Paul Thompson - The Wizard_s Fate

“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.