The Hidden City

apologetically. ‘If it’s any comfort to you, he’s still baffled by your husband. He cannot understand how any creature with such power would willingly subordinate himself to—’ He hesitated.
    ‘To a mere woman, Zalasta?’ she suggested wearily.
    ‘No, Ehlana, that’s not it. Some of the worlds Klael dominates are wholly ruled by females. Males are kept for breeding purposes only. He simply cannot understand the relationship between you and Sparhawk.’
    ‘You might explain the meaning of love to him, Zalasta.’ She paused. ‘But you don’t understand it yourself, do you?’
    His face went cold. ‘Good night, your Majesty,’ he said in an unemotional tone. Then he turned and left the cell, closing and locking the door behind him.
    Ehlana had her ear pressed to the door before the clanging of its closing had subsided.
    ‘I do not fear them,’ she heard King Santheocles declare.
    ‘Then you’re a bigger fool than I thought,’ Zalasta told him bluntly. ‘All of your allies have been systematically neutralized, and your enemies have you surrounded.’
    ‘We are Cyrgai,’ Santheocles insisted. ‘No one can stand against us.’
    ‘That may have been true ten thousand years ago when your enemies dressed in furs and charged your lines with flint-tipped spears. Now you face Church Knights armed with steel, you face Atan warriors who can kill your soldiers with their fingertips, you face Peloi who ride through your ranks like the wind, you face Trolls, who not only kill your soldiers, but also eat them. If that weren’t bad enough, you face Aphrael, who can stop the sun or turn you to stone. Worst of all, you face Anakha and Bhelliom, and that means that you face obliteration.’
    ‘Mighty Cyrgon will protect us.’ Santheocles’ voice was set in a willful note of stubborn imbecility.
    ‘Why don’t you go talk with Otha of Zemoch, Santheocles?’ There was a sneer in Zalasta’s voice. ‘He’ll tell you how the Elder God Azash squealed when Anakha destroyed him.’ Zalasta suddenly broke off. ‘He comes!’ he choked. ‘Closer than we’d ever thought possible!’
    ‘What are you talking about?’ Ekatas demanded.
    ‘Anakha is here!’ Zalasta exclaimed. ‘Go to your generals, Santheocles. Tell them to call out their troops and order them to scour the streets of Cyrga, for Anakha is within your walls! Hurry, man! Anakha is here, and our deaths stalk the streets with him! Come with me, Ekatas! Cyrgon must be warned, and eternal Klael. The night of decision is upon us!’
    Elron ticked off the count on his fingers and swore. No matter how he slurred or compressed the words of that last line, it still had one beat too many. He hurled his quill-pen across the room and sank his face into his hands in an artful pose of poetic despair. Elron did that frequently when composing verse. Then he hopefully raised his face as a thought came to him. He was nearing the final stanzas of his masterpiece, after all, and an Alexandrine would add emphasis. What would the critics say?
    Elron agonized over the decision. He cursed the day when he had chosen to cast the most important work of his career in heroic couplets. He hated iambics. They were so mercilessly regular and unforgiving, and pentameter was like a chain around his neck, jerking him up short at the end of every line. ‘Ode to Blue’ hung in the balance while her creator struggled with the sullen intransigencies of form and meter.
    Elron could not be sure how long the screaming had been going on or exactly when it had started. His mind, caught up in a creative frenzy, had blotted out everything external to that one maddeningly recalcitrant line. The poet rose irritably to his feet and went to the window to look out at the torch-lit streets of Natayos. What were they screaming about? Scarpa’s soldiers, ignorant, unwashed serfs for the most part, were running, bawling in terror like so many bleating sheep. What had set them off this time?
    Elron leaned slightly out to look back up the street. There seemed to be a different kind of light coming from the part of the ruined city that was still buried in tangled brush and creeping vines. Elron frowned. It was most definitely not torchlight. It seemed to be a pale white glow instead, steady, unwavering, and coming from dozens of places at the same time.
    Then Elron heard Scarpa’s voice rising over the screams. The crazy charlatan was shouting orders of some kind in his most imperial voice. The