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cloak lay draped over her throne.
    Marric's guards prodded him in the back, then pushed him down in the full, over-elaborate prostration on which Irene, a lady jealous of her dignities, had always insisted. Before they could keep him there, Marric rose to his knees.
    His eyes locked with hers, a glance that sent hatred down the length of the hall, robbing it of some of its beauty. A breeze from the great windows carried the incongruous freshness of roses.
    The men cursed. One began to bend Marric's stiff neck for him.
    "Kiss earth, prince," the man muttered. Before he could stop himself, Marric spat a few words he had learned from the Huns. The man backhanded him, and blood trickled from his split lip.
    "Stop that."
    Irene stood. She raised her hands. Marric saw that she held in them a twisted glitter of opals, rubies, and moonstones—the splendid collar Ctesiphon had affected the night of his death. The goldwork was mangled from the hooves that had tramped Irene's son to death.
    Can I make her angry enough so that she will kill me quickly? As Irene approached him, Marric launched himself up from his knees at her. Perhaps one of the courtiers would stab him.
    Fever had left him too weak to fight. A soldier hurled him off-balance. Marric fell heavily, unable to rise for the minutes it took for a pleased Irene to make a leisurely circle about him. No one laughed.
    "Prince Marric," she mused in that heavy accent that had always reminded Marric of a camp follower from Aleppo. "You come before me in disarray. I am surprised."
    He heard her approach more closely and tensed his belly muscles for the kick that must surely come.
    "Are you surprised that I appear before you at all? I assure you, I do not do so of my own free will." From where had he gained that new, measured dignity? He sounded like his father. Well, it would probably pass before the end.
    "Raise him," Irene ordered. After he had been dragged back onto his feet, she spoke again.
    "This meeting has cost me much." She displayed the ruined collar.
    "I wish it had cost you your life."
    He had been foolish to say that, he realized instantly. Nails raked his cheek. He smelled the perfume she wore—musky and too sweet. At least Alexa had seen to it that Ctesiphon would not live to rule as his mother's puppet. Had Irene truly loved her son, or only the power he might buy her?
    "You murdered Horus-on-Earth!"
    "My father was Horus-on-Earth. You betray him," Marric told her. "He acknowledged your whelp, that much is true. But how do we know he wasn't the get of some charioteer—or a slave?" Or some demon. Marric tensed, awaiting the scream of rage, the blow that never fell. He heard the mutterings of Irene's courtiers and raked them with his eyes. Traitors, all of you.
    "So now, what do you do, Isis? You have no consort, and yet you must have one. Will you take the Reaver-jarl of Jomsborg to your bed? The empire will never accept him."
    "You remain—"
    "I?" Marric spat bloody froth on the tiles and bit back the retort that he would rather be a eunuch. Such could be made all too easily, and he preferred to die a whole man.
    "I can give you power," Irene said. "Look!"
    Red light burned at her finger tips.
    "You tasted my power in your cell, did you not? The power to bend, to control emotion, to rule forever—"
    "Powers of Set," Marric whispered. "Why?"
    "To confirm my rule, Marric. To keep it and enjoy it for a thousand years. Why rule for just one lifetime?" She stepped closer to him and ran her hand down his bare chest. Marric stood motionless.
    Irene raised his chin in fastidious, disdainful fingertips. He had no choice but to look at her. Even at arm's length, he could smell the oils with which she anointed herself.
    How could this woman be his stepmother? How old was she? Irene looked as if she had not aged a single day since Alexander had installed her as a minor wife. Marric was almost grateful for the pain that kept him from responding to the promises of sense, voice,