“It doesn’t have to be this way,” Sylvarresta said. “There are other ways to prosecute this war. A tithe of knights from each kingdom . . .”

“It does have to be this way,” Raj Ahten corrected. “Would you dare dispute me on this point? I have a thousand endowments of wit, to your . . .” He gazed into King Sylvarresta’s eyes a flickering second, studying the intelligence there. “. . . two.”

It could have been a guess, Iome thought, but she knew better. There was a saying: “A wise king does not garner all wit, instead he also allows his counselors to be wise.” In the North, it was considered wasteful to take more than four endowments of wit. A lord who did so remembered everything he ever heard, all he ever saw or thought or felt. Sylvarresta would not have taken more than four. Yet how had Raj Ahten recognized that Iome’s father had but two endowments active?

Raj Ahten’s declaration, that he’d taken wit from a thousand, took the breath from Iome. She could not comprehend such a thing. Some lords swore that a few more endowments of wit granted a Runelord some benefit—extra creativity, deeper wisdom.

Raj Ahten folded his hands. “I’ve studied the reavers—how they are spreading into our kingdoms in tiny -pockets, each with a new queen. The infestation is wide.

“Now, Sylvarresta, despite your peaceable assurances, I require more from you. Lay bare your flesh.”

Clumsy from nervousness, with all the grace of a trained bear, King Sylvarresta untied the sash of his robe, shrugged off the midnight blue silk, till his hairy chest lay bare. The red scars of forcibles showed beneath his right nipple, like the mark of a lover’s teeth. Raj Ahten read Sylvarresta’s strengths in a glance.

“Your wit, Sylvarresta. I will have your wit.”

Iome’s father seemed to cave in on himself, dropped to both knees. He knew what it would be like, to pee his own pants, not knowing his name, not recognizing his wife or children, his dearest friends. In the past day he’d already felt keen pain as memories were lost to him. He shook his head.

“Do you mean you will not give it, or cannot?” Raj Ahten asked.

Lord Sylvarresta spread both hands wide, shaking his head, unable to speak.

“Will not? But you must—” Raj Ahten said.

“I can’t!” Iome’s father cried. “Take my life instead.”

“I don’t want your death,” Raj Ahten said. “What value is that to me? But your wit!”

“I can’t!” Sylvarresta said.

To give an enemy an endowment was one thing, but Raj Ahten would take more than just Sylvarresta’s wit. Because Sylvarresta was already endowed, Raj Ahten would make King Sylvarresta his vector.