Lady of the Star Wind

by Veronica Scott

  “Wow, I’m exhausted.” Sandy sat on a handy log with a thump, rubbing her temples and nearly dropping the mirror.

  “Worse than the tidal wave?” Mark came and massaged her shoulders as she leaned against him with a grateful sigh.

  “Kind of, because I had to sustain the request for wind myself. The tidal wave took on a life of its own yesterday. All I did was ask for it. Then I think some force beyond my abilities gave the mirror a power surge.”

  “The gods,” Rothan said. “It must have been the true gods, working through the mirror and you.”

  “Shh, I think I heard something.” Khefer made a violent hand gesture. He pointed at the rock and brush concealing the mouth of the tunnel. “Movement.”

  “This is the moment we’ve been waiting for,” Rothan said with immense pleasure. “Now Hutenen will be avenged. We must greet her and her Maiskhan soldiers properly.”

  “Hang back here, Sandy, please.” Mark unsheathed his sword.

  “No problem. I’m a doctor, not a fighter.” She held him for a heartbeat as he brushed past her with Rothan and the others, taking positions in concealment, just shy of the beach. “Not unless I have to be.”

  Calm as he always was in a combat situation, Mark crouched low in the brush with the others. The flat rock shifted sideways. A Maiskhan soldier stuck his head out of the tunnel, peering around, sword and shield at the ready. The man ducked inside for a second and then walked out, followed by six more Maiskhan. An officer strolled onto the sands next, brushing his shoulders as if to remove cobwebs or dust.

  “Gaddaf, their commander,” Mark hissed at Rothan.

  Brow furrowed, Rothan swore. “I remember him.”

  The officer scanned the horizon with narrowed eyes. “It appears the ship is late, Great One,” he announced in a loud voice. “But it is safe for you to come out here to wait.”

  Farahna strolled out of the tunnel, carrying one of the fat dogs, another yapping at her heels. She seemed as calm and collected as ever. Her dress was impeccably draped, gleaming white, her jewels lavish. She had her customary makeup on. “Build a fire while we wait. And make me a place to sit. Cook something. I’m hungry.” Her petulant tone carried easily to the watchers.

  “At once, my queen.” Gaddaf took his cloak and swirled it around her shoulders. “This will warm you.”

  Preening, smile self-satisfied, she leaned into his arms.

  Rothan lifted his sword and stepped out of hiding. “No need to go to such effort. You’ll not live long enough to suffer from the cold or satisfy your hunger, Farahna.”

  Eyes wide, mouth open as words failed her, Farahna sank onto the nearest boulder, one hand fisted over her heart. As the dog in her lap yapped and the other circled in the sand next to her, she looked around frantically, seeking an escape route.

  The Maiskhan formed a defensive circle, the commander eyeing Rothan and the forces he’d brought. The enemy were outnumbered by the king’s men, some of whom had slipped behind the Maiskhan to block any attempt at retreating into the cave.

  “Don’t hope for rescue or reinforcements,” Rothan warned, seeing Gaddaf glance out to sea again. “The Lady of the Star Wind commands the winds as well as the waves. You underestimated her to your peril and the defeat of all your plans. She’s banished your ship far out to sea. There’s to be no escape tonight.”

  “No escape perhaps. What say you to a trade?” Gaddaf asked as calmly as if he and Rothan were discussing horses or grain.

  “What do you have to bargain with, Maiskhan?” Rothan was contemptuous. “I think the counters are stacked on my side of the table.”

  Gaddaf grabbed Farahna by the wrist and dragged her from her seated position to hold her tightly against him, clenching his other fist on the hilt of his sword. She resisted him, kicking at his shins, cursing, but the Maiskhan ignored her. “I’ll give you this bitch alive. I’m sure you want your vengeance. She’s worthless to us now, having brought us to ruin. Give your word to allow my men and me free passage from this beach, and I’ll hand her over. We won’t resist you or protect her. Do what you wish with her, but let us go.”

  “Bold words for a man surrounded and outnumbered, with the ocean at his back,” Rothan answered. “You can choose to die or you can choose to surrender to my mercy. No other choices.”

  Farahna cursed and threw the squirming lapdog in the Maiskhan’s face. As he fended off the yelping pet, Farahna drew a dagger from her elaborate overskirt and slashed his throat. He fell at her feet, bleeding out, eyes wide and stark. She kicked him in the stomach, cursing.

  “Enough of this—take them!” Rothan commanded. His soldiers surged forward and tackled the remaining Maiskhan. One man chose to fight and was cut down in short order. Disheartened, his comrades fell to their knees in the sand, begging for mercy as the soldiers locked them in chains.

  Farahna remained standing off to the side, eyes wild, expression feral. She kept her grip on the bloody dagger.

  “No one is to lay a hand on her,” Rothan said as his troops looked to him for orders. “I’ll not have her death on anyone’s conscience. No one is to account for her death at the final evaluation of their soul.”

  “And what is your plan for me, upstart?” Farahna asked. The words were rushed, tension threaded through her tone. She was breathing hard. “Are you going to cut my head off with your sword? Put me in chains? I am queen and cannot be touched.”

  “You were never the rightful ruler, you bitch.” Rothan pushed past his guards in his anger. “At best, you were the regent before you stole the throne from Hutenen.”

  Mark took three steps to be in position to shoot the woman with one of his last remaining blaster charges if she attacked Rothan or even got too close to him.

  Sapair walked forward to stand at Rothan’s side. He carried a golden tray with a single humble red clay cup sitting on it, the sort of mug a peasant would drink from.

  “The penalty for treason against the throne is death,” Rothan said, his voice somber as he passed judgment.

  “I’m queen, the rightful ruler of Nakhtiaar. You’re the thief, not me. You’ve no right to sentence me.” She tossed her head in a proud, contemptuous gesture.

  “Your judgment won’t be in this life, but will come at the hands of the gods when you stand before them in a few moments. No peaceful afterlife for you, no rebirth, no redemption.”

  Mark observed that Rothan’s vehement words shook her for a moment, but she raised her chin and beckoned to Sapair.

  “Bring me the sour wine selected by this pretender for my pleasure.”

  Mark was concerned Farahna would try something against Sapair. He noticed Ebnar shifting his stance in the sand next to him, apparently in response to the same fear for his partner.

  Farahna dropped the bloody knife in the sand and kicked it away. She made no threatening gestures but reached to take the crude clay vessel. Sapair stepped back a little too hastily after she had the drink in her hand, losing his balance in the sand. Although he recovered, Mark knew his dignity suffered.

  She laughed. “You’ve healed to an amazing degree, Sapair. But you’ll never forget my vengeance. It shows in your actions—you still fear me.” Farahna held the humble cup with both hands, lifting it to the heavens. “I dedicate this sacrifice of my life to Mithtravar, great god of the Maiskhan, who is the only true god.”

  “Blasphemy, Farahna?” Rothan said. “A poor choice for your last words on this earth.”

  She laughed. “I became a bride of the god many years ago, as a child. My family dedicated my life to Mithtravar and to the success of our Maiskhan blood. I don’t blaspheme against him. I sing his praises.” Raising the potion to her reddened lips, she took the poison in a single gulp before hurling the drinking vessel against the rocks, shattering the mug into countless pieces. She clutched her throat, staggering as the swift-acting poison swirled through her body. “Your gods have no power over me, Rothan.” She fell onto the sand, convulsing. “No power.” Her voice w
as barely loud enough to be heard over the sound of the waves. “Mithtravar, answer me now in my moment of need.”

  Mark caught a flicker of motion behind them from the corner of his eye. He wondered if the Maiskhan boat had managed to come ashore after all. But the newcomer was no human. A man, eight feet tall, strode toward ashore in the waves. He was naked save for an intricately woven headdress of plumes knotted into his thick black hair. His eyes were yellow, the pupils slitted, giving off a faint glow. He was built like a wrestler or a weight lifter, Mark thought, all bulging muscles and sinew. He could break any of them in half without breathing hard. Twenty or thirty of the purple flowers floated in the sea foam around his ankles as he continued to pace forward through the water, perfume filling the air, overriding the salty scent of the sea itself.

  “Rothan.” Mark touched the king’s shoulder.

  The man walked onto the beach and stopped.

  “Obektirr, god of the sea.” Rothan named the newcomer with no hesitation.

  Mark heard the soldiers behind him repeating the name with awe and shocked voices, withdrawing to the side of the beach, leaving Rothan and Mark alone. He risked a quick glance. The other men were prostrated on the sand. Sandy stood by, mirror in hand, watching the drama.

  Rothan cleared his throat and bowed his head a fraction. “I greet you, Exalted One.”

  “And I greet you, brother.” The man’s voice was deep, gravelly. When he spoke, he revealed sharp, pointed teeth. “I’m here to finish undoing the evil wrought by she who lies before you. I take her to the judges and her fate.”

  Rothan pulled Mark toward the prostrate soldiers, away from the god.

  Obektirr fastened his eerie gaze on Farahna’s limp form as she drew breath intermittently in harsh gasps, far gone in her journey toward death. Walking forward, he picked her up, cradling her in his mighty arms. He walked to the water, ignoring the humans on the beach. As he strode into the waves, scattering the floating flower blossoms, a blinding flash of light strobed. When Mark’s vision returned, the only thing in sight was a giant white predatory fish swimming out to sea, twin dorsal fins cutting the waves. There was no sign of Farahna. A moment later, the creature ascended the face of an incoming wave and vanished right before the water curled over and broke.

  “Who, or what, was that?” Sandy asked, coming to him and putting her arms around his waist.

  “Obektirr,” Rothan answered. “Rise, my people, and rejoice. The Exalted One has taken Farahna away, even as he said. She’ll be judged, and she won’t go into the afterlife. Her twisted soul will be snuffed out like a spent candle. Our work is done, our task complete. The land of Nakhtiaar is free from the evil she nurtured.”

  “Gods be praised!” Djed called out, dusting the sand off his knees and chest.

  A few busy weeks later, the Festival at Dendke arrived, the first at which King Rothan and his queen would preside.

  The sun rose over the peak of the temple with excruciating slowness. Then, all of the sudden, the long rays reached to illuminate the king, bathing him in morning’s fire. Rothan was tall, handsome, his face calm. The towering golden Crown of Khunarum was the final element in the tableau of the personification of power. Tia stood by his side, regal, composed, and beautiful. His nobles and officers were positioned off to the side in order of rank. Her ladies-in-waiting clustered behind them. Princess Sharesi held the baby, Prince Hutenen, who was quiet today, staring around at the people.

  There was a cluster of white-robed priests and priestesses. The celebrants who served the ruler of the gods, Irilkon and those dedicated to Haatrin were prominently positioned.

  Mark and Sandy were to the left of the royal couple, a few paces back.

  The waiting throngs gasped at the spectacle. Sapair, garbed in fine robes and with golden and ruby beads woven into the braids in his hair, stepped forward and thumped his staff of office on the rock platform. The sound echoed off the surrounding cliffs.

  “The gods proclaim king Rothan as one of their company. Show respect and allegiance to our rightful ruler!” His trained baritone carried to the farthest reaches of the crowd.

  Slowly at first, in ones and twos here and there, people knelt. Then, in a rush, the entire assembly bowed. Sapair made his obeisance to the monarch with a grand gesture and moved aside. Rothan strode to the edge of the platform to address his people.

  “Citizens of Nakhtiaar, hear my words and know we are done with false rulers and foreign gods! I, Rothan, of the House of Intef, wearer of the Crown of Khunarum, have been chosen by the ancient and true gods of our land for this task. I’ve been to the underworld and risen again. I defeated the armies of the enemy on our lands and in our city. My allies of the Star Wind have raised the ocean itself to swallow the Maiskhan ships at sea. As we have triumphed in war and cast out the enemy, now shall we prosper and rebuild our nation. Never again shall we bow our heads to any outside rulers or their false gods. I charge you now to rejoice with me, to thank our gods and then to carry the word to others. I charge you to repeat the news that the rightful king is come, bringing peace to our land.”

  Hand in hand with Sandy, Mark watched the cheering crowd. She squeezed his fingers, and he glanced at her with a smile.

  As soon as this ceremony concluded, he and Sandy had fast Mikkonite horses waiting to carry them on a trip to their private mountain aerie. We earned a vacation. He’d have Sandy safely in the city again well before the twins were due, of course, but Mark wanted their honeymoon, and Sandy concurred enthusiastically. Rothan had married them earlier in the morning by the light of smoking torches on this very spot, using words Mark had given him from the Outlier marriage ceremony. The Nakhtiaar had no formal wedding ritual, but Mark and Sandy wanted to have the words of their homeland said, to make their vows to each other as they never could have done in Outlier itself. Having the ceremony witnessed by their friends added to the joy. Khefer had stood as best man, Sallea as maid of honor with Lakht perched on her well-padded arm, and Tia had acted as Sandy’s matron of honor.

  His wife—and how he enjoyed using the term—wore her wedding dress, a finely pleated white linen gown, with a rich golden and jeweled collar Rothan had given her. She was stunning to his eyes, with the slight signs of pregnancy enhancing her beauty. He wore what passed for a Nakhtiaar dress uniform, including a pair of golden wrist guards and several large, jeweled badges on his chest, signs of his rank and rewards in recognition of his valor in battle and service to the king. Those meant more to him than any of the honors and awards he’d received in the Sectors. He’d commissioned Sapair to have a ring made for Sandy, with the warrior crest of his clan incised in enamel on top. He himself wore a plain gold band on his left hand and the ring of the Star Wind on his right.

  He and Sandy had given solemn promises to stay on in Nakhtiaar, acting as Rothan’s advisers for as long as he sat on the throne. There were remaining challenges in store, with Farahna’s son unaccounted for and the Maiskhan empire looming as a threat. All of it could wait, as far as Mark was concerned.

  He and his princess had found a place and a home for themselves.

  Rothan’s ceremony was coming to an end, the dancers making their graceful final movements. “Just a few more moments,” Mark said into Sandy’s ear as he clapped for the dancers.

  Her smile took his breath away. “I’ve waited all these years for you. I can wait five more moments.”

  And life was good…

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ce author and “SciFi Encounters” columnist for the USA Today Happily Ever After blog, Veronica Scott grew up in a house with a library as its heart. Dad loved science fiction, Mom loved ancient history and Veronica thought there needed to be more romance in everything. When she ran out of books to read, she started writing her own stories.

  Married young to her high school sweetheart then widowed, Veronica has two grown daughters, one grandson and cats Keanu and Jake.

  Veronica’s life has taken many twists and turns, but she always makes time to keep reading and writing. Everything is good source material for the next novel or the one after that, right? She’s been through earthquakes, tornadoes and near death experiences…Always more stories to tell, new adventures to experience—Veronica’s personal motto is, “Never boring.”

  Veronica is a three time winner of the SFR Galaxy Award and a National Excellence in Romance Fiction Award.

  She’s the proud recipient of a NASA Exceptional Service Medal but must hasten to add the honor was not for her romantic fiction!

  Blog: http://veronicascott.wordpress.com/

  Email: veronica.scott.author@gmail.com

  Veronica’s other titles:

  Wreck of the Nebula Dream

  Escape from Zulaire

  Mission to Mahjundar

  Star Cruise: Marooned

  Star Cruise: Outbreak

  Priestess of the Nile

  Warrior of the Nile

  Dancer of the Nile

  Magic of the Nile

  Ghost of the Nile

  Healer of the Nile

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