Wartorn: Resurrection

PRAULTH (3)

CLOSING HER EYES without first coupling with Xink would mean seeing lines and arrows and text maddeningly crisscrossing the backs of her eyelids. It would mean restlessness and uneasiness and a

poor sleep. Fortunately she and Xink had sexual intercourse—though she was learning to call the act by less formal, more lively names—each night without fail, oftentimes more than once. He indulged her tirelessly, never seeming sated, always hungry for her body, which she had always thought, if she thought of it at all, as sadly commonplace. He assured her she wore the shape of a passion goddess.

She had discovered that her appetites, too, were boundless, and nightly she was still learning the apparently endless variations of physical love. Xink was a marvelous instructor.

Amusing ... instructor had once meant something quite different to her, back when she'd been a mere student. Now what was she? She didn't rightly know. Her work for Master Honnis consumed her intellectually, while Xink absorbed her emotionally and physically. Her life of late was a very full thing, indeed.

Tonight she slept her usual, sublimely exhausted sleep. They did not wear any clothing in the bed they shared, the big bed with the soft mattress. They held each other, squirmed against each other, nuzzled, and nestled together even as they slumbered. Sometimes, waking a bit, she would feel Xink's rigidness pressing her—his manhood firm and warm, and he still asleep ... at least until she touched him there, and he woke—never complaining, always eager—and they chose from among the dizzying array of options just where inside her that fine fleshy pillar should be placed.

It was not desire for further intercourse that woke her tonight. It was a hand, shaking her shoulder firmly.

She went from dark dreamlessness to the brightness of their chamber in the University's Blue Annex. There was a window set into one wall, but the light wasn't coming from there; and besides, she could feel immediately that she hadn't had a sufficient amount of sleep—two watches at most. It was the dead of night... but the lamp hanging from its bronze hook burned overhead, blinding.

"Praulth—beauty, you must, you must—"

She touched Xink's shaking hand to stop it. She blinked painfully. Despite their intimate relationship, she was secretly still vastly intimidated by him, as though with a few words of criticism or disapproval he could undo everything, every change that had occurred in her, reduce her to the nothingness of... of before. That he had never said any harsh word to her or made any sign that he meant her the least hurt didn't quell the fear.

"I'm sorry to wake you," he was saying. She could make out his face now, gorgeous as usual and framed by dark cascading hair. "No choice, though, beauty. Come now."

She pushed herself up. He was in his robe and holding hers out to her.

"What's ... going on?"

He looked oddly embarrassed, as if caught at something illicit. He shook his head. "I am to take you somewhere."

"Where?" She felt alarm now. What was this? Everything had been so stable, so steady for almost half a lune now, a seemingly interminable time, just her doing her work for Master Honnis and Xink seeing to his duties with Mistress Cestrello of the sociology council, and the two of them together every night. Why, why, why was something going wrong now? Did he mean to abandon her? Her young heart shook beneath the breasts that he and he alone had ever touched. "Where?" she said again, but Xink looked away.

Praulth took her robe and put it on. She was quivering slightly, already feeling herself reducing, her newfound womanhood shrinking away. She gazed after him, as he led the way from the chamber into the Blue Annex corridor. Her feet felt numb as she moved, staying several steps behind him, arms folded around her chest, huddling into herself

She loved him! How could anything possibly go wrong between two people in love?

Did he still love her? He said so often enough, but...

Desperate for other, less fatal thoughts to fill her head, she pictured maps of battle, projecting military movements as she'd been doing quite some while now.

Making Master Honnis proud. Yes, that was still important. Not as important, though, as wanting to make Xink happy—happy so that they would remain together always. Yes, do old Honnis's tasks to the exclusion of all other academic work, so that she could maintain this situation forever, living with Xink

in their wonderful quarters, her days belonging to the Felk war, her nights to ... to ...

They had crossed out of the corridor, descended stairs, were walking some faintly lit underground stretch she didn't recognize; only now she had stopped. Her vision had smeared over with tears. Xink was beside her, laying his strong manly arm across her stiff shoulders and saying, softly, "Please, beauty ... please, Praulth, you've been summoned. Honnis will be there. Come. Come."

His breath warmed her cheek. She allowed herself to be guided onward, not looking up any longer. Everything was ending. She knew it. But she would go with him, toward whatever conclusion was waiting.

THE FLOOR WAS earth and chilly. The chamber was a dome, with arched entrances all around. It all looked extremely old. The stone was pocked and crumbling. The bowl of the dome overhead was made of shaped sheets of deeply tarnished brass. It was a wide area, without any furnishings of any kind. Many of the archways were sloppily bricked up, and even those constructions appeared ancient.

Praulth had heard that the University here at Febretree was constructed atop the ruins of some antediluvian stronghold, but she had never seen any supporting documentation and so discounted it.

They had come some distance, and her tears had dried. Xink was still at her side but was stepping back now, bowing, flourishing her way forward with his arm as if to present her to someone.

They were not alone in this large underground space that smelled of old soil and rat droppings. There were others. She saw cloaks, armor, sheathed weapons, a dozen figures, more, a few holding the torches that lit this space. And there—Master Honnis, someone familiar but standing at a distance, nearby a tall sturdy figure with red and gold hair.

"Praulth."

Her name, spoken and echoing, Master Honnis's voice—but announcing her, not addressing her. She blinked, looking about, as confused now as when Xink had first woken her.

"What's wrong with her?"

This voice was stronger, richer than Honnis's. It wasn't loud but carried itself confidently through the circular chamber. It had come from the big man. He wore ... some sort of military apparel, Praulth saw, squinting his way. But it looked more like the uniform of a royal court than that of an army.

Master Honnis looked urgently her way. His manner was intense, even excited, and perhaps afraid? No. Not possible. Honnis evoked fear. He did not experience it.

"She is nervous," the old, dark-fleshed instructor said.

"Does she have cause to be?"

Xink had vanished somewhere behind her. There was no one else wearing a University robe to be seen but Honnis. Just these ... soldiers. And the one with the red-gold hair who was surely their leader.

He took a single step her way now, his gait as assured as his voice. She guessed him to be some five tenwinters old, though he was still too far away for a good look. He seemed to exude a robust poise. Yes, a leader surely.

"Maybe she's got a right to her nervousness at that," he said, answering his own question, staring at her a moment across the intervening distance. "You claim she knows nothing?"

"Only the movements and maneuvers of the war that she has successfully predicted for some time now," Master Honnis said with a tinge of his normal peevish self.

A stirring went through the soldiers ranked behind the two older men.

A deep chuckle echoed through the dome briefly. Above, torchlight rebounded among tarnished brass.

"I daresay, elder Master, if I hadn't gone on from this place to truly make something of my life, I imagine you would now be raking me apart for ever daring to leave before achieving Thinker. As I recall, our farewell was ... I'm not sure how to quite put it."

"Enthusiastic?" Honnis ventured.

"Yes. Mutually so. Couldn't wait to get apart from each other."

Praulth watched the exchange, waiting for it—waiting for this night, for everything—to make sense. She wished only that she were still asleep in bed, in the glow of Xink's warmth.

Now the two men were crossing toward her. Master Honnis did indeed appear somewhat flustered, bony fingers tugging at each other. Praulth's gaze was drawn to the other, though. Tall, broad across the shoulders and chest, but some of that size seemed to come strictly from his commanding presence. His face was cut by crags and dressed in a beard of red and gold—and grey too, she saw—but it was a face of authority, even supremacy. Eyes of harsh blue burned from surrounding pouches of flesh. His hair was a mane, thicker and wilder even than Xink's tumbling locks. Five ten winters old? Yes. At least. Likely more. But still a hardy figure.

He and Honnis came to a halt at arm's length.

"Thinker Praulth," said Master Honnis in a formal tone, "this is Premier Na Niroki Cultat of the Noble State of Petgrad—"

"Cultat of Petgrad should, I think, suffice." Those blue eyes—full of command and ruthlessness—measured her. His wasn't a kind face, but looking back into it, Praulth felt some inkling that this man might be honorable.

She uncrossed the arms that she still had folded about her chest. She bowed toward him. "Premier," she said, the first word she'd uttered since leaving her and Xink's quarters. It was chilly enough in here to raise gooseflesh beneath her robe. One or the other of those unbricked archways must lead up to the outside and the open night. Probably they were on the periphery of the campus... some secret place.

Cultat continued to scrutinize her. "You had no expectation of my arrival. You have no idea at all why I am here."

Honnis made a sharp furtive gesture at her to respond. She merely shook her head at the premier.

Cultat gave Honnis a full look, then said, "Master Honnis is quite correct. You have been predicting the movements of the Felk since the atrocity at U'delph. You still believe Weisel is leading his forces toward the city-state of Trael?"

The field intelligence that Honnis provided her now definitely indicated as much, though she had made her forecast much earlier. Apparently this premier knew that. Praulth still didn't know how Master Honnis was so miraculously coming by his facts.

'Taking Trael, as opposed to attacking Grat or Ompellus Prime—both also within striking distance—will drive the Felk deepest into the South. It will effectively open the second half of this war." She spoke almost numbly. She didn't understand what was happening here, and she didn't have the mental energy to try to puzzle it out. Something on a grand scale was occurring, but it was too big for her to see.

The premier's fierce blue eyes studied her. "Why doesn't General Weisel use that transport magic he has at his disposal—attack Trael right now? Why march his army at all?"

"I don't know." This was some sort of test.

Cultat shot another look at Honnis, this one dire.

"Perhaps because Dardas didn't have such magics," Praulth added.

"Dardas?" Cultat spoke the name slowly.

"Weisel is Dardas. His tactics are a flawless match. I could cite numerous examples—"

"That won't be necessary," Honnis interrupted. "The premier was a passable enough student in his day to recall the Northlander's name."

Cultat's eyes burned Praulth once more. He had traveled here to meet her, she realized. Somehow the war predictions she had been making for Honnis—the great assignment he had entrusted to her—had been finding their way to this premier. Petgrad, if the Felk went unchecked, would soon enough stand in the path of Weisel's forces.

Cultat meant to stop him; but the army of Petgrad, relatively large though it was, couldn't hope to meet the Felk. Cultat had to have an edge, an advantage.

He turned slightly, lifting a hand gloved in leather. Immediately one of the torch-bearing soldiers jogged over. Out of a cloak he produced a small sheaf of papers. Cultat took them, then held the papers toward Praulth.

"Look at these, young Thinker. They are our current intelligence of the Felk advancement, collected by an elite Petgrad scouting force. We've had them in the field some while now. Tell me"—his teeth

glinted briefly in that red-gold beard—"does Weisel truly intend to conquer the entire Isthmus?"

Her hand accepted the papers, familiar-looking lines and arrows.

"Premier," she said, "I find it difficult to believe that anyone with the least inkling of a military sensibility could see it otherwise."

Cultat nodded, and in that moment some hint of his true age shone through. "Unfortunately, Thinker Praulth, military minds are in scarce supply ... now that we need them most."

"I believe that Weisel is intentionally trying to provoke resistance," she said. "That was the true purpose of the destruction of U'delph."

"So you concluded to Master Honnis. I would agree with you, though it's not the most sensible act on Weisel's part."

"But Dardas was known to commit such actions."

"Dardas," Cultat breathed grimly. His eyes flickered to the papers he'd passed her. "You can read that well enough?"

Praulth looked at the sheets, which showed the Felk, Trael, and that city-state's outer environs. The torch-bearer remained nearby, throwing more than enough light on the pages.

"Study this here. Now." Cultat's deep voice brooked no protest.

Master Honnis was tugging his fingers once more. She looked first to him, then to the premier.

"I will wait here while you do this," said Cultat. "Tell me, how can we engage Weisel successfully in battle?"

TIME HAD LOST easy definition, but she was done. Had a watch passed or only a few moments? She stood rooted where she'd been standing. The others were still there— Honnis, the premier and his entourage. Xink? She didn't look behind to see if he was still in the domed chamber. She hoped vaguely he was.

Praulth felt herself swaying on her feet. The ground's earthy chill had bled upward to her knees. This was a new task. This wasn't analytical prophecy. She had been told to devise the countermeasures against the Felk. Against Weisel. Against Dardas. This new task was engrossing, challenging, thoroughly satisfying. Without her knowing it, she had been aching for just this sort of work.

She lifted her head, and Cultat was still there, waiting.

"Battle of Torran Rats," she said; then she explained.

'WHAT HAVE YOU to do with it?"

She was sitting on the bed, at its foot, still robed, holding herself rigidly. Xink had put his hand gently to her shoulder after leading her back here; but she hadn't responded, and he'd withdrawn it.

He was standing now in a far corner of the chamber, eyes downcast. He had heard her question.

"I... don't know what it means. Beauty—" He cut himself off.

Petgrad. It was the largest and most powerful of the southern city-states, located not too far from Febretree. However, no single state of the Isthmus could, at this stage, muster a force to stand against the Felk. Cultat was trying to gather an alliance of the remaining free states. It was a formidable task. But he needed more than an army to meet Weisel and the Felk.

Cultat, Petgrad's premier, had visited her. Specifically. She had known some while now that Trael was the next logical step for the Felk. Devising a plan of counterattack, however... that had been a categorically different task for her—far more difficult, far more rewarding. But she had succeeded. She was certain. The Battle of Torran Flats. Use the tactics of Dardas against the Felk military leader; turn the tables.

Afterward Cultat, that great fierce man, had gone with his entourage. Obviously the entire meeting was meant to be secret. Honnis had directed Xink—who'd waited all the while inside one of the archways into the dome—to return her to their quarters.

Xink was doubtlessly a part of this ... though she still didn't know exactly what this was.

"You're working with Honnis, too," she said. Her sandaled feet still felt cold from that old underground chamber.

"Working ... with ... ?"

She was staring directly at him now, but he was still watching the floor.

"How conveniently you appeared," she said, a quiver tugging at her voice. "And with you these comfortable quarters. And so I neglected my other studies. Honnis means for me to work exclusively on his war project— means to squeeze every possible effort from me. And so I am kept... k-k-kept happy. By you. You ..."

He was awash in blurs now, as if the lamplight overhead had turned to liquid. Through the haze, she saw him take a few steps toward her, hesitate.

"B— Praulth. Please. I beg you to believe. If it's a machination, I've only played the slightest role in it. Surely if you're being used, so am I."

"You?" It was a sob.

"And I don't care. I'm grateful for the time we've had together ... the times I hope we'll still have. I don't care if—why—Honnis—"

"He put you on to me," she said; then stopped and choked down the tears, fiercely. She would not whimper like a child. "He ... what? Offered a reward, perhaps, to you? Payment?"

Wiping her eyes, she saw him clearer, his handsome face etched with pain, tears of his own in his limpid blue eyes, the flecks of gold in them sparkling.

"I have loved you, Praulth. I have. I wish to go on doing so."

"What are you getting?"

"You're beautiful to me. When I first saw you, you were like a radiant child—"

"I'm not a child."

It was the first sharp thing she'd ever said to him, the first she had dared to say. But now she dared. In among the churning confusion and fear, she most certainly felt anger.

He hastily licked his lips. "I—I know you are not—"

"What reward are you getting from Honnis for... for being with me?" Hateful, so hateful to say the words, to even think the thoughts.

Xink drew a breath, drew himself erect. He shook his head once, as if to clear it. His features became composed. "Master Honnis has promised me an eventual seat on the sociology council. He has the means to leverage it."

It was a confession. Praulth stared at her lover, her beautiful lover, feeling the hotness in her throat, feeling emotions tearing and ripping.

But Xink wasn't done. "I have also fallen genuinely in love with you during the course of this. My heart belongs to you—whether you choose to reject it or not, it's yours. Now and forever. In this ... I'm helpless."

He spoke it in the same level divulging tone, even as the tears continued to ooze from his eyes.

Believe? Disbelieve? It seemed impossible. So much to sort through. Her very existence had been upended tonight; but perhaps it hadn't been utterly destroyed after all.

Xink remained where he was. Waiting. Waiting for her judgment, her pronouncement of sentence.

She gazed at him, and, yes, he was still beautiful, and, yes, her heart soared even as it desperately ached. Her mind whirled.

Evidently Cultat was in cahoots with Honnis—the war studies master using her, Praulth, to predict Weisel's movements ... and now Cultat using her to formulate the winning plan of battle.

It was overwhelming.

Praulth lifted a trembling hand toward Xink. A look of hope flowed over his face.

"Come to me," she said. "We must talk. We have ... so much to talk about."