At dinner-a good dinner, evoking marvelous
memories-Mark heard from his mother and sister
how his surviving family had come to Tasavalta
years ago, after more years spent in homeless wan-
dering, following the destruction of their old vil-
lage.
In the nine years or so since then, much had hap-
pened to them all, and they had much to talk about.
Marian was married now, her husband off some-
where with Rostov’s army. Her two small children
gaped through dinner at this newly discovered
uncle, and warmed up to him gradually.
It was almost midnight, and Mark was having to
struggle at every moment to stay awake, before he
said goodnight. His “modest quarters” in the pal-
ace had no attraction, and he was about to go to
sleep on cushions on the floor in the room where
they had dined and talked.
Marian had already said goodnight, and had
taken the children upstairs to bed.
But Mark’s mother lingered. There was a sup-
pressed urgency in her manner. “Walk me home. I
stay nearby, here in town, while Jord is gone. It’s
only a little way.”
“Of course.”
Once they were outside, Mala clung to her son’s
arm as if she needed his support to walk, though she
was not yet forty and all evening had seemed full of
energy, rejoicing in their reunion. But now her
mood became suddenly tinged with sadness.
“You’ve just come back to us,” she said. “And
before we can begin to know you, you must go off
again.”
“I must, Mother.”
“I know, I know.” Mark had yet to encounter
anyone at all, in either town or castle, who did not
know of his relationship with Kristin, and the
potential problems that it raised.
Mother and son walked, slowly. He was very
tired. He thought that his mother seemed now to be
on the brink of telling him something. She kept ask-
ing him, “You’ll come back to Tasavalta, though?”
“I’ll be here a couple of days yet. I’ll see you
again, and Marian, before I go.”
“Yes, of course. Unless the plan for your depar-
ture is changed. In these matters of secrecy, plans
can change very quickly, I’ve learned that. But after
this mission, you’ll come back?”
“To report on my mission, I suppose, yes, I’ll
have to. And be sent off again. I can’t stay here. The
Princess’s commoner lover, and a foreigner to boot.
If my father had been the Grand Duke Basil, or
Prince Something-or-other, things would probably
be different.”
They were at her door now. It was a modest place,
but looked comfortable; probably the government
here provided quarters for its secret agents’ fami-
lies.
Mala, her voice quivering as if she were doing
something difficult, said: “Mark, come in, there’s
something I must tell you, while I have the chance.
The gods know if I’ll ever have the chance again.”
It was about an hour later when he emerged from
the humble apartment where his parents lived. He
stood in the narrow street for a little while, looking
up at the stars. They looked the same as always.
Beyond tiredness now, Mark remained standing
there in the street for what felt to him like a long
time. And then he went to his modest quarters in
the palace, knowing that he had to get some rest.
Two mornings later, well fed, well dressed, and
reasonably rested, armed with the Sword Coin-
spinner at his side . . . and Woundhealer left safely
in Karel’s care . . . Mark left the Palace. His depar-
ture was quiet, without fanfare official or other-
wise. Mounted on a fine riding beast and at the
head of a small escort similarly well equipped, he
was on his way to seek the Emperor.
Mark looked back only once. He saw a figure that
he was sure was Kristin, watching his departure
from a distant upper window. But he made no sign
that he had seen her.
CHAPTER 10
Over the long decades since his human eyes had
gone in sacrifice, and demonic senses had been
engrafted magically upon his own, the Dark King
had come to be unsure sometimes whether he was
awake or dreaming. He saw the Mindsword the
same way in either case, as a pillar of billowing
flame long as a spear, with his own face glowing
amid the perfect whiteness of the flame. He could
tell that the eyes on his own face of flame were open
and seeing. Whether he was dreaming or awake,
that fiery stare for some reason always reminded
him that he had never seen with his own natural
eyes any of those who were now his closest associ-
ates and chief subordinates. The demon showed
him his human wizards and warlocks as strange,
hunched, wizened figures, and his generals as little
more than animated suits of armor; but all of them
appeared with exaggerated caricature-faces, that
amplified all of their subtleties of expression, so
that the Dark King might better try to read them.
Whereas demons, in the demonic vision, appeared
with noble, lusty, youthful bodies, usually naked
and always intensely human, except in their very
perfection, their large size, and in the bird-like
wings they often sprouted. The Dark King knew of
course that they had no real bodies, or wings either,
and he did not believe at all in their faces as they
were presented to him, shining with kindliness and
honor.
Now that the King was in the field with his army,
on the march almost daily, the demons sometimes
appeared to him on a smaller scale, fluttering in the
air inside his tent like monkbirds. Vilkata dwelt
now in a tent much smaller than his grand pavilion,
because speed was of importance. And he thought
that speed was vital now, because of the reports
that had recently come in, first announcing and
then confirming that Sir Andrew’s troops were at
last out of the swamp. The army in orange and
black was moving in the direction of Sir Andrew’s
old lands, as if the Kind Knight for some reason
thought the time might be ripe to reclaim them.
This news of course made Vilkata wonder what
his erstwhile ally, the Silver Queen, might now be
planning. As far as he knew she still controlled
those lands.
The report of Sir Andrew’s movement had also
confirmed Vilkata’s recent decision that his own
strategy had best be altered. Now, he determined to
destroy Sir Andrew first, before turning his atten-
tion to his other surviving enemies and rivals.
Vilkata had arrived at this decision to change his
plans largely out of the feeling that his enemies
must now know too much about them as they stood.
First of all, the Dark King was now convinced
that he had entertained a spurious Burslem, some
damned spy, at that memorable council meeting at the
main camp, the one where the King had first displayed
his Mindsword, and which the gods had so gratifyingly
attended later. The real wizard Burslem, Vilkata’s
head of Security and Defensive Intelligence, had at
last returned, and had been positively identified, this
time, by careful questioning. How- the spy had
managed to resist the Mindsword’s influence, as he or
she evidently had, was something else for the King to
worry and wonder about. The Sword Sightblinder was
so far the only really convincing explanation to be
suggested, and the presence of that in one of his
enemies’ hands was far from reassuring.
Today, as Vilkata moved about his small field tent in
his routine of morning preparations, the small demon
that served him as sensory aid presented him as usual
with a vision of the tent’s interior. Certain things, in
accordance with his own long-standing orders, were
edited out of the scene as he perceived it. For
example, the body of last night’s concubine, curled
now at the foot of the.bed in sleep or a good imitation
thereof, was most clearly visible by its shapely torso,
the breasts and buttocks particularly emphasized. The
irrelevances of hands and feet, and especially the face-
who would care about trying to read the innermost
thoughts of such a woman?-blurred away into a semi-
transparent obscurity. In the case of a bedpartner,
better a blur than a face, no matter how well-formed
and schooled in smiling. Even such smiles could
sometimes be disquieting.
And the Dark King had recently ordered that,
when the next battle came, the dead should be
edited away too, out of his perception. He had
observed frequently, on other battlefields and in other
areas where much killing was required, that the dead
were a notable distraction. Obstacles when removed
ought to disappear, resources once used «p were only
waste materials. The dead tended to stink, and were
in general esthetically unpleasing. He had finally
decided to order them filtered out. Someone else
could count them up when necessary.
He had decided, too, that many of the wounded,
most of them in fact, should also be expunged from