Her father drew the mask in toward his own face. The girl felt certain that if it had lips, he would have kissed it. He stared into the empty eyeholes. “Oh, Marique, can you feel it? Can you feel the future? With my beloved Maliva at my side, I shall be invincible! Nations may call forth legions to destroy us, but I shall harvest them as if they were sheaves of wheat. I shall trample on kingdoms, I shall reave empires. All history shall begin with me and dwell forever with my beloved and me.”
“Yes, Father, I believe this.” Her fingers stopped. “But, as you have taught me, as my mother taught me, prophecy and magick, these are subtle and delicate things. Must we not plan further?”
Khalar Zym turned halfway around, shifting the mask so both it and he stared at her. “What are you suggesting?”
“Father, Remo went after the girl hours ago. What if he does not return with her?”
Her father laughed coldly. “Remo will bring her, or send word where I can find her. He would rather die than disappoint me, and will sooner soar on invisible wings than fail me. Put your mind at ease, Marique.”
“I wish I could, Father.” She turned from him, stepping beyond his immediate reach. She bowed her head as a penitent might when begging for mercy. “It is just, I wonder . . .”
“What, girl, tell me . . .”
“The ritual, Father, what if it fails?”
“Fails? It is not possible.” Her father strode across the cabin and replaced the mask in its setting atop a standard. “Your mother, Marique, she uncovered the ritual. She translated the lore herself. She knew what she was doing, and went to her death confident that through it we would bring her back. The ritual will not fail . . .”
“But, Father, if it does . . .”
Khalar Zym’s eyes blazed hotly. “It will not! Maliva will return.”
Marique turned and sank to her knees before her father, throwing back her chin to expose her throat. Tears, hot, desperate tears, rolled down her cheeks. “My powers are growing, Father. I have my mother’s blood—your beloved’s blood—flowing through me. I have learned much, Father. I have studied all my mother studied, and more.”
Khalar Zym raised a hand. “Insolent child, do not presume you know more than your mother!”
Marique cast her gaze to her father’s boots. “Father, I have only ever desired to be a worthy heir to you and my mother. Thus my diligence in studies. I have uncovered secrets, as she did.” She reached out and took his other hand and kissed it gently. “Even now, to prove my love to you, Father, I could, I would, make them all kneel before you as I kneel.”
A low rumble issued from her father’s throat. The hand he’d raised in violence came down to caress her cheek. “Yes, Marique, you are like your mother in so many ways . . .”
She smiled against his hand.
He tore it from her and turned away. “But you are not her.”
Khalar Zym strode from his cabin and abandoned Marique, prostrate and weeping beneath the unseeing eyes of the Mask of Acheron.
HIGH UP IN the Shaipur Pass, overlooking the road that wound its way through the hills, Conan checked Remo’s bonds. He’d secured the grotesque man’s hands behind him, then bound his feet to a stake he’d driven into the ground. He double-checked the knots, fairly certain the man could not free himself, but completely confident that Remo would do anything in his power to escape.
The woman tapped her foot impatiently. “We are losing valuable time, Cimmerian. We must be away to Hyrkania immediately. My master—”
Conan curled his lip in a snarl. “You have told me ample times, Tamara Amaliat Jorvi Karushan, that your master, the exalted Master Fassir of the monastery at the heart of the Red Wastes, wishes you to go to Hyrkania. I am not deaf. I am not stupid. I do not need to hear it again.”
“And yet, here we are.” She turned toward the horses. “If you will not take me, I shall go myself.”
“You will go nowhere.”
She spun, eyes sharpened. “I am not yours to command, barbarian. I am not your property.”
“She belongs to my master.” Remo’s breath hissed from between discolored teeth. “He has sought her for decades. She is his.”
“I am no man’s chattel.”
In one quick stride Conan dropped to a knee beside Remo and pressed a dagger to his throat. “Why does he want her?”
The little man looked up. “She is special. Her blood is special.”
Conan looked back at Tamara. She was pleasing to the eye, but so had been the slave women in Messantia. He saw nothing terribly special about her. “Time for the Red Wastes to drink your blood, deceiver.”
Tamara held up a hand. “Wait, don’t kill him.”
Conan stayed his hand.
“Why do you say I am special, that my blood is special?”
The deformed man directed his answer to Conan. “It is true, Master. Khalar Zym needs her blood because she is the last of the Royal House of Acheron.”
Tamara laughed. “You’re mad. I may have grown up isolated, but even I know Acheron fell millennia ago. Their blood has long since drained from the world.”
“The whore lies, Master.”
“You can kill him now.” The woman snorted dismissively and turned away.
“No, please, Master. For her I can get you a king’s ransom. What I tell you is true. Khalar Zym has been searching for this one for twenty years.”
The Cimmerian again glanced in her direction. “What makes you so certain she is the one he seeks?”
“The monks stole her from his people. He traced her to this place.” Remo licked his thick lips. “He will be on her trail again. The man who delivers her to him will be rewarded with anything he desires.”
Conan smiled, and assumed that Remo’s corresponding smile meant that the captive imagined Conan was dreaming of gold and jewels. “Then we shall wait for Khalar.”
“A wise choice, Master, very wise. I will arrange everything. I shall be your agent. I shall deliver your message.”
Conan stood and returned the dagger to its sheath on his belt. “Yes, you will.”
He walked over to where the woman was putting a saddle on one of the horses. As she ducked down to grab the cinch strap, he plucked the saddle off the horse’s back and tossed it with the rest of the tack. “We are waiting here.”
She straightened up, making no attempt to hide her anger. “Apparently I have not made myself clear to you, barbarian. I, Tamara Amaliat Jorvi Karushan, have been charged with a sacred duty. If you will not take me to Hyrkania, then you are not the man from the vision. I shall make my own way there. Do you understand me?”
Conan chuckled, which inflamed her further.
“Why did Master Fassir not see you were an idiot?”
“Why do you believe I am stupid?” Conan folded his massive arms over his chest. “I, at least, know from whence I am come . . . and I do not need four names to fix myself in the world.”
“Do you even have one? Do you know it?”
“Yes.”
“Yes?” She raised an eyebrow. “And you haven’t thought fit to share it with me because . . . ?”
“You have have told me your name five times now. I feared I would have to repeat my name five times for you to remember it.”
Tamara stamped a foot. “Tell me your name.”
“Conan.”
“Conan? That’s it?”
“It is all I need.”
She scrubbed her hands over her face. “It’s not even a civilized name.”
“Civilized like Khalar Zym?”
Tamara started to answer sharply, then thought better of it. “He destroyed the monastery, Conan. It was horrible. He is not a man you wish to wait for. Please, I implore you, I beg you, take me to Hyrkania.”
The Cimmerian met her gaze openly. “Khalar Zym found you at the monastery. Do you not think he will track you to Hyrkania, too?”
She paused, nodding. “Yes, but it is a long journey. Something may stop him.”
“Ye
s, Tamara Amaliat Jorvi Karushan, something may. Something will.” Conan smiled. “I am that something, and I shall stop him soon.”
The monk shook her head. “I amend my statement. You are not just stupid, you are insane, too. Have you not heard anything I said? He destroyed a monastery full of monks trained as warriors. How can you hope to stand against him?”
Conan laughed easily. “You hide behind four names. He dreams of resurrecting Acheron. You both are proud of civilization, and look down upon me, for I am barbarian. But understand this: civilization is an illusion. What he did to your monastery was not civilized. It was savage. It was barbaric. You mean that as a curse, but I do not take it as such.”
Conan turned from her and looked away to the north. “Before I had the first hair on my chin, I met Khalar Zym. I drew his blood. Me, a barbarian child. Four years later I was among the barbarians that overran the ‘civilized’ outpost of Venarium. I have traveled throughout this world, seeing many things that call themselves civilizations, dealing with many men who counted themselves civilized, and none have beaten me. Khalar Zym shall not beat me.”
“There is no doubting, Conan, that you are a great warrior; but Khalar Zym is—”
“Khalar Zym is a man.” Conan rested a hand on his sword’s pommel. “I shall remind him of that fact.”
Tamara stared at him, then shook her head. “You do not understand.”
“Fear not, Tamara. Get some sleep.” Conan smiled happily. “I have a plan.”
CHAPTER 22
MARIQUE KNELT ALONE in her cabin, her lamps unlit and the portholes shuttered as firmly as possible. She wanted no light, for she desired to avoid all chances of seeing her reflection in the mirror. She could have covered the looking glass with a shroud, but somehow that seemed to anger the voices. She could not have endured their sibilant whisperings, especially when she knew their comments would ooze ridicule.
She’d stripped wall hangings to stuff even the tiniest light leak, and took it as an omen that the only ray which pierced the darkness pinned the Cimmerian sword to the wall. The dark hilt and pale blade reminded her of her mother, bound to the giant wheel before it had been set ablaze. She stared at it through half-lidded eyes, not daring to catch a full reflection of her face in the metal.
Marique hated herself for thinking it, but she was coming to pity her father. Not that he had become old and infirm, not that he was any less glorious than he had been on the day he completed the mask, but in that his obsession nibbled away at his reason. It blinded him to other possibilities, other realities, and to the potential for destruction that lurked in the world.
She could not imagine how he missed that truth. Her mother had been just as certain of the validity of her path, and look where it had led her. In retrospect, he had fashioned her death into a necessary trial he’d had to endure. He’d reshaped their life together into some sort of mythic journey that forced Maliva to endure time in the grave. It was a challenge that she alone had embraced because it was the only means by which she could grant Khalar Zym the power for which he had been born. He would resurrect Acheron as he would resurrect her.
But he had completely forgotten that this was not the way it had begun. Was he of Acheronian blood? Perhaps. Her mother’s records had been vague on that point. True, he was a princeling—a minor one, and a renegade at that—of Nemedia, and some Acheronian blood did run in his veins. But only so much as a single scratch with one of my talons would drain it. Still, from her mother’s perspective, that had been enough to make him worthy of elevation. The Acheronian heritage truly ran through her, as she sprang from the loins of those who had long inhabited a distant Acheronian outpost. Maliva’s parents had been cast out for doing something so foul that even the Acheronians could not sanction it, and the child they had borne had found in Khalar Zym an ambitious man with a taste for tales dark and arcane.
Though Marique had not been there when the quest began, more than once her mother had confided in her their plans. She and Khalar Zym would piece together the Mask of Acheron. They would use blood to further invigorate it. Through the mask, Maliva would lay claim to the full panoply of eldritch Acheronian sorceries—and her mother imagined that even things long forgotten would be revealed to her in full once she wore the mask. She would have the power. She would be the goddess-empress, and Khalar Zym would rule as her mortal consort.
Yet, when death claimed her, her father had reimagined their plan. Or remembered it as it had been told to him, his beloved wife having never confided the truth to him.
Marique decided that this latter circumstance was the case, lest she be forced to imagine her father a complete fool. While his obsession did delude him, it had not rendered him wholly without genius. He had destroyed the monastery in the Red Wastes, a feat unimaginable to those who knew of its existence. Its sister in Hyrkania would fall to him, too—before or after he found the girl and brought his beloved back to life.
She started down the dark road of imagining her mother’s return—an arduous journey she had often taken and never enjoyed—but a sudden crash from above saved her from such dark thoughts. Something had slammed into the land ship. She bolted from her cabin and up a companionway, slipping past Ukafa’s bulk and into her father’s cabin.
Full sunlight poured through the gaping hole in the deck above. Her father sat on a barbaric-looking throne, clad only in breeches and boots, staring at the stone that had snapped oak planking, but failed to pierce the cabin’s deck. A rope had been wrapped around it, then tied to a man’s ankles, much as a corpse might have been bound before being tossed into the sea. The man’s broken body lay twisted on the deck.
Remo!
Marique knelt by his head. Death had not made him any more handsome; nor could it have made him any more repellent.
Khalar Zym lifted a finger. “Do not bother, Marique. I know who it is.”
She teased a slender strip of cloth from between Remo’s lips and drew it out slowly, like a fakir producing a silk for wide-eyed children. It matched the color of the female monks’ robes, save where blood had been used to write upon it. Even before she recognized the first word, Marique could feel the power. She wanted to taste the writing, just to be able to savor it, even though that act would tell her nothing new.
“It’s her, Father, the one you seek.”
It took a moment for him to tear his gaze away from the mask and focus upon Marique. He showed no enthusiasm, no haste; more a languid sense of ennui than anything else. “Of course.”
The girl stood, stretching the cloth out between her hands. “There is a message, in her blood.”
His eyes closed and his head tilted back, his face a serene mask. “Yes.”
“ ‘I have the woman. The Shaipur outpost. You have two days. Come alone.’ ”
Nothing in her recitation had mattered until those last two words. Khalar Zym’s eyes snapped open. “ ‘Come alone’ ?”
“Yes, Father.” She held the strip of cloth in the sunlight so he could read it.
Khalar Zym sat forward, elbows on knees, hands on chin, and for the first time in too long, his eyes sharpened as if he had awakened from a dream. “ ‘Come alone.’ She has a protector. Not one of the monks, but a new player. Remo must have told him how I valued her, yet he demands no ransom. Who, Marique, would dare? One of the Hyrkanian monks would have whisked her away and left Remo tacked to a tree as a warning. And if it were those who slew your mother, they would have killed her, then fallen upon us to destroy the mask.”
Khalar Zym looked up past her to Ukafa. “Stop our advance. I wish to see the place from which this stone was hurled.”
The Kushite bowed his head in a salute. “As you desire, Master.”
Khalar Zym smiled. “Prepare yourself, daughter. What we shall find will be unique.”
“Yes, Father?”
“Yes. A very foolish man has injected himself into a game fit for gods.” Khalar Zym’s eyes narrowed. “A bold move, but his last, and one certain to end
in pain.”
TAMARA LOOKED AT her companion and decided, one last time, to risk his tying her to the saddle as he had promised before. “Conan, I have told you I think your plan is brilliant. You send Khalar Zym to the Shaipur outpost and we ride to Hyrkania. We have a string of fine ponies. We will make it ‘ere the next full moon rises. The monks in Hyrkania will not have much, but they will give it all to you.”
The Cimmerian shook his head. “I am not simple, Tamara. Had I wanted gold, I could have sold you to Khalar Zym and saved myself a long ride with a chittering companion.”
She hissed at his rebuke. “But you cannot believe he will come to the outpost alone. Even if you are able . . .”
Conan shot her a hot glance.
“Your pardon . . . even when you slay him, that will not stop his subordinates or cause his raiders to disband. From the pass, you saw the troops who travel with him.”
The Cimmerian shook his head. “I care not about his minions, though I have had the measure of two of them. They are cowards who only grow bold in his shadow. When he is dead, their courage will drain with his blood. My desire is to stop him.”
She cocked her head and pressed a hand between her breasts. “You could do that by killing me.”
Conan reined back, stopping, and fixed her with a harsh stare. “A civilized man might consider that course. I will not. I do not know if you are the last person of the Acheronian line. I do not care. Khalar Zym’s ambition resides in his breast. When I split his skull, when I still his heart, when I smash that mask . . . then it will be over.”
“Until then, I am but bait?”
Conan laughed and started riding forward again. “I saw you fight, woman. Khalar Zym sees you as bait. Your master made you more than that.”
“And how do you see me, Conan?”
“As more.” The Cimmerian smiled in a manner which irritated her. “I have a plan. In it, you are my silent ally.”