There’s little point in staying in our bedroom with the fish, and they no longer have a way to force my detention. We walk through the lower gardens, past the central pavilion used for the yearly Nau’gsh Festival. I’m reminded that I haven’t attended the festival in two years. This year I had intended to strong arm the Cantor into making Ari the representative of Apple and Rose. It would make a statement about the acceptance of Goliath. It would also be another admission about who really wields the power in the forest. She’ll be furious, of course, but that’s part of it. I’m still angry about her refusal to immediately acknowledge my new husbands. I can be petty.
All of this is, of course, providing that the SongLuminants don’t erase the Nau’gsh, which is something I don’t want to think about.
I turn to Blackjack, “Can’t we take that thing? It’s alone, and the fish are no problem. I could have my honor guard…” BJ shakes his head, cramming his hands further into the pockets of his leather coat.
“I mean, they don’t even have a ship in orbit. What do they think they’re going to do?”
“Did I need a ship to disarm the Floatfish?” asks BJ. “When you’ve got real power, you don’t need to use toys.”
He’s concerned. He’s seriously concerned. That means the SongLuminants must be capable of wielding a power at least as great as Ash’s. I have no idea what that power is. I know nothing about them. Up until now, they’ve refused to have any contact with humans. Come to think of it, they’re still refusing to have any contact with humans. They have contact with Ash. They let the fish do the talking to me.
I’m pissed off. I’m really pissed off. “Who do they think they are?” I say angrily.
“The oldest and most powerful sentient species in this galaxy,” says BJ. “They made the rules, and they enforce them.”
“They can’t be that advanced,” I say. “Isn’t there another species more evolved than they are, who believes in cosmic love and brotherhood and loftier, more spiritual things? Like the Arya?”
“The Arya are just lazy-asses. And that love and brotherhood stuff, geez. That’s just human sentimentality. No one really believes it anyway.”
“That isn’t true,” I say. “A lot of people believe it. I’d like to believe it.”
“Stupid people believe it.”
“Then why did you heal that annoying fish?”
“He was hurt. I couldn’t just leave him…”
I laugh. “For a tree, you’re just dripping with human sentimentality. And I thought you were a tough guy.”
Blackjack is silent. I link my arm through his and we walk down onto the south lawn where the eternium taras bloom one night a year, their transparent petals glowing with inner light, on the anniversary of our wedding. The lawn is edged with rose bushes, and if you know the right spot, there’s a place to duck through them to get to a hidden garden. It’s my laboratory, the poison garden at the heart of all the other gardens, where the vines grow thick and toxic and each bloom opens a tunnel into the hidden reaches of the imagination.
Blackjack’s hand moves towards an enormous white flower, trumpet-shaped, stained purple on the frail edge of the petal. “I wouldn’t,” I say. “Datura wrightii. Sometimes you can even absorb enough through pruning to start hallucinating.”
He shrugs. “If I didn’t like it, I could get rid of the effect quickly enough.” His eyes narrow. “But it’s mean. It’s a nasty little bugger.”
“How can you tell?”
“From the way it smells.” I start laughing. “Why is that ridiculous?” he says. “Don’t you make all sorts of judgments about people by how they smell, from their social class to their suitability as a mate?”
“I like it. Maybe I like mean plants. I like Lorcan well enough.”
Blackjack shakes his head. A shaft of sunlight catches his hair through the vines, sends a skein of gold through the pale Irish red. “Not even Lorcan likes Lorcan.”
I sit on a stone bench which is flush against the central fountain, the spot which used to hold the effigy of Sloane Redmond before I discovered that his death wasn’t a final death. It’s cool there, and a fine spray mists my skin, my hair, the thin crepe of my blouse. I’m noticing everything now. It’s so vivid. I’m scared. Partly it’s adrenaline. Partly it’s wanting to remember everything, wishing I could store it forever and perfectly like Ash does.
I take his hand. He has long, fine fingers, musician’s hands like Whirljack. “Your agent keeps calling,” I say. “It’s been over four years since Two of Jacks released something new. Your fan base is getting restless.”
“Tell that to Ailann. It’s hard to get face time these days. And with the Goliath emanations, it’s only going to get worse. Driscoll does nothing but bitch about how he can’t get in any time to paint.”
I look into his eyes, his kind, blue eyes in that particular shade common to the Cu’enashti. It’s the opalescent blue-green of the flower, of the leaf, of the fruit, the blue ambit of Dolparessa. “You do realize that you’re the most ridiculous and improbable entity in the history of the galaxy?”
For a moment, he looks dismayed.
I rest my head against his shoulder. The leather of his jacket is soft, softer than it looks. “It’s fine,” I say. “I wanted a unicorn.”