"Her control of the daemons is formidable," Flain said. "Hours have passed, and still they obey her commands. A score of them, at least, and two greater fiends of their kind. They struggle to break free, but the yoke cannot be shirked. It surpasses anything that I have ever seen." For the first time since they had entered the Keep, Flain turned his head to glance at his Lord. "'Tis almost as if another, darker power helps keep the devils in check."

Another corner or more, and they faced the entrance to the throne room. Where once twin doors sealed the chamber from the hall, a monstrosity stood in a fog of embers and smoke. As tall as the archway it guarded, it had to bend over to bring its elongated skull within eye level of the two men. Blackthorn stood less than a foot from it, could feel the heat from its veins, which coursed over its bloody, scaled flesh in streams of liquid fire. Ocher drooled from between its fangs, dripped like molten stalactites from the prongs of its chin. Its breath—gurgles like those of a furnace. Nostrils as large as Blackthorn's fists twitched, sniffed. An unholy light spilt from them and its eyes.

"Thou shalt let me pass," Blackthorn said.

The greater daemon raised its head and hands to the ceiling, and unleashed a hideous, frustrated howl. It flexed its torso, and spread its wings over the hallway like a fiery canopy. Yet it retreated to the side, its cloven feet uprooting the floor with each step.

Flain bid Blackthorn farewell. "I release Elistaria of her apprenticeship. Do with her as thou wilt." He left, his skeletal warriors at his heels.

Within the throne room were lesser creatures of the daemon's kind—wingless, yet still giants to most men. As Blackthorn passed each, it withdrew into the shadows, hissing, snarling, becoming nothing more than fire-lit eyes and gleaming teeth.

The two largest columns of the room bordered a curved dais three steps high. Upon the left column hung the body of Lady Windemere, silver hair and blood trickling over outstretched shoulders, a blade emboweled in her forehead, another just below her sternum. Two more blades jutted from her wrists: Flesh and bone pinned to solid marble—Blackthorn had no doubt what creature had had the strength to do that.

On the dais rested a throne, on the throne a woman, one leg draped over its arm, the skin of her thigh brilliant ivory against the slit of her dark robes. Midnight hair fashioned a lustrous cowl around her violet eyes and silky cheeks. Her dark, nearly obsidian lips, turned up with a smile.

She greeted Blackthorn with a languid wave of one hand; the other she could not move, for she had it outstretched, fist tightly ensnarled in a length of Councilor Windemere's silvery-white hair. She held him taut, enough to force his head back to expose his throat. The Councilor rolled his eyes forward, spotted Blackthorn, and though he was upon his knees, he somehow seemed to draw himself up. He took a breath—

The edge of Blackthorn's sword came to a rest on his enemy's throat. "Thou hast already said too much, Councilor," Blackthorn said. "Because of thee, Britannia swells in a panic over their lost liege, the Great Council has risen against the throne, and scores of good men and women have lost their lives today while defending a traitor, a traitor who deserves to die for the deaths he has brought, but whose life I intend to spare."

Still, the traitor dared to speak. He found that he could not. Sweat poured down his face as his mouth flopped open and shut. "For each word that thou dost try to utter, thy throat will tighten, and a breath shall be sapped from thee," Blackthorn warned, his fist clenched. "Speak not, I beg of thee. There shall be time for discussion later." He addressed the woman. "Elistaria, thou hast done well."

She inclined her head. "I thank thee, my Lord, but I have done only as thou hast instructed."

"Perhaps," he said. Whitelock had been the one who had actually planned the assault. "How long hast thou served me on Windemere's court?"