rich, had been erected within sight of Tatarian’s defensive magicks, and everything in it had been plundered from Escalon. Mist meant to accept the Monitor’s surrender there, in humiliating circum-stances. He had caused her untold unhappiness.
“Valther,” she said, when he and Turran arrived, “come sit with me.”
The man flashed a broad smile. The demon-faced visors of sullen Tervola tracked him like weapons. His brother sent a dark look after him. Valther sat, leaned close, whispered, “My Lady looks radiant tonight. And ravishing. Good news?”
She flushed slightly.
The entertainment began. Musicians sounded their instruments. Escalonian dancing girls came in. Valther clapped to the music, ogled them unabashedly.
The Tervola remained stern. One departed.
Mist watched with angry eyes. She foresaw difficulties, a possible power struggle. She held the Demon Throne only by grace of these dark, grim men hiding behind obscene masks.
Did they think she would be a puppet?
She found her hand in Valther’s, begging support.
Another of the Tervola departed.
She had to improve her position. How? Only something swift and savage would impress these cold old men.
The evening progressed lugubriously, fatefully, tension building with each new entertainment. Tervola continu-ally departed.
They were sending a message she refused to heed.
Experimentally, clumsily, she responded to Valther.
More Tervola left. Piqued, she allowed Valther more liberties.
Who were they to approve or disapprove? She was the Demon Princess...
She drank a lot.
She forgot the war and her responsibilities, relaxed, devoted herself to enjoyment.
In Shinsan hedonism was forbidden. From bottom to top in that chill culture each person had a position and purpose to which unswerving duty was obligated.
But she behaved like a romantic teenager, caring about nothing.
Finally, just one grim, pale-faced man remained. Valther’s brother. And Turran obviously wished he were elsewhere.
The Escalonian captives, entertainers and servants, also wore expressions of desperation.
“Out!” she screamed. “All of you, out of my sight. You cringing lice!”
As Turran left, he sent his brother a look of mute appeal. But Valther was busy tickling a toe.
Damned Tervola! Let them frown behind their devil masks! She was her own woman.
Never a word was said, but, next morning, she realized everyone knew, from the mighty to the spearmen.
When the Escalonian dawn painted her pavilion with bloody rays, her unicorn was gone.
Before she could be challenged, she unleashed the assault on Tatarian, following a suggestion a helpful Valther had whispered deep in the night.
The city that had held so long collapsed in hours.
The Tervola were impressed.
V) Their heads meet, and they spark wickedness
The defense of Escalon had collapsed. Tatarian lay in ruins. Mist, though still unable to claim victory over O Shing, eyed Matayanga.
It was time the Captal decided.
Mist had come to visit often. His infatuation had grown to the proportions of the great romances. Yet he prided himself on being a hard-nosed realist. He considered facts and acted accordingly, no matter the pain.
But he had a blind spot. The child from Vorgreberg.
They had given her the name Carolan, but the nickname Kiki had attached itself. Shoptaw and Burla, her constant companions, preferred the latter. She was a bright-eyed, golden-haired imp, all giggles and bounce. She was happy, carefree, yet capable of seriousness when discussing her destiny, which the Captal had never hidden.
The old man could not have loved her more. Everyone loved her... And spoiled her. Even Mist.
The winged man brought Kiki. The Captal smiled. He no longer worried about himself, he worried about Kiki. Should he subject a child not yet six to the torments of a play for Kavelin’s throne?
“It’s about Aunt Mist, isn’t it Papa Drake?” she asked, eyes disconcertingly big.
“Yes. The thing in Escalon’s
“Valther,” she said, when he and Turran arrived, “come sit with me.”
The man flashed a broad smile. The demon-faced visors of sullen Tervola tracked him like weapons. His brother sent a dark look after him. Valther sat, leaned close, whispered, “My Lady looks radiant tonight. And ravishing. Good news?”
She flushed slightly.
The entertainment began. Musicians sounded their instruments. Escalonian dancing girls came in. Valther clapped to the music, ogled them unabashedly.
The Tervola remained stern. One departed.
Mist watched with angry eyes. She foresaw difficulties, a possible power struggle. She held the Demon Throne only by grace of these dark, grim men hiding behind obscene masks.
Did they think she would be a puppet?
She found her hand in Valther’s, begging support.
Another of the Tervola departed.
She had to improve her position. How? Only something swift and savage would impress these cold old men.
The evening progressed lugubriously, fatefully, tension building with each new entertainment. Tervola continu-ally departed.
They were sending a message she refused to heed.
Experimentally, clumsily, she responded to Valther.
More Tervola left. Piqued, she allowed Valther more liberties.
Who were they to approve or disapprove? She was the Demon Princess...
She drank a lot.
She forgot the war and her responsibilities, relaxed, devoted herself to enjoyment.
In Shinsan hedonism was forbidden. From bottom to top in that chill culture each person had a position and purpose to which unswerving duty was obligated.
But she behaved like a romantic teenager, caring about nothing.
Finally, just one grim, pale-faced man remained. Valther’s brother. And Turran obviously wished he were elsewhere.
The Escalonian captives, entertainers and servants, also wore expressions of desperation.
“Out!” she screamed. “All of you, out of my sight. You cringing lice!”
As Turran left, he sent his brother a look of mute appeal. But Valther was busy tickling a toe.
Damned Tervola! Let them frown behind their devil masks! She was her own woman.
Never a word was said, but, next morning, she realized everyone knew, from the mighty to the spearmen.
When the Escalonian dawn painted her pavilion with bloody rays, her unicorn was gone.
Before she could be challenged, she unleashed the assault on Tatarian, following a suggestion a helpful Valther had whispered deep in the night.
The city that had held so long collapsed in hours.
The Tervola were impressed.
V) Their heads meet, and they spark wickedness
The defense of Escalon had collapsed. Tatarian lay in ruins. Mist, though still unable to claim victory over O Shing, eyed Matayanga.
It was time the Captal decided.
Mist had come to visit often. His infatuation had grown to the proportions of the great romances. Yet he prided himself on being a hard-nosed realist. He considered facts and acted accordingly, no matter the pain.
But he had a blind spot. The child from Vorgreberg.
They had given her the name Carolan, but the nickname Kiki had attached itself. Shoptaw and Burla, her constant companions, preferred the latter. She was a bright-eyed, golden-haired imp, all giggles and bounce. She was happy, carefree, yet capable of seriousness when discussing her destiny, which the Captal had never hidden.
The old man could not have loved her more. Everyone loved her... And spoiled her. Even Mist.
The winged man brought Kiki. The Captal smiled. He no longer worried about himself, he worried about Kiki. Should he subject a child not yet six to the torments of a play for Kavelin’s throne?
“It’s about Aunt Mist, isn’t it Papa Drake?” she asked, eyes disconcertingly big.
“Yes. The thing in Escalon’s
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