Part Five: Requiem
There was nothing there. Not the whispersoft breath
of the wind on his face, the noises of the forest, not a movement, not a
sound was there at all. It was the stillness, the frozen senses of a dead
world, a land where everything melted away into a pause as long as eternity.
A dead world, and there Sekhmet stood in the middle of it, looking calmly
into the faces of the hundreds of people he had killed. For what was a dead
world without the dead to populate it? And still, all was silent.
They watched him respectfully, bowing, groveling. The
Lord of the Dead, he stood among them, looking not at the bloated corpses
but up at the black sky, sun shining brightly against the darkness. There
was something missing, Sekhmet knew, somewhere he belonged. He searched the
sky, removing his helmet and letting it fall to the ground noiselessly.
Another man appeared, and another, and another, dressed
in strange armor, beckoning to him. They spoke in his mind, three soundless
voices, one message. >>Join us, be us. This destiny is yours.<<
Two of them faded away, leaving only the first, a man
who removed his helmet and stared into his eyes, crushing his soul and lifting
his spirit. >>The master awaits. What will you choose? A life of eternal
power is yours, if you take it.<< The other's red hair flew around
him as noise returned, sound returned to the realm of the dead, as the wind
blew.
That one disappeared, and then there was another, a
huge spectral helmet, white hair flowing in the gale that had now picked
up. >>My son,<< the huge thing boomed. >>I am Talpa, your
master. Soon you will return to me and claim what is yours.<<
He felt the movement underneath his feet, a movement
which should have knocked him to the ground. In front of him an immense gate
rose, opening, tendrils of mist beckoning him inside. But before he could
take a step Lyonta stood between him and the gate.
>>Stop,<< she said, holding him there with her gaze. >>It
is not time for you, not now, not ever. You are not evil. You have me to
guide you. Never forget what you have.<<
And then her form shifted, and there he was, staring
at himself. >>Who are you?<< he asked his double incredulously.
>>I am you. And I do not belong here. You are
of my future, one that should not be. What I tell you, you already know,
but you do not see. There is no need for the Dynasty in your life. One thing
you must avoid, if you are to avoid this future. You must--<<
"Wake up! Wake up, please, hurry! Sekhmet, I need you!
She needs you!" Datai yelled, shaking him. Sekhmet sat up, still not fully
awake, and punched him in the stomach as hard as he could, knocking him to
the ground. He stood above the other warrior angrily.
"Why did you do this? I was going to find out, I was
going to know!"
Datai frowned up at him, not understanding. "Lyonta
needs your help!" he pressed, and Sekhmet looked back at him in horror.
"No, what is it? Tell me, quickly!" He hastily began
pulling on his clothes.
He got to his feet. "It's her father, he's in a rage!
He found out she's pregnant, but she won't tell him who the father is. He's
trying to get her to tell him, and I'm afraid he might hurt her. You have
to go help her!"
Sekhmet felt a wave of dread. No, no, not now, this
can't be happening! He grabbed a cloak with a hood to hide his identity
from the eyes of the others and bolted out the door, Datai close on his heels.
As they ran through the forest, down overgrown trails,
a thousand worries rushed through his mind. He had to hope that this would
all work out, had to. They raced towards town, stopping as they approached
the wall. Sekhmet pulled the hood of his cloak over his head and they slipped
through a hole in the wall.
There was hardly anyone around as they walked through
the streets, only a few people who glanced over at them and went back to
what they were doing. Datai led him quickly toward Lyonta's house, and there
they discovered that the streets were quiet because the majority of the
townspeople were over here, watching the scandal as it unfolded. Datai stopped
suddenly, and Sekhmet tried to see past the people to find Lyonta. Is
she all right? Oh, gods, please...
Lyonta yelled at her father at the top of her lungs
as they fought, causing most of the scandal. Children were not supposed to
be disrespectful to their parents, were not supposed to defy them, and yet
here she was, even daring to throw random objects at Herke as he tried to
advance on her, shouting.
"You will tell me, now!" he roared, trying to grab her
and shake her. Lyonta pulled away and darted backwards, from time to time
glancing around at the gawking people. Sekhmet tried to push through the
crowd, fortunately receiving only annoyed glances.
She saw him, recognized him as he got to the front of
the mass of people. He didn't know how she knew it was him, but his chest
felt tight as she began to back toward him. No, no, don't, you'll give
it away, no! he yelled to her in his mind, trying to gesture her away.
But she had her back to him, and he suddenly felt very cold.
Finally Herke lunged for her and she ran to him, gasping.
"I couldn't help it, he found out," she said in a low tone, and he put his
arm protectively around her waist, pulling out his sword with the other.
"It'll be all right," he assured meaninglessly, dreading
what was going to come next.
"It's you!" Herke exclaimed. "You're the one! Show your
face, now!"
Slowly, his stomach twisting in knots, Sekhmet pushed
the hood away and looked at them all. Lyonta was trembling, he could feel
it, and suddenly she seemed very small and vulnerable. Her hand shook underneath
his.
They were all shocked beyond belief, simply staring
as he glared at Herke defiantly. Suddenly, Lyonta's father snapped out of
it, turning a deep scarlet shade.
"Oh, gods," he could hear her whimper, "I have to get
control of myself. But they know, they all know, oh, gods..." She took a
deep breath and turned to face Herke. "Let me go, Father," she urged. "Just
let me go, you'll never have to see me again. Just let me go." Datai stepped
forward as well, ready to intervene on their behalf. Herke didn't even look
at him, keeping his eyes fixed on Lyonta. He began to walk over to them,
and Sekhmet gestured with his sword.
"Stop right there," he commanded, and Herke froze, glaring.
"Father," she pleaded, and the man seemed to go limp,
an expression on his face that caused terror to well up in him. Something
was going to happen, he had to protect her, the baby...
It all seemed to happen at once, in one horrible moment.
Herke shouted, "No! I'd rather see you die than see you marry the demon!"
He pulled a dagger from his belt and threw it just as Sekhmet realized what
he was doing and turned, trying to shield her with his body. He was too slow,
too late. Time froze as the dagger left Herke's hand, as he tried to spin
around. There was no sound, complete silence--
--and then time resumed, sound resumed, and Lyonta gave
a strangled scream and sank in his arms, fingers slipping in the blood pouring
from her chest. His heart twisted in agony and he let her fall, lunging for
Herke with a cry of inhuman rage.
He saw the terror on the man's face as he thrust his
sword down, shoving it savagely into his chest and yanking downward until
the blade hit bone and stuck. Herke yelled, blood frothing at his mouth,
and then hung on the blade, twitching. Sekhmet kicked him off it and then
severed his head for good measure.
The spectators were frozen with shock, but it wouldn't
last, and shoving the sword back into his belt he turned to the other crumpled
form lying on the ground. She looks so small, he thought painfully
as he ducked down and picked her up, cradling her against him as he tore
off for their one place of safety, the dark forest.
"Father!" Sekhmet screamed, reaching the clearing. "Father,
please!" He gasped, fatigued from running all this way with Lyonta, and gently
laid her on the ground. "Please! Essah! I need you!" He knelt over her, holding
her bloody hands between his. She was cold, so cold... "Please!" he wailed.
He was rewarded with the familiar green glow and the
figure of his father, standing in front of him. "What is it? I really cannot
be spared right now!"
He gestured at Lyonta frantically. "Please, she's dying,
the child... help her, help her!" His eyes widening in surprise, Essah knelt,
immediately glowing.
"A child," he mumbled, redoubling his efforts, glowing
bright enough to blind. Sekhmet looked on, terrified that she was going to
die, and the baby with her. His heartbeat sounded in his ears as his father
slowly eased the dagger from her chest. Blood spurted from the deep cut like
a geyser, and with a frown Essah held his hands closer, eventually placing
them directly on the wound.
Sekhmet stared at her face, the twisted look it held,
her eyes vacant and glazed, and he knew that Lyonta was dead. A moan of sheer
despair escaped his lips and he hid his face in his bloody hands, bending
forward, sobbing. And still Essah kept trying, now murmuring strange words.
There was a sudden flash of light and then Essah returned to normal, the
glow leaving him.
Sekhmet didn't look up as Essah came near him, touched
his shoulder. "I'm sorry," he said. "I can do no more. I must leave." And
then he was gone.
It was a long time before he straightened again, the
sobs dying away, tears leaving trails down his face. He picked up her clammy
hands and folded them across her chest, straightening her robe, closing her
eyes. Herke hasn't killed just her, he's killed the baby too, and now
he's dead, and what am I? I'm dead, too. He regarded the dagger lying
on the ground. I'm dead.
But he didn't reach for it, hearing a noise in the distance.
People were coming. They were coming to kill him, braving their fears of
the forest, coming to execute him for killing Herke. He would wait for them.
He composed himself next to Lyonta's body, sitting calmly, waiting.
They found his trail, found the clearing. The mob rushed
in, expecting resistance. Sekhmet stared up at them emotionlessly, not moving,
not making a sound. One man raised a wooden club and swung it. It smashed
into the side of his head, and there was silence.
He awoke in a dark, windowless, guarded room. His arms
were bound, twisted uncomfortably behind his back, and he had a hard time
sitting up. His robe had been taken away, as well as his sword, of course.
Why am I not dead? he wondered vaguely, looking around. But the answer
to that was clear. They were going to execute him publicly, wring all the
pain out of him for their pleasure before tossing him aside like a used toy.
Sekhmet wasn't going to give them that satisfaction,
wasn't going to let them see the loss he felt reflected on his face. The
guards in the room stared at him, and then one slipped outside. The men standing
there near the door looked afraid, as if he was going to suddenly turn into
a monster and eat them all. And then there was a sudden loud noise from outside,
the noise made by many impatient people. He kept his features emotionless
as the guard re-entered the room with the lord of the town, his grandfather,
Faimbril.
The older man looked at him with an expression of smug
superiority. "Prepare for your punishment, murderer," he said with an undignified
smirk. Faimbril was obviously enjoying this very much. He waited for some
kind of angry reply, but when he received none he gestured to the guards.
They came forward, hauling Sekhmet to his feet. They looked nervous but relaxed
somewhat when he did not resist at all.
He was taken outside to face the crowd of people waiting
outside on the commons, the grass worn away in the space by hundreds of feet.
The whole town was there, gawking at him. Near where he stood a group of
priests were chanting to keep him from retaliating, to break his spirit.
He pushed down the want to laugh at them. Faimbril followed after and then
stood in front of his audience, raising his voice.
"Hear me, people of our fair town. The time has come
for this demon, this murderer, to be punished for his evil crimes these past
seventeen years. He shall be whipped until his blood flows freely, until
he begs for our forgiveness for the atrocities he has committed. He shall
hang three days upon the structure on that hill while we decide his final
fate."
The crowd cheered wildly, and Sekhmet's gaze was directed
to the distant hill, where he could vaguely see a dark H-shaped gallows standing
silhouetted against the bright blue of the sky. But for some reason he felt
nothing looking at it, no dread at seeing the place he would spend his final
days.
He glanced at the people of his clan, all crying out
for his blood, and his eyes caught on Datai standing far back in the crowd,
horror written all over his face. When he saw Sekhmet looking at him, he
turned away. In shame? He frowned internally, remembering to keep
the mask intact. He most definitely would not beg their forgiveness!
The guards jerked him over to a large stump, and he
was forced to kneel over it, his arms unbound and hastily tied again so that
he held the stump in a rough embrace. He braced himself for the blows, head
turned to face the crowd and tied down as well. He felt angry, determined
not to let himself feel the pain.
The flogger came out of a nearby house, showing off
his whip, to the delight of the people. Sekhmet closed his eyes, allowing
himself that one gesture. There was a sudden deafening silence as the man
raised his whip, a silence, and then it whistled through the air and landed
on his back with a loud crack. He had tried to prepare himself, but this
pain was incomparable to anything else he had ever felt.
He couldn't help flinching but didn't cry out, biting
his tongue to prevent it. The crowd went into a frenzy of cheers and shouts
as the whip was raised again and snapped down, again and again and again.
He clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palms, and this pain helped
to take his mind off what they were doing to his back.
He gritted his teeth and tensed up, counting the strokes
to distract himself, but he soon lost count. And then the flogger drew blood,
and paused a second. Yes, they think my blood is poison, maybe they'll
stop! Sekhmet hoped, haze already beginning to blur his vision, but it
soon began again, and his blood trickled down his back as the whip cracked
against his skin.
And then it stopped. He opened his eyes tentatively
and scanned the faces of the crowd. He saw Datai there, his own fists clenched,
and saw faintly the pain on his face. It puzzled him somewhat, why, he couldn't
remember at the moment, and then the crowd screamed to the lord, begging
for more. His heart froze as Faimbril nodded to the flogger, and it all began
again.
They want me to beg them to stop, but I won't, I
won't let them have that! He bit his tongue even harder, drawing blood,
the familiar metallic taste strangely comforting, the new pain helping to
numb the old. His nerves were raw but he hardly felt it, and he kept his
eyes open, watching Datai flinch with every stroke.
And then near him he recognized the face of his mother,
holding Jynavy's hand, and she too had an odd expression of distress on her
face, as if she could actually feel what he was going through. She thinks
to play the role of the grieving mother. That looks as natural on her as
an angel's halo would. A remnant of the old hatred he had for her welled
up in him, and he found the urge to play his game.
Sekhmet grinned at Rielvia, the blood trickling out
the corner of his mouth, staring at her, meeting her eyes until she had to
look away. The distress on her face changed back into the usual coldness,
and that familiarity also helped him ignore what was happening, helped him
return to the time after Viraz's death, when he had been content to be hated,
and the others had been content to simply hate him.
The flogger stopped and another took up where he left
off, these strokes biting deeper than the others, harder. His back was torn
raw, his head pounding, and it took all he had in him to keep silent. He
wanted to cry out so badly... he clenched every muscle to keep it in, denying
them that at least. When it became apparent he was going to fall unconscious
the other man stopped swinging the whip, and the guards stepped forward,
untying his bonds and pulling him agonizingly straight.
The people were jubilant but disappointed that he did
not plead, did not beg. He looked at them and they waited for his weakness,
waited, but it never came. Sekhmet began to laugh. He laughed at the priests,
because the thought of controlling someone with chants was so absurd, laughed
at everyone, for thinking they could break him, simply laughed mockingly
as they grew angry.
And then he stopped slowly, chuckling, and they led
him away. He let them drag him, uncaring, through the streets and to the
top of the knoll where the old, wooden structure had been erected. It creaked
and groaned as they slung two ropes over the horizontal beam, fastening the
other ends securely to his wrists.
He didn't resist or protest as he was hoisted into the
air, the men making sure to jostle their weapons into the bleeding cuts on
his back. They were astonished when he did not react, staring straight ahead,
and he heard the whispered, hated word demon more than once. But they
didn't know how much it had cost him, and his vision swam painfully.
They fastened the ropes to the beam, hanging him with
his arms at an angle to put even more pressure on his shoulders and back.
Then they stepped back to survey him dangling there, and he met there eyes
with his own, each one, forcing them to look away.
One of the men, one whom he had fought beside, saved
from death more than once, picked up a rock. "Murdering demon!" he shouted,
hurling the stone at Sekhmet. It struck him on the cheek with an explosive
pain, but he managed only to flinch a little. The others followed suit, trying
to get a reaction out of him until Faimbril arrived and dismissed them.
He regarded Sekhmet coldly. "Three days, and your fate
shall be decided," he announced before returning on his way back to town.
Three days is too long, he decided immediately.
You waited too long too kill me, he thought at them all. Three
days and seventeen years too long. Why did you let me live, mother? What
could you have possibly felt for the demon you bore?
And so, for a little while, he was left to suffer in
silence. But it was not long before the crowd arrived, hordes of gawking
people armed with sticks and stones and refuse. He tried to turn them aside
with his eyes, but they felt safety in numbers and resisted, shouting insults.
Eventually, they surrounded him, and the first stone
was thrown. Sekhmet concentrated on not feeling, on retaining his impassive
mask. He was pelted with everything they could find, but they grew disappointed,
as before, they failed to make him display any hint of pain.
They were beginning to leave when one man hurled a large,
sharp rock directly at the welts on his back. The force of the impact sent
him swaying on the gallows, and he couldn't stop a pain-filled cry escaping
from between his clenched teeth. The rock stuck there a moment and then fell
to the ground with a thud.
His cry brought them back, and there were more rocks
and branches, thrown mostly at his back. He sensed the dark haze of
unconsciousness approaching again, and gratefully threw himself into it,
letting the pain and grief of losing Lyonta and the child overwhelm him only
inside, where not one of the hating people could see it and take satisfaction
from his agony.
Sekhmet welcomed the cold night on the hill, welcomed
the chill breeze that took some of the pain away from his sun-burned skin.
It was the night of the third day. Tomorrow they would execute him, and he
welcomed that as well. The days had been strangely hot for late autumn, as
if in mockery of him. But tomorrow it would all end.
Thankfully, he had not been awake much of the time he
had hung there. The bruises caused by the stones, along with the aching welts
on his back and his terrible thirst had kept him out most of the time, but
now he couldn't rest. His arms and shoulders had been partially paralyzed
by the ordeal, the bites of the insects itching, almost driving him insane.
He closed his eyes and waited again, waited for dawn.
The sound of grass rustling came to his ears, and he
looked up lethargically. Who's that? No more rocks... they should all
be home now, too dark to throw rocks. The figure of Datai appeared, reaching
the top of the hill.
The warrior stood before him, head bowed. Sekhmet stared
at him, uncomprehending. "What d'you want?" he rasped, throat prickling with
the words.
Datai pulled a waterbag from his belt and held it to
his lips, letting him have a drink for the first time in days. "I have come
to apologize," he began. "I am very ashamed of what my people have done.
I am ashamed to be one of them. It may not mean much to you now, though,
but I am sorry."
"You're right, it doesn't mean anything at all, Datai.
I failed her. This is what I get. Have you come to gawk like the others?
Here. Go ahead. When you're done, please leave."
"I've not come to gawk," he protested. "I have come
to help. They've decided to behead you tomorrow. It's wrong. I can't let
them do that."
Sekhmet simply nodded, having resigned himself to his
fate. Datai frowned. "Don't you care? They're going to kill you tomorrow!"
"No," he said simply. "I don't care."
Datai raised his sword to cut the ropes. "I can't see
this happen."
"Stop!" He lowered the sword slowly. "Don't." Datai's
stare was full of pity now.
"You were right, Sekhmet! They are all petty fools,
all using others to gain what they want. You will not be their victim. That's
not your destiny." He lifted the sword again.
"I know my destiny," Sekhmet said softly, eyes raised
toward the sky. "And you are right. They will pay." He turned his gaze back
to the other man. "I want my sword. Where is it?"
"Faimbril has it," he replied. "I will get it for you,
if you will let me help you."
He nodded slowly, and Datai went back down the hill.
Sekhmet stared at the sky, the sunrise splashing scarlet across the heavens.
I know my destiny. I have you to guide me no longer, Lyonta, and it can
not be prevented now. I feel it... something is missing, and it is not you.
There is somewhere I should be.
Datai returned, huffing, with his sword and the clothes
he had been wearing when he was captured. He raised Sekhmet's sword and cut
the ropes easily, and he fell to the ground painfully. He couldn't get up,
couldn't move his arms at all. They hung limply, a strange purple color.
Datai tried to help him up, trying as hard as he could
not to bump against the welts on his back. Sekhmet tried vainly to push him
away. Datai finally resorted to slinging him over his shoulder, and they
went towards the Sister of Light, the forest nearest to the gallows-hill.
It was not very far, and when they were a safe distance
into the forest Datai put him down on the ground. He sat and looked up at
him, blinking away the haze.
"I thank you," Sekhmet said softly, watching as Datai
put his sword and robe next to his useless hand. "One last thing would you
do for me -- light the gallows on fire. I want to see it burn. Perhaps they'll
think I was taken to the demon world. I don't care. Just... please."
Datai nodded seriously. "Farewell, my friend. Live in
peace." With a final bow he left.
"Not peace," Sekhmet whispered. "I am not meant for
peace." He watched the horizon from his place on the ground, watched, and
waited. Finally there was a burst of fiery light, and he smiled once in
satisfaction before turning away.