05 The High City by Cecelia Holland

Author:Cecelia Holland [Holland, Cecelia]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWELVE

Tryggve said, “I’ve seen this. Don’t run. Whatever happens. Stay right here.”

“Run,” Raef said, startled. He looked around at the great hall. It was one of the largest buildings he had ever seen and yet it seemed light and airy as a tent. With the high ceiling, the towering walls and columns, the sunlight coming in through windows all along the top of the walls, it seemed made for somebody much bigger than he was. The rows of columns on either side were sheathed in gold and the floor again was of tiny tiles formed into patterns and shapes, people and animals, natural as if they lived. The polished stone of the columns on either side drew his eyes, smoky green and gray, streaked with white, flecked with gold. Again he remembered what Michael Lecapenus had said, You don’t even have words for this.

He was standing just behind Leif, in one of several long lines of Varangians filling the central hall. Three rows ahead of him was an empty stretch of floor, about ten feet deep, separated from the rest of the room by a silken screen that stretched from floor to ceiling, so sheer everything beyond it was visible through a golden haze.

Beyond the screen, across the empty stretch, the whole floor stepped up six feet into the air to a broad, deep platform, on which stood two thrones, both empty. The two thrones were tall, with high backs and heavy arms and swagged tops of fringed silk, every surface inlaid with jewels, so he had no idea what they were made of. Each had a plump cushion to sit on. On one cushion there was an open book. Beside each of the thrones a great brass lion stood, heavy-maned, with one paw raised. The teeth were made of something white, maybe real teeth. It was beautiful but he saw no reason to run.

The hall was rapidly filling with other men. On his left he saw the Ouranian Guard, which rumor said was moving over to Chrysopolis in a few days, crisp rows of black-crested helmets. Their chief officer was the Emperor’s friend Nicephoros Ouranos and he stood in the middle of them, his red helmet bright against their darkness.

Beyond them were other men, and apparently these were the reason for whatever they were doing here. Leif had called it a great reception, had talked him into coming, which was not hard, since the Greeks were paying them two silvers apiece for their presence. And he wanted to see the palace again. He was glad he had come.

Those new men were moving up to the front of the hall. His memory jolted him. All four of them wore white cloths wound around their heads, long robes, dark cloaks over one shoulder, and one especially reminded him of someone he had known in Kiev. The sheer golden screen rose out of the way, and they moved into the open space between the soldiers and the thrones on their platform.

One spoke, his voice tiny in the giant room, but clear.

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