Lanaril Satran couldn’t remember the last time she’d been this nervous. By the time one became a Lead Templar, one was fairly immune to performance anxiety, but this was not exactly in her normal line of duties. She had her blocks up to silence the emotions of the handful of other worshippers in the temple, and she’d done all the usual tricks to center herself. They hadn’t helped.
She lit another bowl on the rack, its small flame joining those of the other nine in its row, and silently asked Fahla to give her the strength she needed for this day. The temple door opened in the middle of her prayer, giving her a jolt of expectation, but the tall woman entering alone wasn’t who she expected. Lhyn Rivers would be escorted in by the Lancer’s Guards.
Turning back to her bowl rack, she stared at the ten flames filling the top row and wondered if she should unlock the whole rack and light all one hundred of them. Sometimes, she was certain, Fahla appreciated prayers with a little extra oomph.
“Lead Templar Satran?”
“Yes?” She turned and barely held back a gasp when she saw the newcomer smiling at her. The woman’s face was bereft of any ridges. “Oh! I’m sorry, I didn’t realize…I thought you would be coming with Guards.”
Lhyn Rivers held up a palm. “They’re outside. I’m sorry as well; I didn’t mean to startle you. But I’m very pleased to be meeting you.”
Lanaril met her palm, absorbing the unalloyed pleasure and anticipation radiating off the Gaian. “Well met indeed. I did plan a more graceful greeting for your arrival. If you’d like, I can give it now.”
“Only if it will demonstrate some aspect of temple ceremony that differs from the usual social greetings. Otherwise, you needn’t go to any trouble on my account.”
“No, it wasn’t anything different. Just a little less embarrassing for me.”
“Please, there’s no reason. I’m here to learn from you. And I have so many questions.” She looked around the temple in delight. “I can’t believe I’m actually standing here. You have no idea how much I wished I could do this. Your temples are so beautiful, but seeing them on broadcasts is nothing like seeing one in person. And oh, the molwyn tree is gorgeous! May I touch it?”
Lanaril felt a little dazed, partly from Lhyn’s rapid change of subject but mostly from the sheer depth of emotion pouring off of her. Lancer Tal had not exaggerated about the Gaian broadcasting. It was like speaking to a child, except that Lhyn’s emotions held the richness of adult experience. And they were entirely positive; this woman was truly thrilled to be here.
She remembered Lancer Tal saying that the third betrayal would be the worst and began to grasp just what she’d signed herself up for.
“Of course you may touch it. The molwyn tree is here for all.”
“How old is it?” Lhyn asked as they walked toward the gnarled tree in the center of the temple. The morning sun slanted through the skylight and lit the tops of its branches, an effect Lanaril had always loved.
“As old as the temple. One thousand, three hundred and sixty-one cycles.”
“You’re kidding! I mean…no, you’re probably not. But the original temple burned in the Second War of Succession. I thought surely the tree burned with it. This is actually the tree planted by the Betrayer?”
Lanaril looked over in surprise. “You know Alsean history.”
“Only what we’ve been able to piece together. I’ve been studying your culture for more than seven of your moons, and your broadcast stations have made it much easier by airing so many documentaries. My team loves your documentaries.”
“I wonder if the writers and directors would have changed anything if they’d known aliens were watching.” She’d never considered how their culture might be viewed based solely on their broadcasts. “Do you watch the weepers as well?”
“Some of my team are addicted to Merchant of the Mountains. They count the days until the next episode, and I don’t even try to get anything done when it’s airing. You’d think, given the fact that we can record anything and study it later, that otherwise adult scholars could wait a hantick or two before watching their show. Apparently not. I’m told it must be watched as it airs or it’s not the same.”
Lanaril imagined a bunch of smooth-faced aliens rushing to watch that awful weeper and had to laugh. “To think that should be our cultural representative! I can only hope that you and your team don’t take it seriously. At all.”
“Oh, don’t worry. We’ve had a lot of practice at telling the horten from the hornstalk.”
Great Fahla, the woman even knew Alsean idioms.
They arrived at the edge of the tiles and stepped onto the wooden platform around the base of the molwyn tree. Lhyn stopped and went down to her hands and knees, peering between the slats. “Declano was right,” she muttered, and stood again. “So you use this to cover the soil and keep it from getting tracked all over, right? And meanwhile the tree has room to spread its roots.”
“Yes, exactly. The platform also serves as an attachment point for the drip irrigators, and keeps worshippers from compacting the soil.”
“Is taking care of the molwyn tree a specialty job? I mean, do the temple scholars do it, or do you have a producer on staff?”
“We have a producer.”
“What an incredible responsibility.”
“It is. And a revered position as well. It was a producer who saved this tree when the first temple burned. He stayed and kept the tree wet even though parts of the roof were falling all around him.” She pointed to the domed ceiling, where a circle of piping ran around the outside edge of the enormous skylight. “In those days the rainers weren’t permanently mounted; they used ladders and hoses. So the producer stood up on his ladder and sprayed the tree, over and over again, until the fire was finally out and the tree was safe. He died of smoke inhalation four days later. The Lead Templar named him the first Guardian of the Tree in honor of his sacrifice, and the position has held great honor ever since.”
“What a story.” They walked the last few steps to the molwyn’s black trunk, and Lhyn touched it with an unexpected reverence, looking up into its branches. “Oh! Is this why it’s silver in some of its representations? Like that beautiful tunic you wore at the funeral yesterday.”
Lanaril looked up at the shining silver undersides of the leaves. “This is why.”
“But then on the Alsean banner, it seems to be burning, yellow and turning orange toward the top. So that must be about the fire it survived.”
“No.” Lanaril wondered how much she should say. Well, Lancer Tal had said she didn’t think they should know they were tyrees. She hadn’t mentioned keeping the existence of tyrees a secret.
Lhyn was looking at her, waiting for more.
“A very long time ago,” Lanaril began, “two young people fell in love. One was the son of wealthy producers that owned a large amount of land and were very powerful in their caste. The other was the daughter of crafters, a talented metalworker. They asked their parents to approve their bonding, but all four refused.”
“The producers didn’t want their son to bond outside the caste,” Lhyn guessed.
“Yes, but more than that, they wanted their son to bond into another landowning family, so they could increase their wealth and power base. And the crafter parents were horrified at the idea of their daughter bonding into a family that disdained artistry. They feared she would be stifled and looked down upon, rather than valued for her skill.”
“What happened? Did they run away together?”
“No, they came to the temple to pray for guidance. The Lead Templar happened to be here at the time and overheard them, and when he spoke with them, he realized that their love was not just the infatuation of youth. They were tyrees.”
She paused, but Lhyn nodded. “So they had to be together.”
“You know about tyrees?”
“It’s an important concept in your culture. Though I don’t imagine they’re as common in real life as they are in your weepers.”
“No, not at all. Anyway, the Lead Templar could not allow tyrees to be held apart, so the next day he called in both families for mediation. It didn’t go well. The parents argued back and forth endlessly, the lovers grew more and more upset, and finally the Lead Templar threw up his hands and ordered everyone to take a break. He sent the lovers in one direction and the parents in another, and thought to himself that those parents were so stubborn only Fahla herself could convince them.”
Lhyn shifted, crossing her arms and leaning her shoulder against the tree trunk. Though she said nothing, the sheer weight of her focus was unsettling. She was absorbing every word.
“The lovers came to where you are now, weeping with frustration and fear. They laid their palms on this very tree trunk and prayed to Fahla to open their parents’ minds. And Fahla answered. The trunk began to glow. A golden flame shot up it and into the branches, setting every leaf alight with a fire that did not burn. It was so bright that none could look directly at it, and when it finally subsided, the parents asked their children for forgiveness and blessed the bonding. The Lead Templar himself was bond minister for them. Fahla had made herself very clear—a tyree bond could not be broken. The flaming tree on our banner is about the power of that bond.”
“What do you think really happened?” Lhyn asked. “Did the story of the lovers get conflated with the history of the fire?”
“That is what really happened.”
Lhyn’s emotions shifted into something more cautious. “Did it ever happen again?”
“Yes. There are several stories of particularly strong tyrees being blessed by the light of a molwyn tree.”
“Have you ever witnessed it?”
“If I did, I’d consider it the most fortunate day of my life. There’s no need to tiptoe around me, Lhyn Rivers. I can feel your lack of belief and I’m not offended by it. Not every Alsean believes.”
“Please, call me Lhyn. And I’m sorry, Lead Templar. I’d like to believe such a beautiful story, but…it doesn’t seem possible.”
“No, it doesn’t, does it?” Lanaril looked up into the silvery leaves. “Until three days ago, it didn’t seem possible that I’d ever stand here and speak with an alien.”
She felt Lhyn’s amusement before their eyes met.
“Nicely said. Is there a correlation between empathy and intelligence? Because every high empath I’ve met so far has been damned smart.”
“Intelligence goes with empathy, yes. But empathy doesn’t go with intelligence. Which is fortunate for us, because high empathy is relatively rare.”
“Is it? I guess my perspective is skewed. Almost every Alsean I’ve met has been a high empath.”
“Your perspective is very skewed. We’re less than one percent of the population.”
“One percent!”
“The great majority of Alseans fall in the mid empath range. Low empaths are almost as uncommon as high empaths. And sonsales are extremely rare.” She had the feeling that Lhyn was memorizing everything.
“Well, regardless of whether the story of the lovers is true,” Lhyn said, “the fact remains that the largest symbol on the Alsean banner is about love and family bonds.”
“Yes, of course.”
“‘Of course,’ she says. As if that were perfectly ordinary.”
“Ah. You think it should be about war or power or symbols of those who wield it. We had those, a long time ago. After all, the kingdoms were united by the most brutal force ever used on Alseans.”
“By the Betrayer.”
“Yes.”
“What did he actually do to get that name? Who was he?”
“No one knows who he was. He was made outcaste; his name was struck from the caste rolls and the archives. He was permanently erased from history.”
“Lancer Tal mentioned that was the punishment for warriors who broke their oath of service. Is that what he betrayed?”
“Oh, no. He broke something much more important than a mere oath. He broke Fahla’s covenant.”
There was the intense focus again. “And what is that?”
“Fahla gave us several great gifts. One of them was our empathy, but with that empathy came an equally great taboo. Empathy has two sides. It can give, and it can take. It can be used with love and tenderness, or it can be used with force. To break the mind of another, to force someone to act against their nature and commit terrible deeds—it’s the greatest crime possible. The Betrayer was a very high empath. He won his battles by systematically kidnapping one or two officers from the opposing camp, breaking them with empathic force, and then sending them back with only one thought left in their shattered minds: to assassinate their commander.”
Lhyn’s eyes were wide. “Holy Shippers. I never thought about it, but that’s the natural end point of power like that, isn’t it? No wonder you have such strong strictures against empathic abuse.”
“If we didn’t, we’d never have become anything but a series of violently taken, violently held kingdoms with a few of the most vicious high empaths in charge—and a cowering, desperate populace living their lives in fear. It couldn’t be allowed. When the Betrayer was found out, his punishment was swift and irrevocable.” She laid her hand on the molwyn’s trunk. “And yet, no one is purely evil. He did unite the kingdoms, and he built this temple.”
“And planted this tree, which became the symbol of your people.” Lhyn put her own hand on the trunk. “Amazing to think he held this when it was a little sapling. He probably thought his name would live forever.”
“That’s exactly why he was wiped from the caste rolls. There could never be an incentive for anyone else to follow his example. Not only did his name not live forever, it was utterly forgotten.”
Lhyn patted the tree and stepped back. “Sometimes entire cultures can be bent toward one destiny or another by individual decisions. Your ancestors’ decision to punish the Betrayer so severely changed your culture forever. I’ve studied many others that made different decisions in similar situations—not involving empathy, of course, but the pursuit of power is universal. What usually happens is that those with power are judged and sentenced by different standards, if they’re even judged at all.”
“Well, we do have some of that,” Lanaril admitted. “I wish it weren’t so, but it is.”
“But when it counted, your people rose above that. And Alsea became what it is as a direct result of it.” She pointed at the Alsean banner hanging over the entry, in the center of the six caste flags. “Not to change the subject, but can I just verify that I’ve got this right? The six points of light over the flaming tree represent the six castes, yes?”
“Yes.”
“And the star in their center is for Fahla?”
Lanaril nodded.
“So from bottom to top, your banner represents love and the bonding of family, the six castes, which play a sort of parental role over the families, and Fahla, who plays a parental role over everyone.”
“That’s an excellent interpretation. Some might object to your use of the word ‘parental,’ but it’s legitimate.”
“When a new bond is created, who has the authority to confer recognition? The castes or the templars, as representatives of Fahla?”
“Ah. I see what you mean. The castes don’t come into it unless there are children, who must be added to the rolls once as pre-Rite children, and once again as adults, when they’ve chosen their caste. But the actual bond recognition comes from the temples.”
“Is there always a Sharing at a bonding ceremony?”
“Yes, always.”
Lhyn gave her a wry smile. “I thought I had that one all figured out until I realized you’re empathic. Now I’m not really certain what a Sharing is anymore.”
“It’s a direct connection of the empathic centers. We can feel each other’s emotions at varying depths depending on our own abilities, whether anyone is blocking, and whether or not there’s skin-to-skin contact. But a Sharing bypasses the limitations. Even low empaths can feel the full emotional access of a Sharing.”
“Really? So when a bond minister conducts a Sharing at a bonding ceremony, then that means…”
“Every guest is feeling the emotions of the bonding couple. It’s a one-time access to their joy and love, a gift they give to their guests as a celebration of their bond.”
After a long pause, Lhyn said, “Wow. Just…wow. That’s incredible. I want to be an Alsean.”
Her plaintive tone made Lanaril laugh, but she sobered when she saw the gigantic opening that had just been handed to her. It couldn’t be this easy, could it?
“I cannot give you that,” she said, feeling her way through. “But I could show you what a Sharing feels like. Lancer Tal told me that she’s been able to project emotions onto you, so I know your brain is receptive. I don’t see why you wouldn’t be able to take part if you wished it.”
She winced at the immediate enthusiasm that poured out. And the trust; oh Fahla, the trust. Lhyn hadn’t the faintest clue that she wasn’t safe here.
“I would love that! Thank you so much for offering. Feeling Lancer Tal’s projected emotions was one of the most extraordinary and beautiful things I’ve ever experienced. I can’t imagine how it could get any better, but from what you say…are you certain you don’t mind doing this with a stranger? I mean, isn’t it usually done with family?”
“It is, but I don’t mind. After all, I’m as curious as you are. I feel privileged that you’d allow me access.” Lanaril hated every word that came out of her mouth, but it had to be done.
“If I can’t trust the Lead Templar of Blacksun, who can I trust?” Lhyn’s emotions made it clear she was joking, but Lanaril felt it like a needle in the heart.
Just about anyone else, she thought.
“If we’re going to do this,” she said, “we should go somewhere a bit more comfortable. My study is this way.”