Enkian looked at him stonily… “Put them under guard, but carefully! I must consider what this means.”

Kiya was likewise disarmed, and she and Tol were marched out. In the village square they were separated. Tol was taken to a small, stoutly built shed. The interior was dark, and the air smelled strongly of savory meat. A smokehouse.

The typical sounds of an army camp did not provide Tol with any clues as to what was going on. He wondered where Kiya was and what had happened to the couriers Enkian said had come before them. Having no answers, he soon fell asleep, his back against the smokehouse wall.

He awoke when a squeak told him the peg barring the door was being withdrawn. Orange flame blossomed in the doorway, revealing two warriors. One bore a torch, the other a drawn sword.

Tol was led from the shed into the fading light of dusk. The glow of Daltigoth was visible on the southern horizon. There, Egrin and his hordes waited, not so far away, but no help at all for Tol if Enkian decided to kill him.

His destination proved to be a modest farmhouse on the west side of the village square. The interior was a single room, similar to the hut Tol had grown up in, but larger. A meal was laid on the only table, and two chairs faced each other across the dinner. Enkian Tumult arrived just behind Tol.

“My lord,” he said. “You must be hungry. Sit.”

“Where is Kiya?” Tol asked tersely.

“She is well. My word on that.”

Tol studied the warden for a moment, then took the chair facing the door. Enkian tugged off his canvas gauntlets and sat opposite him.

“There are four guards outside. We won’t be disturbed. It’s time you knew what I know,” he said, pouring dark red wine for them both. “Shortly after word reached the Seascapes of the old emperor’s death, I received a second message, warning me of a plot by the Pakins to seize the throne. I was told to bring all the force I could muster to the capital. The plot was said to be deeply imbedded in the court, so I was to ignore all couriers and commands purporting to come from there and wait for the arrival of one trusted contact.”

“Warden, there is no Pakin plot. At least, none that I know of.”

Enkian’s dark eyes darted to him and back to the farmer’s clay pitcher. He set the pitcher down, his face a mask of doubt.

“The promised messenger has not come,” he said. “I thought you might have been sent in his place.”

“Who was supposed to meet you?”

“My son, Pelladrom.”

Tol set the wooden cup of wine down carefully and looked Enkian in the eye. “My lord, I have terrible news. Your son will not be coming. He is dead.”

Shock bloomed on the warden’s face, and Tol added, “Yes, dead-by my hand.”

Frigid silence. Enkian raised his own cup to his lips. His hand was shaking.

“Before-” His words came out hoarse, and he cleared his throat. “Before I summon the guards, tell me how it happened.”

Tol spoke of the riots, the unrest in the city, the various factions trying to influence the new emperor to favor their causes. He described the market square fight, and how he’d slain a masked rioter who later proved to be Pelladrom.

“I don’t understand. Why would my son embrace the Skylanders’ ridiculous cause?” Enkian demanded. “He lived his whole life in Daltigoth. Why should he care for the grievances of the provincial nobility?”

“I don’t think he did. I think he was using them for his own ends-or the ends of his unknown patron.” Tol chose his next words with care. “Your son was young, my lord, young and ardent. I believe he was part of a wider conspiracy to subvert the new emperor.”

He related the story of Ackal IV’s lingering illness and named Mandes as its likely source.

“My son would never submit to a sorcerer’s whim!” Enkian’s hands were clenched into white-knuckled fists.

Tol didn’t dare give voice to his idea that Prince Nazramin was the true head of the conspiracy. He said only that he didn’t think Mandes was the leader and then told of the sorcerer’s defeat by Elicarno, and Ackal’s order for his arrest, which resulted in Mandes fleeing the capital.

Enkian rose abruptly, sending his wooden chair toppling over backward. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. Slowly he drew himself up, folding his arms across his chest.

“As the head of an ancient and noble family, I should challenge you to a duel to avenge the death of my son,” he said.

The idea was gallant, but ridiculous. Enkian was twice Tol’s age, and had never been known as a fighter. It had been thirty years or more since he’d wielded a sword.

“However,” he continued in a weary voice, “my first duty is to the throne of Ergoth, and the rightful emperor who sits upon it.” The warden’s proud, pained tone softened. “I am aware that life in the capital corrupted my son. You have carefully avoided blaming anyone for leading him astray, and I won’t ask who you suspect. I am not without influence in Daltigoth. I myself will discover who is responsible!”

The knot of tension in Tol’s stomach relaxed slightly. “Then you believe me?”

“I’ve known you many years, Tolandruth. You’re clever, like most peasants, but you’re painfully honest, too. I shall make inquiries about my son’s demise, but I accept your basic account.”

For the first time in their acquaintance, Tol pitied the haughty warlord. Enkian plainly cared about his wayward son, but his loyalty to the empire was greater than his desire for revenge. Sadness welled in Tol’s heart. He asked what Enkian intended to do.

“Eat dinner,” was the reply, as the warden seated himself. “Tomorrow I shall send the Army of the Seascapes home, but I shall remain. Those who used my son will have cause to regret my coming to Daltigoth.”

Knowing his welcome was at an end, Tol excused himself. He inquired where he might find Kiya. The warden gulped wine and told him to ask the captain of the guard.

With a stiff salute, Tol departed. Outside, in the cooling air of evening, he let out the breath he’d been holding. He couldn’t believe he’d come out of this unscathed. Perhaps the Dom-shu sisters were right-maybe the gods did love him.

The captain of the guard detailed a man to lead him to Kiya. Enkian shouted for the captain as Tol and his guide departed.

Opening the door to the hut, the captain asked, “What do you require, my lord?”

“Wine. More wine.”

A soldier was sent to fetch a fresh pitcher. Given the look on his warden’s face, the captain knew it would be a long, sodden night. He wondered what ill news had arrived with Lord Tolandruth.

Alone, Enkian hacked at the capons on the trencher before him. They were underdone, flesh pink with blood. The sight sickened him, and he pushed the plate away. He drained his wine cup for the fifth time. Since his guest had left his own portion untouched, he drained Tol’s cup, too.

The door creaked open behind him. “About time,” he growled. “I hope you brought a cask!”

A hand clamped over his mouth, and a powerful arm encircled his neck. Startled, the warden tried to rise, but a dagger suddenly plunged into his side. The comfortable velvet tunic was no barrier to the keen point. Enkian’s scream was muffled against the clutching hand.

Twice more the dagger struck, and with the last thrust, something gave way. Enkian went limp. His attacker released him. The door rasped open, then quietly shut again.

The warden was slumped on the table, eyes staring at the undercooked birds. A faint hiss of breath escaped his lips one last time.

The captain of the guard returned moments later with the farmer who owned the hut. The farmer bore a small cask of berry wine in his arms.

“My lord,” the captain called, rapping his knuckles on the door. “Your wine is here.”

There was no sound from inside. The captain called again, with the same result. He opened the door.