The Warlord's Daughter

by Susan Grant

  “That’s right,” Vantos said. “And unless our asses get moving the Triad’s about to beat us to it.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  AS THE CLOUD SHADOW neared Ara Ana, Hadley listened with increasing dread to a security bulletin coming from the Ring. Another Borderlands settlement had been attacked. She and her central staff gathered in her office at Bolivarr’s request.

  Hadley’s first officer reacted to the news with alarm. “These are remote outposts—almost as far away from everything as we are.” Garwin was understandably nervous. The archaeologist had spent a career avoiding war.

  “Copycats?” she asked Bolivarr. The incidents brought back memories of her previous assignment when the Unity had pursued a group of Coalition extremists masquerading as Drakken skulling raiders. They’d wanted the treaty to fail by turning sentiment against the Drakken. But that was many months ago. “Or maybe loyalists.”

  Bolivarr nodded. “The resistance was my first thought, too, but these attacks are deliberate and specific. They’re targeting religious sanctuaries only.”

  “Horrifying,” Sister Chara said. “I thought peace would bring an end to the persecution.”

  Bolivarr shook his head. “I don’t think it’s motivated by intolerance.”

  “The slaughter of believers is exactly that.” Garwin shook his head. “Your people were committed to genocide.”

  “My people.” Bolivarr’s flat tone caught Hadley’s attention. His normally placid gaze had sharpened with anger. “My people are your people now.”

  “My people wouldn’t desecrate sisters of the goddess.”

  Hadley placed her hands flat on the desk. “Lieutenant Tadlock, these are unprovoked terror attacks. Acts of hatred. Battle-Lieutenant Bolivarr is a full-fledged member of this crew, and a Triad citizen, as are we all. As members of my crew, you will treat each other with respect.” It reminded her of the conversation she’d had with Cadet Holloway the first day out. Now the adults needed a refresher.

  He cleared his throat. “Captain. My apologies. It’s just that no coalition-born citizen would do…this.”

  The rape and skulling of nineteen priestesses. It was, Hadley thought, a deed too horrible to contemplate.

  “Monsters did this,” the man said.

  “Yes,” Bolivarr said. “Monsters did. My point exactly. I may not know what I was, exactly, but I know the man I am now. I despise the warlord and all he’s done. I’ve made it my life’s commitment to see atrocities like this stopped and the creatures who commit them punished and stripped from the face of the galaxy.”

  Garwin seemed to accept Bolivarr’s statement, but the division was troubling. When pressured, her crew tore apart along old scar lines. It had been like that on the Unity, despite its lofty name, and it would be like that for years to come, she was afraid.

  “That said, I don’t think intolerance was the motivation,” Bolivarr continued. “We are seeing a systematic sweep of priestess sanctuaries. In each case they ransacked the sanctuary’s stash of valuables. Evidence also points to interrogations taking place before the killings. They’re looking for something.”

  “And here we are headed for a planet supposedly loaded with religious relics,” Garwin put in, his gaze darting outside as if dreading the sight of Ara Ana.

  “No one knows the destination coordinates.”

  Thank the gods. “In light of our destination, and its religious overtones, and the nature and location of the attacks, I’ve placed the ship on level-two alert as a precaution,” she said. She stood, pausing to look at each of her senior staff in turn. “What happened here tonight and across the Borderlands should remind us all why our mission is so important. The birthplace of the goddesses, ladies and gentlemen. We might very well rediscover it.” She thought of the day Prime-Admiral Zaafran had called her to his office: A fable the lost scripture may be and the treasure that surrounds it, but to entertain the promise of such a discovery, to dream of it…it is what our weary, war-ravaged people need. To know the goddesses existed…that they were real. That true goodness exists, Hadley. “Gods know this galaxy could use some goodness right now. It starts with us. We can’t find what we don’t know ourselves.”

  She redoubled her commitment to complete the mission without incident. She would not fail Zaafran. She would not fail this galaxy.

  BORROWED TIME DROPPED to a landing on the odd little world of Issenda. It was lumpy and small, warmed between two suns, one as primary and the other distant, never letting night engulf the world fully. Wren’s deteriorating glasses made seeing the new world around her difficult. It smelled fresh, unlike Zorabeta, and the air was still and temperate. The gravity was lighter here, making her feel as if she could run and leap great distances. There was no time to test her theory. They had to load up on supplies, see a doctor and leave. If they didn’t, the Triad expedition would beat them to Ara Ana. Mission: Origins. She’d not be able to complete her promise to Sabra.

  Wren, like the others, was dressed as a simple trader. Disguising herself as a priestess when amongst them was not a good idea, they’d agreed. Hefting her gun in her hand, she marched down the gangway, the gravity making her feel a bit dizzy. Aral caught up to her. “Slow down,” he said.

  “I’m nervous.”

  “This place is about as safe as we’re going to get. We took every precaution.”

  “About my eyes.” She adjusted her glasses, squinting up at him. “I’ve never seen how everyone else sees.”

  “That will be a wonderful thing—to be able to see well for the first time. Or are you afraid to know what I really look like? Perhaps my looks will frighten you away.”

  He actually made her smile. Then her doubts returned. “Will sight give me too much power? Is my vision all that’s holding me back from becoming like the warlord?”

  “Your heart is good and pure. That’s what keeps you from becoming your father.”

  “You see what you want to see.” She couldn’t look at him. His eyes would have that tender look she wasn’t sure she deserved. She didn’t know herself well enough yet. “I know what’s inside,” she insisted, softer. “And I will keep it from hurting anyone else.”

  “I know your heart,” Aral argued. “And I will keep anyone from hurting you.”

  The others commented on the beauty of the surroundings. If she squinted hard enough, Wren could make out a lavender sky, red, conical peaks that reminded her of the castles she used to build with dribbled sand at the lakeshore as a girl. Some of the red hills wore tufts of trees like funny, feathered hats.

  “Twilight here is downright eerie,” Vantos said.

  “Why?” Wren found the landscape interesting but not frightening. It was then she noticed the shadows across the parched ground: long, dark ones, crisscrossed with fainter ones at an angle. “The shadows look like fingers.”

  Kaz agreed. “Like light passing through someone’s hands.”

  “In prayer.” Vantos laced his hands together. “The heavenly mother Herself prays over Issenda, keeping watch. That’s what the sisters here say.”

  “Is that what you found so eerie, Vantos?” Kaz asked.

  “Hells yeah. I was a mixed-up seventeen-year-old boy, and not religious at all. I was terrified thinking the heavens were keeping an eye on me. I behaved while I was here—I had to. It settled me down enough to find a job when I left and actually hold on to it.” He whispered. “I’m kind of glad they won’t remember me.”

  Two priestesses waited at the gates to the sanctuary, a vast area of reddish, mud-colored conical huts, squashed versions of the hills. A lively market promised a source of supplies. Incense sweetened the still air. The sisters didn’t resemble the ones she’d seen everywhere else. The Order of the Hand of Sakkara, they wore body-hugging robes. Strong and athletic, they flexed arms that were bare from the shoulder down, their skin covered in henna tattooing. One woman had blond hair, thick and unadorned, reaching to the backs of her knees. The other was dark, her skin tone almost too de
ep for the henna to show, with equally long and curly dark brown hair. Except for long hair allowed to fall free from under silken wrappings, their heads and their faces from the nose down were wrapped in the same silk as their robes, allowing only a view of their eyes, ageless and serene, like the priestess she’d seen on Zorabeta. Nothing would seem to unsettle these women. They were eternally calm. Several times Wren had felt that kind of calm steal over her. Then her inherited temper would run roughshod over it.

  “Your instruments of war, please. Place them here. We will watch over them as we do all such items.” The blond priestess waved at a polished, flat rock. Vantos had already told them to expect to be disarmed.

  Wren had gone from never wanting to touch a weapon to not wanting to let it go. The vulnerability made her stomach ache. Aral pressed reassuring fingers on the small of her back.

  “Blessed are all who enter here,” the darker priestess said, allowing them to pass while her partner observed them. “Welcome back, Vartekeir.”

  The runner almost stumbled. Her dark eyes crinkled, suggesting a smile. “We remember all,” she said without him having to ask the question. The sister’s gaze shifted to Wren, lingering on her long enough to spark alarm. Then she greeted her with a pointed nod and waved their group past.

  “She acted as if she’s seen me before.” Pushing on her glasses, Wren stared over her shoulder until Aral yanked on her arm, tugging her forward. She felt for the pendant snug beneath her bra band and made sure it wasn’t showing.

  As “godless Drakken,” she, Kaz and Aral couldn’t be expected to know of Ara Ana, the mythical birthplace of the goddesses. Vantos had been raised with almost as little factual knowledge of religion. “Soldiers prayed twice,” he’d explained. “When going into battle and when coming out, first to plead for survival and second to give thanks for it.”

  Wren took in the sanctuary of Issenda with wonder. The priestesses looked like goddesses themselves, fit and strong. In one area, she saw several women training with long sticks, trying to knock each other off an elevated log. Others practiced martial arts. All of it under the strange shadows. The praying hands.

  Sabra would have fit right in. She’d have been so happy here. But her duty to Wren and the warlord never would have allowed it. She’d sacrificed for Wren. She’d died protecting her. The Triad expedition would not keep Wren from fulfilling her vow to Sabra. The Triad would not keep her from atoning for her family’s misdeeds. Misdeeds on a grand, almost unimaginable scale.

  Kaz and Vantos went to the market to gather provisions for the next leg of their journey. Aral accompanied Wren to the sanctuary’s hospital. The closer she got, the more slowly she walked. “It will give you more control, not less,” he tried to convince her as they neared the large hut.

  They kneeled at the bowl where they were to leave their “gifts,” an indirect payment for the procedure. To Aral’s funds, Wren added one of the pouches of gems she’d brought all the way from Barokk. It was far more than needed, but not to Wren. Nothing would ever make up for the killings ordered by the warlord, but every small bit helped. Wren kept her gaze trained respectfully on the ground the entire way into the room where the procedure would be performed.

  A short, well-swathed sister attendant escorted them to a small, clean room. Like the others here, she used few words, speaking only when necessary.

  “She’s a bit nervous, Doctor,” Aral said as the healer examined Wren’s eyes.

  “It’s a simple procedure. It won’t take long.”

  “What are the risks?”

  “Virtually none. The nanomeds are engineered to reform the lens. If the eye itself was damaged, perhaps then I couldn’t offer such an optimistic prognosis, but her eyes are healthy, only the lenses malformed.” She smiled at Wren. “You’ll be able to see for light years in just a few moments.”

  “A hundred paces would suit me fine.”

  Aral clasped her hand. Easy.

  The doctor applied the nano-drops. Tingling and itching began as the specifically programmed and targeted meds went to work, knitting, stretching and healing. Her eyes watered and stung.

  Aral’s hand tightened over hers. “Does it hurt?”

  “It feels like pinpricks.”

  “The sensation will soon go away,” the doctor said, and handed Aral a towel to help wipe the tears. “Blink. Keep blinking. Now dry your eyes and keep them closed until I return.” She patted Wren on the hand and stood, addressing Aral. “Make sure she does.”

  “I will.”

  They were left alone in the quiet room, an ex-battlelord and the daughter of his former leader in the care of a deeply religious sect. It seemed surreal. “I used to think my father was a powerful man and respected across the galaxy,” she said quietly. “I thought he did what he had to in order to keep the empire strong and free of religious fanatics who wanted to tear down our civilization. I figured some might not care for him because of that, but he was a good and fair leader.” Even now, a tiny part of her held out hope that Aral would agree and dismiss all that she’d heard to the contrary as jealous gossip. All the wickedness she’d begun to suspect in herself would go up in smoke.

  “A good and fair leader? Is that what they told you on Barokk?” He made a disdainful sound in his throat.

  “I worshipped him.” And it mortified her now. “I was never able to live up to his expectations.”

  “Be glad, Awrenkka. Be proud that you’re not someone whose actions he’d admire. And that you never had to dirty your own hands in his demise.” He paused. “The Triad wasn’t responsible for Karbon’s capture. I was. I tracked him down and handed him over to the high command.”

  He said it matter-of-factly, but it didn’t quite hide his struggle with what he’d done. What he’d had to do. She squeezed his hand. “I heard the queen killed my father. Queen Keira. She’s my age. Can you imagine how mortified he must have been? I’m not sure how much thought he ever gave to his death, but if I had to guess, he’d have wanted it at the hands of a real warrior. Like you, Aral.”

  Aral cleared his throat. “Neither man died at my hand.” She heard him twisting the towel in his hands. Her pulse skittered nervously. “But because of it.”

  His voice was thick with sorrow, and even shame. Her throat began to ache. “It was you,” she said. Fates. “You were behind the coup. You let the prince pass through the perimeter.”

  She pulled the towel off her eyes. He pressed it back in place. “Keep it on, Awrenkka.”

  So he was back to calling her by her birth name. “Because of your actions, my father was killed.”

  “Yes.”

  A chill rippled through her.

  He saw to the warlord’s death, then married his daughter.

  Hero or murderer?

  Or traitor? Until Karbon’s escape, Aral Mawndarr was the last battlelord standing. He’d wiped out every last one of his kind.

  Her stomach ached. Blind, she gripped Aral’s hands with her shaking ones and thought back to the day they’d first laid eyes on each other. It had been the briefest of exchanges, but it had affected both their lives. She’d seen a lost boy, not a man capable of brutal violence. What in fate’s name had happened in between that day and now?

  “I did it for you. I did it for us all. Despise me if you will, but I don’t regret bringing down this empire. I don’t know what our civilization started out as, but in the end it was rotten, rotten to the core. Evil beyond redemption. Just as my father was. Karbon.” The name made him shudder with revulsion. “He was a monster of the same ilk as the warlord…with one difference. Your father practiced his cruelties on those outside his family. Not so Karbon. In fact, he seemed to derive the most pleasure in torturing those closest to him.”

  She moved to take off the towel again. “No.” He pulled her hand away. “Keep your eyes closed.” He pushed to his feet. “One day, he raped and murdered our schoolteacher, if only because Bolivarr and I loved her.”

  “Aral…” His name spilled ou
t on a horrified gasp.

  “I tried to save her, and he…” She heard his breath hitch. “He…”

  “No.” She lurched out of the chair. Eyes closed, she found him, letting him crush her into his arms. “I don’t need to know more.”

  He took a shuddering breath. “Between the drugs and the beating, I couldn’t be revived right away. I nearly died. When I did regain consciousness, he was gone. He stayed away for a year. It was the longest period of time he remained on assignment. It coincided with some of the Coalition’s worst defeats, the bloodiest campaigns. But that day I woke, I made the decision to stop him, to end him. I set out to punish him like he punished us. His family meant nothing to him. His status, his power, his empire did.

  “I was on guard the day the warlord and your half brother died. I’d been passing intelligence all along, for years. I knew the Coalition prince was desperate to rescue his wife, the queen, from their clutches. I allowed the prince’s ship through the perimeter. I did this, and I acted alone. I knew where the battlelords had run to hide. I gave their locations to Zaafran. Every last one.”

  Wren clung to him as tears ran down her cheeks, some from the meds, some that were real. Aral Mawndarr had singlehandedly brought the empire to its knees, a civilization tens of thousands of years old. Thinking that she didn’t know her husband very well had become a gross understatement.

  “The warlord blamed blindly, punishing others for the losses no one could explain. Battlelords were executed on his orders for the so-called lapses that I caused. Sadistic men, their passing didn’t sadden me in the least. I used the opportunity to befriend the warlord.”

  “My father,” she whispered, knowing now where he’d go with this.

  “I became a favorite. I was a frequent guest in the palace. I advised him. I made him laugh. He thought he’d befriended me as much as the man was capable of having a friend.” His voice dropped lower as he slid a hand over her damp cheek, cupping her face. Fates, if only she could open her eyes to see what was in his. “I could have committed my treason without becoming the warlord’s confidant. Easily. But there was more I wanted. There was a reason for my madness.”