The rider bore her down a narrow corridor past doorways closed by thick, richly decorated blankets, then through one final portal that held an actual wooden door, quite thick. She saw a ceiling of tree-trunk beams, stone walls darkened by dampness and lit by the glow of a brazier, and a rack of shelves containing clay jars and wooden boxes. The acrid reek of the place assaulted her nostrils—brimstone, saltpeter, smoke, and mold. Her stomach knotted as she recognized it for a sorcerer's workroom.
Her fear accelerated to panic as an old face loomed into her vision, a wrinkled and wind-burned face squinting down at her and nodding with satisfaction. He wore the headdress of a barbarian shaman. He spoke; Balkis recognized the language as Khitan and, thanks to the silent translation spell the Lord Wizard had taught her, understood it as well.
“Yes, that is she,” the old man said. “That is one of the pair who can prevent the gur-khan from rising again. Without her, Maracanda will lie open to him when he has reunited his forces.”
“Kill her, then?” the rider asked.
Panic lent Balkis strength; she managed to crook her fingers; her lips trembled—but nothing more.
“Would that we could.” The shaman's eyes burned. “She aided his defeat, after all! But Prester John has mighty magic and can learn quickly if she has died, though he may not be able to discover who killed her, or where. No, we must send her away, send her so far away that she can never come back!”
Balkis' panic ebbed; anger replaced it. She used its energy to try to make her mouth move. She strained, fought to shape the words, but her lips only quivered.
“Lay her on the stone.” The shaman gestured to his work-table. The rider laid her down while the shaman turned to throw incense on the coals in the brazier. An acrid aroma filled the room as the shaman set a variety of fetishes about the princess, chanting a spell.
Panic surged again as Balkis realized that wherever the shaman meant to send her would be as good as a prison—a very pleasant prison perhaps, but a prison nonetheless. She labored with all her strength to make her recalcitrant lips and tongue obey.
The shaman stepped back, hands passing over Balkis' body, and finished the incantation.
In desperation, Balkis thought the words, mind flinging them like darts even as the room began to blur about her:
She floundered, beset by her old handicap—the final line! She had always had great difficulty ending a spell—why, she did not know.
“Why” did not matter—only the spell did! What rhymed with “stray?” What syllables could precede it, produce it?
At the last instant her mind found the words and hurled them after the rest.
“And never shall be torn away!”
The room turned to mist, vertigo seized her, she felt herself whirling through a void that was not of her world—but distant and fading, she heard the shaman's howl of rage, and knew that, even unspoken, her spell had frustrated his, though not cancelled it completely. She sailed through emptiness to a destination unknown both to herself and to the shaman who had launched her—unknown, but of her world.
The guards at the gates of the city had trouble believing this unprepossessing person in stout traveling clothes could really be an emissary from a foreign queen, let alone a lord. But those garments were outlandish, as were the round brown eyes and the pale skin, so his claim seemed possible, if unlikely.
“You have no entourage,” the older guard pointed out, “no phalanx of soldiers to guard you, no minor lords in attendance.”
“I prefer to travel light,” Matt explained. “You learn more that way. Take my advice, boys, pass the buck. Call the captain of the guard.”
The captain came out, and Matt showed him Prester John's letter. The two guards recognized the seal and turned pale. The captain stared, then flicked a glance from Matt to the letter, then back again, clearly unable to believe that this merchant-without-a-caravan could really be a lord. Nonetheless, he decided to get out of the middle and pass Matt along to his boss. He gave him a chariot ride and an honor guard of half a dozen soldiers. Matt rode the jolting vehicle over the ocher cobbles, very much aware that the guards could seize him as well as protect him.
The guards turned him over to the chamberlain, and the man stared in amazement, recognizing Matt from his last visit. Then he recovered his poise, clearly resolving not to make the mistake he had made then, when he treated Matt and his party as common travelers. He bowed and said, “I am amazed that you could come so quickly, Lord Mantrell.”
“Your king's letter made it seem urgent,” Matt said, “and I had air transport available.”
The chamberlain stared. “That dragon who flew over the city… was that…”
“Me on its back? Yes, but I didn't want to take a chance on landing in the plaza in front of the palace. Your sentries take their duties very seriously, and it never pays to underestimate a crossbow.”
The chamberlain smiled, pleased at the compliment to his fellow citizens. “Will you follow, my lord?” He turned to snap a phrase to a page, and the boy stared at Matt, then took off running.
Possibly as a result, Matt only waited a few minutes in the antechamber before the chamberlain ushered him into Prester John's private study.
“Lord Wizard!” Prester John advanced, arms wide in welcome. “How good of you to come—and how quickly!”
“Glad to be back.” Matt bowed, then straightened to survey the man closely. Prester John had lost weight; beneath the black beard, his cheeks had grown gaunt. His eyes were shadowed and haunted, and his golden skin had faded to parchment. He was taking the loss of his newfound niece very hard indeed. “Of course I'm glad to help any way I can,” Matt assured him. “Any progress in finding Balkis?”
“Come and see.” Prester John turned to the window in a whirl of gorgeous robes.
Matt stepped up and looked down through an elaborately carved screen at a courtyard full of soldiers milling about. He stared. “Is this your idea of a search party?”
“Of course,” Prester John said, surprised. “Her rank merits nothing less. Balkis is Princess of the Eastern Gate, Lord Wizard.”
“Well, yes, but a smaller force might be less noticeable and find her faster. Has there been any word of her? Maybe a beggar delivering a discreet note demanding that you-sur-render half your kingdom if you want to see her again?”
Prester John stared at him in horror. “No, not a word. Are such things common?”
“I've heard of them happening,” Matt said in as neutral a tone as he could manage.
Old anger seeped through, though, making Prester John frown with concern. “Of course! Your own children were stolen last year.”
Matt nodded. “And Balkis helped me find them, if you recall, so it's time to return the favor—but if there's no word of her, we also have no clues, no hints as to where she might be.”
“None, save the man who spirited her away—but even he had no notion where the man to whom he gave her might have taken her.” Prester John glared out at the army in the courtyard, his face dark with dread. “I very much fear she may be already dead, Lord Wizard.”