Five minutes later, he sent one of his own. The second note arrived at Richard’s table. He folded his napkin, rose, and walked out.

Three minutes later Angelia rose. Rene carefully escorted her to the door. Brennan was the last to leave.

He had to take them to the side room. It was the only private room quickly accessible from the Grand Dining Hall. Security blocked the hallway on the left, and the hallway on the right opened into staff areas and kitchens filled with people.

The mirror shivered. Someone had opened the side room’s door, and the draft had disturbed the delicate web of the spell.

“Yes,” Jack hissed.

The spell tore like a film of oil being swept from the water’s surface. The mirror vanished, revealing a perfectly transparent sheet of glass and Brennan behind it. Rage distorted his face. Angelia flattened herself against the wall. Rene bristled. Richard remained impassive, like a dark shadow. He was looking straight at the dining room. No alarm registered on his face. The spell must’ve worked as intended—from inside the side room, the glass still appeared to be mirrored.

“They know nothing,” Brennan snarled, his voice slightly muffled but clearly recognizable as it issued from the grates hidden among the ornaments on the wall. “They have nothing, they know nothing, they are lying.”

The Grand Thane raised his hand. The noise in the dining hall died, as if cut off by a sword.

“Wake up!” Rene snapped. “They know. We should deal.”

Brennan hammered a punch into Rene’s jaw. The blond man staggered back.

“Now you listen to me, all of you.” Brennan barked. “There will be no deals. Don’t speak to anyone, don’t say anything, don’t even break wind without clearing it with me first. If you do, I will crush you. Don’t think for a second that you will get out of this unscathed, while I’ll go down. I’m a royal peer of the realm. You’re nothing. You’re trash.”

He spun to Angelia. “You’re a whore who can’t keep her legs together. You”—he turned to Rene—“are a fop and a weakling.” He faced Richard. “You’re a greedy coward. I can replace every one of you, and there will be a dozen fighting to take your places. I made you what you are. I took the fractured bandits and scum and molded them into a military force. Not a single slave was sold on this coast in the last five years without my getting a cut. I command three hundred slavers. I own the seaboard. I am the real power.”

The Grand Thane rose. His eyes bulged. His face turned purple with rage. George felt an overpowering urge to be very quiet and small.

“You want to open your mouths? Try it. You won’t live to see the sunset. Do you hear me?”

The Grand Thane started toward the glass.

Brennan spun, his eyes deranged. “You will be lucky if I kill you. I may just strip you of everything you are. I’ll have you sold to the vilest degenerate I can find. You’ll end your days drowning in the basest of perversities, kept on a chain for his amusement—”

The Grand Thane grabbed the nearest chair, almost as an afterthought, and smashed it into the glass. Shards rained down, scattering across the floor. Suddenly, the two rooms became one. Brennan saw everyone in the dining hall looking at him and froze.

“You vain, pathetic brat,” the Grand Thane roared.

Brennan reached for his sword. “Don’t put your hands on me, old man!”

“These hands will end you, boy!”

Rene put his hand on the hilt of his sword.

A hair-thin streak of pure white flash pulsed from the left, and hit Rene’s hand. Blood poured. Rene screamed.

At the far table, Lorameh stood calmly, white lightning dancing on his fingers. There was something familiar about his face. The recognition hit George like a punch. “Erwin!”

The man had been his supervisor for two years. How the hell did he not recognize him? He wasn’t even wearing much of a disguise.

“Of course, it’s Erwin,” Jack said. “He smells the same. Did you just now figure it out?”

Magic sparked in Brennan’s eyes. A shield of white cloaked him.

The Grand Thane planted his feet.

Richard backed out of the room into the hallway.

White streaks of lightning clutched at the Grand Thane’s hair. An enormous magical pressure built around him, winding about the old man like a cocoon streaked with radiant veins of power. Shit.

People at the front tables scrambled away.

“We have to go!” Jack jumped up.

“No need,” Lady Olivia said.

A whip of white lightning shot from Brennan at the Grand Thane’s chest and bounced off. He’d actually tried to kill his own grandfather.

“I began you,” the Grand Thane thundered. “I will end you, whelp!”

He opened his arms, his palms up. A brilliant ball of coiled magic spun between them.

“Stay close to me, children,” Lady Olivia said.

Kaldar popped up between the tables and dashed over to them.

A wall of white sheathed Brennan.

The pressurized cocoon of magic tore. A torrent of power ripped out of the Grand Thane. The flash explosion smashed into Brennan.

Kaldar landed between Jack and George. George braced for the blast wave. His flash shield was strong, but he wasn’t sure it would hold.

A sphere of white unfolded from Lady Olivia, encasing the table. Around them, tables flew back, as if slapped by a giant’s hand. The duchess sipped from her cup.

The sphere melted.

The walls of the side room had disappeared. A colossal hole gaped in the side of the castle. Angelia lay on the floor. Rene was crouched against a sidewall. Brennan stood, unharmed. He’d shielded himself and Rene, who’d hidden directly behind him.

Brennan unsheathed his blade. “Is that it, old man? That’s all?”

No more magic. It must’ve taken all of Brennan’s power to shield himself.

The Grand Thane had no sword.

Brennan struck, a fast overhand blow. His sword gleamed in the sun and clanged against Richard’s blade. It wasn’t Casside’s rapier but Richard’s own sword.

Richard’s jacket was gone. He wore a loose white shirt. Tiny red dots marked Richard’s face and hands. Blood, George realized. Richard’s flash screen was weak. He had managed to block enough of the Grand Thane’s explosion to survive the blast, but it had cost him, and now he was bleeding from every pore. They called it flash punch, a sure sign that his magic was expended—and so was Brennan’s. Without their magic, if they fought now, it would be down to sword against sword.

Brennan’s eyes bulged. “Casside, what the hell are you doing? Have you lost your mind?”

“I’m not Casside.” Richard glanced at the Grand Thane, a question obvious on his face. The old noble pondered him for a moment.

Let him do this, George willed. He needs this.

“You have my permission,” the Grand Thane rumbled.

Richard stepped between the old man and Brennan.

To the left, Charlotte jumped to her feet and stood utterly still.

Brennan stepped back, raising his sword. It was a plain, functional sword of a simple but brutal design that had served Brennans for centuries, carving their path to the throne. It had a thirty-five-and-a-half-inch double-edged blade, sharp and polished to a satin smoothness; a ten-inch hilt with a seven-and-a-half-inch grip, wrapped in plain leather cord that allowed Brennan to wield the sword one- or two-handed; a round pommel and cross-guard. George had held a sword like that before, made by the same smith—Declan had it in his armory. The balance of the blade was at five and a half inches, and it weighed about two and a half pounds, a combination that made the sword nimble despite its size. Holding it in his hand had made him feel indestructible.

Richard’s sword was single-edged and curved ever so slightly. It was razor-sharp, weighed only a pound, with a twenty-five-and-a-half-inch blade, and a four-inch grip. Brennan’s sword was ten inches longer, a pound heavier, but also slower, a powerful butcher blade to Richard’s sleek scalpel.

Brennan slashed to the right, aiming for Richard’s right side, just below the ribs. Richard moved to parry, but instead of following through, Brennan reversed the strike and lashed at Richard’s left. Richard brought his sword across, point down, meeting Brennan’s blade just in time. Brennan was testing for speed, George realized.

“If you’re not Casside, then who are you?”

“You call me Hunter.”

Brennan struck again, the sword dancing in his hand. Right slash, left slash, right slash, left. The swords rang from each other. Richard moved back under the onslaught, his movements short, economical. Brennan drove him across the room. Blades flashed, Richard moved a touch too slow, and the point of Brennan’s sword grazed his shoulder. Blood swelled across the white sleeve. Damn it.

“No!” Jack growled.

“It’s just a paper cut. He’s fine.” First blood was to Brennan. Not a good sign. George’s pulse rose. Richard couldn’t lose. He simply couldn’t lose this fight.

The two men circled each other like two predators stalking. Richard, a lean wolf, and Brennan, a pampered tiger.

“Why?” Brennan asked.

“You profit from the sale of human beings.”

“A true believer, then.” Brennan bared his teeth. “And who are you to judge me?”

“Just a man,” Richard said.

Brennan grasped the sword in both hands and struck, bringing it in a circular motion across Richard’s chest. Richard moved back, and the sword whistled past his shirt. Brennan reversed the swing and struck diagonally down. Richard parried, deflecting the blow with the flat of his blade. Steel rang. Richard staggered back. Brennan was bigger and at least thirty pounds heavier, all of it solid muscle. George knew Richard had ungodly stamina, but the flash punch had clearly taken its toll.

Brennan swung again, a high, horizontal cut. Richard parried in a clamor of steel. They crossed swords again and again, blocking with the flats of their blades. Brennan grunted and hammered at Richard, blow after blow, sinking his enormous strength into it. Richard was backing away, staggered by the hits. George clenched his fists. Get out of there. He’s going to pin you against the wall. Get out.