l it would bring no thanks； and would probably earn her only deeper fear； and possibly undying hatred； from her half sister。 So young。 Cyrilla felt shame at her own selfishness。
She smiled at Kahlan for the first time。 ‘Surely； the things Wyborn taught you weren’t all grim？’
‘He taught me only killing。 Whom to kill； when to kill； and how to kill。 Be thankful you know no more of his lessons； and that you have never needed what he taught。 I have； and I fear I have only begun to use what he taught me。’
Cyrilla frowned。 Kahlan was a Confessor； not a killer。 ‘Why would you say such a thing？’
‘We believe we have uncovered a conspiracy。 I will not speak of it until I know its nature； and have proof； but I think it may bring a storm beyond any you or I have ever seen before。’
Cyrilla touched her sister’s cheek； the only time in her life she had ever done so。 ‘Kahlan； please stay？ Enjoy at my side what is left of the festival？ I would love to have you with me。’
Kahlan’s face returned to the calm mask of a Confessor。 ‘I cannot。 It would only ruin your people’s light heart to have me present。 Thank you for the offer； but you should be able to enjoy your day with your people； without my spoiling it further。’
‘Nonsense。 It would spoil nothing。’
‘I would like nothing more than that it were so； but it is not。 Remember what our father said： keep a wary eye to the Keltans。 I must be gone。 There is trouble gathering and I must see that the Confessors find its cause。 Before I return to Aydindril I will pay a visit to Kelton and deliver my suspicions； and a warning that what has happened not be repeated。 I will inform the council of the trouble of this day； so that all eyes will be on the Keltans。’
What did they teach in Aydindril that could turn what looked to be porcelain to iron？
Thank you； Mother Confessor’ was all she had been able to say； to offer her sister the honor of her office； as she watched her stride off； her wizard in tow。 That had been the most intimate conversation she had ever had with her half sister。 The midsummer festival had not held much joy for her after Kahlan had left。 So young； yet so old。
At the council today； Cyrilla had been surprised to find that the Mother Confessor was not presiding over the council。 No one knew where she was。 It was to be expected she would have been absent when Aydindril fell； she was frequently gone in her capacity as a Confessor； and had probably been doing what she could to halt the threat from D’Hara。 All the Confessors had fiercely fought the hordes from D’Hara。 She was sure Kahlan would have done no less； using in part what her father had taught her。
But that she had not immediately returned to Aydindril when D’Hara withdrew was worrisome。 Perhaps she had not yet had time to return。 Cyrilla feared Kahlan might have been killed at the hands of a quad。 D’Hara had sentenced all the Confessors to death； and hunted them relentlessly。 Galea had offered refuge to the Confessors； 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； but she couldn’t keep it from her lips。
Fyren rolled his shoulders； straightening his back and coat as he regained his posure。 His voice rose to those below。 ‘You men wouldn’t defile a lady； would you？’
Soft laughter echoed up from the pit。 ‘Why； course not。 We wouldn’t want to be beheaded twice。’ The coarse voice deepened into cold menace。 ‘We’ll treat her real nice like。’
Cyrilla could taste warm； salty blood at the corner of her mouth。 ‘Fyren； you can’t do this。 I demand to be beheaded at once。’
There you go again： demanding。’
‘Why can’t it be done now！ Let it be done now！’
He drew his hand back to slap her again； but then let it lower as his simper returned。 ‘You see？ At first you proclaimed your innocence； and didn’t want to be executed； but already you are reconsidering。 After a few days down there； with them； you will be begging to be beheaded。 You will eagerly confess your treason before all those gathered to witness your punishment。 Besides； I have other matters to attend to。 I can’t be bothered right now。 You will be put to death when I deem I have the time。’
With rising terror； she was only now beginning to grasp the full extent of the fate that awaited her in the pit。 Tears burned her eyes。
‘Please 。。。 don’t do this to me。 I’m begging you。’
Prince Fyren smoothed the white ruffles at his throat and spoke softly。 ‘I tried to make it easy for you； Cyrilla； because you’re a woman。 Drefan’s knife would have been quick。 You would have suffered little that way。 I would never have allowed a man in your place such mercy。 But you wouldn’t have it the easy way。 You allowed the Mother Confessor to interfere。 You allowed yet another woman to infringe on the dominion of men！
‘Women don’t have the stomach for ruling。 They’re ill suited to the task。 They should never be allowed to mand armies or to meddle in the affairs of nations。 Things had to be set right。 Drefan died trying to do it the easy way。 Now we do it the