They zigzagged through a long line of sharpened stakes, set to impede a cavalry charge, and crossed a line of trenches being dug by impressed local farmers. It seemed Enkian was indeed preparing to resist a serious attack.
On the wider end of the isle was a small village. Here Enkian had made his camp, pitching tents between farmers’ huts. Many eyes watched Tol and Kiya as they rode slowly toward the largest tent, sited in the center of the tiny village square. Spindly platforms of lashed poles had been erected among the leafy apple trees, and archers perched atop them. Guards with bared blades stood at the entrance to Enkian’s tent. If trouble started, Tol and Kiya would not get away unscathed.
A boy came forward to hold their horses. They dismounted and followed the corporal into the tent.
The enclosure was modest. Enkian’s tent was divided by a canvas wall into two rooms. The larger front room was the warden’s command post; the smaller space, his private quarters.
The warden sat at a table in the middle of the front room. The tabletop was covered by a scattering of maps. The corporal saluted and called the warden by name, for which Tol was grateful. It was hard to recognize his lean, dark-haired former commander in the stooped, gray-bearded old man before him. Enkian, however, knew him at once.
“Tolandruth! They told me another courier had come!”
“I am here as the emperor’s personal emissary,” Tol replied. He indicated Kiya. “You remember Kiya of the Dom-shu?”
The revelation of Tol’s name brought the other warriors present to their feet. They were true frontier soldiers, baked by sun and burned by wind, lean and clear-eyed. The scene, though tense, did not feel dangerous-not yet at least.
Enkian dismissed the assembled officers, wanting to speak with Tol alone. When they were gone, he poured two brass cups of wine, handing one to Tol. He did not offer Kiya any.
Dropping into a chair he said wearily, “What news do you bring me?”
Puzzled, Tol said, “I am here at the command of His Majesty, Ackal IV, whom you once knew as Prince Amaltar. He wants to know your intentions, my lord.”
Now it was Enkian’s turn to look confused. “I have followed his instructions to the letter,” he said with a frown. “Have the rebels made their move yet?”
“Rebels?”
“The Pakins-the plotters inside the city who seek to overthrow the emperor!”
The two men stared at each other. When Tol proclaimed ignorance of any plot, Enkian leaped to his feet and struck a small gong hanging by his chair. Guards entered, swords drawn.
“Send for Jarabee,” Enkian snapped.
Jarabee proved to be a youngish man, with a mop of curly blond hair and downy cheeks. His homespun gray robe and silver medallion of faith proclaimed him a priest of Gilean.
“Test them,” Enkian commanded.
Kiya and Tol tensed, but the armed guards closed in a step, forestalling any action.
Jarabee carried a large chunk of white crystal. Two of its sides had been ground flat and polished. Holding this before his eyes, the priest regarded Enkian’s visitors through it. He chanted an incantation under his breath and surveyed Kiya from head to toe. Moving to Tol, he made two passes. After the second he flushed and muttered something distinctly un-magical under his breath.
“Well?” Enkian said sharply.
“The woman is who she says she is. She is under no compulsion.” Jarabee’s voice was high and reedy. “The man is heavily warded. I cannot see inside him.”
Enkian raised a single gray eyebrow and turned to Tol, obviously wanting an explanation.
Tol shrugged. “If I am so heavily warded, I can’t be under a spell, can I?”
Jarabee agreed. After a moment’s thought, Enkian demanded Tol’s weapons.
Half a span of steel snapped out of the scabbard. The guards tensed. Kiya muttered, “Don’t do it, husband.”
Tol placed his sword and dagger in Enkian’s outstretched hands.
“Take them away,” the warden said, putting the weapons on the table.
“Why?” demanded Tol.
Enkian looked at him stonily… “Put them under guard, but carefully! I must consider what this means.”
Kiya was likewise disarmed, and she and Tol were marched out. In the village square they were separated. Tol was taken to a small, stoutly built shed. The interior was dark, and the air smelled strongly of savory meat. A smokehouse.
The typical sounds of an army camp did not provide Tol with any clues as to what was going on. He wondered where Kiya was and what had happened to the couriers Enkian said had come before them. Having no answers, he soon fell asleep, his back against the smokehouse wall.
He awoke when a squeak told him the peg barring the door was being withdrawn. Orange flame blossomed in the doorway, revealing two warriors. One bore a torch, the other a drawn sword.
Tol was led from the shed into the fading light of dusk. The glow of Daltigoth was visible on the southern horizon. There, Egrin and his hordes waited, not so far away, but no help at all for Tol if Enkian decided to kill him.
His destination proved to be a modest farmhouse on the west side of the village square. The interior was a single room, similar to the hut Tol had grown up in, but larger. A meal was laid on the only table, and two chairs faced each other across the dinner. Enkian Tumult arrived just behind Tol.
“My lord,” he said. “You must be hungry. Sit.”
“Where is Kiya?” Tol asked tersely.
“She is well. My word on that.”
Tol studied the warden for a moment, then took the chair facing the door. Enkian tugged off his canvas gauntlets and sat opposite him.
“There are four guards outside. We won’t be disturbed. It’s time you knew what I know,” he said, pouring dark red wine for them both. “Shortly after word reached the Seascapes of the old emperor’s death, I received a second message, warning me of a plot by the Pakins to seize the throne. I was told to bring all the force I could muster to the capital. The plot was said to be deeply imbedded in the court, so I was to ignore all couriers and commands purporting to come from there and wait for the arrival of one trusted contact.”
“Warden, there is no Pakin plot. At least, none that I know of.”
Enkian’s dark eyes darted to him and back to the farmer’s clay pitcher. He set the pitcher down, his face a mask of doubt.
“The promised messenger has not come,” he said. “I thought you might have been sent in his place.”
“Who was supposed to meet you?”
“My son, Pelladrom.”
Tol set the wooden cup of wine down carefully and looked Enkian in the eye. “My lord, I have terrible news. Your son will not be coming. He is dead.”
Shock bloomed on the warden’s face, and Tol added, “Yes, dead-by my hand.”
Frigid silence. Enkian raised his own cup to his lips. His hand was shaking.
“Before-” His words came out hoarse, and he cleared his throat. “Before I summon the guards, tell me how it happened.”
Tol spoke of the riots, the unrest in the city, the various factions trying to influence the new emperor to favor their causes. He described the market square fight, and how he’d slain a masked rioter who later proved to be Pelladrom.
“I don’t understand. Why would my son embrace the Skylanders’ ridiculous cause?” Enkian demanded. “He lived his whole life in Daltigoth. Why should he care for the grievances of the provincial nobility?”
“I don’t think he did. I think he was using them for his own ends-or the ends of his unknown patron.” Tol chose his next words with care. “Your son was young, my lord, young and ardent. I believe he was part of a wider conspiracy to subvert the new emperor.”