“This was no accident, and no act of the gods,” the Healer said flatly. “This snake was sent. It is a Fetch, a thing called into a place by magic, and commanded to act by its master. Someone brought it here specifically to attack and kill the prince. I can taste the magic, smell it, a vile odor—” He shook his head, the gray-streaked curls of his hair bouncing. “They must not have known there would be a Magus here, or they would have covered their tracks.” He glanced over at Kiron, who was staring at him in bewilderment. “You don’t understand what I’m saying, do you? Let me put it simply. The Magi murdered Toreth, and did it in a way that would look like either an accident, or a god-sent curse, depending on how the murder was interpreted. And they did it before anyone outside the court learned what it was that brought Toreth before the Great Ones. They did it while his disgrace was still vivid in everyone’s mind, and before anyone got a chance to think about what he said and wonder how much truth was in it.”

“Murder?”

The word was an echo of the same one in Kiron’s mind, but it came from Lord Khumun’s lips.

Heklatis looked up, toward the door to the pen. Kiron turned as well. Lord Khumun stood there with an expression as stony as the Healer’s was full of anger.

“Yes, my Lord,” said the Healer. “Murder. There are many ways of covering the truth, and that is one of them—to silence the truth teller, permanently.”

Lord Khumun did not look surprised. “I feared this,” he said heavily, “But I hoped—he was only a boy—”

“He was Prince and Heir,” replied Heklatis flatly, as the dragon continued to keen. “They could not afford to let him live. And look to yourself, my Lord. Your star has been rising of late, and the Magi, I fear, will brook no rivals now. And they are clearly no longer content with simple opposition; they have chosen annihilation for those who would stand in their path.”

Kiron would never have imagined Lord Khumun blanching, but he saw that very thing now. And if Lord Khumun was afraid—

The Lord of the Jousters swallowed, and then seemed to notice that Kiron was still sitting there. “Go to your quarters, Wing-leader,” he said, but it was not with the bark of an order. “This changes nothing except the size of your wing.”

The lump of grief rose again within him. “Yes, my Lord,” he managed to choke out, and then, at last, the tears began, and he stumbled out of the pen, blindly, feeling his way back to his own pen and the comforting presence of Avatre.