Fire Sanctuary

by Katharine Eliska Kimbriel

  “The conferral must be witnessed. Send for the high priest and the Ragäree, and for the heads of the synod,” Jaac said, glancing at the scene. Kal did not seem aware of what was happening. He was studying the chain. In his other hand the youth still clutched a leather thong. Strung on it was five ounces of trine gold. Riding back to the mountains, the group had come upon a decimated Stigati smuggling operation. After killing the young katt that had destroyed the camp, Jaacav had insisted that they search the packs. They found weapons, luxuries—and five ounces of trinium, the ransom of kings. The embargo had been violated.

  Not a ransom, Lyte thought with a grim smile, remembering Kal’s face when he found a Cied whose robe was not shredded. The embroidered emblem was bold, abstract, and blood red. Recognizing it from his days of captivity, Kal had carefully folded and kept it, along with the trinium, saying only: “We have found the blood payment for the deaths of two Atares. They should have demanded more.”

  Jaac had spoken differently. “Mendülay guided us to them. There shall be a reckoning.”

  “The Ragäree is not here,” the guaard continued, and then spotted Lyte. The warrior stopped speaking and stood. “I told you not to return without him.” Almost conversational.

  It was the last thing Lyte expected, and a lesser commando would have been left gasping his life out on the rocks. As it was, he barely was able to turn the blade, so lightning-fast was the guaard. What? He was fresh and young and wanted blood. Lyte was exhausted and confused.

  The guaard backed off, looking for another opening, while Lyte palmed the cat knife he had lifted from the other’s belt. Everyone has gone crazy, was all he could think. Circle, feint, circle again, watch the eyes, the neck muscles, the chest—Jaac was giving orders, the other guaard falling back. What was she saying? The smell of blood was intoxicating.

  “Noah! Explain!”

  Noah. Where had he heard ... Then Lyte remembered. This guaard belonged to Braan. He’s going to kill me.

  “Noah! He is mine!” It was soft, chilling, and carried across the silence. Someone was behind Lyte. Whatever he saw made Noah drop the knife into the dust. Lyte remained crouched, suspecting a trap, using a quick-glance technique. Common sense said to jump him now. “Lyte! Enough!” He recognized the voice. Kal.

  Turning, Lyte saw the young man was close to him, hand stretched toward the off-worlder. Lyte offered him the blade, but Kal took his other hand. Kalith rotated the wrist, holding it so all could see where the knife had ripped Lyte’s palm when he turned it away. “This should be attended to.” Kal faced the silent troop of guaard. “Given either following a healthy Atare or returning to guarantee the life of an heir, Lyte chose. Does anyone deny the choice?” Silence prevailed. Glancing at Noah, Kal said, “My elder lives. The other commando is at his back. It is enough?”

  Noah nodded, his handsome face impassive. Lyte offered him his knife back, expecting him to walk away. To his veiled surprise the man graciously accepted it and then bent to gather up the other weapon.

  “Nothing personal,” Kal murmured drolly. Then he gestured toward the guaard removing his brother. “Make certain Elana operates,” he said to Jaacav, “and take guaard to Shinar. I must prepare for the council, but tell her of my plans ... to see if our hearts are still one. I would speak to Justinian—I have an ultimatum for him.” Glancing to Lyte, he asked, “Are you coming to the anointing? To do this thing I must become Atare.” And then the young man swept into the cavern.

  GAREDOC

  TWOHUNDRED SIXTYTWODAY, SEXT

  Lyte watched the monstrous cavern fill, silenced by the sheer number of elders who had seats in the synod. Too many people with power for Lyte’s taste. Would they understand the point Kal was trying to make? The morning had been hectic. Lyte had not been privy to the meeting in Kal’s chamber, although he had heard the raised voices. Instead he met with a healer to have his hand laser-sealed.

  His presence as a witness was requested for the anointing, however. It was swift, the battlefield version, naming the youth Kalith Atare, the onehundred sixtyeighth of his line. And Kal now walked with a confidence far outweighing the chain of office he wore. Even Justinian did not hesitate to address him as sovereign. Lyte wondered what Kal had forced upon the man—what Justinian was willing to do to insure a royal line. Only after the ceremony was through did Jaac depart to tell Shinar the news and leave guaard with her. Did Jaac fear for Kal?

  “Brethren, cease thy speech!” It was Url, the wife of Justinian, calling the synod to order. Lyte, seated in the visitor’s gallery, moved until he could see the permanent dais. Kalith had arrived, scrubbed, shaven and dressed in a deep burgundy-red caftan. He was a vivid sight, easily seen even by those in the uppermost tiers. “We have been called for consultation and decision. Let us hear our Atare.”

  “We have been called,” came the unanimous response.

  Kal stood and walked to the edge of the dais. “There is no time for soft words of diplomacy. Our fate is balanced on a pinnacle, between the warriors of the guaard and watch and the favor of the Ciedärlien. We have one of these. Braan Atare has gone to the ciedär at the invitation of Genuar, heir of Baakche Dragoche, to gain the other. Our existence rides with his success or failure. I have agreed to take up the chain—with conditions. Justinian shall conduct this discussion.” The Atare sat once again.

  The old politician stood and moved to the portable podium. He paused, as if considering his words. Lyte’s tension-sensitive training was running riot—Justinian seemed to feel as if the roof was about to blow off the cavern.

  Finally, the Nualan began. “Brethren, we have been gifted by Mendülay—the house of Atare has returned to us. And they bring high hopes and faith in their siblings. Therefore Kalith Atare has specified two conditions to his rule. The first is that it shall be interim, as the ancient codes demand, and he shall step down upon the return of Braan Atare. The second condition is that in the near future, upon the woman’s acceptance, Kalith Atare shall take to wife Shinar reb^Elana.” There was a moment of absolute silence. And then almost every man and woman present began to speak.

  Justinian banged on the podium. “Brethren, please! Am I not entitled to the courtesy of being heard? As you all shall be, after I finish presenting this case. I shall try to show you why I, representing the synod, agreed to these conditions.” He took a sip of water, purposely slowing his movements, as the shouts from the floor died down to an undercurrent. “Elders of Nuala. The law that you are screaming about at the top of your lung capacities is well known to me. I have pondered it many years but have never considered doing anything about it, because no Atare has protested loudly enough. Now one has, and now I think I can make you see the sense of this; see things we have all been blind to for centuries.

  “The law of the royal line was made thousands of years ago, both to help the genetic mixing and to keep any one royal family from becoming too greedy and conquering a planet for a son, a city not being enough. I see no reason why the safety measure of the joint power of Atare and Ragäree should not continue, especially since the responsibilities include a solar system; it balances as easily and cleanly as the throne and synod. But the law of marriages—that law was made when genetically we were only marginally human. Now the 20s have a better genetic rating than any other human group! I exempt no planet from that statement.

  “Fellow elders, I wish to remind you that the last time the Axis lost a front, it took them sixty-three years to regain the captured systems. Sixty-three terrayear, friends! And in that case, like most cases, no interplanetary Axis shipping was possible for the duration of the occupation.

  “Now, do we deny Braan Atare, the three single throne line Atares, and their house the privilege of a legal line? Do we doom our royal family to extinction? Kalith Atare brings to us a jewel of the new generation, the daughter of our high priest Arrez and Elana, the most skilled scientist and surgeon among us. She is a lovely, educated woman of a line as clean as Atare itself, and a proven 20. D
o we dare insult our people and all they have sacrificed for these last five thousandyear by saying a woman any human should be proud to marry is not suitable for our ruler? Do we say Nualans are inferior? Will always be inferior? We might as well!

  “And I remind you, only Atare is still bound by this law. Only Atare of all the royal houses does not intermarry among the other royal lines and the masses, does not take two spouses if a relationship with an 80 is desired. How long, Nuala? How long must we wait to call ourselves human?”

  Applause from many fronts greeted the end of his speech, and Lyte leaned back in amazement, shaking his head as the leader of the synod seated himself on the dais. Crisp, concise, to the point, and with just enough melodrama. Justinian was a master speaker, that was certain. One would think he had been planning this for years. He had hinted at as much—had Kal and Shinar always been his star examples? No matter. Immediately several dozen elders leapt to their feet to demand recognition from the chair. Lyte settled down for a long, drawn-out argument.

  THE CIEDÄR

  TWOHUNDRED SIXTYTWODAY, VESPERS

  Wavering heat, rising from the scorched sand until Ronüviel was convinced there were two stars, mirroring one another, broiling the group between them. She lay on the tarps without moving, drenched with sweat, afraid that evening would never come. The babies were quiet as they nursed; so calm this trip, as if they were also lulled by the shimmering desert.

  The tent suddenly flapped, announcing a visitor.

  “Who is it?” Roe asked. She was usually not modest about feeding the twins, but when she nursed both of them at once, she felt too much like a tazelle to handle strangers, even among guaard.

  “Liel.”

  “Enter.”

  The woman slipped in like a whisper. “Can I help you pack?”

  Roe did not miss the note of concern in her voice. Too tired, I am too fragile. “Yes, please. The blue satchel—that is the last of it.”

  “The camp is almost closed up,” Liel said after a pause. “We leave soon.”

  “How far?”

  “Six or sevenday.”

  “Too long.” Liel glanced up at this, slowing her packing. “From now on we must be ready to ride at vespers and travel until nearly tierce. I feel time is running out.”

  “But—”

  “We must, Liel. Or the rest makes no difference. The Cied travel day and night.”

  “When they have truces, yes—they stop and exchange for fresh hazelles. We cannot do that. But if we go to tierce, we might cut a day ... a day and a half, perhaps.” She laid the last garment on top and pulled the sides of the bag together.

  “It will have to be enough. Tell the first officer.”

  Liel yanked the satchel shut and dragged it out the tent entrance, ill-concealing her anger and fright.

  DRAGOCHE MOUNTAINS

  TWOHUNDRED SIXTYSIXDAY, VESPERS

  Teloa was aware of light first. It had been such a long night; they had walked until well past starrise, but they were finally in the Dragoche Mountains. She opened her eyes. Starset. The cave’s mouth was wide and low, facing west. She slowly sat up and stretched. If only she could wake up instantly, like Braan did. They had slept the morning away, and then hobbled the hazelle so it could graze. Tikki had left to search for seeds.

  “You are inhumanly beautiful by starset.” Teloa did not turn, forcing herself not to blush. Failure. It whipped from her stomach to the extremities like an elaborate bodypainting. “Another fantasy realized. I have wanted to see the total blush.”

  She slowly maneuvered around to face him, one fist defiantly on her hip. “I think you lie awake nights—days—thinking up phrases to make me do that.”

  “You are right. But I never use any of those.” Braan allowed himself a stretch, and Teloa watched the muscles ripple. He did not give the impression of being a big man—Moran and Lyte were a half-head taller—but he was so compact, yet fluid, even graceful. Nothing extra; no fat, no fleshiness. She could count his ribs, yet he was not skinny. Even the whorls of light brown hair were more artistic than—

  “Were you always self-conscious about your body?” he asked, his mischievous grin creeping out.

  “Not at home, although total nudity was not common there. The fields were nightmarishly hot, and we didn’t wear much.”

  “It is also uncommon here. But no one is surprised by it, unless the person wears no jewelry. Then they look out of place.”

  “When I worked the tratores, I was dressed. People who wanted sex did not care how you looked in private. A light was never ignited, to my memory. I started to feel obscene when I was unclothed. They wanted glamorous showpieces. I wore designer gowns in the tratore itself, and the illusion boudoir items when I was playing statue.”

  “Statue?”

  Teloa smiled and unwound her long legs, moving closer to his tangle of blankets. He knew the heart and soul of the tratores but had not played the game. And the hustlers he had met clearly did not waste any time educating him concerning the crueler aspects of hustling.

  “The wealthier and more powerful patrons were, the more likely they were to want beautiful hustlers of all sexes lounging around their private apartments in various stages of undress. For visitors to look at, envy, but never handle. They, themselves, rarely touched us. I had a regular, a gem merchant, who never spoke, never acknowledged my presence; but he had me sit with him through a whole day of semiprivate meetings with professional buyers. I stayed on a couch behind and to one side of him, wearing nothing but his jewelry. I was his favorite—his assistant told me I was the only one who could wear any stone, any metal. And he paid me in cut, unset gems. But he never spoke to me.”

  Braan would not look at her. “Did you hate them?” he asked at last.

  She did not answer. Her thoughts drifted back to the starset, now splashed across the sky like crushed blossoms. Their last starset. What if the Cied— A gentle touch along her jawline brought her mind to clarity. She looked over at him, lying on his side, waiting for her reaction. She had learned that it was his way of calling her back when depressing thoughts threatened to overwhelm her. She raised her left hand and caressed his growing beard, letting her fingers trail across his lips. Then she bent over and softly kissed each eyelid.

  It was the first move toward him she had made in eightday that did not reek of conscious thought and worry. For the first time, old bruises did not throb for her, bones did not ache in response.

  Whatever he was thinking, he controlled himself well. Braan was content with merely looking at her. He did not allow the silence to deepen.

  “We will have company soon,” he said, sitting up. “We must get the hazelle closer to the cave and be ready to welcome them.”

  “I’ll miss the privacy. Cied everywhere; and if we get back, I’ll never see you without a guaard present.” She pulled away and stood, reaching for her inner robe, refusing any nonverbal consolation.

  Braan took up his joqurs and looked for his caftan. “The guaard will not interfere with us,” he replied, looking amused by the thought.

  “But they have eyes, even when they have orders to ignore things.” She sighed and instantly felt contrite for burdening him. “I thought I was done forever with sneaking down corridors.”

  “The guaard see nothing, even on the few times they must be stationed in the private quarters. They do not ever discuss things among themselves, unless they think an Atare is in danger. What sneaking?”

  “Oh, you have a private entrance?” She turned to face him as she said this, winding long, smooth ropes of hair around her head, crisscrossing the circles to make them appear woven. Braan stopped halfway into his caftan and took his time pulling it down, as if trying to fathom what she meant. Then he understood.

  A hasty smile crossed his face, but he cut off a laugh before it passed his lips. “Teloa ... I am not looking for a mistress,” he began, slipping into Axis. “We do not even have a Nualan word for such a thing. I want a wife. I need an Atarae—a
legal partner to bear my legal heirs. Personally I search for a bondmate. I want that woman to be you.” He had looked her in the eye while he said it.

  She stood there with her hands to her head, arrested in mid-gesture as she freed the few shorter hairs to lie around her face. “You have lost your mind,” she finally whispered. “Do you wish to call into question the authority of your kingship? I am ... touched, but you cannot—”

  “My grandmother’s brother did, and no one pulled him off the throne.”

  “Braan! You’re mad!”

  He caught her up in an embrace. “No! I am quite sane! You are not thinking! A courtesan, yes, then we might have problems, criticism. Too many of them in the past have schemed their way into power here. But a hustler! A vivid reminder of everything they detest about the Axis and its war; a war we fought hating it, our enemies and our allies.” Braan spoke swiftly, his words tumbling over each other. “Tay, we need not announce it, but should it become public knowledge, we merely say, ‘It is true. She was a victim of Axis insensitivity, doomed to the prison of a resettlement camp or the fate of a hustler.’ You would be the object of ready, honest, heartfelt sympathy and fiercely shielded!”

  Teloa stared at him, wide-eyed. “But—”

  “My lady, even if you were the lowliest of planters, which you will never be because Lars wants you as his personal assistant, some people could—and may—discover your secret and try to make you feel badly about it. It was an evil of war, and you the victim. It is paid for; let it go. Have you not suffered for it long enough?” She could not answer and merely reached up, touching his arms carefully. “Think on it. You must have no doubts. At least about me.”

  “I will boil some water if you will get the beast,” she whispered. She would not call it Telen in his presence. He whirled and, grabbing his outer robe, threw it on loosely and ducked out the cave entrance. Tay reached for the small boiling pot and filling it, her hands shaking. Then she reached for her outer robe, caressing the dragon of the Atare line.