“I’m going to get the Fon,” he called. He started forward, when something caught his eye. He half-turned, and a man burst through the doorway, slamming into Keth and knocking the warrior sideways. Gabria cried out and fell. The man rushed past Piers, his eyes hooded in smoke and shadow and his mouth twisted in a maniacal smile. He had a large book under his bleeding arm.
There was something familiar about that man, Piers thought, then all sensibilities fled from his mind. Horrorstruck, he stared at the Fon. She had risen from her throne and was watching the stranger, terror warping her face into a hideous grimace. Just as the man reached her, she screamed a heart-tearing wail of despair. Piers saw the flash of a dagger blade in the man’s hand. Before the healer could move, the man had grabbed the screaming Fon by the hair, hauled her off the dais, and slashed her throat. Laughing gleefully, he flung her bleeding body to the floor.
In the waiting room behind the clanspeople, the Pra Deshian nobleman regained consciousness. He gazed at the body of his ruler for one horrified second before he fled.
The murderer saw the movement and raised his head.
“Branth!” Piers whispered, shocked to his soul.
The exiled clansman ignored him. Still clutching his bloody dagger, he bolted past Piers for the door. Keth tried to block him, but the man slashed wildly, cutting through Keth’s tunic into his arm. The warrior fell back, and Branth ran, laughing, out of the throne room.
Piers pulled himself together. There was nothing more to do but get out fast. He and Keth took Gabria’s arms and helped her out of the room. Behind them the blazing canopy collapsed over the golden throne.
Gabria was still woozy from the bang on her head, but she was able to walk. With the aid of Keth and Piers she hurried past the fires in the waiting rooms and into the audience hall. The hall, too, was hot and filled with smoke. They rushed through the hall and entered the corridors. The roar of the fire in the Fon’s wing assailed their ears.
“This way,” Piers said, and he led them away from the sweeping flames. There was no sign of Branth or anyone else. The people had long since fled that part of the palace. Bending low, the two men and Gabria ran, coughing and gasping, along the dark corridors to the spacious front entrance hall in the center of the palace.
The huge double doors were open, and a strong draft blew in through the hall. Outside, Gabria could see hundreds of people milling around the gates and the wall, watching the great fire.
She and the men were about to go to the doors when a new sound caught their attention over the roar of the fire and the crack and groan of the dying palace. They heard a thud and a clash of blades by the opposite wall in the shadows of a broad staircase.
“Branth!” someone shouted in fury.
Gabria’s heart froze. It was Athlone’s voice.
The sorceress and Keth leaped forward at a run to find the source of the noise. They dashed across the wide, dark hall and found three men locked in battle in the shadows at the foot of the stairs.
Just as Keth shouted the Khulinin war cry, one figure broke away from the other two and raced for the door. What looked like a large book was tucked under his arm. A pale flash of lightning filled open doors, and the light revealed the man’s face for only an instant. In that instant, Gabria recognized him.
“Branth!” she hissed furiously. Her hands rose instinctively, and she fired a bolt of the Trymian Force at the fleeing man. The blue bolt seared toward him, but Branth dodged around the door. Gabria’s arcane force exploded on the wooden frame.
The gorthling’s step hesitated when he realized a magic-wielder had attacked him. Unfortunately, it was too late to do anything about it. The gorthling’s new powers were untried and there were too many people around. He had to get away from this place as quickly as possible.
By the time Gabria reached the door, Branth had already disappeared into the crowd of onlookers.
“Gabria!” Sayyed shouted behind her. She turned to see the Turk and his group running into the hall from a corridor in the south wing. She went to join them, and the whole party converged at the base of the stairs.
Gabria took one look at Athlone and Bregan and stifled a cry. Bregan lay on the bottom step, a bloody dagger buried to the hilt in his chest. Lord Athlone was leaning against the wall, coughing and groaning. No one said a word. Sayyed and Valar picked up Bregan, Secen put his arm under Athlone, and the whole party fled the burning palace.
They crossed the courtyard and took shelter on the far side of the wall. Somewhere in the north wing, a section of the roof collapsed and a huge portion of the front wall slowly crashed into the raging inferno. Sparks and flames soared high on the night wind.
For a moment, Gabria leaned gratefully against the cold stone and gulped in the clean night air. She was sick, dizzy, and utterly exhausted. Her head felt as if a stone mason was pounding on her temples. She ignored the curious onlookers and wished desperately for a drink. Tam pressed against her, trying hard not to cry.
Beside her, Athlone had sagged against the wall and was taking deep racking breaths to expel the smoke in his lungs. She reached over and clasped his hand.
“What happened?” she asked.
For a long time he could not answer. Finally, he croaked, “We searched upstairs as far as we could and found nothing. The palace was a bonfire.”
Gabria took a close look at him and winced. His face was black with soot, his clothes were riddled with bums, and the soles of his boots were charred.
“We came down the stairs to get out and saw Branth in the hall.” The chief struggled to stand straight. “We tried to stop him, but he was . . .” Athlone tried to find the right word. “Wild. He just leaped at us like a mad wolf. Bregan saw his dagger and threw himself in front of me.” The chief’s voice cracked, and he shook his head in grief and anger.
Gabria glanced at Piers, who was bending over the old warrior. The healer caught her eyes and shook his head. Gabria wanted to weep.
At that moment, Khan’di came through the crowd. The nobleman’s clothes were spattered with blood, and his face was strained with worry and weariness. His smile lit up when he saw the travelers by the wall. “Praise Elaja, you are safe,” he cried. His expression fell when he saw Bregan, but he had little time for sorrow then. Urgently he turned to Gabria. “Sorceress, we desperately need your help.”
Gabria groaned. She did not feel well enough to help herself, let alone Khan’di. Nevertheless she stood up, hanging on to Tam for support, and followed the noblemen back around the wall to the entrance gate.
For a long time they simply stood and stared at the monstrous fire that was consuming the Fon’s magnificent palace.
The city’s fire brigade was frantically trying to protect what was left of the central block and the south wing, but the blaze was too much for their bucket lines.
Khan’di cleared his throat. “Sorceress, the fire is far beyond our control. Is there any way you can put it out?”
Gabria was stunned. The fire was so big, so powerful, she had never considered such a thing. It was easy to form globes of light or make a door turn to dust, but to quench such a vast inferno? She doubted that she had the skill or the strength.
Lightning flickered overhead, and she looked up at the sky. “There’s a storm coming. The rain will put it out.”
Khan’di followed her gaze. “I know,” he said, “but it’s moving too slowly. Right now the wind is whipping up the fire.” He pointed to the burning roof where a strong gust swept sparks and burning debris into the air. “If any of that lands in other parts of the city, it could start more fires. Some areas are so old and full of wood that a single spark could Start a conflagration that even a hurricane could not put out.”
Gabria understood his fear, but still she hesitated. “Isn’t sorcery still against the law in Pra Desh? What will all of those people do if I start using magic?”