The Days Of Our Fathers

“Kroykah!”

At the cry from the training grounds, both Serat and Telan froze, even though both were well aware the imperative hadn’t been directed at them. It was a reaction so ingrained as to be almost instinctive. The cry of that word – and, if truth be told, only that word – mandated immediate and unthinking obedience: Stop exactly where you are, don’t move, don’t breathe, wait for the next action. It was a holdover from the Days Before The Cataclysm, when military discipline was the norm. Their fathers’ fathers’ fathers had been at war as far back as anyone living could remember. With the then-frequent attacks, the warning cry, if obeyed, could save lives, and so all the children of the Jenshahnii had been so instructed from the time they were old enough to control their bodies. The fact that there was no one and nothing left to attack hadn’t, however, ended the precaution.

“Except each other in the Challenge,” Telan whispered with a low chuckle, and Serat started. While his brother had certainly responded to his thought, he had said nothing. There were stories in the Histories of the people being able to converse silently with one another, but neither Serat nor anyone else among their number had ever come across anyone who could actually do so since the Cataclysm.

His amazement must have shown on his face, for Telan glanced at him. “Is something wrong, lrnan?” he asked.

“I said nothing,” Serat returned, and added in his mind, aloud.

“Aloud?” Telan repeated, his eyes widening.

The older male grasped his arm. “Come, we must speak to the Priestesses.”

“But the training….”

“Can wait.” To soften this terrible blow – Telan was more eager than most to insure a place for himself among those allowed the right to mate – Serat continued. “The training ground will still be there tomorrow. And besides, if you truly can hear thoughts as the Ancestors could, that might win you a place in itself.”

The disappointment on the younger’s face fled under the new, fierce grin. “Well, what are we waiting for?” he enthused. He grasped onto Serat’s hand and started running across the family compound to the Temple.

“To win the Challenge, you must, of course, win,” Jerem was saying, his loud voice booming over the training grounds. “But to end a Challenge with dishonor or trickery will surely result in a poor mating and weak, deformed children. The right to mate is a thing of great and highest esteem, and should any male attempt to subvert our survival by resorting to such tactics, he will surely doom not only his own progeny, but all of our society…”

“And therefore it will not be tolerated,” Soell mouthed surreptitiously with the instructor. Beside him, Tavel snorted. The two sat on the sands, legs crossed, listening again to the lecture Jerem gave whenever one of the males stepped out of the form that was being taught. On the field, Samon had tried something flashy with the lirpa and Jerem definitely had not approved of the innovation.

“Jerem simply takes his duty very seriously,” Tavel returned, though his deep brown eyes were sparkling with amusement.

It was Soell’s turn to snort. “Judging by the sounds from your a’an’s tent, very seriously.”

Tavel shrugged. “It was a good fight, he did well. He earned it.”

Soell, taller than his companion by nearly a head, leaned over. “Has the Lady T’Lan conceived yet?”

Tavel shook his head of long, reddish hair. “Not to my knowledge.”

“It’s been six months.”

“I know. The gods may not favor the pairing.”

Soell’s face twisted into a wicked grin. “Or they’re just waiting until I win this year’s Challenge.”

“And you’ll chose my mother, will you?” Tavel humphed.

“If she’s as good-looking under her veils as has been said.”

Tavel grimaced and punched his friend on the arm. Soell returned it and they started a good-natured grappling.

“No roughhousing on the grounds!” Jerem’ voice snapped and both young men subsided.

“Next combat, I’ll beat you silly,” Tavel grinned.

“You can try,” was the jesting reply.

Vall was vomiting. It was the fourth morning in a row. Her huge, dark eyes pleaded silently with her an’aroun. The terrible sickness that had struck so many of their grandmothers was an ever-present fear, for it marked yet another womb gone barren of sustainable life.

“Jiir?” she managed.

There was little inflection in her younger sister’s voice. “We must go to the Healer.” Jiir handed Vall a flask of water, allowing her to rinse the foulness from her mouth. She smoothed the dark hair away from Vall’s face and smiled wanly. “Get dressed,” she said, and carried the soiled basin out of the tent.

With a soft moan, Vall rose from the blankets, donning her robe. She dreaded the examination the Healer would, of necessity, have to give her – but she dreaded the diagnosis more. Unlike some of the young women of this newly-formed Clan, she didn’t want the relatively free life of a Priestess. She wanted the veils and the honor and even the burden of motherhood.

The Temple was busy, as usual. The birthing wards were well-tended and well-protected, the males who guarded the Death-Daughters carefully scrutinizing Serat and Telan as they walked toward the Hall of the Priestesses. The guards were those males who had won the right of mating in the past year. The Elders had decided that there was no one better suited for the task, since they were also protecting their own progeny. These males would also preside over the Challenges of the current year. No male was allowed to compete in the year after the one in which he had won the right. In this way, the Elders hoped to guarantee a healthy gene pool. In practice, however, certain males tended to win every other year, and these tended to choose the same females again and again. His own father had chosen his mother, T’Lin, nearly every Challenge he’d won, and Serat knew Telan’s father, Tarrs, was more than partial to T’Kiir. And they had, as had many others, already begun to form a Clan.

Serat wasn’t certain how wise this was – the Histories spoke of rival factions which had lead to the Cataclysm. But as with so many things, practicality won out over ideology: repopulating the planet was of primary importance.

He and Telan bowed respectfully to the guards, then approached the Warder, he who was in charge of access to the Priestesses.

“Warder, we seek audience and consultation,” Serat intoned formally.

“For what purpose?” the Warder asked.

Serat glanced at Telan, who grinned. “I believe my brother is experiencing an awakening of the Old Gifts.”

The Warder raised an eyebrow. “Which?”

“He seems to be able to hear my thoughts.”

The male’s other eyebrow joined the first. “Your names?”

“I am Serat, son of Seral,” Serat replied.

“Telan son of Tarrs,” Telan echoed.

Without another word, the Warder turned, opening the door to the Inner Chamber. He announced them and their purpose, and within moments, a Priestess approached. She wore the halter and skirt, little more than a floor-length loin cloth, that was the garb of the Priestesses. Her gaze pierced the two young males, then she motioned them forward.

Telan grinned again. Since the Priestesses were infertile, it was not deemed important for their flesh to be covered from the sight of males. Serat hid his own smile and followed her and his brother to one of the side rooms of the Temple.

The Priestess gestured them to chairs and seated herself on the raised dais and cushion. “I am Daph,” she said, her voice roughened by the incense she and the other Priestesses inhaled to receive the visions from the gods. “Which is which, Serat and Telan?”

“I’m Telan, Priestess,” the younger answered.

“You hear your brother’s thoughts?”

Telan shrugged. “I don’t know. He seems to think I do.”

She nodded. “We shall test this.” She motioned to Serat to come and stand beside her and to lower his head. Her words to him were little more than the hint of breath against his ear. “You will tell me a phrase, then think it exactly.”

Serat nodded, and whispered as softly as he could, “Telan is eager for the Challenge.”

From his seat, Telan snorted. “Of course I am, but that’s hardly a test. Isn’t every young Warrior?”

Serat’s eyes widened, but the Priestess held up a hand.

“Another,” she instructed.

“I worry that my mother grows too old to bear again,” Serat murmured.

“Repeat it exactly, Telan, Tarrs’ son,” Daph intoned.

Telan closed his eyes, then took a deep breath. “I worry that my mother grows too old to bear again,” he said, then added, “I’m sorry for your fear, my brother.”

Again Daph postponed Serat’s reaction. “Once more,” she said.

This time, Serat thought of something that was most unlike him, something Telan could not guess he would be thinking even though they had had a close friendship all of their lives. “If we are paired in the Challenge, will you allow me to win since I am your elder?”

Telan greened, his lips drawing into a tight line.

“Repeat what you heard,” Daph snapped.

“No, I will not,” Telan said. “I will not insult my brother’s dignity by repeating such a dishonorable thought.” He scowled. “And no, I won’t let you win, either.”

Serat bowed his head as the Priestess rose. “I have seen enough,” she said. She strode toward Telan, her arms reaching out. When she got close, she settled the fingers of her hands against his cheek and temple and behind his ears. “Your gift is true,” she intoned. “This is a day of great rejoicing. You will strengthen this skill, and you will pass it to your sons and daughters and on through the generations to come.”

Telan knelt before her, his excitement almost making him quiver. Serat blinked at him, his own awe as great.

“We must examine you, also, Serat,” Daph continued. “We must see if he can hear others, or only you.”

“Yes, Priestess,” Serat said. He glanced at Telan and found the black eyes locked on his.

You have to be able to hear me too! came slowly to his mind. I couldn’t bear it if I won the right, and you didn’t!

“Telan, I hear you!” Serat cried.

Daph took a step back, startled. She studied the young males before her, then her eyes rolled back up into her head.

“As it was in the days of our fathers,” she declared, “so it will be in the days of our sons. The gods be praised, for your children have again awakened.”

Then she sank to the floor, both Telan and Serat catching her slender body. Serat called for other Priestesses, and when they came, bearing Daph away to her chamber, they stayed, staring at one another in wonder.

Jiir held onto to Vall’s hand as Healer Jaad finished her examination.

“I’m so frightened,” Vall whispered.

Jiir only squeezed her hand more tightly.

Jaad washed, then turned back to the two young women. She took a breath, and smiled.

“There is no sickness – so far,” she said. “You carry a child, Vall.”

Vall gasped and Jiir let out a squeal of awed delight.

“Who is the sire?” the Healer asked.

“It must be Soell,” Jiir giggled.

Vall nodded, her hands moving protectively to her belly. “If the issue is sound…” she began.

“Then you will join the Death-Daughters,” Jaad completed. “Congratulations.”

“T’Vall,” Jiir added.

“Do not invite the sickness with such conceit!” the Healer cautioned. “When she gives live, healthy birth is soon enough for the honored title.”

Jiir bowed her head. “Forgive me, Healer.”

“Now,” Jaad went on, “you must inform Soell as soon as possible. With the prospect of a child, he must withdraw from the Challenge for this year.”

“He won’t like that,” Vall said hesitantly.

The Healer snorted. “If he joins the ranks of tested Warriors, I don’t think he’ll quibble about the method.”

“You don’t know Soell,” Jiir muttered, and she and Vall shared a chuckle.

“It is as the Elders have decreed,” Jaad said. “I’m sure Soell will live.”

There was a great feast planned in the compound. Another chance for life, an awakening of lost Gifts, and all in one day and more, in one Clan. As predicted, Soell wasn’t thrilled with having to withdraw from the Challenge, even with the possibility of siring a healthy child. Tavel promised he’d win a place among the Warriors just to keep his friend company, and laughed when Soell scowled. Vall made offerings to the gods, going to the Temple to let her blood mingle with that of her ancestors over the altar flame. Telan and Serat, too, gave a blood offering, expressing their cautious hopes to their Clan sister. The other young women served all the males, the Clan Mothers allowed from their seclusion to bless the festivities with their sacred presence. Vall’s own mother, the Lady T’Manda embraced her daughter, while Vall’s father, the great Warrior Von, beamed at her with paternal pride. Seral and Tarrs sat together, no doubt making plans for the honored future of their sons, while acknowledging the pleasure evident in the women who had birthed these gods-favored young males.

The months passed and it was the day before the Challenge when calamity struck.

Serat had been increasingly irrational for days. He was irritable when Telan was away from his side, yet was curt and snappish to his brother when with him. They had done as the Priestess had ordered, and worked on honing their new telepathic skills. They had found, over the months, that they could hear the thoughts of everyone in their Clan, and most of the Jenshahnii, and that it became easier if they were in some form of physical contact with the person they were trying to ‘read.’ It wasn’t always pleasant, for they became privy to any number of jealousies and wants and grievances, and sometimes found it difficult not to react to such information, private though they knew it to be. Telan insisted on keeping up with the physical training for the Challenge, even though he would not be asked to compete. At first, Serat agreed with the decision, but when it became apparent that they would always have the advantage of knowing their opponent’s strategies, it lost its appeal. And so he watched from outside the training grounds as Telan went through the exercises, laughing grimly to himself as his brother racked up victory after effortless victory. But soon, his laughter faded, replaced by other, jarring emotions. He stopped watching the combat, and soon after that, found himself disliking the other males – particularly those Telan wrestled with. The thoughts that ran fleetingly through their minds – those of pleasure at the contest, and, at times, pleasure at the mere contact with his vivacious, muscled, handsome brother – angered him. That Telan at times returned the pleasure was maddening.

They sat together in the Scribe’s tent, Serat working with unusual sluggishness, Telan fidgeting with his desire to do something other than sit next to his brother and listen to his muttering. At last, the younger male spoke.

“I’m going to the…” he began.

“My company bores you?” Serat interrupted.

Telan glared at him. “When you’re not being companionable, yes.”

Serat threw his sharpened quill aside. “And what would you prefer, as if I didn’t know?”

“Anything other than listening to you mumble under your breath,” the other replied, then added, “I do know what you’re thinking.”

“And what is that?” Serat demanded, rising from his seat.

“Fire and blood and death,” Telan said. “It burns in your mind and it’s all I can see.”

The older regarded him scornfully. “Perhaps as an echo of the only thing that seems to matter to you.”

Telan bristled.

“Perhaps you fear me now?” Serat scoffed. “Since I can hear you as clearly as you hear me, you fear if we were to participate in the Challenge I would win?”

Telan made a face. “Hardly. But it is unpleasant.” He, too, rose, and started for the tent door.

“Wait, don’t leave!” Serat burst out. He took a ragged breath, damning the prickling beneath his skin that was making him behave so disagreeably. “I’m sorry, lrnan, I – I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I can’t seem to…”

“Fire and blood and death,” Telan repeated. He stopped, his figure silhouetted by the bright sunlight, his voice low and uneasy. “I’m worried about you, Serat,” he continued. “I think our gift is exhausting you. Perhaps you should spend the day resting.”

“Maybe you’re right,” the older conceded, for suddenly he did feel weary. Yet the thought of sleeping while Telan went on with the training burned in him. “Will –“ he went on hesitantly, “will you rest with me? At least for a while?” And he did his best to color the pleas from his mind in true regret and simple need.

Telan, too, hesitated, then sighed. “If you wish,” he answered at last. “Come, we’ll speak to the Priestess and give our daily report, then both get some sleep.” He turned back, his grin wan. “Your thoughts make me tired, too.”

Serat shivered with the release of tension he hadn’t known was building within him and nodded. He did remember to carefully re-roll the hide he’d been working on before following Telan to the Temple.

Hours later, Serat awoke with a terrible fever. He was drenched in sweat, and when he opened his eyes, everything was covered in a green haze. He reached out to Telan on the bedroll next to his, only to find it empty. A fierce cry was pulled from him, and his sister, Jiir, came to his side.

“Serat, what is it, what’s wrong?” she asked.

He could only answer her with strangled syllables.

“I’ll call the Healer,” she said, and raced from the tent.

Serat tried to reach out with his mind, and found he couldn’t concentrate. It started a panic in him, and he rose from his bedroll, only to fall back as shudders took him. He lay panting, trying to slow his heart rate, his muscles twitching, making his limbs jump.

When Jiir returned with Jaad, he was nearly writhing.

“Be still, Serat,” the Healer ordered, and he snarled at her, batting her hands away from his body until she growled “Kroykah!” Then he froze, as the command demanded, yet still his body trembled.

After several long moments, Jaad sat back on her heels.

“There is fever,” she said, “but I can find no injury nor infection. The skin does not blister as with the sickness, but it is hot to the touch. Do you feel nauseated?”

Serat shook his head.

“Hungry? Thirsty?” the Healer questioned.

“I thirst,” he managed.

She turned to Jiir. “Water,” she ordered.

“Yes, Healer,” Jiir replied and went to the large cistern, bring back a cup of the tepid liquid.

Serat drank greedily, then moaned.

“To drink causes you pain?” Jaad asked.

“No,” he groaned. “It but disappears in my throat.”

Jaad frowned at him, and told Jiir to fetch the Elder of her profession.

Vall rose from her weaving loom as Jiir ran past her to the Healer’s tent.

“Sister, what is it?” she called.

“Serat has taken ill!” the younger woman replied.

Vall gasped, her hands automatically going to her swollen belly. Soell emerged from her sleeping tent – she was secluded from her sisters for the health of her unborn child, but not yet housed with the Death-Daughters lest she prove unworthy – and knelt beside her, his hands, too, resting on her rounded flesh.

“I don’t have to be gifted to know you’re upset,” he murmured.

Vall glanced at him, unable to stop her soft smile.

“You do quite well with what Telan and Serat have taught so far,” she told him.

Do I? he sent to her thoughts, and she flushed, and answered.

Yes, you do.

What, then, is wrong, my n’ven aroun?

Vall took a breath, releasing the strain of concentration needed for mental communication. “Jiir says Serat is ill,” she said.

Soell’s eyes widened. “The sickness?”

Vall shook her head. “I don’t know.”

He rose from the sand. "I’ll go and…” he began.

“Don’t!” Vall gasped. “You could bring sickness back to…!”

“I won’t get near Serat,” Soell promised. “I’ll only speak to the Healers, and only long enough to be able to put your mind at ease.” He bent, kissing the top of her head. “If I were skilled enough to ask the Healer from here…” he said, then gave her an impish smile.

“One day, my n’ven lrnan,” Vall returned almost fiercely. “One day soon!”

Soell again smiled at her, then turned and headed for the Warrior’s tent.

When the haze of flame and need descended, Telan dropped the ahn-woon he was wielding and ran from the training grounds, his mind ablaze with fear and torment. He was streaked with the sweat and the sand of the training grounds, his eyes wide with stark fear. His partner in the match, Tavel, followed behind him, as did half the Warriors at the exercises. Though only some of them had mastered the rudiments of telepathy, they could all sense that something terrible was happening.

Telan barely noticed Jiir racing toward the Healer’s tents as he lunged into the tent – only to be stopped by sudden hands on his arms.

“Telan, you can’t,” Soell’s voice said from behind him. “If he has the sickness…”

“I shouldn’t have left him,” Telan moaned. “He was tossing and turning in his sleep, his thoughts were so full of fire….” He gazed in anguish into Soell’s dark eyes, seeing the pain of his thoughts reflected there.

“It would be a tragic loss, to be sure,” Soell continued, his caring but firm tone belied by the flames behind his eyes, “but more tragic still to lose you both. You’re just starting to be able to teach us how to hear each other…”

“But I have to see him, I have to…” Telan began.

“No one but Healers may enter here,” came a strong female voice from inside the tent. “I know your fear, son of Tarrs, but we dare not take the risk.”

Telan sank to the sand, his hands covering his face. Soell placed a strengthening hand on his shoulder. Tavel knelt beside him, speaking in soft tones, cautioning against jumping to the worst case. The other Warriors, too, crowded around him, wanting to give what support they could, but Telan lashed out at them, allowing only Soell and Tavel close to him. It was not lost on any of them that of all the Warriors, these two were the ones most adept at learning Telan’s Gift.

When the Elder Healer arrived, the Warriors parted for him and Soell drew Telan further away from the tent. He motioned to Jiir, who had returned with the Elder and now stood outside the tent, wringing her hands.

“Jiir,” he said to his Clan sister, “he needs a female’s touch. Do what you can to comfort him.”

The fear was deep in her eyes, but Jiir nodded and knelt beside Telan, whispering soothing words to him. Soell took several steadying breaths, locked eyes for a moment with Tavel, who was likewise breathing deeply, and waited.

The Healers could find no ailment to cure. Serat alternately moaned and raged, though what it was he was raging for or about was lost in the cacophony that blasted the minds around him. At last, it was decided to call the Priestesses. It was far too risky to attempt to move him, to chance spreading sickness throughout the compound. When they arrived, the Healers stood back and let them examine the male who was burning up from within. Telan’s cries could clearly be heard from outside the tent, along with Jiir’s quiet, trembling, useless words.

The Priestesses assembled around him, reaching toward him, their hands outstretched, but not touching him. They murmured words of supplication under their breaths, calling upon the wisdom of the gods to fathom this strange new illness. One by one, their eyes rolled back in their heads, one by one they fell to the tent floor until only one remained standing.

Daph swayed and trembled, her face tight with strain, sweat beginning to bead on her forehead. Then Serat cried out and she stiffened and opened her eyes to reveal ghostly orbs of palest green. Without a word, she turned and walked like one asleep back to the Temple.

She was followed by all save Jaad who stayed to tend to Serat, Soell and Jiir supporting the opening weeping Telan. As Daph approached the sacrificial fire, fear and trepidation swept through the very air around her. She opened her hand, and another Priestess immediately placed the aro-din into it and stepped back as Daph made a deep slice across her arm. The blood hissed in the flame and incense was thrown in after it. As the smoke rose in thick billows around her, Daph spoke.

“As it was wrought in the fires of our fathers,” she intoned, “as it will be in the days of our sons, so shall there be an inviolate set upon thee.” She turned unseeing eyes to Telan. “When minds are bound, ever and always touching and touched, then blood shall burn and the eyes and heart shall be flame and two shall become but one fire, one soul, one destiny.”

“When minds are bound…?” Jiir began.

“Ever and always…?” Soell repeated.

“The Time of Joining is at hand!” Daph declared. “It shall be that each male born of the fires of our fathers, when granted the return of the Gift, will know this trial, and will seek his Blood Bond. This is the Time of the Beginning! The gods demand this tribute for the return of Their Gifts.”

Then Daph, too, collapsed. Other Priestesses gathered around her and bore her into the Inner Chambers. The stunned silence of the gathered people gave way to confused and anxious murmuring.

“What does this mean?”

“What fire does she speak of?”

“Is this Serat’s illness she speaks of?”

Telan tore himself away from Soell and Jirr’s restraining hands and raced back to the Warrior’s tent. Jaad made a move to prevent his entry, but he pushed her aside, falling to his knees at Serat’s side.

“For whom does your blood burn, my brother?!” he rasped. “Who can quench the fire within you?”

Serat sensed only that there was a coolness before him, a liquid presence that could quench his thirst and ease the flames that tore at his body. Words echoed through the fire in his mind; ever and always touching and touched, blood burns, the eyes and heart flame, two shall become but one fire, one soul, one destiny.

The soul-wrenching cry was torn from him, both aloud and from his thoughts as he reached blindly for the salvation his agony demanded.

“TELAN!”

Then he felt his brother’s mind falling into the fire, passion and need and desperation consuming them both in the storm of urgent desire.

For three days the Warrior’s tent became off-limits to everyone else in the Clan. The males slept where they could, those with children as yet unborn and unknown with their females, the rest in the bedrolls the Healers brought from the tents, placed around the compound’s central firepit. The Elders could be heard in discussion each day and far into the night: Most decried this new development, pointing out that if blood burned between male and male, their value to the Clan was lost. The Priestesses consulted with the gods and were all of one voice: the Time of the Beginning could not be turned back. The Jenshahnii must find a way to go forward. It was pointed out that perhaps Serat’s need for Telan was born out of their close telepathic contact, perhaps even out of the fact that they were the first two to have had the gift reawakened.

“Perhaps, then,” said, T’Parr, the Elder of the Death-Daughters, “if males and females trained together in this Gift, they would be drawn to one another.”

“And what of the Challenge?” the Elder Warrior asked. “How will it be known if this telepathic pairing can produce living, healthy issue?”

“The males should still engage in the Challenge,” the Elder Healer insisted. “It is the only way to insure our survival.”

“How often will this burning occur?” T’Parr asked, turning to the newly appointed Elder Priestess.

Daph closed her eyes, and all waited while she communed with the gods, for her trance had given her new access and insight.

“It will be seven turns before Serat again burns,” she stated. “The Mating Time will come upon him, and all other males at such an interval after their first experience of it, as the gods decree.”

“Mating time?” the Elder Warrior scoffed. “How is male to male pairing a mating?”

“Each such bonded pair will welcome a female into their tent,” Daph answered. “She will provide for sons and daughters and will serve both when the fire comes.”

“It is already fact that many males prefer to couple with but one proven female,” T’Parr mused. “Will this not make for more stable families?”

“It might make for jealousy,” the Healer warned, “and for a fracturing of the people.”

“That, too, has already begun,” the Warrior confirmed. “Several family groupings now consider themselves Clans.

“Then let it be formalized,” Daph pronounced. “Let each Clan be given a name, and all children of that family will carry the name forward.”

“But what of Serat and Telan?” the Healer asked. “Will they accept a female when they are blood-bound to each other?”

“They will,” T’Parr answered. “They must, for the good of the people.”

The Warrior sighed, turning again to Daph. “This is truly as the gods will, Priestess?”

Daph nodded. “As it is now, so shall it be for all the days of our sons.”

At the last, all the Elders bowed to the will of the gods.

On the forth morning, Serat awoke with no fever. Telan lay like one dead in his arms, his face peaceful, his body exhausted. Serat rose, careful not to disturb his beloved one, and went to the cistern for a much-needed drink of water. There was a noise outside the tent flap, and he moved to it, opening it. Jiir was replacing the food that had been provided but not noticed, and she glanced up, startled.

“Serat, you are well?” she asked breathlessly.

“The fever is gone, little sister,” he answered.

“And Telan?”

Serat heard the blushing concern in her mind, and smiled at her. “He sleeps.” The food on the tray she had placed on the ground looked more delicious than any he had ever seen. “As will I, after I’ve eaten,” he added.

The smile lit her face, and she lifted the tray to him. He reached for a meat roll, then stopped as Jiir’s knowledge of all the Elders had decided came to his thoughts. Then other words came and he gazed inquisitively at Jiir as she softly cleared her throat.

“The Elders have decreed that a female should join and serve you both,” she murmured, then glanced up into his eyes. “I would be honored, Bonded One.”

The meaning of the term filled Serat’s mind, and his eyebrow rose. “Bonded One,” he repeated softly,” then nodded. “I know how my Bonded feels about you, Jiir,” he said, and she blushed. “I cannot see that he would have any objections.”

“Then let me begin by bringing a bath basin to you,” she suggested.

Serat laughed. “I must stink of sweat and – “ He paused. “ other things.”

Jiir lowered her head. “I would not presume to say so,” she demurred, but there was frank agreement in her mind.

“Serat!” came Telan’s panicked voice, and Serat turned, heading back into the tent.

“Bring enough water for two,” he said over his shoulder, then hurried back to the bedroll, and Telan’s arms.

Vall gave birth to a healthy son, one Soell named Seoff. The Priestesses oversaw the formation of a telepathic link between them, so that when Soell burned, T’Vall would be drawn to him and he to her. Other pairings followed, and it was found that all such matings produced viable issue. In time, Jiir conceived and Serat named his son Seran. The Time of Mating was given a formal name, pon farr, and those bound in it were considered husband and wife, or in the case of male to male pairing – which happened despite the Priesthood’s best efforts – simply Lord and Warrior. In time, Serat began to refer to Telan as ‘The Soul of the Warrior’, honoring his primacy and skill and strength. Likewise, Telan called Serat ‘The Soul of the Lord” for his wisdom and knowledge.

And Seran was mated with the daughter of T’Vall and Soell, and their son was called Serel, and Serel’s son, Sekel, and Sekel’s son Sekan…

Spock awoke with the names of his Clan’s lineage counting down through the generations in his mind. The images that came before were disturbing, more for the faces his subconscious had given the players in one of the major pieces of Vulcan Lore than for the Lore itself. Why he’d had the dream at all was no mystery: the mission to Romulan space had reawakened his sense of culture and history. He rose from the too-small bed in the First Officer’s cabin of the Enterprise.

The times grew much darker before the light of Surak showed us the Way of Peace, he reminded himself. And that light will continue through me, and my Dei’larr’ei.

As he showered in preparation for his duty period, he sent warm and loving thoughts to his wife, half a galaxy away. As he dressed, he glanced at the display of weaponry on the wall beside him.

As it was in the days of our fathers, he murmured silently, so shall it be in the days of our sons.

THE END