The Parafaith War

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “Please, Sister.”

  “Would the inside garden be all right?”

  “That would be fine.”

  “Most of the returned like it.” She smiled, her eyes dropping to his left hand to see if he were already married.

  Trystin nodded, trying to keep a straight face. He’d been warned about the tendency of the sisters to try to be the first wife—the one who set the household rules. But warnings didn’t convey how attractive most of the sisters seemed to be, and how tall compared to most Eco-Tech women.

  “If you would come this way …”

  They went through another archway into the courtyard, where a dozen tables were set on the ceramic tiles under two overarching trees that shaded most of the space. Two tables were occupied, one by two older men, and the other by a woman who seemed to be reading while she sipped a clear beverage.

  A circular fountain in the center of the courtyard sprayed a thin column of water that fell back in a thin mist which cooled the space. Trystin could feel the itching in his nose subsiding even before he took the seat at the small glass-topped table facing the fountain.

  “You’re just back, aren’t you?” The hostess handed him the menu.

  “How did you know?”

  “Your nose. It’s red.” She gave a musical laugh. “It takes a while to get used to the tree pollen around here. The specials are at the top there.” She paused. “I’m Sister Megan Barunis. I hope you enjoy your meal.”

  “I’m sure I will, Sister.” Trystin offered as warm a smile as he dared, and less than he would have offered in a less dangerous setting, getting another smile in return before the hostess left.

  The top special on the menu was pine chicken with pinon nuts and new Idaho potatoes, whatever variety of potatoes Idaho were. The other special sounded even more problematical—sauteed mushwursts over blue maize pasta.

  The menu featured meat—mutton, steak, carbo, beefalo—in large portions ranging up to half a kilogram. Trystin couldn’t imagine eating that much meat at one setting—or the ecological impact raising that many herd animals would have.

  As he pondered, another sister appeared, dressed in a long blue-checked uniform that was not totally becoming to her fair, freckled face. Like the hostess, she wore her hair flowing free, and her left hand, almost flaunted, was free of rings.

  She bent forward to pour his water, standing closer to him and the table than was absolutely necessary, and the long bright-red hair—not the mahogany-red of Perdya—cascaded against the side of his face, bringing the scent of flowers.

  “I’m sorry, Brother.”

  “You don’t sound totally sorry, Sister.” Trystin grinned and folded the menu.

  “Oh, but I am, Brother.” She winked, then went on. “I’m Sister Ali Khoures, and I’ll be your waitress today. Have you looked at the specials?”

  “How is the chicken?”

  “Very good. The mushwursts are good, but most returnees find the texture too suggestive of—”

  “I’ll take the chicken,” Trystin said hurriedly.

  Sister Khoures laughed. “What would you like to drink?”

  “The limeade.”

  “That goes well with the chicken. Most people order anise tea.” The waitress shook her head, and the long red hair rippled.

  Trystin took a deep breath quietly, trying to push back the faint hint of summer flowers.

  “I’ll bring the muffins and your limeade right away.”

  “Thank you.”

  On the other side of the fountain, the older woman continued to read, and the two men in white suits ate and talked quietly.

  Trystin studied the garden—really more a set of brickwalled flower beds that followed the courtyard walls and surrounded the eating area, except for the four passages into the main building. Wide windows allowed diners in the building to look over the Hewers—mainly marigolds and a bright red flower Trystin didn’t recognize—into the courtyard garden.

  He took several slow and deep breaths. He was supposed to be thinking about his “removal” of Admiral/Archbishop Jynckla. Instead, he was getting distracted by very attractive young women who actually found him desirable, rather than glaring at him for his looks. Would they find him all that desirable if they knew who he really was? That thought sobered him.

  He took a deep breath, thinking about his main problem. Just how was killing one admiral going to help the Coalition? Supposedly, people older and wiser than he had it figured, but he could tell that the Revenants weren’t exactly monsters—they were human beings with human reactions, and Trystin doubted that the assassination of Marshal Warlock or any other marshal on the streets of Cambria would have much effect on the Coalition. So why would the assassination of Admiral Jynckla have much impact on the Revenants? Was the admiral a strategic genius or something? Or were the Coalition strategists getting so desperate that they’d become willing to try anything?

  Those were things he didn’t know, but, in the end, he’d have to act without knowing. And after acting, he’d have to escape, probably with an entire planet looking for him. The best assassination would be one that no one knew was an assassination—but the Service wanted one with impact, to deliver a message. He tried not to sigh.

  “Are you all right?” asked Sister Khoures. “You looked … so far away.”

  “We can’t always escape our past,” Trystin answered ambiguously. That was safe enough and in character, besides being true.

  “I’m sorry.” She paused. “Here are your muffins and your limeade.” Her hand somehow brushed Trystin’s after she set the plate and glass on the table.

  “Thank you.” Trystin nodded, and received a smile before she turned and left.

  The hostess led two other young women, both unattached sisters from the hairbands, into the courtyard. Trystin sipped the limeade and watched as the taller and sharp-nosed blonde leaned toward the hostess and whispered something. Trystin flicked up his hearing to the limit.

  “ … how about the table there, next to the flowers?”

  “As you wish, Sisters.”

  “Thank you.”

  The hostess, walking more stiffly than Trystin recalled, led the pair to the table for two nearest his table. “Enjoy your meal,” she said politely.

  “I’m certain we will,” responded the thin blonde.

  The sandy-haired and stockier sister smiled at Trystin.

  Trystin ignored the smile and took another sip of limeade. While he knew he wasn’t ugly, the attention was disconcerting, in its own way as disconcerting as the negative attention he had received in Cambria on his last home leave. Was attraction and repulsion all a matter of appearances? Or preconceptions? He hadn’t changed, but the students—boys and girls—in Cambria had disliked his rev looks—and had wanted to kill poor blond Quiella, while women he scarcely knew on Orum were almost panting after him.

  He broke open one of the still-steaming muffins and spread a touch of butter on it—at least he thought it was butter. After eating the entire sweet muffin, filled with dark berries, in three bites, he took another sip of the limeade. The slight headache he hadn’t realized he had began to fade.

  “ … handsome … not wearing a ring …”

  “ … with one like that … take being number two …”

  “ … eats like a returned … like he’ll never taste another good meal …”

  “ … make sure he got good meals …”

  Trystin cut back his hearing to normal. He was beginning to discover that hearing too much was sometimes worse than hearing too little.

  The hostess escorted in another party, settling the two women and the man with salt-and-pepper hair at the larger table next to Trystin. “Enjoy your meal, Brother and Sisters.”

  The man nodded curtly at the hostess, and Sister Barunis, dismissed, turned and paused at the edge of Trystin’s table. “The berry muffins are usually very good.”

  “Very good,” Trystin agreed. “Is there anything else you’d recommend? I ord
ered the pine chicken.”

  “I saw that in the kitchen. It smelled wonderful. If you like desserts, you might try the Saints’ chocolate silk pie.”

  “We’ll have to see.”

  “I imagine you’ll find room.” The hostess’s tone was dry.

  Trystin grinned. “Probably.”

  “Tell me how you like it.” This time her hand brushed his shoulder as she left.

  “I will.”

  With another radiant smile, she headed back to the front entrance.

  Trystin didn’t need stepped-up hearing to catch the displeasure from the two women at the adjoining table. He could feel the glare.

  “Here’s your chicken.” Sister Khoures slipped the plate in front of Trystin with a low half-bow that brought her cheek practically beside his.

  “Smells good.” Trystin caught the pleasant mixed scents of the spiced chicken, flower perfume, and clean woman.

  “It should. I told Sister Jerrlyn to give you a good one.”

  “I appreciate the kindness.”

  Sister Khoures waited for a moment, then flashed a smile and left.

  Trystin wanted to wipe his forehead. Instead, he picked up the knife, absently noting that Sister Barunis had escorted a party of four—a man with three women, presumably his wives-to another large table. Although the man was white-haired, with a heavily lined face, none of the women seemed much older than Trystin, and two Were noticeably pregnant.

  Trystin slowly sliced a bit of the tender chicken and ate it. The pine taste was faint, and overshadowed by rich brown sauce and complemented by the semicrunchy nut morsels. The Idaho potatoes were just round white peeled potatoes, and the sauce helped them considerably. The greenery was bitter, but he chewed it thoroughly as well.

  One of the pregnant women kept studying him, as did the thin-faced blonde at the nearby table.

  When he had finished the plate, somewhat surprised that there was nothing left, he sat back—but not for long.

  “Would you like some dessert?”

  “I’ve heard about the Saints’ chocolate silk pie … what else is that good?”

  “If you like really tart and sweet things”—Sister Khoures glanced toward the entrance where Sister Barunis presumably was waiting for other customers—“there’s the lime crumble pie. We also have fruit tarts, ice cream, and a lemon custard.”

  “I’ll have the chocolate silk pie.”

  “It is good.”

  As the waitress left, Trystin reconsidered the benefits of being a patriarch. Up to six wives chosen from among young women like Sister Khoures or Sister Barunis? Or the two who watched his every bite from the nearby table?

  “Your pie, Brother.” The slice she presented was almost a quarter of a good-sized pie.

  “Thank you.”

  Her hair, and her hand, brushed his shoulder as she left to attend to the party of four.

  Trystin finished the silky chocolate of the pie, and the golden pastry crust, in measured bites, half marveling that he had eaten it all without feeling totally gorged.

  He sat back and sipped his water.

  “Will there be anything more?”

  “No, thank you.”

  She set the antique lunch check on the glass of the table. “Thank you, Brother.” Her steps away from the table were precise and professional.

  He studied the bill, and the careful script that said, “Thank you, Sister Ali Khoures.”

  After using some of the paper bills for a gratuity—Brother Khalid had been firm about that—Trystin took the check to the hostess’s station, and Sister Barunis.

  “Was everything all right?”

  “Excellent, Sister. Excellent. Especially the pie.” Trystin handed her the credit strip, which she ran through the reader and handed back to him.

  “You could call me Sister Megan, at least.” Again, the warm smile followed, with a hint of something else, almost a sadness, that bothered Trystin, though he couldn’t identify it, even with stepped-up hearing.

  “I’m Brother Wyllum Hyriss. I appreciate your hospitality and kindness.”

  “What are you doing on Orum?”

  “Sightseeing. I took a job as a pilot for a Hyndji trading company, and I’ve never been to Orum and to the Temple. Friends told me that I should see the Gorge on the way.”

  “Your friends were right.”

  “Is there anything else I should see?”

  “You ought to stop at some of the overlooks. Don’t just look at the Gorge from the road. You can’t see the way the sun hits the crystals if you don’t leave the car.”

  “Thank you.”

  “It was good to meet you, Brother Hyriss. I hope we’ll see you here again.” She extended a card bearing the restaurant’s logo. “Just call me if you need reservations … or anything I can help with.”

  Trystin took it, avoiding a smile at the scripted “Megan Barunis, hostess,” and slipping it into his jacket pocket.

  “You never know,” he said softly, trying not to invite or discourage her. “I’m on my way to see the Temple. After that, my plans aren’t settled.” He smiled again and turned, feeling her eyes on his back all the way down the steps and out into the parking area, now half full.

  The car started easily, and Trystin pulled it up to the edge of the highway. He wanted to wipe his forehead, but didn’t, recalling his sessions with Brother Khalid.

  Whhsttt! Whhsttt! The Revenant-driven cars whipped by the restaurant’s parking lot like so many high-speed torps. Trystin wasn’t sure that most torps didn’t have more guidance.

  Another car pulled up behind him. Then another.

  Finally, he pressed the accelerator to the floor.

  Screeeechhh!

  The combination of the heavy foot and the internal-combustion engine succeeded in getting him back on the road south, even if one of the other southbound cars whistled by him as he was still accelerating. Was guiding vehicles on Revenant planets akin to suicidal military missions? Or suicidal Intelligence missions?

  The road, clearly cut by laser, began a continuous climb almost as soon as Trystin had left the restaurant. Scrub cedars and cacti dotted the pink and rocky hillside soil. While the cacti, and there were at least three different varieties, seemed to grow randomly, the older cedars seemed to be approximately the same size and placed in what seemed to be a grid pattern. The original planoforming plantings?

  Taking Sister Barunis’s advice to heart, he dutifully stopped at the first overlook. There were no signs, and all he could see was the valley he had just left, with trees and towns, and trees and towns.

  He moistened his dry lips and tried to count the squares in the trees that seemed to be towns. There were more than thirty. How many more he didn’t know, because even with enhanced vision, the angle got so flat for the northern end of the valley that the cleared spaces seemed to blur together near the base of the shuttleport’s plateau.

  Still … thirty towns of a thousand people … in just one valley. The valley could have had almost as many people as half of Cambria. Still … there was a certain … openness … a stark beauty … to the mountain-framed expanse of trees that was moving.

  He walked back to the car.

  Another five kays uphill where the road leveled out, he passed a sign—Dhellicor Gorge—but the road just continued to wind through hillsides of pink soil, cacti, and scrub cedars.

  After another five kays of driving, the hillside on the left side of the road dropped away into a narrow gorge—less than half a kay across, and deep enough that Trystin could see from the road that the lower walls were in shadow.

  Trystin pulled off the highway at the first overlook, marked by a sign stating, appropriately, Overlook #1. There he stopped the petroleum-powered car a good twenty meters short of the edge of the lookout. After setting the brake, he walked across a strip of grass and weeds to the blued-steel railing that separated the hard red-clay parking area from the cliff edge.

  He caught his breath.

  Below
the railing, the ground dropped into a canyon of fluted red-crystal walls that fell a good two kays to a ribbon of silver water winding westward through the canyon. The Gorge walls widened somewhat under the overlook, as if the rock about two hundred meters below the railing were softer, leaving a shadowed patch on the south side of the Gorge, across from Trystin. The early afternoon sun played on the crystals jutting from the rock beneath the overlook, and rainbows and shafts of red light speared into the thin canyon shadows on the other side, as well as down to the narrow river. The facets of light did not blind, but almost interwove into a pattern that changed minute to minute, but so gradually as to defy a description of the changes.

  For a long time, Trystin watched the lights playing on the rocks, and the shifts in the reflected silver of the river far below.

  The rocks seemed sharper even than those below the Cliffs of the Palien Sea, and starker, without the greenery that enfolded the cliff tops on Perdya. On Orum, the pinkred soil appeared more barren, despite the scattered scrub cedars.

  Finally, he turned and started toward his car. Beauty or not, he had a mission he continued to dread. As he walked from the overlook, another car, white, turned into the lookout, but instead of parking well short of the railing, stopped and parked no more than a half-meter from the blued steel.

  A man and three women got out. All three women wore skirts to mid-knee and high-necked blouses with sleeves below their elbows. All three were blondes of varying shades, and each had her uncovered hair braided in some intricate fashion, although none of the hairstyles were exactly alike. The tallest woman was pregnant.

  The driver was a trim but white-haired man with a slight tan, also wearing a long-sleeved, if light, collared shirt. “See, girls! Best view on Orum! Look at the way those crystals sparkle when the light hits’em.”

  Trystin nodded politely as he stepped toward his car.

  “ … bet he’s recently returned … eyes look like deep space …”

  “He’ll be looking for some of the sisters.” The man laughed. “Unless they find him first.”

  “ … poor girls …”

  “Poor fellow. Now … look at the light there! Ever see anything like that?”