As the sword drooped in Ian’s hand and his face drained of color, Morgan withdrew his blade and stepped back. Ian tottered for a moment, surprise and fear in his eyes, then sank to the floor, sword clattering from paralyzed fingers. As Ian’s eyes closed, Morgan tossed his head contemptuously and wiped his blade on an edge of Ian’s golden cloak, then turned to stroll calmly toward Charissa, sword still in hand.

Anger flared in Charissa’s eyes as Morgan approached, but she knew he could not detect what she had seen—a slight stirring of the man on the floor behind him.

“Who now is ruler of Gwynedd?” Morgan demanded, leveling his sword at her throat.

Behind him, Charissa saw a hand move, saw the flash of Ian’s favorite dagger as it flew from Ian’s cocked fist. Her fingers were already moving in a rapid spell as someone yelled, “Morgan!”

Morgan whirled, but the dagger was already in the air. He might have avoided it, but even as he tried to dodge, the chain of office around his neck suddenly seemed to move slightly, to coil itself around his neck and choke him, throwing him off balance.

Then the blade was deep in his shoulder, and he was stumbling, sword falling from fire-laced fingers to clang on the marble floor with a discordant sound.

As he sank to one knee, Duncan and a pair of other priests rushed to his side. Morgan wrenched the chain of office from his neck with his good hand and flung it across the floor at Charissa, then grimaced against the pain as Duncan and the priests helped him back to the sanctuary and eased him down on the steps. Charissa began to laugh.

“Yes, who now is ruler of Gwynedd, my proud friend?” she taunted, as she strolled easily to where Ian still writhed on the floor. “I had thought you better trained than to turn your back on a wounded enemy.”

As Kelson, Nigel, and others of Morgan’s friends gathered around the wounded general, Charissa glanced down at Ian and prodded him with her toe. When he gave a low moan, she stooped over to gaze into his eyes.

“Nicely done, Ian,” she whispered. “What a pity you won’t be here to see the outcome of our little conspiracy. Your hurt is too great, and I have neither the time nor the spare power to save you.”

Ian grimaced with the pain, tried to protest. “Charissa, you promised! You said I would rule Corwyn, that we would—”

“I am sorry, my dear, but you didn’t quite succeed, did you? A pity, too. You were good at so many other things.”

“Charissa, please—”