“This is Conan. This is the one of whom I have told you. I owe this man my life, and now all of you owe me yours. Before Bovus”—he nodded toward the fat man—“could have dropped back into his chair, the Cimmerian’s blade would have appeared and have rent most of you in twain. And before Bovus’s chair collapsed beneath his girth and he hit the floor, the rest of you would have been down and staring at him with dying eyes.”
He turned around and smiled at Conan. “You can let Bovus go now. He’s arrogant and ignorant, but that’s hardly cause for you to strangle him.”
Conan released the man, and true to the prediction, his chair crumbled and spilled him to the floor. Laughter erupted and drawn steel retreated. Ela Shan waved Conan forward along a newly cleared path, to the bar and a waiting flagon of foaming ale.
The thief smiled. “I’m glad you’ve found me. There has arisen a job for which a man of your talents would be—”
Conan shook his head. “You said you owe me your life. I am here to collect.”
Ela Shan raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”
“Khor Kalba. I need to get in.”
“Don’t even think it.” Ela accepted a cup of dark wine from the innkeeper. “There, I’ve saved your life. We’re even.”
“You said there was no lock you could not break.”
“There isn’t.”
“Then you
“I could, Conan, but you do not seem to grasp what I am telling you.” The thief scrubbed a hand over his face. “Khor Kalba is a fell place, my friend. It was built to be an impregnable fortress, and no one has ever taken it. But it has fallen many times, riven from within, the factions killing each other. And each new owner rebuilds, adding more locks, more traps, more passages and devices which he hopes will keep him safe. They never do, but they remain to destroy any thief who is foolish enough to enter. And no thief would enter, since there is nothing there worth plundering.”
“There is now.” Conan nodded grimly. “A friend. A woman.”
“A lover?”
“Someone who saved my life. I pledged to keep her safe, and Khalar Zym now has her. He will kill her.”
Ela Shan exhaled slowly. “Were it for all the gold in the world, I would not join you, Cimmerian; but my debt to you means I am indebted to her as well. Come, my friend. We will dare that which daunts all other thieves. Two nights hence, we will penetrate Khor Kalba, and carry away that which its master values most.”
MARIQUE WATCHED FROM the shadows as the slaves guided Tamara into the marble basin filled with steaming water. Lilac blossoms floated in it. Marique allowed her gaze to linger on the monk’s naked body, searching her pale flesh for any bruise or blemish. No imperfection marred the woman’s beauty as she sank into the water and the slaves began to wash her.
Marique had clipped a lock of the woman’s hair and sniffed it. Sweat and grime, yes, and even the foul lather of the beasts they’d used to transport her clung to it. But beneath that was something more earthy, musky, and strong. The scent of the barbarian. Marique recognized it from when she had tasted him so long ago.
As Tamara was bathed, other slaves brought platters of fruit and viands, delicacies from throughout the world. Tamara, sedated, ate mechanically, as she was bidden, and sloppily drank wine. The bathers washed spills from her, then took her from the bath and dried her with scarlet towels. They led her to a padded bench and seated her in the center. Two slaves brushed out her hair while another half dozen attended to her nails. All the while the woman faced forward, staring distantly at an empty wall.
Marique came around and plucked a blueberry from one of the platters. She sniffed at it, then made to fling it away. But she stopped and instead approached Tamara. She pressed the berry to the woman’s red lips. Tamara accepted the berry and chewed until it had been reduced to something that barely required swallowing.
The slaves withdrew as robed acolytes entered the chamber. They stood Tamara up and stripped her of the towels. They then bid the woman step into a scarlet gown, which she did. They bound her into it, then let her sit again.
Marique waited until they had departed before she slid onto the bench. “My mother wore that gown on her wedding day. It flatters you.”
Tamara’s jaw trembled, then her lips parted. “I am not your mother.”
“But you will be.” Marique laughed. “Do you know why they bathe you in lilac water? It was my mother’s favorite. Do you still taste blueberry on your tongue? Another of her favorites. They will serenade you with the music that she loved. They will tell you tales to which she thrilled. And do you know why?”
Tamara said nothing, but a tear glistened in her right eye.
“My mother will take you—not as your barbarian did, but even more completely. You are a vessel, Tamara. Now they fill you with things my mother will remember. Things that remind her of the joys of being alive. When my father summons her from beyond the grave, your soul, your essence, will drain out and she will flood into you. Up through your toes and your legs, up through your loins and belly and breasts. She will course up your neck, filling you . . . filling you until she turns your pretty blue eyes pitch-black.”
The monk shook. “I would rather die.”
“You will, Tamara, you will . . .”
The chamber door opened and Khalar Zym entered. A smile grew on his face and it took a moment for Marique to realize that, yet again, it was not for her.
He stopped and held out a hand. Tamara resisted, but her hand rose to his, then she stood. He walked around her, admiring her. When he came around again, when Marique could again see his face, his smile had broadened and filled with love.
“So perfect you are, Maliva, my love.”
Marique turned from him and fingered a lock of hair. “She is not my mother.”
“But she shall be, Marique. Her death will herald your mother’s return . . . and the return of Acheron’s glory. Maliva’s sorceries will melt flesh from the bones of kings. Together we, my beloved and I, shall cast
“And what of
Khalar Zym raised his chin, regarding his daughter through slitted eyes. “Do you think I could forget the one who brought me this vessel? Do you think I have forgotten how you found the last shard of the mask? Just because I love your mother so much, it does not mean I love you any the less, Marique.”
He reached out for her with an open hand. “Our enemies will drown, my daughter, in a boiling crimson sea. But you, Marique, the product of our union, you will be raised up. You will reign as our princess.”
Marique took his hand and allowed him to guide her to Tamara’s side. They flanked the monk and stared at their reflections in an obsidian mirror. “Smile, my cruel angel. Soon we will be a family again.”
Marique nodded slowly, seeking shadows in the reflection, listening for treacherous whispers; but she found neither. She smiled and, for a heartbeat, felt almost embarrassed, as a child might. “Yes, my dear father, yes. A family once again.”
CHAPTER 31
KHOR KALBA ROSE from the coastal plains defiantly, its bold black lines mocking the ocean’s ability to dissolve even the strongest stone. At the low-tide mark, barnacles and other signs of sea life made themselves visible, but only the most hearty. As Ela Shan and Conan picked their way over algae-slicked stones, pale crabs scuttled away. The two men headed for a large outflow pipe that stank of things noxious, of the creatures that throve in such filth.
Beyond the castle walls, a half mile farther along the coast, lay a stone formation looking very much like the skull of a giant clawing himself free of the earth. It appeared as if the moon’s dark disk was rising from within it. A bright fiery stream of magma flowed over the giant’s tongue and spilled far below to sizzle and hiss in the ocean. It
