Fire Sanctuary

by Katharine Eliska Kimbriel

  “Hold!” The Cied walked quickly to their side.

  The healer paled—he nodded to Braan, who was now standing again, and with a nervous glance to the desert monarch, said, “Pardon, Atare, but the Emon is leaving with the tide, and we were not to place her on board until the last moment. We ride to the harbor.” Braan was watching Genuar, who was scowling darkly, his deep eyes riveting Ronüviel to the mountain as if doubting her existence.

  “Whose child is this little one?” the chieftain demanded.

  The healer looked for help, saw none forthcoming and whispered, “This is Valleri reb^Odelle, the last heir of Corymb, bound for Tolis.”

  A soft rising wind carried his words to the now silent crowd. There was little else, not even the cry of birds. Baakche’s breathing was labored and heartrending above the whisper of the stunted mountain trees. Genuar nodded, turned, and went back to Baakche. Ronüviel was with the old man and shook her head fractionally at the new Dragoche.

  “He ... is necessary. My time is past,” Baakche said to the tall chieftain, a whistle in his throat. “So it was written.” The warrior’s grip tightened on Genuar’s shoulder as his breathing became light, shallower; and then the tortured lungs ceased.

  “Release him,” Genuar told his warriors. “Mendülay has punished him enough. Death would be too merciful for his deeds.” He looked at Baakche and, to no one in particular, added, “He was my father.”

  All eyes were on Ronüviel, who had moved to Corymb, her glowing fingertips spanning his forehead. “Something has snapped,” she murmured, her eyes closed. “He is a broken man.” She released him, and several guaard helped her up from her kneeling position. “Come,” she requested of those around her. “We have many candles to light.”

  oOo

  Genuar’s marshalls attended to his followers, and a tent site was established at the western foot of Mt. Amura. A prodigious amount of food was prepared and taken to both returning guaard and guests. Genuar chose to eat with his people and to wait with them until Braan and Ronuviel took care of immediate Nuamuran problems.

  What to do with Genuar and his chieftains had been the first problem—Braan and Roe were then free to take Liel, Moran, Teloa and Jaacav to the assembly where Kalith, Kavan and Arrez tried to explain all the dealing, double-crossing and general turmoil that had occurred in his absence. Ronüviel had told Braan, Moran and Teloa little during the ride back. They had been careful not to give the Cied reason to suspect treachery.

  Gid came in during the end of the discussion and added his thoughts on the situation. When the men finished, Braan sat with the air of a shock victim. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall. Roe simply shook her head. Well, I suppose it could be worse. A civil war could have started in our absence, Roe thought but did not say aloud.

  “I was angry and prideful, Braan. Things may be difficult because of my behavior,” Kalith said tightly, as if afraid of his brother’s reaction.

  Braan opened his eyes. “No, I do not see that as a problem. I only wonder how much further to push events. They have had a lot to digest in the last twentyday. I suppose it will depend on how well they accept the news that I concur with you. Let us leave off storytelling until we have dealt with The Synod. The worst problem you have left me is the need for an immediate coronation.” He smiled at his younger brother.

  “They are getting restless,” Arrez remarked. He was standing at the opening to the garedoc.

  Braan loosened his outer robe, smoothed his desert beard, and flicked the dust off his worn boots. “Let us reward their patience.” He stood. Noah started down the assembly steps, and Braan followed, another guaard directly behind him.

  “You can go rest, if you prefer,” Roe whispered to Teloa.

  “When you need it more than I? I think not,” Tay replied, and stared, mystified, at the Ragäree, who laughed in delight at the woman’s totally Nualan speech. Roe encircled Teloa’s arm with her own, and they walked together to the floor of the garedoc.

  “Brethren, cease thy speech!” Justinian’s voice rang out above the conversation. “Out of our blackest dreams, hope fulfilled—our Atare has returned, and he has triumphed!”

  Braan stepped up next to the man and waited for the roar of approval to subside. “I hope you all feel that way when I have finished speaking. To say we have ‘triumphed’ is perhaps premature. We have a long road ahead and, most likely, a hungry winter. We shall not starve, barring catastrophe; that is truly a great victory. Jaacav even now shows the Dragoche the material preparations we have made to reimburse the Ciedärlien for their extra grain. I have offered shield protection in exchange for their knowledge. Planters and seed have come to us, as well as the secrets of their fertilizer. I intend this to be the beginning of a long and fruitful relationship for both Cied and the coast.” He paused.

  “The matter of my brothers’ capture and the deaths of the elders Tig and Piral, along with their escort, has been settled. The Dragoche and tribal council were unaware of treachery in their midst, and Cied justice has been dealt out. That aspect of this sordid mess is over. There is another part—what to do with Corymb Dielaan. What shall we do with him, Brethren?”

  Braan began to pace the length of the platform, Justinian melting away into the background. “Many of you in the past have been dissatisfied with the evidence against him—dealing with monopolies, selling out his planet, even blackmail and murder. Though you were loath to trust a dead Durite, you saw his latest attempt, made with his own hand. Whether it was against my royal person, or directed toward Baakche, the result is unchangeable. Baakche, the Dragoche, is dead.

  “The Cied are appeased—they feel Mendülay has punished the Dielaan sufficiently. The code of this planet is justice tempered with mercy. Has he been punished enough? His line has ended; his career and community standing are destroyed. As one who has willfully terminated a life he must be barred from any position of authority or responsibility for the rest of his days. Do we entrust him to his family? I feel I must have assistance with this, as his intended victim not once but three times. The temptation to be too harsh—or too lenient—is great.” Braan sat on the throne after his pronouncement, his glance taking in the assembly.

  Ronüviel watched him and knew his fear; of being too gentle and fighting the tendency with a heavy hand.

  One elder was recognized by Justinian and slowly stood. She cleared her throat and looked to Braan. “I think, Atare, that it is necessary to be sure Corymb Dielaan can never pursue his personal vendetta against the house of Atare ever again.”

  “Suggestions?”

  “Can we not place a special guard upon him, to watch his every move and be certain he spends his time in research and composition, no threat to our people?”

  Another individual demanded recognition. “An important question must be answered. Is he sane?”

  Justinian turned to the foot of the podium and indicated Elana should step up. The woman faced the synod. “All physical tests have been conducted. I would prefer to allow more time for observation, but at this moment I can say that hate and uncontrollable rage provoked Corymb into this murder. He is aware of what he has done and is unrepentant.” This brought forth a murmur from the crowd.

  Braan smiled briefly. “Shall we then return him to his ancestral home and bar him from all tribal and governmental activities? Being what he is, we must expect him to attempt to infiltrate the synod. Is it better to have him in Nuamura where we can watch him? Send him to Dielaan and monitor all visitors and correspondence? Imprison him?”

  The discussion continued, but an end was finally reached. The guaard brought Corymb Dielaan in. Braan said nothing at first, studying the man. Corymb glared back, much of his vigor restored.

  “Corymb Dielaan. Due to my personal involvement in this case, I have asked the synod of Nuala to declare your fate. It shall be this: you are stripped of all authority and responsibility within the Nualan synod, and within the tribe and house of Dielaan. Your staff and all
fringe assistants will be removed, though the new Dielaan will arrange a scripter, if you desire one. Your name shall not be stricken from the Dielaan line or the synod records. That is the mercy of the elected elders.

  “As penalty for the death of the Dragoche Baakche and other nefarious deeds, the following is added: You shall never attempt to leave the planet Nuala, or even the city Dielaan, without the express permission of the ruling Atare. You shall remain permanently in the upper east wing of the Dielaan palace. Your assets have been frozen. They will be examined for illegal origin and confiscated if found actionable. And, most importantly, any attempt to communicate with or influence a person of authority in temple, synod or ruling house shall be considered treason and dealt with as such. The same applies to your heir, Valleri. Her mother’s last wish was that she be removed from your sphere. To the best of our ability it shall be done. Your skills as writer and historian are unrivaled—it is hoped that you shall attempt to atone for past deeds by using these researching and recording talents for the betterment of our people. That is all.”

  “Atare?” Justinian nodded to him.

  “One more thing. I would appreciate the synod attending to the matter of my brother’s marriage as soon as possible. I realize it is merely formality but there is clearly no longer need to have the law within our code.” He broke off then and scanned the crowd for emphasis, his gaze piercing. “Our own planters shall meet with the Cied late this afternoon. I intend to have definite news for you by morning; about potential crop yields, future projections—a new day dawns, Brethren. Please forgive me, but it has been a long thirtysixday.” Standing, Braan nodded to the gathering and walked up the assembly steps, Noah in tow.

  Ronuviel smiled and followed him. Other dignitaries to see ... Out of the corner of her eye Roe saw Justinian raise an eyebrow and turn back to conduct the meeting.

  TIERCE

  The ride up the lift was smooth and silent, an actual glow light in the back wall of the lift causing a luminescence to appear in her skin. Tay examined her hands, the whiteness of them. She suspected where her personal things were—she was not certain she wanted to go looking for them. Tikki occupied herself by climbing Tay’s hair and swatting her paw at the glow in the wall. Teloa quailed inwardly as she opened the bronze doors to the transport. There was only one apartment on this floor, and she would die of embarrassment if the guaard questioned her reasons for being on the level.

  Standing within the lift a few moments, Tay swallowed her fear and then walked resolutely to the dark beaded door. The guaard was oblivious to her. She summoned her voice. “Has he returned from synod?” she asked in her best Nualan.

  “No, Serae. He had dignitaries needing attention,” one woman replied tonelessly. Nodding her thanks, Teloa pushed aside the beads and walked in. No one attempted to stop her.

  Inside, letting the beads settle, Tay calmed herself and surveyed the room. The akemmi leapt down and vanished under a chair. How his quarters had changed—how everything had grown since the hole at Chardonnay Mountain. She went to the tempra-controlled window and looked out over the Sonoma Valley. The cool, new green of the grapevines flickered before her eyes, now visible, now unseen. Soon dotted with grapes ...

  She stood on a plush rug made of some natural fiber—her fingers touched it. A wool? Tay removed her dusty boots and shook the rug for caution’s sake. Then she took in the immediate room. A new woven mural on the wall—Braan’s seal. The katt pelts were lying on the couch. She reached to touch one. Peering into the smaller sleeping room and sanitation, she recognized Dylan’s heavy boots. Ah, Dylan. He had clung to her in the assembly, moving Tay to tears. He promised he had taken good care of Zair, and his own p—She jumped as something cold touched her. The big dog bumped her hip with his nose. She bent over and hugged him.

  “I did not hear you come in!” she whispered. He wagged his tail and thrust his face against hers. “Or have you been here all along?” Straightening, she walked to the larger sanitation. It had two entrances, one from the inner hall and the other from the main sleeping room. There were two large stone basins, pools compared to tubs off-world; a carved rock grill rose between them, from floor to ceiling, polished to a glossy black. Shallow stairs curved from one basin to the other. Several mirrors and a dressing table, face basins and a portable commode ... She went into the sleeping room.

  Larger than she expected. He does not intend his woman to live separately, as some cultures do, she thought. Two immense wardrobes, hidden by heavy curtains of deep blood-red velvet. There was another window to the outside, newly inserted, and a light shaft above. The bed would have been monstrous in any other room. Large enough to think you are alone or know that you are not ...

  Attendants? They had had them in the palace, she was sure. Now? She could tell Braan’s wardrobe—a boot peeked out from under one corner, casually sprawling against its mate. She opened the other curtains. Her missing sandals and clothing ... And something else. She pulled out the long red garment. Syluan, translucent syluan ... The syluan lace, as fine as a babe’s hair, was black. Sleeveless, no back, a low front ... A red robe of opaque syluan was with it. Who had caused it to be made? Elana. Tay sat down on the bed’s edge, holding the gown. So she knew, knew long ago, to have had this made. How many knew... ?

  My tratore face is gone. A shriek from Tikki drew her to her feet. Now the animal was scolding. Tay rushed into the sanitation. Then she began laughing. The creature had apparently climbed to the dresser and taken Tay’s rake, which had been left in the logical place. The akemmi was making off with the prize when Zair burst in and wanted to play. Tikki’s reaction was to defend her new toy fiercely. Zair looked very confused. Tay reached to the floor and picked up her rake. “That is mine.”

  Zair in turn clamped his mouth around the little creature and gingerly carried her down the hall into the main room, where he set her on the center rug. Spitting, hissing, making outlandish faces, Tikki batted him on the nose and ran to hide under a table. Laughing again, unfettered, as she had not laughed in days, Teloa dug in the dresser for a dry cloth and tested the constantly swirling water.

  She sanded her hair and body twice, unable to get enough of the hot water. Drying off, she raked out her hair to help it dry. Then she found a softly scented lotion and rubbed it into her dry skin. A glance in the mirror startled her. Too thin. Too much muscle. And her hair was now so long, past her waist! She had not noticed. Shaking her head, she turned away. Too slender for a hustler, but she did not have to worry about that anymore. Tay put on the red gown but hung up the matching robe in favor of the vatos wool poncho. She felt cold inside the cave after so long in the ciedär. Her timing was perfect; she heard the beads rippling in the outer room as she finished drying her hair.

  Lifting one strand of beads to the side, Tay saw he was alone. Braan moved to the window slowly, finally relaxing his stance. Every movement indicated exhaustion. He leaned against the windowsill, the picture of dejection. As she considered whether or not to enter the main room, she heard him whisper, “What price, Holy One?”

  Parting the beads, the woman chose. Now she could see Zair lying at his master’s feet, Tikki curled up in a tight ball under the beast’s chin. Braan opened his eyes and saw her; a smile lit his gaze, but it did not reach his lips. Discarding her usual caution, Tay walked over and slipped her arms around him. He embraced her, gently stroking her hair; his arms had no strength.

  “You need a hot whirlpool and a massage. Shall I offer?”

  Now Braan smiled. “It would not help. The pain is within, lady, and I know no cure. I have seen my soul, and it is black.” She did not interrupt him. “Do you understand the price I paid for this fragile truce, beauty? So fragile we must wait until vespers for the planters to meet, to make sure their words are rested and unlikely to flare?”

  When the silence became strained, she knew he expected an answer. “I know how many lives you saved by sealing this agreement.”

  “I bought it in blood, Telo
a. The blood of a Cied warrior. I did not have to kill him—the rules were Cied law, not Nualan law, not my moral code. But I allowed it to happen, by my very passiveness. And a life has been taken.”

  “Better for you to have died?” she asked, her voice sharp.

  “Perhaps. Who knows? It might have been a test of will—to see who would prevail. If I had refused, they might have merely tossed him out and—”

  “You speak like Moran. ‘What if.’ I will tell you ‘what if.’” She pulled away, angry in her fear for his mood. “There is evil in this universe, Braan Atare. Evil sentience, evil laws, senseless violence. A single warrior cannot do a thing about it, so Moran needs his abundant trust in the basic goodness of mankind. But you know better, for you are more than merely a man. If good beings fail the vigil, evil ones shall triumph. Simple words but full of meaning. You cannot change the universe, but you may change Nuala. Instead of an infant heir and an unprepared ruler to make sense of starvation and civil war, you have a chance to lead your people to something better. A chance—a gift from Mendülay.”

  “Tell me, woman. Why should I be so certain that I am the only one who can do this?”

  “Say not only—say best,” Tay answered. “How do you know? The entire reason for that man’s existence may have been to die at your hand! A catalyst to push you ever forward to a bright future for your people.”

  “How do I not know that I should have—”

  “Or a warning,” she went on, overriding him. “Of the dark—the rottenness so close to us, Braan, where one slip can send us into the pit. Life is so good, Atare, yet so evil—a balance. You must strike a blow for the good and leave judgment for later.”