When word of this dangerous freelancer reached Yoralyn’s ears, she attempted to find out more about him, but she had foresworn spies, and could find out little with her own resources. By the time the name of Mandes became better-known to the college, the rogue wizard was too entrenched, too popular, too protected by powerful patrons, for the White Robes or Red Robes to move against him. It was said that even Prince Amaltar consulted Mandes-most discreetly.
Emperor Pakin III took ill that winter and never left his bed again. Tough and stubborn still, Pakin III clung to life but gave up his power. No longer simply co-ruler, Prince Amaltar was proclaimed Imperial Regent by a conclave of warlords. Formerly a penniless outcast, Mandes now moved closer to the most powerful man in the empire.
The sorcerer settled into a sumptuous house only a short distance from the entrance to the Inner City, living there alone. The day Prince Amaltar was made Imperial Regent, Mandes stood in the center of his beautifully appointed, scroll-filled study and rubbed his hands thoughtfully. One hand was pale and soft, like the rest of Mandes’s flesh. The other was muscular and brown. Unable to grow a new arm, he’d found a suitable replacement. Its former owner had not given his limb willingly, but he was past protesting. His lifeless body had been consigned to the Dalti River before it froze over for the winter.
Too easy, too easy, some part of Mandes’s mind told him. His goals may have been too modest, for everything he wanted had seemed to fall into his hands within six months of his arrival in Daltigoth. Only two things still vexed him, in minor ways. Prince Nazramin, whose power behind the scenes had grown enormously, remained indifferent to Mandes and rarely sought his counsel. The other niggling problem was Lord Tolandruth. Consigned to the distant reaches of Hylo, the young warlord still lived. Even with half the nobles of Daltigoth on his side, the other half under his thumb (for he knew too much about their indiscretions), even with the patronage of the regent himself, Mandes could not contemplate Tolandruth without foreboding.
Days passed into months. New hordes arrived to bolster Tol’s army, but no word came with them-not from Prince Amaltar, Egrin, or Valaran. The silence was so troubling that Tol wrote new letters to Valaran and Egrin.
When the sun broke through on the first day of spring, sixteen new hordes arrived under the command of Lord Regobart. Many years Tol’s senior, Regobart bore orders from Regent Amaltar which named him commander of the northern army. Regobart had been charged to convey the prince’s appreciation to Tolandruth for keeping station through the winter, and his continued affection for his champion. That was all. No words of praise or gratitude for last autumn’s victories. No personal missive came from Valaran.
When a private message finally did arrive, it came in the form of Sanksa, one of Tol’s chosen retainers. The Karad-shu man had gone to Daltigoth with Egrin. He returned looking haggard and grave, and Tol’s heart fell. He feared the worst.
Muddy and trailworn, Sanksa gratefully accepted a flagon of warm grog.
“Egrin’s at the Bay of Ergoth. Been there since before the first snowfall,” he told Tol. Upon their arrival in Caergoth, Sanksa went on to say, they had been ordered to the south coast to train six hordes to fight the Kharland pirates, who plundered the empire’s coasts at the behest of Tarsis. The rest of the caravan, including Mandes, went on to Daltigoth.
Tol had heard about the depredations of the pirates from other new arrivals and wondered why Egrin hadn’t written him before this. Sanksa’s response caused fresh worry.
“From then until now he couldn’t write because our raising of seaborne hordes was counted a secret,” the Karad-shu said. He lowered his voice. “To bring you this word, I left our camp on the bay and stole my way to you!”
“Desertion? What could possibly make you, a loyal warrior, do such a thing?” Tol asked.
“I will not water the wine, my lord, but pour it straight: That faithless villain Mandes has set himself up in the capital as a free sorcerer, taking on clients for gold and defying the edicts of the colleges. The Red and White Robes would have moved against him, but he has made powerful allies, chiefly Prince Amaltar. The colleges dare not provoke the prince, as he now rules the empire in his father’s stead. Worse to tell, Mandes must have altered or destroyed your reports, offering instead to the prince his own lies. He claims to have bested XimXim alone, and gave sole credit for the defeat of Tylocost to Lord Urakan, who he said died of his wounds on the very doorstep of victory!”
Sanksa clawed dirty blonde hair from his face and drained the flagon. “The final clod of dirt on your grave was a letter claiming, in your name, that ah you wanted from life was to remain in Hylo with the army until Tarsis was defeated. With Mandes performing wonders for him, Prince Amaltar’s fears for his own safety have been greatly eased, and he does not feel so strongly the need of a champion. So, my lord, you, Egrin, and the good men of Juramona are condemned by lies and villainy to exile at opposite ends of the empire!”
Stunned and silent, Tol wandered to the tent flap. Outside, the imperial camp was alive with activity as Lord Regobart’s new arrivals sought their billets.
“And Regobart?” Tol said, casting an ugly look over his shoulder at Sanksa. “Is he also a part of this web of deceit?”
“Egrin says Lord Regobart is not to blame for your predicament, being an honorable soldier and a loyal vassal of the emperor. ‘Serve him well, as you did Lord Urakan,’ Egrin told me to tell you,” the lanky warrior said.
Tol turned away, his shoulders hunching slightly in defeat. Rising to his feet Sanksa exclaimed, “Do not despair, my lord! The gods know virtue and will punish evil. You will best your enemies as you did XimXim and Tylocost, two mighty foes!”
Tol thanked the earnest warrior for his efforts and bade him stay in Tol’s own tent to rest and eat. He promised to make right Sanksa’s desertion.
Stepping outside the modest tent (he had ceded the larger one to Lord Regobart), Tol inhaled the cold air of early spring. It had been a morning like this, many years ago, when he’d gone to the onion field to work, and instead ended up saving the life of Lord Odovar. What would he be doing now if he had run away and left Odovar to the Pakin rebels? Still hoeing onions on a frosty morn? He banished such thoughts. There was no going back. Whatever destiny the gods intended for him, it was not on a hardscrabble farm in the wilds of the Eastern Hundred.
He looked south at the greening sward of forest between the camp and the plains of Ergoth. Juramona lay that way, and beyond, Daltigoth. Valaran was there. Had Mandes altered his letter to her, too? Loneliness like a fist gripped his heart. Had she been told he was staying away by his own choice? Would she believe that of him?
“My lord!”
The call did not penetrate Tol’s troubled thoughts. Fellen approached, saying, “The new infantry spears are ready for your inspection. Will you see them now?”
Tol’s gaze was still fixed southward.
After a moment, Fellen asked, “My lord?”
“Take it back!” Confused, Fellen asked him what he meant.
Tol looked at the engineer and proclaimed, “I will crush my enemies, and when they are dust, I shall take back what is mine!”
Fellen took him to mean the Tarsans. Later he would remember Tol’s words, and know the truth.