Conan the Destroyer (Robert Jordan's Conan Novels 6)

Conan laughed and groaned at the same time. Ask the wolf to protect the sheepfold. He shook his head to rid it of unwanted thoughts. “You must have a care of Taramis, Jehnna, when you are back in Shadizar.”

“Of my aunt? But why?”

“I have no true reason,” he said slowly. “But kings and queens, princes and princesses, do not think as do ordinary folk. They do not see right or wrong the same way.”

“Are you troubled by the dream I had? Bombatta was right. It was just a dream, Conan. Anyone could have bad dreams in a place like that crater. Taramis loves me. She has cared for me since I was a child.”

“Be that as it may, Jehnna, should you ever have need for help, send word to the tavern of Abuletes, in Shadizar, and I will come. I know many places where you would be safe.”

“I will,” she said, but he knew she did not believe in even the possibility of it. “I am still cold,” she went on, smiling and lifting a corner of one blanket.

A moment longer the big Cimmerian hesitated. Then, telling himself that it was indeed becoming colder, that a sharing of warmth could harm nothing, he removed his sword belt and seated himself next to her. She pulled not only a saddle blanket, smelling strongly of horse, over his shoulders, but part of her cloak as well. The blankets began to slide from them, and as they shifted to secure them he realized that she was leaning against him. Instinctively he put an arm around her. His hand landed on the warm curve of her hip, jumped away as if burned, brushed the soft roundness of a breast, then settled on the indentation of her waist.

“’Tis warmer than I thought,” he muttered. There was sweat on his forehead. “Perhaps I should move.” How much forbearance, he wondered, could even the gods ask of a man?

Jehnna snuggled herself more firmly against him, touching the golden dragon at his chest with a single finger. “Tell me of Valeria.” He stiffened, and she glanced up at him. “I overheard you and Malak. And Akiro. I am not deaf, Conan. What kind of woman was she?”

“A woman,” he replied. But the off-handedness of that would not let him leave it. “She was a woman in thousands upon thousands, perhaps the only one of her kind in the world. She was a warrior, friend, companion … .”

“ … And lover?” she supplied when he let his words trail off. He drew breath, but she hurried on before he could speak. “Can there be room in your life for another

woman?”

How to explain about Valeria and him, he thought. Valeria, a woman who would neither own nor be owned, a woman who could come to his bed with the passion of a tigress and two hours later nudge him so he did not miss eyeing a particularly toothsome serving wench. “There are things about men and women,” he found himself saying, “that you simply would not understand, girl.”

“Much you know,” she retorted hotly. “Zula and I had long talks about the proper methods of … of handling a man.”

Abruptly she seized his free hand and thrust it beneath her robes. Involuntarily he cupped a warm, hard-tipped mound. The thought returned to him, made to nestle in the palms of a man’s hands.

“You know not what you are doing,” he said hoarsely.

Before the words were out of his mouth she threw herself on him. So great was his surprise that he toppled over backwards, so that she lay atop him.

“Then show me,” she murmured, and honey lips drove rational thoughts from his head.

The cold night wind swept hard out of the plain across Shadizar, as if seeking to scour the city of its corruption.

It was an omen that the wind blew so, Taramis thought. A symbol of the sweeping away of old ways, and the coming of a new dawn. Her robes of sky blue slashed with gold had been chosen as well to speak of that new sunrise, that inexorable new coming.

Her dark eyes surveyed the courtyard, the largest in her palace. Tiled with huge blocks of pale, polished marble, it was surrounded by an alabaster colonnade. The balconies overlooking the court were empty, and no light showed at any window. Guards within the palace made sure no slave’s curious eye fell on what occurred there this night.

Before her rested the great form of Dagoth on its couch of crimson marble. More perfect than any mere mortal male born of woman, she thought. In a circle about her and the massive shape of the Sleeping God stood the priests of the new religion, of the ancient religion reborn. Shimmering golden robes covered the priests to their sandled feet, and on each head was a golden crown with a single point above the brow graven with an open eye, symbol that though the god slept, never did they sleep in his service.

The crown with the tallest point was on the head of he who stood by her right hand, his snowy beard fanning over his chest, his parchment-skinned face the very picture of kindly mildness. His tall staff of gold was topped with a blue diamond carved into an eye of twice human size. He was Xanteres, the high priest. And highest indeed he was, Taramis thought, after herself.

“’Tis the third night,” she said suddenly, and a sigh as of exultation rose from the circle of priests. “The third night from the Night of Awakening.”

“Blessed be the Night of Awakening,” intoned the priests.

“The Sleeping God will never die,” she called, and their reply came back to her.

“Where there is faith, there is no death!”

Taramis held her arms straight out to either side. “Let us anoint our god with the first of his anointings.”

“All glory to she who anoints the Sleeping God,” they chanted.

Flutes began to play, softly and slowly at first, then quickening, rising higher. Two more crowned priests appeared from the collonade. Between them was a girl, her raven hair pinned in tight coils about her small head, her body swathed in robes of pristine white. At the circle the two priests slipped the robes from her, and she entered, unashamed in her slender nakedness. Her eyes, on the form of Dagoth, bore a look of purest rapture as she stopped at the god’s head. Taramis and Xanteres moved together, one to either side of the girl.