Her brother was already hurrying toward the onslaught, the dog growling at his heels.

“Winton!” Constance said quietly but firmly, catching him by the shoulder. “The gauntlet—it’s channeling Thorn’s magic into the Justice. If the physician dies, the Justice will be stripped of his greatest weapon.”

As the meaning of her words dawned on him, Winton’s face twisted in mingled understanding and disgust. “What is wrong with you, Constance? We have to help him!”

Constance gritted her teeth in annoyance, nodded.

He hurried forward, swung his sword in broad arcs at the heads of the dead creatures, fighting his way through. One crumbled at the first slice of metal. Barbarus disabled a second by dislodging its shin. The third had its bony fingers closed around Dr. Thorn’s neck: the physician was struggling, kicking out. Winton slid inside the cell and dispatched the corpse with a single sweeping strike, while Constance eyed the door of the crypts in expectation. All the corpses in the dungeons had been destroyed or turned to dust, but countless others remained, stirring, in the darkness below…

For a few moments, everyone was still, the only sound the slowing of their breath and Barbarus’s panting. Constance relaxed a little, lowering Xander with difficulty onto the steps. He was shaking, his face pale and slick with sweat.

“The noises have stopped,” said Winton quietly. “What in the thousand crypts is going on?”

“The storm spell has reached the final stage of its development and is gaining power in a series of contractions, like a woman in labor,” Constance explained, drawing out her cane from the bundle on the floor, her heart rising in relief. “Each time, the periods of activity grow longer and stronger, the peace in between shorter and more desperate.”

“And then what?” Winton breathed.

“The spell is trying to gain autonomy. It wants to be free to roam wherever it wishes. I have to stop it. We should get out before the contractions start again.”

“Gladly,” said Winton, who was helping a shaken Dr. Thorn out of his cell.

“Winton … thank you.” Constance had found a change of clothes in the package, including her dark-purple cloak, which—unknown to Winton—contained the mask in its hidden pocket. She changed quickly, glad to leave behind the unwieldy weight of the dirty coronation gown.

The Swordmaster was gaining consciousness, his head nodding as if he were struggling to surface from a dream. But Constance noticed the slick of sweat against his brow, the sour smell of his skin, and knew he was still in danger. “What’s going on out there?” she asked.