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Tuul Ra was older than Talon, but he was blessed with a face and figure that were somehow timeless. He could have been any age between thirty and forty-five. Though he had a daughter just a few months older than Talon, she found him beguiling, and she imagined him to be young. She imagined that he had married as a young teen, as royals often did in his land.
    Talon was eighteen years old—a free woman on her world, old enough to select her own husband—and she was considered to be of prime breeding age and stock.
    The emir took her elbow gently, and walked beside her in a courtly manner.
    She smiled shyly, and walked with him, pointing out things—grass, trees, sky, sun—and teaching him their Rofehavanish names.
    The emir listened intently and experimented with each word, trying it on his tongue. He turned out to be a marvelously adept student, for in his youth he had been forced to master several languages. More important, he was from the ruling caste in his own land, and thus had been bred for intelligence. Thus, his forefathers had been selected not just to be great warriors, but to be men of sound character and deep wisdom.
    They walked along for a pair of hours, Talon trying to match the emir’s faster pace, until at last they reached the front of the column, matching stride for stride. The emir learned with surprising rapidity, and kept demanding to learn more, as if he hoped to master the Rofehavanish tongue in a single day.
    He feels an onus is upon him, she realized. His every muscle is strung as tight as a bow. He has an entire nation to save, and he thinks that knowing this language might be the key.
    At Talon’s back, Alun and Siyaddah were lost in their own conversation, and time and again the war dogs came boiling around them all in a pack.
    But as they talked, Talon heard one man a few rows behind question loudly, “Where are we going? Ah, this is madness! Who is in charge here?”
    She realized that she had been hearing similar grumbles farther off all morning long, and she herself had wondered who was in charge, but the emir’s lessons had captured her attention and taken her mind from the problem.
    The emir rounded and called, “Halt! Halt! Everyone gather around!” He leapt up on a fallen tree. The bark had stripped away over the years, so that the bole was bleached whiter than a skull. The Wizard Sisel came to stand at the emir’s back on the right, and Daylan Hammer to his left. Thus, with the emir having some elevation, it felt almost as if they had formed a natural amphitheater. The crowd began to gather around. There was nervousness in the air. Talon found herself backing away, farther into the crowd, hoping to assess its mood.
    â€œThere is grumbling among you,” the emir said—loudly, so that he could be heard by all who were pleased to listen. “You are worried, as you should be. You ask, ‘Where are we going?’ ” At that there were grunts of assent and wise nods. “ ‘Who leads us now, and by what right?’ ‘Our king is dead. Warlord Madoc is dead. Why are we traveling north, when the way is blocked?’ ”
    They were good questions all, Talon knew.
    â€œI will tell you,” the emir said. “No one leads us now.” At that the folks in the crowd glanced from side to side, and some shook their heads. It was a problem that they had never faced before. “Here in our hour of greatest need, no one leads us.”
    â€œYou should lead us!” one of the young warlords cried in a husky voice, and there were cheers from many. But almost instantly Warlord Madoc’s sons shouted, “No! No!,” and their supporters chimed in, while others hissed and jeered.
    Talon was astonished by the ferocity of their response. The Emir Tuul Ra had always been a man of high station, well liked by the people. But many a peasant shook a fist in the air and adamantly rejected the notion that he should