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 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.