17
They hated her with every breath; she could feel that, and yet it did not hurt, not the way it had when she was young. She eased back the power she had exerted, and slowly … staggering a little, some of them … they moved into the doorway, past her, with Valthan’s soldiers.
She reached out, then, and felt for the other magic she knew was built into the place. The tang of the Bloodlord’s cruel power tingled along her senses, disgusting and frightening at once. A whisper eased into her mind: Broken blades, jagged hooks, whimpers, moans, screams … I give you these.
“Ward of Falk,” Dorrin said, aloud. “Ward of Falk against all evil ones—”
Falk is not my master. I have no master.
Dorrin pushed it out of her mind. Disembodied voices could come from anywhere; Liart’s power needed a physical focus. If they had priests of Liart there—well, she had already bound her relatives’ magery. She now believed she could deal with them as well.
The question now was how to manage her relatives until they could be transported to Vérella. Would the Royal Guard be adequate security? Did her family have allies between here and Vérella? And where were the men and older boys? Unfortunately, she had no magical vision that let her see through walls, or find anyone not using magery against her.
At least here and now, the Guard should be enough. When all the prisoners were inside and under guard, she and her escort moved on into the house. The great hall, scene of so many humiliations, looked much the same. She still remembered which of the doorways led where, to kitchens and other offices, to dining rooms and up front stairs or back to the rooms above. She nodded to Valthan, who read again the prince’s order and called all to come forth.
This time it was servants, shuffling warily out of various doorways and edging downstairs to gather in a disorganized mass at the other end of the great hall from the ladies. Verrakai’s household livery on the upper servants, and drab on the others … it had been so long, Dorrin didn’t recognize any of them.
She took a step forward. “I am your new Duke, by order of the crown prince and Council,” she said. “From now on, all orders come from me. Is that clear?”
A murmur, not of resistance but uncertainty.
“If you obey me, no harm will come to you. If you do not, I will consider you conspirators in the treason which brought the Attaint to all in the family, and you will be transported to Vérella to stand trial. What say you?”
“By what right do you treat highborn ladies so?” This from a tall man in the house livery pushing his way forward; the others edged away from him and averted their gaze.
“Who are you?” Dorrin asked, without replying to his question.
“I am His Lordship’s steward,” he said. His expression and voice expressed confidence in his own authority. “Grull Lanatsson is my name, and I am in charge of the household, under His Lordship.”
“Did you not hear?” Dorrin asked. “Haron the traitor is dead. All adult members of the family are under attainder and as they have already tried to attack their Duke—me—and members of the Royal Guard, traveling under royal warrant, they are prisoners, and treated as such. As for you, you may have been the former Duke’s steward, but you are not yet mine. Do you acknowledge me?” Dorrin sensed more movement in the corridor behind the servants, a shifting in the group of them, and another man came to the front, in footman’s livery.
Grull said nothing, scowling as he glanced around the hall, where armed soldiers were obviously on alert. The footman leaned to him and murmured something Dorrin could not hear. He shook his head; the footman stepped back. Then he said, “I would see this so-called order—”
“You have heard it read by an officer of the Royal Guard, a Knight of the Bells,” Dorrin said. “You see the Royal Guard uniforms. Acknowledge me as the rightful Duke, or not, but no more delay.” She could feel, from the far end of the hall, her relatives’ bitter hatred.
He looked around at the other servants, and by his expression did not like what he saw.
“I acknowledge you,” he said, finally.
“You can’t!” said the footman who’d been near him. “You know what he—”
“Be silent, fool!” Grull said.
“Come here,” Dorrin said. “Both you and that footman. What is his name?”
“Coben,” Grull said. He strolled forward, every movement confident. Behind him, Coben followed.
When they were a bare spear-length away, Dorrin halted them with her mage power; they both paled. Grull did not struggle, but the footman’s strained face showed that he was trying to break the spell. She walked closer to them; her personal guard came with her. “Grull, what gods do you serve?”
“Whatever gods my lord commands,” he said, raising an eyebrow.
“And what god did your lord command?”
“He—” Grull trembled suddenly, as if with a chill, and the voice Dorrin had heard in her mind spoke with Grull’s mouth. “What do you think, little rabbit? He is my faithful servant.”
“Then he cannot be mine,” Dorrin said. She looked at the footman. “And you? Speak, Coben.”
“You’re not the Duke,” Coben said. “I heard about you; you’re just a runaway, not really a Verrakai, and anyway you’re just an old woman.”
“Do you also follow the Bloodlord?” Dorrin asked.
Coben smiled, showing his teeth, and licked them. “The mightiest of gods is Liart, Lord of Torments. You will never prevail against him—”
“Bind them well,” Dorrin said. “For they have spoken treason and thus fall under a sentence of death, unless the prince commutes it.”
“You cannot kill us,” Grull said, this time in his own voice. “We have done nothing. And you lack the will—you are weak—”
“You tell your Duke she is weak?” Dorrin had her sword in hand before she quite realized it. Beside her, her two escorts had drawn blades when she did. “You were not told, perhaps, that I have been a soldier more than three hands of years. I have killed more men—aye, and women—” That with a glance at the women down the hall. “—than you can count on both hands twice over.” A dark rage rose higher in her mind, urging her to prove Grull wrong, to kill both him and the footman, and that slowly. Her ruby flashed, bright in her mind. She shook her head. “You are not worth the loss of honor,” she said, shoving her sword back into its scabbard. “To trial you will go, and I doubt not the royal hangman will soil his hands with you.”
By then four of the Royal Guards were behind the two, with thongs to bind them. When they had bound the men’s wrists, then their arms to their bodies, Dorrin released her control so they could be led aside, but both lunged toward her, eyes wide and mouths open. Before she could draw her blade, her escort had stepped in front of her, and run them through.
A disturbance broke out somewhere outside—clashing blades, a horse’s squeal, shouts—and three more men pushed through the huddle of servants, waving knives and pokers as they ran toward Dorrin, only to fall to Royal Guard soldiers. Like a terrified herd of sheep, the rest of the servants surged back and forth, unsure which way to run.
Dorrin saw all this with awareness honed by many a battle. Diversion—who would want a diversion?—her gaze fell on her prisoners; her aunt and mother were grinning in triumph. Dorrin strengthened her control of them, and all those prisoners slumped. Phelani uniforms appeared behind the mass of servants; Vossik called over their heads.
“My lord, a stableboy and a gardener’s lad suddenly attacked us, but it’s all under control now.”
“Casualties?” Dorrin asked.
“Captain Selfer’s spare mount, and one of the privates had a gash to the arm.”