“You two!” Estermon shouted. “I order you to stop her.”

“You two?” Farilane laughed as she shuffled on her knees into Warica. “Isn’t it strange how Grandfather doesn’t know your names, nor did he remember Arturus and Maddock, who have guarded his door for years? What’s wrong, Grandpapa? Age catching up with you?”

She knew the marks by heart now, and she made the big circle of the eighth symbol over the face of Melenina. She scrambled into Hinterlandia and across the Nidwalden River to the elven Province of Erivan.

“That’s far enough.” The voice came from Estermon, but it wasn’t his.

Looking up, the princess saw a bald Fhrey in a silken gown standing beside the throne.

“You’ve been such a pain. Goodbye, Princess.” Mawyndulë raised his hand, muttered a word, and the same bolt of white light shot from his palm.

Farilane had long known Teshlors to be capable of a form of precognition. Part of their ability appeared to be an eerie fluency in body language that granted them advanced insight into an enemy’s intentions based on the way they stood, their shifts in balance, and the tightening of their muscles. The other had to be a form of remarkable intuition developed through a ridiculous number of hours spent in grueling practice. Regardless, the princess was a fan of their anticipatory talents but never more so than at that moment.

Without hesitation, Kolby lunged between the Fhrey Miralyith and Farilane.

The Teshlor had no book to protect him and took the full blast of that white-light assault. The beam struck him on his breastplate and filled the chamber with a brilliance that blinded all. When the light went out, Farilane was thrilled to see Kolby still on his feet. His armor had a hole, but the knight was fine.

The tattoos!

“Damn the Orinfar!” Mawyndulë growled.

“And damn you,” Ethan declared.

With both blades still naked in his hands, he charged the dais.

All around, Farilane heard loud cracks and pops as one-ton blocks of stone were ripped from their positions in the wall and flew at arrow speed. The impact of one would have killed a man. Ethan was hit by four. Blood sprayed. Armor crumpled. Swords fell, ringing against the tile. And Farilane’s friend died, pummeled and crushed.

Kolby wasted no time. He grabbed the princess, keeping himself in harm’s way, and pushed her toward the exit. But the big golden doors slammed shut. Their sound shook the room, the following echo keeping the memory of the moment alive.

Farilane knew that nothing possessed enough power to open them again. Kolby grasped this as well, and together they turned to face Mawyndulë. To Farilane, he looked like a human in his forties, except that his cheekbones were higher, more pronounced. His ears were narrower at the top than the bottom, his eyes less round and slightly tilted. And he was bald.