The high mages were joined by their assistants, and the rest of the Red and White Robes filled in behind them as close as possible. All the mages linked hands. A low, steady murmur filled the plaza, punctuated by the beat of a solitary drum. The chant grew in volume and intensity. Out of nowhere, a cold blast shivered through the Inner City, causing a grateful moan to arise from the sweat-drenched onlookers. Fallen blossoms, now brown around the edges, rose in a whirlwind from the sorcerers’ park.
The stone block rose into the air, hobbling above the sledge like a cork in a basin of water.
Tol’s mouth fell open in shock.
The chanting increased in volume, until it was echoing off the city walls. All the mages now raised their joined hands high, rapidly shouting their incantation. Tol tried to isolate the words, but they were meaningless to him, perhaps another language entirely.
Compelled by the will of twelve hundred sorcerers, the block soared into the air. Courtiers and hardened warriors alike gave vent to their surprise as the stone cube lofted skyward, light as a feather. When it was level with the top of the Inner City’s wall, it paused, hovering.
The elder mages shouted a single sharp syllable. They repeated it slowly, over and over. The cornerstone began tumbling in place. In counterpoint to the elders, the balance of the college of wizards chanted a different spell, just four words which they repeated endlessly. The rotating block drifted in a straight line toward the tower site. It skimmed just over the treetops. When it reached the proper place, the chanting stopped. The white stone block stabilized thirty paces off the ground. Slowly, very slowly, the elders lowered their hands. Following their movement, the cornerstone sank below the treetops. Though it was lost from the sight of those in the plaza, the wizards maintained the gentle descent of their arms. When at last their hands were at their sides again, the block was in place. Four of the eldest sages collapsed, completely drained by the effort.
That was not the end. Yoralyn and the remaining elders came together in a much smaller circle, facing inward. They each thrust their right hand into the middle of the circle until their fingers touched. The drifting cloud of flower petals ceased whirling and began to coalesce at the tower site. A second ring of mages closed in on Yoralyn’s, and then a third. The pastel column of petals formed a cylinder rising from the trees to well above the Inner City wall.
Thunder rolled out of the cloudless sky. A second chin blast swept through the plaza. The assembly gasped as the column of flower petals seemed to solidify into a tower a hundred paces tall, with minarets halfway up its length and a tall, conical roof.
“What theater,” Lord Enkian snorted. “A tower made of cherry blossoms? They’ll have to work in stone if they expect that thing to stand!”
His cynical words jolted Tol, but could not lessen the impact of the enthralling spectacle. Although the grand ceremony was at an end, the magically crafted phantom tower remained, shining white against the clear Hue vault of sky.
Unhurriedly, the emperor re-entered the palace, followed by the crown prince, the empress, princes of the blood, guards, and standard bearer. The foreign ambassadors remained in the square, and as the Horse and Foot guards withdrew, the mass of onlookers flowed together. Tol sensed Lord Enkian moving away to leave and managed to tear his gaze from the cherry-blossom tower.
“My lord, will you be needing me?” he asked the marshal.
“Need you? No, not till tonight for the grand banquet. We are to sit at the crown prince’s table. See to it you are there, on time and without arms! Clear?”
Tol saluted, jostling people in the thick crowd. “I shall be there, my lord.”
He slipped away, anxious to continue his search for Valaran. He saw any number of ladies, lovely and unlovely, dark-haired and blonde, but none was his newfound love. As he was buffeted back and forth by the surging crowd, he despaired. Where was Valaran?
A strong hand grasped his elbow and held on. He tried to see who’d grabbed him, but the unseen stranger twisted his arm so he couldn’t move.
“Don’t struggle,” said a low voice close to his ear. “This is your friend from the quayside.”
The hooded killer from the tavern! “What do you want?”
“Come to the Font of the Blue Phoenix today. You’ll be met.”
“Met by whom?” Tol tried to break the killer’s hold, but failed. “When?” he asked, exasperated.
“You know who, and you know when.”
The iron grip vanished. Tol spun, but the fellow was quick-and lost in the throng of people.
The fellow must have meant Valaran and her customary visit to the fountain four marks before sunset. Yet how could the murderer know of Tol’s rendezvous with Valaran, unless she’d been forced to tell him? Fear and fury filled Tol.
He would keep the date. If Valaran were harmed in any way, the hooded stranger and any who aided him would pay severely This Tol vowed as he remembered his man Gustal, victim of his last encounter with the smooth-voiced killer.
All Daltigoth took on a festival air that afternoon. The streets were full of people celebrating the beginning of the new Tower of Sorcery. They gathered in huge crowds outside the Inner City, gazing up at the vast surrogate tower. Most cared not a whit about the magical orders or their progress, but gladly seized upon the ceremonial day as an excuse for revelry. People danced in every street, and wine flowed.
Tol consulted with Narren about his coming meeting. Narren agreed the masked killer was hardly the sort of go-between a gently raised girl like Valaran would use, so the meeting was likely a trap. Narren also agreed Tol had no choice but to go. In the end, his only practical advice was that Tol should wear a mail shirt under his jerkin, to fend off back-stabs and thrown knives.
When the sun dipped into the foothills west of the city, Tol clasped hands with Narren and bade him farewell.
“May the gods go with you,” Narren said. Grinning, he added, “Better yet, may the Dom-shu sisters go with you. They’re the equal of any masked strangers!”
Tol took his leave without comment. He had no intention of involving Miya and Kiya-and risking their lives, too.
The vast palace square was nearly empty when he arrived. The guards at the gate knew him by sight now, and waved him through. In the plaza was a line of head-high iron tripods; each would hold a burning torch after nightfall. The double line of tripods ran from the palace steps to the edge of the wizards’ garden.
Tol entered the west end of the garden, hurrying to reach the fountain on time. To his surprise, he spotted couples strolling along the shadowed paths inside the sorcerers’ sanctuary-courtiers with ladies on their arms. Apparently Yoralyn and her colleagues had opened the grounds to the emperor’s guests for this occasion, suspending their sleep spell.
Tol circled the large fountain quickly. The water in the basin was dotted with windblown flower petals. He rounded the end of the fountain and saw three people ahead, by the brim of the stone-lined pool. Yoralyn, Oropash, and Helbin seemed to be waiting for him; they watched his approach. Tol slowed to a walk.
“Welcome,” the elderly sorceress said. “I regret having to lure you here under false pretenses, but we needed to speak with you, and the matter is sensitive.”
“You sent for me? I thought this involved Valaran-where is she?” Tol said sharply.
“With her family, I assume. Lord Valdid must be consumed with preparations for the banquet tonight.”
Some of Tol’s tension eased. He’d mistaken the hooded messenger’s words. The message had come from the wizards, not Valaran.