Every eye was on the palace door-every eye except Tol’s. From his place at the rear of the Juramona delegation, his attention was focused on the gaudy crowd opposite. He searched the courtiers for Valaran. Not given to extravagant dress, she was impossible to spot.
He hadn’t seen Val since returning her to the palace two days ago, following their misadventure in the city. He’d managed to slip away to the fountain of the centaurs each day at the appointed time, but she did not appear. He wondered if his bold kiss had frightened or offended her. Neither of the Dom-shu sisters had any sympathy for his fretting. Kiya, peeved at having missed their wild night in the city, told him simply to “be a man.” Miya’s equally unhelpful advice was, “If she’s meek enough to be scared away by a kiss, she’s not worth your trouble.”
At some hidden signal, drums and brass horns sounded. The crowd stirred, and Tol turned his attention to the palace. The tall, gilded portals swung inward. The drums began a steady cadence, augmented by the jangle of sistrums. Out the palace door marched a standard bearer, holding a golden sun disk, symbol of the emperor. Four honor guards followed, in cloth-of-gold mantles and gilded helmets. They carried enormous two-handed swords, unsheathed.
A new, less impressive figure emerged before the honor guard reached the steps. Bare-headed and in clad in wine-colored robes was the emperor’s eldest son and heir-apparent, Crown Prince Amaltar. Aside from the golden torque around his neck and the jewel-studded circlet on his brow, he was one of the most modestly dressed nobles in the square. He descended the steps with dignity, keeping an interval of five steps behind the honor guard.
Next came eight women archers in white robes, carrying unstrung bows. These were the prince’s wives, chosen for him from among the highest families in the empire. They also functioned as Amaltar’s ceremonial bodyguard.
Behind the archer-wives came a host of small children, offspring of the various imperial princes. They too were dressed in white, and carried baskets of pink and white dogwood petals, which they scattered on the steps and mosaic pavement. Their floral tribute exhausted, they slipped through the ranks of the Horse Guards and joined the rest of the imperial household.
When Amaltar, the standard bearer, and the honor guard reached the end of the lane made by the Horse Guards, they stopped. The chiefs of the Red and White Robes bowed their heads to the prince, and Amaltar moved to the side, looking to the open doors of the palace. He was ringed by his wives.
The drumming ceased. A fresh hush fell over the Inner City. The cornetists put down their new-fangled brass instruments and took up their rams’ horns. The silence was shattered by a deep, bleating note from the sixteen cornets. It was an ancient call, as old as humanity, and echoed within the high stone walls as no other sound made that morning. Tol felt a lump grow in his throat.
Warriors next to him murmured, “The emperor… the emperor…”
Pipers began playing a slow march, and the rest of the musicians joined in. Innocent of honor guards or consorts, Emperor Pakin III strode out the palace door.
A spontaneous shout went up from ten thousand throats: “Long live the emperor!”
Tol found himself shouting with the rest. He was so moved by the great ceremony, he couldn’t help himself.
The emperor was a big man, much like Egrin in size and apparent age. Unlike his clean-shaven son, Pakin III wore a full warrior’s beard, iron gray and neatly trimmed. A white silk mantle, edged in crimson and with golden tassels, hung from his shoulders. His tunic and kilt were red velvet, so dark it looked almost black. At his throat he wore a chain of heavy golden medallions. From his brow the crown of Ergoth flashed, two gilded horns amid a ring of stylized solar rays. His rider’s soft boots and leggings were made of the finest doeskin. In the crook of his left arm was the imperial scepter, an ivory baton inlaid with one hundred flawless rubies. The orbs on the ends were single rubies, each the size of a ripe apple.
Pakin III did not acknowledge the shouts. Having paused at the top of the stairs, he squared his shoulders and began to descend. Hurrahs gave way to general cheering. Warriors held high spears or swords, ladies waved handkerchiefs, and children threw fistfuls of red rose petals in the emperor’s path.
Only the wizards remained composed, stolidly waiting their time.
The procession wasn’t finished. In the emperor’s wake came the empress, slow-moving and beautiful, and Pakin III’s other sons. The only one of the four Tol recognized was red-haired Prince Nazramin, draped in black and gold. Behind them walked ambassadors from foreign lands and vassal states-burly dwarves of Thorin, gnomes from Sancrist, richly draped merchant-princes from Tarsis, and even kender delegations from Balifor and Hylo. Tol was surprised to espy six Silvanesti, cool and aloof, following the ragtag kender. There were no centaurs or ogres. Centaurs were too fragmented and nomadic to maintain diplomatic relations, and the ogres were eternal enemies of all humankind.
The emperor reached the center of the plaza, the center of the Inner City. Prince Amaltar and his retinue went down on their knees, and the standard bearer lowered the banner of the empire to Pakin III’s feet.
Now the priests and mages bowed in unison to their host and temporal master. Pakin HI held out his scepter, and the musicians finished their playing with a flourish.
From far across the crowded square, Tol heard the emperor’s voice ring out: “Send forth the high mages of the White and Red Robes!”
Four sorcerers stepped forward, two from each order. One of the White Robes Tol recognized as Yoralyn. Once emperor and wizards met, the crowd edged forward to better view the proceedings. Tol, however, could see nothing but the heads and shoulders around him.
“What’s happening?” he asked.
“The emperor and the high mages are exchanging greetings,” explained Lord Enkian, standing in front of Tol. Though he could see little better, he had been informed how the ceremony would unfold. “Small gifts will be exchanged, then the wizards will bring forth the cornerstone.”
Sure enough, after some polite byplay, the assembled sorcerers parted, and a gang of forty-four muscled laborers crept into view, dragging a sledge bearing an enormous block of stone. The cube was four steps wide on every side, and it was all the workmen could do to ease the monstrous stone forward. Chanting in unison to synchronize their effort, the sledge gang slowly advanced. Pakin III waited, imperturbable, as the cornerstone approached at barely a crawl.
The sun was well over the wall by now, and in the still air Tol was sweltering. Packed shoulder to shoulder, the high and mighty of the empire likewise waited-and sweated.
At last the great stone thudded to a halt before Pakin in. He said words Tol couldn’t hear, and touched the stone with his scepter. Tol sighed inwardly. If they had to stand here until the work gang shifted the stone all the way to the tower site, they’d still be waiting when night fell!
Fortunately, that wasn’t the plan. Having sanctioned the construction of the new Tower of Sorcery, the emperor withdrew to the palace steps. Prince Amaltar followed. The empress and the foreign representatives fell back among the Horse Guards. Pakin HI halted on the steps and once again raised his imperial baton to the wizards.