Treasures of Fantasy - Margaret Weis [169]
In the palace, the Empress had been pleased to hear from the Priest-General that a dragon was going to come to fight for the Sinarians. The Empress didn’t have to worry any longer about ham-fisted ogres lumbering about the Imperial Palace breaking the porcelain. She wanted to witness this spectacle and sent word that she was going to come to her box in the arena as soon as she changed her clothes, invited her friends, found her little dog, who had run off again, and ordered her slaves to pack the wine and food baskets.
The Priest-General was already in the arena, thinking of his future. The Empress blamed him for the ogre invasion, and by stopping the ogres and providing her with an evening’s entertainment, he was certain to regain her favor. He had his eye on the Legate’s estates and wealth.
The unfortunate fact that Acronis was not dead was only a minor impediment to the attainment of Xydis’s goal. Semelon had reported that the Legate had ridden off in company with the barbarians. The Priest-General had men searching for him.
In the streets, the people, led by Zahakis, were taking upon themselves the defense of their city. Reports came to him that the first ships of the ogre fleet had begun landing their troops. Ogre soldiers were swarming onto the docks and beaches. As soon as sufficient numbers were assembled, their godlords would storm the watchtowers, deal with any defenders, and open the gates to Sinaria.
“I’m going to be sick,” said Treia.
Clutching her stomach, she handed the spiritbone to Raegar and ran toward the latrines, which were located behind the grandstand.
Treia looked over her shoulder to make certain she had not been followed. Raegar would give her a few moments privacy in case she was truly sick, and then he would come to make certain she was all right. She did not have much time.
Covered by curtains, shielded from the moonlight, the latrines consisted of a long row of benches with holes cut in them situated directly over a trench filled with running water. The area was cleaned by slaves, but the stench lingered. Treia gagged and covered her mouth and gave way to nausea that had caused her stomach to roil ever since the Priest-General had put the spiritbone into her hands.
When she was finished vomiting, she gasped out the name of the god.
Hevis had been waiting for her impatiently, it seemed, for he appeared almost before she finished speaking his name. He was no longer a disembodied face of fire. He was a warrior, clad in armor, and he held a sword in his hand. He was grim and implacable and he said nothing, but waited for her to speak.
Trembling with terror, Treia kept her eyes lowered, fearing to face his wrath.
“Aylaen was meant to die,” said Treia through quivering lips. “They were all meant to die! You were supposed to have your sacrifice—”
“But I didn’t,” said Hevis, and his voice was cold as black winter’s night. “You should have killed her yourself. Knife in the back, poison . . .”
“I know, I know,” Treia said, choked. “Forgive me. I will . . . next time. . . .”
“There may not be a next time,” said the god.
Treia gave a strangled sob.
Hevis stirred, his hand flexing on the hilt of his sword. He shifted his gaze in the direction of the bay where the ogre fleet was gathering.
“But I find I cannot pass up this chance to strike a blow at our foes.” Hevis raised his sword and shook it at the heavens. “Do you hear me, Aelon? Do you hear me, Gods of Raj? Do you hear me, Torval, as you sit sulking in your great Hall? Look at me and see true power!”
Treia drew in her breath and, greatly daring, raised her head. “Do you mean . . . you will help me summon the dragon?”
“The sacrifice will be mine to take when and where I decide to take