"I've never seen such floors!" Razkili muttered suddenly in amazement.
Colored pebbles made mosaic patterns upon the walkways, all of oceanic motifs. Elaborate sea-flowers and sea-weeds swirled, entwined in one another. Impressionistic fish nibbled at the leaves and petals, swam and played among clams and coral, blew little streams of bubbles. Even in the dim light, the artistry revealed itself.
"It's meant to remind us of another time in our history," Innowen whispered. "The stones were carried from the shores of the Tasmian Sea and through the Akrotir mountains on foot. Ispor was a great sailing power until Wendur, our first capitol, was sacked and destroyed by raiders. That was over a century ago and on the other side of the mountains. Each of those pebbles was hand-painted. Except for private chambers, there isn't a plain floor in the palace. Even the public spaces have floors just as grand as this."
The room they had entered was immense. Huge sealed pithoi jars, taller than any man, lined the walls. Many of the ground level rooms in the palace were used for storage and contained such vessels, which were far too heavy to convey either upstairs or to basement levels. Razkili had never seen their like.
"Olive oil," Taelyn said absently, answering Razkili's unspoken question as he led the way toward a staircase on the room's farthest side. "The jars are full of it. It's a major export for Parendur, that and wine. The banks of the mountains are loaded with olive trees and vineyards. Or were, before this damned drought."
Before they could mount the staircase, a host of servants appeared at the top. Through their ranks stepped another man dressed in fine robes, his perfect black beard oiled and braided, eyes darkly kohled. He raised a hand, the smallest gesture of a wave, and the soldiers who had escorted them inside turned wordlessly and departed.
"Welcome, Taelyn," the man said as he descended one more step and stopped. "It seems you've won a great victory. Kyrin is waiting to congratulate you in his megaron."
There was no courtesy in Taelyn's response. "Get out of my way, Riloosa. It's Minarik I report to, and I can find his chambers without your guidance, so crawl back into your hole." He started up the stairs.
Riloosa blocked his way. "Kyrin is waiting," he repeated. It was a poorly concealed threat. "He's not in a very good mood."
Taelyn reached up, caught the front of Riloosa's robe, and pulled him down another step. At the same time, he ascended a step. They had exchanged places. Taelyn looked down on Riloosa and sneered. "I don't give a gods damn about his mood. My men waited outside the city gates for hours until the sun came up, and some of them bled their lives needlessly into the dirt while you were safe and comfortable in here." His gaze flickered past Riloosa for a moment and settled on Innowen. "So let Kyrin do the waiting now. I'll see him after the sun goes down, or when Minarik orders me to see him. Not before."
Riloosa glowered. His fingers curled around the hand Taelyn still had clutched in his robe. He made a subtle, but visible, effort to free himself and failed, his strength the lesser of the two men. "If you want to keep that hand, release me!" His voice was a controlled whisper full of menace. "I have friends with sharp knives who value my honor and well-being!"
Innowen caught his breath. Stony-faced, Taelyn forced Riloosa to the very edge of the staircase and bent him backward. It wasn't a high drop if he pushed him, but the suddenness of the move surprised everyone, especially Riloosa. His eyes snapped wide, and he flailed his arms to catch his balance.
Taelyn pulled him back to safety. "Life is very delicate, Counselor," he said, smoothing the wrinkle his grip had made in Riloosa's fine garment. "One moment you have it, then you don't. It's that way for all of us." His hand descended on Riloosa's shoulder, and he dug ever so slightly into the soft place under the collar bone with his thumb until Riloosa winced. "All of us," he emphasized. "Even serpents like you."
Riloosa glared at all three of them before he turned and strode up the stairs. Innowen watched him go, knowing with certainty he had made an enemy without saying a word. Rascal's arms tightened protectively about him. His friend knew it, too.
"Who is he?" he questioned Taelyn softly so the servants at the top of the stair couldn't hear.
"The ass end of a snake," came the answer. "Or Kyrin's advisor, whichever is lower." He shouted up to the servants. "This is Minarik's son. Prepare rooms for him near his father's quarters, and see that he and his companion are treated well."
The servants scurried away. He turned back to Innowen and Razkili as they climbed the stairs. "I'll be staying with my soldiers at the garrison after I've talked with Minarik." They started down a long corridor and entered the western wing of the palace. "But listen to me. Watch your backs around here." He looked directly at Innowen. "You wanted to be Razkili's spear-mate on the field. Well, it'll be twice the job here. Out there you knew the enemy. Here?" He shook his head. "This is not the same Parendur you visited five years ago."
"Why should it be?" Innowen agreed. "It's not the same Ispor."
"The deadliest spider weaves a beautiful web," Razkili muttered.
Innowen pinched his friend's cheek and grinned. "Osiri philosophy," he explained to Taelyn. "He's full of it."
"That wasn't Osiri," Taelyn answered with a serious face. "It's a saying that comes from Syraeus."
"So does Riloosa, unless I miss my guess," said Razkili.
A servant appeared from a doorway just ahead and beckoned to them. The rooms prepared for Innowen and Razkili were spacious and airy. A pair of couches ornately carved from white wood occupied the central chamber. Embroidered cushions lay piled upon them. Close at hand stood a small table. A tray of cold meat strips, a cheese, and half a loaf of bread rested there, along with a wine-filled oinochoe jug, whose urfirnis finish gleamed in the sunlight that filled the room. Beyond was an open terrace with a view of the garden. Two bedrooms also opened onto the terrace.
Razkili placed Innowen on one of the couches and propped pillows around him.
Taelyn helped himself to a strip of meat, chewed it, and washed it down with a drink from the wine vessel. A servant emerged from the south bedroom bearing linens. Taelyn caught him by the arm. "A soldier might tip a bottle, but bring goblets for Minarik's son and his friend." The servant nodded and hurried to obey. "Now, I've got to find Minarik. Take some advice and don't wander around. Rest. You both need it." Tearing a piece of bread from the loaf and popping it into his mouth, he left them.
No sooner was Taelyn gone than Riloosa appeared in the entrance. He intercepted the servant returning with a tray of golden goblets. "I'll take those," he said, dismissing the servant. He stepped across the threshold, walked between the couches, and set the tray on the table. "Are you comfortable?" he asked Innowen as he seated himself on the opposite couch. He poured wine into two of the goblets and offered one to Innowen. He sipped from the other himself. "We have much to discuss, you and I," he added over the rim of his vessel.
"In Osirit," Razkili said dryly, "it's customary to wait at the door until you are invited to enter."
Riloosa spared a disdainful glance at Razkili, then leaned closer to Innowen. "Could you send your slave elsewhere? We should talk in private...."
Innowen bristled. His hand shot out across the short distance and caught the front of Riloosa's already wrinkled robe, and he pulled the Syraean's face even closer to his own. "This is Prince Razkili," he said acidly, "fifth son of Osirit's royal family, and of better lineage than you." Innowen released him and eased back. "You come here to curry favor, and instead manage to insult us both with your first breath." He shook his head and looked away from Riloosa, turning up his nose. "Now we're a bit weary from last night's adventure. We're going to eat this food, drink this very fine wine, and sleep."
Razkili came to the head of Innowen's couch, folded his arms over his broad chest, and glared at Riloosa with narrowed, menacing eyes. "Allow this poor slave to throw him out on his head, Master."
Riloosa set his goblet aside and rose stiffly to his feet. He looked at them both with a gaze colder than any wind that ever blew on the Akrotir peaks. "I really must change my garment," he said silkily. "This one has become unduly soiled."
"An unexpected release of urine, no doubt," Innowen said, as their uninvited guest strode through the door.
"What do you suppose he wanted?" Razkili wondered when they were alone again.
"I don't care," Innowen answered. "I'm too tired to play games. We've only slept in snatches since we arrived in Ispor, and it's catching up with me." He sipped the wine and licked his lower lip. "Can you drag one of these couches onto the terrace? It's cooler there with the breeze."
"Whatever the master wishes," Razkili quipped. He bent over the empty couch and began to drag it.
"Don't do that," Innowen said earnestly.
Razkili set the couch down and straightened. "Do you want it on the terrace or not?"
"Don't call me master," he said, "or anything like that. I don't like it. It's not funny. Too many people think because you bear me about and care for me that I own you. I don't like to hear it from them, and I especially don't like it from you. Please, Rascal."
Razkili grinned. "You
are
tired," he said, dragging the couch again. When it was in place on the terrace, he carried Innowen out and laid him gently upon it. Then he went back to drag the other couch outside, too.
"Bring the wine," Innowen suggested. "We can get drunk quietly before somebody calls us for dinner."
But he didn't get a chance to drink. The breeze blew warmly over him as he leaned back into the cushions.
He closed his eyes and sank into sleep.
* * *
He awoke aware of a presence on the couch beside him. Assuming it was Razkili, he stretched, yawned, then slowly opened his eyes.
"Welcome home, Innocent."
He sat up quickly. "Minarik! Father!" He threw his arms around the older man, and they embraced.
Five years had marked Minarik. The gray that once had colored his temples had spread throughout his mane. His beard, too, had taken on a cloudy shade. Deep lines radiated from around his eyes and shot across his brow. He was still a large man and powerful, and his grip on Innowen's arm betrayed no weakness, yet there was something different, a vitality that seemed to be missing.
"Did you find our Witch?" Minarik asked quietly.
Innowen pushed himself back against the cushions into a better sitting position and realized he had done so with his legs. He had not even noticed that the sun had gone down. He drew his feet up close and hugged his knees. On the other couch, Razkili lay asleep with his back to them.
He shook his head. "But I have hope again suddenly, when I thought all hope was gone. Five years of searching, and I found no trace of her. Then, last night in the battle, I saw her man, Vashni. I'm sure it was him."
Minarik's eyes smoldered with the dark fire of disappointment. His gaze burned into Innowen. For long moments he stared, and Innowen couldn't bring himself to avert his eyes. He suffered under the scrutiny of that glare until his adoptive father suddenly patted his knee and stood.
"We'll speak of it later, but now we must bathe," he said. "Wake your friend. Kyrin is hosting a banquet tonight."
"In Taelyn's honor?" Innowen inquired, rising.
"I would hardly put it that way," Minarik said, walking to the edge of the terrace and gazing down into the garden below. "As Taelyn always manages to do these days, he's irritated our good and beloved king. But he'll be there. He's the people's hero, at least for the hour, and that'll provide him with a certain temporary safety. Now wake your friend."
They woke Razkili, and Innowen made formal introductions. Afterward, Minarik led them through another maze of lamp-lit corridors, down a flight of stairs to the first level again, out into the garden, and back through another doorway into the palace. They entered a small, bare room with several stone stools placed at intervals.
"Undress," Innowen told Razkili solemnly. All three men removed their garments and sandals, folded them, and placed them carefully on the stools. Minarik approached another door in the opposite wall and pushed it open. The red-gold glow of braziers shimmered on a pool of water within. A sweet incense diffused on the air.
"Once you enter the lustral chamber," he advised Razkili, "do not speak. It's a holy place, a place to cleanse body and mind before we enter the hall beyond, which is both a throne room and a temple to our gods."
Razkili nodded and followed Minarik through the door. Innowen, the last to enter, pulled it closed. A graceful staircase descended into the pool. Naked, they lowered themselves into the cool water and bathed each other. Soft cloths had been left in a basket on the pool's edge. As Innowen lifted one, crushed herbs fell from between its folds. He pressed it to his face and breathed the sweetness, then wet it and passed it over Rascal's back. The fireglow sheened in the drops of moisture that trickled down the Osiri's spine. Innowen caught one on his fingertip, studied it in the ruddy light, then touched it to his tongue.
He felt Minarik's hand and a soft cloth on the nape of his neck and closed his eyes while his father washed him. Then Razkili appeared before him with a cloth, too. The herb scent filled his nostrils, and the texture of the fabric against his skin seemed almost too much to bear. Gooseflesh rose on his arms, and the fine hairs stood on end. He listened, and the only sounds were their breaths and a gentle splashing of water. Even so, there was a music in it, and it reminded him that he must dance soon.