Robert Adams - The Death of a Legend

Thoughtful, as always, of his subjects, the High Lord deliberately delayed that ceremony, Bili sleepily recalled, so that the chief of Clan Lehzlee, old Ahrkeethoheeks Ahndroo, might himself be there in the camp under the walls of besieged Vawnpolis to place the cat on its massy silver chain about the neck of the man whose matchless valor had saved his son and heir.

“That wasn’t all, of course,” Bili thought. “That old archduke is as proud as a solid-gold hilt and he couldn’t let it go at just that gesture. So Sir Geros—Sun grant that he and Komees Hari still live and are sleeping safe, this night—now rides in a suit of duke-grade Pitzburk worth a small fortune and carries a Yvuhz sword better than any blade I’ve ever owned.

“The old man offered him, as well, any full-trained destrier he fancied in all the Lehzlee herds, but Geros insisted that his mare, Ahnah, was all he needed or wanted, so now he holds title to rich lands in Lehzlee to add to the baronetcy I still mean to give him in Morguhn.

“And the weird part about it all is that months back, poor old Pawl Raikuh—Wind guard his gallant soul—told Geros and me and several others that this man, who a bit over a year ago was a gentleman’s valet with as much knowledge of arms as a draft ox, would ere he died become a widely respected knight, a moderately wealthy minor nobleman and the castellan of a great lord’s burk.

“Sun and Wind, there’s so much about this that makes no sense at all.”

And then, Bili finally slept.

Lying warm in Meeree’s tender, familiar embrace, the brahbehmuh slept until past Moonset. She awoke suddenly, fully and for no reason she could fathom. Above her, the evergreen boughs roofing their lean-to shelter crackled with frost, from afar came the cry of a hunting owl, and a single star winked palely above the summit of one of the hills that flanked the valley.

The fire which had burned before the open side of the rude shelter was now but a few glowing coals, and the cold, despite the thick, woolen lining of her cloak and Meeree’s, was nibbling all along her left side; although her right cheek was warm with the soft, regular breaths of her lover, her left was all aprickle with the icy kiss of the frigid air.

The winged predator of the night skies cried again, closer this time. The brahbehmuh gently disengaged her hand from the limp clasp of the sleeping Meeree and used ita warm palm to drive the chill from her numbing cheek; then she drew up a corner of a cloak to cover that side of her face, but did it ever so carefully, so as not to disturb Meeree.

Somewhere on the blackness of the nearby hillside, there was the short, shrill deathcry of some small creature; then, with a loud flapping of powerful wings, a large, dark form flew low over the sleeping camp, momentarily blotting out the light of that single dim star. The brahbehmuh knew then that the hunting owl had triumphed and soon would feast, and she breathed a silent prayer to the Lady, whose sacred messenger the huge-eyed birds were held to be.

“Oh, my dear Lady,” she added plaintively but still silently, “what must I do? What will be best for your few, brave Maidens who now are left, the less than three score who depend upon me, trust my judgment and decisions?

“Must we who have served You so faithfully, as did our mothers and grandmothers back to time past reckoning, must we finally submit to the bitter rule of men, or will our Lady guide us to a haven of safety, wherein we can rebuild our hold, regenerate our sacred race and serve You faithfully as ever?”

Then, abruptly, Meeree was no longer at her side and she stood erect on silver-bladed grass, growing out of silvery soil; the air about her was cool, but no longer cold, and everything glowed with a soft, silvery brightness. Only once before in all her young life had she found herself transported to this holy place, stood on this blessed turf; yet she remembered, knew at once where she now was, knew that her pleading prayer had been heard.

From within the building of white, silver-veined stone came the Lady, moving across the intervening distance as lightly as a running doe, a smile of greeting on Her pale lips, but a deep sympathy welling up from Her silver-gray eyes. As She came closer, one of Her hands closed tinglingly on the brahbehrnuh’s and the other went to gently stroke the girl’s cheek.

“Oh, my poor, dear, ever-faithful Rahksahnah, you have suffered so very much, my child, and it truly tears my heart that you must suffer still more. Yet, so must it be, dear one, so must it be; the pattern is tightly woven, now, and grim death snuffs close upon your trail.”

The brahbehrnuh sighed deeply and bowed her head in meek surrender to the inevitable. “Then I soon will die, my Lady? Will… can it be honorably, a death in battle?”

“Be not so abject, Rahksahnah.” Silvery fingers took her chin and raised her head. “Where is the proud, brave young Moon Maiden, that warrior and leader of warriors with whom I shared sweet love on my couch a bare twenty-five moons agone?”

All at once, the tears she had so long withheld, not dared to shed before even her Meeree, poured from the brahbehrnuh’s dark eyes, cascading down her weather-darkened cheeks, over the calluses left by the cheekpieces of her helmet.

She sobbed, “Dear my Lady, the Hold of the Moon Maidens is no more. Some monstrous force rent the living rocks of the mountain asunder and flung the very altar stone from Your holy shrine untold leagues through the air and sent it crashing into a brook before my very eyes—and it so hot that it turned all the waters of that brook to a cloud of hissing steam.

“When I saw that unspeakable horror, all strength left my body and all awareness fled my mind. If such as that could happen, then all that Kokh Taishyuhn spoke is surely truth and I and my few Maidens are the very last of our race.

“Oh, Lady, Lady, what are we few to do with no Hold to shelter us in this pitiless world of savagery and death?”

But the Silver Lady did not immediately answer. Instead, she led the weeping girl to a soft couch set amid a grove of silver-leafed trees, their scintillating blossoms filling the air with a subtle fragrance which spoke of the peace and tranquillity of a still and restful night. There, seated, they two shared sips from a silver cup of a pale wine. Then the brahbehrnuh pressed once again to the cool, pale, ever-remembered lips of the Lady.

Then, somehow, in the blinking of an eye, they lay nude together upon the couch, it now having become long and wide as a fine bed. And hilt-hardened palms and fingers pressed, caressed sacred Goddess flesh, while the silvery, cool-soft hands of the Lady traced tingling pleasure over the tenderest areas of the hard-muscled, olive-hued body.

And, for the brahbehrnuh, time ceased to be for a timeless eternity of shared rapture. Seeking lips and darting, maddening tongues, the brush of nipple against hardening nipple, black hair mingled with silver hair, gasping to draw air into bodies convulsing with spasms of unbearable pleasure.

When they could once again breathe normally and time once more held sway, they again shared the wine cup and then another long kiss. The Lady arose and draped Her silver loveliness in Her single, flowing garment, then helped the brahbehrnuh to don her own clothing, doing up the points of shirt and breeks with swift, nimble fingers.

Carrying that wine cup which never seemed to become empty, the Lady led Her guest, Her lover, across the springy sward to where a fountain splashed misty water into a basin of whitest marble, seated Herself upon an alabaster bench and drew the Moon Maiden down beside Her.

Clasping the brahbehrnuh’s hand in both of Her own, She said, “Sweet my love, you must no longer grieve the death of the Maidens’ Hold and your dear folk who died with it, for you must understand that death is the natural end of mortals and all their works, be that death soon or late; only god-flesh is eternal, god-flesh and mortal spirit. Mortal bodies are born, my child, they live a brief while and then they die and their substance goes to the nourishment of other life forms, just as the substance of other life forms went to their nourishment during their own short spans of life. But the spirits of mortals go on to seek and find another fleshly husk to house them for still another brief time. “If My way seems harsh and pitiless and wasteful to mortals, it is because they do not or will not understand My way, not truly. You see, dear one, nothing is ever wasted, not really, for the past fed the present and the present feeds the future. Yes, the Valley of the Moon Maidens is gone, along with the fleshly husks of all those who were within it; but even in death, the remains of those husks are or will soon become new life, and the immortal spirits, freed now of their fleshy envelopes, are soaring far and wide over lands and seas and soon each will become the deathless core of new life. So you see, Rahksahnah, dearest, your grief should be rejoicing.