Worried his sword belt would smudge the white linen, he pulled Number Six from the scabbard, wiped the blade clean, and slipped it through his sash.

The timekeeper candle showed it to he just a half-mark short of midnight. Tol descended to the entry hall, trailed by the Dom-shu.

He had no time to hunt up a horse for hire, so he decided to walk to the tower. The sisters wanted to accompany him, at least as far as the Inner City gate. However, their mothering was getting on his nerves, so he ordered them to stay in the villa and guard the treasure.

Cool wind sighed through the streets. Working folk tended to turn in once it got dark, so there was little nightlife in the Quarry district. Robe billowing, Tol climbed the flat, winding steps leading up and out of the former stone quarry.

In the streets above, the few folk he passed gave him a wide berth, whispering, “Vigilant.” He was glad the strange visitors had reminded him not to speak; it was considered a gross breach of etiquette to talk while wearing the robes of the vigil, but he’d never taken part in the ceremony before.

Overhead, stars played hide and seek behind clouds scudding before the wind. He noticed a bright light in the distance, and it took him a moment to realize he was seeing the white moon, Solin, shining over the peak of the Tower of High Sorcery, his destination.

Customarily, the emperor’s vigil was held in the Temple of Mishas, but Tol wasn’t surprised at the change of location. The Tower of High Sorcery represented one of the greatest achievements of Pakin III’s reign, and holding the ceremony there would regain for the wizards some of the prestige Mandes had usurped.

Out of respect, he had left the nullstone behind, though, he felt very vulnerable. Not even the heft of the dwarf blade at his side could banish the feeling.

He chided himself for his fears. Did he need a talisman merely to traverse the streets of Daltigoth in sight of the imperial palace? Of course not. And what danger could there be for him at the emperor’s vigil, in the very Tower of High Sorcery?

At the Inner City gate, the guards did not challenge him. Seeing the white robe of a Vigilant, they stood to attention and let him pass without a word.

The courtyard of the Imperial Plaza blazed with light. Tripods of torches stood between long rows of mourners. Rank upon rank of warriors and courtiers knelt on the hard mosaic, heads bowed toward the Tower of High Sorcery. Some looked up when Tol entered then resumed their prayers for the deceased emperor. The steady drone of hundreds of low voices filled the square.

Above the trees of the wizards’ garden, the mighty Tower of High Sorcery glowed with its own light. Awed by the sight, Tol slowed. What mysteries were held within those shining walls?

He shook himself, then folded his arms and gripped his biceps hard. He had nothing to fear. No evil workings could penetrate the sanctum of the magical orders.

He picked up his pace, striding purposefully to the garden path that would take him to the tower. His footsteps on the quartz gravel path sounded loud in the stillness.

Many times as a young man Tol had stolen into this very garden to meet Valaran. The wizards guarded their privacy with a wall of sleep, but the millstone had allowed Tol to penetrate it with impunity. Holding Val close, he could protect her, too, and they passed many a golden hour in the shadowed glade by the fountain of the Blue Phoenix. The wizards had lowered the barrier for the vigil, and Tol now passed through without hindrance.

The tower rose from a circular plaza paved with white marble. A ring of robed wizards surrounded its base. Alternating Red Robe with White, they stood, eyes closed, hands linked, facing outward. The very air itself seemed charged with power.

Tol wondered fleetingly at the lack of Black Robe wizards. Red and White made him nervous enough; he was glad not to have to face wizards consecrated to evil magic.

A gap in the ring of wizards corresponded to the tower’s only entrance-arched double doors, which stood open. White light shone within, paler and colder than the glow emitted by the tower itself. Straightening his shoulders, Tol went carefully up the ramp to the entrance. The wizards did not stir, speak, or open their eyes. He recognized only one face among them: Helbin, chief of the Red Robes.

Tol passed through the massively thick foundation walls into a chill, open chamber that comprised the entire ground floor of the tower. The ceiling of the chamber was domed. In its center was an opening, the end of a shaft that rose all the way to the tower’s peak. Shining down through this atrium was the light of Solin. Focused and clarified, the white moon’s pallid light was the only illumination in the chamber.

Directly under the column of moonlight was Pakin III’s white-draped bier. The emperor was dressed in full regalia, lying on his back with his hands resting on his chest, clasping the imperial scepter. His hair and beard were the color of snow. Bathed in Solin’s cold radiance, the old emperor seemed carved out of alabaster.

Humbled by this vision, Tol approached slowly. He had no specific instructions and was uncertain what he should do. His slippers made faint scuffing sounds as he circled the bier. Halfway around, he spotted another figure in white, a second Vigilant. He was pleased he wouldn’t be alone.

The other mourner was kneeling, head bowed, by Pakin’s left hand. By her slenderness, Tol could tell it was a woman, perhaps one of the old emperor’s daughters. In spite of the stricture against speech it seemed wrong not to offer his sympathy.

In the silence, his intake of breath sounded like a shout, and the Vigilant’s cowled head turned toward him. Green eyes flashed with surprise in the sere white light.

Valaran!

Whatever words he’d intended to say went unuttered as Valaran glared balefully at him. He could almost feel the darts of fury hurled by those emerald-hard eyes.

She put a finger to her lips. With a thrust of her chin, she indicated he should take his place on the other side of the bier, at the emperor’s right hand.

Tol drew Number Six in a swift motion. After saluting Pakin III with broad sweeps of his saber, Tol knelt in the appointed place, laid his weapon down, and straightened the folds of his robe. Bowing his head, he smoothed his face into an expression of calm introspection, but inside he was fuming.

How dare she treat him so coldly! Returned at last, victorious from a long campaign in the east, narrowly missing death many, many times, and still she wouldn’t even speak to him! Ten years he’d been gone-nearly eleven. Val had stopped answering his letters without one word of explanation. He’d believed their love was eternal, their passion unquenchable. What had happened?

The still form of the late emperor drew his attention. Long illness had leached the color from Pakin III; his hair, beard, and skin were white as Tol’s mourning robes. A curious detail caught Tol’s attention. Where the dead man’s hands were wrapped around the handle of the scepter, the gaps between his fingers had disappeared. Finger flowed into finger without a break.

Startled, Tol studied Pakin III’s face more closely. The lines on the aged face were not the sagging creases of skin, but sharper, more inflexible. His skin had an odd, flat sheen.

Tol stood and leaned over the late emperor to get a better look. As he entered the moonlight, he shivered. Poets called Solin’s aura cold, but he’d never taken their words literally. Yet the light, concentrated and directed through the tower, was indeed cold, icy as a high mountain stream. It washed the warmth from Tol’s flesh, making him shiver hard. Doggedly, he persisted and touched the dead man’s hand. The hand and wrist were rigid and hard.

Pakin III had turned to stone.