Magister Pillion had done Belleger a great service by warning Klamath. But the meek earthquake-wielder had done more: he had taken upon himself the responsibility for determining how perilous Father Skurn’s presence might be. The General had not expected so much courage from the small man.

Now, however, the responsibility was Klamath’s. If Pillion saw a threat in the priest, Klamath had a decision to make. The Magister was right: the ability to seduce or even compel Belleger’s defenders would make Skurn too dangerous to live.

But—

Hells!

Could General Klamath order the priest shot for no better reason than that he might do harm? Was there a man or woman breathing anywhere who might not do harm, given the right provocations? How was killing a man who might or might not intend treachery better than plain murder?

And there was another difficulty. If the Great God’s sorcery could be used for persuasion, Klamath had to wonder whether Father Skurn himself had been coerced. How could a man whose choices had been taken away from him deserve death?

Such questions caused Klamath a kind of moral pain. They were beyond him. Despite his exalted rank, he was only himself. Some choices required a degree of certainty that he lacked.

He was not proud of his doubts; but at times like this, they defined him. Deciding who lived and who died was a burden for the King. Klamath had never wanted the authority to send men to their deaths. He was a good soldier: he could do what he was told. That was enough.

It had to be.

Eventually, the General’s company reached the fringes of the bleak woodland spreading from the road and the encampment northward along the cliffs for two or three leagues. There two riflemen emerged through the snowfall: scouts sent to confirm that the General and his people had not lost their way.

When Klamath and the scouts had tallied the Magisters and found them all present, one rifleman left to report to their officers. The other settled his mount beside Klamath’s.

The snow fell softly. Nevertheless it had the thickness of a deluge.

Riding with the ease of long experience, the soldier grinned at Klamath. “You had a pleasant journey, General?”

The General managed a wry grimace, nothing more. He had no room in his mind for jests.

As soon as he and his company reached the encampment, they left their horses to the servants and hurried into the nearest kitchen. Shedding snow in dense flurries, they shrugged off their cloaks and huddled around the stoves.

Soon, Captain Flisk and Commander Forguile came in. When they had greeted everyone, and had been ignored by all of the Magisters except Trench and two or three others, General Klamath took the officers aside to hear their report.

Forguile did most of the talking. Rubbing his shoulder, Flisk said almost nothing.