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She looked at the battle. “Please turn it off.”
I dismissed the screen. We sat in silence for a few moments.
“Your wounds should heal in another couple of days. Do you have a place to go? Where is home?”
She gave a short, bitter laugh. “A small room a block away from Wilmos’ shop. I’ve been living there for the last six months. When he didn’t have werewolf guests, I went to hang out at his shop and listen to his war stories. Hanging on to scraps of other people’s glory because I don’t have any of my own.”
Sean had viewed the recording of our fight with the corrupted ad-hal, and according to him, she was well trained and knew what she was doing in a fight. Despite her activation issues, she was faster and stronger than an average human. A lot of security forces would be happy to have her. Failing that, she could make a good living as a mercenary.
None of that mattered. Her self-esteem was nonexistent. She seemed to tackle every problem head-on, without strategy or planning, trying to power through it on sheer will and physical persistence. It must have worked for her in childhood. She probably learned that even if her ossai misfired, if she just ran fast enough, hit hard enough, and didn’t quit, she could hold her own. But the older she grew, the wider the gap between her and other werewolves became. She was likely almost as good as everyone in early childhood, but by mid-teens she would’ve started to lag behind, and by the time she became an adult, she probably realized that no matter how hard she tried, she could never keep up.
If she continued on the same path she was on now, she would die fighting. Heroically, but probably needlessly. She needed to feel competent, to be in a place where her skills were valued, so she could stop seeing herself as a failed werewolf. I needed to talk to her more, but it was almost 10 pm, and I had somewhere else to be.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Derryl of Is.”
I waved my arm. The wall in front of us opened into a new room with a floor-to-ceiling window that offered a soothing view of our pond. I slid the medward bed into it, lightened the walls to a comfortable, soothing blue-gray, and added a screen, some furniture, and a plush rug.
“Things are not as bleak as they look, Derryl,” I told her. “You still have a couple of days to recuperate. Rest. We’ll talk again.”
I knocked on the door of the Gaheas’ quarters. The door opened slightly, giving me a narrow view of a female Gaheas. Like most of her people, she was tall and willowy, with amber skin and long, dark hair put away into an elaborate arrangement on top of her head. When Gaheas felt at ease, they let their hair down, literally. With the exception of their candidate, not a single one of them let themselves have a L’Oreal moment after that first opening ceremony. They considered themselves to be in enemy territory.
“A calm night to you, innkeeper,” the Gaheas said. “How can I be of service?”
“A calm night to you as well. I have a small gift for Nycati.”
“Now isn’t a good time,” the guard said.
“On the contrary, now is the perfect time. It is the end of the 4th Phase, and if we wait another half an hour, it will be too late.”
I raised my hand and made a small gesture, gently forcing the door to open a bit wider. Behind me Gaston carried a large trunk. I lifted the lid so she could see the shimmering fabric inside.
The woman’s eyes widened. She stepped aside, inviting me to enter with a sweep of her hand. I walked in, with Gaston right behind me.
The interior of the Gaheas’ common room was perfectly round. While they recognized the need for straight lines in technology, when it came to their living arrangements, they considered corners inauspicious. The floor was smooth and gray, like soapstone. The walls were slightly curved, forming a gentle dome overhead, and made of burled wood and smoky resin. On their native planet, the resin would be polished quartz, seamlessly fitted to the wood swirls, but we had to make the quarters in a hurry, and the tinted resin was a quick and easy substitute.
The entire delegation had gathered in the center of the room, clustered around Nycati. They turned as one at my approach, their stares hostile. Hands went to weapons, which in their case meant they simultaneously touched the ornate tiaras and diadems on their heads. Duke Naeoma Thaste, the official head of the delegation, stepped forward, body-blocking Nycati from my view.
“What is the meaning of this intrusion?”
I waved my arm. The dome above us opened like a flower bud blooming. The view of the night sky spread above us, the moon bright like a silver coin. A small red spark ignited in the wall to the left, projecting a translucent red circle with a complex border upward, centering it on the light of a very distant star. An equally complex array of light painted the floor with twenty-one spaces arranged in three concentric circles. One in the center, three in the ring around it, and the rest along the outer rim.
