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  Roland made his face a hard blank. I am not a boy who will blurt out his secrets because you have made me uncomfortable, Uncle.

  Winthrop swirled the wine in his glass. “I told Marsden to be discreet. I take it he was not?”

  “He was,” snapped Roland. “He left a very neat picture with little to suggest a kidnapping. I am simply confident of the fellow’s loyalty. He was on our side. He would not flee in the cowardly manner you painted him.” Roland had no intention of mentioning Sairis’s glasses.

  Winthrop pursed his lips. “You are behaving most chivalrously towards a man who tried to kill you.”

  It was an odd choice of words and Roland sensed a trap. “I am behaving chivalrously towards my queen and her word. She gave it. You broke it. I am taking him back, Uncle.”

  Winthrop smiled. Roland had rarely wanted to punch someone more. Was he always this condescending and I never noticed because I was a child?

  “Of course, my prince. But there really was no need to ride out as soon as you could sit a horse. The necromancer is not going anywhere, and I have not cut off any fingers yet. In fact, Marsden tells me that won’t do much good. They have to bind him with magic or some such claptrap to make him useful. They want him to sign a document, but as yet, he cannot be induced to do so. They have been attempting maneuvers—none of which seem very impressive to me. The necromancer seems to sleep most of the time. I cannot tell that he is even in distress, so I am not sure how they intend to make him obey, but Marsden is no fool, and we have some time.”

  “They’ve put a mage collar on him?” asked Roland.

  Winthrop inclined his head. “A collar, a cuff, some spells... Really, you would think he was a dragon and not a youth in need of his first shave. I do hope he’s actually useful. He doesn’t look it.” Winthrop was watching Roland as he spoke, and again Roland had the sense that he was being tested.

  “You may view him if you wish to make your own judgments in the matter,” said Winthrop with excessive diplomacy. “Then I hope you will do me the honor of viewing the troops and discussing our plans for the upcoming battle. I could use your expertise regarding the pass. I also feel remiss in not asking after your health earlier, though you gave me no time. Have you recovered from whatever he did to you? This man you’ve come to rescue?”

  “I have recovered,” said Roland stiffly. It was true. Rising this morning, he’d felt no remaining trace of weakness. Roland knew what he should say next. The wisest and safest course would be to dismiss Winthrop’s offer of “viewing” Sairis. To say, “I believe you, Uncle. Have the man washed up and properly dressed while we inspect the troops. Assign us an escort, and I’ll collect them after you and I have visited over a decent meal.”

  But Roland could not bring himself to do it. His uncle’s suddenly solicitous behavior was making him intensely suspicious. “Yes, I would like to see him.”

  Chapter 7. Marsden Makes a Request

  They had Sairis chained to a cot inside a wagon. He lay on his back, apparently unconscious. His deep breaths came so far apart that each time it seemed he would never take another. His shirt had been ripped half off, his exposed chest marked with bruises. Across the bare skin of his throat lay the collar. It was about an inch wide, plain iron, and tight enough that Sairis could not have pulled it over his head. Roland knew that mage collars were usually welded shut. Something about iron blunted a magician’s access to magic. Roland could only imagine how terrifying Sairis would find such an experience.

  He looked pale as death, his jaw too sharp, his stomach too sunken. A cuff encircled one delicate wrist. His hand lay open on the bed, and Roland counted the fingers.

  He knew he’d stared for just a little too long when he turned to find his uncle watching him with that same assessing expression. Marsden hovered near the door, looking sheepish. Roland seized on that. “I’d like a word with the magus,” he growled. “Alone.”

  Uncle Winthrop inclined his head. “I will be in my tent, preparing maps for your inspection. I look forward to your opinion of my plans for the pass, Nephew.”

  When he was gone, Roland turned furious eyes on Marsden. Here, at least, he felt he could throw his weight around a little. Marsden had some of the family looks, but little of the family clout, and he knew it. “Choosing sides already, Professor?”

  Marsden looked exceedingly uncomfortable. “I was told that the queen was aware of our movements.” He did not say, “By your uncle.” He could not afford to. Roland did not envy Marsden his position—a man whose magic would have gotten him killed only a few decades ago, trapped between a new queen and her father’s eldest brother. That was Marsden’s problem, however, and Roland did not intend to try to solve it for him.

  “Have you injured Sairis?”

  Marsden looked surprised. “Nothing he can’t recover from. We have been trying to learn his true name. Ordinarily, there are spells that can coax this information out of memory or dreams, but he’s proven quite resistant. I’m beginning to think he has employed some technique to make his name inaccessible without his express permission. That is...unfortunate. I hoped to keep him collared at the university after the battle—to let him live, you understand. But if we can’t learn his name and he will not give it, the only way to make use of him in the fight with Hastafel is to take his magic by force. That will probably kill him.”

  Roland clenched a fist behind his back, exerting all the frustration and fear he dared not show on his face. “Why is he unconscious?”

  “We’ve put him to sleep. He kept spirit-walking. This is unwise without a summoning circle. He could have died or a monster could have taken his body. We’ve put him into a deep sleep to stop him from doing that. Such sleep will also decrease his body’s need for nourishment. This may be the only way to get him to the border alive, since he won’t eat.”

  Don’t scream, Roland told himself. Don’t grab Marsden by the neck and shake him. “Can you wake him up?”

  “I can.” Marsden’s eyes searched Roland’s face. “I take it Your Highness has recovered from the attack?”

  “I have recovered from your spell, yes.”

  “My spell that was transferred to your person by this necromancer in a manner we still don’t understand. Sairis should be thoroughly contained at this point, but I would prefer not to test any possible hold he may still have over you. I don’t suppose you’ve figured out what he gave you that might have caused it?”

  He is not going to let me talk to Sairis alone. Roland tried to think of another angle. Aloud, he said, “Why won’t he eat?”

  Marsden shrugged. “Food can be laced with magic. Although I already got a charm down his throat. I’m not sure what exactly he expects I can do to porridge that would be worse.”

  Roland passed a hand over his face. “Perhaps he simply does not wish to be your slave or your source of magical fuel.”

  Marsden frowned. At last, he said, “May I speak to you outside, Your Highness?”

  Roland nodded. He cast one more look at Sairis’s pale, still form, and then followed Marsden out of the wagon. It was on the edge of the camp and had no fewer than six guards. The magician did not speak at once. Roland followed him through the trees between fallow fields, past hunters returning to camp with game from the hills. They’d strung up three elk, their great antlers brushing the earth, blood pooling in the leaves beneath.

  Marsden spoke at last. “Were you friendly with him?”

  Roland said nothing. He thought Marsden was about to launch into a lecture on Sairis’s treacherous attempt on Roland’s life, and he didn’t want to hear it again.

  Marsden surprised him by saying, “It’s quite obvious that you disapprove of our actions here, Your Highness. I agree that it is distasteful—using another person in this way. It is not my preference. But necromancers gain power from the deaths of those around them. I’m not sure I can adequately explain what that means—how magic feels to a magician. It is pleasurable, intoxicating. Would you be able to trust so
meone who felt pleasure and gained benefits when people around him died?”

  “He can’t help it!” exclaimed Roland, unable to keep the feeling from his voice. “It is his nature. He didn’t choose it.”

  Marsden looked at him sidelong. “Indeed. And werewolves are bitten, and this is not their fault, but we kill them because they are too dangerous to live with ordinary people and we haven’t found a way to make them safe. It is not fair, but it’s all we can do.”

  “Sairis is not dangerous. He wasn’t controlling the demon. Candice did that.”

  To Roland’s surprise, Marsden nodded. “If he was controlling the demon, he would have already used it to escape. I realize this. Your Highness, I would not have offered Sairis a place at the university if I thought he was willfully dangerous. If I thought he had already progressed to the point of killing for power and pleasure, I would never have tried to bargain with him. But he is young, and, unlike a werewolf, it is possible to collar a necromancer or inhibit his magic in such a way that he can coexist with mundane people. He could use his magic in the battle with Hastafel of his own free will, and that would be better for everyone. If you believe he would listen to you, I would appreciate your talking to him.”

  Roland licked his lips. This was not what he had expected. “You want him to sign some kind of contract so that you can control him?”

  “So that if he runs mad and starts killing indiscriminately I can stop him. Is that really such a bad thing?”

  Roland considered. “Is it permanent?”

  It was Marsden’s turn to be surprised. “The collar I would make? Not...as such. It could be removed later, yes, although I do not believe that is a wise thing to promise him, Your Highness.”

  A plan was forming in Roland’s mind. He wasn’t sure it would work, but... Uncle Winthrop is not going to release Sairis. Roland felt more certain of that by the minute. He is going to produce endless excuses. I need a reason to talk to Sairis without exciting suspicion, and this might be the only way. And even if the worst comes...even if I have to talk him into letting Marsden put some kind of leash on him, at least he’ll survive, and we can worry about the details later.

  Chapter 8. Flaw

  Sairis opened his eyes. He felt foggy. Drugged? It was an artificial lassitude, but he couldn’t make himself care. He wanted to go back to sleep.

  “Sairis.”

  Some of the lassitude receded. Sairis screwed up his face. “Marsden. You done poking around in my head?” He was slurring a little. Sairis licked his lips. Gods, his mouth was dry.

  “Can you poke around in his head?” enquired another voice. “Can you retrieve memories, for instance?”

  “Normally, yes, but he’s quite resistant to that sort of thing.”

  “Pity.”

  “Give me a bit more time.”

  Sairis turned, puzzled. A man was sitting at the table beside his cot, vaguely familiar. He was not one of the magicians. Sairis sat up, squinting at the blurry features. He started to reach for his glasses and remembered, for the hundredth time, that they were gone. The voice... One of the dukes...Lord Winthrop. Sairis remembered Roland’s warning from what seemed a lifetime ago. “You should be careful, as well, Sairis. He suggested I collar you, take you to the border, and cut off fingers until you raise a corpse army.”

  He’ll be the one in charge of the caravan, thought Sairis. It was somewhat comforting to know that Daphne hadn’t ordered this. Probably. Although, if she thinks I tried to kill her brother, she might have delivered me to Winthrop done up in a bow.

  “You may leave us, Marsden,” said the duke. Sairis wished he could see Winthrop’s features better. He was sitting well back from the table.

  As the heavy door of the wagon closed behind Marsden, Sairis felt a needle of alarm beneath the artificial calm of Marsden’s spells. Have we reached the border? Is he about to start cutting off fingers? Sairis had no sense of the passage of time while he slept. Had he swallowed Marsden’s charm days ago? Weeks?

  “My nephew has come after you,” said Winthrop. “He’s about to implore you to wear Marsden’s collar so we don’t have to kill you. I wanted a little chat first.”

  Sairis blinked. He slid his legs over the side of the cot so that he was sitting squarely at the table. Roland is here? He...he came after me? Sairis wasn’t sure what his expression showed, but he realized abruptly that Winthrop was smiling. Even without the ability to see details, Sairis found that he did not like the smile. He tried to rally his sluggish wits. Be careful, be careful...

  Sairis’s voice emerged in a rasp, “If you’ve come to make bargains, I can save you the trouble. Marsden already tried that.”

  “Yes, I can see you’re a picture of fortitude.”

  Sairis curled his bare toes against the boards and resisted the urge to hug himself against the chilly air. Fuck off, my lord.

  Winthrop cocked his head. “Marsden seems to think you are alone, that Karkaroth does not know you’re out here. What would he do if he found out, I wonder? Do you suppose he’d come after you? It would be a great thing—finally ridding the realm of the necromancer my brother could not kill.”

  Sairis felt as though someone had dumped a bucket of ice water down his back. The idea that he might be used as bait had not occurred to him. He almost said, “What do you want?” Fortitude, indeed. Keep your mouth shut; he’s just trying to make you react.

  Winthrop watched him with that damnable smile. “My dear brother,” he murmured, “had two children, both of them flawed. There is nothing less attractive than ambition in a woman or docility in a man, but you couldn’t tell Arnoldo anything. He would have his way. Daphne’s marriage to Lamont would have made a brilliant piece of statesmanship if she were not the ruler. As an agent for our interests in a foreign court, she would be superb. But to marry the throne to Lamont? I do not believe the barons will stand for it in the end. I believe they will put Roland on the throne, and his flaw will cause him more trouble than he thinks, along with all the rest of us.”

  Sairis said nothing. This was more confessional than he liked or expected from a powerful enemy. He wasn’t sure where this was going, but he felt certain he would not like the punch line.

  Winthrop’s voice dropped to a murmur. “I thought that the loss of his playmate might settle Roland. Young men sometimes go through these phases. Particularly young men-at-arms with no women about. But I think I may have been wrong, and the flaw is more firmly entrenched than I had hoped.”

  Sairis went absolutely still. Did he just say what I think he said?

  Winthrop leaned forward so that Sairis could see the bright, fierce glint of his eyes. “What did you give my nephew, young man? Or what did you take, hmm? The magicians say that it would have to be something quite personal. It seems to me that you would need to be sharing close quarters for that. A room?” His eyes narrowed. “A bed?”

  Sairis’s mouth opened before his brain had quite processed the words. “I took a lock of your nephew’s hair for a spell, my lord. It is quite a standard binding spell. It was not at all difficult to cut it while he slept in his own bed. He is careless, and I am capable of moving in total silence, as your magicians will assure you.”

  Winthrop gave a brief, mirthless laugh. “That was a quick denial. Are you sure you don’t want to consider your story a little more carefully? Get the details in order?”

  Sairis swallowed. Marsden’s sleep spell was making him stupid. He was light-headed with hunger and thirst. Think.

  Winthrop crossed his arms. “Come now, I know you were intimate. The only part I was unsure about were your motives. Did you seduce my nephew in a cold-blooded act of intrigue? Or do you share his flaw? From your reaction, I’m guessing the latter. There’s no reason for a necromancer to be fussy about being thought an invert. Unless you’re trying to protect him.”

  Sairis wished he’d never left his tower. Why did I think I could go out into the world and manage situations and handle people?

  Winth
rop’s voice hardened into something sharp and cold. “Here is what is going to happen, Magus Sairis. I am going to let Roland take you. I’ll give him some grief about it, make him haggle about the details. We’ll have to decide how much of a collar you’ll wear. But I will let him take you back to Daphne and back to his bed. You, in turn, are going to be my eyes and ears in the prince’s counsel. You are going to report what he says and does, and you are not going to tell him. If you betray me, I will use you to kill Karkaroth. Serve me well, and I will overlook him as my brother did.”

  Sairis shut his eyes. He knew he was showing weakness, but he could not bear to keep meeting that sharp, disdainful gaze.

  Winthrop sat back with a grunt of satisfaction, as though Sairis had already acquiesced. “My niece and nephew have flaws, Sairis. If those flaws cannot be eradicated, then I will use them to steer my wayward family and prevent them from destroying the kingdom. I’m sure you are already considering ways to thwart me, so know this: if my nephew’s proclivities become public knowledge, it will undo him. The barons will reject him and they will reconsider fealty to his sister. They will say that the only reason Arnoldo bequeathed the kingdom to a girl was because his son was too fond of man-flesh to sire an heir. They will say that Arnoldo only stopped hanging inverts because his son was one of them. They will consider that entire branch of the family tainted and demand a return to the old ways. The result will be anarchy and civil war. I would prefer to manage my niece and nephew by gentler means if at all possible. You will do nicely.”

  Sairis spoke in as careless a voice as he could muster, “There seems to be no point in denying your accusations, my lord, as you have obviously told yourself the story you would like to hear. You are, however, making a great many assumptions. You are assuming, for instance, that the prince will even want to take me out of here after I used him as a lightning rod for Marsden’s spell. You assume there is a level of trust between us that, frankly, does not exist.”