The older woman looked shocked by the request. “Here, Ma’am? In front of these . . . men?”

“Yes, here. And be quick about it too! I shouldn’t have to argue with my own servant.” Nasuada was harsher than she meant to be, but her heart was racing and her skin was incredibly, terribly sensitive; the soft linen of her undergarments seemed as abrasive as canvas. Patience and courtesy were beyond her now. All she could concentrate on was her upcoming ordeal.

Nasuada stood motionless as Farica picked and pulled at the laces to her dress, which extended from her shoulder blades to the base of her spine. When the cords were loose enough, Farica lifted Nasuada’s arms out of the sleeves, and the shell of bunched fabric dropped in a pile around Nasuada’s feet, leaving her standing almost naked in her white chemise. She fought back a shiver as the four warriors examined her, feeling vulnerable beneath their covetous looks. Ignoring them, she stepped forward, out of the dress, and Farica snatched the garment out of the dirt.

Across from Nasuada, Fadawar had been busy removing the bangles from his forearms, revealing the embroidered sleeves of his robes underneath. Finished, he lifted off his massive crown and handed it to one of his retainers.

The sound of voices outside the pavilion delayed further progress.

Marching through the entrance, a message boy—Jarsha was his name, Nasuada remembered—planted himself a foot or two inside and proclaimed: “King Orrin of Surda, Jörmundur of the Varden, Trianna of Du Vrangr Gata, and Naako and Ramusewa of the Inapashunna tribe.” Jarsha very pointedly kept his eyes fixed on the ceiling while he spoke.

Snapping about, Jarsha departed and the congregation he had announced entered, with Orrin at the vanguard. The king saw Fadawar first and greeted him, saying, “Ah, Warlord, this is unexpected. I trust you and—” Astonishment suffused his youthful face as he beheld Nasuada. “Why, Nasuada, what is the meaning of this?”

“I should like to know that as well,” rumbled Jörmundur. He gripped the hilt of his sword and glowered at anyone who dared stare at her too openly.

“I have summoned you here,” she said, “to witness the Trial of the Long Knives between Fadawar and myself and to afterward speak the truth of the outcome to everyone who asks.”

The two gray-haired tribesmen, Naako and Ramusewa, appeared alarmed by her revelation; they leaned close together and began to whisper. Trianna crossed her arms—baring the snake bracelet coiled around one slim wrist—but otherwise betrayed no reaction.

Jörmundur swore and said, “Have you taken leave of your senses, my Lady? This is madness. You cannot—”

“I can, and I will.”

“My Lady, if you do, I—”

“Your concern is noted, but my decision is final. And I forbid anyone from interfering.” She could tell he longed to disobey her order, but as much as he wanted to shield her from harm, loyalty had ever been Jörmundur’s predominant trait.

“But, Nasuada,” said King Orrin. “This trial, is not it where—”

“It is.”

“Blast it, then; why don’t you give up this mad venture? You would have to be addled to carry it out.”

“I have already given my word to Fadawar.”

The mood in the pavilion became even more somber. That she had given her word meant she could not rescind her promise without revealing herself to be an honorless oath-breaker that fairminded men would have no choice but to curse and shun. Orrin faltered for a moment, but he persisted with his questions: “To what end? That is, if you should lose—”

“If I should lose, the Varden shall no longer answer to me, but to Fadawar.”

Nasuada had expected a storm of protest. Instead, there came a silence, wherein the hot anger that animated King Orrin’s visage cooled and sharpened and acquired a brittle temper. “I do not appreciate your choice to endanger our entire cause.” To Fadawar, he said, “Will you not be reasonable and release Nasuada from her obligation? I will reward you richly if you agree to abandon this illconceived ambition of yours.”

“I am rich already,” said Fadawar. “I have no need for your tintainted gold. No, nothing but the Trial of the Long Knives can compensate me for the slander Nasuada has aimed at my people and me.”

“Bear witness now,” said Nasuada.

Orrin clenched tight the folds of his robes, but he bowed and said, “Aye, I will bear witness.”

From within their voluminous sleeves, Fadawar’s four warriors produced small, hairy goat-hide drums. Squatting, they placed the drums between their knees and struck up a furious beat, pounding so fast, their hands were sooty smudges in the air. The rough music obliterated all other sound, as well as the host of frantic thoughts that had been bedeviling Nasuada. Her heart felt as if it were keeping pace with the manic tempo that assaulted her ears.

Without missing a single note, the oldest of Fadawar’s men reached inside his vest and, from there, drew two long, curved knives that he tossed toward the peak of the tent. Nasuada watched the knives tumble haft over blade, fascinated by the beauty of their motion.

When it was close enough, she lifted her arm and caught her knife. The opal-studded hilt stung her palm.

Fadawar successfully intercepted his weapon as well.

He then grasped the left cuff of his garment and pushed the sleeve past his elbow. Nasuada kept her eyes fixed upon Fadawar’s forearm as he did. His limb was thick and muscled, but she deemed that of no importance; athletic gifts would not help him win their contest. What she looked for instead were the telltale ridges that, if they existed, would lie across the belly of his forearm.