Fires of Nuala

by Katharine Eliska Kimbriel

  Tapping a finger on the railing, Sheel did not speak. So, hints will not be enough. As she considered another tack, the man finally answered her unspoken question.

  “Those who loved him mourn; those who disliked him wait to see if the next reign suits them better.” After a slight pause, Sheel added: “I imagine those who hated him celebrate.”

  “I suppose your entire house will come into town for your coronation,” Darame went on. “Even those who missed the funeral.”

  He was not really paying attention; it took several moments for the finger to stop tapping. “No one missed the funeral… except a cousin who was ill.”

  “I understood that your older sister is married?” Darame said easily, wrestling the kitten for the string.

  “Richard was present.… Merely elusive. He is something of a recluse,” Sheel told her.

  “Fortunate your sister has so many friends among the embassies,” was the careful response. “They can be supportive without breaking down under any grief of their own.”

  She waited several moments before lifting her head, and when she did, her eyes focused on Jude’s back. How did the guaard decide on their shifts? Puzzled, she turned back to Sheel, and found him studying her. Darame met the gaze, even as she controlled a tendril of fear. That look went right down to her marrow. Idiot, he is an absolute monarch! Halsey may be trying to help you in a few moments!

  “I did not know my sister had so many friends among the embassy personnel,” Sheel said easily, still studying her.

  “She seems to be very good friends with Second Ambassador Brant. When he spoke to me after my interview with the guaard, she walked in on us. And after the funeral yesterday, when he was speaking to a group of Caesareans… she broke in on it.” Darame met his gaze, watching for some sort of reaction.

  “I would not have thought Brant to be so sympathetic,” Sheel murmured. “Interesting.”

  She did not follow up — if he wanted any more, he would have to ask for it.

  “How was she then? I did not have time to speak to her before my… accident.”

  Darame shrugged expressively. “Agitated. The guaard sent us all away. All I heard her say was ‘He will place her before me.’” Coin from a woman who has nothing, coin for a man who can buy little. Is it worth anything to you? That was as far as she would go. Any further might place her partners in jeopardy… and she would never know how or why.

  A high-pitched yell off in the trees interrupted their discussion, and Darame jumped straight up into the air. Jude was at Sheel’s side immediately, her blades drawn, even as the man rolled off the bench and under it. Footsteps echoed on the stone walkways, and Darame heard someone calling for Sheel.

  It was Mailan. She came up the balcony steps two at a time, her face flushed. “Atare! He is here!” Seeing Sheel and Darame on the ground, she immediately drew her blades and threw herself against the wall.

  A soft, low voice reached Darame’s ears, speaking Nualan with a light burr. From her vantage point on the tiled balcony, Darame could see no body to go with the voice. But in a few moments, a head and shoulders rose into her line of sight, followed by a short, compact male body. He was wearing the day uniform of a guaard. Although grey streaked his hair and short beard, this man’s physique would rival many a youngster’s. The height surprised Darame: she had expected a guaard to be taller, but the man reached barely past Mailan’s shoulder, a good head shorter than Sheel.

  That his arrival was a happy occurrence, there was no doubt. Whatever he said, it was appreciated: Mailan flushed and sheathed her blades, even as Sheel started laughing. Darame slowly pulled herself back up to the bench.

  “We must be formal, we have a guest,” Sheel said easily in Caesarean. “I will not deny I will sleep better now that you are here. How was your journey?”

  “Mostly uneventful,” the man replied in the same tongue, his burr still pronounced. “But all of you have better tales to tell than I do. Please.”

  Looking to Sheel for permission, Mailan immediately burst into a swift description of the past few days. She interspersed her story with Darame’s name, and paused to identify the newcomer as Trainer Fion, another of Sheel’s guaard. Why Darame was still present was not voiced. The older man, now leaning against a portion of railing, questioned neither omissions nor choice of presentation.

  I understood some Nualan, Darame finally realized: Mailan’s first words, “He is here.” Not much, but something. As she set the wiggling kitten down on the tiles, she understood something even more important: they were speaking Caesarean. Was this her reward?

  No. No secrets here: it was a straightforward account, told as a journalist might report it. But when Fion started speaking, she sharpened her hearing.

  “The outlying areas are calm, Atare,” he was saying. “I saw nothing out of the ordinary, except… perhaps one thing. There seemed to be several off-worlders on the side roads. Traveling alone, riding rugged-looking horses. Speaking to no one, starting early, arriving late. I saw two of them at separate times.”

  “Where were they heading?” Sheel asked, leaning his head back against the bench and folding into a lotus position upon the warm tiles.

  “One was on the northern track toward Dielaan. The other I saw just as I left town on vacation. He was boarding a ship heading south, taking a horse with him. I spoke with the guaard watching the port, but apparently the fellow’s travel permits were in order. A camper… “ Fion frowned slightly. “There was no reason to question it, then.… But something about the man’s gear, his preparations… It seemed the same as the off-worlder heading east.”

  “No doubt there is an explanation,” Sheel said softly, a vague, unfocused expression crossing his face.

  Something in that look told Darame that the conversation was about to become intense. Time to leave before she was asked to disappear. Glancing around for the kitten, she was amused to see the animal had crawled into Sheel’s lap. He was stroking her lightly, seemingly unaware the squirming Nyani was trying to reach his toes.

  “I suspect you have business to attend to,” Darame said without preamble, standing and reaching for the door handle. A mere touch unsettled it, and the door burst open, the three adult cats swarming out onto the balcony. No one appeared worried about this exodus so Darame ignored them and, with a nod to Sheel and the others, went inside.

  It was stuffy in the house after the wind on the balcony; could the windows be opened? Moving into what Mailan called the friendship parlor, Darame glanced around for an outside vent. No vents, but the windows… locked. By Barbara’s tower, I must open a window! It was hot in the house as well. But that was to be expected; she was used to the coolness outside. Removing the cape, she tossed it on a low sofa and started for the hallway.

  Like walking through a pool of honey, dragging at her feet… Shaking her head, Darame paused, wondering if she had managed to contract a native illness already. Haven’t been this dopey since coming out of Freeze — The thought stopped her movement. Leaning back against the wall of the entranceway, she tried to remember what she’d had to eat upon rising. Could someone… But it had been hours! A light meal at noon — sext, they called it — and fluids later, but…

  So much like coming out of Freeze — no, like going into Freeze —

  The air. Not the food — something was wrong with the air in the room. Darame reached for the front door, a languid movement, as though time had slowed. She banged on the door — did she? Several times? No response. Could a guaard hear through the thick door? How hard was she striking the wood?

  Out. Must get out. To the balcony, open doors… Can no longer walk steadily — use wall, furniture.… Balance gone, falling, grabbing a pedestal, what kind of gas worked so…

  MENDÜLARION S^ATARE

  THIRTYNINEDAY, COMPLINE

  “Atare?”

  Sheel stopped rearranging the blankets on the cot and slowly turned toward the door. It was Mailan, loaded with various backpacks and duffles, her ar
ms supporting a reflective foodpac. Dangling from the curl of an extended little finger was his signet ring. After staring blankly at it a moment, Sheel reached for the trinium circle.

  “How did the jeweler finish so quickly?” It was not what he had intended to say, but surprise drove the original question from his head.

  “Superstitious,” she murmured, settling her burdens on the sofa.

  “What?” The healing must have drained him; his wits were dull.

  Mailan turned around, her expression closed. “He is superstitious. Apparently he went to work on it immediately. I think he thought you would disappear or something if he did not finish it quickly.”

  A crooked smile pulled at Sheel’s lips as he slipped on the ring. “I am still going to disappear.”

  “You are determined to follow this course of action?” came a soft murmur from near the wall.

  Sheel sat down on the edge of the cot, careful of Darame’s feet, and faced the speaker. The Archpriest Ward, immaculately dressed as always, was leaning against one of his bookcases, arms folded and ankles crossed. He looked… not actually annoyed… but close to it. Recessed lighting made his features harsh.

  “Do you have a better suggestion?” Sheel asked politely.

  Ward waved abruptly in impatience, his hand a diagonal slash, and turned his body so he could see the old man sitting quietly in the corner. “What say you, Jonas?”

  The high priest studied them both, his gentle face serene. “I can tell that no matter what I say, one of you is going to be angry with me,” he said reproachfully.

  “You could barricade yourself into the temple,” Ward said quickly, his dark gaze returning to his ruler’s face.

  “I did that. The moment I set foot outside it, someone tried to kill me — twice.” Glancing back, he continued: “If she had not pulled down that pedestal when she fell, I would have still another life on my soul.” A tendril of weariness threaded his mood, marking his body with a tender imprint. “Going in circles tires me, seri. Let us face the facts. Someone wants me dead. This someone is powerful, and can even arrange to attach a cylinder of poisonous gas to the circulation pump of my home. Can you protect against that?” No one returned an answer. “Even my guaard have not been able to protect me.” Shaking his head, Sheel slowly rose to his feet. “No — the best solution I can see is to hide. I will take with me only those I can trust without question. You will hear from me at regular intervals. I feel it will look better than having the entire seaboard find out that the ruler of Atare is living in the Archpriest’s library.”

  “You will take the boy?” Jonas asked. His words fell into a sudden silence.

  “Yes, Seri,” Sheel answered, moving to kneel at the priest’s feet. “Do you disapprove?”

  “How can I?” Jonas whispered. “After the last few days… it is logical to assume that the child is in danger, just as it seems your sisters are safe — at least for the moment.” Lifting a withered hand, he touched Sheel’s shoulder. “But are you strong enough for such a journey? Your injury, and now healing this woman…”

  Sheel shook his head, denying the man’s concern. “I can rest at our destination,” he stated, reaching over toward Jude. The guaard was busy with a rasp, filing away at a broken piece of pottery. Examining her handiwork with a hard eye, the woman handed the fragment to Sheel. Muted greys and reds, a slash of scarlet across one edge — Darame had been clutching it when Mailan found her. Healing the cut in her hand had taken more energy than pumping her lungs, but the damaged pot had proved useful.

  “But what is your destination?” Jonas looked worried as he asked the question.

  “What you do not know you cannot have forced out of you, friend,” Sheel said quietly, gripping the old man’s hand. “You will see that Leah and Avis get the messages?”

  “You will not tell Leah before you take the boy?” Ward asked abruptly.

  “And give her time to assure me that Dirk can protect us?” Now was not the time to tell Ward that Dirk’s interest in Leah might be more than professional. Ah — what did it matter? He would at least keep her safe. “And the frage for Darame.” Standing once again, Sheel moved back to the cot.

  You would have been a good shield, if things had been different. That was his original plan: keeping her under his roof would warn off other women, plus give him time to observe her closely and decide if she was somehow involved in all this mess. Now… Now he could not wait for her to heal, and it would take many days. I am not sure I trust you enough to take you.… Not with Tobias in my wake. But with Ayers and his sister Sheri hovering over Avis, and Dirk with Leah, I can trust you with my sisters.

  The message he left was simple: take care of my sisters, and take care of yourself. Whatever she was, she was more than a simple protocol specialist. Too blunt for that, yet skilled enough to make it work for her… What are you, ice princess? The pale face returned no answer.

  Sheel placed the pottery piece back into her hand. This woman might be clever enough to figure out the message within it, if she had need. As for the frage… He reached to the nearby table, and realized Mailan had placed it into a small pouch. Catching the woman’s eye, he lifted the soft bag, no bigger than his hand. Within was the frage… and a packet of rav pills. Fascinating… He looked back at Mailan, but she was examining the sight of her mag gun. We have gotten as far as requisitioning handguns.… He set the pouch back on the end table.

  “Well, Jonas?” Sheel heard himself say. “Are you ready?”

  “Are you?” the man countered gently.

  “As ready as…” he hesitated. “Do it.” He moved back to the priest and knelt before him. At his back Sheel heard the clanking of metal, and shivered. Ward came up beside him, carrying in his hands the chain of office, the trinium links glittering in the soft light. A ruby sent forth red reflections, patterning Sheel’s pale shirt. This thing I think I will hide.

  Lifting a beaker of warm oil, Jonas slowly began to speak. “And in the Year of Our Coming Three Hundred Eighty-Seven, he who would be Neal Atare Nightrider said to his followers, ‘I will end both strife and dissension.’ And his sister Naomi asked him how he would do this thing. Nightrider told her: ‘We will stand at the source of the Summer River; and all that we can see shall be our responsibility and our joy, ours and our heirs, forever…’”

  Fifth Suit Play:

  A card played during the game “Kingmaker”

  with intent to deceive others as to

  the contents of one’s hand.

  Chapter Six

  ATARE PALACE, ATARE

  FORTYTWODAY, NONE

  Fumbling in a state of semi-consciousness, aware that the left side of her face was warm and the right side cold, Darame forced herself toward the surface of her mind. Hard… never this hard to come out of Freeze.… Her mouth was so parched she could not swallow.

  “Darame?” The sweet voice belonged to a stranger. Gentle hands lifted her head and held a tube to her lips. “Drink this — slowly! Only a little…”

  Cool liquid trickled down her throat, bringing welcome relief. Her eyes finally obeyed, opening wide, but the room was hidden in shadows. Someone drew back the darkness against a wall, and cold, pale light flooded the room. Curtains… They were curtains, against the walls, heavy and rich in color. A deep, deep blue…

  “Where… where is this?” she asked in Caesarean. Nothing she had seen on Nuala looked like this room. Elegance out of an ancient past…

  “One of the guest rooms, of course! Where else would you be?” replied the delicate voice.

  The sound came from somewhere to her left. Turning her head slightly, Darame saw a dark form outlined by a fire. Moving closer, the figure was caught by the light from the windows. A woman.… One she had seen somewhere.

  Widely spaced eyes framed by long, thick lashes, a curly mane of blonde hair.… She had Atare eyes, in soft pastels, the right one tender green, the left a blue many shades paler than the curtains. Dressed in black…

 
“Do you remember me?” Younger than Darame had first estimated… or more innocent. Tucking the downy comforter close, the maiden continued: “I am Avis, Sheel’s sister.”

  “Where is The Atare? Did he?… The air…” Darame began slowly, hampered by her hoarse throat.

  “Sheel is fine, as far as I know. He left several days ago, after he healed you. Do you remember what happened?” Avis said quickly, her response opening up a myriad of questions. Darame managed a slight shake of her head. “Someone attached a cylinder of poisonous gas to the air ducts. The mix pushed the oxygen to the floor — that is why the cats were still alive, and why they left the house in such a hurry. Everyone on the porch heard the crash when you pulled over one of the pedestals, and then Mailan pulled you out.”

  Darame had become aware of something hard in her hand. Unfolding her fingers, she lifted the object to the light. A piece of pottery.… She stared at it until her arm began to tremble. Why was it familiar?

  Avis reached for her hand and laid it back upon on the bed. “All that is left of the pot that broke. I heard it was in a million pieces! You still must have been conscious after you hit the floor, because you were holding this when they rescued you.” Avis picked up the fragment and examined it. “I think they smoothed the edges before they gave it back to you. Sheel had to mend a cut across your palm.”

  That revelation caused Darame to raise her hand. Avis had moved once again, and the firelight illuminated the smooth contours of her palm. Heal… She could see no scar at all. A cold torch always leaves a scar.… Darame realized her entire body was shaking. I have been healed.

  “He left a message for you in this pouch,” Avis continued, lifting a tiny bag from the table next to the bed. “I imagine it is a frage; that is what he left for Leah and me.” Setting the bag down again, Avis reached to tuck the down quilt closer to Darame. “You should rest, now. You have been unconscious for several days.”