to free herself. Mahtra let her get away. While listening to Zvain’s boasting, Mahtra realized she did have the wherewithal to use her protection when she wasn’t afraid. She didn’t want to; she didn’t know how to limit its effects to one specific person, but the power itself belonged to her, not the makers, and when she fastened her gaze on Giola, the elf knew where the lay, too.
Pavek and the others revived somewhat in the abattoir watchroom. They could sit up and sip water when Nunk arrived from the outer gate, but none of them could stand or speak. The Codesh instigator looked at the high templar’s glazed, unfocused eyes and his seedy face and decided the situation had deteriorated too far for him to handle.
“They’re going to the city, to the palace!” He gave a spate of orders for handcarts and runners. “Hamanu’s infinitesimal mercy, we’ll all be gutted if Pavek—Lord Pavek dies here.”
Zvain started to object, but the instigator’s plan seemed excellent to Mahtra. She gave Zvain the same look she’d given Giola, and, like the elf, the boy did what she wanted him to.
* * *
Pavek began stringing coherent thoughts together as the handcart bounced along the Urik road. He pieced together what had happened to him from the disconnected, dreamlike images cluttering his mind: Mahtra had saved him from certain death in the abattoir. She was with him still; he could see her head and shoulders as she ran beside the cart, easily keeping pace with the elves who were pulling it. Fate knew what had happened to Ruari and Zvain, but Pavek could hear another cart rumbling nearby and hoped his companions were in it. He hoped they were alive, and hoped most of all that he’d think of something to say to Lord Hamanu that would keep them alive.
Inspiration didn’t strike along the Urik road. It wasn’t waiting at the western gate where Pavek insisted he was ready to walk on his own two feet. And it didn’t cross his path at any of the intersections between there and the palace where another high templar, who introduced herself as Lord Bhoma, had instructions to bring them to the audience chamber without delay.
Lord Bhoma let Pavek keep his sword, which might be a sign that the sorcerer-king wasn’t going to execute them—or it might mean that Hamanu would order him to perform the executions himself, including his own. Ruari still had his staff, but both the staff and Ruari were sporting bandages. Lord Bhoma might have dismissed them as a threat to anyone but themselves. Zvain was plainly terrified; they all were terrified—except Mahtra who’d been here before.
Hamanu, King of Mountains and Plains, was already in his audience chamber when Lord Bhoma commanded palace slaves to open the doors. He’d been sitting on a black marble bench, contemplating water as it flowed over a black boulder, and rose to meet them. Urik’s sorcerer-king was as Pavek remembered him: a golden presence in armor of beaten gold, taller than the tallest elf, a glorious mane surmounting a cruelly perfect human face.
“Just-Plain Pavek, so you’ve come home at last.”
The king smiled and held out his hand. Somehow Pavek found the strength to stride forward and clasp that hand without flinching—even when the Lion’s claws rasped against his skin. The air was always hot around Hamanu, and sulphurous, like his eyes. Pavek found it difficult to breathe, impossible to talk, and was absurdly grateful when the king let him go.
“Mahtra, my child, your quest was successful.”
Pavek’s heart skipped a beat when she accepted Hamanu’s embrace without fear or ill-effects. The king patted the top of Mahtra’s white head and somehow Pavek knew she was smiling within her mask. Then Hamanu fixed those glowing yellow eyes on Ruari.
“You—I remember: You were curled up on the floor beside Telhami when I wanted to speak with her that night in Quraite. You were afraid then, when the danger had passed. Are you still afraid?”
The Lion-King curled his lips in a smile that revealed fearsome ivory fangs. The poor half-elf trembled so badly he needed his staff for balance. That left Zvain, who was paralyzed with wide-eyed tenor until Hamanu touched his cheek. His eyes closed and remained that way after the king withdrew.
“Zvain, that’s a Balkan name, but you’ve never been to Balic, have you?”
“No-o-o-o,” the boy whispered, a sound that seemed drawn from the bottom of his soul.
“The truth is best, Zvain, always remember that. There are worse things