“Atare?”
Pausing in the act of adjusting his collar, Sheel glanced over to the door. It was Zaide; the seneschal did not look as if he had slept, either.
“Something cannot wait until court?” Sheel asked, glancing over to see if the star had crested the temple.
“I think the ragäree and I should call the court into session, Atare,” Zaide replied, his deep voice rumbling like gravel down a rocky slope. “You have a visitor. Nadine reb^Ursel Kilgore.”
The words caused Sheel’s muscles to feel momentarily nerveless, as if he had no control over his body. Wishing there was time to examine that physiological reaction, Sheel slowly walked over to Zaide.
“She wishes to speak to you alone,” the seneschal added blandly.
“Anything else?” Sheel said, his fingers rearranging the chain of office.
Zaide knew what he was asking. “She looks rather grim.”
Ah.... The announcement had been made; better to beat the infonet to the discovery of false code yellows and breaking and entering, than let them report at will. Of the missing antimatter they had kept silent.
Although not the equal of the guaard, the informants of Kilgore were skilled. What had Nadine found out to bring her to Dragonhold so early?
Raising his voice, Sheel said: “Elek, will you call down for saffra and tea? In the Green Room; Serae Nadine of Kilgore has come to call.” Giving Zaide a lifted eyebrow and a slight nod of farewell, Sheel moved toward the doors.
Tierce was ringing through the cloudless sky as Sheel entered the Green Room, on the north side of the dwelling. It was a pleasant place of subdued greens, blues and lavenders, echoing the water which could be seen out the window furthest to the west. Elek had been swift and efficient, as always; the midmorning repast was already steaming on a center table. Nadine of Kilgore, dressed in contradictions, all severe edges and flowing material, was standing over by the western window. She was alone.
Pausing as the door slid shut, Sheel studied her hard profile against the clear morning starlight. This woman actually looked as strong-willed as she was, the long, softly curling ash blonde hair a complete smoke screen. Alone... Kilgore never approached other clans without at least a trio of family in tow. When one is always ready for a fight, one brings along reinforcements... unless one holds all the cards.
“Good morning, Serae,” Sheel began, moving toward the center grouping of chairs. “It is early yet. Will you join me in a cup of saffra?”
“I know about the antimatter.” Very low, her voice, yet still pleasant. Nadine did not turn as she spoke — her arms crossed before her, she continued staring out the window at what could be seen of the horizon.
Sheel watched her for a few moments, waiting... she did not speak again. Deciding that she was looking at something, he moved over near her and glanced out the windowpane. Beyond the cloudless blue of sky and sea, empty of even a sail skimmer, there was a dark horizon. More rain. It was needed; the precipitation was low, so far this season.
“We need rain,” Nadine said without preamble. “Our farmers do not irrigate in spring... the cost mounts daily. Where are the monsoons?”
Since the farmers in Atare region had more than enough for their grape crop, Sheel had no answer for her. With a double harvest growing season, in Seedar and Kilgore the timing of the weather was precise. If the rains came too soon, delicate wheat seed could be washed away and ripening ears dashed to the ground. If they came too late, one crop would be stunted and the other rot on the vines.
If the rains failed to come, there would be famine.
“Things have been slow this year,” Sheel finally started.
“We are behind,” she murmured. “Far, far behind... less than a third of the usual rainfall has reached Seedar and Kilgore.”
Somehow, this is related, was all Sheel could think. Finally, Nadine turned her head slightly and looked at him. They were of a height; her brilliant amethyst eyes did not flinch from his mismatched pair.
“I have a present for you,” she said simply. “Stennis.”
Sheel did not pretend to misunderstand. The technician who had disappeared from Odyssey Unlimited. Coincidence or not?
“Where did you find him?” he asked, settling against the windowsill.
“On a boat to Kilgore. It happened that he chose a ship that maintains close contact with the shore. His identification was not satisfactory, so they prevented him from leaving at the first port of call. When word went out at lauds, the ship started back to Amura. What with the winds in their favor, they may make it by matins.”
“Then we have our saboteur?” Sheel suggested, watching her closely.
Nadine actually smiled... a genuine smile, faint but with warmth. “We have the key to the lock. There is more beyond the door, Atare. Stennis has yet to be questioned — we thought to leave it to Amuran security. A courtesy. But he has said this: he claims Dielaan immunity.”
It only needed this. He studied the woman before him. Her irises matched the chips of gemstone woven in her hair — glinting, yet holding all images as their own.
“We must assume that Dielaan has the antimatter.” The tone was flat, deliberate... there was no flexibility within it.
Sheel felt something uneasy trace the lining of his stomach, working its way up to his breastbone. Or Dielaan knows who has it.
“You know all too well what happens when the longhaulers arrive,” Nadine went on. “We buy from them, they buy from us. They try to choose what costs them least, yet will bring the most amongst The Brethren. We hedge our bets, sending both tried-and-true and new things to tempt. And we send our children, Atare... we send our children into the void, to bring back Nuala’s future. We have paid for that antimatter... and we want it back.”
“Many have undoubtedly paid for antimatter,” Sheel replied slowly. “The question is, how much is left?”
“Enough for the three ships that were taking passage this month,” she told him. “The others can wait until the next shipment, if necessary.”
“Will they agree?”
“Have they paid gold in full for their portions?” This was very cool.
Sheel felt as if he had been struck. Paid gold in advance? No wonder Kilgore had their pick of the longhauler trade! Normally that would give them a tremendous advantage. But this time —
“You are over-extended,” Sheel said aloud. “How badly?”
A minute shrug. “My siblings do not brief me on everything,” was the answer. “For your ears only, I suspect one third of the tribal assets.”
One third! Nadine was always careful in her speech: she had said assets, not liquid assets. Everything that Kilgore had... in other words, easily seventy-five percent of their available assets. Which would come rolling back with the next ship’s arrival, in two months or so. But until then....
He had to offer. “Do you need a loan?”
Again, that faint smile. “Do you think my brother would ask, much less accept one?”
No... Klaas Kilgore would go down in a sinking ship before he would ask for a life jacket. Marlis Ragäree had a reputation for a fierce temper, which cooled slowly. If Nadine was ragäree... but she was not.
“I wish he had your vision,” Sheel said simply.
“His eldest daughter and both their heirs are due to go on this ship,” Nadine announced. Sheel blinked once; which members of a royal family were traveling was usually a dark secret. “Drought, a trading exchange crisis, and hysteria in the royal houses. Do you know what we are facing, Atare?”
“Impossible. Even Klaas would not do that.” It was Sheel’s turn to sound flat, hard-edged.
“We must get it back, Atare. Or my brother will go after it... even if he has to sail into Dielaan harbor itself to recover the trap.”
What response was there, really? What would he do if he were in the same position? “We need time, Serae,” he told her. “We must determine whether the regent has any knowledge of this, or if it is merely another of a long string of diversions.”
“He had best learn to curb his ‘diversions,’” was the tart rejoinder, “or his family will be spared slipping a knife between his ribs.”
“You see my point?” Sheel pressed the words lovingly.
Nadine’s long, spidery lashes veiled her eyes momentarily. “Others may already know... about the stolen antimatter, certainly. About Stennis, possibly. All spies are spied upon.”
“Then I suggest we plan just how we will approach Dielaan on this subject. Can I interest you in that saffra now, Serae?”
“Nadine,” she said slowly. “Do you by chance have darjeeling tea?”
“Of course.”
Light was filtering through the walls when Garth awoke. Through the walls.... Carefully opening one lid slightly, he let his eye become adjusted to the brightness. Slight flexing of his limbs told him that he was not bound. Interesting....
What peculiar dreams. There had been a dark-haired girl with honey-colored skin, skin scented like Terran incense... why dark hair? Lucy had red hair.... Sweet Peter, what did they hit me with? Fascinating. He’d always thought Nualans used no hand weapons other than knives, but that little trick required investigation. True, he did not seem permanently damaged... a good weapon for a Nualan, then. Nasty at the receiving end, though. He was so thirsty.
Someone was lifting his head and offering him water. Gods, he felt so drained. What kind of weapon was that? Great dreams, though —
Dreams.... Garth let his other lid open fractionally. The figure hovering over him was wrapped loosely in an embroidered, gauzy, sand-colored robe, but without the intricate head and face covers. These hung down on either shoulder. Her skin was the color of honey, and her eyes very dark....
I think I’ve been raped. He was too surprised to be angry. The smile the stranger favored him with was very warm, if uncertain. Did that weapon make the senses more acute? How would he know she felt uncertain?
The woman offered the oddly-shaped ceramic cup once again, and suddenly wisps of haze cleared from Garth’s brain. Water. Clean water... I must have treated water. How would they know — He struggled to sit up.
Gentle hands held him down with strength. Cool detachment was in the eyes, but she seemed neither angry nor worried. In control of the situation, are you? “Do you understand Caesarean?” he croaked.
A slight tilt of the head... there was no recognition in her eyes.
“I need someone who speaks Caesarean... or Gavrielian! How about pidgin Norwood —” Garth broke off, trying to swallow in a dry throat. The Cied woman reached for the cup again, but Garth pushed it away. “My bag... I need...” Peter’s Keys, did I even bring those damn pills?
Groping with one hand, he seized the pack and pulled it to his side. He still felt too dizzy to sit up, but he knew every item in the bag by touch. His other two ID cards were still there, hidden in the walls of the bakit, but the pills, and other small items of his travels....
Forcing calm, Garth indicated the size of the packet with cupped hands. Then he mimed turning the dial, and tipping out the tiny pills.
At first she merely stared at him. Then her expression changed, to something Garth would have called concerned. Gently pushing him back down to the woven pallet, she reached to veil her lower face. Soundlessly rising, the young woman slipped out a slit in the wall.
Well, she understood something, Garth decided. What was another matter. Was she in search of his other belongings, or someone who spoke Caesarean? They had his identification card. What would Cied do with an ID card? Why was he so dizzy? Residual from the weapon, the water, or the blow on the head? Could the pills work after ingesting untreated materials?
There was a strange taste of salt and sour in his mouth, and Garth recognized it as his own personal brand of fear.
Too long, everything is taking too long. Darame tried to keep from looking out the window, but she could not halt the impulse. So long to charter a plane — who would have thought that flying to the Cied base camps was such a specialized art? But the camps moved constantly, and only certain pilots could guarantee that they would be answered when they sent their landing request out into the cloudless skies.
Beside her Mailan was silent. The guaard was in that strange trance state used on long shifts. She never scolds, Darame thought. She must have believed me. As soon as they had left the Andersen clerk’s hearing, Darame had immediately stated: “I did not lose him intentionally.”
All Mailan had said was: “I know, Serae.” She had then led the way toward the flight gates.
And who is guarding Sheel’s back? she wondered. But Mailan undoubtedly had things under control. Please forgive my haste, husband. I will bring you the answers if I can. If her mind did not grow dull with exhaustion. If I had been able to sleep more on the flight.... But nausea clung to her, and even saffra did not keep it at bay.
From what little net information Darame had been able to acquire, Sheel was already gleaning answers from various sources. A false code yellow, and sabotage... was there more? Why destroy something if there was no gain in the act? Not even to claim power by the act of destroying.... What were you trying to destroy, Garth Kristinsson? Be alive, Garth Kristinsson. Your death would leave more questions than answers.
Mailan’s eyelids flickered; she straightened in her seat, a circular glance taking in the immediate area. In moments Darame realized what had awakened her — the tempo of the engines had changed. Looking out the small window, she saw dark, scrubby lumps dotting the foothills of the Dragoche Mountains. In reality the inundating sand and sage gray brush obscured the outline of an extended tent site. Cied were known to train the sparse plants to grow upon a thin layer of sand spread over their tough tents. Somewhere in that thorny undergrowth was a Cied trading center.
What can I trade you for Kristinsson? It could conceivably be a problem. After all, Garth was on the run; hiding out in a Cied village might be to his taste. If that was the way of it, she would need to impress upon him that the Cied kept what they claimed — forever. Trinium would be a possibility... or specific goods that they rarely acquired through their recovery operations. If necessary, she would even offer a favor, although she hesitated to do that. It would be her own favor, not that of the throne; Darame would never risk offering the word of Sheel and Avis. Still, it was worth something. I speak your language... I suspect I think as you do. That is power.
Her charter was constructed for landings on water, sand, or snow, and it performed its job with precision. Even before the small methplane had come to a stop, Mailan was shrugging her shoulders into her Cied outer robe. Adjusting her double veil like a professional, she courteously offered Darame help with the arms of her Atare garment.
Embroidered robe wrapped correctly, veils attached... Mailan gave Darame a long look out of indomitable gray eyes before fastening her veil. In response Darame straightened.
Together we will have them at our feet.
Although the star was high in the sky, the city of tents seemed almost deserted. Only three robed figures could be seen. So, who was in authority? The “organizer” of a Cied trading camp changed with the moons, each clan taking its turn. It all had Darame slightly nervous; she had counted on many things, but not bargaining with Cied. Their protocol was precise. Mendülay, say we have not already offended them.
Pale robes mingled with tents and dunes beyond. Two of the visible Cied moved toward them, soundless over sand. One was wearing Dragoche tribe colors, the black and gold trim of a warrior, while the second was a scholar of... the Kalel tribe? Greens and yellows marked them, for they were out of Seedar, long ago.
“Welcome to our meeting place,” the scholar said politely in Ciedärlien. Actually, a better translation would have been “place of trade,” since the Cied never met with coastal dwellers for any other reason, if they could help it. “How may we serve you?” Translation: How may we serve our mutual interests?...
Now came the rub; normally Darame would have had someone to speak for her. Royalty did not press its own suit. A guaard increased her status, but if Mailan chose to handle negotiations, that could reduce the guaard to a simple warrior in their eyes.... So, how to begin.
“I have come to retrieve something,” she said simply, holding up her signet ring to identify herself. “I believe he is in your custody.”
Silence. Darame was quite certain of what she had said; by naming Garth as “something,” she had termed him an outsider, and not worth taking under her protection. But by using the words “he” and “custody,” she had implied that he was of interest to her house, and possibly dangerous. That would keep them from treating the negotiation as an immigration question.
The silence continued. Darame grew keenly aware of it; nothing stirred beyond the tents, nothing seemed to stir within them.
“We have found a stray,” the scholar said finally. “Would you care to see him? We have sent for a hot healer.”
Worse and worse. A hot healer? Why would they need — how badly was he injured? Or had they given him native food? This Cied was not sanguine about his chances, or surely he would not allow her to see him... not yet.
“That might be best,” Darame replied coolly.
Without further comment the scholar turned and started down an intersecting corridor. Mailan indicated by a nod that Darame was to follow. She remained a half-step behind, the Dragoche warrior bringing up the rear.
Their destination was only three tents away. Gesturing, the Kalel scholar pushed aside the entrance for Darame. With a polite nod, he continued off down the row, the warrior still in his shadow.
“High-ranking,” Darame murmured to Mailan. The guaard nodded, and then preceded the woman through the opening. It was only moments before Mailan spoke.
“Come, Serae.” Darame ducked under a rolled inner flap and entered.
Mailan had already circled the area, investigating every fold of canvas. Apparently satisfied with the security of the perimeter, she moved back out the slit, holding it closed with one hand. Darame knew she would keep one ear pressed to the crack, even as she watched the dusty street beyond. It would seem that Garth Kristinsson did not worry her.
It was easy to see why. He lay quiescent on a pallet, eyes closed and breathing slow and shallow. Darame knelt and lightly pressed fingertips to the youth’s temple. His skin was very warm to the touch; he was visibly shivering. Occasionally a whispered word passed his lips, but for now he would tell her nothing: all he could say was “Pills.”
You waited too long, Garth Kristinsson. Unless they have a hot healer within a day’s ride of here, your story has reached its end. No one could blame the Cied for what had come to pass. That an off-worlder had made it this far was amazing. That it should be one who had avoided the pill series? Even more incredible.
Methodically Darame loosened his collar, and reached for a rag laying in a shallow pan of lukewarm water. Wringing out the cloth, she gently pressed it to Kristinsson’s forehead.
“Lucy? I would have come, I meant to come, but I had to leave.” No more than a whisper... he did not even open his eyes.
Lucy... Lulani reb^Carlotta Dielaan. In Rex Dielaan’s circle, yet not truly of it... one of those who knew it was expedient to pay homage to him, and yet....
Darame startled herself; she had spoken aloud. The youth did not seem to hear her; his whispers continued, too softly for her to decipher them. Letting his words trickle over her like grains of sand, Darame continued to apply moist compresses. Eventually they would send someone to her —
The hand gripping the rag tightened spasmodically. That name... surely he had not said that name. But if he had said —
He spoke again. “Aesir considers the debt to be paid. Aesir....” Dry and soft; needing water....
Darame suddenly found her cat knife in her hand, although she did not remember reaching for it. Not life, but death — her hand tightened on the hilt until the knuckles turned white. By all the varied saints of my childhood — Aesir! What had she done to attract their attention? Would they send this child as their weapon? Or... a witness. Sometimes Aesir required a witness, when a killing was to take place. Those words were ceremonial for them, used when their part of something was about to end....
No. She could not kill him — not now, at least. Fear was a pitiful reason for a free-trader to take a life. I have been warned. Slowly she lowered her cat knife, bending her knee to expose the sheath.
There was someone else in the room. Whirling, she found herself facing a shrouded Cied. Mailan must have let this one in, but why without comment — Then she noticed that the robes were brilliant white, not sand-colored. White... only The Dragoche, the spiritual leader of the Ciedärlien clans, wore white robes. Why was the old man here? Sheathing her knife and straightening, Darame waited to be addressed.
A slender hand reached for her left wrist. Even as Cied flesh touched her own, Darame realized that there had been a change in the ciedär. The old Dragoche had died, and his successor stood before her. Female... and very young — younger than Darame herself? There was something familiar about the silence that wove around them....
Healer. Hot healer, to be precise. A Dragoche who was a hot healer! How the tribes must have rejoiced. Some healers automatically examined every person who came within arms’ reach; others avoided healing, except when absolutely necessary. What are you seeking?
Finally, the Cied released Darame’s wrist. Nodding slightly, politely, the woman moved past her guest and knelt at Kristinsson’s side. Placing a hand at either temple, the newcomer paused. Then the veiled head slowly sank forward as healing actually began.
To be alone with The Dragoche of the ciedär... never could Darame remember seeing a Dragoche unattended. Idly she studied the embroidery on the woman’s robe. She wore black and gold — Dragoche clan since birth, then — and the back of her white robes were unmarked, except for an ancient astronomical sign used to indicate a hot healer... the exploding comet. There was embroidery lining the cowl, which meant the priesthood. What had been on the front? Scholar’s signs, and the makermother....
Once again, there was someone behind her. Darame turned slightly, and saw two Cied warriors enter the tent, Mailan shadowing their footsteps. The two strangers settled themselves on either side of the slit, while Mailan blocked the opening with her body.
Very well guarded. How long would they remain here?
It was well into the afternoon, if the shadows in the tent aisle were any indication, before The Dragoche completed the healing. By then Darame was parched with thirst, and keenly aware of her disadvantage. But the healer would require sustenance, after such an effort....
A warrior stepped forward to offer The Dragoche an arm, and gently led her from Kristinsson’s tent. The other remained with the sleeping off-worlder even as Mailan indicated that it was time to leave.
Darame spared Garth one last look. Breathing normally, now, and sweating freely — the fever had broken. Although he will be weak... that will slow us. The thought occurred to her before she realized she had unconsciously decided to take him back to Amura. Or even Atare? It might be safer for him. After all, I doubt you were running from us....
But now, to pry him from Cied arms. How to go about it....
There was a huge tent at the end of the row; a bit whiter than the rest, but more star-bleached than dyed. The warrior and the healer disappeared beneath its eaves. Without shortening a step, Mailan moved up to the opening slit, then paused, her body angled to take in both the entrance and the woman following. Darame caught up to her, taking slow, deep breaths to control any flush to her pale skin. Just as they both locked glances, the canvas twitched aside and a khatta ushered them in.
Inhaling carefully, Darame moved past the khatta without a show of revulsion. How could she condemn them for fearing to leave everything they had ever known? But Toki would have been a khatta, if she had remained — a servant of the lowest caste, considered almost a beast of burden. No hunting skills, no fighting or scholarly skills, no conception before the twentieth birthday — You never noticed that the finest embroidery came from her hands, did you? Do not bother wondering what happened to her (though Darame doubted anyone ever had) because we appreciate her in full measure.
A cozy pile of pillows awaited her; The Dragoche was already seated, her hands hidden in her robe, her upper veil thrown back. Darame moved to settle gracefully in the place opposite the leader.
A khatta magically appeared to one side, bearing a tray of foodstuffs. To Darame’s surprise, she was served chilled hazelle milk, spiced with a pinch of chocolate and vanilla and whipped to a froth. The tray was placed between the two women, so that each could reach the steaming, fresh rolls and pot of soft cheese. In the fragile fired pot Darame could smell strong saffra. Ugh — they drink it so sweet. But then she spied a pot of honey. Ho — they cater to the tastes of the coast! Almost as if in response to that sign, she pulled back the film of her upper veil.
“Welcome, Darame Atarae,” The Dragoche said suddenly. Her soft, husky voice sounded tired, but not strained. “It has been many years since one of the House has graced our tents. To what do we owe this pleasure?”
That they knew her first name could be good or bad — what had preceded her into the ciedär? Not that Atare were secretive about their names, as the Dielaan were, but still.... “I have come to retrieve something,” she said simply. “Thanks to your presence, he should be able to travel soon.”
“If you travel by night, yes,” The Dragoche answered steadily. “But what of this off-worlder, traveling the wastes without the documents valued by the coast? Does he so desire to see our world?”
Vague, but it could have been worse —”He flees, Dragoche,” Darame replied, flicking her gaze momentarily in the direction of a khatta who anticipated her desire for saffra. “Unusual things have been happening in Amura. I would know if these two events are connected.”
“And if they are not?”
Darame felt the barest of smiles cross her lips, and was grateful for the lower veil. “Why, then I have no reason to retrieve him, and you are free to ask him if he would care to visit among you for a time.” The words were chosen carefully; Garth could throw away his freedom without realizing it.
“He might not care to visit,” The Dragoche said tonelessly. “He had not taken the pills. He will not love us for forcing that choice.”
“You saved his life.”
The Dragoche’s eyebrows flicked fractionally. “He has given us life; it was a satisfactory trade.”
Already throwing women at him? Did you give him time to recover from your jabbers?
“You could not have known he was limited to off-world foods.” Darame saw the slightest relaxation in The Dragoche’s posture, and knew the woman had been expecting Darame to demand restitution.
There was a pause, as both women sipped at their fluids.
“Might we be permitted to ask if this young off-worlder has anything to do with the troop ships off our coast?”
Dear Jesu, thank you for black irises and black nerves. Without the slightest tremor Darame settled her cup back upon its saucer. “Tell me of these ships. Are they known to you?”
“They fly no colors, but the construction is Dielaan. They have been moving south, toward the Amber.” The Dragoche bent her head to her cup.
Darame knew where she stood... but she had to make sure the Cied knew it in their own time. Despite their occasionally vicious clan fights, the Cied hated war perhaps even more than other Nualans — it was one of the reasons they had ritualized it to such a degree. Sometimes they settled arguments which encompassed thousands of individuals with one knife fight between two 80s. The blood of one symbolized the blood of many, and there would be no further reference to the incident....
They think a war is brewing. And they do not like it, not one bit. Ships, dear Mendülay, ships — Livia, what are you thinking? Granted, the Dielaan net would not report their presence, but surely satellites would notice, if they had failed to up to now. Unless you are sailing them like trade boats, and with all these rumors flying around about the antimatter, people will start hoarding, and then prices will rise, and —
“Dragoche, you are aware there was an industrial accident in Amura-By-The-Sea? That antimatter was destroyed... and stolen?”
At this The Dragoche leaned forward slightly and gestured for the khatta to leave. “Stolen?”
“It is the only explanation. I hope that this youth knows something of the incident, perhaps even knows the location of the antimatter. This is serious for our trading synod.” The last was a chance — I have bet that stopping a war is more important than exploiting this situation.
“Will he give you the information?” This was blunt.
“I do not know.”
“Will you take the information?” This was much gentler.
“Not yet. But it is possible.” It might take time to arrange for the proper charges, but if it was necessary to drug Kristinsson to find that antimatter, Darame was perfectly willing to do so.
“Can you speak for your people, Atarae?” she was asked.
A slight shake of the head. “That is not my place, Dragoche.”
“But you can speak for yourself.”
Huh. Jumped to this one a bit fast, but with ships going down the Amber toward the Alameda Sea.... “What would you ask, Dragoche?”
“I offer the warriors of the Cied.”
Darame stared blankly at her.
Evenly, The Dragoche continued: “Dielaan will not cross the sands.”
Ah. That made sense. Whatever was going on, the coast would not have to worry about invasion from the east, over the mountains. Not even methplanes bringing trouble — the Cied would see they never left the ground. What could they want that was worth offering first?
“And Kristinsson?”
“Your claim is great. We will give him to you.”
Will give him... no, the negotiations were not over. “What will you ask, Dragoche?”
“I would ask for seed, Atarae. Human seed.”
Darame was literally too stunned to speak. Ciedärlien, asking for... genetic help? The origins of the Cied were shrouded in a thousand years of isolation, but one thing was well-known — the followers of Lien had left the coasts because they had believed that holy Mendülay was punishing the Nualans for using technology to attempt to control their planet. Given the proper time, Mendülay would heal both the Nualans and their home.
“You ask much, Dragoche,” Darame finally said softly. “Is this asking for Ciedärlien, or for others?”
“We ask, Atarae.” There was silence for a time, and finally The Dragoche began to speak, her gaze fixed upon an invisible mark on the tent wall. “For many generations, the borne healers of our people have known this truth — we are outkin all, we Cied, and eventually it will destroy us. The followers of Lien were strong of heart... and we believe in the choices of our ancestors... but we are too few. The ties that bind us begin to fray within, and the future is too terrible to contemplate. If it continues, live births will diminish, and our numbers wither like monsoon grass.”
Inbreeding. Of course. The coasts had always traded among themselves... but when the Cied left for the sands, their only diversity was in believers from every tribe. When Nuala returned to the stars, seeking immigrants, the Ciedärlien remained apart... interwoven. Slowly, steadily, natural defects and Nualan mutation would begin to take their toll. The genes begin to fray... never doubt that she is a true healer, even if her terms are strange.
“You wish aid from our labs?”
“We wish to send volunteers to the coast, to bring back our future,” The Dragoche clarified. “It should have begun years ago, but... there has been resistance.” A tiny shrug. “Now that healer and Dragoche are one, I can say: ‘Mendülay requires this of us’ and it will be done. Why would a healer be chosen Dragoche, except to bring new life to our people?”
“Why, indeed?” There was nothing else to say — the labs never denied aid, ever. “I cannot speak for Atare, but I have the ear of The Atare and Avis Ragäree, and I believe I can sway this to your favor.” Choosing her words carefully, she continued: “You know that we seek to return to the mold of our ancestors, but with the strength to withstand the planet’s heat. You care only that the seed is as healthy as possible? The coloring of the Cied may begin to change —”
The Dragoche straightened. “My own daughter has blonde hair. It will be a new generation in more ways than one.” Her head snapped back toward Darame. “This can be kept among Atare?”
Ah. Friction remained with the other clans.... “If it can be done, it will be done.” Your reasons for remaining apart are subtle, but you do not need ridicule from those who do not understand. That they could bring themselves to ask... no, the coast did not understand the Cied. A touch of awe threaded Darame’s impression of the new Dragoche. Perhaps there was more to the selection of a Dragoche than politics and tribes taking turns....
It was that simple. “I would recommend remaining with us a full turn of Kee, before escorting Kristinsson to the coast. Will you join me for a light supper, Atarae?”
“I would be honored, Dragoche,” Darame said with complete sincerity.