In the Tent of the Ceaseless Sun

It is the desert night and the sky is alight as with phytoplankton. All is still save a subtle tendril of wind from the west. A vision: she sees rows of golden trees growing...growing...catching fire and going as ash in the wind. A golden woman walks just beyond. Something is not right. Above, the sun goes out. She is returned to the night.

They moved with sullen gravitas across the distant plains--banners burning blue across the endless sky. Behind them: an entourage which stretched for miles, all armed and deadly as the storm. Great tents the entourage had, dragged on silver skates by beasts from the deep desert. Hides hardened by the sun, they snuffed and passed on shaved hooves their masters had capped in gold.

At the heart of the host--where a guard of skull-helmed women marched--ran the grandest tent. Torre'Sadith they had named it--Castle of the Ceaseless Sun. Its buttresses were canvas; gentle-swaying support beams its ramparts. Wind kept it full, lifting up its many curtains like a balloon and leaking out through hissing, subtle windows. A whistle like the call of oasis sirens came from the windows, joining the clink of marching metal and baying of the beasts. So moved the entourage. On and out below that ceaseless sun. 

Eena, who was mistress of the southern covens, rode up through the rear ranks. Leading her horse through the dust, she studied the many weavings across Torre'Sadith. Great, black desert roses spiraled over the canvas--twisting specters of ink in the noon. She, riding alongside the tent's massive sled, handed her reigns to an attendant and stepped aboard. The vehicle shuddered underfoot, sand rippling up between its massive boards. For a moment she recalled the sea--the rocking, the roar. Sighing, she moved on, the call of the skates over the sand below her, hissing. Here the grand tent was opened to her, and she passed between two silent shield maidens. Cautious eyes studied her. Turquoise eyes. Unnatural--bleached, she knew, by lizard's blood.

The gaze passed. The hiss dampened. The cool shade of Torre'Sadith swallowed her.  

"Ah! Welcome, sister!"

A council sat on pillows in the gloom. Strange cigarettes they shared. Blue was their smoke. Deep blue. Censers swayed from the creaking support beams. On her back, Eena could feel the winds rushing in and up. Bowing, she strode up and took her place in their circle.

"My friends, you remember Eena, yes?" At their head was on old man with a second pair of arms. Yet, these arms were brass, and they ticked and steamed and stuttered. Brushing cigarette soot from his maroon robes, he motioned to the three others around him. "She is the youngest mistress we have seen in some long while--a much-needed touch of youth, if you ask me."

Eena bowed again. "Thank you, Grand Orator. It is an honor to be amongst you again."

"Indeed," spoke another man in heavy black cloth. This man too had metal appendages, though twice as many and his were much more spindly. His eyes were hidden under several loupes of dark-green lenses. His chin was unshaven and pock-marked, yet his teeth were flawless. Interlacing his fingers, he nodded at the newcomer.

Eena, taking her seat, accepted a cigarette from a woman in orange robes. The woman was bald and blue-eyed. Her flesh--heavily-scared and ancient--bore an armada of dark, mantoid tattoos.

A sexless person in utter gold raised an eyebrow and leaned towards Eena. "You are late, mistress, I trust the caravan did not give you any trouble."

"No, Battle Master, only the weather."

Satisfied, the battle master sat back.

"Then we are almost all here. City Master Mezz is late, but she always is." Said the grand orator. Eena sighed inwardly. She had hoped Mezz had already arrived. "We shan't wait for her. She would not want it. Let us begin, my dear friends. Kendo, if you would..."

The green-lensed man nodded and pulled a black-paper scroll from his robes. "The matter of the Brynnish rebels is first, your eminence. They have grown quite bold since last spring, and I fear they grow in numbers."

The battle-master frowned. "The walls around Brynwood are tall. The rebels are helpless."

"Regardless," said the grand orator, "we must heed all concerns. Though I doubt the rebels could ever manage lasting harm, we must treat them with caution. Should they further their reach--should their preachings spread, we may have greater disorder on our hands. Brood Mother Ix," he motioned to the bald woman, "what would you recommend?"

Brood Mother Ix nodded, took a moment, and spoke. "I can spare a number of my daughters to infiltrate the rebels--initiates so they do not attract unwanted attention. We shall weave disorder--blood--through their ranks."

Eena flinched. She had walked among the rebels--had prayed over their dead and consoled those left behind. Her faith chose no sides. Having seen the chaos sown by the rebels--having read their doctrines--Eena was not so resolute. She, debating silence, took another long drag of smoke and found her courage. "Forgive me, brood mother, but the church cannot support, as you say, 'blood'. Not without clear signs of heresy, which they have not shown. If it must be subterfuge, let it be a diplomatic sort."

Kendo raised a clockwork hand. "I agree. We want the Brynnish on our side. Fully. Win their leaders with potential, wealth. If you can get even a few on our side, the rest will follow."

"Well said, the both of you." The grand orator smiled. "Though I believe Ix's daughters will still serve as the tool to this end."

Ix nodded, pridefully.

"Very good. Like termites, we will eat them away. Like dragons, bring them to our trove." He paused for a moment, looking for rebuttal. None came. Only the hiss of the outer sands. "Let us move on to the matter of Sorpa-sor."

The battle master, who seemed displeased the walls had not been so trusted, scoffed. "That is all these meetings have become."

Eena frowned. "It is an important subject."

"It is a redundant subject! It is a foolish subject! What is it the city masters would ask or now? A legion of oni-guards? Funds to waste on a new dome for their citadels?"

"The upkeep of the capital is a sacred task. We should be honored to-"

"Damnation to sanctity!" The battle master rose. "We are to govern the people, not the stone. Pour what money you will to the capital's frivolities, but remember those starving and homeless on the northern expanses."

Kendo groaned in dismay; the brood mother cried her protestation. 

"Remember why the Brynnish seek revolution! Remember how endangered our people are in the south! And for what? A promenade of dusty statues and the glory of dead fools!"

"BLASPHEMY!" Eena stood. She, gritting her teeth, pointed a shaking finger at the battle master. "Sorpa-sor is the heart of all we are! You will not besmirch its names or its heroes."

The grand orator raised his hands. "Peace, friends. The point of this council is singular. We cannot allow our beliefs to cloud the needs of the state--the whole state." His eyes lingered over Eena and the battle master. The two fell silent. "Sorpa-sor is our heart, but our people our blood. We cannot abandon either. Mezz should be here soon. She will have the fine details on the capital's needs."

Kendo, trying to dull the growing strain in the air, chuckled. "If she shows! Timeliness has never been her strong suit, but this! My, my." His attempt fell flat; Eena and the battle master glowered at him. Slumping, he fell silent and fiddled with his clockwork hands.

Eena struggled to get her breath under control. The battle master had always known how to irritate her. The lack of respect with which the battle master treated sacred relics was irksome--some would say 'heretical'. They were, the two of them, friends in some distant way. Closing her eyes, Eena recalled when they first met. Two years ago, at the banks of Suld--wind dry and slow, night bright and moon-full. She'd admired the stern captain--the regality with which they carried themself. The honor, discipline, and care--care for all the empire's citizens. Was there anything as holy as a kind commander? Perhaps not.

It would be Ix who finally broke the prolonged silence which followed. "Very late. Too late. Even for Mezz."

The mention of Mezz made Eena's gut roll. She was a beautiful woman, Mezz--augmented to perfection by the rich arcana of the capital. She was, unlike the battle master, extraordinarily kind. Falsely so--bordering on the untrustworthy. Untrustworthy or otherwise, Eena would miss her should she not appear.

Some twist of fate went along the wind, and the wind grew fierce and died.

The tent vaults died down some, propped now only by their beams and the rushing of the sled. There was a din as the echo of distant sea-bells--a curious sound none of them could place, but all of them harkened to. Silence fell between them, a nervous kind as if brought thence by some outer doom. The cigarettes died. The censers took up as rabid drakes, drool-smoke oozing to the floor in wafts of running ghosts. Despite the desert weather, Eena felt chilled. There was an utterance from the door.

Looking, there, Eena beheld a lone shield maiden in the brilliant entry. Though but a shade, Eena could feel the cold ire in the guardian's eyes.

"Approach," said the grand orator. "sister. Please."

The shield maiden did so, her steps lost in a growing murmur that was not the wind.

"Forgive me, councilors." The maiden's voice faltered--something that was unheard of among the sacred guard. "We have another visitor."

There was a momentary silence.

The grand orator cocked an eyebrow. "'Visitor'?"

"Yes, orator. From the deep desert. I would not allow her admittance, ser, but she is persistent." The maiden bared her teeth. "And wrathful."

Shield maidens were famous for their cryptic way of speaking. Strange witch-nuns from the desert heart--all of them possessed in some degree by madness. Yet, Eena had learned to piece together their meanings over the years. This maiden before them, Eena could not understand in the slightest.

Stuttering on his words, the grand orator called for this guest to be let in.

Disappearing into the sear of day, the shield maiden said no more. Five minutes passed--it seems too long a time. At last, a new silhouette appeared. All of them tensed, though none knew why. It was, as far as they could tell, a woman. Not particularly tall, nor particularly imposing, but a great shroud of doom was amassed about the sweeping tails of her long coat. She was either bald or helmed, and the sun glittered across her in golden bursts. Beside her--glowing green--was a great, cylindrical tank.

The grand orator cocked an eyebrow. "Madam...enter please. At least step away from the door. This is a place of peace, we mean you no harm."

She, carrying the tank, moved forward. Her movements made strange, ticking noises.

A welt bubbled in Eena's guts. The room reeked of smoke. And heresy. Scooting farther from the door, she quivered.

Behold: the woman wore a strange armor in entirety, every limb decked in black and gold plates overlaid clockwork, glowing vials, and tubes. Her helm was tight about her and all-hiding. Goggles of a black glass peered from them; steam leaked from skeletal exhaust ports. A duster caked in mud and age swam about her. Despite the coat, the council could tell the woman was armed to the teeth: lead-spitters and blades and spears and things that bore no names but which killed with doubtless precision.

She stopped a few meters away and bowed. "It is an honor, councilors. I beg your pardon for the intrusion."

Ix eyed the woman carefully, wary of all her many armaments and the strange crafting of her gear. "It is considered a crime to enter into such a council without an invitation, stranger."

"I have one," said the woman. "Of a sort, that is."

"What invitation?" Kendo looked between his fellows. "One of you knows this woman?"

"No." The woman's voice was final--a last cliff before desolation. "My invitation is of a different nature."

"Meaning?"

"In a moment, grand orator. Allow me to introduce myself first."

The battle master growled. "She is a machine. Look how she whirrs."

"I am flesh and blood, same as you."

"And what is it called," said Kendo, "this plate that you wear?"

"It is my tool. My companion. The armor of my mission."

Eena's throat felt dry--from more, she thought, than just the cigarette smoke. She adjusted the robes about her throat. She adjusted again. Her very skin felt uncomfortable. The woman was very still, and her goggles impenetrable. Still, Eena could not shake the feeling of being stared at. Her very innards felt transparent.

The grand orator laughed. It did not dispel the rising dread. "What, woman, is your mission?"

"Revenge."

At the sound of the word, Eena shut her eyes. She could feel her fellow council members tense around her. The doom was made clear now. This mystery woman had come for someone's blood. Outside, the wind was silent. Not even the sound of the great skates across the sand echoed in.

Brood mother Ix rose to her feet and reached for a blade around her belt. "You will mind your tongue, woman. And I charge you choose your next words with utmost care. Beyond this tent are guards who would-"

"Let me in," the woman finished. Ix fell silent. At last, the woman inched forwards, folding her hands behind her back in cold defiance. Her voice--was there a hint of joy in it? "They let me in for they fear what will happen if they do not. That is the guard you would warn me of."

"Who are you?" The grand orator stood with such rage he smacked his head against a censer and did not flinch. "Answer!"

The woman studied him. Somewhere low behind her goggles flashed a green light like lightning through the sea. A ringing rolled through Eena's ears and she moved her hands to cup them. Though she squeezed, the sound would not abate. Deep magik--foul chinery. Heresy and sacrilege. That was the mantle of this woman, and Eena feared it too deeply to speak.

At last--like the call of distant ships--the woman's voice rang out. Resolute, proud, ageless. "I am who the people have named Lady Celeste."

The silence passed. Wind roared into the tent, casting pillows and cigarettes about.

"I am the Queen of Roses and the Apocalyptic Princess. I am she--the Desert Rat and Wife of Wardens. I was born before your flags were unfurled and there to watch your promises go unkept. It is I who escaped the inescapable prison and I who wields the puzzle sword." She, voice rising, lifted the cylinder-tank and twisted something on its top. It steamed and sleek sidings fell off. "I have wept with the wronged and dined in the gutters beyond your windows. I am the daughter or wrath, and my invitation is this."

Eena screamed. The battle master went limp. Kendo and the grand orator, crying in protestation, reeled back. Ix was still. Eena's belly erupted and tore, her fear bubbling up between her teeth and threatening to steal upon the floor.

There, floating in a green liquid the cylinder-tank held, was the head of Mezzona Trujillo III, City Master of Sorpa-sor. Her eyes drifted lazily in opposite directions, her tongue bobbed stupidly in the fluid. It was a pale, bloated, loveless mockery of the woman Eena had so often remembered in dreams. Tears threatened at Eena's eyes.

When the initial horror passed, Ix stepped forward. "Your head shall be cloven from you, and your body dragged through the-"

"Mezzona was not a good person," the woman interjected. The sound of her voice--full wroth and bitter--froze the brood mother. "Regardless of what you may have believed. She bartered in human lives." Turning to Ix, the woman advanced. All at once, she seemed to grow much taller. The wind worsened. "Even children. Good workers, they--they do not so easily rebel."

Eena shivered. Many of those who tended the holy gardens were children. Orphans given a greater purpose in a world which had abandoned them.

"You are Brynnish?" Said Kendo. "Your accent, perhaps...a rebel?"

The woman turned to him. "I am desolation, Kendo Ahmi."

The man recoiled at the frankness with which he was adressed.

"I am the wrath of more than just the Brynnish."

"Enough of this," the grand orator waved his hands. "Enough! Tell us what you want, woman. And be gone!"

There was a silence. A draining, droning, daunting silence.

Eena studied Mezz's head, then the woman. Who was this demon from the sands? This fool who spoke to them with such ire? It was sacrilege! It would not stand! "NO! Do not hear another word from her. Slay her! Call the guard and slay her now."

No one moved--the woman did not even flinch.

"Slay her!"

"I want only to be honest," said the woman. "My presence her is a sign of war."

"Don't you hear me? Kill this demon!"

"Silence, Eena!" The grand orator would not take his eyes from the woman. "What do you mean? 'A sign of war'? What war? With whom?"

The woman looked up. "Its grows late. My horse is waiting."

"Kill her!"

Kendo smacked Eena. "Silence! At once!"

The woman, bowing again, turned and made her way to the entrance, leaving the head behind.

"No! Do not let her leave!"

The battle master rested a hand on Eena's shoulder. "Be quiet, child."

"'Quiet'? She walks free! Kill her! Kill her!" But none would do so. The wind grew to a roar and the light beyond the tent had dimmed to a saddened red. The head bobbed in the tank, the woman disappeared beyond. "Kill her!" Pleaded Eena, yet none would listen.

It is late evening and the desert blazes in the felled form of the sun. She sees rows of rotting trees reborn in a black sun. She sees flames and locusts and premonitions of doom. She fears a golden woman walking between the trees, for she knows the woman is rot and time and decay and change.