She reached out and drew the incense smoke over her. Conan knew the scent welclass="underline" myrrh. It overrode the stench of death. She bowed her head so smoke billowed over it. Spreading her arms, her palms facing the sky, she prayed in low tones.
“Mitra grant that my actions have been right and pleasing to you. I took life to save life, I imprisoned evil in death so others could be free. Judge not my companions by their actions, but by the content of their hearts, as they help me do thy will.”
Her head remained lowered, but cocked slightly, as if she were listening for a reply. Conan remained still and held his breath, lest she detect his presence. Though she betrayed no sign of knowing he was there, he felt certain that she did. Despite that feeling, he could not drag himself away.
“Mitra, I beg thee for the strength to overcome any taint of my blood, from my actions or the sins of ancestors aeons past. Confirm me in my purpose. Point me to peace in your service.”
The sincerity of her words surprised Conan. His own god, Crom, invited no such intimacy. He pitched infants into the world screaming and waited their recitation of their life after they died. He expected them to make the most of his gifts, and their failure was of no interest to him. Similarly Conan had dealt with many men—be they commoners, kings, or high priests—who professed devotion to gods and then, in turn, blasphemed in preference to worship, claimed all glory to themselves, and placed all blame for adversity on the gods. As he had come to discover was the case with most civilized men, they paid lip service to the gods, and relied on selfish motives to govern their behavior.
Tamara’s voice rose just a bit, her throat tightening. “With your gentle wisdom, bless this man who protects me. Lift his burden of pain, as you do mine. As it is your will, abide by my wishes. I am yours forever, heart and soul.”
She drew her hands toward her body and wrapped her arms around her middle. Then she began rocking forward and back. The myrrh smoke swirled around her, fragrant threads creating a ghostly cocoon.
Conan watched until the incense burned to nothing and she ceased moving. Were it not for her chest rising and falling, he might have thought her dead. He entered her cabin silently and scooped her up in his arms. He laid her on her bunk and checked that none of the blood she’d washed off had been hers. He wrapped her in a blanket, then stole back to his cabin.
As she had found peace in her prayers, so Conan found it in caring for his weapons. He washed and oiled them, scraping away all tarnish and rust. He wiped them clean of oil, then held each blade over a lamp’s flame. Soot blackened the steel so no reflected moonlight would reveal it. He similarly blackened a cloth so he could darken his face as needed, then opened his sea chest, pulled out a mail surcoat, and repeated the process with it.
He prepared his weapons for war with the same sincere devotion Tamara had showed in her prayers. Not because Conan worshipped war, but because he had been born to it. It occurred to him, with a degree of grim satisfaction, that as long as wars raged, and men like Khalar Zym sought to elevate themselves over others, he would never truly be alone. War might be a fell companion, but it was one he knew well. And as long as I know it better than my enemies do, I shall not fall.
CHAPTER 28
MARIQUE STARTED, NOT because she had not expected her father’s reaction, but because she had underestimated his fury. He banged open the bronze doors to her chamber and marched in as if he were already a god. Anger had flushed his face purple and sharpened his features into a fearsome mask.
“What have you done?”
She folded the light purple tunic and laid it on top of a saddlebag before she turned to face him. She kept her expression serene, hiding her racing heart. “I am doing as you ordered, Father.”
Her answer stopped him. Shock softened his features, but only for a moment. He pointed toward her chamber’s floor. “Akhoun has told me that the Beast That Lurks has returned. Neither Ukafa nor any of those who accompanied him have come back. Their submersible coracles are lost. They failed, you failed! The girl is gone. Your mother is gone.”
“Calm yourself, Father.”
“I cannot be calm, Marique!” His clawed hands rose toward the ceiling, his angry words filling her domed chamber. “Ever have I been patient with you. For your sake. For your mother’s sake. But now . . . now that we are so close, so very close, you have failed me. Again! How am I to feel calm, Marique? Where do I find a wellspring of peace?”
“Here, Father.” She beckoned him to a side table which had been topped in forgotten times with a mosaic map of the Acheronian empire. The coastline had changed. Rivers flowed in different courses, but the mountains remained the same and created suitable landmarks for navigation. A rounded crystalline bell had been fitted over the top of the table. Beneath it had been trapped a single insect.
Khalar Zym’s rage simmered. “An old map of an old world.”
“A world to be made again anew, Father. That’s what you want. And the monk, she is of old blood.” Marique smiled casually. “This is why we had trouble locating her. The monk Fassir changed her, hid her, so that as we looked for an ancient bloodline in a modern world, we could not find it. But when we look for her blood on a world in which it was born, we find it.”
“How?”
“Is it not obvious?” Marique pointed.
“A bug on the ocean, daughter, does not cheer me.”
“A hornet, Father. The ship she is on is the Hornet. Right now it lurks here, off the coast. The scrap of cloth still bears her essence and puts her on the ship, but not forever.” She glanced at the baggage on the bed. “I go with a handpicked squad to ride and to retrieve her.”
Khalar Zym shook his head. “From Khor Kalba to there will take four days, and that would be riding horses to death.”
“Yes, Father, but you forget. I am my mother’s daughter.” Marique laughed. “With the magick at my command, what was once a horse will no longer be, and riding them unto death and beyond will make all the difference.”
Khalar Zym threw his head back and laughed, anger drained from his voice. “Very clever, beloved daughter. Proceed. But mark me. Return without the monk, or fail to bring her here for the ritual on the night of the moon’s death, and all the sorcery in the world will not save you from my wrath.”
TAMARA STOOD ON the wheel deck, dressed as a pirate should be, with her long, dark hair dancing in the dying day’s breeze. She watched Conan below as he bid his fellows farewell. She’d awakened in her bed, naked but wrapped tenderly in a blanket, and knew who had done her that kindness. Her ritual had provided her some peace and more clarity, though the latter only extended so far.
She hoped that by standing there, standing tall and looking every inch as a corsair should, she would give Conan heart. She wanted terribly to beg him not to go—not because she feared for her safety on the Hornet. Not only would her skills with a knife and bow save her from unwanted attention, but Artus had declared her the little sister he’d never had and had suggested, none too subtly, that the rest of the crew should do likewise.
Unspoken was the fact that to fail in that regard would be to face her wrath, or his wrath, or Conan’s wrath, in no particular order.
No, Tamara feared for Conan. Oddly enough it was not because she doubted his skill with arms or courage—she had never seen a man so fearsome in combat. Though she would never have wished them to oppose each other, she would have felt certain that even Master Fassir would fall to the Cimmerian.