Istu awakened

EPILOGUE

The hills and meadows of the Black March shivered with joyous celebration. The night air rang with boasts and jubilation. Many brave men had fallen but others still lived. Foedan of Kolnith was there, his huge domed head swathed in bandages. And Sir Tharvus, one of the pitiful handful surviving the catastrophic pursuit of the routed Zr'gsz by the cavalry on the left, sat as far from Moriana as possible, giving her poisoned glances over the rim of his goblet.

But seated at the great table of honor inside Teom's pavilion, Fost and Moriana picked at the sumptuous banquet spread before them with neither joy nor appetite.

Emperor Teom had knighted Fost where he stood in the middle of the battlefield, and the battle-weary survivors had hoisted him on their shoulders, bearing him directly to the pavilion.

Moriana arrived in much the same way. Their eyes met. An infinity of meaning flowed between them.

'Now tell me, Your Highness,' said the knight sitting at Moriana's right, 'how did you get the Lady Jirre to answer your call?'

She slammed her fist down on the table. Heads turned toward her. 'I did not! It was an illusion,' she said.

Disbelieving, the heads turned away and returned to light conversation or serious consumption of food and wine. Fost laid his hand on Moriana's leg and gave it a reassuring squeeze. She nodded acknowledgement without looking at him. 'Erimenes,' he heard Ziore whisper. 'You were magnificent!' 'Of course.' Fost shut his eyes and shook his head.

At the head of the table, Teom pounded for silence with the golden pommel of a sword never drawn in anger. 'Silence! Let us have silence! I propose a toast!'

The noise died. He rose, resplendent in a gilded breastplate sculpted in the likeness of a muscular torso, with a robe of yellow lacebird silk thrown over his shoulders, the jewelled rings on his fingers shining with inner lights of their own. He raised his goblet.

'To the Princess Moriana,' he cried. 'Mightiest sorceress of the Realm, favored by the Lady Jirre, and… and…' His Adam's apple rode slowly up and down. Even the rouge and paint on his face failed to give him color. Tense silence gripped the revellers as all eyes followed his to the uppermost part of the pavilion.

'Greetings,' said Zak'zar, Speaker of the People. 'I foretold we would meet again, dear cousin Moriana. And so it has come to pass.' A corner of his mouth twisted. 'Not precisely as I predicted, I grant you, but this is after all no victory you've won. A petty respite, at best.'

He floated at the top of the tent-pole, his body radiating a cold black light. Sputtering on a mouthful of wine, the captain of the Guard bellowed for archers.

'It will do no good. I am not here. Only my likeness. A trick your Oracle knows well.' He inclined his head toward the pale, round man beside Fost.

Fost found his voice and said, 'You're bluffing, Zak'zar. We whipped you from the March like dogs.' Zak'zar's laugh chilled him to the bone.

'See then, friends, what we were doing while you were whipping dogs.'

He stretched forth his hand. A globe of intense blackness formed. A point of light danced in the middle, expanded to become a picture. The City in the Sky floated over the slate roofs and boxy pastel structures of Kara-Est.

Fost wondered why he was showing them the conquest of the seaport by the floating City; this was old news. Then he realized no eagles winged over the City and saw the strange blackness that filled the Well of Winds in the center of the City.

A black vortex extended downward from the Skywell. Where it touched, stones, people, entire buildings were uprooted and drawn upward into the blackness where they… disappeared. 'Istu!' The name ran through the tent.

'Istu,' Zak'zar agreed. 'Do you see what the great victory you won today signifies, Pale Ones? Do you, my cousin?'

Moriana wouldn't look at him. Her eyes were fixed on her plate, her face hidden by her golden hair.

'Why do you name her "cousin," you wretched creature?' Ziore shrieked at him. Counterfeit surprise crossed Zak'zar's face.

'Why shouldn't I call her that, good Ziore? Surely, you cannot object if I call my blood kin by their right name?' 'You lie!' Fost screamed as he came to his feet.

'Ah, poor Fost,' Zak'zar said, a sad chuckle escaping his throat. 'Do you truly think you can change the truth by denying it?' He raised his head to address them all. 'Know you the truth: nine thousand years ago an Athalar-trained adept came to Thendrun to receive the secret of true magic, not the petty mental tricks which the Athalar knew how to play.' Erimenes sputtered in outrage.

'Azrak-Tchan, Second Instrumentality of the People, gave her the secret of true magic, which is the providence of the Dark. He also gave her a child.' Heads swung toward Moriana.

'This Moriana, surnamed Etuul, received great powers. But it was her daughter Kyrun, half human and half Zr'gsz, who possessed them in full measure. She aided Riomar shai-Callri, accursed traitress, in casting my folk from the Sky City. So the blood of the People entered the Etuul line. And it has been passed down from that day to this. And renewed, perhaps, by the late Instrumentality Khirshagk, blessed be his name.' 'He's dead?' demanded Moriana, looking up sharply.

'He is. He delivered Istu from bondage and fulfilled the role for which every Instrumentality had trained.'

'You're lying, you filthy scum, lying!' Fost screamed, shaking his fists at the Hisser. 'Am I?' Zak'zar asked softly. 'Moriana does not deny it.

'I hope you will find some measure of happiness, all of you, in the time you have left before we come for you with He Who Will Not be Denied. Farewell to you all. And to you, cousin.' He folded taloned hands across his breast and faded.

Moriana sat in a silence and isolation unlike any she had ever known.