lights revealed that many of the stone seats contained occupants; apparently the entire population of Ceipe had gathered this night to witness whatever bizarre festival or entertainment was intended to take place.
There was a weirdness, an atmosphere of approaching horror, about the silent throng, and a chill not caused by the night wind rippled along the spines of the two men.
Queen cene was not occupying the throne but stood at the foot of the dais supporting the great seat supposed to be a symbol of the ruling dynasty. In spite of her mail she was a beautiful figure, undisputably graceful and vibrant with life and charm. The lift of her proudly held head and the visible tenseness of her carriage seemed to proclaim that she was engaged in asserting authority of some sort. Her attitude, and the hush of the assemblage, was not lost on Rald's perceptive senses. Intuitively he knew Thwaine and he were the cause of the dispute.
Vulturous and malevolent as he had appeared in the light of day, Throal seemed even more menacing as he stood among the shifting gleams of the many torches held by the queen's personal guards, conscious of his powers and fully aware of the awe of those about him and Cene's repugnance.
Cene did not look toward the captives as they were brought to a halt just a few paces from the throne, but she must have known they had arrived; neither did she gaze at the wizard, though it was evident her remarks were addressed to him. Her pellucid eyes were fixed in an unwavering stare upon one of the many stars dotting the desert's sky about the ragged cliffs. The warriors were still as Death's angel and breathlessly awaiting the outcome of what must be, on the part of their queen, defiance to age-old custom and a dreaded overlord.
The captain of the escort stood directly in front of Rald. With a deft twist of his supple wrists he struck her across the buttocks with his chains. She leaped, involuntarily, but immediately regained her poise, bestowing upon the grinning prisoner a murderous glare holding unspoken threats.
The slight disturbance broke the tension.
"I will not condone your decision, O Throal!" declared Cene, finality in her voice. "I do not believe in this useless slaughter of men who have done us no harm. Since I was a child, I have dreaded the days when the goddess awakened; I have longed to end them for ever. We have become, under your tutelage, not a civilized, cultured country with decent inhabitants such as we once were, but a nest of cruel and vicious barbarians akin to the monstrous white apes of Sorjoon's cliffs, preying on unfortunate wanderers of the desert, cursed"–the concentrated gasps of the guards were plainly audible–"yes, cursed by a goddess who never bestowed anything upon the land of Ceipe but unholy terror!"
"You speak strongly, my queen," purred Throal, his countenance as suave and untroubled as his manner. The wizard's beady eyes roved over the bodies of the prisoners as if he were purchasing steaks in the market-place. They came to rest on the calm features and sturdy form of Rald, observing the latter's broad shoulders and depth of chest with a detached interest. "Could it be? No–certainly not! No queen of Ceipe would deign to descend from her throne to the level of a common mercenary!"
Even the flaring torches with all their deceptive lighting could not disguise the wave of crimson that spread over the
