Hishah bowed his head in thanks. “All preparations are made. The King Garach and his daughter will accompany you that you may be suitably attended. Your children realize the need for haste—the barge is waiting.”
“Good.” Carse turned on his heel, fixing Boghaz as he did so with a steely look.
“You will attend me also, man of Valkis. I may have need of you with regard to the weapons.”
Boghaz got his meaning. If he had paled before he turned now a livid white with pure horror but there was not a word he could say. Like a man led to execution he followed Carse out of the throne room.
Night brooded black and heavy as they embarked at the palace stair in a low black craft without sail or oar. Creatures hooded and robed like Hishah thrust long poles into the water and the barge moved out into the estuary, heading up away from the sea.
Garach crouched amid the sable cushions of a divan, an unkingly figure with shaking hands and cheeks the color of bone. His eyes kept furtively seeking the muffled form of Hishah. It was plain that he did not relish this visit to the court of his allies.
Ywain had withdrawn herself to the far side of the barge, where she sat looking out into the sombre darkness of the marshy shore. Carse thought she seemed more depressed than she ever had when she was a prisoner in chains.
He too sat by himself, outwardly lordly and magnificent, inwardly shaken to the soul. Boghaz crouched nearby. His eyes were the eyes of a sick man.
And the Cursed One, the real Rhiannon, was still. Too still. In that buried corner of Carse’s mind there was not a stir, not a flicker. It seemed that the dark outcast of the Quiru was like all the others aboard, withdrawn and waiting.
It seemed a long way up the estuary. The water slid past the barge with a whisper of sibilant mirth. The black-robed figures bent and swayed at the poles. Now and again a bird cried from the marshland and the night air was heavy and brooding.