Draymon heard him. Keeping his eyes forward, the commander whispered, “Battle would be easier.”
Tol glanced at him in surprise, but questions were forestalled as Draymon unhitched his sword belt and drew his dagger, handing both to a waiting lackey. Tol did the same, yielding his saber to another uniformed servant.
A gong was struck, silencing the assembly, and a herald boomed out, “Silence! Attend upon His Excellency, Lord Tolandruth of Juramona, General of the Army of the North, Chosen Champion of the Regent of Ergoth!”
Tol and Draymon entered the great hall, walking in step, their footfalls cushioned by thick carpet: As they traversed the distance between door and throne, whispers of “Is that really him?” “He’s so short!” and “He’s back” mingled with the oft-repeated word “farmer.”
Two decades had passed since Tol had left his family’s farm as a child, yet in Daltigoth, a man was always identified by his father’s profession. To many of these people, no matter how many signal victories Tol won, he would always be nothing more than the son of a farmer.
The hall was warm, stiflingly so. The tall windows were shut and covered with white draperies, in honor of the deceased Pakin III. Bronze braziers, styled to resembled torches, blazed in wall sconces. In spite of the close atmosphere, clothing tended toward heavy velvets and brocades, and the predominant color was white. The current fashion for women was to wear a stiff, starched headdress that wrapped around the forehead and pulled long hair away from the face to cascade down the back, exposing the ears and neck. Even in mourning, court dandies managed to indulge their love of jewelry; Tol had never seen so many pearls and diamonds in his life.
Amaltar was the only one in the room not wearing white. Clad in scarlet robes, the new master of Ergoth stood out like a splash of blood on a snowy field. The throne sat at the end of the hall in a semicircular area thirty paces wide. On each side were ranged Amaltar’s closest advisors. The warriors stood out by the glint of the iron they wore; the others were civilians and priests.
Behind the advisors were the members of Amaltar’s household. His eldest wife, matronly Thura, stood closest to her husband. The other wives were arranged in strict order of precedence. Tol’s heart found a new reason to pound as he sought out Valaran, Amaltar’s fifth wife.
She appeared, still distant, as a slender figure in a proper white ensemble. A few paces closer, and Tol realized her gown and headdress were somewhat improperly trimmed with green. How like her that was! Val had never cared for the pointless whims of fashion, but she couldn’t completely ignore the rules of protocol. The highlights of vivid green certainly matched her eyes. He could never forget those eyes.
When they had first met, she’d been reading a scroll in an alcove, away from the prying eyes of the court ladies who felt such bookishness unbecoming. Now she stood tall and straight, swathed in voluminous waves of white silk. Her stiff headdress curled back from her temples and around her ears, holding the long hair that fell past her shoulders. Unable to see her face clearly as yet, Tol found himself staring at Val’s hair; pulled forward over one shoulder, the sleek mass gleamed a rich chestnut color in the torchlight.
Forcing his attention back to the emperor, Tol saw that Amaltar leaned hard on the right arm of his golden chair. His face was startlingly pale; against the scarlet of his robes, his skin had the pallor of marble. By tradition, he did not yet wear the imperial circlet on his brow, but his prince’s crown, a simple ring of gold set with two large rubies. His black eyes were shadowed by dark circles and his shoulders hunched. He looked as though he hadn’t slept in many nights.
When Tol and Draymon were six steps from the throne, a quartet of burly guardsmen stepped out, barring the way. The guardsmen were weaponless, of course, but had been carefully chosen for their imposing height and muscle. Draymon and Tol stopped.
“Here I leave you,” said the commander with a nod. “May fortune continue to favor you, my lord.”
Draymon withdrew. A chamberlain-it was Valdid, Valaran’s father-bade the guards stand aside, and gestured for Tol to come forward.
Tol slowly advanced. Lacking a dagger, he struck his heels together and raised an empty hand in salute to his liege. Chamberlain Valdid’s brow furrowed.
“Kneel,” he hissed, tapping his gold-capped staff agitatedly on the floor.
“What?”
“Kneelbefore the emperor!”
Tol was taken aback. Kneel like a slave? He’d never been asked to do such a thing before, not before Amaltar, nor even before his mighty father.
The four burly guardsmen regarded him coldly. Perplexed, Tol sank to one knee. Pressing his sword hand to his breast, he said, “Forgive me, Majesty. I’ve been away so long I don’t know proper manners.”
“Rise, Lord Tolandruth. Approach.”
Amaltar’s voice sounded dry and hoarse and much older than his actual age. Tol stood and came forward.
“Great Majesty, I have come as you bid.”
So intent was he on keeping his eyes away from the emperor’s left, where Valaran stood, that his gaze shifted to those on Amaltar’s right, and he spotted a familiar face.
Mandes!
The threadbare rogue wizard Tol had rescued from a band of wild bakali had certainly come up in the world. Looking sleek and well-groomed in his mourning robes, Mandes radiated success. A heavy silver chain lay around his neck, and a second silver band encircled a waist trimmer now than when Tol had last seen him. Although the top of his head was bald, his brown hair was long on the sides, pulled back and braided into a queue.
Hands tucked into his sleeves, Mandes regarded Tol with serene indifference. Tol forced himself not to stare at Mandes’s left sleeve; that was the arm he had lost in the battle with the monster XimXim. He must have contrived some artifice to give himself the appearance of having two good limbs.
It was not lost on Tol that Mandes stood within reach of the emperor, while Oropash, head of the White Robe wizards, was nearer the back. The positioning was a clear indication of who had Amaltar’s ear and who did not.
“Valiant general,” Amaltar rasped, “you’ve been away too long.”
“That was not by my choosing, sire.” Tol threw a stern glance at Mandes. “Enemies kept me away.”
Assuming he meant the Tarsans, the emperor nodded. “But you overcame them. You are the great sword of our empire, and we rejoice to have you at our side again.”
Tol found it difficult to hide his surprise at Amaltar’s condition. It was plain he was an unhealthy man. His Ackal face, with its strong chin and aquiline nose, had gone round and soft, while the rest of him seemed whittled to bone and sinew. Was it the burden of rule that wore a man down like this?
“I would hear of your final battle before the gates of Tarsis, and your journey here,” Amaltar said. “I’m told you arrived by boat, sailing an oceangoing ship up the Dalti Canal.”
“It was a pirate galleot, Majesty.” Tol explained that a sizable portion of the Blood Fleet had pledged loyalty to Ergoth.
“Pirates?” said the officer nearest the throne. “The emperor’s name cannot be stained by an alliance with bandits!”
Tol did not know the man. He was not one of Pakin III’s old lions, but a youngish fellow, clad in glittering court armor and bearing a scar across his upper lip.
“I speak not of alliance, but submission,” Tol replied tartly. “Sixty-six ships have pledged loyalty to the empire.”
The sneer deepened. “And what is a pirate’s oath worth?”
“More than the word of nameless palace heroes.”
The officer’s hand went to his hip, but of course he wore no sword in Amaltar’s presence. Gilded armor clattered as he drew himself up.