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arched, but he made no move toward the bishop. Neither did he confirm or deny ownership.
    Two heartbeats of silence later, Earl William held out his hand. “Give me that.”
    With a nasty smile the bishop handed the weapon over. “ ’Twould seem you have less control over your mercenaries than you would have us believe, William.”
    William tapped the blade against his palm, his eyes narrowing with anger. “I have never known Darian to be less than honest, and I believe his denial of any knowledge of this deed. Whoever killed de Salis has done a fine job of making it appear Darian is guilty.”
    Bishop Henry waved a dismissive hand. “Spoken as a commander in defense of one of his favorites. I might allow the possibility of his honesty if Darian could produce one trustworthy witness to his whereabouts. But he either cannot, or will not.”
    All looked again to Darian.
    Emma edged her way forward, silently begging him to relent. To prove his innocence by telling the bishop where he’d been last night and with whom.
    He simply turned to William and, in that same unwavering tone, stated, “I know not who killed de Salis, or why my dagger is not with my other belongings, but I swear to you, he did not die by my hand.”
    The denial rang true. Darian hadn’t killed de Salis, no matter the bishop’s accusations. No matter his inability to provide proof. As Earl William said, someone had betrayed Darian. Surely the king would hear and see the truth.
    King Stephen rose from his chair and held out his hand to William, who handed over Darian’s dagger. The king flipped it over in his palm, staring down at the weapon— frowning mightily.
    A bad omen, that frown.
    Dread and anger over her visions flooded through her, and she was once more unprepared and uncertain over
what
she was supposed to do.
    Did the visions reveal future events that couldn’t be changed, or were they glimpses of possibilities that could be altered?
    The confusion had plagued her from an early age. Bewildered and sometimes frightened by seeing odd things in pools of water, she’d told her mother of what she saw. Mother had looked on her with pity, told her to keep the sightings to herself. So Emma had obeyed, told no one, not even her mother.
    The pang of grief was sharp, the guilt nearly overwhelming over the one vision she wished she’d possessed the wisdom and courage to reveal. Perhaps if she’d told someone that her mother would die giving birth to Nicole, either her mother or the midwives could have done something to prevent the death.
    Or perhaps not. She could well have been accused of causing her mother’s death by foretelling it.
    And if she hadn’t turned coward and foreswore the visions, might she have been able to warn her father of the danger at Wallingford, warned him to be cautious? And despite the warning might he and her brother have died anyway?
    Damn. She never invited the visions, didn’t want to know what might happen in
anyone’s
future because she never knew what was best, as now.
    Would Darian come away unscathed if she held her peace, or must she interfere to save his life so her vision of him would come true?
    The king now stared at Darian, and Emma wrestled with the dilemma of what to do if Darian refused to save himself from a hangman’s noose.
    Darian watched the dagger flip in the king’s hands, the lion’s head on the hilt proclaiming the shining weapon as his own. Someone must have stolen it after he’d returned to the barracks early this morning, stuffed the weapon into his pack, then left to break fast with William before attending this farce of a meeting. The thief would have had ample time, nigh on two hours, to commit the murder and leave Darian’s dagger with de Salis’s body.
    Was that someone a mercenary? He had to believe it probable, though ’twas sickening to realize there might be a traitor in their midst. Darian didn’t know who, and hoped he would live long enough to expose the bastard.
    But