Nikos looked up, checking the other captives. Ara had rolled over and was watching him with brown eyes wide with fear. The Illyrian looked away and punched the knife junder the rib cage of the man with a single strong blow. The man twitched and his mouth opened silently. After a moment his chest stilled and a trickle of blood spilled out of the corner of his mouth. Nikos, his face still expressionless, quickly dressed the dead man in fur-lined boots and the rough homespun trousers and shirt of a Northern barbarian. This done, he rose and surveyed the others.
Too little time, he thought as he stooped over the next man.
In the end, Ara stared up at him, her eyes sightless with fear, as he bent over her.
Thyatis jogged through the halls of the palace. Great rooms, filled with treasures and glorious murals, blurred past. Her boots fell on expanses of intricate mosaic tile, showing scenes of wonder and delight. The crystal lanterns were falling dark with no one to refill the reservoirs of oil. In those places where there were torches, they had already guttered out. She climbed a great flight of stairs, each step carved from sea-green marble in the shape of breaking waves. In darkness, she hurried through a vaulting chamber lined with a thousand pillars containing a stepped pyramid. Atop the pyramid a throne of silver and gold sat in the darkness, waiting for a claimant. Behind rich red drapes, she found an open door banded with iron and clattered down a narrow sloping stairway. “ •
Hexagonal rooms passed, filled with couches and wardrobes bulging with clothes. A closet door stood half open, showing rows and rows of jeweled shoes. Ahead of her, she could hear faint voices, raised in anger. She crossed a bedchamber dominated by a four-poster bed with a canopy of purple silk sewn with diamond stars. The bedclothes were shoved all to one side, a mountain of fine-brushed Egyptian cotton and silk. Water tinkled from a bowl-shaped fountain. The western wall of the room was composed of wooden doors framing hundreds of squares of colored glass.
There was a garden beyond the bedchamber, filled with thousands of white flowers. The sky was very dark, save in the east, where a dull red glow lit up the low clouds. The flowers gleamed, pale and nacreous, in the light of hundreds of rose-colored paper lanterns hung from the trees. The garden stepped down toward a looming dark wall, in three great terraces. A stairway with steps carved from cedar logs descended the length of the garden. Thyatis came to a halt on a circular platform of wooden slats outside of the bedchamber.
Shirin stood in the darkness on the stairs, a pale-yellow flame in the long dress, her hair undone. Below her, on the second tier, Jusuf stood in the path, his blade glittering in the light of the lanterns. His dark-green robes and tunic blended into the grass and bushes, leaving only his long face illuminated by the rosy light. A heavyset man with very broad shoulders and dark curly hair stood behind Shirin, her arms twisted behind her back in his grip. His own blade, a long cavalry saber, was angled toward the Khazar Prince.
“Stand aside, boy.” The voice of the heavyset man was oddly muffled, echoing. Thyatis drifted to the side of the platform, her left hand resting lightly on the pommel of her sword. The face of the heavyset man gleamed golden and, with a start, she realized that the smooth features and high brow were a mask of cunningly worked gold.
“No, Chrosoes King of Kings. Leave Shirin be. She does not go with you tonight.”
“Jusuf… ah!” Shirin cried out as Chrosoes twisted her arm, her face grimacing in pain.
“Be still, wife. You, boy, once we accounted each other friends. Now you come to my house in the company of enemies and demand my property of me. I will not countenance it. Stand aside and I will allow you life. If you do not, then you will die, faithless, like your brother.”
Thyatis hissed in surprise, but the sound was covered by a growl of rage from Jusuf. “Servant of the Lie! My brothers ride south with an army to end your madness!”
Chrosoes threw back his head and laughed, a long echoing sound. He thrust the heavy sword into the ground, point first, and flipped a length of cord from his pocket around Shirin’s wrists. She struggled furiously, but it was too late. Jusuf rushed to the bottom of the steps but did not throw himself up the height. Thyatis began sliding her blade out of its sheath, her breathing even and slow. The sight of Shirin’s face twisted in pain excited a trembling in her hands. Anger flared in the back of her mind, a dull red coal growing steadily brighter.
“Your oathbreaking brother is dead,” crowed the King of Kings. “He fell at Kerenos, pierced by many spears. His body was carried from the field upon a shield of the House of Asena, born aloft by a hundred lances.”
Shirin cried out again in pain and stumbled to her knees, her hands bound tightly behind her back.
“I’ve no time for a hobble, my wife, but this will suffice.”
The King of Kings plucked the sword from the ground and spread his feet wide. “Come then, thief, and steal my property if you can.”
Jusuf, his face bleak, moved to launch himself up the steps, but Thyatis called out in a clear, strong voice. “No, Jusuf, I forbid it.”
Chrosoes whirled, dropping into a guard stance. His mask gleamed in the lanterns, his eyes murky pits.
Thyatis stepped down off of the circular platform and the water-steel sword moved lazily in her hand. “We have no quarrel, Chrosoes King, if you will let the Lady Shirin choose her own way.”
“A Latin Roman?” the King of Kings wondered, circling to the left. “And a woman! What strange days are these? Are you Jusuf’s pet? He always loved exotic things.”
“I am no pet,” Thyatis answered, her feet light on the ground, matching the movement of the Persian. “Jusuf is under my authority. Will you let Shirin choose her own way?”
“No!” the King of Kings thundered his voice harsh and metallic. “She is my property, given freely in marriage by her family. Where I go, she goes. Neither you nor this dishonored whelp will steal her. If you desire her so much, come and let us gamble in blood for her.”
“I will not kill you, King of Kings. I promised Shirin that I would spare your life.”
“You promised her?” Chrosoes’ voice was incredulous. “A possession cannot promise another possession! Does the hawk promise the hound? Does the ox hold the sheep to account for its honor? Your words are meaningless.“ He turned away in disgust.
“Do you think that she would not choose you, if you asked her?” Thyatis’ voice was sharp.
Chrosoes stopped, shocked, looking down at Shirin, who had struggled to her knees, the long gown torn off of her shoulder, revealing the curve of her breast. Her hair was a tangled mess and mud from the soft earth was smeared on the side of her face where she had fallen.
“Why would she choose to come with me?” he whispered, a thick-fingered hand going to the mask of beaten gold on his face. “Who would choose a monster, disfigured, unworthy to be a king?”
“You are a king, my love,” Shirin said, her eyes filled with tears. “You have always been a great ruler, mighty and proud. Please, there is no need for more blood to be spilled.”
“You would not choose me,” he said distantly, his fingers brushing against the crown of her hair. “I am a ruined thing, fit only for dark places.”
“No!” Shirin wept. “I do choose you. I have always chosen you. When I look at you, I see the face of my husband, my love, not just the flesh of your body.”
Chrosoes turned away, his fist tight on the hilt of his sword. Thyatis stood only feet away, her knees slightly bent, the water-steel blade pointed away and to her left.
“See?” she said, her voice soft. “Ask her! She will choose you. Then Jusuf and I will stand aside and you can go to the water gate. The night is dark and the Romans have no boats. You can get away on the river…”