Laren turned on Crowe. He leaned on his staff of office, long, cobalt robes brushing the floor. His piercing black eyes, and the way he cocked his head were decidedly crowlike.

“Castellan, thank you for meeting with me on such short notice.”

“Short notice, indeed. The king gave me today as a holiday.”

Crowe must think her an idiot if he believed she called him here for some trivial matter. “This concerns the king. I fear for his safety.”

“We all do. Every day.”

Laren felt the sudden urge to grab him by his robes and shake him. “I have evidence that the king now faces a specific danger today.”

“What sort of evidence?”

“Karigan G’ladheon carried with her not one message, but two. The second was written in the guise of a letter to a friend of F’ryan Coblebay’s.”

“Karigan who?”

“The girl from Selium who—”

“Oh, that one. Yes, proceed.”

Laren screamed inside at the delay. “The letter spoke of trouble from the king’s brother, that he was planning to take the throne by force, with help from Mirwell, on the day of the king’s annual spring hunt. It spoke also of an Eletian who could not be trusted.”

Crowe gazed impassively at her. “Where is this letter? Could I see it, please?”

“No. I can’t give you the letter. It was entrusted to me by F’ryan Coblebay’s friend who wishes anonymity.”

“Then why should I trust your information?”

Laren counted to ten before she spoke, but there was still an edge to her voice. “Why shouldn’t you trust the information? We are talking about one of the most trustworthy Riders I knew. He died trying to deliver this message. You’ve never questioned me before, and you know I can see the truth in the message.”

“Ah.” Crowe squinted his eyes and nodded.

“Where is the king, Crowe? Where did he take the hunt?”

“He wished that I tell no one this information.”

Why was Crowe being so evasive? Her fingers brushed her brooch. He was telling her the truth, the king had certainly told him to keep quiet about the hunt’s destination, but it was as if he was trying to hide something from her. “Castellan, I think the king would certainly understand. This is an emergency, after all. His life is at stake.”

“I follow the king’s command,” he growled, “not that of some Greenie.”

Laren clenched the hilt of her saber with her gauntleted hand. She was so very tired. Tired from the lack of sleep as she and two others pored over F’ryan Coblebay’s puzzle of a letter. Tired, tired, tired of Crowe and his petulant words. Tired of the way everyone viewed Green Riders as useless and lazy, of some lower caste incapable of anything but riding a horse to carry a message. And Crowe was delaying her, and she had no idea why.

“The Eletian. Is he here?”

“I don’t know. I don’t follow his every move.”

Lie!

“Captain, might I suggest that you are overreacting?”

Laren opened her mouth with a retort, but he was just trying to delay her again, this time in argument. “Castellan, what are you hiding? You know it is foolish to lie to me.”

Crowe made the sign of the crescent moon, fingers formed into a C, the sign of the god Aeryc. “Phaw! Don’t use your dirty magic on me. I have nothing to hide.”

Oh, yes, he did, and he was attempting to delay her again. The sound of footsteps running down the length of the throne room stopped an angry response in her throat. Her aide, Patrici, dusty from the road, halted before them.

“Captain, Castellan,” she said panting. “The king—where is he?”

“I don’t know,” Laren said. “Do you carry an important message?”

“The message isn’t important. What I saw is: groundmites. Groundmites east of the Lost Lake.”

Groundmites? So far inside Sacoridia’s borders? Impossible! “Crowe,” Laren said, her voice that of a captain in command. “One last time. Where is the king? If you do not tell me, I’ll make sure that he is made aware of your efforts to delay me.”

Crowe’s knuckles whitened as he clenched his staff. Something flickered behind his eyes as if some inward struggle was going on. “Lost Lake,” he said. “King Zachary is hunting at the Lost Lake.”

Laren turned on her heel, no time to lose. “Patrici, are you up for another ride?”

“Absolutely.”

Laren fleetingly wished for the energy of youth, to not feel any pain, like the pain that racked her body every time she rode or used the brooch too much. She glanced behind her. Crowe watched them leave, his eyes like black darts. They passed through the big double doors of the throne room and found the two guards throwing dice. She shook her head in disgust.

“Sergeant,” she said, “put away your dice and take up your sword. An armed contingent may try to enter the castle and claim the throne.”

“I don’t take orders from any Greenie,” he said, and spat tobacco just short of her boots.

Laren drew herself up and closed in on him, the tips of her boots nearly touching his, her hawklike nose inches from his. “You will take orders from any officer who outranks you, worm. My good friend, Captain Able of the guard, will not be pleased to hear of your unwillingness to take orders.”

The sergeant straightened up. “An armed contingent, you say? Claiming the throne?”