At the moment, however, in his grand cabin aboard the land ship, her father’s attention remained focused on one thing: the Mask of Acheron. Unforgivably ancient, the golden brown of aged ivory, with a serpent-scale texture and tentacles arrayed as if rays of the sun, the mask lay between his hands, at once terrible and hideous, yet possessed of a beauty born of its potential. His thumbs caressed the cheeks as he might have caressed a lover’s flesh.

As he caressed my mother’s face.

Marique removed the armor’s back plate and set it aside. She started working on the next layer of buckles, beginning at the top.

“The prize is near, Father. You possess the mask, and soon you shall have the blood to fill it.”

“Yes, very soon.” His fingers played over the forehead. “It was your mother’s dream to wear the mask. Magick flowed in her blood, as it does in yours. She yearned for the power, she sought the secrets of Acheron’s forgotten sorcery. Without her and her work, we would not be on this brink.”

Marique hesitated, letting a single finger caress the silken undertunic her father wore beneath the armor. His scent rose from within the shell, filling her head, warming her heart. She longed to press her cheek to his back, to linger in his presence. She drew strength from him. She hoped for a second or two of his attention, thinking that would be enough to sustain her forever, and yet knowing it would be but a drop in a vast ocean of desire.

Khalar Zym glanced back over his shoulder. “Imagine, Marique . . .”

“Yes, Father . . .”

“Imagine the secrets she will bring back with her from the realms of the dead.” His voice grew from a reverent whisper to a bold declaration. “She will have spent her time well, you know. She will have pierced mysteries that have confounded necromancer and philosopher alike. Even sorcerers who were born prior to the fall of Acheron will bow before her wisdom, the wisdom of a woman who dared venture to a realm that frightens them all.”

“Yes, Father . . .” Marique worked at the next buckle. Does he not remember that I was there? He remembers her death as he needs to. Before the monks it was a foul crime. Now it becomes a bold sacrifice that launched her on a quest for lore arcane and obscure. Her mistakes, her foolishness, is what led her to her death. Is it sane to assume she will return any the wiser?

Her father drew the mask in toward his own face. The girl felt certain that if it had lips, he would have kissed it. He stared into the empty eyeholes. “Oh, Marique, can you feel it? Can you feel the future? With my beloved Maliva at my side, I shall be invincible! Nations may call forth legions to destroy us, but I shall harvest them as if they were sheaves of wheat. I shall trample on kingdoms, I shall reave empires. All history shall begin with me and dwell forever with my beloved and me.”

“Yes, Father, I believe this.” Her fingers stopped. “But, as you have taught me, as my mother taught me, prophecy and magick, these are subtle and delicate things. Must we not plan further?”

Khalar Zym turned halfway around, shifting the mask so both it and he stared at her. “What are you suggesting?”

“Father, Remo went after the girl hours ago. What if he does not return with her?”

Her father laughed coldly. “Remo will bring her, or send word where I can find her. He would rather die than disappoint me, and will sooner soar on invisible wings than fail me. Put your mind at ease, Marique.”

“I wish I could, Father.” She turned from him, stepping beyond his immediate reach. She bowed her head as a penitent might when begging for mercy. “It is just, I wonder . . .”

“What, girl, tell me . . .”

“The ritual, Father, what if it fails?”

“Fails? It is not possible.” Her father strode across the cabin and replaced the mask in its setting atop a standard. “Your mother, Marique, she uncovered the ritual. She translated the lore herself. She knew what she was doing, and went to her death confident that through it we would bring her back. The ritual will not fail . . .”

“But, Father, if it does . . .”

Khalar Zym’s eyes blazed hotly. “It will not! Maliva will return.”

Marique turned and sank to her knees before her father, throwing back her chin to expose her throat. Tears, hot, desperate tears, rolled down her cheeks. “My powers are growing, Father. I have my mother’s blood—your beloved’s blood—flowing through me. I have learned much, Father. I have studied all my mother studied, and more.”

Khalar Zym raised a hand. “Insolent child, do not presume you know more than your mother!”

Marique cast her gaze to her father’s boots. “Father, I have only ever desired to be a worthy heir to you and my mother. Thus my diligence in studies. I have uncovered secrets, as she did.” She reached out and took his other hand and kissed it gently. “Even now, to prove my love to you, Father, I could, I would, make them all kneel before you as I kneel.”

A low rumble issued from her father’s throat. The hand he’d raised in violence came down to caress her cheek. “Yes, Marique, you are like your mother in so many ways . . .”

She smiled against his hand.

He tore it from her and turned away. “But you are not her.”

Khalar Zym strode from his cabin and abandoned Marique, prostrate and weeping beneath the unseeing eyes of the Mask of Acheron.

The woman tapped her foot impatiently. “We are losing valuable time, Cimmerian. We must be away to Hyrkania immediately. My master—”

Conan curled his lip in a snarl. “You have told me ample times, Tamara Amaliat Jorvi Karushan, that your master, the exalted Master Fassir of the monastery at the heart of the Red Wastes, wishes you to go to Hyrkania. I am not deaf. I am not stupid. I do not need to hear it again.”

“And yet, here we are.” She turned toward the horses. “If you will not take me, I shall go myself.”

“You will go nowhere.”

She spun, eyes sharpened. “I am not yours to command, barbarian. I am not your property.”

“She belongs to my master.” Remo’s breath hissed from between discolored teeth. “He has sought her for decades. She is his.”

“I am no man’s chattel.”

In one quick stride Conan dropped to a knee beside Remo and pressed a dagger to his throat. “Why does he want her?”

The little man looked up. “She is special. Her blood is special.”

Conan looked back at Tamara. She was pleasing to the eye, but so had been the slave women in Messantia. He saw nothing terribly special about her. “Time for the Red Wastes to drink your blood, deceiver.”

Tamara held up a hand. “Wait, don’t kill him.”

Conan stayed his hand.

“Why do you say I am special, that my blood is special?”

The deformed man directed his answer to Conan. “It is true, Master. Khalar Zym needs her blood because she is the last of the Royal House of Acheron.”

Tamara laughed. “You’re mad. I may have grown up isolated, but even I know Acheron fell millennia ago. Their blood has long since drained from the world.”

“The whore lies, Master.”

“You can kill him now.” The woman snorted dismissively and turned away.

“No, please, Master. For her I can get you a king’s ransom. What I tell you is true. Khalar Zym has been searching for this one for twenty years.”

The Cimmerian again glanced in her direction. “What makes you so certain she is the one he seeks?”

“The monks stole her from his people. He traced her to this place.” Remo licked his thick lips. “He will be on her trail again. The man who delivers her to him will be rewarded with anything he desires.”

Conan smiled, and assumed that Remo’s corresponding smile meant that the captive imagined Conan was dreaming of gold and jewels. “Then we shall wait for Khalar.”

“A wise choice, Master, very wise. I will arrange everything. I shall be your agent. I shall deliver your message.”

Conan stood and returned the dagger to its sheath on his belt. “Yes, you will.”

He walked over to where the woman was putting a saddle on one of the horses. As she ducked down to grab the cinch strap, he plucked the saddle off the horse’s back and tossed it with the rest of the tack. “We are waiting here.”

She straightened up, making no attempt to hide her anger. “Apparently I have not made myself clear to you, barbarian. I, Tamara Amaliat Jorvi Karushan, have been charged with a sacred duty. If you will not take me to Hyrkania, then you are not the man from the vision. I shall make my own way there. Do you understand me?”

Conan chuckled, which inflamed her further.

“Why did Master Fassir not see you were an idiot?”

“Why do you believe I am stupid?” Conan folded his massive arms over his chest. “I, at least, know from whence I am come . . . and I do not need four names to fix myself in the world.”

“Do you even have one? Do you know it?”

“Yes.”

“Yes?” She raised an eyebrow. “And you haven’t thought fit to share it with me because . . . ?”

“You have have told me your name five times now. I feared I would have to repeat my name five times for you to remember it.”

Tamara stamped a foot. “Tell me your name.”

“Conan.”

“Conan? That’s it?”

“It is all I need.”

She scrubbed her hands over her face. “It’s not even a civilized name.”

“Civilized like Khalar Zym?”

Tamara started to answer sharply, then thought better of it. “He destroyed the monastery, Conan. It was horrible. He is not a man you wish to wait for. Please, I implore you, I beg you, take me to Hyrkania.”

The Cimmerian met her gaze openly. “Khalar Zym found you at the monastery. Do you not think he will track you to Hyrkania, too?”

She paused, nodding. “Yes, but it is a long journey. Something may stop him.”

“Yes, Tamara Amaliat Jorvi Karushan, something may. Something will.” Conan smiled. “I am that something, and I shall stop him soon.”

The monk shook her head. “I amend my statement. You are not just stupid, you are insane, too. Have you not heard anything I said? He destroyed a monastery full of monks trained as warriors. How can you hope to stand against him?”

Conan laughed easily. “You hide behind four names. He dreams of resurrecting Acheron. You both are proud of civilization, and look down upon me, for I am barbarian. But understand this: civilization is an illusion. What he did to your monastery was not civilized. It was savage. It was barbaric. You mean that as a curse, but I do not take it as such.”

Conan turned from her and looked away to the north. “Before I had the first hair on my chin, I met Khalar Zym. I drew his blood. Me, a barbarian child. Four years later I was among the barbarians that overran the ‘civilized’ outpost of Venarium. I have traveled throughout this world, seeing many things that call themselves civilizations, dealing with many men who counted themselves civilized, and none have beaten me. Khalar Zym shall not beat me.”

“There is no doubting, Conan, that you are a great warrior; but Khalar Zym is—”

“Khalar Zym is a man.” Conan rested a hand on his sword’s pommel. “I shall remind him of that fact.”

Tamara stared at him, then shook her head. “You do not understand.”

“Fear not, Tamara. Get some sleep.” Conan smiled happily. “I have a plan.”