Tobbar stared at her, groping for something to say. It almost seemed that she had transformed herself before his eyes from his minister to some demon from Bian’s realm. He no longer knew her. If she was to be believed, he never had.

Enid cast a withering glare at Xivled, her yellow eyes like ward fires in a besieged castle.

“You think you’ve struck a great blow against the movement, cousin. You’ve done nothing. I’m an old woman, a relic from a time when the movement sought to cripple Eibithar. We’ve already done that. You’re too late. This is a war, and the important battles are now being waged elsewhere. You may have beaten me, but there will be no spoils from this victory.”

“You’ll tell us what you know,” Marston said, standing over her. “We’ll at least learn what you’ve done and who you serve. We can start with Filib’s murder and your role in that. Then you can tell us about what happened in Kentigern earlier this year.”

She crossed her arms over her chest and stared straight ahead. “I won’t tell you anything.”

“In all your years in Thorald Castle, have you ever been in her dungeons? Have you ever seen what torture does to a prisoner?”

Enid smiled, allowing herself to look up at him once more. “As I said, Lord Shanstead, I’m an old woman. My body will fail long before my will. If I must die to serve my people, so be it. It will be a far more glorious death than I had any right to expect.”

Marston opened his mouth to say more, but Tobbar stopped him with a raised hand.

“I’ve heard enough,” he said, his voice flat. “Guards!” he called, the word echoing through the chamber like the meeting of swords.

The door opened, and two of Thorald’s soldiers entered the room.

“Yes, my lord? ‘ one of them said.

“Take the first minister to the dungeon.”

The two men exchanged a look. “My lord?”

“You heard me. She’s to be taken to the dungeon and placed in chains. I don’t want her hurt-at least not yet-but beware. She’s Qirsi, and therefore dangerous.” He racked his mind, trying to remember what powers she possessed. But he knew only that she was a gleaner, as were most of her people.

Looking as frightened as probationers facing their first battle, the two man walked to where Enid sat.

Enid eyed them both before gazing once more at the duke, the smile lingering on her face. “This is a useless, spiteful gesture, Tobbar. It doesn’t become you at all.”

“Perhaps not, Enid. But you leave me no choice. You don’t want to be imprisoned in the tower. Would you be willing to talk if I offered you a quick, painless death?”

She seemed to consider this, though only for an instant.

“No. Though you may not believe it, honor means a great deal to me. I have sworn to serve my people, and I’ll carry that oath to the Underrealm.”

“May you be thrown to the flames and demons there,” Marston said, refusing to look at her. “May the Deceiver torment you until the end of time.”

The first minister stood, glancing at the two guards. “You heard your duke,” she said. “Take me to the dungeon. I grow tired of this company.‘

The guards didn’t move, appearing uncertain of what to do, until Tobbar nodded to them. Each man took hold of one of the woman’s arms and led her away. She looked like a waif between them, tiny and harmless. One last deception among so many.

She would have liked to strike out at all of them, to use her powers to destroy all of Thorald. Even having betrayed Tobbar, she had never hated him. He had never struck her as being worthy of such intense feeling. In the wake of this, however-having been ensnared by Marston’s whelp of a minister and humiliated by the duke before his guards-she found that she could hate him after all. This is a war, she had told them, and for the first time in years, almost since she arranged the murder of Filib the Younger near the woodland sanctuary where the boy’s father died several years earlier, she felt like a soldier in the service of the Weaver. She was ashamed- not of being a traitor, but rather of being foolish enough to let Tobbar find out-and she knew that before long she would be broken, but at least she was fighting again, striking at the Eandi for her people.

She had spoken the truth to the young Qirsi earlier that day: there was far more to be gained from serving the movement than merely gold pieces. Wealth might have been enough for the young; it had been for her. But though she was too old now to enjoy fully the gold given to her by the Weaver’s chancellors, she drew greater satisfaction than ever before at furthering their cause. If only she could have done more.

Her powers had never been great. She was a gleaner, and she possessed as well the magics of fire and language of beasts. Not many Qirsi wielded three magics, but only that last, language of beasts, was thought of by her people as one of the deeper powers. None of them was capable of shattering the walls of this castle, or killing its inhabitants. Even had she been a shaper, she was too old to do much damage before the Eandi killed her. She couldn’t remember the last time she had drawn upon her power. She still had gleaning dreams occasionally, visions that woke her from her sleep with their clarity and the certainty that they carried the weight of prophecy. But there was a great difference between gleaning in a dream and wielding magic as a weapon.

The two guards led her down the steps of the nearest tower into the cold air of Thorald’s north ward. Clouds raced overhead, like grey mounts charging across the moorlands. A few stars shone in the deep black of the night sky, but this was Pitch Night, the last of the year. Neither moon shone upon them. Torches from the ramparts lent a dim glow to the ward, and the dry snow crunching beneath their feet seemed to gather the starlight and torch fire so that it gleamed like a moonlit lake. A stiff wind carved across the ward, making Enid shudder. Apparently the guards thought she was trying to wrench herself out of their grasp, and they tightened their hold on her arms until she thought they would bruise her.

“The duke told you not to hurt me,” she said.

“He also said you were dangerous, Minister,” one of them said. Still, a moment later, they relaxed their grip once more.

They continued past the castle’s great hall, through the central ward, until the prison tower loomed above them, dark and ponderous, like some great black creature from the Underrealm.

Seeing the tower, shivering once more from the cold, or from fear, Enid felt herself waver. My body will fail long before my will, she had said. A boast. She would happily die if it meant protecting the movement and the Weaver. But standing before the castle prison, she no longer felt so certain that she could endure the duke’s torturers.

At the entrance to the tower, a soldier stopped them. In the dim light, it took her a moment to recognize the captain of the guard.

“What’s this?” he asked, looking briefly at the minister before facing the older of the two guards.

“The duke told us to put her in the dungeon.”

The captain raised an eyebrow. “The dungeon? You’re sure he didn’t mean the tower?”

“He said the dungeon, all right. He wants her in chains. Seems she’s a traitor, and the duke wants to know something of her allies.”

The man exhaled, whistling through his teeth. “So it’s to be torture.”

“Can you torture a Qirsi?” the other guard asked.

The two men looked at him, the captain frowning.

“Well I’ve never heard of it,” the man said, sounding defensive. “I thought maybe a sorcerer could keep it from hurting or something.”

The captain eyed at her again. “No, you can torture them. Isn’t that right, Minister?”

She regarded him for a moment, then looked away. Her pulse was hammering at her temples, and her hands trembled. Of course a Qirsi could be tortured. They felt pain like the Eandi; they bled, their bones shattered, their skin burned. Even a healer couldn’t stave off pain forever. A shaper might shatter the manacles that held his wrists and ankles and neck, but no Qirsi as old and weak as she could fight off the Eandi forever. Except, perhaps, the Weaver, but he possessed powers that went far beyond those she had wielded in her youth. That was why they followed him; that was why she would die for him.