She shook her head and squeezed her eyelids shut so tightly her vision was blurred when she opened them again, but the cloud-people remained, staring implacably down on the enormous field of battle. This was no time to mention such a thing. The black-bearded plainsman was aiming another cut at her, so she brought up her sword and slashed him from neck to waist.

“I’m all right!” she shouted, pushing Tol away.

The nomads who had been cut off on the Great Green side of the meadow were annihilated. The remainder rode hard for the Isle of Elms. Whooping with victory, the Ergothians spurred after them, but when they neared the trees the pursuers faced a new attack.

Nomads on foot-women, children, and wounded warriors-concealed within the safety of the elms launched arrows, as well as deadly accurate stones from slings. Too many Ergothian saddles were emptied before Tol could make his jubilant men withdraw. The hordes moved out of range and mustered on the plain in full view of the shattered, exhausted nomads hiding in the trees.

A call sounded from the high-pitched Tarsan trumpets. Not knowing what the signal meant, Tol ordered his men to hold their places while he went to see what the Tarsans wanted.

The mercenaries were drawn up in a hollow square when Tol reached them. Captain Anovenax and several others knelt in the center of the square. The Tarsans parted ranks to allow Tol and Kiya to ride in.

“A brisk fight!” Tol declared. “Well done, Captain!”

At that moment, Hanira’s bodyguard Fenj stepped aside and Tol realized the focus of the kneeling group was a supine figure: Valderra. Her gilded breastplate was pierced through and stained red, her young face waxen in the harsh sunshine. Helmetless, her short golden hair was sweat-slicked and filthy. Captain Anovenax gently closed her staring eyes, his expression eloquent. He wept silently, but without shame.

Tol murmured, “I’m sorry, Syndic. What happened?”

“Too many foes, too little skill.” Hanira looked up, and her face seemed to have aged a decade.

A whirlwind of dust announced the arrival of a quartet of Ergothians. The lead Rider brought Egrin’s greetings, and the news that Tol was needed for a council of battle.

Tol acknowledged the message, and finally noticed Kiya. Her chin was stained with dried blood from a lower lip cut and growing puffy. More blood sprinkled her buckskin shirt. She was looking up at the sky dazedly.

He asked if she was well, and she assured him she was. Still concerned, Tol told her to remain here. Surprisingly, she agreed without argument.

Once Tol had ridden away to join the war council, Kiya glanced again at the sky, but the clouds were only clouds now. The images she had seen during the battle were gone.

When she looked down again, Kiya saw Hanira and her bodyguard had gone. Captain Anovenax had covered Valderra with his own golden mantle and was still kneeling beside her, holding her hand. His unembarrassed emotion surprised her. Ergothian warlords prided themselves on their hardened feelings, as did Dom-shu warriors. Apparently, Tarsans did not. Dismounting, she led her pony over to the grieving man.

“I sorrow for your loss,” she said. “The syndic has departed?”

“She had to take her leave.” Tindyll’s voice was hoarse, freighted with terrible sadness. “Her sorrow is very great.”

Kiya had never much liked Hanira. She muttered, “Off to hire a new herald, I suppose.”

The captain gave her a dark-eyed glare. “You don’t understand,” he said, choking. “Valderra was not merely her herald. She was Hanira’s daughter.”

Chapter 16

Ten thousand mounted warriors crowded the square before the imperial palace, completely covering the mosaic of Ackal Ergot’s victories that decorated its vast surface. They were arrayed in two huge blocks, separated by a narrow avenue. Drawn from the city’s garrison, they represented a quarter of Daltigoth’s defenders. Their scarlet mantles were like a sea of blood; their polished iron helmets gleamed. Lining the steps and stone plinths on either side of the palace doors were a thousand drummers, pounding in unison. The thunderous booming reverberated off the walls of the Inner City and shook the palace down to its foundation. High above the scene, watching from a turret window, Valaran could feel the drumming through the soles of her slippers, feel it in her very bones.

It might have been a stirring sight, glorious and terrible, but Valaran knew only a growing, suffocating sense of desperation. Two days had passed since the emperor’s sudden recovery of mental clarity. His energy in that time had been breathtaking. Man by man, he had culled the garrison of its best warriors, made battle plans with his warlords-the ones he hadn’t banished or executed-and ordered a huge amount of food and arms from the imperial stores. He also reversed a lax trend in his household and forbade his family to set foot outside their private quarters.

Yet another custom dating back to Ackal Ergot’s day-the confining of the empress, consorts, and their children-had begun as a means to protect the imperial family, and preserve the purity of the dynasty’s bloodline. But Ackal V invoked the Purity Sanction to prevent Valaran from intriguing behind his back. She couldn’t be certain exactly what he knew about her plotting, and the uncertainty was maddening. As with all his enemies, he used her doubt to keep her off balance.

Now he passed two calm evenings with his wives and children, playing the role of good husband and stern father. Valaran found his insincere serenity more unbearable than his casual cruelty, for it left her in an agony of suspense, never knowing when his mood might shift and he would order some new outrage. He took Crown Prince Dalar on his lap while continuing a conversation with his other children, and Valaran’s blood ran cold. Seeing her son in his hands was like watching the boy menaced by a deadly serpent. The question wasn’t if Dalar would get hurt, but when.

At the end of last night’s family dinner, Ackal V had risen from the table at last-his appetite had been prodigious since the breaking of Mandes’s spell-and called for Tathman. The Wolf captain arrived and stood by his master, a silent, hulking menace. Then Ackal addressed his family.

“I leave tomorrow to destroy the invaders,” he announced. “But you need not fear. In my absence, both the Purity Sanction and my Wolves will ensure your safety. I could not face the enemy without knowing all I hold is safe.”

Valaran fumed silently. Not only was he imprisoning her in the palace, he was setting his killers to watch over her. Tathman’s men would not dare lay hands on her, but her every action would be reported to the emperor.

Ackal took up a golden goblet filled with nectar. He drank it slowly, as though savoring the liquid’s delicate flavor. He was up to something, keeping them together like this. Valaran could see in his eyes it was the continuing suspense he savored, not the drink. Finally, he let the other boot drop.

“Crown Prince Dalar will accompany me.”

“Sire, no!” Valaran was on her feet before she was even aware of having moved.

His false smile vanished. “The boy goes where I say he goes! He will see his first campaign, and what better place for that than with his father?”

Valaran could barely remember the rest of that horrible evening. Ackal’s decision was unprecedented, his motives hardly paternal. Dalar, so small, so fragile, was to be a hostage to her good behavior. More than ever she thought the emperor must have learned of her seditious activities. Since recovering his wits, he had been closeted with advisors, spy-masters, and unsavory practitioners of magic. Had he divined the cause of his own madness-the same evil he’d visited on his own brother, Ackal IV?