“Not all of them,” Selfer said. “You’re not like that.”

“I hope not,” Dorrin said.

“And there might be others, even here. Another girl like you among the children.”

“Or boy,” Dorrin said. She sighed again. “I have to believe that. I have to look for that, as well as the evil.”

“But couldn’t you bind this boy’s magery and send him under guard to Vérella?”

“If he confesses, when I confront him—but I don’t see how I can risk it. Us. The entire domain. If I fail here, the prince and Council will have every reason to invade, raze the entire domain, and kill everyone Verrakai has touched. Innocent people will die, and Tsaia itself could be torn apart.”

“Do you really have any doubt that you can kill him? A mere boy of nine winters?”

“Oh, yes. If he is Carraig, then he’s no mere boy. He is older than my father was, and had training and experience in the use of his magery for decades before he transferred into this boy. And if he’s still older—if Carraig himself were invaded—he may have generations of experience, and power much greater than mine. I have not been able to think of any stratagem he will not have imagined. That’s why I want you to remove all Phelani troops from the house—”

“That’s crazy.”

“No. If his magery defeats mine, your danger is extreme. You must fire the house and all in it, then ride as fast as you may to Vérella. Or—wait—send a squad to Kieri, in Chaya.”

As evening dimmed, Dorrin waited for Restin in the dining room, as prepared as she could be. Restin would of course notice every magical preparation, unless the gnurtz dulled his senses enough. She feared it wouldn’t.

The boy who came in and bowed politely to her looked as harmless as any boy his age. “You are the new Duke?” he asked in a light tenor.

“Yes,” Dorrin said. “I am now Duke Verrakai.”

“What happened to the former Duke?”

“He died,” Dorrin said. Then, having no desire to drag this out, she said, “Attarik Verrakai, Carraig.”

A flicker of eyelid. “Who’s Carraig?” in the same light tone. The command to reveal his true identity didn’t work—she would have to depend on her ability to detect such transfers.

“You,” Dorrin said. “Uncle Carraig, to me. I remember you.”

“I’m Restin—” The boy stopped, bit his lip, then grinned, a most unpleasant grin. “What fool made you duke, Dorrin? You have no power. No one can rule here without it—”

Caught by his gaze, she had no voice, nothing but fear. All the nightmares of her childhood rose in her mind, all the fear, all the misery, all the pain. In the same sweet child’s voice, he spoke softly, almost gently. Carraig did that, she remembered, caressing helpless prisoners with his voice as he tormented with his hands. No doubt at all that this was Carraig, not a child pretending another identity. Which meant she must kill him, if she could, unless the gods provided another way. She prayed, for all of them, but felt only a listening stillness.