Her first thought when she entered the throne room was to wish she'd brought a knife after all. Her second thought was to wish that Po's sense of bodies had extended to this room, so that he might have warned her of what was waiting for her here, and she might have known not to come.

A long, blue carpet led from the doors to Randa's throne. The throne was raised high on a platform of white marble. Randa sat high on his throne, blue robes and bright blue eyes. His face hard, his smile frozen. An archer to either side of him, an arrow notched in each bow and trained, as she entered the room, on her forehead, on the place just above her blue and green eyes. Two more archers, one in each far corner, also with arrows notched.

The king's guard lined the carpet on either side, three men deep, swords drawn and held at their sides. Randa usually kept a tenth this many guards in his throne room. Impressive; it was an impressive battalion Randa had arranged in preparation for her appearance. But as Katsa took stock of the room, it occurred to her that Birn or Drowden or Thigpen would have done better. It was good he was an unwarring king, for Randa was not so clever when it came to assembling battalions. This one, he'd assembled all wrong. Too few archers, and too many of these clumsy, armored, lumbering men who would trip all over each other if they tried to attack her. Tall, broad men who could shield her easily from an arrow's flight. And armed, all of them armed with swords, and each with a dagger in his opposite belt, swords and daggers she might as well be carrying on her own person, so easily could she snatch them from their owners. And the king himself raised high on a platform, a long blue carpet leading straight to him like a pathway to direct the flight of her blade.

If a fight erupted in this room, it would be a massacre.

Katsa stepped forward, her eyes and ears finely tuned to the archers. Randa's archers were good, but they were not Graced. Katsa spared a moment to drily pity the guards at her back, if this encounter came down to arrow dodging.

And then, when she'd progressed about halfway to the throne, her uncle called out. "Stop there. I've no wish for your closer company, Katsa." Her name sounded like steam hissing down the carpet when Randa spoke it. "You return to court today with no woman. No dowry. My underlord and my captain injured by your hand. What do you have to say for yourself?"

When a battalion of soldiers didn't trouble her, why should one voice rile her so? She forced herself to hold his contemptuous eyes. "I didn't agree with your order, Lord King."

"Can I possibly have heard you correctly? You didn't agree with my order?"

"No, Lord King."

Randa sat back, his smile twisted tighter now. "Charming," he said. "Charming, truly. Tell me, Katsa. What, precisely, possessed you with the notion that you are in a position to consider the king's orders? To think about them? To form opinions regarding them? Have I ever asked you to share your thoughts on anything?"

"No, Lord King."

"Have I ever encouraged you to bestow upon us your sage advice?"

"No, Lord King."

"Do you imagine it is your wit, your stunning intellect, that warrants your position in this court?"

And here was where Randa was clever. This was how he'd kept her a caged animal for so long. He knew the words to make her feel stupid and brutish and turn her into a dog.

Well, and if she must be a dog, at least she would no longer be in this man's cage. She would be her own, she would possess her own viciousness, and she would do what she liked with it. Even now, she felt her arms and legs beginning to thrill with readiness. She narrowed her eyes at the king. She could not keep the challenge out of her voice.

"And what exactly is the purpose of all these men, Uncle?"

Randa smiled blandly. "These men will attack if you make the slightest move. And at the end of this interview they'll accompany you to my dungeons."

"And do you imagine I'll go willingly to your dungeons?"

"I don't care if you go willingly or not."

"That's because you think these men could force me to go against my will."

"Katsa. Of course we all have the highest regard for your skill. But even you have no chance against two hundred guards and my best archers. The end of this conversation will see you either in my dungeons, or dead."

Katsa saw and heard everything in the room. The king and his archers; the arrows notched and aimed; the guards ready with their swords; her arms in red sleeves, her feet beneath red skirts. The room was still, completely still, excepting the breath of the men around her, and the tingling she felt inside her. She held her hands at her sides, away from her body, so that everyone could see them. She breathed around a thing that she recognized now as hatred. She hated this king. Her body was alive with it.

"Uncle," she said. "Let me explain what will happen the instant one of your men makes a move toward me. Let's say, for instance, one of your archers lets an arrow fly. You've not come to many of my practices, Uncle. You haven't seen me dodge arrows; but your archers have. If one of your archers releases an arrow, I'll drop to the floor. The arrow will doubtless hit one of your guards. The sword and the dagger of that guard will be in my hands before anyone in the room has time to realize what's happened. A fight will break out with the guards; but only seven or eight of them can surround me at once, Uncle, and seven or eight are nothing to me. As I kill the guards I'll take their daggers and begin throwing them into the hearts of your archers, who of course will have no sighting on me once the brawl with the guards has broken out. I'll get out of the room alive, Uncle; but most of the rest of you will be dead. Of course, this is only what will happen if I wait for one of your men to make a move. I could move first. I could attack a guard, steal his dagger, and hurl it into your chest this instant."

Randa's mouth was fixed into a sneer, but under this he had begun to tremble. A threat of death, given and received; and Katsa felt it ringing in her fingertips. And she saw that she could do it now, she could kill him right now. The disdain in his eyes would disappear, and his sneer would slide away. Her fingers itched, for she could do it now with the snatch of a dagger.

And then what? a small voice inside herself whispered; and Katsa caught her breath, stricken. And then what? A bloodbath, one she'd be lucky to escape. Raffin would become king, and his first inheritance would be the task of killing the murderer of his father. A charge he couldn't avoid if he meant to rule justly as the King of the Middluns; and a charge that would break his heart, and make her an enemy, and a stranger.

And Po would hear of it as he was leaving. He'd hear that she'd lost control and killed her uncle, that she'd caused her own exile and broken Raffin's spirit. He would return to Lienid and watch from his balcony as the sun dropped behind the sea; and he'd shake his head in the orange light and wonder why she'd allowed this to happen, when she held so much power in her hands.

Where is your faith in your power? the voice whispered now You don't have to shed blood. And Katsa saw what she was doing, here in this throne room. She saw Randa, pale, gripping the arms of his throne so hard it seemed he might break them. In a moment he would motion to his archers to strike, out of fear, out of the terror of waiting for her to make the first move.

Tears came to her eyes. Mercy was more frightening than murder, because it was harder, and Randa didn't deserve it. And even though she wanted what the voice wanted, she didn't think she had the courage for it.

Po thinks you have the courage, the voice said fiercely. Pretend that you believe he's right. Believe him, for just a moment.