The word was passed, from scout to sentry to page, up the flagstone curves of the Royal Road to the hilltop encampment of the Sardians. Patros received the message just as he unrolled yet another untrustworthy imperial map; he released it with an exasperated gesture and the parchment, with many protesting crackles, rolled back up. For a few minutes he cursed, calling on half the deities of the known world and a good proportion of the devils, but he took care to curse under his breath. Then he straightened his back and threw his cloak ceremonially over one shoulder.
Patros found Mardoc organizing an honor guard of soldiers just beyond the gate in the embankment that encircled the camp. The general's seamed face was set tightly in a grimace he probably took to be a smile. It had been a long time since he had smiled; perhaps he had forgotten how. Patros bowed respectfully and Mardoc acknowledged his presence with a curt nod. The young man stationed himself a pace behind the general.
The horses and ox-pulled carts of the caravan appeared one by one, inexorably, on the horizon where the road crested a low ridge. They plodded down the near side, a thin pall of dust wavering about them, and passed the stark mud-brick walls of an abandoned caravanserai that now supported a tattered collection of huts. Curious faces peered from the ragged doorways. Beyond the ridge the eastern sky filled with hillocks of leaden cloud whose darkness was in no way lightened by the rays of the westering sun.
“Look,” Patros said loudly. “Some of the outriders are dressed in the livery of the temple!”
“We are honored by a visit from His Eminence the grand inquisitor,” said Mardoc from the corner of his mouth.
“You knew this, and the king did not?” Mardoc's back stiffened. Patros lowered his voice, leaned forward, spoke clearly through his teeth. “I should take care what secret correspondence I conduct. Its purpose could be . . . misinterpreted.”
“Mind your manners,” Mardoc growled, and Patros contented himself with rolling his eyes at the back of the general's head.
A roll of hoofbeats, the panting breaths of the oxen, the creaking of the fabric-covered carts as they lurched off the Road marked the caravan's arrival at the far side of the ditch surrounding the embankment; as it halted a herald stepped forward. “Your permission. General Mardoc, to enter the king's encampment.”
“You are welcome,” the general returned. At his gesture the soldiers of the honor guard drew their swords and clashed them, raggedly, against their shields.
From the leading cart stepped Adrastes Falco, the talon of Harus. His traveling cloak was brown, woven like a cascade of feathers; the winged breastplate glinted darkly from its opening. His hair and beard were as clean and glossy as if he had just stepped from his bath; his eyes glittered, sly and sharp, raking the group of men before him. “Greetings, General,” he said.
Mardoc bowed. “We are honored by your visit. Your Eminence. Please, enter . . .”
Adrastes walked in stately tread forward, his booted feet barely pressing the ground. “Is my lord well?” he asked.
“The king has yet to return from the quest you directed, Your Eminence,” replied Mardoc, “but a messenger only this morning brought word that he has indeed found the sword Solifrax.”
“The oracle speaks the truth,” Adrastes stated. He lifted his arms, spreading his hands in a liturgical gesture, and declaimed, “Surely Harus smiles upon his son and his devoted followers.”
A roar of approval came from the assembled soldiers. “In the name of the god,” Mardoc said. Adrastes lowered his hands.
“The king will be pleasantly surprised by Your Eminence's arrival,” said Patros. Whether the legionaries were more pleased by the arrival of the priest or of fresh supplies was hard to tell.
Adrastes snapped around and speared the young man with his gaze. But Patros was bent in a gracious bow, and his expression was hidden. “Yes, yes indeed,” the priest said, committing himself to nothing. He turned his back on Patros and took Mardoc's arm, guiding him into his own encampment.
Patros nodded and smiled and sidled away, murmuring something about seeing to Adrastes's entourage. The priest did not look around at Patros's words but flicked his free hand in the gesture of dismissal due a servant. His rings, onyx and topaz, caught a low ray of the sun and sparked.
The black-clad outriders swarmed after Adrastes; the drivers plied their whips across the broad backs of the oxen, urging them into the encampment. Patros rolled his eyes again and slipped ahead to the open space set aside for the priest's tents.
The dark clouds bulged halfway across the sky now, and the sun, admitting defeat, retreated into an early twilight. A guttural rumble of thunder rolled across the torn and wasted lands surrounding the encampment; a chill breeze fluttered the scarlet and purple pennons streaming from the peak of the gold pavilion.
Patros walked among Adrastes's guards and servants, giving directions. A shimmer of lightning caught his eye and he looked upward at the sudden darkness, regarding the approaching storm with the weary resignation of a soldier.
Then his eye fell. He stopped dead, causing the bustling attendants to eddy around him. That cart, there—the livery of the palace, and a hooded figure handed down by an acolyte of the temple . . .
“By all the gods,” he muttered under his breath, and he leaped forward, his cloak flying in the wind.
“My thanks,” he heard Chryse say to the acolyte.
The priest bowed. “I must attend to His Eminence's quarters, but if you have need . . .”
“My lady!” Patros shouted. “Chryse, how come you here?”
Chryse's hand darted upward to secure her fluttering cowl around her face. Her wide, guileless eyes, rimmed with the dark smudges of exhaustion, blinked out of shadow. “Why, Patros,” she said, as if he were the last person she'd expected to see. And, “I shall call, Declan.”
Declan disappeared like a wisp of smoke into the hurrying throng. Torches flared around the camp. Patros offered his arm to Chryse and she took it gratefully, leaning almost her whole weight on him, stumbling as he guided her to Bellasteros's own tent. “You may rest here,” he told her, “while your attendants prepare your quarters.”
“Oh,” she said when she saw the table littered with maps, the narrow camp bed, the chests of armor and booty. “Oh, I would not intrude on my lord.”
“He is not here,” Patros told her. He set her on a chair close to the warm brazier and sent a pageboy scurrying for wine. “He brings the sword Solifrax to battle.”
Chryse let the cowl fall from her head; she patted at the crumpled coils of her hair. Her soft mouth tightened. “He rides with her, the witch-queen?”
The wine arrived. Patros poured a goblet full and watched her while she drank deeply. Her cheeks flushed. “He is with the witch-queen?” she insisted.
Patros exhaled. “She guided him to the sword. Perhaps she can be persuaded to bring her warriors here.”
“Here? Why?”
“As allies in the coming battle,” he explained patiently. “To gain the Empire.”
Chryse sighed and folded her hands in her lap. “I understand nothing of military tactics. I know only to fear for my lord.”
“As do we all,” Patros returned. He lit a lamp and busied himself again with the maps. “Did you have an easy journey?”
“His Eminence assures me that it was not difficult. But”— her voice grew as faint and wistful as a tired child's—”it was so long, Patros, so many leagues; it is cold here, and Sardis is so far behind us . . .”
Thunder shook the mound of the encampment, and a few raindrops thudded like arrows against the fabric of the tent. Chryse started and squeaked like a small animal when the trap closes around it. Patros threw down the maps, bent over her, offered some gentle and soothing words. “And why,” he went on, just as gently, “did His Eminence tear you from the palace?”
“For the same reason he tore himself from the temple. We are here to ease my lord’s burdens.”
Patros winced. “Indeed,” he said dryly. “Or he thought to use you for his own purposes.”
“Use me? But I am only—”
The tent flap parted, admitting a gust of wet wind and a glimpse of lightning. Mardoc strode in, removing his damp cloak. “Chryse!” he said heartily, and he advanced toward the woman with arms outstretched.
“Oh, Father,” she returned, throwing herself at him. The relief in her voice was plain; here was one who could answer all uncertainties. She emerged from a rough embrace telling him about the journey. “. . . and the settlers at Farsahn have raised a temple to Harus—”
Mardoc pulled her cowl back over her face, cutting her off, and shoved her toward the doorway where a serving-woman waited. “Your quarters are ready. Go rest, my dear.”
“Yes, Father,” she said. And, glancing back at Patros, “Thank you—” Mardoc dropped the tent flap in her face.
Patros swallowed his farewell as Mardoc also shoved at him. “I need to consult with His Eminence,” the general said. “Surely you have duties elsewhere.”
“I can make some,” said Patros. And added, “Such a pleasant surprise, is it not, to see your daughter here? The first wife of the king, come so unexpectedly to his side . . .”
Mardoc was opening the maps. He glanced up from under his brows. “What of it?”
“Nothing, sir, nothing at all.” Patros turned with a grimace and peered outside. The rain poured down, making of the encampment a dim tapestry picked with the bright threads of lightning bolts. A dark shape followed by attendants was splashing toward the tent.
The young man vanished into the night. Mardoc groaned, as if seized by a sudden tiredness. “You never used to be such an insolent puppy, Patros. Why, why now?”
Adrastes burst into the tent, closed the flap behind him, shook rivulets of water from his cloak. “Well, my general,” he began, “you seem to have the situation well in hand. He has the sword, you say?''
Mardoc shook off his weariness and bowed. “Thank you, Your Eminence. And yes, he does. He should return on the morrow.”
Adrastes seated himself, picked up Chryse's abandoned goblet, sniffed at it, and drank. “As I told you in my last letter, Mardoc, I am concerned about the king's dealings with this witch-queen. You have met her?”
“A sly one. Your Eminence. A most unwomanly woman.”
“Now that we have used her to secure the sword, we must dispose of her and her people. Surely a handful of women warriors cannot make any difference in the battle plan.”
Mardoc snorted in derision.
“We must purge Bellasteros of her influence and return him to the embrace of his father the falcon. He must prove his devotion to Harus and repudiate the taint of . . . Ashtar.”
“Yes, yes, of course. How else can we bring the name of the god to the Empire and stamp out their pernicious worship of the lesser deities?”
Adrastes nodded. His brows closed like wings over the glitter of his eyes; his eyes searched the interior of the tent as if they could see within each chest and through the hangings of the bed, as if they could see the very thoughts and dreams of the head that had rested there. He toyed with the onyx ring on his finger, drawing it off and replacing it. “It was rumored once,” he said, his voice laden with sorrow and regret, “that Viridis, Gerlac's last wife and the mother of the king, was dedicated to Ashtar. And there were worse rumors.”
“Spite,” scoffed Mardoc. “Jealousy of such a prince as Bellasteros. His mother was indeed a princess of the Empire, tainted with their strange gods, and her death was . . . timely. It was with pleasure that I razed the temple of Ashtar and put her whores to the sword. It is said, true, that Gerlac was not the father of the king. But if he was not, then Harus himself was. I will believe nothing else.”
“Of course not. But you must admit that Bellasteros has all his life been touched by this heresy of Ashtar's. I would not have him bewitched by Ashtar's minions.” Adrastes allowed himself a delicate shiver. “Surely such has not happened?”
“He is as courteous as becomes a king,” Mardoc replied. “And his temper remains as fine and free as ever. But bewitched—I know not. I am troubled, at times, that he would not agree to defeat Sabazel; but then, why turn aside from our course for such a place?”
“Yes . . .” The priest removed the ring again and turned it thoughtfully in his fingers. It winked in the lamplight. The pounding rain grew lighter, but a slow leak started in one of the seams of the tent and Mardoc, with a curse, pulled the map table away.
Adrastes laid the ring on the table and stood, stretching. “I must go conduct the evening worship,” he said. “Declan is a good lad, and serves well as the lady Chryse's chaplain, but he has yet to achieve a certain . . . dedication. Are you coming?”
“With pleasure.” Mardoc stepped forward to raise the tent flap. A few bedraggled figures, the waiting attendants, flocked around.
“We shall bring this army victory,” stated Adrastes. “We shall win a victory for the god.”
Mardoc smiled. “The king will be pleased by your devotion to him.”
They trudged off into the darkness. The lamp guttered out behind them as if blown by beating wings. Under the edge of a pen box the onyx ring gleamed, blood-tinted by the embers in the brazier, blood-tinted by some internal light.
* * * * *
The storm blew itself out during the night, and the sun rose into a sky that was a taut, transparent blue membrane arching smoothly from horizon to horizon. A cold clean wind rang through the vault of heaven.
Bellasteros came at midmorning. A shout went up from the sentries; an answering shout reverberated through the encampment, gathering force, becoming an avalanche of sound.
The great warhorse was well ahead of the others. It pranced across the road and up the path to the gate, its hooves throwing clods of mud into the air as if distributing gold coins to the peasantry. It curvetted to a stop, jingling its harness. Bellasteros stilled it with a quiet word.
His eyes were bright chips of adamant, his mouth was crimped in an arrogant smile. His look fell on the troops that lined the embankment, the knot of men before the gate, the peering squatters by the caravanserai, and all voices ceased. The harsh cry of a raven echoed down the wind.
In one fluid movement Bellasteros pulled the sword Solifrax from its scabbard and thrust it into the air. It flared with an almost audible crack of lightning, brighter than the sun. The warhorse reared, its forefeet pawing the air. As one the Sardians cheered, the squatters fell prostrate, and the imperial officers made the deep formal obeisances due not only an emperor, but a god. Surely some of those same officers would report the king's new power to Bogazkar.
Patros rushed forward to take the reins of the horse, grinning. “Well done, my lord,” he said.
Bellasteros slipped the sword back into its sheath and leaped from the horse. “And you, too, well done,” he said. “My thanks for the warning. Adrastes tried to kill Danica; sorcery, Patros, of the blackest hue.” Patros’s brows shot up; hastily he smoothed his expression. Bellasteros strode forward, crimson plume and crimson cloak streaming behind him.
Mardoc's eyes and mouth hung open, set in awestruck worship. With a start he remembered to bow. “Welcome, my lord,” he stuttered. “Welcome indeed.”
So you are impressed with my new toy, Bellasteros said silently. Aloud he said, “My thanks. General. I am pleased to return.”
And there, an eddy in the wind, the tall dark figure of Adrastes Falco. Those glittering eyes cut deep, too deep; play it well . . . Bellasteros feigned astonishment. “Your Eminence! What brings you here to the edge of the world?”
The priest inclined his head. “I come only to serve my king in his hour of triumph.”
“Very good! Come, I will explain our strategy.” Bellasteros swept by, returning the nod, deflecting the stare, leaving Adrastes to scuttle hurriedly, like an awkward lackey, in his wake.
Patros turned the horse over to a page and slipped through the crowd to Bellasteros's side. “My friend,” the king exclaimed, clapping him on the shoulder, “I have seen some strange places since we last met. Surely Harus holds his wings outspread over me.”
“Surely.” said Patros.
Mardoc shook himself, shouted a few inconsequential orders to the rest of Bellasteros's company, and strode with as much dignity as he could muster after the others. The gathered soldiers drifted away, oddly silent, as if returning from a solemn religious rite. The squatters crept forward to pry bits of dirt from the king's footprints.
From the corner of his eye Bellasteros saw Mardoc join the entourage. He saw Mardoc and Adrastes exchange a covert glance. So they are in league, he thought. But they are not yet against me. Mardoc, you used to be a father to me . . . and yet it is not you who have changed.
He continued his monologue. “The land is laid waste; the Royal Road was once a flourishing trade route, but it now passes through country left to the lion and the jackal. It is time to conclude our conquest, establish our protection over the Empire, bring peace to the weary.”
“Surely,” Patros said again.
“Have the poor outside the gate been fed from the new supplies?”
“As well as possible, with our own numbers swelling . . .” Patros glanced around meaningfully.
Bellasteros nodded. A knot of petitioners was gathered before the gold pavilion and he stopped to chat briefly with each one. He genuflected before the falcon standards, then turned aside for his own tent. There he paused in the doorway, glancing keenly upward at the scarlet and purple pennons whipping in the wind; the wind chimed, the music of Ashtar's voice, but he knew that only he heard it.
He handed Patros the sword; Patros grinned, took it gingerly, stood mesmerized by the play of light across the scabbard as Bellasteros peeled off his armor and threw himself down in a chair. “Gentlemen,” he said to Mardoc and Adrastes as they stood before him. “We move against Bogazkar. Iksandarun is perhaps ten days' march along the Road, perhaps fourteen . . . We shall be there by the winter solstice.”
“Good,” said Mardoc. “Let the satrap turn at bay at last.”
Adrastes remained impassive, his brows angled slightly upward, alert to every fleeting expression on his king's face.
“I have bought allies for us,” continued Bellasteros. He reached out his hand and Patros, starting, laid the sword in it. “The queen of Sabazel and her Companions will ride with us.”
Mardoc scoffed, “What good can a handful of women do?”
“They took Azervinah for us, did they not? And the high priest commended their queen to me.”
“To gain the sword,” protested Mardoc. “Surely she has served her purpose.”
Bellasteros's voice did not rise, but its intensity easily overrode Mardoc's. “She serves Sardis. As for her purpose, let the gods decide.”
Adrastes's brows arched even higher. Quietly, silkily, he said, “You would allow a heretic to ride under the falcon standard? You are generous, my lord.”
Bellasteros drew Solifrax. Even in the dimness of the tent its crystalline blade shimmered. He ran his thumbnail up its edge, shedding a spray of sparks. “Better to have her here, under the gaze of the falcon, than plotting against me in Sabazel. Do you not agree?”
The sparks were reflected in Mardoc’s eyes. He opened his mouth, said nothing, closed it. Adrastes smiled. “How well you learn the ways of statecraft, my lord. Indeed, better to have her here. And who better to watch this heretic than the talon of Harus, the inquisitor of Sardis?”
“So watch her, then,” Bellasteros said. For a moment his gaze locked with Adrastes's, and it was the priest who looked away first. An indefinable air, a god-touched certainty, hung like a numinous cloak about the king.
“I am pleased, lord,” Adrastes purred, “that I may serve you.”
Bellasteros waved him away with an imperial gesture even as his mind counseled caution. I challenge him; how will he respond? But Adrastes, ever cool and courteous, took his leave, and Mardoc bowed and followed.
But I need you, Bellasteros thought angrily; no matter how we fence and parry, we are still caught together in this game, in games within games . . .
For a long count of ten neither Patros nor Bellasteros spoke. Solifrax glimmered, humming with a latent power. The general's shouts, the answering shouts of the centurions, and the quickening pace of the camp filtered through the fabric of the tent.
At last Bellasteros exhaled, slumping in his chair. His cavalier manner melted, his arrogance slipped away. “Ah, Patros,” he said. “For a moment even Mardoc and Adrastes sensed my divinity . . .” He laughed quietly, a laugh that had little humor in it. “Have I raised their suspicions?”
“I think not. Not yet. Not until the Sabazians come.”
“Until the Sabazians come, and the high priest seeks to assert his power. Over them and over me.” Bellasteros seized the sheath and slipped the sword into it, concealing its light. “The world changes, Patros. It shifts and takes new forms before our very eyes. Those like Mardoc and Adrastes . . .”
“Yes?” Patros said encouragingly. His face glowed, reflecting his king's subtle illumination.
But Bellasteros could only lean back, closing his eyes, shaking his head. It hurts, he thought. The learning hurts. Learning that of all the women I could have I want only the one I cannot have, the woman who holds my life and death in her hands, in her belly, the woman I trust . . . It would be so much easier to cling, blind and unquestioning, to a tarnished doctrine; it would be so much easier not to choose. And yet, he thought, and yet I have seen the falcon sitting on Ashtar's arm.
“Marcos,” Patros said warningly. “Someone . . . is here.”
Bellasteros lazily opened one eye. His stomach plunged into some dizzying depth and he leaped to his feet. “Chryse! How in the name of the god did you come here?”
She hesitated in the doorway, her cheeks flushed pink, her eyes huge and glistening. “My lord, if I am not intruding . . .”
“Of—of course not,” Bellasteros gulped. He turned questioningly to Patros, who could reply only with an eloquent shrug. “Please,” he said, grasping the tatters of courtesy, “sit here, rest yourself. Patros . . .”
Patros was already gone. Chryse tiptoed across the tent, keeping far away from the length of Solifrax; she sat on the edge of the chair, her hands folded in her lap, her eyes downcast. Even she was awed by the power of the sword, by his own power . . . Bellasteros brushed a couple of maps aside and laid it across the table. An onyx ring rolled from behind a pen box and fell to the floor; odd, he thought . . . but Chryse was speaking and he turned to her.
“My lord, I had hoped you would be pleased to see me.”
“I am surprised, and pleased as well.” Gallantly he knelt before her, took her hand, pressed it to his lips. “You came with His Eminence?”
“Yes.”
So Adrastes would use you, too, a gentle sparrow to break the bond of the star-shield . . . She looked up at him in open adoration, hoping only for some sign of affection. “Our daughter is well?” he asked.
Her face glowed with a smile. “Yes, well indeed; my father would have her wedded soon.”
“Wedded? At her age?” He cast his mind back to that flying visit in the spring, and he saw only a girl-child.
“She is almost twelve, my lord.”
Gods! So the child was that old, the plump, quiet babe, the fruit of his impetuous youth. But it was Danica who carried his heir, carried the rest of his life in her grave green eyes. “Whatever you think best, my lady,” he said. He kissed her hand again, released it, stood. The sword lay across the maps and he reached out to stroke it. It thrilled to his touch, but still a yawn caught him unaware.
Immediately Chryse was on her feet, fussing over him, urging him toward the bed. “You should sleep, my lord. Your duties are many, and many are those who depend on you.”
Too many, he thought, but he let her push him down and brush the tendrils of dark hair from his forehead. “If you require anything, my lord . . .” She blushed and her lashes fluttered over her eyes.
“Thank you,” he said with a crooked smile. No, the falcon has no wish to fall upon the sparrow—your meek submission would be a mockery, and it would shame me to rend you. Gently, he told himself; she deserves respect. He took her soft, rounded chin between thumb and forefinger and lifted it to his gaze. “I ask only your contentment, Chryse.”
“I am the first wife of the king, of the emperor; how could I not be content? Only to serve you, lord . . .” Her lips tightened; she knelt at the side of the bed and rested her head on the coverlet, hiding her face again.
And it hurts, he thought, learning that I injure those who love me. Chryse, Mardoc—it is I who change, I who choose to change . . .
He wondered suddenly how many people watched him—his wife, his general, his priest, certainly; those spies who would be his friends were more dangerous than any sent by Bogazkar.
* * * * *
The Sabazians camped on an easily defended hilltop an hour's ride from the Sardian encampment. Atalia, with many cautionary words, set extra sentries; she feared not only Bogazkar's soldiers but the Sardians themselves.
It was at sunset, at the dark of the moon, that she brought the messengers to Danica’s tent.
The queen looked up from the map she sketched and laid down her pen. Lyris set down the lamp she held and stepped away, into her usual position at Danica's back. The visitor was young, beautiful, ebony ringlets cascading down her back and full breasts thrusting forward her cloak. “Theara,” Danica stated.
The courtesan fell to her knees. “I am honored to be in your presence at last, my queen. All my life have I bowed to Ashtar in her temple in Farsahn, a bastard daughter, surely, but . . .”
“A true one,” Danica finished for her. She smiled a welcome. “Please, rise. You did us all great service by attaching yourself to the Sardians when they took your city.”
“Indeed,” stated Atalia. She glanced over her shoulder. “A Sardian soldier waits outside . . .”
“He is Aveyron.” Theara rose and brushed off her silk-clad knees. “He was with the king in Sabazel and so was not afraid to escort me here; he is not overly fond of Harus since the high priest had his mother burned for heresy.
“Ashtar!” Danica exclaimed.
“Not this time,” said Theara. “It was a provincial deity, I believe. Now the poor lad would believe in nothing.''
“I shall find some food for him,” Atalia said, and she left. Lyris's gaunt face, washed by guttering shadow, tightened.
“Is it safe for you to come here?” Danica asked Theara.
The courtesan chuckled richly, deep in her throat. “Bellasteros has long since realized which god I served. Now Patros seizes the moment to send me here; it was I who intercepted the secret messages between Mardoc and Adrastes Falco, the grand inquisitor, and now that Adrastes has arrived in the camp Patros asks in the king's name your protection for me.”
“Gladly, gladly,” said Danica.
“He asks that you take care; Adrastes thinks you a witch, and he will be watching you. And Mardoc is not your friend.”
“Are Mardoc and Adrastes plotting against the king, do you think, or only against me?”
“As yet, only against you, my lady. They meant for Adrastes to take Bellasteros by surprise, but that plan failed. The priest brought the king's wife Chryse with him, though, and no one expected that. Perhaps not even Mardoc… but I was unable to discern that.”
“Chryse,” Danica said with a sigh. Was she the one Bellasteros had named a placid cow? A waste, a shameful waste . . . Theara and Lyris both were watching her. “Theara,” she said, “I thank you. I would be pleased to have you with us here; ask Atalia to lead you to Shandir, our healer.”
“I am pleased to be in Sabazel at last,” Theara murmured, and turned to the doorway. As she passed through she glanced back over her shoulder. “Your image has been much before me, lady . . .” She was gone.
Danica grimaced. So she was that much on the conqueror's mind? How many more knew? Patros, probably; Mardoc? Adrastes? She turned to Lyris; the woman was so stiff she trembled. “Well?” she asked softly.
“Let me go to her,” Lyris spat. “Let me show her what she has done to me, and to her precious husband. Let me show the high priest for the beast he is.”
“And would anyone believe you? No, Lyris; the priest used Chryse as surely as he used you. Leave her be. Leave your memories behind, and ride proudly at my side.”
Lyris bent her head obediently, but still her shoulders trembled. Danica reached again for her pen.
Mother, she sighed, are we all pawns on your game board? Did you plan this all, long before our births, setting the Sardian oracle into play, and Viridis and Gerlac and Kallidar and my own fleshly mother? Or do you, like we mortals, scramble from fortified position to fortified position, playing as best you can with the pieces you have? Is it truly my own will? . . .
That was not a question she dared to consider. The lines of the map wavered before her, and the breeze that touched her back was cold.
* * * * *
Declan listened attentively as Chryse told him of her visit to her husband. “Truly,” she concluded, “I know not why His Eminence brought me here. My lord is polite—always he is polite—but his desire is for his sword, and for battle, and for . . .” She bit her lip so hard that it bruised.
Declan waited, but she did not complete her sentence. She raised her hands toward a tiny gilt statue of the falcon. “If I can serve my lord, I am content . . .”
He joined her in her prayer. But his eyes again and again strayed beyond the image of the deity toward the great gold pavilion of the king, and on his face doubt and thought were mingled.