Lady of the Star Wind (28 page)

Holding Sandy close to him, Mark could feel her straining to take in air.

“I-I’m already having trouble breathing,” she told him. “I think it’s nerves. The air can’t be running low already, can it?”

Mark spotted a stack of rugs and cushions against the far wall next to the dead concubine. Taking a moment, he grabbed an assortment. As he sorted through the pile, he noticed some of the household goods that had been brought were in less than pristine condition, a few threadbare rugs, some dented cooking utensils, figurines chipped or broken, furniture missing paint. Farahna had apparently padded the funeral goods with discards. Shaking his head at the depth of her duplicity, he took the pillows he’d selected and turned.

“I won’t sit there,” Sandy said.

“No,” he agreed, guiding her to the farthest spot in the chamber away from the sepulcher, in line with the now sealed door.

Mark made a nest of the pillows and rugs before inviting Sandy to recline against him, her head on his chest. Silently cursing Farahna and the Outlier empress, he was alarmed by the effort his beloved exerted to draw every breath. They lay in the dank room, not talking, drawing what comfort they could from each other’s touch.
 

The torch guttered and came back to feeble life. Mark blinked, peering across the room to see how Rothan and Tia were doing, but it was growing dark. Or else his eyes were failing as the oxygen was depleted. He couldn’t feel Sandy breathing against his chest any longer, but raising a hand to check her pulse required too much effort. The roaring in his ears was deafening, and the room spun around him.

Some indeterminate time later, Mark awoke with a start. He sat up, easing Sandy onto the pillows beside him, relieved to find her still breathing. The chamber was filled with a dim, steel-blue light from an unknown source. Dust motes floated in the air, sparkling like small sapphires. The heavy lid of the sepulcher sat ajar, half off. Chills running down his spine, Mark glanced across the room at the door.

A man stood there in the now open portal, facing away, looking into the next chamber. As if sensing Mark’s scrutiny, the man slowly turned his head. They stared at each other for a moment. He didn’t speak, gazing at Mark with an expression on his handsome face conveying mild regret. The same general age as Rothan, the newcomer had long black hair curled at the back of his neck. Strong, slashing eyebrows provided the setting for a pair of coal black eyes. His thin lips parted to say something, then closed again, the words unsaid.
 

Holding Mark’s gaze with the intensity of his own stare, the apparition beckoned. Rising, compelled to obey the silent summons by some power he didn’t understand, Mark walked across the cold floor, skirting the half-open sepulcher in the center. He glanced at the details of the mosaic representation of the prince’s face and then evaluated the man in the door.
 

Hutenen. Or his ghost.

The prince had moved on by the time Mark reached the open door. He crossed the threshold to find the portal opened into a long corridor filled with the same uncanny metallic-blue light. Tendrils of fog or smoke curled along the floor. Walking a few yards ahead, Hutenen nearly brushed the narrow walls of the corridor with his broad shoulders as he paced toward whatever awaited them.

Mark opened his mouth to say something, ask the prince to wait, ask what the seven hells was going on, but closed his lips without making a sound. It didn’t seem appropriate to break this silence. Maybe even dangerous to do so. Not even glancing back to check on his unconscious companions, Mark proceeded down the corridor in Hutenen’s wake. At the next corner, the prince disappeared.
 

Hurrying now, Mark came to the end of the straight hallway and jogged to the left where the prince had gone, stopping five paces later on the threshold of yet another chamber and taking in the scene.

Prince Hutenen bowed in front of a being half again as tall as he was. This man was pale, his hair a mix of white, black, and midnight blue. His high-cheekboned face was calm, the thin lips set in a neutral line, neither approving nor disapproving. Under thick white eyebrows, his blue eyes practically glowed, the same color as the light illuminating the corridor. Attired in sweeping robes of midnight blue with touches of silver, the sleeves lined with wine-red satin that looked like blood, the man reminded Mark of a judge. He carried a scepter of highly polished silver set with large cabochon gems of varying shades of blue. The top bore a many-faceted iridescent crystal, inside which colors whirled and spun like caged lightning. As the prince bowed, a breathtakingly beautiful woman stepped from the shadows.
 

Clad in fine white robes more elegant than anything Farahna had worn, the woman’s swanlike neck was adorned with many intricate necklaces forming a multicolored collar. A scarlet ribbon headband threaded through her glossy black hair. Two golden horns spiraled from her head, an elaborately inscribed diadem suspended from golden chains looped around the horns. A second man sat behind her, cross-legged on a padded bench. He held a sharp quill pen poised in one well-formed hand, white feather curving gracefully, and a small oblong tablet thick with what appeared to be sheets of cream-colored paper cupped in the other. Instead of hair, he had fine green iridescent feathers all over his skull and following the bony line of his spine.

No one paid any attention to Mark

He saw thousands, if not millions, of brilliantly colored, small glass jars lining shelves beyond the three uncanny beings. As he watched, the woman said something to Hutenen, who answered in a low but firm voice. The scribe, or clerk, scribbled a note before setting his instruments on the table and striding to the shelves. Tracing the small bottles with his finger as he strolled along the endless cases, searching high and low, the scribe finally chose one, clutching it in his fist as he made his way to the waiting woman. Bowing low, he handed her his choice. Mark saw a golden crest attached to the neck of the container by thin, twisted wires. She held the bottle out to the prince, who glanced at it before nodding.

The woman dipped a golden spoon into the glittering purple crystalline powder heaped like a small sand dune on an alabaster plate to her left. She shook the powder into a golden bowl on the table in front of her, followed by a few ounces of luminescent blue liquid from a nearby carafe. Pausing, head tilted as if considering choices, she eyed Hutenen and made her final selection from a rack of oddly shaped containers behind her. Extracting a small vial glowing vibrant green, she shook a few grains of the powder into the mix. The final ingredient in this odd mix appeared to be plain water splashed from a crystal clear goblet. Then she reached for the iridescent glass bottle the scribe had selected earlier, breaking the red wax seal and discarding it. As her companions watched with close attention, she tipped the bottle over the bowl. A faint smell of flowers and woods came to Mark, extremely pleasant to the senses, almost mesmerizing. A ribbon of pearl-gray smoke rippled from the container, descending into the mixture in lazy whorls, until the bottle was empty. Setting it aside, the woman picked up a spoon with a handle carved in the shape of a flower, blue and ivory and green enamel inlaid in the petals, and stirred the mixture three times, uttering Hutenen’s name.

She bent over the mixing bowl, gesturing to the prince to do the same. Biting his lip—the first sign of emotion he’d shown—Hutenen stepped closer until he bumped into the table. Eyes fixed on whatever lay in the bowl, he gripped the beveled edge of the table so hard his knuckles went white. Plainly, the outcome of this odd ritual had deep significance to him.

Thin mist full of sparkling points of white light rose to wreathe Hutenen’s face, cascading down his entire body. He took a deep breath, face relaxing into a smile, as if all his hopes had been realized.

The scribe made intricate notes on his pad, as if recording the recipe the woman had used, the pen scratching across the surface of the paper. Then he set the utensil on the table, aligning it precisely with a stack of similar pens, and rose to his full height, close to nine feet tall, like the woman and the other being. He carried the paper he’d been writing with such attention to the table where the judge sat, and the woman joined them. All three examined the results for a moment before the judge sat back in his chair as if satisfied. He nodded, touching the note with the crystal at the end of his scepter, and as if that had been a signal, the paper burst into brilliant white flame and disappeared. The scribe pointed at Hutenen.

“You have accomplished that which you were tasked to do in this life, for better or for worse, whether the meaning was clear to you or not. Your heart and your soul remained strong and dedicated to honor. You may pass from this place with no further penalty or judgment and into the contented afterlife you’ve earned.” The pronouncement had the sound of an oath or ritual.
 

The scribe’s next words were prosaic, like a host saying farewell to a guest. “I’ll escort you to the portal.”

Prince Hutenen paused as he and the scribe began to leave the chamber, going to whatever came next in this series of events. He and the three beings stared at Mark, who straightened, dropping his arms to his sides, feeling as if he should be at attention, perhaps even salute.

The prince said nothing but raised one hand in final farewell. Mark detected a flash of what he assumed was sorrow and longing on the man’s face. The prince wanted to speak, his lips forming hushed words never to be given full voice. The scribe tugged at his elbow. Then the prince and his guide were gone, vanishing in the mist with only the fading sound of footfalls to mark their going.

Hands extended to Mark, the woman came forward, and with no hesitation, he laid his own hands, palms down, in her light clasp. She studied him from her greater height. Her eyes were the pure, intense purple of the river flowers, and she wore their perfume as well. Relaxing, Mark felt an inexplicable sense of peace and calm flowing from her into his soul. Then the woman drew him forward to face the remaining man and the golden bowl.
 

There was no mercy in the judge’s face, nor in the unblinking blue eyes, as the deity stared at him. “You were not called and are here beforetimes.”

Releasing Mark, the woman held her hand out flat. A small, opalescent glass jar materialized. The jar’s stopper was a carved hawk’s head painted in intricate detail. The symbol of Mark’s Outlier warrior clan glowed red on the side of the jar.

As he gaped at the jar, he felt a tugging sensation in his chest, followed by a wave of dizziness. The woman smiled as if satisfied, unstoppering the vial and setting the lid aside with great care. She poured the contents into her golden bowl and added one of her own spices or chemicals.
 

A sense of dread crept over him. His gut told him he was in peril, but he’d no idea what defense he could mount.

There was a sudden displacement in the air next to him as Sandy joined him in this nightmare. He squeezed her fingers, fear for her overwhelmed by sheer gratitude not to be alone facing these beings and their judging of unknown things. Smiling, the woman raised her head, extending one flawless, beringed hand toward Sandy. Seconds later, a second jar had materialized in her palm. The jar top was also carved with the hawk’s visage, but the golden plaque on the side bore the Zhivanov coat of arms, incongruous in this place. Tracing the design with one fingertip, the woman laughed and allowed a plume of golden smoke to drift from the second bottle into the bowl. The two jars vanished into thin air.

“Your hearts are true,” proclaimed the scribe, who’d returned unnoticed from wherever he’d escorted Hutenen. He stared at them from blinking black avian eyes, then focused on his pad, scratching a few notes.

In all his long years of exile and military service across the Sectors, Mark had never encountered beings like these. The gods of Nakhtiaar were more unfathomable in their power than anything or anyone he’d ever faced.

“No wrongdoing is recorded in your hearts, you’ve told no lies, encouraged no evil to spawn,” the woman said in sonorous tones, as if proclaiming some small portion of a ritual. “Yet it isn’t your time to journey to the destination.” She exchanged glances with the judge, who gave an imperceptible tilt of his head while remaining silent. His agreement appeared to be reluctantly given, unable to be denied in the face of whatever lay in the golden bowl, which no one offered to let Mark and Sandy view for themselves.
 

The woman addressed them once more. “Another destiny lies ahead, much work to be done on the road you’ve chosen before you ever face the Ruler of Eternity. Go forth from us and do what you must.”

She drew a small blue and green striped feather from her belt and touched first Mark, then Sandy on the forehead and on the left wrist. She raised the feather to her lips and kissed it, vanishing into the mist as she did so, her rich laugh lingering in the chamber with them. Another wave of dizziness and nausea assaulted Mark, as if her going had sucked all the air from the room. His knees gave way under him, and he fell, bringing Sandy with him as he lost consciousness.

Someone was shaking him so hard his teeth chattered.

 
“Wake up, my lord, we haven’t much time!”
 

Mark opened his eyes with great reluctance. Djed pummeled him. A faint breeze of blessed fresh air flowed into the room from somewhere. He drew in three great breaths, expanding his chest as far as it would go, and the life-giving oxygen cleared his head. “How did you get here?” He struggled to stand. “There’s a way out?”