Purpose:
Memory is examined in terms of accuracy, access and retrieval time, with and without the effects of alcohol.
« They’re in the basement, » says Malachi.
The group, swelling in number, follows him down to a room which is decidedly too cramped to accommodate us. Tommy, Ari, Rand and Patrick are already there, sitting around a modest table. I am grateful that theirs was such a small team.
« Our theme is intoxication, so we figured that the wine cellar was a really logical place to go, » says Tommy. « You should see the collection. Room after room. Incredible! It’s too bad Ailann isn’t here – or maybe it isn’t. »
« But there is something really strange that’s bothering me a bit, » says Patrick. « All of the wine glasses and the petit fours on the dessert tray were contaminated with potassium cyanide. It’s fine now, of course. I just used alchemy to change it into sugar. »
« That’s it! » Suibhne cries. « That’s why the poison didn’t work on Rasputin! Patrick altered it to be harmless. »
« You all understand that’s not what actually happened, » I say warily.
« Why not? » asks Patrick. I notice that his speech is slurred, his eyes are blurry. They have all been drinking, taking their theme quite seriously. As if on cue, Tommy pours me a glass of wine.
« We know that at some point several hundred years in the future, the technology for time travel will become possible, » says Patrick. « At least it did in another timeline. And it’s a really unsecret secret that I occasionally black out and murder people. So why couldn’t I go back in time and, um, unmurder someone? »
« Well, Rasputin is going to get shot anyway, a few hours later, » says Suibhne. « Still, if Yusupov hadn’t blundered the poisoning, he might’ve not been caught, and then he wouldn’t have been exiled, and he might have been in St. Petersburg when the aristos were arrested, and he would’ve ended up taken out against the wall and shot instead of selling his wife’s jewels to live the high life in Paris. So the continuity would’ve been fucked up. It might’ve created a reality in which none of us existed. »
« I’ve had too much wine to understand any of that, » says Rand.
« This room is small, and pretty creepy, considering, » says Tommy. « Why don’t we all grab an armload of wine and maybe go up to the boudoir to get drunk and naked? »
I embrace him, saying, « Tommy, you’ve reassured me that there’s a part of Ashtara that is still capable of sanity and good sense. »
I follow behind them on the stair after they insist that I should not have to carry any of the bottles. As I ascend, what seems to be a half-hidden doorway catches my eye. I place my hand on the door, which had been left ajar. It swings open into a columnar courtyard. I’m hit by a sudden chill, perhaps from the freezing night air, or perhaps it’s the disconcerting realization that the stars in the pitch black sky aren’t my stars. Yet they’re familiar, nonetheless. I’ve been here before, a long time ago. It’s Earth.
I close the door quickly. It is hard enough to grasp that this entire palace is contained in Suibhne’s flat, but to think that inside of Ash’s mind is an entire world which contained a series of residences which, in turn, contains a palace which opens out to a simulation of Earth…the wine and the scale of compression makes me woozy.
I return to the stair, but the emanations are gone. When I reach the top, the door closes behind me. I find myself in a rotunda full of mirrors.
Mirrors and doors, each door looking exactly alike. I try one. It doesn’t open. Not that it is locked – it doesn’t actually exist. It’s nothing but a façade.
What kind of sadistic moron designed this room?
I decide to just come back through the door I entered. Except…which one was that? I’d turned a bit, and am totally disoriented.
I turn again. The mirrors sparkle, making me a bit dizzy. And then they aren’t mirrors; they become windows, of a sort. I jump, startled, because one of the mirrors reflects the reception hall of Court Emmere.
I hear Lady Magdelaine saying, “Lady Finlay wanted him to experience courtly life.”
I am disoriented. I’d heard that before, but where?
“Why now?” I ask. “I’ve just returned. I don’t need to be burdened…”
I turn to milady – apparently, because now I can see her in the mirror. I am surprised. She looks older then than she does currently. I realize that the proper question is not where, but when. This has to be long before Ailann repaired the telomeres of my courtly attendants, which means that the mirror is showing me memories.
“She had no child,” Lady Madonna replies. “You must understand what a blessing he was to her.”
Yes, I remember this story. My great aunt Aiofe, the sister of my paternal grandmother. Both grandmother and her sister had that wild Keltic look about them, the messy red curls, the hot-headed temper – just like me. My grandmother had died before I was born, and I knew her only from portraits. But her sister, an eccentric with minor aristocratic pedigree, had been an infamous dowager, living out her dotage with a handful of servants on a crumbling estate. Since she had produced no heir, the property was due to be inherited by my uncle – not that he particularly wanted it, having managed to appropriate most of my father’s vast wealth when he married me off to Tenzain Merkht.
Except that this young man had turned up at our door. He claimed to be a festival exchange from Aiofe’s household, who, by the customs of our people, had been taken into the family and given the surname Finlay-Cole. The name was a testament to Aunt Aiofe’s traditional streak. Almost no-one bothered to add the hyphenated “Cole” to the surnames of their festival exchanges anymore; we certainly hadn’t done it to Claris. The etymology which claimed that the name “Cole” was used to denote hostages of noble blood in ancient Ireland was fairly dubious anyway.
The problem was that nobody had actually spoken to Aiofe for over a decade. And festival exchanges were sacred – they were always taken at their word, and always turned out to be exemplary members of the household – well, maybe except for Claris. Despite the lack of evidence supporting his claim, festival exchanges never lied, and Uncle Cetin was relieved of the burden of sorting out Aiofe’s miserable estate, and her servants didn’t have to worry about being kicked out of the house when Urhu razed it.
It was completely obvious to me that “Cousin Evan” was lying, and no one would ever call him on it.
And now the mirror reminds me of the uncomfortable truth, of why I would never call him on it either, the moment I saw him for the first time. I would’ve guessed him a little past twenty; only his well-trimmed goatee marks him as more than adolescent. Golden hair braided down his back, porcelain skin, eyes that intense blue flecked with green never seen outside of the Domha’vei. Long, supple hands lead to thin wrists circled with lace. He wears a velvet cloak slung rakishly over one shoulder, a rich doublet of crimson brocade, and fine silk stockings beneath his velvet breeches. Who dresses like that?
Aiofe’s festival exchange, probably – D’Artagnan to her Miss Havisham.
My first physical response is checked immediately by my bothersome mind, which reminds me 1) He’s too young for you, 2) Technically, he’s your cousin, and 3) Sloane. The third hits like a blow to the raw wound festering in my chest, and I quickly avert my eyes. I think of the handsome man who had loved me silently for years, then died to protect me. I remember his cooling body in my arms, his warm blood on my hands, and I am disgusted with myself. This hostility turns towards my visitor, and I snap, “And what are you good for, Evan Finlay-Cole?”
He slings a bundle from his back that had been tied over his cloak. “I have some small skill in music,” he says demurely. He unties the bundle, which proves to be a thick padding protecting a musical instrument. When I can see it more closely, I am surprised to discover that it is a fasharp.
The free alignment synchronization harp – fasharp – is an instrument unique to Dolparessa, a realization of both ancient lore and technology. It is capable of playing five separate lines, four of which can be complete chords. It has the basic construction of a classical harp, but the petal at the bottom is used not in turning, but during the actual playing of the instrument to produce a synthesized drone. Rather than having one row of strings, it has four. However, it is extraordinarily difficult to get the instrument to live up to its full potential. The two outer rows are intended for left and right hands, but the inner rows are plucked by nanobots called the “ghosts.” Although the ghosts can play notes the fingers are incapable of reaching, nevertheless, their movements need to be controlled by the human hands plucking the other strings. Each outer string is subtly banded with a rainbow of color radiating outward from the center – the effect resembles the metallic hues reflected by a pool of oil. The color bands extending upward from the center represent the inner string which will be struck when that color is touched. The color bands extending downward from the center represent an interval of time that the second string will delay before striking. Most musicians choose instead the far easier rasharp (restricted alignment synchronization harp) where the inner strings strike simultaneously with the outer, and at harmonic intervals pre-set by a tuning panel. If Aiofe’s heir can really play the fasharp, he has talent.
Evan sits, positioning the instrument between his knees. He begins with a few, plaintive, tentative notes, but suddenly his hands are moving faster than my eye can follow, and the reception hall is filled with sound, a wild and haunting melody worthy of a troupe of satyrs plunging through the deep, mysterious woods of Dolparessa. The song is tinged with the Keltic, tinged with the Medieval, but also with a strain of something completely unearthly, soaked in the mystery and eroticism of this new world, our home, but not our source.
Lady Madonna claps her hands excitedly. “He’s marvelous. Don’t you think he’s marvelous?”
Grudgingly, I have to admit that she is right.
A hand lightly touches my shoulder. I spin around to face Evan, still naked, his hair tied in the complex and elegant plaits arranged by Quennel. The mirrors are back to normal. « How did you find me? »
« You want me. I’ll always be able to find you if you want me. »
I do. I had wanted him then, too, but the timing was completely wrong. As if reading my mind, he says, « I’m not Sloane. I don’t need to rewrite my regrets. »
He touches my face. I’m surprised – he’d always been so shy. « If you’re not going to deny your desire anymore, then you should take what you want. »
« This room is too cold, » he replies. « I’ve found a better place. »
He takes me by the hand, leading me through one of the real doors to a bright room with creamy walls, square pillars decorated in elaborate gilt relief, a round painting centered in a ceiling of plaster and gold from which an enormous chandelier extends. Curtains of rough white silk are tied back so that light streams through the windows which should’ve looked upon the Moika River, but instead face the wide ocean, the swan boat, Ashvattha’s island palace in the distance. In the corner is an enormous grand piano in creamy white and gold, matching the room’s colors. In short, it is an absurdity, a museum and not a living space, except that, even completely naked, Evan looks at home there, the most brilliant of the chamber’s ornaments.
Evan begins to play. He can play anything – it takes him only a few minutes of toying with a new instrument to intuitively understand how to coax from it the most enchanting sounds.
« Wynne found a Stradivarius, » I tell him.
« That figures. I’m looking forward to it. This, on the other hand, leaves something to be desired. The ornamentation is messing with the subtle harmonics. » He turns to me. « At least there are rugs in this room. »
Evan is a ravenously passionate lover. We fuck violently on the floor, my legs wrapped around his thin hips. After a while, he slows. « I’m enjoying this, » he says. « On the outside, there’s too much urgency for me to relax into the experience. »
I roll over on top of him. « I could never tell whether that was a feature of your body, or a result of your shame. »
He laughs, saying, « I still feel so brazen. I’m not afraid of my own pleasure anymore, but to touch you is to encroach upon the sacred. »
« You’ll play that Stradivarius, » I reply. « You’d play it even if it were real, because a violin is a sad thing if it’s eternally silent – and also, because you have the skill to do it properly. »
« I suppose I do, » he says, contemplating his exquisite and dexterous hands.
As I mentioned, it takes but a few minutes for him to discover the best technique of play.
Supplemental Report: Ari
I hate this.
I hate this.
Patrick is drinking with Rand. Both of them are fine with this. That’s because Patrick is a socialite and a slut. That’s because Rand, unlike me, has real n’aashet n’aaverti. He’ll sit there all night waiting patiently until Tara wants him.
I didn’t get n’aashet n’aaverti. I got jealous love. Jealous love and wisdom. What a combination! One would think that jealous love would at least merit poor impulse control. Instead, I hold my peace and wait, burning, my heart soaked in acid because she’s fallen in love with Evan.
How could she fall in love with Evan so soon after Rand? How could she fall in love with Rand so soon after Wynne? I’d say she’s fickle, but it isn’t like she falls out of love. That probably has more to do with the Mover’s machinations than with her. If falling in love is an enchantment, then falling out of love is a disenchantment. The Mover is always careful to position a new toy in reach before she tires of the old one.
Human history, I know, is full of people who have taken up with their old flames. Or, for that matter, picked up an old hobby. Love is better the second time around, they say. Humans are idiots.
Driscoll and Hurley are standing in the foyer. Hurley says, « You should go to him. »
There’s silence for a minute. Then Hurley starts again. « I’m not jealous, » he says. « I don’t mind if you’re with Patrick, or for that matter, Lorcan. But if you’re with me when you really want to be with them, it will hurt like hell. »
To be honest, I’m completely stumped by this whole drama. Patrick, Hurley and Lorcan all have gold cards – Driscoll doesn’t. So why is the world revolving around Driscoll?
Driscoll sighs. I hate it when Driscoll sighs. First of all, it’s fake. Second of all, he acts like he’s the only one in the pleroma with problems. He should have Tommy’s problems. Tommy is sitting next to me, drunk off his ass. Tommy has spent most of his life in a blue reverie, patiently pining for Tara.
Tommy is someone I can understand.
« I don’t want to be with Patrick tonight, » Driscoll says.
« Why don’t you just talk to him? » asks Hurley.
« You don’t understand, » says Driscoll. « I’m in love with Patrick. When I look at him, the world is filled with flowers and butterflies and other clichés unworthy of my artistic imagination. But I love Lorcan. If it came down to a choice, I’d pick Lorcan without question. »
« You’re right, » says Hurley. « I don’t understand. »
« That’s because you’re a dreamer, » says Driscoll, « and for you, loving and being in love are exactly the same thing. But I’m a cynic, and they aren’t. »
His voice lowers so I almost can’t hear it. Almost, but my hearing is good.
« I love you, » he says. « I’d pick you over Patrick, too. »
« What about Lorcan? » says Hurley.
« Lorcan will understand. Lorcan knows that the heart is full of sharp edges, and sharp edges cast deep shadows. But Patrick’s heart doesn’t have any sharpness at all. Only one big, occasional eclipse. »
I have to think about this. On a gut level, it makes more sense than anything Tarlach has ever said. Driscoll may be a poser, but he’s not a fool.
Tara comes into the room, accompanied by Evan. For a moment, there’s nothing in my eyes but her. Then there’s Evan, taking me by surprise. He wounds my heart with his beauty.
I wanted to hate him, but it’s impossible. Besides, I’m a big man. I should be a good loser.
I rise. « Congratulations are in order, » I say, giving him a hug.
His thin, naked body is so small pressed against mine. The room swims. Too much alcohol? Not likely for a man my size.
Tommy glances at Tara, grasps her wrist suddenly. She nods, and he rises. « We’re going to get more wine, » he says.
I’m furious, suddenly furious. I know damn well that they’re going out to gossip about all of us. Why does she confide in him like that? Why can’t she confide in me?
There’s laughter from the room next door. Davy has somehow persuaded Manasseh to don the squirrel-puppet, to the amusement of Malachi and Tarlach.
What a bunch of idiots.
Evan leans his head against my chest. It’s only then that I realize I’m still holding him – tightly. « I’m not sure what Quennel would think, » he murmurs.
Quennel?
« Quennel and Evan are a serious item, but you knew that, » Tara is saying to Tommy. « Evan and I are a serious item, which you didn’t. Malachi has a little crush on Daniel; Davy has the hots for Manasseh; Ailann was introduced to the joy of PPP by Daniel and Evan; Ross has turned into an ultra-stud who’s claimed Constantine; as usual, Lugh and Owen are lost in their own little world; Axel and Suibhne are…well, I don’t know what they are, but there’s definitely something. »
Axel and Suibhne are on the couch. Axel says, « I love your home. It’s a wonderful party. »
« Really? » says Suibhne. Suibhne is shocked. He’s my brother, so I understand him a little. Most of the time, he’s off in someplace in his head, unless Tara needs him. Not so different from me, except I suspect that the place in his head is a lot stranger than mine.
« Life is wonderful, my friend. I never expected to live. Every day is like a magnificent gift, » says Axel.
This statement is even more shocking to Suibhne than the last. Neither one of us have ever looked at life that way. We were both born in misery and confusion, saddled with the weight of a duty we did not want.
« Axel, do you want to play with me? » asks Suibhne.
« Yes, » says Axel, clasping his hand. I’m uncomfortably aware of Axel’s blond, Germanic handsomeness. He isn’t nearly as pretty as Evan, though.
« Davy’s the only one who ever wanted to play with me, » says Suibhne. « Well, Davy and Tara. Tara is fun. I had a snowball fight with her at Court Emmere once. Inside the palace. The servants didn’t know what was going on. Most of them had never seen snow. »
Tommy and Tara come back, carrying several bottles of wine. Tommy stoops to refill Axel’s glass. « I remember that, » he says, snickering. He turns to Tara and says, « You’re never really going to grow up, are you? »
« Why should I? I’m an autocrat. I can do as I please. It’s better than executing people at random. »
« Well, you know your position is supposed to have a certain dignity, right, kid? »
« Oh, like the Living God of Skarsia? The one who has an emanation getting a hand-job from a hand-puppet? »
« What happens in the pleroma stays in the pleroma, » says Tommy. He looks at me and winks.
I release Evan to grab a bottle of wine, quickly refiling my glass.
« Ari, » says Evan, « it’s okay. »
I down the glass. Ah, shit, I’m drunker than I thought I was. I can’t seem to find an explanation. I can’t seem to understand why the room is so cold now, why the sight of Axel holding Suibhne’s hand is like a knife to my chest. « Why did the Mover make me like this? »
Now Ethan and Barnabas are in the doorway. « Make you like what? » Ethan asks.
« Humans ask that question every day, » says Tarlach, joining them. « They ask it when they’re crucified on the incongruity of their desires and their capacities, or caught between their natures and what society demands of them. »
Wonderful. I seem to have become the unintentional center of drama. « It’s different for humans, » I protest. « They can always choose to believe that it’s random. It’s luck. They don’t have to believe in anything. But I know the hand that made me, and the feelings I have…»
« You could’ve been made differently, » says Tommy. « You could’ve been made a hopeless romantic tormented by physical lust destined to play the role of best friend. You could have been a young man of incredible beauty and talent who was too shy to confess his love. You could have been a god capable of the most awe-inspiring creations, and yet completely unable to express his own intentions. You could have been a madman who believed that everything he loved was dead, living an agonized life and yet forced to carry the responsibility for the inhabitants of an entire star system on his shoulders. Or you could’ve been a man who wanted desperately to taste all that life had to offer, who wasn’t even granted a real name because he was destined to be sacrificed. You could’ve been the most kind, generous, charismatic man whose only flaw is that he falls into murderous fugues, or you could’ve been a psychopath unable to kill, or even a soldier who would rather study literature. I could go on. »
« When you think about it like that, » says Evan, « it’s damn depressing. »
Malachi comes in from the other room. « Each one of us is flawed. Each one of us is frustrated. It’s because we all must share in the Mover’s eternal pain that He is incapable of fully communicating Himself to Tara. It’s a pain only Tara is capable of healing, and each time she does, like she did tonight with Evan, we draw closer to the day of her destiny, when the Mover will finally be capable of offering the totality of His being to her service. »
My eyes sting with tears, and I close them to hide my stupidity from the others.
« Ari, » says Evan gently.
I can’t take it – suddenly, I’m screaming at him. « I’m ashamed! I want Tara so much. She’s all I want. I don’t care about anything else. I don’t care about the people of the Domha’vei, and I don’t care about the other branches, and I want her all to myself. I don’t even care about the branches on my own tree. How can I accept their love, their companionship, when I’m like this? »
« That’s why he cuts himself off, » says Suibhne. « I totally get it. »
« You do the same thing, » says Axel, placing his hand on Suibhne’s shoulder. « Just stop it. »
« Axel, I’m crazy. »
« I know that. Why do you think it makes you unworthy of love? Tara loves you. »
I can’t stand the look of joy in Suibhne’s eyes right now. It makes me want to break in half. My hands shake as I pour myself another glass. I shouldn’t have had so much wine because now I’m at the point where only more wine will help.
« But you were genuinely happy for me, » says Evan quietly.
« I was, and I was jealous of you, too. You’re so much more beautiful than I am. »
Evan is laughing. It stings like a slap. I think he is mocking me, until he says, « You’re so much stronger than I am! I couldn’t protect Tara, fight for Tara the way that you do. »
« I and I needs all of us so that we can love Tara more perfectly, » says Malachi.
« All of us? Really? All of us? »
« Really, » says Malachi. « The mind of the Mover is that vast. »
I think Malachi is full of compost, but then Tara answers. « Ari, I like it. I like you. I like that you’re stupidly protective. I like your jealousy in a way I don’t like Ailann’s – maybe because I think he should be better than that, I don’t know. With him, it’s petty, but with you, it’s primal. I like being swept up in your arms and feeling safe there. I like letting you haul me off and have your way with me. And I think you’re that way for a reason – that Ash needs your voice to advocate our most basic needs and desires without the plethora of socio-political complications that get heaped upon our lives. That being said, I don’t want you to suffer. I don’t think you should be so alone. »
« Don’t forget that Ari’s made half of Whirljack, but half of me, » says Suibhne. « That means that he’s kind of crazy, but he doesn’t show it as much. That he chose to live in a cave should give you some clue. »
« The Terrans called me the Wild Man, » I remind them. « Perhaps I should wear a fur loincloth and carry a club. »
« But the K’ntasari call you Ari the Wise, » says Tara.
« Barbarians don’t generally have your level of self-awareness, » says Evan. « That’s your particular crucifix. »
« Ari, » says Hurley, « this reminds me of something that I said to Tara earlier. No one will condemn you for putting her first. »
« Of course not, » says Tommy. « But you need to remember if any of us wins, we all win. »
Tarlach comes in from the next room. Great – the last thing I need is a lecture from Tarlach.
« This isn’t as easy as it seems, » he says. « On the surface, Ari’s problem looks a lot like Ailann’s – but it isn’t. Ari has the same problem that he’s had from the very beginning – trouble remembering. »
« Wait, » says Tommy. « Our memory is perfect. We can just access each other’s branches. »
« Ari couldn’t, » says Tarlach. « And for the reasons we’ve just seen here, he never has. I first noticed his resistance when he refused the Tara-Therapy sessions. Ari hasn’t taken advantage of reliving branch memories, and it’s also rare that he rides passively when another branch is emanated. It was a gift he was denied at the beginning, and he’s made it worse by cutting himself off because he feels unworthy. »
I come to my own defense. « I have done it. It’s been necessary to share my memories with Manasseh and Aran many times. »
« Only for practical reasons, » says Tarlach. « You’ve never allowed yourself the full experience of another branch. »
« You’re missing out on a lot of fun, » says Tommy.
« It’s much more than that, » says Tarlach. « Tommy, I’m sitting here having a conversation with you, but I’ve been you so many times that I intuitively understand that you and I are the same being. Ari doesn’t have that sense. »
« Here, » says Tommy. « Look. »
Before I can stop him, he’s touched my forehead. Then I feel Tara slap me across the face. I’m so confused. The one time Tara hit me, it shattered me. But this is so very different. So very satisfying.
My back is burning with welts. I’m in a lot of pain – but pain has never felt quite like this. My back isn’t the only thing that’s burning. My entire body is taut as a string, vibrating with anticipation.
My body, so small and lean, and yet so strong. So much more efficient than the giant Ari’s body.
Tara grabs me by the hair. I hope she doesn’t try to make me look at her. I’ll be blinded; I’ll die. My heart will be crushed by her glory and the strength of my adoration.
Ari likes to look at Tara. How can he do it?
Tara shoves me over the bed. “You’ve been a bad boy. A bad boy deserves my fist up his ass.”
No!
I stumble back into my seat, dazed. Tommy is grinning at me.
« What happened? » asks Tara.
I can’t quite shake it off me. I wanted…I wanted that. My body is sick with desire.
« Callum, » says Tommy. « I thought it would give him a different perspective. » Tommy leans over me. « Try this. »
This time, the body feels more at home, larger, more muscular. Tara is standing in the doorway. Her face is defiant. She provokes a feeling in me I can’t understand, that Ari can’t understand. Love like a blade that I run across the skin of my hand.
I grab Tara roughly by the arm, twisting it behind her back. It’s just a little uncomfortable. I mean it to be.
I toss her easily onto the bed. « Fuck this, baby, » I hear myself saying. « You don’t want to go to that bullshit reception any more than I do. »
« I said we’re going, and we’ll go, » Tara replies, moving towards the edge of the bed.
My body moves so fast, and then I’m on top of her. She kicks me. I grab her hands, but she can’t resist my strength. She won’t stop fighting, though. She likes the fight. It gets her hot.
I like that she fights. She’s a defiant submissive, too proud to give in of her own accord. I manage to get my hand around both of her wrists; the other unfastens my belt buckle. « Baby, you can spend the night deciding how much compost you’re going to swallow, or you can cut the crap and swallow something better. »
Now my free hand is hooked through her thick hair, shoving her face towards my erection.
I lunge forward, grabbing for the bottle of wine. I can’t even bother with the glass anymore. « That was worse, ten times worse, » I moan.
« It’s wonderful, » says Tommy. « I don’t have to struggle with my fantasies of being a sadistic dominant. I don’t have to integrate that into my personality. I can let Cillian experience that for me while I focus on more lighthearted perversions of my own. »
« We have the ability to completely be someone else, » says Malachi. « But then again, because you can do that, you don’t have to be him. The more you allow yourself to experience other emanations, the more you can retain your own qualities, distinct and uncorrupted. »
I’m struggling to put the pieces together. It’s hard to tell where I begin and where I end. I am Callum. I am Cillian. But I’m Ari.
« Wait, » says Tarlach. « Here. »
I’m in Tara’s bedroom with Constantine and Suibhne. Tara is there, and I’m so in love with her. But my heart is full of love for Suibhne and Constantine, too. I want to help them, help every branch to realize his full potential, his n’aashet n’aaverti. I want them to be loved by Tara.
My dear Constantine is hurting because he feels that he is failing. I want to help him. I want to see him go into bloom. But as much as I try, I can’t reason out a solution. It’s Suibhne’s imagination and the light of Tara’s grace which solve the problem, marking Constantine with beautiful stigmata.
And then a miracle happens. Tara gives him to me.
I’m on fire with desire and joy. Constantine shines with beauty now. It is the will of the second sun that he gives himself over to me in love and ecstasy. I have the supreme responsibility of supervising his delight. I’ve never taken another branch like this before, but it’s no longer therapeutic. It’s holy. His sighs, his moans, his skin as I cover it with kisses, everything is full of light.
I’m back in my chair, reeling from the wine, reeling from the taste of that experience. I look at Tara, and she answers the question in my eyes before it reaches my lips.
She says, « This evening’s default answer to the question ‘Is this really all right?’ is yes. »
« You see? » says Evan, laughing. « There’s no point in rivalry, since everything I am belongs to all of us. »
Evan stoops, gently kissing my lips. Suddenly it’s mine, the moment in front of the fireplace, my helpless pleasure at the hands of Tara and Quennel, the knowledge that I don’t have to fight it anymore, and why would I fight an ecstasy given to me by the ones I most love?
It’s mine, the lightness, the joy, all the years of pain and waiting vanishing like the bubbles in champagne. The expression in Tara’s eyes is mine.
I open my eyes, and I’m looking into the light of Evan’s beautiful face.
Everyone looks away from me suddenly. Quennel is standing in the doorway. He’s naked, posing with his perfectly proportioned model’s body; a shock of red hair hangs across his left eye in calculated carelessness. I’m still seeing with Evan’s eyes, seeing a beauty Ari never allowed himself to notice.
Quennel’s on Canopus. Someday I’ll pollinate him.
He kneels before Evan. « I wanted you to know that I agree. I adore you, but jealousy between emanations is pointless. »
« I gave tonight to Ari, » says Evan.
« Fair is fair, » says Quennel, taking my hand.
We’re by the fireplace again. Evan has opened like a flower, and Tara is handing him to me. I am a critic, a connoisseur, but there is no flaw in this. It is a moment of absolute beauty, and I am drunk with it.
I’m Quennel taking Evan, and I’m Evan letting himself be taken, and Tara is watching us, consuming our love like a confection.
But I’m Ari, and there’s something I can give back to them.
I clutch both their hands. I’m a conduit between them. They don’t really need me; they just didn’t think of it before.
Quennel gasps; Evan’s eyes are bright with tears.
And then Quennel picks up a pillow. « Suibhne, » he says, « this is an atrocity. »
« It’s authentic, » says Suibhne, offended.
« Try this instead, » he says, handing the pillow to Suibhne. « It’s a completely convincing artifice. We’ve had an additional 1700 years of materials research – I don’t see why we can’t use something with more durability and comfort, especially considering that the originals would most likely have deteriorated by now. »
The pile of pillows multiplies on the floor. Evan pulls me down into it, down into a lake of pleasure. They are incredibly soft and rich, the golden embroidery causing no abrasion at all, depressing to fit the contours of the body, slightly warm to the touch. « They’re filled with Intelligel, » said Quennel, « a large improvement over horsehair. »
« But it’s all imaginary, » laughs Tara.
« True, » Quennel responds, « but we imagine things down to the molecular level. If we didn’t, we couldn’t perform alchemy. »
I’m floating, no, I’m sinking, sinking into my own intoxication. And then Quennel is kissing me while Evan bends to lick an earlobe. Before I can respond, Tommy’s tongue flicks at a nipple, and Suibhne starts to suck my toes.
Tarlach lies at my side. « It’s all right, » he says. « You won’t drown. »
Result of Stress-test 6:
Efficient use of memory proves to be one of the system’s strong points. Alcohol functions as an effective lubricant.