The seneschal, whose name was Prokliam, bowed obsequiously. He knew that by custom the body of a royal Nadian floated down the River of Ice in the company of two living servants--one man and one woman--who would perish with him in the Place of the Dead. He knew also that he had been Jlomec's favorite and now lived in constant fear that the Princess Volna would decree that he, Prokliam, must accompany his dead master on the Journey of No Return, to serve him in death as he had served him in life. "Yes, lady?" the frightened Prokliam asked. "Bontarc, our king, grieves mightily for the dead prince," Volna said. "All Nadia grieves for Jlomec, lady," Prokliam said, and added hastily: "Although I must admit I do not grieve more than the next man. No, no, it is a mistake to think I was Jlomec's favorite." "Be that as it may Bontarc grieves so that for a while at least some of the affairs of state will be in my hands." "I hear and understand lady." "Good. If anyone comes--anyone at all, whether wayfarers from Ofrid or others--with news of how Jlomec 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.