Raymond E. Feist - Empire Saga 1 - Daughter

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years of wise counsel and friendship.

To our editors, Adrian Zackheim, who started with us, and Jim

Moser, who was there at the finish.

To Richard C. Freese, for caring above and beyond duty's call.

To Elaine Chubb, for making us look good.

To Daniel P. Mannix IV for both being an example of what a writer

is, and for giving us a terrific place to work (the ducks

notwithstanding).

And to Barbara A. Feist for putting up with one of us.

Raymond E. Feist

Janny Wurts

Frazer, PA, June, 1986

Awkwardly posed with the linen draped like a tent above her head,

Mara impatiently awaited the moment when the headdress could be

lowered and tied. She had barely lifted the cloth and already the thing

dragged at her arms like stone weights! The gong sounded again.

Reminded of the goddess's eternal presence, Mara inwardly winced

at her irreverent thoughts. Now, of all times, her attention must not

stray. Silently she begged the goddess's forgiveness, pleading nerves

- fatigue and excitement combined with apprehension. Mara prayed to

the Lady to guide her to the inner peace she so fervently desired.

The gong chimed again, the third ring of twenty-two, twenty for the

gods, one for the Light of Heaven, and one for the imperfect children

who now waited to join in the service of the Goddess of Wisdom of

the Upper Heaven. At seventeen years of age, Mara prepared to

renounce the temporal world, like the girl at her side who - in another

nineteen chimings of the gong - would be counted her sister, though

they had met only two weeks before.

Mara considered her sister-to-be: Ura was a foul-tempered girl

from a clanless but wealthy family in Lash Province while Mara was

from an ancient and powerful family, the Acoma. Ura's admission to

the temple was a public demonstration of family piety, ordered by her

uncle, the self-styled family Lord, who sought admission into any clan

that would take his family. Mara had come close to defying her father

to join the order. When the girls had exchanged histories at their first

meeting, Ura had been incredulous, then almost angry that the

daughter of a powerful Lord should take eternal shelter behind the

walls of the order. Mara's heritage meant clan position, powerful

allies, an array of well-positioned suitors, and an assured good

marriage to a son of another powerful house. Her own sacrifice, as

Ura called it, was made so that later generations of girls in her family

would have those things Mara chose to renounce. Not for the first

time Mara wondered if Ura would make a good sister of the order.

Then, again not for the first time, Mara questioned her own worthiness

for the Sisterhood.

The gong rang again, the fifth stroke. Mara peeked up at the altar

atop the dais. Framed beneath carved arches, six priests and

priestesses knelt before the statue of Lashima, her countenance

unveiled for the initiation. Dawn shone through the lances windows

high in the domes, the palest glow reaching like fingers through the

half-dark temple. The touch of sunrise seemed to caress the goddess,

softening the jewel-like ceremonial candles that surrounded her. How

friendly the lady looked in morning's blush, Mara thought. The Lady of

Wisdom gazed down with a half-smile on her chiselled lips, as if all

under her care would be loved and protected, finding inner peace.

Mara prayed this would be true. The only priest not upon his knees

again rang the gong. Metal caught the sunlight, a splendid burst of

gold against the dark curtain that shrouded the entrance to the inner

temple. Then, as the dazzling brilliance faded, the gong rang again.

Fifteen more times it would be struck. Mara bit her lip, certain the

kind goddess would forgive a momentary lapse. Her thoughts were

like flashing lights from broken crystals, dancing about here and

there, never staying long in one place. I'm not very good material for

the Sisterhood, Mara confessed, staring up at the statue. Please have

patience with me, Lady of the Inner Light. Again she glanced at her

companion; Ura remained still and quiet, eyes closed. Mara

determined to imitate her companion's behaviour outwardly, even if

she couldn't find the appropriate calm within.

The gong sounded once more.

Mara sought that hidden centre of her being, her wal, and strove to

put her mind at rest. For a few minutes she found herself successful.

Then the beat of the gong snatched her back to the present. Mara

shifted her weight slightly, rejecting irritation as she tried to ease her

aching arms. She fought an urge to sigh. The inner calm taught by the

sisters who had schooled her through her novitiate again eluded her

grasp, though she had laboured at the convent for six months before

being judged worthy of testing here in the Holy City by the priests of

the High Temple.

realm of possibility. Had Mara a voice in her father s counsel, she

would have urged a separation from the War Party, even perhaps an

alliance with the Blue Wheel Party, who feigned interest only in

commerce while they quietly worked to balk the power of the Warlord

. . .

Mara frowned. Again her mind had been beguiled by worldly

concerns. She apologized to the goddess, then pushed away

thoughts of the world she was leaving behind.

Mara peeked as the gong rang again. The stone features of the

goddess now seemed set in gentle rebuke; virtue began with the

individual, she reminded. Help would come only to those who truly

searched for enlightenment. Mara lowered her eyes.

The gong reverberated and through the dying shiver of harmonics

another sound intruded, a disturbance wholly out of place. Sandals

scuffed upon stone in the antechamber, accompanied by the dull

clank of weapons and armour. Outside the curtain an attending priest

challenged in a harsh whisper, 'Stop, warrior! You may not enter the

inner temple now! It is forbidden!'

Mara stiffened. A chilling prescience passed through her. Beneath

the shelter of the tented headcloth, she saw the priests upon the dais

rise up in alarm. They turned to face the intruder, and the gong

missed its beat and fell silent.

The High Father Superior moved purposefully towards the curtain,

his brow knotted in alarm. Mara shut her eyes tightly. If only she

could plunge the outside world into darkness as easily, then no one

would be able to find her. But the sound of footfalls ceased, replaced

by the High Father Superior's voice. 'What cause have you for this

outrage, warrior! You violate a most holy rite.'

A voice rang out. 'We seek the Lady of the Acoma!'

The Lady of the Acoma. Like a cold knife plunged into the pit of her

stomach, the words cut through Mara's soul. That one sentence

forever changed her life. Her mind rebelled, screaming denial, but she

willed herself to remain calm. Never would she shame her ancestors

the bearer of those tidings which had changed her life.

Just past the curtain, Keyoke, Force Commander of the Acoma,

regarded his mistress with weary eyes. He was a battle-scarred old

warrior, erect and proud despite forty years of loyal service. He stood

poised to step to the girl's side, provide a steadying arm, perhaps

even shield her from public view should the strain prove too much.

Poor, ever-loyal Keyoke, Mara thought. This announcement had

not come easily for him either. She would not disappoint him by

shaming her family. Faced with tragedy, she maintained the manner

and dignity required of the Lady of a great house.

Keyoke bowed as his mistress approached. Behind him stood the

tall and taciturn Papewaio, his face as always an unreadable mask.

The strongest warrior in the Acoma retinue, he served as both

companion and body servant to Keyoke. He bowed and held aside the

curtain for Mara as she swept past.

Mara heard both fall into step, one on each side, Papewaio one

pace behind, correct in form to the last detail. Without words she led

them from the inner temple, under the awning that covered the garden

court separating the inner and outer temples. They entered the outer

temple, passing between giant sandstone columns that rose to the

ceiling. Down a long hall they marched, past magnificent frescos

depicting tales of the goddess Lashima. Desperately attempting to

divert the pain that threatened to overwhelm her, Mara remembered

the story each picture represented: how the goddess outwitted

Turakamu, the Red God, for the life of a child; how she stayed the

wrath of Emperor Inchonlonganbula, saving the city of Migran from

obliteration; how she taught the first scholar the secret of writing.

Mara closed her eyes as they passed her favourite: how, disguised as

a crone, Lashima decided the issue between the farmer and his wife.

Mara turned her eyes from these images, for they belonged to a life

now denied her.

All too soon she reached the outer doors. She paused a moment at

the top of the worn marble stairs. The courtyard below held a half

onto sweating shoulders. Veiled by the light, embroidered curtain on

either side of the litter, Mara sat stiffly as the soldiers formed up

before and after their mistress.

The litter swayed slightly as the slaves started towards the river,

threading an efficient course through the throng who travelled the

streets of the Holy City. They moved past carts pulled by sluggish,

six-legged needra and were passed in turn by running messengers

and trotting porters with bundles held aloft on shoulder or head,

hurrying their loads for clients who paid a premium for swift delivery.

The noise and bustle of commerce beyond the gates jolted Mara

afresh; within the shelter of the temple, the shock of Keyoke's

appearance had not fully registered. Now she battled to keep from

spilling tears upon the cushions of the litter as understanding

overwhelmed her. She wanted not to speak, as if silence could hide

the truth. But she was Tsurani, and an Acoma. Cowardice would not

change the past, nor forever stave off the future. She took a breath.

Then, drawing aside the curtain so she could see Keyoke, she voiced

what was never in doubt.

'They are both dead.'

Keyoke nodded curtly, once. 'Your father and brother were both

ordered into a useless assault against a barbarian fortification. It was

murder.' His features remained impassive, but his voice betrayed

bitterness as he walked at a brisk pace beside his mistress.

The litter jostled as the slaves avoided a wagon piled with jomach

fruit. They turned down the street towards the landing by the river

while Mara regarded her clenched hands. With focused concentration,

she willed her fingers to open and relax. After a long silence she said,

'Tell me what happened, Keyoke.'

'When the snows on the barbarian world melted we were ordered

out, to stand against a possible barbarian assault.' armour creaked as

the elderly warrior squared his shoulders, fighting off remembered

fatigue and loss, yet his voice stayed matter-of-fact.

outnumbered. You father knew this - we all knew it - but your father

kept honour. He followed orders without question. We attacked. The

Subcommander promised to support our right flank, but his troops

never materialized. Instead of a coordinated charge with ours, the

Minwanabi warriors held their ground, as if preparing for

counterattack. Tasaio ordered they should do so.

'But just as we were overwhelmed by a counterattack, support

arrived from the valley, elements of the forces under the banner of

Omechkel and Chimiriko. They had no hint of the betrayal and fought

bravely to get us out from under the hooves of the barbarian's horses.

The Minwanabi attacked at this time, as if to repulse the

counterattack. They arrived just as the barbarians retreated. To any

who had not been there from the start, it was simply a poor meeting

with the barbarian enemy. But the Acoma know it was Minwanabi

treachery.'

Mara's eyes narrowed, and her lips tightened; for an instant

Keyoke's expression betrayed concern that the girl might shame her

father's memory by weeping before tradition permitted. But instead

she spoke quietly, her voice controlled fury. 'So my Lord of the

Minwanabi seized the moment and arranged for my father's death,

despite our alliance within the War Party?'

Keyoke straightened his helm. 'Indeed, my Lady. Jingu of the

Minwanabi must have ordered Tasaio to change the Warlord's

instructions. Jingu moves boldly; he would have earned Tasaio the

Warlord's wrath and a dishonourable death had our army lost that

position to the barbarians. But Almecho needs Minwanabi support in

the conquest, and while he is angry with Jingu's nephew, he keeps

silent. Nothing was lost. To outward appearances, it was simply a

standoff, no victor. But in the Game of the Council, the Minwanabi

triumph over the Acoma.' For the first time in her life, Mara heard a

hint of emotion in Keyoke's voice. Almost bitterly, he said, 'Papewaio

and I were spared by your father's command. He ordered us to remain

apart with this small company - and charged us to protect you should

The manner of the First Strike Leader of the Acoma was outwardly

easy, but Mara sensed he wished to be holding his spear and

unsheathed sword. For a wild, angry instant Mara considered

immediate vengeance. At her word, Papewaio would assault the

Minwanabi lord in his own chamber, in the midst of his army.

Although the warrior would count it an honour to die in the effort, she

shunted away the foolish impulse. Neither Papewaio nor any other

wearing the Acoma green could get within a half day's march of the

Minwanabi lord. Besides, loyalty such as his was to be jealously

guarded, never squandered.

Removed from the scrutiny of the priests, Keyoke studied Mara

closely. She met his gaze and held it. She knew her expression was

grim and her face drawn and chalky, but she also knew she had borne

up well under the news. Keyoke's gaze returned forward, as he

awaited his mistress's next question or command.

A man's attention, even an old family retainer's, caused Mara to

take stock of herself, without illusions, being neither critical nor

flattering. She was a fair-looking young woman, not pretty, especially

when she wrinkled her brow in thought or frowned in worry. But her

smile could make her striking - or so a boy had told her once - and

she possessed a certain appealing quality, a spirited energy, that

made her almost vivacious at times. She was slender and lithe in

movement, and that trim body had caught the eye of more than one

son of a neighbouring house. Now one of those sons would likely

prove a necessary ally to stem the tide of political fortune that

threatened to obliterate the Acoma. With her brown eyes half-closed,

she considered the awesome responsibility thrust upon her. She

realized, with a sinking feeling, that the commodities of womankind -

beauty, wit, charm, allure- must all now be put to use in the cause of

the Acoma, along with whatever native intelligence the gods had

granted her. She fought down the fear that her gifts were insufficient

for the task; then, before she knew it, she was recalling the faces of

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yearsofwisecounselandfriendship.Tooureditors,AdrianZackheim,whostartedwithus,andJimMoser,whowasthereatthefinish.ToRichardC.Freese,forcaringaboveandbeyondduty'scall.ToElaineChubb,formakinguslookgood.ToDanielP.MannixIVforbothbeinganexampleofwhatawriteris,andforgivingusaterrificplacetowork(theducksnotw...

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