years old. But that small, sweet-sounding voice could not disguise the force of will behind it. “My wife is in a delicate—” “Kneel,” Morvared cut in ruthlessly. Ankarette heard the order and then she waited. And waited. The room was silent, stiflingly so. She heard Dunsdworth’s seething breath. Heard Isybelle’s groans of pain. Morvared said nothing, and the moment stretched longer and longer. Pitilessly long. The old queen was having her revenge. She would not be denied even a crumb of it. Ankarette began to count in her mind. This was not the humble bow as a sign of respect. This was a
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