“No,” said the Ythrian.
After a moment: “I have encountered them elsewhere. In Planha we call them liayalre. Slinkers.”
Fraina pouted. “Oh, foof! I took poor Tais along for a gulp of fresh air. C’mon, Rolf.”
She tucked her arm beneath Ivar’s. He forgot that he had never cared for lucks either.
Erannath stared after him till he was gone from sight.
Beyond the ring of vehicles, the meadow rolled wide, its dawn trava turf springy and sweet underfoot, silver-gray beneath heaven. Trees stood roundabout, intricacies of pine, massivenesses of hammerbranch, cupolas of delphi. Both moons tinged their boughs white; and of the shadows, those cast by Creusa stirred as the half-disc sped eastward. Stars crowded velvet blackness. The Milky Way was an icefall.
Music faded behind him and her, until they were alone with a tadmouse’s trill. He was speechless, content to marvel at the fact that she existed.
She said at last, quietly, looking before her: “Rolf, there’s got to be High Ones. This much joy can’t just’ve happened.”
“High Ones? Or God? Well—” Non sequitur, my dear. To us this is beautiful because certain apes were adapted to same kind of weather, long ago on Terra. Though we may feel subtle enchantment in deserts, can we feel it as wholly as Erannath must? . . . But doesn’t that mean that Creator made every kind of beauty? It’s bleak, believin’ in nothin’ except accident.
“Never mind philosophy,” he said. Recklessly: “Waste of time I could spend by your side.”
She slipped an arm around his waist. He felt it like fire. I’m in love, he knew through the thunders. Never before like this. Tanya—
She sighed. “Aye-ah. How much’ve we left?”
“Forever?”
“No. You can’t stay in the Train. It’s never happened.”