Solin appeared above the trees. Its pearly sheen warmed the dead color of the cloud-wall, and washed the woods in soft light. Shadows appeared among the widely spaced cedars.
The shadows moved.
“Early,” Tol whispered sharply. The kender did not respond, not even when Tol kicked his foot. Blast it if he wasn’t a heavy sleeper.
Brightness filled the woods behind Tol. He turned, shading his night-adapted eyes from the intense light.
In a heartbeat, his surroundings were transformed. Cedar trees became stone columns, rusty brown needles became a lush woolen carpet. Tol knew this place. This was the audience hall of the imperial palace, in Daltigoth.
A humming sound drew Tol’s attention to the ancient throne of Ackal Ergot. Ackal IV sat in the ornate gilded chair, his hair unkempt and tangled, his robes dirty. He held an odd-looking doll-not a child’s toy, sewn of soft cloth and stuffed with rags, but a stiff gray statuette.
Tol tried to speak, but no sound escaped his lips. He could see and hear perfectly, but Ackal seemed not to realize he was there.
The emperor continued to croon tunelessly to himself as he ran his fingers over the statuette’s face. His vacant eyes revealed the truth: Ackal IV wasn’t ill, he was mad. His mind was lost in some secret, distant vale.
At the far end of the dimly lit room, one of the tall doors opened, and a man entered. With a swirl of his floor-sweeping cape, the man traversed the long hall briskly. When he entered the wash of light from a pair of flickering braziers, the features of Prince Nazramin were revealed.
Instinctively, Tol’s hand went to his sword hilt, but the emperor’s brother strode past him, not seeing him at all.
Beneath his long cape, Nazramin wore a black leather riding habit, as though he’d just arrived from his country estate. He paused at the foot of the throne. The jeweled pommel of a large dagger glittered in his belt. Ackal IV would never have tolerated a weapon in his presence, had he been in his right mind.
“Brother?” Nazramin said.
The emperor continued to sing softly to himself, scraping a thumbnail over the dull gray statuette.
Nazramin took the statuette from him. Ackal whimpered slightly, reaching for it, but Nazramin pulled it away.
“A passable likeness,” said the red-haired prince, smiling unpleasantly at the figure’s face. “Not a striking one, but still, it served its purpose.”
Drawing closer, Tol realized the statuette bore the emperor’s face.
“Not the best medium, either,” continued Nazramin, “but lead is traditional.”
He dropped the statuette. It landed on its head with a fiat thud. Immediately, Ackal cringed and grasped his temples with both hands.
Tol felt sick. Image magic! Ackal was the victim of the lowest, vilest form of sorcery. It was Nazramin all along, pulling Mandes’s strings.
Nazramin paced slowly before the throne, still talking. Ackal’s clouded gaze tracked him with obvious difficulty.
“It’s taken a long time, but I’ve finally gotten everything in place. I bided my time. I endured your regency, brother, but I do not intend to suffer your reign any longer than necessary.”
The prince halted in front of the throne. “A coup would have been risky. Too many idiots in this city are loyal to that chair you sit on.” He drove a gauntleted fist into his palm. “Imbeciles! The throne of Ergoth is not a piece of furniture for any fool to occupy! Why should I risk myself to seize what rightfully belongs to me? I watched those idiot Pakins try to take the crown from our uncle and our father, and what did it get them? Pointless warfare and their heads on spikes decorating the city wall! There was no need to bloody myself. I could get what I wanted without such risk.”
Without preamble, Nazramin brought his booted heel down hard on the statuette’s middle. Ackal screamed piteously, grasping his ribs and writhing on the throne. Tol took a step forward, furious at his inability to intervene or even to vent his anger in words.
“Your wandering mind has been well recorded,” the prince went on more calmly. “I left the city so no one could connect me with your growing madness. In many way you cooperated splendidly. Banishing Mandes was timely-it removed any suspicion that magic was being used against you.”
He picked up the statuette. “He made this for me, you know. Sixty-six days of continual spellcasting it required, and Mandes was so weakened that another ten days passed before he could attach the first clamp. It was well worth the trouble, don’t you think, brother?”
The hair on Tol’s neck prickled as he listened to Nazramin’s recitation of the horrors he’d visited upon his own flesh and blood.
“I summoned Enkian Tumult here with a false tale about an insurrection. I thought you would take fright and send the hordes to destroy him, creating an impression in the people’s mind of cruelty and ruthlessness, but instead”-Nazramin’s brows drew down in anger-“you sent that peasant to talk to him. You forced me to have Enkian killed, so my plot would not be exposed.”
Ackal’s attention was wandering. He began to croon again. Nazramin closed the distance between them in two long strides and slapped him hard. Ackal’s head snapped back, and Tol could have sworn that, for a moment, awareness came to his eyes. It quickly faded.
“Listen to me, fool!” Nazramin snarled. “I want you to know who brought about your downfall!”
After a pause to collect himself, he continued. “You obliged me by sending Farmer Tol to settle accounts with Mandes. That was perfect. I’ve been freer to act with the peasant away, and Mandes knows too much. It would have been necessary to silence him eventually, so why not let Lord Pigsty do it? If by chance the wizard prevails, that will save me having the farmer’s throat cut in the future.”
Nazramin moved to the table next to the throne. It held an ornate golden goblet, bearing the arms of Ackal Ergot. The prince lifted it and drank deeply of the cider it contained.
While Nazramin quenched his thirst, Tol pondered the reality of what he was seeing. It could be an illusion, but he doubted it. Now that he stood on the sorcerer’s very doorstep, Mandes was pulling out all the stops, revealing to him the true instigator of the evil that had befallen him. Tol was the Emperor’s Champion, sworn to defend Ackal IV, and Mandes hoped to send him racing back to Daltigoth to save the emperor.
Tol knew the first step in saving Ackal IV was putting a halt to Mandes’s depredations. Once the treacherous sorcerer was gone, Tol would settle accounts with Nazramin for once and all.
The red-haired prince was talking again. He certainly enjoyed the sound of his own voice.
“-invited a few senior lords of the empire to see you. Reports of your aberrant behavior have been spreading. The situation has become so dire, your chamberlain summoned me from my estate.” Nazramin smiled, and Tol went cold. “I’ve come to protect you, dear brother, you and the empire.”
Nazramin walked to the rear of the throne. He pressed one of the many ornamental studs on the chair’s back and a small section of wood swung open at the base. After inserting the gray statuette into the ingenious niche, Nazramin closed it up again.
He left the room, only to return moments later with a somber delegation. Valaran was among them, as were Empress Thura and Ackal IV’s other wives, Chamberlain Valdid, Lord Rymont, and the heads of the magical orders, Oropash and Helbin. The rest were mainly local horde commanders and representatives of the city’s guilds. Nazramin was taking no chances. He wanted as broad an audience as he could get.
Nazramin’s face was a study in grave concern. “I’ve talked with my brother at some length,” he said somberly.
“How fares the emperor?” Rymont asked.
“I fear his illness has taken his mind. See for yourselves.”
The delegation moved forward cautiously. Ackal IV, belatedly becoming aware of them, lifted his head. Spittle ran down his chin, his eyes were bloodshot and unfocused. Gentle Thura gasped and rushed forward.
“Amaltar!” she said, grasping his slack hand. “Amaltar, do you know me? Why did you send me away?”
Smiling weakly, the emperor raised a gaunt hand to caress her face. His smile rapidly changed to a contorted grimace of pain. His nails dug into his consort’s soft cheek. Thura screamed.
Lord Rymont and Prince Nazramin struggled to restrain the emperor. Thura reeled away, blood dripping down
