Fearful Symmetry Part 12

Apparently it wasn't; she smiled at him. "The Lords saw fit to summon you quickly. Was the communion pleasant?"

"I don't know," Tarlac said. "I don't remember--"

He broke off in shock. She had spoken Language, and he'd answered in it. Not in the halting fragments he'd learned from Hovan, but as easily and fluently as if he'd been speaking Imperial Englis.h.!.+ "What-- How--"

"The Lords taught you, of course." She showed no surprise at that.

"But here, I brought a cloak when I sensed them calling you; I thought you would need it. And come, I will get you some hot chovas. It will warm you."

"Thanks." Tarlac took the cloak gratefully and wrapped it around his body, feeling a sense of relief. He'd adapted well enough to the in-clan nudity that under most circ.u.mstances being nude himself might not bother him too badly--but this woman was the clan's religious leader, and he was still uncertain enough not to want to commit any Terran improprieties around her. "The chovas sounds good, too."

By the time they were in the dining room and Daria had brought mugs of aromatic chovas from the always-ready pot in the kitchen, he'd stopped s.h.i.+vering and managed to accept the fact of his new command of Language. He'd also discovered it did him no good to think about how he'd gotten it. When he tried, his thoughts simply s.h.i.+ed away from the subject.

"Do the Lords do that sort of thing often?" he asked as they took seats. They weren't the only ones in the dining room, even at this hour, but n.o.body paid any noticeable attention to them.

"No, they very seldom intervene," she said calmly. "Why? Do your G.o.ds speak often?"

"It hasn't been proven that any ever have. I've never really believed in any of Terra's G.o.ds." The hot mug between his hands gave off cinnamon-flavored steam. "I'm not very good at taking things on faith."

"On faith? Your G.o.ds provide no evidence?" Daria's voice held faint disapproval. "They must be inferior G.o.ds, then."

Tarlac had to agree. "Yeah. The Circle of Lords doesn't leave much room for doubt, does it? No wonder Hovan thought I was naive."

He took a drink of his chovas, enjoying the warmth amid his troubled thoughts. He didn't see any alternative to accepting the Lords'

reality, like it or not. And he didn't particularly like it. G.o.ds who took an active part in mundane affairs introduced an uncertainty factor that he found unsettling at best. "Why haven't they helped you win the war, though?" he asked.

Daria smiled sadly. Apparently Language hadn't been the only thing the Lords taught him; he was reading her expression easily. "Who can say what motivates a G.o.d? We can only hope that their intervention now, through you, will save some of us."

"Yeah." Tarlac sipped again at his chovas. "Look, will you explain something for me?"

"If I can. What is it?"

"What in--" Tarlac hesitated, modified what he was going to say.

"What does a Ranger taking the Ordeal have to do with ending the war?"

Daria was silent for a moment, then she smiled again, easily, at the Ranger's almost aggrieved tone. "Ruhar, you must have noticed that all officers and high-status males are n'Cor'naya. There is a reason for that; we have so many that there must be a way to select the most capable, courageous, and honorable. The Ordeal has done that for many millennia, though it changed when Lord Sepol was called to the Circle.

"If the war is to be ended with honor, it must be done by someone who has high status on both sides. As a Ranger, you already have that in the Empire; once you pa.s.s the Ordeal, you will also be able to negotiate a peace agreement as a Cor'naya."

Tarlac frowned. "Any agreement that will work can't involve you . . .

surrendering"--he had to use the English word--"since that's something you can't do. With the way your people fight, and with us winning as decisively as we are, that is not going to be easy. Will the Lords help me there?"

"I cannot tell you," Daria said, frowning in her turn, perhaps at the unfamiliar word. "They have remained unresponsive; I can only pray that they will. But you must not count on it, for they give no more help than they consider essential. If they think there is any possibility you can do it without them, success or failure is up to you. We must learn, they say, by our mistakes."

"It wasn't your mistake that started this war," Tarlac said. "It was the Empire's, but you're the ones paying for it." He had a sudden thought, frowned again. "Fleet-Captain Arjen said the Supreme and First Speaker invited me here. That 'invitation' really came from the Lords, didn't it?"

Daria nodded. "Yes; all the Speakers know. But do not let that make you over-confident of their help. It is quite likely that having you brought here and teaching you Language is all they intend to do."

She sensed a question he hesitated to ask, and smiled. "No, Steve, your adoption was not dictated by the Lords. The Speakers were informed of your need to take the Ordeal, and we in turn informed our respective Clan Mothers--but the choice of offering adoption or not was theirs. Ka'ruchaya Yarra, in her wisdom, chose to offer it, and I am glad."

"So'm I. And it may mean I do have a chance of finis.h.i.+ng." Tarlac grinned, unable to suppress a short-lived surge of hope. He'd been prepared to die to bring peace; just the thought of living to enjoy it, as Hovan was confident he would, was enough to make him reach out and take Daria's hand even as it faded. "Thanks, ruhar. I was--"

"I know," Daria interrupted, putting her other hand over his. "That you continue when you feel certain of death does you honor. You are so intense, Steve. Relax, let the chovas soothe you."

"I can now, I guess. But I'm still worried. From what Hovan's told me, the Ordeal's no picnic, even if I do get help from the Lords."

"That is true, es'ruhar, but be easy. Worrying will only make it worse."

Tarlac was touched by her concern, and even more by what she called him--though her intonation, combined with her use of the male signifier, made that term . . . intimate. It was almost embarra.s.sing, and he didn't know how to respond. "Speaker . . ."

"I am Daria, es'ruhar."

"Daria, then." Tarlac was acutely aware of her tone and her touch.

The gray skin, despite its dense toughness, was soft and supple around his hands. This was a little too much closeness. "Uh, I think the Traiti and Empire have a lot to offer each other. For instance, you--"

"Steve, es'ruhar . . ." Daria interrupted again, smiling gently as she ran the backs of her claws up and down his forearm.

Tarlac s.h.i.+vered, not from cold, and a gulp of hot chovas didn't help.

He wanted to run from what he was suddenly sure she meant. He couldn't, not yet, not so soon--maybe never! He was afraid as he'd never been in combat, and shamed by the fear, but he was unable to deny it.

Daria paused, sensing the man's reaction. She had expected some unease; the Lords said that he had never shared bodies, since he had never gone through the ceremony humans needed to make it honorable, as some of the prisoners had. But simple inexperience didn't explain his near-panic response. There was a First Sharing for everyone, an occasion for joy in the clan almost as important as a birth.

Then she remembered stories she had heard about the prisoners, stories she recalled only with pity. "Married" Terrans shared bodies, yes, but only in private, as if doing so brought shame even then. And they never spoke of it, never otherwise slept unclothed, and certainly never allowed their bodies that freedom while awake. That had to mean, she realized with sudden horror, that Steve was disturbed by just the thought of such sharing. He must be fighting not to think of it at this moment.

Touching hadn't upset him before, but now his arm muscles were taut under her fingers, and she could tell it cost him effort to remain motionless and silent. She didn't remove her hand, letting it lie as before over his forearm, but when she spoke her intonation was concerned instead of intimate. "Ruhar, let me help you."

". . . What? Help? I . . . don't need any help. It's just . . . I'm not judging you, but you can't ask me to . . ."

Tarlac's voice trailed off. He couldn't look up and meet her eyes, could only stare at the gray, gracefully-clawed hand on his arm. At the altar he had felt he belonged to these people, and it had made him happy. Now he was a confused alien again, belonging nowhere and to no one.

The sudden violent changes of emotion he'd begun experiencing lately weren't usual for him at all, and he didn't know how to handle them.

It was like some of the Academy entrance examinations, when he'd been tested for his reactions to mood-altering drugs--and, at the same time, for his ability to function under wildly varying conditions. He'd been trying to adapt to too many things at once, he thought desperately.

Maybe he did need to slow the pace, maybe he should . . . but he didn't have time . . .

He couldn't . . . couldn't do what he thought she wanted. He hesitated, tried to explain. "Speaker, I can't make love to you," he said desperately, forcing himself to speak quietly though his words came out in short, harsh phrases. "It just isn't done. Even if you weren't a priestess. We aren't married. I gave up wanting a family . . . I just can't!"

When he became silent, Daria said softly, "You joined Ch'kara."

"I had to. To take the Ordeal." Tarlac was still staring at her hand, and sat frozen where he was as she moved to a place beside him.

Ah, the Ordeal, she thought compa.s.sionately. Perhaps if he knew this was part of the Ordeal, showing he was able to share in the creation of a new life? Then she decided against telling him. It would be better if he did not know just yet, if he did this freely rather than from a sense of obligation. "Ruhar, please. Let me help. I can ease the ill that has been done you, perhaps cure it. You need not suffer as you do."

"Ill?" After a few moments, the Ranger was able to look up into sympathetic amber eyes. "I'm not suffering, I like what I do. You just, well, surprised me. I didn't mean to offend you. If I did, I'm sorry."

She'd shocked the h.e.l.l out of him, would be more accurate, but he had regained some control and did regret any distress he might have caused her. More, he was angry at himself for losing control in the first place. It was about time he started thinking with something more than his cultural prejudices. Dammit, he was supposed to be able to adapt to just about any circ.u.mstances. So why shouldn't he accept this?

Unless she was right, and something in Terran culture had warped him.

Or--maybe not warped him, but been mistaken about him. He'd lost his reserve far too easily in the short time he'd spent aboard the Hermnaen, and here in-clan, for real detachment to have been an integral part of him. He'd enjoyed--until now--the Traiti closeness that was unacceptable in Terran society at present.