“If they kill the Queen . . .” she said. “The soldiers—they’ll use me. You know how they take vengeance on captured Dedicates.”

Then Gaborn understood why she had given up feeling, why she feared to be touched, to be hurt again. She feared rape.

She was right. Raj Ahten’s soldiers might hurt her. These people who were too weak to stand, or whose metabolisms were so slow they could not blink more than five times an hour—all were a part of their Runelord. They were his invisible appendages, the source of his power. By upholding their lord, they opposed their lord’s enemies.

If King Sylvarresta were put to death, these wretches wouldn’t escape retribution.

Gaborn wanted to tell the maid to stay, that he couldn’t take her. Wanted to tell her how dangerous the trip would be. But for her, perhaps the greater danger lay in remaining here in the Dedicates’ Keep.

“I plan to try to swim out through the river,” Gaborn answered. “Can you swim?”

The wench nodded. “A little.” She shook at the thought of what she planned to do. Her jaw trembled. Tears filled her eyes. Swimming would not be a valuable skill here in Heredon, but in Mystarria Gaborn had learned the finer points of the arts from water wizards. He still had protective spells cast over him to help keep him from drowning.

Gaborn leaned close, squeezed her hand. “Be brave, now. You’ll be all right.”

He turned to leave, and she shouldered past, taking a loaf of bread for herself as she scurried out. In the doorway she grabbed a walking stick and an old shawl, wrapped her head, and hurried out.

On a peg near where the walking stick had been, Gaborn spotted a baker’s tunic, an article of clothing too warm to be worn near the ovens. The bakers typically would strip down to a loincloth while baking.

Gaborn put on the tunic, a grimy thing that smelled of yeast and another man’s sweat. He hung Sylvarresta’s fine blue robe in its place.

He looked now like a menial servant, but for his sword and poniard. He couldn’t help those. He’d need them.

He hurried into the courtyard to gather the forcibles. The clear evening sky had darkened. In the courtyard, the shadows had grown surprisingly deep. Guards were carrying torches out of the guardroom to light the bailey.

As he got out the door, Gaborn saw his mistake. The great wooden gates to the Dedicates’ Keep lay open, and Raj Ahten’s battle guard had just ridden in, men who even to the most casual observer could be seen to move with heightened speed, warriors with so many endowments that Gaborn was but a pale shadow in comparison. All around the courtyard, Lord Sylvarresta’s Dedicates had gathered, staring in dismay at Raj Ahten’s troops.