The old mage looked at the king's face, then at the guards who had already moved into the spaces between the pillars.
He understood. He understood before the first sword was out of its sheath, but his hands were too heavy from the working to lift them for a shield.
"Too late," he whispered.
Aureth raised one finger.
The guards moved fast. They didn't use magic; they used short, heavy iron blades that went through the wool robes of the exhausted mages like butter.
The room turned into a screaming tangle of fire and iron, men falling over their own knees as they tried to remember the words for protection after spending their souls on a god.
The king didn't watch the slaughter. He reached down, unhooked the small iron chains from the slab, and lifted Eris against his chest.
Her skin was still hot enough to scorch his silk robes, the narrow white cracks in her arms bleeding a thin, yellow light against his arm.
