Yet to kill Sylvarresta would be cruel. Borenson did not want to murder a friend, regardless of the cost. And he dared not raise a weapon against his own Prince.

Bits of arguments rushed at Borenson, fragmented. He looked up at King Sylvarresta, who had stopped moaning in fear, just as a jay went flying over the King’s head in a streak of blue.

But if I do not murder these two now, how many others must I kill in the Dedicates’ Keep? How many endowments has Sylvarresta taken? Are the lives of these two worth more than the lives of their Dedicates?

What harm has any of them done? Not one man in the keep would willingly toss a rotten apple at one of our people. Yet by their very existence, they lend power to Raj Ahten.

Borenson clenched his teeth, lost in thought. Tears began to water his eyes.

You will make me kill everyone vectored through these two, Borenson realized. That was his only choice. He loved his Prince, had always served faithfully.

I’ll do it, Borenson thought, though I hate myself forever after. I’ll do it for you.

No! some deep part of his mind shouted.

Borenson opened his eyes, stared hard at Gaborn.

Gaborn let go the reins of Borenson’s mount, stood testily, as if he was still ready to try to pull Borenson from the saddle if the need arose.

“Take them in peace, milord,” Borenson said, trying to hide the sadness in his voice. Immediately Gaborn relaxed.

“I’ll need a weapon,” Gaborn said. “Can I borrow one of yours?” Other than the black spear in Torin’s throat, nothing was handy.

The warhorse Borenson rode had a horseman’s hammer sheathed from its previous owner. It was an inelegant weapon. Borenson knew that Gaborn preferred a saber, for he liked to slash and thrust quickly. But the hammer had its strengths: against an armored opponent, one could easily chop through chain mail or pierce a helm. The saber was as likely to snap in such a battle as to pierce a man’s armor.

Borenson pulled the hammer, tossed it to Gaborn. He did not rest easy with his decisions. Even now, he barely restrained himself from attacking Sylvarresta. I am not death, Borenson told himself. I am not death. It is not my duty to fight my Prince, to kill kings.

“Hurry to Longmot,” Borenson said at last with a sigh. “I smell a storm coming. It will hide your scent, make you harder to track. Take the main road south at first, but don’t follow it all the way—the Hayworth bridge is burned. Go instead through the forest until you reach Ardamom’s Ridge, then cut straight south to the Boar’s Ford. Do you know where it is?”

Gaborn shook his head. Of course he did not know.