Coralean had a deep sense of foreboding as he waited at the edge of the golden-tiled pentagram. Events were moving so swiftly that he felt he barely had control. Looking at the figures of all the gods and goddesses portrayed in the fabulous wind-rose that the pentagram contained didn't help.
Particularly the portrait of the Goddess Lottyr, whose arrow pointed in a direction opposite to the others- straight at the painted flames of the Hells.
Behind him, six Kyranian pikemen were prodding Yorlain's aides across the chamber, hustling them toward stairs that led down into the dungeons.
Meanwhile, in the center of the wind-rose, tail lashing, muscles trembling in anticipation, stood Khysmet.
Iraj, wearing Safar's body and speaking in Safar's voice, said, 'Easy, friend. Easy.'
Then he vaulted into the great stallion's saddle. He leaned down to offer Palimak a hand up, but the young man gave a grim shake of his head and jumped up behind him without assistance.
Khysmet whinnied eagerly, stomping his hooves on the wind-rose.
Iraj chuckled to himself when he saw Coralean's worried face. Speaking in his own voice, he said,
'There's no sense fretting, old friend. Safar and I were either born for this moment or doomed to it. You just concentrate on Rhodes and leave the Hells to us.'
The caravan master sighed heavily and said, 'If Coralean had a copper coin for all the times he was advised not to worry, Your Highness, he'd be even richer than he already is.'
Iraj laughed. 'Why is it that every phrase you speak dwells so much on profit?' he asked, half jokingly.
'There's more to this world than money, don't you know?'
Now it was Coralean's turn to laugh. 'That was always your trouble, Majesty,' he said. 'You think of profit as a base thing. A dirty thing. Whereas I, Coralean, know profit to be a thing of the utmost beauty.
For profit is at the heart of all mortal endeavors.
'As a merchant sage once said, a€?It is profit that drives all civilization.a€™ How true, how true. For isn't it profit that makes kings-and lack of the same that ruins them? And does not profit allow the artist to make art and the musician to make music?
'More to the point-if you and my old friend Safar Timura win this day, why, the whole world will profit from your victory. So don't mock profit, majesty. But, praise it to the heavens!'
Palimak, confused and angry over the dual identities with which he was confronted, broke in,snarling,
'Never mind the talk! Let's just cast the spell and get on with it!'
Just then Eeda hurried into the chamber, pale and obviously in great pain. 'Forgive me, lord husband,'
she said, 'but our child is coming!'
The news badly shook Coralean and he instantly swept Eeda off her feet into his arms. 'We must find a midwife,' he cried.
'Nay, nay, lord husband,' Eeda said. 'I can do this myself-if you will help me.'
'Of course I'll help,' Coralean said, voice weak. 'What shall I do?'
'The child's birth can help the spell,' Eeda said. 'So, please, just place me on the floor. And let me-and your coming son-do our magic.'
Inside Iraj, Safar quickly caught Eeda's intention. He rose up out of his nest, urging Protarus to wait until the proper moment. Eeda's bravery also broke through Palimak's reserve and he, too, whispered for Iraj to hold.
Coralean placed Eeda gently on the floor and ran to fetch pillows and blankets to make her more comfortable. As he pushed pillows under her, she cried out, gripping his hand fiercely.
Then she shouted, 'He's coming, lord husband! He's coming!'
As she writhed in the throes of birth agony, Safar gave the signal for the spell-casting to commence.
And drawing on all of Palimak's powers, along with those of the Favorites, then combining them with Eeda's magic, Safar forged these spellwords:
Is it life or death these winds portend?
And where hides the Viper of the Rose?
And what dread secrets shall we expose?
Into the Hells, our souls cast forth,
East and west, south and north.
North and south, east and west.
Through Iraj's eyes, Safar saw Eeda jump as if she'd been struck with a lightning bolt. Then Coralean was holding up a bloody, crying little thing.
And then the whole floor gave away beneath Khysmet and Safar found himself falling through darkness toward a great, fiery light.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Rhodes was so intent on his daughter's charge that he didn't notice the airship soar out of the castle grounds. Jooli was sprinting toward his command post, smashing through every defense and cutting down every man that got in her way.
Her shrill war cry ululated up the hill, making his blood run cold. Even though she was still at a great distance, he believed he could see the fury and hate in her eyes. All concentrated on her father.
Running with her, the Kyranian troops were also taking a terrible toll on his men. And although he knew Jooli was only prolonging the inevitable-and his trap would close any second-the ferocity of her attack struck fear into his heart.
Brave though he was, Rhodes was so guilt-ridden by his treatment of his own flesh that for a moment he imagined her hot vengeful blade plunging into his breast.
'Get her! Get her! Get her!' he shouted to his officers.
Panicked by their king's hysteria, they ran around shouting confused orders to their underlings.
Only Tabusir kept his head. He walked quickly but purposefully to Clayre's litter. The spy had a duty to perform that he was looking forward to eagerly.
Clayre saw him coming and smiled a thin smile. Although she not only distrusted Tabusir and disliked him intensely, she'd been worried for some time now that her son was playing her false.
Her mind constantly ran wild with conspiratorial possibilities. Foremost among them was that Rhodes might make a last-minute alliance with her granddaughter, Jooli, and that the two of them would turn against her.
And even if this possibility was only the product of a fevered imagination, what if that was how it turned out? No matter their bitter past history, they were still father and daughter.
If Jooli survived her father's trap and struck a bargain with him Clayre had no illusions about what would happen next. A powerful witch, as well as a superb warrior, Jooli would make certain her grandmother didn't survive the day.
As guilt-ridden as her son over her treatment of Jooli, Clayre became fearfully obsessed with her granddaughter's intentions.
She had to be sure, no matter what the cost.
And so during the storm she'd sent for Tabusir, that most corruptible of corrupt men, and had dazzled him with gold and seductive promises.
Clayre was a beautiful woman and a rich woman who had years of practice in all forms of seduction.
She'd only needed a little gold and a few hot-blooded hints of pleasures to come to convince the spy to join her.
And now she was not disappointed when the moment of Jooli's death neared and Tabusir came to her just as they'd planned.
When she saw him, she quickly turned her thin smile of satisfaction into one of erotic warmth. And she
