Mistress Of The Ages (In Her Name, Book 9) (18 page)

Swallowing his discomfort, Tara-Khan quietly crossed the room to join her, but Keel-Tath made no sign of recognition.
 

They stood that way in silence for some time. Instead of making him feel more awkward as he had feared, Tara-Khan began to find solace in the quietude. It was obvious that Keel-Tath’s emotions could heavily influence those bound to her, and Tara-Khan began to wonder if it might also work the other way around. While it was extraordinarily difficult, even for a well-disciplined warrior, he closed his eyes and began to clear away the dark thoughts that clouded his mind, starting with Keel-Tath’s roaring song of woe in his blood. It took some time, but he was at last able to quiet that terrible river. Then he sought out the fears of what might come, the suffering and the pain of the past: all these things he forced aside. Into the quiet void he had created he only allowed things of beauty, memories of what had been and thoughts of what might be that warmed his heart. Many of them, of course, were focused on Keel-Tath, but there were many others. He had faced many hardships in his life, for such was the Way, especially for a warrior. But he had also beheld many things of wonder and beauty and known close kinship. While he lacked the eloquence of many of his peers to speak of these things without feeling a fool, he was no less touched by their presence in his life.

After a time, he became aware that Keel-Tath’s spiritual song was no longer laden with melancholy, and had begun to echo in the space he had created in his mind. He felt something on his hand. Almost grudgingly, unwilling to leave the imaginary universe he had created, he opened his eyes to find Keel-Tath’s hand on his. She was still staring out upon the moon’s surface far below, but he knew somehow that, unlike before, her focus was on the here and now, not somewhere out there.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“You know I would do anything for you, mistress.”

“Then please do not call me that, not when it is just the two of us.” She turned to him, and in that moment she seemed little more than a child, vulnerable and afraid. “Hold me. Please.”

He opened his arms to her and held her tight as she wrapped her arms around his waist and put her head on his shoulder. She was shivering.

“I do not know what to do,” she said in a small voice after a time. “Ayan-Dar told me that I am the light that will take away the darkness, but even the brightest star in the sky is surrounded by the void.”

“Surrounded, perhaps, but not overcome,” he told her, his cheek against her hair, his nose breathing in her scent. “And no star shines alone in the sky. You are the brightest among a galaxy of stars that orbit around you, shining together. You do not stand alone, and you never shall.” After a moment he grinned, despite himself. “Ka’i-Lohr would be proud that I managed to speak such words.” He heard a noise from her that sounded suspiciously like a restrained giggle. “But I will leave it to him to recite poems from the Books of Time for you.”

“I would rather you write me new ones,” she told him softly, pulling away enough to look up into his eyes. “We have lived long enough in the past. I am here for the future, and any words you ever wrote for me would be cherished beyond measure. Even if you never wrote me a single word, it would not matter. When I gave you back your life, I touched your soul. You are part of me, and I of you, in some way that I do not understand. Nor do I care to, for it does not matter.”

It was a brief moment that Tara-Khan wished could have lasted forever. In the storehouse of beauty he had created in his thoughts, no vision could have ever been more beautiful than her face at that moment. He wanted nothing more than to lean down and kiss her, and something in her eyes told him that she wanted him to.

But he never got the chance.

The door whispered open and Dara-Kol stepped inside before dropping to one knee and saluting, head bowed. “Forgive me, my mistress.”

With a disappointed sigh, Keel-Tath looked up briefly and met Tara-Khan’s eyes, then released him and stepped toward her First. “What tidings do you bring, Dara-Kol?”

Dara-Kol stood, and Tara-Khan could tell that despite the gravity of whatever news she had brought, her spirit had risen with that of Keel-Tath. “The most high of the other priesthoods have arrived, brought by priests of the Ima’il-Kush who have been posted as sentries watching the other temples.” She paused. “They have suffered terrible losses at the hands of the Ka’i-Nur and now seek sanctuary here.”

Tara-Khan frowned. “They should have no right after what happened at the conclave and on Ima’il-Kush.”

Keel-Tath shook her head. “We are shaped by the past, but are not bound to it.” To Dara-Kol she said, “I will see them.”

“Yes, mistress.” Dara-Kol paused, struggling to say something else.

“What is it?”

“There is another among them,” Dara-Kol finally said. She looked Keel-Tath in the eyes. “Ulan-Samir.”

“
What?
” Keel-Tath hissed.

“He has come as a Messenger, sent by Syr-Nagath.”

Keel-Tath blinked, then looked at Tara-Khan. “How can this be?" she whispered.

“I do not know,” Tara-Khan replied grimly. He thought of Ulan-Samir, his old mentor, and wondered how the high priest could have come to this. His soul would be damned to eternal darkness for what he had done already, but now, as a Messenger, he could never be touched by his enemies here. Under normal circumstances, a Messenger would be held in reverence. But not in this case. It was simply impossible.

“I will bring them at once,” Dara-Kol said, saluting.

“No,” Keel-Tath told her. “I will see the emissaries…and the Messenger, but not here.”

***

All the new denizens of the Homeworld’s Great Moon were in attendance. Most were gathered in perfect rows and columns at the base of the pyramid atop which sat the throne. Others, the more senior warriors and robed ones, stood in pairs at intervals on the steps like guideposts for the most high of the priesthoods, the emissaries, who slowly ascended the pyramid, gawking like younglings from the creche at their surroundings. While most of the structure was still largely plain and as yet untouched by the loving hands of the builders, it was far more imposing than a dozen of the greatest palaces that stood on the Homeworld or among the Settlements.
 

The most high of the Ana’il-Rukh, Kura-Hagil and T’lan-Il looked more like honorless ones than the most powerful of their priesthoods. Their dented and scarred armor was spattered with blood and gore, and they were exhausted. The priestess of the T’lan-Il limped, grimacing with every step, and left a trail of blood that dripped from a wound in her thigh. They had come straight from battle, from where, according to the sentries who had brought them, their priesthoods were being crushed by an onslaught of Ka’i-Nur warriors supported by dreadful weapons carried by Syr-Nagath’s starships.

Behind them, Ulan-Samir, the Messenger, climbed the steps alone. Unlike the other three, his eyes were downcast, never leaving the stone beneath his sandal clad feet.

When they at last reached the lofty top of the pyramid, they found Keel-Tath sitting upon her throne, which was mounted upon a high dais. It was neither huge nor imposing in itself, but was ornately carved from the wood of the iron hard a’in-ka tree, inlaid with graceful filigrees of gold. Keel-Tath sat upon it, dressed in gleaming ceremonial armor, the gold band around her neck shimmering in the light passing through the great crystal panes of the palace tower.

To her right, standing on the floor at the foot of the dais, was Dara-Kol. Flanking the approaches to the throne were the most high of the robed castes, then senior priests and priestesses of the Desh-Ka and Ima’il-Kush, with Alena-Khan and Sian-Al’ai nearest the throne.
 

The emissaries halted before the dais and looked up at the throne, uncertain. Ulan-Samir came to a halt just after surmounting the last step, his head still downcast.

Keel-Tath, saying nothing, stared down at them with cold eyes, and the throne room fell into an uneasy silence.

At last, and as one, the three most high knelt. Slowly drawing their swords, they laid their weapons on the floor and rendered a salute to Keel-Tath. Together, they said, “I pledge my honor to you, Keel-Tath. My honor is now yours, as is my sword and all those beholden to me.”

Nodding, her expression softening, Keel-Tath said in a clear voice that could easily be heard by those in the last rank at the bottom of the pyramid, “I accept your honor, your swords, and your people, most high of the Ana’il-Rukh, Kura-Hagil and T’lan-Il.” She paused. “The sins of the past are forgiven, and your people and my people now stand as one.”

The three bowed low before struggling back to their feet, an unmistakable look of relief on their faces that their people had been granted sanctuary.

“Go now and save all you can,” Keel-Tath told them. “Bring them here to the throne room; the palace will admit you, now that you are mine.” To Sian-Al’ai she said, “Send those who are able to fight to assist.”
 

“As you command, mistress,” the four chorused as one before vanishing.

Looking at Alena-Khan, Keel-Tath added, “I would send you and the Desh-Ka, as well, once we have dispatched with our remaining business.”

Alena-Khan nodded, her countenance grim.
 

Keel-Tath could sense her anger like a hot flame as she focused her own attention on the solitary figure who stood at the top of the steps. “Ulan-Samir,” she called, “come forth.”

Slowly, the high priest of the Nyur-A’il approached, but as he came to stand before Keel-Tath, he did not kneel. Alena-Khan and the other Desh-Ka who had remained were tense, hands on their weapons.

“You have come as a Messenger from Syr-Nagath,” Keel-Tath stated without preamble. A Messenger was normally a harbinger of war, although sometimes one of peace, as well. They were marked and forever known as such. Typically held in great reverence, their enemies were forbidden by the strictest honor of the Way from ever touching them. Keel-Tath doubted Syr-Nagath would abide by such a convention herself, but she knew that Keel-Tath would. “Why?”

He looked up at her with silver flecked eyes that seemed bereft of all emotion, as if they had been drained from him like blood from a severed artery. “Why does any Messenger ever come? I am here to offer you terms of surrender,” he said in a monotone voice, “and to ask sanctuary for those of my own order.”

“It is fortunate that Sian-Al’ai is already gone,” Alena-Khan hissed, “or she would be tempted to take your head after what you did to her and her people at their temple!”

“Enough,” Keel-Tath said quietly. “Regardless of his actions, he is a chosen Messenger, and we will treat him as such.” To Ulan-Samir, she said, “Speak what you will.”

“Syr-Nagath offers to spare your lives in return for allowing the keepers of the Ka’i-Nur Books of Time unrestricted access to the vaults in the depths of the Great Moon. She does not even ask for your swords or your honor.”

Tara-Khan shot a horrified look at Keel-Tath. “How could Syr-Nagath have known?” Everyone around them looked stricken, for they knew the information contained in the great subterranean chamber was priceless beyond measure, and would be equally devastating in the hands of Syr-Nagath.

Keel-Tath sat back, her eyes narrowing. Before their civilization had begun to fly apart, it would have been a reasonable request, and one that any temple would have granted to another. It would have even been granted, albeit with some apprehension, to the Ka’i-Nur had they ever asked, and had the Ka’i-Nur themselves been more open about their own Books of Time. But their own storehouse of information was most jealously guarded, as Ayan-Dar had discovered in his venture there.
 

But now…things had changed. Keel-Tath welcomed the keepers of the orders now bound to her to explore the Books of Time below the palace to their heart’s content. In fact, she demanded it, for that was their function in society. But to allow Syr-Nagath’s keepers access? “And if we do not allow it?”
 

Ulan-Samir’s lips drew down in a scowl. “Then you all shall perish here, and Syr-Nagath will wade through the bones and ash that remain and take what she wants, regardless.”

“She is welcome to try,” Keel-Tath said in a voice ringing with steel. “And what of this request for sanctuary?”

“I do not ask for myself,” he said. “You need not fear on that account. I simply ask for those of my temple. Like the others, they are even as we speak being cut down by Syr-Nagath’s warriors. Few enough remained when I departed.”

“Your priesthood fell upon the others at the Ima’il-Kush temple, without warning or cause,” Keel-Tath told him. “Why should I save them now?”

“They did what I ordered them to do. And there is precedent, although not among the priesthoods, of course.”

Keel-Tath looked to Alena-Khan, who reluctantly nodded. “It is not how we fight our battles,” Alena-Khan explained, “but it is not unknown, particularly among the Nyur-A’il. The other bloodlines would not credit it as an honorable act, but it is not specifically proscribed.”

After a moment of thought, Keel-Tath nodded. She had no reason to refuse, and she needed every sword she could bring to her side. “I agree. But I will not accept their honor and swords through you. The next most high of the Nyur-A’il will surrender to Alena-Khan, then I will accept them.”

“As you will,” Ulan-Samir said with a slight bow of his head.

“And that brings us to you.” Keel-Tath leaned forward. “How could you, the most high of the Nyur-A’il, be standing before us as a Messenger from Syr-Nagath?”

Ulan-Samir’s lips twitched into a grim smile that vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “That is not for me to say, or you to know.” Finally meeting her eyes, he said in a low voice, “I do not blame you for your feelings toward me. I did what I thought right and necessary to curb your heresy and preserve the Way. But, just like the rest of you, I underestimated Syr-Nagath, much to my regret.”

After a long moment, Keel-Tath stood and came down the steps from the dais to stand before him. She had no way of knowing if she could do what she intended, for there was no one to show her all that might be possible with her powers, except perhaps Ayan-Dar when she dreamed.