The boy licked his lips. “Er, yes, my lord.”

“What would you have to say that would interest me anyway?”

“Nothing, my lord.”

Mirwell laughed then, a surprising belly laugh. He took his hand from the boy’s head and allowed him to stand. “You would make a fine politician, my boy.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Mirwell dismissed the boy. With any luck, Beryl would be back and she could help him dress. He draped his towel about his neck and sauntered out of the bathing room and into the parlor. Beryl was back! But all fantasies of her dressing him were dashed.

She sat in a straight back chair, and D’rang and that other soldier, what’s-his-name, pressed down on her shoulders so she could not rise. Beryl’s face was as cool and unreadable as usual.

“D’rang?” Mirwell queried. “Why are you restraining your superior officer?”

D’rang glanced at the other soldier, and then back at Mirwell. But before he could speak, the Gray One stepped from the stone wall as if he had been a part of it. Mirwell shuddered involuntarily. For all he knew, the Gray One had done just that.

“Do you still seek a spy?” the Gray One asked in his melodious voice, a beautiful voice that disguised something ugly.

Mirwell felt his scrutiny from beneath the hood. He slid into the cushioned chair across from Beryl, next to a little table that held his game of Intrigue. He had set the pieces exactly the way they had been before they left his keep. “Of course I still seek the spy.”

The hood turned toward Beryl.

“Spence? You must jest, Master Gray One. She’s my most trusted aide.”

“Who else better to betray you?”

Mirwell’s eyes shot to his aide. “Spence?”

“I’m no spy,” she said. Her features remained neutral.

Then, in a swift sudden move, the Gray One swooped upon her and tore something from her surcoat. She jerked back with a stifled scream which sounded more like a snarl. The Gray One held out whatever he had snatched to Mirwell.

“What do you see?” he hissed.

“Why her medal of valor, for when she served in the king’s militia.”

“Look more closely.”

Mirwell squinted his eyes. The medal, a gold oval imprinted with the firebrand and the crescent moon, wavered in his vision for a moment, as if suddenly transformed, and then resolidified into its usual composition. My eyes, he thought. “I see nothing unusual.”

“It is a Green Rider brooch,” the Gray One said. “Mundanes cannot see them properly, but I can. This spy had it well-shielded just so I would not, but my magic is stronger, far stronger, and eventually I saw it for what it was. I expect, through questioning, you will find I speak the truth.”

Mirwell ran his fingers through his beard completely aware of what kind of questioning the Gray One meant. “I-I don’t know.”

“My lord,” D’rang said, “we found her over by the Greenie barracks talking to someone.”

The Gray One slapped the medal down on a table. “She is a spy. There is no question of it. If you wish to see your plans through, kill her. If there is a question in your mind, torture her. Find out the truth.”

I’ve become a doting old fool, Mirwell thought. I’ve allowed this woman to get to me. I’ve grown weak. Perhaps he had known the truth all along. “We will not kill her, nor will we torture her.”

An expression of triumph flashed across Beryl’s face before it turned neutral again.

Mirwell picked up the green spy from his game board and shook it in his hand as if he were about to roll dice. “Tie her up,” he said with a heavy sigh.

Now Beryl frowned.

D’rang found some lengths of cord and proceeded to truss her up and gag her. Beryl took it all silently.

“I want all to appear as normal,” Mirwell said, “so the king doesn’t suspect anything. She will attend me at every moment, just as the king would expect.”

“My lord,” said D’rang, “what if she should try to pass word on to the king’s folk?”

“That is a consideration,” Mirwell said.

The Gray One bent over Beryl, and she shrank in her chair. “I believe I know a way,” he said. “I shall teach you some words which will give you power over her.”

Mirwell tipped the green spy in the red court onto its side. “D’rang, go find the castellan and ask if he has heard anything about our plans. That is the simplest way, I think, to find out if Spence has betrayed us.”

The Gray One placed his hands on either side of Beryl’s head. She rammed her back into the chair and squirmed.

“By all means,” the Gray One said, “seek Crowe out. But this one is still a liability.”

Beryl screamed, and though it was muffled by the gag, Mirwell could feel it down to his toes.

Bright silver moonlight fell through the close network of interlacing branches of the forest canopy, dappling the overgrown track—once a woods road—with strange and moving patterns. The moonlight served not as an omen, but as a suitable light source for Prince Amilton Hillander and his host of soldiers.

They were Mirwellton regulars, scruffy mercs, conscripted peasants, and no few thieves and scoundrels among them looking for opportunity. They were a rogue army, and Amilton rode at their head. The notion of a rogue army appealed to him. He was, after all, a rogue prince. Hadn’t his brother stripped him of his titles, his lands, his destiny? Yet here he was, about to grab the highest seat in the land, and there would be even more beyond that according to the Gray One.