Even as she gasped in shock, the frigid blast vanished, and the normal heat of a summer night erased all traces of the unnatural cold.

Tol was coming.

The thought surfaced in her mind, so suddenly, so sharp and clear that she gasped again. The lamp slipped from her fingers. It hit the tile floor and went out, rolling to a stop beneath the window seat.

Tol was coming back after ten years away. Valaran knew it as certainly as she knew the sun would rise tomorrow. Her pulse quickened.

Crickets sang from the palace’s rooftop garden. Far away in the night-shrouded city a dog barked once.

All seemed peaceful, but Valaran’s peace was over. Life-hers and that of a great many more people-was about to get much more complicated. Tol had that effect. Things happened when he was about. Lives changed. Blood was shed. The fate of dynasties hung in the balance. He did not seek such momentous occurrences, but they were his destiny. The gods walked in Tol’s footsteps.

Valaran pulled the sash closed with a sharp bang. If the gods wished to shadow him, let them, but she certainly did not. She was done with him. That part of her life was over. Over and finished. It had to be.

In bed again, she could not sleep for wondering whose blood she had tasted. It couldn’t be Tol’s. He never seemed to get hurt, not seriously.

The princess turned on her side and firmly closed her eyes.

It did not matter who was hurt, as long as it was not her.

Tol’s party continued crossing the highest range of the mountains. Progress was slow. Neither man, woman, nor horse could climb in the cold, thin air for more than half a day before bone-numbing exhaustion set in. Even with the knowledge they had an unseen enemy on their heels, they could move no more quickly. At night, a leaping fire was needed to warm them enough for a fitful rest.

They crossed the lofty divide at the lowest notch they could find, a pass known as Ging’s Reach, named for the famous centaur pathfinder. Descending from the heights proved as difficult as ascending. The little-used path was awash in loose gravel, making footing treacherous. Even now, in late summer, the ground was thick with frost until well past dawn. In another two turnings of the moons, Ging’s Reach would be a solid sheet of ice.

All of them wore long woolen scarves wound around their face to keep out the cold. That and the need to conserve breath meant there was little talk. They were alone with their thoughts.

Tol tried to distract himself from thinking about Felryn’s death by pondering who might be the author of the magical attacks. Any number of Tarsans regarded him as an enemy, since he had smashed three of their armies and brought their city to its knees, but in the end he discarded the notion that a Tarsan was behind the attacks. Not even the hot-headed Prince Helx would continue to seek Tol’s death once Tol had left Tarsis and Hanira. Tarsans loved gold too much to waste time and money on pointless revenge.

Another of his old enemies, the elf general Tylocost, was currently being held captive at Juramona. The Silvanesti mercenary had been Tol’s prisoner for eleven years but had neither the means nor the opportunity to stir up trouble. It hardly seemed likely he would wait so long to conspire against Tol.

The only place where Tol’s enemies were rich enough, powerful enough, and single-minded enough to launch two such murderous plans was the imperial capital, Daltigoth. The empire was in turmoil over the succession, making this a perfect time to settle old scores. In Daltigoth, he knew, dwelled his worst enemies.

Prince Nazramin, younger brother of Amaltar, hated Tol for personal reasons. Although of humble birth, Tol had been ennobled by the late emperor, Pakin III. In spite of this, many Ergothian nobles considered him nothing more than a peasant with pretensions above his rightful station. For years Crown Prince Amaltar had used Tol as his foil, to blunt the bold, martial Nazramin’s popularity and undercut his schemes. The younger prince was barely respectful to his brother, but he openly despised Lord Tolandruth. Still, Nazramin’s violent style lent itself more to an assassin’s dagger than to golems or tornadoes of ice.

Unbidden, Valaran’s face appeared in Tol’s mind. What of Val? Could the years have turned her rejection of Tol into something twisted and evil, outright hatred? Almost immediately, he unconsciously shook his head. Not even for the sake of argument could he believe that Val craved his death.

The candidate who emerged as the likeliest instigator was Mandes. Rogue wizard, betrayer, stealer of Tol’s glory, Mandes’s particular expertise in fogs, mists, and weather spells had earned him the nickname “Mist-maker” from the Hylo kender. The ice tornado had all the hallmarks of his handiwork.

Mandes had originally fled Tarsis because he refused to submit to the discipline of High Sorcery, preferring the less structured yet darker life of a renegade spellcaster. Since rescuing him in the wilds and sending him to Daltigoth, Tol had followed the wizard’s career with grim interest. Mandes also hated Tol, less explicably and less openly. Treachery was deep in his blood.

After arriving in Daltigoth, Tol knew, Mandes had quickly established himself as a servant to the wealthy and powerful, performing his art to gratify their whims. The wizards of Daltigoth, led by Mistress Yoralyn (until her death) and now headed by the weak but well-intentioned Oropash, tried to rein in the renegade, but too late. Mandes had grown too powerful for them to touch. He had even found favor with Crown Prince Amaltar, and Amaltar now sat on the throne of Ergoth.

Deep in thought, Tol dropped back in line until he was trailing the others. They were all on foot, leading their horses over the uncertain ground. Up front, Darpo and Kiya suddenly stopped short.

Miya walked into her sister’s horse and grumbled loudly. Kiya silenced her, hissing, “Listen!”

They stood, white clouds of breath pluming around their heads in the bright, cold air. From far away came a recognizable sound: the kiss of metal upon metal, musical but menacing.

“Swordplay,” breathed Frez.

The ravine they were descending boasted high peaks on both sides. A few scraggly trees clung to the mountainside, dwarf pine and buntram, still green despite the cold. The air was as still as glass. Kiya, the best tracker among them, slowly turned her head, seeking the source of the sound. She pointed to her left, southwest.

Tol flipped back his heavy cloak, exposing the hilt of his saber. Frez and Darpo did likewise, and Kiya strung her bow. Although not trained as a fighter, Miya was handy with her bronze-capped staff. She was also a mean stone-thrower.

Bunched together, the group continued warily down the ravine. At bottom, the passage divided. One path went due west, the other bore southwest. They halted.

“We don’t always have to go looking for trouble,” Miya said, looking somewhat longingly at the western path.

Kiya spat on a stone. Her spittle froze even as she was speaking. “It would be dishonorable to ignore those in distress,” she said, giving her sister a narrow-eyed look. Miya glared right back.

“Warriors of the empire must defend its citizens.” Frez’s words caused Miya to sigh. Appeals to duty were irresistible to Tol. There was no question now which way they’d be going.

They mounted, and with Tol leading, entered the southwest passage. The going was steep, but the rock was weathered and eroded, the ruts and grooves providing better footing for the horses than they’d had for days.

As the little band wound through the ravine, the sounds of conflict waxed and waned. At times they heard nothing, then they’d round a curve and the noise became so distinct they could almost make out voices. After another league passed, Kiya moved to Tol’s side.