The ground gave around him as King Hamanu strode past Pavek. No one knew the sorcerer-king’s true aspect, if he had one. Tonight he was the Lion of Urik, dressed in golden armor and crowned with a mane of golden hair. A sword as long as a man’s leg hung from his waist, but it was the sharp, curved claws he flexed with each step that froze Pavek’s heart in his throat.
He followed, retrieving his own sword along the way and taking two strides for every one of the king’s until they came to a dark low-crouching figure.
“Recount!” Hamanu demanded.
It was more than a simple command. Pavek’s skull felt as if it had exploded, and he was, most definitely, not the king’s target. Not yet.
Escrissar scrabbled across the ground, a scavenger surprised by a true predator. “I have found the source of Laq,” he babbled, as if any mortal could lie successfully to a sorcerer-king.
“Ambition has blighted your imagination, my pet. You bore me.”
Hamanu’s voice was as weary as his clawed hand was swift. He seized Escrissar by the neck and, lifting him off the ground, began to squeeze. The interrogator struggled wildly, then hung limp, but the king was not finished. By the light of the Lion-King’s golden eyes, Pavek watched in nauseous horror as Hamanu’s fist squeezed ever tighter. The bones in Escrissar’s neck snapped and crumbled; gore flowed from his lifeless mouth and nostrils.
And still Hamanu was not finished with his former favorite. He cast a spell the color of his eyes that wrapped itself around the interrogator’s corpse and, layer by layer, from black robes to white bones, consumed it.
When there was nothing left, the yellow eyes found Pavek on his knees again and trying heroically not to be sick.
“I have need of a High Templar. Follow me.”
The king headed for the village.
Pavek found his feet, somehow, and followed.
Chapter Seventeen
Fires had been lit in the hearths within the village’s inner rampart. A bright, crackling fire made any night seem safer—except when the flickering light reflected on Hamanu of Urik as he strode through the trees. Pavek, hard pressed to stay within ten human paces of the sorcerer-king, had neither the time nor the energy to call out a warning. Besides, nothing prepared anyone for the Lion: breathtakingly handsome in his golden armor, radiant with arcane power, cruel and terrible beyond mortal measure. After a day of loss and triumph, a handful of Quraiters simply swooned at the sight. The rest wisely dropped to their knees.
The king paused by a fire to survey this previously hidden part of his domain and its quaking inhabitants. Pavek caught up with him.
“Where is she?” Hamanu asked. “Where is Telhami?”
Not Who rules here? or some question of that sort, which Pavek had expected, but Where is Telhami? because, inexplicably, the Lion already knew who ruled Quraite. If he lived another day, Pavek promised himself he’d think through all the implications of this discovery, but for the moment—because those sulphur eyes were focused on him—he answered plainly:
“In there.” And pointed to Telhami’s hut.
Hamanu’s head rose above the roof-beam. His shoulders were wider than the doorway. Pavek held his breath, waiting for the king to call Telhami by name, fearing what he would do if she could not answer. But Hamanu solved his problems on his terms. He pierced the hut’s reed walls with his claws, seized the support poles and lifted the entire structure over his head before tossing it over the inner and middle rampart. His size was no longer a problem.
Akashia and Ruari were held motionless in panic, both looking up, slack-jawed, from the length of linen cloth they’d wrapped around Telhami’s corpse. Hamanu motioned them aside with a small gesture from his huge, clawed hand, and they hastened to obey. Telhami lay in repose on her sleeping platform, arms folded over her breast, thin gray hair spread across a linen pillow. Remembering what the king had done with Escrissar, Pavek dreaded what he might do with her.
Then the rightly feared ruler of Urik sank to one knee. While Pavek watched with the others, clawed fingers curled around Telhami’s cheek so gently that her translucent parchment skin was not creased.
“Telhami?”
Pavek had thought she was dead, but she opened her eyes and, after a moment, smiled. It seemed that not only did King Hamanu know Telhami, she knew him, and not as an adversary.
“So—” the king began, “this is Quraite.”
Telhami’s smile deepened with evident pride, but she said nothing. Perhaps she