"Aye, my lord." Meara stood sullenly, plucking at Cerelinde's sleeve.
The Lady of the Ellylon stood unmoving. "General Tanaros is coming?"
"Aye."
There was a change; a subtle one. She did not move, and even her lids did not flicker. Yet beneath her fair skin, a faint blush arose, tinting her cheeks. Something knotted in Vorax's belly, and he stepped into her space, crowding her with his bulk.
"Lady," he said softly. "Leave him be."
Her chin rose a fraction. "You were the one to offer me Lord Satoris' hospitality, my lord Glutton. Will you break it and be foresworn?"
"I would have slain you the instant Beshtanag fell." He watched fear seep into her luminous gaze, and favored her with a grim smile. "Make no mistake, Lady. Neither hatred nor madness drives me, and I know where the margin of profit lies. If his Lordship heeded me, you would be dead." He drew his sword a few inches clear of the scabbard, adding, "I may do it yet."
"You wouldn't dare!" Her eyes blazed with terrible beauty. "Aracus—"
"Aracus!" Vorax laughed, shoving the hilt back in place. "Oh, Lady, whatever happens, we've ages of time here behind the walls of Dark-haven before the Son of Altorus becomes a problem. No, if you want to invoke a protector, I suggest you stick with his Lordship. And mind, if I find you plying Tanaros with Ellylon glamours and magics, I will see you dead."
The Lady Cerelinde made no answer.
"Good." Vorax nodded. "Get her out of here, Meara, and do not bring her again. Mind, I will be speaking to the Dreamspinner."
He watched them go, the madling leading, tugging at the Ellyl's sleeve. The sight did nothing to dispel the knotted, sinking feeling in his belly. It was providence that had made him choose the left-hand door, alerting him to untold danger. On the morrow he would assemble a patrol of his own men to scour the passages behind the walls, sealing off the madlings' secret corridors, or as many as they could find. Something was wrong within the edifice of Darkhaven, crumbling even as the chasm had opened in the floor under his feet. He remembered the moon-garden by half-light, a shining figure beneath the stars, the heady scent of vulnus-blossom mingling with sulfur in the damp air, evoking painful memory.
Lord Vorax, what do you see?
Vorax shook his head and blew out the candle-butts. By the glimmer of the marrow-fire he pressed onward, leaving the chamber behind and picking his path through the tangled maze of narrow passages until he reached an egress. It was a sanctioned door, opening to his touch behind a niche in one of Darkhaven's major hallways. One of the Haven-guard snapped to attention as he emerged; a M�rkhar Fjel, axe springing into one hand, shield raising, dark bristles prickling erect. "Lord Vorax, sir!"
"At ease," he sighed.
The M�rkhar stared straight ahead. Ignoring him, Vorax made his way down the towering halls, limping steadily back to his own quarters. It was a blessed relief to reach the tall ironwood doors, carved with the twin likenesses of a roaring Staccian bear, and a pair of his own Staccian guardsmen lounging against them. The fear-sweat had dried to a rime beneath his armor, and he was only tired, now. Beyond those doors lay comfort and easement. His belly rumbled at the thought of it.
"Let me in, Eadric."
"Aye, sir!" The senior guardsman grinned, fumbling at his belt for a key. "Good ease to you, sir!"
The tall ironwood doors swung open, and Vorax entered his quarters. Within, it was another world, rich and luxuriant, far removed from everything in Darkhaven; the stark grandeur of its halls, the fearful heat of the Chamber of the Font, the scrabbling mysteries behind its walls. Lamplight warmed rich tapestries, gleamed upon gilded statuary, sparkled on jewel-encrusted surfaces. He had had ten mortal lifetimes to amass the treasures contained within his quarters. Somewhere, music was playing. It paused as he entered, then resumed, the harpist bowing her head over the ivory-inlaid curve of her instrument, fingers caressing the strings. Three Staccian handmaids rose to their feet, surrounding him with solicitous care, their deft fingers unbuckling his ceremonial armor.
"My lord, you are weary!"
"My lord, you must rest!"
"My lord, you must eat!"
It was not, after all, so much to ask. For a thousand years he had guaranteed the safety of their nation. In the bathing-room, Vorax let them strip him and stood while they brought warm water and sponged the stink of sweat and fear from his skin. Water ran in rivulets, coursing through the ruddy hair on his chest, over the bulge of his stomach, down the thick columns of his legs. Their hands were gentle. They understood his needs and were paid well for their terms of service, their families recompensed in titles, lands and money. Did a man deserve any less, after a thousand years?