"Ka'ruchaya . . ." Hovan said hesitantly.

"I know, ruesten. The Lords burden him beyond what most are asked to endure."

"Even more than you know, Ka'ruchaya, and it troubles me. He has not even a youngling's strength of body, and though that can be overcome by strength of will, which he does have . . . I do not know."

"Nor do I," Yarra said. "It is not well to go into the Scarring at less than full strength, and his will is being sapped. I have sensed his certainty of death, his worry for us, his anger for his friend . . . yet there is nothing we can do to ease his mind."

"No. I have done all that tradition allows."

"Then his fate--and ours--is in the hands of the Lords."

Tarlac gave up his pretense of reading and looked at them. "Then let's just hope they know what they're doing. I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but it was a little hard to avoid."

"Understood," Yarra said. "Ruesten, I did not mean that I lack confidence in you--but I am concerned."

Tarlac shrugged. "And I'm as scared--okay, as terrified--as I can be without throwing a screaming fit. It doesn't matter. I'm not about to quit now." He hesitated, then yielded to impulse. Rising and going to her, he put his arms around her and rested his head on her shoulder.

"Ka'ruchaya, I won't be the one to dishonor Ch'kara. I can't! I . . .

I love you all, too much to do that."

Yarra's arms enfolded him, feeling him as vulnerable as any newborn.

"We know, ruesten," she said. "We know. You have brought honor to the clan, and you will bring more. Rest now, Steve."

After composing the message he hoped Hovan would never have to read, Tarlac found that the rest of the day went . . . smoothly. That was the only word he could think of. The admission of fear and love he'd made to Yarra and Hovan wasn't something he could have done in the Empire, and it left him feeling cleansed and strangely at ease. He rather suspected it was because he'd finally managed to take Hovan's advice--"Yourself be, not another's image"--at last.

With no responsibilities until the next morning, on what was very possibly his last day of life, Tarlac found himself at a loss. He hadn't had nothing to do for fifteen years. He wandered around the clanhome, helping with a.s.sorted domestic ch.o.r.es. He played with the younglings in the nursery, he helped load dishes into the cleaning units, he emptied dust traps--and when he wasn't occupied, he welcomed simply being with the n'ruhar who wanted to ask him about the Empire and his experiences in the wilderness.

Chapter VIII

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 appet.i.te 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 n.o.body 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 amus.e.m.e.nt 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 partic.i.p.ate 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 rea.s.surance 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 ma.s.s 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 rea.s.sured 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 a.s.saulting 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 a.s.sured 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 . . ."