Mistress of the Empire (48 page)

Pug regarded her with bitter humor. ‘I was of a somewhat lower station at that time, being one of Master Hokanu’s slaves. Kevin and I exchanged only a few words. But I have seen him once since his return to the Prince’s court in Krondor, in a reception for the border barons.’

Mara repressed a wild leap of the heart. In a tight whisper she asked, ‘Is he well?’ Her eyes pleaded.

Pug nodded, aware of the deeper emotions behind that simple question. In answer to a need her pride would never acknowledge, he volunteered, ‘Kevin has made a name for himself in the service of Prince Arutha. Third sons of minor nobles need to find their way by their wits. From what I have heard and seen, he does well indeed. He serves in the north of the Kingdom, with Baron Highcastle, and has advanced in rank several times, I believe.’

Mara’s voice fell and her eyes lowered as she softly said, ‘Has he wed?’

‘I do not know, I’m sorry to say. Stardock is far from court, and detailed news does not always reach us.’ When Mara raised her gaze, Pug observed, ‘Though I’m unsure which answer would please you most, yes or no.’

Mara loosed a rueful laugh. ‘I do not know either.’

Golden light seeped under the door as a servant lit lamps in the hallway; dusk lent purple shadows to the closed confines of the pattern room. Suddenly reawakened to the passage of time, Pug said briskly, ‘I must go.’ He forestalled Mara’s second attempt to delay him, saying, ‘I have no gift for you of magic or wisdom, Lady. I am not of the Assembly, but even still, the oaths I swore when I was admitted to its brotherhood bind my mind, if not my heart. Even with my powers, some training is difficult to disobey. I cannot aid you in your struggle. But I can offer this. You are wise to seek counsel outside the Empire, for you will find few allies within.’

Mara’s eyes narrowed as she realised that he knew of her secret preparations to journey over the borders; but how he had found out, or what made him able to read beyond what she had taken pains to conceal as a pilgrimage, she could not guess. ‘So it’s true the cho-ja may not aid me.’

Pug’s face split into a grin. He moved away from her side, almost boyish in his delight. ‘You are further along in unraveling the great mystery than I would have thought.’ His expression returned to a neutral mask as he finished, ‘Those within the Empire who might wish to be your allies are prevented. No, you must seek outside the Nations.’

‘Where?’ Mara pressed. ‘The Kingdom of the Isles?’ But at once she knew the lead she suggested was a false hope. Already, she spoke with the most powerful man from beyond the rift.

Pug stretched his arms out, letting the sleeves of his brown robe fall away. Obliquely he said, ‘Did you know my wife was Thuril? Interesting place, the highlands. You
should visit them sometime. Give my regards to your husband.’

With no further word, he raised his hands above his head and vanished. The inrush of air into the space he had occupied filled the silence, while the chamber dimmed into the darkness of coming night.

Mara sighed and opened the door. Blinking against the sudden dazzle of lamplight, she saw Saric and Lujan awaiting her. To her adviser and her officer she said, ‘Nothing has changed. We begin our pilgrimage tomorrow.’

Saric’s eyes lit with excitement. After a glance to be sure no servants lurked within earshot, he whispered, ‘We go beyond Lepala?’

Mara bit back an answering smile, careful not to show more enthusiasm than a pious journey might warrant; though she, too, was excited and curious at the prospect of crossing the borders into unknown lands. ‘By fastest ship. But we must visit the temples before we travel east. If we are to gain by our visit to Thuril, we must be circumspect in our departure.’

The preparations left to be made before dawn demanded attention, and Lujan and Saric took leave of their mistress to attend them. As they departed, alike in their movements as only blood kin could be, Mara looked after them and sighed. The house seemed empty and quiet without the children. Regretting she had lost her chance to bid them a proper farewell, she moved in the direction of the stair, and her study, where the servants would be bringing her evening meal. First light would not come soon enough to soothe her unsettled nerves. Now that her path was clear, she was anxious to be away.

She could not surmise what lay in store for her across the border in the Lands of a people who had been enemies of the Empire through years of wars and skirmishes. The treaty that bound the current peace was an uneasy one; the
highlanders of the confederation were quick to offend and belligerent by nature. But the most powerful magician of two worlds had circumspectly encouraged her exploration. If nothing else, Mara sensed that he, alone of any, fully understood the stakes. More, he knew the terrible scope of the perils she needed to surmount.

As she moved past bowing servants, toward the comfort of her quarters, she wondered what Pug’s appraisal of her chances at success might have been. Then she had second thoughts, and decided she was wise not to have asked. If the barbarian magician had answered at all, his words would surely have taken the heart from her.

The priest shouted. Echoes reverberated off the massive vaults of the temple ceiling, which towered above carved wooden pillars and buttresses. The assembled circle of red-robed acolytes answered in ritual chant, and a rare metal chime sounded to signal the ending of the morning ceremony. Mara waited quietly in shadow at the rear of the chamber, her honor guard surrounding her, and her First Adviser at her side. Saric looked absorbed in thoughts far removed from religion. His fingers tapped a tattoo on the corcara-shell bosses on his belt, and his hair looked rumpled, as if he had raked his fingers through his bangs in impatience. While none of her warriors disclosed any sign of discomfort, their stiff postures indicated that they were less able to turn their minds to other matters while in the Red God’s sacred precinct. Most of them offered inward prayers to the Deities of luck and fortune that their final meeting with the Death God would be long in coming.

And in truth, Mara thought, the Temple of Turakamu was not a place designed for comfort. An ancient altar, once the site of human sacrifice – and still such, rumor ran – squatted on the raised platform at the chamber’s center. Stone benches surrounded the site, worn by the feet
of many worshippers, and grooved with drains that led to recessed basins at the feet of statues that were centuries old, their surfaces smoothed and stained by the touch of generations of hands. The walls behind their niches were painted with human skeletons, demons, and demigods with multiple legs and arms. The figures writhed or danced in postures of ecstasy; despite their grotesque aspect, they reminded Mara of other icons and paintings that adorned the House of Fruitfulness, one of the many shrines of Lashima, visited by women who prayed for conception. Yet while Turakarnu’s temple depicted no sexual overtones, there was a sybaritic quality to the murals, as if those hideous intertwined figures were celebrating, not suffering.

Awaiting her audience, Mara considered that while the Red God’s priests were frightening, in conversation they insisted that as all people meet their end at the feet of Turakamu, death was a fate, not to avoid, but rather to be accepted with understanding.

The circle of acolytes reformed into a double column, wreathed in the twining smokes of incense. Mara saw the caped figure at the head of the procession pause to address a supplicant who begged the god’s mercy for one recently departed. A writ crusted with seals changed hands; most likely a draft from the family offering a generous contribution to the temple if its bequest was answered. As the paintings farthest from the sacrificial altar showed, humans with beatific expressions bowed before the Red God’s throne to hear divine decision concerning rebirth into life, their next station on the Wheel designated by the balance of their debts against honor. The recently departed, it was believed, could be enhanced in the eyes of the Red God through prayer, and while the poor came on foot to make obeisance and light cheap clay lamps, the rich came in litters bearing lavish sums for private temple rites.

Mara wondered whether such practices influenced
Turakamu, or were the encouragement of earthly priests who desired rubies for their mantles, and comforts for their refectories and sleeping cells. Certainly the massive gold tripods that supported the lamps by the altar amounted to the wealth of a kingdom. Although each temple of the Twenty Gods had costly trappings, few were as sumptuously appointed as the smallest ones dedicated to Turakamu.

A voice roused Mara from reverie. ‘Good Servant, you honor us.’ The procession of acolytes had reached the rear door, and was filing slowly out, but the High Priest in attendance had stepped out of the column and approached the Acoma retinue. Under his paint and his feathered cape, he was a man of medium stature, aging, but bright of eye. Up close, it was apparent that he was taken aback, and his nervous hands moved up and down the bone wand with its skull bosses that he had flourished during the rites. ‘I knew you were going on pilgrimage, Lady Mara, but I had presumed you would visit the great shrine in the Holy City, not our humbler abode in Sulan-Qu. Certainly I did not prepare for the honor of a personal visit.’

Mara bowed slightly to the High Priest of Turakamu. ‘I’ve no wish to stand upon ceremony. And in truth, my trip here is for reasons other than plain devotion. Rather, I have need of your counsel.’

The High Priest’s brows rose in surprise and disappeared under the chin of the skull mask he wore, perched on the crown of his head now that the ceremony was ended. He was not stripped nude and stained in red body paint, as was customary for rites performed outside sacred ground. But his hair was braided with relics that looked like bits of dismembered birds, and the accoutrements visible beneath his cape of scarlet feathers seemed even less inviting. As if aware that his formal dress was not conducive to interviews, he passed his wand to the boy acolyte who waited in his
shadow, and doffed his robe. The cross-belts on which his relics hung were of ancient design, and two other attendants rushed forward and removed them from his shoulders with reverent care. They bore the regalia off, chanting, to its place in locked closets hidden away in a warren of passageways.

Left in a simple loincloth, his eyes still striped with paint from the ceremony, the priest seemed suddenly younger. ‘Come,’ he invited Mara. ‘Let us retire to more comfortable surroundings. Your honor guard may come along, or they may await your pleasure in the garden inside the gates. It is shady there, and a water boy will answer their needs for refreshment.’

Mara waved Lujan and Saric to her side, and indicated that the rest of her retinue might retire. None of the warriors looked relieved, but their steps were animated as they wheeled in formation and headed for the doorway to the outer garden. Men in martial professions were never comfortable with Turakamu’s followers. Superstition held that a soldier who spent too much time in devotion to the Red God risked attracting that deity’s favor; and those whom Turakamu came to love, would be taken in their youth from the battlefield.

The High Priest led the way through a small side doorway into a dim corridor. ‘When not in formal guise, I am called Father Jadaha, Good Servant.’

Half smiling at his formality, the Lady replied, ‘Mara will do, Father.’

She was ushered into austere quarters with walls of unadorned paneling, and unpainted screens. The prayer mats were dyed red, for the glory of the god, but those used for sitting were woven of natural fiber. Mara was shown to the plumpest of a poor lot of cushions, threadbare with use, but clean. She allowed Lujan to seat her, and offered a hasty inward prayer for Turakamu’s forgiveness. Her thoughts
had been wrong; plainly, in the temple the Sulan-Qu priests used the moneys given by petitioning families only to adorn those chambers dedicated to their god. Once Lujan and Saric had placed themselves at their mistress’s side, the High Priest sent his servant for refreshments. A body servant with a bad scar and one eye saw to the removal of his ceremonial paint, and brought him a white robe with red borders. Then, over a tray of chocha and small cakes, the High Priest addressed his visitor. ‘Mara, what service may the Temple of Turakamu offer you?’

‘I am not certain, Father Jadaha.’ Mara helped herself to a square of sweet cake out of politeness. While Saric poured her chocha, she added, ‘I seek knowledge.’

The priest returned a gesture of blessing. ‘What poor resources we have are yours.’

Mara let her surprise show, for his quick acceptance was unexpected. ‘You are very generous, Father. But I humbly submit, you might wish to hear of my needs before you make sweeping promises.’

The High Priest smiled. His one-eyed servant retired with evident respect, and given a view of a face cleansed of paint, Mara saw that the chief devotee of the Death God was a pleasant older man. Slender and fit, he had a scribe’s beautiful hands, and his eyes sparkled with intelligence. ‘What should I fear in making promises, Lady Mara? You have shown your mettle in your great service to the Empire. I much doubt your motives now are selfish at heart; not after the behavior you demonstrated after the demise of House Minwanabi. More than generous, your actions were … unprecedented. Not only did you observe correct forms in removing the prayer gate Desio erected in dedication to your death, you selflessly made sure that no dishonor was implied to the temple in asking the prayer gate to be relocated off your lands. It is we priests who are in your debt, for your part in ending the
tyranny of the High Council. Once again, our guidance is allowed proper influence over the course of daily life.’ The priest gestured ruefully and helped himself to a huge slice of cake. ‘Changes in the power structure happen slowly. Those Ruling Lords who resist our influence are close-knit in their opposition. Still, we are making progress.’