“I am here to tell you that your day of reckoning is coming,” Nazramin said. “Everything you cherish will fall into my hands-treasure, titles, trinkets, and all your people. And the lady you love-I wonder what will happen to her on that day?”

He let the question hang in the narrow space between them. Tol felt as though he’d been dashed with icy water. Was it possible Nazramin knew of his love for Valaran? How could he have found out?

His chaotic thoughts showed plainly on his face, and Nazramin chuckled. “Yes, I know your little secret. She’s quite a prize, isn’t she? Who knew the little bookworm would become so delectable?”

If Tol had been hotly angry before, now cold fury washed over him, making it difficult to draw breath.

“Leave her out of this,” he whispered, emotion quivering in every syllable. “Defame her, even speak her name again, and I’ll kill you where you stand. I’ve shed royal blood before. It flows just as freely as common stock.”

It was Nazramin’s turn to believe the threat. The cold smile left his face and he glared at Tol. “I’ll keep your dirty secret because it suits me,” he said. “Now get out of my way!”

Tol remained rooted to the spot. The murderous fury in his heart made him bold.

“Why do you hate me so? I’ve never done you an injury, and I’ve always served the empire loyally.”

Nazramin stepped back, surveying Tol with amazement. “That I am forced to speak to you on anything near equal terms is a gross insult. To see you walk the halls of my ancestors’ palace as though you belonged there… is unforgivable!”

Seeing Tol still did not understand, Nazramin went back to the table and leaned on it. He drew a deep breath, mastering strong emotions of his own, then said, “Far from being a boon to the empire, I consider your successes one of the greatest threats ever to the state. You are common as dirt, yet you command armies, win battles, and walk with the high lords of Ergoth as though you were one of them.

“The empire, all of this”-the prince made a broad gesture-“was taken by force from lesser peoples. Weaker tribes and inferior races succumbed to the might of the Great Horde because it is the law of nature and the gods that those born to strength should rule those who have none. Invert that order, and you have chaos. For you, a farmer’s son, to show ability as a warrior, to lead men, win battles, even defeat well-born enemies like Morthur Dermount and Pelladrom Tumult is a travesty of nature.” He frowned deeply. “Your existence offends not only me, it offends the gods!”

Tol laughed, a short, harsh sound. “Now you speak for the gods as well as all Ergoth?” he mocked, sheathing his saber. “I knew you were a cruel man, Nazramin, but I never imagined you were mad!”

The prince came off the table, taut as a great cat smelling blood. Tol’s hand flashed to his sword hilt, and Nazramin, mindful of Tol’s fighting prowess, halted but did not back down.

“We’ll see who’s mad,” he said slowly. “Whatever distortion of nature allowed your rise cannot endure forever. When you fall, little farmer, I shall be there. I am patient. I can wait for everything to fall into place, but I shall be there.”

He pushed by Tol, who let him go. Passing Yeffrin still groveling on the floor, the furious prince vented his spleen by kicking the old man in the ribs. Whimpering, Yeffrin rolled into a ball amidst his master’s scattered manuscripts.

Tol helped Yeffrin to a chair. As the old man held his ribs and gasped for breath, Tol considered the ransacked chamber. Why had the prince been here? Had he warned Mandes? Or was he seeking something? Documents that linked him to the nefarious sorcerer? It was a disquieting thought. If his two greatest enemies were allied, Tol’s quest for justice would be all the harder.

He re-entered the small, secret room. On the floor next to the table lay a crumpled square of black linen. Judging by the creases it held, it had been a covering for the little table.

Something crunched under his feet. Bending down, Tol pressed his fingers to a smear of gray flakes on the floor. The weak light showed him they were soft metal shavings, perhaps lead. He had no idea what they might signify.

After making sure Yeffrin was all right, Tol departed. He left Mandes a token of his visit, to make his feelings plain to the elusive sorcerer. In the entry hall were several fine statues depicting famous spellcasters of the past. Among them Mandes had immodestly placed an image of himself. With two strokes of his steel blade, Tol hacked the head from the bronze statue. It hit the floor with a loud clang.

Outdoors, morning sunbathed Tol’s face, soothing him like a balm. He had missed Mandes, but twice in one night he had dared death and twice survived.

Chapter 13

The villa was alive with activity when Tol returned. Egrin and his retinue, in full battle gear, were arrayed in the front court. The Dom-shu sisters had donned their best outfits and were pinning strips of white cloth to their sleeves.

“Where’ve you been, husband?” Miya demanded. “There’s much to do, and you go off wandering in the middle of the night!”

“What’s happening?” he asked.

“The funeral is today!” Kiya said. At the same time, Miya declared, “The coronation is today!”

A herald had come to the villa just after sunrise with a message for Lord Tolandruth. Egrin had accepted it in his stead. The message prompted the marshal to rouse everyone in the villa, ordering them to prepare for the grand dual ceremony.

Tol sought his old friend.

Egrin explained, “The emperor, in consultation with his privy council and the college of wizards, has declared this to be the day he will be crowned.” Looking somewhat embarrassed, he added in a lower voice, “It was felt the emperor would be safer if he is crowned before Enkian Tumult arrives.”

He handed Tol a flattened tube of parchment. “There was a personal message for you as well.”

By order of His Majesty Ackal IV, Tol read silently, Lord Tolandruth will present himself at the imperial palace at once.

Exhausted by the long and eventful night during which he’d slept only briefly, Tol stared blindly at the terse summons. What did it mean?

Egrin took the parchment from his slack fingers and said gently, “The women have prepared your gear. Go inside, my lord, and they will assist you.”

Miya and Kiya were in the entry hall, standing by neat piles of armor.

“Time to make ready, Husband!” Kiya boomed.

Wearily, he nodded. He started to undress, but was so listless and slow Miya clucked her tongue and took over the task herself.

She chided him for his gallivanting ways, then added more softly, “Did you do what you sought to do?”

Tol shook his head. “He wasn’t home.”

“Never mind. Justice will catch Master Mandes in time.”

Miya stripped him down to his breechnap, and Kiya took a wet sponge to his back. Tol felt like horse being groomed. He was so tired, his head swimming with thoughts of Mandes, Nazramin, and the coming coronation, that he bore the sisters’ ministrations in silence.

Soon they were buckling him into his newly polished armor. A kilt of mourning white was fastened around his waist, and a snowy mantle of gilt-edged silk secured to rivets on his pauldrons. Lastly, Kiya passed his sword belt around his waist and fastened it so the dwarf-forged saber hung at his left hand.

The sisters stood back to admire their work.

“His eyes are red,” Miya remarked, frowning.

Kiya shrugged. “Can’t help that.” She limped in closer and adjusted the drape of Tol’s mantle. Still not satisfied, she grumbled, “What can you do-one shoulder is bigger than the other!”