“He’s ugly,” Tarik said, folding his arms, “and fat. Couldn’t you have just dealt with him there, Father?”

Archis Varren looked down at the boy and could not help but smile. His son was beginning to resemble himself at the same age, growing up in Silvernesse country in Turgyl. Tarik’s mind was quick and suspicious, and though he would never wield any gift from the Spirits, merely pass the gene to another generation, his knowledge of the world was already so substantial that he would be a formidable man at the end of the next ten years of his life.

The three Ayons were resting in the main room of the remaining wing of the castle of Ammentide. Against one of the shorter walls was an extensive set of shelves, stacked high with documents, books, small boxes, chests, artefacts and ornaments. In the center of the room was a large table with four chairs and a decorated rug beneath it to cover the cold stone floor. The half-a-dozen arched windows in the west wall offered a view through the tangled canopy of the wild Manthis forest to the distant sea. A handsome fireplace was set in the opposite wall, a pair of comfortable armchairs standing in front of the grate. A large banner with a stalking gray wolf emblazoned across the intricate crimson background – the emblem of the Ayon Empire – adorned the final wall. Varren’s own noble crest was set in each of the banner’s corners: the large wildcat, Whisper. The banner had been given to him during his lording ceremony and he had no greater treasure.

Varren and Lhunannon were seated in the two armchairs before the fire while Tarik was fidgeting near the shelves. He had been complaining about their guest for the whole five days and, during that time, Varren had not so much as looked at Mayor Challan. His servants saw to the man’s requirements and reminded him, at every opportunity, why he was there.

“This man holds information I desire, my boy,” Varren said, when Tarik approached the fire. “We must first break his resolve before we loosen his tongue.”

“But you don’t need his tongue to make him spill his secrets, Father,” the boy said defiantly. “I don’t like him. He’s a pampered Ronnesian dog.”

“That he is. Yes, perhaps it is about time to pay him a visit.”

“Can I come, Father?” Tarik asked eagerly.

For a moment, Varren considered it, but only briefly. For an eleven-year-old, he was extremely mature in many aspects but his mind was still very fragile. His son was learning fast but Varren could not be certain, yet, what he would be able to handle.

“Not this time, Tarik,” he said, shaking his head. He rose from the armchair and turned to Lhunannon. “Coming?”

“I suppose,” the enchanter said, heaving himself up, “though I did just eat.”

Of the many dozens of rooms the castle of Ammentide had once boasted, only the main sitting room, a rudimentary kitchen, four bedrooms and a storeroom remained in good condition. At the end of the corridor beyond the sitting room was an open courtyard that had been a grand hall, built for a king or a regional duke. Varren led Lhunannon through the overgrown courtyard and nodded at the two guards standing by the passage to the dungeons, the entrance no longer secured by a door. Like most of the people of Manthis, they were tall and tanned, with dark eyes, braided hair and tribal markings adorned their arms. They moved aside to let Varren and Lhunannon pass, then resumed their positions. Varren held aloft his hand and summoned a ball of light to his palm, which he sent hovering in the air, illuminating the way, before they descended the well-worn stone steps into the gloom.

The stairs spiraled down to a landing with a heavy wooden door in the far wall. The timber was rotten and, in fact, was only standing because of the iron supports. Varren had always meant to replace it but had had little reason to until now – he had never played host to prisoners before. There were dozens of cells and Varren had put Mayor Challan in the lower of the two floors where the air was damp and cold.

“What are you planning to do with him?” Lhunannon asked as they left the first landing and continued down.

“I have yet to decide,” Varren said, looking over his shoulder at the enchanter. “There are some actions that are more powerful messages than an assassination.”

“Such as?”

“Had Nomanis Tirk thought to poison General Carter’s good name instead of killing him, he would have rattled the empire. Spreading rumors and bribing witnesses to speak against Carter would have had a devastating effect.”

“True, but with you or I as the judge, that plan would not have worked.”

“Yet the initial suspicion would linger. Toppling great men from favor hurts the people’s faith where a death would only stir feelings of revenge.”

“So you mean to force him to confess to the queen?”

“Perhaps.”

“And she, in turn, will be forced to take the necessary action against him. Yes…Despite his being her greatest supporter, she will have to decide between saving Challan’s reputation and facing the bitter scrutiny of her people.”

“That is a possibility.”

“He could face a charge of treason,” Lhunannon said. “At the very least, he should be ostracized.”

“But if she thought I was manipulating the situation, she could disregard the evidence as false. A full confession must come from his lips.”

“I suppose you have a plan.”

Varren pushed open another rotting door to enter the lower floor of the dungeons. All the iron doors were open but one. As Varren ignited the ancient torches in their brackets with unnatural fire, Lhunannon moved over to the cell and peered into the blackness beyond.

“He’s asleep.”

“Then it’s time for him to wake up.”

Lhunannon inclined his head before shaking back his sleeves. Raising his arms slightly, he grasped at the air and then forced his palms forward. A ripple of energy pulsated from his body and swirled back around before catapulting along his outstretched arms. A bolt of pure magic, bright white and hot, thundered into the door of Challan’s cell with a tremendous boom.

There was a terrified scream.

Lhunannon closed his hands and drew back his arms, severing the magic. Varren crinkled his nose at the stench of hot metal. He wrenched open what remained of the door and let it crash against the wall of the corridor.

“Good morning, my lord!” he exclaimed. “I hope I find you well.”

Lhunannon stood beside him as they surveyed Mayor Challan. The prisoner’s eyes were wide with fear, his lips quivering, and his trousers wet. There was no trace of the grandeur he had once possessed.

“Recover your wits, my lord,” Lhunnanon said calmly, “or you will be of no further use to us.”

Varren folded his arms and waited, but when Challan did not move, he sighed. He approached the crouching prisoner in the dark cell and pressed his fore and middle fingers of his right hand into the soft flesh of the man’s shoulder and produced a spark. The man jumped, yelping, and then his eyes darted about the room.

“What – what happened?” he exclaimed, his hands grasping at the walls of the cell frantically, his manacles clinking.

“I need to talk to you,” Varren said, squatting on the floor in front of him, “and I need you to cooperate. I hope you understand that I am more than capable of torturing you.”

“Yes!” the mayor said, his eyes now fixed on Varren’s own. “Yes, I’ll tell you anything you want to know! Just…just don’t hurt me again!”

“I make no promises about that, but if you answer my questions to my satisfaction, you may return to Te’Roek with no further injuries. Do we have an understanding?”

“Yes!”

“Good.”

Varren sat himself down on the stone bench protruding from one of the cell walls. Lhunannon remained in the doorway, a statue.

“First and foremost, who organized the assassination of General Carter?”

“Myself,” Challan said determinedly. “The queen knew nothing of it. I asked her whether she would approve of an attempt on the king’s life but – ”

“The king?”

“Yes,” the mayor said, his resolve dwindling somewhat. “He had been my initial target. The queen flatly refused any involvement in any scheme to assassinate him and told me that it was dishonorable. But I knew what a great advantage that would give us.”

“I see.”

“But none, not even my most trusted assassin, would take the contract. I offered him hundreds of pfenns but he wouldn’t do it.”

“I like the sound of him.”

“So I thought to try the next most important man instead.”

“General Carter,” Varren said, leaning closer.

“Yes.”

“So you hired Nomanis Tirk?”

“Yes.”

“And you remain adamant that the queen had nothing to do with it. She did not offer funding or a reward for your scheme, even in an indirect way?”

“No,” Challan said sincerely. “I went against her word.”

“Enough for a charge of treason.”

Challan looked up anxiously into Varren’s eyes. “I meant to save the Ronnesian Empire from total destruction!”

“Another has already taken Carter’s place, one who will prove very hard to dispose of. Your assassination has achieved nothing more than a short delay in our preparations for war. The queen, when she hears of this, will be most displeased, especially when it comes from me.”

“No! Please!” Challan cried, clasping his hands together. “I’ll do anything, just don’t tell her what I have done!”

“I’m afraid it’s too late for that. The entire Ronnesian Empire must have heard of General Carter’s assassination by now and I have already informed the queen that you were involved. The fact that she has done nothing about it so far is unfortunate, and it will be her undoing. I will crush her reputation among her own people.”

“You can’t do that!”

“My dear lord mayor, don’t insult me by presuming you know the limits of my power. Every single word your mind utters, I can hear, and every emotion you feel, I can sense. And no, no matter how hard you pull, the iron rings will not come out of the wall, I have magically sealed them.”

“How did you – ”

“So when I return you to Te’Roek, you will confess your crimes to the queen.”

“No!”

“You will, and let me tell you why.” Varren leaned forward, putting his elbows on his knees, a smile forming at the corners of his thin lips. “Your precious queen is bound by the oath she took upon her coronation to uphold the laws of her empire. Her laws. Either by your confession or by my information, she will know the truth. If she keeps to her oath, then her reputation will remain untainted and the people will continue to trust in her and the law. However, should she neglect to act against you, the streets of Te’Roek will be rife with crime and the citizens will blame the queen, and rightly so. There will be chaos and bloodshed right at her front door, and who will she turn to? Her mages? Would she tell them to bring order back to her city? Would they turn to violence?”

“Sorcha would never allow her advisers to attack civilians!” Challan cried.

“What it all boils down to is this: who is more important to you – yourself or your queen? Should you confess and should the queen act responsibly, only your reputation will be destroyed. However, should you or the queen neglect your separate duties, I will destroy the both of you, and I can promise you that.”

Challan glowered at Varren. “I’ll set Sable on you, you bastard!” he shouted.

“Who is he?” Varren asked, amused. “Your dog?”

“You are no match for him! He’d skin you alive in seconds!”

“Send an army of your lackeys to kill me, Challan, not one of them will come within a dozen yards!” Varren replied, his eyes narrowed. He held the mayor’s gaze for only a moment, then rose. “I will give you three days. Three days to ponder the future of the Ronnesian Empire and your beloved queen.”