“Where is the Warden? I should like to speak to him.”
“The lord Warden hasn’t yet risen, lady.”
Even the title—miserly enough—was delivered with a certain sneering slur. He found it easy to forget who I was—who I had been?
“Soldier,” I said, “I am Uastis of Ezlann, Reincarnate of the Old Race, wife to Vazkor Javhovor, Overlord of White Desert. I am addressed as “goddess” by men who are standing on their feet, and have bowed their heads to me first.”
There was an uneasy shuffling from the table as the soldier’s two companions got up from their chairs, and stood awkwardly, in positions of uncertain respect. The man I had spoken to, however, seemed unimpressed, and my words tempted him into insolence.
“I have heard of a goddess,” he said, “in Ezlann. And then, lady, you wore a plain mask when you came here, and a plain robe, too. Those things ... well, they’re the Warden’s bounty, if I recall correctly.”
I did not feel angry, only knew I dared not let my authority fall out of appreciation, here, of all places, where I sensed so much danger.
“Soldier,” I said, and I walked close to him, and stared at his eyes behind the bronze mask, eyes slippery, and unwilling to be caught. “Men do not insult me twice. Since you need proof of me, I am afraid I must give it. You will not forget who I am. Lift your hand.” He whimpered, and I knew I had him then. “My touch is fire, the brand to you.”
I laid one finger on his naked palm, and he screamed.
“Go free!” I hissed, and the trance broke from him. He ran back, nursing his blisters, sobbing with shock and fright. “Now,” I said, “you say the Warden has not yet risen. Go and tell him to rise. I shall expect to see him here before that candle stub has burned out.”
This time, I was obeyed.
I glanced at Mazlek, and his eyes had narrowed behind the mask in a malicious grin, proud of me and my ferocious powers. I sat down to wait, and watched the door across the yellow velvet hump of my belly.
In fact, the Warden was not long in coming, masked and ringed, yet still in his bedrobe. He took off the mask, bowed, and put it on again. I wondered if he had heard anything of the scene in the hall. I could see he wanted to draw nearer to the hearth where a fire was eating a breakfast of loss. He shivered meaningfully, but I sat where I was and left him to suffer. I was not certain how I should begin my interrogation, or even if I had been wise to start with him, and any advantage was a comfort.
“Good morning, Warden. I find I must thank you for my wardrobe.”
“Nothing.” He bowed again.
“Your hospitality is most welcome to the Lord Vazkor and myself.”
“I—I trust the Javhovor is in better health today—some illness on the journey, I believe.”
I noted that he had called Vazkor “Javhovor” only, not “overlord.”
“No illness,” I said carefully, “merely fatigue. But Eshkorek will provide him with rest.” My host gave a little nervous laugh. “Tell me,” I said, “this is surely a fortress; why is there no garrison?”
“Oh, but there has been no garrison for many, many years. A remote spot, and very little to capture, even if an army should cross the mountains from Purple Valley.”
“As it well may,” I said. He started. “You surely know of the havoc we left behind us, Warden? It would be advisable for the Cities of White Desert to hold together under this threat.” Again a little start, as if I had probed into a bad tooth. Certainly there was trouble then, for Vazkor, and so perhaps for myself, but I set it aside. “I am curious, Warden,” I said. “I am curious because, if there is no garrison, why is there a holding here at all?”
“A—matter of policy,” he said, very stiffly, and I could tell I had touched a nerve once more, but a different decay this time, possibly more rotten than the first.
“Then your soldiers are guarding nothing?”
“No, indeed—except, in theory, the tower.”
Liar.
I nodded, and, after a minute’s polite talk, sent him graciously away. I went to my room, and asked Mazlek to follow me.
“What do you know of the structural plan of the tower?” I asked him.
“Very little,” he said. “Stores and armories, private chambers above, below—kitchens, bathhouse, barracks—empty now.”
“And below that?”
“Cellars probably.”
Until that I had not been sure where my frenzied mental quest was taking me, drawing on my instincts only. But now I felt a rush of coldness through my body, knew I had grasped a piece of darkness, unseen, but vital.
“Cellars,” I repeated, “and under those—dungeons, Mazlek?”
I saw him check, as I had done.
“Yes,” he said, and stared at me.
Neither of us spoke of the sense of discovery which had come so abruptly. It was incredible, unthinkable. And yet, this tower: “My gift from the last Javhovor of Eshkorek Arnor,” Vazkor had said.
And so, Vazkor’s possession, Vazkor’s fortress, defense, prison.
“Mazlek,” I said. “After dark. The first hour. It should be quiet then.” And he nodded, so that I needed to say no more.
2
I did not mean to sleep at all that night, but tiredness made me lie on the curtained bed, and I dozed and woke up again in terrible starts. Dreams—faces, white with open eyes, staring, the stone bowl and its jumping fire ... Mazlek’s scratch on the door. I sat up and pulled myself from the bed. I felt afraid, heavy with fear. I opened the door, and he stood there, a low burning lamp in one hand, drawn knife in the other.
“Goddess,” he said, “I asked one of Vazkor’s men how to get to the wine cellars. Not as low as we’ll need to go, but near it, I thought. About an hour later I went there and searched them thoroughly. There seemed to be no way to get farther down, but there was luck with me. The old woman came into the cellars by the stairs from the kitchen.”
“Did she see you, Mazlek?”
“No. I hid myself, but little need. I think her sight is weak, and her mind is worse. There is a moving panel, and steps beyond.”
“Does it open only to her?”
“No, goddess. When she had come back, and was gone again, I tried the place—a harlot of a wall, open to anyone.” For a moment he paused, the light flickering softly on his mask. Then he said, “She carried food of a kind, slops in a bowl. When she came back, she did not bring it with her.”
“Mazlek,” I said. My heartbeat was a fiery pain under my breast.
“If you would prefer to remain here, goddess, I will go there alone.”
“No,” I said.
He nodded, and turned away down the stairway, and I followed him.
I did not believe it, even then—could not let myself believe it. Yet I knew, with desperate certainty. Each step downward made me more impatient for the next, but, at the same moment, I was terrified.
It was a long way. Abruptly we reached the black vaulted place where they kept their wine and oil, and almost mesmerized by the endless winding stairs, I stumbled. Mazlek steadied me and I clutched his arm.
“Mazlek,” I said hoarsely, “do you believe the prisoner here is who I believe it to be—or am I mad?”
“Asren, Phoenix, Javhovor of Ezlann,” he said, as hoarsely as I.
I let out my breath in a stifled sigh.