Tol had never stopped loving her, hut he understood her quandary. So much had happened while they were apart, they had become different people. They no longer knew each other.
“This feels like the end, not a new beginning,” she murmured.
He stood quickly, needing to move. The terrace allowed only ten steps from one side to the other. He paced back and forth several times, then halted in front of her.
“I can’t give you up,” he said. “Any more than I can give up a hand or a leg! “
She flushed and looked away. “I never wanted to leave you.”
“Then don’t!” He dropped beside her again and took her hand. “We can begin again,” he whispered. “There’s been too much longing between us since I returned. That will stop.” Her expression was skeptical. “I shall court you.”
She almost laughed, but the serious glint in his eyes stopped her.
“Tol, we’re not children any more.”
“No, and I won’t act like one.” He released her hand but the resolve in his face never faltered.
Her doubts began to waver. “We’d have to be careful. Even if my husband knows about us, we cannot flaunt his honor.”
“Of course not. We’ll be as discreet as owls.”
Now she did laugh. “Is that some rustic expression?”
The mirth was balm to the ache in his heart. “Just so. Owls pass their lives shielded by darkness. Stands to reason they’re discreet.”
The dimple he’d long missed reappeared when she smiled. “I’ll write that down.” Her light expression faded, replaced by a thoughtful frown. Her eyes grew distant. “I could collect an entire book’s worth of unknown and forgotten similes-”
“Later,” he said, and leaned closer.
She recoiled a little, unsure of his intentions, but he only reached into the leather case at her feet. She never went anywhere without her collection of books. He drew out a short, tightly wound scroll and held it out to her.
“Read to me?”
By such small steps they learned to know each other again. They met often, but to no set schedule, in out-of-the-way corners of the great, rambling palace. In time they even dared the ghosts of their past and met by the centaur fountain, in the grove below the Tower of High Sorcery-the place they’d first found love many years before. Valaran would read to Tol, or they would talk about the events that had transpired while they were apart. Tol described the campaign against Tarsis. He spared her nothing, from the bloodiest battles, to the final victory, to his dalliance with Hanira.
He feared she might be jealous of this last, but Valaran shrugged off such a notion.
“I’d be more worried if you professed celibacy,” she said. “This woman interests me. She wields power, you say?”
“She’s a syndic, one of the city’s leaders.”
“I see the Tarsans are ahead of us in some ways. I’d like to meet her someday.”
Tol found the prospect alarming. He felt equal to either woman separately; together, they would put him at a distinct disadvantage.
The golden phase of autumn was quickly over, yielding the land to the drying, dying days before winter. The harvest was good; for the first time in many years the empire basked in prosperity and peace.
However, all was not quiet beyond the borders of Ergoth. From the east came odd rumors of invasion and migration. Tribes of nomadic humans and centaurs moved west, displaced by other tribes, who in turn had been driven from their homes by distant, vaguely described invaders. Muddled tales of “foreigners” arriving on the northeast coast reached Daltigoth. Those in power weren’t worried. Such migrations did happen. Opinion in the capital was that dark-skinned seafarers had come down from the northern ocean, driven there by storms or migratory pressures of their own. Ridiculous stories of the invaders being “monsters” were not believed. Beaten people often claimed to have been overwhelmed by supernatural forces.
Miya formally wed Elicarno that fall, with Tol’s blessing and Kiya’s sulking acceptance. Their household, on the floor above Elicarno’s workshop, was the talk of the city’s working folk. Miya took over the business side of her husband’s work, procuring timber and metal with the same ruthless bargaining tactics she had so long used to keep Tol and her sister fed. Patrons who came to seek the engineer’s expertise now found they had to deal with the formidable Dom-shu woman, half a head taller than her husband and fiercely protective of him. Far from diminishing Elicarno’s trade, Miya’s blunt and honest manner won him many new clients. Machines bearing Elicarno’s stamp were soon in use all over Daltigoth. New buildings designed by him rose in every quarter save the Inner City.
Miya was soon with child. If Elicarno’s suppliers thought this would slow the forester woman, they were soon sorely disappointed. Elicarno built her a sedan chair, and Miya rode forth on the arms of six sturdy yeomen, ready to do battle with skinflint quarrymen, forgemasters, and lumber factors.
Ackal IV’s health took a surprising turn for the better, and he slowly recovered from the catarrh that had gripped him for so long. His cough eased, and he no longer awakened each morning with blood on his pillow. Some of the scheming glint returned to his eye, and he sat up straighter and stronger at the lengthy council sessions. Valaran, having more intimate access to the emperor than any warlord or courtier, told Tol her husband was sleeping through the night again for the first time in more than a year, though he did mutter and groan most of the time. It seemed he was emerging from the slow, strangling spell that had been sapping his life.
Tol thought the emperor’s revived health might be linked to the fact that his scheming brother, Prince Nazramin, left the city not long after Enkian Tumult’s army returned to the Seascapes. The prince went without fanfare, taking two hundred of his personal retainers, Nazramin’s Wolves, with him. Retiring to a large estate eleven leagues from Daltigoth, the emperor’s brother received a steady stream of visitors from the capital and outlying provinces. At first Nazramin’s departure looked like the start of some new plot, but as the days stretched into months and nothing untoward happened, most of the imperial court relaxed.
Tol did not believe that Nazramin had given up his machinations. He was waiting for something, biding his time. Ackal IV had spies planted within the household and kept close watch on his brother’s doings. Because of her discretion (and skill at reading), he chose Valaran to read the spies’ lengthy reports to him.
Other strange things were afoot. Fierce storms scoured the western coastal provinces, destroying seaside towns and wrecking ships. A strong squadron of imperial warships, chasing the fleeing flotilla of pirate chief Morojin, entered the Sancrist Channel one evening and never emerged from the north end. Twenty-three warships and their crews vanished without a trace. The shoreline from Cape Zol to Dice Bay was scoured for traces. None were found. Word was sent to the gnomes of Sancrist Isle to search their beaches for jetsam from the missing fleet. The gnomes invented several new machines for the task but found nothing.
The litany of ominous disasters grew longer. A murrain broke out among the enormous cattle herds of central Ergoth. Frightened ranchers broke up their herds, dispersing them to halt the spread of the disease, but it didn’t help. Fifty thousand head of cattle died that fall. The price of beef tripled in Daltigoth, and the leather market collapsed as thousands of fresh hides flooded in from tanners.
Forest fires ravaged the Ropunt district, destroying much valuable timber. Juramona was infested with a plague of bats. Thousands of the small, leathery creatures descended on the town, stopping up chimneys and fouling wells. Sickness followed.
A drought gripped the Eastern Hundred. Landslides blocked the southern pass through the Thel Mountains, cutting off trade between Hylo and the sparsely settled lands east of the kender kingdom.
Rumors of unnatural invaders persisted. They weren’t human… they were on the borders of Thoradin… the dwarves were arming themselves to resist…
Like a drumbeat, the pulse of disaster grew ste
adily louder in the halls of power in Daltigoth, until one day Tol was summoned from bed to the imperial council chambers.
It was cold that morning. He threw back the fur blankets and drew on a thick, quilted robe. Eyes bleary with sleep, he went to the basin by the door, where the lackey who’d summoned him waited. When he dipped his hands in the bowl, they bounced back. The basin had a crust of ice on it.
“Make haste, my lord!” said the servant. “The emperor expects you!”
Wordlessly, Tol broke the ice with an elbow and splashed the water on his face. The frigid water instantly cut through the soft, heavy layers of sleep still clinging to him.
“What’s it about?” he asked, blotting his face.
“I know not, my lord.”
Tol eyed the fellow skeptically. Palace servants were renowned for their eagle eyes, bloodhound noses, and cat-like hearing.
Under Lord Tolandruth’s iron gaze, the man shifted uncomfortably. “Visitors arrived early this morning,” he finally admitted. “From the north. With ill tidings.”
“Visitors?”
“Kender, my lord, with an escort of Riders from the Marshal of the Eastern Hundred.”
Something serious must be afoot if Egrin deemed it important enough to pass the kender along to Daltigoth. Tol hastily combed his hair and beard and propelled the servant out the door before him.
As they passed through an open breezeway between wings of the palace, Tol saw it was a brilliant morning. The sky was as bright and clear as only an early winter morning could make it. Bold blue stood out against the shaded white walls of the Inner City. In another month the gray season of snow would settle over the city, but for now the sky was as clear as the eyes of the gods.
A smaller than usual collection of councilors was waiting when Tol arrived. Lord Rymont and his aides, Valdid the chamberlain, Oropash (looking sleep-tousled), and his sleek counterpart Helbin were present. Four road-stained Riders flanked a single, carroty-haired kender, who was busily munching on a round loaf of brown bread. The council table was strewn with maps, some rolled, some anchored open with brass cups of mulled cider.
“My apologies,” Tol said, tugging the sash of his robe tighter. “Am I the last to arrive?”
“We’re awaiting the emperor,” Rymont said. He was impeccably attired and must have been awakened first.
The doors to the emperor’s private quarters opened, and Ackal IV appeared, looking pale and thin in a burgundy velvet robe made for his robust father. He was trailed by his personal healer, a priest of Mishas named Klaraf, and Empress Thura.
Valdid announced his entrance, and everyone knelt, except the kender, who blithely continued eating. Ackal eased himself into his great chair at the head of the table. A golden chalice of steaming cider was put in his hand.
“Well?” he said.
Lord Rymont stepped forward, and all eyes went to him. He paused, briefly enjoying the attention then said, “Your Majesty, this fellow arrived a short time ago.” He gestured at the kender. “He was sent to us by Marshal Egrin with a guard of ten Riders.”
One of the soldiers saluted. “Begging your pardon, Your Majesty, my lord, but we were twenty strong when we left Lord Egrin. The others were killed on the way here.”
In clipped words the Juramona man explained that a contingent of six kender had arrived, seeking help from Marshal Egrin. They’d been sent by the King of Hylo, Lucklyn the First. The kender realm, a protectorate of the empire, was beset. A strange, thick fog had filled Hylo Bay from end to end, stopping all traffic in and out of its busy ports. Worse, plague had broken out in all the port towns.
“Let me guess,” Tol said grimly. “The Red Wrack?”
The kender paused in his eating and drinking long enough to say, “Funny, that’s just how ol’ Egrin put it when we told him.”
“We’ve seen this before, he and I. We know who the author is!”
The kender rubbed a butter-smeared palm against his jerkin, then extended the hand to Tol. “Stumpwater’s the name, your generalship. Early Stumpwater.”
“Hold your tongue!” Rymont said irritably. “You’re in the presence of the Emperor of Ergoth!”
The Rider from Juramona continued his tale. Lord Egrin had indeed immediately recognized the hand of the rogue Mandes. Scouts were dispatched to locate his hideout. Nothing was found in the north, west, or south, but those sent to explore east of Hylo, in the foothills of the Thel Mountains, never returned.
Kender wanderers crossing the mountains from east to west reported finding a solid wall of white mist around the highest peaks in the range, some thirty leagues east of Old Port. Fog in the mountains wasn’t abnormal, but this mist was. It clung to the slopes of Mount Axas in the very teeth of a strong south wind. Kender being kender, some of them entered the mist. They passed into the whiteness easily enough, but none came back out again.
“The marshal believes Mandes is responsible for the fog and plague in Hylo, and that he has taken refuge on Mount Axas,” the Rider finished.
Leaning over a spread map, Valdid squinted and placed a fingertip on one spot. “There’s a ruined keep on the escarpment below the peak,” he said. “Very ancient-from before the days of Ackal Ergot.”
“Mandes must be stopped, Majesty. He’s daring us to come get him!”
The emperor regarded Tol curiously. “Why do you say that, my lord?”
“Because his attack is so obvious! Years ago, Mandes lent his mist-making skills to a band of marauding bakali in the same region. The numbing fog carried a disease within it, the same Red Wrack that is now gripping Hylo. You remember how it scourged the army of Lord Urakan in the campaign against Tylocost?” There were nods all around. “Mandes is repeating his method deliberately, I believe, as a direct challenge to us.” A direct challenge to me, he thought, but did not say.
Helbin, chief of the Red Robes in Ergoth, spoke up. “I fear Lord Tolandruth is correct, Majesty. Our order has been watching Mandes closely since he fled. At first he was quiet, shunning notoriety. Lately he’s become bolder. We have reason to think he’s responsible for many of the misfortunes currently afflicting the empire.”
“The murrain? Fires and avalanches?”
Helbin nodded gravely. “Perhaps the disappearance of the imperial squadron off Sancrist, too.”
“Impudent wretch! Say the word, Your Majesty, and I will dispatch two hordes to the Thel and bring back this wizard’s head!” Lord Rymont declared.
Oropash took umbrage with Rymont’s characterization of Mandes. “He is no wizard, my lord,” he said.
His mild voice was all but drowned out by Rymont’s anger. “Insults cannot be tolerated!” Rymont cried. “The emperor’s honor has been besmirched!”
“More than honor is at stake,” Ackal IV said slowly. “We hear whispers of invaders coming from the east. The tribes they displace come west to escape. Soon our borders will feel the first waves of this migration. There will be war, not for conquest or glory, but to defend our homes and lands against hordes of frightened, desperate immigrants-and all that before the main invasion from the east arrives.”
Everyone regarded the emperor with respect. He was surprisingly lucid these days.
He added, “Mandes could have made trouble for us at any time since his exile. Why now? It’s obvious, my lords. He’s seen the trouble coming, and he’s using it to compound the difficulties we face.”
“What could he want?” Empress Thura asked.
“Revenge?” The emperor smiled wanly. “Maybe he simply wants his old position in Daltigoth back.”
“That could never happen!” Oropash said, voice quavering.
Rymont repeated his demand that two hordes of the imperial army be sent to the mountains to root out the troublesome sorcerer. Helbin countered that Mandes’s befuddling mists, coupled with the treacherous paths in the high mountains, made such a venture suicidal.
Two camps slowly took shape. On one side were Lord Rymont, Valdid, and Thura, who favored a direct
attack on Mandes. On the other side were the wizards, who proposed magical measures to isolate and contain Mandes.
“What say you, Master Stumpwater?” asked the emperor.
The kender had finished his eating and was resting his chin on his crossed arms on the table. His green eyes had flicked back and forth, following the heated discussion with interest. When Ackal spoke, the others’ eyes now went to him.
“A boil’s gotta be lanced, Your Mightiness,” the kender piped. “Leave one too long, and you get a fever.”
“I agree,” Tol said, but Helbin and Oropash immediately objected. An assault would be costly in lives and would surely fail, they said.
“I agree,” Tol repeated, “and under the circumstances, every Rider will be needed to guard the frontier if invaders do come.”
Rymont’s face was eloquent of disgust. “Lord Tolandruth is speaking in riddles,” he said. “We can’t do both-attack Mandes and keep the army out of the mountains.”
“Yes, we can. I will go myself. Alone.”
Silence greeted this startling statement, yet Tol noted that no one objected.
“What makes you think you can succeed?” asked the emperor at last.
“I know Mandes, Majesty. I know his tricks, his vanity, and how to reach him.” Tol’s hands closed into fists. “And I have a heavy score to settle with him. Give me leave, and I pledge upon my life that I will not fail!”
Helbin and Oropash, knowing Tol possessed the millstone, did not challenge him, but Rymont asked Tol how he expected to evade Mandes’s stupefying mist.
“I’m certain the masters of the Tower can provide me with protection-protection not available to two entire hordes,” Tol said blandly. Oropash looked confused for a heartbeat then slowly nodded agreement.
Debate began over the size of the escort that should accompany him, but Tol cut it off. “No, I must go alone. An escort will only draw unwanted attention.”
“You’ll need a guide,” Ackal IV said. “Will you undertake that task, Master Stumpwater?”
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