A spontaneous shout went up from ten thousand throats: “Long live the emperor!”
Tol found himself shouting with the rest. He was so moved by the great ceremony, he couldn’t help himself.
The emperor was a big man, much like Egrin in size and apparent age. Unlike his clean-shaven son, Pakin III wore a full warrior’s beard, iron gray and neatly trimmed. A white silk mantle, edged in crimson and with golden tassels, hung from his shoulders. His tunic and kilt were red velvet, so dark it looked almost black. At his throat he wore a chain of heavy golden medallions. From his brow the crown of Ergoth flashed, two gilded horns amid a ring of stylized solar rays. His rider’s soft boots and leggings were made of the finest doeskin. In the crook of his left arm was the imperial scepter, an ivory baton inlaid with one hundred flawless rubies. The orbs on the ends were single rubies, each the size of a ripe apple.
Pakin III did not acknowledge the shouts. Having paused at the top of the stairs, he squared his shoulders and began to descend. Hurrahs gave way to general cheering. Warriors held high spears or swords, ladies waved handkerchiefs, and children threw fistfuls of red rose petals in the emperor’s path.
Only the wizards remained composed, stolidly waiting their time.
The procession wasn’t finished. In the emperor’s wake came the empress, slow-moving and beautiful, and Pakin III’s other sons. The only one of the four Tol recognized was red-haired Prince Nazramin, draped in black and gold. Behind them walked ambassadors from foreign lands and vassal states-burly dwarves of Thorin, gnomes from Sancrist, richly draped merchant-princes from Tarsis, and even kender delegations from Balifor and Hylo. Tol was surprised to espy six Silvanesti, cool and aloof, following the ragtag kender. There were no centaurs or ogres. Centaurs were too fragmented and nomadic to maintain diplomatic relations, and the ogres were eternal enemies of all humankind.
The emperor reached the center of the plaza, the center of the Inner City. Prince Amaltar and his retinue went down on their knees, and the standard bearer lowered the banner of the empire to Pakin III’s feet.
Now the priests and mages bowed in unison to their host and temporal master. Pakin HI held out his scepter, and the musicians finished their playing with a flourish.
From far across the crowded square, Tol heard the emperor’s voice ring out: “Send forth the high mages of the White and Red Robes!”
Four sorcerers stepped forward, two from each order. One of the White Robes Tol recognized as Yoralyn. Once emperor and wizards met, the crowd edged forward to better view the proceedings. Tol, however, could see nothing but the heads and shoulders around him.
“What’s happening?” he asked.
“The emperor and the high mages are exchanging greetings,” explained Lord Enkian, standing in front of Tol. Though he could see little better, he had been informed how the ceremony would unfold. “Small gifts will be exchanged, then the wizards will bring forth the cornerstone.”
Sure enough, after some polite byplay, the assembled sorcerers parted, and a gang of forty-four muscled laborers crept into view, dragging a sledge bearing an enormous block of stone. The cube was four steps wide on every side, and it was all the workmen could do to ease the monstrous stone forward. Chanting in unison to synchronize their effort, the sledge gang slowly advanced. Pakin III waited, imperturbable, as the cornerstone approached at barely a crawl.
The sun was well over the wall by now, and in the still air Tol was sweltering. Packed shoulder to shoulder, the high and mighty of the empire likewise waited-and sweated.
At last the great stone thudded to a halt before Pakin in. He said words Tol couldn’t hear, and touched the stone with his scepter. Tol sighed inwardly. If they had to stand here until the work gang shifted the stone all the way to the tower site, they’d still be waiting when night fell!
Fortunately, that wasn’t the plan. Having sanctioned the construction of the new Tower of Sorcery, the emperor withdrew to the palace steps. Prince Amaltar followed. The empress and the foreign representatives fell back among the Horse Guards. Pakin HI halted on the steps and once again raised his imperial baton to the wizards.
The high mages were joined by their assistants, and the rest of the Red and White Robes filled in behind them as close as possible. All the mages linked hands. A low, steady murmur filled the plaza, punctuated by the beat of a solitary drum. The chant grew in volume and intensity. Out of nowhere, a cold blast shivered through the Inner City, causing a grateful moan to arise from the sweat-drenched onlookers. Fallen blossoms, now brown around the edges, rose in a whirlwind from the sorcerers’ park.
The stone block rose into the air, hobbling above the sledge like a cork in a basin of water.
Tol’s mouth fell open in shock.
The chanting increased in volume, until it was echoing off the city walls. All the mages now raised their joined hands high, rapidly shouting their incantation. Tol tried to isolate the words, but they were meaningless to him, perhaps another language entirely.
Compelled by the will of twelve hundred sorcerers, the block soared into the air. Courtiers and hardened warriors alike gave vent to their surprise as the stone cube lofted skyward, light as a feather. When it was level with the top of the Inner City’s wall, it paused, hovering.
The elder mages shouted a single sharp syllable. They repeated it slowly, over and over. The cornerstone began tumbling in place. In counterpoint to the elders, the balance of the college of wizards chanted a different spell, just four words which they repeated endlessly. The rotating block drifted in a straight line toward the tower site. It skimmed just over the treetops. When it reached the proper place, the chanting stopped. The white stone block stabilized thirty paces off the ground. Slowly, very slowly, the elders lowered their hands. Following their movement, the cornerstone sank below the treetops. Though it was lost from the sight of those in the plaza, the wizards maintained the gentle descent of their arms. When at last their hands were at their sides again, the block was in place. Four of the eldest sages collapsed, completely drained by the effort.
That was not the end. Yoralyn and the remaining elders came together in a much smaller circle, facing inward. They each thrust their right hand into the middle of the circle until their fingers touched. The drifting cloud of flower petals ceased whirling and began to coalesce at the tower site. A second ring of mages closed in on Yoralyn’s, and then a third. The pastel column of petals formed a cylinder rising from the trees to well above the Inner City wall.
Thunder rolled out of the cloudless sky. A second chin blast swept through the plaza. The assembly gasped as the column of flower petals seemed to solidify into a tower a hundred paces tall, with minarets halfway up its length and a tall, conical roof.
“What theater,” Lord Enkian snorted. “A tower made of cherry blossoms? They’ll have to work in stone if they expect that thing to stand!”
His cynical words jolted Tol, but could not lessen the impact of the enthralling spectacle. Although the grand ceremony was at an end, the magically crafted phantom tower remained, shining white against the clear Hue vault of sky.
Unhurriedly, the emperor re-entered the palace, followed by the crown prince, the empress, princes of the blood, guards, and standard bearer. The foreign ambassadors remained in the square, and as the Horse and Foot guards withdrew, the mass of onlookers flowed together. Tol sensed Lord Enkian moving away to leave and managed to tear his gaze from the cherry-blossom tower.
“My lord, will you be needing me?” he asked the marshal.
“Need you? No, not till tonight for the grand banquet. We are to sit at the crown prince’s table. See to it you are there, on time and without arms! Clear?”
Tol saluted, jostling people in the thick crowd. “I shall be there, my lord.”
He slipped away, anxious to continue his search for Valaran. He saw any number of ladies, lovely and unlovely, dark-haired and blonde, but none was his newfound love. As he was buffeted back and forth by the surging crowd, he despaired. Where was Valaran?
A strong hand grasped his elbow and held on. He tried to see who’d grabbed him, but the unseen stranger twisted his arm so he couldn’t move.
“Don’t struggle,” said a low voice close to his ear. “This is your friend from the quayside.”
The hooded killer from the tavern! “What do you want?”
“Come to the Font of the Blue Phoenix today. You’ll be met.”
“Met by whom?” Tol tried to break the killer’s hold, but failed. “When?” he asked, exasperated.
