Publisher's Synopsis
Artemisia peered at the ghostly throne. She saw how it drifted beyond the unsteady orbits of her vision. The only lofty and spotless throne was now blood-smeared and begrimed. She felt herself shrinking back from the horizon's iron gaze, which magnified the dimming light of Xerxes' lost glory. She imagined the silver visages of the Immortals. She saw them contract as the fog spread its phantom wings and enfolded everything. She heard sounds. But then all was silence again. Suddenly, a pair of feet crunched before her. She resisted the urge to look up and see who it was. The feet remained before her, rigidly still. Not a single muscle shifted in each leg. Artemisia's eyes glazed over with ill-concealed dismay. The feet before her then resumed their nightmarish tread. They moved closer to her. But still she resisted the urge to dart her eyes skyward and see who it was. She feared that she would only see Xerxes. As the feet were about to block the fleeting passage of her breath, she slowly directed her gaze upward. It was not Xerxes she saw, but a man unknown to her who peered down at her knowingly. The man held her gaze like wine in a preciously adorned goblet. His gaze suffused the tremulous depths of her fear with a ray of elusive certainty. She knew that she had to drift farther away from the throne. She saw a skeletal column of gray consume her entire field of vision. Her entire field of vision was reduced to a sharp bar of light on the horizon, as though lightning flashed suddenly and then stood frozen, in stasis. The man became as elusive as before.
