“And?”
The eyes behind the mask fixed on Lokung, who suspected they possessed supernatural perception. Thus, prudence made him honest. He gave his account, ending it by asking, “Are you pleased?”
“You still live,” replied the man behind the mask.
“Sire, it’s said our royal mage could read minds. Do you possess that power?”
“Speak of this mage. He interests me. Where is he now?”
“He’s dead, sire.”
“Do you mourn him?”
Staring at the bland, silver face, Lokung felt the chill of menace. “I...I feared him, sire.”
“A wise answer. And true.” The last comment seemed to confirm Lokung’s suspicions. “I want the orcs estranged. Continue your efforts with the queen and spread mistrust throughout the court. Take your time. Be subtle. Do you have any thoughts on this matter?”
“Girta wants a man’s guidance,” replied Lokung. “The right one could easily sway her will.”
“You’re thinking of yourself, perhaps?”
Lokung thought he heard mockery in the low voice. “Nay, sire. She doesn’t trust me. I think she trusts no man in court.”
“Who then?”
“Someone from outside the court who has knowledge of orcs. The orc regiments have been disbanded, and their human officers have lost their commissions. Perhaps one of their number might aid you. If you find someone suitable, I could promote his cause in court.”
The masked man nodded. “Your idea has merit, but only if we can find the right man. Let it about that I’m a rich merchant recruiting a commander for my personal guard. Tell all I’m generous.” With a hand wrought from silver, he pointed to a small bag on a table. “You’ve served me well. That’s for you.”
Lokung took the bag and heard coins clink. Pleased by their weight, he bowed low. “Thank you, sire.”
“Send me those officers you spoke of. When I find one that suits me, I’ll let you know. Advance my interests, and you’ll prosper. Now go.”
Lokung left the room feeling relieved. Balten was absent from the entrance hall, but a stranger stood there. He was a young-faced man whose deep tan set off his light gray eyes. Those eyes regarded Lokung with contempt before they turned away. Wait till you stand before Silver Face, thought Lokung. Then you’ll be scared, too.
The loud knock startled Othar. It also puzzled him, for he had not perceived another presence outside his door. He was even more surprised by who entered without his leave. “Gorm!”
Othar had not seen Gorm since he had come, unbidden, to peddle the magic bones. Despite his shabby, travel-worn clothes, Gorm had refused to haggle over their exorbitant price, and Othar had been hard put to convince the king to pay it. After receiving his gold, Gorm had disappeared as mysteriously as he arrived.
Trying to read Gorm’s thoughts, Othar gazed into his eyes. As on the last occasion they met, the pale gray orbs struck Othar as too old for the face around them. They were impenetrable. Othar redoubled his efforts and attempted to seize Gorm’s mind. The effort failed. Gorm’s lips formed a sardonic smile. “Those powers won’t avail you. If you want to know why I’m here, you must ask.”
For the first time since he had been carried from the pit, Othar felt a twinge of fear. “I paid you for the bones. We’ve no further business.”
“That’s untrue. You allowed the bones to be destroyed.”
“Aye, but they were mine, so that’s not your concern.”
“I received coins for them, that’s true. Yet if you paid me for the sun, would it be yours?”
“You’ve come a long way to speak riddles.”
“I’ve come to serve my master,” replied Gorm.
“Do you mean me?” asked Othar.
Gorm flashed another mocking smile. “I serve the power behind the bones. Surely you’ve sensed it.”
Othar recalled the malevolent presence that was always strongest when he consulted the bones. “Aye, I’ve sensed it. When the bones were burned, it nearly destroyed me.”
“It entered you. It’s the wellspring of your new powers. Now you embody my master.”
“What double-tongued nonsense! Am I your master or not?”
“I’ll serve not you, but what’s within you.”
“Then begone! What use is a servant who won’t obey?”
“Oh, I’ll be useful. You and my master are united by the same desire. You want revenge and my master requires blood. Purchased men shrink from vengeance’s gruesome deeds. I won’t. My devotion will spur me on, for my master thrives on slaughter.”
“Who is this master?” asked Othar.
“It yet has no name. In time, it will. Each death brings that day closer—an era of black temples, splashed red from sacrifices.”
“Do you speak of a god?”
“That word will do. Don’t you feel godlike in your power and wrath?”
“Very like,” replied Othar.
“In me, you’ve found an acolyte. Hold to your grim course, and no one will be more dedicated. Do you accept my service?”
“Since you’re immune to my powers, I seem to have little choice. Have you much experience?”
Gorm grinned. “Many decades’ worth.”
“Decades? You look too young for that.”
“I was once like you, a minor sorcerer. I had but one trick—my mind could roam the Dark Path to seek memories discarded by the dead. Memory lingers, even after the spirit journeys westward.”
“So it’s said,” replied Othar.
“And ’tis true. Horrific deaths render especially potent memories, and on the Sunless Way I encountered a being those memories nourish. It’s capable of rewarding living followers. As yet, it’s confined to the netherworld. But that will change when it grows more powerful.”
“And slaughter feeds it?”
“Aye. This summer’s warfare fortified it. Your new powers are proof of that.”
“How did you come to serve it?”
“I created the magic bones, which permit my master to sway events.”
“The same bones you sold me?” asked Othar, recalling their bloodthirsty counsels.
“Aye.”
Othar eyed the man before him, and envied his body. “Your master preserved your youth, yet I was blasted.”
“I am but its servant. You are its vessel.”
“You mean a new version of the bones,” said Othar.
“As you once turned to them for guidance, so I will turn to you,” replied Gorm. “Name your enemies, and I’ll help seal their doom. Forget restraint. Realize your most violent urges. Don’t let my young face fool you. I’ve honed my skills for ages.”
Nine
Dar spent an uneasy night. When she wasn’t lying awake worrying, she had disturbing dreams. Their details faded quickly, but not their air of menace. This combined with Dar’s vision of the hall’s destruction to give her a sense of approaching danger.
Within Dar’s mind warred two views of her circumstances. In one, she was queen by accident. That was what her muthuri believed, and if Zor-yat was right, Dar should abandon the crown. That course brought up new dilemmas. Dar had no idea who should succeed her, for she could no longer perceive worthiness. Then there was the question of what she would do afterward. If I remain here, I’ll be treated like a ghost. Living in Taiben held no appeal.
The contrasting view was that Dar was destined to be queen. That could be the reason Muth la had preserved her life. Yet Dar had difficulty believing a branded peasant woman was meant to be queen of the orcs. Her visions seemed evidence of such a destiny, but they provided little guidance. Will this hall burn if I remain queen or will my abdication doom it?
Dar wrestled with the problem most of the day. The struggle wore her out without providing an answer. At last, she realized logic was useless. There was no way to determine which path was the correct one. Velasa-pah said I should follow my chest. He said it wouldn’t always be easy. Once Dar ignored reason and fear, she knew she must remain queen. She couldn’t forsake the orcs. She loved them too deeply, for Fathma had bound her to them. They were her family and her children. Dar resolved to reign as best she could and hope that would suffice.