down my body and my back still stung from the lash.
“Bring in Ost!” ordered the Tatrix.
I thought Dorna the Proud stirred uneasily in the curule chair. She smoothed the silver folds of her robes with a nervous hand, gloved in silver.
There was a whimpering and a scuffling from behind me, and, to my astonishment, one of the guardsmen of the palace, the tiny silver mask blazed across the left temple of his helmet, flung Ost, the conspirator, yoked and sniveling, to the foot of the throne. Ost's yoke was much lighter than mine but, as he was a smaller man, the weight might have been as much for him.
“Kneel to the Tatrix,” commanded Thorn, who still retained the whip.
Ost, squealing with fear, tried to rise, but could not lift the yoke.
Thorn's whip hand was raised.
I expected the Tatrix to intervene on his behalf, as she had on mine, but, instead, she said nothing. She seemed to be watching me. I wondered what thoughts glittered behind that placid mask of gold.
“Do not strike him,” I said.
Without taking her eyes from me, Lara spoke to Thorn. “Prepare to strike,” she said.
The yellowish, purple-marked face split into a grin and Thorn's fist tightened on the whip. He did not take his eyes from the Tatrix, wanting to strike at the first instant she permitted the blow.
“Rise,” said the Tatrix to Ost, “or you will die on your belly like the serpent you are.”
“I can't,” wept Ost. “I can't.”
The Tatrix coldly lifted her gloved hand. When it fell so too would the whip.
“No,” I said.
Slowly, every muscle straining to keep my balance, the cords in my legs and back like tortured cables, I reached out my hand to Ost's and, struggling in agony to keep my balance, added the weight of his yoke to mine as I drew him to his knees.
There was a gasp from the silver-masked women in the room. One or two of the warriors, heedless of the proprieties of Tharna, acknowledged my deed by smiting their shields with the bronze heads of their spears.
Thorn, in irritation, hurled the whip back into the hands of the man with wrist straps.
“You are strong,” said the Tatrix of Tharna.
“Strength is the attribute of beasts,” said Dorna the Proud.
“True,” said the Tatrix.
“Yet he is a fine beast, is he not?” asked one of the silver-masked women.
“Let him be used in the Amusements of Tharna,” urged another.
Lara held up her gloved hand for silence.
“How is it,” I asked, “that you spare a warrior the whip and would use it on so miserable a wretch as Ost?”
“I had hoped you guiltless, Stranger,” said she. “The guilt of Ost I know.”
“I am guiltless,” I said.
“Yet,” said she, “you admit you did not steal the coins.”
My brain reeled. “That is true,” I said, “I did not steal the coins.”
“Then you are guilty,” said the voice of Lara, I thought sadly.
“Of what?” I asked to know.
“Of conspiracy against the throne of Tharna,” said the Tatrix.
I was dumbfounded.
“Ost,” said the Tatrix, her voice like ice, “you are guilty of treason against Tharna. It is known that you conspire against the throne.”
One of the guards, the fellow who had brought Ost in, spoke. “It is as your spied reported, Tatrix. In his quarters were found seditious documents, letters of instruction pertaining to the seizure of the throne, sacks of gold to be used in obtaining accomplices.”
“Has he confessed these things as well?” asked Lara.
Ost blubbered helplessly for mercy, his thin neck wiggling in the yoke.
The guardsman laughed. “One sight of the white urt and he admitted all.”
“Who, Serpent,” asked the Tatrix, “supplied the gold? From whom came the letters of instruction?”
“I do not know, Beloved Tatrix,” whined Ost. “The letters and the gold were delivered by a helmeted warrior.”
“To the urt with him!” sneered Dorna the Proud.
Ost writhed, squealing for mercy. Thorn kicked him to silence him.
“What more do you know of
“Bring in Ost!” ordered the Tatrix.
I thought Dorna the Proud stirred uneasily in the curule chair. She smoothed the silver folds of her robes with a nervous hand, gloved in silver.
There was a whimpering and a scuffling from behind me, and, to my astonishment, one of the guardsmen of the palace, the tiny silver mask blazed across the left temple of his helmet, flung Ost, the conspirator, yoked and sniveling, to the foot of the throne. Ost's yoke was much lighter than mine but, as he was a smaller man, the weight might have been as much for him.
“Kneel to the Tatrix,” commanded Thorn, who still retained the whip.
Ost, squealing with fear, tried to rise, but could not lift the yoke.
Thorn's whip hand was raised.
I expected the Tatrix to intervene on his behalf, as she had on mine, but, instead, she said nothing. She seemed to be watching me. I wondered what thoughts glittered behind that placid mask of gold.
“Do not strike him,” I said.
Without taking her eyes from me, Lara spoke to Thorn. “Prepare to strike,” she said.
The yellowish, purple-marked face split into a grin and Thorn's fist tightened on the whip. He did not take his eyes from the Tatrix, wanting to strike at the first instant she permitted the blow.
“Rise,” said the Tatrix to Ost, “or you will die on your belly like the serpent you are.”
“I can't,” wept Ost. “I can't.”
The Tatrix coldly lifted her gloved hand. When it fell so too would the whip.
“No,” I said.
Slowly, every muscle straining to keep my balance, the cords in my legs and back like tortured cables, I reached out my hand to Ost's and, struggling in agony to keep my balance, added the weight of his yoke to mine as I drew him to his knees.
There was a gasp from the silver-masked women in the room. One or two of the warriors, heedless of the proprieties of Tharna, acknowledged my deed by smiting their shields with the bronze heads of their spears.
Thorn, in irritation, hurled the whip back into the hands of the man with wrist straps.
“You are strong,” said the Tatrix of Tharna.
“Strength is the attribute of beasts,” said Dorna the Proud.
“True,” said the Tatrix.
“Yet he is a fine beast, is he not?” asked one of the silver-masked women.
“Let him be used in the Amusements of Tharna,” urged another.
Lara held up her gloved hand for silence.
“How is it,” I asked, “that you spare a warrior the whip and would use it on so miserable a wretch as Ost?”
“I had hoped you guiltless, Stranger,” said she. “The guilt of Ost I know.”
“I am guiltless,” I said.
“Yet,” said she, “you admit you did not steal the coins.”
My brain reeled. “That is true,” I said, “I did not steal the coins.”
“Then you are guilty,” said the voice of Lara, I thought sadly.
“Of what?” I asked to know.
“Of conspiracy against the throne of Tharna,” said the Tatrix.
I was dumbfounded.
“Ost,” said the Tatrix, her voice like ice, “you are guilty of treason against Tharna. It is known that you conspire against the throne.”
One of the guards, the fellow who had brought Ost in, spoke. “It is as your spied reported, Tatrix. In his quarters were found seditious documents, letters of instruction pertaining to the seizure of the throne, sacks of gold to be used in obtaining accomplices.”
“Has he confessed these things as well?” asked Lara.
Ost blubbered helplessly for mercy, his thin neck wiggling in the yoke.
The guardsman laughed. “One sight of the white urt and he admitted all.”
“Who, Serpent,” asked the Tatrix, “supplied the gold? From whom came the letters of instruction?”
“I do not know, Beloved Tatrix,” whined Ost. “The letters and the gold were delivered by a helmeted warrior.”
“To the urt with him!” sneered Dorna the Proud.
Ost writhed, squealing for mercy. Thorn kicked him to silence him.
“What more do you know of
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