They carefully picked their way among the sleepers, she peering at the faces and seeing none that resembled King Zachary or Lord Fiori. A woman stirred at their passing. Karigan froze, her heart pounding, but the woman just murmured in her sleep and rolled over.

When they had inspected just about everyone, Enver pointed to a dark corner where a man lay bundled in a blanket next to a lute case. They stepped carefully over to him and Karigan tried to discern his shadowed features. Firelight glinted on gold strands of hair, and he looked the right size, tall man that he was.

“It is Lord Fiori,” Enver whispered. “I sense his Eletian blood.” He let go her hand and knelt by the sleeping man, visible to any who happened to look. Karigan glanced apprehensively behind them, but all remained quiet.

Enver placed his hand against Lord Fiori’s temple and spoke almost inaudibly. Lord Fiori’s eyes opened and slowly focused. He sat up, his eyebrows raised.

Enver continued to speak inaudibly, and Lord Fiori nodded. He then looked about, and Karigan realized he was searching for her. She reached out and touched his shoulder and he jumped. He looked older and more haggard to her than she had ever seen. There had always been a timeless quality to him that she put down to his Eletian blood, but not now. Clearly captivity had been harsh on him.

::The king is not here.:: His lips moved, but his words were delivered in a whisper right into her ear. Estral had once mentioned he could do this trick of throwing his voice. Useful, that.

“Where?” Enver whispered.

::Nyssa’s workshop,:: Lord Fiori replied.

A chill of fear shuddered through Karigan. She glanced around again, and dropped her fading.

::Disconcerting,:: Lord Fiori said. He shed his blanket and rose. Karigan wordlessly handed him her sword. He accepted it with questions in his eyes, then buckled it on.

Enver spoke to him some more, explaining what needed to be done, and he nodded and stretched his hand out. Karigan took it, and Enver’s, and they faded out. Enver led them through the great hall, away from the sleepers.

::I regret leaving my travel lute behind,:: Lord Fiori said in her ear. ::It has gone many a mile with me.::

She squeezed his hand in acknowledgment. Preserving his life was more important at the moment than an instrument that could be replaced.

They left the keep without incident, but Karigan felt a growing unease. She glanced up at the tower, but the light that had glimmered in the arrowloop had been extinguished. Was that where Grandmother dwelled? Yet it was not the tower from which the uneasiness emanated. It was not in the direction of Nyssa’s workshop that she felt it either, but from somewhere on the far side of the keep. Something ancient, something hidden, something, or many somethings, scratching at that which contained them in a—in a prison?

As though roused by the dread sensation, filmy figures ranged about the clearing around the keep. Many appeared to her agitated and beseeching, while others drifted aimlessly, some vanishing among the trees in the woods. Her skin felt clammy, and she realized that Enver and Lord Fiori were pulling on her as they moved back into the woods toward the building that was Nyssa’s workshop. She shook her head, focused on where she was, and the apparitions vanished from her vision.

Several guards ranged around Nyssa’s workshop, and to her surprise, Enver let go of her and swiftly drew his knife. He placed his hand over the mouth of the first guard they encountered and cut his throat. Enver eased him to the ground so that he made no noise falling. He looked fierce, almost feral, as he hunted, far different from the man who had so gently tended her and listened to the voice of the world, whose spirit guide was a turtle.

He swiftly struck one guard after another. When one, puffing on a pipe, came around the corner of the building and saw a fallen comrade, Enver blurred out of the shadows. The man’s pipe dropped out of his mouth, and Enver took him to the ground, his knife jammed in the guard’s throat.

For all that they were quiet, more guards arrived, having found the slain.

“Galadheon,” Enver said, “go see to your king. Lord Fiori and I will hold off these guards.”

She let go of Lord Fiori and, without hesitation, ran to the door of Nyssa’s workshop, maintaining her fading as she went. She threw the door open. The interior was dimly lit by a lamp at low glow. She stood on the threshold waiting for her eyes to adjust, then shut the door behind her and dropped her fading. That no guard leaped out of the shadows to kill her was a relief, but being back in that place made her skin crawl.

She saw the pen where she and Estral had been held, but it was empty. Her gaze was then magnetically drawn to the beam to which she’d been manacled for the flogging. The cuffs hung open and empty, as if awaiting her return. She took a step back, tried to calm her breathing. She wanted to run as far away from the building as she could, but then, in the soft orange glow of the brazier, she saw him, on the table that dominated the center of the room. She rushed to him, took in his bruised, abraded face, his full beard. She almost did not recognize him.

She placed her hand on his chest to feel its rise and fall. “My lord?”

He took a rumbling breath.

Thank the gods.

She saw that he was strapped down and that there were knots of yarn across his face. Peeling back the blanket that covered him revealed more. She drew her knife and started slashing at the yarn, the knots stinging her hands, and threw the pieces to the floor as she went. As she pulled the blanket down farther, she realized he was entirely unclothed. A fleeting warmth rushed to her face as she worked to destroy the yarn, and then she covered him back up. She flexed her stinging hands and then sawed through the strap that bound his head down, and then that of his wrist.