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And, though I say it myself, who with Seg had wrought the work, they looked grand!

Yes, there was reason for this panoply and this structure, as you shall hear. Young Drak conducted himself well. He sat astride his cub-zorca stiffly and, young as he was, he was already on his own. He carried the affair off superbly, at which I felt all the fond, fatuous, foolish pride of a parent. If I didn’t know my Delia better I’d have thought a tear glistened in the corner of her eye. The banners flared in the suns, the zorcas behaved with perfect composure — always a good omen -

and the men formed and marched in perfect alignment. The bands played cheerful rousing music, The Song of Tyr Nath, The Heart Heights of Valka, Paktun’s Promenade, and a national Vallian song of some consequence to my family and to Valka, Drak na Vallia. This marching song is called by the swods in the ranks Old Drak Himself.

Seg did not fuss as the men took rank to shoot the exhibition three shafts apiece. He looked at the flags fluttering from their staffs, and Jiktar Targhan ti Vulheim — a battle comrade, one of the old freedom fighters selected by Seg with the advice of Tom ti Vulheim — trotted his zorca over for a last-minute word. All the bows leaped into the correct position, all the bows spanned as one. The Jiktar’s rapier slashed down and his bellow made Lela’s pony jump. All the shafts loosed simultaneously. Next to me Seg grunted. “By the Veiled Froyvil! I swear a good twenty out of a hundred missed the mark!”

To Seg that was so miserable an example of shooting as to be beneath contempt. So I said gently, “They will improve.”

“If they do not those rasts of Hamalese will riddle ’em with their confounded crossbows.”

With bands playing and colors flying, the regiment marched back. The crowds who had come out to watch broke up and drifted back to the city. This night there would be many gallons of wine drunk and many boasts made and songs sung, aye, and a few broken heads to show for it in the morning. We are a rough old lot, in Valka, and we take our pleasures when they come.

“So my grandson is Hyr-Jiktar of this new regiment, Dray Prescot.”

“He is, Emperor. And I tell you that in the days to come you will have to accustom yourself to using soldiers of Vallia, formed into regiments, rather than merely sending for mercenaries and paying them to fight for you.”

“We are a nation of the sea. Our galleons-”

“Of course! I grant the galleons are the finest vessels afloat — vessels of Paz, that is — but you face new threats now, Emperor.”

He wanted to pursue the conversation, but I did not wish to talk about those shanks from over the curve of the world, those fishmen with their fast-sailing craft who would, I felt sure, one day pose so great a danger we must all band together to resist them. At the moment Hamal was the great threat. We rode back and I saw Delia with Lela in tow talking to Turko the Shield. He had not brought that massive shield; it still hung in my hall. Drak rode at the head of his regiment, a small and lonely figure, but proud, proud!

I had not asked for him to be born, but I had been very happy with his and his sister’s birth. Now he must face the never-ending threats of life, and I could only help and guide. So we rode back through my capital city of Valkanium to the high fortress of Esser Rarioch. A Hyr-Jiktar is a purely honorary position, of course. Drak would not be leading this regiment into action for a good many seasons yet. I felt a pang. I would far prefer he never had to involve himself in the mad red obscenity of war at all. Tharu ti Valkanium, the leader of the high assembly of my island Stromnate of Valka, arrived as we were about to go in stately procession into the Great Hall for the feasting. Tharu, as always grim with purpose, his leonine head with its shock of brown Valkan hair proudly lifted, greeted me and then said, “I made all haste, Strom. But the flier failed us-”

“You bring no news in that, Tharu.”

“Aye! I heard the terrible news of Lish. He was a good man. I vow there will not be a man of Valka who will not go willingly, aye, and gladly, when we deal with these cramphs of Hamalese.”

Tharu ran Valka for me, with the high assembly of Elders. I trusted him implicitly. He was reconciled to my absences. With Tom ti Vulheim, who had accepted the rank of Chuktar with his reckless laugh and a pledge to see that the men of Valka fought in the ways I directed, Tharu in his grim, thorough way kept Valka as an island paradise. Now he joined us as the feasting and drinking began. Well, I have spent many and many a roistering night in my high hall of Esser Rarioch, and Zair willing, will spend many more before I die. On this evening, as the moons of Kregen floated over the horizon to cast down their mingled pink and golden radiance, I felt restless. My plans were going very well where they touched Valka; they had gone disastrously astray over this business of the vollers we must build. Presently, with a song from Erithor of Valkanium, that preeminent skald, finishing on the last defiant notes of The Lament for Valinur Fallen, the Emperor motioned to me in a sign that meant he wished to retire.

Valinur Fallen did not suit my mood. The lament begins with: “Glaive-bearing marched they in storm-light and thunder.” It finishes on a high note of apotheosis, of the ending of days, and the defiant expectancy that Valinur’s sons and daughters will refresh the land. The last few words are: “The zhantil will rest in the dusty earth under; but the heart in the human breast never.”

I hasten to add that this is a mere literal representation of the words; all the beauty of the original is lost in this clumsiness of my expression. The Valkans practice a finely tuned form of kenning, and one must listen carefully and tease out the meanings from the golden words, the ringing phrases. I did not wish to dwell on death, on the destruction of a country, and of the resurrection and revenge through the children. That was the way of Kregen, of course, but the mood left me hollow and chill, thinking of Drak and Lela, and I welcomed the opportunity to go with a few of my closest people and more of the Emperor’s retinue into the Chavonth Chamber. This room, comfortably furnished, was held for talks that, while not of the stiff and formal kind held in the audience chamber, were not yet so informal that they could be held in my inner and private rooms. The floor was covered by a single enormous carpet embroidered with chavonths engaged in many of the scenes of the hunt; the walls were hung with tapestries where more chavonths snarled and showed their claws. The carpet, the tapestries, the curtains, all were of Hlinnian weave, good and solid and vastly expensive.

The closeness of the room, although it was large, and the sound-deadening effects of the draperies, meant that only one with keen hearing might pick up the racket bouncing from the Great Hall. They’d started on The Bowmen of Loh down there, and Seg licked his lips, picking up a fresh goblet of Gremivoh.

A very great deal of power, wealth, and majesty was packed into the Chavonth Chamber that night. I knew most of those there, and many of them you have already met in these tapes. There were others who were to figure in my story at a later date, but I will confine myself to talking only about those who affected me in the immediate dealings with which we were engaged.

The chief of these, of course, was Lykon Crimahan, the Kov of Forli.

“Let me fill your glass with this excellent Gremivoh, Kov,” I said, very friendly. We wanted no servants with flapping ears when we talked high state business. And I wanted to let this damned Kov think I was something less than he expected. Here I believe something of my double-dealings in Havilfar came to me and, despite the lessons I had learned there, I admit I took a nasty little pleasure from the thought of fooling this Kov Lykon.