Lady of the Star Wind (31 page)

“We don’t carry a cargo entirely given over to spices.” Djed lifted a few sacks out of the way and revealed a cache of knives and swords, and one bow, which he slung over his own shoulder. He plucked a small bundle from the hiding place and partially unwrapped it, holding his prize out to Mark. “I’ve something for you, my lord.”

“You don’t know how grateful I am to retrieve this.” Marc reached for the blaster and checked the charge level. “The Maiskhan are never going to see me surrender again, word of a Denaltieri
bogatyr
,” he said to Sandy as he holstered the weapon and buckled the belt. Grinning at Rothan, he added, “Farahna and her lap dog Gaddaf better stay out of my way.”

Rothan took his pick of the swords and belted it on. “Much better to be armed and able to fight, I agree. Let’s proceed with this journey.”

Mark took two knives to replace his lost Special Forces blade, refusing the swords as being too unfamiliar. “I learned to fence as a boy, but with much more slender blades than your soldiers use,” he told Rothan. “I can do more damage with weapons I understand, and in hand-to-hand combat.” He patted his blaster, riding at his hip. “This is weapon enough for me.”

“When we reach my grandfather’s province, I’ll arrange sword lessons for you, and in turn, you can teach me these other techniques you speak of,” Rothan said.
 

As dawn broke, they were well on their way along the road leading away from the capital city, headed south at the best pace the team of oxen could or would manage. Mark estimated the animals could cover a couple of miles in a standard hour, maybe ten miles a day. Nowhere near as fast as horses would be, but on the other hand, the sturdy beasts demonstrated endless endurance.

 
After leaving the valley of tombs along a twisting back road, remaining undetected, the route they had to follow took them past the colossal temple the Maiskhan were constructing to their own gods, using Nakhtiaar slave labor. Mark felt an icy trickle between his shoulder blades the entire time it took their slow team to plod past the turnoff to the place. Even this early in the morning, he saw gangs of men working on the stone terraces set upon a giant, reinforced earthen mound. He pitied the prisoners, hoping as many as possible would remain alive by the time Rothan brought an army from the mountains to liberate the country and its people.

Sandy and Tia were drowsing on the cart, cushioned by the sacks of spices. Khefer guided the team, Sallea perched beside him on the wagon’s rude seat. Lakht soared high above. Mark and Djed walked a few paces behind the cart before Mark realized Rothan had fallen even farther behind them. Their companion halted at the crossroads they’d passed a few moments ago and stared to the east.

“Hey, wait.” Mark touched Djed’s shoulder. “We’ve lost Rothan.”

The archer followed Mark’s gaze. “His Majesty,” he said with extra emphasis, “does as he wishes, my lord.”

“Royal protocol be damned, I’m going to keep him company. I know he’s a fine warrior, but there’s too much riding on his shoulders for us to leave him alone and unguarded.” Mark jogged down the road to where Rothan stood.

When he reached his friend’s side, Mark didn’t say anything, but waited to see if Rothan intended to redirect their journey. He stood guard, scanning in all directions, blaster in hand.

At length, the new king sighed. “Do you know what lies over the horizon at the end of the road?” he asked Mark without lifting his gaze away from the other, empty thoroughfare.

“No idea.”

“The Temple of Dendke, where the ceremony of the Golden Dawn will be held in a week’s time. Where false Queen Farahna will again accept tribute, dispense her brand of twisted justice, worship the gods, the Maiskhan gods as well no doubt—” Now, eyebrows raised, Rothan studied Mark. “I know you were skeptical about the power of the crown.”

Grinning, Mark said, “Hey, I was allowed to be skeptical before the magic trick right under my eyes. Pretty impressive, going from perfection to tarnished trash for Farahna’s benefit. And then transmuting into treasure for you. I’m a believer now.”

“Perhaps the crown would have done what I hoped, perhaps Hutenen could have used it to reclaim the throne. But now we’ll never know.”
 

Mark kept quiet, sensing Rothan had more to say.

A moment later, his companion continued sharing his thoughts. “If only Hutenen had seized the moment a year ago when we first marched home triumphant from the expedition. I think we might have been able to unseat Farahna. There were many in the army then still loyal to the proper order of things, many in the priesthood and the government unsure of her new claims to divinity. She’d not yet brought in more than a few of her Maiskhan dogs. The balance swung undecided for a majority of our people.”

“But?”

“Hutenen wouldn’t act. He hesitated. He wanted to negotiate with her, to ascend the throne in an orderly fashion. He wanted her to admit her wrongdoing. Being so stubborn was his undoing. It gave her time to consolidate power, all the while saying honey-sweet things to him, things he wanted to hear, to believe. She—she fascinated him, ever since we were boys. She was his father’s last, youngest wife, you know. Decades younger than the king. Vastly more clever than any of his other wives. She took influential men as her lovers even when her husband lived. Led each to believe he was her chosen one to sit on the throne with her. She played them against each other for her favors—priests, generals, lords of the kingdom. Nothing is too twisted for her if it helps her keep control. Murder has long been rumored to be a favorite tool, and now we know the truth of the accusation since she poisoned my prince to get him out of her way.” Rothan’s hand clenched on the hilt of his sword. “When we marched home to find the illegal situation Farahna had created, he should have struck her down at her first blasphemous words about the gods giving her the right to rule.”

Mark had no doubt Rothan would have taken direct action against Farahna if he’d been in charge.

They strolled toward the oxcart, which Khefer had stopped, waiting to see what the orders would be.
 

“I went to get Hutenen the Crown and the Scepter to instill in his heart the courage and decisiveness of Khunarum,” Rothan said as he and Mark walked. “Tia thinks we were after the artifacts to cure the physical poison, but I wanted them to cure him in spirit and resolve.”

“The crown may have magical properties, as you and I saw clearly during the audience with Farahna,” Mark answered. “But it can’t awaken the attributes of a king in the heart of a man who didn’t possess the raw material. Hutenen wasn’t you. He didn’t have your strength.”

“Will it be enough?” Rothan stopped again, rolling his shoulders. “When I wore the crown in the grave robber’s hut, I felt no different than I do this moment, wearing nothing on my head but the hood of this humble merchant’s garb.” He glanced at Mark, eyes narrowed. “I admit this to you alone, because you helped me take the crown from Khunarum, but it brings me no extra power, no secret knowledge.”

“You’re the right man at the right time, and you know what you have to do. You’re human, like the rest of us, crown or no crown. You’re going to win this war, if it can be won, and we’re all going to work hard to make it happen. We’ll do the best we can, fight as hard and as smart as we know how, and then fate is out of our hands,” Mark said, answering from his heart. “Unlike Hutenen, you have the guts to take on the challenge, to try to save your people and your country. Farahna and her Maiskhan don’t fool or intimidate you.”

“Nor you!” His expression lightening, Rothan clapped Mark on the shoulder. “You’re an ally and a friend beyond price. More valuable in your own way than the Crown of Khunarum.”

Ducking his head and giving a self-deprecating chuckle, never one to seek or accept praise easily, Mark said, “Now you’re getting carried away.”

“We’ll see.” Rothan lengthened his stride, motioning for Khefer to get the oxen moving again.

“What were you two talking about?” Sandy asked, hopping off the cart to walk hand in hand with Mark. “Is he having second thoughts? Are you?”

He squeezed her hand and hugged her close. “No to both questions. We’re well and truly embroiled in a plot to overthrow the queen. I’ve no idea what’s going to happen, but I have confidence in Rothan.”

“My faith is based on your abilities,” she said, poking a finger at his chest.
 

“The two of us together,” he answered, pulling her close.

“And the mirror.” Sandy brought the gleaming artifact from her pocket, examining the handle in the sunlight. “This is important, maybe as crucial to success as the crown.” She glanced at him. “I know you’re not a believer, but Haatrin told me the mirror could be a powerful weapon in the right hands.”

Mark kissed her. “If anyone can convert an old mirror into a magical weapon, it’d be you. You used to love to read all those musty old books about magic and miracles, fairies and elves.”

“I’m serious.” Frowning, she slid the mirror into her pocket.

“So am I,” he said with a laugh. “Come on, slow as the oxen are, the cart is getting ahead of us.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

The first night they had to camp at a crowded oasis thronged with caravans and smaller groups of travelers. Khefer directed their cart to a spot at the fringe of the gathering under a scrubby palm tree and stood, rubbing the forehead of the lead ox while the group conferred in a loose circle around him.

“While it doesn’t make me happy to be around so many people,” Mark said, “there’s some safety in the sheer numbers. What’s the protocol here?”

“Set up a cooking fire, put out our sleeping mats. We can keep to ourselves, and no one will remark on the behavior.” Rothan was calm. “Spice traders are known to be standoffish due to the value of their wares. Lucky for us, there don’t appear to be any other members of the guild here. They might recognize our cart, or wish to socialize, and our disguise won’t stand up to close scrutiny by experts.” He looked apologetic as he made his next remark. “The women will have to go fetch the water for the beasts and us from the central well.”

“Not by themselves.” Mark’s protest was immediate.

“You and Djed can go along as guards, but don’t touch the water jars or buckets yourself. That would draw attention, as spice guildsmen never haul water if their wives are present. Khefer will procure fodder for the oxen, and Sallea and I’ll stay with the cart, unload the necessities.” The king assigned a role to everyone.

Mark found it telling that Rothan included Sallea among the warriors, not the water-fetching women. True, the Mikkonite was dressed like a man, wore a sword, and had her telltale blue hair hidden under complicated cloth headgear. Sandy murmured a similar observation to him as they walked behind Djed and Tia toward the center of the activity, where the Nakhtiaar had told them the well would be.
 

“I find it amusing,” she said as they joined the tail end of a long line queued for the water, “that the queen and the Outlier princess are the ones with the clay jars and wooden buckets, hauling water. A nice reminder not to think too much of myself. I suppose we’ll have to make several trips—the oxen must be thirsty after pulling the cart all day.”

He was glad she was taking their mundane assignment in stride. Scanning his surroundings, he realized he and Djed were the only men in the vicinity. They were getting a lot of attention and some catcalls from the other women, which was unfortunate, but he wasn’t letting Sandy walk around this oasis full of people without him. Djed seemed to be taking it all in stride, exchanging bold glances and winks with more than one woman, even as he kept his hand on his sword.

It took three trips to the well before the water detail was accomplished. They ate a sparse dinner around their small campfire and stretched out on mats laid between the cart and the tree. Sandy fell asleep at once, her head pillowed on his shoulder. Mark lay awake, listening to the clamor of the busy oasis—music, people singing and arguing, animals bellowing—reflecting on how different this world was from anywhere in the Sectors where he’d spent much time. The raw energy and the possibilities for change here appealed to him.
 

They’d divided the night into watches, and his was the last before dawn. Rothan wanted to be on the road again as early as possible, hoping not to be trapped behind a long caravan. Breakfast was rushed, and then they were on their way. The day was uneventful but nerve-racking, as Maiskhan patrols passed them more than once.

“Looking for us?” Mark asked as the most recent set of chariots thundered past in a cloud of dust.

“I doubt it,” Rothan answered.

“You trust the grave robbers’ village to keep our secret?” Mark glanced at Djed, speaking quietly enough so the archer wouldn’t hear.

“I do. Betraying our secret reveals their own and destroys their livelihood. They’d never trust Farahna—she’s killed too many of the tomb workers, who are also their extended family members. I think the Maiskhan are tightening their grip on the entire country, patrolling the caravan routes, probably getting ready to assess tolls and taxes once they’re more fully in control of Nakhtiaar.” Eyes narrowed as he considered, Rothan rubbed his chin. “I might go trade some spices for better foodstuffs, try talking to some of the caravan workers in the process at the next oasis tonight, get a sense of how they feel about the Maiskhan, what they’re seeing as they traverse Nakhtiaar.”