Between the window curtains of his private council room high in one of the Fist’s towers, King Bifalt watched his city and shivered. Ordinarily, he liked open air and cold. Now he kept the curtains closed and the hearth blazing. In fact, fires had been lit in several of his rooms. Nevertheless the cold found him wherever he went as if it had been sent to hunt him down.

Still, he stood at his windows and watched between the curtains. With as much patience as he could muster, he waited for Klamath’s return. Until he knew the outcome of the General’s experiments in the bay, he could not make his final arrangements to meet the enemy. In the meantime, he felt useless in his own realm. There was nothing he could do to improve his preparations, or to ease the decisions he would eventually have to make.

The light did not last long. As the sun sank behind the cloudbank sliding westward, shadows spread a premature dusk over the Open Hand. By increments, the King’s city fell into gloom.

Again and again, Bifalt’s gaze flicked to the gates of Belleger’s Fist and the bailey almost directly below him. He was looking for riders.

It was too early to hope for Klamath’s return. Encumbered by deep snow and burdened by Magisters, the General would be forced to spend at least one night in the encampment above the Bay of Lights. But he might send a messenger or two.

Bifalt would have preferred to wait alone. Unfortunately, he had a companion. His brother Prince Lome sprawled in a heavy chair as close to the hearth as he could get without singeing his garments. Knowing that the King kept only water in his chambers, Lome had brought a flagon of ale. So far, the Prince had not said why he had come.

King Bifalt did not care why. Not today. As long as Lome kept silent—

When a man on horseback came pounding along the streets, rushing through the keep’s open gates, and skidding to a halt in the bailey, Bifalt felt a chill more acute than the cold outside his windows. Ice seemed to trickle in his veins. The rider could only be a messenger from the General.

Reports from elsewhere—from the training-fields, the scouts around the city, or the relays that brought tidings from Set Ungabwey’s caravan—would pass through First Captain Matt. If Matt had tidings to convey, he would send an aide. Or come himself.

Chewing the inside of his cheek, King Bifalt resisted the impulse to stride to the chamber door, open it, and listen for the sound of running boots. Instead, he turned to his brother.