The Tarsans fell silent as the Juramona men passed by. The woman’s eyes, Tol noticed, were the deep, rich color of honey. She was twice his age and exuded an air of worldly charm he could sense as clearly as he smelled her perfume. She didn’t lower her eyes, like the girls in Crake’s tavern did, and her frank perusal made him uncomfortable. He looked ahead and tried to ignore her knowing gaze.
Once they were in the next room, their escort said, “You’ve just seen Hanira, ambassador from Tarsis.”
“The lady?” asked Odovar, and the guardsman nodded. “I’d heard Tarsan women share rule in their city-a foolish indulgence,” the marshal said firmly.
“But a handsome woman,” said Wanthred, stroking his silver whiskers.
“And ruthless, they say,” murmured the guard.
This third chamber was like the one they’d just left, a waiting room for those seeking an audience with the crown prince. Folk even more exotic to Tol’s eyes were gathered here-a gaggle of six little men, bald as eggs but bearded. All were talking at once and waving little wooden tablets at each other.
“Gnomes. A delegation from Sancrist Isle,” said their guide.
The gnomes were shorter even than kender, coming barely up to Tol’s waist. Their skin was a warm brown, and all had large noses and curly white beards. Their clothing was as peculiar as their appearance: each wore cloth trews stitched to a sleeveless top, with straps crossing over the back and buttoning at the shoulders. Squares of cloth were sewn to the front of these garments, and the squares bulged with slivers of chalk, snarls of string, and oddly shaped metal instruments.
“…it’s as simple as hydrodynamics!” said one gnome in a rapid, high-pitched shout.
Odovar looked questioningly at the Imperial Guardsman, but he only shrugged and said, “Gnome-speak.”
Leaving the babbling little men behind, the Juramona delegation and their escort entered a fourth room. It was the largest of all, ten paces wide at least, and the ceiling rose twice the height of a man. A buzz of conversation permeated the room, which was crowded with richly dressed folk of many nations and races. By this time Tol was growing accustomed to exotic strangers, but his mind reeled at the spectacle overhead.
At the peak of the canvas roof a flock of birds circled. They were shaped like geese, but weren’t like any birds Tol had ever seen. They were transparent! Solid and clear as spring water, their wings wafted up and down as they endlessly rounded the room, sending a cool downdraft over the assembly. As they passed beneath them, Tol saw the transparent geese were dripping water from the flapping wings. A droplet fell on his cheek. It was very cold. At last he understood-these birds were made of ice!
To one side, a quartet of serene-looking men stood, eyes closed, lips moving silently. The man on the end twirled a silver bead on a thread, each revolution matching exactly the motion of the ice-birds overhead. Dressed in white homespun robes with red jackets and red sash belts, each man wore a thick silver medallion on a chain around his neck. They were Red Robes, mages of the Order who served the gods of Neutrality.
The Imperial Guard led them out of this room. The Juramona men passed through a wide curtained doorway and beneath a series of wooden arches, each one wider and grander than the last. At each stood a pair of armed guards with spear and shield. This close to the Royal Presence, Tol was relegated to the back of the delegation, behind Lord Wanthred. Voices and music filtered back to him, and the splash of running water. He strained to see over the old noble’s broad shoulders.
“Wait here,” their escort said. He stepped forward, and spoke in a low voice to a richly draped man of middle years. This fellow had a big nose and leaned on a gold-capped staff.
“Ah, yes, bring them ahead,” the big-nosed man said. His face was scrubbed pink, and his fingernails gleamed like mother-of-pearl. He was the cleanest man Tol had ever seen.
Lord Odovar announced himself and his vassals, and the man nodded.
“I am Valdid,” he said, “second chamberlain to His Highness. My lords, attend upon me.”
He turned away, the hem of his blue brocade robe flapping, and they followed him into the heart of the tent-palace.
It was a single great room, thirty paces wide, filled but not crowded with warlords, courtiers, favored guests, and diplomats. Tol’s gaze was caught by a white-robed figure surrounded by a dozen attendants in light, etched armor plate. By their slim, angular features and upswept ears, he realized he was seeing Silvanesti elves for the first time.
He had no time to stare, for fresh wonders were ahead. A carpeted platform rose from the center of the room. Tripods with unlit braziers flanked four corners of a heavy wooden chair, which was padded with leather and carved with the arms of the House of Ackal. The prince’s throne was empty.
Tol looked this way and that, trying to decide which of the many lordly men present was the prince. Perhaps the tall, muscular noble in burgundy velvet? He wore a silver circlet on his brow. Or maybe the rather portly lord speaking to the elves in a musical tongue that must be their own language. Or could he be the handsome blond fellow, only slightly older than Tol, laughing in a group of young women?
Valdid, the second chamberlain, went down on one knee. “Your Highness,” he said, “the marshal of the Eastern Hundred is here with his warlords.”
None of Tol’s guesses was correct. Crown Prince Amaltar was perched on a folding stool, a scroll in his hand. He was dressed in a simple robe of midnight blue silk, cinched at the waist by a wide leather belt. A jeweled war dagger was thrust through the belt, the only visible weapon in the room. The prince’s black hair was cut shorter than the fashion, barely brushing his collar, and unlike all the other men present he sported neither beard nor mustache. Around his neck on a fine gold chain he wore a woman’s golden torque, set with a pair of rubies-said to be a memento of his deceased mother.
Putting down the scroll he held, the prince’s dark eyes inspected the Juramona men as they knelt before him.
“Long life to Your Royal Highness and to your noble father. Death to all enemies of Ergoth!” Odovar cried. The fighting men and many of the women present echoed the marshal’s sentiments, but the foreigners merely looked on, quietly amused.
“Rise, loyal vassals,” said Amaltar.
Grunting from the task of raising his bulk on a sprained knee, Odovar managed to stand without help.
“How long has it been since I last saw you?” asked the prince.
“I last met Your Highness eleven years ago, after the battle of Torgaard Pass.”
“That’s right! You gained the pass from the Tarsans with a picked force of fifty men, as I recall.”
“Your Highness favors me by remembering,” Odovar said, bowing his head. “Aias, we did not hold the pass for long.”
“No matter.” Amaltar gestured to the stool he’d vacated. “Take your ease, my lord. Your leg obviously pains you.”
Odovar colored. “I cannot sit in Your Highness’s presence!”
Amaltar’s pleasant demeanor vanished. “You can if I order it. Sit, marshal.”
Odovar slumped onto the stool, stiff leg extended, embarrassed both by the breach of protocol and by how obvious his need for it was.
The prince snapped his fingers, and a light camp table was carried over, its top covered with scrolls. At another imperial command, four nobles, each the commander of a horde, unrolled a large parchment and held it open by the corners. It was a grand map of the vicinity, drawn in vibrant colors. The blue Caer River snaked across the landscape. Caergoth, three leagues away, appeared as a black ring on the west bank of the river. The only spot on the map devoid of color was the forest itself, east of Caergoth. A line of green delineated its boundary, but within the border no features were depicted.