After the teeming bustle in the streets and the regimented pomp of the plaza, the garden surrounding the Tower of High Sorcery seemed still as a graveyard. The first hints of autumn color were beginning to paint some trees, and Tol caught fleeting glimpses of wizards, some in red robes, some in white. All gave him a wide berth.
By day, the tower was almost too bright to bear. At regular intervals along its height, small cupolas sprouted from the main spire like buds on an apple tree branch. Oval blocks of translucent alabaster were set in the thick walls to provide light to the interior.
A line of golden chariots stood by the entrance. Each was drawn by a pair of white or bone-gray horses. All the farms around Daltigoth must have been emptied to assemble so many pale animals. Young charioteers stood by their conveyances. They were the sons and daughters of favored courtiers. Among them Tol recognized Talmaz, one of Valaran’s brothers.
A boy appeared to hold his reins, and Tol dismounted. At the door to the tower, a quartet of young wizards, arms folded over their chests, barred his way.
“No weapons within the tower,” said one. Tol surrendered his saber, along with the dagger he’d bought to replace the one lost in the sea at Thorngoth.
The great hall in the base of the tower was a fog of floral incense, so thick it seemed to catch in his throat. He smothered a cough with one fist. The silent crowd inside looked up when he entered.
Temporary cloth walls hanging from head-high frames divided the normally open space into small rooms and narrow passages. Around the tower’s interior were gathered the favored relatives and courtiers of the old and new emperors, easily identifiable by their distinctive colors. Chamberlain Valdid came forward.
“The Emperor awaits,” he said solemnly, directing Tol to the entrance into the corridor of screens.
Tol wondered which emperor he meant. The inhabitants of the Inner City made no distinction between the living ruler and the dead one.
As he wound his way along the passage, Tol gradually became aware of low chanting. The galleries above the circular hall were lined with wizards. The sound of the deep, repetitive chanting caused the hair on the back of his neck to bristle. As a youth he’d seen an assemblage of mages levitate huge building blocks into place for the foundation of this tower. Benign though the chant likely was, he was glad he carried the millstone.
Small alcoves appeared at intervals along the spiral passage.
In each of these someone close to Pakin III or Amaltar knelt, meditating. The wives of the late emperor appeared first, in descending order of precedence. Amaltar’s mother, who would have been the dowager empress, had died several years before. Even the youngest of Pakin III’s wives was old enough to be Tol’s mother.
After the imperial widows came Amaltar’s wives, from the newest, Lady Woriyan, to his first, Lady Thura. Tol’s heart beat a little faster as his progress brought him closer to Valaran, but before he reached what would be her place in the series, strong hands seized his arm and dragged him through a slit in the curtains.
Startled at first, Tol recovered, and fumbled to grab the wrists of his attacker. To his astonishment, he saw it was Valaran who’d pulled him aside.
“What-?” he began, only to be silenced by a stinging slap on the face.
“Do you know what you put me through?” she demanded in a fierce whisper. She was so close that he felt her warm breath on his face.
“Me? What have I done?” he protested, utterly at sea.
Hissing at him to keep his voice down, she drew back a few steps, whirled, and glared at him silently.
She was stunning, wrapped in scarlet silk from head to toe. Her chestnut hair fell to her waist in a thick, intricate braid interlaced with crimson thread and golden beads. The starched red headdress accentuated the pallor of her face, a pallor further heightened by a thin layer of powder. Her lips were painted deep ruby. She resembled a spirit wrought in fire and ice.
There was a brief flash of something in her green eyes-pleasure?-before she folded her arms and spoke to him in a low tone that dripped venom.
“For more than ten years I’ve yearned for you every day and hated you in the same breath!”
“Hated me? Why? What did I do?”
Her beautiful face worked as she struggled with a deep conflict. Finally she snapped, “Nothing! That’s the truth of it-you did nothing!”
Tersely, Valaran related the false tale told her: that Tol had asked to remain away from Daltigoth because he didn’t want to come back. He didn’t want to be her toy or Amaltar’s lackey. He had fathered a child by Miya. This last almost caused Tol to shatter the solemn air in the tower with laughter. Child? Miya? If he’d tried such a thing, he wouldn’t be alive before Valaran now!
The look on her face as much as the need for quiet stifled his amusement. The lie obviously had hurt Valaran deeply. He could only imagine her pain at hearing such things about him. He held out his arms. She shunned them, so he took her by the shoulders and demanded to know who had concocted the tales.
“Nazramin-and the sorcerer Mandes,” she said, exactly as he had expected. “They concocted false letters, then prompted others to confirm the stories.”
“When did you find out the truth? And how?”
“I have had you watched since you returned.” Tol recoiled a bit at that, but she went on. “I hired agents to strike up conversations with your forest women, in the market, in shops.” Valaran essayed a slight smile. “It became obvious they were devoted to you, but not as your lovers. There is no child, either.”
“I could have told you that!” he said. “Why didn’t you seek me out?”
She drew herself up. “I am a Princess Consort.”
Her haughty expression collapsed in sorrow, and his heart went out to her. To have endured such a lie! He tried to draw her to him, but still she resisted. He would not overpower her by force, so she kept him at arms’ length.
“Fool,” she called him, but her eyes were bright. “You did stay away too long. It’s too late for us.”
He denied it. She said, “Long ago, we were young and stupid. It’s one thing to deceive a prince, but I cannot betray the Emperor of Ergoth.”
“Instead you betray yourself? And me?”
Valaran’s whole body trembled. He tightened his grip on her shoulders. “It’s impossible,” she said flatly.
He let go. Since she didn’t move away, he did.
“I haven’t been a monk over the years, Val. I’ve known other women…”
Her eyes flashed. “Now you’re going to brag to me about your conquests?”
“No!” She could be so infuriating! “What I mean is, I never forgot you. Not one of them could ever make me do that.”
Silence ensued. All Tol could hear was her breathing, and the thudding of his own heart.
“What will become of us?” she asked softly.
The sound of heavy footfalls reached them. Tol took her hand and pressed it to his lips.
“The Rumbold villa, in the Quarry district,” he whispered, eyes boring into hers. “Come when you can!”
Immediately, he ducked back through the partition into the airy passage and resumed his approach. In moments he was overtaken by a band of Riders of the Horde clad as he was in armor and mourning cloth. He recognized most of them, including Hojan, an officer in the Army of the North. The warriors halted.
“My lord,” Hojan said, “I rejoice to see you! We heard many times you were killed on the journey here.”
“If people keep reporting my death,” Tol said wryly, “one day they’re bound to be right.”
They fell in behind him and resumed their march. In hushed tones Hojan described their own agonizing progress to Daltigoth. It had seemed as though the gods and nature were conspiring to keep them away. Every time the Riders approached a stream, a storm blew up, transforming the sleepy rivulet into a raging torrent. Once, the column wandered for three days, lost in a fog that refused to lift, even at high noon.