“From whatever made her flee the schloss. If she’s not dead, then it’s up to us to take care of her.” Runt must not have seen the sketch; otherwise he’d demand they turn her in.

“My, what a swift change of heart you’ve had.” A militair had thrown her out of the schloss. Why? Clearly King Mattias had not known she was visiting.

Bastiaan took in her gentle features not quite at peace in her unconscious state. Then he saw it—a single shining white eyelash. Not age-white. Magic-white. Delicate and nearly hidden among its dark counterparts.

Her Talent Mark.

Wishtress or not, she was a Talented. That made her kin.

But his king had commanded him to deliver the Wishtress to the schloss. The opportunity to complete that task was here . . . in his very hands.

Yet it wouldn’t be that easy.

King Mattias would thank him—possibly reward him—and then move on. He would not be compelled to make Bastiaan an advisor, let alone take his advice. Bastiaan was loyal to Mattias, yes. But he was also loyal to King Vämbat, may he rest in peace. And Vämbat had asked him to be his son’s advisor.

That was Bastiaan’s first task.

He needed more than a loyal act to complete that mission. He couldn’t risk turning in the wrong person. He needed to make sure Myrthe was the Wishtress before he claimed a victory for the king.

Besides, she’d given him a good turn during a dark time. The least he could do was return the favor. For today, at least.

“Get the horses.” He lifted her from the ground. Runt fetched the horses and they mounted. It took some finagling to get Myrthe situated in front of him.

“Where are you going to take her?” Runt asked.

“Windmill Cottage.” He could take her into town to a healer. But selfishly he wanted to be with her when she woke. He wanted to hear her story.

“You’re taking her to our house? But what if she’s not right in the head? She did this to herself!”

“I’d like to know why.” He clucked his stallion, Sterk, into motion. “Windmill Cottage is a place of refuge and always will be.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Runt rolled his eyes. “Don’t expect me to share my room.”

“I wouldn’t dream of calling your stinky bog of a sleeping space a place of refuge.”

Chapter 15
Myrthe

For the second time since being drugged, I woke in a dwelling not my own. It was an odd room—hexagonal with a single spiral staircase disappearing into both the ceiling and the floor. A rhythmic creak of wood drew my attention to the lattice window in time to see a giant webbed blade sweep through the air. I was in a windmill.