oOo
Up, hidden in the darkening hills from Kee’s fading rays and Cied eyes, Moran observed the camp. He had seen the city hazelle among the pale desert breed and found the tame akemmi that came to his call. Braan Atare—and Teloa? Possibly. Fate had taken stranger turns in the past; they had used the same path into the desert. His own beast now grazed with the herd and with luck would not be discovered before starrise. Hopefully no one looked at tribal brands too closely, especially with so many different Cied present. But present for how long? And where were the leaders, which tent? It was important. He wanted to be as close as possible to Braan, should trouble start, and slipping into the camp unseen was a different thing from spying out the valley. The warrior began to move down the hill, the akemmi clicking softly in his ear.
oOo
An escort came at twilight, before the day was totally withered. This time Braan hated walking to the council tent, for it was dark enough outside to wash away all color of the living. He felt as if surrounded by walking corpses, all shrouded in dirty white. They were unclean, their thoughts, their feelings. Much of Cied life was honorable, free, good. But beneath, it stank of blood and death. The entrance loomed up before them. He signaled for Teloa to stand directly behind him. If she was his wife, they could enter together, but certain traditions the Cied did not allow tampering with, and the law of rank was one of them. He briefly wondered about Baakche. So far he had been remarkably lucid. If their luck held ...
It did not. Braan could see the old man was in a dream before they were seated. Genuar was conducting the meeting. The chieftains had reassembled, four semi-circles around the inside of the tent. Braan felt Tay stiffen and followed her gaze. The last row ... one Stigati chief was gone.
“Atare”—Braan returned his thoughts to Genuar—”The council has long discussed the proposition you have brought to us. We are aware of the great sacrifice your people have made, destroying their trade and defense ties with the Axis. We are not blind; we know there is likely no return from your stance. We know you want the skills we have developed over the centuries. But we ask—what of next year? Your winter planting was lean; the spring will not be that much better, even with our help.”
Braan casually adjusted his robes. “Why, Seri, as the cities need grain and produce, the desert needs cloth, weapons and refined metal. Our factories would love an excuse to begin production once more. I am sure a separate, short-term treaty can be arranged by council and syn—”
“Enough of the lies!” Braan stopped in mid-sentence, keeping his composure. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that a warrior had entered the great tent and was standing at the door.
“What means this?” Genuar snarled, gesturing for the Cied to be removed.
“I challenge!” The man’s voice was rasping, vicious. At those words the guards fell away from him. He had bought the right to speak. Braan glanced at Tay; beneath her veils she was wide-eyed. Turning to face the warrior, Braan saw that he was completely unveiled, his black beard matted with dust, the new scar vivid purple. The Stigati, of course. But his robe was hanging in shreds on him, the front panel of the outer robe slashed away. No pattern, no tribe.
Scourged and thrown out for violating ... the twins are alive, was Braan’s first thought. Why challenge? He had lost all face by disobeying Genuar’s words. Unless he believed death in combat was more honorable than freedom and banishment. Unless ... Braan looked over at Genuar and Baakche. The younger man was shocked and angry over the insult, his eyes flashing a warning. Baakche was staring at his hands, a smile playing about his eyes. So, with one hand he tells his heir that this test is not necessary, and with the other he concocts combat.
“What challenge? You know not this man!” Genuar was openly scornful, part of Cied justice, the treatment for an avowed rule breaker. How—?
“I know this woman. Long my people spied their train, and only two wore the Atare mark, not three! If you lie for this, dragon, what other tales do you spin?” The gathering stiffened as one at the insult. There was no greater offense than to call a Nualan a liar.
“I did not lie. Her robe was destroyed by ciedär winds. I gave her my second.”
“And implied she was of the royal house!”
Braan reconsidered the previous conversation. “Not implied. I called her serae, for so every intended bride is named. In but a little while it is my intention to make her Atarae. That business was not the council’s concern.”
The warrior’s face pulled into a sneer. “As with the shield, there is no proof. So I claim her as truth-price, to found my new line.” With one swift movement he reached for and jerked Tay to her feet.
The response was immediate. The Stigati froze, and as his grip loosened everyone could see why. Braan’s cat was in the hollow of his knee, against tendon and muscle. One move and the warrior gould be crippled for life. Teloa had worked her cat knife free during the warrior’s little speech and, at his movement, had pressed the tip of the blade into his groin. The look in her eyes told him that she did not bluff. But with Braan’s knife at his knee, he could not back away. Genuar leapt up, but it was a wasted motion.
Braan spoke. “Challenge accepted.” Nicely done, Baakche. You cast him out for attempting to shed royal blood, and then give him another chance at it, all the while hiding your own guilt behind the robes of your position. Planned or coincidental? No matter—if he won, it proved his worthiness to the Cied and guaranteed their council support, at least for a season. If he lost, the Cied would say it was meant to be. But he could not let an Atare be called liar. Anything else he could ignore but not that. Such leechings would be repeated, gathering force and conviction, until no claims, no disavowal, could stop them. And the house would fall. Empires had tumbled on less.
“I have not the stomach for the darker side of kingship.” Was that what Roe had said? Can you kill a man in cold blood, Atare? That is what it is, license to kill. What does it prove if you do?
Two warriors came forward and indicated that the Stigati chieftain should follow them. Only then did Braan’s knife disappear. “Teloa. Stay with the scholars, please.” It was mildly spoken, belying his thoughts. If fate was kind, he would at least take this Cied down the Path with him, and Teloa could return to Nuamura to do what little might help. He followed the trio outside, a brief prayer to Mendülay illuminating his thoughts. He knew his skills and training. Now he had to live up to it. As a body, the council stood, waiting for Baakche and Genuar to lead them. Teloa stayed with the three planters, aware that they would also go out to ... what?
oOo
Darkness had settled over the valley. The fire in the tribe’s common, the center ground of the camp, was burning brightly, fed by scrub brush and hazelle dung. Braan wondered about the acid tinge to the smoke’s smell, from nix dung—he had seen no nix in the herd. They were precious animals, shy breeders; and the finest worth their weight in yellow gold. He forced his thoughts back to the wide circle. The chieftains were gathered around the fringe, some standing, some seated in tent entrances. He saw the scholars scurrying to an unoccupied spot and hoped Tay was with them. He could tell they approved of her. Good.
Would this be free or tied combat? He did not relish the idea of fighting with their left wrists tightly secured together. Braan looked over at his opponent, who stood beyond the fire pit, swaying with emotion or exhaustion—Braan could not tell which. Would he not even name himself? The Atare sat down by the fire and waited, his gaze on Genuar.
The chieftain was distracted, a young warrior racing into the circle to command his attention. The newcomer spoke swiftly, in tones too low to overhear. Genuar raised his head and stared oddly at Braan. Then he said something to the youth in reply. The warrior vanished out the circle exit leading to the valley. Braan did not like the feel of that at all, but now was not the time to ask.
Genuar walked over to Braan, who stood. “I am sorry. I tried to avoid this. He is weak, but his fury makes him dangerous.” The Cied pulled out
a gleaming cat knife. “This blade has served me well. I give it to you, as a token of my good faith, that it may speed your hand. Finish this quickly or you will walk the Path this night.”
“See to my woman.”
Genuar’s eyes seemed to smile. “I pray that will not be necessary.” He turned to face the now-massed group. “The man Robis has challenged Braan Atare, who has accepted. The combat shall be free—and to the death.” The Stigati stepped up to the firepit, across from Braan, flames and Genuar between them. They did not even leave you your mother’s name.
“It begins.” Genuar moved out of the way, to sit beside the muttering Baakche.
This is ridiculous, Braan thought. But very real. The Stigati crouched low, starting to creep around the circle. Braan stood his ground, balancing carefully on the balls of his feet, letting his body relax into the elkita. He knew his training, the sound skills of a warrior; but not commando-honed, not guaard. Elkita was something else. Defense, more than movement; he was an expert. Only that fact and endurance could save him. But the survival strength of the Cied might be more than even a rested Atare could handle. The warrior was there, almost next to him, and suddenly lunged with the speed of a striking mïlee, pinning his fighting arm.
Just as quickly the Cied was flying through the air, landing on his back at the common’s edge. Braan flipped himself to his feet, remaining low, the knife now held with the thumb and full finger grip of one who understands weapons. As he suspected—the teaching of elkita had waned in the ciedär. If a chieftain did not know it, very few would. Interesting. He hoped Teloa remembered what she saw, in case he could not.
The Cied approached again, this time more cautiously, respect in his eyes. Also confusion and anger. He had not wanted this duel, Braan suspected. He was a scapegoat. No time to consider it. Circling ... a feint, and then another lunge. Braan was ready for him. Shifting the knife to his left hand, Braan grabbed for nerve and artery with his right. At the same time he caught the Cied’s right arm between his left knee and fist with a crunch no one missed. He was trying for the nerve; whether he found it or not, the warrior dropped his knife. The Cied grabbed for his throat, knocking them both to the ground.
Seeing his intent, Braan frantically applied pressure on the man’s windpipe, trying to render him unconscious. The Stigati was becoming glassy-eyed, but his hand moved relentlessly toward the discarded knife. No choice—Braan whipped his left arm down, still clutching Genuar’s cat. Too late, the Cied released Braan’s throat, reaching for his arm. Braan slid the knife to his side and then thrust up and out, under the rib cage and toward the heart. Abruptly the Cied’s struggles ceased, his eyes widening slightly; they no longer saw his adversary. Braan quickly heaved the warrior over and leapt for the other knife. It was unnecessary. The Stigati was dead.
Dazed, Braan scarcely noticed Cied had stood and were walking toward the fire. He did hear an animal’s chittering, and saw a dark streak zip by him. Turning, he realized Teloa and the scholars were at his back and that the creature was Tikki, creeping into Tay’s hood, ignoring the exclamations of the surprised tribal leaders.
Looking back to the fire Braan found that a warrior was blocking the light. The warrior held a drawn cat knife in each hand and was facing down the other Cied. The crowd was deathly silent, as if shocked by his appearance in their midst. Only the keening of the rising wind could be heard.
One of the two standing Cied dropped his upper veil. “Even those who would kill kings deserve rites and a light ceremony,” the khatta said.
“Do they?” a familiar voice responded. Moran? What next, the entire guaard pouring out of the hills? Shaken by his presence, Braan froze momentarily, and then reached to close the dead Stigati’s eyes. This completed the ritual, and Braan moved over to the circle’s edge, sitting before Teloa. If Mendulary had sent him a guaard, then he needed to act like royalty.
“Take him,” Moran went on, holding the attention of the Cied elders. Moran backed up until he was between Braan and the body. The khatta came forward and dragged the Cied out of the fire circle. Braan relaxed, was aware of blood between his fingers, and tensed again. Then Teloa’s hands were skillfully rubbing the taunt muscles running down either side of his spine, forcing away the exhaustion he felt to his bones. So grateful that it was not his blood ... Composure, everything rode on composure.
“My apologies for taking so long, Atare. I had storms and guards to avoid. I thought to find my woman here,” came Moran’s voice.
Braan replied slowly “I am glad to see you, though my questions are multitudinous. But we two are alone. She, of all the first expedition; I lost Lyte in the basin. Unless Genuar will tell me good news of the twins.”
“Much we have to say to one another, Atare. Justice has been met. You have avenged the insult to your kin. They were alive when taken from Bloodsand. Not by my people, though as they arrived they saw it done,” Genuar offered.
“We took them—Jaac, Lyte, and I. They were alive when I left them.” Moran spoke to Braan, not to Genuar, and did not relax his stance.
“They sent you?”
“I came. Lyte would have come, but I felt Roe’s presence, and decided to travel east.”
“Then you can explain the caravan in the valley?” No one answered Genuar, but he appeared satisfied by their puzzled glances. “If you will have your warrior take his place, Atare, we were discussing a treaty, were we not? Short-term and affecting trade? And we would offer gifts to your house. Saffra for everyone.”
oOo
As Genuar finished speaking, two Cied warriors appeared before him. Then they turned and indicated that an entrance should be made in the circle. The glow of torches rose above the tent path, and soon two Dragoche warriors walked into the ring, planting their firebrands at either side of the opening. They were followed, to Tay’s amazement, by several warriors in solid beige robes, with a curiously entwined dragon over their hearts. Eon’s uniform ... The four men arranged themselves in a defense posture around the commons while Teloa looked back to the entrance. Eight large guaard slowly processed, carrying an enclosed litter. It was small and made of sprung wood and plastic, covered with light material drifting in the breeze. It also bore the Atare dragon on its sides. Braan inhaled audibly, and Tay glanced over, worried. He was very pale—injured—and he had said nothing?
“Nix. They brought a litter on a nix.” He was clearly stunned by the development and looked even worse when the tall, lively hazelle pranced in behind the carrier, a slight figure on its back.
“What?” Tay whispered to him.
“We are lost. What is she doing? Our house dies.” She gripped his arm, afraid. He was dropping his mask. Why? “The only reason I agreed to follow Genuar was Breeyan. I knew I left an heir behind me. Silly, I suppose. If I die, if the Cied refuse, there will be no Nuala and no need for an Atare. But if she brought them ...”
“Jaacav took the twins back to Nuamura.“
“That is Liel, Tay, on that hazelle. And only Roe’s health and the tiny ones would demand a litter. We trace our line through our Ragärees! Do you not see? If Baakche refuses to acknowledge her, Kal will be the last Atare ruler!”
Tay tightened her grip on Braan’s arm, the full gamble laid before her. The Cied did not bow to the coast—they never did. The future hung on a mad one. Would this leave Corymb Dielaan and the Atare outkin battling for the throne?
The guaard carefully set the carrier down, six more of their brethren coming in behind them. One young woman stepped up to open the curtains, while another guaard held the hazelle’s tossing head. Liel slipped down and walked gracefully to the litter. Tay detected the slightest tremor of her hand. She is as terrified as I am.
A bundle was extended through the parted curtains, and Liel gathered it close. Then Ronüviel stepped out, the other babe held tightly. She wore no hood or veils, and immediately a soft hum began. The chieftains knew who she had to be but were as puzzled as Braan. On her part, Roe surveyed them swiftly, imper
ially, her gaze resting on Baakche and Genuar. Her magnificent, intimate smile lit up her face, and she slowly walked toward them. Tay glanced at Moran—he was gone, mingling with the guaard, finding an access point to Roe. She.... she was glowing.
Tay sat back on her heels, astonished. But she only did that when she was healing someone! Surely she would not try to cure Baakche’s madness? Yet Teloa had never questioned her about it; for all she knew, it was an emotional reaction Roe normally held in check. It raised her body temperature—that Tay did know.
Lords, the baby. Which one? Framed by the coals of the fire and the trine moons, especially since Roe shielded her charge from torchlight. The bundle also glowed—but lighter, more silvery than Roe’s golden aureole. The Ragäree gestured for Liel to bring the other infant forward, but the young woman had reached her limit; she stood frozen. Moran stepped to her side and scooped up the baby, smiling at whatever reaction the tiny one shared with him. How strange to feel a smile through a veil. Liel did not move back, unwilling to give up the small victory with her fears, but she did not follow Moran to Roe’s side.
Now Teloa was aware of figures standing behind her—many figures. The clan had gathered to find out who the visitors were. She heard one child ask who the pretty lady was. “A healer,” was the reply. “The healer,” whispered another.
Baakche did not react, not even when Roe reached for her other child and the wrap of blankets in Moran’s arms began to glow with the same gold of its mother. Not from Ronüviel—separate, self-generated. Tay was enchanted and could sense that the crowd was as well. The gathering was as disarmed as their chieftains were confused. Genuar was on his feet, his veils down, revealing a dark, well-trimmed beard and moustache. He was looking at Braan warily, wonderingly. His nonchalance was as shattered as Braan’s.
The Atare woman knelt by Baakche, waiting, so close that they could touch without effort. Genuar, in the meantime, was examining Moran’s bundle, appearing visibly shaken. Baakche raised his head and met Roe’s gaze. He was not aware of the baby’s reach until the child seized his robe in an urgent grip. Then he looked at the glowing mother and child. He sighed quietly, tapping the tiny hand with one finger. A guaard brought a low seat and had Roe sit upon it. Baakche looked up at the fragile woman holding her son and then stood slowly.
Fire Sanctuary Page 37
