Khallayne saw Lyrralt only dimly through a wall of rushing wind. Her vision clouded by blood and smoke, she flung out her hands and spoke the words again. The incantation seared her throat.

The slaves who had started to scramble down the embankment were thrown back by a wall of fire.

Vision and hearing still impaired, Khallayne threw out her hands again, this time sending a fireball slamming into the embankment. Shards of gray rock and red clay went flying. Another spell was bubbling in her throat when something barreled into her and knocked her down.

She scrabbled for her dagger, sensing the handle against her palm through a haze of fury. She came up fighting, the words to another spell forming on her lips, bare fists striking out, only to realize the person she was hitting was Jyrbian. What she had heard through the roaring in her ears was his voice shouting her name.

She collapsed into his arms, gasping and spent, but also exhilarated.

Jyrbian supported her in the crook of one arm, his sword at the ready, but the few slaves left alive had fled. “Whatever you did,” he said, his voice husky with admiration, “it worked.”

She said nothing, simply looked up and met Lyrralt’s gaze as he came over to them.

“Are you harmed?” Lyrralt asked.

She managed to shake her head and push herself away from Jyrbian.

Blood was running off the bodies of the dead, pooling on the hard ground. The woods at the edge of the clay bank were charred, little trickles of fire still licking the dry leaves. Above the caves there were three lumps of charred black that vaguely resembled human forms.

The only sound came from Nylora, who had knelt beside Briah’s body and was moaning. She touched her sister’s lifeless body at the forehead and throat and wrist, desperate to find some sign of life.

It was obvious to the others that there was none. A row of neat punctures, encircled with blood, ran diagonally across Briah’s chest.

Nylora looked up and saw Lyrralt. “Heal her,” she pleaded. She paused and touched the hole over Briah’s heart. Her fingers came away red and sticky.

“I can’t,” Khallayne heard him whisper as he went over to Nylora.

“You saved Khallayne,” she accused Lyrralt.

One of the cousins leaned over and caught Ny-lora’s arm to pull her up, but she resisted. “You saved Khallayne! I saw what she did. I saw her use magic!” she screamed. “If you don’t heal Briah, I’ll tell everyone!”

Lyrralt dropped to his knees in front of Nylora and grasped her bloody hands. “I can’t,” he said with anguish. “The gods have not yet granted me such power.”

She jerked away from his grip, moaning, “This is what comes of Igraine’s free will.”

“These weren’t Igraine’s slaves,” Jyrbian said gently, holding out his hand to help her stand.

“What does it matter whose slaves they were?” She slapped his hand away and pointed at Jyrbian. ‘This is what comes of it!” She threw her short sword at him, but the weapon thunked onto the ground harmlessly.

Lyrralt looked around. There was blood all around him, on his hands and his clothes. He could taste it in the air. The rune on his arm throbbed. He had to struggle not to give in to the whisper “Doom,” while they tried to console Nylora.

Lyrralt stared at Briah’s body, his fingers clasped over his left shoulder. Khallayne gazed only at the scorched earth across the path.

Jyrbian took charge. Only Tenaj was unaffected, alert and aware of the possibility of further danger.

“We need to round up the horses,” he told her. “The slaves may have run, but that doesn’t mean they won’t come back.”

Briah’s horse had been killed, and the others had disappeared into the forest. With a curt nod, Tenaj strode off, calling for Khallayne to help.

Once found, the horses were nervous; precious time was spent calming them, while Jyrbian grew more agitated, sure that the group would be attacked again.

“I’ll put Briah’s body behind me,” Tenaj said.

Jyrbian shook his head. “No. I want the strongest fighters mounted separately, in case we’re attacked again.”

Soon they had checked each mount for injuries and were ready to move. Eyes tearstained, Nylora took up Briah’s sword and the heavy rings from her sister’s ringers and climbed to her feet. “It’s Igraine’s fault. It’s his fault Briah is dead. And when we get home, I’m going to make sure everyone knows what he’s doing! I’ll make sure everyone knows everything!”

Khallayne, her expression stiff, mounted without bothering to glance at the hysterical Ogre.

A gong pealed, sonorous and stately, and five doors opened simultaneously onto the raised platform of the chamber of the Ruling Council. Five council scribes, stiff and formal with importance, entered onto the platform, carrying their writing trays before them.

The audience, seated in semicircular rows ranging from the foot of the platform to the back of the room, placed their right hands over their left on the floor and bowed low over them. The most important families, or their representatives, were seated in the front, with the ranking members kneeling beside the center aisle.

The room was full, the back rows crowded, as it had been since the Keeper had died the week before. Each morning, as many Ogres as possible crowded into the chamber, hoping to hear an announcement about the History.

The scribes took up places behind the low tables of the council, but remained standing.

After another sounding of the gong, four of the five members of the Ruling Council-Teragrym, Enna, Narran and Rendrad-entered from opposite doors and took their places at the long, low tables, leaving the center seat open.

A moment later, the final member, Anel, entered from the center door and joined them. Her family held the king in traditional safekeeping and, therefore, she was the leader of the council.

As a group, the five members sank to the soft linen cushions that protected their knees from the floor. Their elaborate robes fanned out in circles of bright color about their bodies, silver embroidered with white, palest yellow, bird’s-egg blue, a dark burnt umber the color of plowed earth, and, in the center, the leader, in a plain, unadorned red the color of rubies.

“Who is the first petitioner?” Anel began the council’s official business with the ritual question.

“I am, Lady.”

A soft gasp went up from the audience. The speaker was not an aide, but Lord Narran himself. “I bring a matter of government security before the council, and I ask that the chamber be cleared.”

Again a sound went through the audience, a barely voiced groan of disappointment. The council frequently met behind closed doors, but normally not on an audience day. However, the audience rose to go, filling the room with the sound of rustling cloth.

When they were alone, even the scribes gone, and all the doors closed, Anel turned to Narran. “What, my lord, is so important as to warrant that kind of drama?”

“This morning, I was given information which I feel we must act upon immediately, Lady.”

Anel dipped her head slightly, granting permission for him to continue.

“Is it about the History?” Rendrad asked.

Narran shook his head. “No, it’s more serious than even that. I believe Igraine, governor of Khal-Theraxian, is responsible for the slave uprisings that have troubled us of late.”

Enna half rose from her cushion. Though Igraine had been appointed governor by the whole council, Khal-Theraxian was in her domain. Her own winter home was in the province, not far from Igraine’s estate, and she was supplied with a healthy percentage of the levies. “Narran, you go too far! I know you’ve been jealous of Igraine’s improved production, but-”