by Dave Smeds
“Meyr is going to be married?” Elenya said, surprised.
“No. She can be married. A man must want her. Sesheer has been of age for two years now, but no one has asked to wed her."
Now, out in the desert, Elenya debated with herself as to which was the easier ritual: the abrupt but respected one demanded of the males or the drawn-out, unpublicized female one.
With her luck, she was glad not to have to endure both.
Task done, she squirmed feet first into the cloth cocoon she had created. She wondered who had ended up with Meyr's tent.
* * * *
Alemar awoke to the sensation of something creeping down his neck. He sat up so fast he lifted the hide off one of its poles and collapsed the tent.
Sand trickled down his spine.
The moons told him it was a few hours before dawn. Nothing stirred, except the air flowing over the dune, bearing with it the fine spray of granules picked up from the earth. Small drifts had piled up against Alemar's sleeping body, until it had entered his collar. Irritated, he stood up and shook out his clothing.
He realized immediately what he had done. In this particular region, the prevailing winds always changed direction shortly after midnight. He had left the open end of his tent exposed to them. Wearily, disgusted with himself, he proceeded to uproot his shelter and reconstruct it facing the other way.
* * * *
Dawn smelled imminent, but the sky offered only diamonds on black velvet. Elenya couldn't make herself sleep any longer. She began to tremble, though she was perfectly warm inside her blankets. She shifted until her head lay outside the tent, where she could stare upward and feel the faint kiss of dew landing on her face.
A billion stars, a billion grains of sand. And her. One woman, man, man/woman. Who was she? A bastard child on a quest, sent by a father she had scarcely ever seen. One half of a set of twins.
She couldn't understand why she wasn't happy to be away from the Zyraii. She didn't belong with them. They all treated her like an aberration. The strange man with tits. An embarrassment. Did Lonal really think that the other tribes would play along with the farce? How could the T'lil themselves have accepted it so blithely? She wished she were God; it was handy to have people obey you to the point of denying their own sight and touch.
The jumping rat could derive enough moisture from the dew and the seeds it consumed to never need a true drink. That was the sort of creature that belonged here. Not a woman.
She reached into her collar and pulled out her necklace. The jewel was agonizingly faint, a small green flicker now and then. Alemar was miles away. But at least he was there.
* * * *
Alemar felt the tiny pulse of heat on his chest and knew at once it was the amulet. It said nothing articulate, only that there was someone else thinking of him. He hung on to the knowledge, the faint chitters and rustles of dawn desert life failing to bring him out of his soliloquy.
A new day. Soon it would be a new month, a new year. Would he still be here in the desert? Or would there be a path suddenly open in front of him, making his course of decision clear? He knew what had been expected of him when he departed for this country. He could guess at Lonal's plans for him. He hadn't resisted either influence on his life. That struck him as strange. He should have some idea what he wanted to do with himself. He was over twenty years of age now; yet still he let others lead him.
What were the choices? To plow ahead with his and Elenya's original quest, and ignore the lessons in prudence they had gained from the Zyraii? To return home empty-handed? He hadn't felt such lack of direction since his mother had died.
It startled him to think of her. She wasn't so long dead that he forgot her often. No, what surprised him was that he had not recently felt the disconnectedness her passing had created. No one could replace her as an individual, but the sense of a home, a place he belonged, had not been fretting him. Foreign though it was, he now had a family and, transient though it was, a home. He didn't know whether to be grateful or to grieve. He realized he had been touched irrevocably by Zyraii.
He got up. The next year would come soon enough. Best to take this day all by itself first.
* * *
XVIII
IN THE FIRST WEEKS after Ethmurl had gone, Lerina liked to spend middays meandering along the high bluffs. The fog would usually be well off the coast, providing her with a broad view of the ocean while she herself was camouflaged by the forest. She would watch as the ships of the Dragon's blockade maintained their patrols, catch glimpses of the fishing boats of her own people, and imagine that she saw other craft, always at the horizon or on the edges of incoming fog banks. Those who knew her might have thought her behavior odd, but ever since puberty she had habitually spent long periods alone away from the hold, and none were the wiser that she was now haunting the woods more than the beaches.
This day she broke her ritual, cutting short the time spent watching the Dragon Sea, and drifted deeper into the trees. Inland, Garthmorron was a treasury of virgin lumber, little exploited since the Elandri war had disrupted trade between Cilendrodel and the civilized world. The roads were infrequent and seldom travelled. The forest devoured her, the subdued light beneath the canopy guiding her toward her objective. Before long she found it, growing at the base of one of the mammoth trunks.
The shrub was in flower—tiny white blossoms to accent the earth tones surrounding them—but the abundant, delicate leaves were what she wanted. She stripped off a few handfuls, sniffed them, and wrinkled her nose. She folded the leaves into a piece of cloth and stood up.
A fluttering in the underbrush made her heart surge. A patch of ferns swayed and parted briefly, clearly revealing minute, nearly human outlines. Pinpoint eyes glinted up at her, then were gone. She stepped forward, alert, but the movement of the plants had stilled entirely, leaving no trace of her small visitor.
“Rythni,” she whispered.
She might have searched, but knew from experience and legend that she wouldn't find anything. She gathered her composure and walked back to her father's cottage, holding the cloth of collected herbs in cupped hands.
* * * *
The water had boiled, and she was pouring it into the teapot to steep when her father opened the door. She jumped, recovered herself, and greeted him as he entered.
“A fine day,” he answered, obviously in a good mood.
“I thought you went hunting."
“Did. I came across a fine hart almost inside the grounds. He's hanging from the tree near the smokehouse, already gutted."
She winced at the image.
“Now, now, you know you like venison as much as I do.” He arranged himself in the room's only real chair. Cosufier Elb-Aratule was ruggedly handsome, a small man just beginning to display the waning of youth. He sniffed the air.
“What's that you have there?"
“Amethery."
His face fell. Lerina felt the blood rush to her cheeks.
“You have a problem?” he asked.
“Not if I drink the tea.” Her attempt to sound flippant fell short.
Cosufier straightened up slowly. “Apparently you had an interesting holiday with that fisherman's son.” He kept judgment out of his voice. He hadn't pressed her over her somewhat dubious excuse for her absence, nor would he now.
“I'm afraid so."
“Are you sure this is what you want?"
“As a matter of fact, I haven't decided.” All at once, Lerina felt her reticence vanish. This was her father, not the gossips of the village or the unsophisticated sons of woodcutters and silk farmers.
“Oh?"
The scent of the amethery was thick, approaching the strength necessary for its purpose. “I was thinking what would have happened if my mother had chosen to drink."
Her father said nothing.
“Don't try to reassure me. You were both very young, and Mother wasn't the kind of person to let something happen that she didn't want. She must have considere
d it."
Cosufier cleared his throat. “Actually, we considered it.” Lerina wondered if it were guilt she detected in his tone but realized she preferred not to know the particulars. “And so might the father of this baby, whoever he may be."
She paused. “He is someone committed to distant lands and responsibilities—and I think to another woman and her children."
For the first time, her father seemed worried. “Who?"
She shrugged, inwardly laughing at herself. “I don't know. He never told me his true name, I'm sure of that."
“What have you gotten yourself into, daughter?"
“He wasn't like anyone I'd ever seen before. He impressed me—the way you impress me, Papa. And he needed me, at least for a little while. I knew he wouldn't stay, but that didn't matter. I took what I could, and he loved me back as best he could. Preventing pregnancy was the last thing on my mind. I knew, if need be, I had amethery."
“But now you're not sure you want to use it."
“I don't want to raise a child alone, but I also don't want just any offspring. I don't know who Ethmurl really is, but he had something inside him that no boy of Garthmorron has to offer. This baby could be someone very special. That's my difficulty. If I conceived another dozen times, I might never produce a child to match the one in my womb now."
“Will the child exhibit the qualities of the father if he isn't present to raise it?"
“That's a long question, Papa. My short answer is: At least it will have a chance."
“Wait until Uncle Ossatch hears about this."
Her smile was involuntary. “I'm sure Uncle Ossatch will deny my adventurousness comes from his side of the family."
“At least I was able to do the honorable thing.” Cosufier sighed. “This child of yours won't have that sort of buffer."
“I survived. So did you.” However dull Garthmorron might have been, it had nurtured her.
“You want the child, then."
“I don't know, Papa. I really don't."
It took a few moments for it to sink in, then Cosufier suddenly stood up, adjusting his belt in a feigned attempt to seem casual. “Well, I have some chores I should be doing.” But he only made it halfway to the door. “You know,” he said finally, “your mother and I planned brothers and sisters for you, though we never had the chance to have them. I'm still young enough to enjoy being a surrogate father."
“Thank you, Papa."
“I'll see you in a few hours."
She kissed him and he was gone, leaving her stroking her abdomen and wondering if it would ever again be as flat and smooth as it was now.
A short while later, she poured a full cup of the tea—more than enough, she thought. She emptied the remainder of the pot onto the ground outside the back window, and set the cup on the windowsill to cool. It would be ready in a few minutes. By that time, she would have decided.
She climbed into the loft. She lay in her bed, which had never seemed too large until Ethmurl had left, and pulled out the scrap of doeskin she had hidden under her pillow, spreading it out on the bed to read the hastily scrawled ideograms of High Speech. She could have simply taken it from memory.
* * * *
Lerina:
I leave like a thief in the night—because I could not face the hurt and judgment of your eyes. I cannot share with you the reasons why I leave, but believe me when I say that they have nothing to do with you. I said it once lightly, but now I repeat in sincerity: “Thou art the queen of all women.” I love you.
— Ethmurl
* * * *
With the note, he had left four jewels. She picked up the largest one. It glittered magnificently. She had never seen anything comparable, not even among the late Lady Dran's finery. If and when she ever needed to convert it into cash, she would receive enough to live on for several years, at a better standard than she was used to.
But at that moment, it had no allure. They were four rocks. Pretty, and precious to some, but nevertheless hard and giving no love nor warmth. What kind of legacy was that? She slipped her hand under her blouse and felt the area around her navel. It was warm, living, containing a potential for beauty unmatched by jewels.
She had made her decision. She wanted a better reminder of him than rocks.
She virtually sailed down the stairs from the loft. She would have to tell her father immediately; it wasn't fair to make him wait all day. She almost giggled at the expression she knew she'd soon see on Uncle Ossatch's face. But first, she turned to the windowsill to dump out the amethery.
The cup lay on its side, its contents dripping off the outer edge. Brows furrowed, she picked it up. It had a wide, flat bottom. Even a stiff breeze wouldn't have knocked it over, had there been one. Her father? Not like him.
Then she saw it. A tiny set of footprints led across the sill, etched with spilled tea, evaporating to nonexistence as she watched. She searched, but the rythni had gone, leaving no other traces.
As any Cilendri knew, a mother couldn't have asked for a better omen.
* * *
XIX
IT WAS DARK NIGHT, the night on which neither the sun, nor its sister, nor Motherworld, nor any of the moons were in the sky. It was a time when the gods withdrew their surveillance, when the forces of the supernatural were unbound, and when men conducted those rites that needed power to sanctify. Across the face of Tanagaran, every culture maintained its superstitions and observances concerning Dark Night, and Alemar and Elenya were prey to old beliefs and childhood myths. This was the moment when the face of the world they knew turned its back on its mother planet and Achird, the sun, away from its origin and its foundation, and looked out at the immensity. Here in the desert, the magnificent clarity of the dry, high altitude cast jewels in the ebony ceiling above. The air lived. Existence never seemed so limitless, and man so small.
A knot of Zyraii surrounded them, but despite the presence of humanity, Alemar and Elenya felt the loneliness and desolation of the land, a sensation that had not truly left them since they had separated to observe the first section of the pulstrall. The beauty and the terror of the wasteland once again stole their equilibrium.
They had reached the end. They had spent their time alone and had all returned, some worse for wear, but alive, to endure the other tests. They had proved their knowledge of the blade and rope; they had broken oeikani; they had recited the laws of the So-de'es from memory. Now on the eighth night, one ritual remained.
At a word, the youths were formed into a long line. Ahead of them stood the Menhir of T'lil, flanked by three large fires. Wood fires. The stone was something of an enigma, a chunk of rugged, convoluted rock possessing glints of metal ores. It reached shoulder height, half as wide as it was tall, nestled in the midst of the fine sand that bordered the palms and grasses of the oasis of Shom. No rock of this type existed elsewhere in Zyraii. It was the most valuable of all T'lil relics. The oasis was the center of their territory; no member of another tribe would be permitted here while a T'lil lived to defend it. Alemar knew this was no boast. The menhir, in a sense, gave this Zyraii tribe their everlasting souls, and there was no physical object more precious to them.
Wilan took to his position directly in front of the stone, facing the line of boys.
"Ai Nannon!" Wilan cried.
"Ai Nannon!" the boys echoed.
Behold God! A phrase spoken only on Dark Night.
“Nannon welcomes you to the Bu,” Wilan said. His voice carried such impact that it rode over the detachment Elenya and Alemar normally felt listening to the Zyraii language. Even words that they scarcely understood moved them. “You have all done well. It is time for the final acknowledgment of your new status."
The old man looked down the line—about twenty boys, all afraid. The adults took up stations at either end of the line. The youths eyed them nervously.
One of the priests stepped to center stage. He reached to a tiny scabbard on his belt and withdrew a shiny, very wicked-looking instrument.
The blade was shorter than the handle and was shaped like a fork. The outer edges were dull; only the insides of the prongs were meant to cut. The man raised it above his head and waved it once, slowly, across the boys’ range of vision.
A boy next to Alemar hiccupped.
“Take off your clothes,” Wilan ordered.
The boys hesitated. Although it was not considered immoral for males to bare themselves before other males, once past toddler age Zyraii usually disrobed only within the confines of the home tent, among immediate family. It was a practical custom—in the desert, one did not expose one's skin unnecessarily to the sun. The men merely waited, and one by one the boys began to obey.
They threw their bundles of clothing a few paces behind them. Alemar felt the isolation of his light complexion, but the sensation vanished as he noticed the many furtive, and some open, glances at Elenya. One or two of the boys stifled smiles, more of them displayed anxiety. They had known she was there, but suddenly it mattered. They looked to their elders for guidance. The older Zyraii merely avoided looking, but some of them, for the first time since the pulstrall had begun, stirred nervously.
Elenya held her chin high, chest out. But a trickle of sweat worked down each side of her torso.
Wilan alone looked her in the eyes. “Nannon forgive us,” he breathed. Then, full-voiced, he demanded of the line: “Hold out your sheys."
The blood flushed Alemar's cheeks as he complied. Down the line, knees weakened. Elenya stared at her pubic hair for several moments, shrugged, and kept her hands at her sides.
