The Complete Empire Trilogy (147 page)

Her Force Commander did not argue the necessity, but strode off and mustered his warriors and efficiently made arrangements to depart. Battle-weary and bandaged, the three survivors from Mara’s original guard were given places of honour at the head of the march. Kevin and two litter-borne wounded were carried next, and after them, the honourably slain. Mara insisted on staying afoot. Her bearers lived, but with their trained ability to manage burdens without jostling, they were assigned to carry the injured. The Lady of the Acoma walked beside her unconscious body slave. Kevin had been given a draught for his pain that left him deeply asleep. She held his unbandaged hand and alternated between aching sorrow and fury.

She had not heeded warnings that Tasaio might have compromised Arakasi’s network. She had seen only her growing power, had been lured into thinking that because she was now Clan Warchief, it was her natural due that lesser families should clamour for her favour. Nacoya had cautioned her; Keyoke had most pointedly avoided a confrontation with her, precisely that he could be free to forestall the disaster of the trap she had foolishly conceded to Tasaio.

Twenty-seven good warriors from her honour guard were dead. Lujan had lost another twelve in the course of her rescue, and Kevin might never walk again without a limp.

The price was far too high.

Mara clenched her hand, then belatedly relaxed her grip; she squeezed only Kevin, who had stood as staunchly as any of her warriors. She did not feel the stones under her feet, or notice the occasional hand on her elbow as Lujan steadied her over the gullies. She barely noticed the coming and going of the scout patrols, as they repeatedly swept the surrounding
woods for enemies; she thought only upon the shame of her own false pride; and she wondered, over and over, what she would say to Arakasi.

The moon set. The darkness under the trees matched the darkness in Mara’s heart as she marched numbly, dwelling long and hard on recriminations until she reached the borders of her estate.

Another patrol of soldiers awaited her there, armed and carrying torches. Mara was weary enough that it took her a moment to realize the anomaly of this added company’s presence. Lujan was speaking with the Patrol Leader, and as she heard Ayaki’s name, a chill washed over her, fright jolting her alert.

She pushed away from Kevin’s litter and hurried to her Force Commander’s side. ‘What has happened to my son?’

Lujan caught her shoulders firmly. ‘He is alive, my Lady.’

That reassurance did not blunt the edge of Mara’s urgency. Even in the wind-caught flicker of the torch light, the reporting Patrol Leader’s face showed strain. Terrified that the disaster that had overtaken her might not have been confined to the glen, Mara demanded, ‘Has there been an attack upon my house?’

‘My Lady, an assassin was sent.’ The Patrol Leader tersely bowed. Trained by Keyoke to be concise, he delivered the news like a battle report. ‘Ayaki suffered a minor cut, but is otherwise unharmed. Two nurses died, and Nacoya, First Adviser, was killed in the child’s defence. The estate grounds have been searched, with no sign of other enemies found. The assassin apparently stole in alone. Keyoke reinforced all border patrols and sent us to bolster your escort.’

But Mara heard none of the details, past knowledge that Ayaki had suffered hurt and that Nacoya, who had been a mother to her since childhood, was dead. Her knees felt weak, and her mind was shocked past thinking. She did not feel the arm that Lujan slipped under her elbow to steady
her. She heard but did not comprehend the words her Force Commander said to the Patrol Leader, dispatching a runner to fetch a replacement litter.

Nacoya was dead, and Ayaki injured. She needed Kevin’s arms around her, and the comfort of his love through this nightmare; but he lay bandaged in a litter, unconscious from a healing draught.

Mara stumbled forward. The night felt bitterly desolate. Trouble seemed to roost unseen in the dark, and the road through her own prayer gate seemed menacing with unnamed danger.

‘I must go home,’ she said blankly.

‘Lady, we shall take you there with all haste.’ Lujan snapped orders to his company, and the patrol integrated with the guard already surrounding the Lady and her wounded and dead. Then, without awaiting the runner’s return with the litter, the warriors marched for the estate house.

Mara hurried in a numb haze of disbelief. Nacoya was dead; that fact seemed incomprehensible. The Lady felt she ought to be crying. Instead, she could not see past placing one stumbling foot in front of the other. She was aware of the Patrol Leader giving the details of the assassin’s raid to Lujan, but inside her head she could hear only Nacoya’s voice, scolding and scolding her for folly, vanity, and headstrong actions.

Ayaki had been injured.

Her heart cried out in outrage, anger, and grief, that one so little should ever be threatened by the machinations of the Great Game. She thought blasphemies: Kevin was right; deaths for political gains were a senseless, cruel waste. Her sense of family honour warred outright with her pain. How narrowly Tasaio had missed ending the Acoma line in the passage of a single day!

Keyoke’s wisdom, Nacoya’s courage, a slave’s disregard
of propriety: those had been all that stood between her house and total destruction. Almost, Minwanabi had fulfilled his blood oath to Turakamu. Chills chased over Mara’s flesh. She remembered the rain of arrows that had hissed over her head, even as Kevin’s weight had knocked her down, out of the way. She hurried faster, and did not protest when the litter at last arrived and Lujan caught her up in his arms and bundled her inside without pause to break his stride.

These bearer slaves were fresh. Mara signalled Lujan to appoint an honour guard and let the other soldiers escorting the wounded and dead proceed more slowly. Distraught beyond restraint, she screamed for the slaves to sprint the last quarter mile to the lighted hall of the estate house.

Keyoke met her there, grim and wearing armour from the waist up. He had donned his old helm, shorn of plumes, and his sword was strapped to his side, prepared for the worst if word came back that his mistress had been killed in the forest.

Mara stumbled out of her litter before Lujan could catch her hand. She flung herself into the arms of the old warrior, and with her cheek against his hard breastplate, she fought to hold back tears.

Keyoke stood staunch on his crutch, and his free hand stroked her hair. ‘Mara-anni,’ he said in his deep voice, using the diminutive as a father might address a beloved daughter. ‘Nacoya died most bravely. She will be sung into the halls of Turakamu with all of the honours of a warrior and make proud the Acoma name.’

Mara repressed a deep, shuddering sob. ‘My son,’ she gasped. ‘How is he?’

Over her bent head, the Adviser for War and Lujan exchanged a quick look. Needing no words, the Force Commander gently took Mara’s elbow and eased her weight off Keyoke.

‘We shall go at once to see Ayaki,’ the older adviser said. He pointedly did not ask after her crumpled appearance, or the evidence of bloodstains on her robe. ‘Your son sleeps, attended by Jican. The cut on his neck was attended to promptly, but he lost a lot of blood. He will be well enough in time, but you should know; we could not stop his crying. He has had a terrible shock.’

Mara froze, resisting all attempts to lead her away. ‘Kevin,’ she said frantically. ‘I want him brought to my chambers and tended there.’

‘Lady,’ Lujan said firmly. ‘I already presumed to give orders to that end.’ He caught her more firmly around the waist and propelled her into the corridor that led to her chambers. Someone thoughtful, probably Jican, had ordered every lamp lit, so no step she took was in shadow.

Again the eyes of Force Commander and Adviser for War met. Keyoke knew that Mara’s party had suffered ambush; he was impatient to hear the details. Lujan nodded in wordless indication that he would relate the event, but out of Mara’s hearing. She had grief enough in her heart without being made to endure a repetition of the day’s unpleasantness.

They reached her private apartments. The screens were opened wide and attended by a dozen armed warriors. Inside, half-lost in a sea of cushions, a small figure lay with white bandages wrapped around his neck. Someone sat with him; Mara did not look to see whom, but pulled herself out of Lujan’s hold and fell to her knees by her child. She touched him, transparently surprised by his warmth. Then, tenderly cautious of his hurts, she gathered him into her arms. She wept then, beyond all control, and her tears rinsed Ayaki’s cheek.

Her officers averted their faces in staunch disregard of her shame, and the person sitting on the cushions tactfully rose to leave.

Mara glanced through brimming eyes and identified Jican. ‘Stay,’ she said shakily. ‘All of you, stay. I don’t want to be here alone.’

For a very long time the lanterns burned, while she sat and rocked her young son.

Later in the night, after Kevin had been placed on a mat by Ayaki’s side, Mara ordered the lights put out. She dismissed Keyoke, Jican, and Lujan to their long-deserved rest, and, guarded by a relief watch of warriors at every entrance to the house, she sat in silent vigil over her loved ones. She thought, and saw too clearly where selfishness had steered her near to ruin. Her arrogant assumption of the Clan Warchief’s seat now seemed the act of an idiot.

She did not undress for bed, though the healer who came periodically to check on his two charges begged her to take a draught to bring rest. Her eyes stung unpleasantly from crying, and she did not wish the oblivion of sleep. Guilt weighed upon her heart, and too many thoughts upon her mind. At dawn she gathered her courage, rose stiffly from her cushions, and left her room and her loved ones. Alone, watched only by her guarding soldiers, she moved like a waif through darkened corridors to the nursery, where the body of the woman who had raised her had been laid on a bier of honour.

Nacoya’s bloody robes had been changed for rich silks bordered by Acoma green. Her wrinkled old hands lay at peace by her sides, sheathed in soft leather gloves to hide the cruel cuts from the assassin’s cord, and the knife that had slain her rested on her breast, as badge of homage to Turakamu that she had died a warrior’s death. Her face, nested in silver-white hair, seemed more peaceful than it ever had in sleep. Cares and arthritis and hairpins that never stayed straight could not trouble her now. Her loyal years of service were over.

Mara felt fresh tears spring under her swollen eyelids. ‘Mother of my heart,’ she murmured. She sank to the cushions beside the dead woman and gathered up one cold hand. She fought and steadied her voice. ‘Nacoya, know your name shall be honoured with the ancestors of the Acoma, and your ashes shall be spread inside the walls of the sacred glade, within the garden of the natami. Know the blood you spilled today was Acoma blood, and that you are as family and kin.’ Here Mara paused, as her breath caught. She raised her face in the grey light coming through the screens and looked out into the mist that clothed the lands of her people.

‘Mother of my heart,’ she resumed, shamefully unsteady, ‘I did not listen to you. I was selfish, and arrogant, and careless, and the gods took your life for my folly. But hear me; I can still learn. Your wisdom lives yet in my heart, and on the morrow when your ashes are delivered to the gods, I will swear this promise: I will send the barbarian Kevin away, and write a betrothal contract to Shinzawai asking for marriage with Hokanu. These things I will do before the season turns, wise one. And to my sorrow, to the end of my days, I will regret that I chose not to heed while you were alive at my side.’

Mara gently laid the withered hand back at the dead woman’s side. ‘Not enough did I tell you this, Nacoya: I loved you well, mother of my heart,’ she ended, ‘and I thank you for the life of my son.’

The drums stilled.

Silence fell over the grounds of the Acoma estate for the first time since the funeral rites three days past. The priests of Turakamu summoned for the occasion packed their clay masks and departed in single-file procession. Only the red bunting on the front door posts remained as a visible reminder of the recently departed; but to Mara the estate house would never again seem the secure haven she recalled from her childhood.

She was not alone in her disquiet. Ayaki cried himself to sleep at nights; Kevin rested beside him, a strange ghostly figure in white bandages, who cheered him when he could with stories, called servants to light lanterns when the boy lay trembling in the dark, and calmed him when he woke up distraught from nightmares. Mara sat often at the boy’s bedside, quiet, or speaking desultorily with Kevin. She tried to ignore the twelve warriors who stood guard at each window and door. Now she could not pass even the shadows beneath the shrubs in her gardens without looking sideways for assassins.

After an exhaustive search, Lujan’s trackers had discovered the dead assassin’s trail onto her estate; the killer had taken time to complete his infiltration, here spending a night in a tree, and there leaving a depression under a hedge where he had lain for hours, waiting motionless for a break between patrols or a servant to pass. Plainly Tasaio of the Minwanabi had reversed his tactics since the Night of the Bloody Swords. Where numbers and sheer force had failed before, his most recent attempt had been furtive, involving
just a single man. Lujan did not have soldiers enough to beat every bush and vine and fence row daily to search for lurking intruders. The Acoma sentries had not been the least bit lax; simply, the estate lands were too wide and too open to be maintained in flawless security.