Upon the last horse in the group, in his black chain armor, his high helm with white snow owl’s wings sweeping wide, Lord Raj Ahten rode himself, shield on one arm, a horseman’s long-handled warhammer in the other.

Where he rode, it was as if light shone from him, as if he were one star in a black and empty night, or one lowly signal boat with its pyres lit upon the water.

Iome could not take her eyes from him. Even at this distance, his glamour struck her breathless. She could not distinguish his features—for at such a distance, he was nothing more than a tiny stick figure. Yet she had the impression of great beauty, even from here. And she knew that to look upon his face would be dangerous.

Iome admired his helm, with its sweeping white wings. In her bedroom she kept two ancient helms of the toth. What a fine addition it would make to my collection, she thought, with Raj Ahten’s skull smiling out at me.

Behind Raj Ahten’s forces came a more common brown mare, the Wolf Lord’s Days, struggling to catch up. Iome wondered what secrets he could tell. . . .

Down by the gates, her father’s soldiers began shouting at one another in warning: “Beware the face! Beware the face!”

She looked at her own men on the walls, saw many of them fumbling with their arms. Captain Derrow, who had many endowments of strength, ran along the parapet with a steel great bow that no other man in the kingdom could draw, hoping to send a few darts into Raj Ahten.

As if in answer to her soldiers’ warnings, a swirling cloud of golden light formed above Raj Ahten, a whirlwind of embers that descended, drawing the eyes of many to his features.

It was some flameweavers’ trick, Iome realized. Raj Ahten wanted her people to look at him.

Iome did not fear Raj Ahten’s visage from so far away. She doubted that from here his glamour could muddy her judgment.

Raj Ahten hurried toward the city gates. His warriors’ horses issued forth in formation, rippling over the fields like a gale, for these were no common beasts. They were force stallions. Herd leaders, that like their masters were transformed by the Runelords’ art. The sight of them, shooting over the darkening fields like cormorants skimming the sea, filled Iome’s heart with wonder. She’d never seen such fine force horses gallop in unison. She’d never seen anything so magnificent.

Prince Orden ran to the top of the stairs, shouted down into the Dedicates’ Keep, “King Sylvarresta, you are needed. Raj Ahten seeks a parlay.”

Iome’s father cursed, began pulling on his armor. It clattered as he dressed.