“What can you do that Beckram can’t?” protested Tosten. “I say warn Uncle Duraugh and Beckram and let them deal with it.” But the heat was gone from Tosten’s voice. He knew all of Hurog’s old songs and stories better than I did. He knew the duties of the Hurogmeten. If Oreg’s firsthand experience had robbed the old lays of veracity, it hadn’t robbed the ideal of its power.

“I need to have a better feeling for what’s going on in court,” I explained. “Jakoven’s abduction of Tisala is just the start. Something ugly is about to happen, and I’m afraid Hurog is going to be caught up in the middle of it.”

“Who are you taking with you?” asked Aunt Stala, and the matter was settled.

We planned the trip over the last of the meal, and if Tosten didn’t eat much, he didn’t protest again, either. We had just stood up to let the kitchen staff clear the dishes from the table when we heard the clatter of racing hooves.

The armsman who ran in was white-faced. “My lord,” he said. “There’s royal troops riding in.”

My mouth went dry. Were they here after Tisala? Thoughts flew through my head. But I’d decided after I heard Tisala’s story that it wasn’t likely that Jakoven would come after her here—too many people to silence with too little gain. He wouldn’t want anyone knowing he’d tortured Tisala.

That left only one answer that would send a royal troop: the writ.

Should I run? Oreg would take me—but that would leave Hurog and those who belonged to her vulnerable—and my family open to charges of treason. My uncle couldn’t prove he hadn’t helped me, could he? Nor could Beckram, if that was truly whom the king was after.

We could fight. It would start a civil war. Shavig would fall behind us. Oranstone might as well—but they had to worry about the Vorsag invading again as they had four years ago. Except . . .

I shook my head as I dismissed the thought of civil war. It might have happened if the king had attacked us next year instead of this. Today, Hurog would fall in a day, and presented with that accomplishment, Shavig would moan and groan, but ultimately submit to Jakoven’s hand.

We were ready to hold off bandits, but the king’s army was another thing entirely. Maybe if we had a real gatehouse and portcullis on the curtain wall we could have withstood for long enough. Instead we had nothing but an outer wall with a stout wooden door barred against intruders—the keep had no door at all.

“No need to go to him, he’s come for you,” said Stala, confirming my thoughts.