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.”
4
The Silence
The Sword of Flame spun away clattering over smooth white stone. The blackened Chalice of Rebirth fell ringing to the floor, rolled in a circle on its rim, and came to a trembling halt. Eliseth stumbled forward and fell to her knees, downed by her own unexpected momentum and by a sickening swirl of disorientation as reality wrenched itself back onto its normal course. She touched the paving beneath her and bit back a shriek as pain exploded through blackened, blistered hands that had been burned by the Sword, following her theft of the Artifact from Aurian. Instinctively, the Magewoman concentrated her powers to block the pain. Further healing could wait—at the moment it was the least of her concerns.
When had it come to be night? As her vision gradually cleared and the whirling in her head steadied, Eliseth looked about her, expecting to see the same Valley that she had left—only moments ago, it seemed. Instead she saw a low, white wall sculpted in the familiar, nacreous marble that still, despite the surrounding darkness, held its own faint glimmer. The Weather-Mage, amazed and disbelieving, pulled herself unsteadily to her feet and looked over the low parapet. Nexis lay sprawled in the valley below, and she could discern the dark, swelling humps of the hills beyond, black against the cloudy sky.—Even to a Mage’s night vision, Nexis looked different somehow—the contours of its streets and buildings seemed subtly altered from the shapes she remembered—but Eliseth gave the matter little thought as her heart leapt with joy at the sight of the city. She uttered a soft, triumphant cry of relief. By some miracle, the grail had returned her to the Academy and placed her on the flat roof that topped the Mages’ Tower. Though she did not look to any gods, it seemed that this time her unvoiced prayers had been answered. Not only had she survived her horrifying fall through the rent in reality—but she was safely home.
The Weather-Mage, shivering a little in the cool breeze and still very shaky from the shock of her recent experience, leaned against the parapet in the silken darkness and took deep breaths of blessed, smoke-tinged Nexian air. Her narrow escape from the tumultuous events in the Valley had left her feeling light-headed and inordinately pleased with herself—as though she had been responsible for her own good fortune. Once her plan to defeat Aurian had recoiled with such dramatic and deadly consequences, snatching Eliseth out of the world, survival had been her only concern. She could recall an incandescent blaze of multicolored light—a sensation of being sucked, swirling, into a darkly gleaming vortex. She remembered wishing with a desperate wild yearning to be back at the Academy—but who would have suspected that the Artifacts would take her wish so literally? Clearly, the strength of her own will had saved her.
Her gloating was interrupted by the faintest whisper of sound and a flicker of movement at the very edge of her vision. Eliseth spun round with a startled curse. Behind her, a long, dark form was inching weakly across the roof. A pale hand stretched out, reaching for the precious Sword. Anvar! Eliseth’s breath exhaled in a hiss. In the panic of her fall through time and the subsequent relief at finding herself back in Nexis, the Weather-Mage had forgotten, briefly, that Aurian’s lover had also been drawn into the vortex.—The Magewoman saw Anvar freeze as he realized that he had been discovered. In the shadowed gloom of the rooftop his eyes met hers and for an instant Eliseth saw fear, determination—and the icy steel of implacable loathing. Then with unexpected speed he lurched forward, his outstretched hand snatching desperately at the Sword. Eliseth reacted instantaneously, gathering her powers and lashing them out toward the recumbent form in a coil of smoky blackness laced with threads of searing blue-white light. Anvar jerked once, convulsively, as the spell hit him, pouring over him in a writhing mass of dark vapor webbed with crawling strands of blue. Then he was utterly still, unbreathing, locked away in an instant and stranded outside the stream of time—until Eliseth should choose to bring him back again.