“Cyrodian! What the hell do you—”
“Shut up, you!” The dripping glass wavered in his hand. “Who the hell do you think you are,” Cyrodian growled, “coming in here and getting me drunk, making me tell you—”
“What are you afraid of?” Adred gasped, not fighting Cyrodian’s hold on him. He was sweating; he tried to roll his eyes around, but all he saw was the wall across from him, the torch in its sconce, and the yellow light of the torch shimmering on the rough edges of the broken wine bottle.
“Son of a bitch!” Cyrodian grunted, his breath like a cloud on Adred’s face. “Who do you think you are? You like to hear all this, all this shit? You think you’re better than me because you never killed anybody, you little baby cock?”
“No one wants to see you die, Cyrodian!” Adred said, as boldly as he could.
The giant didn’t say anything, didn’t move.
Adred tried to swallow, to get some air. “Why would I come down here just to look at you? Just to give you wine? Damn it, don’t you think I have demons inside me, too?”
He felt Cyrodian’s heavy arm relax.
Strangely, then, as Adred waited there, eyes on the broken bottle, trapped by Cyrodian’s massive arm, Adred recalled Rhia’s letter to him of that afternoon. Her careful printing jumped out at him from the paper. I am glad that we knew one another.… I respect you, and I admire you, and I want you to take care of yourself always, because the world needs people like you.…
Cyrodian coughed. “That’s—”
Adred stared at the shivering, broken bottle.
“That’s true, I suppose.…” Cyrodian muttered.
The broken bottle wavered…slowly lowered.…
“Gods,” Cyrodian whispered. “Can’t even drink wine—anymore.…”
His great arm fell from Adred’s chest. As soon as he felt it drop, Adred jumped, throwing himself against the wall opposite the cell. Wild-eyed, panting, he turned and stared at the giant.
But Cyrodian wasn’t looking at him. He was sinking into a crouch on the floor, just inside the bars. “Get out of here,” he muttered.
Still breathless and shaking, Adred said to him, “Not—yet.…”
Cyrodian looked up, anger in his eyes. “I said for you to get out of here, cockeater!”
Adred shook his head and held out a trembling hand. “Give me the…broken bottle.”
“Right between your legs,” Cyrodian smiled.
“I mean it. If you stab yourself with that and bleed to death, Elad’ll put my neck on the block.”
“So?”
“Damn it, Cyrodian!” Adred nearly yelled, then glanced quickly down the hall toward the door. “Just give me the bottle!”
The giant tilted his head to one side and stared at Adred as he lifted the sharp edge directly above his pulsing throat—as though meaning to do it and daring Adred to stop him.
“Cyrodian!”
He didn’t move.
“What do you want me to do?” Adred asked him hotly, straining to keep his voice down. “Tell you that I don’t think you’re a fool? That I don’t think you’re wrong? You want me to ask Elad not to kill you? What?”
“You’re the fool,” Cyrodian whispered, head still bent.
“What, Cyrodian?”
“I want you to tell—” At last, the giant lowered his arm and let his head fall on his chest. “Tell—Orain.…”
Adred breathed again. “Tell her what?”
He moved suddenly. Lifted his arm high and cast the broken bottle through the cell bars. It struck the floor on the other side of the corridor, at the base of the wall, and shattered.
Adred shot a terrified look to the door—but the latch did not lift, no guard peered through the window. “Damn it!” he complained. “I’m as stupid as you are!”
Cyrodian chuckled, then yawned.
Adred nervously began kicking bits of the broken bottle farther down the floor, where they might be hidden in the shadows. He stopped when he came close to the cell and warily regarded Cyrodian.
But the giant said nothing to him, only stood with a grunt and stalked to his cot; he lay on it with a heavy noise and stretched back. Adred quickly kicked away the bits of broken glass that remained around the cell bars and just inside. Then he straightened his clothes, took a last look at Cyrodian, and started to walk away.
“Count Adred.”
He looked back but could not see within the shadows. “What?”
“Did you mean what you said? Did you mean…what you told me?”
“About what, General?”
“General?”
“About what?”
“About you having your own demons inside you. Did you mean that?”
“What do you think?”
Silence.
Adred continued down the corridor. When he came to the door, he pulled on the handle; the door opened easily. But the noise of the latch awakened the guard sleeping just on the other side. Adred told him that the prisoner was resting, then quickly took the stairs up into the palace.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
In the night-darkened, torch-lit garden, their voices rose with anger and pride, and their footsteps came loud and echoed, as Salia hurried from path to path while her father, the proud Ogodis, followed her, protesting. Flying leaves burst from every bush he passed, punctuating his explosions of temper.
“I don’t mean to hurt you!” he protested. “I only mean that—”
Salia stopped short and turned on him. “You don’t know me well enough to hurt me, Father! You don’t know me at all! What do you think I am? Who do you think I am? Only your daughter? Tell me!”
“Salia!”
“You’ve tried to make me into some…some other kind of you! And I’m not! Elad understands me better than you do!”
“Oh, in the name of the gods, Salia, don’t be stupid!”
“Stupid!” She would have said more—the threat of it erupted from her as a trapped squeal—but she suddenly moved on, clacking down the garden path in her slippers, heading for the torch-lit wall that marked the palace entrance.
Ogodis chased after her, moving as quickly as he was able, his voice rising with renewed humiliation and anger. “I am your father! You will listen with respect to what I’m telling you!”
“And I am—” She stopped again, turned once more, and faced him fiercely; backlit by the torches, hair blowing in the breeze, she reminded him: “I am the queen of Athadia, Father!”
“Don’t you dare throw that in my face!”
“Do you understand what that means?”
“You will show me respect!”
“You will show me respect, Father! You will—”
He slapped her. Terribly hard, so that the sound of his hand on her face carried throughout the garden.
And instantly Ogodis, stunned by what he had done, dropped back and stared in shock at his daughter. “Why did you—make me do that? ”
Salia, the tears dripping from her lashes, glared at him, finally turned away, and moved from him as hurriedly as she could.
“Salia, please!”
But she continued running from him.
“Daughter!”
Ogodis came after her; not chasing her, only following her, his heart heavy, his hand still stinging. When he reached the end of the path and passed under a decorated arch that led to the palace entranceway, he heard his daughter sobbing and looked to see her clutching Elad. They stood at the top of the stairs in the shadows of the recessed door.
With hollow steps, Ogodis approached.
“In the name of the gods!” Elad whispered to him. “The whole palace could hear you!”
* * * *
Abgarthis moved from his window and faced Count Adred, who was sitting at a small table nervously tightening and relaxing his hands. He asked the minister, more out of courtesy than true interest, “Who was it?”
“The queen and her father. But—continue.”
“That’s all there i
s to tell.” Adred leaned back in his chair. “Except to say that I was stupid to do it.”
“Well, foolish,” Abgarthis amended. “Foolish for doing it in the way you did, but not specifically for doing it. Of course you were curious; we all are. And your assumption was right; Cyrodian did open up to you where he refused to speak to anyone else.”
Adred frowned and fingered his throat. “Yes.…”
Abgarthis smiled and walked toward him.
“But that talk about a sorcerer—two sorcerers.” Adred shook his head. “Was he lying to me?”
The minister sat across from him. “I’m tempted to say that he was deluded, but such might not be the case. I’m convinced there are such men, and that there is such a thing as magic or sorcery.”
Adred gave him a questioning look.
“Human beings,” Abgarthis told him, “can do the most remarkable things; and the longer one lives, the more one tends to suspect that there is more in this world than our mentalities can securely comprehend. I haven’t forgotten an incident that happened when I was younger. I was new to Evarris’s court, here, and he had planned a fete that lasted several days. One of the attractions was a strange man who claimed to be a prestidigitator. His name was Iram-adias. I have not forgotten that. He impressed me greatly, but he was a very peculiar fellow. I remember that the dogs did not like him; they ran from him. He accomplished some astounding tricks, but he was most unfriendly and would not even join the nobles at their table when he’d finished his performance. Evarris rewarded him with gold and asked him to stay on for a time, but he refused. I remember hearing some of the courtiers at the time discussing the man’s strange tricks. Several of them had been to the East for one reason or another and claimed that sorcerers are not uncommon there, and that a number of the illusions this Iram-adias had performed smelled to them of the same business. He certainly had a peculiar air to him.” Abgarthis remarked again, “So I suppose such things are possible. There are many strange things on earth and in the heavens. Well, that matter of the birds, for example—the ones you saw dive into the sea last summer.”
“Yes.” Adred nodded slowly. “But—Cyrodian’s hair turning white?”
“It seems astounding, I know, but there again I’ve heard of similar instances. From battlefields. Apparently when some individuals undergo a severe shock—a life-or-death incident—it can cause a whitening of the hair. Whether or not this ikbusa who spoke with Cyrodian was a magician—does it matter? Some of these traveling priests are very wise men, some are scoundrels; but all of them know much about human behavior. If, through insight, this one planted a few suggestions in Cyrodian’s head, caught him at a weak moment—look at the condition he was in, after all—well, Cyrodian must have caused it to happen himself.” Abgarthis smiled and shook his head. “I begin to sound like one of your philosophers. ‘Are we the cause, or are we the caused?’”
Adred’s chin was propped on his hand. Changing the subject, he remarked, “He will be executed, won’t he, Abgarthis?”
“Yes, of course.”
Voices rose again from the garden, loud but distant. Adred eyed the old minister. “Elad?”
Abgarthis sighed.
“What are they arguing about?” Adred asked. “Not Cyrodian, surely.”
“No. Elad intends to make an announcement tomorrow morning, in Council. I’ll tell you if you promise to keep it to yourself for a while.”
“Tell me what, Abgarthis?’
“You see? All this back-chamber whispering and pretense…after a while, life is too short. One wishes to be straightforward. You heard about the letter that Lord Thomo sent Elad? No? You’re aware that Huagrim of Salukadia is dead. Well, he has two sons, the elder is due to inherit the throne, and our relationship with the eastern empire is potentially unstable. Thomo was sent there by Elad to negotiate trade policies and so forth; now he finds himself in the middle of their change of throne. We’re not sure, precisely, what that means within their government, but the proper course to take would seem to be the dispatching of a representative from our government to meet with their new ghen. Thomo suggested it, and Elad has agreed to it.”
“But I don’t understand why that should upset the imbur and the queen. Elad can’t go, can he?”
“No, no, no. He’s sending a representative.”
“But we really don’t have anyone qualified to—” Then it dawned on him. “Not Queen Salia?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Adred, at first astounded, in a moment bared an unfriendly smile. “Salia?”
“Now, now—be temperate.” Abgarthis waved a hand. “It may not be so unsound an idea, after all.”
“But Queen Salia is—”
“I know. We know. But we can’t really spare anyone else at present, can we? Elad’s sending many diplomats and so forth along with her. Salia’s appearance will no doubt be purely a cosmetic one—I don’t mean that to be taken the wrong way,” Abgarthis smiled.
Adred let out a low whistle. “No wonder Ogodis is so upset!”
Abgarthis agreed. “Yes, she’s going to be out from under his thumb for a while. I have no doubt that Elad could have made a worse choice for a wife, but he might also have waited and made a wiser decision. He acted rather impulsively where Salia is concerned. I suppose it was reaction to what was happening at the time.”
“Was he simply attracted to her beauty, do you think?”
“Oh, beauty,” the minister replied, somewhat disdainfully. “Yes, she’s extraordinarily attractive—but we’ve all bought beautiful vases that crack the moment we set them on the table. Salia is…I want to be fair because she has certain strong elements in her. She’s not unintelligent; she’s simply—inexperienced, and unaware of so many things, and not willing to discipline herself. I’m sure it comes from the way the imbur raised her and still treats her. Most of us human beings are actually rather fragile; I suspect that our inner selves, and our hearts, are settled in us early on. You understand what I mean—the child reflecting the parent, its surroundings. We have people in the slums who are of golden character; then, we have nobles who— I shouldn’t be judgmental.”
Adred grinned. “Then I will be!” he said. “Ogodis. I don’t care for him.”
“Frankly, I dislike him intensely, too. I dislike his values, and his pride. We are two entirely different sorts of men. And while I have never had any children myself—thank Mother Hea—this is clearly one instance where even an old bachelor can accuse a father of having botched his job.”
“Her mother is dead?” Adred asked. “What would she have been—the imburess?”
“Something like that, I suppose,” Abgarthis yawned. “Yes. She died giving birth to Salia. And Ogodis seems to have poured every resentment and every fantasy and lost dream he’s ever had straight into his daughter during her maturing years. She hasn’t traveled much; she knows nothing about communicating with her own sex; she finds animals better companions than she does people. Gods! But she’s a bright girl, there’s no doubt about that. She’s incredibly well read. Well educated. Have you noticed that?”
“I haven’t really spoken with her. Just in the garden, when we came back from Sulos.”
“Oh, yes. Well, she speaks several languages and has a phenomenal memory. If the imbur would go home so that the palace could settle down, I suppose that in ten or fifteen years, Salia might mature adequately into quite a woman. I wouldn’t be surprised.”
Adred nodded politely.
“What bothers me most,” Abgarthis went on, “is that she really doesn’t know herself. You’ve known people like that. It’s very disturbing, it truly is. She seems to need others around, needs them to—validate, perhaps—her own identity, her idea of herself. It’s disturbing to see that sort of ignorance in a person. And she gets pig-headed enough to want her demands met constantly, no matter how foolish they are. She never admits it if she’s wrong. She’s like a bird in a cage that squawks to be let out, then once it’s freed tries to
get back inside. She’s…frustrating!”
Abgarthis fell quiet, stared at the open window and the night and sighed heavily. Adred saw the minister’s expression turn contemplative. Abgarthis said somberly, “Pride’s wounds,
too deep for hope to heal—
The prisoning heart that suffocates love—
The sorrowing vengeance that love cannot placate.”
“That’s rather grim,” Adred remarked. “Your verse?”
“Oh, no.” Abgarthis rubbed his forehead. “Sivian. A poet from the 1600s. Too romantic for people to read these days.”
“They’re certainly interesting sentiments.”
Abgarthis nodded. “Those lines, I believe, are from The Crucible of Hope.” He shook his head. “The crucible of hope, indeed.” Groaning a little, the old man stood and rubbed his hands together. “I believe I’m getting sleepy,” he announced.
Adred rose immediately to his feet. “I’m sorry. It is getting late. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“Not at all. I’m glad you came by.” Thoughtfully, then: “I won’t mention what happened—between you and Cyrodian—if you’d prefer that I don’t.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
“Certainly. And now, good night, Count.”
“Good night, Abgarthis. Before I turn in, I think I’d better see about finding another bottle of wine.…”
* * * *
Because the two wings of the Athadian Royal Council—the Priton Nobility and the Priton Common Administration—were in recess for another week, preparing for the first investigative hearings into the matter of the workers’ sirots, King Elad met with ten ministers in the High Council chamber on the morning of the twenty-sixth of Sath. To them he read his official proclamation that “Queen Salia, in the company of the following named ambassadors,” would sail to the city of Erusabad within the Salukadian Empire, where she would, for a period of two months and in accordance with the guidelines “here set down, act as an emissary of good will and international trust between the Athadian and the Salukadian empires.”
His pronouncement was met with silence.
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