Tol growled an oath and seized Wornoth by the front of his gown. The governor was a slight man, shorter even than Tol himself, and Tol easily hoisted him up on his toes.

“The empire has been delivered into the hands of a fiend!” he hissed. “I can’t believe the Great Horde or the Imperial Council would accept Nazramin on the throne!”

“But they have, and without dissent! Unhand me, my lord. Please!”

Tol released him, thoughts racing ahead to Daltigoth. He had to go there quickly-to try to save the situation, or at the very least, to collect Valaran and the Dom-shu sisters. Anyone close to Tol was certain to feel Nazramin’s wrath.

He took hold of Wornoth’s arm, squeezing it painfully. “Listen to me,” he said in a very low voice. “You will continue to feed and house as many of the refugees as you can. Is that clear? If I hear of you mistreating them or neglecting their needs, I’ll come back and kill you myself. Nod if you understand me.”

White-faced, Wornoth nodded.

“Say it.”

“I will help the refugees with every resource at my command!”

Tol let him go. The governor drew back, massaging his abused arm.

Moving swiftly, Tol went to the governor’s stable, to claim a fresh horse. There he spotted the same captain of the guard who’d admitted him to the city.

“Captain, these poor folk outside-what’s driven them so far from home?”

“I’ve spoken to many of them, my lord, and their tales are as one. They say invaders have landed on the northeast coast and pushed inland, displacing everyone in their path.”

“What sort of invaders?”

The soldier frowned. “That isn’t clear. Some say black-skinned seafarers. Others blame the Silvanesti, though why elves would land by sea when they could march up from the south and do the same thing…” He shook his head. “A few claim the invaders are not men, but arkudenala.”

The archaic word meant “sons of the dragon.”

Tol scowled. “What in Corij’s name do they mean by that?”

The captain didn’t know. He asked if Tol wished to question the refugees, but Tol had no time. Instead he asked the captain to swear that if the governor stopped feeding and clothing the refugees, he would send word immediately to Tol in Daltigoth.

Flattered by the great Lord Tolandruth’s trust, the guardsman readily agreed.

Tol departed for the capital with no fixed plan in mind. He knew only that Nazramin had to be confronted. There wasn’t a moment to lose.

Streams of haggard people, shuffling in tight lines into the city, looked up as a war-horse passed by. One of the Ergothian soldiers helping to keep order said, “There goes Lord Tolandruth. He took the governor by the throat and forced him let you vagabonds into the city!”

Some of the refugees raised a ragged cheer, but Tol was so focused on his thoughts he did not hear them.

It would be the last cheer he would receive for many a day.

No admiring mob greeted Tol when he reached Daltigoth. The winter day was done, and the eerie blue twilight that comes to snow-covered land had fallen. Tol approached the Dragon Gate. This late, only the postern was open. Unlike most such gates, this postern was large enough to pass a coach-and-four. A crackling bonfire blazed outside the gate. Three soldiers huddled by it, trying to keep away the chill.

They didn’t hear Tol until he was nearly on them. Deep snow muffled his horse’s hooves, and the snap of burning wood blotted out the creak of harness. The fall of snow had stopped, and Luin played hide-and-seek behind the clouds; the land was alternately dark and washed in the moon’s pale, scarlet light.

One of the soldiers reluctantly left the fire and asked his name. Tol replied, “Narren, Bakal’s son. From the Fourth Company of the Red Hawk Horde.”

The Red Hawks were quartered in the city. Between the uncertain light and his bulky fur hood, he counted on the guards not recognizing him.

The soldier didn’t think very hard about it, only waved him along.

Tol looked up at the lofty walls. “How fares the city?”

“Quiet as a cemetery.” The soldier hunched his shoulders and returned to the fire.

Tol rode slowly on, pondering the guard’s choice of words. Had there been no resistance to Nazramin’s coup? No fights in the street, or marketplace brawls? There were folk in Daltigoth who would riot over the rising price of a loaf of bread. Hadn’t the usurpation of the throne stirred anyone enough to fight for their country?

Daltigoth seemed empty as Tol traversed the snow-choked streets. Unlike Caergoth, the capital’s streets hadn’t been cleared. As much as anything, the weather must have kept the city quiet. It was hard to work up enthusiasm for rioting when snow lay knee-deep on the ground.

He expected to find the Inner City locked down tight, with Nazramin’s minions on the gates. Instead, all seemed as usual: the night gate was open, and dismounted members of the Horse Guards stood watch. Giving them a false name was out of the question, but if they now owed allegiance to Nazramin, there might be trouble. Number Six was under his fur cape, pommel turned out for easy drawing.

“My lord, welcome back!” one of the guards said. He saluted with his dagger and stood aside.

Tol shifted uneasily on his saddle.

“All is well?” he asked.

“As well as could be expected.”

“How fares the emperor?”

“Hale and hearty as always, my lord.”

That sounded strange, but Tol hadn’t asked which emperor, so he rode on. After leaving his horse at the imperial stable, he climbed the south steps of the palace. Racks of torches blazed on either side of the door, and more soldiers stood watch. They passed Tol in without demur.

A servant in the antechamber took his outer furs. “The emperor expects you, my lord,” the servant said.

Again Tol wondered, which emperor? He made no reply, just stalked to the evening hall, where the master of the empire received his guests after sundown.

He ran straight into a sizable gang of armed men. They were not regular soldiers, and seeing their hard, unfriendly faces, Tol recognized Nazramin’s Wolves, as the prince’s private gang of thugs were known in the city.

His hand dropped to his sword hilt. There were twenty-six of them, he counted quickly. Twenty-six to one.

“My lord,” said a Wolf with black eyes and two parallel scars on his left cheek. “You are expected. Give over your sword, please.”

Tol weighed his chances. He might get seven or eight of them if he was lucky, but the rest would certainly hack him to pieces. Number Six was relinquished.

Two-Scars smiled unpleasantly, stood aside, and with a mocking sweep of his hand, bade Tol proceed.

The evening hall was brilliantly lit and stiflingly hot. Every available sconce held a burning torch, and a great heap of coals glowed in the massive fireplace at the rear of the room. Near the hearth, half a dozen robed figures clustered around the throne of Ergoth. As Tol approached, the group parted, revealing the occupant of the throne. Tol felt the breath go out of his chest.

Nazramin.

Though dressed in the deep scarlet emperor’s robe, Nazramin did not yet wear the imperial circlet. “Ah, Lord Pig Farmer,” he said. “Good of you to come.”

“I came to see the emperor.”

“You see him now.”

The men flanking the throne were introduced as Nazramin’s chamberlain, the commander of the city hordes, and so on. Tol knew none of them.

“Where is Ackal IV?” he asked coldly.

“With the gods. He perished in an apoplectic fit five days ago. Tragic.”

“What of his son, Crown Prince Hatonar?”

“The boy wisely ceded his claim to me. The empire must be ruled by men of strong will and hard purpose, not children.”

Tol’s countenance was so eloquent of barely contained outrage that the councilors nearest him edged away.