Vanion and Betuana reached Sama late that afternoon, and the Atan Queen scarcely paused before setting out for the border.
‘It was ghastly, Sparhawk,’ Vanion said, leaning wearily back in his chair and putting his visored helmet on the table. ‘They’re like no soldiers I’ve ever seen before. They’re big, and they’re fast, and their hides are so tough that most of the time my sword just bounced off them. I don’t know where Klael found them, but they’ve got yellow blood, and they made mincemeat out of my knights.’
‘Kring and Tikume ran into them as well, I guess,’ Sparhawk told him. ‘Anosian was trying to pass the word to Aphrael, but he garbled the spell so badly that she couldn’t make any sense out of it. She’s a little unhappy with Tynian. When he was gathering up the knights he brought back to Matherion, he accidentally picked every Pandion who has the least bit of skill with the spells. That’s why she can’t get any reports from Komier.’
‘We might have to send somebody to join him and handle communications—except that it’d take weeks for him to get there.’
‘Not if Aphrael takes him, it won’t,’ Sparhawk disagreed. ‘She carried me from Beresa to Sepal—almost a thousand miles—in about a half an hour.’
‘You’re not serious!’
‘You’ll love flying, Vanion.’
‘You’re carrying tales, Sparhawk.’
They turned quickly. The Child Goddess was sitting in a chair at the far end of the room with her grass-stained little feet up on the table.
‘I wish you wouldn’t do that,’ Sparhawk told her.
‘Would you prefer some kind of announcement, Sparhawk? Multitudes of spirits bawling hymns of praise to introduce me? It’s a little ostentatious, but I can arrange it.’
‘Just forget I said anything.’
‘I’ll do that. I had a chat with Anosian. He’s practicing now—very hard. Kring and Tikume ran across Klael and his soldiers out in the desert, and they discovered something you gentlemen should know. I was right, Vanion. Klael’s soldiers have bile in their veins instead of blood because they breathe with their livers, and that means that the air where they come from isn’t anything like the air here—probably something like marsh-gas. There’s something in it that they need, and they can’t get it out of our air. The Peloi used their standard cut-and-run tactics, and after a little while those monsters started to collapse. Next time you come up against them, just turn around and run away. If they try to chase you, they’ll choke to death. Did Betuana leave?’
‘Yes, Divine One,’ Itagne replied.
‘Good. The quicker I can get Engessa to my island, the quicker I’ll have him back on his feet.’
‘I’ve been meaning to ask you about that,’ Sparhawk said. ‘You said that his brain’s been injured.’
‘Yes.’
‘The brain’s very complicated, isn’t it?’
‘Yours aren’t quite as complex as ours, but they aren’t simple, by any means.’
‘And you can heal Engessa’s brain on your island?’
‘Of course.’
‘If you can fix a brain, you should be able to fix somebody’s heart. Why didn’t you just take Sephrenia to your island and heal her there? Why did you come to Beresa and try to steal Bhelliom?’
‘What’s this?’ Vanion exclaimed, coming to his feet.
‘Wonderful, Sparhawk,’ Aphrael said dryly. ‘I’m awed by your subtlety. She’s all right, Vanion. Bhelliom brought her back.’
Vanion smashed his fist down on the table and then controlled himself with an obvious effort. ‘Would it inconvenience anybody to tell me what happened?’ he asked them in an try voice.
‘We were in Dirgis,’ Aphrael shrugged. ‘Sephrenia was alone in the room, and Zalasta came in and stabbed her in the heart.’
‘Good God!’
‘She’s fine, Vanion. Bhelliom took care of it. She’s coming along very well. Xanetia’s with her.’
Vanion started toward the door.
‘Oh, come back here,’ the Child Goddess told him. ‘As soon as I get Engessa to the island and deal with his injury, I’ll take you to Dirgis. She’s asleep now anyway, and you’ve seen her sleep before—lots of times.’
Vanion flushed slightly and then looked a bit sheepish.
‘You still haven’t answered my question,’ Sparhawk said. ‘If you can fix a brain, why can’t you fix a heart?”
‘Because I can shut a brain down to work on it, Sparhawk,’ she replied in a long-suffering tone. ‘The heart has to keep on beating, and I can’t work on it while it’s jumping around like that.’
‘Oh, I guess that makes sense.’
‘Do you happen to know where I could find Zalasta?’ Vanion asked in a dreadful voice.
‘He’s probably gone back to Natayos,’ Aphrael replied.
‘After I visit Sephrenia, do you suppose you could take me there? I’d really like to have a talk with him.’
‘I get his heart,’ the Child Goddess said.
Vanion gave her a strange look.
‘It’s an on-going joke,’ Sparhawk told him.
‘I’m not joking, Sparhawk,’ Aphrael said bleakly.
‘We can’t go to Natayos,’ Sparhawk said. ‘Ehlana might be there, and Scarpa will kill her if we come pounding on the gate. Besides, I think you’ll have to talk with Khwaj before you do anything to Zalasta.’
‘Khwaj?’ Vanion asked.
‘Tynian told Aphrael that Khwaj has his own plans for our Styric friend. He wants to set him on fire.’
‘I’ve got some more interesting ideas,’ Vanion said grimly.
‘I wouldn’t be so sure, my Lord. Khwaj wants to set Zalasta on fire, but he doesn’t want to burn him to death. He’s talking about an eternal flame—with Zalasta screaming in the middle of it—forever.’
Vanion considered that. ‘What a merry idea,’ he said finally.
‘My lady,’ Alcan whispered urgently, ‘come quickly. Zalasta’s returned.’
Ehlana drew the linen head-cloth down over her forehead and joined her maid at the defective window. The wimple had been Alcan’s idea. It fit snugly over the Queen’s ravaged scalp, and covered her throat and the underside of her chin as well. It was uncomfortable, but it concealed the horror Krager’s knife had made of her hair. She bent and looked out through the small triangular opening in the window.
Zalasta’s gaunt face was twisted with grief, and his eyes were dead. Scarpa came hurrying up, his face eager. ‘Well?’ he demanded.
‘Go away, Scarpa,’ Zalasta told him.
‘I only wanted to be sure you were all right, Father,’ Scarpa replied with obvious insincerity. Scarpa had fashioned a crude crown for himself out of a serving-bowl made of hammered gold. He was evidently unaware of how absurd he looked with the lop-sided adornment perched on his shaved head.
‘Leave me!’ Zalasta thundered. ‘Get out of my sight!’
‘Is she dead?’ Scarpa ignored the dreadful threat implicit in his father’s voice.
Zalasta’s face hardened. ‘Yes,’ he replied in a strangely neutral tone. ‘I drove my knife straight into her heart. I’m deciding right now whether or not I can live with what I’ve done. Please stay, Scarpa, by all means. This was your idea, after all. It was such a marvelous notion that I may want to reward you for it.’
Scarpa backed away, his suddenly rational eyes now filled with fear. Zalasta barked two words in Styric and reached out his hand, his fingers curved like hooks. Scarpa clutched at his belly and screeched. His makeshift crown fell unnoticed as Zalasta implacably dragged him back.
‘You’re pathetically obvious, Scarpa,’ Zalasta grated, his face only inches from his son’s, ‘but your plan had one minor flaw. I may very well kill myself for what I did to Sephrenia, but I’ll kill you first—just as unpleasantly as I possibly can. I may just kill you anyway. I don’t really like you, Scarpa. I felt a certain responsibility for you, but that’s a word you wouldn’t understand.’
His eyes suddenly burned. ‘Your madness must be contagious, my son. I’m starting to lose my grip on sanity myself. You talked me into killing Sephrenia, and I loved her far more than I could ever love you.’ He unhooked his fingers. ‘Run away, Scarpa. Pick up your cheap toy crown and run. I’ll be able to find you when I decide to kill you.’