Watching the Vagas go about their lives made Nels feel more at home in the strange land. Contrary to what he’d heard his whole life, the Vaga camp was not a small gathering of nomadic people; instead, it was a vibrant, thriving community of hundreds. Tents and wooden shelters occupied the forest floor without impeding on the plants and creatures that also lived there. In the last hour, he had seen dozens of Vagas, each hauling branches and logs to the center of the camp. Vigo stacked the wood high in preparation for an enormous bonfire. Smaller flames were already roasting venison and fowl on slowly rotating spits.
Nels tried to sniff the roasting meats; he inhaled through his nose, but all he could smell was the scent of stale beeswax. He spent the afternoon wandering about the Vagas’ domain. The large pines were taller than castle turrets, their trunks wider than a nobleman’s carriage. Apparently, the Vagas had taken great care of the forest and, in turn, it seemed to have taken care of them. They had an ample flow of water from a river to the north and worms from which they derived silky, abundant fibers for cloth. In addition, several Vagas hauled baskets of nuts and berries into the camp from diverse parts of the forest. Nels eventually found himself back outside the flap of Mylan’s tent — the largest dwelling in the camp.
Tyra was still inside. Crying.
Nels kicked at the dirt outside the tent’s door. The ground was too moist to make dust clouds, but he kept at it anyway. He heard Tyra sob occasionally, but he didn’t move to check on her. Mylan had warned him that Tyra would struggle with this new reality and, thanks to Rasmus, Nels was afraid that she may never forgive him.
He didn’t know what to do.
“You worry too much,” Mylan said as she approached him.
She was so perceptive, even though he was invisible to her. The diviner’s intuition reminded him of Bosh; somehow, they both knew things that ordinary people didn’t. “How did you know I was standing here?” he asked.
The girl pointed at the ground. “Soil does not dig itself.”
Nels stopped scuffing the dirt. “I’m glad you can hear me.”
“You sound restless. You had an argument.”
“Yeah,” Nels confessed. “Nothing we haven’t done before.”
Mylan smiled. “Do not take her anger to heart. The only way she can restore the hope she once possessed is through the two greatest gifts of healing.”
“What gifts are those?”
“Space and time. She will join us when she is ready.”
Trusting in the girl’s wisdom, Nels walked with Mylan to the heart of the Vagas’ preparations. He was surprised to learn that Mylan was an accomplished diviner — a leader among her people. That was the reason why her father insisted that she call him Roashil — the Vagas thought it improper for a leader to favor one Vaga over another. The Vagas’ strange culture was completely foreign to Nels, but he found himself drawn to their warmth and charisma.
“The sun is setting,” Mylan said. “Every year on the midsummer eve, we give ourselves back to the forest, a thanks for providing us life. The forest enjoys our song and dance.”
Nels looked at her. “How is it that you can hear me?”
The girl paused and turned; her eyes penetrated him. “You never knew your father. I never knew my mother. In our loss, we share a likeness. My sorrow resonates with yours.”
Nels didn’t understand what she meant, but he was grateful to confide in her regardless. “I’m sorry about your mother.”
“And I for your father, but we ought to celebrate the lives they lived.”
Nels nodded, accepting the comfort of her words. This young girl reminded him at times of Jilia — same height, same build — but the way Mylan carried herself was completely opposite.
Smiling, she looked to the celebration. “Tonight, you will —”
“Mylan!” They both saw Roashil as he ran toward her.
The girl bowed her head. “What is it, Father?”
Roashil shook his feather-adorned head as he panted to a stop. He was clearly irritated, but not enough to correct his daughter. “Not this year,” he implored. “Please — must we cater to him?”
Nels looked past Roashil, wondering who he was talking about. “Who’s him?”
“He is a part of what we celebrate,” Mylan said. “It is only fitting.”
“But all he does is eat and watch,” her father answered.
“If one outsider can appreciate us, more will come to appreciate us,” Mylan said. “If we are to seek favor from our neighbors in Avërand, we must not turn away our only friends.”
Nels had learned from Mylan that her people had tried to earn the acceptance of Avërand for most of a century. Now that King Hilvar wanted the Vagas to have his land, Nels understood why. If the kingdom of Westmine was restored, they would be neighbors with Avërand.
Roashil smiled. “You are even more insightful than our elders.” He placed a kind hand on her head. “Never has a diviner like you lived among us; I am proud to be your father.”
Mylan returned the smile. “Thank you, Roashil.”
He laughed. “You will never leave me alone, will you?”
“Oye, there!” A pot-bellied figure shuffled toward them. It was Fargut, carrying a large clay jug of honey. “Be bring’n the bee barf! Happy to be see’n the dance’n about soon!”
Mylan laughed and so did Nels, surprised by how happy he was to see the eccentric man.
Rasmus collapsed as he neared the summit of Westerly Pass.
Moments ago, the sun had set behind him, cloaking the sky with a violet that revealed the more prominent stars. Cording to the top of the pass had worn him out. He clutched the arrow in his hand — he’d pulled it from his shoulder before beginning his ascent. The pain was of no concern to him. He obsessed, instead, about Ulrich’s son thwarting his plan.
Miserable boy! How did he get involved with the princess?
“Ickabosh!” he whispered. “You basted their threads together, didn’t you?”
Only his old mentor was capable of a stitch like that.
But what does the princess really want the Needle of Gailner for?
The Needle couldn’t bring back the dead, so it was useless to her new, invisible friend.
Unless …
The thought chilled him. What if the boy wasn’t actually dead? The Needle could weave together an unwoven soul. The old tailor must have hidden the boy’s body somewhere. Rasmus cursed. By the blood of his wound, he would stop at nothing to prevent the princess from saving the boy; he could not allow the son of Ulrich to live.
“This way!” someone shouted. “It came from over here!”
Rasmus jumped as a few steps drew close. A dozen more followed. He couldn’t afford to be discovered, not now, and not like this. He threaded back into the form of the knight he had slain.
“Sir Arek?” Canis said. “What’s happened to you?”
The false Arek turned to the approaching knights, holding up the arrow in his bloodied hand. “Ambushed — by a horde of Vagas. They have the princess!”
“Help him up,” Canis ordered.
Many men were with Canis. These same knights had searched for Tyra while wearing nothing more than vests and trousers. But now they were in full armor — dressed for a fight. Were they onto him? Did they know that Rasmus was back?
Two sturdy knights helped him to his feet. “Where’s your squire, Sir Arek?”
He faked a frown. “I was about to ask you the same. He … deserted me … when the Vagas attacked. He could be anywhere in that valley.”
As they reached the meadow, Rasmus was truly amazed by the number of men who had gathered on the Westerly Pass. There had to be a hundred, if not more. “What is going on, Sir Canis?”
“Your squire is dead.”
They found the boy’s body. “What?!”
“We found him after we returned to the castle — after you and your squire continued the search without us,” Canis said. “The Alvil you and I were traveling with was an imposter.”
“But — how — this is —” Arek feigned utter disbelief.
“We’re sorry for doubting you, Arek.”
Arek tightened his fists for show. “If I had known.”
“It’s Rasmus,” said another of the knights. “He’s returned.”
Canis nodded. “And now he’s after our princess.”
“I saw her,” Arek said. “Before the Vagas nearly killed me.”
“So you left her with them?” One of the younger men had spoken up. He was armed with little more than a head of red hair. “You — the favored knight — ran away from them when the princess was in danger?”
“Quiet, Wallin!” Canis ordered. “He’s done the right thing, coming to us.” He leaned in close to Arek’s ear. “Don’t mind this untrained lot. We felt it best to gather a few volunteers. If Rasmus has come back, we need every able-bodied man if we stand a chance of stopping him.”
Arek said nothing. If Lennart had sent these men to reclaim the princess and stop him, then their absence would make the castle vulnerable. He could alter his plan. “That explains why Alvil behaved so strangely,” Arek said. “He was in league with the Vagas!” Arek turned to the men waiting for his command. “I need a horse. I must go back and inform the king!”
They collected a stallion without questioning him further. The knights cast angry looks to the Valley of Westmine. The false Arek smiled; he had put their prejudice to good use. As he mounted his new horse, he announced profoundly, “Do what you must. The Vagas will not give up without a fight. I will return once I have spoken with the king.”
“Be on your guard,” Canis warned. “Rasmus could be anywhere — or anyone.”
The knights of Avërand and their untrained peasants marched west as Arek spurred his horse to the east. That had been a close one. If that lot had suspected him, he would have been done for, even though he had enough magic left in his thread to handle many of them. The ground was dark, making it hard to navigate past the Westerly Mansion and the mound where he had left the real Arek to rot.
It was a relief to see the shallow grave undisturbed.
Arek stopped at the cliff, raised his hands, and formed another circle with his fingers. He pointed them at Castle Avërand, which from here was just at a splotch of light in the distance. His arms shook, as did his breath. “No,” he whispered. He had to accept his limits. “Cording that far will tear me apart.”
He pointed to the base of the mountain instead, and was gone.
The sun had set, but the moon had yet to rise.
The Vagas celebrated the night with fervor. Everyone came fashionably dressed, wearing extravagant blends of red, white, and gold. They danced around a dozen fires, each flickering above the heads of even tallest Vagas. The camp was bright, and the tall flames cast long shadows into the forest. Fargut was clearly enjoying himself, clapping to the beat of tambourines between sips of strong cider.
When they weren’t dancing, everyone drank, enjoyed the feast, and told stories — many of them new to Nels. They were a happy people — genuinely happy.
And Tyra was missing everything. His anger toward her had faded. He recognized the amount of shock and loss she’d been forced to confront in a very short time.
Mylan was sitting beside Nels, enjoying her people’s talents. She clapped whenever it was warranted — which was often — but between cheers, she told Nels more about her people’s reason for the celebration. Midsummer was the height of life for the Vagas, and each of their dances carried a special meaning. Their music and dancing stirred his spirit, just as it had when he was alive — at the Cobblestown festival. In their celebration of life, the Vagas held nothing back.
Right now, only couples twirled in the circle.
“The courtship dance,” Mylan said. “For those who have found love.”
It was a nice thought. “I should check on Tyra,” Nels said.
“No need,” Mylan replied. “She will find her way.”
Nels wanted to believe her. But he also wanted to make sure Tyra was all right, even if he was the last person the princess wanted to see. He was about to stand and go to her anyway, despite Mylan’s advice, when the music changed.
New dancers entered the circle, lighting long yellow candles as they stepped within the perimeter. Each participant lit the candle of the person behind him or her.
“The knowledge dance,” Mylan explained. “A light in the darkness will guide one through.”
All the dancers held the candles in their left hands. The women used their right hands to hold up their skirts, and the men pressed their closed fists into their sides. They spun slowly and placed their steps with perfect grace. Nels had never seen such a beautiful waltz.
“Why do they move so slowly?” he asked.
A warm smile sprang onto Mylan’s face. “Move too fast and your light will go out,” she said. “What will you learn if you rush through life?”
Knowledge. Nels thought about her words through the remainder of the dance. This young girl knew so much — probably even more than she let on. He remembered when they had met at the festival, and how she had withdrawn from him. She’d seemed frightened of him.
“Do you remember me from the festival, in Cobblestown?” Nels asked.
She laughed. “Yes. Should I eat another turnip, it will be too soon.”
“When you said, ‘you are not supposed to be here,’ what did you mean?”
The girl looked away uncomfortably without answering the question. Nels was about to ask again when Mylan’s eyes darted over his shoulder. “Welcome, Your Highness!”
Nels turned around. Tyra stood behind them, watching the dance with a glazed look on her face, the glow of the fire shining in her swollen eyes. She had cried for hours. Nels wanted to say something, but Tyra’s sad beauty left him speechless.
She wore a long red skirt, a matching blouse that emphasized her bare shoulders, and a leather bodice that had a small pocket on the side. Every seam was sewn with gold thread, and flowers and leafy stems were embroidered throughout in painstaking detail. Were it not for her blue eyes and yellow hair, she would have looked exactly like one of the Vagas. The only item she wore from her old wardrobe was Sibylla’s iron ring.
“Where is my mare?” she asked.
It was a good question. Nels hadn’t thought of Brooklet since that afternoon.
“She is resting,” Mylan answered. “Are you rested, Your Highness?”
The princess didn’t answer. The music came to a stop, bringing the knowledge dance to an end. Tyra’s eyes stared blankly at the Vagas as they clapped for the carefully bowing dancers with their still-lit candles. The musicians set down their instruments and helped themselves to what they could find on passing plates. With a grateful nod, Mylan accepted a helping of flatbread. Tyra let the plate pass by her untouched; she seemed oblivious to her surroundings.
“Be with me,” Mylan said to Tyra, inviting the princess to sit by her side.
Without looking at anyone, Tyra complied.
“I hope you like your dress,” Mylan continued. “We do not have textiles or looms as advanced as yours, but it is our very best. It is our gift for your return home.”
“Home,” Tyra said mournfully. “I can’t go home.”
Nels stared at her, saddened by the emptiness in her voice.
“You are welcome to stay with us as long as you like,” Mylan said. “If you decide to stay, our eligible young men will certainly take notice, as beautiful as you are.”
Another plate — this one loaded with drumsticks — came their way. Tyra turned it down.
“You should eat something,” Nels said. “You haven’t eaten all day.”
“I don’t want to.”
“You’ll starve.”
“So what?”
Mylan held out her hands and took hold of Tyra’s palm. The Vaga leader closed her eyes and drew a long, steady breath. A cool breeze followed, as if called by the breath, leaning the fire’s flame to the south. “It is easy for sorrow to consume our feelings. You suffer, Princess of Avërand, because you hold more than a memory. You wish to solemnize your heartache. You are not alone.”
Tyra raised her eyes. Nels did the same.
A few Vagas had returned to the dance and waited for the fiddlers to start a new melody. The women held the hems of their skirts with one hand and extended their other hands; the men formed a similar pose with one arm behind their backs. None had a partner.
“The ethereal dance,” Mylan said. “We diviners believe in an unreachable plane — called the ethereal — where we all must cross to when we die. This dance allows our hearts to ease the burden of loss. That child over there” — she pointed to one side of the circle — “lost her brother to a fever last winter. And that man over there buried his wife many years ago.” Mylan released Tyra’s hand and stood. “If you would pardon me a moment, I wish to dance with my mother.”
With that, Mylan left them and entered the dance.
Nels observed the girl, her face calm compared to those who cried. He was just realizing that the crying dancers weren’t sad, they were joyful, when a sharp sob drew his attention away. The firelight glistened in Tyra’s tearful eyes. Her tears were not ones of joy.
Nels didn’t know what to say after all they had been through, but he decided to try anyway. “You’re doing okay,” he said, reaching for anything that might help. As expected, she did not respond to him. “When I died, my mother was much worse,” he continued. “After a while, she just didn’t have any more tears left to cry.”
“It’s my fault, Nels. I left a handkerchief for him to track us.”
Instead of being upset at her confession, Nels accepted it. She had never sounded so sincere. “No,” he said, “It’s not your fault. I should have told you sooner that we were in danger. You had no idea.”
She looked at Nels with regret in her eyes. “You were right. Arek wanted the throne for himself, and in my heart, I knew it. But I wanted him to have it — so I wouldn’t have to rule. I’m a coward, just like my father!” She raised her hands to her face. “I’m afraid to return to Avërand.”
“You’re not your father, Tyra. You’re brave. Your parents need you, your kingdom needs you, and” — Nels reached for her hand and linked his fingers with hers — “I need you.”
Tyra glanced down. Her fingers slid through his hand as she stood. “I can’t.”
Feeling useless, Nels watched as Tyra joined the dance.
It was the fire that lured Tyra into the dance.
Its heat caressed her shoulders and its light threw shadows on her face. This was her home now, this wilderness with the Vagas. They were nothing like her subjects had made them out to be; they were kind and generous. Though she still wished this were all a dream, she was slowly coming to terms with reality — her reality.
The Vagas moved around her like phantoms, dancing with memories of the dead. It was a ludicrous idea, but for Arek, it was all she could do. Tyra looked at the women, copied their stance, and imagined Arek’s hand cupping her waist. She stepped back, mimicking their steps. The ground was free from obstacles, and the other dancers provided her with plenty of space, but her balance swayed and she fell out of sync when she tried to imagine her handsome knight. No matter how hard she tried, his presence would not take hold in her mind.
As Tyra danced, she asked a question that she’d never thought — or dared — to ask.
Did I really love him?
Now that he was gone, there was no way for her to know if she could tolerate his blatant imperfections, his vanity, or his arrogance. She’d cared about him because she knew, when the time came, she could easily shift her responsibilities to Arek. He would have welcomed it. It was convenient … for them both. But that was not love; it was nothing short of selfish.
No. She never truly loved Arek. Being threatened by Rasmus made her realize just how pathetic she was. She didn’t cry as much for her knight as she did for her parents and her kingdom. They were in danger, but she wanted to stay here, hidden and safe. Exhausted from grief, Tyra stopped her dance and stood still. The shame of her cowardice caused her legs to shake.
Someone took her by the hand, making her look up. Nels was standing by her side, tall and confident. Something in his eyes — something new — strengthened her. Whatever it was, it gave her courage and made her feel safe. Instead of pulling away, she returned his stare and tried to return his grasp.
“You’re rather close,” she said.
Nels placed his free hand on her back. “Not close enough.”
With the rising tempo, they joined the dance.
He stepped forward, and she stepped back; she was no longer unbalanced and out of sync. The Vagas saw this and cheered. Even Fargut gave a loud holler, a shred of pheasant dangling from his beard. A smile found its way to Tyra’s face as she locked her eyes with Nels’s. Of all the men Tyra had known, he was the most selfless and the most honest. His eyes, shining in the firelight, had never been this close. She wanted to run her fingers through his hair, just to feel him.
She leaned forward and tried to rest her head on his chest. She felt nothing there, but she kept her head in place anyway. There was no warmth, not even the beating of his heart, but that didn’t stop her from imagining what it would sound like. There was no one else like him in the world — and soon, he would be gone. He was on the edge of the ethereal.
But with the Needle, she could change that. The thought of seeing him alive — really alive — summoned courage from within her.
When Tyra raised her head from his intangible chest, she had made her choice.
I have to bring him back.
The music reached its climax and then came to a halt. The dancers applauded the musicians, who all took a bow. Roashil was among them, holding a fiddle. Tyra stayed close to Nels, his hand still on her back, until their eyes met again. For the first time since they’d met, she wanted to know what his hands felt like. Alive. Holding her.
“I never thought a peasant could dance so well,” she said.
Nels smiled and laughed. “I never thought a princess would dance with one.”
Mylan joined them. “You danced well. A ghost partner must make a difference.”
“Are you Mylan?” Tyra waited for the girl to nod. “I must apologize to you.”
The girl shook her head. “No need. We are at peace with your misunderstanding.”
Grateful for the forgiveness, Tyra clasped hands with Mylan. “What matters now is finding the Needle.”
“What about Rasmus?” Nels asked. “He said he’d kill us if we go back.”
“We’ll use the Needle to stop him,” Tyra uttered.
“Assuming we find it and learn how to use it,” Nels said.
“We’ll have to. It’s the only way we can stop him.”
“You’re right.” Nels looked into her eyes again. This time, Tyra welcomed it. “And I’m not ready to die just yet.”
Tyra smiled. “Then we must find Hilvar.”
“Does Hilvar know where your Needle is?” Mylan asked.
“Yes, but until he gives his land to you and your people, he won’t tell us.” Nels’s eyes returned to Tyra’s. “He thinks he can do this through you — by possessing you.”
Tyra swallowed. The thought of allowing the spirit to enter her body again; it made her shiver. But if they had any hope of stopping Rasmus, or saving Nels, she was willing to do what she had to. “I’m ready to speak with him,” Tyra said. “How do we find him?”
“There is no need,” Nels said, looking at Mylan.
The girl nodded. “Hilvar is already with us.”
“He is? How do you know?” Tyra asked.
Mylan smiled. “The scent of a draug is unmistakable.”
Before Tyra could react, a cold sensation overtook her, just like when she stood on the landing in Westmine Castle. She had no control of her arms, her body, or even her voice. This time, she didn’t feel angry or threatened. Without fighting back, she relaxed and allowed the ghost of King Hilvar to use her however he needed to.
“Mylan.” Tyra was surprised by her voice — strong and deep. Compelled to step forward, the draug raised her arms and laid her hands on Mylan’s shoulders. “Centuries ago, my father wronged your people. I wronged the love of my life. Only by bestowing this valley and all of my riches to you — my heir — can I leave this plane and join my love. Will you accept my kingdom?”
Mylan reached for Tyra’s hands and gently lifted them off her shoulders. She brought their joined hands down, continued to hold them, and smiled. “I will, mighty Hilvar.”
After the ghost made Tyra bow, Hilvar turned to Nels. “Now I am free.” Tyra’s hands found their way onto Nels’s shoulders now, clasping them firmly. Strangely, Tyra could feel him. “West of my castle, there is a black peak in a barren land. Sealed in a cavern beneath the peak, you will find what you seek. Only a living soul may access the Needle’s resting place. If … if you should find my remains, please dispose of me.”
With that, the ghostly presence left her. Tyra’s knees felt weak, as if the ground had fallen away beneath her. Nels caught her before she fell. She wanted to sleep, and she nearly did, until Mylan approached with a powder in her hand. One sniff of it and Tyra was wide-awake.
“It is done,” Mylan said joyfully. “Hilvar is at peace, and my people will have a home.”
Mustering a smile, Tyra found the strength to stand. Nothing felt impossible now. “There’s no time to waste,” she said. “We must find this black peak! Where do we start?”
“Go’n to Black Peak, you say’n?” Fargut approached from behind. He put on his lantern hat and rubbed a few traces of food from his fingers — leaving plenty of scraps still in his beard.
This man knew the valley better than anyone.
“Can I ask for your help, Fargut?” Tyra asked.
“Oye?”
“Can you take us to the black peak?”
“Desolate land, be’n there. You sure’n about go’n?”
“Yes,” Tyra said. “I will even make it worth your while.”
The man’s fleshy lips puckered to the side. “My while?”
“Do you know the town of Harvestport in Avërand?”
“Oye!” Fargut held up three fingers. “Be’n there twice!”
“In return for guiding us, the next time you visit my kingdom, you and I will go to Harvestport together,” Tyra promised. “You can take anything that you can carry!”
The man let his hands rest on his full belly as he rocked on his heels.
“Assisting our friends will repay our kindness to you,” Mylan chimed in.
Fargut let out a small burp, and then he swallowed. “Be a fair trade’n. Pack’n wares! We’re leave’n!” He turned around, hiccupped, and sloshed to the other side of the celebration.
“Trading,” Mylan sighed. “That is how we deal with him all the time.” She looked Tyra in the eyes. “I am pleased you feel restored, Princess. If you are to reach the peak by noon tomorrow, you had best leave now.”
Tyra appreciated the advice. “Will you have my horse ready for us to leave?”
Mylan shook her head. “She is lucky to walk. Your beeswax and flask of conjurer’s medicine saved her leg, but we have other remedies to give her before she can ride. Once you find your Needle and return, she should be ready to carry you back to Avërand — and we will be ready to escort you home.”
“You needn’t trouble yourself. This isn’t your errand.”
“It is not, but in doing so — as the new queen of Westmine — perhaps I can lay to rest the rumors about us.” The young queen bowed as she removed her sapphire necklace. “I feel that you may need this.” She placed it in Tyra’s hand. “When you return it, please tell me why.”
With that, Mylan left them. Tyra waited with Nels by the edge of the celebration. She could barely feel the heat from their fires. She took the sapphire and looped the band around her neck, eager to pick up where their journey had left off.
“Thank you,” Nels said.
She turned. The smile on his face was perfect. “For what?”
“For being the princess that everyone knows you to be.”
“No. I should thank you for acting like the knight that you are,” Tyra said. “Let’s find the Needle.”
“Right,” Nels said. “And when we do —” A repulsed look suddenly replaced his smile. He sniffed once, and then twice, as if he were a hound.
Tyra sniffed. All she smelled was the fire. “What’s wrong?”
Nels looked around. “I can’t smell beeswax anymore.”
“What do you smell?”
“Hay … and horses?” He paused. “I’m in a stable!”
His eyes widened as fear spread across his face. Someone had moved his body.
Was it Bosh? Or someone else?
Tyra’s thoughts turned to the worst. She couldn’t let Rasmus find Nels. “Come on,” she said, reaching for his hand. “We have to leave this place right now!”
The false Arek rode past the city gate, his bloodied shoulder smarting. He had tossed his thread across the countryside, cording over field and plain whenever he had the strength for it. When he entered the city, some of the peasants asked if he had found the princess. He ignored them. Now that he was inside, he had only enough time for one last ruse before he needed to rest.
He lumbered up the stairs of the main hall, sneered as he charged past the royal portrait, and barged into the throne room, startling a few noblemen who were conversing with the king.
Lennart raised his head, immediately noticing the wound. “What has happened?!”
Out of breath, Arek fell to his knees. “I need water.” He wasn’t pretending.
The king summoned a courtier with a chalice. Arek seized the cup and drank; he hadn’t realized how thirsty he was. A pair of physicians entered and began cleaning his wound.
“Who harmed you?” Lennart asked. “Where is my daughter?”
“The Vagas have her,” the false Arek answered. “This arrow is theirs.”
The king tucked his chin and crossed his arms. “It is worse than I thought.”
“Canis told me everything,” Arek added. “The imposter is with the Vagas.”
“This is no longer speculation, Your Majesty,” said a nobleman. “What are we to do?”
“I sent my finest knights,” Lennart said. “Then again, that may not be enough.” The king raised his head. His eyes searched the room, pausing only at those who stared back. “Send the rest. Send them all. Have them join with the ranks of Canis. Leave only the reserves behind!”
“But, Sire,” implored another nobleman. “Suppose the intruder comes back?”
Arek took another long swig to cover his nerves.
He was so close to Lennart — closer than he had been in years.
“I am nothing unless my daughter is safe,” Lennart said. “Send the order. And leave us!”
Arek raised his head. Us?
Everyone left, including the physicians who had applied a stiff bandage to the false Arek’s shoulder — not even they could tell the difference between real and fabricated skin. What he would give for a touch of beeswax right now, just to alleviate some of the pain!
“I know Tyra is fond of you, that she is close to you,” Lennart said as the throne room doors closed. “If you save her, I will grant you her hand. Tell me what you know.”
The king stood over Arek, who couldn’t believe his good fortune. No one was watching; no one was near. No one saw Arek smile as he drew his knife.
Rasmus couldn’t have arranged a more perfect reunion.