NORTH OF FUSSEN, DEFALK
The Prophet of Music sits on a gilded straight-backed chair set before the table covered in blue linen. Nubara stands at Rabyn’s left shoulder. To the left of the cloaked Mansuuran overcaptain and to the right of the Prophet are guards in blue, two on each side. All four guards watch as a slender brown-haired overcaptain in the maroon of Mansuur enters the large pavilion tent.
After brushing his boots, Relour steps forward on the carpet, then stops, and bows. “You requested my presence, Prophet Rabyn, and Hand of the Liedfuhr.” With the last words, his head inclines to Nubara.
“We did,” Rabyn replies. “The sorceress gathers her forces. She will attack soon. She has never been slow to act. The Darksong drums are ready. How have you prepared?”
“We stand ready, but it is most unlikely that the Regent of Defalk will soon press an attack. Half those lancers rode in yesterday, and their mounts are tired, sire.”
“She has been in her camp several days. So have many of her lancers. She doesn’t need lancers and mounts for sorcery,” Rabyn says, an edge to his voice.
“Nor do you, sire, but should sorcery prove wanting, or take longer, you need the lancers to hold the lines and take the fight to the enemy. You seek the best from your wiser officers, and so does the sorceress. She is known for that. Her officers will not wish to fight with tired mounts.”
“You may be correct, but it will go ill with you if she attacks soon, and your lancers are unprepared.”
“The Mansuuran lancers have yet to be caught unaware, sire. The Sorceress of Defalk will not do so.”
“Good. You may go.”
“As you wish. Good day, sire … Hand of the Liedfuhr.” Relour bows and retires.
When the tent flap is closed, Rabyn turns in the gilded chair. “Have you found another wench, Nubara?”
“Not a willing one, honored Prophet.” Nubara shivers within the heavy maroon woolen cloak. “The guards had to use your potion. She is in your tent, tied to the camp bed, as you requested.”
Rabyn’s eyes glitter. “Is she clean?”
“She has been bathed, massaged with rose oil, and anointed with perfume.”
“Is that a scratch upon your neck, Nubara? I trust you did not pleasure yourself before your ruler enjoyed himself.”
“No, most mighty Prophet. The girl’s body is as we found her.” Nubara laughs bitterly. “Your other potions have assured that you have no fear from me.”
“That is as it should be.”
Nubara’s eyes turn hard and glitter, but Rabyn has already turned his attention to the goblet of amber wine he has poured.
“I wonder if this one will choose to do as I wish,” muses the young Prophet. “Or if I will have to enjoy her in other ways.” He turns his head in Nubara’s direction. “What do you think, Nubara?”
“It would not be for me to say, honored Prophet.” Nubara’s eyes do not meet Rabyn’s. “I would suggest that you leave her gagged until you are certain of her … inclination.”
“You are so delicate, Nubara!” Rabyn laughs, cruelly. “I will take care not to let her upset your Mansuuran lancers. Or anyone else.” He lifts the silver goblet.