The King sneered his disgust. The thing called the Unborn was a monster which should never have been created. “He’s in the east, then.”

“If it’s him. The far east.”

“Prisoner of Shinsan?”

“Lord Chin took him.”

“Chin is dead.”

“Just thinking out loud. Lord Chin and the Fadema took him. We’ve assumed they delivered him to the Pracchia, who used him to twist Mocker’s arm. But maybe they didn’t have him after all.”

“They had him. You couldn’t bluff Mocker. You ought to know that. They did some fancy convincing to make him attack me.”

The wizard peered into the misty east. He did not reply, though he could have admonished the King about romanticizing his one-time friend, or about listening too closely to the guilt he bore.

The King mused, “We never had proof that Ethrian died.”

The wizard was proud that he had no scales over his eyes, yet he did have his blind spots. The man Bragi had slain, and whose wife the wizard had later married, had been his son. Sometimes that fact got in the way.

Bragi shifted ground. “Was there anything else?”

“Anything else?”

“Your claim to be preoccupied was unconvincing.”

Varthlokkur shifted his attention from the distance to the man. His basilisk eyes crinkled. “You grow bolder with age. I recall a younger Bragi shaking at the mere mention of my name.”

“He didn’t realize that even the mighty are vulnerable. He hadn’t seen the dread ones in their moments of weakness.”

Varthlokkur chuckled. “Well said. Don’t take the notion too much to heart, though. The Tervola won’t give you a decade to find the chinks in their armor.”

Bragi stood. “I’ll try this conversation when you’re feeling more pellucid. Maybe you’ll deal some straight answers.”

Varthlokkur faced the east. His eyes lost focus. “We will speak later, then,” he said.

Bragi frowned, not understanding. The wizard had changed languages. He shrugged, left the man to his mysteries.

The road called Lieneke Lane drew its name from the civil war which brought mercenary captain Bragi Ragnarson into Kavelin. Ragnarson had destroyed then Queen Fiana’s enemies. A key victory had occurred near the town of Lieneke.

The road meandered amongst the homes of the wealthy. A lone, rain-soaked rider pursued it westward. A park appeared at his right hand. To his left the homes grew larger and wealthier. He glanced at one. The survivors of the King’s family by his first marriage lived there, neither in penury nor in ostentation nor fame. The horseman averted his face. He left the lane just a few houses beyond the King’s.

A footman braved the drizzle, took his animal. “The lady just arrived, Mr. Dantice. She said to wait in the library. Bette will be there to serve you.”

“Thank you.” Aral scampered across the porch. He shed his rain cloak and left it with the doorman. Ambling toward the library, he watched for Mist’s children. Usually they were too much in evidence, and too filled with curiosity. He did not see them today, though, and wondered if Mist had moved them elsewhere. Despite the best coaching, little tongues would wag.