Priam shook his head. "I wore that one out. This is a new one, embroidered for me by your mother."
"Yes. Now I see that it's richer than any of mine ever were. Silk instead of linen, as becomes the Sovran of Destimar.
"Your mother says I could be your twin."
Priam's color returned, and deeply. Reaching for the krusghan, he examined it with interest clearly feigned. "Your sister lent me this. I'd been learning the music of Risma, but I've had little time for practice the past many days—as you can understand, I'm sure." He hesitated. "She is hardly more than a child. Half the age of Belphira—whom she heartily dislikes."
"How could anyone dislike Belphira Deva?"
Priam sighed. "Ask your sister. Many times has Belphira attempted to win Nelora's goodwill, all in vain; has given the girl magnificent gowns, only to have them returned to her ripped to shreds; has sent her a hundred gifts such as women love, fans and flowers and and ornaments, only to find them again tossed upon the threshold of her chamber, broken and torn in pieces; has offered to instruct her in music and dance, only to be brusquely told that a Steppes virgin has no need of a whore's arts."
"By every god. I'll instruct her in better manners."
"I always feel enchanted, as if all her traits were spells—her talk, her caprices, her wild wit. I half believe she knows your Art, her powers over me are so great."
"Surely no greater than yours are over her."
Priamnor understood, completely. "I would never misuse them, ilandrakis." He smiled. "Especially since I'm sure I would face some dreadful Steppes vengeance if I did."
Ryel smiled back. "As eldest brother I could challenge you to single combat."
"I expected as much. Of what kind?"
"Daggers on horseback."
The Sovran gave a low whistle. "Too rough for me."
"It isn't a pretty sight—I've witnessed it more than once. But we needn't speak further of it. Are Nel and Diara friends?"
"Inseparable. They're lovely together, whether walking hand in hand in their silken gowns, or dressed like boys, vying at the archery-range. Let me take you to them, and your mother."
Ryel lifted a reluctant restraining hand. "Not yet. No one must know I'm here—none but you, and a few others to whom I will reveal myself as I see fit."
"Will one of those be my sister Diara?"
At that name, sweeter than any krusghan's melody, the wysard flinched within. "I'll be more than glad to see her—when the time is right. But tell me how she does."
"She enjoys perfect health, and spirits as bright as these bad times may allow. I have done what I can to shield her and my friends from the horrors just outside the palace—which I cannot for much longer, for matters worsen hour by hour."
Ryel frowned. "I warned you about Michael. I told you he was a wysard of Elecambron. Why was he not stopped?"
"He cannot be caught," the Sovran replied. "No matter how trapped or cornered, he always escapes unscathed. And he has changed terribly. When he first came to Almancar, all his talk was of the city's corruption, and the need for reform. But soon after your departure he became more cruel, urging open rebellion and destruction. The more rampant he grew, the more his followers increased. In the last three months he has called for outright revolt, encouraging every kind of atrocity—and as you see, has been all too well obeyed."
"The true Michael Essern refrained from the use of his Art while in Almancar, and his nature was too noble to be subverted even by his Master," Ryel said. "He would never have roused the Fourth District to open revolt."
"Then—then who is this man?"
"The real Michael Essern lies entranced in Markul, but his semblance and his powers have been conferred upon Derain Meschante."
Priam's brows knit hard. "Meschante was more puritanical even than Michael, to the point of terrorizing the Diamond Heaven."
"Meschante's self-righteousness was a film of snow over a cesspit, masking the vilest lusts, the foulest urges," the wysard replied. "Now those passions have been given full rein, with powers more than enough to satisfy them."
"Belphira loathed him."
"She has far more reason to fear him, now. The daimon Dagar has returned to this city, and together with Meschante dwells in Michael's form."
Priamnor leaned against the table and closed his eyes. "Great Divares…this is terrible news. The worst."
Wearily Ryel nodded. "I think so, too. Dagar will be at his strongest now. He will not fail to seek me out, for mine is the form he most wishes for his own; but the most immediate danger concerns Belphira."
"I have caused her apartments to be set round with sentinels," Priam said. "But only your Art can give her true safeguard."
"Not entirely true. As it chances, I have brought with me to Almancar her strongest protector."
"And who is that?"
"Lord Guyon Desrenaud. I sent him here before me."
The Sovran's frown was at first bewildered, then displeased. "Desrenaud? Where is he?"
"I'm not sure," Ryel said. "Somewhere within the palace complex, I hope."
"So. My rival has returned, then. It only needed that." Priamnor pushed back his sweat-lank hair, wearily. "I'm very tired, ilandrakis. Forgive me. These many days I don't think I've slept more than two hours at a time."
"Then rest now."
"If I can. Yours will be the rooms across the corridor from these, ilandrakis—the ones I had readied for you almost a year ago, when I thought to make you my chief minister."
"My deepest thanks, Priam."
"I wish I could drink to your return with a glass or two of Masir. But there's none left. My court drained the last drop weeks ago."
"It doesn't matter." The last thing the wysard wished to taste was that wine, with all the memories it would inevitably evoke.
Many of the palace servants fled when they could," Priam was saying. "And most of the guard are now stationed on the walls, fighting the enemy. I can't offer you luxurious attendance."
"I won't require it."
Reluctantly the Sovran turned his gaze to the howling insurrection just outside his walls. "Many causes brought these troubles about. Nobles idle and vicious; heartless greedy merchants; slaves fully as rich as their masters, and as proud. And supporting all of these, laboring folk more numerous than any of the other classes, yet destined from birth for the meanest work, kept ignorant and untaught lest they become upstarts and threaten the balance of power. This had been Almancar's way for centuries, endured by the people of the Fourth District because they considered their lot luckier than that of their counterparts in other lands—which it was, if being well-housed and well-fed are the only things of importance in life. But to think in those terms is to be like a woman who believes herself happily wed simply because her husband does not come home drunken every night, and has not yet treated her ill; and it only took Michael and his preachings to make the Fourth District comprehend their essential slavery, and rise in revolt. If only I had known…" The young Sovran's voice broke on his last words. "Don't leave me again, Ry. Not now."
"I never will. But rest." With a gentle whisper Ryel made the Sovran sleep, then lifted him in his arms as he would a weary child, and carried him to his bed. "Rest," he murmured when his friend lay pillowed and covered. "I'll keep watch this night, ilandrakis."
For a time he sat at Priamnor's side, taking to himself his kinsman's troubles of mind, every gnawing nightmare. At last the Sovran's angst-etched features smoothed, and his breathing steadied and deepened as he slept. But Ryel grew ever more unquiet and distraught. Feeling his blood going cold, he rose and took Edris' cloak about him, then went out to the retired courtyard just off Priam's bedchamber, seeking the night's solace.
He found it even sweeter than he'd hoped. For here in the quiet amid the scent of jasmine, far from the city's turmoil, the faint notes of a cithern mingled with a fountain's shimmering music. As the wysard drew nearer he saw that a woman sat alone by lamplight, her jeweled fingers touching the
strings of her instrument in sad revery, barely beckoning the tune—one that the wysard knew well from childhood. Taking up his krusghan, Ryel strengthened the song with harmony, and Belphira after a moment's surprise continued the tune to its end, then set down her cithern and swiftly stood.
"Priam." She hastened toward him, her face alight, but then halted, her smile fading. Ryel, however, greeted her gladly.
"My lady Belphira Deva, it is good to see you in health."
She was smiling again, incredulously now. "Why, it is Redestens!"
They joined hands. Moonlight shone upon them as it had in the Garden of Dreams, and they looked upon one another with the same ineffable communion of their first meeting. "My friend Ryel, most dearly welcome in these terrible times," Belphira said at last. "Sit with me, here at my side. I need not ask what brings you here, nor how you came—for the Sovran told me long ago of your powers, which indeed I had guessed of from our talk in the Diamond Heaven. But where is Priam now?"
"Asleep in his chamber, my lady."
"Thanks to you, I have no doubt. And I am grateful. For too long he has not known rest—nor have I known his company, which made me all the readier to mistake you for him. But the truth makes me even more glad, for surely you have come here for our help."
"I will do whatever I can."
"Much will be asked of you, then; much that could have been prevented from the start," Belphira said, a thread of reproach sharpening her soft voice. "You could have brought about Michael's death long before. You had the skill, and the chance. The Sovran told me everything, after you left."
"Michael is my brother in the Art," Ryel replied, feeling again the gash of edged glass, the slippery blood-fevered grip of struggling hands. "I could not harm him."
Belphira recoiled. "But he is a demon—a monster."
"He is worse than you have any idea. Michael is no longer in Almancar." And he told her what had really occurred, but only part of it, making no mention of Dagar.
She was trembling, even with half the truth. "Meschante. I can still recall how he tore my mask from my face and spat at me in the Diamond Heaven, actions which should have been his death; but Prince Hylas pleaded that he be spared, and by the Sovran's mercy he was."
Ryel shook his head. "Agenor's choices were far from wise ones."
"And you say that Meschante now has powers strong as yours. If Almancar should fall—"
"Do not think it," Ryel said, although he thought it too. "It mars your beauty."
She turned from him. "That is the least of my concerns." She turned away from him. The lamplight fell upon her face, disclosing downcast pallor unrelieved by the painted maskings that had disguised it at their first meeting, so seeming long ago. "I have heard that pain makes one a philosopher. If that is true, then I have grown very wise in a short time. Too wise for tears, or perhaps simply too tired, having wept so many of late. I had many friends in the Diamond Heaven, Redestens; but those friends are all of them gone, now. The few who paid heed to my warnings escaped the city, but many died at the hands of Michael's fanatics. Some of them—the lucky ones—were killed outright. Others less lucky were raped to death."
Ryel spoke through a tight throat. "I know."
Belphira shivered. "All of them were so young. So beautiful. Very often I feel guilt for having been spared their fate."
"Be glad instead that you have known happiness, however briefly."
"Happiness." Belphira looked toward the imperial apartments where her lover slept. "Yes. We have known it, in full measure. Priam had feared at first that he might not be capable of pleasure with a woman, after his illness and those years of celibacy. How wrong he proved himself—and how glad he was of it." She laughed, but very softly, and not long. "Now all he requires is a young bride. Young and fair. Unsullied and fruitful."
Her last words came bitterly. She had taken her cithern onto her lap as she talked, and now she plucked a twanging discord. "Your sister does not love me, Redestens. She cannot. She is good of heart, but rigorously chaste as all Steppes maidens are, and therefore incapable of excusing me my past life." A long moment she hesitated. "Nelora's blood is of the imperial line. The Sovran made me aware of your mother's more than probable kinship to the dynasty, as well as your own rank, my lord of Vrya. But most important of all, your sister adores Priam."
"She's a child. He can't return her feelings."
She almost laughed. "In three or four years, if these times permit her to live them, Nelora will be only more beautiful, and I will be...but it doesn't matter. If I survive this siege, I will never again dwell in Almancar, but return to my homeland. And I will search for Guy Desrenaud until I find him, or until I become an old woman out of my wits. For he was my first love, and even in Priam's arms I have never forgotten him. Will you keep this secret, Ryel Mirai?"
"I will."
She held out her hand, taking Ryel's. But then her beautiful face grew unquiet, and her fingers cold. "You have a secret of your own. One that I need to learn, whatever it costs me."
Ryel fought to clear his mind of all forebodings concerning Desrenaud, for this woman's Art was strong, although it slumbered unknown within her. "Many matters call me now, and I must look to them. But we'll continue our talk later." And he would have gone, but Belphira stayed him.
"Wait." She fixed her eyes on his, unevadably. "Yours are great powers, Lord Ryel. With so much evil awork, I have little right to ask this question—yet I must know. Is Guyon Desrenaud still alive? Could you consult your Art in some way, and tell me? Now that the world might be on the point of ending, I can bear to know."
Ryel had never felt more pulled and torn. "I wish I could, my lady. More than anything at this moment, I wish I could."
Belphira stared at him, all but comprehending. "I am afraid to ask you more. Go. It may well be that he is better off dead than where we now are, you and I."
Those words echoed in Ryel's mind like mocking ghost-shrieks. "Better off dead," he murmured as he left Belphira and began what he knew all too well might be a fruitless search. "Are you, Guy? And was I the cause?"
In his turmoil of mind he strayed out onto one of the open balconies of the Eastern Palace, oblivious to the danger. At his appearance a shouting went up in the streets, and a barrage of arrows—shouting he never heard, and arrows he never saw, until far too late.
Chapter Twenty-Two
"You're a great one for close calls, sorcerer. This makes twice I've kept your skin whole."
Ryel rubbed his head, which hurt smartly on one side. "You almost cracked my skull, you crag-crawling savage," he said, not gratefully. Then he realized who he'd just spoken to. "You're alive. Guy, you're still alive!"
Out of aching blackness Desrenaud appeared somewhat blurrily at first, grunting a laugh. "Small thanks to you. I've never known anything that smarted worse than your wysard's way of traveling. It's not natural, magus."
"No. It certainly is not." Ryel cleared his vision with a vigorous head-shake, and looked long at the man who'd rescued him yet again. "I thought I killed you."
"You did your best, I'll give you that," Desrenaud answered, curtly wry. "But why add suicide to murder? Couldn't you watch where you were going? By the way, were you hit?"
Ryel made a cursory check. "No. But my head's ringing."
"Because I knocked you against a wall whilst snatching you yet again out of harm's way."
"Where did you materialize?"
"In some courtyard or other. One with a naked man's statue in it—and a living lady fairer than any work of sculptor's art, though fully dressed."
"Then you saw Belphira."
"I did indeed, enchanter. Although I took good care that she didn't see me."
Ryel stared at him. "But why? Why, after so many—"
"I've only a single reason, but that excellent. Come along and I'll show you."
After many corridors and some strenuous climbing they stood together at the summit of the palace's tallest tower. "I found this high pla
ce straightway," Desrenaud said. "We can't be seen by any, but have every view of the city and the plain. I expected it to be guarded, but that other tower yonder has fully as good an aspect at only half the height—and as you can see, there's an armed watcher on it who little thinks us here. Now turn your eyes southerly. All the strength of the Zegry force lies camped in a clump around that gate, whilst the eastern way into the city is watched by a force much the lesser. Anyone attacking from north or west would meet with little resistance, and overcome it handily. How many do you think there be out there, all told?"
Ryel scanned the wasteland now grayed by false dawn, using both his Steppes sight and his Art. "Around five thousand."
Desrenaud nodded agreement. "Close to my own count—which doesn't numerate those who've sneaked off to steal what they can out of the jewel mines. Now, whilst prowling about the corridors and courtyards I overheard some of the soldiers talking, and they were saying that fully half those troops, the ones encamped at the east gate, aren't regular soldiers but aliantes all, scraped up from every dirty hole and corner. So what we have is an army of savages and mercenaries, not over-numerous."
Ryel frowned. "But surely reinforcements are expected in days to come."
"That I'd never doubt, but the Azm Chak has few friends, and those mostly from over the seas and no great fighters. The Zegrys may have sought help from perhaps Usk or Bashant, but likely didn't get it--those are indolent hot lands. Moreover, the Azm Chak's nearest neighbor is Zalla, and the Rei of that land despises Catulk and Coamshi and all their blood, for old reasons. With a little luck this would be easy—with a few of Roskerrek's battalions we'd have the day won before it broke. Damnation, where's Destimar's army?"
"On its way, I trust."
Desrenaud grimaced. "Bah. It's probably still being levied. Old Agenor presumed too much upon his realm's greatness, and in his overweening idiocy thought none would ever dare lift hand against it; and now a gang of ragtag scum can topple all his empire."
"Almancar is the capital of the realm, not the whole of it."
"Almancar is the dynasty, sorcerer." Desrenaud leaned against the parapet at Ryel's side, and gave a disgusted grunt. "Those Chakans fight all underhanded. I've heard that each soldier carries a jar full of vipers, to let loose during battle; they themselves are made immune by antidotes. And it's rumored that some of their strongest are purposely infected with incurable diseases to spread amongst their adversaries, and that all their weapons are envenomed with rotting poisons. I don' t know how many of those tales to believe."
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