“And I think,” Serl shot back, his voice dripping with venom, “that the good celebrant is far to eager to climb into the Lightbringer’s bed.”
That shut Kyad up. The cleric’s swarthy face flushed, but he looked away and said no more. Serl stood there, seething-not the least because Kyad was right. He had lost two sons to the sorcerers in the Lordcity, which was more than Beldinas or Yarns could claim.
Why should he not deserve to strike first blood against the wizards for that offense? Why should-
“Tomorrow.”
Serl’s eyebrows climbed up toward his receding hairline. He turned away from Kyad, back to the throne, whence the voice had originated. “Excellency?”
“We … attack early,” Emperor Gwynned declared, his voice soft and halting. “Not tonight … though. Tomorrow.”
Laughter formed on Serl’s lips, but he held back the urge. Instead, he bowed. “As you will it, my liege,” he declared. “May I have your leave to make ready?”
Gwynned took a deep drink from his tankard. His moustache came away soaked in creamy foam. With his other hand, he waved the duke away.
Bowing, Serl turned to go. As he did, he noticed the Grand Celebrant. Kyad looked as if he had just been punched in the stomach, which filled Serl with a great satisfaction. As he strode out of the throne room, however, the duke did not openly gloat over his victory. It was unseemly in front of Gwynned. Besides, there would be plenty of time for that later, after he took the Tower.
The next day was rainy, as often was the case in Daltigoth in the spring. The sky hung heavy with what folk called widow clouds, for they wore dark veils and never stopped weeping. Water flowed down the streets and overflowed the banks of the Nath and the Ord, the twin rivers that met in the city’s midst. The colors of the city-never bright to begin with, the folk of Ergoth being more fond of granite and bronze than marble and gold-grew more muted still. Even the emperor’s palace, an ancient sprawl of buttresses and towers normally hung with green and scarlet banners, seemed wan, half-lost in the drizzle.
Then there was the Tower.
It stood atop a hill that gave it a commanding view of Daltigoth itself, and the fields and mountains all around it. Unlike the white hand of Istar and Losarcum’s black needle, this Tower was a rich shade of crimson. Square and stout, with crenellated battlements and glowering gargoyles, it sported five parapets-four white ones at each corner, and a larger fifth in the midst, as black as a raven’s eye. The widow-clouds swirled about, hiding them from view and revealing them again. All around it, dark and swaying, stood a sward of tall pines, whose whispering boughs put any man who set foot within to sleep.
Serl glared at the Tower, just beyond the edge of the grove. He was in full armor, steel covered with gildwork and black enamel, a greatsword strapped to his back. His antlered helm he held tucked under one arm, and a flame-colored cloak hung damply from his shoulders. Behind him were a thousand men arrayed in bronze mail and armed with axes and broad blades. Clerics of Draco Paladin and Corij-as they called Paladine and Kiri-Jolith in the west-walked among them, droning in Old Ergothian. The people of Daltigoth mingled nearby, the curious and the morbid gathering to watch the battle.
The duke was not happy. Having lost Reik and Parsal, his two eldest sons, in the disastrous incident in Istar, he had hoped to bring his youngest, Arn, with him today, to share in his revenge. The boy had been more than willing to come, too, until his mother found out. While Serl could fight a hill giant without fear, Duchess Sheran Kar-thon was another matter. Arn remained behind at the family’s manor while the duke marched to battle, rattled and upset.
Rainwater running down his face as he gazed up at the red monolith, Serl reached into his pouch and pulled out the pine nut that had come from Istar. If this didn’t work, if he planted the seed and nothing happened, he would look a fool. If it did what the Kingpriest claimed …
He smiled, stepping forward. Serl, conqueror of mages had a ring to it.
Rust-colored needles blanketed the earth among the pines. They gave off a rich smell as he brushed them aside. At once his eyelids drooped, and his thoughts grew muzzy as the grove’s magic began to wash over him. He blinked, sucking in a jaw-cracking yawn-then shook his head. No. He focused his will, fighting off the enchantment. After a moment, it abated. He was only on the fringes of the pines, where the power was weakest. Snarling a wordless curse aimed at all wizards, he drew a dagger from his belt and began to dig.
After a while, he judged the hole deep enough. He glanced back at his men-standing patiently, waiting for whatever was about to happen-and sheathed his dirk. Another man might have prayed at that moment, but Serl had seldom bothered with the gods. Instead, he simply placed the seed in the ground, covered it with soil, and stepped back to wait.
He waited for several minutes. Nothing happened … then nothing happened some more. Serl’s mood grew darker. Was this a trick? Some ruse concocted by the Kingpriest to make Ergoth-and him-look foolish? If so, he would set sail for Istar again before nightfall, find the thrice-damned Lightbringer, and shove his sword-
The first tremor hit, heaving the dirt beneath his feet. It was gone a moment later, and he frowned, wondering if he had imagined it. He heard his men muttering, invoking Draco Paladin and growling imprecations. When the ground shook again-harder this time, bringing showers of needles down from the pines above-he spat a few vile words himself.
Stepping back, he saw the ground where he had planted the seed start to bubble and rise, like a boil or blister. He kept backing away and heard the clatter of his men’s armor behind him. A couple fled, but most stood their ground, watching.
With a sound not unlike timber falling, the earth exploded, showering dirt everywhere.
Serl got a faceful, spitting and sputtering as he tried to clear his eyes. When he could see again, a tree had begun to rise from the spot, shooting up with startling speed, branches unfolding, needles sprouting before his eyes. The tree had black needles, black bark and sticky black sap oozing down its trunk. He stared at the strange growing pine, appalled, as it soared higher and higher, above its surroundings.
“Blood of a thousand wyrms,” he swore reverently.
When it finally stopped, the black tree was as big and thick around as a house, overtopping the other trees by half. It swayed, creaking, the rain pattering down among its boughs. Then, it did something even more amazing. It spoke.
Avasti kushan, it said, the words creeping across Serl’s mind like insects. Satong du galantim….
Again the ground shuddered, then bucked like a wild hippogriff. More of Serl’s men slipped away, some of them weeping, but still the bulk of the warriors stood their ground.
Swords scraped free of scabbards. The duke himself set his helm upon his head and reached over his shoulder to draw his double-handed blade. Peering through narrow eyeslits, he watched in astonishment as the grove began to move.
It was swift, even violent. One moment, the black pine stood surrounded by its brethren.
The next, trees were twisting aside, digging furrows in the earth, some even uprooting themselves in their eagerness to shy away. A gash ran deep through the grove, ripping through the heart of it, filling the air with a storm of dead needles-until finally the crimson walls of the Tower of High Sorcery appeared. Only then did the rumbling stop, and the forest grew quiet once more.
Serl stared, his heart galloping. It had worked. The seed had done as the Kingpriest promised. He found it strange and unsettling, but there was no denying the evidence of his eyes: the path to the Tower … the path to glory. . was clear.