Chapter 12

The death of Pelladrom Tumult seemed to have a chilling effect on the gangs; the streets of Daltigoth were quiet in the following days. Word spread, however, that Lord Enkian was on his way with an army to avenge his son’s death. Since the Tumult family was a distant offshoot of the Ackals, it was even said he planned to depose Amaltar and become emperor in his place. Whatever the gossip in the alleys and city squares, preparations for the complex coronation continued. On the day of the coronation, Amaltar would present himself at the great gate of Ackal Ergot, on the eastern side of Daltigoth, and demand to be let in. A high noble specially chosen for the task would pose several ritual questions to him. Once Amaltar provided the answers, the gate would be opened. Ackal Ergot had first surveyed the site of his future capital on foot, so the rising emperor was required to walk the two and half leagues from the gate to the Inner City, trailed by his entire household-wives, children, courtiers, servants, and guards.

At the Inner City Amaltar’s way would be barred once more. He would demand admission as ruler of the Ergoth Empire, only to be told the emperor already resided within. Touching the gate with a bared sword, Amaltar would symbolically “capture” the Inner City. Within he would find the dead emperor lying enshrined in a great catafalque.

“What’s that?” Kiya asked, interrupting Egrin’s description of the coming ceremony.

“A catafalque is the raised, curtained bier on which the old emperor will lay. Very elaborate,” he told her, then resumed his narrative.

It was because the empire was founded on force and conquest that Amaltar had to enter the catafalque and lightly strike the body of his father with his sword, thereby “defeating” the old emperor.

“Ah, that’s why they turn the old one to stone,” said Kiya, “so the blow won’t damage him.”

Egrin went on. “When the old emperor is ritually overcome, the new emperor emerges from the catafalque and is presented with his predecessor’s crown, which he places on his own head. He is then Emperor of Ergoth, spiritually as well as temporally.”

Tol’s little household was gathered around the kitchen table, having a late supper. With only a trio of candles to hold back the gloom, it was an eerie scene, quite unlike the usual cheerful brightness of the room.

“What becomes of the dead emperor?” asked Kiya. Still hampered by her bad knee, she had her leg propped on a chair.

“He is interred in the vault of his ancestors, deep beneath the Inner City plaza. After the new emperor is crowned and enthroned, he receives the oaths of every warlord in the empire.”

“That could take days!” Miya exclaimed.

The marshal shrugged. “Usually does.”

She shook her head. “Poor old Amaltar! I hope he has good cushions in his chair!”

Tol yawned, and the others professed themselves also ready for rest. Egrin, who slept in the north wing of the villa with his escort from Juramona, took one candle. Tol took one for himself and snuffed the last. Flanked by the Dom-shu sisters, he wished his mentor a good rest.

The villa was quiet. Miya’s hare feet thumped loudly as they climbed the broad, slate-covered stairs to the second floor. For all her stealth in the forest, indoors the younger Dom-shu made far more noise than Kiya, who was limping.

The sisters were once again discussing this fact-rather heatedly-when Kiya suddenly broke off and grabbed the hem of Tol’s jerkin, halting him.

“Something up there on the landing moved!”

Tol’s candle was as thick as his wrist, hut its light was too feeble to illuminate the whole of the great stairway. The landing at the top was covered by a large wine-colored carpet, woven with a golden pattern of circles, lines, and squares. Beyond it, they could see very little down the black corridor.

Tol asked, “What did you see?”

“Something near the floor. It flapped.” Kiya undulated her hand to illustrate what she meant.

Tol took her warning seriously. Kiya was not as imaginative as her sister and not at all prone to seeing things that weren’t there. Handing the candle to Miya, he drew his sword and continued slowly up the stairs.

Miya accompanied him, and the glow of the candle flame flickered over chairs against the wall, side tables covered with dwarven bric-a-brac, and suits of armor. It was easy to imagine furtive movement in the heavy shadows, but Tol saw nothing tangible.

“Sister’s imagining things!” Miya announced through a yawn. She stomped by Tol, handing him the candle as she passed. “G’night!”

The room the sisters shared was at right angles from the master bedchamber at the end of the hall. Miya vanished inside.

Kiya struggled along with her bandaged knee. She didn’t ask for help and wouldn’t have accepted it if offered. Many years out of her forest home, she still adhered to the code of a Dom-shu warrior: if you can breathe, stand; if you can see, walk; if you can move, fight.

“There was something here,” she insisted quietly.

“I believe you,” he told her.

Though the deadly attacks that had dogged their journey seemed to have ended with the storm at Thorngoth, Tol had no doubt they could resume at any time.

Once Kiya was in her room, Tol walked the length of the corridor twice, probing along the walls, peering into every corner. Aside from dust and a single desiccated mouse, he found nothing.

His own room was chilly, which was odd. Although summer was giving way to autumn, the day had been quite warm.

Shedding his outer garments, Tol hung his sword belt on the bedpost and crawled under the bedclothes. He settled into the mattress, which smelled of horsehair and pine shavings, and tried not to dwell on thoughts of Valaran, just a short gallop away in the palace. At last he surrendered to sleep.

The air in the room grew colder still. Tol burrowed more deeply under the covers for warmth, but did not wake.

The chill inspired dreams of childhood. As the youngest child, his place was farthest from the hearth, the coldest spot in the house. Some nights he couldn’t sleep because his ears ached, or his feet were numb from the cold. His mother had taught him to place a small slab of fieldstone close to the fire before supper. At bedtime, he slipped the hot stone under his patchwork quilt. During one particularly frigid night, when the icy wind howled outside his family’s small hut, he lay on his side, hugging the stone to his chest. Rolling over in his sleep, he’d ended with the slab on top of him.

It was wonderfully warm beneath the stone, but the weight on his chest had made breathing difficult. The stone was too heavy. He might have slumbered on into death had not his father seen his face turning blue and wakened him.

Tension drained from Tol’s tired limbs. He was warmer now. The heat was wonderful. If only he could draw breath…

No longer a naive child, Tol jerked awake, his warrior’s sense telling him something was amiss. He wasn’t dreaming: he really couldn’t breathe. Something heavy and thick clung to his face, shutting out air. He tried to raise his hands, thinking to pull away the bedclothes, but his arms were locked to his sides. His legs too were held down by a heavy weight.

Ghostly flashes of light flickered across his vision as he struggled to take in air. He was suffocating! He needed air-now!

Twisting side to side, Tol managed to get his right shoulder up. He put all his strength behind moving one arm, and managed to jerk it awkwardly against the restraint. The smothering wall yielded just a bit.

Tol arched his back, clearing more breathing space, and twisted over onto his face. The darkness around him was close and hot. He wormed his hands out to either side but could find no edge to the terrific weight pressing him more and more strongly into the soft mattress.