Lady of the Star Wind

by Veronica Scott

  “We didn’t come all this way and suffer unbearable pain to give up on each other now,” he said, as if challenging the unseen dieties in charge of the mirror. “You need to find a way to make our magic work for your fucking mirror.”

  There was no response. He didn’t know whether to be relieved or regretful.

  Close to midnight, he trudged inside the mansion, made his way to their suite of rooms, and climbed into the bed beside Sandy, trying not to wake her. She murmured in her sleep and rolled over, curling into him for comfort. He drifted off to the sound of her soft breathing.

  Coughing as dank, cold air filled his lungs, he realized he stood in what he thought as the chamber of Judging, with no idea or memory of how he got there. He put his arm around Sandy, standing close beside him. The goddess Haatrin was waiting for them, although there was no sign of the judge or the scribe. “Why have you come here again, still before your appointed time?”

  “To solve the riddle of how I may use the mirror I was given,” Sandy answered before Mark could make a sound. He wondered if she’d arranged this dream through some means he didn’t understand. A drug from her kit perhaps? But Sandy was still talking. “We wish to pass through your door—”

  “To use our door.” Haatrin was stern and unfriendly. Quite different than when Mark saw her before. “You don’t belong to this place and this time, Traveler. You’ve no right to ask these things.”

  Sandy refused to yield an inch. “We do belong. We’ve been given rights through the grace of Nuet.” She paused as the name echoed through the chamber, amplifying as the word reverberated against the stone walls. Haatrin winced. Sandy appealed to the goddess. “I may not remember everything you told me when we met before, but I remember Nuet. You asked her, and she said I had choices, had a chance to wield her mirror, so I beg you to help me—us—now.”

  Idly, Haatrin flicked the curling feather she held. “I detect the faintest hint of Sherabti’s venom in the wounds you each bear, tying you to this world. The magic remains potent.” Head tilted, voice low as if talking to herself rather than Mark and Sandy, she said, “True, I did raise the issue of the mirror with Nuet because I hoped this was the time of the prophecy. And I witnessed her agreement that you could have the mirror and attempt to use it. Consent grudgingly given but valid nonetheless. For all her age and disengagement from this world, she knows much we’ve yet to learn.” Raising her head, she looked at Mark. “And you issued an ill-conceived challenge, did you not?”

  Startled, he thought back to his defiant words in the garden after dinner, about the need to fit what was special about the two of them into the requirements of the Mirror. Rolling his shoulders, ignoring Sandy’s surprised expression, he said, “I did, not that I agree with your term.”

  Haatrin chewed her lip for a moment before nodding and giving Sandy a direct stare. “Very well, you may pass. The success or failure of your quest is not mine to decide, understand? I open the door to possibility alone. Walking through the door is up to you. Achieving your goal is on your shoulders.” The goddess flicked her attention between them. “Both of you.”

  “A door is all we wanted,” Sandy affirmed. “Thank you.”

  “The door you seek is one we don’t use,” Haatrin said. “I don’t know if anyone has ever crossed the threshold from here. This entire quest is unprecedented in our experience, but then, you’re not of this world by birth or heritage.”

  “We’ve chosen to make our home here, though,” Mark said. “We’ve committed to Rothan and his cause.”

  Haatrin placed the blue and brown feather in her hair rather absent-mindedly. “So you say. I accept you believe this.” Straightening her spine, she said, “We must go quickly, while the omens and alignments which brought you to me tonight remain favorable to you. Such things change quickly.”

  She spun on her heel and walked rapidly into the corridor to the right. Mark and Sandy rushed to follow her.

  The walls of the passage were blank, smooth gray stone. The farther he walked, the dizzier Mark became. Other halls branched away, but Haatrin didn’t even glance at those. A few moments later, the corridor opened out into a huge room dimly lit by multicolored torches set into elaborate golden fixtures at regular intervals along the wall. Heavy wooden doors lined all four walls as far as Mark could see, each bearing a few glowing golden symbols in the center.

  Reading the symbols to herself, Haatrin moved slowly now, speaking a language Mark didn’t understand. Then she stopped in front of a door no different to his eyes than any other and stood aside. “The actual opening of this portal is not for me. You must grasp the handle and walk through. I give you my blessing, for whatever it may be worth in this venture. Perhaps we’ll meet again—I can’t predict. Some things are veiled even from such as me, because the results will be dictated by your choices and actions. I bid you a fair journey.” Spinning on her heel, she walked away.

  “We’d better not hesitate,” Mark said. “Ready?”

  Sandy shrugged. “We asked for this, so yes, no use in delaying.” She drew him close for a kiss, sweet and warm in this cold stone chamber. “Whatever happens, if this works or if we fail, I’m glad we’re together.”

  “Always,” he said, hugging her. Then he studied the door. The curved handle was in the shape of a dagger, bent to form the arc, topped by a crown set with diamond stars. He wrapped his fingers around the metal, reaching to take Sandy by the hand, depressed the lever, and opened the door inward. Drawing her after him, he stepped across the threshold. His momentum carried him forward. Head spinning under an attack of ferocious vertigo, Mark closed his eyes and tried to retreat, but the solid weight of the now-closed door pressed against his spine. Knees buckling, he pitched forward, vision fading to black.

  “Wake up, lazy outworlder!”

  The voice was harsh, the motion accompanying the insult drastic. Mark and all his bedclothes were dragged from the narrow bunk and dumped on the hard tile floor. He struggled to his feet, half dazed and rubbing a numb elbow, as the whining voice continued ranting at him. Rude laughter came from the other cadets clustered at the door of his room.

  “You’re expected to be on duty in five minutes, Ensign Denaltieri, at the far west gate of the Obelisk Wing, and judging by your state of undress, you’re going to be late. Demerits, Ensign, demerits in your first week aren’t going to get you a high rating!”

  Blinking, he saluted with one hand, clutching the sheet with his other. “Yes, Cadet Lieutenant Portuc.”

  Portuc aimed one last kick at Mark’s jumbled pile of clothes and blankets as his companions laughed. “Uniform’s gonna be nonregulation, hayseed, leaving it in a heap on the end of your bunk. You aren’t going to last here. You’ll wash out in a month at this rate. Easy to predict with an outworld hick like you. Barent assigned you Obelisk Wing duty as a favor. Take a word of advice from me and don’t make him regret his choice!”

  The door slammed shut behind his tormenters as Mark blinked, rubbing his forehead, confused. Portuc? But wasn’t Portuc dead on Freemarket, murdered by Barent Kliin? “I’d better go easier on the cheap wine next time—that was some insane dream.” Dazed, Mark staggered into the small bathroom adjoining his lowly ensign’s quarters. He drew a glass of water and rinsed his mouth out. Leaning on the sink, he got a good look at himself in the mirror.

  “What the seven hells?”

  The face staring back at him was his own true enough, but smooth, unlined, a young man’s visage framed by shoulder-length black hair. He shut his eyes until hot pinwheels threatened to blind him. He reopened them, leaning in toward the mirror.

  The youthful vision stared back.

  He gazed at himself in disbelief. Yes, he stood barefoot and naked in the spartan bathroom of his old barracks room in the least desirable cadet wing of the Imperial Palace on Throne.

  Impossible. He hadn’t been in this room for over twenty years.

  “Which is the dream? This, or the other reality?” He splashed water on his
face and rubbed his eyes. “Okay, think. Was I drunk last night at the cadet dinner and had a nightmare as a result? Or am I two decades older and dreaming in Nakhtiaar?” He ran more cold water and poured it over his head. As he shook the droplets away, he caught a glimpse of his eyes in the mirror and leaned in close again. “Did Barent or Portuc spike the wine last night at the banquet?”

  The floor felt cold under his feet. His elbow tingled and ached where he had fallen on it a moment ago. He was undeniably somewhat hungover, a headache throbbing at his temples. Struck by an urgent thought, Mark straightened as he toweled his hair dry. If he was on Throne, reliving his early days as a cadet in a dream or hallucination, and if Portuc had been there so early to remind him of his duties, then this was the day he first met Sandy. The day her uncle had attempted to have her assassinated as part of his endless and obsessive plots.

  An assassination Mark had prevented.

  Thereby sending his life careening out of its previously well-defined path.

  “Lords of Space, what time is it?” He ran into his bedroom, searching for the chrono. He still had the chance to intervene, because he now knew his way around Throne and its shortcuts, which the young Cadet Denaltieri had not. Grabbing a clean uniform from the storage space and shrugging into it took a few precious seconds. Buckling on his belt and ceremonial weapon, he noticed in passing the knife scar along his ribs had vanished. He fastened the tabs on the shirt, yanked on his boots, and shoved his way out the door before it had time to open fully. Other cadets gaped at him as he sprinted past them, pushing through the corridor and into the old-fashioned stairwell, hastening to the lower levels in leaps and bounds.

  He’d been lost many times in his first weeks on Throne, much to the amusement of the other ensigns and more senior boys who’d grown up at court. There was no confusion in his mind where he was going now, though. To the far garden of Tsiolovad, Sandy’s particular favorite. The sprawling arbors and flower beds were deserted most days and therefore free of the prying eyes and hordes of fawning courtiers infesting Throne. He made good time through the winding corridors and emerged from a doorway at the far end of the garden, out of breath but arriving before the assassins would make their appearance.

  Sandy sat on a bench beneath a spreading shade tree, reading an ancient book, pages close to crumbling into dust under her delicate touch.

  She was a young woman again, in her late teens like him.

  He found that fact disturbing. Sandy’s appearance today matched the vision he’d held in his heart for so many years in exile, but now he’d grown accustomed to the mature woman who was his partner and equal in their adventures on Nakhtiaar. This had to be some insane nightmare he was having. Pinching his arm, he closed his eyes for a heartbeat, trying to will himself to wake up in the bed on Nakhtiaar, but nothing happened. Taking a deep breath, opening his eyes to find himself still on Throne of the Past, he advanced across the lawn. He’d no choice but play this scene out.

  Frowning, Alessandra marked her place in the book with a graceful hand. “Who are you? How dare you disturb my afternoon?” She stared at him as she spoke, her attitude and her voice showing no fear but much annoyance.

  Feeling compelled to play along with the scenario Haatrin or someone had dropped him into, he said, “Forgive me, Your Highness, but you’re in grave danger. Allow me to escort you to the main wing.”

  Her forehead wrinkled a bit as she considered his words. Then her expression lightened, and she nodded. “Oh, you’re one of the new cadets, aren’t you? Is this some game the others put you up to? The seniors relish teasing and embarrassing the boys from offworld. Such hazing shouldn’t be allowed by the master of cadets.” She waved a dismissive hand at him, already opening her book again. As her finger traced the page, searching for the spot where she’d stopped reading, she said, “You mustn’t let them get you into trouble. You’ve no business here in the garden, and I’m not in any danger, I assure you. The boys are playing a prank.” Glancing at him, she made a tiny shooing motion. “If you go out the way you came and keep going left at each corner, you’ll end up in the central core of the palace and can navigate from there to wherever you’re assigned to stand guard. I won’t speak of this to anyone, don’t worry.” She flipped to the next page.

  In his anxiety to get her to safety in case this was insane reality, not a dream, Mark lost his patience and forgot where they were in their personal history. Stepping forward, he took her elbow, trying to pull her to her feet. “Sandy—”

  “What did you call me?” Clearly angry, as well as astounded at his easy familiarity, she straightened her spine. She grappled clumsily with the book, trying to avoid dropping it while she attempted to break his hold. “How dare you lay hands on me?” She was every inch the offended imperial princess.

  Realizing his mistake, Mark tried to recoup with a respectful bow, releasing her elbow. “A thousand pardons, Your Highness. I’m new to court, as you’ve observed. I haven’t learned the manners and speech yet.”

  “Manners can’t be so different, even on the outer worlds. One doesn’t clutch at a woman, known to you or not.” Despite the acid tone of voice, she inclined her head graciously, a bit mollified by his apology. Stepping away from him as he released her elbow, she hurried behind the bench, closing the book and holding it to her chest as if for protection. “You may go, then. I won’t mention this to your commander, but you must be more careful in the future, Cadet. Others at court aren’t as forgiving as I choose to be today.”

  “I have to get you out of this garden, Your Highness. At once.” Mark was insistent.

  “I think you must be drunk, or mad.” She backed away from him some more. As something at the far end of the flower beds behind him caught her attention, she pointed. “And who are these newcomers? Your friends? You’ll all be in trouble, I warn you. This cadet joke has gone too far.”

  Mark didn’t have to turn to know the three assassins had arrived. Now he’d lost the element of surprise, which had turned the odds in his favor in the original encounter. He hoped he’d gained the advantage of two decades as a trained killer. Would this young body respond to the older man’s trained muscle memories? After all, he hadn’t received that lethal instruction yet. Vaulting over the bench, he grabbed the outraged princess by the shoulder, shoving her behind him, saying as he did so, “They’re here to kill you. Stay out of my way and don’t interfere.”

  “Listen to him, girl,” advised the man in the lead, laughing as he drew twin force daggers from his belt. His face was unaccountably pleasant, nondescript, with a smile inviting Sandy to share his amusement. “Once we’ve disposed of your young valiant defender, we’ll slit your throat painlessly, I swear. We promised your uncle not to make you suffer. He has a soft spot for you in his heart somewhere, for all his hatred of your bloodline.”

  Mark heard Sandy take a deep, shuddering breath before she spoke. “This must be a mistake—my parents paid him a huge bribe to omit us from the feud.”

  The bearded, debonair assassin spat. “Your parents can argue with him later. My orders are to take you out of the equation.”

  “You’re in the wrong place at the wrong time, Cadet.” The thug behind the ringleader spoke to Mark with mock pity, saluting him with a dagger. “Convenient for us, though, eh, mates? We can frame him for the crime, and his family can pay reparations to the empress.”

  Mark launched himself over the bench at the first man, breaking the assassin’s scrawny neck in one practiced, violent kick, a flash of relief adding to his adrenaline-fueled strength as he drew on his future training in this strange situation. The other two hired killers wasted no time in closing in on him, ignoring Sandy, who remained rooted to the spot where she stood. Her screams wouldn’t bring immediate help. Bystanders on Throne stayed uninvolved in any incidents until the outcome made clear which side was safest to support.

  He tried to counter the slashing attack from the second assailant, swearing and gritting his teeth as the force knif
e grazed his ribs, inflicting the wound whose scar he’d always bear. The deep gash wasn’t enough to stop him from killing this opponent as well, stabbing his own dagger deep into the man’s heart. Jacked up on adrenaline, Mark was immune to pain right now. The third conspirator bolted, dropping his force knives to the grass and sprinting for the far wall. Mark was having none of it, chasing him across the uneven ground, grabbing the assassin from behind as he fled, and wrestling him to the dirt. They struggled, Mark’s blood drenching them both, before he succeeded in knocking his adversary out. At the last moment he used less-than-lethal force as he remembered this man had survived in the original version of the episode. The wretch died later under the tools of the empress’s interrogators.

  Shoving the unconscious man aside, Mark stood, staggering to lean on the bench, breathing hard. He stared at his last, surviving victim and then checked that the other two were indeed dead. His steps wavered, and dizziness assaulted him. He pressed a hand to his head and the other to his side in an attempt to staunch the blood loss. Disbelief that he was actually wounded contributed to his confusion. What the hells kind of dream was this? Sandy hastened to his side, her face white and anxious.

  Blinking, he tried to focus on her. “Are you—are you all right, Your Highness?”

  “I’m fine, thanks to you. Sit down before you fall.” She guided him to the bench, his blood staining her fingers and her dress as she reinforced the pressure he applied to the gaping wound. “How did you happen to be here? Are you involved somehow?”

  “No, I got lost,” Mark lied. It had been true the first time, all those years ago. “I’m assigned to sentry duty at the west gate, with Barent Kliin, but I took the wrong corridor.”

  More men burst into the garden, but he could tell from a swift glance at the uniforms that these troops were loyal to the alliance encompassing Sandy’s bloodline. The world was darkening, and he slumped from the bench to the grass. Weeping, Sandy cradled him in her arms, deflecting the attention of the guards away from him to the assassins. Horrified ladies-in-waiting pulled her away as the first of the medtechs arrived. He lost consciousness as his blood-soaked tunic was cut open by the medics.