Rage burned hotly in Wort's mind. How dare these wretches threaten an angel? Theу were the ones in league with Darkness, not she. The villagers backed away, all except a burly farmer who stood his ground.
'Begone from our village, daemon.' The peasant's voice was bold, but Wort could see trepidation glittering in his eyes. 'Find yourself another witch. We are going to burn this one.'
'You are wrong,' Wort hissed. 'It is you who shall burn. All of you.' He pulled the magical silver candle from his pocket and focused his fury upon it. This time it was no dancing flame that appeared on its tip, but a shaft of blazing fire. Blistering heat radiated from the column of flame. 'Come to me!' he shouted, holding out his weirdly elongated arms in a mocking gesture of love. 'I am yours, folk of Nartok. You created me. And all of you are mme.'We shall burn in the Abyss together!'
With a chorus of shrieks, the villagers fled in all directions. The burly farmer hesitated just a moment. Wort lunged at him, waving the magical torch. The peasant let out a yelp and turned to dash after the others, soon outpacing them. Wort watched in satisfaction. It was just as the voice had hinted it would be. He had never known such strength before, such mastery of others. Fear was indeed power.
He put the blazing candle out and placed it back in his pocket. 'I owe you my thanks,' a voice spoke behind him.
Wort whirled around to find himself gazing into the face of the angelic woman. She was still pale from fright, but stood before him straight and calm.
'Why are you here?' he whispered in shock. 'Why did you not flee with the others?'
The suggestion of a frown touched her smooth brow. 'I owe you my life. They're the ones I would have fled. Not you.'
'You would be wise to flee me,' he snapped. Strangely, he found he was the one shaking with fear. He reached up and pushed back the hood of his cloak. 'I am a monster.'
He saw many feelings flicker through her violet eyes-surprise, interest, even pity-but fear was not among them. 'Who told you that?' Her voice seemed almost angry.
'The villagers told me,' he growled ferociously. 'And they are right!'
'No,' she said firmly. There was steel in her voice. 'No, they are not. You are no monster.'
The confidence his power over the villagers had given him now drained from Wort. He took a step backward.
'Do you not fear me?' he demanded.
She shook her head calmly. 'I do not.'
Alarm flooded Wort's chest. What was wrong with this woman? Could she not see what he was?
'Well you should!' he cried fiercely.
Before she could reply, he turned and bolted into the dark mouth of an alley. He heard her voice calling behind him, but he shut the words out of his mind. It was not for him to listen to the voice of an angel. He lumbered down the alley, leaving the village far behind.
Baron Caidin paced up and down the length of the Grand Hall, fury darkening his handsome face. Pock scurried behind his master, short legs pumping frantically to match speed with the baron's swift stride.
'What do you mean you found nothing that indicates the Lady Jadis murdered Castellan Domeck, Pock?' Caidin rumbled.
'Forgive me, Your Grace,' the gnome sniveled. 'I meant to say that I didn't find anything that did indicate the lady murdered the castellan.'
Caidin came to a halt, whirling around to glare at his gnomish knave. 'That's the same thing, you dolt.'
Flailing his arms wildly to keep from careening into the baron's shins, Pock skidded to a stop. 'Oh,' he gulped. 'Then I suppose I was right the first time.'
'As usual, Pock,' Caidin said acidly, 'your stupidity utterly astounds me.'
Pock doffed his feathered cap and bowed deeply. 'Indeed. Sometimes I astound myself, Your Grace.'
'I can only imagine,' the baron replied dryly. He resumed his pacing as Pock trotted eagerly after him. Sunset's crimson light streamed through tall windows, spilling across a mural that dominated the far wall-an intricate painting depicting fat cherubs drifting on fleecy clouds. The scene might have been serene and idyllic, but the scarlet sunset lent a lurid cast to the painting. The cherubs seemed to leer. Their lush smiles were too knowing and sensual for their childlike faces, and the clouds they languished upon were tinged with crimson, as if stained by blood.
'What can she have forgotten to hide, Pock?' Caidin mused. 'There must be something the Lady Jadis failed to consider, something that will show she murdered the castellan. If I had proof of her guilt I could simply execute her, and Azalin would not dare raise a hand against me.'
Pock's purple face wrinkled in puzzlement. 'There's one thing I don't understand, Your Grace.'
'Really, Pock? Are you certain there's only one thing you don't understand?'
The gnome went on blithely. 'How do you know it was the Lady Jadis who killed Castellan Domeck?'
Caidin threw his arms up in the air. Sometimes he didn't know why he wasted his breath. 'She's Kargat, Pock. Of course she killed Domeck.'
Pock shrugged. 'If you say so. I just wonder why a Kargat spy would go to all the trouble of setting up a dozen sabers to do the trick.' He pranced about foolishly, making catlike slashing motions.
Abruptly Caidin halted, frowning. 'I hate to say this-believe me, I do-but you might be right, Pock.'
The gnome beamed smugly.
'It doesn't make sense,' Caidin went on. 'If Jadis is a werecat, why wouldn't she simply-'
The ornate, gilded doors of the Grand Hall flew open, and the gaunt figure of the Lord Inquisitor drifted in, followed by two guards hauling a young man between them.
'Forgive the interruption, Your Grace,' Sirraun said as he approached.
'I will if it's worth forgiving,' Caidin replied darkly.
The lord inquisitor bowed solemnly, then gestured to the young man held by the guards. 'This man is the squire of Sir Logris-one of your knights, Your Grace.'
'And?' Caidin inquired in a bored tone.
'Show the baron what you found, squire,' Sirraun commanded. The guards shoved the young man forward. He fell to his knees, terror and awe written plainly across his simple-minded face.
'Well, what is it, you dunce?' an annoyed Caidin demanded.
'I-l'm sorry, Your Grace,' the squire stuttered. He fumbled with something in his pocket. 'I–I found this when I was emptying my master's saddlebags this morning. It s-seemed a trifle strange to me, so I showed it to my captain, wh-who then brought me to Lord S-Sirraun…'
The squire held the object out toward the baron. Caidin drew in a sharp breath. It was a bloodstained glove. He took the glove from the shaking squire and gazed thoughtfully at the intricate letter D, embroidered in gold thread.
'Take him away,' Caidin said with a disdainful wave of his hand. The two guards grabbed the wide- eyed squire and dragged him from the hall.
'So,' Caidin said after a long moment. 'It seems there is treachery in my keep after all.'
Pock clapped his hands together. 'Oh, joy!' he cried, capering about ecstatically. 'There's going to be an execution, isn't there, Your Grace? I simply adore executions!'
A sharp smile sliced across Sirraun's cadaverous face. 'If you like them so much, my good gnome, perhaps I can arrange a personal execution for you.'
'Really?' Pock gasped.
'Enough,' Caidin warned. 'Sirraun, I want you to bring Sir Logris to me.'
The lord inquisitor gave him a speculative look. 'Shall I first render him a little more… cooperative, Your Grace?'
'If you must, Sirraun,' Caidin replied wearily. 'But I want him alive when he gets here. And sane.'
'Of course, Your Grace.' Sirraun bowed obsequiously and drifted from the hall.
When the lord inquisitor was gone, Caidin clenched his hands into fists. 'Here I have been waging a false inquisition simply to gain bodies, and all the time it seems that there truly are some who would dare plot against me. I swear, Pock, by all the blackest oaths, I despise traitors.'
The gnome thought about this for a moment. Finally he patted the baron's hand reassuringly. 'That's all right,
