He shoved his father back, metal raking metal as their swords came apart. Kall followed up with another slash in a broad arc. Dhairr blocked it easily but lost a step, giving Kall ground.

"You're going to be all right." Kall kept swinging and talking, never allowing Dhairr the chance to respond to or deny his words. Slowly, his father's anger gave way to uncertainty. Kall used the advantage, driving his father where Kall wanted him to go. When the backs of his knees struck the fountain's edge, Dhairr fell, his eyes widening in surprise and fear.

Kall ran forward, letting his sword drop to the walkway. He caught his father in his arms before Dhairr's head struck the stone basin. Kall kicked the dull blade out of reach.

Dhairr struggled, but his son stubbornly held on, pinning his arms until the older man stopped fighting. When it was clear he was no physical match for Kall, Dhairr began hurling curses: foul, hateful monologues—that Kall was not his son, that his mother was a godless, murdering whore, that he had no son ... he had no son.

"Kall... Kall," he murmured finally, his voice hoarse. He focused on Kall's face, but there was no recognition. His head snapped from side to side. "Where is my son?" he whispered. "Where is he?"

Kall sat helplessly. For all his father's strength, the man seemed light as air in his arms. He looked small, and very, very old. Kall had no idea what to say to his father, how to answer the imploring look in his eyes. He could only hold him as he slid into unconsciousness.

"You can't save him," said a soft, feminine voice.

Kall whirled, reaching for his sword, but the woman cradled it in her hands. She was almost as tall as he, with a short bob of black hair capping a round face and green eyes.

"A fine blade," she said, watching Kall appraisingly. "I've no doubt he was wrong. You are worthy of wielding it."

"Who are you?" Kall asked, but he recognized the symbol she wore. He'd seen it once before, in this same garden.

"Meisha Saira," the woman introduced herself. Of the Harpers, Kall added silently.

"You're here because of Haig," Kall said, lowering his father gently to the ground. He stood, measuring the woman's intent. He didn't like what he saw. The spread of her feet and the tension in her neck and shoulders gave her away. She was here for a fight.

"I owe you thanks. You've saved me the trouble of subduing his murderer." She looked down at his father with a mixture of disgust and pity. "Not that he appears to warrant great effort, in his current state."

"You can't have him," Kall said steadily.

The woman lifted a brow. "Oh? Was his confession the ravings of a madman, then?"

"The man responsible for Haig's death is Balram Kortrun," said Kall. "My father acted under Balram's influence, and as you can see, he is no longer a threat to anyone."

"He soon won't be," Meisha agreed. She cast his sword to the far end of the garden and raised her empty hands.

Kall got to her first. He grabbed her arm and twisted it, slamming her against his chest with her hand bent at a painful angle against her lower back. "You're not listening," he said in her ear. When she struggled, he wrenched her palm back until she gasped. "If you want justice for Haig, let my father live, and I will get it for you."

"He's no longer your father," Meisha argued. "He doesn't recognize his own son."

"I know," Kall said, swallowing his grief. "What is left of him suffers more than enough."

"Then why not end it? Give him a quick, merciful death."

"No." Kall shook his head. "I won't kill him if there's a chance he might come back."

Meisha fell silent. She relaxed her stance, but Kall kept her hand pinned. "You won't kill him," she said softly. "But are you willing to die to protect what he has become?"

She brought her heel up, clipping his knee. Pain shot up Kall's leg. He released her involuntarily.

Backing away, she flicked a wrist, fingers splayed, and traced a circular pattern with her other thumb in midair. She spoke as she cast. "Will it be your life for his?"

Her eyes blazed red, and Kall thought for an instant they were afire, burning the orbs out of their sockets. The circle she traced filled with flame, swirling in on itself to become a ball of brilliant orange with a blue vortex.