“Then I’d better not fail.”
As the vexed Egrin headed off to return to Juramona House, Tol remained behind. He wanted to make an offering to Mishas in the garden temple, he said, to ask the goddess to watch over him on his journey.
Over his shoulder, Egrin said, “Give her my good wishes also.” And Tol was left to wonder at the import of his words.
When he reached the grove surrounding the College of Sorcery, Tol paused. The last light of the setting sun illuminated the Tower of Sorcery. The structure had reached a height of twenty paces, a massive octagon of stone encased by a rising web of scaffolding, overtopping the trees. Above the line of dense stone, the phantom tower remained, shimmering and translucent. The magical double of the tower, formed of cherry blossoms from the natural life-forces present in the college and garden, glowed shell-pink in the sunset. At night it shone white and solid, like a brilliant lamp.
Progress on the tower had been slow, for work proceeded in daylight only. At night the sorcerers activated their wall of sleep to keep intruders out. They had enlarged their spell to encompass the entire garden, even the Font of the Blue Phoenix. Of course, the barrier had no effect on Tol, protected as he was by the Irda millstone. He’d threaded a strong copper chain through a small gap between the smoky glass and the braided circlet, allowing him to wear the millstone on his left wrist.
Valaran had felt the metal on Tol’s wrist and knew he had a talisman there, but she asked about it only once. He told her knowing the secret could end her life, and so she did not ask again.
When the sun was fully set and he was certain he was unobserved, Tol called her name softly. She stepped out from a niche in the wall. Wrapped in a dark gray cloak, she seemed a part of the warm twilight. He held out his arm, and she rested her hand lightly on his wrist. Together they walked unfazed through the invisible barrier of sleep.
The fever of their early days together, stoked by their mutual fear of discovery, had mellowed with time. They now passed some nights in conversation, even in scholarship, as Valaran enlarged on the rudimentary reading and writing skills Tol had acquired in Juramona.
This evening, Tol wasn’t thinking of books. He hadn’t seen Valaran for three nights. As soon as they were safe, deep in the enchanted garden by the fountain, he pulled her into his arms.
“Poor lad,” she said, teasing. “You’ve missed me, have you?”
“I always miss you. And I’ll miss you more still. The emperor has ordered me to go to Hylo and find out who defeated a Tarsan army there.”
Valaran kissed him ardently. “I can ask Amaltar to keep you here-”
“No! You don’t understand-I asked to go.”
“You want to fight?”
Tol sat on the low wall that encircled the fountain pool. He pulled Valaran down beside him.
“I’m tired of chasing footpads through back alleys and brawling with Nazramin’s thugs!” he said. “A warrior must fight, else he’s just an over-dressed fool in an iron hat.”
Valaran trailed her hand in the cool water, causing the reflected stars to shatter and shimmer. She looked up from the moonlit basin and regarded him seriously. “You must obey the emperor’s will, as I must. But it will be terrible, being apart from you.”
She leaned toward him and pressed her fist against his chin, saying sternly, “If you get yourself maimed, I’ll never forgive you. Killed, however, is acceptable. I’ll grieve most ardently, then find another lover. But I can’t bear the sight of cripples.”
Feigning shock, Tol twined his fingers in her long, soft hair and gently drew her head back. “You are a heartless woman,” he said.
“I am.”
“You admit it?”
“Certainly. I gave my heart to a peasant boy long ago. He keeps it still.”
They read no books that night.
Valaran lifted the hem of her skirt to keep it out of the dust as she hurried across the plaza to the palace. She entered through the stifling hot kitchens, quiet now that no meal was expected until breakfast. In a small room beyond the kitchens, she found Kiya and Miya. They sat at a table, heads resting on their arms, asleep. Her arrival woke Kiya, the lighter sleeper.
“Ah, it’s you, Princess,” Kiya muttered. “Is your visit done?”
“Done. Thank you again for helping Tol and me.”
The oft-repeated words were like a ritual among them. The Dom-shu sisters were part of Valaran’s deception. Anyone in the crown prince’s suite who went looking for the princess would be told she was with Kiya and Miya, collecting information about their forest tribe for a book she planned to write.
Kiya re-tied the thong that held back her long blond hair. “Don’t mention it. What’s a wife for, but to help her husband meet his lover?”
Kicking her sister’s ankle, Kiya said sharply, “Miya! The market’s open! Go buy us some venison!”
“No more ’n three silver pieces apiece,” murmured the sleeper.
Val laughed softly, but Kiya rolled her eyes. “She’s always been like this. Our mother used to pinch her nose shut just to wake her.”
“Why don’t you do that now?”
“Same reason Mama stopped doing it: Miya punches hard!”
Kiya hauled Miya to her feet, and hoisted her over one shoulder. Valaran led her through the empty kitchens.
Outside in the fresh air, the princess said, “Tol is going away, to Hylo.”
“We heard. News moves like the wind in this pile of stone.”
“Will you be going with him?”
Kiya yawned. “I think so. Do us good to get out of the city for awhile.”
“I envy you. You get to go with him. I must stay here.”
The towering Dom-shu woman patted Valaran on the shoulder, and the princess said, “Take care of him. Bring him back to me.”
“He doesn’t need much care. But we’ll watch his back, Miya and me.”
With the inert Miya over her shoulder, Kiya strode off. Some distance away, she stopped and dumped her sister unceremoniously on the ground. Miya awoke, flailing her fists. After an exchange of familial insults, the women walked away together. Valaran could hear them sniping at each other long after the night had wrapped them in darkness.
She re-entered the palace. She needed no candle to light her way through the echoing, darkened corridors. So familiar was every inch of the sprawling palace, she could have run to her room blindfolded and never touched a wall or piece of furniture.
In the crown prince’s suite, she ascended the stairs. As she turned off the landing, headed for her own rooms, someone stepped out of an alcove and seized her by the arm. A cry of alarm formed in her throat, but a large gloved hand covered her mouth, stifling it.
“Quiet, lady, if you please. You’re in no danger. It’s your brother, Nazramin.”
Heart hammering, Valaran nodded her head to show she understood. His hand came away from her mouth.
She jerked her arm free, and said icily, “Brother by marriage. What is the meaning of this rude imposition?”
“Nothing of import, lady I wanted to inquire after your health. Cavorting outdoors at night can be hazardous. All sorts of nasty vapors lie in wait for the unwary.”
Valaran had mastered her surprise at his sudden appearance. “Speak plainly, sir, or do not hinder me further!”
“Fine. Hear me, Princess Betrayer: You deceive my brother with a peasant upstart!”
Alarmed anew, she drew back a step. Nazramin advanced the same distance. He was taller than his half-brother Amaltar, and more strongly built.
“Mind what you say,” she snapped, eyes narrowing. “I am not some serving wench you can bully into submission!”
Nazramin came closer. “You and that farm boy are lovers, and have been for years.”
“Spare me your dirty insinuations. I know the penalty for infidelity.” Under Ergothian law such petty treason was punishable by burial alive. Haughtily, Valaran added, “Would I risk disgrace and death for any man? Now stand aside and let me pass!” He advanced on her until she was pressed against him. She stared up at her tormenter not with fear but stubbornness and contempt. Nazramin rested his hand on the wall, just over her shoulder, and smiled.