There was a proper mri response to this, a gesture of reciprocal goodwill. Eddan did not make it, and therefore no mri moved. Hands stayed by the as’ei.
“Favor,” said Hada Surag-gi. “We bring most tragic news.”
“We are prepared to hear what you say,” said Eddan.
“We trust that our elder informed you—”
“Do you bring us Medai?” asked Eddan harshly.
Hada turned, an awkward motion for a regul, a shifting of feet. It closed its hands and made the gesture that wished its assistants to perform their duties. They shuffled about the second sled and opened its storage, lifted out a white, plastic-encased form on a litter. They bore it forward and carefully set it down at the feet of Hada Surag-gi, before the Kel.
“We have brought you the remains of Medai,” said Hada.
Niun knew, already, had known from Hada’s first words; he did not move, nor even lower his visor. This steadiness might be mistaken by some of his brothers for self-control. It was numbness. He heard their movings, their stirrings about the scene as if they and he were in different places, as if, divorced from the scene, he watched from elsewhere, leaving the flesh of Niun s’Intel, like that of Medai s’Intel, senseless and unparticipant.
“Are the humans then that close?” asked Eddan, for it was the custom to give the dead of the People who had died in the war to cold space where they had died, or, better still, to the fires of suns, recalling the birth of the People, rather than to make a long and inconvenient journey from the fighting front to inter them in earth. All the People would choose, if they had the choice, to avoid earth-burial. It was strange that regul, knowing mri even slightly as they did, could have misunderstood this and made the mistake of returning a dead mri to his edun.
The regul younglings—no arrogance at all in their manner now—let air flutter their nostrils and by other signs looked uncomfortable in then mission.
Guilty, was the bitter thought that came to Niun, watching them. He came back to his own body and fixed his eyes on the eyes of Hada Surag-gi, willing that youngling to meet his gaze directly. For an instant Hada did so, and flinched.
Guilty and uncomfortable in this whole meeting, and trying not to say the half of what they knew. Niun trembled with anger. He found his breath short. There was no move from the Kel. They stood absolutely still, one with the mind of Eddan, who led them, who with a word could lead them to a thing no mri had ever done.
Hada Surag-gi shifted weight on bowed legs and backed a little from the shrouded corpse between them. “Kel’anth Eddan,” Hada said, “be gracious. This kel’en wounded himself and would not have the help of our medical facilities, although we might perhaps have saved him. We regret this, but we have never attempted to violate your beliefs. We bring you the regrets also of bai Hulagh, in whose service this kel’en gained great distinction. It is bai Hulagh’s profound regret—his most profound regret, that this meeting is an inauspicious one, and that he makes the acquaintance of the People in such a sad moment. He sends his condolences and offers his extreme personal distress at this most unhappy event—”
“Bai Hulagh is then the new commander of this zone. What of bai Solgah? What of the Holn?”
“Gone.” The word was almost swallowed, momentum quickly resumed. “And the bai wishes, kel’anth, to assure you—”
“I surmise,” said Eddan, “that the death of kel Medai is very recent.”
“Yes,” said Hada, deterred from the prepared speech: Hada’s mouth worked, seeming to search for words.
“Suicide.” Eddan used the vulgar regul word, although regul knew the meaning of the mri word ika’al, where it regarded the ritual death of a kel’en.
“We protest—” In gazing directly at the kel’anth, the youngling seemed to lose its thread of thought, which was an impossibility with the eidetic regul. “We protest vehemently, kel’anth, that this kel’en was in deep melancholy that had nothing to do with the accession of bai Hulagh to command or the fall from power of the Holn. We fear that you are drawing the wrong inference. If you suppose that—”
“I did not advance any statement of inference,” said Eddan. “Do you suggest that one might be made?”
The regul, interrupted more than once, confounded by argument that was no argument, confused as regul easily were when dealing with mri, blinked rapidly and tried to regroup. “Kel’anth, I protest, be gracious, we only stated that this kel’en was in deep melancholy prior to his act, that he had been confined in his quarters by his own choice, refusing all attempts to inquire into his needs, and this had nothing to do with the accession of bai Hulagh, in no wise, sir, in no wise. Bai Hulagh became employer to this kel’en and this kel’en served him with great distinction in several actions. There was nothing amiss. But after the peace was announced, kel Medai evinced an increasing melancholy.”
“You are of the Nom,” Niun interrupted, unable to bear it longer, and Hada Surag-gi looked in his direction, black eyes wide, showing whites in amazement. “How is it that you report accurately on the state of mind of a kel’en who was on a ship far removed from you?”
It was not his place to have spoken. From a kel’en youth before strangers, it was an outburst, not an acceptable behavior; but the Kel stood firm, and as for Hada Surag-gi, its mouth flew open and shut again in a taut line.
“Elder,” it protested to Eddan.
“Can the bai’s spokesman answer the question?” asked Eddan, a vindication that sent a flood of fierce gratitude through Niun.
“Most gladly,” said Hada. “I know these things to be fact because they are exactly as given to me by the bai himself, face to face, by his word. We had no idea that the kel’en contemplated such an action. It was not due to any animosity toward his service.”
“Yet it is abundantly evident,” said Eddan, “that kel Medai considered that he had sufficient reason to quit your service, such strong reason that he chose ika’al to be free of you.”
“This was doubtless because of the end of the war, which this kel’en did not desire.”
“It is,” said Eddan, “curious that he would have elected ika’al when he knew that he was returning to homeworld.”
“He was despondent,” said Hada Surag-gi, illogicality that the regul did not seem to comprehend as illogical. “He was not responsible for his actions.”
“You are speaking before his kinsman,” said Eddan sharply. “This was a kel’en, not a dus, to go mad. He was bound for homeworld. What you say he did is not reasonable unless the bai offended against his honor. Is it possible that this was what happened?”
The regul, under the sting of Eddan’s harsh voice, began to retreat slightly, a sidling backward by the hindmost.
“We are not done with questions,” Eddan said, fixing Hada Surag-gi with his stare. “Tell us where and when kel Medai died.”
The regul did not want to answer at all. It sucked air and visibly changed color. “Favor, kel’anth. He died during the previous evening on the ship of the bai.”
“On the ship of bai Hulagh.”
“Kel’anth, the bai protests—”
“Was there any manner of discussion passed between the bai and the kel’en?”
“Be gracious. The kel’en was despondent. The end of the war—”
“The bai made this mri despondent,” Eddan said, discomfiting the youngling utterly.
“The bai,” said Hada, nostrils dilating and contracting in rapid breaths, “requested of this mri that he remain in the ship and remain in service; the kel’en refused, wishing to leave at once, a privilege the bai had denied to everyone, even himself. There were matters of business to attend. It is possible—” the skin of the youngling went paler and paler as it spoke: its lips faltered upon the words. “Kel’anth, I realize that there is possible blame in your eyes; yet we do not understand the actions of this kel’en. The bai commanded him to wait. Yet the kel’en found fault with the order sufficient that he committed this act. We do not know why. We assure you w
e are greatly distressed by this sad event. It is an hour of crisis for Kesrith, in which this kel’en would have been of great service to the bai and to yourselves, surely. The bai valued the service of kel Medai. We protest again that we do not understand the source of his bitterness with us.”
“Perhaps you did not inquire or listen,” said kel’anth Eddan.
“Be gracious. Kesrith has been ceded to humans. We are in the process of the evacuation of all residents of Kesrith. Arrangements are being made also for the mri of Kesrith. The bai wishes his ship manned at all hours, and he wishes the crew, naturally—” The youngling moved uneasily, looking at Eddan, who did not move. “These are affairs over which we have no control. If the kel’en had only informed the bai of his extreme desire to have an exception granted in his case—”
“Kel Medai chose to leave his service,” said Eddan. “It was well done. We do not want to talk to youngling regul on this subject any longer. Go away now.”
And this was plainly put, and the regul, degree by degree, retreated, more rapidly as they neared their sleds. Hada was neither the first nor the last seated. Hatches were closed, engines started; the landsleds lumbered clumsily into a turn on the narrow and rutted roadway and retreated down the long slope as slowly as they had come.
No one moved. There was a numbness in the air now that the regul had gone, leaving them alone with their dead.
And suddenly in the doorway, gold-robes and white, the sen’anth and Melein, and the she’pan herself, on their arms.
“Medai is dead,” said Eddan, “and the world is going to humans soon, as we suspected.” He lifted his robed arms to shield the she’pan from the sight; and Melein started forward a step, only a step: it was forbidden her. She veiled herself and turned her face away, bowing her head; and likewise the she’pan and the sen’anth veiled, which they did not do save in the presence of the unacceptable.
They went away into the edun. Death was the peculiar domain of the Kel, either in inflicting it or mourning it; and it was for them to attend to the proprieties.
For a kinsman within the Kel it was a personal obligation.
Niun knew that he was expected in this to take charge; and he saw that the others longed to help, to do something, and he opened his hands, gave them leave. He had only heard the rites, had never done them, and he did not wish to shame himself or Medai by his ignorance. They gathered up the litter, he and all who could find space to help, and passed within the doors of the edun, toward the Pana’drin, the Shrine, to present Medai at his homecoming, where he would have presented himself first if he had lived.
Niun’s hands felt the warm metal of the litter frame; he looked down on the object in white that had been his cousin, and the shock that had held him numb until now began to meld into other feelings, into a deep and helpless rage.
It was not right that this had happened. There was no justice in things if this could happen. He found almost trembling with anger, a violence in which he could kill, if there were anyone or anything against which to direct that rage.
There was no one. He tried to feel nothing; that was easier, than to try to find a direction for the resentment that boiled in him. He had hoped: he schooled himself not to hope, henceforth. The world was mad, and Medai had added himself to the madness.
My last son, the she’pan had called him. Now it was true.
Chapter Seven
There was a screen in the Shrine of the Edun of the People, worked in metals and precious stones and overwritten with ancient things. It was old beyond reckoning, and in every Shrine that had ever existed, this very screen had stood, between the lamps of bronze that were of equal age with it. In life it marked the division between the Kel and the Sen, the point past which the Kel might not tread: in death it was no more crossable.
Before the screen, at its very base, they laid the white-shrouded body of Medai s’Intel Sov-Nelan, as close to the dividing line as a kel’en could ever come. Incense curled up from burners on either side of the screen, heavy and cloying, overhanging the room and obscuring the ceiling like an immaterial canopy.
For Niun, attendant to his cousin, that scent of incense held its own memories, of being in the Kath and of watching holy rites from that least, outermost room, when he had been a child with Melein and Medai beside him, and others now gone, whose deaths he knew. From that outer room the small shrine of the Kel had seemed mysterious and glorious, a territory where they might not yet venture, where warriors in their sigai might move, disdaining the Kath.
His mind ran to a later day, when they three had been taken among the black-robes, one with the Kel, and had been allowed for the first time to enter the middle shrine, and to realize that yet another barrier lay between them and the Pana, the Mysteries; and a day later yet, that they had prayed for the welfare of Medai, who was leaving the edun for service, greatly honored—and Niun had died inwardly that night with jealousy and bitterness, his prayers insincere and hating and mingled with thoughts that came back now like guilty ghosts.
He felt no differently now than then. Medai had taken another departure, leaving him the ugliness, the loneliness of Kesrith.
Medai had never endured the things he had endured, left here, last guard to the House, servant to the others.
Medai was counted a great kel’en for what he had done.
There was a whisper of robes in the holiness dimly visible beyond the screen, where the Sen met and tended the Holy Objects. Melein would be there, with Sathell.
Three children an age ago had stood within the outer Kath-hall, and longed for honor; and they had gotten their prayers in strange and twisted ways: Niun within Kel-shrine, where they had all longed to go; Medai possessing the honors of a warrior, newly wandering the Dark; and Melein, Melein the light-hearted, had passed through Kel-shrine to the place beyond, to the Mysteries that were never for a kel’en to see.
He bowed down, shaking with rage and frustration, and remained so for a time, trying to take his breath back again and compose himself.
A hand touched his shoulder. A dark robe brushed him with shadow as Eddan sank down beside him. “Niun,” the kel’anth said in a soft voice. “The she’pan calls you. She does not want you to have to sit this watch. She says that she wants you to come and sit with her this night, and not to go to the burial.”
It took him a moment to be sure of his voice. “I do not believe it,” he said after a moment, “that she will not loose me even for this. What did she say? Did she give no reason?”
“She wishes you to come, now.”
He was stunned by such an attitude. There had been no love between himself and Medai: the she’pan knew that well enough; but there was no decency in what she asked him to do, publicly. “No,” he said. “No, I will not go to her.”
The fingers dug into his shoulder. He expected rebuke when he looked up. But the old man unveiled to him, showing his naked face, and there was no anger there. “I thought you would say so,” Eddan said, which was incredible, for he had not known himself: it was impulse. But the old man knew him that well. “Do as you think right,” Eddan said further. “Stay. I will not forbid you.”
And the old man rose and ordered the others, who moved about their separate tasks. One brought the vessels of ritual, given by the Sen, that were for burying, and set them at Medai’s feet; Pasev brought water; and Dahacha, cloths for washing; and Palazi filled the lamps for the long vigil; and Debas whistled softly to the dusei and took them from the outer hall, herding them away into the tower of the Kel so that they should not disturb the solemnities. In the midst of the activity Niun sat, conscious finally that he had torn his robe in his haste for descending from the hills, and that he was dusty and his hands were foul with dirt. Feet pattered about him. Sirain came, half-blind Sirain, and gave him a damp cloth, and Niun unveiled and washed his face and veiled again, grateful for his thoughtfulness. Liran brought a robe for him, and he changed his siga in the very Shrine, for it was not respect to sit the watch in disorder. H
e sat down again, and began to be calmer at their quiet, efficient ministering.
Then at Eddan’s whispered word, they began to take the ugly white shroud from Medai, and patiently, patiently the fingers of one and the other of them tore the webbing that was as close-spun as a cocoon and well-nigh impenetrable—like cho-silk it was, having to be unraveled with the fingers. But Pasev knew to touch the regul fiber with a burning wick, and so to part the strange web. The material burned sullenly, but it gave way, shedding its chemical smell into sickening union with the incense that lowered overhead.
It was something on which they all silently agreed, that they would not give to burial a kel’en in a regul shroud, whatever the inconvenience; and gradually they recovered Medai from the web, a face that they remembered, a countenance, still and pale. The body was small and thin in death, pitifully so; it weighed very little, and Medai had been a strong man. The honors that they found laced to his belts were many, and the seta’al were weathered to pale blue on his face. He had been a handsome youth, had Medai s’Intel, full of the life and the hope of the edun in brighter days. Even now he was very fine to see. The only marring of him was the blood that stained the fiber under his central ribs, where he had dealt himself his death wound.
Suicide.
Niun worked, not looking at Medai’s face, trying not to think what his hands did, lest they tremble and betray him. He was trying to remember better days, could not. He knew Medai too well. His cousin was in his dying as he had been in life: selfish, arrogant to match regul arrogance, and stubborn with it all. It was wrong to hold anger with the dead, impious. But in the end Medai had been as useless to his kinfolk as he had always been. Medai had lived for himself and died for his own reasons, nothing regarding what others might need of him; and there was precious little honor for a cold corpse, whatever the high traditions of the Kel.
They had parted in anger. He remembered, each day of his life for six years he had remembered, and he knew why the she’pan had wanted him upstairs, and what was surely in the minds of his brother kel’ein who sat with him. There had been a quarrel, the av’ein-kel, the long blades drawn; it had been his own fault, drawing first, in the Shrine hall, outside. It was the day that Medai had laid hand on Melein.
The Faded Sun Trilogy Omnibus Page 7
