black leather strap.
“How dare you invoke my father against me!” said the strange noble, driving his booted foot into the cowering man’s ribs. The man rolled away from the blow, and Tol saw his face. He was Valdid, chamberlain to Crown Prince Amaltar, the same man who had guided Lord Odovar and his lieutenants into Amaltar’s presence at his camp outside Caergoth.
“Prince Nazramin,” the chamberlain managed to say, “I will keep the conclave guests away from your quarters-”
“And my garden too!” snarled the prince. “If I find anyone in my sanctum, I’ll slit their worthless throats.”
“It shall be done, Your Highness.”
“Cross me, you fool, and I’ll have your hands cropped off!”
Prince Nazramin stalked out of the room. Tol shrank back into the shadows. Valdid scrabbled on the floor a bit, retrieving his gold-capped cane, and used it to brace himself to his feet. Tol remained hidden, not wishing the older man to know that the prince’s cruelty to him had been witnessed.
After straightening his robe and smoothing his hair, Valdid limped away, but Tol hesitated still, worried now what else he might blunder into. Perhaps he should find his way back to the kitchen.
Turning to go, he glimpsed a set of steps ahead. Sunlight filtered down the plain stone stairwell, beckoning him upward, teasing him with thoughts of the marvels he might find. He hesitated only a moment before giving in to his curiosity.
At the top of the steps he found himself on a columned walkway between two wings of the palace. Below was a sea of rooftops and chimneys. Above were more walkways and soaring towers. He heard a hum of voices at the end of the walk and moved cautiously toward the sound. Several times servants popped out of side passages, bearing linens or trays of empty wine cups. They glanced him at him curiously, but no one questioned him. Prompted by their stares, he suddenly realized that he still wore his saber and dagger. Even the smallest weapons were forbidden in Prince Amaltar’s presence, and here he was loose in the Imperial Palace, girded for battle!
Casting about for a place to store his weapons, he noticed a passage on the right. A light curtain screened it. The curtain stirred gently near the floor, teased by a draft. Tol swept the curtain aside and ducked in.
He wasn’t in a passage, but a niche, about six steps deep. And he was not alone.
Seated on a marble bench was a girl with an open scroll in her hands. A circle of daylight fell on her from a small skylight. At Tol’s entrance, she looked up with a gasp of surprise.
“Forgive me,” he said. “I didn’t know anyone was here.”
“I forgive you,” replied the girl. “No one knew I was here.”
She looked to be somewhat younger than Tol-fifteen perhaps, sixteen at most. Her straight dark brown hair was waist-length and parted in the middle. She wore it loose, but looped behind her ears. Her pallor proved she didn’t spend much time outdoors. That, coupled with her simple gray gown, led Tol to conclude she was a servant, hiding to avoid her chores.
“Weapons are forbidden in the palace-are you an assassin?” she said calmly, gesturing at his sword.
“No!” He unbuckled his belt and stood the saber in the corner. Adding his dagger, he straightened his tunic and said, “It was a mistake. I didn’t mean to come here armed. I’m from-I’m from the provinces.”
“Obviously. Well, I hope you don’t get caught. Even without weapons, you’ll be flogged for entering the private wing of the palace.”
The sound of voices came to his ear, and he exclaimed, “Someone’s coming!”
She listened a moment, then said, “No. That’s only the Consorts’ Circle in the empress’s garden.” She waved a hand vaguely behind her, adding with a grimace, “Wives of the emperor, princes, and high lords of the court-they gather there daily. Chatter, chatter, chatter. What a bore!”
He smiled. Looking at the scroll in her lap, he asked, “What’s that you’re reading?”
He said no, and she explained that Balif was a Silvanesti noble and general who had lived during the time the elf kingdom was established. He helped found the Sinthal-Elish, the great council that chose Silvanos Goldeneye as first Speaker of the Stars. Balif could’ve been Speaker himself, she said, but chose instead to support Silvanos.
“Why?” Tol asked. Having read little himself, he knew nothing of the history of the Silvanesti. The only elf he’d ever met was the one he’d captured in the Great Green.
She pushed an escaping strand of hair behind her ear again. “He was shown his future by a sorcerer named Vedvedsica, and realized he could never be Speaker of the Stars,” she explained. “Elves are very concerned with how they look and sound. Balif learned he would be stricken by a loathsome curse. In the end, it was so awful, he had to flee the country under cover of darkness.”
Tol heard voices again, this time unmistakably male and growing louder. The heavy tramp of booted feet was plain in the corridor.
“The armed man entered this passage, sir!” a voice whined.
The booted feet halted seemingly just outside Tol’s niche. “Search the side passages!” ordered a stern voice.
Tol flattened himself against the wall, his saber within reach. If it came to being arrested, he wondered if he should fight rather than meekly submit.
A gauntleted hand grasped the curtain screening the niche. The girl let out a high-pitched scream.
“Stay out!” she cried.
The hand was withdrawn. “Beg pardon, my lady. Who are you?”
“Princess Carafel! Don’t come in-I’m not clothed!”
Tol blinked and swallowed hard. Had he been sharing the niche with a daughter of the royal house?
“A thousand pardons, Princess!” said a deeper, more imposing voice. “It’s Draymon, captain of the guard. We are searching for an armed man seen in the palace.”
“Do you think he is in here with me?” the girl said shrilly. “Go about your business, Lord Draymon, or I shall mention this incident to my father!”
“My humblest apologies, Highness. We’ll continue our search elsewhere.”
Tol crept to the curtain and listened. He heard the heavy footsteps diminish with distance. Turning to the girl, he found her shaking with silent laughter.
“Are you really Princess Carafel?” he asked, intimidated.
“That soaphead?!” She rolled up the scroll. “I’m Valaran, fourth daughter of Lord Valdid and Lady Pernina. Most people call me Val.”
He sighed with relief. “I’m Tol of Juramona,” he said. “Most people call me Tol.”
Valaran smiled. She had an intriguing smile, with a dimple just under the left corner of her mouth. It made her look even younger than he’d guessed. Her eyes were green, like the weathered copper roofs of Daltigoth.
“You’d better get out of here, Tol of Juramona,” she said. “Draymon may yet wonder what a royal princess would be doing in here unclothed.”
“How do I get back to the kitchens? I left my friends there.”
She slid off the high bench, showing a bit of pale calf as she did so. Unselfconsciously, she smoothed her gown and retied the pearl-beaded sash around her waist. Plainly dressed or not, Tol knew he wouldn’t have mistaken her for a housemaid if he’d noticed that expensive sash. She was shorter than he, but only barely.
“I’ll lead you to the kitchens. You’ll have to leave your sword and knife here,” she said, and handed him the thick scroll. “If anyone stops us, you’re escorting me to the temple library.”
Tol nodded. Valaran lifted the curtain and peeked out. Satisfied no one was around, she waved Tol out They went quickly down the corridor. Her step was light and fast. Tol commented on her confident navigation of the confusion of twists and turns.
“I should know the way; I’ve lived here forever!”
Her vexed tone made him smile. She was rather pretty. If she were a little older, he would be tempted to court her. He was a Rider of the Horde after all, he reminded himself, appointed by Prince Amaltar himself.
“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.’ ”
