Foreigner

*32*

They crowded together in the room, their love for Afsan enough to keep the territorial instinct at bay for a short time. Novato was there, the mother to his children, the person with whom he had discovered the truth about the universe. Emperor Dybo was there, too. Afsan’s longtime friend. Huge, vastly old Captain Keenir, who had first introduced Afsan to the far-seer, was also there. And others, as well…

Afsan had eventually gone back to sleep, and when he awoke, it was morning, the brightness, the glorious brightness, stinging his eyes. He called for Dar-Mondark, who immediately summoned Arson’s friends.

Although he could now see, Afsan’s condition was worsening. He’d vomited blood this morning, and the pain in his chest was spreading. He lay flat on his belly, his breath coming out in long ragged hisses. “Dybo?” he said.

The Emperor nodded. “It’s me, Afsan.”

“It is good to see you.”

Dybo clicked his teeth. “It is good to be seen.”

Afsan turned his head slightly. “And Novato—I’d know that face anywhere.”

“Hello, Afsan.”

“You look—” He paused, as if wondering whether to give voice to his thought. “You look wonderful. Beautiful.”

Novato dipped her head. “Thank you.”

“And Captain Var-Keenir.” Afsan rallied a little strength. “Ah, the times we had aboard the Dasheter!”

“Greetings, eggling,” said Keenir, his gravelly voice cracking slightly.

Afsan clicked his teeth. “Don’t you think I’m a bit old to still be called that?”

“Never,” said Keenir, a twinkle in his eye.

“And this long-shanked fellow,” said Afsan, “is doubtless my good and loyal friend. Cadool, the kilodays have been kind to you.”

Cadool bowed deeply.

Afsan was quiet for a moment, but then his tail began to twitch as if he were very, very sad.

“What’s wrong?” said Novato.

Afsan shook his head. “I—I don’t know who the rest of these people are. I should know, but I don’t.”

One male stepped slightly closer, and then, ignoring the sharp intakes of breath around him, reached out and briefly clasped Afsan’s shoulder. “I’m Toroca.”

Afsan’s voice was breaking. “My son.”

“Yes, Father.”

“What a fine, handsome Quintaglio you are.”

“Thank you.”

“I want you to know how very, very proud I am of you.”

“I know it, Father. I have always known it.”

Afsan turned to the next one, a female who, incredibly, had a horn growing out of her muzzle. “And you are?” he said.

“You mean you can’t tell?”

“Well, I can now: I recognize your voice, Babnol.”

“Toroca had never mentioned my, ah, horn?”

Afsan shook his head, and saw that Babnol was pleased.

Afsan’s tail was shaking again, beating back and forth with the strength of his emotions. “It is good of you all to come,” he said. “I know I don’t have much time left, but of all the sights I could have seen once more, none means more to me than seeing the faces of my friends… and my family.”

There was no point in even trying a comforting lie; Afsan could see the color of their muzzles now. “I’ll miss you, Afsan,” said Dybo. “I’ll miss you terribly. You’ll not be forgotten. There will be statues of you in every province.”

“To be remembered by my friends is enough,” said Afsan, and they saw from his muzzle that the sentiment was sincere.

“You will be remembered by all Quintaglios,” said Novato. “You saved us. You saved us all. We’re making enormous strides, Afsan. We have our own flying machines and the tower into space, and we’re studying the projectile weapons salvaged from the Other ships. We will get off this world before it disintegrates. I promise you that.”

Afsan was quiet for a moment. “I have a small request,” he said, his voice ragged. “Dybo, this would mean more to me than any statue. I know it will be generations hence before our ships leave this world, but when they go to their new home have them take something of me with them. Let something that I have touched be taken to the soil of our new world.”

“Your far-seer,” said Toroca at once. “You gave me your far-seer kilodays ago. What could be more appropriate than that?”

Afsan clicked his teeth. “Thank you, son.”

“I’ll make it happen, Afsan,” said Dybo. “Your far-seer will travel to our new home.”

Afsan nodded but then his body racked. “I don’t think I have much time left,” he said. “I care about you all deeply, but you can’t all stay here until the end. It’s too crowded, too dangerous. Go. Go, knowing you are in my thoughts.”

“I want to stay with you,” said Novato.

Afsan’s voice was faint. “I’d like that. The rest of you, Dybo, Keenir, Toroca, Babnol—I’ll miss you. Goodbye, my friends.”

“Afsan—” said Dybo, his own voice breaking. “Afsan, I—I must know, before you… before you…”

Afsan nodded once. His voice was soft. “I forgive you, my friend. I forgive you for everything.”

Dybo bowed deeply. “Thank you.”

“Now,” said Afsan, “please, all of you—God be with you.”

“God be with you,” said the Emperor. Keenir and Babnol repeated the phrase. The three of them left, along with Toroca.

“Afsan,” said Novato, moving closer than territoriality would normally allow, “don’t be afraid.”

“I’m not afraid,” he said, his voice wan. “Not exactly. I don’t wish to die, but I’m not afraid.”

“I have seen it, Afsan,” she said, her voice full of wonder. The other side. What lies beyond. I have seen it.”

Afsan tried to lift his head, but couldn’t manage it. “What?”

“At the top of the space tower, I accidentally opened a door that opened right out into space. The air rushed out, and I thought I was going to die. In a way, I did die. I felt myself leaving my body, and traveling down a long tunnel toward a magnificent light.” She spread her arms. “Heaven… heaven is peaceful, Afsan. A place without pain, without concerns.”

“You saw this when the air ran out?”

“Yes.”

“Novato, good Novato…” His voice was gentle. “When a person is drowning or otherwise starved for air, the mind often plays tricks.”

“This was not a trick, Afsan. This was real.”

“I find that difficult to believe,” he said.

She nodded, not offended. “I knew you would. But you of all people should know that the simple idea is often not correct. There is a heaven, Afsan, and it is more wonderful than our sacred scrolls ever said.”

Afsan’s tone was neutral. “Perhaps,” he said. “Perhaps.”

Novato was serene. “And there’s more, Afsan: on the other side, I saw people that I’d known before. Lub-Kaden from my old Pack, our daughter Haldan, others. Do you know what that means, Afsan? Someday, we’ll be together again. And you know what the sacred scrolls say about heaven: in the afterlife, there is no territoriality. That’s why we must hunt in packs, to prepare ourselves for the ongoing camaraderie of the next existence. We’ll be together again, Afsan, you and I. And it will be different. Different and better. We’ll be able to walk side by side. We’ll be able to touch one another at any time.” Her face was calm, beautiful. “It will be wonderful.”

“I hope you’re right,” said Afsan. “My dear, beautiful Novato, I hope you are right.” But then his body convulsed. “I—I think it’s time,” he said at last.

Novato reached out to him, placing a hand on his arm. “I am right, Afsan. You’ll see.”

And then once again for Sal-Afsan, savior of the Quintaglios, everything went dark.

The large stone-walled enclosure had once been used to house a blackdeath but it had been extensively modified for its new purpose. A second stone wall had been built around the first. The door in the outer wall faced east; the one in the inner wall faced south. There was no way anyone could accidentally wander inside.

It was late afternoon. Toroca came here every day at this time, going past the warning signs painted on the walls, entering through the eastern door, walking along between the two walls until he reached the entrance onto the field from the south.

The field was two hundred paces in diameter. Most of it was covered by grass, kept short by Pasdo and Kendly, two old shovelmouths who lived inside here. They were tame beasts, as gentle as could be, and the children were crazy about them.

Toroca stood at the entrance, looking in. There were children everywhere in the playground. Nearby, four of them were playing a game with a ball, kicking it back and forth. Farther along, he saw five youngsters intently building structures in a pit of black sand. Over there, two females were chasing each other. The one in pursuit finally closed the gap, and, with an outstretched hand, touched the other girl on her back, then turned around and began running away. The one who’d been touched now took up the pursuit, her turn to try to catch the other one.

Toroca watched in amazement. Such a simple game, he thought, such an obvious game. And yet, no one of his generation had ever played it. But here he’d seen it spontaneously invented time and again.

He caught sight of a movement out of the corner of his eye—something sailing through the air. A ball. One youngster had thrown it and another had caught it. The one who’d caught it was now running with it. Two others gave hot pursuit, leaping onto his back and propelling him to the ground. Jaws swung open, but only so teeth could clack together, and one of the boys reached out a hand to help the felled player back to his feet.

Toroca beamed. In the center of the field, he saw his sister, Dynax, formerly a healer, formerly of Chu’toolar, who now worked here in this, the new creche. Toroca bowed toward her and she waved back. And there, off in the distance, carrying two youngsters, one on each shoulder, was Spenress, sister of Emperor Dy-Dybo.

Toroca was sorry that only adults such as these—adults who, like these children, had been spared seeing the culling of the bloodpriests—could come in here. The sight of such intimate contact between individuals (even if they were juveniles) could drive most Quintaglios to dagamant. And, of course, there was always the question of—

“Father!”

Toroca turned. The little yellow boy was running toward him, stubby tail flying out behind. “Father!” he called again.

Toroca bent his knees and held out his arms. The child ran to him, and Toroca scooped him up.

“How’s my boy?” Toroca said, holding him close, feeling his warmth.

Taksan looked at him with golden eyes. “Fine, Father,” he said.

“And can you say that in the Other language?”

Taksan nodded. “De-kat, rak-sa. But, Father, I still don’t understand why I have to learn to talk in two different ways. I mean, there’s nobody except you who can understand me.”

Toroca set the boy down and crouched beside him. “Someday, you will go somewhere where people speak like that.” He patted the child on the shoulder. “Now, run along and play some more.”

Taksan gave him a quick hug and went off to join his friends. Toroca watched him go, beaming with pride. Someday Taksan and some of this new generation of Quintaglios would go to see the Others again. He wanted Taksan to be able to say hello to them in their own language. But, more than that, he wanted him to be able to tell the Others just how very, very sorry the Quintaglios were.