Ackal V tossed back the bedclothes and swung his feet to the floor. He wore only a breechnap. Sinewy and pale-skinned, his body was covered with the same rusty red hair as his head. He flung on a quilted red velvet robe and tied the sash with a yank.
Valaran continued, “It was the dream of the Dragonqueen to conquer the world, Majesty. We know her forces were defeated here, but no one can say they didn’t triumph elsewhere. There are lands beyond the sea-”
“Yes, yes,” he snapped, turning his robe’s fur collar up around his ears. “And they had to pick my reign to return. Thank Corij no dragons have come with them!”
He shoved an ornate dagger through his sash and poured a cup of hot mulled wine from a pot on the hearth. After draining the goblet, he said, “Consult with the chief of the White Robes-what’s her name? Winath. I need magical means to confound the bakali. Breyhard has courage, but his tactics are lackluster. What I need is a general with wits and luck enough to best these damned lizard-men!”
Catching her eye, he read the thought flashing through her mind. He covered the distance between them in three strides and seized her wrist. He pushed his face so close that his wine-scented breath burned her eyes.
“Does a day go by that you don’t think of him?” he hissed.
She stared right back at him. “No, Your Majesty.”
He trailed the fingers of his free hand down her throat. She bore his touch in stoic silence, eyes fixed on the fire behind him.
After what seemed an age, a smile curved his lips. What his touch could not do, the smile did; Valaran shivered.
“I wonder,” he said. “Does he dream of you as he squats in a squalid little hut somewhere? Or do he and his giantesses have children by now?”
Valaran did not move.
Abruptly, he released her arm and stepped back, telling her to get out. He turned back to the pot of mulled wine.
Relief coursed through Valaran, but she showed no emotion as she walked out of the suffocating heat, her husband shouting at his suffering servants to bring more wine.
Valaran did not return to her rooms to change, even though her gown was drenched in sweat. Flanked by her attendants, she hurried up the central stairs to the imperial library. Her approach cleared the library of the scribes working there. The men had to abandon their work and withdraw immediately, leaving styluses soaking in inkpots and unfinished scrolls lying beneath their corner weights. Valaran sent away her attendants, then locked the doors. At last, she was alone in her favorite room in the world.
Today, the library’s scholarly peace did not soothe her. Filled with fury, she smote a marble tabletop several times with her fist and used language as crude as any sailor. When her anger had cooled, she straightened her disordered hair and clothing, then busied herself among the shelves.
The item she sought was the Ergothinia, a collection of the sayings of Ackal Ergot, founder of the empire. Once required reading for all members of the royal house, the huge tome had fallen out of favor since the days of the usurper, Pakin Zan. Now it was relegated to a high shelf at the rear of the library. The long cedar chest in which it was kept was covered by a thick layer of dust.
Valaran opened the chest. The four parchment rolls inside were dark with age. One by one she removed them and carefully set them aside. Dipping her hand in once more, she drew out a small, flat box. It was made entirely of mirrored glass, a rare material produced by the Silvanesti which yielded uncannily clear images, unlike the brass or tin mirrors made in Ergoth.
Valaran raised the box’s hinged lid. The interior held another mirror set horizontally. She drew a lamp nearer and looked down at the mirror’s smooth surface.
A man’s face appeared. He had short, carefully groomed, sand-colored hair, and his chin was beardless. He wore the loose crimson raiment of a Red Robe wizard.
“Master Helbin,” Valaran whispered. “Can you hear me?”
“Yes, Majesty,” the image replied, its lips moving naturally to form each word.
“The army has crossed the Dalti to attack the bakali.”
The image nodded. “The gods go with them. Elsewhere, there are evil tidings. Juramona has fallen to the nomads.”
The words chilled her heart. “Any word of the huntress Zala?”
“She was there, but escaped. I keep watch on her, as you commanded, Majesty.”
The sound of footsteps in the corridor outside the library set Valaran’s pulse racing. “I must go,” she whispered. “Keep safe the gift of Mandes!”
“It is an evil thing, Your Majesty, crafted by an evil man-”
“Yet it may be our salvation, wizard! Yours, mine, and Ergoth’s! Guard it well!”
Valaran closed the lid and returned the mirrored box to the cedar chest. Covering it with the dusty scrolls of the Ergothinia, she knew her secret was well guarded by the forgotten words of a savage old conqueror.
Chapter 6
From a league away, Juramona was a heap of ashes. Ribbons of smoke rose from debris that had once been houses, halls, and places of commerce. As Tol’s party of five approached, still on foot (no horses having been found to speed their journey), frightened survivors fled. Kiya tried calling out reassurances, but no one listened.
Closer, the town’s charred ruins revealed worse sights. The smoldering piles contained not only burnt wood, shattered crockery, and twisted metal, but broken skulls and blackened bones. Not a dwelling was left standing.
Atop the motte, the highest point in town, stood the remains of the High House, the marshal’s home. Tol led his group up this hill. The going was slow and treacherous, as the way was impeded by heaps of charred timbers and broken masonry. The air shimmered with heat still rising from the ruins. They were forced to tear apart some obstacles and clamber over others. A slab of bricks gave way under Egrin, and only Kiya’s quick hands saved him from a nasty fall.
As they ascended, Tylocost held back from the labor. However, sharp words from Tol caused the elf to fall in beside Zala and help pull down a soot-stained length of Wall that barred their way.
The marshal’s dwelling had been reduced by fire to a great pile of blackened wreckage. Several chimneys still stood, silent sentinels above rubble too chaotic to cross. Backs aching, all of them stained head to toe with ash, Tol and his companions turned to look out over the gutted town.
Egrin’s face was pale beneath its smears of soot, and he fought to control his feelings. At his side, Kiya laid an unusually gentle hand on his shoulder. The forester woman did not share the same deep connection to Juramona, but it had been the site of her first home with Tol and Miya.
Zala dropped wearily onto a cracked slab of slate, once part of the hall floor in the High House, Tylocost tried to clean his hands in a small puddle of muddy water. Giving up, he sat down to rest near the half-elf.
Tol rooted in the debris until he found a long wooden pole, reasonably intact. From his bedroll he withdrew a large piece of scarlet cloth, the mantle he’d once worn as an imperial general.
None of the others could fathom his purpose, so they watched in exhausted silence as Tol tied the corners of his mantle to the pole and furled it tight. He shouldered it and entered the precarious jumble that had been the High House. Burned timbers snapped under his feet, and gouts of ash flew up every time something gave way. As he broke through the outer crust of cinders, fresh plumes of smoke poured out. When one pile shifted, throwing him dangerously off-balance, Egrin shouted a warning, but Tol kept going.
“For a lord and general, this Tolandruth seems careless,” Zala remarked. She’d tied a length of cloth around her head to hold her sweaty hair out of her eyes.