“Tai eyneth.” Come with me. The guard said the words gruffly, a command not to be questioned. He was dressed head to foot in dark chain mail. He wore a deep crimson helmet and carried a halberd, a pike as tall as he was with the blade of a battle-axe protruding from its shaft. His dress, his weapon, and the floor on which he stood all identified him as a member of the Hezzan Guard, the most feared of the Drammune fighting forces, the most loyal to the emperor.
The warrior to whom the guard spoke stood silently, nodded slightly, then followed through huge, crimson double doors. Each door was twelve inches thick, each a perfect crimson square divided diagonally by a black slash of bolted iron. The pair walked past four other guards and into the dark, rich chambers of the emperor of Drammun, the Hezzan Shul Dramm.
The Hezzan was reclining on leather pillows under enormous, towering windows, now shut and shuttered. A basket overflowing with fresh fruit lay at his right hand, strips of red meat steamed in a steel skillet at his left. A young woman, dressed in a fabric that looked like gauze but which suggested more than it revealed, knelt to pour wine into her emperor’s silver goblet. Her dark hair was braided from her left ear to her shoulder; her eyes and face were painted. She looked up, startled.
The triple golden earring that pierced the flat of the young woman’s left ear flashed in the lamplight, and by this the visitor knew she was one of the Hezzan’s wives. The gauze-clad woman stood quickly, surprised and troubled by the disdain she saw in the warrior’s cold look.
“Go,” the Hezzan commanded. His most recent bride bowed dutifully and left, glancing back once, with fear.
The emperor was fifty-one, fit and muscular. He wore leather arm guards wrist to elbow, and a leather vest and kilt. His sandals were those of a warrior, thick-soled, hobnailed, with leather laces up to the knee. His beard was trimmed and dark, and his appearance, despite the gray that touched his temples, was altogether youthful. His eyes, black, sharp, and fierce, flashed in his scarred face.
“You have done well,” he said to the warrior.
“I have always sought to do my duty to you, and to the Law of my kingdom.”
The emperor took careful stock of the warrior before him, marking the leather robe and hood, the battle scars, the posture of pride, even defiance. “Bow to me.”
The warrior obeyed, putting one knee and both hands on the polished floor, as was customary before the Hezzan. “I am at your command.”
“You are worthy to command. And so you will become my wife.”
A tremor ran through her, but the warrior did not look up.
“This does not please you?” he asked.
Now Talon raised her head. Her eyes were every bit as fierce as his. She pulled back her leather hood, revealing short, ragged hair that had grown in around the scarred flesh of her scalp, burned in her ordeal aboard the Camadan. “I did not dare to imagine myself…attractive to you.”
He didn’t flinch. “You shall be my sixteenth wife.”
Talon knew better than to betray her emotions. “Words…fail me, Your Worthiness.”
“The arrangements are made. You will join with me tonight.”
She knew she could not keep the bitterness from her voice, could not hide it in her eyes, and so she said nothing, but stared down at the polished floor.
The Hezzan dismissed her. Talon was escorted by the guard back to her apartments in the palace, where a troupe of women, aides and servants, waited with baths, perfumes, face paint, and the gauzy garments she disdained.
Talon fought a burning rage. She had not foreseen this. She had earned a place of honor. She had been advising the Hezzan these many weeks, and had advised him well. She had done the kingdom great services, killing the Traitor, counseling the Hezzan in the sinking of the Vast fleet. She expected to do more. If she was to be rejected as a leader or an advisor, then certainly she should be a warrior. Not a wife!
To be numbered among those miserable concubines, fawning over the emperor in public, backbiting and clawing in private, a herd of cats caged for a single man’s vanity? She was to be his conquest, then, and not his confidant. It was a bitter, bitter blow, a deep and raw humiliation.
Still in her leathers, she dismissed the dumbfounded gaggle of aides, who fled before her snarling orders like a pack of deer from a howling wolf. She walked to the balcony outside her small residence, built for guests of honor.
The view, overlooking the great capital of Hezarow Kyne, was breathtaking. The city’s crimson, clay-tiled roofs covered the hills like armor plating, sloping down away from her to the shoreline in the distance. From here, Talon could see the masts of ships lining the harbor, the triangular crimson sails of Drammune warships out at sea.
But it would not be her city, not now. She would be worse than a captive here; she would be as one dead, this palace her tomb. To all but the Hezzan, she would be nobody. And even to him she would be but one of many. How could he not see that her skills, her capabilities, were far different from theirs? Men were always blinded by their desires, but this made no sense.
She would escape. She would run. She would return to the sea, to piracy.
As she looked past the city, past the bare masts of the harbor and out to the sailing ships, she thought about the Trophy Chase. She imagined that it yet plowed the waves, Captain Wilkins on the prowl for more Firefish. But much had changed since the days she’d sailed on that ship. She had left that behind, and felt no pull toward her old life. That she had survived at all seemed reason to believe that she had some destiny yet to fulfill.
She still wondered at how it had all happened. And how it might play into her fate.
When Talon had regained consciousness, she found herself lying on her back. Fire burned above her, burning cinders and ash swirled around her. She realized her hair was burning. She sat up, pain screaming through her as she stripped off her jacket and smothered the flames on her scalp.
The cracks and snaps of the fire were all but drowned by the roar of wind that fed the conflagration, sweeping up through the ceiling above her like a chimney. The heat was intense, but she was alive. She had fallen through the floor above and into the quarters of one of the ship’s officers. She had hit something, or landed on something, that caused her great pain. Now she looked down to find her own knife, her dirk, piercing the flesh of her left hip. How had this happened? She felt dazed, unsure of herself. How had her knife gotten out of its sheath?
And then she remembered that as she fell, she had reached for her blade. With her right hand she had dropped her sword and reached out for Packer Throme, the very image of the crucified Christ, his face full of peace, compassion, and yet strong and determined. And at the same time her other hand, her left hand, had instinctively sought out her knife, drawing it as though she might still kill him. Where was her sword now? She didn’t see it.
Smoke started to choke her. She coughed. She had to move; she had to get out. She pulled the knife from her side. Wincing in pain, bleeding heavily, she rolled to her knees. She kept her head low, below the smoke that flew past her, up through the fire above and into the night air. She crawled to the door, knife in her hand, and slammed it open. The room behind her exploded into flame, and she rolled out onto the deck.
Outside the cabin the air was slightly less smoky, but the deck was ablaze. She crawled across it, her leathers instantly as hot as the fire; she used her jacket to swat at flames and then she draped it over her head as she crawled on, through a single path that seemed to have been left open just for her. Halfway across the deck she found a sword. Packer Throme’s sword. She grabbed it by the hilt, again using the leather of her jacket, this time as a glove. And then with a great effort, she stood and ran for the port railing.
The many sailors aboard the Trophy Chase who had gathered to watch the duel were now watching Packer, who, with Delaney, Mutter Cabe, and Marcus Pile, were swimming away from the burning Camadan. They did not see the dark shadow that passed along the deck amidst the flames. They did not see
that shadow as it slashed the ropes that held the ship’s boat. They could not have seen it tumble into the water on the opposite side of the ship, or climb from the water into the boat. It would have been impossible for them to see the pool of human darkness lying in the floor of that boat, drained and burned and bleeding. Defeated, but alive.
Talon drifted all night and the better part of the next day without food or water. She lay unmoving in the bottom of the boat, rising to consciousness only to find pain, failure, and emptiness, and then sinking again into darkness, where her dreams were of flames and swords, a great struggle for her life against innumerable foes, against Firefish, swordsmen, and pirates. Lurking in the background, watching every battle, never coming near but never out of sight, was Packer Throme. He would not fight her. He would wait to see whether she lived or died, whether she fought or surrendered.
She knew he would not approach her until she quit fighting. He wanted her to give up, to spread her own arms wide, as he had done, and accept her own death. But this she could not do. And so she fought on, wounded, bleeding, burning, barely able to move her feet or her arms, damaged and injured again and again and again.
Just as it seemed to her she would die of her wounds, as she sank to her knees unable to struggle further, she would awaken to a low, slate-gray sky, lightning flashing through the looming billows, and the patter of rain on the wooden gunwales, on her leathers, on her face, on her charred skull. And then she would sink again, only to begin the fight again.
Finally, she faced a foe she could not overcome. He was an enormous demon, with hollow eyes and muscles of stone. He stood before her with his scimitar already bathed in her blood, for he had hacked and hacked and refused to back down. His impassive face simmered with a calm satisfaction. She had worn herself out fighting him, but he could not be beaten.
Finally, she could fight no more. She could not raise her sword arm one more time. She looked at Packer, and saw the face she had seen on the deck of the Camadan. But it was no longer Packer; this was the very Son of God, robed in white, eyes like torches searing her, searching her, seeing her inmost parts. She was at the end of all her strength. She was exposed, and defeated. Yet in his look was a promise of comfort, of rest from all her struggles, if only she would take the hand he offered.
Then he spread his arms wide. She dropped her eyes to the ground, and then her sword. The demon’s blade sliced through her. She closed her eyes; she felt nothing. She looked up, and the Christ was gone. She looked to the stone demon. His hardened form cracked, then shattered, then fell at her feet in slivers and shards of silver glass, as though he had been no more than an image in a mirror. Above her shone a bright white light, a light that grew until it engulfed her. She drank it in. It was warm. It was healing. It was youth and power and peace. She rose up into it.
“Talon! Wake up, now!” a voice commanded. At first, she thought it was the voice of the demon. It came from deep within the cavernous darkness now underneath her, and it called her back to the darkness, away from the light. It was a voice from far away, from long ago.
“Do not surrender, Talon. Do not give up. Fight!” The voice was a voice of command, speaking in the Drammune tongue. It was martial, and it struck chords, created cords, it bound her deep within. It was her duty to return. And so with a great struggle, she did.
The bright, cold sun shone down on her. She was lying on the deck of a ship, and a Drammune captain hovered over her. She recognized him. She looked around her. She recognized the shape of the vessel, the dress of the crewmen, the sound of the drums below deck, the splash of a multitude of oars working in unison. This was a Drammune slave ship.
She closed her eyes, knowing she was safe now, that she would not die. She did not feel within herself a trace of thankfulness for that fact. She simply accepted it. She would return to Drammun. What would come, would come.
Now, standing in the Hezzan’s apartments on Drammune soil, Talon wondered if she would ever feel again the peace of rising into that light. Then a new thought came to her. The humiliation the Hezzan brought upon her…could it be a test? Was there an opportunity here for her to test the knowledge she had gained among the Vast? The Hezzan Shul Dramm was putting her in a place of weakness. And her confrontations with Senslar Zendoda, with Packer Throme, even with Panna had all taught her one thing: Great strength could come from great weakness.
She took a deep breath. She would need to consider this very carefully. The power of the God of Nearing Vast was great. This power had defeated her without a sword, without a weapon, and it had defeated her through the most unlikely of vessels. Could it be possible that she might learn the workings of that power?
“The meek shall inherit the earth.” Is that not what their Son of God had said? Yes. She had been reading these stories again, stories that portrayed this man who died without fighting, who gave Himself up to death, and yet did not live in weakness. Rather, He had unimaginable power. Still, he chose to be humiliated. And yet greater power resulted.
Yes, she determined. She would test his words. She would play the role of the meek. It would be a small test, not unto death. But then, Talon was not nearly so ambitious as the Son of God suggested she should be. She did not desire to inherit the earth.
She would be content with only the Kingdom of Drammun.
Surrounded by a handful of witnesses, with the Hezzan Guard stationed by the door, Talon was placed on her knees before the Hezzan. There, repeating words first written more than a thousand years earlier, she swore allegiance to him. In return, he spoke words that confirmed to the world that she was his wife, sealed and protected forever as, essentially, his legal property.
Sool Kron, the Hezzan’s right hand and Chief Minister of State, enjoyed the ceremony thoroughly. Not because the wizened and long-bearded advisor liked weddings, nor because this one was particularly unique. No weddings in Drammun were unique. Sool Kron enjoyed it because it accomplished a very important purpose. He congratulated the Hezzan warmly, and then his eyes met Talon’s. The minister’s look was one of absolute, dominant victory.
Talon could only close her painted eyes and accept one more deep humiliation. In her mind, though, she saw her dagger in her hand, saw its blade slicing across Sool Kron’s throat, saw his eyes go wide in surprise and then dull in death as her knife then reached up into his heart. But she let that image go. If there was a God who preferred weakness, who would step in to protect the weak, then she would benefit from that protection soon enough. Certainly, no one was weaker or more humiliated on this earth than the sixteenth wife of a Hezzan of Drammun.
The legal niceties over, the Hezzan retired with his bride to his chambers.
“You may change now,” he said, waving her away.
As Talon turned away from him, head high, and walked toward the dressing room, she feared her humiliation was just beginning. But in the small vanity room she found her hooded leather robe laid out and her familiar leathers waiting for her, along with her sword and her dirk. Puzzled but deeply relieved, she put these clothes on and returned to stand before the Hezzan.
“Sit,” he ordered. She sat down where he beckoned, on a small stool beside the enormous bed. He sat on the edge of the bed, still dressed formally in his loose leather tunic. “Now I will tell you why I wanted you to be my wife.”
This, she wanted to hear.
“You have brought glory to our kingdom. You have slain the Traitor. By doing so, you have lured the Vast Navy to its destruction. You have counseled me wisely and well in its defeat. You are worthy of the greatest honor, and I am not a man who will bring dishonor where honor is deserved.”
“Thank you, my lord,” was all she could say.
“But you have also made many enemies among my advisors, the Court of Twelve. They conspire against you.”
“Who conspires, my lord?”
“All of them.” He watched her face, saw no reaction. She knew this already. “They hate you. They fear you. You have wounded their pride. They
have banded together, determined to destroy you. They want to force me to choose between you, and all of them.”
“I am sorry to bring this trouble on you.”
“Enemies always follow in the wake of heroic deeds. Should we therefore regret the heroic deeds?”
“I regret only the trouble.”
“I do not. I have solved the problem. I have married you. As a warrior, a Mortach Demal, you may fight, you may counsel others in the arts of war, and you may rise to any level in the military but one. Mine. As a warrior, you would be dishonored if I protected you from mere civilians. But as a married woman, you are under the protection of your husband. Such are our ways, and ever have been. Now, you have both the privileges of the Mortach Demal, and the protection of the Hezzan Shul Dramm. They dare not conspire against you.”
Talon was dumbfounded. “You are changing the Law.”
“I am not. I have studied the Rahk-Taa carefully. There is no prohibition here. I am simply reading it with new understanding.”
She was speechless. “I…thank you.”
“You are welcome.” He said it without smiling.
Talon looked at her emperor in a new light. He was taking a great, great risk. Certainly, others would expect, as she had, as Sool Kron had, that her warrior status would be removed, negated by her newer status as wife. For Drammune women it was a choice of the starkest kind. This would be a new thing in Drammun, the first new thing in the Law since the Hezzan Kaltyne had enhanced the role of Mortach Demal more than two hundred years ago, granting them full equivalency with men. It would be known and spoken about all over the kingdom. She would immediately be held in higher esteem than any other warrior, or than any other wife. She would be known forever, for generations to come.
Talon’s heart pounded. She had accepted her humiliation. She had seen no way out of the obscurity it promised. And now she would be given power and honor she had not sought, more than she could have imagined. The universe had turned under her feet. Who had the power to do such a thing? Only the Hezzan, and only if the Hezzan was willing to bear a great burden, to create many enemies. No one could convince a Hezzan to do this. This was the answer to her test. It would seem that God did show His power in human weakness.
The Trophy Chase Saga Page 51