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.