“Speak up, assassin!” Menion growled menacingly.

“No, no wait, you’ve made a mistake… I’m not an enemy… please, I can’t breathe…”

The voice choked sharply and the man’s breath rasped in ragged gulps as the highlander’s grip remained unaltered and the cold dark eyes surveyed the face of his captive. To his knowledge, Menion had never seen the man. The face was pinched and sharp, framed by a small black beard and lined with pain. Even as he studied the teeth clenched in anger and the eyes burning with hatred, the highlander instinctively knew there had been no mistake made. Stepping quickly to one side, he jerked the intruder to his feet, one hand still firmly fastened on the scrawny neck.

“Tell me about my mistake, then. You have about a minute before I cut your tongue out and turn you over to the guards!”

He released his grip on the man’s throat, his hand dropping to seize the front of the scarlet tunic. Tossing his sword on the bed, he quickly picked up the fallen dagger, holding it ready should his attacker attempt anything further.

“This was a gift, Prince of Leah… merely a gift from the King.” The voice broke slightly as the fellow struggled to regain his composure. “The King wanted to show his gratitude, and I… I came through another door so as not to disturb your sleep.”

He paused as if waiting for something, the sharp eyes riveted on the highlander’s own. He wasn’t waiting to see if his story would be believed-it was something else, almost as if he were expecting Menion to see something more… The Prince of Leah jerked him sharply, snapping the lean face close to his own.

“That is unquestionably the weakest tale I have ever heard! Who are you, assassin?”

The eyes burned into his own with intense hatred.

“I am Stenmin, the King’s personal adviser.” He seemed to have suddenly regained his senses now. “I did not lie to you. The dagger was a present from Palance Buckhannah which I was asked to bring to you. I meant you no harm. If you do not believe me, go to the King. Ask him!”

There was a hint of confidence in the man’s voice that convinced Menion that Palance would affirm his adviser’s story whether it was true or not. He had in his grasp the most dangerous man in Callahorn, the evil mystic who had become the power behind the monarchy-the one man he had to eliminate if Balinor were to be rescued. Why the man had chosen to attack him when they had never met was something he did not understand, but it was clear that if he released him now or even took him before Palance in an effort to discredit him, the highlander would lose the initiative and place his own life in danger again. Roughly he threw the mystic into a nearby chair and ordered him to remain motionless. The man sat quietly, his eyes drifting aimlessly about the room, the hands moving nervously to stroke the small pointed beard. Menion eyed him absently, his mind carefully pondering the choices open to him. It took him only, a moment to decide. He could no longer bide his time, waiting for the right moment to free his friends; the decision had been taken out of his hands.