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“Indeed.” Briala turned to Michel. “And you are unharmed as well?” Michel nodded. “Though it is a dark day when the empress’s champion must look to the empress to save him.” “Yes.” Briala swallowed. She had given herself for him. Gaspard chuckled. “Three mages, two chevaliers, and more, and we barely brought that thing down. Maybe you were right, Celene. When I control these eluvians, I might have to use elves. Least the Maker-cursed thing won’t go after them.” He glanced at Briala, then added, “Not as much, anyway.” “It matters little now,” Felassan said as he came around the varterral’s body, limping slightly. He seemed more interested in it than in them. “This one is dead. Well, dead-ish. They’re a lot like golems.” “Pity,” Gaspard said. “A good guardian is hard to find. Almost impossible to be certain of anyone’s loyalty these days.” He glanced at the fallen form of Remache and sighed. “I thought you weren’t supposed to kill nobles,” Briala said, and Gaspard ducked his head. “He was mine,” the grand duke said, “and he broke our truce to strike an ally from behind in the heat of battle. His death wasn’t just allowed. It was demanded.” He seemed genuinely sad. “He would have been an immeasurable help in the court. I should never have brought him here, where he did not understand the rules.” Briala was not certain she understood the rules herself right then. She looked at Celene, who sat on one of the few marble benches that hadn’t been reduced to rubble by the varterral’s fury. Celene was breathing hard, but she was uninjured as far as Briala could tell, her face still flushed from the exertion of battle. It gave her a rosy countenance Briala had almost never seen during their days in Val Royeaux, when Celene was always pale and masked. It reminded her of those slow lazy moments after they made love, when anything seemed possible, and Briala could believe that promises would be kept.