Shonjir By C.J. Cherryh

The she’pan was alive: his true sister Melein, Mother of the People. She was his duty. He was kel’en, a warrior, and the sickness and the wound and the drugs had taken from him his strength and his quickness and his skill, which were all the possession he had ever owned, for the only purpose of his life, which was to serve the she’pan.

He did not let himself think of what had become of him, only of the necessity of standing on his feet, of finding again the strength to walk and go to her, wherever she was.

Until then he would bear with anything.

Duncan returned after a dark space; and in his hands he bore a black bundle of cloth, that he laid on the table by the bed.

“Your clothes,” Duncan said. “If you will let me, I will help you.”

And Duncan did so, carefully, gently, helping him to sit for a moment that his senses spun and went gray, then settled him back again, wrapped in the familiar comfort of a kel’en’s inner robe, and propped on cushions.

Duncan sat beside him, waiting until he had his breath again. “The she’pan is doing well,” he said. “She took food and demanded her belongings and told me to go away. I did.”

Niun slipped a hand within his robe, where a scar crossed his ribs, and knew that he should have died: they both should have died. “Tsi’mri medicines,” he objected, his voice trembling with outrage; and yet he knew that these same forbidden things had kept them both alive, and he was, guiltily, unwilling to die. He was twenty-six years old; he had expected to die before this: most kel’ein did, but most kel’ein had had honors in plenty by this time. Niun had gained nothing wherewith he was proud to go into the Dark. All that he had almost won, he had lost, being taken captive, allowing the she’pan to be taken. He should have died.

But not here, not like this.

“It was not your fault,” Duncan said.

“I have lived too long,” Niun answered him, which was the truth: both he and Melein had outlived their kind, outlived the People; and that was bitter fact. He did not know what she would choose to do when she found him again, or what she would bid him do. He looked on Duncan with regret. Duncan’s eyes were, Niun saw, shadowed with weariness, his person unkept, as if he had slept little. At the moment he looked distraught.

“The regul would have taken you,” Duncan said hoarsely. “I had the chance to put you among my people, and I took it. The she’pan did not object. She knew what I did.”

The assertion shook at his confidence of things trustworthy. Niun stared at Duncan for a moment, and at last put down his pride, asked questions as he would of a brother of the Kel.

“Where are my weapons?”

“Everything you own is here,” Duncan said. “I will bring you your weapons now if you insist; but you’ve been half asleep and you’ve been sick, and I thought you might not know where you are or understand what’s going on. I’d hate to be shot in a misunderstanding.”

This was at least sensible. Niun let go a carefully controlled breath, reminding himself that this human tended to tell the truth, contrary to the experience of the People with tsi’mri in general. “I am not sick anymore,” he said.

“Do you want me to go and bring your weapons?”

Niun considered the matter, staring at Duncan’s naked face; he had challenged… Duncan had answered with an offer, though his truth had been doubted, insulting him. “No,” Niun said, making an effort to relax. “You go and come much; when you come again, you will bring them.”

“I would prefer,” said Duncan, “to wait until I am sure you are well. Then I will bring them.”

Niun glanced aside unhappily: face-naked, he felt the helplessness of his wasted limbs and lay still, compelled to accept the situation. The dus stirred, uncomfortable in his distress. He moved his hand and comforted it.

“I have brought some food,” Duncan said. “I want you to eat.”

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