Lyte paused, thoroughly chewing the hard traveler’s bread. “Bonding, although I do not fully understand the religious significance, is much like an off-worlder’s marriage is supposed to be - a sharing of souls and lives, of turning only to one another for all the needs of mortal existence. Nualans, and the royal family in particular, are often in a strange and cruel paradox—”
“Until you have lived as we do, do not judge, only seek to understand,” Roe interrupted. “Go on.”
“As I was saying, are often denied this important part of living. Marriage is a necessary thing for the survival of the species,“ he went on quickly, “Not that you don’t care for, even love, your mate. It’s just a different love, a—”
“A separation of the three great loves—agape, philios, eros. All present but separate. The most any off-worlder seeks or expects,” Roe clarified.
Startled to hear the ancient Greek words, although he knew they were the names of Nuala’s moons, Lyte continued speaking. “It’s as if you don’t expect outsiders to understand, and so you don’t attempt to explain it. Do outsiders, off-worlders, ever understand?”
“Sometimes—after years of living among us and watching how we live. To tell someone fresh off a ship that there is always enough love and that loving more than one person does not diminish the love for either ... it is not believed. Oh, many of your people pretend they believe and go from mate to mate; but they do not believe. They are not raised with literally hundreds of doting friends and relatives, all telling and showing them how loved they are, even if they are not always liked. You are not raised to believe that if you lose one love, Mendülay will give you something else to love; and that if you love Mendülay first, all else follows.” She turned to him. “You keep your loves shallow, wrap yourself in a cocoon, and let no one touch your core. You share good times but shrink from hard ones. No, you do not understand love.”
“And Nualans are never neurotic or insecure?”
“Of course they are. We are human, and affected by other humans. It is when we absorb the values of your society that we are in trouble —”
“Which is why you have no concept of illegitimacy,” Lyte broke in, beginning to recognize something. “If you feel strongly enough about someone to share a separate love with them, then you—“
“Accept the consequences. Of eros, it may be a child, or temporary feelings of rejection if one lover turns elsewhere. In philios, it may be sacrifice. I know Braan’s skin crawls every time he puts on a protectorate suit. But Gid is his friend, and Gid’s parents live in Tolis. Friendship, true friendship, comes high.”
“Agape? Is that not the hardest to reach? I mean, as a separate thing, not even mentioning bonding?” Moran asked. “To be required to do something for the good of the majority no matter what the cost to yourself?”
“Something like that,” Braan answered softly. “And to bond is to say, ‘I believe we can work daily toward it all.’ It is the highest compliment we can give to an off-worlder, to bond from the beginning. Most may marry more than one; establish home and family. But they usually bond once. I personally think Arrez is only bonded to Elana, but only Arrez and Holy Mendülay know for sure—mates do not discuss that among themselves. It defeats the attempts to reach such a state. Some reach that state without ever saying the words of bonding, or —“
Braan never finished his sentence. The hazelles suddenly screamed, that weird, half neigh, half whistle of fear they give when badly frightened. Dropping his cup Moran leapt to his feet, oblivious to the pain in his legs. He saw as if in a dream a robed figure sprint crazily through the animals, staggering like a drunken man. Braan sat up and turned around, tensing in preparation for the assault.
“Moran, look out!” Lyte yelled the words before he realized it. Even as he stood and leapt for his friend, he was dimly aware the unknown assailant was diving straight at Braan.
With a skill long unused, Braan twisted away from the fire and rolled out of the attacker’s reach. Without hesitation Moran jumped the fire and was on top of the unknown, gripping the wrist holding the knife and attempting to subdue him with a commando hold. But the assassin was apparently wise to commando training, and tore himself away. Moran still hung on to his wrist, trying to keep the knife from himself. Had he been alone, things might have been fatal for him, even though it was plain their attacker was exhausted and using his last strength. As Lyte snatched the other flailing arm Braan reached in behind the man and grabbed his head and neck in a two-handed grip. Gagging, paralyzed, the robed figure went limp.
“Disarm him.” Braan’s voice carried such a note of command, Lyte was searching for other weapons before he thought of it himself. Roe reached over and carefully peeled away a needle hidden in one hand, and the men quickly relieved the intruder of several hidden knives, all of a variety used by Nualans to hunt wild tazelles. The young woman turned the man’s left palm to the light. The tiny tattoo of the Durite death head could be seen at the base of his second finger. Braan forced the man to lie down; he did not argue.
Roe loosened the Durite’s collar as they looked him over. His condition was pitiful. Roe recognized it as a combination of rav poisoning and external Dielaan radiation, already well advanced. Where he had been merely touched in the struggle, massive bruises were appearing, and he had been bleeding from the nose, eyes, mouth and ears for some time.
“Release his wrists, you cause him terrible pain,” Roe directed, reaching toward him to begin the healing energy, something few off-worlders had ever witnessed. The warriors looked unbelievingly at her and then to Braan. Ignoring them, shaking his head at Roe, Braan spoke directly to the assassin.
“We know what you are and that you are on a trail of blood. Be aware that I am holding you in an elkitagrip. If you move suddenly, I will break your neck. Do you understand?” The Durite blinked twice, trying to clear his throat of blood. Braan went on, his voice controlled, merciless. “I want to know whom you are pursuing, and why. Who hired you? How did you get on this planet?”
“The durite dyes used in their tattoos show up on our monitors,” Roe murmured to the two off-worlders. “Someone was bribed, a machine was tampered with, or he was landed away from the spaceport.” The Durite, meanwhile, made no reply.
“You followed us into Tolis, did you not?” Braan said conversationally. “Unaware the city was hot, too far behind our arrival to see our suits. You mingled with the robes of Tolis, ignorant of your peril. And now you will pay for your traditional refusal to be briefed about a planet. Know, Durite, that your boasts to blend in with any people have come true—you are now dying because you became one of us too quickly.”
“I know my death,” the Durite replied, a rattling noise in his voice. “Your threats cannot frighten me. Save them.”
“I do not threaten. My people do not use torture to reach their ends. If you wish to die this way, your secret dies with you. But I warn you; the death from rav is slow and painful. Pains such as you have never dreamed. My sister is a healer and a doctor. She can ease your pain, but you are too far gone to live. We do not have the means with us, and we are too far from help.”
“You cannot fool me, mutant. I know your spineless attitudes. You will not kill me, nor leave me to pain.”
“You have been misinformed.” Moran glanced up at the lifeless note in his voice. “Lift him.” The warriors added their strength and carried the Durite over to the other end of the grotto entrance. “You may lie here and consider whether the pain is worth your silence.” Without a backward glance Braan moved back to the fire.
The monsoon came late. The Durite broke later. Moran and Lyte exchanged subtle expressions, fascinated by the situation. Roe would not comment, saying only, ”I have not the stomach for the darker side of kingship.” She sat to one side, an air hypo in her hand, a faint luminescence about her, waiting for her brother to signal her to end the assassin’s agony.
Braan was relentless in his questions, repeating them over and over until Lyte was tempted to throt
tle someone, anyone for an answer. The Durite stammered and stuttered, choking on his own swollen, bloody throat, and slowly, like the tightening of a hand crank, the information came.
The first shock, at least for Lyte, was whom he was stalking—Braan, not Moran. Lyte felt obligated to explain everything that had gone before, and so he and Moran retired to the fire to talk. Moran said nothing; he did not react even when Lyte said Roe had known all this since dawn. When Lyte had finished, the first officer stirred and stretched, as if waking from deep sleep.
“I wish you could have believed,” Moran said. “I’m glad you found Roe to be a good confidante.” He jerked suddenly as Braan sat down next to him. A glance showed Ronüviel giving the Durite a painkiller, her warm hands speeding the narcotic to its destination.
“Well?”
“I do not know whether to be enraged or flattered,” Braan said dryly. “He was smuggled onto Nuala by an outside controller whose name he does not know. His contact was Corymb, who paid him an ounce of trinium, in advance”—Braan held up a small marker on a leather thong—“to murder me far from home. It was preferable if it looked like an accident, but the main thing was to keep me from returning to Amura. He was to receive another ounce upon proof of my death.”
“How?”
“He was going to take back one of my eyes,” Braan replied easily. “Since Roe was not marked for death, it could belong to no one except me. He does not know why I am to be killed—only that I am.” Braan held up the marker again, watching the reflection, the shadows thrown. Moran looked over at the Durite, who was no longer writhing in pain.
“Is there anything we can do for him?”
“No. Only the complex could help, and the rav is so advanced, he would be a physical and mental cripple if he survived. He would kill himself as soon as he had a chance.” Braan turned to Roe. “Is he unconscious?”
“He feels nothing.”
Braan moved over to the Durite’s head, probing gently to see if the ‘man’ was aware of them. Carefully getting a firm grip on the Durite’s throat, Braan snapped his spine like brittle grass. The only reaction was the cessation of the sound of labored breathing. There was silence.
“I thought your people never killed, that it was a sin or something,” Lyte said, his voice characteristically impassive.
Braan looked up, surprised. “We abhor violence. And it is a sin. But if it is necessary, we kill—quickly, efficiently. His life was my responsibility. Now, on the Last Path, I shall have to answer for its premature end. I hope the explanation satisfies the Holy One.” Braan pulled the Durite’s robe over his face and moved to stand.
The sound of rolling gravel brought all four of them to their feet. Lyte spun around, a knife in his hand. Standing in the dying light of the fire was a boy of about fifteen, fear and amazement plain on his face.
Braan moved toward him, exuding confidence. “What do you seek?”
“You, Seri,” the boy finally answered. “Word has come from Amura. I have ridden this whole day from Vel depot, since a message came from the sailors telling of the wreck. It is your lady—she is dying.” The boy looked over at the Durite, took in the scene of the struggle. “I shall take care of the burial and the rites. You must leave now, for she ebbed as I reached the mountain. If you do not race, you will be too late.”
Chapter Seven
AMURA
FOURHUNDRED THIRTYONEDAY, VESPERS
They were too late.
And as the exhausted group climbed the palace stairs Elana stood waiting for them at the open doors of the Great Hall. Ronüviel and Braan led the way, Lyte and Moran hobbling up behind them as best they could. Enid had died nearly an hour before. Except for informing the Atare and sending word to the Ragäree over on Niamh, they had attempted to keep it a secret until Braan arrived. This had proved impossible, so the bells had been rung and preparations made for the cremation, which by temple law had to occur before the next dawn. Word spread like a whirling santana, and a strange, unnatural silence fell over the city. Those who looked for omens murmured uneasily—deaths at High Festival had always been few, and tradition said it foretold a bad winter. The faithful flocked to the temple early, to light candles for Enid’s journey to the next life.
Braan stood impassively while Elana related the story. It had been peaceful—she had simply stopped breathing. With a stiff nod, Braan led the group into the hall. The palace was full of attendants going about the business of preparing a quiet state funeral. Braan was aware of Elana leaving to be with the children. He felt wobbly, as if he might fall, and was glad he had somehow found the stone bench near the hall doors. Moran and Lyte had disappeared, and Ronüviel sat with him, millimeters away, her fingertips touching his wrist. The room was so very cold ...
“Seri? Braan?” He glanced up at his name. A young servant stood before him, her face red from weeping. “Do you wish to—view her—your wife’s body?”
Braan studied her a moment, and then slowly moved his head from side to side. “My wife died five years ago,” he answered softly, clearly. “And the period of mourning has gone on too long.” He realized he was standing and then walking through the bronze doors into the Hall of Mirrors. Without a backward glance he walked down the hall and out into the courtyard and beyond. He was scarcely aware of Kee setting, of the silence. Somehow he had expected grief, and the absence of it frightened him, horrified him. Had he grown so callous that he felt nothing at the death of his wife?
He found himself at the side entrance of the Mendülarion. Every side was nothing but stairs, and Braan started up them.
oOo
The huge chamber was ablaze with light. Every altar, shelf and crevice was filled with a candle, forcing the shadows into retreat. It was between services, the huge sixthday ceremony postponed for the wake before it. The altar was already set up, one tall unlit candle at its head, the eternal flame burning in a standing socket at its side. Braan walked to the dark wax column, not sure if anyone was in the temple and not really caring. Then he reached for a slender wooden taper. Moving to the huge fire basin now burning below the Nualan cross, he lit the taper.
The Nualan light ceremony was lost in their past, its beginnings shrouded by folklore and legend. But all knew its purpose—to light the paths of the dead on their last journey. Whether they went to paradise or tortured silence, all took the Last Path, all received a light ceremony. Braan reached over and lit the large beeswax candle and then stepped back to watch its glow illuminate the apse.
I have faced them five years and more, Braan thought. This is the last. I cannot face that ceremony. For me, you have been on the Path too long. Aloud he whispered, “You are free ... we are free.” He dumped the taper into the purifying fire basin and walked out the same door he had entered.
He stood a moment in the dying light of starset. Absently touching a tear on his cheek, he rushed down the stairs and onto the temple grounds.
Braan finally stopped running at the edge of the lake. The temple was hidden, and the tall trees of the meditation gardens blocked out all awareness of the city. Only the mountains were still visible, their heights lost in mist. There was a presence ... he found Zair next to him. The dog must have tracked him from the palace. He sat down at the edge of the clear, sand-bottomed reservoir, his thoughts drifting, his hand reaching out to touch the fleshy leaves of the weeping, succulent tree.
I cannot weep ... not really. It is release, my lady —from your prison, from my pain ... No longer will your spectral image float before Dylan and Asiai. May they remember you as our holograms record your loveliness.... Her face rose up before him, delicate, coolly remote, fair beyond health. It brought on a passing tenderness, of the life they had shared and of the passion he had carefully steered away from her memory. His gaze traveled to the first star of evening ...
Braan leaned back against the tree, the dog’s head in his arms, trying to clear his mind, to think of his sculpture, of anything except the anger and bitterness and despair that
threatened to burst from him. He heard a tiny splash, a ripple, and glanced up. Perhaps fifteen meters away from him he saw a woman. He was blank, and then recognized her as the voyager who had arrived on the Gerrymander. Since she was staying at the temple, of course she could, and would, come here to swim.
Braan studied her slow movements and suspected she had been ill. That was not uncommon among first-time visitors. She must have tasted the water. Or—she was from the tratores. Perhaps an old addiction ... Her face was unlined, relaxed, as if she had cast away the problems that had driven her to Nuala. At least no deeper shadows were visible on her features. Suddenly Braan’s gaze widened, and he realized she had almost finished undressing. He hesitated. To speak now would not only startle but also probably embarrass her, off-worlders being notoriously self-conscious about their bodies. Better for her not to know. The artist in him took over, and he detached himself from his problems, from the scene. He was aware of beauty—scarcely aware of woman. Completely a warm honey bronze, the light from the rising moons flattering. A lamp treatment? No, he remembered her palms were a mere shade lighter. Mostly natural; and with the flawless teeth and blonde hair, from the Caprican system ...
Amazing how the light of the evening played tricks on the mind. Her legs seemed so long. She hesitated, poised on the edge, and then dived into the deep end of the small lake. Braan watched the ripples extend across the surface of the water, idly thinking it was dangerous to swim alone. Glancing at Zair, he saw that the contented beast was already asleep. He stretched out on his back, watching the stars peep out and become brighter, as if they were exploding, diffusing ...
oOo
Braan woke with a start, pain shooting through his leg. He gasped and threw up an arm for protection, aware of another’s cry of surprise. Zair leapt to his feet, growling menacingly in his throat. Braan rolled over and up and recognized in a flash the reflection of golden hair, shimmering from the water still trapped within it.
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