The Marann

by Sky Warrior Book Publishing

  “I see you have a problem,” the Jorann said.

  He bowed with difficulty. “Yes, highest.”

  “You are injured, grandson. Sit. All of you sit.” Marianne and the apothecary helped the Sural down onto the thick white blankets. The Jorann settled back on the edge of her dais. “The Detral defied my orders in his actions against the Marann. I want him brought to me.”

  “Yes, highest.”

  “And as for the request your apothecary makes of me… Grandson, do you understand what you ask?”

  The Sural nodded. “We cannot allow the humans to remove Marianne Woolsey from Tolar.”

  “No, we cannot,” the Jorann agreed, “but this is no light thing you ask, with no small amount of risk. Do you see no way to delay them?”

  “I lack even human skill to mask what I feel,” Marianne said. “It’s one of the reasons they chose me for this. And one of the humans on the ship is a skilled observer—a spy, even, in the Sural’s opinion. I don’t think I’ve fooled her a bit.”

  The Jorann nodded, her face grim. “You are quite sure that you are willing to go through this?”

  Marianne swallowed hard and nodded. The Jorann bent into a slight bow.

  “It will take a great deal of my blessing to accelerate your transformation to the extent required,” the Jorann said. “As it happens, I have a great deal with me—all that would have gone to Detralar this season.”

  Marianne shuddered.

  “The entire people of Detralar will soon step into the dark. So many of my children. It has not happened in a thousand years. Such a waste, this game my rulers play.”

  “Highest,” Marianne said, “why do you punish his people for his crime?”

  She grunted. “Where did your manners go?” She motioned Marianne to lie down in the blankets. She complied without hesitation, and the apothecary piled more blankets over her.

  “At least you are obedient,” the Jorann said. “Very well then. Before we begin, my grandson will tell you part of the answer.”

  The Sural’s face went grim. “He is dishonored, and all of Detralar is pledged to his life.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Every man, woman, and child above the age of four in Detralar has sworn their lives to his,” the Jorann continued. “But their Detral is dishonored and will soon be dead. Tell me, child, have you learned enough of our ways to know what my children do when they are dishonored?”

  “They—die,” she whispered.

  “Yes, child. They go into the dark. I do not choose this fate for them. They choose it themselves, and it would be cruel to send them my blessing to live in dishonor. Almost all will choose the dark. Those who do not will try to flee and die when they find no haven in other provinces. Those who are related to the Detral by blood—he has fathered many children—will feel it most keenly. It compounds the tragedy. Soon, there will be no Detrali left on Tolar.”

  Marianne squinted. “The Detral has—”

  “He can have only one heir,” the Sural said, emphasizing the last word, “but any woman in the province can request him to father hers. According to his own boasts, the Detral never declined such requests, even when the genetic analysis was poor. He fathered hundreds of children.” His lips compressed until lines formed at the corners of his mouth.

  She snorted. “He must have been busy at night.”

  The Sural laughed. “In a manner of speaking. Every adult has the right to an heir, but the Detral was… excessive in his devotion to that duty, perhaps.”

  “Beloved—” She stopped, uncertain how to ask the question on her mind.

  “Yes,” the Sural said, “I receive such requests.”

  “Do you—”

  “On occasion. I am… more discriminating… than the Detral. I refuse requests if the genetic analysis is not favorable enough.”

  “How many children do you have?”

  “Aside from Kyza, I have fathered thirty-six. There will be a thirty-seventh before high summer.”

  “Thirty-seven!” Marianne exclaimed.

  “They are scattered all over Suralia,” he added, eyeing her. He raised an eyebrow. “This makes you uncomfortable.”

  “The human customs I grew up with are—different.”

  “Humans would call our way promiscuous. Yet they dissolve relationships with wanton frequency, while we bond for life.”

  “If I—if we—will you—”

  “Tradition demands that I lead by example.”

  “But—”

  “You cannot think me an undesirable candidate to father a woman’s heir?”

  “No!” she exclaimed, then said, in a low voice, “I just hoped you would be more—well—unavailable...” She trailed off.

  “It is my duty to consider any daughter of Suralia’s request which meets my standards,” he said. “Did I not, resentment would soon fester.” He took her hand. “The liaison lasts only for the short period of time required to give the woman a child. Quite often, it is no more than a single encounter.”

  She took a deep breath and stared at the cavern’s ice-coated ceiling, high above. Tolari ways came out of six thousand years of tradition. She could hardly expect them to change just because she didn’t like it.

  But I love him. She sighed and glanced at the Jorann. She sat motionless with her eyes fixed on Marianne, one corner of her mouth lifted and eyes glinting. Feeling naked beneath that gaze, Marianne flicked her eyes back to the Sural.

  “Do I know any of your other children?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he answered. “My first. I fathered my apothecary.”

  “Your apothecary!” she blurted. “But she—” The woman smiled—the Sural’s own enigmatic smile.

  “Who better to care for my health than an apothecary I fathered?” he asked.

  “You must continue this discussion at another time,” the Jorann interrupted. She knelt on the blankets and handed Marianne a cube. “Take this.”

  Marianne settled herself, letting it dissolve on her tongue. It had no particular taste, and she didn’t fall unconscious as she had the first time. The Jorann reached over her, offering some to the Sural. With raised eyebrows, he extended both hands to take them.

  “Consume two,” she said. “They will accelerate your wound’s healing. Give one to your apothecary. She saved your life, and I approve of the way she handled you on the stairs. Her status should reflect her ability.”

  Marianne snorted with mirth and almost choked. The Sural shot her a rueful smile and handed a cube to the apothecary, who took it with reverence.

  “You honor me,” she whispered, placing it on her tongue.

  The Sural consumed the two cubes and swayed. The healer turned her scanner on him, studying the readout on a tablet. She looked back at the Jorann with gratitude and relief plain on her face.

  The Jorann grunted and shifted her attention back to Marianne. “Open,” she said, dropping another cube in Marianne’s mouth.

  The apothecary opened her bag and fished out a piece of equipment the size and shape of the top half of a small apple. She set about adjusting it and, satisfied, placed it on the blanket beside Marianne.

  “Again,” the Jorann commanded, and dropped another cube in Marianne’s mouth.

  “How do you feel?” the apothecary asked, running a scanner over Marianne’s head.

  “Strange.” Marianne’s voice sounded distant and distracted to her own ear. “The world is rippling.”

  The Jorann nodded. “Open.” She dropped another cube in Marianne’s mouth.

  As the youthful but ancient Tolari continued to feed her, Marianne began to think the apothecary had been mistaken about the pain. Then the world jerked and began to spin, turning into a whirlpool of razor-sharp knives, slashing at her. She screamed.

  The apothecary placed her device on Marianne’s forehead and turned it on.

  Marianne slipped into blackness.

  <<>>

  Up on the ship, the Admiral faced an Adeline whose only si
gn of anger was her flaring nostrils.

  “You should have the authority to open Marianne’s psychological profile and personal history file,” she said.

  “Be that as it may,” he said, “I don’t. I’ll kick your request up the chain of command. It’s all I can do. I’ll probably have an answer for you in a week or so. Maybe by then the phase platform will be repaired.”

  He could do nothing Adeline wanted, and she couldn’t not know that. Scuttlebutt all over the ship concerned the phase platform and the possible causes of its malfunction. A phase coil had melted for no apparent reason, damaging it and rendering it unusable. Engineering had sent for a new unit, but until it arrived, he couldn’t extract the schoolteacher without creating an interstellar incident.

  Adeline chewed on her lower lip, nodding. “Let me know as soon as you hear anything.”

  “You’ll be the first to know,” he said, watching her retreating back. Even before I do, I bet, he thought, with a slight headshake. He couldn’t warn Smithton without risking his own life. Smitty has no idea.

  <<>>

  Marianne swam back into consciousness and opened her eyes, shivering in the cold of the Jorann’s cave.

  “Is it done?” she gasped.

  The apothecary shook her head. Her hair was still gray, but the lines on her face were gone. “No, high one. Forgive me, but I had to wake you. You were in peril, close to the dark. But you need not awaken long. I will reset the device shortly.”

  The bones in Marianne’s neck popped as she nodded. “I understand,” she whispered. “How long has it been?”

  The ticking time sense in her head told her the answer before the healer spoke it.

  “Four days.”

  The Sural maneuvered her head and shoulders into his lap, and the healer pressed a steaming mug into her hands.

  “Drink this,” she said. “It will replenish you.”

  “Beloved,” the Sural murmured, pushing her upper body a little straighter so she could drink.

  She gave him a weak smile. “You look better,” she whispered. She sipped at the mug, which proved to contain a savory broth.

  “The Jorann’s blessing healed me,” he said with a warm smile. “I am well and strong again.”

  Her stomach lurched at the thought of what that meant for her when they returned to the stronghold, but she didn’t have the strength to be afraid. “Tell me about—how it is for Tolari women, to have an heir.”

  His brows tried to meet his hairline. “Are you certain you wish to hear about that now?” he asked.

  She nodded, settling back against him, drinking the broth. He folded his arms around her.

  “Very well,” he said. “Our customs and laws are different for women than they are for men. There are biological and developmental realities to take into account—you have a much greater physical and emotional investment in the child’s early years. Women spend most of two seasons carrying the child during gestation and have a bond with the infant before it is born. None are required to bear more than their own heir, although many do—they must, or our population would fall by half every generation.

  “We have special laws with respect to the ruling caste,” he continued. “High ones are forbidden to request an heir from a Tolari who does not yet have an heir. A woman carrying the potential heir of a member of the ruling caste must live in his stronghold until her bond to the child dissolves between the ages of six and ten seasons.”

  “So Kyza’s mother—”

  “Would have lived in the stronghold until Kyza had ten seasons of age, yes. It is ever the way with daughters. They need the woman who mothered them longer than sons do. Our sons bond to us when they have five or six seasons.”

  “Do I know her?”

  “No. She died shortly after giving birth. Kyza herself nearly died, refusing to bond to me at first. Infants by instinct seek the mother they knew before birth and will seldom be comforted by another.”

  “So that’s why she was bonded to you instead of her mother.”

  “Even so.”

  Marianne shook her head and set aside the now-empty mug. The Sural eased her from his lap onto the blankets.

  “Forgive me, beloved,” she said. “I had no idea.”

  The apothecary replaced the device on her forehead and pressed a button.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Marianne swam back to the light and opened her eyes. The Sural knelt beside her, one of her hands in both of his.

  “Welcome back, child,” said the Jorann. “It is done.”

  “How long—” she whispered, but again, she knew the answer.

  “Another three days have passed,” the apothecary replied, handing her a mug of the replenishing broth.

  “You have little time, children,” said the Jorann. “Go now.”

  <<>>

  Marianne tried to walk back to the stronghold. Her knees wobbled and threatened to give out before reaching the stairs, even leaning most of her weight on the Sural. Ignoring her protests, he picked her up and carried her.

  Face heating, she swallowed her protests and sighed, leaning her head against his shoulder and letting an unaccustomed warmth creep through her. He smiled, and her hand twitched with an urge to run her fingertips down his cheek. She quelled the impulse. He had recovered his strength, and when she recovered hers, he would want to—

  “You are a brave woman,” he said.

  She knitted her brows together and frowned. “Why do you say that?”

  “You know you are weak, and yet you do the hard thing. You are afraid, and still you continue.”

  “Except—”

  “Will you tell me what happened to give you such fear?” he asked. “There are no guards in this tunnel, and my apothecary follows at a respectful distance. No one else will hear.”

  She blew out a breath. She did want to tell him, but... She fought back the reflex to hide it. He would have to know, sooner or later. Better sooner, when the inevitable rejection would hurt less. She took another breath and began, in English.

  “When I was twelve—Earth years—for humans, it’s about that time most girls begin to become women. My parents let me walk to the summer fair without an adult for the first time. I went there with my best friend Susan, who lived next door. We spent the whole day at the fair, did all the normal things that kids do—ate too much greasy food, went on rides, played with the animals in the petting zoo, played games, gathered with friends. It got late and I wanted to go home, but Susan wanted to stay. So I said I’d be all right and left the fair without her.

  “When I was walking through the old Ocheltree farm, a man I didn’t recognize started following me. He wasn’t one of the farmhands there. He was wearing dirty clothes, he had greasy blond hair, he was staring at me—a horrible, intense, icky stare. I got scared and ran into the cornfield to hide, but I couldn’t get away from him. He chased me—I could run fast, I thought maybe I could get away. I tripped over a cornstalk that had fallen across the row.” She stopped. Shaking a little, she took a breath and asked, “Beloved—do you understand what—what rape—is?”

  The Sural nodded. His face was grim.

  Marianne fell silent, courage failing her. She took several deep breaths to work up the nerve to say it. “He raped me,” she admitted in a rush. “He tied me to the corn stalks with my own clothing, and he raped me. I don’t know how many times, I lost count. Each time was worse, more... painful. He grunted like a pig. He yelled louder each time when he was—and the whole time he was ranting about how I’d better not get pregnant from it, he’d kill the baby if I got pregnant.”

  She drew a shaky breath, her eyes filling with angry tears. “I was only twelve,” she sobbed, “It hurt so bad. I wasn’t a woman yet, I hadn’t even gotten my—” She swallowed. “At first light he stopped. He raved at me about how he had just gotten me pregnant, how he couldn’t allow it to live, he had to kill it. He pulled out a barbecue skewer and said if he ever heard I got pregnant, he’d know it was his and
he’d have to come back and do it again. Then he—he—” she squeezed her eyes shut, forcing the words, tears flowing, “he used the skewer on me...” She took a breath. “There was so much blood—”

  The Sural pressed his cheek against her forehead, his eyes glistening.

  “My parents called the authorities when I didn’t come home and people were out looking for me, but they hadn’t searched the Ocheltree farm yet. Old Alec didn’t like it when kids cut through his farm to get to the road, and my parents thought I probably wouldn’t have done that. But I did. I nearly died. Would have died if Old Alec didn’t get up early. He and one of the farmhands heard me scream when the greasy man started—when he was—” she forced the words out, “—mutilating—me.” She stopped, trying to calm herself.

  “Human medicine is pretty advanced. They were able to repair all the damage to—to me and make everything like nothing had ever happened, good as new. My parents did all the right things, put me in therapy, all that. The therapy was supposed to take the emotional impact out of it. But I had nightmares about the greasy man for years. He must have been insane, but they never caught him. I couldn’t stand the idea of ever getting pregnant, couldn’t stand the idea that the greasy man could come back and hurt me again. I believed him when he said he would come back. Maybe I still do, I don’t know. When I was eighteen, I went to the clinic in town and made them sterilize me. They didn’t want to—they said I was too young to make that kind of decision. But I was a legal adult and I insisted on my rights and I was willing to pay cash—I saved every bit of money I ever made, every summer job, every bit of allowance. I insisted they make it irreversible. I had to be safe. I kept at them until they gave in and did it for me.

  “I never dated. I never even looked at boys. I never looked at girls either. I just didn’t want to have any of… those feelings, ever. The greasy man raved about how he had to do what he was doing to me because he had feelings. He said I would get those feelings someday too, and then I’d want him to do that to me. I swore to myself I never would. I swore I’d never—ever—I would never let anyone be more than a friend.