His hand at his chest knotted into a fist. It gripped tightly. The cloth of his shirt seemed to blaze. A gap in his hair let her see the flash of vehemence in his eyes.

—It is nothing, Queen. A trinket. It has no meaning.

Urgently, Third Father added:

—Beware!

Like a conjuror’s trick, a knife appeared in Tak Biondi’s free hand, a long dagger. All the light in the room seemed to concentrate on its edges. With absurd ease, as if he were floating, he came at Estie.

She tried to move. None of her limbs obeyed her. She had no defense against power like this. She braced herself to die.

At that instant, Third Father released her hand, left her side. Frail and weary, worn down by his years, he stumbled toward Tak Biondi. Almost falling, he grappled for the blade.

In surprise or self-defense, Tak Biondi let go of his shirt. He needed both hands to prevent the monk from taking his knife.

Their struggle took less time than Estie’s heart needed to beat once, but it was enough to free Magister Rummage. Roaring in silence, the hunchback launched himself like a blacksmith’s hammer at the anvil of Tak Biondi’s head.

Estie did not understand how the servant could react so fast. She only knew that Magister Rummage jerked to a halt in an instant, a sliver of an instant, before he struck Magister Marrow’s killer. Tak Biondi had already wrenched the monk aside. Now he stood behind Third Father with one arm wrapped across the monk’s chest. The other held his knife at Third Father’s throat.

Tak Biondi was shouting. Estie heard nothing.

Despite his rage, Magister Rummage did not attack. Instead, he turned his fury on himself. With both fists, he punched his own head. Then he whirled away.

Breathing hard, he came to the Queen’s side. At once, he grasped her forearm and wrote fiercely:

—That whoreson says that your death would crown his service, but he will be content with a hostage. A revered monk is ideal. He will deliver a fatal blow before we kill him. If you wish to save the monk, you will surrender yourself.

Queen Estie found that her mind had cleared. The light no longer hurt her eyes. When he was not touching whatever was hidden under his shirt, Tak Biondi could not confuse her with borrowed sorcery.

To herself, she promised, I will not.

She did not waste time speaking aloud. Deliberately, she focused her mental voice on Tak Biondi. As if she had earned the right, she commanded, Let him go.

The man jerked as if he had received a blow. Wildness filled his eyes. He shouted again, spewing threats that did not reach Estie. His blade drew a line of blood across the monk’s throat.

She was more than Amika’s Queen. She was a sorceress. She summoned all of herself.