“How so?” asked Tol.
“To clear and cultivate such vast amounts of land requires planning. Anyone can assemble a big army. Warriors can always be found when needed, but the effort required to feed an empire is a far surer gauge of a nation’s strength.”
As he stared out across the great fields, seeing the first workers come to tend the crops, Tol had to admit there was much truth in what she said.
Once they left the farm country near the city, the land became more wooded. The sun rose as they crossed and recrossed many small, winding streams.
The morning was glorious, bright and balmy, and they passed numerous farm carts laden with laborers. Tol was recognized frequently and hailed by the farmers. He always returned their greetings. No matter how far or how high he went, he would always be a farmer’s son.
The carters he questioned said they’d seen no riders in the area, no strange warriors. Their very presence testified to the truth of that. Farmers did not linger where mounted soldiers rode.
When Tol and Kiya reached the banks of Salamander Creek at the edge of Verdant Isle, they had to ride along the bank looking for a fording place. Despite its name, the “creek” was twenty paces wide and as much as eight to ten feet deep in spots.
In the quiet rush of flowing water, Kiya spoke after a long silence.
“Do you ever think about death?”
Tol continued to scan the water for a likely crossing. “What warrior doesn’t? “
“I mean, do you wonder how you will die?”
“Not really, no. Why?”
Kiya’s buff-colored horse shifted slightly beneath her, and she slackened the reins so it could put its head down to drink. Water splashed over boulders half-submerged in the creek. In the silence, the sound of the water seemed very loud.
“I know how I’m going to die,” she finally said. “I asked a shaman of the Riverside Tribe to divine it for me many years ago.”
Again there was a pause, and again Tol said nothing, letting her tell it in her own time. She rode slightly ahead of him and he could see only her profile. “He said I would die at the hands of my best friend, and it would be a great blessing that I did.”
The words shook Tol, and he frowned. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Two events were foretold to precede my death. First, I would leave the forest to dwell in a land of stone and iron.” She had certainly done that. “Second, my sister would leave me for a man of smoke and fire.”
That description certainly suggested Elicarno. More often than not, his hands and clothes were stained with soot from his workshop forge.
“How much time is supposed to pass between these events and your death?”
“The wise one did not say.”
“They seldom do!” he declared, moving his mount up alongside hers. “Don’t dwell on it, Kiya. Prophesies are cheap entertainment. It will be years before the gods claim you.”
“Or it might be today” She turned to him and said with sudden intensity, “When the time comes, will you end my life?”
Tol recoiled. “The friend the shaman mentioned may be someone you haven’t even met yet!”
She didn’t reply but continued to stare at him intently. Gently, he said, “We can cross there. Come, Kiya. Neither of us is going to die today.”
Her sister would have had a sharp rejoinder to such a bold statement, but Kiya merely said, “How do you know, ‘my lord’?”
“Maybe I’m a shaman, too.”
When they were halfway across, four riders appeared on the other side of the creek. They were indeed part of Enkian Tumult’s army, for they were dressed as men of the northwest coast in stiff canvas brigandines covered with bronze scales. Their helmets were bronze also and resembled cloth caps with the peaks pushed back. On the wild shore of the Seascapes, the omnipresent winds drove salt spray inland for leagues. The salt air ate iron the way moths consumed old cloth, so warriors there still wore bronze.
The riders did not seem hostile. They waited patiently for Tol and Kiya to reach shore. This end of Verdant Isle was a sea of lush marsh grass brushing the horses’ bellies. Further from shore, the ground sloped up and was covered with vineyards and orchards. Verdant Isle apples were well known in Daltigoth.
As Tol and Kiya splashed ashore, the Seascapers surrounded them. The men were armed with long spears, but they kept these pointed in the air, not toward the newcomers.
A rider with a silver chevron welded to the brow of his helmet spoke. “Halt! Who are you and where are you bound?”
Tol was relieved not to be recognized. The northerners probably knew the name of Lord Tolandruth but not his face.
“We are couriers from Daltigoth,” he replied. “We come with a message for Lord Enkian.”
The corporal exchanged a significant look with his fellows then bade Tol to follow him.
The riders made no move to disarm Kiya or Tol but rode within spear reach on all four sides. Their manner was curious and cautious but not threatening.
The party crested the brow of the hill, and the greenish waters of the Hokun Canal on the north side of the isle came into view. More men appeared, some on foot, some mounted. Verdant Isle was not very large, and Enkian had quartered five thousand men here, plus an unknown number of camp followers and other noncombatants.
They zigzagged through a long line of sharpened stakes, set to impede a cavalry charge, and crossed a line of trenches being dug by impressed local farmers. It seemed Enkian was indeed preparing to resist a serious attack.
On the wider end of the isle was a small village. Here Enkian had made his camp, pitching tents between farmers’ huts. Many eyes watched Tol and Kiya as they rode slowly toward the largest tent, sited in the center of the tiny village square. Spindly platforms of lashed poles had been erected among the leafy apple trees, and archers perched atop them. Guards with bared blades stood at the entrance to Enkian’s tent. If trouble started, Tol and Kiya would not get away unscathed.
A boy came forward to hold their horses. They dismounted and followed the corporal into the tent.
The enclosure was modest. Enkian’s tent was divided by a canvas wall into two rooms. The larger front room was the warden’s command post; the smaller space, his private quarters.
The warden sat at a table in the middle of the front room. The tabletop was covered by a scattering of maps. The corporal saluted and called the warden by name, for which Tol was grateful. It was hard to recognize his lean, dark-haired former commander in the stooped, gray-bearded old man before him. Enkian, however, knew him at once.
“Tolandruth! They told me another courier had come!”
“I am here as the emperor’s personal emissary,” Tol replied. He indicated Kiya. “You remember Kiya of the Dom-shu?”
The revelation of Tol’s name brought the other warriors present to their feet. They were true frontier soldiers, baked by sun and burned by wind, lean and clear-eyed. The scene, though tense, did not feel dangerous-not yet at least.
Enkian dismissed the assembled officers, wanting to speak with Tol alone. When they were gone, he poured two brass cups of wine, handing one to Tol. He did not offer Kiya any.
Dropping into a chair he said wearily, “What news do you bring me?”
Puzzled, Tol said, “I am here at the command of His Majesty, Ackal IV, whom you once knew as Prince Amaltar. He wants to know your intentions, my lord.”
Now it was Enkian’s turn to look confused. “I have followed his instructions to the letter,” he said with a frown. “Have the rebels made their move yet?”
“Rebels?”
“The Pakins-the plotters inside the city who seek to overthrow the emperor!”
The two men stared at each other. When Tol proclaimed ignorance of any plot, Enkian leaped to his feet and struck a small gong hanging by his chair. Guards entered, swords drawn.
“Send for Jarabee,” Enkian snapped.