In the cold Gerontos had trouble walking, even with his stick. Rhodorix let his brother lean on him as they made their slow way outside to the courtyard in front of the palace. Women carrying torches stood in a line at the outer walls of the buildings and ringed the inner walls of the fortess itself. The healers stood on the steps of the palace. Hwilli hurried forward with her fellow apprentice.

“We’ll help Gerro,” she said. “You’d best take your place. Remember, don’t say a word until the priests say it’s finished.”

“Well and good, then,” Rhodorix said. “I won’t.”

Andariel had already gotten the rest of the guards in place, horsemen to the right of what at first looked like a pile of firewood, infantry to the left, archers equally divided among the two contingents. As horsemaster, Rhodorix joined the captain up in the front rank. From that position he could see that the firewood had been carefully stacked into a temporary altar, square in shape, some twelve feet on a side though only about five feet high.

When he glanced up, he saw men on the holy tower beside the gleaming brass gongs, but as yet neither the priests nor the white cows had made an appearance in the courtyard. They were, he surmised, waiting for the prince to arrive—soon, Rhodorix hoped. Even in their heavy cloaks the men were shivering in place. Finally silver horns sounded. The healers on the palace steps moved aside to let Ranadar through. He took a torch from one of the women and stalked up to the altar. In the flickering light he looked furious, his preternaturally handsome face drawn tight and grim under the hood of his cloak.

With the prince in place other horns shrieked, the sour bronze cry of the priestly instruments. Marching in lockstep, their gold-and-sapphire decorations glittering, the priests were coming with their usual bodyguards around them, the silver alloy swords gleaming like the teeth of wolves. At the rear, two of them led sacrifices, but not the cows. Rhodorix choked back a curse just in time. The two Meradan prisoners of war shuffled along, draped in drab cloaks, their hands bound, their heads shaved.

Had they been back in the homeland, Rhodorix could have stepped forward and demanded his prisoners back. They might have chosen to live as his slaves or to face the altar and go free of him forever. As it was, he could do nothing but watch as the priests led them to the firewood structure. They stood heads down and hopeless as the priestly contingent gathered around them.

With raised arms, the priests began to pray, a long litany in the language of the People, but some ancient and holy form of it, just different enough that Rhodorix, who’d left the crystals back in Gerontos’ chamber, could understand little of the long involved plea to a great many gods. At intervals, horns blared and gongs rang out, but no one spoke or moved.