The Warslayer(54)

Best to get out of their way until she was feeling more human, then.

She gathered up her Vixen costume, slipping Cinnas' sword into the sheath—it fit as if it had been made for it—and bundling the lot (and Gordon) under her arm. She slung her tote-bag over her shoulder and made a determined—if not entirely dignified—exit up the temple stairs. No one tried to stop her. Probably all quaking in their fuzzy little felt boots, that lot.

She went back into the Presence Chamber and sat down on one of the benches, dumping her gear at her feet. Away from the others, her black mood lifted, and she was able to reason her way to the bottom of it.

When it was just her and Belegir, well, he'd seen her pretty much at her worst. She didn't have to pretend for him. But the others . . . they'd be expecting Vixen the Slayer, not Glory McArdle, and she felt obligated to put on a show for them, like it or not. And she didn't like it, while knowing it was something she had to do.

No rush, but she'd best get on with things before they came looking for her.

She prodded at her shoulder, and was relieved to find that while it was sore, it wasn't much worse than it had been the night before. She peeled off the wool shift and went through her complete routine of morning stretches, ending with a slow walkover that assured her that everything still worked as well as it ever had. Now that she knew Glory was in good working order, it was time to add the fancy dress.

The Vixen costume was like an old friend, with its friendly false promise that she knew how to go on in the world.

She took out her compact and inspected her face. The bruises had ripened in the night, a glorious black and green welt along her cheek, and her freckles had disappeared beneath a new coat of tan, making her eyes, even without makeup, almost as gold as Vixen's.

Oh. Nice. No wonder they turned tail and bolted. Well, that's why God made Max Factor.

She daubed pancake gingerly over the bruise until the worst of the damage was covered, trying to blend it into her newly darkened complexion—the puffiness was still there, but they'd all have to live with that. A little kohl, a lot of mascara, some blood-red lipstick, and Hell's Own Harpy glared back at her out of the mirror. She smiled.

"I don't know if you scare the enemy, but by damn, you scare me, mate."

She unbraided her hair and brushed it out, using the mirror to inspect the roots critically for lighter growth. A few weeks yet before her own natural color became obvious, and by that time . . . well, maybe there was henna somewhere here in the Land of Erchanen. Belegir had been wearing mascara when he'd first showed up in her dressing room. These people weren't barbarians, after all.

Time to face the music.

She stuffed all her leftover bits and pieces back into her tote-bag and walked back out of the temple.

The Allimir had been busy while she'd been gone.

The horses, including her two survivors, were all picketed at the far end of the cavern, watched over by a couple of random dogs and one of the Allimir riders. A small fire under a portable cooking tripod was heating something that smelled a great deal like breakfast. Ivradan was tending to that, while the remaining Allimir fussed over Belegir in a reassuring fashion. They'd moved him out of the cart and onto a pallet onto the ground while Glory'd been gone, and she—at least Glory thought it was a "she"—had opened a large pack full of businesslike jars, tins, and bottles, and was re-dressing his chest-wounds. There was a large whiffy dressing covering his face as well—Glory could smell it from the foot of the stairs; something swampy and astringent, with just a hint of mint.

Glory approached Ivradan, who got warily to his feet. Remembering her lessons in dealing with Belegir, she did her best to look cheerful and nonthreatening, while feeling anything but. She realized Ivradan wasn't staring at her, but past her, and after a moment, she realized why. The Sword of Cinnas, with its hilt full of purple neon magic Erchane power crystals, was highly visible over her left shoulder.

So much for subtlety. On the other hand, he had seen it earlier, when she'd been waving it at him half-awake.

"Good morning, Ivradan." There was a pause. "Ivradan?"

"Good morning, Slayer." With a great effort, Ivradan transferred his gaze from her sword-hilt to her face.

"I'm glad you got here," Glory continued with teeth-gritting bland patience.

"I— That is, we— Helevrin thought— When you didn't—"

"Helevrin sent you after us?" she suggested.

"Yes," Ivradan said with relief. "She said that the Warmother was waiting for you at the Oracle. I found this in the Hall of History—" He reached into the pocket of his smock and pulled something out, holding it out to her.