“Others do not have a domain infested with Verrakai malice to deal with,” Dorrin said. “Come—I will show you.” Taking a lamp, she led the way to her uncle’s office. Along the way, she warned Paks of the many traps and spells. “I disarmed as many as I could. Some are magical, some not—but all are subtle and dangerous. Every piece of furniture, so far, has had its way of killing the unwary, many that I did not know of, since children were brought here only rarely.”

The study was emptier now; Dorrin had removed one item after another, to be dismantled and its traps destroyed outside. “Here’s the record of transfers—the words are hidden unless I unlock them with magery.” She glanced at Paks; Paks nodded. At Dorrin’s command, the hidden pages came into view. “Most give the new host only a single name, no location or occupation. Those within the family have this symbol—” She pointed.

“You use the lamp,” Paks commented, “instead of your own light.”

“I use magery as little as may be,” Dorrin said. “Aside from practice and at need.”

“Does it want to be used?”

Dorrin turned to her. “Every moment. It is like the pressure of a stream; once the Knight-Commander and you released it, it has been harder to contain than to use. When I arrived here, and my relatives used theirs against me, it swelled into a river. You and the Knight-Commander had said you thought I had great power. So it proved, enough power to hold them all motionless, silent, under my will.”

“Was that frightening at first?” Paks asked.

“Yes.” Dorrin shivered at the memory. “Most frightening was how I enjoyed it. I can understand—do not wish to understand but cannot help it—how my ancestors fell into evil, from the sheer joy of having such mastery. So I use lamps, and climb the stairs, and reach for things I might command with a word. Today, with the well, is the first time I have used magery so openly among my people. Those here saw me control my family, of course.”

“That is wise,” Paks said.

“But this is not all I wanted to show you,” Dorrin said. “Not only are there Verrakai abroad in others’ bodies, enemies of the realm, of the prince and king-to-be, but here is something I have not dared explore, when I was the only one here with power I could trust.”

She led Paks to the far end of the study, where the vault door still gaped open a little on the bare patch of wall and the remains of the picture and its frame lay on the floor in front of it. Paks came alight.

“That is blood magery—evil—!”

“Yes. It was a portrait of one of our ancestors. It was there in my childhood; it had been there, I was told, for long ages, since the Verrakaien came north. When I first came into this room, it radiated evil; it called my magery; it threatened me.” She stared at the remnants on the floor. “It bled when I pierced it—bled like a man, Paksenarrion. It was not painted on wood or fabric, like most paintings, but on skin—I believe human skin. And the frame, which looked—you can see the upper part—like carved and painted wood, is actually made of bones, plastered over.”