Chryse regarded him as a rabbit would regard a snake; respectfully, but with caution. “While I would prefer to remain within the walls of the palace, paying my devotions at our private shrine, your summons must be obeyed.”
The black eyes flicked to the form of the serving-woman. It was the one he had noticed at the palace: slender, fair, with the pale eyes of the northern barbarians. “Lyris can be trusted,” Chryse rushed to say.
“Of course,” Adrastes said smoothly. His hand moved forward, choosing a tablet from those on the table, shoving it toward her. “A message from your honored father.”
“Not bad news?” Chryse asked as she picked up the tablet.
“That remains to be seen,” the priest replied. He waited patiently while she spelled out the words, her brow furrowed, her small mouth repeating the letters. Over her head Lyris watched, not stolidly, but with a well-trained alertness.
Chryse spoke at last. “Sabazel. The oracle said that a victory would be won beyond the borders of Sabazel—my lord’s victory, surely.”
“That, lady, is what we must assure.”
“We? I am named regent only by my lord’s courtesy and my father’s rank; you are the ruler of Sardis in the absence of the king. I am but a woman.”
“Indeed,” murmured Andrastes. “But you are the first wife—unless the king begets a son on some other woman, a son to inherit the Empire he has won. Your position is secure.”
She flushed and looked down into her lap where her hands lay clasped. “I have given him only daughters, true, and he will not return to my bed. He spent only a moment by my side this last spring, when he came so quickly to visit the oracle and then returned to battle.” Her voice grew almost inaudible. “I would gladly forego my rank, Your Eminence, if my lord could only have his heir.”
Adrastes favored her with a bow. “May your virtue be a model for all the women of Sardis.”
“Thank you.” Chryse fluttered in confusion, her cheeks blushing even rosier.
Adrastes glanced again at the serving-woman. Her eyes widened at his scrutiny and she straightened self-consciously.
“Now, my lady,” the priest said, turning back to Chryse, “as I said, we must assure the king’s victory and safe return. You saw the letter; I have sent to the oracle as the general requested, but she speaks in riddles of a hooded falcon, its jesses tied to Ashtar’s wrist.”
“Ashtar,” Chryse repeated. Her mouth shaped the word awkwardly. “The goddess of Sabazel, on the outlands of the world. And the king—surely he has not been bewitched. Surely it is as my father says, only his courageous temperament, as fine and free as Harus his sire.”
Adrastes smiled reassuringly. “You are correct, my lady; he has always been a soaring falcon. But remember the riddle of the oracle.”
“Oh,” Chryse gasped. Her hands flew to her mouth.
“But we can help him. I can make an amulet, sending the power of the god to free him from the wiles of this unwomanly woman. You must give me your permission to intervene, and some talisman that the king has touched, and you must give to me as well your serving-woman to carry the charm to the king.”
Lyris started, glancing quickly from Adrastes to Chryse and back, bewildered. But Chryse set her chin and reached to her throat. “Whatever you direct me to do to aid my lord, Your Eminence, I shall do.” She removed the gold chain from her neck and held it under the lamp so that it spilled like sunshine from her fingertips. “My lord gave this to me as a token of his respect, seven years ago when he became king and I stood beside him on the dais. I—I hate to part with it, but …”
Adrastes touched her hand gently and took the necklace. “I will care for it. Remember that with the amulet I make from it you assure the king’s victory.”
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, I shall remember. Lyris.” She turned with a sigh to the other woman. “His Eminence will instruct you. May your journey be easy, and may you soon return to me.”
Lyris opened her mouth as if to protest, but the priest raised his head and his glittering gaze pierced her. She swallowed and nodded meekly.
Chryse rose and drew her veil again over her face. She extended her hand to the priest and he bowed over it. “My thanks, Your Eminence,” she said. “I shall make an extra offering at the god’s shrine this night.”
Adrastes’s mouth smiled, but his eyes remained shuttered. “So gracious a lady as yourself,” he purred, “brings the favor of Harus upon Sardis.”
She flushed again and hurried with small steps to the door. There she paused and with a rustle of her cloak cast one last regretful look at Lyris. “Give my lord my respects,” she called. Lyris jerked forward, as if she would follow, but the movement became a curtsy and she stayed behind.
The priest watched as Chryse picked her way down the steps and rejoined the waiting guards. Only once did she hesitate, glancing fearfully back over her shoulder to the patch of scarred tile, to where scarlet anemones nodded as if touched by a breeze.
“My blessing, child,” Adrastes hissed under his breath. “If Bellasteros is a bird of prey, then you are surely a sparrow, scratching contentedly in its yard, uncaring of the world beyond its walls. If your lord is indeed enamored of this warrior queen, then you will need the favor of the god to turn his wrath. Despite Gerlac’s suspicions, Bellasteros is his son.”
Chryse was gone. Only a few lights continued to burn in the city. The Azurac and the Cinnabran murmured along the base of the river wall, rushed between the pilings of the docks, mated to make the mighty stream of the Sar that carried its mingled pigments to the sea. A lateen sail tacked up the river, and the necropolis lay silent.
Adrastes turned. “Come,” he called to the waiting servant. “Come with me.”
Lyris started, as if waked from a sleep, and she walked toward the door. “Your Eminence,” she said, her words somewhat slurred, “How may I assist you?”
“Are you not a daughter of the northern nomads?”
“Captured young, and raised by the hands of the lady Chryse.”
“But you will remember your barbarian ways, I wager. Are you confirmed in the eye of Harus?”
“Yes, certainly; my lady herself taught me the catechism.”
“The lady’s piety is to be commended.” He took Lyris’s arm in a strong grip and guided her up the steps, higher and higher to the sanctuary of Harus at the very peak of the temple mount. At the colonnade she stopped, staring around with glazed eyes. It was as if the world lay at the feet of the god; to the north a silver glint of the sea, to the south a smudge hinted at mountains. To the east hung the moon, round and rich, straining toward the earth. A shaft of cool light sliced deep into the sanctuary.
Adrastes frowned and brandished the gold chain into the face of the goddess. “From this shall I make jesses for your queen; what you witnessed at your midsummer’s fullness you will not see again. Harus rules, and with him Bellasteros!”
The pupils of Lyris’s eyes dwindled suddenly to pinpricks. With a moan she crumpled to her knees. “Your Eminence,” she whispered, “please, I am unworthy of your trust.”
“Be quiet,” he ordered. He still held her arm, and he pulled her swiftly into the thick shadow of the columns. There he left her, huddled at the base of the obsidian slab that was Harus’s high altar.
The acolyte Declan stood, hesitating, on the steps outside, his narrow face somber, his hands tightly clasped.
Quickly Adrastes hung a tapestry at the eastern side of the temple, blotting out the rays of the moon. Embroidered soldiers fought under the outspread wings of a giant falcon, and its curved beak dripped the blood of Sardis’s enemies. A puff of wind stirred the cloth; as it moved the soldiers writhed.
Red flames leaped from a brazier. Faint war cries echoed in the depths of the tapestry. The priest laid out the elements: colored sand; a vial of water from the Sar; a sharp, gleaming blade. He arranged the gold chain along the ancient carvings of the altar, in the arcs of the god’s talons. As he worked he sang, quietly and
clearly, and the incantation stilled the wind.
The wavering melody fell on Lyris where she lay, and slowly she looked up. Her eyes dilated, the blue irises disappearing as the pupils opened wide on flickering red firelight. Adrastes smiled, cruelly complacent; he gestured, and she stood and slipped her clothing from her body.
Invisible wings beat about the temple. The tapestry shifted, its threads rippling; soldiers shouted and died. The priest mixed water with sand and painted Lyris’s body, outlining her breasts and loins with the sweeping curves of feathers. “Harus,” she whispered. “Harus, I await your envoy.” Her voice did not come from her throat, but from an undertone in Adrastes’s incantation.
He arranged her on the altar, pillowing her head on the fair curls of her hair, settling her hips upon the chain. He paused, turned, paced to the eastern door of the temple. Arms outstretched, head thrown back, he stood. A murky blue flame sprang up among the dark shapes of the tombs across the river.
Declan turned and fled into the night.
The flame wavered, tossed by a sudden gust of wind, but the incantation lay heavy across the city and the wind died. The fire grew stronger, leaping into the air; it was a falcon, burning in a blue heat yet not consumed, beating its wings in powerful strokes, gliding upward on the updraft beside the temple and landing at Adrastes’s feet.
The priest bowed deeply. His long-fingered hands crawled like spiders down the sides of his robes and seized the blade. Slowly he backed away from the bright shape of the bird. Slowly he rose beside the black altar. The knife flashed, blue fire and red mingled; the whorls of paint on the woman’s body became patterns of blood. She caught her breath in pain and pleasure mingled.
The falcon walked in stately tread forward. Adrastes stepped back, the dark glitter of his eyes watching both demon and woman.
The blue flame shimmered. The falcon grew taller, its brightness fading as it took human form. The image of a man stood over the altar, insubstantial but defined in every detail: stocky, middle-aged, strong but twisted in its strength. Its eyes were whirlpools of madness—a poisoned pride, a hatred stronger than death. It looked about and its lips parted in a vulpine smile, revealing sharp, white teeth. “Adrastes Falco. My thanks, priest. My thanks.”
Adrastes bowed. “My lord Gerlac. Amusement for your shade. Revenge, if you will.”
The demon stretched, throwing off its grave-wrappings, and an odor of unguents, natron, and decay emanated from its form. Its churning eyes raked the form of the woman on the altar.
She reached up to it stiffly, as if her arms moved against her will. Her face went from blankness to horror and she opened her mouth, inhaled to scream—Adrastes raised his hand and her expression faded, her breath expelled in a moan.
The demon fell on her. The priest laughed, delighted in his power. Wings cracked the night over Sardis.
Behind the tapestry the moon mounted higher, but its light was shadowed, and Lyris’s choked cries rent the sky in vain.
Chapter Six
The council chamber was stifling; hardly a breath of air stirred through the open shutters. Outside the late summer sun lay in shimmering waves across the agora.
Danica’s head slumped forward into her breast; with a start she caught herself and pulled herself awake. Fortunately the council meeting was over, and only her immediate advisors sat scattered about the curved benches of the chamber. It seemed to her as if every pair of eyes was focused on her, disapproving her lack of attention; even Atalia, who stood beside her bearing the star-shield, cast more than one quizzical look at her queen.
But she had already worried so much about the subject under discussion that she seemed incapable of spending any more emotion on it; her mind moved slowly, laboriously, through the same patterns it had traced a hundred times.
Theara’s most recent message, smuggled out of the Sardian camp via a traveling merchant, confirmed the rumors that had already reached Sabazel The campaign that had started so bravely two months before had bogged down; the newly revived imperial troops under Bogazkar had proved much tougher than Mardoc had estimated, slowing Bellasteros’s march toward Iksandarun. The satrap knew better than to stand and fight a pitched battle, as Kallidar had before Farsahn. He skirmished and ran, skirmished and ran, training his army at the Sardians’ expense.
As Bellasteros moved away from the sea, following the ancient caravan route along the Royal Road, his lengthening supply lines were exposed to frequent raids. This half of the Empire was not only poorer but had already been stripped; it offered little sustenance. And the Sardian baggage train grew more and more unwieldy as refugees flocked to the falcon standards.
Some of those refugees were no doubt spies; Bogazkar seemed to anticipate every Sardian move. The morale of the legions, so far from home, failed.
But the voice of the goddess counseled patience: Soon, daughter, shall I set the pieces in motion. Remind him of the lay of Daimion …
Danica wrenched her attention back to the meeting.
“The subjects of the Empire,” aged councilor Neferet was saying, “would greet in joy anyone who came to liberate them from imperial tax collectors, and press gangs, and slavers.”
“I would not wish to be ‘liberated’ by the Sardians,” said Atalia. “They burned Farsahn.”
“It was an accident,” Danica cut in. “Drunken soldiers upset the sacred fire in the temple, and the oil stored there set fire to the hangings.” Her stomach heaved, flopping loosely around a pocket of warm air, and she stopped to swallow. Perspiration gathered on her forehead. “The Sardians have never enslaved their conquests …”
“You hear only one side of the story,” Atalia stated. Her meaning was clear.
“A pity,” said Neferet, “that the marriage of Viridis and Gerlac proved a tragedy, the opposite of its intent. She went willingly, I remember, thinking to stop the everlasting war between the Empire and the kingdom of Sardis. Her mistake was in trusting the Sardians to behave with common decency toward her.”
“Her mistake,” Atalia said dryly, “was in believing that a woman could make a difference in the wars of men. That a woman could retain her dignity in the world of men.”
“She must have been very brave.” Ilanit sighed.
Danica leaned back and closed her eyes. She had been only five years old, standing at her mother’s side on the temple steps holding a garland of asphodel for the princess; the young woman’s grave smile, the quiet conviction in her eyes, had remained branded on Danica’s memory. Yes, Bellasteros would now be all of twenty-seven … . She had indeed had courage, had Viridis, to prove her love for Ashtar and then go on to Sardis. She had indeed been foolish.
She was not the only foolish one. Danica’s blood seemed to be draining slowly from her head to her abdomen, so that her stomach pulsed more strongly than her heart, pumping waves of nausea through her body. She swallowed again. Her skin prickled cold, but still the sweat coursed down her back and between her breasts so that her linen shirt and pleated trousers were soaked with it.
“Mother?” Ilanit knelt by her side, her wide green eyes, so like Danica’s own, filled with concern. And with something else, a shy decisiveness.
“Yes, love,” Danica responded. She raised a hand that was by itself as heavy as her shield and stroked her daughter’s hair.
“Mother, may I ask permission—forgive me, but the next turning of the moon will bring the autumnal rites, and …” She stammered, looking away from her mother’s face.
Danica grasped Ilanit’s chin and forced her eyes to again meet hers. “You would wish,” she said quietly, “to stand guard during the rites, not to participate. Am I correct?”
“Yes.” The words were only a whisper. “I—I was so sore, I would have more time to heal. A man’s touch is not like a woman’s.”
“Though each has its pleasures,” Danica said ruefully. “But I wager that your true reason is less than a handsbreadth taller than you, with the dark eyes and hair of a son of the Sar.”
/> “Mother, please …” Pain muted the brightness of Ilanit’s eyes, and Danica felt the shadow of it touch her own heart.
A sudden crash made them both start. They looked around to see Atalia picking up the shield. “I beg your pardon,” she said smoothly. “It seemed to leap from my hands.”
Oh, my daughter, Danica thought. But it was a scowl that she summoned to her features. “No. You are bound to the rites, and glad participation at that. You behave like a meek peasant woman, believing herself excluded from all other men when touched by one.”
The pain spilled from Ilanit’s eyes; she bit her lip in an effort to show no emotion. “Yes, Mother,” she whispered. “Your forgiveness, Mother.”
Oh, my daughter, I ache as surely as you do, and I am old enough not to be caught in such a trap. But the sound of her voice continued, short and sharp. “I want to hear no more about it. A daughter of Ashtar, indeed.”
The room was stifling, she couldn’t breathe, and her clothing was drenched, it seemed, with her own salt sweat. Better sweat than tears, she told herself.
Danica’s stomach twisted, like a fish pulled helplessly from water to land; she lurched to her feet and vacated the council chamber; and managed to gain her own garden before the inevitable occurred.
Ilanit called for Shandir, and they assisted Danica to her bed, while Atalia watched in resigned concern from the doorway, the shield glowing in her hands. “Ashtar’s will be done,” the weapons master murmured with a sigh; she laid the shield on its stand, caressed it with her fingertips, crossed the room to kiss Danica’s damp brow. “I shall attend to the training of the acolytes,” she said, and she walked from the room as if bearing the entire weight of Cylandra on her back.
Danica lay, cold and trembling, while Shandir found a wet cloth to clean her face. “Your forgiveness, Mother,” Ilanit said. “I upset you.”
“I was already upset,” Danica told her. “Your forgiveness for speaking so harshly to you.”
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