“A bushberry with whiskers,” Miya added. She had short golden-brown hair and a lighter build than her warrior sister. In charge of Tol’s household and domestic affairs, she had a skill as a haggler which made her the bane of merchants across the empire.

Tol divided a sour look equally between them. “Exactly what I needed to hear before facing the nobility of Tarsis.”

Kiya made a dismissive sound. “You’re twice the warrior of any of those snobs.”

“And you’re the Crown Prince’s champion,” put in Miya. “When he becomes emperor, your star will know no bounds. Why should you be unhappy?”

A face flashed into Tol’s mind-green eyes and a smile framed by a rich fall of dark brown hair. Valaran. Ten years had passed since he’d last heard from his beloved, ten years of silence that puzzled him. Despite the passage of time, the distance between them, and the fact she was married to Crown Prince Amaltar, Tol still could not forget her. Val was lodged in his heart, a thorn that could never be removed.

The sisters knew of that old pain, but with the practicality of their forest upbringing, they saw no point in dwelling on it.

“You’re right, I’ve no reason to be unhappy,” Tol replied firmly, replacing his frown with a smile. “Life is good.”

Kiya grasped him by the shoulders, staring hard into his eyes. “Let the Tarsans see the great Lord Tolandruth in all his glory. By the gods, I wager if you glare at them the right way, they’ll melt into their fancy boots!”

The jest had its intended effect, lightening his mood. Seating his ceremonial helmet on his head, Tol stepped outside.

Torches blazed at the entrance to his tent, and his honor guard snapped to attention when he emerged. All his old comrades were present, save the wounded Darpo: there was balding Frez, dark-skinned Tarthan, Fellen the engineer, and Sanksa, the Karad-shu tribesman.

Looking them over with a grin, he suddenly missed Egrin, Raemel’s son, the man who more than any other had made a warrior out of a clumsy peasant lad.