‘Some day or two ago a closed carriage did depart from this place after making some show of stopping – under heavy guard – at the door to the house upon which all our attention hath been fixed. The carriage, which was but a ploy, is bound for Panem-Dea. Those we seek are not inside, however. They had long since departed from Natayos with Zalasta.’

‘Did Krager know where Zalasta was taking them?’ Sparhawk asked.

‘It was evidently in Zalasta’s mind that none here should know,’ Xanetia replied, ‘but Krager, ever alert to the main chance, was well aware that news of Zalasta’s destination might well save his life should things go awry, and he did strive most assiduously to learn the Styric’s plans. By feigning drunken stupor, he was able to be present when Zalasta did speak with his comrade, Cyzada. The twain spake in Styric, but Krager, unbeknownst to us all, hath a smattering of that tongue, and he was thus able to glean from their hurried conversation the very information which he – and we – are most curious about.’

‘That’s a surprise,’ Kalten muttered. ‘Drunk or sober, Krager’s a shrewd one, all right. Where’s Zalasta taking the ladies, Anarae?’

Xanetia sighed. ‘The information is melancholy, Sir Kalten,’ she told him. ‘I do fear me that it is Zalasta’s intent to take the Queen and her handmaiden to the hidden city of Cyrga, where Cyrgon himself doth hold sway, and by his power there can deny us all access to those we love.’

PART THREE

Cyrga

Chapter 20

If they would just let her sleep. The world around her seemed distorted, unreal, and she could only watch in numb, uncaring bemusement as her exhausted body screamed for sleep – or even for death. She stood exhausted at the window. The slaves toiling in the fields around the lake below looked almost like ants crawling across the winter-fallow fields as they grubbed at the soil with crude implements. Other slaves gathered firewood among the trees on the sloping sides of the basin, and the puny sounds of their axes drifted up to the dark tower from which she watched.

Alean lay on an unpadded bench, sleeping or dead, Ehlana could no longer tell which, but she envied her gentle maid in either case.

They were not alone, of course. They were never alone. Zalasta, his own face gaunt with weariness, talked on and on with King Santheocles. Ehlana was too tired to make any sense of the haggard Styric’s droning words. She absently looked at the King of the Cyrgai, a man in a close-fitting steel breastplate, a short leather kirtle and ornate steel wrist-guards. Santheocles was of a race apart, and generations of selective breeding had heightened those features most admired by his people. He was tall and superbly muscled. His skin was very fair, although his carefully curled and oiled hair and beard were glossy black. His nose was straight, continuing the unbroken line of his forehead. His eyes were very large and very dark – and totally empty. His expression was haughty, cruel. His was the face of a stupid, arrogant man devoid of compassion or even simple decency.

His ornate breastplate left his upper arms and shoulders bare, and as he listened, he absently clenched and relaxed his fists, setting his muscles to writhing and dancing under his pale skin. He was obviously not paying much attention to Zalasta’s words, but sat instead totally engrossed in the rhythmic flexing and relaxing of the muscles in his arms. He was in all respects a perfect soldier, possessed of a superbly-conditioned body and mind unviolated by thought.

Ehlana wearily let her eyes drift again around the room. The furniture was strange. There were no chairs as such, only benches and padded stools with ornate arms but no backs. Evidently the notion of a chair-back had not occurred to the Cyrgai. The table in the center of the room was awkwardly low, and the lamps were of an ancient design, no more than hammered copper bowls of oil with burning wicks floating in them. The roughly sawed boards of the floor were covered with rushes, the walls of square-cut black basalt were unadorned, and the windows were undraped.

The door opened and Ekatas entered. Ehlana struggled to bring her exhausted mind into focus. Santheocles was king here in Cyrga, but it was Ekatas who ruled. The High Priest of Cyrgon was robed and cowled in black, and his aged face was a network of deep wrinkles. Although his expression was every bit as cruel and arrogant as that of his king, his eyes were shrewd, ruthless. The front of his black robe was adorned with the symbol that seemed to be everywhere here in the Hidden City, a white square surmounted by a stylized golden flame. There was some significance there certainly, but Ehlana was too tired to even wonder what it might be. ‘Come with me,’ he commanded abruptly. ‘Bring the women.’

‘The servant girl is of no moment,’ Zalasta replied in a slightly challenging tone. ‘Let her sleep.’

‘I am not accustomed to having my commands questioned, Styric.’

‘Get accustomed, Cyrg. The women are my prisoners. My arrangement is with Cyrgon, and you’re no more than an appendage to that arrangement. Your arrogance is beginning to annoy me. Leave the girl alone.’

Their eyes locked, and a sudden tension filled the room. ‘Well, Ekatas?’ Zalasta said very quietly. ‘Has the time come? Have you finally worked up enough courage to challenge me? Any time, Ekatas. Any time at all.’

Ehlana, now fully alert, saw the flicker of fear in the eyes of Cyrgon’s priest. ‘Bring the Queen then,’ he said sullenly. ‘It is she whom Cyrgon would behold.’

‘Wise decision, Ekatas,’ Zalasta said sardonically. ‘If you keep making the right choices, you might even live for a little while longer.’

Ehlana took her cloak and gently covered Alean with it. Then she turned to face the three men. ‘Let’s get on with this,’ she told them, mustering some remnant of her royal manner.

Santheocles rose woodenly to his feet and put on his high-crested helmet, taking great pains to avoid mussing his carefully arranged hair. He spent several moments buckling on his large round shield, and then he drew his sword.

‘What an ass,’ Ehlana noted scornfully. ‘Are you really sure you should trust His Majesty with anything sharp, though? He might hurt himself with it, you know.’

‘It is customary, woman,’ Ekatas replied stiffly. ‘Prisoners are always kept under close guard.’

‘Ah,’ she murmured, ‘and we must obey the dictates of custom, mustn’t we, Ekatas? When custom rules, thought is unnecessary.’

Zalasta smiled faintly. ‘I believe you wanted to take us to the temple, Ekatas. Let’s not keep Cyrgon waiting.’