“Give my regards to Lord Regobart,” Tol said, naming the commander of the imperial outpost near Tarsis.

“I will convey your greetings.” Smiling slightly she added, “I seldom see him, you know. I make him nervous.”

“Small wonder,” Kiya muttered.

Hanira urged her horse forward a few paces, until she was close alongside Tol. Her smooth expression altered for a moment. “Beware, my lord,” she murmured. “You are galloping hard to a precipice. Daltigoth is a maelstrom from which you may not emerge alive.”

She was the second person this evening to tell him that. Shrugging, he said, “I’ve managed to escape death there before.”

Hanira clasped his arm, warrior-fashion. “Live, my lord. The world needs you.”

At Captain Anovenax’s order, the Tarsans wheeled left and trotted away. Hanira turned her ebony steed smartly on its hind legs and cantered after them.

The Dom-shu were not impressed, muttering aloud that the Tarsan syndic was a “conniving wench,” among other things.

“She seeks some advantage,” Miya insisted. She knew the art of dealing better than anyone. “If you succeed, her position as your friend and ally is stronger than ever.”

“But what does she want?” Kiya mused. “Not Husband as mate, I’d wager.”

Miya shook her head. “She wants to rule Tarsis, that’s what I think. With Husband’s help, she could get rid of all the princes and syndics, and reign as queen of Tarsis.”

“You two are so wise!” Tol snapped. “Hanira didn’t have to come to our aid. She paid for her good deed with her own child’s life!”

Chastened, the Dom-shu sisters apologized and left him. He had given them the task of organizing supplies for the ride to Daltigoth.

As the dust kicked up by the Tarsan cavalry settled, Tol stared southwest-the route they’d taken along the banks of the Caer. In the distance, lightning shimmered across the deep purple sky.

The sisters had unknowingly touched a sore spot. Tol wasn’t certain they were wrong about Hanira. But at that moment, he felt she had as much chance of becoming Queen of the Red Moon as Queen of Tarsis.

Valaran held the tiny slip of parchment to the lamp flame. It curled and blackened as fire consumed it. She had read the message three times just to be certain she’d not imagined it.

Tol was coming.

She’d managed to place a spy close to him, and now knew even what road he would take. The fear that had been her constant companion for so long faded somewhat. For the first time in a very long time, Valaran allowed herself the luxury of wondering what he was like, whether he’d changed.

Almost seven years had passed. In that time she’d borne a child, learned to govern an empire, and survived the cruel machinations of her unpredictable husband. And she had killed an old woman.

In spite of her room’s warmth, Valaran shivered. She’d learned much in seven years. What had Tol learned?

Wornoth’s opulent quarters had been ransacked by servants and palace guards when the city fell. Fine tapestries had been torn down. Furniture too heavy to move had been chopped apart by swords and axes. What remained of Wornoth’s personal treasure had been stored in the dungeon below, for safekeeping, but random coins were scattered across the ruined, dark blue carpet like a rain of gold. Egrin was disgusted as much by the waste as by the unseemly extravagance of the governor’s rooms.

Searching through the destruction, he found several strongboxes, broken open and empty. The iron key fit none of them. Not until Egrin reached Wornoth’s bedroom did he find what he sought.

The bedchamber had received the same treatment as the rest of the rooms. The white walls had been stripped of tapestries and paintings, the furniture hacked by sabers, the broad mattress cut to ribbons. Heavy sculptures had been toppled and lay in pieces amidst shredded blue silk bed curtains. Eiderdown stuffing covered the floor and clouds of fluff swirled upward, disturbed by Egrin’s passage.

His toes bumped something solid as he reached the great bed. Egrin knelt and carefully brushed away an eiderdown drift. In the center of the wooden bedrail, he found a small slot, rimmed in black iron and hard to spot. The key fit perfectly. A click, and a drawer slid smoothly out.

The secret cache held no gold or silver, but bundles of parchment tied with string and a thick-bladed short sword. Egrin opened one of the bundles and discovered a series of dispatches from the emperor to Governor Wornoth. The last few messages were terse and to the point: Where was Tol? Was he coming to Caergoth? What had Wornoth done to defend the city?

Egrin dug deeper into the bundle. The earlier communications were much longer and wilder, sounding like the ramblings of a deranged man. In them, Ackal V railed about treachery, particularly from wizards of the Red and White orders. The emperor insisted over and over to Wornoth that, above all other tasks, he was to keep an eye on the members of those orders in Caergoth.

The next discovery was much more upsetting-a packet of messages to Wornoth from various warlords. These outlined the warlords’ struggles against the nomads and the bakali and requested that the governor send troops and supplies. As time passed and Wornoth sent neither, the requests became demands, then pleas. One dispatch from Bessian was literally spattered with blood. The invaders were closing in, it said, and the Ergothians could neither win nor escape; the governor must send aid. The governor of Caergoth, determined to defend his own neck, had done nothing to aid the dying hordes. This bundle contained no copies of outgoing missives. Wornoth had not even bothered to reply.

Coldly furious, Egrin put the pleading messages aside. The smallest bundle in the cache was not merely tied with string but also wrapped in a scrap of cloth. Egrin reached for this packet of letters, but it slipped through his fingers. He tried again. And again. And again. He glared at the bundle in perplexed confusion. No matter how hard he tried, he could not grab hold of it.

When Tol arrived moments later, Egrin told him of the strange small packet.

“I seem to have butter on my fingers. Can’t pick this up!” the former marshal said, pointing.

Tol squatted by the open drawer. He reached for the packet. Although a flicker of heat played over his fingers, they closed infallibly on the letters. The sensation of warmth was familiar. Someone had put a spell on the letters, most likely to prevent them being tampered with, but the nullstone had negated the spell.

He handed the small packet to Egrin, who held it warily. This time it stayed in his grasp. The elder warrior muttered something about being old and clumsy.

“Rubbish, you’re just tired,” Tol said.

The cloth wrapping contained a dozen or so squares of thin parchment. The backs of the slips were scorched by heat, but lines of writing in unusual brown ink filled the other side. None of the messages was signed.

“Letters from spies,” Egrin said.

The messages all were short, and most were demands for information from an anonymous correspondent. None concerned the nomads or bakali invaders. Some asked about the morale and loyalty of the imperial hordes in Caergoth and commented on the danger of sending troops beyond the walls and leaving the city “helpless and unguarded.” Most sought knowledge of Tol’s whereabouts; Helbin, too, was mentioned.

I’ve had no word from Helbin in many days, the anonymous correspondent had written. If he comes into your hands, let me know at once. Protect him. He is a valuable ally.

“Didn’t Queen Casberry say Helbin had been captured by Wornoth’s guards?” asked Egrin.