Emuel had been unnerved to discover that the sorcery that was to be performed during the ritual had never before been attempted, but Katherine Makennon herself had assured them that she had tasked the ritual to a sorcerer more powerful even than Brother Sequilious.

Albrecht Wolf looked to be old enough to be the great-grandfather of the previous Anointed Lord. He tottered up to the altar on two canes, dragging his right foot behind him. When he placed his apparatus before him, his right hand shook so badly that he knocked over a chalice, spilling a stinking tarry substance that slowly dripped down the stone. No one rushed to help him, and Makennon did not seem in the least perturbed by his infirmity; indeed, she treated Albrecht with the greatest of reverence, and Emuel thought that he could even sense fear when she talked with him. Once Albrecht had prepared his apparatus, the Anointed Lord knelt before him and kissed the ring on his right index finger before leaving the temple with her retinue.

Albrecht looked up at those now gathered before the altar with cataract-clouded eyes, and though his vision was obscured, Emuel could feel the old man’s gaze searing into his. Ignacio stood beside Emuel, dressed in the garb of a footsoldier of the Order of the Swords of Dawn. He didn’t once look at the eunuch or register his presence. Something had been done to him, Emuel wasn’t sure what, but there was nothing left of the man he had once known. Flanking them were two dozen soldiers of the Swords, led by two lieutenants. Emuel was of the opinion that this wouldn’t be nearly enough to apprehend Silus and the crew of the Llothriall, but kept this thought to himself.

Albrecht refilled the chalice and then stepped around the altar, offering its contents to one of the lieutenants. The man gagged on the first sip, but Albrecht kept a hand on his shoulder as he forced the foul liquor down. On the last swallow, sweat poured down the lieutenant’s brow and his face visibly paled.