“Did he say more?”

“I don’t know, Sir King. The captain bade me ride with all speed; I left as soon as the captain had written that message.”

“If he is the king—or the king’s envoy—then I must know his purpose quickly.”

“You cannot risk yourself—” one of his Squires said.

“He doesn’t know my face any more than I know his,” Kieri said. Surely he could ride north as fast as this messenger had come south, and surely the Pargunese—whoever he was—would not know how fast he could ride. “Aulin, tell Garris that I will need an escort of King’s Squires, those well rested and able to ride at once for the river. Then tell the Master of Horse we will need remounts, as well as mounts saddled, and someone to care for them.”

In less than a glass they were on their way, riding on a forest track Kieri had not seen before. Kieri wore hunting clothes without royal insignia; the King’s Squires wore plain tunics in place of the royal tabards.

When he arrived at the Royal Archers’ bivouac, a turn of the glass after sending in a Squire to warn the Archers he was incognito, their captain greeted him only as “my lord.” Kieri nodded and looked around the camp until he spotted a burly man sitting against a tree, two Royal Archers nearby watching.

The prisoner wore a fisherman’s rough smock, short trousers, and striped stockings; his boots were piled with his other possessions in the boat in which he’d come, now pulled up away from the water. His light hair—blond going gray—and pale blue eyes were common to many in the north, and his face and hands were sun-marked like those of men who worked outdoors all the time. The only indication of kingship was the gold ring with its seal, but his eyes reminded Kieri of Elis.

“He says if we kill him, there will be war and Lyonya will be burnt to ash,” the captain said.

“I’m not planning to kill him,” Kieri said. “Unless I have to. He might be a simple fisherman who’s had river fever and merely thinks he’s a king.” Unlikely, but possible.

“With that ring?”

“Or a thief. Every realm has thieves, even Pargun.” Kieri ignored the man, instead inspecting the boat and its contents. The boots had spur scuffs on the heels. He shook them. “Did you turn these out?”

“No, my lord. We saw the ring. The man’s gabble sounded Pargunese; we thought you should see first.”

Kieri upended the boots into the boat, shaking vigorously. Out fell a small knife in a sheath and four silver Tsaian coronets.

“He had eight coppers in his belt-pouch, my lord. Two with a Prealíth mark, one of ours, the rest from Tsaia.”

Currencies mingled in river towns; that fit the character of a fisherman. Kieri felt inside the boots: nothing more. He pulled the knife from its sheath, watching the prisoner. The man’s face showed no expression. The blade showed a dark stain, as if it had been dipped in some liquid, since dried. Poison, possibly. Kieri put it back in its sheath. The boot heels next—he twisted. One turned, revealing a small compartment. Inside was an oiled-leather packet marked with runes. Kieri tipped that out without touching it; poisons could be carried in such packets. Next he emptied the pack. In that were clothes more suited to a peddler than a fisherman, a box of trinkets—mostly small religious charms—and enough food for a few days’ travel.