“I didn’t come here to kill you, General, but that doesn’t mean I won’t hurt you to find out what I must know!”
He stepped back. “I believe you, my dear.”
“I’m not your ‘dear,’ ” she snapped. “My name is Zala.”
Pigeons flew low over the rooftop. Tylocost glanced up.
“Day is done,” he murmured. “Come inside. We’ll talk.”
She followed cautiously, mindful of treachery. For a Silvanesti and a general, this Tylocost was certainly an odd one. He didn’t seem proud or martial. He seemed-well, very like a gardener.
Tylocost blew on the cinders in the hearth grate until they glowed. With these he lighted a thick, stubby candle. He took a wooden mug from a shelf, filled it with water from a bucket, and placed his white rose in it. He set this on the table. Pouring more water into a tin pan on the table, he carefully washed his hands and face. Zala bit her lip and waited, determined not to betray her impatience. In the course of his ablutions, Tylocost stripped off jerkin and trousers, until he was standing in only a loincloth. Unclothed, he was even more unsightly. The brown spots on his face continued over his body.
Seeming unconscious of his appearance (or at peace with it), the elf donned a light linen robe and fixed a gilded band around his forehead. He seated himself at the table and gestured for her to take a chair. She did so, and asked again for Tolandruth’s whereabouts.
“Time is running out, General-for you and this town,”
she added. “The nomads may attack any day now.”
“Within three days, I estimate. And I doubt the town will survive. The garrison was withdrawn by Lord Bessian after bakali destroyed Lord Hojan’s hordes. Fewer than eight hundred warriors remain. The townspeople have taken up arms, but they won’t delay the nomads for very long.”
“However,” he added, “I’m not worried, because you’re going to get me out of here.” His upraised hand cut off her protests. “That’s my price, dear. I’ll lead you to Lord Tolandruth, if you take me out of Juramona and get me away from the human savages beyond the walls.”
With a disgusted snort, Zala stood. She pulled her hood over her head again and turned to go. He waited until her hand was on the door latch before he spoke.
“Empress Valaran does not brook failure, I’m told.”
She froze. “How do you know my patron?”
“Logic, dear, logic and reason. Someone very powerful wants to find Lord Tolandruth.” Tylocost laid a bony finger alongside his nose. “Ackal V would never send for him, not for any reason. His hatred of my captor is well known. Who then would go to such lengths? The Empress of Ergoth, of course-Tolandruth’s lover.”
Zala blinked in astonishment, but would not he sidetracked. “Who the empress loves or hates is not my concern. My task is to find Tolandruth and return him to Daltigoth as soon as possible.”
“Or else-what?”
In the dim little room, redolent of the flowers in the fantastic garden, Zala felt her world shrink, like a noose drawing tight around her neck. She clenched her teeth. Despicable, homely, Silvanesti. What choice did she have?
“I’ll bring you out of Juramona, if you guide me to Tolandruth,” she said. “In seven days or less.”
“Why the hurry? Do you think to fetch him back here to save Juramona?”
Zala shrugged, but did not share her thoughts. How could a stranger understand that it was not merely her honor on the line, but her aged human father’s life as well? The empress knew where he lived. If Zala failed to carry out her mission, she knew her father would pay the ultimate price. And he was far too old and weak for Zala to consider spiriting him away from his home in Caergoth.
The unsightly elf rose and took a heavy glass decanter from the shelf. He poured two libations from it and offered one cup to Zala.
“Nectar,” he said. “My only remaining contact with the homeland.”
Zala drank. She resolved to slay this smirking Silvanesti if he caused her any more than the promised delay. As she lowered her glass and beheld his misshapen features again, she realized he knew exactly what she was thinking.
Egrin lingered in the Dom-shu village, hoping to convince Tol to change his mind. Since Tol spent his days chopping wood and many of his nights roving the forest, Egrin saw him only rarely. His heart seemed closed to his friend’s urgings.
Life in the village had resumed a normal rhythm. Egrin glimpsed the chief one day as Voyarunta held court. Though his hair was as white as ever, the old fellow sat straight and moved easily, radiating health and strength. Miya had explained that the Repetition of Births ritual involved every male warrior in the tribe giving up a small part of his vigor to renew the chief.
Kiya, too, was often away, on her father’s business. Egrin’s time was spent mainly with Miya and Eli. One afternoon, Egrin noticed the boy playing in the shadows at the far end of the hut. Something in his hand glittered in the feeble light.
Egrin rose from his spot by the hearth. His knees cracked like dry kindling, and something caught in his lower back, sending a sharp pain through his hip. His Silvanesti heritage gave him a longer lifespan than a human, but it did not guarantee health or vigor for one who’d spent so many years in battle. Too bad there was no Repetition of Births for aging warriors. -. ¦
Eli shoved the shiny object out of sight as Egrin approached. When Egrin asked what he was playing with, the boy quickly said, “Nothing!”
Egrin sat and smiled at him kindly. “Your nothing gleams like metal. May I see?”
A small leather box was reluctantly produced. Egrin raised the lid, expecting to find a knife. The object within was indeed metal, but circular, like a bracelet. It rested on a scrap of black cloth.
“Don’t tell Ma I was playing with it,” Eli whispered. “Please?”
So, it was a trinket of Miya’s. Egrin was about to close the box when something about the object’s design caught his eye. He took it out to examine it more closely.
This was no bracelet. The circlet was made of three strands of metal-gold, silver, and a reddish one, maybe copper-woven together in an intricate fashion. The braid was as thick as Egrin’s finger, its ends joined by a polished spherical bead of the red metal. The bead was delicately engraved with whorls and lines, every line inlaid with gold. Strangest of all, the center of the metal ring was completely filled with a flat disk of polished black crystal.
Eli denied knowing its purpose, adding, “It belongs to Uncle Tol. I’m not supposed to touch it.”
The odd circlet was surprisingly lightweight, and the center crystal was just clear enough to allow light to pass through. Egrin turned toward the fire and peered at it through the crystal-
The object was suddenly snatched from his hand. Miya stood over him, eyes wide and cheeks crimson with anger.
“Where did you get this?” she demanded.
He would not have implicated the boy, but Miya divined the truth before Egrin could answer. “Eli! What have I told you? You’re not to touch your uncle’s things!”
Eli ducked behind the old marshal. His mother didn’t strike him often, but when she did, it was memorable.
Egrin tried to placate her, but Miya would have none of it.
“This was hidden,” she said, glaring at her son. “You couldn’t have found it unless you were looking for it!”
Rising, keeping himself between the two, Egrin said, “The boy shouldn’t have disobeyed you, Miya, but you have the trinket now. No harm was done.”
The formidable Dom-shu woman relaxed a little and he added, “What is it, by the way? I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“It belongs to Husband. It’s very old, very precious. No one’s supposed to know of it.”
Ah, Egrin thought, now he understood. The circlet must have been a gift from Valaran. The treasuries of the imperial palace were extensive, and all sorts of precious things were kept there, torn from their rightful owners by campaigns dating back to the days of Ackal Ergot himself. It made sense Valaran would have given Tol something to remember her by-as if he could ever forget her.
