'Children die every day,' she said flatly. And with that, young Sturm saw Artavash for what she was: a heartless mercenary. Her only loyalty was to her paymaster.
She drained another cupful of wine, the last of many that evening. 'Now, go to sleep.' Artavash slumped over a pile of pillows. Her hand went slack, and the clay cup rolled out of it.
Sturm waited until her breathing was soft and regular before he tried to shift the chair. The stout seat bumped loudly on the bare stone floor. Sturm froze. Artavash snorted and buried her face deeper in the satin cushions.
He gazed longingly at the sword Artavash had drawn, now lying point out on the couch. If he could only reach it! He strained against the sashes, but the silken knots only tightened further. Sturm relaxed and shook the damp ends of his long hair from his face.
The lamp above Artavash's couch guttered and went out. In the dense darkness, Sturm could feel his pulse throbbing in his hands and feet. He wiggled his fingers under the binding. His hands were crossed over his lap, so his left hand was over his right pocket, and vice-versa. There was a lump in his left pocket he recognized as Captain Graff's wind cord. He counted the knots. Two hands, plus one; eleven fresh gusts of magic were locked in that dirty strip of rawhide.
But it was magic. As a knight, he was forbidden by the Measure to make use of it. Still… to fight the Dark Queen…
The day dawned bright and hot. Sturm awakened from a tense, shallow sleep with the sun in his eyes. His body ached from being tied all night. Artavash did not stir until a pounding on the door compelled her to rise.
'What in thunder?' she grumbled, her voice husky and dry.
'Where is my son?' demanded Lady Ilys through the door.
'Here, Mother! I'm in here!' he shouted.
Artavash winced. She yanked a bell pull by her couch. By the time she staggered to the door and opened it, eight soldiers were waiting for her outside. Two more stood by with Soren, whose hands were chained together.
Artavash slit Sturm's sashes with the shortsword, and the young Brightblade threw his arms around his mother.
'They're going to kill me!' Sturm cried.
'This can't be true!' Lady Ilys gasped, turning to Artavash, who merely shrugged.
'My lady, your son spoke truly. These people mean to kill young Sturm,' said Soren.
Lady Ilys pushed her son behind her skirt. Mistress Carin moved in on Sturm's other side. Lady Ilys declared, 'No one shall move from this spot until some explanation is given for the barbarous manner in which we are being treated!'
Artavash rubbed her temples a few times and said, 'The explanation is this. My master, Mukhari Ras, has need of your son's life. If you interfer in the slightest way, you, your maid, and your man will be speedily killed.'
'Impudent pirate! Do you think my son is a lamb, to be butchered for that walking scarecrow's evil purposes?'
'It matters little what you say, Lady. Mukhari Ras commands it, and it will be done.' She gestured to the Kernaffi soldiers. They pulled Lady Ilys and Carin apart. Artavash reached for Sturm.
Chained or not, Soren could not stand idly by as Artavash laid hands on his charges. He gathered the bond links in his hands and lashed out at the nearest man. The guard folded under the blow and bowled over his comrades. Soren lumbered forward. Artavash released Sturm and turned to meet the sergeant.
'No, Soren! Stop!' cried Sturm. Artavash nimbly dodged the guardsman's rush. She brought the flat of her blade in hard on Soren's head. The sergeant buckled and fell face down on the cool marble floor. Carin screamed.
Artavash waved the sword point under Carin's nose. 'Don't shout so! My head is splitting!'
'Too much wine,' said Lady Ilys coldly.
'Enough! By the gods, your tongue is sharper than a dozen swords,' Artavash said. 'I have no more time to dally with you. The guards will lock you in your rooms.' She gave the orders in Kernaffi. Two men picked up Soren, and the rest formed in close order around the two women.
'Sturm! Sturm!' his mother called. He made a step toward her, but was collared by a grim-faced Artavash.
'The time for indulgences is past,' she said. 'If you resist, the two women will die.'
'Mother!' he cried desperately.
'Come.' Artavash seized Sturm by the wrist and dragged him away.
Radiz joined them in the main hall. He was splendid in his fine armor and plume, but his face was expressionless. He and Artavash exchanged a look Sturm could not fathom. Then the Kernaffi gave him a handkerchief.
'Dry your eyes,' he said with a strange note of compassion.
Radiz and Artavash stood on either side of him as Sturm faced the steps leading up to the palace roof. Radiz, Sturm noted, kept one hand on his sword hilt all the way to the roof.
Four bearded Kernaffi priests stood to one side, offering up prayers and incense to the Dark Queen. Radiz stopped and bowed to them, but Sturm thought he detected a look of disgust on the man's face when he rose. Artavash shaded her aching eyes from the brilliant sun.
Ten paces away, Mukhari Ras worked to prepare the special table for his great experiment. His gaunt, bent figure scuttled from one side to another, reminding Sturm of the vultures that haunted the southeast tower of Castle Brightblade. The alchemist's wide black robe added to this impression.
The air was still. The sun burned fiercely over them. Sturm shivered in spite of the heat. PLEASE, PALADINE, PLEASE SAVE ME!
'Bring him over. Come, come along,' said Mukhari, waving his youthful hands. Sturm rubbed his cold, sweating palms on his pants. He looked to Radiz for some sign of sympathy. The commander of the SEA RAVEN stared straight ahead and said nothing.
Halfway to Mukhari, Sturm stumbled. He heard the snick of a sword being freed from its scabbard. A strong hand grabbed the back of his vest.
'Pick up your feet, boy,' said Artavash.
Mukhari was waiting, hands folded deep into his voluminous sleeves. Up close, the table was basically just a copper funnel flat enough to lie on. The legs were heavy columns of marble.
'Put him on the table,' instructed Mukhari. The priests chanted louder and began to beat a brass gong.
Shouts and clangs of metal rose from the open stairwell. Radiz drew his weapon out of reflex. Artavash shovedSturm to Radiz and got her own sword ready. A death scream cut the air, and a few heartbeats later, Soren bounded up the steps, a bloody sword in his chained hand.
'Sturm Brightblade! I am here!' he roared.
'Stop that man!' quavered Mukhari.
Artavash moved out to meet Soren. His stolen blade thrust in; she parried and beat his sword out of line. Soren was severely hampered by his bonds. Only with his extraordinary strength could he even carry on such a fight. He cut hard at Artavash, one, two, three — right-left-right. She dodged, fox-quick, and struck home in the guardsman's chest. Soren staggered back. Artavash circled, circled; feinting an overhand cut, she changed direction in the wink of an eye and thrust through Soren's weakened guard. The point of her blade grew out his back.
Eye to eye, she said, 'You should have stayed on your oar.' Artavash recovered, and Soren collapsed.
Sturm broke free from Radiz and ran to his fallen friend. 'Soren! Soren!'
His eyes were open. He said, 'My lord… sound the charge.'
'Leave him, boy. He's dead.' Radiz was standing over Soren. Nearby, Artavash casually wiped the blood from her blade.
Sturm was numb. With leaden feet, he walked between Radiz and Artavash to the alchemist's killing table. His hope was gone. Four steps to go. Below the neck of the table's funnel was a large iron pot. Three steps. Mukhari was pale and sweating in the heat. Two steps.
He had nothing left, nothing at all but Graff's wind cord. Magic… forbidden… The last step…
Artavash swept Sturm off his feet and laid him on the table. The metal was warm from the sun. 'Lie still,'
