Lady of the Star Wind

by Veronica Scott

  “I’ll be right here, I promise. I’ll wake you if the dreams seem to be distressing you.”

  She moved over on the bed and patted the mattress beside her. “Please, hold me. I’ll feel safe then. I could always sleep in your arms.”

  “Whatever you want.” He took off his boots, then adjusted the pillows against the headboard. He sat, cradling her. She was already asleep again, but in a normal fashion, be believed, not comatose.

  Jagrahim’s wife found them curled together on the bed in the morning. She clapped her hands once with pleasure, pleased to find Sandy conscious. The healer directed the serving girls with crisp efficiency as they set breakfast on the low table at the far wall.

  “Eat, regain your strength, both of you,” she admonished. “For your warrior would not leave your side, nor would he eat more than a bite or two while you wandered in your dreams, my lady. I’ll share the good news with your companions while you breakfast.”

  “Thank you.” Mark surveyed the platters of fruit and other delicacies. “What can I bring you? She’s giving excellent advice—you do need to get your strength back. As soon as the sandstorm ends, Rothan’s going to be impatient to get to the lost city. I’m sure he’d have left us already, if the storm hadn’t been blowing.”

  “Yes, we need to get there, the sooner the better,” Sandy said. “Time’s growing short. We’re already too late for some things.”

  She didn’t expand on her remark, accepting the plate of fruit he’d selected for her, some bread, and scrambled eggs, and a mug each of juice and of water. He fixed a more generous helping for himself, realizing with a sudden pang in his gut how hungry he’d become after two days of standing watch over Sandy.

  “We rejoice in your recovery, Lady.”

  Rothan and Tia stood in the doorway, Jagrahim behind them. Mark gestured for them to come in.

  “Other than a huge appetite, I’m fine today, no aftereffects.” Sandy waved the roll in her hand.

  Mark made the introductions. “This is Jagrahim, chief of the Mikkonite. He and his men rescued us from the sandstorm, brought us to their village. His wife, Merbek, has been taking care of you.”

  “My thanks to you and your wife.” Sandy always exuded regal grace. “I’m grateful.”

  “The storm abates. By tonight we should be able to ride to the lost city.” Rothan’s eagerness reverberated in his voice. “The chief tells me it’s a few hours from here, to the west. We’re close to our destination at last.”

  Jagrahim bowed at the waist. “It’s my honor to guide you the rest of the way and get you past the city’s safeguards.”

  “Safeguards?” Mark paused, the bread in his hand forgotten. “What danger can there be now, after thousands of years?”

  The chief shook his head. “Those who came before left powerful curses and spells to prevent looting, to deter men who have no right to set foot in Amaraten from doing so. There are great secrets locked in those ruins. Treasures beyond imagining.”

  “I want two things from the ruins,” Rothan said. “And I’ve the right to claim them for my king, Hutenen.”

  Jagrahim regarded him gravely. “I agree. You’ve the right to search for the Crown and Scepter of Khunarum and make your attempt to take them for his descendants. Otherwise, I’d be sending you on your way to die in the desert or to be struck by the curses, should you be lucky enough to find Amaraten’s gates.”

  “And we have a house there, or so Rothan told us.” Mark meant his contribution to the conversation in jest, but Jagrahim’s response was measured and somber.

  “Legend speaks of the Lady of the Star Wind, grieving over the death of Khunarum and the destruction of his city. She abandoned her house, and departed to the sky, promising to return if ever his heirs had need of her.”

  “I’ll need the mirror.” Sandy broke into the history discussion. She sipped her juice while staring at Mark over the lip of the mug.

  The non sequitur surprised him, since he’d never known Sandy to be vain about her appearance. He brought her the small mirror lying on the side table.

  “Not that one.” Tossing aside the tiny silver mirror without glancing at it, she frowned as if he’d committed a serious error. Chills spiraled along his spine, because she had an uncanny resemblance to her grandmother, the empress, for a moment. It was as if another woman looked out of Sandy’s blue eyes. Even her voice had an altered timbre—deeper, more husky, with an accent he had never heard before. “The Mirror of the Mother—I have to find it.”

  Tia questioned her declaration. “But Nuet’s mirror is a legend, a fable for telling children.”

  “No, I need it.” Blinking, Sandy fell against the pillows. A half-eaten piece of fruit rolled from her hand, bounced off the side of the bed, and flew across the floor, coming to rest at Mark’s toe.

  Frowning, he retrieved the fruit, throwing it onto the tray. “Are you all right?”

  She stared at him, brow furrowed in a bewildered frown. She put one hand to her temple. “I’m sorry, what was I saying?”

  “Something about a mirror. Maybe you’re not as recovered as we believed. You should rest.” Mark prepared to escort the guests from the room.

  “I thought you didn’t speak our language?” Rothan watched Sandy with mild suspicion.

  Mark realized she hadn’t been speaking in the High Chetal he used to get by, but was expressing herself perfectly in the actual language of this planet. Dismayed by yet another mystery, he stared at her.

  Speaking in Outlier, to him alone, she said, “I don’t know. Maybe I’ve been subconsciously absorbing it since we met Rothan and Tia? Or maybe it came to me in the dreams.”

  “Maybe you have an amazing facility with languages. Don’t distress yourself.” Mark was shaken enough for both of them. He didn’t like unexplained phenomena, especially when it came to things affecting her.

  “We’ll leave at full moon. Amrell rules the sky tonight, and she’s the most brilliant of the moons,” Jagrahim said.

  “Brunette.” Sandy said idly, toying with the small mirror she’d rejected a moment earlier. “She’s brunette.”

  Realizing their new friends were staring at her, Mark tried to cover the awkward moment. “She’s still a bit woozy from the venom and the blow to the head. Nothing to worry about. We can travel.”

  Later the same evening Jagrahim escorted them through a series of tunnels to the surface outside the village. There, Mark found their chariots waiting, horses already harnessed, as well as a cluster of Mikkonite warriors and their mounts.

  A tall warrior in blue robes strode to meet them, saluting Jagrahim. “All is in readiness.”

  Mark was surprised to find the soldier was a woman, since he’d observed only male fighters in the tunnels and the village. Women fought for the Sectors in all kinds of combat units, so he was used to running dangerous missions with mixed teams, but he hadn’t expected that on this world.

  Jagrahim rested one hand on the warrior’s shoulder. “I’m pleased to present my daughter, Sallea.”

  She pushed the hood of her cloak onto her shoulders and saluted. Sallea had a strong face with high cheekbones and well-defined brows. Her eyes were the same vivid blue as her robes, and she’d outlined them in kohl, or something similar, the touch of femininity not detracting at all from her general air of military discipline. Her midnight blue hair had been coiled into a tight braid. She wore soft, black leather riding boots, and a heavily padded black glove covered her hand and forearm. “I’m honored to lead your escort on the trip to the lost city,” she said.

  “My daughter is a Hunter.” Palpable pride sounded in Jagrahim’s voice, and the extra emphasis he put on the last word made it sound as if it were a title. “Can you summon Lakht for them to meet?”

  “Of course, it’ll be my pleasure.” She stepped a little away, holding out her arm. A moment later, there was a swooshing sound of wings and a loud call of keeeeooooo from the sky. An imposing bird of prey came in low across the ground, risin
g to land on Sallea’s outstretched arm. Once it had settled itself, the bird leaned over to give her a quick caress along the cheek with its closed beak. She stuck her free hand into a pouch at her belt and retrieved a fragment of meat that she fed the bird from her open palm.

  Mark marveled she could bear the weight of the bird, which was about three feet from the tip of its beak to end of its tail. It clung to her padded arm with talons like thick knives. The dense plumage started off gray on the head, darkening to ebony black at the tail and trailing wing edges. A crisp white vee of feathers accented the neck, and the huge eyes were outlined in vivid yellow, along with the upper beak. The legs were feathered in soft, downy gray, but there was nothing chicklike about the creature, or the scythelike talons now gripping the glove over Sallea’s arm. Mark bet she needed to replace those padded gloves fairly often.

  The wingspan as it swooped to answer whatever summons Sallea had made was easily eight feet. This bird could do a lot of damage to a man if it decided, or was ordered, to attack. He realized Lakht was eyeing him in the same manner he was assessing the bird. “Impressive,” he said. “What do you hunt?”

  Sallea laughed, stroking one finger across the bird’s back. “Anything we wish to find. Lakht is my eyes on the desert. When we’re linked, I see what he sees and I tell him what to search for.”

  “A true Hunter can speak to his or her bird,” Jagrahim said. “Mind to mind.”

  “To some extent.” Sallea laughed as the bird shifted and lifted its wings. “Lakht’s mind is full of the urge to drink the hot blood of desert rodents most of the day. But we can communicate well enough.”

  “He’s magnificent. What’s his range?” Mark asked.

  “About ten miles, depending on the thermals.” Sallea lifted her arm as if throwing the bird, who launched himself into the air with grace and soared into the night sky, briefly outlined against the moon as he flew off to the east. “We should go, Father.”

  The full, silvery moon called Amrell cast so much light Mark could almost believe he was riding at midday, except for the night chill. The sandstorm had blown over and taken all the clouds with it. Jagrahim, Sallea, and nine more warriors kept their horses reined in to match the speed of the chariots. The Mikkonite leader guided the party by some set of landmarks that he didn’t share. He did tell them Amaraten was located to the north, on the coastline, having originally been a major commercial hub, as well as Khunarum’s capital. Lakht flew above the column in endless circles, sometimes going ahead, but primarily staying with the party. Mark could detect no evidence of the old trade road, nor did he see signposts. The area they rode through was nothing but featureless desert to his eyes, although the farther they rode, the more vegetation he saw dotting the hills. Clearly, Amaraten was situated in a more temperate zone than the rest of the Empty Lands.

  Drawing his horse even with the lead chariot, planning to exchange a few words with Rothan, he was struck by Tia’s distress. She clutched the railing, her eyes shut. “Are you all right?” He raised his voice to be heard over the sound of the wooden wheels rattling across the hard ground.

  She opened her eyes. With dismay Mark observed how pale she’d become, even allowing for the effect of the moonlight. “I’m fine, thank you for your concern. I had a small attack of nausea, some dizziness. Perhaps the dinner we ate right before leaving the Mikkonite village was unwise, at least in my case.”

  “Don’t be hesitant about telling us if you need to stop,” Mark urged her. “I know Rothan’s in a hurry, but he wouldn’t want you to be ill.”

  “Indeed,” the captain said from his position on the other side of the chariot, handling the reins. “And the same applies to your lady, if she needs a rest.”

  Mark gazed at Sandy, riding in company with Jagrahim. At ease in the Mikkonite saddle, she chatted with the chieftain in her freshly acquired local dialect. Her command of the language bothered him, but he couldn’t deny her sudden aptitude made things easier and did no harm.

  One of the Mikkonite outriders stood tall in his stirrups and called out to the chief. “The walls of the city lie ahead.”

  “How much farther?”

  “Perhaps an hour.”

  “I’d have said we were closer.” Mark was surprised to hear how much travel time remained.

  The rider glanced at him. “Distances are deceiving on the desert, my lord.”

  “Good, I’m pleased with the time we’ve made.” Jagrahim waved one hand at Sallea. “Daughter, ride ahead and prepare the gate for us.”

  The girl was gone in a flurry of sand, her horse lengthening its stride into a gallop. One rider followed her.

  “Prepare the gate?” Mark restrained his horse, which wanted to go for a run in pursuit of Sallea.

  Jagrahim said, “As I told you this morning, the city has its safeguards. We can’t ride straight in.”

  “I thought the site was abandoned due to some catastrophe many centuries ago?”

  Nodding, Jagrahim had the benign expression of a teacher listening to a clever pupil recite lessons. “That is true.”

  “But the refugees took time to set safeguards while running for their lives?”

  “The city yet contains countless treasures. It’s a graveyard as well, for many who died in the fall of the city. The entire site deserves respect, not grave-robbing.” Jagrahim guffawed, startling Mark, given the grim nature of what he’d been discussing. Spreading his arms wide, the chief shared the amusing idea making him laugh. “Although who would venture this far into the Empty Lands to despoil the city is a mystery. Not many are brave enough. We don’t rescue those who go astray either. I made an exception for your party.”

  Mark whistled. “Lucky for us.”

  “Your banners and the chariots told us you were of Nakhtiaar. We had to investigate your reason for entering our territory before allowing you to proceed or leaving you to die.”

  The walls of the city loomed before Mark for a long time before they arrived at the gates. Distances were indeed deceiving on this wasteland. The fortifications appeared to be in excellent condition and stretched in both directions as far as the eye could see. Sentry towers rose high above the battlements at regular intervals. Mark felt as if he was being watched. The repeated assurances about how long the city had been deserted didn’t diminish his unease.

  Sallea and her companion stood waiting for them in front of a massive set of dull black metal gates three stories tall. Mark saw no inscription or decoration of any type.

  “I’ve spoken all but the last spell, Father,” Sallea said to Jagrahim as the entire party reined to a halt.

  The chieftain nodded. “Proceed then and let us enter this place.”

  “As you command.” Facing the gates, she held her hands up. When she spoke, she used a normal tone, pitched for conversation. “Open now, mighty guardians, part for those who have come to see your secrets, in the name of Khunarum and of the ancient gods. Let no harm be visited on us during our time within thy walls. We will leave all things as we find them, save for the items which are the basis of our quest.”

  She made a slight gesture, as if pushing the air in front of the gates.

  For a long moment, nothing happened. Mark contemplated how the party might be able to scale the walls if required to do so. Sallea frowned and made the pushing gesture again, with more force. Lakht came winging in from behind, landing on her arm, beating his wings, and fanning air toward the portal.

  The gates opened inward, inch by inch. The process was eerie, soundless, and intimidating. Lakht took to the air with a harsh cry. The horses reared and balked, forcing the riders to delay for a few moments until the animals could be calmed.

  The gates stopped at about half open, but there was room for the chariots to squeeze through.

  The air inside the walls had an odd quality as Mark’s horse sidestepped through the open portal. Unnatural, chilled. He thought he detected a slight tang of the salt air from the as-yet-unseen ocean. The surroundings were too quiet
. He had a hard time catching his breath as soon as he crossed the boundary, as if the air was heavier than normal, making his lungs labor. There were no birds, other than Lakht, at the moment riding on a special saddle perch. No one spoke.

  Jagrahim led the column away from the gates. The road was clear of debris here, as if it had been partially cleared of obstructions. Mark shifted in the saddle to check the entrance one more time and found the massive gates closed, which bothered him. He hoped Sallea had a chant for reopening them, even as he made sure his blaster was close at hand.

  As they proceeded through the streets of the lost city, there was a little bit of conversation from Rothan and Tia, who were marveling at how well preserved some sections were. The city planners had evidently relied on the outer wall to keep them safe and allowed the dwellings and public buildings themselves to sprawl over the land between the ensorcelled boundary and the ocean. Other areas were nothing but empty land, wiped clean by the ocean’s fury millennia ago. Then there were patches of jumbled rubble, dense and impenetrable, no way to tell what kind of buildings had been there. Yet the road they traveled remained quite clear, the stones in good repair and the path unobstructed. Being exposed, an easy target if there was surveillance of any kind going on, made Mark nervous, running contrary to all his training and experience.

  After a few moments, Jagrahim reined in his horse at a cross street, stopping the slow-moving procession with his upraised hand.

  “Your house lies at the end of the thoroughfare, my lady.” Bowing in the saddle to Sandy, he pointed with his coiled whip.

  “How do you know?” Mark could tell from the way Sandy bit her lip she was trying not to laugh. If she’d told him once, she’d said it ten times—she found the idea of owning a specific ruin in the lost city unlikely and amusing.

  “I had the readers go over the maps of the city from before the catastrophe and locate the place.” Jagrahim’s answer was mundane and practical. “I’m sure you wish to examine your property.”