Dhiammara

3 The King Beneath the Hill

It was wonderful, Eilin reflected, how a person’s life and prospects could change so dramatically within the brief span of an hour. Her new responsibilities left her no time to brood. Yazour had cleared the old fireplace in what remained of the kitchen of her ruined tower on the island.—Now he was building a rough, lean-to shelter against the only portion of the wall that was left standing. Though she had sent out her strongest thoughts, she had been unable to find the wolves that had come so far with Aurian from the southern mountains. Sadly, it seemed that they had perished in the fire.—Instead, the Mage had located and summoned a pair of the Valley’s wolves who were nursing a family of their own. These were the descendants of Aurian’s childhood companions—and wolves have long memories among their own kind. They were happy and honored to foster the Mage’s son, and the grandson of the Lady.—Iscalda was looking much better now. Though she lacked the specialized healing abilities of her daughter, Eilin had cleaned the mare’s lesser wounds made by bough and thorn, and used her powers to ease Iscalda’s aches and pains, and accelerate the knitting of her flesh. Thanks be to the Gods, the injured foreleg had not been broken, though the muscle had been cruelly wrenched and strained. Eilin had done all she could, but despite her best efforts, Iscalda would probably be lame for some time to come. In the end, on Yazour’s advice, the Mage had resorted to Mortal remedies, and the injured limb was now swathed in a hot compress of moss and herbs.

Eilin was glad she had listened to Yazour after all. When he had first suggested to her that he stay, she had given him a short—and negative—reply.—But on reflection, she had changed her mind—and it was proving to be one of the best decisions she had ever made. This capable young man had been Aurian’s friend, and he certainly had his wits about him. Gratefully, Eilin sniffed the savory aroma of the venison that Yazour had spitted over the fire. Not only can he hunt and track, and build a shelter just as well as he can use a sword, but he can cook, too, she thought with a smile. When I see my daughter again—and I must keep on believing that I will see her again—I must compliment her on her choice of companions. The Mage no longer wanted to drive the young man away. The discovery of Wolf had altered everything. Eilin still had her home to rebuild and her Valley to restore to life, but the additional responsibility of her grandson had made her rethink her ideas rapidly. One thing poor Forral had taught her was that there was no disgrace in accepting an honest offer of help—nor in admitting that she couldn’t do everything all alone. She knew from bitter experience that if she tried to overstretch herself. Wolf would be the one to suffer, and the poor child had sufficient burdens already. She had no intention of making the same mistakes with him that she had done with Aurian.

Despite the humiliations she had dealt him, Hellorin could no longer find it in him to be angry with the Mage. When he thought of her all alone in her Vale, her home gone, her daughter gone as was his son, he pitied her.—Nonetheless, she had brought much of her solitude upon herself—and he had a horde of angry and impatient Phaerie to answer to. Eilin must not be permitted to thwart the will of the Forest Lord. He had planned to appear before her and say: “See? Already you are missing the luxuries that only I can provide.” It was just as well he had decided to assess the situation first; otherwise he’d have made a complete fool of himself.

Hellorin ground his teeth as he glowered across at the island, and its scenes of bustling domesticity. What had the wretched woman been up to in his absence? Who was that accursed Mortal? He had expected to find Eilin alone, grieving, desolate—and vulnerable. He had intended to bargain with her—to offer his help with the rebuilding of her tower if she would welcome the Phaerie back into the Vale. Now, when he saw the Mage so busy, so purposeful and no longer alone, his heart misgave him.

The Phaerie Lord continued to watch until the long blue shadows that pursued the sunset had stretched out their arms to embrace the Vale. For the first time, he asked himself why he kept on hounding this woman—and to his utter astonishment, he discovered that he missed her demanding company and acerbic tongue more than he would ever have thought possible. How she reminded him of Adrina, D’arvan’s mother, also a Mage and until this time, his only love.—Also, for the first time in an incredibly long existence, Hellorin had discovered that he could not always have his own way—that here was an indomitable personality who, if it suited her, would continue to defy and thwart him until her last, dying breath. And while he was aware that he could force his will upon her by claiming the debt she owed him, he didn’t want to incur her outright enmity. He had enjoyed their sparring, their regular battles of will, far too much for that. Besides, though conscience and contrition had previously been unknown to him, he realized that yesterday, his behavior had appalled and disgusted the Mage, and he had no wish to put himself further into the wrong with her.

For the first time, Hellorin admitted a hard and painful truth—that despite all the power of his rule, he could not escape the consequences of his own actions. If he had not ignored Eilin’s desperate pleas the previous day, she would not be shunning him now—and he might still have his son. The recovery of the Xandim was too high a price to pay for what he had lost—yet now, the horses were all he had to show for his return to the mundane world, and he would continue to cling fiercely to his possession of them.

Well, so be it. Hellorin straightened his spine. It would be a bitter dose to swallow, but it seemed that he must face up to his own mistakes—and then see what he could do about recovering lost ground. Forcing himself on the Mage would bring him nothing but trouble. Sooner or later, Eilin would need his help—and until then he must be patient. In the meantime—who needed her precious Vale? Instead he would build a city—a marvelous and magnificent home for the Phaerie.

It was an idea that had been born the previous night on the bleak, inhospitable moors, and had been growing at the back of his mind ever since. Hellorin felt his heart stir within him in excitement as he began to formulate his plans. Why, he had not enjoyed such a challenge in aeons! He remembered a place, far to the north of the Vale in the high, windblown mountains where humans rarely ventured. There was a deep, broad cleft between the arms of one such mountain, with steep, pine-clad slopes on either side that cradled a grey and misty lake—Flying Horse Tarn, it had been called in the old days, for it was virtually inaccessible to any but the Phaerie and their magical steeds. At the mouth of the valley a high green hill arose from the feet of the tarn—Flying Horse Tor. That would be the perfect place for his city.—Hellorin’s lips stretched wide in a smile. Even with magical help, it would take a great deal of labor to construct such a place from nothing. He would need many Mortal slaves to build on so grand a scale. What entertainment his Phaerie would have, raiding Nexis and the lesser human habitations for slaves so that they could build a city of their own. It would be just like the old days!

The uneasy thought crossed his mind that Eilin wasn’t going to like this in the least; then he shrugged. Hellorin reminded himself that he was Lord of the Phaerie. He had no intention of letting a Magewoman’s whims rule his life—and besides, it would teach her a valuable lesson. If she had not crossed him in the first place, he would simply have settled his people in the Vale, and never even thought of building a city. Hellorin turned away and prepared to take his leave of the Valley. So be it. Let Eilin think she had won for now.—Hard though it was, he would even sacrifice the white mare to keep up the pretense that he was vanquished. Soon enough, she would find out what she had done.

Hellorin smiled, envisaging the havoc he would wreak in the city of the hated Magefolk. Ah, but now there were no Mages left, save Eilin. Would it be better simply to occupy Nexis, and save much time and trouble? No, the Forest Lord resolved. It was useful as a breeding ground for human slaves, but the leavings of their former foes were not good enough for his folk—not initially, at least. Yet when his son returned to the world, as Hellorin was certain he would, Nexis would make a princely gift for him.

The Lord of the Phaerie smiled at the notion. Two great cities, one in the north and one in the south—and all the lands between ruled by the Phaerie, released from their imprisonment at last. He would build his own city first, he decided—and one of the first things he’d create would be another magic window, one tuned, this time, specifically to D’arvan so that as soon as he returned to the world, Hellorin could send warriors to bring him home. Though they had not parted on good terms, the whelp could be brought to reason, the Forest Lord was certain. There were ways and means. Once D’arvan had joined his father’s ranks, Nexis could be taken at their leisure.

Had Hellorin, in that moment, been able to look as far as Nexis, he might have felt less sanguine. With the departure of Eliseth, the last magic wielder had gone from the city, and unclean powers, no longer fettered by the presence of the power that fueled the ancient spells, were stirring in the depths beneath the earth.

Once, he had walked the earth in giant form. Once he had been more than this broken, raving creature left imprisoned in a tomb of stone down all the long ages; wits scattered, lost... lost. Bound and fettered under the iron control of minds hard and brilliant as diamonds, sharp and merciless as steel. Aeons he had waited, helpless, hopeless, a prisoner of the Old Magic, enmeshed in the coils of long-forgotten spells. Then, long after all hope had gone, there came a feeling, a stirring—almost imperceptible—a lifting of pressure, a faint promise of hope. A glimmer of light in his eternal darkness—a slender crack in the walls of his tomb. The Moldan’s hatred stirred, and began to expand as slowly, slowly, thought returned, and strength. The spells of control were decaying—the endless night of his imprisonment was drawing to its close. And, after all this time, there was still such a thing as vengeance.

Little by little, Ghabal began to stretch forth his will, pushing with all his might against the strait constriction of lifeless rock that surrounded him.—His searching tendrils of thought encountered a fissure, a hairline fault in the rock that widened to a narrow chink. Concentrating all his powers into that one spot, the Moldan pushed with all his might. The rock creaked in protest, then the chink expanded with a loud, reverberating crack as the widening fissure snaked like a jagged lightning bolt through what once had been a solid mass of stone.

The Moldan rested, spent. A trickle of ancient dust slithered down through the new crevice, whispering secrets in a soft, sibilant little voice as it fell.—When he had regained his strength, Ghabal pushed again, widening and extending the fissure a little further. Once more, he paused to recover. With freedom in sight—and after so long—it was difficult to be patient, yet he knew he must take whatever time he needed. It could prove a fatal mistake to overextend himself at this point—he might be trapped down here forever.

After a while, the Moldan’s efforts settled into a rhythmic pattern of exertion and rest. His thoughts sank into a drowsy blankness, taking him no further than his next gargantuan effort to widen his fissure by another fraction. Hopes and plans he must put aside for the present—they would only distract him from his essential task. When he finally freed himself from this stony prison—ah, then there would be time for plans and more! Then at last he could find some pawn, some vessel, who could bear his spirit home across the seas to his beloved mountain, where he could become himself again, healed and whole.

Ghabal had lost all track of time. He might have been testing and stretching his bonds for hours—or aeons. He had crushed down his impatience and was measuring his strength carefully, trying to conserve as much of his energy as possible. He could go on like this indefinitely if he wished—had it been necessary. Instead, with a sudden shock like falling from some massive height, he encountered space. The Moldan’s will, concentrated to thrust against the stony barrier, abruptly found itself unfettered. The force of his power, with nothing upon which to impact, snapped back to him with a fearful, explosive recoil that sent his senses reeling down into a spiral of darkness.—Free—he was free! The thought pierced Ghabal’s dark unconsciousness like a single, blazing sunbeam, guiding his fragile spirit safely back up into the light. He pulled the tatters of his torn and tender consciousness around himself and rested a moment, taking stock. Though he had hurt himself when his will had exploded outward, there was no damage that would not mend in time.—The powerful energies of the elemental earth would renew him, feed him, heal him. And while that was happening, it would not hurt him to explore a little, just a little....

By the Mother-Earth that spawned him, but there had been some changes made since he had first been locked away beneath this hill! Tentatively, Ghabal extended his consciousness into the tangle of tunnels, passages, and chambers that honeycombed the promontory beneath the Magefolk dwellings. Incredible!—Why those accursed Mages must have been as busy as a band of moles for centuries, to have accomplished all of this. Then the Moldan found the place where the web of underground passages joined the Nexian sewer system, and was astounded all over again. Why, he thought gleefully, those arrogant fools have created a vulnerable network of hidden paths that run beneath their entire city. How I should like to bring it down around them, send it crashing into ruin... .

Alas, Ghabal was no longer what he had been before the Magefolk had defeated and broken him. He no longer had the power, and would not possess it for some considerable time to come, when the deep energies of the earth should nourish and renew him. Besides, what would be the point in annihilating the city?—Accomplishing destruction on such a scale would only waste his remaining powers for nothing—for the Magefolk themselves were gone. His very return to consciousness and freedom was clear proof of that. What had happened to them? he wondered. He hoped that their fall had involved the greatest possible torment and suffering.

Curious, the Moldan withdrew from the widespread area of the sewers and probed a little more carefully through the catacombs beneath the Academy itself.—Perhaps there were clues hidden here to explain the demise of so powerful a race. But to his disappointment, there were no memories encoded in the structure of the stone, such as the Moldai left to record their deeds. The vast collection of volumes and scrolls meant nothing to him—it was simply heaps of moldering, desiccated plant and animal remains, and he wondered why the Mages had left such a clutter of rubbish beneath their home.

Ghabal’s tendrils of thought reached the chamber of the Death-Wraiths and recoiled in horror, withdrawing back into the core of his awareness like a sea beast’s tentacles. The time spell he recognized all too well, to his dismay.—It had been one of the favored weapons of the Dragonfolk in the past. But what else was here? Something that reeked of evil magic—some horror beyond the darkest imaginings of a Moldan. If the Magefolk had dared to meddle with such malevolent atrocities, then their fall was well deserved and must come as no surprise?

Tentatively, the Moldan began to explore again, taking the greatest care to shun the chamber of the dreaded Wraiths, and staying alert for any further unpleasant surprises. More and more chambers, more debris and trash—and suddenly, once again, he encountered the cold, metallic tingle of a time spell. Ghabal stopped abruptly. A Mage was here! One of the accursed, detested Magefolk! Had the Moldan possessed an embodied voice he would have howled in fury. As it was, the whole of the city shook with the force of his wrath.—Finally, Ghabal calmed himself. So one of their unholy brood had survived the destruction of the Mages. At least one of them was left then, to suffer the vengeance of the Moldan! Putting forth a single, slender filament of his awareness, Ghabal approached the periphery of the spell with caution, seeking a weak spot from which he could turn the spell into something far more deadly.—He was extremely circumspect: it was not advisable to interrupt the field of a time spell when the original creator was no longer present to renew the magic—occasionally the victim could break loose.. ..

Too late. A bolt of magic came sizzling out of nowhere, scorched its way along the Moldan’s thought-thread, and drove straight into the core of his awareness. Suddenly Ghabal found himself utterly paralyzed, all his external senses shut down dead.

“Got you!” The cracked old voice reverberated, grim and cruel, within the dark, sequestered core of Ghabal’s consciousness.

“You have nothing, Mage!” the Moldan snarled, though his words were nothing but an empty boast. As he spoke he tried to writhe quickly away from the fetters of the iron will that bound him, but his foe’s hold simply tightened, preventing his escape. Then he could do nothing but shriek in soundless agony as the other rent his mind asunder with power that stripped bare his innermost thoughts like talons of steel. Ghabal could only cower, screaming as his entire existence, his dearest hopes and deepest fears, were all laid open to the searing gaze of the dreadful Mage.

After an endless, excruciating age, it was over. The Moldan, cowed and whimpering, cringed away from his tormentor and tried to pull together the pathetic remnants of his thoughts like the shreds of some torn and tattered garment.

“Good,” grated the terrible grim voice. “Very good indeed. A Moldan—one of the legendary Earth-elementals from across the ocean, eh?” The voice dropped in intensity, became gentle and almost mild, like some grisly caress. “Well, Moldan—I feel certain that you and I can reach some kind of understanding.”

Miathan smiled to himself as he twisted the chains of his will more tightly around the Moldan’s consciousness. He had conquered the elemental by means of surprise, using the remnants of the ancient Magefolk spells that had bound it—and he counted himself fortunate indeed to have done so. Now his very survival depended on keeping it cowed, off-balance—and under his control, for it could prove to be a much-needed weapon in his hand. He knew now what the creature wanted above life itself: someone to take it home—and, by the laws of its kind, it would owe an incalculable debt to anyone who could assist it.—So Eliseth had dared to betray him? Well, somehow, somewhere, she had met her match, according to the Moldan’s thoughts. The weakening of the spells which had imprisoned Ghabal was proof that no Mage existed anywhere near Nexis—save himself of course. But though it would be easy enough for him to return to the Academy and take the reins of his city once more, simply picking up where he had left off, caution made him hesitate. He could not be the only remaining Mage—even if Aurian and Eliseth had come to a confrontation, surely one of them must have survived. And how many Artifacts of Power did the victor hold?—No, whichever of the Magewomen had conquered, if the Archmage stayed in Nexis he would be a sitting target. He needed to be somewhere else, somewhere hidden—somewhere completely unexpected—at least until he could find out what had happened and formulate his plans accordingly. A powerful ally wouldn’t come amiss at this point, either—and Miathan suspected with a little ingenuity and the assistance of a time spell and the Moldan’s particular powers, he could lay a trap for any wielder of the Artifacts who might dare return to Nexis.

The Moldan’s capacity for destruction was tremendous—and the Archmage had divined that its powers could be unleashed in its absence, simply by means of imprinting its will upon the rocks in a spell that could be released at a time of its choosing. Miathan’s time spell could delay this until the appropriate instant, and the actual use of one of the Artifacts within the precincts of the Academy would provide the trigger. Once the High Magic had been actively summoned, part of it could be diverted away from its intended target into the Moldan’s destructive spell.

Miathan paused, considering, with his victim still trapped and helpless within the iron grip of his will. The spell he had in mind would most likely have a devastating effect upon the city of Nexis itself—but who cared about a pack of worthless Mortals? The Academy, where so much magic had been practiced for so many centuries, would possess its own resistance to the ill effects of the spell, but there was a chance—a chance worth taking—that the wielder of the Artifact, whether Aurian or Eliseth, might be weakened or at least sufficiently shocked and shaken into making mistakes that would betray them into his hands.

The Archmage’s thoughtful frown vanished, to be replaced by a cold and calculating smile. “Moldan,” he said in a wheedling voice that dripped with false solicitude. “How would you like to go home?”

The landscape around the lake was clenched tightly in a fist of ice—-and Yazour had never known that such horrors could exist. He was experiencing his first northern winter. There had been snow, of course, and raw, icy cold, during his crossing of the southern mountains with Aurian—but that, he had innocently assumed, had been due to the altitude. Certainly, it had never occurred to him that people could actually live through such misery for a considerable part of every single year.

Eilin was very understanding of his difficulties—in fact, she had anticipated many of them. As the days grew shorter and the weather became increasingly cold and grey, Yazour wondered why she’d suddenly taken such an intense interest in weaving. Once the last of the harvest fruits had been collected, the Mage seemed to be at her loom every hour of the day. As the early frosts crisped the air and the young warrior began to complain of the cold, Eilin would send him out to the part of the forest that had been blasted by Eliseth’s fire, where he would chop wood until his back and arms ached and sweat poured down his face. At first, Yazour had suspected that this was the Lady’s own subtle way of punishing his complaints about her miserable northern weather, and bore the discomfort in silence when the cold gnawed at his fingers and feet. It made not the slightest difference, however. Day after day she kept him chopping and with Iscalda’s help he hauled back load after load of logs until the pile reached high up the side of the tower.

“Surely we have sufficient wood now” Stamping numb feet, Yazour entered the cozy living chamber or the tower. Shutting out the chill of the deepening twilight, he hurried to warm his chilled and blistered hands at the glowing stove. Wolf followed him, yapping excitedly, and ran to Eilin. He loved spending his days with Yazour in the forest. With his thick grey coat to protect him, he never felt the cold at all.

Eilin looked up from her loom and fondled the young wolf’s ears. “Trust me, Yazour—we’ll need all you’ve cut and more before winter’s out.”

The Khazalim stared at her in disbelief. “But there is enough wood out there to last us for years.”

The Lady got up from her stool, stretching her arms above her head. Yazour had often heard her complain that long hours at the loom left a stiffness between her shoulders. Crossing to the stove, she poured him rosehip tea from the pot that simmered there, and added a generous spoonful of honey. Yazour held the cup in both hands, grateful for the warmth that was beginning to seep into his tingling fingers.

Eilin poked the glowing embers in the stove’s iron belly, and added another log from the basket. As she straightened up, her cheeks glowing from the fire’s heat, Yazour caught a glimpse of a fond and fleeting smile—which quickly vanished when she noticed he was looking at her. “Poor innocent lad,” she said, with a little shake of her head. “I’m afraid our winters are going to come as an unpleasant surprise to you. Still, I have some new garments for you that may help, a little.”

Following her gesture, Yazour noticed a pile of clothing stacked neatly on the chair by the fire.

“Go on,” Eilin urged. “Try them on.”

Though he knew she had been working hard, Yazour was amazed by the extent of the Mage’s labors. There was a warm, heavy cloak of oiled and tightly woven wool, new woollen jerkins, stout stockings to wear beneath his boots, and thick gloves to protect his chilled fingers. The warrior’s heart went out to the Lady in gratitude, but she dismissed his stammered thanks with a smile.

“Yazour, it was the least I could do. You stayed here to help me instead of returning to your homeland and your people—and don’t think I haven’t watched you shiver your way through these last two or three moons. Why, you’ve been looking as miserable as a wet cat ever since the leaves began to fall.” Again, there was that special smile for him.

“The farmers who graze their sheep on the moors around this Vale have been giving me fleeces for years,” the Lady went on. “I’m glad of an opportunity to put them to good use at last.” Her eyes went to the window. “And by the look of things, I wasn’t a minute too soon.” There on the sill outside, a thin layer of new snow was glimmering.

That night’s flurry was only the beginning. Day after day the snow fell harder and thicker, smothering the Vale in a chill white blanket. Wolf loved it—he could scarcely wait for each new day to begin so that he could bolt his breakfast and go charging outside to play. Iscalda was all right—when they had repaired the ground floor of the tower, Eilin and Yazour had built her an adjacent chamber with a connecting door to their own living quarters. They had plenty of fodder stored for her, and though the inactivity made her restless, she could at least wait out the winter in comfort.

Only Yazour was truly suffering. Though he wrapped up well in his new warm clothes, he could never seem to get warm. Soon he had a cold to compound his misery, and spent his days huddled miserably in front of the stove, coughing and sneezing and feeling utterly wretched. For the first time, he began to wonder if he had made a mistake. By the Reaper, but he was homesick for Taibeth....

Back in Yazour’s lost Taibeth, the air was sweltering and humid. Down among the mud-and-wicker shanties along the river’s edge, the thin, high wail of a newborn child shivered the air. A wasted young beggar girl, her dark eyes avid with need, reached out to an unexpected benefactor. Zalid, chief eunuch to the Queen, placed a bag of gold into her palm—and fingered the knife in his other hand, concealed beneath his cloak. Even as the girl’s hand closed round the heavy bag, the knife flashed out, burying itself to the hilt between her ribs.—With a stifled, choking cry she sank to her knees, then toppled to one side, her glazing eyes wide with incomprehension and shock. The body twitched for a moment, then was still. A few gold coins gleamed with a warm, pure light in the bloody morass of the earthen floor where the bag had spilled from the beggar’s limp grasp. Zalid picked them up with red-stained fingers and scooped them back into the bag.

Leaving the knife in the body—it was a plain, cheap, anonymous weapon, purchased in the market for this very purpose—Zalid pocketed his gold and turned to pick up the squalling child. “Be still,” he muttered. “Ungrateful brat—thanks to me, you will be a king one day.” From a small flask he trickled a few drops of dark liquid into the newborn’s open mouth. The little eyes blinked once, as if in astonishment, then closed as the sleeping draught took effect. With a small nod of satisfaction, the eunuch bundled the child beneath his cloak and set out for the palace.

It was as well that Zalid had his own private entrance via the extensive network of cellars that extended beneath the royal residence, for there would be no getting near the main gates tonight. In the usual mysterious fashion, word had spread through the city that the time had come at last for the Khisihn to bear her child. The entire populace of Taibeth, in mourning since the death of Xiang, seemed to be collected outside the palace, anxiously awaiting news of their next ruler.

Suddenly the palace, that for the last five months had been shuttered, dark and dead, was astir and buzzing with frenetic activity. The shadows of the deserted seraglio fled before the torches and lamps of the bustling slaves and various court officials, all of whom were eager to bear witness to this particular royal birth, a slender thread of life on which the future of Xiang’s line was suspended. The avid crowd, however, were halted outside the door of the Khisihn’s suite by a pair of burly guards. By command of Aman, the Vizier, no one was allowed to pass.

When Zalid entered the Queen’s chambers by means of his own private corridor that bypassed the guards outside, he found Sara pacing up and down. “Where is he?” she was muttering to Aman. Apart from her mute slave girl, the Vizier was the only other person in the room. Following the confirmation of Xiang’s death, Aman had been bought quickly into the plot, and the greedy courtier had been swift to grasp the advantages of throwing his support behind Zalid and the royal widow—especially when Sara had suggested that, as co-regent with herself, the Vizier should take possession of the remainder of Xiang’s harem.—In the palace the balance of power had been shifting ever since the half-dozen soldiers—the pitiful, ragged remnants of Xiang’s army—had returned to Taibeth bearing the body of their king. After tonight, however, with the production of the ostensible Royal Heir, the unlikely trio—eunuch, courtier, and queen—would take an unassailable grip on the kingdom.

“What can be keeping that accursed eunuch?” Sara repeated.

“Here I am, Highness.”

Sara spun with a curse, and Zalid concealed a smile. Catching the Khisihn off-balance seemed a petty victory, but it was one he always enjoyed, nonetheless. The blond woman had a lust for power that was most improper in a female, and needed keeping in check by any means that came to hand.

“You have the child?” Aman said in a low and urgent voice. “No one saw you?”

Zalid kept his face expressionless to hide his scorn. The Vizier, after all, was necessary—at least for the time being. “I have the child indeed—and I came and went unseen as the desert wind.”

“Excellent.” Aman’s face broke into a smile of pure relief. “I will go at once, and announce the good news.”

Zalid turned to Sara with a mocking bow. Ignoring her scowl, he removed the sleeping infant from the concealment of his cloak, and held it out to her.

“Here, Your Highness. Behold your long-awaited son and heir.”

The Queen stepped back, wrinkling her nose at the stench of the noisome rags in which the child was wrapped. “Ugh! Don’t bring that filthy creature near me! Give it to Guilat.” She gestured at the young slave, who was hovering nearby, her eyes wide with curiosity.

Sara favored the girl with a shallow smile. “Here you are, Guilat. Did I not tell you that if you served me with loyalty and discretion, I would reward you? From this day forward you will be nursemaid to the Royal Heir himself, and enjoy all the benefits of your altered status. I’m sure that you will care for him as faithfully and well as you have cared for me, and justify the great trust in which I hold you.”

The girl took the stinking bundle from Zalid, handling the child as carefully as though it was some treasure of incalculable value. Indeed, the eunuch thought—as far as our future rule of this kingdom is concerned, that’s exactly what it is. He bestowed a smile, more genuine than Sara’s effort, upon the slave. “There,” he said kindly. “Lose no time, Guilat. Take the child and bathe it, and swaddle it as becomes a Prince of the Royal blood. Then you may take it to the wet nurse. After all its adventures this night, the Heir of the Khazalim will be hungry when he wakes.”