Pio lifted her head from the pillow and opened her eyes to the light, slowly. A wave of queasiness washed over her. Her head pounded with the effort of the movement. She pulled her hands from beneath the blanket and rubbed her temples slowly, affording a small respite from the pain.
'Pillow? Blanket?!' she thought to herself, eyes now closed. 'How did I come to be in bed? And whose bed is this?' she murmured.
She struggled up, resting on her elbows, and looked through half-closed eyes about the small cramped space. Strewn with maps and books piled here and there she recognized it now. Her own room! Again the question nagged at her. Her last memory had been of coming aboard the Star, the last image that of Mithadan impassive at the rail staring after Angara.
She dared to sit a little higher now. And saw him sitting at her side. Slumped down in a chair he had pulled near her bed, his right leg propped on the edge of it, he dozed. His face was care worn even in the depths of sleep, and she saw the salty tracks with which his tears had mapped the contours of his cheeks.
Reaching out a hand, she traced one track with her finger. He stirred at her light touch, coming awake.
'Mithadan, what happened? I cannot recall it?'
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Eldest, that’s what I am . . . I knew the dark under the stars when it was fearless - before the Dark Lord came from Outside.
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