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lamely.
    “A life.” Hauberin’s voice was cold. “Which neither you nor Lord Lietlal can restore. Now, one last time, my lord: Did you or did you not kill the man?”
    Ethenial hesitated, as though hunting for an excuse. Then his proud head drooped ever so slightly. “It was an accident,” he murmured. “I meant only to frighten him away. No one dreamed he would prove so fragile.”
    “Ah.” Hauberin sat back again, thanking the Powers for innate Faerie truthfulness; without it, this case might have dragged on for days. “Then I order you to pay a bloodfine of—”
    Neither lord was listening to him. “What are you laughing at?” Ethenial hissed at his rival.
    “You, you land-thief.”
    “Land-thief! That land is mine!”
    “Impossible! My father drew the lines himself!”
    “Your father couldn’t have drawn a true line if his magic hung on it!”
    “At least he wasn’t a treacherous land-thief!”
    As they argued back and forth, voices growing shriller and fiercer by the moment, Hauberin slumped in his chair, fingers steepled, glaring darkly down at both of them. There were so many other matters demanding his attention—not the least of them Serein—but he couldn’t do anything about anything while he was trapped here. Yet if he dared complain, the prince knew he would get nothing but mild contempt from those around him, not, this time, because of his human blood but because of his “youthful agitation.”
    Youth. Though of course they showed few overt signs of age, none of the men or women about him had been young for . . . Powers, who knew how long? Most of them had served his father, some his grandfather, some of them might even have served—
    Hauberin tensed in sudden alarm. Magic—The two idiots were arming spells against each other! The prince sprang to his feet on the narrow dais, completing and shouting out the Word of Power he had been holding in his mind, just barely tempering it in time to keep it from killing force. Even so, the Power was enough to slash through the half-formed magics, dispelling them, and send Lietlal and Ethenial staggering back as though he’d slapped them with all his might, stunned into silence.
    Hauberin blazed out at them: “How dare you bring battle-magic into my court! You’ve already killed one man over that barren strip of land. How many more were you planning to add?” Their guilty glances only fed his fury: They hadn’t even stopped to consider the risks of war-spells in that crowded hall! “By the Powers, I should seize that land as Crown property!”
    The prince looked sharply about, hunting a scribe to take down his decree.
    No . . . wait. He had a better idea.
    Hauberin whirled to face the two lords again, smiling fiercely. “You are so eager to fight for that land? So be it! You shall fight, one moon-cycle hence, at a site of my choosing: one to one, alone, with no one to aid or interfere.”
    They stared. “Do you mean . . . death-spells, my prince?” Ethenial asked nervously.
    “Whatever it takes. One way or another, my lords, the matter shall be settled!” With a deliberately dramatic swirl of cloak, Hauberin settled back in his chair. “You have my permission to leave.”
    As the chastened lords slunk away, a wary voice asked, “But is this wise, my prince?”
    Hauberin turned his head to see Sharailan at his side: Sharailan, oldest of the royal sages, so old no one could remember him as other than he was now: his fair skin still smoothed and unmarked, his back straight, but seeming somehow so brittle he would shatter at a touch. Even the once-bright hair and eyes had changed, their color faded under the weight of untold ages. A truly wise man, Sharailan. Also, unfortunately, literally a royal nuisance, devoid of wit and spontaneity.
    “Why, yes, Sage,” Hauberin replied. “I think it is. Do you really believe those two want to give up their cherished bickering? No. They’ll ponder awhile, come up with some excuse not to duel, and