Trapped On Talonque: (A Sectors SF romance) (7 page)

“Other than proving I can reconnect with her? No. I’ll try again tonight.”

CHAPTER THREE

The day’s practice was especially intense as the trainers concentrated on passing and stealing drills, which were not Nate’s best sapiche skills, to say the least. Exhausted, frustrated and in need of serious sleep as he rode to the city in the slow old cart, he was grateful for the twilight’s soothing effect on his eyes. The only time of day the oversize sun didn’t cause Nate vision problems.

Once they reached the palace and the cart was parked in the small courtyard adjoining their dormitory, two guards held Nate aside. The others were taken across the courtyard, while Nate stood and waited.

“What’s with the change in routine?” he asked Murrax, the junior officer in charge of their daily transportation to and from practice.

“Queen Lolanta has sent for you.”
 

“What the seven hells?” Thom tried to delay as he realized Nate wasn’t going to the dormitory. He shouted across the courtyard, “What’s going on?”

“Don’t get yourself in trouble with these guys on my account. I’ll be okay.” Nate tried to express a calm assurance he was far from feeling. He watched his three teammates disappear into the building, not much liking the idea of being separated from his men. As the cart driver led the placid bracalx to the stable, Nate’s three-man escort took him to the other side of the courtyard, entering a different corridor and leading him farther away from his comrades.

Nate deliberately sought the state of inner calm the Special Forces taught their highly lethal operatives to achieve under the most severe conditions. It was a patient watchfulness, hard edged with readiness to take instant action on any opportunity presenting itself—to escape, to wreak havoc and mayhem on the enemy, whatever the situation called for. Sarbordon and his people were capable of just about anything, in Nate’s opinion. He had to keep his wits about him.

The nature of the hallways changed as he climbed flights of sweeping stairs, moving ever higher in the palace complex. The wall decor transitioned from dour gray stone to clean, whitewashed surfaces with elaborate, colorful frescoes. Certain themes repeated, all involving Huitlani. Scenes of the horrific deity with his priestesses, with captives, leading warriors into battle, trampling over the bodies of what Nate could only assume were previously vanquished people—the common theme was an emotion-battering stew of blood, death and destruction.
 

As he walked he studied the mural for clues about the people who held him prisoner, trying to imagine how the ruling dynasty could inspire loyalty and obedience, indeed, anything other than sheer terror and repugnance. The soldiers must have an ironclad assurance the military ranks would never be culled, never die at the priestesses’ hands. The guards took him at last through a hall filled with small knots of chattering, laughing priestesses, all dressed in variations of basic black. They ranged in age from young girls to wizened old crones, but all displayed the same haughty manner. The sight of them made Nate’s skin crawl, and his stomach turned.
Like being in the middle of a large flock of birds of prey. How could people who commit atrocities on a daily basis be so lighthearted?
 

Murrax brought him to a halt in front of a double door. Two of the unusually tall and muscular temple guards stood on either side of the burnished wooden panels.

“We’re expected,” Murrax said, licking his lips nervously, addressing first one guard, then the other.

Not even loyal soldiers enjoy proximity to the priestesses.
Nate wasn’t the only one who didn’t want to be here, surrounded by Huitlani’s devoted servants.

One guard knocked lightly on the left door. It cracked open, and the man offered a rapid explanation to the priestess peering out at them. The woman nodded.

“She’s waiting for this one. Bring him inside.”

Nate did a quick scan of his surroundings as he stepped past the guards and into the room. A fountain played in the center of an intricately tiled floor. Off to the right side was a row of fanciful birdcages made from cunningly woven black twigs, sitting on an immense black wood table. The gaily colored avian residents of these cages flapped iridescent wings and chattered as he walked past. Across the room, beyond the fountain, was a low-slung, leather couch piled high with silver and black silk cushions. The walls were blessedly free of any decoration—no more gory frescoes to assault the mind.

The quick impression of his new surroundings was all Nate had time to absorb before the guards pushed him to his knees on a striped red rug. He didn’t see any immediate menace. He waited, conserving his energy.

The sensual spice, smoke and floral perfume hit him as the queen sauntered into the room from the right. He swiveled his head to watch her warily. At first, she pretended to ignore his presence, standing idly and feeding small bits of bread to a particularly large green bird. It cooed at her and rubbed its head on her hand. The artificially sweet scene annoyed Nate.

He cleared his throat. “Does your adoring pet know what you do for a living? Does he suspect you’re probably planning to have him for dinner?”

Unhurriedly, she fed the last of the bread to the bird, stroking its brilliantly crimson feather crest. Then, dusting crumbs from her hands, she pivoted gracefully.
 

Lolanta stood, hands on hips, staring at him. Her long, straight, ebony hair was held from her cruelly beautiful face by an elaborate gemmed clip. Her dress today was the usual black, a tightly woven skirt with a long slit and two small pieces of fabric that barely contained her ample breasts. This garment was held together by one continuous loop of embroidered black cord. Two intricate, crystal pendants hung from heavy gold chains at her neck, drawing the eye inexorably to her cleavage. Equally impressive gemmed earrings dangled from elongated earlobes to brush her shoulders. Heeled snakeskin sandals showed off her shapely feet. Her toenails were revoltingly long and curved, to Nate’s eyes, and polished with the same gray purple lacquer as her talonlike fingernails.
 

A proud, confident woman used to getting her own way
. He and the queen continued to regard each other for a long moment as if no one else existed in the room, locked in a silent battle of wills.

Then she raised her eyes from contemplation of Nate’s face to direct a chilling look at Murrax. “Leave us,” she commanded, waving the young officer and his men off duty with a careless flick of those talonlike nails.

Murrax unaccountably hesitated. “But the king commanded—”

“You question me in my own chambers?” Her voice was low, calm, with the lazy deceptiveness of a top predator luring the unwary into making a mistake. She tapped the bars of the birdcage, feeding one last tidbit from a bowl on the table to the favored pet. It cooed at her.

“Such impudence would be unthinkable,” the nervous officer said. He swallowed hard, stared at the floor, even glanced at Nate as if for help, amazingly enough.
 

On your own here, buddy.

Murrax took a hesitant step toward the birdcages. “But I’m charged with keeping this prisoner closely held.”

“Do you believe he can escape me? Or menace me? Think you so little of the powers I command?” Plainly, a trap lay in the simple questions.

Nate gave Murrax credit for not immediately agreeing to her demand contradicting his orders. The man wavered, clearly afraid of her, but equally reluctant to get crosswise with her husband’s instructions.

Nate filed away for future use the information that Sarbordon and Lolanta apparently had separate, loyal cadres, and their aims conflicted on occasion. Maybe he could use the diverging goals as a wedge to achieve his own purposes.

“I want him in the red chair.” Lolanta broke the impasse, gesturing at a pair of seats across the room. “I’ll show you it’s safe to leave him in my gentle care, and then you can go wait outside.”

At Murrax’s command, the two guards were all too pleased to haul Nate to his feet. With eager haste, they propelled him into the embrace of the wooden chair she’d indicated and hooked his chains onto protrusions designed for restraining prisoners. As the guards departed, Lolanta strolled across the floor. Pausing in front of Nate, she studied him from under heavily painted lids, her white-painted lips curved in a smile.

“I won’t feed your heart to Huitlani this day, nor have you thrown in the sacred well for the beasts to eat. Do you think I conduct blood sacrifices in my own chambers?” She winked at him. “I only wish to talk today, to garner understanding.” Lolanta paced away from the chair.

“Understand what?” Nate wanted her to stay where he could see her.
 

“What hold can a pitiful sleeping girl possibly have over such a warrior as yourself?” Lolanta moved into his limited field of vision. “I’ve been to the practice field and watched you play the game several times now. Fierce. Powerful. You’re suited to a war god’s service, which legend says her father is not. He prefers gifts of flowers and fruit. What kind of tribute is that for a god to sustain himself and his powers?” Scorn rippled in her voice. “No wonder the people who worshipped him were so easy to conquer.”

“Her father has powers beyond what you can dream of.” Nate concentrated hard, trying to hold his own in this bizarre conversation she was determined to have. After all, no one could contradict him, so he might as well slant the propaganda in his favor. “Her father doesn’t want blood and the needless slaughter of good men.”
 

Lolanta kicked the nearest stool closer to his chair and sat. “Sarbordon and I rule this nation equally under the law of Huitlani. I control the omens, the signs—Huitlani speaks to me and through me. My husband controls the armies, the temporal matters. So it has always been with our people. We have the required number of children together, strong heirs to succeed us both when the god decrees the time has come for us to step into the afterlife.” She shook her head. “Yet he’s been obsessed with your sleeping, ineffectual girl from the day we were first shown the secret by our parents. He seeks T’naritza’s counsel. He dreams of acquiring the miracle-working artifacts her father controlled.” She fell silent, brow furrowed, reviewing past insults, he surmised. “His father and grandfather before him were not so gullible. Those men had no need for consulting a sleeping girl. I wish I’d been partnered with their like!”

Nate saw no benefit in commenting on her assessment of people and events. Eventually, she’d get to the point.

Lolanta focused her attention on him again. Rising from the gaily colored hassock, she hooked her right hand under his chin, forcing him to look at her. “So, I must know—have you come to fulfill the prophecy?”

“Prophecy?”

“The legend states that one day her father will return for her, reunite with these people we’ve enslaved for many generations and lead them again. Are you here to prepare the way for his coming? To defeat Huitlani, to defeat us?” Lolanta’s voice became shrill at the mere idea. She tightened her grip on Nate’s chin. “Has Fr’taray sent you to carry out this destiny?”
 

“What does Sarbordon believe?”
 

“He vacillates.” She sounded disparaging of her high-ranking mate. The priestess released Nate to pace. “Until the day you were dragged in, he was sure his destiny called for freeing her, mating with her to spawn a new race of demigods and take on the powers of Fr’taray for himself by so doing. His reading of the old tablets led him to that conclusion. The rare, triple eclipse reinforced those beliefs. But now he worries. In the morning he convinces himself you’re from beyond the sky, a true warrior of her clan who must be reckoned with. At evening moonrise, he says you’re nothing more than a man who sweats and bleeds, who can be killed without reprisal or consideration.”
 

It was obvious to Nate that if Lolanta had been the decision maker, and if she’d known how to open the healing chamber, Bithia would have been sacrificed to Huitlani a long time ago, no questions asked. And he and his men would have met the same grim fate the day they arrived.

“T’naritza herself acknowledged us as her warriors,” Nate reminded Lolanta. His private, worst fears about what a thin thread kept him and his men alive had been confirmed by her casual recitation of the king’s dilemma.
 

Lolanta perched on the edge of the cushions on the chair across from his, restless, drumming her fingers on her thigh. “Either we wait for the outcome of the god’s game to tell us how to deal with you, or perhaps you and I can arrive at an understanding. Compare our knowledge of what Fr’taray and Huitlani desire to achieve from this confrontation, use the information to our mutual benefit sooner.”

“We must wait,” Nate said, trying to buy time.

The priestess came out of her chair and paced across the chamber to the birdcages and back. Eventually, she faced Nate. “Every day our sworn enemies, the Githholz, invade more of our territory. Your fourth man is one of their high-ranking chiefs—I’m fully aware of his status. But for his tattoo, he’d have been given to the beasts in the well or sacrificed on an altar weeks ago. Keeping him alive is dangerous, gives the enemy hope.” Her voice rose. “There’s no time to waste on this affair of a stupid
game.
But I can’t get my husband to see the urgency as I do.” She pointed at Nate with one talon. “If you’re proven mere mortal, or even if you are warriors from the sky, but Huitlani’s team triumphs in the game, then we’ve frittered away precious time. My foolish mate is risking our kingdom on a hope of attaining powers and weapons that may be no more than smoke.”