The newly awakened Sartan stood around him, staring down at him, no one making any move to assist him. They were not being cruel or neglectful. They were simply bewildered. They had never seen or heard one of their own kind behave in such a bizarre manner and had no idea what to do to help him.
“Either he’s reviving or having a fit,” said Samah. “Some of you”—he gestured to several young Sartan men—”keep near him. He may need to be physically restrained.”
“That will not be necessary!” protested the woman who knelt beside him.
Alfred fixed his gaze on her, recognized her as the woman he’d seen lying in what he’d thought was Lya’s crypt.
She lifted his hand in hers and began to pat it soothingly. His hand responded, as usual, of its own accord. Certainly he wasn’t the one who commanded his fingers to tighten over hers. But he was the one who was comforted by her. She clasped his hand strongly and warmly in return.
“I thought the time of defiance was over, Orla,” said Samah.
The Councillor’s tone was mild, but there was a hard edge to his voice that caused Alfred to blanch. He heard the Sartan around him stir restlessly, like children of an unhappy home, afraid their parents are going to fight again.
The woman’s hand on Alfred’s tightened; her voice, when she spoke, was sad.
“Yes, Samah. I suppose it is.”
“The Council made the decision. You are part of the Council. You cast your vote, as did the others.”
The woman said nothing aloud. But these words came suddenly into Alfred’s head, shared with him by the shared touching of their hands.
“A vote in your favor, as you knew I would. Am I part of the Council? Or am I merely Samah’s wife?”
Alfred realized, suddenly, that he wasn’t meant to hear those words. Sartan could speak to each other silently sometimes, but generally only those who were very close, such as husband and wife.
Samah hadn’t heard. He had turned away, his thoughts obviously on other, more important matters than a weak brother lying stretched out on the floor.
The woman continued to gaze at Alfred, but she wasn’t seeing him. She was staring through him, at something that had happened long ago. Alfred didn’t like to intrude upon such private, unhappy thoughts, but the floor was getting awfully hard. He moved just a tiny bit, to ease a cramp in his right leg. The woman came back to herself, and to him.
“How are you feeling?”
“Not . . . not very well,” Alfred stammered.
He tried to make himself sound as ill as possible, hoping Samah, hoping all these Sartan, would go away and leave him alone.
Well, perhaps not all of them. His hand was, he discovered, still clinging tightly to the woman’s. Orla was her name, apparently. Orla, a beautiful name, yet the images it brought to him were sad ones.
“Is there anything we can do for you?” Orla sounded helpless.
Alfred understood. She knew he wasn’t ill. She knew he was shamming, and she was upset and confused. Sartan didn’t deceive each other. They didn’t lie to each other. They weren’t afraid of each other. Perhaps Orla was beginning to share Samah’s view—that they had an insane brother on their hands.
Sighing, Alfred closed his eyes. “Bear with me,” he said softly. “I know I’m behaving strangely. I know you don’t understand. I can’t expect you to understand. You will, when you have heard my story.”
He sat up then, weakly, with Orla’s assistance. But he managed to regain his feet on his own, managed to stand up and face Samah with dignity.
“You are the head of the Council of Seven. Are the other Council members present?” Alfred asked.
“Yes.” Samah’s gaze flicked about the chamber, picking out five other Sartan. The stern eyes came to rest, finally, on the woman, Orla. “Yes, the Council members are all here.”
“Then,” said Alfred humbly, “I beg the favor of a hearing before the Council.”
“Certainly, Brother,” said Samah, with a gracious bow. “That is your right, whenever you are feeling up to it. Perhaps in a day or two—”