“And yes, my lady Caissa, this is coelura spun and the shelter is coelura fabricated. They sometimes use extraneous materials in their constructions. There was a time,” and his face lost its mobility, “when men and women paid enormous fortunes to Demeathorn for coelura spins. One sufficed for the lifetime of even the most devotedly fashionable.”
Caissa bent her head as if to select food but she could not look at Murell thinking as she was of the studied elegance of her mother’s extensive, ever-changing wardrobe
“Each coelura,” Murell went on, unaware of her internal conflict, “has only so much thread in its life span. They are willing creatures, eager to please those they like. Unfortunately, they are pliant and amiable to almost anyone…”
“They don’t like prinas…”
“Prinas are natural predators, indigenous to this planet.” Murell spoke in a wry tone and Caissa, dressed for hunting, knew all too well that man was the most insatiable predator of the galaxy.
“Coelura must reserve some thread with which to construct its mating net, a net which was considered by the connoisseur to be more valuable than ordinary thread.”
Caissa saw the color of his gown turning granitic and as cold as the tone of his voice. She dared not look at him, suppressing her own roiling anxieties, inexplicably convinced that he, or his coelura spun gown, would sense her increasing fear. A fear that had more to do with the continued protection of coelura from her sire’s plans than betraying their presence to anyone.
“The Oriolis left the Triad to prevent coelura extinction?” she asked in the composed tone that only years of training could produce under this evening’s circumstances.
“I have offered you hospitality, Caissa.” Murell’s voice was unaccountably gentle as if he knew the direction her thoughts were taking.
“And I have accepted.” Despite all her discipline, Caissa could not suppress the anguish she experienced at her invidious situation. Suddenly the fabric under her began to wrap itself about her legs but the ripple was reassuring, not aggressive. She stared down at the phenomenon of affectionate fabric.
“Stop that,” said Murell in an authoritative voice.
Startled, she looked up at him but he was staring at the couch. His command was directed at the covering. The material resumed its former quiescence. Then Murell’s eyes met hers.
“You are a body-heir, Caissa. We have shared hospitality. You have come to my rescue.” His quiet words reminded her of duty and tradition, of unwritten laws of conduct and exchange of life-debts.
“Coelura is at risk right now.” She tried to formulate a warning that would not violate her filial obligation.
“Coelura has been at risk and no longer is.” Murell stated this, so quietly vehement that she was bereft of all politic phrases. He touched her hand gently. “Once you have put me back on the mainland, all will be well. Not to mince words, your fortuitous arrival will seal coelura’s protection.”
Whatever she might have been tempted to say in as direct speech as he had used was drowned by a savage shrieking howl. The fabric of the shelter’s outer wall was dinted inward by a large body. Caissa was on her feet in an instant, reaching for the weapons hanging from her discarded coverall.
“Don’t worry,” Murell said, smiling at her alert reaction. “The amphibian cannot pierce coelura-built walls.”
The creature attacked again and Caissa positioned herself before Murell knowing that his injuries made movement awkward.
“I really do appreciate your effort, my dear Caissa,” and Murell sounded oddly amused, “but weapons are unnecessary.” He emitted a piercing whistle.
The creature outside snarled, more in pain than in anticipation. Murell repeated his whistle in a different and complex sequence. The sound was taken up all around them, the outer walls turning a brilliant purply-red as if emanating heat, though Caissa felt no increase in the temperature of the room. The attacker’s shrieks turned to agonized whines and its noise dwindled as it put distance between itself and the source of its discomfort.
“Stop that,” Murell said, once more in that authoritative voice.
Caissa swung back to him, immeasurably offended, and then saw that he was once again addressing whimsical coelura. The full skirts of his robe, now a purplish blue, had managed to wrap around her leg and tugged her gently towards Murell.
She caught his eyes and he gave her an embarrassed smile, snatching the fondling fold from her.
Caissa giggled. Her hands, which had tensed into flat defensive positions, went to her lips in a gesture reminiscent of her childhood. But the stresses of the last hour needed release and she had never been given to tears. At the sound of her irrepressible mirth, Murell, too, relaxed, his rich chuckle breaking into full laughter as dignity was forgotten.
Afterwards, Caissa supposed that she had clung to Murell as the excess of amusement overtook them. Somehow, his injured arm was not awkward as he held her to him, nor did she object in any way to being in his arms. He was exactly the right height for her. She laid her head gratefully against his shoulder, which needed no padding. She felt his cheek resting easily against her head as the embrace was extended long past the need of mutual support.
This time, as the robe enveloped her, Murell did not protest. Then, in an abrupt motion, he released her, stepping back, the fabric in danger of being torn by his energetic retreat.
“My apologies, Caissa,” he said stiffly
“No apologies are needed.” She held herself proudly, hurt by his sudden rejection. But the hem of his gown reached towards her.
“Caissa,” and he seemed to be arguing against himself to judge by the action and the conflict of color in his robe, “whatever attraction you might have just felt for me, might be emotionally experiencing, is caused by proximity to coelura attuned to my needs…” He broke off, his face and robe flushing with embarrassment.
“Well, coelura, and presumably you, have succeeded! You have made an honorable disclosure of intent. I am not averse to it. Now do something!”
“Not in this treacherous robe,” he cried and ducked from under its folds, though how he accomplished such a maneuver, she didn’t then understand. By the time his hands were removing her garments, the light in the shelter was dimming. She did see the narrow tattooed bands on his neck as she willingly sank to the delicious abandon of the waiting coelura couch.
Sunlight suffused the shelter when Caissa awoke languidly the next day. Coelura trilled a reassurance as she sat up and the covering lapped itself caressingly about her. Murell was nowhere in sight, though the entrance stood wide open.
She dressed quickly, despite the initial problem of disengaging herself from the bedcover. She must leave! She must take Murell to the mainland. Then she must speed back to Blue Triad City, compose her confused thoughts and frustrated hopes, far away from the insidious and seductive atmosphere of coelura… and sadly, from Murell whom she must also forget. No, she doubted that she would everforget this brief alliance. It would serve as a standard against which to measure some other man. If such as Murell could be found, for he had been man enough for her!
Profoundly she regretted the pressures that must separate them so quickly. She regretted the diverse circumstances that would prevent any future encounter.
She had just scooped the coverall from the floor when shadows crossed the doorway. Coelura trilled and their joy made her smile poignantly. Murell stood in the entrance, his grey-blue coelura now fitting tightly against his body. She knew before he spoke that he had been checking her speedster.
“The batteries are fully charged,” he said in a slow deep voice that showed the regret as much as his garment did. “With that power and what you have in your fuel tanks, you should reach the base of the Triangle.”