Faded Sun Trilogy Omnibus

by C. J. Cherryh

  You cannot hold this tribe well, they were thinking. What power have you to hold two at once?

  “The she’pan’s word?” Seras asked.

  That too was challenge.

  “I have not talked with her. I am going to.”

  “So,” said Seras.

  There was silence after that, no murmur of suggestions, no expressions of opinion. Their faces, alike scarred with the kel-scars, regarded him, waited on him, set as stone. He considered asking again for their free discussion, reckoned that he would have only silence for answer. He brushed at his robes, gathered himself up and walked through their midst as they rose, perforce, a respect which might be omitted, which they never omitted, which began, to him, to have the flavor of mockery.

  They would do their talking after he was gone, he reckoned. Hlil and Seras and the rest of the Husbands led them, in truth; him they only obeyed. He veiled himself, walked out along the narrow trail which followed the curving of the cliffs in the dark, back farther in the cliffs where in places not even starshine reached. A sandfall sheeted down, daily building at a large cone of sand with a constant, hissing whisper. He walked between it and the cliff, ducked his head from the windblown particles. He missed the dus, which probably hunted somewhere above, in the rocks: well that it had not come in with him, this night, with resentments smoldering in the Kel.

  And on that thought he looked back, half expecting Ras to be there. She was not.

  At the sharp bend of the cliff he walked across the open center, past the stand of pipe, which rose at an assortment of angles, its greater segments thick as a man’s waist. Good fortune that it grew here, making far easier their existence with its reliable moisture; it was the only good fortune they had to their account.

  * * *

  Faint light showed in Sen’s retreat. Gold-robes who sat in contemplation at the entry looked up in mild inquiry, scrambled up in haste when they recognized him, and stood aside in respect for the kel-first. He walked farther, into the shadow and lamplight of the inner sanctuary, disturbing more of them from their evening’s meditations. He unveiled out of respect to their elders, and one went ahead while he waited, to ask permission, and returned with a gesture bidding him pass.

  He rounded the turning, into the last secrecy, where a few gold-robes sat about the piled stones which served Melein for her chair of office, in this little recess which served as the she’pan’s hall, primitive and far from the honor she was due. Her robes were white, her face always unveiled: Mother, the tribe ought to call her, and she’pan, keeper-of-Mysteries, the Holy.

  Truesister, Niun thought of her, with a longing toward that companionship they had once had. Often as he had seen her in the white robes and surrounded by sen’ein, he could not forget kinship.

  She motioned dismissal of the others, summoning him; he bowed his head and waited as the sen’ein passed, murmured courtesy to the sen’anth, old Sathas—received back a grumbled acknowledgment, but that was Sathas’ way with everyone.

  “Come,” Melein said.

  He did so, took the offered place at her feet.

  “You look tired,” she said.

  He shrugged.

  “You have some trouble?”

  “She’pan—Kel does not admit this is a safe place to be.”

  “So. Are not others worse?”

  That was a drawing question; impatience. “Others require taking. But perhaps that is what we have to do.”

  “Kel agrees?”

  “Kel offers no opinion.”

  “Ah.”

  “The Holy, the things we lost in the city . . . . I think by now if there were ships we would have seen them. Give me leave to go in. I think we can get them out. And for the rest—maybe it is not something in which Kel should have an opinion.”

  “You have begun to stop waiting.”

  He looked up at her, made a small gesture of helplessness, disturbed more than he wanted her to see. “I know the old kel’ein say weather change is a little distance off yet . . . on the average of years. But we ought to prepare our choices. This cut will be headed for the basins when the wind starts up; I believe that. We have to do something; I have been trying to think what. Chance is lying heavier and heavier on our shoulders.”

  “You have talked with the Kel.”

  He shrugged uncomfortably. “I have told them.”

  “And they have no opinion.”

  “None they voiced.”

  “So.” She seemed to stare past him, her eyes focused on something on the ground beyond him, her face half in shadow, gold-lit by the oilwood flames. At last her eyes flickered, the membrane passing twice before them, betraying some inner emotion.

  “Which way would you go?” she asked. “Down, into the basins? They tell me tribes range there too, that the air is warmer and moisture more plentiful; we would find larger tribes, likely, or smaller ranges. You would win challenge. I have no doubt that you would. Your skill to theirs—is far more years than they would want to meet: nine years with the finest masters of the Kel—I have no dread of that at all. We could, yes. Even seize upon a Holy to venerate, take their supplies, if our own are lost . . . the gods forbid. And what more?”

  “I am kel’en; how should I know?”

  “You were never without opinions in all your life.”

  “Say that I find no better hope in them.”

  “You are missing one of your j’tai.”

  His hand went to his chest belt before he caught her meaning, touched the vacant place among his Honors.

  “It was one of your first,” she pursued him. “A golden leaf, a leaf, on Kutath. Surely it would not have dropped away and you not notice it. I have—for many days.”

  “Duncan has it.” It was no confession; she knew: he knew now she always had.

  “We do not discuss a kel’en who left without my blessing.”

  “He went with mine,” he said.

  “Did he? Even the kel’ein of this tribe consult me; even with the example of you and Duncan before them. I have waited for you to come to me to tell me. And I have waited for you to come to speak for the Kel. And you do neither, even now. Why?”

  He met her eyes, no easy matter.

  “Niun,” she murmured, “Niun, how have we come to such a pass, he and you and I? You taught him to be mri, and yet he could defy my orders; and now you follow after him. Is that the trouble I hear from the Kel? That they know where your heart is?”

  “Perhaps it is,” he said faintly. “Or that theirs is constantly with Merai.”

  “Because you constantly push them away.”

  There was a long silence after.

  “I do not think so,” he said.

  “But that is part of it.”

  “Yes. Probably that is part of it.”

  “Duncan went back,” she said, “of his own choice. Was it not so?”

  “He did not go back. He went to the humans, yes, but he did not go back. He still serves the People.”

  “So you believed . . . or you would never have given him your blessing. And have you talked of this with the Kel?”

  “No.”

  “Humans would surely not let him go again, if he even lived to reach them.”

  “He has reached them.” Niun made a gesture which included An-ehon, northward, the wide sky above the rocks. “There have been no ships, no more attacks. She’pan, I know that he has reached them, and they have heard him.”

  “Heard him say what?”

  That struck him dumb, for all his faith in Duncan did not bridge that gap of realities, that could span what was mri and what was human with a request to go away.

  “And you talk of regaining the means to move,” she said. “So I have thought in that direction too, but perhaps with different aims. You always hunt eastward. I have heard so.”

  He nodded, without looking at her.

  “You hope to stay close hereabouts,” she said. “Or to move east, perhaps. Do you hope, even after so many days—that he will fi
nd us?”

  “Some such thing.”

  “I shall send Hlil to An-ehon,” she said. “He may arrange his own particulars; he may take whatever of the Kel he needs, and a hand of sen’ein.”

  “Without me.”

  “You have other business. To find Duncan.”

  On two thoughts his heart leaped up and crashed down again. “Gods, go off with the Kel in one place and yourself left with no sufficient guard—”

  “I have waited,” Melein said, as if she had not heard him. “First, to know how long this silence in the heavens would last. We need what is in An-ehon, yes; a hand of days or more: Hlil will need a little time in the city, and more returning if they are successful, and carrying their limit. But alone, with no burden at all—I daresay you could search even to the landing site and reach us again here in that time.”

  “Possibly,” he said. “But—”

  “I have weighed things for myself. I doubt you will succeed; Duncan surely went with his dus, and if it were still with him, he could have found us by now . . . if he were coming. But I loved him too, our Duncan. Take it at that value, and find him if you can; or find that we have lost him, one or the other. And then set your mind on what you have to do for this tribe.”

  “You need not send me, not to satisfy me.”

  “Lose no time.” She bent, took his face between her hands, kissed his brow, delayed to look at him. “It may be, if you are too late getting back—you will not find us here. There are other cities, other choices.”

  “Gods, and no more defense there than we had in An-ehon. You know, you know what humans can do—”

  “Go. Get moving.”

  She let him go, and he rose up, bent to press a farewell kiss to her cheek. His hand touched hers, fingers held a moment, panic beating in him. He was skilled enough to fend challenge from her; Hlil was; she was parting with both of them.

  “My blessing,” she whispered at him. He went, quickly, past the wondering eyes of the sen’ein, averting his face from their stares. He was halfway back to the Kel before he recalled the veil.

  And suddenly, by the sandfall, a shadow startled him, kel-black and somber. Ras. He finished tucking the veil in place, met her. “Ras?” He acknowledged her courteously, attempting comradeship.

  But she said no word. She never did. She walked behind him, a coldness at his back.

  * * *

  Silence fell in Kel, at his coming. They waited, a ring of black, of gold-limned faces. He came among them and through their midst with Ras in his wake as far as the ring of the second rank; they stayed seated when he motioned them to do so. He dropped to his knees nearest the lights, across from Hlil; and he removed both veil and headcloth, mez and zaidhe, in token of humility, of request.

  “Kel’ein,” he said in that silence. “Yes—at least to the matter of recovering our belongings from the city.” He leaned his hands on his knees and drew breath, gazing at their shadowed faces, row on row, to the limits of the recess. “Hlil will be in charge of that party; Hlil, surely the she’pan will give you some advice in that matter. If not, seek it of her.”

  “Aye,” Hlil muttered with a quizzical look on his broad face.

  “I warn you this much: be wary. A kel’en should go in ahead, searching for any traces of landing. There could be machines set to sense your presence, very small. Anything that does not seem to belong there—O gods, kel Hlil, be suspicious, of every small thing. And if you should see ships aloft, do not lead them; go astray, lose them, until the wind has blotted your trail. They do not depend on eyes, but on instruments.”

  “You refuse leading, kel’anth?”

  “I am sent elsewhere.” His heart set itself to beating painfully. “Kel Seras, be in charge over the Kel that stays in camp; Hlil, I have said. Good evening to you?”

  They did not question him; he desperately did not invite it. He rose, gathered up an empty pouch for food, slipped on the head-cloth again and veiled himself.

  And turned to face kel Ras, who had risen among the others, whose cold face was veilless, eyes hard above the kel-scars. “Ras,” he said in a voice he wanted to carry no farther than it had to. “Ras, in this—go with Hlil.”

  “If Hlil wills,” she said likewise quietly; but in the silence of the Kel it surely carried. It was more reasonable in her than he had expected, which itself made him suspect some tangled motive.

  “Thank you,” he said, and started away, through their midst.

  “Kel’anth,” Hlil called out; and when he stopped and looked back: “Will you take nothing with you?”

  “Kath and Sen will be short of hunters. The dus and I will manage.”

  “That beast—”

  “—cares for me,” he said knowing their disapproval of it. “Life and honors.”

  Hlil omitted any wish to him in return. Only Ras came and with irony watched him out onto the path. She did not follow. He looked back to be sure, and once again; and then put her from his concerns and walked on, the long corridor outward.

  He alarmed the sentry, coming out at such an hour. He gave the signal, a low whistle, and passed, hearing the kel’en high in the rocks settle back to his place.

  Dus, he called when he had reached the outside, the level of the plain.

  It was there. He kept walking and felt it before he heard it, a heavy shape moving among the rocks, a whuff of breath suddenly at his heels as he passed a boulder. He sensed disturbance in it, an echo of his own troubled mind, and tried to calm himself, as a man must who walked with dusei.

  * * *

  He took the way had taken daily, from which he had come this same evening. He was footsore even in starting out; day after day he had pushed himself farther than he ought. Sense said he should rest now; but he could do that on the journey, when he must. Time was precious—life itself, if one ran out of it.

  And anxiously as he walked he scanned all the heavens, to be sure that they were empty of watchers, gazed over all the flat horizons, the rounded hills. The night-bound desolation dismayed him, starker than it was by day. Dead stars above. And enemies.

  A soft surge of strength came into him then, beast-blank: dus mind, offered to his need. It wished to comfort, brushing against him in its waddling stride.

  He took the gift, bearing eastward.

  The place where their own ship had landed: that was surely where Duncan had gone, to the first place humans would have come in trying to locate them. He walked steadily—did not dismiss the dus from his side to hunt, not now: he needed it by him to find a safe way, exhausted as he was; for the open sands held ugly surprises.

  It made him no complaints. Dusei were night walkers by preference. It tossed its massive head and ranged either at his side or a little ahead of him, snuffing the wind, panting a little at times from the pace he set.

  Duncan . . . had never been able to match his stride. Always he had had to shorten his steps when Duncan was by him; and the very air of Kutath was hostile to a human’s lungs. It was madness that Duncan had ventured this desert alone.

  The chance was—he admitted it to himself—that the odds had overtaken Duncan, coming back, if not going. Only one thing Duncan had had in his favor, that he might have been mri enough to handle: the company of his dus.

  Find it, he willed his own, casting it the image. Dusei, it was said, had no memory for events, only for persons and places. He shaped Duncan for it; he shaped the other dus, so long its companion. Find them; hunt.

  Whether it understood clearly or not he could not tell; on the following day it began to radiate something in answer, which prickled at the nape and tightened the skin behind his ears.

  Friend, he shaped.

  It tossed its head and kept casting about anxiously making occasional puffs of breath. Its general tendency was eastward, but it had no track, no more than in all the other treks they had made, only a vague, persistent nervousness.

  He slept by snatches, day or night, whenever he could go no farther, curled up against the dus�
�s warmth until he could regain his strength. He was by now out onto the wide flat, where the land went on forever, save for the rim and the void beyond, world’s edge. He drove himself, not madly, as one who did not know his limits, but as one who did, and thought he might pass them by a margin.

  He caught a darter or two in his path, and for all he hated raw flesh, he ate, and shared with the dus, which persisted in its distress.

  And finally he looked back, at the west, where the sun set with a shadow on it, amber and red and darker tones.

  Not moisture-bearing cloud, not on Kutath.

  Dust across the sun.

  He stared at it, and beside him the dus flicked its ears uneasily and moaned.

  Chapter Three

  The weather had held steady for days, out of Kutath’s eternally cloudless sky, but the west bore a murkiness this dawn which boded trouble.

  And the back trail . . . daylight showed nothing, no hint of movement.

  Duncan kept moving, looking frequently over his shoulder; it was the land’s deceptive roll, a trick of the eye—on his side for once. He made what time he could, looking to the storm with hope.

  Cover, he desperately needed.

  And again and again he sought the presence of his dus. The beast ranged out at times, hunting, perhaps, exercising a little fear-warding on those who followed, kel’ein, strangers. He was full of dread whenever it was parted from him, that it might try to attack his pursuers, that they might kill it.

  Here, he ordered it, but it did not touch his mind, so that he went alone, blind in that sense he needed. He walked steadily . . . cut off a bit of the blue pipe which he carried among his other supplies, and slipped it into his mouth beneath the veils. Doubled, he wore them, like the robes, for although he had become acclimated, he had no business carrying the smallish pack he bore, no business doing anything that taxed his breathing. We are not bearers of burdens, mri were wont to say, disdaining manual labor and any who would perform it; and he had long since understood the common sense in that attitude, in which a mri kel’en walked the land with no more burden than his weapons, often taking not so much as a canteen, where no free water existed. He pushed himself too hard. He knew it, in the rawness of his throat, the headaches which half blinded him. He played just beyond the convenient reach of his mri shadows—curious, he reckoned them, keeping an eye on a stranger, and it was not to his advantage to increase the pace. He kept himself constantly alert to the horizons and the sand underfoot, stayed to sandstone shelves and domes where he could, not alone to avoid leaving tracks, but to avoid the dangers of the sand. Mez and zaidhe, veil and visored headcloth, and the several layers of the kel-robes: these he had chosen, although others had been offered; and a pistol and the ancient yin’ein, the weapons-of-honor . . . these he had by similar choice. He reckoned he might try a shot to dissuade his followers, but firing at them . . . all the kel-law abhorred such a thing; he had more than the robes to mark him mri, and he would not.