Varthlokkur’s spoon halted inches from his mouth. His eyes went vague.
“You didn’t think about that.”
“I didn’t.” That stronghold of the Star Rider had not intruded on his consciousness for decades. “I’m amazed that you did.” With her memory problems of late. “I don’t even recall where it is.”
“Somebody went there during the wars. Maybe Michael. Maybe one of my brothers. I don’t remember.”
She had had memory problems since the night they died together. He had some himself. Even concentrating he could come up with only the vaguest recollection of someone ever having gone looking for the Place.
He could not recall who, when, why, or what the result had been. Nepanthe said, “The night we all died…” And quit. The pain was too intense.
“You’re right. Iron statues were there. They tamed the Princes Thaumaturge.”
“You had something to do with that place, too, once, didn’t you?” “Maybe when I was Eldred the Wanderer. I don’t remember it now.” That troubled him. He was having ever more trouble remembering details of his earliest years. It would be awful to lose those memories altogether. Things he had done, bargains he had made, impacted the world every day, even now. And his mother lived on nowhere else but inside the reaches of his mind.
Ekaterina and Scalza bustled in. They wore heavy clothing so must have been playing outdoors. Scalza hollered, “We’re going to see what Mother is doing, all right?”
“Don’t touch anything but your scrying bowl.”
He had set them up with their own means of farseeing. They could use the bowl any time, though he insisted on being told first. He wanted to be aware that he needed to keep an eye turned their way. Neither child ever thought much before acting. A reminder to take care might be resented but was never wasted.
Nepanthe said, “I wish I had a tenth of their energy.” She sighed. “I’d better go. Smyrena will wake up soon. She’ll be hungry. Have the wild animals bring the tray down.”
The sorcerer touched her hand lightly, then resumed eating. Mention of the Place of the Iron Statues reminded him that he had not paid much attention to the outside world lately.
Things happened where he was not looking. A lot, in Kavelin, during those intervals.
Scalza bellowed, “We found her, Uncle Varth! She’s in that tower place again.”
He pushed back from the table. This might be interesting.
…
Ragnarson thought he had the emotional instability whipped. He had to. Total control was now necessary. He had no time to waste on selfindulgence.
He had a chance to get out. Mist had something in mind. It was a razor-slash of light at the end of a ten-mile tunnel but it was there.
He had no idea what they were thinking. He meant to give no excuse to stop that thinking. This prison came close to his idea of hell.
The only way to make it worse would be to reduce the size of the cage.
“I’m living pretty damned high on the hog here, aren’t I? When you get right down to it.”
“Excuse me?” Mist stepped in. “Who are you talking to?”
“The smartest man in the room. A fat tangle of superlatives, he is.”
“I see. Lord Ssu-ma thought you might be interested in seeing the assassin before we release him.”
Ragnarson aced the test. His heart hammered and his vision reddened but he kept his composure. “You’re going to turn him loose, why?”
“Our interest was purely curiosity. He broke none of our laws and harmed none of our subjects. He was forthright when questioned. He’s a sad case. He has been alone and enclosed so long he doesn’t know any way but the way he’s followed forever.”
“We’re all like that anymore.”
“You could be right without actually recognizing why.”
“And without understanding what you mean.”
“This assassin isn’t quite a real man. He’s more like a devil manufactured by the darkness inside us all. Though that isn’t what I’m really trying to say.” She clapped her hands in frustration. “I saw elements of all of us in him. He’s hollow inside.”
Ragnarson was baffled. Mist did not get philosophical.
Mist said, “One reason I call him supernatural is, he doesn’t remember his own name.”
“How can you not know your own name?”
“I think because he’s used so many. I found him intriguing. Lord Ssuma was taken by him, too.”
“You’ve lost me.”
“Come along. You’ll see.”
Mist left. The door did not close behind her.
Ragnarson moved that way like a mouse intent on sneaking past a cobra. This could not be what it seemed. It had to be a cruel prank. Something awful would happen. He was safe as long as he did nothing. He should climb into bed and shut his eyes. There would be no pain in sleep.
Sherilee crossed his mind, then Elana, who had given him so many children, all of whom he had outlived. Then Fiana, so remarkable in her passion. She had given him a child he never got to know. And Inger, who had given hope and love in a time of deep despair, and a beautiful son, but who could not overcome her blood.
He stood before the door but did not consider it. He fixated on Inger. His wife had done little that was wicked before hubris drove him to destruction by Ssu-ma Shih-ka’i.
He bore Shih-ka’i no ill will. The Tervola had done his duty, defending his empire. The man had gone out of his way to repay a debt once his duty had been satisfied.
“Are you coming?”
Ragnarson could not see Mist. Her voice came from above. He stepped into the gloom beyond the doorway, spied steps leading upward, to his right. He managed twenty-eight of those before he stopped to fight for breath.
Mist called down, “One more story.”
She lied. It was two. He managed eight steps, took a break, then did six more. After that he took the steps one by one. He caught up unable to talk and unsure if he would get his breath back before he collapsed.
“You are leading too sedentary a life.”
He gasped, “Nor am I an eighteen-year-old stud anymore.”
“Get your breath. We still have twenty steps to go.”
It took Ragnarson ten minutes to clear those. He developed a cramp in his right thigh and an uncontrollable twitch in his left calf. He could not stand up straight. It seemed he would never stop panting. And he was much too aware of every overexcited thump of his hammering heart.
Mist said, “Go lean on the rampart. Don’t sit down. I’m not big enough to shift you if your muscles lock up.”
She was teasing. He hurt too much to care. “Just get on with it.”
“As you wish.” Mist moved several steps away. “Shin-jei. Bring the prisoner.”
Ragnarson paid no attention. He feasted his eyes on the cityscape. He enjoyed the breeze. He absorbed sounds he never heard in his apartment. He drew in alien smells, especially the rich, spicy odors of eastern cooking.
The Empress had known deprivation in her time. She was patient. But minutes were all she could afford. “Look at this man, Bragi. Tell me if you know him.”
Ragnarson looked at a westerner about six feet tall, well-weathered, and gaunt. His eyes were a changeable blue. He appeared to be totally resigned. “Have we ever met?”
“I doubt it.” In a feeble monotone, not avoiding Ragnarson’s eyes. He was not afraid.
“The Guild. With Hawkwind. Before the El Murid Wars.”
That startled the man but his face closed down immediately.
Ragnarson said, “We may have been in the same regiment when we were young. There would be nothing else to connect us. Except Sherilee.”
“I am disappointed. I’d hoped there was some drama of deep time coming to a head.”
“He might not be the man I’m remembering. He would have been just another recruit who went into the desert with Hawkwind.”
Mist gestured. Her bodyguards took the assassin into the tower.
“Did I pass the test?”
“You controlled your temper admirably. Though I do hope you can tell us more about that man.”
Ragnarson said, “No such luck. An arrow from a broken bow.”