She halted her mount and waited; the Royal Guard unit fanned out around her, and Valthan rode up beside her.

“By proclamation of the Crown Prince and the Regency Council of Tsaia, I present your new Duke, Dorrin—”

“We know who that is!” That was the Duke’s widow, Jeruvin. She glared straight at Dorrin. “Traitor! You are dead to us!”

“That is your Duke,” Valthan said. His hand dropped to his sword hilt. “Show respect!”

“That is no duke. That is a runaway, nameless, a traitor to this family and cast out long ago. It is an insult that it is here.”

Valthan started to speak, but Dorrin waved him to silence. “You, widow of Haron Vasli Verrakai, are under Order of Attainder, as are all here save the youngest children. You see this chain of office—you see this ring.” She held up her clenched fist. They would understand that, oh yes they would. “I am the Duke now, by order of the prince and Council—”

“Attainder!” That was her own mother. “What have I done to be attainted? What have any of us done that the prince should so maltreat us? I have had naught to do with Haron—”

“You lived under his rule; you chose to stay under his roof. You outlawed me.”

“You are no child of mine!” Her mother turned her back.

“True enough. I am your Duke, like it or not.”

“Liar!” One of her cousins, Syrila, flicked her hand and a bolt of flame spurted from it. “You are talentless, witless—”

Dorrin put out her hand and the flame vanished, to her own brief surprise. So easy? “Whatever you think, I am your Duke, and you will find it in your own best interests to stop this nonsense.”

Syrila fairly gaped, an expression Dorrin had long wanted to see on her face. “But you—you can’t—you never could—”

“I’m not a child now, Syrila. Don’t do that again.” Dorrin could feel, as if they were touching her, the shivers of apprehension that ran through the Royal Guard, Girdsmen all. They had been told; they had heard Marshal Berris agree that Dorrin must use magery against the mageborn if necessary. But now they had seen for themselves what they were up against—and what was on their side. Not a mercenary—not just a mercenary—and certainly not a Girdish paladin, but a magelord.

“Where did you learn—?”

“How much do you know—?” A torrent of questions, during which her mother turned again.

Dorrin held up her hand, and for a wonder they fell silent at the gesture alone. She wanted to use her magery as little as possible, not only to reassure the Girdish, but to convince her relatives that it did not take magery to defeat them. “That is not your concern,” she said, deliberately copying her uncle’s tone, but adding no power to it. “Your concern now is proving to the prince and Council that you are not as guilty of treason as Haron was. All adult members of the family will be transported to Vérella, there to stand trial—”