Toran, thought Kieron grimly, always Toran. lever a word of Ivane or Landor or the favorites who twisted Toran around their fingers.
Freka's voice dropped low and he leaned out over the first row of upturned faces. "I call upon you — as you love your people and your freedom — to join with Kalgan and rid the Empire of this weakling and his money-grubbing and neglect!"
In the crowd, someone stirred. All but this one seemed hypnotized. It was old Eric of Doom who stepped forward.
"You speak treason! You brought us here to discuss grievances, and you preach rebellion and treason, I say!" he shouted angrily.
Freka turned cold eyes on the old warrior.
"If this is treason," he said ominously, "it is the Emperor's treason — not ours."
Eric of Doom seemed to wilt under the icy gaze of those inhuman eyes. Kieron watched him step back into the circle of his followers, fear in his aging face. There was a power in Freka to quell almost any insurrection here, thought the Valkyr uneasily. He, himself, was bound by the promise he had made to Alys, but it was only that that kept him from casting in his lot with the compelling lord of Kalgan. Such a feeling was unreason itself, he knew, and he fought against it, drawing on his reserves of information to strengthen his resolve to obstruct Freka if he could. Yet it was easy to understand how this strange man had sprung out of obscurity and made himself master of Kalgan. Freka was a creature made for leadership. Kieron stood away from the crowd and forced himself to speak. All his earlier suspicions were growing like a suffocating cloud within him. Someone was being fooled and used, and it was not the lord of Kalgan!
"You, Freka!" he cried, and the lords turned to listen.
"You shout of getting rid of Toran — but what do you offer in his place?"
Freka's eyes were like steel now, glinting dully in the light of the wall-torches.