Then, soaring over the chorus, he thought he heard a familiar voice. Recognition dawned and he shouted,
"Father! Father!"
A voice full of agony cried out in reply: "Palimak. Help me, Palimak!"
At that moment a great explosion erupted, lifting him up and hurling him away on a hot fierce wind.
He burst out of the vision, gasping for air as if he had come up from the bottom of the sea itself.
And he was back on the airship again, Leiria's hand on his shoulder, eyes deep with concern.
Palimak brushed at his face, as if swatting away a fly. "By the gods," he said, hoarsely, "I swear I heard his voice!"
"Whose voice, Palimak?" Leiria asked. "Who did you hear?"
The young man's eyes were agonized. "My father's," he said. He shook his head. "It can't be possible,"
he said. But I think … somehow … somewhere … he must be alive!"
Leiria felt like the sun had suddenly decided to arise after a long, cold sleep. The ice jam broken, all the feelings she'd been holding back for so long flooded forth.
Safar! she thought.
Alive?
She clutched Palimak to her and wept.
CHAPTER THREE
All was pain.
Iraj had no body: no blood, no sinew, no muscle, no bone-much less skin to contain them.
And yet there was still pain.
In its torment, pain defined him. He was a writhing shadow of a soul on fire. A smoking stone in the guts of some howling devil dancing on the coals of the Hellfires.
If he'd had tears, Iraj would have wept them. If he'd had a tongue, he would've lapped up those tears to quench the awful thirst. And if he'd had a voice, he would've screamed for mercy. Yes, Iraj Protarus, who had never seen value in mercy, would trade his crown-and a thousand more-for one drop of pity now.
But who was there to pity him?
The gods?
Safar had once told him the gods were asleep and wouldn't answer even if the prayer were cast into the Heavens by a million voices. Safar had said many things like that and if Iraj had possessed a heart to break, or a heart to hate, he would have both loved and despised Safar now for all his wise words.
Safar Timura-enemy and friend. Friend and enemy. The one who had saved him. The one who had condemned him to this eternity of pain.
If Iraj had possessed the ability for amusement, he'd have finally known the true meaning of irony.
In his previous existence Iraj had been a shapechanger. Rabid wolf to black-hearted man, then back again.
And before that?
Images bubbled up to burst on the thick surface of his pain.
He was a boy again in Alisarrian's secret cave, swearing a blood oath of eternal loyalty to Safar. He was a young prince again, leading his armies against the demon king, Manacia, who threatened all humans with enslavement. He was King of Kings again, betraying Safar because he feared Timura would betray him first. He was a fiend again, avenging himself on Safar for the crime of uncommitted sins.
As each of these images took form, only to dissolve into a soul-searing froth, Iraj gradually emerged into an awareness that was somehow separate from the pain. It was like struggling from a molten sea to rest a moment in a world both familiar and yet alien.
He was only a lowly creature whose sole desire was to escape into death. But in his desperation to escape a more solid firmament was formed.
His first thought was: Where is Safar?
With this thought came heightened awareness: Safar was nearby! And he was also in pain. Satisfaction followed, but then he was pummeled by a further realization: Safar was not in as much pain as Iraj.
He pulled himself higher out of the sea of misery, determined to reach Safar. As he did so, Iraj sensed other creatures scuttling up behind him. Groaning things. Weeping things. Evil things.
Something like a tentacle wriggled toward him. Then a second. Then a third.
He knew who they were. When they had names, they were Kalasariz, Fari and Luka. Iraj had escaped them once, but somehow they had followed.
Not voices, but images of voices, came to him like the dry scuttling of many insects itching across his memory. "The king! Where is the king?" And, "Here, brothers!" And, "Follow him! Follow him!"
Iraj gathered all his strength and flung himself forward, humping madly like a hunted worm.
He must escape. He must reach Safar.
Crying: Safar, Safar! Wait for me, Safar!
CHAPTER FOUR
King Rhodes hefted the sack of gold in his big fist. "For another one of these," he rumbled, "you can be king of all Syrapis for all I care."
His bearded jaw swung open like hairy gates to make a yellow, broken-toothed smile. "'King of kingsa€™ is a title I've been hearing bandied about lately. If that's what you want, I won't stand in your way."
Rhodes was playing to his subjects, who laughed in appreciation at their king's jest, crowding closer to the platform so they could hear every word of the exchange.
Palimak snorted. "They tried that in Esmir," he said. "Didn't work."
There were angry mutters in the crowd. They didn't like Palimak's rude retort to their king.
Rhodes dug thick fingers into his beard to scratch at some irritation. "Clever answer," he said. He jerked a bejeweled thumb at a scrawny-looking nobleman at his side. "Only the other day I was telling my minister-Muundy here-what a clever young prince you are. Setting a fine example for me and my brother kings to follow."
Palimak couldn't help but notice the contrast between the rich stone set in the thumb-ring and the grime under the king's nails. He warned himself mentally to proceed with great care. It would not be wise to underestimate this man. Of all the kings of Syrapis, Rhodes was the biggest, the meanest, the most barbaric.
And yet he had more than mere cunning glinting behind those rheumy eyes. He was also obviously well-informed by his spies. His hinted knowledge of Palimak's past troubles with Iraj Protarus was firm evidence of that. One thing Palimak had learned, however, was that the only way to deal with Rhodes was from strength.
As Coralean-that canny old caravan master-liked to say, "Rhodes is either at your feet or at your throat."
"That's kind of you to say so, Majesty," Palimak replied, not bothering to hide his sarcasm.
He turned to Leiria, who was standing easy by his side, thumbs hooked over her belt. "When we get home," he said, "remind me to see about setting up a special school for the kings of Syrapis. We'll start with classes on regular bathing and grooming."
Leiria made a thin smile. She was barely conscious of the exchange, eyes flickering here and there for signs of danger.
Outwardly, Rhodes didn't take offense at Palimak's abuse. He guffawed, slapping a meaty palm against a thigh as thick as a pillar.
"What's the matter with you Kyranians?" he said. "Don't you like a good smell? A man's smell?" He frowned, pretending concern. "I worry about you, young prince. You bathe more than is healthy for you.
Why, if you aren't careful, you'll catch a chill and die on us. What a pity it would be for you to let out the ghost so young. Just when we're getting to know and love you."
Palimak grinned sarcastically. "And my gold," he said. "You seem to love that as well."
Rhodesa€™ heavy brows beetled into a frown. Another buzz of anger went through the crowd. Leiria shifted, deliberately letting her chain mail rattle in warning.
A stranger to King Rhodesa€™ court, Leiria reflected, would've thought Palimak's impertinence foolishness of the first order. After all, the two of them were the only Kyranians on the platform with the king. And that platform-the same one they'd seen from the air not long before-was surrounded by hundreds of the king's subjects, who filled the open courtyard from wall to wall.