The Carnelian Throne Read Online Free PDF Page A

Along the spear, his fingers spread, tensed, burned. The readiness ran tingling up his arm. Painstakingly, silent and slow, he rose up amid the jicekak, uncaring of the thorns raking his cheek. If he lived, he would find time to dress the itching scratches. Soundless, he maneuvered the spear, his forearm aching with restraint. Teeth locked, Deilcrit waited, setting and resetting his grip on the spear’s shaft.
    The foremost intruder was close. His leathers, much-used, were strangely cut, matched, once opulent. About his waist was a belt from which unfamiliar shapes and a scabbard, too long for a knife and too short for a sword, depended. On his legs were boots that reached to his thighs.
    Now, surely!
    The ptaiss murderer closed, inexorable, as if Deilcrit stood in the open, in clearest day. He thrust his arm, decided, forward. But his fingers could not release the shaft. The cast, aborted, marked his position beyond hope of escape. He stood gasping, rock-still, feeling the slide of the shaft in his slippery palms.
    The man, close enough now to be completely enshadowed, stopped. He tossed his head, and spoke in some unintelligible tongue, staring directly, it seemed, at Deilcrit’s benumbed form. Again that man-likeness spoke to him where he hid in the thicket. Deilcrit’s guts turned so violently that it was all he could do to keep his hold on the spear. With a great effort of will, he kept his body from doubling over and tumbling to the ground.
    Then, without thought other than the shame upon him, and the ending death would put to his pretenses and his cowardice, he stepped from the brush.
    The creature before him showed no surprise.
    Deilcrit, having fought evil and the spirit temptations all of his life, laid down his spear. It was a simple thing. He pried his fingers from the shaft and it fell on the ground between them. That the message be more clear, he followed it, his head pressed to the rank, salty earth. For a moment, he had met those eyes. There had been no fear, no mortality therein. Freed now of hope, of regret, Deilcrit awaited death.
    He heard the others join the one before whom he knelt. Under his left knee was a stone. It pressed against the nerves there. The red light of his inner lids turned grainy.
    The three spoke together. Then it seemed to him that his spirit was lifted gently from his body; that it was examined, considered. It felt odd, being relieved of spirit. A cool touch washed over his empty place, where spirit had been, as cool as the grass and earth beneath him. A final shiver of horror shook his frame, for it came to him that even death might be denied him, that he might be forced to live on, denuded of selfhood, servant to whatever force held him entrapped. He sent a plea to Mnemaat the Unseen that he might be allowed to give up his life rather than become some mindless tool of sinister purpose.
    Then a voice spoke to him in Beneguan.
    “We will not harm you,” said the voice, male and low. He heard it again, and the second time the words made sense, poking their meaning out through the unfamiliar accent like quenel, their black noses through the foliage at feeding time. Then the sense was gone, as the voice spoke to its companions. The female said a thing, of which he caught only the tone: concern and relief.
    Deilcrit ached to move. He could not. Grass rustled as the spear was removed from beside him.
    “Can you understand me?” came the male voice once more, slow and distinct. “Get up!”
    He raised his head slightly, enough to see their booted feet—and between them, the fire that defiled the bank and warmed the ptaiss’ corpse.
    A hand touched his shoulder. Without volition, his flesh quivered beneath it. “Can you understand me?”
    “Yes,” came the admission through his gritted teeth. The touch withdrew.
    “Stand up. Now!”
    Without warning, he was standing, not recollecting how he had come erect.
    His hand clutched his empty scabbard, forgetful. The knife was lost