Fires of Nuala

by Katharine Eliska Kimbriel

  As he moved toward the window to gauge the night, a whisper of silk reached Sheel’s ears. He turned his head to see her reappear in the tunic, methodically rolling up the sleeves, the belt tossed over one shoulder.

  He was momentarily appalled. Never had he thought of himself as anything but thin — he was so narrow through the shoulders Avis could not wear his shirts — yet this tunic engulfed the woman. She seemed unconcerned. Giving the sleeves a final tug, settling them at her elbows, she tied the long belt around her waist and began weaving the ends across the front in a braid. Fascinated, it took Sheel several seconds to realize he was staring. Pulled in by the belt, the tunic did become a dress, but gave evidence of being designed purposely oversized, in a style popular in Dielaan. He had not expected it to look so elegant… but this woman had made a robe of toweling elegant.

  “You have only to ask. What would you like to know?” he asked gently, wishing the Caesarean tongue used a greater range of civilities.

  “Very gracious,” she said smiling. “Are you with PPR?”

  He considered the acronym, and then a smile of state crossed his face. “Public Promotion and Relations?”

  “Yes — that is what I do for Rover Consortium. I doubt I could have smoothed over a scene any better than you handled this one.”

  “You… are a guest of the house. But it would not be proper for my sister to leave the assembly,” Sheel said carefully, not sure how much she really wanted to hear about Nualan custom. “If you would prefer someone from Service… “

  “Not at all. You’re easily the most interesting person I’ve met this evening; I have no complaints,” she said, coming to stand next to the window. As she passed him, the scent of cloves rose to his nostrils.

  Suddenly at a loss as days of poor sleep descended upon his head, Sheel thought desperately for the proper question. As he mentally tore through various introductions, he caught her eye. She was extremely amused, he was certain — and he was not sure she had intended him to notice that fact.

  “I’m not bored,” she added quickly, even as he considered the same words.

  Sheel felt a familiar smile tugging at his lips, but he suppressed it.

  “I can tell you’re dying to slip away — that soda must be sticky. Give my regards to whoever it is, and have someone show me the route back to the hall. I can send this back to you here?”

  “I am not bored,” he found himself saying gently, aware the humor was trying to leak through. “Though I am tired, and may not be very good company this evening.”

  “You sound weary,” she agreed. “I won’t keep you.”

  “My sister Avis claims I always sound weary,” Sheel admitted, “but I am as good a guide as any you will find tonight. Probably better… I am still sober.”

  “We could do something about that – unless…” her low voice trailed off. “All those bottles behind the bartender that glowed like jewels — they’re native liqueurs?”

  “Yes. The water is treated, if you wish to try them,” he said neutrally.

  “Well…” She managed a faint smile. “I’m not much of a drinker, but I love to try exotic-tasting things. I saw one with the name… sunjewel?”

  “A type of flower… and a very exotic liqueur. We can rim the bottom of a glass or two, and you can compare it to wild suckleberry, which oddly enough is similar. Except for the aftertaste,” he added, still uncertain. Very different, this woman, keeping him off-balance. At first there was a hint of seduction in her manner, but now… friendly yet without promise. Why?…

  “Only if you explain to me what a ‘seri’ is,” she said. “There seemed to be a lot of them running around that party, but I received differing impressions about rank and status.”

  She sounded almost cross, as if someone had made up a game and refused to tell her the rules. Sheel could not hold it in any longer, and his laugh rang out. Startled, the ice princess grinned. Not her practiced smile; a real grin.

  “Only if you tell me the proper means of addressing you.”

  She actually looked disconcerted. “I’ve never told you, have I? My name is Darame Daviddottir.”

  “No longer the ice princess.” He started for the doorway.

  “I… beg pardon?” he heard her say in the Caesarean manner.

  “You glitter from a distance. It was as good a title as any,” Sheel answered, waiting at the entrance for a reaction.

  A pause, as if considering… “I feared you were referring to my personality,” she told him, a hint of asperity in her voice.

  “Indeed. Are you an ice princess?” he asked brightly.

  Not likely… her laughter was very warm.

  MATINS

  “I thought the previous bell rang eight times,” Darame said abruptly, startled out of her concentration. The bird calls were fascinating, like nothing she had ever heard, and she found the interruption annoying.

  “It did,” Sheel replied, kicking a stone down the paved path.

  “How many kinds of birds sing at night?” Darame continued, peering up through the tall foliage dancing above their heads.

  Sheel chuckled, drawing her attention. “That makes four.”

  “Four what?” she asked, wondering what tangent they would pursue next.

  “Four conversations we are carrying on at once. You keep bouncing among the university and its grounds, the prospect of rain, the fauna, and now the bells. Do you continue these conversations in your head? Sometimes the next question in the category does not fit the sequence.”

  She stopped walking, folding her arms and giving him a firm look. Blessed Nualan is very clever, she couldn’t help thinking. I never relax this much with strangers.

  Sheel also paused, seemingly oblivious to her expression, and she saw the outline of his head tilt upwards. “Here comes your rain.”

  The drops reached them before he finished the comment. “Where do we go?” she said aloud, wondering uneasily if the rain could hurt her somehow. Radioactive rain…

  “This way.” Seizing her arm, he guided her swiftly along the trail.

  Darame had no idea where they were. Tiring of the party, which had increased in gaiety as the night progressed, she had convinced Sheel she really wanted a tour of the city. To her surprise, he agreed. An even greater surprise was the discovery that they were going to walk. Accustomed to long hours in awkward shoes, Darame found this no hardship. The shadow in black which matched Sheel’s pace had been harder to accept.

  Atare City had been a marvel; buildings were tall and crowded close together, although the stone streets were quite wide. Intricate detailing made each structure a work of art, yet the overall blend was harmonious. Sheel had been strangely at home as they walked the nearly deserted streets, explaining with simple eloquence the design of the community. There had been no empty buildings; a store Sheel claimed was eight hundred years Terran had contained a bustling chocolate bar which made Darame long to try Nualan delicacies. Something in her manner had said “off-world,” however, for the shopkeeper sadly informed her he currently had no imports she could sample.

  A kinship between the university and the palace was not merely architectural skill; at one time the palace had been a part of the learning center. There Sheel had seemed most relaxed, the shadows and stark edges of the campus of a kind with the sharp angles of his face. It was there that she had discovered, almost in passing, that he was a doctor, and sometimes taught classes in medicine.

  Only one other building had been open this late — the museum — and it had been closing as they arrived. Sheel had paused to speak with the curator, and had arranged for them to visit one exhibit before the lights dimmed. It had been an unusual display, the guts of a control room laid out before their eyes. Bits of plastic, ceramic, rubber, and silicon had glittered against pieces of clear acrylic, the plastic command chairs of faded red mounted on… acrylic? Then she had noticed the sign. Not merely a display; the fragments had been the remnants of the control room of The Atare, one of the t
hree ancient ships which had landed upon Nuala and then been unable to leave… unable to escape. The metal of the hulls had been swiftly destroyed by whatever was present that rotted normal alloys. Radiation was involved, the same radiation which had mutated their children and almost destroyed them all.…

  A shiver which had nothing to do with rain and rising breeze traced Darame’s spine. Sheel had not spoken to her at the museum, except to explain that the acrylic represented the metal which had been devoured by the mutated microbes. Lost in thought, choosing not to ask him what microbes he spoke of, Darame had followed him back to the streets as the museum had faded into gloom. To have been trapped here with no hope of rescue, forced to make a new civilization or die in the attempt —

  What a mysterious place, Darame could not help but think as the guaard sprinted past them both, dragging her thoughts into the present. Allowed landfall with a prick of her finger and a walk down a flashing metallic corridor, yet those attached to the royal line were followed constantly by bodyguards. And no one asked questions here… not of anyone. People volunteered their names upon first meeting — and if they didn’t, no one in the circle asked. Even Sheel had asked only for her preferred mode of address. His few questions had been immediate, and often teasing. No one had asked why she was here, or for particulars about her work.… And then there was that one man at the party.… Why don’t they ask questions? Is the secret in that somber relic of The Atare?

  A box of light appeared before them, and Sheel pulled her through a doorway into some sort of lounge. The guaard — what did he call her, Mailan? — was arranging colored sticks in a firepit, even as Sheel crossed to a small bar. Turning slightly to the guaard, Sheel softly spoke to her in Nualan. She answered briefly, and the man laughed in response. Pulling a wine carafe from a cabinet, he said in Caesarean: “Would you like wine? Chilled or warmed is possible.”

  “You talk to her,” Darame heard herself say, and wondered where her common sense had flown. Sheel twisted slightly, giving her a puzzled look. “The guard. Everyone else pretends they aren’t there, but you talk to her.” So maybe she’s your mistress, sweet saints, where is my mouth?

  “Guaard,” Sheel said easily, drawing out the vowel. He poured some wine into a mug and hesitated over the second mug, raising an eyebrow at her.

  “Warm, please,” Darame said quickly, grateful he was overlooking her breach of the invisible Nualan boundaries of courtesy.

  “They are not exactly guards. They are shadows, in a sense. They do nothing but exist to protect us, yet they may choose to do as much or little else as they wish, as long as it does not distract them from their charge. Mailan and I… owe… each other favors, and keep track of them. Every time she does something a guaard is not required to do, yet saves me effort, she puts me in debt. When I do something my family normally does not do, I put her in debt.” Sheel placed the mugs in a hot box and set the timer. “Fire tending is outside her duties. I suggested it was her third of the night, and she reminded me that tracking odd garments through the halls was not guaard duty.”

  “Four, then?” Darame said, relaxing slightly.

  “Perhaps. I think you owe her one, actually, but we will settle that some other time.” Removing the mugs from the hot box and carefully offering her a handle, he added: “It is my father’s fault. He was an extremely gracious man, and felt it rude to act as if guaard was not present. All those running conversations! His guaard was as patient as Mailan — although I try not to speak to her in public, or when other guaard are present. It implies she is too casual at her duties.”

  “Which she is not,” Darame finished for him, sipping carefully at the spicy pink wine. “Thank you, Mailan, I am always cold,” she added as the multicolored flames sprang from the stone basin. Bending over, she examined the “logs” closely. Pressed… what? Fire crystals, someone had said at the party? The fire burning there had been huge. She turned back to Sheel, and found he had changed expression. It was detached, almost professional.

  “If you are often chilled, wet clothing will only make it worse. There is undoubtedly a robe in the closet, and the shower is that way — ” He gestured through an arch as he sat down on one of the low, cushioned benches circling the firepit. Recognizing her protest before she could voice it, he said: “Please, it would be very embarrassing for me if you caught a cold in my presence!”

  She could see the sense of it; tossing him a smile, she moved off toward the sanitation.

  Everything was as promised; twisting her hair into a knot upon her head, Darame stood under the spray until warmth returned to her body. Damn Brant, and damn Halsey for letting the fool upset him.… She had not thought the evening would turn out so pleasantly. The first night was traditionally hers — Halsey encouraged her attitude on that point. Make sure Iver and Caleb see you, Halsey had said. But play hard to get — Atare clan finds that attractive. The rest of the night is your own.

  Until Brant decided she wasn’t obvious enough. Curse of the Star of Morning on that man! Since when did he know more about finding a man’s weak point than she? And that business with the drink — it had not gone as Brant wanted, and she’d hear about it. Indirectly, of course. “They” had decided that Halsey and Brant were friends, but she and Brant only casual acquaintances. Damn right. Now instead of charmingly embarrassed over bumping a pretty woman’s drink, Iver would be either upset or trying to forget he’d made a fool of himself and destroyed a woman’s dress — either way, likely to ignore her next time they met. It would take a lot of work to undo Brant’s heavy-handedness. If he was going to push a member of the royal house, at least find out what he was drinking!

  And Sheel was not part of Brant’s plan. Baldwin, Caleb and Iver were the only sons of the house Brant had mentioned by name, yet Sheel was obviously close to the royal family, if not an heir himself. The ruler plainly thought a great deal of him, and the marks all conversed with him during the evening. The ragäree’s little son obviously adored the man. Then to have that drink fly all over him as well.… She had already decided on Sheel; fortunate it had turned out as it had, or Brant would rue his interference.

  Turning off the water, she concentrated on that first moment she had noticed Sheel, trying to decide what had drawn her to him. There was grace in his movements; nothing wasted, in speech or gesture. And his beauty was something rarely seen, remote, chiseled, by turns androgynous and then arrogantly masculine. But she had seen both traits in those who followed medicine as a field: the detached, assumed confidence, and the gentler, healing qualities.

  He certainly wasn’t dull, she decided, reaching for a wipe. She had honestly enjoyed the tour, and the rest of the evening as well. So much to learn about the Nualans, and she’d barely disturbed the surface of the water. Of course she suspected he hadn’t wanted her around… not at first. Still politely neutral, touching her only to speed her out of the rain. There had been that gorgeous brunette throwing herself at him earlier — he had seemed oblivious to it. Could he prefer men? No — surely that incredibly beautiful woman would not have made such a fool of herself if there was no hope. Scholars and lovers, eh… I’ll settle for what I’ve had, but it’s worth a try. He had very nice hands.…

  “And sunjewel was an exotic taste,” she murmured aloud. Wrapping the robe around her slender figure, she released her hair with a flick of her fingers and walked back into the lounging room.

  Mailan was not immediately visible. A quick glance around showed her to be in a recessed area of the corridor, a wide view at her disposal. The flames had settled; fire crystals apparently were both quiet and smokeless. Sheel was still by the firepit, although he had dragged the cushions off the benches and arranged them on the floor. He had also removed his shirt, spreading it to dry over the back of a chair.

  “I put your mug back in the hot box,” Sheel said without turning, sipping his own drink. Outside the tempo of the rain increased, spattering against the glass terrace doors off in the adjoining room. Nodding absently, Dara
me moved toward the one tall window of the room, leaning against it.

  “Doesn’t look like it will stop soon. Can you stand sharing any more instruction in the Nualan culture?” she said softly. “I rinsed that tunic in cold water and hung it up, by the way — I don’t think it will spot. Do you want to soak that shirt?”

  “In a bit,” Sheel replied. “It is syluan, the watered variety. It will not spot, although I should rinse out the soda. If you want more culture, you may have to ask questions. I have given you the usual tourist information.”

  Wandering over to the hot box, Darame pulled out her wine and sipped it. “I was told Nualans were known as scholars and lovers. You have lived up to half that image. Is there anything about this city you don’t know?” She seated herself on the edge of a bench, off to one side of him. “You’d better find another robe, or a blanket. You’ll catch cold, and that would be more embarrassing than me catching cold!”

  He managed a smile. “I am never cold.”

  “Never?”

  Something in the way she said it sharpened his attention. “Not physically, at least.” He held out his hand; touching it, Darame felt her eyes widen.

  “You are like that fire! Why are men always warmer?”

  “Not always. Better circulation, sometimes.” He seemed evasive for the first time that night, and she chose not to pursue it.

  “Why don’t people ask questions here?” It seemed safer than any other line of conversation. He turned his head toward her, and she watched as the left eye moved into shadow, the split iris blending into a solid darkness. The man’s expression was a question. “No one has directly asked me my name, or what I’m doing here.… “

  Sheel’s face cleared. “You mean personal questions. No, no one asks personal questions, usually… You know that we are a sanctuary planet?”