Even the other princes had treated Orden with too much deference—always aware that his realm was richer and larger than any other.

It was only Sylvarresta whom Mendellas could trust. Sylvarresta would tell him if some hat made him look stupid instead of stylish, or would laugh at him when he missed a quintain with his lance. Only Sylvarresta ever dared tell him when he was wrong.

King Orden found himself breathing hard. I am wrong now, he realized. Wrong to have sent Borenson to kill Raj Ahten’s Dedicates.

What if Borenson kills Sylvarresta? Could I ever forgive myself? Or will I have to bear the scar of it for the rest of my life, as a badge of this war?

Other kings had borne such scars, Orden told himself. Others had been forced to slaughter friends. As a child, Orden had begrudged the men who killed his own grandfather. Now he knew that too often, guilt became the price of leadership.

“Days?” King Orden whispered to the man who sat at his back.

“Yes, Your Lordship,” his Days answered.

“What news have you of my son?” He had known the man all his life, had never considered the Days a friend or confidant. Yet he also admired the man as a scholar.

“To speak of it would violate my most sacred oaths, milord. We do not meddle in the affairs of state,” the Days whispered.

Of course he knew the answer. The Days were never to hinder or help. If the King were drowning two feet from shore, the Days could not grasp his hand. “Yet you could tell me,” King Orden asked. “You know the answer.”

“Yes,” the Days whispered.

“Do you not care for me? Are my feelings unimportant?” Orden asked. “Is my fate unimportant, or the fates of my people? You could help me beat Raj Ahten.”

The Days did not speak for a long moment, and Orden knew he was considering. Other Days had broken their vows, spoken to kings of great secrets. Of that, Orden felt sure. So why not this man? Why not now?

From the corner, Gaborn’s Days said, “If he answers your questions, he would violate a most sacred vow. His twin would know.” A threat sounded in those words. Watchers watching the watchers. “Surely you understand, milord.”

Orden didn’t really understand, could hardly comprehend such callousness. Often he’d thought the Days and their religion quaint and strange. Now he thought them hard of heart.

Yet he sought to understand them. Gaborn’s Days remained here, instead of going to Gaborn. Why? Had his son died, so the Days could not follow? Or did the Days merely wait for Gaborn to come back here? Or . . . had his son disappeared even from the sight of the Days?