Lady of the Star Wind

by Veronica Scott

  “Excuse me if I don’t find the information consoling. I’d prefer actual help. I don’t imagine he hid any weapons in the wardrobe?” Mark grabbed a belt and showed Sandy the empty slot where a knife would customarily ride. Disgusted, he dropped the accessory onto the pile of clothes. “Any chance there might be some help for us from the crowd? Or the local soldiery? Enough men who might not want to see you die? We should have some plan in case there’s a break in our favor.”

  Rothan shook his head. “When we were brought in the other night, I was looking for friendly faces, hoping perhaps some of my own soldiers might have infiltrated the palace guard, but there was no one.”

  “Yeah, I saw how the Maiskhan soldiers occupied all the strategically important entries and exits, as well as guarding the queen. And us.”

  “What about Djed?” Sandy asked in a low voice. “He’s still on the loose, isn’t he?”

  “One man with only a few hours to plan and no one to trust?” Rothan shrugged. “I think the world of my chief archer, but unless the gods themselves intervene, we’re going to the tomb this morning.”

  “And we need to be dressed,” Tia said, kneeling beside the heap of clothing and sorting through the garments. “I don’t want to die today, but I prefer to walk with dignity.”

  Mark took a deep breath to control the anger and frustration running roughshod over his nerves. “Just all of you promise me to stay alert, and if by some miracle we get the chance, we make a break for freedom.” He glanced at his three companions as they each nodded. “Pass me whatever I’m supposed to wear, and let’s get on with this. And hand over a roll and some cheese for Sandy, please.”

  “Considerate of him to bring food.” Sandy accepted the bread from Rothan, broke it in half, and gave part to Mark.

  “Yes, it was. But we’ll dine in the afterlife with my brother.” Tia took her chosen dress and accessories, and headed to the farthest corner to change. Rothan grabbed two basins of water and followed her.

  Mark and Sandy exchanged glances but said nothing, retreating to their portion of the cell to wash off the worst of the dirt and grime. Nibbling at the rolls and cheese, they dressed in silence.

  As if going to some grand court function, Sandy and Tia were soon resplendent in gold-tinted linen sheaths, soft leather sandals, with lightweight, fringed shawls to carry. Mark and Rothan were arrayed in the more military garb, bareheaded, with the sturdy sandals and blue cloaks of warriors.

  Sapair and the efficient armed escort showed up promptly as the captives were finishing the last touches on their clothing.

  “Good.” The official surveyed them head to toe with a critical eye while the Maiskhan exuded boredom.

  Tia rested her hand on Sapair’s arm for a moment. “We appreciate the kindness, but have you considered how angry Farahna will be with you?”

  Sapair shrugged, although he wore a frown. “There’s already enough about this situation I find distasteful, my lady. This issue of the clothing is the one thing where I had a chance to intervene.” He leaned closer to her ear. “Farahna needs me since Seroj died in the quake. I’m the only one who knows the details of a number of ongoing projects she cares a great deal about. Farahna isn’t the most patient woman. Punishing me would delay her efforts—I can afford to tweak her a bit.” Straightening and raising his voice, he continued. “You’re to march in the procession directly behind the bier carrying Hutenen’s coffin. Maiskhan soldiers will escort you, and their orders are to kill all of you, starting with Princess Tia, should any attempt be made to escape. I wouldn’t recommend taking any inappropriate action.”

  “Like going for Farahna’s throat?” Mark made the offer in a low tone.

  “You can march in chains.” Sword drawn, Farun, the Maiskhan captain, pushed past Sapair to go face to face with Mark. “Your choice. Your woman will be the first to die, while you watch. I won’t warn you again.”

  Mark shook his head. “No need for threats, we’ll see this through.”

  “Sensible.” Farun shoved his sword into the sheath.

  “You better hope I don’t come back as a ghost, though,” Mark said, pointing at his tormenter. “You’ll be one of the first people I come for.”

  The Maiskhan soldiers muttered, shuffling a few steps farther away. Several fingered amulets or made hand signs in Mark’s direction.

  Despite the dire situation, Rothan laughed. “The enemy will quake in their boots for weeks now that you’ve cursed them. Warrior of the Star Wind, you never cease to fight, do you?”

  “Never,” Mark told him as they were escorted out of the cell and led down the corridor toward daylight. “It’s the motto of my clan.”

  “And I love him for it,” Sandy said, kissing him on the cheek.

  He clasped her hand and walked steadily forward with dignified resolve to meet whatever fate Farahna had planned. Unless, of course, fate gave him an opportunity to thwart her.

  CHAPTER SIX

  For a few moments, the prisoners were kept waiting under heavy guard in the spacious open patio in front of the palace’s main entrance.

  There was a stir behind them as eight hulking, muscle-bound servants carried the funeral bier of Prince Hutenen from the palace and into the square. Even under the dire circumstances, Mark couldn’t help but stare in awe. The wood top of the oversized coffin gleamed with gold leaf in the ruddy sun of morning. A mosaic of finely crushed stones had been set in a golden frame on the top of the sarcophagus, depicting the visage of a handsome young man, calm and serene, eyes closed. Enameled details glinted on all sides of the coffin. The bottom half was burnished, fine-grain wood inscribed with line after line of the local language in gold-painted calligraphy. More of the precious metal was on display in the huge hinges on one side of the coffin and the lock on the other side, topped with an elaborate insignia.

  “An abomination,” Rothan said with disgust. He spat. “Her seal shouldn’t be imposed on Hutenen’s coffin. She insults him in the smallest details. Wasn’t murdering him enough for her?”

  The coffin was loaded onto a waiting cart drawn by four nervous horses, elaborate red and black plumes on their harnesses. The queen got into a wooden chair painted with flowers and birds in brilliant colors and was lifted into the air by four men. Surveying the crowd from her vantage point, Farahna proclaimed in a stentorian voice, “Today we mourn the loss of one for whom I was regent, one with whom I’d have gladly shared the throne. Yet it was not to be—the gods called him to dwell with them. Our loss and our grief are their happiness, and we mustn’t ask why. As a sign of my benevolence and enduring obeisance to the ancient ways and the traditional gods of this land, I’ve agreed to the heartfelt pleas of Princess Tia and Captain Rothan to accompany their beloved Hutenen to his new life, rather than linger here broken-hearted with us.”

  A murmur ran through the crowd. Rothan cursed under his breath, and the guards closed in on the prisoners.

  “It’s a custom dating back to the founding of Nakhtiaar, though not much practiced any longer.” Farahna was continuing her remarks as the assembled citizens gawked at the scene before them. “Yet when the request was made of me with such affecting sincerity and grief by the closest mourners, I’d no choice but to allow the sacrifice. And now we go to praise Hutenen and bury him. I ask you to say a prayer for the late prince today as our procession passes, and then turn to the duties of the living, for such is what he’d request of us. The palace will serve the ritual bread, meat, and beer at sundown, also as tradition dictates.”

  There was a ragged cheer at the news of the free meal. Farahna waved her left hand languidly, and the procession moved out of the temple gates and into the city streets to the slow beat of drums. The captives were marching behind the funeral bier. The crowds were silent for the most part. Occasionally, a woman would throw flowers at the coffin. Mark was sure the populace feared Farahna and her Maiskhan guards, so the lack of public emotion didn’t surprise him.

  “Usually, the family hires private m
ourners.” Tia glanced at the quiet throng lining the street. “The spirit of the deceased needs to follow the weeping and wailing of mourners to be sure it will be drawn to the proper tomb. But even I can’t cry for my brother today. I’m too full of rage at the woman who killed him and stole his throne.”

  “Clever speech she made,” Mark said. “I doubt if many people believe all that bullshit she said about the sacrifice we’re allegedly making, but I’ve got to give her credit for telling the story the way she wants our deaths perceived. She might create reasonable doubt in some of the more credulous and gain herself supporters.”

  Once the parade was outside the city gates, Mark and the others were loaded into a cart drawn by oxen for the last part of the journey. The procession traveled into the countryside at a slow pace for about an hour, crossing a dusty plain before entering the mouth of an arid valley. An imposing building loomed out of the hazy heat as they progressed through the valley.

  “As I surmised, our destination is Farahna’s personal temple.” Rothan pointed at the structure ahead. “The final irony.”

  “What’s the significance of having her own temple?” Sandy asked.

  “She shows Hutenen contempt yet again. He’s to be buried in an antechamber to her own planned tomb, which lies in the mountain behind her temple. She intends to keep him under her control in the afterlife and deprive him of his due, even there.” Rothan shook his head. “My prince underestimated her, to his eternal regret.”

  “You tried to warn him,” Tia reminded her lover as the guards chivvied them out of the cart and to the foot of the first flight of stairs. “He wouldn’t listen.”

  Rothan was silent.

  Mark trudged up five sets of stairs to the platform at the top, level with the entrance to Queen Farahna’s temple. Eight priests carried the coffin into the building as the prisoners arrived. Armed temple guards pushed and shoved Mark and the others into the cool dark of the building, guiding them through a set of polished pink marble columns. Looming at the far end of the first chamber was an altar dominated by an elaborate, three times life-size carving of Farahna. She was depicted on her throne with two female deities on either side. The goddesses were portrayed gazing at her adoringly, while the queen stared straight ahead at any who approached. Giant scented candles provided the illumination. A phalanx of priestesses stood in a cluster beside the altar, chanting some kind of hymn.

  Farahna performed a short ceremonial ritual with her priests and priestesses, who did most of the work. She picked at her fingernails as if bored but mouthed words when required. She left the dancing and gesturing to the others. The four prisoners waited in a cluster, surrounded by guards alert for any sign of last-minute resistance. Mark thought Tia was praying. Rothan stood as if ready for action, jaw clenched, but no opportunity arose. The Maiskhan were too numerous, highly vigilant, spears aimed at the women in particular.

  Rituals over, Mark and his companions followed as priests took the coffin farther into the depths of the temple, past the altar, and down a long corridor stretching deep into the mountain from which the building had been carved. There were doors along either side of this wide hall. Most were blank, with rough, unfinished surfaces. One or two had been smoothed and painted with pictures and inscriptions that were hard to see in the gloom.

  Rothan indicated the painted door he was marching past. “Her favorite bodyguard, who died saving her life in an assassination attempt.”

  “And you say her own tomb is here too?” Sandy asked with a sort of fascinated horror.

  “Oh yes,” Tia said. “At the end of the corridor, in the heart of the mountain, with many tricks and traps for any man foolish enough to disturb her in the afterlife. She executes her architects and tomb builders on a regular basis. No one other than herself will know the entire set of plans.”

  “Why would anyone work for her, then?” Mark was puzzled. “Sounds like certain death.”

  “She provides for their families. She gives rich funerals to her victims. The workers will be well-off in the afterlife.” Tia’s explanation was matter-of-fact. “And, of course, each man and woman hopes to outlive her.”

  “What’s going to happen to us?” Mark asked Rothan.

  “We’re going into the afterlife with the prince,” the captain answered. “To serve him, as she said this morning in the square. It’s an old custom, long abandoned. Farahna’s conveniently reviving the practice to execute us without public outcry or repercussions.”

  “Most people are interred with pictures of their loved ones and tiny statues of servants to keep them company,” Tia added, wrapping herself tightly in her shawl.

  A young priest diverted the procession into a branching corridor, where Mark found himself walking on a downward slope. The surface underfoot in this area was much rougher, unfinished stone. Huge blocks of raw, gray-and-black veined marble were suspended above their heads. He glanced at Rothan. “Booby traps?”

  “To be triggered after the tomb is sealed and the queen and the priests have reached safety outside the tunnels. We’re to be trapped for eternity, my friend.”

  Mark hugged Sandy as the mourners halted again, this time at a doorway deep in the mountain. Frustration and anger at having led her into this death trap raged in his heart. “I’m so sorry.”

  She shook her head and squeezed his hand. “We took the chance and the risks together.”

  He wished he could forgive himself as easily as she’d apparently forgiven him yet again.

  Farahna came to stand close to her prisoners, remaining well out of arm’s reach, protected by the Maiskhan guards. As the queen contemplated her prisoners, Mark realized she reminded him more and more of the Outlier empress.

  “You do my prince the final dishonor, I see.” Rothan’s whole demeanor was contemptuous as he stared at the inscription above the door where the flickering light from the torches picked out the freshly cut characters.

  “He Who Strove and Failed,” Farahna read, a mocking tone in her sultry voice. “Where’s the dishonor in my statement? It’s the truth—Hutenen couldn’t prevail against me in the end. He’s the one being buried here today, not me.”

  “You killed him through vile treachery,” Rothan said. “Leaving aside the issue of who belongs on the throne, he’d have won in any kind of fair trial or contest.”

  “There are no rules when one is taking, then keeping, a throne. Only strength and guile, both of which he lacked.” She laughed, walking ahead into the tomb’s antechamber.

  The guards shoved the prisoners into the room behind her.

  The first chamber was small and jam-packed with household goods. Objects of all description, from cooking pots to a gilded bed frame, had been piled against the cold stone walls. Jewels and spices spilled together on the floor from jars stacked too haphazardly, leading to minor disaster. Broken shards littered the priceless woven rugs thrown in the dust. More goods were added now, brought along in the funeral procession. The queen’s attention rested on the items being given to Hutenen as final tribute. Frowning, she ordered several things returned to the palace.

  Mark considered making an attempt to grab Farahna, hold her hostage, the ransom being freedom for all of them.

  As if reading his mind, Gaddaf stepped between him and the queen, pressing the tip of his knife to Mark’s throat. “I know you’re the most dangerous man here,” the Maiskhan commander said in a low voice, staring into Mark’s eyes. “I’ve been watching you make and discard plans all morning. But even the wiliest and most skillful of warriors has his weakness, and yours is the woman from the north. She’s good in bed no doubt, but no warrior to match your skills. My spearman has orders to slay her if you make a move, no matter what chaos might be happening. Try anything, and your woman will die.” He didn’t wait for Mark to acknowledge the threat but slowly retreated, sliding his knife into its sheath and rejoining Farahna.

  A few moments later, the captives were hurried past the mess into a second, bigger room, also crammed wit
h goods. There were spears, shields embossed with the royal crest, a bow and quiver of arrows, chairs, unlit lamps, chests of drawers—too much to see. A realistic door had been painted onto one side wall in vivid blue, although it was clearly nothing but an illusion. The coffin had been lowered into a massive stone receptacle in the middle of the chamber. Four priests were cursing under their breath and struggling to push the flat top onto the tomb, sealing away the unfortunate young would-be king.

  As his eyes adjusted to the level of light in the chamber, Mark noticed a lavishly dressed woman slumped in a chair across the room, her hand resting on the flank of a brindled hunting dog curled by her side as if asleep. Her eyes were closed, and her head lolled against the cushions. He had no doubt she and her canine were dead.

  The queen followed his line of sight. Her painted lips curved, and she sighed theatrically. “Kiramyen, his favorite concubine. She asked to go with him, and how could I in good conscience refuse the piteous request?”

  “And the dog? Did it ask to die?” Mark said. “Or did you make the decision for it?”

  “Prepare them and let us be done.” The queen ignored Mark’s last question. “We must be in the city before the sun sets to preside over the feasting. I’m satisfied here.” She walked out of the chamber without another word, her sandals clicking on the hard stone. The Maiskhan guards followed.

  Mark moved in front of Sandy and stood facing the half circle of priests and temple guards. Hands fisted, he settled into a combat stance, done being manhandled. “Leave us alone to meet our fate in here as we see fit.”

  Rothan stepped to his side, face grim. “As my brother says, walk away.”

  “Even unarmed, we can make mincemeat of you,” Mark threatened the priests, who backed away, some making signs in the air against the evil eye.

  “You do no honor to your prince to behave this way in the presence of his mortal remains.” Gesturing at the granite enclosure where Hutenen now rested, the oldest priest was scornful.