There was unspoken but very real tension in the clan the next morning,
and to Tarlac, time seemed to creep and fly simultaneously. He was
chilly, wearing only the traditional scarlet trousers and quilted house
boots--and weaponless; this was the only time a fighter had to go
unarmed--but he wasn't sure his chill was entirely due to the
temperature. First-meal didn't help, either. Instead of the eggs and
dornya meat he'd planned on, he couldn't face more than a mug of
chovas. He was rediscovering, as he had several times during his
career, that fear wasn't an appetite stimulant.
Even so, it wasn't until about an hour later, standing between Hovan
and Yarra while they waited for the gathering hall doors to open, that
he realized just how afraid he was. He wasn't ashamed of his
fear--Hovan and other n'Cor'naya had told him that nobody went into the
Scarring unafraid--but he did wish he'd been spared the physical
symptoms. His mouth was dry, his palms were wet, and sweat was
beginning to trickle down his ribs.
Finally, the doors opened to admit them.
His n'ruhar formed a silent aisle, as they had the first time Tarlac
had seen the gathering hall. On the surface, everything appeared
almost identical; it was the emotional climate that had changed. Then,
he had been a stranger; now he shared the clan's spirit and love as
well as its name. He was grateful for their presence and support, and
he thought with a trace of amusement that it was too bad he didn't
share their confidence in him as well.
Trying not to be obvious about it, Tarlac wiped his damp hands on the
legs of his trousers. He wanted it to be over with, finished one way
or the other. In half an hour he'd either be in the clan's infirmary or
on its altar, and at the moment he was inclined to agree with the
others: it did seem to be in the hands of the Lords.
He stepped forward, slightly ahead of his sponsor and Ka'ruchaya. This
part of the Ordeal, unlike the rest, was steeped in ritual, and he
didn't want to make any mistakes that would reflect badly on the
clan--especially not in front of the First Speaker and Supreme, who were
honoring Ch'kara by their presence at this ceremony. More, they were
here to administer the Scarring themselves, a thing unprecedented.
Just as unprecedented, Tarlac thought wryly, as it had been for him to
be kidnapped by arrangement of the Circle of Lords and coerced into
taking the Ordeal. Since the orders for that had come through the two
rulers, it seemed only fitting that they participate now, as well.
Climbing the three steps to stand before them at the altar, he formally
identified himself--"Esteban Tarlac of Clan Ch'kara, Ranger of the
Terran Empire"--and bowed, hands crossed over his bare chest. That was
as much to the statuettes on the altar's upper tier as to the two
rulers. "I ask the blessing of the Circle of Lords as I attempt this
final part of the Ordeal they ask of me."
The green-robed First Speaker extended her hand to touch his forehead.
"That they give you, child of two worlds. They will be with you in
this." Her touch of blessing, her quiet words, carried more than
reassurance and serenity, though he was unable to exactly define the
feeling they brought him. When he turned to the Supreme, his hands were
dry.
"Are you prepared?" the male ruler asked.
"I am prepared," Tarlac replied.
Hovan and Yarra moved to stand at either end of the altar while the
First Speaker took a small gold cup from its center and extended it, in
both hands, to the Ranger.
Tarlac accepted the cup, raised it in salute to the Lords, and drank,
almost nauseated by the syrupy, too-sweet liquid. He returned the
empty cup and turned again to face the Supreme, who reached out and
rested extended claws just below the base of Tarlac's throat. "Tell
me, Ranger, when the sweetness turns bitter," the Traiti said quietly.
"I will."
The liquid, Tarlac knew, was a highly specific drug called Ordeal
poison, the dose measured carefully for his body mass and metabolism.
It was primarily a nerve-impulse enhancer that affected pain responses
most strongly during its short period of influence--but it had another,
more dangerous property. Losing consciousness while the drug was
working was fatal.
This part of the Ordeal tested willpower and endurance with direct,
basic simplicity; while Traiti were harder to injure than humans, and
healed more rapidly, they were as subject to pain as their smaller
cousins. Even the drug's brief effect cost some candidates their lives
as agony robbed them of consciousness.
But remaining conscious was all--all? Tarlac thought--that was
required. If he made it that far, he'd be getting medical help within
seconds, from the clan's chief physician herself and from a human
doctor, one of the prisoners, whom Channath had asked to have present.
The Ordeal poison was working. Tarlac tasted bitterness from the foam
forming in his mouth, and the Supreme's claws seemed to gouge his skin,
though he knew they were touching him as lightly as before. "It's
happening," he said steadily.
The Supreme inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement, it seemed to
Tarlac, of more than his words. Then the claws dug in, made a swift
slash down the Ranger's chest and upper belly.
Tarlac screamed and fell to his knees, blood running over hands that
instinctively clutched at the terrible wounds.
He'd been hurt before, sometimes badly. He'd been hit by shrapnel,
burned, shot--everything that could happen to someone in combat, short
of death--but none of it had prepared him for this drug-aided agony
that left him unable to move, gasping for irregular breaths as blood
soaked the front of his trousers and began pooling on the altar dais.
His world narrowed to himself, to the pain in his upper body and the
need to remain conscious. Nothing else could be allowed to matter: not
the blood he couldn't hold back, its loss draining his strength; not
the bitter foam that choked him, obstructing his already-labored
breathing. He had to concentrate his full attention on staying away
from the darkness that offered to gather him into its eternal peace if
he should relax for even an instant.
Hovan stood watching Steve's motionless struggle to remain conscious.
He himself had been neither silent nor unmoving under the torment the
man he sponsored was now enduring, and he felt deep pride in his
clanmate. He'd seen nearly a hundred n'ruhar go through this, and
Steve was doing very well. Yet . . . something was wrong.
Ordeal poison did make blood flow more freely, yes, and let wounds
bleed more than was normal, yet even now, when its effects should be
starting to wear off-- Hovan felt a stab of dismay. Humans bled so
much more easily than Traiti did to begin with, and Steve had needed
medical help after the blood exchange--had Channath allowed enough for
human differences in calculating Steve's dosage?
He glanced at the two physicians, and wasn't reassured by their evident
concern. Not surprisingly, the human doctor looked angry as well as
worried--but Channath was worried too, which wasn't normal for her.
Hovan realized that she had allowed for human frailty . . . but not
even she could allow for a possible over-reaction, as unpredictable as
his earlier allergy to their liquor!
Tarlac tossed his head, muscles no longer locked by agony though he
still fought the pain assaulting his weakened system. He coughed,
spitting out a last mouthful of the bitter froth, and took a deep,
gasping breath as he collapsed to the dais. The inviting dark beckoned
more seductively, its promise of an end to pain harder and harder to
fight . . . No! He had to resist that pull! But his eyes were
closing, his breath taking more effort . . .
At least his mouth and throat were empty--no more foam--and the pain
was subsiding to a more normal intensity. Yeah, sure, he thought in
English, but the rest of the thought was in Language: the drug must be
wearing off. He felt light, almost floating, as if he were in a
low-grav field.
Channath's sharp "Now!" as she and the human doctor moved toward the
Ranger freed Hovan to kneel beside Steve and raise the man's head.
"You made it, Cor'naya," he said quietly, with pride. "You succeeded,
as I was sure you would."
Tarlac forced unwilling eyes open, looking up into the familiar gray
face he'd learned to respect, then to love. "I really made it?" he
asked in a whisper.
"You really made it," Hovan assured him. "Rest easy now. As soon as
Channath and Dr. Jason stop the bleeding, they will give you something
for your pain. And when you recover, what a party the clan will have!"
"Clan party . . ." Tarlac managed a faint smile, his thoughts starting
to drift. "Tha'd be nice . . ."
"Later, Steve." Hovan smiled too, pushing sweat-damp hair away from
the man's face. "Rest now, I said. It is over."
"Yeah . . . guess so. Worth it, though . . . worth it all. 'M tired
. . . so tired . . . gotta sleep . . ." Tarlac's eyes closed and he
sighed, going utterly limp.
"Steve?"
There was no answer; Hovan had known there wouldn't be. He had seen
too many people die to hold false hopes, and only concern for his
ruhar's honor kept him from voicing his outrage to the Lords, his brief
but bitter anger at the injustice of their letting Steve complete the
Ordeal only to die in his arms.
The human doctor had no such qualms. He turned on Hovan, furious.
"Satisfied, you damn Shark? In a hospital I could maybe still save
him--not here! No human could survive that kind of pain, system shock,
bleeding--not without help! He's dead, and you killed him!"
"Steve wished to bring peace," Hovan interrupted, in English suddenly
as fluent as his Language. He noticed it, briefly, but in his anger
and sorrow it didn't seem to matter. "The Ordeal was his only chance,
and he took that chance knowing this was possible--thinking it was
inevitable. Do not dishonor his memory--instead, represent his Empire
at his leavetaking."
"What the hell-- You mean that, don't you?" Dr. Jason didn't want to
believe it, but the Traiti's soft voice, the way he still cradled the
Ranger's head, wouldn't allow disbelief. "You're sorry he died!"
"I cared for him, yes," Hovan said. "His death is a thing of much
sadness, yet he went to it in full honor, and in his clan. None can
expect more from the Lords." He stood, picking up Steve's slight body.
"Will you honor him with us?"
"I . . . yes. You're right. Someone from the Empire should be there."
"Good." Hovan turned and left the gathering hall, taking Steve's body
to a small room nearby to carry out a sponsor's most distasteful duty--
of preparing the one he sponsored, when that one succumbed, for
Presentation and Transformation. The preparations he had been so sure
would not be needed had of course been made; the room held what was
required. A large table held a container of water with cloths beside
it, and the Ranger's uniform was hanging up.
Hovan stripped the body and began to wash it, working as gently as if
the man could still feel. Then he dressed Steve Tarlac in the forest
green of his Imperial rank, leaving the shirt open to show the man's
wounds.
Finished, he inspected the body carefully. Yes, everything was proper.
The uniform was spotless, the badge and leather items polished to a
high gloss, the gun fully charged. His ruhar would go before the Lords
as a Cor'naya of Ch'kara should. He picked up the body again and
returned to the foot of the altar dais.
The Supreme, the First Speaker, and Dr. Jason were no longer on the
newly-cleaned dais. Transformation was a clan matter; they could
observe, but not participate. Instead, Ka'ruchaya Yarra and Speaker
Daria were there. Hovan bowed his head to them, then looked up and
spoke the ritual words. "I bring Esteban Tarlac of Clan Ch'kara to the
Circle of Lords. He has given honor to the clan."
"We sorrow at his loss," Yarra said, "yet we glory in that honor." She
turned to the Speaker. "As Ka'ruchaya of Ch'kara, I ask the Lords to
receive this man, my ruesten."
Daria inclined her head. "The Lords welcome those who die in honor.
Who, Ka'ruchaya, do you choose to present him?"
"He who is closest to him, who shares his blood and bears him now."
Hovan thanked her silently for that. While it was the Ka'ruchaya's
choice, tradition suggested that the oldest male present perform that
final service for the dead.
The Speaker and Ka'ruchaya drew back to allow him to pass with his
burden. He climbed the steps and crossed the dais slowly, to lay his
ruhar's body on the lower level of the altar. Then he made his
farewells, touching Steve's wounded chest and his forehead. Finally he
stepped back and made obeisance to the figures on the upper level, a
formal bow.
A shimmering appeared around the body, hazing its outlines but not
obscuring it, as Hovan moved to stand at the end of the altar near
Steve's head. He would hold vigil there until, at this time the next
day, the Lords would take the man to themselves in a flare of blue.