So well did Nayan-Tiral do that Tesh-Dar momentarily forgot where she was and what she was doing, the “here and now” that Pan’ne-Sharakh had once spoken of. It only took a single shard of time for Tesh-Dar to fall into the state of mind that so many of the peers sought, yet failed to achieve, merging her mind perfectly with her weapon. It was not a conscious decision; it was simply a momentary lapse of control and an unforgivable act of negligence by a warrior with her skills.
A heartbeat later, Tesh-Dar found herself staring at the blade of her sword, buried in young Nayan-Tiral’s chest, the tip having speared the child’s heart. The young tresh’s bright eyes were wide with shocked disbelief as she slumped to the ground, dead, and Tesh-Dar felt a faint flutter in the chorus of the Bloodsong as Nayan-Tiral’s spirit passed from this life to the next. Then Tesh-Dar fell to her knees, cradling the young warrior’s body in her arms.
“No,” she whispered as mourning marks began to flow down her cheeks, turning her smooth cobalt blue skin pitch black. “No.” Shivering with grief and shame, she held the young tresh, her soul torn by Nayan-Tiral’s dead eyes, still staring up at her mentor. Her killer.
* * *
Her mind returning to the present, Tesh-Dar opened her eyes, willing the dream away. It did not come to her often now, for many cycles had passed since that dark and horrible day. Part of her mind shied away from what came after, but she seized upon the memory, forcing it upon herself in what had become a ritual act of atonement. The night after she had killed Nayan-Tiral, she had faced punishment on the Kal'ai-Il. It was a massive stone construct at the center of every kazha in the Empire that served as a living reminder of the price for failing to walk the Way, for falling from Her grace. Nude, shackled hand and foot, Tesh-Dar had hung above the massive central dais as the warriors and the tresh of the kazha looked on from the great stones that circled the Kal'ai-Il. Sura-Ni’khan had lashed her with the grakh’ta, a seven-tailed barbed whip that was one of the most brutal of all weapons, with all her strength. Eight times the weapon struck Tesh-Dar’s back, flaying skin and muscle to expose the bone beneath. She grunted in agony, but never cried out. She had shamed the Empress, her priestess, her peers, and herself with her laxity; she would not further shame them by whimpering during her punishment.
When it was over, she was released from the chains, falling to the dais in a bloody heap. But her punishment was not over until she had staggered down the steps and along the stone walk to reach Sura-Ni’khan, who waited for her across a polished stone threshold. Had Tesh-Dar not reached her by the time the gong of the Kal'ai-Il had sounded twelve times, the priestess would have killed her.
Recovering from her wounds had been worse than being lashed, for the healers were not permitted to assist one who had been punished on the Kal'ai-Il. They could cover the wounds in sterile dressings, but that was all. Tesh-Dar writhed in blinding agony for two days. On the third, she forced herself to her feet, donned her armor, and staggered step by step to the arenas to train. In the days that followed, she nearly died from infection, something that was unheard of among her race in these times. Yet, her body eventually healed itself, and Pan’ne-Sharakh and Sura-Ni’khan had helped as best they could to heal her soul.
With a sigh, her ritual self-punishment now at an end, she pushed aside the thick animal hides of her warm bed and rose like Death’s shadow in her night-shrouded room, ignoring the chill of the air around her. She stepped to the window that filled most of one wall of her quarters, staring out at the snow-covered landscape that glimmered from the light of the Empress Moon that hung high above. It was winter now in the Homeworld’s northern hemisphere, and the outside temperature was so low that anyone trapped at night without a shelter would almost surely perish.
“Only a few steps,” she murmured to herself. It was only a few steps to the door leading to the outside and winter’s eager embrace. Such thoughts had come to her often after her punishment so long ago, but they were only fantasy. If she had learned nothing else on the Kal'ai-Il, she had learned the true meaning of duty. As often as Death had called to her, promising to take away her pain, as comforting was the thought of such release, she could no more kill herself than she could bear children.
That thought brought her to Li’ara-Zhurah. Rather than remain on the nursery world until her child was born, as tradition held, she had requested to return to Tesh-Dar’s side as the Empire made its next move against the humans. It was unusual for one to be released at such a stage in the mating process, but not unprecedented, and Tesh-Dar could find no reason to deny the young warrior’s request. Tesh-Dar’s own First, the warrior who had served as her sword hand to assist in the many things the priestess did each day, had moved up another step toward the throne in the rankings of the peers, and was ready to lead her own kazha. Tesh-Dar had decided that Li’ara-Zhurah would make an excellent replacement. When the child was near birth, Tesh-Dar would send her back to the nursery world. In the meantime, Tesh-Dar vowed to herself that she would allow no harm to come to her.
Sighing softly, Tesh-Dar knelt to add more wood to the embers of the fire that kept her quarters from freezing, wishing that it could warm her soul.
* * *
“We have allowed the humans time to recover from the first blow. Now, it is time to begin the true Challenge,” Tesh-Dar said from where she stood at the center of one of the many enormous chambers in the Imperial Palace on the Empress Moon. Like all things built by Kreelan hands, it was in its own way a work of art: the floor was a great mosaic depicting the tragedy of the Curse, while the walls and ceiling were made of clear crystal panels that let the light of the Homeworld shine through. Around her, sitting on thick animal hides, were the last of the Empire’s warrior priestesses. In the time of the First Empress, they had numbered in the thousands. Now, there remained only a handful more than a hundred. There had not been a council of war such as this for millennia, and it had shocked Tesh-Dar to the core to see that so few priestesses remained. It was a clear and bitter illustration of the plight of her species.
As the highest among them on the steps to the throne, Tesh-Dar led the council. The Empress was not present, for she was content to leave the details of war in Tesh-Dar’s hands. “We have shown them our power in the transformation of the world they called Keran, which we took from them,” she went on, “and also have we granted them fair combat by adapting our technology to theirs. We do not know how they have reacted as a species, but we will soon find out.”
She closed her eyes and summoned an image in her mind of the systems occupied by the humans. They had taken the navigational charts of the first human ship they had encountered and added to it the knowledge from the wreckage of the human ships left in Keran space. It was a convenience, for now that they knew of the humans’ existence, the second sight of the Empress could reach into every corner of their domain.
As Tesh-Dar opened her eyes, the image that had been in her mind shimmered into existence in the air next to her. “Now we will begin to bleed them. Our deeds shall bring great glory to the Empress, but we also search for the One,” she explained. “There are two hundred and thirty-seven human-settled worlds. These,” a cyan halo appeared around sixteen of the planets, including Earth, “shall not be molested for now. They are critical to the humans for producing ships and weapons, and are the largest population centers. Instead, we will make widespread attacks against shipping and smaller colonies, forcing the humans to give battle while not destroying their ability to wage war.”
“Would it perhaps not be wiser, Tesh-Dar,” said Mu’ira-Chular of the Alun-Kuresh order, “to do the opposite? To bleed their heart worlds first? Where there are more humans, are we not more likely to find the One? Or should we simply attack all of their systems at once?” It would be a trivial matter for the Empire to do so: the human realm was minuscule against the ten thousand suns of the Empire.
“We strike a precarious balance between fate and time,” Tesh-Dar explained. “We do not know if the One h
as yet been born. The prophecies say that we will know him when his blood sings, but little more.” Looking at the images of the worlds suspended above her, she went on, “If we attack all their systems, we may exterminate them before he has taken his first breath. If we prolong the war as long as we are able, the Empress believes there is a greater chance of finding him. And thus may we bring Her more glory across the few remaining generations we have remaining.”
Mu’ira-Chular nodded, as it was the will of the Empress to follow this course, but her face betrayed her concerns, not least of which was how close was the Empire’s end of days. That their race was dying was not a secret, but few beyond the priestesses who had direct contact with the Empress truly understood how closely extinction loomed.
“My sisters,” Tesh-Dar told them, “there is no certainty in what we do. There is only certainty in our fate should we fail to find him. And if we find the One, the Empress believes we are also fated to discover the tomb of the First Empress, Keel-Tath. Then...then may the Curse be lifted and our race redeemed in Her glory.”
In chorus, the other priestesses murmured, “In Her name, let it be so.”
“What are your commands, my priestess?” One of them asked.
“We shall begin by attacking their ships,” Tesh-Dar said as bright cyan lines joined the images of the human worlds. “We do not want to sever their lifeblood, merely bleed them and bring them to battle. I leave detailed planning for this to the Ima’il-Kush,” she nodded to one of the priestesses, whose domain was the Imperial Fleet. “Then we will attack these worlds,” seven planets were highlighted with cyan halos, “using those warriors of our orders who have earned the privilege by right of Challenge. Unlike Keran, these will be extended campaigns that will take many cycles, giving our warriors many opportunities for combat, and hopefully making the humans even more challenging adversaries. At a time of our choosing, we will expand our attacks against additional human worlds. For now, we will wait and see what comes to pass.”
The other priestesses spoke amongst themselves for a time, dividing the human worlds among them in such a way that there would be glory enough for all. Their only disappointment was that so many warriors in the Empire would never get the chance to be properly blooded in battle before the humans were exterminated from the galaxy.
As they discussed their strategies, Tesh-Dar looked at the target worlds. Of the seven, none had any particular features that appealed to her more than any other, so she simply picked one at random that would receive her personal attention.
That one, she thought to herself, looking at a heavily forested world with expansive oceans. It had a sizable human population, far larger than Keran, and a great deal of industry, according to the files extracted from the human computers. Had she cared to ask one of the keepers of the Books of Time who were now the holders of knowledge about things human, she could have learned the planet’s human name.
Saint Petersburg.
* * *
In the armory of Tesh-Dar’s kazha, Pan’ne-Sharakh sat at a low table, her attention focused on an ornate sword. The blade was so long that the tip would touch the ground if she held the handle at chin height. Gracefully curved so that it could be drawn in an instant from its scabbard, the blade shimmered in the light of the torches that illuminated her work. The crystal handle with inlaid gemstones was large enough for the massive hands that wielded the weapon. It belonged to Tesh-Dar, and was one of the many weapons Pan’ne-Sharakh had fashioned for her in their long acquaintance.
The weapon rested in a carefully padded cradle, the edge facing up toward her. With reverent hands she stroked the gleaming silver metal, fashioning its form as an act of will. Much like the builder caste and the matrix material from which they created anything that was necessary to suit the will of the Empress, the armorers had the gift of working the living metal that made up their edged weapons and the collars that all who walked the Way wore around their necks. It was the hardest, most durable substance in the galaxy, yet was malleable as clay to the gentle touch of a skilled armorer. Kreelan blades were not made with the fires of a forge and the hammer upon the anvil, although their body armor was still made in such a fashion. Pan’ne-Sharakh smiled inwardly at the strength she still possessed, even at her advanced age, to wield a hammer to bend such metal as she would.
They were created from ingots of metal, carefully grown over the span of many years. The ingots were smoothed and shaped by the armorer’s vision and touch, their spirits in communion with the metal as they stroked the blade into existence. The handles and the hand guards were generally created by more mundane means, although armorers of Pan’ne-Sharakh’s skill — of which there had been few over the ages — could form them as an act of will from virtually any material. The form was always functional first, yet every weapon was also a work of art. The warriors brought glory to the Empress in battle, but Pan’ne-Sharakh and her sisters glorified the Empress through the perfection and beauty of their craft.
She lovingly stroked the sides of the blade with her hands, barely brushing it with her fingertips, as her mind focused on its essence. The metal reacted instantly, the molecular structure realigning as she willed. This was an old weapon, one she had fashioned for the priestess after the Change, after Tesh-Dar had become the last of the high priestesses of the Desh-Ka order. In Tesh-Dar’s hands, the weapon could slice through a brace of enemy warriors. Even if the blade was nicked, it would reform on its own back to a killing edge. In Pan’ne-Sharakh’s mind, her fingers not only formed and sharpened the blade, but infused it with her love. While she did not lavish this much attention on every weapon, there were a select few such as this one that always received her gentle touch before and after a challenge. Or a battle.
She absently hummed an ancient hymn to the Empress, a harmony to the Bloodsong that was a soothing warmth in her ancient veins. The clawless ones did not feel the same fire as the warriors, yet in some ways they could read the eddies and currents of their race’s spiritual river far better than their taloned sisters.
For Pan’ne-Sharakh, applying her craft always allowed her to see more clearly the things in her mind. She knew that something deeply troubled Li’ara-Zhurah, who had begged to return from the nursery world. It was something more troubling than even the priestess believed, but exactly what was beyond Pan’ne-Sharakh’s understanding, and perhaps even that of the Empress. She feared that Li’ara-Zhurah might be one among their race, exceedingly rare, who might choose to depart the Way, to fall from Her grace. It would break the heart of Tesh-Dar, who had pinned such high hopes upon the young warrior. Pan’ne-Sharakh had spoken to Tesh-Dar about her concerns, and while the great priestess listened carefully as she always did, she saw no reason to change what was. If anything, it had made her more insistent that Li’ara-Zhurah accompany her on the new campaign against the humans, in hopes that Tesh-Dar could assist the young warrior through the pain that yet wracked her soul.
Switching to a hymn that was an ancient plea for intercession from the Empress, Pan’ne-Sharakh poured her soul into the metal of Tesh-Dar’s sword. It was all she could do to help shield the heart of one she so loved.
* * *
Li’ara-Zhurah stood by Tesh-Dar’s side as her new First, watching hundreds of proud warriors filing past, each one rendering a salute to Tesh-Dar. They moved quickly up the massive ramp of the heavy cruiser that would serve as Tesh-Dar’s flagship for this new campaign. They did not march in step, nor was there music or speeches to celebrate the mission of carnage on which they embarked. They needed none of these things, for the Bloodsong echoed in their hearts, and it carried them joyfully to war.
The emotional river of fierce anticipation that flowed through Li’ara-Zhurah’s own veins left her strangely unmoved. She yearned for battle, yes, but as a form of release for her soul, and not simply to honor the Empress by slaying Her enemies. Li’ara-Zhurah’s spirit had been torn during the first battle with the humans on Keran, and just as it had begun to heal, i
t again had been torn by her first mating.
She shivered as she brutally shoved the memory aside, not noticing how Tesh-Dar suddenly glanced at her, the great priestess’s eyes narrowed with concern. Li’ara-Zhurah had been desperate to leave the nursery world: the thought of having to remain there through the entire half-cycle of a child’s gestation had been agonizing. It was not that the nurseries were unpleasant, other than the mating experience itself: indeed, in a race that created beauty in all things with the same passion they applied to personal combat, the nurseries were among the most beautiful worlds of the Empire. The warriors and clawless ones awaiting the birth of their children had no duties, no obligations save the normal daily rituals of dressing, meditating, and preparing for sleep. It was a time of unaccustomed luxury and contemplation, with many of the expectant mothers studying passages from the Books of Time or, particularly popular among the clawless ones, practicing one of the many forms of art known to their civilization.
None of this held any appeal for Li’ara-Zhurah. She was not interested in the Books of Time, and cared not for the arts. Her only desire was to grapple with the humans again, to finally gain the spiritual release that had been denied her on Keran. She had sent an urgent message to Tesh-Dar, praying fervently to the Empress that the priestess would not abandon her to the comfortable prison of the nursery.
Li’ara-Zhurah had been shocked when the priestess summoned her to act as her First. While it was an incredible honor, Li’ara-Zhurah’s deepest reaction was relief, not gratitude. She boarded a ship for the Homeworld the same day that Tesh-Dar’s response arrived, eager to leave the nightmare of the mating ritual behind her.
In Her Name: The Last War Page 54