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.