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“That girl attacked your wife, highness. I sought only to defend her.” Marten sheathed his sword, spreading his hands wide.

Ever so slowly Alwenna eased herself up from the floor and backed away from the dais, dagger in hand. If Tresilian summoned the guards who were waiting outside, the three of them were lost. Whose side Marten was on, she no longer knew. He seemed to occupy a side of his own in this strange stalemate.

Knuckles white, Tresilian pushed himself up off the throne. “Give me that blade, Alwenna. It is not for your hand.”

“Is it not?” She twisted the knife in her grip, admiring the play of light over the runes and gems. “I think it knows my hand, cousin. Do you not?”

“Sister, he is right.” Marten broke in. “That blade is cursed. You must not use it in anger.”

Such delicate work. They had no craftsmen to equal it now. “It’s not anger I feel right now, Marten.” The word she would choose was hunger.

But to share that insight with them would be a bad idea.

A very bad idea.

Monstrous.

Another couple of steps and Alwenna was within arm’s reach of the door to the great hall. She slid the heavy bolt shut with a snap.

Guessing her intent too late, Tresilian barked a command. “Stop her!”

Erin yelped in protest. A heavy weight crashed against Alwenna’s side, knocking her to the ground and driving the breath from her lungs, while the dagger fell from her hand and spun away across the floor. All was confusion, a tangle of limbs as she and Erin scrambled to their feet. Curtis had hurled the servant girl against her. Swords clashed behind them. On the dais? Before Alwenna could turn to see she was hauled bodily upwards and pinned in a crushing grip. A glint of light flashed across her vision, then a blade pressed against her throat.

“Hold hard, freemerchant, or the witch dies!” Curtis bellowed, backing up against the wall while he kept Alwenna between him and the rest of the room.

Marten had leaped onto the dais to confront Tresilian and now fought him and Weaver. The freemerchant’s movements were dance-like. He was quicksilver, making the other two appear leaden and slow as he drew Tresilian over to the window. “Look to your conscience, Weaver. You know I’m not the danger here.”

Weaver hesitated, glancing towards where Curtis held Alwenna. He lowered his sword and backed away to the edge of the dais, leaving Tresilian to defend himself. The door to the chamber rattled as the guards outside discovered it had been locked.

Behind Weaver, Tresilian and the freemerchant fought on. One of the incense burners toppled with a crash. Erin flung herself at Curtis, scratching at his eyes. He shoved her away with his elbow, the motion making his knife blade dig into Alwenna’s flesh. Grim-faced, Weaver jumped down from the dais, and grabbed Erin as she sprang at Curtis a second time. Weaver pushed the girl away to one side, then swung round to smash his sword pommel into Curtis’ face. Flinching, Alwenna heard the crunch of bone cracking beneath the impact and something wet and warm spattered against her face. Curtis’ grip slackened. Weaver dragged him away from her, pounding his face over and over, continuing long after the man had subsided on the floor. Alwenna stumbled clear and found herself next to the jewelled dagger once more. Numbly, she picked it up.

The guards hammered against the door. Behind Alwenna, from the dais, came a ragged clatter of metal. She spun round. Marten was parrying desperately with a broken sword as Tresilian drove him back against the wall. The freemerchant was her best chance of getting answers to her questions. And she had many questions. She launched herself forward and charged at Tresilian as he raised his sword high and lunged. Heedless of where she placed her feet, Alwenna cannoned against him with no more than a vague hope of knocking him off balance. Tresilian’s sword struck the wall with a clatter of steel against stone as Alwenna went sprawling on the floor.

Tresilian grunted and he staggered sideways. He turned to Alwenna, eyes widening as he took another unsteady step, then his legs crumpled and he fell over onto his back. The ornate handle of Vasic’s dagger protruded from his ribs on one side, on the other the hilt of Marten’s broken sword. Tresilian’s feet convulsed and a pool of urine spread over the floor beneath him, creeping along the joints between the floorboards.

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED ONE

Alwenna and Marten stared at one another. Marten rubbed the sweat from his forehead and took a deep breath, but for once he seemed to be at a loss for words. Alwenna scrambled to her feet.

The hammering continued at the door but the bolt was still holding. For now. Curtis was slumped across the doorway, barely recognisable and a threat to no one. Weaver jumped up on the dais next to them, kneeling at Tresilian’s side. He checked his throat for a pulse. “He’s dead. By the Goddess, what have you done?” He glared at Marten. “This man was the saving of me.”

“Can you still not believe me? This would never have happened if he’d only kept his word.” Marten stooped over the body. “We’ll need this dagger.” He tugged it from between Tresilian’s ribs then hesitated, staring at the blade. The dead king’s blood spread along the runes until it reached the hilt. The gemstones seemed to grow brighter.

Grimacing, Marten wiped the blade clean on Tresilian’s clothing, then straightened up and tucked it away in his belt. He glanced at Alwenna. “It’s best that I carry it.”

The hammering at the door ceased.

Weaver stood up and turned to Alwenna. “Curtis injured you.”

Alwenna raised a hand to her throat. Her fingertips came away sticky with blood. “It doesn’t hurt.”

Weaver leaned closer. “It’s only a scratch, thank the Goddess. I thought–”

There was massive crash against the door from the great hall. It shuddered, but the bolt held. They must have been using one of the benches as a battering ram.

Alwenna turned towards it. “What do we do now? Stay? Or run? Can we stop them?”

“Sister, we run as far and as fast as we can.” Marten rattled the door to the private chambers, but it was locked fast. He took up the heavy black chair and smashed it against the leaded window. The first blow caused a bulge, the second burst a couple of panes, the third ripped right through the lead work. He and Weaver set about clearing the shards from the frame.

“He moved.” Erin’s voice was high and sharp. “The king moved.” She stood with her hand pressed to a cut on her forehead. “See, there it is again.” She stepped back, pointing.

Tresilian’s feet and hands twitched, convulsive at first, but moving with more deliberation until he could clench and unclench his fists. He drew up first one knee and then the other, his coordination improving with each movement. He pressed his hands against the floor and pushed himself to a sitting position, twisting round until his eyes pointed blindly to where Alwenna stood.

Weaver took up position between them. “Get out through the window. Now.”

Erin needed no further encouragement and dashed over to the window. “I’ll bring horses.” She climbed out through the broken casement and dropped to the ground, sprinting towards the stables.

Alwenna backed away from Tresilian. His impossible, dead gaze chilled her more than anything she’d ever seen. Already he was clambering to his feet. Weaver readied his guard.

Marten swore and grabbed Curtis’ sword, jumping back up onto the dais alongside Weaver. “Fire. We need fire to stop him.”

The grate was cold, as might be expected on such a warm day. Alwenna turned in desperation and her foot caught one of the censers which had been knocked to the floor during the fight. It had burst open and the embers scattered across the floor. They were already cool. She scrambled across to the other, set a hand on it and discovered it was still hot. She fumbled it open, then realised she needed tinder. Her scarf. Where had she dropped it? She jumped down from the dais, just as a great creaking sound came from the door. They’d be through any minute.

From behind her came grunts and a gasp, then the clash of steel on steel. She risked a glance over her shoulder: Weaver and Marten fought Tresilian, who’d pulled the broken blade from his chest and was parrying their blows with it. Impossible. She scrambled back up to the censer and dragged it over to the window where there were heavy tapestries. She pressed the scarf into the embers and blew gently as she’d watched Weaver. It smouldered for a moment, then died. Hands shaking, she tried again. Behind her came a rending sound as one of the planks forming the door splintered. This time the fire caught and a bright flame sprang from the fabric. Hands shaking, she set it against the fringe of the tapestry. The ancient textile was dry and parched and the fire spread quickly. She pushed the altar table against it and the cloth covering that began to smoulder, then flared. The fire climbed rapidly, devouring the tapestry and racing across the ornate drapery over the window. The wood panelling above it singed and blistered, and smoke billowed up to the ceiling.

The door to the great hall splintered further and shouts from the other side could be heard.

“Get out!” Marten yelled over his shoulder as he and Weaver fought Tresilian away to the edge of the dais. Alwenna clambered into the opening, ducking through it as several priests burst into the room from the private quarters. The sudden rush of air set the flames roaring higher. Weaver spun round to force the priests back, just as Marten propelled Tresilian backwards off the dais. The room was filling with smoke. Alwenna clung there in the window embrasure. She thought she recognised her uncle’s scarred face through the smoke before Marten moved to Weaver’s side and they pushed the priests back to the doorway.

“I’ll hold them here, you go.” Weaver shouldered the freemerchant aside. Knocked off balance, Marten staggered towards the window and Weaver planted himself squarely in front of the doorway.

“Weaver, no!” Alwenna shouted without ever meaning to.

“Just go,” he shouted back.

The tapestry beside Alwenna collapsed in a burst of sparks and flying embers and she had to jump away from the window, landing on the cobbles outside. A sword clattered down nearby as Marten dived through after her, his sleeve in flames. He rolled on the ground and Alwenna wrapped her hands in her cloak and beat at the burning fabric. Smoke billowed from the window now, and shouts were going up around the palace.

Marten sat up, coughing. He pushed himself to his feet and retrieved the sword, his eyes on the window.

With a clatter of hooves three horses charged into the yard. Erin rode the middle one and was leading the other two by halters. “These were all I could get. There’re soldiers everywhere.”

Alwenna grabbed the halter Erin tossed to her. Marten sheathed his sword and legged her up onto the horse’s bare back, then looped the end of the halter round to form makeshift reins.

“What about Weaver? We can’t leave him.”

“He knows how to look after himself.” Marten looped the halter of his own horse round and vaulted on, but he waited, his eyes on the broken window. Thick black smoke poured from the room. From inside there was a sharp cracking sound and a fresh shower of sparks issued from the window, followed by a burst of flames. All three horses spun away from it. Alwenna had to grab the mane to stay seated. Marten brought his horse round in a circle, but now flames roared from the window as the timber dais must have caught alight. He shook his head and turned his horse away. The horses needed no urging to break into a canter and they dashed out through the stable yard.

Everyone there was scrambling for buckets and water. In the confusion no one challenged them. The gates to the palace stood wide open to admit a group of farmers’ wagons. They galloped for the gates, their horses’ hooves clattering over the cobbles. A single guard at the gateway stepped forward but Marten rode straight for him. Sunlight glanced off the freemerchant’s sword and the man fell aside.

A moment later they were free and galloping along the road that led north.

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWO

They didn’t stop and didn’t speak until the road had climbed off the plain where the summer palace was situated. There was a cluster of trees by a small stream and they halted there. Alwenna slid from her horse’s back, legs almost buckling beneath her as her feet touched the ground. Her face was tight and gritty where tears had been whipped dry by the wind. Erin took her horse’s halter and tied it to the tree with the other two. Finally Alwenna turned and looked back along the empty road. A haze hung over the plain, but rising through it was a dark column of smoke, sluggish, belying the intensity of the flames that were devouring the summer palace.

Alwenna’s eyes stung. The stench of smoke filled her nostrils again and tickled at her lungs, making her cough. She pushed the vision away, only to find it left her mind, like her heart, desperately empty. She made no objection as Erin led her to the small stream and sat unresisting on the bank as the girl bathed her blistered hands and cleansed the cut on her throat, then tore her own voluminous headscarf in two so Alwenna might also be protected from the sun.

Alwenna sank her hands into the shallow water. It was clean and pure. It brought her comfort, but showed her nothing of Weaver’s fate.

Blisters were forming on Marten’s arm where his sleeve had caught fire. Erin helped him remove his tunic so they could bathe his arm in the cold stream. As she did so the dagger slipped from his belt, falling on the ground between him and Alwenna. The stones were dull and lifeless now, the runes barely visible.

“We should leave that thing behind.” Alwenna’s voice was as dry and cracked as she felt. “Bury it where no one will find it.”

Marten winced as the water splashed over his burned skin. “Your instinct is good, but there may be safer places.” He straightened up, cautiously rolling his tattered shirt sleeve down over the blisters. “And there is the possibility we may need it again.”

“Hasn’t it done enough damage?” Alwenna glared at it. Was it her imagination or did the gemstones deepen in colour? Some trick of the sunlight through the trees?

“That’s the problem, sister. We may need to draw upon it to undo such damage as we can.”