Mission To Mahjundar (A Sectors SF Romance)

by Veronica Scott

  No matter what happens to me, I don’t regret coming to Mahjundar and finding her. I just wish we could have had more time together.

  After a terrifying ride in the chair, apparently straight up the side of a mountain, Shalira was relieved when they came to a halt and the conveyance was gently set down. She heard rustling sounds as the men who’d carried the chair left whatever chamber they’d come to.

  “Lord Ishtananga will be here shortly to attend to you, Oracle,” said the priest, standing off to the right, speaking the trade tongue.

  Not waiting for permission, Shalira extricated herself from the chair and stood next to it, pivoting toward the man. “What have you done with my warriors?”

  After an ominous pause, he said, “The omens weren’t in harmony for a sacrifice tonight.” He sounded troubled.

  Thank the goddess. Releasing a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, she said, “But?”

  “I believe Lord Ishtananga will offer the hearts of your warriors to the god at first sunlight. Normally we’d save them for the spring festivals, but he strongly believes their deaths are needed now.”

  “I want to speak to them tonight, with no further delay,” she said. Remembering how the villagers had refused her request, she insisted. “The goddess will be highly displeased if my request is denied.”

  New footsteps on the stone floor, accompanied by the unmistakable odor she’d smelled when the high priest inspected her on the plateau below, let her know Ishtananga must have arrived. She heard the underpriest say something to his superior in their own language before leaving her alone with the high priest.

  Determined to seize the initiative, she spoke. “I want—”

  “Lovely one, what you want is of no importance to me. You need to forget the men you traveled with and focus on the future we’re going to have.” It sounded as if he was rubbing his hands together in anticipation. “After tomorrow morning their hearts will have been devoured by the god, and you’ll become the bride of Tlazomiccuhtli, which makes you my consort here in Chamacoyopa. You’ll be by my side as I rule.”

  “No!” She bit her lip. Angering the man wasn’t going to help her outwit him tonight.

  He came closer, the sound of his footsteps echoing in the chamber. She stood tall, waiting. I don’t care what he does, I’m going to find a way to save myself and Michael and the others. Johnny must be dead, so it’s up to me.

  A small sizzling noise caught her attention right before she felt heat on her face. She shrank back against the chair, nearly falling as the wooden structure shifted sideways under her weight. “What are you doing?”

  “Merely testing. You genuinely are completely blind, a true messenger of the gods.” He pulled her hand down, tugging her forward. “You didn’t flinch. You didn’t even know I hold a candle, did you?”

  Michael was right—blindness is my defense, up to a point. “I’d be wary of testing messengers sent by the gods,” she said, drawing herself up.

  He laughed. “You have spirit, which I appreciate. Come, we should dine. I’m sure you must be hungry. The villagers have only the most rudimentary fare to offer one such as you.”

  Taking her hand, the priest drew Shalira away from the chair. Their combined footsteps echoed from stone walls. “You and I will be married at the end of the ceremony tomorrow morning,” he said. “It’s my great fortune the villagers brought you directly to me, now, not at the time of the annual indrawing and festivals. I have rivals among the high priests, some of whom would have fought me over possession of an oracle such as you.”

  “The gods decree all things as they should be,” she said, trying to be as mysterious and otherworldly as she could. If the situation hadn’t been so serious, she might have laughed to hear herself speaking in such terms. He was clutching her left hand in his, so she slid her right hand into her pocket, seeking a few of the leaves.

  In the next moment he grabbed her. “What do you have there?” He forcibly uncurled her fingers and she felt the tiny leaves drifting from her grasp. Ishtananga sniffed and sneezed, apparently testing some of the substance. “Where did you get this?”

  “The village women gave it to me last night,” she said. “It helped me relax so I could tell their fortunes in more detail.”

  “Humph. I should have known those greedy commoners would try to steal some of your magic for themselves. Do you have more of this?” Without waiting for her answer, he grabbed at her pocket, ripping the fabric of the dress. Edging away from him, Shalira felt the precious leaves falling, emptying her pocket.

  “No, only those few,” she said, resisting the urge to kneel and scrabble for the scraps.

  “Not to worry, if you need some help to relax into giving the prophecies. I’ve much better herbs and potions, grown especially for our use in the temple. Not picked along the roadside.” He sniffed.

  As they began walking again, Shalira tried not to panic. How am I going to see? I’m not taking anything he might want to give me, that’s for sure.

  “I even have herbs and salves to enhance the physical interaction between us,” he said.

  Disgust at the idea of this man touching her made her nauseated. “The goddess insists I remain pure until married,” she said.

  Her declaration had the effect of amusing Ishtananga, who guffawed, running one hand along her chin. “You don’t quite understand the relationship between your goddess and the gods I serve, do you? Pavmiraia was seduced by Tlazomiccuhtli in the earliest days of the world and has been forced by him to produce oracles ever since, when he dictates the need for one, lest he unleash the forces of hell across the mighty river and destroy the world of men there.” He examined her necklace as she flinched. “It’s my good fortune to be the priest who owns an oracle now.”

  He speaks no version of history I’ve ever heard. Pavmiraia could never have been involved with gods who demand human sacrifice. “You don’t own me,” she said.

  “Yes, I do. And if you don’t do exactly as I say, if your public prophecies don’t indicate the results I want, your life will be forfeit.” He leaned closer, threatening her in a near whisper, “The gods can recall you at any time, messenger.”

  Shalira shivered despite herself. This man sounded deranged as well as power hungry.

  He held her chin with one hand, while his other drifted to brush against her breasts and then cupped her butt as he outlined his immediate plans. “Tomorrow your warriors die on the altar to carry the words I wish to send directly to Tlazomiccuhtli. Any day thereafter it could be your time to be sacrificed, if I will it so.”

  She shoved his hand away from her face and jerked from his loose embrace.

  Chuckling, he took her hand, squeezed her fingers gently. “But why are we talking thus? I know you’ll be a docile oracle, obedient to my will, following my lead. We should have many years ruling Chamacoyopa together.”

  Unable to break his clasp, unsure what to do, Shalira allowed him to draw her forward. She sensed they were in an enclosed space, a hallway perhaps. Instinctively, she counted her steps, both as a way to calm herself and also in case she got away and needed to find her path to the exit.

  As they stepped into an area where their footsteps echoed, a wave of terror and revulsion swept over her. Shaking, stomach in knots, Shalira stopped, afraid she was going to faint, her skin crawling as if she’d been bathed in viscous, foul mud. The air seemed poisonous, burning her nostrils. Acid rose in her throat as her stomach revolted.

  “Tlazomiccuhtli’s inner sanctum, where his image resides, where I conduct many of the most secret rituals of the temple. His presence affects you, Oracle?”

  “I—I can hardly breathe,” she said, hearing herself wheeze. Something about the room, or the effigy of the mountain god, or both, was physically affecting her, even if she couldn’t see the deity. Her chest was tight, as if bands of steel wrapped around her and her mouth was dry. Licking her lips, she took a step backward. The urge to flee was strong

  “Excell
ent, I’m glad you’re so sensitive to the god’s emanations.” Ishtananga sounded happy, adding a chuckle to underscore his pleasure.

  She had the feeling he was studying her, noting all the symptoms of her physical distress. Willing to beg a little to escape the terror, she said, “Please, my head is reeling. Can we leave this room?”

  “For now.” He took her hand in a more normal grip and led her across the chamber. They went down another hall.

  “Does no one else inhabit this place?” she asked. Odd to her she hadn’t detected another living being since the litter bearers and the under priest left her alone with Ishtananga. If she managed to get away from him, how many people would be between her and freedom?

  “Of course, you didn’t see as you passed through the city. At this time of year, only the cadre of priests, our women, the servants and the main garrison of soldiers remain in the sacred city. Only the high priest of the season—me, at the moment—may dwell in the temple, closest to the god. We’re going to my apartment. In fact, we’ve arrived.”

  He forced her to pause for a moment and she heard a door creak open directly in front of her. “We’ll begin with dinner and expand our relationship from there.” Escorting her into the room, arm around her waist, he let out an angry exclamation after the first few steps. “The fools haven’t brought our food yet.” Swearing, he dragged Shalira by the wrist across a stone floor, practically throwing her into a chair. “I’m going to find out what’s happened to dinner. Begin obeying my orders now. Remain seated, understand?”

  Rubbing her elbow where he’d shoved her against the wooden chair, she nodded.

  He remained next to her for a long moment, tapping one toe. “I probably should tie you up.”

  Hearing the distaste in his voice, Shalira hoped she had an opening. “No, please, don’t. I’ll sit here, as you’ve commanded.” She made her voice sound compliant and defeated. She ran her hands over the chair and arranged herself as if she was a student in a classroom, back straight, feet together.

  Gripping her shoulder, Ishtananga lectured her. “There are guards in the other wing, watching over my prisoners. There are priests in the observatory tonight as well, so you won’t get far if you wander off. And I’ll punish you severely if you move from this seat, understand?”

  Hanging her head, eyes downcast, hands folded in her lap, she said, “The gods sent me here to be your oracle, I understand now. I’ll do as you say.”

  He walked away and a moment later she heard the door close with a slam.

  Slumping against the hard wooden back of the chair, Shalira dropped her head into her hands. The leaves from the village had been her best hope. If she could have used them for the calming effect and regained even the slightest use of her eyes, she might have been able to help herself and figure out something to save Michael and Saium. There was no telling how long Ishtananga would be out of the room and he’d made his plans for the evening clear once he came back. Not a moment to waste, time for action. Shaking her head, Shalira sat upright, took a deep breath, and closed her eyes.

  Calm. The calmer I am, the more chance of regaining my eyesight. Remembering the flashes of vision she’d had at Bandarlok’s camp when she concentrated, she was encouraged. Breathing a prayer to Pavmiraia, although she had no idea if the gentle goddess had any influence on this side of the river, much less inside the blood-soaked temple of Tlazomiccuhtli, Shalira slowed her breathing, counting between inhalations, and tried not to think of anything. Michael kept coming into her mind’s eye, as she’d seen him in her mother’s tomb, high cheekbones, strong jaw, tall, broad-shouldered, concern for her in his expression. Trembling, she opened her eyes.

  At first there were only the white flashes but then the room took on definition as if emerging from a fog bank—gray and white at first, color seeping into the furniture, the wall hangings, the vividly yellow-and-blue-striped blankets on the bed in an alcove beyond. Staying in the chair, she swiveled. A sturdy wooden table was behind her, pushed against the whitewashed stone wall. A second chair waited there. Along with the absence of food, there weren’t any dishes or utensils.

  Another alcove, opposite the bed, held embroidered robes hanging from hooks, feathered headdresses draped over pegs, sandals jumbled into a pile on the floor. Belts, undergarments and the like overflowed baskets.

  Despairing, she swiveled in the opposite direction, to be greeted with the welcome sight of built-in shelves full of statues, ceremonial objects, and an array of gold-handled sacrificial knives. In a heartbeat, Shalira was out of the chair, dashing across the room to grab one of the smaller knives propped on a bottom shelf partially behind a golden bowl. Examining the translucent black stone blade, she realized the edge was honed razor sharp. Sounds outside the door sent her adrenaline pumping and she scrambled to the chair, hiding the knife under her thigh, spreading her skirt to conceal the hilt.

  Realizing she’d never pretended to be blind before, Shalira closed her eyes and leaned back, as if exhausted. The door opened, and she heard Ishtananga stride in, already recognizing his aggressive footfalls. Two people came behind him, walking more slowly, steps heavy as if carrying quite a burden. The high priest was berating the newcomers in his own language so Shalira risked a glance, hoping he’d be too distracted to pay her any attention.

  He was indeed facing away from her, giving orders to an elderly woman and a young boy as they laid heavy trays full of pottery dishes and platters and bowls of steaming food on the table and arranged things the way he wanted them. The woman kept her shoulders hunched as if afraid of physical abuse and unloaded her tray as fast as she could without spilling. The boy kept stealing glances at Shalira, who kept her head high, hoping her eyes appeared unfocused.

  There was a heart-stopping second when, as she checked on the progress being made toward dinner, the serving boy’s wide eyes met hers. He did a double take, stepping backward and tugging on his mother’s or grandmother’s dress, but she shook him off.

  Greatly daring, Shalira frowned and put her finger to her lips for a second, praying the boy would think it was a game between them, or of no consequence. His eyes grew wide and he nodded once. Satisfied, she leaned back and closed her eyes to avoid further mishap. She heard the trays clanking together as the servant woman stacked them and then she and the boy left the room, drawing the door shut behind them.

  Ishtananga walked toward her and she gripped the handle of the knife hidden under her skirt so tight her fingers ached, but he continued into the alcove where his clothing was stored.

  Opening her eyes, she found his naked back was to her as he searched through his robes for a new garment. He must have stripped off his elaborately embroidered tunic at some point. Rising an inch at a time, grateful the chair didn’t creak, she stepped as silently and as quickly as she dared toward him. Half-remembering some instructions from her father’s bodyguards in a conversation years ago, she prepared to drive the knife into his side, up toward the heart.

  The priest must have seen something out of the corner of his eye, because he turned to grab at her as she made the move to stab him. The razor-sharp knife left a deep wound in his arm. Yelling curses, he grabbed at the slash with his good hand and retreated into the alcove. Shalira, sick to her stomach and shaky from the adrenaline rush, but committed to the assault, advanced, trying to get in another blow.

  “You she-devil,” he said between clenched teeth. “Your goddess plays tricks on me with your blindness.”

  Shalira didn’t waste breath talking. It was going to be his life or hers. She lunged forward as he lashed out with his fist, catching her on the jaw, knocking her off balance. Stung by the force of the blow, she tripped on the pile of loose sandals and fell, losing the knife, which skittered away on the floor. As she scrabbled backward on her elbows, trying desperately to retrieve her weapon, Ishtananga grabbed her by the hair, yanking her away from the blade.

  He was in difficulties from the deep wound in his arm, but he took a hank of her hair with
his fist. “I’ll put out your treacherous eyes before sacrificing you on the altar, bitch.”

  “You can try.” Gritting her teeth, she spun counterclockwise, ignoring the pain from his grip on her hair. Tackling him at the knees, she knocked his legs out from under him.

  He released her hair as he fell. Rolling over, she grabbed the knife and stabbed wildly at him, landing at least one blow in the area of his lower ribs. The knife blade shattered against bone. Disgusted, she threw the useless hilt and its remaining stub at his face. Bent over from pain, he was attempting to reach the door, probably to call for help. Desperate to keep him from his goal, Shalira circled behind him, grabbing anything she could find on the table to hurl at him. She got him across the face with a heavy serving dish. A pitcher in her hand, she went on the attack, cracking the pottery against his head as he punched her again. The blow stunned her, and she fell, ears ringing, the room spinning.

  Woozily, she attempted to stand, frantic to find something else to use as a weapon. Hand on the door, Ishtananga laughed at her efforts. “Although I’ll probably bear the scars of your madness, your goddess should have selected a stronger champion than you, girl.”

  The door shifted under his hand and he moved aside. “Good, my guards have arrived.”

  He was turning to direct the men he expected when the panel flew open, knocking Ishtananga to the side. Johnny came in, crouched low, face painted with mud, hair hidden in a cap, blaster in his hand. Pressing the muzzle directly against Ishtananga’s side, Johnny fired and the priest fell, his face frozen in an astonished grimace.