died, they are to be brought at once
to me. Is that understood?"

"Yes, my princess." Prokliam the seneschal bowed low once more.

"Serve me well in this, Prokliam, and you will be rewarded in
measure."

Prokliam smiled. "I will be the personification of discretion," he
said boldly, baring his toothless old gums.

"Then perhaps I will still the rumors that you were the dead Jlomec's
favorite."

Prokliam dropped at the royal feet and touched his lips to the royal
toes. Then he bowed out of the room.

Volna stared for many moments at her beautiful face in the mirror.
Queen, she thought. She said it aloud:

"Queen Volna."

CHAPTER XIII

_The Journey of No Return_

Earlier that day, on the ice fields half a dozen jeks from Nadia City,
B'ronth the Utalian had sprinted boldly across the snow toward the
girl and her elderly male companion. This had taken considerable
effort, because B'ronth the Utalian had not been endowed with an
abundance of courage. But B'ronth was a poor man, as Utalia was a poor
country; a bag of gold would be a veritable fortune to him. Like most
cowards, B'ronth had one passion which could over-ride his timidity:
that passion in B'ronth's case was wealth.

The old man was fumbling clumsily for his whip-sword when B'ronth
hurtled at them. The girl screamed:

"Look out, Father Hammeth! Look out!"

B'ronth smiled. They would not see the smile, of course. B'ronth, a
chameleon man, was invisible. They would see his footprints in the
snow, true. They would know him for a Utalian and understand his
invisibility. But still the advantage of invisibility would be his. It
had always been so when a Utalian fought. It would always be so.

B'ronth leaped upon the old man even as he prepared to strike out with
the whip-sword. B'ronth was both naked and unarmed. The sword lashed
whining at air a foot from his face. B'ronth wrenched its haft from
the old man's hand. Hammeth stumbled back.

B'ronth swung the whip-sword. He was no duelist. A duelist would lunge
and thrust with the whip-sword, allowing its mobile point some degree
of freedom by controlling it deftly. A non-duelist like B'ronth would
hack and slash, the deadly sword-point whipping about, curling,
slashing, striking.

Hammeth held up his hands to defend himself. The whip-sword whined in
the cold air. The girl screamed. Hammeth's right hand flew from his
arm and blood jetted from the stump. Hammeth sank to the ground and
lay th