Was this a statue, standing in for the frail remains of the late emperor? Closer inspection forced Tol to abandon that notion. On the back of Pakin III’s thin hand white hairs still sprouted, and age spots discolored the surface-yet the flesh had become something akin to alabaster. This then must be a special rite of the wizards’ college, a bizarre magical embalming that slowly turned Pakin III’s mortal remains into imperishable stone.
Valaran was watching him disapprovingly. The hood of her gown left only the oval of her face exposed. Contrasted against the white silk, her skin was a warm rose color. She’d never been an outdoor type, preferring the shadowed corridors of the palace, a quiet library, or the wizards’ garden by night. Warm memories of the latter brought color to Tol’s face. Clearing his throat, he resumed his kneeling posture.
Many times Val had shared with him whatever weighty tome she was reading. Books about the bloody deeds of her ancestors, the religious practices of the Silvanesti, or the marriage customs of gnomes, all were eagerly devoured by the inquisitive girl. Once, as they lay hidden on the roof of the palace, washed in the light of the setting sun, Valaran had begun reciting the epic of Huma, slayer of dragons. She had never finished the poem. Tol had plucked the scroll from her hands and loved her there and then on the ancient battlements. It was their most daring encounter, the one he cherished above all others. In the wizards’ garden they were protected from intruders by the wall of sleep. On the palace roof, without such protection, they might have been discovered by anyone. Danger only sweetened the moment. It had been an immortal night.
From being chilled to the bone, Tol now felt uncomfortably warm. Passion, even recalled from so long ago, was stirring his blood. Perhaps it was disrespectful to be dwelling on old love rather than pious prayers, but Tol didn’t think Pakin III would mind. The emperor had been an irreverent man, impatient with pomp and protocol. Valaran had been one of his favorites, and he indulged her like a fond grandfather.
Tol tugged at his robe, now clinging to his skin. The air seemed muggier than when he’d entered. He glanced across the bier and realized Valaran must be feeling the warmth, too. Shiny beads of sweat dimpled her forehead.
The failing light explained the change. Solin was progressing through the heavens, slowly leaving its place above the tower. As the cone of cold light shrank, the normal heat of late summer reclaimed the hall.
Tol bowed his head, closing his eyes. Rest in peace, great Pakin. Given the turmoil that was sure to follow, the reign of Pakin III might seem like a golden age in the days to come.
After a brief time, the sound of movement caused him to open his eyes. Solin was nearly gone from overhead, and Valaran had pushed back her cowl to cool her head. She lifted the heavy mass of hair from her neck and ears. Tol could see the tiny notch on the top of her left ear, souvenir of a childhood fight with Vorkai and Talmaz, her elder brothers. Ten years had honed her fine features. A woman’s strength and beauty showed in every line, every contour.
Tol’s knees ached from his long vigil. He shifted position slightly. Skinning back the sleeves from his arms, he opened the collar of his robe. The dark tan of his face and arms contrasted starkly with the white linen.
Valaran was looking at him. Catching his eye, she quickly averted her gaze. A small thing perhaps, but it was the first time she had looked at him without obvious ire.
Solin was gone. The only light now was a faint glow from the bier itself. Heat suffused the great domed hall. Sweat trickled behind Tol’s ears. Valaran shifted slightly, brow furrowed with discomfort.
Fate must have brought them together like this, Tol mused. Fate, destiny, the gods themselves must have conspired to allow him to be alone with Valaran, even with the body of the dead emperor between them and no words spoken. This was a gift he hadn’t expected. It had long been said that Tolandruth of Juramona was the luckiest warrior in the empire. Tol had never agreed with that. A wise man made his own luck.
Valaran parted the collar of her gown, opening it just enough to bare a wedge of skin. Transfixed, Tol watched a single drop of sweat curve down her neck to the hollow of her throat. It paused there, then plunged on, vanishing where the folds of her gown came together.
How much could a man bear? His throat constricted with the need to speak, yet one word, even a whisper, and the whole corps of wizards outside would rush in and punish the desecration of the vigil, a dishonor to both Pakin III and Amaltar.
I love you, Tol thought fervently, framing each word with such care he had to clench his jaw to keep them from escaping his lips. I love you, Valaran.
Time dragged, slow as resin oozing from a wounded pine. The ache in Tol’s knees was nothing compared to the longing in his heart. He prayed for dawn, for release from this torture, but the heavens would not hurry to suit him.
A faint sound interrupted his long torment. Valaran had sighed. She rolled back her sleeves, baring her arms to her elbows. Her fingers were long and tapering, a lyrist’s hands, though Val disdained idle pastimes like music. With her fingers spread, she could hold a manuscript open with one hand while holding her tea, or taking notes, with the other-no mean feat. Those hands had also gripped the back of Tol’s neck with desperate strength when she’d feared he might leave her too soon. Not trifling things, those hands. He had been held by them often enough to revere them.
Again he caught her sneaking a glance at him over the bier. Was it his own wishful thinking, or had her expression softened? It wasn’t love, but something other than anger flickering in her eyes. From her expression, it seemed to Tol she desired to ask him a question but couldn’t quite frame the words.
He returned her gaze calmly, concealing his own inner turmoil with great effort. They studied each other, both perspiring in the stifling dimness. It came to resemble a contest to see who would look away first. Tol never wanted to look away ever. Solin’s rays could harden him to stone right here, forever beholding the woman he loved.
When light did at last slant in, graying the high dome, it took some time before either of them recognized the dawn. Still they did not turn away.
Footfalls announced the entry of two members of the White Robe order. They halted at the foot of the bier. The younger bore a tray with a slender pitcher and two clay cups. The older wizard made the sign of Draco Paladin in the air, ending the vigil.
“Good morrow to you, Highness,” he said. “Welcome the day, my lord. I am Perogen.”
In unison, they turned away from each other to face the newcomers. Tol’s tongue was thick, his throat parched. Coughing a bit, he said, “It was a long, hot night.”
He got to his feet. His legs roared with pain as blood rushed back to long-folded muscles. Perogen extended a hand to help Valaran rise, but she ignored it and staggered upright unaided.
The younger wizard presented the tray of refreshments. He was about Tol’s age, clean shaven, and with dark skin like Felryn. Perogen poured two measures of amber liquid from the slender pitcher. Silvanesti nectar. An ironic choice, Tol thought, given the events of Pakin III’s life.
A cup was offered first to Valaran, who took precedence over Tol. She downed the nectar in a single long swallow.
Tol watched her slender throat work and swallowed hard himself. This vigil had been worse than some battles he’d been in. Well, not worse perhaps, but certainly hard to bear. He sipped his own nectar gingerly, letting it trickle down his dry throat.
Valaran set the cup back on the tray then carefully adjusted her gown, closing the neck and unrolling the sleeves. “Thank you,” she said to the wizards, her only words all night. With a swirl of silk, she turned and walked swiftly out of the tower.