The Wizard's Fate

Chapter 16

Lord Enkian’s murder was never solved. The common assumption was that the young priest Jarabee had something to do with it, because Jarabee disappeared the same night Enkian died and was never seen again. No motive was ever discovered as to why he would want to harm his lord, but Enkian was notoriously close-fisted, and many assumed the two men had quarreled over Jarabee’s pay.

With the problem of Enkian’s army resolved, peace seemed to have returned at last. Mandes was gone, the succession was settled, and the first tribute from Tarsis did much to bolster the imperial coffers.

For the household at Villa Rumbold, life went on, even as great changes stirred the companions living there. First, Egrin and his retinue returned to Juramona. It was harvest time back home, and that meant taxes had to be collected. Ten days after Enkian’s death, Tol gave the Juramona men a farewell banquet the night before they were scheduled to depart. It turned out to be a rather muted affair, but it ended with an eye-opening revelation for Tol.

The household was gathered around the long dining table. Egrin filled a mug with the best beer in Daltigoth and handed it to Tol. “To the victor over Tarsis,” he declared.

Tol downed a hearty swallow. “That seems a hundred years ago.”

“You’re much too young to talk like that,” Egrin replied genially. “Wait until you’ve outlived all your enemies, then you’ll miss them.”

Kiya said, “Why should anyone miss their enemies?” She’d grown morose since Miya had left the villa to become Elicarno’s wife.

“For a warrior, life is measured by the enemies you best.” Egrin swirled the remnants of beer in his own mug, watching the foam break on the glazed clay sides. “Or by those who best you.”

Tol arched an eyebrow. “Oho! Are there any foes you’ve never defeated, Egrin?”

“Certainly I’m not invincible. No one is.”

A fresh platter of ribs arrived from the kitchen. Egrin’s men eagerly took the steaming platter from the servants hired for the banquet. Kiya growled a warning that some ribs had better make their way to her end of the table.

“Husband was won all his battles,” she said, when the platter finally reached her. “Monsters, pirates, soldiers-it’s all the same to him.”

Tol insisted he had enemies still. He thought of Mandes, who had disappeared, but particularly of Prince Nazramin, an utterly untouchable foe.

Egrin brought up the question that had begun to dominate Tol’s thoughts of late: What were his plans, now the war was over and the crown rested securely on the emperor’s brow?

Tol had no idea and said so. Egrin spoke of the pirates still active in the southern and western seas, saying Tol might summon Darpo and the fleet and deal with the brigands. Kiya countered with the Silvanesti outposts making incursions into the South Plains, the sparsely populated territory east of the Great Green.

Her comment ignited a long discussion about the elves and their capabilities. Since their plot to arm the forest tribes and block Ergoth’s eastward expansion had been foiled a decade earlier, the Silvanesti had remained remarkably quiet. That alone was grounds to suspect mischief, Egrin intoned darkly. Long-lived and incredibly patient, the elves could wait decades to allow a plot to mature.

The banquet went late, and in true warrior fashion, most of the Juramona men eventually fell asleep at the table. Even Egrin dozed in his chair. Tol scrubbed the sleep from his eyes, rose, and draped a woolen mantle around his old friend’s shoulders.

Egrin shifted slightly and began to mutter. “Killers… Silvanesti…” was all Tol made out before the marshal jerked awake with a gasp.

Tol put a hand on his shoulder.

It took Egrin a moment to recall his surroundings. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. You were talking in your sleep.” Tol told what he’d heard, then said, “Reliving an old battle? I guess elves are the one enemy none of us can outlive.”

To his surprise, Egrin stood abruptly and walked out of the room. Tol followed. In a room across the entry hall, on the villa’s north side, Egrin stood before a large window, staring out at the cloudy night. Old Rumbold had been rich enough to afford real glass, and the window opening was filled with individual panes, each no bigger than the palm of Tol’s hand, held together by narrow strips of lead.

Egrin was rubbing one ear absently, a sure sign he was lost in thought. Tol seated himself on the carved arm of a heavy wooden chair, and waited. The villa was so quiet he could hear the faint hiss of the misty rain collecting on the windowpanes, yet he nearly missed Egrin’s first words, so softly were they spoken.

“The harder we run from the past, the closer it comes.” After a moment, he added, “I haven’t had that nightmare in a long time. I must be feeling my age, or perhaps it’s a reminder of my mortality.”

He turned to face Tol at last. “I’m very proud of you, you know. You’ve surpassed any dreams I ever had for you.”

The old warrior had never spoken in such direct terms. Tol was deeply moved, but before he could reply, Egrin went on.

“And because I’m proud of you, because there should be no lies between us, I need to tell you something about myself.”

Slowly, the marshal pushed his thick, gray-streaked auburn hair behind his left ear. Tol frowned. In the dim light it was difficult to make out, but there seemed to be something wrong with the ear. Its top was oddly flat, the skin puckered. A painful wound, Tol was certain, yet he had seen worse battle scars and said so.

“These came from no battle,” Egrin said. Lifting his other hand, he revealed his right ear was identically scarred.

“Then what-?”

“I was born in the forest. When I was very young, my mother was killed. My father, unable or unwilling to care for a small child, left me with a couple in a nearby village. They were kind enough, in their own fashion. They told me this”-Egrin brushed an ear-“was for my own good, to protect me from the kind of people who had attacked our settlement and murdered my mother. It was necessary, they said. A necessary lie.”

Tol sat frozen. Egrin rarely mentioned his past, and Tol was keen to learn whatever he might share. However, the implication of his words suddenly struck like cold water on a chill morning. When Tol spoke, his voice was hoarse with shock.

“You’re a half-elf?”

Egrin’s hazel eyes were direct. “My mother was human; my father Silvanesti.”

Tol’s mind reeled. He had met only two or three half-elves over the years. Shunned and reviled by Silvanesti society, viewed with suspicion by their human families, they lived on society’s margins like the former pirate Wandervere, captain of Quarrel, who’d brought Tol to Daltigoth. For Egrin, a Rider of the Great Horde, discovery of his true roots would mean exile from the Empire, perhaps even death.

Tol had never suspected a thing.

Suddenly, his eyes narrowed, his fists coming up to rest on his hips.

“I knew you didn’t look that much older!” Half-elves aged more slowly than humans, though they were not quite as long-lived as full-blooded Silvanesti.

Egrin blinked in surprise, and Tol grinned suddenly. “Did you honestly think it would matter to me?” he demanded.

Relief coursed through the marshal. He sat heavily on a low table. Tol gripped his shoulder, and Egrin rested his hand briefly on Tol’s.

As they walked back to the banquet room, Tol leaned close. “So,” he whispered, “exactly how old are you, old friend?”

From time to time Tol was summoned to the imperial palace to give advice to the emperor and his councilors. He greatly valued these visits, not only for the access it granted him, but for the chance to glimpse Valaran.

Valaran’s prestige had suffered since Amaltar ascended to the throne. As long she was married to a crown prince, her status depended only on her husband’s interest and goodwill. Now that she was an emperor’s wife what mattered most was child bearing-bringing forth sons and daughters to ensure the continuation of the imperial line. Amaltar had no special love of children, nor was he an especially ardent lover, but all his wives except Valaran had borne him children. She was ostracized by the household, now run with total authority by the emperor’s first wife, Thura. Likewise, Valaran found herself belittled in the Consorts’ Circle; her bookishness as a girl had made her the subject of gossip, but this situation was far more serious: the dire word “barren” was even being whispered.

Tol had thought this would be unimportant to Valaran. He learned the true state of her feelings during a brief conversation in an anteroom of the audience hall.

Seated in an ornately carved chair, she was splendidly attired in a midnight blue gown trimmed at neck and shoulders with lapis lazuli. She’d discarded her fashionable headdress and her chestnut hair was tied back from her face with a simple length of ribbon.

She looked up suddenly from the scroll she was reading to find him standing there, staring. A smile curved her lips, and Tol’s throat went dry at the sight. He crossed the room to her and bowed.

They exchanged bland public greetings. “What brings you here this day, Lord Tolandruth?” she said, letting the scroll she was reading coil shut.

“A consultation with your imperial husband, lady,” he replied. “There’s some dispute about how best to employ Admiral Darpo’s squadron of warships.”

The flare of interest on her face faded. “Sounds deathly dull. Like everything else around here.”

When he politely inquired what she meant, he got an earful of her long-held rancor over her treatment by the other consorts.

“And all because I haven’t given Amaltar a child,” she fumed. “Doesn’t he have enough brats as it is?”

“It’s only an excuse,” Tol said. “An easy stick to beat you with because you’re an outsider.”

“Me? Outsider? I’ve lived my whole life in the Inner City! Not one of those other nags can say as much!”

He reminded her to keep her voice down, then added, “That’s not what I meant. You’re not like them, Val. You never have been. You’re a thinker and scholar, not a flighty court decoration.” He smiled. “How many books have you written?”

Her eyes flashed. “No one’s supposed to know that!”

“How many?”

“Four, counting the critique of Silvanesti poetry I finished last spring.”

Her pride was evident and he nodded. “That was a good one,” he said. “I liked it better than the history of the gnomes, or your biography of Ergothas II.”

“You read my books?”

He shrugged. “I needed to hear your voice, even written on a roll of foolscap.”

Valaran looked away, blinking. She muttered something about deceitful men.

Before he could ask what she meant, a herald arrived, telling Tol the emperor would see him now.

Reluctantly Tol started to take his leave of her, but Valaran caught his hand. The unexpected contact startled him.

“Thank you, Lord Tolandruth.”

The urge to sweep her into his arms was frighteningly strong. He had to settle for a brief caress of her hand.

The emperor’s council was contentious. The former Blood Fleet, now reconstituted under Admiral Darpo as the first squadron of the Ergothian Navy, had chased most of its former piratical comrades out of the Gulf of Ergoth. Trade was flowing across the bay in startling strength, and bulging coffers of tax money arrived daily from Lord Tremond in Thorngoth. Excited by the flow of gold, Ackal IV’s advisors wanted to send the fleet west to suppress the pirates prowling the seas between Sancrist Isle and Hylo.

“If I may speak, my lords!” Tol all but shouted over the wrangling warlords. It was poor manners, and a bad sign that he should have to shout at all. Ackal IV could not control these sessions. He sat in his father’s chair saying little, face gray, eyes squinted against his constant pain. Although propped up by his stiff court robes, he still leaned slightly to one side.

Tol repeated his request. Rymont, Valdid, and the rest slowly fell silent. “My thanks,” Tol said ironically. “I feel it would be a grave mistake to send the fleet out of the gulf.”

“Why?” Lord Rymont demanded.

Tol gestured to a heap of scrolls on the table. “From Tremond’s reports, it seems the pirates in the gulf have been suppressed, not wiped out. Send Admiral Darpo away, and they’ll fall upon the merchant shipping like a pack of starving wolves.”

“This fleet costs the imperial treasury 3,000 gold pieces a month,” Valdid complained.

“And how much in taxes did Lord Tremond send this last time?”

They knew the figure as well as he did. Twenty thousand crowns of gold and silver had just arrived in Daltigoth under heavy guard/Eight days earlier another twelve thousand had come, and before that, eight thousand. Tol admonished them not to endanger the stream of money by sending the fleet away.

Some were in favor of doing just that. The arguments went on until the light of the setting sun slanted into the council chamber at a sharp angle. Rymont, stubbornly insisting the fleet would secure even more money by making sea trade safe in the north and west, was arguing with Valdid, who’d come around to Tol’s point of view. The chamberlain noticed Ackal IV was nodding and broke off in mid-sentence. Rapping on the polished tabletop, he announced the council session was over.

The noise woke the emperor. He sagged back wearily, breath rattling in his chest. Oropash quietly offered to summon healers from the temple of Mishas, but Ackal IV waved the suggestion aside.

“It is only a congestion of the lungs,” he said hoarsely. “It will pass.” No one believed that. The “congestion” had lasted half a year.

He dismissed his advisors without asking for a final decision on the dispensation of the fleet. As the warlords, wizards, and officials rose to go, Ackal IV asked Tol to stay. Lord Rymont and his faction departed slowly, unhappy to concede the emperor’s ear to their rival.

When only Tol and Valdid remained, the emperor dismissed his chamberlain, too. Surprised, Valdid obeyed.

“Sit by me,” said Ackal IV, patting the arm of an adjacent chair. With a bow, Tol seated himself at the emperor’s right hand.

“You are right about the fleet,” Ackal said, letting his head rest against the padded wing of his chair. “Tomorrow I will issue orders confirming Admiral Darpo’s stay in the gulf.”

“I believe that to be the wisest course, Your Majesty.”

Tol waited. The emperor hadn’t asked him to stay to tell him about the fleet.

“I think I must be dying, Tolandruth.”

The announcement was not wholly unexpected. “Your Majesty has his choice of the finest healers in the empire. Can they not find the root of your strange illness?”

Ackal shook his head. “There is a broken strain in the dynasty, a thread of madness and decay. I fear it has found me this time.”

“Surely not, Majesty! You always enjoyed good health as crown prince. Why-”

Tol stopped, but his expression plainly showed he had more to say. Ackal urged him to speak freely.

“Majesty, there are those who would like your reign to be a brief one. Some… some are very close to the throne.”

Ackal laughed, provoking a fit of coughing. “Nazramin? He’s been undermining me ever since we were children.”

There were many safeguards in place, the emperor explained, to protect him from poison, and the palace was heavily warded against malign magic, more so than any other place in Ergoth.

Still, it was possible that a subtle chink could exist in the emperor’s magical armor, some tiny hole in his defenses that might allow a small spell to penetrate. Ackal IV admitted this himself.

Tol related how he’d found Nazramin at Mandes’s mansion late one night. The prince and the sorcerer were in cahoots, he said.

“Mandes is gone,” the emperor replied, waving a thin hand. “His influence is over and his spells dispersed. Oropash has seen to that personally.”

Oropash was a wizard of wide experience, but overly trusting. Although he knew little enough about magic, Tol was certain that a cunning rogue like Mandes could evade his counter-spells.

Even as they talked, Tol was waging a silent battle with himself over one question: should he give the nullstone to Ackal IV? If the emperor was indeed the target of malign magic, the Irda artifact would soak it up like blotting paper drinking in spilled ink.

If he loaned it to the emperor, it might save him, but would Tol ever get it back? Years ago, Yoralyn had warned him nullstones were so rare and so powerful that ruthless villains would raze entire cities to possess one. He had kept his secret a long time.

If Ackal IV took possession of it, knowledge of its existence would spread quickly. The emperor of Ergoth lived his life like a carp in a fishpond, under the eyes of hundreds every day. The secret would be a secret no longer.

Ackal IV might be saved from his sickness, but then what?

The nullstone was no defense against a knife in the back. By adding the Irda artifact to the equation, Tol might encourage outright assassination of the emperor. For the chance to capture such a prize, the ambitious and the greedy from every level of Daltigoth society would line up like buyers in the meat market. Blood would flow. It could mean civil war, and the end of the empire.

Tol asked himself if his reasoning was fair. Were his fears justified, or did he simply seek excuses to keep the nullstone to himself?

Ackal was still talking, but only when he coughed, spattering the front of his robe with tiny drops of blood was Tol jerked from his tangled thoughts.

“I am Your Majesty’s Champion. What can I do to help you?” he said earnestly.

Ackal dabbed at his lips with a swatch of white silk. “Was I not just saying?” Though not an old man, the emperor smiled like one, lips tight together, wrinkles piling up around his fevered eyes.

“Stay by me, Tolandruth. Take rooms in the palace. I feel that with you close by, my powers will soon return.”

Tol’s heart beat faster. Here was an admirable compromise. His presence might ward off dangers, magical and temporal. And he would be near Valaran-

The emperor’s next words shocked Tol to his very core.

“My wife would be glad of your company.”

Tol couldn’t speak, could barely control his expression. At last he said, “Wife, Majesty?”

“Yes, Valdid’s daughter. You two are old friends, are you not? She will be happy to have you about. My other wives are not kind to her, despite my admonitions.”

Tol could think of nothing at all to say, but fortunately the emperor was going on.

“You two have been friends a long time, I know. She taught you reading, yes?” Tol nodded dumbly. “Yes. In spite of what most people think, there is nothing that goes on in the Inner City about which I do not know. From charming secrets to vicious gossip, I hear it all.”

At that moment Tol realized Ackal must know about him and Valaran; he knew and was not outraged. Tol’s heart was pounding so hard, he felt it must be audible to the emperor.

“Sometimes I believe the gossip,” Ackal said quietly, “and sometimes I don’t. When I assumed the mantle of Ergoth, I learned a most important fact.”

Prompted, Tol said, “What is that, Majesty?”

“What the emperor wishes to be true is true.”

Their eyes met, and Tol understood. He’d always blamed his ten-year exile on Mandes’s lies and Nazramin’s treachery, but the truth, it seemed, was more complicated. The sorcerer had stolen his honor for the destruction of XimXim, and Nazramin had undermined his glory for winning the war in Hylo-but it had been Crown Prince Amaltar who kept him away from Daltigoth for a decade. Away from the city, and away from Valaran. He could have had them both punished for their infidelity, but he needed Tol, needed him the way a warrior needs a fine sword to battle his enemies, and Amaltar was genuinely fond of Valaran.

Now the stakes were higher than a husband’s honor. Ackal IV needed Tol to keep him alive and on the throne of Ergoth. If that meant turning a blind eye to the fact his wife and his champion were lovers, so be it. It was cold-blooded reasoning, but Tol didn’t care. A tremendous burden had been raised from his soul. He knelt before Ackal IV.

“I am your man, Majesty. Body, soul, flesh, and blood, I am yours,” he said, lowering his head.

“Your soul you may keep. The rest I can use.”

The Rumbold Villa was soon vacant again. Egrin and his men had departed for Juramona, and Tol and Kiya took a small suite in the palace’s south wing.

The transition was not an easy one. Kiya’s melancholy over her separation from Miya deepened. She took to drinking too much and sleeping too little, haunting the kitchens and servants’ quarters, where she felt more at home than among the haughty courtiers. As for Tol, access to Valaran and the emperor’s tacit approval did not guarantee a new blossoming of love. Resuming their affair, once a secret and dangerous passion, seemed somehow sordid and selfish. When they met, talk was difficult, the atmosphere awkward and strained.

“I’m not that impetuous girl any longer,” Valaran confessed. “I’m not seventeen and full of fire.”

She and Tol were seated on a marble bench in one of the many gardens, large and small, scattered throughout the imperial dwelling. This one was tiny, located on a narrow terrace, but a favorite of Valaran’s for the autumn crocuses blooming there now.

Staring down at the purple flowers in her hand, she added, “For ten years I tried to purge you from my thoughts, to forget how it felt to love you, to touch you. I can’t in the space of a few score days go back to the way I was long ago!”

Tol had never stopped loving her, hut he understood her quandary. So much had happened while they were apart, they had become different people. They no longer knew each other.

“This feels like the end, not a new beginning,” she murmured.

He stood quickly, needing to move. The terrace allowed only ten steps from one side to the other. He paced back and forth several times, then halted in front of her.

“I can’t give you up,” he said. “Any more than I can give up a hand or a leg! “

She flushed and looked away. “I never wanted to leave you.”

“Then don’t!” He dropped beside her again and took her hand. “We can begin again,” he whispered. “There’s been too much longing between us since I returned. That will stop.” Her expression was skeptical. “I shall court you.”

She almost laughed, but the serious glint in his eyes stopped her.

“Tol, we’re not children any more.”

“No, and I won’t act like one.” He released her hand but the resolve in his face never faltered.

Her doubts began to waver. “We’d have to be careful. Even if my husband knows about us, we cannot flaunt his honor.”

“Of course not. We’ll be as discreet as owls.”

Now she did laugh. “Is that some rustic expression?”

The mirth was balm to the ache in his heart. “Just so. Owls pass their lives shielded by darkness. Stands to reason they’re discreet.”

The dimple he’d long missed reappeared when she smiled. “I’ll write that down.” Her light expression faded, replaced by a thoughtful frown. Her eyes grew distant. “I could collect an entire book’s worth of unknown and forgotten similes-”

“Later,” he said, and leaned closer.

She recoiled a little, unsure of his intentions, but he only reached into the leather case at her feet. She never went anywhere without her collection of books. He drew out a short, tightly wound scroll and held it out to her.

“Read to me?”

By such small steps they learned to know each other again. They met often, but to no set schedule, in out-of-the-way corners of the great, rambling palace. In time they even dared the ghosts of their past and met by the centaur fountain, in the grove below the Tower of High Sorcery-the place they’d first found love many years before. Valaran would read to Tol, or they would talk about the events that had transpired while they were apart. Tol described the campaign against Tarsis. He spared her nothing, from the bloodiest battles, to the final victory, to his dalliance with Hanira.

He feared she might be jealous of this last, but Valaran shrugged off such a notion.

“I’d be more worried if you professed celibacy,” she said. “This woman interests me. She wields power, you say?”

“She’s a syndic, one of the city’s leaders.”

“I see the Tarsans are ahead of us in some ways. I’d like to meet her someday.”

Tol found the prospect alarming. He felt equal to either woman separately; together, they would put him at a distinct disadvantage.

The golden phase of autumn was quickly over, yielding the land to the drying, dying days before winter. The harvest was good; for the first time in many years the empire basked in prosperity and peace.

However, all was not quiet beyond the borders of Ergoth. From the east came odd rumors of invasion and migration. Tribes of nomadic humans and centaurs moved west, displaced by other tribes, who in turn had been driven from their homes by distant, vaguely described invaders. Muddled tales of “foreigners” arriving on the northeast coast reached Daltigoth. Those in power weren’t worried. Such migrations did happen. Opinion in the capital was that dark-skinned seafarers had come down from the northern ocean, driven there by storms or migratory pressures of their own. Ridiculous stories of the invaders being “monsters” were not believed. Beaten people often claimed to have been overwhelmed by supernatural forces.

Miya formally wed Elicarno that fall, with Tol’s blessing and Kiya’s sulking acceptance. Their household, on the floor above Elicarno’s workshop, was the talk of the city’s working folk. Miya took over the business side of her husband’s work, procuring timber and metal with the same ruthless bargaining tactics she had so long used to keep Tol and her sister fed. Patrons who came to seek the engineer’s expertise now found they had to deal with the formidable Dom-shu woman, half a head taller than her husband and fiercely protective of him. Far from diminishing Elicarno’s trade, Miya’s blunt and honest manner won him many new clients. Machines bearing Elicarno’s stamp were soon in use all over Daltigoth. New buildings designed by him rose in every quarter save the Inner City.

Miya was soon with child. If Elicarno’s suppliers thought this would slow the forester woman, they were soon sorely disappointed. Elicarno built her a sedan chair, and Miya rode forth on the arms of six sturdy yeomen, ready to do battle with skinflint quarrymen, forgemasters, and lumber factors.

Ackal IV’s health took a surprising turn for the better, and he slowly recovered from the catarrh that had gripped him for so long. His cough eased, and he no longer awakened each morning with blood on his pillow. Some of the scheming glint returned to his eye, and he sat up straighter and stronger at the lengthy council sessions. Valaran, having more intimate access to the emperor than any warlord or courtier, told Tol her husband was sleeping through the night again for the first time in more than a year, though he did mutter and groan most of the time. It seemed he was emerging from the slow, strangling spell that had been sapping his life.

Tol thought the emperor’s revived health might be linked to the fact that his scheming brother, Prince Nazramin, left the city not long after Enkian Tumult’s army returned to the Seascapes. The prince went without fanfare, taking two hundred of his personal retainers, Nazramin’s Wolves, with him. Retiring to a large estate eleven leagues from Daltigoth, the emperor’s brother received a steady stream of visitors from the capital and outlying provinces. At first Nazramin’s departure looked like the start of some new plot, but as the days stretched into months and nothing untoward happened, most of the imperial court relaxed.

Tol did not believe that Nazramin had given up his machinations. He was waiting for something, biding his time. Ackal IV had spies planted within the household and kept close watch on his brother’s doings. Because of her discretion (and skill at reading), he chose Valaran to read the spies’ lengthy reports to him.

Other strange things were afoot. Fierce storms scoured the western coastal provinces, destroying seaside towns and wrecking ships. A strong squadron of imperial warships, chasing the fleeing flotilla of pirate chief Morojin, entered the Sancrist Channel one evening and never emerged from the north end. Twenty-three warships and their crews vanished without a trace. The shoreline from Cape Zol to Dice Bay was scoured for traces. None were found. Word was sent to the gnomes of Sancrist Isle to search their beaches for jetsam from the missing fleet. The gnomes invented several new machines for the task but found nothing.

The litany of ominous disasters grew longer. A murrain broke out among the enormous cattle herds of central Ergoth. Frightened ranchers broke up their herds, dispersing them to halt the spread of the disease, but it didn’t help. Fifty thousand head of cattle died that fall. The price of beef tripled in Daltigoth, and the leather market collapsed as thousands of fresh hides flooded in from tanners.

Forest fires ravaged the Ropunt district, destroying much valuable timber. Juramona was infested with a plague of bats. Thousands of the small, leathery creatures descended on the town, stopping up chimneys and fouling wells. Sickness followed.

A drought gripped the Eastern Hundred. Landslides blocked the southern pass through the Thel Mountains, cutting off trade between Hylo and the sparsely settled lands east of the kender kingdom.

Rumors of unnatural invaders persisted. They weren’t human… they were on the borders of Thoradin… the dwarves were arming themselves to resist…

Like a drumbeat, the pulse of disaster grew steadily louder in the halls of power in Daltigoth, until one day Tol was summoned from bed to the imperial council chambers.

It was cold that morning. He threw back the fur blankets and drew on a thick, quilted robe. Eyes bleary with sleep, he went to the basin by the door, where the lackey who’d summoned him waited. When he dipped his hands in the bowl, they bounced back. The basin had a crust of ice on it.

“Make haste, my lord!” said the servant. “The emperor expects you!”

Wordlessly, Tol broke the ice with an elbow and splashed the water on his face. The frigid water instantly cut through the soft, heavy layers of sleep still clinging to him.

“What’s it about?” he asked, blotting his face.

“I know not, my lord.”

Tol eyed the fellow skeptically. Palace servants were renowned for their eagle eyes, bloodhound noses, and cat-like hearing.

Under Lord Tolandruth’s iron gaze, the man shifted uncomfortably. “Visitors arrived early this morning,” he finally admitted. “From the north. With ill tidings.”

“Visitors?”

“Kender, my lord, with an escort of Riders from the Marshal of the Eastern Hundred.”

Something serious must be afoot if Egrin deemed it important enough to pass the kender along to Daltigoth. Tol hastily combed his hair and beard and propelled the servant out the door before him.

As they passed through an open breezeway between wings of the palace, Tol saw it was a brilliant morning. The sky was as bright and clear as only an early winter morning could make it. Bold blue stood out against the shaded white walls of the Inner City. In another month the gray season of snow would settle over the city, but for now the sky was as clear as the eyes of the gods.

A smaller than usual collection of councilors was waiting when Tol arrived. Lord Rymont and his aides, Valdid the chamberlain, Oropash (looking sleep-tousled), and his sleek counterpart Helbin were present. Four road-stained Riders flanked a single, carroty-haired kender, who was busily munching on a round loaf of brown bread. The council table was strewn with maps, some rolled, some anchored open with brass cups of mulled cider.

“My apologies,” Tol said, tugging the sash of his robe tighter. “Am I the last to arrive?”

“We’re awaiting the emperor,” Rymont said. He was impeccably attired and must have been awakened first.

The doors to the emperor’s private quarters opened, and Ackal IV appeared, looking pale and thin in a burgundy velvet robe made for his robust father. He was trailed by his personal healer, a priest of Mishas named Klaraf, and Empress Thura.

Valdid announced his entrance, and everyone knelt, except the kender, who blithely continued eating. Ackal eased himself into his great chair at the head of the table. A golden chalice of steaming cider was put in his hand.

“Well?” he said.

Lord Rymont stepped forward, and all eyes went to him. He paused, briefly enjoying the attention then said, “Your Majesty, this fellow arrived a short time ago.” He gestured at the kender. “He was sent to us by Marshal Egrin with a guard of ten Riders.”

One of the soldiers saluted. “Begging your pardon, Your Majesty, my lord, but we were twenty strong when we left Lord Egrin. The others were killed on the way here.”

In clipped words the Juramona man explained that a contingent of six kender had arrived, seeking help from Marshal Egrin. They’d been sent by the King of Hylo, Lucklyn the First. The kender realm, a protectorate of the empire, was beset. A strange, thick fog had filled Hylo Bay from end to end, stopping all traffic in and out of its busy ports. Worse, plague had broken out in all the port towns.

“Let me guess,” Tol said grimly. “The Red Wrack?”

The kender paused in his eating and drinking long enough to say, “Funny, that’s just how ol’ Egrin put it when we told him.”

“We’ve seen this before, he and I. We know who the author is!”

The kender rubbed a butter-smeared palm against his jerkin, then extended the hand to Tol. “Stumpwater’s the name, your generalship. Early Stumpwater.”

“Hold your tongue!” Rymont said irritably. “You’re in the presence of the Emperor of Ergoth!”

The Rider from Juramona continued his tale. Lord Egrin had indeed immediately recognized the hand of the rogue Mandes. Scouts were dispatched to locate his hideout. Nothing was found in the north, west, or south, but those sent to explore east of Hylo, in the foothills of the Thel Mountains, never returned.

Kender wanderers crossing the mountains from east to west reported finding a solid wall of white mist around the highest peaks in the range, some thirty leagues east of Old Port. Fog in the mountains wasn’t abnormal, but this mist was. It clung to the slopes of Mount Axas in the very teeth of a strong south wind. Kender being kender, some of them entered the mist. They passed into the whiteness easily enough, but none came back out again.

“The marshal believes Mandes is responsible for the fog and plague in Hylo, and that he has taken refuge on Mount Axas,” the Rider finished.

Leaning over a spread map, Valdid squinted and placed a fingertip on one spot. “There’s a ruined keep on the escarpment below the peak,” he said. “Very ancient-from before the days of Ackal Ergot.”

“Mandes must be stopped, Majesty. He’s daring us to come get him!”

The emperor regarded Tol curiously. “Why do you say that, my lord?”

“Because his attack is so obvious! Years ago, Mandes lent his mist-making skills to a band of marauding bakali in the same region. The numbing fog carried a disease within it, the same Red Wrack that is now gripping Hylo. You remember how it scourged the army of Lord Urakan in the campaign against Tylocost?” There were nods all around. “Mandes is repeating his method deliberately, I believe, as a direct challenge to us.” A direct challenge to me, he thought, but did not say.

Helbin, chief of the Red Robes in Ergoth, spoke up. “I fear Lord Tolandruth is correct, Majesty. Our order has been watching Mandes closely since he fled. At first he was quiet, shunning notoriety. Lately he’s become bolder. We have reason to think he’s responsible for many of the misfortunes currently afflicting the empire.”

“The murrain? Fires and avalanches?”

Helbin nodded gravely. “Perhaps the disappearance of the imperial squadron off Sancrist, too.”

“Impudent wretch! Say the word, Your Majesty, and I will dispatch two hordes to the Thel and bring back this wizard’s head!” Lord Rymont declared.

Oropash took umbrage with Rymont’s characterization of Mandes. “He is no wizard, my lord,” he said.

His mild voice was all but drowned out by Rymont’s anger. “Insults cannot be tolerated!” Rymont cried. “The emperor’s honor has been besmirched!”

“More than honor is at stake,” Ackal IV said slowly. “We hear whispers of invaders coming from the east. The tribes they displace come west to escape. Soon our borders will feel the first waves of this migration. There will be war, not for conquest or glory, but to defend our homes and lands against hordes of frightened, desperate immigrants-and all that before the main invasion from the east arrives.”

Everyone regarded the emperor with respect. He was surprisingly lucid these days.

He added, “Mandes could have made trouble for us at any time since his exile. Why now? It’s obvious, my lords. He’s seen the trouble coming, and he’s using it to compound the difficulties we face.”

“What could he want?” Empress Thura asked.

“Revenge?” The emperor smiled wanly. “Maybe he simply wants his old position in Daltigoth back.”

“That could never happen!” Oropash said, voice quavering.

Rymont repeated his demand that two hordes of the imperial army be sent to the mountains to root out the troublesome sorcerer. Helbin countered that Mandes’s befuddling mists, coupled with the treacherous paths in the high mountains, made such a venture suicidal.

Two camps slowly took shape. On one side were Lord Rymont, Valdid, and Thura, who favored a direct attack on Mandes. On the other side were the wizards, who proposed magical measures to isolate and contain Mandes.

“What say you, Master Stumpwater?” asked the emperor.

The kender had finished his eating and was resting his chin on his crossed arms on the table. His green eyes had flicked back and forth, following the heated discussion with interest. When Ackal spoke, the others’ eyes now went to him.

“A boil’s gotta be lanced, Your Mightiness,” the kender piped. “Leave one too long, and you get a fever.”

“I agree,” Tol said, but Helbin and Oropash immediately objected. An assault would be costly in lives and would surely fail, they said.

“I agree,” Tol repeated, “and under the circumstances, every Rider will be needed to guard the frontier if invaders do come.”

Rymont’s face was eloquent of disgust. “Lord Tolandruth is speaking in riddles,” he said. “We can’t do both-attack Mandes and keep the army out of the mountains.”

“Yes, we can. I will go myself. Alone.”

Silence greeted this startling statement, yet Tol noted that no one objected.

“What makes you think you can succeed?” asked the emperor at last.

“I know Mandes, Majesty. I know his tricks, his vanity, and how to reach him.” Tol’s hands closed into fists. “And I have a heavy score to settle with him. Give me leave, and I pledge upon my life that I will not fail!”

Helbin and Oropash, knowing Tol possessed the millstone, did not challenge him, but Rymont asked Tol how he expected to evade Mandes’s stupefying mist.

“I’m certain the masters of the Tower can provide me with protection-protection not available to two entire hordes,” Tol said blandly. Oropash looked confused for a heartbeat then slowly nodded agreement.

Debate began over the size of the escort that should accompany him, but Tol cut it off. “No, I must go alone. An escort will only draw unwanted attention.”

“You’ll need a guide,” Ackal IV said. “Will you undertake that task, Master Stumpwater?”

The kender tugged absently on his long carrot-colored topknot, thinking. “I suppose I could take Lord Tolandruth to the foot of the misty pass,” he opined, “but my skill don’t come cheap. Will you pay me in gold?”

Payment was promised, and Early accepted the job. Nods of satisfaction along with more than a few raised eyebrows greeted this proposed arrangement.

The emperor rose stiffly, pushing himself up with both hands until he was standing, then issued his orders. Lord Tolandruth would go forth to the Thel Mountains and investigate the fog-filled peak. If he found Mandes there, he would administer imperial high justice.

“What’s that?” asked Early.

“Bring back the sorcerer’s head,” said Rymont coldly.

Having ruled, the emperor sank back into his chair. He dismissed all present, asking only Tol to remain behind. Thura and the healer, Klaraf, wanted to stay, but Ackal irritably ordered them both out.

With only a quartet of bodyguards at the far doors of the chamber, Ackal beckoned Tol to him.

“When will you leave?” he asked.

“Whenever Your Majesty requires.”

“Tomorrow morning then. Draw whatever supplies you need from imperial stores. Get a pony for Master Stumpwater, too,” Ackal said. “You’ll need a map of the high Thel.” Tol glanced at the array scattered across the table, but the emperor shook his head. “There are better charts in the library. I’ll send Lady Valaran to you. She knows the library better than the chief archivist.”

Tol tried to gauge the emperor’s purpose. Ackal IV provided the answer.

“You know how dangerous this mission will be, don’t you?” he said. “Mandes won’t be sitting on that mountain-top unprotected. He had considerable treasure, and none was found in his house after he fled. He’ll have hired guards, so you’ll be contending with swords as well as sorcery.”

Tol nodded. He had surmised as much on his own. The emperor said, “This may be the single most important deed you’ll ever do for your country, Tolandruth. No other man in the empire would have a hope of success.”

“Thank you, Majesty. I shall not fail.”

Ackal extended his hand. Surprised, Tol reached out uncertainly. Ackal’s hand was dry and feverishly hot.

“Go with the gods, my lord.”

Once Tol was gone, Ackal IV let his head loll against the wing of the great padded chair. So weary… he was so weary, yet he was filled with hope, too. If anyone, Tolandruth could do it. He was a great warrior, and a loyal Hade. His strength would carry the day against any foe-

The itching began again. All over his fingers and toes, the maddening sensation of tiny, spiked feet and glistening pincers began.

“Ants!”

Ackal IV clutched at his fingers, trying to scrape off insects only he could see. His feet burned with their bites. Drawing one leg up, he tore off the velvet slipper and flung it across the room. Already his pale feet were scored with long scratches, crusted with dried blood.

“Ants! Ants!” he gasped, clawing at his feet anew.

At the doors, the guards heard the emperor’s hoarse exclamations and witnessed his mad gyrations. They did nothing. They saw this spectacle less often nowadays, but when it came it was fiercer and wilder than before; anyway they had been warned not to interfere. Gold in their pockets assured their compliance. Prince Nazramin could be very generous when he chose.

Ackal’s voice rose to a shriek as the burning, stinging pain increased. “Can no one stop the ants?” he cried.

In this lonely struggle, the Emperor of Ergoth had no champion.

It took all afternoon and most of the evening for Tol and Valaran to find the best map of the Thel Mountains. According to the catalog, the particular map they needed had been made one hundred fifty years earlier by surveyors working for Empress Kanira, as part of her mad dream of building a road from Daltigoth to Hylo. However, finding the terse entry in the catalog was one thing; finding the actual map on the dusty, ill-maintained, seemingly endless shelves was quite another.

“Look at this!” Valaran said, drawing out an unusually large roll of parchment.

She was crouched at the foot of a tall shelf, surrounded by loose scrolls. Hair looped behind her ears, she’d hitched up the hem of her fine silk gown without hesitation to search among the dusty books on the bottommost shelves.

Sitting on the floor close by, and moving the four-flame oil lamp as she commanded, Tol watched her with frank affection. They were alone; the ancient librarian, an old friend of Valaran’s, had long since abandoned them to their quest and was snoring in his cubicle.

“I’ve heard of this!” she said, shaking the scroll excitedly. “Scholars claimed it was a myth, but here it is!”

“The map?”

“No, Kanira’s plan for a new capital city!”

They unrolled the heavy parchment. In fantastic detail, the vainglorious empress’s plans for her new capital were laid out. The city was circular and was to have been built at the end of Hylo Bay, approximately where Old Port was located. Kanira’s palace would have occupied a flat-topped artificial mountain in its center. The terraced mound would have been almost as big as the entire Inner City of Daltigoth now was.

“Merciful gods,” Tol breathed. “No wonder they deposed her!”

Valaran pointed. “Look here-a canal encircling the city’s outer wall, both banks paved with granite… twelve temples, evenly spaced around the circumference of the city… and the gardens! The gardens are tremendous, built on the terraced sides of the palace mountain!”

Tol sat back, shaking his head. “She was mad.”

“But what vision!”

Her profile, gilded by the warm lamplight, was vision enough for Tol. He never wanted to look away.

She felt his gaze, and a faint blush colored her cheeks.

“You know the dangers I’m facing, don’t you?” he said quietly.

Valaran concentrated on rolling up the large scroll. “All I know is that you are going away again,” she said ruefully. “You love danger more than-more than anything.”

“All the days since I returned, we’ve been so chaste,” Tol said, catching her wrist.

“I’ve told you. We’re not love-addled youths any longer.”

“No, we’re not, but I can’t go to my possible death like this, hollowed out and empty of you.” He tugged on her wrist, drawing her to him. She did not resist. “Will you let me go again, perhaps never to return, without a single embrace?”

“Can we stop at one?”

Tol fervently hoped not. He put his arm around her waist. Valaran touched her cheek to his.