#### Chapter 23

Tamas stepped out of his carriage and took a deep breath of country air. Olem already stood in the drive, one hand on the butt of a pistol at his belt, the other tucked into the pocket of his scarlet hunting coat. His nose was in the air like a guard dog as he examined their surroundings. He wore an outfit matching Tamas’s with black laceless boots and dark pants in addition to the scarlet coat and hunting cap, a rifle over one shoulder.

The baying of hounds echoed out across the pastures. The hunting lodge rested between two hills beside a stony creek on the edge of the King’s Wood. It was a vast affair with hundreds of rooms in the traditional bad taste of the Adran monarchy. It had originally been built of local stone and immense oaks the likes of which hadn’t grown in this area for a hundred years. Recent renovations had given it a brick façade. The kennels, a two-story building as big as the king’s stables, were visible across the southern pasture.

“Come on, Hrusch,” Tamas said. The hound dog leapt from the carriage and immediately put his nose to the ground, floppy ears dusting the gravel. Tamas felt a twinge when Pitlaugh didn’t follow Hrusch out of the carriage as he had so many years in the past. A great many things were different about the hunt this year.

Tamas entered the farmhouse and was hit by the nervous titter of uncertain conversation. He was among the last to arrive, yet there were fewer than a dozen people in the main foyer.

“Not many here, sir,” Olem said. A butler gave Olem’s cigarette a disapproving look. Olem ignored him.

“I killed ninety percent of the people who usually come,” Tamas murmured.

Tamas nodded to each of the men and women in the foyer. A couple of merchants of means, and a pair of noblemen with low enough rank to spare them the Elections. Last year they would have worn the pale breeches and dark waistcoats of those not included directly in the hunt. This year, they would wear hunt colors along with everyone else simply to fill out the numbers. Brigadiers Ryze and Abrax chatted idly with the merchants. Tamas exchanged a few words with them and thanked them for their service against the royalists. Conversations died as he passed by the minor nobility.

Lady Winceslav, dressed in colors with a dark riding habit and a black coat with a scarlet collar, swept down the stairs.

“Tamas, I’m glad you made it,” she said. Brigadier Barat, a sullen, impetuous young man that Tamas continually wanted to smack, lurked on the stairs behind her.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Tamas said. “Hrusch needs something to take his mind off things.” The hound looked up from his olfactory inspection of the floor at the sound of his name. “As do I, perhaps,” he added.

“Or course,” Lady Winceslav said. “Is he in the running, then?”

Tamas scoffed. “He’ll win it. Pitlaugh was the only one to beat him last year. With the king’s kennels out of contention, it’ll be no contest.” He felt his smile begin to slide off his face and gestured for Lady Winceslav to step to the side. When they were alone in a hallway, he said, “This is a farce, Lady.”

She glared at him. “It is not, and it’s insulting of you to say so.”

“The king is dead. This hunt was his tradition. Most of the people who used to come are dead too.”

“So we should let it die with them?” she said. “Don’t deny that you enjoy these hunts.”

Tamas took a deep breath. The Orchard Valley Hunt was an annual tradition going back six hundred years and marked the beginning of St. Adom’s Festival. Tamas struggled within himself. He loved the hunt, however…

“It sends the wrong message,” he said. “We want to show the people that we’re not replacing Manhouch and his nobility with more nobles. The hunt is a noble’s sport.”

“I think not,” Lady Winceslav said. “It’s an Adran sport. Would you outlaw tennis, or polo? This is simply entertainment.” She shook her head. “Next you’ll want to outlaw masquerades, and then we’ll see how popular you are come winter, when there’s nothing else to do.”

“I wouldn’t do that. I met my wife at a ball,” Tamas said.

She gave him a sympathetic look. “I know. Look around, Tamas. Some of the finest merchant families of Adro are here. Even Ricard and Ondraus came. I made the invitation open to everyone in Adopest.”

“Everyone?” Tamas asked. “If that was the case, there’d be more people here, if only for the free food.”

Lady Winceslav sniffed. “You know what I mean. There are even some amateur kennelmasters here from North Johal. Freed peasants. They’re rough men, but they seem to know their hounds.” She poked Tamas in the chest with one slender, slightly wrinkled finger. “Saint Adom’s Festival cannot begin without the Orchard Valley Hunt. I simply won’t let it happen. Now, the draggers have already begun laying the scent. The hunt will begin in twenty minutes. Get Hrusch to the starting line. The stable master will have a hunter ready for you to ride.”

Tamas and Olem found their mounts and headed out to the kennels, where the official hunt would begin. A chalk line had been dusted on the trimmed grass spanning an entire field. Hundreds of men and women sat atop their hunters. Some held their hounds on leashes, others by command alone, while a number of the wealthier participants had kennelmasters on foot beside them.

Tamas took a place at one end of the line. There were more people out here than he expected, and a far greater number of hounds. “She really meant it when she said she had invited everyone. Half these people aren’t even wearing hunt colors.” He bit back a comment. It was a damned time to complain. It would still be fine colors and nobility if it weren’t for him.

“Aye,” Olem said. “I’m glad there’s anyone here at all. Would be a sad start to the festival without a hunt.”

“Did Lady Winceslav pay you to say that?” Tamas said. Olem was a soldier, risen from the peasantry to his current position. He had no attachment to the hunt.

Olem looked surprised. “No, sir.” He flicked the end of his cigarette into the grass and immediately began rolling another.

“I’m joking, Olem.” Tamas glanced about, grimacing at the sight of a peasant on a mangy-looking mare with two hounds and an off-red coat that didn’t come close to hunt colors.

In a few minutes’ time the horn was blown and the hounds were off. Tamas began at a slow canter, watching Hrusch fly off ahead of the rest of the animals in the direction of the scent. It wasn’t long before the dogs disappeared into the woods. Tamas urged himself ahead of the rest of the riders until he reached the woods, then slacked off and let himself be passed. He closed his eyes, listening to the softening bays of the hounds, the sound soothing to his ears.

He opened his eyes after some time to find himself alone with Olem. The bodyguard’s hunter trotted along beside Tamas’s. Olem’s eyes scanned the surrounding brush with the vigil of a hawk.

“Do you ever relax?” Tamas asked.

“Not since the Warden, sir.”

Tamas could see horses up ahead, and hear others behind them. The huntsmen had begun to spread out in order to enjoy themselves while the hounds ran themselves to exhaustion. The sport would last all day, either until one of the hounds caught up with the volunteer dragging the scent or until they reached the end point of the race. Last year, Pitlaugh had found the volunteer halfway through the day, earning the ire of Adro’s nobility for cutting short their hunt, and earning himself a flank of steer from Tamas.

Tamas brushed off memories of past hunts and turned to Olem. “It wasn’t your fault. They’ll send more Wardens at me. You’ll do little against one of them.”

Olem rested one hand lightly on his pistol. “Don’t write me off so quickly, sir. I can cause more damage than you’d guess.”

“Of course,” Tamas said gently. He felt more relaxed than he had in, well, it seemed like years. He let his mind wander, enjoying the cool breeze through the trees and the periodic splash of warm sun on his face. It was a perfect, blue-sky day for the Orchard Valley Hunt.

“A question, sir.” Olem’s voice cut through his thoughts.

“If it has to do with the Kez, I don’t want to hear it.”

“I was wondering what you’ll do with Mihali, sir?”

Tamas stirred himself out of his reverie and gave Olem’s back an annoyed glance as the soldier searched the woods with his eyes. “I think I’m sending him back to Hassenbur,” Tamas said.

Olem gave Tamas a sharp look.

Tamas said, “Not you, too? I’d expect the common soldiers to grow attached, but not you.”

“I am a common soldier, sir. But you stated his worth yourself,” Olem said. “Creating food from thin air.”

“I risk angering Claremonte. The asylum’s patron is not a man to be trifled with, not with his position with the Brudania-Gurla Trading Company. I risk our entire supply of saltpeter. At this point in the war, gunpowder is more important than food.”

“And later?” Olem asked.

“Mihali is a madman, Olem. He belongs in an asylum.” He chose his words carefully. “It would be a cruelty to let him live like a normal man.” He knew the words made sense in his head, but when he spoke them out loud, they seemed wrong. He frowned. “They can help him at the asylum.

“Have you checked on those names that Adamat gave us?” Tamas said, unwilling to continue the conversation.

Olem was clearly uncomfortable with the abrupt end to the topic of Mihali’s future. “Yes, sir,” he said stiffly. “Our people are looking into it. Slowly. We don’t have enough men, to be honest, but Adamat’s hunches are proving accurate enough.”

“He said he gathered that list of names and ships in just two days of investigation,” Tamas said. “The entire police force on the docks has only given us half a dozen Kez smugglers since the war started. How can he work so fast?”

Olem shrugged. “He’s got a gift. Also, he doesn’t have the restrictions of the police. He’s not wearing a uniform. He can’t be bribed or intimidated.”

“You think he can find my traitor?” Tamas asked.

“Perhaps.” Olem didn’t look so sure. “I wish you’d put more men on it. You shouldn’t leave the fate of Adro in the hands of one retired investigator.”

Tamas shook his head. “As you said, he can go where the police cannot. I can’t trust it to anyone else. Everyone I truly trust—you, Sabon, the rest of the powder cabal—they’re doing tasks of utmost importance, and none of them has the set of talents and skills that Adamat does. If he can’t track down my traitor, no one else can.”

Olem gave him a dark stare. The corner of his mouth twitched, and Tamas felt a thrill of fear through his chest. “Give me a writ of purpose,” Olem said quietly. “And fifty men. I’ll find out who the traitor is.”

Tamas rolled his eyes. “I’m not going to let you hack apart my council with a meat cleaver and a hot iron. You’ll leave nothing left of them, and I’ll have made enemies of the most powerful people in Adro. I’m sorry, Olem, but I need you watching my back and I need the other five of the council—the ones that aren’t traitors—fully intact.”

Tamas turned as he heard horses galloping up from behind. “Pit, I was hoping for a pleasant day.”

“Ho there, Field Marshal,” Charlemund said. The arch-diocel looked nothing like a man of the Rope. He wore his hunt colors proudly on a hunter easily ten stone bigger than Tamas’s. He was followed by three young women; probably priestesses, though it was impossible to tell with them wearing hunt colors. Just behind the women was Ondraus the Reeve. The old man wore a black hunt coat and pale breeches to indicate that he wasn’t part of the hunt proper, yet he rode his hunter with far more poise and confidence than Tamas would have expected from a glorified accountant.

“How many hounds do you have competing today, Charlemund?” Tamas asked.

The arch-diocel gave him a sour look that always accompanied his response when someone failed to use his title. “Ten,” he said. “Though to be fair, three of them are running for the ladies here.” He gestured to his companions. “Priestesses Kola, Narum, and Ule, this is Field Marshal Tamas.”

Tamas gave the three women a curt nod. Not one of them looked above twenty years old, even though they bore the rank of priestess. They were far too young. And pretty. Women that attractive did not enter into service to the Church.

The reeve rode up next to Tamas.

“Ondraus,” Tamas said. “You’re the last person I’d expect to see at a hunt.”

Ondraus turned in his saddle and pointed behind them. “No, that’s the last person you’d expect to see at a hunt.”

A horse struggled through a patch of briars not far off, urged on with an incessant stream of curses by Ricard Tumblar. The union boss caught his cheek on a thorn and let out a yell, kicking the horse. Hunter and rider surged from the patch, galloping to catch up with the rest. Tamas reached out and grabbed the bridle as the horse came by. He leaned over, placing a hand between its eyes. “Shh. Quiet,” he said, soothing the animal. “Lord above, Ricard, stop urging it on. You’ll get yourself thrown.”

Ricard’s heels had been dug into the creature’s side. He let up immediately and gave a great sigh. “Son of a bitch,” he said. “I was made to ride in a carriage, not on a horse.”

Charlemund grinned at him. “I can see that,” he said. “We all can. I’ve seen children who ride better than you.”

“And I’ve seen pimps with fewer whores,” Ricard snapped.

The three priestesses gasped. The arch-diocel spun his mount to face Ricard, laying a hand on the grip of his sword. “Take it back or I’ll have your hide.”

Ricard drew a pistol from his belt. “I’ll blow your face off if you come a step closer.”

Tamas groaned. He grabbed Ricard’s pistol by the barrel and shoved it away. “Put them away, both of you,” he said. He urged his mount up beside Ricard’s. “Where do you get off threatening an arch-diocel?” he growled. “Are you mad?”

Ricard wiped the blood from his cheek, a scratch from the briars. He looked at his fingers. “Bloody hunt.”

“Why are you here?” Tamas said.

“Lady Winceslav insisted,” Ricard said. “She said I was gentry now, being a member of the council, and that it was expected of me. I’ve had more fun in the bottom of a fishing boat.”

“You’ve never ridden before?” Olem asked.

Ricard returned his pistol to his belt and took the reins in both hands. “Not once. When I was a boy, my father had no money for lessons, and by the time I thought of it, I was rich enough to afford to take a carriage. Now, where the pit is that whipper‑in? Lady Winceslav said that fool would stay with me and keep me from making an ass of myself.”

“He was unsuccessful,” Charlemund said.

Ricard glared. Tamas elbowed him hard in the ribs. Ricard turned to the three priestesses. “My apologies, ladies. My comments weren’t directed at you.” One and all, the three turned their noses up at him. Ricard sighed.

“I came here for a pleasant afternoon,” Tamas said, glancing around at the group. “Now, can I have that, or do I need to ride on my own?”

Ricard and Charlemund grumbled to themselves. Tamas resumed riding, leading Ricard’s horse. “Let him do the steering,” he said after a moment, letting go of the bridle. “He knows the trail, he knows the other horses. He’ll follow on his own. He knows you don’t know what you’re doing. You try to take control and he’ll fight you the whole way.”

Ricard gave a silent nod and avoided looking at Charlemund and his priestesses.

They were soon joined by the whipper‑in.

Tamas was surprised to find he knew the man. “Gaben!” he called.

“Sir.” Gaben rode up beside him, all smiles. He was a spry young man who looked well at ease on a horse. Whippers‑in usually kept the dogs on the trail, but this one was obviously meant to keep the people on the trail.

“Olem, this is Gaben,” Tamas said. “Captain Ajucare’s youngest son.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Olem said. “I’ve known the captain for many years.”

Gaben extended a hand. “You’re the Knacked that doesn’t sleep?”

“Right.”

“It’s a pleasure.”

“So the Lady attached you to Ricard, here, did she?” Tamas said.

Gaben nodded. “Said he might need some help.”

“You lost him for a while, it seems.”

“He went through a bramblebush, sir. I decided to go around.”

“Smart man. I’ve heard from your father you have a singular skill for horses.”

“He overtells it,” Gaben said modestly.

“No, I’m sure he does not.” Tamas saw him eyeing the young ladies. “Please, don’t let me keep you.”

Gaben rode up beside the priestesses and answered their questions about the hunt. Soon after, Brigadier Sabastenien came up quietly from behind. He joined the whipper‑in and the priestesses, listening quietly to their talk.

Tamas leaned over to Olem. “Brigadier Sabastenien impressed me during the racket with the royalists. We’ll keep an eye on him over the years. Mark my words, he’ll be senior brigadier by the time he’s forty.”

Silence fell in the wood, the only sound that of horses and the quiet conversation of the young people a few dozen yards ahead of them. Tamas was just beginning to enjoy the relative quiet when Ondraus spoke up.

“I want to know about this cook,” the reeve said.

Tamas turned in the saddle toward Ondraus. The path here was wide enough for the four of them to ride abreast. Tamas was on one end, with Ricard on his right, lagging slightly behind, and Ondraus between Ricard and Charlemund. Olem stayed just behind them, his eyes on the forest.

“What cook?” Tamas said.

“The one who is providing for all the clerks and workers in the House of Nobles, in addition to your garrison,” Ondraus said. The bent old accountant looked alert in the afternoon sun and rode his horse like a man much younger. His gaze matched Tamas’s.

“The one who creates dishes that have never been seen in Adopest and receives shipments of raw goods that are well out of season in this part of the world, without ever having made an order in the first place. The one feeding five thousand people on a few hundred kranas’ worth of flour and beef a day.” Ondraus gave Tamas a shallow smile. “The one that claims he’s a god. Or had this all gone beneath your notice?”

Tamas slowed his mount slightly and waited for the others to do the same. The priestesses, brigadier, and whipper‑in went on ahead, unaware. When they were well out of earshot, Tamas said, “He’s a Knacked. Not a god.”

Charlemund snorted. “I’m certainly glad. It’s blasphemy.”

“So you know of him?” Tamas said, resigned. He’d hoped that Charlemund’s gaze had swept over Mihali without noticing. A vain hope indeed.

“Of course,” Charlemund said. “My colleagues in the Church have been apprised of the situation. I received their communiqués just this morning.”

“And?”

“They wish me to take him into Church custody immediately. Before any more of his lies can be spread.”

“He’s harmless,” Tamas said. “He escaped from Hassenbur Asylum. I’m sending him back any day now.” The Church’s involvement was the last thing he needed.

“Who is he?” Ondraus asked.

“Lord of the Golden Chefs,” Tamas said.

“Don’t mock me,” Ondraus said, taken aback.

“He’s not,” Ricard suddenly said. “Lord of the Golden Chefs is a title among culinary experts. It means he’s the best damned cook in all the Nine. I can’t believe he’s really in the city.”

“You know him?” Tamas asked.

“Know of him, more like,” Ricard said. “I paid a king’s ransom to have him cook for Manhouch five years ago. It was that dinner that convinced the king to let me start a union. I’ve never tasted such food.” He gave a low whistle. “His squash soup is to die for. I’d love to see him.”

Tamas stifled a smile at the very thought of Mihali’s squash soup. His mouth watered a little, and for just a moment he could smell it, as if Mihali was making it in a pot in the middle of the next clearing.

“Well,” Charlemund said, “you won’t meet him. I’m bringing him under Church custody tonight. I only held off giving the order this morning in deference to Tamas.”

“And if I don’t let him go?” Tamas said lightly.

Charlemund gave a laugh, as if Tamas had made some kind of joke. “That isn’t an option. The man is a heathen and a blasphemer. We all know there is only one God, Kresimir.”

“Aren’t Adom, Unice, Rosvel, and the rest all supposed to be Kresimir’s brothers and sisters?” Tamas asked. “I’m not up on my church lore as much as I should be…”

“Doctrine, not lore,” Charlemund said. “Semantics. They helped him create the Nine, yes, that is why they are saints. Kresimir is the only God among them. To claim otherwise goes against Church doctrine. It was decided so at the Council of Kezlea in five‑oh‑seven.”

Ricard’s eyes grew wide. “You do know something about the Church. Incredible! I thought all you needed to be an arch-diocel was a nice hat and a harem.”

Charlemund ignored Ricard as one might ignore an irritating rug seller in the market. “The Council also established that heretics and blasphemers would fall under the jurisdiction of the Church. Every king of the Nine signed the accord.”

“Interesting,” Tamas said, “that Adro has no king anymore.”

Charlemund looked startled by this. “What…?”

“Has it occurred to any of the arch-diocels,” Tamas said, “that Adro is no longer held by any of the agreements signed by previous kings? Technically, we don’t even have to pay tithe anymore.”

Charlemund sputtered. “I don’t think that’s true. I mean, we had an agreement…”

“With Manhouch,” Ondraus said. The reeve had a nasty smile on his face, and Tamas wondered if he had just given Ondraus an excuse to do something that would completely alienate the Church. Tamas squeezed his eyes shut. O Kresimir above. I shouldn’t have said anything.

“I think I’d like to catch up with the rest of the hunt now,” Tamas said before Charlemund could respond. “I can barely hear the hounds.” He urged his hunter on, reaching the whipper‑in in a few moments.

Gaben turned. “Sir,” he said, “We’ve fallen significantly behind the rest of the group.”

“Yes,” Tamas said, “I gathered.”

“If you’d permit, sir,” Gaben said, “I’d like to lead us on a shortcut through the forest. I know where they’re planning on being in, oh”—he glanced up at the sun, which was showing through the trees—“two hours. I think we can catch them there. Otherwise we might not reach them until after the hunt has finished.”

“Sir,” Olem said in a low voice, “it’s dangerous to leave the hunt trail. These forests were the king’s own, bigger than Adopest and all the suburbs. I used to play in them as a boy. We get lost here and we could be gone for days.”

“The going will be slow,” the whipper‑in said, “through the brush, but we should have no problem cutting them off. I know these woods well.”

“I don’t like it, sir,” Olem said.

Tamas pushed away his own uneasiness and gave Olem a smile. “Calm yourself. I’ve known Gaben since he was a boy. The worst things in these woods are deer. Lead on.”

They trotted along the deer trail, single file, making their way through the woods. The priestesses bantered loudly behind Tamas. He let his mind wander, considering battle plans and strategies. Battle had yet to be joined at the Gates of Wasal. Only at South Pike had shots been fired, and the unique positioning of the fortress town required very little strategy. They’d been shrugging off Kez advances for a month, with minimal loss and despite powerful sorceries on the Kez side. The very thought of Julene’s betrayal made Tamas’s blood boil.

And Taniel. What could he do? Bo was still alive and the two were working together to push back the Kez. That pleased Tamas. Yet Bo was still under the gaes. Could Tamas trust them? Taniel had disobeyed his orders. There would have to be redress for that, though Taniel claimed he had a good reason to keep Bo alive—they needed the Privileged to help hold Shouldercrown.

Tamas knew the real reason. Taniel hadn’t been able to do it. He’d not been able to kill his best friend, even when it was necessary; even on the order of his superior. Taniel had to know that Tamas would see through the excuses. Tamas pushed the thought aside, unwilling to let it ruin his day.

The terrain slowly changed as they rode. They descended into a valley where moss-covered boulders hemmed them in and the forest floor was thick with fallen branches and rotted pine needles. The place seemed to deaden all sound. An icy hand climbed Tamas’s spine. The forest felt old and deep, and the clop of their horses’ hooves an intrusion here.

Their deer trail ran out, and they followed a small brook. The boulders grew bigger, the tree canopy overhead thicker. It seemed they had not even reached the bottom of the valley. Tamas had no memory of this place from other hunts.

Tamas found himself staring at the back of Ondraus’s head. Wisps of silver hair clung to his skull, along with a pair of moles as big as a two-krana coin. Was he the traitor? Tamas became acutely aware that he rode with four of his council, any one of whom was just as likely the traitor as any of the others.

Olem suddenly spurred his horse forward. He passed the other riders and reined in before the whipper‑in. “Where are we?” he said.

“Almost there,” Gaben said. “Not a mile from rejoining the hunt.”

“Then why can’t we hear hounds?” Olem said.

Tamas rode up to the front of the column, followed closely by Charlemund and Ondraus. Ricard remained at the back of the column, staring up at the boulders around them.

“It’s impossible to hear anything in these rocks,” Gaben said as Tamas reined in beside him.

“We’re not anywhere near the hunt,” Olem said. “This is the Giant’s Billiard Table. I ran here as a boy.”

Tamas scowled at Gaben. “Explain yourself.”

A rock fell from one of the boulders above. Tamas jerked around, eyes searching the forest. “Ricard?” he said. Ricard’s horse was alone at the back of the column, the reins thrown over a broken tree limb. Ricard was missing. Tamas turned back to Gaben. “Explain yourself. Now!”

Tamas heard leaves rustling in the forest around them. He turned again, searching. He saw nothing. Ricard had been carrying a pistol. Tamas reached out with his senses. Ricard was nearby. Tamas could sense the powder. He’d scrambled up onto one of the boulders and lay flat on it, facing the group. Was Ricard the traitor? Was this some kind of trap? Ricard was carrying a pistol. Surely he knew that Tamas could find him just from the gunpowder.

A man stepped out on a boulder just ahead of their trail. He held a bow, strung, with arrow at the ready, aimed at Tamas. He sighted along one eye, because the other eye was covered by a white patch of cloth. The man was older than Tamas, his face weathered by battles. He wore a brown-and-green patched cloak to blend in with the forest.

“Brigadier Ryze,” Tamas said.

Olem tossed Tamas a pistol and brought about his rifle, moving with the speed of a seasoned soldier. Tamas caught the pistol and leveled it at the brigadier, not bothering to cock it. A powder mage didn’t need to.

“Lower the weapon,” Brigadier Ryze said. His aim with the bow didn’t waver. He took a half step forward, his footing sure on the boulder. His cloak rippled, revealing the scarlet colors of the hunt underneath.

“I’ll kill you right now,” Tamas warned.

“Maybe,” Ryze said, “But not all of us.”

Tamas kept his eyes locked on Ryze. “Olem?” he said.

“We’re surrounded, sir,” Olem responded glumly. “All of them are carrying bows. Fifteen. But there may be more in the woods.”

“There are,” Brigadier Ryze said.

“Do you know who I am?” Charlemund demanded. Tamas didn’t have to look to know Charlemund had drawn his smallsword. Little good it would do against yeomen far above them.

“We know, Arch-Diocel,” Brigadier Ryze said. “And you won’t be harmed as long as Field Marshal Tamas comes with us. None of you will be harmed.”

“I will destroy you,” Charlemund snarled.

“I’m sure you will,” Brigadier Ryze said without emotion. “Field Marshal, if you please?”

Tamas took a mental inventory of his weapons. A dozen bullets. Not nearly enough to kill fifteen men by scattering the shot, even at his best. He considered Ricard up on one of the boulders and wondered if he was up there because he had sensed a trap or because he’d set the trap in the first place.

“I don’t seem to have a choice,” Tamas said.

“That’s right,” Ryze said. His lone eye traveled around the group slowly. “Let’s go.”

Tamas reached out again with his senses. None of the men had a granule of gunpowder on them. They’d been very careful. He pushed his senses farther into the woods, trying to find out if there were any more armed with powder. He froze. There was a Privileged in the forest.

“Why did you sell out to Manhouch?” Tamas said. “Lady Winceslav trusted you.”

Ryze gave a slight shake of his head. “This has nothing to do with the Kez. I serve Adro and Lady Winceslav.”

“Then why is there a Privileged in the woods over there?” Tamas asked, pointing north.

Brigadier Ryze’s eye widened slightly. “This has nothing to do with the Kez,” he said again. “Now, come with us, or we’ll take you all down and sort it out later.” Ryze’s fingers twitched on the bow. It was said Ryze was a perfect shot with bow, crossbow, rifle, or pistol. He had a reputation for action and brutality—when necessary. He wasn’t stupid, either. There was a reason he’d risen to be a brigadier of the Wings of Adom.

Tamas urged his hunter forward.

“Dismounted,” Ryze said, gesturing to the ground with the tip of his arrow. “Hand your extra powder charges to your bodyguard. Same with the pistol. Leave the horse tied up to a tree.”

Tamas did as he was told and approached Brigadier Ryze.

“You bastard,” Olem said. “You filthy bastard. I’ll take out that other eye.”

“Quiet your dog,” Ryze said.

“Olem, it’s all right,” Tamas said. He paused next to Gaben and glanced up. The man was expressionless. “I take it this is one of yours,” Tamas said to Ryze.

“He is,” Ryze said. “He’ll guide the rest back to the hunt.”

“Go to the pit,” Tamas said. “Olem, take everyone back safely. You said you played here as a boy. Can you get out?”

“Yes,” Olem said. He sounded miserable.

“That’s an order, then,” Tamas said. “Don’t come back for me until everyone is out of the forest.”

“If you follow us,” Ryze said, “I’ll cut his throat.” The brigadier leapt from the boulder, landing on the ground with a hollow-sounding thump.

He edged Tamas into step before him. They were soon flanked by a pair of woodsmen, then two more. Tamas saw that they weren’t wearing hunt colors under their cloaks. They’d probably been in place for hours.

“Ryze,” someone called suddenly. Tamas turned with the brigadier. It was Brigadier Sabastenien, the quiet commander. His voice was calm, collected. “We’ll have your head for this betrayal,” he said. “The Lady will not stand for it.”

“I know,” Brigadier Ryze responded. There was a hint of sadness to his voice. He turned his back on Sabastenien and led Tamas into the woods. As soon as they were out of sight of the other group, Brigadier Ryze broke into a trot, urging Tamas forward with the tip of a dagger. He did it absently, though, as if almost forgetting that Tamas was his prisoner. Tamas glanced over his shoulder, gauging the brigadier.

“Why are you doing this?” Tamas said.

“Quiet,” Ryze said, his voice not unkind. “You don’t even know what ‘this’ is. You say there’s a Privileged in the forest?”

Tamas stopped suddenly. He spun on Brigadier Ryze, grabbing the wrist with the dagger. Ryze gripped tightly, one hand going to Tamas’s shoulder. They struggled silently for a moment, neither man the stronger, until one of Ryze’s men stepped up and struck Tamas in the small of the back. Tamas grunted, letting go of Ryze’s wrist. He dropped to his knees.

“Back off,” Ryze snarled at his man. He grasped Tamas by the forearm and helped him up. “I’ve been betrayed,” he said quietly, only for Tamas to hear.

“So have I.” Tamas glared at the brigadier. There was a time Tamas considered Ryze a colleague, though never close enough to be a friend. Decades ago, postings had seen them together overseas.

“Not the way you think.” Ryze stepped back and lowered his dagger. “I’m not here to kill you, Field Marshal, nor to hand you over to the Kez.”

“Then what is this charade?” Tamas wondered if he should go for Ryze again. He might get the upper hand, but Ryze’s men watched from nearby.

“To warn you,” Ryze said. “I’ve brought my most trusted men, but apparently that was not enough. You’re sure there’s a Privileged in the forest?”

“Yes,” Tamas said slowly. He opened his third eye. “He’s getting closer. He has Wardens with him.” The thought chilled him. Brigadier Ryze seemed in earnest, but Tamas was not ready to trust him. He might only be delaying, waiting for the Privileged to catch up.

Ryze swore. “Kah! Loadio! Take positions there and there.” He pointed upward to a pair of boulders. The two men nodded and climbed onto the rocks. “Kill the sorcerer,” he said. Ryze turned to Tamas. “Run!”

Tamas wondered whether he should break away, take the opportunity to escape. He hesitated for just a moment before following Ryze into the forest. As they went, Ryze called out the names of his men, pairing them up and placing them between himself and the sorcerer. Tamas glanced over his shoulder now and then, watching for the pastel glow of a Privileged in his third sight. The Privileged was coming on quickly, along with dimmer glows of power. Privileged didn’t move that fast unless they were being carried by a Warden.

Ryze turned to bark an order to one of his men and stopped. Tamas nearly ran into him. Ryze drew a dagger and fell into a fighting stance.

Tamas turned. Only two of Ryze’s men were left nearby. One of them was a yeoman, bow slung over his arm. He toppled onto a bed of dead leaves, a crimson slash across his throat. The other man was Gaben. He wiped the dagger calmly on the yeoman’s cloak and faced Ryze.

“Your father…” Ryze said.

“Is a damned fool who should never have followed this traitor,” Gaben said, gesturing at Tamas. He readied himself, squaring with his own dagger against Ryze. “All I have to do is keep you occupied until the duke arrives.”

The old brigadier threw himself forward, dagger in hand. He parried, slashed, then leapt upon Gaben, driving his dagger into the man’s chest. It hadn’t even been a contest. Ryze stood up, his lone eye red with anger, and looked back the way they’d come. Tamas heard the report of sorcery in the forest, and the crash of a falling tree.

“I’ve left my men to their deaths,” Ryze said. He squeezed his eye shut, dropping his dagger. Tamas noticed that there was blood on his yeoman’s cloak. Ryze touched the wound. “Lucky jab,” he said, gesturing at the dead whipper‑in.

Tamas helped Ryze to a clear spot on the forest floor, leaning him up against a log. “Tell me what you have to say,” he said, “before all this is for nothing.” The sound of sorcery was getting closer.

“I’ve not been able to get close to you for some time,” Ryze said. “This was a foolish plan, but understand me, sir, I was desperate. Brigadier Barat has betrayed us. He holds my youngest son captive. I’d hoped to convince you to leave the hunt and help me rescue him. We’d have had hours of a head start before he knew we were gone.” Ryze passed a hand over his face. Sweat rolled down his cheeks, mingled with tears. “I didn’t know we’d been betrayed.”

“Is he the traitor?” Tamas said. “Does Lady Winceslav know?”

“He’s not the only traitor,” Ryze said. “He’s working with someone inside your council. And no. The Lady has no idea. She’s blinded by love. Barat has seduced her. I’ve done my best to get him sent to the lines or out of the country, but she won’t hear of it. He is the only one with her ear right now.”

“Do you know who he’s working with?”

“No,” Ryze said. “Run!” Ryze lurched forward, shoving Tamas to the ground. The forest erupted in flames suddenly, heat searing Tamas’s face and hands. He hit the ground and rolled, pushing himself up to his feet and spinning toward Ryze. The old brigadier screamed as his skin peeled from his body and his flesh withered. Tamas dove behind a boulder, eyes wild for any sign of the Privileged and his Wardens. He heard a crack, and the last thing he remembered was the boulder exploding.