The man in the twilight had proved Yeiza’s clever deductions were correct. His master, Rarmon, required a token from the Queen. She had so far refused from loyalty to Raldanash, though, as the go-between stressed, Rarmon was the one lover who could protect her and offer her the honor she merited.
Presently, the conspiracy became more personal.
Suppose the token could be gained without Ulis Anet’s knowledge? Her guilt would not be roused, but the Lord Rarmon would assume himself at liberty to come to her. Once two such persons were alone together with privacy and a bed, who could doubt nature must take its course?
Yeiza did not doubt. She even suspected in this the connivance of the Storm Lord himself. She had heard talk by now that all his women were left alone at night and encouraged to remedy the matter as they wished.
She had also noticed how this apartment connected by a garden walk to a number of deserted courts before reentering the outer environs of the palace. For clandestine visitors, the way was fortuitous.
Nor did Yeiza forget, going out to deposit the lover’s token with Rarmon’s servant, to leave the door on to that walk unlocked.
Iros Am Xarabiss, commander of the guard of Xarabians attendant on one of the Storm Lord’s lesser queens, checked drunk and ill-humored at the foot of the Imperial Hill. He had been trying tonight to buy his way instead into a position of battle command, filled by a rage to kill Free Zakorians, which conveniently masked for him his septic rebuke at the hands of Ulis Anet. But the bribery had not gone well. He felt himself insulted. He felt himself seen through. He, who was the son of Xaros, hero of the Lowland War. The wine had flowed angrily at an expensive inn.
Up in the air the fire-eyes of the Rarnammon statue blazed.
Below, the man stood bowing in its shadow.
Then something was extended, and slipped into Iros’ hand.
“Do you know this tress of hair, my lord?”
Iros stared. The pole-torches of the city gave excellent light.
“And the ribbon,” said the man. “You may have seen her wear that at supper.”
“How did you come by it?”
“No need for alarm, my lord. My mistress could assure you of that. She asks you to attend her this evening.”
Iros lurched forward. The man drew back.
“Ulis—” Iros said. His tongue was thick, and his head, but his heart raced now to clear them.
“You’re to go where the paper tells you. Be there by midnight, my lord.”
Iros did not even look at the paper until the man slithered away across the square. Breakers of huge emotion were rocking the commander. Now she would heal his lacerations with love.
He had never really doubted she must return to him as soon as she was able. He held the lock of hair to his lips, breathing in its fragrance, a lust on him like Zastis, already planning all he would say to her, do with her.
Only when he peered at the paper was he rather aggravated. It seemed a long and curious way to go for prudence’s sake.
Ulis Anet woke in a vague dim horror that had no source. All about the night was quiet. The aromatic lamps burned low, flickering. A bird fluttered its wings in a jeweled cage.
She had dreamed of a sailed boat, black on a dying sunset sea, rowed toward a shore of snow. One man sat behind the sail. She could not make out his face.
He held her in his arms.
She left the bed. She was afraid—or was it fear?
A masculine voice spoke from the doorway, startling her so much she could only turn to him slowly, almost calmly. There were two of them, white-cloaked, Raldanash’s elite guard.
“Forgive me, madam,” one of them said again. “You must come with us. Dress quickly. There’s little time.”
She did not move. Consternation had not yet reached her.
“What is it?”
“The Storm Lord’s received word Free Zakorian assassins have penetrated the grounds. These courts are vulnerable. The royal women are being escorted to safety.”
“Very well,” she said.
They retreated, and the curtain swung to.
Her pulses were clamoring now. Still it was not fear, and still the aura of the dream had not left her. Nevertheless she dressed swiftly, took up a mantle and went out to them in the antechamber.
Beyond the rooms the darkness was silent, as it usually was in this quarter of the palace. The men walked one on either side of her, tense and watchful. It would be possible to imagine a cutthroat in every shrub, behind every pillar. They reached a wall and a gate was opened. In an archway, a covered carriage waited. No guards were in evidence here, although this was one of the exits from the palace grounds.
“But where will I be taken?” she said.
“Just get in, lady. For your safety.”
She obeyed them. They did not follow her. The door was fastened shut and instantly the carriage was moving.
They were proceeding uphill at a jolting heavy gallop—toward the Anackire Temple?
Presently she found the window-spaces of the carriage were also immovably covered and she might not see out of them. The door had been secured from the outside.
She was a prisoner, rushed toward some unknown fate. She suddenly thought: Can Raldanash mean to have me murdered?
The ruins of Koramvis were eerie and desolate by night. Iros left his chariot, and walked down to the edge of the River Okris. The directions on the paper were explicit, the standing house with the tall tree in its courtyard quickly located. He ascended the river terrace, stumbling on the misplaced flags, and pushed open broken doors.
There was a stairway, and at the top a hint of the faint topaz glow of a lamp.
He grinned with relief, and his excitement came back to warm him.
Iros mounted the stair, went through the shadows and into a salon. And found, in the light of a single bronze lamp, that he had been surrounded by men in coal-black mail. Men who showed their teeth. One of whom said, “Not exactly the feast you had in mind, eh, Xarabian?”
He tried to draw sword, but someone stopped him. Iros himself was not in mail, and someone else drove a knife through his ribs into his heart.
He was not quite dead as they dragged him down the stairs, but he was no longer an arrogant officer, no longer a proud peacock. He was a boy, sobbing in his soul for Xarabiss and the laughing father who had carried him on his shoulders, and for light, and for life.
But poised in the air all he saw were the hard stars of Dorthar, and the black river of Dorthar gaped for him, before his passage cleaved it.
The jouncing jolting ride seemed to last forever, the zeebas galloping in fits and starts, as was their wont. When the carriage stopped and the door was opened, she saw the upper foothills of Dorthar’s mountains had come closer. Jumbles of masonry informed her further. She was on the outskirts of Koramvis, far above Anackyra’s plain. There seemed to be the remains of a wharf, and beyond that the ancient river.
Beside her were soldiers. Two others riding up were those who had conducted her from her apartment; they were no longer dressed in the garb and blazon of Raldanash’s Chosen Guard.
She stood and looked at them all. She was not afraid, only very cold, with the esoteric awe of these men a child may sometimes experience for adults.
One approached her, offering her a cup with wine in it.
It was incongruous. She did not accept the cup, but she said, “Is it poison?”
“No, lady. We’ve had instructions you’re not to be harmed, only cherished. But there’s some way to go by river. This will help you to sleep.”