Free Master of Whitestorm by Janny Wurts

never heal. Morey of Dalthern thought to take my life so. He has claimed yours instead.”
    Blood welled across Korendir’s palm, splashed in soundless drops to the carpet by his boot; without remorse he noted, “I’m going to leave marks on your sheepskins.”
    He examined the dagger with deliberation, then settled himself on a divan and turned his gaze upon Anthei. Seated once more on her hassock, she arranged herself with artful abandon, until like the wardstone, her magnificence hurt the eyes. The effect was not lost on Korendir. But where other men quickened their breath and sweated in bewilderment, this one sat like a struck bronze image.
    “You’re a well-controlled man,” Anthei observed. For a time she watched the slowly spreading stain which marred the brocade beneath his hand. Korendir made no response. Nettled, she traced her fingers suggestively through fur and added, “What a pity you’re meanly dressed. I could bring you Morey’s tunic and surcoat to brighten your final hours.”
    “No.” Korendir balanced the little knife on his knee. “I prefer my own.”
    “You’ve nothing to lose.” Anthei gestured toward the buckle at his waist. “Iron only affects sorcery derived from the wardstone, since any spells fashioned through its powers are bound to answer earth law. But Iraz’s lore transcended such basics. His teaching holds all metals alike. Cling to your tinker’s trinket if you wish. You will find it proves worthless against me.”
    Korendir offered no reply. Anthei spoke with conviction, but her gloved hands belied her words. Her basic strength might indeed be impervious to iron; nonetheless she was careful to shield herself from its touch. In the hours which remained before he bled to death, Korendir saw no need to yield up even so questionable an advantage.
    If Anthei was disappointed by his refusal she masked her feelings well. Bored with his taciturn company, she rose to depart. Reflections from the wardcrystal emphasized her iridescent eyes as she paused a last moment by the door. “You’ll be comfortable here, at least for awhile. I’ll return your corpse to Torresdyr for burial, as I have seventy-four others. Your belt buckle will adorn my east wall. Take comfort from the fact. You were the first to counter a summoning song with a lump of wax. That was the triumph of your life.”
    Anthei stepped from the chamber. The latch clicked gently shut. Though no lock turned, Korendir entertained little doubt that sorcery sealed the portal beyond the virtues of iron to open. He had no desire to risk being torn limb from limb because he rushed to try the obvious. Instead he thrust Morey’s dagger through his belt and roved the breadth of the chamber. The worth of the weaponry would easily have ransomed a dozen princes. Between maces and tasseled halberds, four lancet windows opened at each point of the compass. Bare slits at their widest aperture, they would never permit escape. But the wardcrystal lay upon the mantel within easy reach; if Korendir could toss the jewel from the window where Haldeth might retrieve it, all effort might not be in vain. Children would no longer die in Torresdyr, and its pitiful king could shed his burden of guilt.
    Without sparing thought for consequences, Korendir unslung his belt. He ignored the bolted catch, but set his buckle against the hinge, his intent to force the pin. Contact roused a dazzling flare of light. Agony lanced his body, ripped screams from a throat which had never opened for any torment of the Mhurgai. Thrown backward onto the carpet, Korendir lay unconscious. He sprawled under the stony shins of the nymphs for close to an hour, while his hand seeped steady drops of blood. Alarmed when he wakened to discover a pool of spreading scarlet, he abandoned attempt on the casement. Anthei’s tower was a prison beyond means of man’s endeavor, and with each minute he bled, his options diminished. Korendir pushed himself to his feet.
    He paced the