“Your Majesty, I must protest,” Sir Noris said. “Keeping a witch as a prisoner is dangerous. Why bring him to the palace rather than Telfort Tower?”

  “Now isn’t the time for this discussion, Noris,” Rusol said, keeping a false smile on his face as he nodded to his other guests. “The royal guards captured him, not your knights.”

  “But Sire, what if he regains his powers and escapes?”

  “There won’t be time for that,” Rusol said. “He’ll be executed before dawn.” He could have told Noris the truth rather than lying—the Knight Commander was under heavy compulsion already—but he didn’t trust the man’s wits. Would the compulsion hold if Noris simply forgot he was supposed to keep the mage’s fate a secret?

  Noris frowned, but the spells controlling his mind wouldn’t allow him to continue arguing after Rusol had made his will clear.

  “Yes, Your Majesty, as you wish.” Noris started to shuffle away, then turned back. “I should mention—a group of knights from Fort Hightower arrived in the city several days ago.”

  “Why wasn’t I informed earlier?” Rusol asked. “Were they part of the invasion force?” Sir Barat’s location hadn’t changed. Had he sent messengers back with news?

  “I’m not sure, Sire—I just learned about it myself. They haven’t reported in at the Tower yet. They’ve taken up residence in several inns at the southern edge of the city.”

  Just how many knights had arrived that they would need more than one inn to hold them?

  “Go,” Rusol ordered. “Now. Find out what they’re doing here. And Noris, I want an answer this afternoon.” He was growing tired of the old man, but Noris was technically still in command of Telfort Tower, and able to move freely in and out of the fortress despite the Order being on a war footing.

  The Knight Commander left, but Rusol was too distracted by ominous thoughts to attend to his guests. What could the presence of the Hightower forces mean? He didn’t notice Lady Ana’s presence until she waved a glass of wine in front of his face.

  “A drink, cousin?” she suggested. “This is supposed to be a celebration, is it not? The renegade witches done and dealt with?”

  He took the glass but didn’t sip from it. “Of course.”

  “And yet, you don’t seem happy. You’ve been in a terrible mood ever since Yassi left. Are you sure you won’t consider giving her another chance?”

  Ana, like many of the nobles in the city, assumed Rusol had sent his wife away after discovering her with another man. The rumor hadn’t done much for Rusol’s reputation, though as the aggrieved party, he’d at least garnered some sympathy. He’d have to figure out a better story once Yassi returned to Larso, but how would he convince everyone that the tale they believed now was a lie? He wouldn’t tolerate the peerage questioning his child’s parentage. Perhaps it would be easier if Yassi stayed away for a bit longer.

  That was a problem for another day. “I’ll consider it,” he said. Ana and Yassi were friends, of sorts. Agreeing to his cousin’s request was the easiest way to get her to stop talking about it.

  Lord Wilton Aster appeared at Ana’s side. “Might I borrow my wife, Your Majesty?” the man asked. “Duke Westport’s just arrived, and I need Ana’s memory about the new pricing agreements for wool shipments to Chondor.”

  The Asters were new to the peerage, being one of half a dozen baronies Rusol’s grandfather had created to strengthen the monarchy’s influence at a time when the Church had held more power. The family held no ancestral lands, instead having built their fortune on trade. The Asters were loyal, but their main concern was still commerce. Wilton’s marriage to Ana was their first attempt to broaden their political influence.

  “I wasn’t aware the duke was in Telfort,” Rusol said.

  “I gather Alvis intends to winter in the city,” Aster replied. “Said his son’s old enough now to take care of things back home.”

  That was odd. The duke had never spent long stretches of time in the capital before—Westport itself was a major metropolitan center, with a social calendar to rival Telfort’s own.

  Rusol nodded, waving the couple off, but was immediately beset by another group of attendees.

  “Your Majesty,” Lord Seneschal Branley started, “might I introduce High Priest Ogden and Priest Seward? They represent the members of the Order who’ve come to the city to rebuild the Temple.”

  The two priests bowed. Both men were mages, according to Rusol’s warden senses—almost certainly blessed with divine magic. He double-checked that the protections he used for hiding his true nature were still in place.

  “Welcome to Telfort, gentlemen,” he said. “I wish it could be under better circumstances, but rest assured, the throne will support your efforts in any way necessary.” That sounded sufficiently polite. The past weeks had offered plenty of practice at inane chatter.

  One of the men—Seward—mumbled pleasantries under his breath, too nervous to look the king in the eye, but the other spoke up.

  “Thank you, Your Majesty,” Ogden said. “The upcoming conclave will be an important one, not just in selecting a new cardinal but in reorganizing our entire leadership. We lost a lot of good men here. Every high temple in the kingdom is sending a representative, yet many are still worried about the danger. The seneschal assures us that the war with the mages has come to an end?”

  “It was hardly a war, Priest Ogden,” Rusol said. “Despite the unfortunate circumstances of the attack on the temple, only a handful of witches were involved—invaders from the north—and they were easily dealt with. Your conclave can move forward safely.”

  With three weeks of constant effort, Rusol had somehow managed to keep the kingdom from falling into civil war. He’d discovered early on that he’d reached the limit on his compulsion magic, which had forced him to depend on the sort of political maneuvering he still wasn’t entirely comfortable with. He’d had to learn quickly, playing the factions against each other and lying to everyone to convince them he was on their side. The receptions and parties and deal-making had done the trick with the nobles, as had the immediate and frequent proclamations of support for the Church.

  To keep morale up amongst the common folk, he’d dipped deep into the treasury, turning the yearly harvest faire into a much larger festival. While some citizens had been too afraid to attend, worried about the renegade mages, the enticement of bards and minstrels, free ale, and games with prizes had helped to turn the mood in the city.

  “Thank you, Your Majesty,” Ogden said. “I wonder if you’ve given any thought as to who you might like to see take the title?”

  While the king didn’t have a vote in the conclave, he had the right to attend and speak to the membership. Votes had been won or lost with the king’s backing. Ogden, as a high priest, was likely in the running himself, and if he’d managed to obtain an invitation to the palace, he might even be one of the frontrunners. Rusol had been too busy dealing with Kolvi’s war to keep track.

  “Let’s not bother His Majesty with that right now,” Branley said. “This isn’t the time.” He gave Rusol an apologetic grimace and shuffled the priests off to a dais where several of the city’s lords were holding a quiet discussion.

  “Vultures, all of them,” a voice said at Rusol’s side. Alvis Westport had approached without Rusol noticing. “Here to pick apart the carcasses of their brethren and steal the tastiest morsels for themselves.” The duke had never made any secret of his dislike for the Church.

  “Lord Alvis, welcome back to Telfort,” Rusol said.

  “Thank you, Your Majesty. I came as soon as I heard about the attack on the temple.” Alvis lowered his voice. “I brought a thousand men with me—they’re camped just two days west. Good soldiers, loyal to the last. We stand ready to support you in whatever way you require.”

  That was a substantial force to move toward the capital without the king’s knowledge and consent, but under the current circumstances, no one would question the duke’s story.

  “I appreciate that, Your Grace, but as I’m sure you’ve heard by now, the little incursion has been dealt with.”

  Alvis chuckled. “Yes, Sire, a good show. I wonder how many people actually believed it?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Rusol asked.

  “I’ve always enjoyed puzzles,” Westport said. “Like the puzzle of just how the Church fits into modern society—demanding massive tithes, yet contributing nothing back beyond the occasional bit of healing. And then there’s the puzzle of just what, exactly, happened to the Church hierarchy since your father became king. It took me years to work out the pattern. Marten was a wonderfully subtle man, though he did drop a few clues over the years. Just to keep me from losing interest, I imagine.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, I suspect you do. And now a new puzzle … that isn’t a puzzle at all. Someone cut out the heart of the beast, crippling the Church’s influence for the next generation or more. And now the most powerful of all the remaining priests have flocked together in one place, under your watchful gaze. I understand only one of the witches was ever captured? A few dead bodies left behind—perhaps mages, perhaps simply distractions?”

  “The witches are no longer a threat,” Rusol said. “I’ve made sure of that myself.”

  Alvis gave a little half-bow. “As you say, Sire. Yet the Church has put itself in a dangerous situation. A single strike would be enough to eliminate the entire conclave. With that, why, we’d be left with nothing stronger than the regional high temples. What a troubling thought! The Church would lose its supremacy, and I imagine the king might even be able to go so far as to repudiate doctrinal law. Terrible, just terrible.” He paused, then brightened, as if a thought had just occurred to him. “Though I suppose the citizens who don’t follow Pallisur could stop paying the Church tithe. I imagine they’d be quite grateful to whoever made that happen. Not that we’d want to support that sort of thinking, of course.” He shrugged. “As I said, my men and I are ready to support you in any way you need.”

  “That won’t be necessary, Your Grace.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty. Though if you’d be interested in a bit of sport, just let me know. I hear vulture-hunting makes for a fascinating diversion.”

  #

  The cells beneath the palace had once been used for holding enemies the king couldn’t order to be executed for one reason or another, but they’d lain empty for decades, and the air was thick with the musty scent of mildew.

  Two royal guards stood waiting silently, facing the only cell that was occupied now. The man inside—Kolvi’s younger brother Edrin—was sitting on the floor, leaning against the back wall with his head in his hands. He looked up when Rusol entered, but his eyes were glazed over.

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  “How is he?” Rusol asked Kolvi, who’d been pacing back and forth in front of the bars. She could have opened the door at any time, but perhaps she’d finally learned some caution. Someone not under Rusol’s control might have entered the room without warning.

  “Drain shock,” she said. “He’s exhausted. He was dodging the knights’ hunting parties for two days! Why didn’t you do something sooner?”

  “I saved him, didn’t I? Try showing a little gratitude.”

  She scowled. “If you’d just helped us from the beginning, we could have—”

  “Helped?” Rusol roared, his vision flashing red. Kolvi took a step back, the first time he’d ever seen her frightened. “You murdered all the priests my father had converted to your side! They were in Telfort for a reason, and now we’ve lost decades of work! It’s pure luck we got out of this as well as we did!”

  Rusol had been forced to act quickly to prevent an all-out war, putting the blame on foreign invaders and pretending to support the Church in hunting down those involved.

  Kolvi’s long-hoped-for revolution had never materialized. Despite the initial successful attack on the temple, only one other clan had joined with hers. The remaining elderfolk in the kingdom had refused the call, opting to continue living their quiet, peaceful lives blending in as regular citizens.

  The dozen mages who’d joined her soon discovered they had no chance at destroying Telfort Tower, the knights’ stronghold. The massive fortress—the original seat of the monarchy, before the palace was constructed—had been designed by Torwin Larse to withstand attacks by elder witches during the war that founded the kingdom.

  Only Kolvi herself was strong enough to affect the thick curtain wall, but she’d never been particularly skilled with stone. Even if she’d made it through, she’d have been faced with two more curtain walls and four hundred knights ready to stop her.

  In the initial assault on the tower, the mages’ fireballs and blasts of lightning had killed dozens of defenders on the ramparts, but with every attack, the knights learned to adapt, keeping behind cover and launching ballista bolts back at the origin point of any spell they were able to see coming.

  After two of Kolvi’s people were killed, the rest of the mages had retreated, hiding in the city and attacking from stealth. The knights focused the bulk of their forces on holding the tower, but sent out smaller patrols to hunt down the perpetrators. The citizenry sided with the defenders, informing the knights and the city guard of the location of any mages they discovered. Or anyone they thought might be a mage, which had led to further problems.

  While Kolvi’s comrades had given a good accounting of themselves, killing another fifty knights and guardsmen over the next three weeks, they couldn’t withstand the sustained pressure of always being on the run. Four more of the witches had been killed when a tavern owner gave away their location, and then the rest had fled the city one by one until only Edrin remained.

  “Release him,” Rusol said.

  One of the royal guards obeyed without question, unlocking the cell. They’d both been under compulsion for years, and were accustomed to strange occurrences.

  Kolvi rushed in and helped her brother to his feet. He had to lean against her to keep from falling.

  “Wait until dark, then get him out of the city,” Rusol ordered. “Can you manage that much without being seen?”

  “Bond him!” Kolvi said.

  “What?”

  “You still have one left! Between the three of us, no one would be able to stop us.”

  Rusol had considered using his last warden bond on one of the other wizards he’d recruited from Matagor, but Odwins’ attitude and reluctance to volunteer information had caused him to hold off.

  Now, it was lucky he’d waited. The blessed priests returning to the city for the conclave would almost certainly select one of their own as the new cardinal. Bonding the new head of the Church was the only way Rusol could see to regain some of the influence he’d lost when Kolvi killed the compelled members of the hierarchy.

  He’d just have to hope the cardinal wasn’t as strong as Magnus had been before receiving the bond, to give the compulsion magic time to take root before the priest became powerful enough to stop it. It shouldn’t matter that his compulsion magic was nearly at its limit—the energy for the warden binding spell came from elsewhere.

  Before he could explain his intentions to Kolvi, Lord Seneschal Branley rushed into the room, a terrified look on his face. He thrust a scroll into Rusol’s hands.

  “Your Majesty! This is from Sir Noris! The knights—” Branley had to stop and take a gasping breath. “The knights from Hightower. They …”

  Rusol stared at the proclamation. The words refused to come together in his mind to form sentences, but he saw enough to get the gist.

  Renounce. False king. Dark magic. Demonborn. Doctrinal law.

  “They want to depose me,” Rusol said. His gut felt hollow, and the nerves in his arms tingled. “Has Telfort Tower seen this yet? Or the conclave?”

  “Noris wasn’t sure. He left this for you, then went to the tower to find out.”

  “We need to … need to …” Rusol couldn’t think. How could this have happened? Corec Tarwen must have told them, must have turned the knights to his side.

  Without warning, a dull burning pain started on Rusol’s right arm, a sensation he’d felt only once before, when Jasper died. He didn’t need to pull up his sleeve to identify the exact spot. It was coming from Odwins’ binding rune. Odwins, whom he’d sent to arrest Ansel Tarwen. If the wizard was dead, then either Corec was in the Black Crow Mountains already or Ansel was a mage himself, or at least capable of killing them.

  Rusol laughed at the absurdity of it all. His family had spent over a century trying to do the right thing—trying to change the Church bit by bit ever since his great-great-grandfather had outlawed the burning of mages at the stake—and now it had all come undone in an instant. The last three weeks of effort had been for nothing. He’d come to believe that he was actually going to succeed in cleaning up Kolvi’s mess, but as the small triumphs added up, he’d forgotten how precarious of a situation he’d already been in.

  He’d done what he could to keep the peace, to protect both the Church and the elderfolk, but the Order had forced his hand. Giving up on his other plans, he grasped Edrin’s arm and cast the binding spell. The stylized image of a bird he’d sketched out for Razai’s rune would do well enough. It appeared in yellow on the young man’s brow. Edrin, in his stupor, didn’t seem to notice the pain that accompanied the modified version of the spell.

  “Get Field Marshal Tregood,” Rusol ordered Branley. “Have him deploy the capital brigade to go after the Hightower knights. Kill them all, and announce them as traitors who abandoned their oaths to do a dark mage’s bidding. Order the royal guards to report the location of every member of the conclave, and find every copy of that proclamation and burn it. And send for Duke Westport!”

  #

  “Do you want to take a walk along the river after you get cleaned up?” Kimi asked.

  “I can’t,” Nedley said. “I’ve got to read thirty pages from that book on courtly graces.”

  The two of them were taking the long route through the village on their way back to Nedley’s house.

  “I wish you’d ask Kevik if I could help you with the books,” Kimi said. “That was the Orders’ original purpose, you know. Other concubines too, I think, but especially the Three Orders. We helped read and write for the soldiers and leaders who couldn’t.”

  “If you always help me, how will I learn to do it myself?”

  “I could tutor you!” she replied excitedly. “Just in the spots you have trouble with. You’ll learn faster, and you’re still doing the reading yourself.”

  Nedley nodded. “That would be all right, I think. Would Sister Berit let you stay that late, though? Or would she make us go somewhere she could see?”

  “Oh.” Her tone shifted from excited to disappointed. “Well, it’s still better than struggling by yourself.”

  Ahead of them, a young woman with dark hair, about Nedley’s age, stood in front of a cottage which had been turned into a tailor’s and dressmaker’s shop. The couple who owned it had installed a large window to showcase their wares. The girl—Cenric’s younger sister—was peering in at the display.

  “We should say hello,” Nedley murmured to Kimi, then stepped forward. “Miss Emma, good evening.”

  Emma spun toward him, her eyes wide, apparently not having heard them coming. “Oh, hi, Nedley,” she said in a quiet voice, her face flushing pink. From what Nedley understood, she’d never lived in a town before, and she’d seemed very shy the few times he’d run into her.

  “Have you met—” Nedley started, but Kimi was no longer by his side. “Kimi?” She’d stayed back, staring intently at the side of a building as if there was something interesting to see, but when he called her name, she came over with a smile on her face.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Emma,” she said, her voice warm. “Nedley’s told me so much about Cenric. How are you finding Hilltop?”

  “It’s all right, but there are so many people here,” Emma said. She seemed uncomfortable with Kimi’s presence, or perhaps talking to two near-strangers was just too much for her. “I should go. My brother will be home soon.” She hurried away in the direction of the boarding house.

  Nedley shrugged and turned to Kimi. “Why did you hold back like that?” he asked.

  “Mother Yewen and Sister Berit say I’m not allowed to interfere with your personal life. You’re young and you have good prospects—you’ll make a fine match for any of the girls in Hilltop looking for a husband.” She spoke as if everything she was saying was reasonable, but she couldn’t hide the hint of annoyance in her tone.

  “Is that why you always go off to look around the shop when I’m talking to Netta?”

  “I thought you might want to ask her to walk out with you.”

  Nedley couldn’t deny that the thought had crossed his mind, but only because he’d felt responsible for bringing the widow to Hilltop. She was older than him and already had children, though, and he’d never quite worked up the nerve to say anything. He’d been relieved when Harlan asked her out instead.

  “I’m not interested in Netta,” he said.

  “What about Emma?” Kimi asked. “She’s pretty.”

  “I suppose she is.”

  “She grew up on a farm. I bet she knows how to cook and take care of a home.” Kimi hesitated. “I’m not supposed to help with this sort of thing, but Cenric is her guardian. He likes you—you could ask for his approval.”

  Nedley made up his mind. He and Kimi had been dancing around the issue for too long.

  “Tell Sister Berit I want to have a Presentation ceremony with just you, no other concubine candidates,” he said.

  A small smile played across Kimi’s lips. “You’re supposed to be married first.”

  “Patrig wasn’t.”

  She nodded, more serious now. “I’ll tell her. I hope my presentation dress isn’t wrinkled—it’s been packed away. I’ll have to let the other Sisters know, too. And there should be some sort of celebration with our friends. Do you want to invite Cenric … and Emma?”

  “No. Maybe we can get to know her later, but right now, I want something just for us.”

  #

  Corec slammed his wooden practice sword against Barat’s shield, forcing the other man back, then had to dodge out of the way as Barat twisted around and got his blade in behind Corec’s guard. Corec repositioned himself farther away, where his longer weapon would have more of an advantage, then batted Barat’s sword to the side. The former knight tried to rush forward and Corec was again forced to strike at the shield rather than his opponent.

  For a brief instant, the simple wooden shield was as hard as stone. Corec’s practice sword made a loud thwacking noise when it hit, then snapped in two. Ariadne had suggested that an elder witch shouldn’t be able to manipulate wood in that manner, but she hadn’t been able to come up with another explanation.

  Barat came to a halt and held his arms out to his sides. “Am sorry. Couldn’t stop it.” The former knight was newer to the warden bond, and sometimes struggled to avoid using magic when he was practicing.

  “That’s probably enough sparring for today anyway,” Corec said. He dropped the splintered remains of his practice weapon, then wiped his face with a waiting towel and sat down on a bench to cool off in the late autumn air.

  Barat joined him. “Is good to practice for real. Wasn’t safe to spar after Rusol put binding spell on me—never knew what might happen.”

  “Is there more you can tell me about him?” Corec said. “I’m worried about what else he’s up to.” No one else was close enough to overhear their conversation. With the soldiers’ unresolved attitudes about Barat, the two of them had chosen a sparring time when everyone was assigned to other tasks.

  “What do you like to know?” the other man asked.

  “How did the compulsion spell work, exactly? You came here for a battle, you had a good plan of attack, but some of your choices didn’t make sense—like bringing Cason and Osbert to the parley, or tiring out your men by digging trenches even though we couldn’t mount a cavalry charge. You could have killed someone when you started casting spells, but that was one of the few ways to convince the knights to surrender.”

  “Had to obey orders, but I could make choices if they do not contradict. I did not know how many war horses you have, and trenches are often valid tactic. They make good defense against surprise attacks. Magic is harder decision, but if I join fight, magic is easiest way for me to win, thus I can do it. But I have to try to win. Am glad I did not kill your friends.”

  Corec nodded. “You and Queen Yassi are gone. That old wizard—Jasper?—is dead, and Rusol hasn’t picked an eighth bondmate. That seems like it would put him at a disadvantage.”

  “Is not to underestimate,” Barat said. “Kolvi is dangerous. Very much, like with fires and lightning. Magnus, he has Rusol’s ear, and his bow can pierce armor from great distance. I do not understand Odwins’ or Rodulf’s powers. Ariadne tries to teach me this, but is slow going.” He shrugged. “Your friends are dangerous too, but you do not have army.”

  It always came down to the soldiers. In addition to the standing army, Rusol could call on the lords’ armsmen, doubling his forces from twenty thousand to forty thousand.

  Sarette and Shavala couldn’t handle anywhere near those numbers, and Corec had no desire to kill that many innocent men. Shavala in particular would be horrified by the idea, and would refuse to even try.

  More troubling was the fact that Rusol had no problem spending his people’s lives. Corec had lost four men already, between the attack on the tavern and the battle at Hilltop. He’d been lucky so far, and yet that was already too many deaths. If there was an all-out war, that number would go up. By a lot.

  In previous interviews with Barat, the man had disclosed that Rusol’s compulsion magic had wormed its way throughout the royal guards, senior army officers, and some members of the peerage. Corec’s plan had always depended on the hope that the lords would prevent Rusol from calling on the army. The king couldn’t send his soldiers outside his own borders without support from the peerage, yet how many lords had already fallen to his compulsion? How many others would believe his lies?

  If the Hightower knights did their job, perhaps it wouldn’t matter, but Barat and the other Northtower men were proof that the Church wasn’t safe from Rusol’s meddling.

  For now, Corec just had to hope that staying out of Larso would be enough to end the war.

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