If I bear the power, she thought, am I, too, a god? Do the gods hate the power they bear, hurting themselves, hurting others? Do the gods seek the purification of desire, the peace that comes beyond desire?
And she thought. The gods move slowly, subtly; entire lifetimes are to them but a brief movement on the gameboard. Mother, do you not know the end of the game? Is this why you withdrew, leaving me alone, with only the power to sustain me—could it be that you are as much like me as I am like you, that we are both gods, that we are all our own gods and the power comes from our meeting, our hating, our loving …
Do even the gods remain, in the end, vulnerable?
A soft melody fell on her ears and she pulled in her thoughts, binding them together, tucking them firmly into the back of her mind. I shall never know. Not in this life, at any rate.
Lyris sang softly as she stood guard outside Danica’s tent— a Sabazian lullaby, to soothe a baby into sleep. Danica smiled. Like as not the woman sang only what came first to her mind.
Danica joined the song, humming to herself. She had sung to Ilanit, and to her two sons before they began their journeys across the borders of Sabazel. And to this baby, too, she would sing …
A trailing tendril of consciousness was Bellasteros, dreaming the same lullaby, stirring in some fearsome infant memory connected with that lullaby. She touched him lightly, consoling him.
Danica floated in the night’s gentle wind, rocking herself and her love to sleep. If she heard, distantly, a keening shriek, a blade through the mind, she gathered that in, too, and sheltered it from abuse.
Tomorrow, and the destiny thereof. Tonight she would claim peace.
Chapter Fourteen
The morrow and its destiny came all too soon. The army of Sardis was hardly moving again, striding forward through the cold light of day, when scouts came riding in with reports of another raiding party, and another behind that.
The skirmishes went on all day, brief, bloody, inconclusive. By day’s end the Sardians had won to within sight of the pass leading to Iksandarun. The legionaries, though tired, were heartened by that distant shadow on the horizon, the rock walls of the plateau. An occasional glint from the top showed the position of imperial sentries.
Just before sunset an embassy came from Bogazkar, a priest and two soldiers riding weaponless from the gathering dusk. Quickly the gold pavilion was raised, and quickly the Sardian officers arranged themselves before the dais where Bellasteros waited. The terms were brief and to the point. A pitched battle, to be fought at the pass tomorrow, to determine the fate of the Empire.
Graciously Bellasteros bowed and promised to consider the matter. Graciously he presented gifts to the imperial soldiers and sent them on their way. The Sardian troops murmured among themselves, eager for a conclusion to their endless quest.
The king called his advisors, old Sardian colleagues, new imperial allies, the Sabazians, together in his tent. Finally, Bellasteros thought, I need no longer fear Bogazkar’s spies …
“Well done,” he said privately to Patros as they waited for Mardoc. “This day you have not stopped my heart with your antics.”
Patros returned an eloquent stare and Bellasteros allowed one eyelid to shiver in a wink. His own good humor surprised him. Open battle and an end to the endless skirmishing with enemies both avowed and hidden; action, and the end of the game. He had dreamed of a song, a gentle melody haunting some deep, almost forgotten corner of his mind; the music brought dread, but it brought peace.
The sword Solifrax hummed, hot at his side, and Danica, queen of Sabazel, stood holding her humming shield an arm’s length away.
He nodded gravely to her, aware of the eyes of his officers on him; she nodded gravely back. But the officers seemed not to question her presence at his side. How quickly had the confused night of the attack on her camp been forgotten, how quickly had legends sprung up of the sword and the shield wielded as one in battle, as one for Sardis.
Behind him Patros spoke quietly to Danica. “Has Ilanit suffered this day?”
“Less than she deserves,” she replied. “Her friends would not mock her overmuch in the presence of the Sardians.”
“Ah,” said Patros. “That pleases me.”
Danica favored him with the thinnest, subtlest smile. Beyond her Atalia muttered, “And you, young stallion, less than you deserve.”
The tent flap opened and Mardoc strode in. Mardoc, eyes blood-streaked, jowls hanging loose, was a man walking in nightmare, hurt and turning that hurt outward into hatred. Bellasteros remembered the onyx ring, the loving words overheard. His good humor shattered into spinning pellets of ice that cut into the back of his neck and drew it tight, alert, wary. We might yet lose this game, he thought. Enemies before us, enemies behind; no wonder my queen stands so pale and still, hemmed in by failure—her failure, and mine.
Bellasteros sighed. This is indeed the end of the game, whether for good or ill. He raised his sword, drawing every eye in the room to himself. Grave green eyes, strengthening his will … With a flourish he unrolled the map of the pass and Iksandarun. “Here,” he said. “We have come to the end of our journey. The imperial army turns at bay, as they did before Farsahn. Tomorrow the Empire will be ours, and Sardis will rule the world.”
Sardis. Mardoc stirred, repeating the name under his breath. But his sullen gaze was still locked on his king, as if waiting for him to be transformed into some slavering beast.
Thank Harus that I have not seen Adrastes this day, Bellasteros thought. He hides his evil face from me, as well he should … The conqueror drew himself up. “Bogazkar meets us below the pass, willingly baring his throat to Solifrax. I mistrust only one thing.”
“A force above the pass,” intoned Mardoc, “would take us by surprise after a feigned retreat draws us in. Such treachery would I expect from Bogazkar …” He paled and looked down at his feet.
Mardoc, Bellasteros cried silently, we have waited years for this moment! Why let Adrastes so poison your mind as to take the pleasure from it? Why? But his speaking voice continued, sleek, calm, leading the discussion, and Danica’s voice was a cool counterpoint to his.
“So it is decided,” he concluded at last. “Our scouts will range far this night, guarding against treachery. The Sabazian force will climb the plateau beside the pass tomorrow and guide our best archers to outflank the enemy.”
“A good plan, my lord,” Mardoc said, and he meant it. But there was a flicker in his reddened eyes that Bellasteros did not like.
“Patros,” said the king, “write the message. The battle will be joined soon after dawn, just below the pass. Mardoc, designate messengers—that young priest, my wife’s chaplain; I like his face. Two soldiers.”
“Yes, my lord,” the general said. He slipped out of the tent.
Bellasteros thanked his advisors and escorted them into the evening. He dispatched Declan and the soldiers—Aveyron was the name of the fair one, he thought—with a salute of gleaming Solifrax. “For Sardis!” he called. “In the name of the god!”
Danica beside him was frowning. “What?” he asked her.
“That one,” she replied. “Not Aveyron, the other, with the cheekpieces of his helmet close about his face … No, I know not.”
He could not ask her to explain; Mardoc was approaching.
Declan, Aveyron, and Hern clattered out of the temporary encampment and up the Royal Road to Iksandarun, the plump, waxing moon at their backs. The priest was not a horseman, and his clumsiness drew some amused comments from the watching soldiers. No one saw Hern place a piece of parchment inside his cuirass. Not the official message— Declan carried that. Hern bore a private letter from Adrastes and Mardoc to Bogazkar. The paper might well have burned his flesh; it carried death written large upon it.
“May I speak with you, my lord?” Mardoc asked. “And with … her?” He jerked his head toward Danica but did not look at her.
Carefully exchanging only the most casual of glances, Bellasteros
and Danica left Patros and Atalia outside in the twilight. The inside of the tent was dark; Bellasteros shooed away a pageboy who was fumbling with firebox and tinder and lit the lamp himself. The small yellow flame leaped up, lighting Mardoc’s haggard face; he was staring at his young king, pleading somehow—pleading for something I cannot give, Bellasteros told himself. His sorrow was keen. “Yes, my general,” he said with a smile. “How may I serve you?”
Mardoc inhaled, as if steeling himself to an unwelcome task. Swiftly he turned and ripped Danica’s cloak from her body. The pin holding it did not give way; the material tore instead, leaving a shred in his clawing fingers. She started back, hand on sword, shield raised. “Who are you, to lay hands on me!”
Too late. Her mail corselet glimmered, bright crescents of lamplight curving over her breasts and curving further over her belly. “That,” Mardoc said harshly. “You would tell my king that is his child?”
Bellasteros intervened. “Our child.” he told Mardoc. “So you admit to spying on my privacy? I would have thought you more courteous, my general.”
The general snorted, not to be turned aside from his purpose. “You believe her, my lord? She is no better than a whore, sleeping with any man who comes to her. She tells you the child is yours only to use your power …”
“Mind your tongue,” Danica said slowly, “or you will find it suddenly shorter.” Her sword was halfway from its scabbard; the shield gathered the lamplight to itself, the star pulsed in its center.
“If you think that, Mardoc,” said Bellasteros, still polite, still wary, “then you know little of Sabazian customs. I doubt not the truth.”
“Truth!” spat Mardoc, as if the word burned his mouth. “Yes, there is a truth, is there not …” He shuddered, went on more quietly, “You would claim this bastard as your heir? Then you are surely bewitched. Marcos, repudiate this spawn of Ashtar, repudiate this child of evil.”
Danica stepped forward, swinging the shield up, and her sword flicked at the ready. But Bellasteros thrust a sheathed Solifrax before her, stopping her. “Danica,” he said. Just the one word.
With an aggrieved look at him she retreated. Elaborately, eyeing Mardoc with a look like a thrown javelin, she replaced her sword, calmed her shield, turned her back, and pretended to study the maps. Her back, Bellasteros noted, was as straight and taut as a flag borne outward by the wind.
He turned with a sigh to Mardoc and met his general’s eyes. His stomach plummeted at what he saw there—unreasoning anger, unreasoning hatred, and a sly secrecy that reminded him too strongly of Adrastes. “Mardoc,” he said, placing his hand on the older man’s arm. “You were once a father to me. I took my first sword from your hands, and I returned your staff of office to you…”
“Maudlin memories. I speak of now, and your … obstinacy. Will you drag the name of Sardis, the holy name of Harus. In the mud?”
Gods! Mardoc, I am trying to placate you, I need your skills as I once needed your paternal love … Bellasteros retrieved his hand. “How can you speak this way? Tomorrow I shall win the Empire for Sardis, and Harus will spread his wings over us. Do you doubt this?”
The two men struggled eye to eye, and it was Mardoc’s eye that fell at last. “No, I cannot doubt that. I … only want to warn you—barbarian gods …” He sputtered out. He cast one last frown at Danica’s back and plunged out of the tent as if fleeing from contaminated air.
Bellasteros stood, hands clenched before him, teeth set, trembling. I have driven him mad. No, Adrastes has driven him mad … He will not change, he will spend his life taking the Empire, but he will not see that such an undertaking demands change. Ah, Mardoc, my only father …
Danica was beside him, her hand gentle on his shoulder. “If we could choose our destiny,” she said, “would we not include those we love in it? But we cannot choose, and it is upon us.”
He nodded. He loosened his fists, his jaw. He shook the icy shiver away from his neck. “And have you wondered if Sardis, if the Empire, would accept your child as my heir?”
“It is the custom of Sabazel to relinquish male children. Who better to take this one, the only child of Ashtar to have a father, than its father himself?”
“Ah, yes,” said Bellasteros, and for a moment he dwelled on that pleasing prospect. Then he touched her hand where it rested on his shoulder and reluctantly put it away. “But the battle comes first. Everything rides on our victory; even Mardoc, even that accursed priest has to admit to that.”
“Indeed,” Danica said. And with a tight smile and a salute she was gone. He gazed after her, letting her seep from his senses. Without you, my love, I would have no destiny … He shook himself.
Mardoc is as subtle as a rampaging bull, Bellasteros thought. But he hides something from me, some knowledge … His neck twitched again, cold black eyes gazing pitilessly at him. Stop it, you have no time for this! “Patros!” he bellowed, and when his friend appeared, “Come. Let us show Solifrax through the legions, consecrating ourselves to tomorrow’s task.”
*
Adrastes sat pensively in his tent, hands folded together, as patient as a spider waiting for its prey to enter its web. When Mardoc came in he barely looked up. “Our message is dispatched with the others?”
“Yes, Your Eminence. Bogazkar has been told where the Sabazians will be tomorrow. He can exterminate them at his leisure. As they deserve, whores and witches all. The commander of the archers has been instructed to stay back.”
“Good. Now, as for the queen herself …” Adrastes’s lips twitched in anticipation. “It would be best if she did not survive until tomorrow. She is strong, and she might escape the imperial levies.”
“Hern will be back by the middle of the night. He has proved trustworthy, has he not?”
“We shall sweeten his trustworthiness with more coins. Perhaps he can at least damage her shield.”
Mardoc nodded. His eyes burned, two bright red spots seared his cheeks, his forehead glistened—but the fever from which he suffered was not a bodily one. “And the king?” he asked, lowering his voice. “He must lead us into battle or we shall have no victory.”
“Let him then have his victory. And afterward—a cooling cup of wine, or a spiced sweetmeat; you have seen the potency of my herbs, General.”
“Yes, Your Eminence.” Mardoc closed his eyes and rubbed them with his fingertips. He discovered he still held the shred of wool from Danica’s cloak. With a grimace he threw it down.
“Mardoc,” Adrastes said softly. The general looked up and was transfixed by the priest’s glittering black gaze. “Mardoc, who shall rule after the king is dead?”
“Who better to bind the wounds of Sardis,” mumbled Mardoc obediently, “than the high priest of Harus? Who better to cleanse both Sardis and the Empire of the taint of barbarian gods than the wise and holy talon of Harus?”
The black eyes were bottomless pits into which one could fall forever, lost and unlamented. “Yes,” hissed Adrastes. “Who better? And according to Sardian law, he who weds the first wife, the widow of a sonless king, establishes his right to the throne.”
“We are at your service, Your Eminence, my daughter and I.”
Adrastes dropped his gaze and Mardoc swayed, almost falling. “She is still young,” the priest said to himself. “She will bear me many sons—I shall make sure of that. Emperor, king of kings, god-king, a dynasty …” His tongue flicked between his lips, wetting them. “You may go, General,” he said with an imperial gesture of dismissal; Mardoc turned as if sleepwalking, and sleepwalking went into the night.
Adrastes bent, picked up the scrap of wool, and considered it, smiling.
*
Declan and the soldiers returned from their mission well before the middle of the night. Hern was immediately called to Mardoc; he went, his chin high—witness my importance! Aveyron trudged off toward his own quarters with many a troubled backward glance.
Declan found Chryse still awake, stitching briskly at a piece of embroide
ry while a serving-woman held a lamp for her. “May I speak with you, my lady?” the young priest asked.
Chryse eyed him wonderingly. He was weary, of course, from his journey, but his weariness seemed much deeper; it seemed the exhaustion of a mind that traces a convoluted path, over and over, hoping each time to find a different answer and each time failing. And yet he concealed his weariness behind a quiet dignity, a decision made, a decision accepted.
Chryse, concerned, started to send the serving-woman for food and drink, but Declan shook his head politely. “I wish simply to speak with you,” he said, and the servant vanished.
Declan paused a moment, frowning slightly, as if pondering how to begin. Chryse waited, her head to one side like an inquisitive sparrow.
At last the young priest sighed. “My lady, do you remember the prophecy of a falcon held on Ashtar’s arm?”
“Yes, yes I do. We hope to prevent—”
Declan raised his hand warningly. “Do you suppose, my lady, that we have misinterpreted that prophecy? We assume so quickly that Ashtar means to imprison Harus. Perhaps he comes to her freely, trustingly. Perhaps he is trying to ease the enmity that men are quick to assume among themselves, naming that enmity god-given.”
Chryse’s eye grew round, shocked. She glanced over at the gilded falcon of her shrine as if she expected it to rise into the air and attack Declan for impiety. “How, how can you say such a thing?” she breathed.
“My lady, you know me. You know my devotion to Harus.”
She shook herself. “I see many strange things. I doubt—I must not doubt.”
“Perhaps some doubt is healthy. Think—you saw the queen of Sabazel heal Patros. You saw what it cost her. You saw—beg your pardon, my lady—you saw the respect with which the king regarded her, and she him.”
“Yes.” It was a faint whisper, but enough to make the lamp gutter and the shadows dance. Wings, hovering wings… “She does not seem evil, but compassionate, caring for Patros and Lyris and me; yet His Eminence denounces her.”
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