"Perhaps not," said Toler and nudged his mount in the ribs. Again moving along the trail, the swordsman recalled the frozen expressions of his victims at Weilawan, each countenance set with the same look of terrible surprise.
In late afternoon, the travelers came to a fork in the trail, and Garone said, "We must take the right-hand path to reach that palace."
"What lies to the left?" asked Toler.
"Tribulation and certain death," said the servant.
"To the right," said the swordsman. "You may rest now, Garone."
Garone became a rippling flame, clear as water, and then disappeared.
As twilight set in, Toler caught sight of two towers silhouetted against the orange sky. He coaxed Nod into a gallop, hoping to arrive at the palace gates before nightfall. As he flew from the forest and across barren fields, the cool of the coming night refreshing him, he thought, "I have never been in love." Every time he tried to picture the face of one of his amorous conquests, what came before him instead were the faces of his victims.
He arrived just as the palace guards were about to lift the moat bridge. The four men saw him approaching and drew their weapons.
"An appeal for lodging for the night," called Toler from a safe distance.
"Who are you?" one of the men shouted.
"A traveler," said the swordsman.
"Your name, fool," said the same man.
"Ismet Toler."
There was a moment of silence, and then a different one of the guards said, in a far less demanding tone, "The Coral Heart?"
"Yes."
The guard who had spoken harshly fell to his knees and begged forgiveness. Two others sheathed their swords and came forward to help the gentleman from his horse. The fourth ran ahead into the palace, announcing to all he passed that The Coral Heart was at the gate.
Toler dismounted and one of the men took Nod's reigns. The swordsman approached the guard who knelt on the ground, and said, "I'll not be killing anyone tonight. I'm too weary. We'll see what tomorrow brings." The man rose up, and then the three guards, with Toler's help, turned the huge wooden wheel that lifted the moat bridge.
Inside, the guards dispersed and left Toler standing at the head of a hall with vaulted ceiling, all fashioned from blue limestone. People came and went quietly, keeping their distance but stealing glances. Eventually, he was approached by a very old man, diminutive of stature, with the snout and mottled skin of a toad. When the little fellow spoke, he croaked, "A pleasure, sir," and offered his wet hand as a sign of welcome.
Toler took it with a shiver. "And you are?" he asked.
"Councilor Greppen. Follow me." The stranger led on down the vast hall, padding along at a weary pace on bare, flat feet. The slap of his soles echoed into the distance.
"May I ask what manner of creature you are?" said Toler.
"A man, of course," said the Councilor. "And you?"
"A man."
"No, no, from what I hear you are Death's own Angel and will one day turn the world to coral."
"What kind of Councilor can you be if you believe everything you hear?" said Toler.
Greppen puffed out his cheeks and laughed; a shrewd, wet sound. He shuffled toward the left and turned at another long hall, a line of magnificent fountains running down its center. "The Hall of Tears," he croaked and they passed through glistening mist.
As Toler followed from hall to hall, he gradually adopted the old man's pace. The journey was long, but Time suddenly had no bearing. The swordsman studied the people who passed, noticed the placement of the guard, marveled at the colors of the fish in the fountains, the birds that flew overhead, the distant glass ceiling through which the full moon stared in. As if suddenly awakened, he came to at the touch of the Councilor's damp hand on his arm.
"We have arrived," said Greppen.
Toler looked around. He was on a balcony that jutted off the side of the palace. The stars were bright and there was a cold breeze, just the kind he'd wished for when heading north from Weilawan. He took a seat on a simple divan near the edge of the balcony, and listened as Greppen's footfalls grew faint. He closed his eyes and wondered if this was his lodging for the night. The seat was wonderfully comfortable and he leaned back into it.
A moment passed, perhaps an hour, he wasn't sure, before he opened his eyes. When he did, he was surprised to see something floating toward the balcony. It was no bird. He blinked and it became clear in the resplendent starlight. It was a woman, dressed in fine golden robes, seated in a wooden chair, like a throne, floating toward him out of the night. When she reached the balcony and hovered above him, he stood to greet her.
"The Coral Heart," she said as her chair settled down across from the divan.
"You may be seated."
Toler bowed slightly before sitting.
"I am Lady Maltomass," she said.
The swordsman was intoxicated by the sudden scent of lemon blossoms, and then by the Lady's eyes-large and luminous. No matter how he scrutinized her gaze, he could not discern their color. At the corners of her lips there was the very slightest smile. Her light brown hair was braided and strung with beads of jade. There was a thin jade collar around her neck, and from there it was a quick descent to the path between her breasts and the intricately brocaded golden gown.
"Ismet Toler," he finally said.
"I grant you permission to stay this night in the palace," she said.
"Thank you," he said. There was an awkward pause and then he asked, "Who makes your furniture?"
She laughed. "The chair, yes. My father was a great scholar. By way of his research, he discovered it beneath the ruins of an Abbey at Cardeira-davu."
"I didn't think the religious dabbled in magic," said Toler.
"Who's to say it's not the work of God?"
The swordsman nodded. "And your Councilor, Greppen? Another miracle?"
"Noble Greppen," said the Lady.
"Pardon my saying, Lady Maltomass, but he appears green about the gills."
"There's no magic in it," she said. "His is a race of people who grew out of the swamp. They have a different history than we do, but the same humanity."
"And what is your story?" said Toler. " Are you magic or miracle?"
She smiled and looked away from him. "I'll ask the questions," she said. "Is that The Coral Heart at your side?"
"Yes," he said, and moved to draw the sword from its sheath.
"That won't be necessary," she said. "I see the coral from here."
"Most people prefer not to see the blade," he said.
"And pardon my asking, Ismet Toler, but how many have you slain with it?"
"Enough," he said.
"Is that a declaration of remorse?"
"Remorse was something I felt for the first thousand."
"You're a droll swordsman."
"Is that a compliment?" he asked.
"No," said Lady Maltomass. "I hear you have a tulpa."
"Yes, my man Garone."
To Toler's left, there was a disturbance in the air, which became a pillar of smoke that swirled and coalesced into the hooded servant.
"Garone, I present to you the Lady Maltomass," said Toler, and swept his arm in her direction. The tulpa bowed and then disappeared.
"Very interesting," she said.
"Not a flying chair, but I try," he said.
"Well, I also have a tulpa," said the Lady.
"No," said Toler.
"Mamresh," she said, and in an instant, there appeared, just to the right of the flying chair the presence of a woman. She was naked and powerfully built. A warrior, thought the swordsman. His only other impression, before she disappeared-the deep red color of her voluminous hair.