“What are you talking about?”

Vash could not help cringing at the northerner’s tone of voice—one simply did not talk to the Golden One that way, not if one wished to keep one’s skin stretched over one’s meat. But instead of calling for Mokori, his favorite strangler, the autarch only chuckled again. “But of course,” he said gleefully. “You could not know. In fact, I wonder if, with all your learning, you will understand even when I explain to you.”

Olin regarded the monarch of all Xand with a combination of interest and growing discomfort. Vash was oddly reassured—he had begun to wonder if his master was truly as mad as he seemed, or if he, Pinimmon Vash, were simply losing perspective, so he was glad to see he was not the only one who found Sulepis puzzling. “It does sound as though you do not intend to kill me today.”

“But I already told you that!” Sulepis feigned astonishment. “You and I have much to do, see, and speak about. First, though, we really must get you cleaned up. Ludis has taken shocking care of you.”

The northern king inclined his head. “May I ask what price you paid for me? Or was I a gift to you from Ludis—a sort of welcome present?”

“Ah, Olin—you do not mind if I call you Olin, do you? You may call me Golden One, or even…yes, you may call me Great Falcon.”

“You are too kind.”

“Ah, we will get along splendidly. You have a sense of humor!” The autarch leaned back in his throne, flicked his hand at the servants. “Take King Olin and let him bathe, then feed him. Give him one of my tasters so that he can dine with a peaceful heart. We will speak again later, Olin—we have much to discuss. Together we will remake the world!”

“You seem very certain that I will agree to help you with this…grand project.” Olin tilted his head, examining his captor; Vash could not help admiring the poor, doomed savage.

“Oh, your agreement is not necessary for my success,” the autarch told him with a sympathetic little frown. “And, sadly, you will not live to see its fruits. But you may rejoice in knowing that you were indispensable—that without you, the world would have remained lost in shadow instead of gaining the salvation of the great light of Nushash—or of Nushasha Sulepis, to be precise, for that is who it will be this time.” Now he favored the foreign king with the lazy smile of a predator too full to eat but not too stuffed to terrify a few lesser animals. “As I said, we will speak later, Olin Eddon—oh, we will speak of many things! We will be something like friends, don’t you think? For a little while, anyway. Now, go enjoy your bath and your supper.”

The man who had kidnapped Qinnitan had only to produce a few parchments from an oilskin envelope—documents with the seal of the autarch himself prominently displayed—and the sailors and soldiers on the great flagship Flame of Nushash scuttled to do his bidding. Just when she wanted life to slow down to the slowest crawl the immense Xixian bureaucracy could provide, everybody around her seemed to be swarming as busily and industriously as ants. The three of them were escorted up the gangplank by soldiers—some, she could not help noticing, in the same Leopard helmet that Jeddin had worn, the architect of her current misery. Why had she not denounced him the moment he had begun his mad talk of loving her? Because she had been flattered? Or because she had pitied him, glimpsing the fretful child she had once known inside the hard-muscled body of the soldier? Whatever the case, he had doomed her with his love as certainly as if he had drawn his dagger across her throat: this trip up the gangplank was only the ending of something that had been inevitable from the first moment of his foolish treachery and her equally foolish silence.