“Thank you, Princess,” Borenson said with a heavy heart. I’m under orders to kill you, he wanted to say. I wish I’d never seen you. But he had to wonder at Gaborn’s plan. Perhaps the Prince had a reason for bringing out the King and Iome, some reason Borenson didn’t fathom.

“I heard more horns in the woods,” Iome said. “Where are your men? I would like to thank them.”

Borenson turned away, “They rode ahead an hour ago. We’re alone here.” It was not time to talk. He retrieved his weapons from his dead horse, strapped them to the enemy’s warhorse, mounted up.

They raced through the blackened woods down to the road, then followed it, thundering over one burned hill after another until they nearly reached some living trees, with their promise of shelter.

By a burbling brook at the edge of the woods, Gaborn called a stop. Even a force horse with runes of power branded on its neck and breast needed to catch its wind and get a drink.

Besides, in the green grass at the edge of the stream lay a soldier of House Orden. A black noman’s spear protruded through the soldier’s bloody neck. A gruesome reminder that although the small group would soon enter the woods, they’d still be in danger.

True, Borenson and his men had hunted nomen all morning, had scattered this band. But nomen were crafty nocturnal hunters, and usually fought in small bands. So some bands would be here in the woods, hiding under the shadows, hunting.

Gaborn dismounted as the horses drank, checked the soldier’s body. He flipped open the man’s visor.

“Ah, poor Torin,” Borenson grunted. He’d been a good soldier, had a fine talent with the morning star.

Torin wore the normal dress of a Mystarrian warrior, black ring mail over a sheepskin jerkin. A dark-blue surcoat over the mail bore the emblem of Mystarria, the green knight—a man’s face with oak leaves in its hair and beard. Gaborn traced the outline of the green knight on Torin’s surcoat.

“Beautiful colors,” Gaborn whispered. “The most beautiful a man could wear.” Gaborn began stripping Torin. “This is the second corpse I’ve had to rob today,” Gaborn grumbled as if displeased at the prospect.

“So, milord, you’ll bring a new dignity to the profession,” Borenson said, not wanting to discuss the problem facing him. He eyed Iome, saw terror in her posture.

She knew what he had to do. Even she knew.

Yet Gaborn seemed oblivious. Was Gaborn mad? Or just immature? What made him think he could escape Raj Ahten with a woman and an idiot in his charge? Fine horses are nothing if you can’t ride them—and obviously Sylvarresta could not ride.

“Where’s my father?” Gaborn asked, stripping the corpse.