King Orden clapped the big warrior on the shoulder in sympathy. Borenson was trembling. It would be a hard thing to go from being Gaborn’s sworn protector to his assassin. “You heard me right. When Raj Ahten gets your message, he will race to Longmot, to meet me in battle. He will have hundreds of Dedicates in Castle Sylvarresta by dawn—Dedicates that he won’t be able to carry south in such a hurry, Dedicates that he won’t be able to properly guard.

“I want you to go into the Dedicates’ Keep at Castle Sylvarresta, once Raj Ahten leaves, and slaughter everyone left within.”

The big warrior’s grin had now faded completely.

“You understand that this must be done. My life, your life, the lives of everyone in Mystarria—everyone you’ve ever known and loved—might well depend on it.

“We can show no weakness. We can show no mercy.”

From a pouch at his hip, King Orden withdrew a small ivory flask. Captured inside were mists from the fields of Mystarria. Orden’s water wizards had said that the flask contained enough mist to hide an army should the need arise. Borenson’s army might need such a mist. He handed the artifact to Borenson, and wondered if he should also give the man his golden shield. It had a powerful spell of water warding in it. Orden had brought it as a betrothal gift to Sylvarresta. Now, he considered that he might need that shield himself.

Orden wondered. He did not want to kill Sylvarresta. Yet if Sylvarresta succumbed to Raj Ahten, then it became Orden’s duty. The Kings of Rofehavan needed to know that no one could give endowments to the Wolf Lord. No one would be permitted to do so and live. Not even Orden’s best friend.

“We will do what we must to our friends, our kin,” King Orden said to himself as much as to Borenson, “if they serve the enemy. That is our duty. This is war.”

14

A WIZARD IN CHAINS

Shortly before dawn, the sounds of many clanking chains preceded Binnesman into the King’s audience hall; then the guards dragged the herbalist in to face Raj Ahten, as Iome watched.

She shuddered and hid in a darkened corner, afraid somehow that Binnesman would spot her, would loathe her very existence. In the past few hours, she’d had time to inspect the rune of power branded into the skin of her breast. It was a complex thing, a horrid thing that tried to draw far more than mere beauty from her. It tried to draw her pride, her hope. Though she fought the influence of the rune, though she denied this boon to Raj Ahten, still she felt less than human. A mere rag in the corner, something that cringed and watched.