T’ron closed in, a guttural roar bursting from him. He sprang, with a semblance of his old vitality, aiming for the throat. F’lar’s knife hand flashed up, struck the attacking wrist aside, slashed downward at the other’s neck, where the wher-hide tunic had parted. A dragon screamed. T’ron’s right fist caught him below the belt. Agony lashed through him. He doubled over the man’s arm. Someone screamed a warning. With an unexpected reserve of energy, F’lar somehow managed to pull himself sharply up from that vulnerable position. His head rocked from the impact against T’ron’s descending knife, but it was miraculously deflected. Both hands on the hilt of his decorative blade, F’lar rammed it through wherhide until it grated against the man’s ribs.

He staggered free, saw T’ron waver, his eyes bulging with shock, saw him step back, the jeweled hilt standing out beneath his ribs. T’ron’s mouth worked soundlessly. He fell heavily to his knees, then sagged slowly sideways to the stones.

The tableau held for what seemed hours to F’lar, desperately sucking breath into his bruised body, forcing himself to keep to his feet for he could not, could not collapse.

“Benden’s young, Fort. It’s our Turn. Now!” he managed to say. “And there’s Thread falling at Igen.” He swung himself around, facing the staring mass of eyes and mouths. “There’s Thread falling at Igen!”

He pivoted back, aware that he couldn’t fight in a torn dress tunic. T’ron had on wherhide. He let himself down heavily on one knee and began to tug at T’ron’s belt, ignoring the blood that oozed out around the knife.

Someone screamed and beat at his hands. It was Mardra.

“You’ve killed him. Isn’t that enough? Leave him alone!”

F’lar stared up at her, frowning.

“He’s not dead. Fidranth hasn’t gone between.” It made him feel stronger somehow to know he hadn’t killed the man. “Get wine, someone. Call the physician!”

He got the belt loose and was pulling at the right sleeve when other hands began to help.

“I need it to fight in,” he muttered. A clean cloth was waved in his direction. He grabbed it and, holding his breath, jerked loose the knife. He looked at it a second and then cast it from him. It skittered across the stone, everyone jumping from its path. Someone handed him the tunic. He got up, struggling into it. T’ron was a heavier man; the tunic was too big. He was belting it tightly to him when he became aware again of the hushed, awed audience. He looked at the blur of expectant faces.

“Well? Do you support Benden?” he cried.

There was a further moment of stunned silence. The crowd’s multihead turned to the stairs where the Lord Holders stood.