Teloa nodded. The planter bowed and turned to follow the other two scholars. Tay remained, striving to appear regal and actually shocked by the royal treatment. Her gaze traveled to the largest tent, the meeting place, and her eyes widened. Frozen, she waited as the warriors entered Baakche’s tent, and then the spell was broken. Tay spun around and followed Braan inside, drawing the flaps. Two Dragoche warriors stepped up to stand at the door.
Braan had already removed his outer robe and had poured half a mug of saffra. “Care to wash your face in real water?” Teloa merely knelt down, an exaggerated sigh escaping her lips. Laughing softly, he leaned over and gave her a quick hug. “You were magnificent! Strong without being arrogant. If I was not madly in love with you, I would make you chief of protocol!” A rap at the tent frame disturbed him. He frowned slightly, the first real expression she had seen on his face in hours. “We have our own sanitation behind that curtain; we should not be disturbed for anything until vespers.” He whipped back the flap. A servant knelt there with a tray on the ground before him and another in his arms. Controlling a smile, Braan gestured, and the man stepped in, setting the food by the saffra tray and returning for the pitcher, basin and towels. Bowing pardon, the khatta vanished.
Pulling the canvas down, Braan faced Tay. “It appears your position has been defined. They were confused until now. I did not think we looked enough alike to be mistaken for relatives.” Teloa shook her head incredulously at the games going on in his head and then removed her veils and outer robe. She untied her hair, letting it fall heavily to her thighs. So good to be free of restrictive clothing ...
Braan had vanished. He reappeared again and went to the first basin, pulling off his caftan and bathing face, hands and neck. The water sounded good to Teloa, so she also retreated to the sanitation. To remove the dust of the day ... The light of the rising star cast strange, muted brights and shadows through the sides of the structure, but Tay did not notice. She had seen something before Baakche’s tent that disturbed her, and she was not sure if she should tell Braan. If she was correct; if it was important.
oOo
“Observations?”
“We are not home yet” was her answer.
“No, we are not.”
“I wish you had had time to teach me the tribes’ symbols and the pecking order.”
He shrugged, pulling off his boots and then his joqurs. “Other things were more important. Have you figured out the inner tribal markings?”
“The embroidery?” She paused to pull off one boot, waving her foot to cool it. “The hem and lower side-seam combination is the mark of a warrior. Only royalty has markings on cuffs and hood.“
“Cuffs for royalty; priesthood is marked by the cowl design. The scholar is the lower skirt crescent, and the arc over the heart is a makermother. Hunters have the crescent on the right shoulderblade, trackers the arc on the left. More than one can be possessed, which increases status.”
“Except the makermother.” Braan looked oddly at her. “Baakche does not have that one.” Braan laughed and stretched out to let the fine perspiration dry on his body.
“No, he cannot have that one. His predecessor was a woman, and she had all the markings. Very impressive, like the high priest’s ritual robes.” While he spoke, Braan eyed her critically. She was disturbed. Why? “Did you like the oasis? Impressive, is it not?”
“Very. They can save us, Braan—if they want to.” She impatiently removed her caftan and then stretched, catlike, her blonde mane a glittering curtain around her. She was too much woman to hide behind that hair; nature did not allow it. He pushed that thought away. They were both very tired—he felt it in himself and could see the exhaustion and tension in her. She had called him Braan and was outwardly unselfconscious about it. Praise Mendülay. What was going on in her mind? He could almost see the brain activity.
He reached for a blanket, so lightweight it felt like silk. So they chose to treat him like an Atare, at least until they decided what to do with him. “The saffra has a hot rock under it; it will stay warm. We should rest while we can. I hope we do not have to leave hastily.” He meant it lightly, as a joke, but Teloa moved abruptly in reply, as if she had made up her mind about something. She folded down demurely next to him, her hand on his knee.
“Were you bluffing, back in that council? About withholding the shield?”
“No. Suppose you tell me what is really bothering—Tay?” He forced himself not to move suddenly as his body told him her hand was wandering, tracing a delicate design on his inner thigh. “Beauty, what are you doing?”
“Doing?” she repeated innocently. “Merely relaxing my mind, Atare. It has been a stressful day.”
“Indeed. And is becoming more so. I warn you, my control is very good in dark caves with nervous off-worlders, but in bright tents with bold women—Teloa!” He half sat up. A game—what kind of game? A role-playing? The smile was mischievous and knowing, almost confident, a joke on them both. Like he felt she had been long ago, before other forces shaped her life. Yet he felt tension and a thin edge of fear. Why was she forcing herself into the role? He had based their physical relationship on slowly cracking her trained passivity and encouraging her pleasure. If she persisted, he would not be able to do that.
“Do you think Tikki will like staying with the hazelles? I was not sure about leaving her there.”
I hope you do not think words will take my mind off what you are doing. Do not insult yourself. Her hands were so warm and still soft, even after many days in the ciedär.
“If she becomes bored she will find us. I trust her ability to sneak past Cied, if she could fool Eon and the other warriors.” She was shockingly bold; he could count on one hand the women who could look you in the eye and—of course, he was passive. It made the role easier. But why? Should he play it through? Did he have a choice? “Lady, my control is slipping.”
“Oh?” The next caress was strategic, the response immediate. He grabbed for her; she swept out of his way, a teasing chuckle all that was within reach. “Atare, are you trying to tell me something?”
Braan checked his movement with effort, but not his racing blood. “My name is Braan,” he replied softly.
“I know.” She glided sinuously over the satin pillows toward him, and this time Braan did not miss. The struggle was brief and spirited, but joyful, anticipated. Even as he tried to pin her, half his mind slowing his efforts while the other half was an incoherent frenzy of color, she touched his upper thigh invitingly, winningly, in control of the moment. She whispered his name and something else, in Caprican, and then they were linked, a diffusion of feeling, the elusive tension gone. Braan no longer attempted to control himself, lost against the smooth, warm hardness of her body, razor-keen from desert paths and winds. He tangled his arms in her hair and sought her neck while she gently held his sides, steadying, coaxing. She had such a teasing tongue....
Tired. So tired. He had lost a moment, a total blackout, as he always did when his nerves were worn. He had not known he was so tight ... Warm and soft, cradled in her arms and curls, one hard leg a lock to keep him close. He pulled totally away, to allow her to move freely if she cared to, listening to the twin sounds of her heartbeat in his ear and soft gasps of air, slowing. The tension in the air had returned.
She was shaking. Suddenly fearful, he lifted his head to meet her gaze. Tay reached for his neck, her arms encircling his shoulders, all boldness gone, seeking comfort. Braan gathered her into his embrace and rolled over on his back, holding her so close he could not distinguish her heartbeat from his own. He was not mistaken. She was crying.
“Belaiss, what is wrong?” He barely heard the words himself, dreading the answer, not wanting to break the silence.
“I ... am ... so afraid. He will kill you, I know it. I will stab him if he tries to touch me, I will not—not again—”
“Teloa, who? What?” No point in saying they were under Genuar’s protection. Something had terrified her, and he had
totally missed it. He reached for the sheet, to add warmth to her now icy form. He tucked the silky folds around them, hoping his presence would help steady her. Thank the Lord, it is not me she fears.
“I wanted—just once—for things to be as they should, in case ... you—” He touched her lips to hush her, understanding now and not wanting her to think more on it. “I just ... block out the mind. The heart knows....”
“What did you say? I do not know that language.”
“What—oh, Caprican.”
“I thought so.” He eyed her.
“It means ‘I love you.’” She pulled him close again, hiding her face against his shoulder.
“Tell me.”
When she was calm, she finally began in a low voice, “The Stigati who spoke in the council; the man who doubted you could turn off sections of the shield? I saw him, Braan. Outside Baakche’s tent, with the other chieftains, I think. His robes ... The mark was the same one as the warriors who attacked us, I am positive of that. I thought I saw it when we walked out earlier, but I ignored it. Now I have seen the entire design clearly. You cannot miss the angle of that slash, and the way it tapers to a point. He took your brothers, his people.”
“The warrior with the half-circle scar around the brow? It is recent, still purple?”
“Yes! And the way he—he scrutinized me, he knows I know, from what you said here, about my being with the first group. A terrible look ... and then he did not see me anymore. He was staring at this tent. He hates you.”
“That last knife fight addled his brains.”
“It is not funny.” She clutched him tightly.
“I know. Sleep. We can do nothing about it now. I cannot speak to Genuar alone until this is over.” But Braan lay awake, thinking, long after Teloa’s breathing slowed, knowing what he had felt in the air and not sure how he would deal with it.
Chapter Twenty-One
GAREDOC
TWOHUNDRED SIXTYSIXDAY, NONE
Lyte forced himself to stay awake by sitting on the edge of a rock outcropping. Sheer survival did wonders for his state of alertness. Four days they had argued, every tribal and political rivalry of the past five thousand years rising to the surface of the discussion, obscuring the main issues. One group was upset about broadening multiple marriages to include the royal family. Should this be allowed only when one spouse is an 80, or with more than one 20 as well? What if an heir to the Atare name died and his next-eldest brother had a different mother; was monetary pecking order determined by which marriage came first or the childrens’ date of birth? What if the Ragäree wanted to marry a sini? Were humanoids and aliens next?
Lyte laughed without sound. They were so flustered, they no longer made sense! But one thing was clear to him: They would not oppose the marriage. An elder of Seedar made that plain when he stood and said, “This is getting into the hypothetical, and I assume that means there is no objection to the current reality?”
An elder stood to address the synod leader. “Justinian, I have a more pertinent question. Do we still need a royal house at all? Could we not develop another judicial branch of government? The Axis has always frowned on all forms of planet royalty,” the Dielaan elder said, stubbornly avoiding Corymb’s riveting stare.
“The Axis frowns on a great number of the things we do, elder,” Justinian replied. “I am not certain the Axis will allow any of our government to remain standing.”
Corymb did not like that suggestion. Why? Lyte considered the man’s reaction. Of course. If he cannot have the throne for himself, a descendant of his might.
“Justinian, what do you mean about the Axis not allowing our government to remain standing? Are you withholding information?”
“Idiots!” Everyone looked to see who had spoken. It was Kavan, lying upon a cot near the dais, refusing the comfort of the life shelter. He had demanded to be present for the debate. Now he shook in his rage; a guaard extended a hand to keep him lying prone, but the acoustics carried his voice. “Can you not see what is coming? What Braan Atare is doing? The reason we are alive is because of the old shield and the missile sites, the very things the Axis decreed we were not to have! Not only can we survive alone when Braan returns with the secrets of the Cied; we must! We are not reentering the Axis Republic, even if there is a republic to rejoin. Rebellion sparks on hundreds of planets. Intelligent beings can see through this so-called ‘investigation’ of Nuala. Our ambassador is being held—” Kavan finally stopped, unable to contain his fury, reduced to silence. He fell back, exhausted. An undercurrent of speech was heard, barely audible.
Kal stood and walked to the center of the dais. He closed his eyes a moment, as if collecting his thoughts. Then: “Brethren, my brother speaks much truth. The shield and GTAs are expressly forbidden items, even with our trinium mines to protect. The guaard and their fellow Axis-trained warriors we keep only by virtue of their Atare origins. If the Axis returns, or we ‘return’ to them, do you think they will allow us to keep our defense missiles? Our planet shield? Especially the new shield, when it damages non-Nualan ships? They will want to establish a large military ‘peacekeeping’ force here. After all, we will probably be the Fewha border once again. They will keep the peace; by making sure our defense shield is no longer operative, by detonating our missiles in their tubes. They will police our people, our trade, our mines, the guaard, and the spaceport, where Axis ships built from our planet’s patents shall land. Then, elders of the synod, when we are expendable again, we truly shall end as a people.”
“You are talking treason!”
Kal’s intense green eye bored into Corymb. “Would you like to open that topic for discussion?” He gestured to the crowd. “Have you not questioned the people you represent? What has the Axis given us, except a larger inferiority complex than the one we already had? Occasionally an off-worlder came to love our people, and chose Nuala. So we gained our perverted system of royal marriage! Name one good thing the Axis has given us! Only one! Do not tell me of trade or industry. I will tell you of the enormous profits they made every year off our planet. One thing!”
It was so silent in the garedoc Lyte could hear a pebble moving under someone’s foot. Kal began to speak again, gently and with love, of what he had seen in his short life on this planet. The good and the bad, the beauty and ugliness—of the ciedär and the people living in it. Of their pride, and ignorance, and confusion; of bringing them slowly into modern technology and understanding, even if they preferred to choose older lifestyles. Kal spoke of a united Nuala, a free and self-determining people once again. He spoke only briefly of their captivity—he preferred to leave tale telling for when Braan Atare returned. But it had been hard and had revealed a traitor in their midst; else how could the Cied have known which trail to follow of the dozens leading out of Nuamura? And then there were the weapons and other goods found in the destroyed smuggler camp. It was not a small-time trader, dodging the embargo, but someone with the power to include five ounces of trine gold in the bargain. This last caused a great deal of speech among the elders. Five ounces! Even on Nuala that was not an amount to be tossed about lightly. Kal held up the thong of trinium and then nodded to Justinian.
“Forgive me, brethren, but I am drained of strength. These petty arguments weary me; the end result cannot be changed. Make your decision. The life or death of Atare—and Nuala—is in your hands. I leave you to your choice.” With that the young man turned on his heel and left the dais. Lyte rose from his seat to catch up with him. Too many things to deal with ...
DRAGOCHE CAMP
TWOHUNDRED SIXTYSEVENDAY, VESPERS
He had dozed fitfully, unsure of what was bothering him. Waking, he remembered—he felt death in the camp. His death? Braan sat up carefully, trying to avoid waking Teloa. She had seen the danger, read it for what it was. Reaching for fresh joqurs, he considered all the possibilities. Ruler of a people concerned with life, he drew death wherever he went. Had his luck run out? Two attempts on his life within the
year. Did the third time count for all? Would Genuar allow it? Could he stop it?
The Ciedärlien dealt with honor above all things. So far he had not suffered his name or rule to be challenged. But the desert was no place for mercy, no place for rest. That was seen as weakness, and advantage would be sought in it. How would this Cied do the deed? To come straight out and kill an Atare, no, he would not bring such a sin upon himself or his people. Cied chieftains took up their peoples’ sins, but the people answered for known evil done by their rulers. Unless he was a mad one ...
Shaking out his caftan, Braan remembered his own mocking words, words others had used before him: “Mendülay spares him for some other end.” Was this the end? Would his death act as a catalyst, crystallizing Nuala’s future, sending it down the only path left to it? What would he leave behind, if he failed here and died? Confusion, an infant Atare, enemies on every front, and five blood children, perhaps more—he had been busy last winter. Was it enough? Suddenly he felt old, used up.
“Braan?” He glanced over and saw how intently she studied him, no trace of sleepiness about her.
She knows. He had not wanted to distress her with his fear. But only a fool would not be afraid. A Cied warrior was a perfect fighting machine, programmed to kill. Braan had only cut off a life force once in his life, the dying Durite. Now he knew why Nualans made such poor Axis warriors; the bloodlust, the urge to attack had been bred out of them. They had to reacquire it, and only the most diligent, such as Jaac and his brother Deenn, succeeded. This Cied most likely had engineered the deaths of the twins.
Teloa crawled over and laid her head on his thigh. “There is great danger, isn’t there?”
“To you? I do not think so. To me—quite likely. We shall know soon.” He reached down to touch her face gently, his gaze meeting hers. “Remember, I love you. Now and the woman you will become. Beauty may grow or fade, but the true mark is character, and you have it. Never let anyone convince you otherwise. Let us eat; they will come soon.”
Fire Sanctuary Page 36
