“Don’t play the fool with me,” Borenson spoke, voice rising in anger. His face felt hot; his whole body coiled. “Sylvarresta has long been our friend, but now he serves the Wolf Lord. How many endowments of wit does Sylvarresta vector to Raj Ahten? How many endowments of glamour does the Princess vector?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Gaborn said. “I’ll not kill friends.”

Borenson held a moment, trying to contain the rage building in him. Can even a prince afford such generosity? he wanted to shout. Yet he dared not give that insult. He reasoned instead. “They’re friends no longer. They serve Raj Ahten.”

Gaborn said, “They may serve as vectors, but they chose to live, so that by living, they can serve their own people.”

“By letting Raj Ahten destroy Mystarria? Don’t delude yourself. They serve your enemy, milord. Your enemy, and your father’s and Mystarria’s—and my enemies! It is a passive service—true—but they serve him no less than if they were warriors.”

Oh, how Borenson sometimes envied them—the Dedicates who lived like fat cattle on their lord’s wealth, pampered.

Certainly Gaborn must see that Borenson served his lord no less fully, gave his all, night and day. Borenson sweated and bled and suffered. He’d taken an endowment of metabolism, so that he aged two years for every other man’s one. Though he was but twenty years old chronologically, little older than Gaborn, the hair on his head was falling out, and streaks of gray bled into his beard. For him, life rushed past as if he were adrift on a boat, watching the shore forever slipping by, unable to grasp anything, unable to hold on to anything.

Meanwhile, people admired Dedicates for their “sacrifice.” Borenson’s own father had given an endowment of metabolism to one of the King’s soldiers before Borenson was born, and had thus lain in an enchanted slumber these past twenty years. It seemed to Borenson a cheat, the way his father stayed young, the way he suffered nothing while the man he endowed grew old and faded. What did his father sacrifice?

No, it was men like Borenson who suffered most for their lords, not some damned Dedicate, afraid to live his life.

“You must kill them,” Borenson urged.

“I cannot,” Gaborn answered.

“Then, by all the awful Powers, you’ll make me do it!” Borenson growled. He reached to pull his axe from its sheath, glanced toward King Sylvarresta. Iome had heard the scrape of the axe handle against leather, jerked at the sound, staring at Borenson.

“Hold,” Gaborn said softly. “I order you. They are under my protection. My sworn protection.”

A gust of wind sent ash skittering across the ground.

“And I’m under order to kill Raj Ahten’s Dedicates.”

“I countermand that order,” Gaborn said firmly.