“Where are you going, Tol? This is the culmination of our dreams! We’ve waited so long for this night! Finish him! No one will weep for such a monster!”
The gods alone knew how much Tol wanted to kill Nazramin! When he’d been driven out of Daltigoth, broken inside and out, it was the hope of Valaran’s love and the dream of Nazramin’s death that had kept him alive. He had always imagined killing his enemy, but in some honorable fashion. Never once had he considered slitting the throat of a helpless, drooling drunkard.
Valaran circled the throne to stand by Dalar, who clung to her hand. The great chair stood between her and Tol. “Don’t be misled by pity!” she insisted. “Great men are not moved by such feelings. You are the finest warrior of the age! Look at what you’ve done: slain monsters, bested wizards, conquered nations! Your deeds will live forever! Only one challenge remains. You must complete the saga of Tolandruth of Juramona! Kill the emperor, and both my love and the throne of Ergoth will be yours!”
Valaran’s face was no longer pale, but suffused with blood and contorted by hate. The woman he loved was suddenly a stranger to him. Was this the woman of his dreams?
He had to clear his throat twice before words would come. “I never wanted that,” he told her. “The empire would be destroyed. Riders and nobles would never tolerate a peasant on the throne.”
She made an impatient sound and waved his objections aside. “Any who objected could be put down! You have an army, don’t you?”
Taking up her husband’s dagger, she offered it to Tol.
“Don’t worry, my love.” Her voice was soft, caressing. “You can rule as regent until my son is old enough to reign for himself. Teach him to be as honorable and forthright, as you are.” She extended the blade closer. “How else can we be together? I’ve lived half my life as wife to men I did not love, and lover to a man I could not have. Do you know what that’s done tome?”
Sadness welled inside Tol. Pity and regret were so strong that speech was difficult. “Yes, I can see,” he whispered.
The emperor’s mumbling grew louder and Valaran’s voice rose as well. “Take the dagger, Tol! Kill him! You must! Kill him, Toll!”
He took the heavy golden blade from her hands. It would be easily done. A simple thrust would end Ackal V’s life, as it had ended Egrin’s. A cold shock of pain hit Tol as he remembered: Egrin was dead, killed by Ackal as surely as if the emperor’s hand had held the poisoned blade.
“Egrin-” Tol’s voice broke, but he forced the words out. “Egrin died tonight, killed by Tathman with a poisoned dagger. And Zala, the half-elf huntress, she died in the fight for Caergoth.”
She blinked at him, not understanding, and he added, “Helbin was your ally, too. He has vanished, you know, and is probably dead.”
Valaran turned to stare at her husband. He was stirring more, his mumbled words becoming clearer. Raking her fingers through her long, loose hair, she said, “You’re a warrior, Tol. Haven’t you lost comrades before?”
The polished blade in Tol’s hand was stained with the blood of the slain chamberlain. Tol hadn’t known the man. He might’ve been a cowardly toady, like Wornoth, but he hadn’t deserved to die like that, his throat slit by the very master he served. No one deserved that. No one.
Enough! He threw the dagger to the floor. It skidded across the marble, coming to rest by Dalar’s foot. The prince picked it up.
“It’s done, Valaran. I’m done. And I’m going away. Far away from here.” He held out a hand. “Forget the emperor and come with me.”
Emerald eyes huge, she recoiled. “What are you saying? Go away? I am Empress of Ergoth!”
“All I care about now is you. Come with me, Val. You and your son.”
He could see her breast rise and fall with her rapid breathing. She stared at him, brows knotted in thought. “This is a test. The gods are testing me. That, or else you’re mad.” She gripped her throat with one hand and uttered a short, sharp laugh. “Worse, you’re a coward! Your enemy lies at your feet, and you won’t finish the job! What did all your friends die for? Why did you come here?”
“I’ve done everything I could to save the empire. I won’t stain my soul by killing a helpless man, Val. Not even for you.”
He walked around the prostrate emperor. He was halfway to the doors when Valaran acted. She snatched the dagger from her son’s hands and raced after Tol, white gown flying.
“You can’t leave!” she cried. “The emperor must die, don’t you see? Our lives are forfeit if he survives. He’ll hunt you down, torture you to death! And me! He’ll kill me, Tol! He’ll kill me with his own hands!”
He turned in time to catch her in his arms. Her heart was beating wildly, and ribbons of chestnut hair fell wildly about her face. She radiated fear and fury in equal measure. What he did not sense in her was love.
For more than six years he had survived for one purpose-to be reunited with Valaran. That dream had taken on a poignant reality as he witnessed the suffering Ackal V had inflicted on his people. Now, at the very moment of his triumph, Tol realized his dream was nothing more than that, without substance, without reality.
He was so very weary, in body and in spirit. “Kill him yourself then,” he said.
Fury blazed from Valaran’s eyes. “Do you think I can’t? I’ve killed, Tol, for us! Winath-” She bit off the name, choking back a sob, then insisted, “But the gods would curse me for killing my son’s father!”
He let her go and walked away, out of the palace and out of the Inner City. In the square beyond, the Riders, whispering among themselves, watched him depart, alone and unhurried. Kiya still waited for him. She’d secured two saddle horses and was mounted on one of them. Without a word, he took the reins of the other and swung into the saddle.
Ignoring the questioning hails of Lord Gonzakan, Tol and Kiya cantered away.
Outside the Dragon Gate, Tol paused. Directly ahead, the eastern sky was brightening. Sunrise was not far off. Tol dismounted beneath the imposing reliefs of Volmunaard and Vilesoot and drew Number Six. He jammed the steel blade into a chink between two massive stones, putting all his weight and strength behind it. The saber bored into the mortar to half its length. With both hands Tol pushed down on the hilt. Number Six bent and bent, farther than any iron blade ever could. Just as he began to think the dwarf-forged metal would never yield, it snapped off a span above the hilt.
He returned the stump of the famed saber to his scabbard and swung up into the saddle again.
“Are we done?” asked Kiya.
“We’re done.”
They rode out into the new day.
Monuments
They laid Egrin to rest in Zivilyn’s Carpet. It was Tol’s idea to bury him in a peaceful place, amidst a monument of flowers for a man whose life was war. Tol and the Dom-shu sisters made the journey alone. Tol dug the grave, while Miya sewed a deerskin shroud for her friend and Kiya stood watch with her bow.
No one followed them.
By the time preparations were complete, sunset had come.
Whippoorwills made their mournful calls from the forest.
The meadow itself was quiet, and above it, the clouds crimson
and gold.
As a last gesture, Tol tucked the Irda nullstone into Egrin’s hands, crossed on his chest. “His valiant spirit will guard it now,” he said quietly.
With the grave closed and the earth replaced, night was upon them. The sky had cleared. Red Luin and white Solin sailed the starry sky, casting their light upon the scene. The time had come for the sisters and Tol to part company. Tol had made a difficult choice: solitude.
Miya’s eyes kept turning to the Great Green, the dark forest beckoning her home. Eli awaited her in her father’s village.