Date: 1986-10-02 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Science Fiction; Romance
Description: Poised between empires, the people of Nuala are survivors. They have fought the deadly radiation levels of their world, battling frightening mutations and genetic shift. An Axis Empire soldier is about to marry a Nualan princess. But there are those who would kill to keep an Axis warrior from marrying a Nualan . . . and those who think it’s the perfect smoke screen to keep anyone from noticing where the border is about to shift. Nuala means survival. Survival against all odds, all enemies, all fortune. They’re going to have to prove it.
Publisher: Book View Cafe

Fire Sanctuary

Katharine Eliska Kimbriel

Book View Café

29 March 2011

Copyright © 1986, 2011 Katharine Eliska Kimbriel

ISBN: 9781611380569

Dedication

For my godson Justin,
who received a manuscript instead of a baptismal quilt.

A Prophecy of Naitun

And in a year of flame
and thunder,

From the womb
of a healer
life shall be born,
bearing sight
no one
has seen before.

And ye shall bow down
to the one
before them—

Rejoice!

In the healing
these Atare bring.

Nuala is one.

—Naitun

A Mythmaker Defines Nuala

This is but a glimpse, a glimmer of end and beginning, exordium and terminus. For to understand Nuala, the word and all the nuance surrounding it, is a lifetime in itself. Nuala is many things—a solar system, a planet, a religion, a language, a people, a way of life familiar, and yet unfamiliar, to the senses of the human species. If you understand nothing else after you have heard this tale, understand this: Nuala means “survival.” Survival against all odds, all enemies, all fortune. Survival.

—From the words of the Mythmaker, in the reign of the 167th Atare.

Chapter One

THE GERRYMANDER

“Assassin takes king of spades. King of hearts to edifice, queen of hearts to crown, king of clubs to ascendant,” the computer droned as it made its move. The duty officer winced visibly as his king was toppled from the peak of the pyramid.

Lyte did not allow his smile to reach his face. The computer’s programming for edifice was elementary, and it played scarcely at an intermediate level. Knocking off the edifice card in the second round merely to introduce a pretender in the last tier was poor strategy—but then computers had trouble with edifice strategy. It was too erratic a game for a machine, a fact that kept living, breathing dealers all over the republic in constant demand. Although this move put the computer’s high card into the heir’s position, it placed Lyte at edifice and ascendant—strong positions so early in the game. The duty officer, whose name Lyte did not remember, was in trouble.

Of course, the idiot had probably figured out his error two days ago, after the first three-hour session of cards. His anticipated “easy” opponent had turned out to be a professional gambler. Fortunately for Lyte, the man was too proud to admit he was overmatched, and the equivalent of a fourteenday’s pay glittered on the divider between them. Lyte’s sympathy had dimmed long ago—the officer was arrogant, almost contemptuous of his two passengers. I would cheat to beat you, fool. If the Nualans hired you to prove they don’t discriminate against non-Nualans, they went too far....

The 3AV hologram to his right winked at him, drawing his attention. It was frozen in its hold mode, waiting for instructions. Allowing himself a languid stretch, Lyte punched the promotion tape back to its beginning. Noticing his distraction, the duty officer visibly searched for a good move, his nostrils twitching in agitation. Lyte wasn’t worried; he probably didn’t have a good move. Time to finish this hand and start another; he was getting bored, and that shouldn’t happen in edifice.

“Pass,” the man finally said, his nostrils now fluttering frantically. The contrast of his nervous tic with his excessively thin face was laughable, but Lyte controlled himself as he requested another card. Jack of pretenders—not worth much. He slid it under his other card.

All hail the biggest pretender of all, he thought wryly as the computer bumped his pawn pretender and slid the king of diamonds into the bottom tier. Four cards now computer controlled—time for an assassin card to turn up. I am the pretender, the biggest pretender. Gods, Moran, hasn’t it occurred to you once that I’ve previously avoided Nuala like a plague? That I’d stay on base and hustle dice before I’d take my leave there, even with you? Gods, you’d be lousy in the tratores—they’d read you like a signpost and take everything you had.

The tape began once again. Lyte watched it with one eye, his professional card sense taking over the game. He’d memorized this tape, of course, as he had all the others, but they had not told him enough. Even Moran couldn’t really tell him enough. After all, the man was smitten by that Nualan princess, incapable of remembering the terror the word Nuala conjured. “If you ever were afraid ...” Lyte muttered aloud.

“What?” The duty officer jerked, as if startled.

“Nothing,” Lyte said, wondering if the little man was trying to figure out a way to cheat. Damn, why did the Axis tapes have so little information about Nuala? As if the Axis tried to forget the colony existed. And this was basically an assignment; he couldn’t afford gaps in his knowledge. Moran had been forthcoming but simply hadn’t understood his friend’s concern. Lyte glanced away from the 3AV toward his dozing partner. Moran always looked very peaceful when he slept, his smooth, classic features more appropriate for an artist or an entertainer than for a warrior of the Axis Forces. But his temper never showed through when he slept. Years ago, before Moran had taken classes in control, Lyte had seen his friend almost kill a man with nothing but his hands. Moran had learned the reason for his outbursts, and his temper rarely showed through; but unlike others, Lyte never made the mistake of thinking this tranquil, soft-spoken individual was an easy mark. Not since you pounded me into the ground for that prank I arranged on your twelfth birthday.

“‘My other half, dark to my light, but I am the darker brother,’” Lyte quoted, running his fingers through his own silver hair to straighten it.

“Are you playing or not?” the duty officer snapped.

“Are you passing?” Lyte responded mildly, fixing the man with a frost-tipped gaze.

“I passed.” It was muttered—they were playing strict edifice, which meant no discard, only three cards maximum. He was probably holding pawns and jacks.

Lyte drew a card. Another jack; gods, was the deck rigged? Maybe after two days of losses the guy was getting desperate.

The computer chose to draw and apparently didn’t like its card. “Pretender queen removes jack of diamonds, pawn of hearts enters,” it droned. The duty officer could not control a strangled gasp. The jack had been his last card in the pyramid.

“Can you do anything?” Lyte asked, ready to toss in his cards.

The man tossed his onto the small pile in disgust, punching the machine for another game. Lyte raked the cubiz to his side of the seat separator. Nearly five hundred cubiz—yes, this was close to a duty officer’s salary.

“Double or nothing?” the man suggested quickly.

“Where’s your stake?” Lyte countered. The man reached for the computer keys, and Lyte added, “Cubiz only. No credits.”

“A regular game, then.” The other sighed, sneaking a glance at Moran as he pulled out a handful of cubes. Lyte could not help but smile—the fool had actually nudged Moran awake once to cut off a game he was losing. Not this time. He was too far away....

Lyte watched without comment as the computer once more dealt the cards, sliding them across the smooth seat separator with precision. The duty officer’s face lit with pleasure, and he placed his first card, the queen of diamonds, at the edifice spot. Grimly amused, Lyte placed his king of clubs directly below and to the right, in the heir apparent position. The computer took ascendant with the king of hearts, and then Lyte lost interest.

Nuala. He was going to Nuala, the enigma of the stellar system, the only populated radioactive wasteland, the—Stop it, fool. His unease surprised him; he had visited many dangerous planets in his time. Perhaps it was knowing that Moran intended to marry one of the natives. Or maybe it’s because an assassin stalks us ... and I fear to find out who did the hiring....

“Where do I get the radiation pills I have to take?” Lyte casually asked the duty officer. Startled, the man looked up from the board. Lyte gave the cards a glance; he’d probably assassinate the computer’s king of hearts, moving his king to the ascendant position.

“Pills? You’re staying?” The tone was incredulous.

“Of course not. I always take my vacations on transport ships.”

It took the duty officer several moments to realize Lyte was being sarcastic. The man slowly flushed. “We rarely carry non-Nualans.... They change you—the pills, I mean. So the food won’t make you sick. I’ve never taken them, I eat ship food. But whoever meets your party will probably bring them. Your hotel guide or embassy rep.” The man dropped the ace of diamonds on the computer’s king and slid still another king into the tier.

“Assassin takes king of hearts. King of spades ascendant, king of diamonds enters,” the computer announced.

So someone from the palace would bring the pills to him. He decided not to mention their connections—apparently this ship had never carried Moran to Nuala. He studied the board. The duty officer had four of the seven slots. Time to shake him a bit. Lyte pulled out his ace.

“Assassin takes king of spades, queen of clubs to ascendant, jack of pretenders enters.” This time Lye allowed himself a slight smile. The guy would go crazy trying to figure out why he didn’t take the edifice. The hand was young....

“They say if you take the pills five days, you’re safe. Unless you get injured while on the planet or something. But I guess they have good doctors there—they should. People don’t die from rav anymore,” the duty officer murmured, still studying the board.

“Rav is radiation poisoning by ingestion?” Lyte asked, his fingers toying with his final card. He had heard all this, of course, but he was interested in the officer’s perspective. He worked with Nualans; his prejudices might be enlightening.

“It’s when you eat their food without building up to it first. Don’t eat the meat,” he added. The nostrils started twitching again. That jack of pretenders had him worried—an assassin in disguise?

“Ingestion. Are the pills metered doses of radiation?” Lyte went on, probing.

“No, I think it changes your immune system somehow, so it likes the radiation instead of fighting it. Only Dielaan radiation, though—not ultraviolet or plutonium or anything. I guess it changes you permanently. People only take the series once.” Sighing, he drew a card. “Pass.”

Lyte also drew. Another ace—good. “Pass. Are they good for the radiation in the air ... and the people?”

The man’s sudden laugh was slightly derisive. “You’ll be two days by boat from any bad area and from the irradiated colonists. Don’t lose sweat over it.”

“Boat?” Lyte had not found any references to boats. In fact, the hot city, Tolis, had scarcely been mentioned at all.

“The hot city is so hot normal metals don’t survive there, and even Nualan stone gets gritty and pebbly on the surface. Why hook them into the rail system? Who’d go to visit? And water travel is cheap—they don’t want to bother with a transport system. The land is fragile, I’ve heard.” He drew. “Pass.”

Lyte pounced, both hands moving with precision.

“Jack of pretenders turns assassin, king of diamonds falls,” the computer droned. “Queen of pretenders enters.”

The man’s jaw dropped. Lyte heard Moran chuckle—how long had he been awake?

Afraid the man would stop talking, Lyte smoothly asked, “Why haven’t you taken the series?”

Composing himself, the duty officer leaned back in his seat. “If I took the series, I might get assigned to the terminal there. Since I don’t want to take the pills, they won’t force me, so I don’t get ground assignment.” He seemed smug about the situation. “They aren’t pushy, the Nualans, I’ll say that for them.” He studied the remaining vacant spot in the pyramid, planning a strategy.

“People always say metals don’t survive on Nuala. Any kind of metal? Am I going to lose my timespot?” Lyte said suddenly, annoyance creeping into his voice. He hadn’t thought of that before—the ship was Nualan, of course, it was made of vandrun, which was impervious to Dielaan radiation. But what about his shaving tackle, his timespot?

“I’ll put anything you have on you into a vandrun case. You can carry that to your room. Just don’t ever wear it near the launch pads,” the man muttered, glancing at the computer to see why it hadn’t made its move.

“But it could eat my timespot if I wore it?” Lyte persisted. It was the last thing his mother had given him before his father kicked him out, which was why he hung on to it.

The duty officer shrugged. “I suppose. I’ve never been in the city. I don’t know how it works.”

“Moran, stop shamming and talk to me,” Lyte said without turning his head. He was momentarily distracted as the computer moved, filling the open space with the queen of hearts. The duty officer looked disappointed.

“About what?” Moran asked companionably.

“My timespot, joker. How potent is the radiation? Will it eat my timespot?”

“Only if you strap it to the nose of the ship before reentry.” The man straightened in his seat, stretching broadly before continuing. “The microbe’s harmless unless Dielaan radiation speeds up its metabolism.” Moran glanced over at the edifice board. “Didn’t you read about the sinisus microorganism?”

Lyte felt his irritation rising. “I read every damn thing in the library, and it didn’t say a damn thing about any damn microbe.”

Moran smiled; the expression was, as always, disarming. “There are microbes native to the Nualan solar system that leach minerals out of rocks. Normally they work about as fast as, say, a glacier melting. However, when one variety, Arachnobacillus sinisus, is exposed to Dielaan radiation, its metabolism goes crazy. A Dielaan radiation belt encircles this planet, so a ship’s hull is exposed as it enters the atmosphere. The sinisus microbes hop on board, mutate, and start eating at an incredible rate. They can devour a non-Nualan ship in about a thirtysixday. This ship is Nualan—its vandrun hull has been ‘doped’ so the microbes won’t like it. They’ll jump off the ship to find something to eat, but since all Nualan metals are doped, the microbes starve to death.”

“What if they find my timespot?” Lyte was still annoyed. This was the kind of information he had wanted and had been unable to find.

“The duty officer will seal it in a small case made of vandrun. You’ll carry it off in that. The microbes from the ships die quickly, Lyte—if we stay out of this area, it’s unlikely anything will happen to it. You can have the stuff plated if you’re worried.”

“Why isn’t it mentioned in the tapes?”

“It is—they say that all metal valuables will be sealed for visitor protection. Most people don’t care what causes things—only that they and their possessions are safe. Few tapes refer to the microbe, Lyte. And what you just heard is all that is recorded off-planet. The Nualans are very jealous of their secrets.” Moran’s gaze was steady, in control. “Are you finished with your game?”

Game. He had completely forgotten the stupid game. The duty officer was still staring at the board. He had only one move; if he had an ace, he could assassinate the pawn before his jack and move one space. But it gained him no money, nor an extra card. Surely he’d wait to see....

The man dropped an ace on the ten of hearts. “Assassin takes pawn of hearts,” came the computer’s voice. As the cards slid to the right to fill the void, the duty officer moved another card into the tier. “Jack of spades enters.”

Lyte was tired of the game. He whipped out his ace.

“Assassin takes queen of diamonds. King of clubs to edifice, queen of clubs to crown, jack of clubs to ascendant.” The pronouncement was sweet; so was the look on the duty officer’s face. Obviously he was hoping Lyte was too addled to think clearly. The warrior placed his last card. “King of pretenders enters.”

Lyte heard Moran chuckle, and felt his body’s tension continue to unwind. He had won. There was only one assassin card out; even if the fool had it, he couldn’t remove both edifice and crown. And Lyte had a pretender threatening both the man’s board cards.

The computer drew a card. “Pass.”

His nostrils almost vibrating in his agitation, the duty officer drew. “Pass.” There was no emotion in that tone. Lyte almost felt sorry for him again.

The warrior drew and set the card face down without looking at it. Only two cards left mattered—pawn of pretenders and the last assassin. Did he want to bother? A bright core of irritation said yes. He looked at the card. Assassin. But one can not draw and assassinate in the same turn. “Pass.”

“Pass.” Startled, Lyte glanced at the computer. It had missed its move! Or had the duty officer changed its game programming? Some variations did not allow pretender displacement. But they had played that version for three days....

“Stupid machine,” the nameless idiot muttered, drawing the last card. No, no change in the game, just a flaw in the program. Perhaps it realized it could not win and did not wish to inadvertently aid either side. But missing a play did often aid a side. “Pass.”

Hell freeze it. Lyte dropped the ace on the duty officer’s jack of clubs.

“Assassin takes jack of clubs, queen of pretenders to ascendant,” the computer announced. It then filled the last tier spot with its own queen of spades. “Pass.”

The duty officer sat very still for a long moment. “I concede.” He carefully folded his three cards and set them face down on the divider, hiding either three pawns or two pawns and a jack, Lyte knew. With only twenty-five cards in the deck, edifice strategy depended on the first three rounds. “Actually, it’s not that many hours until we land. I think I’ll get that valuables box right now.” Nodding tightly, the man stood and moved off down the aisle.

The cubiz Lyte swept into a pouch. He’d bank most of it on-world, keep a bit for dice games. Picking up the deck of cards, he touched the keypanel. The computer’s edifice board pulled away from the seat divider and slid into the wall. Finally, Lyte looked over at Moran.

“All right?” the man asked. Lyte nodded. “We’re arriving in about twelve Nualan hours. Tomorrow night is one of the biggest parties of the Nualan year, The Feast of Adel. You’ll have a great time. Trust me, the Nualans really know how to throw a party.”

Still reassuring; did he really look that bad? “I know,” Lyte said casually, gesturing at the promotional 3AV hologram. “I can’t believe this tape. Parties to celebrate a kid being fertile, for gods’ sake! I’m sorry we’re going to miss the Festival of Masks, though. It’s about forty days from now. Sounds like fun—everyone dressing up in ornate masks, acting crazy all night, keeping their identity a secret ...they visit the extended family during the day, I guess....” He toyed with the tape controls, stopping the tape. “And two wedding ceremonies—”

“Only one wedding ceremony. It’s public, held in the temple, and usually not until a child is on the way. If the couple is sterile then it’s ... an excuse to throw a party.” Moran chuckled at how neatly he had fallen into Lyte’s trap. “But the first ‘ceremony,’ if there is one, is private, called Bonding. It has deep religious meaning, which probably wouldn’t interest you. But any birth, any healthy child is reason to celebrate, so when an adolescent reaches puberty and tests positive, the family goes on a blitz of partying.” Moran glanced at his tiny timespot. “We’re almost there. Are you having fun with the propaganda tape? Is there more to Nuala than trine gold?”

Lyte allowed a dramatic sigh to pass his lips as his fingers started to riffle the cards. “All right. I’ve seen the landscape information and it’s not nearly as bad as I thought it’d be. You have to admit I need some information about this radioactive wasteland.”

“Wasteland!” Moran shook his head, not bothering to hide his smile. “I’ve heard tales of the desert people creating paradise out of sterile sand. And the sinis, the irradiated humans, farm the hot lands. Things do flourish on Nuala, Lyte.”

There was silence for a time, the only sound the ruffling of the edifice cards. “Did you learn all this at one time?” Lyte asked abruptly. “When you came here three terrayear ago, with the ambassador’s party?”

“A great deal of it. Roe has taught me quite a bit.” He smiled faintly. “I’ve known her three Nualan years tomorrow night—we met at the palace party the night of the Feast of Adel.” Moran’s smile grew broader. “Relax! You’re going to the most lavish party of the year. The Feast of Adel, ushering in High Festival and the new year—party before penitence, and then party again! And the women, Lyte! The women —”

“Can steal a man’s soul. No, thanks.” Lyte smiled as he said it. “I just wish we could stay longer so I could find out why you like the place so much. You talk as if you’ve come home.... You have a home, Moran—I’m the one who was thrown out.”

He had spoken easily, but Moran politely skirted the subject of his family. “A fifteenday furlough isn’t bad —”

“Elevenday, Moran,” Lyte reminded him casually, starting to set out the cards face up in an intricate pattern. He carefully controlled his sudden tension. Moran was as skilled at “reading” emotional currents as any commando—perhaps more skilled than most. If he realized Lyte was blocking ...

He knew—and that knowledge pained Lyte. Lyte could see the puzzlement in his eyes. Commandos usually did not “read” their friends, nor did they block each other. Moran had to wonder why Lyte was blocking. But he chose not to ask. And that’s why they sent me. You’re too trusting.

“I forgot. Why didn’t Officer Matias tell me about the meeting? I would have scheduled my furlough earlier.” Moran actually sounded annoyed. Interesting; he did not criticize his superiors very often....

Lyte shrugged. “It came up quickly, I guess. They must have a special assignment for us, or something.” He grinned. “If we’d known in advance, I could have found a discount trip to Mercury 7—and you’d be traveling alone.” Moran smiled at that. He had issued many invitations to Nuala over the past few years, but this was the first time Lyte had accepted. Usually the sumptuary worlds were too much of a lure.

Are you so in love with this woman that you can’t see? Lyte wanted to shout. It is friendship that brings me here, but not coincidence. His fingers hesitated on a card. They told me someone wants to kill you for even contemplating marrying a Nualan. And they told me to get you off the planet four days early. Did you think your furloughs to visit her on Nuala or at the university went unnoticed? Lyte shivered at the implications of such an assassination. Moran might be the perfect warrior; he was a decorated war hero, even a scholar. He was also an aristocrat of the bluest blood, the eldest son of a wealth-poor, title-rich Secundus CSSI family. I, too, am from the planet Secundus.... Lyte knew the bigotry of the CSSI system, knew its conscious and unconscious prejudices. It had a social system which married off strangers—his parents, among them—and forced them to remain together, to produce heirs to great wealth. Lyte shook his head to clear it. He thought he had escaped Secundus. And now the values of CSSI had the power to reach across a stellar alliance and touch them once again....

He could believe such a tale; could believe it of the fanatical aristocrats of CSSI, the first system colonized by humans. The Axis Tribunal ordered me to protect you, to entrap the assassin, if possible. So I’ll stop him ... if he exists. Lyte sighed inaudibly and set down the card in his hand.

There was more to it ... what, Lyte did not yet know. But the tribunal had withheld information—Lyte had “read” that fact as clearly as printed words. They told him to tell Moran there was a meeting. Was there a meeting? Had the war effort really calmed down enough for them to take a furlough? Nuala was only one system away from the front. Lyte had a feeling they were being used, but how? Why? The only way to solve the mystery was to follow his orders and shadow Moran. A commando followed orders, he did not question them. On a planet where no one carried blasters, a commando should be safe ... unless, like Moran, he was so smitten by the place he had lost all caution. Lyte would provide the buffer.

“Just be careful, for my sake, all right?” Moran asked. “Don’t offend anyone. You can bargain, and flirt, but ... remember the old proverb: ‘The Nuala do not lie, and therefore are not easily deceived.’ They are a highly civilized and moral race within their own laws, and they don’t trust off-worlders.”

“Do they really never lie?” Lyte said, suddenly interested.

Moran made a wry face. “Nualans are instinctively, or culturally, like commandos—they are highly skilled at ‘reading’ emotional currents. So they are difficult to deceive face-to-face. But, they have the same problems commandos have—the more people present, the harder to sift out the emotions of an individual. So Nualans don’t try to lie to individuals; they may keep secrets, or leave out information, or avoid a topic ... but they usually don’t lie to each other—why risk it? Yet they’re human. Their politics are as convoluted and scheming as any I’ve seen, and they have their share of criminals—not many, but some. Violent crimes are very rare there. More often it’s theft, illegal trading....” He returned to the question. “In other words, I wouldn’t risk trying to cheat a trader in the bazaar, but if you can attract a crowd with your bargaining, you’ll probably get away with it.”

“Because I bargain better than anyone else you know?” Lyte inquired innocently.

Moran fixed him with a stern look. “Just use whatever sense you have, all right? Remember the Nualans are an interesting dichotomy where off-worlders are concerned—both hospitable and paranoid.”

“If I had been abandoned after a colony mission backfired, I’d be paranoid, too. It took the Axis hundreds of years to find the courage to start colonizing again after the Nualan disaster. How many people are born sterile today?”

“About seventy percent now, although they are still called 80s. Apparently fertility has nothing to do with ‘hotness’; many sinis, irradiated humans, are fertile. However, an exceptionally large number of cool young people have been testing out fertile lately. For the Nualans, it’s a reason to rejoice. Everything here is centered around gene recombination; the child-rearing, the multiple spouses, the royal succession through the woman’s line—all to keep the genes moving.”

“Can you survive the intrigues of Baskh Atare’s court, Moran?” Lyte suddenly asked bluntly. “Can you grasp the possibility of fathering a king and having no power yourself?”

“A king?” Moran shook his head in denial. “Ronüviel has two healthy older sisters, one of them pregnant. We will have our place. With Ronüviel as a hot healer and as the Mythmaker, we will have just enough connection to the capital to keep everyone happy. I’ve been a scientist, a historian, a musician and a cartographer, and I was pretty good at all of them. I have only one more year of this tour to serve; then I’m going back to Nuala for the rest of my life.” Moran looked thoughtful. “To live on a planet where they abhor killing—to never have to kill again....”

Lyte was silent. He had suspected Moran would not renew his service. But had he really thought out the current political situation? Lyte knew that the heir was a scientist, not interested in ruling Nuala—and that the second son was of fragile mind, possibly already insane. The third would probably make a fine ruler, if the various enemies of the ruling Atare House did not kill him first. One man had been trying to supplant the Atares for fifty years.

“A deceptive paradise,” Lyte murmured, hoping Moran would think he meant the contrast of the harsh beauty of Nuala and the dangers of its radiation. “If more people are being born fertile, will they keep the polyandry and the polygyny? I’m not sure I’d like to be one of three husbands—that I could deal with it, I mean. How about you?”

“Anyone who marries an off-worlder can have only one spouse—they don’t think we handle their ways very well, either. Roe and I will be considered a family unit, with whatever children we may have. They like to know who the parents are to keep track of genetic disease, but other than that they don’t care. There is no such word as illegitimate in Nualan, by the way.”

“Isn’t polygamy the norm?” Lyte persisted. “The tape mentioned—”

“No. It is totally free choice. Those who are fertile—the 20s—are raised believing they are responsible for gene recombination and should try and find more than one spouse, but it is up to the individual. Most prefer monogamy. Only the off-worlders and Atares are bound to one spouse at a time. Sometimes 20s will marry 80s, but they keep looking for a 20.”

“I’m getting confused again.”

“I don’t think you ever pay attention. Here’s a real example—Arrez, the high priest, has four wives. The first, Elana, is a love match. The second was required because he is high priest and she high priestess—it’s part of the religion. But he and the priestess decided to make a real marriage out of it, not merely a symbolic one. Now, the high priestess already had a husband when she married Arrez. But there is nothing between her husband and Elana. They are friends—maybe only casually, I don’t know—and courteous to a member of their extended family. But for the two of them to get involved with one another ... well, it would be a little too much togetherness, and usually doesn’t happen. It could, but the Nualans are very conscious of possible tensions in families. That’s why godparents help raise children for periods of time. It also makes the kids more secure, knowing that more than one person loves them. Am I making sense?”

“I think so. You’re saying the morality is very strict within Nualan religion and custom. I take it that it works?”

“So far,” Moran answered, “Five thousand years’ worth. They are a rather unique people. There’s always enough love for the Nualans ... it never has a limit.”

Lyte’s gaze settled on the card in his hand—a king. He kept his thoughts to himself. People go there by choice? What draws you, Moran? What makes you choose Nuala?

MT. AMURA, NUALA, SONOMA MOUNTAIN RANGE

NUALAN YEAR 4952, FOURHUNDRED TWENTYFOURDAY, VESPERS

Dusk fell slowly, subtly on Amura, shadows giving way to night. The street illuminaries blazed on in the distant city, and Roe searched for major buildings and forums. It was no use; the temple and the palace were simple enough to find, as well as the medical complex and fine arts center. All else vanished in the increasing glow of the capital. The synod’s current yearly session would end tonight, if they could ever pass those last two bills, she thought wryly. Most likely the elders had personal worries. In less than one Nualan year elections for the 708th Synod would be held, and with the current heated debate on tariffs, immigration and the ever-present 20s-versus-80s problem, quite a few men and women were finding their benches in jeopardy. One nice thing about the session ending—only the garden and honor lights would be on, and the inner-city residents could sleep with their blinds up and windows open.

The night deepened, and still she and her brother did not speak. Roe let her hearing sharpen, waiting for the symphony to begin. She could hear the furtive rustlings of ground-stalkers, the wild akemmi and the lante; the shifting of tiny baby silva birds in their nests deep in the caves behind them. It was late for silvas to be nesting. Soon the adults would begin to migrate. She wondered if the little ones would be able to keep up.

Roe glanced out of the corner of her eye. Braan had not moved in hours. A few cheeps and trills came from the treetops below. The night symphony was beginning. The soft insect harmony grew louder. More and more Faxmur birds began to sing as the last streaks of light vanished from the horizon. Roe sat up, looking for the Brethren. The Seven Systems were so called because of the extremely close proximity of seven stars, Nuala’s young pale yellow sun the furthest out. The others soon appeared as the brightest constellation in the sky, shaped like the keystone of the Atare’s office.

Roe moved again to pull her long dark hair free and abruptly noticed the waterfall, its flow momentarily interrupted. She waited, smiling—a splash followed. Some small animal was going for a swim. They loved the high pool as much as her family did. Braan rolled over and sat up, looking out over the wide valley below. Only the multitude of lights was visible, and even further off, beyond the center of the city, the huge river Amura, the glowing orbs of the Brethren reflected in it. The sea was darkness—there were no moons yet this night. Zair moved, smelling the akemmi, his ears flicked forward. Roe put a gentle hand on his back to restrain him. The monstrous dog dropped his head.

“Shall we build a fire?” she asked. They were staying the night. It was for most a full day’s climb simply to the bottom of the mountain and the way station; they planned to cut through the caverns. They would have to leave well before dawn to meet Moran’s transport.

“If you are cold,” Braan replied. Roe did not move. The dry season was ending and the rains beginning, but there was no frost yet. She had only wanted a bit of cheer, anything to snap him out of his mood. She studied the black shape of his square jaw in the backdrop of the capital lights. Enid had had a relapse, and the truth was on the lips of every citizen; she was dying. Finally, after more years than Roe cared to count. And no one could blame Braan for taking a few days away from her side. Indeed, many wondered that he had the strength to bear it, that he had not taken a lover long ago, Atares barred by law from more than one mate. Six long years since the birth of their daughter; six years since Enid contracted the virus which slowly destroyed her health, her mind, and now, soon, her life. Long ago she had ceased to recognize any of them. As a healer, Roe had never entertained such thoughts, but perhaps the burden which hung over their entire family would lift if only the poor woman would die in peace, take the Last Path, her soul free.

Braan, she was sure, did not desire fire or even conversation. He wanted only to sit in this glade, oblivious to the world, his life, his responsibilities, his future. When had things been simpler—six, seven terrayear ago? He had been twenty-three terra then.... Ten years ago, serving a short tenure as a trader, in reality searching the galaxy for an intelligent, healthy woman brave enough to leave behind everything for her man and an unknown future. It was the same when their older brothers and sisters went searching, in many ways harder for the women. A man strong enough in himself to forsake all for the big planet was a rare man indeed. No one came half-way to Nuala....

“Moran will arrive for the feast?”

It was more statement than question, calling Roe back to the moment. Strange that they had discussed Moran so little, Roe thought. Usually they told each other everything, these two, best-loved of their generation. Praise Mendülay that their oldest brother, Tal, took no offense at Braan’s popularity, believing it could only help the royal family. Deveah, however, who was second in line—that was a different matter. His resentment of Braan was well-known by all. Braan was careful, very careful around Deveah. But Tal was the heir. He loved Braan, and respected Ronüviel’s opinion of him. Stay healthy, Tal, very healthy....

“Of course,” Roe answered, “providing the transport is on time. Sometimes I wonder if we are wrong, placing such restrictions on freight and passenger ships, even those crewed by our own people.”

“We are right.”

Ronüviel’s lips tightened at the hardness in his voice. Like Baskh Atare, Braan did not trust the Axis Republic, the confederation governing their interstellar alliance. Someday, they might turn their backs once again on Nuala ... he did not want his descendants to blame him for failing the vigil.

“Will you announce the marriage then?” Braan continued.

“He has not formally asked for marriage,” she answered, a chuckle in her voice. Braan snorted, stifling his laughter. Roe wondered if he suspected that the first, private ceremony had already taken place.

“Does Moran know that you are pregnant?”

“Braan! I have run no tests, had no signs—I have not even spoken to Elana!” She could feel Braan’s smile in the soft darkness, his pleasure at cracking her beautifully mannered facade. If the foremost healer on the planet had not questioned her health, why did he? He always knew everything....

“Elana knows everything,” Braan said gently, insistently, interrupting her thoughts.

“Not this time,” Roe replied. “With so much illness in her family, and of course—“

“I know. She is often with Enid, and when she is not, Shinar stays with her. The child will make a good doctor someday.” The image of Elana’s lovely daughter brightened their thoughts momentarily.

“That ‘child’ is a year older than Liel, and there is already talk of sending our sister out traveling early,” Roe murmured.

“No.” Braan’s voice was hard again. Of course, the decision was up to their mother, Ila the Ragäree, and their mother’s twin brother Baskh Atare. Decisions of the Atare and of the Mother of the Heirs were final. Only their father could have challenged the verdict, and he had been dead ten years. But no Atare, no Nualan had left the planet before their sixteenth birthday, unless to emigrate. And Roe knew Braan saw no reason to change now. Only those values instilled before adulthood seemed capable of withstanding the wreckage the Axis had become. And Liel was very innocent; too innocent for Axis games.

“Do you like Moran? You have never really told me,” Roe suddenly asked.

“You never told me if you liked Enid,” Braan responded. “Strange, how no one questions the choice of an Atare, and yet few of us have chosen badly.”

And yet I have always wanted your approval, and you have always wanted mine.... Ronüviel did not play at “who asked first.”

“I grew to care for her. Enid’s warmth was reserved for you and the children.” Roe’s voice was non-committal, careful, and Braan relaxed. It was true. Roe knew he was thankful for the friendship she had offered Enid. The woman had been—she was—a secretive woman, not cold but cool, a bit overwhelmed by the joyous warmth of the Atares, of Nuala. It was not what the average off-worlder expected.

“I shall be proud to call him brother,” Braan answered.

Roe waited, her thoughts chaotic. His reply was as ambiguous as his turn-about question. A brilliant war hero, high in the Axis eyes for one so young; yes, of course he is good for the family. But Roe did not want it to be as Enid and she had been, always a barrier—

Braan turned toward her. “And, if he will let me, friend.”

Now it was Roe’s turn to relax. “You think too much,” she began abruptly.

“So do you.”

“But I do not brood.” The tone was slightly accusing, and Roe cursed it even as it passed her lips.

“You do not have anything to brood about,” Braan replied, apparently not offended.

“You ...”

Braan glanced up. “Touché” came the archaic answer. He rolled over on his side, facing her. “Do not worry, I will take a quick hike around the capital when we get back. Use up all my excess energy.” Roe flashed him an irritated look. “Take a hike around the capital” was one of Baskh’s favorite brush-off sayings to his children, sister’s children and advisors alike, used whenever they stepped out of line. Braan heard it often, before he left the planet, and after, before Enid’s illness. For over five years he had kept silent, openly volunteering no suggestions, no criticism of the regime. His friends worried about him and his detractors fretted, expecting an eruption of the fiery Braan of old.

“What do you wait for, belaiss?” she asked gently, dropping down on one elbow. He stirred at the old endearment, not looking up. A night breeze touched them, sending a shiver through Roe and blowing Braan’s dark hair away from his face.

“For Enid to die ... so I can try to live again,” came the steady answer.

“You know—”

“That is not what you mean? What can I do, Ronüviel?” Now he met her gaze, eyes very dark in the starlight. “I am well beyond the schooling of the young ones, and I have no specific interests other than sculpture. The art pays and I gain a name—but I need more. I do not have the heart to seek another woman. I am not sure I could bear the pain, should something happen again....” His voice was very soft, perfectly controlled, as he spoke of things she had no doubt he had told no one else. “Yet I do not think the synod would consider two children my full contribution to the gene pool and would bar me from the military. I know, such is the burden of a 20—what I would not give to be a nameless 80!”

“And the synod is also barred.”

“I could give up my land holdings, even my claim on the throne. It would not be enough. If Tal sat the throne, ‘they’ would talk collusion. If Deveah, between us we would destroy the people. Shall I forsake home and family, never to return? Is freedom its own reward?”

“If Arrez—” Roe began very carefully. The high priest, so unlike what the off-worlders seemed to think a man of God should be, was Roe’s dearest of friends. Even he walked as softly as akemmi on this subject.

“No!” Braan sat up abruptly, staring out over the distant, twinkling lights of Amura, the swift disintegration of a shooting star.

“I am sorry ... but, Braan, never have I felt the spirit so strongly in any man—as much as Arrez in deep prayer—and you wear it like another skin.”

“Ah, yes, St. Braan.” His attempt at self-mockery always failed; the spirit was too much with him.

“There is a reason that the best to rule is third son, not first.” Barely a whisper, though the guaard hidden on the ledge below would repeat nothing, ever. Braan turned to silence her, but she sat up, freezing his lips with a touch of her finger. “Tal is a scientist at heart, Deveah a fanatic. You know that. I do—Baskh does. As much as I wish you were as devoted to art as I am to medicine, I know that there is purpose in this. I fear it, but I know you will not be given a burden greater than you can bear. I love you, crazy brother, and I am not alone in that. Your time is coming. I only wish I could lighten your heart, to ignite the cunning, witty, brash young cad you used to be.”

“I grew up.”

“No ... you aged. I do not think you will ever grow up.” She smiled then, her perfect teeth reflecting starlight, her strange eyes, the only set like his in this generation, a kaleidoscope before him. He managed a faint smile, the burden of silence slipping from his shoulders. He held her a moment, sharing the invisible strength from her molten fire within.

“I wish to stop at the shrine on the way down. How about your fire?” He released her and dug around in the pack he had used as a pillow. Zair leapt up to help, the huge descendant of Terra’s kingly dogs forgetting he was no longer a puppy.

“Down, fool, you will crush the heat disks!” Braan tried helplessly to fend him off, the beast retaliating by pushing him over with a large paw and cleaning his face for him. Roe’s low, golden laughter rang back from the waterfall.

Chapter Two

AMURA, NUALA

FOURHUNDRED TWENTYFIVEDAY, SEXT

Braan leapt out of the solar car, still tying the waist sash of his long-sleeved mandraia shirt. Idiot, slow down, you have beaten the transport, it has not even touched down yet! His feet slowed to a walk as his mind continued to race. Moran and Lyte, Lyte and Moran—it had to be Lyte, who else would be coming to Nuala at High Festival? He touched the packet of radiation pills in his pocket. Tourists remained in their hotels through the religious services, a sevenday of confinement—We know what is in his file; we are prepared for him. Calm down. Braan’s kaleidoscope eyes recorded the presence of his younger twin brothers, Kalith and Kavan. They lounged before the gates. One was sunning himself in the blazing rays of Kee, now at her zenith, while the other meditated in the shade of a towering neudeya evergreen.

“Tracking says the ship is here. Can we pull this spectacle together?” Both youths leapt at the sound of his voice.

“Braan! How did you get back so fast?” It burst from one of them, the energy and worshipful tone revealing him as Kavan long before Braan was close enough to see that his left iris was topaz brown, his right emerald green. Kal’s eyes were reversed; left green, right brown.

“Sprouted wings and flew. The duty officer sent word he has two for us. Perhaps Moran finally talked Lyte into coming.” Without a backward glance Braan sauntered toward the launching bay.

“We finally get to meet the mysterious Lyte?” Kal asked, his voice soft in the afternoon heat.

“He undoubtedly thinks just the opposite—that he is arriving on the mysterious Nuala,” Braan replied. “Come, let us go.” They started inside the huge landing bay. “Are you two ready to return to the Axis?”

Kavan’s expression immediately turned to one of disgust. Kalith remained impassive, as Braan had expected. Only seventeen, the twins were already working at cover trades. Kal posed as a merchant’s son, polishing his already considerable diplomatic skill, while Kavan worked as a navigator’s apprentice, submerging his fierce Atare temper in endless detail. The High Festival marked the coming of autumn, the new year, and heralded their return to the Axis guilds. Neither of them wanted to leave, but for different reasons. Kavan was having “feelings” about the Atare and did not want to leave the old man. And Kal did not want to leave Shinar. Ah, the problems that could bring, Kal and Shinar....

But Lyte, now—why did he choose a serious religious festival as the time to visit, why this particular furlough? Moran had asked him many times, but the gambling worlds had always held a brighter lure. Now, Lyte came to them ... who was he, really? He had his own law and own sense of honor—this was well known—and Braan doubted they coincided with anyone else’s. Moran alone had any control over him at all, and then only a strange, entwined mutual respect and friendship. The disowned son of aristocrats, the silvery, ice-eyed Lyte went his own way, always.

They stepped to the loading platform, and Braan’s musings faded. The three stood elbow-to-elbow in the landing bay gateway, watching the drifting Gerrymander silently drop into the launch hole. Amazing how gently the self-propelled junk heap could set down when she—Braan’s thoughts broke off at the tremendous squeal of the hatch hinges, grating as they opened. Two Nualan security guards appeared, as if from nowhere, and were behind them, just in front of the white pillars.

The legendary white pillars. Not the originals; they were in the museum. These were stone copies and filled with intricate devices capable of detecting anything from a gamma cannon down to the tiniest powdered poison. When the Nualans stated that Nuala was a sanctuary planet, they did not jest, and the white pillars marked the beginning of Nualan domain. Following interstellar law, anyone passing through them was given a place of safety until they could, or wished to, continue their journey. Many never left. As it was difficult to lie to a Nualan, criminals did not bother trying to come to Nuala. Only those desperate—the misjudged, the oppressed, those without power or friends—came to Nuala.

Moran and Lyte hurried off the craft, their personal tackle in hand. Moran deflated visibly at the sight of the three men—Lyte noticed and smiled grandly, giving his friend a sly nudge. “My, we have the love sickness badly, don’t we? You’d better check into clinic when we get back, take a pill or something.”

Moran gave him an unsettling glance as Braan gestured to them.

“You finally talked him into it?” Kavan asked as they walked over. Kal poked him; the young man retreated for the moment.

“Atares, this is Lyte. Braan, Kalith and Ka-van,” Moran said clearly, raising an amused eyebrow at Kavan.

“Bra-an?” Lyte asked, trying not to stare at the trio’s eyes. The man smiled faintly.

“Close—softer on the second a. Most humans miss that—the Setteos are better with our vowels for some reason.”

“There is a lot of inflection in Nualan. In human terms it’s a very old language,” Moran said. “What did you do with my woman?”

“She is at the palace cleaning up. We were in the mountains last night. Shall we go? The solar car is right outside.” As he spoke, Braan started walking toward the gate. Moran and Lyte followed, passing the pillars and stepping on the platform before the actual exit. Lyte looked around curiously as they stepped out into daylight, apparently glad to leave the strange launch bay with its huge automatic ceiling hatch. Braan received the impression the man felt he had been coerced into coming here. How to reassure him? Moran had mentioned he liked mountains....

oOo

Running, running, stop—listen ... run again. How long had she been running? Running. Who would have believed a military wheel had so many corridors? Running. Had security been alerted? A general alarm? Running. Running. Damn! Why did you leave Mercury 7? Never, never on the spur of the moment, you know better—She rounded the corner to find herself in the midst of bodyguards, facing the bottomless eyes of her patron —

She awoke with a soft cry, quickly stifled by her own fist. Fighting back tears, the woman tried to make herself comfortable, re-arranging her shapeless, coweled dress to make the most of its heavy fabric. Why couldn’t this dilapidated heap of a transport ship—what was its name, Gerrymander?—be tempra-controlled? Too much of a luxury for the cargo, she supposed. But she had traveled this way once before, fleeing the bombed-out wreckage of Capricorn V.

Suddenly she noticed the change; the numb vibration of the floor and walls had ceased. They had landed. She was on Nuala. Nuala. Her heart froze at the very thought. Nuala. Close to the war zone. A sanctuary planet. They aren’t even human here, not even —

Stop it! She had seen only two Nualans in her entire life. One was a handsome older man, an officer spending his furlough on Mercury 7. The other was an example of the genetic disasters caused by the Nualan System’s natural radiation, a horrifying memory from a holographic history tape. Ancient, ancient history, they’re not like that anymore.... Every myth and legend she had heard in the past tenyear rose up to choke her. Forcing them down, she reminded herself it was merely sanctuary. She did not have to stay.

How would she live? It had been three long years since she had worked as a planter—the restricted agriguilds had seen to that. And what had Tyr said? “There are no hustlers on Nuala. They don’t need them”. Then her dissipated brother had laughed, abandoning her in the docking bay. What had he meant? How would she earn money to leave? How —

Calming herself, she reached into memory, dredging up her name, the name she had not spoken aloud in three years. And still could not—not yet. Teloa. I was Teloa. I have survived the destruction of Capricorn V, the half-way camps, the tratore worlds. Nothing can be worse than Mercury 7.

Quietly she clicked open the hatch to the passenger corridor. She was unable to control a smile. Fortunate that stowaways were so rare; it would have been harder to slip out the cargo doors. She allowed herself to simply listen for a while; what she could see and hear through the opening disturbed her.

Only two passengers for this sanctuary world. The pillars—she had to pass the pillars. They marked the beginning of Nualan domain. Gods, the outer hatch was going to close. It was now or never. She slipped out from behind the packing cube, through the inner hatch, and into the corridor. Teloa touched the outer railing, barely two steps down the ramp.

“Hey! You! Hold it right there!” It was the duty officer; it had to be. He knew every cube and passenger by sight, and she was certainly not on his list. Horror at returning to the military wheel lent wings to her feet. She charged down the porta-ramp and sprinted for the gateway. The duty officer hesitated a moment too long, not believing anyone could move that fast in such high-heeled shoes. Then he ran after her, still yelling.

It was impossible not to hear the commotion. As the group on the platform turned, Teloa pushed by one of the burly guards and through the wide pillars. The pale blonde man moved first, grabbing her around the waist as she passed and pinning her in a commando grip. She struggled, but could not break the hold. The two guards stepped forward and seized the young duty officer; much to his dismay, for the men were unbelievably tall and magnificently proportioned, as big as ober players. The duty officer’s face was changing colors, his fury at the breaking point.

“She’s a stowaway! I claim Axis—” he screeched.

“I seek sanctuary!” Teloa blurted out.

The officer stopped in mid-gasp. Teloa was startled at the immediate and almost imperceptible shift in the reactions of the Nualans. Before, they were observers. Now, it was as if they were lined up behind her, supporting her. The two dressed as commandos also noticed; only the one restraining her seemed surprised. So it was true. On Nuala the ancient law still applied—the accused was innocent until proven guilty. It was one of the few places in the Axis Republic that this still held true.

“Why do you seek sanctuary?”

Teloa turned, recognizing the voice as the man who called himself Braan. He gestured at her silvery captor, who released her. Composing herself, she took in the Nualan’s appearance at a glance. About her height—then she remembered the heels—graceful, compact, dark-haired, with intense green eyes that—she was startled. Eyes that were marbled with a soft topaz brown! She felt the assurance and knew this man was someone of importance. Amazement crept through her. Rarely did she encounter a man who was not covetous of her statuesque beauty or embarrassed, even angered, by her height. This man gave her a steady, all-encompassing gaze. He knew exactly what—even who—she was and did not care in the least.

“Why do you seek sanctuary?” he repeated gently. Teloa started to speak, and hesitated. “The Nuala do not lie and therefore are not easily deceived. If you wish to stay, you must state your reason, even if you have lied all your life. When you pass through the gate, your past disintegrates. We do not care what you were, or claim to be ... only what you become.”

“I was working on Mercury 7, and was invited by a wealthy man to tour the tratores of the Seven Systems at his expense. He arranged for my transport to the military wheel Annular 14 and then refused to pay my passage through. I—retaliated....” Teloa began.

“In the traditional manner?” Braan asked.

“Yes.” She gave him a direct glance with her clear grey eyes. “He turned out to be a powerful Axis councilmember, and he was not amused. He sought my arrest, or death, so—”

“But that’s against the code!” the blonde commando burst in. “I know it’s not law, but if you cheat a hustler, you deserve what you—”

“My word against his?” Teloa interrupted, knowing him as Lyte by his voice. He paused, and looked as if he might speak again. Then he shook his head, turning to inspect the visible city. “I asked for transportation to the nearest sanctuary. I don’t even—I didn’t know where I was headed,” she finished, aware she had a professional habit to leave behind, and quickly. There was a long pause.

“Kal, send for a temple minister.” One of the youths quickly ducked into a narrow alley and disappeared. Braan turned back to Teloa. “You must stay at the temple until the ship leaves port, in case some of the off-world crew ‘objects’ to your sanctuary.”

“Who let you on board?” the duty officer demanded. Teloa was silent.

“That would not be fair to expose such an ... honorable, selfless, deed.” Teloa forced herself not to react to Braan’s voice; to the dry, almost hollow sound. It was as if he knew her brother Tyr had abandoned her. The duty officer became offensive again. “Punch up a one-way ticket, man,” Braan said abruptly. “You know you will be paid.” The off-worlder departed toward the ticket point. Kalith returned and nodded to Braan, who indicated that the other men should wait for him outside. Then he walked over to the high rock wall, a soft mustard moss covering its rugged black side. There was a bench carved out of the same stone, and he indicated that Teloa could sit if she wished. The guards remained by the pillars, watching the duty officer prepare the ticket.

“The temple ministers will have some other clothes for you, and a hot tub. Have you ever had any ... other skills? It is not necessary, but you could become bored here quickly,” Braan continued, adjusting a small votive candle in a wall sconce.

“I was a planter on Capricorn V, before the bombs fell,” she answered steadily.

“We always have need of planters. Stay as long as you wish.” Stay as long as you wish? That was not what her brother had implied. Suddenly the duty officer reappeared and thrust a small support slab in front of Braan. Braan eyed the man a moment—the off-worlder looked away. The Nualan picked up the sconce candle and dripped some wax on the slab. As he read the recording he removed the ring on his finger and rolled it in the wax. “I believe you know where to be reimbursed?” The officer, a bit sour, nodded and returned to his ramp, carefully avoiding the guards. Braan glanced down the alley against the wall and turned to Teloa.

“Your name is ... ?”

“Tele—Teloa. I was Teloa—Tay, to family,” she managed to get out.

“I am Braan of Atare. Welcome.” He flashed her a gentle smile so charming she returned it despite her fear. He turned and seemed momentarily surprised to see the woman who stepped forward. She wore an ankle-length white dress of some obscure natural fiber, corseted in a rich, dark sienna brown of the same material, only heavier. The brown lined her dress, peeping out of the long, slit sleeves, hood and side slit. Looking closer, Tay saw that the rosy-cheeked, blue-eyed, crimson blonde was almost as tall as she, bearing a beauty mature yet fresh. Perhaps thirty, thirty-two terrayears?

“I am Dr. Elana. You are ... Teloa? Can you walk?” the woman asked, offering support.

Teloa tentatively reached for her hand, calming her inner shaking. “I can walk.” Remembering her manners, she turned to Braan and, wrapping herself in the shreds of her dignity, said, “Thank you.” Braan nodded, and the Nualan woman led her away.

oOo

Braan walked briskly to the solar car and hopped in. The guaard in the driver’s seat punched up the numbers of the palace, and the car began to move.

“How do you know she wasn’t lying?” Lyte asked.

“We know,” Kavan offered. They drove on in silence.

AMURA

SEXT

In a daze Teloa was led down into the center of the city. Pedestrians thronged around her, and she found herself still tall, but not excessively so—most Nualan men were at least her height. Genetically altered to be so? she wondered, and all her fears crept back. She kept her gaze on the buildings—strange buildings—or on the flagstone road, avoiding the interested and admiring looks of the men. She felt dirty, ugly and exhausted, and, at the least, a man was responsible for her current problems. A man had also remedied them, at least temporarily. Perhaps she could call that a fair trade. It was too much to think about. She understood this was an older section of the city—what city was this?—and that no building seemed to be over four stories. Everything was stone, and she was aware of towers. She felt so tired, so confused.

They left the narrow walkway and stepped out into a wide open space, grass-covered and thick with late-blooming flowers, bushes and trees whose leaves were just beginning to darken to a greenish indigo. Off to the right, among dark trees, a small lake sparkled. Above the tall, strange foliage was an incredible brilliance, as if the afternoon star had settled onto the hill in the center of the city’s park. Tay gasped as she realized the source.

There were other buildings within the Axis alliance with more gold-and-silver inlay, more jewels; taller, more extensive, even more ancient. None had the starkly simple and majestic tones of the Mendülarion, the temple of Mendülay. It was unlike any existing building—totally unlike secular Nualan architecture.

“It is impressive, is it not?” the woman agreed. “I forget how it affects visitors to our world. The Mendülarion is white marble, the roof gold. It is empty except for a few tiny candles, lit to signify a birth, marriage or death, or occasionally a milestone in someone’s life. The priests and priestesses are often seen there, busy with personal prayers or special requests. And there are no locks on the doors; citizens can spend the night if they feel the invisible pull of Mendülay.”

Elana led Teloa to an area directly below and to one side of the temple where they found a moving, snake-like metal runner. It seemed to have no track or containment, yet moved smoothly along at a moderate pace.

“Stand in the center,” the woman told her. “Do not catch your heels underneath!” Teloa leapt and landed in the center. It felt good to stop walking; tiring to stand. Elana noticed. “The catwalk will take us beneath the temple to the living quarters. There are some guest rooms there, and you can sleep as long as you wish.”

The catwalk was totally silent, hence its name. Teloa looked down to see she was now standing on a step, and the walkway was moving swiftly uphill, approaching a small tunnel. Had she stepped from flat to stairs, or had the runner created its own stairway? She was almost positive she had not moved, so the runner must have done it for her. Good gods, she hadn’t even noticed....

“You keep your poise well. Most people are a bit unnerved by the catwalk the first time they ride it,” the Nualan said suddenly as they entered the tunnel.

“I—noticed a change,” Teloa answered, not sure her statement made sense. Elana either did not notice, or pretended not to—she indicated that Teloa should step off on an upcoming platform. Tay jumped again, to avoid catching her decorative heels, and watched the sheen of the walk as it passed, like a river of silver amphibians.

“Do not look too closely! You could become dizzy,” Elana counseled, leading Teloa into the depths of the hill. They entered a wide natural-stone corridor lit by shafts leading to the surface. The area was cool but not cold. Teloa’s guide stopped at a panel and pressed its corner. It was immediately lit, revealing a color-coded set of block catacombs, most of the cubes having a yellow dot in their center. “One of the suites for visiting dignitaries is vacant, you are in luck! Sheer luxury. Come.” She led off down the corridor.

Had Tay been alone, she would have become lost in the bewildering maze of rough white stairs and walkways, although she noticed several blank panels and assumed they were also maps of some kind. Finally the woman reached tall double doors and opened them.

“Welcome.” Elana walked straight ahead to the opposite wall, and the distance was not short. She opened another set of tall double doors and stepped into brilliant starlight, which was just beginning to angle past the doorsill. As Tay walked into the room she discovered that the living quarters were built right into the side of the hill. Looking out the doorway she saw the mountains, their foothills covered with homes. For a moment she said nothing; she had never seen mountains. She could think of no words grand enough. Teloa tore her gaze away at the sound of running water. A small, enclosed garden was off to one side, lit, as was the room, by more shafts. A fountain set in the wall bubbled merrily. She breathed deeply of the scent—lush, exotic plants whose names she did not know.

“Do you like it?” the woman asked with a smile. Tay smiled in return, her look taking in the high, deep ceiling arches, her fingers lingering on the rough-hewn walls of stone. “The fireroses are in bloom, and they bring a heady scent to the arboretum. Come and look.” The woman led Teloa into the garden, stopping under the sky shaft. Tay stood in the warm starlight, closing her eyes and enjoying the sensation. So long since she had felt natural heat ... Between the star and the murmur of the water ... even the odor of the plants conspired to put her to sleep. Many of the indoor trees were taller than she, and the variety of colors ranged from soft yellow-greens through blues and purples. One plant had brilliant yellow and orange blossoms. Elana reached out to touch a vine, and Teloa followed her example. So long since she had worked with living things ...

“You do that as if you know plants,” Elana said gently, walking back into the main room and heading for a sunken tub.

“I was a planter once—in the Caprican system,” Tay answered vaguely, following the Nualan to the sanitation. She touched the wooden hot tub, studying the marble facilities.

“Look, Teloa, this is hot and this cold, and you may blend them by—where are the sands?” Tay was startled until she realized the woman’s question was of general puzzlement and not directed toward her guest. “As I was saying, the water will circulate on its own and automatically shuts off when your weight is removed from the bottom. Do not worry about all the water; it goes straight to irrigation. I shall get you some towels and some bath sands. I must apologize for the lack of sands and oil—all four grades of sand are to be kept here at all times. I shall have to report it to Draü. What with the festival and feast, she is much too busy to monitor the younger priests and priestesses who keep these rooms stocked. But is important to her, all the same.” At the question in Teloa’s eyes Elana continued: “Draü is the high priestess, and her days are very full, but she has greeted the newcomers to our world since she was an initiate, and she is still very concerned about the comfort of our guests. I shall tell my godson, her eldest, and he will carry the message.”

“Is ... her husband a priest? I had forgotten the clergy of Nuala marry,” Tay asked, sitting on the edge of the double bed.

“Her firsthusband is a scientist, her second High Priest Arrez, as is our law. She is the second wife of Arrez.”

“Second?”

“Yes. He has four.”

Tay digested this information. “A ... healthy man indeed,” she managed. She was startled by Elana’s silver laughter.

“Not exactly, although he is a 20. He married me because he loved me, Draü because he was appointed High Priest, and, as I said, it is our law. Mariah because her prophesies are disturbing and often violent, and only he and I can deal with her. And Chaka, out of sheer ... cussedness, as our ancestors once said. I shall get the towels and sand and be right back. Play with the tub as you wish!” She quickly and silently slipped out of the room. Tay turned slightly and looked out the thermapane windows at the dazzling soft yellow light. She ached all over, and wondered if lying in the star’s rays would help. It was a young world, she decided. Capricorn V had been young. Her thoughts swirled back to the hot agra planet, its fertile fields stretching to the horizon, the glittering irrigation canals opening their wash gates. Her parents’ pride when she was appointed Assistant Planter, her younger brother Telen’s enthusiasm. Older sister Meer had desired only to leave the planet, and brother Tyr was always confused. Then the luna bombs came, the whistling luna bombs—and it was ambitious Meer who stayed, forever, and naive Teloa who became the wanderer. She had not seen Telen since the halfway camp, when she had given him her last hundred cubiz to aid his attempts to enter a trade. Being guildless, he had a small chance to build a new life. She wondered if he still lived. He’d be almost twenty terrayear now, and if he thought her dead ...

The exhaustion, the release of tension hit her like a tremendous weight, and she was crying, a torrent of tears, almost hysterically, something she had not allowed herself since the luna bombs devastated Capricorn V. Teloa did not hear the door open and did not protest the firm and gentle embrace she was drawn into; she was merely aware of years of pain and frustration, and memories that could never be anything else. Finally her shaking began to subside.

“It will get better, child. By Mendülay’s grace you are alive, and the dawn will come. Let your heart be lightened.” Through her tears Teloa saw long slender hands pushing her hair out of her face. Elana was smiling. “I think you will be better able to see the brightness of the day after a hot tub and some rest. Are you hungry?”

“Maybe—a little. I am so tired. And I ache terribly.”

Elana lifted several bottles. “Found! And we shall get you into a tub right away.” She studied the Caprican’s face intently, and then asked, “You have not tasted the water, have you? You look pale.”

“No,” Teloa said quickly. She knew enough about Nuala to refrain from that, no matter how thirsty she was. “But I need some water.” Her voice faded as she looked closely at the sand bottles. “Oh, I couldn’t. I mean—” She looked up at Elana in amazement. “These are worth a week’s salary each! I—“

“Not here. We make it here, and it is as cheap as gill soap. You are free of import taxes for the duration of your stay! Now, get in and soak, and I shall bring you some saffra and your first pill. You must not drink or eat anything without first taking a pill, and your first fiveday here, eat only what I bring you! The radiation content of some of our foods could make you very sick. I am a doctor, and I shall bring my bag—I have a simple monitor that can determine your general health almost immediately. The water is safe for you to bathe in, please enjoy it. I shall be awhile this time.” Elana dumped several capfuls of oil into the tub, and then vanished again. Tay sat a moment, watching volumes of bubbles appear, letting her mind go blank. Then she slipped off what was left of her shoes. Carefully lining up the sand bottles, she removed the dark, cowled dress and lowered herself into the tub.

She discovered a wide ledge around the perimeter of the wooden bath. Sitting down, she reveled in the hot water, letting it soak to the chill of her bones. She had to shake herself awake, and reached for the sand. How good to scrub away the dirt, the feel of everything before ...

A sharp stomach cramp sliced through her, and she seized the edge of the tub to steady herself. Gods, what was wrong? She had not touched the water, nor any food—no food in days. Hunger? It hurt too much to be hunger. Hustlers did not get sick. They died from alcohol or drugs or knives, but they did not become sick. An awful thought began to form in Teloa’s mind. Narcotic dependency ... palus, opiates, coca, ltima—any or all of them had probably been slipped into her drinks at one time or another. How much? Enough so that she’d show her dependency in two or three days? Suddenly she was frightened.

Forcing herself to continue, Teloa slowly washed her hair as well, living an old fantasy to wash all over in extra fine Silva Sand. Then she crawled out of the tub, wrapping herself in the thick towels. The shaking would not stop.

There was a light rap of knuckles on the door. “Tay? I am coming in.”

“Please—“ Elana stepped over the threshold, a tray in her arms and a shapeless bag tossed over her shoulder. She took one look at the off-worlder and set the tray down on the dresser.

“What is wrong? Where is the pain?” Elana asked as she came to her side.

“My stomach—all over. I—am cold—“ Tay gasped, shaking violently. Elana touched her forehead a moment.

“No, not cold. A fever. And you have not drunk any water, it is not rav—”

“I haven’t! I swear it —” Tay said frantically, her voice cut off by another spasm.

“Rav is radiation poison by ingestion,” Elana told her. “I can see you have not. Teloa, have you ever used ... euphorics? I know they sometimes get into things....” The doctor was polite but firm in her need for information.

“Not by choice—but you never—“ She doubled over. “You never know what a patron might have put into a drink.”

“Try to reach the bed. You need to lie down until the fever burns itself out. I can ease the pain, and it will pass. Our people are passionate and often foolish but never that stupid—you cannot find drugs here, they will not tempt you.” Elana helped her to her feet and to the bed. “I can stop the shaking, but you will be in bed several days. That is all right!” Tay sensed she was trying to ease any worry her new patient had. “There is little to do during festival. As a new immigrant, you would have to stay inside most of the time. Now you can relax and read tapes and listen to music. I can find a few visitors for you and explain things when our people confuse you—” Tay gasped again, this time from the air hypo Elana shot into her arm. Then the woman quickly scanned her with a small metal object. “I have seen worse, but that is no comfort. Drink this, the rav pill is already in it. We can take no chances.” Tay downed the fluid, conscious of its acid edge, herbs and pulp floating in its opaque, red body. Elana pushed her down onto soft pillows and pulled a light blanket up around her. “Rest. I shall stay with you awhile, and then one of my healers shall come. Do not think you will die—I never lose patients! If we must, I shall seek Ronüviel, and she will draw the fever out. Just rest—soon the pain will pass, and you can seek a home and work.” Her cool fingertips rested on the young woman’s forehead a moment. “Rest ... Nualans have great skill with green things; even our deserts grow lush under Cied hands. But our ecology is very fragile. We always have need of planters.”

Tay clung to that thought as delirium crept upon her.

AMURA, THE PALACE

SEXT

It was not far to the palace. Kal quietly played tour guide, pointing out the capital, temple, park, medical complex and fine-arts center. Lyte feigned disinterest, his eyes absorbing and cataloguing everything. The buildings were strange, occasionally even macabre—dreamlike configurations that reminded him of something he could not name. Colors were numerous, and Lyte thought of the stone called marble, which he had seen on the planet Terra. The buildings all had the same swirling, translucent effect, although not all were highly polished. There were many, many towers, their outsides textured as if they were dribble castles made of sand. And the city was clean, as if scoured.

“You certainly know how to avoid pollution. Nova Terra would give a lot to know your secret,” Lyte began conversationally.

“Nova Terra? Have you been there?” Kavan could not repress his excitement. Kal eyed him warningly—it was not polite to pressure visitors into conversation after a long trip. Lyte did not notice the discourtesy. He was more interested in the people. He had never seen so many Nualans together at one time. And he had made a discovery. They were not all beautiful. Healthy, certainly, at least to the eye, but some were far from beautiful. In fact, he saw no greater number of attractive people than he would see on any CSSI system street. Most were average—a few could be defined as dregs, dogs, or entiss, depending on your native tongue. One woman in particular fascinated him. He found her lanky, flat-chested, almost buck-toothed appearance quite unappealing. But the handsome young man on whose arm she hung was plainly oblivious to it.

“Ah, yeah. I’ve been to Earth.”

“Would we be so blasé if we could boast?” Moran added, amused.

Braan was following Lyte’s gaze, and smiled slyly. “She is brilliant, and witty, and a 20,” Braan said softly. “And, from what her friends say, a compassionate woman. No higher tribute can be made.” He looked distant then, as if not noticing Lyte’s blank reply. What was Braan, a mind reader? Very observant, Lyte decided. A man to be watched. He absorbed the little speech, aware of the sincerity behind it.

“I thought you people dealt in genetics,” Lyte answered. He was rewarded for his error in interpretation by Kal’s startled look and Kavan’s obvious anger. Braan quickly spoke, smoothing the path.

“To correct the disabling, the mutilating, the dangerous genes. There is no beauty requirement. We have learned all too well, the hard way, the true meaning of beauty. And appreciate it all the more when it appears of its own accord.” Lyte did not pursue it. There was no lack of looks among the Atares, that was certain. Braan, with his dark hair, tanned skin, and mysterious brooding magnetism, must be extremely attractive to most females. Lyte still heard his name mentioned with affection in the tratores. The twins were young yet, but with their narrower faces, high cheekbones, and oddly paired green-brown eyes, they were just as alluring. He had seen a hologram of Ronüviel’s father, however—a very average-looking man. Despite Braan’s words Lyte suspected genetic tampering, but he said nothing.

Moran was merely breathing deeply; of the flowers, the air, the babble of voices from the market they passed through. Something occurred to him—he turned to Braan. “Should we have taken that woman somewhere? It seemed as if she had been through a lot.”

Braan shook his head negatively. “She needed ... privacy ... more than transportation. Elana will take care of her. She was very uncomfortable with us.” Satisfied with Braan’s analysis, Moran turned back to watch the turquoise grass shimmer in the star’s light.

“I hope she is happy here,” Moran said finally. “As happy as I have been.” They did not speak again until they reached the palace.

Lyte had not been paying attention and was mildly surprised when the solar car stopped. He was not sure what he had expected, but not such ... massiveness. There were huge spiraling steps wide enough for ten men to walk abreast, the trees overshadowing them older than memory. The center door of the tri-portal was three times Lyte’s height, the hourglass pillars before it even larger. Green, yellow and turquoise patterns in the stone danced before his eyes, shadows playing tricks on him. Lyte extended a hand—the pillars were heavily textured with smooth, teardrop lumps.

“Don’t worry, they’ve held for thousands of years, and strong ground tremors are common here,” Moran whispered.

“Our years or their years?” Lyte retorted, still lost as to what the city reminded him of.

“Practically the same thing,” was the rejoinder. The two turned in time to see the door wardens open the center portal to admit them. They were both copper-skinned, a blond man and a dark woman, and they were dressed, Lyte realized, in ancient space colonization suits—reflective silver and internally controlled. They did not react to the royal family or the warriors as the group walked in.

“The Atares’ personal guaard, as is the gentleman in black skins following us. They will defend all the royal family if the need should ever arise and are silent companions in times of danger. Those suits are replicas of the original colonists’ suits. The men and women trained for that duty are prepared much as your unit is.” Commandos, sensitive trained? A whole troop? Lyte filed the information away for future reference.

As they entered the palace Lyte immediately noticed the echo and stopped, looking up into darkness. He now understood what the Nualan structures reminded him of—caverns. Massive, entwining caverns. It was like the underground city of Becoten, only on the planet’s surface. He studied the white walls, their irregularly-shaped depressions glowing fitfully from an unknown power source. The overall impression was of age, warmth and closeness. He took in its great width; several men were setting up long tables at one end of the hall.

“Welcome to the Great Hall,” Kal said. Kavan hurried ahead and threw his weight on two huge bronze doors at the opposite side of the barren hall. Lyte tapped his fingers on them as he passed and was shocked—they swayed slightly under his touch. They were of solid bronze and perfectly balanced to open at the thrust of a hand.

They had entered an octagonal corridor intersection, the hallways receding into infinity in three directions. Lyte was about to ask if this was fact or illusion when he noticed the mirrors. More than mirrors—they were the walls. In all three corridors, the only supports visible were windows and mirrors. They looked hand polished, their irregular shapes biomorphic, the huge fired clay frames almost oozing around their reflecting substance. He could see the glint of cast bronze at all three exits, and figures in black standing next to them.

“This is the Hall of Mirrors. To the left is the Footpath to the Stars. The view out that door is the Mendülarion and starset. To the right are the living quarters, and straight ahead is the throne hall. We are expected for saffra and kriska in the family room.”

Having finished his speech, Kal led on. Lyte glanced around as they walked down the passage and noted that Braan was using the mirrors to observe him. For nervousness? Disdain? Perhaps for something the man himself could not have named.

They reached the doors sooner than Lyte expected—so the distance was illusion. Moran appeared relaxed, as if everything was routine—his initial excitement had mellowed into a delighted realization that Ronüviel was near.

Kal activated a palm-impression lock and opened the door. Moran grabbed Lyte’s arm, stopping him. “We have to alert the computer to your presence.”

“Computer?” His voice was expressionless.

Braan answered, “The interiors of the palace and sensitive medical and military areas have palm-impression locks on their portals. If you have clearance, you can walk right in. There was an assassination attempt made on my older brother’s life when we were children ... during a party. It was considered a prudent move to inhibit easy access to the living quarters.”

“Them?” Lyte gestured at the warriors.

“They cannot memorize every stranger on the planet. The times are not dangerous; we do not use individual guaard.”

“Place your hand on the panel and say your name. Just Lyte; no one uses titles here except the Atare,” Moran instructed, setting his own hand on the panel. “After that, the computer will know your prints.”

“What happens if you go in without clearance?”

“A silent alarm activates, and the guaard would find you so fast it would make your life spin—what was left of it,” Kavan answered, touching the panel. Flashing Lyte a smile, he disappeared inside. There was a silence.

“If you would prefer not, I can ask Liel to bring the saffra to the garden,” Braan offered.

“No.” Lyte set his hand on the panel and said, “Lyte.” It was strange to hear his own voice say the word. The panel blinked and was again dark. Braan set his hand on it. The screen flared and was still. Moran opened the door and followed the twins’ path.

The room was darker than Lyte had imagined, and cool, blocking out the mid-afternoon heat. Its construction was similar to the Great Hall, and it was filled with low, inviting chairs and fibers decorating the walls and floor. A beautiful table of a dark, polished wood was piled high with trays of unknown edibles and glasses made of trine gold. Lyte’s mouth dropped open. He could buy a whole army with one of those cups. Trinium, rarest of metals; Nuala’s wealth and its curse....

o0o

A stronger light source from beyond caused Lyte to move to one side—he could see a window in an adjoining room. He wondered if the windows were rigged.

“The windows are also monitored,” Braan said as he strolled into the room. Abruptly, a young woman burst through the doorway.

She might have been called a girl but not without adolescent offense. Although Lyte had the impression of shiny dark hair that fell to her elbows, the eyes were the arresting quality. One was blue and one green, and they sparkled with a liveliness, an awareness that hinted, inexplicably, of Braan. And with her heart-shaped face and turned-up nose, a beauty.

With a delighted laugh the girl threw her arms around Braan. Moran took advantage of the momentary diversion. “Careful, friend, Liel’s brigbait,” Moran whispered mischievously.

Lyte frowned at him. “Not exotic enough for me.”

“Those eyes should be exotic enough for anyone,” Moran returned, lighting up as Liel walked over to him.

“Moran! When will you come and stay for awhile?” She shyly slipped her arms around him and hugged him like a favorite toy.

“I’ve got elevenday off, what more could you ask?”

“Huh!” The woman tossed her head impatiently, for a moment still the child. “I could say a few things about what I think of your superiors, but I shall refrain.”

“Youngest of the Ragäree, this is Lyte, my closest friend. The Serae Liel. Liel is fine.” Lyte straightened and inclined his head slightly in the manner of a professional star-rover, used to meeting all forms of life. Liel gracefully swept her right hand arching away from her heart in the ancient Nualan greeting.

“Welcome, star warrior. You bring honor on our heads.” She avoided looking straight at him. Braan broke her oration by tickling her.

“Be bold, little one! Your spirit cannot remain hidden forever!” She could not help but crack a smile, the hint of a dimple showing; she met Lyte’s gaze, the gold in her green eye flashing. Liel gestured for the warrior to follow her to the table.

“One of the interesting properties of saffra is that it is often more refreshing heated and poured over ice than constantly chilled! We also have Tours day wine, or if there is anything special you would like ... ?” Liel began.

“Got your pill?” Moran asked Lyte. Braan had handed him the packet while they were in the solar car.

“Right here. Did someone watch you as closely as you’re watching me?” Lyte held up his hand as if to swallow the pill.

“Wait! They are very bitter. It is better dissolved in saffra and does not change the drink’s taste.” Liel grabbed his hand and pushed a glass of saffra toward him. Kal had poured it over ice, and the steam was thick. Lyte did not visibly hesitate, but he steeled himself for the unaccustomed taste. He was pleasantly surprised and had to force himself not to swallow the drink in one gulp. In the meantime Braan poured a glass for Liel while she greeted her other brothers.

“I wish Deenn was here, he would have enjoyed meeting you; but he is over on Niamh and will not be back until almost the end of the festival. He is the closest thing we have among the 20s to a professional warrior,” Braan said conversationally. He handed a glass to Moran, smiling slyly as he did so. “She will be down soon; she should be almost ready.”

“Did I hear ‘almost’?” Lyte started involuntarily at the voice, low and slightly musical. He turned toward the sound. Moran managed a soft half smile.

Ronüviel was no challenger to the universal beauty; not in the popular sense of the statuesque tratore queens. Average height, numerically proportioned, flawless skin and teeth—all superficial traits of health. Her straight, turned-up nose and strange, haunting eyes, so much like Braan’s, were disturbing, not attractive, as far as Lyte was concerned ... although the mahogany-brown hair which tumbled halfway to her knees was a definite asset. Lyte now understood her initial lure, however. How it worked, no. How it affected men, yes. She was at once sensual and earth mother, magnificent as a star and as humble as a madonna—totally at ease with, and unaware of, her “air” and her completeness as a woman.

Roe came straight to him, her face blazing in her pleasure, touching his arm in an intimate yet nonthreatening way. “Lyte! We are greatly honored! I was beginning to think there would be no one to give away the groom, should the need arise!”

“I’ll be up to it, don’t worry,” Lyte answered. With a look for Braan, Ronüviel walked over to Moran and gently touched his face, her thoughts for him alone.

Lyte glanced away. He could deal with the physical couples, the clinging, adoring here-for-the-moment situations he saw in the tratores, though he did not like clinging men or women, himself. What was between Roe and Moran was something different. One thing he knew: Moran was crazy about this woman and her people and could no longer be objective about them. Lyte would have to stand a double vigil during their stay. If only they weren’t so friendly ...

“Lyte, would you allow me to take charge of your personal case?” Kal asked, gesturing toward the tiny box they had carried from the transport. “We can have the items sealed against destruction, or plated with trine gold, whichever you prefer.”

Lyte stared at him a moment. No average citizen could afford trinium plating, so he assumed it was a free offer of service, because of his connection to Moran. But did he really want to be wearing something he might get hit over the head for every time he wore it?

“Sealing doesn’t change the color or—”

“You will scarcely be able to tell. It adds a slight sheen to matte finishes, that is all,” Kal went on.

The warrior offered him the box. “Sealing sounds fine. Put it on my tab.”

“There is no charge to you, our guest. I will also replace whatever currency you have with Nualan issue—it is in the box, is it not?”

So that’s why Moran made me put it in there. “Thank you, I’d appreciate that.”

“I do not wish to throw a damper on your party, Liel, but I must find Jaac. She has requested my presence,” Braan suddenly said, setting down his glass of saffra. The twins glanced at each other, but said nothing.

“I also intend to go,” Roe told him, seizing Moran’s hand and pulling him along. She paused a moment, remembering Lyte, and looked to Braan. They studied each other a second, and then Moran, perceiving this was not a casual visit, spoke.

“Don’t worry, I’ll vouch for him.”

Lyte remained impassive. In their simple glances he was reminded that the Axis Republic was still fighting a thousand-year war against the Fewha and the Malvevenian Empires—and that the Nualans were only one system away from the front.

The foursome walked back into the palace complex and outside, the trees of the garden shielding them from the blazing afternoon light. Roe, Moran and Braan talked lightly of the trip over, the goings-on in the city—names and places totally unfamiliar to Lyte. He busied himself with trying to keep the direction of the temple in mind as a point of reference and started studying the greenery.

Nothing was familiar. In the thousand years the Nualans had been isolated and the following three thousand during which they had had few visitors, any desire for their previous flora and fauna had vanished. Some names had come down to them, and the many years had not changed the essential natures of trees and grass, but the similarity ended there. Even the predominant groundcover was not really grass, but instead was more clover-shaped and lichen-like, springy underfoot. The dry, oppressive heat was offset by towering succulents, some writhing like snakes, some with long, slender trunks and stiff, flat fronds. There were several barrel-shaped bushes with thick, juicy leaves—Lyte bumped into one and nearly fell by slipping on the undergrowth.

“Everything is so green here! I thought—since the area around Amura is primarily desert ...” Lyte began.

“It is the time of the cold rains, though they are intermittent and light, compared to spring. Thirtyday ago, it would have been dust here. We are closer to the equator—if you want green wait until you go north, into the mountains!” Ronüviel replied.

Suddenly a yawning entranceway appeared before them and plunged downward. They went down a flight of stairs to a corridor carved from solid rock. Walking to the end of the hall, Braan activated the door lock and walked in. Moran and Roe followed and, more slowly, Lyte. He did not like those locks. Lyte almost bumped into Moran as he entered the room.

“We’re supposed to wait here. The connecting room is the pillar set computer. This is the watchroom for the Nualan civil defense. Jaacav is the first officer in charge,” Moran whispered. “Interplanetary Communications is over there—and Interstellar Communications, Scope and Navigation. They’re one of the most efficient in the Axis.”

“One of? The best, First Officer.” The tiny, dark-haired woman had broken off with the Atares and turned to them. Lyte was stunned, and dropped his usual mask.

“You! Mercury 7!”

“Yes,” Jaac answered, a faint smile curling at the corner of her full lips. “We are familiar with the edifice tables, are we not?” She turned back to Braan and Roe and continued speaking softly in Nualan. “There has been no replacement for the Io, and no explanation for the move. The Atare, Tal and the Prime Minister have the facts and the nuances, and the twins and Liel have an inkling of what has happened. I am not concerned enough to attempt to reach the Ragäree, Deenn or your sisters. The synod has not yet been informed. That is all.”

“I cannot believe they would allow anything to happen before the feast. If there were any ‘accidents’ involving guests of their rank, the Axis Forces, not Nuala, would be blamed,” Braan replied. “But afterward? Who knows?”

“We are safe until the festival. I have a—a premonition?” Roe shook her head, disturbed. Then she smiled at Jaac. “You never told me you knew Lyte.”

A secret smile behind those almond-shaped eyes ... “You never asked. If you will excuse me, I need to get back to work.” Nodding to the Atares, Jaac turned back toward the communications board. Lyte unintentionally caught her line of sight—her gaze settled on the object of his scrutiny, the scope. For a moment their glance met, and Lyte sensed worry. Was it shared concern of what they both suspected, or was she anxious that he had seen the scope at all? She was too perceptive a warrior not to realize the wrongness. And Lyte feared he now knew what the whispered Nualan words had been about.

Gesturing to Moran and Lyte, Roe swept out the door, Braan following. As they slowly made their way to the surface and back toward the palace, Lyte found a moment to speak to Moran alone.

“That’s an extremely sophisticated set-up. Why do they need it? The surrounding protection ships take care of almost all of that. They don’t need to watchdog the Axis Republic.”

“Quite simply, the Nualans trust everyone else about as far as they can throw them. And it will take more than good standing in the Axis Council to change their minds.” Moran had a look on his face that was at once knowing and distant. Lyte did not voice his other thought—that from the scope he could see, it appeared the two major guard ships were too far out. One ship always moved in at the same speed as the departing ship. Something did not fit, and Jaacav and the Atares were aware of the missing pieces, but it was not yet time to ask questions of their hosts. They had hours before the feast was to start, and everyone had individual plans. Later.... He followed Moran back into the palace, unaware that Moran was thinking the same thing.

oOo

The right wing of the palace had been the Atares’ home for generations uncounted. Not only the family of the current Atare but of his sister as well, for her children would be the next to reign. The progeny of both families were raised with a strong sense of duty, although other outside relatives kept that force from becoming the overriding influence of their lives. When the children reached an age of majority, they left the palace, even if they did not leave the planet, and remained away for five Nualan years. After that time, if not yet married, they could return and live under the family roof.

The older Atare siblings all had homes of their own nearby. Ronüviel and one brother, Deenn, had both returned from their various cover trades single and had elected to remain under the sprawling dynasty roof. Although the atmosphere was occasionally stifling, Ronüviel had never seriously regretted the move. Otherwise she would never have known her younger sister and brothers so well, or known her mother as woman and not merely Mother. After all, the thought lazily occurred to her, where else could she get such a spacious room, so close to the capital, so cheaply? Roe managed to chuckle, and cast a quick glance at Moran, fearful she had awakened him. Unlikely—she could feel his sleep pattern synchronizing with her healing waves, a deep and total relaxation. He almost always slept on his back, the light native blanket and sheet drawn up to his ribs and held with one arm, radiating a tousled contentment. Roe lay on her side, drawing the sheet up to her shoulders to shield from the over-active air cooling system. Her gaze traveled from the glow pits buried in the walls to the numerous thermapane windows and finally rested on the slow, deep rise and fall of Moran’s chest, light reflecting off the soft brown hairs and drawing gold from them. They became a golden blur and then merely light, fading as drowsiness stole over her.

He needed sleep. She knew he had been on short night shifts for almost a twentyday, and she did not like it. They would be lucky if he awoke for the feast. He did have some energy left, she reminded herself, smiling gently at the memory of the last hour. And it was partly the hour that had lulled her fears. Lyte’s presence, and his obvious unease ... it was too simple to dismiss it as what it appeared to be. But there was no change, no restraint in Moran. His loving was in complete accord with his entire being; intricate, passionate, unusually gentle and unusually honest. Though she rarely let him know, let alone others, she could read this vulnerable man like a monitor. True, he could do the same with her, but he did not rely on his sensitive training. Nor did she. And they used no blocks with each other. No—if there was something wrong, Moran did not know about it. A momentary chill ran through Roe as she imagined his reaction to being used. Dear God, this man could love—and hate—with passion. An undying friend or lover, he would be a dangerous enemy.

Without thought she ran her hand down her stomach, testing its contours. There did not seem to be much change, no more than lack of exercise or a few sweets might cause. Roe frowned slightly. Her menses had cycled four times in the past year, the average for a fertile Nualan woman. But it had been onehundred twentyday since her last pass. Her mother had been pregnant with her first onehundred sixtyday before a routine physical revealed her condition. Nothing obvious, no discomfort, yet Roe felt ... different. That could mean conception anywhere from an hour ago through—she counted—one hundred days ago. The thought of being a third of the way through pregnancy momentarily stunned her.

Moran stirred slightly but did not awaken. He shifted his body angle and reached out instinctively to the side Roe always slept on, his left. She managed to pull herself back to full consciousness long enough to creep into his embrace, and to wonder, half-guiltily if she should mention her suspicions about a child or confirm it with Elana first. No matter—there was plenty of time.

Chapter Three

PALACE

FOURHUNDRED TWENTYFIVEDAY, VESPERS

Lyte awoke to the sound of furtive rustlings in the room. As his eyes focused, a figure cut off the light in his vision. But the light was pale, as if—as if the star was setting. Damn, I fell asleep.... Lyte gained full consciousness and realized Moran was looking at him. The man looked more rested than Lyte had seen him for a long time. Managing his famous winning smile, Lyte sat up.

“You’re looking good. Have an enjoyable afternoon?” Lyte said.

“Very. How went your exploring?” He replied, turning back to his dressing. His voice was light, amused, and Lyte was certain Moran knew he had never left the room.

“How long until the feast?” Lyte asked instead, getting up and walking over to the shower basin. He recognized the tub and bypassed it, suspecting he’d fall asleep again. The water falling out of the wall was much cooler but effervescent and exhilarating to the touch. His skin tingled as he quickly worked up a lather.

“We can go to the Great Hall at any time. You won’t recognize it.” Moran moved to the mirror and carefully adjusted the starbursts that symbolized the rank of first officer. “Ronüviel will meet us there. I think Braan brought some clothes to the palace, so he’ll also show up quickly.”

“I thought Braan lived in his own house,” Lyte murmured, smearing a depilatory over his cheeks and chin.

“He does but—I thought I told you about his wife.” The face that Lyte turned toward him was puzzled. “Enid is dying,” Moran went on quietly, “and she’s been here at the palace for several years. It was thought too depressing for the children to have it all going on under the same roof. Braan divides his time among the children, his art and his wife’s bedside, although she hasn’t recognized any of them in over five years.”

“There’s a sadness about him. That explains a lot,” Lyte answered. Rinsing off, he stepped out of the shower and dried himself as he walked over to his tackle. The black and silver dress uniform unfolded wrinkle-free, as always. There wasn’t much Lyte hated more than a dress uniform, but protocol demanded it. The sheer number, much less the status of the dignitaries attending, made a simple dodge impossible. He carefully adjusted on his collar the even-armed crosses that were the insignia of his rank, and reached for a hair rake. His hand brushed against his timespot. Intrigued, he picked it up and examined it. A sheen to the finish ... They’re quick here.

“Where do you know Jaacav from?” Moran suddenly asked.

Lyte, masking his surprise, did not look at him. “I don’t, really. A couple of furloughs ago I played against her in a high stakes edifice game on Mercury 7. There were maybe a half-dozen of us. Never did catch her name,” Lyte replied, attaching the timespot to his cuff.

“Don’t sound so casual about it. You obviously recognized her.”

Lyte glanced at him. Was Moran fishing or teasing? He decided he was getting paranoid. “And she recognized me. There aren’t many people capable of holding their own in a game like that—especially in the military. A good-looking woman, a great gambler, of course I remember!” Lyte hoped he didn’t sound defensive.

“Yet you didn’t follow up on her while you were there.”

“I couldn’t—she left mid-game and had left the tratore by the time I had finished.” That was the truth. He hoped Moran would leave it at that. The warrior seemed unperturbed.

“Well, now you have a chance to follow up on it. She’ll be here tonight.”

“I have a lot of things I plan to follow up on,” Lyte finished, flashing Moran what he hoped looked like a confident smile. “It’s time to explore a bit. See you there.” He started for the chamber door.

“Don’t get lost!” Moran called by way of parting.

Lyte ducked out the door of their chamber and into the spacious hallway. He had no desire to pursue the subject of Jaac—now, or at any other time. He found her disturbing, just as he had on Mercury 7, and that was a rare response on his part to any woman. He had no time to think of this, however, for he realized he had forgotten a turn. He saw a figure up ahead enter the corridor, and hurried to catch up.

“Hey, can you tell me—oh, hi.” For a moment he had not recognized Braan. The man had changed into more formal clothes; deep brown, loose-fitting mandraia pants and a pale yellow gauze shirt which was embroidered in a rich brown on the cuffs and pointed collar. “I’m lost. How do I get out?”

“Follow me.” Braan glanced at Lyte’s dress uniform. “Do they never let you out of that thing?”

“Depends on what you mean. My swimming string is blue and I sleep in the raw. Does that count?” It was all he could think of to say. The truth was, he owned three regulation uniforms and a dress suit—nothing else.

“I suppose it is some sort of freedom. I have to make a stop. Come.” Braan turned and started back down the corridor. Lyte did not mind retracing his steps; he was thankful Braan did not ask why he had left without Moran, or at least remark on his being lost. Lyte decided to increase his observations. Moran had a lot of respect for this man. Again, as earlier, he felt something different about Braan. Something elusive. His feet made no sound on the stone floor, though he wore boots.

Interesting ...

They suddenly stopped before a door.

“You may wait here.” He opened the door and walked in. Braan had said may—a choice. Lyte looked in. He was not prepared for what he found. It was apparently a study which had been converted into a bedroom. A dark man he did not recognize was present, passing a small, flat instrument about a meter above the bed. Lying on the bed was a woman. At least he thought it was a woman; she appeared no bigger than a ten-year-old. She was tiny, so incredibly tiny, and very pale, with a mass of dark curls. Lyte noticed a young woman sitting in a nearby chair. She had been reading a tape console, but now raised her head, startled by Braan’s presence. She glanced quickly at the window, and Lyte saw a sundial.

“Go get dressed. You will not be late. Thank you for staying, but you should be out more—your vacation is almost over.” She managed a lovely smile, and then slipped out past Lyte into the corridor. She was small and slender but properly endowed, with long, thick hair the color of raw bee’s honey. Lyte never missed the essential elements of a pretty woman, no matter how young. Looking back, he saw Braan had moved next to the bed.

“No change,” the healer offered. “I am staying the next shift.” His voice did not indicate he had ever expected any change. Lyte studied the tableau; Braan was expressionless. He slowly reached out toward her face, just barely touching a curl. Then he turned abruptly and moved to the door. Lyte quickly backed up.

They swiftly left the room and continued on down the corridor. Braan was still impassive, and Lyte refrained from comment. The woman had to be Enid, and it was clear her condition was deteriorating. Such a contrast; what Braan appeared to be and what old stories, now almost legends, had to say about him. Years of watching his woman die; yes, Lyte supposed it could wither a man.

“Her name is Shinar,” Braan said quietly. Startled, Lyte glanced at the man. The Atare smiled slightly. “The little blonde you were admiring. Her name is Shinar reb^Elana—the daughter of Elana.”

Lyte watched as the tension in the man slowly dissipated. Fascinating, the control this Nualan had over his body. Almost like a commando. Amazing that he’d noticed anything beyond his wife. Shinar ... smooth on the tongue. Where had he heard the name Elana?

“I ... prefer blondes,” Lyte offered vaguely.

“So did I, but I married a brunette.”

The conversation faded as they reached a set of bronze doors. They were now in the Hall of Mirrors. Darkness was falling fast, and the mysterious light source flared brighter, as if in response to the coming night. Instead of being in isolated wall pockets, each firegem was over a window, reflecting eerily in the mirrors on either side.

The two men quickly reached the dome and, as of yet, had met no one. The sound of music and voices could be heard coming from the Great Hall. Braan took hold of the chamber door and swung it inward.

It had been transformed. Lyte found it hard to believe this room had been the dark, empty chamber of a few scant hours ago. The normal light sources were supplemented by blazing torches. They revealed a ceiling almost as tall as the dome, its face resembling interlocking tetrahedrons. The huge tables he had seen earlier were now covered with soft beige cloths and heaped with food both native and imported. All of the visible food containers or supports were blown out of glass or trine gold. Music was provided by one of Amura’s excellent chamber ensembles. Lyte took it all in and quickly dug in his pocket and pulled out his next pill. As he popped it in his mouth, Braan noticed the movement.

“You will regret that,” he warned. Lyte could not cover his grimace. Even polished, the pill had quite an aftertaste. “You would think a technology like ours could do something about that. I suggest you get—” Braan broke off as a waiter passed and grabbed one of the tall glasses of saffra. “Here.” Lyte did not protest, gratefully gulping the drink.

Someone chuckled behind him, and Lyte turned his head. A dark, handsome young man about his own age silently waited, amusement sparkling in his eyes.

“Be honest, Braan. Did you purposely wait to warn him about the pills?” the man asked. Braan’s face took on an air of total innocence. The off-worlder’s interest sharpened; this Nualan addressed an Atare by name.

“Lyte, I would like you to meet my Moran—Gid reb^Tinyan. This is Second Officer Lyte, Moran’s alter ego,” Braan said, dismissing the Nualan’s questions with a gesture. Still unable to speak, Lyte nodded a greeting. “I thought you decided not to attend this night?”

“I wished to meet Lyte before I left for Tolis,” Gid answered. “And I have accomplished my task. I also need to speak with Arrez. Have you seen him yet? I saw Shinar in the hall a few moments ago, but she had yet to dress for the feast.”

“Does this feast have any special significance?” Lyte asked when he had regained his voice.

“The harvest is in full swing. During the festival we reap by day and give thanks by night. This is a fruitful planet, but not without great effort on the part of the planters. The year will be good—already the deep grain vaults are full, the vegetables and fruits sealed.” Pride seemed to radiate from Gid as he spoke. “We have great hopes for the grape and berry crops of both the coast and the desert.”

“Perhaps you would like to sample a few things,” Braan said casually. “Go light on the food, but if you normally hold your liquor the wines will be no problem. Do not eat any of that.” He pointed to a tray heaped with a type of meat or meat substitute rolled in red leaves. “Even the pill cannot counteract a few of those yet.”

Lyte nodded his understanding and then gestured for a cantinamaster to pour golden fire into a green-stemmed glass. Braan’s head suddenly shot up, and he strained to see past the crowd. “Arrez and Elana just came in. Come, we shall introduce you, and then, feel free to mingle.”

The high priest was easy to find in the crowd; he was the only man wearing white. The robe was festive, made not of the mandraia plant but of syluan, one of Nuala’s two priceless exports. Trine gold—trinium—was merely the rarest of the precious metals, but syluan flowers were found nowhere else in the known stellar systems. The faint glimmer always associated with syluan gave him a slightly immaterial appearance, as if he were a dream. Arrez was tall, slender and patrician, his high cheekbones, sculptured features and dark coloring marking him of Latin ancestry. His flashing, dark eyes gave an observer the impression that Arrez missed nothing. Lyte immediately sensed a kinship between the priest and Braan, though they looked nothing alike.

Arrez’s dark tan and long, dark, swept-back hair contrasted vividly with the woman beside him. Elana had chosen a swirling syluan dress the exact color of her deep blue eyes. Lyte had only a moment to wonder if she chose the diaphanous outfit accidentally or by design, and then Braan’s grip on his elbow propelled him before the pair.

“Arrez, I would like you to met Moran’s friend, Second Officer Lyte. This is the High Priest Arrez.”

“My pleasure, warrior. Gid,” Arrez added, nodding to the man. “Lyte, may I present Dr. Elana, my firstwife?” Arrez turned an open, interested, and amused face to Lyte, who was unabashedly staring at Elana. So familiar, so beautiful, and yet ... not just at the transport ship ... “Ah, and our daughter Shinar and Elana’s son, Kire.”

Lyte turned, and beside him was the lovely young woman of Enid’s room, dressed in a riot of aqua syluan and silver netting. Her escort was a tall, handsome young man with dark auburn hair. Lyte stared a moment, and then said, “Your daughter?” He fought to control his embarrassment as he realized how it sounded, but both women were amused by his expression.

“You flatter me, warrior,” Elana began in her warm, rich voice. “Come—tonight you may continue for an indefinite length of time.” She took his arm and gently drew him off. With a quick greeting to Braan and Gid, Kire and Shinar vanished into the crowd, Kal suddenly appearing at Shinar’s side.

oOo

Relieved of his obligation, Braan turned his full attention on Arrez and Gid.

“How are Mariah and Chaka?” he asked, inclining his head graciously to High Priestess Draü and her firsthusband as they entered the hall. Arrez’s third and fourth wives were both in poor health.

“Chaka is ill again, and Mariah had a prophecy this afternoon, and is sleeping things off.”

“It was that bad?” Gid said, concerned. His family had been close to Arrez’s for many years.

Arrez frowned and, gently taking hold of Braan’s and Gid’s elbows, steered them out of the mainstream.

“I really do not know. It is the second time she has had this dream.” The priest’s voice was quiet, as if his words were not for the casual listener. “It begins more as an emotional thing—an overwhelming feeling of terror. I think much of her own fright comes from this weak, helpless feeling. Then she sees the temple, and Draü is at the altar, trying to protect the chalice. Stone is falling. I am a blur, and then gone. Baskh is there and tries to drag Draü away from the altar.” Arrez paused a moment. “And then there is fire—a veil of fire which rises and screens the scene, like syluan, she said—and it grows, consuming everyone, everything. Her last image is of the planet in flames. But they looked ... artificial? I do not think it is a literal dream.”

Braan glanced at Gid, and was disturbed by the expression on his face; he was pale, his skin dusky. This was no jest on the priest’s part—they had all ceased to play games with each other’s minds a long time ago. They knew each other too well.

“Mariah dreams truly —” Gid whispered.

“Not always,” Arrez broke in sharply. “She has a high accuracy rate, true, but no one can see all futures at all times. We have many paths before us.”

“I wonder,” Braan murmured, letting his mind wander down an unpleasant path.

oOo

The crowd burst into excited whispering, and a turn of the head told Braan that Roe and Moran had arrived. He heard the comments—the perfect couple ... Perhaps. Moran the dashing warrior, Roe heart-stopping in a flowing emerald dress. Braan amused himself wondering if anyone else had noticed that Roe had put on weight. He did not doubt the existence of a child.

“What do you think of him?” Arrez asked suddenly.

“I like him. We have not had time to talk at length, but what I have seen, I like.”

The priest nodded, his gaze following the couple with obvious pleasure. Roe was his favorite of all the Atare children. “She will be happy with him. That is most important. He will be a good husband—I think a good father. One of us should talk to him, you know—more than idle chatter. Before he leaves the planet again.”

“I shall work on it. Right now Lyte concerns me more.” Braan had been studying the silvery warrior for several minutes. He was as usual surrounded by women, both Nualan and off-worlder, and was enjoying the attention.

“Lyte? You have been hoping he would come. Granted, he is infatuated with my wife and will undoubtedly seduce—or be seduced by—my eldest daughter before he leaves, but what has he done to concern you?”

Braan laughed. “You are not disturbed at the prospect?”

Arrez smiled in return. “Elana no longer strikes me as eager to continue having children, and a foreign source always increases the chances. But if it was her wish, I would want the best for her. Kire was off-world-sired, though I have never known who his father was. Accordingly, if Shinar finds a joy in Lyte, why not? To add to our family such a healthy child, as I know it would be—it would be marvelous. And a plus for her marriage status.”

“Then you consider him the best?” Gid asked, his face sharp once more.

Arrez inclined his head slightly. “Mariah has dreamt of him and described him quite well, incidentally. She called him a wildman, a heathen king of tremendous loves and hates. She saw him two-faced, and the other was Moran’s. I prefer to interpret it as meaning that there is much of Moran in Lyte and vice-versa. Yes—I have a good feeling about him.”

“So do I,” Braan replied. “That is what worries me. He is sensitive-trained. He knows the empathy of our people, yet he is being very careful. Why? What is he hiding? I sense a fear in him, more than a warrior’s nervousness at being among so many strangers. Lyte does not strike me as a man who frightens easily. If I could just get them away from Amura for awhile ...”

“That can be arranged,” Gid said. “I have spoken to Baskh Atare. There are some rumblings up in Tolis, a disquieting air dealing with the current synod session. It is all explained in this capsule.” Gid held up the tiny, glittering tome, the seal of Baskh visible on its side. “You cannot deny that my parents and the other sinis prefer to deal with you. They trust you as they have not trusted in centuries. It is an official trip, and he would send Tal, but this needs your delicate touch. Why not take Roe, Moran and Lyte and head north with me?”

Braan hesitated. “Enid is worse....”

“I know, my friend. He hesitates to ask but for the seriousness of this business.” Gid’s voice dropped again. “It concerns the current star-shuffle and some land grabbing, among other things. My parents have not spoken openly of it, even to me. There is nothing you can do for Enid; there is much you can do for continued good relations between Amura and Tolis.”

“Look cheerful, we have company,” Arrez said in warning. He put on his warm, embracing smile as Roe and Moran came up to them.

“Gid! I thought you had left!” She embraced the dark man, who suddenly looked almost shy. “I have come to deposit my man safely in your arms, dear brother, and to borrow your man. We must go pick just the right wine for Moran. Arrez, I need your keen nose.” Ronüviel gracefully took the High Priest’s arm and drew him toward the cantinamaster. Arrez’s handsome maturity fell from him, his face lighting up boyishly as he escorted her into the crowd.

“Perhaps an herbidian chablis?” they heard him say as the two disappeared in the press.

“He’d do anything for her, wouldn’t he?” Moran asked rhetorically, nodding a friendly greeting to Gid.

“As long as it was moral and honest, I would say yes,” Braan replied.

“And legal?” the warrior added for him. Braan’s sly smile crept out, and he shrugged.

Gid began laughing. “Come. Food and wine await. You have had the pill series?” Moran nodded in answer to Gid’s question. “Then by all means try the cide.”

Moran reached for a delicate pastry as Braan signaled the cantinamaster. “Dramiera, please.” The warrior glanced back to see this favorite Atare drink, noting Gid’s polite refusal. Then he looked in one of the hall’s upper mirrors—and his expression froze. Seeing Moran’s face, Braan looked up as well. Someone was using the mirrors for observation. An older man, tall, broad-shouldered, with snow white hair and dark eyes—like pits, those eyes ... The look was malevolent. Moran shuddered. The eyes seemed to recognize them, and grew more intent. Braan evenly met the gaze.

“Meant for you?”

“I do not think so ... not this time. We often use the mirrors like his, he and I. To my face he is quite cordial. That is Corymb Dielaan, the head of the Dielaan clan. He hates Atares. Especially Braan of Atare.” Braan turned away and reached for a drink; Moran followed suit. “I do not envy whomever he is seeking.” A tiny gasp of protest reached his ears. Braan’s head snapped back, but only the cantinamaster was present, his face a mask.

“You spoke?”

“No, Seri. I made his drink weaker, and he has yours.”

Moran sipped his liquor. “This is fine, not too strong.”

“In the future, please inquire first before you make such a judgment,” Braan said tranquilly, watching the cantinamaster. The man returned no expression. Turning, the Nualan prince moved away from the table, Moran and Gid following.

“I wanted to ask you to come with me into the coastal mountains,” Braan started. “I have been planning a vacation. However, something has come up, and Gid and I must go north to Tolis. I want to take Roe, though I have not yet asked her. You could bring Lyte, if you think he could handle the trip. You have never been, have you?”

“No, I haven’t. The mountains would have fascinated him. Too bad ...”

“Think about it. I know it is sudden. Here comes Roe.”

The woman appeared before them, balancing three glasses of wine. “We decided on Sonoma River Chardonnay. Arrez was raving about it, but I think you should judge for yourself.” Thanking her, the men took the glasses and tasted the wine. Always appreciative of fine wine, especially white, Moran quickly agreed with Arrez’s taste. Gid and Roe laughed at them as they stood holding a glass in each hand, and then Roe leaned over to whisper to her man. “Moran, I have to talk to you about something before Arrez announces we are getting married.”

“Announces? Tonight?”

Roe looked puzzled. “We decided on the Feast of Adel. That is tonight.”

“That feast is this feast?”

She laughed at his bewilderment and took his arm. “Too late, Arrez is signaling.” She took one of his glasses and started dragging him toward the speakers’ platform. “Here comes Baskh Atare.” Looking around wildly, Moran saw the aging ruler and his consort make their entrance to a grand ovation. Braan and Gid slipped away.

oOo

“Guests of the domain!” Arrez’s authoritative voice boomed out over an unseen amplifier. “Now that our Atare is present, we wish to bring to your knowledge glad tidings for the people of Nuala.” The conversation on the huge floor ceased; Arrez had everyone’s attention as Roe struggled to reach the platform. “Tonight, we wish to announce that another of the house of Atare, of the direct throne line of this generation, has decided to marry in the full sight of Most Holy Mendülay and of proper witnesses. I wish to announce the banns of Ronüviel reb^Ila Atare and First Officer Moran of the Axis Forces.” The uproar that followed drowned out anything else that Arrez intended to say, and finally, with a smile and a helpless shrug, he stepped from the platform and embraced Roe.

The next half hour was joyous, unnerving confusion. They were mobbed by family, diplomats and citizens alike, and emotions ranged from radiant pleasure to tight-lipped formality. Roe was reminded that potential problems were not confined to house enemies and then pushed the thought out of her mind. Her sisters and brothers were full of congratulations and suggestions; even paranoid Deveah relaxed enough to join the small, encouraging group. As the conversation flowed, Roe was suddenly aware of a dark presence and turned to her husband-to-be. Moran was facing Corymb. The elder noticed her movement and smiled graciously, nodding his head respectfully, but Roe could not rid herself of discomfort. Corymb’s smiles always meant something else. She had never doubted that the attempt on the heir’s life, many years ago, had indirectly come from Corymb. Remove Tal, and Deveah would be next in line ... and Corymb controlled Deveah. Moran’s features were carefully neutral, refusing to recoil from the death in Corymb’s face and the lies in Deveah’s eyes. Deveah’s eyes were the most disturbing—one green eye glittered, and the other, the rare Sheel Split of half green, half brown, was dull and lifeless.

Corymb would not allow a silence to settle. “The future Ragäree’s husband is an agroengineer of some renown. I hope your skills shall be as useful to the people.” The elder’s tone was polite, interested—the consummate speaker.

“Ronüviel must think so,” Moran replied. Roe knew that voice—he was controlling anger. Moran was dangerous when he was angry.

“Thank you for coming, Dielaan,” Roe murmured swiftly, using the title of respect for the man. “My man and I have much to speak of. You will excuse us? It seems a good time to leave.”

“Of course.” The colorful, pulsing crowd swirled, and both Corymb and Deveah were gone. She felt Moran relax.

He turned to her. “Thank you. You wanted to tell me something?”

“Yes.” She drew him out of the mob and toward the wall. “I have been trying to tell you that I think I am pregnant, but there has not been time to take the tests. Braan suspects, but no one else.”

Moran looked a bit dazed by the news and stared at her. Then he gently reached out to touch her cheek in a simple caress. Her expression bloomed, and she hugged him.

“Come, get your drink. I want to see Jaac before she takes Braan’s children to bed. She is their godmother, you know.” Reaching to the cantina table, Moran grabbed his Dramiera, swallowed the remainder, and then followed her.

oOo

Lyte floated among the guests, his face the blasé mask of the tratores, his ears absorbing every word and nuance. A familiar name caught his attention, and he paused near two consuls.

“Are you suggesting there are people who could profit from her removal?”

“When one is at the top of one’s profession, life itself becomes a cat-and-mouse game. It’s common knowledge what Elana has been working on for ten years. And I have seen the optics—the rumors of her findings are true!”

“You believe the Nualans are human, as we are human, and no longer need genetic tampering? Even if it is true, do you think her colleagues will stand by and watch their pet projects lose funding?”

So intelligence had been correct: Elana was currently in disfavor over her research. Something about cutting the Nualans loose from their medical intravenous tube and encouraging reproduction with no medical interference ...

“You look much too preoccupied for a party. Can I point you to some diversion?”

Lyte turned and met Shinar’s clear blue eyes. Thick blonde hair tumbling at several levels, held by clasps—what was she, sixteen terra? Gods ... “I think I just found it,” he answered.

“Oh? For the moment, perhaps. You can save the charm because, yes, I am susceptible, and yes, I am on guard. You will have to make other plans for the rest of the evening.”

“Don’t worry, I’m probably twice your age, and that tends to put a kink in my style. Also I don’t trust Nualan women. They steal men’s souls.”

She laughed, the sound of it ringing in the crystal goblets. “Do not let it bother you, I have had lovers much older than you.” And she was gone. Gods ...

“I’m just as interesting as she is.”

Lyte glanced to his side. The speaker was one he had talked with earlier, a person of importance; she was the under secretary of the Military Council and a second officer. She was also a lovely blonde. Lyte had a weakness for blondes.

“Who am I to disagree?” he returned, handing her a drink from the nearby cantinatable. She smiled demurely, turning on the charm. He smiled in answer, with no need to attempt to be charming.

“Just be sure she’s willing—there’s no penalty for mutual seduction, but the penalty for rape is castration.”

Lyte somehow hung on to his composure. “What about a—false accusation? Somehow an apology wouldn’t, well—”

“Make up for things? The punishment for a false accusation is death.” She laughed, then, a perverse humor taking over in her. “Needless to say, they’ve had something like two rapes and one false witness in about four thousand years. I guess it works. The law, and their social system.”

Lyte nodded absently, intending to be very sure of Shinar’s true feelings if he chose to pursue that course. “I don’t know much about Nuala. Suppose we try a few local delicacies, and you can instruct me in some of the upcoming customs. I’ve heard about the grape harvest celebration....”

“This way,” she answered, taking his arm and leading him to a banquet table.

oOo

Something was very wrong. Moran tried to remember if he had taken an anti-rav pill and could not. Of course not, he took the series long ago. For a moment he couldn’t remember where he was, and that frightened him. Suddenly someone was standing next to him, gripping his arm. He turned and tried to focus. Vertigo overwhelmed him. It was Ronüviel.

“Moran? What is it? You did not eat any chéraka, did you?”

He was having trouble focusing on her. “No, I know better than—Lords, I’m dizzy.”

She flinched at the polytheistic off-world oath. “We must get you to a chair. You have a delicate stomach; maybe you need more pills. If that cantinamaster is watering the liquor, I shall have his license.” She began to haul him toward a table.

“No! No, I just want to lie down awhile. Maybe I haven’t eaten enough. Some of these liquors are strong ... and I had wine. Shouldn’t—shouldn’t have mixed ... “ He stumbled, Roe barely able to steady him.

“Come on, then, let us go back to your room. I want to run some tests on you.”

“I thought you ... don’t treat ... family.”

“I shall get Elana, then!” She pulled his arm across her shoulders. “Come on, this way. We do not want the guests to think you have been celebrating all day, do we?” Roe added, attempting to force humor.

oOo

Fortunately they were close to the bronze doors and quickly rounded the corner into the Hall of Mirrors. Moran looked up, and the lights reflecting in the mirrors threw him into such a spin, he collapsed to his knees. At that moment Jaac entered the hallway.

“Roe? What is wrong?” She hurried over to the couple.

“I do not know. I think it may be the water. Help us!”

“Is—not!”

Jaac went to Moran’s other side, and the two hauled him to his feet.

“You must try, Moran,” Roe said, wishing the guaard was not stationed inside the bronze doors tonight instead of outside them. “You must carry some of your own weight!” They were scarcely halfway down the hallway when it became apparent that he was not able to carry any weight. Finally the women let him sit down on the floor, Roe supporting his back and head.

“I shall go bring a stretcher,” Jaac began, “and see if I can find Elana.” She ran back down the hallway to the bronze doors, only to meet Lyte and the under-secretary.

The man stopped her. “What’s wrong? You—“

“It is Moran. He is ill, extremely ill. We need Elana.”

“What!” Lyte dashed down the corridor to the huddled pair. “Never should have left him, never!” he muttered savagely under his breath. “Can you stand?”

“Yes. Room. Please.” Lyte grabbed Moran in a body lock and slowly hauled him to his feet.

“Roe, balance him. Jaacav, get a doctor or somebody! He may have been poisoned!” The woman was already gone. He suddenly realized what he had said. “Oh—you’re a doctor. I’m—“

“Forget it, I do not have my instruments. Let us hurry. If it is rav poisoning he should be lying on his back.” The two dragged him down the hall. The off-worlder woman, momentarily forgotten, followed them.

They left the blonde at the bronze doors, Lyte promising to return to her. It was not far to the guest room, and the guaard helped; only the turns and curves made it seem long. The group had barely set Moran on the bed when Elana, Jaac and Braan entered the room. The doctor went straight to the man and whipped out a meter, passing it above his body while Roe made him comfortable. Using a tiny probe, she withdrew a single drop of blood from his arm and absorbed the fluid into her meter. Ronüviel felt her eyes widen as she read the flashing sequence of lights. Elana took an air injection hypo out of her small bag and gave Moran a shot. The tossing man immediately relaxed, unconscious.

“What—“ Lyte began.

“A common poison,” Elana answered abruptly. She turned to Braan. “How could this have happened?” she asked in Nualan. “Who could have followed him and done this—and why?” Braan did not speak. A guaard signaled for Jaac’s attention, and she left the room.

“We must leave the city,” Roe whispered tightly. “Until Jaac can discover what is happening.”

“That is not a problem. Baskh has requested we go to Tolis. I thought Lyte and Moran could travel with us.”

“The radioactive city?” Lyte asked carefully, visibly grateful they were speaking Axis once again.

“It will be one of the more memorable times of your life, Lyte—the trinium mines are there. And it is the most secure city on the planet—the best place for Moran right now.” Lyte nodded absently, the wheels visibly turning in his mind. Before he could frame a reply, Jaac returned.

“Curiouser—we have a body.” The others stiffened in reaction to her words. “A cantinamaster—his neck is broken, and it could not have happened from a fall, the healer says.”

“Cantinamaster?” Braan repeated sharply. “From what station?” Jaac told him, briefly describing the man. Braan nodded slowly, and then spoke softly. “Lyte, there is nothing we can do for Moran now, except let the antidote run its course. We shall depart on The Nova with the tide, if you have no objections. Try to relax the rest of this evening—Roe is better qualified than any of us to care for Moran. She has the vested interest in his future.” Elana nodded, her gaze upon Braan. Then, with a nod to Roe, she swept out of the room, Jaacav following.

Lyte looked at Braan. The Nualan was pale; this had clearly frightened him. The warrior looked almost reassured at Braan’s reaction as he slowly walked out of the room. Only after Lyte exited did the two guaard leave, the woman setting the door slightly ajar and stationing herself in front of it.

“There is one great problem, Roe....” Braan whispered.

“What?” she asked, not looking up as she loosened Moran’s collar and cuffs.

“The drink of Dramiera—the cantinamaster meant it for me.” Roe’s head shot up, and they stared at one another a long moment. Braan turned to leave. “At tide.”

Chapter Four

TOLIS, NUALA

FOURHUNDRED TWENTYSEVENDAY, VESPERS

The council room was a dome of leaded glass, the floors polished to a brilliant ebony. By night the universe would settle on their heads, and by day, on a clear day, they could see almost to Amura’s mountains, the council room being the highest point in Tolis. No benches—the synod of this city had stood during their meetings for as long as memory stretched; it made for shorter and more concise gatherings.

Today the room was almost deserted, echoing from Tinyan’s footsteps. She had waited the afternoon there, her mind on one thing: Who had Baskh Atare sent? The prime minister was off-planet. Perhaps Tal, the heir? She prayed it would be Braan or Ronüviel. Only they understood....

It was cool. Even this short distance north, the year had begun to turn. She drew the sides of her woolen poncho close as she stepped up to the side of the dome, trying to absorb the last rays of light.

A subtle scent of evergreen and spice reached her nose, and Tinyan knew her husband Carad had entered the dome He preferred traditional skin boots, and his silent tread was the walk of an elkita master, but she knew his favorite cologne.

“Nowhere on Nuala does Holy Mendülay paint the sky as it is seen above Tolis,” she remarked, not turning.

“The brilliance of fire for a burning city,” Carad replied, stepping to her side.

“They come,” Tinyan went on, her voice still conversational. “Whom do you think he sent? The guaard on the transmission would not say.”

“As long as it is not one of Dielaan’s jackals, I do not care.”

She did not miss the edge to his tone. “When Corymb comes, he comes on his own. Baskh Atare is many things, good and bad. A fool he is not.” They stood awhile in silence, watching the sail top the horizon and swiftly approach the harbor.

“The winds of autumn begin. Rare for the southerners to come so late,” Carad began.

“There is need,” Tinyan answered, almost cutting him off. “Perhaps more than we suspect.” She turned from the dying starlight. “Quahna must be informed.”

“Not necessary” came Quahna’s voice from the chamber doorway. They looked up to see the archpriest, his white robe blood-colored in the last rays from Kee. Tinyan managed a smile despite her mood. She had not seen her secondhusband in two days. They stood silent, the eternal triangle, as it had been since they were children plotting to have Tolis acknowledged the power it could become. So Tolis had ... and why not? Did they not mine the trine gold? The radiation of the deeper veins held no terrors for sinis. Had a sini not created the Nualan metal, vandrun, which was inert, distasteful to the irradiated sinisus microbe? The keys to Nuala’s return to the Axis had been found scant kilometers from Tolis.

There was a price to pay for such power; family, privacy, personal needs and desires had been swept aside. Many times over they had paid it. Only Tinyan had desired it, to become a co-minister; she had paid the highest price of all. Quahna, to his amazement, had been chosen archpriest scarcely a year ago. Carad preferred his old ambassadorial post, but the city needed him as a minister. There were no laws against a married couple holding the joint office; reluctantly, he had accepted the position, and had proved a fine minister.

“I wonder if the children might come.” Tinyan left her voice musing, not quite a question.

“They would have called first, Tinyan,” Quahna gently replied.

“Of course.” She bit off the words, stiffening as she straightened the folds of her poncho. “Let us prepare the feast. They may bring off-worlders, we must have appropriate food.” She brushed past them into the corridor, disappearing into darkness.

oOo

Quahna reached out for a piece of hair which had caught on a splinter of the doorsill, absently wrapping the long, crimson strand around his finger.

“Over a thousand years to this end. Amazing we never thought past the moment of triumph,” Quahna said aloud. The big black man nodded his agreement. Quahna glanced up, his own short, trim physique dwarfed by the mighty Carad. Age had not dimmed the co-minister, though his hair was now prematurely white.

“Gid could be on board, you know,” Carad replied. “He loves to surprise us.”

“I hope he is, she could use such a boost. I miss his dry humor and his relentless logic.” Quahna paused. “It is hard to be the head of a city whose stated purpose is to remove the need for its existence, is it not?”

“She does not see the end in our lifetime, and does not dwell on it,” Carad said heavily. “She is proud our children were sent beyond the walls at birth. But it is hard, very hard. Let us prepare for our guests. The tone of the evening shall be set by the first off the moonraker. I wonder how they will phrase their report when they discover we base our findings on ‘feelings.’”

THE NOVA

VESPERS

Ronüviel was alone as she watched the mother star, Kee, set. The flaming ball dropped like a stone to the water’s rim. Sea sounds overwhelmed her—the creaking wood, the crying birds, the fine mist whipping against her face. An arm slipped around her waist, and she turned sideways to see Moran. He looked much better than he had at dawn; a day of sweats and trembling had left him weak and drawn, suspicion clouding his features. Roe’s stomach knotted again as she thought of the consequences—Braan’s drink, Moran’s life. What is happening to us? The pale shadow that was Lyte stood behind her lover—he was never far from Moran’s side. He was worried, too, though he never mentioned it.

“Time to get into suits?” Moran asked, referring to the protective gear they would wear during their stay.

“Soon.”

“How do you know when to get into suits?” Lyte asked.

“Every shipmaster has his own system,” she explained. “This one waits until he can see the engravings on the dome. A small ship would have different ways. The marine life, the flora tells you if you know what to look for....”

“Someone said not to drag our hands in the cargohold water. I didn’t realize that even the land is more radioactive here, much less the ocean. Some of the sailors have already changed,” Lyte observed.

“A moonraker is too large a ship to be left unattended while people suit up. The new shift will not have to becalm the boat, as a smaller ship might. We should go below. Already I think we are too close.” She gestured for them to follow.

“Do we wear them all the time?” Lyte asked.

“Except when we are in our own rooms, which are especially treated and sealed. Everywhere else we accommodate them. That is why Braan left Zair behind—we do not make suits for animals.”

“Does Gid have to wear one?” Moran asked.

“Of course. Why do you ask?”

“I thought his parents were sini.”

“The leaders of the city or something?” Lyte added.

“They are,” Ronüviel replied, ducking a low sill. “But Gid is not. He is as vulnerable as we are. Tinyan, his mother, is a mild sini, a mock sini. We can be in her presence without suits for hours. Carad, Gid’s father, is very hot—it is unusual that both his children are cool.”

“How long has Braan known Gid?” Lyte asked suddenly. Roe glanced up—she sensed more behind the question.

“Since they were children. They were best friends, and shared everything together. Gid feels a responsibility to the city of his birth, however, so now they see each other rarely. It is true there are fanatics in Tolis, as anywhere, Lyte, but Gid reb^Tinyan is above suspicion. He would die for Braan, and he has no reason to hurt Moran.” Desiring no more questions, Roe directed them to put on their climate-controlled suits. Always the garment had repelled her; she did not care that it was comfortable, impossible to rip and took care of every bodily need. She felt alien within it. Only Braan wore it as if he was born in one—and only she knew he also dreaded wearing the suits. But it was wear a suit or remain isolated in a room. She demonstrated how to put one on and activate the functions, and then led them back to the deck. Braan and Gid awaited them, the two men already encased in suits.

The city now loomed on the horizon. Its similarity to Amura was apparent even from a distance. Tolis was lighter, however, as if made of white marble. It was built of pieced stone from the surrounding region. Why import expensive materials to be damaged by uranium breakdown? Roe studied the beautiful inlaid mosiacs and the ancient rock fortifications. Tolis was a city of contradictions, one of the most beautiful and deadly places on the planet. It occurred to her that it was not unlike the planet Nuala as a whole.

“They are not wearing suits,” Lyte said suddenly. She squinted to see the wharf. A large crowd had gathered, the color of their robes muted in the twilight.

“Of course not. We are the aliens here. You will find the desert clothing comfortable, Lyte. We shall wear it within our own sector.” The man turned and walked toward the stern, apparently watching the night creep in. Ronüviel felt a stirring of compassion—Lyte was more disturbed by this visit than he would ever admit. She reached for Moran’s gloved hand, and his responding grip was firm. “You will like Tinyan, Carad and Quahna. They have fought many battles to reach what they want. They are individuals of great strength and courage.” She could not tell whether or not he was reassured.

oOo

Their hosts were prepared for the huge crowd and quickly whisked them away to the ministers’ beautiful, austere home up in the cliffs. Normally the arrival of the throneline Atares would have required a feast, but it was the secondday of High Festival, and that precluded formal entertainment. Roe was told that Quahna was needed at services and would join them later. In the meantime Carad and Tinyan offered their gracious hospitality in the form of a light meal and good conversation.

Dinner was a skillful blend of off-world and Nualan delicacies. Lyte sat at the bar watching in fascination while Carad tossed the main course together with the seeming abandon of a master. Carad’s dinner contained the first meat the Nualans had offered Moran and Lyte, except for at the feast, but it was a tiny portion of the whole. Roe had no concerns about how free from radiation the meal would be, and watched silently as Tinyan sought Gid’s help in preparing a steaming alcoholic beverage. When everything was ready, the newcomers went into the next room and removed their outer suits. Roe and Braan arrived last, carrying two-thirds of the dinner and drinks. Carad opened the drapes and, to Gid’s amusement, waved through the nonreflective glass. An excellent intercom was activated, and with the tables as extensions of the wall, Roe occasionally felt as if they were all sitting in one room and talking. Certainly conversation and good humor were not lacking. Tinyan, glowing over the surprise of her eldest’s visit, was in unquenchable spirits.

Roe studied the woman and her dark son, who were sitting so close together that only the thickness of the glass separated them. Gid was the image of his father, as close to Afrikanis as any man in the Axis Republic—that was the fault of Carad’s family, fanatics who married only the blackest, the hottest. Carad gave up his past to marry the pale, red-haired firebrand Tinyan, and this little gathering was all the family he had: these friends, Quahna, and the three other children. How strange, to be cut off from roots ... it was not the normal Nualan procedure. And how beautiful Tinyan was, as if she had not aged a day since Gid’s birth over twenty years before....

The thirdmeal dishes were being dropped in the autoton, and dessert and hot saffra being served when there was a knock at the main door. Tinyan answered, and ushered in Quahna. Carad pulled out another mug and plate.

“You are in time for saffra, my friend! Will you join us?”

“Thank you, yes, Carad. Now that the old man has arrived, it is time to get down to serious matters.” Quahna’s voice was gentle but unyielding, and Ronüviel felt a chill. Now was the time for what they had come for—the true meaning of all the preceding pleasantries. The priest sat down next to his wife and took a sip of saffra. He stared through the glass at the visiting group, and finally began to speak, choosing Axis over Nualan as a courtesy to their guests.

“Braan, there is no way to express our gratitude for your arrival. We are aware of Enid’s failing health, and give you our sympathy for your pain.” Braan appeared untouched by the words, but Tinyan’s fingertips against the glass in a futile outreach shook him visibly.

Carad continued the speech. “All the more because what you have come to hear is brief and cryptic, and what you will see are but pieces in a great puzzle. We are but pawns, whatever my pride may shout in argument.” Carad paused, apparently uncertain of how to proceed.

Tinyan had no doubts. “Forget the 80-20 problems, our civil rights, the border skirmishes with the Stigati Ciedärlien, all of it. Something potentially much more lethal is taking place right under our noses. We are losing land, Atares. Losing crucial land—and I suspect to one man.”

“Specifically which land?” Roe asked.

“Mostly the Luna tracts,” Tinyan replied.

Braan stopped twirling his eating utensil and looked up. “How much?”

“We do not know. That is why we are frightened and why we need you to discover what you can.” Tinyan looked visibly worried.

“What are the Luna tracts?” Moran finally asked. Lyte also looked interested.

“The lands surrounding the trinium mines,” Roe answered. “There are literally thousands of square kilometers in the area. The nominal owners are the Atare clan, as the discoverers of trine gold, but all the people have a stake in the trade. Whom do you think is buying up so much of the stock?”

“Corymb Dielaan.” Tinyan’s face registered no expression. Roe saw Moran and Lyte react to her voice—not to the tone, but to the lack of tone, of any emotion at all.

“Our rabid, 80- and sini-hating friend. Interesting. No one can own more than ten percent of the released stock. How is he doing it?” Braan asked easily.

“We think he is buying the rights to off-world trade names, companies that have folded. He would never have to announce his holdings, you know. He could simply draw the profits and keep silent,” Tinyan answered.

“No.” Carad’s voice was granite. “I know Dielaan; he is insatiable. That jackal will not be happy until he has all the trinium mines. And he wants people to know he has these things.”

“He wants love and respect most of all,” Quahna said gently. “Which he cannot buy. He is doomed to fail.”

“Perhaps.... perhaps not. With the stranglehold the synod has had our family in these last few years, Corymb’s chances to unseat Baskh are better than ever. Not through election, or war—through Deveah.” Roe’s words fell on silence, the thought sobering them all. “My question is why the synod turns a blind eye to him. Even the tribe of Dielaan grows ashamed of his deeds.”

“They all have their little power games. They think he keeps Baskh on his toes,” Tinyan replied sourly. “I would also be cautious if I feared a knife in my back. And our watch station has been put on alert by Jaacav—something about our Axis guard ships pulling back. There has been a change in the war. We are no longer right behind the front?” The first was not really a question; the second was.

“It is believed an offensive is coming, possibly an attack from two sides by both the Fewhas and the Malvevenians. But they would not have released Lyte and me for furlough if it was expected soon,” Moran offered. Roe let her gaze rest on him, seeing his sadness as he realized the Toli were not about to believe him. He had not lived with the fear, the paranoia, the hate—the knowledge that Nualans were expendable. He could not know....

“Enough,” Carad said with a wave of his hand. “You may check the records tomorrow, and see for yourself. You traded the galaxy lines, Braan, you know what to look for. I think you will find what we fear.” Toasting his guests, he drained his mug and, with a touch of his wife’s hand, left the room.

Roe did not stand to move as the others did. She watched Tinyan, as always amazed that two strong-willed men like Carad and Quahna could both be married to such a woman. Her magnificent, fiery beauty and intelligence possessed a heat far beyond radiation. Years before Braan had nearly caused an uproar in the royal court over his unrequited love for his best friend’s mother. Age was not the problem—Tinyan knew the old stories, and knew better than to fall in love with a man who was barred from marrying even a Nualan 20. She was the one with two men, and by custom would have had to make the first move—she had wisely kept silent. But Roe knew the truth of the attraction, and if Braan had been a nameless, faceless 80, Tinyan would have three husbands instead of two.

Oh, my brother, she thought with pain as Braan said his good-nights and walked to the rooms prepared for them. There is something cold within you, trying to protect what is left of your scarred heart. Even the children cannot reach you. Will you let no one try? Tinyan had entered their side of the family room, and was off by the window, joking with Gid.

Then her son looked serious, and drew her to the couch, insisting that she listen. Roe wondered what Gid was up to; he could not have missed Braan’s uncharacteristic aloofness of late. But once the families had been very close—she hoped some of that was left. Coming out of her thoughts, she looked up to find Moran patiently waiting for her to accompany him to their quarters.

“Thank you,” she said simply, offering him her hand. They walked slowly back to the apartments.

oOo

Braan sat down on the edge of his double bed, clutching his caftan. He had stripped down to the long, loose, string-waisted pants, joqurs, the southerners preferred. Something in the night drew him, and he stared out the tiny window at the sliver of the firstmoon, Eros. Holy One, things are getting worse. Do I have enemies on every front? Do they abandon us to the Fewhas, thinking we are as unarmed as Axis planets are supposed to be? And why bother to poison me, why is the third brother a threat? Malice....sheer hate....

There was a knock at the hatch.

“Enter.” Braan turned his head, saw Tinyan’s etched features by the light of the water candle, and let a smile slip across his face. “I was hoping to see you. Have you come for idle chatter, the latest gossip, or the truth about the Nualan Synod?”

Tinyan managed a deep-throated chuckle. “Actually, Gid sent me to entice you.”

A quick rush of air followed this remark, as Braan sat back and turned away, touching his forehead in a gesture of mock despair. “Not you two as well! I thought I was safe here!”

“Can you escape truth?” she asked, pulling the hatch closed behind her.

“Truth?” He was tired, unable to block. The all-too-familiar depression settled like a cloud.

Tinyan stepped over and sat on the low stool by the end of the bed. “There is a loving man behind that practiced smile. But it has been a long time since I have seen him.”

Braan looked out the window again. “If you are getting into therapy as a sideline, Tinyan, then—“

“Can you believe that? Just because we both choose to be blind, do not call me insensitive as well. My son and friend, Gid, made a point I should have seen for myself.” She reached up and clasped his neck with her cool, slim hand, turning him to face her. “When she dies, Braan, what will you do?”

“She is already dead, actually. We merely wait to bury her.”

There was nothing visible, yet the emotions in the room were chaotic, collapsing. For once the ability of all Nualans to sense emotional currents was a help and not a hindrance. To less-attuned humans, nothing would be evident. He did not even sweat.

“You can do better than that, Braan. Or shall you tell me I am being too familiar with royalty?” He started to turn away; only a slap would have been more insulting. “Braan, I have to tell you. I never told anyone—Gid, Carad, Quahna, none know—but now is the time. I spoke to Enid alone once, just before Asiai was born. Do you know what she told me? That she knew the child would be her death. She had not believed it until right then, but finally she did. And she did not care! In that grim, cool manner of hers, she told me that for four years she had been a queen—not in name, but between your worship of her and the people’s worship of you, close enough. And that too much of it was dangerous. She loved it and feared it. Did you know that when she was born doctors said she would never survive her childhood? But somehow, with her will to live, she hung on. She never told you, did she? You knew she looked fragile; you never knew she was fragile.”

“Yes,” he whispered, more to stop her than to answer her.

“She forbade her family, her friends to say anything, wanting to go with you and knowing you loved her too much to take her if you knew. She always lived on borrowed time! No one here knew—everyone thought the air, the food was too much for her. No ... Enid would have died on Orion, probably before this. They are very good at bringing weak fetuses to term, poor at adult medical care.”

“Do not dare—“

“But that is fortunate for us! She gave you Dylan and Asiai and her love; the things she wanted you to have most of all. And she made me promise that if anything happened, I would remember, and find a time to tell you. For I was the mother of your best friend, and Nualan—I would not dare lie. And I waited for the time to speak, thinking you would snap out of it, not truly realizing how ... dangerous ... your position was, how you had to seem to vanish to survive. How it finally affected you.”

“Tinyan, please—“ He kept waiting for her to cease, yet he had no strength to stop her.

“You gave her everything she ever wanted for as long as it was humanly possible. And now—will you withdraw into a shell as a testimony of love? It seems to me that choice would say, ‘I made a mistake. The potential pain is not worth it.’” There was a long pause.

Braan studied the sinking moon. He turned back to her. “You always leap for the jugular, do you not?”

“Was it worth it?” she asked, ignoring his question. And Braan knew he had lost the argument.

“Yes.” He slowly pulled away from her, propping his elbows up on his knees and dropping his head in his hands. She waited, setting her other hand, still cool, like the night, on his shoulder.

Braan’s thoughts were spinning. Could he have been that blind? Why not? It was possible. So many things he had always felt were unsaid. A mirthless smile crossed his face. If only the rumors were true, and Nualans really did investigate the genes of their chosen ones. But then they would never have been so happy....

The man felt tears coming on and rose, facing the window. Tinyan stood to leave, and paused. He felt her hesitation, and then heard her walk over behind him. Tinyan slipped her arms around him, hugging him briefly. As she began to pull away, his fingers seized her clasped arms, stopping her.

“What right do you have to come here, smelling of starset and singeing me with the fire of truth?”

“You like pain and self-pity?” Tinyan responded.

“No. What else do you offer?”

“The love and admiration of millions.”

Braan softly snorted. “If I reject it, and leave Nuala forever, will you come?”

Tinyan hesitated before replying. “No glass partition would stop you?”

“Or bother me,” Braan whispered.

“Yes. If you can look me in the eye and tell me to leave the fools to their doom, for doom is what I fear.”

Braan slowly turned to face her and lightly rested his fingertips on her arms. “No,” he answered. “As much as a part of me would like to do just that, I could not. As you know. I am too well trained.”

Tinyan smiled. “You love them too much ... as I love you. I tried to forget you a long time ago, with every foolish, antique and unscientific excuse I could think of. Please do not think I was wholly untempted.”

His strange eyes, dark in the light of the water candle, pierced her. “Ten years ago I risked friendship, dignity and my Atare’s wrath to chase you with adoration and roses the color of your hair. And then you enter with the words I have dreamt about!” He released his gentle touch and turned away, smiling faintly, sardonically. “You are bad.”

“I did not lie.”

Braan slowly faced her again. “Why?”

Tinyan looked closely at him. “Because ... you must return to the living sometime. Are you not a bit afraid of the legend? That you cannot live up to it?” She smiled faintly. “If I am nothing else, my friend, I am a true lover—one who loves. I am not beguiled by the off-world pleasures. I ask nothing, expect nothing, and give everything; something no other child of Nuala could promise.” Her sudden grin was so wicked Braan threw back his head and laughed.

“I have been told that what I thought was simple, honest mutual pleasure spoiled a lot of women,” Braan replied.

“Most of them have forgotten what it was like to be the center of attention, if they ever knew. I have been told it was your manner, not your technique. But enough—I would like some firsthand knowledge.”

Braan laughed again, softly, and shook his head, beginning to look away. The simple facts made her words incredible; Tinyan was still young, though she had borne four children. A foreign source always increased the odds, and Braan had once witnessed the parting of a mock sini and her child. He could not bear the thought of causing that, even if she did not fear it. Yet the mark of Nuala was free choice.... Then she touched the crook of his arm.

“Why not?” She stepped closer until she was right in front of him, her eyes level with his. He took a half-step back and studied her, the situation sinking in. Braan felt his body temperature rise, his pulse increase slightly.

All his life this woman had floated through his mind like a cloud at starset: colorful, ethereal, lucid, remote. And he had always wondered, if things had been different; if she had been cool, or he sini and tribeless; could she have cared for him, if only for a day, a night.

Things were not different; but she cared for him, and there was a night, and at least two and a half hours before he might get dizzy from radiation. He was so tired. Then he smelled the wind in her hair, the scent of starset, and without hesitation extended his arms and sought her mouth as if it was the most natural thing in their lives.

She was fierce, as if unaware until now of her own reaction to him, and traced the curve of his throat with her lips. Braan felt that familiar heady feeling, as if he had touched a living nerve, and for the first time in years did not fight it, did not recycle and dismiss it. It had been so long, and he had almost forgotten how wonderful it was. Almost.

He softly, quickly, almost carelessly kissed the length and breadth of her throat and shoulders, carefully tracing the uplift of her magnificent breasts. She shivered, and remembering an old boldness, he touched the clasp at her left shoulder. The caftan fell partially open, and it was all he could do to keep his head. She chuckled at the soundless appreciation of his look, pleased with their mutual pleasure. Tinyan slipped off the sleeve and ruffled the light brown hairs on his chest with her fingertips.

“If you did not know a good woman improves like fine wine, know it,” she whispered in his ear. Braan paused, almost in homage, to Tinyan’s amusement, and then bent and placed a kiss between her breasts that brought forth from her an unanticipated moan. He suddenly scooped her up in his arms, meeting her kiss and popping the other clasp as he did so. He slipped her onto the bed, sweeping away the caftan as he dropped down on his side next to her. With one hand she delicately massaged the muscles of his chest while the other hand pulled the string from his joqurs.

Braan tried to remember and savor each moment that came afterward, as he had so often done before, but he could not. He remembered tracing the delicate line of hairs down her stomach, and then half-buried instinct took over. The fire in that room was more potent than any radiation, the body locked to his coaxing him on to endurance and insanity he had forgotten was possible. His mind was in such a spin he thought radiation poisoning had taken over, but a few long gasps later he could see again.

She was smiling at him, and he shyly managed to answer, bending forward to kiss her raised shoulder. She stopped him with a gentle touch, much as he had stopped her moments ago when an errant move would have escalated things too swiftly. Then she slipped her arm around him and found a backbone muscle, gently kneading it while she followed the bones of his face with her left hand. Braan relaxed in her arms, torn between sleep and the half-restful, half-arousing touch of her hands. He quietly traced the curves and swells of her body, knowing there was time for many things before she had to leave....

oOo

When he awoke in the faint shiver of dawn, he was alone, and on the headrest next to his was a single reddish-gold rose.

Chapter Five

TOLIS

FOURHUNDRED TWENTYEIGHTDAY, PRIME

The morning dawned crisp and clear. Braan was up early, eating alone, trying to sort out the previous night. He could not analyze Tinyan—he accepted the situation and let it be. No doubt Enid had spoken privately with the Nualan woman. He had not been so addled last night he could not read the truth. His gaze strayed to the sculpture standing before the plated window. Massive, rising with incredible strength, as if to break free of gravity ... I was another man when I carved that.... Too long since he had touched laser to stone, releasing the soul within. He had tried to carve his impressions of Enid, but ...

Ronüviel was suddenly beside him, punching up a cup of cocoa. She slipped an arm around him and hugged him before sitting at the table. “You look as if you slept well! I never heard of Tolis being therapeutic for anyone except Gid!”

“You never know,” he answered dryly. “Ready to play intelligence officer?”

“I think so. I suggest we copy everything,” she continued. “There may be names we do not know that others might.”

“Agreed. If we finish early, let us take them to a trinium mine. I would like to see Lyte lose his composure over all that ore.”

“You are bad,”Roe replied, clearly pleased with the resurgence of his mischievous streak.

“Who is bad?” It was Moran, already checking out his suit.

“Oh, nothing. Braan has some not-so-subtle torture planned for Lyte.” Ronüviel could not control her smile.

“Such as?” Moran paused, looking over at her.

“The most valuable mine in the galaxy and he cannot touch any of it?” she offered.

Moran laughed. “Fiend!”

“Of course,” Braan agreed. “Firstmeal?”

“Any egg strollen?” came a voice from the corridor. Gid appeared, followed by a disheveled Lyte. The men sat down and quickly demolished the food as fast as Braan could whip it up. Roe blended several fruit juices and left the balance for their hosts, who as a rule ate no solids in the morning.

Gid was reaching for his suit when a flashing light told them their hosts had arrived. Carad sauntered in, his feet making no sound on the tile floor. Quahna followed and headed straight for the fruit juice. “Ronüviel, you read my mind! Thank you for your thoughtfulness.” He downed half a glass in one breath.

Carad, in no hurry this morning, slowly poured glasses for himself and Tinyan. “Are you ready to spend time in our archives?” he asked.

Braan sighed. “It is much too beautiful a day. Yes, as soon as you are finished, we shall leave.” He looked over through the glass to see that Tinyan had slipped in unannounced, clothed in a brown caftan girdled in white. She had not yet put on her make-up, or piled up her hair, and she looked no older than Roe.

She reached for a cup of juice and toasted the inner window. “Good morning, all. I hope you slept with as much comfort as those vented rooms could provide. Are you going to the archives already, Gid?”

Braan finally looked away from her to the three men, who were checking each other’s safety locks.

“We are off,” Moran answered for Gid, opening the door. Lyte waited a moment, shrugged and then followed. Rolling his eyes expressively, Gid pulled the door shut.

“Can he be trusted?” Tinyan asked after a suitable pause.

Roe glanced up. “Moran? Completely. Lyte—I think so. I hope so.”

“We will find out soon, will we not?” Braan added easily. “I suppose he thinks we are crazy, looking for traitors. Let us pray he is right.” He stood and reached for his suit.

oOo

The research room was unbearably hot. Ronüviel slowly sat up from her console, wishing for the hundredth time that there was some way to wipe the sweat from her brow. She glanced at Braan—he appeared cool and comfortable in his suit, going through the rote processing as if unencumbered by gloves. Tinyan and Carad had brought them the major programs and then turned the consoles on manual, giving their guests access to everything in the library.

She stared down at the bewildering mass of names and corporations. Most she knew as off-world conglomerates. For the first time this trip, Roe was afraid. There were so many names, and most were meaningless. A few, strangely enough, were Ciedärlien, and that could not be coincidence. Roe stirred uneasily at the thought of Corymb dealing with the fierce desert dwellers. When she looked up again she found Braan staring off into space, focusing on nothing. He might as well live in that suit, it is his second skin, she thought angrily. Then he looked at her.

“We are in trouble. A great deal of trouble. The synod ran out of time and did not start debate on the question of increased off-world ownership, but it passed committee with no problems,” he softly said. “I think we have discovered this just in time.”

“What?”

“Most of these names are meaningless, but a few I recognize as bogus off-world companies I ran into while trading in the Axis. They have never attempted to buy here, so there is no record preventing them from entering local trade and ownership.”

“Is not the Land and Securities Exchange supposed to keep an eye out for those types?”

“Yes.” They stared at one another. “Corymb is the chairman of that exchange,” Braan added.

Roe suddenly felt very cold. A fool, power-hungry; Corymb was both—but this could be interpreted as treason.

oOo

In another part of the library Lyte punched up precious metals deed information and muttered his frustration. So simple to write them all off as paranoid. But what if—just suppose—he had not seen that scope in the watch room; he’d think they were all crazy. Ships had been out of position, however, and remembering his talk shipboard with Moran, he knew Moran was thinking of scopes too. His friend had also mentioned the bitter looks Braan had received from Corymb. For the first time, it occurred to Lyte that the poison might not have been meant for Moran. Great—now I have two people to protect.... He punched the keys faster.

oOo

VESPERS

They finished the day by crossing the river and touring a trinium mine. Gid laughed for five minutes at the look on Lyte’s face when Braan dumped into his hands enough pellets of trinium to buy the entire Seven Systems. Lyte was good-natured about his bad habits; he sighed, smiling, and said, “Now I can die happy.”

As usual, all found the ore extraction fascinating. When asked why no one was searched at the entrance, Roe chuckled and told Lyte that an intricate scan system determined how much precious metal each person wore when they entered. Any deviation when they left alerted security. She looked surprised and gratified by the look of approval on his face.

The Atares had been hopeful that they could return the warriors to Tinyan’s home without incident. As they passed a small parish near Tinyan’s home, however, they met in the departing crowds several sinishur, the most horribly deformed of all Toli. The crowd, of course, was oblivious to their condition, and Gid knew one of them and exchanged swift pleasantries; but Moran was politely silent, and Lyte had on his tratore face, using every ounce of self-control to keep from bolting screaming into the street. To see an ugly alien was one thing; for all he knew he might be appallingly ugly to it. But to acknowledge the Nualans as human and then see this Toli.... To be uncertain of its sex; its bones, its skin subtly, painfully malformed beyond comfortable movement. It was the stuff of which nightmares were made. After saying good-bye Gid quickly steered them back down a side street. No one said anything during the entire walk to the house.

Then, at the bottom of the long staircase, Gid spoke. “Fortunately, those who survive natural miscarriages and have wits are without exception sterile. We actually have none so badly deformed under forty terrayear.”

“Were they male or female?” Lyte finally asked, his voice thick.

“The sinishur I spoke to was a man. The other, I do not know. I am not sure it has a sex.” In silence they ascended the stairs to finish their last night in Tolis.

AMURA, THE MENDÜLARION

FOURHUNDRED TWENTYNINEDAY, PRIME

This time the music woke her. Teloa stirred, hovering on the edge of sleep, resisting the call of the bells. But no, the great bass bell was also tolling—once, twice, thrice. Opening her eyes, she watched the mountain peak beyond her outer doors slowly come to life, a healthy flush of pink caressing its face. Welcome, Kee, star of Nuala, she thought as the haunting melody drew to a close.

As she expected, a faint rap at the inner door echoed through the chamber.

“Come in.” Stretching carefully, she rolled over and reached for the light temple robe she had worn for several days.

“Good morning! Are you starting to adapt to our schedule?” Elana asked, bringing in a tray of food.

Teloa smiled. She had been so tired, she had scarcely noticed that she had reversed her schedule. “What do the bells mean?” she asked suddenly. “I know they ring at starrise and starset, but they ring during the day and night as well.”

“Indeed they do—eight times during a normal day and night, and when deaths of important people occur,” Elana began, setting the tray down on a small table. “I ordered some pants and a long-sleeved shirt for you from stores—you cannot walk around in the robe of a priestess! And also a poncho; the days are getting colder.”

Slipping the robe in question over her head, Teloa slowly moved over behind the elegantly carved divider to the sanitation area. “The bells?”

“I have not forgotten.” Elana seated herself at the table and started removing the food from the tray. “What have you been reading about us so far?”

“Mostly recent material,” Teloa answered, pausing longingly by the hot tub. She could not admit to the woman that she feared to read the older writings—feared to find out the origins of the colony. Reading current information on their culture and politics was more reassuring.

“If you want to bathe first, please go ahead. But I will eat, if you do not mind. I have lab work today.”

“You are so kind to bring me my meals and keep me company, how can I let you eat alone?” Teloa asked, moving to sit opposite the healer. Elana chuckled and offered her the round pill she had to take before every meal.

“I must keep an eye on all my patients, and I must eat firstmeal. Why not together? Plus, I admit, I am always curious about those who take up a planet of mutants on their offer of sanctuary.” Teloa blushed and lowered her glance. Elana pretended not to notice. “Oh, I have lived off-planet for a time—I know what they say about us.” She began to cut up the bread loaf.

“The bells?” Teloa prompted, quickly downing the pill with some saffra.

“The bells are how we keep time, as I am sure you have guessed. Here in Amura we ring the ancient canonical hours. Matins is midnight, lauds between matins and starrise. Starrise is prime, mid-morning tierce, and sext high noon. The largest bass bell rings the hour, and matins is our first hour.” Elana paused to smear a sweet spread on her still-warm bread slice. “So what you just heard rung was third bell. The sixth bell is rung at mid-afternoon, and is none. Vespers, or starset, is seventh bell, and compline is between vespers and matins—my bedtime!” They both smiled. “Now, in smaller towns, lauds is rung at moonset—the firstmoon, Agape—and compline at moonrise. Which confuses off-worlders.”

“Oh-oh,” Teloa said aloud, remembering the patterns of Capricorn V’s two moons. “Then that means—“

“I see you know your moon phases,” Elana started, anticipating her comment. “It means sometimes lauds is rung before matins or even in the middle of the day!” She chuckled at the thought. “Most of our people are very aware of the moon cycles, especially in agricultural areas. So we have no trouble. But Amura changed a few thousand years ago, to minimize the confusion of our visitors. This is the capital of the system, and we have many embassies here, although most of them are empty during festival. The nights are too quiet for the personnel!”

“Was this a religious settlement?” Teloa asked, pleased to get so many answers without digging through the library system.

“No. It was never truly a settlement.” Elana looked thoughtful, and a bit distant. “There were six thousand scientists and support personnel.... They were to set up self-supporting stations that would be the basis of the new colony. This is a large planet of great variety—a lifetime is not long enough to study it. Many of the finest scientific minds of the fledgling Axis joined the expedition. What the Axis neglected to mention before the three ships launched was the anomaly in the atmosphere....” Elana’s voice grew softer. “Because the nitrogen-oxygen mix was acceptable, the Axis colonization headquarters decided to let the scientific expedition define and name the unknown readings. It was not until after the ships left that they realized the metal of the probe was deteriorating rapidly.”

“You don’t have to tell me this,” Teloa said gently.

The healer looked surprised. “It is ancient history, Teloa—almost five thousandyear ago. It is always difficult for me to realize how careless they were, how foolish.” She sighed. “But there was great political pressure then for colonization. The media had no patience with scientists who said ‘Yes, it looks like a paradise, but we need to run more tests.’ So the ships went ... The Atare, The Dielaan, and The Seedar. And they landed ... and they could not leave.”

Teloa studied the woman as she spoke, listening to the formal cadence of her Axis speech; much more formal than Capricorn V’s Axis speech. Gods, what if the Axis did not require everyone to learn a common tongue?

Elana finally focused on her again. “To shorten the story, there were several New Order Catholic priests and priestesses among the scientists and support group. They had a bell to announce their religious services, and they kept the monastic hours. Before it was over, we all were believers.” She smiled faintly at Teloa. “Forgive me, that was too long a storytelling for one not a mythmaker.”

“I am interested, and I should learn something about Nuala. I may be here a long time until I can earn passage elsewhere.” She paused, nibbling on some cheese. “Elana, I didn’t mean to be rude—about why I came here—“

Elana reached across the table and touched her hand. “No, Teloa—“

“Tay is fine for variety,” the woman interrupted, offering the intimate form as an apology.

Elana smiled at that. “Tay, then. My comment was really a statement of fact. I am interested in people; that is why I am a healer as well as a geneticist. And you need not worry about your past here—if you wish it to remain private, no Nualan will question you about it. But sanctuary is part of our creed. We are mavericks, in a sense. Most planets in the Axis Republic belong to smaller confederacies, with various forms of government—most more centralized than ours. Our local synods, and the high families as judges, run just about everything here. The Atare is chief judge, and the temple a balance between synod and royalty.”

“I noticed you have both elected and hereditary representatives,” Teloa offered. “Something called a parliamentary system?” She began to spread soft fruit on her bread slice.

“Related, but not quite; our Atare—king—and his sister, the Ragäree, are the supreme judges, and have actual power. There is also a certain amount of power invested with the high priest and priestess, although not nearly as much as the Dragoche of the desert has; the Dragoche has absolute spiritual and temporal power over his people, the Ciedärlien.”

“Who began the offer of sanctuary?” Tay asked softly, staring out the glass doors. Politics had never really interested her; it always meant struggle, and she had struggled enough in her life.

“The scientific expedition,” Elana answered. “We have had it from the first. People forget how suppressed the Axis had been then; the fighting, the expansionist propaganda, the censorship. Colonies were allowed to set up their own governments, as long as they held no standing armies and did not practice slavery. I personally believe the legend that says Habbukk, the captain of the ship Atare, knew the expedition was being abandoned and demanded the sanctuary clause. As a way of ... justifying who and what they were? I do not know; no one is sure. Things have not changed a great deal. Expansion and trade wars continue, censorship rises once again in the greater Axis—“

“But we were attacked first,” Teloa said tightly. “By the Malvevenians.”

Elana was silent. “The Caprican System fell to the Malvevenians, did it not? That makes the truth all the more difficult.”

“What truth?” Teloa turned away from the windows.

“The truth conveniently glossed over in most history 3AVs. The Malvevenians are merely continuing an import-export embargo that blew out of proportion. They are a refined and finished civilization, Teloa, with high technology, heavy industry, and shrinking markets. They desperately needed new trade outlets. At this very moment they trade peacefully with neutral planets, who either are merely cleaning up an excellent product source or are aware of the reasons the war began and oppose them. No, the Malvevenians tried to establish trade agreements with the Axis Republic.

“Tremendous industry lobbies, trying to avoid competition, squeezed the council to the point that they refused trade talks. The Malvevenians responded by going to individual planets to conduct separate treaties with major population centers, which is legal under planet rights. Several industry tankers, afraid for their jobs and trade routes, fired on the Malvevenian sample ships. At that time the Malvevenians had had more experience with pirates and smugglers—they were better armed. They blew the industry haulers into little pieces. Business went screaming to the Axis, and war began.”

Teloa was silent a long time. She methodically ripped apart the rest of the bread as she stared out the glass doors. Why not? After what she had seen in the past three years, it was all too easy to believe. “The Fewhas?” she finally asked.

“Even more tragic. The Fewha empire, like the Malvevenian, was crumbling—not for economic reasons but because it had become big and unwieldy, and under its totalitarian regime the people suffered and starved. The government needed to unite them behind a cause. It chose paranoia. Its propaganda convinced its people the Axis Republic had no love for humanoids, especially outside ones, and planned to expand its boundaries and crush the Fewha’s own search for good seed planets. Fearing eventual extinction, they attacked us first.”

“Where did you find all this?”

“Most of it is in old press tapes and commentaries written when the wars started.”

Another silence. Tay stood and walked slowly to the tub. She adjusted the hot water to a comfortable temperature and then slipped off her robe. “Why did you tell me this?” she asked finally.

“I had not intended to ... the conversation simply turned that way.” Elana gestured vaguely. “I am never sure which is easier, to learn of it in hints and whispers, finally seeking out the library archives, or being told in one massive tale. I am sorry if I have distressed you.”

“And it is said Nualans cannot lie,” Tay murmured, slipping into the tub.

“Oh, they can. I can think of one man who is a very good liar. But he lived off-world for a long time. I think his ambition has warped him. Most of us find the truth safer. If you always tell the truth, you do not need to remember what you tell people. The story never changes.” She sighed. “I must return to work. You seem much better since Ronüviel healed you—I must find you some added entertainment.”

Tay smiled faintly, her thoughts with the lovely young woman whose hands sped warmth to trembling limbs. Did it matter anymore how the war—a thousand-year war—had begun? “Come back,” Tay said abruptly to Elana’s retreating form. “When you can.”

The scientist brightened. “Of course.”

THE NOVA

FOURHUNDRED TWENTYNINEDAY, PRIME

Kee had not yet risen in the sky when The Nova sped softly out of the harbor, bearing in her hull the ransom of empires. Braan sat alone on deck, except for the crew. Soon they could remove their suits; just in time for the dawn breeze. He was staring at Tolis, salmon pink and violet in the first light of day. Shipmaster Oh’nel always liked to get an early start. Braan’s eyes narrowed. Was another ship bound south? He studied the black speck at the harbor’s mouth. Perhaps he had missed a buoy. The speck neither increased nor decreased in size. A stardancer, the only thing smaller than a moonraker that could maintain the same pace. Pirates?

“You have noticed, then?” Braan turned slightly and saw the suited outline of the big shipmaster. His tone was one of mild respect. “Most land people do not. It followed us to Tolis harbor, and now it trails us home. A shadow we do not need, not this late in the year. Storm coming.” A frown furled his face, and the man turned and walked back to the wheel. He had a heavy cargo, Braan thought—two Atares, two high-ranking off-worlders, and enough trinium to buy the Fewha confederation, no questions asked. The pirate trade was under control, but they still existed. And now a storm followed them from the north.

His mind rolled back to the previous night. Gid, the Atares and the warriors had pooled their wealth of knowledge, and the answer had surprised no one—Corymb easily controlled twenty-three percent of the floating mine stock, a clear majority among owners unrelated to the Atare clan. When the subject was trine gold, it was no longer merely clan business—it was Nualan business, for the trinium was the heritage of all Nualans. Everyone owned at least one piece of trine gold: the family crest, worn as a ring or earring. And everyone owned at least one stock certificate. Few Nualans felt the need to own more. The question was: what to do about Corymb? He owned vast corporations off-world, most of them legal. The synod could be tied up in courts for years in a futile attempt to prove Corymb knew of the purchases in his name. The man was too clever to be snared that way. The evidence of treason had brought forth one other interesting result. Lyte had confessed that he had originally thought the Nualan paranoia about off-worlder threats to be ridiculous. Now, with the evidence of off-world money backing Corymb’s wealth, he could no longer deny their problems.

Later, Tinyan had spoken of many things. Under her leadership Tolis had prospered, but it still fell short of what it should have been: an equal voice in the politics of Nuala. And although she never said it openly, the meaning was clear; it was time for Braan to retake what was his, a voice in the court, and to push for changes he knew were necessary and had ignored for six long years.

The warmth of the previous night dissolved into the waters of the archipelago, the ocean becoming sky before his eyes. For six years he had mourned his wife’s passing. If it was to be, then he swore to rejoice in the freedom of her soul after long suffering. The children would be relieved ... also possibly resentful, torn between wanting their father happy again and mistrusting other women. No more would the throne influence his decisions. He would leave Nuala if he had to, and force the hand of the Atare as an independent councilmember of the Axis Republican Council. A jumbling of thoughts ... He had a sculpture to finish.

“Mighty words,” he murmured aloud.

“Silent ones,” came Roe’s voice. She sat down next to him, her suit gone, and unfastened his helmet. “Smell the air of autumn on the sea and be grateful for the chance to feel it.” Her smile was warm and knowing. How much she guessed about the last two nights Braan did not know. He imagined she suspected everything. He smiled slightly and let her assist him in removing his suit.

oOo

The storm hit that night not long after they were in bed. It was typical of the sea’s winter storms, but early and violent for the time of High Festival. Half-way through the night the rudder snapped, and a lesser crew might not have made it. But Nova was a water-tight ship, and with her trinium proving to be the correct ballast, she made it to shore.

Lyte awoke at the silence. It was still dark. Nuala had long days and nights, too long for him; he could not get used to them. The ship was tilted crazily to one side, and Lyte realized they were no longer in water. The silence was appalling; he had to hear something! Not for the first time he missed Gid’s soft half snore. The Nualan would return to Amura after the festival ended. Lyte stood and, dressing quickly, carefully made his way up the ladder to the deck.

It was deserted. He heard the sounds of voices in the distance and saw a fire. Wishing for a blaster, a knife, anything, he started to climb off the ship.

At the fire he recognized Ronüviel, laughing and talking with several crew members and attempting to steal a biscuit from the cook’s tins. Lyte relaxed and came forward.

“So you finally noticed the storm! Only after it was over. Have a seat and try a biscuit; this man is a chef.” Lyte slipped thumb and finger into his shirt pocket and pulled out his pill. It was habit, especially after Tolis. Swallowing it, he quickly bit into a biscuit to kill the taste.

“Now try one without an anti-rav,” the cook advised, and laughed.

“Where is Moran?” Lyte asked after a plate of souffle was passed his way.

“Off with Braan, getting a pre-dawn tour. The crew and shipmaster are assessing the storm damage, and then we will start packing supplies. We should be gone before Kee reaches the top of that valley,” Roe answered, pointing to a distant crevice which was slowly growing lighter.

Lyte tried to see beyond it, but right now the Nualan star filled the lands eastward. “Gone? How bad was the storm damage?” He felt a bit guilty; apparently he had slept through a lot of excitement.

“We do not know yet. Bad—right now they are trying to decide if she will sail again.” Lyte digested the unspoken meaning while she continued. “If she will sail again, it will not be in time for us to return to our temple obligations, and you would probably miss your ship back. We are going overland, through the tip of the desert and the wadeyo forest. It will take, oh, a day and a half.”

“Walking?”

“I hope not. Or we shall never get back. I am not sure what kind of settlements are in the area—an aircar is unlikely this far from a major center ... and this close to the ciedär. If we can borrow hazelles, we will. When you are done, throw together your things.” She stood and walked to greet the dawn. Lyte watched her go and bent to his firstmeal.

In the meantime Moran and Braan had followed the shipmaster and were listening to the damage reports. The crew was solemn as the shipmaster’s chief engineer was pulled back over the stern onboard. At her signal, the rudder was hoisted up and onto the deck.

She pointed to the broken blades. “Cut.” Her voice was flat. “Almost completely in half. The stern protected it until the first big swell—cross currents snapped it like a twig.”

The shipmaster turned and gazed out over the water. “I wonder if they made it in....”

“Of course,” the engineer said dryly. “Their rudder was not cut.” She cursed softly under her breath in Nualan and stalked off down the deck.

Braan stepped up to the shipmaster. “Shipmaster Oh’nel, will you and your crew be all right?”

The man turned and met his gaze. “We will be fine. It is you I am concerned about, Seri. We could have gone down in that—no pirate wants to lose his prey. It is not my cargo he wants, it is my passengers. Do you want to take guaard? It is owed.”

“No,” Braan replied quickly. “You will need every hand if you are to be afloat within fourteenday. We do not want to attract attention. I have confidence in my companions and myself. I would like hazelles, though.”

“I will send my chief to the core settlement. Perhaps they sighted that stardancer. We shall spread the word; no skipper would aid any who threatened the crown, not knowingly; they are loyal around these parts.” Sobered by that thought, the small group walked back to the fire.

Lyte was waiting for them. He had changed into the loose robes of the northern desert dwellers, and looked uneasy.

“What is it?” Moran asked.

“I heard the ship was tampered with....”

“Yes, the steering mechanism was cut almost in half.”

Lyte turned away, looking quite disturbed.

“Would you care to confide in us, Second Officer?” Braan asked.

Moran glanced at the Nualan’s expressionless face. “Come on, Lyte, what is it? You’ve been on edge ever since we left the military wheel,” he said abruptly.

“Nothing. Nothing concrete, at least. I’d like to let it go for now. I need to think.” And plan, he continued silently. Braan stared at him a moment longer, and then walked away from the fire, a sailor following. Lyte suddenly saw that Braan was as suspicious of him as he was of the Nualan. The thought was perversely comforting. Moran flicked a finger at him, his irritation evident, and then started back to the ship. Feeling helpless in the face of their condemnation, Lyte sought Ronüviel.

She was standing by a small pile of bundles, helping a sailor fill water gourds. Dressing in a flowing white mandraia caftan, Roe looked like a sand spirit; not quite mortal, ready to vanish at any time. She handed him an empty gourd.

“We have to carry all your water. The only oasis on our trip has a pool with high rav content. Too high for you to drink from, at least at this stage of your acclimation. Another sevenday and you would be all right.” Lyte bent to the well, submerging the carrier. There was silence. The star rose from the mountain-tops.

“Such a wild, frightening land,” Lyte said suddenly. He did not know why he said it—the prairie that bordered the desert looked innocent enough. But it was a deceptive tranquility, as if something were waiting for them. Plants brought to life by the monsoons were blooming but had not yet seeded. He saw many of the fleshy bushes and tall, narrow trees he had seen near the palace. Faint, moving dots which Lyte suspected were wildlife intrigued him.

He was snapped from his thoughts by Roe’s question: “What do you fear?”

He glanced at the sailor, who seemed oblivious. Roe shook her head. Guaard? Lyte instantly chose. “I thought it was for Moran’s life. Now, I’m not so sure.” She looked steadily at him, making no move to interrupt. He let the words flow out. “I was practically ordered here, to guard against an attempt on Moran’s life. My superiors feared reprisals by xenophobic groups who objected to your relationship. But I cannot believe ...” He gestured helplessly. “Your security is too good for your people not to suspect trouble. How could this attack happen blind? And to Braan as well? Atares have always married off-worlders, and many were warriors. But this appears —”

“Internal.”

Lyte sat down on the well and looked at her. “Yes. But even so, it doesn’t make sense that way either! You and Braan are only third in line for Ragäree and Atare—to kill you is a wasted gesture. I’m supposed to be preventing a major incident between the Nualan system and Moran’s home system, yet they told me not to contact Jaac—not to contact the superior officer of the planet! If they suspected you were on the hit list—our intelligence is better than this! Why didn’t they cancel his furlough?” Lyte muttered the last, as he had so many times since he had received his orders.

Roe sat down next to him, slowly stoppering his gourd. “It is the gaps that disturb you,” she said finally. “What do you read in them, warrior?

“It’s what I feel in them,” he answered, watching as a yellow-robed figure he recognized as Moran left the ship. “It’s felt wrong from the beginning. Now I see little pieces coming together. I smell treachery. I don’t think there ever was an assassin. It would have been a professional, a suicider who would not have bothered with a whole ship. Then why send us both, and why tell me to get Moran off Nuala fourday early?”

Roe raised her head at this, her gaze sharp. “No explanation? And you accepted that?”

“I am a warrior. I exist to receive and follow orders. And I don’t always do that, so my status is at best shaky. I could be imprisoned for telling you all this.”

Roe reached over and gripped his arm. “The words stop here. But what do you suspect, if no assassin?”

“Something I can’t bear to believe.” He was staring up now, away from the star of morning to where the battleship Io should be. “We are pawns. Screens to hide something. To keep someone from looking deeper ...” He turned and faced her again. “All my life I have dismissed this planet as the home of a bunch of paranoid mutants. Tell me, paranoid mutant, if your paranoia is correct, can you defend yourself if the Axis turns on you? Or abandons you to the Fewhas?”

She did not answer. Lyte’s last words had been delivered in a whisper. When Roe finally spoke, her words were no less soft. “We can defend. We cannot win. The planet will win, in the end. Only Nualan ships can pass through the barrier. The crews may be off-world, but the shipmasters, the captains are Nualan, and they would turn pirate or destroy their crafts before they would let them be confiscated. It would be a hollow victory for any conqueror, Lyte ... only we make rav pills. Only we can cure rav radiation. It is not an oversight that the information never left this planet. For any other creatures Nuala is slow poison of the deadliest kind. Very slow ...”

Lyte did not answer, a chill passing through him. He stared out over the desert again, and the ghostly tendrils of a mirage came to his eyes. For a moment he saw a Durite death’s-head, symbol of the dreaded death cult of Dur, the skull rotting in the early rays of Kee. A smile spread over the teeth. Lyte shook off the spell with difficulty and went to get his small tackle bag.

Chapter Six

THE CIEDÄR

FOURHUNDRED THIRTYDAY, SEXT

Lyte reached up and wiped the sweat from his forehead. If winter was coming, this place did not know it. “I can see why Nualans live on the coast,” he said aloud. “You could roast here during the summer.”

“Many Nualans live in the desert,” Ronüviel answered.

Lyte looked over his shoulder. “Many?”

“The Ciedärlien, the sand-dwellers. Hundreds of tribes are scattered throughout the ciedär. It is a hard life, but they prosper. Their farming secrets make the desert fruitful.”

Nodding absently, Lyte riveted his gaze to the horns of the beast he straddled. He had to keep his seat; falling off would be too embarrassing for words. A hazelle had a crazy, staggering gait that was torturous to the amateur and blissful to the expert. Roe and Braan were clearly experts; he and Moran reeked of inexperience. The beast lurched, and a soft exclamation of pain slipped past his lips. Moran glanced over his shoulder at him.

“We shall rest the hazelles at the top,” Roe called forward. Lyte knew she knew and was trying to help them save face. He silently blessed her for that thoughtfulness.

The top of the gorge rose up before them—Moran’s hazelle slipped, scrambling, and the man threw his arms around its neck. Lyte had a flash of impending disaster and was suddenly flying sideways through the air. He landed in a barrelbush, the thick, oozing leaves cushioning his fall, and lay without moving. Anything was better than that poor excuse for transportation....

Roe leapt off her hazelle as she topped the rise. “Lyte! Are you all right? Do not move!” Her practiced hands quickly went over him, checking for broken bones. She looked relieved. “A few bruises—you will live.” Lyte groaned.

“I suggest we squeeze some bara and treat the blisters before they are infected,” Braan said, dismounting and dropping his reins. The beast moved to feed. Moran stiffly climbed down and let his hazelle follow suit.

While the others gathered broken pieces of the barrelbush and squeezed the juice into a cup, Lyte tried to sort through his daze. Starstroke? The hazelle floated above him, and the man studied it intently. The creature was a cross between a horse and a native Nualan animal, the tazelle. It still retained a horse’s sleek coat, round hooves and broad back and neck, but the head was more delicate, like a tazelle’s, and the two spiraling horns that grew up and out from the head looked like nothing Lyte had ever seen before. They were all the same color, dark brown, with a white blaze on their faces and long white tails; this one had white to its knees. Reaching out to touch the beast’s coat, he discovered the skin underneath was black. The hazelle lowered its head and regarded him with soft eyes. It was not as intelligent as a horse could be, but was more stoic, less skittish and less likely to run in fear of its own shadow.

Roe’s hand intruded into his vision, handing him the pure numbing agent. Lyte slowly sat up, nodding his thanks, and as the woman discreetly drew away he removed his joqurs and laved the blisters with sap. Immediately his legs began to cool. Lyte glanced up, looking for Moran; he was waiting for the bara salve. Roe was standing next to Braan, who was staring toward the now-distant sea.

“Maybe we should stop for secondmeal?” Roe called. “That will give you time for the salve to take effect.”

“Fine. Let’s make it a cold meal, please,” Moran answered. She nodded and left Braan’s side, reaching for her hazelle’s pack. Braan continued to gaze back over the desert toward the sea, adjusting his viewing scope, watching the numerical distance finder.

“We are losing him,” he muttered.

“How far back to the oasis?” Lyte called, handing the cup of sap to Moran.

“Two, three hours,” Roe replied. She inspected the sky. Huge dark clouds had crept inland and were slowly overtaking them. “Do you think we can make the grotto before the monsoon?” she asked Braan. Her brother nodded.

Dressed once again, Lyte moved carefully to Ronüviel’s side. The smell of the cheese she was unpacking made his mouth water. He reached to unfasten the pocket containing his pills ... and found it empty.

Lyte looked up to find Roe watching him, a smile teasing her lips. “Welcome to Nuala. You have finished the series; you are one of us.”

Had he—? Of course. Ronüviel was a physican; she had kept a close eye on him. Still, it felt strange to take the sliver of native cheese from her hand, to bite into its smooth surface. He gently sat upon the ground and reached for a water gourd.

Braan folded up his viewing scope and approached them. “We must go faster. Eat and drink your fill, we shall not stop until starset.” He arranged his robes and sat down on a rock. “We are being followed.” Lyte winced, suddenly remorseful. Perhaps Braan should not have been so confident about commando abilities. The guaard had wanted to come ...

Roe passed around a loaf of bread. “Is he gaining?” she asked quietly.

“No—falling back. If we are lucky we can lose him in the forest. He is off-world; maybe he has a bad map.” Braan ripped off the end of the loaf.

“How can you tell he’s off-world?” Lyte said, his spirits improving as his pain decreased.

“To find a Nualan assassin you would have to go into the ciedär, the desert, to the Ciedärlien tribesmen or even the mutants. They are excellent at killing, without hesitation or mercy. All Nualans worth their salt are legendary trackers; if we do not intend to be seen while on the trail, we are not. That is why we make good spies.”

“If a Nualan tribal was following us,” Roe finished for him, “we would not see him until he was on top of us. This assassin is off-world.” They ate in silence for a time, Lyte and Moran studying the desert. Its sands were pure white, dazzling and blinding, the scrub and trees blue-green against it. They could still see the ocean twinkling fitfully in the distance. Lyte slowly stood and gazed ahead. The giant evergreens could be seen several hours southeast, through shimmering waves of heat. The horizon was almost twice as far away as he expected it to be, lost in mist. Lyte shook his head at the strangeness and then groaned inwardly at the sight of the Atares picking up litter and stowing it away. Roe had already mentioned the fragility of the ciedär ecosystem. He moved for his hazelle.

Braan was now standing by his beast, staring back toward the sea ... toward the path of their unwelcome companion. The other three mounted and waited for him.

“Those who come to an alien planet have two choices,” he suddenly said conversationally. “Adapt or die. I suspect this interloper will be little trouble.” Braan quickly pulled himself up on the hazelle and gestured for Ronüviel to lead off. Moran and Lyte repressed shudders and followed. The truth of Nuala was ever below the surface—death to the unwary.

oOo

They wandered on for several hours, the sky darkening above them. Lyte glanced over at Ronüviel and envied the easy way she kept her seat. She looked relaxed and happy, not at all concerned by the thought of someone following them. She never seemed to show her fears, he thought, no matter how open she appeared. Curiosity overcame his usual restraint; now seemed like a good time to get some answers to disturbing questions.

“Ronüviel?”

She raised her head and masked her surprise. He had never initiated conversation before. “Yes?”

“There’s something I’ve always wondered about. I understand if you don’t want to answer. You live and grow on Nuala until you’re of an age of majority, seeing few off-worlders except in court. It seems to me that—well, you might gather up good friends among your people, and even a lover. What do Atares do who fall in love with Nualans?”

She did not answer. Then her gaze skimmed over her shoulder—Braan was unaware of the conversation. Roe moved her hazelle closer to Lyte’s. “Forget.” She looked at him. “I was fortunate; I never had the problem. For a woman it is hard. If your lover is an 80, there are no difficulties, as long as you are discreet. If he is a 20, well ...”

“Are there any past Atares who gained the throne who had Nualan fathers?”

“All the first thousand terrayear, of course. Otherwise, maybe two, or three. Many other brothers and sisters, I think, but most Ragärees are extremely careful until their heirs are born. If that heir dies, the second son or daughter may have a different parent.”

“So the men can keep another woman because their children have no succession, but the women have to think of the throne. Perhaps ... birth control?” Seeing her face he rushed on, “I’m too frank, forgive me.”

“It is not that. We do not have the concept of illegitimacy, Lyte. A woman who is a 20 may care enough for several men to spend time with them. Even I could have. My dead older uncle had a different father than my mother and her twin, Baskh. He was conceived before grandmother even met grandfather. The people trust their Ragäree. They may never know the father, the Ragarr, but they trust he is suitable to father their ruler. They trust her judgment. Why I look appalled is this; our fertility is too fragile to risk birth control. So when we choose a man, or a woman, we make a choice. If a child results, we rejoice in it, and accept the commitment.”

“Commitment?”

“Not bonding. That is even deeper, concerning a soul trust. Children are a lesser bond. For example,” she continued, not missing a beat, “You are interested in Shinar. She in you. If you finally do sleep with her, Lyte, be aware she is prepared for the possibility of a child and will commit herself to it if it becomes a reality. And she expects the same of you. Not money, not marriage, not even bonding “— Lyte was again aware, half consciously, of the Nualan differentiation between marriage and bonding —“but an emotional commitment to the healthy raising of that child. We take our pleasure gladly, aware of the consequences.”

“Great. I’m being enticed by a pair of blue eyes into playing stud.”

“Oh, no!”

“She only wants my genes, that’s what you’re saying.” Lyte felt more heated over the idea than he’d like to admit.

“Perhaps a few might do that, out of desperation, but not Shinar. She is too willful and yet giving. She really would have to care for you. Not that she would be selfless ... no, I can think of one healthy motive.”

“What?” He was defensive and cursed it.

“To prove she can bear a healthy child within the normal ratings. The health of your genes should be ... comparable to an Atare’s. If she could have with you a normal, healthy child, then she could do the same with—“

“Your brother.” Lyte stared at her, ignoring the pain beginning again in his legs. “Kalith.”

She looked over at him, cool admiration in her glance. “You noticed; I am surprised. They are very careful.”

“I just remembered Kal being very attentive at the feast.”

“They worry me ... yet they may hail a new era.”

“How?” It was Moran. Lyte wondered how long he had been listening.

“Because most Atares push their Nualan loves out of their minds and follow their duty. They marry in the temple, and are happy with their mates and do not wonder what if? But Kal is not indulging in adolescent fantasy. He is a man, in love with a woman. Atares have bonded, have married Nualans, but they have given up their place in the throne line. Kal wants Shinar and his inheritance. He will not renounce either. She loves him. Subconsciously, she may think a healthy child will force the synod and temple to seriously consider their request.”

“Why can’t he just marry her, too, and not count their children as royal Atares, or whatever?” Lyte asked.

“Kal wants it all.” Braan’s voice was unnervingly soft, startling the warriors. “He is braver than any of us were at his age. Under his cool facade he makes his own rules. He wants Shinar as bond, marriage mate and serae, mother of his royal children. He will fight to blood for it.”

“And he is frustrated.” She smiled at this. “They abstain because he has it in his head he cannot mock her with less than all that, and because he feels he cannot insult an off-world wife with less than bonding.”

“Don’t all Atares bond their mates?” Lyte asked, looking back at Moran.

Braan appeared puzzled. “No,” he answered. Now Moran looked strange. “Roe is the first in generations.”

She turned in her cloth saddle. “Not even - “

“I know Tal and Persephone did not, and Deveah’s woman feared us and refused. I never asked Enid. I guess I always thought my soul belonged to you.” There was simple dignity in Braan’s words, and Lyte was moved, though he did not know why.

“Is Arrez bonded to all his wives?” Moran asked carefully.

“I do not know. It is possible,” Braan replied.

“Then love is not the only criteria,” Lyte continued.

“The love you speak of has nothing to do with it,” Moran said. Lyte looked over at him and considered abandoning the conversation. It was obviously getting into religion, and he had enough difficulty accepting the ancient terran god. He had no interest in discussing foreign theology.

He ventured one more question. “Do you understand what you have gotten yourself into?”

“Not completely,” Moran answered easily. “But enough.”

“Moran, for all his short acquaintance with us, is deeply steeped in our lore. He is becoming more Nualan than many Nualans.” Conversation ceased for a time, Braan’s final comment moving thought into areas which Lyte did not care to follow. He began to watch the clouds and changing scenery and saw that Moran was doing the same.

The sparse vegetation of the outer desert was giving way to grass, long, flexible waving tubes that would have snapped with slower or heavier passage. The quick footfalls of the hazelles carried them swiftly toward the ever larger trees. Lyte suddenly noticed the trees already looked huge, and they were an hour or more away.

“How tall are those trees?” he called to Roe.

“They average over a hundred meters,” she replied.

“How can they survive that tall?”

“There are trees on Terra that tall,” Moran threw in. “Remember?”

“These are taller. They are wadeyo, ‘long-arm.’ Cone-bearing evergreens, several of them with diameters wide enough to set the capitol on their stump with room to spare. Black as night, that is why it looks so dark there, although the forest is two hours further from the starset than we are. The branches are weird, almost ropy, and hang in graceful sweeps; they have branches hanging off them perpendicularly. But do not try to climb one—the branches start fifty meters up.”

“What else grows there?”

“Nothing,” Braan said, pulling up closer to them.

Lyte looked over his shoulder at the Nualan, grabbing his hazelle’s neck for support. “Nothing?”

“They are invincible monarchs,” the man went on. “Only a nuclear holocaust could destroy them, and a direct hit at that. No disease; no pests or parasitic vines; fire cannot harm their tough coats; and their dead needles change the soil so that only their own off-spring can grow. If a seed lands in a lit spot, that is—wadeyos do need sunlight and moisture. I think you will be impressed.”

“How old are they?” Lyte persisted.

Roe smiled. “We shall show you.”

WADEYO FOREST

VESPERS

Kee was low in the sky when they reached the edge of the wadeyo forest. Moran and Lyte were thankful for the rest stop and a chance to walk around the area. “Can we lead them and walk a little while?” Lyte asked, staring into the vast forest.

“Tomorrow, early; now we must reach the grotto,” Braan told him. “If we are still being followed, I would rather face an enemy there. We shall be protected from the rain; he will be wet.” The Nualan had been reviewing their tracks again. He handed the glass to Roe, whose eyes were keener.

“Nothing,” she announced. “Do you think we lost him?”

“I do not know what to think,” Braan murmured. “If he has followed us this long, he is a professional. I just hope he is not a Durite.” The others reacted visibly to this. A humanoid race, the Durites were the most efficient assassins in the known universe. Given an assignment, a Durite would follow its prey until death—the victim’s or its own.

“Durites resent briefing,” Lyte ventured. “Maybe this one didn’t want to know about the dangers here and poisoned himself.”

“We can hope. Let us go.” Roe recaptured her hazelle and hopped on it. She looked up at the towering giants before them, the diameter of the first one larger than her bedroom.

“Are they all this big?” Moran said.

Roe leaned over as she rode up to it and touched its smooth bark, still warm from the fading star. “This is but a child standing at the feet of its mother. Wait until you see the grandparents.” She led off into the forest, followed by Moran, then Lyte and Braan. Almost instantly the darkness swallowed them.

As his eyes adjusted to the dim light Lyte found he could see better than he had expected. A feeling of first awe, and then dread, slowly crept over him. It was fine as long as he watched the dark, soft ground or listened to the sounds of the hazelle’s hooves muffled by the deep pile of needles. But as soon as he let his peripheral vision take over, the columns began to affect him.

Like ancient columns. Smooth as glass, hard as diamond, glittering in the last fleeting rays which shot through the trees and warmed their backs. He tilted his head back, trying to see branches. All was fading into an early night. As they rode deeper into the forest the trees were larger, some taking several minutes to ride past. The feeling was not claustrophobic—far from it. They could easily ride four abreast on this path. But the overwhelming size of the trees bore down on Lyte. He felt as tiny and insignificant as a common microbe.

They rode on for over an hour, the twilight deepening around them even as the star began to set on their last resting place. Finally Roe slowed and pointed to a massive tree, visible down a side path.

“Watch that one.” She broke into a fast trot. It was not until almost ten minutes later Lyte understood that the elusive tree she had pointed out was still beside them, a solid wall behind its now fragile-looking relatives. They reached a tiny glade, wide enough for them all to dismount at Roe’s bidding. At her side, about ten meters from the mammoth wadeyo, was a plaque set in stone. It was obviously cared for by someone; no dirt filmed the plaque, no moss crumbled the stone. Lyte and Moran moved closer and could see it was written in a mode of ancient Third English, but they could not read the script.

“Do you read Third English?” Moran said in surprise.

“No. But every Nualan child knows these words from the day they are old enough to understand them.” Ronüviel lovingly read the entire message aloud, and Lyte’s thoughts paused at one passage: “This planet, 22XL37-C, or Nuala, shall be known as a sanctuary planet; and all of the universe’s falsely accused, all who flee unjust laws and sentences are welcome here. We ask only that you bring no harm to anything of Nuala, human or otherwise, and that you find your place in our collective existence.”

From the very beginning ... There was silence. The words might have been written by humans ignorant of the law, the attempt to sound grand merely stilted and vague. But Lyte could feel the haste, the urgency of the words; the need to establish, indelibly, the ground rules for the new venture those humans had begun. He knew this was written scarcely days after the crash. Lyte’s gaze traveled down the list of men and women who led the first colonists. “This was composed before they realized what the radiation was doing to them?” he asked. Roe nodded as she touched the engraved signatures. “Funny they used planet dating instead of stardates.”

“Stardates are mainly used on ships. No doubt the scientists were eager to usurp the authority of the three captains,” Moran said. His gaze stopped at Habbukk, Captain of the Atare. “They included the officers?”

“Anyone who was healthy was included,” Braan answered, his gaze taking in the trees. “The captain of the Seedar was dead—Habbukk was a strong figure, although he did not take charge until almost a year later when the expedition had dissolved into chaos.”

“It is remembered that the scientists and crew argued, you know,” Roe suddenly said, as if coming back from a dream. “Whether it should be stardate or planet-date. The pillars stood over there.” She gestured behind their hazelles. “The synod decided four thousand terrayear ago that the area was too special to be a spaceport, so the port was set up in the new city of Amura.”

“A spaceport?” Lyte began to see the significance of bringing them here. “You mean the ships crashed here? In this forest?”

“It was a huge field then, with only a few hundred trees moving slowly down the mountains. The plaque was once on that tree.” She pointed to the huge wadeyo. “It grew so large that the plaque popped off. So we put it on stone.”

“The night comes; we cannot linger,” Braan told them. “Enough history lessons. Their naive beginning led to a great heritage. Let us not fail them by washing away in the monsoon.” Jumping up on his hazelle, he indicated that they should follow him quickly. Slowly remounting, the three hurried off.

It was not far to the grotto. Lyte knew Moran had been privately concerned; he did not like caves, and had probably pictured a dark, tiny crevice with various unknown creatures crawling out of it. This cave was just the opposite. Its entrance soared up several meters and was nearly as wide, although blocked in several places by tumbled boulders. The hazelles went immediately to one side of the grotto, staking out their area; they had been there before. Roe and Braan pulled off the cloth bags they had sat on and proceeded to demonstrate how to wipe down a hazelle with hill grass. Then, taking the reins of two of the beasts, Braan led them and the men off to the stream. When they returned, Roe had a bright fire burning in an ancient firepit.

“How long has this grotto been a rest stop?” Lyte asked, pulling up a piece of tree stump and carefully sitting down. He looked for the pot of barrelbush juice.

“Centuries,” Roe replied, peeling the bark off a wadeyo branch and throwing it on the flames. “Start peeling, it will not burn with bark on it. We do not need much because it burns a long time.”

“All peoples sojourn here in peace,” Braan added. “Even Ciedärlien tribes normally enemies will allow each other to rest under this arch unmolested.” As Moran set down the last of their water bags Braan began to fix dinner. It was simple and eaten in silence, the warriors more comfortable with another application of barrelbush juice. The combination of the huge trees and the massive stars peeking through their branches was a sobering sight. After she finished eating, Roe moved over next to Lyte and sat down.

“Did you understand our conversation this afternoon?” she ventured.

“I think so.”

“Explain it to me, as you would to an off-worlder.”

Lyte paused, thoroughly chewing the hard traveler’s bread. “Bonding, although I do not fully understand the religious significance, is much like an off-worlder’s marriage is supposed to be - a sharing of souls and lives, of turning only to one another for all the needs of mortal existence. Nualans, and the royal family in particular, are often in a strange and cruel paradox—”

“Until you have lived as we do, do not judge, only seek to understand,” Roe interrupted. “Go on.”

“As I was saying, are often denied this important part of living. Marriage is a necessary thing for the survival of the species,“ he went on quickly, “Not that you don’t care for, even love, your mate. It’s just a different love, a—”

“A separation of the three great loves—agape, philios, eros. All present but separate. The most any off-worlder seeks or expects,” Roe clarified.

Startled to hear the ancient Greek words, although he knew they were the names of Nuala’s moons, Lyte continued speaking. “It’s as if you don’t expect outsiders to understand, and so you don’t attempt to explain it. Do outsiders, off-worlders, ever understand?”

“Sometimes—after years of living among us and watching how we live. To tell someone fresh off a ship that there is always enough love and that loving more than one person does not diminish the love for either ... it is not believed. Oh, many of your people pretend they believe and go from mate to mate; but they do not believe. They are not raised with literally hundreds of doting friends and relatives, all telling and showing them how loved they are, even if they are not always liked. You are not raised to believe that if you lose one love, Mendülay will give you something else to love; and that if you love Mendülay first, all else follows.” She turned to him. “You keep your loves shallow, wrap yourself in a cocoon, and let no one touch your core. You share good times but shrink from hard ones. No, you do not understand love.”

“And Nualans are never neurotic or insecure?”

“Of course they are. We are human, and affected by other humans. It is when we absorb the values of your society that we are in trouble —”

“Which is why you have no concept of illegitimacy,” Lyte broke in, beginning to recognize something. “If you feel strongly enough about someone to share a separate love with them, then you—“

“Accept the consequences. Of eros, it may be a child, or temporary feelings of rejection if one lover turns elsewhere. In philios, it may be sacrifice. I know Braan’s skin crawls every time he puts on a protectorate suit. But Gid is his friend, and Gid’s parents live in Tolis. Friendship, true friendship, comes high.”

“Agape? Is that not the hardest to reach? I mean, as a separate thing, not even mentioning bonding?” Moran asked. “To be required to do something for the good of the majority no matter what the cost to yourself?”

“Something like that,” Braan answered softly. “And to bond is to say, ‘I believe we can work daily toward it all.’ It is the highest compliment we can give to an off-worlder, to bond from the beginning. Most may marry more than one; establish home and family. But they usually bond once. I personally think Arrez is only bonded to Elana, but only Arrez and Holy Mendülay know for sure—mates do not discuss that among themselves. It defeats the attempts to reach such a state. Some reach that state without ever saying the words of bonding, or —“

Braan never finished his sentence. The hazelles suddenly screamed, that weird, half neigh, half whistle of fear they give when badly frightened. Dropping his cup Moran leapt to his feet, oblivious to the pain in his legs. He saw as if in a dream a robed figure sprint crazily through the animals, staggering like a drunken man. Braan sat up and turned around, tensing in preparation for the assault.

“Moran, look out!” Lyte yelled the words before he realized it. Even as he stood and leapt for his friend, he was dimly aware the unknown assailant was diving straight at Braan.

With a skill long unused, Braan twisted away from the fire and rolled out of the attacker’s reach. Without hesitation Moran jumped the fire and was on top of the unknown, gripping the wrist holding the knife and attempting to subdue him with a commando hold. But the assassin was apparently wise to commando training, and tore himself away. Moran still hung on to his wrist, trying to keep the knife from himself. Had he been alone, things might have been fatal for him, even though it was plain their attacker was exhausted and using his last strength. As Lyte snatched the other flailing arm Braan reached in behind the man and grabbed his head and neck in a two-handed grip. Gagging, paralyzed, the robed figure went limp.

“Disarm him.” Braan’s voice carried such a note of command, Lyte was searching for other weapons before he thought of it himself. Roe reached over and carefully peeled away a needle hidden in one hand, and the men quickly relieved the intruder of several hidden knives, all of a variety used by Nualans to hunt wild tazelles. The young woman turned the man’s left palm to the light. The tiny tattoo of the Durite death head could be seen at the base of his second finger. Braan forced the man to lie down; he did not argue.

Roe loosened the Durite’s collar as they looked him over. His condition was pitiful. Roe recognized it as a combination of rav poisoning and external Dielaan radiation, already well advanced. Where he had been merely touched in the struggle, massive bruises were appearing, and he had been bleeding from the nose, eyes, mouth and ears for some time.

“Release his wrists, you cause him terrible pain,” Roe directed, reaching toward him to begin the healing energy, something few off-worlders had ever witnessed. The warriors looked unbelievingly at her and then to Braan. Ignoring them, shaking his head at Roe, Braan spoke directly to the assassin.

“We know what you are and that you are on a trail of blood. Be aware that I am holding you in an elkitagrip. If you move suddenly, I will break your neck. Do you understand?” The Durite blinked twice, trying to clear his throat of blood. Braan went on, his voice controlled, merciless. “I want to know whom you are pursuing, and why. Who hired you? How did you get on this planet?”

“The durite dyes used in their tattoos show up on our monitors,” Roe murmured to the two off-worlders. “Someone was bribed, a machine was tampered with, or he was landed away from the spaceport.” The Durite, meanwhile, made no reply.

“You followed us into Tolis, did you not?” Braan said conversationally. “Unaware the city was hot, too far behind our arrival to see our suits. You mingled with the robes of Tolis, ignorant of your peril. And now you will pay for your traditional refusal to be briefed about a planet. Know, Durite, that your boasts to blend in with any people have come true—you are now dying because you became one of us too quickly.”

“I know my death,” the Durite replied, a rattling noise in his voice. “Your threats cannot frighten me. Save them.”

“I do not threaten. My people do not use torture to reach their ends. If you wish to die this way, your secret dies with you. But I warn you; the death from rav is slow and painful. Pains such as you have never dreamed. My sister is a healer and a doctor. She can ease your pain, but you are too far gone to live. We do not have the means with us, and we are too far from help.”

“You cannot fool me, mutant. I know your spineless attitudes. You will not kill me, nor leave me to pain.”

“You have been misinformed.” Moran glanced up at the lifeless note in his voice. “Lift him.” The warriors added their strength and carried the Durite over to the other end of the grotto entrance. “You may lie here and consider whether the pain is worth your silence.” Without a backward glance Braan moved back to the fire.

The monsoon came late. The Durite broke later. Moran and Lyte exchanged subtle expressions, fascinated by the situation. Roe would not comment, saying only, ”I have not the stomach for the darker side of kingship.” She sat to one side, an air hypo in her hand, a faint luminescence about her, waiting for her brother to signal her to end the assassin’s agony.

Braan was relentless in his questions, repeating them over and over until Lyte was tempted to throttle someone, anyone for an answer. The Durite stammered and stuttered, choking on his own swollen, bloody throat, and slowly, like the tightening of a hand crank, the information came.

The first shock, at least for Lyte, was whom he was stalking—Braan, not Moran. Lyte felt obligated to explain everything that had gone before, and so he and Moran retired to the fire to talk. Moran said nothing; he did not react even when Lyte said Roe had known all this since dawn. When Lyte had finished, the first officer stirred and stretched, as if waking from deep sleep.

“I wish you could have believed,” Moran said. “I’m glad you found Roe to be a good confidante.” He jerked suddenly as Braan sat down next to him. A glance showed Ronüviel giving the Durite a painkiller, her warm hands speeding the narcotic to its destination.

“Well?”

“I do not know whether to be enraged or flattered,” Braan said dryly. “He was smuggled onto Nuala by an outside controller whose name he does not know. His contact was Corymb, who paid him an ounce of trinium, in advance”—Braan held up a small marker on a leather thong—“to murder me far from home. It was preferable if it looked like an accident, but the main thing was to keep me from returning to Amura. He was to receive another ounce upon proof of my death.”

“How?”

“He was going to take back one of my eyes,” Braan replied easily. “Since Roe was not marked for death, it could belong to no one except me. He does not know why I am to be killed—only that I am.” Braan held up the marker again, watching the reflection, the shadows thrown. Moran looked over at the Durite, who was no longer writhing in pain.

“Is there anything we can do for him?”

“No. Only the complex could help, and the rav is so advanced, he would be a physical and mental cripple if he survived. He would kill himself as soon as he had a chance.” Braan turned to Roe. “Is he unconscious?”

“He feels nothing.”

Braan moved over to the Durite’s head, probing gently to see if the ‘man’ was aware of them. Carefully getting a firm grip on the Durite’s throat, Braan snapped his spine like brittle grass. The only reaction was the cessation of the sound of labored breathing. There was silence.

“I thought your people never killed, that it was a sin or something,” Lyte said, his voice characteristically impassive.

Braan looked up, surprised. “We abhor violence. And it is a sin. But if it is necessary, we kill—quickly, efficiently. His life was my responsibility. Now, on the Last Path, I shall have to answer for its premature end. I hope the explanation satisfies the Holy One.” Braan pulled the Durite’s robe over his face and moved to stand.

The sound of rolling gravel brought all four of them to their feet. Lyte spun around, a knife in his hand. Standing in the dying light of the fire was a boy of about fifteen, fear and amazement plain on his face.

Braan moved toward him, exuding confidence. “What do you seek?”

“You, Seri,” the boy finally answered. “Word has come from Amura. I have ridden this whole day from Vel depot, since a message came from the sailors telling of the wreck. It is your lady—she is dying.” The boy looked over at the Durite, took in the scene of the struggle. “I shall take care of the burial and the rites. You must leave now, for she ebbed as I reached the mountain. If you do not race, you will be too late.”

Chapter Seven

AMURA

FOURHUNDRED THIRTYONEDAY, VESPERS

They were too late.

And as the exhausted group climbed the palace stairs Elana stood waiting for them at the open doors of the Great Hall. Ronüviel and Braan led the way, Lyte and Moran hobbling up behind them as best they could. Enid had died nearly an hour before. Except for informing the Atare and sending word to the Ragäree over on Niamh, they had attempted to keep it a secret until Braan arrived. This had proved impossible, so the bells had been rung and preparations made for the cremation, which by temple law had to occur before the next dawn. Word spread like a whirling santana, and a strange, unnatural silence fell over the city. Those who looked for omens murmured uneasily—deaths at High Festival had always been few, and tradition said it foretold a bad winter. The faithful flocked to the temple early, to light candles for Enid’s journey to the next life.

Braan stood impassively while Elana related the story. It had been peaceful—she had simply stopped breathing. With a stiff nod, Braan led the group into the hall. The palace was full of attendants going about the business of preparing a quiet state funeral. Braan was aware of Elana leaving to be with the children. He felt wobbly, as if he might fall, and was glad he had somehow found the stone bench near the hall doors. Moran and Lyte had disappeared, and Ronüviel sat with him, millimeters away, her fingertips touching his wrist. The room was so very cold ...

“Seri? Braan?” He glanced up at his name. A young servant stood before him, her face red from weeping. “Do you wish to—view her—your wife’s body?”

Braan studied her a moment, and then slowly moved his head from side to side. “My wife died five years ago,” he answered softly, clearly. “And the period of mourning has gone on too long.” He realized he was standing and then walking through the bronze doors into the Hall of Mirrors. Without a backward glance he walked down the hall and out into the courtyard and beyond. He was scarcely aware of Kee setting, of the silence. Somehow he had expected grief, and the absence of it frightened him, horrified him. Had he grown so callous that he felt nothing at the death of his wife?

He found himself at the side entrance of the Mendülarion. Every side was nothing but stairs, and Braan started up them.

oOo

The huge chamber was ablaze with light. Every altar, shelf and crevice was filled with a candle, forcing the shadows into retreat. It was between services, the huge sixthday ceremony postponed for the wake before it. The altar was already set up, one tall unlit candle at its head, the eternal flame burning in a standing socket at its side. Braan walked to the dark wax column, not sure if anyone was in the temple and not really caring. Then he reached for a slender wooden taper. Moving to the huge fire basin now burning below the Nualan cross, he lit the taper.

The Nualan light ceremony was lost in their past, its beginnings shrouded by folklore and legend. But all knew its purpose—to light the paths of the dead on their last journey. Whether they went to paradise or tortured silence, all took the Last Path, all received a light ceremony. Braan reached over and lit the large beeswax candle and then stepped back to watch its glow illuminate the apse.

I have faced them five years and more, Braan thought. This is the last. I cannot face that ceremony. For me, you have been on the Path too long. Aloud he whispered, “You are free ... we are free.” He dumped the taper into the purifying fire basin and walked out the same door he had entered.

He stood a moment in the dying light of starset. Absently touching a tear on his cheek, he rushed down the stairs and onto the temple grounds.

Braan finally stopped running at the edge of the lake. The temple was hidden, and the tall trees of the meditation gardens blocked out all awareness of the city. Only the mountains were still visible, their heights lost in mist. There was a presence ... he found Zair next to him. The dog must have tracked him from the palace. He sat down at the edge of the clear, sand-bottomed reservoir, his thoughts drifting, his hand reaching out to touch the fleshy leaves of the weeping, succulent tree.

I cannot weep ... not really. It is release, my lady —from your prison, from my pain ... No longer will your spectral image float before Dylan and Asiai. May they remember you as our holograms record your loveliness.... Her face rose up before him, delicate, coolly remote, fair beyond health. It brought on a passing tenderness, of the life they had shared and of the passion he had carefully steered away from her memory. His gaze traveled to the first star of evening ...

Braan leaned back against the tree, the dog’s head in his arms, trying to clear his mind, to think of his sculpture, of anything except the anger and bitterness and despair that threatened to burst from him. He heard a tiny splash, a ripple, and glanced up. Perhaps fifteen meters away from him he saw a woman. He was blank, and then recognized her as the voyager who had arrived on the Gerrymander. Since she was staying at the temple, of course she could, and would, come here to swim.

Braan studied her slow movements and suspected she had been ill. That was not uncommon among first-time visitors. She must have tasted the water. Or—she was from the tratores. Perhaps an old addiction ... Her face was unlined, relaxed, as if she had cast away the problems that had driven her to Nuala. At least no deeper shadows were visible on her features. Suddenly Braan’s gaze widened, and he realized she had almost finished undressing. He hesitated. To speak now would not only startle but also probably embarrass her, off-worlders being notoriously self-conscious about their bodies. Better for her not to know. The artist in him took over, and he detached himself from his problems, from the scene. He was aware of beauty—scarcely aware of woman. Completely a warm honey bronze, the light from the rising moons flattering. A lamp treatment? No, he remembered her palms were a mere shade lighter. Mostly natural; and with the flawless teeth and blonde hair, from the Caprican system ...

Amazing how the light of the evening played tricks on the mind. Her legs seemed so long. She hesitated, poised on the edge, and then dived into the deep end of the small lake. Braan watched the ripples extend across the surface of the water, idly thinking it was dangerous to swim alone. Glancing at Zair, he saw that the contented beast was already asleep. He stretched out on his back, watching the stars peep out and become brighter, as if they were exploding, diffusing ...

oOo

Braan woke with a start, pain shooting through his leg. He gasped and threw up an arm for protection, aware of another’s cry of surprise. Zair leapt to his feet, growling menacingly in his throat. Braan rolled over and up and recognized in a flash the reflection of golden hair, shimmering from the water still trapped within it.

“Are you all right?” he asked, grabbing Zair’s choker chain.

She stifled a groan and quickly sat up. “Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t see you there. Did I hurt you?”

He realized her distress was genuine. “Nothing that will not mend on its own. You merely startled me out of a sound sleep. So the lake agrees with you?” he went on, his voice quiet.

“Oh - yes! I’ve never seen so much water before! It was so dry on our world—we had one public pool on the whole planet! We took sponge baths. I never dreamed of so much water just to look at!” She hesitated a second, and then spoke again. “Thank you for letting me stay. It’s almost impossible to be unhappy—“ she cut herself off; so someone had told her about Enid.

“It is all right,” Braan answered gently, pained for her embarrassment.

She looked away, steadying herself. Then she turned back to him, her direct gray gaze meeting his. “I am sorry.”

Suddenly another person was beside them. It was Ronüviel. “I could not come any sooner, I took the children from Elana and left them with Moran and Lyte. Moran has been through this before with his father....”

“I have been sleeping,” Braan said quickly. “Please assure this woman that my shins are sturdy and will not suffer from being soundly kicked. Teloa, my sister Ronüviel.”

Roe smiled. “We have met. Ignore him. He will try to make you feel guilty just to tease you.” Seeing that Braan had dealt with the situation, if only temporarily, she went on. “I hate to interrupt your meditation, but Baskh Atare needs you. We are summoned.”

Braan arched an eyebrow. “Does he know of our findings?”

“No.”

Braan stood, drawing both women to their feet. “Will you please excuse us?”

“Of course.” And they left Tay standing by the water while they headed back to the palace, Zair a dark shadow at their heels.

PALACE

COMPLINE

Baskh Atare sat carelessly, as he always did, the symbol of his birthright twinkling fitfully in the soft light. He did not touch it; unlike his predecessor, he never toyed with his chain of office. His full attention was on Roe, his deep green gaze boring into her, the square jaw jutting forward, the big vein in his forehead throbbing visibly. “Well?”

It was Braan who answered first. “The Nova was followed north, and on its return voyage as well. We were wrecked not by the storm but by sabotage, and our group was pursued across the ciedär and into wadeyo county. Only the presence of the off-worlders saved both Roe and me. I do not think two could have stopped a crazed Durite, weak and dying though he was.” Having gained the man’s undivided attention, Braan tonelessly narrated the findings of the trip. Baskh closed his eyes through the recitation, unnaturally quiet as Roe outlined the records and spoke of Tinyan, Carad and Quahna’s fears.

“I think I see a part of this,” Baskh said softly as the two trailed off. “Deveah’s paranoia has crossed from sadness into danger. After the festival we shall have him hospitalized and observed. That puts a large dent in Corymb’s plans. It was long before your births, my friends, but Corymb once attempted to unseat our house by popular vote. Now he tries other ways.” He straightened in his chair. “Something I have always worried about ... Do you not think that having our yearly air raid drill during festival is a good idea?”

Braan began to smile.

“When people are away from home, unfamiliar with area shelters?” Ronüviel paused. “Yes, I think it is an excellent idea.”

“We may have a tenday yet—or no days. I want no alarm, but that precaution I demand. Tomorrow morning, Amura time, planet-wide. Now ...” He gestured with fingers of dismissal. “I must think, and plan. It will be in my private memory bank in case ... something happens to me. You and your siblings shall all receive it in your homes, tonight or by prime.” He turned to Braan, who had stepped near the throne, and gripped his arm. “My sympathies, friend. At the least, you are both free. Tonight is the ceremony of family. Let us go and sing praise for what joys we have received.” He stood stiffly and indicated that they should follow him.

The bonfire behind the temple flared suddenly as they stepped out into the night. Ronüviel came up and slipped an arm around Braan as they stood motionless, watching the funeral pyre of Enid. They slowly moved toward the Mendülarion, where the balance of their family awaited them. Moran met them on the walkway, Asiai and Dylan clinging to him and trying to appear in control, as befitted royal children. The man was a little pale - Roe embraced him, knowing that memories of his father’s death haunted him. Then Braan lifted Asiai and, taking Dylan’s hand, followed Baskh Atare up the path and into the Mendülarion, the great hound Zair waiting patiently outside the door.

AMURA STREETS

FOURHUNDRED THIRTYTWODAY, 4952, TIERCE

Teloa was up early the last day of the festival, though Kee was already well into the sky when she finally left the temple complex. Elana had been harried as she brought Tay firstmeal, but she had promised to meet Tay in the market at the flower stand corner - at four bells? Teloa considered the meeting, and decided she had said four bells—tierce. The doctor had not volunteered any information about her uneasy state of mind. A direct question, however, revealed that all of her children had a childhood sickness, and a houseful of cranky little ones was not what Elana needed the day of elder ceremonies. She added that Arrez’s fourthwife, Chaka, was worse, but Shinar was with her. That assistance, as well as knowing that her son Kire would represent her family at the evening services, seemed to relieve Elana immensely. Tay’s offer to help was politely turned down, and Elana sent her off into the city with a gentle reminder not to eat or drink anything from the bazaar stalls.

oOo

Kee was bright in the autumnal morning and looked deceptively warm. Teloa pulled the woolen poncho close and was glad for the protection. Was it only sevenday ago that she had arrived on a sweltering summer day? Now winter was before them. Her idle walk into the center of town put her in the bazaar before she knew it. Color swirled before her eyes. Cloth, clothing, jewelry, leather goods, luxuries, foods and plants were heaped on every stall. Tay soon forgot what planet she was on in her delight at examining everything. Several dealers tried to interest her in foodstuffs, and one charming gentleman offered her a free glass of newly-pressed native grapes. She regretfully turned down the offer, thankful her illness had passed and desiring no reoccurrence. Elana had warned her to move slowly with Nualan foods. As if perceiving the situation, the man gaily told her to return “in a few days, when no touch of Nuala deters you!” He whirled to face his friends at the press, and Tay chuckled when she realized they were trying to empty last year’s wine bottles to make room for the first harvest.

She made her way to the flower corner, grateful the bazaar was one area that did not close en masse for the festival. There were stone benches near the roads’ intersection, and Teloa claimed one for her own. She was again aware of the admiring stares of several men and was surprised by it. The only women she had really seen were Elana and Ronüviel, and both had a unique beauty. She decided to watch other women to see if she was truly unusual or if it was only because of her blonde hair. True blondes, undyed and free of genetic tampering, were very rare.

The feeling of being observed was so intense, she turned around and found a tall, attractive blond behind her. He was dressed in an Axis Forces uniform and held an exotic flower in his hand. “You look much happier than the last time we met.”

She stared at him, her eyes cool, trying to place him. The launching bay, of course, but his tone hinted at another place.

He offered the flower to her. “Second Officer Lyte. We met at a private party on Pacra II.”

“I am Teloa.”

The warrior nodded, flashing an unexpectedly charming grin. “A new name, a new destiny—I’m glad for you. I always thought you deserved a lot more.”

Tay bristled inwardly, but the man appeared quite sincere. Her mind flashed back to Pacra II ... party? It was an experience, the celebration to end all celebrations. She had accompanied the crown prince, a stupid man but a pleasant host. Lyte had been ... “You were one of the crown prince’s bodyguards,” she said aloud.

Lyte laughed. “Like I said, you deserve much better. I can’t remember his name either. May I?” He gestured to the bench and, at her noncommittal reply, carefully sat down. “This is native to the planet. A firerose. Pretty, isn’t it?” He held it out to her again. “It’s all right—this is a no-strings-attached flower.”

Tay smiled. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m still very tired and —”

“You’ve had enough of men telling you how beautiful you are and meaning something more.”

“Something like that.”

“Not even a simple, early dinner?”

“Not even dinner,” she replied, amused. “I can’t really eat the native food yet, anyway.”

“What’s wrong?” Tay stared at him blankly. “The tension is wound in you like a spring.” His bluntness disconcerted her, and she turned away. “It’s all right. Seriously, that’s not my standard line. I don’t mean to offend you, but I’m a trained sensitive, and I can’t just turn it off when I’m off-duty. I meant what I said. I’ve been riding hard through the desert for two days, these crazy Nualan timetables have me pacing nights and falling asleep in my soup, and you’re the prettiest thing I’ve seen in a long time—you and this flower. I wanted to see them together.”

She wordlessly took the firerose from him. “Thank you,” she finally managed.

Lyte slowly stood. “I’ll be here for awhile, and probably back in thirty- or sixtyday. If you feel like a night on the town, find me. I may even find you. I’ll be able to take in the native restaurants when they open tomorrow, and I intend to ... Have a good festival.” He left, moving a bit stiffly, and Tay did not doubt his story about the desert. A confident man, one not threatened by rejection.

“You allow even that only on your own terms,” Tay whispered aloud.

“Allow what?” Tay glanced to one side to find Elana sitting down next to her. She was watching Lyte’s disappearing form. The off-worlder heard the sound of the great bell in the temple, tolling through the music of the carillon. “So you have met Lyte,” Elana went on. “A character, is he not?”

“A charming one.”

Elana smiled. “It is second—no, first nature with him! Shall we go see Lars, the head planter?” The joyful look on Tay’s face said all that Elana needed to hear. She gestured for the woman to follow her.

oOo

The fields were a soft russet, floating with the almost indiscernible haze of morning. The reflection from the parallel irrigation ditches was like a row of gemstones. Tay drank it all in, feeling the slower life style of the planters revolving around her. She was oblivious to the conversation between Elana and Lars. Huge mechanized implements were digging the furrows for the winter grain planting. It was a collective of sorts; why waste planters on things machines could do? Lars had greeted her with enthusiasm. His warmth had not disguised the probing nature of his conversation—it had been in the form of a test. Teloa was not concerned; she had not forgotten the feel of a seedling between her fingers, and it showed in her speech. She would be valuable here. The joy of that thought bit through her. She knew that finally she could work in experimentation, exploration, on the things she had briefly touched upon as an apprentice and despaired of ever doing again.

When Teloa looked to Elana, the doctor was smiling. “I must return to the city. It is lastday, and the Feast of the Elders. Since my family is ill I am allowed to miss services, but I should be with them!”

“Feast of the Elders?”

“Lastday is the time when the two oldest children of each sex in each family unit must go to a service of purification and thanksgiving. The first son and daughter are always dedicated to Mendülay, and the second son and daughter to the people. Arrez is first son, I second daughter. Only Arrez and Kire shall represent us. Next year! I took the liberty of asking the Atares to bring you back—there, Liel! Will you come here please?” Elana called. Turning to Teloa, she quickly whispered, “Kalith, Kavan and Liel are here for the Elder Day Feast, which is the official beginning of the harvest of grapes and berries and the time of blessing the new plantings. I think you will like them. They are still wild enough to have a good time—even during a solemn festival! And they see Enid’s death as a time to rejoice in the freedom of her soul, so do not worry about that.” At that moment the young Nualan woman came up to them. “Liel, this is Teloa, a newcomer to our world. The Serae Liel,” Elana said informally. Teloa was dismayed and looked it.

The youngest Atare laughed. “Liel is fine. You are a planter, I hear? I am also interested in the plants. We will make an afternoon of it!”

Even as she finished her speech, a strange, high-pitched noise began. It pulsated, like a foghorn, but was swifter and more penetrating.

Alarmed, Lars grabbed Teloa and Liel by an arm and started running down the irrigation ramp, Elana in close pursuit. “Quickly, to the raid shelters! This way!!” he shouted over the noise, dragging the half-paralyzed Teloa down a short flight of steps. With Elana’s help, he pulled her through a set of double doors and down another staircase. At the bottom they all halted to catch their breath, Tay folding to the floor. Although the doors were still open, more workers pouring in, the alert was now muffled, as if from a great distance.

Elana stooped to Tay, reaching as if to reassure her. “It is all right now, we are safe here, as safe as—“ She stopped when she realized the woman was calmly surveying her.

“I thought it was luna bombs. I couldn’t bear that again. But I can’t hear them. Anything else I can take, but not luna bombs ...” Teloa stared off then, her beautiful face blank. “The horror of those things ... When the whistling is so high-pitched it hurts - then our doom is upon us.” Elana raised her head and turned; the sound had changed to one constant tone. Then silence.

“That was the all clear,” Liel whispered. “It was a drill. I wondered if we might have it during festival, while everyone was in strange territory. We are safe.”

“Are we?” The planters looked at Tay, puzzled. “How do you know when it’s the real thing?”

“I suppose ...” Lars began. “The alarm will keep sounding ... until it is knocked out, or there is no one left to hear it.” He extended his hand to pull her to her feet. “We live with it. We do not dwell upon it.” Tay stood and started past the planters up the steps.

TEMPLE HEIGHTS

VESPERS

The star was low in the sky when Arrez finally started for the temple. Throwing up his hood, he hurried down the flagstone streets and into Oldtown, where the wealthier Nualans lived. The procession started at the foot of temple hill, and the catwalk was not working. The long way was necessary for appearances; the sight of the high priest charging down the grass knoll was not ceremonial. As he rushed down a hill, he saw at the bottom three figures. Two were in robes, and one wore the usual attire of a wealthy southerner. Arrez glanced up, and thought for a split second one was a priest—his robes were reflecting as Arrez’s did. Then, shocked, he stopped in his tracks.

The trio apparently did not see him. Arrez instinctively moved closer to the building, trying to catch its narrow shadow. He recognized the towner who faced him—Corymb. The other two were wrapped completely in their robes, bands tying a long strip to their heads. Arrez knew if he were closer, only the eyes would be visible. A white ciedär robe, and a beige one ... only one man or woman of the Ciedärlien wore white robes. The Dragoche ... Baakche, the Dragoche of the Ciedärlien clans. To think he would enter Amura! With his shadow, undoubtedly the current chief of security - his best assassin. The tall, white-robed figure turned and slowly continued down the hill, the slighter individual following. Corymb returned to his home, and soon the pathway was deserted except for Arrez. The priest stood frozen and then went on down the street. He had seen Corymb’s wife earlier, and she had told him Corymb felt unwell and would not be at services. Arrez could wait. And find Braan after services.

Chapter Eight

FOURHUNDRED THIRTYTWODAY—LASTDAY, 4952, VESPERS

Teloa was not really paying attention to the twins’ bantering. They had drunk just enough wine to be light-headed and were ribbing each other mercilessly, Kalith bringing up Kavan’s appreciation of lovely women and his brother retaliating with a list of the new wines—all of which Kal had sampled. Tay was more interested in their younger sister, Liel. The girl was remarkably unspoiled for being the youngest of ten children, treating Teloa as a sister. Tay could see Liel had been protected; there was a naive sweetness about her, an awe of the outside world that stopped just short of being provincial. Walking back to the city, they had been shy of one another, the presence of a guaard inhibiting conversation. But Braan’s dog, Zair, had proved to be a bridge between them. Both loved animals, and now that he knew the off-worlder, the beast responded to Teloa’s affection wholeheartedly.

Their speech shot from one topic to another. Teloa was convinced Liel had never conversed with an off-worlder before, other than ambassadors and her in-laws. She was intensely curious about everything, and once the Atares thought they had given their guaard the slip, Teloa talked freely to her about the Axis Republic and the neutral worlds. Liel absorbed every word and gesture, clearly fascinated by what to her were strange customs and stories. She did not pry, however—Teloa wondered if children learned early not to question off-worlders about their personal past.

Conversation suddenly ceased, as if by mutual agreement. They were content, walking the silent streets of lastday, ignored by other pedestrians. The festival would end at dawn, the new year begin. Time enough later for the twins to face leaving; the Gerrymander did not raise until prime.

There was something strange in the brilliant crimson orange of starset. Tay felt it but could not single it out. Zair also seemed restless. The air was different, heavier. She heard frequencies that were not familiar. Teloa stopped walking and faced the starset. She looked beyond it, above it, waiting for final, irrevocable proof.

“Tay?” It was Liel, who spoke to the twins and then hurried back to Teloa.

The off-worlder felt her puzzlement giving way to fear. Still faint, but growing, the pain growing in her head—Gods, not again. I cannot, not again-

“Do you hear it?” Tay’s voice was scarcely a whisper.

“Hear what?” Kavan asked as he walked back up the street.

“They’re coming.”

“Who is coming?” Kal said, at first sharp with impatience, and then softening as he saw her face. “What do you sense? Are you an empath?”

“You really don’t hear it yet, do you?” She turned to Liel. “Can’t you hear it?”

“There is something ...“ Liel began uncertainly.

“What, Li? Your hearing has always been good.” Kal suddenly was taut, blazing, cold sober. Just then the air-raid siren began to wail.

Teloa folded to her knees, the color drained from her face. “Not again. I can’t take it again. So many times ... They came so close, but I got away. Not here, not now —”

“What?” Kavan shook her, dragging her to her feet.

“Lunas. They turned my planet to ash, we had no shields, no military. They melted the skin from my people. They will sear the life from this world.” She looked up at them, panic freezing her face. “They are like living things, they always find their prey unless destroyed first, they—”

Kavan shook her again, cutting off the growing hysteria in her voice. “This time it will be different. We have a shield and can temper the damage. We have to find a shelter; the radiation cannot touch us there. Come on.” Locking an arm around Tay’s waist, Kavan forced her to run. Pain suddenly filled their heads, the sign of abnormal frequencies.

The impact of the leading bomb half deafened them and shook the ground beneath their feet, although it landed on the other side of the river. Zair raised his voice in the deep-throated bay of his breed. They heard the chain reaction of explosions as the power lines beneath the street detonated.

Kal glanced back over his shoulder, and looked momentarily stricken. “That is the foreign quarter! Shinar is there—“ He started running back.

“Kal, no, you cannot get through, it is—“ Kavan’s voice was lost in the groaning sound of the fires, the soft winds of Amura spiraling to incredible fury.

“What is he—” Liel started to yell.

“He will be back, the fires will stop him. I just hope he can get back. Come on, I think there is a shelter in the next block.” Kavan indicated she should help him with Teloa, and the three joined other Nualans staggering down the street, Zair leading the way.

There was a shelter, already crowded with children and several men and women of varying ages. They entered and rushed down the narrow, winding corridor, which was designed to guard against flying debris.

Still shaking, Tay pulled away, moving to stand alone. “I’m sorry. I—you don’t know, you can’t know ...” she whispered, leaning against the wall, her gaze studying the dim passage beyond where supplies were stored.

“We will know soon enough, will we not?” Kavan replied. At the sound of his name, Kavan stepped back to the mouth of the corridor.

It was Kalith. “I could not get through; Casae Podami is already blocked off. I am going to try to reach the power station and cut the lines. Otherwise the whole city will go up,” Kal called down.

“Wait! I shall go with you! Two have a better chance!” Kavan raced back up the dark corridor, pushing his way through. He was followed by a man in black—their evening guaard.

“No! Don’t go! You can’t stop it! The lines do not matter, lunas burn from within!” Tay screamed, starting to follow. Liel threw her arms around the woman and hung on, aware of her disadvantage in height. The two tumbled into a heap at the bottom of the stairs, Zair on top of them both, as another explosion, closer this time, rocked the shelter. Tears streaming down her face, the Caprican made no attempt to get up.

“Tay, we cannot just—“ Liel began.

“He’s crazy,” Teloa whispered. “Lunas throw off their matter as they land. It burns until it is consumed, it takes hours, days! It—”

Her next words were never heard, as a deafening explosion ripped the streets above them, causing the entrance to cave in and debris and bricks to rain down from the ceiling.

oOo

“As it was in the beginning, is now and forever, worlds without end ...“ Arrez paused in the litany and found a high-pitched drone interfering with his thoughts. He recognized the air-raid siren. Turning to face the packed house, Arrez imperially tossed his hand in the direction of the main entranceway.

“Open the doors, all of them.” He turned to Baskh Atare, who was already crossing the choir area and stepping up into the apse.

“It is starset,” Baskh intoned. “The roof of the Mendülarion is a perfect target. Quickly, quietly, everyone out. The rows nearest the doors first. There are shelters located at the bottom of the hill. We must reach them.” Ignoring Arrez’s gestures that he should lead them, Baskh stood firm, a sign of visible stability in the fear of the crowd. The impact of the next bomb set the pillars to swaying, although it was at a considerable distance.

“These pillars have withstood mighty quakes. Do not hesitate, do not panic!” Baskh Atare roared. By now a good third of the people were out, although Arrez saw that the royal family held back, waiting for Baskh.

“Get the children out of here,” the priest called, indicating Tal, Deveah, and Baskh’s eldest son should remove their families, over ten and old enough to represent their generation at the elderday.

Deveah had just reached the innermost nave door when a bomb lodged in the hill above the temple, collapsing the choir like matchsticks and separating the apse from the nave. The orderly evacuation became a rout. Deveah shoved Jared out the door and stepped back into the temple.

The next bomb was a direct hit, dropping through the center of the nave and reaching explosion temperature just below the temple floor, blowing the roof to the sky. Unable to see to the nave through the solid wall of choir stone, Arrez dragged himself off the floor and looked for Draü. He saw her at the altar, attempting to lift the great candle and carry it out the apse exit, which had had its doors blown off the hinges in the force of the last impact. As Arrez tried to reach her he pushed at a pillar. The tiled wall next to him collapsed at the loss of its keystone, and the last thing he remembered was Baskh Atare trying to drag Draü from the altar. Then there was darkness.

oOo

Braan lay on the ground, trying to clear the sparks from his eyes. Cursing himself soundly into the depths of the Path, he leapt to his feet, preparing to run back to his home for Dylan and Asiai. He looked across the city, flames beginning to burn brighter than the dying starlight. Then he realized what was wrong. He saw no reflection from the Mendülarion. Panic rose in his throat, and he tore down the path. Fool! To think they would not really abandon us ...

He reached the outskirts of town without difficulty and was thankful he had crossed the river outside the city limits; the bridges still standing were in flames. Racing down a large street, Braan found himself cut off by a fire, several men and women standing before it looking for paths through the inferno. Turning around, he doubled back to another major artery, unaware of his younger brother screaming his name.

oOo

Roe awoke with a start, swinging her feet off the bed.

“Moran?” No answer—he must have left her to nap while he changed for dinner. Had Lyte slept, too? He had been so tired....

A shudder ran through the building, the plant stand swaying. Roe realized she had felt, not heard something; and had been roused from a sound sleep. A quake? Darkness was falling—she could see nothing from her window. She left the room and went down the corridor to the courtyard. Throwing open a glass door, she looked out into the twilight.

Fire was everywhere, obscured by thick smoke, and she heard screams muffled by the sound of the air-raid siren. The sound connected, and then she was frantically searching the skies. There was a glimmer—another wave coming. She started running back down the hall.

“Moran! Lyte!” She was startled at her own volume and found herself screaming from the pain of the frequencies. Then she was on her stomach, covering her head as the palace buckled and rocked from the impact of a bomb. She heard collapsing stone and tiles and felt herself blacking out. It seemed like only moments later she could see again, but there was no longer the sound of falling rock.

A voice was speaking softly, urgently to her; someone was shaking her arm. “Serae, please get up! We must get to a shelter!!” It was one of the palace guaard, his reserve shattered. His face was white, his neck and shoulders bleeding from superficial wounds. Roe listened—nothing.

“It has stopped,” she said aloud.

“But there is no knowing when it will begin again! Please—“

“We must find the injured,” she said, interrupting. “Who was here? Three of Baskh’s little ones, in the far wing. Moran, Lyte—were my brothers and sister back from the planters?”

“Serae, the temple is destroyed, we must go at once!”

She stared at him, digesting this. Then she stood slowly. “If that is true, Eon, then I may be the Ragäree. If so, I shall not leave without my man—or his body.” She took a deep breath. “Find help, I will get my bag and extra antidote for the radiation. You are correct, we must get everyone left into the shelter. Hurry, I shall meet you at the crossing!”

oOo

Several of the corridors into the watch room were destroyed, but Jaac finally found an open one. Entering the watch room proper, she found a tight-lipped group of people still going about their assigned tasks.

“Status report.” Immediately a volume of information was thrown her way. The relief on the faces of her warriors was plain. Jaac had survived Taos; she would survive this one. After quickly going over the information, she said, “Activate defense system.”

“Are we going to let them have it?”

Jaac did not look up as she framed a reply. “We cannot retaliate without the direct order of the Atare. Have you tried to reach the Io or—”

“No response. Either out of direct range or ignoring us.”

“Probably out of range,” Henne said bitterly. “They do not want to listen to the death throes of a planet.”

Jaac looked up, mildly surprised. “Who said anything about Nuala dying?” Henne stared bleakly at her. “It will take a lot more than a few luna bombs to destroy the radiation capital of the galaxy. You forget the shield can detonate the sensitive luna heads in midair. Order all warriors to the outskirts of the city, to prepare in case of a troop carrier landing.” She studied the explosion chart, the wide range of hits, the low density. “Fewhas ... they might be crazy enough to land.”

“Planet defense activated” came a voice. “The bombs are beginning to explode in midair. They will stop with the lunas now and switch to regular forces. We put all legions on standby before we lost interplanetary communications, with orders to defend their cities using whatever means possible.”

“Then I would imagine they are ready. Begin preparations to countdown for defense.” Every head snapped up. “It takes a few minutes,” Jaac said easily. “The Atare may have problems getting word to us. We must be ready. This attack is not personal, warriors; the front has moved once again. The Fewhas will try to use plutos bombs and turn us to powder. We may have to retaliate.” The warriors quickly bent to their computers.

COMPLINE

Braan took what was left of the temple stairs two at a time, ignoring the voices screaming at him from below. He was conscious of the sound of lunas exploding but felt no impacts. Looking up, he realized the defense had been activated. The defense shield ... That could only mean Jaac was still alive.

“We must fight,” he said aloud, amazed he could face the concept so casually. He started into the main entrance, and then saw that there was nothing left of the nave. He backed away quickly, fearful of radiation residue. Instead he cut around the side of the temple and reached the apse door.

“Can anyone hear me?” he called as he entered.

“Braan?” The whisper came from almost at his feet. He jumped and realized it was Arrez. The priest was buried up to his shoulders in the tiles and plaster but had protected his head. Now he pushed aside rubble and looked up. “I am all right, for the most part. Just the wind knocked out of me.” He slapped the tip of a buried pillar at the end of his reach. “This brace saved me, I think. Baskh and Draü were over near the altar.”

The Nualan bent and removed one of his scarves, pressing it against a gash in the man’s forehead. Glancing around, he was glad to see several men and women had followed him.

“The high priest says he is all right. Start digging him out. You two come with me. You go find healers and get them up here. And you”—Braan gestured to an especially large man—“you keep everyone else in that shelter. And clear the entrance. We may be coming down in a hurry.” Leading the way, Braan climbed over the pillar and dropped down on the other side. He stopped short, shocked at what he found.

When the canopy collapsed, Baskh had saved Draü from the brunt of the flying pieces, but he could not block everything. The woman had taken fragments in the head, and a brief pulse check indicated that she was already dead. Baskh lay next to her, his hands sheltering the eternal fire that, although on its side, still burned. Scarcely a mark was on him, yet he was lying in a pool of blood.

The man’s eyelids fluttered. “I thought I heard your voice.” It did not sound like Baskh—too soft, and his breathing raspy. Braan’s gaze traveled the Atare’s body quickly, and then he clamped his hands on the leg artery that was swiftly draining the man’s life.

“Get a healer, and frozen platelet packages!” he yelled, whipping off his other scarf and tightly binding the wound. “The Atare has need!” Baskh gestured weakly with his hands, indicating they should not waste their time. Braan heard as if far away the words of the death litany. He looked up to find a young priestess kneeling at Baskh’s feet, her face white yet serene, oblivious to the smell of death, the smoke, her own broken, bloody arm hanging useless at her side.

“Not y—”

“Let her finish,” Baskh said. “I have lost too much blood. Man is not meant to survive such injury. To think I leave my people to this—“

“Had you not maintained the defense shield and the drills, it would have been much worse,” Braan interrupted, seizing the man’s hands as if he could lend him strength.

“Now you are out of scarves.” Baskh attempted to chuckle, reaching for breath. “I always knew that crazy two-scarf fashion would come in handy. I wonder how many lives ... here.” Shaking free of his sister’s son, the Nualan lifted his head and removed his chain of office, laying it in Braan’s hand. “Give this to Tal, if he lives. If not, keep it. A mad one shall not lead what remains.”

“How do you know I am not mad?” Braan finally answered.

Baskh smiled, almost a grimace in his pain. “Oh, you are. But there are many kinds of madness, and not all are evil. Good luck, my son. Take care of my people. They will need you more than they can know. May Holy Mendülay have mercy on us all.” His voice faded off at the end, as he slipped away—whether into death, or the coma of the dying, Braan did not know. He knelt there a moment, trying to concentrate on the final words of the litany, his mind unable to form coherent thoughts. Slowly he stood, and spoke to the small, stricken gathering.

“There may be survivors here. Let us search the temple.” Still clutching the chain of office in his right hand, its deep red stones flashing darkly, Braan continued his wandering.

A woman’s voice urgently calling his name forced him back outside and down to the first nave entrance—it was impossible to move through the choir, much less the nave. He found a healer and several others huddled over a body, a few people retreating at the medtech’s requests to give the man air.

Braan pushed through the crowd and found Tal lying peacefully on his back. A quick look to the healer produced a negative reply, even as his brother moved an arm.

“His back is broken,” the man whispered, fumbling in his bag. “The ribs crushed. All I can do is give him a painkiller.” Ignoring him, Braan knelt down and carefully slipped his arms around his brother’s shoulders, cradling his head. Tal opened his eyes, the familiar serenity still within the blue one, the depths of the black unreadable. The eldest smiled then, as if reassured by Braan’s presence. His gaze strayed to the glint of bright metal thrown carelessly across his own shoulder. A shadow crossed his face; there was only one reason for Braan to have the chain of office. Tal had loved Baskh as a father. He looked back to Braan’s face, and slowly, carefully attempted to speak. Braan and the healer bent down to catch the heir’s final words.

“Keep it.” A smile touched Tal’s lips, and it was a moment or two before Braan realized he had stopped breathing. The healer lowered his hand, the pain killer no longer necessary. Braan gently closed his brother’s eyes. Setting the body down, he straightened like an old man, unable to rise to his feet. His right hand hurt, and opening it, he saw he was gripping the chain so tightly that it had drawn blood. He did not feel the healer give him an injection of strong radiation antitoxin.

“We must find Deveah,” Braan said, his voice muted among the dead stones.

The healer’s eyes widened. “You—you cannot be serious, Seri! We—you—” The man was practically pleading with him, unable to meet Braan’s withering stare.

“One way or another it will be settled. The Atare had intended to confine him. We shall need restrainers—”

“There is no need” came a voice from behind him.

Braan tensed at the voice, its pain a weapon against him. He turned, expecting to find a half-strangled child. He found instead one of the twins—squinting in the dim light, Braan guessed. “Kavan?”

“Yes.” He moved over and stiffly folded down next to Braan, wordlessly touching Tal’s arm. He looked so destroyed, so utterly without hope Braan was frightened for his spirit.

“Why? Where is he?” The voice was sharper than Braan intended. The healer looked closely at Kavan, pulled out another air hypo and gave him an injection. Then he stood and indicated that the remaining people should come with him.

“What is left is at the starrise door,” Kavan said. Braan flinched. What love there was between them had fled long ago; but he was a brother. Kavan’s voice had almost cracked on the final words. Now he saw the chain. Bewildered, he looked around in the growing darkness, awareness dawning. “Where—”

“You are certain?” Braan pressed.

Kavan looked away. “Only one man on Nuala bore the Sheel Split in this generation. Yes?” His voice faded as he lost control, dissolving into silent hysteria. Braan swung the chain violently, scattering the rest of the human gallery like leaves before the wind. There was another line of plutos bombs, closer, in sequence—one landed in the gardens. Braan paid no attention, gathering Kavan into his arms as he had a frightened child many years ago. Kavan did not protest, as in other times, and Braan felt his own fear settling. Finally the young man regained control of himself and pulled away.

“There is much to be done. We are needed,” Braan ventured.

“Yes, Atare. What would you have of me?” Kavan answered, composing his face.

It took a few seconds for the form of address to sink in. Braan took a deep breath. “Those here can handle this area. I must go to Jaac. It is fruitless ... to look for ... anyone until the bombing stops. Can you make it up the hill and make sure someone there knows how to cut off the gas? Perhaps we can kill some of the fires. Try. If not, find me. And get a radiation shot first.” Braan managed a faint smile. “I need my third hand healthy.” Only then did it register with Braan where the healer had ripped Kavan’s sleeve, giving him the injection.

Standing awkwardly, Braan walked out to the top step. An elderly woman sat there, watching him keenly through bright eyes encased in a mass of wrinkles. He stooped to her and started to speak.

“Go on, Atare. They would understand. Of course I shall say the litany—as I know you will. But I shall stay.” Rising regally, the woman hobbled inside the small entrance. As Braan started down the steps, he heard her ancient, quicksilver voice rising above the commotion of the city.

“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust; as we entered the universe, so we depart—alone....“

FIRSTDAY, 4953, MATINS

One candle burned in the shelter. A tiny candle, ill-made; it sputtered and fought for life between drafts and a pool of oil. Teloa stared at it until almost hypnotized, its flame filling her mind. The bombs came more frequently now, though they seemed less devastating. And they were no longer lunas. The small, cramped shelter was stifling, the odor of fear from the people packed within unmistakable. Time to get out. Teloa stirred. Stretching like a cat, the tall woman stood, shaking herself as if dreaming. At her side, Liel glanced up, puzzled—this Teloa was not a shaking child. This woman was quiet, confident, in control.

Teloa met her look. “The lunas have stopped. Trying to save money, I suppose. These are plutos or MSMs.” Stepping carefully over sprawled limbs, she walked to the back of the shelter, Zair’s huge form shadowing her. Liel shivered from the draft as Zair’s warm bulk left her side.

“That is a storeroom. Water and food supplies are kept in it,” Liel offered.

“What is beyond it?”

“Nothing.”

“There must be something,” Tay replied. “This draft traveled a long, clean way. It’s quite strong.” Picking up a piece of hemp lying on the floor, Tay lit it in the candle. Then she started back into the storeroom. “There’s a large vent back here,” she called.

“How large?” Liel asked, for conversation’s sake. The creaking and groaning of rusted metal brought her to her feet, and she stumbled into the storeroom. Teloa looked up from her handiwork. She had snapped an ancient lever—the vent stood open, the entrance taller than Zair.

“Are you coming?” The smile was strong, daring.

Liel stared at her. “You are crazy.”

The smile vanished. “No, just stir-crazy. It may take them days to find us, and longer to dig us out. I have survived two wars ... I shall not be beat by this one,” Tay replied, unconsciously falling into the Nualan syntax. Not waiting for an answer, Teloa turned and entered the air vent, Zair right behind her.

Liel looked back into the tiny bomb shelter, crammed with shell-shocked bodies. Only a few of their companions had even bothered to look up during this exchange. Without further hesitation she climbed into the duct.

The path, man-high, changed course often. After what seemed an eternity, a myriad of rest stops and hidden panic, Teloa stopped at a vent that suited her. Throwing her weight on hinges generations older than herself, she managed to open the hatch. They stepped out into cool night air, and silence.

“The bombing has stopped.”

“No. It’s only begun,” Tay answered. She pointed.

They were in the hills above the residential area, Tal’s house in plain sight. Liel turned toward the mountains and saw slender ground-to-air missiles slowly, silently rising from hidden silos.

WATCH ROOM

Jaac sat motionless in the command chair, her gaze never leaving the monitors. One told the defense shields held but were weakening. Above it another showed the ground-to-air missiles, the first wave GTAs; poised, ready to hurtle the barrier of the radiation belt and sear the missiles before they ever entered the atmosphere. The second wave was a different GTA—one that confused a missile’s heading and boomeranged it, sending it back to its origin. She dreaded using them, but things were past the point of return. She waited only for word from her Atare—whoever it was currently. A seal, a note, a presence. Something.

A rush of feet echoed down the corridor outside. The members of the watch looked up, hoping for news. Jaac did not react. Two guaard threw open the doors and entered. The palm locks had been destroyed when the computer system shut down. Behind them came Braan, followed by another pair of guaard. Henne stood, extending his hand for the message capsule.

“I came in person.” The room froze, absorbing his meaning. Henne took in Braan’s form at a glance; saw the chain of office in his hand. Without hesitation the man lowered his head. The others followed suit.

Jaac slowly turned in her command chair and stood. “Our shields weaken. Observations indicate that three ships took off at the beginning of the bombing. They achieved orbit, then we lost them on our monitors. Your orders?”

“Launch the first wave.” The words were spoken without tension.

Jaac had never doubted Braan’s ability to make swift decisions. She did not begin now. “Launch round one, first wave,” Jaac commanded.

“GTA launched.” The warrior’s reply was a whisper.

“Have you need of my presence?” Braan asked.

Jaac faced him again, not really interested in the ascending missiles. There was no strategy to this, no honor. “The second wave—“

“Use at least half our active first wave. If they do not appear to be slacking off in their attack, fire the first round of the second wave. I do not think we shall need to do anything else.” With a brief nod he turned and left the room. Jaac sat down again. There was no more to be said. If the Fewhas persisted, there simply would be no more Fewha battleships; their own bombs would destroy them.

PALACE

FIRSTDAY, 4953, MATINS

It did not take long to rally what servants and guaard remained alive in the palace. After several attempts the group finally found a path back to the guest’s quarters. Roe had taken the precaution of giving everyone in the party a radiation shot and had left the young children of Baskh outside with a guaard. Now they began to dig for Moran and Lyte.

There was no answer to their calls. Roe treated the injured warriors and servants who found their noisy group and waited, swallowing her fear. The guaard would allow her to touch nothing—news of the temple’s collapse had reached them, and they were terrified that Ronüviel was the last Atare female.

“Serae, we have found a shallow point. The door to a chamber is beyond,” a woman called.

Roe stepped forward only to be blocked by a guaard. “The supports are weak; the living rock could crush us. Stand away, Serae.”

The man at the head of the line pushed forward through the soft dirt and crushed stone. They heard an exclamation of surprise, and then a call for aid.

Roe handed an air hypo to the next warrior. “It was a luna that hit this house. Quickly—off-worlders have a greater need of radiation protection than we do.” The warrior wormed through the hole and disappeared. People began to widen the crevice, packing the dirt and stone firmly. No one requested they take the serae away—there was hope in that thought.

A stretcher was passed through the opening, and in a little while a warrior came crawling backward through the hole, supporting one end of the litter. Roe was stoic as she realized that it was Lyte, already tossing in a feverish delirium. Activating a monitor, she scanned him. Broken ribs, a punctured lung, radiation poisoning, broken shoulder and arm; mechanically she went to work, injecting the proper antibiotics, immobilizing bones, protecting against shock.

Indicating the cradle should be placed against the wall, she prepared a second air hypo, an especially potent one. For Moran, if—when—the guaard found him. It frightened her; the medication could be worse for her lover than radiation sickness. But it was a necessary risk.

She handed it to a guaard. “For the leader—in case it is needed.” The warrior nodded and crept back into the darkness of the hole.

A voice spoke from beyond. “Serae, the center is totally collapsed. We shall dig to all doorframes—they are the only places he could have survived.”

“As you think best,” she replied, fighting to keep control of her voice. Roe turned back to Lyte, laying her hands gently on his forehead and shoulder, feeling the healing power well up in her, oblivious to the remaining servants. The group sat in awe of what they could see, aware of a faint light not of stars or of distant torches. All three moons brought their new glory to the sky, yet the light in the shattered corridor slowly engulfed it.

Ronüviel did not know how long it had been since she began the healing trance. She was brought out of it by a gentle touch. “Serae, he lives. Come.” Shaking herself awake, Roe stumbled after the man.

They were just lifting Moran through the passage in the debris. He was past delirium, sunken into the spasmodic movements of those poisoned by the planet. Roe activated her monitor, although it was unnecessary, and carefully wiped the blood from the corner of his lips. Setting her features into a mask, she began the work of setting bones and protecting against chill, indicating someone should carry her bag.

“No one else would be here. Let us meet the others outside and flee this place,” Eon ventured.

“To where?” Roe asked between shots, her voice not unkind.

“The hospital complex.”

“For supplies, yes,” Roe answered. “And then we move on. Amura has become death for us.”

oOo

Night crawled on to its inevitable conclusion. The group finally found a corridor clear enough to carry the stretchers through the shattered Hall of Mirrors and beyond. The balance of the household awaited them, Baskh’s youngest sound asleep under a tree.

A guaard efficiently took charge, and soon a wagon crept up to the side doors. It was a panting young woman who stepped down from the driver’s niche, a tiny floater seat positioned on the wooden crossbar between the hazelles. “My apologies, it took a long time to find an intact wagon and hazelles calm enough to pull it,” she said. “We must hurry before the next—“

Suddenly a rushing wave of sound reached their ears. The children awoke shrieking. Ronüviel turned and looked past the palace to the residential hills and saw flaming streaks of light flash into the sky and vanish. A distant rumble came to them as a slight tremor beneath their feet.

“I do not think we need to hurry,” Roe replied softly. “Let us get all injured who cannot walk into the wagon. I am going to the complex for medicine. I shall look for you at Crossroads—we are heading for the Chardonnay caverns. They have withstood millennia of quakes.”

“Can they withstand a direct hit?” someone asked.

“Better than the complex,” a guaard answered for her. “Come, Serae, I shall accompany you.” Roe started to speak. She thought better of it and nodded her agreement. Picking up her medical bag, the man slipped into the darkness. The Atare woman paused, looking back to the now still forms of Lyte and Moran. They scarcely seemed to be breathing. But there was nothing to be done until the drugs took effect. She rushed after the warrior.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, they were momentarily blinded by a dazzling burst of light in the heavens, brighter than a dozen moons. The warrior stiffened slightly and hurried on. As they ran, Roe heard snatches of the softly chanted words of the death litany—a canticle of passage for the Fewhas, the self-proclaimed enemies of mankind.

Chapter Nine

CHARDONNAY HEIGHTS

FIRSTDAY, 4953, PRIME

Tired. So incredibly tired. She felt like she had been walking forever, stumbling through the pre-dawn light. Roe glanced at the warrior beside her. The man had insisted on carrying her medical bags, stuffed to the seams with supplies. They were agonizingly heavy; and finally even he had admitted defeat, setting them in the wagon and carrying instead a small child they had found along the way. No one could manage a jest with the warrior’s pride. Too much had happened. They had only another mile. One more mile.

“Serae, you are very pale. Please, into the wagon.”

Roe shook her head, fearful of crowding those who were lying down.

The young warrior at her left leaned closer, the woman’s expression intense. “I have studied medicine well, even though I am not a healer. It is possible you are with child. It is also possible you are the last Atare ... and that the off-worlder will not live to sire another. Please do not sacrifice our future for your pride.” Roe let the information seep through her exhaustion and felt its truth. Nodding vaguely, she did not protest as they stopped the cart and placed her in front, at the heads of the seriously injured.

Roe considered lying down, but it was not worth the effort. Instead she checked her patients. The medications were beginning to take effect. Carefully, her fingers feather-light, she touched Moran’s arm, and was relieved to see that a bruise did not immediately form. The injection was arresting the condition. She smiled mirthlessly; first he had to live. If he did, he would suffer no permanent damage. But if they did not check the fevers, the pneumonia that was certain to develop ...

She prepared herself for the healing trance, unaware she had already begun to glow. Roe placed one hand at a temple and the other over his heart, closing her eyes and slowly tuning herself into his body processes. Very slowly—they were in chaos, like an intricate machine run amok. She winced inwardly; it had been a long time since she had worked on such a serious case. Ronüviel forced awareness of her subject away from her self, allowing the healing energy to work. She had to cleanse the body cells, bringing Moran out of the comalike state he had sunk into and up to the delirium Lyte tossed in. Only then could his body attempt to fight the fever which was ravaging it. She could do it; she had mended fractures, aided limb regeneration, reversed external radiation burns. This was merely another problem.

When Roe finally came out of the trance of her own accord, she found that the cart had stopped and the hazelles were gone. So was everyone else—she and Moran were alone. Silence ... the bombing had ceased. She stirred and looked around. Not entirely alone; three guaard sat nearby, awaiting a sign. One noticed her movement and stood. “Are you ready, Serae, for us to take him to the healers’ station?” she asked.

Roe looked down. Moran now moved occasionally, as if seeking relief from tight clothing. He was on his way up from deep water. “Yes. Be sure you set him on soft bedding - and also the other warrior, Lyte. We must be very careful with their external tissue until we are certain the radiation is checked.” She crawled to her feet and, accepting the woman’s offer of a hand down, stepped off the wagon.

“It is already done. If you are feeling well enough, there are several elders who wish to speak to you.” Roe followed the woman without comment, after seeing the two men gently lift Moran off the cart.

A considerable refugee camp was already in existence. They walked through huge gatherings of people of all ages, more constantly streaming in. Ronüviel managed a smile for them, as always amazed by how happy they were to see her. Soon they arrived at a small tent hastily assembled under tall shade trees. The smell of acrid smoke reached her nostrils—she suspected it was Amura.

Stepping inside, she found the tent crowded. Seven or eight elders were there, standing as she entered. Roe was used to courtesy but not overwhelming homage; strict rules of royalty had been lax in her generation. It was disconcerting. They had prepared a pile of blankets for her to sit on. She remembered the announcement at the Feast of Adel: they believed her pregnant. Why else announce official marriage? Smiling faintly, she sat down, unready for confirmation, suddenly hoping fervently that she was correct.

“Elders,” she said, knowing the men and women waited for her to speak.

One man cleared his throat. “Serae, it was with great joy we received the news of your arrival. So many rumors flying—it is difficult to know what to believe.” He paused a moment. “There are a few things we are certain of.... The temple is destroyed, and many of those at services also died. Baskh Atare and others of your family have taken The Path.” Her smooth, tanned face did not change. The elder went on. “At least one of your brothers survives. An Atare has been acknowledged and gave the order to launch the great defense. I have also heard that Jaacav lives.”

“That does not surprise me. She has nine lives, that one,” Roe graciously supplied.

Accepting her calm agreement, the woman on her right took up the tale. “We do not know yet what plans have been made or can be made. The troops at the bottom of the hills claim this is Fewha work and believe that invasion is imminent. But a count was taken in the dark—at least three battleships and two cruisers were destroyed by the GTAs. If so, it will take time for reinforcements to arrive. As you are aware, Fewhas have a reputation of decimating the home population before moving on. Perhaps it would have been safer to play dead, rather than indicate that the survivors have some fight left in them.”

“No ‘playing’ would have been necessary, elder,” Ronüviel replied.

“What else, Serae? We cannot stay here. Shall we return to Amura? The fires must first be brought under control.”

“Yes—and more importantly, the danger of disease must be removed. Fortunately it is cold. But we cannot hesitate. Every able-bodied man and woman must return to the city in carefully controlled groups, with special assignments. Even before we seek personal possessions, some must gather wood, others prepare a place for a fire, still others gather materials for the rites. Any recorders that exist must be used to take fingerprints if it is possible, or footprints of infants. This will be very important to the families, to be certain of the fates of their people. We need to establish areas to care for children while their parents help—or for those whose parents have not been found. We must expand the medical area I saw, allow the whole cavern for this.”

“We would house you and the other key personnel there also.” As Ronüviel started to protest, the woman hurried on. “You are most assuredly the eldest woman of Ila’s line left alive. Perhaps the only one. And the only single individual here who can give orders that will be obeyed. I can command my district—if I can find them. So, too, the others. But we are not majority leaders, much less the synod leaders. We cannot command and be followed by all. You must do this, Serae, until the Atare joins us—if he can.”

Roe waited. “I would prefer more information before we send groups back. They should seek the Atare and give him my words. Most likely he has instigated the same program.”

“Would the words of the high priest suffice?” The gathering turned to the entrance. “Word comes that Arrez approaches and brings his family and others with him. We think he bears the eternal fire,” the young man added, nodding his pardon to the small session. His excitement was plain in the way he threw shut the entrance robe. Roe bowed her head, saying a small, swift prayer of thanks that the priest had survived. Now if only Braan had ...

She stood slowly. “We must get to the nearest granaries, make sure the food is not contaminated, and build fires to ward off fevers. It may be that come next morning we shall be on our way to Amura—Mt. Amura.”

The group stared blankly at her. “Serae?”

“We have jested for years that we could build a city in the caverns of that mountain. Perhaps we shall.” She started out the canvas opening. “I have patients to attend to. Please divide up those areas—swiftly—and get to work. If you have difficulties and my name will not serve, I have my signet. Find some wax and seek me.” She stepped out into a brilliant starrise and started for the caves.

oOo

Elana and Arrez found her there when they could finally get away from the crowds. Arrez planted the flame outside the caverns and saw immediately that it would have to be moved to the hill—too many people wanted to light candles from it and pray near it. The elders sought them out, begging Elana to take over the medical area. She was quiet; many of these same individuals had recently sought her downfall. But she did not hesitate. As she disappeared into the caves Arrez inquired about the state of affairs in the encampment.

What he was told both pleased and disquieted him, but his relief over Roe washed out everything else. Telling the elders that the new Atare also wished to begin building funeral pyres as soon as possible, Arrez hurried into the cavern.

He found Elana practically ordering Ronüviel to lie down. A medtech had spread blankets next to Moran, and Roe was in no condition to argue with anyone. Elana had pulled out her diagnostician’s box and passed it above Roe’s body. She examined the readings with alarm and then looked to Roe again. Suspicion crossed her face. Changing the subject setting, she tried once more. Then she studied the results. “You gave yourself a radiation shot?”

“Yes.”

“A strong one? Level two, three?”

“Level two,” Roe answered, no longer interested, her gaze resting on Moran. Arrez looked pained at the sight of the active young man, now so reduced. His firstwife, meanwhile, had asked for a booster hypo and, upon receiving it, gave Roe another injection.

“I was worried—so much medication for it at once—I was not sure.”

“I am, and you did well. All of this healing has drained your reserve. You must sleep now and regenerate yourself,” Elana said firmly.

Arrez leaned close to her. “Should we tell her now?”

“About Braan—the rest should wait.”

“What rest?” came Roe’s voice.

Arrez smiled wanly. Her exhaustion had not dimmed her hearing.

“Braan Atare rules, as was meant to be,” came a voice. “And he will take things in hand, as should have been done long ago. Do not cross him. His mood is fell now, and shall be for much time to come.” They looked up to see Mariah standing at the foot of the makeshift bed, Chaka’s youngest asleep in her arms. She turned her gaze on Elana. “I stay with the little ones. Others return to Amura.” Elana nodded. Mariah’s mystical ability to deal with children could be invaluable.

“Baskh and Rebekah are gone,” Arrez went on, not sure what Mariah might say. She had been preoccupied since the bombing, rarely speaking. “Tal, Deveah, Libra and Persephone are definitely dead—I identified the bodies. Tal’s two sons also, and all spouses. Deveah’s son lives, although his radiation poisoning is bad and he has broken bones. Braan’s two are missing. Kavan is with Braan.”

Ronüviel closed her eyes to conceal her relief. Thank Mendülay. Without Braan no one would survive.

“Liel was seen just as the bombing began—they are digging out the entrance to the shelter even now. We know people are in there, we can hear shouts, but nothing intelligible,” Elana broke in, not wanting Roe to feel as if she was the only throne-line Atare woman left. “Also I have seen several members of your mother’s family. I shall send for them.”

“We shall need the bone fuser, if it was not destroyed,” Roe said abruptly, the doctor in her taking over. Then she was vague. “The ... other planets?” She was adding up relatives in her head.

“Nothing since the attack began in earnest,” Arrez said quietly. “Do not be concerned for Deenn or your mother or the prime minister. They can take care of themselves.”

“We monitored their shield activating,” Elana added.

“Kal?” she asked finally, fighting sleep. Her serious baby brother, a child no longer. Lord, she needed his strength.

“Kavan ... lost him in the crowds. A guaard was with him. We have heard nothing either way.”

“He is alive,” came Mariah’s voice. All turned her way as she gracefully walked down the aisle to the mouth of the cave. “Else how could I have dreamt of Kalith Atare?” No one spoke. Ronüviel felt herself shivering uncontrollably. There was only one way for Kalith to become Atare....

AMURA

TIERCE

Braan sat quietly beside the body, unaware of the masses moving around him. This one had been young, the twins’ age; as a matter of record, a friend of theirs. He had been Braan’s assistant, handling correspondence, visitors, art sales, and all excursions off-world. He was also dead. The name Carobdus flitted to the surface of Braan’s mind. He stoically punched in the name on his pocket recorder, the instrument humming efficiently. Then he reached down and removed the boy’s side recorder. Such work would keep someone busy—Kavan maybe. He was chopping firewood, trying not to worry about Kal, telling all who wanted reassurances that he “would know” if Kalith was dead.

“Do you cheer them or yourself?” Braan murmured aloud.

A warrior approached him. “Atare? We have reached deep enough to speak to them. There is no hurry, they have plenty of fresh air, and injuries were minimal.”

Braan glanced up abruptly. “And?”

“They say the serae and a tall, blonde woman pried the cover off the air vent and left. A few followed—they were seeking the source of the current. The fresh air increased later on; perhaps they knocked out the vent piece at—“ Braan had stood and moved away from Carobdus’ body during this explanation, two men discreetly moving in and removing it; his movement was a wasted gesture. A huge, long-legged descendant of Earth’s kingly hounds came bounding out of nowhere, knocking Braan to the street in his delight. Zair proceeded to clean Braan’s face for him, over muffled protests and strangled sounds.

“Blasted mutt! If you ever want children, will you g—” Braan’s laughing order was cut off by Liel’s viselike grip around his neck. Recognizing her, he pulled her close, as if trying to protect her from everything around them. Gasping, choking back sobs, she buried her face in his shoulder. Her brother said nothing, holding her tightly, closing his eyes to hide tears.

When he opened them, he found the fresh starlight blocked off. Squinting, he saw the tall blonde of the gardens and the landing bay—Teloa, was it? He also sensed immediate, if unvented, hostility from the gathering. Of course - she was probably one of the few newcomers left; most were killed by the luna which struck the embassy quarter, or had departed in the Gerrymander, Griffon or Hydra. She was a planter. They needed planters. A smart one, to find her way through the duct maze. This had to end, here and now.

Gently shaking Liel, Braan climbed to his feet. To send them to the mountains or keep them? He decided quickly. Even with Zair on guard the woman’s life was in danger should she so much as speak a word against the people. “Treason” was on everyone’s lips as it was. Only his family could guarantee her safety, and he dreaded putting that on Liel.

He turned to Teloa. “Thank you for your care of my sister.” Braan made sure it carried to the group. Then, to Liel, he said; “We need assistance. Would you rather ... identify people or go to Roe? She is with child, and I imagine this has been a severe shock to her system. She will need help, although she will not admit it. Kavan is at the crossroads. Take him with you.” He paused, digging in the pouch at his side. He pulled out the chain of office, its stones flashing brilliantly in the risen star’s light. Liel touched it tenderly, knowing without asking. “Take this to her ... for safekeeping. And await my return.”

She gazed up at him, despair and hope flaring briefly in her face. She started to loop it around her neck and then stopped herself.

Dropping the chain down the front of her shirt, she stood, turning to Teloa. “Do you—”

“She will stay with Zair and me,” Braan went on smoothly. “Second Officer, will you please escort the serae to the Chardonnay foothills? Arrez’s messenger stated that the Ragäree is there. Pick up Seri Kavan on your way.” He waved shyly to Liel in parting, and made a brief, funny face for her. She attempted to brighten at his lunacy and followed the guaard. Braan then matched Teloa’s scrutiny.

“For the time being you will stay with me,” Braan said, his voice dropping slightly in volume. “Your life may be in danger from people seeking scapegoats.” He took hold of the big dog’s collar. “Zair—guard,” he said clearly, pointing to Teloa. The hairy deerhound peered up at him, wagged its tail slightly and walked over next to Tay. “Good dog.”

“And what am I to be doing in your company?” she asked.

He abruptly surveyed her. There was no coolness or sarcasm in her voice. “Can you keep records?”

“What kind?”

“All kinds,” he answered, extending the recorder to her. “Figures, correspondence, historical—my scripter is dead. For awhile you can succeed him and probably later function as a go-between for the city dwellers and the planters.” She took the recorder. “That will depend on your talents in both areas and whether you still need protection.” Braan held up a package of tape dots. “I want originals of these tonight; we need to get an idea of our losses.” Without further comment he began walking down the hill into the city, several guaard following.

oOo

Teloa stood silent, watching his retreating figure. Zair whined after him and then pawed at her leg. There had been no malice in Braan—she believed he had intended no insult. But too much was upon him, and there was no time to be gentle. Tay threw the recorder strap over her shoulder. One who had been both planter and scripter in her time had no need to fear the demands of Nuala. She started down the hill at a brisk walk, the deerhound bounding ahead.

CHARDONNAY MOUNTAIN, SOUTH CAVE

VESPERS

Teloa kept her gaze on the rough ground beneath her, aware she was watching for more than one set of feet. The girl Shinar was exhausted and disoriented and had stumbled more than once. Supporting Shinar’s other side was Kalith, who was grim, silent. She knew what he had been doing this long day—helping to find bodies for the fires. It had been hard enough to comb the ruins for survivors. Teloa had not been surprised when the youth became emotional at the sight of Shinar. Nor had his response to Braan amazed her; emotion ran deep in these Atares, for all their cool facades.

She and Zair had found Shinar, half-buried in a hallway of the home of Arrez’s fourthwife, Chaka. The older woman was dead when they found her—whether from the bombing or her own radiation, the healers still were not certain. Arriving back at the temple, the search group had found Kalith, the last missing Atare; he was burning the bodies of his kin. How long for those scars to heal? Now they approached the mountains—at least they looked like mountains to Teloa. The hills, a guaard had said to her. And Ronüviel was there, the people following her without question. Whatever gods there be, you have planned this well. Did so many have to die for your will?

There was a fluttering of blue robes, and Shinar was seized in Elana’s urgent grip. The girl began to weep, and though her mother tried to comfort her, neither was fooled. Elana’s eldest was dead, Kal had told them—from the bombs. The young Atare slipped away from the two women, and Teloa followed his example. She passed the high priest as she approached the cave; he was oblivious to all save Elana and Shinar.

Ronüviel left the cave and embraced her younger brother. Kal began to speak urgently; Teloa caught the words Dylan and Asiai. The youth looked concerned. Braan’s children ...

A crowd pressed up the hill behind them, and Teloa knew Braan had arrived. The excitement, the electricity in the air was tangible. Teloa melted into the gathering within the cave’s mouth, the great hound Zair at her heels. Roe pulled Kal to her side and faced Braan. The man appeared composed, but his look was for Ronüviel alone.

They stood mere centimeters apart as the sound of the gathering faded into the breeze. Ronüviel pulled out the chain of office, weighing its trine gold links, achingly touching the rubies studding its length. Then she connected the long circlet and gently slipped it over Braan’s head, carefully letting it settle down his chest.

“Eo Mendulai^n Nuala, for Mendülay and the people,” she began, “until our Lord requests your presence on the Last Path. A-tu yai Atare!”

A-tu yai Atare!” The crowd roared with one voice the ancient rallying cry. For the first time since the devastation Tay felt there might be a chance.

CHARDONNAY MOUNTAIN

COMPLINE

The activity that night in the camp was subdued. People were too exhausted to notice the warriors arriving with special military equipment, the tireless Jaac giving discreet directions. Low, haunting song rose occasionally, filled with somber thanksgiving to High Mendülay for the salvation of the people. The crying of children had stilled, as well as most weeping. Braan could hear Roe’s voice rise and fall as she told a gatuhlpa, a great tale, out of Nuala’s past. Now more than ever her place as an oral historian would be important. Who knew what was left in the various computer banks?

For the first time Braan walked into the cave toward the small offshoot that was designated as his. He was having difficulty concentrating, Dylan’s face intruding into his thoughts. No amount of comfort would help the boy right now; he blamed himself totally for Asiai’s seizure by a fleeing ambassador. Asiai ... if only the ships made it; if only she were on one. And if so, what then?

As he passed by the makeshift beds he caught sight of Moran and Lyte. Pain was mixed with fury as he looked at them. Had they known, could they have stood by and— He shook his head violently, trying to drive the thought from his mind. That was one thing he could not allow himself to believe—not for a moment. As if aware of his scrutiny, Lyte opened his eyes and met Braan’s marbled ones. They stared at each other a long minute. Not sure Lyte could see him in the darkness, Braan stepped over and knelt down next to him.

A faint smile passed Lyte’s lips. Slowly, painfully raising his arm, Lyte grabbed Braan’s belt knife and clumsily handed it to him hilt first. “If you ... believe that, kill ... now. Else—never—again men-tsun.” Braan did not answer, not even to match the sardonic smile with one of his own. He reached and took the knife and, delicately taking Lyte’s wrist, set the man’s arm back down at his side. The warrior took another ragged gasp and closed his eyes. Tucking the knife back in his thong, Braan stood and continued toward the back.

Not a traitor. Lyte was many things, good and perhaps even evil, but not a traitor, not to anyone or anything with honor. Braan rounded the rocky curve and entered the small area which had been prepared for him. A soft bed had been made up on the smooth dirt, and next to it was a basin and a pitcher filled with clear water. Towels were piled on the bed, and a votive candle cast a dim glow over everything.

Braan remembered something; swiftly he retraced his steps and entered the night. He moved around the cave entrance toward the last hill and then stopped. It was ablaze with light. Where the brethren had found so many candles Braan did not know, but they were there, the eternal flame flickering above them. In a daze Braan reached down and picked up a candle from the box at his feet. Lighting it, he set it at the base of the knoll and turned back to the cave.

oOo

Teloa recognized him as he reentered the hospital and hurried to catch up. He had told her when he assigned her the task of scripter he wanted the tapes before she slept, but she had not been able to find him until now.

When Tay reached the niche in the cave well, she rapped softly on her recorder. No answer. Drawing a deep breath, she peered around the rocks. He was there, seated on the blankets, his face pressed to his knees. She could tell he was shaking; and then she took a half step backward as she realized he was weeping. Men had not expressed their emotions freely back on Capricorn V. It had not been socially acceptable. And after that first bombing, there had been no tears left to weep. She could not bear it—Braan literally had had the future of his race dumped on his shoulders; it was not fair that he was not allowed to share his grief.

She set the recorder at the foot of the blanket and stood, torn and uncertain as to whether any sympathy might be shrugged off angrily, or worse, misunderstood. Finally, she reached out and set her hand, feather-light, on his shoulder. They remained that way awhile, and then Teloa glided away to find the one person who might be able to help.

Fortunately Roe was done with her story, and all Tay had to say was “Someone needs you” to get her attention. As the woman reached for her medical bag the Caprican stopped her and then led off in the cave’s direction.

Tay stopped just short of the niche’s entrance, hesitant to show the way. “He needs someone.” Roe gripped her arm in passing and went in. Tay waited and checked carefully. Roe had sat down next to Braan and, without any attempt to get his attention, embraced him. Tay slipped away.

Chapter Ten

MT. AMURA, NUALA

FIFTEENDAY, NONE

Tay was rudely awakened by the cold. Shivering, she realized that the star had moved on and Zair had completely taken over the warm spot. She crawled over him and nestled between his paws, flopped over his ribs. He opened one eye slightly, made a soft woofing noise in his throat, and went back to sleep. Chuckling, Teloa stretched luxuriously, aware that it was mid-afternoon and time to get back to work.

Work ... Every muscle groaned. She had known hard work on Capricorn V but nothing like this. Back home it had been a matter of economy. Now it was a matter of survival.

They were still digging out parts of the city; Tay was amazed at how the defense shield lessened the effects of the lunas. But it was being done cautiously; off-worlders were restricted to the mountains for fear the luna radiation would upset their delicate balance with the planet radiation. The work had settled into a routine. Most people had been assigned responsibilities similar to their normal occupations; the others were salvaging important materials and stone from Amura and transporting them to the great mountain, across the Sonoma Valley. The supplies were being carried by hazelle wagon or solar car—the train line would be nonfunctional for some time.

She heard a shout below and looked over the edge. Several men and women were racing triumphantly up the small, curving road the warriors had blasted out. She listened intently in the clear, still air, picking out familiar Nualan words, and gathered that they had finally found what they were looking for in the academy computers. Several university sessions ago, as a final project, a student had examined the feasibility of constructing a city inside a large mountain—Mt. Amura used as the example. Then it was an amusing way to handle a potentially boring assignment. Now they were attempting to do just that and had been seeking the plans since the bombing. The young man’s originals had been destroyed, but stored away in the academy computer were the duplicates—and now they had a design with which to begin.

Teloa sat up and surveyed the mountain towering above her, trying to imagine what it would be like to live underground. There were ways to determine the safest places for light and air shafts....

A rustling in the brush disturbed her thoughts. She froze, uncertain. Were there dangerous animals up here? Zair’s nose twitched, but he was too comfortable to rouse himself. Surely, if it was venomous ... Looking closely, she saw two bright eyes peering at her from under the bushes.

“Well, hello there,” she cooed in her softest, most persuasive voice. The eyes disappeared. There was more rustling, but Tay could detect no sounds of retreat. “Do you want this warm spot? You may share it, come on. Zair is a sleepy thing, he won’t bother you.” Bright eyes gleamed at her once again.

Tay dug around in her pockets for the remains of her secondmeal. Slowly pulling them out, she cracked some of the grains together invitingly. “Come here, curious one.” The beast slid into view. It was a tiny, furred creature, no longer than her forearm including its long black-and-gray ringed tail. It had a face much like a Terran fox, if a bit flattened, and a short, thick, wooly black coat. Its big scooped ears flicked up, listening to the grains. It sat up on its strong back legs—legs equally suited for speed on the ground or over jagged rocks—and twitched its long black whiskers at her. Tay couldn’t help but laugh, and the animal vanished. She waited, the grains on her flat, outstretched hand, and soon, out of the bush almost next to her, a tiny paw slowly reached. Tay carefully pulled her hand back, forcing the creature out. Finally she set her hand on a rock.

There was a long wait. Then, seeing the woman did not move, the creature crept out, snatched a piece of grain wafer, and scampered back to its bush. It sat beneath the foliage, devouring the piece of wafer and observing her with its soft, dark eyes. Tay cautiously set another piece of wafer on her hand.

“Poor thing, you must be starving,” she murmured. Time passed quickly as she set the remains of her meal in her hand and let the animal come get them. Finally it sat right by her hand and ate, now sniffing inquisitively at Zair. Teloa giggled. What kind of creature was this, that it had never seen a dog? It was no longer frightened by the sound of her voice, however, and nonchalantly walked up Zair’s side to his head and snuffled his ears. The big animal shook his head and tried to crane his neck around to examine his tormenter. Seeing that the little creature’s scent was beginning to excite him, Tay set her arm on Zair’s back to calm him.

Too late. Zair jumped up and the animal leapt for Teloa’s sleeve. Running up her arm, it burrowed into her hood. Teloa froze, suddenly afraid it might bite her.

It had no such intention. Peering around her ear, the creature cheeped once, a tikki-tikki noise, as if questioning her, and then proceeded to scold the dog from the safety of Teloa’s shoulder. She laughed in delight as the dog thrust his nose down to investigate. Seeing the huge head coming toward it, larger than its whole body, the animal ducked back into her hood. Teloa pulled at the collar, to keep from being strangled by its weight, and carefully stood up.

“Are we friends? Would you like to visit my home and see if you’d care to stay? Let’s go take a look.” Teloa started down the narrow incline, Zair charging before her. Reaching the road, Teloa heard low, tense voices. She slowed, recognizing one of the voices as Braan’s. Carefully looking around into the mountain grotto, she saw him standing there, several angry synod members beside him and one young man before them all. As she approached, the young man turned and left the scene.

The group was speaking Nualan, but she could make out a great deal of it. “This is dangerous, Atare ... we should follow him ... I trust no Dielaan dogs.”

“And do what? Wipe out their encampment? Do not blame their tribe for the faults of one man and the folly of his immediate family. When the other elders read the information I brought back from Tolis, his plans are ruined. No messenger can change that. But ... send a tracker. Find out where he goes.” Braan sat down on a rock, suddenly looking tired. Seeing Tay, he smiled and nodded to her. “Words from Lars?” he asked, switching to Galactic for her benefit.

“A few. Are you all right? You look pale.”

Braan chuckled. “You are worse than Ronüviel.”

“Not quite.” Roe stepped out of the grotto, moving up behind Braan to knead his back with her strong, delicate hands. “She is learning quickly. Someone must watch you at all times. You push too hard.”

“We have to if we are going to be secure come the sno— What in Mendülay’s name?” Teloa realized Braan was staring oddly at her, as if she had two heads. She had forgotten he never glanced casually at anything. What... ?

“Tikki-tikki-tikki!” came a trill in her ear.

“Oh! Just a friend I found on the ridge.” The creature crawled out of her hood and arranged itself on her shoulder, standing on its hind legs and surveying the group. It chirped once at them, as if to dismiss them, and began to groom itself.

Braan laughed. Teloa turned to him with keen interest at this—it was the first genuine laugh she had heard from him since she’d met him. She smiled, pleased that he found the beast as amusing as she did.

“How did you contrive to entrap that?”

“I didn’t contrive. It came when I offered it some grain.”

“More likely decided to come out of curiosity,” Roe threw in, gazing at the creature. “An akemmi. I have never seen one during the day, except in a lab. They are engaging little animals, are they not? And very wild. I have never heard of one allowing itself to be handled. Or herself—the color looks like a female.”

“Well, it hasn’t really allowed itself to be handled,” Tay explained. “It’s been handling me, much like a climbing post. Maybe it thinks I’m a movable tree!” They all laughed at that as the crowd increased in size.

“Maybe it has not heard that akemmi are afraid of humans,” Braan suggested with a wicked grin. “The bombing probably forced it down from the peaks. I have never seen one below the falls. It is a young one.” Liel had joined the gathering and now walked up to Tay carefully. The akemmi immediately stopped washing her paw and turned to the woman, hair on end, making horrendous spitting noises.

“Hey!” Tay rapped her on the fanny with an index finger. Surprised, the little female subsided, still warily watching Liel. Tay apologized by rubbing the creature’s head with a finger. She began to curl into a ball, a soft humming coming from her throat.

Liel started laughing. “She is protecting you!”

“What will you call this ferocious beast?” Braan asked, standing and moving closer to keep from falling asleep under Roe’s healing hands.

“Tikki, what else? That’s all she says.”

“Truly amazing,” an elder murmured as he walked off. “It’s obviously never seen a human, so it doesn’t know it should be afraid!” The others began to drift away, Liel promising to seek Tay out later.

“Braan.” He turned in Roe’s direction. “Do not evade the thought. What about Corymb?”

“We will deal with him when he arrives. People are still trickling in; we have no proof he has known our location the whole time. No reason, no concrete reason to be suspicious.” Braan offered the akemmi a finger, which she licked experimentally. “His winning throw is fear. As people become more frightened, they will be more willing to listen to his racist propaganda. We must be sure that there is enough food and shelter for everyone, and that our troops are ready for the Fewhas ... or Axis. Or even pirates. Whoever tries to brave Nuala first.”

“Is civil war coming?” Tay asked bluntly, feeling self-conscious. She had never spoken to Braan without his initiating the conversation. As an outsider, it did not seem her place.

“The planters - what do they say?” Braan said instead. He scrutinized her, his gaze piercing. Tay looked away, studying the haze trapped over the valley. And what if the doomsayers were correct and the bombing had changed the climate?

“It will be hard,” she finally said, her voice barely carrying to Roe. “There is contamination. The warehouses burned. We have no chemicals, and little seed.”

“How much seed?”

“Lars is writing it up. I’ll bring it to you s—”

He gently took hold of her arm, turning her to face him again. “I want it in layman’s terms. The winter plantings?”

“Most of them are in the ground.” Teloa looked up at him. “The deep granaries are fine—we shall be fed this winter. And we can plant in the spring. But the harvest will be small, even with optimum conditions. The entire yield here was apparently based on the hybrid seed and chemical infusion. Depending on the rest of the planet’s ... ability to raise food—”

“What you are trying to say is that we shall be often hungry come next winter,” Roe broke in. But she looked uneasy as she said it.

“Worse. If we are to maintain the proper nutrition level, there will be no more seed to plant. It will be eaten.” There was a tense silence.

Braan was stoic. “So we survive all obstacles to die of the most simple—“

“No.” The Atares faced Teloa. “Not necessarily. My planet was unable to use many of the major chemical fertilizers. We used instead a combination of various natural fertilizers, crop rotation—it was harder, but the yield was just as high.”

“Could that be done here?” Roe asked.

“Maybe. If you’re asking could I do it, no—there isn’t enough time. It took a generation of experimentation to determine just how to adapt to our climate, soil and weather deviations. And we had Axis food imports until we could support our own people. We would all starve or kill each other in the fight for dominance over the harvest.” Tay felt very helpless. She had not intended to bring this up; not until the planters had thought of an alternative plan—any plan.

“Can we help?” Braan replied.

Teloa gave him a searching look. “Lars mentioned something I am curious about. He said, ‘If only we had the hands of the Cied.’ He seemed to imply that with its or their talents, we would be fine. What did he mean?” Was it her imagination or was Braan momentarily startled?

It was Ronüviel who spoke. “The Ciedärlien. They are the desert dwellers. Among the people we have had many branches snap off the parent tree and take root on their own. Cied was one. Their people turned their back on technology after the first fall and chose to adapt to Nuala completely. They are totally self-sufficient, or could be, if they did not discourage their artisans, and deal with us primarily to get trinium, which is found in the mountains alone.”

“Then they have no respect for you and would just as soon let you die?”

“She did not say that,” Braan interrupted,” although you are not far wrong. The majority of the tribes have a relationship with the Atare house. My ancestors, unlike other city-state rulers, were not so foolish as to treat them as mere fanatics.” Seeing her confusion, he added, “Nuala has been a united people for only three thousandyear. Before, we were grand division of city-states, with a monarchy or prime minister and a functional parliament in each.”

“Corymb?”

“His family ruled Dielaan. We united under Sheel Atare Mindbender when famine threatened to devastate us. It was not a ... completely peaceful changeover, though the people favored it and forced it.”

“At any rate,” Roe continued, “at the coronation of each Atare and at the marriage of each Ragäree and at the birth of the heirs, the tribes send representatives to pledge mutual trust and respect between ... basically the opposing life-styles.”

“Are they really opposing? I mean, your people seem like a people who do things for themselves, you—“

“But major conveniences are taken care of on a larger scale. A vulnerable scale. A great failing. But then, subconsciously, we may have wanted peace so badly we were better prepared for paradise than war.”

“Then we can expect an emissary within a half year?”

The Atares were silent a moment, astonished. “Yes,” Braan began slowly. “I suspect we are being observed. But to deal with our official visitors would only be the beginning. There is little for us to offer them, you see, and the famous Nualan altruism often stops at the desert’s edge. There are many tribesmen who would love to step in and take over our trinium mines. Others have private ambitions of their own.” Someone came up behind them, but Braan was undisturbed, so Tay did not turn. “And there are different ... levels of Cied. Those of the deep sand mountains are a proud, fierce people, given to warring with their neighbors over the slightest insult. The middle tribes are usually friendly among themselves and others but, in a head-on confrontation, would support the deep people. Then, the waste dwellers, the Wasuu, and the Stigati ...”

“Are marginally human” came Arrez’s voice. “Their wants and needs change daily. The danger they could represent, if aroused, is substantial.”

Teloa turned and surveyed the high priest. “Could we go to them?”

“Good question. An Atare might. The deep tribes would not accept anyone else. And the Stigati would surely kill any but the Ragäree.”

“You’re safe. Why?” Teloa asked Ronüviel. Arrez had made the statement in Nualan, but Tay had understood the last line.

“I am the house of Atare,” Roe answered simply. “It is my children who shall next rule, not Braan’s. And the people would rather take another high family as leaders than any other Atare but the one I carried; for example, Deveah’s son and Braan’s son would have just as legitimate a claim as my mother’s sister’s son. And that might bring on a blood feud.”

“What about Liel?”

“The eldest of the eldest,” Arrez said in Galactic. “Even if Liel had a child first, she is not the eldest daughter and only has a claim if Roe is barren. All royal lines are allowed one generation of solely female issue, you see, before the hierarchy must change. The prophecies say an Atare shall lead us all. May the day come soon.” He eyed Braan and spoke in Nualan. “You have called for a tribal council this evening, with the elders as well. I have information for you before then. Concerning Cied, as it were. And Baakche.”

Braan studied him. “Tay, do you have your recorder?” he asked in Galactic.

“No, Atare. Shall I get it?”

“Please.” The woman hurried off, the akemmi protesting and clinging tightly to her poncho. Zair paused, nosed Braan and then followed. The Nualan smiled faintly, sadly at the dog’s confusion.

“You keep her close. Why?” Arrez asked, persisting with the Nualan tongue.

“I fear for her. You have seen the dark looks she receives. It has been but fourteenday, Arrez. She is a good scripter and quite mute when others question her about state affairs. The best kind of assistant to have. Also, ” he went on drolly as she reappeared, “She is the only woman in the city not throwing herself at my feet. It is refreshing.”

“She is the only woman not attempting to become pregnant. Fully a third of those who were pregnant have lost the children they carried before the bombing, and Elana fears problems with another third. We revert to the Nualan instinct.”

“So pray for Roe,” Braan finished, glancing at his sister.

“You think I do not?”

But Braan was smiling at Tay’s long leap to the plateau, the akemmi chittering its distress and anger. He was already explaining to Tay that he wanted the following conversation transcribed and a summary prepared for the evening meeting. As Braan led the way, politely gesturing for Arrez to follow, Teloa contained any questions for Ronüviel about the actual power of the Ragäree and quickly brought up the rear.

oOo

Roe remained alone. She had already heard about Baakche, as she often heard about things before anyone else did, and was not interested in a second recitation. Tonight would come soon enough. She moved on into the mountain, pushing thoughts of starvation out of her mind.

Taking a flight of newly-chiseled steps and a natural upper corridor, Roe ducked under a tarp and entered the new medical wing. Her gaze traveled to the back of the cave, and she repressed her alarm. Stop it, you are acting like a ward nurse! Moran was sitting up on his bunk, a blanket loosely thrown across his shoulders. He was leaning against an outcrop of rock, eyes closed and face very pale. Roe could tell that he was attempting to control his agonized breathing. She rushed to support his side, silently cursing the hands that had controlled those bombs.

The bones had fused well, and infection had been kept to a minimum; but these were not the real problems of recovery. The difficulties of dealing with Dielaan poisoning, as the elusive radiation of Nuala was termed, were more subtle. As Braan had hoped, the defense shields had been able to control the luna radiation almost completely. In cases like Moran’s and Lyte’s, however, the planet had leapt into their weakened defense systems, sweeping past centuries-old protections like a gale wind. And it fed on their body processes, slowing the bone marrow’s attempts to replace blood and thereby siphoning the muscles’ strength. It was one thing that could not be rushed, this slow cure—bed rest, fluids, slowly increased exercise, and occasional blood transfusions. Because of it all, Moran seemed to need her close to him, physically and emotionally; she gladly obliged.

Moran opened his eyes as she gently brushed his long bangs across his brow. He studied her, his dark blue eyes glazed with pain he could not hide.

“Maybe you should lie down,” she began.

“No. I want to go out.”

Roe started to reply and stopped herself. She stared down the passageway between the ends of the beds. So short—so long. Could she get him down there? And what about back? She took in his form. He wore joqurs and laced skin boots, a thick vatos wool blanket thrown over all. He would be warm enough. Why not? The snow clouds were already forming over the Sonoma range; soon winter would settle in to stay. She sensed chaotic emotion in him—she knew his hatred of caverns.

The walk took forever. Roe felt every step of pain, although Moran said nothing. Finally they reached the broad ledge Elana had chosen as the life shelter walkway. Moran sank down on the bench against the outer wall, exhausted by the movement.

“I am weak,” he admitted, a brief smile illuminating his face.

Roe gently traced his cheekbone, appalled by his thinness and enchanted by his beauty. Yes, beauty; he had traveled beyond his usual classic features. It was a bit too close to the pose of an ancient angel for Roe’s taste. She outlined the sculptured muscles of his shoulder and arm, glad for him to see the tone was not completely gone.

“You will be yourself before you know it,” she replied, avoiding his direct gaze as she drew the blanket tighter around him.

“You think so?”

“As a doctor, I can tell you the recovery has been swift. Being familiar with your temperament, I can say it will not be nearly fast enough for you.”

“Lyte is up and walking alone,” he said accusingly.

“You are not Lyte,” Roe answered, laying her cheek on his outstretched arm. In response Moran slowly raised his other hand to run his fingers through her hair.

“I don’t sleep,” he whispered absently.

“I know.”

“Ever since I heard about—those women—I’ve been worried about you. And it. You’re in a dangerous time now—“

“Do not. I am as healthy as—“

“So were they.” It was abrupt, unlike him. He stared off over the outer stone wall and down onto the foothills below.

She felt the fear, the need to defuse it. “Nualan women really are different, Moran. We have stone wombs. A radiation blast strong enough to kill me could not touch this child—or children. Stress would. So you have to get well soon; that is my major worry.”

“Children? Plural?” His bewilderment was amusing, touching.

“Elana thinks she can hear two heartbeats. We are going to wait a time before we run tests.”

Moran sighed deep down in his chest, and Roe prayed for the thousandth time to be able to do something, anything to shake the depression he was sinking into. Often he demanded to sleep at the mouth of the life shelter cave, on the walkway; and he laid awake nights, watching the stars. What did he feel then? Anger? Hopelessness? He had not planned to join them so soon—and in such a way....

An unusual vibration passed through Roe, and realizing what it was, she moved closer to him, seizing his hand and pressing it against her stomach to feel the child’s movement. Moran’s puzzlement turned to wonder, his deep blue gaze devouring her smiling face as if he could not look at her enough. She lowered her head, her lips brushing the crook of his elbow. Roe could feel his body temperature rise in response to her action and was irritated that months of separation lay between them. She was beginning to show a great deal more than the others as far along as she; by the time he was healed, she would be spending a large portion of the day confined to bed.

“I’m worried about the baby—babies—because, what with the radiation fallout, I’ve been afraid that I might be ... sterile now.” So—at the roots all men feared the same things.

“Highly unlikely. And you are certainly not impotent.” Roe grinned wickedly at his mirthless smile. “Do not let it eat away at your mind; that is the danger. It could destroy you.” She traced with her lips the muscles of his upper arm and shoulder, pausing at his throat. He bent down and sought her face. She gave in to the embrace, pushing thoughts of his condition out of her mind, enjoying something they both had been deprived of too long.

A keen wind knifed through them, and Ronüviel shivered, wrapping her arms around his body.

Moran managed a slight chuckle. “Do you think you can protect me from the elements?” He slowly folded his arms, pulling her close. “Go ahead and try.”

“There will be hard frost by morning,” she answered. “Snow by the Feast of Souls.”

“Another day of rites,” Moran mused. “Without a temple. Where will they meet?”

“Soon we will be using the great cavern. I just hope we are inside the mountains before the winter strikes. It is not so long, but it is bitter and deep.” Roe watched the star creep toward the floating horizon, trying to allow the silva’s song to lull her. “Moran,” she whispered suddenly, “what is to become of everything?”

Moran did not answer, but his arms tightened around her.

Chapter Eleven

MT. AMURA, THE CAVERNS

FIFTEENDAY, VESPERS

Smoke, smoke everywhere, rising to the ceiling, and a riot of noise. Teloa carefully picked her way across the cavern floor, avoiding milling adults and racing children. She had lost the dog, Zair, in the crowd. Praise the powers that food was now distributed by tribes—today was calm compared to just after the bombing. Spotting the Atare firepit, she shifted the cooking pot she clutched in her arms and started in that direction.

A blow behind her knees caused her to stumble, dropping the metal pot with a crash. As Tay turned to see what had happened, a blur of child whisked by, snatching the kettle.

Teloa’s arm snaked out, seizing the thief’s ankle. “Hold it right there! What do you think you’re doing? That pot belongs to my firegroup!” she exclaimed indignantly, standing once again. “And that knee trick hurts!” Downcast, the boy did not struggle, and his mother descended upon them, grabbing her son and beginning to apologize.

Suddenly the woman and boy were shoved aside, and a huge form seized Teloa’s arm in a bruising grip. Flinching, she pulled back, and the man dealt her a stunning blow to the side of the head. “Bitch! What do you mean, taking food from my son’s mouth? You do not belong here; you are off-world, entiss, unwanted,“ the man began to scream, shaking her vigorously as he did so.

Teloa was seeing sparks. She was vaguely aware of the crowd pushing near—some attempting to help her, others trying to aid him. “We will waste no food on murdering Axis warriors, and I shall remove one problem—“ and then the scream was of pain as Zair slashed into her attacker.

Two men jumped the hysterical Nualan, and Braan was there, a death grip on the man’s wrist, forcing him to release Tay’s arm. A healer stepped up with a sedative, assisting the citizens in removing the crazed man. Kalith and Kavan restrained Zair and recaptured the tiny akemmi, depositing it in Tay’s hood. Teloa sank to her knees during the spectacle, not fully cognizant of Braan’s arm encircling her waist and hauling her up, guiding her to the Atare family firepit. She was in a dream state, huddled in a crevice, hot saffra being forced down her throat. Among a thousand words and encouragements from Atare relatives both distant and throneline, Braan’s calm, solitary comment stood out. “I asked you to stay with me.”

The only other thing Teloa remembered from the meal was watching Braan and his son Dylan. Other family members would seek their ruler’s attention, but thirdmeal was clearly Dylan’s time. This night there was an edge of excitement to the boy’s voice as he related the day’s activities, and Teloa heard several whispers indicating the family’s pleasure that the boy was snapping out of his depression. She knew he had not forgiven himself for Asiai’s disappearance. Tay sank into forgetfulness, her last view of Dylan’s shining face.

She awoke with the dying rays of Kee reflecting off her knees. Sitting up, she found Dylan was next to her, hovering near the akemmi. Smiling faintly at him, Tay rearranged herself and offered an arm to the animal. The creature scampered up her sleeve and perched on her shoulder. Dylan pulled out a few nuts and offered one to the beast. Chirping in delight, the creature warily took one from him.

“You are a charmer,” Tay murmured, testing the lump behind her ear with her fingers.

“I wish one would stay with me,” Dylan sighed. “I have been trying to get her to take that nut since you fell asleep. Do you feel better?”

“Just tired. I will sleep well.”

Dylan looked uncomfortable. “The man lost much family—he has been crazed in his grief for days on end. His wife wishes to speak with you tomorrow, when you feel better. She is very embarrassed.”

“No permanent harm, I hope. Of course.”

The boy nodded, looking pleased with his arrangements. Zair lay beside him; he gave the dog a hug and firmly pushed the beast down when it tried to follow. “Stay with Teloa.”

“Tay,” she prompted.

He nodded, smiling. “I have to go to bed. I will see you later.”

As he started to leave, Tay said, “Dylan, don’t worry about Asiai. The ships achieved orbit, and the Nualans off-world will find her and take care of her. Believe it.” He just stared sadly at her, and then walked off.

“Poor child, his childhood is over,” she said aloud. Shivering at the thought of thirdmeal, she was glad that she had logically traced it out. The man was not angry at her—only at what he believed she represented. It was some consolation, if brief.

The voices in the cavern had grown louder. Almost everyone was gone, hidden from sight beyond the deep recesses of the garedoc, the great cavern, and preparing for sleep. Only the Atare family gathered near, talking quietly among themselves. Arrez was also there, and the surviving synod elders were trickling in. Braan stood alone by the pit, his face and chain of office dazzling in the light, his dark clothes muted against the walls. He did not look quite as grim as he had earlier, she thought; sharing the meal with Dylan had calmed him. Tay had been horribly afraid the boy would remind him so keenly of Enid and of his missing daughter Asiai that he could not tolerate the child’s presence. But Braan was making a great effort, and each day seemed easier. She stood, pulling her recorder from under her poncho, and moved to the fire coals. She suspected that Braan merely had given her something to do, but she was thankful for it. It would help her concentrate on the foreign language.

“Brethren, cease thy speech!” It was an older woman who spoke, her poncho design marking her an Atare, not a synod elder. “We have been called for consultation and decision. Let us hear our Atare.”

“We have been called,” came the almost unison answer, confirming Tay’s suspicion that the formal words were ceremonial.

Braan stepped back into the fire’s glare, fully visible to the whole assembly. Teloa saw that there were more present than she had expected; the house of Atare must have been great, to lose so many and yet be so represented. The Atare paused, as if measuring his words.

Then he began to speak. He was not gentle; his tone told Teloa that much. From what she could understand, Braan was saying that they would begin to build within the mountain immediately and would abandon Amura for the duration of the battle emergency. Low speech broke out among the gathering, especially at the words a siege of generations.

Ronüviel rose to address the gathering. “The Atare alludes to the last time a maximum offense against the Axis occurred, in the Helix quadrant. It took the Axis sixty-three terrayear to regain its lost colonies. I, for one, do not intend to spend that time living out of a sack, and Amura will be uninhabitable for several years, unless we desire a massive water purification system. We have been tapping the stellar communications scans. We are now deep in Fewha territory.” No one chose to comment on this statement.

“Ragäree?”

“Speak, friend.”

Jaacav rose from her seat on the rocks. Her speech was much swifter than Roe’s, and Teloa knew that the tape dots would take a long time to translate. The thrust of the warrior’s words concerned their time buffer. The Fewha’s spearhead into the outer line had been so great, it might take them as long as twoyear to return to the Nualan System. It was necessary to use that time to guard against invasion by pirates or “a zealous Axis force, demanding we explain our overelaborate defense system”.

Teloa found herself sorting out the Nualan words of Jaac’s comments; those words hinting around the Axis response. She glanced over at Roe—the Ragäree also looked thoughtful. How was the Nualan defense being interpreted?

“Our main priority is food,” Braan continued, regaining leadership of the discussion. “Growing it, storing it, distributing it. We shall not be hungry this winter. That does not mean we can feast, nor does it imply that next year is guaranteed. We must return to the soil and traditional planting methods. Lars sends word that while not impossible, things shall be very difficult for a time.”

“A comment.” It was Jaac once again.

“Speak.”

“For some time the Nualan defense has been attempting to develop a planet-wide shield which could destroy a lesser attack and continue to defuse a luna barrage. As a matter of record, you will find south of Amura numerous growing fields unmarked by bomb craters. These areas were protected by the new test shield, totally forgotten by everyone during the excitement of the devastation.

“The new shield has its faults—it cannot stop incoming ships, whether they are constructed like Nualan vessels or are general carriers. But it will severely damage even a captured Nualan transport. As always, the radiation will protect us from any other intruders. It has the advantage of being geographically controlled. We can deactivate one beam to allow allies to land, yet continue the protection of the planet as a whole. An active scansearch will be maintained to warn us of the smallest ship’s entry into our upper atmosphere. We hope to construct enough power stations to implement this planetwide by the thaw.”

Teloa felt rather than heard the buzz that answered this; the words were too swift for her to catch. Jaac evidently was finished; she settled herself as if she did not intend to rise again. Braan now spoke, assuring the elders that warriors were monitoring the emotions of their people and that the guaard was being replenished by its standby legion.

The last note was directed to an elderly man who had an air of importance. It meant nothing to Tay but apparently answered an earlier question. The elder seemed satisfied in an impersonal way. Tay caught herself picking out guaard, all standing near throneline Atares.

Ronüviel stood up and moved to Braan’s side, and the audience immediately gave her their full attention, the undercurrent of whispers concerned with her supposed pregnancy. Their relief and pleasure over her condition was evident.

She is not only Atare, she is Nuala, Tay thought. And they would not want it any other way. She did not fail to notice that Roe did not have to ask for the chair’s recognition to speak.

“I am sure many of you can see where these plans are leading, this threefold concern over our defense, our food and a roof over our heads,” Roe started to sum up. “We strive for self-sufficiency, total planet autonomy.” Before the crowd could react she went on. “Before the starships reached for space, all planets were self-sufficient. We can be again. Anything this planet cannot provide us with, we can and shall do without. We do this ...” She had to raise her voice; many individuals were clearly worried by her inference: “We do this to prepare ourselves for the long siege, to prevent a total collapse of our economy and to give us an excellent bargaining position for reentering the Axis Republican Council. The Axis ignored our mutual treaty obligations and, as well as we can determine, seeks to place the blame on Nuala. Returning to the status quo will be as painful as the next twoyear promises to be.”

As the silence dissolved into an undercurrent of words, the new head of the synod, Justinian, stood up.

Braan held up his hands asking for silence. “Our next order of business is more disturbing. I have shown Justinian all of the taped information Ronüviel and I brought back from Tolis, aided by supporting tracts from Amura’s transaction computer. He will now relate his conclusions, and the voice of his sub-committee.”

Justinian stepped forward. Tay studied the elderly man with interest. It was he who had been concerned about the number of the guaard, the Atare family’s private bodyguard service, as Tay understood it. Justinian and his wife, Url, easily in their eighties, were among the most influential of the synod elders. They were also the most neutral, despite their high placement in the Dielaan house.

The Caprican woman appreciated Braan’s shrewdness. Although the majority of the synod supported him without hesitation, there were still enemies. Enemies of the house of Atare; personal enemies of Braan’s. Anything Braan said to the assembly might be twisted by them. But Justinian was truly independent, as likely to support the throne as to attack it, and was half of the only unbiased pair present. He was the perfect choice to explain about Tolis—and Corymb.

Though his voice was soft, Justinian showed he was still a masterful speaker and debater. He spoke in detail concerning what the computer had shown and had aides hold up charts explaining how close they had come to absorption by their off-world investors. He indirectly praised Braan’s nationalization of the mines and industries and the sending of an interstellar decree to that effect. The old Nualan skillfully reiterated the information about the assassin and then added the scene with the messenger, indicating Corymb was quite alive and biding his time over his return. Tay let the recorder run; this was too important to risk missing a key concept by abridging as she copied.

Finally Justinian turned and gestured to Arrez, who stood and told the startling news of the presence of Cied in Amura, and of what appeared to be Baakche, the Dragoche himself, in conference with Corymb.

Silence hung in the cavern for a long time after Arrez finished. Even those Corymb supporters who had managed to explain away everything else had trouble with the last charge. The tribes had no use for the cities—this had been the case from before recorded interaction.

The tribes knew of Braan—but not Braan Atare. The difference was important. The Ciedärlien did not acknowledge the rule of Amura, and the point had not been pressed in a millennium. What did they want? Or what did Corymb promise them? And most importantly, how did he intend to deliver?

Braan finally stood up. “I did not request this presentation to set us at each other’s throats or to plant doubts in our minds about each other’s loyalty. The fact is, there is a hologram awaiting your perusal that was Baskh Atare’s last recording. In it he expresses his belief that Corymb was attempting to supplant himself and Tal, setting Deveah on the throne; and that Corymb was aiding off-worlders in what could become a blockade of Nualan economic interests. We cannot make accusations on the basis of this information, but Justinian considered our current situation serious enough to bring this to the Synod.”

“Atare?” Old Justinian had risen once again.

“Speak.”

“The crisis is this: Corymb may return to us a victim of circumstantial evidence; we may even find a blackmailer and slanderer in our ranks. We may also be readmitting a scorpion to our den. Things will be very hard and tense in the next sixhundred fortyeightday. Corymb’s experience could be invaluable. He could also seek an opening and wreak havoc among us, destroying monarchy, temple, synod and masses. A word from him could raise sini and 80-20 discord to fever pitches. My request is this; to those who have supported him in the past, think before backing his words. And those who have never listened, listen; and be not quick to condemn.” He looked at Braan expectantly.

“That is all we have prepared,” Braan said quietly. “Questions? Comments?” As both Arrez and Justinian sat down, several questions were asked, and in them Tay sensed the deep danger they were approaching. The inquiries were specific, current—no one wanted to think too far ahead. And no one wanted to talk about Corymb or off-worlders. Braan dealt with their doubts easily, belaying his exhaustion, and soon the meeting was brought to a dignified end.

Braan turned to Teloa. “May I take the recorder tonight? I would like to go over the complete lecture with no editing or editorializing. It may be that what we think of as useless may in fact be the gold we seek.” Tay was not sure she understood any of the cryptic remarks, but the request was clear. And she knew if her record was poor, he’d replace her, so the comment was not aimed specifically at her work. She mutely handed him the recorder.

Braan took it, critically eyeing the amount of tape dots used. “We are long-winded, are we not? A lot of work for you.” He glanced up, his expression intense. He moved swiftly, but his touch was sure and gentle, checking the lump above her ear. “How is your head? Are you dizzy, nauseous?” She winced and slowly shook her head. His acceptance of her attitude was uncertain. “If you are sure. Sleep in tomorrow if you have a headache; do not worry about rising duties.” Tay started to protest, fearful of others thinking that she’d received preferential treatment. Braan was gone, however, moving into the recesses of the cavern, indicating the matter was closed.

“Atare!” He stopped and faced her again across a crevice. “Get some rest. If there was no time for a proper coronation, there is no time for a state funeral.” He studied her impassively and then disappeared.

“Do not lose any sleep over it. When he drops, I shall just tuck him into bed for a few days.” It was Ronüviel.

“And if he keeps staggering on?”

“I will slip him an air hypo when he least expects it,” Roe went on reassuringly, forcing a smile.

“I wish I could read people like you all do. I feel ... handicapped.” Tay scarcely realized that she was saying it aloud.

“Relax into it sometime. You might be surprised at how easily you can do it. After all, Lyte and Moran are trained sensitives. And you feel things, Tay—without trying. Good night.” Tay nodded at Ronüviel as the woman made her way toward the life shelter. Teloa looked out the portal, saw night deepening, and suddenly felt very tired.

Chapter Twelve

LIFE SHELTER

FIFTEENDAY, COMPLINE

Lyte heard footsteps on the ledge. It’s taken them longer to find me this time, he thought. I’m getting better at hiding. As he had slowly healed, the restlessness took hold of him. He wandered, often sleeping on the life shelter walkway under the pulsing stars. This night he was hiding motionless in a deep, wide niche, accessible only by a ledge leading off the life shelter walkway. Shinar nearly swept by him in her haste to avoid the rising wind.

He was found. She half dragged a heavy quilt around the corner and dumped it next to him. Lyte, arrayed comfortably on his back and studying the stars, pretended to ignore her. Finally: “Can’t a man find a little peace around here?”

“Not this way,” she replied quickly. “I was sent to be sure your body had not fallen off a cliff and to wrap what was left of it in this.” She plopped down beside him. “Are you sleeping here?”

“Have to. Those caves give me the crawlies. Too close, too stuffy. I like to see the night.”

“The stars? You cannot see the night.”

“I can.” There was a pause, and he chuckled. Her presence was gentle, lulling, and something began to relax within him that had been tight too long. They shared the moonrise, the trine brethren of Eros, Philios and Agape rising above the dark, glittering expanse of the Sonoma range. A good healer, this woman-child. No one had to tell Lyte how ill he had been; he still tired suddenly, needing long periods of sleep. But his humor was rising once again, in the face of a strange phenomenon—a growing friendship with Shinar. They rarely played word games anymore. She had sat through too many painful nights with him for that barrier to remain. And the knowledge of that friendship disturbed Lyte. He had never had a woman as a friend; not without other considerations. And Shinar was Kalith of Atare’s woman, whether they denied each other or no.

“Did you come to give me a work release?” Lyte asked without looking at her.

“No. I told you why I came.”

“Then good night. I’m in a mean mood.”

“I have been warned?”

“You have been warned,” he continued soberly, shoving the new quilt under his back and shoulders. He was wearing the light, loose pants and long-sleeved shirt of a native, covered carelessly by a wool blanket. Fortunately the rocks slowed the wind. It was amazingly warm in his little shelter, and he had no intention of leaving it for a dark, cramped cave.

“How are the bones?” Shinar started.

Bones? The ones they had fused ... the ribs and shoulder? “No pain. I haven’t tried any work yet, so I don’t know what they can withstand. But if you’d arrange a work release ...”

“Ha,” Shinar answered, leaning over to rap professionally on his ribs for laser misses. “Soon.”

As she leaned toward him a tiny shred of wind brought her fragrance to him—an odor of lemon, and of honey. Brisk, like a slap in the face, with the elusive, naturally feminine scent beneath it all. He reacted without thinking, whipping a strong arm across her back and lightly, teasingly, kissing her. She stiffened, and Lyte sensed her surprise and worry. Damn, I am not an invalid! But her response was too swift, not guarded, unexpected by Shinar herself? It had never occurred to him to tease a friend, and yet, now he could force thought, and the only coherent one was that she was warmer than he’d expected, softer. Even as thought came he was gathering her in his arms, seeking her lips.

Lyte had always attempted to be a master in every skill he possessed, though he had long ago outgrown his purely mechanical interest in sex. There was no pleasure for him unless the woman was pleased, and so he had learned to please his women. And Shinar was no passive observer, despite her worried detachment. Her natural response was so achingly sweet that by the time Lyte could drag himself to cold-sober awareness, he was on his side and covering her throat with kisses.

He paused, and then icily, cautiously, drew away from her, shaken. “I’m sorry.”

“I am not.”

“I’ve never done that before, seriously. I don’t know what—” He faded off as her words sunk in.

In the growing moonlight he saw her roll over on her right side, touching his shoulder carefully. “Are you nodding off?”

He felt himself ruffle. “No. It’s not that again,” he replied sharply, using the same emphasis he always did for his recurring exhaustion.

“Then ... what?”

He stared at her, torn between rage and desire. “I do not molest children,” he said stiffly, and flopped on his back.

“Come now, you are not still making that mistake?” she asked softly.

Lyte regarded her without comment. He had seen others’ appreciative looks and had been inexplicably irritated by them. They weren’t good enough for her. But he wasn’t sure he was, either. Damn these Nualans and their crazy lives! But they were happy—only outside interference, such as between Kal and Shinar, caused trouble. “I do not resort to ... rape ... to satisfy my needs. I’ve never had to, and I refuse to believe I’m desperate enough to accost a friend.”

“Rape is an act of violence, not of passion. Ask any human who has been attacked. How about mutual comfort instead?” There was a smile in her voice, but it was sad and a bit cynical, as if hiding the tears he had seen so many times in the last few days. He rolled back onto his side, propping up his head with his elbow, but he refused to lift his face to her.

“Look at me,” she said seriously.

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because I want you so badly, I’m shaking.”

Shinar said nothing. She appeared to pause, as if weighing the alternatives, and then she carefully reached over with her free hand and loosened the tie holding his wrap shirt closed, skillfully brushing the stomach muscles.

Lyte kept his voice very controlled. “Shinar, I’ve never allowed myself to get this tight around a woman unless I’ve been involved with her awhile. My—I can be very—We should wai—”

“I have also been called a demon.” She pushed the shirt back, running her fingers through the hairs on his chest.

Lyte moved away from her, shaking out the huge down quilt and spreading it on the ground over his sleeping area. Shinar watched him go through his nightly routine, right down to stripping off the rest of his shirt. Then he dropped back to the blanket and met her gaze, actually more relaxed than before.

“Are you leaving?” he asked.

“Do you want me to?” she countered gently, her gaze not leaving his face.

Don’t ask me that. Holy gods, his blood was starting to boil. Tempted by a child—no, not a child. Never make that mistake. Younger than you’ve fallen for but not a child. But what about Kal? Damn that Atare! Why didn’t he tend to his own woman, so she would not—Lyte remembered his conversation with Roe. Was he being used? He studied the young woman’s eyes. No.... He did not understand what was happening, but he was not being used. Maybe she needed someone as much as he did. Lyte did not answer at first; he merely quietly surveyed the lovely way her soft native shirt and pants clung to her body, and then reached over to absently release the tie holding her top secure. It was hard to remain nonchalant at that sight, but somehow Lyte did. Shinar was impassive, waiting. Lyte felt the expectancy, the question in her mind as well.

Something was crawling around in the back of his mind, and he was ashamed to acknowledge it. “I’ve never shared love with a woman whom I knew was thinking about someone else,” he suddenly blurted out. He kept his tone conversational, but he turned his face away from the light of the rising trine, aware that she could see as well as he.

“I doubt you ever will,” Shinar answered.

Something in Lyte unwound, a wary tenseness he had not recognized. The Nualans were truthful; they did not lie. Is that how Arrez did it? Could he turn his mind on and off among four women? Lyte stopped thinking, stopped worrying, shaking his head ever so slightly. Then he slipped an arm around her ribs and drew her soft flesh to his.

So long ... not really, but it seemed as if— Gods. He was lost in the moment, the pleasure, wasting no thought on the morrow. Whatever hesitation Shinar had over his physical strength quickly dissolved in his own attempts to increase their pleasure. They were so absorbed in one another that her soft laughter startled him.

She grabbed for her shirt and flicked it across his back. “How did we get out of these?” she gasped, the laughter shuddering through her.

Lyte chuckled and redoubled the flow of kisses and caresses across her full breasts. “Woman, some men are leg men, some neck men. I prefer breasts and had to reach them. Now please, continue whatever you were doing to my back.” Still laughing, Shinar complied, her nails once again tracing an intricate pattern down his spine.

And they continued, until the heat was so overpowering they could only tighten their grip upon one another and seek each other’s mouths. Lyte had not expected them to come so close to reaching a peak together—not the first time. Nor had he expected the exhaustion to come afterward in such a rush. His whole body went limp so suddenly, his limbs so heavy, he thought he was blacking out. But no, it passed, and he slowly rolled over on one side to keep from crushing her, his arms reaching out in a warm and protective circle she snuggled into without hesitation.

“Are you all right?” she whispered, and he could feel her guilt. He stirred slightly, his grip tightening, making no attempt to break their contact.

“I hope you’re joking,” he answered sleepily. “I may never let you go.”

oOo

Lyte awoke in a daze, not sure if it was still night or morning. The added warmth so close to him was not startling; the thick, honey hair was. He looked down at the young woman sprawled across his chest and gently raised a hand to smooth her hair. He was having trouble controlling and directing his thoughts, especially about Shinar, and hoped that his restlessness would not wake her.

“What the hell are you doing?” he said aloud, and quickly glanced to see if she was disturbed. What was he going to do about this? He was not a one-woman man—never had been. But there was something special about her, something he couldn’t quite place.

She loved Kalith. Yet she had been with him last night, no other. How could you love two people at once? Lyte had never believed it possible. Was it because they both needed someone who cared, and this was just the way it had worked out? Kal had seemed so preoccupied lately.

“Blasted Atare, if I were him, I’d kill me,” he muttered. Good luck if you try, fool. You drove her to me ... keeping her at arm’s length, never allowing her to share your hopes and fears. “I’m no good for you, but I’m not sure he is, either.” Why did Kal have to take the Atare duties, the traditions, so seriously?

Lyte gently drew away from her, pulling the blanket around her in a comfortable manner. Wait until morning, let it ride, see how she behaves. A stranger or lover? How could hands of healing and loving blend so perfectly; no pity on her part, no gratitude on his. Lords, she was beautiful!

Flopping on his stomach, the man set his head down on his hands, his gaze straying over the stone edge to the last sinking moon. “Mendülay, if you are a g— If you are God, straighten this out to the good of everyone involved, will you? I can’t see my way through it.” It was his last thought before his eyes closed.

MONTINCOL

SIXTEENDAY, PRIME

Kee was pale as she rose above the mountain path, crowded by clouds dark and heavy with the snow yet to come. Corymb Dielaan rose to his feet and paced slowly before the mouth of the cave, staring down into the valley separating Montincol from Mt. Amura. A neutral place, the Dragoche had requested. The chanting had gone on for hours, the silver tenor of Baakche Dragoche rising above the rest. Suddenly, silence. A young Cied, completely veiled in the beige, sand-threaded robes so common to the desert people, appeared out of the darkness. They spoke no words; Corymb followed the Cied back into the meeting area.

Cloaked warriors of the Ciedärlien stood beside every seated member. It was impossible to tell by sight which were male and which female; since a vow of celibacy was a prerequisite to serving as a Cied warrior, it did not matter.

Corymb joined the circle, seating himself directly across from Baakche, the Dragoche. The top portions of their veils, usually covering their upper faces, were down. None of the chieftains present dropped their lower scarves, however—that was a privilege reserved only for intimate family. Genuar’s deepset brown eyes were among the group. Baakche’s heir studied the Dielaan intently. Baakche was a mad one but would be the high priest of his people until his death. Genuar, as the Dragoche tribe war leader, was the actual leader of the Ciedärlien warriors. All the tribes, from high to low, deferred to the Dragoche tribe. It was purely coincidence—was it?—that the spiritual heir was also the war leader. The game began.

“It has been decided,” Baakche intoned, not looking at the Dielaan. “The brethren have gathered and have discussed the proposal of Corymb Dielaan. It is agreed that for this time we shall unite and aid Corymb Dielaan in his lawful quest to regain the throne of his fathers.” Baakche glanced at Genuar as he spoke. The heir’s eyes tightened, but he remained impassive. There was dispute over the best way to realize the Cied’s ends—many chieftains were absent, refusing to recognize Corymb as the solution but unwilling to vocally contend with their Dragoche. “In return,” Baakche continued, “we expect a reasonable share of the trine mines, the privilege of living among the cities if we choose, and supplies to aid the tribes destroyed by the alien rain—”

“Your pardon, Dragoche,” Genuar interrupted. “There is some misunderstanding, Dielaan, about what it is you require of us. Do you wish us to sabotage their granaries? You have not spoken plainly to us. We would not wish to destroy their seed grain and so put all peoples on short rations.”

“No, no—for right now, you need only wait.” Corymb seemed to consider the simplest way to explain his hopes. Baakche often could not remember much more than that from one day to the next. “The Fewha bombs destroyed most of the chemical and mechanical means the city dwellers used to produce their food. They have enough grain to survive this winter. During it they shall rebuild their cities, and hard work it shall be too. Long hours toward an undefined end. I am trusting they shall tire of this and want answers.”

“You expect rebellion?” Genuar went on. “A thousand years ago the city-dwellers might have overthrown a kingdom with less provocation than the attack. It would seem that something has ... matured? ... in the character of your people. Their endurance under travail is astonishing.”

“Not rebellion. The Atare family is old and rooted. It shall probably be necessary to remove, or detain, the members of the throne line long enough for me to gain a strong foothold among the synod members. It will not take much to convince the masses we do not need the sinis, and I shall suggest to them that without a surplus of grain, even the 80s may endanger our survival. I shall sow just enough distrust to make them desire a strong leader with direction.” Corymb looked distant as he spoke. “The Atares have had three thousand years to lead this planet to ruin. I shall bring our people to a new day.”

“Our spies tell us that this Atare is loved. That emotion is stronger than deceit, Dielaan.”

“You underestimate my skills as a politician, Genuar. First we watch and see what the Atares shall do. Perhaps they shall even appeal to you for the old knowledge. But I am the one who can bring it to Amura. I am the one who shall ultimately rule, I and my line. I am young yet, as Nualans live; I can wait.”

Baakche seemed to awaken out of dreams. He touched his forehead and looked at Corymb. “Come, friend, let us break our morning bread.” He stood slowly, tightly gripping the arm of Genuar and his chief of security, the assassin. The unknown Cied remained at Baakche’s left as they walked out, the position of honor. Genuar excused himself, however, indicating that Corymb was invited and should follow. Corymb made a bow of equality to the seated council and then followed Baakche, looking unsure of how to broach his questions without Genuar’s help.

Genuar remained standing until the sound of the passing could no longer be heard. Then he sat down again. “Hot saffra for all,” he ordered.

A warrior vanished. The group of men and women sat in silence until several warriors returned with the liquids. Then the young Cied withdrew, leaving the tribal leaders and their advisors. Now the real council began.

“What make you of this, Genuar?” a woman asked, the pattern of the hem of her beige robe marking her a warrior leader of the Tazelle clan.

“I smell treachery. The question is, can it aid us?” Genuar answered, sipping the steaming drink cautiously.

“Then you suspect he will betray us as the off-worlders betrayed us?” another warrior said.

No one spoke. Finally Genuar stirred. “I think,” he started, “Corymb does not yet know what he will do. He is angry—a great hatred consumes him for the Atares. When Tazelle scouts found him wandering and raving in the ciedär, revenge was on his mind. Now I think it is in his heart.”

“Shall we do as he asks?”

“Wait?” Genuar smiled. “Oh, yes, brethren, we shall wait ... longer than he thinks. I would send out spies of our own; I do not trust his runners to give us full reports. Riam?” A young Cied stepped back into the chamber. “Tell the brethren what we have discovered about the Atares.”

“There have been years of unrest within their walls, but the aliens silenced all dissension. The son who now rules is greatly loved, almost worshiped. The Ragäree is the first Atare-born healer in generations.” A murmur broke out at this.

“A born healer,” Genuar mused. “Think you the people will back them?”

“As long as logic dictates, and beyond. If this Dielaan removed them, however; caused an ‘accident ...’” The warrior hesitated.

“Chaos?” came a voice.

“Fear of it,” Riam continued. “The younger siblings are honest but untried. I do not think they would have the strength to withstand a concerted attack by the Dielaan. He is old and crafty in the ways of persuasion.” Genuar looked as if he was going to speak, but the young woman rushed on. “One other thing. She who is called Ragäree shall become one by spring’s full flowering.”

“An heir to Nuala ...” There was an undercurrent of words whispered in the back, and it was as if a brisk wind had struck Genuar. No matter how often the tribes reiterated their independence, the age-old belief in the eternal power of the Ragäree remained. Perhaps the old prophecies were true. Had the time come to follow the house of Atare?

“What of his politics, this new Atare?” a tribesman said sharply.

Riam’s eyes seemed to veil. “No one really knows. It has been five years since he addressed the synod. His wife was dying, his life in ruins. Before that time he was an avid supporter of both 80s and sinis, and as late as the day before the aliens rained upon us, he was dealing with the sinis of Tolis.”

“Indirectly, then, a supporter of us.” Genuar’s vision seemed to drift momentarily. “Not without reason have we always dealt with Atare.” He turned again to the Cied. “Did we send greetings to the Ragäree at her temple wedding?”

“It has not taken place yet.”

“Yet? The Ragarr survives?”

“Yes, but recovers slowly. The poisonous rain left him open to the planet.”

Genuar paused and seemed to consider Riam’s words. “A scroll should be left at their eternal flame,” he said, thinking aloud, “giving greetings and honor to the Ragäree. Such has it always been. But not this Atare—we shall wait and see if they come to us, and how they shall bargain.” He scowled fiercely around the room. “I trust you will all keep your people in order. We must regulate the tribes who refused to treat with Dielaan ... or those who pretend not to. Let the word be spread; the power of Genuar is upon it. All who bear the name and seal of Atare are under my protection until I have said differently. And any Cied responsible for the death of an Atare will answer directly to me.”

“So we shall see what use Atare has for us?”

“What use he thinks he has,” Genuar corrected. “We shall see.”

MT. AMURA, NUALA

TWENTYDAY, VESPERS

Lyte watched the star set into embers, the sea turning gray and chill. The water twinkled fitfully at him in the light of the firstmoon, a strip of silver on the horizon and then nothing but twilight. Calmed by the peaceful sight, he moved to re-enter the caverns. As he walked up the path to the mountain’s mouth a rolling pebble startled him. Tensing, the commando whirled.

“I am no predator, Lyte.”

Kalith. Damn. He did not need this, not now. The knot began to tighten within him, as predictable as that starset. “Are you sure?” Lyte returned lightly.

“Why would you fear me? I have no claws, and I am a terrible in-fighter.”

“You’re an Atare,” the off-worlder replied bluntly. “And I have your woman.”

“If I could acknowledge her as my woman, you would not ‘have’ her,” Kal answered.

His voice was so gentle Lyte relaxed without realizing it. “Why?”

“I do not—“

“Why not acknowledge her?”

“You know our marriage laws for roya—“

“Damn the laws. She’s as healthy as I am, and you may be an old man by the time the Axis ‘liberates’ this planet.” Lyte was not sure which angered him most—Kal’s reaction or his reasoning.

“Tradition changes slowly, Lyte. And royalty is not like any other job. It is the only position a human is born into—and one of the hardest to escape.”

“Then why mope around in a dream, hardly talking to anyone?”

“What would you suggest I do?” It was so cool Lyte almost hit him. He started to shout a reply and caught himself. And then coldly began to think. A minute passed ... two. Lyte still had not thought of anything Kal could do that would not draw criticism from at least one major political or cultural faction. He was a diplomat with no place to serve.

“You see? It is not easy. And it affects me keenly, more so than Kavan, because what I decide affects Shinar as well as myself. Soon, everyone will know how I feel about her. I cannot disguise it. But it cannot go any further until I determine my own course of action. Does that make sense?” Lyte did not answer. “So I thank you, warrior, for giving her what she needs, the love and security. What I cannot give her, not yet.”

“You people have crazy laws,” Lyte said flatly.

“Perhaps. But they have worked well for almost five thousandyear. If I toss them away, I must time it and justify it perfectly—or I will fail.” The Atare youth’s voice dropped noticeably in volume.

“So, married or not, we have one thing in common.”

“More than one thing—how do you like being utterly useless?” Kal stressed his words skillfully and, without looking back, continued up the path. Lyte stared after him, his thoughts curling back to face uncomfortable truths.

Chapter Thirteen

MT. AMURA, NUALA

SIXTYDAY, LAUDS (MOONSET)

Braan hesitated at the partition. He knew it was traditional to be as noisy as possible when waking the members of the wedding party, but they had been up so late, and Liel slept so soundly. Oh, why not. They could not complain; he was alone and had nothing to pound on. The marriage of Ronüviel and Moran deserved some boisterous celebration.

“Up! Everybody up in there, hurry, hurry, it is a bannsday! You have been chosen; now you are called! Awake!” There was no sound. The guaard before the door did not move. Then the temporary partition folded back, and Teloa stood there, eyeing him balefully, completely bundled in a blanket, her hair a wreath of light,.

“I hope there is precedent for this,” she began, her words dripping ice water.

“He is being nice, Tay” came a sleepy voice from the darkness within. “When Libra got married, I woke up to a twenty-piece band! Go away, Braan, we shall be there.”

“We are meeting in the assembly room before we go to the garedoc. Arrez will have candle straws for you. Do not eat anything!” Braan added as a reminder. Teloa, still amazed over the twenty-piece band, closed the partition. Controlling his laughter, Braan slipped back up the passageway toward his room, his guaard a shadow at his back.

He was so involved in thoughts about the wedding that he nearly ran into Shinar as she staggered around a corner. The Atare took one look at her face and seized her arm. Looking wildly for the sanitation room, he ripped open the partition and dragged her to a portable commode.

“Get a healer!” Braan yelled at the roommate who had been awakened by Shinar’s movement. The woman disappeared.

“Atare, I am sorry—you should not,” Shinar gasped out between heaves.

“Be quiet and let your stomach settle,” he replied, nodding to another bunk mate who had brought a blanket. With the guaard’s help the two of them managed to force Shinar flat on her back in the aisle. In a few moments the first roommate returned, Elana behind her. The doctor looked pale for early rising, Braan noticed, but she was not only the final medical authority, she was mother as well. Even with the young adults bunking together by age and sex until proper family units could be constructed, parental rights remained.

The healer checked her daughter’s forehead as she pulled out her diagnostician’s monitor. Shinar still perspired, her expression wide-eyed but otherwise alert.

“Just my stomach, nothing else,” Shinar said, anticipating her mother’s questions. Elana played with the dials on her tiny computer, her face betraying nothing. The roommates stood in the doorway, visibly worried.

“Congratulations, you are going to be a mother.” The bunk mates responded with gasps of surprise and joy, even as puzzled expressions crossed their faces. “You two—I left the rest of my bag in the life shelter and I need my comp connector to punch in a milk requisition. Go!” The surprised young women took off down the corridor.

“Fortunate you are billeted so far from other rooms,” Braan observed dryly.

“Do you know the father?” Elana went on, lowering her voice despite the absence of Shinar’s friends. “If so, he should know before the whole city does.” Braan smiled faintly at Elana’s consideration, as much as at Shinar’s bewilderment. It clearly had not occurred to the adolescent that she was pregnant. “And how long have you been throwing up in the morning?”

“Not—how far along?”

“Perhaps thirty, fiftyday. Normally we would not say anything yet, but it is bound to get around. Everything does these days.”

“Lyte is the father.” Shinar sat up slowly. “I am all right, just a little green. It passes quickly. I thought I was just excited about the wedding.”

“It should pass in an eightday, if you are like I used to be. I rarely had discomfort after the first sixtyday, until right before the delivery. Atare, I—“ Elana turned to Braan.

“I honor the confidence, and there is no problem,” Braan said quickly.

Elana frowned. “I hope no problem.... I, too, am with child. A full hundredday gone, though it does not show through the robe. And it has been difficult this time, harder. I do not know if the difficulty is the new radiation, stress, my age—“ She brushed Shinar’s hair out of her face. “We must monitor you carefully. I fear only ... I fear what the radiation may have done to his genes.”

oOo

It was not a scare tactic, Braan realized as he ducked under the drape and walked down the narrow, winding private aisle to his room. Elana did not tell Shinar about the genetic danger to frighten her—the doctor wished to share all the consequences with a fellow healer. And her daughter took it well, almost abstractly, Braan thought. He doubted that the realization that she was carrying a totally new life had truly hit her. Two more of the people, praise Mendülay! He quickly pulled on the traditional embroidered ivory shirt and black pants. Setting the chain of office around his neck, Braan grabbed his black cape and dashed back up the aisle toward the assembly.

Almost everyone was there; they all had a specific role to play. The bride and groom each had three attendants, and to be asked was a great honor. Braan knew that Jaacav and Liel would be two of Roe’s companions and expected Liel to wear the flowers of the future candle, as the youngest woman usually did. But the color of Jaac’s blossoms marked her as the past candle. Who—? He scanned the gathering, and his gaze fell on Teloa, the orange petals of the present candle entwined in her hair. A feeling of surprise and pleasure washed over him, as well as a slight chastisement for being unobservant. He had come upon Roe and Teloa talking to each other many times—he had been unaware they had grown so close. Many friendships had both blossomed and withered in the last sixtyday.

Lyte entered the room unobtrusively. Braan studied him as the red firerose buds were arranged down one of the man’s shoulders. He looked very uncomfortable.

“You cannot mask before us anymore, can you?” Braan murmured. “The illness has weakened you.”

“Atare?” a guaard warrior asked.

“Nothing.” So Lyte was the past candle. His thoughts were interrupted by Elana, her lovely face beaming, bearing in her hand orange firerose blossoms. He realized she was speaking to him, explaining Shinar was to have been flower bearer but still felt unwell. Braan tried to give the scientist his full attention but knew he had failed when she gave his shoulder a gentle, reassuring squeeze in parting.

Interesting to see who was chosen for each candle. He remembered his own wedding ... not painfully; too much had occurred to think of anything without allowing a proper perspective. Not fireroses. What had been in season during his ceremony? Moran entered the room and also Braan’s thoughts. The Atare scrutinized his sister’s chosen. Almost grim, too solemn for one so handsome. He had chosen to wear the traditional ivory pants and shirt of the groom. Braan refocused and noticed Lyte wore a Nualan outfit identical to his own, except that he had on his formal military cape. What to do for Moran, what to do about Lyte? The blonde warrior was paying a lot of attention to Teloa ... Shinar and Lyte. The Atare hid a smile as Teloa laughingly avoided the second officer.

“Atare?” He turned slightly. Jared. In wedding attire, yellow fireroses of the future on his shoulder? He had been in the bed next to Moran’s while they were in the life shelter. What had gone on... ? Deveah’s Jared. The one good thing Deveah did in his life, helping to bring that boy into existence.

“Jared. You look much better than you did.”

“Yes, Atare. Thank you.” Jared flushed a bit, both confused and embarrassed. “The high priest asked me to give you this.” The boy handed him the stiff, woven tapered straws he was to use to light his candle.

A murmur at the door captured their attention. Standing, Braan was able to see the entrance of Ronüviel. They had found the family dress—he felt tears momentarily blind him, remembering the older sister who was the last one to wear that gown. A riot of ivory syluan, twinkling in the pre-dawn shadows. He knew he was stepping toward her, as the others did; to touch one with child who was to be wedded was a lucky thing. Moran had been warned and wisely held back. Braan found himself with a handful of hair and ivory lace. Roe suddenly whirled and embraced him.

“Lucky, indeed,” she said, chuckling, meeting his glance. She quickly, gently touched the corner of his eye with her thumb, stealing the tear; and—holding it to her lips, accepting the gift, be it joy or sorrow—she looked for Moran.

A great deal of pain seemed to fall visibly from the groom’s shoulders. Lyte stood nearby, his face fluctuating between confusion and impassiveness. Now the group cleared the way, and Ronüviel walked up to Moran. She moved gracefully, considering her condition; she looked near her time, but of course, that was because it was twins. Roe extended her fist to Moran. Moran understood her gesture and cupped his hand. She hovered above it and set the Stone of the Seri in the center of his palm. Liel laughed out loud as Moran folded his fingers, and the spell was broken, everyone full of cheers, congratulations and admonishments.

Ah, the stones. Dug out of the ground in their final faceted form except for polishing, they were an old tradition. A Ragäree of ancient times had begun the practice, giving one to her lover off-world so that when he arrived on Nuala without her, none would mistake who he was. They were still called serae stone. Their color was a deep burgundy wine, and they were as hard as diamonds. He had given Enid one. Normally Roe would have surprised Moran with it before the ceremony, but as always now, there had been no time.

“Atare, will you please?” Arrez indicated he should take his place in the procession. Braan stepped up next to Teloa, the proper distance behind Lyte, and took the woman’s elbow. She flushed crimson under her acquired tan.

“Do not worry, we shall keep you from making mistakes. Arrez explained it all to you, did he not?” Braan whispered, allowing her to take his arm. She nodded quickly. The line began to move.

Lyte and Jaacav led into the garedoc, packed to capacity with Nualans both Amuran and outlander. A carillon announced the hour of prime. Every single person held a candle except the wedding party. The blaze of light within the cavern was still greater than the dawning. Tay released Braan’s arm as she went to stand next to Jaac on the opposite side of the altar. Liel was the third of the trio. Such a range of emotion visible on their faces. The cynical look of Jaac as she eyed Lyte, who was across from her; Tay’s hesitant joy; Liel’s exuberant glow. Braan wondered if he, Lyte and the boy contrasted as much.

Moran and Ronüviel were last in, the wandering melody of a gattar covering the soft undercurrent of the gathering’s pleasure. It was a good idea, this wedding, Braan thought briefly, not sure that he should have dismissed the idea of a coronation. Then he was lost in the opening words of the ceremony.

“We gather, brethren, at the dawning of a new day, to witness an occasion as old as mankind and as young as morning. We come together to join in the eternal mystery and gift of our Lord High Mendülay—that joy of two who become one and yet remain two,” Arrez began. “I offer to you now Ronüviel and Moran. This woman and this man wish to enrich their separate existence by sharing a life and by bringing new life to our people. I ask you now—be witnesses.”

“We are witnesses,” the crowd responded.

“You stand before us, man and woman, bringing with you past and present, facing the future yet to come. You each bring three persons, representing your lives and our ancient godhead,” Arrez said directly to the pair. “Behold the first of the four great elements: fire. It purifies and purges body and soul; it lights and warms our being; it represents Mendülay within our hearts. Come.” The priest turned and walked to the eternal flame, which stood to one side of the altar. Lighting a woven taper, he carried the tiny flame to the great, dark, bowl-shaped fire basin and ignited the wood within with a touch. There was a pause as they waited for the fire to settle into steady flame. Then Ronüviel stretched out a hand to Moran, and they stood facing one another across the fire basin. Braan knew it was not purely for decoration that the sleeves of the wedding gown and shirt were slit, baring the lower arm when it was bent.

Now the light-bearers’ role came into play. Braan studied the concentration in Lyte’s face, wondering if the man was trying to translate each phrase or if he waited for Jaac’s movement to signal his own. Arrez was pronouncing the ode to the past life, Roe and Moran repeating it. When they finished speaking, Lyte and Jaac both moved to the eternal flame, separately lighting their woven plaits and going to the altar. Seven candles were set up upon it in an inverted V tier. Silently the two lit the candles at each end.

When they returned to their places, Arrez began the speech of the present, short and direct, the repeated last words signaling Braan’s movement: “All that I have been, all that I am and all that I shall be, Mendülay willing, I shall share with you.” Braan nodded fractionally to Tay, and they stepped out to light their straws. Liel and Jared followed them a few moments later, and when Braan finally ceased to study the firelight reflecting from Tay’s hair, he realized the elemental ceremony was continuing. Arrez was done with the discussion of air, the mighty wind of the spirit, and had moved on to soil, the source of all nourishment. Braan watched as the high priest sprinkled the symbolic dirt over their clasped hands and into the firepit, ritually purifying it. Now water was poured over the couple’s hands, steam rising into the heights of the cavern. Braan knew from experience that their arms were far enough above the basin to avoid the heat and boiling steam, but it looked dangerously convincing.

The elemental offerings were through. Arrez had silently, reverently set the most ancient symbols of union and sacrifice, both essential in a marriage, before the eternal flame. No words—the wheat and wine needed none. Then, releasing one hand, the couple walked to face the altar. Taking up the prepared woven plaits that were lying on the block, they each set the tip in their three candles, lit by those individuals closest to them. Together they lit the center candle. The company awaited the final words. Moran and Ronüviel turned back to face Arrez and the people. The priest raised his hands in blessing.

“Know that these words are among the most powerful in our language, and that they are spoken in the love of our Holy Mendülay. They bind in this world and all worlds, this life and all lives. It is finished, and it is begun. All people are one people; all times timeless; all loves one love; all gods, one God. You are One.” And when Arrez had spoken the last short sentence, A-tu Gare, a deafening roar broke out. Lyte and Tay were both startled, but Roe had spoken to Moran; they raised their clasped hands in a show of triumph as the assembly, as one, extinguished their candles and poured out to greet the dawn.

MT. AMURA

TIERCE

The normal wedding ritual called for a rest day full of feasting, games and song. Fortunately the weather cooperated and though cold, it was not unpleasant. The elders sat around firepits with wine glasses in hand, talking about the things that had remained since time immortal—the children, the neighbors, the harvest, the wedding. Sometimes new topics slipped in, such as the construction of the new city: Nuamura, as they were now saying it. The children chased and hid and teased, and although there was not food in plenty, the cake was the best in anyone’s memory. Musicians played a succession of lively tunes, the flat field at the bottom of Mt. Amura’s foothills becoming a massive dance floor. And Ronüviel told a new story.

Braan sat as entranced as any of them, listening to the tale unfold in his mind. He could see it now: the blazing ships, the fierce battle, the brilliant deception to get on board a pirate vessel. Roe told it better than Baskh had, and Baskh had been the one to live it. The new Atare occasionally tore himself away from his sister’s words to study the faces of his people. They were enchanted, engrossed—some shed a few tears. Time heals wounds and fades memories, Braan thought. Even those who had chafed under Baskh Atare’s rule were involved in the story. Of course, it was about something that had happened long ago, before Baskh ruled. The crushing of the pirate gold trade by a clever ruse—

A hand touched his arm. Braan glanced around.

It was Kavan. “I think you had better come.”

Caught by this intriguing message, Braan stood and followed him. The young man threaded his way back through the crowd, finally ending up at the hill where Arrez had decreed the eternal flame would stand, its socket sheltered in a shrine of piled rock. On the altarpiece before it lay a scroll. Braan reached over and picked it up.

A real scroll, made of feathered, scraped tazelle hide. It bore the black-and-gold tassel of the Dragoche clan. Braan slid off the band and slowly unrolled the message.

“Can you understand it?” Kavan asked.

Braan read the epistle twice, to try and glean every possible meaning from the statement. Then he rolled it shut. “It is basically a message of greeting to the Ragäree on her wedding day,” Braan said slowly. He started walking back to the crowd. “Wishing her and her child health and long life. They are waiting. And they have some connection with Corymb.”

“How so?”

“The Cied place these to be found. True, I had no coronation, but we never came across one acknowledging me as Amura’s new ruler. They do not; they wait to see who shall come out on top. I wonder how long they have been dealing with Corymb....” Braan stopped talking and looked at Kavan. “I think we are about to enter into a war of nerves. See if you can slap Kalith out of his solitude. If you think I can help, find me. Use Shinar. The next twohundredday will tell if our house is to survive. Corymb is coming back—soon.”

“Another thing; a ship comes. From the north, the skywatcher says,” Kavan added, his face now creased with worry.

Braan gripped his shoulder, not sure if he wished to strengthen his little brother or draw strength from him. “It is long overdue. Have them bring any messages to my quarters. I need some time alone. And ... if you get around to it, some of the spice cake, when Roe and Moran cut it.” Braan managed a faint smile, Kavan returning it.

NONE

It was out of a sound sleep that Braan awoke. Someone was pounding on the metal family seal Kavan had hung next to the private corridor entrance. In the distance he heard the lulling sound of the gathering. Braan sat up, steadying himself against dizziness. He had not realized he was so tired.

The Nova had brought mostly good news. Every 3AV tape showed the Nualans entrenching themselves for winter, storing up food and clothing. Some cities were in better shape than others, and the throne was being asked to negotiate the trade of goods among them. Words came from the border cities—the Cied had suffered during the attack, even with the protection of the shield. There were no bomb shelters in the ciedär. So far, offers of help from the coast were being refused. The strongest people of the hot city had survived, Gid reported and were rebuilding their homes above ground and below. More news: Tinyan was pregnant, and there was a possibility the child was his. Braan’s fingers tightened in his blanket at the thought. Gid would return to Amura, but first there was work to be done in Tolis.

“Great joy and long life, Gid,” Braan said aloud, contemplating the responsibility of another child. Asiai.... He fingered the 3AVs and the Cied scroll, aware that he would have to call a synod meeting the next day.

“Atare! Come quickly!” The voice was urgent. Braan dropped the 3AVs and rushed down the corridor toward the west entrance. It took but a few moments to reach the outside, and when Braan did, he was not really surprised by what he saw.

Standing on the footpath leading into the mountain, surrounded by family, hangers-on and admirers, was Corymb. Braan saw that Arrez was also there; he was standing on the outer fringes of the crowd. The priest looked annoyed, an unnatural, impassive expression on his face. Acutely aware of the guaard behind him, the Atare drew close enough to hear Dielaan’s voice.

“I have heard much of this. I am very concerned about the seed shortage—building within the mountain, you say? I wonder how it will hold up during quakes?”

“There is no seed shortage,” Arrez said curtly but pleasantly.

Corymb turned a mild set of black eyes to the high priest. “Oh? Perhaps I was misinformed. I was told our chemicals are gone; that does tend to make many of our farming skills useless. No shortage yet, but that does not mean no problems next fall.” The edge of authority in Corymb’s voice vanished. He smiled, extending his arms as if to embrace the crowd. “Come, friends—we have returned in time for the wedding feast of our Ragäree. I must pay my respects. I would have come to you sooner, but I did not think I was so important to the people’s welfare that it was necessary for me to report in. And my sister’s daughter, Odelle, has been ill. Please have her husband take her to the healers immediately, so she may be diagnosed.”

The note of concern in Corymb’s voice appeared to be genuine. And why not? Odelle was the youngest of five children, none of them boys. And the other four had either died in adolescence or were dead from the bombing, Braan seeing no sign of them in the gathering. This frail, black-eyed young woman was just another power pawn. If she did not bear a healthy son and daughter, able to carry on the Dielaan title, it passed to another branch of the family. Only one generation without male issue was allowed. It would be Justinian and Url’s branch. Corymb would kill to prevent the title from changing hands; of that Braan was certain. Kill how many? For the second time that day Braan found himself thinking of Corymb and the Cied. Was it coincidence that Corymb missed the temple services on the day the bombs fell?

By now the delighted crowd had noticed Braan, and they parted like grass in the wind, clearing a path for their Atare. Corymb straightened at the sight of him, his response a nod. “Atare.”

“Corymb Dielaan.”

“Greetings to you, and eternal peace upon your predecessor.”

“Little enough did he find while living,” Braan remarked. “We have a council tomorrow, to deal with the news from the north. The computer in the back of the first level holds transcripts of what you have missed, both discussion and vote. I think you will find them interesting.” Braan slipped his hands in his pockets, clutching the hard, metallic object he had carried since he had taken it from the Durite’s body.

“Thank you for your words, Atare,” Corymb answered, nodding and gesturing as Arrez stepped to his side. “I am glad to see we understand each other’s priorities and thoughts. Other than my dear Odelle’s condition, my people’s situation is foremost in my mind.”

Simple words. To repeat them later was to wonder that they once held power. “I understand, Corymb. Most assuredly I understand.” With that Braan removed the metal marker from his pocket and pressed it into Corymb’s hand, the Durite thong still attached to it. The Dielaan glanced down at the unfinished piece of trine gold, even as Braan turned and walked away. Only Arrez saw the older man’s face become momentarily rigid before he slipped on a mask of puzzlement, looking oddly after his Atare.

“Shall we go to the Ragäree, Corymb?” Arrez asked, gesturing with his hand. Smiling demurely, Corymb led the way as if he had trod it all his life.

Braan fought to control himself as he rushed back to finish the 3AVs, wondering cynically how Ronüviel would receive Corymb. In his hurry he almost ran down Teloa, who had been watching the arrival from the obscurity of the cavern’s mouth.

“How—how could you even look at that man!” she whispered, staring after Corymb.

“I am sorry, that is twice today I nearly—” Braan stopped when her words registered. He studied the woman, blazing in her fury for the insult given to the throne and to him, and then he laughed. Tay was startled out of her anger and whirled toward him. Braan seized her hand and bowed to press it to his lips.

“Atare?”

“Teloa, did I forget to tell you how beautiful you look and how well you assisted in the wedding? It was a delight to pair with you.” He straightened and met her gaze. “I thank you for your concern and request you continue with those pointed questions. They keep me thinking; with Gid gone, Roe and Arrez alone do that for me, and both are increasingly occupied with other demands. Only you seem to have the nerve to—“

“Atare, I—“

“I insist!” Braan rolled on, ignoring her flaming cheeks. “You see us as an off-worlder, even as you become more Nualan. It is an important duality. And if you fear to jump in, you are welcome to ask permission first! Duty calls me, lady. I must finish those 3Avs, and then I shall send them to you. We shall need a synopsis by tierce tomorrow; things will start early, I am afraid.” Not waiting for her response, Braan quickly entered the caverns. He paused inside to let his heartbeat slow, amazed at his response. Troubled dreams, and Teloa had been in them ... not as a simple scripter. Shaking his head to clear it of such thoughts, Braan returned to his room.

THE GATHERING

COMPLINE

Lyte’s head was simply too full of wine. He looked for, and found, a rock more sheltered than most and slid down beside it. That was a mistake; if he didn’t end up falling asleep it would be a miracle. Clutching the mug of hot saffra he’d been carrying, he took a careful sip. Too bad it wasn’t coffee, he could use some caffeine.

“There you are!” Lyte was startled, but fortunately did not dump the drink all over himself. Shinar—where had she been all day? He had actually taken time out of his wanderings to seek her, something he rarely did. Usually his women sought him. Maybe with Kal. If that man didn’t shape up soon, blast him; Shinar needed him. “You look preoccupied, shall I come back?” the woman went on, hesitating to sit.

“No, no, I was looking for you earlier.”

“Ah-huh. Try again.”

Lyte looked annoyed. “Stop sounding like Moran. You’d know if I lied, wouldn’t you? Yes, I spent a large portion of the day admiring several ladies, and some of them reciprocated. Just for the records, I also like intelligent, beautiful company as an alternative—” He stopped when he saw her smile. Lords, I’m losing my sense of humor. It bothered him when he knew he was telling the truth.

“I am sorry. I shall not say it again, not even teasing.” She settled down next to him, both careless and confident of their relationship, Lyte slipping an arm around her. Snuggling into their woolen ponchos, thankful for the warmth, they watched the stars begin to pop out.

“Good thing this is what Roe calls south, I’d hate for it to be any colder,” Lyte said. “I get frostbite when my liquor’s iced.”

Shinar hugged him. “Up around Atare city the snow is very deep this time of winter. Tolis also should have snow. I hope they are protected from the weather.”

“Are you feeling better?” He looked down at her as she twisted slightly in his arms to see his face.

“What made you say that?”

“I heard you were ill this morning.”

It was dark behind the rock; she could not see his face, but his voice was concerned. She relaxed—her friends had respected her right to tell him before any others. “It passes. It is not really illness.”

“How can you have a hangover before the party?”

Shinar laughed. “It is because I am pregnant. It will go on for awhile.”

“You’re pregnant?” He sounded puzzled, not surprised. “You should have said something, we could have, well—for your comfort—”

“I just found out.” Shinar suddenly realized that Lyte had made no connection.

“I didn’t think that could be kept a secret from the mother,” Lyte was continuing.

“Or the father. It is ours, Lyte. It is barely fiftyday along. I am not even positive I have felt it move yet; it may be my imagination.” She paused, remembering he was off-world—knowing that they handled these things differently. She was not prepared for the reaction.

Lyte literally went rigid, as if he was afraid to move. There was no sound for a moment. “Ours?” A whisper, the question incredulous.

“You understand what this means, do you not?”

“Roe ... mentioned your customs—”

“But do you remember?” Shinar insisted, turning to face him. “It is ‘Oh, that is great, another little person, be sure to get more rest, drink plenty of fluids and take your vitamins,’ and that is it for now. Do you see? No more, no less.” The young woman did not know what else to say. Lyte had not relaxed in the slightest. He was clearly cold sober, though.

Lyte set down his mug, aware that he had begun to shake. Too much wine, way too much wine. No, you heard correctly, a child. Ours, mine. Lords, what have I done? He shifted, the firelight silhouetting him, staring out into darkness.

“Of course, that does not mean I can carry it to term. The extra radiation has caused many to lose babies or not conceive at all.” She gripped his shoulder. “You do not like children.”

“No, it’s not—” He lowered his head to hide his confusion. He did not want ties here. What had he done? How could he leave, should he take her, would she go? She loved another man! She also loved him, “differently.”

“Lyte, you do not have to marry me. Or support the child financially. Or include it in a will, even! You have given it life. The only other thing you owe it is love and consideration.”

“I think the other would be easier.” He turned back to her. “Shinar, I am hoping to leave this planet as soon as possible, I don’t belong here, and I am not totally convinced Moran belongs here! This is not fair to you, or it, or—“

“How?” she said bluntly.

“What?”

“How do you intend to get off Nuala?”

Lyte paused. “A ship—”

“What ship? Where? Except for the three that had skeleton crews on board, none escaped the bombing. Do you think precious metals will be used to build star transports when we are simply struggling to survive? Be realistic. Only Nualan ships pass the barrier. Even if the Griffon and the others made it to free space; to return through enemy lines to Nuala, and then return again to the Axis? Even I can tell a better fantasy!”

“Shinar, I—“ Lyte’s voice had changed subtly.

“All that is required of you is a little emotional support for me and a little affection for the child when it is born. Do not tell me you are incapable of giving it. Unwilling, possibly; afraid, yes. Unable, not likely.” She stopped, finished with her speech.

“Shinar, I can only try....”

Something in his voice made her reach up and touch his face. She gasped in amazement to find tears—just tears, no catastrophic upheaval behind them. She pulled him close. “Lyte?”

“It’s all right. I’m all right, it’s just—“ There was no easy way to explain his confusion. He carefully embraced her, suddenly fearful he might hurt her.

“I will not break, silly.”

“I am very ... surprised,” he said, his tone almost sheepish. “I guess I feel ... old. It’s hard to pretend to be a kid when you have one of your own.” The last sentence was a whisper.

Shinar held him tightly, trying to comfort him, trying to understand his fear and confusion which she felt as keenly as the cold. “Come on, it has been a long day. I need sleep!” She released him and pulled him to his feet, grabbing his mug as she did so. “You will feel more confident in the morning. All you have to do tonight is keep me warm, and if you cannot manage it, my bed has a nice comforter on it.”

Lyte laughed weakly. “I’ve never spent the night with a woman in my arms without—Well, maybe I’d better learn.” He faced her, trying to dredge up a smile. “I get cold sometimes, too.”

Chapter Fourteen

NUAMURA FIELDS

ONEHUNDRED EIGHTYDAY, TIERCE

Ronüviel heard the carillon chime four bells. Lord, only tierce—what with the heat, she felt as if it was mid-afternoon instead of mid-morning. The bitter cold of the short winter seemed far away. The Amurans had been up since lauds, working feverishly to finish the winter harvest before the monsoons hit. Roe opened her eyes to look toward old Amura and beyond, to the sea. It was dark, threatening. Rain was coming, long, hard rain; and after the rainfall ended, the spring planting would begin.

“Do you mind company?” She looked up. Moran stood next to her, stripped to his joqurs and glistening with sweat. She offered him her water gourd. “Thank you.” He took a drink and then settled down under the towering bush for a rest. The eyes studying her were intense. “You have been healing again. You need to conserve your strength. How is Elana?”

“Better. I was able to ease the stress and control the alpha wave pattern.” She flexed her fingers, a faint glow briefly touching the tips.

“Why can you do that?” His voice was neutral, and her reply was a blank look.

Roe shifted her weight. “You have never asked me that before,” she answered. “And it is usually the reason off-worlders do or do not talk to me.” She studied her hands, wishing she could use some of the energy to ease her own discomfort; she knew the effort would only tire her more. “We suspect it is a modification of the sini gene. A mutation of the mutation, if you will. It is the same form of radiating heat, but instead of destroying the body and anything near it, it actually improves health. I do not feel like I really heal anything. It is like using a low-grade electrical charge to speed the recovery of a bone break, for instance.” She looked distant. “It can be a burden, too. I was always on the outside looking in while I was at Helix University. People envy it, resent it, fear it. Or put great demands upon my time and talents. I cannot work miracles, I cannot keep the dying alive. But people get strange ideas about what can and cannot be done. It does have one blessing attached, though.”

“What is that?”

“Never has it been recorded that a family line has had a sini appear once a healer has been born. That is comforting. It would be like a knife in the heart, to lose them after carrying them so long.”

“Gid has remained close to his family,” Moran objected.

“Gid is an exception. He and his sister were placed together. It made things easier for them to get to Tolis once a year. It has always been awkward, the crossover generation, no matter which way the child travels.” Conversation ceased as she spotted Braan and Teloa, walking together in the vineyard and talking softly. She looked over at her husband, her eyes sparkling.

“You look very pleased,” Moran told her, trying to tone down his own smile.

“I admit it. I like Tay; I love her. She is a survivor—she would make a good Atarae.”

“Then why doesn’t Braan confess she attracts him and do something about it?”

Roe shrugged. “He thinks he guards his heart. In the meantime Tay steals his soul. She is so beautiful, I believe he keeps his distance so she will not fear she is just one more body. I have a feeling there has been too much of that in her life.”

“That’s an understatement,” Moran agreed.

Roe shot him a sharp glance but said nothing. Teloa’s soft laughter floated to their ears. Her laugh was like murmuring water in a shallow creek bed. Only hearing her speak in Caprican was more soothing. The language was swifter and smoother than her humor, but no less delightful. Such a game those two were playing: Tay seeing other men; Braan no longer beating off the flocks of women constantly in attendance.

“Oh!” The whisper escaped before she could control it.

Moran sat up, visibly concerned about her continuing false pains. “Bad?” he asked. She reached over in reply and tightly gripped his hand. “Breathe properly.” The spasm passed, and her fingers relaxed. “Another false alarm?”

“I am very tired, belaiss. Can we start back to the caverns? Zair’s lady hound is whelping, and Prinz promised me a puppy for each baby. I think everyone knows it is twins, if he does.” Moran braced himself behind and to one side of her, helping her to her feet.

Suddenly Teloa was there, her face lined with concern. She reached for Roe’s arm. “Are you all right, Roe? You look pale. You’ve been walking too much, let’s get you back to your room.”

“I think that is a good idea,” Roe gasped. “I do not want these two coming before they are good and ready.” She glanced over at her brother, now deep in conversation with his son Dylan. “He shall be a godfather before he knows it.”

“He’ll be wet before he knows it, the rain’s coming. Let’s move!” At Moran’s command they started across the field toward the foothills. It was usually a ten minute walk, but Roe knew she would not be able to move at a normal pace. They looked up to see a face briefly appear at the cavern entrance. Roe bent her head to concentrate on walking but was not surprised when Kavan arrived at her side.

“Let me,” he said quietly to Teloa, and the tall woman sprinted ahead of them into the cool darkness.

“I do not think ... this is false labor,” Roe got out, doubling over in pain. Kalith was also visible before the cave, his normally expressionless features tense. Together the three of them were able to get her into the cavern and up to her room.

“Good thing some of the family units are completed,” Kavan said as they set Roe on her bed. “A little privacy is nice.”

“Sure, if you want a room to yourself, get pregnant,” Roe replied, gripping the sheets to stop her hands from shaking. “I think I would have reconsidered living on top, if I had known how hard it would be to get up those stairs. I should have demanded they finish the lifts.” Too much pain, too soon. Please, not so soon.

Elana entered the room. “Thank you. Good-bye, Kal and Kavan.” She was activating her monitor as she spoke. A few adjustments and she turned to the now present Teloa and Liel, asking them to bring various supplies and two other healers. Then she whirled to Moran. “You are timing?”

“I had nothing to time with, but she’s breathing properly,” he answered, reaching for the timespot on the built-in shelf.

Shinar breezed into the starlit terrace, radiating confidence. She was not as heavy as some so far along. Roe’s grip tightened on Moran’s wrist as she gave in to another contraction, oblivious to everything else.

“Liel, I want the Atare guaard on this door. And Braan must be found—he should witness the birth of his heir. Good-bye, this is going to take awhile,” Elana said.

“Moran, talk to me,” Roe suddenly said.

“No, you talk to me” was the reply. “You said at firstmeal you had a new story, one about Baskh’s predecessor. Tell it!”

“A story? Now?”

“Better than thinking about the pain. There’s time until the next contraction, I’ll give you plenty of warning,” Moran went on. He settled onto one elbow, his head bent close to hers, neither paying any attention to the healers bringing in the standby equipment. Roe took a deep breath and then began to speak, her voice taking on the mysterious and vibrant quality of a master mythmaker.

“Long ago and worlds away, from the second year of the reign of Curr Atare Moonraker, greatest of the modern sea monarchs, comes a tale—“
oOo

COMPLINE

The small group watched as Agape rose into the dome of the heavens, taking its place above Eros and Philios. Three very slender crescents, their sizes varying depending on how much of Nuala blocked off Kee’s light. Already moonrise. Thunder rolled ominously in the distance.

Gone. The moons. Lyte had only glanced away, and now blackness. The thunder roared louder. A hand touched his shoulder, and Lyte looked up to see Teloa.

“The rains come. As long as the planet is good to us, we have a chance,” Tay said quietly. “Are you ready for a thirtysixday of rain? Liel says sometimes it’s like that.”

A splatter of rain hit his hand, and then another. He pulled back from the ledge of the terrace, staring out to greet the downpour. Steady and hard but not deafening. The thunder still growled, low and menacing. Lyte averted his gaze as a many-forked tree of lightning leapt across the sky. He caught himself wondering if it would strike the mountains.

He knew Moran had been a nervous wreck since vespers, when Elana had determined a possible need for surgery and had thrown both father and ruler out of the sleeping room. Shinar had explained why—another off-worlder married to an Atare serae had panicked recently during a delivery, and with the possible heirs, Roe’s first, no chances would be taken. It was a matter of state. Lyte knew “matters of state” could rarely be swept aside; he often forgot that Nuala was a functional, not a symbolic monarchy. But next time Moran would be present. As father of the future Atare or Ragäree, or both, Lyte knew he would gain power, which he would enjoy using in just such cases. So long for babies to be born. And Roe was fragile. Braan said that once, that she continued on willpower alone.

The rain grew harder. Moran turned slightly to Braan. “The harvest is complete,” Braan said, anticipating his question. They both flinched as a great thunderclap shook the room.

“I thought babies were only born during storms in stories,” Lyte quipped.

“I was born in a storm,” Liel replied. “Elana says her deliveries ran about fifty-fifty. And she prefers storms, or just after. She says it takes her mind off the pain.”

“That sounds like Elana,” Arrez began warmly. “She ...“ The priest hesitated only a moment, but it was long enough for a thin cry to intervene. The crowd grew silent, listening to the fragile life gain volume in its first protest to the world.

How long until the next? Minutes or hours? It seemed like only seconds later that Shinar came out of the bedroom. Every face except Moran’s turned to her as another voice rose to replace the first. It was somehow harsher, more emotional, but clearly a different sound. Moran stood and moved toward the partition. Smiling, Shinar indicated he should wait a few moments before entering.

“Have I an heir?” Braan asked.

Shinar laughed. “Covered on both accounts. Mendülay has blessed us. Atare and Ragäree to be, and our Ragäree shall be fine. The womanchild is elder, by almost twenty minutes.” Shinar sobered a moment. “One was a breech, and caused some anxious moments. But the tearing was mild, and surgery not necessary.” The small crowd relaxed, conversation bursting from them. Lyte glanced around; Moran had vanished.

oOo

The room was not as dark as the terrace, and Moran blinked quickly in the light. A glow had been activated—a true glow, flickering in the wall’s recesses, as mysterious as ever. Roe watched him from beneath veiled lashes. So tired ... He cautiously sat down on the side of the bed, reaching across to support himself by leaning on the other side.

Roe shifted and completely opened her eyes. “Well? I had almost forgotten what my hipbones felt like. I think the womanchild looks like my mother.”

“I hope they both look like you,” Moran answered. “Father thought I was a homely baby.”

Roe smiled and reached up to run her fingers through his hair. “No chance,” she murmured, delicately touching where the starlight had begun to bleach his hair blond.

“Did I ever tell you you’re incredible?”

“Please, not that old line,” Roe replied, touching his lips with her long fingers. “It may be painful, but it is instinctive. The body works up to its last breath.”

“Let’s not talk about last breaths—I’ve been a basket case” was the answer. He bent over to lightly kiss her shoulder. “Jaac never did come. Did Braan say her mother ... died?”

“Bearing? Yes. It is a very rare thing. Less than one in, oh, thousands....” She drifted a bit. “I am so excited! What a father you will be!”

“I want to pick one up, but I’m afraid.”

“Do not be. They are much more durable than they look. Just remember to support the head,” she whispered, closing her eyes for a moment.

“I know—I’m one of eight children, remember? This is different.” He brushed her hair out of her face, pulling a long strand to the side of the pillow. “Don’t sleep yet, they’re hungry.”

Her eyes popped back open. “Who says I have to be awake to feed them?” He looked disconcerted at her words. Moran heard Elana enter the room from the sanitation, and swiftly kissed Roe. Then he leaned over the low-slung cradles. A tiny fist waved furiously above a soft tazellehide blanket. Moran carefully pushed aside the flaps of leather and took in his first view of the infant. So little, no bigger than a moment. The hair was very long and dark blond, but the eyes were screwed so tightly shut he could not look at their baby blue. Not crying, but definitely displeased. Roe chuckled at her husband’s expression.

“Hello there. I think you’re hungry,” Moran managed softly. The second one was no less active but calmer, more testing the new freedom of movement than protesting.

“That big fellow on the left is your son. And this lovely lady your firstborn,” Elana said, reaching down to touch a downy hand. “She was quite upset about the arrival, but now I think she likes us. See how her eyes seem to look at you?” Ronüviel had been noticing just that; and also the deep original blue irises of birth, with darker marbling that foretold the Atare eyes, though they had not expected that pattern. “She is very aware, very alert for so small a child, and so is he.” Reaching in to touch a wisp of her hair, the same toasted honey of his own, Moran scarcely seemed to hear Elana finish: “I think soon they will want to nurse.”

Moran scooped up his daughter and turned to Elana. “You were wrong,” he said evenly, his face expressionless. “I should have been there.” Roe tensed, waiting for what would come next.

Elana lifted the manchild and resolutely faced him. “Yes. You should have. But that does not change the decision. When the house of Atare is involved, I must choose. Miri’s husband panicked. I could not take the chance. Though you are a warrior, you are off-world, and it is unlikely you have witnessed a birth. The pain of a comrade and the pain of your mate are very different things to deal with. I am sorry you had to sacrifice. Next time shall be different. I hope you will come to understand my position.” She nodded regally as she handed the now shrieking manchild to Ronüviel, confident Moran would accept her words. Roe watched him out of the corner of her eye as the baby sought a breast.

It was clear that Moran did not like Elana’s words, but he had no choice but to accept them. Moran looked down at the womanchild. She regarded him with round eyes, seemingly oblivious to her brother’s howls.

“It’s practically a new world,” he whispered to her. “I’m sorry it’s such a mess, but I’ll do the best I can, and that’s all I can ask of you. I wish you weren’t born to all of this, but ... maybe it’s better to know your duty beforehand than have it dumped on you later.” He faced the window, careful not to bring her too close. “See out here? Up and beyond? Beyond the Axis, the war, everything. That’s truth, God. And I’ll show you as much of it as I can. We all will.” She gurgled, slapping at his shirt with soft pink fingers. Moran looked up and held her out to the waiting Elana. “I feel ridiculous. She can’t understand me.”

Elana smiled knowingly, and gestured for him to give her to Ronüviel. “Of course she can.”

MT. AMURA — UPPER POOLS

ONEHUNDRED EIGHTYONEDAY, LAUDS (MOONSET)

Teloa stood panting, leaning against the sheer rock wall. Then she was able to examine her surroundings. So this was the famous northeastern upper pool. At that moment the first rays of the Kee escaped the cloud cover and struck the waterfall. Tay gasped in amazement as a million rainbows broke out, casting their glow everywhere. Careful of the deep mud caused by the heavy rainfall of the night before, she walked into the stone glade.

Now Teloa could hear the other waterfalls, higher, farther to one side; they wrapped around this section of the mountains like ribbons, with similar pools on the western slopes. Roe had mentioned that there were caves here, too, reaching all the way to the other side, if one knew the inner paths. This was Ronüviel’s place of atonement, her rock of prayer and solitude. The Caprican was uncertain whether the Nualan God would speak to her here.

Starting at matins, the garedoc had been filled with the faithful, coming to be anointed with the healing oils. It was a simple ceremony, the Feast of Atonement and Anointing; a blessing and prayers, and then the touching of face, eyes, ears, lips, heart and hands with the ointment. This was supposed to be followed by exposure to the elements of Nuala. For the infirm and less fastidious, this entailed stepping outside for a few moments. For those with deeper faith, or the weight of many sins upon them, the procedure was usually to find a high, windy place of rock and earth, within reaching distance of water, and wait for the touch of Kee’s rays. There was special rejoicing this day over the birth of the twins.

Tay shivered, digging deep into her poncho. The akemmi stirred, chirping peevishly. High, fluffy dark clouds swept by overhead, bringing back a touch of winter. She hoped the heat of yesterday was not a fluke. For a brief moment, she had imagined that she was back on Capricorn V, working the irrigation trenches. Better not to think too long on that image. It brought back good times, true; but also sister Meer’s scorn, and brother Tyr’s degeneration, his churlishness when he found her passage on the Gerrymander. And where was her little brother Telen?

The clouds to the west, coming from the distant sea, were black. More rain, and more—they needed it so badly. She continued to climb in the grey light of morning, uncertain of where she was going. A scrape of nails against rock told Tay that Zair was finished with whatever curious night scent he was stalking and had caught up with her. Tay found herself in the middle of numerous pools and falls and sat down, enchanted. Like spun gossamer, glittering in the rising star. How wonderful that Kee was rising earlier once again.

As she looked off to one side and down the steep drop, she saw several people sitting among the new greenery. Surveying the whole scene, she noticed in front of and slightly above her a familiar profile. Tay stared a minute or two; his back was to her. The man was meditating, and she was shocked to realize he was naked. Ye gods, the cold! She shuddered at the very thought. This person must feel a need for the total purification of the star’s rays. Her thoughts ended as she recognized Braan.

She sat quietly, intrigued, occasionally looking for a hidden guaard as Kee swept up into a glorious starrise. When the star had topped a distant mountain pass, Braan moved to his knees and suddenly threw his arms wide, embracing the dawn. Then he whirled and in one fluid motion dove into the dark pool behind and below him. Teloa cut off her gasp and quickly began to climb down.

It took longer to reach the lower pools than she expected. When she reached the edge the lapping rings were quiet. Staring into the water, she considered what horrors lurked beneath the mirrored surface, what sharp-edged rocks ...

“Looking for someone?” She nearly jumped off the stone shelf. Turning regally, she found that Braan was already dressed in a desert caftan, a towel over his shoulder, his feet bare. He looked more relaxed than she had ever seen him, despite having been up all night. “The water is warm.”

She reached down and forced herself not to jerk back. Not cold but certainly not warm. “Only if you’ve been sitting out for several hours. Does having an heir give you the right to contract pneumonia?”

Braan smiled wickedly. “No chance. Mind over matter. Mendülay spares me for some other end. Have you made your peace with the Almighty? The day of atonement has its superstition attached, but there is something about the purifying, healing oils that is guaranteed to make one feel better.”

“And you need to feel better?”

“In a sense.” He looked out over the starrise. “I feel clean again. But I shall have to answer for it in the end.”

Tay regarded him steadily. “You’re not-guilty. You’re not blaming yourself for everything that’s happened, are you?”

It was Braan’s turn to be surprised. “No. I am not so conceited as to think that one man could claim responsibility for all this, though it is the place of the ruler to carry his people’s burdens.”

“Carry, yes. Absorb, no.”

He did not seem to hear her. “I am here because of many things, but mostly because I terminated a life, and there is nothing that can make up for that.”

“It was self-defense. I think God forgives a truly repentant heart, even of so serious a sin.”

“Perhaps.” He started down the slope, Tay following. “Thank you for your concern about my body, but I have been diving in that pool since I was a child, and I check for shifting rocks each time I come up here. There is a pole behind the fall, if you want to do it. Always check first. One of my relatives did not, and broke his neck.” Braan glanced over his shoulder. “Why did you climb up here?”

“Because the caves are a closed feeling. I need to breathe occasionally.”

He nodded. “I intend to build my quarters inside up here, probably on the western slope. I need the view.”

Zair butted Teloa’s legs, and it brought her back to reality. So strange to be so close to him, and not a business recorder in sight. She wondered what he was thinking.

Fool! It is a beautiful, crisp morning. Why did you not stay up there and talk? Braan mentally kicked himself.

They descended in silence.

THE CAVERN

ONEHUNDRED EIGHTYTWODAY, SEXT

Such an enclosed feeling, a cavern. Lyte shook his head to clear it of dark thoughts. If he was not careful, he would become as nervous as Moran. Glancing up from the wall he was chipping smooth, he looked over at his friend. The man’s discomfort was visible, sweat trickling down his temple. He was tired—two days without sleep—but he was trying to concentrate on his work, giving his all for Nuala. The thought annoyed Lyte each time it occurred to him. Damn planet.

Braan walked by him, his shirt dark with perspiration from digging. The Nualan stopped by Moran, murmuring a word or two. Moran laughed softly and kept digging. Braan moved on.

He is digging like a slave and doesn’t even care. The joke between the two men pushed annoyance over into irritation. Lyte attacked the wall with renewed vigor, enjoying the ring of metal against stone. The heavy machinery was destroyed, they had no choice—

Craak! The sound of the splintering handle was shocking. Lyte stumbled from the shift in weight. A short, violent oath escaped him.

“Are you all right?” Moran asked.

“No, I’m not!” Lyte shouted, throwing the rest of the handle to the ground. Moran just stared at him. “When are we going to do something about leaving this God-forsaken planet?” He no longer cared about the Nualans working nearby.

“How?” Moran queried.

“Don’t say that! I’m sick of hearing it! Doesn’t anyone else want to get off this rock except me?” Lyte heard his voice rising.

“Wanting to is different from—”

“You could care less! You’re not even trying! You don’t care if you never get off this planet!”

Moran looked hesitant. “It is now my home, but—”

“Home, dak balls! You’re more Nualan than they are!”

“I’ve got two kids to think about—”

“So do I.” The last was a hiss.

Moran’s face became unreadable, and Lyte knew he was trying to control his explosive temper. “Lyte, I’m sorry we can’t—”

“Sorry? You’ve even decided to jump into politics, old apolitical Moran! You follow that Atare closer than his guaard. I never thought I’d see the day when you’d become a boot-licker—” Moran’s hand shot out, seizing Lyte’s shirt in a commando grip. Surprise softened Lyte’s shouting. He waited to see if the man would snap and attack him.

The bio-control held. Releasing the shirt, Moran said flatly, “I am not going to leave this planet to starve. Until that problem is solved, I don’t want to waste strength even dreaming about ways to get off here. If you have to think about it, keep it to yourself.”

“Just watch me.”

Moran had already turned and was walking away. Lyte did not attempt to follow him.

Chapter Fifteen

GAREDOC

TWOHUNDRED TENDAY, VESPERS

Ronüviel stirred restlessly in her seat and stifled a yawn. It was not that she disapproved of the formalities. As far as baptisms went, it was remarkably relaxed and informal, without losing any of its dignity. But the last thirtyday had been exhausting, and the temptation to sleep was almost overwhelming. She had been up all night with the babies. Moran had helped her as he could, bringing them to her when she simply could not walk another step; he had changed, held and talked to them. But he could not feed them, and that was what they needed right now. At least she could feed them together.

The ceremony had reached the important part, the appointing of special guardians. Other than the naming, this was what the crowd wanted most to hear, and the two actions followed on each other’s heels. Ronüviel carefully sat up, still more tender than she would admit. Yet Elana had assured her that she was mending properly and swore she would bear again. But not right away—Nualan fertility was delicate and sporadic, and very few women bore children closer than three years apart. Having twins often pushed the time back further. Unfortunately Roe’s mother Ila had been an exception to the rule, having borne children as close as a year apart. Roe rather hoped she would take after her grandmother, Chandra, who took twenty-five years to bear her seven children.

Arrez now gestured to Moran to come take the eldest, his daughter. Moran carefully picked up the womanchild, breaking into his gentle smile at the sound of her coos. She tried to reach for his hair, but he quickly settled her into a low carry. Roe knew he was studying her eyes, already showing the blue and green marbling. These twins were the first children ever recorded with such irises.

The Ragäree smiled faintly. Only she and Moran knew who the guardians were, a prerogative of the parents; and they had talked long over many days to pick just the right child to go with each person. It expressed their hopes for both the child and the adult, each to gain insight from the experience. Moran was to offer the baby to the woman and indicate to the man to follow to the altar; the ancient symbols gave the nurturing to the woman and the protecting to the man, but Roe was grateful they could work interchangeably. Another onehundred fiftyday or so and Moran could start feeding them solids. And who was fiercer than the female katt when protecting her young?

Moran walked out to the huge group facing them, his glance touching every individual, looking for the godmother. He finally stopped in front of Jaacav and gave her his entreating, raised-eyebrow look. Jaac appeared to swallow; she had expected this, because of an off-hand remark of Roe’s. Then she carefully took the bundle, clearly wishing for the protector role. Rarely was the protector a woman or the nurturer a man, though it had been done before. By taking the baby she had agreed to the honor and the responsibility.

Then Moran turned to look several rows back, and gestured tentatively with a finger. Roe held her breath. Something had been wrong here for several moons, ever since Moran had become reconciled to remaining on Nuala without reprieve. After an argument with Moran loud enough to be heard two rooms away, Lyte had become silent, withdrawn, speaking at length only to Shinar. He still chatted with Roe as if nothing had happened, however. He seemed especially angry with Braan. Because Moran backed him and their friendship grew? She prayed he would not refuse. There was a long pause. Elana, sitting before Lyte’s aisle, was very uncomfortable, even pale.

The moment passed. Lyte gently moved the woman before him to one side and stepped out. The crowd released its breath. If only this opens up communication once again,Roe thought fleetingly. Days ago they had laughed over it, threatening to make Lyte her godfather both to give him a taste of responsibility for a woman and to keep him from seducing her when she was older. Lyte had passed it off with a smile—then.

Moran had returned for the manchild and, scooping him up, moved to enter the crowd. He had to walk back quite a few tiers, and the gathering parted like blown sand. Finally he reached the object of his search. Teloa blushed in her confusion, the color brushing her shoulders, neck and face like the touch of a master’s paintbrush. Her brilliant smile flashed out, and she joyously gathered up the tiny bundle. The baby immediately reached up and grabbed a long blonde curl. Tay followed Moran back down to the floor of the garedoc, her pleasure in the child evident. Moran was still searching the crowd, and spotting Braan in the corner near the altar indicated he should come forward.

Now the four were assembled in front of Arrez, and Samara, the sister of Roe’s grandmother, came toward them. Three women chose the names for the children: the mother, the eldest female of the Atare house, and one more relative of the mother’s choosing. Roe had chosen Liel. Nodding to Arrez, Samara’s rich, throaty contralto rolled out.

“Now comes the reason for our gathering, Brethren. Before Most Holy Mendülay and the people we declare these four people to have special bonds to our next chosen ones and announce the naming. They are named by tradition, and as always uniquely. The elder shall be Arien reb^Ronüviel Atare. ‘Arien’ is from the ancients, and means ‘free-flyer, high soarer, nightrider.’ The younger shall be Breeyan reb^Ronüviel Atare. The name, from the tiovi, means ‘star traveller,’ for it is said this one shall travel far before he comes to the throne of his ancestors.”

As Samara said the last words Roe glanced quickly to where Mariah had been sitting. That was the first thing the woman said, upon seeing the child: “This one must travel far, ’ere he finds his heart’s desire, and discovers the burden of the chain.” But Mariah was gone, and Elana too. Ronüviel frowned—this, of all things, was something the women would not want to miss. There was more to the ceremony—the baptism with water, the laying-on of hands and anointing with oil—but Roe’s mind was on other things, churning, the healer within suddenly terribly worried with a premonition she could not name.

NEW TEMPLE HEIGHTS

TWOHUNDRED ELEVENDAY, LAUDS (MOONSET)

Arrez stood at the entrance to the new temple heights, his grip on his polished wooden beads painful. He stared down the long corridor past the prayer niches to the upper cave opening; the picture window, as it was called. No starrise cut through the murkiness beyond. The last rain from the sea slanted toward the mountains, driving against the rocky overhand. The priest did not hear Ronüviel as she entered the hallway from the direction of the life shelter.

The woman moved slowly—what with the baptism, the twins and the operation she had just performed, she had found no rest. Her assistant was finishing in post-op; it was her task to talk to Arrez.

Finally the man turned his head, acknowledging her presence. “Well?” he asked, his voice mild. “It is early. Many children have been premature since the bombs fell. But you removed her from her room. What is it?”

Roe hesitated, her face bleak. “She lives.”

Arrez seemed to consider her choice of words. “The child?”

The woman shook her head negatively.

“Will there be others?”

“I do not think so.”

Arrez looked back out the picture window. Roe glanced toward the opening, wondering what he saw. “Is she awake?” he said at last. “Does she know?”

“Yes. She insisted on knowing everything. I think she has suspected since the beginning that it was her last. But we could not anticipate ...“

“It is all right, Ronüviel” was the gentle reply. “It is Mendülay’s will, no matter how we see it. At least he has spared my life’s blood. I am blessed.” There were tears in his voice. Silently touching his arm, Roe retreated to the life shelter, the man following.

Elana lay in silence, her eyes seeing nothing. Shinar stood near her, a tight, frightened expression on the young woman’s face. Arrez sat down on the edge of the bed. “Elana? Belaiss?” The endearment penetrated her fog. She blindly extended her arms for his. They sat that way a long time.

“It was a manchild,” Elana whispered.

AMURA HARBOR

TWOHUNDRED ELEVENDAY, TIERCE

Braan could not wait until the Nova’s gangplank was brought to rest. Grabbing hold of a piece of rigging hanging on the side, he pulled himself up and over the ship’s railing with a simple, fluid hand-over-hand action. Leaping over a barrel, he seized Gid in a hard embrace. “You missed the baptism.”

“You did not wait.”

“Wait? No word, and then you sneak around the point at night with no lanterns. The excuse had better be good.”

Gid laughed. “Something unexpected came up, and we had to make an unscheduled stop in Merigwin. I brought you a surprise.”

“Not a puppy, I hope.” Gid looked blank. “Zair’s lady friend whelped almost a dozen, and the owner wants to give me all but the two he promised Roe!”

“Well, I will take one, and you had better get one for the friend I brought you.” As he finished, at the opposite end of the moonraker a lovely, dark-haired young woman stepped out of the passenger’s cabin, a bundle in her arms.

Braan immediately leaned over to Gid. “I do not believe you. First you push your mother on me and now—”

“No, no! On the contrary! Not her—him!” The young woman came closer, nodding her fealty, and Braan suddenly recognized the band on her arm marking her a member of the practitioner’s guild, dealing with mothers and children. Shyly she opened the bundle with one hand. Braan did not move.

The square jaw and dimple in the chin had reached a third generation. And the intense, long-lashed eyes, staring at him, it seemed, were already hinting at the emerald green they would become. Braan extended a finger, which the tiny mite took hold of with an amazingly powerful grip. So small, as small as the twins.

“Atare, may I introduce you to Caran reb^Tinyan. He is not much of a talker but has quite a healthy set of lungs, considering he was sixtyday early. This is Defora, from the Merigwin chapter, who agreed to accompany us as nurse.” Gid was watching intently for a reaction. “Needless to point out my fathers are not his father. Tinyan originally wished for Arrez and Elana to take him, but Defora’s guild said she is expecting her own any moment.”

“She had it,” Braan managed to say. “It was born dead. Last night.” Defora went pale.

Gid winced. “As usual, my timing is superb. We will petition the elders—”

“No.” Braan carefully took the manchild from Defora. “Come. Both of you.”

NEW TEMPLE HEIGHTS

TWOHUNDRED ELEVENDAY, TIERCE

Roe did not know what to say. She had not intended to sit here with Elana and nurse her twins; it seemed cruel. But here was her friend, holding the womanchild, Arien, and actually suggesting she might function as a wet nurse for other women for a time. Roe was impressed and wondered how much was a brave front.

It was strange and yet relaxing to have Odelle with them. Corymb’s sister-daughter was only ninetyday from delivery. Many were delivering prematurely; she was therefore being watched very closely. Odelle was a high-strung woman— no, child—by nature, and this pregnancy only made things worse. It was extremely important to her to have a healthy boy or at least a healthy girl, but eventually a boy as well. She feared that she might not be able to carry more than once or twice, and Corymb was counting on her. Otherwise, he lost his position in the family, unless Dielaan voted to keep him, and would become merely another elder. Of course, there was no basis for her worry. The odds were the same for her as for any other 20. Roe wove her thoughts back into Odelle’s speech.

“It was a horrible dream. The infant had two heads, and both sexes and—” Odelle paused, shuddering. “I know, ridiculous, but I cannot rid myself of it. Maybe ...” Her voice dropped, and she looked quickly to see who was listening: “It is a punishment for the Dielaan’s sins.”

Shaking her head, Elana said, “Odelle, we cannot promise the child is not sini—the very thing that shields mother and child from each other keeps us from knowing such things. However, I can stake my reputation that it will not be sinishur.”

“You do not understand, Elana. Five generations ago my husband’s line had a mock sini—not serious, but the manchild was taken to Tolis. And neither his line nor my branch of Dielaan has yet produced a healer. We are not free!” There was agony in her voice. Roe said nothing. There were no guarantees—all paths were fraught with danger. Elana was a perfect example.

Shinar walked into the room, changing the subject. “The Nova is in, and Gid is on it. I heard they are coming this way.”

“Felt the baby move yet?” Odelle asked, suddenly looking mischievous.

Shinar made a face. “How would you like your black curls scattered from here to Seedar?” But she also laughed. Shinar had been so excited over the prospect of the baby, she was feeling movement at first with every ache and gas pain. Her peers enjoyed teasing her. Now she turned to her mother, trying to hide her concern. Until an hour ago, Shinar had not left Elana since the surgery. She had finally dragged Arrez off for some food.

“Why do you not go bother Kal?” Roe said. Shinar immediately looked as if she was going to object.

“I think that is a good idea, Shinar,” Elana said firmly. “He needs pestering, and you look too solemn.” Then her voice dropped to a tight whisper. “The best thing for all of us is to get busy with something right away. Please do.” Shinar reached over and hugged the woman, and then rushed out. Odelle raised her arms to take Arien, and the scientist gave her up. Elana then held her head high to prevent tears from escaping.

There was a knock at the apartment shield.

“Yes?” Roe asked.

“Ronüviel?” It was Gid’s voice.

“I will come out when I am done feeding Bree, just a—”

“We would rather come in if you do not mind. Just Braan and I and a lady friend.”

That piqued her curiosity. “Enter.” The three walked in, the young woman shy, at the rear, and clearly not Gid’s type. Roe turned a puzzled face to them and realized Braan was carrying not a bundle but a baby.

“I have brought a new playmate for the twins. This is Caran reb^Tinyan, and Defora is his travel nurse, from Merigwin.”

“A brother! Gid, how nice,” Elana said, her voice soft but clear. “Who is the father?”

“I am.” Braan paused, and then continued hurriedly. “Tinyan and her men originally wanted you and Arrez to take him, if you would, but they did not know you were expecting your own. Are you willing or interested in such a thing?” Elana stared at him. “It is traditional to at least reveal the mother’s request. If not, we shall petition the synod. Would you rather dismiss it to the elders or talk with Arrez first or—”

“Braan—” Roe did not know whether to be angry or afraid.

“We must determine if Defora is staying or returning home, depending on our own chapter’s ability to provide for the child. And—” Braan stopped his run-on. Elana said nothing but extended her arms for the squirming manchild. Braan hesitated only a second and then handed her the babe. The child stopped struggling, looking up at the woman with enormous eyes, and then snuggled closer, seeking a reassuring breast and meal.

“I realize that this is a sudden and monumental decision—” Braan started to say, and then saw tears falling on the blanket.

Roe had finished feeding Breeyan and, in one movement, secured her blouse and handed the manchild to a surprised Gid. Moving to Elana, she sat on the bed’s edge. “Elana ... Elana? Do not be upset, they will understand. It is—”

“Get Arrez.” Odelle had already slipped away, depositing the sleeping Arien in Braan’s arms. Elana did not speak again; only the silent tears gave any sign of her reaction. They waited, and presently an out-of-breath Arrez arrived. He took in the scene with a glance and then pulled up a stool next to the bed. Elana looked up at him, her eyes glazed with tears. “A boon has been asked, a charge laid upon us. This is Caran reb^Tinyan, brought to you and me by his half brother, Gid reb^Tinyan, and presented by his blood father. Shall we take up his life or shall we pass him to the elders?”

Arrez studied her face and then surveyed the child. “What say you?”

Elana sighed. “I rejoiced at the new chance at life and love we were offered; I cursed Mendülay when it was taken back and cursed myself for the words. For all we know, it is this one who has needed us all along.” She touched a dark infant curl, no longer facing Arrez, waiting.

“I have no objections. As you will,” Arrez answered.

Roe could see Elana’s tears beginning to fall again. “I think you will take them to their cradles,” Roe said, pushing Braan and Gid out the doorway. “Braan, put her down first. Make sure Gid knows how. I am sure this manchild is hungry ... and I think things will be all right.”

oOo

TWOHUNDRED ELEVENDAY, VESPERS

Braan slipped away from the garedoc gathering early, letting them temper joys and sorrows as they wished. Those who believed in signs from God debated the death of the high priest’s child against the arrival of Tinyan’s little one and the fact that the heir was the third in a row to have a name beginning with B. Of course three was a lucky number, yet purists argued that Tal bore the title a few moments. Braan left it all behind.

The guaard had brought word from off-planet contacts; Asiai had been found, and relocated with his dead wife Enid’s parents. For the time being, she was safe. It was a private joy to be shared only with Dylan. There would be time later to tell Ronüviel and the others.

Roe had stayed with Elana until starset and then finally retreated for the night to her husband’s arms. Elana, too, was exhausted; she was in pain, and afraid to take medication for fear it would contaminate her milk. She insisted that she could wait for Roe’s healing touch. Braan hoped she was sleeping. He made his way to the new temple heights, to look at Caran reb^Tinyan for himself.

The outer opening was merely beads, but no one answered his soft knock on the shield. He peeked in—the partition to the bedroom was closed. Leaving his guaard at the door, Braan quietly moved to the cradle. To his amazement, the babe was awake and aware of him, calmly sucking on his fist. Braan studied him a moment, and then carefully picked him up.

“You have been passed around like a bushel of vegetables, have you not?” Braan whispered softly to him. His voice did not frighten the manchild. Trustingly secure as he lay along Braan’s arm, his head fitting perfectly in the man’s palm, the infant reached up and out, attempting to seize the glittering chain of office. “You do not really want that—it is a pain in the ass. Believe me, I have been there. I cannot give you two names, but I shall give you what I can, the important things, if you want them. Then you will not need two names—one will be enough. And better than this chain; more. I know.”

So absorbed was he with the child he did not hear the bedroom partition open and close, or see Teloa pause, a little smile teasing at the corners of her lips as she watched them. The woman slipped off without comment, nodding to Arrez as they passed.

Braan heard the beads move, but did not look up. “If you will excuse me, I have to go eat. Your half brother is waiting for me, and right now he needs me more than you do.” Braan started to set the baby back down.

“Wait.” Arrez stepped forward, a smile lighting his face. He did not tease Braan about his presence there, however. They faced one another, not moving.

“Thank you,” Braan said in parting, extending the child to Arrez.

“Thank you,” the other replied, embracing the babe with long years of practice. Arrez stood there holding Caran a long time after his Atare had left.

ATARE’S PEAK

TWOHUNDRED TWELVEDAY, TIERCE

Braan settled himself more comfortably, his gaze never leaving the 3AV. For a second he drifted, more interested in the disappearing holographic images than the thoughts they conveyed. Then he admitted defeat, his attention moving to the voices in the private corridor. Dylan and Teloa. She was coming to the mid-morning meeting, and apparently Dylan had been shadowing her. Braan briefly wondered if the child was smitten by the woman or truly was that interested in planting. They did seem to like each other.

“He has been getting more attention lately than I have.” He immediately understood what he had said and hoped Tay had not heard.

“Dad?” Dylan peeked around the side of the stalagmite, not wishing to intrude. Teloa’s head followed.

Braan smiled and shut off the AV holographic machine. “I am feeling neglected,” Braan said faintly. “When are you going to come visit me?”

Dylan laughed and ran over to hug him. “We went to the pools yesterday! I cannot see you all the time because it gets—” Dylan stopped, suddenly aware of what he was saying.

“Yes? Boring?”

Dylan made a face. “All they do is talk, talk. Talk to you, talk at you, talk in front of you like you are not there! Until they want you to settle an argument.”

Braan laughed. “No one said being a ruler was fun all the time. So you like planting better? How about classes?”

“Tay makes it interesting!” Then Dylan looked worried. “I am keeping up my studies, really! I did all the reading up to next templeday!!”

“I believe you, I believe you!” Braan met Tay’s smile over the boy’s head. “I talked to Prinz, and he says in fifteen to twentyday you can go pick a pup from the lady hound’s litter. Do you think you can take care of a little puppy?” The boy’s eyes grew enormous. “I mean it —I shall confiscate it if you do not feed and brush and love it properly.” The boy’s head bobbed up and down vigorously. “All right, then it is settled. Go on.”

Dylan vanished, a flurry of feet skidding down the dark corridor and an earsplitting whoop at the lifts.

“Such joy! Prinz is going to run out of puppies!”

“I think they are all committed. He did not want to keep any, and it gives him a lot of pleasure to give them away, especially to children.”

“And you?”

Braan looked surprised and thoughtful.

“Or you can let Zair stay with you again and I’ll take one!”

Braan shook his head. “No, I think your danger is past, but I would like Zair to stay with you a little while longer. I would feel better about it.” She smiled graciously at this, and Braan felt fractionally unsettled, as if she was looking right through him. He was even more disturbed by the fact that he was upset. He reached languidly to pull out the 3AV.

“Bad news?” It was an honest question. As scripter, she would normally be one of the first to know; he had confided in her more than once.

“In a sense. The various com-net startexes we have monitored indicate tremendous pressure building up within the Axis—military secrets exposed, systems up in arms against the republic, attempts to make Nuala take the fall.” His voice sank to a whisper. “Tay, I am no longer sure we shall ever be able to reenter the Axis.” She said nothing; he looked up, his gaze piercing. “That is not for general hearing.”

“I am always discreet, Atare,” she answered formally. Irritated by a second of intimacy destroyed, Braan stood and paced to the large thermacontrol window, the first to be placed.

He touched its sill gently. “We have a chance. Several chances. The first we shall discuss today.” He was interrupted by pounding on his metal shield. “Enter.” Moran, Roe and Gid appeared, trooping past the two silent guaard, another guaard in tow. Braan smiled faintly. “I want a real door.”

“With a doorkeeper? The guaard will not take on anything extra. Some people do not have units yet, and you and Dylan have this to yourself!” Roe answered, amusement in her voice.

“That may change,” Braan replied. He gestured to the low chairs. “We have several people to wait for. Sit down. Did you ask Lyte?”

“He said, ‘No thankyou,’” Roe supplied.

Braan’s eyes narrowed. So—he had not imagined it. Lyte was angry and avoiding his friends.

Moran looked momentarily pained. “I’ll just lecture it to him later. He has no choice.”

By this time the sounds of other participants in the meeting came to their ears. Lars, the head planter, and his major assistant, Brett, were the first through the doorway, followed by Liel and Arrez. Liel was regaining her full spirits, jokes and good humor coming in rapid-fire order. The twins followed, and the gathering was gratified to see that Shinar had been with Kalith. Braan was unable to suppress a smile. He had seen them walking and talking earlier, and for a moment the past year was swept away and they were two young people reveling in the silent intensity of their love. Kal was trying to shake his inhibitions and come to some semblance of peace with himself, but it was difficult. While Kal took leave of Shinar, Kavan immediately took a seat, attentive to every word and movement. He had settled down, Braan reflected. Still the Atare temper, but he had better control over it. He took his responsibilities seriously. Jaac slipped in alone.

Finally Justinian and Url entered, the heads of the Synod. The couple brought with them the dignity of royalty, immediately formalizing the meeting. The two settled in on one couch. After they looked comfortable Arrez offered up a prayer. Then he looked expectantly at Braan.

Braan’s gaze took in the gathering. “I have called you all here to discuss our immediate course of action, and the general consequences if we do not move with purpose. Let no one leave confused.” He turned to Lars. “Can you explain this better than me?”

Lars coughed. He started to stand and then seemed to think better of it. Leaning back in his chair, he began to speak: “The winter harvest is stored, and we are preparing the seed grain for the summer crop, which, if the monsoons prove to be ended, will be planted this weekend. As everyone here has heard, several of our sister cities are in desperate need of food and seed grain. We are the major agricultural suppliers for this region and everything extending north. It is a heavy responsibility.”

“Was the harvest adequate?” Justinian asked.

“Adequate? Depending on how we look at it, yes. We produced enough grain to feed ourselves and eleven other population centers through this fall, and the rest of the seedgrain for this spring. Then there is the fall harvest.”

“And?” Arrez supplied.

“We can feed ourselves but not the other cities. Our farming was artificially controlled to produce that much food. We no longer have the means, and even with new land under cultivation, we do not have the seed. We will barely have seed to plant for winter, and it will produce a small crop. To spread things thinly is to provide an inadequate nutrition level for everyone.”

“Somehow I don’t think the people of Merigwin are going to lie down and starve peacefully. We are left with two choices; is that what you are suggesting? Find more food or be prepared for a global war to control what there is.” Teloa stared at Moran, amazed he could announce it so calmly.

“We have numerous tasks. Some will take time, such as rediscovering the farming skills of our ancestors,” Braan continued smoothly. “Lars and his fellow planters are convinced our soil can produce without chemical boosters and pesticides but that involves setting up a complicated crop rotation with tier planting, fertilization and a natural pesticide system. And, most importantly, getting new seed.”

“Smuggled?” Brett asked with enthusiasm. Liel’s smothered laughter and Braan’s smile immediately dashed his hopes of adventure.

“The rumors in the synod suggest you intend to deal with the Cied.” Justinian let his words hang in the air a moment. “Is this true? Is it wise? We are not sure the Cied have the added resources to help us. Or will be willing to—”

“The resources exist,” Gid interrupted. “Braan and I have spent considerable time in the ciedär, even the interior. And in the midst of that great desert lies an unimaginable oasis, created by the Ciedärlien planters. It is bounty in the midst of endless famine and feeds all the great and middle tribes with extra to barter, which they do on occasion. That land is the one thing their people do not fight over. I have seen it—it exists. And they protect it with their lives. Seed they will sell, for the right price. They, too, suffered from the attack, and acquiring material, weapons, metal, and housewares is difficult for them. They are not merchants or artisans—they depend on the coast for these things. Their farming secrets they may be more loath to give up, but it would amuse them to have us in their debt. I am not that proud, Justinian—I know what it is to go hungry.”

Lars cleared his throat, capturing their attention. “I agree with the Atare. We must go to the Cied, to the deep sand mountain Dragoche clan, to the Dragoche Baakche himself. We must deal with him one-on-one, with a representative of high standing with the Atare to act as emissary. The Cied call councils of tribal leaders, but they have no permanent, elected parliament—and recognize only one ruler. If we go representing separate tribes or houses, they will see that as a weakness. The fact we do not have a priest-king is bad enough for our bargaining position, or so records say.”

“We do.” Arrez did not look away from the window. “Just because he is not anointed a priest does not make him any less a servant of God.” Braan winced—the fact that there had been no coronation needed to be rectified as soon as possible.

“What do we have to offer the tribes?” Url asked.

“The usual—and more,” Braan answered, satisfied with what was coming out of the discussion. “I have already sent messages causing a temporary cessation of trade with the Cied. As Gid said, they are planters of the highest caliber, but they make nothing—no cloth, no weapons, no lasting abode. They barter for everything, specify their designs for material and weapons, rarely construct their own tents. They are trackers, hunters.” The Amurans shivered. The Cied ate meat. Not as much as off-world humans, but more than most Nualans.

“They also covet our metals. But can they not make what they have stretch an extra season or two and then take what they want when we are too weak to fight them?”

Braan smiled. “No. The Cied were hurt worse than us—their life is a harsh one, and their cities are dependent on the trade caravans. They will not change into craftmasters and city dwellers overnight. And they are Nualans—slavery disgusts them as it would you. They are people concerned with honor and duty to Mendülay above all things; and their own situation not far behind. They will help us. The questions are: How much? At what price? For how long? As friends or as taskmasters? And will they deal with Corymb, with Atare, or still someone else?”

“You mentioned ‘more.’ What do you have in mind, Braan?” Kavan asked.

“The Cied understanding of weapons is knives and swords, arrowtips to fight animals and one another.”

“A debatable difference,” Brett threw in. Lars hushed his assistant with a glance.

“I know that several Cied have been off-world in the last tenyear. Baakche’s heir is among them. The man Genuar is shrewd and intelligent—he understands the connection between the attack and the probable return of our enemies, I am certain ... or he can be made to see it. And the Fewhas will make Nuala totally their own, if they return. Even if they want our homes only for an outpost, they will sear the planet to a crisp first. We have the ability to protect the Cied. Tolis builds missiles, and the new shield. However, if we have to threaten to leave them unshielded, we will threaten.”

“We may not have to threaten. They remember prophecies from holy books we no longer read,” Arrez said cryptically.

“So it is plain that we must go to the Dragoche. I assume you have given thought as to who is to go?” Jaacav broke in smoothly.

“I know who is not going. You are not, my friend. You are the only one experienced enough to supervise the assembly of the shield, and we cannot wait the twentyday for you to finish. They must leave immediately. I hope for some aid from the tribes to increase this crop’s yield, not just the fall plantings.”

Jaac must have expected this, as she did not protest Braan’s decision. “You have found someone with my desert skills in condition to travel?” Her gaze at Roe was pointed.

“No. Roe needs a fortyday yet before she will gain her normal strength. We need someone with the equivalent authority to my own, since I doubt that the synod would be pleased with my leaving.”

“They would not,” Justinian replied just as easily.

“I was thinking Kalith and Kavan could go.” The young men straightened and tried to cover their astonishment. Braan went on quickly. “I feel the synod underestimates their ability to conduct state business, especially together. As a team they are practically unbeatable; and they were also on the last journey to Cied. I trust the experience is as engraved on their memories as it is on mine. They understand the protocol.”

“It would most likely be satisfactory, providing two elders selected by the synod accompanied them.”

“May I suggest the two be of personalities not averse to working through the Atares? We need no egos to salve on this trip. And myself—” Lars threw in.

“No. You’re too important here. I could just as easily go.” Everyone looked at Teloa. “I am Caprican, I was raised on a planet where the daytime temperature averaged forty degrees Celsius. I’ll learn the tricks of this desert quickly, and I know what questions to ask.”

Braan hesitated, unwilling to admit to himself how much her words frightened him.

“And Brett could go along, to insure we receive the proper amounts of each type of seed. Tay is not familiar with that part of our work, since our shipments have been cut back to almost nothing,” Lars offered. Brett immediately turned to Teloa, looking ridiculously pleased over the idea, totally missing the implications to his future as Lars’ assistant. Tay was facing Braan. The Atare let himself go only a moment, his encompassing gaze worried, and then the mask slipped up, his smile barely wavering. He took an intense dislike to the confident young planter Brett, recognized the jealousy, and mentally kicked himself.

“Jaac?” Braan forced out.

“Six warriors with planter skills, one of them guaard.”

“Six? Is that nec—”

“Yes, Justinian, six,” Jaac rushed on. “That is the minimum I shall allow, or I shall insist on the traditional Atare guaard. They shall be hard to placate as it is; they have been left in the dark too long.”

The idea alarmed both Justinian and Url. “We cannot have too many, it would look as if we were expecting treachery!”

“Agreed,” Braan interrupted. “We go to parley, not to fight. But we cannot be foolish. The tribes are never totally united, even behind the Dragoche, and we must not forget it for a second. Any less would not be prudent, any more not only asking for trouble but also a waste of warriors. If a group such as a Stigati tribe intends to attack, you would need a platoon to beat them off. I send these six only to have something between you and a knife in the dark.”

“It is settled, then? The synod shall choose the two this afternoon, and the chosen shall leave in the early morning,” Url said.

“Agreed.” But Braan knew he did not sound entirely pleased with the arrangement.

THE GROTTO

TWOHUNDRED THIRTEENDAY, PRIME

They sat quietly on the rocks, the watchers, as the last packs were secured on the hazelles. Roe looked up at the curving expanse of rock above them, a delicate rose-pink in the reflected light. Teloa had called the yawning opening “the grotto” from almost the very beginning, though it was truly the mouth of the western cavern. The name had stuck. The Atare woman looked over at Teloa, who was off to one side making her farewells to Zair and the akemmi. No wains were going; the long trek over the desert, most of it nothing but mountains and waves of sand, would be too much for their feet. No water could be spared for pets. The big hound whined softly as the Caprican scratched his ears; he knew something was wrong. Tikki scrambled off, vanishing in the brush. Dylan stood nearby, not as overjoyed as expected over gaining Zair’s company. He was fond of Tay and worried about her already.

Jaacav was with the half dozen warriors who were to accompany the group. Ronüviel could hear snatches of conversation and instruction. They carried side knives, a few clubs and Cied swords, and the group leader had a normally forbidden blaster. In the depths of the previous night Jaac had admitted her fears. She did not expect to see them ever again.

Roe could not accept it then, and believed it no more by the light of day. Studying the two elders chosen, Roe decided they were probably an adequate selection. Not distinguished, but honest, fairly objective, and able to keep their mouths shut during the bulk of the negotiations. If only Kal would spring back completely ... if only Brett would stop annoying Teloa. At least Roe would have found his pronounced attentions vexing. Teloa thought it was terribly amusing.

Kal had already said his good-byes and stood among the hazelles, his focus on the distant sea. Shinar had chosen to remain at Roe’s side and watched him thoughtfully. The warriors were helping the elders up on their hazelles and seeking their own mounts. Teloa now moved away from Dylan and the dog, starting down the path to the huddled beasts. Braan was standing between Roe’s perch and the road and reached out to touch Tay’s shoulder in passing. The woman hesitated.

“I have something for you,” Roe heard Braan say. “You may need it.” The man dipped into a pocket of his poncho and pulled out what Roe recognized as a hunting cat, a deadly knife used to skin tazelles, among other things. It was also known to even up the odds when one was cornered by a katt. It was in a case and had a strap attached.

“For me?” Tay was clearly surprised and puzzled.

“Never go far without a good knife and some rope,” Braan said briskly, opening the case with the flick of a finger to reveal knife, oil and stone. “Eon can carve the grip to your hand tonight. Do not allow it to rust in the case. Become familiar with it. There are many dangers in the ciedär.” Roe looked up to see Tay quietly studying him, and her expression indicated she saw beyond the words and the manner. For once Braan did not immediately move away and met the off-worlder’s gaze with his own. He closed the case and placed it in her right hand.

“Thank you.”

“Be careful.”

It was much later that Ronüviel asked Teloa what thought had moved her in those moments, for the woman’s final gesture had been unlike the restrained individual they knew. Yet it seemed so normal, so natural, for the scene. Tay had scrutinized him once again, her expression searching, and then had wordlessly reached up and caressed his cheek with her fingertips. Of all Nuala, only Lyte and Braan had patronized the tratores, and only they could know what that motion cost her. But Mercury 7 was in the past, and only a person well-trained in the tratore customs would remember long ago and worlds away. No citizens were present to mark boldness in the company of royalty.

The woman turned and hurried toward her hazelle. Mounting with the fluid grace of one familiar with four-legged transportation, she nodded to Eon, the palace guaard in charge of the group. A flick of his crop and his beast led off, the others falling in behind. Roe realized her knuckles were white from gripping her caftan and that she had reached for Braan’s sleeve without knowing it. The whole of the distant sea sparkled like silver in the starlight as Kee finally rose above the mountains; the travelers, however, were bathed in shadow as they hugged the rocky terrain, headed for the pass and to the east. Roe trembled in the rising breeze.

PAINTING ROCK, THE CIEDÄR

TWOHUNDRED SIXTEENDAY, PRIME

She sat as still as death, watching the star leap up over the farthest mountains and into the sky. It was the highest point in the region, this jumbled pile of rocks, and her sanctuary against the coming day. Teloa did not even allow herself to stretch; not long ago Brett had come up to join her and had been unable to find her among the boulders. The deception pleased Tay, and she wedged herself tighter into the crevice, reveling in the freedom. She tucked her water flask into her beige robes to protect it from the coming heat.

Three days they had ridden, following a caravan route. The land was blooming in the wake of the recent monsoons, a soft blue-green as far as the eye could see. The hazelles often had to be driven to keep them from eating too much of the fresh grass and foundering. She sighed, thinking about the hazelles. Each animal carried the personal effects and water of its rider, and soon she would have to go down to load her beast. Eon would probably help her, but she didn’t want to burden him. The packs were not heavy, just awkward.

Tay shifted, staring off north to the next pile of rocks, a mountain chain in miniature that was slowly wearing away to become more desert. A taller range was beyond them, lost in Nualan mist. The route was easy for those who knew the signs. Eon and Kal had taught them to her, and she amused herself by pacing the trip. This was the easy part, the part that was a day’s walk to each water source. But when they passed the painting rock, they reached the open desert, the great sands, which was what ciedär meant. After that every oasis and stone formation was found by following the stars—and to fail was to wander endlessly in the ever-changing dunes, until dehydration and starstroke made an end of the story. Then the small, water-seeking crustaceans and the drying winds took care of the rest ...

The twins were fond of this grotesquely carved place and had chosen it as a wind break. It was called the painting rock because of its major use—as a trysting place for tribes, most of which no longer existed. They met here, at the marker for what was once the edge of the sands, and traded wares, stories and information, fostering out their children for the season as well. Those Cied who chose to learn the trade of ceremonial recording then recounted the most important and impressive information on the rock surface itself, with colors ground from the various delicate berries that appeared just after each monsoon season.

The tribes were gone; even their language was dead and decipherable only by scholars. But the colors in the interior caves were as bright as the day they were crushed into new life, and certainly the rock did not care that the edge of the ciedär was now three days west of it. Tay had immediately preferred to be on it instead of next to it, the biomorphic cavern entrances reminding her of the sad eyes of some gigantic alien creature. But she had admired the paintings and the rising star long enough.

A sharp cry aroused her. It was harsh, a sound of anger and alarm. Fighting the urge to race back to the camp, Teloa slowly crawled toward the lip of the ledge, at the same time hooking the face veils on her Cied-like robe. She was unarmed except for the knife Braan gave her and unskilled at any other weapons. No matter what the problem was—a small crawly thing dropped down someone’s robe or a large predator—she would be no help and possibly in the way. Trying to calm her overactive imagination, Tay peered over the edge.

Worse than her fears. Large predators—human ones, or marginally human. Teloa at first thought they were the Cied traders the Amurans had passed the day before, but the robe markings were different. The traders’ hems and sideseams had been embroidered with an intricate black design—these Cied had a red pattern, bold and abstract, and confined to the hem and left side. She stared hard at the pattern, memorizing it before it was obliterated by blood.

She realized the odds were at least six to one, and had time to notice they had captured one of the Atares but killed without hesitation the warrior trying to free him. Then she saw the battle moving her way, and crawled back to her hiding place. Damn! Anything for a laser blaster in her hand. But it was not allowed—Eon had the only one.

oOo

The sounds of battle ceased. The star rose in the heavens, pulsating its power as the hot spell approached. It was not until vespers, however, when Kee had sunk into the Sonoma Mountains, that Teloa finally stirred. She crept again to the ledge, and saw several hazelles moving listlessly. There was no other movement. Standing, Tay looked as far as she could see in every direction. There was no sign of life. She slowly started down the rocks.

The fighting had shed enough blood to attract the krwb, the moisture-seeking creatures of the sand, and they had done their work well. Every single drop of fluid left in the corpses had been drawn out, an orgy of water, enough to last a troop of krwb the rest of their short lives. She could still recognize the victims by their clothes or hair. All six warriors were accounted for, the two elders and the planter Brett. Poor Brett, he had been so pleased to go on this trip and so interested in Teloa since she’d arrived.

“Tikki-tikki-tikki!”

Teloa spun about, the knife in her hand. Several hazelles were grazing nearby, and on top of one of them, perched among the packs, was Tikki. She flicked an ear at Tay, and twitched her whiskers. Teloa laughed in hysterical relief. “So you didn’t want to be left behind and decided to hide until the trouble was over?” Tay walked to the hazelles and extended an arm, the akemmi running up it to nestle in her hood. “Enough—we belong together.”

The hazelles were still hobbled, and after tracking down the food, Tay left them that way. Apparently Eon had been correct when he said that their small group would be of no interest to casual thieves; the packs were untouched and the bodies unsearched. She found five hazelles grazing in the area, three dead and her own trapped in a crevice, afraid to back out. The poor animal must have been in it all day, or the raiders would have taken it: the three missing beasts, along with her own, had been the best of the lot. Eon had mentioned Cied contempt for city-bred animals.

Tay settled in on a ledge, preferring to meet any enemies while on solid rock. Tikki helped to eat the dried seeds and fruits and wanted a tiny sip of water. Akemmis did not seem to need much fluid. As darkness fell, Teloa surveyed her domain and took stock of the situation. Strangely, or perhaps not so strangely, she felt very calm. Her steady family upbringing had prepared her for emergencies in a small farm community. This was merely one more emergency.

They had wanted the twins—alive—or several of the attackers would have not allowed themselves to be injured capturing them. Though not experienced, the young men had proven to be fierce fighters when cornered. The warriors had spent most of their time trying to defend the elders and Brett. Eleven of their enemies lay dead to attest to their skills against overwhelming odds. Teloa toyed with taking one of their robes and then discarded the idea. She had no way of knowing which tribes were currently friendly toward each other and which hostile, and had no intention of falsely allying herself. They came up so suddenly, the guard did not see them until the last moment. How did they know where to seek?

Tay sighed. The implications were not good. Someone had to tell them which of all possible routes would be taken. The question—to turn back or go on? No one would blame her if she went back; a stranger, unfamiliar with the terrain, no weapons or concrete directions. But if she went back, how long until another group left? If ever? No help would come for the current plantings, barely in the ground. And could an army brave the ciedär? She doubted it. Lack of water would defeat them, if nothing else.

“Is that all you can offer them, lady—to go back and starve with them?” Tay asked aloud. She shivered, expecting an answer from the ghosts of the dead men. She had not known them, except for Brett, and he was little to her. But she could mourn strong life ended prematurely. Not knowing the rituals of the Nualans by heart, she could only say a Qu’tai prayer for them and light a candle.

There were no candles. So she chose a torch, enough light for all of them, the Amurans and their enemies. She went deep into the wind-carved rock to light it, fearing the curious might come to inspect the glow. And as she sat inside the cave, the mournful, spectral Cied drawings staring back at her, Teloa made her decision.

She would go on. Discovering yesterday that she understood the dialect of at least one of the tribes gave her confidence. Her need to listen very closely, and the fact that she did not expect any words to sound a certain way, improved her chances for interpreting. She had actually ended up giving the formal farewells when Kalith realized her talent for language. And a tiny fear was growing within her: What if there were people who questioned why she had survived and the others had not? The desert seemed friendlier than her potential detractors. She would need two hazelles, one to ride and the next best for packing. The rest she’d cut loose and hope they’d find their way to a safer place. The food, water, all the swords—Eon said he would steer by the moons and two stars.

oOo

Teloa never did know (though the mythmakers later recorded it) about her part in the legends of the painting rock. The newest came from the Pecaio tribe, and they spoke in low awe and dread of the battle at the monolith, where much Cied blood was spilled and every enemy slain or taken. Since the Nuala do not believe in ghosts, the only explanation for the eerie glow illuminating every cavern was the presence of angels, sent by Mendülay, to light the paths of the dead.

Chapter Sixteen

MT. AMURA — UPPER POOLS

TWOHUNDRED THIRTYSIXDAY, NONE

They had chosen a stone glade facing the desert. The pool of water, sheltered from the star’s mid-afternoon heat by the peak above it, was cool and inviting. Roe dangled her feet in it, enjoying the feel of cold rock and moist dirt beneath her hands. Braan was stretched out under one of the mountain evergreens, looking through the crevice to the plains below. On, on and still further, until sight was lost in an immense waste of sand. She did not doubt he saw it as clearly in his sleep as he did now. The guaard was hidden, as always.

There were no more games to play. The search parties were back, with the report that their group had aroused the suspicions of the waste dwellers, the paranoid Wasuu. Corymb had openly suggested the twins were dead and that the tribes, by their very silence, were refusing to help. Everyone’s nerves were on edge, and a pall seemed to have descended upon the mountain. Despite the first blush of turquoise and gold in the tilled fields, the whispering had begun. Not enough planted—not enough food. A conspiracy by a small group to garner controlling interest in the plantings. A Toli invasion from the north. Other rumors, some even more ridiculous. But many people had begun to fear that they were true.

Roe briefly wondered if it was of any use to have accompanied Braan. But he had looked so pleased when she had asked to come, forsaking husband, children, work and puppies. To what end? She knew Braan was blaming himself just as surely as she knew that no other way would have been practical. Air cars would have deeply offended the Cied; an army would have been insanity. She sighed. Now someone had to go. But who?

Gid or Jaac. They were the only two with both the authority and the experience to go and return—alive at the very least. Hundreds of tribes to investigate, their invisible territorial lines dividing the ciedär, their hates as fresh as the new seedlings. How could Braan choose? She twisted a long strand of hair and looked up quickly at the sound of approach from below.

Jaacav stepped into the small clearing, shaking free of evergreen needles. The lump of fur near Braan woofed in greeting, and rolled over.

“Such a welcome. At least you could have wagged your tail,” the woman said to Zair. Perceiving that he was being spoken to, the dog thumped his tail against Braan’s leg. Braan smiled and beckoned for her to join them.

“A good day’s work?” he asked.

“The shield is finished.” The words seemed heavy, dropping like a stone to the bottom of the pool. Roe wondered at her own reaction and then knew that there was nothing—not even Braan’s disapproval—to keep Jaac from going out into the ciedär.

Braan managed a sigh. “The first test may be all too soon,” he murmured.

“I do not intend to be here for it, but I will give you the desert report on its effectiveness.” Braan, studying her intently, did not reply. “I am going into the ciedär to look for survivors from the first expedition. I come to ask your permission to take Moran and Lyte, if they will go.”

“But not my permission to leave?”

“I am not only the watch officer but the captain of the guaard as well. You have failed to honor our rights on several occasions, and in this case especially I have let you have your way.”

“And?”

“This shall redeem for all. I believe they are still alive and that a Stigati or Wasuu tribe is holding them, awaiting outside orders. Whether the Dragoche’s, Corymb’s, or another’s orders is not important. I also think that they will not be alive much longer and that we must act quickly. We have perhaps thirtyday to check every Stigati and Wasuu tribe in the 200 Kilon—no more. I cannot believe Genuar is condoning this action. He is probably unaware of it now, but he has his spies. If the perpetrators think the Dragoche’s heir is onto their scheme, whatever it is, they will dump the survivors immediately. It calls for action—no more conversation.”

“Agreed.” Braan’s voice sounded very grave. “I do not want this, but I cannot deny it. Why Moran and Lyte?”

“I want fresh eyes and hearts to help the search, and no conflicts over what paths to take within the spiral. They are trained in ways like ours and have improved these last long days with hazelles and lack of weapons. Lyte no longer leaps for a blaster that is not there. Besides, they need to feel as if there is something they can do. I regret taking him from you, Roe, but I believe it is right.”

Her heart twisting suddenly at the loss of both of them, Roe whispered, “Yes. Do you think Lyte will come?”

“No. But I intend to ask. He will want to, even if he refuses.”

“Gid?” Braan asked.

“No. You need him here, Atare.” It all appeared settled in her mind.

“Tomorrow?”

“I think tonight,” Jaac replied. “With the proper witnesses, of course.”

“Of course,” Roe echoed. “Of course.” To be going ...

NUAMURA, MT. AMURA

TWOHUNDRED THIRTYSIXDAY, VESPERS

Lyte waited, sitting at a crossways, watching through a hole in the wall the glittering star fall toward the sea. He felt the tightness in his face, cursed it, but could do nothing to stop it. Moran would be coming soon. And what was he going to say to him?

Jaac had been straightforward. Pure clandestine work, in and out, not a soul aware—he and Moran were the only ones she wished to have accompany her into the ciedär. Spy out the situation, find and free any living travelers and silently return. Nine shriveled bodies had been found, only the Atares and Teloa unaccounted for. Briefly, he wondered which was harder on Braan, his missing brothers or the Caprican woman. A chance to be moving once again, a chance to do what he and Moran were best at.

Why do I hesitate? He had asked himself the same question for an hour, ever since he had turned Jaacav down. Whom do I punish? That pulled him up short - was it spite? Was his anger at this planet superseding everything else? This damn planet. Holding him, trapping him. It already had Moran. He had ceased to think of leaving, was actually supporting Braan’s decision as the Nualan tossed out law after law. Damn these crazy Nualans!

Moran charged around the corner and stopped abruptly. Lyte did not give him time to assess the situation. “Packed?” he asked conversationally, knowing that his tratore face would not fool Moran.

“Yes. You?”

“I’m not going.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m not.”

Moran sat down next to him on the stone ledge. “That doesn’t make the slightest bit of sense. A chance to do what we’re trained for and love to do, and the possibility of recovering Kal alive so you can resolve your problem with Shinar.”

“There’s no problem with Shinar. She’s near her time. I think she’d like me around.”

“But you don’t intend for it to be permanent; nor does she. She wants Kal, and I think he still feels the same. Have you changed your mind?” There was a pause. “You’ve never let a difference of opinion keep you away from the action before. Not trouble with co-workers, not trouble with superiors. Why should this be different? Lyte, in the names of the gods, what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know.” He heard the edge to his voice, and the bleakness behind the words. Moran did not answer. Lyte suddenly wondered if Roe had figured out what was bothering him, and had spoken to Moran. Wish she’d tell me ... The Axis Republic was dead, or dying—he was a warrior without a war to fight. Except against this planet. On whose side? He was not sure about Braan, or anyone else, except possibly Shinar. And Corymb. He knew where Corymb stood. At least he knew where he, himself, did not.

“I’ll miss you,” Moran said finally. Lyte waited for the famous Moran temper to blow, but the man was quiet, his expression sad. Reaching out Moran gently took hold of his friend’s shoulder a moment. Then he stood and walked toward his apartment to take leave of his wife.

Lyte sat there until long after dusk.

UPPER CAVERNS, MT. AMURA

TWOHUNDRED THIRTYSIXDAY, VESPERS

Ronüviel leaned against the ledge of the enclosed porch, her eyes idly scanning the horizon. The child she held close did not move; he slept soundly, oblivious to all that had passed above him in the previous hour.

They were gone. Just the two of them; Lyte had refused to the end. But she had questioned Moran at length when he had appeared, for every word, every thought. And she began to understand what was troubling Lyte. She also saw that it was something none of them could help him with—he had to resolve it on his own. A soft sigh escaped her, and Bree stirred slightly in response. She clasped the infant closer, as if trying to draw comfort from him. Then, deciding that she was being selfish, she gently set him back in his cradle. Roe carefully pulled the light blankets over both babies, her gaze lingering on them. She could see Moran there—mostly in Arien but in Bree also. She knew that someday she wanted more children but she hoped Mendülay arranged it in the future. Exhaustion crept up on her, scattering her thoughts. She wanted Moran to be the father. She wanted him for herself. Please, Lord, sweet Mendülay ...

She sat at her desk, trailing her fingers along the dark, polished wood, surveying the communiqués, the history 3AVs, the theology texts. For the last fifteenday she had done nothing but sleep, be with the babies, and study. She remembered Moran’s amusement when she admitted she needed to hire a homekeeper, and her relief when Liel volunteered to take on the work. Ronüviel had grown accustomed to the privacy of the apartment and was not ready to return to the huge entourage of palace days. Sometimes she could even forget who she was and what she represented.

What lay before her was everything the Amuran archives possessed on the Ciedärlien. She had analyzed it and tried to find answers. Her major finding was the simple fact that she needed more information. That could be easily accomplished; surface communication had been reestablished, and it was once again simple to send a message across the continent.

Reaching for a message capsule, she punched out brief requests to the prime ministers of Atare city, Merigwin, Tolis and Seedar, along with several minor coastal towns. They all had something in common; they traded with the Cied. She asked them the same question. Did they have any recorded information on the tribes? If so, would they send a copy of each notation, no matter how obscure, to the Ragäree by private communiqué? She sealed it with her name seal, now combined with the stars of the Brethren, the traditional addition marking the Ragäree’s sign. Moving to the entranceway, she softly asked one of the two warriors at the door to take the capsule to the communications station, wait while they were all sent, and then destroy the capsule. Roe stressed the need to make sure no one else gained knowledge of its contents. The capsule vanished into a pocket, and with a brief nod the warrior disappeared.

Roe returned to the window, knowing the guaard would take care of everything. It did not matter if spies in the various cities discovered her inquiries. By the time the information reached Corymb, Roe hoped to have formulated some concrete answers for his and the synod’s questions.

oOo

Darkness was falling when a knock came at the bronze shield.

“Enter.”

The dark-haired young woman swept in, setting a tray on the desk with a flourish. Liel dropped into the rocker with an exaggerated sigh, pushing her hair out of her face and looking momentarily younger than her sixteen standard. “The lifts had lines a kilometer long, so I took the stairs! I was worried when you did not come to dinner.”

“I forgot. The babies were hungry and with Moran leaving ... You should not have bothered.”

“You must eat,” Liel replied sternly. “You do not need to lose any more weight, just tone up what you have left! Time to start running up and down the stairs.” She uncovered a dish. “Cheese and noodles, and fresh fruits, whole grain bread, and—”

“Do you think they are alive?” Roe interrupted.

Liel was silent. “I am naive enough to believe that somehow we would know if they were gone. Have you felt any sendings from the hereafter?”

Roe smiled. “No.”

“Then eat your dinner. No more talk about morbid things. I have had enough of that. Lyte is in the hall, I think I shall go tempt him with one of these loaves. Oh, several groups requested a story tonight, if you are not too tired. Something hopeful, please, they are still scrubbing the tearstains off the rocks from the last one you told.” Liel flew out the door.

“But a mythmaker is not supposed to tell stories people want to hear,” Roe said aloud. “A mythmaker is a seeker of legends ... an interpreter of the truths that rise from the subconscious. My historical tales are merely pastry cream.” She picked up a piece of fruit and nibbled on it, wondering how the year really had gone for Liel. Her sixteenth birthday had ended with the destruction of her city. A tale was buried in there somewhere.

Roe ate quickly of what she wanted, a mood growing on her. Finishing the passion fruit, a fine ending to a comforting meal, Roe slipped on her sling carry.

As if by magic Liel appeared, no doubt summoned by the guaard. “Will you speak tonight?”

“Yes. Put Arien in the sling and bring Bree.” They gathered up the blankets, body liners and other paraphernalia required for baby travel, and then walked into the corridor. One warrior led them, one appeared from the darkness to watch the room, and the third followed as they walked toward the lifts. Passing the crossways, Roe found Lyte was still sitting by the hole in the cave wall, his hands playing with the bread loaf.

“Coming?” Roe asked. “I am going to tell a gatuhlpa.” Lyte did not turn his head. “I would like you to come.”

That got through to him. “In a little while.” Roe nodded for the warriors to continue.

In the garedoc a large crowd had already formed. Shinar came forward over the rocks as swiftly as her advanced state of pregnancy would allow, scooping up Arien from Roe’s basket.

“Odelle wants to hold her,” Shinar explained. Liel was settling in with Bree, the liner bags piled at her feet. Ronüviel pried herself loose from her thoughts about her children, her sister, and the fragile Odelle, whose pale face glowed at the prospect of holding Arien. The Atare woman walked slowly toward the great fire in the cavern’s center. All the family fires had burned down to nothing, the only light source in the garedoc the central pit. Several people threw more wood on the pyre, and Roe stood next to it, letting the warmth creep into her bones. Even with the approach of summer it was always so cool in there.

She took a small sachet from her pocket and threw it into the fire’s center. Green, blue and purple flames spouted among the red and gold. Slowly the garedoc grew silent, so quiet that the absence of sound was almost tangible. Roe lifted her head and hummed a few soft, tentative notes. Then a melody went up—mournful, almost poignant—and at the sound of it even the faxmur birds in the trees outside the cavern ceased to sing. Roe continued. Her tune was lonely and yet dignified, as if no other song could hold court in its presence. None of the people seated around the fire had ever heard it before, and those who could still separate heart from mind knew that it would not be heard again. Finally, an end was reached. The notes faded into silence.

“Hear, oh my people, the words of the Ancients. Twenty thousand times has Sol traced his ecliptic migration since mankind first recorded life. Cities, nations, rose and fell, rise and fall. Peoples reach for the pinnacle and collapse into dust. Great works are begun, laws set down, civilization finds its heights—all is forgotten. All ash, death in the winds. Once mankind was a free people, a seeking people, doomed to mortality, doomed to curiosity, never seeing Truth. Now they are in bondage of their own making; and they do not dare to raise their eyes to the stars.”

Roe was walking, circling the fire, her arms raised in entreaty. There were faces out there, faces she knew, but the trance cared not, refused to acknowledge them. She was absorbed, ready to perform, to interpret.

“Among the peoples, among the seed of Earth, of Terra, we alone have survived. We alone flourish. Others forget and are forgotten, while we seek the secrets left to be found. For fivethousandyear we have been the Brethren. We are the Brethren. We are Nuala.”

She could feel Braan’s presence as she warmed to her work, feel the power within her, in her words; the recognition of it in her people. The story continued, of a mechanical probe that certified Nuala as a paradise for colonization; of the brave peoples who chose to test their skills against new elements. The Atare, the Dielaan and the Seedar, three transport ships; well-seasoned for their voyage. Perhaps newer or older vessels would not have made it. Disaster, almost total disaster, wreckage everywhere, deaths by the hundreds, by the thousands.

“The hard rains fell on the burnt-out transport ships, spreading disease and deformity. And the people lifted up their voices for help, but no help came. And the lingering generations passed.” Her own throat tightened here, as did the others, but she left the thought, moving on to the next sequence. Perhaps the most tragic words in their history.

Turned around. Their past, their future held on a string and turned around by one family, one man. Habbukk, the first Atare, though he would not have called himself that. The shield laws—no, she had bypassed them, but they could be woven in, later, at the first crisis.

More wood on the fire and it burned low again. The whole history ... not at once, too much; a thousand lifetimes must be told, and still it is not everything. So she left it at the birth of Habbukk’s sister’s son; born normal, born fertile. Born to lead the people toward a new beginning. Out of death, madness, despair ...

“We move toward new life!” Her voice ran in exultation, and she was standing on the ceremonial rock, arms outstretched to embrace the willing crowd, though she had no memory of climbing there. As if a spell had been broken, the people withdrew, shaking themselves awake. The light of the three moons pierced the darkness of the chamber, natural and manmade shafts bringing the bittersweet joy of the planet to their feet scant nights before the trine.

A question was asked, concerning the story, the history of it. She answered as if in a dream. Another question, the reply coming from Liel as she brought Arien to Roe. Cuddling the child, exhausted, ready to feed them and sleep, Roe faced her people, their faces visibly marked from the spiritual and emotional intensity of the telling. “Is there anything else, Brethren?” she asked the group.

“Yes,” came a penetrating whisper she recognized as Lyte’s. She turned toward the stairs, the source of the voice. “The rest of the story.”

Ronüviel bowed her acknowledgment.

Chapter Seventeen

NUAMURA, MT. AMURA

TWOHUNDRED FORTYSIXDAY, SEXT

Lyte had not been at the Ascension Day celebration long when he realized that someone was missing. A pregnant woman walking by focused his thoughts, and he immediately went to find Shinar. He made a thorough search of the grounds; it took nearly an hour and brought no results. Finally he saw one of her roommates preparing to enter the dance floor and caught her arm. “Where’s Shinar?”

The young woman looked startled. “You did not know? She went into labor early this morning. Still is, I checked about a half-hour ago. I am surprised you—”

“Where is she?” Lyte’s grip tightened on her arm, his face betraying nothing.

“In the life shelter, since she is still in the dorm....”

Lyte was already gone.

oOo

Moments later he reached the entrance to the life shelter, one of the few sets of solid doors existing in the mountain. Pulling on it, he found it locked. He began to pound. This brought swift results.

The door cracked a few millimeters, and a man’s harried face appeared. “What do you want? Is there an emergency?”

“Yes. I’ve been told my child is being born here, and I demand to be present.”

“Who told you such a thing?“

“That’s not important. She told me she wanted my support during this, and I’m here to give it.”

The man looked tired and impatient. “That is impossible. She has no chosen, no husband, and that is always a requir—”

“Then it is true; you want only my genes. I am allowed to make a genetic contribution but not an emotional one, is that it?” Lyte interrupted, hiding none of the mocking anger in his voice, letting his expressive Nualan pour out.

From within the shelter, Lyte heard Elana’s voice say, “Let him in.” The healer sullenly gave way, swinging the door toward the warrior. Lyte quickly slipped inside. Moving through the ward to the birthing room, he was surprised at what he found. Shinar was just dropping down on her side after rocking on her hands and knees to ease the contractions. She looked tired and strained but not in pain.

A smile brightened her face, and she held out a hand to him. “I wanted you to come, but I thought it would be worse for you than it was for me,” she said softly.

Lyte sat down on a stool next to the bed and took her hand, gently caressing her cheek. “Hey, healer—you didn’t tell me.”

“So now you know.”

“Soon we’ll all know.”

ATARE’S PEAK

TWOHUNDRED FORTYSIXDAY, COMPLINE

Closing the thick beads behind himself, Braan gave an inaudible sigh of relief. Here he could shut out everyone and everything, even the guaard. A flicker of irritation passed through him. For several days not one but two guaard had been constantly in attendance, and he noticed even more around Ronüviel and the young ones. And they were obvious, in a manner he could not remember. When questioned, they would merely reply, “We have reason to believe that you may be in danger.”

He could not stay angry long. The warrior clan had shadowed him since birth, even off-world. Braan could not remember ever being without them, except for the trek through the wadeyo forest. They had to be operating on instinct or on an unsubstantiated tip, or they would explain the circumstances to him. Feeling persecuted, Braan removed his over-tunic and went into the bathing room to test the water.

The festival of Ascension Day had always been one of his favorites, but it was an exhausting time. It symbolized the day of soul-rising, demonstrated by brightly-painted handmade kites that were released to the four winds. Dylan had run him ragged while creating their kite, and the afternoon dancing and general celebration had worn Braan out. The women were constantly in attendance as always, and for the first time since Teloa had left, Braan had found himself truly interested in a woman. She had looked a bit like Jaacav.

That woman.... She had been coy, secretive, female in the most mysterious sense. He had met her at a wine stall. She was not from Nuamura but from the outlands of the valley, probably the daughter of a grape owner. She wore a holiday skirt and blouse bordered with the emblem of the Tarn clan, a schism group of Atare. In the end he decided that she knew who he was, though she treated him like any other attentive male. Bold, that one, aware of her charms and how to use them. Braan spent the early hours of evening with her; they shared thirdmeal and some dancing.

At the night’s full darkness, final carillon, Braan parted from her. Not that he was not tempted. Just not tempted enough. She was different from Teloa, very different, but Tay kept creeping into his thoughts. He had always been gifted with a rich fantasy life by day and the real thing at night. He had no desire to confuse the two.

“Atare ...”

He froze, placing the voice, and confused as to why it should be here. She was at the outer door, the lovely of the festival, edging around the warrior. The young guaard had not let her through the main beads, however, and was keeping his body between her and Braan. Where was the other? Of course, he had sent the man to reassure Ronüviel over the increased number of guaard.

“Let her through,” Braan said. As he spoke, his gaze turned from her to the guaard. Suddenly the young warrior gestured, that unmistakable movement that meant only one thing. Braan reacted instinctively, dropping to the floor, then reaching for his cat knife. In the hall?

What happened next was a blur, and a knife went by millimeters above his shoulder, slicing the shirt fabric. The warrior was facing Braan, crouched in the doorframe, his right blade still in his hand, the other empty. The woman was heaped between them. The young man carefully flipped her over with his foot; the crimson flood across her back was great. Touching a cord at her neck, the blond pulled out a gold-and-black tassel—the colors of the Dragoche tribe. Then the man spun again to the corridor, his knife held at vital’s height as a voice said, “Baakche’s assassin.”

Braan stared as a desert-robed individual stepped into view, holding empty hands away from his hips. The Cied continued in a flat, controlled Nualan dialect. “I am impressed. I thought I would come too late, that she would fool you. Was she too eager or did not find favor with you?”

“Neither.” Braan found his voice and slowly rose. “I lost my heart before she came, and I am at my soul a one-woman man.” The guaard moved toward the Cied and, flicking aside part of the Cied’s outer robe, removed a wicked-looking cat.

“You knew?” Braan asked the guaard in a conversational voice, indicating the woman.

“I knew she was not Tarn clan. Mendülay smiled upon you, Atare. I am Tarn bred and raised, and I know every woman tenyear each side of my age. The question was, why the deception?”

Braan studied the blond’s handsome, smooth face, unreadable as his gaze pierced the Cied man. “You are—”

“Noah, Atare.”

“What tribe is this man?”

“Deep sand mountain Dragoche.”

Well, I have never been one to turn down an omen. Braan stepped forward. “You are full of interesting information, Noah. Stay with me.” The young man flinched, his reserve shaken. Those three words were ceremonial.

“We must speak, Braan Atare. I have kept silent and watched a mad one and a liar bandy words too long.” The Cied removed his upper veil.

“Welcome, Genuar reb^Ibsn Dragoche. Noah, send for hot saffra. Have you eaten, Seri?”

“It is not necessary. We have little time. The ciedär loses its water as we speak, and I would deal with this before I return to my tribe,” Genuar replied. Noah moved to a com and ordered the tray. A flick of the wrist, and his cat vanished. Walking to the assassin’s body, he removed his other knife and wiped the blade across a clean section of shirt.

“Noah, do not let the Ragäree hear of this yet, and increase the guaard on her and Liel.” Braan offered the Cied a seat on the plush rug near the window. The man gracefully folded to the floor in acceptance. The second guaard returned and did not raise an eyebrow to discover a body to be removed. By the time he had left with the assassin, Braan and Genuar were past superficial talk and deep into the reason for the Cied’s arrival.

Genuar handed Braan the scroll of congratulations, to be given to Ronüviel and Moran. “It was twins?”

“Yes. One of each, healthy and bearing Atare eyes. The Ragäree thinks they already show the healer traits.” Genuar started visibly at the information. “I am grateful for their births, especially since the disappearance of my brothers while en route to your encampment.”

Genuar’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I had heard these rumors, but those who engineered the feat are keeping their own counsel. I warned my brethren of the danger of touching Atare blood. When I find the fools, my hand shall fall heavily.”

“Could they be alive?”

The Cied appeared surprised. “I believe so. To kill one of royal blood is a heavy sin. Baakche in his sanity would not have done such a thing. They will only be in danger when it is known I am actively searching for them. There are many ways to end life without using knife or hands. A lone man in the ciedär with no water.... And no proof of the deed. I shall move swiftly.”

“Several of the guaard are in the desert, seeking them.”

“My people shall not hinder them and shall help if they can.”

“You know why we sought you?” Braan went on, getting to the heart of the discussion.

“I suspected. For years you have found faster, easier ways to grow food. An admirable goal and result. But you pushed too far, too fast. And the planet turned on you. You need seed, and our methods of growing. What do you offer in return?”

“That depends on what the Cied want.”

Genuar paused a long time. “What I want and what others want may differ. Until I am the Dragoche, I am merely first of many clan leaders. But Baakche’s health is fading. He will not live the year; by High Festival he will be gone.”

“We may not have that much time.”

“It must be peaceful. If we go warring, the laughter of the off-worlders shall be our only spoil of battle, as they take our gold and leave us to die. We lost many people during the rain of Alien bombs. Some tribes have scarce a dozen people left. They need to be completely restocked. Tents, clothing, weapons, herbs grown from the special buds. Some will want trine gold.”

“And you?”

The man met Braan’s gaze. “I want protection. So they cannot touch us again. Is this possible? I know of the overlapping shield which kept the death bombs from us, the ones that kill the ground. You have given us this defense for many years and never asked payment for the vigil. I know there is nothing in the ciedär worth protecting, yet you did.”

“There are Nualans in the ciedär. That is enough.”

“Can we keep the bombs away?” Genuar insisted. “Not just the death bombs. All bombs.”

“Yes.” Braan let the word settle. “There is a new shield, recently activated.”

“Is invasion possible?”

“Not unless they have found the Dielaan cure or can bring enough water for an army. The new shield has openings to land friendly vessels. Unauthorized ones will be severely damaged passing through it. Unless they can build ships as we do, we are safe.”

Genuar mulled over the words as Noah set a tray of saffra and kriska next to them. He reached for a mug and held it protectively, lost in thought.

“If the twins are dead,” Braan ventured carefully, “this will be difficult. A synod member sows seeds of mistrust among the people. They want Cied skills but shall not forget the deaths of the royal brothers and their ten companions.”

“Ten?” Genuar raised an eyebrow. “The traders who met them counted twelve total, but only nine bodies were spotted.”

“We hope the planter Teloa, a tall woman, is with the twins.” Braan replied neutrally.

“The translator. I shall inquire. Which synod member speaks against us, Atare?” The Cied’s eyes widened ever so slightly in protesting innocence.

“You might be surprised.”

“If it is Corymb, I am not.” Genuar took a sip of his saffra. “He plays both sides and wins the hour. But I think he has already lost. Dissent brews among the tribes. When word spread of the assassin leaving for the coast, Corymb’s support was severely eroded. He seems to think us barbarians, but the damnation reserved for king killers ... They have their own section of hell. It is true we often resort to thin lines when removing enemies. We never kill outright.”

“Then you think we have a chance to gain Cied support?”

“A chance.” Genuar’s gaze flicked to Noah. “Your people are well-trained, considering they grew up soft, in peace. I say the same for their Atare. I warn you now. I must convince the tribes to gather, to listen to me and to you. You must make them believe you are worthy of the ancient title you bear and the responsibility you hold in your hands. I have long suspected you would be. Prove it.”

Braan studied the Cied. “Must I show how long it has been since I fought with cats for my life? How many necks must I break to show this?” His voice was cool.

“You cannot pretend to be nought than what you are. Some Atares are diplomats, some warriors, some saints. The current situation may require all three. I feel and see some of each in you. Whether the priests and chieftains think it is enough?” Genuar shrugged. “Trust High Mendülay.”

“You leave immediately?”

“Yes. I will travel this night and tomorrow before I rest. You can still travel by day, for a time. Follow me. The grasses die. Soon even hazelles cannot brave the sands safely. Remember—by attempting to have you killed Corymb destroyed his edge. You can tip the balance.” Genuar nodded gracefully and stood. “Fare you well, Atare, until our next meeting.” Parting the beads and receiving his knife from Noah, the Cied vanished into the darkness of the corridor. Braan was not concerned about him slipping away safely.

The Atare sat alone for some time, and then called the guaard at the door. Noah entered the main room. “I go to the Ragäree. Leave someone on the room and accompany me.”

LIFE SHELTER

TWOHUNDRED FORTYSEVENDAY, MATINS

Lyte sat near the outer doors, staring at the stars but not really seeing them. Around him the many healers moved silently, blending into the faint light of the glows. The only thing he was truly conscious of was the sound of his son having his first meal. Shinar’s remarks punctuated the baby’s, fluctuating between delight and difficulty mastering the nursing.

Standing, the man moved over next to the bed. Shinar was laying on one side, a folded comforter under the child to make it easier for him to reach the breast. She seemed shrunken again, tiny, the long, thick hair like a cascade of light around them both. She glanced up at him with a sleepy expression on her face, trying to relax but looking uncomfortable.

“I thought breast feeding was a normal, natural thing,” Lyte said.

“It is. A lot of ‘normal, natural things’ are not the easiest in the human condition—at first. Remember your first time with a woman? It is one thing to watch someone feeding and another to do it yourself.”

“He’s not going to go hungry, is he?”

Shinar laughed. “He is not even getting regular milk yet. This special fluid is higher in protein and helps stabilize his immune system, among other things.”

“Did I ever tell you I delivered a baby once?”

“No! When?”

“In a war zone. A civ went into labor, and the unit medtech was dead. Fortunately it was her fifth or something like that. She told me what to do and I did it. A healthy girl.”

“No wonder you took it so well. It was your second.”

“You were fine,” Lyte whispered in reply, touching a tiny hand. “At least it—he—wasn’t too premature.” He was unaware of Shinar’s intense scrutiny, his mind spinning. His son. His gift to the planet. What could it give him in return? Did he want anything from it? Shinar—but she was a loan, not forever. For some reason he kept thinking of Corymb. The man did not like him, of that Lyte was certain. Not because of Moran, or being off-world, or even the Axis. Corymb hated anyone with grit, anyone who could outmaneuver him in thinking. If this baby boy, this manchild, grew up with even a fraction of Lyte’s own attitude toward hypocrisy and high authority ...

For a season Lyte had dug and pounded beneath the mountain, often working side by side with Braan Atare. Their forced partnership had led to a grudging admiration on Lyte’s part, and he had been careful to make sure that Braan had no justifiable criticism of him. All this time Lyte had sworn to himself that he did not belong here, had no desire to be here; but where else would he belong? Not CSSI. He could not stomach returning to the Axis, even if that was possible. For all he knew, he was outlawed. “What is his name?” he asked suddenly.

Shinar looked surprised. “I would not name him without asking you. Look, he is staring at you, he is a watcher. I wonder how much he sees. This may be your only chance, Lyte. If you find a high house woman—”

“I know, strict naming rules. We have thirtyday until baptism at the earliest, there’s no rush.”

“What is watcher in your tongue?” Puzzled, Lyte repeated her Axis word. “No, no, your native tongue. Every planet has its own.”

“Not Secundus CSSI.”

“You jest.”

“It is believed Axis roots are in the CSSI system; old Terran, you know. The first colonies. My grandmother was Caprican. A maverick, although it was grampa who bucked the system by marrying her. I take after her, I guess.”

“Do you speak Caprican? What is watcher in that tongue?”

Lyte thought a long time. Shinar did not speak as the minutes passed. “I think it’s ried.”

“Ried. A good name for an observant baby, do you not think so?” she asked, trying it out on her tongue.

“Ried reb^Shinar. Too simple?”

“If it were three or four syllables, we would end up shortening it, like the Ragäree’s name. It is the R that bothers you. I do not think it is common on Nuala for names, because of the word reb, ‘child of.’ Shall we think on it?

“I like Ried. I shall think on you both often.”

Shinar was silent, not pointing out the Nualan syntax in the Axis tongue. Then she asked, “When are you leaving?”

The man glanced up. He had just reached that conclusion for himself. “I may not. I’ll go to Braan and find out what needs to be done.”

She reached out in response and touched his cheek. “I am glad.”

If Lyte heard the catch in the Nualan words, he did not acknowledge it. Good-byes were too hard as it was. “Good luck, Ried. With your mother’s flair, my hedonism, and Kal’s discipline, you’re going to be something. Don’t ask me what.” Reaching out and touching the now-sleeping baby’s hand once more, Lyte kissed Shinar’s fingertips in parting and stood to leave.

RAGÄREE’S PEAK

TWOHUNDRED FORTYSEVENDAY, MATINS

The silence on the mountain was almost unnatural. Ronüviel sat watching the planets spiral above her, fingering the sharp blade of her knife, thinking on Braan’s words. Her brother sat across from her, watching for reaction. But she did not allow any.

“Where do you want us to go?” she finally asked.

“There is a meditation peak that has been prepared for Arrez. It is above my quarters, almost to the tree line. Go there. Take the children, take Liel—tell Arrez and Gid where you go, no others. Have you chosen guaard?”

“No. I do not think Liel has, either.”

“Noah and Jaac’s second in command will take care of it for you. At least six—I would prefer more. Under no conditions see any representatives of the house of Dielaan. And see Odelle only when the guaard is present.” Roe eyed him, thinking his precautions excessive. “What if the next assassin is a child? I would rather you see only those you know personally. And please order those Cied supplies from the other cities at once. I want them here in a fifteenday.”

“You go to the deep mountains?”

“Yes. I will take a guaard with me, or perhaps Lyte. I will ask him.”

Ronüviel looked mildly surprised. “You trust him?”

“In so many words. He will feel obligated, whether he personally cares for my welfare or not.”

“He is a better man than even Moran thinks.”

“I agree.” Braan faced her. “You have studied the writings, all we know of Cied. I need you, but ...”

“Elana does not think it wise. I shall know when I am strong enough. I may even follow you.” Braan chuckled. Roe raised an eyebrow, smiling slightly. She sighed. Staying up this late increased her exhaustion. Standing, she went to the window. “There is something missing; what you tell me of Genuar’s words and actions confirms it. The twins, my twins, are important, and so is their relationship to you and the throne. That seems simple enough, but the Cied are people of signs, of superstition, even. We may win the battle on the basis of that and at least feed our people.”

“And lose the war?”

She regarded him steadily. “Possibly. But is it not a chance we have to take? If we believe, they will. And they cannot go to war claiming deceit if we treat with them in good faith.”

Braan looked puzzled. Glancing outside, he stood. “Night lengthens. You can explain that later, if we are spared. I—”

Roe moved over to him quickly, holding him close in a long embrace. “Come back safely. Bring my man back to me. And ... I hope they find Teloa.” The expression on his face did not change, but Roe felt him tense in surprise.

“Look to yourself. And guard my heir and throne.”

oOo

TWOHUNDRED FORTYSEVENDAY, LAUDS (MOONSET)

The corridors were very dark, the glows set on their lowest level. Braan had forgotten how dark a cave was, especially far from the outlets. The small pack slung over his shoulder seemed incredibly light, the chain around his neck insufferably heavy. Noah moved with feline grace beside him, the guaard’s tread as noiseless as his own. Another level up and over and they would be at Lyte’s quarters.

“Late for a stroll, isn’t it?” Noah already had his knife out. The silvery man moved toward them. “What brings you to this part of the mountain? No sense in going up, I’m here.”

“Looking for you, Second Officer,” Braan replied easily.

“Just ‘Lyte.’ What a coincidence, I was looking for you.”

“Why?”

“The Atare is gracious, but his words are first,” Lyte said ceremonially.

Braan smiled. Even when Lyte seemed to concede an edge, he did not. “I go to ciedär to confront the Dragoche and to bring back as many of our people as live.”

“Oh? And how do I fit?”

“The only substitute for a guaard is a commando. They will not let me out of here without one or the other. Care to come?”

“Why?”

Braan did not pretend to misunderstand. “It is your battle too. Moran and Jaac wanted you there. I do. Come with us Lyte. Find your place on this world.”

“There’s an assassin looking for you,” Lyte said conversationally. “Leaving Nuamura is probably the best thing.”

“Why?” Noah said abruptly. Braan flicked a glance at him. It was rare a guaard would break into an Atare conversation.

“Because I have a vested interest in keeping you alive,” Lyte said. “I’ll need a robe and a water gourd.”

“And a blaster. The grass withers and desert returns. The great predators stalk the ciedär nights. Meeting a katt with only a sword or knife is not pretty. Go. We will wait on the stairs.”

“How do we leave without being seen? The synod won’t be thrilled about this.”

“The south exit.”

Lyte shook his head. “I personally know the Dielaan who watches it—casually, of course—after dark. Perhaps I’ll go pay him a visit before I go off on one of my nightly jaunts. While you slip past.”

“Agreed,” Braan replied, making a mental note to have a private exit built. Lyte slipped away. Braan turned to Noah and removed his chain of office. He held it out to the young man. “I go now. Keep this against the return of myself or my brothers ... or my sister’s son, if all else fails, though I do not see him reaching maturity if we do. And guard Dylan. He is your charge if Corymb Dielaan takes power. He is safe until then, as he is no threat to Dielaan’s plans, only a mark for revenge.” Braan started to remove the new seal ring, his own crest now bordered with a chain of office, the mark of an Atare. He hesitated.

“Any could use it, Atare, if it was taken, and you not alive to defend it,” Noah said gently. “I shall keep it safe until you return if you intend to go through with this.”

“I do.”

“Then Holy Mendülay be with you,” Noah finished, and, spying Lyte bounding down the stairs, added in a voice loud enough to be overheard, “And if you do not guard him well, off-worlder, then I shall personally cut your throat. I do not advise you to appear again without him.”

Chapter Eighteen

CIEDÄR

TWOHUNDRED FIFTYONEDAY, COMPLINE

The hazelles loped along in their constant, almost staggering gait, their hooves causing the sands to bark like a cavern of yelping puppies. The strange scuffing noise was almost soothing to Lyte, who had ceased to look ahead toward the mountains. Another set of mountains ...

“Far enough” came Braan’s voice out of the darkness. Lyte straightened on his saddle blanket and stretched as his beast halted next to the leader. He could barely make out Braan’s beige robe in the faint light of the rising firstmoon; the embroidery appeared black.

“Do we travel by night yet? I thought you wanted to go on,” Lyte said.

“I do. But something is wrong.”

Lyte’s hand went to his blaster, safely tucked back under his robe for the first time since landfall nearly two hundred sixty days before. “Direction?” he whispered casually.

“Not katt. Weather.”

Lyte hauled impatiently on the reins of the pack animal, stopping its attempts to wander off. “I thought the rain was over. Long over.”

“It is. But pressure changes can bring wind storms. I am not exaggerating when I say one summer’s wind can grind a stone column into sand.”

The warrior did not like the sound of that at all. “Where do we go?”

“These boulders. That is why I stopped. I hope there is an opening large enough to take the hazelles through. Without them I doubt we would survive.” Braan jumped off his hazelle and reached into a pack. Lyte heard the sound of something striking against rock. “Close your eyes and hold those animals! I am going to check for katts.”

For once the off-worlder was glad of his authority-response training when a flare erupted before him. Braan quickly found a cave opening to his liking and tossed the cylinder inside. Leaping back, the Atare drew his blaster and reached to calm his hazelle. There was an explosion of high-pitched sound from within the dark hole, and hundreds of tiny winged creatures fled to the black skies.

“What?”

“Vaaze. Harmless, but they have a habit of passing their droppings when artificial light strikes them. If you need to seek shelter without time to use flares, be prepared for a damp head!”

Snorting his disgust, Lyte slid off the beast and began to drag it inside.

oOo

It was not long before they had a small fire burning and water boiling. Lyte once again secretly marveled at the tiny pressed disks, which, when burned, gave off considerable and long-lasting heat in a multitude of colors. Braan dropped some sealed pouches into the water to heat and then reached for the plates.

“No, you’ve had to do everything. I’ll do it,” Lyte said, holding up a warning hand. “Sit.”

Braan sat down. “Did it ever occur to you I get tired of other people doing everything?”

“So we’ll take turns. Eat.” He settled against one wall, looking out at the stars. “That low one, what planet is that?” He had watched it several nights. It had come to herald ride’s end.

“I believe it is Niamh.” Braan burrowed down next to a hazelle, pouring himself some saffra.

“Niamh? I thought Niamh was the morning star.”

“In winter. In summer it is the evening. It will set soon; the season is early yet.”

They sat in almost companionable silence, watching the planet set. Lyte let his thoughts drift, following them down a path leading back to his illness and a question that had bothered him. “Braan,” he began, “something I’ve wondered about ... Corymb has hated you for how long? And has even tried to kill you. But you were the third son; whatever his warped mind wants—the trine mines, the throne, power, a new hierarchy—logically you are out of the running. Why kill you?”

Braan did not turn his head. “If something happened to Tal, I was next in line. Deveah would have been ruled unfit by the guaard. That is the one thing Corymb could not and cannot get around—the guaard. The synod might have taken Deveah with a strong prime minister, because of the twins’ youth and Deenn’s wild ways. But not the guaard.”

Lyte felt uneasy. “So Deveah was a front all along? Then what was he—Braan, did Corymb know that both Tal and Deveah would die? Was he hoping that Jaacav and the guaard would fail if the Axis pulled out and a coup—” Lyte sat up. “Do you realize—How long has he dealt with the Cied?”

“Let it go, Lyte.” Braan’s voice was easy. “If it is true, only Corymb, Baakche and his assassin know the truth of it. The assassin is dead, Baakche a mad one, and Corymb certainly will not tell us. The guaard watches.”

The commando considered the implications of the Nualan’s words, and a vision of power flickered at his mind’s edge. A form of democracy? But what if a corrupt Atare and guaard ... “Do you check out the genes of off-worlders who marry Atares?” Lyte said abruptly. He was ashamed of his rudeness, but it was another question that had gnawed at him during the dark nights.

“After staying among us so long you still fear without thinking—for Moran and for yourself?” Soft, but still a question. “Do you think Shinar would allow anyone to touch, to change the child she carries? And you have the nerve to ask me that. Do you think a council appointed to look for ‘healthy stock’ would have allowed me to marry Enid?”

Lyte was silent. Wrapped up in his concern for Moran and his own paranoia, he had completely forgotten about Enid. “My apologies. I did not live with it, and it slipped from me. Did you check out Moran?” he persisted.

Braan smiled. “No. Where would we check? Our file person knew Moran and said there was nothing to investigate. He was as he appeared. Moran told Roe about his parents, siblings and temper before he knew who she was. It was enough. The biases of observers are not for us. Each person stands on their own merits here.”

“You sure a commando is enough for a guaard?” Lyte asked a mug of saffra later. “That guy with you didn’t sound as if he were joking. His last words, I mean.”

“He was not. Loyalty—total loyalty to the Atare and Ragäree—is the first criterion of a guaard. He would die without hesitation for me. He does not think you would. Therefore, in his eyes you are an unsatisfactory guardian. Let us drag this fire further in.” Braan grabbed the edge of the fireproof tarp and hauled it deeper into the cave. One hazelle flopped down with its spine to the curved opening, another crowding to stand in the back. Braan tended the fire so it was burning brightly again. Lyte, uneasy, moved away from the cave opening and around the boulders to the fire.

“Anyway, the kid didn’t look happy that I was going and he wasn’t.”

“You are not much older than that ‘kid.’ He was irritated because although I had just asked him to remain with me, obedience to the Atare is very important to a guaard. Dylan needs him now. With me, he would have been unnecessary—or dead.”

“I don’t—”

“All Atares have a special guaard; first, one chosen for them as a child, then one they choose in their adolescent years. Mine died while I was off-world, and since I was not the heir and times were peaceful, no one pressured me to find another. As Atare, I must have several companions to protect the office. Negligent of me to wait so long. I took Noah the night we left.”

“Why?”

“His finesse at saving my life, among other reasons.” Braan had told Lyte briefly about the assassin and Genuar’s visit on their first night of riding. He had a right to know the danger. “I thought you knew about the guaard.”

“I have thought about it; why it still exists when the Axis requires its members to hold no standing armies except Axis Forces.”

Braan poured another mug of saffra. “The standing Axis law applies to whatever body governs the planet or system. The guaard is what the name implies—the Atare family’s private guard. They are accountable only to the ruling Atare and his eldest sister, and take any orders from them.”

“Convenient.”

“As Moran has said, I wonder how many other planets have similar bodies of warriors.”

“So that evades the standing-armies law. How many guaard are there at any one time?” Braan did not answer at first. He smoothed his new facial growth and massaged a knot in his shoulder while staring into the fire. It occurred to Lyte that even now the Nualan did not trust him. Then the man spoke, and Lyte was ashamed.

“To be a guaard, and to be under the ruling house, is special. There are only, by tradition, five hundred active guaard and one thousand standbys. The thousand are on leave, raising families or pursuing alternative careers. Some serve—served—in the Axis Forces. But there are only two ways to leave the guaard, save death; if the current-generation Atare or Ragäree ask one to, for positive or negative reasons, and by one’s own request. It is a lifelong trust that can be short in times of trouble. There are thousands more who have had much of the training and then go off-world to serve the Axis, for the glory of Nuala. When they return here, they are auxiliary, continuing guaard training and on the list for consideration, should a position open up. And every Nualan, from childhood on, is trained in elkita. It is part of the religion—also for health.”

“Thousands of guaard, or potential guaard. What do you use them for?”

The Atare smiled faintly. “The last three thousand years—for ceremony. And general family security. Before that, to unite Nuala.”

For a time Lyte considered the place of royalty and listened to the swiftly rising wind. Suddenly his ears popped.

Braan reached out to soothe the prone hazelle, which was beginning to look wild-eyed. “It comes. Soon. That is the warning.”

“Elkita. That was how you subdued the Durite?”

Braan nodded. “The priests and priestesses teach it. It is very fancy gymnastics and mind over matter ... you would consider it a martial art. They train openly, but you have avoided the temple areas, and therefore the kita, the training ground.”

“What are the oaths?” Braan looked up, surprised. “I heard two children talking about becoming guaard and ‘sharing the oaths.’” Lyte had to raise his voice; the wind had increased. He was receiving a lot of information and decided to take advantage of it.

“They are simple. The guaard swears to obey the orders and follow the eldest male and female of the Atare throne generation, as long as those two do not violate the ancient laws of Nuala. In return, all Atare heirs, no matter how distant from the throne, are always trained in desert commando fighting, elkita and self-defense. They should be able to succeed as commander-in-chief at any reasonable age.”

“Such as?”

“Sixteen or so. Also, the Ragäree and Atare must always put the raising, training and nurturing of the heirs foremost in their minds, above all other pursuits, and be willing to swear before Mendülay that they have done so.” The last was shouted. Then Braan shook his head and gestured negatively in the direction of the cave opening. It was plain that there would be no more conversation. Lyte clapped his hands over his ears, thankful he was not beyond the boulders, much less outside. Braan was already curled up next to the nowbanked fire.

“Sleep?” Lyte joked. “Through this?”

It went doubly unheard through the wind. Braan was asleep.

CIEDÄR

TWOHUNDRED FIFTYTWODAY, TIERCE

They were kilometers from the boulders by starrise. Lyte had awoken only once in the night, when the wind stopped. It had been so sudden. Lyte suspected another pressure change had actually disturbed him. Remember to watch for pressure changes....

“Is there anyone far from here who weighs on your mind?” Braan asked as they rode.

Lyte shrugged. “A little curly-haired Vergean hustler, and occasionally my mother; without her protection I wouldn’t have lived to my majority.”

“Parents can be helpful.”

“Parent. Singular. My old man would try to kill me with his bare hands, and my mother would use her threat of leaving with the family name, fortune and reputation as a way to stop him. So I owe her more than the average child. I did the best thing I could for her. When the old man disowned me, I cleared out completely.” Lyte’s tone did not encourage further comment.

“I can see why Moran became everything for you,” was the reply. Braan glanced at him as he said this and suddenly pulled up his hazelle, seizing the reins of Lyte’s mount.

“What the—”

Braan reached back to the pack animal and lifted off the largest water gourd. “Why is this not under your robe?” The words had an edge of incredulity and irritation to them, a tone Lyte remembered from a day of discipline, when Braan had both appointed new judges and passed down sentences for crimes. The Nualan had removed his lower veil. “There is no way to fully explain the danger! If a storm arose, we could be separated from each other and the animals in seconds! Always carry water on your person, under your robe and against your body. Do not drink out of it while we have the others. It is only for emergencies.” Braan pressed against his own robes, outlining the other large gourd, strapped to his ribs. “And for Mendülay’s sake never open one during a storm!” He held it out by its strap to Lyte.

Neither commented on the obvious: that Lyte had watched Braan do this every day of their trip since they passed out of the Sonoma Mountains. The warrior had not thought Braan was hoarding water; he realized that he had not thought about it at all. Lyte masked his own personal irritation, as he saw Braan was more furious with himself for not explaining it thoroughly than with his companion. Nodding, he took the gourd.

“Now,” Braan added.

Lyte parted the robe, lifted his caftan and carefully wrapped the gourd’s strap around his body above his joqurs waistband. “Anything else?” Lyte asked.

“You have spoken to the guaard about diablos, sandspouts?”

“Yes.”

“If I think of anything, I will mention it.” Veiling again, even the upper veil, Braan pushed the hazelle into its trotting gait. Following suit Lyte fell into line behind the man. He caught himself wishing that he could reassure the Atare. Lyte had heard about the sandstorms, but the season for them was not now, and they were more frequent further south. The guaard had not thought it important enough to expound on. Last night was bothering Braan. A freak storm ...

Your mortality shows, my friend, Lyte thought without rancor. Too much is on your mind, and your hopes wither with every step we take. Lyte was not ready to offer words of comfort aloud, though he did not know why—why he wanted to, why he could not. They rode in silence until well past sext.

In the distance, looking deceptively close, were mountains. A range rose high before them, its baked face a smoldering menace. The tips of the peaks beyond were half-hidden in haze. There was no visible vegetation. Succulants grew in the crevices, Braan had said, usually only in light for an hour. Water could be drained from them; they could be eaten. Emuvv was one; tropc was another.

Secondmeal had been sparse, eaten without shade, mainly to rest the hazelles. They had sat in a circle of the animals, the dry, tumbling remains of monsoon grasses whirling by them. Braan had lifted a small rock, revealing a flurry of small crustaceans digging into the sands. Krwb, the major scavengers of the deep desert. The scene had given Lyte involuntary shivers.

“Why did you come?”

The question startled Lyte, snapping him out of daydreams. An answer burst from him. “Because I belong here.”

“Agreed. Why now?” Lyte pulled alongside to look at the man. “I mean, with Shinar’s time so soon.... I intended to ask you to come, anyway, but ...” Braan trailed off when he realized Lyte was chuckling.

“My error. Shinar had the child the night we left. A healthy boy, and she appears fine. We’re going to call him Ried.”

“Sounds good. I have never named any of mine. It must be nice. A name is important. So, your responsibility to stay ended, you decided to follow Moran?” Braan rolled on.

“You know better, Atare. Let us not play games. You need help, and I’m vain enough to think that I’m just the warrior to give it to you. If Corymb seizes power, I am one person he won’t want around. The kid? Shinar being Arrez’s daughter might protect them, but then again, maybe not. I’ve got a stake in your leigeship, and I intend to keep my eye on you at all times,” Lyte replied, flickering the reins at a cloud of tiny insects swarming around the hazelle’s head.

“We will let that stand as the whole reason. Noah would be pleased.”

Lyte did not comment. Everything in his head was very confused. “Could you have gone alone by sea safely, if your goal was there?” he asked instead.

“Certainly. I was well trained by my childhood guaard.”

I’ll say. Lyte’s next question was forgotten. His ears suddenly popped. Braan reined up and scanned the horizon. Sand, sand forever, and the last peaks of this mountain range, stretching away north.

“Veil. Let us go.” Braan slapped his hazelle into a run, dragging the pack animal behind him; Lyte followed fighting both his mask and his beast. A quick glance to his right showed dark clouds coming from the southeast, dimming the mid-afternoon light.

“Can we beat it” Lyte yelled.

“We can try. Remember what the guaard told you!” was the answer, Braan’s anger evident in his voice. Pushing the beasts hard, too hard in this heat? The warrior stole another glance over his shoulder and was appalled to see how fast the storm was moving. The mountains were so close, they had to reach the mountains, to endure the storm without the mountains ... The hazelles needed no urging; they sensed something was wrong. The mountains were perhaps a league northwest—

Darkness. It descended so abruptly, the animals slowed to a walk without signals. Lyte reached forward, his hand closing on the pack hazelle’s tail just as visibility vanished. Where was the sand?

It struck. Lyte shriveled into his caftan, unable to absorb the fact that he could feel the stinging grains through two layers of cloth. There was nothing but wind; Braan could have been screaming into his ear without effect. Sliding off his beast, careful to retain his grip on the second hazelle, Lyte wrapped one arm around his mount’s neck and waited. In a few moments the pack animal started moving. Hoping desperately he was following Braan and not a loose creature, Lyte pushed his rider beast forward.

The guaard spoke the truth. The blowing sand was not as bad closer to the ground. The off-worlder felt nothing on his feet except wind gusts. He had not thought about the darkness—of course, it would be dark. Rocks, small ones, but large enough for both him and the hazelle to trip over. Lyte’s grip on the pack animal loosened. Only for a moment; long enough. Lyte forced his beast to keep moving, trying to catch up. Then he stopped.

Braan would not be able to find him, even if he noticed that his partner was missing. Lyte could no longer see the hazelle he was holding, and the temperature had dropped, rivaling the previous night’s cold.

He decided. Forcing the hazelle to lie down, he banked himself against it, pushing at the sand to pile it to either side. The animal had already curled up as best it could, burying its face in Lyte’s robes, its horns across his legs. The man made sure the special veil filter was in place over his nose and mouth, dug himself down as deep as he could, and waited.

Chapter Nineteen

CIEDÄR

TWOHUNDRED FIFTYTWODAY, COMPLINE

It was past nightfall when the storm finally blew itself out. Braan stuck his head out of the opening cautiously. Nothing. A faint evening breeze had begun, but no sand, no gale-force winds. In front of his crevice lay the half-buried carcass of the pack hazelle, already drained of its fluids by krwb. He had lost his rider beast entering the mountains: it had stepped in a rock fault and broken its leg. Sand, the deadliest enemy of hazelles, had killed the pack bearer. Their lungs could not veil to protect them from the blowing, burning grains.

Braan sat a moment, his head bowed, trying to face the loss of Lyte. Even the elements conspired against them. If he had made it to the mountains ... It was not until the hazelle broke its leg that Braan realized he had lost him. In the storm season groups always traveled roped together. If he was ever in the desert with an off-worlder again, he would use ropes, no matter what the time of year.

An agonizing scream rent the darkness, chilling the man to the bone. Katt—an adult male, a hungry one. On the scent of prey he was confident of—Here? The main diet of katt was tazelle and brush rodent, timid fare but swift. Lyte. Braan jumped up, pulling out his blaster and setting it on high beam. Mastering the rush of adrenaline, he swiftly crept in the direction of the cry, up into the mountains.

oOo

The third new moon had just popped up when Braan reached the katt’s plateau. He almost jumped back off the ledge when the beast roared again, until he saw the caves. An echo made the animal seem closer. Moving as noiselessly as possible to the entrance, Braan pulled out one of the two flares he had brought up and lit it. He heaved it as far into the cave as he could and stepped back to hide in the scrub brush. Nothing. No vaaze, no katt. Whispering a quick prayer Braan stepped into the cave.

It was not a cave, it was a cavern. A maze of openings stared him in the face. The ceiling rose to darkness. Cied paintings trickled down the walls, the mournful eyes of long-dead warriors staring at him. He heard another scream from the left, and it occurred to him that the male might have lost the scent. Then there was a rush of footsteps; someone was running toward him.

He ducked in the first opening, the tip of his blaster peeking around the corner. A Cied robe flashed by him, fluttering wildly, and Braan leaned against the stalagmite nearest the entrance, steadying his weapon.

A flash of black and gold came tearing out of the darkness, and he fired. The animal collapsed onto the stones lining the cavern floor. A half-dozen heartbeats, and Braan stepped out quickly, checking the beast. The blaster had ripped its chest open. A female ...

Trembling, Braan slowly backed away from the body. Not a young one, a full adult, and her mate had acted as a decoy. He looked wildly for the other person. Cied—a woman or a youth? The robed figure had looked too slight for a man. A small rock slide started within the cave. Braan whirled and ran to the entrance where the Cied was huddled, gasping for air. Grabbing a wrist, he pulled the human along and toward the left cave slot. At the same time he lit the other flare. The individual began to fight him, swinging a drawn cat knife.

“We cannot outrun it. We must find an opening too small for it to pass through!” Braan hissed softly, forcing some of the Cied dialect. “It will circle to the other side!” The other immediately complied. Light from the flare revealed a fairly smooth, wide path, and they began to run. They had until the katt found their trail; then they had nothing.

Twists and turns and false trails, always taking the narrower lead. The wall paintings accompanied them; some were of katt hunts. In one picture, the katt was hunting the man. Braan himself was becoming winded when he found what he sought. An opening, a bit high but human-sized, too small for katt.

He tossed the blaster into the opening; until it recharged, it was useless. Jamming the flare into a hole, Braan grabbed the Cied and pushed her—it was female—up the wall. The woman must have been on the run for a long time. She was exhausted and having trouble finding footholds.

There was no time to be chivalrous. When she slipped and fell for the second time, Braan pushed her aside and was up the wall in a bound. Two steps and he was pulling himself inside. Turning, he reached down for the bundled woman. She had found the first foothold.

Braan heard sliding pebbles. Using his last strength, he dragged her to his level and flipped her over his knees into the hole. Fumbling to drag her completely inside and feeling for his kat knife, he saw a pair of gleaming golden eyes. The katt crouched and sprang; high, arcing, hurtling at them with the weight of five men.

Braan brought the knife down.

The katt screamed in pain and fell to the path, clawing hysterically at the rocks. The blade had punctured the top of the skull, just as it was designed to do. Ignoring his now tattered sleeve, Braan sagged against the lip of the hole, stretching his legs and undoing his veils, using them to wipe the sweat from his brow and neck. Dear sweet Mendülay...

The woman was still draped over one of his legs, shaking but silent, the dignity of her people wrapped around her more securely than cloth. She sat up slowly, curling her knees close to her body and wrapping her arms around herself, weaving in her dream as if to pass out from exhaustion. Braan grabbed her to steady her movements, and then pulled her closer when he realized her body was icy to the touch. She did not protest—she was that tired.

He listened to the katt’s dying whimpers as its brain stopped functioning and then noticed that the woman’s veils were loose and bent to see the age of his fellow survivor. She glanced up; her gray gaze met his green and brown one. Amazement crept over her smooth, thin face, and Braan wondered if he looked as shocked as he felt. He had prayed to find her but had expected her to be with a tribe.

“Thank you” came a whisper; tight, high-pitched, like water reeds in brisk wind. How well she controlled fear.

It was too much for him. He cautiously touched her face, as if afraid she would vanish. Then he let her head drop to his arm and bent to kiss her; gently, thoroughly, as he had wanted to do for so long. Reaching to hang on to his other arm, she did not try to stop him. They clung to one another awhile, and then Braan straightened.

“Are you alone?”

“Except for my hazelle.” Teloa must have read more in his face. “Your companions?”

“Lyte is—gone. We were separated in the sandstorm. And the three animals are lost or dead.” He eyed her searchingly. “You have heard, seen nothing?”

“Tikki. No humans.” She gripped his arm in sympathy. “He is a commando. He’ll make it.”

Braan did not answer. He flicked on the safety of his recharged blaster. “Come. Before the flares die.” He helped her down from the ledge, and they slowly made their way back up the path. Braan was thankful for his memory, which had saved him in mazes before. He pinpointed the katt in his mind. Krwb did not venture into a cave, and he wanted the skin if there was time.

“The blaster.” Teloa stopped him before they reached the front of the cavern. He looked surprised. “There is another katt, smaller.”

The pit of his stomach grew cold and knotted. For an adolescent to prowl the same range as an adult pair, it had to be desperate.

They soon learned how desperate. They went down several plateau levels to where Tay had hidden her hazelle and supplies in a narrow cave. Crawling through the tiny opening facing south, they were greeted by Tikki, who immediately burrowed into Tay’s hood. The hazelle was behind the fire, its body caked with dried foam. It turned a wild eye on them. The cave smelled of blood. Puzzled, Tay went to the beast while Braan built up the fire. Then Tay gasped and pointed to the other exit where she had brought in the hazelle.

Braan stared, astounded. She had gathered and kept all the Cied swords from painting rock, and planted them, blade-up, in the dirt, the shorter blades extending from the sides of the cave opening. The young male katt, determined to reach the hazelle, had slashed its face and neck trying to squeeze between the weapons. Finally it had attempted to jump over them and had impaled itself.

The Atare went outside and pulled the carcass off the swords from the front. Then he asked if she was going to boil water.

“I have none.”

“None?”

“I use these plants.“ She held up a stalk of tropc. “Not the freshest but palatable.”

“I have water with my things. Wait here.”

oOo

The packs were untouched. Any small, furred scavengers would wait several days to make their meals, until the hazelle was so sweet with death, a katt would not touch it. The krwb had left little for their fellow predators to find. Braan stripped off the equipment and returned to Teloa’s level.

The woman had dug out what rations she had left, including some roots from mountain plants. She had also removed her tattered outer robe, piling it like a pillow next to the fire. As Braan entered Teloa straightened abruptly, and he knew she was nearly asleep. His own exhaustion weighed on him.

“How long did you hide from those katt?” Braan asked, surveying the pitiful pile of food. No wonder she looked thin. She had improvised well, though, her planter’s knowledge helping her find the tubers and stalks most likely to provide nourishment.

“The pressure changed while I looked for food, so I sought a cave. I thought rain was coming. Unfortunately it was the same cavern the katt were in. I avoided them several days, through two storms—I’ve been here four days,” she added, anticipating the next question. “I’m afraid I finally got lost. I was looking for the Dragoche camp.”

“You did well. Across this range is sand and, in the distance, the mountains we seek. It would take us six or eight days riding from the far side of this mountain. I will explain how to hide from sandstorms. I do not intend to lose you as I lost Lyte.” He poured one canteen into a pan. “Saffra?”

“Please,” she answered, and then caught her breath. “But—we need—”

“There is a free well near here. We will stop there tomorrow, before we cross this range, and clean our faces.”

“The sand works very well,” Tay offered.

Braan smiled. “That is how the Cied bathe, and how we must, too. But nothing feels like cool water on the face, or down the throat.” He sacked the yellow tubers and dropped them in the boiling water. “Fish them out when they start to burst their skins. I have something I need to do. I may be awhile.” Checking to be sure that his blaster was recharged and secure, Braan slipped out into the chill night.

He sat outside on a rock for several minutes, controlling his breathing, watching the stars above. He deserved highest laurels for that casual performance. He had forgotten how beautiful she was. How to begin? He had no idea, but he had to keep his physical attraction to her under control or he would fail. The only way to do it right now was to cool down and work himself into sleep. Tightly gripping the flares he had palmed, Braan adjusted his eyes to the sinking moons and started up the mountainside.

oOo

TWOHUNDRED FIFTYTHREEDAY, MATINS

The adult katt were as he had left them, stiff as a board and dyeing the stones crimson. Braan quickly stripped off his clothes and began to cut away the first pelt. The skin of a katt was worth its weight in diamonds off-world; the skin of one killed with a knife thrust was beyond price. And that pelt would be his major gift to Baakche Dragoche. The others ...

It took less time to skin the female. He folded them the way his guaard had taught him and walked back down the rocky slope. After cutting up the adolescent katt, Braan moved away from the carcass and scrubbed himself clean with the fine sand in the bowl of the glen. Then he sat awhile, watching the last moon set and the night grow old. Peace washed over him, the presence of Mendülay settling like a mantle. It was not until the cold reached his bones that he remembered he had eaten nothing. Regretfully detaching himself from the meditative mood, Braan reached for his joqurs and caftan.

oOo

Tay was asleep next to the fire, her caftan and one blanket wrapped warmly around her, the other coverlet folded and set next to his pack. She had found several other bits of food in the bags and had arranged the brightly colored seeds and dried fruit on the second blanket’s edge. In a tightly sealed sack balanced precariously above the pan were his tuber and beans. The water was now saffra.

“Warm without being overcooked. Nicely done, my lady.” Braan sat across the fire from her and began his meal, wishing briefly for fresh bread. He was grateful her hunger had overcome whatever desire she would have had to allow royalty to eat first.

One hazelle to carry their food and water. Six days riding. But both of them on one beast? Both of them walking with a pack animal ... Maybe twelve or fourteenday, if they were lucky. And maybe a dead hazelle at the end of the trip; even hazelles needed some water. He would regret that, but otherwise it could be their own deaths. He looked long at the beast. It was sinewy, as if it had thrived on the trip. Tay must have fed it every plant from the last range to this one. There would be boulders in the desert, crevices to shield from the light and heat of the day, though they were not on any proper map. Some had free wells, unclaimed by any tribe, for the use of all.

He quietly searched the packs, and his heart leapt to see a long string of gourds. She had kept them with no hope of finding water; or she had kept faith.

Braan closed the satchels and banked the fire for the night.

RAGÄREE’S PEAK

TWOHUNDRED FIFTYTHREEDAY, VESPERS

Liel was studying the ancient parchment so intently that she was unaware of Ronüviel’s entrance. Roe smiled faintly, her amusement fading as she saw what her little sister was reading. Trouble—the girl could draw parallels as easily as she and Arrez had.

“Broadening your horizons?” Roe heard herself say.

“Working on an ulcer,” Liel replied without turning.

Ronüviel forced a chuckle. “Coming with me?”

Liel spun around. “You are crazy! You are really going to go east! You could get killed, and the babies, too! Ever since the night Braan and Lyte left, things have been crazy. The councils have not met, nor the synod; Arrez issues orders and Gid carries them out. People are becoming worried and suspicious. Not one member of the male throne line left in Nuamura, and now you are planning to leave!” A moment’s pause, then, “Why are you asking me to go?” Liel forced out. “Are you so confident of success you will take our whole family into the ciedär? I would think you would be ordering me to stay here!”

Ronüviel sat down on the edge of the desk, facing her little sister. Not so little; a woman, thinking with adult concern. “Liel,” she started gently. “Do you disbelieve the prophecy just because you may be a part of it?” Liel did not answer. “I am not crazy, dreaming about my children becoming great leaders and taking Nuala into a new age. I am practical. And I am willing to do anything moral to bring about the safety of our people.”

Roe gestured out the new doors to the terrace, toward the vineyards and new grain on the plain below. “Have you looked in the fields? Healthy plants, yes, but small, and likely to bear small yield. We will not last another year without assistance. There will be no off-world help. We know that; we merely laugh and jest as night closes in around our fragile fortress. The Cied can aid us, but we must convince them that the house of Atare is their lifeline, just as they are our future.

“Dielaan will not waste energy shielding the ciedär, no matter what his promises; and if the Fewhas land, Ciedärlien will die. No race of semi-barbarians would dare leave a nomadic people ripe for rebellion within striking distance of their installations.” Liel stirred at this, but did not argue the point. The Fewhas had awe-inspiring technology, but from the Axis viewpoint, their culture—their humanity—had suffered.

“We must show them their danger, show them Braan is worthy of their confidence, and show them that the house of Atare continues. Genuar can convince them of the danger. I believe in Braan’s ability to prove to them his worthiness. And I think the prophecy of Naitun can be applied to me: ‘In a year of flame and thunder, from the womb of a healer life shall be born, bearing sight no one has seen before. And ye shall bow down to the one before them,’ and so on!”

“I know the prophecy,” Liel finally interrupted.

“Do you understand it?”

“I know what you want to make of it. In a year of great upheaval the twins—the ‘them’ in the prophecy—are born with Atare eyes never before recorded, and the one to lead is that ruler born before them, Braan. You think you can get away with this?”

A knock came at the bronze shield. “Enter.” Arrez walked into the room. He studied their faces, his own unsmiling, and then his glance fell upon the open manuscript.

“Are you going?” he asked conversationally.

Liel stared at him in amazement. “You as well?” she breathed.

“It rips my heart. But it is the only guarantee of success. I believe in Mendülay’s providence.”

The young woman leapt up. “Then I am also going! Someone in the party must have common sense! I will be ready in ten minutes.” She flew out the doorway before either of them could answer her.

“You are resolved on this?” Arrez said a moment later.

“For me. I do not know if I am right to take her. But who else can I ask to take the risk? This is Atare business, in the end. I do not think I can handle the children in the desert alone, and can you see a guaard tending one of them?”

Arrez reached out and gently touched her cheek. “Be cautious. Let them recognize you for what you are. Do not force your hand. I pray for a safe journey and a swift return. There is no way to determine what will happen.”

“Have faith, my priest.”

“I should be saying that to you.”

THE CIEDÄR

TWOHUNDRED FIFTYSIXDAY, PRIME

When Lyte opened his eyes, he could see the rising star of morning swiftly topping the horizon. It was so large, he could almost reach out and seize it. A blur detached itself from the shadows in his vision and came to him. He felt his head and shoulders being lifted and water being poured down his throat, streaming down his pale beard. It was as if his body belonged to another person. Lyte no longer seemed to exist.

“Don’t breathe it, you’re not a fish.” Moran. How did Moran come into the dream? A day or so ago Moran had appeared, shaking his head in irritation and telling him he was a stupid, selfish fool for waiting so long to come into the ciedär. And then to lose the Atare! And to share his water with the hazelle even though starstroke had set in. Starstroke? Lyte had wondered, even as he had drained his gourd, much thirstier than a commando ever had right or reason to be. He had staggered on, looking for shade, for water, until his head swam so badly that he could no longer stand.

“Bra-an ...”

“You were alone, except for your beast.” Another voice. Jaacav. A dream? Not a dream. Lyte slowly opened his eyes again, focusing on the shadowy lumps. A vatos wool blanket was spread over him. There was no fire that he could see.

“What are you—what were you doing out here? What happened to Braan?”

“Where ... find me.”

“In the sand, west of here. The hazelle stayed with you, and we spotted movement. Where is my Atare?” Jaac asked, her voice sharp.

“Sandstorm.” Lyte tried to sit up, his head clearing. He felt weak, almost as weak as when he had radiation poisoning.

“From the beginning. Take your time. We’re not leaving until you can ride out of here,” Moran said. The warrior helped his friend sit upright, leaning him against a stone.

Lyte explained it all, from the arrival of the assassin to the last thing he remembered, collapsing at the feet of his hazelle. Jaac sat still a long time after his story ended, watching Kee rise higher in the sky. Then she stirred, rearranging her robes and reaching for a tool to kindle the banked fire.

“He lives,” she said definitely.

“Mendülay spares him for some other end?”

She turned fiercely at this, but there was no trace of mockery in Lyte’s voice. “This thing with Genuar is dangerous. If you left on Ascension Day, then word must be spreading through the campsites. And their captors will attempt to remove all traces of the deed.”

“Have you narrowed down the possible places they could be?”

“Pecaio tribe, Stigati,” Moran answered shortly. “Or so all signs indicate. We have been in fifty tribal areas in the last twentyday, all in the 200 Kilon. We have had no time for details.”

“That is no longer important.” The men turned to her. “If Genuar is actively seeking those who flout his orders, then the rebels will attempt to rid themselves of the twins without leaving evidence. But that is not as simple and obvious as it sounds. Even in the wastes, land is strictly divided, and borders are not crossed without incident. To dump them with no water and have the deed unwitnessed would be nearly impossible. There is only one place to take them.”

“Which is?”

“Bloodsand. We are at least a full day and night’s journey from it. We should leave at dusk. That means arriving at vespers the following day, but—”

“I can travel.” Moran choked back a laugh at Lyte’s statement.

“A day’s rest, then we ride hard,” Jaac threw back at him. “If not too worn out, they could survive a day in the heat without permanent injury; it is not yet summer. We must be there by stardown tomorrow.” As the fire blazed up, she poured a gourd of water into a pan.

Lyte turned his attention to the bleak rocks heaped behind him. “Dismal place.”

“Quite the opposite. This is the rock of Evermind,” Jaac answered. “There is a stream that always flows from the inner dell. Legend says it sprang from the stone at the unvoiced command of the prophet Naitun—from the mind of Naitun, hence the name. We will fill our gourds before we leave.”

“What is bloodsand?” Lyte glanced to Moran, who was facing toward the sea. Not talkative today, on edge. He probably missed Roe. Or was alarmed by finding his friend half dead in a deep desert.

Jaacav grimaced. “A place of final punishment. The Cied are long sundered from us and have their own laws and judgments. One of the nastiest is to stake a human out until he dies of dehydration. Bloodsand is used by all the tribes for this purpose. They do not kill the accused. Kee does.

“Convenient scapegoat.”

“Deadly. Between the winds and the krwb, little is left by morning.”

“Jaac, what are the Cied? Renegade Toli? Outcasts?” Lyte began hesitantly, hoarsely. He still felt dry and a bit light-headed.

Jaac chuckled maliciously. “We are the outcasts. Almost four millennia ago many Nualans decided that we were all being punished for using technology to change our planet. Given the proper time, Mendülay would heal both us and Nuala. That was what the followers of Lien believed. So they went off into the ciedär, following their prophet. He did not agree with the way of life that was being conducted on a large scale and felt that if the rest of the people could not see his point, then let them choose damnation. So the Ciedärlien live forever apart.”

“Were they right?” Moran asked in a low voice.

“Their prophets have a high accuracy rate. Naitun, the fellow who created this spring, was one of them. They live harshly yet, from many viewpoints, quite well. They do not have more 20s, though. That was their goal.”

“I would think a combination of their simplicity and coastal ingenuity would be best,” Lyte proposed.

“Agreed. Convince the Cied. Saffra? We must seek shade in the rocks until vespers.” And that ended conversation, until shortly before they left for Bloodsand.

MOORSHEAD BASIN

TWOHUNDRED FIFTYSIXDAY, PRIME

The last star was fading from the sky when Braan spotted the Stone Ring. Finally, a place with shade to spend the next twelve hours. Without turning he spoke to Teloa. “The Stone Ring. We shall spend the heat of the day here and continue at vespers.” Tay did not answer, so Braan assumed she had nodded. He had taken great pains to point out their destination to her; the great slash in the Dragoche Mountains. If something happened to him, she could reach other humans. But she did not comment on day-to-day landmarks.

On other subjects she was quite talkative, even outspoken. The fortyday in the ciedär had been lonely. The akemmi could not answer her, even if it listened. She was full of questions about every imaginable topic, from new births and deaths to interstellar eavesdropping. In the course of the three days and four nights they had been company for one another, they had exhausted the matter of Nuamura, at least to Braan’s taste. He had too much on his mind and no way to begin speaking.

Teloa had been shocked and disturbed over the assassin’s attack; quiet when he explained Genuar’s visit and the subsequent trip east. Was it the office she was concerned about? What kind of thought was that, Atare? Again, for the hundredth time, his body responded to his straying thoughts, and he was grateful that his caftan hid the evidence. Damn, he would have to keep the fire between them at all times.

One hazelle. She had lost the other earlier; it had not been strong enough to survive the desert. Braan now led the remaining beast inside the standing circle of stones. They were tall, at least four meters, and some had lintels across them. In the center was a round, flat stone, the symbol for fresh water carved into its face. Teloa looked pleased. “Shall we check?”

“If you wish. Even if it is dry, we have enough.” Untying the hazelle’s rope from around his waist, he hobbled the animal, staked it on a long line within reach of some stubby brush, and pulled the pack off its back. Tay undid the rope that connected her to the beast and immediately dug through the pack for fire crystals. While she built the fire, Braan began to prepare their food. Tay set out eating utensils and then pushed the rock over a little bit and lowered a weight and tube. She drew some water back up and examined it in the growing light. Clear of debris ... She dropped in a tablet; the color would determine if they could drink it. Pale yellow. Not a single problem. Pouring the tube into a cooking pot, she settled down to wait. The last few days had shown her that Braan preferred to do the cooking. And he did know more ways to prepare the ciedär rations.

Tikki finally stuck her head out of the hood, complaining peevishly until Tay offered her a snip of dried fruit. The akemmi took it graciously and scurried to the packs, where she proceeded to burrow, and then nibble the delicacy. When Teloa lifted up the saddlebags to be sure the creature was under them and not tearing through them, her hand touched fur. She carefully removed the topmost katt skin, which was properly rolled.

“What are you going to do with these?”

Braan glanced up. “They may have several uses. The young male’s is yours; you set the trap for him. One I will probably offer to Baakche as a gift; only trinium would be more impressive, and I have that as well. The other I will make a cape or robe out of ... maybe a wedding gift.”

Teloa had already wrapped the big forepaws around her, looping them in front. “How do I look?”

“Like a child playing dress-up, using a rug for a stole.”

Her brilliant smile flashed out, and she took several graceful dance steps. “What shall I do with mine? It’s too little for a poncho and too pretty to walk on! I’d hate to hang it over a hole in the wall.”

Braan tried to hide his laughter and failed. “How do you and Moran do it? I have never met anyone before who could simplify Nualan and have it sound correct. Usually that mix sounds like strangled Axis. I think you two have invented a new tongue.” He studied her a moment, stroking his beard, trying to remain objective. “A skirt,” he said at last. “Or if you are nice to me, maybe I will give you my skin.”

She danced off again in excitement. “Up to my chin in fur! I love it! I never thought I’d live somewhere cool enough to wear them!” She dropped down next to the fire and slowly, correctly rerolled the skin. “It grows quiet. A strange place, this desert. The nights are lively and full of sound, the days dead and silent.”

“Very quiet. This is the most ‘alone’ I have ever been. Starting with that sandstorm when I lost Lyte. This is the first time I have ever felt totally free.”

“Ever? I am here.”

“Ever. Even with you. This is the first time a guaard or commando has not been with me. I am always a twosome, at the minimum.”

“Always? I mean ... there must be times ...”

“No. Always. Every waking and sleeping moment.”

“No privacy?”

“I ignore them and they ignore me. The mountain is refreshing to live in. They stay outside in the corridor or, at the worst, in the meeting room. In the palace and my home they were in the sanitation, in my sleeping room—one gets used to them, like a glow or a chair.”

Teloa seemed genuinely surprised. “Everywhere. Just one? Or more than that? Do they follow your whole family wherever they go?”

Braan smiled. “Not just my family. My immediate circle. At various times Gid has been guarded, or Prime Minister Lennard, even Arrez.”

Tay looked thoughtful. “The day I was attacked, were the men who saved me guaard?”

“One. The other was a citizen. Yes, a guaard was watching you. But thirdmeal was the time for a change of guaard, and as fate would have it, that was when your problems began. I had ordered them to shadow you, and they did.”

“Can’t even scratch in private,” she replied coarsely, barely concealing her irritation.

“Oh, they do not watch you every second. They know normal sounds and abnormal ones. They listen, smell; they do not have to see us all the time. Do not misunderstand me, I am grateful for their vigil. But sometimes ...”

Teloa reached for the tongs and began fishing for the dinner pouches. Braan pushed the plates in front of her and settled back to open a sack of nuts. Finally, without looking at him, Tay spoke. “That’s hard to understand. I’m used to being alone. Even when I left home and was working. I knew what they meant by the saying ‘being alone in a crowd.’ In a way it was nice. The ciedär, the endless desert, and no one out here except Tikki and Telen and me.”

“Telen?”

Tay blushed. “My little brother’s name. The hazelle has the same wise, gentle look, and yet he is very patient with me. Like Telen. For someone so mechanically oriented, my brother was very concerned about people.”

“Where is he now?”

“I don’t know. At the displacement camp, I gave him everything I had left, my last cubiz, and told him to find a guild that would take him. I was already a planter. As the war stretches on and on, fewer planets take in skilled refugees; they’d rather train their own workers.” She passed him a plate of the tasty red tubers and black beans and accepted a handful of nuts in return.

There was a long stretch of silence but not an uncomfortable one. The fire burned low; Braan finally banked it. They moved their packs as far away from it as possible. Wincing at the pain the movement cost him, Braan slowly lowered himself down behind a cool rock.

“Are you all right, Atare?”

He shot her a glance. “It is nothing. Some people get ulcers; my tension goes to my muscles, especially my back and neck.”

“Muscle tension can become serious. I am a trained therapist. May I assist?”

He answered honestly. “I am not sure that would be a good idea.”

“Why?”

Braan hesitated. Then, “I have learned to control my emotions in your presence, lady. I doubt I could keep such reserve under your touch.”

Teloa looked puzzled. “There are two basic types of massage, Atare: therapeutic-sensual and erotic. One relaxes and heals, the other arouses. To the one giving the massage, and the receiver, it is easy to differentiate technique. My people had need of such a skill. I offer it to you.” She held up her head with dignity as she spoke, but the flush in her cheeks was not starlight.

“I would rather have plain speech. It would ease the tension,” he replied. “I apologize for delaying so long. But I had to be sure that I was not merely lured by your physical charms, which are considerable. I value our friendship too much to make that mistake now. I have learned to appreciate all the other special qualities you have; I have missed your wit, your compassion, even your barbed questions.” He knew what he wanted to say, but the words were wrong now. So he did not say “I love you.”

“Do you understand?” He was startled to realize Teloa was shaking. He started to reach out to steady her and stopped himself.

She did not notice. “Do you know what it is like, Atare, to want something badly and yet to fear it just as strongly?” It was a tight, barely controlled whisper.

“The name is Braan.”

“This cannot be.” She hid her face in her hands to hide her tears.

“Teloa, this is not an absolute monarchy. If you cannot stand to look at me, tell me to go away! You will not lose your head!” Braan was terribly puzzled. Someone else? She had made a crazy vow while praying to be saved? “My lady, I am simply asking to pay court to you upon return to Nuamura. I believe we shall survive this.”

“No! No, I am wrong for you. I hoped it could be different, but I’ve thought—” She folded over to muffle her sobs. Braan knew the comfort of a touch, even an unfavored one. He stiffly moved before her and set his hands on her shoulders. In a little while the woman began to gain control. Soon she became aware of him; her whole body went rigid.

Braan pulled back, slipping his hands into his robe pockets but not moving away. “Please. Explain. What do you want me to say? If it is truth, I will say it.”

“I thought your people were bolder,” she said, straightening and looking him in the eye.

“They are,” he replied without a pause. “If I was merely interested in your body, I would have made it plain. I feel I was quite straightforward concerning your work, which improved daily. Were you almost anyone else, I would have begun with the words I love you.” Tay’s face became even whiter. “But I feared you would react just as you have. Why are those words so frightening?”

“Because. Do you know what I did before I came here?”

“You were a planter somewhere—”

“Between home and Nuala.”

“No.”

Teloa looked away. “I was a hustler.”

“So?”

Tay faced him, her face a tratore mask. “Are you mad? I thought you knew.”

“I knew you worked on a sumptuary planet. There are countless professions practiced there.”

“I was a hustler! How long do you think your kingship would last if you associated with a hustler? Admitted you loved one?”

Braan swallowed quickly to stifle a laugh. “With the exception of Nuala, almost every royal house in the known universe keeps male and female courtesans within its walls—”

“Not a courtesan! Not someone trained to be a walking pleasure palace, pampered and protected! A hustler! Alone, a mark for every sadist, psycho and molester in the galaxy! To be beaten and treated as a doll with no emotions and no response! Where not reacting is what keeps you alive!” Her voice edged on hysteria. She fought to control it. “No guild would take a trained planter, they wanted raw talent to mold their own rules. And I was crazy enough to think nothing was worse than death.”

“My great uncle married a hustler. I almost did, too, but she vanished one night, just before I asked her. She left for much the same reasons, I suppose, though she never said them aloud. A severe inferiority complex—”

“You don’t understand!” The tears came again, in frustration.

“I do not.” The reply was gentle.

“You need the acceptance and neutrality of the non-aligned planets. If they found out you were consorting with a hustler—”

“Who would connect the planter Teloa with the hustler of another name?” There was silence. “You did use another name, did you not? Tay, I love you. How do you feel about me?”

“There is something else.” She clutched the material at her side. “There is a scar along my rib cage. It is from the one time I forgot myself.” As she spoke, her voice diminished to barely a whisper. “To be a hustler is a delicate thing. To be successful one must perform on command—to be passive or active as the patron dictates. He looked so much like my long-dead Caprican love I forgot myself. One does not forget one’s place when a patron desires a passive partner. Were it not for the affection a cantinamaster held for me, I would be long dead. I learn very well. I have not made the same mistake since. Can you imagine a body so well trained that it goes rigid when a child touches its arm?”

“I have never lifted a hand in violence to a woman in my life. I swear by my Lord Mendülay.”

Teloa looked up at his soft answer and could not meet the pain—her pain—in his face. “You need a lover, my lord, not a hustler. I have relaxed a bit these many long days. But enough to pretend that I am a real person? Even if I could overcome this affliction I prolonged my life with, I would be flinching every step of the way. It has been so long. Unless I am passive, or have a passive partner, I am lost.”

“Teloa. You say you learn well. You can unlearn just as easily! Lord, we are not talking about gymnastics! Sex is not a spectator sport, but it is not all games, either! Are you trying to tell me that kiss back in the cave was nothing?”

“I am trying to spare you great pain,” she replied, her words slow and spaced to keep control of them. “You cannot imagine the pain my fears and memories will cost you.”

“They can only bind us closer.” He suddenly pulled her into his embrace. She was startled but not exhausted, as she had been the time before. And she did freeze. Braan did not break off their kiss until he felt the slightest relaxation, the touch of her fingers to his shoulder. He faced her as he arranged his robes to guard against the heat. “There was response. You are not lost to us yet. I am willing to take the chance. If you are.”

“I love you. But I cannot love you.”

She was right. That hurt most of all.

oOo

They posted no guard, for no katt prowled so far from the mountains, and they could not defend against human attack. Braan tossed at the threshold of sleep, forced to lie on his stomach, stirring sand and gravel in his pain. He had the strangest dream; he heard a voice in it.

“You are keeping me awake. Do you know you are kicking rocks? Trust me, I know what I’m doing.” The pressure on his spine and ribs was firm but not hard. And sleep spun away.

When he awoke at vespers, the ache in his back was gone.

BLOODSAND

TWOHUNDRED FIFTYSEVENDAY, VESPERS

Kee was dropping in the western sky, but the night wind had not yet come. Lyte was silent, twisting a broken piece of whip, watching the fire burn low. Moran seethed beside him, his anger barely under control. It was he who had broken the hazelle whip. They had found the young Atares at Bloodsand and dispatched their Cied guards, as Jaac had predicted. The twins were alive ... just barely. Dehydrated, and Kavan bleeding internally from a beating administered after an escape attempt. Moran was furious—with the Cied, with Corymb, with how long it had taken to find the Atares. Now Kalith watched the fire as well—grim, silent, almost menacing in his scraggly beard, but no longer detached from them. There was calculated thought in his movements.

No longer afraid ... of anyone or anything, including appearances, public opinion, or the future. And when a man fears nothing, he becomes dangerous, Lyte thought, studying the young Atare. Nearby, Kavan slept, oblivious to pain and the rising wind.

“May I intrude?” Jaac stood before them, a ghost in the moonlight.

“Of course,” Lyte said graciously.

“We must speak of tomorrow.” The woman dropped to the sand. “The Atares must be returned to Nuamura. My original plan, if we found them strong and healthy, was to continue on to the clan mountains. There I hoped to accomplish what the first party set out to do. But Kavan needs immediate medical attention, more aid than I can give him. However much I wish to go present our case to the Dragoche, even to help my Atare, I have in my hands the lives of the heirs.”

“Must we all go?” Lyte asked. “I was thinking of trying to find Braan.”

“I was going to send you two back with the twins. But we are deeper in the ciedär than I thought. It is easier to explain how to find the Dragoche tribe than how to retrace our path home. Therefore I must return to Nuamura. Moran must come with me. He is the Ragarr, and his safety is as imperative as Kalith and Kavan’s. Also, I need help with them. To the life shelter, Kavan’s injuries are simple to attend to, but if we are too late returning, he could die of blood loss within. That leaves you to journey on, Lyte. You must take three gourds, for there is no water between this camp and mountains, unless you stumble onto a spring.” She stood and pointed east. “Do you see, by the light of the three, the deep slash in the distant range? It grows more obvious as you journey closer, and a free well lies just inside it to the left. That is the mouth to the Dragoche tribe’s domain. You must choose your entry—announced, by the slash; or stealthy, through the valleys running south. Braan may need your assistance. The range grows immense as you see more of it. Do not be dismayed. Keep your eyes on the slash!”

“Roe is not in Nuamura.”

Jaac turned to Moran at this, her eyes narrowing slightly. “What did you say?”

“I don’t think she’s there. I know that sounds crazy, but I have the strangest feeling she’s ahead of me.”

Lyte was suddenly very worried about Moran, but Jaac only studied them both, her gaze unflinching. “Strange are the bonds between sworn lovers, and they are strong. But whatever madness has come upon Ronüviel, I remind you of your children and ask you to return with me. I think we must be up at lauds and journey until high sext. Then we rest until vespers and travel the night through dawning. Summer approaches, and we do not have the countenance of the Cied to travel in this heat.”

“I think I’ll leave at the same time. Let’s all get some rest,” Lyte suggested, bothered by Moran’s tratore face. Not like him...

THE CIEDÄR

TWOHUNDRED FIFTYEIGHTDAY, LAUDS (MOONSET)

Jaac was up with the false dawn, tending a low fire and checking the water gourds. Some were already missing. She had heard Lyte in the night, gone with the stars. She had walked past the sleeping twins and counted bodies; there had been only one by the small boulder. He had been eager to leave then. The missing hazelle was the one with a white ankle. It was the strongest of the group, one of the Cied’s beasts, so adapted to desert life it was more tazelle than hazelle. A good choice.

She was preparing a solid firstmeal and packing the rest of their supplies when she heard someone stirring behind her. “Let us finish packing the gourds. I want to leave as soon as we have eaten,” she said.

“Fine by me.”

Jaac froze at the voice. Standing slowly, she turned to face Lyte, who briefly returned her glance and went to pick up a mug. Then she sprang away to the boulder. Using a smaller rock as a step, she quickly reached the top. In the faint light of the coming dawn there were few shadows across the sand. Their group approached the deep desert, and little was found here except sand and rock. Jaac could barely make out hoofprints leading away east. He was long gone.

“Sear the Path!” exploded from her lips. “Fool! Idiot!” She leapt back down.

“What?”

“Moran has gone.”

Lyte’s face passed swiftly from incredulity to fear to fury. “I’ll kill him.” He ran to the hazelles.

“No! Stop! You cannot, especially without water.”

“Then get me some gourds fast. I want to catch him before starrise—”

“No. He is kilometers from here. You cannot hope to find a commando when he does not wish to be found! He took a Cied hazelle, a beige one. You could pass them and never know it!” She snatched the reins from him, fearless in the face of the frightened, plunging animal. “Calm yourself and the beast! I cannot get Kavan back alone. Kal can barely support himself. Our path is sundered from his, Lyte. I need your help.”

The man was silent, but the hazelle settled into a light prance. Dismounting, Lyte stepped out of the pack line to face the dawn. When he finally spoke, his voice was thick with harnessed anger: “I would have gone with both of them, but it’s beyond me.” He switched to Nualan. “Let us head for Nuamura.”

“We shall make straight the path of their return.”

Chapter Twenty

THE CIEDÄR

TWOHUNDRED FIFTYEIGHTDAY, COMPLINE

Braan adjusted the fire once more and settled against the hazelle. The beast tossed its head impatiently at the confinement of the cave. Cursed sandstorm! This one sounded like a Diablo: narrow, treacherous and scraping the rocks above them to sand.

The woman was sitting over in a crevice, her gaze on what could be seen of the opening. The evening was already cool, but she had not bothered to put on her outer robe. Braan found himself following the intricate knotting of her tattered caftan, which gave the material more shape and caused it to pull in closer to her body. He had seen the Cied wear such involved garments, but where ... ? She must have thought it up independently. It had not occurred to him that her inner outfit might be ragged as her outer. He had given her his extra embroidered outer robe, but he had only one inside wrap. Three pairs of joqurs; could she wear one—?

For almost a fourday they had continued on, not talking except at meals, avoiding the obvious topic. Now that the subject had been brought up, no matter how confusingly, Braan felt strangely at ease. Much of his tension had left him, and he was no longer disturbed by Tay’s physical closeness. His mind strayed often to his sojourn among the tratores, and the lifestyles of the hustlers. So many things he had never understood. One memory disturbed him. The youth had been one of the preeminent hustlers of Mercury 7. His eyes—they had had no life, no spark in them....

“Is this entire world desert? Except by the sea, where the mountain tropics prevail?”

Braan showed no surprise, though it was her first question in days. “No. There are mountains, prairies, swamps, deserts, tundra, glaciers, tidewater—everything you can imagine is probably found here.”

“I would like to see it someday, if we live.”

“I am planning on it. I would enjoy showing you the magic of Nuala.”

She did not look at him. “Have we lost much time?”

“More than I care for; tonight and tomorrow. We need a full night for this step of our journey.”

“Couldn’t we leave when the storm quits and walk until dawn?”

“It is a full twelve hours to the next shade. We should not be out by day at all. Even the Cied avoid the daylight during summer, and the hot time comes early this year.”

“At least we can talk. I know a diablo is more dangerous, but it’s quieter!”

Braan smiled. “We are deep in these rocks. They would muffle the sound of a normal sandstorm.” He reached to remove his thigh-high boots and set his feet near the fire to warm his toes. He glanced clandestinely at Teloa and saw that she was distracted, staring off into space. There was something familiar about the way she was sitting. Not the hair; she had twisted it up into a loose figure eight. His insides congealed as he realized it was an ancient hustler pose, an invitation to disrobing. She did it instinctively. What were her thoughts? Confused? Had her body retreated into the known and accepted? “All we need is a bottle of wine,” he heard himself saying.

She reacted by turning her head slightly, a flush on her cheek. “Wine? On a life-or-death expedition?”

“It does not feel that way right this moment. I am tired of ciedär rations already. You must be sick of them. The owner of the Minotaur restaurant has opened up again, within the mountain. We can go there for an excellent meal when we get b—”

“No!” He was startled at her abruptness. “There’s no use in—We shouldn’t pretend it can be something it can’t.”

“Shall we start at the opposite end? I will seduce you first and romance you later.” At those words she did look over at him. Braan’s smile was so wicked, she laughed, and it was her own laugh, not forced. “Better yet, you may seduce me. I am yours.” He folded over dramatically in a heap next to the hazelle.

Tay muffled her giggles, shaking her head in disbelief. Then a sad expression crept across her face.

“Thank you. But I could not accept what our relationship would do to—”

“Have you ever thought that each individual is responsible for his own life?” She stared at him. Braan popped himself up on one elbow. “Tay, is it wrong to be happy?”

She stared at him a moment longer and then looked into the fire. “Perhaps things, perhaps people are different here. Maybe I am the one who does not understand. You are really willing to take this chance?”

“The whole chance. We cannot give up if things are difficult at first. I have learned happiness is fleeting. I will grab it any place I can find it and hang on tenaciously.”

“Very well.” There was pause in her voice, a neutrality.

Braan started grinning again. “You sound as if I just sentenced you to life imprisonment. Come on over to my side of the fire any time you want to talk about it. Or do anything else.” He flopped down on his back.

A while later there was the rustle of material, and she came and knelt down next to him. She reached up to pull out the comb holding up her hair.

“Wait. Why are you doing that?” Tay looked puzzled. She clearly had not thought about it. “You only do things like that when you want to.”

She managed a ghostly smile and touched her wrap collar. “And clothing?” she asked.

“Same thing. Do not remove it until you want to ... or it gets in the way.” He sat up then and turned sideways, facing her.

She studied him for a long time. Finally she leaned over and brushed his cheek with her lips. Braan did not move. He held himself so tightly in check, he was afraid to breathe. She started toward him again and stopped herself short. Casting her gaze down in embarrassment, she spoke, and there was a tinge of wonder in her voice. “The last time I impulsively kissed a man on the cheek, he beat me.”

Controlling the sick rage that rose up in him, Braan understood that they had a long way to go. No matter how successful the surface recovery, some things never healed. “I think we might do better if I seduced you,” he said gently, slipping his arms around her and drawing her close. An orgasmic ripple passed through her, and then she tensed, her face scarlet beneath her tan, not looking at him. Braan was stunned and pained, first by the realization she had so successfully masked her physical attraction to him, and then by the fact that she had lost her control so abruptly. He had not even brushed her back, the safest erogenous zone he could think of. This time the pain was more personal: Sweet Lord, she thought I was going to hit her! Carefully—the wrong words ...

“Has it been that long?” he said very gently. Her answer was falling tears, bright against the fire before they vanished into folds of material. He cradled her closely, privately thinking every violent and obscene thought he could manage, all directed at the tratore worlds. A few well-placed luna bombs and—no, too many there did not know the evil they perpetuated. Was ignorance a permissible shield?

He did not know how long it had been since his thoughts started wandering away from him, but a peep from the akemmi brought him back to the moment. Something was different. Teloa had relaxed a bit, one hand resting lightly on his arm. He bent over and kissed the top of her head. She did not flinch—good—or she did not feel it. He had his own theory on how to draw her out of her trained passive state.

“Tell me, belaiss, have you ever been kissed on every square centimeter of your body?” He could not keep the smile out of his voice. She looked up at him, half puzzled, half amused. “Or has no one ever bothered?”

“Can’t say that I have.” Pink touched her cheeks and throat again. A modest hustler—Lord, the galaxy may collapse into a black hole.

“Do you wish to say good night and place the fire between us? If you ... object, I shall be able to tell, you know.”

“Just remember, it’s not you. It’s ... memories.” She faltered, meeting his gaze.

“I shall try to remember.”

THE CIEDÄR

TWOHUNDRED FIFTYNINEDAY, NONE

It was very warm in the small cave when Teloa awoke. And quiet; the storm was over, the animals dozing. The subtle scent of the hazelle reached her nose. She lay still, orienting herself. Then she stretched for Braan’s gold timespot, lying on top of the pack. Almost vespers: time to build up the fire and start packing. But it was so pleasant not to move. Of course, the strangeness ... She became fully conscious and knew Braan was lying beside her; indeed, had an arm draped loosely over her ribs.

Ah, the ribs; the problems that scar had caused. Her heart ached for his unvented fury at the perpetrator of the deed, a man dead so long only his bleached bones would be found. That had helped her emotional flood start, when she immediately tried to reassure him that there was no longer pain, physical pain. How foreign to wake next to a man. Never in her life, not even at home, had she done that. Always slipping off by herself or being left in the dark alone.

I must not become a parasite, she thought suddenly, fiercely. Expect nothing, hope for nothing. She reached out to touch his back, her fingers as light as blown seed. My love, do you know the fire you dare to play with?

They had tried to talk, as night wove into day, but Teloa discovered that the pain was still too fresh, even after all this time, and spent most of their conversation sobbing. Braan had asked no more questions. He merely accepted each strange revelation as it came out. And when this trek was through, then what? She sighed. Back to sneaking down corridors, probably. She no longer cared. she knew she would have no rivals, at least until he took a wife. She could not say it aloud, but with this man it was enough to be loved.

“Do not stop.” Surprised, she glanced over and discovered she was massaging his neck. One green and brown eye studied her. “I had a dream about such a massage.”

“Oh?”

“The day we discussed it. When I woke up, I felt better.” Teloa started silently laughing. “So it was not my imagination? I thought not, but I saw fit not to bring it up. Now I can say thank you.”

“You are welcome.”

“I am not done saying thank you.”

Her smile was heartfelt, and she was able to force herself to relax before he embraced her, so he never knew what that kiss cost.

NUAMURA — THE GROTTO

TWOHUNDRED SIXTYTWODAY, PRIME

For the first time in his life Lyte saw a guaard on duty register surprise. The dark, narrow-faced man gestured, and the woman across from him nodded and vanished.

“Send for the healers, bring a stretcher!” Jaac called.

“You are victorious?”

“We have accomplished what we set out to do,” she answered, leading Kavan’s hazelle forward. Kal dropped the reins of his beast and rushed to help the guaard, who was untying Kavan from the cloth saddle. “We need a legion of guaard to unpack and watch over these items. It is imperative. And I need six guaard on each Atare.” Her voice lowered. “Two outside the cubicle, the others within,” she murmured to one as she gestured to Kavan.

Suddenly guaard were everywhere, swarming over the animals, easing Kavan down on a stretcher, inquiring about everyone’s health. Lyte remembered that some guaard were also healers. One of them, a young man, stepped up to Kal and knelt. Slipping a hand into his own shirt, the guaard produced the Nualan chain of office. Kal started to shake his head negatively.

“It was his wish, Atare, that you should hold it until he returns.” Kal did not move at first. Then he reached out and held the chain in his right hand.

“The conferral must be witnessed. Send for the high priest and the Ragäree, and for the heads of the synod,” Jaac said, glancing at the scene. Kal did not seem aware of what was happening. He was studying the chain. In his other hand the youth still clutched a leather thong. Strung on it was five ounces of trine gold. Riding back to the mountains, the group had come upon a decimated Stigati smuggling operation. After killing the young katt that had destroyed the camp, Jaacav had insisted that they search the packs. They found weapons, luxuries—and five ounces of trinium, the ransom of kings. The embargo had been violated.

Not a ransom, Lyte thought with a grim smile, remembering Kal’s face when he found a Cied whose robe was not shredded. The embroidered emblem was bold, abstract, and blood red. Recognizing it from his days of captivity, Kal had carefully folded and kept it, along with the trinium, saying only: “We have found the blood payment for the deaths of two Atares. They should have demanded more.”

Jaac had spoken differently. “Mendülay guided us to them. There shall be a reckoning.”

“The Ragäree is not here,” the guaard continued, and then spotted Lyte. The warrior stopped speaking and stood. “I told you not to return without him.” Almost conversational.

It was the last thing Lyte expected, and a lesser commando would have been left gasping his life out on the rocks. As it was, he barely was able to turn the blade, so lightning-fast was the guaard. What? He was fresh and young and wanted blood. Lyte was exhausted and confused.

The guaard backed off, looking for another opening, while Lyte palmed the cat knife he had lifted from the other’s belt. Everyone has gone crazy, was all he could think. Circle, feint, circle again, watch the eyes, the neck muscles, the chest—Jaac was giving orders, the other guaard falling back. What was she saying? The smell of blood was intoxicating.

“Noah! Explain!”

Noah. Where had he heard ... Then Lyte remembered. This guaard belonged to Braan. He’s going to kill me.

“Noah! He is mine!” It was soft, chilling, and carried across the silence. Someone was behind Lyte. Whatever he saw made Noah drop the knife into the dust. Lyte remained crouched, suspecting a trap, using a quick-glance technique. Common sense said to jump him now. “Lyte! Enough!” He recognized the voice. Kal.

Turning, Lyte saw the young man was close to him, hand stretched toward the off-worlder. Lyte offered him the blade, but Kal took his other hand. Kalith rotated the wrist, holding it so all could see where the knife had ripped Lyte’s palm when he turned it away. “This should be attended to.” Kal faced the silent troop of guaard. “Given either following a healthy Atare or returning to guarantee the life of an heir, Lyte chose. Does anyone deny the choice?” Silence prevailed. Glancing at Noah, Kal said, “My elder lives. The other commando is at his back. It is enough?”

Noah nodded, his handsome face impassive. Lyte offered him his knife back, expecting him to walk away. To his veiled surprise the man graciously accepted it and then bent to gather up the other weapon.

“Nothing personal,” Kal murmured drolly. Then he gestured toward the guaard removing his brother. “Make certain Elana operates,” he said to Jaacav, “and take guaard to Shinar. I must prepare for the council, but tell her of my plans ... to see if our hearts are still one. I would speak to Justinian—I have an ultimatum for him.” Glancing to Lyte, he asked, “Are you coming to the anointing? To do this thing I must become Atare.” And then the young man swept into the cavern.

GAREDOC

TWOHUNDRED SIXTYTWODAY, SEXT

Lyte watched the monstrous cavern fill, silenced by the sheer number of elders who had seats in the synod. Too many people with power for Lyte’s taste. Would they understand the point Kal was trying to make? The morning had been hectic. Lyte had not been privy to the meeting in Kal’s chamber, although he had heard the raised voices. Instead he met with a healer to have his hand laser-sealed.

His presence as a witness was requested for the anointing, however. It was swift, the battlefield version, naming the youth Kalith Atare, the onehundred sixtyeighth of his line. And Kal now walked with a confidence far outweighing the chain of office he wore. Even Justinian did not hesitate to address him as sovereign. Lyte wondered what Kal had forced upon the man—what Justinian was willing to do to insure a royal line. Only after the ceremony was through did Jaac depart to tell Shinar the news and leave guaard with her. Did Jaac fear for Kal?

“Brethren, cease thy speech!” It was Url, the wife of Justinian, calling the synod to order. Lyte, seated in the visitor’s gallery, moved until he could see the permanent dais. Kalith had arrived, scrubbed, shaven and dressed in a deep burgundy-red caftan. He was a vivid sight, easily seen even by those in the uppermost tiers. “We have been called for consultation and decision. Let us hear our Atare.”

“We have been called,” came the unanimous response.

Kal stood and walked to the edge of the dais. “There is no time for soft words of diplomacy. Our fate is balanced on a pinnacle, between the warriors of the guaard and watch and the favor of the Ciedärlien. We have one of these. Braan Atare has gone to the ciedär at the invitation of Genuar, heir of Baakche Dragoche, to gain the other. Our existence rides with his success or failure. I have agreed to take up the chain—with conditions. Justinian shall conduct this discussion.” The Atare sat once again.

The old politician stood and moved to the portable podium. He paused, as if considering his words. Lyte’s tension-sensitive training was running riot—Justinian seemed to feel as if the roof was about to blow off the cavern.

Finally, the Nualan began. “Brethren, we have been gifted by Mendülay—the house of Atare has returned to us. And they bring high hopes and faith in their siblings. Therefore Kalith Atare has specified two conditions to his rule. The first is that it shall be interim, as the ancient codes demand, and he shall step down upon the return of Braan Atare. The second condition is that in the near future, upon the woman’s acceptance, Kalith Atare shall take to wife Shinar reb^Elana.” There was a moment of absolute silence. And then almost every man and woman present began to speak.

Justinian banged on the podium. “Brethren, please! Am I not entitled to the courtesy of being heard? As you all shall be, after I finish presenting this case. I shall try to show you why I, representing the synod, agreed to these conditions.” He took a sip of water, purposely slowing his movements, as the shouts from the floor died down to an undercurrent. “Elders of Nuala. The law that you are screaming about at the top of your lung capacities is well known to me. I have pondered it many years but have never considered doing anything about it, because no Atare has protested loudly enough. Now one has, and now I think I can make you see the sense of this; see things we have all been blind to for centuries.

“The law of the royal line was made thousands of years ago, both to help the genetic mixing and to keep any one royal family from becoming too greedy and conquering a planet for a son, a city not being enough. I see no reason why the safety measure of the joint power of Atare and Ragäree should not continue, especially since the responsibilities include a solar system; it balances as easily and cleanly as the throne and synod. But the law of marriages—that law was made when genetically we were only marginally human. Now the 20s have a better genetic rating than any other human group! I exempt no planet from that statement.

“Fellow elders, I wish to remind you that the last time the Axis lost a front, it took them sixty-three years to regain the captured systems. Sixty-three terrayear, friends! And in that case, like most cases, no interplanetary Axis shipping was possible for the duration of the occupation.

“Now, do we deny Braan Atare, the three single throne line Atares, and their house the privilege of a legal line? Do we doom our royal family to extinction? Kalith Atare brings to us a jewel of the new generation, the daughter of our high priest Arrez and Elana, the most skilled scientist and surgeon among us. She is a lovely, educated woman of a line as clean as Atare itself, and a proven 20. Do we dare insult our people and all they have sacrificed for these last five thousandyear by saying a woman any human should be proud to marry is not suitable for our ruler? Do we say Nualans are inferior? Will always be inferior? We might as well!

“And I remind you, only Atare is still bound by this law. Only Atare of all the royal houses does not intermarry among the other royal lines and the masses, does not take two spouses if a relationship with an 80 is desired. How long, Nuala? How long must we wait to call ourselves human?”

Applause from many fronts greeted the end of his speech, and Lyte leaned back in amazement, shaking his head as the leader of the synod seated himself on the dais. Crisp, concise, to the point, and with just enough melodrama. Justinian was a master speaker, that was certain. One would think he had been planning this for years. He had hinted at as much—had Kal and Shinar always been his star examples? No matter. Immediately several dozen elders leapt to their feet to demand recognition from the chair. Lyte settled down for a long, drawn-out argument.

THE CIEDÄR

TWOHUNDRED SIXTYTWODAY, VESPERS

Wavering heat, rising from the scorched sand until Ronüviel was convinced there were two stars, mirroring one another, broiling the group between them. She lay on the tarps without moving, drenched with sweat, afraid that evening would never come. The babies were quiet as they nursed; so calm this trip, as if they were also lulled by the shimmering desert.

The tent suddenly flapped, announcing a visitor.

“Who is it?” Roe asked. She was usually not modest about feeding the twins, but when she nursed both of them at once, she felt too much like a tazelle to handle strangers, even among guaard.

“Liel.”

“Enter.”

The woman slipped in like a whisper. “Can I help you pack?”

Roe did not miss the note of concern in her voice. Too tired, I am too fragile. “Yes, please. The blue satchel—that is the last of it.”

“The camp is almost closed up,” Liel said after a pause. “We leave soon.”

“How far?”

“Six or sevenday.”

“Too long.” Liel glanced up at this, slowing her packing. “From now on we must be ready to ride at vespers and travel until nearly tierce. I feel time is running out.”

“But—”

“We must, Liel. Or the rest makes no difference. The Cied travel day and night.”

“When they have truces, yes—they stop and exchange for fresh hazelles. We cannot do that. But if we go to tierce, we might cut a day ... a day and a half, perhaps.” She laid the last garment on top and pulled the sides of the bag together.

“It will have to be enough. Tell the first officer.”

Liel yanked the satchel shut and dragged it out the tent entrance, ill-concealing her anger and fright.

DRAGOCHE MOUNTAINS

TWOHUNDRED SIXTYSIXDAY, VESPERS

Teloa was aware of light first. It had been such a long night; they had walked until well past starrise, but they were finally in the Dragoche Mountains. She opened her eyes. Starset. The cave’s mouth was wide and low, facing west. She slowly sat up and stretched. If only she could wake up instantly, like Braan did. They had slept the morning away, and then hobbled the hazelle so it could graze. Tikki had left to search for seeds.

“You are inhumanly beautiful by starset.” Teloa did not turn, forcing herself not to blush. Failure. It whipped from her stomach to the extremities like an elaborate bodypainting. “Another fantasy realized. I have wanted to see the total blush.”

She slowly maneuvered around to face him, one fist defiantly on her hip. “I think you lie awake nights—days—thinking up phrases to make me do that.”

“You are right. But I never use any of those.” Braan allowed himself a stretch, and Teloa watched the muscles ripple. He did not give the impression of being a big man—Moran and Lyte were a half-head taller—but he was so compact, yet fluid, even graceful. Nothing extra; no fat, no fleshiness. She could count his ribs, yet he was not skinny. Even the whorls of light brown hair were more artistic than—

“Were you always self-conscious about your body?” he asked, his mischievous grin creeping out.

“Not at home, although total nudity was not common there. The fields were nightmarishly hot, and we didn’t wear much.”

“It is also uncommon here. But no one is surprised by it, unless the person wears no jewelry. Then they look out of place.”

“When I worked the tratores, I was dressed. People who wanted sex did not care how you looked in private. A light was never ignited, to my memory. I started to feel obscene when I was unclothed. They wanted glamorous showpieces. I wore designer gowns in the tratore itself, and the illusion boudoir items when I was playing statue.”

“Statue?”

Teloa smiled and unwound her long legs, moving closer to his tangle of blankets. He knew the heart and soul of the tratores but had not played the game. And the hustlers he had met clearly did not waste any time educating him concerning the crueler aspects of hustling.

“The wealthier and more powerful patrons were, the more likely they were to want beautiful hustlers of all sexes lounging around their private apartments in various stages of undress. For visitors to look at, envy, but never handle. They, themselves, rarely touched us. I had a regular, a gem merchant, who never spoke, never acknowledged my presence; but he had me sit with him through a whole day of semiprivate meetings with professional buyers. I stayed on a couch behind and to one side of him, wearing nothing but his jewelry. I was his favorite—his assistant told me I was the only one who could wear any stone, any metal. And he paid me in cut, unset gems. But he never spoke to me.”

Braan would not look at her. “Did you hate them?” he asked at last.

She did not answer. Her thoughts drifted back to the starset, now splashed across the sky like crushed blossoms. Their last starset. What if the Cied— A gentle touch along her jawline brought her mind to clarity. She looked over at him, lying on his side, waiting for her reaction. She had learned that it was his way of calling her back when depressing thoughts threatened to overwhelm her. She raised her left hand and caressed his growing beard, letting her fingers trail across his lips. Then she bent over and softly kissed each eyelid.

It was the first move toward him she had made in eightday that did not reek of conscious thought and worry. For the first time, old bruises did not throb for her, bones did not ache in response.

Whatever he was thinking, he controlled himself well. Braan was content with merely looking at her. He did not allow the silence to deepen.

“We will have company soon,” he said, sitting up. “We must get the hazelle closer to the cave and be ready to welcome them.”

“I’ll miss the privacy. Cied everywhere; and if we get back, I’ll never see you without a guaard present.” She pulled away and stood, reaching for her inner robe, refusing any nonverbal consolation.

Braan took up his joqurs and looked for his caftan. “The guaard will not interfere with us,” he replied, looking amused by the thought.

“But they have eyes, even when they have orders to ignore things.” She sighed and instantly felt contrite for burdening him. “I thought I was done forever with sneaking down corridors.”

“The guaard see nothing, even on the few times they must be stationed in the private quarters. They do not ever discuss things among themselves, unless they think an Atare is in danger. What sneaking?”

“Oh, you have a private entrance?” She turned to face him as she said this, winding long, smooth ropes of hair around her head, crisscrossing the circles to make them appear woven. Braan stopped halfway into his caftan and took his time pulling it down, as if trying to fathom what she meant. Then he understood.

A hasty smile crossed his face, but he cut off a laugh before it passed his lips. “Teloa ... I am not looking for a mistress,” he began, slipping into Axis. “We do not even have a Nualan word for such a thing. I want a wife. I need an Atarae—a legal partner to bear my legal heirs. Personally I search for a bondmate. I want that woman to be you.” He had looked her in the eye while he said it.

She stood there with her hands to her head, arrested in mid-gesture as she freed the few shorter hairs to lie around her face. “You have lost your mind,” she finally whispered. “Do you wish to call into question the authority of your kingship? I am ... touched, but you cannot—”

“My grandmother’s brother did, and no one pulled him off the throne.”

“Braan! You’re mad!”

He caught her up in an embrace. “No! I am quite sane! You are not thinking! A courtesan, yes, then we might have problems, criticism. Too many of them in the past have schemed their way into power here. But a hustler! A vivid reminder of everything they detest about the Axis and its war; a war we fought hating it, our enemies and our allies.” Braan spoke swiftly, his words tumbling over each other. “Tay, we need not announce it, but should it become public knowledge, we merely say, ‘It is true. She was a victim of Axis insensitivity, doomed to the prison of a resettlement camp or the fate of a hustler.’ You would be the object of ready, honest, heartfelt sympathy and fiercely shielded!”

Teloa stared at him, wide-eyed. “But—”

“My lady, even if you were the lowliest of planters, which you will never be because Lars wants you as his personal assistant, some people could—and may—discover your secret and try to make you feel badly about it. It was an evil of war, and you the victim. It is paid for; let it go. Have you not suffered for it long enough?” She could not answer and merely reached up, touching his arms carefully. “Think on it. You must have no doubts. At least about me.”

“I will boil some water if you will get the beast,” she whispered. She would not call it Telen in his presence. He whirled and, grabbing his outer robe, threw it on loosely and ducked out the cave entrance. Tay reached for the small boiling pot and filling it, her hands shaking. Then she reached for her outer robe, caressing the dragon of the Atare line.

“They are here.” She spun around, startled by his voice. “We might as well use the dry rations.” He threw some saffra into the water.

“The beast?”

“They probably already have it.”

“If we had stayed awake ... guarded?” She asked hesitantly.

He shook his head. “We want them to find us. These are the Dragoche Mountains; only the Dragoche prowl here. Eat as much as you can,” he instructed, handing her a twisted food stick. “It is a good six hours to their encampment.”

“You have been there?” she asked after a time.

“When my mother’s brother negotiated a treaty with them. It is no makeshift city, but a permanent tent site. You will find it interesting.” He pointed to her knife. “Keep that hidden. And within reach. We do not want them to think you are a warrior but also do not want them to think you are khatta.”

“Khatta?”

“A young man or woman who does not have the talent to become a warrior, a hunter, or a scholar. The choices are to flee to the coast, die or fall into a servant class of sorts—chattel, khatta. I do not think that is the original meaning of the word, but it suffices. We must be sure that they know you are of the scholar class. Be as proud as you can honestly manage, my beauty. Attitude and truth is everything. Do you remember what I told you of their customs?”

“I think so.”

“Good. Do not be intimidated by them. You are my liaison. It is not proper for me to press for the rights of the royalty class. You have a good memory. Use it—demand our rights. It improves our standing as word spreads.”

Tay kept her face impassive, determined not to show her fear. He will tell me if I press too hard....

“Remember how you flared at Corymb? Keep that in mind.” He watched her quietly, his eyes sparkling in the flickering light of the fire. Amused? Excited about the coming challenge?

Why do I have a knot in my chest? She did not ask the question aloud. Mechanically chewing the food stick, she felt the numbness creep to her stomach. At the same time an excitement grew, a tension in her arms and thighs. Such a game they were about to play ...

oOo

Tay was grateful that she was between bites when the silhouette rose up in the entranceway. Somehow she managed not to flinch but glanced to Braan. He dipped up a cup of saffra and turned to the robed figure. “Break your fast with us?”

The warrior nodded thanks but did not take the cup. “We are nearly finished.” He faced Tay again. She swallowed, unable to believe that he left his back exposed. But he was right: if there was treachery, they were already lost.

She stuffed what was left of the dry saffra into her bag and then was startled when a dark streak flashed by the fire pit and into her outer robe. The Cied stepped into the light, his drawn blade glittering. Braan held up a hand to stop the warrior as Tikki ran up Teloa’s arm. The Cied’s dark eyes flickered in amazement. He sheathed his sword and then left the cave.

“Are we in trouble?” she whispered.

“No, you just increased your stature by having a wild animal that looks to you. Come. Put on your robe.” He began to extinguish the fire.

oOo

The moons crept to hang suspended in the center of the sky, and still they walked on. Another two or three hours; in a valley, he had said. The light was bright enough to see an occasional pattern on a robe. She was certain that she saw at least two different ones, possibly three. What ... ?

“Braan, the robe patterns ...”

“I know. We are heading toward the camp. Do not worry.” It was swift and low.

Do not worry.

Her feet felt leaden when they finally topped the last crest. Teloa sat down in the middle of the trail, caring little for their reactions. Climbing mountains was different from walking in sand. She looked out over the valley and forgot about her feet. Light. Thousands of twinkling lights, like a hill of temple candles or the ceremony of Lastday. Campfires, lanterns, torches—from this distance nothing but tiny points of light. Braan extended a hand to her. She stood, and they started down the narrow, winding path.

The road eventually broadened and became smooth once more. They were on the floor of the valley. Huge, irregular tents loomed up on either side of them, pallid heaps under the near-trine. Cied, in flowing robes, went about their business along the side routes, but Teloa did not miss the occasional sidelong glances. Braan had thrown back his hood, something he had asked her not to do. She risked a turn of her head; he walked like a ruler should walk, brisk and yet unruffled, with a proud carriage.

He could not be mistaken for anything else. She saw a difference in the robes now, reflecting strangely in the torchlight. The hem and side-seam combination was on every Cied accompanying them, even if it was not the black-and-gold Dragoche emblem. A few of their guides had embroidery on the back of their robes, as well. Leading the way was an older Cied—his robe’s black-and-gold markings were from the right hip to the left corner hem in a widening arc across the front. She could not tell if it was the same design. A few smaller figures—women—stood in tent doorframes. Their black-and-gold pattern was also a curving slash, but it was an inverted arc from the left shoulder down between the breasts to the belt. Several shrouded forms had more than one area embroidered.

Finally the greatest tent was reached. The older man indicated that Braan should follow him. A warrior stepped next to Tay, and inwardly she froze. Braan remained impassive.

“I am the Atare’s eyes and ears,” Tay heard herself say. The warrior disappeared again, and she was following Braan under the canopy. He had not exaggerated—he would truly do nothing to press for rights, not even to request the mandatory scripter. She had spent the last six hours reciting the information he had given her. She hoped it was enough.

They were seated on soft pillows across from an elderly man wearing a white outer robe with the Dragoche warrior border, the lower skirt design, and trim on his long cuffs and hood. The younger man to his right possessed intent, dark eyes; the trim on his sand-colored robe was identical, except for the plain hood rim. It suddenly occurred to Teloa that these designs were very important. She looked casually at Braan as she surveyed the group, politely dropping her upper veil. His robe was also richly embroidered, as was the one she was wearing—his extra. Various shades of violet, and royal purple—the true, deep pink—in a fierce, convoluted dragon, metallic threads highlighting the design. Kell swirls bordered the cuffs and hood. Lords, she wore the mark of the royal line.

Braan had removed both veils with his hood, the ultimate in compliment and trust, Tay assumed. She did not expect them to reciprocate. Not yet. Figures in solid beige robes appeared, bearing trays of saffra, dried fruits, and various cheeses and breads. Teloa riveted one young man with her stare when he attempted to serve a clansmember after the Dragoche but before Braan. He quickly repaired his error.

“Welcome, Braan Atare. When Genuar told me you came alone to our borders, I could not believe my ears. And that you would bring one of your house! You bring honor upon our heads.” Baakche was a strong tenor with just a touch of silver in his voice. A mad one, Braan had said, and dying. The old warrior was their high priest and spiritual conscience, able to command every leader present with the wave of a hand.

“The Serae Teloa is one of our finest planters and was a representative of the first expedition, when my brothers were lost,” Braan supplied graciously. “I found her in the ciedär, and she accompanies me on the same mission.” Teloa wondered about those words as Baakche quickly named the tribes present, four deep around the circle. Somewhere in this camp were the traders her group had met, and they would know that her original robe had been unmarked. Why did that bother her?

The discussion began in earnest, and Teloa settled back to listen very carefully. She segmented the bread as he had told her to, conscious that those present were expecting her to behave like royalty. Watching eyes and listening to inflection would be her greatest help here. Later Braan would have questions.

It was the Ciedärlien’s turn to ask questions. Genuar had briefed them on many things, that was apparent. Teloa sensed a subtlety behind the words. Some of the inquiries were deceptively simple, such as asking about the health of his family, of the high priest, of their people in general. Questions about industry, trade, mining, defense. When they reached defense, the voices took on a new edge. A planetwide shield? Why include the ciedär? Though not enemies, the Cied and the cities were not allies.

“But that must change,” Braan answered gently. “If we read the signs correctly, a time is fast approaching that shall demand all our resources and cunning. We—”

“Why Cied? Why should we not let this enemy destroy you and go on as we have always lived? Did not the prophets foretell this day?” The woman’s voice was hard, broken; Tay had the feeling her tribe had suffered greatly under the attack, and blamed the cities for provoking it.

“This enemy is not my enemy, chieftain,” Braan replied, his voice perfectly controlled. “It is senseless, without direction, and burned through our system on its way to its goal, the heart of the Axis. Only our retaliation kept it from searing this planet to a crisp. They shall return, brethren. May Mendülay strike me dead if I do not speak what I believe. Certainly they want the cities, the mines, the industry, the most pleasant places to live. But, warrior, do you seriously think the Fewhas, the Malvevenians, even the Axis will allow a warrior nation to remain within striking distance? The Cied might die later, but surely they would die.” There was no response as Braan reached for some yellow cheese. “And when they finally leave, Nuala a barren rock, devoid of trinium or minerals; shall you learn a trade, brethren? Shall you take to the seas, the mines, to weaving?”

“You come to bargain?” said a voice in the back. Stigati at this meeting. Interesting ... Not the Wasuu, the outbounders, the hard-core waste dwellers, but Stigati, those who had some semblance of a tribe.

“In so many words.”

“Speak plainly.”

Braan paused, settling his thoughts, though his face betrayed nothing. How to phrase this politely yet firmly? Teloa wondered. “Generations ago,” Braan began, “the Atare came to the Dragoche with a proposition. Neither of them trusted the Axis—or the Wasuu, who were raiding and destroying both Cied and city alike. So the Atare proposed a mutual defense pact. The technology of the city and the cunning of the Cied—together. The Atare had ordered the construction of a defense shield. It would not be a solid shield and could be detected when activated, but it would prevent our total destruction. The Cied, in turn, would keep the Wasuu under control, stop the raiding and the deaths. A bargain was struck. The shield was extended to the ciedär, and the Dragoche ordered the Wasuu contained.

“Years passed. Most of the Wasuu became Stigati, and the vigil was relaxed. The city of Seedar can attest to fewer warriors walking the boundaries. It still has tumbled walls and abandoned homes to show for the desertion. Yet when the Fewhas attacked, the shield held, and we are alive because of it. Fewer, but alive.”

“This is known to us, Atare. The Cied destroyed the Wasuu tribes, and the contract was fulfilled. It was later we discovered that the cities expected a perpetual vigil. Yet your protection of us continued.”

“The Atare’s protection continued. The word of Curr Atare, and Baskh Atare after him, is what saved the Cied. Just as I now bring my word to you.”

“Your word is better than any other’s word?” someone asked bluntly.

Braan looked him directly in the eyes. “The guaard is mine. The guaard control the shield. Therefore the shield is mine. Do not make the mistake of thinking the guaard passes with the kingship. It does not. And the synod is in an uproar over the disappearance of Kalith and Kavan of Atare. If the guaard limits the shield to the walls of old Amura, the synod will not—and cannot—prevent it.”

Sneaking a glance at Genuar, Teloa felt he looked pleased. Perhaps he, himself, had not phrased things in quite the same way, but an effect clearly had been made on the group.

“You come with a new offering, Braan Atare?” Baakche said.

Braan did not miss the formal use of his name. “I do. Before, desert and coast united for their mutual defense. Now we must unite for our mutual survival. A new shield exists. It can still detonate the lunas in the air; it can also destroy the power of the lesser warheads. Debris will fall into our atmosphere, but the rain of death ends. Enemy ships would be severely damaged passing through it, while friends could be shown safe passage.”

“What use is this to us?” a chieftain interrupted. Teloa sent him a withering glance.

“You need the protection of our shield. We need the instruction of your planting. I propose a trade. Teach us to make this planet fruitful without chemicals, without forced yield, and we shall protect the planet itself.” Tay counted the minutes as they ticked by.

“And if we do not believe this? How can you exclude us? I think we are protected whether we agree or not.” Teloa tried to see the speaker.

“If we can open the shield anywhere for a ship to land, we can deactivate it to leave an area unprotected. Accept it.” Now Tay could see the speaker, a man bearing a recent scar in a half-moon over his left eyebrow. He was visibly nervous and looked unfriendly. She studied him a moment as another pause mantled the gathering.

“And if this offer is refused?” Baakche’s voice was almost tender.

“Then you condemn the cities to warfare over food, and to deterioration. And yourselves to eventual death at the hands of the invaders—possibly even from the Axis. As long as we live, they cannot gain the controls. You cannot operate them, even if you take them away from us. If we starve, the secret dies with us.”

“Perhaps the bargaining with the synod would be easier.”

“Unlikely. The Ragäree would rule until my heir was of age, and after losing three brothers to the desert, she would not feel kindly toward the Cied. I am your hope.”

A soft buzzing rose as various chieftains began to talk among themselves. Teloa sipped her saffra, trying not to gag at its strength, and considered the words. These people respected strength, honor, and truth. Braan clearly had the honor of his ancestors and his own name; and they were Nualan, they could sense truth. Strength? She felt the air within him. What would they make of it? Baakche and Genuar were not joining in the whispering, and they were clearly in charge.

“Dawn approaches, Atare. Our scholars wish to show you what you have come so far to see, and then to the day’s rest.” Baakche signaled, and three Cied entered the tent, one of them the man who had escorted Braan inside. “Elder, take them ... take them ...” Baakche faltered, visibly weak in the growing light.

“It is done, O Dragoche.” The planter turned and bowed to Braan. “Atare, my fellow scholars and I would show you the results of our labors.” Braan stood and gave the nod of equality to Baakche, who looked distant. Then he reached to steady Teloa, the woman gracefully standing and, at his slight urging, falling into place beside the scholar as they all walked out of the tent. Only after the tent flap settled into place did conversation burst forth within.

oOo

The light of day was welling into the valley as they walked through the village toward the fields. Teloa casually refastened her upper veil, not certain if it was proper for a stranger to walk around without it on. Braan left his hood down. Smoke floated before them as they reached a path slanting downward. Cooking fires—for their last meal before retiring? Cied reversed the normal schedules in the summer. They passed a group of children playing, their romp part dance, part throwing and catching. The small robed figures stopped and boldly stared as the quintet went by, until the head planter hissed a warning to them, scattering them to their own tents. Then Teloa saw the fields, and she forgot about everyone and everything else.

Turquoise and gold as far as she could see, and taller than the tallest human. She stepped into the forest of poles and grain without asking leave, dropping her veils and reaching with the skilled, gentle fingers of one who knows growing things. None of the planters tried to stop her; they looked knowingly at one another, as if she had passed some sort of test. Gesturing to Braan to follow, two of them started down an aisle.

Fragile turquoise plants, already hip-high, and golden gourds vining up around them, keeping pace in their mutual race for the sky. Directly next to each row was a trench box, filled with floating seedlings. Short, leafy plants needing shade grew beneath them, and the grain swept away toward the hollow of the valley. Tay stooped to examine the irrigation system. It was completely enclosed, and a trickle of water from a modified tropc tube ran to each individual plant. She saw no yellowed vegetables, no insects devouring the crop. Standing, she stared off at the fields, where morning had not yet come, and saw fruit trees in the draw.

“The retchii grow swiftly and are harvested first,” a planter said slowly, carefully, to Teloa. Touching the waist-high trench boxes, she added, “The gourds then drop into the shallow liquid.” Tay nodded.

The man and woman accompanying Braan were more verbose but did not go into any specific information. All too soon for Teloa, the tour was over. As the young woman brought Tay back to the main path, she said, “I hope we shall be able to show you more.”

“I also. We burned all ties with the Axis. Now we turn to fellow Nualans,” Teloa answered cautiously, refastening her veils. The shrouded Cied nodded thoughtfully, as if dissecting her words.

Climbing easily to the village level, the head planter escorted them to an unoccupied tent. Something of the guaard in Tay took over, and she threw back the flaps, examining every corner of the structure. It was clean, cool and dry, with soft pillows the depth and size of mattresses completely covering the floor. A tray of hot saffra and delicate cakes sat in one corner, a pitcher and basin of water in the other. Their packs were in the center of the tent.

Satisfied, Teloa indicated Braan could enter. The young planter behind her ventured a low question. “There are other tents. You will stay here?”

Teloa nodded. The planter bowed and turned to follow the other two scholars. Tay remained, striving to appear regal and actually shocked by the royal treatment. Her gaze traveled to the largest tent, the meeting place, and her eyes widened. Frozen, she waited as the warriors entered Baakche’s tent, and then the spell was broken. Tay spun around and followed Braan inside, drawing the flaps. Two Dragoche warriors stepped up to stand at the door.

Braan had already removed his outer robe and had poured half a mug of saffra. “Care to wash your face in real water?” Teloa merely knelt down, an exaggerated sigh escaping her lips. Laughing softly, he leaned over and gave her a quick hug. “You were magnificent! Strong without being arrogant. If I was not madly in love with you, I would make you chief of protocol!” A rap at the tent frame disturbed him. He frowned slightly, the first real expression she had seen on his face in hours. “We have our own sanitation behind that curtain; we should not be disturbed for anything until vespers.” He whipped back the flap. A servant knelt there with a tray on the ground before him and another in his arms. Controlling a smile, Braan gestured, and the man stepped in, setting the food by the saffra tray and returning for the pitcher, basin and towels. Bowing pardon, the khatta vanished.

Pulling the canvas down, Braan faced Tay. “It appears your position has been defined. They were confused until now. I did not think we looked enough alike to be mistaken for relatives.” Teloa shook her head incredulously at the games going on in his head and then removed her veils and outer robe. She untied her hair, letting it fall heavily to her thighs. So good to be free of restrictive clothing ...

Braan had vanished. He reappeared again and went to the first basin, pulling off his caftan and bathing face, hands and neck. The water sounded good to Teloa, so she also retreated to the sanitation. To remove the dust of the day ... The light of the rising star cast strange, muted brights and shadows through the sides of the structure, but Tay did not notice. She had seen something before Baakche’s tent that disturbed her, and she was not sure if she should tell Braan. If she was correct; if it was important.

oOo

“Observations?”

“We are not home yet” was her answer.

“No, we are not.”

“I wish you had had time to teach me the tribes’ symbols and the pecking order.”

He shrugged, pulling off his boots and then his joqurs. “Other things were more important. Have you figured out the inner tribal markings?”

“The embroidery?” She paused to pull off one boot, waving her foot to cool it. “The hem and lower side-seam combination is the mark of a warrior. Only royalty has markings on cuffs and hood.“

“Cuffs for royalty; priesthood is marked by the cowl design. The scholar is the lower skirt crescent, and the arc over the heart is a makermother. Hunters have the crescent on the right shoulderblade, trackers the arc on the left. More than one can be possessed, which increases status.”

“Except the makermother.” Braan looked oddly at her. “Baakche does not have that one.” Braan laughed and stretched out to let the fine perspiration dry on his body.

“No, he cannot have that one. His predecessor was a woman, and she had all the markings. Very impressive, like the high priest’s ritual robes.” While he spoke, Braan eyed her critically. She was disturbed. Why? “Did you like the oasis? Impressive, is it not?”

“Very. They can save us, Braan—if they want to.” She impatiently removed her caftan and then stretched, catlike, her blonde mane a glittering curtain around her. She was too much woman to hide behind that hair; nature did not allow it. He pushed that thought away. They were both very tired—he felt it in himself and could see the exhaustion and tension in her. She had called him Braan and was outwardly unselfconscious about it. Praise Mendülay. What was going on in her mind? He could almost see the brain activity.

He reached for a blanket, so lightweight it felt like silk. So they chose to treat him like an Atare, at least until they decided what to do with him. “The saffra has a hot rock under it; it will stay warm. We should rest while we can. I hope we do not have to leave hastily.” He meant it lightly, as a joke, but Teloa moved abruptly in reply, as if she had made up her mind about something. She folded down demurely next to him, her hand on his knee.

“Were you bluffing, back in that council? About withholding the shield?”

“No. Suppose you tell me what is really bothering—Tay?” He forced himself not to move suddenly as his body told him her hand was wandering, tracing a delicate design on his inner thigh. “Beauty, what are you doing?”

“Doing?” she repeated innocently. “Merely relaxing my mind, Atare. It has been a stressful day.”

“Indeed. And is becoming more so. I warn you, my control is very good in dark caves with nervous off-worlders, but in bright tents with bold women—Teloa!” He half sat up. A game—what kind of game? A role-playing? The smile was mischievous and knowing, almost confident, a joke on them both. Like he felt she had been long ago, before other forces shaped her life. Yet he felt tension and a thin edge of fear. Why was she forcing herself into the role? He had based their physical relationship on slowly cracking her trained passivity and encouraging her pleasure. If she persisted, he would not be able to do that.

“Do you think Tikki will like staying with the hazelles? I was not sure about leaving her there.”

I hope you do not think words will take my mind off what you are doing. Do not insult yourself. Her hands were so warm and still soft, even after many days in the ciedär.

“If she becomes bored she will find us. I trust her ability to sneak past Cied, if she could fool Eon and the other warriors.” She was shockingly bold; he could count on one hand the women who could look you in the eye and—of course, he was passive. It made the role easier. But why? Should he play it through? Did he have a choice? “Lady, my control is slipping.”

“Oh?” The next caress was strategic, the response immediate. He grabbed for her; she swept out of his way, a teasing chuckle all that was within reach. “Atare, are you trying to tell me something?”

Braan checked his movement with effort, but not his racing blood. “My name is Braan,” he replied softly.

“I know.” She glided sinuously over the satin pillows toward him, and this time Braan did not miss. The struggle was brief and spirited, but joyful, anticipated. Even as he tried to pin her, half his mind slowing his efforts while the other half was an incoherent frenzy of color, she touched his upper thigh invitingly, winningly, in control of the moment. She whispered his name and something else, in Caprican, and then they were linked, a diffusion of feeling, the elusive tension gone. Braan no longer attempted to control himself, lost against the smooth, warm hardness of her body, razor-keen from desert paths and winds. He tangled his arms in her hair and sought her neck while she gently held his sides, steadying, coaxing. She had such a teasing tongue....

Tired. So tired. He had lost a moment, a total blackout, as he always did when his nerves were worn. He had not known he was so tight ... Warm and soft, cradled in her arms and curls, one hard leg a lock to keep him close. He pulled totally away, to allow her to move freely if she cared to, listening to the twin sounds of her heartbeat in his ear and soft gasps of air, slowing. The tension in the air had returned.

She was shaking. Suddenly fearful, he lifted his head to meet her gaze. Tay reached for his neck, her arms encircling his shoulders, all boldness gone, seeking comfort. Braan gathered her into his embrace and rolled over on his back, holding her so close he could not distinguish her heartbeat from his own. He was not mistaken. She was crying.

“Belaiss, what is wrong?” He barely heard the words himself, dreading the answer, not wanting to break the silence.

“I ... am ... so afraid. He will kill you, I know it. I will stab him if he tries to touch me, I will not—not again—”

“Teloa, who? What?” No point in saying they were under Genuar’s protection. Something had terrified her, and he had totally missed it. He reached for the sheet, to add warmth to her now icy form. He tucked the silky folds around them, hoping his presence would help steady her. Thank the Lord, it is not me she fears.

“I wanted—just once—for things to be as they should, in case ... you—” He touched her lips to hush her, understanding now and not wanting her to think more on it. “I just ... block out the mind. The heart knows....”

“What did you say? I do not know that language.”

“What—oh, Caprican.”

“I thought so.” He eyed her.

“It means ‘I love you.’” She pulled him close again, hiding her face against his shoulder.

“Tell me.”

When she was calm, she finally began in a low voice, “The Stigati who spoke in the council; the man who doubted you could turn off sections of the shield? I saw him, Braan. Outside Baakche’s tent, with the other chieftains, I think. His robes ... The mark was the same one as the warriors who attacked us, I am positive of that. I thought I saw it when we walked out earlier, but I ignored it. Now I have seen the entire design clearly. You cannot miss the angle of that slash, and the way it tapers to a point. He took your brothers, his people.”

“The warrior with the half-circle scar around the brow? It is recent, still purple?”

“Yes! And the way he—he scrutinized me, he knows I know, from what you said here, about my being with the first group. A terrible look ... and then he did not see me anymore. He was staring at this tent. He hates you.”

“That last knife fight addled his brains.”

“It is not funny.” She clutched him tightly.

“I know. Sleep. We can do nothing about it now. I cannot speak to Genuar alone until this is over.” But Braan lay awake, thinking, long after Teloa’s breathing slowed, knowing what he had felt in the air and not sure how he would deal with it.

Chapter Twenty-One

GAREDOC

TWOHUNDRED SIXTYSIXDAY, NONE

Lyte forced himself to stay awake by sitting on the edge of a rock outcropping. Sheer survival did wonders for his state of alertness. Four days they had argued, every tribal and political rivalry of the past five thousand years rising to the surface of the discussion, obscuring the main issues. One group was upset about broadening multiple marriages to include the royal family. Should this be allowed only when one spouse is an 80, or with more than one 20 as well? What if an heir to the Atare name died and his next-eldest brother had a different mother; was monetary pecking order determined by which marriage came first or the childrens’ date of birth? What if the Ragäree wanted to marry a sini? Were humanoids and aliens next?

Lyte laughed without sound. They were so flustered, they no longer made sense! But one thing was clear to him: They would not oppose the marriage. An elder of Seedar made that plain when he stood and said, “This is getting into the hypothetical, and I assume that means there is no objection to the current reality?”

An elder stood to address the synod leader. “Justinian, I have a more pertinent question. Do we still need a royal house at all? Could we not develop another judicial branch of government? The Axis has always frowned on all forms of planet royalty,” the Dielaan elder said, stubbornly avoiding Corymb’s riveting stare.

“The Axis frowns on a great number of the things we do, elder,” Justinian replied. “I am not certain the Axis will allow any of our government to remain standing.”

Corymb did not like that suggestion. Why? Lyte considered the man’s reaction. Of course. If he cannot have the throne for himself, a descendant of his might.

“Justinian, what do you mean about the Axis not allowing our government to remain standing? Are you withholding information?”

“Idiots!” Everyone looked to see who had spoken. It was Kavan, lying upon a cot near the dais, refusing the comfort of the life shelter. He had demanded to be present for the debate. Now he shook in his rage; a guaard extended a hand to keep him lying prone, but the acoustics carried his voice. “Can you not see what is coming? What Braan Atare is doing? The reason we are alive is because of the old shield and the missile sites, the very things the Axis decreed we were not to have! Not only can we survive alone when Braan returns with the secrets of the Cied; we must! We are not reentering the Axis Republic, even if there is a republic to rejoin. Rebellion sparks on hundreds of planets. Intelligent beings can see through this so-called ‘investigation’ of Nuala. Our ambassador is being held—” Kavan finally stopped, unable to contain his fury, reduced to silence. He fell back, exhausted. An undercurrent of speech was heard, barely audible.

Kal stood and walked to the center of the dais. He closed his eyes a moment, as if collecting his thoughts. Then: “Brethren, my brother speaks much truth. The shield and GTAs are expressly forbidden items, even with our trinium mines to protect. The guaard and their fellow Axis-trained warriors we keep only by virtue of their Atare origins. If the Axis returns, or we ‘return’ to them, do you think they will allow us to keep our defense missiles? Our planet shield? Especially the new shield, when it damages non-Nualan ships? They will want to establish a large military ‘peacekeeping’ force here. After all, we will probably be the Fewha border once again. They will keep the peace; by making sure our defense shield is no longer operative, by detonating our missiles in their tubes. They will police our people, our trade, our mines, the guaard, and the spaceport, where Axis ships built from our planet’s patents shall land. Then, elders of the synod, when we are expendable again, we truly shall end as a people.”

“You are talking treason!”

Kal’s intense green eye bored into Corymb. “Would you like to open that topic for discussion?” He gestured to the crowd. “Have you not questioned the people you represent? What has the Axis given us, except a larger inferiority complex than the one we already had? Occasionally an off-worlder came to love our people, and chose Nuala. So we gained our perverted system of royal marriage! Name one good thing the Axis has given us! Only one! Do not tell me of trade or industry. I will tell you of the enormous profits they made every year off our planet. One thing!”

It was so silent in the garedoc Lyte could hear a pebble moving under someone’s foot. Kal began to speak again, gently and with love, of what he had seen in his short life on this planet. The good and the bad, the beauty and ugliness—of the ciedär and the people living in it. Of their pride, and ignorance, and confusion; of bringing them slowly into modern technology and understanding, even if they preferred to choose older lifestyles. Kal spoke of a united Nuala, a free and self-determining people once again. He spoke only briefly of their captivity—he preferred to leave tale telling for when Braan Atare returned. But it had been hard and had revealed a traitor in their midst; else how could the Cied have known which trail to follow of the dozens leading out of Nuamura? And then there were the weapons and other goods found in the destroyed smuggler camp. It was not a small-time trader, dodging the embargo, but someone with the power to include five ounces of trine gold in the bargain. This last caused a great deal of speech among the elders. Five ounces! Even on Nuala that was not an amount to be tossed about lightly. Kal held up the thong of trinium and then nodded to Justinian.

“Forgive me, brethren, but I am drained of strength. These petty arguments weary me; the end result cannot be changed. Make your decision. The life or death of Atare—and Nuala—is in your hands. I leave you to your choice.” With that the young man turned on his heel and left the dais. Lyte rose from his seat to catch up with him. Too many things to deal with ...

DRAGOCHE CAMP

TWOHUNDRED SIXTYSEVENDAY, VESPERS

He had dozed fitfully, unsure of what was bothering him. Waking, he remembered—he felt death in the camp. His death? Braan sat up carefully, trying to avoid waking Teloa. She had seen the danger, read it for what it was. Reaching for fresh joqurs, he considered all the possibilities. Ruler of a people concerned with life, he drew death wherever he went. Had his luck run out? Two attempts on his life within the year. Did the third time count for all? Would Genuar allow it? Could he stop it?

The Ciedärlien dealt with honor above all things. So far he had not suffered his name or rule to be challenged. But the desert was no place for mercy, no place for rest. That was seen as weakness, and advantage would be sought in it. How would this Cied do the deed? To come straight out and kill an Atare, no, he would not bring such a sin upon himself or his people. Cied chieftains took up their peoples’ sins, but the people answered for known evil done by their rulers. Unless he was a mad one ...

Shaking out his caftan, Braan remembered his own mocking words, words others had used before him: “Mendülay spares him for some other end.” Was this the end? Would his death act as a catalyst, crystallizing Nuala’s future, sending it down the only path left to it? What would he leave behind, if he failed here and died? Confusion, an infant Atare, enemies on every front, and five blood children, perhaps more—he had been busy last winter. Was it enough? Suddenly he felt old, used up.

“Braan?” He glanced over and saw how intently she studied him, no trace of sleepiness about her.

She knows. He had not wanted to distress her with his fear. But only a fool would not be afraid. A Cied warrior was a perfect fighting machine, programmed to kill. Braan had only cut off a life force once in his life, the dying Durite. Now he knew why Nualans made such poor Axis warriors; the bloodlust, the urge to attack had been bred out of them. They had to reacquire it, and only the most diligent, such as Jaac and his brother Deenn, succeeded. This Cied most likely had engineered the deaths of the twins.

Teloa crawled over and laid her head on his thigh. “There is great danger, isn’t there?”

“To you? I do not think so. To me—quite likely. We shall know soon.” He reached down to touch her face gently, his gaze meeting hers. “Remember, I love you. Now and the woman you will become. Beauty may grow or fade, but the true mark is character, and you have it. Never let anyone convince you otherwise. Let us eat; they will come soon.”

oOo

Up, hidden in the darkening hills from Kee’s fading rays and Cied eyes, Moran observed the camp. He had seen the city hazelle among the pale desert breed and found the tame akemmi that came to his call. Braan Atare—and Teloa? Possibly. Fate had taken stranger turns in the past; they had used the same path into the desert. His own beast now grazed with the herd and with luck would not be discovered before starrise. Hopefully no one looked at tribal brands too closely, especially with so many different Cied present. But present for how long? And where were the leaders, which tent? It was important. He wanted to be as close as possible to Braan, should trouble start, and slipping into the camp unseen was a different thing from spying out the valley. The warrior began to move down the hill, the akemmi clicking softly in his ear.

oOo

An escort came at twilight, before the day was totally withered. This time Braan hated walking to the council tent, for it was dark enough outside to wash away all color of the living. He felt as if surrounded by walking corpses, all shrouded in dirty white. They were unclean, their thoughts, their feelings. Much of Cied life was honorable, free, good. But beneath, it stank of blood and death. The entrance loomed up before them. He signaled for Teloa to stand directly behind him. If she was his wife, they could enter together, but certain traditions the Cied did not allow tampering with, and the law of rank was one of them. He briefly wondered about Baakche. So far he had been remarkably lucid. If their luck held ...

It did not. Braan could see the old man was in a dream before they were seated. Genuar was conducting the meeting. The chieftains had reassembled, four semi-circles around the inside of the tent. Braan felt Tay stiffen and followed her gaze. The last row ... one Stigati chief was gone.

“Atare”—Braan returned his thoughts to Genuar—”The council has long discussed the proposition you have brought to us. We are aware of the great sacrifice your people have made, destroying their trade and defense ties with the Axis. We are not blind; we know there is likely no return from your stance. We know you want the skills we have developed over the centuries. But we ask—what of next year? Your winter planting was lean; the spring will not be that much better, even with our help.”

Braan casually adjusted his robes. “Why, Seri, as the cities need grain and produce, the desert needs cloth, weapons and refined metal. Our factories would love an excuse to begin production once more. I am sure a separate, short-term treaty can be arranged by council and syn—”

“Enough of the lies!” Braan stopped in mid-sentence, keeping his composure. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that a warrior had entered the great tent and was standing at the door.

“What means this?” Genuar snarled, gesturing for the Cied to be removed.

“I challenge!” The man’s voice was rasping, vicious. At those words the guards fell away from him. He had bought the right to speak. Braan glanced at Tay; beneath her veils she was wide-eyed. Turning to face the warrior, Braan saw that he was completely unveiled, his black beard matted with dust, the new scar vivid purple. The Stigati, of course. But his robe was hanging in shreds on him, the front panel of the outer robe slashed away. No pattern, no tribe.

Scourged and thrown out for violating ... the twins are alive, was Braan’s first thought. Why challenge? He had lost all face by disobeying Genuar’s words. Unless he believed death in combat was more honorable than freedom and banishment. Unless ... Braan looked over at Genuar and Baakche. The younger man was shocked and angry over the insult, his eyes flashing a warning. Baakche was staring at his hands, a smile playing about his eyes. So, with one hand he tells his heir that this test is not necessary, and with the other he concocts combat.

“What challenge? You know not this man!” Genuar was openly scornful, part of Cied justice, the treatment for an avowed rule breaker. How—?

“I know this woman. Long my people spied their train, and only two wore the Atare mark, not three! If you lie for this, dragon, what other tales do you spin?” The gathering stiffened as one at the insult. There was no greater offense than to call a Nualan a liar.

“I did not lie. Her robe was destroyed by ciedär winds. I gave her my second.”

“And implied she was of the royal house!”

Braan reconsidered the previous conversation. “Not implied. I called her serae, for so every intended bride is named. In but a little while it is my intention to make her Atarae. That business was not the council’s concern.”

The warrior’s face pulled into a sneer. “As with the shield, there is no proof. So I claim her as truth-price, to found my new line.” With one swift movement he reached for and jerked Tay to her feet.

The response was immediate. The Stigati froze, and as his grip loosened everyone could see why. Braan’s cat was in the hollow of his knee, against tendon and muscle. One move and the warrior gould be crippled for life. Teloa had worked her cat knife free during the warrior’s little speech and, at his movement, had pressed the tip of the blade into his groin. The look in her eyes told him that she did not bluff. But with Braan’s knife at his knee, he could not back away. Genuar leapt up, but it was a wasted motion.

Braan spoke. “Challenge accepted.” Nicely done, Baakche. You cast him out for attempting to shed royal blood, and then give him another chance at it, all the while hiding your own guilt behind the robes of your position. Planned or coincidental? No matter—if he won, it proved his worthiness to the Cied and guaranteed their council support, at least for a season. If he lost, the Cied would say it was meant to be. But he could not let an Atare be called liar. Anything else he could ignore but not that. Such leechings would be repeated, gathering force and conviction, until no claims, no disavowal, could stop them. And the house would fall. Empires had tumbled on less.

“I have not the stomach for the darker side of kingship.” Was that what Roe had said? Can you kill a man in cold blood, Atare? That is what it is, license to kill. What does it prove if you do?

Two warriors came forward and indicated that the Stigati chieftain should follow them. Only then did Braan’s knife disappear. “Teloa. Stay with the scholars, please.” It was mildly spoken, belying his thoughts. If fate was kind, he would at least take this Cied down the Path with him, and Teloa could return to Nuamura to do what little might help. He followed the trio outside, a brief prayer to Mendülay illuminating his thoughts. He knew his skills and training. Now he had to live up to it. As a body, the council stood, waiting for Baakche and Genuar to lead them. Teloa stayed with the three planters, aware that they would also go out to ... what?

oOo

Darkness had settled over the valley. The fire in the tribe’s common, the center ground of the camp, was burning brightly, fed by scrub brush and hazelle dung. Braan wondered about the acid tinge to the smoke’s smell, from nix dung—he had seen no nix in the herd. They were precious animals, shy breeders; and the finest worth their weight in yellow gold. He forced his thoughts back to the wide circle. The chieftains were gathered around the fringe, some standing, some seated in tent entrances. He saw the scholars scurrying to an unoccupied spot and hoped Tay was with them. He could tell they approved of her. Good.

Would this be free or tied combat? He did not relish the idea of fighting with their left wrists tightly secured together. Braan looked over at his opponent, who stood beyond the fire pit, swaying with emotion or exhaustion—Braan could not tell which. Would he not even name himself? The Atare sat down by the fire and waited, his gaze on Genuar.

The chieftain was distracted, a young warrior racing into the circle to command his attention. The newcomer spoke swiftly, in tones too low to overhear. Genuar raised his head and stared oddly at Braan. Then he said something to the youth in reply. The warrior vanished out the circle exit leading to the valley. Braan did not like the feel of that at all, but now was not the time to ask.

Genuar walked over to Braan, who stood. “I am sorry. I tried to avoid this. He is weak, but his fury makes him dangerous.” The Cied pulled out a gleaming cat knife. “This blade has served me well. I give it to you, as a token of my good faith, that it may speed your hand. Finish this quickly or you will walk the Path this night.”

“See to my woman.”

Genuar’s eyes seemed to smile. “I pray that will not be necessary.” He turned to face the now-massed group. “The man Robis has challenged Braan Atare, who has accepted. The combat shall be free—and to the death.” The Stigati stepped up to the firepit, across from Braan, flames and Genuar between them. They did not even leave you your mother’s name.

“It begins.” Genuar moved out of the way, to sit beside the muttering Baakche.

This is ridiculous, Braan thought. But very real. The Stigati crouched low, starting to creep around the circle. Braan stood his ground, balancing carefully on the balls of his feet, letting his body relax into the elkita. He knew his training, the sound skills of a warrior; but not commando-honed, not guaard. Elkita was something else. Defense, more than movement; he was an expert. Only that fact and endurance could save him. But the survival strength of the Cied might be more than even a rested Atare could handle. The warrior was there, almost next to him, and suddenly lunged with the speed of a striking mïlee, pinning his fighting arm.

Just as quickly the Cied was flying through the air, landing on his back at the common’s edge. Braan flipped himself to his feet, remaining low, the knife now held with the thumb and full finger grip of one who understands weapons. As he suspected—the teaching of elkita had waned in the ciedär. If a chieftain did not know it, very few would. Interesting. He hoped Teloa remembered what she saw, in case he could not.

The Cied approached again, this time more cautiously, respect in his eyes. Also confusion and anger. He had not wanted this duel, Braan suspected. He was a scapegoat. No time to consider it. Circling ... a feint, and then another lunge. Braan was ready for him. Shifting the knife to his left hand, Braan grabbed for nerve and artery with his right. At the same time he caught the Cied’s right arm between his left knee and fist with a crunch no one missed. He was trying for the nerve; whether he found it or not, the warrior dropped his knife. The Cied grabbed for his throat, knocking them both to the ground.

Seeing his intent, Braan frantically applied pressure on the man’s windpipe, trying to render him unconscious. The Stigati was becoming glassy-eyed, but his hand moved relentlessly toward the discarded knife. No choice—Braan whipped his left arm down, still clutching Genuar’s cat. Too late, the Cied released Braan’s throat, reaching for his arm. Braan slid the knife to his side and then thrust up and out, under the rib cage and toward the heart. Abruptly the Cied’s struggles ceased, his eyes widening slightly; they no longer saw his adversary. Braan quickly heaved the warrior over and leapt for the other knife. It was unnecessary. The Stigati was dead.

Dazed, Braan scarcely noticed Cied had stood and were walking toward the fire. He did hear an animal’s chittering, and saw a dark streak zip by him. Turning, he realized Teloa and the scholars were at his back and that the creature was Tikki, creeping into Tay’s hood, ignoring the exclamations of the surprised tribal leaders.

Looking back to the fire Braan found that a warrior was blocking the light. The warrior held a drawn cat knife in each hand and was facing down the other Cied. The crowd was deathly silent, as if shocked by his appearance in their midst. Only the keening of the rising wind could be heard.

One of the two standing Cied dropped his upper veil. “Even those who would kill kings deserve rites and a light ceremony,” the khatta said.

“Do they?” a familiar voice responded. Moran? What next, the entire guaard pouring out of the hills? Shaken by his presence, Braan froze momentarily, and then reached to close the dead Stigati’s eyes. This completed the ritual, and Braan moved over to the circle’s edge, sitting before Teloa. If Mendulary had sent him a guaard, then he needed to act like royalty.

“Take him,” Moran went on, holding the attention of the Cied elders. Moran backed up until he was between Braan and the body. The khatta came forward and dragged the Cied out of the fire circle. Braan relaxed, was aware of blood between his fingers, and tensed again. Then Teloa’s hands were skillfully rubbing the taunt muscles running down either side of his spine, forcing away the exhaustion he felt to his bones. So grateful that it was not his blood ... Composure, everything rode on composure.

“My apologies for taking so long, Atare. I had storms and guards to avoid. I thought to find my woman here,” came Moran’s voice.

Braan replied slowly “I am glad to see you, though my questions are multitudinous. But we two are alone. She, of all the first expedition; I lost Lyte in the basin. Unless Genuar will tell me good news of the twins.”

“Much we have to say to one another, Atare. Justice has been met. You have avenged the insult to your kin. They were alive when taken from Bloodsand. Not by my people, though as they arrived they saw it done,” Genuar offered.

“We took them—Jaac, Lyte, and I. They were alive when I left them.” Moran spoke to Braan, not to Genuar, and did not relax his stance.

“They sent you?”

“I came. Lyte would have come, but I felt Roe’s presence, and decided to travel east.”

“Then you can explain the caravan in the valley?” No one answered Genuar, but he appeared satisfied by their puzzled glances. “If you will have your warrior take his place, Atare, we were discussing a treaty, were we not? Short-term and affecting trade? And we would offer gifts to your house. Saffra for everyone.”

oOo

As Genuar finished speaking, two Cied warriors appeared before him. Then they turned and indicated that an entrance should be made in the circle. The glow of torches rose above the tent path, and soon two Dragoche warriors walked into the ring, planting their firebrands at either side of the opening. They were followed, to Tay’s amazement, by several warriors in solid beige robes, with a curiously entwined dragon over their hearts. Eon’s uniform ... The four men arranged themselves in a defense posture around the commons while Teloa looked back to the entrance. Eight large guaard slowly processed, carrying an enclosed litter. It was small and made of sprung wood and plastic, covered with light material drifting in the breeze. It also bore the Atare dragon on its sides. Braan inhaled audibly, and Tay glanced over, worried. He was very pale—injured—and he had said nothing?

“Nix. They brought a litter on a nix.” He was clearly stunned by the development and looked even worse when the tall, lively hazelle pranced in behind the carrier, a slight figure on its back.

“What?” Tay whispered to him.

“We are lost. What is she doing? Our house dies.” She gripped his arm, afraid. He was dropping his mask. Why? “The only reason I agreed to follow Genuar was Breeyan. I knew I left an heir behind me. Silly, I suppose. If I die, if the Cied refuse, there will be no Nuala and no need for an Atare. But if she brought them ...”

“Jaacav took the twins back to Nuamura.“

“That is Liel, Tay, on that hazelle. And only Roe’s health and the tiny ones would demand a litter. We trace our line through our Ragärees! Do you not see? If Baakche refuses to acknowledge her, Kal will be the last Atare ruler!”

Tay tightened her grip on Braan’s arm, the full gamble laid before her. The Cied did not bow to the coast—they never did. The future hung on a mad one. Would this leave Corymb Dielaan and the Atare outkin battling for the throne?

The guaard carefully set the carrier down, six more of their brethren coming in behind them. One young woman stepped up to open the curtains, while another guaard held the hazelle’s tossing head. Liel slipped down and walked gracefully to the litter. Tay detected the slightest tremor of her hand. She is as terrified as I am.

A bundle was extended through the parted curtains, and Liel gathered it close. Then Ronüviel stepped out, the other babe held tightly. She wore no hood or veils, and immediately a soft hum began. The chieftains knew who she had to be but were as puzzled as Braan. On her part, Roe surveyed them swiftly, imperially, her gaze resting on Baakche and Genuar. Her magnificent, intimate smile lit up her face, and she slowly walked toward them. Tay glanced at Moran—he was gone, mingling with the guaard, finding an access point to Roe. She.... she was glowing.

Tay sat back on her heels, astonished. But she only did that when she was healing someone! Surely she would not try to cure Baakche’s madness? Yet Teloa had never questioned her about it; for all she knew, it was an emotional reaction Roe normally held in check. It raised her body temperature—that Tay did know.

Lords, the baby. Which one? Framed by the coals of the fire and the trine moons, especially since Roe shielded her charge from torchlight. The bundle also glowed—but lighter, more silvery than Roe’s golden aureole. The Ragäree gestured for Liel to bring the other infant forward, but the young woman had reached her limit; she stood frozen. Moran stepped to her side and scooped up the baby, smiling at whatever reaction the tiny one shared with him. How strange to feel a smile through a veil. Liel did not move back, unwilling to give up the small victory with her fears, but she did not follow Moran to Roe’s side.

Now Teloa was aware of figures standing behind her—many figures. The clan had gathered to find out who the visitors were. She heard one child ask who the pretty lady was. “A healer,” was the reply. “The healer,” whispered another.

Baakche did not react, not even when Roe reached for her other child and the wrap of blankets in Moran’s arms began to glow with the same gold of its mother. Not from Ronüviel—separate, self-generated. Tay was enchanted and could sense that the crowd was as well. The gathering was as disarmed as their chieftains were confused. Genuar was on his feet, his veils down, revealing a dark, well-trimmed beard and moustache. He was looking at Braan warily, wonderingly. His nonchalance was as shattered as Braan’s.

The Atare woman knelt by Baakche, waiting, so close that they could touch without effort. Genuar, in the meantime, was examining Moran’s bundle, appearing visibly shaken. Baakche raised his head and met Roe’s gaze. He was not aware of the baby’s reach until the child seized his robe in an urgent grip. Then he looked at the glowing mother and child. He sighed quietly, tapping the tiny hand with one finger. A guaard brought a low seat and had Roe sit upon it. Baakche looked up at the fragile woman holding her son and then stood slowly.

“My people,” he whispered in a silvery voice, revealing the extent of his physical illness in his trembling upraised arms, “I have sinned greatly these many days, in my fear and the need of us all. Instead of punishing you for my crimes and striking me dead, Mendülay has most richly blessed us. For many years, in many forms, the prophecies of Naitun have puzzled me. Now dream takes flesh and walks our mother planet. I praise the Holy One that I have lived to see this!” Baakche faced Ronüviel again and, in a move startling almost everyone, knelt before her. “Thank you for bringing me peace. I am forgiven.” His last words visibly shocked her as his actions had not, but Roe kept her composure. Though her gentle touch was for Baakche, her gaze was on Genuar. He was struggling with something within.

Teloa was conscious of the whispers of the crowd growing louder; of excitement, tension. The grip Braan had on her hand was bone-crushing. He was watching several chieftains. They looked bewildered, torn between prophecy staring them in the face and their desire to retain autonomous control over their clans. They turned to Genuar for help. The gathering was ready to follow Baakche’s lead, Tay had no doubt, but they looked to Genuar for their daily law and order. Only Baakche ignored them—he had made his peace.

Braan rose to his feet. Genuar desired protection for his people, yet feared absorption by the cities. Braan could prevent the latter, at least during his own lifetime. Tay was sure he intended to educate his heirs along the same vein.

Did Genuar believe that?

The Cied was composed once more, and his piercing gaze was only for Braan. One word either way and a riot broke out. On his decision their lives depended. He came to warn Braan, yet he did not stop the fight. He wanted help from an equal. Will he accept a sovereign, even in name only? Pride or the safety of the ciedär and its people ... Genuar walked around the fire, and stopped within a meter of Braan.

Teloa thought she would scream. Say something! Yes, no, talk, anything!

He did not speak. Genuar made the slight formal bow of the guaard to royalty, accompanied by a barely raised eyebrow. Braan replied with the upswept arm of greeting and honor. Pandemonium broke out. The chieftains were nearly trampled by the crowd in its effort to see the infant twins. The guaard locked into a barricade, keeping them from pressing too close but allowing them to look. Teloa could see Liel being lifted up into the litter to protect her from the crush, and then she reached to hug Braan from the back.

“It’s all right? Is it?” she asked, raising her voice to be heard through the commotion.

He swung an arm around her and in reply pulled her close a second. Then he turned to Genuar, who stood as firm as a rock among the swirling waves of people. “Why?” A quizzical smile bloomed across Braan’s face. “Why take the chance?”

“Because,” Genuar started, a laugh brightening his dark face, “I am curious.” At their puzzled looks he went on. “The story begins, Braan Atare, and I want to see what you do next. It will have to be impressive to top this!”

Chapter Twenty-Two

LIFE SHELTER

TWOHUNDRED EIGHTYDAY, VESPERS

The healers made Odelle as comfortable as possible, gave her a tranquilizer, and then left her in peace. There was nothing else to be done. Shinar told her she was going to the common ward, beyond the beads, and would be back in a moment. Did she want a priestess? No? Soon, then. Shinar promised to return.

Odelle did not pay attention; the painkillers and relaxant were soothing her harassed and convoluted mind. Now to sleep. It was over. A healthy child but a mock sini ... What had Elana said? “Her jaw is like Tinyan’s. She will be a strong leader, Odelle. Know it.” Sweet Mendülay, what next? The drugs lulled her. Her husband had taken it stoically, with words of concern and comfort. “The next you will nurse yourself.” Yes, Corymb would be so angry.

“Bitch!” It was a hiss, an intake of breath. Odelle’s eyes shot open. She recoiled more from the tone than the word. “Do you understand? Do you know what you have done?”

She stared blankly at him. How had the Dielaan entered the life shelter? Was he waiting for Shinar to leave? He was so furious he was white, his lips compressed, his teeth clenched. “It is life. Mendülay has de—”

“Mendülay be damned!” Odelle blanched at the blasphemy. “You destroyed it! The greatest action of your life and you have shattered everything!” Corymb raged on, heedless of discretion. “All my plans, ruined, and—”

“We do not stand on one child. Elana said so. The tribe will vote to keep you, I am sure, and there are ways to increase the chance of a boy, though they usually do not try them until—”

“Foolish twit of a child! To rule Nuala, the line must be clean! How can you bear the next to reign if you bear sinis? You chose that insipid idiot—we will find you a better! We have been clean for generations; it is his fault! A distant Dielaan relative would be better. I will check the genealogy. Do you realize that I must remove the Atare myself? I cannot give him time to entrench himself.“ This was no longer to her. He was pacing, muttering.

“Our line has no healers—” Her voice shook.

“Do not speak to me of healers! The planet is balanced at the point of civil war, and you speak of healers! I have plans for the healers. They are too close to sinis—”

“You are the one who divides us. If Justinian and High Priest Arrez did not keep the peace—”

The look on his face stopped her in mid-gasp. “I shall file the order immediately. If anyone asks, the family synod agreed on removing his house status. Keep him at your peril, but he shall not father any more Dielaans!”

“It was a temple marriage—”

“What is done can be undone! If you fight this—” He stepped toward her, his face set. “You remember the last time you crossed my wishes, do you not?” The last was so soft, so gentle, she barely heard it. They faced one another, Odelle terrified and shocked out of her trance, Corymb blazing in his determination, the pulse at his throat visibly throbbing.

“Seri Corymb, the serae is tired.” Saved. The interruption was so welcome Odelle felt faint. The guaard’s mild speech did not disguise his warrior’s posture. It was Shinar’s newly-acquired guardian—she must have heard Corymb and gone for help. “No visitors except her husband are permitted, and that includes all family.” Corymb locked gazes with the man, and then whirled and stamped out of the ward.

Shinar immediately rushed from behind the guaard to Odelle. “That ... horrible man!” she burst out. “Whatever he said, Odelle, do not pay any attention to him, he is—he is a mad one!”

“He is ...” Odelle whispered, her gaze darting toward Shinar like a frightened bird’s.

Puzzled, Shinar continued hurriedly. “I have brought 3AVs, Odelle, about the Serae Lyn of Seedar, who bore a mock sini as her firstborn son and a healer next, the healer Arunn. And of—Odelle, will you listen? The delivery was normal, the baby is fine! And the odds are in the millions—billions—against non-sini parents having more than one sini child. You and your husband will have children you can raise in your own home—”

“Who in Tolis will raise the heir of Dielaan?” Odelle’s voice still shook, her lips now thin with mockery.

“You are the friend of the Ragäree, who is the best-loved of the house of Atare and the personal friend of the ministers. I have already asked Kalith to speak via 3AV to them, to insure privacy. They will make sure she is received as the daughter of Odelle, not the heir of Dielaan. Feel better?” Shinar’s words were as soothing as she could make them. What else could be said? Her son was with her—Odelle’s daughter would be sent north with the next ship. “I grieve with you, friend,” she whispered, tears filling her eyes. “But Mendülay has a plan, and we are not consulted. Have faith.”

“She is my firstborn,” Odelle replied brokenly. “The line rightfully goes through her. The old tyrant will dominate her life, too, unless she has no brother, and it ends....” Her mind seemed to drift, and Shinar reached for her, gripping her chin, turning her head.

“Odelle?”

Odelle moved quickly, for all the drugs were affecting her, seizing Shinar’s hand. “Do something for me. Remember, her name is Valleri. Will you remember? Valleri.”

Shinar stroked back her dark curls. “You can tell your eldest when she comes, Odelle. They usually take the mother’s preference.”

“Please, it is my wish, upon the child’s life I wish it!”

Her oath visibly startled Shinar. “The word freedom as a name?” Odelle had turned away. “A good idea. A name charms its owner, protects her. If you like I will go tell your eldest now. I can leave the shelter; you are the only one here.” The girl nodded. “Do you want me to hook up the viewer?”

“No! No, I want rest ... peace.”

“Of course.” Shinar tucked the light blanket around her. “Sleep.” She started for the private exit.

“Shinar?”

“Yes, Odelle?”

“Thank you. For all things.” The young healer smiled, feeling an ease to the tension in the room. Odelle smiled back. Shinar left the room.

Odelle carefully raised herself, swinging her legs over the bed’s edge. She sat there, oblivious to pain, looking through the dividing beads into the common ward. A surgical table stood near the sealer drawers, where Shinar had left it, unlocked. The steel and laser scalpel tips were in labeled containers; Shinar had been putting them away.

She stood and stepped toward the shimmering wooden curtain.

MT. AMURA

TWOHUNDRED EIGHTYTWODAY, PRIME

Over the swirling sands to the east, a pale salmon dawn was brightening. It was steady light, without any specific source. The priest pulled his white wool poncho tighter around his body.

Since lauds he had been sitting there, looking out on the scrub slopes and barren rock of the Sonoma Mountain’s ciedär face. The guaard had come to him in the deadness of the dark, saying the words he had waited too many days to hear: “Travelers from the desert—they will be here by dawn.” Arrez rose from his bed, seized his robe and poncho, and followed her. The questions that needed answering had no answers yet.

Word had spread like a thunderhead, just as swift and devastating. Arrez had spoken briefly to Kalith, and the guaard now watched the pass behind them, Jaacav and her seconds below at road’s end. At the grotto the crowd gathered, hoping for any word that could be interpreted as favorable. Beside him stood a pale Kavan, his family’s emissary. In the grotto two hours distant Kalith fretted, Arrez knew, waiting to hear whether friends or enemies approached—praying to be able to give up the chain of office.

Kee burst over the broken peaks in the distance, and Kavan turned his head to avoid the glare. He could see Arrez sitting below him, eyes squinting, poncho wavering in the thin breeze, looking like a giant bird of prey. Kavan’s gaze traveled back to the foothills below, and in the dazzling light he could see the leaders, barely a kilometer distant, a huge pack train behind them. As the star rose higher, the illusion of black figures against white sand vanished, and he began to pick out tribal patterns.

“Eleven, twelve ... Do you think every tribe sent an ambassador?”

“Possibly.”

“Then he made it? She made it?”

“Possibly.”

Kavan sat down behind the priest, his irritation apparent. “What do you mean?” he scowled. “Surely if they intended to fight us—”

“The banner they carry is white—a truce flag. They may come to parley or to challenge. And since they carry the mark of passage, even if they throw your brother’s body down before us, we cannot retaliate. Be patient.”

After another period of silence, Kavan exclaimed, “The nix! Roe’s nix is returning.” Arrez did not answer, refusing to hope, wanting only an end to waiting and prayer. He watched several of Jaac’s subordinates ride out to the leading group, to be met by a messenger in Cied robes. The approaching convoy did not slow its pace. Then the guaard bolted back to where Jaacav was, motionless on her black hazelle. The ensuing conversation was brief and widely heard, for a warrior started up the hill on foot toward them.

“My seri! He comes, the Atare comes! Ragäree, Ragarr, and heirs are with him, as is the Serae Liel. And he found the planter! The Dragoche himself approaches!”

“Will they help us?” Kavan interrupted.

“They bring planters and seed from all the tribes!”

oOo

Now he could relax. Arrez stood slowly and turned to leave. “Thank you. Come, Kavan. It is not proper that we should be sitting like oads on a stone when Atare and Dragoche come to call. Did you tell them we are in mourning?” Arrez added, glancing back at the guaard.

“I do not think it was mentioned,” the guaard replied.

“It should be done—see that your commander hears my words.” Arrez topped the rise and stepped onto the road. “They must come up by pairs, Kavan; it will take them until tierce. We have some time to ourselves.”

oOo

When the travelers finally reached the grotto, escorted by several dozen warriors, a multitude greeted them. Lyte had decided to remain close to the Atares, planting himself within arm’s reach of Kalith and Kavan. The crowd filled the half-circle before the arch, packed the bowl of the garedoc, overflowed down the western road, and hung from the cliffs, all to catch a glimpse of the Cied. Arrez and Kavan had agreed while riding back that they would announce the house of Atare had returned intact and that the planter Teloa was found. Of their guests, only general mention would be made—”Cied are with them.” Arrez wanted no disgruntled Amurans trying for Genuar’s—or Braan’s—life.

The spectacle waiting at the city’s entrance was as colorful as the one riding through the pass. Arrez had donned the summer robes of state, white syluan with embroidered green on stole, cuffs and hem. The twins were both brilliant in syluan joqurs and long-sleeved tunics, Kal’s emerald with a yellow cape, Kavan’s deep violet with white, embroidery rich on both outfits. The representatives of the houses, synod and guilds were no less splendid in their finery. Only the black arm bands marred the occasion.

Lyte looked out of the corner of his eye at Shinar. She was very pale, dark smudges hollowing her eyes, but otherwise she was bearing up well. It was she who had found Odelle’s still warm body, blood splashed over bed and floor. The girl had been ignorant of technique but thorough, to the shock and horror of the city. Suicide was considered a dignified end for the terminally ill but not for one with so much life ahead. Family pressure and shame was the suspected reason, though the Dielaan council issued an epistle stating that Odelle had had mental problems for some time. Shinar’s answer to that had been brief, bitter, and unrepeatable.

Corymb himself stood among them, but not the same Corymb. He was shrunken, closed, and almost unaware of the gathering near him. For the first time Lyte saw him using a cane, though he had been told that Corymb had walked with a slight limp for decades. Corymb’s presence made the twins visibly nervous. What if he had a pact with these Cied to harm Braan? Noah stood beside Kavan, seal in hand, ready to step to his ruler’s side the moment he reined up. Shinar pointedly ignored the Dielaan; Lyte suspected that only her new visibility kept her from spitting at him when he passed.

Braan Atare and Teloa were the first up the rise, followed by Ronüviel’s huge, shaggy nix. Guaard came forward to take their hazelles, Braan helping the woman off the animal. The nix stood silent, its wedge-shaped head turned to survey the gathering, its polished, curved horns glittering in the growing light. Ronüviel’s guaard took the children from her and pulled down a small ladder to aid her descent from the litter on the nix’s back. The beast was herded through the scattering crowd to make room for Liel and Moran, who were next in line. Warriors of the watch kept a chain of bodies between the new arrivals and the Nuamurans, and few objected to this precaution.

Beside Lyte, Kalith stirred. The young man walked toward his older brother, a guaard on either side of him. He had removed the chain of office and held it in his hands. The guaard Noah knelt first, presenting Braan’s seal to him, which he immediately slipped on his finger. Then Kal dropped to one knee and offered him the chain.

“In a hurry to get rid of it, are you?” Lyte heard Braan say. Kal answered softly, and his elder laughed. Braan took the chain from him and put it on over the desert robe, looking as regal through dust as any monarch could. He nodded across the bowl to Arrez, then raked the group of house leaders behind Kal with his glance.

Baakche and Genuar had walked through the departing hazelles to Braan. They placed themselves carefully, to be able to greet all the elders and be part of Braan’s words to the gathering, yet to avoid offending any who had questions about their presence. Stepping to Teloa, Kal managed a broad smile, which she gently, shyly returned. The High Atare now faced the delegations of elders, led by Corymb and his Seedar counterpart.

What happened next was swift and unexpected. Braan caught one good look at Corymb’s face and saw that something was terribly wrong. Odelle’s death? Then he saw the knife flash.

A blow from the side knocked Braan to the ground, and Moran continued right through the small group, his foot slashing out to catch Corymb in the knee. Noah had seized the Dielaan’s right wrist even as he buckled. But the man had carried two blades, hoping to be doubly lucky.

Genuar was not fast enough to cut off Baakche’s action.

Baakche leapt between Corymb and Braan, desert reflexes responding one more time, and he took the short, delicate stitto blade in the chest as Corymb was dragged flailing to the ground.

The Cied leapt around their leaders, expertly pinning Corymb to the rocks. One whipped out a cat knife, but Genuar spoke swiftly in Ciedärlien Nualan, and the warrior froze. The Dragoche clan leader was not looking at his fallen ruler or the would-be assassin but at the warriors and a healer, on the fringe of the crowd, working their way to the exit where the hazelles had walked on through. The warriors carried a sealed container between them, its lid glass with a two-way breath hatch. And Genuar knew what a sini box looked like.

“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, Teloa. 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.”

“Does God or man judge man?”

“Neither, and both. Let history judge,” she said, whispering finally, reaching for him once again.

“I cannot forget. I could block it then, but I cannot forget.”

The intensity, the pain in his voice frightened her. “You should not. And you would not have won those chieftains unless you had showed them you meant business. One man for the future. So it will be, until the Cied themselves change. With your help, maybe he will be the last.”

“Maybe.” He sighed softly and, releasing one arm, walked her down the passageway to the sanitation. He reached over to test the water and was half out of his over-robe before he knew it. He stiffly stood straight. “You are good at that.”

“Practice.” She did not blush or flinch or even smile.

Braan faced her. “Will you stay ... here?”

“Yes.”

“Will you marry me?”

“I don’t know. I think so. I need time to consider, and to orient myself to Nuamura once again.”

“How can you do one and not the other?” he started, but she stopped him with a touch.

“I have to,” she said. He looked irritated, hurt. Tay hurried on. “No law or authority can bind, belaiss. Not as securely as the human heart ...”

Trembling, she dropped his robe as he sought her embrace.

MT. AMURA

TWOHUNDRED EIGHTYTWODAY, TIERCE

Lyte had managed to avoid Moran several times since the group had arrived back in Nuamura. When they finally had a chance to talk (or fight ...) Lyte wanted no witnesses. Eventually Lyte allowed himself to be found on the boulders outside the grotto.

Lyte heard footsteps and stood, facing into the darkness of the cavern. Moran walked up and paused before him, studying his friend.

A smile crept over Lyte’s face. “Is this all the greeting I get for sparing your demented hide?” Moran laughed aloud and hugged him tightly. Shoulder to shoulder they moved back to the rocks. “I’m serious. If you hadn’t left so early, I would have followed you and beat your ass to mush.”

Moran snorted. “You might have lost a few teeth.”

“True,” Lyte agreed amiably. “Jaac prevented our finding out. But if you ever—ever take off again without inviting me first—”

“Never.”

“—The reason had better be good,” Lyte finished.

“What are you doing out here?” Moran asked.

“Enjoying the view.”

“Try again.”

“Seriously. This is a ... beautiful planet, Moran. Turquoise and white and black, three moons, a long hot summer coming ...”

“What’s with you?” Moran stared at him. “You look ... happy.”

“I am.”

“Why?”

“Because ... I’ve been thinking a lot about a gatuhlpa Ronüviel told right after you left.” Lyte stared back out at the valley. “These people have roots, Moran. They belong here, in this strange world. Just as surely as my parents belong in CSSI. And they’ve offered it to me—freely. No strings attached. You can ignore it, you know. But I don’t want to. What is in the outer galaxy that I can’t find here? We’ve got everything.“

“Even brewing civil war,” Moran said dryly.

“No—interlopers, maybe, who will keep us busy; but the Nualans put peace higher on the scale than profit. Maybe it’s the trine gold.” He turned to Moran, letting surprise cross his face. “I never thought of that! Every Nualan has trinium—it’s not worth as much here, did you know that? Maybe it isn’t as important when it’s always there! And I’d like to watch Ried and the others grow up. And your kids—you’re a lousy authoritarian, so this should be fun.”

“Kids are different.”

“We’ll see. But my first priority is ...“

“Yes?”

“To climb this mountain.” He looked up, up, craning his neck to see the rising Sonoma range, the peak of Mt. Amura lost in rolling clouds. “We’ve barely touched it.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Today.”

“I’m beat ... and this partnership is a two-way path.”

“Tomorrow.” Lyte extended his hand for the oath grip.

NONE

Moran found Ronüviel right inside the grotto. Only her guaard was present, standing next to her. Moran did not recognize the warrior—undoubtedly the regulars were already resting. Roe was sitting on the ground, leaning against the cavern walls; she appeared asleep.

Moran squatted down beside her. “You should lie down. Come.”

She held up her hand, a languid gesture. “Not yet. Listen.” He sat down. The arguments of the synod filtered out to them.

“What are you waiting for?”

“The official decision on Kal and Shinar.”

“It will pass, won’t it?”

Roe smiled, and reached for his cheek. “How you murder our language, you and Teloa. Just speak Axis when you are not sure. It will pass. I hope they will strike all laws concerning it. Humans should not pass judgment on individuals when it comes to their private lives.”

“Aahmn. But you do look thoughtful.”

“I am. I am thinking about what kind of future we are creating for our children. About what Kal told them, about the things Braan and I discussed. Do you realize the challenge, Moran? The possibilities? In our lifetimes we may be able to improve the situation of not only Nuala but other planets as well. For millennia we have been a sanctuary. We must spread it, love; spread the word that justice shall prevail. I hope for peace among Fewhas, Axis, Malvevenians and Nualans.”

“We are not Axis?”

“No. It was a mistake—well, not a mistake—to go back. But it has outlived its usefulness. Self-sufficiency is the key. Harmony with the universe. We must throw out the old, racist prohibitions, must impress upon people the need for system rule and mutual survival by helping friends, not dominating them.”

“Shall we be the new masters of the galaxy?” Moran asked.

She opened one eye, thinking he was mocking her, but he knew his expression was serious, and he hoped tinged with his love. “I pray not. I hope we are willing to help the oppressed no matter where they be. If asked, we shall aid them. When any group exploits another, it threatens the balance, Moran. I believe, as you do, in the ultimate triumph of right. But there will be so many mountains to climb.”

He reached for her hand. “We will show our children the balance. What they do with it is up to them. We cannot anticipate their universe. We must prepare them for all possibilities.”

Roe nodded wearily, and he saw the narrow line within her—the optimism and the fear.

A shadow fell upon them, between the glow and the guaard. Glancing up they saw the ghost that was Arrez. “Seri?” Moran said, using the title of respect for the man.

“I have left inside many confused elders, Ronüviel, fearful and belligerent,” the priest started carefully, and Moran sensed relief in him. “They are hesitant about the future, yet no longer distrusting of their Atare, it seems. He may lead us to destruction, but they are willing to follow. Many laws fell this morning, under a simple catch-all statement that will undoubtedly cause many arguments in the next few years. ‘We are Human.’ And Url has pronounced the declaration of our freedom to be the wedding of Kalith reb^Ila Atare and Shinar^reb Elana—whenever they blessed well please!”

Roe leapt to her feet, half-strangling the older man in her delight. “Come, we must tell Kal, he is waiting!”

NUALA, MT. AMURA

TWOHUNDRED EIGHTYTWODAY, NONE

“Kal! Kalith!!” Ronüviel rushed past the guaard in front of his door, nearly tripping over the step up. “It is done, it is done!”

“What is done?” he asked steadily, looking away from the window to meet her gaze.

She seized his hands. “Where is Shinar?”

He knew, then. He opened his hand a moment to reveal the hard object within, and then swiftly left the room, racing for the departing lift, his guaard running to keep up.

Roe turned to Moran and hugged him tightly, refusing to let go. “Did you see his face?” she started, laughing.

“The most incredible mixture of joy, relief, and arrogant assurance I have ever seen,” Moran agreed.

“Come! I must see her reaction!”

oOo

The lift was hours too slow. Kal flew down the corridor to the life shelter, nearly knocking over a medtech at the bronze door and not apologizing for it.

Fortunately the door, itself, was open. She was in the main room with her fellow students, watching a ward healer prescribe medication. Kal’s sudden arrival stopped all conversation and turned every head. Embarrassed but undeterred, he abruptly extended his fist to her. She stared at him, not understanding, and then, at his repeated gesture, offered him her palm. Kalith slowly, forcefully unfolded his fingers, pressing the serae stone into her outstretched hand and covering it with his own.

“For better or worse, serae, we have won.”

She folded into his arms, her answer in the fierceness of her grip.

* END *

A Note About the Nualan Language

Down through the centuries, the various colonies of Earth each evolved their own language. If the founding group was homogeneous in background, its primary language generally derived from the culture; if it was heterogeneous, the favorite language of choice eventually dominated. At the time of the first launches, the languages of choice for the myriad of peoples who chose the stars were Chinese, English, and Spanish. These three languages formed the pidgin tongue which was the basis of Axis Standard.

The colony of Nuala was one of the few founded involuntarily, and its linguistic progression was radically different. Due to the high number of scientists among the original settlers, English, Latin, and German predominated, with a sprinkling of Gaelic and several African dialects thrown into the language stew. Since the pronunciation of several commonly-used Nualan words does not translate easily, assistance is offered below.

ä — used in:

Ragäree
ragäree
ciedär

Ciedärlien

This “ä” is pronounced as American speakers say “o” in bother and “a” in father. The first “a” in ragäree is pronounced as in rah.

aa — guaard

This double vowel is the long exhalation ah. It is almost identical to the first “a” in ragäree, and in most parts of Nuala and on the planet Niamh has become identical. Only tradition leaves the spelling of ragäree unchanged.

ē — sini

This vowel is the old usage for the “e” sound in American English for beat, bleed, and sleepy. Both “i”’s are pronounced the same way.

ü — used in:

Mendülay

Mendülarion

Ronüviel

This “ü” is pronounced as American English speakers say the “ue” in cue and the “ew” in few.

A bracketing effect is used by the Nualans in their written language, mostly in titles and in proper names. In the first example below, the second and third words are pronounced differently when linked; in the second, the written usage is merely traditional. A few very strict septs of clans use this bracket only when a child is the heir of its mother (eldest daughter or son) but this is not a general interpretation.

^ — used in:

Mendülarion S^Atare

Nadine reb^Ursel Kilgore

Nualan Calendar

The Nualan year is an elliptical orbit of 432 Nualan days, based on a twenty-five-hour day. Ancient Terran hours are used as the base measurement. Nualans divide the calendar into four seasons of 108 days each. These divisions are based on the rainy seasons; it rains almost thirty-six days straight at the beginning of spring and autumn. A Nualan month is thirty-six days. Nualans do not use any smaller fraction of the calendar between “month” and day. They refer to the passage of time according to festivals and religious feast days.

New Year Firstday (first day of fall)

Festival of Masks — Thirtyfiveday

Feast of Souls — Thirtysixday

Yule — Onehundred Twentysevenday (midwinter)

Feast of Atonement and Anointing — Onehundred Eightyoneday (first day of spring)

Ascension Day — Twohundred Fortysixday

Midsummer’s — Threehundred Fortythreeday

Feast of Adel — Fourhundred Twentyfiveday

High Festival — Fourhundred Twentysixday through Thirtytwoday

Nualan Time

The planet Nuala has a twenty-five-hour day, retaining the ancient sixty-minute hour and sixty-second minute, although Nualan time-keeping appears hazy to off-worlders. It can be extremely difficult for planet visitors to keep track of time, since moonrise and moonset can vary enormously. In Amura (Nuamura) the hours are canonical. Elsewhere, however, the moon cycles are closely watched, and it is possible for second bell to precede first bell — or follow third bell, depending on the time of moonset. The same situation applies to moonrise.

Matins — First bell and the deepest point of night.

Lauds — Second bell, moonset (firstmoon)

Canonical Lauds — Rung between matins and starrise

Prime — Third bell, starrise (Kee)

Tierce — Fourth bell, midmorning

Sext — Fifth bell, high noon

None — Sixth bell, mid-afternoon

Vespers — Seventh bell, starset (Kee)

Compline — Eighth bell, moonrise (firstmoon)

Canonical Compline — Rung between starset and matins

The Nualans’ sequence also changes fractionally with the seasons. Compline and Lauds are rung at their median points during the dark of the moons.

Nualan Map

Recent Atare Line — Nualan Year 4952

A Second Edition Afterword, and Acknowledgments

It is strange to look back on the very first novel, written in the dark ages (before e-books.) Rather like stumbling over a box of high school pictures. You know you are somewhere inside that half-fledged bird of a person, but on several levels you’d like to make sure that the pictures never come to light again. Fire Sanctuary made me a Campbell nominee for best new writer, and brought me to the attention of the science fiction world. A lot of people enjoyed the book.

I enjoyed the book, both the creation of the world and the writing. Fire Sanctuary began with an image and a scrap of a news article. I’d always been fascinated by the Time-Life book on genetics. One photo especially intrigued me, of a man holding a radish that looked several yards long. What would happen in a place where things not only survived, but eventually thrived among radiation? And then there was the tiny article about wiring a battery to a bone break to speed healing. What if the myth of the healing hands of a ruler was true? No placebo effect—touch could quickly heal wounds?

From these two things, all of Nuala was born.

I remember Nuala differently, of course. The original novel was about 250,000 words, at a guess—a sprawling intergalactic tale that covered the collapse of a rotting interstellar alliance and one world’s new beginning. When it became apparent that I could not sell such a book in the market of the time, I started cutting and editing, refining, teaching myself to write fiction with a tighter lens. Friends would encourage, nudge, occasionally pretend they didn’t know me (it was embarrassing back then, having a friend who admitted she wrote things) and wait for the next installment.

Even the version in your hand started out differently, with Teloa’s nightmare. Editor Brian Thomsen asked me to put Lyte and Moran first, then Teloa, as he saw them as more important characters. (He also stripped the last of that huge saga, which started 100 pages earlier. Braan and Roe’s siblings became vague shadows, not people we had met and suddenly lost. An excellent point—just because we can learn all those names doesn’t mean we should learn all those names.)

But I had to go back in and do the copy editing done by the original Warner editor, matching the copy edit of the previous Nuala e-books. In the first Warner book, the copy editor changed most of my Initial Cap choices and made them lower case—and made the lower case Nualan words Initial Cap. I was young and easily intimidated by grammar, so I allowed most of this. I even turned in Fires of Nuala matching the copy editing of Fire Sanctuary.

Of course the new copy editor made the Initial Cap choices in Fires of Nuala lower case, and made the lower case Nualan words Initial Cap. (Yes, we are now back to what the original manuscript of Fire Sanctuary contained.) By the time Hidden Fires showed up, I did what I wanted and fiercely STETed (I.E. “put the item back to what it was before you mucked with it”) every Initial Cap change the copy editor attempted. Do they all match now? Heaven only knows. But you can see why it is hard for me to keep it in my head. I remember too many versions, and other things have interfered with a smooth edit flow.

It’s hard to go back through a book this old. You are no longer the person who wrote it. You have time traveled, and the book has traveled separately from you. A writer hopes that s/he is a better writer, a better storyteller, each time a story pops out of the subconscious to become a novel. For Fire Sanctuary’s e-book I was blessed with a friend who kept mentally slapping my hand and saying, “No! It’s a good book. Don’t mess with it.”

She’s right, of course. This book can stand on its own merits. The culture is older than the other Nualan books, the viewpoint style different to match their more mannered, ancient language. (Not as changed a language as it would have been—the copy editor kept altering the ways I consciously changed the language. I lost that battle. But something like thirty-five percent of the Magna Carta is unintelligible to most English speakers today, and that’s less than a thousand years. The Chinese can still read their written language, but the meaning of many words and concepts has shifted radically over the centuries. How big a shift in five thousand years? The book has to make sense to us here, so I hung on to a few things and let the rest go.)

There’s the problem, too, that it’s not just the style of writing that has evolved along the way. There is the choice of what elements of the story to highlight and what to down-pedal. The writer I am today would write a different book. I was quite rebellious about this, and almost yanked the book from the schedule.

That is, I was quite rebellious until I recognized something quite startling (to me) about my work. I knew that healers and healing were a theme I revisited often, because I had noticed things about medicine and people healing, or not healing, that appear in the Nuala books, the Alfreda books, and in an unpublished fantasy series currently called Talismindd.

What I had not yet consciously noticed was that my published work also contains a lot about betrayal, forgiveness and second chances. The works I am currently laying out also contain a lot about betrayal, forgiveness, healing, and second chances.

There is a line in a famous poem about returning to where we started and recognizing the place for the first time. I was so certain I no longer recognized the person who wrote Fire Sanctuary. In truth, she has been with me all along.

Maybe the mystics are correct, and we arrive in this world with everything we need to address what we are here to do. Twenty-five years after this book first appeared, I look back on the child who wrote it and wonder that she could write it. I think on all that I have learned since about betrayal, forgiveness, healing, and second chances. And I realize that I don’t need to change more than a few sentences in Fire Sanctuary. It says what I wanted to say back then, a science fiction novel containing so many of the things that I loved about science fiction.

The forthcoming stories will talk about new things that I’ve learned, and still hope to learn ... with grace notes about betrayal, forgiveness, healing and second chances.

Current challenges would have made this e-book launch infinitely more difficult without the expert help of Vonda N. McIntyre, P. G. Nagle, Amy Sterling Casil, Jennifer Stevenson and Don Dixon. I offer my heartfelt thanks for their generosity with their time and expertise.

Katharine Eliska Kimbriel
February 26, 2011

FAQ

What may I do with this file?

1. Read the file on your computer, phone, or ebook reader.

2. Move a copy to another reading device for your convenience.

What may I not do with this file?

1. Give a copy away to someone else.

2. Alter it and/or sell it and/or pass it off as your own work.

If you did not purchase the copy you are reading, please consider supporting the authors by buying your own copy at the Book View Cafe eBookstore, http://www.bookviewcafe.com/index.php/BVC-eBookstore/

Publication Information

Fire Sanctuary

Katharine Eliska Kimbriel

Book View Café

29 March 2011

Copyright © 1986, 2011 Katharine Eliska Kimbriel

ISBN: 9781611380569

All Rights Reserved

Cover art by Don Dixon
o0o

The print edition of Fire Sanctuary was a Questar™/Warner Books Edition.

Questar™ is a registered trademark of Warner Books, Inc.

Warner Books, Inc.

666 Fifth Avenue

New York, NY 10103

First Printing: October, 1986

.o0o.

This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people,or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons,living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Table of Contents

- Dedication
- A Prophecy of Naitun
- A Mythmaker Defines Nuala
- Chapter One
- Chapter Two
- Chapter Three
- Chapter Four
- Chapter Five
- Chapter Six
- Chapter Seven
- Chapter Eight
- Chapter Nine
- Chapter Ten
- Chapter Eleven
- Chapter Twelve
- Chapter Thirteen
- Chapter Fourteen
- Chapter Fifteen
- Chapter Sixteen
- Chapter Seventeen
- Chapter Eighteen
- Chapter Nineteen
- Chapter Twenty
- Chapter Twenty-One
- Chapter Twenty-Two
- A Note About the Nualan Language
- Nualan Calendar
- Nualan Time

- A Second Edition Afterword, and Acknowledgments

- FAQ

- Publication Information