ashen light came from braziers. It was a long time more before the two onyx
thrones set between two broad tripod-dishes became apparent. A few steps later
Mriga’s mouth turned dry, and she stopped, her courage failing her … for there
was a shape seated in the right-hand throne.
It was not as if Mriga was unprepared for the one she knew would be sitting
there-the sweet young mistress of spring, who fell in love with the lord of the
dead, and died of her love, the only way to escape heaven and rule hell by his
side. But all Mriga’s preparation now proved useless. Of all things in hell,
only she wore white: a maiden’s robe, radiant even in the sad light of the
braziers. Beneath the maiden veil her beauty was searing, a fire of youth, a
thing to break the heart, as Siveni’s was-but there was no healing in it for the
broken one afterward. Hell’s Queen sat proud in the throne, cool, passionless,
and terrible. She held a sword across her lap, but it was black of blade from
much use; and the scales lay beside the throne, thick with dust. Hell had
apparently made its Queen over in its own image, depriving her even of the
passion that was the reason she had come … and, like those she ruled, she was
resigned to it. Mriga suddenly understood that the frightful resignation on
ghost-Razkuli’s face was a family resemblance.
Mriga looked over at Ischade. The necromant stood quite composed with Tyr beside
her, and gracefully, slowly bowed to the still woman on the throne. The gesture
was respectful enough, but the air of composure still smelled of Ischade’s