The Faded Sun Trilogy Omnibus

by C. J. Cherryh

  To die?

  He wished he could trust it were so simply final. To stop the humans; to breathe life into the war again; to ruin the peace and the regul at once, and then, being few, to die themselves, and leave the regul species at the mercy of outraged humans: this was like the mri.

  He began to think, his double hearts laboring with fear, what choice he had in dealing with the mercenaries; and as he had never lied before he dealt with mri, so he had never contemplated violence with his own hands, without mri hired as intermediaries.

  The sled made a rough turn toward the port gate, bouncing painfully over ruts. The disrepair was even here.

  He saw with utter apprehension that clouds had gathered again over the hills beyond the city.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The rain came, a gentle enemy, against the walls of the edun. The winds rushed down, but the mountain barrier and the high rocks broke their force and sent them skirling down slopes toward the regul town and port instead. No strong wind had ever touched the edun, not in 2, 000 years.

  It was comfortable on such a night to take the common-meal, all castes together in the she’pan’s tower. All evening long there had been a curious sensitivity in the air, a sense of violent pleasure, of satisfaction as strong as the storm winds. The dusei, mood-sensitive, had grown so restive that they had been turned out of the edun altogether, to roam where they pleased this night. They disappeared into the dark, all but the miuk’ko at the gate, finding no discomfort at all in the world’s distempers.

  And the spirits of the kel’ein were high. Old eyes glittered. There was no mention of the ship that was coming, but it was at the center of everything.

  Niun likewise, among the kel’ein, felt the surge of hope at the arrival of Ahanal. Of a sudden, dizzying views opened before his feet. Others. Brothers. Rivals. Challenge and hope of living.

  And himself, even unfledged, even without experience in war, hitherto no person of consequence: but this was homeworld, and he of homeworld’s Kel; and he was, above all, the she’pan’s kel’en. It was a heady, unaccustomed feeling, that of being no longer the least, but one among the first.

  “We have been in contact with a mri ship,” was all the word the she’pan had given them that morning, before the arrival of the regul bai; and that, outside its name, was all that they knew. The Lady Mother had gathered them together in the dawning, and spoken to them quietly and soberly, and it was an effort for her, for she lay insensible so much of the time. But for a moment, a brief moment, there had been an Intel Niun had never seen: it awed him, that soft-voiced, clear-headed stranger who spoke knowledgeably about lanes and routings around Kesrith that were little-monitored by regul—in riddles she spoke at times, but not now: “Soon,” she had said, “Very soon. Keep your eyes on the regul, kel’ein.”

  And quickly then, more quickly than they had anticipated, the regul bai had come making them offers.

  The regul were concerned. They were presented something that had never happened before, and they were concerned and confused.

  “Intel,” said Eddan, her eldest Husband, when dinner was done and Niun had returned from carrying the utensils to the scullery—that and the storerooms the only part of the Kath-tower that remained open. “Intel, may the Kel ask permission to ask a question?”

  Niun settled among the kel’ein quickly, anxious and at once grateful that Eddan had waited until his return; and he looked at Intel’s face, seeking some hope that she would not deny them.

  She frowned. “Is the Kel going to ask about the ship?”

  “Yes,” said Eddan, “or anything else worth the knowing.”

  The she’pan unfolded her hands, permission given.

  “When it comes,” asked Eddan, “do we go or do we stay?”

  “Kel’ein, I will tell you this: that I have seen that Kesrith’s use is near its end. Go, yes; and I Will tell you something more: that I owe the regul bai one kel’en, but no more. And I do much doubt that he will come back to collect that promise of me.”

  Old Liran, veilless as they all were veilless in the intimacy of the common-meal, grinned and made a move with his scarred hand. “Well, she’pan, Little Mother, if he does come back, send me. I would like to see whether Nurag is all it is claimed to be, and I would be of scant use in the building of another edun. This one, all cracks as it is, is home; and if I am not to stay with this one, why, I might as well take service again.”

  “Would a service among the People not do as well, Liran?”

  “Yes, Little Mother, well enough,” Liran answered, and his old eyes flickered with interest, a darted glance at Eddan—an appeal: ask questions, eldest. The whole Kel sat utterly still. But the she’pan had turned their question aside. Eddan did not ask again.

  “Sathell,” said Intel.

  “She’pan?”

  “Cite for the Kel the terms of the treaty that bind us to the service of regul.”

  Sathell bowed his head and lifted it again. “The words of the treaty between doch Holn and mri are the treaty that keeps us in service to the regul. The pertinent area: So long as regul and mri alone occupy the homeworld, whereon the edun of the People rests . . . or until regul depart the homeworld, whereon the edun of the People rests . . . This long we are bound to accept service with regul when called upon. And I hold, she’pan, that in spirit if not in letter, regul have already failed in the terms of that treaty.”

  “Surely,” said the she’pan, “we are not far from that point. We contracted with doch Horn. Doch Holn might have known how to deal with us; but this bai Hulagh is apparently of Nurag itself, and I do not think he knows the People. He erred seriously when he did not take urgent care to see to our evacuation long before now.”

  “Holn knew better,” said Sathell.

  “But Holn neglected to pass on to her successor all that she might have told him. The old bai Solgah kept her silence. Neither do regul tend to consult written records. The regul-kind do not make good fighters, but they are, in their own way, very clever at revenge.”

  And Intel smiled, a tired smile that held a certain satisfaction.

  “May the Kel,” asked Eddan, “ask permission to ask a question?”

  “Ask.”

  “Do you think the Holn deliberately excluded us from the assets she turned over to this bai Hulagh?”

  “I believe the Holn will consider this a stroke of revenge, a salve to their pride, yes. Bai Hulagh has lost the mri. In such manner regul fight against regul. What is that to us? But I am sure of this,” she said in a hard tone, “that Medai was the last of my children to leave on a regul ship, the last of my children to die for regul causes. And hereafter, hereafter, kel’ein, do not plan that mri should fight mri again: no. We do not fight.”

  There was palpable dismay in the whole Kel.

  “May the Kel ask?—” Eddan began, unshakably formal.

  “No,” she said. “The Kel may not ask. But I will tell you what is good for you to know. The People are dangerously declined in numbers. Time was when such fighting served the People: but no longer, no longer, kel’ein. I will tell you a thing you did not ask: the ship Ahanal bears what remains of all the People; and we are the rest. There are no more.”

  There was cold in the room, and no one moved. Niun locked his arms tightly about his knees, trying to absorb personally what the Mother said, hoping that it was allegory, as she often spoke in riddles: but there was no way to believe it a figure of speech;

  “At Elag,” said Intel in a thin hard voice, “while regul evacuated their own kind, they threw the kel’ein that served them against humans again and again and again, and summoned the kel’ein of Mlassul and Seleth edunei, and lost them as well. But this mattered little to regul, to this new bai, Hulagh—to this new master sent out from Nurag.”

  There was a sudden sound, an impact of fist on flesh: and Eddan, who did not swear, swore. “She’pan,” he said then. “May the Kel ask—”

  “There is nothing more to ask, Eddan,” said In
tel. “That is the thing that happened: that cost 10, 000 mri lives, and ships—ships of which I do not know the tally; many, many of the ships were regul, without regul personnel aboard, because the regul feared to stay. They killed 10, 000 mri. And I curse the she’panei who lent their children to such as that.”

  A fine sweat beaded Intel’s face, and pallor underlay her skin. The sound of her breathing was audible, a hoarseness, above the sound of the rain outside. Never had the gentle Mother cursed anyone; and the enormity of cursing she’panei chilled the heart; but neither was there repentance on her face. Niun drew his breaths carefully, sucking in air as if he drew it off the noon-heated sands. His muscles began to tremble, and he clenched his hands the harder lest someone notice it, if anyone could notice anything but his own heartbeat in that terrible silence.

  “Little Mother,” Sathell pleaded. “Enough, Enough.”

  “The Kel,” she said, “finds it necessary to ask questions. They are due their answer.” And she paused a moment, drawing great breaths, as if she intended next something necessary, something urgent. “Kel’ein,” she said, “chant me the Shon’jir.”

  There was a stirring among the kel’ein, outright panic and dismay. She is dying, was Niun’s first thought, and: O gods, what an ill omen of things! And he could not say the words she asked of them.

  “Are you children,” she asked of her Husbands, “to believe any longer in luck either good or bad? Chant me the Passing ritual.”

  They looked at Eddan, who inclined his head in a gesture of surrender, and began, softly. Niun joined them, uncertain in this insanity in which they were bidden join.

  From Dark beginning

  To Dark at ending

  Between them a Sun

  But after comes Dark,

  And in that Dark

  One ending.

  From Dark to Dark

  Is one voyage

  From Dark to Dark

  Is our voyage

  And after the Dark,

  O brothers, o sisters,

  Come we home.

  Intel listened with her eyes closed, and afterward there was a long silence; and her eyes opened, and she looked on all of them as from a far place.

  “I give you,” she said, “a knowledge which kel’ein knew long ago, but which passed from the Kel-lore. Remember it again. I make it lawful. Kesrith is only a between, and Arain only one of many suns, and we are near an ending. In the People’s history, kel’ein, are many such Darks; and the regul have afforded us only the latest of our many homes. For this reason we call it Shon’jir, and in the low language, the Passing ritual. For this reason we say it at the beginning of each life of the People and at each life’s ending; and at the beginning of each era and at its ending. Until another she’pan shall bid your children’s children, Niun, forget what I have told you, the Kel may remember.”

  “Mother,” he, said, raising hand to her in entreaty, “Mother, is it the moving of homeworld you mean?”

  Too long she had been mother to him, and he realized after he had spoken his question that she was due more courtesy; he sat with his heart pounding and waited to hear her coldly rebuff him by asking Eddan if the Kel had a question to pose.

  But she neither frowned nor refused his question. “Niun, I give you more truth to ponder. The regul call themselves old; but the People are older. The 2, 000 years of which you know are only an interlude. We are nomads. I say that the Kel shall not fight; but the Kel has other purposes. Last of my sons, the Kel of the Darks is a different Kel from the Kel of the Between. Last of my daughters, the she’panate of the Darks is a duty I do not envy you.”

  Upon an instant the whole Kel was torn from one to the other of them a fearful, astonished attention.

  The succession was passed, not in fact, but in intent; and Niun looked at his onetime brothers, and saw their dismay; and looked at Melein and saw her pale and shaken. She veiled herself and turned away from them; and of a sudden fate felt himself utterly alone, even amid the Kel. He bowed his head and stayed so while the voice of Eddan, subdued, begged leave to question, which the she’pan refused.

  “The Sen asks,” said Sathell’s voice then, and by that, posed a question that could not be refused. “She’pan, we cannot make these plans without consulting together.”

  “Is that a question, Sen?” the she’pan asked dryly, and in the shock of that collision of wills, there was silence. Niun looked at them, from one to the other, appalled that those who ruled his life did not agree.

  “It is a question,” said Sathell.

  The she’pan bit at her lip and nodded. “Yet,” she said, “we have made these plans without consulting. I did not consult when I made sure that Ahanal was reserved from the madness of Elag. I did not consult when I maintained our base on Kesrith against the urging of some to leave. I have made these plans without consulting—and I have left the People no other choice.”

  “To the death of our Kath and most of our Kel, when we might have had Lushain for homeworld instead, where there is water and gentle climate, where we might have had a rich world, she’pan.”

  “That old quarrel,” she said in a still voice. “But I had my way, Sathell, because the she’pan, not the sen’anth, leads the People. Remember it.”

  “The Sen asks,” said Sathell in a trembling voice, “why. Why must it have been Kesrith?”

  “Is your knowledge adequate? Do you know the last Mysteries, sen’anth?”‘

  “No,” Sathell acknowledged, an answer wrung from him.

  “Kesrith was the best choice.”

  “I do not believe it.”

  “I said at the time,” said Intel softly, “that I decided as I saw fit. That is still true. I do not require your belief.”

  “This I know,” said Sathell.

  “Kesrith is hard. It kills the weak. It performed its function.”

  “This forge of the People, as you called it, performed its function too well. We are too few. And Elag has left us with nothing.”

  “Elag has left us with a remnant like the remnant of Kesrith,” said Intel. “With what has been through fire.”

  “A handful.”

  “We have given the People,” she said, “a place to stand, and stand we shall until humans stand on Kesrith. And then the Dark. And then a decision that will belong to others than you and me, Sathell.”

  There was silence. Sathell rose suddenly and caught at the wall for support, his weakness betraying him. “To others then,” he said, “let it pass now.”

  And he walked out. His footsteps descended the tower.

  Eddan bowed himself, came to Intel and took her hand. “Little Mother,” he said gently, “the Kel approves you.”

  “The Kel knows little,” she said, “even now.”

  “The Kel knows the she’pan,” he said in a faint voice. And then he looked about him at the others, at Melein last of all. “Sen Melein—make the cup for her.”

  “I will not drink it tonight, Eddan,” Intel said.

  But Eddan’s look said otherwise, and Melein nodded, silent conspiracy against Intel’s will, and rose and poured water and komal into a cup, preparing the draught that would give Intel ease.

  “Go,” said Eddan to the Kel.

  “Niun will stay,” said Intel, and Niun, who had risen with the others, stopped.

  And downstairs the main door opened and closed, a hollow crash.

  “Gods” Pasev breathed, and cast a look at Intel. “He is leaving the edun.”

  “Let him go,” said Intel.

  “She’pan,” said Melein’s voice, a clear note of anguish. “He cannot stay the night out there in the weather.”

  “I will go after him,” said Debas.

  “No,” said the she’pan, “Let him go.”

  And after a moment it was clear that there was no changing her mind. There was nothing to be done. Melein settled at Intel’s side, still veiled, her eyes averted.

  “The Kel is dismissed,” said Intel, “except Niun. Sleep
well, kel’ein.”

  Eddan did not wish to be dismissed. He stayed last of all; but Intel gestured him away. “Go,” she said. “There is nothing more I can tell you tonight, Eddan. But in the morning, set one of the kel’ein to watch the port from the high rocks. Sleep now. This storm will keep the regul inactive, but tomorrow is another matter.”

  “No,” said Eddan. “I am going after my brother.”

  “Without my blessing.”

  “All the same,” said Eddan, and turned to go.

  “Eddan,” she said.

  He looked back at her, “We are getting too few,” he said, “to make too many journeys to Sil’athen. Sathell would not willingly have left Nisren. Neither would I. Now we will not leave Kesrith. We will walk toward Sil’athen, he and I. We will be content.”

  “I give my blessing,” she said after a moment.

  “Thank you,” he said, “she’pan.”

  And that was all. He left; and Niun stared after him into the dark of the hall and trembled in every muscle.

  They were as dead, Eddan and Sathell. They had chosen, Sathell after the fashion of his kind, and Eddan, untypical for his caste, to go the long walk with him. And he had seen Eddan’s face, and there was no heaviness in it. He heard the kel’anth’s steps going down the spiral, a quick and easy stride, and the door closed behind him too; and it was certain that the edun was less by two lives, and they had been great ones.

  “Sit by me,” Intel bade them.

  “She’pan,” said Melein in a thin, strained voice, “I have made your cup. Please drink it.”

  She offered it, and the tray shook in her two hands Intel took the cup from her and drank, then gave it back, leaning back as Niun settled, kneeling, on her left hand, and Melein on her right.

  So they had spent many of the nights since Medai’s death, for Intel’s sleep was not easy and she would not sleep without someone in the room.

  This night, Niun envied her the draught of komal; and he would not look at her while she waited for the draft to have effect, but bowed his head and stared at his hands in his lap, shaken and shattered to his inmost heart.