“So I will answer you, Jan, after your own fashion. I cannot prevent your exiling me, no. But when you put me away, you inherit all the consequences of that act. You must live and die by those consequences. That is religion speaking, not I. Don’t expect me to alter what is unalterable.”
“I do expect it.” He swallowed. He seized her arm tightly and would not let it go, despite her struggles. He walked her along the path, and butterflies rose up. “I do expect it.
I expect you to love me still, and not to stop simply from convenience. I expect you to be above humanity, and to see beyond your suffering to the suffering of others.
“So far, in this pitiless world, your beauty has saved you from suffering. I have guarded you. Admit it, Cune, I have guarded you through these dreadful years. I returned from the Cosgatt only because you were here. By will I returned… Won’t your beauty become a curse when I am not by to act as shield? Won’t you be hunted like a deer in a forest, by men the likes of whom you have never known? What will your end be without me?
“I swear I will love you still, despite a thousand Simoda Tals, if you will tell me now—just tell me, as we kiss good-bye—that you still hold me dear, despite what I have to do.”
She broke from him and steadied herself against a rock, her face in shadow. Both of them were pale and sweated.
“You mean to frighten me, and so you do. The truth is, you drive me away because you do not understand yourself. Inwardly, you know that I understand you and your weaknesses as does no one else—except possibly your father. And you cannot bear that. You are tortured because I have compassion for you. So, yes, damn you, since you wrench it from me, yes, I do love you and will do so until I am merged with the original beholder. But you can’t accept that, can you? It’s not what you desire.”
He blazed up. “There! You hate me, really! Your words lie!”
“Oh, oh, oh!” She uttered wild cries and began to run. “Go away! Go away! You’re crazed. I declare what you ask and it maddens you! You want my hatred. Hatred is all you know! Go away—I hate you, if that satisfies your soul.”
JandolAnganol did not attempt to pursue her.
“Then the storm will come,” he said.
So smoke began to flow down and fill the bowl of Matrassyl. The king was like a man possessed after parting from MyrdemInggala. He ordered straw from the stables and had it piled about the doors of the chamber in which the Myrdolators were still imprisoned. Jars of purified whale oil were brought. JandolAnganol himself snatched a burning brand from a slave and hurled it into the kindling.
With a roar, flames burst upwards.
That afternoon, as the queen sailed, the fire raged. Nobody was allowed to check it. Its fury went unabated.
Only that night, when the king sat with his runt drinking himself insensible, were servants able to come with pumps and quench the blaze.
When pale Batalix rose next morning, the king, as was his custom, rose and presented himself to his people by the dawn light.
A larger crowd than usual awaited him. At his appearance, a low inarticulate growl arose, like the noise a wounded hound might make. In fear of the many-headed beast, he retired to his room and flung himself down on his bed. There he stayed all day, neither eating nor speaking.
On the succeeding day, he appeared to be himself again. He summoned ministers, he gave orders, he bade farewell to Taynth Indredd and Simoda Tal. He even appeared briefly before the scritina.
There was reason for him to act. His agents brought news that Unndreid the Hammer, Scourge of Mordriat, was again moving southwestwards, and had formed an alliance with Darvlish, his enemy.
In the scritina, the king explained how Queen MyrdemInggala and her brother, YeferalOboral, had been planning to assassinate the ambassador from Sibornal, who had made his escape. It was for this reason that the queen was being sent into exile; her interference in state affairs could not be tolerated. Her brother had been killed.
This conspiracy must be an object lesson to all in this time of peril for the nation. He, the king, was drawing up a plan by which Borlien would become more closely linked to its traditional friends, the Oldorandans and Pannovalans. These plans he would disclose fully in good time. His challenging gaze swept round the scritina.
SartoriIrvrash then rose, to demand that the scritina look upon new developments in the light of history.
“With the battle of the Cosgatt still fresh in our minds, we know that there are new artilleries of attack available. Even the barbarous tribes of Driats have these new—guns, as they are called. With a gun, a man can kill an enemy as soon as he can see him. Such things are mentioned in old histories, although we cannot always trust what we read in old histories.
“However. We are concerned with guns. You saw them demonstrated. They are made in the great northern continent by the nations of Sibornal, who have a preeminence in manufacturing arts. They possess deposits of lignite and metal ores which we do not. It is necessary for us to remain on good terms with such powerful nations, and so we have put down firmly this attempt to assassinate the ambassador.”
One of the barons at the back of the scritina shouted angrily, “Tell us the truth. Wasn’t Pasharatid corrupt? Didn’t he have a liaison with a Borlienese girl in the lower town, contravening our laws and his?”
“Our agents are investigating,” said SartoriIrvrash, and went on hastily. “We shall send a deputation to Askitosh, capital of the nation Uskutoshk, to open a trade route, hoping that the Sibornalese will be more friendly than hitherto.
“Meanwhile, our meeting with the distinguished diplomats from Oldorando and Pannoval was successful. We have received a few guns from them, as you know. If we can send sufficient quantities of guns to our gallant General Hanra TolramKetinet, then the war with Randonan will be quickly over.”
Both the king’s speech and SartoriIrvrash’s were received coldly. Supporters of Baron RantanOboral, MyrdemInggala’s father, were present in the scritina. One of them rose and asked, “Are we to understand that it is these new weapons which are responsible for the deaths of sixty-one Myrdolators? If so, they are powerful weapons indeed.”
The chancellor’s reply was uncertain.
“An unfortunate fire broke out at the castle, started by the ex-queen’s supporters, many of whom lost their lives in the blaze they had themselves caused.”
As SartoriIrvrash and the king left the chamber, a storm of noise broke out.
“Give them the wedding,” said SartoriIrvrash. “They’ll forget their anger as they coo over the prettiness of the child bride. Give them the wedding as soon as possible, Your Majesty. Make the fools forget one swindle with another.”
He looked away to hide his revulsion for his own role.
Tension hung over all who lived in the castle of Matrassyl, except for the phagors, whose nervous systems were immune to expectation. But even the phagors were uneasy, for the stench of burning still clung to everything.
Scowling, the king retired to his suite. A section of the First Phagorian stood duty outside his door, and Yuli remained with them while JandolAnganol prayed in his private chapel with his Royal Vicar. After prostrating himself in prayer, he had himself scourged.
While being bathed by his female servants, he summoned his chancellor back to him. SartoriIrvrash appeared after a third summons, clad in an ink-stained flowered charfrul and rush slippers. The old man looked aggrieved, and stood before the king without speaking, smoothing his beard.
“You’re vexed?” JandolAnganol addressed him from the pool. The runt sat a short distance away, its mouth open.
“I’m an old man, Your Majesty, and have endured deep botheration this day. I was resting.”