Po slid into the chair next to her and sat sideways, facing her. “Katsa,” he said. “Listen to me. You’re the most powerful person I’ve ever met. You can do whatever you want, whatever you want in the world. No one can make you do anything, and your uncle can’t touch you. The instant you walk into his presence, you have all the power. If you wish not to hurt him, Katsa, then you have only to choose not to.”

“But what will I do?”

“You’ll figure it out,” Po said. “You only have to go in knowing what you won’t do. You won’t hurt him, you won’t let him hurt you. You’ll figure the rest out as you go along.”

She sighed into the table. She didn’t think much of his plan.

“It’s the only possible plan, Katsa. You have the power to do whatever you want.”

She sat up and turned to him. “You keep saying that, but it’s not true,” she said. “I don’t have the power to stop you from sensing my thoughts.”

He raised his eyebrows. “You could kill me.”

“I couldn’t,” she said, “for you would know I meant to kill you, and you’d escape me. You’d stay far away from me, always.”

“Ah, but I wouldn’t.”

“You would,” she said, “if I wished to kill you.”

“I wouldn’t.”

On that senseless note she threw her arms into the air. “Enough. Enough of this.” She stood up from the table, and marched out of her apartments to answer the king’s call.

Chapter Fifteen

HER FIRST THOUGHT when she entered the throne room was to wish she’d brought a knife after all. Her second thought was to wish that Po’s sense of bodies had extended to this room, so that he might have warned her of what was waiting for her here, and she might have known not to come.

A long, blue carpet led from the doors to Randa’s throne. The throne was raised high on a platform of white marble. Randa sat high on his throne, blue robes and bright blue eyes. His face hard, his smile frozen. An archer to either side of him, an arrow notched in each bow and trained, as she entered the room, on her forehead, on the place just above her blue and green eyes. Two more archers, one in each far corner, also with arrows notched.

The king’s guard lined the carpet on either side, three men deep, swords drawn and held at their sides. Randa usually kept a tenth this many guards in his throne room. Impressive; it was an impressive battalion Randa had arranged in preparation for her appearance. But as Katsa took stock of the room, it occurred to her that Birn or Drowden or Thigpen would have done better. It was good he was an unwarring king, for Randa was not so clever when it came to assembling battalions. This one, he’d assembled all wrong. Too few archers, and too many of these clumsy, armored, lumbering men who would trip all over each other if they tried to attack her. Tall, broad men who could shield her easily from an arrow’s flight. And armed, all of them armed with swords, and each with a dagger in his opposite belt, swords and daggers she might as well be carrying on her own person, so easily could she snatch them from their owners. And the king himself raised high on a platform, a long blue carpet leading straight to him like a pathway to direct the flight of her blade.