The Arcana: Shadow Wars, Codex I

Chapter XXVI

The Protector's Gambit

In which Protector Amavand meets his reward

Zephyra was out of time. When she’d returned to the palace empty handed, her father gave her only a vacant smile. His expression remained vacant when she told him about the tower. News of the prophet she kept to herself; however. Surely Alia Ironwing’s machinations accounted for the Sending of the mysterious prophet. Surely. And a stupid gambit at that. Why would Zephyra believe a stranger’s words about her father over her own experience? How utterly ridiculous.

“Why so impressed with the destruction of the tower?” Artostes reclined on one of the silk divans in the protector’s personal sitting room. He studied his fingernails, as though discussing something as trivial as the weather. “It’s not as if dryads can’t shake the ground. Venatori priests and sorcerers also manage it. Obviously, this Ironwing simply drew upon such powers. As for the amulet, as for the threat, what of them?”

“And Murad? What glib answer do you have for what happened to him?” Zephyra demanded.

Artostes stared at her. He opened, then closed his mouth. Other members of her father’s inner circle exchanged glances and whispers with one another. None; however, ventured a satisfactory explanation for the blinding of the seer.

Cutting through the chatter Protector Amavand said, “I will stand before the people again. I will stand before them and challenge them to bring Alia Ironwing to me. With her head, or without it.”

So even he underestimated the threat Ironwing posed. Driven beyond all endurance Zephyra fled the room. All the way to her bedroom she chastised herself for not consulting the Greatest One before she set out to confront Ironwing. Perhaps she would already have Ironwing’s head to give to her father if she had.

Once locked away in her apartments Zephyra burned a cone of rose incense. Intense and heady, the perfume of roses swept over her, bringing to mind the walks she took in the garden with her father. Walks taken in better days, when the thought of him dying was foreign and impossible.

Nerves steadied, Zephyra began the ritual which would allow the Greatest One to take possession of her mind and body. But instead of her usual excitement she felt only desperation and fear—what if the Greatest One did not answer her?

Then, finally, a frightful and familiar paralysis came over her again.

“You don’t have the sacrifice,” the Greatest One observed, referring to the dryad. “Did she escape your grasp, child?”

So kindly, so concerned did She sound, like a mother soothing a crying child. If only the Greatest One did take bodily form, so Zephyra could throw herself into Her arms.

“Surely you know what happened. I must have the means to stop the huntress, Alia Ironwing. We cannot see her movements—”

“That is because a greater enemy than she has moved to interfere. You saw her this night, did you not? She spoke to you … told you lies …”

Zephyra’s heart leapt. Lies, yes! Of course they were lies. But then her heart sank. A greater enemy than the she-wolves? The first one, perhaps?

“Yes, she did, Greatest One, but I did not regard her. How should I deal with her?”

“For now, she is beyond your reach. But the time will come when you will enter her presence. On that day, she will be vulnerable. Believe nothing she says. She can only destroy you if you let her, but she cannot stand against you, my handmaiden.”

The question danced on Zephyra’s tongue as she summoned the courage to utter it. Part of her wanted to keep silent, suppressing the impulse to speak it aloud. But she could keep nothing hidden from the Greatest One. Especially not now.

“The woman said my father will be killed. She said I will hold him in my arms as he dies. That, too, was a lie? Has my father not served You well—”

The silence of the Greatest One stopped Zephyra cold. Cool anger radiated from that silence. Zephyra trembled. Somehow, she had displeased her goddess.

“I beg of you,” Zephyra cried, tears streaming down her face. “Greatest One, I beg of you, please.”

Memories bubbled up in her mind. Of the parchments Father gave her to study. Of the little presents he sent to her when his work kept him from her for too long. Of the way his eyes sparked when he listened to her tell him of some discovery of hers.

Coldly, the Greatest One demanded, “Who is first in your heart, Zephyra? If he dies, will you turn your back on Me?”

Icy terror gripped her heart as a horrible thought reared up in her mind: Would the Greatest One allow Father to die, just to test her? Test her loyalty?

“I love You,” Zephyra rasped, her throat tight.

“Would you love Me less if your father dies?”

“No! I—I swear it.”

“Well then,” replied the Greatest One, “Be comforted, for your father has been useful to Me, young Zephyra. But you are My handmaiden.”

Abruptly the Greatest One left her body. The paralysis over, Zephyra collapsed to the altar. Motionless, she let the sobs overtake her. Whether hours or minutes passed, she would never know. How, how had she given the Greatest One cause to doubt her loyalty? Whatever her mistake, why did her father have to be the one to pay for it?

And the prophecy of the she-wolves. Why did the Greatest One reveal Her prophecy if nothing could stop it? Wasn’t stopping it the point?

But … what if Her true motive was to test the lengths Zephyra would go to save her father? Was that it? And did the Greatest One believe Zephyra would never exert so much effort on Her behalf?

But she would! Until now she never failed in bringing Her the dryads. Nor did she fail in undermining the influence of Arenavachi in the palace. Everything she did, she did for the Greatest One. Why did the Greatest One doubt her now? How must she prove herself, before the she-wolves took her father?

Gloom and shadow vanished as pale sunlight filled her room.

Dawn. So now it was dawn.

And thus passed the solstice night. The last night her father would live, so said the Greatest One’s prophecy.

Zephyra wiped her tears. She smoothed out her gown, the same black and gold priestly garment she’d worn when she oh-so-triumphantly told her father the Greatest One had revealed their enemies. Before setting out for the tower she put on the gown again, thinking it fit for meeting Ironwing.

And now? All plans and schemes vanished from her mind. What now could she do?

Rinnnnggg. Rinnnnggg. Rinnnnnnggg.

Startled, Zephyra jerked upright. Were those the bells of Arenavachi? But why would they toll now? Her stomach plunged. The bells of Arenavachi never tolled so early. Not unless the high priest—or the protector—had died in the night.

“Foolish girl, calm yourself,” she said aloud. Father still lived. Were he dead, wouldn’t she hear wailing and crying throughout the palace?

Yet the bells rang, prompting her to go to her balcony and survey Elamis.

Beyond the mists the towers where sorcerers dwelled peaked through, providing spots of color. Nothing stood taller, except for the white granite stele of Arenavachi, which rose from the temple courtyard.

Bile rose in Zephyra’s throat at another memory. In this one, her father confidently promised to one day knock down the stele into rubble.

But it was your tower turned to rubble, Father.

The she-wolves were winning.

And the Greatest One was letting them.

The final toll sounded, prompting her to hurry from her apartments to the oraculum. Either the high priest had died…or the she-wolves were making another move. Either way, she needed to know.

Protector Amavand arrived in the oraculum the same time she did, and the remaining seers stood at the ready for them. She latched on to his arm, to his quiet strength, and under her breath she begged the Greatest One to spare him.

The great pool in the center of the room showed them what was happening in the town below. At first the bells seemed to be ringing of their own accord, but by the way loose leaves and flower petals were blowing about, they knew a strong wind was the cause of it.

Then, in a shimmer of light, the group appeared.

The three women, whom the Greatest One had revealed to her.

And the two men, whom the goddess had not.

The huntress and her male companions were dressed strangely, matching all the outlandish descriptions she’d ever heard of the Lyrcanians.

Zephyra fixed her gaze on the huntress. This was Alia Ironwing? She whose face was like a mask? But her eyes were as an eagle’s, ceaselessly probing and assessing everything she saw. Did she mean for the lynx pelt she wore about her neck to be a silent boast of her prowess? The lynx was a highly elusive cat. Sunlight bounced off the amulet she prominently displayed on her chest.

With the casual pace of a lioness Ironwing approached the bell pavilion. Arrogant! Did she think herself so untouchable?

Seething, Zephyra ground her teeth in the face of Ironwing’s pride. Then again, her pride was not unexpected: she’d dared to set herself against the Greatest One.

Below her breath Zephyra again asked, “Oh Greatest, why do you allow her to think she can face You? Why allow her so many victories, so many ways to humiliate my father?”

Looking at Ironwing made her blood boil, so much so that Zephyra forced herself to concentrate on the Rasena Valentians instead. So…normal they looked. Of course, they didn’t fool her. Though these she-wolves meant to look harmless, they still somehow had defeated Murena, the Eel.

The Siluran, with her torn clothes, looked like a beggar. As such, she would fare poorly in the eyes of the townspeople. The Elamisi prided themselves on their wealth. Beggars were slaves who had angered their masters so thoroughly the master would throw them out of the household. No one cared for them.

Ordinarily.

From the reports, Zephyra knew the Siluran had some sort of glamour that allowed her to seduce crowds with her lies. If she spoke before the people, she would turn them against the protector. She had bypassed the shahanshah, which confirmed Protector Amavand was her target. By all appearances she hadn’t even bothered to arm herself, apparently confident in the power of the honeyed poison of her tongue.

I will have her tongue. And her hands, they say she writes. Let’s see how she fares when she can’t pass on her deceit. Letting the woman live would be an excruciating fate for her, and Zephyra smiled at the thought of it.

The Eitanite appeared unarmed. Well, her confidence Zephyra could understand—the Eitanim believed the False Ones were false, they just failed to include their Sower as one of the False Ones. Nevertheless, the woman would naturally believe she could swat the Goddess like she would a fly. The Eitanite looked around, glancing up at the citadel only once, then away again. Dismissal?

The townspeople began arriving, drawn by the resounding of the bells. When the crowd swelled to a decent size, the fiery-haired she-wolf began speaking.

‘Bessa,’ she called herself, and immediately started in on Protector Amavand. She spoke of attending the Ever Bright’s Festival, and of her distress when the protector incited the crowd to kill foreign women. Worse, when she fled with the Eitanite jackals ambushed them.

Bessa was good, Zephyra had to give her that. The woman knew to mix truth in with her lies, calling the Goddess a demon in the same breath she spoke of the protector worshipping her. Unfortunate indeed, the day when the Siluran learned of Murena. A rare miscalculation on his part, in allowing Gagnon to have the Children attack that bitch’s vineyard.

The crowd listened attentively, nodding along or shaking their heads in the right spots. Because of the she-wolf’s glamour, no doubt. Her words were penetrating into their minds; they would not dismiss what she said. Not because she was a foreigner, nor because she looked like a beggar.

Or—yes, the Siluran’s clothes were torn and stained, but they were clearly not rags or homespun. Rather, she wore what was once fine quality. Finery, no matter how ruined, marked her as one of them. And as one of them she had been wronged, savaged. The crowd would see themselves in her, hence the anger flashing on their faces to see how she had been so grossly mistreated.

“Father,” Zephyra said, looking up from the pool. “We need to stop this right now.”

But Protector Amavand had been quicker, and he only nodded at her, gesturing for her to look back to the pool.

Now she saw one of the Manticoran guard flying over the lake, javelin in hand. The mists would conceal him from the view of the crowd. But as soon as he emerged, the Eitanite saw him. She acted swiftly, throwing lightning at him.

Gasps erupted from the seers surrounding the pool. Everyone stood stunned for several heartbeats.

Lightning. The Eitanite threw lightning, as though she were a khrestai. Which is exactly what the naive townspeople would compare her to.

Artostes rallied, “Look, we know they faced the Children twice. So of course they have one of their weapons. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Oh, doesn’t it? Do our people know of these weapons? Does the shahanshah?” Zephyra snapped.

No. They shouldn’t, for her father’s people had made every effort to control what the high king knew, and what the people of Elamis knew. Number one on the list: make sure the wrong people did not learn about the quiver of thunderbolts.

Now the Elamisi knew. Now they would wonder. In Elamis of all places, the sorcerers would not let such a weapon go unchallenged, unstudied. And when the high king heard of it, he would want them for himself—and if all went wrong, he would learn that Amavand knew of the weapons, and had kept them from him.

If it all goes wrong? What’s gone right?!

Artostes looked at her, his mouth open. Protector Amavand straightened his spine, turned on his heel and left without a word. Should she stay, or follow him?

Below, the she-wolf was calling for the truth-seers.

“The nerve of that woman!” Zephyra seethed.

Any seer who would answer the call were sure to be in the service of the False Ones, who would agree with any claim Bessa made.

But the people would believe the False Ones.

They would believe what the seers said.

As fast as she could, Zephyra ran to her father’s apartments. The door banged against the wall, she flung it open so hard.

Protector Amavand stood in his sitting room, resplendent in his golden armor. Two of the armor bearers jumped, startled by the door bang. The third armor bearer recovered quickly, and finished strapping on the greaves, completing the armor. He knelt down when he spotted Zephyra, just as his companions had already done. She bid him to rise with an impatient flick of her fingers.

“Leave us,” she said.

They stood, and bowed their heads to the protector. “Your Majesty?”

The protector nodded, and the armor bearers left. As soon as they were alone, Protector Amavand smiled at Zephyra. His eyes were so gentle, so tender, that Zephyra felt as if a dam in her heart were about to burst. She inhaled sharply, costing herself the opportunity to speak first.

“My daughter,” said Protector Amavand, clasping her shoulders. “Stay here. I will face them. You must stay out of this.”

All of her frustration came to the fore then. First Gira had tried to shackle her, dogging her steps so that she could not search effectively for the she-wolves. Then the Goddess had made it clear She wouldn’t intervene to save Protector Amavand. Now the protector himself was trying to hold Zephyra back, when she was his only hope.

“No,” she snarled. “No, Your Majesty—Father—I can’t stay here and just watch—”

He patted her cheek, smiling indulgently. “Zephyra, you will do as I tell you—”

“The Goddess is going to let them kill you!” she blurted, forcing herself to say it out loud.

The protector lowered his hands, staring at her. The silence seemed to go on for an eternity. His eyes searched hers, while her heart beat so fast she was sure he could hear it. Against her will, the tears came.

“Father, I begged Her,” Zephyra rasped. “I begged Her to save you. But—”

He took her in his arms and kissed her forehead.

“All will be well,” he whispered. “Do not cry, Zephyra. All will be well. Dry your tears, my love. This is the time to show our strengths.”

He disengaged, leaving her standing motionless in the middle of the room.

At that moment, she noticed he’d used his left hand. Unusual, for he was right-handed. But in his right fist he clenched an object, something attached to a fine chain of gold around his neck.

The nectar of the Goddess.

“Guards,” he called out, to the men she couldn’t see. “Keep the Handmaiden safe in here. I am going out.”

She rushed for the door, but Protector Amavand himself closed it.

“Father!” Zephyra pounded on the door. His footsteps echoed on the marble, loudly at first. Then faintly. Soon enough, even the echo of his passing vanished.

Her shoulders shook. It took everything she had to calm herself again. Pacing back and forth did nothing to help her think. Questions swirled in her mind. Would the she-wolves strike down the protector immediately? Or would they toy with him first, let him think he stood a chance against them? Would the Eitanite use her thunderbolt quiver, or would the huntress use her daggers? Or would they allow the Siluran to incite the crowd to rip the protector to pieces?

Finally, she rushed for the balcony and looked down. The portal to the lakefront shimmered, and moments later her father emerged from it on his drake.

Now she looked up, to the aerie on the highest level of the palace. The fire drakes kept there would get her to the town square below.

To the aerie she must go.

Zephyra descended swiftly, carefully skirting the edge of the lake, so as to avoid the Yellow Serpent. For as long as she could she cloaked herself in the mists. If the Eitanite should see her…

Protector Amavand had made his way to the bell pavilion now, and was standing face to face with the Siluran, who was now flanked by two seers. One Zephyra recognized as the arch priest of the Great Liar, Arenavachi.

All eyes were on Protector Amavand. No one looked back, and thus Zephyra dismounted, and hurried over to a low stone fence. A tamarisk tree, still bearing its leaves, was near enough to the fence to let her climb it. Now she could watch without being seen.

“… so nice a speech you gave, Your Majesty,” the Siluran was saying. “But what I want to know is what you have to say to all the foreign women you tried to have killed last night. Or will you try to convince us that a leader does not know the connection between cause and effect?” She touched her arm, and for the first time Zephyra noticed the bandage around it.

“You do not speak our language, so you may not be aware I insisted no blood be shed on my account.”

The crowd murmured, looking hopefully up at their protector. He did look regal in his armor. Whereas, the Siluran looked as if she’d been ravished, her clothes torn asunder. Zephyra frowned, her worst fears confirmed. The Siluran was clever enough to make herself look like a wounded, innocent victim. But, then again, the Siluran really did face Delir and his jackals. So, her appearance was not exactly artifice. Rather, it was a truth to leaven with her lies.

All the same, Zephyra could tell by the looks the crowd exchanged that Bessa’s appearance fit the stories better: someone weak had been wronged by someone powerful. And in the stories, her virtue and daring would win her the way into the palace, where she would stand before the protector and demand justice.

Zephyra’s muscles locked in tension. Was her father thinking of the stories?

Apologize now, Father. Be gallant if you would win the people to your side. You will defang her glamour right there—

The Siluran’s smile was lethal. “Indeed, it was kind of you to say there should be no blood shed, after going to the trouble of stirring up the people to do exactly that. ‘She-wolf,’ you said, attempting to manipulate your people to think of innocent strangers as ravenous beasts. And you want us to believe you expected peace and calmness to ensue? There is too much grey in your hair for that, Your Majesty.”

Attempting, she’d said. Zephyra’s nostrils flared. The Siluran was smart enough to play on the townspeople’s desires to cast themselves in a good light. She’d absolved them of any blame for her suffering, making it seem as if their moral fiber was strong enough to resist the oh-so-wicked ruler.

Protector Amavand didn’t glance around; he kept his eyes on the Siluran. “Ah, I was emotional at the thought of strangers stealing into my land to kill me. I have misspoke, and for that you have my apology. But now that brings us to you—”

“It must have been frightful, for a protector so powerful, so well-guarded, so high up from his people, to imagine three mere women would somehow break into his citadel and slay him. Why, even the dragon you keep between yourself and your people is not to be trusted with your safekeeping! I take it you are often fending off strange women, Your Majesty?” She cocked her head, comically feigning concern for him.

The crowd tittered, but without mirth. Damn, the Siluran used the stories far too well. She skillfully cast herself as small and vulnerable, and the protector as great and powerful. The latter was true, which made her choice resonate. Worse, she was twisting the facts to make it seem as if Protector Amavand disdained to be near his subjects.

If he was so just, they would wonder, why did he keep himself apart?

They would forget the hero who had bound the Yellow Serpent to guard the lake in generations past, they would forget the grandeur of the ancient palace, they would forget how normal it was for a ruler to have defenses for his stronghold. Instead, they would see things as the she-wolf was shading them.

From her vantage point, Zephyra couldn’t see Protector Amavand’s expression. What was he doing? Why was he letting the she-wolf get the better of him? No one had ever done that.

Oh? And who has tried?

It occurred to her now that the she-wolf was used to dealing with crowds. Telling stories to a live audience obliged her to learn how to evaluate their reactions, how to please them, how to smoothly adjust her delivery to their moods.

Whereas, Protector Amavand only spoke to crowds, on ceremonial occasions. Crowds where people were primed to accept what he said; he never had to win their favor or convince them to agree with him. Because he had culled those not aligned with him, he didn’t even have to argue his positions amongst the nobility. Something he’d always mocked the shahanshah for having to do.

Until now, Zephyra always thought keeping only those loyal to the Greatest One showed her father’s power and devotion, she now saw his insularity in a different light. Now it dawned on her that the protector being surrounded only by those who agreed with him—or refused to express disagreement—ensured the protector lacked the training and the experience to face down the she-wolf.

Oh, Father. End this. Have the soldiers arrest them and have done with it.

Zephyra’s gaze strayed to the Eitanite, and her splendid thunderbolt quiver. If the she-wolves chose not to go peacefully, the soldiers would have to take them by force, and they would be cut down. What would happen then, if the people saw that the protector’s men could not carry out his orders?

Her heart sank. No matter what happened now, the she-wolves would win. Images rammed their way into her mind just then, of her father lying broken on the ground, the light fading from his eyes.

She dug her nails into the tree bark. Why? Why? Why did the Greatest One decide to abandon him?

“You have made grave charges against me, sh—stranger.” Protector Amavand’s tone was solemn, with an edge. “You have accused me of acts so heinous that I wonder at your sanity.”

“One of us would have to be insane, to tell a lie in the presence of an alethomantis, let alone the high priest of Arenavachi. They have certified my words. Will they certify yours?” the Siluran demanded.

So confident, as if she already knew the False One’s servants would decide in her favor.

“Naturally they certify yours,” Protector Amavand said smoothly. “And soon enough, all will see why.”

He walked up the steps. Taller than she, he loomed over her when he came to the same step where she stood. For a moment it seemed as if he wanted to force her to back up. The Siluran stood her ground, and Protector Amavand adroitly turned to stand next to her.

Zephyra winced. Did he not understand the roles the Siluran had cast them in? Getting in her face would look brutish to people already skeptical of him. He would be seen as trying to intimidate a victim, not as a ruler masterfully facing an unjust and malicious accuser.

Protector Amavand glanced up at Ironwing, who watched him impassively. If he was glaring at her, she was unmoved by it. Too late, it occurred to Zephyra that the huntress lent a gravitas, a legitimacy to the Siluran: the immortal Ta-Setians did not randomly involve themselves in mortal affairs. Their age jaded them; if they troubled themselves to get involved it meant something unusual was afoot. The Elamisi would not dismiss Ironwing out of hand.

Amavand turned to face the people, holding out his hand in invitation to the high priest. He gave a dismissive nod to Behnam, or tried to, but Behnam remained where he was. In ordinary times Behnam should have given way, for the protector was lord over him. Only the high priest had the standing to deal with Protector Amavand.

In normal times.

Dismayed, Zephyra wanted to shut her eyes, to look away from her father’s mistakes, but she couldn’t. The nectar would show its worth soon. Perhaps all along Amavand had been giving the Siluran rope to hang herself with.

“Let it be so,” she whispered.

“So I am accused,” Protector Amavand said to Fravak. “And you aid and abet them.”

The high priest drew himself upright. “I am a priest of Arenavachi. I aid and abet the truth only, Your Majesty. Let us begin.”

Ironwing moved then, reaching into the green leather garment hanging from her shoulders. The overall garment was constructed in a fascinating way. It was fitted, and leather, like the coats worn in Elamis, but the similarity ended there. For one thing, she was wearing it, and only men wore coats in Elamis. Not only that, but somehow she had patterns stamped or cut into it. Ironwing must have obtained her coat from the Gandhari, because her sleeves were permanently attached. And in the Gandhari fashion the sleeves opened at the end, allowing her hands to pass through. Which meant she could freely use her hands. An unsubtle threat.

Traditionally, when men came to visit the high king or the satraps, they always put their hands in the sleeves of their coats. Except their coat sleeves did not have an opening at the end, leaving their hands trapped so they could not readily strike at the king.

The slit on Ironwing’s garment presented another oddity, but the purpose became obvious soon enough when Ironwing put her hand in one of them, and pulled out a piece of parchment.

“Do you recognize this woman, Your Majesty?” She unfolded the parchment and held it up for Protector Amavand to see.

“And you are?” Palpable disdain in his voice.

“A servant of the Huntress,” she snapped.

Murmurs in the crowd, of “the golden eagle.”

“Did you send the eagle to attack me, then?”

“Your priority right now should be on proving your honesty,” Ironwing said coldly. “Here is a simple test for you to pass or fail: do you recognize this woman, or don’t you?”

Protector Amavand drew back. Others in the audience stretched their necks, trying to see the paper, but Zephyra was too far away to bother. Nevertheless, her heart pounded. Ironwing surely meant the question as a trap.

“I do,” the protector said, glancing at Fravak.

“T-truth,” Fravak said, shaking slightly.

Ironwing noticed his fear. “Why so nervous, Guileless One? Do you have something you wish to say? Something about the woman in the drawing, perhaps?”

The high priest cleared his throat. Addressing the townspeople he said, “The drawing is of the woman our echomancers saw. This woman murdered Gira, son of Gushtam.”

Audible comments came fast and fierce.

Desperate not to lose control, Zephyra closed her eyes and counted to ten.

“I did not order her to do that,” Protector Amavand said quickly, and for a moment Zephyra’s heart did somersaults.

“Truth,” Fravak certified.

But Ironwing didn’t allow Protector Amavand to seize the high ground. “Order her, you say? So, she is someone who takes orders from you? It couldn’t be one of these people, could it? You live so far up from them.”

And there it was. The trap was closed, her father had admitted to knowing her.

The Siluran addressed the crowd, “Let the scribes write that the protector admits to knowing the one who committed murder in Arenavachi’s halls. Just as I said he did.”

“Ohhhh,” Zephyra moaned.

Whatever her father was going to do, he needed to do it now.

“And what will you do about her, Your Majesty?” Ironwing demanded. “Guileless One, what is the penalty in Elamis for murder in a temple?”

Fravak hesitated. “Execution, huntress.”

“Your Majesty, have you executed this murderer, this defiler of the temple of the goddess you supposedly serve?”

Zephyra inhaled. Ironwing was going to demand her head, she was sure of it.

Protector Amavand must have realized it as well, for he shouted, “Enough! I came down here for one reason only, to show my people who the true deceivers are!” His right hand was between both of Fravak’s, but now he suddenly put his left hand on top.

Fravak let out a yelp.

“Arenavachi does not like liars, does She?” Protector Amavand haughtily asked. “You see my people, see how this so-called priest cannot bear my touch. It is because he is the unfaithful one, in league with these she-wolves!”

Face vividly red and sheened with sweat, Fravak writhed, trying desperately to escape Protector Amavand’s grasp. Drawing the attention of the Eitanite, whose hand went straight to her thunder quiver.

“Help me!” Fravak screamed.

Ironwing moved then. The sigils on her Huntress knives glowed painfully bright, forcing people to look away. More, she moved so quickly that it took several heartbeats to realize what she had done. She reared back, her eyes on the protector, holding her knives out to strike a second time.

Protector Amavand looked down. So did Fravak. Protector Amavand raised his arms, and all murmuring stopped.

Where his hands should have been were two smoking stumps.

Zephyra clamped a hand over her mouth. Her stomach plunged in horror.

Someone in the crowd swore, others screamed.

Fravak screamed again, dropping the severed hand still in his grasp. “It burns,” he cried out, shaking off the blood and the hand on top of his. They fell wetly onto the steps, between him and the shocked protector.

“Something’s happening!”

Now the Siluran stepped back, grabbing Fravak’s arm and taking him with her. She pointed at something on the steps, something Zephyra could not see.

“Kill it!” she cried.