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."