completely covered by one knee.
He was gripped by a delight so fierce it verged on hysteria. For a moment he considered stepping off the table and removing the witch before she became too much of a bother.
Then he thought better of it. From the negotiations, she hadn't seemed the type to leave an opening.
'I can put you back the way you were with a snap of my fingers,' Queen Clayre warned. 'So I wouldn't move too quickly, if I were you.'
'I wouldn't dream of it,' Kalasariz said with a smile.
The queen grimaced. 'Where are the others?' she asked.
Kalasariz covered his lips as he burped politely. He said, 'I ate them.'
The queen frowned at him a moment, head turning to one side, ear cocked as if she were listening. The frown turned to a smile. Then a laugh.
'Oh, that's very good,' she chortled. 'You've consumed your enemies, but they still exist inside you.
They're your slaves now. With no will of their own.'
'We didn't get along very well,' Kalasariz replied. He hesitated, then decided it was best to be truthful.
'Circumstances forced us together. But when you were working your spell I got the rather strong impression that they were planning to end our partnership.'
'But you acted first,' Clayre said.
'It seemed the prudent thing to do,' Kalasariz said.
He glanced about the room, noting with mild surprise that everything was in disarray. Chairs were knocked over. Broken glass and clay jars were scattered across the rich carpets, which were also stained by spilled liquids. A shelf of books had been dumped over. And everything was covered with a thick, fine dust.
'What happened here?' he asked.
The queen shrugged. 'Nothing to concern yourself about,' she said. 'Just an earthquake.' She waved a dismissive hand. 'I was anxious to work the spell, so I didn't bother getting a few slaves in to clean the mess up.'
Kalasariz thought this was a very interesting admission. Obviously, time was of the essence to the witch.
It was a good thing to know. If she was facing some self-imposed deadline, then he could drive a harder bargain.
'What exactly is it you want me to do?' he asked.
'Help my son regain the royal mantle he deserves,' she replied.
The spymaster smiled. 'You've certainly come to the right person for that,' he said.
Palimak sat by his father's bedside all that night. Safar's breathing was labored. Sometimes he would twitch and moan. But mostly he was still, dragging in each breath, then letting it go in a long sigh as if there were a heavy weight on his chest.
Twice he became suddenly rigid, the pulse in his throat visibly throbbing. He'd whisper, 'Khysmet!' And then his body would relax and the labored breathing would begin anew.
Outside, even the nightbirds and insects were silent. Everyone and everything had been exhausted by the earthquake. Fortunately, no one had been killed and although many had been injured, those injuries mostly consisted of cuts, scrapes and minor bruises. The damage to the buildings was spotty. Some walls had collapsed in the fortress and several homes had been destroyed.
However, the earthquake had arrived at a lucky time. It had been a fine day and most of the Kyranians had been outside. Now everyone was so weary from cleaning up the debris and treating the injured that they were fast asleep.
Palimak studied his father's sleeping form. The Demon Moon was shining through the window, bloody red light pooling on Safar's chest as if he were horribly wounded.
He thought about his father's sudden appearance in the doorway after the earthquake. His wailing cry that Hadin wanted him back. Instinctively, Palimak knew these were not the mad ravings of a sick man. If someone had asked him what Safar had meant, he couldn't have answered. Not precisely, at any rate.
But he strongly sensed that Coralean's report of the waterspouts in the Great Sea and the desolation overcoming Esmir had something to do with it.
As did the earthquake.
For the eighth time that day, he withdrew the Book of Asper his father had entrusted to him when they had parted three years before. He placed the book's spine in one hand and let the pages fall open as they pleased.
He peered down at the page that had presented itself. And, just as it had seven times before, the same poem showed him its face:
Through which only I can see.
There is a secret,
I dare not breathe.
Under the Demon Moon there
Is thee and me.
And then there is no more
Frustrated, Palimak snapped the book shut. The eighth appearance of the poem in as many attempts was certainly no accident. But what in the hells was that damned Asper getting at? And how could he have conjured such a reoccurrence from the distance of a thousand years or more?
If only his father would awaken and explain to him what the poem meant. A wave of self-pity swept over him. He thought, It's not fair! I'm only thirteen years old. Other children my age spend most of the day at school, or at play. Or doing minor chores, like tending the animals. He brushed away a tear. Then steadied himself. It just was, that's all.
Fate had decreed it long ago when the parents he'd never known had met and had fallen in love. A human father and a demon mother. Both dead now. Mercifully, perhaps, all things considered. At least they wouldn't be forced to witness the end of the world.
And then he thought, And they don't have a chance to save it, either.
He felt a tingling sensation and his gaze was drawn to the window which framed the evil face of the Demon Moon.
It seemed to be summoning him. Calling him. He heard a harsh voice whisper, 'Pa-li-mak! Pa-li-mak!
Pa-li-mak!'
The moon's pull grew stronger. So strong it felt like his scalp was being lifted from his skull.
His head ached with a rhythmic pounding hammering from within. And with each drumbeat-for that is what the hammering seemed like-the pain intensified until he thought he could bear it no longer.
Then once again he heard his father moan, 'Khysmet!'
Safar shifted in his bed. There was a metallic ring as the silver witch's knife fell to the stone floor. To Palimak's pain-intensified senses it sounded like a sword clashing against a shield.
Joints aching, he retrieved the knife, then found his gaze drawn to the red moon-glitter reflecting off the blade.
They'd found the knife while undressing him and had placed it under his pillow. It was Safar's most prized possession-given to him by Coralean for saving the caravan master's life. Palimak started to slip it back under the pillow, then hesitated when an image caught his eye.
Once again he peered at the shiny surface of the blade. He saw eyes staring back in the dagger-shaped reflection. For some reason they didn't appear like his own. Still, they seemed familiar.
The pain in his head was so intense it was difficult to think. His emotions were as dull as his thoughts. The rhythmic pounding made everything seem distant, unreal. He turned the blade and saw other portions of the reflection. A slash of a wide forehead. Another of what seemed to be a square, bearded chin.
How strange!
He blinked and the reflection seemed to shift and then became a mirror image of himself.
The pain vanished. It was as if all the agony had been contained in a cask of water and then someone had
