“His sword arm,” Miya agreed sagely. “Husband, in the future try to use your left arm more.”

He had to smile at that. “I’ll try.”

Egrin had promised to send a replacement from Juramona for Tol’s beloved mount Shadow. In the meantime, the marshal’s men had groomed and saddled their best horse for Tol. The Juramona contingent was drawn up in formation, one man holding the horse’s reins. With a clash of iron, they saluted and cried in unison, “Long live the Emperor!”

Long live Amaltar indeed, Tol thought. So much depended on his continued existence-not merely Tol’s life, but the lives of all his friends and companions, not to mention the stability and welfare of the entire empire.

He swung into the saddle. Kiya whispered to her sister, and Miya hurried to Tol, one hand concealed behind her back.

“Husband, this is-” She reddened. “This is for you!”

She held out a large, splendidly formed white rose, cut from the villa’s roof garden. Tol was touched, and amused. The Dom-shu were not the types to give flowers. He was sure they had competed to see who would present him with the rose, and Miya had lost.

He took the beautiful flower from her and slipped its shortened stem under one of his cuirass straps. The flower’s head was nearly as broad as his hand, yet its aroma wasn’t overpowering.

With a wave, he led his honor guard out of the courtyard into the sunny morning.

Every street, every lane in the city was alive with activity. Windows and doors bore twin swatches of colored cloth, white for the late Pakin III, red for the new emperor, Ackal IV. Detachments of City Guards had taken up positions along the route Amaltar would traverse from outside the walls to the Inner City, keeping the way clear of onlookers. Already an army of pushcarts had appeared, their owners peddling tidbits and trinkets to the gathering crowd. The air was alive with excitement, half-anxious, half-festive. It was a contagious feeling. By the time Tol had ridden a quarter-league, his fatigue was gone, vanquished by the tonic of this great event.

The gate of the Inner City was closed and barred. A small postern gate beside it was open and manned by Imperial Horse Guards, dismounted for the moment. They hailed Tol.

“Go at once, my lord!” said the captain of the guard. “His Majesty awaits in the Tower of High Sorcery!”

Tol rode on. Egrin and his men remained outside.

The Imperial Plaza was a forest of alternating red and white standards. The banners hung limply in the still air. A wide lane led through them, from the great gate to the center of the plaza. There the path forked, one branch leading to the wizards’ enclave, the other to the steps of the imperial palace. Guards marched and countermarched from the palace to the Riders’ Hall on the far side of the plaza.

At the Riders’ Hall, warlords from every corner of the empire were collecting; red, rather than white, predominated in their attire. The tide of observance was turning from mourning for the dead ruler to celebration of the living one.

Tol rode to the Tower of High Sorcery at a measured pace. This was due in part to the solemnity of the occasion, but also because the plaza’s mosaic pavement had been covered by white flower petals-not roses, as it happened, but narrow chrysanthemum and jasmine petals. The thick, soft layer made for uncertain footing for his horse. The heavy scent of jasmine, stirred up by his mount’s hooves, was nearly overwhelming to both man and beast.

Upon reaching the boundary of the wizards’ garden, Tol paused and looked back at the palace. The vast pile of marble and granite, surrounded by drifts of flower petals, resembled a mountain rising from a field of snow. A shadow moved slowly across the columned facade. Tol shaded his eyes, and looked up. A small grayish cloud was drifting over the Inner City.

Strange. The sorcerers always maintained tight control of the weather over the palace, banishing all fog, rain, snow, or clouds. A cloud over the imperial residence was like a smear of mud on a spotless mantle-it shouldn’t be tolerated. Why weren’t the wizards doing their duty?

Then Tol remembered. Mandes had sought sanctuary in the Inner City. The stray cloud could be his doing. He was certainly a blot on the coronation.

After the teeming bustle in the streets and the regimented pomp of the plaza, the garden surrounding the Tower of High Sorcery seemed still as a graveyard. The first hints of autumn color were beginning to paint some trees, and Tol caught fleeting glimpses of wizards, some in red robes, some in white. All gave him a wide berth.

By day, the tower was almost too bright to bear. At regular intervals along its height, small cupolas sprouted from the main spire like buds on an apple tree branch. Oval blocks of translucent alabaster were set in the thick walls to provide light to the interior.

A line of golden chariots stood by the entrance. Each was drawn by a pair of white or bone-gray horses. All the farms around Daltigoth must have been emptied to assemble so many pale animals. Young charioteers stood by their conveyances. They were the sons and daughters of favored courtiers. Among them Tol recognized Talmaz, one of Valaran’s brothers.

A boy appeared to hold his reins, and Tol dismounted. At the door to the tower, a quartet of young wizards, arms folded over their chests, barred his way.

“No weapons within the tower,” said one. Tol surrendered his saber, along with the dagger he’d bought to replace the one lost in the sea at Thorngoth.

The great hall in the base of the tower was a fog of floral incense, so thick it seemed to catch in his throat. He smothered a cough with one fist. The silent crowd inside looked up when he entered.

Temporary cloth walls hanging from head-high frames divided the normally open space into small rooms and narrow passages. Around the tower’s interior were gathered the favored relatives and courtiers of the old and new emperors, easily identifiable by their distinctive colors. Chamberlain Valdid came forward.

“The Emperor awaits,” he said solemnly, directing Tol to the entrance into the corridor of screens.

Tol wondered which emperor he meant. The inhabitants of the Inner City made no distinction between the living ruler and the dead one.

As he wound his way along the passage, Tol gradually became aware of low chanting. The galleries above the circular hall were lined with wizards. The sound of the deep, repetitive chanting caused the hair on the back of his neck to bristle. As a youth he’d seen an assemblage of mages levitate huge building blocks into place for the foundation of this tower. Benign though the chant likely was, he was glad he carried the millstone.

Small alcoves appeared at intervals along the spiral passage.

In each of these someone close to Pakin III or Amaltar knelt, meditating. The wives of the late emperor appeared first, in descending order of precedence. Amaltar’s mother, who would have been the dowager empress, had died several years before. Even the youngest of Pakin III’s wives was old enough to be Tol’s mother.

After the imperial widows came Amaltar’s wives, from the newest, Lady Woriyan, to his first, Lady Thura. Tol’s heart beat a little faster as his progress brought him closer to Valaran, but before he reached what would be her place in the series, strong hands seized his arm and dragged him through a slit in the curtains.

Startled at first, Tol recovered, and fumbled to grab the wrists of his attacker. To his astonishment, he saw it was Valaran who’d pulled him aside.

“What-?” he began, only to be silenced by a stinging slap on the face.

“Do you know what you put me through?” she demanded in a fierce whisper. She was so close that he felt her warm breath on his face.

“Me? What have I done?” he protested, utterly at sea.

Hissing at him to keep his voice down, she drew back a few steps, whirled, and glared at him silently.