“Second, the situation in Hylo is delicate. Very delicate. Lord Mudfield will request permission to remain there, to keep an eye on the machinations of Tarsis. He will be granted permission. And stay there he will-until he rots!”
Without warning, the prince flung his goblet on the stone floor. It rang loudly, and showered yellow nectar on Mandes’s feet. The wolfhounds, each one hundred fifty pounds of muscle, teeth, and fur, rose and stalked to the nervous wizard, sniffing the spilled wine. They began to lick the sticky droplets from the floor and Mandes’s boots.
Mandes bowed his head. He would have bowed more deeply, but didn’t dare shift his feet. The hounds were still busily licking them.
“An excellent stratagem, Lord Prince,” he said. “The frontier is a dangerous place. Lord Tolandruth may perish amidst its dangers.”
Nazramin gave a disgusted snort and scrubbed strands of red hair from his face. “I doubt it. Peasants are like cockroaches: Try to stamp on them, and they survive.” Slightly drunk, he mimed his own words, lifting one foot unsteadily off the floor. Letting it fall heavily, he added, “I prefer he survives anyway. I’ll savor it more if he wastes his life away on a distant frontier.”
“Alive, Lord Tolandruth is a threat,” Mandes offered.
“Perhaps to you, wizard. Not to me.”
Gauging his words carefully, Mandes said, “May I ask, gracious prince, why you loathe Lord Tolandruth so?”
Nazramin seized the front of Mandes’s robe, dragging him close. Nose to nose he whispered, “He offends me, wizard. Because he’s not in his proper place. Because he does the deeds of a hero, even though he was born to grow turnips. A proper order must he maintained if the world is to turn as it should. Don’t you agree?” A dangerous glint came to the prince’s eyes. “Most of all, he gives me a convenient way to torment my brother.”
He shoved Mandes away, swept a hand through the scattered scrolls, and came up with the one Tol had addressed to Valaran. He smiled at it-and Mandes suppressed a shudder at the singularly unpleasant expression.
“And this,” Nazramin murmured, caressing the scroll. “This gives me a chain I can bind around Valaran’s slender throat. I pull, she comes. I let the chain go slack, she flees-but never very far. She is privy to my brother’s doings, which I otherwise would not hear of. By making certain alterations to this”-he tapped the scroll against his palm-”I can twist the chain, convincing the princess to give voice to the words I want said.”
“Your vision far exceeds mine, Lord Prince,” said the sorcerer. “I confess it is beyond me.”
The prince gave a dismissive wave. “Get out. Do not approach me again unless I send for you.”
The dogs had gone to sleep, forsaking Mandes’s boots, so he stepped back and bowed deeply.
“As you command, Lord Prince.” Necessity required Mandes to add, “A reward was mentioned for what I placed in your hands…”
Nazramin took a weighty purse from the folds of his dressing gown and tossed it to Mandes. The sorcerer was not yet adept at catching with one hand, and the bag of coins thumped into his belly and fell to the floor. The clatter of heavy coins woke the dogs. In a flash the wolfhounds were on their feet, barking and snarling. Mandes paled and drew back.
The prince rocked with laughter. “Take your reward, wizard! Buy yourself a new arm!”
Mandes scooped up the purse and backed out of the sweltering room. As he was about to close the door, Nazramin said a word to the dogs, and they leaped for him.
Mandes shut the door just in time. The savage beasts hurled themselves against the oak panels time and again, howling like the cursed hounds of H’rar. Sweating and shaking, he beat a quick retreat. Out in the snowy streets, he clenched his fingers tightly around the prince’s gold.
Buy yourself a new arm. Nazramin had meant it as a cruel joke, but that’s exactly what Mandes planned to do. With a new arm, his campaign would start. Not for him the petty plans of Prince Nazramin.
His goal was nothing less than the magical conquest of Daltigoth.
Valaran let Tol’s letter fall from her hands.
On the sunny battlements of the Imperial Palace, she looked over the silent, gray city. Snow always stole the color from everything. All the poets said so, and for once, she saw the truth in their fanciful words.
“Duty demands that I remain here, to guard the borders of the empire,” Tol had written. “I cannot say when I will see you again. Our lives mean little compared to the glory of our nation… here I can serve the empire best, instead of rotting away as the crown prince’s lackey.”
She could hardly believe it. He had promised to come back-and now seemed in little hurry. The realization stung like a slap in the face. If he’d been ordered to stay, she might have accepted it-they both had their duties-but he didn’t want to come back! At first she couldn’t fathom it, then her eyes found the letter’s final sentence, and all was made dreadfully clear. That cheery postscript had stolen the breath from Valaran’s lungs and driven her, pale as a wraith, to this great height.
“The Dom-shu sisters have been of great worth to me. Kiya is an excellent warrior, though she still cannot cook. Miya has proven herself in other ways. Our child will be born in the spring.”
Valaran looked down in despair. It was a long way to the plaza. Unblemished by winter’s snow, the heroic mosaics sparkling in the sunlight seemed to mock her, ridiculing her pain. She could see every one of the thousands of stones in them. In a moment she would see them closer still.
Two women crossed the plaza slowly. From this height Valaran couldn’t recognize their faces, but their elaborate gowns and deliberate, stately tread marked them as imperial wives. How they and the rest of the Consorts’ Circle would coo and jabber over her fate! Poor Valaran the Wisp, the skinny, unfeminine scholar who had somehow caught the eye of the hero Tolandruth, and killed herself when he was unfaithful. Silly girl! Didn’t she know all men are unfaithful at some point in their lives?
Anger flooded her, sending hot blood to her face. No! Not for any man would she throw away her life-certainly not for an upstart, arrogant peasant who imagined himself a noble!
Upstart, arrogant, lying peasant! What a fool she had been to believe him!
The wind dried her tears. Valaran turned away from the parapet and made her way with firm steps down the winding stone stair into the palace. She went directly to the imperial library and filled her arms with books. Ignoring courtiers and servants, she moved purposefully through the halls, back to the corridor between the kitchens and the Consort Circle’s salon. She wanted nothing now but to seclude herself in her old hiding place, where she’d first met Tol.
She shook her head savagely, excising that event from her memory. It hadn’t happened. He hadn’t happened. How stupid she had been to order her life around such a ignorant, unfeeling farm boy!
Valaran closed the curtain and sat down to read.
Through the cold and achingly dull winter, rumors began to circulate among Daltigoth’s elite. People having problems with health, love, or business dealings could seek help from a man who could solve any problem, a wise and discreet man, said to be unknown to the college of sorcerers. Skilled in many magical arts, he was new to the city. For gold, or the right sort of favor, this clever wizard would unravel even the most difficult problems, no questions asked. Fortunes changed hands. Enemies disappeared, or succumbed to the worst “luck” imaginable.