Chapter Seventeen: Stone and Sand

Thane stood before the statue of Kalahira, studying the features chiseled into the stone. The slanted light of early evening, shattered into an array of colors by the temple's stained-glass windows, slipped under Her carved hood to fall fully upon Her face, casting into sharp relief details that were usually obscured by shadow. She seemed to scowl down at him, Her outstretched arms more accusing than welcoming. What have you done? She seemed to demand.

He bowed his head. Kalahira, Mistress of inscrutable Depths, I ask forgiveness.

Though he'd come to beg forgiveness for killing Layland, he found the incident suddenly difficult to worry about. Under the Goddess's disapproving gaze, it now seemed unimportant. He couldn't truly bring himself to care. Instead, his thoughts continued to wander back to Ceris, and to Ceris's child. To Cecilia, and to Deena, who he'd left alone in her grief. To Irikah and Kolyat, whose lives he'd endangered, uprooted, thrown into chaos.

But he couldn't have done anything differently. He'd been outsmarted for a time, yes, and he would have to atone for that, for the suffering that had resulted. But he had done what he needed to, with the information he'd had. There was nothing to forgive, not anymore.

Wasn't there?

He grimaced and forced himself to focus. Kalahira, Whose waves wear down stone and sand…

But his mind simply refused to concentrate on spiritual matters, spiraling instead into memory and anxiety.

("You would never allow harm to come to your child!")

Thane gritted his teeth and began again, this time murmuring the prayer aloud. "Kalahira, Mistress of inscrutable Depths, I ask forgiveness."

(You were supposed to be there. You promised.")

"Kalahira, Whose waves wear down stone and sand—"

("You break his heart, and leave me to pick up the pieces.")

"Kalahira, wash the sins from this one, and…"

(He thinks you don't love him!")

"…and…" He trailed off, sighing. It was no use.

"Kalahira, wash the sins from this one, and set him on the distant shores of the infinite spirit." A smooth, sonorous voice spoke from behind him, and a pair of gnarled hands rested gently on his shoulders. "Kalahira, this one's heart is pure, but beset by wickedness and contention. Guide him to where all hunters return, where all storms become still, where all stars show the path. Guide him, Kalahira, and he will be a companion to You as he is to me."

The tone and the gesture turned the prayer from a plea into a benediction, and the sincerity and conviction in the voice made Thane's throat tighten with gratitude. He turned around and inclined his head in a small bow. "Father Nori."

"Thane." The elderly priest smiled warmly. "It is good to see you again, my boy."

"And you." Father Nori Suun had been Thane's advisor and confessor since his early days under the Compact. For fifteen years, his counsel had helped Thane keep himself grounded, to maintain perspective, to find the delicate balance of conscience between the acts committed by his body and the true intentions of his soul. "I have great need of your wisdom today," said Thane. "Do you have a moment?"

"For you, always." Father Nori gestured toward the small meditation chamber near the shrine of Kalahira, the one they often used for private conversations. "Come."

As the door slid shut behind them, Father Nori said, "Sit down, son, and tell me what's troubling you."

Thane sat, and took a moment to gather his thoughts. He leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped under his chin. Father Nori waited out his silence with seemingly infinite patience.

He debated with himself exactly how much he wanted to tell. There were parts of it he had no desire to relive. And Father Nori never demanded more details than Thane was willing to give.

But it was all connected. Every piece of it gave context to every other. So finally, Thane drew a deep breath and let the entire story spill forth.

He told Father Nori everything that had happened over the past three months, from taking the "contract" on Ceris to his homecoming. He told him about his memory loss, about Deena's assistance, arrest, and release. He told him about Cecilia, about her duplicity, her redemption, and her death. He told him about all the ways Ceris had stayed one step ahead of him the whole time.

He told him about missing Kolyat's brela, and how that seemed to have irrevocably shattered something between them. He told him about the strain he sensed in his marriage, that he had no idea how to ease. He told him how he'd taken another contract as soon as he'd returned—not just for the pay, but because, if he was honest, he was more comfortable on a mission than in his own home.

He told him about Ceris's child—how she had been conceived, how she had died in the womb. How he hadn't yet figured out how to tell Irikah about her. How he wondered if he even should. "It changes nothing," he said. "The child will never be born. There is no need for her to know. But by keeping such a secret from her, I feel as though I am living a lie. I feel unfaithful, as though I am betraying her somehow." He shrugged helplessly. "And yet the thought of telling her strikes terror into my heart."

"I see." Father Nori held his gaze levelly. "A conundrum, indeed. But I believe the answer you seek lies in your own tale."

"How so?"

"Your friend Deena, and her bondmate. From what you have told me, it sounds like Cecilia caused much damage in their relationship by keeping secrets from her."

Thane bristled. "Cecilia brought it in part upon herself," he snapped. "She made the choice to break her own vows and pursue an affair with Ceris. It was her own indiscretion that made her vulnerable to Ceris's manipulations."

"And how does that differ from your situation?"

Stunned into momentary silence, Thane stared at him in disbelief. Must he really explain this? "Ceris attacked me," he replied, gritting his teeth to hide the plaintive edge in his voice. "She put out the contract on herself to lure me in. I broke no vows, Father. I was…" He swallowed hard, his frills burning with shame. It was difficult to say aloud, but Father Nori had never had patience for mincing words. "I was raped."

The words dropped into the silence like a stone into a pond, the ripples shattering delicate illusions into shards of light and chaos. Saying it out loud, frankly and with no euphemism, made it suddenly much more real.

With no memory of the encounter, it had been easy to distance himself by simply not speaking of it. Now, however, forced to confront it directly, his stomach twisted, his blood turned to ice, and bile rose in his throat. He could no longer look Father Nori in the eyes. His breath hissed unsteadily through clenched teeth as he stared at the floor, his body rigid to the point of trembling as he struggled to maintain his composure.

("You fought me so hard, even as your body betrayed you.")

He shuddered at the memory.

"I know, my boy, and that is a terrible thing. A terrible thing," said Father Nori with sympathetic patience. "But it sounds to me like it was not so much Cecilia's initial indiscretion, as you put it, that got her caught up in Ceris's machinations, but rather her keeping secrets from her wife. That, ultimately, is what destroyed her."

Thane nodded stiffly. "And you believe that by not telling Irikah about Ceris's child—"

"About your child, Thane."

He winced at that, and continued as if Father Nori hadn't spoken. "—I open myself to similar dangers."

"Among other things, yes."

Thane straightened and folded his arms. "Ceris is dead, Father. The child is dead. The only other person who knows about this is Deena, and I know that she would never do me harm. Telling Irikah would change nothing."

Father Nori shrugged. "It is your decision to make, of course. But the longer you wait, the more difficult it will be to confess, and the more fallout there will be. And do not underestimate your wife's intelligence, either. She knows you well, and will soon deduce that you are lying to her—if she has not already."

Taken aback by the accusation, Thane glared at him. "I would never—"

"A lie of omission is still a lie, son."

Torn, Thane stood and began to pace back and forth across the tiny chamber. "The child is dead," he said. "It changes nothing."

Father Nori cocked his brow ridge, watching him. "So you keep insisting. If that is true, what have you to fear?"

"I fear…" Thane stopped pacing, his back to the priest as he cast about for the right words. "I fear… I don't know what I fear," he admitted. He turned around to face Father Nori again. "But it paralyzes me."

In response, Father Nori only held his gaze silently.

Thane sighed heavily and returned to his chair. "Perhaps… I fear it will hurt her. Frighten her."

"As you are not hurt and frightened, yourself?"

"You know I am," Thane snapped. "I simply see no need to burden her with my weakness."

"Weakness?" Father Nori shook his head. "Son, what you have been through would have broken most men. That you survived at all is an indicator of great strength, indeed." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and folding his hands gently. "And to seek the support of your wife is not weakness. That is marriage."

When Thane remained hesitantly silent, Father Nori continued," "Tell me this: would you not help Irikah carry her burdens, if she laid them at your feet?"

"Of course I would."

"Do you doubt her love for you?"

Thane gritted his teeth. Coming from anyone else, that would have been insulting, but he could guess where this line of questioning was going. "Never," he ground out.

"Then why do you doubt she would do the same?"

And there it was. The priest didn't understand the issue at all. This wasn't about that; it had never been about that. "I don't," Thane protested. "I only want to protect her."

"Hmm." Father Nori sat back and tapped his lips with steepled fingers. "But perhaps, in this instance, she does not need your protection—nor, from what you've told me, may she want it."

"But what if I lose her?"

The words tumbled from his mouth almost of their own volition, before Thane was even consciously aware of the thought. He winced at the note of pleading in his voice that betrayed the desperation he hadn't wanted to show.

But there was no taking it back now. He swallowed hard and stared at the floor. "I cannot lose her, Father."

"Ah!" He looked up to find Father Nori nodding sagely. "Now we come to the crux of your problem. You fear her judgement."

He hadn't thought about it that way. "I… I suppose so."

"Why?"

Thane blinked, at a loss for words. As usual, Father Nori had a point, and an incisive one. Did Thane really think Irikah would leave him over this? No, that was preposterous. She would be frightened, certainly, perhaps angry. But surely, after everything their marriage had withstood these past nine years, this would not be the thing to break it.

His fears were groundless. Based in nothing but simple, cowardly shame.

"Why, indeed?" he murmured to himself. He stood and bowed to the priest. "Thank you, Father. This has been… enlightening."

Father Nori stood as well, and laid a hand on Thane's shoulder. "May the peace of Arashu go with you, my son."

The air at home was heavy now, too.

Kolyat could feel the tension between Mother and Father, even if they never acknowledged it—at least, not in front of him. They pretended everything was fine, but it wasn't. Something had changed, and Kolyat couldn't figure out what. He felt like he had to tiptoe around them, as though one wrong move could set off… he didn't know what. Something bad.

Something had changed, but nothing had changed.

Over the next several months, Father was away more than he was at home. Kolyat began to look forward to those times rather than dreading them—he seemed to take the tension with him when he left. Oh, Mother still worried, and Aunt Kaedi still studied him pitifully when she thought he wasn't looking. But at least he could breathe.

When Father was home, he… tried. Sometimes. He'd help Kolyat with his schoolwork, or talk to him over dinner. Some evenings, they'd watch a vid or play a board game together. But it felt… fake, somehow. Like all Father was trying to do was make up for missing Kolyat's brela, and when he felt he'd done that, he'd go back to being the same distant man Kolyat had always barely known.

Maybe that wasn't true. Maybe Kolyat was still angry, and he wasn't being fair. But why shouldn't he be angry? Why should he be fair?

The worst part was when his parents started confiding in him. Separately.

"There is something I must tell your mother, Kolyat. Something important. But… I've not yet figured out how. Please, you mustn't say anything to her."

"I fear your father is angry with me, and I don't know why. Has he said anything to you? Never mind, don't tell him I asked."

He was torn, caught between the two of them as something started to splinter. Maybe the cracks had always been there, maybe not. But whatever it was, something was going to give. Probably soon. And it was going to change everything.

Kolyat begged them—separately—to talk to each other. Lay everything out and get it over with, and sort out the mess later. And, separately, they promised they would. Vaguely, repeatedly. Emptily.

Whatever happens, we both love you very much, they would say.

It didn't make him feel any better.

It didn't escape Irikah's notice that Thane had spent even more time than usual away from home over the past—Gods, had it been nearly a year?—since the incident with Ceris. Sometimes he would only be home a day or two before leaving again. Seldom did he stay more than a week.

She had begun to wonder if he was avoiding her. Oh, they shared a bed as often as ever when he was home, and he showered her with affection. But he said little, only kissed her as if he wanted to beg her forgiveness—what for, she couldn't imagine. And then he'd be gone again.

And when he was home, she found herself growing increasingly irritated with him. The things she'd always found a way to justify seemed suddenly unforgivable: the way he would sometimes brush aside Kolyat's pleas for attention in favor of cleaning his weapons or meditating, or meet her attempts at conversation with one-word answers, or disappear for hours at a time she knew not where, Perhaps it was her imagination, but it seemed to be worse now than it ever had been in the past.

She was losing him.

The thought intruded on her consciousness, unwelcome and leering, and Irikah shut it down immediately. Surely she was overreacting. Ten years of marriage didn't just… disintegrate like this.

After all, despite his failings, Thane was making an effort. He'd been much more conscientious about returning home when he said he would, and often brought her small but thoughtful gifts. When he did pay attention to Kolyat, it was undivided and doting. He acknowledged the struggles his absences caused, and made a point to show her his gratitude for enduring the hardships his profession imposed.

Irikah did not for an instant doubt that he loved her, and she him. Everything else could be worked out.

Couldn't it?

Shaking off the nagging question, Irikah checked the time again. Thane was due home shortly, and she paced back and forth across the living room, firmly insisting to herself that the gnawing in the pit of her stomach was excitement and not dread. She could not help but wonder who would walk through that door: the loving husband and father, or the cold, distant assassin.

The comm terminal rang, shattering her reverie and making her jump. She rushed to answer it, her heart sinking. It would be Thane on the other end, she knew, telling her he'd be delayed. He wasn't coming home after all. She sighed in (relief) disappointment as she opened the channel.

For the briefest of instants, she stared uncomprehendingly at the vidscreen, the image there not registering at all. Then her wildly spinning brain caught up to her and she greeted the caller, surreptitiously pressing the Record button. "Good afternoon."

The asari on the vidscreen blinked in surprise. "Good afternoon," she said politely. "Semme Krios, I presume?"

Irikah narrowed her eyes. Perhaps it was Thane's near-paranoia rubbing off on her, but she didn't like the idea of this stranger knowing her name. "And who are you, if I may ask?"

"My name is Deena T'Neri. I'm an information broker in Nos Astra, and more importantly, a regular contact of your husband's. Is he at home? I must speak with him, urgently."

"He is away on business," Irikah replied stiffly, her standard answer when anyone asked after Thane's whereabouts. It would take a lot more than this asari's word for Irikah to trust her with any more details. "Would you like me to give him a message?"

T'Neri's jaw clenched, and she sucked in a nervous breath, wringing her hands. "Tell him… tell him 'she lives,'" she said. "He'll know what that means."

Irikah raised her brow ridge, trying to maintain a façade of haughty skepticism even as her stomach twisted. "Is that all?"

"Please ask him to contact me as soon as possible." She gave Irikah a wan, apologetic smile. "I'm afraid I may have to call him away from you again, Semme Krios. But you must impress upon him that this is a matter of the utmost importance. Tell him… an innocent life is at stake. He'll understand that, too."

Before Irikah could demand more information, the screen went blank and T'Neri was gone.

She considered not telling him.

After all, it was one thing for her to be understanding when his work called him away. It was another to facilitate it herself. And besides, she had no idea who this Deena T'Neri was. Thane had never once mentioned her name. What reason had she to trust her? That cryptic message could very well be some kind of trap.

That made sense, actually. Surely Ceris hadn't operated alone. T'Neri was probably one of her underlings, a lieutenant, maybe even a lover. She might be trying to lure Thane back out there for revenge. If Irikah told him about it, he'd go anyway, and put himself in danger. So the only way to protect him was to keep silent.

By the time Thane came home—only an hour later than she'd expected—she had herself so convinced that T'Neri was crooked that she almost truly believed she was doing him a favor by saying nothing. But keeping such a secret from him made her uncomfortable, and it wasn't long before he picked up on it.

"Are you all right, siha?" he asked.

Every time he called her that, it was with such sincerity and reverence it made a lump rise in her throat. "I'm fine," she said lightly, with a noncommittal shrug. "Why?"

"You seem preoccupied. Has something happened?"

"I…" All of a sudden, hiding the message from him seemed silly at best, and flat-out dishonest at worst. "There was a call for you this afternoon," she admitted. "She claimed to be an information broker on Illium. A Miss T'Neri?"

"Deena?" Thane's eyes widened. So he did know her, then. "What's happened? Is she all right?"

"She seemed nervous about something. And she had a strange message for you. She wanted me to tell you 'she lives,' and that an innocent life is at stake. She said you would know what that meant." Irikah planted her hands on her hips. "It sounds like a trap, Thane. I don't like it."

Thane had stiffened at the message. "Did you record the call?"

"Of course."

"Let me see."

Irikah called up the recording, and as soon as the asari's face appeared in the vidscreen, Thane let out a long breath. "That's her," he said. "Siha, Deena is my friend. We can trust her."

"So you do know what she's talking about."

She could see him pulling his battle-sleep around him like a cloak. As she watched, her husband slipped away, leaving the assassin in his place. "Yes."

"What is it? Thane, what's going on?"

"It means I've left a mission incomplete." He turned and strode into the bedroom, and Irikah followed, able only to watch helplessly as he began to pack his things. Again. "You should have told me about this right away. She's talking about Ceris, siha. I have to go."

Merciful Kalahira. Ceris? "Go?" Irikah demanded. "Thane, she nearly killed you!"

"There is a life at stake. I have no choice."

"And why is it your responsibility?"

That brought him up short, and he stared at her, frozen, for a silent moment. And that was when she finally allowed herself to see it: he was hiding something from her. Something big.

"There isn't time to explain," he said finally. "When I return—"

She sighed heavily and looked away, folding her arms. "You had better."

"Siha." He put down what he was packing—a box of thermal clips for that high-tech rifle he loved so much—and came toward her. Cupping her cheek with one hand, he tried to turn her face back to him. She resisted. "Irikah, I promise, I—"

She pulled away from him. "Just go, Thane," she said wearily. "We'll talk when you come home."

She turned on her heel and left him to his preparations. A thought nagged at the back of her mind, studiously ignored but impossible to dismiss: If you come home.