Artus rested scarred hands on Conan’s shoulders. “I am your brother, Conan. I’ll see you into a grave or the other way around. It does not matter. If I follow you, it is not because I believe you will make me immune to Death’s touch, but because you open the way to adventure. Already, Conan, men sing of you, and of those who you have known.”
Conan nodded. The Song of Bêlit had become popular in Shem and he’d even heard it sung once in Messantia. “There are more pleasant ways to become immortal.”
“Are there?” Artus laughed and pointed off toward Khor Kalba to the north. “Immortality is what Khalar Zym desires, and his way is none too pleasant. His way is decidedly unpleasant for those who stand between him and his goal. Most men would never dare oppose him because they fear for their lives. But if they do not oppose him, they do not have a life.”
“So you have told me.”
“So, perhaps now you will listen.”
Conan nodded. “I will.”
“Good.” Artus ran a hand over his jaw. “One thing about those we leave behind, Conan. We never know what they would want, but we can be sure what they would hate.”
“Yes?”
“For their death to become our death. They live in our memories.” Artus smiled. “Our lives make them more vital. Your glory is their glory, your victory is their victory. Live as they would have lived, live as they would have desired you to live, and you will be worthy of their lives forever.”
The Cimmerian nodded. “Over the years, Artus, you have become much wiser.”
“No, Conan, I’ve always been this wise.” The Zingaran’s laughter rose to the stars. “It’s just taken you this long to realize it.”
CHAPTER 26
TAMARA HAD NO difficulty finding Conan belowdecks. She followed the ringing rasp of whetstone on steel. As expected, the Cimmerian sat in his cabin, working an edge onto his new sword. He did not look up as she approached, but she knew he was aware of her. Even when she paused in the hatchway before his cabin, he did not acknowledge her.
She rapped lightly on the wooden bulkhead. “Is my attire suitable?”
He looked up, the light in his blue eyes visible despite the cabin’s dim interior. His gaze raked her up and down. From the ship’s stores she’d chosen tall boots of brown, which matched a sleeveless leather bodice. Beneath that, she wore a pale green man’s shirt—the bodice covered three stab wounds that she intended to stitch up later. Its tails covered her to midthigh. Leather skirting hung from a wide belt, affording her some protection without the sacrifice of mobility.
The Cimmerian grunted. “Good.”
Tamara waited for more, but he’d returned his attention to the sword. She swallowed hard, then looked at him. “Conan, we need to talk.”
The barbarian glanced back up, pain washing over his face. He’d clearly rather be testing the edge on his sword—and from the looks of it, either on her or his own throat—than chatting with her. He drew in a deep breath, then nodded. “Talk.”
“What I had on before, the silks, I did not choose them because I wished to dress as a harlot.” She chewed her lower lip for a moment. “In the monastery, we led a very disciplined life. Everything was prescribed and done in accordance with strict rules. Twice a year we would have festivals in which we would celebrate the lives of those who had passed. We would dress gaily and remember them at their best. When I sought other clothes, it was the first time I’d had a chance to truly realize how much I had lost. I did not think what you and others might think of me. I was thinking of them, the people I lost.”
Conan grunted.
“And I am sorry, Conan, for the remark I made.” Tamara frowned. “Your comment stung me and I struck back. It was not worthy of the person I was raised to be. I beg your forgiveness.”
The Cimmerian set the whetstone aside, but left his sword resting across his thighs. “It did not sit well to see you dressed as a slut. I have seen you fight. I have seen your dedication—insistent dedication—to the wishes of your master. You dishonored yourself and your master when you dressed in silks.”
“I understand.”
“And I could have phrased things better.”
Tamara leaned against the bulkhead. “I did not truly mean you did not know any women other than harlots.”
Conan smiled. “Yes, you did. You are perhaps not too far wrong.”
“But there is your mother . . .” Tamara looked up toward the main deck. “Artus told me, not much . . .”
The Cimmerian shrugged. “He told you what I know, which is not much. She bore me on a battlefield. She named me. I do not remember her.”
Tamara hugged her arms around her belly. “I do not know my mother either. Or my father. I was rescued while an infant by Master Fassir. The only life I have ever known has been destroyed. I’m not even sure why, save for the insane dreams of a madman.”
“Khalar Zym destroyed a village.” Conan held up a thumb. “All for a shard of bone no bigger than this. He killed everyone—or thought he did. I’d all but forgotten him until I ran across Lucius and, from him, found Remo chasing you. He has this Mask of Acheron and some warped dream of using it to conquer the world. It was my father’s duty to protect that shard. It is mine to get it back, or pursue a more direct solution to the problem.”
She shivered. “The Mask of Acheron . . . now things begin to make some sense.”
The Cimmerian’s eyes sharpened. “What do you know of it?”
“Only what I have been taught, Conan. Evil roots itself in the world in dreams and devices. The Mask of Acheron was a dream that became a device, and then returned to being a dream. The priest-kings of Acheron created it, fed it the blood of their daughters, and reaped great power through it. They built their empire upon the agony of millions. They celebrated, their joy made greater by the lamentations of those they oppressed.”
“So I have heard in legends.”
She smiled. “Master Fassir taught that evil is a fickle mistress. Those she raises high, she raises high only to dash them more magnificently on the rocks of despair and failure. Evil concentrates power, but it also concentrates the core essence of those who wield it. The invincible warrior needs a magick sword because, deep in his heart, he fears being defeated. That fear becomes his weakness, his downfall. So the Mask of Acheron will expose Khalar Zym’s weakness.”
The barbarian nodded, a low growl rumbling from his throat. In the half-light Conan became something more than she had seen before. Though he was still physically magnificent, with muscles etched in shadow and burnished with golden lamplight, it was the play of emotions over his brooding features that revealed his depth to her. He had actually listened to what she had said, and was considering it. Behind those cerulean eyes, he reevaluated all he knew of Khalar Zym.
Conan smiled, and she took heart from the sight. “A man who would be king has no need to surround himself with minions. Khalar Zym relies upon them and his witch of a daughter. Yes, he believes he needs her magick, the magick of Acheron, to accomplish his ends.”
The monk nodded. “There, you have it. He’s never had magick, never controlled it, and believes it is his only path to power. Just as he thinks himself a lesser man without it, so he must judge all men without it to be inferior as well. Gaining the mask will raise him to the pinnacle of power, and yet will blind him to the abilities of mere mortal men.”
“You may need to change again, Tamara of the four names.”