“How many more guards are there, Ramos?” Dennis asked. The old man strode at his right side as Aria did at his left.
“No more,” Ramos replied. “Parol must have sent them all out when he realized that it was you coming.”
Dennis looked around in amazement. “Twenty men couldn’t force their rule on Emath,” he protested.
“Fear can force its rule on any number of men, Dennis,” said Chester before Ramos could respond.
Some of the ex-guards, disarmed and stripped to underwear or less, were skulking along at the edges of the crowd. Those who met Dennis’ eyes looked away in fear… but they were more afraid not to be a part of the event.
Part of the triumphal return of Prince Dennis to the palace in which he’d been born and raised.
Dennis sheathed his sword. It had won him a princess for wife, but now he realized that he might never need the star-metal blade again. There were accounts yet to settle with Parol—
But Parol wouldn’t fight him with swords. Of that he could be certain.
The palace was a garden of pure light refracted in sprays of color. It didn’t look large to Dennis, now that he’d stood at the glowering foot of Rakastava.
But it was just as beautiful as he remembered it being; and it was his home.
The doors of the main entrance hung ajar. The arch in front of them was covered with what looked like cobwebs—except that the strands were each as thick as a man’s little finger.
Dennis looked up the palace facade. Other openings—windows, doors onto balconies; everything large enough to pass an adult—were similarly blocked.
“Chester, is there some sort of trick?” Dennis asked in puzzlement. “Will—lightning strike me when I cut the cords or something like that?”
The tip of one of Chester’s tentacles hovered close to the webbing, looking for all the world like a male spider gingerly approaching the lair of a possible mate.
“There is no trick, Dennis,” he said. “It may be that Parol thinks you will not be able to cut the web; and it may be that Parol has no better way to prevent you, however long he thinks this obstacle will delay you.”
“Not very long,” Dennis murmured, drawing his sword again after all.
The mob had stopped, whispering at the web’s uncanniness. The glitter of the weapon threw them back fractionally, each row shifting a body’s breadth toward the rear—bumping into the row behind it and shifting again.
Dennis swept the blade down. The edge that had taken off Rakastava’s heads found the web no hindrance, though the strands parted like heavy wire.
Dennis stepped into Emath Palace. He felt as though he’d been gone a lifetime.
The pillared hall to the throne room smelled sour. Aria’s nose wrinkled instinctively, though she quickly blanked her face and glanced over to see whether Dennis had noticed her expression.
He had, but he couldn’t blame her. The palace had the odor of a snake den.
The mob stopped outside. A glance behind him showed Dennis a block of doubtful faces staring through the doors, past the remnants of webbing.
He forced a smile at them. They couldn’t help. And he couldn’t blame them for being afraid.
“The first thing we’ll do…” Dennis said quietly to his companions. His boots and Ramos’ thudded on the crystal, while Chester’s many limbs clicked a subtle counterpoint. Aria walked in silence, a cloud of warmth at Dennis’ side and in his mind.
“…is to air the place out and get it back to normal.”
“Come in, wanderer!” called a high, nervous voice from the throne room. “Come into my sanctum!”
The door-leaves were of mother-of-pearl. Usually there would have been an attendant here to control the flow of petitioners seeking King Hale.
But Hale was gone; the attendants were gone; and the doors were ajar. Dennis pushed the leaves fully open, using his left hand and right foot.
“Put up your sword!” the voice screamed from the dim interior.
“I don’t need a sword for you, Parol,” Dennis said, sheathing the weapon with a single smooth motion.
Usually the point caught on the scabbard lip, or the blade bound halfway down. Not this time.