“Have you always lived in palaces? What was your original home world like?”
When he did not reply, she turned to see a slight frown marring his flawless forehead, and her heart skipped. He teaches me to never age and the first thing I do is make him frown. “Oh. I’m sorry if I should not have asked that,” she said quickly.
He met her gaze. “There are no questions you should not ask, Rielle. I was remembering my home world. It is very different to this. I have not been there for some time.”
“Has it changed since you were born?” It was oddly difficult to imagine him as a child, or a baby.
“Parts of it have changed a great deal. Not so much the country I came from.” The frown disappeared. “Let’s see if it is still as I remember it.”
He extended a hand. As she took it, she realised that she had not been gasping for air when she’d arrived. But another thought overtook that one as quickly. It is amazing he can recall his birthplace even after a thousand cycles. Does he remember everything? Can pattern shifting make that possible? Can the mind hold a thousand cycles of memories?
“If you wish to retain a memory, you will,” he told her. “The difficulty is knowing which memories to retain.”
And if I wish to lose one?
“With effort, it is possible. I have never deliberately erased a memory.”
But you could have erased the memory that you had erased one.
“That is always possible. But the sorts of memories you wish to lose are the ones most likely to teach you not to make a mistake twice.”
A gloom surrounded them. Worlds had been flashing in and out of sight, but she had not paid much attention. Now, as Valhan released her hand, a dry heat enveloped her. Dunes of a fine red sand stretched in all directions. Here and there stunted white trees clung to the sand with long, claw-like roots, their huge, leathery leaves like upturned palms begging for water.
A desert? she thought. We were both born in the desert? He was staring into the distance. Following his gaze, she squinted into the dimness.
“You can now improve your sight,” he reminded her.
A little magic, a little flexing of will, and her eyes adjusted. Pale and thin men, women and children were walking a few hundred strides away. They were heading towards her and Valhan, moving with the steady, economical strides of people who lead nomadic lives. Equally spindly animals strode gracefully among them, large bundles bound to their backs. Each was led by a rope that pierced their whiskery noses and made Rielle wince in sympathy.
The group had seen her and Valhan. They slowed to a stop at the crest of the next dune. Rielle did not seek their minds, these being Valhan’s people.
“You may read them,” he said quietly, then started forward.
Stretching her senses, she detected apprehension and curiosity. Focusing on the closest man she learned he was the head of this group, and the people were his extended family. He was thinking that while good manners dictated he feed and entertain this stranger and his companion, he could not let them detain the group long as he already expected to arrive late at the market tomorrow.
They are much like the Travellers, she thought. I wonder if the Travellers remind Valhan of his birthplace, and if that is why he allows them to move between worlds when he forbids it for others.
Keeping to the tops of the dunes, Valhan led her on a short, winding journey to the group. A few steps away he placed the forefingers and thumbs of his hands together and pressed one pair to his forehead and the other to his chin, and spoke in a language of low, murmuring sounds. Rielle read the meaning from the leader’s mind.
“I am Valhan, sorcerer, returned to see my homeland. May I walk with you a while?”
The leader returned the gesture, pleased at the stranger’s manners but disbelieving of Valhan’s claim to be Limn since he had the fleshiness of a farmer or city-dweller. “I am Wayalonya, trader, heading to market,” he replied. “You are welcome.”
Valhan glanced at her. “The women walk behind,” he murmured. “Give the same deference to Wayalonya’s wife. Do not speak to any man. Do not call out to me.”
She nodded. As Wayalonya began to walk, Valhan fell in step beside him and the family followed suit. Rielle searched the women’s minds until she found Wayalonya’s wife, Naym, first among the women at the rear. A little older than Rielle, Naym was much younger than her husband. She did not smile as she met Rielle’s gaze–none of the Limn had smiled so far–but her mind was full of curiosity.
Rielle copied the gesture Valhan had made. “I am Rielle, sorcerer, here to see Valhan’s homeland.” She noted that, for the first time, she had identified herself as a sorcerer, not an artist or weaver.