Clariel looked at the blood spreading across the pure white cloth, at the tumbled bodies of a father and son. What had killing them achieved after all? It had not mended the pain in her heart. She knew it had been foolish to think it would.

She felt the rage beginning to ebb away from her, like the wash of a wave retreating from the sand. But she knew she must not let the fury go. Kilp and Aronzo were dead, but this had brought no ending. She could feel the fierce, strident thoughts of the two Free Magic creatures. They had dealt with the leopard sending and were once more intent on their greater purpose, whatever it was.

Clariel had to regain control over them, and quickly.

‘Who are you?’ asked Orrikan, his voice shaky. ‘Do you serve Tathiel? Where is my granddaughter?’

Clariel ignored the King and looked towards the gallery.

Baazalanan and Aziminil were stalking towards her, with Mogget a few paces behind. All that was left of the leopard sending was a smattering of fading Charter marks upon the gallery stair.

‘Stop!’ ordered Clariel. She had hoped the fury would give her the power to reassert her domination, but she was already out of the full berserk rage. It had begun to fade the moment Kilp hit the floor.

The creatures did not stop. They continued to advance, Baazalanan going to one side and Aziminil the other, as if they hoped to avoid Clariel entirely. Both were circling around to get to the King, Clariel realised. She raised her sword and backed towards the throne, darting glances towards Orrikan. He did not look dangerous, and he had not defended himself against Kilp. But he was a powerful Charter Mage, or he had been once.

‘Who are you?’ repeated the King.

‘I am Clar—’ Clariel began to say her name, then stopped. What use was that name now? She felt like her old self was gone, destroyed by her own hand, by her own mistakes. ‘I am no one. Run, Highness. I will try to stop them here.’

‘What do these creatures want of me, Claw?’ asked the King, mishearing what she had said. He sounded as if he might be asking for his tea. There was some remnant of what he had once been, some vestige of power in his voice. It was enough to make Mogget answer, however reluctant he might be.

‘We … want … your … blood,’ said Mogget, each word dragged unwillingly from his mouth. He clawed at his collar, tearing hair and skin. A multitude of marks shone and roiled there now, evidence of some great spell in action. ‘We want your blood upon the Great Charter Stones in the reservoir below, to break the Charter. To free all of us so enslaved!’