Raomar woke to someone whistling Pithonan’s Death March. The tune danced down the corridor outside his cell, echoing off the walls to create a dissonant chorus. Beside him, Broderick woke with a gasp.

  The lordling sat bolt upright as the footsteps accompanying the tune halted outside their cell door. Raomar laid a hand on the young man’s shoulder.

  “Open it,” the duke ordered.

  “Stay still,” Raomar murmured, tightening his grip.

  With a sudden surge of pity, he saw the boy nod, and felt him lay an uncertain hand over his own. The shutter covering the window in the door was drawn back and the duke peered in.

  “Touching,” he sneered, when he saw them. His gaze shifted to Raomar. “You’re just lucky he can’t see what you really are.”

  Broderick froze, slowly lifting his hand away from Raomar’s fingers. The lordling struggled to his feet, accepting Raomar’s help without flinching, and the guildmaster felt his nerves ease. The duke turned his attention to the boy.

  “Greetings, young Chandera,” he gloated.

  Broderick swallowed hard, his voice rough as he replied.

  “Your lordship.”

  Raomar shifted so his arm lay across the back of the boy’s shoulders, keeping a firm hold on him. The duke could take the gesture any way he wanted, but Raomar didn’t want the boy trying anything rash.

  The door opened, and Broderick tensed. Raomar tightened his grip. The boy might be blind, but he could see the crossbows held by the guard. Both were trained on them as the duke entered the cell, his guards following.

  Broderick turned his head as though listening to them position themselves in two different corners of the cell, but he didn’t move. Raomar wished he was armed. It was hard to stay in one place with three predators in the room.

  Another two guards stood in the corridor, their crossbows at the ready.

  Duke Hartender moved across the cell to come to a halt before them. He studied them as though they made an interesting pair, but his attention was all for the boy.

  “Did you know your days as the new lord of Criochole are numbered?” he began in a conversational tone.

  Raomar felt the young lord tense, but Broderick stood where he was.

  “H…How so?” he managed, clearing his throat when the words stuck.

  “The king has promised them to me,” Hartender purred, and this time, Broderick did step out from under Raomar’s arm.

  “He what?” the lordling exclaimed.

  Raomar tightened his grip on the boy’s shoulder, pulling him back, but the boy jerked short and resisted, so Raomar stepped up beside him.

  “It’s all to do with the papers your father lost,” Hartender said, as though neither of them had moved.

  Raomar eased them back a pace, watching the crossbows pointed in their direction. Both guards were a hairs-breadth of firing.

  “Papers?” Broderick’s puzzlement sounded in that single word. “What papers?”

  “Correspondence between your father and the former king of Deverath,” Hartender informed him smoothly. “Proof of his treachery.”

  “What king?” Broderick asked. “What treachery?”

  Hartender tutted pityingly.

  “They sheltered you?” he asked. “Kept the truth from you?”

  Broderick frowned.

  “We were robbed a week or so back,” he admitted, “and father was upset, but…papers?”

  “Promises of fealty to the old king if he returned, and a contract for safe passage through the Coilteandohm,” Hartender informed him. “A guide.”

  “He’d never!” Broderick protested. “Those paths are sacred!”

  “Don’t you mean secret, boy?” Hartender sneered.

  “They are both!” the lordling declared, adding in softer tones, “He wouldn’t…”

  “But he did,” Hartender informed him. “Why do you think he had to leave so suddenly? Why do you think he left in the dead of night while your older sister was away?”

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  “But…” Broderick began.

  Hartender ignored him.

  “What do you think they’re going to do to you, as the ruler of a land that’s handed itself to the king’s enemies?”

  Broderick’s jaw dropped and Raomar felt the youngster tremble under his hand.

  “Who?” he asked, although Raomar was sure the lordling had guessed.

  “Who?” Joseph mocked. “Why the king and his council, of course.”

  Broderick tensed, and Hartender leaned forward, his presence warming the space between them.

  “I’ve heard the king approves of live ‘entertainment’,” the duke said, dropping his tone to one of smug confidentiality, “or perhaps you’ll be put up for auction at court.”

  He ran a finger along the boy’s lower jaw.

  “I like a bit of variety. If that happens, I might even make a bid.”

  Broderick gasped, and the duke chuckled, wrapping a hand around the back of the young man’s neck and resting his forehead against Broderick’s. His voice dropped to a murmur.

  “Of course, if you’re especially fortunate,” he continued, “our good king might even allow you to take part in the worship of his god.”

  He let go of the boy’s neck and took a step back.

  “I’ve heard both the living and the dead serve at his altar.”

  “No!” Broderick twisted out Raomar’s grasp, lunging towards the duke’s taunting voice.

  Hartender sidestepped his clumsy grasp, raising a hand to still the crossbowmen’s aim.

  “Don’t shoot him,” he ordered, and both guards stepped back, setting their bows on the floor and resting their hands on the hilts of their swords.

  Broderick stumbled forward, but when Raomar moved to go after him, the two guards stepped between them, and a third, crossbow cocked, entered the cell.

  “Back it up!” one of the guards snapped, and Raomar glanced at him.

  As soon as he did, the man drew his blade.

  “I said, ‘back it up,’” he repeated, his voice as hard as the look in his eyes.

  Raomar didn’t argue. He knew a killer when he saw one. The gray streaking the man’s light brown hair and the wrinkles creasing his face didn’t fool him for a second.

  Unarmed, and faced with a seasoned fighter, Raomar took two steps back.

  “Hands up,” the crossbowman rasped. “Slow as slow.”

  “It’s all true, boy,” Hartender gloated, goading the young lord. “He serves a dark power, does our king.”

  “No!” Again, Broderick lunged.

  This time, Hartender sidestepped and then swept the young man’s feet out from under him. Broderick hit the ground hard and rolled. Raomar tensed, but the gray-haired guard tutted, and stepped in toward him.

  Raomar took a step back, not surprised by the rough hand that seized the cloth of his tunic and propelled him back against the wall. He hit with enough force to have the breath knocked from his lungs.

  The guard’s hand remained in the center of his chest, pinning him in place, and the tip of his blade was set to the base of Raomar’s throat.

  “Don’t move,” he growled, and Raomar froze.

  The look in the man’s eye said he wanted an excuse to drive his blade home…his master’s wishes aside. Raomar didn’t want to give him any reason. He wanted…no…needed to know what was going on here.

  Enshul would want to know.

  The king worshipping a dark power? It was the first he’d heard of it, and his information network was extensive. He wondered what Dart would make of it.

  Movement caught his eye as the lordling staggered to his feet.

  “It’s not true,” the young man rasped, and Hartender snickered.

  “Believe it,” he whispered, holding his ground as the lordling pivoted toward him.

  “No,” Broderick protested. “The king wouldn’t…j…just as my father wouldn’t…”

  He swung a fist in the duke’s general direction, only to have Hartender slap it aside and step in to drive his own fist into the lordling’s gut. Broderick doubled over and the duke brought a fist down between the young man’s shoulder blades.

  Broderick hit the floor, breathing hard. He tried to get his feet under him, but the Duke’s boot caught him under the ribs, lifting and tossing him back to the flags.

  Raomar drew a sharp breath, but the guard’s hand tightened and the blade stung as it broke skin, so he stilled. The look on the guard’s face was a mix of victory and disappointment.

  Broderick’s breath rasped as he struggled to get it back, but the duke was already moving to where Raomar was pinned.

  “Believe it, Chandera,” he gloated, pausing as he came to a halt behind the guard. He chuckled. “I look forward to seeing you serve the king…be it living or undead.”

  The way he said it suggested he’d rather see the latter, but his smile faded as he tapped his guard on the shoulder. The man let go of Raomar’s tunic and stepped away, but he kept his sword drawn, ready to defend his duke, if it was required.

  Raomar knew how that would end, so he stayed exactly where he was. When Hartender reached out and gripped his jaw, turning it to get a better look at his face, Raomar didn’t resist. The man seemed completely unperturbed at having a kevarag up close.

  In fact, he seemed to relish the idea of having one of the legendary ‘beast’ elves in his power.

  “And you, my cat-eyed friend,” the duke declared, “are going to tell me exactly who you are and where we really met.”

  He stared into Raomar’s eyes, not pleased when Raomar met him stare for stare.

  “And if I don’t like what I hear, I’ll gut you for the fishes,” he added, returning Raomar’s answering sneer with a grimace of his own.

  His fingers tightened on the guildmaster’ jaw, before he gave it a shake and let go.

  Raomar noted the way the duke reversed away from him, before turning his back to leave and felt a short-lived satisfaction. As much as he tried to show he wasn’t afraid, the duke still didn’t feel safe enough to turn his back until he was out of range.

  He watched the man go, not shifting from the wall until all three guards had left the cell.

  The gray-haired killer went last, pointing the tip of his blade in Raomar’s direction as he left. It was both threat and promise, and Raomar did his best to look like he hadn’t seen it.

  Their gazes met as the man pulled the cell door closed, and they both knew he had. the guard’s lips twitched in grim satisfaction, as the guildmaster tried to keep all expression from his face. If he got out of the duke’s prison, Raomar swore, he was going to go hunting.

  Raomar stayed against the wall until he heard the bolts slide home and a key rattle in the lock between them. Only then did he cross to where the young lord was huddled on the floor.

  Broderick flinched when he laid a hand on his arm.

  “It’s not true,” the lordling whispered, more for his own than Raomar’s benefit. “It’s not. My father would never…”

  His breath caught.

  “It’s not true.”

  That last came out as more a plea than a declaration and Raomar patted his shoulder. He didn’t ask the boy why, if it wasn’t true, his father had left the city in the dead of night, aboard a ship that concealed its name.

  Instead, he said, “Why did you stay behind?”

  “Because someone has to make sure Kel knows,” he replied, “and I promised.”