How long had she slept? An hour? Certainly not two. But she did feel a little stronger. Lifting her talisman, she bespoke her sisters.
“Anigel! Kadiya! Are you well?”
A vision of them appeared. They were in the council chamber of the keep with Marshal Owanon, Lord Penapat, Chancellor Lampiar, and several other noble officers. There was much dust in the air. Chairs were overturned, and candles, papers, and other things scattered about. Kadiya was helping the venerable Lampiar to crawl out from beneath the heavy council table, which had evidently served as an improvised shelter during the earthquake. Owanon supported the Queen, who seemed dazed but unhurt.
“We are all right,” Kadiya said, looking up at the simulacrum of the Archimage that hovered wraithlike in midair. “But it was a near thing when the great chandelier began to fall. Luckily, I was able to turn it aside through my Black Trillium amulet. Is this the doing of that bastard Orogastus?”
“No,” said the Archimage. “He is at this time nearly as enfeebled as I. The earthquake is one more symptom of the imbalance of the world.”
Penapat and Kadiya began to tend to a cut on old Lampiar’s forehead, bathing it with wine. Owanon had helped the Queen into a chair. He now questioned the Archimage about the condition of the palace following the tremor.
“I have surveyed it only very quickly, but I can tell you that the situation is now extremely grave. The curtainwall has broken open near the main gate and the enemy is fast invading the palace grounds. The west tower is a ruin. The east tower is tottering, although some defenders have remained at their posts inside.”
“Is the keep yet sound?” Owanon asked.
“Luckily, yes.”
The Lord Marshal nodded judiciously. “Very well. I shall have to rally the troops who are outside the keep. We will try to defend its doors and maintain control of the western and southern compounds, at least. The postern gate of the palace fortifications must remain open to King Antar’s forces. We had hoped he would arrive before this.”
Haramis quickly took Sight of the King. “He is still an hour’s march distant.”
Owanon said: “Penapat, Lampiar, it falls to you to prepare the defenses within the Zotopanion itself. Let us hasten!”
The three officials and the military leaders went rushing from the council chamber, leaving Kadiya and Anigel alone with the ghostly form of the Archimage.
“Hara, what of my children?” the Queen asked.
“I will seek them out. Wait.” A moment later the Archimage said: “Janeel is safe in her keep chamber with Immu. But Niki … perhaps he hoped to catch sight of Antar’s approach, or had some mad idea of helping with the fighting. I have found him back by the postern gate barracks. There is terrible confusion, for the building collapsed in the earthquake. Niki has a scratched face and torn clothing, and he sits stunned but conscious amidst a group of wounded men. I cannot tell what other hurts he may have suffered.”
“Go to him, Hara!” the Queen cried piteously. “Rescue him!”
“I—I do not think I am able to transport myself. Not immediately. The magic requires precise concentration. I am heartily sorry, Ani, but I had only slept a short time when the earthquake struck, and if I try this before I have recovered—”
The Queen started to her feet. “Then I will fetch Niki myself!”
“Go down into the midst of a pitched battle?” Kadiya was aghast.
“Yes!” Anigel shrieked wildly. “If Hara refuses to help my son, then I shall!”
Kadiya bent over the chair, took hold of her sister’s shoulders, and shook her. Her dusty auburn hair stood out like a mane and her brown eyes were ablaze. “No! You shall not go! Remember who you are. Remember who the Archimage is, and the solemn duty to which she is pledged. For the love of God, Sister, put aside the fear and heartsickness that have robbed you of your good sense and integrity, and act like a queen!”
“I know what I am,” Anigel wailed, squirming like a trapped animal. “I am a weakling, vile and contemptible, unworthy of the sacred office I hold!” Suddenly she ceased her struggles and slumped back, overwhelmed by desolation. “You are right, Kadi. I cannot possibly rescue my poor son. He will die and the rest of us, too—from the Conquering Ice, if not by the dark magic of Orogastus or the swords of his evil cohort.”
Kadiya’s grip on the Queen’s arms softened. She knelt and took the smaller woman into a tender embrace.
“Dearest little Sister. You are wrong. I know that you despair over the imbalance of the world and hold yourself responsible. But so are we all guilty, insofar as we have acted selfishly and ignobly and unwisely! To blame yourself alone is merely pride.”
“Pride? You do me an injustice. I have failed in many ways, but I have never been a haughty or arrogant person.”
“You have always been proud, for all your gentleness. And it has afflicted you with a dark self-centeredness that has blinded you to truth. Over the years you refused to believe that anything could be going amiss in your prosperous world. You refused to recognize that any danger or injustice might exist. You only wanted to be happy, and have your husband and children happy also, and bask in sweet satisfaction.”
“And is that a sin?” Anigel cried, flaming with indignation.
“It can be—when one has larger responsibilities. Your own safety and comfort, and those of your loved ones, are important—but they are not the most important things in the world. There are greater goods, greater loves. And sometimes we are called upon to make terrible sacrifices on their behalf. Sometimes we must die for them … or, even worse, permit a loved one to suffer or die.”
A great perplexity twisted the Queen’s lovely features. She did not speak, nor did she meet her sister’s eyes.
Kadiya urged her: “I know that a noble unselfishness once existed within you. Find it again. Place your sovereign duty above your personal needs. Put away the bitterness and recrimination and despair that have gnawed you to a husk. Those things are worse than useless—they are poison! Love your family, your friends, your country, and the world. But love them not for your own comfort but generously—wisely, as the Triune loves us. You have not done so, but you can. I know it.”
The Queen said: “Kadi … if only I could believe you.”
“In your heart, you know that I speak the truth about your sin of selfishness—else your trillium would not have bled for shame.”
The Queen lifted her woebegone countenance. “Not until this very moment have I realized truly what lay within me. You are right: I was proud of what Antar and I had accomplished under the Two Thrones. I was proud of my beautiful children and proud of myself. When it all came undone, I hated you for not understanding my pain. I hated Hara for her lofty ideals, which were so much more noble than mine, and for her unwillingness to focus her love narrowly, as I had done. I believed that my husband and my children were the most important persons in the world—more precious than you, than Hara, than my friends and my people. As the disasters mounted I would have done anything to preserve their lives—even seen the world itself swallowed by the Conquering Ice.”
“Yes.” Gently, Kadiya took the Queen’s hands. The two women arose.
“I was wrong.”
“Yes.”
“Kadi, I forgive you with all my heart.”
“I know.”
The sisters kissed. Then the Queen lifted her chin high. “I—I will go to Penapat and Lampiar in just a moment, and see how best I can serve our brave defenders. I am useless with a sword, but—”
The Lady of the Eyes smiled. “I am not!… You do what you can. In the meantime I will go and fetch that silly rascal Niki.”
Pushing her straggling hair back from her face, she drew her sword and strode out of the council chamber.
The Queen now moved slowly about the devastated room. Like one in a dream she gathered up papers that had fallen to the floor and placed them carefully on the dusty table.
Look at your amulet, Sister.
Anigel uttere
d a surprised cry. She had completely forgotten that the spectral Archimage was watching. Taking hold of the golden chain, she drew the drop of amber out of its hiding place.
The amulet glowed richly golden, and in its depths the tiny fossil Flower was black.
The Yellow Voice had already tried four times to escape from the side of young King Ledavardis of Raktum, who was in the vanguard of his troops and showing astonishing prowess both as a swordsman and a leader of warriors. But the fighting grew increasingly ferocious as the hard-driving battalions of Raktum and Tuzamen moved into the palace grounds through the break in the wall, taking advantage of the ruined west tower, from which all defenders had fled, and the shelter provided by the well-built stone servants’ quarters, laundry, bakehouse, and stables located on the western side of the keep. The pirate knights flanking the monarch used their shields not only to protect Ledavardis from flying arrows, but also to hedge in the Voice. And so the sorcerer’s minion could only continue to do his job, indicating the best places to position those weapons of the Vanished Ones that still worked (most had long since ceased to operate), pointing out the path of least resistance to the advancing troops, and warning them of occasional suicidal attacks by trapped Laboruwendians.
From time to time, when he was not cringing in peril of his life, the Yellow Voice descried and bespoke the Master. Orogastus had surrounded himself and his six-man bodyguard with an invisible magical screen that turned away ordinary weaponry. But it did not assist him much as he sought to make his way through the densely packed mob of soldiers to the side of his beleaguered acolyte. By the time that Ledavardis and his knights had fought their way into the large stableyard adjacent to the western door of the keep, Orogastus had barely managed to pass through the smashed curtainwall two hundred ells distant.
It was the young King’s intent to assault the great keep’s western door, rather than the main entrance at the north, which was defended by a stout barbican alive with crossbowmen, archers, and numbers of domestic Nyssomu aborigines who used their blowpipes to propel poisoned darts.
A body of only thirty or forty Laboruwendian knights had massed in what seemed to be a doomed defensive action in front of the west door. They were being swiftly decimated by the Goblin Kinglet’s warriors when the Yellow Voice suddenly descried a fresh group of at least five hundred heavily armed defenders swarming into the stableyard from the rear, southern side of the keep. They were led by a splendidly accoutered nobleman in a green surcoat who swung his sword with such power that the blade was a singing silver blur that wreaked death or dismemberment at every stroke. The knights and men-at-arms following this spectacular commander fell upon the Raktumians closest to the west door and caused great slaughter, bringing the invaders’ advance to an abrupt halt. Some of the pirates began to run, and a rout threatened.
“Who is that great fighter wearing green?” King Ledavardis demanded of the Yellow Voice.
“He is Owanon, the Lord Marshal of the Two Thrones and King Antar’s dearest friend, my Liege. He is a champion famed in tournaments throughout most of the known world.”
The King addressed the knights closest to him. “We must do something about him at once. He inspires his men to fight like fiends, and he is cutting down our brave lads like heads of ripe grain! All of you! To me! Let us have at him!”
Brandishing his sword, Ledavardis burst forth from those shielding him and charged forward. After a moment’s hesitation, his knights and the other pirate troops rallied, following with fresh courage.
The Yellow Voice finally saw his chance. He ducked low amidst the clangorous melee, hauled up the skirts of his wet and dirtied robe, and ran for his life toward the stables.
Hand-to-hand fighting was going on everywhere. The husky acolyte tripped over bodies and dodged the weapons of friend and foe alike before gaining the great stone structure. Its outer precincts were crammed with wounded Raktumians who had sought shelter from the incessant shower of bolts and arrows pouring from the keep’s battlements. Deeper within were many slaughtered stablehands, and a handful of pirate corpses, one with a pitchfork in his throat. The wielder of this weapon lay sprawled atop his victim, a dagger sunk in his back. Strangely, he was not a human but a dwarfish Oddling dressed in exceptionally handsome brown leather garments.
As the sounds of the battle echoed distantly behind him, the Voice came to the grooms’ quarters, where he discovered a windowless chamber that could be locked from within. A refuge at last! He darted inside and closed the door softly. Then, leaning against the thick planks, he waited for his heart to stop pounding and his breath to slow before bespeaking the Master.
Unlike the sparsely furnished and doorless dormitories around it, this place had a degree of luxury—a table, small chairs, a bed with fine blankets, rugs on the floor, and a fireplace in which coals still glowed and a pot of stew hung from its crane, steaming. On the table was a clean wooden bowl, a spoon, a heel of bread, a crock of beer, and a pewter canikin.
A refuge indeed!
Postponing his duty for a little while longer, the famished and thirsty Yellow Voice heaved a grateful sigh and went to help himself. He was ladling the delicious-smelling stew into the bowl when he felt a sharp prick in his back.
“Stand still!” a voice hissed.
The Voice froze.
“Drop those things!”
“I meant no harm,” the Voice said. But the blade thrust at him, breaking the skin, and with a cry of pain he let the bowl clatter onto the hearthstones and the ladle drop into the pot. “I am only an unarmed townsman, caught up by mistake in the fighting—”
“Silence—or you die! And do not move.” The whisperer withdrew the blade and the Voice felt blood trickling down his spine.
“I will stand quite still. I would not dream of moving—”
The Voice’s conciliatory babbling died in his throat as he felt his hood whisked suddenly from his head. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a narrow blade flash past his ear. Cold metal touched his scalp where warm metal also lay. His heart stopped as he realized what was happening.
“Great God, not the talisman! Master! Help me—”
But the silvery circlet was already plucked from his head, spinning through the air, striking the floor with a musical clink. The Yellow Voice whirled about in desperation and flung himself upon his assailant with a hoarse bellow. But where was he? There was no man in the dim room, only a small dark figure that scarcely reached the burly Voice’s waist. Another Oddling?
The acolyte fell upon the tiny form. It shrieked—but its cry was drowned out by the Voice’s own agonized scream. He felt a sudden coldness beneath his ribs. It was amazing, how the cold hurt him. He thrashed about, trying to pluck at it, suddenly blind to everything around him, seeing only the face of the Master.
Eyes like white beacons, shining from the star-mask. And then the eyes of the Voice himself flared bright, and he ceased trying to pull the cold thing from his breast … from the breast of Orogastus himself.
The small assailant had wriggled free. Fighting to counter the hideous pain, the sorcerer listened. He heard panic-stricken breathing turn to sobs. His attacker was in the corner, trapped! Now all Orogastus had to do was turn his head in order to see who the killer-thief was. Turn only a little more so that the one hiding in the dark would be illumined by the eyes of enchantment and identified. Turn before the blood-starved brain died. Turn! Turn—
The shining eyes found their target and flickered out. For the briefest moment the Yellow Voice himself saw Prince Tolivar crouching in the corner. Then the acolyte lay dead on his back with a small ruby-hilted sword run through his heart like a skewer.
“I didn’t mean it,” Tolo said after a long time. But the Yellow Voice was utterly still.
The little Prince climbed to his feet and wiped his streaming eyes and nose on his golden sleeve. Swaying, he looked down upon the body. Rubies winked in the folds of grubby yellow cloth. Tolo took a great breath, bent down, grabbed the hilt of the
sword with both hands, and pulled. It slid free with surprising ease.
He wiped the blade on the dead man’s robe and then walked shakily to the opposite side of the chamber.
It had rolled under the bed.
Tolo fished it out with the sword, lifted it, and carried it at arm’s length to the table. He drew up one of the chairs, sat down, and stared. It had a many-rayed star at its front and three grotesque heads that seemed to snarl familiarly at him in the firelight.
It took him a long time to work up courage; but at last he went to where he had hidden the star-box, unwrapped it, and brought it to the table. He opened the dark, glassy lid. Inside was a bed of metallic mesh, and in one corner a set of flattened, many-colored jewels.
Tolo had read the little red book. He, not the Black Voice, had taken the star-box without permission and studied it.
Using the sword again, he gingerly tipped the Three-Headed Monster into the box. There was a dazzling flash. Tolo fell back with a cry and almost fled then and there. But instead he looked into the box and saw that the Star had vanished from its former position beneath the central monster head of the talisman. It no longer was bonded to Orogastus.
Tolo pressed the blue gemstone.
It lit, and a gentle musical note sounded.
Then he pressed the red, the yellow, and the two green ones. They also glowed tunefully. There remained only the white gemstone. When he pressed it, a louder musical chime sounded, then all of the lights winked out.
Through the thick door Tolo heard shouts and the clashing of swords. He had not noticed any noise before. The fighting must be getting closer. Ralabun had made him promise to stay hidden in his room until he returned, but Tolo had a feeling that his Nyssomu friend would not be coming back.
“If the magic didn’t work,” he whispered to himself, “I’ll die if I touch the talisman. But if the pirates get me, I’ll die anyhow.”