Ruven chuckled. “Laws. Laws are an armor of words in which fools gird themselves. They provide no more protection than the wind spent to speak them.” A Vaskandran servant arrived with a bone china teapot and began filling our cups. The prince didn’t lean back to give him room. “In Vaskandar, the merest whim of a Witch Lord is greater than law. A Witch Lord wears his domain like a glove; the land itself bows to his will. It is why your Empire has never conquered us.”

His gesturing hand glanced off the servant’s elbow, and a few drops of tea spilled on the tablecloth. A soft gasp sucked between the servant’s teeth.

Quick as a striking viper, Ruven seized the man’s wrist. The teapot crashed to the floor, shattering into leaf-patterned pieces. The servant paled.

“Your Highness,” he whispered, “Forgive me. Please.”

The conversation in the hall paused a brief moment, then resumed. Ruven did not let go of the man’s wrist.

“For instance,” he continued conversationally, his eyes with their violet mage mark still turned on me, “My father is a Furwitch. They call him the Wolf Lord of Kazerath. If this fool spilled at his table, the wolf pack that guards our hall would rip him apart.”

The servant’s hand spasmed as if in pain, and a wild grimace stretched his features, but he made no sound. I half rose from my chair.

Ruven still didn’t release him. “My aunt is a Greenwitch, so she might prefer to impale him with thorns. I, on the other hand, am a Skinwitch. You would call all three of us vivomancers, but in Vaskandar we consider the distinction important. Humans, not animals or plants, are my specialty. So I could melt the bones in his arm, or rot his flesh, or stop his heart—”

I couldn’t bear the naked terror on the servant’s face any longer. I cut my words across Ruven’s like a knife. “But you aren’t in your father’s hall. You are in Raverra.”

A delighted smile lit Ruven’s face. “But you see, it doesn’t matter. Power is power. I am a Skinwitch, and I wear no silly golden bracelet like your tame Falcons do. No one here could stop me from doing whatever I wish. And I am a prince of Vaskandar, beyond the authority of your Council or your doge. They would not dare attempt to seize me over such a trifle as a servant’s life.”

The servant’s lips moved, mouthing please, please, please, over and over again. But no sound came out. Ruven’s grip seemed loose enough, but a trickle of blood ran down the man’s wrist.