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CHAPTER 8

      THE THRONE room burned with light. Fires roared on every hearth, the marble walls were hung with red silk, and every corner was ablaze with tapers.

      The dark, carved throne, that ancient seat of kings, had recently been gilded, and its depths made luxurious with furs and goose-down cushions.

      The courtiers who crowded the floor were as brilliant as the room. The men were gorgeous in emerald, sapphire, and violet. Short jackets hugged their bodies, then flared out into enormous, gauzy sleeves. Close-fitted trousers descended into high-heeled boots that were draped with dozens of gold chains, so long that they dragged the ground. The chains made walking difficult, but no matter; they were the height of fashion.

      The women, in dark-colored, deeply cut dresses, were even more encumbered. This season, their skirts were so long in front that they spread out like a train. At the back, they hiked up unbecomingly above the ankle; these dresses were designed to make backing out of the king's presence a graceful, easy process.

      King Dur lounged against the throne, shining like a prize jewel set among lesser gems. He was a handsome man, dressed even more brilliantly than his subjects in a red and gold jacket embroidered with precious stones. No care had been spared in adorning his person — his hair was elaborately curled, his cheeks were touched with rouge, even his nails were covered with thin sheets of gold. Only his cold, beautiful eyes betrayed the deadly creature that lay within that jeweled shell.

      The royal glance turned toward a dark-eyed man with the haunted face of a poet or a fanatic. "Rondeau!"

      The musician, who had been whispering into the languid ear of the pretty woman next to him, turned sharply. Dread washed over him; what had he done to attract the king's attention?

      "Majesty?"

      "I want music."

      Rondeau breathed again and loosed the stringed instrument that lay across his shoulders. "What is Your Gracious Majesty's pleasure?"

      "The new song."

      Once more, the musician felt fear. Dur had commissioned that piece himself — what if he didn't like it. Suppose it was too subtle for this gathering — or too broad. Here in the great hall, with the whole court watching, the king would be sure to inflict a public, humiliating punishment if he was not completely satisfied. "I-It's not . . ." Rondeau muttered, "I mean, the final chorus isn't . . ."

      "Sing!"

      With a nervous hand, Rondeau tuned his instrument. Then with the first chord, his sweet, strong voice rose above the other sounds in the hall:

      When I was a boy,
I knew the joy
Of battle's bloody slaughter.

      And I did not quake
To face the snake
That guards the Serpent's daughter.

      The men and women around him hushed their talk, and as the singer's voice rose and gained power, their faces turned toward the music, and a dreaming looked came over them.

      She sat alone
On her turquoise throne
To wait what fate had brought her.

      And I gasped with bliss
When I stole my kiss —
At last — from the Serpent's daughter.

      Leaning toward the singer like flowers to the light, they never felt the king's eyes, but Dur was watching them all. "The musician has done well," he thought. "I was right not to touch him, but only to corrupt him and leave him whole." Look at that fellow by the door, licking his lips; he's thinking of foreign kisses. And the old man beside him — he'd like to get his hands on the Serpent people's gold. The net is laid and they'll be caught. Before long they'll beg me to let them fight Ezzeen."

      For her eyes are green
And her look is keen
And her lips are sweet as water.

      Let the brave beware
When they storm the lair
Of the Serpent's golden daughter.

      "That young dog, Bravo, has already forgotten the battles he lost in Berachan," Dur thought, "He'd leave for Ezzeen tonight, if I said the word. And Flint, the miser, there by the fire. Even that dry stick would be willing to fondle a stolen captive or two. He'll open his moneybags for this campaign! And where they lead, the rabble will follow — or die for it. Yes, the musician has done well."

      It was true. Rondeau had poured all his dark emotions into that eerie music . . . .

      Now I cannot keep
My desires asleep,
And I sicken for love I taught her.

      My spirit misses
The poisoned kisses
I shared with the Serpent's daughter.

      Now whatever the pain,
I must taste again
The deadly kiss I brought her.

      For I left the soul
That made me whole
On the lips of the Serpent's daughter.

      As the last note died away, a deep, collective sigh slid across the room. For a moment their faces were all alike . . . hungry for something they could not have put a name to.

      Rondeau's head bowed to the silence. But when he looked up, he saw only the cold eyes of the king. "Teach your song to the other minstrels," Dur said with a nod. "And we'll send them out to let the people of Avianne hear your skill."

      "Then Your Majesty is satisfied?"

      Dur tossed him a purse. "You've earned your gold."

      Rondeau caught it and bowed gracefully. "Praise from Your Highness is the only tribute an artist needs."

      But Dur was no longer listening. With lips curved in a pretty smile, he had already moved out into the room to greet the men around him. "Flint, glad you could be with us tonight. Sit close to me at dinner — I want your opinion on great matters. And you, young Bravo, wipe off that sullen frown; we'll talk of Ezzeen tonight."

      The courtiers moved closer to their king. The floor seemed to move under their feet. The candles burned hotter. The men breathed more deeply, and the women's color grew higher under their paint, as if some inner voice whispered, "Life is a rotting fruit; taste it while you can. Nothing matters but tonight's hunger . . . and everything you crave is within your reach. Take it. Take it all!"

      The king was calling them.

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