Read Online Mistress Of The Ages (In Her Name, Book 9) by Michael R. Hicks - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michael R. Hicks
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the surface was smooth and glossy as the breastplate of a warrior’s ceremonial armor.
All was still for a brief time, as if the motes were gathering their energy. She could feel it, like the moon itself now had a voice in the Bloodsong. The idea was preposterous, for only those with souls had blood that sang, but it was every bit as real as the blood that flowed from the cuts on her exposed skin. It thrummed with power, with purpose. That power grew and grew, and she realized it was waiting for something.
It was waiting for her. For whatever purpose you desire , Anuir-Ruhal’te had said.
Closing her eyes, she fastened on an image she had seen as a child, sitting on Ayan-Dar’s knee while he pored through some of the ancient Books of Time with the temple’s keepers.
The dark sea around her rippled and shimmered. Then the motes, the black matrix that Anuir-Ruhal’te had created and that had awaited Keel-Tath across all these millennia, began to build.
CHAPTER SEVEN
When Ulan-Samir, high priest of the Nyur-A’il, and his accompanying priests and priestesses arrived, they were shocked at how effective had been Syr-Nagath’s attack. He had not believed her when she had told him that the Desh-Ka had been defeated in ages past, but he could not now deny that it could be done. Of course, it had been done in a fashion bereft of the smallest shred of honor, but that stain was not on his hands.
As if the dying Desh-Ka under their dome of lightning were a magnet to all who wore a sigil upon their collar, the most high of the other priesthoods arrived in short order, along with a contingent of their orders, all prepared to do battle.
In unspoken agreement, the five of the most high converged to confer as thousands of globes of energy continued to batter at the Desh-Ka defenses. The air was filled with the reek of ozone, scorched stone, and burning flesh.
Determined to make his claim upon the robed ones first, Ulan-Samir said, “I care not for those who wear the sigil, but I would offer the robed ones the chance to surrender their honor to me, and any acolytes who would give me their swords.”
“You presume a great deal,” said the most high of the Ana’il-Rukh. “The Desh-Ka must be eliminated, root and branch. This plateau and everything on it should be reduced to molten stone. As long as one survives, especially the keepers of the Books of Time, so then survives the Desh-Ka. Their time has ended, and so must they.”
“That is as we agreed,” said another. “We must not…”
Ulan-Samir rounded on them. “I agreed to nothing! Now you come here, squabbling like ill-disciplined younglings.” He gestured with a hand at the dome of lightning, which was visibly growing thinner, covered with white hot burn-throughs where the globes struck. The holes were quickly covered over by more lightning, but it was growing ever thinner, ever weaker. The defenders were visible only as shadows behind the crackling cyan veil. As long as that barrier remained, the priesthoods could not touch those on the other side, for the energy somehow blocked their powers of teleportation. But it was clear that the Desh-Ka could not hold out much longer. “They are doomed,” Ulan-Samir went on, “but the robed ones are precious. It is against the Way to take their lives. That which you so ardently defend on the one hand, you would now defile with the other.”
“Ulan-Samir is right,” Sian-Al’ai said. She cared little for the high priest of the Nyur-A’il, but in this she could agree with him. “You cannot preserve the Way by choosing when and how you would disregard its tenets. The lives of the robed ones and younglings are precious above all, to every warrior who wears a collar, regardless of order or bloodline. To put a single one of them to the sword reduces you to the same despicable level as Syr-Nagath.”
“Choose your words more wisely,” threatened the Ana’il-Rukh, “or I will have your
All was still for a brief time, as if the motes were gathering their energy. She could feel it, like the moon itself now had a voice in the Bloodsong. The idea was preposterous, for only those with souls had blood that sang, but it was every bit as real as the blood that flowed from the cuts on her exposed skin. It thrummed with power, with purpose. That power grew and grew, and she realized it was waiting for something.
It was waiting for her. For whatever purpose you desire , Anuir-Ruhal’te had said.
Closing her eyes, she fastened on an image she had seen as a child, sitting on Ayan-Dar’s knee while he pored through some of the ancient Books of Time with the temple’s keepers.
The dark sea around her rippled and shimmered. Then the motes, the black matrix that Anuir-Ruhal’te had created and that had awaited Keel-Tath across all these millennia, began to build.
CHAPTER SEVEN
When Ulan-Samir, high priest of the Nyur-A’il, and his accompanying priests and priestesses arrived, they were shocked at how effective had been Syr-Nagath’s attack. He had not believed her when she had told him that the Desh-Ka had been defeated in ages past, but he could not now deny that it could be done. Of course, it had been done in a fashion bereft of the smallest shred of honor, but that stain was not on his hands.
As if the dying Desh-Ka under their dome of lightning were a magnet to all who wore a sigil upon their collar, the most high of the other priesthoods arrived in short order, along with a contingent of their orders, all prepared to do battle.
In unspoken agreement, the five of the most high converged to confer as thousands of globes of energy continued to batter at the Desh-Ka defenses. The air was filled with the reek of ozone, scorched stone, and burning flesh.
Determined to make his claim upon the robed ones first, Ulan-Samir said, “I care not for those who wear the sigil, but I would offer the robed ones the chance to surrender their honor to me, and any acolytes who would give me their swords.”
“You presume a great deal,” said the most high of the Ana’il-Rukh. “The Desh-Ka must be eliminated, root and branch. This plateau and everything on it should be reduced to molten stone. As long as one survives, especially the keepers of the Books of Time, so then survives the Desh-Ka. Their time has ended, and so must they.”
“That is as we agreed,” said another. “We must not…”
Ulan-Samir rounded on them. “I agreed to nothing! Now you come here, squabbling like ill-disciplined younglings.” He gestured with a hand at the dome of lightning, which was visibly growing thinner, covered with white hot burn-throughs where the globes struck. The holes were quickly covered over by more lightning, but it was growing ever thinner, ever weaker. The defenders were visible only as shadows behind the crackling cyan veil. As long as that barrier remained, the priesthoods could not touch those on the other side, for the energy somehow blocked their powers of teleportation. But it was clear that the Desh-Ka could not hold out much longer. “They are doomed,” Ulan-Samir went on, “but the robed ones are precious. It is against the Way to take their lives. That which you so ardently defend on the one hand, you would now defile with the other.”
“Ulan-Samir is right,” Sian-Al’ai said. She cared little for the high priest of the Nyur-A’il, but in this she could agree with him. “You cannot preserve the Way by choosing when and how you would disregard its tenets. The lives of the robed ones and younglings are precious above all, to every warrior who wears a collar, regardless of order or bloodline. To put a single one of them to the sword reduces you to the same despicable level as Syr-Nagath.”
“Choose your words more wisely,” threatened the Ana’il-Rukh, “or I will have your
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