An expression of acute suffering passed across her perfect features; her exquisite eyes dimmed with tears.
“He… died, defending me, when we attempted our escape from the outlaws,” she said in a low voice whose words he could hardly hear.
“Died? Gods—what a loss! The nation shares your sorrow at the demise of your champion, my Princess! But now I must be gone, for there is yet much to do and the night is all too short.”
He saluted her and swiftly left the chamber, his heart high, exultant. He had hoped to find and free both Niamh and Zarqa… and it seemed the Gods were with him on this venture, in all truth!
The stairway leading to the floor above was as deserted as the corridor. Janchan ascended it, one hand on the hilt of his weapon. Without particular difficulty, he found the suite Niamh had indicated. The door thereof, also a massive slab of carved wood, was sealed with a heavy bar, which he slid aside.
Within he found Zarqa shackled to a bedpost. The sad-eyed Kalood evinced no surprise at his appearance, having detected the approach of Janchan through his telepathic senses.
The chains were of glassteel and thus unbreakable, but the bedpost itself was of wood and Janchan hacked through it with his sword with some little labor. Then it was an easy matter to slide the chains off. Zarqa rubbed his lean wrists gratefully.
My captors have imprisoned me in surroundings of considerable luxury, as you can see, he said. Still, the caged dhua longs for its freedom, however golden the bars.
Janchan smiled; Arjala had certainly lodged her heavenly prisoner in a sumptuous cell, for the walls were hung with jeweled draperies of rare silks, and goblets and dishes of sweetmeats and fruits stood about on taborets of precious woods inlaid with ivory mosaics. In a terse, low tone and few words Janchan apprised the Winged Man of the situation, and of his plans.
“So you must fly from here, recover the skysled, and return to take us aboard,” he said urgently. “I hope your wing-wound has healed so that you are air-worthy by now, for it is hopeless to trust that we three can find our way out of the Temple precincts on foot, as easily as I got in.”
Zarqa nodded solemnly. The Temple physicians have lavished the extent of their healing arts upon my wing-joint, and, although my wings are stiff and lame from inactivity, I will, I trust, be able to fly a brief distance. But how will I recognize the window of the princess’ suite?
“We will leave a lamp burning within it,” Janchan said. “One more thing occurs to me. With the two of us aboard, and Karn, and now the added weight of the princess, will the skysled be able to fly? I have no idea of its weight capacity…” His voice trailed off at sight of the expression on Zarqa’s face. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
Normally glum, the Kalood’s visage wore an expression of deepest sorrow.
You will not, I fear, have to worry about weight, the Winged Man telepathed. The boy crept away in the night—the same night you left us. Perhaps I should have anticipated some such thing, for it was obvious how deeply he missed not being permitted to accompany you on this adventure.
“Well, where is he?”
The Kalood gave an eloquent shrug. I fear his spirit has fled to The World Above, as you would say. With dawn, when I discovered him missing, I searched through most of the tree. I found the signs of a struggle, and a great quantity of blood; but I did not find Karn.
This was indeed grim news, and Janchan’s heart saddened.
“You are not sure he’s dead, though; he might, after all, have escaped victorious, and the blood you found could be the blood of the thing he fought.”
Perhaps you are right. I certainly hope so. But, in any case, we have no idea where to begin looking for him, and to carry the Princess of Phaolon to safety must be our chiefest concern. With a roused and angry city stirred up like a zzumalak-nest on news of the rescue of the princess, we could hardly afford to hover about, searching for the lost boy.
“I suppose you are correct,” Janchan said glumly. “Still, it is not right to just fly off and leave him to his own devices. After all, through him both you and I were freed from the captivity of Sarchimus…”
I agree, the Kalood said sadly, and I like the notion of leaving without certain knowledge that he is alive or dead no more than you. But I cannot help feeling that, somehow, he would understand. And, at all costs, we must get the princess free of the toils of Arjala.
Janchan nodded; there was no question of this. They went over to Zarqa’s window, which was barred with an ornamental grille of worked metal. Between the two of them it was not very difficult to pry the bars loose, employing the sawed bedpost as a lever. Soon they had widened sufficient space for the gaunt Kalood to squeeze through the bars.
Standing on the sill, Zarqa tested his wings gingerly once or twice, nodded his satisfaction, bade the prince farewell, and sailed off into the night.
Wiping the sweat from his brow, Janchan thought to himself that everything was going according to his plan—thus far, at any rate.
Chapter 20
THE THING AT THE WINDOW
Janchan stole from Zarqa’s suite, barring the door behind him, and crept cautiously down the hall, and down the staircase, retracing his steps again to Niamh’s door.
But this time, things were a trifle different.
Two guards stood to either side of the barred door. Whatever the reason why they had left their post before his earlier visit to the princess, here they were back again, and two ugly and dangerous-looking louts they were.
Temple Guards, he knew, were eunuchs trained in the more obscure techniques of hand-to-hand fighting, since bladed weapons were forbidden by religious law to Temple servitors. Ordinary guards in the Temple ranks circumvented this churchly fiat by going armed with whips or staves or cudgels. But not the Temple eunuchs, who fought with their bare hands.
Both men were bald and very heavy, and taller by a full hand-span than the lithe young princeling. Their hands were enormous and muscular and bore ridges of calloused skin. They wore loose felt vests over their hairless chests, and baggy pantaloons, secured at their thick waists with voluminous cummerbunds.
From the curve of the stairs he watched them, thinking fast. He could think of no reliable way of getting past them. He certainly couldn’t talk his way through that wall of living flesh, and he was not at all certain he could get past them, even if he used his sword. He was reluctant to attempt a battle in any case—not because they were two to his one, but because they would undoubtedly raise a loud outcry, summoning help from below.
On impulse, he went back to the floor on which Zarqa had been imprisoned. Assuming the number of apartments along the hall was the same on this floor as it was on the floor below, he conceived of the daring scheme of climbing down the outer wall of the Temple and entering Niamh’s suite via the window.
Cautiously, he stole into the suite that was directly above Niamh’s; luckily, it was unoccupied. Even more to, the point, the window was unbarred. Obviously, the grille had been affixed to Zarqa’s window because of the danger of his escaping through flight. Ordinarily, it seemed, there was no reason in barring windows so high off the branch.
He stripped the bed of its satin spread, which he quickly cut into long strips with his blade, knotting these together into a makeshift rope. It was lengthy enough, he thought; it remained to be seen, however, whether or not it was strong enough to bear his weight without tearing or coming untied.