her on the bed. "I'll never hurt Menya," he said. "I'll protect him and keep him safe."
"I know you will, Proya, I know it. And it's not the same thing between your father and Nafai. The difference in their ages is much greater. Nafai and Elya didn't have the same mother. And Elemak had a brother even older."
Protchnu's eyes opened wide. "I thought Father was the oldest."
"He's the oldest son of your grandfather Volemak. Back in the days when he was the Wetchik, in the land of Basilica. But Elemak's mother had other sons before she married Volemak. And the oldest of those was named Gaballufix."
"Does Father hate Uncle Nafai because he killed his brother Gaballufix?"
"They hated each other before that. And Gaballufix was trying to kill Nafai and your father and Issib and Meb."
"Why would he want to kill Issib?"
Eiadh noted with amusement that Protchnu didn't wonder why someone would want to kill his uncle Meb. "He wanted to rule Basilica, and the sons of the Wetchik stood in his way. Your grandfather was a very rich and powerful man, back in the land of Basilica."
"What does 'rich' mean?"
What have I done to you, my poor child, that you don't even know what the word means? All wealth and grace have gone from life, and since you have seen nothing but poverty, even the words for the beautiful life are lost to you. "It means that you have more money than...."
But of course he didn't know what money meant, either.
"It means you have a more beautiful house than other people. A larger house, and fine clothing, many changes of clothing. And you go to better schools, with wiser teachers, and you have better food to eat, and more of it. All you could want, and more."
"But then you should share," said Protchnu. "You told me that if you have more than you need, you should share."
"And you do share. But... you won't understand, Proya. That kind of life is lost to us forever. You'll never understand it."
They were quiet for a few moments.
"Mother," said Protchnu.
"Yes?"
"You don't hate me because I chose Father? In the library that day?"
"Every mother knows there'll come a time when her sons will choose their father. It's a part of growing up. I never thought it would come to you so young, but that wasn't your fault."
A pause. Then his voice was very small indeed. "But I don't choose him."
"No, Protchnu, I didn't think you would ever really choose the bad things he's doing. You're not that kind of boy." In truth, though, Eiadh sometimes feared that he was that kind of boy. She had seen him playing, had seen him lording it over the other boys, teasing some of them cruelly, until they cried, and then laughing at them. It had frightened her, back on Harmony, to see her son be so unkind to those smaller than him. And yet she had also been proud of how he led the other boys in everything, how they all looked up to him, how even Aunt Rasa's Oykib stepped back and let Protchnu take the first place among the boys.
Can it ever be one without the other? The leadership without the lack of compassion? The pride without the cruelty?
"But of course you choose your father," said Eiadh. "The man you know he really is, the good, brave, strong man you love so much. That's the man you were choosing that day, I know it."
She could feel how Protchnu's body moved within her embrace as he steeled himself to say the hard thing. "He's really unhappy without you," he said.
"Did he send you to tell me that?"
"I sent myself," said Protchnu.
Or did the Oversoul send you? Eiadh wondered sometimes. Hadn't Luet said that they were all chosen by the Oversoul? That they were all unusually receptive to her promptings? Then why shouldn't one of her children have these extraordinary gifts, like the one that had popped up in Chveya, for instance?
"So your father in unhappy without me. Let him release Nafai, restore peace to the ship, and he won't have to be without me anymore."
"He can't stop," said Protchnu. "Not without help."
He's only eight years old? And he can see this deeply? Perhaps the crisis has awakened some hidden power of empathy within him. The Oversoul knows that at his age I was utterly witljout understanding or compassion for anyone. I was a moral wasteland, caring only for who was prettiest and who sang the best and