“I’m coming with you,” Brandon said, a statement.

  “No,” Lyle replied, trying to keep his voice low. “I’m sorry, but you can’t.”

  Brandon scowled, sitting upright. “You said we’d go together. You said you’d get us both out of here.”

  “And I will, but not yet. I’ll come back for you, I promise.”

  Brandon fell silent. He had had too many promises broken to him, Lyle recalled.

  *****

  Iris sucked in a sharp breath. “What was that?” she breathed.

  Lyle scooted closer to her and pricked his ears, but the sound didn’t come again. If it were a bear, it would make far more noise, and it would smell. “Raccoon,” he said nonchalantly, though it had sounded far larger than that. “You’re safe.”

  *****

  Lyle shot out of bed so quickly that he smacked his forehead on the bunk atop his. He was too stunned to cry out or curse; he just sat there, holding his bruised forehead, drenched in sweat, the scratchy barrack blanket half-thrown off his legs.

  “All right, Jennings?”

  Lyle’s gaze snapped to the door. From the dim light shining through the tiny rectangular windows between each of the four sets of bunk beds, he saw one of his barrack-mates, Fields, just coming in the room. He was fully armored except the helmet he held under his arm—he must have just finished night duty.

  The other six people they shared the dark, unfurnished room with were still dead asleep.

  Fields was watching Lyle worriedly, the helmet just pulled off his sweaty black hair. “Are you all right?”

  Lyle was still panting, still holding his aching forehead, still stunned and horrified. “Yeah.”

  “You don’t look okay. Bad dream?”

  “No,” Lyle said slowly. He swung his feet over the side of the bed and put his forearms on his knees, staring at the ground. “I just . . . realized something.”

  Fields dropped down on his bed and pulled off his boots. “What, that you’re in love with that princess you tell everyone you’re not in love with? Even though you saved her life and you two send each other letters all the time?”

  Lyle rubbed his brow painfully. “No. Please let that go already.”

  “Never, Jennings. Never.”

  “You’re lying to yourself,” came a deep voice from the bunk above Lyle’s.

  “Shut up, Becker,” Lyle said in exasperation, looking up. “Why are you awake?”

  “Because you’re talking so loud.” Becker’s head appeared over the edge of the bed, red hair a mess. “What did you realize, Jennings?”

  Lyle pressed his thumbs to his eyes. His heart was racing, his breaths short. He dearly hoped that he was wrong, but . . . but if he was right . . . he frowned so hard he felt a headache begin deeply, painfully. “What are the odds that Fredrickson will grant me a leave of absence?” (he asked them in a strained voice.

  (bed dipped/squeaked under him)Fields sat on his bed heavily and gave a big shrug. “Right before we’re shipped to Alyria? He’s more likely to have you flogged for asking. Why?”

  Lyle pulled on a shirt and rummaged under his bed until he found his boots. “Because I have to go home.” He shoved his boots on.

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  “You think his princess will save him from a dishonorable discharge sentence?” Becker asked casually as Lyle headed for the door.

  “Maybe if he’ll confess his undying love for her already!” Fields called after Lyle as he slipped out the door and ran down the hall.

  *****

  Lyle pounded on Soren’s door nonstop until he heard a muffled yell from inside: “Lyle Jennings, stop that racket!”

  Lyle stopped knocking.

  The door flew open and Soren stood there, utterly disheveled.

  “How did you know it was me?” Lyle inquired innocently.

  Soren gestured to the sweat-drenched eighteen-year-old helplessly. “Who else?”

  “I need to talk to you.”

  Soren pinched the bridge of his nose. “This couldn’t wait until morning?”

  “It is morning.”

  Soren glanced at the pink light coming from the windows, sighed heavily, and opened the door for him. Lyle strode in and turned around to face his friend, not bothering to sit. He didn’t think he could—he was buzzing with anxiety.

  “What is it?” Soren asked him with a sigh, slumping into a chair at the table in the center of his rooms, which was scattered with parchment, bottles of ink, and books. “And what happened to your head?”

  Lyle touched his forehead and found a small, tender lump. He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter.” How could he explain this? He tapped his fingers against his leg nervously, trying to keep himself breathing slowly, trying to control his racing mind. Could he be right? He hoped more than anything in the world that he was not.

  “Lyle?” Soren sounded a bit worried, now, watching him.

  Lyle took a deep breath and began. “Do you remember, three years ago, when we . . . when we were taken prisoner by Ordic clansmen? When they had us locked up in the dungeon—or whatever that was—with Iris.” Lyle bit his tongue. He did not want to ask the question because he did not want the answer.

  “Yes?” Soren said uncertainly. “I . . . it really would be hard to forget.”

  Lyle remembered what Soren had looked like when they first saw him, hunched in the back of a dark cell, filthy and shivering. It had all been so different, back then. They had lived the past three years together in this castle in a beautiful city, never hungry, never cold, never wanting for anything. They hardly ever spoke of the time before.

  “Lyle, what’s wrong?”

  Lyle swallowed thickly. “The Ordics mentioned that they had captured other children.”

  “Yes,” Soren said slowly, “They grabbed many children while looking for Iris and Clive.”

  “You said you saw all of their faces, these children, because you said none of them were Clive, right?”

  “Yes.” He repositioned his glasses. “There were torches burning, I looked at each child to make sure they weren’t Iris or Clive.” Soren clenched his jaw, eyes distant. He was fully awake, now. Probably because Lyle was making him relive one of the worst parts of his life.

  “You saw them?” Lyle demanded.

  “Yes, I saw them.” Soren said sharply. “Lyle, what is this—“

  “Did any of them have brown hair, brown eyes, and—like, splotchy red cheeks?”

  Soren sat back in his chair and blew out a breath. “Lyle . . .”

  “What? Did any of them look like that?”

  “This was years ago,” Soren said skeptically.

  Lyle’s heart skipped a beat.

  “But . . . yes. I think so. A little younger than you. I remember blotchy skin. He looked at me like he was terrified, I wish I could have helped him . . . oh, Lyle . . .”

  Frantic tears had begun spilling down his cheeks. “No, no—please. And we had—we had a chance to get them out of there, Soren, and you said . . .”

  Soren held out his hands, then pulled a chair forward for Lyle to sit in. “What is it, Lyle?”

  “You said we couldn’t,” Lyle said, bitterness rising. “We couldn’t save children from—from slavery—“

  “There was no time to go back for them, we had to save ourselves. Who was it?”

  “He followed me out of town. He must have. That stupid—he didn’t want to be left behind . . .”

  “Who was it, Lyle?”

  Lyle turned to look him in the eye and hissed, “It was my brother.”

  *****

  Soren sighed for the fifteenth time. “We could . . . I could sign a letter, saying that Queen Tahlia agreed to send you on a trip for me, something archeological . . . Or historical . . . I don’t have the authority, but if you get her to sign something while you’re up there, you could get away with it. We’ll both be in ill-favor of some authorities for a while, but I suppose it’s worth it.”

  “It’s worth it,” Lyle confirmed. “I have to go home. I have to see if he’s there or not.”

  “And if he isn’t, Lyle?” Soren asked soberly. “What are you going to do?”

  Lyle threw his hands into the air. “I’ll figure it out. I’ll find the Ordics who did it—I’ll find Malcolm MacLagan himself if I have to, Soren.”

  “I can give you a month, if that. You’re leaving for Alyria after that, Lyle, you cannot be gone by then unless you are never coming back. You will be a deserter.”

  “I’ll just go home and see my family, then. I’ll be right back.”

  “Send them a letter, Lyle, you haven’t written a single one—just write them and ask!”

  “The reply will be too late by then—I’ll be in Alyria—if it even reaches them. They live out in the middle of nowhere—a letter is more likely to be lost than find its way there.”

  Soren looked him in the eyes. “You have to do this?”

  “He’s my little brother, Soren, don’t you understand? I have to do everything in my power! If he’s a slave out there somewhere, I’ll buy him back. If he’s home, I’ll leave him alone.”

  “Do you have to do this?”

  “Yes.”

  Soren nodded his head. “Then I will help you. I still owe you my life.”

  Lyle softened. “Thank you.”

  "I'm going to write a letter. You're going to slip it under the door of your commanding officer. You are going to leave this city. You are going to be back right here in a month. It only takes four days for you to get home, and four days to get back. If possible with the time allotted, go to Whitehall and get something signed by Queen Tahlia authorizing this trip. Tell her the whole story. She still owes you for the lives of her children, so she might just do it. Be back as soon as you can. The faster the better. You will be labeled a deserter if you are not back in a month."

  Lyle clasped his hands together. “Thank you!”