Lady of the Star Wind (19 page)

Djed argued for a moment against being ordered to retreat from the action. He finally admitted there was no way for him to continue, between his injury and the undeniable need for swimming skills. Mark watched his hobbling progress on the first few stairs, then pivoted to scan the depths of the tide pool for any signs of life. Finding none, he raised the torch. “Room for two of us over there?”

Before Rothan could answer, the creature surfaced, remaining arms thrashing the air. Waves of water washed over the step.

Mark fell back, retreating three risers, swearing, yanking his blaster out with one hand, playing the torch over the animal, trying to find a vulnerable spot. He realized another, even larger animal had the first one in its grasp, and the two were fighting to the death. “This is our chance! We can get across while the beasts distract each other,” he yelled to Rothan. “Can you move?”

“With help. My leg remains somewhat numb.”

Stowing blaster and handlamp on his belt, Mark made a shallow dive into the menacing pool, keeping to the edges, trying to avoid the two thrashing beasts. A few quick strokes brought him to the ledge. He hung on while Rothan slid gingerly into the water, Mark bracing him so he wouldn’t go under, and then Mark struck out for the far edge of the pool. The two men crawled onto the broken stairs while the combat to the death continued behind them, playing out in eerie silence, as the marine creatures appeared to be mute.

“We need to get away from this water and those animals.” Mark slicked his hair away from his face and shook the water off. “There might be more of them. I’ll check your wounds when we get to the top of the stairs.”
 

Rothan shook his head, already staggering to the next stair. “My wounds can wait, nothing life-threatening. We have to find the vault, get the crown and scepter, and escape before high tide.”

Knowing time was running out, Mark didn’t argue. Shining his handlamp on the staircase in front of Rothan, he said, “Lead on, let’s get this done.”

At the top of the stairs, he found himself in another corridor, facing a door cut from a single slab of black rock, resembling the metal city gates. “Now what?”

“Legend states there were three ways to open the door. There was a key”—Rothan gestured at an ornate golden lock—“which I don’t have.”

Mark eyed the door. The lock had a shape similar to Sandy’s key from the oasis. Not having brought his key, there was nothing he could offer. “And the second method of getting this open?”

“A spell.”

“Let me guess, you don’t know it?”

Rothan rubbed his forehead. “The scrolls Djed and I found in the palace library were ancient beyond time, crumbling as I tried to read them, eaten away by insects in other places. Parts were missing. No, the words of the spell were obliterated.”

“So no key, no voice lock, what was the third way in?”

“Khunarum and his direct descendants could prove their right to open the door. I’ll have to try. My mother is the daughter of the last king. And the blood of the kings of Nakhtiaar traces to Khunarum in an unbroken line.” Rothan laughed. “Or so the legends state. We’ll have to hope none of the ancient queens played their husbands false.”

“I can try blasting it open.” Mark drew his service weapon.
 

 
“Acting as tomb robbers will be my last resort.” Rothan’s voice held distaste.

“Is this the guy’s tomb?”
 

“No, I don’t think so. But it’s the same principle. He didn’t mean the crown and scepter to be removed for any but a dire need, which ancient prophecies said might arise long after his time. Well, the two items were purposefully left here after the destruction of the entire city after all.”

“Good point. How does this third method work, then?”

Rothan ran his hand over the door’s surface, searching for something. “Legend states Khunarum left a sign for his descendants—ah, here! See, it is the imprint of his open hand.”

Mark leaned over, directing his handlamp where Rothan pointed at a spot beside the keyhole. The shallow indentation was the silhouette of a man’s open hand, surrounded by symbols. A similar concavity next to it was a more feminine shape. Mark admired the way the ancients had provided for either a man or a woman to make their claim for the artifacts. Showed a lot of forethought.

Rothan took a deep breath and set his right hand into the center of the larger carved handprint. For a second, nothing happened. Then he grunted and yanked his hand free, staring at his thumb, where a large teardrop of blood quivered. No blood could be seen anywhere on the door, as if the stone had absorbed the droplet.

“Shh, hear that?” Blaster at the ready, Mark backed up a step.

A quiet hum came from the door itself.
 

A voice boomed in the corridor, uttering six short syllables. None of Mark’s hypno-implanted languages offered even a partial or suggested translation. Although he was obviously listening intently, Rothan seemed just as perplexed, the words apparently meaningless to him as well. The door rose. A rush of perfumed, intoxicating air came rushing out with a noticeable hiss. Dizzy, Mark held his breath after one surprised inhalation while he and Rothan retreated.

“DNA testing?” Mark theorized out loud. “Primitive DNA testing to open the door when all else failed? This Khunarum had a lot of help from someone more advanced than his own civilization.”

“Your words are gibberish.” Rothan sneezed.
 

The door stopped its leisurely ascent, then jerked into life again for another few inches. Progress stopped with a harsh grinding noise that was painful against Mark’s eardrums. When nothing else happened, he said, “Guess it’s done all it’s going to do. We’d better crawl under if we want to get in.” He dropped to his knees on the slimy floor, peering under the slab into the room beyond

Rothan went first. Mark crawled under the huge door slab hot on his heels. He refused to think about how much the stone must weigh as he passed over the lintel and rolled clear.

 
“Lords of Space!” Mark came to his feet and half drew his blaster, fearing a living being faced him in the gloom. After one horrified moment, he realized it was a statue painted with incredible realism, detailed even to the lashes on the open eyes. Mark decided to forgive himself for being fooled in the gloom. “Khunarum?” he asked as Rothan got to his feet.

“I would imagine so.” Eyes wide, the other man stared at the statue. He made a gesture with his right hand, as if in respect or worship.

Mark played his light over the contents of the apparently water-tight chamber. Khunarum sat in the middle. Baskets, bins, and crates were stacked to the ceiling. Some were sealed, others held tightly rolled scrolls, fabric, jewelry. A set of shelves on the far wall was crammed with statues, vases, and small boxes. Many of these had toppled over, fallen to the floor, and broken, probably during earthquakes over the centuries. Mark ran the torchlight over the floor. He stood on a woven carpet, its rich colors undimmed by time. To his left on the floor lay a small wreath of flowers and a scarf or veil, gossamer thin, half covering a child’s clay pull toy in the shape of a lion. The walls of the vault were covered with stylized paintings—garden scenes, hunting scenes, a river expedition—Mark couldn’t take it all in, and the decorations had no special meaning for him. Ancient weapons had been hung with great care on one wall—swords, shields, a massive bow and quiver of arrows.

The disarray and quantity of goods reminded Mark of the way “their” house had been, elsewhere in the city. An unfathomable mass of items. “All his worldly goods?” he asked.

Rothan shook his head. “Khunarum and his city were rich beyond the understanding of man, according to legend. These items stored here under the watchful eye of his statue would have been his most prized possessions but by no means all he owned. What I would give to speak to him across time and ask his advice about defeating Farahna and her schemes.”
 

Mark directed his torch at the statue again. The king was depicted sitting on a carved version of a simple woven chair, flanked by a lion on the left and some kind of aquatic animal on the other. The sculpted beasts appeared to be life-size and gazed with a daunting stare at whomever walked through the door. The king’s portrayal was larger-than-life. Studying the man’s clean-shaven features, Mark detected a familial resemblance between this person and Rothan. The hair was long and caught in a single braid. His lips were parted, as if to speak and grant Rothan’s fervent wish for ancient wisdom. On his carved brow sat the crown they’d come to find, a golden circlet set with a dozen unfaceted green gems that glistened as Mark’s light played over them. A golden sun disk was the crown’s centerpiece, encircled by a snake that reared above the disk with bared fangs and a flared hood. Khunarum’s left hand rested on his lap, holding a rolled papyrus. Mark tried to imagine what kind of significant information had been preserved on the scroll. The statue’s raised right arm extended toward them, as if in invitation. The hand bore the carving of an elaborate signet ring. The statue’s fingers were curled, presumably to hold the scepter. Khunarum was missing the tip of one finger, lost in combat perhaps. The bare chest of the figure bore some serious scars, testifying to the fact that the legendary king had lived in perilous times.

The scepter itself was nowhere in sight.

Mark searched the floor, passing behind the statue and re-emerging. “No scepter. If you want the crown, you’d better take it. The tide’s coming in outside, and we have to make our escape.”

Rothan put his hand to his temple as if rousing himself from a dream. “Standing here at last, I find myself reluctant to take what we sought. The crown should stay here, where it belongs.” He gave Mark a sideways glance. “Do you understand? Even though we fought so hard to get here?”

“I get it. We can leave the crown, you know.” Mark had no desire to touch anything in the room. Nerves tingling, he felt an urgent impulse to leave, and a headache pounded behind his eyes. Bad air maybe. “No sign of the scepter. If it’s in one of those boxes in the stacks to the side, we probably don’t have time to search for it.”

“No.” Rothan’s voice sounded regretful as he answered the comment about leaving the diadem. “I must take the crown. I must have it to save my people from Farahna and the Maiskhan. When Hutenen is shown to be the rightful ruler, when he appears wearing this crown, all doubt and indecision will be erased. The people, the priests, and the army will rally to him and realize the utter folly of aligning with her and her foreign allies.”

“I get the power of symbols to move men to action,” Mark said. “Whatever you’ve decided, we need to do it and get out of here, is all I’m saying.”

“Pragmatic. A pity about the scepter, but I’ll rely on your Lady of the Star Wind to heal my prince with her magic when we arrive in Nakhtiaar.” Rothan advanced to stand in front of the statue. “There were words on the parchment for the taking of the crown. Some were missing.”

“Voice-activated.” Mark found it less unnerving to think of what was happening in terms of his own world.

“I don’t know what will happen when I take the crown without completion of the proper chant.” Rothan glanced at Mark and laughed. “I have to guess at the pronunciation anyway. The words were written in symbols I recognized, but the meaning…” He crossed his arms over his chest and bowed low to the statue, which continued to gaze serenely over their heads. “We crave pardon for disturbing thy rest, Exalted One, but our need is dire. The plea I make is to take the crown forth, to use its power for the benefit of the descendants of thy people.”

After completing the heartfelt prayer in his own tongue, Rothan chanted a short set of words. Mark’s hypno training didn’t translate. He thought he caught a fragment here and there, but Rothan stumbled over the syllables. Finishing the required sounds, he took a deep breath and removed the crown from Khunarum’s brow. As if waiting for some catastrophe to befall him, Rothan froze for a moment.
 

Nothing broke the silence but the sound of water rushing into the tunnels far away as the high tide neared.
 

Mark stirred from his contemplation of Khunarum’s likeness. “We’ll need a box or something to carry the crown. Let me see what I can find.” He rummaged through the contents of the room nearby and found a heavy wooden chest of about the right size that had potential as a water-tight container. The seams were sealed with strips of some dark metal. When he dumped out the contents, golden coins or medallions clinked and clattered across the floor. Mark held the box toward Rothan, so he could set the crown inside.

Studying the pile of coins, Mark had another idea. “Did you bring any money on this excursion from Nakhtiaar?”

Adjusting the crown in the box, Rothan frowned and looked up. “We left in the middle of the night after stealing the chariots. We pretty much had the clothes on our backs and stole food and water on the way.”

Mark gestured to the pile of coins on the rug. “Mind if I take a few of these, then?”

“Why?” Rothan’s tone was surprised and a bit suspicious.

“We might need funds to get home to your city. We can’t expect free lodging and services from everyone just because Jagrahim has been so generous.”

“Sounds reasonable. Good idea.”

Mark was slipping a fistful of the coins into one of the pockets of his utilities when a loud cracking sound emanated from the walls on all sides. Mark’s hand light dimmed to a pinpoint. The ground beneath his feet rumbled and shook, sending him reeling. A harsh grating noise rasped behind them.