As work progressed, Miya entered the tent she shared with her sister to find Kiya already there. She was sorting through her scant belongings and had divided everything into four small piles.

“What are you doing?” Miya asked.

Kiya pointed to the first pile, which contained two good knives, a helmet, and a ring mail shirt. “This is for Eli, when he’s old enough,” she said. “That”-a pile of doeskin shifts, leggings, belts, and such-“is for you, Sister.”

Ignoring Miya’s demand for an explanation, Kiya pointed to the third pile, comprising personal items such as her tribal fetish, a carved ivory comb, and a nicely beaded vest.

“For our father,” she said.

She pivoted to point at the final pile, which contained her sword, scale shirt, and greaves. Miya let out a horrified yell.

Kiya’s long horsetail of blonde hair was gone. Her hair now ended raggedly at the nape of her neck.

The elder Dom-shu sister laid the thick hank of hair, tied with a leather thong, atop the last pile. “This,” she said evenly, “goes to our husband.”

Dom-shu warriors only cut their hair before a battle they did not expect to survive. The hair was offered as a sacrifice to Bran, god of the forest.

Miya grabbed her sister’s hands. “What are you thinking? You’ve been gloomy ever since I found you at Caergoth!”

“You found me? Since when does a rabbit track a fox?”

Miya bit off a reply, refusing to be baited. “Why are you in such a hurry to die?”

Brown eyes finally met brown eyes, and Kiya said, “Because the final battle is near. I feel it.”

Miya felt it, too, but not for herself or Kiya. Her chief worry was Tol. “Will Husband survive, do you think?” she asked in a low voice.

Kiya frowned and said, not unkindly, “If a mountain fell from the sky, that man would survive it.”

A skirl of horns interrupted them, announcing the arrival of the delegation from Daltigoth. Kiya rose and buckled on her sword. “You watch the guards, Sister,” she said. “I’ll keep an eye on the priests. Agreed?”

For the first time in many years, Miya felt like weeping. Under her sister’s stern gaze, she struggled to swallow the lump in her throat.

Kiya spun her around to face the door flap and gave her a rude shove. “Hurry up. Ever since you became a mother, you’ve gotten so fat and slow!”

Miya forced a smile and replied, “I’m not fat. I’m only rounded. You’re sharp angles all over. No one would want to hug you!”

It was a lie. She pulled Kiya to her, and they embraced.

The delegation from Daltigoth arrived as the sun was disappearing behind the city. The priests filled four horse-drawn wagons. They were accompanied by a dual line of horsemen. Torchlight showed the escort to be a rather nondescript group, wearing indifferent armor. They looked like provincial levies. Tol’s warlords had expected to see imperial Riders, men they knew, but these horsemen were strangers.

Seven priests descended from the first wagon. All were clad in long white robes, topped by brown, hooded surcoats. All but one were quite tall. That one, the eldest judging by his yellow-gray beard, wore a golden circlet on his head. He was supported by a priest with a clipped brown beard who wore a white turban.

The remainder of the clerics, twenty-three in all, wore robes of sky blue for Mishas, or silver and white for Draco Paladine. They arranged themselves respectfully behind the seven priests of Corij.

There was a tense moment as five hundred spearmen of the Juramona Militia moved in, interposing themselves between the priests and their escort. The priests talked amongst themselves, ending their whispered conclave when Tol and his warlords approached.

Tol greeted the elderly man with the circlet, and asked, “Do I have the honor of addressing Xanderel, high priest of Corij in Daltigoth?”

The old fellow bowed. “I am he.”

“I am Tolandruth of Juramona. Welcome.”

“Thank you, my lord. Shall we retire to your tent to speak?”

“No. Anything to be said will be said out here in the open, for all to hear.”

Xanderel looked distinctly uncomfortable. He insisted they remove to a more private location, but Zanpolo interrupted.

“Speak, priest, or depart!” the forked-bearded warlord snapped.

Xanderel flinched and glared at Zanpolo. Recovering his equanimity, Xanderel produced a slim scroll from his sleeve. “Hear the words of His Imperial Majesty, Ackal V,” he intoned.

Once again, he was interrupted. A lone figure limped out of the shadows. Head bandaged and right arm in a sling, Egrin looked pale as a specter.

“You should not be up and walking!” Miya exclaimed, hurrying him.

“I have a right to be here,” the old marshal rasped, looking to Tol.

Hiding a smile of pleasure, which he feared his old mentor might misconstrue as amusement, Tol said, “You’re welcome, my lord. Always.”

Egrin shuffled through the crowd and stood at Tol’s right hand. Tol told the priest to continue.

Xanderel began to read the parchment he held.

“ ‘To those warriors gathered outside the gate of my city, I, Ackal the Fifth, sovereign lord of the Empire my forefathers made, send you this greeting.’ ”

Weak though he was, Egrin shot a penetrating look at Tol, who nodded. The emperor did not call them an army-an army suggested a legitimate body.

“ ‘Since returning to Daltigoth in triumph, after leading my imperial army in battle to destroy the bakali invaders, I have learned that certain eastern warlords banded together to fight the nomad tribesmen who entered my realm to plunder and pillage. Though not under imperial command, these eastern warlords did manage to drive the savages out of the empire, and for this I commend them.’ ”

A murmur went through Tol’s followers. A promising beginning.

“ ‘Yet this was not enough for some malcontents. Guided by malice and greed, these warlords forcibly entered the imperial city of Caergoth, damaged my property, and wrought violence on the person of my governor, Lord Wornoth. These and other crimes are fully known to me.

“ ‘Now these malcontent lords have come to Daltigoth, not as humble petitioners to my imperial majesty, but in arms, as rebels.’ ”

Loud denials came from Mittigorn, Argonnel, and the rest, and Xanderel paused in his reading until the protestations subsided.

“ ‘Despite this treason, I, Ackal V, forgive you.’ ”

More shouting. Xanderel plunged on, reading faster. “ ‘I forgive all your transgressions against my majesty, including bearing arms against my loyal hordes. Further, I will meet with all those warlords from the east who so desire it, to further mitigate the grievances they imagine they have against the throne of Ergoth. All this, I, Ackal V, do grant, if-’ ”

Here it comes, Tol thought.

“ ‘-the living body of the criminal Tol of Juramona is delivered to me this night.’ ”

Xanderel lowered the scroll, his hands visibly shaking. The silence was so complete, the faint crackling of the numerous torches seemed loud.

None of the warlords wanted to turn Tol over to the emperor, but the offer of a full amnesty, backed by a personal hearing of the complaints that had brought them here, was extremely tempting.

For his part, Tol was impressed. The emperor’s strategy was cunning. Smiling wryly, he turned and said to his followers, “Well, must I leave now, or may I pack my bags first?”

He never heard the dagger being drawn. The tall, turbaned priest standing beside Xanderel drew the blade from inside his robe. Without sheath or scabbard to scrape against, it came out as quietly as death. The Dom-shu sisters, standing just behind Tol, saw the blade glint in the torchlight.

“Assassin!” Miya shouted, as Kiya reached for her saber.

Xanderel and four of the clerics threw themselves to the ground. The rest of the delegation produced daggers or short swords from beneath their robes and flung themselves at the nearest astonished warlords. Their mounted escort drew sabers and attacked the Juramona Militia.