"I grew weary of it," he answered shortly.
"Weary—of kingly power?"
"Why not? Those courts are nothing—a barbarian ruling over one or two cities, and calling himself a king and trying drearily to hold a court worthy of the title. The same, always the same endless squabbling, carrion birds quarreling among the bones of the Empire. I went on the next war, or to see the next part of the world, and erelong I learned never to stay too long in one place lest the newness of it wear off."
"Valkarion is ever new, Alfric. A man could live his life here and never see all there was."
"Perhaps. So they told me. And it was, after all, the old seat of the Empire, and its shrunken remnant of territory is still greater than any other domain. So I came here to see for myself." Alfric grinned, a wolfish gleam of teeth in the night. "Also, I heard tales—restlessness, a struggle for power between Temple and Imperium, with the Emperor an old man and the last of his line, unable to get a child on his young queen Hildaborg. It seemed opportune."
"How so?" He thought she breathed faster, lying there beside him.
He chuckled, a harsh iron sound in his corded throat. "How should I know? Except that when such a hell's broth is bubbling, a fighting man can always scoop up loot or power or—at the very least—adventure. If nothing else, there might be the Empress. They say she's a half barbarian herself, a princess of Choredon, and a lusty wench giving hospitality to every visiting noble or knight." He felt Freha stiffen a little, and added: "But that doesn't interest me now, when I've found you. Freha, leave this place with me tomorrow and you'll wear the crown jewels of Valkarion."
"Or else see your head on a pike above the walls," she said.
Faintly through the window and the whining night-wind, they heard the crash of a great gong.