"'We who were banished have returned,'" Rialus translated Calrach's voice, which had boomed to reach beyond Devoth into the entire crowd. "'You may slay me now, if you wish. We give you our souls. If you would hear us, though, we will tell you truths to make you joyful.'"

Devoth considered this for a moment, and then nodded. Sire Neen began to say something, but Calrach spun on him. "Shut your mouth!" he said, speaking Acacian. "Men are speaking. You wait."

Sire Neen stopped.

Speaking in his booming voice, and translated by Rialus's thin one, Calrach carried on with his address to the Auldek. When they were exiled for their crimes, he said, they followed the banishment as the clans ordered. They did not falter. They did not hesitate. They marched-men, women, children-into the north and out of the realms of the Eight Clans. They wintered in the bitter regions where no plants grow, where white bears hunted them and were hunted by them. They learned to eat seal meat. At times they walked on ice and heard it crack beneath them.

At this claim, a collective gasp went through the Auldek host.

"Yes," Calrach said, "this is all true. We lived years in lands no Numrek was made for, and yet we learned how to live there. We were brave. No one can deny it. We marched north, as you told us to. But we marched so far north that it was no longer north. It became south instead, and we marched down into another land, the land from which the divine children come. We found that place; and we made war there and killed many and took joy in slaughter."

"Why have you returned?" Devoth cut in.

"To give you joy. These fools," Calrach said, waving toward the league contingent, "brought us across the black water. They brought us home, and we came because we can bring you a new world. We can take you there."

"Why should we go there?" another Auldek asked.

"Look, that boy is my son." Dariel could not see the Numrek to whom Calrach pointed, but the effect on the Auldek was considerable. They stepped forward, seemingly awed, many of them talking at once so that Rialus lost the substance of it for a moment. Calrach's voice rose above the din, declaring, "In Acacian lands our women are fertile again. In their lands the curse holds no sway."

Sire Neen chose this moment to pipe up again. Calrach shouted him down furiously and then said, "The leaguemen have killed the Lothan Aklun. Like cowards, they poisoned them all! There cannot be another soul collection. The Aklun are no more."

The grumbling grew. The mass of lanky, long-haired forms crowded forward, many of them yelling angry questions or stamping their feet.

Devoth turned and shouted them down. His voice erupted from his abdomen and shot out with force. Once there was silence, he pointed at Sire Neen. "This one killed the Aklun? I don't believe it, but I don't like him."

"He is an ant." Calrach turned, studied Neen, and then spat at his feet. "He is nothing. Squash him if you wish. His spirit will give you no strength, but if he offends you-" For a moment Rialus stopped translating, but then, as if more afraid of holding the words in than of releasing them, he spoke quickly. "Kill him. We no longer need his kind. Kill him, and we will lead you to a land ready to be reaped. We will have a great hunt."

Devoth did not confirm whether he agreed, but he did draw his sword from the stone. If draw was the right word for it. It was as if at one moment his hand was empty and the next it held the massive, curved blade out to his side. Only in the stillness after the action, as Devoth let the onlookers study him, did Dariel's mind register that he had, in fact, watched the entire movement. It was no magic trick. It was just the smoothest, quickest motion he had ever seen. No Marah was that fast. Not even Mena was that quick. No Numrek either.

Sire Neen found his voice again. He dropped his haughty tone and tried a different tack, calming Devoth. Dariel hardly needed the translation now, but Rialus kept at it. "Neen is begging for a moment's patience so that they can communicate fully. They are misunderstanding one another. The Numrek are confusing matters. None of this is as it should be. There have been mistakes made. They should all sit and talk to their mutual benefit."

When Devoth took a step toward him, the leagueman barked a quick command. The rank of bowmen behind him snapped their weapons up. Devoth paused. Though similar to the Numrek's in so many ways, his face was more expressive, which was why the grin that split it was so disconcerting. Either he did not understand the threat, or he welcomed it. He lifted his blade, held it out to the side, and stepped forward.

A bowman shot. Dariel had seen those arrows up close and knew they were weapons crafted to kill. The steel head of the missile was pronged in a viciously corkscrewed manner, so that the razor-sharp metal would carve a twisting, expanding course inside its target. The single shot fired was perfectly aimed. It slammed into Devoth's chest and buried the shaft to the fletching. It must surely have ripped apart his heart and punched right through his back as well. He took the impact standing, but his face contorted in pain. He dropped to one knee and then-as his shouting companions circled him-toppled to his side.

The masses in the shadows roared. The men around Devoth alternately bent to care for him or stood to shout what must have been obscenities at the leaguemen. Sire Neen spoke into the confusion. Ishtat swordsmen closed around him, but he would not let them drag him back. He seemed sure that he could contain this. The archers nocked their arrows, the entire company shifted into combat readiness. Several of the guards near Dariel and Rialus answered commands, ignoring the two prisoners. The Numrek watched it all without comment. Calrach crossed his arms and seemed content to wait.

What happened next sucked what little air Dariel had in his lungs right out of him. It seemed to have the same effect on Sire Neen, who clutched at the guards around him as if he were about to faint.

Devoth rose. He drew great gusts of air into his mouth. His companions helped him gain his feet. Once he had, he roared them away and stood swaying. The Ishtat archers, who had a perfect view of him, let their bows droop. Devoth, before the eyes of all, reached behind him, snapped off the arrowhead protruding from his back, and then tugged the shaft in his chest out with his other hand. He tossed both pieces away.

It was a casual motion, filled with disgust, but immediately afterward he went into convulsions. He managed to stay on his feet, but he shook and jerked and tossed his limbs around. He gibbered, cried, moaned. For a few moments his arms spasmed so frantically that he seemed to Dariel like more than one being, as if there were shadow versions of himself beneath his skin, trying to break free, angry and twisting him with pain as punishment. He seemed so completely driven with anguish that Dariel expected him to drop and die finally from the arrow shot that should have already killed him.

Instead, Devoth came out of the convulsions and moved with the same incredible speed he had shown earlier. Devoth closed the distance to the Ishtat soldiers, swung his mighty sword as if it had no weight to it at all, and cut down the three guards in front of Sire Neen. He dropped to the floor, avoiding the first volley of arrows sent at him; then he spun upward, sweeping his sword diagonally. The blade sliced through Sire Neen's head, starting above the lower jaw and angling up. When the steel cut free, the leagueman's half face twirled in the air above his crumpling body.

Dariel stood as the chamber erupted into chaos. The Ishtat rushed forward. The shadowed masses of Auldek poured into the lighted square, swords drawn. The prince had no idea what to do. His hands were bound. Rialus was no longer beside him. In front of him, the Ishtat and the Auldek fell on one another in a wild confusion of blood and gore.