Then he produced a long knife as if it had been conjured by magic and drove it into Maurin Ortish. The captain of the Home Guard gasped in shock and dropped to his knees, hands reaching futilely for the killing blade. Tragen was already leaping toward Kirisin and his sister. He was much quicker than either had expected and was on top of them before they could react. He backhanded Simralin so hard she was sent sprawling, her head snapping back as she crashed into the far wall. A moment later the Tracker had Kirisin in an iron grip, his arm about the boy’s neck as he yanked him off his feet and pinned him to his chest.

The Home Guards were rushing forward by now, weapons drawn. But Tragen produced a handgun, an automatic weapon hidden within his clothing, black and short-barreled and wicked-looking, and shot all four in a span of as many seconds. Kirisin had a second or two to recognize that having a weapon of this sort confirmed his worst fears—that Tragen wasn’t what he appeared to be, wasn’t Elven, likely wasn’t even human. Then the Tracker was dragging him over to the Council chamber doors and throwing the locking bar that kept anyone else from entering. As the members of the High Council rose, yelling for help, Tragen leveled his weapon and sprayed them indiscriminately. Kirisin watched Basselin and the sharp-featured woman and several others collapse. The King was hit and knocked backward. Blood splattered on the walls and dais and chairs in a red mist. Bodies tumbled in heaps and lay unmoving. Kirisin fought to break free, but the arm that pinned him was like a band of iron across his neck, and he couldn’t begin to loosen it.

“Stop struggling, Little K,” his captor hissed in his ear. “You have a duty to fulfill, and you’re going to fulfill it! You mustn’t disappoint all those who depend on you!”

Kirisin screamed at him, calling him something unmentionable, something he had never called anyone, furious and almost in tears. Across from him, not ten feet away, Maurin Ortish knelt with his hands locked on the knife handle where it protruded from his chest, his body limp. In front of the dais, one of the Council members moaned softly. Fists pounded on the locked chamber doors, and voices yelled in fear and frustration.

“Enough of this foolish pretense,” Tragen muttered, eyes on the door. “Time for you and me to be going, Kirisin.”