Kostya pushed Cyrene off his lap, standing slowly, his head lowered, his eyes mere slits as he stared at the ex-wyvern. “You lie.”

“Do I?” Fiat smiled, looked as if he was going to say something else, but changed his mind. “We leave,” he told his followers, and they did just that. With their exodus, the air seemed to warm up several degrees, but whether it was due to the tension lightening or the actual physical removal of them, I had no idea.

I looked from Kostya to Drake and back to Gabriel. “Did he just say what I think he said?” I asked.

“What did he mean? Who is his friend? And why was he looking at you?” Cyrene asked Kostya.

“He lies,” the latter repeated, exchanging a look with his brother.

Drake didn’t look too convinced.

“What is he lying about?” Cyrene asked, tugging at Kostya’s shirt. “Who was he talking about?”

“His name seems to crop up with increased frequency,” I pointed out. “Are you guys really sure he’s dead?”

“Oh!” Cy gasped, her eyes widening as she understood. “You’re talking about that Baltic person, aren’t you? The one who tried to kill Kostya? But I thought he chopped his head off or something.”

“I did,” Kostya said, turning to Gabriel. “I wish to formally petition the weyr to call a sárkány in order to grant recognition to the black—”

The lights suddenly went out. Instantly I shadowed, but before I could grab Gabriel, the double doors at the far end of the ballroom were thrown open, and a shower of automatic gunfire from four silhouetted figures who appeared in the doorway immediately followed.

There was instant uproar as everyone in the room threw themselves out of the spray of bullets. We might all be immortal, but being shot still hurt. Gabriel called my name, his hand closing tight on my arm as he yanked me to the side of the room, shoving me to the floor as he moved to shield me.

The people at the door lobbed in a couple of smallish objects. I had time only to wonder if they were bombs when loud explosions rocked the room, the noise deafening as smoke began billowing forth.

“Smoke bombs?” I whispered to Gabriel, keeping a tight hold on his shirt so as not to lose him in the darkness and confusion.

“Stay here,” he ordered. “Protect the phylactery.” I’d forgotten about that. I released his shirt in order to grope at my neck, pulling the large locket out to verify it was still safe.

“Don’t use it unless—”

Another explosion filled the room, this one lighting the darkness with an intricate pattern of fire. Gabriel and Tipene moved off, leaving Maata to scoot over into Gabriel’s spot.

“I don’t need protecting,” I told her in a whisper, coughing as the smoke filling the room began to choke me. “Go help Gabriel.”

“Stop fussing. Can you see anything?” she asked, coughing between words.

The room was utter chaos—it was impossible to see what was going on, impossible to breathe without choking. Four men remained at the doorway, sweeping the room with bullets. Nearest the door, I could see outlines of overturned chairs, and now and again movement as someone crawled past. There were occasional cries and some swearing that indicated bullets, raking the room in a steady stream, were finding marks, but otherwise, it was beyond my means to see what was happening.