Peace was four words in the hal’ari. There was afa, that was self-peace, being right with one’s place; and an’edi, that was house-peace, that rested on the she’pan; and there was kuta’i, that was the tranquillity of nature; and there was sa’ahan, that was the tranquillity of strength.
Treaty-peace was a mu’ara word, and the mu’ara lay in the past, with the regul, that had broken it.
Melein had killed for power, would kill, repeatedly, to unite the People.
Would take the elee, their former allies.
Would take Kutath.
We will have ships, he could hear her saying in her heart.
And they knew the way, to Arain, to human and regul space.
It was not revenge they sought, nothing so human, but peace sa’ahan-pence, that could only exist in a mri universe.
No compromise.
“Come,” said Niun. “They are almost done. We will be moving now.”
CHAPTER Twenty-One
THE HOUSE murmured with voices, adults’ and children’s. The People stared about them, curious at this place that only sen’ein had seen for so many hundreds of years… marveling at the lights, the powers of it and, mri-fashion, un-amazed by them. The forces were there; they were to be used. Many things were not for Kath or Kel to understand, but to use, with permission.
And the Shrine held light again: lights were lit by Melein’s own hands, and the pan’en was brought and set there behind the corroded screens, to be moved when they moved, to be reverenced by the House while they stayed. There were chants spoken, the Shon’jir of the mri that had gone out from Kutath; and the An’jir of the mri that stayed on homeworld.
We are they that went not out: landwalkers, sky-watchers; We are they that went not out: world-holders, faith-keepers; We are they that went not out: and beautiful our morning; We are they that went not out: and beautiful our night.
The rhythmic words haunted the air: the long night, Duncan thought, standing at Niun’s side… a folk that had waited their end on dying Kutath.
Until Melein songs sank away; je JwH was stSi; fire People went their ways.
There was kel-hall.
A long spiral up, a shadowed hall thrown into sudden light… the Kel spread carpets that had been the floors of their tents, still sandy: the cleaners skittered about in the outer hall, but stayed from their presence.
The Kel settled, made a circle. There was time for curiosity, then, in the privacy of the hall. Eyes wandered over Niun, over the dusei, over Duncan most of all.
“He will be welcomed,” Niun said suddenly and harshly, answering unspoken thoughts.
There were frowns, but no words. Duncan swept a glance about the circle, meeting golden eyes that locked with his and did not flinch without love, without trust, but without, he thought, outright hate. One by one he met such stares, let them look their fill; and he would have taken off the zaidhe too, and let them see the rest of his alienness; but to do so was demeaning, and insulting if offered in anger, a reproach to them. They could not ask it; it was the depth of insult.
A cup was passed, to Niun first, and to Duncan: water, of the blue pipe, in a brass cup. Duncan wet his lips with it, and passed it to Hlil, who was next. Hlil hesitated just the barest instant, as he might if he were expected to drink after the dusei; and then the kel’en touched his lips to it and passed it on.
One after the other drank in peace, even the kel’e’ein, the two kinswomen of Merai. There were no refusals.
Then Niun laid his longsword in Duncan’s lap, and in curious and elaborate ceremony, all kel’ein likewise drew, and the av’ein-kel, Duncan’s as well, passed from man and woman about the circle until each held his own again.
Then each spoke his name in full, one after the other. Some had names of both parents; some had only Sochil’s; and Duncan, glancing down, gave his, Duncan-without-a-Mother, feeling curiously lost among these folk who knew what they were.
“The kel-ritual,” said Niun when that had been done, “is still the same.”