On his way back to the Knight-Commander’s chambers, he caught a glimpse down a side passage of Dukes Marrakai and Mahieran, men he knew well, hurrying in the other direction—to their own quarters to arm themselves, no doubt, before coming to the Knight-Commander’s. He wondered for a moment if the prince’s cousin had told them any details. Treason. He could not really imagine it. Nobles intrigued against one another—everyone sought advantage—but treason was—was something else, something beyond that.

Outside the Knight-Commander’s door, the sentry looked alert but very nervous. “Anyone else arrived?” Rolyan asked.

“Just m’lord Marrakai,” the sentry said. “And—and I feel something’s going to happen.”

Rolyan felt his skin draw up in prickles. “Marrakai—but I just saw him down there—” He jerked his head back down the passage. “Get help,” he said. “Something’s wrong.” With that he opened the door of the outer office—hurried across it, but silently—and through the open door of the inner rooms saw the back of a man—the wrong height and shape for Marrakai—in Verrakai blue and silver. The blood smell raised the hair on his arms before he quite realized what he saw.

Across from him, by the fire, the Marshal-Judicar sprawled on the floor and the Knight-Commander of the Bells slumped in his chair, a look of horror on his face and blood soaking the front of his robe. The prince and Juris Marrakai both sat still as if carved in stone. A bloody sword hung in the air, moving slowly toward the prince, and the room seemed full of some pressure other than air. Magery! It must be Duke Verrakai …

He wanted to yell, but he could not find breath for that. He had no time to draw his sword; he dropped the tablets and swung the poles as hard as he could, taking Verrakai in the neck even as the tablets clattered to the floor. Verrakai staggered, his hand already grabbing for his sword; Rolyan stepped sideways to brace for a thrust with the poles, slipped on the dropped tablets, stumbled into the wall, and missed. He saw the sword in the air fall; saw Marrakai dive to retrieve it; saw the prince snatch at his own sword and draw it, saw Verrakai, his own sword now in his hand, make some movement with the other that once more stilled them.

“You!” Verrakai said, turning to Rolyan, where he sat sprawled against the wall. Rolyan tried to push himself up, but could not. “You would attack a duke, would you?”

“You would attack a prince, would you?” Rolyan said. He saw the telltale shift of Verrakai’s weight, and parried with the pole as Verrakai’s sword came down. The blade hung momentarily in the linen roll; Roly threw himself forward, over the scattered tablets on the floor, drawing his dagger left-handed, and stabbed at Verrakai’s knee, but the blade didn’t bite. Armor? It didn’t feel like hitting armor.

Before he could yank the pole free of Verrakai’s blade, he heard a thunnnk as someone’s sword—he couldn’t see whose—hit Verrakai in the back. Verrakai whirled, stumbled over Roly’s legs, staggered, and half fell on him. Roly stabbed frantically with his dagger, holding on to one of the man’s legs as Verrakai kicked and struggled to his feet again, but the blade would not go in. More magery? Cold sweat slicked his hands. Magery was evil; he’d heard that all his life. He could hear more sword blows to Verrakai’s body now, and yet the man did not cry out, did not stop fighting, did not bleed.