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!”
“And what do you want from her, Master Tol?”
Her pale blue, almost white, eyes bored into his own, forcing him to give serious consideration to her question. Valaran was a strange girl, educated and observant, hot like his hearty companions Kiya and Miya. Although they had met only once, she had made a strong impression. Her openness and cleverness in saving him from discovery intrigued him. But what did they really have in common? Why should he seek her out?
“I want to know her better,” he decided aloud.
“I suppose you do,” Yoralyn said cryptically. “Very well. It’s not as though we can keep you out. In the future, please enter the garden Valaran’s way: Keep to the path along the wall of the Inner City; it will lead you without fail to the Font of the Blue Phoenix. For a few hours each day we leave an open passage in the Wall of Sleep there, just for her.”
Tol thanked her. Before leaving, he said, “I lodge in the Riders’ Hall. Summon me, and when duty permits I will come.” He bowed awkwardly and hurried off to the fountain.
Helbin clenched his hand around Morthur’s signet. “I will purge the ring,” he said.
Yoralyn nodded, and he departed. She turned to Oropash.
“Have the boy watched,” she ordered. “I would know what Master Tol does, and with whom. Use your best spy.”
Oropash’s round face showed alarm. “Is he dangerous?”
“I cannot tell,” Yoralyn said. “If his immunity to magic is a wild talent, then he’s an aberration, nothing more. But if he’s an agent of a rogue mage, even an unwitting one, he may be the most dangerous person in Daltigoth. In either case, we must know the truth. See to it at once.”
“It shall be done.”
The Font of the Blue Phoenix proved to be a beautiful shrine to the god of nature. A veritable mountain of jade rose up from a shallow pool forty paces wide. A golden disk hovered over the gemstone island, fixed in place by no visible means. All around the circumference of the basin, droplets of water fell from open air, an endless rain from a cloudless sky.
Surrounding the central isle of jade were life-sized figures of animals-horses, dogs, rabbits, deer, ancient elk, wild oxen, a crouching panther, wolves, eagles, crows, vultures, and doves. All were rendered in a startlingly lifelike fashion. Had they not been in various colors of marble, Tol might have taken them for living creatures.
Also clustered around the jade pinnacle were representations of the world’s sentient inhabitants. Although elves, men, ogres, dwarves, gnomes, and kender were all present, a trio of rearing centaurs stood higher than the rest, providing the inspiration for Valaran’s name for the fountain.
Tol circled the pool and saw other, more legendary beings:
It was still too early to expect to see Valaran. Tol sat to wait for her on the sculpted marble rim of the fountain and pondered his meeting with the mages. Did they think him immune to magic? Grane’s spell had put him to sleep quickly enough in his family’s hut years ago. Of course, the fellow’s conjurations had failed in the Great Green and on the road to Daltigoth. Although he pondered these contradictions long and hard, he couldn’t find any answers. Growing bored finally, he reclined. The patter of falling water, the stillness of the clearing lulled him, and he dozed, one arm laid across his eyes.
He dreamed, and his dreams were strange indeed. In one of them he was ranging over the hills of his homeland, hunting with a bow in his hand. Far ahead, Kiya and Miya called to him to hurry. Suddenly, a plump brown rabbit broke cover and dashed in front of him. He loosed an arrow that found its mark. Running forward in triumph, he found a marble statue of a rabbit, pierced by his arrow. Blood trickled from the wound, staining the white stone.
A cold wind gusted over him. With dreamtime swiftness, the landscape changed from green hills to an unfamiliar bleak winter clime. He was alone. Kiya and Miya were nowhere to be seen. Mountains filled the horizon.
Suddenly, Tol knew a menace was behind him. He spun about, sword instantly in his hand. All he could see was a figure silhouetted against the sky, far away. It was a man-a man who meant to kill him.
Something cold touched his face. Tol flinched and struck out. He rolled off the fountain ledge and awoke when he hit the grass. In a flash he was up, ready to fight.
Valaran regarded him quizzically. In one hand she held his sheathed dagger. Slung over her shoulder was his saber and sword belt. The weight of it dragged down her pale yellow gown, exposing a smooth and slender shoulder.
“That’s a fine greeting,” she said. “I bring your stupid heavy knife and sword, and you throw a punch at me.”
Breathing hard, Tol lowered his fists. “You shouldn’t sneak up on me.”
She dropped his dagger and shrugged off his saber, letting it fall heavily to the grass. In her other hand she carried a canvas satchel. Tol bent over the pool, scooping cool water to his feverish face. Valaran seated herself on the edge of the fountain and watched him.
“I’ve already learned one thing about country people,” she said. “They don’t have any manners. Do you know how hard it was to sneak out of the palace carrying that big sword? And I wasn’t even certain you’d be here.”
He took her hand and bowed low, as he’d seen noblemen do. “Thank you, my lady,” he said fervently. “How can I repay you?”
She jerked her hand free, but he saw a touch of color come to her cheeks. “Now you’re being silly.”
Valaran opened her satchel. It was full of books. She read aloud the wooden tags affixed to the ends of the scrolls. “
Tol smiled. “Really?”
She looked down at the scrolls. “Really. I’ve read all these before”-his smile froze into a frown-“and I hate being idle when I can learn something. Please tell me absolutely everything about yourself.”
Tol was charmed anew. Despite the plain appearance she cultivated, and her sharp tongue, there was something very winning about Valaran. She didn’t seem quite so young today. Her shape beneath the fine yellow linen was proof of that.
Tol did as she bade. He told her of his early life, his family, of farming, and, as modestly as possible, how he’d saved Lord Odovar from Pakin rebels. She listened, silent and attentive, until he described the capture of Vakka Zan.
“I’m a Pakin, you know,” she told him calmly, then smiled at his astonishment. “Much removed, of course. My great-great-grandfather, Ersteddin Valdid, married the youngest sister of Pakin Zan. My great-aunt, Darali, was set to marry the Pakin emperor Ergothas III, but he died before the arrangements were complete.”
“Is being a Pakin held against you here?”
“Not really. My father has always been loyal to Prince Amaltar. He was the prince’s tutor for many years, and now he’s his chamberlain.”
