The night long, Metok stood at the northern window of his palace bed chamber, staring at the low hills where the fires of Oron’s encampment glowed like a spreading of brilliant eyes in the dark soul of the night. He did not sleep, nor did he eat or drink during that long vigil. Neither did he speak to anyone, although members of his council, present by his command, dropped off to sleep in chairs and divans about the room. Metok did not whisper to himself or make worthless curses under his breath. His mind was empty—fear, perhaps, and rage, certainly, silent rage.
But as dawn came over the land, as the skies to the unseen east gradually gave their light upon Cenre and the crowded fields beyond, Metok poured himself wine to quench his dried throat. His anger was roused, and he roared to the
