That was but half the cup of Tol’s bitterness. More painful, and far less explicable, was the complete silence from his beloved Valaran. Ten years had given Tol much time to speculate. Val was only one of Amaltar’s several wives and had assured Tol the prince cared little for her, yet Tol wondered if Amaltar had discovered their relationship. Perhaps Valaran had been compelled to keep silent, had fallen ill, or had found someone else to love, someone not so long gone and so far away.

Tol had long consoled himself with a single thought: Valaran was in Daltigoth, and one day he would return to her. That day had finally come.

The Army of the North would remain at Tarsis under Lord Regobart’s command. Tol and a small escort would travel fast and light to the capital. He chose five to accompany him: Kiya, Miya, Frez, the healer Felryn, and Darpo. Darpo was recovered enough from his wound to ride but not enough to fight. However, he was one of Tol’s longest-serving retainers and Tol did not wish to leave him behind.

The Dom-shu hastily packed the contents of the tent. Conversing at the top of their lungs-their normal tone between themselves-they tossed everything from clothing to cutlery at each other, stowing all in the appropriate containers. In saddlebags went the few things they were taking along; the items they were leaving behind were packed into large, leather-bound chests. The chests would be carted home later.

Tol stood by the center pole of the tent, reluctant to budge from his safe spot. Kiya was flinging knives and spoons past him to her sister, who caught them with casual precision.

“So, husband! You had a rough time in town, eh?” said Miya as she dropped utensils into an open chest.

“It wasn’t all bad,” he replied.

“Spare us the sordid details.”

" ’Ware, sister!” Kiya called and tossed a hatchet. Tol flinched as the hand axe whirled through the air toward Miya’s face. Without a blink, Miya snatched the tumbling tool by its handle.

“Did the Tarsan woman make any demands?” asked Kiya, searching for her next projectile.

The question struck Tol as funny, and he laughed. Kiya reddened.

“No, she asked for nothing,” he said.

Both women stopped packing. “Nothing?” said Miya. “No deal, no bribe, no threats?”

Kiya looked positively disappointed. “What in Bran’s name did you talk about?”

“We didn’t talk much-a little about ourselves. She told me of her early life.”

Kiya stooped and picked up some loose clothing. “Clever,” she murmured. “Very clever. She invites an enemy into her home and bed but makes no demands on him.” Wadding the clothes together, she shoved them at Miya. “She didn’t make a conspirator of Tol, she made a friend.”

Even after all their years together, he was still surprised by Kiya’s acumen, and privately he agreed with her assessment. For all Hanira’s ruthlessness, he liked her. She was an amazing woman. He understood why men like Prince Helx made fools of themselves over her. Back in camp now among his own people, he found that Hanira’s allure had faded. The prospect of returning to Daltigoth-and Valaran-had done much to dim her seductive memory.

Felryn arrived, and Tol stepped outside to ask what news he brought.

The cleric of Mishas shook his head. “Little, I fear. Even after two days’ work, I cannot determine who could have sent those golems. There are four or five in Tarsis capable of it, but all are accounted for.”

Felryn had agreed with Tol’s reasoning that he, and not Hanira, must have been the golems’ intended victim. Perhaps a spy tipped them off to his whereabouts, but the creatures would have found Tol no matter where he was that night.

Horsemen galloped by, throwing up sand. Felryn bent to brush off his legs. “A powerful spellcaster was at work,” he said in a low voice. “To create and command three golems at once and break the ancient wards of the Golden House are feats worthy of a magical master. You must be careful, my lord. Whoever did this will try again.”

When he’d first found the Irda nullstone, Tol had shown the artifact to the healer, who dismissed it as a harmless trinket. Once he learned its true nature from the White Robe wizard Yoralyn, Tol had kept it a closely guarded secret. Yoralyn was dead now, and the only others who knew he possessed it, Yoralyn’s colleagues Oropash and Helbin, had vowed to keep his secret, fearful of the chaos that would erupt if the nullstone’s existence became known.

Whoever had tried to kill him in the Golden House had failed. However long it took, Tol vowed to Felryn, he would discover the one responsible and mete out justice for the deaths of his loyal men. It was very possible, he added with a grim smile, that Hanira was right, and his unknown enemy was a Tarsan rival of the guild leader, in which case he felt confident Hanira would do him the favor of finding and punishing the culprit first.

Miya put her head through the tent flaps. “We’re done. The bags are full. Sister has gone to fetch the horses.”

For years the Dom-shu women had resisted riding horseback. Their tribe were forest-dwellers in the vast woodland known as the Great Green, and regarded the use of horses as a weakness. Real men and women walked on their own two feet, the sisters always said. However, on the long campaign from Hylo to Tarsis-a distance of hundreds of leagues-Miya and Kiya had reluctantly learned to ride.

Frez and Darpo appeared, each leading two horses. Darpo was pale and stood slightly hunched, favoring his side, but he saluted his commander with fervor.

When the Dom-shu sisters returned on their own animals, Frez moved to boost his injured comrade into the saddle, but his commander intervened.

“It’s my honor,” Tol said. Darpo put his booted foot in Tol’s cupped hands, and Tol tossed him up into the saddle.

“What way do we take, my lord?” Darpo asked, in a voice shaky with pain.

Tol wanted to get to Daltigoth as quickly as possible. His fellow warlords were riding north to the Great Plains River, to circumvent the mountains and the dangerous, impenetrable Great Green. They would then turn west, entering the empire northwest of Tol’s hometown of Juramona in the province of the Eastern Hundred. That would require more than thirty days of travel. Tol had a different route in mind.

“We’ll cross the Harrow Sky Mountains,” he said, referring to the range on the west side of the Bay of Tarsis. “Then we’ll cross the hill country to the Gulf of Ergoth and take ship to the capital.”

There were raised eyebrows all around. Felryn said, “That’s rough territory, my lord.”

He was putting it mildly. The Harrow Sky hill country was a wild land, infested with bandits, petty independent warlords, and wild tribes. The coast was rife with fierce pirates. Several emperors had launched punitive expeditions to suppress the outlawry there, but none ever managed to conquer it.

“I am Prince Amaltar’s champion,” Tol said firmly. “My place is at his side, and as quickly as possible. We will cross the mountains.” Felryn didn’t like the plan, but he protested no more.

It was midmorning when Tol led his small party to Lord Regobart’s tent. The commander of the Army of the East was surrounded by scribes and clerks, all busily making copies of the proposed peace treaty with Tarsis. At Tol’s approach, Regobart left the murmur of voices and scratching of quills, and greeted his fellow general.

“If luck and the gods are with us, we’ll get to Daltigoth in twelve days,” Tol said, looking down from Shadow’s broad back.

The old warlord’s single gray eye widened. “Twelve days! Do you fly on Silvanesti griffons?”

Tol described his chosen route. Regobart’s reaction was much the same as Felryn’s.

“Prince Amaltar needs his Champion, but he needs him alive!” the old general said tartly.

He squinted at Tol’s small entourage, knowing without asking that this was all the escort the younger general intended to take. With a shake of his gray head, he said good-humoredly, “Well, at least you have the Dom-shu with you. They’re as good as a regiment of horsemen.”