One of the lights swept over to one of the bodies on the floor. Amaya realized he had been stabbed several times. The light swung around, illuminating the other bodies.
“The Lady: Baroness Kitranna. The Lord: Earl Estminton. The Priest: The Archbishop of Sauriya. The Soldier: General Dougal Moorin. The Mage: Larian Amelie.”
The light swung onto Amaya.
“And The Warrior: Amaya Tyrell. The young woman whose strange and rapid rise in the Tarian Order is explained so easily now. She had powerful friends who facilitated her ascension. Gave her a step up so she could aid them. Unfortunately, you all were discovered by this Kemmer fellow.”
“None of this is true!” Amaya shouted, not sure where she should be shouting it to. There was no source to the voice, no body she could aim her anger at.
“I didn’t say it was true,” the voice said. “I just said . . . that’s what it looked like. And when Mister Kemmer does not report to his friends today, they will bring his findings—these findings—to several newssheets. And when the marshals discover this definitive proof of this conspiracy, the newssheets will accept it. The people will believe it.”
The direction of the voice coalesced to Amaya’s left. She turned to face it, sword drawn. Colonel Altarn stepped out of the shadows.
“It will become truth.”
“How dare—” Amaya started.
“Of course,” Altarn said, holding up a hand that was charged with light. “Such a tale will require a bit of verisimilitude to make it easy to accept. We were able to alter some of Mister Kemmer’s findings, but he had already discovered too much truth, shared that with his colleagues, that some choices were unavoidable.”
Voices came from the other direction. Amaya turned to see two older men and a regal-looking woman walk onto the stage.
The woman was speaking, clearly incensed. “I don’t understand why we’ve returned here, or what was so urg—”
Her diatribe was cut short by a sword quickly depriving her of her head. Grandmaster Orren came out of the shadows.
“But what—” one of the men managed before the sword found a home in his heart.
The last old man looked about, his eyes finding Altarn. “How dare you!” he shouted. “I created this, and you would be noth—”
His last thoughts would not be heard, as Grandmaster Orren’s fast sword took his life.
“Leighton, Pin, and Millerson. Necessary sacrifices,” Altarn said. “But not hard ones.”
Amaya ignored her, focusing all her rage on the Grandmaster. His face was completely neutral, devoid of emotion. “How could you, sir? Whatever made you think you could be a part of this?”
“I do what is best for the Order,” he said, his voice with that same empty flatness as before. “I accept the damnation upon me, but the Order will survive.”
“On a foundation of blood,” Amaya said. “Built with deceit.”
“But,” he said, “it will survive.”
Amaya extended her sword, crouched in a defensive stance. “I’d rather it burns down in truth than survive like this.”
“Such are the ideals of youth,” Orren said, walking around the dead bodies calmly. “I wish I still had such righteous fury. The burdens of command, of responsibility . . . I wish you understood, Amaya. I wish Master Denbar had understood.”
“He would never—”
“Indeed. Which is why he had to go. And now you.”
“Not easily,” Amaya said, raising up her blade.
“Oh, she wants to fight,” Altarn said. “This will be spirited.”
“I don’t want to kill you,” the Grandmaster said. “But I will, as that’s what needs to be.”
Amaya understood the odds. She knew her opponents, how dangerous they were. She didn’t have much of a chance, so she had to act quickly. She launched herself at Orren, looking to clock him with her shield. But as he moved to defend himself, Amaya spun hard and launched her shield into Altarn’s sternum, knocking the mage back, hard and heavy.
It wouldn’t kill her. In probably wouldn’t even slow her for long. Amaya knew that. But she also knew, if she hoped to walk out of here alive, she had to stop Colonel Altarn.
Whatever it would take.
Chapter 19
MINOX WAS GLAD HE HAD not told his mother not to worry. He said it was his intention to come home, and that had not happened. That was, barring a miracle, unlikely to happen. He would probably not see the sunlit sky again.
She would lose two children in a month. He hoped she would be able to bear it. He hoped that Oren would step up and be what she needed. Jace would be there for her. So would all the aunts and uncles. She had been a constable’s wife, she knew what it meant to go out for the last ride.
Bound with mage shackles, hood over his face, told he was going to be used for an experiment of obscenity, it was clear: this was his.
But if he was to die today, he would do his best to deal a wound to the Brotherhood in the process.
“The time is ripe. Let’s see what he can do.”
Minox was dragged along and then put on his knees before the hood was removed. Ithaniel Senek loomed over him, and behind him: the machine. This horror that was reminiscent of Sholiar’s gearbox devices, but even grander in scope than the one in the Parliament. Of all the frightening details, one jumped out above all the others: seven of the magic-draining spikes Nerrish Plum had used in his mage-killing spree. One of those had catalyzed the process that altered his hand.
“I won’t do anything for you,” Minox said to Senek. “Consider yourself bound by law. Charges will be laid against you. They will include, and not be limited to, kidnap and abduction, in multiple counts, and grave harm and mischief to the body, in multiple counts.”
“That’s quite a mouthful, my friend,” Senek said. He took Minox’s hand and lifted it up. It started to give off a faint blue glow, despite Minox’s current inability to channel any
