The slick of oil was spattering out in rings as raindrops fell into it. The old dead coals were almost submerged. Dwyrin thought of the pillar of flame in the temple, now days behind. That whole valley had been dark when the Greek and his men had ridden forth. Dwyrin had not looked back, feeling ill and weak. The ancient building was pitch black, without even the light of the moon to illuminate it.
Dwyrin raised his hand, feeling power bubble up in him, rushing and quick, like a spring stream. The coals in the bottom of the pit began to hiss and the water to steam. This is so easy, he thought with a grin. One of the coals turned a ruddy orange and the sludge of water began to bubble and boil. Steam curled up from the surface as another coal caught, burning under the water. Raindrops spattered down, but they hissed away into more steam before they could touch the fiercely bubbling water.,
“See, here is your fire for winter!”
Flames roared up, wrapped in scalding steam, and the room was suddenly hot. The water hissed away, leaving burning coals and a bright fire in the pit. Dwyrin turned, silhouetted against the flames, his face cast in red-orange relief by the hot light. He was grinning.
The old man had stood as well, his face dark as a summer thunderstorm. His eyes flashed in the firelight. “I see nothing. The way is finding the flame that is hidden and allowing it come forth of its own volition. You are a crude boy, without restraint.” The old man’s voice was muted thunder.
Dwyrin stepped back, suddenly sick at the reproach and pity in the bright eyes.
“Flame that comes quickly dies quickly.” The old man stepped forward and Dwyrin stumbled back over his bedroll. “A flame to light the world takes a long time to come, nutured, steady and slow, it might take years or decades or centuries. This witch-light is nothing, a passing fancy.”
Dwyrin scrambled up in a dark room. The fire in the pit had guttered down to nothing, only some cracked stones and a faint hissing as more rain spattered in through the hole in the roof. A sense of terrible shame pressed at his heart. He gathered up his baggage and ran out into the street. The rain was heavier now, and the air colder. He slid down the cobblestones toward the other road.
Ting-ting came the sound, faint in the patter of the rain.
B(»(())‘(0MQW(M»(()MQH()W()HQHQMM)H0H(MM)H0H0HQH0h()1 THE PALACE OF SWANS, CTESIPHON . H
Despite the hour, late after the rising of the moon, the halls of the palace were filled with light. Thyatis, following an unusually ebullient Jusuf, glanced sidelong at grand colonnades of marble pillars, slim and topped with acanthus capitals. On every pillar lanterns burned brightly. The broad floors, a pale.azure color, were clean swept and the walls were covered with incised murals of the victories of the kings of Persia. Thyatis was garbed in a delicate silk gown under a supple dark robe. Only her slate-gray eyes, edged with kohl, showed amid the headdress. As befitted a woman of her station, she kept a pace behind Jusuf and a step to the side.
In turn, he was gorgeously appointed in blue and green linen with a silk scarf draped around his neck. His shoes were jeweled and curled up at the pointed tips. The afternoon had been spent carefully waxing his beard and sharpening the points of his mustaches. Now he cut a dashing figure, one that was completely in place, and thus invisible, in the palace of the King of Kings. Far more demure in her dark cloak and robe, Thyatis was also invisible, though her nerves had been on edge since their carriage had been admitted to the grounds of the stupendous palace. The servant whb was escorting them paused before a tall doorway with a pointed arch. He bowed to the two guards, massively built black men in leather and iron, and whispered to them.
The guardsmen, somber in a dull red and black, returned the bow and opened the door behind them. Soft music drifted out and Thyatis forced herself to remain behind
Jusuf as he bowed to the room and entered in stately fashion. The servant sidled up to the Bulgar and Jusuf bent his head to listen. A bag of heavy coins was pressed into the eunuch’s hand and the plump little man bowed again before closing the doors behind him as he left the room.
Thyatis balanced forward on the balls of her feet. Raw boldness had gotten them this far, and the last of their gold had bought entrance to this room, but now she fretted at the prospect of Jusuf carrying off the last of his little stratagem.
Three days before, sitting on the mud-brick wall of a second-rate caravanserai on the outskirts of the sprawling Persian capital, Thyatis had frowned at the taciturn Northerner.
“My friend,” she had said, “do not take it wrongly, but as a matter of course, you are a gloomy fellow. You are brave and quick with a sword or bow-true-but you do not, as a rule, have a sunny disposition. In fact, you have the demeanor of a lemon.”
Jusuf, grinning smugly, had remained before her, brown arms crossed over his broad chest. He was grinning particularly at Nikos, who was eyeing him with his usual distaste.
“Well?” Jusuf said. “Here we are, but there are no Armenians to raise up in revolt. Any good we might do to help the Emperors must come from being properly placed in the city when, at last, their armies come before the gates.”,
The Bulgar turned and pointed off across the roofs of the city. Thousands of whitewashed mud-brick buildings rose up on a low hill at the edge of the Tigris. Above the tenements, on a great raised platform of brick terraces, stood the palace of the King of Kings. Actually, one of three palaces. This one shone in the hot sun like a beacon, its roofs plated with gold and the delicate architecture of its towers and dome a sharp contrast to the crowed narrow streets and dark bazaars of the city.
“What better place to be, when that day comes, than within the Palace of Swans?”
Nikos coughed and made a face at the barbarian. “Thyatis has an unusual fondness for underground places, friend Jusuf, but it does not seem likely to me that the sewers of the Imperial Palace are going to be unguarded. How do you propose getting into the palace, much less at the proper time?”
Jusuf rocked from one foot to the other. His grin, if anything, grew wider. “Because, my good Roman friends, I know someone in the palace. Someone important.”
The disbelief on Thyatis’ face must have been obvious, for the Bulgar snickered.
“Who?” She did not believe it. There was no way this steppe-rider had a contact in the second biggest city in the world, or within the palace of an Emperor.
“You’ll see,” Jusuf said, still smiling that big grin. “How much gold do you have left?”
The round chamber was softly lit by tall lanterns of copper and amethyst. Deliciously thick carpets covered the floor and spilled through the doorways. No bare wall was visible, save at the edges of the doorways, for heavy tapestries and hangings covered them. Brass chains hanging from the ceiling held more lanterns and the air was touched by the sweet smell of incense. Somewhere, through one of the doorways, a lyre played, a haunting sound pitched low enough to permit quiet conversation.
Jusuf stopped and stood waiting, the richness and subtlety of the furnishings making him seem garish and clumsy in his costume. Thyatis counted doors-three-and eyed the rooms beyond. If anything, they were more gorgeously appointed than this entryway. A severe-looking dark-haired woman dressed in dull gray entered through the doorway on the left. Amid the soft luxury of the rooms, the matron’s harsh figure was a shock. She frowned, her face clouding with anger when she saw them.
“You must leave,” she said in a clipped voice. “My mistress is not entertaining visitors at this hour.” Her voice, though thickened by anger, was naturally melodious and her Persian flawless.