A warrior's joyrney d-1

by Paul B. Thompson

  “Why were you in that cubbyhole?” he asked.

  She frowned, crinkling her nose. “They don’t like to see me reading. Sometimes the ninnies of the Consorts’ Circle snatch the scrolls right from my hands!” She adopted a nasal, mocking tone: “ ‘Reading isn’t good for women. If you’re smarter than a man, he won’t like you.’ ”

  “That’s not true. Nothing’s more boring than an empty head.” He glanced at her. “Why did you save me from the guards?”

  Once a passing trio of servants moved out of earshot, she said flatly, “If they’d found you with me, I would’ve been whipped.”

  Tol’s buoyant mood collapsed. She’d done it merely to save herself. He suddenly remembered the ugly scene he’d witnessed between the angry prince and Valdid. The hapless chamberlain was Valaran’s father. If such beatings were common in the Imperial Palace, he couldn’t fault her for wishing to avoid one. Her next words restored his good humor.

  “Besides, you’re the first provincial to make it this far into the palace. You’ve got nerve.” She favored him with another dimpled smile, adding, “Or you’re stupid. I can’t tell yet. Anyway, I like to talk to people who have experienced the world outside the city. I want to hear everything about the world-and you.”

  He stopped in his tracks. “You want to see me again?”

  “Certainly. How else could we talk?”

  They resumed walking, and Valaran said sternly, “You can’t come here, though. Are you lodging in the Riders’ Hall?” With nothing else definite, Tol nodded. “Good. We can meet in the wizards’ garden-at the fountain of the centaurs. I go there to read sometimes. The mages don’t mind.”

  “I don’t know what my duties may be,” he said doubtfully. “If I am free, I’ll come.”

  “I’m usually there four marks before sunset,” Valaran said, explaining that time in the Inner City was marked by the procession of the highest tower’s shadow across a set of lines carved into the inner wall.

  They had reached the sweltering kitchens, and Tol’s adventure was over. He wanted to say something gallant, as he imagined a seasoned warrior would do, but Valaran didn’t linger for his goodbye. She plucked the scroll from his hand and darted away. Opening the fat cylinder of parchment, she was soon engrossed once more, reading as she walked.

  Kiya and Miya were still seated at the table. Red-faced from wine and heat, they hailed their wandering companion. He sat down heavily between them. Miya pushed a plate of seared chicken in front of him, and filled a clay cup with dark red wine.

  “Have some grub,” she said, sounding more rustic than usual. “It’s good! They treat you right here!”

  Tol thought about his close call. Whether she’d been saving only herself or him, Valaran had a quick wit and courage enough to face down an irate captain of the guard. He looked forward to seeing her again.

  He clinked his cup to Kiya’s, then Miya’s. “That they do,” he said.

  Chapter 13

  The Centaur Fountain

  Tol passed the early part of the night sleeping in the doorway of the Riders’ Hall. It was late when Relfas found him, shaking him roughly awake and demanding to know what he was doing there.

  “No one would let me in,” Tol said sleepily. Relfas grasped his hand and hauled him to his feet. “Where are your bruising tribal women?”

  Tol yawned. “The palace kitchens. I told them to stay there.” Within, the Riders’ Hall was much like the barracks at Juramona, only grander. Where the provincial hall used wood, the Daltigoth building used finely cut stone. Tol followed Relfas up a narrow stair to the topmost of four floors. The youngest and least senior of the empire’s elite warriors bedded down here, while older and more favored men occupied larger quarters on the lower floors. Settling himself on a bunk in a back corner, Tol fell asleep again in an instant.

  Day began early. The young nobles turned out and ate a hearty breakfast at the long table in the center of the hall. They were served by a gaggle of scarlet-clad boys. As in its Juramona counterpart, women were not permitted even as servers in the Riders’ Hall. The married lords had to sleep apart from their wives, who were comfortably housed in the vast Imperial Palace.

  Once fed, Tol’s comrades fell to preparing their finery for the upcoming conclave. Sharp smells of polish, saddle soap and oil filled the hall. Shield-bearers from the city’s hordes assisted the warriors. The ceremony surrounding the laying of the cornerstone for the Tower of Sorcery was to take place in four days, when the moons Luin and Solin would meet in the constellation of Draco Paladin, the great dragon-god.

  It didn’t take Tol long to prepare, for he had little in the way of possessions, and his sword and dagger were still in Valaran’s hands. He had only to polish his leather boots, belts, and braces, and to scrub the tarnish from his armor. A pair of Daltigoth shilder offered to do the work, but Tol politely declined. He said he preferred to take care of his own equipment, the better to know its condition. The two youths departed, smirking at the funny ways of provincials.

  His chores completed, Tol was at loose ends by midday. He slipped outside, determined to have a look around the Inner City.

  The great plaza was being cleaned in preparation for the ceremony. An army of drudges moved across the mosaics, wielding brooms, while a smaller band of lackeys scooped up the piles of dust they left in their wake and hauled them away. A company of the Inner City Guard paraded across the entrance to the palace, relieving the men who’d stood watch since midnight. No courtiers or high officials were stirring yet in the square.

  Inevitably, Tol made his way to the garden surrounding the wizards’ college. It was too early to meet Valaran-the sun-clock on the inside wall showed it was six marks till sunset-but he was decidedly curious about the sorcerers.

  The garden at the wizards’ college was surrounded by a low stone wall, decorative rather than defensive. There were neither gates nor guards, just a simple flagstone path leading into a deserted garden. Tol felt uneasy when he entered its shaded calm, but Valaran had said the mages didn’t object to visits. Besides, if they were concerned about trespassers, surety there would be guards.

  Newly leafed trees closed overhead, blotting out the sky. Fallen flower petals had drifted across the path, their perfumed thickness deadening his footfalls. A clear, musical tinkling wafted on the breeze, conjuring the memory of the wind chime he’d seen in Prince Amaltar’s tent at Caergoth.

  He passed three stone pillars, each half again as tall as the one before it. For a moment he thought he saw inscriptions on them, but when he ran his fingers over the cold granite, the surface was smooth.

  Voices whispered behind him. Tol snatched his hand back and whirled, but saw no one. The breeze died, and the chiming sound ceased. The canopy of leaves was still, blocking out the sunlight. Shaking his head at his nervous imaginings, he continued his slow progress through the beautiful grove.

  Another path intersected his at a right angle. He looked left and right, wondering which way to go. For an instant he thought he glimpsed pale gray robes disappearing behind trees in both directions.

  Disconcerted, Tol decided he’d gone far enough. He turned to retrace his steps, but discovered to his shock the path behind him had disappeared! Where moments before he had trodden on gray flagstones, there was now a thickly growing cluster of oak and elm trees.

  His hand dropped to his hip, seeking the comforting handle of his saber. Of course it wasn’t there; Valaran still had it.

  Tol turned around-and received yet another shock. The intersecting path was gone as though it had never been.

  “Magic,” he muttered, glancing nervously over one shoulder, then the other. He went on, having no path to lead him back.

  He soon came upon a four-sided clearing filled with blooming red roses. The flower, he knew, was sacred to Manthus, god of wisdom. The path led directly to the sea of blooms and thorny stems, so he was forced to wade knee-deep through crimson flowers. Thorns made little impression on his stout leather
trews, but the aroma of roses filled the air in overwhelming strength. Coughing, he held a kerchief over his nose and pushed on. The flagstone path resumed on the other side of the clearing.

  Ahead, he could see the colonnades of the wizards’ college. Off to his left was the rough wooden scaffolding he’d glimpsed on his arrival at the Inner City, Just now it was deserted.

  Using the scaffold to keep his bearing, Tol left the path and was able to navigate through the closely growing trees without too much trouble. He emerged in a sunny, diamond-shaped courtyard directly in front of the wizards’ college. A number of robed clerics and sorcerers were sitting on stone benches around the courtyard. When Tol came into view, they stood up and gaped at him in alarm. The closest ones hurried away, as if he were some ravening fiend come to attack them.

  A woman in white robes approached. Hollow-cheeked, she was very advanced in years, her hair completely white. She stood very straight, though, and did not lean on the tall staff in her hand.

  “Who are you? How did you get here?” she asked sternly.

  “Forgive me, lady,” Tol said, bowing his head. “I mean no harm. My name is Tol of Juramona.”

  When he raised his head again, other robed figures stood behind the woman. A rotund, red-faced man asked, “How did he get so far?”

  “I don’t know, Oropash,” the woman replied. “Helbin, was the Wall of Sleep properly invoked?”

  “The wards were properly placed. I saw to it myself,” answered a more youthful man at her right hand. His sand-colored hair was tightly curled, as was his thin mustache. “No one could possibly have gotten through!”

  The old woman looked from Helbin to Tol and back again, white eyebrows rising significantly. Young Helbin flushed.

  To Tol she said, “Come here, young man. Don’t be afraid. I am Yoralyn; come to me.”

  Tol’s feet crunched on the bright quartz gravel. He wasn’t afraid, but many of Yoralyn’s colleagues obviously were. He halted several paces from the startled mages and spread his hands.

  “I’m not armed,” he reassured them. “I’m visiting Daltigoth with my liege lord, Enkian Tumult, marshal of the Eastern Hundred. We’re here at the emperor’s command, for the laying of the cornerstone of the great tower.”

  Yoralyn consulted a smooth sphere of amethyst in her hand. “He speaks the truth,” she said. “His aura is as innocent as a child’s.”

  “Then how did he penetrate the Wall of Sleep?” demanded the rotund mage, Oropash.

  The younger sorcerer, Helbin, advanced and stared Tol in the eye. He was tall and vigorous-looking, more like a warrior than a priest. Over his robe he wore a loosely draped mantle of faded red silk. Each of his fingers bore a ring. He extended one hand, palm out, and waved it in front of Tol.

  “I perceive no sensation of power,” he muttered. “I sense no counterspell or amulet, but there must be a reason! An ordinary person could not pass through the barrier without succumbing to its influence!”

  Their agitation, and the speculative gleam in Yoralyn’s pale blue eyes, unnerved Tol. “I’m sorry,” he said, backing up a step. “I’m not sure what happened. But I’ll go at once-”

  “No, stay,” said Yoralyn. “Come this way.”

  Helbin and Oropash stood aside, allowing Tol plenty of room to pass. The two sorcerers, fearful but curious, followed Tol as he trailed the old woman to a nearby fountain. A silver stream spewed from the mouth of a dragon statue in the center of the pool. The statue was three paces tall and carved from a single block of emerald.

  As he passed, Tol realized the fluid flowing from the statue’s mouth wasn’t water, but quicksilver. A droplet splashed out of the pool onto the low marble wall surrounding the fountain’s basin, and then, like a living thing, the silver globule rolled up the stone slab (against the slope, Tol noted with astonishment) and dropped back into the pool.

  More sorcerers joined the procession. They emerged from other side paths or simply appeared out of the air on the grassy lawn. Scores had congregated by the time Yoralyn halted at the foot of the ramshackle scaffolding, Inside the scaffolding, a single course of masonry had been laid, enormous cyclopean stones two paces high and as wide as a tall man could reach.

  Yoralyn regarded Tol silently with a disconcertingly piercing stare. He stammered, “I’m truly sorry if my coming has caused a problem.”

  “It has, Tol of Juramona. We defend the Vale of Sorcery with a special conjuration, intended to keep out all those not of our orders. Yet you wandered in without apparent difficulty. Moreover, none of us seems to have felt the disruption of our solitude. We find that gravely disturbing. Who are you?”

  Tol gave her a brief account of his coming to Daltigoth.

  “So, you’re the one who slew Morthur Dermount?” Helbin said at the end of the tale.

  Tol acknowledged this, saying, “He gave me no choice but kill or be killed.”

  “No blame attaches to you,” Yoralyn assured him. “Morthur was a wild mage, an unregulated practitioner of the black arts. He was trained by rogue elements of the Red and Black Robes. It’s a pity we couldn’t have discovered the names of his mentors, but…” She shrugged, then said, “You possess his ring, do you not?”

  Reluctant to part with so powerful an object, Tol simply nodded.

  “We would like it returned to us. It is not lawful for an untutored person like yourself to use it.”

  “Must I give it up? Lord Enkian awarded it to me as a spoil of victory. It does not work when I wield it.” He described his inability to use Morthur’s ring at the Dalti bridge and told of Miya’s success.

  A sustained murmur went through the crowd. Helbin and Oropash held a hushed conversation with Yoralyn. At length she silenced the group with upraised hands.

  “Master Tol, we have no quarrel with you. You seem a good and honorable man. Something is amiss, however. Your immunity to Morthur’s soporific spell, and to our protective enchantment, is unheard of and most troubling.”

  “You must give us Morthur’s ring,” Helbin said, and it was more an order than a request. “There may be something in it that helped you defeat our wards.”

  Tol didn’t want to comply. The large sapphire ring was his prize from a hard-fought struggle. “I care nothing for the ring’s power,” he argued, “but I would like to keep it. Lord Morthur-or Spannuth Grane as I knew him-did much harm to me and my people, and his ring is the only trophy I have.”

  Helbin seemed disposed to overrule him, but Oropash said reasonably, “Let us study the ring during your visit here, Master Tol. Once we’ve delved into its secrets, you may have it back.”

  Tol looked to Yoralyn, who nodded in confirmation. Satisfied, he loosed the lacings of his belt pouch to produce the ring.

  A fresh wave of agitation rippled through the throng of mages.

  “You have it with you?” Yoralyn exclaimed.

  Tol paused, two fingers buried in the pouch. “I do. What’s wrong with that?”

  Turning to her fellow wizards, Yoralyn declared, “I did not sense the ring’s power on the boy. Did anyone here?”

  From the fresh consternation on every face, it was obvious no one had. Helbin asked for the ring, extending a hand. Tol dropped it on his open palm. The mage closed long fingers around it. His eyes shut momentarily, then sprang open.

  “The ring is consecrated to Nuitari. It is potent still!” Helbin exclaimed.

  “You must give it back to him immediately,” Oropash said quietly.

  Helbin did so, and Tol, his eyes wide, returned the ring to his pouch.

  Eyes firmly closed, Oropash said, “I cannot see the ring when the boy possesses it!”

  “Nor can I!”

  “It vanishes as soon as it touches his hands!”

  Every sorcerer in the glade began talking at once. The disorder of their thoughts caused strange displays-a cloud of coal-black butterflies appeared over one mage’s head; another’s lost all color and took on the appearance of a snow sculpture; flames played ab
out the feet of a female mage.

  “Calm yourselves!” Yoralyn cried.

  The manifestations instantly dissipated. The sorcerers quieted, looking chagrined at having lost control.

  Yoralyn came to Tol, tightly clutching her staff with both hands. Up close, he noticed the staff wasn’t wood, but some kind of animal limb, covered in greenish-black hide.

  “The ring, please.”

  He again took it out and gave it to her. She handed it to Helbin and seized Tol’s large hand in her dry, gnarled fingers. Her grip was powerful, and Tol didn’t struggle against it.

  “Where are you?” she whispered. “I cannot find you. You are here in my hands, but invisible to my inner eye!” She released him abruptly. “I would know more of this,” she said, more kindly. “Will you return and speak with me again?”

  “If you wish, lady. I will be in Daltigoth and at your service, until the foundation ceremony is done.”

  Yoralyn addressed the assembled wizards. “Go back to your studies. I will see to the stranger. The source of his immunity to magic will be found, I promise you.”

  “I will assist,” Oropash offered, with a gracious bow.

  “As will I,” put in Helbin. He regarded Tol with open hostility.

  The other mages slowly dispersed. When only Yoralyn, Helbin, and Oropash remained, Tol asked the woman where he could find the fountain of the centaurs.

  “Centaurs? Oh, you mean the Font of the Blue Phoenix,” she said. “It faces the end of the west wing, yonder. Why do you seek it? Are you a devotee of the god?”

  Tol colored a little. “I was told to meet a friend there.”

  Yoralyn’s wrinkled face showed amusement for the first time. “Oh, you seek Valaran.”

  “You know her?”

  “No one else from outside comes to the Font of the Blue Phoenix.” She folded her arms. “But it is a sacred site, not a trysting place for young lovers.”

  “We just met,” Tol protested. “She wants me to tell her about life in the provinces!”