Worst of all, in long ages past, a certain Master Facilitator named Tovil had fled Rofehavan to Inkarra, and there he had launched a new school for the study of forcibles. In Inkarra, amazing discoveries had been made, discoveries no other wizards had ever been able to duplicate. In Inkarra, forcibles had been developed that left no scar, so that one could learn from a mark the shape of a rune of power. These forcibles transmitted talents and skills from one person to another.

In all the years of spying, the lords of Rofehavan and Indhopal had never been able to duplicate the Inkarrans’ discoveries.

Each time a Northern lord had tried to invade the South, he quickly found that the Southerners did not just fight him—they also provided forcibles to his enemies.

Thus, no lord had ever been able to take Inkarra, drain its riches, or penetrate its secrets.

Jureem knew that Raj Ahten had to act soon. He had to drain the Northern kings now, subjugate them, and then move on. It was quite possible that in days now lost to legend, Daylan Hammer had taken endowments of will and talent, that these were an integral piece that Raj Ahten needed before he could become the Sum of All Men.

Jureem prided himself on being a man who was not easily deceived. He strongly suspected that Borenson had told an intricate tale based on some truth, twisted together liberally with lies. Yet as Jureem considered the message Borenson had brought, it was damnably difficult to know where the truth ended and the lies began.

After only a few moments on the castle wall, Raj Ahten looked to his side, at Jureem. “My counselors, let us walk,” he said. The Wolf Lord seldom sought advice from Jureem or Feykaald anymore. Certainly his master was worried.

They came down from the city wall, walking along the steps, and had not gone far before they were out of the crowd, heading up a small rise toward the stables.

“Feykaald,” the Wolf Lord asked the oldest of his counselors. “What think you: Does King Orden have his son?”

“Of course not,” Feykaald hissed. “The messenger was too startled, too frightened, when you first mentioned the ransom. That messenger was full of lies. He spoke not a word of truth.”

“I agree that Orden does not yet have his son, but though the messenger’s manner showed him to be a liar, he spoke some truth.”

“He does not have his son,” Jureem agreed, replaying every nuance of the messenger’s voice, every expression.

“Granted,” Raj Ahten said. “What of Longmot?”

“He could not have conquered it,” Feykaald spat quickly.

“He has done so,” Raj Ahten said, his voice not betraying the concern that this must have caused. Jureem’s heart nearly froze at the thought.