Fires of Nuala

by Katharine Eliska Kimbriel

  “Healing protects only from the hot strain,” Sheel reminded her quietly. “There is no guarantee about anything else, Crystle. Not even that you could carry a child of mine to term.”

  She shrugged. “I will try a general implant once. If I fail, back to the knife. But I will not keep trying, and kill my children.”

  It was so quiet Sheel could hear a drip of water falling in some remote cavern. He had not felt so peaceful since before Cort’s death. Long before — no, this was a familiar feeling.… Darame had inspired a similar feeling. Could you learn to live with my healing, silver lady? Focusing on Crystle, an odd thought tickled his consciousness: I always thought you a genuinely kind person, Crystle. How can I allow Claire reb^Guin to succeed where you failed? If you had only shown up at the same time, there would have been no contest! Without thinking he reached for her wrist.

  Startled, Crystle stiffened and looked suspiciously at him. “Atare, are you drunk?”

  “Shhhh.” It was harder to run the checks through the alcohol he had absorbed, but not impossible. Not fertile, but not far from it, either. Yule was more than fortyday away, so…

  “Fifteenday,” he pronounced after several minutes, still holding her wrist.

  “Atare?” She straightened and leaned toward him, puzzled.

  “I think you may cycle within fifteenday. Yule may be too late. We will have to keep an eye on you.” He set the mug carefully on the tray. “I think, Crystle, that if you have not changed your mind about me, perhaps you should come here in fifteenday. It bothers my sense of justice to know that Claire has a son because I wanted to get rid of her, and you are childless because your manners are kinder.”

  The woman simply stared at him, the color draining from her cheeks even as her pulse increased. “But… But Atare, you…”

  “I only wish I could find an off-worlder like you. But you must marry someone in a high house, and do your part for your family. Even as I must.” The thought was depressing. Bette was a nice woman, but her brains were scattered from Nuala to Emerson. Is that my fate? “I keep locals at a distance because I might get a jealous one like Caleb’s wife. Then what?”

  “Yes, that is another reason I refused him,” Crystle agreed, that wry smile pulling at her lips. “I did not intend to hang around your neck like Cort’s Nualan consort… but I hoped you thought of me as more than a body for the evening.”

  This startled Sheel out of his daze. “Have I not made that plain?”

  She flinched from his intense gaze. “Yes, but Atare… you want me to leave and not come back for fifteen days?” There was something about her expression, and the tone of voice…

  The hint finally soaked into Sheel’s awareness. “My Serae, are you trying to tell me you would like to practice first?” She is right, you are drunk.

  Crystle giggled, her amusement drawing his attention, and Sheel felt himself start to blush.

  COMPLINE

  Everything was black, except for the tiny light bobbing frantically in the distance. Darame had not expected it to be so dark. The blinding brilliance of the day was swallowed up in night, buried deep in night, as if the snow had been imagined, and they were walking in a land of glazed basalt.

  There had been surface melting during the day: a layer of rough ice made movement easier than it might have been. If only the wind would die down, the falling snow would be a minor nuisance. How could that man walk so quickly? The swirling pellets of ice and snow felt like blows from a scatter gun, and the gusts frequently blew her off her feet.

  I am weak, was her hostile thought as she pulled herself up once again. It has not occurred to him that this trek might be difficult.… He is in his element. Whether she meant the snow or the mountains Darame was not certain. What I wouldn’t give for his poncho. Her gear was meant for casual outings in sunny, snow-tossed scenes, not for heavy weather. Temperatures were well below freezing, although the snow still fell in a thick and heavy veil.

  The light no longer bobbed — Fergus had halted. Why am I following you? Because of a name? It had not occurred to her until later that Fergus had been her father’s father’s name. She had met the old man only once, in the dim recesses of her childhood: a twinkling sprite of a man, with the same black eyes he had given his descendants. You remind me a bit of that other Fergus. I hope fancy has not led me to my death.

  Somewhere far below, Ayers waited with their small group. The arrangements had displeased the guaard, but there was little else to do. Someone had to lead the others to a specified meeting point — Foster’s Breach — and at least Ayers could figure out where the priest meant. Darame was totally lost. Ayers must trust him, or he would have objected more strenuously.

  Finally, the light — Fergus was leaning into a niche, using a slice of stone as a windbreak. She stepped into the still place, her shadowed eyes flicking up to catch the gaze of his amber ones. Only the man’s eyes showed — everything else was hidden. The expression in his eyes was intense.

  “Are you tired? How do you feel?” he asked softly, the wind carrying his voice away.

  “A bit. I’ll be all right,” she answered, shifting her scarf toward the front.

  Fergus abruptly whipped off a glove and pressed the back of his fingers to her cheek. “Can you feel that?”

  “Not really. Just some pressure — ” She broke off as the man swore mildly. A flurry of garments, his own disarrayed in his haste, and Fergus was rearranging her huge scarf around neck and head, completely covering her face. A flap of material gave her a tiny area of vision.

  “Put your hand under the scarf — without your glove! — and tell me when it starts to tingle.” Uncertain, she did as he told her. Noticing the look in the one eye that was still visible, he added: “You have a touch of frostbite. Not too serious, but we should not let it go. We will wait until you have feeling again.”

  “That may be awhile,” she muttered. “I am always cold.”

  “That is one problem I have never had,” he replied, and that wolfish smile was back.

  Standing in the darkness, looking beyond the tiny light toward heaps of snow, it was impossible not to consider her position. Idiot. If you’re lucky they’ll find you when it thaws. Under lashes caked with ice she studied the man’s lean, unbending form. That staff was handy; she had seen him testing the path with it, seeking rock beneath powdered snow. True, she was cold, but she had no intention of mentioning it. There was nothing to do but turn back, and turning back would surely take as long as going forward.

  He had used his right hand… with the scar. No, surely that scar had been on his left hand. They were too similar.… Something ceremonial? Even the robe seemed formal, unlike anything else in the mountains. It was a soft, muted grey with a bold ribbon of bright yellow striping the lower edge.

  “Remember to keep your distance.” Ayers’ parting words came back to her. The holy man kept his distance; there was no need to tell her that some religions prohibited interaction between sexes. But Nualan clergy married.… She was sure she had seen that information somewhere.

  “Nualan clergy marries?” she asked carefully.

  Fergus turned at this and lifted the glass box he carried, bringing the light to her face. “Yes, they can marry if they desire, although this is hardly the time for a discussion on religious discipline.” He looked almost amused.

  “I mean.…” She flipped a hand at him in disgust, and realized it was the one without a glove. Her face had started tingling — good. “Ayers told me to keep my distance from you. I do not mean to offend, but I do not know your customs — ”

  His snort surprised and silenced her. Pulling on her glove, she glanced up. “It is tingling, now, like pricks of heat.”

  “Good.” The man studied her intently a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he secured his scarf once again, and led off into the snow.

  There was no sense of time, little impression of distance. Darame felt her legs become wood, then stone, then nothing, as feeling drained from th
em. Now I should say something, came a thought, but she was too tired to shout. Fergus was closer than before, and stopped often, looking over his shoulder for her.

  As if reading her thoughts, Fergus stopped abruptly. Staggering, she almost ran into him, but he extended an arm quickly and caught her. The light seemed feeble, now — either fading, or the snow was falling more thickly. She could see a sheer thrust of rock before them, fading into the blackness of the sky. Not much further…

  “Here I leave you,” Fergus announced, pulling a small metal device from his pocket and pressing on it. At the audible click, a brilliant red light flashed, pulsing. “Here is your beacon. If the Atare has guaard with him, they will spot the light, and investigate it.”

  “He has guaard,” she whispered, too tired to argue with him. “How… long…”

  “Not long,” he said quickly, tugging at her jacket. “We should have stopped and bought you a poncho, this off-world issue is useless up here.” He sounded disgusted. “Over here.” He pulled her over to a boulder and settled her behind it, where little snow had blown. “If they do not come immediately, you must dig down, into this bank, and make a snow cave.”

  “But… where — ” Darame began.

  “I will be nearby, I will not abandon you,” he said roughly. “I did not bring you here to freeze, though you may doubt it now. Sweet Mendülay, woman, you have ice in your veins! You should have spoken. There are things we could have done.”

  “I… cannot stop now,” she said softly to the boulder. Fergus muttered something in reply, but the wind tore his words away. He wrapped her gloved hands around the base of the beacon, placing it to one side, away from her eyes. “Will… they see?…”

  “This thing is lighting up the entire outcrop, woman, half the mountain can see. We cannot get closer or they might not come — it could give away their hiding place. This is just right.…” Standing, he seemed to scan the darkness beyond their few lights. Then he stooped beside her once again.

  “Why not come with — ”

  “Oh, no. I am much more useful to Atare wandering these mountains than cooped up with potential jackals.” He actually seemed amused. “Not yet do I confront that one. Not until he earns the name of Mindbender. But you must remember some things, woman. Where is your group?”

  “Foster’s Breach,” she said promptly.

  “Good. Now — what does the yellow stripe on my poncho mean?” She gave him a blank look. “A-huh. It means I am a Sini, Child Eyes — a mock-Sini. Do you know what that is?”

  “Hot…”

  “Yes, hot, but not deadly, not prohibited. We move among the populace at will, but we do not stay long, because the danger is in length of contact. Do you understand? Whether in cities or wilderness, it always means a mock-Sini. A red stripe means Sini, just Sini. Keep your distance! You cannot be in their presence long without problems.… Dizziness, nausea, and even worse. A red stripe. And if you see a blue stripe with the red or yellow, that means Sinishur. Mind your manners, then.… What you see may not be what you expect, but it is human. Do you understand?”

  Darame nodded once, sharply, at this speech, shocked out of her stupor. By all the saints of my varied childhood — She could form no coherent words. There was not even strength to grip her arms, to make sure she was whole.

  “Take care, ice woman. You will not freeze, not here. You will thaw before the end.” Smiling, Fergus re-adjusted his hood and scarves and then flitted into the wall of snow. Yellow light vanished with him, leaving only the eerie blink of stabbing red as company.

  “Thank you,” she said aloud, wondering if the wind would carry her words. She put off any other thought, afraid to think past the moment. For a usually capable person, you have really set yourself up for this one. Had there been another way? Not without leaving the Seedar ragäree to the intrigues of Atare city. Perhaps they should have descended upon old Riva. Surely the woman could have kept anyone from knowing… but there were spies everywhere. If only she could have confided in the guaard, asked his advice.… Damn this secretive world!

  It was better than thinking about the cold. She was still trying to analyze the steps that had brought her to this snowdrift when a hand reached out of the darkness and clutched her wrist. Lifting her head, she peered out of her uncovered eye to see a figure cloaked in black with a lighter-colored garment thrown over all. Goggles were lifted, revealing familiar eyes, tingled red in the irregular light and then gone, blackness, as the beacon was shut down.

  “Foster’s Breach,” she whispered as Mailan bent over her. “Ayers is with the others at Foster’s Breach.”

  “Foster’s Breach? What others?” It was hard to tell with the wind, but Mailan sounded a bit annoyed.

  “The Ragäree of Seedar.” This statement brought exclamations from both the guaard and a shadowy form behind her, but Darame was folding into blackness, and heard only a whistle of wind.

  (to) Gull:

  to deceive or make

  a dupe of; SEE MARK.

  Chapter Eight

  STARRISE MOUNTAINS

  EIGHTYFIVEDAY, LAUDS

  Darame’s first impressions were of warmth and noise. Instinctively she moved closer to the warmth, burrowing into it, while grimacing against the ringing in her ears. Gradually the sound dissolved into coherent voices, their words just beyond her understanding. Inside… I am out of the storm. Had she imagined the arrival of guaard? No, not likely… Who would have found her body, otherwise?

  A blanket had been tossed over her back; she could feel the roughness of the weave against her skin. Skin… Darame did not have to use her hands to know she had been stripped to her linings, a whisper of silk between her and the vatos wool. And flesh against her cheek, warmth that belonged to another… Memory trickled into awareness like the rising tide, and her nose told her the scent was familiar. Sandalwood, and a touch of musk. In her fear, she had forgotten how comfortable… Lifting her head, Darame tried to focus her eyes.

  The form she sprawled against stiffened — a tangible tightening of skin and muscle. Although conversation did not die, his words stopped abruptly. When light and dark finally melded into their proper forms, Darame realized she was curled into the hollow formed by Sheel Atare’s right arm. In fact, she was using his chest as a pillow, his shirt peeled to either side. Natural warmth for frostbite… I wonder if he had to heal me.

  His expression was unreadable — no, not quite; subtle. She saw resignation in that fair face, and expectation… a fragile form of pain she had never seen before.

  A dozen quips filtered through her fogged brain, but the words that popped out were in Caesarean: “It’s all right. I think I’m starting to get used to it.” As she spoke, the nebulous others became aware she was conscious, and conversation died.

  She waited for reaction; there was none, at least in his face. But she felt relaxation, the slightest release of clenched musculature, and wondered if he understood what she meant.

  Finally Darame realized she was trembling, and fought to hold her head up. Sheel seemed to take in her condition at the same moment, because he shifted, his arm hard behind her back as he pulled her over to one side. A mug, filled with something steaming, materialized at his side, and he carefully took hold of the handle.

  “You must drink some of this,” he said quietly, bringing it to her lips. “Slowly.”

  “I am always waking up in strange places with people telling me to drink things,” she muttered, extending shaking fingers to steady the mug.

  “I hope you will not think me ungracious if I point out that if you were to simply avoid me, many of your problems would abate.” Although his face was still immobile, Darame detected a glint of humor in his odd eyes.

  “Would it were that easy,” she replied, taking a sip of the fluid. It was saffra, and warm, not hot, so she took several long swallows, enjoying the sensation as it trickled down her parched throat. “I did not think you could get so dry, with all that snow about.”

  “Man
y people die of dehydration long before they can freeze to death,” came a low, dry voice.

  So it was Mailan… Who else? Did you think she would leave him, unless he sent her away? The room began growing fuzzy, and her arms were very heavy. Again, Sheel seemed to know before she did; his arm tightened around her, and the mug was set aside.

  “Rest. For now I will talk to the Ragäree. You need to get your strength back,” Sheel told her, glancing to one side as if checking for blankets.

  “You’re the doctor,” Darame murmured, relaxing against him.

  “Healer.” The word was a puff of wind curling past her ear as she wandered back into sleep.

  NONE

  This time Darame woke into silence. It was a type of quiet rarely experienced; after orienting herself, she realized she could detect sound from the heat disks glowing in the firepit. A cot had been prepared next to the grate, and blankets were heaped over her. Still she shivered. Always cold, fool. And yet this planet is covered with desert. With Sheel, she had not been cold.…

  Straining, she listened for voices. Nothing, even at a distance. Somewhere in the darkness beyond the makeshift room she could hear a steady trickle of water, but there was no sign of life. The smell of clay made her nostrils twitch.