Apocalypto (Omnibus Edition)

by L. K. Rigel

  "Don't cry." Shib. Why couldn't people control themselves? Didn't anybody understand their higher purpose?

  "I won't tell him, Emissary. I won't tell anyone. I know my duty."

  "No doubt." Faina could make a fetish of duty.

  What a disaster. If Jake even suspected his chalice was in love, he'd feel compelled to do something about it. Love was not part of this mission.

  "You can't go to the coronation. You must never see Lord Ardri again. There's no need."

  Faina muffled a cry and nodded her head.

  That wasn't the end of it. There was another Faina loved and should not. Could not.

  "I will take Lord Ardri's daughter to him on this trip instead of waiting another year."

  "Oh!" Faina's shoulders hunched as if she were in physical pain. She broke down into wracking sobs. "I, I, I un-un-understand."

  "I'll send someone to disband your class." Durga snuck a cleansing breath in and out through her nose. She never should have let Faina care for Jake's firstborn as if it were her child too. "Go to your quarters. Compose yourself. Meditate or something."

  "I've failed you, Emissary. I've failed the goddess and everyone."

  "That's ridiculous. You're doing well. This is hard work, and we're all learning." Durga took hold of Faina's forearms and looked into her eyes. She tried to sound kind. "All will be well, my sister. Are you not blessed? The goddess is with you. You must believe it."

  Splotched skin and red eyes took nothing away from Faina's gentle beauty. All the chalices were gorgeous due to their excellent health, but Faina was special. She had a perfect balance of dark hair and fair skin with naturally dark lips and deep blue eyes like sapphires in sunlight. She was the sweetest and the loveliest of the chalices.

  She was still sobbing when she reached the end of the mezzanine. Maybe Durga would get her a puppy.

  She made a mental note of a new regulation: No emotional attachments.

  Durga and the Musician

  The moment Durga entered Magda's corridor, a difference in the air settled over her like a shift in reality. The Matriarch's doorkeepers lacked their usual arrogance. The guards weren't distracted. They were almost spellbound.

  As if Asherah were near.

  Then Durga heard it too. Music. A guitar … and an exquisite male baritone.

  As I walked out over London Bridge

  One misty morning early

  I overheard a fair pretty maid

  Lamenting for her Geordie.

  As entrancing as the fairy charms from her childhood tales. The old world ballad flung Durga back to the time before everything changed.

  Go bridle me my milk white steed

  Go bridle me my pony

  I will ride to London court

  To plead for the life of Geordie.

  The singer's voice floated in the air. Durga was a little girl again, transported back in time from this world of endless duty to the land of story. For the first time in years, she thought of the old matriarch—her matriarch. She would have loved this.

  It wasn't fair. How strange that the world could go on without Durga's iron-willed guardian. How was it possible to exist and then to not exist? The only person who ever loved her as Durga, not as The Chosen One. She hadn't realized how lonely she had become.

  Two pretty babies have I borne

  The third lies in my body

  I'd freely part with them, every one

  If you'd spare the life of Geordie.

  That particular verse cut too close. Especially in light of her talk with Faina. Poor Faina. The spell was gone, like a web swept away. Durga entered Magda's chamber fully in the present.

  "Emissary." The music broke off as everyone stood.

  The musician! What an odd character. He was prettier than any member of the delegation he served. The three men and one woman from Versailles were dressed in plain brown homespun and were ornament-free.

  An insult to Corcovado, if Durga thought it through. She shared a look with Magda, who seemed to agree.

  The musician was tall and dark-skinned, without blemish. He was fit in the old way, lean but not at all thin. His black hair was braided close to his skull, decorated with bits of carved wood and sparkling rhinestones. He wore gold earrings and a gold necklace, rings, and hammered gold armbands on his biceps. The gold appeared to be real.

  His downcast eyes were fixed on his guitar as he fussed with one of the tuning pegs. He seemed quite put out to have his song cut short merely to greet Durga, Emissary of Sanguibahd. His bad manners matched those of his masters, who had demanded an audience with no notice.

  Those masters gaped at Durga's hair and left shoulder as if she were an attraction in a traveling circus. Good. This was why she kept the shoulder bare, to display the black widow spider tattoo, the mark left when the goddess made her a chalice.

  All chalices received a totem, as Asherah called the tattoo. The goddess herself had placed Durga's spider in a painless lightning-quick flash. Faina had to have her lotus blossom put on the old-fashioned way, as Chita did her palm frond.

  The spider was impressive, but the hair was the more important sign. Blood red with white blazes at the temples. It set her apart as the chosen one, a direct human line to the divine. Her hair was long and thick, and she wore it tricked up on top of her head, not only to bare her shoulder but also to feel the breezes on her neck.

  She used these symbols of her fate to keep adversaries off balance and all people at a distance. Let Versailles be a little awestruck.

  "I apologize for keeping you waiting. How fortunate that you brought your entertainment with you."

  They must be taking the musician to perform at the coronation as a gift. She was pleased. She'd like to hear that voice again. A different song, though.

  "There has been an outrage," the delegation leader said. "Versailles demands satisfaction." They were still standing. There had been no introductions. The impertinent man had actually yelled at Durga's back.

  Years of icy distance-keeping went into her answer. "If there has been an outrage, then Versailles surely will have satisfaction." She was the chosen one. Over the years a few unfortunates had tried to cross her, and to a bad end. Asherah loved an excuse to smite a petty creature, as she called human beings.

  The man took in her hair again and stared at the spider as if it might crawl off her shoulder and scamper over to him. She was glad to see him tremble.

  "I didn't realize the French lost their manners as well as the Louvre in the cataclysm."

  As she enjoyed her joke, she caught the musician watching her with wide brown eyes full of unbridled admiration. A liberty far beyond his station.

  The leader's face had paled, but he stood his ground. "Emissary, forgive my emotion, but this is a serious matter. The heir provided by Sanguibahd is a pretender. A bagger. He doesn't look like our scion."

  "What are you saying?" Was she really hearing this?

  The woman put her hand on the man's arm. She took a more reasonable tone. "We are saying that someone made a switch. Perhaps our heir died or was given to someone else."

  "Great Asherah, that's a hard accusation." Durga sat down and motioned for everyone else to do the same. Her mind swirled with the implications.

  "Emissary," the woman continued. "We don't demand satisfaction." She shot her counterpart a look of warning. "We don't demand anything. We ask for justice."

  The musician was still watching, evaluating Durga's response. She found herself caring about his opinion, and she didn't like it. "We'll convene a Team of Inquiry immediately." The standard response to a complaint.

  "Composed entirely of Corcovadans, I assume?" The musician might be talented and pretty, but he went too far.

  "Singer, you forget your place."

  His smile broadened. Infuriating! The gods had restored the Great Chain of Being, and this singer had clearly forgotten his place on the chain. He didn't even try to hide his admiration for her.

  She'd seen that kind of
admiration before.

  Men came to Corcovado brimming with humility and desperate with hope for the natural born heirs needed to secure their dynasty. Without fail, hope stepped back, replaced by lust.

  The chalices had flawless teeth, skin, and hair. They trained in martial arts and had the best food and purest water. They weren't skeletal like so many starving in the world. With fertility came rounded hips and full breasts. Soft femininity radiated through their toned musculature and sense of entitlement.

  They were exquisite objects of desire, as the goddess had intended.

  But no man had ever looked at Durga with that desire until now. She gripped the arms of her chair and tried to remember what she'd been talking about.

  "I propose a compromise." The Matriarch spread her hands in conciliation. Oh, right. Team of Inquiry. Jake's mother had become Matriarch after the old Matriarch died. Magda was an experienced politician before the cataclysm, the Emperor's favorite concubine.

  In fact, when Jake had resisted the kingship, Durga suspected that Magda had something to do with Garrick coming in with an offer.

  "We'll include a neutral member on the team. The scion of Luxor, perhaps. Luxor is celebrated for its rulers' integrity."

  Thank Asherah for Magda. She knew how politicians' minds worked. The delegation broke out in smiles. No one else noticed the hint of mischief in the Matriarch's voice.

  "I agree," Durga said. "We'll name the scion of Luxor to the Team." She'd never met him, but she trusted Magda.

  Durga took in another cleansing breath. How many times had she done that today? She hadn't lost this much self-control since the first matriarch died.

  But this was about more than a gorgeous man's inappropriate attentions. All day today, Durga had been feeling sorry for herself, wallowing in her incompetence. She should never have put Faina in a position to be hurt. And Chita's situation was her responsibility too. She should have kept Geraldo away from all the girls.

  She rose, indicating that this meeting was over. "I assume we'll meet again at the coronation."

  "Of course, Emissary." The musician slung the guitar bag over his shoulder. He was the tallest person in the room and the most beautiful, completely overshadowing the rest of the delegation. "Every city with means will attend. They'll want to show respect for the Great Chain."

  To punctuate his audacity, he kissed the Matriarch's hand—and she allowed it.

  Empani Rani

  At last Durga was alone. She'd seen too many people today, starting with that orientation class. She needed half an hour with her own thoughts before she spent ten hours packed in the Red Monster with Magda and all the servants. And a one-year-old infant.

  From the wall of windows in her penthouse bedroom, she watched the Versailles airship pull out of the dirigidock. It blundered close to the Monster then floated away over the bay through the low clouds. It was as brown and drab as its delegation.

  Except for that one person. The audacious musician.

  He was rude—and actually a little scary and exciting—but he wasn't drab. In fact, he was too handsome. No, that wasn't it. She was accustomed to beauty. She was inundated by beauty. The singer wasn't too handsome.

  He was too male.

  Those gold bands on his dark brown biceps had accented his muscles, hard and defined. His face was muscular too. What would it be like to run her fingers over his cheekbones and jaw, and his soft full lips? And the black eyebrows that had arched and dipped according to his thoughts.

  His thoughts. For a servant, he thought too much. The way his expressions kept changing, it seemed he had an opinion on everything. Maybe he was more than a musician. Maybe he was the court jester!

  No. That man wasn't any kind of fool. He had been impressed by her, but he hadn't been intimidated.

  He could be useful. This was the first time she'd seen someone she'd care to practice with. All the chalices had technique partners, usually well before they were eighteen. Durga knew people gossiped about whether she was too cold to be a chalice. Maybe Asherah had sent him to her for that very reason. He was gorgeous and intelligent—and talented. He was tall. His chest was so broad, she could get lost in his embrace. What would it be like? Overwhelming, maybe. Maybe a little thrilling.

  Maybe she should stop thinking about that singer.

  Most of her luggage had been taken down to the Monster, but there was one more thing to pack, one more thing she wanted to do. She had to try on the dress one more time.

  She stepped out of her typical black one-piece jumpsuit, a fine blend of soft hemp and flax that clung to her breasts, waist, and hips. The right sleeve was three-quarter length, and her left shoulder and arm were bare. She kicked off the training shoes she always wore and tossed her bra on the jumpsuit.

  Jake's coronation was the first big formal event of her adulthood, and she meant to show everyone that she was no longer a child.

  The only other coronation she had attended was when the first king of the new world order was crowned in Garrick. She was fourteen. The city had made her sick. Literally.

  Samael's fire had never touched Garrick. The sky there was actually brown from the smoke that still poured into the atmosphere from its refineries. The place was so polluted that the building filters couldn't clean the air completely. Every time she'd just about get an unspoiled breath, a faint nauseating sick something would creep into her nose.

  After that she only went out into the world when she had to, to collect new chalices.

  This coronation was a special circumstance. As the singer had commented, every city with means was sending a delegation. Durga had to make an appearance, if only to protect Sanguibahd's interests.

  Garrick had begun to meddle in Sanguibahd's affairs. They had nearly secured for themselves the airship and sailing ship charters until Durga intervened. In the end the Matriarch had awarded the charters to Hibernia and Ithaca, the cities with the best bid proposals. Durga was going to the coronation to remind Garrick who was the higher power.

  The other reason was Versailles. Not their complaint itself. If valid, they would be made whole.

  But other cities had other complaints, and there were rumors of a move toward democratic rule. Grumblings that Sanguibahd had too much power. It would be good for the poobahs, as Jake called them, to see her in all her glory.

  Hence the dress.

  She stepped into the skirt and pulled up the front panel. It barely covered her breasts. Thin ties criss-crossed her bare back. There, the minimalist style ended. The skirt was a dramatic cascade of ruffles made of black silk taffeta imported from ZhMngguó. When she moved, the fabric responded as if it were a sensate extension of her body.

  What would the desire be like on that singer's face when he saw her in this! She picked up Char's telescoping shades and looked for the Versailles airship. Too late; it was out of range.

  But wait. She had only assumed that the musician would be at the coronation. She didn't know for sure. This was terrible.

  No. It was good. She should hope that he wouldn't be there. Asherah wouldn't send a musician from another city for her to play with. He had been rude and presumptuous, and he was beneath her notice, and she should put him out of her mind.

  She wondered what his name was.

  She focused the shades on Corcovado. No herons today. The birds usually congregated on the statue's outstretched arms, looking down on the world with their stern expressions. The idea of judgmental birds made her laugh.

  She needed to laugh. Things weren't going well. Chita was surely ill, and Faina was out of control, and traveling in the Monster made Durga airsick. The dress was the only thing she looked forward to about this coronation.

  "It's so good to see you again." The singer's voice.

  She dropped the shades and whirled around. He was standing by the bed, smiling, his muscled arms crossed over his broad chest. He had that amused grin on his face. He raised an eyebrow and gave her, and the dress, an appreciative examination.

&
nbsp; "Very funny," Durga said. "What is your name?"

  The singer immediately shifted shape to that of Rani. It was her Empani.

  Durga thought of this shapeshifter as her Empani. She was pretty sure it was always the same one. It had taken several shapes over the years. The old matriarch. Jake. When it realized that with Durga it could choose one of the forms in Durga's mind, it had settled on Rani.

  Rani had been an exotic, like her daughter Jordana. Like ghosts, exotics lost their body hair, but they had marvelous muscle tone and averaged seven feet tall. Their irises acquired a metallic sheen and flashed different colors depending on their emotions. And shib, did they ever have emotions.

  Rani had had light brown skin and a flattish downturned nose. She had tattooed eyebrows, two arched rows of short vertical lines. The Empani could reproduce the metallic red-brown irises, but Durga had never seen them flash.

  And there was a tattoo on the left cheek: SJ.

  Empanii got into people's minds and took shapes from their longings and desires. The Empani usually had no control over which shape they shifted to, and the human never realized they were interacting with an Empani.

  Durga always knew, though. She could talk to an Empani and know it was an Empani, no matter what shape it took. She still didn't know much about them, but she knew they hated human beings. She would never follow one over a cliff.

  "No, you would not, little warrior." Empani Rani smiled.

  As far as Durga knew, she was the only human who could speak to the underlying Empani. Another feature of being touched by Asherah. What joy. Regular people were enthralled by their Empanii, delighted by the encounter. Most Empani didn't take humans over cliffs.

  But Durga didn't get fantasy. She got reality. And lectures. Durga's Empani was a master of constructive criticism.

  "Why are you here? What am I doing wrong now?" She actually wouldn't mind some input today. If Asherah had abandoned her, then Durga would get advice where she could.