The Nightmaster lunged, driving the sword downward, but the bolt from the crossbow flew much faster through the air to punch through his robe, through his skin. With a strangled gasp the man slumped to his knees, spilling the big sword at Jaymes’s feet with a resounding clang. The priest clutched frantically at the wound, but his fingers couldn’t get a grip on the tail of the deadly metal dart, and he uttered a long sigh as he toppled sideways to the floor.
With the Nightmaster’s death, the spell binding the two knights was broken, and they both stumbled forward, toward the sword that lay just beyond Jaymes’s boots.
By now the second crossbow was in the warrior’s hand, leveled at Captain Dayr. “No! Stop right there,” the warrior said.
Eyes narrowed, the Knight of the Crown halted, watching warily as Jaymes pushed himself to his feet. The warrior almost blacked out from the surge of pain he felt, but he growled, reached down, and picked up the sword. He slid the weapon into his empty scabbard, keeping the crossbow leveled at the knights.
“You won’t get away this time, you know-this whole city knows you’re here,” the captain warned him.
“I’m not trying to get away,” Jaymes replied. He limped to the door, keeping the crossbow trained on the two knights. Backing out of the shrine, he slammed the door shut and dropped the bar into place.
They pounded and shouted as he limped into the darkness, but Jaymes knew it would take them a long time to break the door down.
Coryn could hear again. The only noise, at first, was her own strained breathing through flaring nostrils-the tight cloth gag not only had prevented her from speaking, it made it almost impossible to breathe through her mouth.
“Come with me,” ordered the nobleman, jerking the wizard to her feet by her bound wrists. She tugged angrily against him and he abruptly punched her on the cheek, knocking her off the bed and onto the floor. Her head spun, and she tasted fresh blood as he lifted her by her bonds again. This time she stumblingly maintained her balance, leaning weakly against one bedpost.
Dragging her behind him, the duke started across the room. “Guard!” he called, as he approached the door.
“Yes, my lord duke?”
“Go to the kitchen-tell them I want my tea delivered to the game room! Have Captain Reynaud bring it.”
“Right away, lord.”
The young sentry clomped away. As soon as the sounds faded, the duke opened the door, and pulled Coryn out into the hall. There were no other people in sight, as he prodded her along the corridor in a different direction. She felt the tip of a knife press against the small of her back.
“This is the same blade that cut the Duchess Martha’s throat,” the duke calmly. “It was not very hard to kill her, you know, and it won’t be very hard to kill you.”
Coryn said nothing. The duke took the lead, pulling on the rope. She lurched along, the knots cutting into her wrists. She tried to bite through the gag without success. She couldn’t talk, couldn’t move her hands-couldn’t wield her magic. He was in front of her now, and she could see the knife, an ornately jeweled dagger, in his hand. Her anger mingled with a growing sense of helplessness.
Crawford stopped and opened a door, pushing her into a large, wood-paneled room. There was a table in the middle draped with green cloth, and as she stumbled against the table she saw that it was covered with hundreds of miniature soldiers, painted and poised in martial action. A battle was in progress, though she had inadvertently knocked down a good number of the tiny soldiers.
Duke Crawford didn’t seem to care. Instead, with another sudden shove, he sent her sprawling against the wall. Her head banged on the stones. As she slumped to the floor he pulled open a side door, revealing an alcove. There was nobody else in there, but she was vaguely surprised to hear him speaking.
“My lord? My lord!” said Crawford. “I have the White Witch-she is bound and gagged, but alive-at least, for the moment!”
Jaymes raced down the corridor, holding his sword in both hands. He had retraced his steps out of the hidden tunnel and the secret temple, emerging back through the shattered panel into the great hall of Caergoth keep. There he scattered a dozen servants and started onto the stairs leading up to the duke’s quarters.
Now he heard someone coming and ducked into a side door, watching as a young knight hurried past. When that man headed down a nearby stairway, the warrior ran in the direction the knight had come from. He climbed another flight of stairs, darted around a corner, and halted suddenly in front of a pair of veteran, stern-faced knights.
Jaymes froze, his sword ready, though not yet aflame. The two knight captains glared at him coldly. Eyes narrowing, the warrior recognized one of the officers, then the other.
“Captain Powell,” he said tersely. “I sincerely hoped never to see you again.”
“I am sure of that,” said the Knight of the Rose, “after you killed a good, loyal knight, escaping from me.”
“And Captain Marckus.” Jaymes nodded coolly to the other knight. “I am glad to see you survived the battle at the bridge.”
“Yourself, as well,” the grizzled officer admitted grudgingly. At Powell’s puzzled look, he explained. “This man held the rearguard together all the way to the bridge. Then he and a dwarf, with some help from the White Witch, destroyed the bridge before the enemy could cross the span and ravage our retreat.
“I just left two of your comrades-Captain Dayr and Sir Rene-down in the temple of Hiddukel, only a few minutes ago. I hasten to add that I left them alive,” Jaymes said.
“What temple of Hiddukel?” demanded Marckus. “Here? In Caergoth?”
“Right under the Temple of Shinare. It seems the Patriarch was working nights, serving the Prince of Lies. I didn’t leave him alive, however,” the warrior explained, still holding his sword warily. “When you go down there and remove the Nightmaster’s mask from his body, I think you’ll see a distinct resemblance to Patriarch Issel. He’s the one who persuaded the duke to kill his wife.”
“How dare you utter such an accusation!” declared Sir Marckus. “You’re a brave enough fighter-I’ll give you that-but I won’t have you slandering a Lord of the Rose!” His hand tightened around the hilt of his sword as he stepped forward.
“Lord?” spat Jaymes, contemptuously. “I’m only slandering killers and cowards!” He glared at Powell. “That knight I killed? He had been sent to slit my throat, to make sure I never made it to Palanthas alive.”
“Do you believe this villain?” Marckus angrily asked his comrade, though his eyes never left the swordsman.
“Perhaps I do. It’s possible,” Powell acknowledged in a low voice.
“Listen! It makes more sense than me sneaking in here to kill the duchess, while leaving the duke alone,” Jaymes said. “Of course, you’ll believe only what you want to believe…”
Captain Powell held up a hand. “No, I have been rethinking many of my beliefs. So has the Princess Selinda. We happen to think you may be telling the truth.” He glanced at his fellow officer. “Marckus, you were the first one on the scene after the duchess was slain, were you not?”
“Aye,” declared the grizzled veteran. His eyes, cold and hard, never left Jaymes’s face.
“Did you see any burned fabric-any evidence of a fire around the wound? Was the cut caused by a huge sword such as the one wielded by this man?”
“No, I’d have to say the wound was caused by a knife, not a sword. There was no sign of fire. Nor were there any witnesses, though the duke claimed the Assassin fled along the top of the wall. I did think it strange that none of the guards spotted the culprit.”
“Let’s go have a talk with the duke,” Jaymes suggested. “See what he has to say about all this.”
“I won’t let you near him-not while you’re carrying that blade!” Marckus declared hotly.
The swordsman thought for a moment, his eyes shifting from one captain to the other. After a long pause, he sheathed the weapon then unhooked the scabbard from his belt.