Stars Dancing [Dreams-To-Lovers Romance]

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PEYDRAN

"I've got something for you," I told Ryst. Two years! Two years I had been working on "Melthena." I'd had so little to go on. This plan was a shot in the dark.

But Ryst was good now at honing in on the unseen. If I gave her a focal point and pushed her with questions, it sparked something. We'd find him. It was way past time.

We were sitting on her terrace, looking out at Centre Oasis below as the sun set while the evening cool washed away the desert heat from the sandstone. "It's not much, but I think it's a good start. I want you to listen to five words. And tell me what you feel when you hear them, okay? Tell me everything you sense."

She looked at me dubiously, her eyebrows raised in a question. "Okaaay. Cryptic, Peydran."

My pad spoke a word, "Methela."

Her breath hitched. She bit her lip. "Play it again," she said, closing her eyes.

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"Methela," the pad spoke in a deep, male voice, something a 6'3" man would sound like.

"Methela," Ryst repeated. "Methela." She almost chanted the word. Her hand waved in front of her— repeat it seemed to say. I played it again. "Methela," Ryst said again.

"No, slow it down a hair. MEHTH-eh-lah." She said the "Meh" with more emphasis, slower. "Meh" sort of starting high and then dropping in pitch. I adjusted the intonation.

"Methela," the pad spoke again.

"Softer," Ryst instructed gently. I adjusted the vocals.

"Methela," the pad said.

"No, gently, like a lullaby, or a kiss. Tenderly."

Sands, she was going to break my heart with a single word. "Methela," the pad whispered. I made it sound like I wanted to sound when I said it to someone I loved; like all my heart and soul was wrapped up in one word.

She opened her shining eyes. "That's it. What language, Peydran?" she commanded urgently.

"Wait, we have four more to test," I cautioned her and started playing the other words. I threw out commands fast and hard at each one making them sound like whispered love notes.

"Meleta."

"No."

"Malentha."

"No"

"Lethema"

"No."

"Thalemel."

"No."

"Methela."

She looked at me, and the look was a dagger to my throat. That's right Ryst, give me that fire. You're gonna need it. "The language, Peydran," she demanded. "What sphere?"

"Sturm."

"Sturm. Sturm?" She paced, back and forth, looking at the sky, turning about, facing every direction, reaching out her arms, like she could find Sturm if she tried hard enough. It wasn't dark enough for stars yet, but even if they were visible, she wouldn't see Sturm tonight.

I spoke factually. "Far side of the galaxy. Almost opposite Shurwinn. Twelve hours by starliner. 15 million single black men ages 18-25. Ginkgo, and red and yellow maples in autumn. Sixty-percent ocean. Wet climate. Forests."

She gasped for breath, and bent over with her elbows on her knees.

Her eyes closed, she whispered, "Fifteen million. Sturm. Sands. Oh stars. Sturm. Fifteen Million."

Anything, Ryst. Anything. Give me a detail. Give me something to narrow it down! Something, Ryst, reach out and pull something!

She shook and trembled, trying to catch her breath. I knew that feeling. That was the feeling I'd had when I got my Black Beads. Like all my guts were being twisted out my belly button. I couldn't push her. I went over and pulled her into a hug. She just shook and tried to get her breath.

"Stars. Oh stars. Oh stars," she said on repeat.