One guard has drawn his sword, and the other has notched an arrow, bowstring stretched taut. They watch, prepared to strike, as the two restraining me search me for weapons. They’re waiting to see if I use a craft, I realize. Best not to make any sudden movements in case that archer gets twitchy. For effect, my bottom lip wobbles.

Once they’re satisfied I’m unarmed, both physically and magically, they lead me through the streets, following the path I predicted they’d take to the guardhouse.

Curious, I observe the guards escorting me under the pretense of fearful glances. They don’t seem overly hostile, not like Eyebrow Tattoos. But neither are they gentle as they pull me through the door. Directly past the front desk is a hallway ending in a barred metal door that presumably leads to the cells.

They don’t deliver me there, though. I take mental stock of where everything is as they guide me instead toward an office door that’s slightly ajar. The guard in front pushes it open and then steps aside. My feet stall, and all my careful planning crashes around me. Sitting behind the desk is Prince Meilek.

I blink slowly. This is a complication.

“We found another one, Your Highness.” The guard gives me a hard shake so that I remember my manners. Gathering my wits, I dip into a bow as low as my captors will allow me.

Prince Meilek, for his part, hides his surprise well. He gives nothing away other than a slight twitch of his eyebrow.

He stands. “Thank you for your efforts. You may leave.”

The guards glance at each other, their hands yet to loosen around my arms. “Are you sure that’s wise?”

“I’ll be fine. You may remain in the hall if that will put your minds at ease, but lightwenders are rarely much trouble.”

Reluctantly, they release me. When the door shuts behind them, Prince Meilek gestures to the chair opposite his. I don’t sit. What is he doing here?

His clothes suggest he’s here more as a prince than as a captain. He wears a fusion of leather and plate armor over green silk brocade. The high collar is finely detailed with golden thread. His cloak’s gleaming clasp bears the triple-horned stag of his House. His hair has been pulled back, secured at the crown of his head with a hairpiece that resembles jagged antlers.

“Does Ronin know he’s missing a soulguide?” he asks, clasping his hands behind his back.

I shrug one shoulder.

“I was glad to hear you’d made it safely to Spinner’s End. But how did you manage to escape?”

“You’re aware of my training,” I say. Better that he believes I left of my own accord. Anything else might incriminate Ronin.