by Sharon Joss
She handed him the bowl and a wooden spoon. The warm cereal settled his stomach. “Where am I?”
She gathered her shawl around her and stood. “You were brought to the Temple of the Mother for healing after being bitten by a tree lizard. Deadly, even for Khirjahni. No one thought you would live, but yesterday, you began to wake up.”
Yesterday? “How long have I been here?” He realized he was naked beneath the blankets and his face grew warm. “Where’s my pack? My clothes?” For such a young girl, she seemed remarkably composed.
“Three days.” She motioned to a simple cupboard beneath a barred window. “Your pack is there. Your clothes were ruined; but you are welcome to help yourself to whatever you need from what you find.”
He nodded, and scraped his spoon across the bottom of the bowl to get the last bite. “Thank you.”
“You may thank the Queen Mother in person. She would like to speak to you as soon as you are dressed.” She bowed and left him alone in the whitewashed cell.
The realization hit him like a blow. Three days. He’d missed his return flight. The festival would be ending soon, although he was certain there were still a few days left before the final closing ceremony. Whatever happened, he didn’t dare miss the final transport leaving Aurum.
As he unwound the bandage on his hand, he struggled to recall his last memory. He remembered stopping for water with K’Sati. He examined his hand and frowned. Three sets of bites marked the ugly purple and green flesh. He remembered nothing of being bitten, or any lizard.
Paul. They were chasing Paul. What happened? He searched for Garrett’s presence in his mind, but felt nothing. After months and months of his brother’s voice in his head, only silence answered him now.
Renly struggled to his feet, using the wall to brace himself against a spell of vertigo. He rubbed his jaw; they must have shaved him while he slept.
Using the stuccoed walls for support, he made his way over to the wardrobe and found his carryall untouched; everything, including the gold and platinum bars all as he had packed them. He found a pair of faded brown traggah wool trousers and a homespun sleeveless tunic. Damn these Khirjahni; didn’t they ever get cold? He wrapped a blanket around his shoulders and wished for the robes he’d bought.
His Corinthian leather dress shoes sat on the floor of the closet, covered with dried mud; the leather split and separating from the sole. A total loss, but his socks had been laundered. Still, by the time he got himself dressed and washed his face in the standing basin, he felt almost himself again.
His room opened into what he guessed was a dormitory hallway, lined with heavy wooden doors. The sound of murmured conversation led the way, and eventually he emerged into a central room, which appeared to serve as both a meditation room and classroom.
A dozen young women in pale green robes kneeled on thin mats facing an older woman seated on an elevated dais. The room appeared to have been designed like the hub of a wheel, with hallways leading in various directions. The pale walls had been painted in a manner of aboriginal cave paintings; depicting stylized the horned Khirjahni people living and travelling amid herds of traggahs.
The women bowed their heads, as if in prayer, all but one, who sat cross-legged on a raised dais with her face turned upwards to a magnificent domed ceiling covered in a frieze of trompe l’oeil clouds amid a peach-colored sunrise of the twin suns of Aurum. The style of painting on the walls compared to the much more modern style of the friezes on the ceilings made Renly wonder who had built the shrine, and whether or not any of the art depicted was truly aboriginal or Terran.
A soft gong sounded in a distant part of the building, and the Mother’s eyes turned immediately to his.
“I am glad to see you well, Terran.” The coldness of her voice and the stony glitter in her eyes spoke differently. “Your traggah has been tended to, and the acolytes have prepared food to take with you. The day is still young; you will easily reach the coast before dusk.”
Renly stepped into the room, as most of the young women rolled up their mats. They kept their eyes to the floor, he noticed.
“Thank you for saving my life,” he began.
She flicked her hand with a casual nonchalance. “The Mother of All saved you; I am but her instrument. Had you arrived much later, not even the Mother could have saved you. You Terrans are such a fragile species.” She leaned forward, and stared straight into his eyes. “You bear the marks of the tree lizard now. Be thankful. No other Terran has ever survived such a bite.”
“Where are K’Sati and Paul?”
Something flickered across the cold woman’s face. “Gone. Back to the coast, both of them.” She smiled coldly. “No one thought you would live.”
* * *
The temple Mother did not come to see him off, but several of the Priestesses did, joined by a crowd of acolytes and orphans. The stable master brought Silverbeard out to him and stood by with an almost paternal air, as Renly repeatedly tried to mount the unwilling traggah. The younger children laughed hysterically at his frustrated efforts. The priestesses hid their smiles behind their hands.
After ten minutes of wrangling with Silverbeard, he admitted his defeat, and told them he preferred to walk a bit, to stretch his legs.
The stable master rolled his eyes. “To reach the coast by dusk, you must ride. There are more dangerous creatures than tree lizards to worry about after dark.”
Renly didn’t stick around to hear any more. He dragged the now perfectly-docile traggah behind him and walked out of the temple down the path to the well-marked road leading back to the coast. He tried several times to get onto Silverbeard’s back, but the creature refused to stand still long enough. The one time he managed to get mounted up, the traggah promptly bucked him off and whistled his satisfaction as Renly cursed him with every word he could think of.
Even so, he found himself glad for the animal’s company, and found that he could keep half his upper body warm by walking close to the animal’s thick neck as they walked. By switching which side he walked on, he was able to keep warm enough to keep his teeth from chattering.
In spite of his questions, no one at the temple would tell him what he wanted to know about K’Sati, or Paul, or Golden Boy. It bothered him more than a little that Paul and K’Sati left without him. Of course K’Sati would have headed back to the coast with Golden Boy. He wondered if the traggah won his race.
But why would Paul go back to the coast? K’Sati had been terrified he was headed toward the forbidden zone. Why would he suddenly turn back? And she would not have been able to force him to return with her if he didn’t want to. All she wanted to do was to swap traggahs with Paul and return Golden Boy to the stables. Even in his drug-addled state, Paul had to be aware that Golden Boy was scheduled to race, so why take him instead of one of the others?
Why was Paul heading into the forbidden zone anyway? Renly turned the idea over in his mind. Only one answer seemed possible: Garrett had to be in the forbidden zone. It was the only answer that made sense.
Beside him, Silverbeard snorted and shook his head, almost as if he wondered the same thing.
And come to think of it, why had no one come looking for him? Surely both K’Sati and Paul would have reported his accident to the authorities. He could have died! How strange that no one bothered come check on him; not Wayne; or even the ambassador. He’d been gone for four days! Why wouldn’t K’Sati and Paul say something about him being bitten by some stinking tree lizard when arrived back at the stables? What is wrong with this place?
Leo’s words came back to him. Aurum is a plague planet.
He held up his injured hand, which was now beginning to throb. He wondered what kind of lizard germs were already multiplying in his system. The Khirjahni obviously shared their genes with traggahs. Their horns were practically identical. And the mandragons...
Renly stopped short. Oh god. What if I turn into one of them?
No. He forced himself to remain calm. Everyone tol
d him dragon pox came from the craggon caves, high up in the mountains of the forbidden zone. What if they were wrong? No one had said anything to him about the after effects of lizard venom.
And Garrett. Why couldn’t he feel Garrett anymore? Had the venom done something to him? Or had something happened to Garrett while he’d been unconscious?
His stomach growled uneasily, but he’d already eaten the lunch they’d packed for him at the temple. All of the women and children spoke excellent English, something he would not have expected, this far from the coast. Still, he couldn’t help wondering why the temple Mother and her priestesses seemed so eager to send him on his way.
* * *
After hours of walking, the light began to change. Not full dusk yet, but more the promise of dusk, and they still hadn’t gotten through the damn forest. Silverbeard began to get skittish, shying at every leaf flicker and noise in the underbrush. A couple of times the traggah tried to bolt, and had half-dragged Renly a dozen yards before he’d regained control of the animal.
He kicked himself for not letting the stable master tie him to the traggah. If he had, he’d be back to the coast by now, probably having a nice hot bath at his hotel. Only the lure of the hot bath and hot meal had kept him going this long, but he was beginning to think they were lost. Surely they should be through the forest by now. Had he somehow gotten off the main road?
As the day lengthened into evening, the sounds of animals scampering around them in the underbrush grew louder. Renly picked up the pace, but keeping his own rising panic under control was almost as difficult as restraining the two-ton traggah dancing nervously beside him. Renly realized that if Silverbeard got spooked, or decided to bolt, he would not be able to stop him.
A large animal seemed to be following them in the thick brush beside the road. To his left and a little behind, he guessed. A cold sweat rolled down his back. Silverbeard’s nostrils flared, and the whites of his eyes showed his fear. Renly began to trot alongside the nervous traggah, but his stamina faded quickly.
They’d only gone a few hundred yards further when he caught the scent of woodsmoke up ahead. Silverbeard surged forward, and Renly hung onto the traggah’s neck, half-running, and half dragged along beside him.
They rounded a turn and the road widened before them, opening into a clearing. A cluster of low buildings stood before them; a barn, a few sheds, and more important, a sweet two-story structure with lights glowing through shuttered windows, and the heavenly scent of something savory wafting across the clearing.
The traggah whistled shrilly; his call answered by two more from inside the barn. Lights at the front of the house illuminated the courtyard. The front door of the house opened, and Renly spoke to a lone figure silhouetted in the doorway. “Hello,” he called out in Khirjahni. “I am lost. May I shelter in your barn tonight?”
The man hefted a three-foot long club in his hand, and replied in excellent English, “We do not host dirt-eaters. Show yourself!”
Renly stroked Silverbeard’s tense neck. “I mean you no harm! I’m coming from the temple. Got bit by a tree lizard.”
The man lowered his club and nodded. “Ah. The Terran. We hoped you would survive. Come, we will get your traggah bedded down and fed first. Then you may tell us all about your ordeal over dinner.”
CHAPTER 16
The old Khirjahni, Okoro, and his silver-haired wife, Rima, welcomed him into their home. The house, which also served as Okoro’s studio, looked to have been built by hand. With its massive exposed beams and stone walls, the place had a rustic feel. The couple lived in one large room, with sleeping quarters in an open loft above. A simple screen separated Okoro’s workspace from the kitchen and living area.
Renly grinned delightedly when he realized Okoro’s art so closely resembled his own; the only real difference between them seemed to be their choice of mediums. Where he worked in precious metals, the old man worked in the local stonewood.
His art hung from every wall; plaques of the highly-polished coffee-colored wood, etched in a style similar to those he’d seen at the temple. Some bore the whorled tribal images and designs he’d seen on the Khirjahni King’s sculpted throne. When asked, the old man blushed and told him the of chair’s history.
“My father carved that throne from a huge knot at the base of one the ancient stonewoods, but the effort took more than half his life, and he died before he finished. I was a young man, then; I did not wish to spend my life as my father had, dedicated to a single work of art. The Arkady Mining executives were in negotiations with our old king, Kehreru. Part of our arrangement with the mining executives included shipments of the custom blades and saws I needed to speed up the work. Using Terran tools enabled me to complete the work my father started, in only a few more years. Had I used the tools of my father, I too would have died before I finished.”
Eagerly, Renly showed him his tools and the precious metals he’d brought with him, including the portrait of the old king.
“I know the portrait doesn’t look like him,” he apologized. “This is my brother’s face. We haven’t been close for years, but he’s been on my mind lately. His image creeps into all my portraits.” He shook his head sadly, as he realized his last chance to find Garrett had disappeared with the lizard bite. “I don’t know what to do now. I can’t work anymore.” He slipped the metal disk back into its box. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I told you.”
Okoro stopped him. “Let me show you something.” He took a key out of his pocket and unlocked a cupboard built into a nook beneath the stairs. Inside the drawer were many small items wrapped in dark blue felt. He unwrapped one and handed it to Renly.
The octagonal medallion weighed heavy in his hand. Gold, by the heft of it, with the portrait of a handsome man engraved on the face. Unlike any of the work hanging on the walls of the studio, this piece was as fine an example of a master engraver’s art as any Renly had seen. The clarity of detail and the perfection of the technique transcended the planet’s culture. Or any culture.
He choked back his emotion. “Where did you get this?”
“That is my work. Of my son, Okarhi. I completed that portrait the day he went off to war. He is wearing the traditional garb of all Khirjahni soldiers: the boots and battle coat of craggon hide lined with traggah fleece, a shirt of softest traggah wool, woven by Rima’s own hands, and the necklace of craggon teeth he took from his first kill.”
“Craggon?”
The old man nodded. “You Terrans call them dragons. In the old days, a Khirjahni boy ascended to manhood only when he and his mates killed a craggon. The leader of the group is given the long fangs as a measure of his bravery.”
Renly peered closely at the necklace around the warrior’s neck. Like King Hakaroah, the young man’s facial symmetry and regal bearing made him made for a riveting image. “The whole necklace is of long fangs.”
The other man smiled sadly. “By horns, you have the right of it. He was a brave and reckless boy.”
“I thought the Khirjahni were against killing.”
“True enough, in times of peace. Today, the Khirjahni are a blend of two peoples; the coastal H’aack fishing people and the ancient nomadic Khirjahni tribesmen; descended of the sacred traggah herd of the high plains. With the arrival of the Arkady Universal Mining Corporation some sixty cycles ago, King Kehreru agreed to sell mineral rights beyond the 45th parallels to Arkady Universal. At that time, many of the Khirjahni gave up the nomadic life to join the H’aack fishermen in the coastal cities and take advantage of the new technology and comforts made available by the Arkady shipments. Like the H’aacks, the Khirjahni live a cooperative lifestyle. Few Khirjahni still follow the herds, but we retain the belief that we are all of the same clan. Our leader is chosen by popular acclaim.
But our traditional enemies, the Th’Dorrans, and some off-worlders as well, ridicule us as a nation of followers. They consider us cowards. Th’Dorrans believe in the law of tooth and claw; their people are ruled
by the domination of the strongest; their king is determined by bloody duel.
The Khirjahni are not cowards. The rite of a young Khirjahni man taking on a craggon, the sacred beast of Th’Dorrah is a ritual shared only between the Khirjahni and our ancestors, the traggahs. Only a herd can defeat a craggon, and only the Khirjahni bear the horns of the sacred traggah. The horns are blessing and a sign of our bond with the Mother of all. No Th’Dorran army has ever bested the Khirjahni.”
“I don’t think I’ve met any Th’Dorrans. Are they like the mandragons?”
The old man shook his head. “Th-Dorran lands are on the far side of the planet, separated from our people by the forbidden zone. They claim they are descended from the great craggons in the mountains, but those tales are merely superstition. Only their temper and taste for blood give them any semblance to craggons. Mandragons are off-worlders like yourself who become infected with dragon pox, as you call it. The virus lives in the soil of craggon lairs. Only off-worlders are susceptible; only gold prospectors living in the forbidden zone contract the virus.
Renly studied the handsome graven image in his hand. Every detail, right down to the coarse weave of the fabric peeking out from beneath the sleeveless coat had been captured in the high-relief engraving. The son’s noble facial structure echoed his father’s but his high forehead reflected his mother’s serene and dignified countenance. “This is a wonderful portrait.” He handed back the engraving.
“He was killed in battle; in the last great war against the Th’Dorrans. Ultimately, the Khirjahni prevailed, so his death was not without merit.” Okoro unwrapped a shield-shaped plaque of polished platinum. “This is the portrait I did for King Kehreru at the end of the war. For his coronation.”
The image was of Okarhi.
Renly gave the old man a questioning look.
Okoro unwrapped a dozen other Khirjahni portraits, of both men and women; all bearing the likeness of Okoro’s son. “Like you, I became haunted by the face of my beloved son. After a time, I stopped doing portraits, but I cannot destroy these.” The old man caressed the surface of his son’s portrait. “His body was never returned to us. Perhaps if I knew where he was buried, I would be at peace, but I think you understand how it is to not know and be haunted by the not knowing.”
