The Faded Sun Trilogy (68 page)

No agreements, no conditions, no promises.

And if it pleased the mri to strike, they would strike, for mri reasons.

Peace was four words in the hal’ari. There was
ai’a,
that was self-peace, being right with one’s place; and
an’edi,
that was house-peace, that rested on the she’pan; and there was
kuta’i,
that was the tranquility of nature; and there was
sa’ahan,
that was the tranquility of strength.

Treaty-peace was a mu’ara word, and the mu’ara lay in the past, with the regul, that had broken it.

Melein had killed for power, would kill, repeatedly, to unite the People.

Would take the elee, their former allies.

Would take Kutath.

We will have ships,
he could hear her saying in her heart.

And they knew the way, to Arain, to human and regul space.

It was not revenge they sought, nothing so human, but peace—
sa’ahan
-peace, that could only exist in a mri universe.

No compromise.

“Come,” said Niun. “They are almost done. We will be moving now.”

The house murmured with voices, adults’ and children’s. The People stared about them, curious at this place that only sen’ein had seen for so many hundreds of years . . . marveling at the lights, the powers of it—and, mri-fashion, unamazed by them. The forces were there; they were to be used. Many things were not for Kath or Kel to understand, but to use, with permission.

And the Shrine held light again: lights were lit by Melein’s own hands, and the pan’en was brought and set there behind the corroded screens, to be moved when they moved, to be reverenced by the House while they stayed. There were chants spoken, the Shon’jir of the mri that had gone out from Kutath; and the An’jir of the mri that stayed on homeworld.

The rhythmic words haunted the air: the long night, Duncan thought, standing at Niun’s side . . . a folk that had waited their end on dying Kutath.

Until Melein.

The songs sank away; the hall was still; the People went their ways.

There was kel-hall.

A long spiral up, a shadowed hall thrown into sudden light . . . the Kel spread carpets that had been the floors of then tents, still sandy: the cleaners skittered about in the outer hall, but stayed from their presence.

The Kel settled, made a circle. There was time for curiosity, then, in the privacy of the hall. Eyes wandered over Niun, over the dusei, over Duncan most of all.

“He will be welcomed,” Niun said suddenly and harshly, answering unspoken thoughts.

There were frowns, but no words. Duncan swept a glance about the circle, meeting golden eyes that locked with his and did not flinch—without love, without trust, but without, he thought, outright hate. One by one he met such stares, let them look their fill; and he would have taken off the
zaidhe
too, and let them see the rest of his alienness; but to do so was demeaning, and insulting if offered in anger, a reproach to them. They could not ask it; it was the depth of insult.

A cup was passed, to Niun first, and to Duncan: water, of the blue pipe, in a brass cup. Duncan wet his lips with it, and passed it to Hlil, who was next. Hlil hesitated just the barest instant, as he might if he were expected to drink after the dusei; and then the kel’en touched his lips to it and passed it on.

One after the other drank in peace, even the kel’e’ein, the two kinswomen of Merai. There were no refusals.

Then Niun laid his longsword in Duncan’s lap, and in curious and elaborate ceremony, all kel’ein likewise drew, and the
av’ein-kel,
Duncan’s as well, passed from man and woman about the circle until each held his own again.

Then each spoke his name in full, one after the other. Some had names of both parents; some had only Sochil’s; and Duncan, glancing down, gave his, Duncan-without-a-Mother, feeling curiously lost among these folk who knew what they were.

“The kel-ritual,” said Niun when that had been done, “is still the same.”

It pleased them, perhaps, to know that this was true; there was gestured agreement.

“You will teach us,” said Niun, “the mu’ara of homeworld.”

“Aye,” said Hlil readily.

There was a long silence.

“One part of the ritual that I know,” said Niun, “I do not hear.”

Hlil bit his lip . . . a man of scars more than the
seta’al,
Hlil s’Sochil, rough-faced for a mri, who were slender and fine-boned. “Our Kath—our Kath is frightened of this—” Hlil stopped short of
tsi’mri,
and glanced full at Duncan.

“Do you,” Niun asked in a hard voice, “wish to make a formal statement of this?”

“We are concerned,” Hlil said, glancing down.

“We.”

“Kel’anth,” said Hlil, scarcely audible, “it is your right, and his.”

“No,” Duncan said softly, but Niun affected not to hear; Niun looked about him, waiting.

“The Kath will make you welcome,” said one of the old kel’e’ein.

“The Kath will make you welcome,” others echoed then, and last of all, Hlil.

“So,” said Niun, and arose—waited for Duncan, while others stayed seated, and Duncan sought any other point but the eyes that stared at them.

The dusei would have come. Niun forbade.

And the two of them went alone from kel-hall, and down the ramp. It was late, in the last part of the night. Duncan felt cold, and dreaded the meeting to which they went: the Kath, the women and the children of the House, and—perhaps, he hoped, only ceremony, only ritual, in which he could remain silent and unnoticed.

They ascended kath-tower; the kath’anth met them at the door. Silently she led them within, where exhausted children sprawled on their mats and carpets, and some few of the older ones, male and female, sleepless in the excitement of the night, stared at them from the shadows.

They came to a door in a narrow hall: “Go in,” the kath’anth said to Duncan; he did, and found it spread with carpets, and nothing more. The door closed; Niun and the kath’anth had left him there, in that dim chamber, lit
with an oil lamp.

He settled then, in a corner, apprehensive at the first, and conscious finally that he was cold and sleepy, and that perhaps the kath’ein would abhor him and would not come at all. It was a bitter thought; but it was better than the trouble that he foresaw. He wished only to be let alone, and perhaps to sleep the night out, and not to be questioned after.

And the door opened.

A blue-robe stepped inside, bearing a small tray of food and drink; the door closed without her effort, and she brought the offering—knelt down to set it before him, and the cups rattled loudly on the tray. She wore no veil, not even on her mane; she was of about his years, and from what he could see of her downcast face in the lamplight, she was lovely.

Tears rolled down her cheeks, forced by a blink.

“Were you made to come?” he asked.

“No, kel’en.” She lifted her face, and gentle as it was, there was stubborn pride in it. “It is my time, and I did not decline it.”

He thought of it, of trying to deal with her, and the coldness stayed in him. “It would be bitter. Would it offend the Kath if we only sat and talked?”

Golden eyes wandered his face, through a sheen of tears. The membrane flashed, clearing them.

“Would it offend?” he asked again.

Pride. Mri honor. He saw the war in her eyes, suspecting offense, suspecting kindness. He had seen that wariness often enough in Niun’s eyes.

“No,” she agreed, smoothing her skirts; and after a moment she tilted her head and firmed her chin. “My son will call you father, all the same.”

“I do not understand.”

She looked puzzled, as much as he. “I mean that I shall not make it public what you wish. My son’s name is Ka’aros, and he has five years. It is a courtesy, do you not understand?”

“Are we—permanent?”

She laughed outright despite herself, and her laugh was gentle and the sudden touch of her hand on his was pleasant. “Kel’en, kel’en . . . no. My son has twenty-three fathers.” Her face grew sober again, and wistfully so. “I shall make you comfortable at least. Will you sleep, kel’en?”

He nodded mri-fashion, bewildered and weary and finding this offer the least burdensome. Her gentle fingers eased the
zaidhe
from him, and she stared in shock at the manner of his hair that, although he had let it grow shoulder-length, mri-fashion, was not the coarse bronze mane of her kind. She touched it, unbound by the formalities of kel-caste, tugged a lock between her fingers, discovered the shape of his ears and was amazed by that.

And from the covered wooden dish on her tray she took a fragrant damp cloth, and carefully, carefully bathed his face and hands—it was easement for the sandburns and the sunburn; and he loosed his robes at her insistence, and lay down, her knees for his pillow. She spread his robes over him and softly caressed his brow, so that he felt distant from all the world, and it was very easy to let go.

He did not wish to: treacheries occurred to him, murder—he strove to stay awake, not to show his distrust, but all the same, not to slip beyond awareness what passed.

But he did drift for a moment, and wakened in her arms, safe. He caressed her cradling arm, slowly, sleepily, until he looked into her golden eyes and remembered that he had promised not to touch her.

He took his hand away.

She bent and touched her lips to his brow, and this disturbed him.

“If I came back another night,” he said, for the time was short, and there suddenly seemed a thousand things he wished to know of the Kath—of this kath’en, who was gracious to a tsi’mri, “if I came back again, could I ask for you?”

“Any kel’en may ask.”

“May
I
ask?”

She understood then, and looked embarrassed, and distressed—and he understood, and forced a smile.

“I shall not ask,” he said.

“It would be shameless of me to say that you might.”

Then he was utterly confused, and lay staring up at her.

A soft, lilting call rang out somewhere in kath-hall.

“It is morning,” she said, and began to seek to leave. She arose when he sat up, and started for the door.

“I do not know your name,” he said, getting to his feet—human courtesy.

“Kel’en, it is Sa’er.”

And she performed a graceful gesture of respect and left him.

He regretted, then, that he had declined . . . regretted, with a curious sense of anticipation . . . that perhaps, on some other night, things would be different.

Sa’er: it was like the word for morning. It was appropriate.

His thoughts wrenched back to Elag/Haven, to rough and careless times, and next Sa’er, the memory was ugly.

One did not, he knew in all the principles of kel-law, hurt a kath’en, either child or woman. There was in him a deep certainty that he had done in this meeting what was right to do.

And there was in him increasing belief that she would not, as she had said, breach confidence; would not make little of him with others; would not come next time with tears, but with a smile for him.

Cheerful in that thought, he settled to the carpets and put his boots on, gathered his robes about him, and his belts and weapons, that he had put aside: rising, he put them to rights; and put on the
zaidhe,
that was more essential to modesty than the robes; but the
mez
he flung across his throat and over his shoulder.

Then he went out into the hall, and flushed hot with sudden embarrassment, for there was Niun, at the same moment, and he hoped that kel reticence would prevent questions.

The mri, he thought, looked well-content.

“Was it well with you?” Niun asked.

He nodded.

“Come,” said Niun. “There is a courtesy to be done.”

Kath-hall looked different under day-phase lighting. The mats were cleared away, and the children scurried about madly at their coming, ran each to a kath’en, and with amazing swiftness a line formed, guiding them to the door.

First was the kath’anth, who stood alone, and took Niun’s hands together and smiled at him. “Tell the Kel that we do not understand the machines in this place, but there will be dinner.”

“Perhaps I could assist with the machines,” Duncan suggested when the kath’anth took his hands in turn; and the kath’anth laughed, and so did Niun, and all the kath’ein that heard.

“He or I might,” Niun said, covering his embarrassment with grace. “We have many skills, he and I.”

“If the Kel would deign,” said this kath’anth.

“Send when we are needed,” said Niun.

And they passed from her to the line of kath’ein; Niun went first and gravely took the hands of a certain kath’en, bowed to her and took the hands of her little daughter and performed the same ritual.

Duncan understood then, and went to Sa’er, and did the same; and took the hand of her son as the boy offered his, wrist to wrist as men touched.

“He is kel Duncan,” said Sa’er to her son, and to Duncan: “He is Ka’aros.”

The child stared, wide-eyed with a child’s honesty, and did not return Duncan’s shy smile. Sa’er nudged the boy. “Sir,” he said, and the membrane flicked across his eyes. He did not yet have the adult’s mane: his was short and revealed his ears, that were tipped with a little curl of transparent down.

“Good day,” said Sa’er, and smiled at him.

“Good day,” he wished her; and joined Niun, who waited at the door. Silence reigned in the hall. They left, and then heard a murmuring of voices after them, knowing that questions were being asked.

“I liked her,” he confessed to Niun. And then further confession: “We did nothing.”

Niun shrugged, and put on his veil. “It is important that a man have good report of the Kath. The kath’en was more than gracious in the parting. Had you offended her, she would have made that known, and that would have
hurt you sorely in the House.”