My husband hangs from his window still, his own intestines serving as a rope for his neck. I will not cut the villain down. If I had known beforehand of his treachery, I’d not have dealt with him so kindly.

I go now, to sharpen a knife. Should I fail, you know what to do.

Your Devoted Niece,
The Duchess Emmadine Ot Laren

Mendellas Orden finished reading the letter, heart hammering, then laid it aside. “You know what to do.” The age-old cry of those forced to serve as vectors: Kill me, if I can’t kill myself.

King Orden had often met the Duchess. She’d always struck him as a mousy little lady, too timid for grand deeds.

It took a strong woman to kill herself, her children. Yet King Orden knew that there was a time when one could follow no other course. So, Raj Ahten had vectored the soldiery through the royal family, forced them to grant major endowments, so the soldiers would never be able to fight again—unless the royal family was slaughtered.

The Duchess would have to do her duty, butcher her own children to save the kingdom. It was an evil trade. King Orden only hoped his own son did not fall into Raj Ahten’s clutches. Orden imagined that he had the strength to kill his own son, if the need arose.

But he dreaded the deed.

King Orden turned over the letter, read the date. Harvest 19. Written almost two days past, over a hundred miles away.

The Duchess hadn’t expected Raj Ahten to reach Castle Sylvarresta until tomorrow. So she planned to kill herself at dawn, before the occupying army arrived.

A pity she hadn’t killed herself this morning. Her sacrifice might have done King Sylvarresta some good.

Orden quickly scrawled letters to the Duke of Groverman and the Earl of Dreis—the lords with castles closest to Longmot—begging them both to send aid while at the same time requesting it from neighbors. Though the Duchess had already sought aid from those lords, Orden feared that her messengers might have met the same fate as the man he’d found on the road. To be certain that Dreis and Groverman came, he said bluntly that Raj Ahten had left a hoard of treasure at Longmot.

“Borenson?” King Orden called when he finished. The captain was sitting on the rocks above him, just a few feet below the tangled limbs of the graaks’ nest.

“What is it, milord?” he asked, scrambling down to Mendellas’ side.

“I have a job for you, a dangerous job.”

“Good!” Borenson said, his voice full of cheer. Borenson dropped beside the King in the starlight. He was a full head taller than the King, his red hair spilling down from under his helm, over his shoulders. It wasn’t right for vassals to be so large. He watched the King expectantly.