Firestorm (19 page)

***

"Your mate revealed some very interesting news yesterday," Bahir began a short while later, as they rode out across the desert once more. He'd taken great care, Teague noted to distance their equs from all the others. It was obvious he didn't want what they said to be overheard.

"Regarding the carrying pack you walked off with toward the spring?" Teague carefully replied. Raina had had little opportunity to speak to him in private yesterday. All he knew was that she'd told Bahir about Rand and the purpose of their mission.

"Yes. It seems there's an alien residing in a biosphere within it."

"True enough."

"She also told me that both of you came from a planet other than Incendra and are on a mission to retrieve some stone in the firestorm caves. A stone you mean to use against the Volan invasion."

"Also true."

Bahir looked over at him. As he did an errant breeze blew a loose end of his headcloth across bis eyes. He grabbed the flapping fabric and tucked it firmly back beneath the rest of the cloth twisted about his neck. "You're fortunate that I found you before Malam Vorax did."

"Indeed?" Teague cocked a dark brow. "And why is that?"

"How long have you been gone from Incendra?"

Teague hesitated. "Nineteen cycles."

The Tuaret leader did a swift mental calculation. "You were here, then, when Vorax usurped the throne. How old were you?"

"Old enough to know what happened," Teague hedged.

Bahir shot him a sharp, appraising look. "Did your family support his cause?"

"No, but what does it matter? Vorax is still in power. Obviously, he rules and rules well."

"There are some who would contest that assertion."

The Tuaret leader was quite evidently one of them, if the low, hard-edged tone of his voice was any indication, Teague thought. But where was all this leading? He shifted in his saddle to ease the ache in his right hip. He really should have taken Raina's advice and used the litter one more day.

"Contesting it is one thing," Teague replied forcing his attention back to the conversation and away from, his discomfort. "Succeeding in his overthrow is another."

"I am only one man, my tribe only one of twelve," Bahir snarled. "I cannot defeat Vorax alone."

"No, you can't." Teague's sense of unease began to curl and twist within him. Was it because this discussion stirred old memories, unresolved issues? He firmly tamped down that consideration, shutting out all emotion, all reaction to Bahir's words. This fight was the Tuarets', not his.

"The two blasters I had confiscated" Bahir picked up the thread of the conversation once more. "Are there more of them on Incendra? With weapons such as those, I could bring the war to a head rather than just harass and inflict only the most minor damage against Vorax and his cause. Perhaps then the tribes who hate Vorax as much as I, but fear his power, would be willing to join with me."

"There are only two blasters, Bahir. I'm sorry." In spite of himself, Teague felt a twinge of sympathy for the man's plight. He fought for a hopeless cause, and he knew it.

"You came here somehow. In a spaceship, perhaps? No one has ever transported here, thanks to our unusual atmosphere."

"Yes, we came on a ship." Teague eyed him warily. "But what has that to do with Vorax?"

"Does your ship perhaps possess weapons? Guns to protect it, to fight with?"

The Tuaret leader was grasping at any possibility now, but Teague wouldn't willingly turn over the Volan ship to Bahir even if it had possessed weapons. The ship was their only way home. Bahir, however, didn't need to know that.

"No. The ship has no weapons," he said. "It's a Volan spy ship. Small, easily maneuverable, but not a fighter. Its only value lies in the fact that its hull is specially designed to protect against Incendra's increased electromagnetic radiation."

As if plumbing the depths of his soul, Bahir locked gazes with Teague for a long moment, saw the truth in the other man's eyes, and sighed. The Tuaret's shoulders slumped. "I feared as much."

Bahir slammed his fist upon his thigh. "Curse it all. What will they do, once I am gone?" he muttered half to himself. "Who will carry on the fight? Vorax cannot be allowed to continue to rule. He's corrupt, ruthless, and cruel. He's also draining us all dry with his endless taxes. And his son is no better than he."

He shook his head and sighed. "What will become of Farsala? Of Incendra?"

"The old king was said to be a corrupt and foolish ruler as well." Though he knew he trod on dangerous ground in broaching the subject, Teague wanted to put an end to this discussion as quickly as possible. Better that the Tuaret face the truth. He was only exchanging one incompetent ruler for another. "Before you destroy Vorax, perhaps you should find someone else better suited to rule. And if you can't, leave well enough alone."

"Well, it certainly isn't Vorax's son," Bahir gritted. "When it comes to atrocities and perversions, Sinon Vorax has taken up where his father left off."

"Then perhaps you? Frequently the leader of a revolt gains the throne."

The Tuaret leader shot him a searing look. "Do you mock me now, on top of everything else?"

Confused Teague shook his head. "No. I was serious. You seem an able commander. You care. And you've the courage of your convictions. All necessary attributes of a good ruler."

"It was never meant for me to rule Farsala. I but fight for the rightful heir—the old king's son — until the day he returns."

Teague's breath lodged in his throat. A block of ice formed about his heart and frigid shards of blood shot through his veins. "There is no rightful heir," he finally managed to choke out the words. "He died in the rebellion."

"Did he?" Bahir's gaze turned back toward the desert. "Did he?" he slowly repeated. "No one really knows what happened to the old king's son. There are rumors he escaped, that he's in hiding." He chuckled. "I've even heard one tale that Vorax so greatly feared the prophecy that he sent the son off planet rather than dare kill him."

The Tuaret swung back to Teague. "The prince was thirteen cycles old when his father was overthrown. After these nineteen cycles past, he'd be a mature man now. A man old enough to regain the support of the people, to rule."

"If he truly lives." Teague shifted restlessly in his saddle, his unease growing with each passing second. How had they ever come to this particular topic? How could he turn it aside before it struck too close to home?

"Oh, I think he lives," Bahir said confidently, glancing at Teague. "Do you recall the prophecy?"

When Teague didn't answer, he began to intone the ancient words.

The son must suffer,

Die to himself and the world,

Before the taint can be exorcised

Before the evil is overthrown.

But woe to any who harm him.

His is the right to search,

To plumb the secrets within.

His is the right to choose.

A living death or life

Of fire and light.

A firestorm of obliteration.

Or triumph.

"And your point in all that?" Teague demanded irritably, when he'd finished. "It's nothing more than some archaic mournings of some even more archaic Order. And it most likely doesn't even apply to this particular case."

"The prophecy has never been fulfilled in all the hundreds of cycles since it was first proclaimed. And does it not now apply perfectly?" Excitement rose in Bahir's voice and flared in his eyes. "The son lives but must suffer and go into hiding until he can exorcise the taint in his own bloodlines. A taint that ultimately led to the loss of the people's faith and the success of Vorax's rebellion. Vorax certainly believed it applied to the prince. It's why he spared his life. It's the only reason a man as cruel and ambitious as Vorax would've let the young prince go."

"A fine theory," Teague drawled, fighting with all his might to keep his voice calm, his demeanor relaxed and indifferent. "Yet it still all hinges on whether the prince truly survived. Have you found him? Has anyone any proof that he lives?"

Bahir's amber eyes glittered. His mouth went tight. "No. No one has found him or has proof he lives. But I know he does and, until the day I find him, I'll carry on the battle in his name. Someone has to. To continue to live under Vorax's oppressive rule and not stand up to him is unconscionable. There has to be someone, some voice, that cries out against him. Some voice, however weak it may be, that prepares the way for the prince when he finally returns."

A prophet, Teague thought. Bahir saw himself as a warrior prophet. He shut his eyes for a brief moment. Gods, was there any man more difficult to abide than one so idealistic, so unrealistic? He'd had his fill of such men in the monastery. Fanatics, out of touch with the realities of life and living, with people and their shortcomings, their failings. Out-of-touch, foolish dreamers with no idea of the impracticably of their vision or its futility.

Yet without such men to prod and prick at the conscience, the hearts and minds of the masses, a tiny voice deep within him clamored, where would they all be? Without men like Bahir to stand up for what was right, to champion those oppressed by the inequities and injustices, what hope was there? Oftentimes, these men were the guiding lights of humanity, the incessantly vocal irritants that would not be silenced until, at long last, the people couldn't overlook or discount the problems anymore.

But be that as it may, it wasn't his problem, Teague harshly, almost violently, reminded himself. This was an Incendarian problem, and he was no longer Incendarian.

He'd freed himself of that particular encumbrance immediately, just as soon as he'd set foot on Bellator. He'd had to. The burden of his lineage, the shame of his planet, had nearly crushed him. To be free of that was to start anew. To build a new life, a new person, a new heritage—one that could begin afresh in any way he wished.

No, he'd not let himself be drawn back into it all, Teague resolved. Just because he admired Bahir's determination and idealism. Just because he envied the Tuaret's sense of purpose, his dedication to something he believed in deeply. Just because the man possessed what he, in all his cycles and for all his efforts, had still never quite been able to achieve.

Teague sighed and shook his head. "Be that voice then, Bahir. There's nothing, though, that Raina or I can do for you, save give you our blasters when we're finally done with our mission. That, and tender you our admiration for what you attempt to do."

Something—disappointment, perhaps—flickered in the Tuaret leader's eyes. "Then you won't stay, help us fight Vorax? This is your land, your people, too."

"And what additional help would we be?" Teague gave a disparaging laugh. "Very little, I'd say, in the total scheme of things."

Bahir smiled and shrugged. "You're right, of course. But at this point, I take any and all happily. My army grows one by one, but it grows."

"You're a wise and able leader. I wish you good fortune in your endeavors."

"Do you, now?" the Tuaret asked cryptically, then turned once more to gaze out on the shimmering heat that was the desert. The land undulated before them in waves of fine, smooth sand. Here and there a small, scraggly plant broke the unchanging tranquillity but, aside from that, the desert rolled on in endless hills and vales.

It was the bleakest, most barren part of the Ar Rimal, but Bahir loved it nonetheless. He'd been born and raised in the desert, knew no other life save what its harsh dictates demanded, and had never desired or dreamed of another. Never . . . not even when that devotion had threatened his life-mating with Cyra.

Cyra hadn't realized the depth of his commitment to his life and land. Perhaps because of that, their love had been doomed from the start. In the end, it had definitely been the final wedge between them, the death knell of their life-mating, when he'd adamantly refused to leave his people and go with her back to Bellator. Yet even now, the memory of Cyra filled him with sadness, creating an empty, aching void he knew now would be with him to the end of his days. Perhaps that pain, that endless yearning, was his punishment. As inexplicable, as improbable as it seemed, he had lost his heart to a woman not of Incendra. Lost his heart and broken all biological and cultural taboos to life mate with her.

Bahir's mouth twitched bitterly. Well, at least his days of punishment and suffering were numbered, small consolation though that was.

Not that Cyra would care, if she even knew. She'd fled him and their tender, budding union after only a cycle, turned her back and walked away without remorse or hesitation, with only the most minimal of efforts to try to adapt to the desert and its customs. Left him just after he'd discovered that the dreaded curse of his ancestors had descended upon him as well.

No, there was but one blessing in his impending death sentence, and that was that his yearning for Cyra would at last be over. No more lonely, anguished nights lying under the stars or beneath the shelter of his tent, hungry, aching for her until he thought he'd cry out from the pain. No more frustration, no more anger so intense he thought he'd explode from the tension that had no outlet, no hope of ever finding surcease.

Cyra was gone, living somewhere far away in the heavens, and it was too dangerous to return now even if she wished to. But at least he had his people, his cause, to sustain him in these last days of his life. It was small comfort, Bahir sadly acknowledged, shamed to admit to such selfish, self-pitying thoughts. Yet it was truth nonetheless, and he tried hard to face the truth, no matter how brutal or bitter. Tried so very, very hard.

He only wondered if all his efforts, all his fine plans and aspirations, would accomplish anything of any value in the end.