As King Sylvarresta strode to them, both men held their pikes, tips pointed to the ground. On the far side of the keep wall, Raj Ahten could be seen through the portcullis gates.

“My lord?” Captain Ault asked. He was ready to fight to the death, if Iome’s father so desired. Or to slay both the King and Iome, save them from the torturous end Iome feared.

“Put them away,” Sylvarresta said, his voice shaken with uncertainty.

“Do you have any orders?” Ault asked.

Iome’s heart pounded. She feared that her father would ask him to slay them now, rather than let them fall into enemy hands.

A debate had long raged among the lords in Rofehavan as to what one should do in such circumstances. Often a conquering king would try to take endowments from those he defeated. In doing so, he became stronger. And Raj Ahten was far too powerful already. Some thought it more noble to kill themselves than to submit to domination.

Others said that one had a duty to live in the hope of serving one’s people another day. Iome’s father vacillated on this point. Since two days past, when he’d lost two endowments of wit, the King had become suddenly cautious, fearful of what he’d forgotten, afraid to make mistakes.

King Sylvarresta looked down at Iome, tenderly. “Life,” he whispered, “is so sweet. Don’t you think?”

Iome nodded.

The King said softly, “Life . . . Iome, is strange and beautiful, full of wonders, even in the darkest hours. I have always believed that. One must choose life, if one can. Let us live, in the hope of serving our people.”

Iome trembled, fearing that he’d made the wrong choice, fearing that the death of her and her father would better serve her people.

King Sylvarresta whispered to Ault, “Open the gate. And bring us some lanterns. We’ll need some light.”

The burly captain nodded grimly. From his eyes, Iome knew Ault would rather die than watch Sylvarresta lose his kingdom. He did not agree with the King’s decision.

Ault saluted, touching the haft of his pike to the bill of his iron cap. You will always be my lord, the gesture said.

King Sylvarresta gave him a curt nod. The guards unbarred the gates; each took a handle, pushing them outward.

Raj Ahten sat on his gray stallion with white speckles on its rump. His guards surrounded him. His Days, a tall, imperious man with graying temples, waited at his back. The Wolf Lord’s horses were large, noble beasts. Iome had heard of the breed but had never seen one before. They were called imperial horses, brought from the almost legendary realm of the toth, across the Caroll Sea.

Raj Ahten himself looked regal, his black mail covering his body like glistening scales, the wide owl’s wings on his helm drawing the eye to his face. He stared impassively at the King, at Iome.