The Wizard's Fate

Chapter 13

The villa was alive with activity when Tol returned. Egrin and his retinue, in full battle gear, were arrayed in the front court. The Dom-shu sisters had donned their best outfits and were pinning strips of white cloth to their sleeves.

“Where’ve you been, husband?” Miya demanded. “There’s much to do, and you go off wandering in the middle of the night!”

“What’s happening?” he asked.

“The funeral is today!” Kiya said. At the same time, Miya declared, “The coronation is today!”

A herald had come to the villa just after sunrise with a message for Lord Tolandruth. Egrin had accepted it in his stead. The message prompted the marshal to rouse everyone in the villa, ordering them to prepare for the grand dual ceremony.

Tol sought his old friend.

Egrin explained, “The emperor, in consultation with his privy council and the college of wizards, has declared this to be the day he will be crowned.” Looking somewhat embarrassed, he added in a lower voice, “It was felt the emperor would be safer if he is crowned before Enkian Tumult arrives.”

He handed Tol a flattened tube of parchment. “There was a personal message for you as well.”

By order of His Majesty Ackal IV, Tol read silently, Lord Tolandruth will present himself at the imperial palace at once.

Exhausted by the long and eventful night during which he’d slept only briefly, Tol stared blindly at the terse summons. What did it mean?

Egrin took the parchment from his slack fingers and said gently, “The women have prepared your gear. Go inside, my lord, and they will assist you.”

Miya and Kiya were in the entry hall, standing by neat piles of armor.

“Time to make ready, Husband!” Kiya boomed.

Wearily, he nodded. He started to undress, but was so listless and slow Miya clucked her tongue and took over the task herself.

She chided him for his gallivanting ways, then added more softly, “Did you do what you sought to do?”

Tol shook his head. “He wasn’t home.”

“Never mind. Justice will catch Master Mandes in time.”

Miya stripped him down to his breechnap, and Kiya took a wet sponge to his back. Tol felt like horse being groomed. He was so tired, his head swimming with thoughts of Mandes, Nazramin, and the coming coronation, that he bore the sisters’ ministrations in silence.

Soon they were buckling him into his newly polished armor. A kilt of mourning white was fastened around his waist, and a snowy mantle of gilt-edged silk secured to rivets on his pauldrons. Lastly, Kiya passed his sword belt around his waist and fastened it so the dwarf-forged saber hung at his left hand.

The sisters stood back to admire their work.

“His eyes are red,” Miya remarked, frowning.

Kiya shrugged. “Can’t help that.” She limped in closer and adjusted the drape of Tol’s mantle. Still not satisfied, she grumbled, “What can you do-one shoulder is bigger than the other!”

“His sword arm,” Miya agreed sagely. “Husband, in the future try to use your left arm more.”

He had to smile at that. “I’ll try.”

Egrin had promised to send a replacement from Juramona for Tol’s beloved mount Shadow. In the meantime, the marshal’s men had groomed and saddled their best horse for Tol. The Juramona contingent was drawn up in formation, one man holding the horse’s reins. With a clash of iron, they saluted and cried in unison, “Long live the Emperor!”

Long live Amaltar indeed, Tol thought. So much depended on his continued existence-not merely Tol’s life, but the lives of all his friends and companions, not to mention the stability and welfare of the entire empire.

He swung into the saddle. Kiya whispered to her sister, and Miya hurried to Tol, one hand concealed behind her back.

“Husband, this is-” She reddened. “This is for you!”

She held out a large, splendidly formed white rose, cut from the villa’s roof garden. Tol was touched, and amused. The Dom-shu were not the types to give flowers. He was sure they had competed to see who would present him with the rose, and Miya had lost.

He took the beautiful flower from her and slipped its shortened stem under one of his cuirass straps. The flower’s head was nearly as broad as his hand, yet its aroma wasn’t overpowering.

With a wave, he led his honor guard out of the courtyard into the sunny morning.

Every street, every lane in the city was alive with activity. Windows and doors bore twin swatches of colored cloth, white for the late Pakin III, red for the new emperor, Ackal IV. Detachments of City Guards had taken up positions along the route Amaltar would traverse from outside the walls to the Inner City, keeping the way clear of onlookers. Already an army of pushcarts had appeared, their owners peddling tidbits and trinkets to the gathering crowd. The air was alive with excitement, half-anxious, half-festive. It was a contagious feeling. By the time Tol had ridden a quarter-league, his fatigue was gone, vanquished by the tonic of this great event.

The gate of the Inner City was closed and barred. A small postern gate beside it was open and manned by Imperial Horse Guards, dismounted for the moment. They hailed Tol.

“Go at once, my lord!” said the captain of the guard. “His Majesty awaits in the Tower of High Sorcery!”

Tol rode on. Egrin and his men remained outside.

The Imperial Plaza was a forest of alternating red and white standards. The banners hung limply in the still air. A wide lane led through them, from the great gate to the center of the plaza. There the path forked, one branch leading to the wizards’ enclave, the other to the steps of the imperial palace. Guards marched and countermarched from the palace to the Riders’ Hall on the far side of the plaza.

At the Riders’ Hall, warlords from every corner of the empire were collecting; red, rather than white, predominated in their attire. The tide of observance was turning from mourning for the dead ruler to celebration of the living one.

Tol rode to the Tower of High Sorcery at a measured pace. This was due in part to the solemnity of the occasion, but also because the plaza’s mosaic pavement had been covered by white flower petals-not roses, as it happened, but narrow chrysanthemum and jasmine petals. The thick, soft layer made for uncertain footing for his horse. The heavy scent of jasmine, stirred up by his mount’s hooves, was nearly overwhelming to both man and beast.

Upon reaching the boundary of the wizards’ garden, Tol paused and looked back at the palace. The vast pile of marble and granite, surrounded by drifts of flower petals, resembled a mountain rising from a field of snow. A shadow moved slowly across the columned facade. Tol shaded his eyes, and looked up. A small grayish cloud was drifting over the Inner City.

Strange. The sorcerers always maintained tight control of the weather over the palace, banishing all fog, rain, snow, or clouds. A cloud over the imperial residence was like a smear of mud on a spotless mantle-it shouldn’t be tolerated. Why weren’t the wizards doing their duty?

Then Tol remembered. Mandes had sought sanctuary in the Inner City. The stray cloud could be his doing. He was certainly a blot on the coronation.

After the teeming bustle in the streets and the regimented pomp of the plaza, the garden surrounding the Tower of High Sorcery seemed still as a graveyard. The first hints of autumn color were beginning to paint some trees, and Tol caught fleeting glimpses of wizards, some in red robes, some in white. All gave him a wide berth.

By day, the tower was almost too bright to bear. At regular intervals along its height, small cupolas sprouted from the main spire like buds on an apple tree branch. Oval blocks of translucent alabaster were set in the thick walls to provide light to the interior.

A line of golden chariots stood by the entrance. Each was drawn by a pair of white or bone-gray horses. All the farms around Daltigoth must have been emptied to assemble so many pale animals. Young charioteers stood by their conveyances. They were the sons and daughters of favored courtiers. Among them Tol recognized Talmaz, one of Valaran’s brothers.

A boy appeared to hold his reins, and Tol dismounted. At the door to the tower, a quartet of young wizards, arms folded over their chests, barred his way.

“No weapons within the tower,” said one. Tol surrendered his saber, along with the dagger he’d bought to replace the one lost in the sea at Thorngoth.

The great hall in the base of the tower was a fog of floral incense, so thick it seemed to catch in his throat. He smothered a cough with one fist. The silent crowd inside looked up when he entered.

Temporary cloth walls hanging from head-high frames divided the normally open space into small rooms and narrow passages. Around the tower’s interior were gathered the favored relatives and courtiers of the old and new emperors, easily identifiable by their distinctive colors. Chamberlain Valdid came forward.

“The Emperor awaits,” he said solemnly, directing Tol to the entrance into the corridor of screens.

Tol wondered which emperor he meant. The inhabitants of the Inner City made no distinction between the living ruler and the dead one.

As he wound his way along the passage, Tol gradually became aware of low chanting. The galleries above the circular hall were lined with wizards. The sound of the deep, repetitive chanting caused the hair on the back of his neck to bristle. As a youth he’d seen an assemblage of mages levitate huge building blocks into place for the foundation of this tower. Benign though the chant likely was, he was glad he carried the millstone.

Small alcoves appeared at intervals along the spiral passage.

In each of these someone close to Pakin III or Amaltar knelt, meditating. The wives of the late emperor appeared first, in descending order of precedence. Amaltar’s mother, who would have been the dowager empress, had died several years before. Even the youngest of Pakin III’s wives was old enough to be Tol’s mother.

After the imperial widows came Amaltar’s wives, from the newest, Lady Woriyan, to his first, Lady Thura. Tol’s heart beat a little faster as his progress brought him closer to Valaran, but before he reached what would be her place in the series, strong hands seized his arm and dragged him through a slit in the curtains.

Startled at first, Tol recovered, and fumbled to grab the wrists of his attacker. To his astonishment, he saw it was Valaran who’d pulled him aside.

“What-?” he began, only to be silenced by a stinging slap on the face.

“Do you know what you put me through?” she demanded in a fierce whisper. She was so close that he felt her warm breath on his face.

“Me? What have I done?” he protested, utterly at sea.

Hissing at him to keep his voice down, she drew back a few steps, whirled, and glared at him silently.

She was stunning, wrapped in scarlet silk from head to toe. Her chestnut hair fell to her waist in a thick, intricate braid interlaced with crimson thread and golden beads. The starched red headdress accentuated the pallor of her face, a pallor further heightened by a thin layer of powder. Her lips were painted deep ruby. She resembled a spirit wrought in fire and ice.

There was a brief flash of something in her green eyes-pleasure? — before she folded her arms and spoke to him in a low tone that dripped venom.

“For more than ten years I’ve yearned for you every day and hated you in the same breath!”

“Hated me? Why? What did I do?”

Her beautiful face worked as she struggled with a deep conflict. Finally she snapped, “Nothing! That’s the truth of it-you did nothing!”

Tersely, Valaran related the false tale told her: that Tol had asked to remain away from Daltigoth because he didn’t want to come back. He didn’t want to be her toy or Amaltar’s lackey. He had fathered a child by Miya. This last almost caused Tol to shatter the solemn air in the tower with laughter. Child? Miya? If he’d tried such a thing, he wouldn’t be alive before Valaran now!

The look on her face as much as the need for quiet stifled his amusement. The lie obviously had hurt Valaran deeply. He could only imagine her pain at hearing such things about him. He held out his arms. She shunned them, so he took her by the shoulders and demanded to know who had concocted the tales.

“Nazramin-and the sorcerer Mandes,” she said, exactly as he had expected. “They concocted false letters, then prompted others to confirm the stories.”

“When did you find out the truth? And how?”

“I have had you watched since you returned.” Tol recoiled a bit at that, but she went on. “I hired agents to strike up conversations with your forest women, in the market, in shops.” Valaran essayed a slight smile. “It became obvious they were devoted to you, but not as your lovers. There is no child, either.”

“I could have told you that!” he said. “Why didn’t you seek me out?”

She drew herself up. “I am a Princess Consort.”

Her haughty expression collapsed in sorrow, and his heart went out to her. To have endured such a lie! He tried to draw her to him, but still she resisted. He would not overpower her by force, so she kept him at arms’ length.

“Fool,” she called him, but her eyes were bright. “You did stay away too long. It’s too late for us.”

He denied it. She said, “Long ago, we were young and stupid. It’s one thing to deceive a prince, but I cannot betray the Emperor of Ergoth.”

“Instead you betray yourself? And me?”

Valaran’s whole body trembled. He tightened his grip on her shoulders. “It’s impossible,” she said flatly.

He let go. Since she didn’t move away, he did.

“I haven’t been a monk over the years, Val. I’ve known other women…”

Her eyes flashed. “Now you’re going to brag to me about your conquests?”

“No!” She could be so infuriating! “What I mean is, I never forgot you. Not one of them could ever make me do that.”

Silence ensued. All Tol could hear was her breathing, and the thudding of his own heart.

“What will become of us?” she asked softly.

The sound of heavy footfalls reached them. Tol took her hand and pressed it to his lips.

“The Rumbold villa, in the Quarry district,” he whispered, eyes boring into hers. “Come when you can!”

Immediately, he ducked back through the partition into the airy passage and resumed his approach. In moments he was overtaken by a band of Riders of the Horde clad as he was in armor and mourning cloth. He recognized most of them, including Hojan, an officer in the Army of the North. The warriors halted.

“My lord,” Hojan said, “I rejoice to see you! We heard many times you were killed on the journey here.”

“If people keep reporting my death,” Tol said wryly, “one day they’re bound to be right.”

They fell in behind him and resumed their march. In hushed tones Hojan described their own agonizing progress to Daltigoth. It had seemed as though the gods and nature were conspiring to keep them away. Every time the Riders approached a stream, a storm blew up, transforming the sleepy rivulet into a raging torrent. Once, the column wandered for three days, lost in a fog that refused to lift, even at high noon.

Mist-Maker. Tol kept the thought to himself.

They passed other alcoves and other wives. When they reached Valaran’s niche, she was there, kneeling in a properly reverent position. Eyes closed, in profile she resembled a fine ivory cameo.

Once past her, one of the Ergothians murmured, “A beauty, but cold, they say.”

Tol bit his lip to hold back a grin. The notion of Valaran, his Valaran, being cold was ludicrous.

The warriors finally reached the center of the domed hall. There, under the atrium where Pakin III had lain in state, stood Amaltar. Priests of Corij were arraying him in bits of ancient bronze armor. Tol and the Riders went to their knees.

“The arms of Ackal Ergot!” one warrior whispered.

Amaltar was being dressed in the very armor worn by the founder of the empire. It did not fit him well. Ackal Ergot had been a powerful man; the breadth of his cuirass as well as his infamous deeds testified to that fact. The priests would place a piece of armor on Amaltar’s lesser frame, then take it away and pad it with wads of linen. Ackal Ergot’s greaves stretched from his descendant’s ankles to well above his knees. The tasset, a skirt of bronze meant to hang to the tops of the thighs, nearly brushed the tops of the greaves.

Amaltar looked much better than he had the last time Tol had seen him, however. His skin was still sallow and his shoulders stooped, but some of the old firmness had returned to his expression. He beckoned the men forward and greeted each by name, saving Tol for last.

Tol replied, “Greetings, and best wishes on this mighty day, Your Majesty.”

“A great deal of nonsense, isn’t it?” said Amaltar, holding out his arms so the front half of Ackal Ergot’s cuirass could be fitted to his chest. “Important nonsense, of course. Tradition matters so much in affairs like this.”

Once he was strapped into his ancestor’s bronze breastplate, Amaltar called for a stool. He sat down heavily, glad to take the weight off his feet. He seemed suddenly old to Tol, far more than his fifty-odd years.

“I summoned you men particularly to be my honor guard,” he said. “The ceremony requires that no one walk ahead of me, but nothing prohibits an escort walking alongside.

“You, Lord Tolandruth, will walk behind me-bearing this.” Amaltar snapped his fingers, and Valdid appeared from the curtained labyrinth. He carried a flat golden case in his arms. Red-faced with strain-the case was obviously quite heavy-the chamberlain hastened to the new emperor’s side.

Amaltar pushed the face of his signet ring into a hole in the front of the box and twisted his hand. With a click, the lid of the box released.

Tol wasn’t sure what he was expecting to see, perhaps a jeweled necklace or a ceremonial dagger. He wasn’t prepared for what Amaltar lifted from the case. It was a simple circlet of white metal, darkly speckled with age. Neither gold nor silver, the circlet was innocent of jewels or engraving of any sort. It looked like very old iron.

“The crown of Ackal Ergot,” said Amaltar, holding the head-sized ring reverently.

The warriors stared in awe. This was the most legendary artifact in the realm, the original crown worn by the first emperor on the day he proclaimed the Ergoth Empire. As befitted a conqueror, it was made from Ackal’s own sword, edges blunted and hammered to fit his regal brow. The crown was kept in the vaults beneath the palace, seeing the light of day only during coronations. The usual imperial crown was a golden one, made at the order of Ackal Ergot’s son, the second emperor, Ackal II Dermount.

Amaltar returned the iron crown to its red velvet bag and placed it carefully back in the case. He closed the lid, locked it, then bade Tol come forward and take the case from the sweating Valdid.

Tol bowed deeply. “I am honored beyond words, Majesty!”

Amaltar smiled thinly. “It’s the only blade I’ll allow in my presence. Do take care of it.” A veil seemed to cover his countenance. “They say Ackal’s sword was tempered by the fire of the captive dragon Blackwyrm, and quenched in the blood of a hundred foes. Do you think that’s true?”

Tol supported the heavy gold case with both arms as he answered, “Ackal Ergot was a mighty man, Your Majesty. Heroes of the past accomplished many tremendous deeds.”

Amaltar took his ancestor’s bronze helmet from a priest and perched it on his knee. “Ackal Ergot was no hero. He was a bloodthirsty savage.”

The other warriors were shocked at hearing the founder disparaged, but Tol remembered being privy to similar opinions from old Pakin III.

Amaltar added, “But he did have vision.”

Oropash appeared, trailed by the senior wizards of the two orders. The chief of the White Robes was pink-cheeked and well-scrubbed, and he wore a crisp robe of shining silk. His mostly bald pate was newly shaven for the day’s ceremonies. He was already sweating.

Tol remembered his predecessor, Yoralyn. She had been an altogether different sort, already ancient by the time he’d met her and tough as boot leather. A sharp, conniving rogue like Mandes could easily get the better of one like Oropash. He was a willow tree, bending before Mandes’s storm. Yoralyn had been an oak.

It was time to depart. To create the illusion Amaltar was outside the city prior to “storming” it, the imperial entourage would depart Daltigoth incognito, then form up on the road before the Great Ackal Gate. Lower ranking wizards handed out identical hooded gray robes that all, including the emperor, were to don.

Oropash and Amaltar led the group out of the tower. The imperial consorts and their offspring took to their chariots and were driven away. More chariots arrived for the imperial party.

As Tol climbed aboard with Hojan and the charioteer, he saw the white catafalque rising above the forest of banners in the plaza. Nearly journey’s end for Amaltar, this was the beginning of a far longer voyage for the spirit of Pakin III.

One at a time, the chariots rattled through a narrow postern in the south wall of the Inner City, behind the wizards’ enclave. The sun was well up by now and the day promised to be hot. The single cloud hovering over the palace had grown denser and darker. Tol wondered if there would be a storm. It seemed impossible, especially on this day.

The streets were thronged. A wedge of cavalry cleared the way for the chariots. People high and low from all over the empire had journeyed to Daltigoth for this day, this moment. City merchants and country gentry, laborers and craftsmen, farmers and their families, all passed in a blur.

Tol noticed a brown-haired man about his age leaning on his hay-fork, gripping it with large, work-worn hands. But for the hand of fate and the grace of the gods, that could have been Tol standing by the wayside watching the speeding chariots instead of riding in one.

A surprising number of other races were represented.

Tol saw gnomes and dwarves, as well as woodland elves in leather and face-paint. A quartet of Silvanesti elves, elegantly attired in silver and green, had hired human guards to keep the crowd hack from them, but the hirelings couldn’t stop the curious from gawking. The crowd found the mysterious Silvanesti as great a treat as the coming coronation.

Even rarer folk appeared: centaurs, wild and swarthy; even Tarsans, with their characteristic flat cloth hats and canvas sailors’ trews. Tol wondered whether Hanira had come to the coronation. He sincerely hoped not. Life was complicated enough just now.

Foresters wearing animal skins jostled cheek by jowl with kender. Bare-chested herdsmen from the south jockeyed for a good view with stocky yeomen from the northland coast. Most remarkable of all, Tol spotted a few minotaurs in the crowd. Their bulls’ heads towered above those around them; each carried an ax of heroic proportions resting on one massive shoulder. No one had bothered (or dared) to ask the minotaurs to put their lethal weapons away.

The chariot squadron bumped through the smaller Tanners’ Port. Bearing off to the right, they soon caught sight of the rest of the imperial procession forming on the high road before the closed Ackal Gate.

In a swirl of crimson silk and satin, consorts and children fell into place, followed by a mass of courtiers and their families. Behind them was a far more formidable array of warlords and riders, all on foot today. Ritual demanded Amaltar enter the city on his own two feet, and no one could be allowed to upstage him by being mounted.

Everyone in the coronation party, even the children, was given a blunt wooden sword and tiny buckler. This made them the army of the “conqueror.” In all the parade numbered almost two thousand souls.

The chariots drew up at the head of the line. Amaltar got down and discarded his gray robe. He was sweating already in Ackal Ergot’s oversized armor, and the disguise only added to his discomfort. The rest of his honor guard followed his example, leaving gray robes piled along both sides of the road. The sun was at their backs, shining on the walls of Daltigoth.

Valdid went forward to consult with Amaltar. The assembly, already fairly quiet, hushed to silence as the chamberlain and emperor conversed. Valdid had been studying the coronation ritual since Pakin III died and was giving his liege a few final pointers. Although Valdid was a decade older, it was Amaltar who looked the elder.

With a final bow, Valdid withdrew, taking his place in line with his family. Amaltar went down on one knee and crossed his arms on his chest, making his prayer to Corij, patron deity of the House of Ackal. When he stood again, five of his eldest children came forward. The three boys and two girls were all in their teens and dressed as warriors. They bore simple instruments-two drums, a sistrum, and cymbals. The leader of the musicians was Amaltar’s eldest son and heir, Prince Hatonar.

To Tol’s eye, Hatonar looked soft and pampered-his hair elaborately curled and his scarlet raiment chased with layers of gilt. Most princes spent at least some time on campaign with a horde, but Hatonar had never been out of Daltigoth.

The five youths were the only people who would precede Amaltar. He gave them leave, and they set out to the beat of their drums. At an interval of ten paces came Amaltar. Tol counted to ten then followed his imperial master. The honor guard was close behind him, and the rest of the coronation party fell into place. All proceeded with stately, measured tread up the wide, paved ramp that led to the Ackal Gate.

The largest and most elaborate gate in the entire city, the Ackal actually comprised three gates, one monumental portal flanked by two smaller but still impressive ones. The pillars supporting the pediment over the triple entrance were colossal statues of the conqueror, Ackal the Great. The six statues, two per gate, were carved from living black granite, and each was twenty paces high. The curving pediment above them showed scenes from Ackal Ergot’s life in high relief. The central relief depicted the warlord’s hardest-fought battle, his duel with his own brother, Bazan Ergot. By defeating Bazan in personal combat, Ackal cleared the way for the forging of the plains riders into the Great Horde and the birth of the empire.

When the musician princes and princesses reached the top of the paved ramp, they stood aside, making way for their father to approach the closed gate.

“Who dares come before the city with arms and martial music?” called Lord Rymont from the gatehouse, playing the part of the city’s defender.

“Amaltar Ergot, Prince of the House of Ackal!”

“Turnback, Mighty One! This place is your doom!”

With a sweep of his hand, Amaltar directed his children to storm the gate. The youths threw themselves at the closed portal with much shouting and shoving. The double doors parted. Having thus “captured” the gate, they reformed and resumed their music. Amaltar marched through. Tol, bearing the golden case containing the famed crown, kept pace behind.

The square and street beyond were jammed with people. Mounted warriors with blunt spears kept a lane clear through the mob. When Amaltar emerged from the deep shadow of the Ackal Gate, a roar went up from the multitude-not a roar of approbation, but a cry of fear and anger. Until the crown of Ackal Ergot rested on his brow, Amaltar was emperor in name only, and his role now was that of a foreign warlord storming the city.

The people played their part with gusto, as this was their only opportunity to vent any resentment to their master’s face. Tol was taken aback as the good folk of Amaltar’s capital screamed, cursed, and shook fists at their ruler.

Prince Hatonar and his four siblings were intimidated by the fury of the mob and shrank together, slowing the pace. Their father overtook them and pushed them firmly along. His words were lost in the din, but his stern countenance and commanding gestures conveyed his meaning: This was no time for faint hearts.

The procession continued along the broad streets of the outer city. Through street and square, they marched inexorably toward the high walls and spires of the Inner City.

Tol sweated, the gold case in his outstretched arms seeming to grow heavier with every step. He watched the crowd for signs of trouble, a nearly impossible task as everyone was playing the part of hostile, subjugated citizens. The enormous mob could have charged at any time, overwhelming the cordon of warriors holding them back, but in spite of their seeming fury, the people of Daltigoth played their role fairly. None tried to get past the lines of warriors.

They rounded the corner into Empire Way, the broad boulevard leading directly to the plaza at the entrance to the Inner City. The long, hot walk was nearly over. Now facing east, Tol squinted into the sun’s glare.

Midday was not far off, and against the dazzling blue sky the single dark gray cloud remained overhead, as motionless over the palace as when Tol had left that morning. As he watched, the cloud grew larger and more attenuated.

Tol increased his pace, gaining slowly on Amaltar until he was only four paces behind instead of the prescribed ten. He wanted to be within range to rush to Amaltar’s side if anything unnatural occurred.

The cloud spread itself wider and wider. Though thin, it blocked the bold glare of the sun and the marchers felt a sudden chill. Would Mandes dare interfere with the coronation? Amaltar was his patron, after all.

Over the bang of the drums and clatter of sistrum and cymbal, through the mock rage of the crowd around them, Tol heard a rushing sound. He hustled forward to within two steps of Amaltar, still watching the sky. From every direction, black dots had appeared, moving swiftly toward them. Raucous cries rose above the tumult below. The dots soon resolved into ravens, a vast flock of them.

Amaltar looked up, slowing. Immediately Tol was at his side, whispering into his ear, “Whatever happens, Majesty, do not leave my side! I shall protect you! “

“They’re only birds,” said Amaltar, but his expression was uncertain.

Only birds, but thousands of them, black as coal and screeching like demons. The flock collected over the plaza, wheeling and darting a few hundred paces above the restive crowd. Every time the ravens tried to dive on the people, they entered the thin mist and were repulsed. The cloud was as airy as morning fog, but somehow it thoroughly repelled the army of ravens. This strange spectacle distracted the people below; and their rants against the “invader” Amaltar faded.

The spectacle in the sky did not last long. Stymied by the cloud, the flock of birds broke apart, flying to every horizon as suddenly as they had come. When the last one was gone, the cloud finally melted away, leaving only blazing sun and polished blue sky.

“What was that?” Amaltar wondered, along with every other soul in Daltigoth.

“An omen, Majesty,” Tol said, trying to sound cheerful. “A good omen for the start of your reign!”

The emperor did not look convinced. “Stay by me, Champion.” Tol vowed he would.

At the gate of the Inner City, Amaltar’s children divided, flanking the entrance on either side. Tol halted while the emperor continued on. Standing before the closed gate, clad in white-girded armor, was Draymon, commander of the Palace Guard.

“Stand off, invader! This is the sacred realm of His Majesty Pakin III!” Draymon intoned.

“Your ruler is lost and must yield,” Amaltar recited the ritual reply. “Death awaits any who resist!”

“Then fight, hated foreigner! The house of Ackal Ergot shall not fall!”

So saying, Draymon slipped inside the gate. Amaltar strode forward and struck the gate three times with his ceremonial sword. Each blow was punctuated by beats on the drums. On the third strike, a squad of palace guards hauled the gate open wide. Draymon and his men went to their knees. The mob in the plaza calmed.

“Spare us, O conqueror!” the commander exclaimed. “We did but serve our great lord!”

“Where is the noble Pakin III?”

“Yonder, on his bier.” Draymon pointed behind him. Through the forest of banners, the catafalque’s white curtains stirred in the breeze flowing through the open gate.

“I will pay homage to your defeated lord.”

Accompanied only by Tol and the golden case he bore, Amaltar entered the grounds of the place in which he’d grown up, no longer a prince, but as master. Pale and sweating inside the armor of his powerful ancestor, Amaltar did not resemble a conqueror but a worn and sickly man. More than once Tol had to pause as his imperial master faltered slightly, staggering under the weight of Ackal Ergot’s armor and the burden of his empire.

Oropash, Helbin, and the senior wizards stood waiting by the catafalque. Catching sight of Tol, Oropash paled and Helbin scowled. With Mistress Yoralyn gone, they were the only wizards who knew Tol possessed the nullstone, fatal to all their art. The two wizards mastered their emotions and lowered their eyes out of respect for their new emperor.

Amaltar and Tol climbed the steps to the veiled shrine. Within, Pakin III lay on a black basalt plinth. His loyal wizards had transformed him entirely to stone, even to his burial robes and single golden earring. Alive, he had been a sardonic, cynical man, brutally honest and strictly fair. Transmuted to alabaster, the old emperor looked wise enough to counsel the gods.

Amaltar laid his sword across his father’s chest. Instead of the ritual words, he said quietly, “Good-bye, Father. No man worked harder or understood me less.”

He knelt and a long silence ensued. Tol stood unmoving. He did not want to desecrate Amaltar’s silent prayers with any noise, no matter how slight.

At last, Amaltar rose and recovered his sword. “Come, Tolandruth.”

The banners had been cleared away, and the entire coronation procession had taken over the square. The monumental plaza could have easily accommodated even their number, but they were not alone. All the warlords of the empire had joined them, as had the wizards of the college and the servants, lackeys, cooks, and other lesser folk of the palace. The plaza was full of expectant faces and hushed voices. In the multitude Tol located Valaran, Nazramin, and Egrin. Far across the square, Mandes stood on the palace steps, surrounded by scribes and palace guards. The sorcerer was dressed in his best for the coronation, a blue-gray robe and spotless white gloves.

Tol descended two steps, turned to face Amaltar, and presented the heavy golden box. Amaltar unlocked it with his ring and raised the lid, letting it rest against Tol’s chest.

The ancient blade, bent into a circle, held within its tempered length the power and glory of an entire empire-the future of millions, contained in three spans of iron.

Amaltar lifted the iron crown from its resting place and seated it on his head. He turned to face the assembled throng.

In a loud voice slightly gruff with strain, he declared, “I am Ackal IV, Emperor of Ergoth! Who will bow down to me and serve me all my days?”

Noisily, with the clinking of armor and swish of silks, five thousand knelt as one.

“Hail, Ackal IV!” Tol shouted.

The crowd replied with a roar, “Hail Ackal IV! Long live the Emperor! Long Live Ackal IV!”