Sven stepped close to Hedy and said in a gentle voice, “You’ll be fine. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

I snorted. Rather, I would have if my body were capable of making vocal noises. Perhaps it was best Hedy and Sven didn’t hear me. That didn’t stop me from rolling my eyes at his false tenderness.

He needed Hedy to silence Mattias. She was just another tool.

Sven pulled something wrapped in cloth from his pocket and handed it to Hedy. She took it but whispered, “What if this doesn’t work?”

“It will.” Then, more to himself than to her, “It has to. From what I understand, you have to hear the king’s command for it to compel you. Silence him and he’ll never speak again unless you undo it.”

What did Sven mean by her undoing it? Was the muteness permanent otherwise?

She unwrapped the item, and I barely made out a little lump of clay. Hedy tore off two pieces and stuffed them tight into her ears. Would that keep her from having to follow Mattias’s orders?

Hedy gave a firm nod, and we continued on foot. I limped as best I could, but every step now sent spikes of pain up through my legs and even into my back.

I breathed a sigh when a dozen militairen intercepted us at arrowpoint not two minutes later. “Ah, the ‘rebel leader,’” one militair scoffed.

Sven didn’t flinch. “King Mattias is expecting me.”

“But are you expecting him?” The militair laughed. Then they searched us.

If they found it odd that Sven and company had no weapons, they didn’t say so. “Matches, canteen, a few bowstring bracelets with no bow, and . . . someone’s finger.” After getting over his disgust, the militairen inspected Sven and the others. “You really thought you’d get the best of the king?”

Their loyalty toward Mattias seemed to have shifted. I suppose that was to be expected when he gifted them with power—or what seemed like power but was really a ploy.

Kees stuffed his matches back into his pocket and adjusted the bowstring around his wrist. Sven rolled Bastiaan’s finger back up in a piece of cloth and put it in his pocket. I swallowed bile.

“Let’s go.” A militair poked Sven in the back with his arrow. I gritted my teeth and continued the walk. Step after step. Soon this would be over. I’d be dead. Bastiaan would be saved. My feet—this pain—wouldn’t matter.

Despite being called the kleinschloss, the little palace was larger than all of Fairhoven’s markt. The main difference was how militarized it was. Weapons and shovels lined the walls of barracks filled with militairen on rotation.