A Hero's justice

Chapter 5

Like a stone falling into a quiet pool, the conquest of Juramona sent ripples of fear and excitement across the empire and beyond. Fear filled the hearts of ordinary Ergothians.

The nomad army was an army in only the loosest sense of the word. The disparate tribes were held together by a common desire for victory against the empire that had taken lands across which nomads once had roamed freely-that, and a desire for plunder. Their heady success induced many nomads to dream of taking the greater cities of the south and west, such as Caergoth and Thorngoth. The imperial army, hammered by the bakali at the bend of the Solvin River, was nowhere to be found in the Eastern Hundred.

Spring gave way to summer’s heat. The vast open country of the Eastern and Mountain hundreds baked under the remorseless sun. Towering fortresses of cloud, sculpted white against the steamy blue sky, sailed overhead but yielded no rain. The dry season was upon the land, the time of dust and fire.

Tol and his two friends emerged from the Great Green into the midday glare of the sun. They stepped out of the trees and into the great open field known to the Dom-shu as the Lake of Flowers, and to the Ergothians as-

“Zivilyn’s Carpet,” Egrin exclaimed, surprised to find himself back where he’d first entered the forest. “Did you bring us here on purpose?”

“I just followed my nose,” said Tol, shrugging.

Kiya, swabbing her face with a piece of homespun, had a different view. “The gods led you here,” she said firmly. “It’s a good omen!”

The sunlit meadow was dense with a fog of pollen and the perfume of a thousand wildflowers. The air was thick as well with flying things-honey bees, bumblebees, butterflies of every hue, and tiny, ruby-throated needlebirds.

Kiya unslung her bow. Without the cover of the trees they were vulnerable, and she had no intention of being surprised.

A morning glory caught Tol’s eye. Its purple petals were streaked with white. A tapestry hanging near the library in the imperial palace depicted that same flower. In a flash of memory, Tol saw Valaran passing before it, her head down as she perused an academic tome.

Shaking off the image, and the memory of her voice calling to him in his vision, Tol set out across the meadow at a trot. Egrin and Kiya jogged to catch up, neither seeing any reason for such hurry.

Tol increased his pace until he was running flat out. Sweat poured off him. It stung his eyes and pooled where his swordbelt gathered his jerkin close to his skin. Without warning, he stumbled, his feet tangling in a bed of thick vines. He fell hard onto hands and knees, and his pack went flying. Sweat from his face dripped onto purple blossoms crushed beneath his fingers. More morning glories.

Now Valaran’s face appeared before him. She asked, “Are you coming? Tol, I need you!”

Her desperate plea echoed her earlier words to him, the vision he’d had while hunting in the forest… He stood and a wave of dizziness washed over him, setting the sky to spinning. Before him, a path appeared in the dense carpet of wild-flowers. The plants weren’t trampled. They simply parted of their own volition, leaving a clear trail three steps wide.

Kiya and Egrin reached him.

“Are you all right?” Egrin asked.

“You’re talking gibberish,” added Kiya, handing him his pack.

As soon as Tol took the pack from her, the strange dizziness vanished and the heaving sky calmed. The trail through the foliage melted away.

Tol shoved his bundle back into Kiya’s hands. The weird dizziness resumed, and the path across Zivilyn’s Carpet appeared again, the plants swaying gently apart.

Strange magic was once again at work. The nullstone was in his pack, and while he carried it he couldn’t see the trail. When the nullstone’s influence was removed, the trail was revealed.

Senses still reeling, Tol tried to explain what was happening. Both Egrin and Kiya were concerned, but Tol insisted, “It’s her. She calls me!”

Unsteadily, he set off, leading them along a trail only he could see. Valaran did not appear to him again. Kiya and Egrin followed warily, she with arrow nocked and he with sword drawn.

The path continued for a league or more, and the flowers of Zivilyn’s Carpet gave way to the waist-high grass of the plains. Except for the stiff, dry grass, the land looked much as it did around Juramona-low, rolling hills separated by the flat floodplains of ancient, long-dry rivers. The few trees were small and widely spaced. Good terrain for horsemen; bad for fighters on foot.

When the path dwindled to a mere shadow in the tall grass, Tol slowly came to a stop. The dizzy sensation of magic had faded, but in the distance, the same direction in which the trail had been leading, he saw a thin column of smoke rising.

His companions saw it as well. By its color, they knew it came from a wood fire, and not smoldering grass. Why burn a campfire by day, and in such warm weather? The smoke was bound to draw attention for leagues in all directions. Although his friends advised against it, Tol led them toward the distant plume.

After a time, a shift in the wind brought more than the smell of woodsmoke to them. It also brought the sound of voices. Tol drew his saber, but kept going. The phantom trail had pointed directly at the smoke plume and he was determined to find out why.

He sent Egrin out in a wide circle to the left, and Kiya to the right. He approached straight on. His tan buckskins blended well with the waving grass. Using the stealth he’d learned during his years in the forest, he crept up on the unseen speakers. One voice (he couldn’t tell whether male or female) was doing most of the talking. Wood clattered on wood, and a fire crackled and popped loudly.

Tol halted abruptly, cursing himself for a fool. There was only one voice ahead-a stalking horse, one of the oldest ruses in the world! The fire and the speaker could be bait to lure the unwary.

A rustling behind him brought Tol whirling around. Not giving his unseen opponent time to attack first, he ran forward. Just as he neared a screen of tall bushes, a sword-wielding figure exploded from cover.

Smaller than Tol, and covered by a hooded cape, the figure parried Number Six’s savage cuts. The figure gave ground, skillfully using the available cover to his own advantage and dodging out of reach.

Tol leveled his saber at the fellow and demanded, “Who are you? Ergoth? Or nomad?”

The figure lifted a hand and pushed back his tan hood. Tol realized “he” was a “she,” and a half-elf to boot. Dark eyes regarded Tol warily.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“A cautious man. My comrades are in your camp. We mean you no harm. Lower your sword, if you’re not an enemy.”

Slowly, she did so, and Tol likewise dropped his point. He gestured at her to precede him. She moved past, wary as a cat.

They arrived at the campfire, built next to a mossy log, to find Egrin and Kiya already conversing with a person seated on the fallen tree. Egrin’s sword was sheathed, and the Dom-shu woman had set aside her bow. Their ease relaxed Tol. Kiya’s instinct for danger was far keener than his own.

Egrin hailed him. The mention of Tol’s name seemed to surprise the half-elf woman, and she regarded him through narrowed eyes.

“Husband!” Kiya said. “Look who we’ve found! The ugly elf!”

It was indeed Tylocost, sitting on the old log, feeding the small, smoky fire from a bundle of twigs at his feet. He inclined his head in greeting.

The half-elf circled them, keeping clear of Tol, but staring at him quite markedly.

“What ails her?” Kiya asked.

“You mean, besides being a half-breed female hireling?” The Silvanesti poked his fire absently. “Just now, she’s astonished. Her name’s Zala, by the way. I’m sure she didn’t bother to introduce herself.”

Tol gave Tylocost a severe look. “By leaving Juramona, you’ve broken your parole,” he said.

“Regrettable, my lord, but I could hardly await your leave to depart Juramona when Juramona is no more.”

He described the sad state of the town’s defenders, and their subsequent betrayal and slaughter by the nomads. Shaken by the news, Tol and Egrin sat down heavily on the log by Tylocost.

“Between forty and fifty thousand, you say?” Egrin repeated hoarsely.

The number was staggering. Every tribe from the eastern savanna must have taken part in the attack. Tol considered Juramona his home, having been brought there as a boy by Egrin, but the news of its destruction was even harder on the elder warrior. Although Ackal V had removed him from his post as marshal, Egrin had continued to live in the town. He had many friends there, warriors and common folk alike.

“Do any imperial soldiers stand between them and Hylo?” Tol asked. Tylocost shrugged. He had no way of knowing.

While the three males sat in silence, Kiya sized up Zala. She was a head shorter than the forester woman, the gracile build of an elf melded with the muscles of a human. Her manner was tense, and her eyes never still. Probably a good hunter, Kiya thought.

“What’s your story?” Kiya asked amiably. “You’re not this old gnome’s mate, I hope.”

“Astarin save me! I’d sooner marry a donkey.”

“Such refined taste you have,” Tylocost shot back.

Ignoring the gibe, Zala addressed Tol. “Lord Tolandruth, I was sent to find you,” she said.

Egrin and Kiya exchanged a worried look. Ackal V’s hatred of their friend was well known. Had the emperor, even after all this time, sent an assassin after Tol?

Zala untied a thong around her neck, bringing forth a small leather pouch. From the pouch, she took a golden ring. “I was told this would draw you to me.” With a pointed glare at Tylocost, she said, “How else should our paths cross on so wide a plain?”

She offered him the ring, adding, “A certain high lady said you would recognize this trinket.”

Tol’s pack, with the millstone inside, lay on the ground a short distance away. When Tol took the ring, the magical effect was immediate and overwhelming.

Valaran stood before him. She was clad in flowing scarlet, the empress’s crown resting lightly on her pale brow. Her chestnut hair fell in a luxuriant cascade to her waist, longer than Tol remembered. Not only could he see her but, most disturbingly, he could smell her honeyed perfume. “Tol,” Val said, “I need you! Come to me!”

The others watched his suddenly anxious face, not seeing the vision.

He returned the ring to the half-elf, and the vision vanished.

“How did you come by that?” he asked quietly.

“I had it from the hand of the empress herself,” she said, putting the ring away again.

The ring was one Tol himself had given to Valaran years before. He explained to his companions what he had seen. But he had trouble crediting the half-elf’s story.

“Empress Valaran lives in seclusion in the heart of the imperial palace,” he said. “She has no way to hire trackers or send messages beyond the walls of the Inner City. The emperor would not allow it.”

The huntress’s dark eyes narrowed. “I do not lie. The empress hired me to find you, to bring you to her. She had a spell of finding placed on the ring, to help me locate you. She seemed worried the magic wouldn’t work on you, but it did.”

It was this last that convinced Tol. Valaran was one of the few to whom he’d confided the secret of the nullstone’s existence. She would know that, should he still have the Irda artifact, a spell of finding (or indeed any spell) would have no effect on him.

At Egrin’s request, Tylocost explained how he’d met Zala, and told of their departure from Juramona three days earlier. Tol realized that his initial vision of the burning town had occurred four nights before; he had indeed been given a glimpse of the future, but not early enough to allow him to stop Juramona’s destruction. His journey had only begun, and already it had failed.

He rose and moved away a short distance, wanting to think while the others continued talking. Without conscious effort, his hand naturally came to rest on the hilt of his sheathed sword.

He’d come this far, but now what? Zala’s explanation of her mission seemed honest enough, but it did not answer the question of why Valaran needed him, why now she had chosen to reach out to him. And the vision of Juramona’s future-had that been Val’s doing as well? It seemed curious that she could tell him what was happening in other places, far away from her life in the palace.

Shaking his head to clear his mind, Tol vowed that whoever was behind his summoning, he would not play the predictable, lovesick swain any longer. He would do no one’s bidding save his own.

In spite of its destruction, Juramona was still his goal. Any Ergothian warriors in the Eastern Hundred would naturally gravitate to the provincial capital, even should it be in smoldering ruins, to regroup under new leadership. They would expect a warlord from Daltigoth to come, to relay the emperor’s commands. Tol’s arrival would be unexpected, but if it was his destiny to leave the forest and save his homeland, there was no better place to begin the task than where he himself had begun.

Egrin agreed with his reasoning.

Their lack of horses was a hindrance. Horses would allow them to travel faster and reach those parts of the Eastern Hundred as yet untouched by the nomads-the great estates of the landed hordes to the north and east. These retired warriors and their armed retainers would be powerful allies.

Tylocost commented that he and Zala had had horses, but had lost them. He seemed to blame Zala for this. She flatly blamed him.

“In any event, my lord,” Tylocost said, stroking his beardless chin, “in Juramona you might collect two, maybe three thousand men of very mixed fighting ability. What can you do with so few against so many barbarian tribesmen?”

“He defeated you with three hundred,” Kiya pointed out. The elf’s ears reddened, and Zala grinned at his discomfiture.

Tol’s gaze turned northwest, where Juramona lay. “I’m not going after the nomads. Not yet. Juramona’s lost, but it is only one town. What’s important is to save the Eastern Hundred. To do that, we’ll need to send messengers to Hylo.”

Kiya’s eyes widened. Zala scoffed. None of his companions could see any reason to involve the light-fingered kender of Hylo, but Tol was adamant.

He requested Tylocost’s aid. “I can make use of you,” he told the elf. “But I would never compel an unwilling captive. If you wish, you may walk back to Silvanost. I give you leave.”

Tylocost had been toying with a twig. Studying the slender stick, he said, “Flaxwood. A native of the north country, beyond the Khalkist Mountains. It’s very out of place here.” He tossed the twig on the fire. “If it can grow here, why not I? I haven’t commanded troops in a long time, but if I can be of assistance, I’m willing.”

“Your allegiance is easily gained,” said Kiya.

“Plainsmen are the enemies of my blood, woman. And if we can hammer them here, the deed will resound in the halls of the Speaker of the Stars. Such a victory may open other doors for me-doors that have long been closed.”

They prepared to depart. Tol asked Tylocost why he’d built a fire, on such a hot day.

“Zala insisted. She awoke this morning, clutching that ring and raving about the need for a fire.”

“You might have drawn every savage for a dozen leagues,” said Egrin.

“I don’t think so,” the elf said. “The land betwixt here and Juramona is largely deserted. The nomads are busy plundering farms and villages further west.”

They set out. Tol found himself at the rear of the party, next to Kiya. “Are you certain you can trust the half-elf?” she murmured. “She could be lying.”

Tol looked ahead at Tylocost and Egrin. The former marshal of Ergoth and the former general of Tarsis were rehashing the tactics of some old battle, each animatedly defending his point.

“We travel with old friends and old foes, so why not liars?” Tol said.

Bells tolled across Daltigoth. The city held its breath as the tidings spread street by street, through each quarter.

“Victory! Victory!” the heralds cried. “Lord Breyhard has crossed the Dalti at Eagle’s Ford and smashed the invader! Victory! Victory!”

Valaran stood on the roof of the imperial palace and listened to the joyous celebrations that spread through the streets. No such relief eased the knot of worry in her stomach. She’d read the general’s dispatches to her husband. With one hundred and eighteen thousand warriors at his command, all Breyhard had done was force a crossing against light bakali resistance. Ackal V had ordered the bells rung and the news proclaimed in the streets as a great victory.

Valaran returned to a small bench sitting in the lee of two life-sized statues of Emperor Pakin III, the father of the current emperor. The statues were poor likenesses and had been mutilated by drunken Wolves, hence their exile to this rooftop corner. Valaran had been pleased to find them, however. This aerie offered her at least the illusion of freedom, with no walls pressing in, and the great statues acting as shields against the ever-present wind. Besides, old Pakin III had always been kind to her.

Kneeling, Valaran unrolled a detailed map of the Dalti bend. She noted the positions of Breyhard’s hordes and the locations presumably now occupied by the bakali. The general had a small hook in the enemy’s flesh, but the question was, could he exploit it?

She pushed the scroll open further, revealing Caergoth and the Eastern Hundred. Valaran touched a fingertip to the town of Juramona. It seemed a ridiculous gamble now, sending a lone tracker to find a single man somewhere in the hinterlands beyond the empire. She had tossed a pebble in the ocean, hoping to hit a whale. Still, the gamble had to be taken.

The current celebrations notwithstanding, Daltigoth was awash in fear and doubt. There were daily executions of food hoarders, street thieves, and those who made treasonous utterings against the emperor. Ordinary folk were hanged. Well-born victims of the emperor’s justice lost their heads. The spikes atop the Inner City wall were never empty. Courtiers, warlords, and mages rose to prominence by the sudden death of their predecessors, only to fall themselves when they failed to give satisfaction. Valaran wondered who would ruin Daltigoth first, the emperor or the invaders.

One of her attendants-she never bothered to learn their names-appeared at the cupola door and called for her. The woman’s expression showed her dismay at finding the Empress of Ergoth sitting on a dirty stone bench, her wine-colored silk gown creased and soiled.

Valaran knew the woman would bleat on and on until she acknowledged her, so she let the large map spool shut and asked the woman what she wanted.

“Gracious Majesty, the emperor has sent for you!”

Valaran rose and tucked the scroll under her arm. “Where is he?”

“His private quarters, Majesty.”

Gods, give me strength. The emperor in his private rooms might want anything, from her opinion on a banquet menu to his conjugal rights. Ackal V wasn’t especially fond of her company. As a husband he was little more demanding than his brother, her first husband, Ackal IV. Ackal IV had been of a scholarly bent, and frequently preoccupied with various projects. This emperor’s pleasure sprang more from terrorizing his people than making love to his wives.

Three more attendants were waiting below. They curtsied, their bowing heads topped by fashionable starched headdresses. Rising, they swept away in a crackle of heavy cloth, clearing the hall ahead of her. By law, no male could come within ten steps of the empress unless the emperor was present. Male servants and courtiers were expected to disappear when her attendants materialized, as they heralded her approach. As a result, Valaran’s excursions through the heart of the palace were attended by crashing crockery and slamming doors as various males rushed out of her path.

Ackal V’s private quarters were in the palace’s lower floors. The suite formerly had been occupied by Emperor Ergothas II, whose interest in architecture had led him to design an airy living space devoid of interior walls. A double line of columns bisected the room. In Ergothas II’s day, hanging tapestries divided the vast chamber into smaller private spaces. Ackal V had ordered the tapestries removed and the large windows bricked up. He slept in a great bed in the very center of the suite and, save for a few pieces of furniture, the rest of the hall was empty. The emperor’s favorite hounds ran free in the space, and his Wolves often staged rowdy revels in the side passages.

The Wolf standing guard at the suite’s door was a favorite of Ackal V, who had dubbed him “my Argon,” after the god of vengeance. The fellow was a giant, well over two paces tall. He bore a tattoo of a horned deer on his cheek skull and wore an especially large and smelly wolf pelt that was silvery gray in color. Like all the Wolves, he was unwashed, unkempt, and willing to do anything his patron requested without hesitation. Wolves were the only males not required to retreat at the empress’s approach.

As Argon opened the doors, she glided past without acknowledging his existence in the slightest.

The chamber reeked of smoke and spilled wine and dogs. It was also stiflingly hot. The emperor’s peculiar susceptibility to cold seemed to increase every month. Any room he occupied for more than a few moments had to have a roaring fire, even in summer.

The twin rows of columns stretched ahead of her. Each was decorated with a gilded sconce holding a flaming torch. The floor between the columns was covered by a golden carpet. Valaran’s slippered feet made no sound on the woven pile. In the shadows on each side of the lighted path shapes stirred. Some were hounds. Others were not. She did not look at any of them.

As Valaran drew near the heart of the chamber, the warmth increased. A fire blazed in an open hearth and a bell-shaped copper flue drew in the smoke and sparks, carrying them off to the roof. Straight-backed chairs were arrayed before the fire, but Ackal V was sitting on his high bed, scrolls lying on his lap and piled around him.

“Your Majesty sent for me?” Valaran halted at the foot of the bed, hands folded at her waist.

“Yes, some time past,” he said, not looking up from the scroll he was perusing. After allowing some moments of silence to pass, he lowered the document and asked, “Where were you?”

“On the roof, sire. Listening to victory bells.”

His lip curled at her sarcasm. Although a captive wife, Valaran used her considerable wit to annoy her husband. It was a delicate dance, their marriage. The emperor left much of the mundane, day-to-day work of running the household to his wife, freeing his own time for personal amusements. In return, he tolerated a certain small amount of insolence from her. Not a week went by that he didn’t remind her he could kill her-or worse-any time he chose.

“The only victory Breyhard gained was not getting his men slaughtered crossing the river,” Ackal said. “He has elements of twelve hordes on the east bank, with more crossing all the time.”

Valaran said nothing. The last time she had remarked on military matters in the emperor’s presence, he’d slapped her hard enough to bruise her jaw.

“You’ve read many books,” he went on. “What do you know of the bakali? What are their weaknesses? What moves them? Why are they here?”

“Those are complex questions, sire-”

“Use small words.”

His tone told her she was treading on thin ice. She drew a deep breath, choosing her words with care. “No one knows their motives, sire. In ancient times, they marched and fought at the command of the Dragonqueen herself.”

“Do you think she commands them now?”

“I doubt it, Majesty. No mortal can know the will of a god, of course, but the bakali invaders don’t seem bent on taking over the empire. They fight in a very unusual way. They annihilate all in their path, but don’t spread their attack in any organized fashion. They destroy what they choose to destroy, but a league or so beyond their marching column, no harm has been done.”

He thumped a thickly coiled scroll with one hand. “This fellow claims the bakali were the first thinking creatures in the world.”

“That would be Rathmore, the dwarf historian. His reasoning is suspect-”

Ackal V swept aside half a dozen scrolls, sending them cascading to the floor. Valaran winced at his abuse of priceless manuscripts.

He held up a newer tome. “In your History of the Silvanesti, you say the bakali were exterminated at the end of the Second Dragon War.” A heartbeat’s pause, then he shouted, “So why are we troubled with them now?”

Valaran frowned in thought, pressing her fingertips together at her lips. “All the lizard-folk were slain at the Battle of Time, sire, when the four Mages opened the earth to swallow the dragons and their army. Evidently, some bakali-not part of the force thus destroyed-survived. It is reported our foes arrived on the north coast by ship, like the ones slain in Hylo twenty years ago by Lord T-” Valaran bit off her words, just as Ackal threw her a sharp look. “The earlier expedition may have been a reconnaissance. That it was destroyed may have spared us a direct invasion.” Without speaking his name, she gave Tol credit for saving the empire, for a time.

Ackal V tossed back the bedclothes and swung his feet to the floor. He wore only a breechnap. Sinewy and pale-skinned, his body was covered with the same rusty red hair as his head. He flung on a quilted red velvet robe and tied the sash with a yank.

Valaran continued, “It was the dream of the Dragonqueen to conquer the world, Majesty. We know her forces were defeated here, but no one can say they didn’t triumph elsewhere. There are lands beyond the sea-”

“Yes, yes,” he snapped, turning his robe’s fur collar up around his ears. “And they had to pick my reign to return. Thank Corij no dragons have come with them!”

He shoved an ornate dagger through his sash and poured a cup of hot mulled wine from a pot on the hearth. After draining the goblet, he said, “Consult with the chief of the White Robes-what’s her name? Winath. I need magical means to confound the bakali. Breyhard has courage, but his tactics are lackluster. What I need is a general with wits and luck enough to best these damned lizard-men!”

Catching her eye, he read the thought flashing through her mind. He covered the distance between them in three strides and seized her wrist. He pushed his face so close that his wine-scented breath burned her eyes.

“Does a day go by that you don’t think of him?” he hissed.

She stared right back at him. “No, Your Majesty.”

He trailed the fingers of his free hand down her throat. She bore his touch in stoic silence, eyes fixed on the fire behind him.

After what seemed an age, a smile curved his lips. What his touch could not do, the smile did; Valaran shivered.

“I wonder,” he said. “Does he dream of you as he squats in a squalid little hut somewhere? Or do he and his giantesses have children by now?”

Valaran did not move.

Abruptly, he released her arm and stepped back, telling her to get out. He turned back to the pot of mulled wine.

Relief coursed through Valaran, but she showed no emotion as she walked out of the suffocating heat, her husband shouting at his suffering servants to bring more wine.

Valaran did not return to her rooms to change, even though her gown was drenched in sweat. Flanked by her attendants, she hurried up the central stairs to the imperial library. Her approach cleared the library of the scribes working there. The men had to abandon their work and withdraw immediately, leaving styluses soaking in inkpots and unfinished scrolls lying beneath their corner weights. Valaran sent away her attendants, then locked the doors. At last, she was alone in her favorite room in the world.

Today, the library’s scholarly peace did not soothe her. Filled with fury, she smote a marble tabletop several times with her fist and used language as crude as any sailor. When her anger had cooled, she straightened her disordered hair and clothing, then busied herself among the shelves.

The item she sought was the Ergothinia, a collection of the sayings of Ackal Ergot, founder of the empire. Once required reading for all members of the royal house, the huge tome had fallen out of favor since the days of the usurper, Pakin Zan. Now it was relegated to a high shelf at the rear of the library. The long cedar chest in which it was kept was covered by a thick layer of dust.

Valaran opened the chest. The four parchment rolls inside were dark with age. One by one she removed them and carefully set them aside. Dipping her hand in once more, she drew out a small, flat box. It was made entirely of mirrored glass, a rare material produced by the Silvanesti which yielded uncannily clear images, unlike the brass or tin mirrors made in Ergoth.

Valaran raised the box’s hinged lid. The interior held another mirror set horizontally. She drew a lamp nearer and looked down at the mirror’s smooth surface.

A man’s face appeared. He had short, carefully groomed, sand-colored hair, and his chin was beardless. He wore the loose crimson raiment of a Red Robe wizard.

“Master Helbin,” Valaran whispered. “Can you hear me?”

“Yes, Majesty,” the image replied, its lips moving naturally to form each word.

“The army has crossed the Dalti to attack the bakali.”

The image nodded. “The gods go with them. Elsewhere, there are evil tidings. Juramona has fallen to the nomads.”

The words chilled her heart. “Any word of the huntress Zala?”

“She was there, but escaped. I keep watch on her, as you commanded, Majesty.”

The sound of footsteps in the corridor outside the library set Valaran’s pulse racing. “I must go,” she whispered. “Keep safe the gift of Mandes!”

“It is an evil thing, Your Majesty, crafted by an evil man-”

“Yet it may be our salvation, wizard! Yours, mine, and Ergoth’s! Guard it well!”

Valaran closed the lid and returned the mirrored box to the cedar chest. Covering it with the dusty scrolls of the Ergothinia, she knew her secret was well guarded by the forgotten words of a savage old conqueror.