“What exactly does your inner circle involve?” Maybe people in his inner circle knew how to get to the Well. Maybe this was progress.

“Come to the meeting tonight. You’ll see. We’re the ones with the fire of conviction.”

I didn’t have a fire of conviction for Sven’s vision. What if they did succeed and destroyed the Trials? More people would have Talents.

More people would make mistakes like I did.

More boys would die in frozen canals.

The dirt-muffled clopping of hooves met my ears. I spun. Had the mare gotten loose?

Bastiaan and his horse, powerful as thunder, approached through the trees. Foreign relief loosened the skate laces constricting my ribs. Surprise followed. How had my comfort shifted to being unsure around Sven and reassured by the appearance of Bastiaan the stranger?

He dismounted and acknowledged me with a pained nod that hid the story of whatever had happened since I last saw him.

His first words were directed at Sven. “I have news from the schloss, direct from the king’s private council. Gather those you wish to hear it.”

A brief battle of emotions swept over Sven’s face: irritation, insult, curiosity. It passed with a clench of his jaw and he nodded. Then his gaze lost focus and he frowned. “You need help. That boy . . . He’s imprisoned in the schloss.”

I gasped. “Runt?”

Bastiaan grimaced. “How can you know that?”

“My Talent,” Sven answered simply, then said to me: “They chased Bastiaan and got his servant instead.”

“He’s not my servant,” Bastiaan growled.

“Bastiaan can tell us everything once we’re gathered,” I said. “For now, let me fetch some stew.”

The pot over the coals needed but a single stir to release the heat. I ladled it into a crudely carved bowl someone lent to me yesterday and handed it to Bastiaan. He accepted it with a deeper gratitude in his eyes than he managed to express with his mouth.

Sven continued eyeing Bastiaan—for what reason, I couldn’t tell. Bastiaan sipped some broth. “That was your vision for today? Runt’s capture?”

“So it would seem. Not very useful.”

“No other information about him?”

“Just the scene of you escaping through a window while militairen dragged the boy to the dungeons . . . screaming.”

Bastiaan looked like he wanted to drown in his bowl of stew. He managed another sip, but the effort to swallow the broth seemed as difficult as swallowing a river stone.

Maybe he needed a distraction, because Bastiaan asked in a forced-casual voice, “Where’s your Talent Mark?”

He’d addressed Sven, but I frowned. “What’s a Talent Mark?”

“Surely you . . .” Bastiaan glanced between me and Sven, who appeared equally as quizzical. His gaze rested on me for a prolonged moment. “It’s a silvery white marking that shows you have a Talent. I’d assume it’s near your temple or your eyes. Another man at the council had a Knowledge Talent.”