Carse came down the corridor. He strode as though he owned the world, the cloak thrown back from his shoulders, his tawny head erect, his eyes flashing. The wavering torchlight struck fire from his jewels and the sword of Rhiannon was a shaft of wicked silver in his hand.
He spoke in the ringing tones he remembered from the grotto.
“Down on your face, you scum of Khondor—unless you wish to die!”
The man stood transfixed, his spear half raised. Behind him Boghaz uttered a frightened whimper.
“By the gods,” he moaned, “the devil has possessed him again. It is Rhiannon, broken free!”
Very godlike in the brazen light, Carse raised the sword, not as a weapon but as a talisman of power. He allowed himself to smile.
“So you know me. It is well.” He bent his gaze on the white-faced guard. “Do you doubt, that I must teach you?”
“No,” the guard answered hoarsely. “No, Lord!”
He went to his knees. The spear-point clashed on rock as he dropped it. Then he bellied down and hid his face in his hands.
Boghaz whimpered again, “Lord Rhiannon.”