“He’s coming anon,” said someone eagerly. “Sir Magnin is coming.”
Trumpets sounded from the palace gates higher up the hill. Noel turned his head to watch as the procession rode down the narrow, winding road, glimpsed in flashes through the trees and bushes.
The priest lifted his hand and started a nervous drone, “ In nomine patris…”
“Give it back,” said Noel urgently. “You must give it back.”
Leon hunched his shoulders. “It will do you no good to have it now. We’re going to be cooked. It doesn’t matter who has it.”
“It does matter,” insisted Noel. “It-”
The blare of a horn, an insistent warning, cut across his sentence. A messenger galloped over the bridge and past the church, coming into the square just as Sir Magnin’s slow-moving party reached it. People scattered.
“Sir Magnin!” shouted the man breathlessly. “An armed party of horsemen approaches from the southeast.”
Noel held his breath, certain the Turkish invasion force had arrived at last. All his efforts had been for nothing. He could not stop the tragedy that would happen. Leon’s meddling with history was about to have disastrous results.
Sir Magnin-changed back into his resplendent cloth-of-gold tunic and feathered cap, his broken arm bound in a sling, and his handsome face drawn into a tight, pain-filled mask-spoke briefly to the messenger in a voice too low to be overheard.
Sir Geoffrey spurred his horse away and dispatched someone to summon the garrison force. “Man the walls! Close the city gates!” he shouted.
People scattered, screaming and shoving in a mad rush for safety. But the guards around Noel and Leon remained in place, and the priest, gathering his courage momentarily, called out, “Appease God, good people, and burn these sons of the devil.”
Sir Magnin nodded, his black eyes hooded and unreadable.
Noel shot Leon an exasperated look. “Can’t you hypnotize these guards and-”
“It’s not hypnosis,” said Leon angrily. “I push upon their minds with-”
“Telepathy, then. Whatever,” said Noel. “Don’t be so damned pedantic. Just do it.”
Leon closed his eyes a moment, then opened them with a gasp. “I can’t.” His voice was shrill with fear. “I can’t!”
“Concentrate. You can’t focus if you’re-”
“Shut up,” said a guard, shoving them forward. “Climb on the wood.”
They hadn’t even bothered to erect a pole for their victims to be tied to. Noel struggled up the shifting, unstable stack of wood and branches, wondering if they expected him to sit there tamely like a nineteenth-century widow in India and be burned on the pyre.
The priest darted forward and snatched the silver cross from around Leon’s neck. “Blasphemer.”
Leon said nothing. His face was chalky, and great drops of sweat rolled off his forehead.
Cleope appeared on the fringes of the remaining crowd. She was crying. She called out something, but Noel couldn’t hear her over the noise.
A roar went up in the distance. He heard the sounds of fighting, and hope lifted him.
“Light the wood,” said Sir Magnin.
Noel’s gaze whipped around. He met those implacable black eyes for a long moment, then Sir Magnin’s lips curved in a faint, cruel smile.
“I would have helped him achieve everything,” said Leon almost in a sob. “My knowledge could have handed him the known world. He could have carved out an empire with me at his side. Why wouldn’t he listen to me?”
“Prophets are never heeded,” said Noel. “Shut up about it.”
“At least you’ve lived for-”
“And that makes this better?” broke in Noel derisively.
“You might be grateful for my help.”
“Yeah, instead of my head cut off I get burned to death. Big difference,” said Noel. “You know this is going to be horrible. We’ll smell ourselves burning-”
“ Shut up,” said Leon.
A torch was thrown at the base of the bonfire. The dry sticks caught fire almost at once. Flames and smoke burst upward. Noel struggled to his knees in spite of his attempt to appear calm. His heart was thudding hard against his rib cage. He looked at the crossbows the guards held trained on them and wondered if an arrow wouldn’t be the quickest way to go. It had to be better than this.
He crawled over the top of the woodpile, moving away from the flames. Leon followed in spite of the angry shouts hurled at them by the crowd.
An arrow whizzed past Noel’s ear, missing him by inches. He froze involuntarily, but the heat was escalating. He couldn’t breathe. The urgent need for survival clawed at his throat, threatening to conquer his powers of reason.
He leaned over and shouted in Leon’s ear, “We have to jump off together-”
“No! It will make us a bigger target. Jump in opposite directions.”
Horses and riders came galloping into the square, closely pursued by their attackers. At once all became confusion, with horses trampling, women screaming, people running in all directions, swords clanging upon armor and shields. Through the hazy orange of the flames, Noel could see the pennons of d’Angelier and Byzantium flying boldly.
“Come on!” he shouted to Leon. “Jump!”
“We can’t,” said Leon. “It’s too late. The fire has ringed us. God, I’m burning!”
Noel kicked him. “Jump, damn you!”
Eyes shut and head ducked to protect himself as much as possible from the flames, Noel leapt through them and felt the horrifying heat consume him. He landed on the ground and fell, rolling himself over and over to extinguish the fire in his clothing. The stench of singed wool and hair stung his nostrils. Coughing and half-blinded, he staggered out of the way of a plunging horse and saw Sir Magnin rein his mount around to flee.
Men in the d’Angelier colors of brown and crimson hemmed him in, and Sir Magnin reluctantly faced a rider in black mail and a surcoat of resplendent purple. By now the fighting was nearly over. Wounded men lay upon the cobblestones, and blood stained the water in the fountain. Riderless horses darted here and there in a panic.
Lord Theodore took off his helmet and the fading sunlight struck glints of red from his chestnut hair. Ablaze with triumph, his blue eyes swept the scene, then returned to Sir Magnin.
For a moment nothing was uttered between them, then Lord Theodore spoke: “Where is my seal of office?”
Sir Magnin’s face twisted with defeat and bitterness, but he replied clearly enough, “It lies in my chamber within the palace.”
Lord Theodore turned to one of his men. “Go straight and fetch it.”
“Yes, my lord.”
The man rode away at a gallop.
Lord Theodore returned his attention to Sir Magnin. “Your rule is over. Mistra is once again within the empire. Frederick, strike that flag and see that the imperial eagle rises in its place.”
Frederick stepped forward, bloody over one eye, but alight with eagerness. “Yes, my lord.” He grinned at Noel as he ran to do Theodore’s bidding.
“These men here, my lord,” said a knight. “They are bound up and about to be burned. What is to be done with them?”
“They are witches,” said Sir Magnin. “Be careful of them.”
Lord Theodore raised his hand swiftly. “Cut them loose.”
“But, my lord-”
“Cut them loose! They are not witches, but rather my agents sent here to cause what mayhem and confusion they could.”
Lord Theodore’s gaze met Noel’s as the ropes were cut away. He nodded, and although nothing more was said, Noel knew he had the man’s thanks.
As soon as he was freed, Leon tried to dart away, but Noel caught him by the sleeve. “Not so fast. We have a bracelet to discuss.”
They moved from the square, and people parted to let them pass. Behind him, Noel heard the orders being given to disperse the townspeople, to round up the survivors of Sir Magnin’s force, to take care of the myriad details necessary in a change of power.
“And me?” said Sir Magnin’s deep voice. “Am I executed in the morning?”
“Your life depends upon the will of the emperor,” said Lord Theodore.