Kabardan Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
The next morning was dark and misty with midsummer haze. Domojon spent the day in his office-niche, earplugs securing his from the giggles and shouts of Human nurselings, variously inscribing notes into his datarod notescreen and accessing a Humanish translation of the Humans' Way of Exceeding Joy. It failed to comfort him.
The Queen left the court early with his attendants, and the buzzing of his telephone peppered the afternoon quiet as the nurselings took their naps and played outside. As the sky outside darkened with Aramkai's breath, he finally reappeared at the red-draped outer doorway. Domojon noted with concern that he was walking very slowly, shakily, as if he had a fever; he clutched at the hand of a younger Human so tightly that his knuckles seemed all bone. He took off his sunglasses, carefully pulling the strap up over his tall silver wig, and his eyes grew deep and black as stone. Perhaps they had not yet adjusted to the dim light of the court, or perhaps they were dark with Human fear.
"Hnh!" Domojon moaned in greeting, curious.
Charalth did not go immediately to his dais to check the many blinking message-lights, as was his custom; instead he entered Domojon's office-niche, and sat heavily onto the red plush cushion reversed for clients. Younger Human scurried to the kitchen area and fetched his a pot of moss tea and a bar of Terran chocolate wrapped in goldleaf.
"Is there something you desire, Charalth?" Domojon asked, quickly removing his earplugs.
The Queen's eyes were now grey and moist, mournful. "Now the nurseling must become the adult," he murmured, slowly and deliberately folding his sunglasses into a pocket of his cloak. "Now the student must become the teacher. Listen to me very carefully, dream-seer, for I have had. . .I have had a dream."
"You dreamed?" Domojon was astonihed. Never had the Queen approached his office-niche before, at least not as a client. Few Human did. Few Human ever recalled their dreams upon the dawn; for that reason the trade of dream-seer was profitable only among the Kabards.
"And worse," Charalth said. "Worse yet -- I dreamed during the swelling of the day with Kensor's blood." He accepted the mug of tea proffered by the younger Human and gulped it thirstily. "Can you read the meaning of my dream, Domojon?"
"Uh. . .yes, yes, of course." Domojon scrambled through his top desk drawer for a new client questionnaire. Would he even need one? Did he dare to ask Charalth Aigght about his nurturing, his favored sexual images, his use of hallucinogens? Could he just say, "I'll need you to complete this medical history and the Deep Symbol Interest Inventory in order to best help you analyze your dream language"?
Domojon found the tray of small zinc-blue disks, but in the end left them lying in the drawer. He took several deep breaths, then turned to face Charalth again. "Perhaps you should start at the beginning, Charalth, and tell me everything in the day that led up to your dream."
"Of course, of course. That would be proper, wouldn't it?" He wiped some sweat from his forehead, and dabbed at the discomfort tears watering down from his eyes. "Just before noon today, as you will recall, I went to the Court of the Divine Wind to pay my respects to the new Godking. . . ."
"Has he taken his globe of office yet?" Domojon interrupted, thinking to release more of Charalth's memories. "I didn't think that Kabard bureaucratic wheels could turn that quickly."
"Nok Dragon will continue to serve as Godking for two weeks yet," Charalth said, "But Gorban stays in his Court to receive instruction, and of course, to choose a new king of Moreveq. I thought it best to avoid appearing hesitant in delivering the customary greetings." He tore open the goldleaf wrapping, bit off a corner of his chocolate bar, and swallowed it quickly, like medicine. "Gorban seems pleasant enough, though perhaps not as self-effacing as one would expect. He seems to know more about state processions and parties than about the everyday intricacies of godhood."
"Did he tell you anything particularly disturbing? Will his policies toward the Human change?"
"Everything will change," Charalth said in a deep even voice. his attendants looked away. "There are thousands of clans in Kabard nations, not including Humanan, over a million Human in all. A formidable force -- and a destiny we have not yet dreamed of."
Domojon shuddered. "How long did your interview with the new Godking last?"
"Two hours, three -- who knows? Am I a Terran, then, to be always calling up the time-display on my datarod as if it were a sacred icon?"
Now the Queen was beginning to sound like his old self again! Domojon smiled with widening summer-blue eyes. "Tell me, what happened after you left Gorban?"
Charalth took a deep breath. "I was passing the corridor with the many study-rooms in the Court of the Divine Wind, you know the place, and a voice in my head seemed to say 'They are very peaceful, are they not? Why not stop inside one and contemplate your evening homily there, away from the squalling of the nurselings and the importuning of a hundred Human minds?'" He looked away. "Is solitude every proper for a Human?"
"Sometimes, I think, it is," said Domojon.
"Alas, that solitude was my undoing, for the study-room was warm, overheated, and I fell asleep. And I dreamed."
Domojon prepared herself for a dream about Gorban, or Mozhäu, or some monstruous conflation of the two, and a premonition about the end of the world.
"My Queen, the Human return," an attendant whispered, not looking at either of them. "Soon it will be time for the Dance of Night's Unfolding. Is it seemly to be seeking a balm for your hurt now?"
"What? Oh, yes, yes." He glanced frantically at the main room, at the Human beginning to file silently in, pressing palms to the jeweled foreheads of their clanmates and nurselings, laughing and chittering and making brief, quavering overtures to the Dance. "Yes, the Dance must be danced, though I dance it in the Caverns of Eternity, hah hah! I will consult with you later, Domojon."
When the Human had all returned, they danced in small intricate circles, emulating the churning of the suns; then they sat around a single low table to eat their supper of red-earth mushrooms fried with saffron, a salad of fresh scallions and potatoes, and a millet-raisin pudding. Dawnsmilk and moss tea were passed around in huge pitchers. Domojon ate several helpings: distress always made his hungry; but Charalth just picked at him food. The nurselings, who of course had eaten earlier, entertained them with a song they had learned that day from their Tilach tutor:
Tso arhav tsël dhu Alëru bhërthël tav,
Dhésëmath-terili dhë shar tav.
Eyo! Sema khër tso vhami shana
Ma alúng nër li-va dhu jarív ha
I wander through the Temple of Rising Wisdom,
Across the roof of knowledge of stars and suns,
Alas! The knowledge I am seeking
Can be found only in the grave.
Rather a strange song to teach nurselings, Domojon thought. Who was writing Human nurseling curriculum these days?
When the nurselings were herded off into their own sleeping-alcove, Charalth took his place on the white dais to deliver the evening homily. He still seemed confused and unsteady, and his hands pressed often against his temples. To Domojon's horror he spoke in clear, reasoned tones about none other than Mozhäu.
"Many fear this Peacemaker, many dread His coming. But what does He represent?" he asked, "He is nothing more than the daytime of our lives, the daytime when we cannot hear the mind-calls of our clan, and things outside are blurred and indistinct, and Kensor bites our skin like a serpent. Now, the day is not in itself evil; it is necessary, in fact, for eternal night would leave the world frozen and sterile. Thus it is with Mozhäu."
He paused and glanced around the court for nods and bright receptive eyes. "We have been taught that the Day is a time of dark and painful solitude, to be avoided except when necessary to do business with the Kabards. But Mozhäu reveals to us that both Day and Night are licit: Human must embrace confusion equally with clear thought, the sea equally with the fire, burning one-eyed Kensor equally with our mother Aramkaí."
Domojon cringed: by preaching that the Kensor should be revealed equally with Aramkaí, Charalth had swiftly and easily disregarded the teaching of generations! It was horrifying, blasphemous, as if the Humans were told to abandon their soulmates for wombmates, or Ceraines to take up implements of iron! He looked around the room for eyes that displayed disagreement, disapprobation, but there was nothing except perhaps some vague surprise. The Human were twitching their eyes from side to side and moaning softly, as cherubic and content as if Charalth had said something innocuous, like "We should be kind to one another. We should do wise deeds." Charalth was, after all, their mother/goddess/lover, to be worshipped by his clan just as the Kabards worshipped Nok Dragon. . .Gorban, now; if he asked them to eat grass, or to steal datarods from a dealer, or even to strike down a Kabard, they would not only obey without question, they would consider eating grass or stealing or murder the most natural and virtuous thing in the world. Ironically, Domojon thought, only one who was half way to becoming erëktilit, a heretic, could be shocked by heresy.
"But our destiny in this world," Charalth continued, "Is more than unity. It is mastery." He raised his arms to Aramkai's womb and smiled weakly. his knees were visibly trembling. "Too long have Human been rejected by the other tribes, forced to work in their daylit cities, eat their ox-dung. . .I mean cow-flesh. . .and drink their sunfruit brew. I think. . .I think. . .forgive me, Human, but I have lost my channel of thought."
"We have been rejected by other tribes for too long," a Human repeated from his place at the long table.
"Yes. It is time for us, for Human everywhere, to. . . ." Suddenly he fell heavily to his knees. Two Human sprang up to help him. Another ruhed to the kitchen area for a cup of water.
"I'm sorry," Charalth murmured. "My homily is not complete. . .I need more time to prepare, to read more of the merits of the burning Day, of the Sun Harlúd, and his Lord Mozhäu."
The Kabard sun-god is Kensor, not Harlúd, Domojon thought. Harlúd is the God of Disease, He of the White Serpents! How should one behave when the Queen of the clan makes so obvious and simple an error?
A Human mounted the dais and held out a cup of water, but Charalth stared at it as if it were fangworm venom. "I need no sustenance," he said in a low voice, his eyes lowered. "I need nothing. The Human must do. . .must perform the Dance of the Rising Mist until I return." And he walked across the Court of the Humanqueen, past the white table, and out into the night.
The Human murmured blankly, for the Dance of the Rising Mist was never performed in the evening, but at dawn, to persuade Kensor to burn less brightly. But they followed the command nevertheless: some puhed aside the great table with mud-colored plates and cups still on it, and others took their places in a double line. Domojon wondered if they really obeyed Charalth because he was their mother\goddess\lover, or because they weren't in the habit of thinking for themselves. Could one disobey one's queen even in something as little as this without being banihed as erëktilit, heretic?
Domojon was important enough, active enough in Kabard affairs to be allowed some of his own decisions, so he did not join in the dance; instead he left the other Human behind and followed Charalth through the broad courts of Tregonëv. In the dull Firstday evening the city was empty of Human and Kabard alike (Riddle: What do Kabards do for fun on Firstday? Wish it was Sixthday). The Queen walked as if in a daze; Domojon touched his shoulder once, but he shrugged off the touch and cried "Leave me, nurseling! Some things even a dream-seer cannot comprehend!"
When they came to the Court of the Divine Wind, Charalth passed by the elevator and began to mount one of the straight cream-colored ramps. He walked slowly, as if half asleep, and after a few flights his eyes crinkled into a strange emotionless smile. Domojon followed, afraid to touch his again, or even to speak. Since it was very late in the darkness, near the rising of the final moon, they were undisturbed.
Finally they came to the highest petto, a bare crag overlooking the sea to the south and to the west At Reranish, the Court of Deception. Domojon knew this place. . .he had come here before once, with Akrava, to look at an optical illusion that made the buildings below seem to tremble. But he had never seen it by moonlight, and that made all the difference. The city below was alive with light, with colors only the Human could see. Rich fire-umber glowed from cloud-houses, from warm Kabard bodies, and their machines flickered a dull ice-blue. There were dark gusts of air, and sparkling vapors, and the stern red rays of streetlamps. And far off, beyond the city and the highway and the rocky beach, the ocean swelled a murky green.
The Queen stood as close to the edge as he could; his cloak flapped around him, into the dry air three hundred feet above the ground. He raised his hands to the sky and chanted in a language Domojon didn't recognize. Then, suddenly, he did recognize it. . .from yesterday! He still remembered the Abbot's reverence: Eranach, that only monks in deep cavern-temples learn. How had Charalth learned to chant in Eranach, that language ancient before Humanish was born?
Suddenly the Queen broke off. "No, it is too much to ask," he said to no one that Domojon could see. "I have a headache." He reached to his forehead, pulled away as if startled to find his colindon there. He puhed it to one side, so that only the strap was visible. his forehead gleamed in the moonlight like the belly of an obscene pale serpent. "No, no, that doesn't help." his hands fumbled with the knot of fabric, now over his left ear.
"No, Charalth!" Domojon shouted. "You may never remove your colindon. It is blasphemy!"
From the corner of his eye Domojon saw a shape rising from the southern ocean, at first a thin misting of the waves, and then a shadow, dark and fluttering like a death-shroud.
"I alone decides what is blasphemy, and what is not," Charalth said sharply. "Leave me, Human, or I will strike you down." He undid the knot and thrust his colindon off. It clattered onto the ledge below, and then tumbled down into At Reranish, out of sight. To the south, the shadow was still rising from the sea; it began to take on the appearance of a Kabard, with a black mane and black throbbing wings, and a black antlered crown.
"You have not yet told me your dream!" Domojon shouted, desperate for -- what? A moment of sanity. A moment of clear thought. Ymaktov! He suddenly remembered Ymaktov, the god of clear thought, and shot a prayer to the cluttered Kabard heavens. "Please tell me your dream -- it is only good business to allow me to complete my file, after all."
"All right, Human," Charalth said in an odd misty voice. "I dreamed of that shadow rising from the sea. It was Mozhäu. He spoke to me, told me the options I had in this, the last age of the world. I chose peace for myself and my Human." Suddenly Domojon realized that he was speaking in the language of the mind-call. So there was a mind-call after all; it wasn't all just habit or tradition, and it could do much more than call Human home to dinner. I have chosen peace for myself and my Human: the words throbbed like a headache in a place just behind his eyes, fluhed his head and shoulders with dry heat, made his mind as dull and grey as cotton. He felt drawn to leap over the edge of the petto, to find peace and healing in the swirling colors of At Reranish.
Charalth turned to Domojon, grinning savagely like a werewolf in a fairy tale, laughing at his discomfiture. "You needn't worry, moppet," he said. "I am still Queen. Only now I am strong, stronger than the wild oxen, stronger than the wind, stronger than death or granite walls. And you are wise. Together, you and I, we will conquer."
Domojon backed away, sick at heart. He turned and, too frightened to wait for the elevator, ran clattering down the creamstone ramps, down to At Reranish, and then across the Kabard courts. He burst into the darkened cloud-house where Akrava slept, awakened him, felt his warm thick arms wrap around him, strands of his mane tickle his nose. "It's all right, it's all right," he whispered over and over again. He pressed his face against his chest and allowed the thick, heavy tears of despair to flow.
The morning dawned so so dim and cheery with summer that he thought it must all have been a dream. When he returned to the Court of the Humanqueen, Charalth was sitting upon his dais, scribbling furiously into his notescreen. his colindon was intact. The Human had risen and wahed, danced their morning dances, and now they were eating a breakfast of dawnsmilk and mahed kartë root. No one flahed any concern or confusion over last night's homily. Perhaps they hadn't even noticed. Then, just as the Human were leaving for work and Domojon was going into his office-alcove to check on today's appointments, Charalth stood and beckoned them all back to the white table.
"The time has come for the Dance of Many Voices," he said, "For with the new Godking, Human have received a new dispensation from Aramkai."
The Human moaned their assent, and obediently sat.
"No Human will go to work this day, or tomorrow. Those who work for Kabard foremen will give notice. Those who own shops and services will sell them. In the new dispensation, we will be factory-workers and shopkeepers no longer. We will be warriors, as glorious and proud as Re Kuiln who slew the six demons of Chufthen, or Satrilur, who defended Harchi against 10,000 Humans."
"Who will we war against, Charalth?" a very young Human asked. The others sat silently, adding up severance pay or wondering what their shop inventories would sell for.
Charalth smiled, the benificent Goddess/Mother/Lover. "We war against those who walk in darkness still."
"But, Charalth," said Domojon, "If we abandon everything to become warriors, what will become of us when the war ends? Many of us have built up prosperous shops and businesses from a few gold coins. Would you have us start over again, from nothing?"
"When this war ends, there will be no more shops, no more gold coins," Charalth said in a firm voice, his eyes golden-yellow with pride. "The final battle is coming, nurselings, the battle of Human and Kabard for the domination of the world. And the actions we Human take will determine the outcome of that battle."
"Shall we fight against the Humans?" asked a pale Human with a yellow mane-wig with pale trembling eyes. "They worship a single goddess, as we do. They wear stones on their foreheads as we wear phylacteries. We can comprehend their Elusan tongue, read their Elusan books. Should we not be embracing them as clanmates?"
Charalth laughed. "Child, child -- you should know that the greatest evil is hidden behind similarity. The Terrans, too, resemble us in nearly all things, too, worshipping a god instead of a goddess -- what could be more subtle, or more hideous? Take the Prayer of New Beginnings from Oration of Rising Wisdom, change but three words, and you have a work of such obscenity as to make the demons tremble!"
So the Human would be preparing for what the new Godking considered an inevitable Kabard-Human war. Only a few were exempted: the very old and the very young, the pregnant, and those with high positions in Kabard society, like Domojon and the curator of Humanish manuscripts in the Court of the Infinite Shadow. The others spent their days not in Kabard factories and shops, but on the flat cobblestones of the Court of Everlasting Mercy, learning geography and Tilach and a strange bombastic history of the world, running and throwing rubber balls and aiming spears at black-striped targets. More important, they learned how to distinguish the Queen's new, powerful mind-call from their own thoughts and the meaningless proddings of spirits: how to interpret not only vague feelings and emotions, but commands, names and places, numbers, time measurements; and learning how to obey mind-commands without hesitation.
On newscasts Domojon saw Human in courts and cavern-cities across the world, from Kabardan to Elaku, training, refining their calls, preparing for this war. A few Queens refused to involve their clans, of course, and many individual Human became erëktilit, but commentators estimated that 300,000 Human would soon be trained and ready.
Kabards, too, were divided in their loyalty to the coming battle and to Gorban. Pachala, the Kabard nation nearest the Human's continent, remained stauchly neutral, and the ex-godking Nok Dragon, now abbot of the small but interesting Temple of the Tumbling Moons, spoke loudly against any build-up of troops on the wallscreen program Religion Today: "If war is inevitable, than we should prepare for it as we prepare for death, through prayers and wisdom and acts of kindness to our enemies. Not through practicing over and over again the death-throttle!"
The other guest on the program, the angry and jingoistic abbot of the Temple of the Red Grave, countered by calling for "Bombing the greatdoors, expelling the Humans and their demon-doubles on Terra from all of our nations, and repenting for the blasphemies of the current age!"
The daily rituals changed as well. Instead of bowing to Aramkai of the Six Breasts alone, the Human bowed to both Aramkai the Dark and Kensor the Burning. Later Charalth brought into the court images of Harlúd, the God of the White Serpents, and and little-revered gods of thunderstorms and the sea.
A few weeks later, Domojon returned from a call on a client to find that his alcove-office had been transformed into a shrine to the Kabard goddess of fertility, Urvath. Instead of red plush cushions, there were wooden benches; instead of Domojon's desk and disk files in a wooden case, there were red votive candles and small images of pregnant or nursing Human.
"What's going on?" he cried. "What happened to my office?"
Charalth looked up from his datarod, as curious but imperturbed as if he had heard an especially loud nurselings' game going on outside.
"What do you mean? Oh, of course. . . ." He flipped his datarod shut.
"What did you do with my files. . .my research?"
"It's packed away in case you need it again." his eyes were perfectly content, summer-blue. "The goddess tired of your meaningless pratings. Henceforth you will work to develop your true talent, your innate and powerful mind-call."
"But I do a good work," Domojon protested. "You yourself told me that I present a favorable image of the Human among the Kabards." He hesitated. "And we shouldn't forget that I add more coins to the communal pot than any other Human."
The Queen shrugged. "We will do without coins, for the time being. All those with exceptional mind-calls must work to develop them even farther, for when I enter the Caverns of Eternity the new Queen will lead a stronger and more challenging community than I ever have. A new night is dimming, Domojon, and you must be ready for it."
Domojon knew, then, that he would have to choose between his position as a dream-seer and his clan. It was not an easy decision: if he became erëktilit, he could never again enter a Human court, or receive aid from any Human, or speak to any Human who was not herself erëktilit. And there were stories of crippling psychological pain, physical pain, even madness and death from those deprived of the clan, of the sixty soft, nurturing minds and the Queen above them all.
He endured for a few more weeks, hoping that Charalth would change his mind, or at least ignore dreamreading appointments held beyond the Court of the Humanqueen. But no: if he spent more than a few moments in any Kabard cloud-house, or used the word "dream" in any conversation, Charalth would reprimand his that night during the communal meal.
"See this one? He has a single, puny talent for dreamreading, and because of it he considers herself wiser than Charalth, wiser than Aramkai, and casually disregards a command of the All Seeing."
The Human would murmur their displeasure.
One evening Domojon stayed in Akrava's cloud-house late watching a Terran film entitled Indiana Jonës and the Temple of the Sea, and when he returned to the Court of the Humanqueen, Charalth was incensed with rage; he refused to sit down at the communal meal, instead stomping across his dais and talking to herself. his homily for that evening consisted of two sentences: "Perhaps Domojon feels that I no longer receive true dispensations from Aramkai. Perhaps he would like to assist my pasage into the Caverns of Eternity, so that he may sit upon my white throne herself!"
Domojon slept that night between cold, unyielding Human bodies. A few hours later, when the last moon had risen to dissipate the soft darkness of Aramkai, he crawled out from beneath the blankets, tied on his cloak, and latched his datarod to his belt. his blue zinc disks -- notes on clients, reference books, forms and charts -- were piled in a closet like nurselings' play-tablets; he quietly scooped as many as he could into a small paper bag. Then he stole away, out across the courts to Akrava's cloud-house. The tall Kabard lay silent on his palm-leaf bed, his body golden with heat and glowing in the moonlight.
"Akrava, wake up," he whispered.
"I was wondering how long it would take you to rebel," he said in a clear alert voice: he had not been asleep. He rose from the parquet floor to press his nose against hers and give his a hug. "Come in. . .there's food out, if you're hungry."
"Thank you." He went to the sideboard and helped herself to a slice of brown bread with honey and a small bowl of mahed, peppered kartë root. "Could I stay with you for a few days? I think I've just become erëktilit."
"Of course -- if you think it's safe," said Akrava. He turned on a light. "After all, this is the first place Charalth will come looking for you."
"Why would he come looking? It's disgraceful to become erëktilit, but it's certainly not a crime."
He laughed. "Your modesty always astounds me, Domojon. You're one of the most famous Human under the sun, and you think you can just abandon your clan like a two-bit fortune-teller? Charalth has more than a little interest in keeping you orthodox, and he can claim all sorts of things to get you back -- that I'm holding against your will, for instance. Gorban would probably believe him, too." He poured his a cup of amber birch-bud tea that smelled soothingly of aralth. "I wouldn't be surprised if the Guard rapped on my door ten minutes after Charalth falls out of your little communal bed."
He hadn't thought of that.
"Well, I'm sure nothing will happen if I spend the night, at least."
"I suppose not. You've done that often enough." He spread out his leaf-bed to make room for him.
A little after dawn, Domojon awakened to a strange, urgent mind-call, very different from the tiny, easily-ignored calls to return to the clanhouse for dinner, or to gather for a special assembly, and even those used during their training sessions to convey messages such as "Ten transports, retinue of 6,000, leaves Uted Markum on Resh 17." It began as a little itch, but soon became a sharp cutting in the place beyind his eyes. "Come home. Come home." He rose upright and felt for Akrava: he was snoring gently, a warm, comfortable form beside him. So the call wasn't audible, it wouldn't disturb acute Kabard ears.
He stumbled to the water closet for some aspirin, soaked a cloth in cool water to tie around his forehead, even moved his colindon to the back position, but the hammering increased until he could think of nothing else. Every movement brought a wave of nausea. "Come home. Come home." He lay upon the leaf-bed, panting and moaning. Who was this Kabard beside her? He couldn't think. Akrava! he called in his mind. And he suddenly awoke.
"What's wrong?" He touched his forehead and then his cheek. "Are you sick?"
"A new mind-call, powerful," he murmured. "It destroys me. My own memories are fading, and hers. . .they brand me."
"Shall I call for a healer?"
"Yes, someone. . .someone who knows what's happening."
Akrava ruhed to the wallscreen, accessed the telephone, and pressed a few numbers. "Think on something pleasant," he whispered. "Something pleasant and familiar."
So he tried to think of a river in the mountains where they used to go often, he and Akrava lying side by side watching evening clouds. But then the mind-call entered his fantasies, the clouds grew into demons, and Akrava became a Kabard warrior with a belt of Human skulls and fangs that dripped blood.
He jumped to his feet. "I must go now!"
"No!" Domojon wrapped his arms around him. His skin was slick and smelled of musk. Sexual. What did he want with her? He had heard of Kabard males. . .taking Human. They were much taller, much stronger. His breath smelled of raw meat. He could hear his heart pounding. . .in the wrong place. He was a monster!
"Come home," the voice whispered in his mind. "Come home."
"I must go!" he shouted. "Now. Let me be!"
"Okay, okay." His voice was soft. "If you want. . . ." He lay back on his shoulders against the sweat-slick palm leaves. His face. . .so exactly like that of a prince in one of his nurseling storyfilms. . .so concerned, so. . .loving.
The floor tilted first one way, then another; Domojon felt herself floating, descending into the half-world of dream. He wanted to descend, to succumb to the call, to die. But he fell back into Akrava's arms. And at last, the throbbing ended.
The next morning was dark and misty with midsummer haze. Domojon spent the day in his office-niche, earplugs securing his from the giggles and shouts of Human nurselings, variously inscribing notes into his datarod notescreen and accessing a Humanish translation of the Humans' Way of Exceeding Joy. It failed to comfort him.
The Queen left the court early with his attendants, and the buzzing of his telephone peppered the afternoon quiet as the nurselings took their naps and played outside. As the sky outside darkened with Aramkai's breath, he finally reappeared at the red-draped outer doorway. Domojon noted with concern that he was walking very slowly, shakily, as if he had a fever; he clutched at the hand of a younger Human so tightly that his knuckles seemed all bone. He took off his sunglasses, carefully pulling the strap up over his tall silver wig, and his eyes grew deep and black as stone. Perhaps they had not yet adjusted to the dim light of the court, or perhaps they were dark with Human fear.
"Hnh!" Domojon moaned in greeting, curious.
Charalth did not go immediately to his dais to check the many blinking message-lights, as was his custom; instead he entered Domojon's office-niche, and sat heavily onto the red plush cushion reversed for clients. Younger Human scurried to the kitchen area and fetched his a pot of moss tea and a bar of Terran chocolate wrapped in goldleaf.
"Is there something you desire, Charalth?" Domojon asked, quickly removing his earplugs.
The Queen's eyes were now grey and moist, mournful. "Now the nurseling must become the adult," he murmured, slowly and deliberately folding his sunglasses into a pocket of his cloak. "Now the student must become the teacher. Listen to me very carefully, dream-seer, for I have had. . .I have had a dream."
"You dreamed?" Domojon was astonihed. Never had the Queen approached his office-niche before, at least not as a client. Few Human did. Few Human ever recalled their dreams upon the dawn; for that reason the trade of dream-seer was profitable only among the Kabards.
"And worse," Charalth said. "Worse yet -- I dreamed during the swelling of the day with Kensor's blood." He accepted the mug of tea proffered by the younger Human and gulped it thirstily. "Can you read the meaning of my dream, Domojon?"
"Uh. . .yes, yes, of course." Domojon scrambled through his top desk drawer for a new client questionnaire. Would he even need one? Did he dare to ask Charalth Aigght about his nurturing, his favored sexual images, his use of hallucinogens? Could he just say, "I'll need you to complete this medical history and the Deep Symbol Interest Inventory in order to best help you analyze your dream language"?
Domojon found the tray of small zinc-blue disks, but in the end left them lying in the drawer. He took several deep breaths, then turned to face Charalth again. "Perhaps you should start at the beginning, Charalth, and tell me everything in the day that led up to your dream."
"Of course, of course. That would be proper, wouldn't it?" He wiped some sweat from his forehead, and dabbed at the discomfort tears watering down from his eyes. "Just before noon today, as you will recall, I went to the Court of the Divine Wind to pay my respects to the new Godking. . . ."
"Has he taken his globe of office yet?" Domojon interrupted, thinking to release more of Charalth's memories. "I didn't think that Kabard bureaucratic wheels could turn that quickly."
"Nok Dragon will continue to serve as Godking for two weeks yet," Charalth said, "But Gorban stays in his Court to receive instruction, and of course, to choose a new king of Moreveq. I thought it best to avoid appearing hesitant in delivering the customary greetings." He tore open the goldleaf wrapping, bit off a corner of his chocolate bar, and swallowed it quickly, like medicine. "Gorban seems pleasant enough, though perhaps not as self-effacing as one would expect. He seems to know more about state processions and parties than about the everyday intricacies of godhood."
"Did he tell you anything particularly disturbing? Will his policies toward the Human change?"
"Everything will change," Charalth said in a deep even voice. his attendants looked away. "There are thousands of clans in Kabard nations, not including Humanan, over a million Human in all. A formidable force -- and a destiny we have not yet dreamed of."
Domojon shuddered. "How long did your interview with the new Godking last?"
"Two hours, three -- who knows? Am I a Terran, then, to be always calling up the time-display on my datarod as if it were a sacred icon?"
Now the Queen was beginning to sound like his old self again! Domojon smiled with widening summer-blue eyes. "Tell me, what happened after you left Gorban?"
Charalth took a deep breath. "I was passing the corridor with the many study-rooms in the Court of the Divine Wind, you know the place, and a voice in my head seemed to say 'They are very peaceful, are they not? Why not stop inside one and contemplate your evening homily there, away from the squalling of the nurselings and the importuning of a hundred Human minds?'" He looked away. "Is solitude every proper for a Human?"
"Sometimes, I think, it is," said Domojon.
"Alas, that solitude was my undoing, for the study-room was warm, overheated, and I fell asleep. And I dreamed."
Domojon prepared herself for a dream about Gorban, or Mozhäu, or some monstruous conflation of the two, and a premonition about the end of the world.
"My Queen, the Human return," an attendant whispered, not looking at either of them. "Soon it will be time for the Dance of Night's Unfolding. Is it seemly to be seeking a balm for your hurt now?"
"What? Oh, yes, yes." He glanced frantically at the main room, at the Human beginning to file silently in, pressing palms to the jeweled foreheads of their clanmates and nurselings, laughing and chittering and making brief, quavering overtures to the Dance. "Yes, the Dance must be danced, though I dance it in the Caverns of Eternity, hah hah! I will consult with you later, Domojon."
When the Human had all returned, they danced in small intricate circles, emulating the churning of the suns; then they sat around a single low table to eat their supper of red-earth mushrooms fried with saffron, a salad of fresh scallions and potatoes, and a millet-raisin pudding. Dawnsmilk and moss tea were passed around in huge pitchers. Domojon ate several helpings: distress always made his hungry; but Charalth just picked at him food. The nurselings, who of course had eaten earlier, entertained them with a song they had learned that day from their Tilach tutor:
Tso arhav tsël dhu Alëru bhërthël tav,
Dhésëmath-terili dhë shar tav.
Eyo! Sema khër tso vhami shana
Ma alúng nër li-va dhu jarív ha
I wander through the Temple of Rising Wisdom,
Across the roof of knowledge of stars and suns,
Alas! The knowledge I am seeking
Can be found only in the grave.
Rather a strange song to teach nurselings, Domojon thought. Who was writing Human nurseling curriculum these days?
When the nurselings were herded off into their own sleeping-alcove, Charalth took his place on the white dais to deliver the evening homily. He still seemed confused and unsteady, and his hands pressed often against his temples. To Domojon's horror he spoke in clear, reasoned tones about none other than Mozhäu.
"Many fear this Peacemaker, many dread His coming. But what does He represent?" he asked, "He is nothing more than the daytime of our lives, the daytime when we cannot hear the mind-calls of our clan, and things outside are blurred and indistinct, and Kensor bites our skin like a serpent. Now, the day is not in itself evil; it is necessary, in fact, for eternal night would leave the world frozen and sterile. Thus it is with Mozhäu."
He paused and glanced around the court for nods and bright receptive eyes. "We have been taught that the Day is a time of dark and painful solitude, to be avoided except when necessary to do business with the Kabards. But Mozhäu reveals to us that both Day and Night are licit: Human must embrace confusion equally with clear thought, the sea equally with the fire, burning one-eyed Kensor equally with our mother Aramkaí."
Domojon cringed: by preaching that the Kensor should be revealed equally with Aramkaí, Charalth had swiftly and easily disregarded the teaching of generations! It was horrifying, blasphemous, as if the Humans were told to abandon their soulmates for wombmates, or Ceraines to take up implements of iron! He looked around the room for eyes that displayed disagreement, disapprobation, but there was nothing except perhaps some vague surprise. The Human were twitching their eyes from side to side and moaning softly, as cherubic and content as if Charalth had said something innocuous, like "We should be kind to one another. We should do wise deeds." Charalth was, after all, their mother/goddess/lover, to be worshipped by his clan just as the Kabards worshipped Nok Dragon. . .Gorban, now; if he asked them to eat grass, or to steal datarods from a dealer, or even to strike down a Kabard, they would not only obey without question, they would consider eating grass or stealing or murder the most natural and virtuous thing in the world. Ironically, Domojon thought, only one who was half way to becoming erëktilit, a heretic, could be shocked by heresy.
"But our destiny in this world," Charalth continued, "Is more than unity. It is mastery." He raised his arms to Aramkai's womb and smiled weakly. his knees were visibly trembling. "Too long have Human been rejected by the other tribes, forced to work in their daylit cities, eat their ox-dung. . .I mean cow-flesh. . .and drink their sunfruit brew. I think. . .I think. . .forgive me, Human, but I have lost my channel of thought."
"We have been rejected by other tribes for too long," a Human repeated from his place at the long table.
"Yes. It is time for us, for Human everywhere, to. . . ." Suddenly he fell heavily to his knees. Two Human sprang up to help him. Another ruhed to the kitchen area for a cup of water.
"I'm sorry," Charalth murmured. "My homily is not complete. . .I need more time to prepare, to read more of the merits of the burning Day, of the Sun Harlúd, and his Lord Mozhäu."
The Kabard sun-god is Kensor, not Harlúd, Domojon thought. Harlúd is the God of Disease, He of the White Serpents! How should one behave when the Queen of the clan makes so obvious and simple an error?
A Human mounted the dais and held out a cup of water, but Charalth stared at it as if it were fangworm venom. "I need no sustenance," he said in a low voice, his eyes lowered. "I need nothing. The Human must do. . .must perform the Dance of the Rising Mist until I return." And he walked across the Court of the Humanqueen, past the white table, and out into the night.
The Human murmured blankly, for the Dance of the Rising Mist was never performed in the evening, but at dawn, to persuade Kensor to burn less brightly. But they followed the command nevertheless: some puhed aside the great table with mud-colored plates and cups still on it, and others took their places in a double line. Domojon wondered if they really obeyed Charalth because he was their mother\goddess\lover, or because they weren't in the habit of thinking for themselves. Could one disobey one's queen even in something as little as this without being banihed as erëktilit, heretic?
Domojon was important enough, active enough in Kabard affairs to be allowed some of his own decisions, so he did not join in the dance; instead he left the other Human behind and followed Charalth through the broad courts of Tregonëv. In the dull Firstday evening the city was empty of Human and Kabard alike (Riddle: What do Kabards do for fun on Firstday? Wish it was Sixthday). The Queen walked as if in a daze; Domojon touched his shoulder once, but he shrugged off the touch and cried "Leave me, nurseling! Some things even a dream-seer cannot comprehend!"
When they came to the Court of the Divine Wind, Charalth passed by the elevator and began to mount one of the straight cream-colored ramps. He walked slowly, as if half asleep, and after a few flights his eyes crinkled into a strange emotionless smile. Domojon followed, afraid to touch his again, or even to speak. Since it was very late in the darkness, near the rising of the final moon, they were undisturbed.
Finally they came to the highest petto, a bare crag overlooking the sea to the south and to the west At Reranish, the Court of Deception. Domojon knew this place. . .he had come here before once, with Akrava, to look at an optical illusion that made the buildings below seem to tremble. But he had never seen it by moonlight, and that made all the difference. The city below was alive with light, with colors only the Human could see. Rich fire-umber glowed from cloud-houses, from warm Kabard bodies, and their machines flickered a dull ice-blue. There were dark gusts of air, and sparkling vapors, and the stern red rays of streetlamps. And far off, beyond the city and the highway and the rocky beach, the ocean swelled a murky green.
The Queen stood as close to the edge as he could; his cloak flapped around him, into the dry air three hundred feet above the ground. He raised his hands to the sky and chanted in a language Domojon didn't recognize. Then, suddenly, he did recognize it. . .from yesterday! He still remembered the Abbot's reverence: Eranach, that only monks in deep cavern-temples learn. How had Charalth learned to chant in Eranach, that language ancient before Humanish was born?
Suddenly the Queen broke off. "No, it is too much to ask," he said to no one that Domojon could see. "I have a headache." He reached to his forehead, pulled away as if startled to find his colindon there. He puhed it to one side, so that only the strap was visible. his forehead gleamed in the moonlight like the belly of an obscene pale serpent. "No, no, that doesn't help." his hands fumbled with the knot of fabric, now over his left ear.
"No, Charalth!" Domojon shouted. "You may never remove your colindon. It is blasphemy!"
From the corner of his eye Domojon saw a shape rising from the southern ocean, at first a thin misting of the waves, and then a shadow, dark and fluttering like a death-shroud.
"I alone decides what is blasphemy, and what is not," Charalth said sharply. "Leave me, Human, or I will strike you down." He undid the knot and thrust his colindon off. It clattered onto the ledge below, and then tumbled down into At Reranish, out of sight. To the south, the shadow was still rising from the sea; it began to take on the appearance of a Kabard, with a black mane and black throbbing wings, and a black antlered crown.
"You have not yet told me your dream!" Domojon shouted, desperate for -- what? A moment of sanity. A moment of clear thought. Ymaktov! He suddenly remembered Ymaktov, the god of clear thought, and shot a prayer to the cluttered Kabard heavens. "Please tell me your dream -- it is only good business to allow me to complete my file, after all."
"All right, Human," Charalth said in an odd misty voice. "I dreamed of that shadow rising from the sea. It was Mozhäu. He spoke to me, told me the options I had in this, the last age of the world. I chose peace for myself and my Human." Suddenly Domojon realized that he was speaking in the language of the mind-call. So there was a mind-call after all; it wasn't all just habit or tradition, and it could do much more than call Human home to dinner. I have chosen peace for myself and my Human: the words throbbed like a headache in a place just behind his eyes, fluhed his head and shoulders with dry heat, made his mind as dull and grey as cotton. He felt drawn to leap over the edge of the petto, to find peace and healing in the swirling colors of At Reranish.
Charalth turned to Domojon, grinning savagely like a werewolf in a fairy tale, laughing at his discomfiture. "You needn't worry, moppet," he said. "I am still Queen. Only now I am strong, stronger than the wild oxen, stronger than the wind, stronger than death or granite walls. And you are wise. Together, you and I, we will conquer."
Domojon backed away, sick at heart. He turned and, too frightened to wait for the elevator, ran clattering down the creamstone ramps, down to At Reranish, and then across the Kabard courts. He burst into the darkened cloud-house where Akrava slept, awakened him, felt his warm thick arms wrap around him, strands of his mane tickle his nose. "It's all right, it's all right," he whispered over and over again. He pressed his face against his chest and allowed the thick, heavy tears of despair to flow.
The morning dawned so so dim and cheery with summer that he thought it must all have been a dream. When he returned to the Court of the Humanqueen, Charalth was sitting upon his dais, scribbling furiously into his notescreen. his colindon was intact. The Human had risen and wahed, danced their morning dances, and now they were eating a breakfast of dawnsmilk and mahed kartë root. No one flahed any concern or confusion over last night's homily. Perhaps they hadn't even noticed. Then, just as the Human were leaving for work and Domojon was going into his office-alcove to check on today's appointments, Charalth stood and beckoned them all back to the white table.
"The time has come for the Dance of Many Voices," he said, "For with the new Godking, Human have received a new dispensation from Aramkai."
The Human moaned their assent, and obediently sat.
"No Human will go to work this day, or tomorrow. Those who work for Kabard foremen will give notice. Those who own shops and services will sell them. In the new dispensation, we will be factory-workers and shopkeepers no longer. We will be warriors, as glorious and proud as Re Kuiln who slew the six demons of Chufthen, or Satrilur, who defended Harchi against 10,000 Humans."
"Who will we war against, Charalth?" a very young Human asked. The others sat silently, adding up severance pay or wondering what their shop inventories would sell for.
Charalth smiled, the benificent Goddess/Mother/Lover. "We war against those who walk in darkness still."
"But, Charalth," said Domojon, "If we abandon everything to become warriors, what will become of us when the war ends? Many of us have built up prosperous shops and businesses from a few gold coins. Would you have us start over again, from nothing?"
"When this war ends, there will be no more shops, no more gold coins," Charalth said in a firm voice, his eyes golden-yellow with pride. "The final battle is coming, nurselings, the battle of Human and Kabard for the domination of the world. And the actions we Human take will determine the outcome of that battle."
"Shall we fight against the Humans?" asked a pale Human with a yellow mane-wig with pale trembling eyes. "They worship a single goddess, as we do. They wear stones on their foreheads as we wear phylacteries. We can comprehend their Elusan tongue, read their Elusan books. Should we not be embracing them as clanmates?"
Charalth laughed. "Child, child -- you should know that the greatest evil is hidden behind similarity. The Terrans, too, resemble us in nearly all things, too, worshipping a god instead of a goddess -- what could be more subtle, or more hideous? Take the Prayer of New Beginnings from Oration of Rising Wisdom, change but three words, and you have a work of such obscenity as to make the demons tremble!"
So the Human would be preparing for what the new Godking considered an inevitable Kabard-Human war. Only a few were exempted: the very old and the very young, the pregnant, and those with high positions in Kabard society, like Domojon and the curator of Humanish manuscripts in the Court of the Infinite Shadow. The others spent their days not in Kabard factories and shops, but on the flat cobblestones of the Court of Everlasting Mercy, learning geography and Tilach and a strange bombastic history of the world, running and throwing rubber balls and aiming spears at black-striped targets. More important, they learned how to distinguish the Queen's new, powerful mind-call from their own thoughts and the meaningless proddings of spirits: how to interpret not only vague feelings and emotions, but commands, names and places, numbers, time measurements; and learning how to obey mind-commands without hesitation.
On newscasts Domojon saw Human in courts and cavern-cities across the world, from Kabardan to Elaku, training, refining their calls, preparing for this war. A few Queens refused to involve their clans, of course, and many individual Human became erëktilit, but commentators estimated that 300,000 Human would soon be trained and ready.
Kabards, too, were divided in their loyalty to the coming battle and to Gorban. Pachala, the Kabard nation nearest the Human's continent, remained stauchly neutral, and the ex-godking Nok Dragon, now abbot of the small but interesting Temple of the Tumbling Moons, spoke loudly against any build-up of troops on the wallscreen program Religion Today: "If war is inevitable, than we should prepare for it as we prepare for death, through prayers and wisdom and acts of kindness to our enemies. Not through practicing over and over again the death-throttle!"
The other guest on the program, the angry and jingoistic abbot of the Temple of the Red Grave, countered by calling for "Bombing the greatdoors, expelling the Humans and their demon-doubles on Terra from all of our nations, and repenting for the blasphemies of the current age!"
The daily rituals changed as well. Instead of bowing to Aramkai of the Six Breasts alone, the Human bowed to both Aramkai the Dark and Kensor the Burning. Later Charalth brought into the court images of Harlúd, the God of the White Serpents, and and little-revered gods of thunderstorms and the sea.
A few weeks later, Domojon returned from a call on a client to find that his alcove-office had been transformed into a shrine to the Kabard goddess of fertility, Urvath. Instead of red plush cushions, there were wooden benches; instead of Domojon's desk and disk files in a wooden case, there were red votive candles and small images of pregnant or nursing Human.
"What's going on?" he cried. "What happened to my office?"
Charalth looked up from his datarod, as curious but imperturbed as if he had heard an especially loud nurselings' game going on outside.
"What do you mean? Oh, of course. . . ." He flipped his datarod shut.
"What did you do with my files. . .my research?"
"It's packed away in case you need it again." his eyes were perfectly content, summer-blue. "The goddess tired of your meaningless pratings. Henceforth you will work to develop your true talent, your innate and powerful mind-call."
"But I do a good work," Domojon protested. "You yourself told me that I present a favorable image of the Human among the Kabards." He hesitated. "And we shouldn't forget that I add more coins to the communal pot than any other Human."
The Queen shrugged. "We will do without coins, for the time being. All those with exceptional mind-calls must work to develop them even farther, for when I enter the Caverns of Eternity the new Queen will lead a stronger and more challenging community than I ever have. A new night is dimming, Domojon, and you must be ready for it."
Domojon knew, then, that he would have to choose between his position as a dream-seer and his clan. It was not an easy decision: if he became erëktilit, he could never again enter a Human court, or receive aid from any Human, or speak to any Human who was not herself erëktilit. And there were stories of crippling psychological pain, physical pain, even madness and death from those deprived of the clan, of the sixty soft, nurturing minds and the Queen above them all.
He endured for a few more weeks, hoping that Charalth would change his mind, or at least ignore dreamreading appointments held beyond the Court of the Humanqueen. But no: if he spent more than a few moments in any Kabard cloud-house, or used the word "dream" in any conversation, Charalth would reprimand his that night during the communal meal.
"See this one? He has a single, puny talent for dreamreading, and because of it he considers herself wiser than Charalth, wiser than Aramkai, and casually disregards a command of the All Seeing."
The Human would murmur their displeasure.
One evening Domojon stayed in Akrava's cloud-house late watching a Terran film entitled Indiana Jonës and the Temple of the Sea, and when he returned to the Court of the Humanqueen, Charalth was incensed with rage; he refused to sit down at the communal meal, instead stomping across his dais and talking to herself. his homily for that evening consisted of two sentences: "Perhaps Domojon feels that I no longer receive true dispensations from Aramkai. Perhaps he would like to assist my pasage into the Caverns of Eternity, so that he may sit upon my white throne herself!"
Domojon slept that night between cold, unyielding Human bodies. A few hours later, when the last moon had risen to dissipate the soft darkness of Aramkai, he crawled out from beneath the blankets, tied on his cloak, and latched his datarod to his belt. his blue zinc disks -- notes on clients, reference books, forms and charts -- were piled in a closet like nurselings' play-tablets; he quietly scooped as many as he could into a small paper bag. Then he stole away, out across the courts to Akrava's cloud-house. The tall Kabard lay silent on his palm-leaf bed, his body golden with heat and glowing in the moonlight.
"Akrava, wake up," he whispered.
"I was wondering how long it would take you to rebel," he said in a clear alert voice: he had not been asleep. He rose from the parquet floor to press his nose against hers and give his a hug. "Come in. . .there's food out, if you're hungry."
"Thank you." He went to the sideboard and helped herself to a slice of brown bread with honey and a small bowl of mahed, peppered kartë root. "Could I stay with you for a few days? I think I've just become erëktilit."
"Of course -- if you think it's safe," said Akrava. He turned on a light. "After all, this is the first place Charalth will come looking for you."
"Why would he come looking? It's disgraceful to become erëktilit, but it's certainly not a crime."
He laughed. "Your modesty always astounds me, Domojon. You're one of the most famous Human under the sun, and you think you can just abandon your clan like a two-bit fortune-teller? Charalth has more than a little interest in keeping you orthodox, and he can claim all sorts of things to get you back -- that I'm holding against your will, for instance. Gorban would probably believe him, too." He poured his a cup of amber birch-bud tea that smelled soothingly of aralth. "I wouldn't be surprised if the Guard rapped on my door ten minutes after Charalth falls out of your little communal bed."
He hadn't thought of that.
"Well, I'm sure nothing will happen if I spend the night, at least."
"I suppose not. You've done that often enough." He spread out his leaf-bed to make room for him.
A little after dawn, Domojon awakened to a strange, urgent mind-call, very different from the tiny, easily-ignored calls to return to the clanhouse for dinner, or to gather for a special assembly, and even those used during their training sessions to convey messages such as "Ten transports, retinue of 6,000, leaves Uted Markum on Resh 17." It began as a little itch, but soon became a sharp cutting in the place beyind his eyes. "Come home. Come home." He rose upright and felt for Akrava: he was snoring gently, a warm, comfortable form beside him. So the call wasn't audible, it wouldn't disturb acute Kabard ears.
He stumbled to the water closet for some aspirin, soaked a cloth in cool water to tie around his forehead, even moved his colindon to the back position, but the hammering increased until he could think of nothing else. Every movement brought a wave of nausea. "Come home. Come home." He lay upon the leaf-bed, panting and moaning. Who was this Kabard beside her? He couldn't think. Akrava! he called in his mind. And he suddenly awoke.
"What's wrong?" He touched his forehead and then his cheek. "Are you sick?"
"A new mind-call, powerful," he murmured. "It destroys me. My own memories are fading, and hers. . .they brand me."
"Shall I call for a healer?"
"Yes, someone. . .someone who knows what's happening."
Akrava ruhed to the wallscreen, accessed the telephone, and pressed a few numbers. "Think on something pleasant," he whispered. "Something pleasant and familiar."
So he tried to think of a river in the mountains where they used to go often, he and Akrava lying side by side watching evening clouds. But then the mind-call entered his fantasies, the clouds grew into demons, and Akrava became a Kabard warrior with a belt of Human skulls and fangs that dripped blood.
He jumped to his feet. "I must go now!"
"No!" Domojon wrapped his arms around him. His skin was slick and smelled of musk. Sexual. What did he want with her? He had heard of Kabard males. . .taking Human. They were much taller, much stronger. His breath smelled of raw meat. He could hear his heart pounding. . .in the wrong place. He was a monster!
"Come home," the voice whispered in his mind. "Come home."
"I must go!" he shouted. "Now. Let me be!"
"Okay, okay." His voice was soft. "If you want. . . ." He lay back on his shoulders against the sweat-slick palm leaves. His face. . .so exactly like that of a prince in one of his nurseling storyfilms. . .so concerned, so. . .loving.
The floor tilted first one way, then another; Domojon felt herself floating, descending into the half-world of dream. He wanted to descend, to succumb to the call, to die. But he fell back into Akrava's arms. And at last, the throbbing ended.
Comments
Post a Comment