“I know,” Iome said. Borenson studied her. Cool, confident, despite her ugliness. The Princess now showed no fear. At least she knew how to sit a horse.

Borenson urged his warhorse forward a step, pulled the longspear from poor Torin’s neck, snapped it off, and threw the bladed end to the Princess. She caught it in one hand.

“Won’t you escort us?” Gaborn asked.

Doesn’t he understand what I must do? Borenson wondered. Borenson had not yet confided that he planned to slay every Dedicate in the castle.

No, Borenson decided. Gaborn didn’t know what he planned. The lad was that innocent. Indeed, if the Prince had even the slightest notion what Borenson intended, Gaborn would try to stop him.

Yet Borenson couldn’t allow that. I’ll do this alone, he thought. I’ll take this evil upon me, stain my hands with blood so that you don’t have to.

“I’ve other duties,” Borenson said, shaking his head. He soothed the Prince with a lie. “I’ll shadow Raj Ahten’s army, make certain he doesn’t strike some unexpected target.”

To tell the truth, part of him wanted to escort Gaborn, to see him safe through the woods. He knew the Prince would need help. But Borenson did not trust himself to lead Gaborn for even an hour. At any moment, he might feel the need to turn on Gaborn, to kill good King Sylvarresta.

“If it will make it easier for you,” Gaborn said, “when I reach Longmot, I’ll tell my father that I never saw you in the woods. He does not need to know.”

Borenson nodded, numb.

23

THE HUNT BEGINS

Raj Ahten stood above his dead Invincible, fists clenched. Downhill, his army marched for Longmot, archers running the winding road, their colored tunics making them look like a golden snake twisting through a black forest.

Chancellor Jureem knelt over the fallen soldier, robes smudged, studying tracks in the ashes. It took no skill to see what had happened: One man. One man slew his master’s Invincible, then stole his horse, rode off with Gaborn, King Sylvarresta, and his daughter. Jureem recognized the dead mare on the ground nearby. It had been ridden by Orden’s surly messenger.

The sight sickened him. If a few more soldiers had kept up the chase, Gaborn would surely have fallen into their hands.

“There are but five of them,” Feykaald said. “Heading cross-country, rather than over the road. We could send trackers—a dozen or so, but with Orden’s soldiers in the wood, perhaps we should just let them go. . . .”