Zannesu said, "I agree. Jindigar, are you sure I shouldn't take Outreach for this one?"
"It wouldn't work," insisted Jindigar, not thinking about all the horror stories he'd heard through the years. "Ready?" And he put them through the drill.
When, after four tries, Krinata had not managed it, he set Llistyien to Emulate human, bringing up the ephemeral point of view for the Oliat. This limited them severely both in the span that constituted "now" and in the spread of territory that was "here." It became very hard to see purpose in what they were doing, so that as they repeated the drill a fatiguing sense of futility settled over the Dushau Officers.
But Krinata's spirits rose. //Why didn't you tell me that was all you wanted!// She redoubled her efforts, each try yielding a fraction more success that only whetted her appetite for more. Jindigar had used this method to teach her before, but they had never tackled anything this complex.
It took the entire day until Krinata finally held steady three tries in a row, and Jindigar adjourned and sent them all off to exercise away the tension and to sleep.
But he was too keyed-up to retire. He had spent the whole day focused on Krinata, yet at Center, he could not avoid awareness of Darllanyu leashing back surges of possessiveness with all the discipline at her command. She had triumphed over her need for a mate's care—this time. He admired her strength in winning that battle while a part of him squirmed in pleasure at how much she wanted him. Mostly, though, he wanted to hold her close and make sure she'd never have to fight such a battle again.
He wandered outside into the twilight evening. A balmy breeze wafted up from the river, a kind breeze laden with moisture and fragrant with night-blooming flowers. He set out to walk the perimeter of the compound. If he went into then-quarters now, he would surely tell Dar how he felt—and that could be disastrous.
He strolled toward the wall dividing the compound for the comfort of those in Renewal. It was shorter than the outer wall and not as sturdy, a token wall to be honored by those not in Renewal. One day it would probably be replaced by the more usual hedgerow that signified, Here children play and youths try their strength.
On top of the wall near the gate a young piol sat erect, nibbling busily on something held between two paws, almost as if waiting for the children to come out to play. He recalled Cyrus feeding the piol on the porch. The Outriders had made a home of their on-duty quarters, the kind of home one should only make inside a Renewal park.
He toyed with the idea of going inside. The central gate was constantly open, just two sections of wall overlapping in a curve. He'd never seen with his own eyes what they'd built in there. Unbidden, the rules of courtesy for entering a Renewal park rose to his mind. There were no children, let alone youths, here yet. So he would simply have to keep his eyes off mated women and not discuss the affairs of the world as if they were as vital as children.
Given his state of mind, that wouldn't be difficult. He really belonged over there more than he did here. He stood staring at the gate, knowing that to breach it now would give license to his desires. His will could be swamped, and he might not regain the objectivity needed to Center.
Twilight faded. Night swallowed him, but he shunned the automatic Oliat awareness that replaced vision, confronting the alien dark of this world. Then he heard the singing.
Faintly at first, wafting this way and that on the evening breeze, the voices of dozens of Dushau women joined in the old, familiar harmonies of the Aliom evening chants as they walked to the site of their Temple. A painful warmth rose in his chest. Even without an Active Priest, Aliom was organizing a community.
He hadn't thought about it in more than a thousand years, but suddenly he yearned for the daily routine of Renewal– walking to the Temple at dawn, chanting the men's songs, giving the dawn music lesson, conducting the mealtime study, training and teaching drills, and theory classes, coming home to play with his babies or joining them in silent discovery of the universe, feeding his children, dancing and playing sports with his youngsters—and giving dayclose table ceremonies for his family, dancing and singing with his wife—and the tight cycle of commemorative days altering the content of the routine but not the daily rhythm.
They would have to make new commemoratives. He quailed before the size of the task. He would have no one senior to him to teach him. He couldn't lead this community.
But the distant music swept him back into visions of sweet days filled with routine, building a secure world for growing minds. How beautiful it was to dwell with family, every shared event deepened by shared insights into the errors of old habits. How wonderful to share the unfolding evolution of a mate's soul—waking each morning not quite sure who this person would be today, or who you, yourself, would be.
He appreciated the truth of the old saying, "Children give birth to the parents." Raising Darllanyu's children would make him a completely different person than he could become raising any other woman's children.
Even knowing that much of their time here would be spent constructing buildings or producing basic goods, he was ready to get started. But he could not enter those gates alone.
As he stood captivated by the distant women's song, their voices faltered. Softly he sang the tune, as if to teach them. They needed an Active Priest. And—if any of them were to survive adjusting to this planet—they needed him to ignite the complementary worldcircle in the Active Temple. Its ruddy glow would be perceptible only to die Aliom-trained, who could enter the Temple, but the influence of the pair of circles would vitalize the whole community. They could use the circles to help those fighting dysattunement. Pregnant women would come to the Active circle to dedicate their children to Completion.
He saw Darllanyu, pregnant as could be, standing in that rosy glow, happily leading the women's chant. The image faded. He scrubbed his face with both hands, hoping, though he had no gift, that this was prophecy.
"Jindigar?"
It was a very tentative whisper, and Jindigar turned to find Threntisn hesitating at a distance. "We're adjourned."
Threntisn approached, hands tucked into the deep pockets of his loose black jerkin. He was wearing a dark turban with a deep purple shirt and trousers, making himself virtually invisible. Jindigar could sense the presence of the Archive, a glittering swirl, muted now by the wards placed around it for tomorrow's debriefing. He knew what it was like to carry that Archive but not what it might be to feed it data and watch it grow, to ask it questions and find answers put there lifetimes ago by custodians long dead and forgotten.
"Do you recall the Century Song?" asked Threntisn.
"You know I was raised in a Historian family. How could I not?" The children's song enumerated the centuries of a life leading to Completion, assigning a lesson to each century, a challenge to be conquered. It had been one of Jindigar's favorite songs.
"Will you teach it to your children?"
"I'll let you do that when you come into Renewal," answered Jindigar mildly, not liking where this was leading.
"Will you come with them to lessons?"
"If necessary. When they're very young."
"Jindigar, don't evade. If you get out of this alive, you'll be lucky. Aliom isn't taking you to Completion. And—I admit I'm impressed with how you protected Grisnilter's Archive. With training you could be an Archivist."
"And where would I get an Archive? You've got the only one on Phanphihy."
"Oh, Phanphihy will produce its own Archive one day."