Again the Clank! of sword on buckler, and Warlock Olybino answered the summons immediately. Shandie saw the gold-crested helmet over the back of the Gold Throne.
Moms sighed and relaxed. Two was enough, he remembered. Ythbane had been confirmed as Imperial regent by the Four. Well, that wasn’t much of a ceremony!
The senator grunted angrily. “Disgusting! A mongrel! Can’t think what the wardens are thinking of!” But that wasn’t right! Shandie knew. Court Teacher had told him—all the wardens came for was to show that the candidate hadn’t gotten there by sorcery and wasn’t a sorcerer. As long as he’d succeeded by mundane means, they didn’t care if he’d used an army, or poison, or anything. He had Emine’s buckler and sword, and he wasn’t a sorcerer, that was all. Very rarely in all history had the Four refused to recognize a new imperor or a regent.
Ythbane saluted. The warlock rose and responded, and was gone again. Shandie rubbed his eyes. It was hard to believe that you’d seen something—someone—when they weren’t there any more and you hadn’t seen them going away.
Now Ythbane strode round to the back of the Opal Throne. South was an elf. Shandie had not seen any elves around court for so long that he could hardly remember, except for a few dancers and singers, and they’d all been very young. No grown-up elves, except maybe Lord Phiel’nilth, the Poet Laureate, and he didn’t seem very old, either.
The other two wardens would certainly come now and make it unanimous—that’s what he’d been told. It wouldn’t matter if they didn’t. Ythbane was regent now, and poor Grandfather was going to die soon, and Shandie mustn’t think about that, or he might start crying and future imperors mustn’t, not ever, ‘specially in public. He would really get beaten for that, and he’d deserve it, too.
There was a man sitting on the Blue Throne. A boy? He didn’t look very much older than Thorog, and no taller. Could that be Lith’rian himself, or had he sent a grandson or someone in his place? Maybe elves looked like that no matter how old they were? He was wearing a toga, and an odd blue one, like folds of captured sky. His golden skin and golden curls were sunshine in that sky, and his smile was brilliant. His face was very bright and his eyes were odd. Elvish? Thorog’s eyes were sort of slanted like that, big and queer. Shandie’d never thought of that before.
With gold skin and hair like that, an elf really ought to be warlock of the east, so he could have a throne to match. That was a funny idea! And a red-skinned djinn to be West, and a jotunn North, ‘cause jotnar were so pale. How about South? No blue skin, but blue hair—a merman? That would be much tidier, and he’d arrange it when he got to be Emshandar V. Ythbane had saluted. The boy rose in a graceful shimmer and bowed very low to him. Shandie’s Deportment Teacher would have loved to have seen that! That was how a toga should be worn, too. The audience murmured appreciation—and then surprise, as the warlock sank down on his throne again, leaning back and crossing his ankles as if preparing to stay a while. His smile seemed even more rakish than before.
The regent hesitated. The elf waved a hand in a carry-on gesture and then crossed his arms also. He was smiling, perfectly at ease. Why not? Whoever would beat a warlock if he misbehaved? And the great Warlock Lith’rian looked as devilishly mischievous as any cheeky upstart page at the moment.
Ythbane was so obviously at a loss that Shandie wanted to giggle. Then the regent moved around to face west. Clank!
Silence.
And more silence . . .
“So he’s only got three!” the old senator muttered. Still nothing had happened, Ythbane facing the Red Throne, and the Red Throne remaining stubbornly empty. Warlock Lith’rian put a hand in front of his mouth to smother a graceful yawn.
“Elves and dwarves!” the senator muttered. “It’s not the merman, it’s the elf, mm?”
Ythbane gave up. With a guarded scowl at South’s obvious enjoyment, he stamped around to the front of the Opal Throne and sat down. Shandie was watching Lith’rian, and he vanished at the exact same instant. The audience rose to its feet and cheered the new regent.
After the cheering came the speeches, and they went on a long time, and Shandie wished it would all stop so he could go and take a mouthful of medicine, because he was starting to feel scratchy-twitchy.
8
At the top of the slope the foremost riders were reining in. Here the trail emerged from trees, onto a grassy ridge. Gratefully Inos reined also, and slowed her sleek bay mare to a walk and then a halt. Its breath blew white in the high air, and she felt the wind chilling her heated skin. She looked out over yet another garden landscape: fields and farms and lakes, glowing in evening sun. All of Ilrane seemed to be one great picturebook.
She had ridden with an Imperial army across taiga and tundra in winter. She had crossed the Central Desert on a camel in summer and the Progistes Range on a barrel-ribbed mule. Yet she had never known a ride like this one. Four days of almost uninterrupted canter . . . horse after horse, in relays . . . meals snatched in the saddle, and brief, brief nights when she had lain like a stone in straw or under a blanket in some cedar-scented attic . . . Every bone ached, and she was raw from hips to ankles. Elves did nothing by halves.
The only good thing about her numbing daze of exhaustion was that it blanked out any chance to brood on her terrible error.
Then she saw what had caused the halt. Very far off, beyond the hills, a pinecone shape stood faint against the sky. One side gleamed brilliant, sparkling, the other was blue with the haziness of great distance. It was the closest she had yet seen a sky tree. Even fainter, beyond it, shone peaks that must be the start of the Nefer Range.
“Valdoscan,” said a voice.
It was Lia’, the leader of this strange expedition. In her trim silvery leather riding clothes she seemed no older than Inos herself, and yet two nights back she had mentioned her grandchildren. Only her obvious fatigue hinted now at her true age. Then Inos remembered her full name—Lia’scan.
“Your home?”
The girl-woman—smiled wistfully and cupped a hand to the brim of her cap to see better. “Indeed! I was not born there and have visited it but rarely . . . but every elf belongs to a sky tree, as a bee belongs to a hive.”
“Some day I should love to see a sky tree.”
“Few indeed are the nonelves who have ever visited one. But if that is your wish, Inosolan, then it may be so.”
Startled, Inos paused to think. She looked over the rest of the company. In Elmas the elves had agreed to help after all—help her. And they had not merely granted the visitors right of passage, they had escorted them posthaste, although they had rejected Azak’s private army, limiting him to three men. He had chosen Char, Varrun, and Jarkim, sending Zana and the rest off with Gutturaz to find their way back unscathed to Zark and the coming years of glory—or so it was to be hoped.
Inos and the four djinns rode unarmed, while their elvish escort bristled with shiny swords. They might be slight, but they all moved like hummingbirds. Half of them were women. They rode like swallows on the wind. Azak was still more sulky than grateful.
“My lady,” Inos said, “I don’t think I understand. We are on our way to the Impire, are we not?”
Lia’ glanced around. Azak was edging his horse toward them. She kicked in her heels. “Let us walk awhile, Inos. Our mounts will grow chilled if we keep them standing.”
Inos put the mare into motion and rode at her side, still puzzled.
“You are indeed on your way to the Impire,” Lia’ said. “By noon tomorrow you will cross the border. We can take you by unguarded ways, and we can furnish you with documents that should carry you safely after that—no one but a border official knows what a real passport looks like. Your weapons will be returned to you, although you will be wise to keep them hidden. All will be done as was promised.”
“So?” Inos said. The rest of the company was following, but a trio of elves had moved in behind her to cut out the djinns. This little chat had been carefully planned.
The elf looked at her with challenge. “Is this what you truly want, child? There is an alternative.”