Lady Estora pressed her face into Stevic’s shoulder. “I can’t bear to look. I just can’t.”
Stevic could not either. It gets worse and worse, he thought. But he caught an amused gleam in the Mirwellian officer’s eye as she exchanged glances with the soldier behind her, and such a curious expression crossed Amilton’s face, that Stevic found he could not avert his gaze.
Amilton drew out a round bloody mass. “What jest is this?” he hissed. A headless chicken still dripping blood dangled from his hand.
Mirwell laughed again and Amilton turned his fiery gaze on the old man. The chicken hit the floor with a soft, wet sound. “Tell me why you laugh, Mirwell.”
“Where is my chair?” he demanded.
Amilton blinked, not comprehending.
What in the name of Aeryc is going on? Stevic wondered.
“Imbecile.” Mirwell’s eyes were dark. “I ask you, where is my chair? The guard you sent after it . . . where is he?”
Amilton glanced about wildly. “Guard!” he cried, but the man did not reappear. The remaining guards shifted nervously.
“There are those who are not what they seem,” Mirwell said. “You think you have won the game, but your opponent has deceived you with his strategy.”
Understanding dawned slowly on Amilton’s features. A muscle spasmed in his cheek.
Everything fell to stillness again; the air did not stir, and the light did not flicker. Those who watched held their breaths in the uncertain atmosphere, waiting to see what Amilton would do next. Stevic felt caught in the clutches of some spell and thought he must burst, his inaction gnawing at him with new ferocity.
Amilton broke the spell. He faced the Gray One squarely. His cheek twitched again. With a trembling hand, he reached out and threw back the Gray One’s hood.
“Captain Mapstone!” Stevic said in surprise.
The Green Rider folded her arms and grinned.
Amilton’s face took on a deathly pallor and he staggered back as if struck. A confused babble broke out among the nobles.
Amilton’s lower lip quivered. “Guards!” he shouted, but only half of them appeared, looking just as bewildered as he by the turn of events. “Jen-Jendara!” She did not answer. She had vanished completely, and she had done so with such stealth that no one had seen her go.
Amilton groped at his black stone, and it seemed to calm him. Color slowly crept back into his cheeks. His guards stood uneasily about him, their swords drawn.
A tapestry not far from the throne fluttered aside, and two black-clad Weapons, followed by a very much alive King Zachary, entered. The king looked exhausted beyond measure and as if his bound and splinted arm pained him.
“Aeryc and Aeryon preserve us,” Lady Estora said.
“Breyan’s gold!” The darkness that had pressed down on Stevic dissipated and was replaced by a lightness of heart. “I never believed in miracles . . .”
The clack and whiz of a crossbow broke the stunned silence. The bolt hit its mark with a loud thwack and King Zachary staggered backward, but did not fall. He glanced down in disbelief at the bolt stuck in his splint. By the time everyone looked to see who had fired it, the soldier lay dead on the floor with his throat slashed open, and a third Weapon stepped out of the shadows.
King Zachary wrenched the bolt out of his splint, and a cheer went up among the nobles. The king waved everyone to silence and faced his brother. “You are unfit to rule. Give up.”
“Hear, hear!” cried the nobles. A convivial mood took them and their courage swelled with the king’s presence and brave words.
Zachary motioned them to silence again, and fixed his attention on his brother. “My soldiers and Weapons stand ready to retake the castle.”
“Your soldiers are being held prisoner, or are dead.”
“Others are seeing to their release.”
“Then if you want the crown, take it off my head.”
Amilton’s voice was a low growl, like that of a cornered wolf. His eyes were half slits. He stroked his stone and it glowed with a black aura. He swept his hand out.
Slam! Slam! Slam! The lights dimmed and flickered with the onrush of air as the great oak doors of the entrance, followed by the secret door Zachary had come through, shut in quick succession.
Amilton closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The stone flared with power, and he flung his arms wide as if to embrace it. Moments later, the power slowly ebbed away to a glimmer. He dropped his arms to his sides. When he opened his eyes, gasps issued from those who stood before him. His eyes were no longer brown, but light blue.
“Now,” he said, “no one can enter or leave.” His facial muscles relaxed and the fire burning within him cooled. Each movement he made was controlled, steady; more like a wild predator stalking its choice of prey.
Stevic had seen Amilton demonstrate his power several times already this night, but it still raised the hairs on his arms. And why were his eyes blue? That had never happened before.
The nobles, who had begun to see a return of sanity with King Zachary’s miraculous arrival, now spoke nervously among themselves, their feet shuffling on the stone floor. Captain Mapstone, Stevic noted, was looking less certain.
Two of the Weapons approached Amilton with their hands on the hilts of their swords.
Black energy pulsated to life about Amilton’s hands. The Weapons drew their swords. Amilton flung his hands out, and strands of black energy surged off his fingertips. The ropy tendrils of magic twisted up their sword blades and forked into their faces. It knocked them senseless to the floor.