I can do little to fight Raj Ahten, he considered. It was true that he might be able to hide in the city, perhaps ambush a soldier here and there. But how long could he last? How long could he keep it up before he was caught?

Not long.

Yet of what help am I to my charges, if I flee now? Gaborn wondered. He should have done more. He should have tried to save Iome, and Binnesman . . . and all the rest.

True, his father needed to know that Castle Sylvarresta had fallen, and he needed to know the manner of its capture.

And the lure of home drew Gaborn. No matter how much he admired the strength of people in Heredon, the stately stone buildings with their ceilings so high, so cool and breezy, the pleasure gardens at every turn, it was not a familiar place.

Gaborn had not been to the palace much for eight years, had spent nearly all his time some fifty miles from home, in the House of Understanding, with its resolute scholars and stark dormitories. He’d looked forward to going home after this trip. For years now he’d longed to sleep in the big, cotton-filled bed he’d enjoyed as a child, to wake to the feel of the morning wind blowing from the wheat fields through his lace curtains.

He’d imagined that he’d spend his winter eating decent food, studying battle tactics with his father, dueling with the soldiers in the guard. Borenson had promised to introduce Gaborn to some of the finer alehouses in Mystarria. And there was Iome, whose gentleness among her people had seduced him as no other could. He’d hoped to take her home.

So many pleasures he’d imagined.

Gaborn wanted to go home. It was silly, this wish to be taken care of, to live without cares, as if he were a child.

Gaborn remembered being a child, hunting rabbits in the hazelnut orchard with his old red hound. He remembered days when his father had taken him to fish for trout in Dewflood Stream, where the weeping willows bent low over the water and green inchworms hung from the willow branches on silken threads, taunting the trout. In those days, life, it seemed, was an endless summer.

But Gaborn could not return.

He despaired at the thought of even getting away from Castle Sylvarresta alive.

For the moment, he could see no convincing reason to leave here. Gaborn’s father would hear of the castle’s fall soon enough. Peasants would noise the tale abroad. King Orden was on his way. Perhaps three days. He’d hear of this by tomorrow.

No, Gaborn did not need to warn his father, could not leave the castle. He needed to get Rowan to safety, someplace warm, where she could heal. He needed to help Iome. And he’d made a greater commitment.