The harshness of the voice stopped them in midstep and turned them around. King Avallach stood with his hands on his hips, frowning down at them from a stairway. “Father?” Charis’ voice echoed in the vastness of the chamber.

“We are leaving at once. Go out into the forecourt and wait there for the carriages.”

Charis opened her mouth to reply, but Avallach turned and was gone. She stood looking after him.

“I will wait with you,” said Liban.

They waited together, neither one speaking very much, until it was time to leave. “Farewell, Charith,” called Liban as Charis climbed into the queen’s coach. This time her mother’s body was neatly wrapped in a scented linen shroud, prepared for burial. Again Annubi tried to intercede for her, but Avallach insisted she ride with her mother’s corpse alone.

An escort of Seithenin’s men rode with them all the way to Sarras, but the countryside remained peaceful and secure, and although they stopped to question farmers and merchants along the way, no one had seen a force of men such as Aval-lach described. Thus, news of Briseis’ death raced before them so that by the time they reached the Royal Way leading to Avallach’s palace, the road was lined with mourners, each waving a solitary olive branch.

Two days later Briseis’ body, dressed all in green and gold with a golden tiara on her brow, was carried in an open carriage beneath a canopy of green silk from the palace to the royal tomb.

The white marble tomb sat on top of a grassy hill and was reached by a long, switchback flight of stairs from the valley Below. The bier was drawn by a team of black horses and was led by three chariots, each pulled by a matched team of blacks with long black plumes affixed to their harnesses. Avallach, Kian, and Maildun each drove one of the chariots and Eoinn, Guistan, and Charis rode with them.

The route from the palace descended through the apple groves and passed through a wood before reaching the hillside stairway. Charis stood beside Maildun, grim and silent, while the chariot made its way down from the palace, through the streets of Kellios to the hilltop tomb. When the funeral procession reached the wooded valley, she turned to see the throng of mourners stretching back all the way along the road to Kellios.

Something about the scene made her stare. What was it that looked so familiar? she wondered. An instant later she was pierced by the certainty that she had seen it before: the chariots, the black-plumed horses, the people following the bier-it had all been revealed to her in the murky, swirling depths of the Lia Fail.

Charis’ mind squirmed and she swayed on her feet. Her hands gripped the chariot rail and she lurched against the side of the vehicle. Maildun took one look at her suddenly-pale features and said, “Turn around; you make yourself sick twisting around like that.”

She straightened and turned her eyes back to the road ahead and the white tomb shimmering on the hill in the night noonday sunlight. “Charis, what are you doing?” Maildun’s voice buzzed in her ears. She looked at him and his image wavered in her sight like that of the tomb shifting in the waves of heat off the hilltop. “Charis?”

I have seen this before, she thought and remembered that she had seen something else that day as well-a wild dark man dressed in pelts, with prophecy on his sunburned lips. I saw him; I saw Throm. I saw my mother’s funeral… I saw it all, and I did nothing to prevent it. I saw but did not see.

Briseis’ body was carried slowly up the long stairway to the tomb, where it was placed on a marble stand bedecked with green silk and garlands of flowers. The royal family stood to one side while the people of Saras filed past, weeping profusely in a great demonstration of grief and calling on Bel to carry the soul of their departed monarch in his blazing chariot into the underworld’s Shadow Realm.

At length the body was borne away to a great stone sarcophagus deep in the underground vaults of the tornb. Magi supervised her interment by torchlight, chanting the droning death songs to ease the soul’s passage into the Otherworld while they made the final important preparations, fitting the queen’s body for its everlasting journey. Charis’ endured the ceremony impassively, her lips pressed firmly together.

At last the massive stone lid was slowly lowered over the queen’s body and fitted into place, sliding down into the grooves with a grinding hollow thump. As the others turned to go, Charis crept from her place and stepped to the sarcophagus. She slipped the jade bracelet from her wrist and placed it atop the carven image on the lid. She followed the others from the tomb, stepping into the gathering dusk.

Cybel’s disk loomed above the eastern horizon, pale and swollen. The valley lay in deep blue shadow and the air breathed with night’s chill. Without looking back Charis started down the steps. “Rest well, Mother,” she murmured to herself. “I loved you.”

Listen! in the silence of these sunlit afternoons I hear the cries of the blood-drunk throng rising to heaven like a chorused prayer. I hear my name on the lips of the crowd. “Charis! Charis!” they call, shaking the stadium with the thunder of their demand. “The triple! Do the triple, Charis!”

And I am standing alone in the white sand of the ring, my body oiled and gleaming hard in the bright sun, arms upraised, drawing the adulation of the crowd, feeding on it. The air is sharp. It stings my lungs and nostrils as I breathe.

Pain quickens me. I throb with it, and with excitement. I tremble. Listen to them! They cry for me. For me!

Charis! Charis! Charis!

We are the Gulls and I am captain. We have danced well today; no one has been hurt. Let the crowd roar with delight. We are the Gulls; we are the best. And we have given our best today. Let them scream for more-there will be no more today. Let others dance for their amusement; we have given all aed we are finished.

I nod and the rest come running onto the sand to stand with me. Hands clasped, we raise our arms in the air. The Gulls! We turn slowly. The crowd rises. The noise is deafening.

And now it comes, the shower of gold and silver. I release my dancers to run and gather it, but I do not move. I stand with head high, sweat streaming down my sides, the sun hot on my brown skin. I stand and with the force of iny presence bring forth the rain of treasure: rings and bracelets, chains of gold and braided silver, orichalcum bowls and cups inlaid with pearl. It all comes falling from the stands and we scoop it up. Why not? It is our right.

We are the Gulls! Do you know what that means? We are the best. And I, Charis-I am the best of the best.

The Royal Temple of the Sun in Poseidonis was an immense double triangle, one superimposed on the other, rising in columned terraces, white stone shining in the sunlight, red-gold orichalcum spires gleaming like needles of bright fire against an aqua-blue sky. Magi swept through the cool, shadowed corridors like restless spirits in their white robes or gathered on the terraces to discourse to flocks of docile neophytes.

Charis, dressed in a billowy yellow shift, gold clinking at her slender neck and wrists, moved along the tall columns of the terrace, her tan feet in white leather sandals that slapped the cool stone as she went. She knew there would be a confrontation, expected it, and was ready.

Twice in as many months she had been called before the Belrene, the Mage Overseer of the bull pit. The first two times there had been vague warnings she chose to ignore. This third time there would be no warning.

She reached the arched doorway between two red-lacquered columns and pushed into the Belrene’s rooms, slipping by his two neophyte servants before either could lay a hand on her.