by Melvin, Jim
Torg grasped forearms with a Tugar who appeared to hold special rank.
“How came you here, lord?” the warrior said. “The last we heard, Kusala and the Asēkhas had gone in search of you, but there has been no word from the chieftain, and we have not been in contact with our other sisters and brothers for several days. So we know little of the world outside the White City. To make matters worse, the eagles have quit making appearances, causing much grief. Even the pigeons seem hesitant to fly.”
“Kusala and the Asēkhas found me, but I was forced to take a different route than they. I journeyed through Dhutanga, while Kusala was to travel east of the mountains en route to Nissaya. If all is well, the Asēkhas are already at the fortress.”
“I see that you did not journey alone.”
“Seven were with me at one point, but only two remain,” Torg said, nodding toward Laylah and Elu. “For various reasons, I was separated from the rest. But these two must be treated with the highest honor. They have survived great perils, and each fought bravely. The lady, especially, is dear to my heart. Defend her above all else.”
“Thy will shall be done,” the warrior answered. “And what of the Tugars at Hadaya? More than five thousand are camped on its shores. Will you call them here?”
“Of this, I can say no more until I speak to Rajinii,” the wizard said. “Make it known that I have returned. War is at hand. The druid queen has birthed a mighty army. Jivita is in peril.”
The Tugar nodded, turned away, and trotted down the road, followed by the others.
Torg climbed back onto his horse and urged him forward. “To the queen,” he told Julich.
“As you command,” the captain responded. “But I would know the answer, as well. Will you call the rest of the Tugars here?”
“I cannot yet say.”
Meanwhile, Laylah leaned forward and spoke in Torg’s ear. “I am dear to your heart?”
“More so than all things.”
They rode on toward the palace of Queen Rajinii. Torg told Laylah that it had been constructed within sight of the bustling business district of Jivita, though there were still more than forty hectares of manicured lawn separating it from that massive tangle of stone and wood buildings. Most of the land on which Jivita stood was as flat as the surface of a pond, but a few low hills sprouted from the ground in various places. The palace stood upon one of those.
A moat, purely for show, surrounded the base of the hill. Several wide bridges spanned its indigo waters. Dozens of white marble fountains, arrayed between the spans, spewed foam high into the air. Laylah was especially impressed by a sculpture off to her right: a partially submerged chariot driven by a single rider and drawn by four horses poised on the water’s edge, as if in the process of rising from the depths. While most of the other fountains and statues were white, this one was made of gold. The complexity and perfection of its design were astounding.
During the ride to the palace, the squadron that had accompanied them since midmorning had declined in number, peeling off here and there to attend to other duties. Now just Captain Julich and a dozen horsemen remained with them. Before crossing the moat, they dismounted and marched over one of the bridges onto a paved walkway lined with tulip poplars. A battalion of guards carrying banners mounted on poles as tall as the trees met them. The guards wore white plate armor, mail skirts and flowing green cloaks. Suddenly Laylah felt like a servant girl.
As if sensing her discomfort, Torg took her hand.
Julich approached the guards and bowed. “I bring honored guests to greet the queen.”
The master of the guards also bowed. “Queen Rajinii is aware of King Torgon’s arrival. She will address you at the main entrance, but she commands that afterward, the wizard be brought to the Throne Room alone. Guest suites have been prepared for his companions.”
Torg started to protest, but Laylah squeezed his hand. “It’s all right, Torg. I’m not much in the mood for company anyway. What I’d love more than anything right now is a hot bath.”
Julich also looked perturbed, as if an insult had been issued that Laylah did not fully perceive. They continued on in silence, except for the clanking of armor and the snapping of iron shoes on the concrete pathway. As they approached the front entrance, Laylah looked up at the palace in amazement.
The five-story edifice—constructed with white limestone, sandstone, and marble—was only a tenth as tall as Uccheda, but it was several times broader at the base, containing more than nine hundred rooms. A pair of massive columns supporting a pointed arch framed the main arcade. Within the arcade were the two largest windows Laylah had ever seen—as tall as the poplars and filled with monochrome glass. Between the windows were the main doors, which were carved from rare white oak found only in the heart of Kincara, fifty leagues south of the city. While still Invictus’ prisoner, Laylah remembered reading about these very doors during one of her visits to his library.
“Do you like it?” Julich asked her.
“The palace is magnificent.”
“It was built by the queen after the death of her husband, King Avikheppa X,” Torg said.
“How long ago?”
“More than fifty years,” Torg said.
“Jivitans are not like Tugars,” Julich said. “Our life spans rarely exceed one hundred springs. But the queen is much older than that, and yet has retained her youthful beauty. There is magic in her veins. You will see for yourself. Like all true-blooded necromancers, her skin is white, but her hair is black.”
As they spoke, the doors swung open. Henchmen clad in white robes emerged, formed an aisle, and fell to their knees. Laylah could see a well-lighted foyer and beyond that a majestic staircase with a banister of green marble. Standing on the bottom stair was the queen.
She wore a belted, V-necked gown of white samite with silver speckles, its collar, hem, and cuffs trimmed with green velvet. She held a tall staff of white oak with a fist-sized square of jade on its head. Her black hair was unadorned, hanging freely past her waist, but she had donned a magnificent crown made of white ivory studded with emeralds. She was a tall woman, though not quite as tall as Laylah, and she moved with long-practiced grace. When she approached, Laylah saw that her gray eyes were as sparkly as the silver in her gown.
A woman who also had black hair accompanied the queen. The severe contrast of white against black caused Laylah to shudder. The woman reminded her of Urbana.
Everyone bowed, including Torg, though his was less pronounced.
The queen appraised Laylah with a glance, then focused her attention on Torg.
“Welcome, King Torgon, to Jivita. It has been long since we last spoke.”
“Five years,” Torg said. Laylah sensed wariness in his voice.
“Five years . . . yes,” the queen purred. She glanced at Laylah again, her eyes smoldering. Then she smiled at Torg.
“War is at hand,” she continued. “My army is prepared, but it is always nice to add one more soldier to the fold. I am sure you’re in a hurry to change out of your pauper’s attire and into something more presentable, but you and I—king and queen—have much to discuss first. Will you join me in the Throne Room for refreshments? After that, you can bathe—and then enjoy a proper meal. By the grace of the One God, the White City is well-provisioned.”
“I will join you,” Torg said. “As for ‘something more presentable,’ Tugarian raiment will do. One of my warriors will bring it to me, if asked politely.”
“Anyone within our walls is under command of the queen,” the eerie aide said to Torg. “She need not ask.”
Rajinii hushed her. Then she turned to Julich, her voice stern. “You heard him, Captain.”
“Yes, your highness.” He bowed again and marched away.
Rajinii glided over to Laylah and stared into her eyes. The jade on the head of her staff sprang to life, tossing out brilliant green beams laced with pale yellow. Laylah increased her grip on Obhasa, which glowed blue-white in response. For a moment the beams clash
ed, but blue-white proved stronger.
Rajinii winced and stepped back. “Take them to their chambers,” she snapped at the henchmen. “And bring refreshments to the Throne Room.”
Then she stomped into the foyer and up the stairs, with her strange assistant scampering behind. When Torg did not immediately follow, Rajinii turned and glared.
“Are you coming?”
“In a moment,” he said. Then in full view of the others, he kissed Laylah on the mouth. “Will you continue to take care of Obhasa for me, my love? I’ll join you shortly.”
“When you do, I’ll be sure to be more ‘presentable.’”
“You can look even better than you do now?”
“Oh . . . yes.”
48
THE THRONE Room of Jivita was one of the most opulent chambers in the palace. Its walls were white, but its chandeliers were gold and its wood floors laden with lush green rugs. Five stairs led to the platform that contained the three-legged throne, which had been sculpted from a core of white crystal and studded with emeralds, diamonds, and rubies. The throne was wide enough for three to sit upon, but of course only Rajinii was allowed, her pride rivaling King Henepola X of Nissaya. Both had been born with magic, and it had made them precocious.
Rajinii ascended to the throne, placing the tail of her staff in a narrow basket. Manta, her dark-haired assistant, took her assigned place beside the queen. The Jivitan necromancer was no stranger to Torg. Like Indajaala, Manta pretended to be devious and mean-spirited but in reality was in his employ.
Servitors entered the room bearing goblets of wine and trays of white cakes. A single chair and small table were arranged at the foot of the stairs.
“Bring me wine,” Rajinii barked at a cupbearer.
Torg sat down. “No cakes for you?” he said to the queen. “Watching your figure?”
“How dare you!” Manta snapped, but the queen only snorted.
“I have already supped.”
“As you say.”
Torg had not enjoyed a true meal since Duccarita. The cakes were but a trifle to his massive frame, but they were moist and fluffy. He devoured several. The wine was delicious, rivaling the nectar of Tējo.
“You should have taken me up on my offer,” the queen said. “If you had, your recent travails would have been avoided. I hear that Invictus imprisoned you. How unpleasant. And why? Just to save the helpless Dibbu-Lokans?”
“Unpleasant is not the word I would choose. As for the noble ones, does not your One God believe in defending the helpless?”
“Your highness, enough is enough,” Manta said. “How dare he speak to you this way in your own chambers? We should have him chained and dragged from the room.”
The queen snorted again. “That would not be so easy.” Then she smiled sweetly at Torg. “If you and I had married, as I suggested the last time you were in this room, I would have counseled against your visit to Dibbu-Loka. It was a fool’s errand.”
“As my Vasi master liked to say, ‘fool to one is wise to another.’”
“You insult her highness in her own palace?” Manta said.
“I do as I please.”
Rajinii did not respond, turning her attention to her goblet, which she drained. “The girl is cute,” the queen said, changing the subject. “A diversion to ease the rigors of your travels?”
“If you had trodden in her shoes, you would say no such words. She is no girl, nor is she a diversion. Her name is Laylah, and she is Invictus’ sister.”
With a sharp inhalation, Rajinii stood and hurled the goblet across the room. “And you bring her here? To my city? How dare you! The wrath of Invictus will fall upon us.”
“And if she were elsewhere, it would not?”
Rajinii growled. “More wine!” she shouted to no one in particular.
“I grow weary of this,” Torg said. “A marriage between you and I would not have been wise. Some of the reasons are obvious. You prefer carpets of grass, not sand between your toes. And I could not have lived here. I enjoy my visits to Jivita, but it is not my home. My heart remains in Tējo.” Then Torg sighed, his voice barely a whisper. “And there are other reasons you and I were not meant to be.”
“But the girl . . . Laylah. These reasons do not apply to her?”
“They do not. And as I said before, she is no girl. She is a woman, both in age and experience. Besides, she is the love of my life. All else pales.”
Then he drew the Silver Sword and punched the point of the blade into the wooden tabletop. “If you attempt to harm her, I will kill you,” Torg said.
“Guards!” Manta screamed.
Several raced forward, drawing their swords, but Rajinii waved them off. They backed away, eyeing Torg suspiciously.
“Torgon, Torgon, Torgon . . . I have no plans to harm your precious Laylah. But as far as you and I are concerned, you know naught what you have refused. As husband and wife, we could have ruled the world. Imagine the might of Jivita and Anna combined. Even Nissaya would quail before it.”
“I thought our might was already combined,” Torg said. “And Nissaya? Are the black knights not also our friends? I have no desire to see them quail. Invictus is our enemy. And the druids. Or have things changed since I last sipped wine with you?”
“One thing has changed,” Manta said in a menacing tone. “This very morning, we were informed that Chieftain Kusala ordered the Tugars at Hadaya to march to the aid of the black fortress. It has become obvious who the desert warriors prefer as their allies.”
For that, Torg had no answer. He sheathed his sword and then bowed at the foot of the stairs. “I am weary, your highness. Forgive me, but I must retire.”
“Very well,” she said. “We’ll speak more at dinner.”
“I have little else to say. For what it’s worth, I will fight at Jivita’s side until the end of all things. Is that not the behavior of an ally?”
As he was leaving, Torg strode past a wall decorated with elaborate paintings of past kings, queens, and military heroes. He stopped in front of a portrait of a famous captain whom Torg had befriended almost nine centuries before. Torg was amazed by how clear his memories remained of the last full-scale war between Jivita and the druids.
Rajinii came up quietly beside him. Manta remained near the throne, her face strangely placid.
“You always pause before Ditthi-Sagga,” Rajinii said.
“I spoke at his funeral. He died peacefully of old age, and yet still there was grief among the Jivitans.”
“I forget sometimes just how long you have lived. I feel so old myself, and yet I am just a child compared to you.” She leaned against him and took his arm. “I am a spoiled and wicked brat,” the queen whispered. “But I love my God and my people. When the druids come, I will not shy from battle. Instead, I will ride in the front as their commander.”
“Your courage is beyond question, Rajinii. As is your strength. When the druids come, I will be at your side—if you will have me. But Laylah must be allowed to join us. For she also is strong.”
Then he broke from the queen and fled the room. Rajinii did not follow.
BEFORE GOING TO Laylah, Torg first checked on Elu. A henchman led Torg to a chamber on the third floor of the palace, where he found the Svakaran fast asleep on a large cushioned bed, bathed and freshly clothed. Torg laid his hand on Elu’s cheek. He loved him dearly. Would the Svakaran ever see Rathburt again? Torg wasn’t sure.
“I’m glad that you are sleeping, my friend,” Torg whispered. “It will speed up the healing.” Then he left the room.
“Your chambers have been prepared,” the henchman said.
“Take me to the lady,” Torg said.
“My lord? The queen arranged for three separate chambers.”
“Take me to the lady . . . or I will break down every door in the palace to find her.”
“As you say, my lord.”
Before Torg went into Laylah’s room, a Tugarian warrior approached from the shadows, startl
ing the servants. He bowed low to his king.
“May I take your sword?” the warrior said. “It would be my honor to polish and sharpen it, and you also appear to need a new scabbard.”
“Excellent,” Torg said, handing him the sword. “But don’t waste your time trying to sharpen it. This blade is beyond improvement of any kind. And be careful, for it will cut even a Tugar.”
Then Torg turned and entered the room, finding Laylah dozing in a copper tub filled with steaming water. Next to it was a tall wooden table with towels and several cakes of perfumed soap. No servants were in the room, not even a chambermaid. Whoever had prepared the bath must have only recently departed.
Torg leaned down and kissed her forehead. Her eyes opened slowly, and she smiled at him, her perfect teeth as white as the spring blooms of a dogwood.
As if reading his thoughts, she said, “The servants were doting over me, so I asked them to leave. It reminded me too much of Avici. I prefer to take my own baths and wash my own hair.”
Torg chuckled. “As do I.”
“Will you join me? There’s room in the tub, even for you.”
“There’s nothing in the world I would rather do at this moment. But I’m afraid.”
“Afraid of me?”
“No. Afraid that if I get in that tub, we’ll end up destroying half the palace.”
Laylah laughed. “I’ll behave, I promise.”
Torg undid his breeches and lowered them to his knees. Laylah gasped.
“As deeply as I love you and lust for you right now, I dare not share your bath,” Torg said, quickly pulling up his breeches. “It would be better if I went to my own chambers, for now. The queen has arranged a dinner in our honor. I’ll join you there. Afterward, I will take you to a place where you and I can be alone. Once there, we shall see what we shall see.”
“If I have anything to say about it, there’ll be plenty to see,” Laylah purred.
49
TORG FOUND several henchmen waiting outside Laylah’s door. When he asked them to lead him to his own chambers, they seemed relieved. A bath had been prepared for him, and he soaked in it alone, enjoying it immensely.
