“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.
The Wizard_s Fate e-2 Page 20