He asked now, "If I take away my hand, will you be quiet? I have no wish to harm you. I love you. You were taken away from Domilik where I was to meet you, and brought here. Will you be quiet?"
She nodded and he removed his hand.
She sat up in bed, clutching the covers to her breasts, and frowned faintly. "You are a brave man, very brave. Or perhaps a very stupid man, to come here in the dead of night to speak with your queen."
"You're no queen. You're a gypsy girl."
She smiled patiently. "Everyone in Alkinoor City acknowledges me to be their queen. Everyone but you."
"I know the truth."
She shook her head. "You are mad. That is the truth."
Kyrik sat on the edge of the bed. “Girl, I love you. If I didn't love you, would I have come all the way from Domilik to sit here in the night and talk with you like this? Come away with me. Let the real Adorla Mathandis have her throne. You and I can have the world."
She stared at him, honestly puzzled. She looked very much like the real Adorla Mathandis, he realized. If one were to put them side by side, nobody could tell the difference. Even he might be puzzled.
No wonder the agents of Ulmaran Dho and Lyrrin Odanyor had brought her here, to be a foil to the ambitions of those two men. If he himself had not come upon Adorla in Domilik, if he hadn't been looking for Myrnis, the real Adorla might have died in Domilik, of starvation or a knife thrust by a jealous female.
“Come away with me,” he begged.
She frowned. "You are the one who must go away. At once. I must be mad myself, to sit here talking to you like this. Now go, while you're still alive. Or—"
She put out her hand to a bell-pull. One tug of that silden cord, and someone would appear in the doorway to give the alarm. Kyrik was not afraid of a fight, he would fight and gladly, but even he could not kill all the guards in this huge palace.
He rose to his feet, nodding. "I'll go. I'll try to think of a way for you to get your memory back. Once you do, you won't want to stay here any longer. Then I'll come for you."
Kyrik turned to leave. As he did, a sleepy slave girl stumbled into the room, trying to rub sleepiness away from her eyes. Those eyes opened very wide at the sight of Kyrik, then her mouth opened and she screamed.
Kyrik swore. He leaped for the girl, lifted and tossed her aside, then went racing down the hallway. He was too late. That scream had echoed up and down the corridors, and they were answered by the shouts and angry cries of fighting men.
Those men poured from the guardrooms, weapons in their hands. At sight of Kyrik they shouted even louder, and from somewhere, a gong began to sound.
It was useless to run. There was no place to flee, for both sides of the corridor were filled now with men who came running toward him, eager to slay.
Kyrik snarled and went to meet them. Bluefang was a blur in the air as he swung it. He parried swords and war-axes that were swung at him, and even as he disengaged, he used Bluefang to thrust or slash. Men went down before him, and instantly he was through that first line of attackers and moving on to the next.
He fought as a wounded wolf might fight, knowing it faced death and determined to take as many enemies with it as it might. Yet he fought also with a cool brain, with a powerful body which responded to his every wish. He was a tornado and a hurricane all at once, a whirlwind that killed.
Along that corridor he moved, and no man could stop him.
Once let him reach a window or one of the balconies set into the sides of the palace, and he would leap to freedom. By the time other soldiers got outside the walls, he would be long gone.
In the distance, gongs sounded. Kyrik could hear the pound of running feet as more and more palace warriors were summoned. They came with weapons bared, with grins of anticipation on their faces. Capture one lone man? Here in the palace? It was very easy.
It was not so easy, they discovered. They faced a man who was mightily muscled, whose face was a mask of fighting savagery, who swung a big sword with a blued steel blade, whose arm never seemed to tire. He was here and then there, and where he moved, men fell and died.
Yet Kyrik was only human. Tiredness seeped into his huge frame, he felt the effect of the jarring blows he used, felt also the bite of steel where steel bit into him.
After a time, he dripped blood. Still, none of his wounds was bad enough to disable him. He fought on, snarling and rasping curses until he felt a need for all the breath there was in his lungs, and then he was silent as the men who dropped beneath his blade.
He fought his way close to a window. There was no chance to turn and dive out that opening, taking glass and wood with him: once his back was turned, it would be hacked to pieces by the weapons facing him.
For a long time he fought, until even his giant muscles wearied. Now he parried only, content with keeping himself alive. It could not go on. Kyrik knew this, he sensed it as only a veteran fighting man might know his own endurance.
He had to risk everything, even sword-blades in his back. Were he to stay here, sooner or later those swords and axes would batter down his guard, and slay him.
He drove himself with all the energy he had left. His blade blurred as he swung it, moving forward, driving his foes backward.
Then he whirled and leaped, head down. Glass broke, shattered, tinkled about him. Wooden frames snapped and he went head first outward into the night.
He had caught them by surprise. They had not expected this. They shouted out their rage as they surged toward that window and the first men to the opening saw their quarry land on two feet, stumble and recover his balance.
Kyrik ran for the high wall.
Even as he did so, other men raced from a doorway, and at sight of him they raised their hunting cry. One man with a war-club raised his right arm and hurled that weapon.
Kyrik leaped for the wall.
Just then, that thrown war-chub banged into his shoulder, threw him off stride so that he plunged into the wall. A moment only he wasted, crashing into that stone and cement barrier, but it was enough.
A club banged against his head. A sword hit him alongside his head with its flat side. Kyrik dropped and lay on the trampled grass.
A captain of the palace guard panted, staring down at him. "By the dead gods of Ilfeakol This one can fight
"More than thirty dead upstairs—and plenty more with wounds that'll keep them off duty for some time to come."
“Who is he? Where's he from?"
"How did he get in and —what did he want?"
"A thief," someone laughed. The guards captain shook his grizzled head even as he wiped sweat from his face. "Na, na. This one is more than a mere thief. Did you ever know a thief who could use a sword the way he does?"
They picked Kyrik up and carried him into the palace and down the stone steps into the cellar-way. Into a room fitted out with metal balls and heavy chains they brought him, and they laid a wrist on a wooden table, gripping it tightly.
A blacksmith came forward to rivet metal cuffs on Kyrik's wrists. Heavy iron chains swung from those cuffs, and at the end of each chain was a massive iron ball.
The men stood back, waiting. Slowly Kyrik returned to the world about him. He did not open his eyes, but by the feel of wood under him and the weights on his wrists, he knew he had been taken.
His eyelids rose. He stared about him, at the grim faces regarding him, at the little room in which he lay. It was useless to go on fighting. For now, at least. Bluefang was gone, as was the dagger from his side. He moved his arms and heard the chains rattle and clink together.
He opened his eyes. "I almost made it," he growled. Yabkin, who was the guards captain, chuckled. He was an older warrior, a man who had served in the armies of Alkinoor under the old king, before Adorla Mathandis had come to power. Men said . he had a biting tongue and a contempt for a new recruit.
He said now, "If you weren't a thief, I might use my influence to get you a job as a guardsman. You can fight, man."
Kyrik shrugged. He was taken, and that was that. Now he must devote his thoughts to getting away.
He growled, "A starving man takes risks. I thought I might steal a bauble or two."
The guards captain shook his head. "It won't do, man. There were a dozen golden griffs in your wallet. Nobody with that kind of money would try to steal from a palace."
“I would.” Yabkin rubbed his jaw. “Mayhap you would, at that. Still, you have to be punished. You'll spend some time in the dungeons. That ought to tame you."
Kyrik stood, his chains rattling. Men stepped back warily, eyeing him. Even in chains as he was, he looked mean and dangerous. His thick, tawny hair hung to his shoulders, fell half over his glittering green eyes. He looked like nothing other than a wild animal caught in a trap.
Yabkin said, "Take him to the pits—and mind that you guard him well."
Kyrik stepped forward, dragging the metal balls as he walked. The warriors closed ranks about him, their hands still on their weapons, and escorted him from the chaining room along narrow walkways until they came to a stairway.
Down this stairway they went, into the sub-cellars where barred doorways could be dimly glimpsed by the light of wall-candles. It was damp down here, there was little air, and from somewhere near there was the drip of water. A rat scurried off into the shadows. A man walked ahead, opened a barred door, held it wide. Kyrik stepped through that opening into a cell. The door clanged shut behind him. A key clicked in a lock.
Yabkin stood close to the bars, watching his prisoner.
"Keep your mouth shut, man, and I'll see what I can do for you," he said softly. "Your offense was very great, trying to steal from the palace, but I have a bit of influence. If you're willing to join the palace guard, I might get you off."
Kyrik nodded. "I'd be willing to do that, of course."
But he knew better, deep inside him. Once Yabkin was told that he had been in the queen's chamber, nothing could save him from execution. Chances were he'd be given to Marrassa.
Marrassa would devour him. It was not a nice thought.
Chapter TEN
Adorla Mathandis woke in the early dawn, just as the first red rays of the sun were tinting the far wall of her sleeping chamber a pale crimson. She lay unmoving, her eyes going from the wall to the sink, to the chair and the table and then to the bed.
She sat up, staring at the empty space beside her.
"Kyrik," she whispered, and flung back the bed-covers.
He was gone, there was no doubt of that. But perhaps he had only gone down for breakfast. She rose and hastily clothed herself in the silken rags that served her as a dress. They were stained and travel worn, but at least they hid her nakedness.
She was moving toward the door when it opened.
Men stood there, looking at her. She knew they were palace guardsmen. How often in the past had men such as these, and perhaps even these men—as queen, she had hardly glanced at their faces—marched beside her to keep her person inviolate.
Inviolate? She wanted to laugh, a hysterical laughter in which desperation mated with bitterness.
She shrank back, but they crowded in on her, and in their faces she read surprise and hesitancy. They reached out and put their hands on her, holding her helpless.
A man came to the doorway, cloaked and hooded.
Yet she knew him. "Ulmaran Dho," she whispered. His eyes burned at her. He made a motion with a hand and a soldier lifted something loose and baggy out of a pouch and shook it. Then he lifted that bag and placed it over the head of this woman, who was queen of Alkinoor.
A string was tied about her neck. She could breathe, but she could not see, at least not very clearly. Hard hands caught her wrists, dragged her door-ward. Adorla Mathandis whimpered.
Kyrik Where was Kyrik? He alone could save her!
They brought her down through the common room of the tavern, and though she heard no voices, she sensed that men and women pressed back against the wall, staring in sympathy.
She did not struggle. What use was there to struggle? She walked like a dumb beast and offered no resistance.
Through the streets of Alkinoor City she walked, and still she heard few sounds about her. It might be the early hour, she thought, but perhaps my city is as frightened as I am myself.
To the palace they brought her and up a flight of wide marble steps. They dragged her into the throne room—aye, she knew where she was Had she not been queen here? and they halted her before the throne.
A hand jerked away the bag. Adorla Mathandis stared at herself sitting on that throne, staring down at where she stood in these paltry rags. On one side of that throned woman stood Lyrrin Odanyor, smiling triumphantly. On the other side was Ulmaran Dho, still in his cloak and hood.
"Sentence her, your majesty," whispered Ulmaran Dho.
"What is her crime?"
"She consorts with the man who sought to rob the palace last night."
The woman on the throne frowned. "He took nothing. He is a mere adventurer. This—this woman who so much resembles me may have done no wrong."
The man at her left stirred. Lyrrin Odanyor whispered, "She is an enemy spy, your majesty. Marrassa needs his victims."
The throned woman shuddered slightly. “Very well. I sentence her to death."
Adorla Mathandis cried out, “You cannot! I am queen here. I am the true Adorla Mathandis!”
"The poor woman is mad," sighed Lyrrin Odanyor, and made a sign with his hand.
The bag was thrust back over her head, and now Adorla Mathandis could be heard only faintly as she cried out that she had been abducted, that she was the one wrought to sit on that throne, that the woman before her was an interloper.
She heard other sounds now, the rattle of chains and the tread of many men marching into the throne room.
"The man, too, highness," said Ulmaran Dho. They did not need to drag Kyrik forward. He walked as a king might walk, proudly and with head held high. His eyes went to the woman on the throne, and he smiled bitterly.
Myrnis stared at Kyrik, brows, knitted. There was something about that giant figure that tugged at her mind. Oh, she had never seen him before last night, she did not know who he was—and yet there was...something about him....
"Death for the man, your majesty," whispered Lyrrin Odanyor, eyes glittering as he looked at Kyrik.
“Death, highness She sighed and nodded. "Yes. Death, then, to them both."
Ulmaran Dho waved a hand. "Take them to the pits. Chain them so they cannot escape."
Kyrik barked loud laughter. “Thieves Robbers worse than any who lie in wait beside the roadways, stealing so they can eat. You take my gold and jewels from me, and you keep them for yourself."
Ulmaran Dho stared back at him. "Dead men have no need for jewels or gold."
“Cut-purses! Foot-pads! Do you pay your dues to the thieves' guild?"
His laughter mocked, brought flushes to the cheeks of Ulmaran Dho and Lyrrin Odanyor. Myrnis straightened on her throne, her own cheeks red.
“Has his money been taken from him, in truth? These jewels of which he babbles?"
“Highness, the man is going to die. The effects of his—"
Myrnis straightened. “Return them! At once!” The high councilor frowned. “He has no need of
“If they are his, give them back!"
Kyrik grinned. "They should be returned now, so her majesty can see that her orders are carried out."
Ulmaran Dho glared at him, but Lyrrin Odanyor smiled.
The high priest said softly, “Return his property —except his weapons.”
Myrnis snapped, "Oh, give him back his sword. He's in chains. What can he do?
Lyrrin Odanyor nodded. “His weapons, too, then. Give them back to him."
"Now," said Kyrik. They waited until those weapons and the contents of his belt-pouch were brought. Lyrrin Odanyor laughed when he saw the crystal ball.
"Do you peer into the future, warrior? If so, the sight of your own
death will not be a pleasant one."
Kyrik shrugged. “Every man must die—even you."
They turned them and led them out of the throne room, Adorla Mathandis beside Kyrik, and while her steps were slow and dragging as though she wept behind that bag which hid her head, Kyrik walked with ease and confidence.
Seeing that confidence, Ulmaran Dho scowled and glanced sideways at Lyrrin Odanyor. The high priest still had that oily smile on his thick mouth. Ulmaran Dho began to wonder at that smile.
Once Marrassa was in power, here in Alkinoor, Lyrrin Odanyor might decide that he would be high councilor and high priest all in one. Ulmaran Dho decided that a man who aimed for high stakes gathered many enemies.
They took Kyrik and the queen of Alkinoor down to the pits, and thrust them together into a cell. The steel door clanged, the lock turned. In moments they were alone.
Kyrik lifted off the bag and saw her crumpled face, the tears running down her cheeks. He said gruffly, in an attempt to cheer her, "We aren't dead yet."
"We m—might as w— well be." “Na, now. I have my baubles back.” She glared at him. "Your baubles Little playthings to amuse your mind while they prepare for our sacrifice to Marrassa! You disgust me!"
She moved to a cot and lay down. After a time she began to weep bitterly, her shoulders shaking, her body rounded into a ball. Kyrik gloomed at her, wanting to help her but not knowing how.
After a time she fell asleep. Kyrik sat on the other cot, staring at his war-boots. He had his sword, his dagger, but they were of little use to him. He could hardly swing them to any use with these chains and leaden balls fastened to his wrists.
He thought about Illis, and reached into his belt-pouch and brought out the crystal ball. He rolled it across the floor, watching it bump against the far wall.
“Well, this is what you get," he snarled. “You abandoned me. Now see what's happened."
Kyrik, you're a fool The words came out of nowhere. He stiffened, snarled. "I am indeed. I'm a fool because I serve a goddess who demands everything of her worshipers and gives nothing in return."
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