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her to stay away altogether. Being here, in this cursed hall, brought up so many memories, none of them pleasant. She had only to pass through the front doors for the old feelings to re-emerge, and once again she felt like a slave.
    If things had been different—if, for example, she had been the one to kill Rupert, as should have been the case—she would have been happy to have taken her place at this table tonight. Indeed, if she had been the one to kill Rupert, this hall would have belonged to her. It might have been she who acted as hostess, who received the others here as her guests.
    If things had been different, she would have been their equal. And despite all of Conrad’s assurances, she was sure it was just a matter of time before one of the others recalled that fact and challenged her right to be here.
    â€œI mistrust this report from the council.” It was Brockwell who spoke, not surprisingly. He’d been born of royalty. In fact he’d once been lord of a small principality, so his arrogance came naturally. He was also well known for his cruelty, his vicious temperament, and his vociferous disdain of anyone whom he considered inferior—which was pretty much everyone.
    Rumor had it that his temper had grown even worse of late, that those close to him had suffered mightily as a result, with many paying the ultimate price. “Your arguments are specious and your self-congratulatory tone is laughable. What gives you the right to be so smug? Or to make such outrageous pronouncements on the council’s behalf? Ten years, you say? Bah. What is that? It is nothing! When there are no new outbreaks after a hundred years, or better yet five hundred years, then maybe, perhaps, will I begin to be convinced that anyone on this council knows one-tenth of what they claim to know, or that this plague might be deemed over.”
    â€œFive hundred years?” Emrys feigned shock. “It’s likely we’ll all be dead of other causes by then. Why not celebrate this moment while we can?”
    Brockwell ignored him. “Nor am I at all pleased with the manner in which our enemies have been dispatched. Who ordered these deaths to be carried out so swiftly and with such lamentable secrecy? Why were we on the council not kept better informed?”
    â€œYou well know who ordered these deaths,” Conrad replied. “It was you yourself, or rather, the council as a whole. As for the manner in which they were carried out, that was my decision—and my right, as I was the one to implement the council’s orders. But you’re aware of that already as well. Are you registering a complaint?”
    â€œAh, Quintano, our most faithful and enthusiastic executioner. Yes, I have a complaint to make! How dare you claim to have acted on the council’s behalf? Tell me, where is the fear that should have been engendered by these deaths? Where were the lessons learned? We should never have squandered so many glorious opportunities to make examples of our enemies. They should have been killed properly—by which I mean slowly and painfully. They should have been made to suffer as we have suffered. Afterward, their mutilated bodies—what was left of them—should have been put on display so that everyone would know that this is how we deal with our enemies. That is how you discourage future attacks from happening.”
    â€œOn the contrary,” Conrad replied, “that is precisely how you create more enemies and ensure that future attacks will be forthcoming. You can deny it all you like, but we brought this plague on ourselves. It was the direct result of our own despicable actions. Were we not feared for our bloodthirsty ways, our enemies would never have been inspired to attempt to obliterate us in the first place.”
    â€œWhat does it matter what inspired their pitiful actions? In the end, they were defeated, were they not? They could not obliterate us, no matter