Tavarre stroked his beard. “You did well, lad,” he murmured.

Cathan wanted to believe so, truly did, but still he felt sick. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Beldyn should be awake, not in this strange trance. The dying men in the worship hall needed him, and so did the living. He should have walked out of the catacombs with the Miceram shining on his brow, not come slung over Cathan’s shoulder, arms and legs limp, head lolling like a dead man’s. That wasn’t part of the prophecy.

“What do we do?” he asked.

Tavarre didn’t answer, the scars on his face deepening as he thought. He pressed a hand against Beldyn’s cheek, and Cathan knew what he would feel. The monk’s skin was cold, clammy. Like a corpse, he thought miserably.

Sighing, Tavarre turned, gazing at the Miceram. He was silent for a long time. Then, brow furrowed, he took a step toward it.

“What are you doing?” Cathan asked, catching his arm.

Tavarre blinked, turning to look at him. “We need the crown, boy. Even without him, it may give us a chance.”

He tried to pull loose, but Cathan didn’t relax his grasp. “It isn’t right,” he said. “Everything that’s happened has led up to Beldyn putting on the crown. Not you.”

“That may be,” Tavarre said, “but I doubt he’ll miss it, in the state he’s in. Let me go, boy.”

“No.”

They locked gazes, glaring at each other. Then, with a wrenching twist, Tavarre yanked himself from Cathan’s grip. Doing so threw him off-balance, however, and he stumbled sideways. In that moment, Cathan stepped between him and the crown, reaching for the hilt of his sword.

Tavarre’s gaze dropped to the blade. “You’d draw steel against me?” he asked, and laughed. “This is no time for games. I’d cut you to pieces.”

“Maybe,” Cathan replied and slid his sword from its scabbard.

He held it low, his gaze hard on Tavarre. They stared at each other. The baron’s hand strayed across his body, fingertips brushing his own pommel.

“Damn it, boy,” he growled. “Don’t be an idiot.”

Cathan’s sword moved so swiftly that Tavarre had barely begun to draw his own before he felt it at his throat, the last four inches of its blade creasing his skin.

“I’m not an idiot,” Cathan said, his voice like glass. “I swore to protect him, even if it costs me my life… or yours, lord.”

Anger blazed in Tavarre’s eyes-then faded. He slid his sword back home, a wry smile twisting his lips. “You have a lot of faith, Cathan,” he said. “I think I liked you better when you had none.”

Cathan shrugged, returning the grin as he lifted his sword away. “I don’t blame you, but that door in the catacombs opened to him, my lord, not you. If you wore it, your men would fight to the death-but what good will that be, if they still lose?”

Tavarre opened his mouth to argue, then closed it again. It didn’t matter how fanatical Govinna’s defenders were. They were still outmatched, and he knew it. With a sigh, he turned back to the bed. Beldyn remained as before, silent, death-like, his- eyes gazing at something neither man could see. The baron scratched his beard again.

“What do we do?” he asked.

Cathan blew a long breath out through his lips as he sheathed his blade. He walked to the bedside and laid his hand across Beldyn’s lifeless fingers.

“Pray,” he said.

“… and so, Your Holiness, I implore you,” droned the Seldjuki merchant, standing before the throne, “ease the restrictions your predecessor set on the sale of whale oil. My ships lie useless in the harbors of Lattakay. My men idle in taverns, drowning themselves in grog while their harpoons rust. If we can ply our trade freely again, I will send a tithe of my earnings to the church. The others in the whaling guild will do the same…”

On and on he went, talking without pause. He was a ludicrous fellow, short and immensely fat, his bushy moustache making him look like one of the fabled walrus-men of Ice-reach. Extravagant jewels covered his clothes, and three peacock feathers jutted from his turban. The scent of ambergris clung to him like thick fog, and his nut-brown skin glistened rosily where he had applied too much rouge. Perhaps, in his youth, he had been a handsome dandy, but now he simply looked-and sounded-ridiculous. Still he prattled, oblivious to the scornful glances of the Kingpriest’s courtiers all around him.

Kurnos, for his part, had stopped listening some minutes ago, settling back on his throne while the merchant yammered on. Ordinarily, he would have tried to show patience to the droning whaler, but today his thoughts left no room for the trivial business of the court. Rather, they were far away, roaming hungrily toward Taol. A courier had arrived at the Temple just last night, bearing news from Lord Holger. The army was in place, and the old Knight was certain that when he sent his men to battle, Govinna’s impenetrable gates would fall. By Godsday, the highland rebellion would be crushed at last, its leaders dead, the borderfolk subjugated once more.

As for the upstart monk, the so-called Lightbringer…

The pain was so sharp, so sudden, that Kurnos had no time to brace himself. One moment, he was smiling lazily at his private thoughts. The next he bent forward with a grunt, grabbing at his left hand. It felt as though he’d dipped it in molten gold, and the pain got worse with every shuddering breath he drew. He bit down on his tongue, trying to swallow the agony, but could only stave it off for so long. Finally, he doubled over, clutching his fingers and letting out a ragged cry.

The fat whaler fell silent, his mouth hanging open as the crystal dome flared overhead, ringing with the echo of the Kingpriest’s scream. The courtiers stared at Kurnos in shock. Strinam reacted first, the First Son stepping forward with concern in his eyes.

“Majesty?” he asked. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Kurnos growled through clenched teeth. Stefara of Mishakal was hurrying toward the dais now. He waved her off, his face twisted into a snarl.

It was a lie. The agony was spreading, past his wrist and up his elbow. If someone had offered to cut off his arm with an axe just then, he would have given them the pleasure. He doubted even that would work. The ring would not release its grip so easily.

With an effort, he pushed himself to his feet and swept the hall with his gaze. It was hard to look imperious with tears streaming down his face, but he did his best.

“This court,” he growled, his voice shaking, “is… adjourned. We will… resume… tomorrow.”

The whaler made an indignant sound as Kurnos descended from the dais, making his way out of the Hall. The courtiers watched Kurnos go, whispering to one another as he shoved aside the curtains to enter his private antechamber. He wished them all dead. They would gossip about him, no doubt, while he was gone. There were already rumors spreading, he knew. The blighted rose garden, the dead hippogriff, Loralon’s sudden dismissal from his position-and there were the darker tales of eldritch lights and strange sounds within the manse, late at night. It didn’t matter how much the church strove to quell such idle talk. It still flourished in the wine shops and marketplaces. Now, after the scene in the Hall of Audience, there would be new gossip.

Kurnos didn’t care. He only wanted to put a stop to the pain.

Bursting into his study, he slammed the door behind him, shot the bolt, and fell to his knees with a howl. He clutched his hand to his chest, its fingers curled like claws. From the way it felt, he expected to see his flesh charred black, falling off his bones, but it was still pink and unscarred, though slick with sweat-nothing passing strange… except the scorching sensation of the ring.

The emerald had flared to life, sickly green light dancing from facet to facet, Within, the shadows whirled, like moths trapped in a lantern glass. Amid the storm of darkness, the demon’s eyes glared at him, hungry, eager, wild with blood-lust.