“Never.” He leaned down and kissed her lightly on the lips, then gently brushed her cheek with the back of his fingers. “When I am your consort, no longer will you bear those mourning marks, and never again will you be lonely.”
“That would please me more than you know.” Keel-Tath tried to smile, but it did not reach her eyes. Each morning when she looked in the mirror she saw the marks, the black streaks that ran from her eyes down her cheeks, and each morning she mourned anew for Tara-Khan. She chided herself that he was long gone, that she had to let go, but the heaviness never left her heart. She knew that it was not merely the love between them that had just begun to take root. He had literally become part of her, his soul melded to hers when she had saved him, and since the day of his exile she had been mourning the death of her own soul as much as his. But she fervently hoped that when the war was over and she could fully accept Ka’i-Lohr’s love, and that the wrenching sense of loss, the wrongness, of having lost Tara-Khan would finally fade away.
The massive double doors at the far end of the hall opened. It was Dara-Kol, who knelt and saluted. “I beg your forgiveness for the intrusion, mistress, but the appointed hour has come.”
Keel-Tath let go Ka’i-Lohr’s hand. “And so it has,” she said, setting down the mug he had given her. “Let it be done.”
Saluting and bowing his head, Ka’i-Lohr stepped back and took his place in the first row of many places set out in the hall. Each had a thick pile of animal hides, a large plate of beaten gold, and a matching mug.
Dara-Kol stood ramrod straight to one side of the door as the priests and priestesses entered two by two, their paces in step, in quiet dignity. They were followed by the elders of the robed ones attending the fleet, then all of the shipmistresses, and finally the most senior warriors. Keel-Tath normally dined in privacy or with small groups, and not always with the most high. Many times she had Dara-Kol fetch warriors and robed ones, even the young or the lowly, to sit at her table. Keel-Tath could sense all of her followers in her blood, but she wanted to get to know them, as well. Today, however, was special to her, a day of remembrance.
Once they all had reached their designated places, the attendees stood at attention as Dara-Kol closed the door and then crossed the floor to take her place at Keel-Tath’s right hand. Then, as one, all knelt and saluted Keel-Tath, heads bowed.
Keel-Tath returned the salute. “Be seated,” she said. After the brief rustle of fabric and metal was over as those before her sat on the hides, legs crossed, she continued, “On this day in the year of my birth was my father, Kunan-Lohr, master of the city of Keel-A’ar, cast into its flames by Syr-Nagath. My mother, Ulana-Tath, mistress of the city, died in the act of saving me, putting me in the hands of the Desh-Ka, beyond the reach of Syr-Nagath. All who called Keel-A’ar their home — warriors, robed ones, and children in the creche — perished at her hand, burned alive inside the city walls or hunted down and put to death.” She put a hand on the shoulder of Dara-Kol, who knelt beside her. “All but we two. ” She drew her father’s sword from the sheath on her back and held it out before her in both hands. “On this day, my brothers and sisters, shall we remember our fallen. For they died not solely for glory in battle or to bring honor to themselves or those to whom their honor was bound, but gave their lives for a purpose, for something greater than themselves, for a greater glory than our people have known in many generations.” Lowering the sword to her side, she went on, “They died fighting a great evil, an evil that I am determined to destroy so that the Way might be preserved.”
A rumble of agreement went through the assemblage.
“But today we remember our honored dead.” She ran the blade of the sword across her palm, drawing a bead of blood. “I have already spoken of my father and mother. So many others close to me have perished, so many that I hold dear in my heart. But of one more shall I speak: Ayan-Dar, who died that I might live.”
As one, the hundreds before her raised their voices. “Ayan-Dar.”
Keel-Tath knelt down and Dara-Kol stood. Drawing her dagger, she said, “To the honorless ones, who sheltered me in my darkest hour and saved the life of my mistress.” Then she cut her palm, letting her blood run free.
“The honorless ones,” Keel-Tath said, bowing her head low as she remembered the poor wretches who had rallied behind her in the buried tomb of Anuir-Ruhal’te, the hundreds who had sacrificed themselves for the child of prophecy. A heartbeat later, having absorbed the surprise that the outcasts of their society were to be so honored, the others echoed her words.
Around they went, each of those gathered celebrating the glorious dead. Some remembered their fallen tresh, others the great and mighty warriors who had been slain. Those Keel-Tath found the most touching were the honors given to the robed ones who had fallen in the course of the war. Most of those honors were given by warriors, praising the sacrifices of those they themselves were duty and honor bound to protect.
The eulogies were given in order from the most high to the lowest, and so it was that not long after the last of the elders of the robed ones had spoken was it Ka’i-Lohr’s turn. Getting to his feet, he drew not his dagger, but his sword, placing the blade in his free palm. Looking into Keel-Tath’s eyes, he said, “We have honored the mighty, the humble, the weak who were yet brave, and even those who have fallen from grace. I would honor one whose name has rarely been spoken for some time, but who has never strayed far from my thoughts.” Drawing the glittering blade across his palm, he said, “For Tara-Khan, my tresh, who sacrificed his honor and his life.”
A part of her had hoped beyond hope that someone would mention Tara-Khan, while the rest of her dreaded it, as if the mention of his name would tear open the still weeping wound in her heart. Closing her eyes, feeling the pain of his loss as if it were only yesterday, she raised her voice. “Tara-Khan.”
Dara-Kol and Drakh-Nur echoed, “Tara-Khan.”
A long moment of uncomfortable silence passed before those gathered murmured his name. They spoke it as if it were something vile and despicable, something they felt compelled to say so as not to offend her.
So be it, she thought. Taking a shuddering breath, she opened her eyes and looked at Ka’i-Lohr, who nodded before resuming his seat.
Then it was the turn of the warrior beside him, and the eulogies continued as before.
“Let us keep their names in our hearts,” she said once the last honor had given, “and let their spirits be with us when we drive the sword that is this fleet through the heart of the Dark Queen!”
The hall erupted into a fury of war cries, with warriors getting to their feet and brandishing their weapons. Her eyes caught Ka’i-Lohr’s gaze once more through the shifting mass of warriors and robed ones separating them. He smiled before throwing his head back and howling his bloodlust.
Her own smile froze and her blood turned to ice. For in that instant she saw not the face of Ka’i-Lohr, but that of the Dark Queen.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Tara-Khan stared at the leader of the hunting party, a stout warrior of advanced years, to judge by the length of his braids. He bore no visible scars and carried himself with a haughty demeanor.
“Surrender and I will grant you a painless death,” the leader said. His eyes flicked to Tri’a-Shalun, as if she were barely worthy of his attention. “And you, as well.”
Stepping forward, putting himself between them and Tri’a-Shalun, Tara-Khan told him, “And I would give you this one chance to be on your way and leave us in peace.”
The warriors laughed. “You speak with a bold tongue for one who has fallen from grace,” the leader said. “As you wish.”
He lunged forward with surprising grace, his sword flashing toward Tara-Khan’s neck.
Except that Tara-Khan was no longer there. The warriors of the hunting party let out a collective gasp.
Whirling around, surprised and angry, the warrior found Tara-Khan standing behind him.
“Killing you, all of
you, would bring me no honor,” Tara-Khan said. “Even though I do not wear a collar of honor, I have the powers of a priest of the Desh-Ka. You cannot stand against me.”
“The Desh-Ka are fallen,” the warrior hissed. “The old Way is no more, and I obey only my mistress. Those like you without honor have no place in this life. Nor do those who aid them.”
With a flick of his wrist, the warrior sent a shrekka scything through the air. It took Tri’a-Shalun in the stomach, just below her ribs. The living metal blades tore through her flesh to sever her spine. “Oh,” she gasped as she put her hands to the ghastly wound. Her legs collapsed under her and she crumpled to the ground, her robes pooling around her.
“No!” Tara-Khan cried, shocked that any warrior would commit such an act against a robed one. He turned on the warrior as the bloodlust took him.
Later, he had trouble remembering the carnage that had followed, as if he had fought the bloody battle in a trance. In the end, after what could only have been a few moments, he stood on ground soaked with blood. Those of the hunting party lay around him, dead. Some remained whole, while others were in pieces. He himself was covered with blood, but none of it was his own.
Flicking the crimson from his blade, he returned it to its scabbard and then hurried to Tri’a-Shalun’s side. The wound in her abdomen was like an angry, bleeding mouth. Some of the many scrolls he had read had spoken of healing, but he knew instantly that he could do nothing about it. “I will get you to a healer,” he said, making to pick her up.
Putting a hand on his shoulder, she shook her head and whispered, “No. My fate was sealed the moment I took you to my home, and you must not endanger a healer by asking help for a fugitive. The warriors of the hunting parties show no mercy to those who have displeased the Dark Queen.” Tri’a-Shalun struggled for breath, her face contorting in pain. “But by helping you,” she went on, “I have restored my honor, at least in my own eyes. Let the Books of Time say what they may.”
“The keepers will record your name among the heroes of this age,” he said softly, his heart heavy with sadness.
She smiled at his words. “May thy Way be long and glorious, Tara-Khan.” She closed her eyes, and a moment later her heart stilled.
He gasped and his body shuddered as a strange tingling sensation came over him, as if a cloud of warmth had passed through his flesh. It was a gentle, almost pleasant feeling, and he realized after it had passed that it must have been her spirit as it left her body. Looking up, as if he could see it as it ascended toward the heavens, he whispered, “And may you find your place among the Ancient Ones.”
For the second time since he had emerged from the coliseum of the Desh-Ka, he set about building a funeral pyre. After gathering and setting the wood in the prescribed manner, he gently placed her body upon it, then ignited it with a bolt of lightning from his hand. He watched until Tri’a-Shalun’s body was reduced to ash and smoke.
He took one final look at the remains of the hunting party. The bolder of the local scavengers, small brown reptiles with rows of jagged teeth, were already at work on the bodies. He could sense larger predators, those that knew enough to fear him, waiting nearby. Had the leader not killed Tri’a-Shalun, had he and the others faced Tara-Khan in honorable combat, he would have gladly consigned their bodies to the flames. He hoped that leaving them behind as carrion might serve as a warning to any who might come to investigate their fate or try to pursue him. He had no quarrel with those not of Ka’i-Nur, but he would not stand by and let such a grievous injustice go unavenged.
Kneeling, he rendered a salute in tribute to the dead porter of water. Then, regaining his feet, he pictured in his mind the first group of honorless ones he had found. He had jumped through space using nothing more than instinct when he had faced the leader of the hunting party, despite his lack of training in the use of his powers. Now he had to do it as a conscious act of will. Setting his fear and doubt aside, he calmed himself as he focused on the location at the river’s edge, many leagues away.
Now, he thought.
When he opened his eyes, he found himself just where he had imagined, at the very spot beside the river bank that he had seen through the eyes of the water. The expanse of the river, half a league wide here, flowed behind him as he made his way up the sandy embankment to the cave he had seen in his vision. Stark, rocky cliffs of tan colored stone rose far above, and he was thankful for its shadow as he stepped out of the heat of the direct sun. He was about to call out that he meant no harm when he realized there was no point. The cave was abandoned. Kneeling down, he touched the ashes of one of the cooking fires. It was still damp from the water used to douse it, and the scattering of magthep dung was still moist, so those who had lived here must have departed quite recently. A scattering of magthep tracks in the dust near the mouth of the cave led to the west, where they disappeared among the rocks.
So, they had fled. But why? He searched with his second sight in hopes of finding them or whatever had spooked them, but to no avail. They were gone. He could have tracked them, but if they were mounted and had fled into the desert it could take him hours to find them, and that was time he did not have.
With a sigh of frustration, he again closed his eyes and focused on the next gathering of honorless ones before willing himself there.
While the location was different, the situation was the same: those who had lived here had fled earlier this same day. This band of honorless ones had found shelter in a deep alcove halfway up the face of the cliff that bounded the river on the northern side. Like at the first encampment, the fires had been doused. Below, along a stretch of sandy bank, were crude pens to keep their animals, magtheps and meat beasts, which were a closely related cousin to the ubiquitous magthep. He followed the tracks that led from the pens up a steep and twisting cleft in the rock that took him to the top. From there, he could see leagues in every direction, but of the honorless ones there was no sign.
With a sinking feeling, he moved on to the next encampment. Then the next, and the next. They were the same: the honorless ones had disappeared.
By the time the sun had set, he had visited all but the last of the places where he had known honorless ones to be. Every one of them was deserted. Despondent, he had debated visiting the last of the locations on his mental map, but duty and desperation drove him onward.
He willed himself there, fully expecting the same depressing sight. What he found was something altogether unexpected.
“Greetings,” came an old and tired voice.
In the light of the rising Great Moon, Tara-Khan saw a robed one, an armorer, lying on a bed of ragged hides spread out on the ground beside a fire that was no more than glowing embers.
The encampment was in a hollow carved out by the river in ages past, an eddy of still water around which a small oasis of grass and trees had grown. The honorless ones here had built simple lean-to shelters for themselves and had used braided rope to create pens for their livestock. But the pens were empty, and he could neither see nor sense anyone else about.
“Come,” the armorer said, gesturing with one hand. “Be not afraid.”
“I am not afraid, ancient one,” Tara-Khan said, approaching his host and kneeling beside him. The extremely resilient fabric of the armorer’s robes was threadbare and torn, bearing witness to the difficulty he must have faced in life. “My name is Tara-Khan.”
“And mine is Nai-Shureen.” With an effort, he propped himself up. “Your name is known to me, as is your face. It is you I saw in the water.”
Tara-Khan leaned closer. “You saw me…in the water?”
The old one nodded. “I was standing there,” he pointed to the bank of the pool, “drawing water when I saw your face staring up at me, and I heard your words, or perhaps your thoughts.”
“And what thoughts were those?”
“That we must go to Ka’i-Nur to make war upon the Dark Queen, as your sworn swords in the cause of Keel-Tath.”
Thunderstruck, Tara
-Khan asked, “And so everyone simply packed up and left?” The same must have happened at the other encampments, he thought, amazed.
“Of course. Why would you think otherwise?” He stared at Tara-Khan for a long moment. “I was not the only one who saw the vision and heard the call. And while I fell from grace long ago, I was once honorable and honored. None among us are bound to any others, but I served as an elder here since I first found this place, long before you were born.” His mouth hardened. “When I told them to go, they went, warriors and robed ones all.”
“Why did you not go with them?”
Nai-Shureen shook his head slowly. “I am too frail to journey beyond this place, and certainly not fit for a war party. I will await their return after your victory.”
“I wish I was that certain we will win,” Tara-Khan said. “More likely it is nothing but a fool’s errand that will leave us all dead.”
“Then they will have died with honor for the most worthy of causes. You have no idea how much that means to us.”
Tara-Khan turned his head so that Nai-Shureen could see his severed braid. “I beg to differ, elder, but I know quite well. More, in fact, than you will ever know.”
“Perhaps so, warrior. But my hopes rest upon you.” He drew his robes tighter around his shoulders and shivered. The temperature was dropping quickly as the heat of the day gave way to the deep chill of night. “You must go and await them.”
“I cannot leave you here alone.” Already he could hear the cries of the wild creatures that called the Great Wastelands home, although fortunately absent was the trumpeting of a genoth.
Mistress Of The Ages (In Her Name, Book 9) Page 25
