Farilane stepped forward, staring at the body. His face rested on its left cheek, giving her a clear view: same eyes—still open—same oily hair, same filthy tunic—now stained in blood. One hand was splayed palm-down on the tiled floor. The other gripped a simple kitchen knife. She looked at her grandfather still holding tight to the throne. “What happened?” she asked.

“He looked like my guard until he entered the room,” Estermon explained. “Then he changed into—this. Came at me with a knife. You see it there.” He pointed. His whole arm shook. “Then the knight slew him just in time. I was almost killed. Where are your father and brother? I summoned all of you.”

Farilane looked behind her at the door. It remained open. No one was in the corridor—no one at all. “Did Nyrian and Nordyan have their doors pounded on as well?” she asked Kolby.

“I don’t know. We were—”

“There ought to be a host of palace guards here by now. And that’s not the only thing that’s strange.” Farilane looked back at the body. “It shouldn’t be Sheldon.”

“How’s that?” Ethan asked.

Farilane pointed to the walls of the rotunda. “I drew dwarven symbols in a circle around this chamber—just in case. I was concerned it was too big an area to be effective, but apparently not.” She looked at Estermon. “That’s why he changed after entering. The symbols broke the spell that made him look like—” She paused. “But he shouldn’t look like this. Mawyndulë is a Fhrey Miralyith. He’d be in his late second millennium and most likely bald.”

“How do you know what this Mawyndulë looks like?” her grandfather asked, his tone disagreeable. His tone was usually disagreeable, and that morning he had a reason to be. “You can’t know. No one has seen him in a thousand years.”

That was hyperbole. Someone had certainly seen Mawyndulë in the last thousand years, but the point was valid. No one in that room knew what he looked like. “Mawyndulë was a Fhrey. We know what a Fhrey looks like, and the Miralyith were known to shave their heads as a mark of their tribe. Appearing as Sheldon was a guise formed of magic, but that can’t exist in here, not with the runes up, nor should it continue after death—at least I wouldn’t think so. We should be staring at an elderly bald elf, instead of a filthy carpenter from Warica.”

“You’re only guessing about all that. This could be him. According to your own logic, it has to be.”

The emperor had her there. While it seemed unlikely, that didn’t make it impossible. Was it feasible Mawyndulë never disguised himself at all? This could be the Miralyith’s true appearance. Instead of a master magician, Mawyndulë could have been a consummate actor. Only . . .