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 abandon
ing 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.”
Fire Sanctuary Page 12