“The only victory Breyhard gained was not getting his men slaughtered crossing the river,” Ackal said. “He has elements of twelve hordes on the east bank, with more crossing all the time.”
Valaran said nothing. The last time she had remarked on military matters in the emperor’s presence, he’d slapped her hard enough to bruise her jaw.
“You’ve read many books,” he went on. “What do you know of the bakali? What are their weaknesses? What moves them? Why are they here?”
“Those are complex questions, sire-”
“Use small words.”
His tone told her she was treading on thin ice. She drew a deep breath, choosing her words with care. “No one knows their motives, sire. In ancient times, they marched and fought at the command of the Dragonqueen herself.”
“Do you think she commands them now?”
“I doubt it, Majesty. No mortal can know the will of a god, of course, but the bakali invaders don’t seem bent on taking over the empire. They fight in a very unusual way. They annihilate all in their path, but don’t spread their attack in any organized fashion. They destroy what they choose to destroy, but a league or so beyond their marching column, no harm has been done.”
He thumped a thickly coiled scroll with one hand. “This fellow claims the bakali were the first thinking creatures in the world.”
“That would be Rathmore, the dwarf historian. His reasoning is suspect-”
Ackal V swept aside half a dozen scrolls, sending them cascading to the floor. Valaran winced at his abuse of priceless manuscripts.
He held up a newer tome. “In your
Valaran frowned in thought, pressing her fingertips together at her lips. “All the lizard-folk were slain at the Battle of Time, sire, when the four Mages opened the earth to swallow the dragons and their army. Evidently, some bakali-not part of the force thus destroyed-survived. It is reported our foes arrived on the north coast by ship, like the ones slain in Hylo twenty years ago by Lord T-” Valaran bit off her words, just as Ackal threw her a sharp look. “The earlier expedition may have been a reconnaissance. That it was destroyed may have spared us a direct invasion.” Without speaking his name, she gave Tol credit for saving the empire, for a time.
Ackal V tossed back the bedclothes and swung his feet to the floor. He wore only a breechnap. Sinewy and pale-skinned, his body was covered with the same rusty red hair as his head. He flung on a quilted red velvet robe and tied the sash with a yank.
Valaran continued, “It was the dream of the Dragonqueen to conquer the world, Majesty. We know her forces were defeated here, but no one can say they didn’t triumph elsewhere. There are lands beyond the sea-”
“Yes, yes,” he snapped, turning his robe’s fur collar up around his ears. “And they had to pick
He shoved an ornate dagger through his sash and poured a cup of hot mulled wine from a pot on the hearth. After draining the goblet, he said, “Consult with the chief of the White Robes-what’s her name? Winath. I need magical means to confound the bakali. Breyhard has courage, but his tactics are lackluster. What I need is a general with wits and luck enough to best these damned lizard-men!”
Catching her eye, he read the thought flashing through her mind. He covered the distance between them in three strides and seized her wrist. He pushed his face so close that his wine-scented breath burned her eyes.
“Does a day go by that you don’t think of him?” he hissed.
She stared right back at him. “No, Your Majesty.”
He trailed the fingers of his free hand down her throat. She bore his touch in stoic silence, eyes fixed on the fire behind him.
After what seemed an age, a smile curved his lips. What his touch could not do, the smile did; Valaran shivered.
“I wonder,” he said. “Does he dream of you as he squats in a squalid little hut somewhere? Or do he and his giantesses have children by now?”
Valaran did not move.
Abruptly, he released her arm and stepped back, telling her to get out. He turned back to the pot of mulled wine.
Relief coursed through Valaran, but she showed no emotion as she walked out of the suffocating heat, her husband shouting at his suffering servants to bring more wine.
Valaran did not return to her rooms to change, even though her gown was drenched in sweat. Flanked by her attendants, she hurried up the central stairs to the imperial library. Her approach cleared the library of the scribes working there. The men had to abandon their work and withdraw immediately, leaving styluses soaking in inkpots and unfinished scrolls lying beneath their corner weights. Valaran sent away her attendants, then locked the doors. At last, she was alone in her favorite room in the world.
Today, the library’s scholarly peace did not soothe her. Filled with fury, she smote a marble tabletop several times with her fist and used language as crude as any sailor. When her anger had cooled, she straightened her disordered hair and clothing, then busied herself among the shelves.
The item she sought was the
Valaran opened the chest. The four parchment rolls inside were dark with age. One by one she removed them and carefully set them aside. Dipping her hand in once more, she drew out a small, flat box. It was made entirely of mirrored glass, a rare material produced by the Silvanesti which yielded uncannily clear images, unlike the brass or tin mirrors made in Ergoth.
Valaran raised the box’s hinged lid. The interior held another mirror set horizontally. She drew a lamp nearer and looked down at the mirror’s smooth surface.
A man’s face appeared. He had short, carefully groomed, sand-colored hair, and his chin was beardless. He wore the loose crimson raiment of a Red Robe wizard.
“Master Helbin,” Valaran whispered. “Can you hear me?”
“Yes, Majesty,” the image replied, its lips moving naturally to form each word.
“The army has crossed the Dalti to attack the bakali.”
The image nodded. “The gods go with them. Elsewhere, there are evil tidings. Juramona has fallen to the nomads.”
The words chilled her heart. “Any word of the huntress Zala?”
“She was there, but escaped. I keep watch on her, as you commanded, Majesty.”
The sound of footsteps in the corridor outside the library set Valaran’s pulse racing. “I must go,” she whispered. “Keep safe the gift of Mandes!”
“It is an evil thing, Your Majesty, crafted by an evil man-”
“Yet it may be our salvation, wizard! Yours, mine, and Ergoth’s! Guard it well!”
Valaran closed the lid and returned the mirrored box to the cedar chest. Covering it with the dusty scrolls of the
Chapter 6
From a league away, Juramona was a heap of ashes. Ribbons of smoke rose from debris that had once been houses, halls, and places of commerce. As Tol’s party of five approached, still on foot (no horses having been found
