Iome wondered at this. It was common practice to kill another’s Dedicates, a necessary evil. Few Runelords would shirk this most hateful responsibility. Did Gaborn hope to let men live, simply because they did not intend evil? She said, “Even if you spare House Sylvarresta, even if you turn instead to other houses, kill other kings, they are also innocents. They, too, deserve to live. They have no love for Raj Ahten.”

“There must be a way to get Raj Ahten without killing others,” Gaborn said. “A decapitation.”

Iome had no advice to give. With powerful Runelords, a decapitation was the most certain way to insure a kill, but plotting the deed and doing it were two different matters. “And who will decapitate him? You?”

Gaborn turned to her. “I could try, if I can get close to him. Tell me, is the herbalist Binnesman well? I need to speak with him.”

“He’s gone,” Iome said. “He vanished in the night. Raj Ahten’s men saw him . . . at the edge of the woods.”

Perhaps of anything she could have said, this news seemed to dismay him most.

“Well,” Gaborn said, looking lost, “I must change my plans. If the wizard is in the woods, perhaps I can find him there. Thank you for the news, Lady . . . ?”

“Prenta,” Iome whispered. “Prenta Vass.”

Gaborn took her hand, kissed it, as if she were a helpful lady-in-waiting. He held her hand, just a moment too long, lightly sniffed the scent of her perfumed wrist, and Iome’s heart skipped. Her voice had not faltered, she felt sure; he had not recognized her voice. But did he recognize her perfume?

He gazed into her face, with his penetrating blue eyes, and though a small frown formed on his lips, he did not speak. Iome pulled away, turned her face, heart pounding, fearing that she had been discovered.

She knew she was hideous, that every scrap of beauty had been stripped from her. Her yellow eyes, her wrinkled skin, were gruesome enough. But her features were nothing compared to the horror she felt inside, the insidious draw toward self-loathing.

Surely he would condemn her. Surely he would pull away in contempt. Instead, he stepped around, to better see her face.

Iome suspected that Gaborn recognized her. He regarded her silently now, trying to discern any traces of the woman he had seen yesterday. But he refused to embarrass her by voicing his recognition. Iome could not withstand that gaze, felt forced to raise a hand, and with it hid herself from those eyes.

“Don’t hide from me, Prenta Vass,” Gaborn said softly, taking her hand again, pulling it down. He’d spoken her name hesitantly. He knew her. “You are beautiful, even now. If there is any way I may serve you?”