soldiers escorting a young woman.
God, she looks all of fourteen, Trent said to himself. He downed the last of his wine and rose with Telamon. They waited.
The procession wound up the stone path. As it passed, he watched the girl. She wore a garland of myrtle around her head and was dressed in white robes. She was young, much too young. How could that miserable swine do such a thing?
She turned her head and looked at Trent. A faint smile crept across her lips. Bashfully; she turned her head away. She didn't know! And wouldn't till the last second, he hoped. Thank the gods.
He'd better stop using that expression. These weren't his gods. If they existed. Not that he had really ever…
Never mind, never mind. Should he go up and witness the bloody thing? Or stay here and get drunk, and a pox on the whole bunch of irrational, superstitious bastards?
The procession passed. He and Telamon followed it up the slope.
Trent's mind churned all the way up.
The temple complex on the acropolis was small. Three temples, but only one was anything more than a gazebo affair. There were a few other small buildings and shrines. The procession passed all these and headed for the open-air altar, a stepped pyramid that sat on the edge of a cliff above the sea.
Clouds of darker gray gathered above. The buildings were made of white marble, but they were old and weathered, even in this ancient time. (But now is now, Trent thought, correcting himself once again. And this is not Earth.)
Trent didn't know what gods or goddesses any of these structures were dedicated to, nor did he care.
On the altar's highest level sat a stone brazier, good for barbecues and your basic holocaust. Kill the victim, then burn the remains. That was how it was done. Usually the victim was not human.
Trent lost sight of the head of the procession. He broke into a run to catch up.
He sidestepped, ducked, and pushed his way through the clot of soldiers, sailors, courtiers, and noblemen, leaving ruffled dignity in his wake. Nasty looks were thrown his way, and a few swords came halfway out of scabbards. But he elbowed his way forward.
He reached the first step of the altar and began to climb, but hit an impasse. Bodies blocked his way. He lunged. One man fell over backwards. He gained two steps. Curses came to his ears from behind.
'Foreign trash!'
'Sorcerous dog!'
And worse, but he paid it no mind. Most were reluctant to challenge a sorcerer. He kept pushing his way up the terraced altar.
One ornery soldier wasn't about to let him pass. Snarling, the man drew his sword. Trent kneed him in the balls.
He pushed upward. Finally, he was at the top, but more noble carcasses barred his way.
He heard the girl scream. He jabbed his fist into the spine of the man in front of him.
When he went down Trent broke into the clear, and stopped in his tracks.
Above him, on the highest stone platform, Anthaemion stood with his right arm upraised, the gold of his bronze blade against the gray sky, ready to bring it down on the terrified child. The king's eyes were dark, a kind of resolute fury in them. Though he hesitated, he was clearly determined to see this through.
A blinding flash lit up the acropolis.
The blade of the king's sword was the focal point. Spider-legs of blue fire crawled from it, metastasizing to a circle of points around the oval brazier. A blue glow enveloped everyone and everything. Simultaneously, one of the spider-legs darted to Trent, lifted him up, and hurled him over the heads of the crowd. Then a cascade of sparks radiated from the king's sword, and white smoke rose from it.
A tremendous crash resounded. People tumbled over each other down the steps.
The sea echoed thunder.
Telamon's face came into focus. 'Trent?'
Trent raised his head.
'What happened?' he asked.
'The sign.'
'Uh, yeah.'
Telamon helped Trent sit up, then palpated his arms, his legs, all of him. Nothing broken. Trent tried to get up, found that he could.
'The gods have spoken,' Telamon said, 'as they always do.'
'Loud and clear,' Trent said. He was a little dazed, and his ears hurt. He turned to find Anthaemion looking at him. The crowd had dispersed. A few lingered to stare at the top of the altar.
'Come with me,' Anthaemion commanded.
Trent followed him back to the top of the altar. There, the king stopped and looked down at something lying at his feet: a piece of twisted half-fused metal.
Trent looked. It was Anthaemion's sword.
'It was a trial, a test,' the king of Mykos said, staring at the thing.
'Yes,' Trent said.
'To see if I would obey. And I obeyed.'
'Yes,' Trent said again. He had command of few words at the moment. 'The girl? She…?'
Anthaemion looked at Trent. 'She is unhurt.'
'Ah.'
'You were right, Trent. But the gods had their plan, which you tried to thwart. And I had no choice. Now, the gods have seen to it that my conscience is clear.'
Trent nodded.
Anthaemion took a long breath. 'I felt nothing,' he said.
'The lightning's fire passed through me. Yet I had no sensation. Was there much pain for you?'
'Nothing at all,' Trent told him.
Anthaemion nodded. 'The gods are all-powerful. And all-wise.' He looked out over the cliff. 'We cannot fail now.'
'No. I suppose not.'
Trent went down, leaving the graying king to stare at the wine-dark sea.
Walking back down the stony path, Trent began to chuckle.
Yep. He'd played the ace about as cagily as it could be played. Anthaemion didn't suspect a thing. Close, though. Close.
Just how do you go about calling down a bolt from the sky and directing a convincing portion of it at yourself without hurting anybody or turning your carcass into a piece of charred meat?
Carefully. Very carefully.
Above the bustling seaport, a patch of blue was showing.
CASTLE KEEP LOWER LEVELS, NEAR THE GRAND BALLROOM
Gene was dressed for trouble. He had on a chain-mail hood over a padded jupon (more or less a long-sleeved doublet), tights, and anachronistic high leather boots. He was packing a long broadsword and a dagger.
Linda was in leather shorts over black tights, high green felt boots, and a ruffled blouse under a leather jerkin. The scabbard of her dagger was gilded in filigree.
They had found an unoccupied sitting room and were hiding out, taking a breather, while all around them the disturbance continued. Cacophony reigned. Hundreds of orchestras clashed in disharmony while thousands of dancers and singers contributed to the din.
'I'm bushed,' Gene said, collapsing on the couch.
'Yeah.' Linda plopped next to him.
