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The Quartz Key Chapter Sixty-Four
by Lianne Burwell
May 2003
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Nemir woke with the rising of the sun. The bed he lay on 
was on a tall dais at the center of the pyramid-top temple, 
beneath the open sky. He sat up and looked around, the 
light bed coverings falling away from his body, revealing 
that he was naked beneath them. The day was already growing 
warm as summer approached. He pushed aside the gauzy 
draperies that partially shielded the bed from view and 
stood, stretching up onto the tips of his toes, reaching 
towards the sky. He closed his eyes and turned his face 
upwards, filled with a sense of warmth and purpose.

One of the temple servants approached, eyes respectfully 
downcast. Nemir stood still, feet planted apart and his 
arms held wide. The servant wrapped the linen kilt around 
his waist, then stepped back again. Nemir ignored him and 
headed out to the terrace.

There, a low table had been set out, with a pile of 
cushions next to it. He sat down on the cushions and 
reached for the bowl of fruit. All of his favorites were 
set out for him, along with cheese and bread, and slices of 
rare meat. A perfectly ripe orange came to hand first. He 
peeled it and bit into one succulent wedge, the juices 
running down his chin.

All of this had a feeling of unreality, like a particularly 
vivid dream, and yet at the same time it was very familiar. 
All was exactly as it should be.

He look toward the rising sun. For a moment he thought he 
saw blood soaking into the marble stone that paved the 
terrace, and he wondered what had happened to the body.

He frowned slightly. Body? Why would there have been a body 
here in his place? Who would have dared to die here? He 
shook his head. Foolishness.

"Great one."

He turned back from his consideration of things that could 
not be. The high priest was kneeling, a respectful distance 
from the table and Nemir. "Yes," he said coldly, irritated 
by the interruption.

"Reports have arrived from our spies in the south. As 
expected, the clans have started to gather their armies. By 
the time of the next full moon, they will be marching 
north. What are your orders?"

Nemir was still watching the sun as it rose higher. It 
irritated him that he was being asked question when the 
answers were so obvious. "Send for Limon. Tell him that it 
is time. We march south as soon as the army is ready. It is 
time that the clans understood the world as it is and their 
place in it. When I am done with them, there will not be 
enough left to rise up for ten generations."

The priest bowed so low that his forehead was tapping the 
marble. Then he backed away, never looking up at Nemir.

But Nemir had already forgotten him as he continued his 
breakfast. When he finished, as servant brought him his 
sword and he moved out to the center of the terrace and 
began the first steps of the sword practice. He breathed 
deeply, moving slowly at first, then gathering in speed. 
His eyes were shut, and he swung his sword precisely, 
almost as if he could see his opponent in his mind's eye. 
His muscles moved smoothly under his skin, tightening and 
relaxing.

The sweat began to flow and the sense of peace grew until 
he felt almost as if he was floating above the smooth 
marble tiles of the terrace. In his mind he could almost 
see wings of snowy white feathers spreading out to either 
side of him, surrounding him, keeping him safe from the 
world. Safe from the darkness and prying eyes.

As he reached the end of the practice, his moves slowed 
again until he came to a stop, facing the sun with his 
sword raised in salute. Then he sheathed it and turned, 
expecting to find a towel laid out for him so that he could 
wipe off the sweat. The towel was there, but so was Captain 
Limon. Nemir frowned, having briefly forgotten that he had 
called for the man.

The towel was set on the table, along with a deep dish full 
of sun-warmed water. He lifted the dish over his head and 
let the water cascade down over him, not caring that his 
kilt was soaked, then used the towel to dry himself roughly 
before heading to where the Captain waited respectfully. 
"How soon can the army be readied?" he asked harshly, 
sitting back down on the cushions.

"In three days' time, my lord," Limon said.

Nemir thought about it. "How long until the next full 
moon?"

"Fourteen days."

"Good. I want the army on the march as soon as possible. I 
will ride at its head. It is time that the South understood 
the penalties for what they have done."

He turned away, dismissing the man from his mind, but after 
a moment he realized that the man hadn't left as expected. 
"Is there something more?" he asked, frowning his 
displeasure.

"Your companions, my lord," Limon said, bowing low. "They 
have been asking after you. They are quite insistent."

Nemir blinked slowly. Companions? Then he remembered. 
Dansen and Markus. It seemed like a different life, his 
travels with them. "Tell them I am fine. There is no need 
for them to worry." He was not sure why they *would* worry. 
All was as it should be.

"I have told them, but they do not believe me. They will 
only be happy when they have seen you for themselves."

Nemir shrugged, unconcerned. "Then tell them to join the 
army. They will see me then, as all will. Now go."

This time, Limon bowed deeply and backed away, heading for 
the hidden passage that was only known to the servants of 
the temple. Like all Captains of the Guard before him, 
Limon was a priest, as well as a soldier. He was the best 
Captain that Nemir could remember having, though, which was 
good. While victory was assured, of course, it was aided by 
having strong men in his service. While victory was 
assured, he was not foolish enough to think that the south 
would cave in without a fight.

With Limon gone, Nemir shifted so that he could lay back on 
the cushions he had been sitting on and turned his face 
towards the sky once again. The sun spoke to him in soft 
tones, and it made him strong. He opened his kilt and let 
the sun touch every part of him, like the fingers of a 
strong and knowledgeable lover. His flesh stirred under 
that touch and he moaned softly, confident that no one 
would disturb him for many hours. When the sun was high in 
the sky, they knew to stay away.

Nemir closed his eyes and let the light take him away.

>>>~~~<<<

For the next two days, preparations proceeded at a high 
rate, although Nemir took little notice of them. The 
priests would deal with all that was needed for him to 
travel. Instead, he spent more time in his sword practice 
in anticipation for battle, making up for months without.

He had never led in battle, but he was confident in his 
abilities. It was only right that he should be the one to 
lead the army south. After all, was he not the one most 
wronged by the actions of the clans?

So by day he readied himself for battle, and by night he 
retreated into the temple to wait for the sun to rise. From 
time to time, he could feel the touch of spying eyes, but 
he repelled them easily.

Finally, as the moon approached half full, the preparations 
were complete, and for the first time since his arrival, he 
followed the dark passageway back down to the temple at the 
base of the pyramid. Waiting priests draped him in cloth of 
gold and crisp white linens. A collar of lapis beads was 
placed around his neck, and a tall crown was set on his 
head. A sword of the finest steel was hung by his side.

Fully prepared, he stepped out of the shadows into the 
temple where the priests all knelt. He paused, and nodded, 
then strode down the center aisle to the grand entrance of 
the temple.

The square beyond was packed with bodies. Men, women, and 
children, nearly the entire population of the city, were 
waiting, and at the base of the ramp, Captain Limon waited 
with Karsa, saddled in the finest of gold-chased leather.

Nemir paused at the top of the ramp, and a mighty shout 
went up. Thousands of voices, lifted in praise. Nemir 
raised his hands in acknowledgement, then strode down the 
ramp to the waiting guard. On either side of the bottom of 
the ramp stood the statues, with a new one at one end being 
carved. The sculptor stood next to it, his chisel in hand, 
watching Nemir with hawk-like eyes. Nemir stopped briefly 
and met the man's gaze until he finally nodded.

"Is the army ready?" he asked Limon, who bowed his head.

"Yes, my Lord. It only waits for your order."

Nemir nodded. "The order is given," he said, and a cheer 
arose from the crowd.

A young man in the livery of the guard rushed to kneel next 
to Karsa so that Nemir could use his back as a mounting 
block. It was not necessary, but he accepted the gesture as 
an indication of the great respect that was his due.

Mounting Karsa was like coming home, and he wondered at the 
fact that the horse had been willing to allow for the care 
he had so obviously received. He had been trained not to 
accept the touch of any but his master. Then he dismissed 
the thought as unimportant. Far more weightier matters 
awaited him.

"The South has grown bold," he announced, and the square 
went silent, his words almost echoing in the space. "They 
think to defy the might of the empire. They think to defy 
*me*! But they shall learn the futility of their rebellion. 
They think to send an army north to contest me, but they 
will find that there is no contest. They shall be defeated 
and cast down.

"The Empire is eternal, for so long as I exist, so does 
it!"

The roar that answered him was deafening. Nemir set his 
heels to Karsa's flanks, and the stallion pivoted sharply. 
Immediately, a passage opened through the crowd, and he set 
off at a slow pace, Limon and his men behind him. Hands 
reached out to him from the crowd, but he ignored them, 
eyes focused forward.

END CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR