Marcus scanned the crowd as they applauded, and set his face as if stone. This was and had always been more than a test of two individuals’ ability to cause harm: it was a social balancing act and a popularity contest. In pressing his assault, the templar gave ground in the greater game. But in keeping his bloodlust in check he put his health at risk and, ultimately, gave up his social ground anyway. He had come into this farce handicapped, and he wanted to rage at the assembled throng for it. It would have been so satisfying to take his mace and his fists to their smiling faces, to send them scrambling to their hovels in fear.

And now she wanted him to yield.

Stone, he told himself. Be disciplined. Give away nothing. Breathe.

He took a steadying breath, and forced himself to consider it. There would be relief in it, to walk away and be done with these games. Emien would be disappointed in him, but perhaps then he could return to the life of a common mercenary. And hadn’t that been the goal when he came to Corone? He had wanted only to escape the unending call of duty and lose himself in a short life of thoughtless bloodshed and pain, and the arms of spiritless women. And yet here he was, thinking, beholden to another’s expectations, judged for the inner nature he struggled always to conceal.

The rage welled up in him, and he ground his teeth. His eyes, once glinting with vague and distant sparks, suddenly flared golden as if full of the sun. He grunted against the pain of it, and struggled to choke it down but the agonized growl rolled out of him anyway. And as the crowd watched, his wounds began to burn away. The wire-thin lines on the left side of his face and scalp scabbed over, and then the dried blood flaked away and left the skin beneath unmarred. The wound on his temple gave of a thin, black smoke and stank of burning flesh, and then the blood caked and stopped flowing. He tightened his pectorals and the wing-shaped muscles of his back, and stretched his arms as the hellfire burned away fatigue poisons and muscle tears.

In the end he was horrifyingly whole again. He rolled his right arm and then his left, and the pain and stiffness were gone. He rolled his head on his neck and the bones popped and cracked, but his range of motion was full. And when he stretched his legs, they did not ooze his life’s blood to slick the leather of his pants, and they did not fail him when he took his first step toward Kyla.

The crowd slowly stopped clapping, once again stunned into disbelief. The silence was a boon.

“The gods favor Marcus Book,” the templar said boldly. For the first time, the crowd realized he was not Coronian – his accent was molasses-thick and distinctly Salvic. If they needed any more reason to hate and distrust him, they had it now. Emien Harthworth began to sweat.

“But the people,” Marcus continued, raising his voice an octave, “the people favor Kyla Orlouge. Hard or soft, good or bad, I am a servant of the people. Radasanth, here is your hero.”

Book knelt in front of the mystic, and surrendered his mace to her. He did not bow his head in the traditional mien of surrender, but the act was unmistakable. Kyla seemed confused at first, and then suspicious, and when she reached for the mace her hand was hesitant and her eyes watched for a trick that didn’t come. She held the heavy weapon loose in her hand, and before she could say a word Marcus slid to his feet again and loomed close.

“Give Sei my regards,” he said evenly, close enough that she could feel his breath on her ear.

And then he was gone. He turned around as the crowd exploded into a satisfied roar of applause, whistles, and cheers, and as he reached the line of guardsmen they parted so that the assembled spectators could rush in and lift their hero to their shoulders.

The viceroy was waiting by the carriage, watching the crowd dispassionately. “I would have preferred that to be you,” he said as Marcus approached.

“The crowd is fickle,” Book grunted, turning to watch as the large Orlouge trapped his younger relative in a bear hug.

“You could have spun it when she blew the glass into their midst. It was not impossible to win.”

Marcus shrugged. “And yet some will say she was too dangerous, and I was trying to render her unconscious for the safety of the crowd. You presented me as the perfect soldier, Emien, and she has a hero’s surname and a young girl’s face. They want to trust appearances. I am never going to look like a hero, and I’m never going to be beloved. At best I can hope to be seen as a loyal guardian. Someone they can be glad is on their side, even if they don’t like the look of me.”

Harthworth chewed on that awhile, and then nodded slowly. “Like a dog of war,” he mused, “ugly and dangerous, but loyal.”

“Yes,” Marcus said stiffly, and then he crawled into the carriage without another word.

“Retrieve Mr. Book’s weapons and load them into the carriage,” the viceroy told the nearest guard. “We’re done here.”