And then it was over, she had reached the other side, feeling alive in a way she had not felt since Saer, drawing deep breaths and trying to regulate the thunderous beating of her heart. Looking around at her companions, their dazed faces, the sidelong glances they exchanged, she knew that they, too, had experienced something profound.

It was an unusual ward that affected the unmagicked. She wondered what eireamhoine had been thinking when the avalanche came down. What was in his mind, there at the end? She knew that a dying wizard could sometimes seize the moment, could twist events in such a way that his or her death might serve some good or useful purpose. But this could hardly have been eireamhoine's intention, as vast and beautiful and miraculous as it was. Warding the Cadmin Aernan could have been no part of his plan-far less could it have been the intention of the three dying Furiadhin.

Summer awaited the travelers on the other side of the mountains: a summer gracious with wildflowers in the windy meadows above the pinewoods.

They were still many thousands of feet above the plain, on the shoulders of Mineirie, and they had still a long way to go before they reached the lowlands. Yet east of Gwinemon the sunlight had a different quality, being warmer and brighter. Even the air smelled fresher and felt softer on the skin.

And though Sinderian's nightmares continued, they were every night less vivid, less intense, and she found it easier and easier to forget them during the day.

They were dreams, that was all. And whatever their origin, they could not make her do anything she did not want to do. Anyway, it was dreadfully presumptuous to imagine that she had been singled out.

It came as an ugly shock, then, to look up and see the black wings of the wyvaerun darkening the sky once more.

It can't be the same, she told herself, as the creature wheeled and dipped in the thin air. No spy sent by Ouriana could possibly cross eireamhoine's ward.

But two wyvaerun, solitary, searching, each met by pure chance in the wilderness? That was too much coincidence; it was simply impossible.

Her horse stumbled in a rabbit hole and almost went down. Sinderian tore her eyes away from the sky, tried to focus her attention on the trail ahead. She reached out and gave the gelding an absentminded pat on the withers, but her brain continued to worry at the problem.

Could there be a second spy, she wondered, waiting for us on this side of the barrier, ready to take up where the other wyvaerun left off?

Her head began to ache with all of the dire possibilities that opened up, and the mountain air felt a little colder. Supposing that every move they made, every decision they reached had been antic.i.p.ated in advance? Supposing that their enemies knew exactly what they would do, long before they did it? And for the first time, when she thought of Gilrain an unpleasant doubt insinuated itself. What if he was not as friendly as he seemed? What if Prince Ruan had been right from the very beginning?

But that was sheer nonsense. The Ni-Ferys had had ample opportunity to betray them before this.

I said I would never let Prince Ruan's prejudices influence me, she reminded herself. And I would be a fool to break that promise now. And yet-and yet Gilrain was suspiciously eager to attach himself to our party. We never asked him to guide us through the mountains; it would never have occurred to us to do so. He was the one who offered, and in such a way that we could hardly refuse.

The sun was declining in the west, and a cool wind was blowing when Sinderian and her companions came to a place where the path descended in wide stony ledges like a broken staircase. They dismounted and led the horses down. On reaching the bottom, they found themselves in a hollow fringed with dark pine, where the gra.s.s grew long and green, and water pooled in a little rock cistern among mosses and ferns.

Though it was early to set up camp, the place seemed so sheltered and welcoming that Gilrain proposed they make an exception, and the others agreed. They unsaddled the horses and left them to graze in the sweet gra.s.s, while everyone hunted up deadwood and pinecones to make a fire.

As the men began preparing supper, Sinderian wandered over to the tarn to bathe her hands and face.

The water was deep and cool and mirror bright, reflecting the light-drenched white mountain peaks behind her, a bright blue sky with scarcely a cloud in sight. But there was something else in the water: a face so coa.r.s.e and sallow, a person so altogether unkempt, ragged, dirty, and wild that it took her several moments to recognize her own reflection.

With a gasp of dismay, she bent closer to the glittering water, staring at the unwelcome image-that th.o.r.n.y, disreputable-looking female, with her thin face, broken fingernails, and ragged dark hair-worse: the creature had a sly, unsteady, almost wicked look about her that filled Sinderian with despair.

Did you really think eireamhoine's barrier would wash away ALL your sins, you who have failed everyone you ever loved? And what little remains to you, you'll lose that, too. Have you not seen it? The end of the world you know, and the triumph of Ouriana-where we all take new bodies and grovel in the dirt at her feet.

Was it even worth living in a world like that?

And yet there were so many ways that offered release: the pool, the knife-and a healer knew just where to strike-she could even halt her own heartbeat with little more than a thought, though that would be a perversion, before which, even in her present state, she quailed.

The pool? To slip quietly down beneath the cool waters and be gone before anyone missed her; it would look like an accident. Only perhaps one of the men would notice after all, and pull her out too soon. It seemed that the Prince, in particular, was always watching her, always spying on her.

The knife, then. It would be swift and certain.

With a wondering terror at her own resolution, she was sliding the blade out of its sheath on her belt, when something else about the reflection in the water drew her attention, distracting her from her purpose.

It was the wyvaerun, flying lower than she had ever seen it before. Even worse, it was the same wyvaerun, the one that had followed them all of the way from Hythe, for it was impossible not to recognize that slightly erratic flight, one wing stroke shorter than the other.

And now that she saw the creature so close, she could see the reason for that peculiarity: under the left wing, where something was lodged, something that might have been the shaft of an arrow, or a bolt from a crossbow, except that it glittered almost like gla.s.s- A sudden rush of blood to her head made her all but swoon. The world turned dark for a moment, and all she knew was the loud hammering of her pulse.

And when her vision cleared, when she turned to tell the others what she had seen, Sinderian saw something else, something that sent a cold jolt of panic right through her: Gilrain fitting an arrow to his bow, pulling it back to full draw, aiming- "Hold! Hold your fire!" she cried springing to her feet, giddy with joy and sick with apprehension all in the same moment. "Don't loose that arrow, whatever you do."

To Prince Ruan, watching her cover the distance between the pool and the camp at a dead run, then arrive flushed and breathless to hang on Gilrain's arm, her eyes blazing with excitement and her whole body shaking with the wildest agitation, it seemed that Sinderian had lost her mind.

"Your sight is much keener than mine," she panted, looking from the Ni-Ferys to Ruan, then back again. "Tell me what you see-" She swallowed hard, struggled to catch her breath, and went on, "-tell me what you see, in the hollow under the left wing."

The Prince tilted his head back, shaded his eyes with his hand. At first, he saw nothing remarkable. But then, as the wyvaerun turned in a wide arc exposing its breast to the setting sun, something dazzled his eyes with rainbow colors, refracting the sunlight like a shard of gla.s.s or- "The shaft of a crystal arrow...it might be," he said, beginning to catch a little of her excitement.

The words were scarcely past his lips when Sinderian dropped Gilrain's arm and was on the move again. Flinging herself back toward the path they had so lately descended, she began to scramble from ledge to ledge until she reached the top. Once there, she ran out along a rocky outcrop, gathering up her skirt and plunging fearlessly ahead, stopping only when she came to the very brink.

And there she stood, with her dress, her cloak, and her dark hair all in motion, dangerously balanced at the windy edge, utterly reckless of her own safety. She called out in a high sweet voice that seemed to echo from mountain to mountain: Watching and listening down below, the Prince hardly dared breathe. If she was wrong in what she had guessed, the great raptor could easily swoop down and tear her to shreds before anyone else could come to her rescue. If she was right...But it hardly seemed possible that she could be right.

The wyvaerun was circling again, it was coming back. Now it descended in a terrifying rush of oily black wings and gleaming scales, its snakelike tail curled over its back, its knifelike talons extended. But it stopped just inches from her face, batting wildly.

The air around the bird shimmered and the wyvaerun disappeared: in its place, a blue-grey peregrine falcon hovered on the lucent air. Then, as lightly as thistledown, as gently as a breath, it landed on Sinderian's outstretched arm and tucked in its ragged wings.

21.

It was a bright day of wind and sun when Prince Cuillioc's reunited armada sailed into the Bay of Mir-Mir of the sapphire waters and fragrant breezes, of the palm trees and the silvery white beaches-Mir, the gateway to the mines and the cities of the interior, and all their riches.

Cuillioc stood on the deck of his flagship surrounded by the knights of his household, his jeweled armor glittering in the sunlight, and watched the approach of a floating delegation from Xanthipei, the great city on the bay.

As he waited, he had not a shadow of a doubt how this parley would go. First the Mirazhites would demand to know whether he came in peace or in war. When he told them he had come to conquer them and to collect tribute in the name of the Empress, there would be a polite exchange of threats, rapidly degenerating into open hostility, whereupon the amba.s.sadors would retire in a state of high indignation to communicate his demands to their countrymen.

With all this settled in his mind long in advance, he welcomed the envoys on board with his usual grave courtesy, stifled a yawn, and waited for the questioning to begin. Much to his astonishment, they seemed already to know his intentions. More than that, they were ready to comply, ready indeed to welcome him and his armies into their city, even to provide hostages-in token of their respect for the Empress-as a pledge of their good behavior-whatever the Great Prince Cuillioc should decree.

Cuillioc felt the deck dip violently under his feet; the world spun around him. He hardly knew how to reply, this was so unexpected. To prepare for this campaign, he had spent many months poring over antique papyrus scrolls and wax tablets, studying the languages of the east. He considered himself reasonably proficient, yet he feared that he made-he must have made-some odd errors in translation.

They could not possibly have said all that he thought they had said.

Searching for some excuse to temporize, he sent for Iobhar. But the furiadh, his curiosity aroused, appeared rather sooner than might reasonably have been expected, arriving all in a hot impatience to learn more, and a rowboat manned by two of his acolytes. Though he reacted with surprise and no little wonder when Cuillioc explained the situation, the priest made a swift recovery and proceeded to ask a number of shrewd questions, the answers to which at least made the matter somewhat easier to comprehend, if no less remarkable.

It developed that the oracles, haruspicers, soothsayers, and prophets of Xanthipei had, every one of them, foreseen Cuillioc's coming, to the day and hour. More, they had predicted his ultimate and b.l.o.o.d.y victory in the event of a battle. Therefore, the great men of the city had agreed to follow the only course which prudence dictated-an immediate and unconditional surrender, thereby avoiding the tumults and alarms of a futile resistance and the resulting bloodbath.

The Prince looked from Iobhar to the n.o.blemen of his household, and back again, still scarcely able to believe what he heard. Never before had he met with people so willing to rely wholly and utterly on the advice of their seers. Yet it seemed that he had no choice but to accept their surrender, accept, too, the offered hostages, and prepare himself to enter his newly conquered city.

He watched his fighting men disembark first, shipload after shipload. When he had seen them safely landed, he, Iobhar, and all the Pharaxion n.o.bles brought their households ash.o.r.e. Once on land, Cuillioc was escorted to a seat in a howdah on an elephant-a creature he had hitherto considered unlikely, if not strictly fabulous-then, with his senses all awhirl, carried amidst great pomp and gaudy celebration to the great palace, or Citadel, at the heart of the city, where he was soon comfortably ensconced in a suite of sumptuous rooms.

Many days pa.s.sed, in which the men of Phaorax sampled the varied delights of that remarkable city. The nights were long and languorous, the wines heady, and the women supremely skilled in the arts of seduction.

While the others caroused, Cuillioc remained always on his guard. He, whose life had been one long series of misfortunes and cruel, unexpected turns, must naturally suspect the ease with which he had taken Xanthipei, the good fortune by which he stood perfectly poised to conquer the interior and make himself master of all Mirizandi.

For many days he hardly dared venture outside his luxurious residence in the Citadel, content to receive visitors and grant audiences, to spend hours in the vast treasuries selecting suitable gifts and tribute to send back to the Empress, or wandering through the shady porticoes and pergolas of the palace, the collonades and the sanctuaries-all built of cool green marble, with a well, a cistern, or a fountain in every courtyard and garden.

"The great men of Xanthipei smile and smile," he said to Iobhar, "but you have only to look at the faces of the people in the streets. We are not welcome here, we are not wanted. I fear we have walked into a trap."

Iobhar shrugged. "I have deployed my spies throughout the city-as you no doubt have deployed yours, Great Prince, and the other Great Lords theirs-and not so much as a hint of a whisper of sedition has reached my ears. It seems that the G.o.ddess Ouriana inspires fear and worship even here. It is that fear, I believe, that has influenced the masters of Xanthipei, for all their talk of seers and predictions."

Cuillioc tried to believe him. He wanted to believe, and was well on his way to doing so when an incident occurred that reawakened all of his former doubts. Quite by accident, he learned that the hostages he kept under constant guard in an isolated wing of the palace were not, as they had been presented, the sons and daughters of n.o.ble families. They were, in truth, foreign slaves decked out in the cast-off finery of their young masters and mistresses.

As word of this deception spread through the Citadel, the Pharaxion n.o.bles were soon in an uproar, gathering in the corridor outside the Prince's chambers to express their dismay. Lord Cado and his brother Armael waxed particularly vociferous.

"They must be taught to fear us utterly. They must tremble at the thought of our just retribution," said Armael, in his pompous way. "Let those responsible for the imposture be taken and executed; let others be arrested as well, to serve as an example."

With an effort, Cuillioc managed to keep his temper. All along, he had expected these parasites of the court to seize on some such opportunity to cause him embarra.s.sment, but this pa.s.sed all bounds. "Arrest and execute men who have welcomed us here with elephants and processions? What sort of example would that be?"

"Yet they have deceived us in the matter of the hostages," Cado protested. "Worse, they have made fools of us. What more proof do we need that they have intended treachery all along?"

Oddly, it was Iobhar who stepped in to conciliate the two sides.

"Let new hostages be taken from among the great families, now that we know who they are," said the priest. "Let Lord Cado and his brother do the choosing, but let the n.o.ble lords of the Prince's household make the arrests, so that all may be done fairly and honorably."

Though Cado and his faction continued to protest, they did so in an undertone, and Prince Cuillioc himself, try as he might (he could never quite trust the furiadh), could find no fault with his plan. He immediately ordered that it should be so, and soon had the satisfaction of seeing it done.

Once he determined to leave the palace and become better acquainted with the life of the streets, Prince Cuillioc spent his first weeks in Mirizandi overwhelmed by the sights and the smells, the colors, and the sounds, at the same time equally intrigued and appalled by the unabashed hedonism of the Mirazhite n.o.bles.

The G.o.ddess knew he was no stranger to luxury, nor to the reckless extravagance of a royal court. And yet-and yet at home in his mother's capital city there was always a somber undercurrent, a sense that every pleasure would eventually have to be paid for with prayers and penances. Temple spies were everywhere, and just retribution seemed always to be lurking around the next corner, so that even the most dissipated, no matter how reprehensible their lives in between, always turned up sober and subdued for the principle religious festivals.

In Xanthipei, there were no such mitigating factors. Those who could afford to do so reveled in pleasure, became resoundingly drunk, ate until they vomited, gambled, wh.o.r.ed, spent a king's ransom on clothing and trinkets-all with a thoughtless abandon that was as foreign to the Prince's nature as it was to his experience.

Here, he had seen n.o.ble youths, for mere sport, cast pearls into wine, wagering on which vintage would prove the more efficient solvent. In the schools attached to the playhouses, he was told, they castrated young boys to keep their voices sweet. In the gambling houses, they kept a ready supply of comely young virgins for the amus.e.m.e.nt of their patrons.

He became wary of the food on that memorable day when he discovered that the sweets he was happily devouring were actually a confection of beetles drenched in honey and stuffed with spices. It seemed there was nothing these people did not dip in honey or roll in sugar: fruits, flowers, dragonflies and honeybees, powdered gemstones; the tongues of nightingales and the hearts of hummingbirds. Some things were to be eaten, and some to be sniffed and tasted, as actual consumption was likely to prove harmful and others simply to be admired and wondered at.

The streets were full of fire-eaters, snake charmers, and sword dancers; of beggars juggling delicate gla.s.s b.a.l.l.s that flashed in the sunlight; old women who cast knucklebones or read portents in wine or water.

Beyond the ten square miles of gardens and ornate villas surrounding the Citadel, there were miles and miles of little clay houses and an infinity of small temples and crazy leaning ziggurats, each with its own mummified deity: a cat or a crocodile, a river horse, a two-headed calf, or a rat with seven tails.

After a time, Xanthipei began to have a strange effect on Cuillioc. There was something in the convoluted patterns of the city, in the teeming life of the slums, in the fantastical architecture of the Citadel, which-when he was under the influence of too much wine or other intoxicants-suggested immensities of time and s.p.a.ce, power and possibility, hitherto uncontemplated. At other times, times of greater lucidity, it was simply a place of great squalor and disorder, grotesquely mixed up with luxury and debauchery, like the spiders and winged insects inside their sweetmeats.

Oddly and disturbingly, in both states he was often irresistibly reminded of things he had seen in the cluttered attic of the mad astrologer in Apharos: Maelor's curious arrangements of bones and potsherds; the symbols he had drawn in ochre and chalk and charcoal. Had the old man ever visited this city? Had his eyes been opened here to Mirazhite mysteries and labyrinthine secrecies he was still pursuing?

Or was it simply that all madmen dreamed alike? In sober truth, his entire sojourn in Xanthipei had many of the qualities of a fever dream.

Of Maelor's warnings he remained ever mindful. The danger of poisoning or drugging was ever-present, the opportunities endless. But against the stealthy a.s.sault, the knife-wielding a.s.sa.s.sin, the betrayal that came in the form of a smothering pillow, a fall from a balcony, a slip at the top of the stairs-against such perils as those, Cuillioc was always on his guard. If he distrusted the Mirazhites, still less did he trust the majority of his Pharaxion n.o.bles. Though dazed by splendor, giddy with so many new experiences, he was well aware of the plots and whisperings, the secret meetings, all taking place inside the Citadel.

Accordingly, he was not to be seduced by the dubious pleasures of the wine shops, hashish dens, and brothels. He confined himself solely to those diversions he might more safely enjoy in his chambers at the palace, surrounded by a handful of trusted friends.

So it came about that he was lying pa.s.sed out on his own bed, with one of the palace concubines under him and strong sunlight shining in through his bedchamber window, when his little spy came into the room with an urgent message. Only half awakened by the urchin's frantic shaking, Cuillioc rolled over, opened a bloodshot eye, and mumbled a barely audible obscenity.

But he was suddenly awake and alert, and on his feet within moments, when he realized what the boy was trying to tell him. "When? Where?" he asked grimly, reaching for his clothes.

The page's answer convinced him to cast those garments aside, catch up a rich brocade covering from the bed, wrap it around him, and stalk out of the room, bawling out for his attendants as he did so.

On a wide balcony overlooking one of the courtyards, he met with Iobhar. The priest stood gazing down with his white, impa.s.sive face at a scene of unbridled carnage and bloodshed. But he turned at hearing Cuillioc's footstep behind him, and regarded the Prince with an enigmatic look.

"It is too late, Great Prince. There is nothing that we can do; the hostages have already been executed. It would appear that the n.o.ble lords of your household did their best to prevent it, but they were overwhelmed and placed under bodily restraint."

Cuillioc glared at him. "By whose order? If by yours, or with your connivance, my good Iobhar, do not imagine that those scarlet robes of yours will offer you any protection!"

Sliding his hands into his wide sleeves, the furiadh made a deep obeisance. "Not by my order, Great Prince, I a.s.sure you. I suggest you direct your questions-and your threats-to Lords Armael and Cado.

"You may see them down in the courtyard now," he added with a grimace-more for the barbaric crudity of it all than for the violence, Cuillioc a.s.sumed, "no doubt admiring their revolting handiwork."

Sick, shaken, torn between anger and revulsion, the Prince went back to his room, where he dressed and armed himself. Then he marched down to the courtyard.

He arrived just as the last of the hacked and mutilated bodies were being removed, to find his attendants-their freedom and their weapons but recently restored to them-burning with indignation at the rough and humiliating treatment to which they had been subjected, eager to a.s.sure him they were in no way at fault. Lords Cado and Armael had already departed.

Cuillioc took only so long as it required to determine that the lords in question had in truth ordered and supervised the executions, before leading his grim-faced followers in search of them.

He had no trouble running them to earth as they refreshed themselves after their morning's labors with a light repast under a quince tree in one of the gardens.

At the sight of their smug faces, their air of being totally unconscious of having done anything wrong, a sudden mist rose before his eyes, and the blood roared in his ears. Then his sword was hissing out of the scabbard and flashing through the air.

Cado died almost before he knew what was happening, but Armael had scrambled up from his seat and was halfway across the garden before the Prince caught up to him and struck off his head.

Spattered in the blood of his victims, dizzy and shaking with reaction, Cuillioc stood gazing down on Armael's body. His knees nearly gave out at the thought that he-he! who aspired to chivalry and honor at all times and in all his dealings-had actually executed these men out of hand.

And yet they had impugned his honor, undermined his mission here in other ways, too. He tried to convince himself that he was well rid of them, however it came about.

Could it possibly be over: the plotting, the treachery? Have I convinced the others I am not to be trifled with?

Could anything in his life ever be that simple?

Then he glanced up and caught Iobhar unaware, surprising on the priest's ghostly face a look of unmistakable satisfaction, almost gloating.

Because he thinks my mother will be pleased? Or because he knows I have made some irredeemable error?

22.

Sinderian climbed down from her dangerous perch, stepping carefully from one rocky ledge to the next. She was flushed with triumph, fairly blazing with excitement, vivid and pa.s.sionate as Prince Ruan had not seen her since Saer. As soon as she reached the foot of the path, he and his guards swept forward to meet her, showering her with questions, unable to contain their wonder and curiosity.

"And is this indeed Faolein?" asked Ruan, scarcely able to believe his eyes. "You told me he was dead!"