The world had changed. The sunlight, despite a clear sky, felt thinner, muted. The trees looked different, the little river beneath the bridge; the road he had ridden so many times, so many years, looked new, untrodden, unknown.

He scolded himself, told himself it was the same: the road, the trees, the sun, the world itself. One man could not make that much difference.

He knew he lied.

At the border of the Duke’s territory, the post Valichi had set up saluted them as they marched past on the road to Vérella. The marches were no longer than usual, but they seemed both longer and shorter as his mood shifted again and again.

CHAPTER THREE

Vérella, the palace

Mikeli, crown prince of Tsaia, listened to his best friend, Juris Marrakai, joking with Mikeli’s cousin Rothlin Mahieran about the behavior of their younger brothers. Dinner this evening felt almost normal again, with his friends around him and the worst of the peril—his advisers had said—over. Fourteen days had passed since Kieri Phelan left for Lyonya, and nine since the paladin’s ordeal ended. For a full hand of days, the city had been in turmoil as city militia, nobles of the realm, and Marshals of Gird sought to find and destroy Liart’s followers.

He and his friends had wanted to take part, prove their courage, in those raids on the city’s underground lairs. Their elders had refused to risk them despite their protests. Instead, his friends had been kept at home to guard their families, while he and his younger brother had been confined to the palace, closely guarded. They’d all been told to stay close, be careful, be alert, report anything suspicious.

But finally the city quieted, and the High Marshals had declared it safe enough to relax some restrictions. Once more his friends were together, sharing a meal, as they had so often before. When the door opened, Mikeli expected servants to bring in the next course, but instead saw one of the palace guards escorting a man in Girdish blue and gray, a yeoman by his tunic, travel-stained and obviously near exhaustion.

“My lord prince,” the yeoman said, his voice hoarse with cold. “I bear urgent news.” He glanced around the table, as if uncertain which was the prince, then dug into a pouch and produced a crumpled scroll.

“Here,” Mikeli said. The man handed him the scroll and he unrolled and began reading. The words “well-armed troops … refused your order … Pargunese … magery … treason” sprang out at him. “Treason!” The word escaped before he could stop it; he heard the surprise, the horror, in his own voice. He forced himself to silence, and looked up, scanning the room. The startled faces of his dinner companions, their mouths open, stared back at him. Juris Marrakai, Rothlin Mahieran, Rolyan Serrostin, all dukes’ sons whose fathers sat on his Regency Council. Manthar Kostvan and Belin Destvaorn, counts’ sons whose fathers were also on the Council. He glanced at the messenger, noting the air of suppressed alarm.