Straight, still, every inch the warrior despite his bandy legs, he showed no weakness in his bearing, but something about his eyes reflected the desperate determination needed to see this moment through. Mara swallowed again and gently pried Ayaki's fingers off the lobe of her ear. He shrieked with laughter, ready for more of such play.
'Hush,' scolded Mara.
In the square, Keyoke finished his speech. He bowed deeply and said, 'Go in honour, Lord of the Acoma. Let all men remember your name without shame.'
As he straightened, each warrior simultaneously removed his helm. The breeze pushed damp locks back from sweating faces; emotionless eyes watched the sword Buntokapi lifted above his head.
Mara swallowed again, her eyes stinging with salty tears. She tried to think of Lano, sprawled and bloodied under the hooves of barbarian horses; but the sight of Buntokapi, standing in failing sunlight with his sword raised in final tribute to the gods of life, was far too real to put aside. Except for his crudeness in bed, and his explosive temper, he had not been an oppressive husband - had Mara used the same manipulations to mould him instead of destroy him . . . No, she commanded herself, there can be no regret. She called upon the discipline she had learned in Lashima's temple and banished such thoughts from her mind. Without expression she watched Buntokapi turn the sword and set the blade point against his stomach.
He offered no final words. But the eyes that met Mara's were dark with irony and a strange admiration mixed with the triumph of knowing she must live with this moment for all her living days.
'Before the sun sets this day, you shall both see what it takes to die like a Lord of the Acoma,' he had said to her in the grove. Mara's hands clenched reflexively in the folds of Ayaki's clothing as Buntokapi lowered his head. Large hands, clumsy on the body of a woman but capable in wrestling and war, closed on the red-laced leather of the sword. Lowering sunlight gilded the sweat on his wrists. Then his knuckles tightened. He took a swift, running step and dived forward. The pommel of the weapon rammed cleanly against the earth. The blade drove through his body. Hands and hilt struck his breastbone, and he grunted, his body gone rigid with agony.
He did not cry out. A sigh left his lips while the life bled swiftly through his fingers and mouth. As the spasms of his muscles slowed, and almost stopped, he turned his head. Lips caked with dust and blood framed a word that no man heard, the dead eyes stilled upon the figure of the woman and child who stood on the hillock above.
Ayaki began to wail. Mara loosened hands that gripped his young body too tight, and by the ache in her chest realized she had stopped breathing. She drew a painful breath. Now, mercifully, she could close her eyes. But the image of her husband's sprawled body seemed inscribed in the inside of her eyelids. She did not hear Keyoke pronounce the Lord of the Acoma dead, with all honour; instead, the phrases Buntokapi had spoken in the grove returned to haunt her. 'If you would engage in the Game of the Council, woman, you must know that the pieces you manipulate are flesh and blood. For the future, if you continue, it is right that you should remember.' Confronted by a rising tide of implications, Mara did not notice the men who replaced the helms upon their heads and bowed to the departed. Time and events seemed frozen upon the moment of Buntokapi's death, until Nacoya's wiry grip caught her elbow and steered her purposefully back towards the estate house. The old nurse did not speak, which was a mercy, though Ayaki cried for what seemed a very long time.
Once she had donned robes of mourning, Mara retired, not to her bedchamber, as Nacoya preferred, but to the west-facing room that had been her father's study. There she watched the shatra birds fly across a sky brilliant with sunset. But the crimson colours only reminded her of Buntokapi's robes, and of the bloodied sword that had taken his life. As twilight fell, the servants lit the glass-shuttered lamps and closed the screens against the dew. Mara regarded the chamber that, as a child, she had considered to be the heart of her father's financial empire; the sanctum was no longer the same. The desk lay piled with documents pertaining to Buntokapi's gambling and betting exploits: most would be debts, as Mara knew from the woebegone manner assumed by Jican these past weeks. The screens bore new paintings, ones the late Lord had preferred to the hunting scenes Mara's greatgrandfather had commissioned. These showed wrestlers and war scenes, and one, near the desk, showed a woman with ruddy hair.
Mara bit her lip in distaste. At first she had thought to restore the decor to the one she had known when her father and Lano were still living. Now, with the dust of the barracks unwashed from her feet, and Buntokapi's suicide still stark in her mind, she decided otherwise. Her childhood was behind her. Now, if the Acoma name were to survive, she must accept changes in herself, for the Game of the Council elevated the strong, while the weak perished or fell into ignominious obscurity.
A tentative knock sounded at the screen. Mara started, turned, and said, 'Enter.'
Jican hastened through the screen. For the first time in weeks, he carried neither documents nor needra tallies; his hands were empty, and in agitation he bowed and touched his forehead to the floor at the feet of the Lady of the Acoma. Startled, Mara said, 'Hadonra, please rise. I am in no way displeased with you or the way you have handled your duties under the rule of my late husband.'
But Jican only trembled and bent lower, a figure of abject misery huddled on the fine tiles of the floor. 'Mistress, I beg forgiveness.'
'For what?' Puzzled and trying to set the servant at ease, Mara stepped back and settled herself on the cushions where she and the hadonra had sustained many a lengthy discussion of estate finances in the past. 'Jican, please rise and speak plainly.'
The hadonra raised his head but did not leave his knees. He did his best to assume the proper Tsurani restraint, yet managed only to look contrite. 'Mistress, I bring shame to the Acoma. Strive as I might, I cannot - ' He broke off and swallowed uncomfortably. 'Lady, grant me mercy, for I cannot feel grief as I should for the death of the great Lord. He passed with honour and bravery and deserves to be mourned. Yet, in honesty, I cannot feel other than relief.'
Mara lowered her eyes, disconforted by the hadonra's distress. She picked at a tassel that had torn loose from the corner of one cushion, and reflected soberly that she felt no true grief for Buntokapi. But the shock of the realities of the stakes she had manipulated left her shaken, unbalanced, and confused. Her conscience might sting for her deed, but she felt none of the tortures of cultural loyalty displayed by the man before her. In an analytical vein, she wondered whether this diminished her spirit.
The hadonra shifted uncomfortably, and Mara realized she must react, if only to speak some words of comfort that she could not genuinely believe. 'Jican, all know that you suffered great tribulations under the command of my late husband. He did not appreciate your virtues, and he did not heed the wisdom of your advice. You served in perfect loyalty while Buntokapi was alive. Now he is your ruler no longer, and I say wear the red wristbands of mourning. Act in seemly fashion, for tradition must be honoured, but trust your heart. If you cannot mourn, then at least honour Buntokapi's memory.'
Jican bowed low, his nervous manner reflecting profound relief. A harder mistress, he knew, might have asked him to take his life. But with time he had come to appreciate that Mara saw more than most rulers when it came to interpreting the mores of culture. And even her most dedicated adversaries must admire the boldness with which she had dispatched the Anasati threat.
Mara sat alone for long hours after her hadonra left. The feelings in her heart were far more difficult to sort than those of her servant. She watched the lamps burn low, and pondered, and sometimes dozed. Dreams came to her, of Lanokota wearing red, and of her father spitted on the points of barbarian weapons. Sometimes his body changed, became that of Buntokapi, and sometimes Lano lay in the dust while Keyoke pronounced him dead with all honour. At other times her mind was anguished by the sound of Ayaki's crying, which seemed to go on and on with no end. Towards dawn she woke, sweating and chilled. The candles ha
d burned out, and moonlight streaked the screens, throwing silver-grey patterns on the tile. Mara lay still and, through the debris of her emotions, analysed the one fact that mattered. She felt sorry for Buntokapi, but she did not regret her choices. Service within the temple of Lashima might once have preserved the peace and purity of spirit she had known during girlhood; but having tasted power, and the thrill of the Game of the Council, she now knew she could never give them up.
Breeze rustled the akasi bushes, wafting the soft scent of flowers over the smells of ink and parchment. Mara lay back against her cushions, her eyes half-closed. In solitude, she granted her husband the one parting tribute she could believe in: he had shown her a moment of greatness, that afternoon in the glade. His own father had squandered that potential, and she had pandered to Buntokapi's faults, for her own selfish gain. Those things could not be changed. But the future lay like a blank parchment. Mara could ensure that Ayaki was raised differently, that the courage and strength of his father never soured into stubbornness. Once she had vowed to train out of Ayaki anything of Bunto, and to foster whatever was Acoma. Now she knew that Ayaki had gifts from Buntokapi that would be foolish to waste. By loving him, and nurturing him, and letting him develop his gifts, she could raise a son of the Acoma that would make even the Anasati proud; and that she vowed would be so.
11 - Renewal
Mara listened to the water.
The tiny stream that ran from the pool in the Acoma contemplation glade splashed softly as it rippled over rocks along its course. The wind gusted through the tree branches, a fitful sound that matched Ayaki's fussy mood. He looked on unsmiling as his mother raised the urn containing his father's remains. The ceremony of mourning was too much for his young mind to encompass; he knew only that the breeze chilled him and his mother wouldn't let him crawl off to play.
Mara experienced neither sorrow nor regret as she poured Buntokapi's ashes into the hollow beneath the Acoma natami. Her husband was dead, and the Lord of the Anasati mourned a son, even if only a poorly loved third son. Tecuma's bitterness would be doubled, for Buntokapi's end had been contrived by one beyond reach; as his mother of the only Anasati grandson, Mara was exempt from reprisal. Yet the girl herself felt no victory. Wind gusted sharply, tearing at her robe. Mara shivered. She must never allow herself to regret. What had been done was past, and necessary; to think otherwise was to be troubled by worse than her husband's angry shade. If doubts, even uncertainty, were permitted to grow, she risked paralysing her ability to make decisions in the future. That would surely consign the Acoma to eventual obliteration at the hands of enemies, for the Game of the Council would go on. Regret must be banished, despite her momentary sorrow, and indecision must be forever kept at bay.
For the second time in less than two years, Mara performed the ritual of mourning. Only now, instead of pain locked deep within, there was sadness. Sezu had taught that death was a part of politics, but now she understood that the forms were simply a rationale to justify murder. That awakening left her uneasy.
Mara sought comfort in a silent prayer, addressed to the shade of her husband. Buntokapi, she thought, for whatever rest it will bring your spirit, at the last you died with dignity. For a moment, no matter how briefly, you were worthy of the name Lord of the Acoma. For that I honour you. May your journey around the Wheel bring you better reward in your next life.
Now Mara rent her clothing, cut her arm, and placed ashes between her breasts. Ayaki stirred restlessly at her side, having tossed away the beads Nacoya had loaned to keep him occupied. Mara tore the baby's wrap and smudged ashes on his tiny chest. He looked down and made a face. Tough as his father, Ayaki would not cry when Mara pinched him; instead he stuck his lower lip out and scowled belligerently. With the ceremonial dagger Mara pricked the boy's forearm, earning a wail of protest to complete the ritual. She held Ayaki's arm over the pool, letting his blood mix with her own in the water.
Tears came easily then. Alone and free from the scrutiny of hovering advisers and servants, Mara admitted her inner fear: that she was not equal to the next round of the Game of the Council. The humiliation and pain she had suffered at Buntokapi's hands, the doubt and the anguish as she plotted his downfall, and each danger endured to survive the murder of her father and brother -all these might still be as nothing, blown away by the winds of circumstance and political fortune. The Minwanabi never slept in their hatred of the Acoma. Sometimes Mara felt helpless beyond hope.
Seeking the stability of the practical, she dressed Ayaki in the tiny ceremonial gown left for him. Then she donned her own white robe, silenced her wailing son, and carried him through the gusty afternoon to the grove's entrance.
The noise warned her first that visitors had arrived. Armour clanked in the yard, and the excited voice of a servant carried over the sigh of wind through leaves. Mara tightened her fingers around Ayaki's solid warmth, earning a wiggle of protest. Tense with apprehension, she stepped around the shielding hedges and almost collided with Keyoke's weaponed bulk. The old Force Commander had positioned himself squarely across the entrance, and by the keepers left loose on his buckles, Mara realized he had pulled his ceremonial armour on with the greatest haste. The visitors, then, would be significant.
'Anasati?' she queried softly.
Keyoke returned a terse nod. 'Papewaio and Nacoya await you, Lady. And Lujan oversees the arming of two companies at the barracks.'
Mara frowned. Keyoke would hardly have mentioned such precautions if Tecuma had come with peaceful intentions; her fears were confirmed as the Force Commander deliberately raised a hand and scratched his chin with his thumb.
Mara took a deep breath, ducking as Ayaki swung a playful fist. 'Lashima reward your foresight, Keyoke,' she murmured. And her pulse quickened as she stepped past the hedge, into view.
The yard was jammed with an assemblage of courtiers, warriors, and servants, all dusty from travel by road and wearing armour that was serviceable and plain, not the fancy enamelled style worn on state visits. A loud patch of colour in his house colours and plumes of mourning, the Lord of the Anasati sat patiently upon his litter, his adviser Chumaka at his right hand. Silence fell as Mara approached, Nacoya and Papewaio falling into step one pace behind. The Anasati soldiers assumed formal poses and formation as the Lady of the Acoma bowed, as slightly as possible without giving offence to one of Tecuma's rank.
'Welcome, father of my husband.'
'Greetings, daughter,' he said bitterly. 'I see the son of my son in your arms. May I view him?'
Mara felt a momentary pang of guilt. The presentation of a grandson should have been an occasion for joy, instead, in a moment tense with unspoken antagonism, Ayaki was passed into his grandfather's outstretched arms. Engulfed in scented cloth and the sharp edges of gemstone decorations, the infant squirmed but did not cry. Tecuma regarded this stolid little face and said, 'He looks like Bunto.'
Mara nodded in agreement.
After a long moment of cuddling the child, Tecuma returned him in cold silence. Mara immediately relinquished him to the custody of Nacoya, who settled him as she had the boy's mother, after a mourning ritual many years before.
'Take my son to his nursery,' said the Lady of the Acoma. As the old nurse departed, Mara regarded the hostile face of her father-in-law. 'I offer the hospitality of the house.'
'No, daughter.' Tecuma qualified the word, all tenderness gone with Ayaki. 'I wil not set foot in the house of my son's murderess.'
Mara almost flinched. With great effort she managed an impassive reply. 'Your son took his own life, my Lord, to satisfy the demands of honour.'
Tecuma bowed his head once, swiftly, in salute. 'I know, Mara. But I also knew my son. Despite his ineptness as a ruler, even he would never have contrived that insult to the Warlord and his own father. Only you could have brought such a thing to pass.' Something akin to respect coloured his manner for a brief instant. 'I salute your brilliance in the Game of the Council, Mara of the Acoma' - then his voice
turned flint-hard - 'but for this one bloody victory you shall pay in kind.'
Mara measured Tecuma and realized that grief and anger were making him say more than he might under normal circumstances. Inwardly she cautioned herself. 'My Lord, I merely obeyed my husband and Lord and repeated to you the commands he gave me, before witnesses.'
Tecuma waved away the objection. 'Enough. It does not matter. My grandson inherits the mantle of the Acoma, and he shall ensure a loyal tie between my house and his.' At this a man stepped forward from the Anasati retinue, a thin, predatory fellow with shrewd eyes and a belt of enamelled caro hide. The Lord said, 'This is Nalgara, who shall act on my behalf until Ayaki is of age.'
Mara was not caught off guard. 'My Lord, no.'
Tecuma's eyes narrowed. 'I did not hear you say that.'
Mara resisted showing weakness by offering justification. 'You will take this man with you when you leave.'
Armour rattled among the Anasati warriors as hands reached for weapons, and Tecuma's arm trembled, ready to signal an attack. 'Woman, you dare?'
Hoping that Lujan had had time to arm her own companies, Mara held her ground. 'No, my Lord. I demand.'
Tecuma abandoned his pretence of politeness. 'I shall decide how Ayaki's legacy is to be managed. I am Lord of the Anasati.'
'But these are Acoma lands,' Mara interrupted, her voice ringing with an anger all her own. 'My Lord of the Anasati seems to forget that his son was Lord of the Acoma. And the Acoma have never been, are not now, and shall never be vassals to the Anasati. Your grandson is now heir to the title of Lord. As his mother, I am again Ruling Lady of the Acoma until the day he comes of age.'
Empire - 01 - Daughter Of The Empire Page 31