A warrior's joyrney

Chapter 15

He awoke in daylight, in a bright sunny room with a ceiling so lofty he could scarcely believe it. He was lying in a big bed between cool linen sheets, naked but for a breechcloth. He felt no pain, but was terribly weak.

The room was enormous. Sunshine poured in through a phalanx of windows four stories high. Other beds lined the walls, but all were empty. Someone close by made a noise, a little cough just loud enough to be heard. Tol slowly turned his head and beheld Valaran, seated in a tall wooden chair alongside his bed. She had an open scroll spread across her lap.

“You’re awake! Good! If you’d slept much longer, I would’ve run out of things to read.” She got up and held a beaker of cool water to his lips. He drank gratefully.

“I can’t believe it,” he said hoarsely. “What is this place?”

“The Hall of Healing, in the palace. How do you feel? Better?”

He allowed he did, and she awarded him one of her smiles. It vanished when she said, “You certainly know how to embarrass a girl!”

His confusion was plain, so she explained. “Last night you were carried into the palace, bleeding profusely. All you could say was ‘Valaran, Valaran,’ over and over. Draymon, commander of the Imperial Guard, sent for me. Father demanded a full explanation!”

He apologized, but she shrugged impishly. “It made for a lively evening. After I told mother and father how I knew you, they heard about the murderer you killed. The story is all over the Inner City.”

Tol said sharply, “Crake’s dead?”

“Yes. The guards were agog over your fatal thrust.”

Tol closed his eyes. He had killed Crake, one of his first friends, the free-spirited flute player whose skill with a bow had saved Tol’s life in the Great Green. The pain that flared in his heart was nearly overwhelming. Although he and Narren were friends, Tol had always been closer to Crake. Shilder were given few days away from training, but during his early days in Juramona, Tol had spent much of his free time with Crake’s family. They had lived in Juramona for four generations. How could he bring them such black news-that their son was not only dead, but had died an assassin, and by Tol’s own hand.

“I’ll let you sleep,” Valaran said, her voice penetrating his misery. She was rolling up a scroll on Silvanesti geography.

“No!” The word came out more harshly than he intended, but above all, he wanted her to stay. She ceased making preparations to leave.

The import of her earlier words suddenly sank in, and he realized an entire day had passed. “I missed the banquet! Prince Amaltar and Lord Enkian will be furious!”

“Well, it was quite an affair,” Val said, “thanks to you. Everyone was talking about you, Tol, even the emperor. The featherheads in the Consorts’ Circle were livid!”

He blinked several times, having trouble keeping up with her rapid changes of subject. “Why?”

“Because a dashing warrior from Juramona swooned on the palace steps, calling my name.”

Although her tone was mocking, she was blushing. Tol gazed at her face, his own misery eased by the light he saw in her eyes.

“I missed you after our excursion into the city,” he finally said. “You didn’t come to the fountain. I thought you were angry with me.”

“Why should I be angry?”

“Because I kissed you.”

“Oh.” She toed the silk slippers from her feet, letting the dainty footwear drop to the floor. She drew her bare feet up beneath herself, a very childlike posture. “I didn’t object, did I?”

He agreed she hadn’t.

“I couldn’t get out of the palace for two days. Father had everyone practicing day and night for the banquet.”

Careful of his injured left thigh, Tol turned on his right side, the better to see her. “Practice for what?”

“Our introduction to the crown prince. My two unmarried sisters and I were formally presented to him at the banquet.”

“But surely you’ve met him before? Seen him around the palace and such?”

Valaran looped fine hair behind one ear. “Of course, but my father has been trying to arrange marriages for us for some time. The crown prince, being crown prince, gets first choice of all eligible ladies.”

“Which one of your sisters did he pick?”

“Me,” she said, smiling. “All the nobles and ladies were talking about your fight, and how you called out for me. I suppose that influenced him. He’s never taken much notice of me before.”

Tol felt as though his wound had been re-opened with a red hot iron. “It can’t be,” he whispered.

“It’s true. I am to marry Crown Prince Amaltar at the next fortuitous conjunction of Solin and the constellation of Mishas.”

Tol sat up abruptly, almost losing his sheet. Pain lanced through his leg. “You can’t! I love you, Val!”

Her breezy manner evaporated. She hugged the geography scroll to herself and looked away. “I can, and I will,” she said. “It’s my duty, to my family and the empire. The crown prince has publicly chosen me. I can’t decline. To do so would ruin my entire family.”

“Don’t you love me?”

Her green eyes returned to his face. “Yes, I suppose I do.”

“Then we’ll leave Daltigoth-leave Ergoth altogether!”

She stood quickly. “No! Aren’t you listening? Can’t your dim provincial mind understand? If I humiliated the crown prince, my father would lose his head, and the rest of my family-mother, brothers and sisters, my nieces and nephews-all would be sold into servitude! Everything we own-land, servants, goods-would be forfeit to the crown. Everything!”

His eyes stung with tears. Closing them, he said, “Isn’t true love worth it?”

For an instant anger flared across her face, but compassion won out. “I’m sorry, Tol. I’m not some country lass who can leave the family farm for your sake.”

Tol wondered how he’d ever thought her too young for him. Just now, she seemed immeasurably older and worldly-wise.

She started to leave, but he caught her wrist and held on. “So you’ll marry the prince. Will you then be empress one day?”

“Oh, no. When Amaltar succeeds to the crown, one of his wives will be designated empress, but I’m not from the first rank of nobility. That’s why my father was so pleased I was chosen. The union will greatly improve our family’s standing at court.”

Tol released her. He could not take it in, could not understand the logic of it. Not only was the girl he loved being taken away, but she was wedding a man with many wives already.

Her cool hand rested on his forehead. “Don’t despair,” she said calmly. “We might still see each other. Amaltar does not love me, nor I him.”

He shivered, whether from anticipation, or fear, he wasn’t certain. “How can we be lovers if you’re married to the heir to the throne of Ergoth?”

Misunderstanding, she hastened to reassure him. “It shouldn’t be too difficult. Ardent Amaltar is not. He’s a cold cipher of a man, who’d rather hatch a scheme than woo a lady. Once we’re married, I doubt I will see him much more than I do now. Oh, I’ll be expected to have his children, but not for a while. We can be together if we’re discreet.”

He didn’t know whether to weep or laugh. Born and raised in the Imperial Palace, Val had lived her entire life surrounded by intrigue, marriages of state, and affairs of convenience. He wondered if she truly loved him, or loved only what he represented-the adventure of being with an outsider, someone rough, notorious, and perhaps dangerous.

Seeing him frown, Valaran put out a hand and touched his cheek. As she looked down at him, green eyes bright and a half-smile on her face, his doubts fled.

If Valaran would have him, he would be there. No other course was possible. She was a wound from which he would never recover.

Tol was up and walking in a few days. At first the only patient in the Hall of Healing, he had company from his second day on. A guard injured in a fall, a cook with burned hands, and the ten-year-old dyspeptic son of a courtier soon occupied other beds. They were kept well away from Tol, and they all received visitors. He did not. He was surprised Kiya and Miya did not come to see him, and stricken when Valaran did not return. Not till he was able to walk again did he discover why he’d been left so alone.

He hobbled past the long line of beds to the double doors and managed to swing one open. Barring the way were four of the Inner City Guard, bearing halberds. Politely, Tol was ordered back from the door. When he asked why he couldn’t go out, the corporal said only, “Orders.”

“Am I under arrest?” Tol asked, leaning his weight against the edge of the door and feeling extremely grubby next to the sleek, alert guards.

“Arrested persons go to cells, not the Hall of Healing,” replied the corporal.

Tol decided that meant he wasn’t under arrest. He asked if anyone had come to see him while he slept.

“No one can be admitted to see you.”

Tol was perplexed. “Why not?”

“Orders.”

Exhausted, he gave up. Returning to his bed, and ignoring the petulant complaints of the injured cook, Tol spent a feverish day trying to unravel his confusing situation. Evidently he was in trouble, but for what offense? The killing of Crake, though it weighed heavily on his heart, clearly had been an act of self-defense.

Inevitably his mind returned to Valaran. Betrothed to the crown prince, she was no longer just a girl in the palace, hiding in alcoves or stealing off to gardens to read. Wounded and weak, he’d given his feelings away. Prince Amaltar and Lord Valdid must know all, which would explain why he was being kept isolated.

These mental exertions left him in a sweat, spoiling his rest. Two days after his conversation with the guards, he was hollow-eyed with anxiety. The arrival of Lord Draymon, captain of the Inner City Guard, seemed to confirm his fears his life would soon be over. They must have decided to execute him for presuming to court a high-born lady.

“Arise, Master Tol,” said Draymon. “His Imperial Highness requires your presence.” Tol studied the captain’s face for clues to his fate, but saw only professional indifference.

Two palace valets had come with Draymon, and they laid out a complete set of clothes for Tol-not his usual soldier’s togs, but a handsome ensemble of crisp linen and gray leather, trimmed in imperial red.

“What’s going on?” he asked, keeping his voice even despite his fears.

“Crown Prince Amaltar requires your presence. Be quick. His Highness does not like to be kept waiting.”

Tol pulled off his sick-room shift and dressed. He was unfamiliar with some of the fancier items, but the valets smoothly fitted, buckled, and buttoned him into the outfit. Save for his lank hair, he looked quite the gentleman when they were done. Bypassing the new pouch they’d provided, he tied his old, rain-spotted one, containing the Irda millstone and Morthur Dermount’s sapphire ring, around his waist.

Lord Draymon led the way. Tol’s thigh still gave him a twinge, but he was on the mend, thanks to the skillful ministrations of the clerics of Mishas. They had applied healing poultices to his wound, drawing the soreness out and speeding the healing. Even so, he had trouble keeping up with the long-limbed captain’s stride.

The four soldiers by the door fell in step behind them. The ominous tramp of their booted feet made Tol all the more certain he was going to meet a dire fate. He questioned Draymon again.

“You know what I know,” said the captain. “I am to bring you to the Hall of Audiences.”

The public side of the Imperial Palace was quite spectacular. Everything was constructed on an enormous scale. Ceilings were ten paces high; walls were faced with tapestries or polished marble paneling; and intricate mosaics covered the floors. Lord Draymon conducted Tol through a series of corridors and antechambers before halting before a monumental double door that extended from floor to ceiling.

“Prepare yourself,” he said quietly. Tol’s heart contracted to a hard knot, but he squared his shoulders and thrust his chin out. Come what may, he would not dishonor himself, his mentor Egrin, or the good name of Juramona.

The massive doors swung inward. Draymon and the guards struck their heels together and strode inside in perfect step:

The audience hall was a very long room with a high, arched ceiling. All along Tol’s right were lofty windows, open to the summer air. Light streamed in through the towering arches, softening the harsh bas-relief sculptures of emperors, warriors, and generals, wrought far larger than life size on the facing wall. Like Amaltar’s tent outside Caergoth, the hall was alive with courtiers, favor-seekers, warlords, and foreigners. Loud laughter rang out from the back of the hall, where a group of richly dressed young men were tormenting a hapless servant, pushing him from side to side as he desperately tried not to spill the tray full of goblets he carried. With them, seated on a tall chair by the wall, was Prince Nazramin. In a posture eloquent of arrogance and disdain, he sat with one long leg thrust out, ignoring the inconvenience it posed to all who passed by. At his feet lay a huge mastiff, its coat closely clipped to reveal heavily muscled limbs. Scars on the dog’s chest and front legs showed that he was a fierce battler. Nazramin gave Draymon and Tol a brief sidelong glance, then kicked his dog’s rump. A loud growl erupted from the beast, and its brown eyes followed the two men with a chilling fixity.

A portly little man, not very old but bald as an egg, sidled up to Draymon, bowing.

“Who shall I say has arrived?” he asked in a light, lisping voice.

“Tol of Juramona,” the captain barked as though speaking to raw troops. “We are expected by His Highness!”

The round little man wasn’t at all impressed. “You will wait. I will announce you,” he said, bowing. He scurried away.

Tol asked who the fellow was, and the captain said, “Graybardo, fifth-or maybe sixth-chamberlain to the prince. Vain little weasel…”

Graybardo came hurrying back, quite red in the face. “This way, this way!” he said. “Hurry, please! The prince doesn’t like to be kept waiting!”

The armed guards remained at the door. Draymon unhitched his sword belt and handed it to his corporal, then he and Tol followed on the anxious Graybardo’s heels. They made an imposing pair, cleaving through the crowd like a couple of wolfhounds through a flock of brightly plumed birds.

Prince Amaltar was concluding a conversation as they arrived. Facing him was a delegation of three richly dressed Tarsans, two men flanking a woman. She was tall and raven-haired, wearing a tunic and trews of sky-blue silk. Her face and figure were at odds with the masculine cut of her clothing. Staring at her seductive profile, Tol had the feeling he’d seen her before.

“Gracious prince, those are the wishes of the Syndics,” she was saying, her voice smooth and rich as honey. “May I convey to them your answer?”

“Lady Hanira, decisions this weighty must be considered at length. My imperial father needs to be told of your proposals, and the Council of Companions must be consulted,” Amaltar replied coolly.

The ambassador from Tarsis bowed like a courtly swain. “I shall remain in Daltigoth four days,” she said. “I pray the gods counsel you to an answer before I must depart for home.”

She turned with a flourish and glided away. Onlookers gasped at the woman’s impertinence, turning her back on the crown prince. Her male comrades departed in the proper fashion, backing away, eyes lowered.

As Hanira swept by, Tol remembered her now from the tent at Caergoth-how she had stared so boldly at him. In passing, she did so again, and Tol thought he saw a flicker of recognition in her honey-colored eyes.

With the Tarsan delegation gone, Amaltar beckoned Draymon and Tol forward. He took a silver goblet from a tray borne by a waiting lackey.

“Draymon. Good, I’m glad you’re here. Welcome, Master Tol.” Amaltar suddenly seemed all kindness, but Tol was not relieved by his reception. Too often he’d seen Odovar or Enkian sentence prisoners to death with a smile and a gentle word. Those who exercised power often learned to put a soft face on their harshest rulings.

“That woman!” Amaltar exclaimed, once he’d drunk from the goblet “She has more”-he checked himself-”more nerve than all the men in the Council of Companions.” He set the empty goblet on the tray. The servant promptly whisked it away. “Do you know, she had the impudence to present an ultimatum! To me, crown prince of the Ergoth Empire! We sent a note to the Syndics of Tarsis, complaining about the high taxes they charge on goods they import from the empire. And what do you think their reply was? They’re doubling the tariff again!”

“Will there be war?” asked Draymon carefully.

“We shall see. Many crave war with Tarsis, if only to cleanse their influence from Hylo and the north.” Shifting his attention, the prince said, “You seem to he healing well, Master Tol. Doing better than the other fellow, eh?” Amaltar leaned forward and adopted a confidential tone. “You know,” he added. “My informants tell me this Crake had killed twenty-four opponents single-handed, including ten city guards. Tell me-how were you able to best him, Master Tol?”

Tol found such numbers impossible to credit, but he kept a calm face. “I was lucky, Your Highness. I lost my sword, but someone threw me another.”

The prince shot a glance at Draymon, noting the captain had colored like a handmaiden.

Amaltar smiled. “You’re just the sort of man I need. Skillful and lucky-an unbeatable combination.” He cast about, and not seeing who he wanted, shouted, “Valdid? Where’s Lord Valdid?”

Valaran’s father shouldered through the crowd behind Tol. “Here, Your Highness! I have the casque. I had to hunt all through the imperial stores to find it.”

Under one arm Valdid carried an old wooden box, the corners of which were reinforced with tarnished bronze medallions. He presented the dusty box to Prince Amaltar, who set it on his lap and raised the lid.

“Come forward, Tol of Juramona.”

Tol glanced at Draymon for elucidation. The captain of the guard was staring straight ahead and said nothing. Tol took a step closer to the prince, and was commanded to kneel. He sank to one knee.

Amaltar handed the box to Valdid and rose to his feet. When the crown prince stood, all conversation in the hall died. Tol felt several hundred pairs of curious eyes fixed on the back of his head.

“For outstanding service to the throne of Ergoth, by exposing Silvanesti plots in the Great Green and the capturing the chief of the Dom-shu tribe; for the defeat and death in single combat of the traitor Morthur Dermount, and for ending the career of the arch-criminal known as Crake, I, Amaltar Vorjurn Ackal Ergot, first-born son of His Imperial Majesty Pakin III, do hereby bequeath upon Tol of Juramona the Order of the Silver Saber!”

From the box, Amaltar lifted a heavy silver chain from which hung a thick silver disk. He draped this around Tol’s bowed head.

“I meant to give this to you at the great banquet,” the prince whispered, “but you were having too much fun in the courtyard to attend, eh?” Too stunned to reply, Tol gazed at the heavy silver medallion resting on the breast of his borrowed finery.

Amaltar stood back, and Lord Valdid indicated to Tol he should stand and face the throng. He did, and they broke out in applause.

Lord Draymon stepped forward and offered his hand. They clasped arms like old comrades.

“I thought I was going to be punished!” Tol said over the cheering.

“Just wait,” Draymon said wryly. “You have been!”

Amaltar sat down and called for a commission in the city Horse Guards. A blank parchment was found. Tol’s name was about to be filled in when Valdid stopped the scribe.

“Your Highness,” he said. “Master Tol is of common birth.”

“So? Every bull has the horns his father leaves him.”

“Of course, mighty prince, but the law enacted by Ackal II Dermount states no person of common birth may enter the Horse Guards.”

“Such laws do not apply to me!” Prince Amaltar declared. Valdid maintained his long face.

“They do, gracious Highness. Only the emperor is above the law.”

Murmured commentary among the onlookers increased, much to the crown prince’s annoyance. He stood. “Ridiculous!” he said. “Am I not my father’s co-ruler? Still, if they want the emperor’s hand on this act, they shall have it! Come, Master Tol!”

Above the crown prince’s throne, hanging from gilded ropes, were a series of curtains and tapestries which walled off the rear half of the massive hall from view. Dragging Tol along, and with a frantic Valdid in close pursuit, Amaltar charged through the hanging curtains, swatting them aside.

“Wait, Your Highness! Please, wait!” Valdid called in vain.

Amaltar perused the nest of cords and poles over head, then commanded, “This way!”

Baffled but obedient, Tol stuck close behind him. He found himself in a maze of rising platforms, each no more than a pace deep and separated from its neighbor by a shifting, soft fabric wall. As they climbed layer after layer, the curtains became progressively lighter, more sheer, until finally they were as filmy as clouds.

Tol looked at the ceiling. Below, it had been a good twenty paces away. Now that they had climbed up innumerable platforms inside the maze of hanging curtains, the roof was only half as distant The layers of curtains deadened the noise from the hall below, lending the high platform an eerie, isolated feeling.

Amaltar parted the last gauze curtain to reveal a large and ornate table, long and narrow, with at least fifty high-backed chairs along each of its two long sides. The air was warm and muggy, tinged with the acrid smell of incense.

“Father?” said the crown prince. “Father, it is I.”

Seated in the tallest chair at the end of the table, his back to Amaltar and Tol, was Emperor Pakin III. Tol went to his knees.

“Father?” said Amaltar, gently nudging the figure nodding in the chair. Pakin III stirred.

Tol stole a look. He could hardly credit that the gray-faced old man he saw was the vigorous ruler who’d received the adulation of the crowd in the palace courtyard just days before. His beard was whiter than Tol remembered, his face dry and colorless. He was still a large man, but in the courtyard had seemed powerful and strong. Up close he looked bowed by years and the weight of command.

“What is it?” Pakin said. Amaltar said a few words in the emperor’s ear. Pakin III nodded.

“Come here, boy.”

Tol came round the side of the great table and knelt again.

“Amaltar tells me he wants to give you the Order of the Silver Saber.” Tol held up the heavy medal for the emperor to see. “It is a rare honor. No one has been awarded it since the reign of Ergothas III.”

“I’m really not worthy-” Tol tried to say. Pakin HI cut him off.

“Tosh, boy. I’ve heard about you. Thanks to you, I was able to send the insufferable ambassador from Silvanost home with a flea in his ear. That alone was worth the Silver Saber.” A laugh rumbled deep within the emperor’s chest. “Better still, you settled Morthur for us. You’ve already done more for this throne than most of the noble warriors in Daltigoth.

“Amaltar needs a man like you. He’s a thinker, but he’s no warrior. Be his champion. Defend him from the wolves who circle the throne every day, seeking to snatch him from his seat. Will you do that?”

“I will do whatever Your Majesty commands,” Tol said fervently.

“Don’t give yourself too readily, boy. They are plenty of people in this land who will gladly take from you until nothing’s left but skin and bones!”

Pakin III settled back in his chair and folded his hands across his belly. He sighed, a gusty sound of great tiredness.

“To placate Valdid and the snobs in court, I’ll create you a lord of the realm. What is your full name?” the emperor asked.

“Just Tol, Your Majesty.”

“A sound name, but not enough for the velvet-robed nitwits around here.” The emperor closed his red-rimmed eyes briefly. “My ancestor, Ackal Ergot, was a savage who drank blood from the skulls of his enemies. Did you know that?”

Tol shook his head. The emperor laughed, saying, “Now they call him Ackal the Great. He was great, a great savage. It took a ferocious warrior to carve out an empire, and it takes new generations of cunning and bloodthirsty warriors to keep it going. If we don’t defend the empire, someone else will tear it from our hands, a worse savage than I or my son.”

“Father,” Amaltar said, trying to keep the emperor’s mind on his task.

“Yes, yes.” Pakin III extended a hand scarred by many a battle. “There was a warrior, one of Ackal Ergot’s boon companions. Your name starts out like his, so I’ll give you the rest of it.”

Clearing his throat, he said, “Arise, Tolandruth, Lord of the Realm, commander of the Horse Guards, champion of the House of Ackal.”

Tol stood, slowed by his aching leg, and by the full burden of a new name and weighty titles.

“Father,” Amaltar said, “didn’t Ackal the Great cut off Tolandruth’s head?”

“He cut off all his friends’ heads, eventually,” murmured Pakin III. In moments he was asleep again, snoring softly.

Amaltar and Tol departed. They found Valdid lurking outside the innermost ring of curtains. The crown prince relayed the news of Tol’s elevation.

“His Majesty’s will be done,” replied the chamberlain, bowing his head. “But it may not go well for Master Tol-that is, for Lord Tolandruth. The nobles of the empire are proud, Highness. They may not accept a newly made peer born of peasant stock.” Valdid nodded to Tol. “No offense, my lord.”

Tol blinked at the title, but said automatically, “No offense taken.”

The fact was, his head was swimming from his sudden change of fortune. He’d wakened this morning believing it might be his last day of life, and instead he’d been raised to nobility by the hand of the emperor himself, awarded an honor shared by the greatest warriors in the empire’s history, and named to command a prestigious body of fighters. He could scarcely take it all in.

Crown Prince Amaltar presented him to the crowd in the audience hall as Lord Tolandruth, commander of the city Horse Guards. The assembled courtiers and favor-seekers cheered, as was their wont, but Tol wasn’t fooled by their enthusiasm.

There were a few who didn’t bother applauding. Most of the silent ones clustered around Prince Nazramin, Amaltar’s younger brother, loafing at the far end of the hall. Since seeing Prince Nazramin abuse Valdid in the back halls of the palace, Tol had heard many stories of the prince’s monstrous pride and cruelty. The stony silence of Nazramin and his cronies seemed louder than the cheers of the crowd. Valdid’s prediction of Tol’s poor reception was already coming true.

Lord Enkian was thunderstruck. Gone was the eighteen-year-old foot soldier he knew, and in his place stood the new commander of the city’s mounted garrison, wearing the ancient Order of the Silver Saber, and Enkian’s own equal, Lord Tolandruth.

“I am bewitched,” Enkian said. “How can this be?”

“If it’s witchcraft, my lord, then the emperor cast the spell,” Tol replied. He was giddy with the ability to bandy words with his once forbidding liege.

The rest of Enkian’s entourage from Juramona stood by, likewise dumbfounded. Relfas asked, “So, you’ll not be coming back with us?”

Tol shook his head, grinning foolishly.

“Fantastic,” said Enkian. “Egrin will not believe it.”

Mention of Tol’s old mentor deflated his elation. What about Egrin? Would he never see him again? He thought fast.

“I have two requests for you, my lord,” he said to Enkian. “I’d like to send a letter to Egrin-will you see he gets it?” The marshal nodded, and Tol added, “I also want to keep some of the Juramona footmen here with me-as many as ten, if that’s all right.”

Enkian shrugged. “Keep them all, if you want,” he said, and Tol ignored the slight against his men.

The Juramona delegation was due to depart in two days. Tol would not begin his duties as commander of the Horse Guards- until the following day. In the short interim, he rounded up the foot soldiers from the canal quarter and told them his news. To his surprise, they already knew.

“The whole city rings with your name,” Narren said. “They say you were ennobled by the emperor’s own hand. Is it true?” Tol admitted it was.

He told them of his plan to keep ten men in Daltigoth as his personal retainers. To a man, they all volunteered. Tol chose Narren, then picked nine more based on special skills or talents they had. Tarthan, Allacath, Wellax, and Frez he chose as the four best spearmen in Juramona; Darpo and Lestan were the bravest and steadiest of the footmen; Fellen, son of a builder, was a skillful field engineer. Valvorn and Sanksa, formerly of the Karad-shu tribe, were gifted scouts and trackers. Only Frez and Tarthan were older than thirty, and all the men were fine warriors.

To the rest of the soldiers he was obliged to bid farewell. “Wherever service to the emperor takes me, I shall always be Tol of Juramona, a foot soldier of the Household Guard.”

The cheers raised for this declaration echoed from the blackened rafters of The Bargeman’s Rest.

After sending Narren off with money to find lodgings for his new retinue, Tol returned to the Inner City. He crossed the open courtyard, pausing before the Riders’ Hall. On a whim, he turned away from the hall and entered the wizards’ garden. It was growing dark among the elms and yew as he made his way to the Font of the Blue Phoenix.

She was there, curled up on the pool ledge. Tol moved silently up behind her, thinking a little scare would do Valaran good.

“Grown men shouldn’t tiptoe. You look silly,” she said, raising her head.

“I thought you were asleep.”

“No. Reading.” The light was so poor she had had her nose pressed to the parchment. “The Confessions of Milgas Kadwar. What nonsense! No one can reach Luin by ladder!” she scoffed.

He didn’t know what she was talking about, and didn’t care. He took her in his arms, lifting her bodily from the low marble wall. Valaran did not resist, nor did she return his ardor.

“You always have one thing on your mind,” she said.

“You inspire me,” he replied. He entwined his fingers in her thick brown hair and tried to kiss her, but she dodged him.

“We must be careful, Tol,” she chided, pulling back. “I’m to wed the crown prince in seven days.”

The words were cold water thrown in his face. “You don’t have to remind me!”

“You must be a man about this.” Valaran tucked her legs underneath and smoothed her robe.

He looked away at the fireflies glittering around them. “If I were a man, I wouldn’t let anyone take you away from me, not even a prince!”

“You’re a noble now, Lord Tolandruth, so start thinking like one. Poor people marry for love; nobles marry for advantage. Don’t confuse the two.”

Even as she said the harshly practical words, she laid her head on his shoulder, and his sullenness vanished. He stroked her smooth cheek.

“I will take a house in the city,” he whispered. “My men will be quartered there. Will you come and see me now and then?”

“What of your wives, the forest women?”

“You know,” he said earnestly, “they’re not really my wives. I’ve never touched them. They’re hostages to the good behavior of the Dom-shu tribe.” Realizing his words made Kiya and Miya sound unimportant, he added, “They’re like sisters to me, big, tough sisters. They take care of me in their own rough way, and they’ll take care of you, too.”

Hand in hand, they walked back toward the square, surrounded by dancing fireflies.

“Will you write a letter for me if I tell you what to say?” Tol asked.

The dimple appeared at the corner of her mouth. “Dismissing a girl back home?”

He told her about his old friend Egrin, warden of Juramona. “He’ll want to know what happened here, and I don’t trust Enkian to give him the straight tale. Egrin is the man who trained me in the art of war-and how to be honorable.”

“Why not send for him?” she said. “Make him one of your retainers. Many lords with less rank than you have twenty or thirty followers. You can afford eleven.”

“He would not come. He’s loyal to his place in Juramona.”

Val sighed. “Men’s loyalties make me tired. I’ll ask Amaltar to make it an order. Will that move your warden?”

“Yes!” he exclaimed, and slipped his arm around her waist. “You’d really ask the prince to assign Egrin to me?”

She stared up at him. “I’d do anything for you.”

In the deep shadow of the west wing of the palace, they kissed and reluctantly parted. Tol waited at the door of the Riders’ Hall, watching as Valaran’s slight figure was slowly engulfed by the darkness of the lane alongside the palace.

He went inside with a smile on his face. He did not notice that two floors above, an unlighted window in the Riders’ Hall silently closed.