Dark Lord

CHAPTER SEVEN

As Rod stared up into the moonlight, fear growing in his throat again, Taeauna's elbows thrust ' up into view, one after the other, one of her feet kicked, and…

A Dark Helm, helmless and trailing blood from his stabbed face, came hurtling forward off the top of the stack and crashed headfirst into the field right beside Rod. His neck broke with a loud and horrible splintering crack, he convulsed for a flailing moment, and then lay still.

There was a grunt of effort from atop the stack, a gasp, and another Dark Helm fell into view, sagging over the edge of the stack with his arms dangling. And more blood spattered down from his fingertips and then from the rest of him. His throat had been opened like a slaughtered hog's.

Taeauna grunted, high and sharp, and then her bloody face appeared over the edge of the stack so she could order Rod curtly, "Get out of the way."

He stepped back, taking care to keep in the rows, and she shoved the dangling Dark Helm, and then a third one, off the stack to crash down in front of Rod. Then she came back down the ladder, dug into the side of the haystack, and started thrusting the bodies in, crawling atop them and tugging at them unconcernedly.

She didn't move as if she'd been hurt, but Rod asked her anyway, when she'd finished shoving the last boot out of sight beneath the gently tumbling hay. The stack hadn't taken kindly to all her tunneling, and now sagged a bit on the ladder side.

Taeauna pointed at her sliced and streaming forehead. "Just that. One of them had his dagger out to cut his nails."

Rod solemnly drew his dagger, sliced the palm of his hand, and held it out to her.

She swallowed. "Lord, waste not your power. We may both soon need so much more."

"Stop being so cheerful," Rod growled, "and drink up. You think it's easy for me to just cut myself open?"

She thanked him with her eyes, bent, and sucked.

Rod watched the blue fire lighting her hollowed cheeks from within, felt desire stirring in him again, and… the moment passed. She was healed, his wound was gone, and she gave him a grateful smile and started up the ladder again.

Rod rose from his knees before he realized he had even sunk down on them. "Where are you…?"

"We're sleeping up here, as I told you."

"B-but with them down here, lying dead right underneath us?"

She stared at him blankly for a moment, and then shrugged. "Yes. Why not?"

Rod grimly started to climb the ladder. "In Falconfar," he growled aloud, "I guess you-uh, that'd be I-can get used to anything. I hope."

"Lord, Daern and his men are missing from their posts! I-"

"I know," came the cold reply. "They are elsewhere at my command."

The burly seneschal in the doorway swallowed a startled curse. "Lord?"

Baron Murlstag sighed, his yellow eyes gleaming a warning of rising irritation, and turned from his lamplit desk and the ledgers spread open on it. "If you must know, Authren, I sent them to the Arvale border. To a haystack."

"A haystack?"

"Seneschal, I do not take it unto myself to question His orders, and I suggest you also refrain from doing so. They are to intercept two travelers, a wingless Aumrarr and a man walking with her, and bring them here. If you are wiser than I was, you will not ask why. If you are a fool and ask anyway, rest assured I cannot give you an answer; I was furnished with none except a promise to take my life from me slowly and painfully, if I dared ask again."

"Oh," the seneschal of Morngard told the floor in front of his boots gruffly. "One of those matters."

Baron Murlstag nodded. "One of those."

Rod's eyes felt as if someone had poured sand into them, his mouth was as dry as a clay kiln, and his throat itched. Inside.

Something very bright was trying to leak in, all around his eyelids, and something else was pinching his left earlobe repeatedly. He brushed whatever was pinching away, or tried to; it seemed to be made of unyielding, unmoving stone.

"Come down," shouted an unfamiliar voice-a rough, mature man's voice-from somewhere nearby, "or we'll loose our bows!"

Whatever it was pinched Rod's ear again.

He yielded, rising into wakefulness with an irritated swat at that something. Which caught his hand in an iron-strong grip and announced firmly, in Taeauna's voice, "Stop flailing around, lord, or I'll throw you off this haystack."

Haystack? Oh. Oh, yeah. Oh, shit.

Rod sat up suddenly, blinking in the bright morning sun. He could barely see over the edges of the untidy bowl of hay he and Taeauna had slept in. At least, he presumed they'd slept; he remembered nothing at all after lying down on his back and turning his head slowly to stare up at the full canopy of unfamiliar stars overhead.

The haystack was surrounded by unfriendly faces, of armsmen in chainmail and helms, with loaded and aimed crossbows in their hands. Aimed at Rod, now.

Only one man in the ring didn't have a bow; he was the one on a horse, with a drawn sword in his magnificent gauntlets. He glared at Rod as if sleeping on a haystack was a torturing-to-death offense. He was a broad-shouldered, burly sort, with a jaw-fringe-with-little-point beard, and he wore a golden gorget and the largest gauntlets Rod had ever seen, even including all the more fanciful sword-and-sorcery illustrations that adorned the covers of his books and everyone else's shelved in the same section of the bookstores.

This was the boss, obviously, of somewhere. Probably here.

Then the man's face changed, for the better, and Rod became aware that Taeauna had sat up in one smooth, sinuous motion.

Then he became aware of something else. She'd removed her clothing down to the waist. And was preening.

"Taya!" the bearded man on the horse grinned. Then his face darkened again. "What happened to your wings?"

"Dark Helms cut them off," Taeauna called calmly, starting to dress again.

"These three?"

"No, but those three came within reach so I slew them instead."

The man grinned again. "Ah, lass, lass! Who's your… friend?"

"He is no danger."

"Good to hear," the man called, "but you should know that you are both in danger, every moment you tarry up there. Things are much changed in Galath, and lorn fly over my lands at will. Come down, and let me take you to Wrathgard!"

"Wrathgard?" Rod said slowly. "Is this… Lord Darl Tindror?"

Taeauna nodded, crawling across crackling hay to the top of the ladder. "Not a lovely name, is it?"

Rod winced. "Best I could come up with at the time. I was in a hurry."

They climbed down, armsmen moving forward to offer the Aumrarr a hand down from the ladder. She thanked them, smiling.

"Good greetings, lads. I've not forgotten your kindnesses."

When Rod reached the ground beside her-no hands reached out to assist him-she indicated the man on the horse and then waved at the armsmen, and announced, "Lord Tindror and his personal bodyguard."

"Who are almost all the armsmen I have left," Tindror leaned down from his saddle to mutter urgently. "Mount up behind me, Taya, we must ride!"

"Has Galath become that bad?"

"Worse. The sooner you're safely out of sight inside Wrathgard, the better."

Taeauna sprang into the air as if she still possessed wings, caught hold of the noble's shoulder in midair and turned herself, and landed lightly behind him on the high, arching back of his saddle.

This made the horse snort, buck once, and then toss its head and complain. As the lord held its reins firmly, the Aumrarr settled herself against him, slipping her arms forward and around his chest.

"Your wings!" Tindror said, shaking his head in wincing disbelief. Then he looked down at Rod again, suspiciously.

"This man is under my protection," Taeauna said quickly into his ear. "He's a traveling companion I'm charged to deliver somewhere safely. Nothing more."

Rod gave Lord Tindror a friendly smile and a nod; calculating gray eyes measured him, and then the smile was returned, to the accompaniment of a finger pointing down the row of armsmen. "Mount up with Jarth; he's the smallest of us."

Rod turned his head to look at where Tindror was pointing, and beheld Jarth standing behind the other armsmen, in the shadow of a tree. Grim-faced, a white sword-scar across his cheek, he was holding the reins of all fourteen horses, which between his glove and the horses were wrapped, pulley-style, around the trunk of that tree.

Clever. Rod grinned and started the short walk toward Jarth. By the time he reached his new sad-die-mate, all of the other armsmen had mounted and started to ride, and he and Jarth were standing amid hoof-dust with the last horse. Its nose was gray with age, and it was giving Rod a half-bored, half-suspicious look.

"You and I look at Falconfar the same way, I see," Rod murmured to it. That earned him a real smile from Jarth who had said not a word, and looked likely to keep silent for days to come. He gave Rod a hand up into the saddle.

A snatched breath later, Rod was wincingly remembering why suits of armor all seemed to have such heavy codpieces.

And then they really started to gallop.

"And do you mean to tell me," Lord Tharlark inquired icily, "that a wingless Aumrarr walked into Arbridge with a wizard at her side, calmly spent the night at our lone inn, the two of them butchered about a dozen men and robbed a tomb in the burial yard in the crown-cobbled center of town, and no one saw where they went?"

"Uh, well, ah, magic, my lord! They took themselves off elsewhere like that! Faster than… uh…"

"Than you can snap your fingers, Gelzund? And how many more times will you have to snap them before the two of them are standing before me in chains? Hey?"

Gelzund's red face went white, but he knew better than to attempt a reply. Not that he could think of one.

Tharlark leaned forward in his high seat and stared around the dark-tapestried great hall of Tabbrar Castle, sterner displeasure than usual riding his hard face, and said coldly, "My dislike of those who work magic should be very well known by now. It is my fond hope that more of the loyal folk of Arvale shall come to share my views, and soon. Wizards are a curse and a bane, who wither and despoil the lands they rule, even as they rule them more harshly than the worst king or lord could ever hope to, no matter how many gibbets and dungeons, swords and flogging-frames he has at his command. This Aumrarr and the wizard with her will be hunted from end to end of this vale, though I suspect they are long gone. Thereafter those who call themselves the Vengeful, and meet masked in shadows, will come before me publicly, and I'll send them outside the vale, to hunt down and slay the two foulnesses who have so casually offended our justice and our peace."

He stared around at the many Arbren in the hall, who all stared back at him mutely.

"I suspect," he added, standing up, "that the two we seek have gone on into Galath, with no magic at all to take them there, just walking by night. The Vengeful will follow them, and find them, and slay them, bringing back the heads here as proof. Whereupon we'll have a feast, and bid minstrels to sing throughout the lands that in Arvale we suffer no wizards to live, and hurl challenge to the Dooms that so many cower in fear of, that they will find no welcome in Arvale, and show their faces here upon pain of fitting death. All Falconfar will then know of Arvale, and admire Arvale, and those who hate wizards as I do will flock here and make us great!"

He paused for applause, staring down at the assembled Arbren, who stared back at him in silence.

"Then we'll have many more feasts!" he thundered, waving a fist in the air.

Silence.

Rage rising in him, Tharlark turned, his magnificent new half-cloak swirling, and strode down from the dais his high seat surmounted. At the bottom he turned again to face the silent Arbren, and snapped, "Well? You'll like that, won't you?"

They gave him only more silence.

It deepened, somehow, seeming very heavy on his shoulders, as he marched across the back of the hall to the door that led to his private chambers. Stupid dolts. Couldn't they see?

Or did a wizard already have them in thrall?

Three bone-jarring hills later, the hard-riding band's gallop slowed and faltered as the horses struggled up a very steep switchback of a trail to the gates of a tall castle that Rod had no trouble in identifying as Wrathgard, just as he'd described it.

Atop a very steep-sided green hill that was bare of all trees and shrubs stood a frowning, unadorned stone fortress. A simple, massive squared stone tower, tapering slightly as it rose to a crenelated height, soared up out of a semicircle of five slender cylindrical towers. The towers shared a crenelated wall, but only a dry ditch as a moat, and that wall came together to join the window-studded front of the great central tower, so the front gate gave straight into the tower. Crowning the lofty battlements of that huge and baleful tower was a tall, elegantly spired room with windows all around it. Not the best castle to withstand a siege, and more strange than beautiful, all told, but it was quite distinctive. And just the way Rod had written about it.

Yes, this was definitely his Wrathgard. Seat of power for Baron Tindror, at the heart of his meager lands along the eastern border of Galath, which stretched south to Sword Pass, a bandit-haunted, perilous mule-route through the rising Falconspires. A few hills west could be found Tarmorwater, a winding stream that kept widening into little lakes and then narrowing again to crossings that needed only the most modest of bridges or fords.

Before they hastened through the front arch of the castle, Rod looked out from the height they'd gained, but got only a brief glimpse of pleasant green rolling hills, of fields studded with many woodlots. And in the distant sky, rising up above those trees…

"Lorn!" Jarth shouted, as they entered an inner courtyard and grooms bustled to take the reins of all the horses. "Lorn, aloft!"

"Nigh Old Forge?" Lord Tindror called back.

"Aye, lord!"

The bearded baron merely nodded, looking utterly unsurprised. Pointing at Rod, he said to Jarth, "Show him a garderobe, then see he gets to the map chamber."

Then he was gone with an arm around Taeauna's shoulders and both of them hurrying through a door in less time than it took Rod to blink.

He blinked several more times, just for practice. Since when did everyone in Galath-sorry, in Tindror's demesne, which would be Tarmoral if no one had changed the name he'd given it, back in Broken Blades of Falconfar-do everything in such an all-thundering hurry?

Or was this yet another change that Holdoncorp's games had done to the land? Click, click, whisk, whisk, kingdom felled, time for lunch?

Two narrow, steep stone flights of steps up, and out into a hall. He was grateful for the garderobe which he more than needed, and when Jarth waved at it, Rod thrust aside its curtain thankfully, strode through the archway and around the corner, and froze. Taeauna was standing waiting for him, her face serious.

"Does this feel like your right place?" she whispered.

Rod blinked. "No. Uh… no."

She nodded, slipping out past him. "If you get that feeling, anywhere in Wrathgard, tell me immediately."

Then she was gone. Rod stepped to the seat shaking his head and wondering what Jarth would say when he emerged.

As it happened, the answer to that was: nothing at all. Jarth uncoiled himself from where he was leaning against the wall, scarred face expressionless, and led the way along several passages to a grand and guarded door. The guard there was obviously expecting Rod; he nodded, opened it, and waved Rod inside.

The far side of the room was a row of arched windows looking out over southern Tarmoral, their bottom sills at about waist-level, with bookshelves beneath them. The room was filled with a magnificent, smooth-polished wooden table that could seat forty but was currently in use by only two: Taeauna and Lord Tindror. There was a tall, fat cut-glass decanter of fire-hued liquid between them, its upended stopper beside it, flanked by two half-full glasses. The seat right in front of Rod was pulled out from the table, and an empty glass stood waiting for him on the otherwise bare table in front of it.

Tindror pushed the decanter toward Rod. "Sit down, drink, and speak to me. Who are you? Why are you with Taeauna? And why come to Galath just now, when all is in uproar?"

Rod decided to take those commands literally. With a polite smile he sat, took up the decanter, and filled his glass, hoping some convincing lies would come into his head before he was done. Or Taeauna would…

Taeauna did. "We Aumrarr owe a blood-debt to this man," she said smoothly, "whose mind has been harmed by a hostile wizard's spell. He cannot remember some things, such as his name, which is Rodrell, and can't say others. He is on a death-quest, to a place the magic afflicting him would prevent his ever reaching, for he can neither say nor remember it."

"Wherefore you're guiding him." Tindror nodded and put out a hand for the decanter; Rod pushed it back to him and raised his glass in salute. The baron gave him a smile that precisely matched Rod's.

"Wherefore I'm guiding him," Taeauna confirmed. "You may speak freely in front of him, and please do, because if Galath's that much changed, I must hear of it, and he should know what he's walking into, too."

The bearded baron regarded Rod thoughtfully, nodded slowly, and refilled his glass. "Well enough, where to begin? The king, Devaer is king now, as you know, and is either mad or, as many Galathans believe, is enspelled by some wizard who compels him to issue decrees that seem mad to us all. House after house is outlawed or set against rivals until the butchery bleeds the land white. Crops stand untended in the fields, monsters-not least the lorn, who serve and spy for wizards-and brigands roam freely, and the road ahead seems bleak."

Taeauna nodded slowly. "Dark Helms?"

"Everywhere, and serving many masters; they often clash with each other in the farm fields, despoiling crops with their deaths."

Taeauna looked less than surprised. "And which noble houses survive? Who's in favor, and who's otherwise?"

"Of the great families, only Hornsar, Mistryn, and Deldragon still hold their castles and rightful place in the realm without being the crawling servants of the king."

"And those servants would be?"

"The houses of Bloodhunt, Brorsavar, Lionhelm, Dunshar, Blackraven, Windtalon, Stormserpent…" Baron Tindror paused for breath and lifted a finger to wag in the air, marking off those still remaining. "…Pethmur, Snowlance, Nyghtshield, Mountblade, Duthcrown, and Teltusk all now serve the king. Which is handy for him, as all the courtiers and royal servants have long since fled, or were devoured by the beasts roaming Galathgard. In some rooms, their gnawed bones litter the floor."

"Charming. And whom do you think compels the king to their own bidding?"

Tindror shrugged. "That's no secret, but we say his name not aloud, of course." He put a finger into his glass, drew it forth dripping, wrote "Arlaghaun" on the tabletop, and wiped it swiftly away into a fire-hued smear.

"Quite a list. You made no mention of where you stand, or any of the other-"

"Rabble? We barons are beneath notice, until one or other of the greater nobles wants our land or just decides to gallop an army through it. There were something more than sixty of us, and more than forty are now dead, their lands seized or laid waste. Many of those left survive only because they are the tools of other wizards, who move them about to stand three or more together against any threat sent by the king. In this manner, once-great Galath lurches from month to month, leaving a bloody trail of the dead. The land is so empty of common folk that it may soon fall to the wolves, leaving the king ruling naught."

There came a soft, respectful rapping at the door. The baron held up a cautioning "say nothing" hand to Taeauna and Rod, and called, "Enter in, and set it before us!"

Servants came in with covered platters of food and decanters of wine, whisking away the old decanter and setting out warmed plates. Rod watched; though he'd never even thought of such a detail in his writing's, it seemed honored guests were personally served helpings of this and that onto their own oval plates. His was now covered with a heap of thin slabs of meat in their own drippings, a bundle of green vegetable spears that looked something like asparagus, and a cluster of small green vegetables that looked like raw figs but prickled his nose with their high spicing. This was accompanied with a little flared bowl of some brown soup that smelled wonderful.

The servant bowed; Rod had just noticed Lord Tindror and Taeauna both inclining their heads in response to similar bows, so he did the same, straightening up again in time to see the baron plough into his food like a starving dog.

He was happy to do the same.

The meat tasted a little like venison, the green spears were like munching solid split pea soup, the fig-like things tasted like someone had married fried green tomatoes (seeds and all) with the hottest tabasco sauce he'd ever put tongue to-big gulp of the new wine there! — and the soup was like drinking gravy. Very rich, lovely gravy.

Damn, but he'd been hungry. He hadn't quite realized just how hungry until he'd had a good smell of what was on his platter, but it was all gone now, scant moments after being laid before him, and if it hadn't been for the fact that both the baron and Tay were holding their plates up in front of their faces and busily licking them, he'd have been worried that his ravenous haste would have been seen as bad manners.

Shoot, bad manners? Here he was worrying about bad manners, like… like… God, he was tired. A yawn… mustn't yawn again, no…

Rod sat back from his plate to avoid plunging face-first into what he hadn't yet licked off of it, and found himself staring at the magnificent vaulted ceiling of… What was this room, again? The… the chamber, the… the…

That was when the map chamber either swam away from Rod into white mists of oblivion, or he stopped worrying about what it was called.

The sudden flapping at his window startled Baron Murlstag into a cursing, scrambling rise from his chair, yellow eyes blazing, as he tried to claw out the ornamented sword at his hip. By then, the leaded casements were swinging open, letting light and a cold breeze flood into the gloom, and setting the lone lamp to flickering wildly. Murlstag's sword rang free of its scabbard.

"Oh, don't bother," the lorn plunging over the wide stone sill told him contemptuously, its tone making clear what its mouthless skull-face could not. "I'm not here to offer you violence."

"This time," the baron grunted angrily. "Yet your kind are not known for being… trustworthy."

"On the contrary," the lorn replied, its barbed tail lashing air in irritation, "we carry out orders precisely. If you seek untrustworthiness, look to your own kind."

It turned back to the window, wriggling its slate-gray shoulders; bat-like wings smoothly half-unfurled and as smoothly drew together again. "Murlstag, hearken: I bring orders to you. A wingless Aumrarr and a man with her have been seen being rushed into Wrathgard. They are to be seized at once, alive. The castle and all else in it can be destroyed."

Yellow eyes blinked. "Tindror took them in?"

"So it would seem," the lorn replied coldly, its tone making it clear that only someone as stupid as Baron Murlstag might have trouble grasping that obvious circumstance. It ducked its horns and sprang to the windowsill, then launched itself into the high cold air beyond, wings snapping out, without waiting for a reply.

Baron Murlstag stood in that window, the highest in his castle, and watched the flying thing dwindle into the distance.

Damned insolent beasts. He hated them almost as much as he hated Baron Darl Tindror.

The vaulted ceiling of light stone, as magnificent as ever, faded slowly into view out of the mists, and swam around above him.

Rod Everlar had always liked vaulted ceilings, and had ended up with a stiff neck staring up at far too many of them as a teen, trudging around various historic European cathedrals in the wake of his parents, and he remembered putting them in various feasting halls and great chambers in his Falconfar books. Hammerbeam ceilings, too, but the fan vaulting had always seemed to him the most beautiful. Holdoncorp's artists had been delighted to discover he'd included them…

"Rod! Rodrell!" Taeauna snapped, sounding angry, her voice echoing strangely and coming from a long, long way away…

"It worked, lady, let me assure you! It worked!" an unfamiliar, frightened male voice was gabbling from very close by.

The ceiling went on swimming, circling around above his eyes more slowly now…

He was lying on something hard. Hard, smooth, and flat.

He was… Rod was lying on his back on the table in the map chamber at Wrathgard, staring up at its ceiling, with someone whimpering beside him.

He turned his head and found himself looking at a young man in robes-a priest or monk or wizard, but Falconfar had no monks or priests, so this must be a wizard-who was bone-white and chattering in fear.

"What're you afraid of?" Rod asked curiously.

The man stared at him, and then said in a rush, "That the Dooms felt my spell-work on you! And will hasten here to take or slay me!"

"What spell-work?"

"P-purging that which afflicted you."

"The wine was drugged," Taeauna told Rod furiously from the far side of the room; he turned his head in her direction, and saw that she was standing over the baron, holding her sword to his throat. Tindror, grimly pale, was still in his seat. "How do you feel?"

"I… fine. I think."

"T-there are no spells on this man," the wizard stammered.

Taeauna nodded grimly, never taking her eyes from the baron. "It is as well for you," she told Tindror softly.

"L-lady, I am sorry. Who is he?"

"Better that you not know. He is… important." Her voice was now very soft. "As you now know."

Rod saw tears well up in Tindror's eyes.

"I meant no harm, Taya. Please believe me!" the bearded noble hissed, starting to weep. "I never wanted to do anything to… darken what we share."

"You truly mean that?"

"Yes," he said fervently. Taeauna looked across the table at the wizard, caught his gaze, and pointed meaningfully at Tindror.

Nodding nervously, the wizard cast a spell, a short and careful incantation that ended with his eyes closed and his arms spread wide.

The man stood in silence for what seemed like a long time to Rod, who was holding his breath, and then confirmed, "He means it. His intention was to send this man into slumber so he could… he could…" He blushed, and pointed at Taeauna, then hesitantly waggled his pointing finger back and forth between the baron and the Aumrarr.

She nodded her thanks, and told Tindror crisply, "Then, Lord of Wrathgard, you may just have retained your life." She gestured with her head, a sharp lift, bidding him rise. "The secret passage," she commanded, her sword never wavering from the baronial throat.

"Yes," the baron said huskily; he'd started to nod and promptly felt the cold point of her steel. He backed carefully away, Taeauna moving with him so her sword never left its menacing position, until he'd passed the windows and reached the tapestried wall beyond. He did something to the paneling behind the first tapestry that made it shrink back into darkness, leaving a narrow opening that someone thrusting the tapestry aside could enter, to step around the section of paneling.

"Rodrell, bring the wizard and follow us closely," Taeauna commanded. When they'd crossed the room, Tindror silently led the way up a long, very steep secret stair.

The door at its top stood open, so they could step right into a palatial bedchamber, windowless but hung with many lamps, and aglow with sunlight streaming down a spiral metalwork staircase in one back corner. The room was soft underfoot with overlapping furs, and was dominated by a huge round bed where four beautiful women lounged sleepily, clad in alluring scraps of silk or even less, until they sat up to stare at their lord and the three intruders in shock.

"Turn out your… maids," Taeauna ordered the baron. "They can sleep elsewhere this night, and perhaps really sleep for a change."

Tindror flushed angry red, but obeyed silently, pointing at his maids and then down the stairs, and standing over them as they plucked up various robes, found footwear, and hastily departed.

The Aumrarr turned to Rod, pointing at the door the four maids had just vanished through at the head of the secret staircase. "Lock and bar yon door," she commanded, "and share the bed with the mage. I promise you he'll be no trouble after you put him to bed, bind, and gag him."

Rod tried not to stare at her with quite the shock Tindror's playlasses had done, but wasn't sure he was succeeding. "But… where will you-?"

Taeauna gave Rod a look that silenced him in an instant, and then whirled back to the baron, sword up to point at the spiral staircase.

"Get up there," she ordered, "and then toss every last hidden weapon in your bedchamber down here. Then I'll come to your bed. And do all you ask. Try not to scar me too badly."