Brienne sighed. “I’m sorry, my lord, but he is the chief caretaker, and he feels responsible for the intrusion of the undead.”

“I know,” King Zachary said. “I suppose the others are too timid to come forward.”

She smiled. “They are. Some won’t even talk to us.”

“How many are down here?” Karigan asked, wondering with revulsion how anyone could live in this mass tomb.

“Perhaps fifty, perhaps a hundred. It is difficult to say, for they are secretive. Some have family that have lived here for generations. From time to time, we try to move families up above, but often enough they can’t adjust. The move goes against anything they have learned about not seeing the living light.”

Karigan frowned with distaste. “Where do they live?”

“Not too far removed from the dead, in their own chambers. It is their way. It has always been so.”

“Shall we move on?” King Zachary suggested. “I am guessing Beryl and Captain Mapstone are somewhere within the city walls by now. It would not be well for them if we were late.”

A WEAPON’S WRATH

“Remember, old man,” Beryl said, “I will have a dagger to your back the whole time. If you speak one wrong word, I will use it.”

Mirwell sat hunched in his saddle, bone-weary and cold under the blanket of night. The city lamps held no warmth, only an icy glow. If only he had his bear pelt to throw over his shoulders. His Beryl Spencer of old would have fetched it for him without hesitation, but now she wasn’t his. She never was.

She rode knee to knee with him as they approached the second city gate. Mapstone rode behind, her gray hood drawn over her face, and next to her, the Rider Connly dressed in D’rang’s scarlet uniform. To complete the illusion, Mapstone rode Connly’s gray mare.

If Mirwell were a less pragmatic man, he might have been amused by the irony of his situation. He and Beryl had virtually switched roles, he now the captive, she the captor. He had been fooled by her pretty face, hard work, and seemingly unfeigned loyalty. She had been the spy in House Mirwell all along while he thought her to be his most trustworthy officer, above Captain Immerez and all others.

Mirwell admitted it to himself: he had been duped. Yet the ultimate move of the game of Intrigue had not been played out. He still possessed the Gray One’s magic words of power to use at the most appropriate moment.

They halted before the city gate, and the guards in his own color of scarlet held a lantern up to see who rode in.

“Lord Mirwell!” the guard said in surprise. “And Major Spencer.” He and the others bowed. “We are glad to see you. Prince . . . I mean King Amilton was concerned about you, seeing how late it is. He sent word for us to keep watch.”

“Then send a messenger up to the castle and tell him we come,” Beryl said. “Tell the king we bring him a great prize.”

“Yes, Major.”

The lantern light showed on Beryl’s ruthless smile. A great prize indeed, Mirwell thought. He glanced back at the basket Mapstone carried. How long before their ruse would be discovered?

At Beryl’s signal, Mirwell prodded his horse forward and he rode beside her through the gate. The guards bowed respectfully, but he knew their eyes were on the gray-cloaked figure riding behind bearing the basket. Ahead of them, a messenger rode off at a canter, and the clatter of hooves receded into the night.

Beryl might be pleased by her little charade, but Mirwell could reveal it at any moment knowing that whatever happened to him, his soldiers would see to her death. She had promised to kill him should he reveal their deception, and he knew she spoke the truth. But he must exercise patience and play along for now. He was not ready to sacrifice himself. He still had one move to make, and her plan, after all, was flawed.

“Don’t you think someone will not see through your plan?” he asked her. “Amilton has met the Gray One,” he said. “That woman is not the Gray One.”

His pronouncement was met with soft laughter from behind. “No,” Captain Mapstone said in a low voice, “I am the Green One. We need but little time in the throne room to accomplish what we must. It won’t matter who we really are.”

A pity Beryl had not killed the woman during the battle. It was unfortunate timing the spell broke when it did. Such things could be rectified, however.

“You are Mirwellian born, aren’t you?” he asked Beryl.

“Yes,” she said.

“Don’t you wish to see our province as great as it once was? Don’t you wish to feel the glory?”

Beryl surveyed the quiet streets, her expression cool and unreadable, just as he had seen it so many times when he believed her to be his loyal aide. She shifted the reins to one hand, and rested the other on her knee. “Do you remember,” she said, “a young soldier named Riley who served in your house guard?”

“Riley? No, but there would be no reason for me to.”

“It was some ten years ago. He was a simple private who did his job honestly and with good faith. His officers had nothing to complain about. He believed in the greatness of Mirwell Province and he thought it superior to any other. Then one day, someone in your household marred the leather of a new saddle you favored. You did not know who it was, but you decided to make an example of someone. You chose Riley. You cut off both his hands so he would not drop another saddle. Do you remember?”

Mirwell thought hard, but could not remember the incident, or could not distinguish it from many others of a similar nature. “I do not. I suppose you are going to tell me this Riley was your father.”