Shaking off the memories Dagorian approached the gates, and saw the crowds waiting patiently outside. They parted and cheered as the Ventrian sorcerer, Kalizkan, made his entrance. Tall and dignified, wearing robes of silver satin, edged with golden thread, the silver-bearded Kalizkan smiled and waved, stopping here and there to speak to people in the throng. Six young children stayed close by him, holding to the tassels of his belt. He halted before a young woman, with two children. She was wearing the black sash of the recently widowed, and the children looked thin and undernourished. Kalizkan leaned in close to her, and lifted his hand towards the cheap tin brooch she wore upon her ragged dress. 'A pretty piece,' he said, 'but for a lady so sad it ought to be gold.' Light danced from his fingers, and the brooch gleamed in the sunlight. Where it had sat close to the dress the sheer weight of the new gold made it hang down. The woman fell to her knees and kissed Kalizkan's robes. Dagorian smiled. Such deeds as this had made the sorcerer popular with the people. He had also turned his vast home into an orphanage in the northern quarter and spent much of his free time touring the slum areas, bringing deserted children to his house.
Dagorian had met him only once — a brief introduction at the palace, with twenty other new officers. But he liked the man instinctively. The sorcerer gave a last wave to the crowd and led his children into the park. Dagorian bowed as he approached.
'Good morning to you, young Dagorian,' said Kalizkan, his voice curiously high pitched. 'A fine day, and not too cold.'
The officer was surprised that Kalizkan had remembered his name. 'Indeed, sir. I am told you have prepared a wondrous exhibition for the king."
'Modesty forbids me to boast, Dagorian,' said Kalizkan, with a mischievous grin. 'But my little friends and I will certainly attempt something special. Isn't that right?' he said, kneeling down and ruffling the blond hair of a small boy.
'Yes, uncle. We will make the king very happy,' said the child.
Kalizkan pushed himself to his feet and smoothed down his silver satin robes. They matched the colour of his long thin beard, and highlighted the summer sky blue of his eyes. 'Well, come along, my children,' he said. With a wave to Dagorian the tall sorcerer strode on.
Dagorian moved out through the gates, and along the highway to where the horses of the officers were stabled. Saddling his chestnut gelding he rode out to where the White Wolf was camped, west of the city walls. The camp itself was largely deserted, since most of the men would be at the celebrations, but there was a handful of sentries, two of whom were standing outside Banelion's large, black tent. Dagorian dismounted and approached the men.
'Is the general accepting visitors?' he asked. One of the sentries lifted the tent flap and stepped inside. He returned moments later.
'He will see you, Captain,' he said, saluting.
The sentry lifted the flap once more and Dagorian ducked into the tent. The White Wolf was sitting at a folding table, examining maps. He was looking frail and elderly. Dagorian hid his concern and gave a salute. Banelion smiled. 'What brings you here today, my boy? I thought you had duties in the Park.'
Dagorian quietly told him of the conversation with Nogusta. The White Wolf listened in silence, his expression unreadable. When the young man had finished he gestured him to a chair. Banelion sat quietly for a moment, then leaned forward. 'Do not take this amiss, Dagorian, but I want you to forget about the warning. And let us make our goodbyes now, for you must not come close to me again.'
'You think it is true, sir?'
'True or false it must not affect you. You are remaining behind, and will serve Malikada as you served me — with loyalty and honour.'
'I could not do that if he was responsible for your death, my general.'
'I am no longer your general. Malikada is!' snapped Banelion. His face softened. 'But I am your friend. What is between Malikada and myself is for me to concern myself with. It has no bearing on your dealings with the king's general. We are not talking friendship here, Dagorian, we are talking politics. More than this we are talking survival. I can tolerate an enemy like Malikada. You cannot.'
Dagorian shook his head. 'You talk of honour, sir? How could I honour the man who murdered my friend?'
'Try to understand, boy. Two years ago Malikada was leading an army that killed Drenai soldiers. He faced the king in two battles and did his best to kill him. When the last city fell we all expected Malikada to be executed. Skanda chose to make him his friend. And he has proved a remarkable ally. That is Skanda's great talent. Half the army he leads used to be his enemies. That is why he took the empire, and why he will hold it. Three of Skanda's closest friends were killed by Malikada and his men — including your father. Yet Skanda honours him. If Malikada manages to have me killed it will not matter to the king, for I am yesterday, Malikada is today. Let it not matter to you either.'
The White Wolf fell silent. Dagorian reached out and took the old man's hand. 'I am not the king. I am not even a soldier by choice. And I cannot think as you would wish me to. All I want is to see you live.'
'Many men have tried to kill me, Dagorian. I am still here.' Banelion rose. 'Now go back to the celebrations.'
Dagorian moved to the tent entrance and turned. 'Thank you, sir, for all you have done for me.'
'And you for me,' said Banelion. 'Farewell.'
Outside the tent Dagorian summoned the sentries to him. Both were older men, their beards flecked with silver. 'The general's life is in danger,' he told them, keeping his voice low. 'Watch carefully for strangers. And if he leaves the camp for any reason make sure someone is close to him.'
'We know, sir. They'll not get to him while we live,' said the first.
Dagorian stepped into the saddle and rode back through the city. Leaving his horse at the stables he joined the last of the crowd surging through the open gates. He had been gone for more than an hour, and many of the events had already begun. Threading his way through the throng he made his way to the king's pavilion and rejoined the guards.
The wrestling was under way. More than forty pairs of fighting men were grappling, and the crowd was cheering loudly. Dagorian saw the giant Bison hurl an opponent out of the circle. Far to the left the archery tournament had also begun. Two hundred bowmen were shooting at straw-filled targets.
Dagorian glanced at the nobles seated around the king. Malikada was sitting beside Skanda. The king looked magnificent in his armour of polished iron. Unadorned it gleamed like silver. Skanda laughed and gestured towards one of the wrestling bouts. Dagorian's eyes did not follow where the king pointed. His gaze remained fixed on Skanda's profile. The king was a handsome man, his golden hair, streaked now with silver, shone in the sunlight like a lion's mane. This was the man who had conquered most of the world. Beside the powerful figure of Skanda the Ventrian prince Malikada seemed almost frail. Both men were laughing now.
Two rows behind the king sat the pregnant queen, Axiana. Serene and exquisitely beautiful she seemed to have no interest in the proceedings. The daughter of the Ventrian emperor deposed by Skanda she had been taken in marriage to cement Skanda's claim to the throne. Dagorian wondered if the king loved her. A ridiculous thought, he chided himself. Who could not love Axiana? Dressed in white, her dark hair braided with silver thread, she was — despite the advanced state of her pregnancy — an arresting vision of beauty. Her gaze suddenly turned to Dagorian, and he looked away, guiltily.
The smell of roasting meats drifted out from the huge tent behind the pavilion. Soon the tourneys would be suspended for an hour for the nobles to eat and drink. Dagorian moved back to check the guards around the tent. Sixty spearmen were waiting there. They stood to attention as the young officer approached. 'Take your places,' he commanded. All but four of the men filed out around the tent. Dagorian led the last group to the entrance behind the pavilion.