The Wizard_s Fate e-2

by Paul B. Thompson

  Realizing the figure meant nothing to Tol, Zae added, “She has been in residence for fifteen years, my lord.”

  At the end of the monumental hall, a corridor crossed at right angles. Zae turned right, leading Tol to what she called the Minor Hall.

  She stopped before a pair of tall double doors. They parted for her, swinging in silently. Each was quite thick and probably weighed several hundredweight, but no motive force was visible, here or in the room beyond. The great doors opened seemingly of their own volition.

  A wave of noise hit Tol. The Minor Hall was revealed to be as large as the Feasting Hall of the Riders of the Horde in Daltigoth. Instead of an intimate dinner, Tol found himself facing a room occupied by at least fifty guests, all of whom seemed to be talking at once.

  Zae paused and spoke to a man who wore golden livery and an open-faced helmet of shining gold. In response, he struck the stone floor with his staff, commanding attention.

  “Guildmasters, syndics, and princes!” the fellow boomed. “His Excellency, Lord Tolandruth of Juramona!”

  The chatter and clatter ceased instantly. All eyes turned to Tol. Striving to appear casual and calm in the face of so many judgmental stares, Tol unhooked the pewter frog at his throat and handed his cloak to Zae. He thanked her for her help.

  “I am here to serve, my lord,” she said, and withdrew. The doors closed behind her.

  The continued silence was deafening. Tol walked to the table. An enormous feast was laid out, but no one had partaken yet. All stood or sat around the long, heavy table, drinking from delicately shaped golden goblets. Most of the Tarsans were men, well fed and with red faces. Apparently they’d been drinking a while.

  Hanira rose from her place at the head of the table. The only other face Tol recognized was that of young Prince Helx, seated at Hanira’s right hand. The blond prince did not rise but glowered at Tol, pale blue eyes tracing his every move.

  “My lord,” said Hanira. “Welcome to Golden House.”

  Tol executed a slight bow. “Thank you. I hope I have not inconvenienced you by arriving late.”

  “Not at all.” She extended a smooth arm to indicate an empty chair. The single ring on her hand held the largest diamond Tol had ever seen. It flashed like a beacon in the glow of massed candles.

  “Won’t you be seated?”

  Those were the last words he would hear from her for several hours. She had placed him at the foot of the table, directly opposite herself. Although it was obviously a place of honor, Tol was vaguely annoyed to find himself so far from his hostess.

  Spurs and sword jingling accompanied his every footfall. A servant stood at his chair, a gesture Tol at first did not understand, but as he approached, the servant pulled the chair out for him. When a second lackey offered to take his sword, he frowned the fellow into retreat. Unhooking the scabbard from his belt, Tol sat down and laid the weapon across his lap.

  Tol had been a long time away from the grand dinners of the Ergothian capital. The life of a soldier on the frontier had roughened the edges Valaran had worked to smooth during his time in Daltigoth. Still, he found himself surprised by the affected manners of the Tarsans seated nearest him. In wary silence, they eyed him throughout dinner as if he was a beast they might provoke with the slightest word. He didn’t try to initiate conversation.

  Considering the sumptuousness of the surroundings, the food was rather plain. Tol supposed even the wealthy Hanira had to deal with the shortages caused by war.

  Wine there was in plenty, both native red and Silvanesti white, the nectar of the elves. As the evening wore on, Tol drank more and more, mostly out of boredom. Isolated at the end of the table, he amused himself by studying the Tarsans.

  Hanira was at least ten years older than him. In her early forties, she had reached the age when a woman’s face either fines down or plumps up. The former was the case with Hanira. Her cheekbones were high, her chin a trifle sharp, but her most arresting feature was her eyes. Large, they were the warm color of honey or polished wood. Even at this distance, Tol was very much aware of her gaze when it fell upon him.

  In a room full of curled hair, silk and brocade finery, and powdered faces, Hanira seemed elegantly natural. She wore her raven-black hair simply, parted in the center and drawn forward over her right shoulder into a single heavy braid. Her gown was of ruby silk, with a high collar in back and a low neckline in front. At her throat, between the wings of her collar, a dark jewel-onyx or jet-glinted.

  The sullen Prince Helx, seated on her right, kept trying to capture her attention, reaching for her hand. She evaded him time and again. The prince obviously was attempting to woo his hostess, but she brushed him off with smiling, casual replies and chatted gaily with the elderly man on her left.

  The party grew loud, as parties do when wine is consumed in quantity, then began to falter as the effects took hold. As the hour grew late, guests rose from the table, bowed to their hostess, and tottered out. Some required the support of a servant or two to make their way from the room. Tol kept his head and his seat. He was the only Ergothian in attendance; he must have been invited for some reason. He wouldn’t hasten to leave until he learned what that reason was.

  A regiment of boys appeared to ferry the dishes away. As they staggered out under the weight of dozens of golden plates, other servers gathered goblets on trays. Through the swirl of activity Tol saw Helx speaking in low tones to Hanira, with an intent expression in his light blue eyes. She was leaning back in her great chair, seeming to distance herself from his entreaties.

  Tol stood and clipped the scabbard to his belt again. Walking around the end of the wide table, he approached his hostess at a deliberate pace. The sight of the fearsome enemy warlord on his feet froze the bevy of servants in various poses. The clatter and the tinkle of cutlery ceased abruptly.

  Helx and Hanira watched him draw near, but only Hanira smiled.

  “My lord,” she said warmly. “Was the dinner to your liking?”

  Her voice was like a fresh draft of wine. Slightly more befuddled by the wine and the room’s heat than he’d thought, Tol answered rather bluntly: “Your palace is magnificent, but the repast was a bit plain.”

  “Food is in short supply,” Helx snapped.

  “Is that why you surrendered?” Tol responded, again too bluntly, keeping his eyes on Hanira. He dragged the chair on her left out with his foot, unbuckled his sword, and sat down. “Not enough food to withstand a siege?”

  Helx leaped to his feet. “Insolent savage! Remember where you are!”

  Tol grinned disarmingly, his attention still on the woman before him. “Begging your pardon, lady. I mean no disrespect-to you.”

  Helx’s hand flashed to the dagger under his draped blue robe. Tol leaned back, both hands on his scabbard. “Your Highness, be calm.”

  The prince’s hand tightened on his dagger. Hanira lost her bland, pleasant manner and said sharply, “Helx, don’t be a fool! Sit down!”

  “I won’t be insulted by this-this barbarian!”

  Hanira leaned toward Tol, saying sweetly, “Pay him no mind, Lord Tolandruth. You have my leave to bloody him if he acts up.”

  Tol threw back his head laughing. White-faced with fury, Helx demanded, “Hanira, give me your answer! I have a right to know!”

  She picked up her goblet. Just before the golden rim touched her lips she murmured, “Go home, Helx. It’s late, and you are no longer amusing.”

  “I demand an answer!”

  “Sounds to me like you got an answer, boy.”

  Tol’s chuckling comment goaded the prince into drawing his slim silver blade, eight inches long. Fast as he did this, however, he found the tip of Tol’s dress sword pressed into his throat.

  The prince froze, seething with fury, and looked at Hanira. She calmly sipped her wine.

  Helx lowered his dagger. Tol took his sword from the fiery young man’s neck. Pale eyes riveted on Hanira’s unconcerned face, Helx drove his blade into the tabletop, b
urying a quarter of its length in the richly polished wood, then turned on his heel and stalked out. On the way he shoved aside any hapless servant who came within reach.

  “Poor fool,” Hanira murmured when he was gone. “He imagined I’d swoon at the chance to marry him.”

  Tol’s brows rose in surprise. The prince seemed the merest puppy compared to the mature, sophisticated Hanira.

  “He’s an ardent and usually agreeable boy,” she added, “but the time is long past for me to consider marriage again.” A smile touched the corners of her mouth. “Besides, I couldn’t bear the loss of status.”

  Hanira rose, and immediately Zae was at her side, poised to assist her.

  “I will retire now, Zae,” Hanira said. “You have the key?”

  The older woman bowed. “Yes, mistress.”

  Tol stood, but before he could speak, Hanira swept out a side door. Like the door through which Tol had entered, this one opened without her touching it.

  Zae bade Tol sit and indulge in a strengthening draught. He wanted no more drink, but she gently insisted. The liquid a lackey poured from a slender amphora was not wine. It was thick, with a pearlescent blue sheen. Zae said only that it was a “decoction of many ingredients,” and very healthful.

  Tol eyed the goblet uncertainly. The liquid had a mild aroma, not unpleasant, but more animal than vegetable. Milk of some kind, he reckoned.

  “Juramona!” he whispered, raising the cup high, then draining it in one gulp.

  The liquid was cold. When it hit his stomach, Tol felt his head abruptly clear of the wine-induced fog. His fingers and toes knotted involuntarily then relaxed. A smile spread over his face.

  Zae nodded sagely. “An ancient family recipe,” she said. Dipping a hand into her sleeve, she brought out a small object and pressed it into his hand. “Your key, my lord.” She pointed toward the side door where Hanira had exited.

  The so-called key was a small figure, no larger than his thumb, made of silver. It depicted a crouching man, clutching a bar or rod.

  Zae said, “That is Shinare, patron deity of the Golden House. There is much treasure here, many precious things. Every door in the Golden House is secured by an ancient spell. Only the key of Shinare unlocks them.”

  Without further explanation, she said, “Good night, my lord,” and swiftly withdrew.

  From chatter and gaiety, the Minor Hall now resounded only with silence. No outside sounds penetrated its walls. The heat generated by the crowd of diners was dissipating, the room cooling rapidly.

  Tol had two choices: follow Zae and return to camp, or follow Hanira and stay the night. The potion he’d drunk had left him feeling alert and utterly clear-headed. Staring at the tiny silver image of Shinare in his hand, he made his decision.

  The key opened the side door. When his hand touched the cool metal doorknob, a slight prickling sensation passed through his fingers, telling him magic was present. The knob turned easily enough..

  A candle flickered on a table in the dim corridor beyond. Just a few steps away was a set of steps, leading up. A faint trace of perfume lingered in the air. Hanira had passed this way.

  Tol picked up the candle and ascended the stairs. At the top, the way left was dark. To the right a second candle glowed in a wall niche. He went that way.

  A trail of lighted candles led him to an ornate door, perfectly round and as wide across as he could stretch his arms. The portal was decorated in high relief and looked exactly like a giant gold coin, complete with a stylized rendering of the walls of Tarsis. Again, the key fit.

  Tol put a hand to the door and pushed, but it didn’t immediately budge. A much harder shove finally caused the massive door to swing slowly inward. From its ponderous weight, he realized the door was made of solid gold.

  The room beyond was capacious, and illuminated with racks of candles. The chamber was divided into more intimate spaces by wooden screens, carved and painted. The scent of Hanira’s perfume was stronger here, and a melodious tinkling sound wafted to Tol, borne on the warm air like the music of wind chimes.

  He wended his way through the maze of screens, his footfalls muffled by thick carpets. He passed through sitting rooms, a study, and a private dining spot, all equipped with light, elegant furniture draped in rich brocades. On the small dining table was a golden bowl brimming with fruit. Tol plucked a fine ripe pear.

  A curtain of gold and black silk closed off the passage out of the dining nook. Tol bit into the pear and parted the curtain with a sweep of his hand.

  “Welcome,” said Hanira.

  The candles had gone out hours ago, leaving as the only light the glow from a blue glass globe by Hanira’s bed. About the size of a man’s head, the globe perched on a polished marble column and emitted a soft, silent illumination.

  Tol turned over, seeking Hanira, but the bed was empty.

  Getting out of bed, he winced as his bare feet touched the cold marble floor. His clothes had been left in the sitting room below, where he’d found Hanira.

  Strange evening, he mused. He’d come to Golden House a victorious general with seduction in mind, but in the end, he was left feeling like the conquered one. Years of service to the empire, a score of battles, large and small, had not prepared him for this night.

  He wrapped a thin blanket around his waist and went down the stairs to the sitting room.

  His clothes and Hanira’s were strewn about the floor and furniture. Donning his linen breeches, he checked his waist-pocket for the nullstone. It was still there.

  Feeling more secure now that he was at least partly dressed, Tol went looking for his hostess.

  Great beams crisscrossed the high, vaulted ceiling like the strands of an enormous web. He easily made out the sheen caused by the blue glimmer of the globe by the bed. There was only one other light source in the entire, vast chamber, a mild amber glow off to his left. Hanira must be there. One of the many things he’d learned about her in their brief time together was she never slept in the dark.

  The story of her life, as she’d related it to him, had been both horrifying and fascinating. Of common birth, she had gained all she possessed by sagacity and ambition. When her third husband, Morgax, syndic of the guild of goldsmiths, had died, she had assumed control of the guild. It hadn’t been easy. Many in the guild opposed her, as she was not an artisan herself, but she outlasted some of her enemies and actively ruined others. Her arsenal of weapons included bribery, extortion, persuasion, and not a few dagger thrusts in the night.

  Once her rule of the goldsmiths’ guild was established, Hanira set out to take control of the jewelers’ guild as well. In a struggle that cost several fortunes and a number of lives, she merged the two separate guilds into one powerful, wealthy organization under her absolute control. All of this she had accomplished by age forty.

  “Not bad for a poor girl and former courtesan,” she’d explained. “We’re much alike, Tolandruth of Juramona. From the time you defeated Tylocost in Hylo, I’ve followed your doings with great interest. I knew we’d cross paths again, sooner or later. We’re conquerors, you and I. We should be allies.” Trailing a rose-painted fingernail down his chest, she added, “We should be friends.”

  He was flattered and wary at the same time. Hanira was entirely captivating, yet he knew he could never turn his back on her. He put off answering her proposal, using revived passion to evade the issue of an alliance. Later, he feigned sleep, which became real enough when Zae’s invigorating tonic wore off.

  Now he found the source of the amber glow and there found his lover as well. She slept in an alcove, screened from the rest of the room. He gaped, astonished.

  Hanira was completely enclosed in a rectangular shell of flawless, clear crystal, like a coffin made of glass. Lamps burned at each end of the box. The panel over her face was not fogged with breath, but he could see her ribs expand with every breath.

  After his initial surprise, he quickly grasped the reason behind the weird arrangement. This was the pr
ice Hanira paid for her success-reposing each night in a beautiful crystal cage to foil assassination.

  Just then he heard a metallic scrape in the darkened chamber behind him. His senses, honed by war, immediately recognized the sound of a blade being drawn somewhere nearby. He rushed out of Hanira’s chamber to the sitting room, hunting through his discarded clothing for his sword and dagger. This particular sword was largely ceremonial-its straight blade thin, damascened and pretty, but hardly a warrior’s weapon, yet it would serve, and he also had his dagger.

  Something bumped into one of the many wooden partitions somewhere in the vast room. Tol climbed a tall chair and peered around. Back in the direction of the door he’d entered by, he spied the slight movement of one of the screens.

  Though underdressed and barefoot, he prepared to fight. He decided not to rouse Hanira. If this was an assassination attempt, she would be safer within her crystal enclosure. If he called for Hanira’s guards, he would betray his position to whomever was out there.

  Now he heard sounds from a second direction-perhaps a second attacker. Off to his right, there was another sword-scrape. Three assassins?

  He waited, heartbeat accelerating, as the muffled footfalls came nearer. He timed his first move with care. Two intruders were approaching straight at him, and one flanked him on the right. The two were nearer, and when he judged them close enough, he ran forward and planted a foot squarely on the tall wooden screen in front of him. It flew back, crashing into something that prevented it from falling. Tol heard a raspy snarl as the panel shattered to kindling.

  Facing him were two hulking figures, thick-necked and bald or perhaps wearing smooth helmets. In the dim light it was impossible to tell. Tol presented his sword in his right hand, dagger in his left. The pair lumbered forward.

  As they drew closer, he realized with a start that the two were not human, but he wasn’t sure exactly what they were. Man-shaped, half a head taller than himself, the two creatures wore neither clothes nor armor. Their bodies were made of some translucent substance, tinged blue. Their faces were vague, frightening representations of normal features, with bumps for eyes, thin noses, and simple slits for mouths. Wielding swords, they rushed at him.