Mistress of the Empire

by Raymond E. Feist

  And in truth, Mara thought, the Temple of Turakamu was not a place designed for comfort. An ancient altar, once the site of human sacrifice - and still such, rumor ran - squatted on the raised platform at the chamber's center. Stone benches surrounded the site, worn by the feet of many worshippers, and grooved with drains that led to recessed basins at the feet of statues that were centuries old, their surfaces smoothed and stained by the touch of generations of hands. The walls behind their niches were painted with human skeletons, demons, and demigods with multiple legs and arms. The figures writhed or danced in postures of ecstasy; despite their grotesque aspect, they reminded Mara of other icons and paintings that adorned the House of Fruitfulness, one of the many shrines of Lashima, visited by women who prayed for conception. Yet while Turakamu's temple depicted no sexual overtones, there was a sybaritic quality to the murals, as if those hideous intertwined figures were celebrating, not suffering.

  Awaiting her audience, Mara considered that while the Red God's priests were frightening, in conversation they insisted that as all people meet their end at the feet of Turakamu, death was a fate, not to avoid, but rather to be accepted with understanding.

  The circle of acolytes reformed into a double column, wreathed in the twining smokes of incense. Mara saw the caped figure at the head of the procession pause to address a supplicant who begged the god's mercy for one recently departed. A writ crusted with seals changed hands; most likely a draft from the family offering a generous contribution to the temple if its bequest was answered. As the paintings farthest from the sacrificial altar showed, humans with beatific expressions bowed before the Red God's throne to hear divine decision concerning rebirth into life, their next station on the Wheel designated by the balance of their debts against honor. The recently departed, it was believed, could be enhanced in the eyes of the Red God through prayer, and while the poor came on foot to make obeisance and light cheap clay lamps, the rich came in litters bearing lavish sums for private temple rites.

  Mara wondered whether such practices influenced Turakamu, or were the encouragement of earthly priests who desired rubies for their mantles, and comforts for their refectories and sleeping cells. Certainly the massive gold tripods that supported the lamps by the altar amounted to the wealth of a kingdom. Although each temple of the Twenty Gods had costly trappings, few were as sumptuously appointed as the smallest ones dedicated to Turakamu.

  A voice roused Mara from reverie. 'Good Servant, you honor us.' The procession of acolytes had reached the rear door, and was filing slowly out, but the High Priest in attendance had stepped out of the column and approached the Acoma retinue. Under his paint and his feathered cape, he was a man of medium stature, aging, but bright of eye. Up close, it was apparent that he was taken aback, and his nervous hands moved up and down the bone wand with its skull bosses that he had flourished during the rites. 'I knew you were going on pilgrimage, Lady Mara, but I had presumed you would visit the great shrine in the Holy City, not our humbler abode in Sulan-Qu. Certainly I did not prepare for the honor of a personal visit.'

  Mara bowed slightly to the High Priest of Turakamu. 'I've no wish to stand upon ceremony. And in truth, my trip here is for reasons other than plain devotion. Rather, I have need of your counsel.'

  The High Priest's brows rose in surprise and disappeared under the chin of the skull mask he wore, perched on the crown of his head now that the ceremony was ended. He was not stripped nude and stained in red body paint, as was customary for rites performed outside sacred ground. But his hair was braided with relics that looked like bits of dismembered birds, and the accoutrements visible beneath his cape of scarlet feathers seemed even less inviting. As if aware that his formal dress was not conducive to interviews, he passed his wand to the boy acolyte who waited in his shadow, and doffed his robe. The cross-belts on which his relics hung were of ancient design, and two other attendants rushed forward and removed them from his shoulders with reverent care. They bore the regalia off, chanting, to its place in locked closets hidden away in a warren of passageways.

  Left in a simple loincloth, his eyes still striped with paint from the ceremony, the priest seemed suddenly younger. 'Come,' he invited Mara. 'Let us retire to more comfortable surroundings. Your honor guard may come along, or they may await your pleasure in the garden inside the gates. It is shady there, and a water boy will answer their needs for refreshment.'

  Mara waved Lujan and Saric to her side, and indicated that the rest of her retinue might retire. None of the warriors looked relieved, but their steps were animated as they wheeled in formation and headed for the doorway to the outer garden. Men in martial professions were never comfortable with Turakamu's followers. Superstition held that a soldier who spent too much time in devotion to the Red God risked attracting that deity's favor; and those whom Turakamu came to love, would be taken in their youth from the battlefield.

  The High Priest led the way through a small side doorway into a dim corridor. 'When not in formal guise, I am called Father Jadaha, Good Servant.'

  Half smiling at his formality, the Lady replied, 'Mara will do, Father.'

  She was ushered into austere quarters with walls of unadorned paneling, and unpainted screens. The prayer mats were dyed red, for the glory of the god, but those used for sitting were woven of natural fiber. Mara was shown to the plumpest of a poor lot of cushions, threadbare with use, but clean. She allowed Lujan to seat her, and offered a hasty inward prayer for Turakamu's forgiveness. Her thoughts had been wrong; plainly, in the temple the Sulan-Qu priests used the moneys given by petitioning families only to adorn those chambers dedicated to their god. Once Lujan and Saric had placed themselves at their mistress's side, the High Priest sent his servant for refreshments. A body servant with a bad scar and one eye saw to the removal of his ceremonial paint, and brought him a white robe with red borders. Then, over a tray of chocha and small cakes, the High Priest addressed his visitor. 'Mara, what service may the Temple of Turakamu offer you?'

  'I am not certain, Father Jadaha.' Mara helped herself to a square of sweet cake out of politeness. While Saric poured her chocha, she added, 'I seek knowledge.'

  The priest returned a gesture of blessing. 'What poor resources we have are yours.'

  Mara let her surprise show, for his quick acceptance was unexpected. 'You are very generous, Father. But I humbly submit, you might wish to hear of my needs before you make sweeping promises.'

  The High Priest smiled. His one-eyed servant retired with evident respect, and given a view of a face cleansed of paint, Mara saw that the chief devotee of the Death God was a pleasant older man. Slender and fit, he had a scribe's beautiful hands, and his eyes sparkled with intelligence. 'What should I fear in making promises, Lady Mara? You have shown your mettle in your great service to the Empire. I much doubt your motives now are selfish at heart; not after the behavior you demonstrated after the demise of House Minwanabi. More than generous, your actions were . . . unprecedented. Not only did you observe correct forms in removing the prayer gate Desio erected in dedication to your death, you selflessly made sure that no dishonor was implied to the temple in asking the prayer gate to be relocated off your lands. It is we priests who are in your debt, for your part in ending the tyranny of the High Council. Once again, our guidance is allowed proper influence over the course of daily life.' The priest gestured ruefully and helped himself to a huge slice of cake. 'Changes in the power structure happen slowly. Those Ruling Lords who resist our influence are close-knit in their opposition. Still, we are making progress.'

  Mara now recalled the words of the delegate from Turakamu's temple who had officiated at the relocation of Desio's prayer gate. At the time, overwhelming emotions had caused her to dismiss the priest's remarks as ingratiating flattery. Only years later, did she appreciate his sincerity. The discovery of support in a place she had not expected bolstered her courage. 'I need to inquire about the nature of magic'

  The High Priest froze with his cup of chocha halfway t
o his lips. He blinked once, his thoughts distant. Then, as if the Lady's request had been commonplace, he resumed sipping his drink. He allowed the beverage to linger on his palate before he swallowed, perhaps because he wished to buy time for consideration, or, as Saric's wicked insight might infer, to forestall an unseemly fit of choking.

  Whatever his priestly motive, his manner was calm when he set down his cup. 'What would you know of magic?'

  Doggedly Mara pursued the topic, though it was dangerous. 'Why are such powers considered the sole province of the Assembly? For I have seen priests who could wield them.'

  The High Priest regarded the small, determined woman who was acknowledged to be the second most influential figure in the Empire after the Light of Heaven. His eyes held unfathomable shadows, and a coldness not there the moment before. 'The sanctions imposed by the Assembly upon your dispute with Jiro of the Anasati are well known, Mara. If you are seeking to arm yourself against the Black Robes, you embark on a ruinous course.' He did not use the honorific 'Great Ones' and that nuance was not lost upon Mara and her advisers. As with the cho-ja, was it possible the temple hierarchies felt less than enamored of the magicians?

  'Why should you assume that I plot against the Assembly?' Mara asked with impolitic bluntness.

  Father Jadaha seemed unperturbed by her directness. 'My Lady, service to Turakamu leads my kind to know the darker side of human nature. Men long in power do not care to be shown their vulnerabilities. Few demonstrate wisdom when confronted by change and self-recognition. Sadly, many react .in defense of positions that have lost their meaning, simply because they fear to see their security undermined, even for growth, even for the betterment of their lives. They resist change simply because it is outside the comfort they know. You represent luck and hope and good fortune to the folk of these nations. You have been their champion, unwittingly or not, because you opposed tyranny and cruelty when you brought about the abolishment of the Warlord's office. You have successfully questioned the long-standing power structure that rules this land. That must be interpreted as challenge, whether you will such or not. You have grown to great heights, and those who see you as their rival have felt your shadow fall across them. Two powers such as the Assembly and the Servant of the Empire cannot exist without conflict. Thousands of years in the past, the Black Robes perhaps earned their place outside the law. But now they interpret their omnipotence as their gods-given right, their sacred honor, if you will. You represent change; and they, the very fabric of tradition. They must defeat you to maintain their ascendance. This is the nature of Tsurani life.'

  Father Jadaha glanced through the screen, cracked open to admit the outside air. The snap of a carter's whip drifted in from the street, overlaid by the cry of a fish monger selling that morning's catch. As if the intrusive sounds of ordinary life set mortal bounds to his thinking, the priest sighed. 'Once we who swore service to the gods held influence and great reach, Mara of the Acoma. Once we were able to encourage our rulers for the betterment of all men, or at least use our influence to curb excessive greed and evil.' He fell silent, his lips thinned with what may have been bitterness. Then he said, 'There is nothing I can offer that will help you against the Assembly. But I have a small gift for your journey.'

  Mara repressed apprehension. 'Journey?' Had her subterfuge been so transparent, that even this High Priest in Sulan-Qu saw through the purpose of her pilgrimage? Stiff-faced, silent, and reminded by a touch from Saric that she must not tip her hand through an assumption, Mara watched the priest arise and cross to an ancient wooden chest.

  'To find what you seek you must travel far, Mara of the Acoma.' He unlocked the catch and raised the lid. 'I believe you already know that.' His incongruously graceful hands rummaged through the contents of the chest. Mara caught a glimpse of parchments, and the ribboned edges of seals, through a puff of disturbed dust. The priest muffled a sneeze in his sleeve. 'Your pardon.' He flapped an ancient treatise to clear the air, then resumed his train of thought. 'The gossip mongers on the streets say you carry enough baggage to return to the sandy wastes of the Lost Lands. Anyone with a shell centi can buy that fact from them.'

  Mara smiled. She found it difficult to reconcile the priest who had officiated at the morning rites to the most feared god on Kelewan with a man who might buy gossip on the street. Ruefully she said, 'I had hoped to imply that we carried great tribute to offer the temples where I will pause to pay my respects to the Twenty Gods. In truth, though, you are right. My pilgrimage will lead me to board ship and travel downriver to Jamar.'

  The High Priest straightened from the chest, a smear of dust on his nose and a twinkle in his eyes. He held an ancient parchment, cracked and flocked with age. 'I would be a poor counselor for the afflicted if I could not read through subterfuge. But we priests do not see through the eyes of rulers. It is our business to interpret with an eye to understanding.' He offered the document to Mara. 'Read this. It might yield you some insights.'

  Sensitive to the finality in his tone, Mara handed the parchment to Sarie to store in his satchel. She pushed aside her cake plate and rose. 'Thank you, Father.'

  The priest held her eyes as Lujan and Saric moved in response to her intention to depart. 'Do you seek answers in the Lost Land, Mara?'

  Wise enough to know when not to be circumspect, Mara said, 'No. We leave from Jamar for Lepala.'

  As if the topic she addressed held nothing more momentous than small talk, the priest waved away a small insect that alit upon the rim of the cake plate; then his hands folded comfortably in his sleeves. 'This is good, daughter of my god. The shamans of the desert are . . . unreliable. Many of them treat with dark powers.'

  Saric could not restrain a small exclamation at this. The priest responded with a chuckle. 'Your First Adviser seems surprised.'

  Mara nodded her permission, and Saric made hasty apology. 'Excuse my apparent disrespect, Father, but most would consider . . . your master a . . . dark power.'

  The High Priest's face crinkled with silent laughter. 'Believe me, that misapprehension often has its advantages! But death is just another side of the mystery of the Wheel of Life. Without its portal into Turakamu's halls, wherein all spirit finds renewal, our current existence would be a mindless endeavor lacking soul.' The High Priest moved to usher Mara's party from his quarters, but he continued speaking. 'Our magic, as you would call it, is no unnatural power.' He pointed his finger at the insect that circled over the cake platter. A sharp, almost subliminal shadow seemed to cross the air and the creature plummeted to the floor. 'We use this aspect of nature sparingly, to ease the suffering of those who are near their end, yet unable to release their own hold upon flesh. The spirit of life is strong, sometimes mindlessly so.'

  'Such could be a powerful weapon,' observed Lujan in a voice deeper than usual. Mara realised that, though he hid it well, he was as apprehensive of Turakamu's servants as any one of his warriors.

  The priest shrugged. 'Never that.' With no more ado, he pointed his finger at Lujan's breast. The Acoma Force Commander made a visible effort to keep from flinching, and sweat sprang along the band of his plumed helm.

  Nothing happened.

  Even Mara realised her heart had raced in fear as the priest added quietly, 'It was not your time to meet the Red God, Force Commander. Mine are the powers of my god. I could not send you to his halls on my own authority.'

  Saric, to whom all of life was a puzzle to be solved, was first to overcome his apprehension. 'But the insect . . . ?'

  'This was its time.' The priest almost sounded weary. 'To make a point, I expect.'

  Sobered, Mara bade the priest thanks for his advice and good wishes. She and her party were shown from the temple by the one-eyed servant. At the base of the marble stair, they were rejoined by her honor guard. Mara stepped into her litter, lost in thought. She did not at once give the command to her bearers to rise, and in that interval, a ragged street urchin raced from a side alley and crashed squarely into Lujan.


  The Force Commander swore under his breath. He righted the youngster, crinkled his nose at the smell of unwashed clothes, then abruptly became expressionless.

  Mara stifled her amusement. Under the noise of another street hawker, this one peddling cheap silk scarves and perfumes suitable for women of the Reed Life, she whispered, 'Another of Arakasi's messengers?'

  Saric pricked up, while Lujan stuffed the note he had palmed into his belt, under pretense of wiping his hands. 'Vermin,' he said loudly after the fleeing child. Dropping his voice so only Mara and Saric could hear, he added, 'Were does the man find such filthy creatures to do his bidding?'

  Mara was unwilling to disclose that her Spy Master had once been such a luckless boy, and that his use of them as his message bearers might be twofold: they would not be marked by other men's spies because they were of little account, and they could not read. Since Arakasi had encountered Kamlio, Mara additionally suspected that pity entered in, since her Spy Master might wish to justify spending the centis to allow those less fortunate youngsters a chance to buy themselves a meal they need not steal. In a noncommittal voice she said, 'Did he find one?'

  Saric gave her a stern look. Aware that she referred to a magician of the lesser path, which Arakasi had set out to find since the misfortune that had ended his search through the archives, the First Adviser snapped Mara's curtains closed. He said in his most infuriating tone of familiarity, 'The sooner we move out to find a tavern for your nap, the quicker you will find out.'

  'We will call on the man after dark,' Mara whispered through the cloth.

  Saric and Lujan exchanged glances of fond exasperation. Their mistress seemed giddy as a girl. Plainly, she found the challenge of her pending inquiries into the forbidden exhilarating after long months of frustration. As the bearers raised the litter, Saric and the Acoma Force Commander fell into step together.