“You are so dear to me…so beautiful…” he said.
He shuddered and was still. She saw his eyes turn sightless and knew he was gone. She closed his eyes but held him, still rocking him gently.
She fell into a grief-stricken trance and lost track of the passage of time. When she looked down at his face again, his lips had turned purple. She put her hand on his forehead and found it was cold.
The darkness of night had descended and when she looked up, she saw the sky brightened by countless twinkling stars. She rose and took a trenching tool from her saddle. She rapidly dug a shallow grave and laid him to rest. She fashioned a rough triangle from the Chekaliga arrows she drew from his body and stuck the crude marker on his grave.
“May your One God take you to his bosom,” she murmured after she covered him with earth. The simple words seemed inadequate, so she recited the Goddess Psalm in a low tone.
She mounted Rufus again, took Tagan’s reins, and set off for the ranch house at a fast canter. She slowed as she approached, for even though the ranch house screened the yard from her, she could see the brightness cast up by burning torches. Now she drew her long vision from one of her saddlebags and looked carefully. She saw a number of the fleet, small horses favored by the Chekaligas. She hobbled Rufus and Tagan and approached the ranch house cautiously on foot. She got to one of the rear windows of the living room and peered inside. The drapes were drawn, but she could not make out any shadows. She used her dagger to jimmy the latch and open the window. She pulled herself inside.
The living room was dark, no lamps were lit, and the grate was cold. But faint torchlight filtered from the yard. Caitlin crept up to the front curtains that faced the yard. She carefully peeked through—and saw six heavily armed Chekaliga scouts. Their faces painted were painted with dried blood indicating that they were on the warpath. Caitlin had heard that they used the blood of their slain enemies. Binne and Dhanraj lay on the ground while one of the scouts poked them with the blunt end of his spear.
The leader of the small group of Chekaligas motioned for his man to stop chastising Binne and Dhanraj.
“The couple at the neighboring ranch told us you have a beauteous daughter,” he said. “Where is she? Give her to us, and we will let both of you live.”
“Your tribesmen already took our only daughter,” said Binne, raising herself on one elbow. “We have no other young woman on this ranch.”
“Why would these folk lie to us?” asked the leading Chekaliga.
“We had only one daughter,” said Binne again. “She was indeed beautiful. Inside and out.”
The Chekaliga leader spoke to Binne again, but now he sounded less certain.
“Old woman, we will waste no more time on you,” he said. He turned to his men. “Kill them and set fire to the house and barn. We already have their herd of horses.”
A couple of his men drew their curved scimitars and approached Binne and Dhanraj. Binne looked tired, but calm. She faced her tormentors without fear. Dhanraj looked frightened, but he was controlling himself with an effort and attempting to not tremble.
The men raised their swords when all of a sudden there were two hissing laser blasts, so close together that they sounded like one. Both men’s heads were vaporized and Binne and Dhanraj were sprinkled with small spatters of blood. As the bodies toppled to the ground there were more laser blasts, and two more of the Chekaligas were killed. They now realized that the blasts were coming from the ranch house. The one remaining scout turned to run for his horse, but he did not duck or weave, and Caitlin shot him in the back.
Alone now, the Chekaliga leader stood his ground and drew his curved sword.
“Come out and face me!” he cried. “I spit on cowardly scum who kill brave warriors from the safety of an ambush.”
He spat in the dirt to emphasize his point. Caitlin now stepped out of the ranch house. Her long laser pistol barrel was black with repeated firing, but the shots had been short range, so she had used little power. The power meter was still comfortably in the green.
“You speak of cowardice,” she said. “You who prey on the defenseless.”
“Draw your sword,” he challenged. “If you have even a spark of courage.”
“You are nothing but a locust, a scourge. You deserve to be destroyed like the insect that you are.”
She shot him and he fell, his dying expression a twisted look of hatred.
Binne and Dhanraj slowly stood and dusted themselves off. Binne turned to Caitlin. Her look was sad rather than hopeful.
“You have returned alone,” was all she said.
Caitlin met her eyes and did not reply. She did not need to, for her silence was eloquent.
“Did he suffer?” Binne asked.
“Not long,” lied Caitlin.
“The One God has always been merciful to us.”
“He urged us to go to Serat, to warn Collector Yandharan and seek his protection. He said that all the Chekaliga tribes have risen and that he feared Hareskot would be overwhelmed.”
“I will put things together for the road,” said Binne, striving to bury her grief under a burst of activity. “I will ride Tagan. Dhanraj, saddle your bay. Let us be mounted and on our way as soon as possible.”
IT WAS THE first snowfall of the winter in the Great Vale. The surrounding mountainsides had been white for weeks, but now it came to Atlantic City itself. It began in the night, and with gentle persistence, it accumulated almost a meter by daybreak. The Zon meteorological systems had forecast the snow for several days, and the public works crews were ready. All the thoroughfares and even the byways in the city were plowed and dry. However, the high banks of snow by the roads and sidewalks as well as the icicles everywhere brought the reality of winter home to every city resident.
Hildegard stood patiently as her Second Handmaiden adjusted her crown so that it sat just so on her coiffure. When she was satisfied, she stepped back. Alex looked on approvingly.
“Your Highness, you look marvelous,” she said. “Your escort is formed up outside. We are a few minutes early.”
“Let us go then,” said Hildegard. “There are bound to be a big crowds, and we will have to drive slow.”
They escorted her to the Imperial speeder and at Alex’s signal on the comm, the procession of vehicles moved off. They slowly drove out of Chateau Regina, descended down the broad avenues and on through the Lower Wards. There they turned right on to Sanctuary Drive that rose steeply to the ridge of Temple Heights.
The Princess Deirdre Memorial had just been completed. It was by the Great Temple of Ma on the perimeter of the aristocrats’ reserve, a stone’s throw from Palace d’Orr. Hildegard was there to preside over the dedication ceremony. All the Rapids to Temple Heights were full and thousands more were walking up Sanctuary Drive. As the imperial vehicles approached the top of the drive, the crowds began to grow thick. Alex put down the top of her speeder and stood up. She hit the klaxons a few times to clear the way. Hildegard’s immense personal popularity ensured that the crowds made way for her column with good humor. They waved to her and blew her kisses, gestures of affection that she returned with grace and sincerity.
The administration had only put up a small outlay to build the memorial. However urged by Vivia, the Trading Guild had added on a substantial sum. Then the Guild Mistresses used their control of the media to call on the public to add in their voluntary subscriptions. The response from the public had been overwhelming. The final amount raised was so large that the planned memorial took on a gargantuan scale. Even with the deployment of an army of construct-bots, it had taken years to complete it.
The completed memorial was built of pink and white stone to match the Great Temple, a structure that it rivaled in size and grandeur. After the Long Trek Memorial, it was the largest monument in Atlantic City. Hildegard walked up the wide steps to the strains of the “Imperial March”, surrounded by her flawlessly attired Guardians. At the top of the steps she turned to face her people. W
ith the soaring pillars of the entranceway as her backdrop, she raised her hands palms outward in the traditional manner. This caused the cheers of the mammoth crowd to swell to such a volume that they were heard throughout the city and even spilled over its walls.
Andromache came from within the Memorial to receive the Imperial party, handmaidens and Temple priestesses trailing behind her. She bowed her head and Hildegard took her by the hand and led her to the top step. She raised Andromache’s hand, fingers intertwined with her own. The crowd loved it, and they roared their approval of the royal pair.
Hildegard touched her wrist bracer, syncing to the public address system and signaled Alex who stepped forward and spoke.
“My sisters, our beloved Queen Empress Hildegard will address us now,” she said.
Hildegard smiled and looked around into the crowd in her inimitable manner.
“My sisters,” she began. It was the clichéd opening phrase, but when Hildegard said it, each member of the multitude got the impression that she was being addressed personally. “We meet today under bittersweet circumstances. We are here to mourn. We are here to remember. But we are also here to celebrate. To celebrate a life that was so big that it could not fit into one person. Princess Deirdre d’Orr lived many parallel lives and represented all that is best in us. Tens of thousands of you have posted your most intimate feelings about her on the comm, and they form a tapestry of incredible complexity, a testament to superhuman abilities, sisterly compassion, and motherly love. Deirdre was a huntress, the greatest of her generation, perhaps of all generations. She was a priestess, with intellectual powers so great that she did in her spare time what many of us struggled to achieve all our lives. Her love for her sisters was boundless and in the end, she unhesitatingly sacrificed her life for it.”
“So today, we remember her. Rather than mourn her loss, I ask you to rejoice in the fact that we had her at all, even for a short while. While I am proud to say that Deirdre d’Orr was my dearest friend, I do not claim her. She belongs to all of us.”
When Hildegard stopped speaking, there a moment of pin-drop silence, as though the throng expected Deirdre herself to come walking out of the Memorial. Then like a tidal wave approaching land, there was an upsurge of full-throated cheers hailing Deirdre that carried on and on. Gradually, the cheers coalesced into a staccato two-word refrain, “Deirdre…saga, Deirdre…saga, Deirdre…saga…”
Andromache leaned over and spoke into Hildegard’s ear.
“Ma’am, they will not be satisfied until you commission a saga for her.”
Hildegard nodded and raised her hands again, palms outward. Gradually, the cheering subsided.
“My sisters! I am your queen, but I am also your servant. You elected me, and I am ever responsive to your wishes. I hereby commission a saga for Deirdre and will appoint a panel of scribes to make it a reality. She was the descendant of Thetis the Great, Simran the Merciless, and Caitlin the Unforgiving. Let us hail Deirdre the Magnificent!”
The crowd took up the cry, “Deirdre the Magnificent! Hail Deirdre the Magnificent!”
Hildegard stepped back to take her seat on the throne that had been placed there for the occasion and a chorus of white-robed priestesses filed in to take their places at the top of the grand steps. Following the singers, synthesizers were quickly set up, and two priestesses seated themselves at the instruments. They struck up the opening notes of the Goddess psalm and the chorus took it up, singing the ancient Artha-Pranto words beautifully.
They sang several more hymns and finished with a new ode composed in Deirdre’s honor. At the insistence of the crowd, they sang it once again before retiring. Finally, Alex rose and approached the top step again.
“My sisters!” she announced, her voice cold and official. “Lady Vivia Pragarina will address you now on behalf of the Trading Guild.”
Vivia came up confidently and tapped her wrist bracer to sync it with the public address system.
“My sisters!” she said. She tried to emulate Hildegard’s warm empathetic tone. “When the government came to the Trading Guild with a request for funds, I made it my personal business to canvass each and every Guild Mistress. It was the least I could do for Princess Deirdre d’Orr who was a lifelong supporter of the important work of the Guild. Like all electrae, she dedicated her life to serving the commoners. I am pleased to say that I was able to convince the Trading Guild to put up the sum of five million gold talents toward to the construction of this magnificent memorial and the incomparable display that you will shortly see before you.” She stopped and looked over her shoulder to make sure that everything was ready before proceeding.
“I hereby declare the Princess Deirdre Memorial open. High Priestess Princess Andromache has consecrated it to our mother, Ma. It is now yours.”
As Vivia pronounced these words, jets of water rose from both sides of the mighty pillars of the memorial. They grew in volume and rose higher and higher till they seemed to touch the sky. When the massively powerful fountains reached their full height, subtle lighting came on, creating prismatic rainbows in the cascading water. There were thousands of “oohs” and “ahs.” The crowd was clearly pleased with the grandeur of the memorial and this accompanying display. Standing behind the speaker’s position, Alex was puzzled by the faint blue aura that Vivia seemed to give off. It must be light reflected from the laser display, she thought.
The chorus now took up the recessional and the Imperial party began its dignified progress back to their speeders. Andromache now accompanied Hildegard, while Alex supervised the formation of the Imperial column. They moved off at a stately pace. The crowds again parted good naturedly to let them through.
“Both you and Vivia sounded so sincere when you spoke of Deirdre, ma’am,” said Andromache, settling into the cushions. “You almost had me convinced.”
“Andromache, I know that in the end Deirdre despised me for what I have done. But her love for the Sisterhood was indisputable. In that we were united. I hope that unlike Vivia, my feelings are genuine.”
SEVERAL DAYS AFTER the departure of the Darling Thoma, Greghar and Kitara sailed out of Goset in her carrack, the Southern Belle. She was one of finest ships in the Baron of Tirut’s fleet, big and fast with a handpicked crew. The baron’s daughter-in-law was worth a lot to pirates, so she was well protected.
They were now well on their way to Tirut. Greghar always rose early and had come up on deck from his officer’s cabin just before dawn. But Kitara was a late riser and was still abed in the master cabin. Greghar missed Nitya’s cheery company, for they both loved to watch the sunrise from the deck.
“Sail ahoy!” sang out the crow’s nest.
“Where away?” called up the officer of the watch.
“Bearing due southwest,” came the answer. The officer of the watch quickly went up the ratlines to take a look for himself.
Greghar knew it would be quite a while before the sail would be visible from the deck, but he preferred not to go aloft. He noted that while the weather ahead of them southward was quite clear, there was a thick fogbank developing on their port quarter to the east.
“What do you make of her?” he asked the officer after he had returned to the deck from the masthead.
“Difficult to say,” was the reply. “She is hull down. But I would bet a day’s wage that she is the Darling Thoma.”
Greghar felt his heart beat faster. He had been expecting them to overhaul the smaller, slower vessel any day now. He had rehearsed a dozen different lines he would use to address Nitya when he saw her again, each time discarding it for something new. He still continued to rack his brains for something that would make things the way they were before.
An hour passed slowly. A seaman brought Greghar a hot breakfast, and he ate mechanically. Eventually Kitara came up on deck, dressed brightly and unsuitably in a billowing gown, but with a warm shawl against the wind. She had draped the shawl loosely over her hair in her habitual affectation of modesty. The crew was ma
de up of her father-in-law’s men, so she stood beside him demurely, as she would beside any wellborn guest. However, when no one was looking, she flashed him a look at her cleavage—she was an old hand at stoking a man’s desires to keep him on a string.
It was now clear beyond doubt to all the seamen that the ship they were overhauling was the Darling Thoma. The captain had come on deck soon after the sail was sighted and he looked keenly at the caravel, now less than a nautical mile ahead.
“These merchantmen are such poor sailors,” the captain said to Greghar. “Look at how she lies athwart the wind! Her sails are flapping disgracefully. I would have my sailing master flogged if we looked like that.”
“Martius is a right seaman,” said Greghar slowly. “This is not like him at all. She is being sailed as though she is seriously short handed.”
The captain shrugged his shoulders.
“Whatever the reason, it is no concern of ours.”
Greghar went over the port rail and peered into the thickening fogbank. He returned and took the captain aside, out of earshot of the others on the quarterdeck.
“I suspect the Darling Thoma has been taken,” he said in a low voice. “And she is being used as bait to lure us into a trap. The ship that took her must be hidden in the fogbank to port.”
“Then we must steer clear of her!” said the captain.
“Keep your voice down,” hissed Greghar. “We do so at our peril. If we steer to starboard, we will have little searoom to maneuver and the coastline is dotted with shoals. If we steer to port, we head toward the fogbank where our enemies are doubtless waiting. We will be caught between two hostile ships.”
“What are you saying?”
“Our best chance is to pretend to take the bait,” said Greghar. “Let us sail up and hail the Darling Thoma. But first call the ship to arms. Get a boarding party ready below and crossbowmen in the tops. Do so in stealth, so that the prize crew on the Darling Thoma suspects nothing. We must attack first, board, and retake her before the ship lurking in the fogbank can come up and spring the trap.”
The Eclipse of the Zon - First Tremors (The New Eartha Chronicles Book 2) Page 18