Fire Sanctuary

by Katharine Eliska Kimbriel

“Yes.” He moved over and stiffly folded down next to Braan, wordlessly touching Tal’s arm. He looked so destroyed, so utterly without hope Braan was frightened for his spirit.

  “Why? Where is he?” The voice was sharper than Braan intended. The healer looked closely at Kavan, pulled out another air hypo and gave him an injection. Then he stood and indicated that the remaining people should come with him.

  “What is left is at the starrise door,” Kavan said. Braan flinched. What love there was between them had fled long ago; but he was a brother. Kavan’s voice had almost cracked on the final words. Now he saw the chain. Bewildered, he looked around in the growing darkness, awareness dawning. “Where—”

  “You are certain?” Braan pressed.

  Kavan looked away. “Only one man on Nuala bore the Sheel Split in this generation. Yes?” His voice faded as he lost control, dissolving into silent hysteria. Braan swung the chain violently, scattering the rest of the human gallery like leaves before the wind. There was another line of plutos bombs, closer, in sequence—one landed in the gardens. Braan paid no attention, gathering Kavan into his arms as he had a frightened child many years ago. Kavan did not protest, as in other times, and Braan felt his own fear settling. Finally the young man regained control of himself and pulled away.

  “There is much to be done. We are needed,” Braan ventured.

  “Yes, Atare. What would you have of me?” Kavan answered, composing his face.

  It took a few seconds for the form of address to sink in. Braan took a deep breath. “Those here can handle this area. I must go to Jaac. It is fruitless ... to look for ... anyone until the bombing stops. Can you make it up the hill and make sure someone there knows how to cut off the gas? Perhaps we can kill some of the fires. Try. If not, find me. And get a radiation shot first.” Braan managed a faint smile. “I need my third hand healthy.” Only then did it register with Braan where the healer had ripped Kavan’s sleeve, giving him the injection.

  Standing awkwardly, Braan walked out to the top step. An elderly woman sat there, watching him keenly through bright eyes encased in a mass of wrinkles. He stooped to her and started to speak.

  “Go on, Atare. They would understand. Of course I shall say the litany—as I know you will. But I shall stay.” Rising regally, the woman hobbled inside the small entrance. As Braan started down the steps, he heard her ancient, quicksilver voice rising above the commotion of the city.

  “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust; as we entered the universe, so we depart—alone....“

  FIRSTDAY, 4953, MATINS

  One candle burned in the shelter. A tiny candle, ill-made; it sputtered and fought for life between drafts and a pool of oil. Teloa stared at it until almost hypnotized, its flame filling her mind. The bombs came more frequently now, though they seemed less devastating. And they were no longer lunas. The small, cramped shelter was stifling, the odor of fear from the people packed within unmistakable. Time to get out. Teloa stirred. Stretching like a cat, the tall woman stood, shaking herself as if dreaming. At her side, Liel glanced up, puzzled—this Teloa was not a shaking child. This woman was quiet, confident, in control.

  Teloa met her look. “The lunas have stopped. Trying to save money, I suppose. These are plutos or MSMs.” Stepping carefully over sprawled limbs, she walked to the back of the shelter, Zair’s huge form shadowing her. Liel shivered from the draft as Zair’s warm bulk left her side.

  “That is a storeroom. Water and food supplies are kept in it,” Liel offered.

  “What is beyond it?”

  “Nothing.”

  “There must be something,” Tay replied. “This draft traveled a long, clean way. It’s quite strong.” Picking up a piece of hemp lying on the floor, Tay lit it in the candle. Then she started back into the storeroom. “There’s a large vent back here,” she called.

  “How large?” Liel asked, for conversation’s sake. The creaking and groaning of rusted metal brought her to her feet, and she stumbled into the storeroom. Teloa looked up from her handiwork. She had snapped an ancient lever—the vent stood open, the entrance taller than Zair.

  “Are you coming?” The smile was strong, daring.

  Liel stared at her. “You are crazy.”

  The smile vanished. “No, just stir-crazy. It may take them days to find us, and longer to dig us out. I have survived two wars ... I shall not be beat by this one,” Tay replied, unconsciously falling into the Nualan syntax. Not waiting for an answer, Teloa turned and entered the air vent, Zair right behind her.

  Liel looked back into the tiny bomb shelter, crammed with shell-shocked bodies. Only a few of their companions had even bothered to look up during this exchange. Without further hesitation she climbed into the duct.

  The path, man-high, changed course often. After what seemed an eternity, a myriad of rest stops and hidden panic, Teloa stopped at a vent that suited her. Throwing her weight on hinges generations older than herself, she managed to open the hatch. They stepped out into cool night air, and silence.

  “The bombing has stopped.”

  “No. It’s only begun,” Tay answered. She pointed.

  They were in the hills above the residential area, Tal’s house in plain sight. Liel turned toward the mountains and saw slender ground-to-air missiles slowly, silently rising from hidden silos.

  WATCH ROOM

  Jaac sat motionless in the command chair, her gaze never leaving the monitors. One told the defense shields held but were weakening. Above it another showed the ground-to-air missiles, the first wave GTAs; poised, ready to hurtle the barrier of the radiation belt and sear the missiles before they ever entered the atmosphere. The second wave was a different GTA—one that confused a missile’s heading and boomeranged it, sending it back to its origin. She dreaded using them, but things were past the point of return. She waited only for word from her Atare—whoever it was currently. A seal, a note, a presence. Something.

  A rush of feet echoed down the corridor outside. The members of the watch looked up, hoping for news. Jaac did not react. Two guaard threw open the doors and entered. The palm locks had been destroyed when the computer system shut down. Behind them came Braan, followed by another pair of guaard. Henne stood, extending his hand for the message capsule.

  “I came in person.” The room froze, absorbing his meaning. Henne took in Braan’s form at a glance; saw the chain of office in his hand. Without hesitation the man lowered his head. The others followed suit.

  Jaac slowly turned in her command chair and stood. “Our shields weaken. Observations indicate that three ships took off at the beginning of the bombing. They achieved orbit, then we lost them on our monitors. Your orders?”

  “Launch the first wave.” The words were spoken without tension.

  Jaac had never doubted Braan’s ability to make swift decisions. She did not begin now. “Launch round one, first wave,” Jaac commanded.

  “GTA launched.” The warrior’s reply was a whisper.

  “Have you need of my presence?” Braan asked.

  Jaac faced him again, not really interested in the ascending missiles. There was no strategy to this, no honor. “The second wave—“

  “Use at least half our active first wave. If they do not appear to be slacking off in their attack, fire the first round of the second wave. I do not think we shall need to do anything else.” With a brief nod he turned and left the room. Jaac sat down again. There was no more to be said. If the Fewhas persisted, there simply would be no more Fewha battleships; their own bombs would destroy them.

  PALACE

  FIRSTDAY, 4953, MATINS

  It did not take long to rally what servants and guaard remained alive in the palace. After several attempts the group finally found a path back to the guest’s quarters. Roe had taken the precaution of giving everyone in the party a radiation shot and had left the young children of Baskh outside with a guaard. Now they began to dig for Moran and Lyte.

  There was no answer to their calls. Roe treated the injured warriors
and servants who found their noisy group and waited, swallowing her fear. The guaard would allow her to touch nothing—news of the temple’s collapse had reached them, and they were terrified that Ronüviel was the last Atare female.

  “Serae, we have found a shallow point. The door to a chamber is beyond,” a woman called.

  Roe stepped forward only to be blocked by a guaard. “The supports are weak; the living rock could crush us. Stand away, Serae.”

  The man at the head of the line pushed forward through the soft dirt and crushed stone. They heard an exclamation of surprise, and then a call for aid.

  Roe handed an air hypo to the next warrior. “It was a luna that hit this house. Quickly—off-worlders have a greater need of radiation protection than we do.” The warrior wormed through the hole and disappeared. People began to widen the crevice, packing the dirt and stone firmly. No one requested they take the serae away—there was hope in that thought.

  A stretcher was passed through the opening, and in a little while a warrior came crawling backward through the hole, supporting one end of the litter. Roe was stoic as she realized that it was Lyte, already tossing in a feverish delirium. Activating a monitor, she scanned him. Broken ribs, a punctured lung, radiation poisoning, broken shoulder and arm; mechanically she went to work, injecting the proper antibiotics, immobilizing bones, protecting against shock.

  Indicating the cradle should be placed against the wall, she prepared a second air hypo, an especially potent one. For Moran, if—when—the guaard found him. It frightened her; the medication could be worse for her lover than radiation sickness. But it was a necessary risk.

  She handed it to a guaard. “For the leader—in case it is needed.” The warrior nodded and crept back into the darkness of the hole.

  A voice spoke from beyond. “Serae, the center is totally collapsed. We shall dig to all doorframes—they are the only places he could have survived.”

  “As you think best,” she replied, fighting to keep control of her voice. Roe turned back to Lyte, laying her hands gently on his forehead and shoulder, feeling the healing power well up in her, oblivious to the remaining servants. The group sat in awe of what they could see, aware of a faint light not of stars or of distant torches. All three moons brought their new glory to the sky, yet the light in the shattered corridor slowly engulfed it.

  Ronüviel did not know how long it had been since she began the healing trance. She was brought out of it by a gentle touch. “Serae, he lives. Come.” Shaking herself awake, Roe stumbled after the man.

  They were just lifting Moran through the passage in the debris. He was past delirium, sunken into the spasmodic movements of those poisoned by the planet. Roe activated her monitor, although it was unnecessary, and carefully wiped the blood from the corner of his lips. Setting her features into a mask, she began the work of setting bones and protecting against chill, indicating someone should carry her bag.

  “No one else would be here. Let us meet the others outside and flee this place,” Eon ventured.

  “To where?” Roe asked between shots, her voice not unkind.

  “The hospital complex.”

  “For supplies, yes,” Roe answered. “And then we move on. Amura has become death for us.”

  oOo

  Night crawled on to its inevitable conclusion. The group finally found a corridor clear enough to carry the stretchers through the shattered Hall of Mirrors and beyond. The balance of the household awaited them, Baskh’s youngest sound asleep under a tree.

  A guaard efficiently took charge, and soon a wagon crept up to the side doors. It was a panting young woman who stepped down from the driver’s niche, a tiny floater seat positioned on the wooden crossbar between the hazelles. “My apologies, it took a long time to find an intact wagon and hazelles calm enough to pull it,” she said. “We must hurry before the next—“

  Suddenly a rushing wave of sound reached their ears. The children awoke shrieking. Ronüviel turned and looked past the palace to the residential hills and saw flaming streaks of light flash into the sky and vanish. A distant rumble came to them as a slight tremor beneath their feet.

  “I do not think we need to hurry,” Roe replied softly. “Let us get all injured who cannot walk into the wagon. I am going to the complex for medicine. I shall look for you at Crossroads—we are heading for the Chardonnay caverns. They have withstood millennia of quakes.”

  “Can they withstand a direct hit?” someone asked.

  “Better than the complex,” a guaard answered for her. “Come, Serae, I shall accompany you.” Roe started to speak. She thought better of it and nodded her agreement. Picking up her medical bag, the man slipped into the darkness. The Atare woman paused, looking back to the now still forms of Lyte and Moran. They scarcely seemed to be breathing. But there was nothing to be done until the drugs took effect. She rushed after the warrior.

  Reaching the bottom of the stairs, they were momentarily blinded by a dazzling burst of light in the heavens, brighter than a dozen moons. The warrior stiffened slightly and hurried on. As they ran, Roe heard snatches of the softly chanted words of the death litany—a canticle of passage for the Fewhas, the self-proclaimed enemies of mankind.

  Chapter Nine

  CHARDONNAY HEIGHTS

  FIRSTDAY, 4953, PRIME

  Tired. So incredibly tired. She felt like she had been walking forever, stumbling through the pre-dawn light. Roe glanced at the warrior beside her. The man had insisted on carrying her medical bags, stuffed to the seams with supplies. They were agonizingly heavy; and finally even he had admitted defeat, setting them in the wagon and carrying instead a small child they had found along the way. No one could manage a jest with the warrior’s pride. Too much had happened. They had only another mile. One more mile.

  “Serae, you are very pale. Please, into the wagon.”

  Roe shook her head, fearful of crowding those who were lying down.

  The young warrior at her left leaned closer, the woman’s expression intense. “I have studied medicine well, even though I am not a healer. It is possible you are with child. It is also possible you are the last Atare ... and that the off-worlder will not live to sire another. Please do not sacrifice our future for your pride.” Roe let the information seep through her exhaustion and felt its truth. Nodding vaguely, she did not protest as they stopped the cart and placed her in front, at the heads of the seriously injured.

  Roe considered lying down, but it was not worth the effort. Instead she checked her patients. The medications were beginning to take effect. Carefully, her fingers feather-light, she touched Moran’s arm, and was relieved to see that a bruise did not immediately form. The injection was arresting the condition. She smiled mirthlessly; first he had to live. If he did, he would suffer no permanent damage. But if they did not check the fevers, the pneumonia that was certain to develop ...

  She prepared herself for the healing trance, unaware she had already begun to glow. Roe placed one hand at a temple and the other over his heart, closing her eyes and slowly tuning herself into his body processes. Very slowly—they were in chaos, like an intricate machine run amok. She winced inwardly; it had been a long time since she had worked on such a serious case. Ronüviel forced awareness of her subject away from her self, allowing the healing energy to work. She had to cleanse the body cells, bringing Moran out of the comalike state he had sunk into and up to the delirium Lyte tossed in. Only then could his body attempt to fight the fever which was ravaging it. She could do it; she had mended fractures, aided limb regeneration, reversed external radiation burns. This was merely another problem.

  When Roe finally came out of the trance of her own accord, she found that the cart had stopped and the hazelles were gone. So was everyone else—she and Moran were alone. Silence ... the bombing had ceased. She stirred and looked around. Not entirely alone; three guaard sat nearby, awaiting a sign. One noticed her movement and stood. “Are you ready, Serae, for us to take him to the healers’ station?” she asked.


  Roe looked down. Moran now moved occasionally, as if seeking relief from tight clothing. He was on his way up from deep water. “Yes. Be sure you set him on soft bedding - and also the other warrior, Lyte. We must be very careful with their external tissue until we are certain the radiation is checked.” She crawled to her feet and, accepting the woman’s offer of a hand down, stepped off the wagon.

  “It is already done. If you are feeling well enough, there are several elders who wish to speak to you.” Roe followed the woman without comment, after seeing the two men gently lift Moran off the cart.

  A considerable refugee camp was already in existence. They walked through huge gatherings of people of all ages, more constantly streaming in. Ronüviel managed a smile for them, as always amazed by how happy they were to see her. Soon they arrived at a small tent hastily assembled under tall shade trees. The smell of acrid smoke reached her nostrils—she suspected it was Amura.

  Stepping inside, she found the tent crowded. Seven or eight elders were there, standing as she entered. Roe was used to courtesy but not overwhelming homage; strict rules of royalty had been lax in her generation. It was disconcerting. They had prepared a pile of blankets for her to sit on. She remembered the announcement at the Feast of Adel: they believed her pregnant. Why else announce official marriage? Smiling faintly, she sat down, unready for confirmation, suddenly hoping fervently that she was correct.

  “Elders,” she said, knowing the men and women waited for her to speak.

  One man cleared his throat. “Serae, it was with great joy we received the news of your arrival. So many rumors flying—it is difficult to know what to believe.” He paused a moment. “There are a few things we are certain of.... The temple is destroyed, and many of those at services also died. Baskh Atare and others of your family have taken The Path.” Her smooth, tanned face did not change. The elder went on. “At least one of your brothers survives. An Atare has been acknowledged and gave the order to launch the great defense. I have also heard that Jaacav lives.”