Through one dusky crack in the clouds an evening star looked down bleakly upon mist-capped Mount Atla and an ominously quiet city. In a mood as gray as the twilight, Salustra entered Tyrhia’s apartments. She found her sister, Signar and Brittulia together in a charming little court that commanded an unbroken view of the turbulent sea. Tyrhia’s soft laugh quivered in the warm and perfumed air as she stood before a bird cage. With a finger, inserted through the bars, she prodded the bird gently, laughing joyously at its terror. Beside her stood Signar, his eyes moving speculatively over her pretty figure. Brittulia was stringing a broken necklace of Tyrhia’s on a golden chain, happily oblivious of the conflict going on around her. Salustra moved toward her sister, and then a faint frown touched her forehead. “Thou art frightening the poor wretch, Tyrhia,” she said sharply. “Hast thou naught to do but torment the helpless?”
