"Then wake him. All Tamarizia totters to a fall unless we be ready in less than a single cycle, Rob."
"Zitu!" Robur stared. "Say you truly. How know you this, Jasor, my friend?"
Croft turned and pointed toward his couch. "I was told while my body lay there," he said quickly. "You call on Zitu in vain unless you give heed to my words!"
"Nay, not so. Come," replied Aphur's prince. "I myself shall take you to my father without delay."
That was a strange night in Himyra of Aphur, pregnant with the destinies of a nation—and nothing less. Jadgor, no king in seeming now, but a stern-faced man in a simple garment sat upon his couch while Croft revealed his knowledge of what Zollaria planned.
"By Zitu!" he roared at the end, "would Cathur dare this thing?"
"Aye—for the woman and Zitra's throne," said Croft.
"To foreswear his pledge to Aphur?"
"Aye."
"To surrender his state?"