Tay clung to that thought as delirium crept upon her.
AMURA, THE PALACE
SEXT
It was not far to the palace. Kal quietly played tour guide, pointing out the capital, temple, park, medical complex and fine-arts center. Lyte feigned disinterest, his eyes absorbing and cataloguing everything. The buildings were strange, occasionally even macabre—dreamlike configurations that reminded him of something he could not name. Colors were numerous, and Lyte thought of the stone called marble, which he had seen on the planet Terra. The buildings all had the same swirling, translucent effect, although not all were highly polished. There were many, many towers, their outsides textured as if they were dribble castles made of sand. And the city was clean, as if scoured.
“You certainly know how to avoid pollution. Nova Terra would give a lot to know your secret,” Lyte began conversationally.
“Nova Terra? Have you been there?” Kavan could not repress his excitement. Kal eyed him warningly—it was not polite to pressure visitors into conversation after a long trip. Lyte did not notice the discourtesy. He was more interested in the people. He had never seen so many Nualans together at one time. And he had made a discovery. They were not all beautiful. Healthy, certainly, at least to the eye, but some were far from beautiful. In fact, he saw no greater number of attractive people than he would see on any CSSI system street. Most were average—a few could be defined as dregs, dogs, or entiss, depending on your native tongue. One woman in particular fascinated him. He found her lanky, flat-chested, almost buck-toothed appearance quite unappealing. But the handsome young man on whose arm she hung was plainly oblivious to it.
“Ah, yeah. I’ve been to Earth.”
“Would we be so blasé if we could boast?” Moran added, amused.
Braan was following Lyte’s gaze, and smiled slyly. “She is brilliant, and witty, and a 20,” Braan said softly. “And, from what her friends say, a compassionate woman. No higher tribute can be made.” He looked distant then, as if not noticing Lyte’s blank reply. What was Braan, a mind reader? Very observant, Lyte decided. A man to be watched. He absorbed the little speech, aware of the sincerity behind it.
“I thought you people dealt in genetics,” Lyte answered. He was rewarded for his error in interpretation by Kal’s startled look and Kavan’s obvious anger. Braan quickly spoke, smoothing the path.
“To correct the disabling, the mutilating, the dangerous genes. There is no beauty requirement. We have learned all too well, the hard way, the true meaning of beauty. And appreciate it all the more when it appears of its own accord.” Lyte did not pursue it. There was no lack of looks among the Atares, that was certain. Braan, with his dark hair, tanned skin, and mysterious brooding magnetism, must be extremely attractive to most females. Lyte still heard his name mentioned with affection in the tratores. The twins were young yet, but with their narrower faces, high cheekbones, and oddly paired green-brown eyes, they were just as alluring. He had seen a hologram of Ronüviel’s father, however—a very average-looking man. Despite Braan’s words Lyte suspected genetic tampering, but he said nothing.
Moran was merely breathing deeply; of the flowers, the air, the babble of voices from the market they passed through. Something occurred to him—he turned to Braan. “Should we have taken that woman somewhere? It seemed as if she had been through a lot.”
Braan shook his head negatively. “She needed ... privacy ... more than transportation. Elana will take care of her. She was very uncomfortable with us.” Satisfied with Braan’s analysis, Moran turned back to watch the turquoise grass shimmer in the star’s light.
“I hope she is happy here,” Moran said finally. “As happy as I have been.” They did not speak again until they reached the palace.
Lyte had not been paying attention and was mildly surprised when the solar car stopped. He was not sure what he had expected, but not such ... massiveness. There were huge spiraling steps wide enough for ten men to walk abreast, the trees overshadowing them older than memory. The center door of the tri-portal was three times Lyte’s height, the hourglass pillars before it even larger. Green, yellow and turquoise patterns in the stone danced before his eyes, shadows playing tricks on him. Lyte extended a hand—the pillars were heavily textured with smooth, teardrop lumps.
“Don’t worry, they’ve held for thousands of years, and strong ground tremors are common here,” Moran whispered.
“Our years or their years?” Lyte retorted, still lost as to what the city reminded him of.
“Practically the same thing,” was the rejoinder. The two turned in time to see the door wardens open the center portal to admit them. They were both copper-skinned, a blond man and a dark woman, and they were dressed, Lyte realized, in ancient space colonization suits—reflective silver and internally controlled. They did not react to the royal family or the warriors as the group walked in.
“The Atares’ personal guaard, as is the gentleman in black skins following us. They will defend all the royal family if the need should ever arise and are silent companions in times of danger. Those suits are replicas of the original colonists’ suits. The men and women trained for that duty are prepared much as your unit is.” Commandos, sensitive trained? A whole troop? Lyte filed the information away for future reference.
As they entered the palace Lyte immediately noticed the echo and stopped, looking up into darkness. He now understood what the Nualan structures reminded him of—caverns. Massive, entwining caverns. It was like the underground city of Becoten, only on the planet’s surface. He studied the white walls, their irregularly-shaped depressions glowing fitfully from an unknown power source. The overall impression was of age, warmth and closeness. He took in its great width; several men were setting up long tables at one end of the hall.
“Welcome to the Great Hall,” Kal said. Kavan hurried ahead and threw his weight on two huge bronze doors at the opposite side of the barren hall. Lyte tapped his fingers on them as he passed and was shocked—they swayed slightly under his touch. They were of solid bronze and perfectly balanced to open at the thrust of a hand.
They had entered an octagonal corridor intersection, the hallways receding into infinity in three directions. Lyte was about to ask if this was fact or illusion when he noticed the mirrors. More than mirrors—they were the walls. In all three corridors, the only supports visible were windows and mirrors. They looked hand polished, their irregular shapes biomorphic, the huge fired clay frames almost oozing around their reflecting substance. He could see the glint of cast bronze at all three exits, and figures in black standing next to them.
“This is the Hall of Mirrors. To the left is the Footpath to the Stars. The view out that door is the Mendülarion and starset. To the right are the living quarters, and straight ahead is the throne hall. We are expected for saffra and kriska in the family room.”
Having finished his speech, Kal led on. Lyte glanced around as they walked down the passage and noted that Braan was using the mirrors to observe him. For nervousness? Disdain? Perhaps for something the man himself could not have named.
They reached the doors sooner than Lyte expected—so the distance was illusion. Moran appeared relaxed, as if everything was routine—his initial excitement had mellowed into a delighted realization that Ronüviel was near.
Kal activated a palm-impression lock and opened the door. Moran grabbed Lyte’s arm, stopping him. “We have to alert the computer to your presence.”
“Computer?” His voice was expressionless.
Braan answered, “The interiors of the palace and sensitive medical and military areas have palm-impression locks on their portals. If you have clearance, you can walk right in. There was an assassination attempt made on my older brother’s life when we were children ... during a party. It was considered a prudent move to inhibit easy access to the living quarters.”
“Them?” Lyte gestured at the warriors.
“They cannot memorize every stranger on the planet. The times are not danger
ous; we do not use individual guaard.”
“Place your hand on the panel and say your name. Just Lyte; no one uses titles here except the Atare,” Moran instructed, setting his own hand on the panel. “After that, the computer will know your prints.”
“What happens if you go in without clearance?”
“A silent alarm activates, and the guaard would find you so fast it would make your life spin—what was left of it,” Kavan answered, touching the panel. Flashing Lyte a smile, he disappeared inside. There was a silence.
“If you would prefer not, I can ask Liel to bring the saffra to the garden,” Braan offered.
“No.” Lyte set his hand on the panel and said, “Lyte.” It was strange to hear his own voice say the word. The panel blinked and was again dark. Braan set his hand on it. The screen flared and was still. Moran opened the door and followed the twins’ path.
The room was darker than Lyte had imagined, and cool, blocking out the mid-afternoon heat. Its construction was similar to the Great Hall, and it was filled with low, inviting chairs and fibers decorating the walls and floor. A beautiful table of a dark, polished wood was piled high with trays of unknown edibles and glasses made of trine gold. Lyte’s mouth dropped open. He could buy a whole army with one of those cups. Trinium, rarest of metals; Nuala’s wealth and its curse....
o0o
A stronger light source from beyond caused Lyte to move to one side—he could see a window in an adjoining room. He wondered if the windows were rigged.
“The windows are also monitored,” Braan said as he strolled into the room. Abruptly, a young woman burst through the doorway.
She might have been called a girl but not without adolescent offense. Although Lyte had the impression of shiny dark hair that fell to her elbows, the eyes were the arresting quality. One was blue and one green, and they sparkled with a liveliness, an awareness that hinted, inexplicably, of Braan. And with her heart-shaped face and turned-up nose, a beauty.
With a delighted laugh the girl threw her arms around Braan. Moran took advantage of the momentary diversion. “Careful, friend, Liel’s brigbait,” Moran whispered mischievously.
Lyte frowned at him. “Not exotic enough for me.”
“Those eyes should be exotic enough for anyone,” Moran returned, lighting up as Liel walked over to him.
“Moran! When will you come and stay for awhile?” She shyly slipped her arms around him and hugged him like a favorite toy.
“I’ve got elevenday off, what more could you ask?”
“Huh!” The woman tossed her head impatiently, for a moment still the child. “I could say a few things about what I think of your superiors, but I shall refrain.”
“Youngest of the Ragäree, this is Lyte, my closest friend. The Serae Liel. Liel is fine.” Lyte straightened and inclined his head slightly in the manner of a professional star-rover, used to meeting all forms of life. Liel gracefully swept her right hand arching away from her heart in the ancient Nualan greeting.
“Welcome, star warrior. You bring honor on our heads.” She avoided looking straight at him. Braan broke her oration by tickling her.
“Be bold, little one! Your spirit cannot remain hidden forever!” She could not help but crack a smile, the hint of a dimple showing; she met Lyte’s gaze, the gold in her green eye flashing. Liel gestured for the warrior to follow her to the table.
“One of the interesting properties of saffra is that it is often more refreshing heated and poured over ice than constantly chilled! We also have Tours day wine, or if there is anything special you would like ... ?” Liel began.
“Got your pill?” Moran asked Lyte. Braan had handed him the packet while they were in the solar car.
“Right here. Did someone watch you as closely as you’re watching me?” Lyte held up his hand as if to swallow the pill.
“Wait! They are very bitter. It is better dissolved in saffra and does not change the drink’s taste.” Liel grabbed his hand and pushed a glass of saffra toward him. Kal had poured it over ice, and the steam was thick. Lyte did not visibly hesitate, but he steeled himself for the unaccustomed taste. He was pleasantly surprised and had to force himself not to swallow the drink in one gulp. In the meantime Braan poured a glass for Liel while she greeted her other brothers.
“I wish Deenn was here, he would have enjoyed meeting you; but he is over on Niamh and will not be back until almost the end of the festival. He is the closest thing we have among the 20s to a professional warrior,” Braan said conversationally. He handed a glass to Moran, smiling slyly as he did so. “She will be down soon; she should be almost ready.”
“Did I hear ‘almost’?” Lyte started involuntarily at the voice, low and slightly musical. He turned toward the sound. Moran managed a soft half smile.
Ronüviel was no challenger to the universal beauty; not in the popular sense of the statuesque tratore queens. Average height, numerically proportioned, flawless skin and teeth—all superficial traits of health. Her straight, turned-up nose and strange, haunting eyes, so much like Braan’s, were disturbing, not attractive, as far as Lyte was concerned ... although the mahogany-brown hair which tumbled halfway to her knees was a definite asset. Lyte now understood her initial lure, however. How it worked, no. How it affected men, yes. She was at once sensual and earth mother, magnificent as a star and as humble as a madonna—totally at ease with, and unaware of, her “air” and her completeness as a woman.
Roe came straight to him, her face blazing in her pleasure, touching his arm in an intimate yet nonthreatening way. “Lyte! We are greatly honored! I was beginning to think there would be no one to give away the groom, should the need arise!”
“I’ll be up to it, don’t worry,” Lyte answered. With a look for Braan, Ronüviel walked over to Moran and gently touched his face, her thoughts for him alone.
Lyte glanced away. He could deal with the physical couples, the clinging, adoring here-for-the-moment situations he saw in the tratores, though he did not like clinging men or women, himself. What was between Roe and Moran was something different. One thing he knew: Moran was crazy about this woman and her people and could no longer be objective about them. Lyte would have to stand a double vigil during their stay. If only they weren’t so friendly ...
“Lyte, would you allow me to take charge of your personal case?” Kal asked, gesturing toward the tiny box they had carried from the transport. “We can have the items sealed against destruction, or plated with trine gold, whichever you prefer.”
Lyte stared at him a moment. No average citizen could afford trinium plating, so he assumed it was a free offer of service, because of his connection to Moran. But did he really want to be wearing something he might get hit over the head for every time he wore it?
“Sealing doesn’t change the color or—”
“You will scarcely be able to tell. It adds a slight sheen to matte finishes, that is all,” Kal went on.
The warrior offered him the box. “Sealing sounds fine. Put it on my tab.”
“There is no charge to you, our guest. I will also replace whatever currency you have with Nualan issue—it is in the box, is it not?”
So that’s why Moran made me put it in there. “Thank you, I’d appreciate that.”
“I do not wish to throw a damper on your party, Liel, but I must find Jaac. She has requested my presence,” Braan suddenly said, setting down his glass of saffra. The twins glanced at each other, but said nothing.
“I also intend to go,” Roe told him, seizing Moran’s hand and pulling him along. She paused a moment, remembering Lyte, and looked to Braan. They studied each other a second, and then Moran, perceiving this was not a casual visit, spoke.
“Don’t worry, I’ll vouch for him.”
Lyte remained impassive. In their simple glances he was reminded that the Axis Republic was still fighting a thousand-year war against the Fewha and the Malvevenian Empires—and that the Nualans were only one system away from the front.
The fou
rsome walked back into the palace complex and outside, the trees of the garden shielding them from the blazing afternoon light. Roe, Moran and Braan talked lightly of the trip over, the goings-on in the city—names and places totally unfamiliar to Lyte. He busied himself with trying to keep the direction of the temple in mind as a point of reference and started studying the greenery.
Nothing was familiar. In the thousand years the Nualans had been isolated and the following three thousand during which they had had few visitors, any desire for their previous flora and fauna had vanished. Some names had come down to them, and the many years had not changed the essential natures of trees and grass, but the similarity ended there. Even the predominant groundcover was not really grass, but instead was more clover-shaped and lichen-like, springy underfoot. The dry, oppressive heat was offset by towering succulents, some writhing like snakes, some with long, slender trunks and stiff, flat fronds. There were several barrel-shaped bushes with thick, juicy leaves—Lyte bumped into one and nearly fell by slipping on the undergrowth.
“Everything is so green here! I thought—since the area around Amura is primarily desert ...” Lyte began.
“It is the time of the cold rains, though they are intermittent and light, compared to spring. Thirtyday ago, it would have been dust here. We are closer to the equator—if you want green wait until you go north, into the mountains!” Ronüviel replied.
Suddenly a yawning entranceway appeared before them and plunged downward. They went down a flight of stairs to a corridor carved from solid rock. Walking to the end of the hall, Braan activated the door lock and walked in. Moran and Roe followed and, more slowly, Lyte. He did not like those locks. Lyte almost bumped into Moran as he entered the room.
Fire Sanctuary Page 5