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.”