The Devil's Heart - Carmen Carter [69]
Skipping past the admirals, ducking under the crossed swords of the Imperial guards and under the arched entrance, she passed unchallenged into the interior chamber. This was the privilege of the mightiest monarch and the lowliest servant.
Dim red light obscured the bleakness of bare stone walls and a flagstone floor, but did nothing to warm the chill air. Even the warriors among her people had craved beauty, whereas Klingons seemed to disdain the cultivation of art and music.
When she had ventured to question this lack of aesthetic development, Kessec had reminded her, not unkindly, that her elegant homeworld had been defeated in battle. Still, she wondered if she could have enjoyed victory over the Klingons if Tehalai had been as ugly as this planet. The loss of flower gardens and carved fountains saddened her more than the loss of her freedom.
Her slippered feet whisked softly over the hard tiles. At their sound, a deep voice cut through the murky air. “Approach and be recog—oh, it’s you, child.”
Kessec was unattended. More and more often she found him alone, yet he allowed her to enter and remain when all others had been sent away.
Despite his seclusion, she always found him dressed in ceremonial robes and chain-link, sitting erect on the wide metal throne as if he were about to admonish his admirals and ministers.
And always the Pagrashtak rested in the palms of his hands.
“Do they think I’m deaf?”
His hearing was sharper than hers, but even Halaylah could hear the muffled murmur of the crowd waiting outside.
“Your sons are bringing a bier to this chamber,” she said.
“All my sons?”
“All that are left alive, my Emperor.”
“Ah.” He, alone of all the Klingons she had met, had the capacity to express himself with subtlety and restraint. He said nothing more until the death marchers arrived. The security guards moved aside to admit the emperor’s sons and the burden they carried, but the procession stopped just over the threshold.
“Approach and be recognized!”
Halaylah, crouching in the shadows by the side of the thr one, watched as Mohtr, the eldest son, stepped forward and saluted. He echoed his father’s sturdy build, but his tangled mane was shot with white where Kessec’s hair remained black.
“Durall, son of Kessec, has brought honor to his family!”
She glanced quickly upward to study Kessec’s face. He betrayed no sign of emotion, yet she knew young Durall had been a favorite of his. She drew a deep breath and learned the smell of grief.
“How many shared that honor with him?” asked Kessec.
Mohtr hesitated, emitting the same sweet scent that had glistened on the skin of the admirals outside. “None. His death was an accident, Father.”
“A very small honor, then,” said Kessec.
“There have been many of these accidents of late among my sons bruises, wounds, broken bones.
Now death.”
“We are warriors!”
Leaning forward, Kessec curled back his lips. “Warriors die in battle, not in accidents; they kill their enemies, not their brothers.”
“You have left us precious few battles to fight, my Emperor,” said Mohtr, baring his teeth in return.
“Yes, that is one of the unexpected disappointments of overwhelming victory against our enemies.” Kessec sank back against the unyielding throne. “So is watching my sons squabble like scavengers over the right to succeed me.”
“If we succeed you. Unlike you, sire, we grow old. Better to die like Durall than to reach our dotage still yearning for our right to succession!”
“Enough, Mohtr.” Kessec dismissed him with an abrupt wave of his arm and called out, “Bring me Durall’s body.”
Even in the murky light, Halaylah could discern the sullen looks on the faces of the five bier-bearers as they shuffled forward and laid the pallet at the foot of the emperor’s dais. Durall’s body, once possessed of a wiry vitality, was limp and drained of color; his tunic was stiff with crusted blood where his chest had been crushed inward. She wrinkled her nose at the whiff of decomposition. Death smelled the same here