“She seeks it,” Sevano said. “This is the way Weapons like to die. They do not want to die in their sleep, they do not want to die of old age. Devon can do the most good by having the Jendara woman kill her or by killing Amilton.”

Stevic shook his head. It was painful to watch the old woman being goaded around the throne room as if a cloth had been tied about her eyes.

“Come, old hag,” Jendara taunted, darting from side to side.

Castellan Crowe banged the butt of his staff on the floor. “This is quite enough,” he said. “We can lock her up if we don’t want to kill her.”

Devon suddenly veered off course away from Jendara’s taunts. She pivoted and thrust her sword at the unmoving target of Castellan Crowe.

“Traitor!” she bellowed. She drove her sword through him until the hilt met his breastbone.

Crowe’s eyes went wide, then rolled to the back of his head. His staff clattered to the stone floor, and he folded over into a clump. Devon jerked her sword from his body. The length of the blade was stained red. The whole of the throne room went silent. One of the soldiers aimed his crossbow at Devon.

“No,” Jendara told him. She circled around Devon, stepping over Crowe’s body. “Well done, old hag. If he served as a traitor to Zachary, who is to say he would not betray King Amilton? Hmmm?” Jendara circled around and around, Devon following her with the tip of her sword. “But he was unarmed and unmoving. Can you get me?”

Devon answered with her sword and this time Jendara met her. Their blades hissed and clanged, their feet barely moving, their swords just extensions of their arms.

“I see you have not allowed your dotage to enfeeble your reflexes,” Jendara said.

“Every day I practice.” Devon slashed at Jendara’s neck, but Jendara blocked it.

All in the throne room stood as silent witnesses to the fight. The nobles had quieted after Crowe’s death, and watched apprehensively, at the same time relieved Amilton’s attention was fixed elsewhere. Indeed, he seemed thoroughly entertained by the spectacle and had resumed his seat in the throne chair. He leaned over the arm, murmuring to Lady Estora and stroking her cheek, his eyes all the while following Jendara and Devon. Estora shuddered at his touch and closed her eyes tight. Whatever words he spoke were for her ears alone.

Jendara continued to toy with Devon. For her, it was a simple exercise to block and parry the old woman’s moves. Devon, on the other hand, was slowing down, her movements faltering. Her breath rasped loudly.

“Tiring, are we?” Jendara said. “Put your sword down, and you can rest. King Amilton will see to it you are comfortable.”

“I will not stop . . .” Devon said between breaths. Her body shook. “I will not stop until one of us dies.”

“Then your heart will burst first.”

Devon paused, and a smile crossed her face. “My heart is strong as ever, and more pure than any. You will meet your fate as Saverill did, traitor, and may Aeryc and Aeryon judge you as they will.”

Devon leaped at Jendara, and Jendara held her sword up ready to fend off another blow, but it did not come. Devon dropped her sword and ran herself onto Jendara’s blade.

Jendara’s face turned a sickly white beneath all the bruises. She watched as Devon slid slowly off her blade and sank to the floor.

The silence in the throne room was broken by Amilton’s low laughter. “Well, well, Jendara. The wrath of the Weapons will be upon you.”

Her expression remained one of disbelief, and now fear. She glanced at Amilton. “They will be upon you, too.”

“I think not,” he said.

Before he could say more, a soldier entered through the great oaken doors and trotted down the runner. He bowed before Amilton.

“My lord, the Lord-Governor Mirwell has arrived.”

A smile split Amilton’s face. “Excellent. Send him in.”

The half moon was just discernible through one of the tall windows on the west side of the throne room. Stevic calculated they were into the wee hours of the morning and it seemed the nightmare was no closer to ending. It had only deepened.

He watched as the stout old lord-governor, looking gray and haggard, limped into the throne room. An officer in scarlet kept to his side, supporting him as he made his slow, awkward way down the runner. They were followed by another soldier with his helm visor down, and someone cloaked entirely in gray. Stevic felt dread as he looked upon that one, for he carried a basket, its bottom stained with blood.

DECEPTION

It was as if all in the throne room were frozen in time as Mirwell and his companions halted before Amilton. The nobles, guards, Mirwell, and even Amilton, stood rigid and pillarlike. Only the light and shadows showed life as the flames of oil lamps flinched in a draft as though the dark of night threatened to deny them even that simple golden glow. Stevic wondered how the night could possibly get worse.

“It is about time you arrived,” Amilton said. “I began to worry our plan had failed.”

The Mirwellian officer inclined her head. “Everything went as expected, my lord, but the strain of battle on Lord Mirwell delayed us.”

Mirwell glared at the woman. He tried to shake his arm loose of her, but she clung to him.

“My lord Mirwell,” she said with an edge to her voice, “you are exhausted.” Then she looked about the throne room, briefly eyeing the corpses of Devon and Crowe, and the nobles huddling together. Her face showed little surprise. “Would it be possible for someone to find a chair for Lord Mirwell?”