“Her name is Sadira.”
“Don’t let her out of your sight!” Tithian exclaimed, motioning for Stravos to stand up. “Where are you? I’ll send someone to watch her immediately.”
“That will do you no good,” Caro replied. “A few minutes after he bought her, Lord Agis gave the girl a bag of gold and set her free. He told her he wanted to aid the rebellion and that she should contact him when Those Who Wear the Veil needed his help.”
“I have the luck of a blind desert runner!” Tithian snarled. “What did the other bidder look like?”
With growing frustration, the high templar listened as the dwarf offered a portrait that, save for the obsidian-pommeled cane, could have fit half the craftsmen in Tyr. Once Caro had finished his description, Tithian questioned him briefly about the auction and the elves who had run it.
“You’ll be a free man soon,” Tithian said, as the conversation wore to a close. “Besides, with your help, it’ll be much easier for me to keep Agis out of trouble. You’re doing the Asticles family a great service.”
“I know what I’m doing,” Caro replied, the black pits of his eyes fixed steadily on Tithian’s face. “Don’t make a fool of me by pretending that it’s anything but betrayal.”
Tithian shrugged. “Think of your service however you wish,” he said. “If you see Sadira again, contact me immediately. You’ll have your freedom the same day I capture her.”
“I will,” Caro replied. He closed his fingers over the crystal, and his shriveled face disappeared from view.
Tithian turned to his subordinates. “Forget you heard a word of this.”
No sooner had he issued the command than he wondered if there had been any need. Both Stravos and Gathalimay were staring at the room with gaping mouths. Tithian joined them in inspecting their surroundings.
They had entered an immense chamber in the bottom of the Golden Tower. Copper-plated rafters hung high overhead. In the squares between the beams were carved shadowy figures of beasts that Tithian did not recognize. At the edges of the ceiling, fluted columns of granite supported the gilded rafters. Between these pillars stood row after row of wooden shelving. Most of the planks were empty, save for a few ceramic urns and metal boxes filled with coins and glittering jewels. In a few places, the murky outline of an ancient steel sword or battle-axe occupied an otherwise empty shelf. On one shelf rested an entire suit of dust-covered armor.
A translucent, alabaster panel through which shone a filmy white light provided the chamber’s weak illumination. Beneath the alabaster panel sat a black, glassy pyramid taller than a full giant and more than a dozen paces across at the base. The entire structure had been carved from a single block of obsidian, the surface polished to icy smoothness. It seemed to Tithian that he was staring into the heart of darkness itself, and he felt more curious than ever about the significance of the obsidian corridor.
The top of the pyramid was flat, forming a small deck large enough for several men to stand upon. Along the edge of the deck sat two-dozen balls-also of polished obsidian-ranging in size from that of a piece of fruit to as large as a half-giant’s head. As strange as they were, the ebony globes were not what caught the high templar’s eye. A magnificent silver-gilded throne stood at the front of the deck.
On the arms of the throne sat a pair of human heads with topknots of long, coarse hair, their faces turned toward a diminutive figure perched at the edge of the seat. Tithian could just make out the gleam of a golden diadem ringing the old man’s head and see that deep-etched lines of age creased his withered face. The high templar had no doubt that he was looking at Kalak.
At Tithian’s side, Stravos gasped as he turned and saw who was watching them. The aged templar stepped toward the exit. The trapdoor suddenly swung shut with an ominous clang, sealing them all in the vault with Kalak. Stravos faced the king and fell to his knees, an action quickly mimicked by Gathalimay.
“Mighty One,” Stravos began, inclining his head toward Kalak. “Forgive our intrusion-”
“Quiet!” Tithian ordered, cuffing the templar across the head. He had no idea how Kalak would respond to their presence, but he did not want to make the king angry by having his subordinates behave disrespectfully. “How dare you speak without permission!”
After a short silence, Kalak turned one of the heads so that it faced the three templars. “Look, Wyan. Intruders.”
Tithian could make out just enough detail to see that Wyan’s head was sallow-skinned and sunken-featured. Its leathery lips were curled into a sinister grin, revealing a broken set of yellowed teeth. Fixing its gray eyes on the trio, it said, “Filthy murderers come to assassinate their king, don’t you think, Sacha?”
The other head asked, “Why do you always think of murder, Wyan? Perhaps they’re greedy thieves, come to steal what’s left of our treasure.”
“My treasure!” Kalak stormed, sweeping Sacha off the throne’s arm.
The head rolled down the pyramid and landed in front of the intruders. It was grotesquely bloated, with puffy cheeks and eyes swollen to narrow, dark slits. It stared up at Tithian with a grisly snarl.
“Our treasure,” Sacha insisted to the high templar. “Kalak spent it all on his ziggurat. A millennium of prudence and thrift, thrown away in a mere century.”
Tithian studied the thing in ghastly wonder. There was a glow of intelligence in its dusky eyes, and the spiteful expression on its face seemed as lively and spirited as any he had ever seen on a templar’s face. The heads, he realized, were no mere zombies that Kalak had animated for his own amusement. They were alive, at least after a fashion.
Kalak grabbed Wyan’s head by the topknot and stepped to the edge of the deck. He crept down the smooth surface of the pyramid as easily as he would have crossed a level floor. As the king came closer, Tithian saw that the skin of Wyan’s missing neck had been gathered up beneath the jawline and neatly stitched into a straight seam.
When Kalak reached the bottom of the pyramid, be dropped Wyan next to Sacha. The two heads fell to arguing about whether the three intruders were murderers or thieves, and Kalak moved close to Gathalimay.
“This one was thinking of stealing,” said the ancient monarch.
“No, Mighty One,” Gathalimay answered, not daring to lift his eyes from the floor. “I was merely awed-”
“Don’t lie to your king!” Kalak snapped, glaring at the half-elf.
“I’m sorry, Great King,” Gathalimay answered, his voice trembling. “The thought crept into my mind, but I would never-”
“What you would have done doesn’t matter,” the sorcerer-king interrupted.
Kalak stepped behind the kneeling templar, grabbing Gathalimay’s chin with one hand and placing the other on the back of the half-elf’s head. He jerked the chin to one side and pushed forward at the base of the skull, snapping the neck with a single crack. The body slumped to the floor in a flaccid heap.
The only emotion Tithian felt at the loss of his subordinate was fear for himself. It seemed entirely possible that the king would kill him as well.
Kalak stepped to Stravos next. “This one is frightened.”
“Kill him!” urged one of the heads.
“Please, Mighty One. I only opened the door because the High Templar ordered it,” he said, his voice quavering. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“Are you not frightened of me?” Kalak demanded.
“M-most certainly, Great King.”
“That is wrong,” Kalak responded. “You are mine. If I choose to kill you, you should be happy because that is my will. You should not be frightened because your insignificant existence is about to end.”
“Yes, my king. I understand that now,” Stravos said.
“Let us see if you do.”
The king reached down to Stravos’s belt and drew the templar’s dagger, then smiled as he saw that it had an obsidian blade. “Feed the dagger,” he said, handing the weapon to Stravos.