The Arcana: Shadow Wars, Codex I

Chapter XVIII

The Handmaiden

In which the Handmaiden serves the protector of Elamis

“You called, your majesty?” Zephyra asked as she approached him.

Protector Amavand glanced back to see her, but said nothing until she drew even with him on the bluff overlooking Lake Khatar.

The soft breeze rustled his greying hair and made his purple cloak flap against his deep green trousers. His tall, willowy frame looked as if it would be carried off by a stronger breeze, but Zephyra knew appearances were deceiving, for the king of Elamis was strong as a bull.

“Zephyra. What is your report?”

She tamped down her irritation, and pretended to enjoy the scenery instead. Below the cliffs, the same breeze tickling her skin made soft ripples in the violet waters of Lake Khatar.

But the protector did not look down at the lake, but further out, beyond the gates of Elamis. Here he stood, ruler of all he surveyed. Reminding her once again his hand was over all she could see for miles and miles beyond the view from atop this towering rock.

And the land beyond? Did he think she didn’t know there was a greater power he was obliged to pay tribute to, swear allegiance to? Why was he bent on having her think otherwise?

“The same as before,” she said calmly, not looking at him. “The spurious sarcophagus is not trapped or ensorcelled to do harm to you. The fools who brought it were nothing more than couriers. Nevertheless, I have duly punished them: they are a repast for the Yellow Serpent.”

She felt the weight of his gaze on her. With all her might she resisted shivering, reminding herself his expression was devoid of the volcanic rage that terrified her so not three days before.

Damn those fools! Damn them to—Zephyra let out a subtle exhale. Three days. Three days was surely enough time to burn out the hottest and fiercest of her father’s anger. Surely, surely, Greatest One let it be so!

“I have no doubt of that, daughter. You have already given me your assurances on that matter. Other reports confirm as much.”

Other reports. Like his scryer. His informant. His tale-teller. Gira. An ambitious young scryer who must soon learn the peril of reaching too high above himself.

“Of course,” she said evenly. “The men died screaming, Father. The Yellow Serpent took his time with them; I give you my word.”

At last a smile from him. The first since that awful moment three days ago, when he went to the caves beneath the lake. And discovered someone had made sport of him, in a most vicious way: no dryad rested in the sarcophagus allegedly used to transport her. Every sorcerer loyal to the Greatest One insisted no dryad’s aura had ever graced the sarcophagus. From the start of the journey to the finish in the caves, the sarcophagus never carried anything more than honey.

Daaaammmn it!

And still more she must disappoint her father. At least on the cliffside none of the precious heirlooms were in danger; in the dawn of his rage the protector had seized a six-hundred-year-old bust of an illustrious ancestor and hurled it against the walls. The marble shattered into dust, shards, and jagged edges, alongside Zephyra’s hopes for her father’s survival.

Nevertheless, she must break the latest bit of bad news to him.

“On the other matter, none has yet arrived who matches the description of the prophecies. Women never travel alone, so to look for pairs only does not work. Only one foreigner has recently come from the Far West, but her caravan includes an Eitanite, and the Eitanim are to our south, Great One.”

“But the solstice is tomorrow. The prophecies said they would arrive by now. Is it your claim that my prophets were wrong?”

So silky smooth, his voice. And like the lake below them, it hid the Yellow Serpent—a poisonous dragon—in its depths.

“It is my claim that your enemies are subtle, as you well know. Why would they come here in the open, when all know you’re the Great Eye? So, they will not be obvious, they will not be in plain sight, and you must be vigilant, as you must always be vigilant,” Zephyra replied.

Bold, she met his gaze, but her father’s face held no expression he as he studied her in turn. Of course—he was Protector of Elamis, and kept his own counsel. Up until recently he never showed his thoughts to anyone until it pleased him to. And it did not please him to reveal himself now.

She dared, “Was it not you who taught me not to spend so much time watching the sword openly carried that I missed the dagger carefully hidden? Your majesty.”

The protector trusted no one these days, not even his own daughter. Especially not his daughter, not when the prophecies claimed women would be the death of him.

But I am not mentioned in this prophecy, so why fear me? Of all people to fear, I am the very last.

Again he smiled, and almost looked sincere this time.

Only when he turned back to the view of the city below did she let out the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

So this is was the depth they had sunk to. Though she would never speak it aloud, in her heart she had feared he brought her to the cliff to push her into the lake. One less woman.

And Gira feeds this insanity.

In her mind’s eye, she pictured Gira standing here beside her, and her giving him the shove. He wanted to be the power behind the throne, and she stood in his way. How simple to exploit the prophecy to turn her own father against her?

Her father didn’t turn back to face her when he said,

“Valentis is still standing.”

Zephyra’s heart skipped a beat. They’d been waiting and waiting for news, and Gira claimed to have visions of a great series of battles in Rasena Valentis. Her father had capered like a little boy on the night of green fire, saying that the time had come for him to move up his plans.

“But, Your Majesty—the shahanshah—”

The Eel was supposed to have claimed Rasena Valentis, which would have drawn the attention of Anshan’s high king. With his eyes fixed on a broken enemy, he would not have noticed her father’s actions until it was too late.

“Yes—I know.” Frustration salted his voice.

“Why did the Eel fail? How is that even possible?”

It made no sense. The Greatest One had allotted six of Her allies strongholds in Rasena Valentis. The Eel could have called on any of them to help him. He shouldn’t have needed to, though; he was the spahpat, the supreme chief of the armies of the Greatest One.

“The she-wolves.”

She-wolf, the designation the Protector used for each of the women prophesied to kill him.

“Another set?” Zephyra drew back. What chance could her father stand against the Eel’s vanquishers?

“Unlikely. Gira informed me three women instigated battle against the Eel. Three. They have defeated the Eel, and now they come for my crown.”

Stunned, Zephyra mentally reassessed her plans. Which, until now, was simple: locate the she-wolves. Afterwards, make a spectacle of their deaths. But these women had taken down the Ellatu, and the general, too? Was she a match for them?

“Father, what are they? How can they take down the general? And the Ellatu? How?”

Again he smiled, again without mirth. “The legions of Rasena Valentis helped them; they did not do this on their own. And, I am told, their so-called Draco Prime is in their council: yes, the she-wolves were clever enough to bend Tarkhana’s ears to their whispers. I daresay they may do the same to our shahanshah. I wonder that they haven’t approached him already.”

The she-wolves would ruin too many of their plans if they reached the high king. Already finding them was her first priority, but now she was on the verge of panic. By what means did the she-wolves emerge victorious against the Eel? Such power was not available to the sorcerers, this she knew. Yet her enemies defeated the Greatest One's general anyway ...

Her father eyed her critically, and she suddenly wondered how much of her anxiety she’d revealed.

“You have always been an apt pupil, Zephyra—”

“And you were always a masterful teacher, Father,” she said quickly. “I could be instructed by none better.”

For one fleeting moment his face softened. Then the mask came back. “Daughter,” he said, and this time his tone brooked no interruption. “Guard yourself. Those who would murder me would not think to spare you. All here know you as my heart and hand. Perhaps this prophecy is a twisty thing, and I take it too literally to think I am the one threatened. It could be that it’s you who will be slain by these vipers.”

Surprise stole away her words. Was the prophecy referring to her? No, how could—did the prophets see her father dead in their visions?

Before she could ask, terror stoppered her throat: her father was reaching into his robes and pulling out a long knife. Oh Greatest One, save her! The nightmares that haunted her sleep were now coming to pass: Father was ridding himself of her in his madness.

But the knife remained sheathed, and he held it out to her so she could take it by the handle. Creamy white jade, the handle bore a red emblem of an upside down tulip. A flower Zephyra was told grew in the plains she never saw. Fortunately, every spring the splashes of red graced the protector’s garden. Long ago she had taken the flower for her seal.

“All that I have trained you to do, all that you are now, is for this day. Unless—unless you are lost, too.”

Zephyra drew the dagger from its sheath. The blade’s rippling pattern shimmered in the light, typical of watered steel. Inlaid in gold was a scrolling floral pattern of belladonna, wolf’s bane, opium poppy and black hellebore. “Father, it is beautiful.”

This time, Father’s eyes crinkled when he smiled. “A gift from the Greatest One, my dear. The knife is star metal, or so I am told, as it came from a rock fallen to us from the stars. Keep it close to your heart.”

“I shall treasure it.” She clasped it to her heart and bowed. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

The Protector of Elamis startled her by embracing her in a tight hug.

“Stay alive, my daughter. This night we are on the eve of the solstice, a perilous time with such a prophecy on our heads.”

The winter solstice. A dread day when the gates of death were thrown open, and the gates of resurrection were barred shut.

Father’s arms were strong around her. Reminding her of all those times she feared no monster in her cabinets or beneath her bed, because he protected her. As ever, she breathed agar wood and musk and olibanum when she inhaled his scent. Losing him would be unbearable.

For my protector, my father, I must find those women and slay them.

Wishing did not make it so; however. Goddess be with her, today she would obliterate her biggest obstacle.

To do so, she must go Below.

A small obstacle in itself; as the protector forbade her to descend from the palace except on his business. In the city below, ‘Zephyra’ was but a name. Few had set eyes on her. The palace and its walled gardens were her world, and the limits thereof. This limitation would now be her advantage: she need not work too hard to disguise herself.

Gira must be dealt with. Failure—her failure—suited him like silk sandals. To his narrow mind, Zephyra was irrelevant to to the task of finding the protector’s enemies.

“This is a scryer’s job,” as he often said. As a scryer, he insisted he would see the assassins when they came. Because he was unsubtle, his ambition to step in and play the hero in thwarting them made his strategy obvious, and his tactics predictable.

More, now than ever, he made sure Zephyra knew he was watching her every move. The scryer loved to lord it over her that she could not so much as sneeze without him knowing about it.

Did you enjoy the gardens? What made you take a walk outside so late last night? Can you not sleep? Should I have a tonic prepared for you?

How sweet it would be to feed him to the Yellow Serpent in the lake! To her sorrow he never came near the cliffs; however. Just as well; he was not above pushing her over; this she believed in her heart of hearts.

Thank the Greatest One for inspiring her to find a better way to kill him. All this time Gira had used his gifts as a scryer to dog her steps, and it finally occurred to Zephyra to use his strengths to her advantage.

First; however, she put on her plainest clothes—a simple sleeved peplos, pale blue with minimal embroidery. Raw leather sandals, not the dyed ones befitting her station. Complete the look with a wicker basket on her arm: the mirror assured her she looked as common as any peasant girl.

“My lady?” Friya asked, coming into the room. “You sent for me?”

Both young women were the same age, and grew up together, but Zephyra was a princess and Friya was her handmaiden. And, as the protector and her nursemaid would say, her partner in mischief.

“Friya,” Zephyra said, crossing the room to meet her. “I need to go out. Wait here for me, and greet the one who will call on you while I’m out.”

Friya cocked her head, catching her meaning. “And which excuse shall I provide, my lady?”

“Ask to take a message.”

There wouldn’t be one, of course. The men would come to snoop, which Friya’s presence made impossible. Of course, Friya might be conveniently called away. In fact, Zephyra was sure of it. Prepared for it, in fact.

In an alcove in her bedroom she maintained an altar to the Greatest One. Arrayed on top were flowers, herbs, and oils in little enameled boxes and alabaster bottles. A whiff of jasmine and attar of roses caught her nose as she led Friya over.

“If anyone asks, you’re engaged in a ritual and cannot be disturbed.”

“And the reason you’re not engaged in this ritual?”

“Because I am hunting for my father’s enemies, and you are praying for my success. Let someone try and interrupt that,” Zephyra said, her voice tinged with satisfaction.

Every point of attack was accounted for.

Friya dipped her head to her, and sat before the altar, taking up the prayer scrolls. “My part will not be feigned, my lady,” she said, flashing white teeth. “I will indeed pray for your success.”

Buoyant, Zephyra strode from the room, and made a point of locking the door behind her. By no means would Gira’s minions knock; forcing them to use underhanded means to enter her chambers would be a brick in her case against them.

Much as she would like to, she would not take the portal. The palace portal to the city attracted attention, as it was reserved for the select. A standard trope in the stories she read involved the worthy hero who was pure of heart, and thus obtained the means to go through the portal and stand before the just and noble Protector of Elamis.

My heart is pure. Zephyra laughed quietly to herself as she walked through the garden. In her dress she could have been taken for a maidservant, but her walk would give her away. Grace and authority in her strides betrayed that she was no servant. Or so Friya once said.

Attitude; she must attend to her attitude if this was going to work. Hunching her shoulders made her seem a little smaller. After a false start she stepped more deferentially around the groundskeepers, as though she should yield the right of way to them rather than the other way around. The sooner she got into character, the better. Nevertheless, the groundskeepers automatically yielded right of way while avoiding her gaze.

At her pace getting to the copse she sought took almost too long for her nerves to handle. But she at last came to it. Pausing, she glanced around. None of Gira’s lackeys were near. They might follow her into the caves, she supposed, and it would suit her fine if they did. Then again, she liked the terms she’d planned much better, and she had to force herself not to hold her head too high in anticipation. Better to focus on what was in front of her: a wall choked with rose vines.

Through narrowed eyes she gave the wall a critical once-over. Were she blindfolded in the dead of night, she could still find her spot without fail. However, right now she was looking for signs of disturbance.

Signs that someone had already gone through and would lie in wait for her.

So far, nothing was out of place. No footprints in the soil, no disturbance in the arrangement of roses.

The Greatest One was with her in this.

Gently she kicked an exposed brick at ankle-level in the wall, and at the same time she tapped another brick at shoulder height. Last she pushed in one near her midsection.

The wall swung inward, revealing a fiery glow. Glowlights lit her way, and at the pace she descended she reached the cavern before a count to fifty. The cavern was at least ten men tall, and four wagons wide. Enough for two Yellow Serpents, but thank the goddess the beast could not negotiate stairs, which were to her left. If she wanted to she could go down to the dungeons, but at the moment she had no business there. Taking a sharp right, she entered a tunnel.

Per her count of steps she was almost there. At step one hundred and two she stopped and let out a piercing whistle. The wall slid aside, letting first a sliver then an arc of light through. Illuminating an dusty alleyway. Dusty, and abandoned, for the shop it was connected to had gone out of business long ago, and no lease had ever been approved for a new business.

Nor would there ever be; Zephyra had decreed it so. Among other decrees, including a curfew obliging everyone to be indoors by nightfall. In the name of the Protector, of course. Likely he’d be angry if he ever found out she’d taken liberties, but by the time he did she should have dealt with his enemies.

Every muscle in her body was taut, and her spine rigid until she reached an avenue of shops. The scent of cardamom and fresh bread wafted over to her nose. Good, she’d passed the bakery. Not that she was going to visit, because she never set foot in it. The shop served as her landmark only: a bird should not foul its nest.

No one from that neighborhood was to know of her or have any association with her; she could not afford to have anyone get too curious about how she came to be there.

On her previous expeditions, she took Artostes, her father’s War Minister with her. Such was his power that no scryer in the world could perceive them. Or so he claimed. But—how had he come by such power? A favor from the Greatest One? Would she soon have it, too?

She glanced up at the sky and sighed. Three hours past noon, and the sun already hung low in the sky. Darkness would come in two hours. Her shoulders heaved. Winter was not her favorite time of year.

Death was coming for the protector.

“What of my father?”

This she asked of the Greatest One, when once the goddess came to her in a dream.

But the goddess slyly replied, “All will work to the good,”

“Whose good?” Zephyra dared to ask. To the Abyssal Serpent with that ‘greater good’ nonsense! People only trotted out that notion when they wanted to take from someone else, without their victim complaining.

But the Greatest One only smiled upon her, and said nothing more. Zephyra had awakened in a cold sweat. It was first light and she had no hope of going back to sleep with the laughing doves cooing outside her window. Her heart had hurt, with a pain she would not bring herself to name.

In the present Zephyra shook herself. Time was passing by, and she must waste none of it. As fast as she could she made her way to the temple district. Her stepping through the doors of Truthsayer’s Fane would be an irresistible provocation for Gira.

Inside the temple the white robed priests directed her to the private grotto it was built around. Lovely and serene, the grotto commonly served as a place to contemplate the question of truth. Bah! What fools these people were, too think their so-called Truthsayer possessed any connection to the truth. Soon. Soon enough they would learn.

She folded her legs, closed her eyes, and pretended to meditate.

Gira did not keep her waiting.

“Isn’t this a sacrilege for you, O Favored One of the Greatest One?”

Laughter in his oily voice told her she was halfway to her goal.

Silent and still, Zephyra waited. The tap of his fancy silk shoes against the floor told her that Gira circled her. Still she kept her eyes closed as she listened to his prattle. By the gloating in his tone he thought he’d caught her out at last.

“Let me guess—what will you say when your father finds out? Surely you won’t claim to hunt his assassins here of all places? Hmmm? Or could it be that our O-So-Favored-One is not quite so devoted to her goddess as she claims?”

When his footsteps indicated he now stood in front her, Zephyra opened one eye. As a royal scryer Gira wore fine silk clothes, dark blue with silver brocade patterned with sunbursts between crescent moons. Oiled hair. Perfumed with amber. Oh yes, of course, because the symbols of Sorcha the Everbright weren’t enough to announce his status as scryer. No, he must liberally douse himself with amber to boot.

Unlike Gira, Zephyra refrained from gloating; however. Though Gira stepped into her trap as she planned, she couldn’t bring herself to feel triumphant. This was too easy, and she was used to having to make plans and counter plans and backtracking to retrieve reversals. Nothing that came so easily could be trusted.

So.

“What ruler gave you leave to remove yourself from the palace, Gira?”

Gira’s easy smile told her he had arranged an alibi that would be proof against her tattling. Merriment glittered in his dark eyes as he said, “You need to be watched over, of course. Nothing must happen to the Favored One. Perhaps she has been led astray, by false teachings. Could that be so, Zephyra?”

Anger rippled through her, but she checked herself from showing it. This servant dared to use her name, as though he were on equal terms with her? From whence came his foolish arrogance? Sloppiness, overconfidence? Or—did he have information she did not?

“My faith is with the Greatest One,” she said. “Shall I prove it to you, Gira? Will you hear my testimony? Shall I make to you my declaration of faith in the Greatest One?”

Something in her voice caught Gira’s attention, and his smile faltered.

“What did you intend, Gira, in seeking me here?” Zephyra whispered. “If the protector should ask, what will you tell him?”

Gira swallowed, but stood his ground. As expected—he would never want it to seem that she held the whip hand.

“Just as I said a moment ago. You must be watched over.”

“Or spied upon?” She looked up through her lashes. Keeping her eyes on his face, she placed her hands over his heart.

“Watched over,” Gira insisted. “Ahem.” His cheeks reddened. Of course.

“Oh? You can be spared from the palace?” She traced a finger over the crisp woolen tunic he wore. “You can leave your post at the protector’s scrying pool? On this evening, with the prophecy hanging over his head? What if his enemies are sneaking up on him right now? Will they take him unawares? The prophecy said—”

“That three women will kill him. Women you have unquestionably failed to find.” The oily smile was back again, but his voice held an edge of uncertainty. Doubtless, he wondered if she were trying to seduce him. His confusion was to her benefit.

Nothing he said was of consequence. Time now to end this. For the record, the truth-seers’ and the historians’, she would say what she had come here to say. “You have abandoned your post, scryer, on the eve of the night when the king will need you most. You are derelict in your duty. Your laxness will not be tolerated. You have betrayed your Protector. Upasasu.”

With her hand flat over his heart, she felt before she saw the life go out of him. Not once did his expression change; death claimed him too quickly for that. Just in time she spun on her toes, letting his body thud face-down on the stone floor of the grotto.

She looked. No witnesses, unless one counted the serene face of Arenavachi the so-called Truthsayer. The false goddess whose image dominated the reliefs decorating the walls of the grotto. But Zephyra would never count Her. Assured of privacy, she dropped to her knees before Gira’s body, and took her long knife out of her basket. How fortuitous for Father to gift her the knife, and how fortuitous she could blood it early for his sake.

Gira’s blood flowed into the crystal vial she brought for the purpose. When she took her fill, she brought from her basket a specially prepared poultice. She slapped it against the cut she’d made in Gira’s flank, stopping the trickle of blood. Though a few droplets had spilled onto his under-tunic, he still wore three more layers of robes that should conceal his wound.

But first, Zephyra tore a strip off Gira’s under-tunic and used it to clean her knife before sheathing it again. Then she fastened shut his overgarments. Last of all she snatched his medallion from around his neck. The golden disc bore the seal of a royal scryer, which would necessarily prompt the temple keepers to give top priority to summoning echomancers. As it was, the otherwise peaceful condition of his body would give them no reason to suspect murder right away.

The sun was sinking when she stepped out of the temple. Shivering, she tied her shawl around her shoulders. Night approached. In her mind’s eye she pictured the fire her slaves would have lit for her, in preparation for her return. Once warmed, she would meditate in truth.

After the ritual.

Anticipation made her feet carry her faster on the way back home than they did on the way to the temple.

“My lady, you were right,” Friya breathlessly reported as soon as she returned. “Guests came for you. I had them escorted away, for daring to break into your room.”

Zephyra’s heart leapt in triumph. “Excellent, Friya. Does the protector know?”

Friya grinned widely. “And he wishes to see you. Gira’s men tried a story on him, and I suppose you will need to have their tongues removed?”

“What story?” she asked, eyebrow raised.

“That you were breaking your father’s laws and worshipping in the temple of Arenavachi.”

Zephyra laughed, all the way to her altar in an alcove in her room. Good girl, Friya had mixed all the ingredients according to the prayer scroll’s instructions. All ingredients, but one. Into the bowl Zephyra poured the vial of Gira’s blood. This, under the watchful gaze of a marble bust of the Greatest One. Seeing the bust, Zephyra felt a familiar pang.

The bust was what artists called “chryselephantine”— ivory and gold. Arenavachi, Khratu, and the other False Ones were often beautifully constructed this way, with the gold used for their crowns and gowns. Gifted artists wrought majestic depictions of the so-called Truthsayer as a classic beauty with a delicate mouth, almond-shaped eyes, and a heart-shaped face.

But the Greatest One … sigh … a narrow plane of ivory, with a slit for a mouth and a slight ridge where the cheekbones were supposed to be. Crude sockets held colorless adamant stones stuck in them. So primitive! So unworthy of the true goddess!

“I will honor you with a colossus to put the Teller of Lies in the shade,” Zephyra vowed. “Know now that I have done your will in this hour. In the hall of truth I slew the betrayer. Your disciple entreats you now for a vision of her enemies. Show me the ones who would slay my father, the sovereign who serves You faithfully.”

Dull adamant became blinding red, but Zephyra did not avert her eyes. It was not strength of will, but rather paralysis as the goddess came upon her and overtook her. Faces floated before her, vivid and stark as though the women were standing in front of her right this minute. Were it not for the goddess binding her arms at her sides she would have reached out and struck them.

Just when she thought she couldn’t take it anymore, the goddess released her, sending Zephyra collapsing to her knees again. Weak, trembling, she clutched the edge of the altar.

Friya rushed over and put an arm around Zephyra’s back. “My lady? Are you all right?”

Sweet Friya was always uncomfortable with these visions, and their effect on Zephyra. Even Father never cosseted her so, and for this reason Zephyra made the effort to reassure Friya. But first she took several deep breaths.

“I’m fine,” she said, patting Friya’s arm. “Let the protector know I will come to him as soon as I am on my feet again.”

“My lady?”

Zephyra smiled triumphantly. “I have them, Friya. Tell the protector I know now who his enemies are.”

An uproar raged in the palace, just as she expected. His Majesty called Gira to his chambers, and Gira’s failure to appear obliged the satrap to send for his guards to search for him.

As for Protector Amavand, his personal guards flanked him at every step he took, for the prophecy weighed on them, Zephyra knew. The satrap threw himself into his throne, his posture less than regal. Vacant, unfocused eyes as he surveyed the room told her he wasn’t seeing anything his eyes alighted upon.

Serene, head held high, Zephyra stepped into this maelstrom. Winter-weight silk flowed from her hips and swished about her ankles as she walked. Night black, with belladonnas and opium poppies embroidered in gold about her hem and sleeves, the gown was her priestly regalia. The colors, and flowers of the Greatest One. The glittering gold diadem crowning her head repeated the theme, except amethysts represented the belladonnas and red carnelians stood in for the poppies.

The guards parted for her as she strode forward. In a loud, clear voice Zephyra said, “Your Majesty, your servant has come at your call.”

The lord and master of Elamis narrowed his eyes when he saw her. He sat straighter in his throne, his glassy-eyed look vanishing.

“Come here,” he commanded.

Zephyra obeyed, kneeling before him with her eyes cast down.

“You were not found in the palace when I sent for you, Zephyra.”

A statement. Because he rarely asked her questions. He made statements, and let them linger, waiting for her to hang herself by them. How she used to tremble when she heard that tone.

But she was younger then.

“It is as you said, my protector.”

She still hadn’t lifted her head. In this position he could cleave it from her shoulders. Or have it done; she idly wondered if he would do it himself if he ever felt moved to have her killed.

“I will hear an accounting from you.”

With her head still down, Zephyra said, “The Greatest One came to me in a dream, Your Majesty, and gave me Her promise: this prophecy against you will work for good.”

A long pause. Protector Amavand’s eyes burned on her neck.

“Did She?”

Zephyra drew a prayer scroll from the bodice of her chiton, but kept her eyes fastened on the protector’s boots as she held it out for him.

For his sake, she had written it herself in gold ink.

Ten heartbeats passed before he took the scroll. The rustling of parchment told her he had unfurled it.

“What is this? What is this about? A Hall of Truth?”

“Indeed, Your Majesty. I was to slay the one who would betray you in the hall of truth. I ask forgiveness Your Majesty, for taking so long to complete this task. I did not consider what might be meant by that phrase.”

“Oh?”

Allowing a smile to creep into her voice, Zephyra answered, “The temple of one of the False Ones is called The Hall of Truth. Before sunset I went there, to wait for your enemy, and he appeared.”

“He?” Protector Amavand’s boots shifted. Was he on the verge of leaping from his throne?

Conscious of the drama she was staging, Zephyra kept her head down. But curiosity got the better of her; thus she raised her eyes to check his reaction.

Both palms gripped his armrests, as though he was about to launch himself from his throne. Of course; he had not looked for any men amongst his enemies. With the prophecy fixed so firmly in his mind, why should he? But she was not finished astonishing him.

“Lord Gira came to me in the temple of a False One, my Protector. There I slew him. Ask your seers if this is not so.”

Murmuring filled her ears. From the guards and the courtiers both.

“Look at me,” Protector Amavand demanded, and at last Zephyra raised her head to meet his gaze. He took her face in one strong hand and pulled her towards him. His nostrils flared as he looked her over with a critical eye, staring long at her before he spoke again.

“Daughter,” he began. “Is it your claim that you slew my chief scryer? Without my leave?”

Effectively she had confessed to treason. By his own laws he was obliged to take a sword to her neck. Do this he must, for it must never be said the protector was not a man of his own laws. Ah, what a difficult position she had put him in!

Would he want a way out? Or had Gira poisoned him so thoroughly against her that he would seize an excuse to kill her and avert the prophecy?

“I had the leave of the Greatest One,” she replied.

Father, there is your place: Below the shahanshah second, and the Greatest One first.

And he could not counter the orders of their goddess. Nor punish Zephyra for following them.

“The Greatest One,” Protector Amavand said, licking his lips. He glanced past her, at the courtiers gathered before his throne. Checking their reaction?

“Will you hear Her response to my obedience, my protector?”

“I will hear it, daughter.” His tone hardened.

“‘Seek you first a Ta-Setian huntress who has come from the East,’” Zephyra quoted. “Such a one entered our gates one week previous to this night, and dwells at the inn known as the Wolf & Raven. ‘Seek you also on the night of the solstice two women who entered our gates this day.’ Capture and kill them on the night of the solstice, when they join the festivities in Ember Square.”

The protector’s breath caught. A tomblike silence settled over the room. Zephyra’s eyes did not waver from her father’s. Nor did she exhale her relief when his fingers slackened on her jaw. Rather than shrink back like a peasant she remained on her knees, straightening her spine. Regal and deferential at once. Yes, she was the handmaiden of a higher authority than he, but she would submit herself to him all the same.

Hmm—perhaps this was why he kept insisting on reminding her of his temporal power. If she did not believe she answered to him, his legitimacy as ruler of Elamis could be thrown into question if she dared to challenge him.

I would do no such thing, Father.

But would he believe that? He kept testing her, and she met every test, but it never seemed enough anymore. Once the evil she-wolves were dead, things could go back to what they were.

In a steady voice Protector Amavand asked, “In what way did Lord Gira betray me, Daughter?”

“He abandoned his post to spy upon me, Your Majesty. On this night, before we knew who your enemies were or where they might be found, he abandoned his post. Long had he circled me,” Zephyra said. She told him of Gira repeatedly taunting her with his knowledge of her comings and goings. “And so I believed, Your Majesty, that he would see in his scrying pool the ritual Friya carried out on the orders of the Greatest One. But he sent his men to disrupt the ritual meant to assist me in seeking out the vipers who threaten you. They stole into my chambers, disregarding the very lock I set upon the doors. And Gira himself followed me to the temple of the False One.”

From the corner of her eye, she noted Murad staring at her. Amongst the scryers in the palace he was second in rank to Gira. Where his loyalties lay she knew not, but for the moment it didn’t matter: spying on her would not go unpunished, and this he must know.

Foolish Gira had deceived himself into thinking that his scrying would leash her, and not once did it occur to him that she could take hold of that leash to bring him to heel.

Protector Amavand’s gaze slid to Murad. “Did you know of this, Lord Murad?”

Murad stuttered through several words before he rallied and said, “Your Majesty, I was never high in Lord Gira’s councils. Had I known, I would have presented evidence of his treachery to you,” he insisted. He glanced at Zephyra, and seeing her cool stare, hastened to add, “And I would have warned you as well, my lady.”

The lines softened in the protector’s face. He turned back to face Zephyra, and his expression softened further to paternal concern.

“The men Lord Gira sent to disrupt your ritual are in the dungeons as we speak, Zephyra. Will the Greatest One want an offering?”

Conciliatory. Zephyra could not help a small smile in response. Once more she was His Majesty’s Heart and Hand. With Gira gone and his enemies soon to be dead there would be no one else who could turn him against her.

“We will save them, Your Majesty, for the hour that serves the Greatest One best.”