“I learned from none,” I said, watching Kortis. “It is my father in me. It is Vazkor.”

For all my bonds and my uncertainties, such a scalding wave of pride swelled me that I feared none of them. It would have been more prudent to fear, to fear and keep silent, but I might have been breathing drug incense. And all the while I felt him there, dark fiery shadow at my side, the emanation of my father. I could remember only my inherited gift of magic power, which must come from him, how I had killed a man with it. I had merely to reach for strength and I should find it. All men, perhaps, must have a deity. Godless so far my entire life, Vazkor became my one true god.

Kortis drew himself up to confront me. His throat rasped like an old man’s in a harsh winter.

“Very well. You are the seed of Vazkor. Somehow you have got our speech, which is cunning of you. And your mother, some heifer of the krarls?”

I said negligently, partly to test him and thereby learn more of my heritage, “No tribal woman. A woman from the cities. A woman with white hair and white eyes. The wife of Vazkor.”

The music that had been playing all this while somewhere in the palace, some hidden orchestra, just now ceased as if at a signal.

“Then you are Uastis’ son,” Kortis said. “It is true, she was albino, and her womb was filled by him. Did she escape the fall of the Tower? Was it she taught you our language? Is she living, then, or dead?”

A woman spoke beyond my shoulder. It was like the voice of the one he had named, and the hair rose on my neck. But it was not my lynx-mother, spirited out of the air, it was Demizdor.

“Javhovor, don’t listen to this liar. I never lessoned him in our speech, but sometimes I have used it, and he is sly and quick, this man, he has learned from me. The stories too, I told him, of Vazkor and of Uastis. I do not reckon him Vazkor’s sowing, despite his looks. He has kept me as his doxy in the stinking tents of the shlevakin, he has defiled me, and I must follow the ways of his degenerate race in order to preserve my life. From this hell my kinsmen rescued me.”

I kept my ground, but my bowels twisted at her crying. She was a pace or so behind me, but I could not look about at her unmasked face, her pale fever and her eyes and her hate.

“Javhovor,” she said, more softly, breathing fast, “your own kin slew themselves because of this lying dung and his playacting. My lord was one of them. I beg for vengeance.” Her quick breathing faltered, and she began to weep.

“There is no need to beg for vengeance,” Kortis said slowly; he had mastered himself now. “Whoever and whatever he is, he shall suffer.” His eyes returned to me. “Do you comprehend?”