Ornate double doors at the end of the passage plainly denoted the master’s private suite. Yeffrin halted several steps away. Tol brushed past him.
“My lord!” said the old servant. “Beware-there are spells-”
Tol shifted Number Six to his left hand and opened one of the doors. Nothing untoward occurred, and Yeffrin gasped.
“Seems safe enough,” Tol remarked.
Inside, the room was a shambles. Shelves had been swept clean of their contents, tables and chairs overturned, cabinets opened and ransacked. Ancient manuscripts, no doubt extremely rare, crackled under Tol’s feet.
Yeffrin gave a shocked cry. He fell to his knees and began picking up the rare scrolls, clutching them to his narrow chest.
There was no sign of Mandes, but Tol spotted a faint light coming from behind the far shelf. Lifting his sword, he advanced rapidly.
A door in the stone wall stood slightly ajar. It blended so perfectly with the wall that, had it been closed, Tol would’ve missed it completely. He kicked it open and stormed through.
One person was in the small room. He sat with a hip propped on the only piece of furniture, a small table. Light glinted on his red hair.
“Where’s Mandes?” Tol demanded.
Prince Nazramin’s expression was mocking. “Well, I see it’s true-farmers do rise early.” The prince slid off the table and faced Tol, adding, “That isn’t a hoe in your hand, is it?”
Tol lowered his sword. “Don’t worry: I’m not here to harvest you.” He repeated his demand for Mandes.
“The churl has fled. Fortunately, I know where.” Tol waited, blocking the only door, and Nazramin added, “He’s gone to the palace to throw himself on my brother’s mercy.”
Tol ground his teeth in frustration. Mandes, knowing his latest attack had failed, feared Tol would do exactly what he had done, show up at his door with vengeance in mind. He had scuttled off to the imperial palace for protection.
Yeffrin appeared like a ghost at Tol’s elbow. Seeing the royal intruder occupying his master’s secret sanctum, the elderly servant yelped in fright. He fell to his knees, keeping the armed warrior between himself and the capricious prince.
“Why are you here?” Tol asked suspiciously.
The prince’s hand strayed to the hilt of the ornate saber at his hip. “It’s not your place to question me,” he replied, brown eyes narrowing.
“The question has been asked. Answer it.”
Nazramin smiled-or rather, his mouth drew up in a nominally friendly way, but above it, his eyes were as cruel as ever.
“Are you giving me orders, farmer?”
Tol tensed for an attack. “Yes.”
The false smile didn’t waver. “By rights I should have you broken. Hung from the lowliest gibbet in the city. Your friends and retainers would hang beside you-those I didn’t sell into slavery, that is.”
He meant his ugly threats, but Nazramin did not dare harm Tol, not while Tol commanded his own army and bore the title of Emperor’s Champion. Neither could Tol presume to challenge an imperial prince. Still, he would not take the man’s insults any longer, not without giving some back.
“I’ll ask one more time,” he said, hard gaze and keen blade unwavering. “Why are you here?”
Keeping one hand on his sword hilt but not drawing the blade, Nazramin advanced until he was nose to nose with Tol. Being slightly taller, he sneered down at the fuming warrior.
“I am here to tell you that your day of reckoning is coming,” Nazramin said. “Everything you cherish will fall into my hands-treasure, titles, trinkets, and all your people. And the lady you love-I wonder what will happen to her on that day?”
He let the question hang in the narrow space between them. Tol felt as though he’d been dashed with icy water. Was it possible Nazramin knew of his love for Valaran? How could he have found out?
His chaotic thoughts showed plainly on his face, and Nazramin chuckled. “Yes, I know your little secret. She’s quite a prize, isn’t she? Who knew the little bookworm would become so delectable?”
If Tol had been hotly angry before, now cold fury washed over him, making it difficult to draw breath.
“Leave her out of this,” he whispered, emotion quivering in every syllable. “Defame her, even speak her name again, and I’ll kill you where you stand. I’ve shed royal blood before. It flows just as freely as common stock.”
It was Nazramin’s turn to believe the threat. The cold smile left his face and he glared at Tol. “I’ll keep your dirty secret because it suits me,” he said. “Now get out of my way!”
Tol remained rooted to the spot. The murderous fury in his heart made him bold.
“Why do you hate me so? I’ve never done you an injury, and I’ve always served the empire loyally.”
Nazramin stepped back, surveying Tol with amazement. “That I am forced to speak to you on anything near equal terms is a gross insult. To see you walk the halls of my ancestors’ palace as though you belonged there… is unforgivable!”
Seeing Tol still did not understand, Nazramin went back to the table and leaned on it. He drew a deep breath, mastering strong emotions of his own, then said, “Far from being a boon to the empire, I consider your successes one of the greatest threats ever to the state. You are common as dirt, yet you command armies, win battles, and walk with the high lords of Ergoth as though you were one of them.
“The empire, all of this”-the prince made a broad gesture-“was taken by force from lesser peoples. Weaker tribes and inferior races succumbed to the might of the Great Horde because it is the law of nature and the gods that those born to strength should rule those who have none. Invert that order, and you have chaos. For you, a farmer’s son, to show ability as a warrior, to lead men, win battles, even defeat well-born enemies like Morthur Dermount and Pelladrom Tumult is a travesty of nature.” He frowned deeply. “Your existence offends not only me, it offends the gods!”
Tol laughed, a short, harsh sound. “Now you speak for the gods as well as all Ergoth?” he mocked, sheathing his saber. “I knew you were a cruel man, Nazramin, but I never imagined you were mad!”
The prince came off the table, taut as a great cat smelling blood. Tol’s hand flashed to his sword hilt, and Nazramin, mindful of Tol’s fighting prowess, halted but did not back down.
“We’ll see who’s mad,” he said slowly. “Whatever distortion of nature allowed your rise cannot endure forever. When you fall, little farmer, I shall be there. I am patient. I can wait for everything to fall into place, but I shall be there.”
He pushed by Tol, who let him go. Passing Yeffrin still groveling on the floor, the furious prince vented his spleen by kicking the old man in the ribs. Whimpering, Yeffrin rolled into a ball amidst his master’s scattered manuscripts.
Tol helped Yeffrin to a chair. As the old man held his ribs and gasped for breath, Tol considered the ransacked chamber. Why had the prince been here? Had he warned Mandes? Or was he seeking something? Documents that linked him to the nefarious sorcerer? It was a disquieting thought. If his two greatest enemies were allied, Tol’s quest for justice would be all the harder.
He re-entered the small, secret room. On the floor next to the table lay a crumpled square of black linen. Judging by the creases it held, it had been a covering for the little table.
Something crunched under his feet. Bending down, Tol pressed his fingers to a smear of gray flakes on the floor. The weak light showed him they were soft metal shavings, perhaps lead. He had no idea what they might signify.