7
PRINCE
MAGRAST, SO HUGE AND busy, had un-nerved Khaster and Valraven at first. They were used to the wild, free air of Caradore. Here, they found enclosed spaces, areas of decay and poverty, where the air was almost unbreathable. High walls enclosed them, and a forest of bleak turrets, immense domes, elegant spires. The military training establishment was situated close to the palace and here the new officers had been given quarters. They were accorded many privileges, but still the regime was hard. Prince Almorante, the second son of the emperor, was the general responsible for supervising their training. Caradoreans were valued in Magrast. They were seen as lucky, as if they carried a special magic in their blood. Valraven and Khaster were reunited with several Caradoreans they had not seen for years, but the majority of the crop were far from the empire’s heart, mostly in Cos where trouble was rife. On the first day, Almorante presented himself in the new recruits’ quarters. The Caradoreans had already been made familiar with the list of names that comprised the offspring of the emperor, because they’d had to swear fealty to the royal family upon arrival in Magrast. Almorante was a tall severe man, accompanied by six young knights who eyed Valraven and Khaster with a strange blend of curiosity and indifference. ?My father will see you immediately,? Almorante said to Valraven. ?He is pleased that you are here.? Khaster was not invited to the audience. He sat in his new quarters, wishing he was at home. The few Magravandians they’d seen since their arrival had been aloof and disdainful. Khaster could not see how they would make friends here. Caradoreans might be considered valuable, but he sensed that the esteem in which Leonid held them bred resentment too. Valraven returned from his audience with the emperor, clearly impressed, a reaction which Khaster found disappointing. Valraven had been quiet and surly during the journey south, and Khaster had interpreted this as indicating how much he loathed having to leave home. Like himself, Valraven must be nervous and apprehensive too. But now, he seemed quite at ease. “What did Leonid say to you?” Khaster asked. “Who was there?” Valraven sat down, exuding an uncharacteristic nonchalance. “He told me of his plans for the future, how important I am to them,” he said and laughed to show how this struck him as absurd. “Prince Gastern was there, Almorante, of course, and Leonid’s vizier, Khort. He’s a mage, a sly creature. He watched me all the time.” “And what are the emperor’s plans?” “To bring the divine fire of Madragore to every cold corner of the world. He speaks with passion, Khas. He is a man fired by zeal.” “And this zeal has warmed you?” Valraven looked slightly uncomfortable. “I cannot help it if he wants to speak to me. It’s because of my father. He and Leonid had a close friendship.” “Are you implying I’m jealous?” “You don’t seem very happy about it.” Khaster expelled a snort. “I’m not jealous of you, Val. I just wonder how you can be so taken in.” “We always knew this future was waiting for us. We cannot fight it, so why make life difficult for ourselves?” From that first day, Khaster perceived a small but significant change in his friend. He believed Valraven was flattered by the emperor’s attention. For all Magrast’s unsavory corners, the palace and its surrounding environs was opulent beyond anything the Caradoreans could previously have imagined. Food, weapons, animals and every other conceivable produce poured into it from the farthest reaches of the empire. Every luxury was to hand. Magrast could beguile with her perfumes, her liquors and her beautiful exotic foreign slaves. It seemed to Khaster that Valraven was gullibly seduced by it all. They might have to rise before dawn, and train with their war-masters for most of the day in the use of weapons and discipline of the body. They might have to endure lengthy evening lectures on the history of the empire, on strategy and politics. They might have little free time, but those luscious moments were enough to capture a weak heart. Khaster did not want to think of Valraven as weak. Perhaps he himself was too austere. Gradually, the emperor’s retinue of sons became more than mere names. Prince Gastern, the eldest, clearly considered himself above court intrigue and spent most of his time with the emperor and his generals. Valraven and Khaster barely caught sight of him. More in evidence was Almorante and the next three in line, Eremore, Celetian and Pormitre. The four youngest sons were away from the city at a mage college further south. Of those who remained, only Prince Bayard, who seemed to have quite a reputation for wildness, was yet to be seen. From the second day, Valraven was required to attend certain rituals in the great cathedral of Madragore. As a Palindrake, he was automatically affiliated to a holy order of knights known as the Splendifers. All of the emperor’s own sons belonged to this order. Again, Khaster was excluded from the proceedings, which effectively widened the increasing gap between himself and Valraven. It was at the cathedral that Valraven first came into contact with Prince Bayard. Bayard was only two years younger than Valraven himself, and unlikely ever to attain the throne. Therefore, he had to struggle constantly to maintain a position of status and prestige within the family. The royal brothers both adored and loathed one another, each aware that the others were continually trying to usurp them in their father’s favor. The royal women were unseen, living like nuns within their own cloistered environment in the palace, but it was well known in Magrast that Bayard was the Empress Tatrini’s favorite son. He was certainly the most handsome, having a deceptively effeminate appearance. But other than that, it was said he was as hard and unyielding as steel. For some reason, Bayard picked Valraven out for sport. He challenged him whenever the opportunity arose, insulted him for his rustic background and made constant cruel allusions to the Palindrakes? conquest by the empire. Khaster saw danger in this behavior. The young blades of the palace were wild and competitive, and their relationships were complex. Each had their coterie of admirers and followers, and intrigue and betrayal was rife. Prince Almorante had seemed to favour the Caradoreans, but withdrew his fragile support once Bayard took an interest in Valraven. Almorante was the most level-headed of the emperor?s sons, but for his elder brother, Gastern. Khaster had come to respect Almorante, and had found him to be a fair man. His withdrawal was worrying. What did he expect to happen? The first altercation between Bayard and Valraven occurred when the Caradoreans had been in the city for only four days. They had already established the routine of rising early, before the dawn. After a simple yet nourishing breakfast, they would go to their masters for instruction in the arts of war. Most Caradorean youths would receive this training from a young age at home; Khaster was no exception. But Valraven was different. No one had trained him to fight, although he was proficient with a bow, a legacy of learning to hunt deer with his father. As for the modern weapons, such as the pistol and the musket, neither Khaster nor Valraven had ever seen one before. Valraven’s training was just a gesture. He would never really have to fight. He would lead an army with his divine luck. Strategy would be more important to him than how to hack down an enemy in hand-to-hand combat. Or so the Magravandians thought. The exercise yard for officers was in the heart of the military complex, which in itself was annexed to the imperial palace. The yard comprised a wide expanse of sand—replenished, raked and swept daily—surrounded by a colonnaded walkway. In the center was an immense old millstone, which Master Rezien, Valraven’s mentor, explained covered a deep pit, into which recalcitrant officers in training had once been flung for days at a stretch. Valraven and Khaster would sit on its sun-warmed pitted surface to eat their lunch. Khaster wondered if any bones were concealed far below. The Magravandians, however, did not appear disposed to hide their atrocities, but displayed them in public places. Cages on the outer walls of the palace contained the remains of miscreants, traitors and heretics. They looked as if they’d hung there for centuries. So far, Khaster had observed no fresh corpses. At noon, the recruits always paused to refresh themselves, and on the fifth day, Prince Bayard chose this hour to saunter into the colonnaded yard, accompanied by a half dozen of his cronies. They were all spectacularly handsome young men, fit yet pampered, believing themselves to be among the best Magrast had to offer, which
of course they were. As Valraven and Khaster ate their meager lunch, Bayard and his companions lounged beneath the walkway that surrounded the yard, murmuring and laughing together. Presently, Valraven began once more to exercise with his master, using the sword. It was then that Bayard, who had clearly been awaiting the right moment, got to his feet and sauntered out onto the sand. “Master Rezien,” he said, “allow me to spar with your pupil.” Rezien could hardly refuse, although he must have known Valraven was far from ready to fight with someone who’d trained in swordsmanship since childhood. Khaster and his own master had ceased their activities to watch what happened, Khaster’s heart filled with misgiving. He had already heard rumours of Bayard’s escapades; he had a reputation for unpredictable, grudge-bearing behavior. Bayard danced lightly around Valraven for a few moments, dextrously flashing his blade. Valraven’s movements seemed clumsy and sluggish in comparison. The prince allowed Valraven a few moments’ uncertain parrying, then with a combination of sword-play and kicks sent Valraven to the sand. Blood flowed from a precise razor cut on his throat. “You have much to learn,” Bayard said, while his followers laughed with unnecessary volume behind him. Valraven appeared to accept this humiliation philosophically. In his place, Khaster would have burned with fury. A couple of weeks later, Valraven was taken to the great temple for a grand initiatory rite into the Splendifers. He confessed to Khaster beforehand that he had no great enthusiasm for this. Valraven was not a religious person and the idea of an order of holy knights held little appeal for him. Standing in the cathedral with other knights, watching incomprehensible rites was one thing, taking oaths and performing ritual acts himself, another. It was clear to Khaster that the Magravandians, the emperor and his immediate staff in particular, had high hopes for Valraven. They wanted to rush him into this holy order, with a haste that seemed almost reckless. Valraven had barely glanced at the thick books of prayers and sacred stories the priest-mages had given to him. He was clearly not prepared. Surely, an initiate should have a heartfelt, irrepressible desire to join the Splendifers. It should be a vocation. Nothing called to Valraven. The ceremony took place one evening, and Khaster waited up for Valraven to return. He felt uneasy about the whole thing, scenting hidden agendas and secrets. The whole city sometimes made his skin itch with discomfort, as if conspiracies were incubating in every dark corner. Whispers would sometimes seem to follow him down twisting alleys that were like canyons between the high narrow buildings. Valraven was being led into this labyrinth. A monster was waiting for him. Khaster could sense it strongly. He feared the monster, because he thought its name was “traitor.” When Valraven returned from the cathedral and came into Khaster’s room, he appeared thoughtful. “Don’t tell me it touched your soul,” said Khaster. “It taught me something,” Valraven said. “I have an enemy.” “Who?” “Bayard.” “We knew that before.” “No, this is more.” Valraven frowned. “He wants something, or to prove something.” Bayard had challenged Valraven’s initiation. He had said, “The last Lord Palindrake proved himself in battle and achieved many glorious victories for Magravandias. He was initiated into the Splendifers after his first successful campaign in Astinnia. Valraven, his son, has won no victories. He cannot even lift a sword correctly, and still stinks of mother’s milk. He is not ready to join the Order.” Gastern, presiding over the ceremony in a rare appearance with his siblings, had spoken of tradition, how the Palindrake heir was always affiliated with the Splendifers, and that the timing of his initiation was irrelevant. Almorante had also spoken in Valraven’s favor. The other brothers, perhaps because of an ingrained envy of their privileged elders, had taken Bayard’s stance. Valraven must undergo a trial to prove his worth. “And what did they make you do?” Khaster asked. “I have yet to learn,” Valraven answered dryly, “though I fear my great friend, Prince Bayard, will make sure it is not an occasion for joy.” Some days later, a message was brought to Valraven in the training yard. It was delivered by a beautiful yellow-haired boy, who did not wait for a reply. Valraven scanned its contents. The message was from Almorante, who informed him that his trial would be by fire, as only appropriate for a future general of Madragore?s army. In careful terms, Almorante seemed to apologize for this circumstance. “Trial by fire,” Khaster said, his voice dry. “What does that mean exactly?” “It will not be too bad,” Valraven said. “I have only to spend a night in the fire pits beyond the city. It’s a place sacred to the Splendifers.” “Only …” Khaster said with meaning. “If it were a case of ‘only,’ surely Bayard would not have suggested it. Come on, tell me, what will this involve exactly?” Valraven shrugged. “Apparently, the mineral fumes from the ground at that place induce an euphoric state. It is supposed I shall hallucinate and rave, to everyone else’s amusement, no doubt.” Valraven screwed up the message and threw it onto the sand. “He thinks he can break me. He can’t. I may not yet be a swordsman, but I am something Bayard will never be.” Khaster put his head one side. “And that is?” Valraven smiled. “Very flexible. Like a serpent. I will slither from his grasp. I will be like the Caradorean mist. If someone punches me, they will hit only air. I cannot be broken by force. I will bend and twist and float away. If he cuts me with a sword, I will laugh. If he cuts me with words, I will simply shrug. He will laugh at what happens to me at the fire pits and I will smile and shrug. It doesn’t matter.” It occurred to Khaster that Valraven’s stream of words, which were quite uncharacteristic, had meant he’d thought about this deeply. He must have lain awake at night perfecting that little statement. However, Khaster was pricked by a presentiment about the trial and made careful enquiries of his master about it. He learned that the effect of the fire pits was not simply delirium. The fumes that rose from the earth there were toxic. Sometimes, the madness incurred in their foul breath never faded. Khaster related this fact to Valraven. “You must not do it. Appeal to the emperor.” “Don’t be ridiculous,” Valraven said. “If I do that, Bayard and his supporters will never give me peace. They are testing me, that’s all. It’s only to be expected.” Concerned, Khaster combed the narrow, twisting streets of Magrast until he found the shed of an old fire witch. Within its gloom, he asked her for advice concerning Valraven?s trial. “Fire-drakes dwell in the pits,” she told him. “Sometimes they demand sacrifice.” “What are fire-drakes?” “Elemental creatures, like dragons. They breathe the fire and feast on the minerals found in its wake.” The woman made a strange, enveloping gesture with her arms. “Some may guard against the breath of the fire-drake, but some will succumb, whatever precautions they take. I have treated many bravos of the court for this condition. Some I have had to send into the land of eternal sleep to end their pain.” She sighed. “Such is the folly of the youthful male.” “And how may my friend guard against the madness?” The old woman handed Khaster a herbal mixture wrapped in a stained purse of leather. “Make him a tisane of this. That’s all I can offer. If he has any sense, he’ll pray to Madragore to be spared.” Valraven was not impressed by Khaster’s suggestion. He looked into the leather bag and sniffed its contents. “If I put this into my body, I shall risk a poisoning,” he said. “You can’t trust what you find on the streets, Khas.” Khaster did not comment, but on the evening of Valraven’s trial, he mixed the tisane himself, and disguised it by pouring it into a glass of merlac, the potent liqueur favored by the court. “Drink this,” he said. “It will at least give you courage.” Merlac’s arresting mélange of sweet and bitter flavors was still a novelty to Valraven. He drank from his glass without hesitation, shuddering afterwards. “Will we ever get a taste for that? It is like sugar and spice mixed with bile.” Khaster perceived a smothered excitement in his friend, and realized that Valraven actually welcomed the trial to come. Over the last few days, Bayard had been a constant irritant lurking at the edges of the Caradoreans’ routines. It plagued Khaster, filled him with fury, to hear the prince’s sarcastic laugh, and the sycophantic responses of his cronies. Valraven did not seem to mind. Khaster wondered whether he was in
fact playing willingly to an audience. That night, Khaster thought of Pharinet and wished that she were there. She alone might be able to persuade her brother not to go along with Bayard’s games. Khaster was not sure what the point of the game was, nor how it could be won, but he was deeply uneasy about it. Khaster could not sleep while Valraven was away. He left his own room and went into his friend?s, lay down on the bed there. The window was open, and a bloody sunset filled the room with burning light. Khaster felt drenched in it. Magrast was like someone?s vision of hell; there was opulence and luxury, but a dark, rotten heart to it. So far, Khaster had only glimpsed hints of this other Magrast, but he sensed it was there. The eyes of the whores, both male and female, who haunted the mazelike streets, oozed a knowledge that was not just sexual. Khaster perceived a veiled invitation: I can show you things beyond your dreams or nightmares. Come with me, succumb. Learn. Then pay. Often, Khaster heard noises in the night that he could not identify. They were the sounds made by animals, but had a human resonance to them. Sometimes, gouts of light would spurt into the sky—red, turquoise, gold—and some moments later thunder would come, but from beneath the earth rather than the heavens. Strange smells, bitter yet musky and sweet, would occasionally come in through an open window to haunt a room. Khaster knew that the priest-mages of Madragore employed a regiment of alchemists who worked in a shuttered citadel on the east of the city. Its huge domed roof, which was covered in flaky verdigris scales, rose up from an area of factories and tanning shops. Stories leaked out of the citadel along with the fumes. Creatures were made there, homunculi, golems, beasts of war. Sometimes these creatures escaped, or else were let out to roam the city by their keepers. That accounted for the strange nocturnal noises. But perhaps these were only stories after all. Perhaps the citadel hid secrets of a more mundane yet more brutal nature. Prisoners could be interrogated there, tortured with corrosive steams. The alchemists made killing perfumes for use on the battlefield. Khaster had heard tales of a liquid that when released into the air corroded all the flesh from anyone who smelled its delicate aroma. The alchemists made weapons; if not magical beasts, then mordant potions and poisons. They had to test them on someone. Khaster shuddered. The priest-mages and their underlings were demons, muttering in shadows. Bayard and his brothers were demon princes, and the emperor was the arch demon, an incarnation of depravity: gilded and beautiful and terrible. Over this hideous hierarchy, Madragore held sway. A black and crimson overlord, lit by flames, his eyes pits of darkness. Now Valraven was being sucked into one of the cabals closest to the fire god’s purpose. Splendifers. The fire pits would change Valraven. There was nothing Khaster could do. Valraven did not return at dawn. Khaster breakfasted alone and went down to the training yard to meet his master. Rezien, waiting nearby, was not impressed to find Valraven absent, and perhaps later, if Valraven survived at all, he would be punished. Khaster had to say, “It is Prince Bayard’s will,” and Rezien made it clear that he could not view that as an excuse. Valraven might have no choice in what he’d done, but he would still be chastised. That morning, Khaster could not concentrate. He earned the rebuke of his master and the scorn of other young officers on the field. One of them said, “He fears for his lover” and laughed. Another said, “You have lost him, get used to it.” As he paused to eat the bread and meat that comprised his lunch, Khaster thought about these comments. The young men of the court often seemed to despise women, and treated them carelessly, yet the love they often had for each other was fierce and enduring. Could the officer have uttered a truth? Could Bayard’s behavior be some kind of courtship ritual? Surely Valraven could not be interested in the prince? In the evening, Khaster returned to his quarters and looked into Valraven’s chamber, hardly hoping to find him there. But there he was, slumped face down on the bed, snoring loudly. Khaster was torn about whether to go and wake him or just walk away. He felt oddly betrayed. Ultimately, he closed the door and went to find his dinner. Later, Valraven made an appearance at the door to Khaster’s chamber as he was preparing to retire. “You are in trouble,” Khaster said. “Rezien is angry with you.” Valraven sauntered into the room. “Better to risk Rezien’s wrath than lose face with the snapping puppies of Magrast.” “You wanted to do it,” Khaster said. “What happened?” “It was informative,” Valraven replied. “I lay down among the rocks, and they were gold and crimson like a royal tomb. I saw wondrous shapes rise in the fumes, twisting and curling like cats about me. They breathed upon me and filled me with fire. I saw myself leading armies. I saw myself killing men, and in my heart I felt a fierce glee. I saw myself ridding the world of all that was worthless.” “You were delirious.” “I felt power there, and knowledge. I think the Splendifers know more than we give them credit for.” “And now you will be one of them.” Khaster faced Valraven. “One of the lads on the field today suggested Bayard has an interest in you.” “We both know that already, otherwise this situation wouldn’t have occurred. I think we fascinate him because we are foreign.” Khaster made a disparaging sound. “We? He is barely aware I exist, and the interest I was referring to was rather more than simple curiosity.” Valraven shrugged. “Their ways are different from ours.” “And you condone them?” Valraven sat down on the bed. “It does not affect me. Why should I make judgment?” “Make sure it does not affect you,” Khaster said stiffly. “Remember my sister.” He was stung by Valraven’s laughter. “Your sister? What has she to do with this? You sound like a fussing old woman, Khas.” He lay back on the bed, his arms behind his head. “Don’t lose yourself to them,” Khaster said softly. “Remember where we come from and whom we love.” “Do you know who I love?” Valraven asked, his eyes hooded. “We are old friends, Khas, but you hardly know me.” “I know that, I’ve always known that, but I know you love your family and Ellie. Don’t forget them, Val. Think of when we must return home, and how at that time, you must live with whatever you do here.” “Home is home and here is here,” Valraven said. “We have two lives now, Khas.” With these words, he got to his feet and left the room. At the doorway he paused and turned. “That little potion you fed to me was quite unnecessary. I was never in danger.” “How did you know about that?” Valraven fixed him with a steady, shadowed gaze. “I knew because I felt it in my blood before I ever reached the fire pits.” “Were you alone there last night?” Khaster asked. “No one is ever alone there,” Valraven answered and closed the door behind him. After this, Khaster had to suffer Valraven’s slow withdrawal. Everything that he saw and heard about the city filled him with distaste, yet Valraven seemed to embrace it. News from the frontiers was often horrifying, yet Valraven viewed it with indifference. Almorante gave him a magnificent horse, which would be trained to strike at enemies. The training moved on from the sword to the gun. Khaster had never seen one before, but soon learned what they could do when it was demonstrated on a condemned prisoner. Bayard executed the man. He handed the gun to Valraven and said, “Shall I fetch another peasant so you may try it?” Khaster was alert for a change in the relationship between Valraven and Bayard, but mostly it seemed as before. Bayard still made sniping comments and often tried to make Valraven look a fool. Khaster, he ignored completely. News of their forthcoming weddings got out a few days before they left for home. Both Valraven and Khaster had kept quiet about this, knowing it would only provide food for ridicule. On the night before they left, Bayard accosted Valraven in the lounge where the officers could be served food and drink in the evenings, or acquire the services of whores. “Back home to your women-folk, tomorrow, Palindrake,” Bayard said. “And of course to your little bride. Will you cry to see them?” Valraven did not even look at him. “I look forward to the peace of Caradore and the clean air.” Bayard took this, rightly, as a covert insult and sneered. “You Caradoreans are like simpering girls. What’s wrong with you? Is it so vital you beget an heir? Are you afraid you’ll die in battle?” “It is the custom in our land for men to marry before they fight for Magrast,” Valraven said. “We all have customs. I
am not afraid to die in battle, but you cannot deny it is a distinct possibility.” “You are not yet a man,” Bayard said. “Only old men marry.” Khaster’s tongue itched to point out the lack of substance in Bayard’s argument, but Valraven only said, “In our country, it is different.” Valraven’s calm seemed only to irritate Bayard. “You are just peasants. I can’t understand why my father values your stock so much. You should be foot soldiers. They say that even your father died for the love of a woman. How can such a man lead an army? Perhaps we should have your little wife here, or your sister, to lead our men into battle. They might have more balls than you. I’ve a mind to taste Caradorean woman meat. What about it, Palindrake? You go home to be a housekeeper and send your women here!? He laughed and turned his friends, adding more insults and salacious remarks. Valraven put down his drink and stood up. Bayard turned back to him, his face set into an expression of challenge. For a moment, the two of them faced each other motionlessly, then Valraven threw a punch. Khaster was on his feet in an instant, expecting a full-scale brawl. Around a dozen of Bayard’s cronies were present. It seemed he and Valraven would get thrashed. But even as Bayard crashed back into a table, no one else moved to intervene. The prince picked himself up, glaring at Valraven. Then, with a snarl, he leapt forward. This was clearly sport for the onlookers. The only action they took was to cheer Bayard on. He and Valraven reeled about the room, tearing at one another. Khaster stood helplessly, unsure of what to do. He saw Almorante appear at the door, but the older prince only lingered at the threshold, observing the altercation with an unreadable expression. Bayard had the fighting instincts of an animal. He attacked mindlessly and beat Valraven to the floor. Once he had his adversary pinned there, he took out a small dagger from his belt and drew the blade across Valraven’s left cheek. It was only a light wound, but blood sprang quickly from it. “Do not presume to take liberties with me,” he said. “You will always come off the worst.” Valraven growled in his throat, his head tossing from side to side. Bayard’s followers cheered and roared, stamping the floor and clapping their hands. “Now, my spoils,” Bayard said. He took Valraven’s face between his hands, licked the blood from his face and then kissed him on the mouth. Valraven spluttered and struggled, but his shoulders were pinned beneath Bayard’s knees. Khaster could not stop himself from stepping forward and grabbing hold of Bayard’s arm. “Leave him, you’ve had your fun.” Bayard did not lift his head immediately, but when he did, he fixed Khaster with a look of utter contempt. “Jealous, are you?” “Of course not. You sicken me.” Bayard laughed and jumped up, while Valraven rolled onto his side. He seemed dazed, stricken. Bayard flicked Khaster’s face with his fingertips. “Accept defeat, peasant.” He signalled to his followers and led the way out, saying without turning, “Enjoy your wedding, Palindrake. I have sent you a gift for it.” After he’d gone, everyone in the room fell back into their conversations, as if nothing had happened. Khaster helped Valraven to his feet. “That creature is despicable,” he said. “Must we endure this treatment?” Valraven wiped his mouth and went back to his seat. He walked carefully as if his body pained him. He would not speak. Khaster sat down again, opposite him. “He sought to humiliate you,” he said. “You must forget it, Val. Don’t let him win.” Valraven lifted his drink, and Khaster saw that his hand was shaking. He didn’t know what to say, although in one way he felt relieved by what had occurred. Bayard’s behavior could only turn Valraven more surely against him. Whatever he’d planned would not work on a man from Caradore. “Tomorrow we leave for home, thank Madragore,” Khaster said. “I cannot wait to breathe its air once more. Your sister shines in my head like a goddess. How I need her healing touch.” Still Valraven did not speak. Perhaps he was in shock. “Shall we return to our chambers?” Khaster asked. Valraven remained silent. “Val,” Khaster said softly, “what can I do?” Valraven shook his head. Perplexed, Khaster signalled to a potboy to bring more drinks. He ordered a stimulating aperitif for Valraven. “If Madragore ever gives me the chance, I shall kill that leering prince in battle,” Khaster said. “I shall wait for that moment, Val. He is scum and should be destroyed.” “You don’t understand them,” Valraven said. He cleared his throat, for his voice was husky. “What don’t I understand?” Khaster demanded. “Val, don’t try to explain away what happened.” Valraven downed his drink in a single swallow. “We should get some sleep, Khas. We have a long journey ahead of us tomorrow.”
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