Mortal Suns by Tanith Lee Read Free Book Online Page B

Akhemony, the new King had only just learned his status. The messengers had not reached his estates quite in time. So he had been out before sunup, looking at the vine-stocks, making offerings for their spring growth, when the lesion of the Drum smashed down through the land.
    He, too, fell on his knees, trembling, most of his balance gone. This happened to many, or worse. You often heard it, so and so died when the King died. One’s heart could not beat in time to the Drum from birth, and stay unmoved at its hiatus. The two slaves were facedown.
    Yet when the Drum recommenced, knowing it was now beating for him, Akreon’s heir, born thirty-four years in the past to the Sun-Consort, Udrombis, lurched to his feet, and held himself frowning in his own arms. He had always known it would come, but, as with the cow in Thon’s temple, Glardor had thought it would not come so soon.
    Because of the turmoil that persisted in the House of Thon, the priestess was able to take Cemira away with her, to her cell. She should not have done this. Later she would have to make a confession of her error, though it would be forgiven her, seeing what happened next. In the cramped stony space, the priestess lit her brazier, and took the child on her lap. She fed her cold porridge and honey, a treat she had been saving for herself.
    Cemira couldonly eat a little.
    “Will it happen again?”
    “The Sun keep us from it. No. No, not for years. Not until you’re a grown woman. Perhaps not until you’re old.”
    Cemira knew she would be old here, in Thon’s House. She could not imagine this, but neither could she imagine anything else. Except, to fly with eagles in the sky.
    A long time after, there were footsteps outside. A man’s voice called, “Are you here?”
    There was no choice in the matter of replying. “Yes.”
    The priest came in around the black leather curtain. He stood looking at the priestess and the little girl, dark and pale, from his flat-faced mask.
    “Is this the child from Oceaxis?”
    “Yes, she is.”
    “Can she walk?”
    “No. She hasn’t any feet.”
    “Good,” said the priest. This ironic comment indicated only that he had found the one he sought. “Are those her canes? Bring her.”
    They went up through the temple to a bleak room behind the Death Altar, the room where supplicants came, if they ever did, to pay the priesthood and have their details entered on a tablet.
    Here the soldier stood, upright and steady as he had not been, five hours earlier, on the shaking, soundless platform under the peak of the Heart.
    To Cemira, he was of a frightening magnificent hardness. His insectile carapace of bronze, his helm with its snow-plume. The gems in the pommel of his sword. His cloak was the scarlet of the god’s blood-hair, and he wore over it the insignia of Queen Udrombis, a lion, stitched out in gold.
    “Does she speak?”
    “…Yes.”
    “Child—is your given name Cemira?”
    Cemira stared. Personal names were not to be spoken, only one, the name of Death.
    “You said she could talk.” He was impatient, but more with himself than with the child. He had been ashamed, nearly fainting when the Drum stopped. He was an athlete, an accomplished charioteer, a champion. He had fought the battles of the King and, at twenty years of age, had killed more than fifty men, and sired more than ten. After his shame, her deformity meant little.
    To the child,the gorgeousness of his
seen
, unmasked face, in its frame of metal and metallic hair, his tall male body, so clean and strong, so blameless of anything but slaughter and sex, were beautiful, and nearly sorcerous. She had quite forgotten the priestess.
    Perhaps he saw the fear melt from her eyes to fearful admiration. He had a little daughter too, in the hills below Mt. Airis. He crouched down and lightly put his firm young finger on the tip of her nose. “Can you give me a smile? It’s good news. Queen Udrombis has sent me to bring you home.”

5
    The queens