like liquid copper, molten and glinting. “Well, I was told that she was dead. And all this time …” The angel stepped forward, hands outstretched; Tamar would have flinched backward, but Conran’s body held her in place. “Tamar?” she asked. “That’s your name?”
Tamar nodded. It was impossible to speak. She had heard this voice before, over and over, singing in her head. The more the angel said, the more certain she was. “I’m Lucinda. I’m your twin.”
Everyone had wanted to speak to Tamar at once, but she was so exhausted she could do no more than pass from figure to figure, submitting to brief, fierce hugs, and whispers of gladness. Tired as she was, she could not keep herself from doing a mental tally, noting who was present and who was not, and guessing from that who had fallen at the Jansai’s hands. But maybe not. They must have thought she was dead, and here she was, weary but alive, coming face-to-face with her double in the most bizarre encounter imaginable.
Within minutes, Conran shooed everyone away. “Tomorrow, when she’s rested,” he said in that voice that was never countermanded. “She’ll talk to you all then. For now, let her regain her footing and have a moment or two of privacy.”
Except it was not privacy, of course. Conran allowed three others to follow them into his house: the Edori Reuben and both angels. Tamar was so disoriented and dumbstruck that she still felt dizzy, and she was comforted when Jared took her hand as they walked through the narrow hallway.
In a few minutes they were all seated on dilapidated furniture set up in a small living room. Lucinda, Tamar could not help noting, had gravitated toward the Edori. He had ensconced
himself in a wide, battered armchair and she squeezed herself beside him, wrapping her wings around her shoulders so the edges trailed on the floor before her. It did not look at all comfortable, but the angel did not seem to mind.
Tamar seated herself at random on the edge of a plaid sofa. Jared at once pulled over a stool and settled beside her, shaking his wings out behind him. He immediately took her hand again. Conran straddled a straight-backed chair and laid his arms along its top.
“First, I’d like to hear the story of what happened to you,” he said, addressing Tamar. “I went to Ileah. I knew you had gone there. When there was no sign of you or the others—”
“I arrived a few days after the others, I suppose,” she said. She was trying to keep her voice even, but to her own ears it sounded dreary and strained. “The Jansai had arrived a day or so before me. There were twelve dead and one gravely injured. I buried the dead and nursed the living.”
“Who?”
“Peter. He’s still alive, I believe.” She looked over at Jared, who had his eyes trained on the floor. “This angel took him to Stockton to seek medical attention.”
Conran, too, glanced at Jared but instantly returned his attention to Tamar. “And then?”
“I moved on to Semorrah. And from there to a wealthy farm outside of Shepherd’s Pass. Where I found Jared again.” Again she looked at the angel. This time he met her eyes, a faint smile on his lips. Well, at this exact moment she was not ready to go into all her dealings with him, all her fears and suspicions. “He told me that Jansai were looking for us—you, me, Duncan, a few others—they had portraits that someone had drawn of us.”