Free Rite of Exile: The Silent Tempest, Book 1 by E. J. Godwin

I wish you had known him before. He could have learned your language in half the time it took me.”
    “How’s he doing? Looks like he’s made a few friends.”
    “Only a few. He gets pretty frustrated, so I try not to push him too much. Speaking of which,” he said, folding his arms, “why is it he can understand you and not them?”
    Telai searched his expression. “What do you mean?”
    “Earlier—when you asked him if he wanted your gift, and he nodded.”
    “Oh, that. It’s something I’ve felt since we first met. A sort of … well, connection, I suppose.”
    “Is it this special talent of insight I’ve noticed? Your mother seems to have it, too.”
    “No. That’s simple clairvoyance, or laroné —which, I should warn you, isn’t the politest subject to talk about in public, especially in reference to the Overseer or the Council. It’s an undocumented requirement of their position.”
    Caleb winced. “The Council, too? I’m glad I didn’t know that before the Judgment. And I’m losing count of how many times I’ve offended you today.”
    She dismissed his guilt with a wave of her hand. “I can be too frank with people sometimes.”
    “Would it be rude to ask why it’s different with Warren?”
    “Different from laroné? It’s more direct, in a way—like there’s a part of him trying to break out of his shell.” She hesitated, her brow furrowing. “Do you think he’ll be all right?”
    He froze, then turned away, placing his hands on the railing. “Why do you ask?”
    “He looks thinner, and he seems to be taking more naps lately. He isn’t getting sicker, is he?”
    Caleb didn’t answer.
    “There’s certainly nothing wrong with his appetite,” she added. “Does he get enough sleep?”
    “I don’t know,” he answered, more abruptly than he intended. “He’s been having a lot of nightmares.”
    “About what?”
    “His mother, sometimes.”
    “Well, that’s to be expected. He must miss her terribly.” She stepped closer. “What was she like?”
    His melancholy grew to a flood. Yet even this subject was preferable to where the conversation was heading. He knew he would have to tell her the truth one day. But the last thing he wanted now was to taint her growing affection for the child, to be reminded of Warren’s short future with each glance or gesture of pity.
    “Her name was Karla,” he said. “She had eyes exactly like Warren’s—so clear and blue I swear they could see right through me. Nothing got past her, not where I was concerned, anyway. I couldn’t even enter a crowded room without her knowing it.” He smiled. “She said it was like a hello in her head.”
    “Karla,” Telai repeated softly. “A simple, honest name. But what happened to her?”
    The question stopped him cold. Karla was like that, too—no apologetic preludes, no hedging, just unsullied candor that tripped him up more times than he could remember.
    He began cautiously, explaining her sickness much as he did before the Council. “I’m still not precisely sure what went wrong,” he said. “Some mental test at the research establishment where she worked. She simply faded away, month after month, hooked up to machines to keep her body alive. Then one day I walked into her room, and it hit me,” he said, his voice beginning to shake. “I didn’t recognize her. And what really tore at me was when I wondered if she might not recognize herself anymore.”
    He bowed his head and clenched his fists. One more word would have released the storm. For months he had kept his fury in check, until he was so disciplined at it he could endure even the relentless questioning of the Overseer. Yet here, in the soft ambiance of a summer evening, he was defenseless.
    “You don’t need to say any more, Caleb Stenger—not when it hurts this much.”
    The sound of her voice, so different from Karla’s yet still so full of compassion, gave him unexpected strength. At last he understood. His grief was