The Wizard's Fate

Chapter 10

Tol had hoped for an invitation to stay in the imperial palace, but none came. When he complained, Kiya told him sternly, “Given so many mysterious attempts on your life, I’d think you’d welcome a little distance between yourself and the palace.”

After seeing Mandes again, Tol more than ever believed that the wizard was behind the strange incidents that had threatened him, but as usual, the Dom-shu woman was right. They spent a day searching for accommodations.

The inns were already brimming with the thousands of visitors who’d come for the funeral and coronation. Even if they hadn’t been, Tol required more than a simple roof over his head. Whether he liked it or not, he needed a place worthy of Lord Tolandruth. Unfortunately, few homes remained available for rent.

In the end, it was Miya, the champion haggler, who found a suitable place. She took a turn through the marketplace and acquired new suede boots, a cask of Ropunt lager for half the usual price, and a tip on a house for rent.

“There’s an empty villa in the Quarry district,” she announced. “Cost you nine gold pieces a day.”

The price was good for an entire villa, but the Quarry district was not exactly prestigious. Located just east of the Inner City, it was a vast bowl-shaped hollow left after the stone for the imperial palace was mined out. Over the years, it had filled with houses built tall and narrow to fit in the pit. Most of its residents were artisans, and though some were quite wealthy, the Quarry district did not compare to the Inner or Old cities as locations of distinction.

Tol made his displeasure plain. Since leaving the palace they’d tramped the busy streets of Daltigoth, all their possessions borne on the shoulders of hired porters. The endless circling through the streets, together with the crowds that collected wherever Tol went, had frayed his nerves. Living in the wilds for so long, he’d forgotten how claustrophobic life in the city could feel.

“Listen to you!” Miya chided. “Worried about an unseemly address, are you? Pretty high and mighty for a lad from Juramona!”

“Farm boy,” added Kiya, eyeing him narrowly.

He glared at them for the space of two heartbeats, then a sheepish smile broke over his sweaty face. They were right. The Quarry district certainly was better than wandering the streets like a homeless acting troupe.

When they arrived, they found the district to be relatively quiet. Winding their way through the narrow, steep lanes to the address Miya had been given, the only sounds they heard were the tap of tinsmiths’ hammers, the creak of baskets being woven, and the hum of potters’ wheels. The peacefulness appealed to Tol, as did their proximity to the palace. He apologized for his earlier churlishness and commended Miya on her choice.

“All I sought was a bargain,” she replied.

The white wall of the Inner City rose nearby, putting most of the Quarry district in shadow though it was only early afternoon. Miya’s find was located in the easternmost section of the former stone pit, the side farthest from the looming wall, and it was perched on the highest part of that area, a place fittingly called Noonday Ridge. The villa was in fact a mansion, the largest house in the Quarry district. Its rambling ground floor was surmounted by a much smaller second story, which was surrounded by elevated gardens. The whole house was encircled by a stout stone wall topped with a row of iron spikes.

The small caravan entered a courtyard. Miya pulled up the “To Let” sign and tossed it into waist-high weeds. No one had lived here in quite a while.

They were admitted by an elderly woman caretaker. Inside, the doorways were curiously low, just barely tall enough to allow the Dom-shu sisters to pass through without stooping. The old woman explained the villa had been built by a wealthy dwarf merchant named Rumbold. He had gone on an expedition to the east to buy iron four years ago and never returned.

The porters deposited Tol’s chest of pirate treasure in the hall. Miya paid off the men and the caretaker, and they departed. Tol sat down on a low settee, leaned back, and exhaled gustily.

Kiya took hold of his chin and squinted into his eyes. “You’re exhausted. You should go to bed,” she announced.

He did feel drained of strength. The long campaign, the journey from Tarsis, the fight with Xanka, the tragic loss of Felryn and Frez, all of it hung around his neck like shackles. Seeing Mandes again had stirred up a mighty anger, but that wasn’t an antidote to all the travails of the trail. Worse, the deep wound in his heart left by Valaran’s long, unexplained rejection had opened anew. She had barely acknowledged his longing gaze. He didn’t know how to stanch his emotions.

Miya set the cask of Ropunt lager down at his feet. Her agreement with her sister’s prescription was plain. Grateful once more for the women’s support, Tol took Miya’s hand. With her other, she reached over and tousled his hair.

“Rest, husband,” she said roughly. “You look like you’ve walked all the way from Tarsis!”

Although it was only four marks past midday, Noonday Ridge was submerging in the shadow of the Inner City wall. Tol hunted through the dim, dusty corridors of his new home until he found the master bedchamber. Rumbold’s bed was generously sized for a dwarf’s but barely accommodated Tol’s modest height. He drank only a single cup of lager before succumbing to sleep.

The brass mug, bearing the arms of the lost dwarf’s line, fell from Tol’s slack fingers. It landed with a dull thump on the rug and rolled to a stop against the wall.

Half a league away, at a far more stylish address, the master of the house was in his private sanctum. Heaps of curling scrolls spilled off tables onto the floor, mingling with trays of half-eaten food. Everywhere the eye fell there were goblets stained with the dregs of many days’ wine. No one was allowed in this room to clean it, and the occupant of the high-backed chair was too lost in thought to care about such mundane matters.

Mandes pressed the tips of both forefingers to his temples. Before him was a shallow silver pan filled with gently steaming liquid. He sprinkled various colored salts in the pan, noting how the swirling patterns changed with every addition. His lips barely moved as he whispered the words of power.

At last, he commanded, “Show me.”

The lines of color resolved themselves into a scene-a kitchen or dining hall. The object of his surveillance was seated at a rough table, sawing at a roasted boar’s leg with a long knife.

“Come, voice,” Mandes breathed.

“-and make a fool of himself,” said a female, someone not in view. “He could lose everything!”

The woman Mandes watched put down her carving knife, the boar’s leg forgotten. “He wouldn’t do that,” she said. “Our husband may be lovesick, but he’s not stupid.”

The unseen speaker snorted loudly. “This is no ordinary woman, sister! She’s the emperor’s wife!”

Mandes leaned forward, intrigued. Lord Tolandruth was still in love with Princess Valaran? That was a most interesting revelation.

A discreet knock on the door did not rouse him at first. Only after it was repeated several times did he realize the sound came from his own environs.

“What is it?” he barked, looking up from the pan.

The tall door opened a crack. A servant stood in the wedge of light created by the open door.

“You have a visitor, master.”

“What is my first rule, Valgo? Never disturb me when I am in this room!”

Valgo bowed hastily, but said, “The visitor is high born, master, and most persistent-”

“They’re all high born!” Mandes sighed wearily. His breath disrupted the image in the pan and the liquid turned muddy brown.

Irritated, he rose from his chair, determined to give his impertinent caller a case of boils. When he drew near the partly open door, he realized Valgo sported a rapidly swelling black eye.

“What happened to you?” Mandes demanded.

The servant’s gaze flickered quickly back over his shoulder, a final attempt to warn his master, but it was too late. The door was shoved hard and flew open, just missing Mandes’s nose. A lean, red-haired man dressed in blood-colored leather stood at Valgo’s shoulder.

The sorcerer hastily erased his outraged expression and bowed. “Your Highness! Welcome to my unworthy house.”

“Did you really think you could keep me out?”

“Of course not. You’re always welcome, Highness.”

Prince Nazramin, half-brother of Amaltar, swaggered in, shoving the cowering Valgo aside. Looking over the clutter of manuscripts and magical paraphernalia, the prince sniffed.

“I thought you had a woman in here, and that was why you didn’t want any visitors.”

“So I did, gracious prince.” Mandes gave his best, oiliest smile. “Two women, in fact.”

“Conjuring up company, eh? Saves paying them, I’ll wager.”

Nazramin took Mandes’s own chair. With a single stroke of his quirt, he swept the table before him clear of its clutter. The scrying pan and several scrolls hit the floor. Liquid from the pan splashed the priceless scrolls before they rolled under the furniture.

“Attend me,” said the prince loftily. “We have much to discuss.”

Lips locked in a rictus of forced hospitality, Mandes dispatched Valgo for refreshment. He shut the door and slid the bolt into place.

Nazramin was seven years younger than Amaltar and a far different sort of man. While Amaltar had been groomed from birth to serve the empire, Nazramin had never served anyone but himself. He had made himself the living embodiment of all the cruelty and arrogance of the Ackal dynasty-which to Nazramin meant all the power and glory. Vigorous, ambitious, hated and admired in equal measure, Nazramin stood at the head of a sizable faction of Ergothian warlords dissatisfied with Amaltar’s cold, scholarly ways.

Mandes stood before the prince, hands folded and eyes lowered. Nazramin stared up at him, chewing on his thick auburn mustache.

“So the pig farmer has returned,” Nazramin said at last. Mandes gave a slight nod. “Your vaunted magic did not stop him.”

“My efforts took their toll, Highness. The country priest from Juramona perished in the mountains, and one of Tolandruth’s favorite retainers died before Thoragoth.”

“You killed a pair of cubs and spared the lion.”

The sorcerer’s bland smile hardened. “Lord Tolandruth spared himself, great prince. He is not an easy man to defeat.”

Nazramin lashed out with his quirt. An Ackal family heirloom, the quirt was made from the hide of a bakali chief slain in personal combat by Ackal II Dermount. The braided lizard-leather whip split Mandes’s cheek like a rotted peach; with a cry of pain, he fell to the floor.

“Never call that peasant filth ‘lord’ in my presence!” Nazramin roared. “Do it again and I’ll have you flayed alive!”

Mandes looked up at him through eyes half-blind with tears. Blood ran down his neck. With shaking hands, he pulled a fine linen handkerchief from his sleeve and dabbed at the burning wound. He said nothing. Explanations and apologies would merely make the volatile prince even angrier.

The sight of the cringing man pleased Nazramin, and he mastered his wrath, leaning back in the chair again. “You should know better than to say that to me, sorcerer,” he said evenly. “Get up.”

Mandes clutched the table and pulled himself to his feet. He was still shaking, as much from shock as from the pain. No one had dared to raise his voice to him in years, much less strike him. Rich and influential beyond his fondest dreams, he suddenly realized how ephemeral his status was before a prince of the realm.

Placing one booted foot on the empty table, Nazramin said, “You assured me your spells were infallible. How did the peasant escape?”

“At critical points, the conjurations weakened or failed completely. I cannot explain it.” Mandes spoke haltingly, cradling his bleeding face. He cleared his throat and went on. “I thought the priest Felryn was protecting him with counter-spells, but Felryn died and the protection continued. Tolandruth must have other protection-probably an amulet or talisman. If this artifact could be removed-”

“Talisman, eh? What would it look like?”

The sorcerer explained the protection could take many forms. Commonly amulets were disks of metal inscribed with magical symbols, but they could just as easily be rings, jewels, or even a sword or enchanted dagger.

“My eyes at court tell me the pig farmer is carrying an unusual sword,” Nazramin mused. “It’s made of some sort of special metal, said to be harder than forged iron.”

“If you procure it, Your Highness, I could try my magic against him once more.”

A knock sounded at the door and Valgo begged permission to enter. Mandes unbolted the door, and the servant brought in a tray of amber nectar and sweetmeats. Nazramin took a tall, thin goblet of nectar and ignored the food.

Mandes looked longingly at a glazed walnut but chose a piece of soft, sugared cake. He took small bites and chewed carefully, mindful of his stiffening jaw.

“Our common foe has another weakness, Highness,” he said. “Princess Valaran.”

Nazramin laughed harshly. He used two very vulgar words to describe his brother’s wife. Mandes colored.

“We know that already. After the lies we have fed her, she might kill the peasant for us,” the prince said. He picked up the second goblet, Mandes’s serving, and drank it down as well. “I should love to see that!”

“There might be a better approach, Highness. Tolandruth will certainly seek her out under furtive circumstances. If caught together, both their lives would be forfeit, and only the emperor would bear the blame for their deaths.”

Nazramin blotted droplets of nectar from his mustache. “You’re a devious wretch, aren’t you, sorcerer? How can you insure they meet? I already have the princess watched at all times, but why would Tolandruth risk it after all this time? Surely he has other women.” He leaned forward, becoming caught up in the plot. “You could make a potion, an aphrodisiac. I’ll see it’s put in Valaran’s food-”

“That won’t be necessary, my prince. Just bring them together. Their natural passion will accomplish the rest.”

“After all this time, she detests the peasant bastard!”

Mandes had little experience of love, but he understood human nature far better than his noble patron. Valaran hated Tolandruth because she believed he had betrayed her by having a child with the forester woman Miya. Nazramin had forged that lie in a letter from Tolandruth to her ten years ago, and had reinforced it with more forged letters. Valaran had cut off all communication, and Mandes had taken pains to intercept Tolandruth’s letters to her, which dwindled over the years.

Now, if the couple was brought together and the truth revealed, their passion would rekindle tenfold, fanned by the misunderstanding and their long separation.

Nazramin was content to leave the details in Mandes’s hands. The prince said Valaran would provide a potent diversion while his agents got their hands on Tol’s saber, in case it was the talisman Mandes suspected was shielding him from his spells.

The prince was not yet ready to depart. He demanded to see the progress of their other ongoing project. When Mandes hesitated, Nazramin tapped the quirt weightily against the palm of his hand. Bloody handkerchief still pressed to his face, the sorcerer acquiesced with a bow.

On the room’s rear wall was a shelf piled high with pots of dried herbs, mineral powders, and trays of rough crystals. Mandes faced this wall and traced a sigil in the air with his left hand. A vertical line of light appeared, widening steadily as the hidden door opened in the seemingly solid stone wall.

Beyond was a niche lit by a smoky oil lamp. Within the niche was a black-draped table on which rested a statuette two handspans tall. Made of dully glinting gray metal, the image bore the unmistakable features of Nazramin’s elder brother. Affixed to the statuette were two screw clamps, one compressing the figure’s head, the other its chest. Every day Mandes tightened the screws a half turn. Every day, Amaltar grew a little more ill.

“Splendid,” the prince said, and smiled.

“A crude method, but effective,” agreed the wizard. “Almost no one uses image magic any more. Too easily countered if discovered.”

The prince approached the statuette. “Oropash and his people can do nothing. My brother has lost all confidence in their abilities.” He rubbed a finger over each of the clamps, his touch as delicate as a woman’s. Resting his finger on the statuette’s middle, he looked back at the sorcerer, eyes aglitter. “Add a third one. On the belly.”

“As you wish, great prince.” Mandes bowed, but warned, “If too many clamps are used, the emperor will sicken too quickly, and people will suspect his weakness is not natural.”

“How long can he live with the current arrangement?”

“As long as Your Highness wants-a year, two years-or a day.”

Nazramin slowly took his hand away from the cruel, merciless clamps and straightened. “I can wait,” he said. “Many of the older lords feel the loss of my father, and they’ve transferred their sympathies to Amaltar. As time passes and he becomes weaker and more useless, more and more warlords are weaned to my side.”

With a final, feral grin, Nazramin gathered up his dark cloak and departed in a rush.

Left alone, Mandes hunted up a jar of ointment for his wound. Nazramin had been a good client for many years. Mandes could credit his rise in Daltigoth to Nazramin, to the many jobs performed for the prince, the public ones for all to see and the private ones that served darker purposes, but all along the wizard had loathed Amaltar’s brother. All along he had distrusted Nazramin’s ambition and cruelty.

After dabbing the soft unguent on his stinging cheek, he re-entered the niche. He lifted the heavy drape and withdrew a second hollow lead statuette that had been concealed beneath the table. This figure bore the face of Nazramin. Two clamps encircled its head. With great satisfaction, Mandes tightened both screws a full turn.

Three loud thuds echoed through the great house. In the kitchen, Tol and the Dom-shu sisters looked up from the remnants of their meal. It had been a good one, roast beef, prepared by Tol. For all their skills, the sisters were of little use in the kitchen. Miya freely admitted she could not cook. Kiya thought she could, but for the sake of all their stomachs she had to be prevented from doing so.

Tol buckled on his sword belt, and with a casual gesture, made sure the Irda millstone was still in its secret pocket.

Miya picked up the candle from the table. It was a timekeeper, divided into thick rings, called marks, representing the hours of the day.

As they made their way to the front door, the sound came again, three knocks booming through the silent house. Some — one with a heavy hand was pounding on the bronze portal.

Night had long since fallen; the time for casual visitors was well past. Kiya urged caution. Her hand rested on the hilt of her knife.

“Since when do assassins knock?” Tol said, and pulled the doors open.

Four tall figures stood before them, identically dressed entirely in white. Their robes swept the ground, and their heads were covered with stiff cloth cowls, styled to look like war helmets. The two in the rear carried lanterns.

“Lord Tolandruth.” It was hard to determine which of the two figures in front had spoken. “You are summoned to attend upon the emperor.”

“Doesn’t Amaltar ever sleep?” Miya blurted.

“The summons does not come from Crown Prince Amaltar,” the muffled voice solemnly replied. “His Majesty Pakin III requires your presence.”

“But he’s dead!”

Tol, although as confused as Miya, shushed her. “What is this about?” he asked. He decided it was the figure on his right who was speaking.

“The Emperor of Ergoth calls you to duty. Will you come?”

Kiya put a hand on his arm. “Don’t go, husband. No good can come of serving a dead man.”

“You must make yourself clean, and wear these.”

The fellow on Tol’s left held out a bundle of white cloth, its corners tied together at the top.

The bundle was weighty, but soft. Ritual garments, Tol assumed, like the ones the strange messengers wore.

“I will come,” he said.

The sisters exchanged worried glances. Tol was altogether too trusting.

“Come alone at midnight to the Tower of High Sorcery. Follow where you are led, and do not speak.”

The white-clad phantoms departed. Miya shut the heavy door.

“What sort of trick is this?” Kiya demanded. “Husband, you should not go!”

Tol smiled. “It’s all right. I believe they want me to stand vigil over the late emperor.”

This made sense to the sisters. Their tribe had a similar rite. The night before a dead chief was immolated on his funeral pyre, his family was expected to spend the night with him, making offerings to the gods.

Kiya went to the kitchen to heat water for Tol’s bath. He headed to his bedchamber and there untied the bundle. It contained a linen robe, a sash, a short cape, a simple cloth skullcap, and slippers. Even smallclothes had been provided. Every item was spotlessly white.

Miya watched as he laid out the funerary garments. “Honor or not, I still don’t like you going through the streets alone,” she said. “Wear that dwarf blade, will you?” He assured her he would.

Kiya arrived bearing a steaming kettle. Tol stripped and splashed hot water on his face, arms, and feet. The sisters watched with critical eyes, as though inspecting a prize bull.

“He’s held up well. Wouldn’t you say?” Miya asked her sister.

Kiya nodded. “Quite a few scars, but strong for a man his age.”

Tol paused in his ablutions. “What do you mean, ‘a man his age?’ ”

“His hair’s too short. Looked better longer,” Miya said with a frown.

“What do you mean, ‘a man his age?’ ” Tol repeated.

Kiya shrugged. “Well, you are past thirty-”

“Just past,” he said quickly.

“A man’s vigor peaks at twenty,” Miya said, “but you are holding up well.”

Tol planted fists on his bare hips. “Would you like to check my teeth while you’re at it?”

Miya waved his pique aside. “We see you chew every day. We know your teeth are good.”

She started to discuss other, more intimate facets of his physique, and Tol stamped his foot in warning. Grinning, the sisters fell silent.

Clean and dry, Tol donned the smallclothes, tying the drawstring waist snugly, and pulled the long robe on over his head. In short order he was dressed, down to the slippers and skullcap.

Worried his sword belt would smudge the white linen, he pulled Number Six from the scabbard, wiped the blade clean, and slipped it through his sash.

The timekeeper candle showed it to he just a half-mark short of midnight. Tol descended to the entry hall, trailed by the Dom-shu.

He had no time to hunt up a horse for hire, so he decided to walk to the tower. The sisters wanted to accompany him, at least as far as the Inner City gate. However, their mothering was getting on his nerves, so he ordered them to stay in the villa and guard the treasure.

Cool wind sighed through the streets. Working folk tended to turn in once it got dark, so there was little nightlife in the Quarry district. Robe billowing, Tol climbed the flat, winding steps leading up and out of the former stone quarry.

In the streets above, the few folk he passed gave him a wide berth, whispering, “Vigilant.” He was glad the strange visitors had reminded him not to speak; it was considered a gross breach of etiquette to talk while wearing the robes of the vigil, but he’d never taken part in the ceremony before.

Overhead, stars played hide and seek behind clouds scudding before the wind. He noticed a bright light in the distance, and it took him a moment to realize he was seeing the white moon, Solin, shining over the peak of the Tower of High Sorcery, his destination.

Customarily, the emperor’s vigil was held in the Temple of Mishas, but Tol wasn’t surprised at the change of location. The Tower of High Sorcery represented one of the greatest achievements of Pakin III’s reign, and holding the ceremony there would regain for the wizards some of the prestige Mandes had usurped.

Out of respect, he had left the nullstone behind, though, he felt very vulnerable. Not even the heft of the dwarf blade at his side could banish the feeling.

He chided himself for his fears. Did he need a talisman merely to traverse the streets of Daltigoth in sight of the imperial palace? Of course not. And what danger could there be for him at the emperor’s vigil, in the very Tower of High Sorcery?

At the Inner City gate, the guards did not challenge him. Seeing the white robe of a Vigilant, they stood to attention and let him pass without a word.

The courtyard of the Imperial Plaza blazed with light. Tripods of torches stood between long rows of mourners. Rank upon rank of warriors and courtiers knelt on the hard mosaic, heads bowed toward the Tower of High Sorcery. Some looked up when Tol entered then resumed their prayers for the deceased emperor. The steady drone of hundreds of low voices filled the square.

Above the trees of the wizards’ garden, the mighty Tower of High Sorcery glowed with its own light. Awed by the sight, Tol slowed. What mysteries were held within those shining walls?

He shook himself, then folded his arms and gripped his biceps hard. He had nothing to fear. No evil workings could penetrate the sanctum of the magical orders.

He picked up his pace, striding purposefully to the garden path that would take him to the tower. His footsteps on the quartz gravel path sounded loud in the stillness.

Many times as a young man Tol had stolen into this very garden to meet Valaran. The wizards guarded their privacy with a wall of sleep, but the millstone had allowed Tol to penetrate it with impunity. Holding Val close, he could protect her, too, and they passed many a golden hour in the shadowed glade by the fountain of the Blue Phoenix. The wizards had lowered the barrier for the vigil, and Tol now passed through without hindrance.

The tower rose from a circular plaza paved with white marble. A ring of robed wizards surrounded its base. Alternating Red Robe with White, they stood, eyes closed, hands linked, facing outward. The very air itself seemed charged with power.

Tol wondered fleetingly at the lack of Black Robe wizards. Red and White made him nervous enough; he was glad not to have to face wizards consecrated to evil magic.

A gap in the ring of wizards corresponded to the tower’s only entrance-arched double doors, which stood open. White light shone within, paler and colder than the glow emitted by the tower itself. Straightening his shoulders, Tol went carefully up the ramp to the entrance. The wizards did not stir, speak, or open their eyes. He recognized only one face among them: Helbin, chief of the Red Robes.

Tol passed through the massively thick foundation walls into a chill, open chamber that comprised the entire ground floor of the tower. The ceiling of the chamber was domed. In its center was an opening, the end of a shaft that rose all the way to the tower’s peak. Shining down through this atrium was the light of Solin. Focused and clarified, the white moon’s pallid light was the only illumination in the chamber.

Directly under the column of moonlight was Pakin III’s white-draped bier. The emperor was dressed in full regalia, lying on his back with his hands resting on his chest, clasping the imperial scepter. His hair and beard were the color of snow. Bathed in Solin’s cold radiance, the old emperor seemed carved out of alabaster.

Humbled by this vision, Tol approached slowly. He had no specific instructions and was uncertain what he should do. His slippers made faint scuffing sounds as he circled the bier. Halfway around, he spotted another figure in white, a second Vigilant. He was pleased he wouldn’t be alone.

The other mourner was kneeling, head bowed, by Pakin’s left hand. By her slenderness, Tol could tell it was a woman, perhaps one of the old emperor’s daughters. In spite of the stricture against speech it seemed wrong not to offer his sympathy.

In the silence, his intake of breath sounded like a shout, and the Vigilant’s cowled head turned toward him. Green eyes flashed with surprise in the sere white light.

Valaran!

Whatever words he’d intended to say went unuttered as Valaran glared balefully at him. He could almost feel the darts of fury hurled by those emerald-hard eyes.

She put a finger to her lips. With a thrust of her chin, she indicated he should take his place on the other side of the bier, at the emperor’s right hand.

Tol drew Number Six in a swift motion. After saluting Pakin III with broad sweeps of his saber, Tol knelt in the appointed place, laid his weapon down, and straightened the folds of his robe. Bowing his head, he smoothed his face into an expression of calm introspection, but inside he was fuming.

How dare she treat him so coldly! Returned at last, victorious from a long campaign in the east, narrowly missing death many, many times, and still she wouldn’t even speak to him! Ten years he’d been gone-nearly eleven. Val had stopped answering his letters without one word of explanation. He’d believed their love was eternal, their passion unquenchable. What had happened?

The still form of the late emperor drew his attention. Long illness had leached the color from Pakin III; his hair, beard, and skin were white as Tol’s mourning robes. A curious detail caught Tol’s attention. Where the dead man’s hands were wrapped around the handle of the scepter, the gaps between his fingers had disappeared. Finger flowed into finger without a break.

Startled, Tol studied Pakin III’s face more closely. The lines on the aged face were not the sagging creases of skin, but sharper, more inflexible. His skin had an odd, flat sheen.

Tol stood and leaned over the late emperor to get a better look. As he entered the moonlight, he shivered. Poets called Solin’s aura cold, but he’d never taken their words literally. Yet the light, concentrated and directed through the tower, was indeed cold, icy as a high mountain stream. It washed the warmth from Tol’s flesh, making him shiver hard. Doggedly, he persisted and touched the dead man’s hand. The hand and wrist were rigid and hard.

Pakin III had turned to stone.

Was this a statue, standing in for the frail remains of the late emperor? Closer inspection forced Tol to abandon that notion. On the back of Pakin III’s thin hand white hairs still sprouted, and age spots discolored the surface-yet the flesh had become something akin to alabaster. This then must be a special rite of the wizards’ college, a bizarre magical embalming that slowly turned Pakin III’s mortal remains into imperishable stone.

Valaran was watching him disapprovingly. The hood of her gown left only the oval of her face exposed. Contrasted against the white silk, her skin was a warm rose color. She’d never been an outdoor type, preferring the shadowed corridors of the palace, a quiet library, or the wizards’ garden by night. Warm memories of the latter brought color to Tol’s face. Clearing his throat, he resumed his kneeling posture.

Many times Val had shared with him whatever weighty tome she was reading. Books about the bloody deeds of her ancestors, the religious practices of the Silvanesti, or the marriage customs of gnomes, all were eagerly devoured by the inquisitive girl. Once, as they lay hidden on the roof of the palace, washed in the light of the setting sun, Valaran had begun reciting the epic of Huma, slayer of dragons. She had never finished the poem. Tol had plucked the scroll from her hands and loved her there and then on the ancient battlements. It was their most daring encounter, the one he cherished above all others. In the wizards’ garden they were protected from intruders by the wall of sleep. On the palace roof, without such protection, they might have been discovered by anyone. Danger only sweetened the moment. It had been an immortal night.

From being chilled to the bone, Tol now felt uncomfortably warm. Passion, even recalled from so long ago, was stirring his blood. Perhaps it was disrespectful to be dwelling on old love rather than pious prayers, but Tol didn’t think Pakin III would mind. The emperor had been an irreverent man, impatient with pomp and protocol. Valaran had been one of his favorites, and he indulged her like a fond grandfather.

Tol tugged at his robe, now clinging to his skin. The air seemed muggier than when he’d entered. He glanced across the bier and realized Valaran must be feeling the warmth, too. Shiny beads of sweat dimpled her forehead.

The failing light explained the change. Solin was progressing through the heavens, slowly leaving its place above the tower. As the cone of cold light shrank, the normal heat of late summer reclaimed the hall.

Tol bowed his head, closing his eyes. Rest in peace, great Pakin. Given the turmoil that was sure to follow, the reign of Pakin III might seem like a golden age in the days to come.

After a brief time, the sound of movement caused him to open his eyes. Solin was nearly gone from overhead, and Valaran had pushed back her cowl to cool her head. She lifted the heavy mass of hair from her neck and ears. Tol could see the tiny notch on the top of her left ear, souvenir of a childhood fight with Vorkai and Talmaz, her elder brothers. Ten years had honed her fine features. A woman’s strength and beauty showed in every line, every contour.

Tol’s knees ached from his long vigil. He shifted position slightly. Skinning back the sleeves from his arms, he opened the collar of his robe. The dark tan of his face and arms contrasted starkly with the white linen.

Valaran was looking at him. Catching his eye, she quickly averted her gaze. A small thing perhaps, but it was the first time she had looked at him without obvious ire.

Solin was gone. The only light now was a faint glow from the bier itself. Heat suffused the great domed hall. Sweat trickled behind Tol’s ears. Valaran shifted slightly, brow furrowed with discomfort.

Fate must have brought them together like this, Tol mused. Fate, destiny, the gods themselves must have conspired to allow him to be alone with Valaran, even with the body of the dead emperor between them and no words spoken. This was a gift he hadn’t expected. It had long been said that Tolandruth of Juramona was the luckiest warrior in the empire. Tol had never agreed with that. A wise man made his own luck.

Valaran parted the collar of her gown, opening it just enough to bare a wedge of skin. Transfixed, Tol watched a single drop of sweat curve down her neck to the hollow of her throat. It paused there, then plunged on, vanishing where the folds of her gown came together.

How much could a man bear? His throat constricted with the need to speak, yet one word, even a whisper, and the whole corps of wizards outside would rush in and punish the desecration of the vigil, a dishonor to both Pakin III and Amaltar.

I love you, Tol thought fervently, framing each word with such care he had to clench his jaw to keep them from escaping his lips. I love you, Valaran.

Time dragged, slow as resin oozing from a wounded pine. The ache in Tol’s knees was nothing compared to the longing in his heart. He prayed for dawn, for release from this torture, but the heavens would not hurry to suit him.

A faint sound interrupted his long torment. Valaran had sighed. She rolled back her sleeves, baring her arms to her elbows. Her fingers were long and tapering, a lyrist’s hands, though Val disdained idle pastimes like music. With her fingers spread, she could hold a manuscript open with one hand while holding her tea, or taking notes, with the other-no mean feat. Those hands had also gripped the back of Tol’s neck with desperate strength when she’d feared he might leave her too soon. Not trifling things, those hands. He had been held by them often enough to revere them.

Again he caught her sneaking a glance at him over the bier. Was it his own wishful thinking, or had her expression softened? It wasn’t love, but something other than anger flickering in her eyes. From her expression, it seemed to Tol she desired to ask him a question but couldn’t quite frame the words.

He returned her gaze calmly, concealing his own inner turmoil with great effort. They studied each other, both perspiring in the stifling dimness. It came to resemble a contest to see who would look away first. Tol never wanted to look away ever. Solin’s rays could harden him to stone right here, forever beholding the woman he loved.

When light did at last slant in, graying the high dome, it took some time before either of them recognized the dawn. Still they did not turn away.

Footfalls announced the entry of two members of the White Robe order. They halted at the foot of the bier. The younger bore a tray with a slender pitcher and two clay cups. The older wizard made the sign of Draco Paladin in the air, ending the vigil.

“Good morrow to you, Highness,” he said. “Welcome the day, my lord. I am Perogen.”

In unison, they turned away from each other to face the newcomers. Tol’s tongue was thick, his throat parched. Coughing a bit, he said, “It was a long, hot night.”

He got to his feet. His legs roared with pain as blood rushed back to long-folded muscles. Perogen extended a hand to help Valaran rise, but she ignored it and staggered upright unaided.

The younger wizard presented the tray of refreshments. He was about Tol’s age, clean shaven, and with dark skin like Felryn. Perogen poured two measures of amber liquid from the slender pitcher. Silvanesti nectar. An ironic choice, Tol thought, given the events of Pakin III’s life.

A cup was offered first to Valaran, who took precedence over Tol. She downed the nectar in a single long swallow.

Tol watched her slender throat work and swallowed hard himself. This vigil had been worse than some battles he’d been in. Well, not worse perhaps, but certainly hard to bear. He sipped his own nectar gingerly, letting it trickle down his dry throat.

Valaran set the cup back on the tray then carefully adjusted her gown, closing the neck and unrolling the sleeves. “Thank you,” she said to the wizards, her only words all night. With a swirl of silk, she turned and walked swiftly out of the tower.

The young wizard frowned slightly at the obvious tension in the air. “Did the vigil pass well?” he asked.

“Well enough. I owe much to the late emperor. It was hard to say farewell to him,” Tol murmured.

“We were told you were most devoted to him,” said Perogen. “That’s why you were given this duty.”

“I’m honored.” The import of the fellow’s words suddenly occurred to him. “Who told you I was specially devoted to the late emperor?”

“Consort Valaran, my lord. It was her request that brought you here.”

Tol smiled all the way back to the Quarry district. Upon his return, Miya made ribald comments about where he’d been, scoffing at the notion of a holy vigil. She knew that look, she teased. He’d been with a woman.

And so he had.

Mandes the Mist-Maker yawned and stretched. It had been a long night and a boring one. He could not use his magic to spy upon the dead emperor’s vigil; the Tower of High Sorcery was well shielded against such intrusions. He was forced to rely on a more old-fashioned method to gain information about Lord Tolandruth’s activities-he bribed a young Red Robe to act as his spy.

“They did nothing, master,” his hireling reported. “They remained kneeling by the bier all night and never spoke.”

Mandes smiled and readily gave the young wizard the promised six gold pieces. His informer seemed puzzled by his pleasure.

“Nothing happens for many days after a seed is planted,” Mandes told him. “To expect a sprout the first night would be unnatural.”

He dismissed the spy, reminding himself to ask Prince Nazramin to have the fellow killed. Anyone who could be so easily bought was a liability to their scheme.