Someone’s boot and a lot of weight landed on his ribs; he grunted, now blinded by masses of dark blue cloak—Verrakai’s—and he couldn’t get his breath. Pressure eased; blades clashed, he heard thuds and clatters as things fell. He tried to get out from under, swiping at the cloak, but it snugged tighter around him, as if it were alive. Someone kicked his head; something whacked his hand hard enough that he lost the dagger. More yells from outside somewhere, more people rushing in—and a hand slid in, under the cloak, lifting it with a dagger blade. He rolled forward and sank his teeth into the hand.

The cloak whirled away from him, lifting to Verrakai’s shoulders, and he could see again, see that he had his teeth in Verrakai’s heart hand, just as Verrakai dropped the dagger he held. In that moment, arms free at last, Rolyan pulled the saveblade, black as death, from his boot, and surged up, striking at anything he could reach. He had a momentary glimpse of Verrakai’s sword … and then the old blade slid in, like a hot knife into butter.

Over his head, a blade clanged, then screeched, as Verrakai sagged, his weight coming onto the knife blade, hot blood spurting down, soaking Rolyan’s arm.

CHAPTER FIVE

“Are you hurt, Roly?” Mikeli knocked Verrakai’s blade aside before it fell. Was that a stain near the tip? Was it poison? He looked around the room, now crowded with the men he had asked his friends to summon. Sonder Mahieran, Duke Marrakai, Counts Destvaorn and Kostvan; his friends crowded behind them, near the door, eyes wide.

“N-no. I—I just—I killed him.” Roly was still trembling. Mikeli felt his own hands shaking; he knew what Rolyan was feeling. Neither of them had ever killed a man before; neither of them had ever been so near violent death. He’d been told it was like hunting: it wasn’t. The stench of blood and death in the room sickened him. He wanted to spew; he did not want to shame himself in front of the others; he hoped he did not look as green around the mouth as Rolyan. He swallowed, hardening his jaw against the rush of nausea.

“Gods be praised for that,” Juris said. He, too, was pale. He glanced at his father and Duke Mahieran, now inside the room. “You saved us, Roly. He was going to kill all of us and blame me and my family.”

“Gird’s blood, what a mess!” That was Duke Mahieran, kneeling beside the Knight-Commander’s body. “Beclan … oh, Beclan …” Tears ran down his face into his beard; he kissed his dead brother’s hand. “And the Marshal-Judicar.” He turned and closed Donag’s eyes gently. “It’s hard to believe anyone would kill a Marshal-Judicar, a Knight-Commander—”

“And using magery,” Duke Marrakai said. He looked as dangerous as Verrakai had.

“Don’t remind me,” Mahieran said. “I remember your warnings.”

“I’m sorry to have been proved right,” Marrakai said. Under his beard, his jaw muscles worked. “A sad day for Tsaia.”