“Wait.”
At Dolores’ word the guardsmen halted their rush. John fixed his eyes upon the regal figure rising from the throne.
With her rose-adorned staff, upraised like the scepter of the queen she had been declared, the girl-shade commanded silence. From her eyes, as from beacon candles behind dark panes, shone the light of determination. The time had come for her to test that early-morn resolve of matching her guile against that of His Satanic Majesty. The look she leveled upon him was too subtle for even his super-sense to define.
“Has Your Lowness duly considered?” she asked him. “You say you never waste power. This shade has proved at least initiative.”
“A powerful impudence, I call it, to break into our unhappy little home in this—ah—vehement manner and invite my intended, right before my eyes, to elope with him. He deserves the worst billet of the Hadean hordes.”
“Granted, sire. But if you draft him, isn’t he likely to distinguish himself among your conquering heroes? Is there not a warning in his show of fight?”
“Why a warning? What could he do?”
“They tell me that the hold you have on your military is in the princely rewards offered to your veterans. And has the Great-I-Am Himself a better name for keeping His promises than you?”
Crossing to him, Dolores met his combative look with an expression of affectionate concern.
“Don’t you see that you would put yourself under obligation to advance one whom, quite naturally, you wish to depose? Why not return him into the false security of Elysium? After you have come into your own, he will be one of your captives of state. You will then have the privilege of wreaking your dislike on him as you see fit. Look on him as end-of-the-season fruit. Let him ripen.”