by Karen Lord
“What is it? What’s happened?” I whispered frantically as I unknotted myself.
Fergus’s deep murmur was slow and calming. “Someone’s trying to break into the shuttle. Lian and I are going to check it out.”
I hesitated, then flung off the netting with one final effort and felt my way to the edge. A hand rested warningly on my back, another hand muffled my start at a scream, and a voice whispered in Cymraeg, “Stay.”
It was likely someone we’d met during the day, but the night was dark and all faces dim. Probably the only person who’d stand out would be the Queen, with her bright hair.
“What is it?” I whispered. “Do you know?”
“Unseelie,” came the whispered answer.
For a moment I was baffled, and then I grimaced. “Ah. The bad guys.”
“Yes. They rule the land at night and go underground at dawn. They do not come up to our treetops, and we do not descend to their caves. Thus we preserve some measure of peace.”
“I thought the whole point of becoming Elves was to stop the conflict.”
The hand on my back shifted as if vibrating with laughter. “I will tell you about it tomorrow. It makes a good tale.”
“Who are you? How will I know you in daylight?”
“I am the teller of tales and singer of songs. You will make a good song, I can feel it. Which one is yours?”
Disjointedness of thought and speech seemed to be an Elvish trait, but I understood when a shadowy hand waved to the rest of the group, who were awake and quietly talking into comms and to one another. “Tarik and Nasiha are husband and wife. The rest—we belong only to ourselves.”
“Ah.” There was a hint of laughter in that response, and I wondered too late how strong these Elves were in telepathy and empathy. I sat up and put some distance between myself and the strange Elf with his overly friendly hand.
“Here come your guards,” said the storyteller-singer, and there indeed were Fergus and Lian returning.
“Perimeter alarms scared them off,” said Fergus. “Someone tried a light mental tweak on us, but it didn’t take.”
I quickly explained the little I had just learned.
“That’s not reassuring,” said Qeturah, a frown in her voice. “Remember the legend of faerie glamour? Let’s stay together as much as possible and be on the alert for influence.”
With the immediate danger over, the Sadiri soon composed themselves to rest with their usual economy of fuss. Qeturah drew Lian aside for a quiet conference. There was little chance of my getting to sleep in a hurry, what with all the adrenaline of the past few minutes, so I shifted a little closer to Fergus. He was putting away some of his gear and politely ignoring me, as usual. I’d long ago figured out that for a man like Fergus, a man who shunned unnecessary talk, I was a walking nightmare.
“I’m a bit surprised,” I began, adjusting my voice to copy his measured cadence, hoping not to startle or vex him. “Some of the taSadiri we’ve encountered … well, it’s one thing not to have the mental disciplines, but they seem almost … uncivilized.”
There was a silence as he paused for a moment in his work. “Are you joking?” he said at last, sounding wary.
I was baffled. “No. What did I say?”
“They’ve got all kinds of ways to reform criminals now, but what do you think the Sadiri used to do with their delinquents in the old days?”
I was struck mute. The concept of a lawbreaking Sadiri had not even crossed my mind. The perpetual stereotype of the judging, superior Sadiri was too strong, even in me.
“They used to ship them off-planet, fast and far. A lot of their so-called science outposts and religious retreats were nothing more than places to dump undesirables, people who didn’t quite fit in. Worked out for the best, ironically. Pity the demographics are so skewed.”
I exhaled very slowly. “You’re telling me that of the Sadiri who survived, there are diplomats and judges, pilots and scientists, nuns and monks … and jailbirds?”
“Yep. Almost makes you laugh, doesn’t it?”
I felt a bit foolish. Fair enough; it was Cygnian culture and language that was my speciality, but I had begun to pride myself on becoming a bit of an expert in Sadiri matters over the past few months. “How do you know all this?” I asked resentfully.
“Used to work in Galactic Patrol,” he replied. “Been far and wide myself, even as far as Ain. Lots of interesting tales about how Ain got founded, but I think it’s obvious.”
“You do?” I thought I knew what he was going to say. Political differences arise, conflict follows, and the more adventurous faction goes off to make a new world of their choosing—or the losing side gets kicked out. That was Punartam’s story, and which version you got depended on whether the person doing the telling was from Punartam or Ntshune.
“Prison colony for the worst offenders. Probably people like your—” He stopped, stiffened.
“Like Ioan,” I said, my stomach plummeting as if the tree had suddenly removed its support from under our feet.
“Something like that,” he said, wary again. Maybe he feared I was going to get all confiding or burst into tears. “Go to sleep,” he concluded abruptly. “I can’t keep proper watch with people nattering in my ear all night.”
I was now suspicious that the Queen’s overwhelming presence was glamour-assisted. I tagged along behind her and Dllenahkh the following morning as they walked in the mellow light below the trees and he told her about Sadira, the Sadiri settlement in Tlaxce, and New Sadira. As I translated, I absently probed at my emotions but found nothing amiss.
After she dismissed us and swept off with her small entourage, I asked him directly. “How does the Queen strike you?”
“Cautious,” he replied. “She has clearly heard reports, but she assumes nothing and waits for me to confirm. A very scientific approach.”
“Well, yes, but is there anything more? How does she feel to you?”
He raised a faintly puzzled eyebrow. “Bored. Lonely.”
“Do you find her beautiful?” I asked at last.
“Ah,” he said in dawning comprehension. “You are worried about the possibility of glamour. No, she uses none.”
“Well, if any of us could tell, it would be you,” I grumbled. “Do me a favor. When you get a chance, ask her about the Unseelie Court.”
We were invited to a formal dinner that night. I could not help smiling at the seating arrangements. Qeturah was given a couch on a smaller dais with Lian and Fergus nearby, and the Elves who attended her were mostly male and, well, damn good-looking. Nasiha had the smallest dais with Tarik at her side, Joral slightly below, and again some very good-looking attendants. I had no such luck. Perhaps this matriarchal society required that I have at least one pet male of my own to qualify for special treatment, or perhaps I was still too useful as a translator. I was stuck just a little back from Dllenahkh, who was seated at the Queen’s right hand. On the bright side, it seemed that the most attractive attendants had been reserved for the Queen’s dais, so during lulls in conversation I amused myself by ranking them. One of them, an eight point five on my scale, was quietly tuning a stringed instrument resembling a cithara. He caught my eye and smiled. My eyes widened, and I elbowed a startled Dllenahkh in the ribs.
“Quick! Ask her about the Unseelie Court!” I hissed.
He complied, with only a disapproving quirk of the corner of his mouth to chastise me for my behavior, and I dutifully translated. The Queen’s eyes went from lazy to furious for a moment, then she instantly regained her calm.
“It is true,” she said. “It appears that war, when deprived of one reason, simply seeks out another. We are still a people divided, having selected different aspects of legend to embody. And yet it is better than it once was.”
“How so, Your Majesty?” asked Dllenahkh.
Clapping her hands, she caught the minstrel’s attention. “Tell them a story of the Elder Days, the one about the woman with three sons.”
“A woman had three sons, and when they were grown, the first came to her and said, ‘Mama, I love a girl and wish to marry her.’ She replied, ‘Son, this gladdens my heart, but of what lineage is she?’ ‘Alas, Mama,’ he told her. ‘She is half Terran.’ His mother raised her hands and shook her head and said, ‘A tragedy, but I will cope.’
“The second son came some time after to inform her of his desire to marry, and, worse yet, the bride he had selected was half Terran, half Ntshune, with no taSadiri in her at all. But again his mother raised her hands, shook her head, and said, ‘A tragedy, but I will cope.’
“Finally, the third son came to her and said he was engaged. When she inquired about the girl’s lineage, he answered smugly, ‘She is all taSadiri, Mama.’ ‘Wonderful news,’ his mother cried. ‘Of what family?’ ‘She is of the Other clan,’ he confessed. Whereupon his mother rose up with her blade and slew him without another word.”
The bard waited for me to finish translating, then spoke low for my ears. “I hope you have rendered it well. It is one of my best tales, handed down from my grandmother.”
“Tale or family history?” I murmured teasingly in reply.
He merely smiled enigmatically.
“Conflicts are less intense, less bloody than before. Some blame the admixture of our blood; others credit our new traditions,” the Queen said.
“And some say there is yet a third reason,” murmured the bard as he returned to his instrument.
“Peace, child, all in good time. What my impertinent great-grandson wishes me to tell you is that some of the women of the Seelie Court are long-lived, specifically the women of my house.” The Queen looked around at her attendants. Suddenly, their devotion and her goddesslike air no longer seemed unwarranted.
“In many cultures it is considered discourteous to ask a woman her age,” Dllenahkh said. “If I may beg your pardon in advance, would you satisfy my curiosity?”
I took care to translate the elegant framing of Dllenahkh’s request. I believe I succeeded, for the Queen smiled at him and said graciously, “I am nearly three hundred and forty-seven Standard years.”
“Cygnian law prohibits extending the life span by genetic means,” Qeturah noted. “It is a risky proposition, with uneven results.”
The Queen shrugged. “What was done was done so long ago. Were we perhaps seeking to restore the years that the mixing of our blood had taken from us? And yes, the results are uneven, as you can witness. But it has provided a core of stability in our society.”
“You are a land of true matriarchs. Is that why there is no king in your court?” Dllenahkh inquired.
The Queen seemed delighted at this question. “There have been two in the past, but these days I follow the example of other women of my House and content myself with my attendants.”
There was a slight choking sound as Fergus inhaled his drink, no doubt finally realizing the significance of his placing at the Commissioner’s feet. Qeturah smiled and patted his shoulder. “Hush, dear; no explanations. This is no time for me to lose face.”
“What a life,” Lian said to me afterward. “I’ve never seen a woman with a harem who so obviously deserved it. I hope she keeps a close eye on her family tree. It would be very awkward to seduce one’s great-grandnephew.”
“They’re a small population,” I agreed. “I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a little mutual kidnapping going on with the other Elves.”
“Yep. Anything for fresh blood,” Lian said.
I frowned to myself, not quite knowing why.
The discussions continued. What made matters particularly difficult was the fact that the Queen became enthralled by the sound of the Sadiri language and pressed Dllenahkh to speak only in that tongue. Cymraeg is very poetic, even romantic, and Standard less so, though serviceable enough. Sadiri is absolutely perfect as a programming language, but when it comes to matters of the heart, it falls a little short. This became obvious when the tenor of the conversation began to change.
“Why don’t you tell me I’m beautiful?” she said randomly one day.
“It would be appropriate if you were to comment on the aesthetics of my person,” I communicated to Dllenahkh.
His eyebrows rose the merest fraction. “The fact that you are an extremely attractive woman is sufficiently obvious that it does not require my repeating it.”
“Need I tell you what so many others have told you before?” I replied to her.
She laughed lightly. I bit my lip in frustration.
“Any progress with that translator?” I asked Tarik moodily as he worked on his handheld, comfortably seated on edge of the t’bren with his legs dangling over high green infinity.
He gave me a steady look. “It will not be ready before the end of our sojourn here.”
“Blast,” I muttered. “I’m so tired of this.”
On the last day of our stay, the Queen seemed in a reflective mood. She took Dllenahkh and me up to the highest t’bren, whose view extended beyond the trees, across the valley, and to the gray-shadowed horizon with its high, distant mountains. A small group of attendants followed as usual, and her minstrel played his cithara in the background, singing in some variant of Cymraeg that was unfamiliar to me. The business of the Elven–Sadiri exchange had long been concluded, with the result that the only talk remaining between them was small talk. Dllenahkh noted in grave Sadiri fashion that the music was pleasingly harmonious.
“It is a love song,” she said to him, but her eyes were on me, her smile mocking though not yet cruel. “Shall I translate it for you?”
She signaled to the minstrel with a languid movement of her hand, and he began again, singing softly to the complex melody while she translated in perfect Standard:
“The mind is a golden vein
seamed in crumbling rock (also known as rotting quartz).”
And why had it amused her to have me tagging along as an imperfect interpreter when she could easily have spoken for herself in Standard? I would never understand what passed for humor among the Elves.
“The golden mean becomes a kindness
as she learns to sip the echo of his smiles.”
That was a nice little turn of phrase there. The echo of a smile—that reminded me of the subtlety of Sadiri facial expressions.
“That Sadira died,
that her heart was shorn of innocence by a conscienceless man,”
… the hell? She couldn’t possibly mean …
And yet my spine stiffened as the lilt of her voice and the sly slant of her looks suffused each word with a far too personal significance.
“that she tempts him to laughter
and other ruin,
that they ache,
that they find their way, slowly,
delicately, respectfully—
passion’s slow but inexorable burn …”
I was too embarrassed to look at Dllenahkh and too curious not to, so I settled for a furtive glance that only told me that he appeared to be perfectly still and controlled.
“It’s not the sun that blinds her,
nor the golden rays of impossibility
in an infinitely permutable and permissive landscape.
Light diffuses through suspended sand.
They dance, exquisitely slowly, an elegant
sarabande.”
She concluded the verses with a gentle flourish of her wrist and fingers. “I have so much time and so many to choose from,” she said to me with a beautifully condescending smile. “I can afford to be generous.”
Then she gracefully inclined her head, gathered up her entourage with the casual command of a glance, and withdrew, leaving us alone on the lookout with the minstrel still quietly playing nearby.
My ears were burning. It was impossible to pretend that I did not understand who the song was referring to, and what she had just hinted.
D
llenahkh cleared his throat. “I have recently received some new projections concerning the planned infrastructural improvements for the Tlaxce homesteadings. Would you care to go over them with me? I believe there are some points that may be of interest to you.”
“Yes, let’s. That sounds fascinating,” I quickly agreed, and we made our way back to our t’bren with no further incident.
That afternoon, we said our farewells and flew on toward our next assignment, stopping overnight at another Forestry outpost. I was curious to know what the Sadiri had thought of the Elven solution to taSadiri strife, so I approached them as they sat outdoors at twilight, talking among themselves in Sadiri.
“I know we’ve already had our formal debriefing,” I said with careful politeness, “but I was wondering what you thought of the Elves of the Seelie Court and what recommendations you might make concerning them to the Sadiri settlement.”
“It was an interesting encounter, but I do not aspire to become a member of a harem,” Dllenahkh said. As far as I could tell, he was teasing me, but I was too mortified to appreciate the effort at light-heartedness, especially since Joral, Nasiha, and Tarik were wearing various expressions of suppressed amusement, which was, for them, the equivalent of a belly laugh.
“Yeah, about that,” I muttered, examining my boots. “I’m sorry she got the wrong impression about us. I swear, I translated as best I could, but—”
“You are distressed,” he said in genuine surprise. “But surely you cannot think that this is the first time people have speculated on the nature of our relationship?”
I was finally able to look up, my jaw slack with amazement. “What?”
“It is true,” Joral confirmed. “It was one of the first things Tonio asked me when he was attached to the team.”
“Tarik and I have discussed the possibility more than once,” Nasiha admitted.
They looked at Dllenahkh, who grudgingly confessed, “Lanuri continues to exact a most un-Sadiri revenge for what he terms my ‘well-meaning meddling’ in his personal life. He has been affixing advice to the end of every piece of official correspondence he sends to me. He is of the opinion that my apparent ‘slow progress’ with you is an indication that I need help.”