World's End

Page 35

"You want me to have this? Why?"

"A talisman." She smiled, a little uncertainly. "And a proof. Show it to my daughter, when you find her. Then she'll know that you come from me." She gripped my hands suddenly. "Thank you," she whispered. "For whatever you do, thank you so much." Tears filled her eyes. "I love my daughter, Gedda, even if she can't believe

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it. I feel her suffering, every day, and I'm helpless to stop it. Why did I ever ..." She shut her eyes; tears ran down her cheeks.

"Why did she leave?" I asked, realizing suddenly that there was still more she hadn't told me.

But she only shook her head, turning away. "I don't know," she murmured. "Please help her--"

Her voice broke into sobs. She went quickly away from me, weeping uncontrollably, as if her relief at finding someone to take up her burden had left her defenseless against her grief.

I watched her until she was gone from sight, feeling a hard knot of unexpected emotion caught in my throat.

I looked down at the picture and the trefoil still lying in my hands, knowing that she hadn't given those things lightly to a stranger. She had told me the truth. She had lost her child, and her suffering was real enough. I know about loss. . . .

The trefoil threw spines of reflected light into my eyes, making them tear. I remembered suddenly how tears had come into my eyes on the day that I told my father I was leaving home . .

. though I never imagined

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then that it would be forever. I would have broken down like Hahn, if I'd known--

42

WORLD S END

It was hard enough to keep my composure as I saw his face. "How much ... how much time have thou to spend with us, before thou must leave?" he asked me. He was standing in the High Hall, erect and dignified in the uniform that he wore even at home, the symbol of his pride as head of a family as old and honorable as any on

Kharemough. But his voice sounded strangely weak as he asked the question.

"A little over a month." I smiled as I answered, trying to believe that it was a long time. The limpid counterpoint of a choral work by Tithane filled the silence between us, and eased the ache in my throat. I stared out the wide windows at the sky. Pollution aurora marred the perfect blue, a constant reminder of Kharemough's

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