After breakfast they readied their horses and rode from the square, which was empty and forlorn without the market, but for the pigeons lurking about and warming themselves in the sun that bathed the statue. Karigan felt obligated to give Fergal some warning of her past with Timas Mirwell, but she did not want to overplay its significance. As the horses plodded along Mirwellton’s muddy main thoroughfare, which led to the keep, she explained that she and Timas were classmates at Selium and had not been friendly.

“In fact, he and his cronies made life miserable for a lot of students, mostly the commoners who were at Selium on scholarship. They felt powerless against a lord-governor’s son.”

“Is he the one you beat up?” Fergal asked.

“What? How do you know that?”

“Mel told me.”

Condor’s hoof sucked in the mud.

“Ah, of course she did. Well, I didn’t exactly beat him up. I defeated him in a bout of swordplay. Soundly defeated him. It was very satisfying.” She smiled at the memory, then hastily added, “Don’t bring it up or even allude to it while we’re in the keep. Don’t bring up his father, either.”

Fergal thought for a moment. “Oh, aye, the traitor.” He ran his finger in a cutting motion across his neck and grinned.

“Er, yes, the traitor. In fact, now that I think of it, it’s probably best if you don’t say anything at all. When we see Timas—Lord Mirwell—it’s probably wise if you just stand there and look, well, Riderly.”

Fergal scowled at her, but did not argue.

They rode on in silence. When they reached the portcullis of the keep’s curtain wall, the scarlet-clad guards, who knew the insignia of the king’s messengers, ushered them through without challenge. They were now truly in Timas’ domain and Karigan’s sense of loathing increased.

They rode across the courtyard into the shadow of the keep. The structure was simple, purely a fortress with high walls and narrow windows, all stone, and without embellishment. Unlike the king’s castle, Mirwell Keep changed little from its original design over the centuries. It was made for war and Clan Mirwell had not deviated from its militant heritage. While some provinces did not possess even a provincial guard, Mirwell kept a sizeable army, or had until after the old lord-governor’s attempt to dethrone King Zachary. By order of the king, Mirwell’s militia had been diminished to a skeletal version of its former glory, and would remain so until the new lord-governor proved his loyalty beyond a doubt.

They halted and dismounted before the steps leading to the keep’s entrance. A soldier took their horses while another stepped from the entrance to ask their business.

“A message for the lord-governor from the king,” Karigan said.

“Follow me, please.” The soldier turned smartly and trotted up the stairs.

Karigan hesitated and took a deep breath. The sooner this was over, the better. It was her duty, she reminded herself, and her real mission was not so much to hand over the message to Timas Mirwell but to make contact with Beryl Spencer. She straightened her shortcoat, threw back her shoulders, and climbed the steps at her own pace. She would not be cowed as if she were still a schoolgirl.

Stepping into the keep was like entering a cave, especially when the great doors closed behind them, shutting out the daylit world. A combination of torches and lamps offered smoky illumination, but the dark lingering in the corners was as heavy as the stone walls surrounding them. Just as well. There wasn’t much to look at—a few suits of armor along the walls, faded tapestries recounting the glorious and bloody history of Clan Mirwell, and shields painted with coats of arms of the vassals that were protected by Clan Mirwell.

The soldier led them across the entry hall and a short distance down a corridor. Karigan closed her eyes for a brief moment to collect herself as the soldier knocked on a door. Without waiting, he entered.

“Idiot!” a voice shouted from within. “Wait until I give you permission.”

The soldier backed out and reddened. “I’m sorry, my lord.”

“You will be if this isn’t important.”

The soldier stiffened, swallowed hard. “My lord, messengers from the king.”

A pause, then, “Very well. Out with you, Clara.”

A feminine giggle trickled out into the corridor and shortly a girl, a few years younger than Karigan, emerged from the chamber, tying her bodice as she left. From her dress, coarse and plain, Karigan presumed she was a servant. She frowned.

“Let them in, stupid,” came the harsh voice from within.

With a sympathetic look to the Riders, the soldier gestured they should enter the room. When they did so, he closed the door behind them. A surge of panic threatened to overtake Karigan until she forced herself to calm, and only then did she realize that the young man in front of them, who was buttoning up his trousers and tucking in his shirttails, was not Timas at all, but one of his friends from school.

“Barrett,” Karigan murmured. He was sharp featured, tall and lanky, and had grown, or had attempted to grow, a sparse beard. She wasn’t surprised to find him dallying with a servant. Rumor in school was that he had coerced many a poor girl into his bed with promises of his eternal commitment and of support for her family, but had only ruined her reputation and left her on her own if she became pregnant. One rumor claimed he’d told a girl to, “Drop the brat off a cliff for all I care.” Karigan believed it.

“That’s Lord-Steward Barrett to you, Messenger,” he said.