Flopping on his stomach, the man set his head down on his hands, his gaze straying over the stone edge to the last sinking moon. “Mendülay, if you are a g— If you are God, straighten this out to the good of everyone involved, will you? I can’t see my way through it.” It was his last thought before his eyes closed.
MONTINCOL
SIXTEENDAY, PRIME
Kee was pale as she rose above the mountain path, crowded by clouds dark and heavy with the snow yet to come. Corymb Dielaan rose to his feet and paced slowly before the mouth of the cave, staring down into the valley separating Montincol from Mt. Amura. A neutral place, the Dragoche had requested. The chanting had gone on for hours, the silver tenor of Baakche Dragoche rising above the rest. Suddenly, silence. A young Cied, completely veiled in the beige, sand-threaded robes so common to the desert people, appeared out of the darkness. They spoke no words; Corymb followed the Cied back into the meeting area.
Cloaked warriors of the Ciedärlien stood beside every seated member. It was impossible to tell by sight which were male and which female; since a vow of celibacy was a prerequisite to serving as a Cied warrior, it did not matter.
Corymb joined the circle, seating himself directly across from Baakche, the Dragoche. The top portions of their veils, usually covering their upper faces, were down. None of the chieftains present dropped their lower scarves, however—that was a privilege reserved only for intimate family. Genuar’s deepset brown eyes were among the group. Baakche’s heir studied the Dielaan intently. Baakche was a mad one but would be the high priest of his people until his death. Genuar, as the Dragoche tribe war leader, was the actual leader of the Ciedärlien warriors. All the tribes, from high to low, deferred to the Dragoche tribe. It was purely coincidence—was it?—that the spiritual heir was also the war leader. The game began.
“It has been decided,” Baakche intoned, not looking at the Dielaan. “The brethren have gathered and have discussed the proposal of Corymb Dielaan. It is agreed that for this time we shall unite and aid Corymb Dielaan in his lawful quest to regain the throne of his fathers.” Baakche glanced at Genuar as he spoke. The heir’s eyes tightened, but he remained impassive. There was dispute over the best way to realize the Cied’s ends—many chieftains were absent, refusing to recognize Corymb as the solution but unwilling to vocally contend with their Dragoche. “In return,” Baakche continued, “we expect a reasonable share of the trine mines, the privilege of living among the cities if we choose, and supplies to aid the tribes destroyed by the alien rain—”
“Your pardon, Dragoche,” Genuar interrupted. “There is some misunderstanding, Dielaan, about what it is you require of us. Do you wish us to sabotage their granaries? You have not spoken plainly to us. We would not wish to destroy their seed grain and so put all peoples on short rations.”
“No, no—for right now, you need only wait.” Corymb seemed to consider the simplest way to explain his hopes. Baakche often could not remember much more than that from one day to the next. “The Fewha bombs destroyed most of the chemical and mechanical means the city dwellers used to produce their food. They have enough grain to survive this winter. During it they shall rebuild their cities, and hard work it shall be too. Long hours toward an undefined end. I am trusting they shall tire of this and want answers.”
“You expect rebellion?” Genuar went on. “A thousand years ago the city-dwellers might have overthrown a kingdom with less provocation than the attack. It would seem that something has ... matured? ... in the character of your people. Their endurance under travail is astonishing.”
“Not rebellion. The Atare family is old and rooted. It shall probably be necessary to remove, or detain, the members of the throne line long enough for me to gain a strong foothold among the synod members. It will not take much to convince the masses we do not need the sinis, and I shall suggest to them that without a surplus of grain, even the 80s may endanger our survival. I shall sow just enough distrust to make them desire a strong leader with direction.” Corymb looked distant as he spoke. “The Atares have had three thousand years to lead this planet to ruin. I shall bring our people to a new day.”
“Our spies tell us that this Atare is loved. That emotion is stronger than deceit, Dielaan.”
“You underestimate my skills as a politician, Genuar. First we watch and see what the Atares shall do. Perhaps they shall even appeal to you for the old knowledge. But I am the one who can bring it to Amura. I am the one who shall ultimately rule, I and my line. I am young yet, as Nualans live; I can wait.”
Baakche seemed to awaken out of dreams. He touched his forehead and looked at Corymb. “Come, friend, let us break our morning bread.” He stood slowly, tightly gripping the arm of Genuar and his chief of security, the assassin. The unknown Cied remained at Baakche’s left as they walked out, the position of honor. Genuar excused himself, however, indicating that Corymb was invited and should follow. Corymb made a bow of equality to the seated council and then followed Baakche, looking unsure of how to broach his questions without Genuar’s help.
Genuar remained standing until the sound of the passing could no longer be heard. Then he sat down again. “Hot saffra for all,” he ordered.
A warrior vanished. The group of men and women sat in silence until several warriors returned with the liquids. Then the young Cied withdrew, leaving the tribal leaders and their advisors. Now the real council began.
“What make you of this, Genuar?” a woman asked, the pattern of the hem of her beige robe marking her a warrior leader of the Tazelle clan.
“I smell treachery. The question is, can it aid us?” Genuar answered, sipping the steaming drink cautiously.
“Then you suspect he will betray us as the off-worlders betrayed us?” another warrior said.
No one spoke. Finally Genuar stirred. “I think,” he started, “Corymb does not yet know what he will do. He is angry—a great hatred consumes him for the Atares. When Tazelle scouts found him wandering and raving in the ciedär, revenge was on his mind. Now I think it is in his heart.”
“Shall we do as he asks?”
“Wait?” Genuar smiled. “Oh, yes, brethren, we shall wait ... longer than he thinks. I would send out spies of our own; I do not trust his runners to give us full reports. Riam?” A young Cied stepped back into the chamber. “Tell the brethren what we have discovered about the Atares.”
“There have been years of unrest within their walls, but the aliens silenced all dissension. The son who now rules is greatly loved, almost worshiped. The Ragäree is the first Atare-born healer in generations.” A murmur broke out at this.
“A born healer,” Genuar mused. “Think you the people will back them?”
“As long as logic dictates, and beyond. If this Dielaan removed them, however; caused an ‘accident ...’” The warrior hesitated.
“Chaos?” came a voice.
“Fear of it,” Riam continued. “The younger siblings are honest but untried. I do not think they would have the strength to withstand a concerted attack by the Dielaan. He is old and crafty in the ways of persuasion.” Genuar looked as if he was going to speak, but the young woman rushed on. “One other thing. She who is called Ragäree shall become one by spring’s full flowering.”
“An heir to Nuala ...” There was an undercurrent of words whispered in the back, and it was as if a brisk wind had struck Genuar. No matter how often the tribes reiterated their independence, the age-old belief in the eternal power of the Ragäree remained. Perhaps the old prophecies were true. Had the time come to follow the house of Atare?
“What of his politics, this new Atare?” a tribesman said sharply.
Riam’s eyes seemed to veil. “No one really knows. It has been five years since he addressed the synod. His wife was dying, his life in ruins. Before that time he was an avid supporter of both 80s and sinis, and as late as the day before the aliens rained upon us, he was dealing with the sinis of Tolis.”
“Indirectly, then, a supporter of us.” Genuar�
��s vision seemed to drift momentarily. “Not without reason have we always dealt with Atare.” He turned again to the Cied. “Did we send greetings to the Ragäree at her temple wedding?”
“It has not taken place yet.”
“Yet? The Ragarr survives?”
“Yes, but recovers slowly. The poisonous rain left him open to the planet.”
Genuar paused and seemed to consider Riam’s words. “A scroll should be left at their eternal flame,” he said, thinking aloud, “giving greetings and honor to the Ragäree. Such has it always been. But not this Atare—we shall wait and see if they come to us, and how they shall bargain.” He scowled fiercely around the room. “I trust you will all keep your people in order. We must regulate the tribes who refused to treat with Dielaan ... or those who pretend not to. Let the word be spread; the power of Genuar is upon it. All who bear the name and seal of Atare are under my protection until I have said differently. And any Cied responsible for the death of an Atare will answer directly to me.”
“So we shall see what use Atare has for us?”
“What use he thinks he has,” Genuar corrected. “We shall see.”
MT. AMURA, NUALA
TWENTYDAY, VESPERS
Lyte watched the star set into embers, the sea turning gray and chill. The water twinkled fitfully at him in the light of the firstmoon, a strip of silver on the horizon and then nothing but twilight. Calmed by the peaceful sight, he moved to re-enter the caverns. As he walked up the path to the mountain’s mouth a rolling pebble startled him. Tensing, the commando whirled.
“I am no predator, Lyte.”
Kalith. Damn. He did not need this, not now. The knot began to tighten within him, as predictable as that starset. “Are you sure?” Lyte returned lightly.
“Why would you fear me? I have no claws, and I am a terrible in-fighter.”
“You’re an Atare,” the off-worlder replied bluntly. “And I have your woman.”
“If I could acknowledge her as my woman, you would not ‘have’ her,” Kal answered.
His voice was so gentle Lyte relaxed without realizing it. “Why?”
“I do not—“
“Why not acknowledge her?”
“You know our marriage laws for roya—“
“Damn the laws. She’s as healthy as I am, and you may be an old man by the time the Axis ‘liberates’ this planet.” Lyte was not sure which angered him most—Kal’s reaction or his reasoning.
“Tradition changes slowly, Lyte. And royalty is not like any other job. It is the only position a human is born into—and one of the hardest to escape.”
“Then why mope around in a dream, hardly talking to anyone?”
“What would you suggest I do?” It was so cool Lyte almost hit him. He started to shout a reply and caught himself. And then coldly began to think. A minute passed ... two. Lyte still had not thought of anything Kal could do that would not draw criticism from at least one major political or cultural faction. He was a diplomat with no place to serve.
“You see? It is not easy. And it affects me keenly, more so than Kavan, because what I decide affects Shinar as well as myself. Soon, everyone will know how I feel about her. I cannot disguise it. But it cannot go any further until I determine my own course of action. Does that make sense?” Lyte did not answer. “So I thank you, warrior, for giving her what she needs, the love and security. What I cannot give her, not yet.”
“You people have crazy laws,” Lyte said flatly.
“Perhaps. But they have worked well for almost five thousandyear. If I toss them away, I must time it and justify it perfectly—or I will fail.” The Atare youth’s voice dropped noticeably in volume.
“So, married or not, we have one thing in common.”
“More than one thing—how do you like being utterly useless?” Kal stressed his words skillfully and, without looking back, continued up the path. Lyte stared after him, his thoughts curling back to face uncomfortable truths.
Chapter Thirteen
MT. AMURA, NUALA
SIXTYDAY, LAUDS (MOONSET)
Braan hesitated at the partition. He knew it was traditional to be as noisy as possible when waking the members of the wedding party, but they had been up so late, and Liel slept so soundly. Oh, why not. They could not complain; he was alone and had nothing to pound on. The marriage of Ronüviel and Moran deserved some boisterous celebration.
“Up! Everybody up in there, hurry, hurry, it is a bannsday! You have been chosen; now you are called! Awake!” There was no sound. The guaard before the door did not move. Then the temporary partition folded back, and Teloa stood there, eyeing him balefully, completely bundled in a blanket, her hair a wreath of light,.
“I hope there is precedent for this,” she began, her words dripping ice water.
“He is being nice, Tay” came a sleepy voice from the darkness within. “When Libra got married, I woke up to a twenty-piece band! Go away, Braan, we shall be there.”
“We are meeting in the assembly room before we go to the garedoc. Arrez will have candle straws for you. Do not eat anything!” Braan added as a reminder. Teloa, still amazed over the twenty-piece band, closed the partition. Controlling his laughter, Braan slipped back up the passageway toward his room, his guaard a shadow at his back.
He was so involved in thoughts about the wedding that he nearly ran into Shinar as she staggered around a corner. The Atare took one look at her face and seized her arm. Looking wildly for the sanitation room, he ripped open the partition and dragged her to a portable commode.
“Get a healer!” Braan yelled at the roommate who had been awakened by Shinar’s movement. The woman disappeared.
“Atare, I am sorry—you should not,” Shinar gasped out between heaves.
“Be quiet and let your stomach settle,” he replied, nodding to another bunk mate who had brought a blanket. With the guaard’s help the two of them managed to force Shinar flat on her back in the aisle. In a few moments the first roommate returned, Elana behind her. The doctor looked pale for early rising, Braan noticed, but she was not only the final medical authority, she was mother as well. Even with the young adults bunking together by age and sex until proper family units could be constructed, parental rights remained.
The healer checked her daughter’s forehead as she pulled out her diagnostician’s monitor. Shinar still perspired, her expression wide-eyed but otherwise alert.
“Just my stomach, nothing else,” Shinar said, anticipating her mother’s questions. Elana played with the dials on her tiny computer, her face betraying nothing. The roommates stood in the doorway, visibly worried.
“Congratulations, you are going to be a mother.” The bunk mates responded with gasps of surprise and joy, even as puzzled expressions crossed their faces. “You two—I left the rest of my bag in the life shelter and I need my comp connector to punch in a milk requisition. Go!” The surprised young women took off down the corridor.
“Fortunate you are billeted so far from other rooms,” Braan observed dryly.
“Do you know the father?” Elana went on, lowering her voice despite the absence of Shinar’s friends. “If so, he should know before the whole city does.” Braan smiled faintly at Elana’s consideration, as much as at Shinar’s bewilderment. It clearly had not occurred to the adolescent that she was pregnant. “And how long have you been throwing up in the morning?”
“Not—how far along?”
“Perhaps thirty, fiftyday. Normally we would not say anything yet, but it is bound to get around. Everything does these days.”
“Lyte is the father.” Shinar sat up slowly. “I am all right, just a little green. It passes quickly. I thought I was just excited about the wedding.”
“It should pass in an eightday, if you are like I used to be. I rarely had discomfort after the first sixtyday, until right before the delivery. Atare, I—“ Elana turned to Braan.
“I honor the confidence, and there is no problem,” Braan said quickly.
El
ana frowned. “I hope no problem.... I, too, am with child. A full hundredday gone, though it does not show through the robe. And it has been difficult this time, harder. I do not know if the difficulty is the new radiation, stress, my age—“ She brushed Shinar’s hair out of her face. “We must monitor you carefully. I fear only ... I fear what the radiation may have done to his genes.”
oOo
It was not a scare tactic, Braan realized as he ducked under the drape and walked down the narrow, winding private aisle to his room. Elana did not tell Shinar about the genetic danger to frighten her—the doctor wished to share all the consequences with a fellow healer. And her daughter took it well, almost abstractly, Braan thought. He doubted that the realization that she was carrying a totally new life had truly hit her. Two more of the people, praise Mendülay! He quickly pulled on the traditional embroidered ivory shirt and black pants. Setting the chain of office around his neck, Braan grabbed his black cape and dashed back up the aisle toward the assembly.
Almost everyone was there; they all had a specific role to play. The bride and groom each had three attendants, and to be asked was a great honor. Braan knew that Jaacav and Liel would be two of Roe’s companions and expected Liel to wear the flowers of the future candle, as the youngest woman usually did. But the color of Jaac’s blossoms marked her as the past candle. Who—? He scanned the gathering, and his gaze fell on Teloa, the orange petals of the present candle entwined in her hair. A feeling of surprise and pleasure washed over him, as well as a slight chastisement for being unobservant. He had come upon Roe and Teloa talking to each other many times—he had been unaware they had grown so close. Many friendships had both blossomed and withered in the last sixtyday.
Lyte entered the room unobtrusively. Braan studied him as the red firerose buds were arranged down one of the man’s shoulders. He looked very uncomfortable.
“You cannot mask before us anymore, can you?” Braan murmured. “The illness has weakened you.”
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