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but the quads； implacable； and without mercy； had found them anyway。
Worse； absent the Mother Confessor； there had not been a wizard overseeing the council meeting。 Cyrilla’s flesh had prickled with apprehension at seeing no wizard。 She recognized that the absence of a Confessor and a wizard created a dangerous vacuum in the council chambers。
But when she saw who presided over the council session； her apprehension sharpened to alarm。 Sitting in the first chair was High Prince Fyren； of Kelton。 The very man she had e to seek deliverance from sat in judgment。 To see him sitting in the chair that had always belonged only to the Mother Confessor was startling。
The council； it would seem； had not been put back to the way it should have been。
Nonetheless； she ignored him and instead pressed her demands to the rest of the council。 In turn； Prince Fyren stood and accused her of treason against the Midlands。 He had the unmitigated gall to accuse her of the very thing of which he was guilty。
Further； Prince Fyren assured the council that Kelton was mitting no aggression but was acting only in self…defense against a greedy neighbor。 In a tirade； he lectured them on the evils of women in positions of power。 The council took his word for everything。 They allowed her to present no evidence。
She stood stunned and speechless as the council heard Fyren’s charges； and without pause found her guilty； sentencing her to be beheaded。
Where was Kahlan？ Where were the wizards？
Lady Bevinvier’s vision had proven true。 Cyrilla should have listened； or at least taken some precaution。 Kahlan’s warning； too； had proven true； Kelton had first tried to strike out of jealousy； and now； years later； they had renewed the attack when they saw tempting weakness。
The Galean guard stood in the great courtyard； ready to immediately escort Cyrilla home。 She had needed to set about readying Galea’s defenses until the forces expected to be sent by the council could arrive。 But it was not to be。
At the pronouncement of sentence； she heard the terrible shouts of battle outside。 Battle； she thought bitterly。 It was not a battle； but a slaughter。 Her troops had waited in the great courtyard without their weapons； as a sign of respect and deference； an open gesture of acquiescence to the rule of the Council of the Midlands。
Queen Cyrilla stood at the window； a guard at each arm； shaking in horror as she watched the slaughter。 A few of her men managed to take up weapons by overpowering their attackers； and put up a valiant struggle； but they had no chance。 They were outnumbered five to one； and were； by and large； without means to defend themselves。 She couldn’t tell if in the chaos any escaped。 She hoped they had。 She prayed Harold had。
The white snow that lay upon the ground was turned to a sea of red。 She was aghast at the butchery。 There was mercy only in its swiftness。
Cyrilla had been made to kneel before the council as Prince Fyren took up her long hair in his fist； and with his own sword sliced it away。 She had knelt in silence； her head held proudly up in honor of her people； in honor of the men she had just seen murdered； while he cut her hair as short as the lowest kitchen scullion。
What an hour before had seemed to be the near end of her people’s ordeal had bee instead the mere beginning。
The powerful fingers on her arms jerked her to a halt before a small iron door。 She winced in pain。 A crude ladder twice her height lay on its side against the wall on the opposite side of the corridor。
Again the guard with the keys came forward to work the lock。 He cursed the mechanism； plaining that its lack of use made it stiff。 All the guards seemed to be Keltans。 She had seen none of the Aydindril Home Guard。 Most； she knew； had been killed in Aydindril’s fall to D’Hara。
At last the man drew back the door to reveal a dark pit。 Her legs felt as if they wanted to turn liquid。 Only the hands gripping her arms held her up。 They were going to put her in that dark pit。 With the rats。
She willed her legs solid again。 She was the queen。 But her pulse would not slow。
‘How dare you put a lady in a rat…infested hole！’
Prince Fyren stepped close to the black maw。 One hand on a hip held back his unbuttoned； royal blue coat。 With his other hand he hefted a torch from a bracket。
‘Rats？ Is that what worries you； my lady？ Rats？’ He gave her a derisive smile。 He was too young to be so well schooled at insolence。 Had her arms been free she would have slapped him。 ‘Let me allay your fears； Queen Cyrilla。’
He tossed the torch into the blackness。 As it dropped； it illuminated faces。 A husky fist caught the torch。 There were men in the pit。 At least six； maybe ten。
Prince Fyren leaned into the doorway； his voice echoing into the hole。 ‘The queen worries there may be rats down there。’
‘Rats？’ came a coarse voice from the pit。 ‘There be no rats down here。 Not anymore。 We et them all。’
A hand with white ruffles at the wrist still rested on Prince Fyren’s hip。 His voice taunted with feigned concern。 ‘There； you see？ The man says there are no rats。 Does that ease your apprehension； my lady？’
Her eyes darted between the flickering torchlight below and Fyren。 ‘Who are those men？’
‘Why； just a few murderers and rapists awaiting their beheading； same as you。 Quite vile animals； actually。 What with all I’ve had to attend to； I haven’t had time to see to their sentences。 I’m afraid being down in the pit for so long puts them in an ugly disposition。’ His grin returned； ‘But I’m sure having a queen among them will mellow their mood。’
Cyrilla had to force her voice to e。 ‘I demand my own cell。’
The grin vanished。 An eyebrow lifted。 ‘Demand？ You demand？’ He suddenly struck her across the face。 ‘You demand nothing！ You are nothing but a mon criminal； a loathsome murderer of my people！ You have been tried and convicted！’
Her cheek burned with the sting of his handprint。
‘You can’t put me in there … with them。’ Her whispered entreaty was hopeless； she knew；