When Trynne reached him, Gahalatine took her hand in his, gazing down at her with concerned but eager eyes. “Albion,” he said to one of the Wizrs, “take us to my pavilion.”

“It will be done, dread sovereign,” the Wizr replied meekly. He withdrew a Tay al-Ard from beneath his tunic and rested his hand on Gahalatine’s shoulder.

The rushing motion felt like falling, but it only lasted an instant. The dawn’s light revealed the spacious and luxurious tent. The curtains were spun of a golden cloth that nearly glowed. There were embroidered curtains inside, separating the enormous space into rooms, well-appointed changing screens wrought of iron and plated with gold leaf, and camp chairs arranged around tables heaped with grapes, pears, and fruits with speckled skins that she’d never seen before. Garlands of flowers hung from poles, and there was even a monkey, tethered to an ornate padded pole, calmly eating one of the grapes. There was a throne-like chair in the middle of the room, showing this to be a makeshift audience hall. It was immaculately clean. The pavilion made her feel like she was in Chandigarl, but the air was cold and the wind gusted through invisible cracks.

Trynne felt a rush of vertigo and started to sway, but Gahalatine strengthened his grip on her hand to steady her. He turned to the Wizr and spoke, magic swelling behind his words.

“Albion, order a halt to the attack. Draw the warriors back to the outer wall and have them stand guard. Send the royal surgeons into the castle at once to tend to the wounded. There are many. Have them obey King Andrew in every whit. Send word immediately to Shigionoth to forestall his attack on the Grand Duke of Brugia. If the attack has already begun, cease hostilities and withdraw. Obey me, Albion. I don’t know where Rucrius went or what mischief he may be up to, but if any of you defy me in this, I will have your heads.”

The Wizr looked affronted. “I don’t know where he is, my lord. He disappeared during the siege.”

“He is dead,” Trynne said in a low, meaningful voice.

The Wizr Albion stared at her as if she’d just uttered something beyond belief. His face twisted into a rictus of horror.

“He tried to flee the bailey, and I followed him through the ley lines. I will tell you where I left his body later.”

Albion blinked, his cheeks growing pale. “You . . . you killed him?”

Trynne nodded.

Gahalatine looked pleased. In fact, he even looked relieved. “By the Fountain,” he murmured. Then his eye grew sterner. “Secure the wards on the pavilion, Albion. No one comes in here unless I command it. On pain of death.”

The Wizr touched his own lips fearfully. “My lord, the Mandaryn cannot allow you to be so unprotected. If this girl dispatched Rucrius, then—”