The war council convened before dawn. The boys had been discussing how to besiege an impenetrable fortress with nothing but peasant levies, a handful of knights, a teenage magician, and Eris for quite some time, since Rook and Khelidon first reunited, and now their plan was to be put into action.

The Horse’s Tale was their war room. Gathered there were their most loyal knights, Khelidon’s men and Rook’s old friends, and the party itself. Even Jason had been invited—Aether knew why. The warriors were dressed in steel. Rook had acquired a coat of plates and a new helmet, this painted with white crows so all might recognize him in battle. Even the crippled Khelidon planned in joining the assault; he wore sheets of clinking metal.

“There are eight secret passages out of the Keep,” he said. A map of Crowsbrook rested on the table, with no indication of any such secrets. He dotted the exits of each passage on the map. “They can be opened only from within.”

“I can open them from without,” Eris said.

“Perhaps you could. But it wouldn’t do any good. You’ve seen the passages, they’re much too narrow to move men through. Numbers are in our advantage; we abandon that advantage to fight in tunnels. Rook and I have discussed this at length.” He and Rook glanced at each other—a passing of the torch of generalship.

“Right,” Rook said. “The danger of the passages is that Hierax might try to slip away when the assault turns in our favor. So we’ll need to watch the exits—ten men at each should be sufficient, I think.”

Khelidon nodded. “They’re not so useful when the enemy knows where they are. Another reason to keep your kinsmen on good terms.”

“How do you know he’s still here?” Aletheia asked. “Maybe he already ran away?”

“There are men on the battlements exchanging arrows with our skirmishers,” Rook said. “We’ll see how hard they fight in melee. But if you were them—would you die for a duke who wouldn’t die for you?”

“Depends how much he was paying me,” Jason said.

“In a pitched battle, perhaps,” Eris said. “But a lost siege gives you nowhere to flee. Death is the right word to use. Rook is correct. Hierax has not fled. He cannot give up his castle without abdicating his title.”

Rook smiled at her. “So we watch the secret exits, just in case. The rest move for a frontal assault.”

“Isn’t it normal for a siege to have—a trebuchet? Or battering ram?” Jason asked.

“We do!” Rook said. He put a mailed hand on Eris’ shoulder. “She’ll pull the gates open. Aletheia will give her cover from arrows and rocks. Then we storm the bailey and…seize the walls. Easy.”

Jason frowned. “Can you do that?”

“It cannot be harder than pulling apart the clouds to reveal the sun,” Eris said.

“Most casualties in an assault come from trying to take the walls,” Khelidon said. “If we can get the gates open and clear away defenders with magic, we might escape with only a few lost. Not that I care much about the peasants, but fewer casualties makes Rook look more heroic. That means the most important thing is keeping Eris and Aletheia alive.”

“I agree,” Eris said.

“I do too,” Rook said earnestly.

“Can’t we let some peasants die? I mean so we don’t have to pay their five hundred drachs?” Jason said.

“You came too late, Jason,” Rook said. “You missed when I told them I’d paid the sums owed to any fallen to their families. There’s no weaseling out of this one.”

“Easy to be charitable with someone else’s money I guess.”

“It was our money, you degenerate scrivener,” Eris said. “Now what else is there to discuss?”

There was nervousness in Rook’s eyes. He carried apprehension in his muscles. Tension in his features as he scanned the map. “My cousins.” He addressed this to the other knights gathered here. “I want them captured and brought before me. They need to survive. Is that understood?”

“Of course, Your Grace,” said one toady.

“Kirke is no longer present,” Khelidon said. “Hierax sent her away to her groom. I suppose it was unreasonable to think every loose end could be tied today. But Kirkos is within, or he was some days past. We’ll make sure he’s apprehended. As for Hierax…what fate awaits him, brother?”

“I say we throw him from the top of the Keep,” Eris said. “Then we may learn if crows truly can fly.”

“I’ve always wondered that myself,” Khelidon said.

“No,” Rook said. “No. I’m not a kinslayer. He’s still our uncle. If he survives the fighting, he’ll face judgment—but I want to speak with him first. But Kirkos must survive. He must. I can’t—I don’t want any more of my kinsmen to die today.”

His words were expressed with the utmost generosity. His virtuous pretensions would see his work fall out beneath his feet. Eris took this as the assurance that if she had any duty at all, it was to see to it that Hierax did not survive the fighting. Then Rook could not magnanimously, and idiotically, spare him.

But he was sincere in his speech. She was yet undecided as to what she would do.

“So there you have it,” Khelidon said. He gave Eris a long look. “It falls on you. So long as we can get inside the Keep, the battle should be over in our favor by nightfall. If we can’t…”

“I do wonder if ‘tis emasculating, for a man to have to plead at the feet of a woman to do the work for you?” Eris said. “You need not fret over me. The walls will come down.”

“Just the gate will suffice,” Rook said. “You’re all dismissed. Look to it, men.”

He took her by the waist and led her back to their cramped peasant’s quarters as the rest broke to attend to their various duties. In private they shared a long kiss.

“This is not the field of battle,” she said. She felt the contours of his coat of plates beneath his tabard. It was a strange texture, very unlike the cuirass he had worn at the Tournament. Less reminiscent of the masculine form. More inhuman.

“I love you, Eris,” he said. Then he pulled away from her. He reached into his pack and retrieved his tunic weaved through with elven mail, light but protective against all but the deadliest of blows, and he handed it to her.

She took it in her hands. It smelled like man.

“Please wear it today,” he whispered.

For a moment the words meant nothing, but soon she understood. She frowned. “I see. I…”

She let the tunic fall. It was fitted for Rook, of course, but although he was much heavier than her they were near the same heights. The mail protected the thighs, the arms, and all the torso.

“I brought trousers I think will fit you with your belt tightened around your waist,” he continued, “and a helmet, too. Please, Eris. This is a battle. The jade ward is destroyed—you need armor. I can’t let you do this without any on.”

Eris did not wear armor. She did not wear men’s clothes. That was not who she was. She looked up at him with a frown. “Cannot let me do this? Do you own me now?”

“Either one of us could be killed by a stray arrow today. With this coat on, it’s not likely to happen to me. But if you assault the walls dressed in nothing—please, Eris.”

Of course he was right. She wasn’t nearly stupid enough to argue against him then. So she nodded, and with his help she changed into his tunic, wearing his pants, then fastening all around her waist with her usual belt. The mail-imbued fabric was heavier than she was used to, but not so heavy as a thick winter coat, and she grew accustomed to it quickly. Then she was amazed by the comfort and mobility of this men’s attire. Within moments she had forgotten she was wearing anything.

Perhaps Aletheia was not so stupid after all to dress as such.

Rook’s tunic was loose on her, especially in the shoulders and arms, and it hung down to her knees. But over the previous months of lethargy and illness in Katharos she had gained not insignificant weight, which helped her fill out the clothes, and she already possessed a full figure that took up much of the excess space, so that she was not left feeling like the attire was terribly ill-fitting.

She had only her hand-mirror, but she gazed upon herself in some amazement. As much as Eris adored dresses, she could hardly deny she looked splendid arrayed as a man: nothing at all like a man, in the way her curvature was accentuated, the way her hair fell down upon her neck, the way pants were fitted—

Rook pulled the mirror from her hands. “Give it back!” she commanded.

“No,” he said. “We have work to do. Put this on.” He handed her a helmet. It was a barbute with a cruciform visor.

She took it, frowning. “I do not wear helmets.”

“Today you will.” He put his own helmet on.

“No, I will not.”

“Eris. What’s the most important part of your body?”

She opened her mouth, but no response came. Rook continued,

“How do you use magic? What makes you better than all the rest of us? Better than other women and magicians?”

“I believe…‘tis the narrowness of my waist. As you have remarked upon often.”

“Put the helmet on.”

“I will not soon forgive you for this,” she said. “Fine. But you must wait and watch while I adapt to this unexpected development.”

She put her hair in a low ponytail, then placed the helmet on her head. That was less appealing. She felt ridiculous, and it was too tight. But then she was finally ready, dressed in her light armor, and she stepped to the door.

Rook gave her one last thing.

A one-handed sword for her belt.

“Just in case,” he said.

“I have a staff and orb to hold already,” she said.

“Just in case,” he said. “It makes you look like a soldier.”

“I am not a soldier. I am a magician.”

“Please?”

“You fret too much, my love.” But she sighed, and she took the sword, affixing it to her belt. Then the battle was ready to begin. All she could think as she entered out onto Crowsbrook’s streets was how pointless carrying so much extra equipment would prove, and how she was certain she would not need any of it.

There were fifty citizen-soldier archers; one hundred more with spears or swords, shields, and some amount of armor; and two hundred beyond that with little more than pikes or pitchforks or tools for threshing wheat turned into bludgeons. All said and done forty-eight hetairoi had rallied to their cause; most wore plate and brought with them longswords, axes, or pollarms.

On the night of the ball the winding road up the hill to the gates of Castle Korakos had passed in a yawn and a blink. Now it seemed a gulf of a thousand miles, steeper than a volcano’s cliffs, more treacherous to ascend than a precipice before an avalanche.

Eighty of the rank-and-file were sent off to guard the back exits, and with them sixteen knights to act as their sergeants. The rest joined the assault.

Eris stuck close to Rook as they navigated through their lines and to the hill’s base. A few of Khelidon’s men were trying to organize the mass of levies crowded around the road into units that could be commanded with coordination, with the success that could be anticipated from an untrained rabble interested only in money, revenge, and glory.

The archers had been skirmishing with Hierax’s bowmen on the Castle’s walls all morning. They hid behind quickly-assembled barricades put up during the night and traded arrows, mostly to no effect. Khelidon gave the report:

“Three of ours are wounded, one is dead, and as far as I can tell, they haven’t hit a thing so far.”

“Not even the walls?” Rook said.

“Skirmishing isn’t where our strength lies. My men are still organizing, but tell me when you’re ready and we can give the signal.”

Rook nodded. He spent fifteen minutes gathering the honor guard for the magicians. That was to consist of Khelidon, his two old friends Ailouros and Khrusos, Ajax, and a bald man Eris did not recognize at first glance. Rook didn’t either, for when Khelidon said he would be joining his party, he showed surprise at the stranger’s presence. But that surprise soon melted into joy.

“Apeiron!” he cried. He took the bald man’s hand. “What are you doing here?”

“Did you think I was going to miss my chance to fight at the Strategos’ side?” Apeiron said. That was when Eris recognized him from the Tournament. He had been an impressive fighter, but she liked him much less to know he was bald. “I’m still appalled I missed the melee with the ogres.”

“And good you did, or you might have shared the other knights’ fate,” Rook said. He introduced Eris and Aletheia. “You know—you’ll make no allies with the Prince for this. For fighting with me. And I’ve promised titles elsewhere, I can’t reward you, not at first—”

“I’m not here for rewards. Your father was an honorable man, and so are you. That’s why I’m here. And besides, I haven’t fought a real battle in years. It’s about time I found one again.”

“Then we’re honored to have you with us,” Rook said. The two men shared a look that only two men in the grips of histrionics concerning honor can share, then secured their helmets for a final time. “Khelidon! Korax is ready! Send word for the assault to begin!”

The great portcullis was sealed firmly shut. At its sides hung banners of the black crow, and between crenulations on the walls that swept to the hill’s edge, where masonry rose from rock, stood a dozen men in Hierax’s armor. Bows were nocked with arrows down the line. A few projectiles flew back and forth between the walls and the steep approach of the road; Rook’s archers took cover behind their barricades to see the main force approaching.

Rook led the march with Eris at his side. The vast mass of four hundred men behind them. Eris had imagined, when she contemplated what this moment would look like, a great speech before the assault, the moment of the charge, some ritual display preceding battle as the two sides acknowledged each other as in tales of old.

In fact the moment the army was within range of the marksmen on the walls they were being shot at. One unlucky peasant took an early arrow to the neck, and when sprayed with his blood the three men next to him screamed and routed.

“Raise your shields! Take cover behind the barricades!” Rook shouted. The rabble did not need this for an instruction, because their ranks were already breaking. Some fleeing, others doing just as they were told—but at their own volition. “Eris! How close do you need to get?”

An arrow whistled past her head. She focused on the portcullis. The moment was surreal. Her blood was only just beginning to peak, her heart catching up to the direness of the situation, yet the motion of awkward, armored men sending arrows down from a wall was so unlike the battles she was used to. It was day, sunny, pleasant out, good weather. She was in no pain, at least not yet. The enemies before her were not frightening compared to so many others. It did not feel like a fight.

Another arrow. This hit a man in the thigh. His screaming did something to set the mood. She turned to Rook, clutching her arcane focus, raising her staff.

“This is close enough,” she said. “Now give me time to work.”

The focus turned from mirror-sheened to bubbling red and took off in her hand. Eris still felt somewhat unwell, but those feelings faded rapidly when facing death down. She concentrated on pulling mana from her staff. Around her chaos continued while arrows rained down, dozens every minute, but they missed her every time. Rook commanded a unit of men with shields to protect her, and for a time they did, but when a man was injured many routed.

Cries of fear and pain. Death and anguish. All poured over her like water off an awning while she worked.

The staff let her tap mana from the air quickly. Saving her own Essence for later. Empowering her magic directly. The arcane focus enhanced her abilities more subtly, made her spells stronger, allowed her to do at a distance what might otherwise only be done at the touch—and faster.

But within the shifting colors of that sphere could also be stored great amounts of mana. Not for long, not as the gem of her last staff, but like the tension stored in a branch before it snapped back into place. Like a muscle poised to strike. And on that clear day, every bit of mana she pulled from the air was channeled into that orb, all to be let out at a moment’s notice.

Keeping it stored took great concentration. Tremendous effort. The arcane focus levitated above her palm and spun about itself, faster and faster, and the mana within became ever more desperate to get out. It grew hotter and hotter above her hand—

The arrows stopped. She looked upward. A moment of peace. Sparks of blue mana crackled from the focus, so that now even the men around her saw it and gasped in fear, but they were more afraid yet of what came from the walls, as a volley of coordinated arrows came down on them.

Enough to hit Eris. But she wasn’t ready, there was no time to do anything, even as she heard the whistling of the shafts, even as she saw the glint of the heads, even as she heard the screams of those around her and the shieldbearers before her breaking ranks. Rook jumped in her way but there was too much—

When a wall of golden light appeared before them. At the last second the arrows collided with yellow nothing; their heads snapped, the shafts broken, and all rained down to the ground in unison like a flock of birds struck all at once by lightning.

Aletheia blinked. She made a gesture with her hand and the forcefield fell. There was a moment and Eris heard a call for, “Volley!” within the Castle, far off, but Aletheia did just the same again, every arrow stopped mid-air.

Now Eris could focus completely. She hit her staff to the ground and ceased channeling mana. She directed the orb toward the walls. She unscrewed the stopper and let the raw mana loose.

Green fire tinged with blue and white lightning slipped from the orb. It started slowly, like a miasma of fog, like a jet of flame from a furnace belched toward the walls, but then the kink in the flow broke open. A fireball the size of an elephant rocketed from Eris’ outstretched hand. It flew through the air in less than a second, blinding both armies with green, devouring the oxygen on the hill with a deafening roar, and when it collided with the portcullis the explosion was so bright and so loud that no one heard or saw anything but white.

Eris covered her eyes and blinked away the blinding pain. She felt like a child who stared too long at the sun. When she looked back, she saw bodies falling from the sky; bits of stone raining to the earth; molten pieces of the portcullis pouring back down the hillside.

The gate was not opened so much as removed entirely—along with most of the adjacent walls, five or six feet in either direction.

And Eris did not feel sick. She did not feel drained. She felt fantastic. She felt powerful. She felt like a true Magister, with the unlimited power of another world at her fingertips.

Her ears rang. Nobody shot any arrows after that.

Rook stepped forward. The cobblestone in the road was singed black up to the gate along where the blast had travelled. The grass to its sides was on fire; smoke rose into the air.

He raised his sword. “The way inside is opened! This is the moment! After me!”

He led the charge.

Eris and her guards kept close on him. They poured into the bailey, past the castle’s walls, where the Duke’s men had been thrown from their perches and now struggled to orient themselves. Rook knocked a sword from one supine man’s hands, charging past everything toward the Keep.

Behind them came the rest of their infantry. Some fighting took place throughout the bailey, but most surrendered quickly. Those who didn’t had already fled up the stairs to the keep—they were just pulling the door shut, preparing to latch it, as Rook took the first step.

Eris wedged the door open. She caught it with her mind and felt the strain of ten men trying close it, but even ten men were no match against her magic when channeled from a staff. So long as she had the Aether available to her, she could keep it ajar.

“It is open!” she shouted. “Go!”

Rook nodded to her. He gathered up a large contingent of men, with many of the knights, and ran them to the Keep’s doors. With Eris’ help they pulled them ajar; on the other side they were met with a formation of heavily armored men with spears blocking the way ahead.

They held the chokepoint.

Rook’s hetairoi made a formation of their own. They used shorter weapons and could rush into melee, but it would be a bloody fight. The more lightly armored soldiers would be slaughtered in such tight quarters as the entrance to the great hall.

Eris approached from behind.

“You’ve served your master loyally,” Rook called out to them. “I offer any man who surrenders a pardon.”

A long silence.

“Please,” he added. “No more blood needs to be spilled.”

“Archonslayer!” one of the Duke’s men cried out.

Then silence. Rook hung his helmet. Then he gestured for the men to step aside, and he cleared the way for Eris.

This was just what she waited for. Twenty men, nearby, a tight formation. They recoiled when they saw her, magician’s weapons in her hands—and that brought her such delight. She had heard it said before that it was better to be loved than feared. Being loved was pleasurable, she knew that well, but whoever had coined such a dreadful cliché had never seen her presence bring such wonderful terror to the faces of her enemies. It was worth more than a thousand nights with Rook.

She flicked a fan of Disintegration at the front line of the formation, extended from her presence and beyond her touch with the arcane focus. The staff changed everything—made it so much easier, and her control of the spell was so fine that she ignored the armor of each soldier, focusing instead of the more vulnerable flesh beneath—

And one by one, as she pulled more mana from the air, the Duke’s soldiers turned to ash within their suits.

It was not a swift process. One man lost an arm first and began to scream in fear. Another lost both his legs and collapsed to the ground, but soon he was out of his misery. By the time the third was mostly dust the ranks broke; the spearmen routed into the Keep.

“Charge!” cried Apeiron.

The great mass of Rook’s forces surged inside.

“Find Hierax! Find Kirkos! Bring them to me alive!” Rook shouted, but it was chaos as the fighting proper began.

There were more of the Duke’s men waiting at chokepoints throughout the Keep. Fighting erupted everywhere. Chaos. Clamor, and no words discernible in the air. Aletheia exchanged sword strikes with a man in armor who saw Eris and wanted to play hero; Apeiron finished him off after wrenching off his helmet. Eris herself was wary of using too much magic here for fear of striking the wrong side. It was so chaotic she hardly knew who was friend and who was foe.

Rook was supposed to command from her side, but he got caught up in the action, plunging with Ailouros and Khrusos into the melee. She followed the main force as they pushed into ballroom; there, across the fighting, on the room’s far side, stood the ever-recognizable Kirkos. His armor of black crows gave him away from ten miles off.

Hierax was beside him. He wore a suit of enchanted plate, imbued with purple lines of mana, gilt and gaudy, and he fought alongside the most elite knights Eris was yet to see.

The levies provided momentum and mass to help overwhelm the enemy, but they were little good in combat. They routed easily and, without armor on, were killed and wounded at a ratio of ten to one of the Duke’s men—especially in defensive close quarters. That left most of the fighting to Rook and his men, the thirty or so hetairoi who had followed him into the keep.

They were winning, but the fight was slow.

Khelidon watched on at Eris’ side. He strained at the fight, eager to get in, but well aware that he was no warrior. Not anymore. He pointed at the Duke.

“Do something! Turn him to ash!” he said.

“His armor is enchanted, I cannot harm him,” she said. But she could harm Kirkos. She focused on apprehending him—the melee was turning more strongly in Rook’s favor, with Hierax forced back toward a staircase, his men retreating once more, and she could capture him now if she concentrated. She grabbed hold of him, immobilizing him, and he screamed in the distance—

“What are you doing?” Khelidon said.

“Capturing the cousin,” Eris said, concentrating.

“You idiot! Let him go! Let him go!” He grabbed Eris and shook her, and when she didn’t respond he slapped her. That broke her concentration, although it did little harm through her helmet. She hit him with her staff.

“What are you doing!?”

“Saving my brother’s reign, damn it! You know—”

Rook found a weak spot in one of Hierax’s men’s armor. His ran his family sword through his chest, and that broke the line. Hierax fled upstairs, with ten of his men—but Kirkos had been delayed by just enough. He was cut off from the stairs by Ailouros, and instead forced through a side door, into a passage that led deeper into the Keep’s first level.

Rook charged upstairs after Hierax, screaming for revenge. Most of the knights followed after him, and Aletheia, too—he was the one hounding for glory.

But Khelidon limped after Kirkos. He sprinted at full speed after Rook’s cousin. Eris would be stuck behind Rook’s men now. She would have nothing to do, trapped in the stairwell. With Khelidon, on the other hand…

Ajax was with them, and Apeiron, and a few peasant soldiers. They twisted and turned through the narrow confines of the Keep’s passages, then emerged in a servant’s quarters. They had lost Apeiron and all but one of the levies in their labyrinthine pursuit, never once slowing down.

Two guards were waiting there for them. Khelidon screamed and clashed swords with one, with Ajax at his side. Eris stepped past a door and prepared to hold one of the men still while Khelidon killed him. She grabbed his hand with her Essence—

And the door to her side swung open. A sword was run straight into her heart.

The elven mail caught the point effortlessly, but she was forced backward, pushed against the wall. In her hesitation the levy at her side had his throat cut open; then an armored fist hit her in the head, and a pommel strike to her right wrist forced her to drop her staff. She was dazed for a moment, but soon she saw clearly—Kirkos, in his armor, had been hiding in a washroom.

He hesitated when their eyes met. “Cleopatra?” he said.

She let out a burst of energy to knock him back. He had the vigor of a very young, very frightened man and was back on his feet at once, but she had just enough time to draw the sword Rook gave her, and she caught his first strike with its side. She tried to lash out at him with the blade, but ended up hitting his armored wrist with its flat instead.

Kirkos landed a blow on her shoulder. It did nothing, but he hit another on her wrist, and searing pain overcame her hand. She let out a spell of fire in response, burning him for a moment and forcing him back, but she stopped herself when she realized such magic would inevitably be fatal—and however foolish his desires, she did not wish to kill Rook’s cousin. Not when Rook wanted him alive.

There was only one choice.

She did her best with the sword. One blow parried, then another. As Kirkos realized her reticence to use magic on him, and her ineptitude with the sword, he became more aggressive, striking for her ankles and hands and face, trying to push past her to escape, but she relied on defense. All she needed was time. She knocked his sword away from her face one final time…

And he stumbled down onto the ground, collapsing onto his face at her feet. He was now asleep.

She sheathed her bloodless sword.

Khelidon and Ajax had won their encounter. Ajax was quite the brawler when he needed to fight, and Khelidon slit both of the guards’ throats once they were subdued. Then he came to Kirkos. He glanced at Eris as she held her hand in pain. The wound wasn’t serious, but it bled and hurt badly.

“What did you do to him?” Ajax said.

“Sleep,” Eris said. She used a foot to turn him over onto his back. “He will wake up shortly.”

“No,” Khelidon said. He lifted the boy’s visor. “He won’t.”

“Need to make it look like a battlefield injury,” Ajax said.

Eris interposed herself. “What are you doing?”

“Solving a problem,” Khelidon said.

“You intend to kill him?”

“Only after I kiss him.”

“Rook was clear in his directives. He wanted your cousin alive.”

Khelidon stood. He put his bad leg’s foot on Kirkos’ chest, like a conquering slayer. “Eris. I want you to imagine a future. You’re the duchess. You’ve squirted out five heirs for my brother, who’s finally died at age ninety, and now it’s time to pass the throne to the next generation. But there’s a problem. He’s the son of Kirkos, Hierax II, grandson of Hierax I, and he has a claim on the throne, and now you’re faced with just the same predicament Hierax I finds himself in today.”

Eris glared at him. “I will never bear you brother any heirs.”

“Be that as it may,” Khelidon said, “you get the idea. Rook is too sentimental. We’re doing him a favor. Kirkos can’t live.”

Eris was inclined to agree, but she also did not enjoy the prospect of lying to Rook. Again. She found it unsettling. She preferred being truthful with him. It was easier somehow.

Those thoughts were even more unsettling. Who did she think she was? Considering honesty? Considering sparing a man guaranteed to cause trouble in the future? Where had her pragmatism gone? Had Rook so thoroughly ruined her common sense?”

She shrugged. “It appears he was killed in the fighting to me.”

Khelidon smiled. “Me too.” He slid his sword through the helmet’s opened visor. A somewhat realistic wound.

Kirkos jolted as the pain of an injury woke him up, but it did not take long for him to die. Then it was finished.

“It’s for his own good,” Ajax said. “Rook will make a fine duke, but he needs men like us to handle politics for him.”

“And a woman like you,” Khelidon said.

Just then Apeiron arrived. He was panting, the lost levies at his side. “This place is a damned maze! What happened? Where—kings, damn it! Kirkos!”

He rushed to the boy’s side, turning him over, trying to revive him. He found little success.

“There was an ambush,” Khelidon said. “He and his men leaped out for Eris as we passed these doors.”

Apeiron sighed. He held the dead Kirkos in his arms for a moment, then let the body fall to the ground. “Rook won’t be happy.”

Eris displayed her wound as evidence. “He disarmed me. I would have been killed, had Khelidon not intervened.”

“There was no choice,” Khelidon said. “The bastard wouldn’t surrender. Have to hand it to him—he showed courage to the end.”

The bald knight clearly did not believe this story, at least not in full, but he nodded anyway. “You should have waited for me. We could have subdued him.”

“If we had waited, he might have slipped out from the Keep,” Ajax said. “Or hid in some secret place we’d never find. There was no waiting.”

“We have wasted enough time,” Eris said. “His body will be here yet. Take us back to the great hall, I am needed there.”

“She’s right,” Khelidon said. “Follow me.”