Reaching for a message capsule, she punched out brief requests to the prime ministers of Atare city, Merigwin, Tolis and Seedar, along with several minor coastal towns. They all had something in common; they traded with the Cied. She asked them the same question. Did they have any recorded information on the tribes? If so, would they send a copy of each notation, no matter how obscure, to the Ragäree by private communiqué? She sealed it with her name seal, now combined with the stars of the Brethren, the traditional addition marking the Ragäree’s sign. Moving to the entranceway, she softly asked one of the two warriors at the door to take the capsule to the communications station, wait while they were all sent, and then destroy the capsule. Roe stressed the need to make sure no one else gained knowledge of its contents. The capsule vanished into a pocket, and with a brief nod the warrior disappeared.
Roe returned to the window, knowing the guaard would take care of everything. It did not matter if spies in the various cities discovered her inquiries. By the time the information reached Corymb, Roe hoped to have formulated some concrete answers for his and the synod’s questions.
oOo
Darkness was falling when a knock came at the bronze shield.
“Enter.”
The dark-haired young woman swept in, setting a tray on the desk with a flourish. Liel dropped into the rocker with an exaggerated sigh, pushing her hair out of her face and looking momentarily younger than her sixteen standard. “The lifts had lines a kilometer long, so I took the stairs! I was worried when you did not come to dinner.”
“I forgot. The babies were hungry and with Moran leaving ... You should not have bothered.”
“You must eat,” Liel replied sternly. “You do not need to lose any more weight, just tone up what you have left! Time to start running up and down the stairs.” She uncovered a dish. “Cheese and noodles, and fresh fruits, whole grain bread, and—”
“Do you think they are alive?” Roe interrupted.
Liel was silent. “I am naive enough to believe that somehow we would know if they were gone. Have you felt any sendings from the hereafter?”
Roe smiled. “No.”
“Then eat your dinner. No more talk about morbid things. I have had enough of that. Lyte is in the hall, I think I shall go tempt him with one of these loaves. Oh, several groups requested a story tonight, if you are not too tired. Something hopeful, please, they are still scrubbing the tearstains off the rocks from the last one you told.” Liel flew out the door.
“But a mythmaker is not supposed to tell stories people want to hear,” Roe said aloud. “A mythmaker is a seeker of legends ... an interpreter of the truths that rise from the subconscious. My historical tales are merely pastry cream.” She picked up a piece of fruit and nibbled on it, wondering how the year really had gone for Liel. Her sixteenth birthday had ended with the destruction of her city. A tale was buried in there somewhere.
Roe ate quickly of what she wanted, a mood growing on her. Finishing the passion fruit, a fine ending to a comforting meal, Roe slipped on her sling carry.
As if by magic Liel appeared, no doubt summoned by the guaard. “Will you speak tonight?”
“Yes. Put Arien in the sling and bring Bree.” They gathered up the blankets, body liners and other paraphernalia required for baby travel, and then walked into the corridor. One warrior led them, one appeared from the darkness to watch the room, and the third followed as they walked toward the lifts. Passing the crossways, Roe found Lyte was still sitting by the hole in the cave wall, his hands playing with the bread loaf.
“Coming?” Roe asked. “I am going to tell a gatuhlpa.” Lyte did not turn his head. “I would like you to come.”
That got through to him. “In a little while.” Roe nodded for the warriors to continue.
In the garedoc a large crowd had already formed. Shinar came forward over the rocks as swiftly as her advanced state of pregnancy would allow, scooping up Arien from Roe’s basket.
“Odelle wants to hold her,” Shinar explained. Liel was settling in with Bree, the liner bags piled at her feet. Ronüviel pried herself loose from her thoughts about her children, her sister, and the fragile Odelle, whose pale face glowed at the prospect of holding Arien. The Atare woman walked slowly toward the great fire in the cavern’s center. All the family fires had burned down to nothing, the only light source in the garedoc the central pit. Several people threw more wood on the pyre, and Roe stood next to it, letting the warmth creep into her bones. Even with the approach of summer it was always so cool in there.
She took a small sachet from her pocket and threw it into the fire’s center. Green, blue and purple flames spouted among the red and gold. Slowly the garedoc grew silent, so quiet that the absence of sound was almost tangible. Roe lifted her head and hummed a few soft, tentative notes. Then a melody went up—mournful, almost poignant—and at the sound of it even the faxmur birds in the trees outside the cavern ceased to sing. Roe continued. Her tune was lonely and yet dignified, as if no other song could hold court in its presence. None of the people seated around the fire had ever heard it before, and those who could still separate heart from mind knew that it would not be heard again. Finally, an end was reached. The notes faded into silence.
“Hear, oh my people, the words of the Ancients. Twenty thousand times has Sol traced his ecliptic migration since mankind first recorded life. Cities, nations, rose and fell, rise and fall. Peoples reach for the pinnacle and collapse into dust. Great works are begun, laws set down, civilization finds its heights—all is forgotten. All ash, death in the winds. Once mankind was a free people, a seeking people, doomed to mortality, doomed to curiosity, never seeing Truth. Now they are in bondage of their own making; and they do not dare to raise their eyes to the stars.”
Roe was walking, circling the fire, her arms raised in entreaty. There were faces out there, faces she knew, but the trance cared not, refused to acknowledge them. She was absorbed, ready to perform, to interpret.
“Among the peoples, among the seed of Earth, of Terra, we alone have survived. We alone flourish. Others forget and are forgotten, while we seek the secrets left to be found. For fivethousandyear we have been the Brethren. We are the Brethren. We are Nuala.”
She could feel Braan’s presence as she warmed to her work, feel the power within her, in her words; the recognition of it in her people. The story continued, of a mechanical probe that certified Nuala as a paradise for colonization; of the brave peoples who chose to test their skills against new elements. The Atare, the Dielaan and the Seedar, three transport ships; well-seasoned for their voyage. Perhaps newer or older vessels would not have made it. Disaster, almost total disaster, wreckage everywhere, deaths by the hundreds, by the thousands.
“The hard rains fell on the burnt-out transport ships, spreading disease and deformity. And the people lifted up their voices for help, but no help came. And the lingering generations passed.” Her own throat tightened here, as did the others, but she left the thought, moving on to the next sequence. Perhaps the most tragic words in their history.
Turned around. Their past, their future held on a string and turned around by one family, one man. Habbukk, the first Atare, though he would not have called himself that. The shield laws—no, she had bypassed them, but they could be woven in, later, at the first crisis.
More wood on the fire and it burned low again. The whole history ... not at once, too much; a thousand lifetimes must be told, and still it is not everything. So she left it at the birth of Habbukk’s sister’s son; born normal, born fertile. Born to lead the people toward a new beginning. Out of death, madness, despair ...
“We move toward new life!” Her voice ran in exultation, and she was standing on the ceremonial rock, arms outstretched to embrace the willing crowd, though she had no memory of climbing there. As if a spell had been broken, the people withdrew, shaking themselves awake. The light of the three moons pierced the darkness of the chamber, natural and manmade shafts bringing the bittersweet joy of
the planet to their feet scant nights before the trine.
A question was asked, concerning the story, the history of it. She answered as if in a dream. Another question, the reply coming from Liel as she brought Arien to Roe. Cuddling the child, exhausted, ready to feed them and sleep, Roe faced her people, their faces visibly marked from the spiritual and emotional intensity of the telling. “Is there anything else, Brethren?” she asked the group.
“Yes,” came a penetrating whisper she recognized as Lyte’s. She turned toward the stairs, the source of the voice. “The rest of the story.”
Ronüviel bowed her acknowledgment.
Chapter Seventeen
NUAMURA, MT. AMURA
TWOHUNDRED FORTYSIXDAY, SEXT
Lyte had not been at the Ascension Day celebration long when he realized that someone was missing. A pregnant woman walking by focused his thoughts, and he immediately went to find Shinar. He made a thorough search of the grounds; it took nearly an hour and brought no results. Finally he saw one of her roommates preparing to enter the dance floor and caught her arm. “Where’s Shinar?”
The young woman looked startled. “You did not know? She went into labor early this morning. Still is, I checked about a half-hour ago. I am surprised you—”
“Where is she?” Lyte’s grip tightened on her arm, his face betraying nothing.
“In the life shelter, since she is still in the dorm....”
Lyte was already gone.
oOo
Moments later he reached the entrance to the life shelter, one of the few sets of solid doors existing in the mountain. Pulling on it, he found it locked. He began to pound. This brought swift results.
The door cracked a few millimeters, and a man’s harried face appeared. “What do you want? Is there an emergency?”
“Yes. I’ve been told my child is being born here, and I demand to be present.”
“Who told you such a thing?“
“That’s not important. She told me she wanted my support during this, and I’m here to give it.”
The man looked tired and impatient. “That is impossible. She has no chosen, no husband, and that is always a requir—”
“Then it is true; you want only my genes. I am allowed to make a genetic contribution but not an emotional one, is that it?” Lyte interrupted, hiding none of the mocking anger in his voice, letting his expressive Nualan pour out.
From within the shelter, Lyte heard Elana’s voice say, “Let him in.” The healer sullenly gave way, swinging the door toward the warrior. Lyte quickly slipped inside. Moving through the ward to the birthing room, he was surprised at what he found. Shinar was just dropping down on her side after rocking on her hands and knees to ease the contractions. She looked tired and strained but not in pain.
A smile brightened her face, and she held out a hand to him. “I wanted you to come, but I thought it would be worse for you than it was for me,” she said softly.
Lyte sat down on a stool next to the bed and took her hand, gently caressing her cheek. “Hey, healer—you didn’t tell me.”
“So now you know.”
“Soon we’ll all know.”
ATARE’S PEAK
TWOHUNDRED FORTYSIXDAY, COMPLINE
Closing the thick beads behind himself, Braan gave an inaudible sigh of relief. Here he could shut out everyone and everything, even the guaard. A flicker of irritation passed through him. For several days not one but two guaard had been constantly in attendance, and he noticed even more around Ronüviel and the young ones. And they were obvious, in a manner he could not remember. When questioned, they would merely reply, “We have reason to believe that you may be in danger.”
He could not stay angry long. The warrior clan had shadowed him since birth, even off-world. Braan could not remember ever being without them, except for the trek through the wadeyo forest. They had to be operating on instinct or on an unsubstantiated tip, or they would explain the circumstances to him. Feeling persecuted, Braan removed his over-tunic and went into the bathing room to test the water.
The festival of Ascension Day had always been one of his favorites, but it was an exhausting time. It symbolized the day of soul-rising, demonstrated by brightly-painted handmade kites that were released to the four winds. Dylan had run him ragged while creating their kite, and the afternoon dancing and general celebration had worn Braan out. The women were constantly in attendance as always, and for the first time since Teloa had left, Braan had found himself truly interested in a woman. She had looked a bit like Jaacav.
That woman.... She had been coy, secretive, female in the most mysterious sense. He had met her at a wine stall. She was not from Nuamura but from the outlands of the valley, probably the daughter of a grape owner. She wore a holiday skirt and blouse bordered with the emblem of the Tarn clan, a schism group of Atare. In the end he decided that she knew who he was, though she treated him like any other attentive male. Bold, that one, aware of her charms and how to use them. Braan spent the early hours of evening with her; they shared thirdmeal and some dancing.
At the night’s full darkness, final carillon, Braan parted from her. Not that he was not tempted. Just not tempted enough. She was different from Teloa, very different, but Tay kept creeping into his thoughts. He had always been gifted with a rich fantasy life by day and the real thing at night. He had no desire to confuse the two.
“Atare ...”
He froze, placing the voice, and confused as to why it should be here. She was at the outer door, the lovely of the festival, edging around the warrior. The young guaard had not let her through the main beads, however, and was keeping his body between her and Braan. Where was the other? Of course, he had sent the man to reassure Ronüviel over the increased number of guaard.
“Let her through,” Braan said. As he spoke, his gaze turned from her to the guaard. Suddenly the young warrior gestured, that unmistakable movement that meant only one thing. Braan reacted instinctively, dropping to the floor, then reaching for his cat knife. In the hall?
What happened next was a blur, and a knife went by millimeters above his shoulder, slicing the shirt fabric. The warrior was facing Braan, crouched in the doorframe, his right blade still in his hand, the other empty. The woman was heaped between them. The young man carefully flipped her over with his foot; the crimson flood across her back was great. Touching a cord at her neck, the blond pulled out a gold-and-black tassel—the colors of the Dragoche tribe. Then the man spun again to the corridor, his knife held at vital’s height as a voice said, “Baakche’s assassin.”
Braan stared as a desert-robed individual stepped into view, holding empty hands away from his hips. The Cied continued in a flat, controlled Nualan dialect. “I am impressed. I thought I would come too late, that she would fool you. Was she too eager or did not find favor with you?”
“Neither.” Braan found his voice and slowly rose. “I lost my heart before she came, and I am at my soul a one-woman man.” The guaard moved toward the Cied and, flicking aside part of the Cied’s outer robe, removed a wicked-looking cat.
“You knew?” Braan asked the guaard in a conversational voice, indicating the woman.
“I knew she was not Tarn clan. Mendülay smiled upon you, Atare. I am Tarn bred and raised, and I know every woman tenyear each side of my age. The question was, why the deception?”
Braan studied the blond’s handsome, smooth face, unreadable as his gaze pierced the Cied man. “You are—”
“Noah, Atare.”
“What tribe is this man?”
“Deep sand mountain Dragoche.”
Well, I have never been one to turn down an omen. Braan stepped forward. “You are full of interesting information, Noah. Stay with me.” The young man flinched, his reserve shaken. Those three words were ceremonial.
“We must speak, Braan Atare. I have kept silent and watched a mad one and a liar bandy words too long.” The Cied removed his upper veil.
“Welcome, Genuar reb^Ibsn Dragoche. Noah, send
for hot saffra. Have you eaten, Seri?”
“It is not necessary. We have little time. The ciedär loses its water as we speak, and I would deal with this before I return to my tribe,” Genuar replied. Noah moved to a com and ordered the tray. A flick of the wrist, and his cat vanished. Walking to the assassin’s body, he removed his other knife and wiped the blade across a clean section of shirt.
“Noah, do not let the Ragäree hear of this yet, and increase the guaard on her and Liel.” Braan offered the Cied a seat on the plush rug near the window. The man gracefully folded to the floor in acceptance. The second guaard returned and did not raise an eyebrow to discover a body to be removed. By the time he had left with the assassin, Braan and Genuar were past superficial talk and deep into the reason for the Cied’s arrival.
Genuar handed Braan the scroll of congratulations, to be given to Ronüviel and Moran. “It was twins?”
“Yes. One of each, healthy and bearing Atare eyes. The Ragäree thinks they already show the healer traits.” Genuar started visibly at the information. “I am grateful for their births, especially since the disappearance of my brothers while en route to your encampment.”
Genuar’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I had heard these rumors, but those who engineered the feat are keeping their own counsel. I warned my brethren of the danger of touching Atare blood. When I find the fools, my hand shall fall heavily.”
“Could they be alive?”
The Cied appeared surprised. “I believe so. To kill one of royal blood is a heavy sin. Baakche in his sanity would not have done such a thing. They will only be in danger when it is known I am actively searching for them. There are many ways to end life without using knife or hands. A lone man in the ciedär with no water.... And no proof of the deed. I shall move swiftly.”
“Several of the guaard are in the desert, seeking them.”
“My people shall not hinder them and shall help if they can.”
“You know why we sought you?” Braan went on, getting to the heart of the discussion.
Fire Sanctuary Page 28
