He knew the men hunted him as he watched them pole their boat slowly through the swamp. They wore red robes with hoods drawn over their heads. It made a strange sight in the stiflingly humid heat.
     The draping limbs of a willow screened him from view as he raised his head above the side of his own small boat for a better look.
     “Get down, Nur,” whispered a young woman crouching behind him. “They’ll spot us.”
     “They can’t see me, Willa.” Nur stared at the second boat. “Father of Dragons, they’ve got Tib.”
     Willa sat up. “What are we going to do?”
     “We’ll follow their boat and see where they take him. Then, we’ll pole back and have my father alert the garrison.”
     “Are they swampers?”
     Nur turned to Willa and frowned. “Don’t call the swamp people that. Besides, they’re human. Come on. They’re getting too far ahead.”
     “Who do you think they are?”
     “Probably smugglers. We must have found their secret route.”
     “Your father’s going to skin us alive.”
     “Stop thinking about yourself for once. Just pray to the dragons that they don’t hurt Tib.”
     Nur poled the little boat as quietly as possible. The other craft picked up speed and moved ahead. Soon, it faded into the mist. Willa shook her head. “We’ve lost them.”
     They heard wood scrape against rock. Nur poled in the direction of the sound. Slowly, the hazy outline of an island emerged from the mist. An empty boat lay beached on its bank.
     Willa pulled on Nur’s arm. “Let’s go back for your father.”
     “We have to make certain it’s them.”
     “Are you mad? They’ll catch us too.”
     “I’ll land behind those reeds.”
     A square, three story tower appeared out of the haze as they approached. Nur put in at a muddy bank and they crept up to the keep. Willa ran her hands along the stone wall. It was smooth and free of any lichen or moss.
     They entered and found no trace of Tib or the men from the boat. The second and third stories were also empty. They climbed to the top and looked all about. The island was deserted.
     Willa said, “There must have been a second boat on the obsp;ther side of the island.”
     “Most likely. Let’s get back.”
     Nur and his cousins, Willa and her younger brother Tib, had been in the swamp since dawn in search of turtle eggs, a rare delicacy among the rich and powerful in the monarchy of Carandir. A catch of eggs was worth a tidy sum in the capital city of Meth where Willa and Tib lived.
     The cousins were visiting Nur and his family in Rascalla, one of the eighteen baronies of Carandir. It sat at the edge of the eastern swampland at the border of the monarchy.
     Two years before, Nur had also lived in Meth, when he studied to join an order of men known as the Kyar, scholars who preserved the ancient writings left behind by the now vanished wizards. The monastic life had not appealed to him and he returned home to Rascalla.
     The caution Nur and Willa had initially felt evaporated as they walked back down the stairs. Willa removed her wide brimmed hat and wiped her forehead. “Who do you think put this up in the middle of nowhere?”
     “It’s probably been here since the Dragon Wars. Before they vanished, the wizards used such strongholds to imprison demons.”
     Willa shook her head and smiled. “Don’t tell me you still believe in dragons and wizards.”
     “I’m just reciting the histories.”
     “Ancient lies, you mean.”
     “Well, a lot of people in the east hold faith with in the dragons. You need to be more careful of what you say out here.”
     “Come on. You’ve lived in Meth. Do you honestly believe in dragons?”
     Nur hesitated for a moment. “Well, yes. I do. Ilidel and Jorondel are the mother and father of dragons. I may not be studying with the Kyar anymore but my faith has never wavered.”
      Willa laughed. “You have to be joking. Are going to tell me the myth about how the world was shaped by dragons and that the evil, spooky dragon Baras rebelled against them?” She wiggled her fingers at Nur. “Woo.”
     “There are powers beyond us, Willa. You can’t deny that.”
     “I’m a city engineer. I can deny anything that can’t be proven. Ilidel, Jorondel and Baras are just folklore, symbols of good and evil.”
     “The stories are histories. The Kyar’s vaults are filled with uncounted books and scrolls chronicling the Dragon Wars and the beginnings of Carandir.”
     “But who wrote them, and why?”
     Nur shook his head. “What about Avar the Great? Do you deny that he subdued Baras with the power of his crown before founding Carandir?”
     “Oh, he established Carandir all right. That’s actual history. But, saying his crown was magical is ridiculous. He was just the first king. The crown is an artifact, not a talisman”
     Nur frowned. “You’ve never stared into the eyes of the dragon-crested crown. I have, and there’s something about it.”
     Willa raised her hand. “Shh.”
     They moved behind a column and peered down the stairway to the first floor. A section of wall stood open like a door. A hooded man wearing a crimson robe emerged. He pressed five stones in a pattern. The door closed and he walked out of the keep.
     They moved cautiously down the stairs. Willa peered into the swamp. “Whoever he was, I saw him pole his boat away. Let’s get out of here.”
     Nur inspected the section of wall that had opened. “I remember reading something about this. There are stones in the wall that act as a key.”
     “You want to open it? Those men could be inside. Let the Militia handle this.”
     Nur probed the stone with his fingers. “Tib might be locked inside.” He pressed the stones in the same order as he had seen the robed man do.
     There was an audible snap and the secret door opened. A rough-hewn corridor led steadily down. Burning torches were spaced along its wall. Each gave off light without heat or smoke. Nur and Willa entered and the door closed behind them.
     There was something about red-robed men and smokeless, heatless torches that left Nur with a vague sense of dread.
     The tunnel descended steeply. They turned a bend and saw a large cavern below them. Nur held Willa back. A set of steps led down to the cavern floor. Dozens of men wearing red robes stood before braziers where smoky fires burned. One man sat on a throne with a hood pulled over his head.
     Tib knelt next to the throne. Two other men held him by the arms. The man on the throne spoke words that were lost in the cavern. Tib shook his head.
     Nur pointed back the way they had come. Willa stood still as if paralyzed. Nur shoved her and she backed away a pace, then turned and ran quickly up the steps. Nur followed.
     As they rounded a bend, they saw another man coming toward them. He wore a blue and white Carandirian naval uniform. With relief, Nur recognized him as Lieutenant Petstra, an officer who was stationed at the palace.
     Nur breathed in short gasps as he whispered, “Lieutenant Petstra. Thank the dragons. Someone’s captured my cousin.” It was then that Nur saw three crimson-robed men standing behind Petstra.
     The officer drew his sword. “Walk back down the stairs.”
     Nur and Willa turned and descended to the cavern floor where they were grabbed and forced to kneel beside Tib. Nur looked up at the throne where an emaciated man with pale skin sat beside a smoking brazier. A sweet, thick stench permeated the air.
     Petstra knelt. “Lord Reshna, more intruders.”
     Reshna studied them for a moment before pointing to Nur. “I sense wizard magic. Who has sent you to spy on the Barasha?”
     Nur now recalled books and scrolls he had read when he studied to become a Kyar. They told of men who wore blood red robes and used sorcery to work minor spells. These sorcerers also knew the secret of binding demons and forcing them to perform true magic in exchange for living souls.
     The men had been taught these arts by Baras himself, and so, had taken the name Barasha, Servants of Baras.
     But this is impossible, he thought. Every book and scroll he had ever seen told of how the Barasha were utterly destroyed by the wizards.
     Tib gave a whimper. Willa stared up at Reshna.
     Nur was sick with fear, but managed to say, “No one sent us. We were only hunting turtle eggs.”
     Willa nodded her head, “We won’t betray your secret. Let us go.”
     Reshna turned to Petstra. “Were you successful in the palace?”
     The lieutenant bowed his head. “Yes, Lord Reshna. I was made privy to many secrets. The queen has conceived twins, as you foresaw. I spoke the incantation to hide the second child from all examination.”
     Reshna said, “We have but to wait until the birth for confusion or corruption. I will now call upon our master.” He looked to Tib. “That one.”
     Tib was dragged to the brazier next to Reshna’s throne. Two Barasha priests held him while a third slit his throat. Tib gave a gurgling cry as blood splashed the burning coals.
     Nur tasted bile as he fought not to vomit. Barasha priests chanted in unison. The smoke of the brazier twisted and congealed to form a round, green body. It was half the size of a person with short clawed hands and no legs. Its head consisted mostly of a mouth with jagged teeth.
     The demon said, “Who summons me?”
     “I, Reshna, Lord High Priest of the Servants of Baras. I will speak with my master.”
     The smoke wavered and then congealed again. “He sleeps behind the spell of the dragon crest that Jorondel fashioned and into which Ilidel breathed the will of creation. None can stand before it.”
     “You have taken the offering. You cannot refuse.”
     “I will not approach the spell.”
     “Others before you have opened his mind to me. Will you suffer the wrath of Baras? He dreams only of hatred. For now, those dreams are consumed with the generations of Avar. Do you wish his attention as well?”
     “What care is it to me? He will sleep for eternity.”
     “No. The crown itself will release him.”
     “Impossible. Only Avar’s heir can remove it from the crystal case.”
     Reshna poured red powder into his hand and held it up to the demon. “It has begun.”
     The demon examined the powder. “It will cost two more souls.”
     Reshna pointed to Nur and Willa.

Prince Ryckair Avar knelt at the edge of the fencing ring. Heavily quilted pads covered his arms, legs and chest. He wore a helmet and visor. In his hand was a blunted practice saber.
     He watched his brother, Prince Craya, kneel motionless at the other side of the ring. The dragon mark on Ryckair’s chest began to burn and itch again. He gritted his teeth. Father of Dragons, he thought. Not now.
     Yetig said, “Fence.” Ryckair pushed himself up. Craya was on top of him before he was able to stand. Ryckair just managed to raise his blade and deflect his brother’s blow. The burning on his chest intensified as he fought to concentrate.
     Ryckair had never won a match against Craya. It was clear that his brother had inherited their father’s skill with the sword, not he, and Craya seized every opportunity to taunt his brother over it.
     A trickle of sweat slid down Ryckair’s forehead and into one eye. He blinked repeatedly to drive away the sting.
     More than anything, he wanted to win just once to stop the taunting. He wasn’t a poor swordsman. Craya was just so much better, and not just at fencing.
     Though Telasec had thought them identical twins at birth, each boy grew to become distinct.
     With dark, striking features. Young ladies of the court vied for Craya’s attention at balls and banquets.
     This was not so for Ryckair. He was quite ordinary to look at with sandy blond hair. This alone caused him to be eclipsed by his brother, but Ryckair also carried the dragon mark. Some considered it to be a sign of good, others of evil. None wished to be too close to it.
     Ryckair parried a blow and searched for an opening to repost. He found none.
     Craya lunged. Ryckair was barely able to deflect the attack. The burning itch on his chest struck again. It had begun as a gentle tingle the previous year. When he told Orane about it, the chief Kyar said it was nothing to be concerned about, though he offered no explanation. The tingling had intensified to an incessant itch and finally to the wretched burning he now felt.
     He tried to force it from his mind, along with the buzz of conversation filtering from the young officers who urged the match on. The uniformed men and women formed a circle around the two princes and watched intently.
     It was apparent Craya could win at any time. Simply winning no longer amused him. The new sport was to see how hard he could make Ryckair work before the final touch.
     He spied Yetig watching from the sidelines with the practiced eye of a master. At nearly fifty, he moved with the grace and agility of a man half his age. His jet-black beard showed no sign of gray. There was always a sense of excitement and impending danger about him. Over the years, he had risen in rank from captain of the king’s guard to narech, replacing Waser who had died six years after the twins’ birth.
     Craya lunged and landed slightly off center. Ryckair saw an opening. With practiced skill, he arched his blade around Craya’s defenses toward a touch. Ryckair thrilled at the look of surprise in his brother’s eyes.
     Craya beat his brother’s sword aside with a desperate slash, then dropped and rolled into Ryckair’s legs, knocking him to the ground. Craya was up in an instant, his blade within inches of Ryckair’s throat. “Yield, brother. Call me sword master to all present.”
     Ryckair struggled to no effect.
     Craya laughed. “You spend too much time in the Kyar’s vaults and not enough practicing on the field as a king should. Well, now you must do penitence. Lick my boot, brother dear.” Craya put his foot in Ryckair’s face.
     Ryckair grabbed it and shoved Craya to the ground. He jumped up and raised his saber. Craya gave a howl of rage and got to his feet.
     Narech Yetig’s voice cut across the combat. “Hold.”
     On command, Ryckair pulled back. Craya pushed forward. Ryckair barely raised his blade in time to parry a strike to his head.
     Yetig grabbed Craya by the wrist. “I said hold. In this yard I rule.”
     Craya shook himself free. “It doesn’t matter. I still won.”
     “No, Highness. I award this match to Prince Ryckair.”
     At first, Ryckair thought he had misheard. Then, a wave of excitement washed over him.
     Craya turned to Yetig. “I had him beaten. In a real battle he’d be dead.”
     Yetig collected the fencing sabers from the brothers. “You committed one fatal mistake, Prince Craya. Instead of finishing your enemy while he lay on the ground, you taunted him. A soldier has no such luxury in, as you say, a real battle. Any hesitation allows your foe time to form a plan, as Prince Ryckair did when he grabbed your boot.”
     The thrill of victory now ebbed as Ryckair saw the effect it had on Craya. He hadn’t wanted to win a match as much as put an end to the taunting. Now, he saw the humiliation Craya felt and a sudden sadness filled him for having taken away something that his brother cherished so deeply. “I didn’t have a plan, Narech Yetig. I simply acted in desperation.”
     “Desperation is sometimes the best plan in battle, Prince Ryckair. Remember that. Both of you. The lesson is ended.”
     Yetig left the field. Ryckair called after him, “Craya really won.”
     Craya said, “I don’t need you to defend me.” He turned and walked away.
     As Ryckair watched him go. A sour pit formed in his stomach as he remembered a time when they played together as boys and shared secrets.
     He returned to his chambers in the north tower where servants helped him bathe and change into white breeches and a blue doublet. His steward handed him a simple silver circlet unadorned with neither jewel nor image. Ryckair placed it upon his head.
     Two guards accompanied Ryckair down the tapestry-lined corridor that connected the north tower, where the living quarters were, to the south tower that housed the administration of the monarchy.
     Between the north and south towers, just off the corridor, was the royal audience hall. Ryckair paused at its rear entrance for a moment, then entered.
     Light streamed through an immense vaulted ceiling made entirely of crystal. Ryckair stood on a raised dais where the two thrones of Carandir stood. Ahead of him, down the north and south walls of the hall, were eighteen wooden boxes, one for each of the noble houses. They were separated from one another by waist high walls. Ryckair had always thought of them as miniature fortresses. At the foot of the thrones, encased inside the crystal sphere, was the crown.
     He walked down the steps and stared into the eyes of the dragon crest. They terrified him. He was certain Craya was better suited to rule Carandir, but still, he feared that the key might chose him after all. This was a thought that Ryckair hid from everyone, even Orane, to whom he confided his greatest secrets.
     The idea of Baron Dek’s daughter came to mind. Her people had originally come from Au, one of the walled city-states east of the swamps. They followed strict codes of ethics that included customs that suitors were required to obey, especially in the case of arranged marriages.
     The twins were not allowed to see her or images of her, not even as portraits or statues, until she was presented in court with a chaperone after the boys turned twenty. Although their practices had become tempered after some from Au settled in Rascalla centuries before, they still maintained more conservative views than the majority of Carandirians. Ryckair’s grandfather had met Mirjel when she was a young girl. Out of respect for Dek’s traditions, he had given no report.
     In the corridor across from the audience hall was another set of metal doors that were decorated with the reliefs of dragons in flight. Ryckair gave the doors a push and they opened silently. He walked through and left the guards to take up position outside.
     Ryckair wound his way down a labyrinth of corridors. The walls were constructed from large blocks of stone that fitted perfectly, even after having stood in place for thousands of years.
     Glowing crystal globes supported by silver brackets lined the corridors. They had given off their soft light for longer than anyone could remember. Orane had once told Ryckair that the globes were one of the last relics left by the wizards before they vanished and that none were able to explain how they worked or how to create them again.
     He reached a door and knocked. Orane’s voice said, “Enter.”
     The chief Kyar looked up from a set of papers. The flicker of a fire in the hearth shone off his balding pate. He laid the papers on his lap and smiled. “Highness, what a pleasant surprise. Come in. Have some kan.”
     Kan was a spicy, invigorating drink brewed from ground herikan root. Orane grated some into two mugs and added water from a kettle that hung by a hook of the hearth.
     Ryckair took a sip, enjoying the refreshing flavor. “Thank you, Master Orane. I thought I might be able to work on that passage from the Kura Kar before supper.”
     “Epic poems before meals? I’m not sure how that will affect your digestion. Besides, why spend time on that old sonnet? It’s been a part of popular folklore since Avar’s time.”
     “I’ve been working with several Kyar to translate a newly discovered version I found in a small book that was hidden inside a cut out cavity of a larger volume. It gives a very different account of a meeting in a north continent forest between King Gotenag and his enemies.”
     Ryckair and Orane sipped their kan and talked of the day’s events. The prince described the duel he had just won and how he hoped it would end Craya’s taunting.
     “He would have won in a real fight,” said Ryckair. “He’s better than I am. I felt guilty, like I’d taken something away from him. He wasn’t just angry, he was hurt. I could tell. You probably think that sounds foolish.”
     “Not at all, Highness.”
     Ryckair gazed into the fire. “We used to be close, Master. We always wanted to go everywhere together.”
     “I recall.”
     “Do you remember when Baron Dek brought us little statues of mounted riders?”
     “They were made of silver, weren’t they?”
     “Yes. My horse had a ruby on its forehead and Craya’s had a sapphire. We were just nine. I polished that statue every night and imagined riding off in search of adventures.
     “I had an archery lesson one day and Craya got both statues out. He dropped mine and knocked the rider’s head off. When I came back, he said, ‘Ryckair, if I did something terrible, something really awful, would you still love me?’
     “I answered, ‘Of course.’
     He said ‘Forever?’
     I said, ‘Yes, forever and ever.’
     Then he held up the headless statue.
     “All I wanted to do in that moment was hit him. I remember clenching my fist. He waited for me to strike and I saw how afraid he was that I hated him. The anger made me shake, but I couldn’t hurt him. I said it didn’t matter and went outside. No one was in the stables. I pounded my fist against a hay bale and shouted.” Ryckair smiled. “It scared the horses.”
     “And did the win today ease the anger?”
     “I hate it when he humiliates me in front of the officers and I really wanted to win, but it felt so empty when he looked at me with such loathing in his eyes, like I didn’t have a brother anymore.”
     “Are you certain it’s hate and not avarice for the crown?”
     The fire hissed and popped. Ryckair closed his eyes and leaned back into the chair. “Never a crown can split apart, to sit upon two heads. The victor needs hide a smile, the other hot tears not shed.”
     “So, you read Feena after all.”
     “The poem always seemed like nonsense before. Now it’s too clear.”
     “What of you, Highness? Do you not desire the crown?”
     Ryckair stood and starred into the flames. “I’ve been afraid to speak of this, Master; but it’s eating at me. Craya is better suited to be king. He’s a better soldier and a better commander. I don’t deserve to wear the crown.”
     He expected Orane to lecture him on duty and the foolishness of his fears. Instead, the Kyar poured more kan. “The crown is a terrible weight, yet, the key will choose who is fit to rule. Nothing can change that.”
     The prince sat back down. “It may sound cruel, but I never missed my parents when I was young. Mistress Telasec was like a mother and you a father. Now, it’s as though something’s gone. I think about my parents at night, especially my father. It’s like I have a hole in me, right in my chest. Craya is the only family I have left. Now, I’m losing him.”
     
     In his private audience hall, Craya’s anger had cooled enough for him to think seriously of revenge. He called out, “Ackella.”
     A tall, blond Carandir officer entered the room and bowed. Craya said, “Sit down, Lieutenant. Take some refreshment.”
     Ackella reclined on a divan and filled a golden goblet with wine. “How may I serve Your Highness?”
     “Where is my brother?”
     Ackella wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “He is with Orane, Highness.”
     “The Kyar.” Craya picked up a lesson book and slapped it rhythmically against his palm before throwing it across the room. “Books are for fools, Ackella. Remember that. What about Yetig?”
     “He examines reports of attacks in the swamplands.”
     Craya clasped his hands behind his back. “How could he humiliate me in front of the officers like that?” The prince thought of the years he had spent studying Yetig’s drills, reading his papers, even emulating his commanding walk. Craya stared out a window to the parade ground where a company of Carandir troops drilled with pole arms. “Ackella, who do you serve, Yetig or me?”
     “I serve you, Highness. The narech I placate.”
     Craya said, “As I have known well over the last year. You are my eyes and ears in the palace. Ryckair has stepped too far. I want you to watch his movements constantly. Report everything he does, everywhere he goes, and everyone he talks to.”
     Ackella nodded his head. “I am your servant, Highness. “

Craya ordered his personal guards to move Mirjel and Lek to chambers higher up the north tower. The windows and a balcony faced out on Lake Hasp with no view of the rest of the palace. The women’s belongings had been roughly gathered and thrown on the floor of the new quarters. Tall Sinkarakans wearing Carandir uniforms stood in the hallway outside. All contact with her family was cut off and Mirjel could not imagine what Craya had told her father.
     As soon the guards left the room, she gathering breeches for herself and Lek from the pile of clothing. The women knotted bedding together in a long rope.
     Mirjel stepped out onto the balcony where a wrought iron railing overlooked the water. The pinnacle of rock upon which the palace stood descended thirty stories where gentle waves from Lake Hasp brushed against sharp rocks. Two levels below was another balcony.
     Mirjel secured one end of the makeshift rope to the railing and tied a fire poker to the other for weight before lowering it. A stiff breeze blew the sheets back and forth across the face of the tower.
     It took three attempts before the poker settled on the balcony below. Mirjel climbed over the railing and down the sheets with Lek behind her.
     Mirjel avoided looking down. From above, she heard her lady-in-waiting’s labored panting and said, “Lek?”.
     Lek stopped climbing and held tightly to the sheets with her eyes closed. “I can’t move.”
     “We’re almost there. Slide down to the balcony.”
     “I can’t.”
     Mirjel climbed up and pressed her head against Lek’s feet. “I’m here.”
     Lek pulled her feet up and floundered as she fought to retain her grip. “Don’t touch me. Sweet Ilidel, I don’t want to die.”
     “Can you climb back up?”
     “I can’t move!”
     “Lek, we have to go down.” Mirjel stopped and thought. “Put your foot on my head.”
     “I can’t see.”
     “Just do it.”
     Lek lowered her leg until her right foot rested on Mirjel’s head.
     “Good. Now keep pressing down on my hair. Don’t open your eyes.” Mirjel lowered herself slowly. Lek followed. Her foot never lost contact with Mirjel’s head.
     Mirjel felt as if a span had passed before they reached the lower balcony. She held onto the sheets and crouched down so Lek could keep contact with her head. When Lek’s waist was below the railing, Mirjel moved aside. Lek fell to the balcony and curled into a ball. Mirjel cradled the young woman in her arms.
     Lek shook. “I am so ashamed, lady. I have never been so high. I don’t know why I spoke so. Forgive me.”
     Mirjel stoked Lek’s hair and kissed her forehead. “You are very brave. We’ll rest here for a while.”
     When Lek recovered enough to stand, they opened the door and moved down the empty hallway. They descended a servant’s staircase that emptied onto a corridor next to a window. The gardens were just below. They turned a corner and surprised a patrol of Sinkarakan guards wearing Carandir uniforms.
     One had sergeant’s stripes on his sleeve. He clutched Mirjel by the arm. Another seized Lek. Mirjel bit the sergeant’s hand. He yelped and released her. She grabbed the hilt of his sword, thrust the blade into the side of the Sinkarakan holding Lek and led her in a charge down the corridor. The others turned and fled. The sergeant shouted, “Come back here, cowards.”
     Mirjel tried the handles of doors she passed. All were locked.
     Lek said, “There are stairs ahead that lead to the gardens.”
     Two tall Sinkarakans opened a door ahead of the women and stared. One drew his sword. The other took out a dagger. Mirjel released Lek’s hand and ran with full force. The Sinkarakan with the dagger took a step back. The one with the sword swung at Mirjel’s head. She easily parried the blow. The Sinkarakan stepped back and stabbed at Mirjel’s chest. He had some training, but it didn’t match hers. Still, he was muscular and exhibited great stamina. The battle raged on. The Sinkarakan with the knife turned and fled. Mirjel was certain the others would be on them in moments. The remaining Sinkarakan showed no sign of slowing. Mirjel let her opponents blade clash against her sword, then pulled back quickly. The Sinkarakan’s sword continued down toward the floor. Mirjel cut into his wrist. He dropped the sword and cradled his hand.
     Panting, she turned to Lek. Five Sinkarakans stood in the passage. One held a knife to Lek’s throat. The sergeant took a whip from his belt. “Drop your weapon or she dies.” He spoke Carandirian with no trace of an accent, indicating he had learned the language early, likely as an apprentice in a human community.
     Had she been alone, Mirjel would have charged, but it was impossible to reach Lek in time. She dropped the sword. “I am the daughter of the co-regent. You will let me pass.”
     The sergeant gave a short grunt. “Prince Craya has offered a hefty reward for whoever’s fortunate enough to prevent your escape.”
     “Craya will flail the skin from your bones if you touch me.”
     The sergeant turned his gaze on Lek. “No one will touch you, Lady Mirjel.”
     Two of the Sinkarakans slammed Lek against a wall. A quick knife stroke ripped open the back of her bodice and shift. The Sinkarakans held Lek while the sergeant raised his whip and raked it across her back. She screamed and tried to pull away.
     Five times the whip tore into Lek’s flesh until a voice shouted, “Enough”.
     Narech Yetig marched down the hallway with a squad of Carandirian regulars. He yanked the whip from the sergeant’s hand. “What is this?”
     The sergeant placed his hands on his hips. “Orders directly from Prince Craya. All acts of sedition are to be dealt with at once.”
     Yetig seized him by the throat. “I issue the orders in this palace. They do not include flailing defenseless courtiers.” He looked to a young officer standing beside him. “Lieutenant. Have them taken to the parade grounds and given ten lashes each. Then, strip them of their uniforms and dump them at the Karaken border.”
     The condemned Sinkarakans pleaded for leniency as they were dragged off, saying the desert would kill them. Lek was placed face down on a litter. Yetig said, “Her wounds are superficial. They will heal quickly. With proper treatment, they may not even scar. Many a soldier has taken worse.”
     Mirjel looked directly into Yetig’s eyes. “Lek is not a soldier.”
     “She will know justice for the hurt she has taken. Her tormentors will be dealt with as traitors.”
     “And what about the other traitors in this palace?”
     “You play at matters that far exceed your depth, my lady. I alone have the courage to save Carandir. I do not wish you harmed. That is not necessary to achieve my goals, but be warned. I act for Carandir first and will sacrifice my own life and that of anyone else for my monarchy. You will now return to your chambers.”
     One of Yetig’s men placed his hands on Mirjel’s arm. She shook herself free and walked regally down the hall. Six soldiers fell quickly in step around her.
     Yetig watched her departure. “Lieutenant. Assign members of our own troops to guard Lady Mirjel.”
     “Is that necessary sir? After all, she is merely a woman.”
     With a slow turn of his head Yetig surveyed his junior officer. The lieutenant said, “What I meant sir, is that their escape was simply lucky. They are scared now. What can they possibly do?”
     “I remind you, Lieutenant, that a woman brought you into this world and I assure you that a woman can remove you from it as well. Never underestimate any enemy.” He turned to stare back down the corridor. “And you are certainly wrong about one thing. Lady Mirjel is no mere anyone. In her is the courage to make Carandir great again. Were that she had been born queen a century before, there would be no need for the Barasha or the weakling Craya. This is a woman of danger, Lieutenant. A woman to be watched. See to the guards.