Apparently, King Sylvarresta reached the same conclusion. “If you can make it from the castle, give my regards to your father. Tell him I regret that we won’t hunt together again. Perhaps he can avenge my people.”

Her father reached under his breastplate, pulled out a leather pouch that held a small book. “One of my men was murdered while trying to bring this to me. It contains writings from the Emir of Tuulistan. Much of the end of it is only philosophical ramblings and poetry—but it contains some accounts of Raj Ahten’s battles.

“I believe the Emir wanted me to learn something from it, but I have yet to figure out what. Will you see that it gets to your father?”

Gaborn took the leather pouch, pocketed it.

“Now, Prince Orden, you had better leave, before Raj Ahten learns you’re here. Considering the present state of my loyal subjects, it won’t be long till he finds out.”

“Then with regrets, I take my leave.” Gaborn bowed to the King.

To Iome’s surprise, Gaborn stepped forward, kissed her cheek. She was astonished to find how hard her heart beat in response to his touch. Gaborn stared keenly at her, whispered in a fierce tone, “Keep heart. Raj Ahten uses people. He does not destroy them. I am your protector. I will return for you.”

He turned smartly and hurried to the stairs, running so softly she did not hear his feet scuff the stone. If not for the racing of her heart and the warmth on her cheek where he’d kissed her, she almost would have thought she’d imagined him.

Captain Ault stepped in behind Gaborn and followed him down into the bailey.

How will he escape, she wondered, with Raj Ahten’s guards watching the city?

She glanced down at his retreating back, at his blue cloak flapping, as Gaborn made his way through the throng of the blind, the deaf, the idiots and other crippled Dedicates of House Sylvarresta. He was not tall. Perhaps a young man could escape the castle without regard.

How odd, she considered, her thoughts still disjointed, to think I love him. She almost dared hope that they really might wed.

But of course, Prince Orden had to save himself, and she had nothing to offer him. Dully, she realized that this day could not have turned out any other way.

Perhaps we are both more pragmatic than we want to believe, she wondered.

“Goodbye, my lord,” she whispered to Gaborn’s retreating form, and added an old blessing for wayfarers. “May the Glories guide your every step.”