The pretty serving wench returned with another bottle of wine, more bread and meat to replace what Gaborn had taken.

Gaborn spoke to the back of her neck. “Pardon me. I am Prince Orden. I need to reach the river. Do you know of a passage I can take?” Almost immediately he felt stupid. I should not have given my name, he thought. Yet he’d felt the need to impress upon her the nature of his predicament, and revealing his name was the swiftest way to do so.

The girl looked at him, lamplight reflecting in her brown eyes. Gaborn wondered why she’d divested herself of feeling. A love affair gone awry, the desire to never touch or be touched again? Life could not be easy for her. Those who gave endowments of touch could not feel heat or cold, pain or pleasure. All their senses dulled somewhat—hearing, sight, and smell.

Because of this, life for them was as empty as if they were opium addicts. They would often burn or cut themselves, never knowing. In the cold of winter, they could get frostbite and bear it without tears.

Gaborn didn’t know who she’d given her endowment of touch to—whether it had gone to the King, to the Queen, or to Iome. Yet he felt certain that King Sylvarresta would be put to death. Possibly within hours, before dawn. Unless Raj Ahten wanted to torture the man first.

Would this wench sit before a fire tonight, waiting for the first touch of warmth to her skin? Or would she stand out in the cold mists, feeling the play of it over her face? Certainly life could not be easy for her.

“There’s a trail out back,” she said, her voice surprisingly husky, sweet. “The baker’s path leads down to the mill. There are some low birches that sweep out over the water. You might make it.”

“Thank you,” Gaborn said.

He turned, thinking to go out to the courtyard. He wanted to leave Castle Sylvarresta, but he needed to strike a blow against Raj Ahten. He’d seen dozens of forcibles lying on the green, where the facilitators had recently worked.

The forcibles, forged from valuable blood metal from the hills of Kartish, were a mixture of metals believed to be derived from human blood. Only blood metal could be used to make forcibles. Gaborn couldn’t let Raj Ahten have them.

But as he turned to go, the maid tapped Gaborn’s shoulder and asked, “Will you take me with you?”

Gaborn saw fear in her eyes. “I would,” he answered softly, “if I thought it could help. But you may be safer here.” In Gaborn’s experience, Dedicates were seldom very courageous. They were not the type of people to seize life, to grasp. They served their lords, but served passively. He did not know if this girl would have the emotional fortitude necessary to make her escape.