Empire - 03 - Mistress Of The Empire

by Raymond E. Feist

  Pug's face split into a grin. He moved away from her side, almost boyish in his delight. 'You are further along in unraveling the great mystery than I would have thought.' His expression returned to a neutral mask as he finished, 'Those within the Empire who might wish to be your allies are prevented. No, you must seek outside the Nations.'

  'Where?' Mara pressed. 'The Kingdom of the Isles?' But at once she knew the lead she suggested was a false hope. Already, she spoke with the most powerful man from beyond the rift.

  Pug stretched his arms out, letting the sleeves of his brown robe fall away. Obliquely he said, 'Did you know my wife was Thuril? Interesting place, the highlands. You should visit them sometime. Give my regards to your husband.'

  With no further word, he raised his hands above his head and vanished. The inrush of air into the space he had occupied filled the silence, while the chamber dimmed into the darkness of coming night.

  Mara sighed and opened the door. Blinking against the sudden dazzle of lamplight, she saw Saric and Lujan awaiting her. To her adviser and her officer she said, 'Nothing has changed. We begin our pilgrimage tomorrow.'

  Saric's eyes lit with excitement. After a glance to be sure no servants lurked within earshot, he whispered, 'We go beyond Lepala?'

  Mara bit back an answering smile, careful not to show more enthusiasm than a pious journey might warrant; though she, too, was excited and curious at the prospect of crossing the borders into unknown lands. 'By fastest ship. But we must visit the temples before we travel east. If we are to gain by our visit to Thuril, we must be circumspect in our departure.'

  The preparations left to be made before dawn demanded attention, and Lujan and Saric took leave of their mistress to attend them. As they departed, alike in their movements as only blood kin could be, Mara looked after them and sighed. The house seemed empty and quiet without the children. Regretting she had lost her chance to bid them a proper farewell, she moved in the direction of the stair, and her study, where the servants would be bringing her evening meal. First light would not come soon enough to soothe her unsettled nerves. Now that her path was clear, she was anxious to be away.

  She could not surmise what lay in store for her across the border in the lands of a people who had been enemies of the Empire through years of wars and skirmishes. The treaty that bound the current peace was an uneasy one; the highlanders of the confederation were quick to offend and belligerent by nature. But the most powerful magician of two worlds had circumspectly encouraged her exploration. If nothing else, Mara sensed that he, alone of any, fully understood the stakes. More, he knew the terrible scope of the perils she needed to surmount.

  As she moved past bowing servants, toward the comfort of her quarters, she wondered what Pug's appraisal of her chances at success might have been. Then she had second thoughts, and decided she was wise not to have asked. If the barbarian magician had answered at all, his words would surely have taken the heart from her.

  * * *

  The priest shouted. Echoes reverberated off the massive vaults of the temple ceiling, which towered above carved wooden pillars and buttresses. The assembled circle of red-robed acolytes answered in ritual chant, and a rare metal chime sounded to signal the ending of the morning ceremony. Mara waited quietly in shadow at the rear of the chamber, her honor guard surrounding her, and her First Adviser at her side. Saric looked absorbed in thoughts far removed from religion. His fingers tapped a tattoo on the corcara-shell bosses on his belt, and his hair looked rumpled, as if he had raked his fingers through his bangs in impatience. While none of her warriors disclosed any sign of discomfort, their stiff postures indicated that they were less able to turn their minds to other matters while in the Red God's sacred precinct. Most of them offered inward prayers to the Deities of luck and fortune that their final meeting with the Death God would be long in coming.

  And in truth, Mara thought, the Temple of Turakamu was not a place designed for comfort. An ancient altar, once the site of human sacrifice — and still such, rumor ran — squatted on the raised platform at the chamber's center. Stone benches surrounded the site, worn by the feet of many worshippers, and grooved with drains that led to recessed basins at the feet of statues that were centuries old, their surfaces smoothed and stained by the touch of generations of hands. The walls behind their niches were painted with human skeletons, demons, and demigods with multiple legs and arms. The figures writhed or danced in postures of ecstasy; despite their grotesque aspect, they reminded Mara of other icons and paintings that adorned the House of Fruitfulness, one of the many shrines of Lashima, visited by women who prayed for conception. Yet while Turakamu's temple depicted no sexual overtones, there was a sybaritic quality to the murals, as if those hideous intertwined figures were celebrating, not suffering.

  Awaiting her audience, Mara considered that while the Red God's priests were frightening, in conversation they insisted that as all people meet their end at the feet of Turakamu, death was a fate, not to avoid, but rather to be accepted with understanding.

  The circle of acolytes reformed into a double column, wreathed in the twining smokes of incense. Mara saw the caped figure at the head of the procession pause to address a supplicant who begged the god's mercy for one recently departed. A writ crusted with seals changed hands; most likely a draft from the family offering a generous contribution to the temple if its bequest was answered. As the paintings farthest from the sacrificial altar showed, humans with beatific expressions bowed before the Red God's throne to hear divine decision concerning rebirth into life, their next station on the Wheel designated by the balance of their debts against honor. The recently departed, it was believed, could be enhanced in the eyes of the Red God through prayer, and while the poor came on foot to make obeisance and light cheap clay lamps, the rich came in litters bearing lavish sums for private temple rites.

  Mara wondered whether such practices influenced Turakamu, or were the encouragement of earthly priests who desired rubies for their mantles, and comforts for their refectories and sleeping cells. Certainly the massive gold tripods that supported the lamps by the altar amounted to the wealth of a kingdom. Although each temple of the Twenty Gods had costly trappings, few were as sumptuously appointed as the smallest ones dedicated to Turakamu.

  A voice roused Mara from reverie. 'Good Servant, you honor us.' The procession of acolytes had reached the rear door, and was filing slowly out, but the High Priest in attendance had stepped out of the column and approached the Acoma retinue. Under his paint and his feathered cape, he was a man of medium stature, aging, but bright of eye. Up close, it was apparent that he was taken aback, and his nervous hands moved up and down the bone wand with its skull bosses that he had flourished during the rites. 'I knew you were going on pilgrimage, Lady Mara, but I had presumed you would visit the great shrine in the Holy City, not our humbler abode in Sulan-Qu. Certainly I did not prepare for the honor of a personal visit.'

  Mara bowed slightly to the High Priest of Turakamu. 'I've no wish to stand upon ceremony. And in truth, my trip here is for reasons other than plain devotion. Rather, I have need of your counsel.'

  The High Priest's brows rose in surprise and disappeared under the chin of the skull mask he wore, perched on the crown of his head now that the ceremony was ended. He was not stripped nude and stained in red body paint, as was customary for rites performed outside sacred ground. But his hair was braided with relics that looked like bits of dismembered birds, and the accoutrements visible beneath his cape of scarlet feathers seemed even less inviting. As if aware that his formal dress was not conducive to interviews, he passed his wand to the boy acolyte who waited in his shadow, and doffed his robe. The cross-belts on which his relics hung were of ancient design, and two other attendants rushed forward and removed them from his shoulders with reverent care. They bore the regalia off, chanting, to its place in locked closets hidden away in a warren of passageways.

  Left in a simple loincloth, his eyes still striped with paint from
the ceremony, the priest seemed suddenly younger. 'Come,' he invited Mara. 'Let us retire to more comfortable surroundings. Your honor guard may come along, or they may await your pleasure in the garden inside the gates. It is shady there, and a water boy will answer their needs for refreshment.'

  Mara waved Lujan and Saric to her side, and indicated that the rest of her retinue might retire. None of the warriors looked relieved, but their steps were animated as they wheeled in formation and headed for the doorway to the outer garden. Men in martial professions were never comfortable with Turakamu's followers. Superstition held that a soldier who spent too much time in devotion to the Red God risked attracting that deity's favor; and those whom Turakamu came to love, would be taken in their youth from the battlefield.

  The High Priest led the way through a small side doorway into a dim corridor. 'When not in formal guise, I am called Father Jadaha, Good Servant.'

  Half smiling at his formality, the Lady replied, 'Mara will do, Father.'

  She was ushered into austere quarters with walls of unadorned paneling, and unpainted screens. The prayer mats were dyed red, for the glory of the god, but those used for sitting were woven of natural fiber. Mara was shown to the plumpest of a poor lot of cushions, threadbare with use, but clean. She allowed Lujan to seat her, and offered a hasty inward prayer for Turakamu's forgiveness. Her thoughts had been wrong; plainly, in the temple the Sulan-Qu priests used the moneys given by petitioning families only to adorn those chambers dedicated to their god. Once Lujan and Saric had placed themselves at their mistress's side, the High Priest sent his servant for refreshments. A body servant with a bad scar and one eye saw to the removal of his ceremonial paint, and brought him a white robe with red borders. Then, over a tray of chocha and small cakes, the High Priest addressed his visitor. 'Mara, what service may the Temple of Turakamu offer you?'

  'I am not certain, Father Jadaha.' Mara helped herself to a square of sweet cake out of politeness. While Saric poured her chocha, she added, 'I seek knowledge.'

  The priest returned a gesture of blessing. 'What poor resources we have are yours.'

  Mara let her surprise show, for his quick acceptance was unexpected. 'You are very generous, Father. But I humbly submit, you might wish to hear of my needs before you make sweeping promises.'

  The High Priest smiled. His one-eyed servant retired with evident respect, and given a view of a face cleansed of paint, Mara saw that the chief devotee of the Death God was a pleasant older man. Slender and fit, he had a scribe's beautiful hands, and his eyes sparkled with intelligence. 'What should I fear in making promises, Lady Mara? You have shown your mettle in your great service to the Empire. I much doubt your motives now are selfish at heart; not after the behavior you demonstrated after the demise of House Minwanabi. More than generous, your actions were . . . unprecedented. Not only did you observe correct forms in removing the prayer gate Desio erected in dedication to your death, you selflessly made sure that no dishonor was implied to the temple in asking the prayer gate to be relocated off your lands. It is we priests who are in your debt, for your part in ending the tyranny of the High Council. Once again, our guidance is allowed proper influence over the course of daily life.' The priest gestured ruefully and helped himself to a huge slice of cake. 'Changes in the power structure happen slowly. Those Ruling Lords who resist our influence are close-knit in their opposition. Still, we are making progress.'

  Mara now recalled the words of the delegate from Turakamu's temple who had officiated at the relocation of Desio's prayer gate. At the time, overwhelming emotions had caused her to dismiss the priest's remarks as ingratiating flattery. Only years later, did she appreciate his sincerity. The discovery of support in a place she had not expected bolstered her courage. 'I need to inquire about the nature of magic'

  The High Priest froze with his cup of chocha halfway to his lips. He blinked once, his thoughts distant. Then, as if the Lady's request had been commonplace, he resumed sipping his drink. He allowed the beverage to linger on his palate before he swallowed, perhaps because he wished to buy time for consideration, or, as Saric's wicked insight might infer, to forestall an unseemly fit of choking.

  Whatever his priestly motive, his manner was calm when he set down his cup. 'What would you know of magic?'

  Doggedly Mara pursued the topic, though it was dangerous. 'Why are such powers considered the sole province of the Assembly? For I have seen priests who could wield them.'

  The High Priest regarded the small, determined woman who was acknowledged to be the second most influential figure in the Empire after the Light of Heaven. His eyes held unfathomable shadows, and a coldness not there the moment before. 'The sanctions imposed by the Assembly upon your dispute with Jiro of the Anasati are well known, Mara. If you are seeking to arm yourself against the Black Robes, you embark on a ruinous course.' He did not use the honorific 'Great Ones' and that nuance was not lost upon Mara and her advisers. As with the cho-ja, was it possible the temple hierarchies felt less than enamored of the magicians?

  'Why should you assume that I plot against the Assembly?' Mara asked with impolitic bluntness.

  Father Jadaha seemed unperturbed by her directness. 'My Lady, service to Turakamu leads my kind to know the darker side of human nature. Men long in power do not care to be shown their vulnerabilities. Few demonstrate wisdom when confronted by change and self-recognition. Sadly, many react in defense of positions that have lost their meaning, simply because they fear to see their security undermined, even for growth, even for the betterment of their lives. They resist change simply because it is outside the comfort they know. You represent luck and hope and good fortune to the folk of these nations. You have been their champion, unwittingly or not, because you opposed tyranny and cruelty when you brought about the abolishment of the Warlord's office. You have successfully questioned the long-standing power structure that rules this land. That must be interpreted as challenge, whether you will such or not. You have grown to great heights, and those who see you as their rival have felt your shadow fall across them. Two powers such as the Assembly and the Servant of the Empire cannot exist without conflict. Thousands of years in the past, the Black Robes perhaps earned their place outside the law. But now they interpret their omnipotence as their gods-given right, their sacred honor, if you will. You represent change; and they, the very fabric of tradition. They must defeat you to maintain their ascendance. This is the nature of Tsurani life.'

  Father Jadaha glanced through the screen, cracked open to admit the outside air. The snap of a carter's whip drifted in from the street, overlaid by the cry of a fish monger selling that morning's catch. As if the intrusive sounds of ordinary life set mortal bounds to his thinking, the priest sighed. 'Once we who swore service to the gods held influence and great reach, Mara of the Acoma. Once we were able to encourage our rulers for the betterment of all men, or at least use our influence to curb excessive greed and evil.' He fell silent, his lips thinned with what may have been bitterness. Then he said, 'There is nothing I can offer that will help you against the Assembly. But I have a small gift for your journey.'

  Mara repressed apprehension. 'Journey?' Had her subterfuge been so transparent, that even this High Priest in Sulan-Qu saw through the purpose of her pilgrimage? Stiff-faced, silent, and reminded by a touch from Saric that she must not tip her hand through an assumption, Mara watched the priest arise and cross to an ancient wooden chest.

  'To find what you seek you must travel far, Mara of the Acoma.' He unlocked the catch and raised the lid. 'I believe you already know that.' His incongruously graceful hands rummaged through the contents of the chest. Mara caught a glimpse of parchments, and the ribboned edges of seals, through a puff of disturbed dust. The priest muffled a sneeze in his sleeve. 'Your pardon.' He flapped an ancient treatise to clear the air, then resumed his train of thought. 'The gossip mongers on the streets say you carry enough baggage to return to the sandy wastes of the Lost Lands. Anyone with a shell centi can buy that f
act from them.'

  Mara smiled. She found it difficult to reconcile the priest who had officiated at the morning rites to the most feared god on Kelewan with a man who might buy gossip on the street. Ruefully she said, 'I had hoped to imply that we carried great tribute to offer the temples where I will pause to pay my respects to the Twenty Gods. In truth, though, you are right. My pilgrimage will lead me to board ship and travel downriver to Jamar.'

  The High Priest straightened from the chest, a smear of dust on his nose and a twinkle in his eyes. He held an ancient parchment, cracked and flocked with age. 'I would be a poor counselor for the afflicted if I could not read through subterfuge. But we priests do not see through the eyes of rulers. It is our business to interpret with an eye to understanding.' He offered the document to Mara. 'Read this. It might yield you some insights.'

  Sensitive to the finality in his tone, Mara handed the parchment to Saric to store in his satchel. She pushed aside her cake plate and rose. 'Thank you, Father.'

  The priest held her eyes as Lujan and Saric moved in response to her intention to depart. 'Do you seek answers in the Lost Land, Mara?'

  Wise enough to know when not to be circumspect, Mara said, 'No. We leave from Jamar for Lepala.'

  As if the topic she addressed held nothing more momentous than small talk, the priest waved away a small insect that alit upon the rim of the cake plate; then his hands folded comfortably in his sleeves. 'This is good, daughter of my god. The shamans of the desert are . . . unreliable. Many of them treat with dark powers.'

  Saric could not restrain a small exclamation at this. The priest responded with a chuckle. 'Your First Adviser seems surprised.'

  Mara nodded her permission, and Saric made hasty apology. 'Excuse my apparent disrespect, Father, but most would consider . . . your master a . . . dark power.'