“Why not?” Myrrima asked, still playful. She stopped by a fountain where a statue of Edmon Tillerman stood holding a pot with three spigots that poured water down over the faces of three bears.

“Because lives are at stake,” Gaborn answered. He sat at the edge of the fountain, glanced into the pool. Startled by his presence, huge polliwogs wriggled down into the green water. “When I commit to someone, I accept responsibility for them. I offer my life, or at least a portion of it. When I accept someone’s commitment, I expect nothing less than total commitment—their lives—in return. This reciprocal relationship is . . . it must define me.”

Myrrima frowned, made uneasy by his serious tone. “You are not a merchant. You . . . talk like a lord!”

He could see her considering. She would know he was not of Sylvarresta’s line, not a lord from Heredon. So he would have to be a foreign dignitary, merely traveling—in Heredon, an out-of-the-way country, one of the farthest north in all the Kingdoms of Rofehavan.

“I should have known—you are so handsome,” she said. “So you’re a Runelord, come to study our land. Tell me, do you like it enough to seek betrothal to Princess Iome Sylvarresta?”

Gaborn admired the way that she drew the proper conclusion. “I’m surprised at how green your land is, and how strong your people are,” Gaborn said. “It is richer than I’d imagined.”

“Will Princess Sylvarresta accept you?” Still, she was searching for answers. She wondered which poor castle he hailed from. She sat beside him on the edge of the fountain.

Gaborn shrugged, feigning less concern than he felt. “I know her only by reputation,” he admitted. “Perhaps you know her better than I. How do you think she will look on me?”

“You are handsome enough,” Myrrima said, frankly studying his broad shoulders, the long dark-brown hair that fell from under his plumed cap. By now she must have realized he was not dark enough of hair to be from Muyyatin, or any of the Indhopalese nations.

Then she gasped, eyes going wide.

She stood up quickly and stepped back, unsure whether to remain standing, curtsy, or fall down and prostrate herself at his feet. “Forgive me, Prince Orden—I, uh—did not see your resemblance to your father!”

Myrrima lurched back three paces, as if wishing she could run blindly away, for she now knew that he was not the son of some poor baron who called a pile of rocks his fortress, but that he came from Mystarria itself.

“You know my father?” Gaborn asked, rising and stepping forward. He took her hand once again, trying to reassure her that no offense had been taken.

“I—once he rode through town, on his way to the hunt,” Myrrima said. “I was but a girl. I can’t forget his face.”

“He has always liked Heredon,” Gaborn said.