Fergox gave ground until he had his back to a pillar swathed in red cloth.

With a swipe he cut the cord and the cloth fell down in folds, burying Ramil's sword. Before the

Prince could get it free, Fergox thrust at his heart. Ramil dived, feeling the blade nick his left

arm. He rolled, now weaponless, his sword still caught up in the cloth. A soldier behind him

moved forward to finish him off.

"Leave him!" barked Fergox. "He's mine."

Ramil sprang to his feet and sprinted back to the throne.

"Pathetic!" Fergox laughed. "Still clinging to power, are we, Prince?"

Ramil kicked the chair over and picked up a short spear from among the weapons he had hidden

there. He levelled it on his shoulder, knowing he had only one shot before Fergox ran him

through. The warlord

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charged, mouth open in a yell. Ramil threw his spear. It struck Fergox in the throat, above his

breastplate, cutting off the cry.

"We never did finish best of three, did we?" Ramil said.

The warlord staggered, then stopped, the sword clanging on the floor as his arms lost all

strength. He swayed, then fell backwards, a look of shock on his face.

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With a shout of fury, the soldiers rushed forward to avenge their commander.

Ramil swept up Fergox's sword and leapt back on the dais to defend himself. A soldier swiped at

his legs, catching him on the calf. Ramil cut him down with a back stroke. His slave supporters

burst from their hiding place in the robing room; arrows hissed from overhead. Bloody

confusion reigned as fighters exchanged blows and some cut down their own side in mistaken

frenzy. When Ramil was finally able to lean on his sword, surrounded by the dead, he saw that

he had lost many of his men, including the surly man who had challenged his authority on that

first day in the market. He had turned out to be a fierce and loyal fighter and left a family in

eastern Holt. Others lay there, each with his own history, united only by their belief in Ramil's

promise to offer them a better life.

Ramil bowed his head in respect, vowing to fulfil their expectations if he survived the day, then

limped to the door.

"Toll the bell," he ordered one of his men.

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The great bell of Tigral began to boom--the prearranged signal that Fergox was dead. Ramil

thought he could hear faint cheering around the palace. He stepped through the open door and

looked down into the courtyard.

The killing had gone on here too. As ordered, Yelena and her troops had engaged the army as it

entered the courtyard. The rebels had been losing ground against the best-disciplined of

Fergox's soldiers when a mass of purple-robed horsemen had appeared out of nowhere,

sweeping through the North Gate. Galloping into the courtyard, they had been like a scythe

through corn, cutting down the warlord's men. A small band resisted, fighting back to back

surrounded by the bodies of their comrades, harried from all sides by slave fighters and the

ruthless men of the Horse Followers.

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Ramil gave a shrill whistle. Gradually, the rebels heard the signal and stepped back, their

weapons red with blood.

"Soldiers!" Ramil shouted, brandishing the warlord's sword. "Fergox Spearthrower lies dead on the steps to his throne. This battle is over. Put down your weapons and I will be merciful. Carry

on fighting and it will be to your deaths."

One soldier howled with rage and threw himself at the large chieftain of the Horse Followers.

Before he even reached him, the soldier died with a kitchen knife in his back, thrown by the

resistance-friendly cook. This seemed to convince the others. They dropped their weapons.

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Ramil nodded. "Good. Yelena, take the prisoners to the barracks."

The Dark Prince gazed around his kingdom. What a way to start his new order: men lying in

bloody heaps, limbs severed, the wounded groaning.

The wounded. The thought prompted him back into action.

"Sir Cook!" he shouted to the knife thrower. "Can you gather some men and see to the

wounded, please? Tell Professor Norling that we treat friend and foe alike."

Professor Norling jumped down from the wall, where he had been expertly firing a crossbow for

the last half hour, and rolled up his sleeves.

"Professor Norling wouldn't let you have it any other way," he muttered.

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The chieftain dismounted and walked up to Ramil, leading a familiar blue roan by the bridle. The

prince thought that in his exhaustion he might be hallucinating: Thunder here? But how?

"Greetings, Grandson. I haven't seen you since you were a baby and I must say you've turned

out well." Zaradan gestured to the conquered palace. "A credit to your family. My daughter,

Zarai, would have been proud."

"Thank you, Grandfather," Ramil said faintly, remembering the tales of his mother's father, the Umni of the Horse Followers, and of his presence at Ramil's naming ceremony. What he was

doing here now Ramil could not even begin to guess. "Your decision to come for a family

reunion was very well timed."

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Zaradan smiled, his white teeth gleaming. "That wasn't my idea. I am here merely as a

messenger. Tashi sends her love and returns your horse."

Ramil swayed with shock at this news. Zaradan let go of Thunder's reins and caught his stunned

grandson to his chest, feeling him shake with laughter mixed with sobs.

Thunder trotted forward and gave Ramil a nudge with his nose, checking his rider was all right.

"Oh yes, Tashi told him to take care of you," said Zaradan, laughing. "Not my idea either."

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Chapter 21

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Two weeks into Tashi's sentence, the peace in the Courts of the Goddess was disturbed by the

arrival of exiles from Holt. Four women and assorted children had been accommodated in the

pilgrims' quarters in the palace, separated from the devotees only by a grille. Tashi watched

them closely as they moved among the pilgrims, keeping themselves aloof from the

Islanders. They appeared to be led by a formidable grey-haired woman dressed in white

mourning robes and took no part in the worship in the Enclosure.

Of course if they were from Holt, they would no more worship the Goddess than a goat, Tashi

told herself. But what were they doing here? And why had the Crown Princesses decided to

lodge them somewhere that must be

offensive to their Easterner sensibilities? Her obligation of silence prevented her from asking.

Each day for a week she lingered by the grille, hoping to have her curiosity satisfied.

Strange, it was the first time she had felt anything

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but despair since being sentenced to spend the rest of her life here. They represented to her a

link to the outside world--to the land where she hoped Ramil still lived. And from what she

gathered from the twitter of voices around the white-robed woman, the Holtish exiles were

bitter, complaining about everything from their beds to the food, deeply suspicious of the

intentions of their hosts.

Her silent observation did not go unnoticed by the four women as they sat over their desultory

attempts at embroidery. On the eighth day, their own curiosity got the better of them and the

grey-haired one strode forward to the grille to challenge the young woman hovering there.

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"What do you want?" she snapped.