korim2

Curiously quiet, Califath is only the numbing spice of cloves in the back of my head, cautious and solid. It’s only his eyes that are watching the burning of our Sr. Weyrling knots, our new freedom, our graduation. His world is full of sharp tenfold images, and colors smite the mind’s eye with their sharpness, so that I have to steady myself on his smooth-muscled forearm.
If only there was a mirror big enough for dragons…he is elegant beyond my wildest imaginings, in the little glimpses I get, between shared sight and the eloquence of my fingers. I draw away from his proffered vision, backing out until the familiar nothingness surrounds me. The heat of flames that Califath will seldom wield strokes along my bare arms, and I reach as if to straighten the sleeves of my weyrling’s uniform—only to remember that this shirt is sleeveless. No more shapeless uniform, but trim and tailored leathers made at an outlandish price by Weaver and Leatherworker Ishtam. Ishtam, husband of a Lord Holder’s daughter!
A hearty clap on the back makes me flinch away, my heart jumping within my breast, a vague sense of betrayal rising as Califath gave me no warning. Composed, he jumps in with visions and explanations, and the surge of protectiveness in his tone goes down like a mouthful of hot mulled wine. <<It is Escharn.>>
Since he is sending the images to me, and I am not trying to comprehend them through his alien senses, the colors are normal, and there is only one image, clear and sharp. I wrinkle my nose, and it has nothing to do with the sudden gust of firestoney reek from the ashpit. “Escharn,” I say clearly, not bothering to turn and face the raggedly-clothed and gangling figure still silhouetted in my mind. “You didn’t have to come. Don’t you have work to do?”
A Turn or so ago, I’d have told him to go home in the same tone one would use on an errant canine. Califath is far too good an influence on me. “My lady—“
“Rider,” I insist, taking pleasure in my new title. “Or Korim, if you must.”
“Rider Korim,” he repeats obediently. “I can’t tell you how amazing it is to see you graduate. It’s an inspiration to us all, my lady.”
If Califath’s image hadn’t contained the melting gray of his puppyish eyes beneath those skewed eyebrows, I’d have bitten his head off right there. But Escharn is so sincere, so eager-to-please, snarling at him is like…like beating a baby firelizard for being hungry. I tried every thorn-tongued bit of wit on him, before I Impressed, and all it did was make me feel like a heel. “Your help in getting here was most appreciated, Escharn. Ah,” and I turn my head toward Califath, brows dipping down to skim over eyes that he has told me are the color of an herbal balm, “Calif tells me it is time for the festivities. If you will excuse me, Escharn?” Smoothly, I begin to walk, cane caught up to navigate through the people-packed Bowl. Two voices snag at me as I try to slip away.
“My lady…”
<<Korim!>>
I stop, head tilted expectantly, and raise a hand. “A moment, if you please—Califath has something he wants to discuss.” And you wouldn’t dare interrupt my conversation with him, would you, Escharn?
<<Korim, you lied! You used me to lie. How could you?>>
<<Polite-lies, soul-sib.>>
<<Lies.>>
<<Fine, fine, I’ll leave you out of it next time. Sorry, but you’re one of the things he respects.>>
<<Exactly why you shouldn’t use me to lie, rider-mine.>> His disapproval is acrid in my throat, and I try to shrug it off. Dragons are dragons, and what one knows, all know, usually without exception. What use is truth-bending when your fellow conversationalist can feel every single emotion while you speak? In an effort to regain my composure, I nod, sweet-faced, grit-toothed, at Escharn. “Go ahead.”
“My lady, the harpers are just striking up the dance tunes, and I have watched you dance.” The hero-worship in his voice makes me feel a fingerspan tall. “I know I am no Califath, but lady,” and my lifemate relays his oddly charming, guileless smile, “Califath can’t dance. You only have to partner me for a song…”
Ignore the boy, and you’re dirt to your conscience and your lifemate. Partner the boy for a set, and he’ll think you’re wearing his ring. Oh, well…
“But of course I’ll partner you,” I laugh. “You don’t see anyone else asking, do you?” Mulled wine, syrup-thick and soothing, muffles the panic from Califath’s delivery of Escharn’s shy grin turning into a darkly territorial look at the male members of my class, and Califath’s pleasure is enough.