Ulmenetha rose from her chair and moved to the table by the window. From a drawer she took a silver-rimmed oval mirror and held it up to her face. For years she had avoided mirrors, hating the bloated image they portrayed. But now she looked beyond the flesh, and deep into the grey eyes, recalling the girl who had run the mountain paths – the girl who had run for joy and not for fear.
At last calm, her mind set, she returned the mirror to the drawer. First she must tell Axiana of her discoveries concerning Dagorian. The officer was innocent, and the true villain, she was sure, was Kalizkan. Then realization
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struck her. Kalizkan was not the enemy. Kalizkan was dead! Something had taken over the body; something powerful enough to cast a sweet and reassuring spell, enchanting all who came into contact with it.
If she were to tell Axiana the simple truth the queen would think her mad. How then to convince her of the perils that lay in wait?
You must walk with care down this road, she warned herself.
Gathering her thoughts she was about to find Axiana when a servant tapped at her door. Ulmenetha called for her to enter. The girl stepped inside and curtsied.
‘What is it, child?’
‘The queen wishes you to prepare your belongings. They will be taken to Kalizkan’s house in the morning.’
Ulmenetha fought for calm. ‘Is the queen in her apartments?’
‘No, my lady. She left this afternoon. The Lord Kalizkan came for her.’
At noon on the second day Dagorian found his hunger overriding his caution. Leaving his sabre behind, but hiding his hunting knife beneath the beggar’s rags, he left his hiding place and risked the short walk to the market. The sun was bright in a clear sky, the market square packed with people. Easing his way through the crowd he stopped at a meat stall, where a spit of beef was being turned over a charcoal grill. The cook looked at him sourly, but Dagorian produced two copper coins and the man cut several thick slices, placing them on a wooden platter. The smell of the roasting meat was divine. It was almost too hot to hold and Dagorian burned his fingers. He blew on the meat, then tore off a chunk. It was exquisite. Juices ran down his stubbled
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chin. The cook’s expression softened. ‘Good?’ he enquired.
The best,’ agreed Dagorian.
A commotion began at the far end of the market place. Instantly alert Dagorian prepared to run. Had he been spotted? Were they coming for him? The crowd milled, and word spread like a fire through dry brush. An old man pushed his way through them, coming to the stall.
‘The army’s been crushed,’ he told the cook. ‘The king is dead.’
‘Dead? The Cadians are coming here?’
The old man shook his head. ‘Apparently Prince Malikada forced them back across the river. But all the Drenai perished.’
The crowd surged around Dagorian, everyone talking. Skanda dead? It was unthinkable.
His hunger gone he felt sick with anguish. Turning from the stall he stumbled back into the crowd.
Everywhere people were talking, theorizing, wondering. How had Malikada repulsed the Cadians? How could all the Drenai have been wiped out, and yet Malikada’s force remain intact? Dagorian was a soldier – albeit a reluctant one – and he knew the answer.
Treachery.
The king had been betrayed.
Sick at heart he made it back to the seer’s home and slumped down in a chair.
The dream came back to him. Two kings slain. The third – the unborn child – in terrible danger.
What can I do, he thought? I am alone, trapped at the centre of a hostile city. How can I get to the queen? And even if I can how do I convince her of the danger she is in. He recalled trying to tell Zani of his fears concerning Kalizkan. The little man had rounded on him instantly. The sorcerer was probably the most
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popular man in the city, loved by all for his good works.
Dagorian took a deep breath. A phrase his father used came to his mind. ‘If a man has a boil on his arse, you don’t heal it by lancing the foot.’