In sudden meekness, Celys turned about and they returned to the main chamber, where the assembled female followers of the mysterious All-Mother still sang in weary voices.
Gan asked: “Isn’t there any place where you study; any classrooms, laboratories, workshops where you teach crafts? Is there nothing but sleeping and praying rooms in the whole place?”
Celys’ voice seemed to catch in her throat as she said: “Not…not in the holy temple, Captain. In the schools, which lie without the temple walls, and in other places, are such things taught. Here we teach the Word of the All-Mother only.”
“Hmmph!” Gan grunted, and turning on his heel, left her, calling over his shoulder, “Goodnight, Mother.”
He was a little surprised that she only returned silence.
CHAPTER SEVEN
WITH THE morning sun Tor Branthak came, at the head of two-score gorgeously uniformed personal guards, to “check the temple for resistance”. He greeted Celys where she waited at the center of the great doorway into the shrine of the All-Mother. The Regent knew very well that no male was allowed to cross the white line upon pain of Myrmi-Atla’s infinite anger. So he strode across and, into the very center of the clustered young priestesses, smilingly eyeing them right and left as if measuring them for girdles. Celys pursued him with horrified face, catching up with him as he turned in wonder that no common soldier of his guard had followed him into the ancient shrine.
“It is forbidden! You intrude!” Celys was crying out, over and over, as if the words were a ritual. Her repeated cry at last angered the Regent.
“Young woman, it is the custom to address me as ‘Your Majesty’, as I am the virtual emperor of all the might of Konapar, and lately of Phira also. But of course, you being a woman, you could not be expected to recognize any authority but your own willfulness. Or can you?”
Celys stood frozen, shock overcoming her at meeting the one being she had most dreaded to meet since the first hostilities. Tor Branthak went on speaking.
“Well, well, my charming priestess, had I known there were such attractive morsels of femininity here, I should have arrived much sooner. Somehow I had expected the Matriarch’s intimates to be much older and much uglier than you. Now, dear lady, could you direct me to the creature in charge of this antiquated pile of obsolete masonry?”
Celys’ shock was turning into anger at his disrespect for all things Phiran and she found herself unable to answer. The Regent prodded her. “Come, come—someone looks after all these god-addled female wits, do they not? Where would I find such a one, or have her tasks overcome her mind, too?”
Celys drew herself up, anger and pride and humiliation all mingled in her voice. “I am known as the Supreme Matriarch, Your Majesty. You must forgive my not knowing who you were. I had no warning you would arrive at this time.”
The Regent snorted. “You have had warning enough, woman. When the fleet settled down over Alid yesterday, you might know the temple would be visited today. But, you look so very young for such a high position. Tell me, what is your age?”
Celys remained silent, smiling aloofly, as if she had not heard his question. The Regent eyed her, his black eyes snapping with suppressed anger, his fingers clamped on the hilt of his decorative sword at his waist.
“You must know, if you are a Supreme Matriarch, something of the legend of longevity that is commonly related about you. In the records of Phiran events, there has been a certain Celys in office for some two hundred years. I want to know if you are that woman, or some other?”
Celys’ voice was low and calm now, and her eyes veiled as if she recited words from memory. “My name is Celys, it is true, but that is a ritual name. All Supreme Matriarchs take the name of Celys. It is but custom. I have not been in office for so very long.”
The Regent pushed his face forward almost into hers. “Just how long, and what is your real name? Answer me! You were the Supreme Matriarch forty years ago; I have that from several eyewitnesses who recognized you. I want to know what is the secret of your perpetual youth?”
“There is no secret, your Highness, believe me. We of Phira come of a long-lived stock. There are, the shorter-lived breeds scattered among us, so that our life spans vary from the so-called norm to three and four times the normal. That is all of the secret, and it will do no good to question me, for I can tell you no more than the truth.”
GAN ALAIN, who had been awakened by his orderly, hurried up, buckling his belt, tugging his leather corselet straight. He hesitated at the forbidden white line, then grinned and strode across as the assembled young virgins glared at this repeated desecration. Gan’s words were still slow with sleep.
“How went affairs in the city overnight, Commander?”
The Tor turned from his intent regard of the Matriarch’s masklike white, face and smiled broadly at Gan. His answer came with a chuckle: “The householders of Alid put up a spirited resistance, Captain, but aside from several flurries of armed resistance, all went well. The women resented our masculinity vigorously, and they repeatedly attempted to put our warriors in their place—namely out of doors. But all in all, love won, and the militancy of the female population seems much abated today.”
Gan grinned, realizing that it must have been quite a night for all concerned, and looking at Celys’ white and furious face, at her jaws clamped on the furious rhetoric she would like to have used, he burst out laughing.
“That’s capital news, Your Highness. It would have been too bad to have been forced to fight. The women of Phira are too pretty to kill. And the men do not fight, it seems.”
Tor Branthak turned back to the Matriarch. “You say there is no secret? I would like more in that vein.”
Celys composed herself with an effort, forcing her words into a semblance of civility. “It is just that you are unacquainted with the teachings of the All-Mother. Everyone who worships in our shrines; all over Phira and over some ten other planets, knows that the principle figures of the Matriarchate are supposed to be immortal. Few believe it, accepting it only as a pleasant fiction, a survival from a more ignorant time. As I have told you, the truth is we come of long-lived blood lines, and our offices are hereditary.”
The Regent snorted again, his eyes cold now, his face no longer smiling, but with a black look like a gathering storm: “So it is a pleasant fiction? As it happens, my dear no-longer Supreme Matriarch, I have the records of the Matriarchy in my possession. Those worn books give rather intimate details of the inner workings of your fantastically powerful organization, reaching back some eight centuries. I know the truth, Celys. Why do you think I risked my life, my position and the honor of the Empire of Konapar in this war? I want that information!”
Celys’ sudden laugh was superb acting. It was scornful of the Regent’s ignorance and credulity. It rang with merriment at the impossibly devastating results of one man’s simple-minded belief in the impossible. It rang all through the gamut of ridicule, and as she laughed, the Regent’s face paled, his eyes grew stormy and filled with a terrible anger, his ruddy cheeks sagged into murderous lines.
Celys, glancing into his eyes, paled suddenly and her laugh choked in her throat. She put out a hand as if to hold back the death she saw in his face. Her words were hurried and frightened.
“Of course the fiction is kept upon the books, Your Highness. Our people believe in their goddess and her infinite powers. They believe in us, her immortal representatives. But surely a worldly man like you, who know the religions of a dozen sun-systems, must understand such anachronisms in all mysticism? It is an ancient religion, this worship of the All-Mother, surviving from a dark past, kept up because of the simple natures of our more lowly supporters. Surely you can’t believe…”
GAN ALAIN looked at her in open admiration. She was gambling her life upon her ability to lie, and doing a superb job—or else he was a fool, and the Regent a bigger one. Gan rubbed his chin, bristly with the early-rising kinks that only a brush would remove, and eyed the Tor quiz
zically.
Tor Branthak’s eyes narrowed. He studied the woman’s pale, exquisite countenance for a long half-minute. Then he growled: “You will submit proofs of the deaths of your predecessors, the dates, and show my men their graves. And you will do the same for every other supposedly immortal member of your female conspiracy against the natural dominance of mankind over womankind. That means I want proof of births and dates and no trumped-up forged papers will serve. You’ll either prove what you have just said, and that soon, my yellow-eyed beauty, or I’ll have the truth out of you with hot pincers. No woman can sport two hundred years as if they were but twenty-five and keep the method secret from all other human beings—not while Tor Branthak has a will and a way. Now get out of my sight, before I order worse to happen to you.”
The Tor’s black eyes burned into hers with an intensity that left her no doubt as to his sincerity. She put a hand to her face, and seemed about to falter, her knees bending with the effect of his anger upon her, then she turned slowly and moved away, weaving slightly with a sudden weakness. The hearts of both men went out to her, then they caught each other’s eyes and the signs of sympathy upon each face, and suddenly both burst out laughing at allowing a woman’s pretense of weakness to disarm them.
“A damned fine actress,” murmured the Regent.
“A very experienced one, at the least, Tor Branthak,” muttered Gan Alain in reply. “But are we mere mortals strong enough to put our threats into force? Will she not cozen you some way into believing that it takes no special equipment to outlive others until you tire of life? Could you actually put a hot iron to that lovely flesh?”
Tor Branthak’s face grew dark again, and the sympathy disappeared. “I can and I will, Captain! But first you will try every other method that may occur to you, for I must confess I admire the woman too much to want to kill her. But know the truth we shall before too long, and you can place your money on that.”
Then the Regent spun on his heel and left, his boots ringing metallically on the stone pave, the virgin priestesses watching him go with horror in their soft young eyes.
Gan moved off in the wake of the vanishing figure of Celys, determined to spend as much time as possible with her, and to leave no stone unturned that might save her from a position that might actually be as she said—a mere relic from the dark past, an ancient artifice that was kept alive to fill the coffers of the temple.
Gan caught up with her where she stood alone in a corridor, leaning with one hand against the wall as if she had no strength to go further. It was in fact the first time in her life that she had been face to face with the threat of torture; and as she looked up from her reverie to find the scarred, bronzed visage of Gan Alain beside her, the reality of the horror that might be visited upon her found ample substantiation in his grim eyes. For Gan felt that if these women did conceal such a secret behind the facade of religious mummery, no fate was too evil for them.
NEITHER of them spoke, but they measured each other with intent eyes, looking for the hidden things behind, and finding in each other much of deep interest and attraction. The silence and the deep regard became embarrassing as there slowly flamed between them the inevitable fascination of vitality, which each possessed in so great a measure. Gan was looking for some slight evidence of a continued effort toward masquerade, toward the false drama he felt she knew could be her only defense. And he found that evidence, for he knew enough of women to know that the next card she would play would be her sex.
She came to him, as if drawn irresistibly, and she did it perfectly, her hair a pale glory about her glowing, brilliant eyes in the dimness, her body soft and warm beneath the soft robe of diaphanous green, her eyes grown heavy and sweet as if with sleep. His arms went about her, and their lips halted but inches from the other’s, parted and anticipating the thrill to come, hers seemingly heavy with unspoken questions that could be answered in but one way.
Then Gan crushed her to him and drank deep of her scarlet mouth. Her, hands pressed him back ineffectually, then beat upon his chest, then suddenly relaxed and she became a limp weight in his arms. He released her, but she sagged downward and would have fallen had he not embraced her again. It was not until the weight in his arms told him that he had forgotten his strength and nearly crushed her that he felt remorse, and even then he was not sure but that it was only more acting. It was the logical next move, to play the part of an innocent virgin who faints at a kiss…but then these people of Phira could not have the strength that was his, their planet being but a third the weight of his own birthplace.
Long minutes later she raised her head and opened her eyes on his. She sighed. “Your arms are like steel bands. You can’t be human!”
Gan was convinced. It had been an honest kiss, and his strength had caused unconsciousness. He determined to act as she would have expected had she been successful in deceiving him. He murmured: “I’ve been wanting to do that since I first saw you. Looking so sad and frightened, you were irresistible. Forgive me.”
She released herself and her round, lovely arms raised, straightened her hair, the while she kept her evil eyes on his, soberly measuring him still again.
Just then a tiny form came racing up the corridor, flung itself against Gan bodily, embracing him, sobbing in unashamed delight. “Oh Captain Gan, they kept me locked up. I couldn’t get back to you. Don’t let them whip me again.”
IT WAS little Elvir, dressed now in the simple yellow tunic of the temple slaves, which left her pretty legs exposed to the thighs, but covered the rest of her very modestly. Gan dropped an amazed hand to her curls, then, as astonishment over her sudden appearance abated, her words soaked into his somewhat bemused mind. He started in anger.
“And have you been whipped, little one?” he asked, his voice taking on the undertones of the angry bellow of which his crew lived in dread. “Tell me who did it, and why?”
Elvir, seeing the telltale flushed cheeks and heavy eyes of Celys, suddenly remembered her original errand into the temple, and her wits began to whir in double time.
“They wouldn’t believe that I’m off the Warspear, and they shut me up with their slaves. Yesterday they whipped me for lying to them. I hate the priestesses, and I hate their old temple and the whole mess of lies they tell, too. I didn’t lie; they did!”
Alain looked at Celys, wrath gathering in his eyes. “Was it you had Elvir whipped, dear lady?”
Celys, feeling that every possible avenue of reasonable relationships with these conquerors was inexorably closing before her, only saw one more obstacle arising in this silly child’s words. Her neck stiffened, her eyes flashed.
“She bears the temple mark on her arm. So far as I am concerned, she belongs to Myrmi-Atla, and may be whipped if the priestesses desire.”
“She happens to be my personal property,” scowled Gan. “You will henceforth allow her the liberty of the temple and of the city. Do you understand, or must there be more words about the matter?”
Celys nodded slowly, not trusting herself to speak, but her eyes upon little Elvir’s were pale as ice. She had had no idea it could be so terribly difficult to be in a subordinate position. Little things mattered so, suddenly. This was going to take masterly control, infinite tact and patience—and she had so little experience in the use of either.
Feeling that her days of liberty were numbered, she became suddenly frightened and whirled and took flight from this terrible bronzed man of space, hastening down the interminable corridor with undignified strides. Gan watched her go, then strode off to check his guards and to search the temple and the nearby “schools” for more concrete evidence of the Matriarch’s secret pursuits. At his heels tripped Elvir, her heart full of glee that Gan and the “old” chieftainess of the stuck-up priestesses weren’t hitting it off.
CHAPTER EIGHT
DAYS LATER, with the Regent increasingly impatient, Gan’s search led him into the subterranean maze of passages beneath the ancient temple. Alone, with nothing in his han
ds but a flash for light, he was startled by a cry of pain ahead, for he had supposed these forgotten chambers to be empty of all life.
He put out his light, raced ahead on silent feet, guiding himself with a palm against the damp stone wall. A glow of light coming from several openings ahead brought him to a halt. He moved forward more cautiously, peering at last through a grille of ornamental iron, rusted almost away.
The scene before him was startling. There were a dozen of the warrior maids in shining harness, looking like Valkyries with their folded shoulder glide wings. They had opened a concealed trap in the floor and were lowering some bulky mechanical device through it with the aid of ropes.
Gan could not make a move for fear of detection. They were armed and he was alone. He stood motionless and silent, but minutes ticked by and still they struggled with the weight, which seemed too large for the opening. He noted one of the girls had blood on her hand. Obviously the one who had cried out in pain.
He began a slow retreat, trying to steal away as unnoticed as he had come, only to have his holstered gun strike the wall with a loud thump.
He gave up all caution with the sound and sprinted off, flashing his light ahead for a glimpse of the corridor wall along which he had approached. But, unseen by him, one of the elder Matriarchs had been standing guard at a doorway near the window he had peered through. This officer, leader of the squad of war-maidens, darted out into the center of the corridor, saw his form outlined in his own momentary flash of light.
She fired, and her pellet blasted the pavement from under Gan’s flying feet. He took a running dive into a doorway and brought up in the darkness with his head rammed against a soft, cowering form, which whimpered with pain at his impact. He clamped hard hands about a throat and might have hurt her, but instead he relaxed his grip and asked:
Empire of Women & One of our Cities is Missing (Armchair Fiction Double Novels Book 25) Page 4
