Lady of the Star Wind (27 page)

A murmur ran through the crowd. Rothan cursed under his breath, and the guards closed in on the prisoners.

“It’s a custom dating back to the founding of Nakhtiaar, though not much practiced any longer.” Farahna was continuing her remarks as the assembled citizens gawked at the scene before them. “Yet when the request was made of me with such affecting sincerity and grief by the closest mourners, I’d no choice but to allow the sacrifice. And now we go to praise Hutenen and bury him. I ask you to say a prayer for the late prince today as our procession passes, and then turn to the duties of the living, for such is what he’d request of us. The palace will serve the ritual bread, meat, and beer at sundown, also as tradition dictates.”

There was a ragged cheer at the news of the free meal. Farahna waved her left hand languidly, and the procession moved out of the temple gates and into the city streets to the slow beat of drums. The captives were marching behind the funeral bier. The crowds were silent for the most part. Occasionally, a woman would throw flowers at the coffin. Mark was sure the populace feared Farahna and her Maiskhan guards, so the lack of public emotion didn’t surprise him.

“Usually, the family hires private mourners.” Tia glanced at the quiet throng lining the street. “The spirit of the deceased needs to follow the weeping and wailing of mourners to be sure it will be drawn to the proper tomb. But even I can’t cry for my brother today. I’m too full of rage at the woman who killed him and stole his throne.”

“Clever speech she made,” Mark said. “I doubt if many people believe all that bullshit she said about the sacrifice we’re allegedly making, but I’ve got to give her credit for telling the story the way she wants our deaths perceived. She might create reasonable doubt in some of the more credulous and gain herself supporters.”

Once the parade was outside the city gates, Mark and the others were loaded into a cart drawn by oxen for the last part of the journey. The procession traveled into the countryside at a slow pace for about an hour, crossing a dusty plain before entering the mouth of an arid valley. An imposing building loomed out of the hazy heat as they progressed through the valley.

“As I surmised, our destination is Farahna’s personal temple.” Rothan pointed at the structure ahead. “The final irony.”

“What’s the significance of having her own temple?” Sandy asked.

“She shows Hutenen contempt yet again. He’s to be buried in an antechamber to her own planned tomb, which lies in the mountain behind her temple. She intends to keep him under her control in the afterlife and deprive him of his due, even there.” Rothan shook his head. “My prince underestimated her, to his eternal regret.”

“You tried to warn him,” Tia reminded her lover as the guards chivvied them out of the cart and to the foot of the first flight of stairs. “He wouldn’t listen.”

Rothan was silent.

Mark trudged up five sets of stairs to the platform at the top, level with the entrance to Queen Farahna’s temple. Eight priests carried the coffin into the building as the prisoners arrived. Armed temple guards pushed and shoved Mark and the others into the cool dark of the building, guiding them through a set of polished pink marble columns. Looming at the far end of the first chamber was an altar dominated by an elaborate, three times life-size carving of Farahna. She was depicted on her throne with two female deities on either side. The goddesses were portrayed gazing at her adoringly, while the queen stared straight ahead at any who approached. Giant scented candles provided the illumination. A phalanx of priestesses stood in a cluster beside the altar, chanting some kind of hymn.

Farahna performed a short ceremonial ritual with her priests and priestesses, who did most of the work. She picked at her fingernails as if bored but mouthed words when required. She left the dancing and gesturing to the others. The four prisoners waited in a cluster, surrounded by guards alert for any sign of last-minute resistance. Mark thought Tia was praying. Rothan stood as if ready for action, jaw clenched, but no opportunity arose. The Maiskhan were too numerous, highly vigilant, spears aimed at the women in particular.

Rituals over, Mark and his companions followed as priests took the coffin farther into the depths of the temple, past the altar, and down a long corridor stretching deep into the mountain from which the building had been carved. There were doors along either side of this wide hall. Most were blank, with rough, unfinished surfaces. One or two had been smoothed and painted with pictures and inscriptions that were hard to see in the gloom.
 

Rothan indicated the painted door he was marching past. “Her favorite bodyguard, who died saving her life in an assassination attempt.”

“And you say her own tomb is here too?” Sandy asked with a sort of fascinated horror.

“Oh yes,” Tia said. “At the end of the corridor, in the heart of the mountain, with many tricks and traps for any man foolish enough to disturb her in the afterlife. She executes her architects and tomb builders on a regular basis. No one other than herself will know the entire set of plans.”

“Why would anyone work for her, then?” Mark was puzzled. “Sounds like certain death.”

“She provides for their families. She gives rich funerals to her victims. The workers will be well-off in the afterlife.” Tia’s explanation was matter-of-fact. “And, of course, each man and woman hopes to outlive her.”
 

“What’s going to happen to us?” Mark asked Rothan.

“We’re going into the afterlife with the prince,” the captain answered. “To serve him, as she said this morning in the square. It’s an old custom, long abandoned. Farahna’s conveniently reviving the practice to execute us without public outcry or repercussions.”

“Most people are interred with pictures of their loved ones and tiny statues of servants to keep them company,” Tia added, wrapping herself tightly in her shawl.

A young priest diverted the procession into a branching corridor, where Mark found himself walking on a downward slope. The surface underfoot in this area was much rougher, unfinished stone. Huge blocks of raw, gray-and-black veined marble were suspended above their heads. He glanced at Rothan. “Booby traps?”

“To be triggered after the tomb is sealed and the queen and the priests have reached safety outside the tunnels. We’re to be trapped for eternity, my friend.”

Mark hugged Sandy as the mourners halted again, this time at a doorway deep in the mountain. Frustration and anger at having led her into this death trap raged in his heart. “I’m so sorry.”

She shook her head and squeezed his hand. “We took the chance and the risks together.”

He wished he could forgive himself as easily as she’d apparently forgiven him yet again.

Farahna came to stand close to her prisoners, remaining well out of arm’s reach, protected by the Maiskhan guards. As the queen contemplated her prisoners, Mark realized she reminded him more and more of the Outlier empress.

“You do my prince the final dishonor, I see.” Rothan’s whole demeanor was contemptuous as he stared at the inscription above the door where the flickering light from the torches picked out the freshly cut characters.

“He Who Strove and Failed,” Farahna read, a mocking tone in her sultry voice. “Where’s the dishonor in my statement? It’s the truth—Hutenen couldn’t prevail against me in the end. He’s the one being buried here today, not me.”

“You killed him through vile treachery,” Rothan said. “Leaving aside the issue of who belongs on the throne, he’d have won in any kind of fair trial or contest.”

“There are no rules when one is taking, then keeping, a throne. Only strength and guile, both of which he lacked.” She laughed, walking ahead into the tomb’s antechamber.

The guards shoved the prisoners into the room behind her.

The first chamber was small and jam-packed with household goods. Objects of all description, from cooking pots to a gilded bed frame, had been piled against the cold stone walls. Jewels and spices spilled together on the floor from jars stacked too haphazardly, leading to minor disaster. Broken shards littered the priceless woven rugs thrown in the dust. More goods were added now, brought along in the funeral procession. The queen’s attention rested on the items being given to Hutenen as final tribute. Frowning, she ordered several things returned to the palace.

Mark considered making an attempt to grab Farahna, hold her hostage, the ransom being freedom for all of them.

As if reading his mind, Gaddaf stepped between him and the queen, pressing the tip of his knife to Mark’s throat. “I know you’re the most dangerous man here,” the Maiskhan commander said in a low voice, staring into Mark’s eyes. “I’ve been watching you make and discard plans all morning. But even the wiliest and most skillful of warriors has his weakness, and yours is the woman from the north. She’s good in bed no doubt, but no warrior to match your skills. My spearman has orders to slay her if you make a move, no matter what chaos might be happening. Try anything, and your woman will die.” He didn’t wait for Mark to acknowledge the threat but slowly retreated, sliding his knife into its sheath and rejoining Farahna.

A few moments later, the captives were hurried past the mess into a second, bigger room, also crammed with goods. There were spears, shields embossed with the royal crest, a bow and quiver of arrows, chairs, unlit lamps, chests of drawers—too much to see. A realistic door had been painted onto one side wall in vivid blue, although it was clearly nothing but an illusion. The coffin had been lowered into a massive stone receptacle in the middle of the chamber. Four priests were cursing under their breath and struggling to push the flat top onto the tomb, sealing away the unfortunate young would-be king.

As his eyes adjusted to the level of light in the chamber, Mark noticed a lavishly dressed woman slumped in a chair across the room, her hand resting on the flank of a brindled hunting dog curled by her side as if asleep. Her eyes were closed, and her head lolled against the cushions. He had no doubt she and her canine were dead.

The queen followed his line of sight. Her painted lips curved, and she sighed theatrically. “Kiramyen, his favorite concubine. She asked to go with him, and how could I in good conscience refuse the piteous request?”

“And the dog? Did it ask to die?” Mark said. “Or did you make the decision for it?”

“Prepare them and let us be done.” The queen ignored Mark’s last question. “We must be in the city before the sun sets to preside over the feasting. I’m satisfied here.” She walked out of the chamber without another word, her sandals clicking on the hard stone. The Maiskhan guards followed.

Mark moved in front of Sandy and stood facing the half circle of priests and temple guards. Hands fisted, he settled into a combat stance, done being manhandled. “Leave us alone to meet our fate in here as we see fit.”

Rothan stepped to his side, face grim. “As my brother says, walk away.”

“Even unarmed, we can make mincemeat of you,” Mark threatened the priests, who backed away, some making signs in the air against the evil eye.
 

“You do no honor to your prince to behave this way in the presence of his mortal remains.” Gesturing at the granite enclosure where Hutenen now rested, the oldest priest was scornful.

“This is about us now, not him,” Mark said. “And we don’t need any additional ‘preparation’ from you. No poison, no drugs, no chaining us to the wall, or whatever your bitch queen has in mind. Go on, get out of here!”

“Before she seals you in the tomb with us,” Rothan suggested.

The priests and the Nakhtiaar guards exchanged nervous glances. Holding his sword in front of him as if to ward off any attack from Mark, the leader of the troops retreated toward the door. “It matters not to me. You’ll die no matter what is done or undone.” Stumbling on the threshold, the man fled.

His act set off a mass exodus, soldiers and priests crowding through the narrow entry, frantic to leave the room. A moment later, the heavy stone door, easily a yard thick, rolled into place. Shortly thereafter, Mark heard the muffled boom of the outer chamber closing.

“Find your peace,” Rothan said, taking Tia by the arm. “We’ll have scant time before the air is gone and our lives in this world with it.”

“Put out all but one torch, conserve the oxygen as long as we can.” Mark extinguished the one closest to him, smothering it in the dust underfoot.
 

“I don’t want to die in the dark,” Sandy said. “I’ve always been afraid of the dark.” She swallowed hard. “I know that sounds ridiculous, considering the situation.”

He hugged her close. “We’ll have some light, don’t worry.”

Rothan moved away to deal with the other torches. He’d taken two steps across the chamber when a series of low, rumbling shock waves could be heard and felt. Dust rained on Mark from overhead.

“She released the sealing stones,” Rothan said with a shrug. “The guards and priests surely lacked sufficient time to make their way to safety.”

“She killed them?” Coughing, Sandy brushed dust from her hair.

“Probably. Priests—even those who know the sacred writings—are simple to replace. Temple guards have no value at all to Farahna. You noticed she took her Maiskhan soldiers with her? And the priests had seen the riches with which Hutenen was buried and had the secret of locating the chambers within the mountain. She wouldn’t want such knowledge to exist. A few more Nakhtiaar lives one way or the other don’t matter to her.” Rothan finished his task, leaving only the smallest torch lit. He crossed the chamber to Tia. In the dim light, he took her into his arms and kissed her. “Let me prepare a comfortable resting place for you, my love.”