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it had returned to dormancy, waiting. And I had no plan to reawaken it, nor yet to make use of it.
    “No favorite, my lord, but has known herself fit prey at the Mahrkagir’s whim for the wolves of Angra Mainyu,” the priest said smoothly. “It would be duzhvarshta indeed to shatter this hollow arrogance.”
    Restless with drink and boredom, the Mahrkagir agreed, a mad gleam in his eyes. “Tonight!” he shouted, banging his cup on the table. “Let it be tonight, then!” Grabbing my wrist, he rose to his feet, bringing me with him, holding my arm above my head as if to display a trophy. My lips formed a protest, but he was already addressing him. “ This will be tonight’s entertainment! Let the wolves of Angra Mainyu fight amongst themselves, and whosoever among you prevail shall have my lady Phèdre!”
    They were on their feet, roaring, fierce, filthy warriors in piecemeal armor. It was all Drujani that night, no Tatars among them. I saw, for an instant, the dreadful shock register on Joscelin’s face. “My lord, no,” I whispered, even as the Mahrkagir dragged me by the wrist into the aisle between the tables, pushing me into a forming mêlée. “No.”
    After that, it was chaos. A Drujani warrior caught me in his arms, pulling me close and laughing; then another struck him hard atop the head with a dagger-hilt, and someone else grabbed me from behind. I don’t know what happened to him. From the corner of my eye, I saw Joscelin borne down by a swarm of Drujani. One of them had leapt from the table atop his shoulders; he’d never even had a chance to draw his sword. I daresay he might have, that night. A pile of leather and steel and limbs writhed on the floor, giving evidence to his struggle. The others pressed close around me and I felt like Imriel, fighting with tooth and claw to keep them off as I was jostled and groped and snatched from one man by the next.
    To no avail; a Drujani wielding a broadsword cleared a space around him and then flung down his blade, seizing me and bending me backward over a table, the heel of his hand under my chin. “Do it, Kishpa!” a voice behind him laughed. “We’ll ward your back if you’ll give us a turn!” The edge of the table pressed hard against my buttocks, and my neck was strained. Someone was holding my arms. Tears stung my eyes as he pressed himself between my thighs, fumbling at my skirts.
    Then came shouting, and the sound of someone else waded into the fray. The pressure left my chin and my limbs were free. I straightened to see Tahmuras in the thick of battle, his morningstar a spiked blur as he whipped it in deadly patterns with effortless skill. Men yelped and dove out of the way. One was already down, the side of his head crushed and bleeding. Behind Tahmuras stood the Mahrkagir, unarmed, calm amid the chaos, his mad eyes watching. No one laid a finger on him; no one would dare. There was Tahmuras, for one thing-and a few paces away, there was Gashtaham, stroking his staff of office, gathering darkness around him. None of them seemed to care in the least that Drujani were being maimed or killed.
    And I was still in the middle of it. A tall warrior staggered backward, knocking me half off my feet. Someone else lurched into my left side, and ... how it happened, I cannot say. Only that I fetched up hard against Joscelin, who had somehow shaken his attackers and regained his footing.
    I knew. Even before I saw, I knew. His hands closed on my upper arms, and I lifted my gaze to his face. Like the Carthaginian looking at the sky, I could have wept.
    “Phèdre.” He spoke quick and low in D’Angeline, his expression betraying nothing. “If I thought I could throw before the Skotophagotis killed me, I would perform the terminus . I don’t. Blessed Elua had best make his will known fast, before I go mad here. I don’t know how long I can endure this.”
    Elua’s will. It was then that the first terrible inkling of suspicion dawned.
    “I need time,” I whispered. “I think... Please. A little while longer.”
    Joscelin said nothing, only released me and bowed, looking past me to the Mahrkagir. The fighting had settled. One man dead, and another dying; half a dozen others lay groaning. The Mahrkagir was smiling. “I changed my mind,” he said calmly, taking my hand and leading me back to the head table. “Gashtaham, that was a foolish idea.”
    Like Joscelin, the priest only made a bow in reply, the girdle of finger-bones rattling at