Not a thing wrong, the Genomatekk a.s.sured him after the half hour of inscrutable diagnostics. Nothing organic, that is. He knew what was wrong, as he drove himself back into the desolation of his life. The pain was loss. The loss was Marethyn.

And at the end of another long and grueling adjudicating session, to which he could see no point, he was too despairing to go home. Everywhere else reminded him of her. So he hauled himself across the street to the nearest cafe, a hole called, of all things, Alloy Fist. Its depressing chronosteel interior matched his mood perfectly. The livid blue lighting made everyone look half-dead. That too was apt. He saw that it most of its habitues were grim-faced Khagggun from the nearby barracks. Perfect.

At the bar, he pulled up a stool and ordered a drink. After the first one, he felt even worse, if that were possible. But after the fourth, he couldn't see much reason to leave.

Rekkk, I think she is dying," Giyan said. She held Perrnodt in her arms. The Druuge was as pale as the s...o...b..nks outside. "I saved her from the xi-wraith, but now . . . now she is fading again. I cannot determine what has damaged her so severely, and I cannot find a spell to bring her back."

They, along with Konara Inggres, were in the abbey's infirmary. Enfeebled grey light lay gasping against the windows, a reflection of the fogbound twilight that had enrobed the ridge on which the abbey sat. It was so thick it completely absorbed the lights of the nearby village of Stone Border. Even the upper reaches of the abbey's nine slender minarets were lost to view.

"Perhaps I can help," the Nawatir said. He undipped his long cloak and wrapped Perrnodt in it. As they watched, it molded itself to her body. At the same time, its edges began to flutter as if in a wind.

Perrnodt sighed.

"Rekkk, what is happening?"

"I am still learning about the cloak," he admitted. "What I do know is that it is composed of a materialnot found on Kundala. It was spun by the Dragons and, therefore, has in its warp and weft a part of their will, their power. It is both a weapon and a defense, though I have yet to discover the extent of its uses."

He gently took Perrnodt out of Gi-yan's embrace and put her on the bed. "Nevertheless, I believe the cloak will heal her." He looked at Konara Inggres. "If you will be so good as to have one of your Ramahan watch over her, I think we should leave her. Unless I miss my guess, her recovery will take some time."

6

Scent of Bitterroot

What is this?" Marethyn Stogggul, holding the glistening dark brown cube in front of her nose. "Braised bitterroot." Majja was laughing. "I am willing to wager you never thought you would be eating such basic Kundalan food." The Resistance fighter used a worn wooden ladle to fill her blackened wood bowl from the small cauldron that hung above the crackling fire. Hunkered down beside Marethyn, she began to eat her midday meal. "It smells worse than it tastes, believe me."

Marethyn, long of body, regal efface, an amalgam of cool intelligence and burning sensuality, took a bite, and was surprised. As Majja had said, the acrid, almost rank odor did not translate into the taste, which was mild and not unpleasant. Furthermore, the braising had imparted to the tuber a rich, creamy texture that was almost luxurious.

"Not bad," she said, and the two females laughed together.

Ever since Marethyn had decided to join the Resistance by helping to hijack a convoy of new Khagggun weapons, she had been embraced by them despite the fact that she was a V'ornn Tuskugggun.

That was doubtless because she had shown both initiative and courage when the group had been ambushed, losing all but three of their number, including their leader, Ka.s.stna. He was the only one Marethyn did not mourn. He had distrusted her from the beginning, and had made her life with the Resistance miserable, shouting down any suggestions she had, ordering her to perform the most menial and humiliating tasks, including clearing out the camp's offal.

It had been Marethyn who had taken Majja and the male Ba.s.se with her as she had boarded the hoverpod, guiding it away from the battle. They had directed her northwest, flying higher into the Djenn Marre, then due west, over the extreme northwestern triangle of the dense Borobodur forest to a great whitish slab of rock known as Receive Tears Ridge. It offered breathtaking views that translated, in Resistance terms, into a great tactical advantage. From it, one could see south into the forest, west to the Three Fish River, and northwest to the waterfall of Little Rushing. At their backs, to the north and northeast, rose the high ragged tors of the Djenn Marre, brooding amidst constantly fulminating clouds.

The winds were high, chill, and, at times, pierced through even the thickest fur. Still, they were safe there.

The ridge was misty both at dawn and toward sunset, but at noon the sky overhead was sun-burnished. For a Tuskugggun from the Axis Tyr lowlands, the clarity of the light was extraordinary, especially if that Tuskugggun was an artist.

"We are safe here, if Kundalan can ever be said to be safe from Khagggun packs," Gerwa, the Resistance cell leader said, just after they had arrived. He had greeted Majja and Ba.s.se and the contents of the convoy with exultation. As to Marethyn, his reception had been, if not hostile, than decidedly muted.

"After all," he had said, "you are the enemy. Everything you do or say here will be scrutinized, a matter of suspicion."

"You do not owe me an explanation," she had said as they had shared a flagon of steaming ludd-wine, mulled with unfamiliar spices.

"I do owe you that much for the cache of V'ornn weapons you have brought us." Dark eyes and thin, pale lips in a rather narrow face lent him a sinister cast. "But, quite frankly, until I am comfortable with your motivation for joining us you cannot expect to be fully trusted."

"I understand completely. It will be a learning experience," she said, "for both of us."

That particular conversation was already several weeks past, and Marethyn's place in the cell was becoming more readily defined. For one thing, she had gained some respect for Gerwa who, unlike thebrutish and hotheaded Ka.s.stna, commanded through cleverness, not intimidation.

He had refrained from ordering her to do the menial tasks that had been her lot before, but occasionally she volunteered for such ch.o.r.es. As a reward, she supposed, Gerwa had a.s.signed her to several recon forays, looking for the myriad Khagggun pairs embedded within the surrounding terrain, put there by Deck-Admiral Iin Mennus in order to ambush unwary Resistance members. Though they did not stray more than five kilometers from the ridge, and though she was fairly certain that Gerwa had a.s.signed a different Resistance fighter each time to keep an eye on her, she was grateful for the missions, during which her mind was engaged and her muscles were taxed.

The fire cracked and sparked, protesting a wicked gust of wind, and the cauldron in its midst rocked a little, creaking like an ancient Kundalan. Majja, hard and lean, black of eye and hair, in peaceful times, might have had nothing more on her mind than which boy to favor. Now rage and a surfeit of hormones fueled her, but war and misery had combined to make her a killer. Unlikely as it might seem, she and Mar-ethyn had become friends; that, too, a product of war.

"You eat bitterroot like a true Kundalan," Majja said. "Too bad Kas-stna cannot see you now."

"Ka.s.stna hated me for who I am," Marethyn pointed out. "What I did or said was irrelevant."

"Good riddance to him," Majja said. "Ba.s.se and I spoke often of his inability to lead us successfully.

His hatred dictated every decision he made; it often clouded his judgment."

She lighted a laaga stick, and for a time they smoked in companionable silence, pa.s.sing it back and forth between them. Marethyn was thinking of Sornnn. She missed him terribly. At night, she dreamed she lay in his arms, felt the caress of his hands on her body, the flutter of his lips on hers, and she would awake with her cheeks wet with tears. During the day, she did not cry for him; she had more pressing matters on her mind. Often, though, in the languorous moments before sleep swept her away, she had tried to figure a way to send him a message. Too dangerous, not only for herself but for her compatriots.

She had their welfare to consider, as well.

The bronze sun beat down, but to the north clouds built against the towering citadel of the Djenn Marre, and thunder commenced to rumble in the far distance, echoing through the ice-gripped interstices between the mountains. The air was turning bitter, a certain harbinger, she had learned, of snow.

They broke off smoking the laaga stick as Gerwa approached them. With a pinched face, unkempt hair and a clenched disposition, product of worry and a sour stomach, he wore thick grey-black furs over his leggings and cor-hide jerkin that stank of smoke and sweat.

Marethyn eyed him warily. "It seems to me that the cache we brought him has become something of a two-edged sword."

Majja nodded. "This cell has now become the envy of every other, and it is Gerwa's responsibility to see that the weapons we stole are given into the strongest and most capable hands. That has made him enemies as well as allies."

Gerwa squatted down. "Do not stop on my account." He took the laaga stick between his lips, inhaling deeply. When no one replied, he shrugged. "The two of you are on patrol. Southwest quadrant.

Medda has all the details." He stood and ground the remainder of the laaga stick beneath his heel as he released in a hiss the last of the smoke.

"Make sure your weapons are fully charged. You leave at once."

They found Medda and three others at the supply tent.

"We are headed down the southwest slope of the ridge." Medda was charging his ion cannon. "It is the steepest of the descents and the weather is not likely to cooperate. Have a care, all of you." Then he turned to Majja, and said under his breath, "We are taking Kin, Gerwa's younger brother. He is very young and green around the gills. Keep an eye on him,"

Marethyn was standing right beside her friend but Medda did not address her at all.

He turned and led them out of the camp and down off Receive Tears Ridge. The top, white as bleached bone, was entirely different from the sides. It was as if a great skull had been partially heaved up from the fiery core of Kundala, its upper cranium exposed and scoured by the ages.

As Medda had told them, the southwest descent was exceptionally steep. They were obliged at times to hold on to the whiplike trunks of immature Marre pines huddled in patches on the stony slope.Snow did not come but, worse, sleet, which made the footing even more treacherous than it normally would be. Often, they had no choice but to slide on their backsides as a precaution against pitching headlong into the gathering gloom.

Marethyn was entirely calm. In fact, she loved being lost within the Marre pines. Their slender trunks once again conjured up the elfin forms she had imagined when as a child her grandmother Tettsie had taken her into the forests to paint. The rich, resinous scent they exuded recalled long, golden afternoons during which she and Tettsie had had the most fascinating discussions on whether form followed function or function followed form. As a budding artist, those kinds of ontological questions helped her grope toward her own theories of shape and color that brought life to her canvases.

For the moment at least, the sleet let up, leaving evening to frost the sky. For most of their descent they had cleaved to the edge of the precipitous slope, but now Medda took them almost due west, across the slope's face in a gently descending arc. Possibly he had received intelligence from another group just back from their patrol. In any event, he gave the clear impression that he knew where he was going.

There, out of the biting northeast wind, the stands of Marre pines were higher and st.u.r.dier; thicker, as well, because they were joined by the more delicate kuello-firs, whose long, lacy needles dipped and rose to the dance of their supple branches.

Their pace slowed, and by then Marethyn was certain that Medda had a destination in mind. The sleet had matted down the needles, icing them in patches. In this pitched terrain, k.n.o.bby with root knees, it would be easy to break a leg. Un.o.btrusively, she worked her way until she was directly behind Kin. Just as well, because she had to s.n.a.t.c.h him up by the scruff of his neck when he skidded on a patch of icy-crusted leaves.

The wind shifted and, for a moment, it was in their faces. Marethyn scented something through the thick pine resin-the telltale scent of hyperexcited ions. Quickly, she reached Medda's side and whispered in his ear.

At once, he hunkered down with her as he waved the others to do likewise.

"Khagggun straight ahead? Are you sure?" he whispered. "Absolutely."

"My information is that if we move directly through here and turn south, we will have their backs."

She could tell that he did not quite believe her. What if she were deliberately leading them into a trap?

"Either your intelligence is wrong," she said, "or the Khagggun allowed themselves to be seen, then moved so as to catch us."

He looked off into the dripping forest, then back to her. "Unfortunately, there is no way to be sure until it is too late." "There is one way," she said.

He waited for a moment, judging her, judging the moment. "Send me to flush out the Khagggun."

"What?"

"I am Tuskugggun. They will neither expect me nor immediately fire on me. But they will show themselves, then you will have them."

Shook his head. "Too risky. You know the location of our encampment."

"Shadow me through the woods. Stay close enough so that you can be certain I do not betray you.

Kill me if I do."

He put his back against the bole of a kuello-fir as if to think it through. She knew he would agree. Her plan had no downside. Even as she was thinking this, he nodded. He put his ion cannon at the ready, and the rest of the party followed suit. Marethyn handed him her weapon, rose, and began to walk forward with as little stealth as possible. She wanted the Khagggun to hear her coming. In fact, it was essential she not surprise them altogether, for then, she suspected, with their hair-trigger fingers, they would shoot and ask questions later.

She made her way through the trees, trying to avoid the slickest patches of iced Marre pine needles.

She could not hear Medda behind her, but she knew he was there, his ion cannon aimed at the middle of her back. With her artist's sensibilities, the maze of the forest resolved itself into light and shadow, texture and color, forming a pattern through which she could see herself moving. It still quite astonished her that her ability to see, collate, and transform what she saw into art was of such vital use to her in her new lifeas a warrior.

The waft of hyperexcited ions grew vaguer as the wind dissipated the discharge. Nevertheless, she followed her nose, here and there cracking a dead twig or rotted branch underfoot. Up ahead, in the last of the silverish light, she saw a small clearing, a natural place for a band of weary Resistance fighters to rest. Without breaking stride, she broke out of the tree line and began to cross it. The place between her shoulder blades began to itch as she imagined ion cannons being aimed at her. She paused, turning in this direction and that, as if she had lost her way. What she was, in fact, doing was giving the Khagggun a good look at her face.

She heard a sound then, and froze, a look of fear st.i.tched to her face.

A metallic voice broke through the trees, "What is a Tuskugggun doing out here?"

"Who is there?" she cried. "If it is Resistance, know that I am Marethyn Stogggul, the regent's sister. If you harm me, he will destroy you and your families."

A harsh laugh echoed, and she squinted. She could make out a shape moving silently through the trees, then another.

"Listen to the Tuskugggun!" The first of the Khagggun entered the small clearing, aiming an ion cannon at her chest. He, like his companion, was wearing specially designed alloy armor that blended in with the forest. She had seen such armor displayed in the shop windows of Axis Tyr but this was her first look at it in the field. "The regent's sister, she says!"

The second Khagggun appeared, a towering specimen with shoulders like a water b.u.t.tren. "By Enlil's tender parts, what a beauty she is!" He wasted no time, striding to where she stood and peering into her face. "You know, I think she is the regent's sister."

"N'Luuura take it!" the first one cried. "Why is she here?"

"I was captured by Resistance," Marethyn said in her best breathless voice. "I waited until they slept, then I overpowered my guard and sneaked out of their camp. I have been walking all day."

"You hear that? She got the best of her guard." The big one's hands roamed over her shoulders and biceps. "Yes, I can believe that." Then he cupped her large b.r.e.a.s.t.s. "You will be grateful that we are here to protect you."

"And escort you back to our base," the first one said, "where a hov-erpod will take you back to Axis Tyr."

"The regent will reward us." His huge hands were wandering far afield. "As will you, Marethyn Stogggul, for we are your deliverance from the torture that otherwise would have been your fate."

The first one grinned. "You will show us the location of their camp."

"But later." The towering Khagggun backed her against a tree. "In the dead of night." He moved his hips suggestively against her. "When all are asleep and unsuspecting." He held her head in his hands, his lips close to hers. "But now, here, it will be just us, a moment of-"

His head slammed against hers with a sudden crack that made her start, and all at once she was covered in blood. The Khagggun staggered, and she kneed him in his swollen tender parts. He groaned, sank to his knees, and she stepped out of his grasp. The smaller Khagggun was spraying the woods with ion fire. An instant later, he was struck from two sides at once and, headless, collapsed where he stood.

Marethyn's companions broke out of their hiding places, and were making their cautious way toward her. Marethyn went to meet them, but was abruptly jerked off her feet. The huge Khagggun had gripped her ankle. Before she had a chance to recover, he began to crawl over her. He had sustained a hideous head wound and was blind in one eye, but his good eye, red and swollen, glowered at her with such rage and hatred it nearly froze her blood.

She twisted and saw Kin running toward her. But from her vantage point, she saw the green glint of an ion cannon low to the ground like her. All the Resistance members were in the clearing. The huge Khagggun grasped her, bellowing in pain and anger. She spotted his ion cannon, but it was too far out of reach. Twisting back, she dug her thumb into his ruined eye. As he spasmed, he drew his ion pistol from its hip holster.

She groaned at the sudden flare of pain in her side. The huge Khagggun punched her again. Tears came to her eyes. Then Kin appeared, slammed the b.u.t.t end of his ion cannon into the Khagggun's face.The Khagggun, grinding his teeth in pain and fury, drew Marethyn closer toward him. His burly forearm slithered across her throat, cutting off her windpipe.

"Back off, child," he growled. "Back off, or she dies."

Kin aimed. As if hearing a sound, his eyes cut quickly to the left.

Focused again on Marethyn and the Khagggun, he lowered his weapon and took a step back.

The Khagggun grinned through b.l.o.o.d.y teeth. "That's the good boy." Medda, crouched to their left, fired his ion cannon and blew a hole the size of a qwawd egg in the Khagggun's head.

What you mustn't do, Sagiira had told them, is attempt to enter the cavern by any of the known escape routes.

Riane, Eleana, and Thigpen crouched in the stifling darkness of the tunnel. They smelled the richness of the earth and the bitter tang of metal. Small scurryings suggested ghostly voices whispering into hidden corners.

It is unclear whether Kurgan Stogggul has knowledge of these routes, but what is certain is that he has embarked on a campaign to find and b.o.o.by-trap all of them.

Riane caused the Veil of a Thousand Tears to emit a glow, and by its light they crawled forward in the cramped s.p.a.ce. Riane and Eleana were on elbows and knees. Thigpen had retracted her claws so as not to make any noise. Now and again, Riane could feel the tickle of the Rappa's long whiskers or the soft brush of her luxuriant fur.

Therefore, the safest way for you to gain access is through the regent's palace itself.

In the smells that now and again wafted their way, Riane could sense glimpses of Annon's old life. By the faded scent of star-roses, which infused the soil around the plant roots even after they had been ripped out, she knew they were traversing a span that ran beneath Eleusis Ashera's beloved garden. Not long after, they came to a fork, and, as Sagiira had advised them, headed left.

They had been reluctant to leave Muzli without knowing whether he was alive or dead, especially Eleana, to whom he had long ago endeared himself. But they had had no choice, and, as Thigpen pointed out, if, in fact, the beast had been killed in trying to buy them time, the very worst thing they could do would be to make his sacrifice meaningless.

The sweet-sour stink of illness and bodily decay followed them down the corridor. Eleana had been weeping, but soon dried her eyes as she forced her practical warrior side to the fore. They were moving so fast, they had overshot the small dimly lit branch corridor to their right. Backtracking hastily, they went down the very steep flight of stairs as quickly as they were able considering the garbage that lay in bursting bags on almost every tread.

When, breathless, they at last reached a landing, it was only a brief respite, a narrow catwalk, its ma.s.sive stone blocks pitted and cracked, beyond which was nothing on either side save fetid updrafts, punctuated by occasional m.u.f.fled shouts of discord and alarm.