She turned to the Verrakaien women and eased off on the control she had forced on them; they opened their eyes and sat up. The women still looked angry, but the children were frightened.

“Now—one at a time, at my direction, when I release your bonds, you will strip to the skin, unloosing your hair if it is bound, and change into the clothes those wear—” She gestured at the servants standing near the inner passage.

Her aunt Jeruvin spat. “You cannot make me change here, in front of them, and wear peasant clothes—”

“I could have you stripped naked and hung by your feet from the tower,” Dorrin said. “I suggest you change, and be quick about it. You are supplicants; your lives are forfeit unless the Crown grants you mercy. You would do well to act humble, however you feel.”

On some of the younger women’s faces, she saw now the dawning realization that this was real—the Order of Attainder existed, and they were indeed in mortal danger. She felt a concerted nudge at her magery, their attempt to break free of the power that bound them. Dorrin said nothing; best if they did not know she even felt it. She knew Falk had lent power as well; Falk had been magelord himself; he knew more of magery than she ever would.

Than you do now, knight of my heart. Her heart skipped a beat, raced, steadied again. What was that? Not Falk himself, surely! A soft internal chuckle, very unlike the harsh laugh of the earlier attack. It is your heritage, your birthright, and you have finally freed it. Dorrin just managed not to shake her head visibly. One thing at a time … get these women into safe custody.

As they undressed, she noted the number of weapons both physical and magical: all of them had more than one dagger, all had amulets and rings, charms hung on necklaces and bracelets. She could feel the magery, as she could detect the poison on the blades.

“It’s a wonder you didn’t kill yourselves, just dressing and undressing,” she said. Her troop gathered the daggers into one basket and left the rest for the time. The women, now in their undershifts, glared at her but said nothing. “Now take down your hair—completely. No braids, no pins.”

She expected trouble, and was not surprised when Jeruvin, unpinning the top coil of braid, suddenly flung a pin at one of the soldiers—a hand long, the two spikes undoubtedly poisoned. Dorrin snatched it from the air by magery and tossed it back; it struck in Jeruvin’s neck, and the woman gasped, staggered, tried to wrench it free, and fell to the floor, writhing.

“You were warned,” Dorrin said. Hate flashed from Jeruvin’s eyes before they glazed in death. Dorrin looked from woman to woman. “You were all warned. Anyone who tries to harm me, any of these troops, or the Royal Guard will die. Now take down your hair.”

A shower of clips, combs, pins, and ornaments clattered to the floor. Most were probably harmless, but Dorrin was taking no chances.