Tharius Don offered his hand, courteously. Pamra Don took it, shining-faced. She turned to bow toward the general. “Thank you for my armor, General Jondrigar. We will talk again of this great war we fight together.”
In the guest suite, high above the courtyard, Pamra Don went immediately to the windows to fling them wide. Neff had not followed her through the corridors, as her mother and Delia had, but he stood at once on the ledge outside the window, smiling through it at her, his radiance lighting the room.
“Would you like to put the baby down and put on something a little more comfortable?” Tharius Don suggested.
“I didn’t bring any clothes,” she said simply, not seeming to care.
He opened the armoire, showing her a rack of soft robes and shoes. “These would fit you, Pamra. They belonged to the lady Kesseret, of Bans. She wore them when she was here.”
“The Superior!” Her eyes flashed and her lips twisted. “Liar!”
Tharius sighed. He had wondered whether Pamra held some such opinion. “When did Kesseret ever lie to you, Pamra?”
“The Awakeners lied. About the Holy Sorters. They lied.”
“When did Kesseret ever lie to you?”
“Full of lies and filth about the workers, none of it true. I have come to appeal to Lees Obol, the Protector of Man. It is better if man knows the truth.”
“When,” Tharius repeated patiently, “did Kesseret ever lie to you?”
The glaze left her eyes and she looked at him uncertainly.
He said it again. “When did Kesseret ever lie to you?”
“She was Superior.”
“When did she ever lie to you?”
“Not she,” Pamra admitted, “but …”
“Kesseret would never have lied to you,” he concluded. “Ilze lied to you, I have no doubt. But it is unfair of you to blame the lady Kesseret, my dear friend, your cousin.”
“Cousin?” She had not expected this, this homely word from a long-ago childhood, before the Tower. “Cousin.”
“Cousin, yes. Can you remember your grandmother?”
Pamra’s lips twisted again, but she nodded, yes.
“Her father was my son. And Kesseret is my cousin.”
She did not make the connection at once. It came only gradually, almost against her will. “You are—you are my great-great-grandfather?”
“Say merely ‘ancestor,’ it is easier. Yes. Which is one of the reasons I have brought you here. We are family. Indeed, we are the only remnants of the family. Your half sisters are dead, so I am told. Without children. You and I, Pamra, are all the Dons.” He did not want to talk with her about her crusade. He did not want to talk with her about the lies told in Towers or the obscene stupidity of the workers. He did not want to defend the status quo or to tell her the truth about the cause, for she might blurt it all out, unwittingly, even angrily, and then where would they be? He wanted to talk to her about the Dons, about Baris, about easy, sentimental things. It was a need in him.
But Pamra did not help him. She turned to the window where Neff blazed in the air, hearing his voice ringing in her ears. “I must see Lees Obol,” she said, putting aside everything Tharius had said as though it had been wind sound, the chirping of swig-bugs, meaningless. “Since you are family, you will help me see him.”
“Of course.” He sighed. “Tomorrow. He is a very old man; he sleeps much of the time. Tomorrow morning, very early.” If one was to get any sense out of Lees Obol, the very early morning was the only possible time, though in recent months even that was unlikely.
“Not now?” She was disappointed, but not angry at the delay. She had come almost to welcome delay, so long as it was inevitable. Things had gone at such a pace, such a headlong plunge, that at times she felt she could not encompass all that was happening. Delay gave a space. Inevitable delay could not be questioned, not even by the voices. Sighing, she sat down.
“Would you like to take off your armor?” Tharius Don asked again. “Put on one of these robes, Pamra Don, and we will have something to eat together. It is time you and I spoke, don’t you think?”