"Please, your Holiness, help me find my way…"
The flame on the blade in Ashlynn's roared like the fires of a forge when the bellows pumped hard.
The flames remained under her control, despite her desire to fill the Great Hall with cleansing, golden flame, but the heat that had been radiating from it pushed outward in a wave that struck the air like the beat of a drum. On the dais, Lord Tybal's hand jerked involuntarily away from the polished pewter goblet that sat beside his hand because the metal had grown too warm to touch.
Ashlynn's jaw tightened. Her left hand, hanging loose at her side, formed slowly into a fist and then opened again.
"Saintess, please," Recared pleaded. "I can give you the march and even influence beyond its borders. I know who is faithful and who is not, I know whose wives have lovers and whose sons are soft, I know which of these barons would sell their daughters for the right price and which would…"
