Fire Sanctuary

by Katharine Eliska Kimbriel

  It was not a cave, it was a cavern. A maze of openings stared him in the face. The ceiling rose to darkness. Cied paintings trickled down the walls, the mournful eyes of long-dead warriors staring at him. He heard another scream from the left, and it occurred to him that the male might have lost the scent. Then there was a rush of footsteps; someone was running toward him.

  He ducked in the first opening, the tip of his blaster peeking around the corner. A Cied robe flashed by him, fluttering wildly, and Braan leaned against the stalagmite nearest the entrance, steadying his weapon.

  A flash of black and gold came tearing out of the darkness, and he fired. The animal collapsed onto the stones lining the cavern floor. A half-dozen heartbeats, and Braan stepped out quickly, checking the beast. The blaster had ripped its chest open. A female ...

  Trembling, Braan slowly backed away from the body. Not a young one, a full adult, and her mate had acted as a decoy. He looked wildly for the other person. Cied—a woman or a youth? The robed figure had looked too slight for a man. A small rock slide started within the cave. Braan whirled and ran to the entrance where the Cied was huddled, gasping for air. Grabbing a wrist, he pulled the human along and toward the left cave slot. At the same time he lit the other flare. The individual began to fight him, swinging a drawn cat knife.

  “We cannot outrun it. We must find an opening too small for it to pass through!” Braan hissed softly, forcing some of the Cied dialect. “It will circle to the other side!” The other immediately complied. Light from the flare revealed a fairly smooth, wide path, and they began to run. They had until the katt found their trail; then they had nothing.

  Twists and turns and false trails, always taking the narrower lead. The wall paintings accompanied them; some were of katt hunts. In one picture, the katt was hunting the man. Braan himself was becoming winded when he found what he sought. An opening, a bit high but human-sized, too small for katt.

  He tossed the blaster into the opening; until it recharged, it was useless. Jamming the flare into a hole, Braan grabbed the Cied and pushed her—it was female—up the wall. The woman must have been on the run for a long time. She was exhausted and having trouble finding footholds.

  There was no time to be chivalrous. When she slipped and fell for the second time, Braan pushed her aside and was up the wall in a bound. Two steps and he was pulling himself inside. Turning, he reached down for the bundled woman. She had found the first foothold.

  Braan heard sliding pebbles. Using his last strength, he dragged her to his level and flipped her over his knees into the hole. Fumbling to drag her completely inside and feeling for his kat knife, he saw a pair of gleaming golden eyes. The katt crouched and sprang; high, arcing, hurtling at them with the weight of five men.

  Braan brought the knife down.

  The katt screamed in pain and fell to the path, clawing hysterically at the rocks. The blade had punctured the top of the skull, just as it was designed to do. Ignoring his now tattered sleeve, Braan sagged against the lip of the hole, stretching his legs and undoing his veils, using them to wipe the sweat from his brow and neck. Dear sweet Mendülay...

  The woman was still draped over one of his legs, shaking but silent, the dignity of her people wrapped around her more securely than cloth. She sat up slowly, curling her knees close to her body and wrapping her arms around herself, weaving in her dream as if to pass out from exhaustion. Braan grabbed her to steady her movements, and then pulled her closer when he realized her body was icy to the touch. She did not protest—she was that tired.

  He listened to the katt’s dying whimpers as its brain stopped functioning and then noticed that the woman’s veils were loose and bent to see the age of his fellow survivor. She glanced up; her gray gaze met his green and brown one. Amazement crept over her smooth, thin face, and Braan wondered if he looked as shocked as he felt. He had prayed to find her but had expected her to be with a tribe.

  “Thank you” came a whisper; tight, high-pitched, like water reeds in brisk wind. How well she controlled fear.

  It was too much for him. He cautiously touched her face, as if afraid she would vanish. Then he let her head drop to his arm and bent to kiss her; gently, thoroughly, as he had wanted to do for so long. Reaching to hang on to his other arm, she did not try to stop him. They clung to one another awhile, and then Braan straightened.

  “Are you alone?”

  “Except for my hazelle.” Teloa must have read more in his face. “Your companions?”

  “Lyte is—gone. We were separated in the sandstorm. And the three animals are lost or dead.” He eyed her searchingly. “You have heard, seen nothing?”

  “Tikki. No humans.” She gripped his arm in sympathy. “He is a commando. He’ll make it.”

  Braan did not answer. He flicked on the safety of his recharged blaster. “Come. Before the flares die.” He helped her down from the ledge, and they slowly made their way back up the path. Braan was thankful for his memory, which had saved him in mazes before. He pinpointed the katt in his mind. Krwb did not venture into a cave, and he wanted the skin if there was time.

  “The blaster.” Teloa stopped him before they reached the front of the cavern. He looked surprised. “There is another katt, smaller.”

  The pit of his stomach grew cold and knotted. For an adolescent to prowl the same range as an adult pair, it had to be desperate.

  They soon learned how desperate. They went down several plateau levels to where Tay had hidden her hazelle and supplies in a narrow cave. Crawling through the tiny opening facing south, they were greeted by Tikki, who immediately burrowed into Tay’s hood. The hazelle was behind the fire, its body caked with dried foam. It turned a wild eye on them. The cave smelled of blood. Puzzled, Tay went to the beast while Braan built up the fire. Then Tay gasped and pointed to the other exit where she had brought in the hazelle.

  Braan stared, astounded. She had gathered and kept all the Cied swords from painting rock, and planted them, blade-up, in the dirt, the shorter blades extending from the sides of the cave opening. The young male katt, determined to reach the hazelle, had slashed its face and neck trying to squeeze between the weapons. Finally it had attempted to jump over them and had impaled itself.

  The Atare went outside and pulled the carcass off the swords from the front. Then he asked if she was going to boil water.

  “I have none.”

  “None?”

  “I use these plants.“ She held up a stalk of tropc. “Not the freshest but palatable.”

  “I have water with my things. Wait here.”

  oOo

  The packs were untouched. Any small, furred scavengers would wait several days to make their meals, until the hazelle was so sweet with death, a katt would not touch it. The krwb had left little for their fellow predators to find. Braan stripped off the equipment and returned to Teloa’s level.

  The woman had dug out what rations she had left, including some roots from mountain plants. She had also removed her tattered outer robe, piling it like a pillow next to the fire. As Braan entered Teloa straightened abruptly, and he knew she was nearly asleep. His own exhaustion weighed on him.

  “How long did you hide from those katt?” Braan asked, surveying the pitiful pile of food. No wonder she looked thin. She had improvised well, though, her planter’s knowledge helping her find the tubers and stalks most likely to provide nourishment.

  “The pressure changed while I looked for food, so I sought a cave. I thought rain was coming. Unfortunately it was the same cavern the katt were in. I avoided them several days, through two storms—I’ve been here four days,” she added, anticipating the next question. “I’m afraid I finally got lost. I was looking for the Dragoche camp.”

  “You did well. Across this range is sand and, in the distance, the mountains we seek. It would take us six or eight days riding from the far side of this mountain. I will explain how to hide from sandstorms. I do not intend to lose you as I lost Lyte.” He poured one canteen into a pan. “S
affra?”

  “Please,” she answered, and then caught her breath. “But—we need—”

  “There is a free well near here. We will stop there tomorrow, before we cross this range, and clean our faces.”

  “The sand works very well,” Tay offered.

  Braan smiled. “That is how the Cied bathe, and how we must, too. But nothing feels like cool water on the face, or down the throat.” He sacked the yellow tubers and dropped them in the boiling water. “Fish them out when they start to burst their skins. I have something I need to do. I may be awhile.” Checking to be sure that his blaster was recharged and secure, Braan slipped out into the chill night.

  He sat outside on a rock for several minutes, controlling his breathing, watching the stars above. He deserved highest laurels for that casual performance. He had forgotten how beautiful she was. How to begin? He had no idea, but he had to keep his physical attraction to her under control or he would fail. The only way to do it right now was to cool down and work himself into sleep. Tightly gripping the flares he had palmed, Braan adjusted his eyes to the sinking moons and started up the mountainside.

  oOo

  TWOHUNDRED FIFTYTHREEDAY, MATINS

  The adult katt were as he had left them, stiff as a board and dyeing the stones crimson. Braan quickly stripped off his clothes and began to cut away the first pelt. The skin of a katt was worth its weight in diamonds off-world; the skin of one killed with a knife thrust was beyond price. And that pelt would be his major gift to Baakche Dragoche. The others ...

  It took less time to skin the female. He folded them the way his guaard had taught him and walked back down the rocky slope. After cutting up the adolescent katt, Braan moved away from the carcass and scrubbed himself clean with the fine sand in the bowl of the glen. Then he sat awhile, watching the last moon set and the night grow old. Peace washed over him, the presence of Mendülay settling like a mantle. It was not until the cold reached his bones that he remembered he had eaten nothing. Regretfully detaching himself from the meditative mood, Braan reached for his joqurs and caftan.

  oOo

  Tay was asleep next to the fire, her caftan and one blanket wrapped warmly around her, the other coverlet folded and set next to his pack. She had found several other bits of food in the bags and had arranged the brightly colored seeds and dried fruit on the second blanket’s edge. In a tightly sealed sack balanced precariously above the pan were his tuber and beans. The water was now saffra.

  “Warm without being overcooked. Nicely done, my lady.” Braan sat across the fire from her and began his meal, wishing briefly for fresh bread. He was grateful her hunger had overcome whatever desire she would have had to allow royalty to eat first.

  One hazelle to carry their food and water. Six days riding. But both of them on one beast? Both of them walking with a pack animal ... Maybe twelve or fourteenday, if they were lucky. And maybe a dead hazelle at the end of the trip; even hazelles needed some water. He would regret that, but otherwise it could be their own deaths. He looked long at the beast. It was sinewy, as if it had thrived on the trip. Tay must have fed it every plant from the last range to this one. There would be boulders in the desert, crevices to shield from the light and heat of the day, though they were not on any proper map. Some had free wells, unclaimed by any tribe, for the use of all.

  He quietly searched the packs, and his heart leapt to see a long string of gourds. She had kept them with no hope of finding water; or she had kept faith.

  Braan closed the satchels and banked the fire for the night.

  RAGÄREE’S PEAK

  TWOHUNDRED FIFTYTHREEDAY, VESPERS

  Liel was studying the ancient parchment so intently that she was unaware of Ronüviel’s entrance. Roe smiled faintly, her amusement fading as she saw what her little sister was reading. Trouble—the girl could draw parallels as easily as she and Arrez had.

  “Broadening your horizons?” Roe heard herself say.

  “Working on an ulcer,” Liel replied without turning.

  Ronüviel forced a chuckle. “Coming with me?”

  Liel spun around. “You are crazy! You are really going to go east! You could get killed, and the babies, too! Ever since the night Braan and Lyte left, things have been crazy. The councils have not met, nor the synod; Arrez issues orders and Gid carries them out. People are becoming worried and suspicious. Not one member of the male throne line left in Nuamura, and now you are planning to leave!” A moment’s pause, then, “Why are you asking me to go?” Liel forced out. “Are you so confident of success you will take our whole family into the ciedär? I would think you would be ordering me to stay here!”

  Ronüviel sat down on the edge of the desk, facing her little sister. Not so little; a woman, thinking with adult concern. “Liel,” she started gently. “Do you disbelieve the prophecy just because you may be a part of it?” Liel did not answer. “I am not crazy, dreaming about my children becoming great leaders and taking Nuala into a new age. I am practical. And I am willing to do anything moral to bring about the safety of our people.”

  Roe gestured out the new doors to the terrace, toward the vineyards and new grain on the plain below. “Have you looked in the fields? Healthy plants, yes, but small, and likely to bear small yield. We will not last another year without assistance. There will be no off-world help. We know that; we merely laugh and jest as night closes in around our fragile fortress. The Cied can aid us, but we must convince them that the house of Atare is their lifeline, just as they are our future.

  “Dielaan will not waste energy shielding the ciedär, no matter what his promises; and if the Fewhas land, Ciedärlien will die. No race of semi-barbarians would dare leave a nomadic people ripe for rebellion within striking distance of their installations.” Liel stirred at this, but did not argue the point. The Fewhas had awe-inspiring technology, but from the Axis viewpoint, their culture—their humanity—had suffered.

  “We must show them their danger, show them Braan is worthy of their confidence, and show them that the house of Atare continues. Genuar can convince them of the danger. I believe in Braan’s ability to prove to them his worthiness. And I think the prophecy of Naitun can be applied to me: ‘In a year of flame and thunder, from the womb of a healer life shall be born, bearing sight no one has seen before. And ye shall bow down to the one before them,’ and so on!”

  “I know the prophecy,” Liel finally interrupted.

  “Do you understand it?”

  “I know what you want to make of it. In a year of great upheaval the twins—the ‘them’ in the prophecy—are born with Atare eyes never before recorded, and the one to lead is that ruler born before them, Braan. You think you can get away with this?”

  A knock came at the bronze shield. “Enter.” Arrez walked into the room. He studied their faces, his own unsmiling, and then his glance fell upon the open manuscript.

  “Are you going?” he asked conversationally.

  Liel stared at him in amazement. “You as well?” she breathed.

  “It rips my heart. But it is the only guarantee of success. I believe in Mendülay’s providence.”

  The young woman leapt up. “Then I am also going! Someone in the party must have common sense! I will be ready in ten minutes.” She flew out the doorway before either of them could answer her.

  “You are resolved on this?” Arrez said a moment later.

  “For me. I do not know if I am right to take her. But who else can I ask to take the risk? This is Atare business, in the end. I do not think I can handle the children in the desert alone, and can you see a guaard tending one of them?”

  Arrez reached out and gently touched her cheek. “Be cautious. Let them recognize you for what you are. Do not force your hand. I pray for a safe journey and a swift return. There is no way to determine what will happen.”

  “Have faith, my priest.”

  “I should be saying that to you.”

  THE CIEDÄR

  TWOHUNDRED FIFTYSIXDAY, PRIME


  When Lyte opened his eyes, he could see the rising star of morning swiftly topping the horizon. It was so large, he could almost reach out and seize it. A blur detached itself from the shadows in his vision and came to him. He felt his head and shoulders being lifted and water being poured down his throat, streaming down his pale beard. It was as if his body belonged to another person. Lyte no longer seemed to exist.

  “Don’t breathe it, you’re not a fish.” Moran. How did Moran come into the dream? A day or so ago Moran had appeared, shaking his head in irritation and telling him he was a stupid, selfish fool for waiting so long to come into the ciedär. And then to lose the Atare! And to share his water with the hazelle even though starstroke had set in. Starstroke? Lyte had wondered, even as he had drained his gourd, much thirstier than a commando ever had right or reason to be. He had staggered on, looking for shade, for water, until his head swam so badly that he could no longer stand.

  “Bra-an ...”

  “You were alone, except for your beast.” Another voice. Jaacav. A dream? Not a dream. Lyte slowly opened his eyes again, focusing on the shadowy lumps. A vatos wool blanket was spread over him. There was no fire that he could see.

  “What are you—what were you doing out here? What happened to Braan?”

  “Where ... find me.”

  “In the sand, west of here. The hazelle stayed with you, and we spotted movement. Where is my Atare?” Jaac asked, her voice sharp.

  “Sandstorm.” Lyte tried to sit up, his head clearing. He felt weak, almost as weak as when he had radiation poisoning.

  “From the beginning. Take your time. We’re not leaving until you can ride out of here,” Moran said. The warrior helped his friend sit upright, leaning him against a stone.