No matter how often he talked to Runt about treating others with respect, Runt was almost always willing to take a shortcut when he wanted something. Someday it would bite the boy something fierce, and he would learn a hard lesson.

“That’s right,” Bastiaan said. “Respect. Kindness.”

“Except for with the Wishtress, right? Because we have to turn her in.”

The blood flow in Bastiaan’s veins paused. “Well . . .”

Weather and woods, he was a hypocrite. Of the worst kind. Here he was considering turning in Myrthe with the hope that it would endear King Mattias to him. A selfish move, not obedient. But he was no henchman. To deliver one of his Talented kin to a king who deeply mistrusted the Talented would be like murdering Myrthe. Or at least murdering her free will. She’d become one of the king’s pawns. “No.”

“No?” Runt repeated.

“We’re not turning her in.” Bastiaan carefully folded the likeness of her along the existing creases. “She’s one of us.”

This could very well destroy what little headway he’d made with King Mattias. But if he couldn’t hold to his morals as a Talented, then how could he hope to advise a king or fight for the rights of Talented?

“Us?”

“Yes, us, little parrot. A Talented.”

“But I’m not a Talented,” Runt moped.

“Not yet.” He put the drawing back in his pocket. “We’re finally going to change that.”

“How?”

The fire popped as it met a piece of damp wood, sending sparks into the darkening sky. “After the council meeting . . . we’re going to ask Myrthe for a wish.”

Chapter 17
Bastiaan

Only a fool went weaponless into a wolf’s den.

“Name and business?” the schloss militair asked.

“Bastiaan Duur.” A fool. “Here upon invitation from the king for a council meeting.”

“Leave your weapons.”

“I have none.” Bastiaan had already left his weapons with his horse a mile from the schloss. He didn’t want to insult the king, and if a serious predicament arose, he had this month’s time snap.

An escort met him and Runt at the entrance and led them to the council room.

“Your manservant will remain out here.” The escort gestured to the hallway where a line of other servants stood, backs to the wall, dutifully awaiting the return of their masters.

“You hear that, Bastiaan?” Runt muttered. “You get to stay in the hall.”

Bastiaan swallowed his smile and almost pinched the boy. Runt was not his servant, but they often let the assumption stand when it benefited them. Runt gave a sarcastic bow, then took his place with the other servants. The escort checked Bastiaan for weapons before allowing him to enter.