Citherns and other instruments of torment twanged and whined faintly in an alien dirge . . . walk slowly . . .
Behind her, distant already, the great doors thumped shut with a reverberating impact like the end of the world, like the final reckoning of the Good and the Evil—The End! It rolled from arch to arch and pillar to pillar, raining echoes, fading away above the distant dais that was her destination.
Ahead of her white marble stretched, flat as a frozen canal, all the way to that dais where the rest of the wedding party waited. Back and center was the throne, and on the throne sat Rasha, victorious. She was even wearing royal green, although a very dark, lustrous green. Already Inos could see the hot red eyes above the filmy yashmak, the circlet of emeralds and pearls that was Rasha’s only ornamentation, the crimson nails idly picking at the arms of the throne. She was girt in her illusions of youth and beauty. Inos had those, also, and by right.
Zarkian custom made one strange concession to womanhood, or motherhood—at weddings a woman presided from the throne. Had Azak’s grandfather’s wife been alive, she would have sat there until her replacement was installed. There being no true sultana at present, that throne should by rights stay empty until Azak led his bride to it at the end of the ceremony. But Rasha had insisted and Azak had consented without dispute. Her triumph complete, an ancient strumpet sat upon the throne of Arakkaran. What bitter satisfaction did it give her?
At least she had not tried to claim the royal sash, which still glittered green across the sultan’s chest, and now he came in from one side; to stand and wait for his approaching bride. Tall and fierce and handsome, showing his eagle profile. Dear Azak?
Poor Azak! His long humiliation was over now, surely? He had served his seven days and nights of penance. Rasha would bait and harry him no more. Or would she? Inos had no guarantee of that; she had heard no promise. Must she share her husband with the twisted old harlot as well as with all the sonbreeding women of his harem?
And tonight? What sort of replacement would Inos be? She had offered prayers that she would not disappoint him on his wedding night. She wanted to please him. She must trust him—he was certainly experienced.
He was handsome and virile and royal; and loved her. What more could a maiden’s dreams require? This was a much richer land than Krasnegar. The God had promised her a happy ending.
She was almost at the steps. There was the iman, ancient and inclined to spray spittle. There was the ever-smiling, baby-face Kar, best man and vigilant bodyguard. There was young Prince Quarazak, proudly holding a green cushion, tall for his age. On the cushion lay the slender golden necklace that symbolized marriage in Zark. Inos had made a halfhearted effort to substitute a ring, Imperial style, but in Zark they preferred a necklace. Kade had been very upset when she heard of the necklace. Inos had tried to make a joke of it, claiming that a chain was merely less subtle than a ring, but they both meant much the same.
The whole Zarkian ceremony was less subtle. She mounted the two steps to the dais. She turned to face Azak, and Gutturaz steadied her as she knelt on the waiting cushion, awkward in her massive gown.
The music died and was buried in the sea-sound of the audience being seated.
The iman tottered forward, clutching a book. Azak advanced a few paces, flanked by Kar and shiny-eyed little Quarazak. He couldn’t see her face, but surely he could give her a smile? Kar was smiling.
It was amazing the sultan could move under all the jewels encrusting him. Even the fabulous emerald sash was dulled by their glory. He was absolute monarch of a rich kingdom.
And Inos was a nobody. She had explained that over and over to Kade.
Silence settled like the dust of the ages. Coughing and rustling faded. The last chair leg scraped harshly and alone.
The iman cleared his throat. He began.
Azak’s responses rang out like the royal edicts they were. He promised many things: care, protection. Love.
Then it was her turn. Inos tried to make her voice carry, but she tried also not to shout.
She promised everything.
And Quarazak held out the cushion so the iman could bless the chain. He offered it then to his father and Azak reached for it, every link gleaming in the evening sunlight.
It slid out of reach again as the boy turned slightly to glance at the distant doors, puzzled. Then Azak heard what younger ears had heard first and looked that way, also. Kar . . . turbans in the audience were twisting around. A strange noise outside the hall?
Faint but coming closer? Shouting? Thuds? Swords?
Azak turned his head to look at Rasha, and Rasha was frowning above the green gauze silk of her yashmak.
Rasha sprang to her feet. Then the doors opened.
The ornate bar shattered in a cloud of flying splinters. The doors were hurled open, blasted open as if struck by a tidal wave or a thunderbolt. They flew back on their hinges and their impact with the walls battered every ear a second time. Echoes rolled unending.
The golden chain slid unnoticed from the cushion to the floor. Every eye was turned on the tumult in the entrance.
And in through the doorway came . . . the hindquarters of an enormous black horse.
Out of the West.
O, young Lochinvar is come out of the West,
Through all the wide Border his steed was the best;
And, save his good broadsword, he weapon had none,
He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone.
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.
— Scott, Lochinvar
FOURTEEN
Tumult, and shouting
1
For a long, breathless moment the whole congregation was frozen in place, from Rasha and Azak down to the tiniest princeling, fascinated spectators of the battle raging in the doorway.
If that horse was not Evil himself, it was one of his brothers, yet the man on his back was handling him with the precision of an artist’s brush—Azak himself could not control a mount like that. Whole cohorts of family men were striking and slashing at the intruder, but man and horse together held them off. The rider’s sword danced like a silver mist, first on one side, then the other. Blades clamoring in unbroken carillon; the stallion whirled and clattered on slippery marble, but his hooves and teeth and bulk were part of the fight, and if he really was Evil, then the family men would be treating him with much greater care than they were trying to extend to the stranger.
The audience leaped to its feet in a crash of falling chairs, and those nearest the doors began to push away.
One guard stopped a full rear kick, and reacted much as the doors had. A chakram whined through the air like a deadly sunbeam, but the intended victim flicked it aside with his sword, parried a thrust on his right, slashed down an assailant on his left, deflected a lance. Bodies lay in disarray outside the room and were starting to pile up inside, as well. Another man screamed and dropped his sword, then toppled over, even as the horse slammed into two more, spilling them aside. The rider ducked a second chakram, and airborne death flashed across the hall over the heads of hundreds of people. Horseshoes screeched on marble . . .
“Hold!” Rasha’s voice rang out with the power of a bugle. The battle stopped. The spectators froze again. So did the combatants.
Cautiously the rider backed his horse out from the petrified forest of his assailants. Satisfied that they were no longer dangerous, he turned the stallion and let him prance forward, highstepping up the aisle. His passage dragged a ripple through the congregation, as heads turned to watch—Inos could see only faces beyond him, only turbans in front. More faces emerged from behind pillars.
The newcomer slid his sword back into its scabbard still bloody; he pulled an arm across his forehead.
The horse was indeed Evil, greatest of the midnight stallions that only Azak might ride, the pride of the royal stables. He was shivering and foaming, rolling eyes and baring teeth. His hooves clicked and skittered on the slippery stone, yet the shabbylooking rider had him in perfect control. He reached the space before the dais. Now all the audience was behind him, all faces.
Inos did not even dare look at Azak to see how he was reacting to this sacrilege, and she was staring in growing disbelief at the intruder. This was sorcery.