Chapter nineThe circular room gleamed whitely all about me. Walls, floor, ceiling — all shone with polished whiteness. The shuttered door through which the hissing chair had brought me closed. A last wash of red light vanished. I had seen no sign of the green of Ahrinye, or of the glorious golden yellow of Zena Iztar. Now the whiteness of scraped bone enfolded me.
At the center of the room a single-legged round table rose into view. A flagon and goblet rested on that white surface.
Without waiting for an eerie unseen voice to bid me drink, I went across and poured. Red with that promising tint of blueness, the wine went down smoothly enough. I mentioned Mother Zinzu the Blessed.
When at last it sounded, the voice rustled like the sere leaves of autumn. “Dray Prescot!”
“I’m here.”
“The
