“Lord Tolandruth.” It was hard to determine which of the two figures in front had spoken. “You are summoned to attend upon the emperor.”
“Doesn’t Amaltar ever sleep?” Miya blurted.
“The summons does not come from Crown Prince Amaltar,” the muffled voice solemnly replied. “His Majesty Pakin III requires your presence.”
“But he’s dead!”
Tol, although as confused as Miya, shushed her. “What is this about?” he asked. He decided it was the figure on his right who was speaking.
“The Emperor of Ergoth calls you to duty. Will you come?”
Kiya put a hand on his arm. “Don’t go, husband. No good can come of serving a dead man.”
“You must make yourself clean, and wear these.”
The fellow on Tol’s left held out a bundle of white cloth, its corners tied together at the top.
The bundle was weighty, but soft. Ritual garments, Tol assumed, like the ones the strange messengers wore.
“I will come,” he said.
The sisters exchanged worried glances. Tol was altogether too trusting.
“Come alone at midnight to the Tower of High Sorcery. Follow where you are led, and do not speak.”
The white-clad phantoms departed. Miya shut the heavy door.
“What sort of trick is this?” Kiya demanded. “Husband, you should not go!”
Tol smiled. “It’s all right. I believe they want me to stand vigil over the late emperor.”
This made sense to the sisters. Their tribe had a similar rite. The night before a dead chief was immolated on his funeral pyre, his family was expected to spend the night with him, making offerings to the gods.
Kiya went to the kitchen to heat water for Tol’s bath. He headed to his bedchamber and there untied the bundle. It contained a linen robe, a sash, a short cape, a simple cloth skullcap, and slippers. Even smallclothes had been provided. Every item was spotlessly white.
Miya watched as he laid out the funerary garments. “Honor or not, I still don’t like you going through the streets alone,” she said. “Wear that dwarf blade, will you?” He assured her he would.
Kiya arrived bearing a steaming kettle. Tol stripped and splashed hot water on his face, arms, and feet. The sisters watched with critical eyes, as though inspecting a prize bull.
“He’s held up well. Wouldn’t you say?” Miya asked her sister.
Kiya nodded. “Quite a few scars, but strong for a man his age.”
Tol paused in his ablutions. “What do you mean, ‘a man his age?’ ”
“His hair’s too short. Looked better longer,” Miya said with a frown.
“What do you mean, ‘a man his age?’ ” Tol repeated.
Kiya shrugged. “Well, you are past thirty-”
“Just past,” he said quickly.
“A man’s vigor peaks at twenty,” Miya said, “but you are holding up well.”
Tol planted fists on his bare hips. “Would you like to check my teeth while you’re at it?”
Miya waved his pique aside. “We see you chew every day. We know your teeth are good.”
She started to discuss other, more intimate facets of his physique, and Tol stamped his foot in warning. Grinning, the sisters fell silent.
Clean and dry, Tol donned the smallclothes, tying the drawstring waist snugly, and pulled the long robe on over his head. In short order he was dressed, down to the slippers and skullcap.
Worried his sword belt would smudge the white linen, he pulled Number Six from the scabbard, wiped the blade clean, and slipped it through his sash.
The timekeeper candle showed it to he just a half-mark short of midnight. Tol descended to the entry hall, trailed by the Dom-shu.
He had no time to hunt up a horse for hire, so he decided to walk to the tower. The sisters wanted to accompany him, at least as far as the Inner City gate. However, their mothering was getting on his nerves, so he ordered them to stay in the villa and guard the treasure.
Cool wind sighed through the streets. Working folk tended to turn in once it got dark, so there was little nightlife in the Quarry district. Robe billowing, Tol climbed the flat, winding steps leading up and out of the former stone quarry.
In the streets above, the few folk he passed gave him a wide berth, whispering, “Vigilant.” He was glad the strange visitors had reminded him not to speak; it was considered a gross breach of etiquette to talk while wearing the robes of the vigil, but he’d never taken part in the ceremony before.
Overhead, stars played hide and seek behind clouds scudding before the wind. He noticed a bright light in the distance, and it took him a moment to realize he was seeing the white moon, Solin, shining over the peak of the Tower of High Sorcery, his destination.
Customarily, the emperor’s vigil was held in the Temple of Mishas, but Tol wasn’t surprised at the change of location. The Tower of High Sorcery represented one of the greatest achievements of Pakin III’s reign, and holding the ceremony there would regain for the wizards some of the prestige Mandes had usurped.
Out of respect, he had left the nullstone behind, though, he felt very vulnerable. Not even the heft of the dwarf blade at his side could banish the feeling.
He chided himself for his fears. Did he need a talisman merely to traverse the streets of Daltigoth in sight of the imperial palace? Of course not. And what danger could there be for him at the emperor’s vigil, in the very Tower of High Sorcery?
At the Inner City gate, the guards did not challenge him. Seeing the white robe of a Vigilant, they stood to attention and let him pass without a word.
The courtyard of the Imperial Plaza blazed with light. Tripods of torches stood between long rows of mourners. Rank upon rank of warriors and courtiers knelt on the hard mosaic, heads bowed toward the Tower of High Sorcery. Some looked up when Tol entered then resumed their prayers for the deceased emperor. The steady drone of hundreds of low voices filled the square.
Above the trees of the wizards’ garden, the mighty Tower of High Sorcery glowed with its own light. Awed by the sight, Tol slowed. What mysteries were held within those shining walls?
He shook himself, then folded his arms and gripped his biceps hard. He had nothing to fear. No evil workings could penetrate the sanctum of the magical orders.
He picked up his pace, striding purposefully to the garden path that would take him to the tower. His footsteps on the quartz gravel path sounded loud in the stillness.
Many times as a young man Tol had stolen into this very garden to meet Valaran. The wizards guarded their privacy with a wall of sleep, but the millstone had allowed Tol to penetrate it with impunity. Holding Val close, he could protect her, too, and they passed many a golden hour in the shadowed glade by the fountain of the Blue Phoenix. The wizards had lowered the barrier for the vigil, and Tol now passed through without hindrance.
The tower rose from a circular plaza paved with white marble. A ring of robed wizards surrounded its base. Alternating Red Robe with White, they stood, eyes closed, hands linked, facing outward. The very air itself seemed charged with power.
Tol wondered fleetingly at the lack of Black Robe wizards. Red and White made him nervous enough; he was glad not to have to face wizards consecrated to evil magic.
A gap in the ring of wizards corresponded to the tower’s only entrance-arched double doors, which stood open. White light shone within, paler and colder than the glow emitted by the tower itself. Straightening his shoulders, Tol went carefully up the ramp to the entrance. The wizards did not stir, speak, or open their eyes. He recognized only one face among them: Helbin, chief of the Red Robes.
Tol passed through the massively thick foundation walls into a chill, open chamber that comprised the entire ground floor of the tower. The ceiling of the chamber was domed. In its center was an opening, the end of a shaft that rose all the way to the tower’s peak. Shining down through this atrium was the light of Solin. Focused and clarified, the white moon’s pallid light was the only illumination in the chamber.