Agors was not, however, thinking specifically of this poem, or of any of his verses, the afternoon he prepared to greet the queen of Athadia and her retinue. The drama of Man and Woman was the furthest thing from his mind; how best to dominate these proud Athadian dogs was uppermost. Already today Nihim had cautioned Agors not to offend the westerners, not to gloat, not to bait them or treat them with contempt—not even with sly, veiled contempt.
But Agors thought so little of the western people, and he was so self-righteous in his own estimation of himself, that it was asking much of him not to greet the Athadians as an eagle would a nest of mice.
Nevertheless, Agors did intend to restrain himself. By mid-afternoon, told that the carriages conveying the western queen and her ambassadors were making their way toward the palace, Agors felt that he had solaced his pride and suspicions sufficiently to maintain composure as he took his throne in his high, open, and sunlit audience hall. Nihim sat in a smaller throne to the left; and standing on both sides of him, stretching in wings, were his aihman-sas, his guards, and the hundred ministers of the Hulm, his council. The golden carpet had been rolled out; it stretched from the first steps of the throne dais down across the Audience Hall to the entranceway. Sunlight poured through the open roof; festooned banners and hanging draperies and clouds of flowers fluttered and swayed in the breeze; birds called to one another high above, chirruping from the tall trees that reached through the ceiling; the great fountain at the other side of the Hall tinkled and splashed musically; and two hundred lamps and incense braziers filled the immense chamber with aromas of rose and sandalwood.
At the sound of gongs atop the palace roof, Agors settled himself in his throne, idly adjusted the rings he wore on his hands, straightened his mustache, and awaited the appearance of the western dogs.
The great doors of cedar inlaid with gold and ivory were pushed inward.
Fifty Salukadian soldiers tramped in and aligned themselves on either side of the golden carpet.
Ten Khamars followed them, leading the imperial procession toward the ghen.
Agors, curious, watched keenly; he could discern hints of Queen Salia’s long blonde hair through the moving shoulders of the armored Khamars. He was intrigued; he had heard of this young woman’s uncommon beauty.
Like the sound of thunder falling silent, the Khamars marched to the foot of the dais stairs, parted, and fell to both sides. And from behind them, dressed in white and rose and scarlet, attired with jewelry and ornaments, rings and torques and pendants—riches that could only enhance her beauty but not vie with it—came Queen Salia.
Agors leaned forward, stunned, and stared at the most beautiful woman of the West. His heart stopped. She was—
Trumpets announced her.
“Wise son of conquerors, khilhat, domu ghen sa ko-ghen, before you comes—”
Lines from that idle poem of his returned to his mind on the instant.
To salve your heart, my lust to still…My arrogance and quenchless pride…In former lives.…
Queen Salia looked up at him, said something in the young ghen’s own language, and smiled.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
To the prescient, history shows that assuming power in a society that has fallen into desolation is quickly rewarded. And when one is boldly resolved and confident in taking that power, the process can be swiftly accomplished indeed. Tyrants, however calculating and prudent they may be, are loud. And it is that loud voice to which the people listen, rather than to the quiet warnings that issue from the ruins of the past.
In Lasura, where the powerless serfs had been reduced to savaging one another for food, the erosion of King Nutatharis’s stability continued unchecked. Unable to keep men loyal to him, with no money by which to pay them, without goods and crops in adequate amounts to trade with his neighbors, and in a position of military failure in the lowlands, King Nutatharis—who a year before had prided himself on his high position, and who all his life had boasted that to live fully means to live dangerously—looked around him, saw the results of what he had done, and plotted to salvage what he could.
Sir Jors, his only remaining man of trust in a court that Nutatharis had deliberately kept exclusive, swore that he was still faithful to his lord, as were many of the palace guards and some legions of the army. But fully half that army—those men in the field who had been abandoned after the abortive spring engagements in the Low Provinces—were now swearing their allegiance to the upstart Captain Kurus, the rebel chief. Nutatharis remembered this one: Kurus had ever been ambitious, jealous of the Athadian Cyrodian, and had often promised the king that, should Nutatharis be in need of an ally to take command of the faltering troops, he was the man. Nutatharis had rejected him as dangerously arrogant and reckless. Here, then, was the result of that misjudgment: Kurus turned against him, organizing a personal army and promising to form his own government once he had marched to Lasura and beheaded “the traitor who sold his nation for his own benefit!”
Nutatharis looked around him and knew that if he expected to live (dangerously or otherwise), then he must take refuge someplace, let these tempestuous events storm themselves into quiet, and meanwhile formulate his own plan for retaking his throne from the rebels. But when he had suggested this possibility to Sir Jors, that courtier had responded with the obvious:
“Where will you go for safety, my lord? To Athadia—where Cyrodian has been executed? To Salukadia—which refuses to answer your letters? Into the open territories? There you would live in a hut; and you would be forced to move far enough away so that no one—absolutely no one—would suspect who you are.”
That was apparent; Nutatharis had come to the same conclusion. But…to where could he escape? It would be necessary for him to transport weapons with which to protect himself, to move a small army of men as guards, to take horses and clothes and—
That very evening, as the king stood on a balcony of his palace, looking out into a capital city that was silent and dark, Sir Jors came to Nutatharis to explain that much of his soldiery, and all of the peasants, had rallied behind a new rebel leader. No, he didn’t mean Kurus; Kurus, so far as could be determined, was still to the east, biding his time and collecting more and more of the dispossessed to him.
“Who, then?” Nutatharis asked his man.
“Do you recall the shaman who came here a month ago? The one with the sack of grain?”
Nutatharis went cold. “That…sorcerer? Thader—Tha-mer-on?”
Sir Jors nodded sharply. “I am given to understand that for the past few weeks, he has been traveling the countryside in the company of our renegade troops. He has perhaps a legion with him.”
“A legion! How could he gather an entire legion to him in…two weeks? Three weeks?”
“Sire, they believe in him.”
The king reddened. “Find him. I want to speak with him. Have him brought here!”
“He is here already, my lord.”
Nutatharis rose from his seat. “Where is he? In this palace?”
“Yes.” Jors ducked his head.
“Bring him here!”
“King Nutatharis, he is in the throne hall, sire. I couldn’t stop him. I think—”
“Jors, what is all this?” Nutatharis asked him, pained. “Why are you doing this?”
“I think you’d better see him. He most assuredly wants to speak with you. He can help you, my lord.”
“Help me?”
“He is an extremely powerful…sorcerer, King Nutatharis.”
Staring at Sir Jors, Nutatharis tried to see into his mind. But the king was uncertain what to think. He wiped his face, damp as it was, then moved past his minister and hastened through the door, hurried down the corridor, and took the wide stairs leading to the ground floor of the palace.
The sorcerer was sitting comfortably on Nutatharis’s throne, his legs crossed. His right hand, resting on the chair arm, held a drinking goblet. Thameron was dressed, not in the robes Nutatharis had las
t seen him in, but in armor: Emarian state armor, with all insignia removed.
Before the king could say a word, Thameron smiled and lifted his left hand to indicate the wine jug and a second goblet on a table before him. “Drink with me, lord king.”
“I want an explanation for this.”
“Certainly. But do not pretend with me. You and I must speak frankly. Come here. Sit.” He rose, vacating the throne. “Drink wine.”
Nutatharis, taking the steps of the dais, came beside him; he placed a heavy hand on the sorcerer’s shoulder, helping him away from the throne. “Do you think that this is just another chair?” he asked coldly as he sat.
Thameron grinned and moved part way down the dais. He pointed to the full wine goblet beside Nutatharis.
Nutatharis told him, “I’ll have no wine.”
“You do not trust me?”
“Of course I don’t. You’re foul, you and—Eromedeus. Whatever he is. You’re plotting against me, then? Is it you two who’ve caused these crimes in my land?”
“You have nothing to fear from me or from Eromedeus. Now take up your wine and listen to what I have to say to you.”
“I’ll have no wine.” His stare was hot, his posture—as he sat—a crouch.
Thameron frowned. He glanced at his own wine goblet, lifted it to sip, then approached the throne and handed it to Nutatharis. “Be done with this nonsense,” he growled. “Here. Sit, and drink, and listen to what I tell you, and your throne will be a throne again, and dangers circumvented.”
Nutatharis watched him for a long moment. Just as Thameron, exasperated, turned to set his goblet aside, Nutatharis reached for it; Thameron handed him the cup, then moved down to stand at the foot of the dais.
“You think I am evil?” he asked the king. “Not so. I am not capable of doing evil, Nutatharis, because the things that I do, I do for a higher purpose. I am much learned; I have been to the place where good becomes evil, and evil, good. You know nothing of evil: all you know are pride and arrogance and vanity.”
“You will explain to me why—”
“Listen to me, for I have come here to aid your throne. I am powerful. I know you are—”
Nutatharis watched him closely, lifted the goblet to his lips, and sipped. The wine was warm.
“—in grievous circumstances. My journey to speak with the undying stranger proved fruitless; he could tell me nothing that I did not already know. I think it desirable for both of us to decide upon a mutual—”
“What are you doing?” Nutatharis broke in suddenly, an edge to his voice.
Thameron stared at him, not understanding. “King Nutatharis, I—”
“What are you doing?” he demanded again, his voice rising with a note of real fear. Nutatharis set his wine cup on the arm of his throne but then knocked it over as he grabbed the sides of the chair to lift himself. His whole body was shivering. “You’re…changing!” he gasped.
“King Nuta—”
“You’re…fading, you’re—”
“Nutatharis!”
The king struggled to hold himself up but slumped back onto the cushions. As his speech slurred, he realized. “You…poisoned the wine!”
Thameron watched him.
“You…poisoned. The wine,” Nutatharis whispered. “I’m on fire.”
Thameron told him quietly, “Better for me, now, and better for Emaria. This is the aid I bring.”
Tears came down the king’s face. Nutatharis bared his teeth and bit his lower lip until he drew blood. “Not like this,” he said.
“You will yourself be slain by the heart of a child, and your own fear will encourage the slaying. You will not win, Nutatharis. One may wish for more than he can endure.”
A final convulsion seized him; as though a powerful force had grabbed his feet, Nutatharis was drawn forward, and he slipped halfway from the cushion. Then he relaxed. A line of blood stayed on his lips.
Thameron looked at the corpse.
At a noise behind him, the sorcerer turned.
Into the huge, empty throne hall came Sir Jors, his armor making hollow sounds, the lights of the high-hanging lamps sliding upon breastplate and greaves.
Wordlessly he approached Thameron and looked at his king, the body awkward on the throne. The humiliation of death.
Thameron said to him, “Give me your sword.”
Jors waited a moment, then at last pulled his long sword from its sheath and handed it to the monster. Thameron hefted it, stepped up the stairs, and with his free hand took hold of Nutatharis’s warm corpse. He shoved the body back into its seat and draped the right arm over the throne so that the jeweled hand dangled. With a quick stroke, Thameron lifted and brought down the sword; Nutatharis’s right hand jumped free of the arm, and a jet of blood arched and splashed onto the dais.
He bent and retrieved the hand; then Thameron turned and descended the steps to return to Sir Jors his sword. The courtier took it, staring at the blood that streaked it. Thameron continued down the stairs; still holding Nutatharis’s severed hand, he tore free a hanging drapery that decorated one side of the dais’s enclosure. He wrapped the hand in the cloth and carried it to Sir Jors.
Jors wiped his blade clean on another drape, sheathed the weapon, then took the sorcerer’s bundle. Looking deeply into Thameron’s eyes: “Was it necessary?”
“Why did you and your guards ask me to do this if you didn’t think it necessary?”
Jors gave him no answer; he averted his gaze.
“Give this to the soldiers; see that they deliver it to Kurus. If they wish to speak with me, tell them to come here in the morning. For now, I would prefer to sleep.”
Mutely, Sir Jors nodded.
“I have no ambition to rule this nation,” Thameron warned him. “I do so only because you and the others have expressly asked me to do so.”
“We understand that.”
“Good.” Thameron walked away, his boots echoing in the large emptiness.
Jors called after him, “What of the grain?”
“Within seven days,” the sorcerer replied, still walking away, “you can begin carting grain out into the villages.”
“No one will dispute your rule,” Jors told him, as if to convince himself, “if you give us grain.”
At the door, Thameron turned and asked of him, “And after the grain? What then, Sir Jors? What then will you ask of me?” He shook his head and left the throne hall.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Ostensibly, of course, the banquet was held to honor the visiting queen of Athadia and her ambassadors; however, Agors assumed that much could be learned of the Athadian government’s aims and designs if he listened attentively to the conversations in his hall. For this reason, he drank little during his meal and even less during the entertainments that followed.
What the ghen had not anticipated, however, was that the presence of the beautiful Salia should so completely dominate the feasting. Agors beheld, more with amusement and intrigue than alarm, the pretentious antics of his court as they vied to gain the eye of the beautiful western queen.
During a presentation of white-robed dancers, accompanied by flocks of doves, Agors witnessed the elder bin-Hasses, in his day a womanizer of repute, order samples of wine produced from his own vineyards presented to Queen Salia for her approval. And while a circus of jugglers and acrobats from Kundeshar filled the feasting hall with much applause and cheers, the unctuous Utto-sen-gar had one of his male slaves deliver a priceless ring to Queen Salia as a token of gratitude because, as Utto-sen-gar’s slave explained to the surprised woman, “the richness and delight of your presence here makes the more material riches and delights of life seem pale and usual.”
Salia accepted these gestures, and more, from the members of the Salukadian court with a graciousness and a self-effacing politeness that seemed, to Agors, curiously genuine. Despite his cynicism (he suspected King Elad of having many motives for sending this beautiful wife to the East), he found himself draw
n, as well, to the yellow flower of the western empire. But he refrained from displaying his mood with such obviousness that the entire hall might see and comment.
Yet the ghen’s attraction to the young queen was not lost to some; indeed, it appeared very obvious to his brother Nihim, who was seated at a low table some cushions down, and to bin-Sutus, who relaxed alongside Nihim. Both men whispered carefully to each other, remarking on Agors’s apparent fascination with this woman.
Nihim observed, “It does not seem that our court has quite accepted the Athadian queen as a diplomat. They appear to look upon her only as a woman elevated, as though she were pretentious or unusual.”
“Agors, I suspect,” commented bin-Sutus, “apprehends some trick.”
“Does he?”
bin-Sutus nodded cautiously. “Although I explained to him that such is not the truth.”
Nihim sighed. “Nevertheless, my brother is a crafty man. Of course he perceives that quality in others.”
When the entertainments were finished, Agors ordered the late refreshments brought in; and, in accordance with the custom of the eastern court, he invited Queen Salia to join him at his table. She accepted graciously and rose from her chair to be guided by servants to the ghen.
As she did, Lord Thomo and Lord Sirom, who sat with Salia, moved to their feet, as well, and Thomo, in a low voice, warned her, “Have a care, your crown, I beg you.”
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