Now Zenith stepped off the bridge and into the short corridor of blue mist that led to the interior of Spiredore.
As powerful and knowledgeable an Enchanter as she was, all Zenith understood of this process was that somehow the bridge had called across the scores of leagues separating her from Spiredore, and the tower itself had reached out and formed this connection.
From the misty corridor Zenith entered Spiredore at one of its myriad balconies. Glancing quickly up and down, she saw a bizarre outcropping of disconnected balconies and stairs – and even some ladders – that lined the circular interior of the tower. None of them appeared to go anywhere.
“Spiredore,” she said firmly, “I wish to go to Carlon.” And she walked to the nearest stairwell and stepped down.
Azhure had always impressed on her two winged daughters that they must never fly in Spiredore, as it was so strangely magical they might easily become disorientated and crash into a balcony, or even the floor of the tower. Zenith walked until she felt her calves begin to ache and then, just as she paused to rub them, she saw that around the next curve of the stairs was a flat floor.
Zenith smiled to herself. It was ever so in Spiredore. Just when you thought you could go no further, Spiredore delivered you to your destination.
Once on the floor Zenith saw a door before her, and through that door… through the door was the dawning air about Grail Lake, the harsh cries of the lake birds filling the air as they rose to meet the sun.
“I thank you, Spiredore,” she said as she passed through, closing the door gently behind her.
Outside the tower looked plain, even though it imposed with its height. Completely windowless, it climbed some one hundred paces into the crimson sky -the sun ascending almost directly behind it.
Zenith stood motionless for long minutes, drinking in the view of the tower, the lake, the stunning city rising on the far shore.
“How wrong I have been to so secrete myself in Sigholt,” she whispered, then sprang into the air with a glad cry, her arms wide as if to embrace the entire world.
Leagh was sitting at her mirror-table, brushing the tangles from her hair and trying to stop yawning.
There was a rush at the window, as if it had been struck by a great gust of air, and then a small pale fist was tapping impatiently at the panes of glass.
“Leagh!” a muffled voice called, “Leagh! Let me in!”
Leagh sat and stared for long minutes, unable to believe what she saw, before she finally roused herself enough to walk over and open the windows.
Zenith almost fell through, enveloping her friend in a great hug.
“Leagh! Leagh! You and Askam are to come to Sigholt – can you believe it?” Leagh just stared at her.
“And Zared is to be there, too! Come, sleepy-eyes, what shall you wear?”
Zenith did not think it wrong to give Leagh a day of hope and excitement. And it was true. After at least two years, Leagh would finally see Zared again.
eason Zared sat on his chair on the slightly raised dais in his reception gallery, trying to hold his temper. Generally he enjoyed holding open court, but this Thursday afternoon had brought such evil news he knew there would be little delight left in the day.
Ranged before him were six men, four peasants from his southern border with the West, and – for the gods’ sakes – Jannymire Goldman, the Master of the Carlonese Guilds himself, and one of his merchant cronies, Bransom Heavorand. The tidings they had brought would sour anyone’s day, Zared thought, let alone mine.
“A third… a third!” he muttered yet again. Obviously the guilds, as the merchants, would be crippled by the tax, but these peasants… gods! They’d had a third of their year’s grain confiscated!
“Gustus!” Zared called, and his captain of the guard stepped forward. “See that these peasants receive recompense from my treasury for their losses.”
Gustus nodded, and moved off. The peasants effused thanks to their Prince, then scurried after the captain.
Zared eyed Goldman thoughtfully. As Master of the Carlonese Guilds, Goldman was one of the most powerful non-noble men in Tencendor. He controlled not only great wealth, but was the voice of the traders, craftsmen and businessmen of Carlon and, by default, most of Tencendor. Why come north himself? And why complain to Zared? Surely his complaints would be more effective directed at Caelum?
“Askam will grow rich at your expense, good sirs,” Zared remarked.
“As yours,” murmured Heavorand. Yes, as mine, Zared thought, his dark face remaining carefully neutral. Shall I now risk sending my goods to the southern markets via the Andeis Sea? But even pirates would not risk those treacherous waters, and Zared knew he’d lose considerably more than a third of his goods if they went south via the Andeis. Askam had him trapped. He had no choice but to send his goods via road, where they would be snaggled in the web of crossroad taxation posts, while his river transports would not escape the castle of Kastaleon, which sat with its brood of archers on the great central bend of the Nordra like a rabid spider itching to spit its venom at tax evaders.
Gods, what was Askam doing to the people of his own province if he could inflict this hardship on the North?
“It is strange to see you so far north,” Zared said to Goldman. “And at my house.”
Goldman shrugged expressively. “It is a long story, my Prince, and one not suited to this reception gallery.” He looked meaningfully at Zared.
Zared hesitated slightly before he spoke. “My dinner table is ever lacking in long stories, gentlemen. May I perhaps invite you to dine with me this evening?”
Goldman bowed. “I thank you, Sir Prince. Heavorand and I will be pleased to accept your -”
The twin doors at the end of the gallery burst open and two men strode through, Gustus at their heels.
Zared’s mouth sagged, then he snapped it shut, keeping his seat only with an extraordinary effort as Herme, Earl of Avonsdale, and Theod, Duke of Aldeni, stopped three paces away from the dais, saluting and bowing.
Goldman and Heavorand, who had quickly stepped aside for the noblemen, shared a glance that was both surprised and knowing.
“Herme? Theod? What brings you here in such haste? I had no warning that you -”
“Forgive us, Zared, but this news cannot wait,” Herme said. More formality should have been employed, but Herme had something to say, and he wished to waste no time. Besides, Zared was an old friend and one-time family member; Isabeau had been Herme’s sister.
To one side Theod fidgeted. He, too, was a close friend of Zared’s, and his higher ranking than Herme should have seen him speak first. But Herme was older and had the longer acquaintance with Zared.
“Sir?” Gustus put in to one side, but no-one listened to him.
“If it’s about Askam’s new taxes, then I have already heard it,” Zared said, gesturing towards Goldman and Heavorand.
Herme and Theod glanced at them, then looked back at Zared.
“My friend,” Herme said, “matters have come to a head. We cannot -”
“Sir?” Gustus said again, but was again ignored.
“- endure under such taxation! Belial must be turning over in his grave! I suggest, and Theod agrees with me, that we must take this matter to Caelum instantly.”
“Sir!” Gustus all but shouted.
“Gustus, what is it?” Zared said shortly. Never had he had open court like this! Were half the merchants and nobles of the West en route to complain to him?
“Sir,” Gustus said, “one of the Lake Guard has this minute landed with a summons from StarSon Caelum.”
Every eye in the reception gallery was riveted on the captain of the guard.
“A summons?” Zared asked quietly.
“Sir Prince, StarSon Caelum summons the heads of the Five to Council, to be held at Sigholt three weeks hence.”
Zared stared at him, then shifted his gaze back to Herme and Theod. “I seem to be holding a dinner party this evening. Would you two gentlemen care to join me?”
Goldman placed his fork and knife across his plate, and decided it was time to direct the conversation to more important matters. So far they’d discussed everything from the weave of Corolean silk to the exceptional salinity of the Widowmaker Sea, and Goldman was tired of the niceties. He smiled at the young, impish Duke Theod across the table. Theod was a rascal, but good-hearted, and once he’d grown five or six more years, and survived a tragedy or two, he would become as fine a Duke as his grandfather, Roland, whom Goldman remembered well from his youth.
“You must have ridden hard to reach Severin from Aldeni, Duke Theod, as must,” Goldman glanced at Herme, “your companion… who had to come yet further.”