CHAPTER 26
TAMARA HAD NO difficulty finding Conan belowdecks. She followed the ringing rasp of whetstone on steel. As expected, the Cimmerian sat in his cabin, working an edge onto his new sword. He did not look up as she approached, but she knew he was aware of her. Even when she paused in the hatchway before his cabin, he did not acknowledge her.
She rapped lightly on the wooden bulkhead. “Is my attire suitable?”
He looked up, the light in his blue eyes visible despite the cabin’s dim interior. His gaze raked her up and down. From the ship’s stores she’d chosen tall boots of brown, which matched a sleeveless leather bodice. Beneath that, she wore a pale green man’s shirt—the bodice covered three stab wounds that she intended to stitch up later. Its tails covered her to midthigh. Leather skirting hung from a wide belt, affording her some protection without the sacrifice of mobility.
The Cimmerian grunted. “Good.”
Tamara waited for more, but he’d returned his attention to the sword. She swallowed hard, then looked at him. “Conan, we need to talk.”
The barbarian glanced back up, pain washing over his face. He’d clearly rather be testing the edge on his sword—and from the looks of it, either on her or his own throat—than chatting with her. He drew in a deep breath, then nodded. “Talk.”
“What I had on before, the silks, I did not choose them because I wished to dress as a harlot.” She chewed her lower lip for a moment. “In the monastery, we led a very disciplined life. Everything was prescribed and done in accordance with strict rules. Twice a year we would have festivals in which we would celebrate the lives of those who had passed. We would dress gaily and remember them at their best. When I sought other clothes, it was the first time I’d had a chance to truly realize how much I had lost. I did not think what you and others might think of me. I was thinking of them, the people I lost.”
Conan grunted.
“And I am sorry, Conan, for the remark I made.” Tamara frowned. “Your comment stung me and I struck back. It was not worthy of the person I was raised to be. I beg your forgiveness.”
The Cimmerian set the whetstone aside, but left his sword resting across his thighs. “It did not sit well to see you dressed as a slut. I have seen you fight. I have seen your dedication—
“I understand.”
“And I could have phrased things better.”
Tamara leaned against the bulkhead. “I did not truly mean you did not know any women other than harlots.”
Conan smiled. “Yes, you did. You are perhaps not too far wrong.”
“But there is your mother . . .” Tamara looked up toward the main deck. “Artus told me, not much . . .”
The Cimmerian shrugged. “He told you what I know, which is not much. She bore me on a battlefield. She named me. I do not remember her.”
Tamara hugged her arms around her belly. “I do not know my mother either. Or my father. I was rescued while an infant by Master Fassir. The only life I have ever known has been destroyed. I’m not even sure why, save for the insane dreams of a madman.”
“Khalar Zym destroyed a village.” Conan held up a thumb. “All for a shard of bone no bigger than this. He killed everyone—or thought he did. I’d all but forgotten him until I ran across Lucius and, from him, found Remo chasing you. He has this Mask of Acheron and some warped dream of using it to conquer the world. It was my father’s duty to protect that shard. It is mine to get it back, or pursue a more direct solution to the problem.”
She shivered. “The Mask of Acheron . . . now things begin to make some sense.”
The Cimmerian’s eyes sharpened. “What do you know of it?”
“Only what I have been taught, Conan. Evil roots itself in the world in dreams and devices. The Mask of Acheron was a dream that became a device, and then returned to being a dream. The priest-kings of Acheron created it, fed it the blood of their daughters, and reaped great power through it. They built their empire upon the agony of millions. They celebrated, their joy made greater by the lamentations of those they oppressed.”
“So I have heard in legends.”
She smiled. “Master Fassir taught that evil is a fickle mistress. Those she raises high, she raises high only to dash them more magnificently on the rocks of despair and failure. Evil concentrates power, but it also concentrates the core essence of those who wield it. The invincible warrior needs a magick sword because, deep in his heart, he fears being defeated. That fear becomes his weakness, his downfall. So the Mask of Acheron will expose Khalar Zym’s weakness.”
The barbarian nodded, a low growl rumbling from his throat. In the half-light Conan became something more than she had seen before. Though he was still physically magnificent, with muscles etched in shadow and burnished with golden lamplight, it was the play of emotions over his brooding features that revealed his depth to her. He had actually listened to what she had said, and was considering it. Behind those cerulean eyes, he reevaluated all he knew of Khalar Zym.
Conan smiled, and she took heart from the sight. “A man who would be king has no need to surround himself with minions. Khalar Zym relies upon them and his witch of a daughter. Yes, he believes he needs her magick, the magick of Acheron, to accomplish his ends.”
The monk nodded. “There, you have it. He’s never had magick, never controlled it, and believes it is his only path to power. Just as he thinks himself a lesser man without it, so he must judge all men without it to be inferior as well. Gaining the mask will raise him to the pinnacle of power, and yet will blind him to the abilities of mere mortal men.”
“You may need to change again, Tamara of the four names.”
“Yes, Cimmerian?”
“The robes of a philosopher would suit you.”
She laughed. “You were thinking the same thing.”
“Hardly.” He raised the sword and studied the edges. “I was thinking that in all my travels, I have never met anything of sorcery born which could touch me, that I could not touch with steel and come away the better for it. If Khalar Zym’s empire will be built on a foundation of sorcery, then cold steel will shatter it.”
He nodded at her, then picked up the whetstone. He whisked it along the blade twice, then looked up again. “Something else . . . ?”
“When you lay there, and I was tending your wounds. When you were fevered . . .”
His expression froze. “Did I speak?”
“Some, yes, but in a hill dialect I have no way of understanding.” She gave him a smile she hoped would be reassuring. “When the fever broke, and you came awake, and I was there at your bunk. . . I was not the one you expected to see.”
“No.” He glanced down, hesitating. “You are not my grandfather.”
“Conan, you don’t need to lie to me.”
The Cimmerian looked up, regarding her coldly. “If I do not need to lie, then why would I?”
The vehemence of his words, and the way he deliberately thickened his Cimmerian accent, shocked her. Tamara took a half step back, raising her hands, using the heartbeat this afforded her to recover herself. “I need to explain.”
“You need to go.”
“Conan, you need to
He looked up but said nothing.
“My past has been wiped away. At the moment I met you, all I knew was that everyone I had known was being slaughtered, and I was being sent away. I was not allowed to defend my home against invaders, and
