Fire Sanctuary

by Katharine Eliska Kimbriel

  “They are here.” She spun around, startled by his voice. “We might as well use the dry rations.” He threw some saffra into the water.

  “The beast?”

  “They probably already have it.”

  “If we had stayed awake ... guarded?” She asked hesitantly.

  He shook his head. “We want them to find us. These are the Dragoche Mountains; only the Dragoche prowl here. Eat as much as you can,” he instructed, handing her a twisted food stick. “It is a good six hours to their encampment.”

  “You have been there?” she asked after a time.

  “When my mother’s brother negotiated a treaty with them. It is no makeshift city, but a permanent tent site. You will find it interesting.” He pointed to her knife. “Keep that hidden. And within reach. We do not want them to think you are a warrior but also do not want them to think you are khatta.”

  “Khatta?”

  “A young man or woman who does not have the talent to become a warrior, a hunter, or a scholar. The choices are to flee to the coast, die or fall into a servant class of sorts—chattel, khatta. I do not think that is the original meaning of the word, but it suffices. We must be sure that they know you are of the scholar class. Be as proud as you can honestly manage, my beauty. Attitude and truth is everything. Do you remember what I told you of their customs?”

  “I think so.”

  “Good. Do not be intimidated by them. You are my liaison. It is not proper for me to press for the rights of the royalty class. You have a good memory. Use it—demand our rights. It improves our standing as word spreads.”

  Tay kept her face impassive, determined not to show her fear. He will tell me if I press too hard....

  “Remember how you flared at Corymb? Keep that in mind.” He watched her quietly, his eyes sparkling in the flickering light of the fire. Amused? Excited about the coming challenge?

  Why do I have a knot in my chest? She did not ask the question aloud. Mechanically chewing the food stick, she felt the numbness creep to her stomach. At the same time an excitement grew, a tension in her arms and thighs. Such a game they were about to play ...

  oOo

  Tay was grateful that she was between bites when the silhouette rose up in the entranceway. Somehow she managed not to flinch but glanced to Braan. He dipped up a cup of saffra and turned to the robed figure. “Break your fast with us?”

  The warrior nodded thanks but did not take the cup. “We are nearly finished.” He faced Tay again. She swallowed, unable to believe that he left his back exposed. But he was right: if there was treachery, they were already lost.

  She stuffed what was left of the dry saffra into her bag and then was startled when a dark streak flashed by the fire pit and into her outer robe. The Cied stepped into the light, his drawn blade glittering. Braan held up a hand to stop the warrior as Tikki ran up Teloa’s arm. The Cied’s dark eyes flickered in amazement. He sheathed his sword and then left the cave.

  “Are we in trouble?” she whispered.

  “No, you just increased your stature by having a wild animal that looks to you. Come. Put on your robe.” He began to extinguish the fire.

  oOo

  The moons crept to hang suspended in the center of the sky, and still they walked on. Another two or three hours; in a valley, he had said. The light was bright enough to see an occasional pattern on a robe. She was certain that she saw at least two different ones, possibly three. What ... ?

  “Braan, the robe patterns ...”

  “I know. We are heading toward the camp. Do not worry.” It was swift and low.

  Do not worry.

  Her feet felt leaden when they finally topped the last crest. Teloa sat down in the middle of the trail, caring little for their reactions. Climbing mountains was different from walking in sand. She looked out over the valley and forgot about her feet. Light. Thousands of twinkling lights, like a hill of temple candles or the ceremony of Lastday. Campfires, lanterns, torches—from this distance nothing but tiny points of light. Braan extended a hand to her. She stood, and they started down the narrow, winding path.

  The road eventually broadened and became smooth once more. They were on the floor of the valley. Huge, irregular tents loomed up on either side of them, pallid heaps under the near-trine. Cied, in flowing robes, went about their business along the side routes, but Teloa did not miss the occasional sidelong glances. Braan had thrown back his hood, something he had asked her not to do. She risked a turn of her head; he walked like a ruler should walk, brisk and yet unruffled, with a proud carriage.

  He could not be mistaken for anything else. She saw a difference in the robes now, reflecting strangely in the torchlight. The hem and side-seam combination was on every Cied accompanying them, even if it was not the black-and-gold Dragoche emblem. A few of their guides had embroidery on the back of their robes, as well. Leading the way was an older Cied—his robe’s black-and-gold markings were from the right hip to the left corner hem in a widening arc across the front. She could not tell if it was the same design. A few smaller figures—women—stood in tent doorframes. Their black-and-gold pattern was also a curving slash, but it was an inverted arc from the left shoulder down between the breasts to the belt. Several shrouded forms had more than one area embroidered.

  Finally the greatest tent was reached. The older man indicated that Braan should follow him. A warrior stepped next to Tay, and inwardly she froze. Braan remained impassive.

  “I am the Atare’s eyes and ears,” Tay heard herself say. The warrior disappeared again, and she was following Braan under the canopy. He had not exaggerated—he would truly do nothing to press for rights, not even to request the mandatory scripter. She had spent the last six hours reciting the information he had given her. She hoped it was enough.

  They were seated on soft pillows across from an elderly man wearing a white outer robe with the Dragoche warrior border, the lower skirt design, and trim on his long cuffs and hood. The younger man to his right possessed intent, dark eyes; the trim on his sand-colored robe was identical, except for the plain hood rim. It suddenly occurred to Teloa that these designs were very important. She looked casually at Braan as she surveyed the group, politely dropping her upper veil. His robe was also richly embroidered, as was the one she was wearing—his extra. Various shades of violet, and royal purple—the true, deep pink—in a fierce, convoluted dragon, metallic threads highlighting the design. Kell swirls bordered the cuffs and hood. Lords, she wore the mark of the royal line.

  Braan had removed both veils with his hood, the ultimate in compliment and trust, Tay assumed. She did not expect them to reciprocate. Not yet. Figures in solid beige robes appeared, bearing trays of saffra, dried fruits, and various cheeses and breads. Teloa riveted one young man with her stare when he attempted to serve a clansmember after the Dragoche but before Braan. He quickly repaired his error.

  “Welcome, Braan Atare. When Genuar told me you came alone to our borders, I could not believe my ears. And that you would bring one of your house! You bring honor upon our heads.” Baakche was a strong tenor with just a touch of silver in his voice. A mad one, Braan had said, and dying. The old warrior was their high priest and spiritual conscience, able to command every leader present with the wave of a hand.

  “The Serae Teloa is one of our finest planters and was a representative of the first expedition, when my brothers were lost,” Braan supplied graciously. “I found her in the ciedär, and she accompanies me on the same mission.” Teloa wondered about those words as Baakche quickly named the tribes present, four deep around the circle. Somewhere in this camp were the traders her group had met, and they would know that her original robe had been unmarked. Why did that bother her?

  The discussion began in earnest, and Teloa settled back to listen very carefully. She segmented the bread as he had told her to, conscious that those present were expecting her to behave like royalty. Watching eyes and listening to inflection would be her greatest help here. Later Braan would have q
uestions.

  It was the Ciedärlien’s turn to ask questions. Genuar had briefed them on many things, that was apparent. Teloa sensed a subtlety behind the words. Some of the inquiries were deceptively simple, such as asking about the health of his family, of the high priest, of their people in general. Questions about industry, trade, mining, defense. When they reached defense, the voices took on a new edge. A planetwide shield? Why include the ciedär? Though not enemies, the Cied and the cities were not allies.

  “But that must change,” Braan answered gently. “If we read the signs correctly, a time is fast approaching that shall demand all our resources and cunning. We—”

  “Why Cied? Why should we not let this enemy destroy you and go on as we have always lived? Did not the prophets foretell this day?” The woman’s voice was hard, broken; Tay had the feeling her tribe had suffered greatly under the attack, and blamed the cities for provoking it.

  “This enemy is not my enemy, chieftain,” Braan replied, his voice perfectly controlled. “It is senseless, without direction, and burned through our system on its way to its goal, the heart of the Axis. Only our retaliation kept it from searing this planet to a crisp. They shall return, brethren. May Mendülay strike me dead if I do not speak what I believe. Certainly they want the cities, the mines, the industry, the most pleasant places to live. But, warrior, do you seriously think the Fewhas, the Malvevenians, even the Axis will allow a warrior nation to remain within striking distance? The Cied might die later, but surely they would die.” There was no response as Braan reached for some yellow cheese. “And when they finally leave, Nuala a barren rock, devoid of trinium or minerals; shall you learn a trade, brethren? Shall you take to the seas, the mines, to weaving?”

  “You come to bargain?” said a voice in the back. Stigati at this meeting. Interesting ... Not the Wasuu, the outbounders, the hard-core waste dwellers, but Stigati, those who had some semblance of a tribe.

  “In so many words.”

  “Speak plainly.”

  Braan paused, settling his thoughts, though his face betrayed nothing. How to phrase this politely yet firmly? Teloa wondered. “Generations ago,” Braan began, “the Atare came to the Dragoche with a proposition. Neither of them trusted the Axis—or the Wasuu, who were raiding and destroying both Cied and city alike. So the Atare proposed a mutual defense pact. The technology of the city and the cunning of the Cied—together. The Atare had ordered the construction of a defense shield. It would not be a solid shield and could be detected when activated, but it would prevent our total destruction. The Cied, in turn, would keep the Wasuu under control, stop the raiding and the deaths. A bargain was struck. The shield was extended to the ciedär, and the Dragoche ordered the Wasuu contained.

  “Years passed. Most of the Wasuu became Stigati, and the vigil was relaxed. The city of Seedar can attest to fewer warriors walking the boundaries. It still has tumbled walls and abandoned homes to show for the desertion. Yet when the Fewhas attacked, the shield held, and we are alive because of it. Fewer, but alive.”

  “This is known to us, Atare. The Cied destroyed the Wasuu tribes, and the contract was fulfilled. It was later we discovered that the cities expected a perpetual vigil. Yet your protection of us continued.”

  “The Atare’s protection continued. The word of Curr Atare, and Baskh Atare after him, is what saved the Cied. Just as I now bring my word to you.”

  “Your word is better than any other’s word?” someone asked bluntly.

  Braan looked him directly in the eyes. “The guaard is mine. The guaard control the shield. Therefore the shield is mine. Do not make the mistake of thinking the guaard passes with the kingship. It does not. And the synod is in an uproar over the disappearance of Kalith and Kavan of Atare. If the guaard limits the shield to the walls of old Amura, the synod will not—and cannot—prevent it.”

  Sneaking a glance at Genuar, Teloa felt he looked pleased. Perhaps he, himself, had not phrased things in quite the same way, but an effect clearly had been made on the group.

  “You come with a new offering, Braan Atare?” Baakche said.

  Braan did not miss the formal use of his name. “I do. Before, desert and coast united for their mutual defense. Now we must unite for our mutual survival. A new shield exists. It can still detonate the lunas in the air; it can also destroy the power of the lesser warheads. Debris will fall into our atmosphere, but the rain of death ends. Enemy ships would be severely damaged passing through it, while friends could be shown safe passage.”

  “What use is this to us?” a chieftain interrupted. Teloa sent him a withering glance.

  “You need the protection of our shield. We need the instruction of your planting. I propose a trade. Teach us to make this planet fruitful without chemicals, without forced yield, and we shall protect the planet itself.” Tay counted the minutes as they ticked by.

  “And if we do not believe this? How can you exclude us? I think we are protected whether we agree or not.” Teloa tried to see the speaker.

  “If we can open the shield anywhere for a ship to land, we can deactivate it to leave an area unprotected. Accept it.” Now Tay could see the speaker, a man bearing a recent scar in a half-moon over his left eyebrow. He was visibly nervous and looked unfriendly. She studied him a moment as another pause mantled the gathering.

  “And if this offer is refused?” Baakche’s voice was almost tender.

  “Then you condemn the cities to warfare over food, and to deterioration. And yourselves to eventual death at the hands of the invaders—possibly even from the Axis. As long as we live, they cannot gain the controls. You cannot operate them, even if you take them away from us. If we starve, the secret dies with us.”

  “Perhaps the bargaining with the synod would be easier.”

  “Unlikely. The Ragäree would rule until my heir was of age, and after losing three brothers to the desert, she would not feel kindly toward the Cied. I am your hope.”

  A soft buzzing rose as various chieftains began to talk among themselves. Teloa sipped her saffra, trying not to gag at its strength, and considered the words. These people respected strength, honor, and truth. Braan clearly had the honor of his ancestors and his own name; and they were Nualan, they could sense truth. Strength? She felt the air within him. What would they make of it? Baakche and Genuar were not joining in the whispering, and they were clearly in charge.

  “Dawn approaches, Atare. Our scholars wish to show you what you have come so far to see, and then to the day’s rest.” Baakche signaled, and three Cied entered the tent, one of them the man who had escorted Braan inside. “Elder, take them ... take them ...” Baakche faltered, visibly weak in the growing light.

  “It is done, O Dragoche.” The planter turned and bowed to Braan. “Atare, my fellow scholars and I would show you the results of our labors.” Braan stood and gave the nod of equality to Baakche, who looked distant. Then he reached to steady Teloa, the woman gracefully standing and, at his slight urging, falling into place beside the scholar as they all walked out of the tent. Only after the tent flap settled into place did conversation burst forth within.

  oOo

  The light of day was welling into the valley as they walked through the village toward the fields. Teloa casually refastened her upper veil, not certain if it was proper for a stranger to walk around without it on. Braan left his hood down. Smoke floated before them as they reached a path slanting downward. Cooking fires—for their last meal before retiring? Cied reversed the normal schedules in the summer. They passed a group of children playing, their romp part dance, part throwing and catching. The small robed figures stopped and boldly stared as the quintet went by, until the head planter hissed a warning to them, scattering them to their own tents. Then Teloa saw the fields, and she forgot about everyone and everything else.

  Turquoise and gold as far as she could see, and taller than the tallest human. She stepped into the forest of poles and grain without asking leave, dropping her veils and reaching with the s
killed, gentle fingers of one who knows growing things. None of the planters tried to stop her; they looked knowingly at one another, as if she had passed some sort of test. Gesturing to Braan to follow, two of them started down an aisle.

  Fragile turquoise plants, already hip-high, and golden gourds vining up around them, keeping pace in their mutual race for the sky. Directly next to each row was a trench box, filled with floating seedlings. Short, leafy plants needing shade grew beneath them, and the grain swept away toward the hollow of the valley. Tay stooped to examine the irrigation system. It was completely enclosed, and a trickle of water from a modified tropc tube ran to each individual plant. She saw no yellowed vegetables, no insects devouring the crop. Standing, she stared off at the fields, where morning had not yet come, and saw fruit trees in the draw.

  “The retchii grow swiftly and are harvested first,” a planter said slowly, carefully, to Teloa. Touching the waist-high trench boxes, she added, “The gourds then drop into the shallow liquid.” Tay nodded.

  The man and woman accompanying Braan were more verbose but did not go into any specific information. All too soon for Teloa, the tour was over. As the young woman brought Tay back to the main path, she said, “I hope we shall be able to show you more.”

  “I also. We burned all ties with the Axis. Now we turn to fellow Nualans,” Teloa answered cautiously, refastening her veils. The shrouded Cied nodded thoughtfully, as if dissecting her words.

  Climbing easily to the village level, the head planter escorted them to an unoccupied tent. Something of the guaard in Tay took over, and she threw back the flaps, examining every corner of the structure. It was clean, cool and dry, with soft pillows the depth and size of mattresses completely covering the floor. A tray of hot saffra and delicate cakes sat in one corner, a pitcher and basin of water in the other. Their packs were in the center of the tent.

  Satisfied, Teloa indicated Braan could enter. The young planter behind her ventured a low question. “There are other tents. You will stay here?”