Rather be free and die than live and live death.

Of the legendary quantities of enslaved tribal warriors, culled on raids, I had seen none.

The white midday sun balanced above the Temple when we reached it, and somewhere a bird was cawing harshly from a roof or autumn tree; I remember that for it was the only one I ever heard in Eshkorek.

We passed into the Temple, and there were mounted men already arrived, and waiting.

Kortis’ band halted; across the way the first band stared from their masks, six of which were of the gold. The ragged furs were much in evidence there, and under them dark gray and saffron. It was another kind of gold phoenix-mask their leader wore, but still a golden phoenix. He raised his arm listlessly and Kortis replied, each like a doll on a string, with no verbal greeting exchanged.

The second phoenix called, “It seems Lord Erran declines to meet you, my lord. Afraid of the risen one, I suspect.”

Thus I knew him to be Nemarl. I was wondering what plans he had devised for me, what plans Kortis had devised, how long they would make my dying last—all this in a kind of dire, calm, inner debate, numb as if every one of my nerves were gone—when a third group of riders came stealing out of the shade at the statue’s back.

Ten faces of yellow metal here, and the foremost not the phoenix but a golden leopard, and his tunic sewn with plaques of gold, gone bald in spots.

“Not afraid of ghosts, my lords,” he said, “cautious of men. I see Ezlann has come to Eshkorek. That is how Vazkor looked in the days of his magnificence, eh, Kortis? It must make you feel young again to have him so youthful.”

“No, Prince Erran,” Kortis said, “it doubles my years. But he is very like Vazkor.”

“And I hear that he himself claims it as his heritage.” Erran turned to me. Confronted only by masks now, the scene was becoming like some awesome dream. “What shall we do with him, then? Make him our king?”

Nemarl said heavily, “We have a score to settle with Vazkor. The crimes of the father have descended to the son. This one shall pay the debt. It is on this understanding that we meet. To savor justice too long delayed.”

It occurred to me Zrenn himself had joked when he spoke of Nemarl’s joking. Nemarl was not a man for jokes. He was perhaps forty years of age; he, too, would recollect my father.

The soldiers about me began abruptly to ride forward, and my horse trotted obediently with them.

We were at the center of the space now.

I thought, If I had a sword, a knife even, I could cut free of them.

There was part of a column left there, in the paving, like a splinter of bone left in a wound.

Zrenn came around my horse. He bowed, more of a safe distance from me than the last time.