Storms of Destiny

by A. C. Crispin

  “Pela.”

  “I’ll con—” Jezzil broke off as Talis halted her bay. He urged Falar into a faster trot, leaving the slave, on his slower mount, behind.

  “What is it?” he asked as he drew rein beside the Katan.

  “The tracks …” She shook her head. “It’s almost sunset.

  He’s no longer following even a faint trail, because he’s turned and is going west again. He’s walking the horses.

  They’re probably tired. I think he’s getting ready to stop for the night. We should be cautious.”

  “If we don’t catch them before dark, we’ll lose them,”

  Jezzil said. “The Moon won’t rise for over an hour.”

  “We can track,” she reassured him. “Though it won’t be easy. Unless we cross rock, the prints will be visible. I have a lantern, and so does Clo. We’ll have to go slowly, though.”

  Jezzil nodded. “Let’s water the horses and press on. I don’t like it that he’s changed direction.”

  “I don’t like it, either,” Clo said. She dismounted and walked slowly up and down, stretching, then eyeing the tracks. The mercenary’s broad, usually good-natured face was set in harsh lines that revealed her true age. She looked up at Jezzil. “I’ve heard tales about them priests,” she said grimly. “Tales about human sacrifice and such. You hear any such thing, Jezzil?” Almost unconsciously, her hands went out to check her weapons: a pair of flintlock pistols, sword, and dagger.

  “No,” Jezzil replied. “But I am not from this country. I came from across the Narrow Sea, from Ktavao.”

  “I’ve heard rumors,” Talis said. “They say they sacrifice some poor victim every morning, so the sun will rise.”

  Clo shook her head. “I don’t like it. This doesn’t make sense. Why push as hard as he can going west, then turn northwest, then west again?” She gestured in the direction the wagon tracks led. “There’s nothing out there but bad-lands, and then the northernmost arm of the sea. Big outcroppings of that reddish rock, dead-end canyons—it’s worthless land, dead land. Nothing lives there except snakes, scorpions, and lizards. Why go there?”

  “People do strange things in the name of religion,” Eregard said absently. He was staring west, shading his eyes from the Sun. “I don’t like this, either.”

  “Let’s water the horses, then move on,” Jezzil said, letting some of the urgency he felt be reflected in his voice. He reached for one of the loaded waterskins that hung down over Falar’s flank. “Let’s hurry.”

  Thia lay in the bed of the wagon, bound and gagged, trying hard not to give in to the waves of nausea that swept over her. She knew if she vomited, she’d choke and die. It was struggle enough just to breathe; luckily, the sack that covered her was coarsely woven, and some air came through, but barely enough.

  How long had she been lying here, rolling back and forth as the wagon bounced along? Hours, at least. Despite the rough gray material covering her face, she could tell it was still daylight. It was hot in the bed of the wagon, and thirst was a torment. Her hands and feet had long ago gone numb, and that numbness was spreading. Thia knew with a sick certainty that even if her captor stopped and untied her, she wouldn’t be able to run for many minutes.

  Her mind continued to torture her with images of pumps spilling gushes of water, of the Narrow Sea down by the docks of Q’Kal, of cold tankards of ale …

  Stop that, she ordered herself. You’ll drive yourself mad.

  You have to think. Plan! But the stifling air and the heat made her head swim … coherent thought was so difficult.

  She forced herself to try and put the pieces together. It had been afternoon, and they’d finished early with a print run.

  Denno had told her she could go home early—he was taking his wife and little Damris to the market. Pleased to get away hours before she’d expected to, she was walking back from work, looking forward to spending time with her new friend, Eregard.

  He was no ordinary slave, that much was obvious. He was educated, a scholar. He’d been teaching her about the modern world. She’d learned from him just how much history had been repressed or ignored by Boq’urak’s priesthood.

  Master Varn had taught her that the world was round, but Eregard had taught her that it was huge. Bigger than she’d ever dreamed.

  Master Varn … was he the one who had grabbed her as she’d walked past the mouth of the alley near the High Street? All she knew was that she’d been seized from behind in a bone-bruising grip. A hand had clapped over her mouth and nose. She’d twisted and bit down, hearing a muffled cry from behind her, and gotten her mouth free long enough for one aborted shriek of despair. Then the arm enclosing her rib cage had tightened and that brutal hand had clamped over her mouth, pinching her nostrils shut. She’d struggled as she was carried down the alley, but it had been no use.

  Unable to draw breath, a great roaring in her ears had replaced the sounds of the city … then blackness swam up from the shadows of the alley to engulf her, dragging her down.

  When Thia finally regained consciousness, she’d been here, in the back of the wagon, rocking back and forth, growing thirstier and more cramped with every mile that passed.

  A wave of anger swept over her, leaving her shaking. How dared he do this? How dared he? She had just been going about her business, perfectly law-abiding … well, except for helping out Castio’s group.

  And now here she was, tied up, queasy, cramped, and so thirsty she thought she might go mad. Anger swept through

  her, and for a moment she strained at her bonds, but the effort made her pant, and black spots began to swim before her eyes.

  She tried to remember details about her captor. Was it Master Varn? She thought so. He hadn’t spoken, and she had never seen him, but something was familiar. His scent, perhaps.

  What does he want with me? Will he take me back to Amaran?

  That was probably his goal. Boq’urak’s priests did not take kindly to being challenged or thwarted. They would meet in tribunal to pronounce judgment. If she were lucky, she’d be given as the morning sacrifice, to ensure the sunrise. If she were not lucky— Her thoughts bolted away from that subject as her physical body would have recoiled from a deadly viper.

  Think, she ordered herself. Plan.

  Thia remembered all the good times they’d had together.

  Master Varn had enjoyed teaching her; he’d said so often.

  Could she remind him of those good times? Share memories of books they’d read together? Perhaps, if she could remind him of what they had shared, he’d let her go.

  It wasn’t much of a plan, but at least it was something to try.

  The wagon lurched and bucked, causing her head to slam hard against something unyielding. Thia saw pinwheels of light, and for a while the world faded away. She roused herself again to full consciousness—and raging thirst—to realize that the Sun was no longer beating directly down on her.

  She felt cooler. Night must be coming.

  Surreptitiously, she began moving her hands and feet, trying to restore circulation. The resultant pins-and-needles in her limbs made her whimper, though the sound was stifled by the gag.

  Thia was sweating by the time she allowed herself to rest, but she could move her limbs again, though she would doubtless be stiff and clumsy. If this is Master Varn, she thought, he’ll not be cruel. He’ll untie me to let me have water. I can say that I must relieve myself, and then I will move in such a crippled fashion that he won’t be expecting me to try and run.

  And then what? How could she find her way back Q’Kal?

  First things first, she ordered herself. Escape. If she went back to Amaran, her life was forfeit. Anything would be better than that.

  She found herself wishing she could pray. The only god that she believed in—because she had seen Him with her own eyes—was a loathsome monster. Never again, she’d sworn, would she pray to Boq’urak.

  I have nothing, no one, she thought, feeling a wave of terror and loneline
ss so profound that her heart ached within her breast. I have no god.

  Tears stung her eyes, and she fought them back. Crying won’t help. I have to help myself. For a moment she wondered why she was so determined to try to escape, even knowing it was probably hopeless. She was terrified of Boq’urak and His priesthood, yes, but terror was only part of what drove her. Thia realized that she was determined not to give up her freedom. She’d been Boq’urak’s slave all her life, but for the past few months she’d been free. Freedom was worth fighting for, even if she died in the attempt. Being killed in a fight with Master Varn was a better fate than being declared Chosen.

  The rhythm of the hoofbeats changed, slowed. Thia realized the wagon was stopping. She heard her captor set the brake, then climb down off the seat. Her heart began to pound as it had the night she’d escaped from the twin ziggurats.

  She heard footsteps moving away from the wagon, then silence. What can he be doing? Not being able to see was torture.

  After a few minutes she heard the footsteps again, approaching. “You must be awake by now,” a voice said in her native language. For a moment Thia didn’t even understand the words, so used had she become to hearing and speaking Pelanese. It took a moment for her mind to translate the meaning. Hands seized her ankles and dragged her sack-encased form across the wagon bed.

  When she was lying on what seemed to be the tailgate of the wagon, her captor began pulling the sack off. Fading

  light struck her eyes, making her squint, after so long in the dark. Thia looked up into the face of her captor. I was right.

  Carefully, Master Varn untied the gag. She worked her jaw, realizing that her whole face ached. Varn helped her to sit up, her legs dangling off the tailgate. Producing a water bag, he held it up to show her. “Here, child. You must be thirsty.”

  For just a moment Thia hesitated as he held it to her lips.

  What if it’s drugged?

  But her thirst would not be denied. She swallowed, gulping, as water dribbled over her chin and onto her dress. The touch of the water, warm and leathery tasting as it was, was bliss. She swallowed greedily, but all too soon he took the water bag away.

  “Not too much,” he said. “You don’t want to be sick.”

  Thia wiped her mouth and chin on her sleeve as she stared past her erstwhile Mentor, taking in her surroundings. Huge stones surrounded them like sentinels, and the last rays of the setting sun stained them the color of fresh blood. They were in a vast wasteland, barren and sere. Sickly looking brush struggled for survival, but there was nothing else to see except the massive upthrusting boulders. The ground showed signs of water channels, but at the moment it was hard to believe that this land had ever seen rain. The wagon itself held little except another, smaller, bag, a lantern, and a huge bundle of firewood.

  Master Varn drank from the waterskin, sparingly, then stoppered it and put it down. He had pushed back his hood, and Thia looked up at him, taking in his familiar features.

  “Master,” she ventured. It felt strange to speak her native tongue. “Why … what … what are we doing here? Why did you …” She decided the word “kidnap” might be too blunt, and searched for a way to express her question. “Why are we here? Why did you bring me here?”

  He looked down, his dark eyes full of concern and tenderness. “Thia, my dear, my child, my love, your soul was in danger, living amongst those infidels. He commanded me to find you, and to bring you to Him. Only in that way can you regain what you have lost.”

  “Oh,” she managed weakly. “Of course. I should have realized.”

  “You should have,” Varn said, a touch of reproach in his voice. “It took me a long time to find you, Thia. Without His guidance, I could never have done so.”

  Boq’urak … she thought, remembering the monster, and fought back a wave of nausea. “Master,” she said cautiously, “it is good to see you.”

  “It is good to see you, too, Thia,” he said. “You’ve grown up in the last few months. You’re a woman now, not a child.”

  Carefully, he put out his hand, stroked her hair, which was now long enough to almost cover her ears. “Your hair, it’s quite pretty. I had no idea.”

  Thia managed a wan smile. “Master, I … I need to …

  can I have a moment alone?”

  He gave her a glance that mixed exasperation with amusement. “Thia, Thia … and have you run away again? You think your old Master is a fool?”

  “No!” she said, fighting back tears that filled her eyes. So much for my plan! “But Master, I have to …” She slid off the edge of the tailgate and then stood, swaying, holding onto the wagon for support. It was all she could do to keep from collapsing. “I can’t run away, Master, even if I wanted to.”

  He took her arm, led her away from the wagon, over to one of the large boulders that studded the ground. “Here,” he said, “go here.” He released her arm. She leaned on the boulder, looking up at him. “Please, turn your back, Master.”

  He shook his head. “And have you hit me with a handy rock, Thia? You kicked me, child, remember? I’m sorry. I will not turn away.”

  She felt the hot blood mount in her cheeks, but her body would not be denied. Hoisting up her skirts, she squatted.

  For a moment she feared that shame would prevent her from going, but she managed, first a slight trickle, then a hot, strong-smelling gush. Master Varn stood facing her as she urinated, but at least he did not gaze directly at her, but stared over her head.

  Finally, she was finished and stood up. She was a little steadier now, but she tried not to let him see that. The weaker he thinks I am, the better.

  The sun had set, and the breeze was growing cooler. The sky to the west was bright with color, but it was fading rapidly. Soon it would be full dark, and moonrise would not come for more than an hour. Thia looked up at Master Varn and couldn’t repress a shiver.

  She walked a few slow, tottering steps, then had to lean against another boulder. Slowly, she let herself slide down it and sat on the cooling ground. The rock was still warm, and it felt good against her back. She gazed up at Varn earnestly.

  “Master, you taught me so much. But I have learned even more since I left Verang. There are so many books here that we don’t have in our scriptorium! So many volumes of history, and science. So many maps.” She held his gaze with her own. “Master, you are a scholar. Surely you can appreciate wanting to learn. I don’t want to go back to Amaran. The priests don’t want the novices or priestesses to read, remember? It’s not fair.”

  “I know, my child,” he said, leaning against the boulder. “I don’t agree with that. But Boq’urak’s will cannot be denied.

  He has spoken to me of you. He wishes to reclaim you, in His great generosity.”

  She had to bite her lip to hold back a cry of utter panic.

  Thia took a deep breath, forcing calm. Help him remember the old days. Help him remember how we studied together, kept our secret, protected each other.

  “Master, do you remember the first day I read a whole page by myself?” She kept her voice low, nonthreatening.

  “You gave me a honeycake from the priest’s table as a reward. That was one of the happiest days I knew as a child.

  Do you remember?”

  Varn frowned, then slowly nodded. “I remember. We studied hard, didn’t we, all those times in the secret chambers …” He trailed off, lost in thought.

  Thia wet her lips and went on, bringing up memories, reminding him of times they’d shared, of those hundreds of secret meetings as he taught her to read, cipher, and, later, taught her geometry, and how to tell a planet from a star, and where the Moon went when it was new.

  They must have talked for nearly an hour. Varn visibly relaxed and sat down beside her. Turn and turn about, they traded memories. Night crept in around them, and soon she could no longer make out his features, but his voice was so dear and familiar to her that she thought she could read it better than his face. As they talked, greatly daring,
she put out her hand and took his, holding it. His long, slender scholar’s fingers tightened around her own. During all their years together they had scarcely ever touched, and then only by accident. The feel of his flesh against hers was comforting.

  Thia felt increasingly reassured as they talked. It’s working. He could never hurt me. Boq’urak can’t be all-powerful, or He would have struck me down long ago. He must need a vessel to work His will. Surely Master Varn would never lend himself to harming me!

  After a few more minutes she said, “Master, did you bring some food? I’m hungry.”

  She saw his head turn against the brilliant stars of the desert, and fingers tightened on hers. “I’m sorry, Thia, we cannot eat. We must fast before the rite.”

  Thia froze. No! He can’t mean it! But she knew he did.

  She tried to jerk away, but suddenly both of his hands were clamped around her wrist. “No, child,” he said. “You cannot leave. As soon as the Moon rises, we must begin.”

  Despite her efforts to keep it steady, her voice broke.

  “Please, Master, don’t do this. Don’t hurt me.”

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, his tone earnest and low. “I truly don’t. But Boq’urak has commanded me, Thia.

  He has told me you are His Chosen for tonight.”

  “But … but …” She swallowed a sob. “If you do—if you—I saw Narda. Master, Boq’urak killed her. You know that. Do you want me to die?”

  “No,” he said after a long moment. He sounded shaken. “I

  have told Him what you are to me, like my own child. I raised you. But He still demands …”

  Thia remembered the expression in his eyes when he had stroked her hair. Trying to make the motion seem natural, she leaned against him, putting her head on his shoulder. She dropped her voice to a whisper in the desert stillness. “Master, please, you know how much I care for you. I am yours, not His. Please … ”

  He sat still for a moment, then turned his head, and she felt his lips brush her forehead. “For so long I’ve wanted to touch you,” he murmured. “For so long. But it is forbidden, unless He wills it, unless I am His vessel …”