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stepped from one gravity state to another.
    “You lied,” she said, her voice unsteady. “You lied to Kamele.” And to me . . .
    He bowed his head, his fingers still warm around hers.
    “In short, yes. I lied to Kamele, to you, to my colleagues, my students and everyone to whom I spoke across the last twenty Standards. Necessity existed.”
    “ Necessity? ” That was a Liaden thing, and very serious; she knew that—had known it from a child. Even if she hadn’t known that you never lied to Father about necessity, she would have learned it at Anlingdin, from Kara, who joked about many Liaden customs, but not about necessity—and never about Balance.
    “It was not, I admit,” Father said, “Kamele’s necessity. Or your own.” He paused, then continued in that soft way he sometimes had— like Val Con! Theo thought—“I will add that Balance would have faltered, without Kamele, and, later, yourself.”
    Theo took a hard breath, trying to swallow her—anger, was it? or sadness?—trying to think , even if she couldn’t precisely at this moment understand .
    “Father—whatever your name is here—you were Jen Sar Kiladi. Mother—Kamele—deserves an explanation.”
    He tipped his head. “Perhaps you are right. However, I am not the one to give it to her,” he said softly.
    Anger flared again. Theo snatched her hand away from his.
    “If you won’t write to her, I will!” she snapped.
    His mouth tightened, and he leaned back in the copilot’s chair.
    “You will naturally do as you think right,” he said. “If you do send, I will ask that you send the truth.”
    “Of course I’ll tell Kamele the truth!”
    “Then hear it.” His voice was nearly grim, not a tone she was accustomed to hearing from Father.
    Theo forced herself to sit back in the pilot’s chair, and picked up her tea. She sipped, glad that the mug had kept the liquid warm, and sipped again. Inner calm, she told herself, and put the mug aside.
    “All right,” she said. “What’s the truth?”
    “It is, as I believe the phrase goes, complicated. In short, because time flies, and soon we must, as well . . .” He took a deep breath, and closed his eyes.
    “Very well,” he said, opening his eyes.
    “Some years ago,” he said slowly, “Daav yos’Phelium, then an apprentice Scout, accepted a wager, the terms of which had him create and maintain an alternate persona, which was to remain active in the world until it was discovered to be a deception. That persona was Jen Sar Kiladi, and he was only once, until now, exposed.
    “In the fullness of time, the Ring fell to Daav yos’Phelium, and he took up the melant’i and the duties of the Delm of Korval. A few years after that, he and his true lifemate were joined. Together they steered the clan as best as they were able.” He paused. “Do you understand what I mean, Theo, when I say ‘lifemate’?”
    She cleared her throat. “Val Con said that they—he and Miri—share thoughts, feelings and memories.” She shuddered.
    “It sounds—” horrifying , she’d been about to say, swallowing the word only to have her fingers shape the phrase not regular .
    “So I considered it, at first.” Father inclined his head. “You will find that human beings can accommodate themselves to all manner of odd conditions, if there is joy involved.”
    Theo nodded. “Val Con said that it felt perfectly natural, now,” she admitted.
    “And so I came to find it. Understand that, because of . . . a trauma visited upon my lifemate in her early life, ours was a less . . . complete sharing than that which Val Con and Miri enjoy. This was later found to be fortunate, for some value of fortune.
    “However damaged, our link sufficed us. My lady ran courier, and I sat her second. When she discovered the existence of Jen Sar Kiladi, she insisted that his scholarship continue, and that he be allowed to teach. She schemed with me to insure that these things came about, and that no one put Daav