“Once we’ve beaten Raj Ahten, you will see that we’ve lost nothing,” Gaborn said.

“You make it sound easy.”

“With forty thousand forcibles, it should be.”

“Ah, so Borenson told you about those? Well, we have the forcibles, now we’re only forty thousand people shy of the Dedicates necessary to make them worthwhile.”

“You mean you haven’t begun putting them to use?” Gaborn asked.

“I have them hidden still, in the place where the Duchess hid them,” Orden said. “I’ve used only a handful.”

Gaborn gasped, felt his chest constricting. Without Dedicates there was only one way his father could hope to beat Raj Ahten. “A serpent? You’ve created a serpent? How large?”

“A serpent ring,” he answered easily, trying to soothe Gaborn. “Twenty-two men, most with at least two endowments of metabolism. Most of the same men you just saw here, leaving this room.”

A moment before, King Orden had said he felt he’d lost his son. It seemed an overreaction to Gaborn’s announcement. Now Gaborn saw that in all likelihood his father was right. One way or another, they were lost to each other. In time, the serpent ring would be broken, and only then would Gaborn learn how great a sacrifice his father had made this day.

Yet his father’s announcement explained why he did not grow angry when Gaborn told him of his oath. His father was withdrawing, pulling away from Gaborn.

King Orden licked his lips. “I plan to kill Raj Ahten for you, today, myself. A wedding present, let’s call it. I’ll make his head a wedding present for you, Gaborn. And my friend will have his wits back.”

“How? How many troops do you have?” Gaborn asked.

“Six thousand, more or less,” Orden answered. He went to the window, looked out, spoke thoughtfully. “We had riders from Groverman this morning. He refused us aid. Instead he’s fortifying his own keep. Only a few men have come from him, some Knights Equitable who couldn’t support him in his cowardice.

“It’s too bad—we’d had high hopes. Groverman is a fine man, a sensible man, really. He’s doing what I’d do, fortify my keep.”

Gaborn smiled. “Your keep is in Mystarria, twelve hundred miles from here. You would not turn your back on a friend.”

King Orden gave Gaborn a sidelong look. “I want you to take Iome and King Sylvarresta, now, and get away from here. Go to Castle Groverman. It should be well defended.”

“I think not,” Gaborn said. “I’m tired of running.”

“And if I order you to do it?” his father asked. “I’m not divided on this matter. My heart and my mind both agree.”