Empyrion I: The Search for Fierra (59 page)

Yarden opened her mouth to speak, but thought better of it and nodded for Treet to continue.

“Okay? Two: Talus imposes a gag order on his own family in order to keep me from talking to them. He's a Mentor—which I'm sure you've figured out is pretty high up in the Fieri chain of command—and he set great store by my speaking before the assembly just as soon as possible—my second night here, in fact. Yet, he's asked me no questions and has not really spoken to me since that night—except to say hello and good-bye and have some more salad.”

“Three: After my little speech, Mathiax, not Talus or Jaire, becomes my official tutor. We spend the next weeks wandering around this incredible city of theirs while he fills my head with stories. But every time I begin to make a comment or observation about what I see, or compare it to Dome, he cuts me off—doesn't want to hear it. It's like he wants me to soak it up, but not let anything run out.”

“Same for me,” offered Pizzle.

“Four: When I speak to the Preceptor, she doesn't ask me a single question about where I come from or what I'm doing here. Instead, she tells me to discover my spiritual purpose. What's that mean? And what's that got to do with any of the rest of this?”

“The point?” asked Yarden.

“The point is, I know the curiosity must be killing them, but for some reason they're going to great lengths to cover up the fact, or at least not to let it influence them in their treatment of us. Hence, they are rolling out the red carpet for us, but in a very casual, almost secretive way.”

“So?” wondered Pizzle, chin in hands.

“It's obvious, I think. They are uncertain—not to say suspicious—of us. On the one hand they treat us like we're just folks, long-lost cousins come to visit—”

“On the other hand, they don't want to risk offending us in case we turn out to be emissaries from on high.” Yarden finished his thought for him.

“Exactly.”

“So they bend over sideways trying to make us feel at home,” said Pizzle, “getting us to understand what they're all about, showing us how great everything is here so that when we decide to do whatever we've come here to do, our actions will be tempered with the knowledge of what we've seen.”

“Something like that,” agreed Treet.

Yarden frowned. “They're highly intelligent, highly compassionate people. What would you expect them to do?”

“I don't know, but it strikes me as slightly screwy. The reception we got at Dome made more sense.”

“Cynic,” said Yarden. “Looking for the cloud behind the silver lining.”

“I might add that they are desperate to convince us of their sincerity, and the integrity of what they have here.”

“I'm convinced,” said Pizzle. “They have nothing to fear from me. I only hope they let me stay.”

“Sure.” Treet nodded thoughtfully. “That would be great, only …”

“Only what?” asked Yarden, regarding him with a sidelong glance.

“Only it may not be that simple.”

“Well, well, Crocker, you
look your handsome, dashing self,” said Treet. “I see Fieri food agrees with you.” The three had rejoined Talus and his party in the reception hall, now nearly filled with people—most of whom were watching their visitors with keen, if scantily disguised, interest. They found Crocker standing with a group of Fieri talking about airships. The group broke apart discreetly as they approached.

At the sound of Treet's voice, Crocker looked up, smiled broadly, and reached out to take their hands, then hesitated and withdrew awkwardly. The light died in his eyes. “After all those weeks in the desert together, I didn't think I'd be so glad to see your scuffy faces again. It's good to see you. What's it been? Six months?”

“Seems like it,” said Pizzle. “They give you the grand tour?”

“I've examined every bit of real estate from lakeshore to kumquat grove, and I'm here to tell you I've never seen anything like this place in all my worldly days. What they have here—it's a monument to genius, that's what it is.” Crocker's words were warm and even enthusiastic, but his tone lacked conviction—as if he were reading a written speech he'd grown tired of reciting.

“I agree,” replied Yarden. She reached out and pressed Crocker's hand, scrutinizing him closely. “Still, I'm glad we're all together at last.”

“Not quite all,” said Treet. “Calin isn't here … Ah, Pizzle, you and Crocker hold forth. Yarden and I will go and see what we can find out about Calin.” He pulled Yarden away with him and they wound through knots of convivial Fieri, who stopped talking and watched them as they passed by.

“You're not worried about Calin,” said Yarden when they reached a far corner of the room. “You're worried about Crocker.”

“Did you see that? He slammed the door shut so fast, I'm surprised he didn't pinch his fingers when he yanked the welcome mat out from under our feet.”

She confirmed his observation with a sharp nod. “I saw. It was definitely not the Crocker I know.”

“You told me I'd changed—”

“Yes, but not like that. Something's happened to him.”

“Sometimes severe trauma warps a person. They feel guilty for surviving, or that they have to mend their ways somehow.”

“I don't think that's what's ailing Crocker. After all, he didn't survive at the expense of any of us. We all made it together.”

“Maybe he knows something we don't know.”

“Could be, but what?”

“Do you get anything from him?”

Yarden scrunched up her face in concentration. After a moment she said, “No, nothing. But then, Crocker and I have never been on the same wavelength. I've never received good impressions from him about anything. He's opaque to me.” She looked at Treet seriously. “What did you mean when you said it may not be that simple?”

Treet ran a hand up and down her arm and gripped her hand. “I'll tell you later. Right now let's check on Calin and then get back to Pizzle and Crocker. I have a sudden funny feeling we're about to have a rude awakening.”

Talus
greeted Treet and Yarden with gusto, clapping them both in fierce bear hugs. It occurred to Treet that the big man's smile looked pasted on. When Treet described his concern for the missing member of their party, Talus replied, “I understand. But you need not fear for her welfare. She is well…”

“But?”

Talus filled his bellows of a chest with a deep breath. “Your companion has shown no response to our continued efforts at reaching her.”

“What do you mean, no response?” asked Yarden.

Talus' eyes became grave. “She remains listless and will not speak. Although we have tried to engage her interest in activities and conversation, she does not reply or acknowledge our advances in any way.”

“She's okay physically?” Treet fixed Talus with a direct stare. “She's eating and sleeping and all that?”

“Oh, yes, although she eats very little. Still, we can find nothing wrong with her.” Talus spread his hands in an expression of genuine helplessness. “She will not speak to anyone.”

“Talus, there's something I should tell you about her.” Treet paused, looked at Yarden, who gave him silent encouragement, and then plunged ahead. “Calin is not one of us—that is, she's not a Traveler. She's from Dome.”

Talus pulled on his curly, ram's fleece of a beard and puffed out his cheeks. “I see,” he said finally. “Yes … that might explain her behavior. But,” he looked up decisively, “it would not have altered her care. We would have done nothing differently.”

“I appreciate that, Talus,” said Treet. “But it might be best now if we could see her. If she knows we're still here with her, she might snap out of it. For all we know, she thinks she's landed in the enemy camp and you're all waiting for a chance to kill her.”

Talus wagged his head back and forth with a heavy frown. “No one could believe such a thing of us.”

“She's from
Dome.”

“She's also lost and very, very frightened, Talus,” pointed out Yarden. “You have to remember that neither she nor anyone she's ever known has ever ventured outside
Dome and
lived. We had a similar experience with her out there—the landscape overwhelmed her and she went into convulsions. If we could see her—”

“Don't say no. Talus,” put in Treet. “I know what your Preceptor has advised, but she did say it was only a recommendation. We're free to choose our own way in this, right?” Talus nodded slowly. “Well, I'm choosing for Calin since she can't choose for herself. I say she'd feel better if she could see us, be with us.”

“If she would speak—”

“She won't. Anyway, what do you need her for? You've already heard from the rest of us. That should give you enough of whatever you're looking for.”

“But she's from Dome! She could tell—”

“Look, let us go to her, or bring her here. Maybe when she gets over it, she can talk to you.” Treet could see his argument was succeeding. He pressed it home. “Think it over. You'll never get anything from her any other way.”

Talus admitted defeat. “It is as you say. Yes, I'll have her brought here, and we'll hope that she responds to your care. The love of friends is a powerful remedy. I'll do as you suggest.”

“Thanks, Talus. You won't regret it,” Treet assured him. Talus moved off to fulfill the request, and Treet turned to Yarden. “That's done. Now we should rejoin the others and figure out what to do next.”

“About whatever it is that you think is going to happen here tonight?”

“Right. I don't know what form it's going to take, but I suspect a major confrontation.”

Yarden scowled at him. “You make it sound like they're going to throw us to the lions.”

Treet gazed around the throng, noting the humming undercurrent of tension in the voices and the sharp tang of anticipation in the air. “Could be, Yarden,” he muttered. “Maybe they are.”

Treet could tell when
the Preceptor arrived—excitement rippled through the room, voices grew hushed and then resumed their chatter but at lower decibels. The assembled Fieri, most of them Mentors, Treet suspected, formed a phalanx around them, hemming the travelers into a corner of the reception hall. “This is it,” said Treet, looking around. “The moment we've all been waiting for.”

“I'm still skeptical,” said Pizzle. “They don't… hey, they're all looking at us!”

“Don't say I didn't warn you, okay?” Treet turned to face the Fieri, who, as Pizzle had said, were indeed regarding them intently. A path opened in the wall of people as the Preceptor drew near.

She came to stand before them, dressed in shimmering black with a close-fitting cap of silver that hugged the crown of her head. The cap was trimmed with yellow chips of glowing sunstone so that she fairly radiated a golden halo. Her amethyst eyes gave no hint of her intent, but the set of her jaw spoke of determination, and there was gravity in her step.

Talus, Bohm, and Mathiax closed ranks behind her. Each of the men shared their leader's seriousness. All talk in the hall fell away as the Preceptor came close and stopped before the travelers. She inclined her head toward them in a dignified greeting.

“You honor us with your presence, Preceptor,” Treet told her. His companions remained silent.

The Fieri leader smiled gravely and answered, “You speak so lightly of honor, I wonder if you know what it means.”

Treet was taken aback by this reply, but recovered and said, “I meant no disrespect, Preceptor. I am cert—”

She waved aside the apology. “Please, I spoke out of frustration. Take no offense. I only meant that the Infinite Father alone is worthy of honor.” She paused, folded her hands in front of her, and said, “My friend Mathiax has informed me that you inquired about our past, about the Wandering and the Burning. He did not answer you because I asked him to allow me to tell you in my own way.” She raised her hands to indicate that here in this place, before all these people, was the way she had chosen.

“I understand,” offered Treet. His stomach tightened, and his pulse quickened. Yarden pressed nearer to him; her hand closed over his and squeezed.

The Fieri formed a silent wall of faces. Their anticipation charged the atmosphere in the hall until it fairly crackled. Did they know what was about to come?

The Preceptor closed her eyes, her hands frozen in the gesture she'd begun. A sound came from her throat: a long sighing moan, aching with sadness and melancholy.

“Hear the story of the Fieri,” she began abruptly, eyes still closed, head tilted back slightly. “The Infinite Father awakened His people in the midst of folly and led us out from the dark cities to roam fair Empyrion and make a new home where light could rule. So we wandered.”

“We wandered,” replied the Fieri in unison. Treet realized that the story was a litany all Fieri knew by heart.

“In the West we found the fields of living crystal, and in the East the mountains of light where our fathers dug the first sunstone; in the North we saw the Blue Forest, alive with her creatures, magnificent and old; in the South we found gentle hills and clear running water, and the Marsh Sea with its floating islands where the talking fish birth their young. And we wandered.”

“We wandered.”