Cries of shock go up around the room -- but it's more than half the shock of offended sensibilities, not that of true alarm. Gone mad, says someone in the hubbub, and has he a fever?, and what's he said to her? Cassandra shrinks back behind him, avoiding the stares of her own people as well as that of their enemies.
Vesper is on her feet, hurrying around the table toward her youngest sister -- until Lord Briarwood's hand falls on her shoulder to forestall her, as his other hand brushes away fragments of glass. He doesn't look shocked, not in the slightest.
And it may be that, or the way Lord de Rolo is putting a hand to his own head, or it may be the years in which he's come to know and trust Master Connors, that causes Captain Holbrook to nod to him firmly, draw his shortsword, and give a direct look to his two men by the doors. They nod back, stepping forward, pushing the doors shut; one reaches for the mechanism that will bar them.
"Well," sighs Lady Briarwood, rising from her chair, "this has turned into rather a mess already, hasn't it. Very well --"
This gesture is different from the one that's leapt up in Phil's memory, and the result is different too. Instead of ice, a tiny mote of fire leaps from her hand and streaks for the door.
Where it explodes, a ball of fire demolishing the entire doorframe and hurling the two guards in opposite directions, leaving the room open to the corridor -- down which the sound of double-time marching boots is rapidly growing closer.
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Vesper is on her feet, hurrying around the table toward her youngest sister -- until Lord Briarwood's hand falls on her shoulder to forestall her, as his other hand brushes away fragments of glass. He doesn't look shocked, not in the slightest.
And it may be that, or the way Lord de Rolo is putting a hand to his own head, or it may be the years in which he's come to know and trust Master Connors, that causes Captain Holbrook to nod to him firmly, draw his shortsword, and give a direct look to his two men by the doors. They nod back, stepping forward, pushing the doors shut; one reaches for the mechanism that will bar them.
"Well," sighs Lady Briarwood, rising from her chair, "this has turned into rather a mess already, hasn't it. Very well --"
This gesture is different from the one that's leapt up in Phil's memory, and the result is different too. Instead of ice, a tiny mote of fire leaps from her hand and streaks for the door.
Where it explodes, a ball of fire demolishing the entire doorframe and hurling the two guards in opposite directions, leaving the room open to the corridor -- down which the sound of double-time marching boots is rapidly growing closer.