He meant his ugly threats, but Nazramin did not dare harm Tol, not while Tol commanded his own army and bore the title of Emperor’s Champion. Neither could Tol presume to challenge an imperial prince. Still, he would not take the man’s insults any longer, not without giving some back.
“I’ll ask one more time,” he said, hard gaze and keen blade unwavering. “Why are you here?”
Keeping one hand on his sword hilt but not drawing the blade, Nazramin advanced until he was nose to nose with Tol. Being slightly taller, he sneered down at the fuming warrior.
“I am here to tell you that your day of reckoning is coming,” Nazramin said. “Everything you cherish will fall into my hands-treasure, titles, trinkets, and all your people. And the lady you love-I wonder what will happen to her on that day?”
He let the question hang in the narrow space between them. Tol felt as though he’d been dashed with icy water. Was it possible Nazramin knew of his love for Valaran? How could he have found out?
His chaotic thoughts showed plainly on his face, and Nazramin chuckled. “Yes, I know your little secret. She’s quite a prize, isn’t she? Who knew the little bookworm would become so delectable?”
If Tol had been hotly angry before, now cold fury washed over him, making it difficult to draw breath.
“Leave her out of this,” he whispered, emotion quivering in every syllable. “Defame her, even speak her name again, and I’ll kill you where you stand. I’ve shed royal blood before. It flows just as freely as common stock.”
It was Nazramin’s turn to believe the threat. The cold smile left his face and he glared at Tol. “I’ll keep your dirty secret because it suits me,” he said. “Now get out of my way!”
Tol remained rooted to the spot. The murderous fury in his heart made him bold.
“Why do you hate me so? I’ve never done you an injury, and I’ve always served the empire loyally.”
Nazramin stepped back, surveying Tol with amazement. “That I am forced to speak to you on anything near equal terms is a gross insult. To see you walk the halls of my ancestors’ palace as though you belonged there… is unforgivable!”
Seeing Tol still did not understand, Nazramin went back to the table and leaned on it. He drew a deep breath, mastering strong emotions of his own, then said, “Far from being a boon to the empire, I consider your successes one of the greatest threats ever to the state. You are common as dirt, yet you command armies, win battles, and walk with the high lords of Ergoth as though you were one of them.
“The empire, all of this”-the prince made a broad gesture-“was taken by force from lesser peoples. Weaker tribes and inferior races succumbed to the might of the Great Horde because it is the law of nature and the gods that those born to strength should rule those who have none. Invert that order, and you have chaos. For you, a farmer’s son, to show ability as a warrior, to lead men, win battles, even defeat well-born enemies like Morthur Dermount and Pelladrom Tumult is a travesty of nature.” He frowned deeply. “Your existence offends not only me, it offends the gods!”
Tol laughed, a short, harsh sound. “Now you speak for the gods as well as all Ergoth?” he mocked, sheathing his saber. “I knew you were a cruel man, Nazramin, but I never imagined you were mad!”
The prince came off the table, taut as a great cat smelling blood. Tol’s hand flashed to his sword hilt, and Nazramin, mindful of Tol’s fighting prowess, halted but did not back down.
“We’ll see who’s mad,” he said slowly. “Whatever distortion of nature allowed your rise cannot endure forever. When you fall, little farmer, I shall be there. I am patient. I can wait for everything to fall into place, but I shall be there.”
He pushed by Tol, who let him go. Passing Yeffrin still groveling on the floor, the furious prince vented his spleen by kicking the old man in the ribs. Whimpering, Yeffrin rolled into a ball amidst his master’s scattered manuscripts.
Tol helped Yeffrin to a chair. As the old man held his ribs and gasped for breath, Tol considered the ransacked chamber. Why had the prince been here? Had he warned Mandes? Or was he seeking something? Documents that linked him to the nefarious sorcerer? It was a disquieting thought. If his two greatest enemies were allied, Tol’s quest for justice would be all the harder.
He re-entered the small, secret room. On the floor next to the table lay a crumpled square of black linen. Judging by the creases it held, it had been a covering for the little table.
Something crunched under his feet. Bending down, Tol pressed his fingers to a smear of gray flakes on the floor. The weak light showed him they were soft metal shavings, perhaps lead. He had no idea what they might signify.
After making sure Yeffrin was all right, Tol departed. He left Mandes a token of his visit, to make his feelings plain to the elusive sorcerer. In the entry hall were several fine statues depicting famous spellcasters of the past. Among them Mandes had immodestly placed an image of himself. With two strokes of his steel blade, Tol hacked the head from the bronze statue. It hit the floor with a loud clang.
Outdoors, morning sunbathed Tol’s face, soothing him like a balm. He had missed Mandes, but twice in one night he had dared death and twice survived.
Chapter 13
The Crown of Ackal Ergot
The villa was alive with activity when Tol returned. Egrin and his retinue, in full battle gear, were arrayed in the front court. The Dom-shu sisters had donned their best outfits and were pinning strips of white cloth to their sleeves.
“Where’ve you been, husband?” Miya demanded. “There’s much to do, and you go off wandering in the middle of the night!”
“What’s happening?” he asked.
“The funeral is today!” Kiya said. At the same time, Miya declared, “The coronation is today!”
A herald had come to the villa just after sunrise with a message for Lord Tolandruth. Egrin had accepted it in his stead. The message prompted the marshal to rouse everyone in the villa, ordering them to prepare for the grand dual ceremony.
Tol sought his old friend.
Egrin explained, “The emperor, in consultation with his privy council and the college of wizards, has declared this to be the day he will be crowned.” Looking somewhat embarrassed, he added in a lower voice, “It was felt the emperor would be safer if he is crowned before Enkian Tumult arrives.”
He handed Tol a flattened tube of parchment. “There was a personal message for you as well.”
By order of His Majesty Ackal IV, Tol read silently, Lord Tolandruth will present himself at the imperial palace at once.
Exhausted by the long and eventful night during which he’d slept only briefly, Tol stared blindly at the terse summons. What did it mean?
Egrin took the parchment from his slack fingers and said gently, “The women have prepared your gear. Go inside, my lord, and they will assist you.”
Miya and Kiya were in the entry hall, standing by neat piles of armor.
“Time to make ready, Husband!” Kiya boomed.
Wearily, he nodded. He started to undress, but was so listless and slow Miya clucked her tongue and took over the task herself.
She chided him for his gallivanting ways, then added more softly, “Did you do what you sought to do?”
Tol shook his head. “He wasn’t home.”
“Never mind. Justice will catch Master Mandes in time.”
Miya stripped him down to his breechnap, and Kiya took a wet sponge to his back. Tol felt like horse being groomed. He was so tired, his head swimming with thoughts of Mandes, Nazramin, and the coming coronation, that he bore the sisters’ ministrations in silence.
Soon they were buckling him into his newly polished armor. A kilt of mourning white was fastened around his waist, and a snowy mantle of gilt-edged silk secured to rivets on his pauldrons. Lastly, Kiya passed his sword belt around his waist and fastened it so the dwarf-forged saber hung at his left hand.
The sisters stood back to admire their work.
“His eyes are red
,” Miya remarked, frowning.
Kiya shrugged. “Can’t help that.” She limped in closer and adjusted the drape of Tol’s mantle. Still not satisfied, she grumbled, “What can you do-one shoulder is bigger than the other!”
“His sword arm,” Miya agreed sagely. “Husband, in the future try to use your left arm more.”
He had to smile at that. “I’ll try.”
Egrin had promised to send a replacement from Juramona for Tol’s beloved mount Shadow. In the meantime, the marshal’s men had groomed and saddled their best horse for Tol. The Juramona contingent was drawn up in formation, one man holding the horse’s reins. With a clash of iron, they saluted and cried in unison, “Long live the Emperor!”
Long live Amaltar indeed, Tol thought. So much depended on his continued existence-not merely Tol’s life, but the lives of all his friends and companions, not to mention the stability and welfare of the entire empire.
He swung into the saddle. Kiya whispered to her sister, and Miya hurried to Tol, one hand concealed behind her back.
“Husband, this is-” She reddened. “This is for you!”
She held out a large, splendidly formed white rose, cut from the villa’s roof garden. Tol was touched, and amused. The Dom-shu were not the types to give flowers. He was sure they had competed to see who would present him with the rose, and Miya had lost.
He took the beautiful flower from her and slipped its shortened stem under one of his cuirass straps. The flower’s head was nearly as broad as his hand, yet its aroma wasn’t overpowering.
With a wave, he led his honor guard out of the courtyard into the sunny morning.
Every street, every lane in the city was alive with activity. Windows and doors bore twin swatches of colored cloth, white for the late Pakin III, red for the new emperor, Ackal IV. Detachments of City Guards had taken up positions along the route Amaltar would traverse from outside the walls to the Inner City, keeping the way clear of onlookers. Already an army of pushcarts had appeared, their owners peddling tidbits and trinkets to the gathering crowd. The air was alive with excitement, half-anxious, half-festive. It was a contagious feeling. By the time Tol had ridden a quarter-league, his fatigue was gone, vanquished by the tonic of this great event.
The gate of the Inner City was closed and barred. A small postern gate beside it was open and manned by Imperial Horse Guards, dismounted for the moment. They hailed Tol.
“Go at once, my lord!” said the captain of the guard. “His Majesty awaits in the Tower of High Sorcery!”
Tol rode on. Egrin and his men remained outside.
The Imperial Plaza was a forest of alternating red and white standards. The banners hung limply in the still air. A wide lane led through them, from the great gate to the center of the plaza. There the path forked, one branch leading to the wizards’ enclave, the other to the steps of the imperial palace. Guards marched and countermarched from the palace to the Riders’ Hall on the far side of the plaza.
At the Riders’ Hall, warlords from every corner of the empire were collecting; red, rather than white, predominated in their attire. The tide of observance was turning from mourning for the dead ruler to celebration of the living one.
Tol rode to the Tower of High Sorcery at a measured pace. This was due in part to the solemnity of the occasion, but also because the plaza’s mosaic pavement had been covered by white flower petals-not roses, as it happened, but narrow chrysanthemum and jasmine petals. The thick, soft layer made for uncertain footing for his horse. The heavy scent of jasmine, stirred up by his mount’s hooves, was nearly overwhelming to both man and beast.
Upon reaching the boundary of the wizards’ garden, Tol paused and looked back at the palace. The vast pile of marble and granite, surrounded by drifts of flower petals, resembled a mountain rising from a field of snow. A shadow moved slowly across the columned facade. Tol shaded his eyes, and looked up. A small grayish cloud was drifting over the Inner City.
Strange. The sorcerers always maintained tight control of the weather over the palace, banishing all fog, rain, snow, or clouds. A cloud over the imperial residence was like a smear of mud on a spotless mantle-it shouldn’t be tolerated. Why weren’t the wizards doing their duty?
Then Tol remembered. Mandes had sought sanctuary in the Inner City. The stray cloud could be his doing. He was certainly a blot on the coronation.
After the teeming bustle in the streets and the regimented pomp of the plaza, the garden surrounding the Tower of High Sorcery seemed still as a graveyard. The first hints of autumn color were beginning to paint some trees, and Tol caught fleeting glimpses of wizards, some in red robes, some in white. All gave him a wide berth.
By day, the tower was almost too bright to bear. At regular intervals along its height, small cupolas sprouted from the main spire like buds on an apple tree branch. Oval blocks of translucent alabaster were set in the thick walls to provide light to the interior.
A line of golden chariots stood by the entrance. Each was drawn by a pair of white or bone-gray horses. All the farms around Daltigoth must have been emptied to assemble so many pale animals. Young charioteers stood by their conveyances. They were the sons and daughters of favored courtiers. Among them Tol recognized Talmaz, one of Valaran’s brothers.
A boy appeared to hold his reins, and Tol dismounted. At the door to the tower, a quartet of young wizards, arms folded over their chests, barred his way.
“No weapons within the tower,” said one. Tol surrendered his saber, along with the dagger he’d bought to replace the one lost in the sea at Thorngoth.
The great hall in the base of the tower was a fog of floral incense, so thick it seemed to catch in his throat. He smothered a cough with one fist. The silent crowd inside looked up when he entered.
Temporary cloth walls hanging from head-high frames divided the normally open space into small rooms and narrow passages. Around the tower’s interior were gathered the favored relatives and courtiers of the old and new emperors, easily identifiable by their distinctive colors. Chamberlain Valdid came forward.
“The Emperor awaits,” he said solemnly, directing Tol to the entrance into the corridor of screens.
Tol wondered which emperor he meant. The inhabitants of the Inner City made no distinction between the living ruler and the dead one.
As he wound his way along the passage, Tol gradually became aware of low chanting. The galleries above the circular hall were lined with wizards. The sound of the deep, repetitive chanting caused the hair on the back of his neck to bristle. As a youth he’d seen an assemblage of mages levitate huge building blocks into place for the foundation of this tower. Benign though the chant likely was, he was glad he carried the millstone.
Small alcoves appeared at intervals along the spiral passage.
In each of these someone close to Pakin III or Amaltar knelt, meditating. The wives of the late emperor appeared first, in descending order of precedence. Amaltar’s mother, who would have been the dowager empress, had died several years before. Even the youngest of Pakin III’s wives was old enough to be Tol’s mother.
After the imperial widows came Amaltar’s wives, from the newest, Lady Woriyan, to his first, Lady Thura. Tol’s heart beat a little faster as his progress brought him closer to Valaran, but before he reached what would be her place in the series, strong hands seized his arm and dragged him through a slit in the curtains.
Startled at first, Tol recovered, and fumbled to grab the wrists of his attacker. To his astonishment, he saw it was Valaran who’d pulled him aside.
“What-?” he began, only to be silenced by a stinging slap on the face.
“Do you know what you put me through?” she demanded in a fierce whisper. She was so close that he felt her warm breath on his face.
“Me? What have I done?” he protested, utterly at sea.
Hissing at him to keep his voice down, she drew back a few steps, whirled, and glared at him silently.
She was stunning, wrapped in scarlet sil
k from head to toe. Her chestnut hair fell to her waist in a thick, intricate braid interlaced with crimson thread and golden beads. The starched red headdress accentuated the pallor of her face, a pallor further heightened by a thin layer of powder. Her lips were painted deep ruby. She resembled a spirit wrought in fire and ice.
There was a brief flash of something in her green eyes-pleasure? — before she folded her arms and spoke to him in a low tone that dripped venom.
“For more than ten years I’ve yearned for you every day and hated you in the same breath!”
“Hated me? Why? What did I do?”
Her beautiful face worked as she struggled with a deep conflict. Finally she snapped, “Nothing! That’s the truth of it-you did nothing!”
Tersely, Valaran related the false tale told her: that Tol had asked to remain away from Daltigoth because he didn’t want to come back. He didn’t want to be her toy or Amaltar’s lackey. He had fathered a child by Miya. This last almost caused Tol to shatter the solemn air in the tower with laughter. Child? Miya? If he’d tried such a thing, he wouldn’t be alive before Valaran now!
The look on her face as much as the need for quiet stifled his amusement. The lie obviously had hurt Valaran deeply. He could only imagine her pain at hearing such things about him. He held out his arms. She shunned them, so he took her by the shoulders and demanded to know who had concocted the tales.
“Nazramin-and the sorcerer Mandes,” she said, exactly as he had expected. “They concocted false letters, then prompted others to confirm the stories.”
“When did you find out the truth? And how?”
“I have had you watched since you returned.” Tol recoiled a bit at that, but she went on. “I hired agents to strike up conversations with your forest women, in the market, in shops.” Valaran essayed a slight smile. “It became obvious they were devoted to you, but not as your lovers. There is no child, either.”
“I could have told you that!” he said. “Why didn’t you seek me out?”
The Wizard_s Fate e-2 Page 25