CHAPTER
TWENTY-FIVE

MASTER QUINTREL! WE’VE CAUGHT A SPY.”

Vigus Quintrel glanced up as a guard came to the doorway of the study at Torsford. Carensa and Guran, who were conferring with Quintrel, turned to see the newcomer.

“Where did you find this spy?” Quintrel asked.

“Prowling the edge of the camp. Do you want us to interrogate him, or just kill him?”

With a sigh, Quintrel stood. He set his drink aside, and cast a lingering glance toward the fire before turning toward the guard. “Bring him to me. I’ll decide.”

A few moments later, two guards returned, dragging their unconscious prisoner. A tall young man with muddy-brown hair slumped between the guards, bound at the wrists and ankles. From the blood on his shirt and the dirt on his trousers, Carensa guessed that he did not go down easily. One of the guards reached down to grab the prisoner’s hair and pull back his head so Quintrel could see him.

An unexpected resemblance made Quintrel hesitate. Carensa caught her breath, trying to muffle a gasp of recognition.

“Esban,” he said, calling to his second-in-command, “does he remind you of anyone?”

Esban studied the prisoner’s features. “If I didn’t know better, I’d guess he might be related to Blaine McFadden.”

Quintrel turned to Carensa. “You knew the McFaddens well. Do you recognize him?”

Carensa fought down panic, hoping she could keep her voice even. “I don’t know, Vigus. It’s been so long. People change and he’s young. I can’t say for certain.”

Quintrel’s look told her that he was sure she was holding back. “Let’s play this a little differently, shall we?” Quintrel mused aloud. “Take him up to the guest rooms—one with bars on the windows. I’ll have a servant bring up wash water and a fresh change of clothing. Cut him loose, but keep a guard on the door. When he comes around, tell him to clean up and get dressed. He’ll be my guest at dinner tonight.” He turned and leveled a gaze at both Carensa and Guran. “And so will you.”

A puzzled look passed between the guards, but they did as they were told. The prisoner hung limply in their grasp, but Carensa could not tell whether the young man was playacting or was still unconscious. The door closed behind the guards, and Quintrel turned to Carensa and Guran.

“I’ll want your help interrogating the prisoner,” he said offhandedly. “He may be no one of importance. In which case, executing him won’t matter to anyone. But he might be valuable to us, either for what he knows or for who he is. And I am going to find that out.”

“We can help,” Guran said smoothly. Carensa nodded, avoiding meeting Quintrel’s gaze directly. “But perhaps we should go back to the workroom with the information we were discussing before the interruption. Let us get cleaned up before dinner.”

Quintrel gave a curt nod. “Go on. I’ll send someone for you.”

Carensa realized she was holding her breath when they reached the hallway, but she said nothing, trying to force herself to remain calm as she and Guran made their way back to the workroom.

“I’m not feeling well,” she said, knowing Guran could see her distress. “I need to lie down before dinner.”

“I’ll convey Vigus’s instructions to the mages, and stop by with some tea,” he replied, with a knowing look that let her know he recognized her distress.

Carensa made her way through the hallways with her head down, not wanting to attract attention. She let herself into her room and collapsed against the door. Tears started, and a sob welled up in her throat. “Oh, Carr,” she murmured. “What have you gotten yourself into?”

Several candlemarks later, Quintrel waited in the parlor along with Carensa and Guran. A private dinner had been set for four on a small table. Guards waited in the shadows. Quintrel wore one of his scholar’s robes, embroidered with runes and inlaid with velvet and silk to show his rank. Carensa and Guran had worn clean but unpretentious work robes.

Two guards escorted the prisoner to the parlor. He looked to be in his late teens, but hard work and battle had put muscles on his long limbs. Carensa wondered if Quintrel could even question his decided resemblance to Ian McFadden.

“Won’t you join us for dinner?” Quintrel invited, gesturing to the table. Rostivan’s steward had set out a meal of venison, roasted beets and turnips, bread pudding with dried fruit, and a carafe of brandy. It was a rare feast these days, and hunger was clear in the prisoner’s eyes.

Warily, Carr made his way to the table. His gaze flickered to the guards who stood silently in the darkened corners of the room, and he did not miss the click of the lock as his escort locked the door behind them. Then he saw Carensa, and he froze, though she kept her face impassive.

Don’t say anything, she thought. It will be worse for both of us if you do.

“Sit, please.” Quintrel seated himself and gestured for the others to do the same. With a flourish, Quintrel placed a napkin on his lap. A steward appeared to fill their plates from the serving platters. The steward poured them each a goblet of brandy before retreating from sight.

“I don’t believe you came to pay a social call,” Quintrel said. His voice was cordial, but there was threat beneath the civility.

“The manor is quite nice,” Carr replied with a half smile that said he knew they were playing a game. “But I don’t believe you’re the original owner.”

“You’re correct. This was better suited to our needs,” Quintrel replied. He cut a piece of meat and ate it. “Please, eat. If I intended to poison you, I wouldn’t have wasted good venison on it.”

Perhaps Carr figured that he was unlikely to leave alive, no matter which scenario played out, or maybe he was just hungry. He made short work of the food on his plate and allowed the steward to fill it a second time, though he merely sipped his brandy. Does he figure this for a last meal? Carensa wondered. If so, he’s quite cool about it.

“I want to know who you are,” Quintrel said.

Carr sipped his drink. “No one important.”

Quintrel’s smile was taut. “Let me be the judge of that.” Quintrel barely moved his hand, but Carr froze in his seat, eyes panicked. Another moment, and Carr’s hands went to his temples.

“Get out of my head!” Carr managed, though his words ended in a gasp of pain.

Carensa’s hands gripped her chair, and she bit her lip until it bled. I can’t challenge Vigus, not directly. And if he believes I favor Carr, I’ll have no chance to help Carr—or Blaine. Gods above, I hate this!

“Carr McFadden,” Quintrel said, leaning back with a look of satisfaction. The divi orb glowed brightly on its strap around Quintrel’s neck. Carensa did not doubt that the divi had enjoyed the pain Quintrel had caused. Carr shook his head, pale and angry. “Did your brother send you?”

“No. I came on my own.” Carr replied. His voice was insolent.

“I could have warned you that showing up unexpected might lead to a less than friendly reception.”

Carr must not have gone down without a fight, Carensa thought. One eye was darkening to purple, looking swollen and sore. His lip was split, and his knuckles were scratched and red. From the stiff way he had walked to his chair, she guessed that he had taken a thorough pummeling, perhaps even some bruised or broken ribs. Still, he was handling the situation like a seasoned courtier. Or an utter madman. Knowing his father, either was possible.

“Carensa, can you confirm what I’ve read from him? Is this really Carr McFadden?”

Carensa met Carr’s eyes, wishing that her gift were telepathy, willing him not to speak out of turn. “I told you, Vigus, it’s been years. Maybe. I don’t know.”

Quintrel’s expression suggested that he was reserving judgment. “Why did you come here?” he asked Carr. “I’m sure you know your brother and I aren’t on friendly terms.”

“Just curious, I guess,” Carr replied evenly.

“Did it occur to you that our archers might have shot you on sight? Or that the guards might have hanged you as a spy without asking questions?” Quintrel pressed.

For the first time, Carr met his level gaze. “I have stared down the maw of gryps and looked into the mouth of Raka when the Great Fire fell. Pardon my saying so, but not much scares me after that.”

What would Ian’s madness coupled with Blaine’s courage produce? Carensa wondered. Meeting Carr’s gaze, she thought she might have the answer.

“There’s not much left for you at Glenreith, is there?” Quintrel said offhandedly. “I mean, things started to fall apart when Blaine was exiled, and it’s never really recovered. At least you had the title—”

“I don’t see that titles mean much since the Great Fire,” Carr replied. “What matters is whether or not you can hold on to what’s yours and protect your own. And so far, Glenreith has done that—even against you.”

Quintrel allowed himself the ghost of a smile. “I can offer you something better,” he said. “A commission with Lord Rostivan, for one thing. You’ve seen enough battle to be an officer.”

Carr took a sip of his brandy. “Officers are just big targets, with their armor and warhorses. I like it on the ground, where I can run or hide.”

Quintrel chuckled. “It takes a man who’s seen real combat to understand that.” He took another sip of his brandy. “I don’t really care why you came here,” Quintrel said. “But now that you’re here, you’ve got a decision to make. You know things that could help me defeat Blaine and stop the fighting. Help me, and you’ll have a place in the new order that I bring to Donderath.”

Carr met Quintrel’s gaze. “We make those same kinds of promises to the spies we catch back at camp. But no one’s going to trust a turncoat. So I suspect you’ve just wasted an excellent venison dinner.”

Quintrel raised his glass in salute. “Well said—and true enough. But there remains the matter of your life and freedom. You can offer what you know willingly, and extend your life in some comfort as my ‘guest.’ ”

He met Carr’s gaze. “Or we can use magic to take whatever you don’t give freely.” He paused. “We even have a talishte or two around who can read memories from your blood. Everything you know will be mine—one way or another. You decide how painful the process becomes.”

“Betray my brother and his allies, and you’ll put off my execution for a bit, is that the offer?” Carr’s voice stopped short of baiting Quintrel, but it was clear that he harbored no illusions.

“What do you care? By all accounts, there’s no love lost there.”

A shadow crossed Carr’s face, there and gone before Carensa could quite decipher it. “What’s between Blaine and me is personal. Betraying him—and my commander—to the enemy is something else entirely,” Carr replied.

“Your presence here betrays him,” Quintrel said smoothly, finishing his glass of brandy. “He threw away his lands, title, and betrothal to save your sister. Why wouldn’t he throw down his sword for you?” The divi orb pulsed with a dim glow. Carensa wondered if Carr could see it. The light had grown stronger throughout the conversation, as if the spirit inside the orb was excitedly waiting for something.

Carr looked away. “If you have to ask, you don’t know us very well. Trust me on this. Blaine won’t die for me. Not now.” There was a certainty and sadness in his voice that gave Carensa to know that Carr was not bluffing.

“I have some questions for you,” Quintrel said to Carr, and there was a hint of steel in his voice. “Answer them, and you can remain here indefinitely as an honored guest. You’ve got nothing waiting for you at Glenreith. Ally with us, and everything you lost will be regained.”

Carr met Quintrel’s gaze. “No.”

Quintrel made a motion with his hand, and Carr’s chair pivoted away from the table. Carr moved to rise, and found that he could not. He struggled against the invisible bonds that held him, and a satisfied smile touched Quintrel’s lips.

“Now, about those questions,” he said quietly. “How many soldiers are sworn to Blaine McFadden?”

“I never counted them.”

Quintrel’s fingers twitched, the divi orb flared, and Carr screamed as three ragged gashes ripped down through his shirt and the flesh of his chest, staining the torn cloth red with blood.

Carensa started from her chair, but Guran grabbed her wrist, silencing her with a warning glance.

Quintrel’s expression was far away, and Carensa guessed that he was rummaging through Carr’s memories for the answer. Carr screamed again, hands struggling as if he were trying to fight off the intrusion. Carr writhed, fighting the power that held him, but Quintrel’s hold remained firm.

Quintrel brightened. “At least a division’s worth. That’s valuable.”

Carr slumped in his chair, glaring at Quintrel. Quintrel regarded him with curiosity. “Let’s see what you know about your allies.”

Quintrel motioned, and Carr went rigid with pain, pale and wide-eyed. Another set of bloody claw marks raked down his right arm. Carensa could tell Carr was trying not to scream, trying to avoid giving Quintrel the satisfaction, but in the end, Quintrel’s will won out. This time, Carr screamed until he was hoarse as the divi orb flared brightly, throbbing like a heartbeat.

Carensa gripped both arms of her chair, feeling as if she might pass out. The guards in the room assured that neither she nor Guran could physically overpower Quintrel. She knew her magic was no match for Quintrel’s. Guran might be strong enough, perhaps, but what then? she thought frantically. We can’t cross Quintrel unless we’re willing to kill him, and if we do, his loyalists will carry on without him.

“The more complex the information, the more digging it takes to rip it out of your mind,” Quintrel said, with the tone of a bored lecturer. “Thank you for confirming that Tormod Solveig is a necromancer. That’s helpful to know, although his tricks won’t be as useful against Rostivan’s troops. Useful also to know that Verner’s forces have been essentially wiped out. Very useful.”

Carr’s breath was ragged. His hands balled into fists. Blood streamed from the gashes the divi had torn.

Quintrel paused, as if he were listening to something the rest of them could not hear. Carensa wondered if the divi was feeding him suggestions. “Let’s find out more about McFadden himself.”

Quintrel stood in front of Carr, hands on hips. “What effect has anchoring the magic had on McFadden?”

Carr gave Quintrel a baleful look. His body tensed, and it looked to Carensa as if Carr was determined to fight Quintrel’s intrusion.

Quintrel’s hand moved. The divi light was blindingly bright, and this time, it played across Carr’s features as if it sensed his determination to balk.

Three new bloody gashes slashed across Carr’s face. A second swipe opened new slashes on his chest. Carr’s whole body trembled with his struggle to block Quintrel, a fight he could not hope to win without magic. His screams echoed in the small room, and even Guran blanched. Carensa wavered in her chair, dizzy from holding her breath, trembling with rage.

Quintrel tilted his head as he received his answer, a surprised and pleased expression on his face. “He’s dying,” Quintrel said as a triumphant smile touched his lips. “That’s what you’ve been trying to hide. Anchoring the magic is killing him. Strong magic nearby wounds him.” He chuckled. “It doesn’t matter what his troop strength is. If magic is his bane, we can use that against him.”

Carr hung limply against the invisible bonds that held him. His hair covered his face, and Carensa could not tell whether he was conscious. Only his shuddering breaths reassured her that Carr still lived.

“Vigus, please! Give him time to reconsider,” Carensa said. “You’ve made your point. He could still be a valuable ally, but he’s worth nothing if you kill him.”

Quintrel gave Carensa an evaluating gaze, and for a moment she wondered if his divi would rip into her mind, wrest her secrets, and see how much she hated him. She hoped her expression was hopeful and guileless, but she doubted she was that good a liar.

“For your sake, Carensa, I will offer him mercy,” Quintrel said finally as the divi orb dimmed. He strode over to where Carr slumped in his chair and pushed his head up.

“I’ll give you two candlemarks to think over my offer. Cooperate, and your stay here can be comfortable and long. Fight me, and I will rip every secret from your mind, and the talishte will feast on your memories.”

Quintrel signaled the guards, who walked toward Carr. He made a gesture, and Carr’s bonds vanished. He tumbled to the floor. “Guard his door. No one gets in. No one,” he repeated, looking directly at Carensa. The two guards grabbed Carr by the arms and dragged him out of the room.

The door closed behind Carr, and Quintrel began to pace. “What’s the real reason Carr McFadden’s here?” Quintrel wondered aloud, frowning. “Do you really think McFadden would risk his brother as a spy?”

“From what he said, there’s bad blood between them,” Guran noted. Carensa was grateful that Guran responded. She did not think she could speak without her voice giving her away. Her throat ached from choking back tears, and her nails raised bloody half-moons in her palms.

“Interesting,” Quintrel replied. “Do you know why?”

Guran shook his head. “No. But if I had to hazard a guess, I’d say that McFadden left the rest of the family in the lurch when he killed his father and got sent off to the end of the world. I imagine the young man’s prospects dimmed dramatically at that point, along with the family fortune.”

Quintrel looked to Carensa. “You knew the whole McFadden family. What do you make of it?”

Carensa had steadied herself enough to appear disinterested. “Carr was a lot younger, always getting in the way,” she said with a shrug. “There were too many years between Blaine and Carr for them to be close.” She paused. “Things were hard on the family after Blaine’s exile. Guran’s right; the scandal hurt Carr’s prospects, and banished the family from court.”

“So why assume Carr McFadden is a spy?” Guran said. “His brother mucks things up, destroys the family reputation, gets exiled as a murderer, and then comes back six years later and expects a hero’s welcome and reclaims the title. Perhaps Carr was less than pleased to see him.”

Quintrel reached for his glass and took a long sip of brandy. “I had been thinking along the same lines. He could be valuable. Certainly he has information about McFadden’s plans and troops, maybe about the magic as well. If we can gain his trust, stoke his anger, perhaps he’ll tell us what he knows.”

Guran shrugged. “And if he won’t, you’ll get your answers the hard way.” He paused. “Do you think he’s much use as a bargaining chip? Would McFadden care that we have his brother, if it’s true the two didn’t like each other?”

“Obviously blood only counts for so much with McFadden, since he was willing to kill his own father,” Quintrel replied. “If you mean, would McFadden trade himself for his brother? I doubt it.”

“Which brings us back to wondering about Carr’s reasons,” Guran replied. “Maybe he’s figured out that there’s no place for him in the new lord’s plans.”

Carensa knew what Guran was doing, and she appreciated it. By making Quintrel question Carr’s motives, Guran hoped to make Carr more valuable alive than dead, buying time. And by keeping Quintrel engaged in conversation, Guran helped Carensa avoid answering any questions that might increase Carr’s danger.

“Younger sons shouldn’t be shocked by that. It’s possible he began to count on keeping the title once McFadden was exiled,” Quintrel remarked. “For all the good it would have done him.”

Quintrel knocked back the rest of his liquor. “Wounded pride has cost many a king his crown,” he observed. He looked to Carensa. “What else can you tell me about Carr?”

Carensa shrugged. “I really never paid him much attention at all,” she lied. “But he was always reckless. Then again, he was Ian’s son. That’s in the blood.”

Quintrel seemed to debate the matter for a moment in his mind, and then he let out a breath and gestured for them to move on. “Any other news?” he asked.

Guran nodded and set his empty glass aside. “One of our talishte spies just got back from the north. Said that Lysander went up against the Solveigs and got pushed back. On the bright side, Verner is no longer a problem. Our mages with Lysander got in a direct hit. McFadden and Theilsson showed up and turned the battle.”

Carensa repressed a smile at Guran’s skill. He was feeding Quintrel enough information to cover them, but framing it in a way that strengthened Blaine’s position.

Quintrel frowned. “For a man who was supposed to be dead, McFadden causes a lot of trouble.” He leaned against the mantle and toyed with his empty glass. “Our forces, combined with Lysander’s, should outnumber McFadden’s army. We will need to ensure future attacks are more coordinated.”

“If you want to be rid of McFadden, why not just wear him down with magic?” Guran asked. “He’s the sole anchor—strong magic drains him. Send enough of it against him, you could bleed him dry, so to speak, without needing to lay a hand on him.”

Quintrel swore under his breath. “Too costly, too uncertain. We would badly drain ourselves in the process, leaving us vulnerable should one of McFadden’s allies attack.” He shook his head. “Assassination is easier to arrange—and much less expensive.”

“When you’re counting battle forces, have you figured in Voss’s soldiers?” Guran asked, expertly pivoting the conversation now that he had gotten the information he wanted. “At Valshoa, Traher Voss’s army made quite a showing.”

“Voss,” Quintrel spat. “He’s a problem. Still, he’s not a mage.”

“Don’t discount the talishte helping McFadden. You’ll have to factor them into your plan,” Guran said. “Penhallow, the Wraith Lord, the Knights of Esthrane.”

Quintrel made a dismissive gesture. “A small number to worry about.”

“I don’t think we dare ignore them, Vigus,” Guran replied. “They can do damage out of proportion to their numbers.”

Quintrel stroked the divi orb, and it seemed to purr under his attention. What he heard from the divi Carensa did not know, or want to know, but Quintrel seemed satisfied with the answers only he could hear. “There are ways for the magic to remove that threat,” he replied. “I’m not worried about talishte.”

“What about Pollard? Fostering an alliance there could increase our troops as well,” Guran said. “Our talishte say Reese has been imprisoned by his own. Reese wanted to stop the magic from coming back. It’s back. Pollard is tricky enough to change his plans when the winds shift.” Carensa only half listened to their discussion, trying to figure out a pretense to get in to see Carr.

Quintrel nodded. “I’ve directed Rostivan to ally with both Lysander and Pollard. It suits our purposes. Pollard’s always hated the McFaddens,” Quintrel added. “Even if magic wasn’t at stake, I suspect Pollard would be trying to expand his lands at their expense.”

“He has reason to side against McFadden,” Guran pointed out. “Pollard’s troops took a beating at Valshoa. He went off to lick his wounds. Without Reese, he’ll have no control over the talishte. He’s in need of allies.”

“Vedran Pollard and Ian McFadden were cut from the same cloth,” Carensa said. “Don’t turn your back on him.”

Quintrel chuckled. “I won’t need to worry about that,” he replied, fingering the strap that held the divi’s orb.

“What new plans do you have for Lysander?” Guran asked.

Quintrel gave the matter some thought while he finished his drink. “I have a few options in mind. Let’s see what I can learn from McFadden’s brother. There might be something that chooses our course for us.”

“We’d best get back to our work,” Guran said. “Especially with more fighting sure to be happening soon.”

Quintrel nodded. “Yes, of course. But I want both of you with me when I call for the prisoner. I want to know what you make of what he tells us.”

“You’re certain he’ll cooperate?” Guran asked.

“I’ll have a talishte with me,” Quintrel replied. “He’ll cooperate—one way or another.”

Carensa was grateful that they passed few people in the corridors. She hung on to her composure with sheer willpower, and her control was slipping quickly. Guran opened the door to one of the workrooms and glanced around to assure that it was empty. He muttered words of power and warded the door for silence.

Carensa collapsed into a chair, weeping. Guran knelt beside her. “I can’t keep the warding up long. Vigus will sense it—if he doesn’t already.”

“What he did… the divi…”

Guran nodded and let her cry into his shoulder. “I know. I saw. I’ve known Vigus for decades. He has an ego. He can be thoughtless. But it’s new for him to use magic to torture someone.” He shook his head. “I don’t think that’s all Vigus’s doing. He’s been corrupted by the divi.”

“Maybe,” Carensa allowed, drying her tears on the back of her hand and daubing her face with her sleeve. “But Vigus opened himself to the divi to get what he wanted. He didn’t worry about who got hurt. I can’t forgive him for that.” She drew a ragged breath. “I can’t forgive him for what he did to Carr. Gods above, Guran! Carr’s just a boy.”

Guran took both her hands in his. “He’s a soldier, Carensa. You heard him. And he chose to come here as a spy. He knew the risks.”

“He didn’t know Vigus could rip his thoughts from his mind,” she argued.

“Maybe. But he has to know that talishte can read a person’s blood,” Guran replied. “Or that he could be hanged—or worse—if he got caught.”

“We’ve got to do something,” Carensa said miserably. “Vigus won’t leave him sane.”

Guran met her gaze. “You’ve got a choice to make, Carensa. Save Carr, defy Vigus now, and it’s over. You won’t be able to help Blaine. Vigus will cast you out, or lock you up. And you’ll have no way to stop what he’s planning, when he’s at the forefront of a massive army trampling his way across Donderath.”

“How can we stop that?”

“I don’t know yet,” Guran admitted. “But I do know that you’ve got to make a choice. Save Carr, or save Blaine. You can’t save both of them.”

He gave her a warning shake of his head, and dispelled the warding. “I like the progress you’ve made on the translation,” he said, rising. “Keep at it—you’re almost done.”

Carensa nodded miserably. “I will,” she said, her voice choked. “Thank you.”

Guran shut the workshop door behind him. Carensa slumped across the table, her head on her arms. The tears were gone, leaving behind cold rage and the closest thing she had ever felt to pure hatred. Guran’s right, she thought. Even though I don’t want to admit it. I can’t take the risk of saving Carr and losing the opportunity to strike at Vigus when the chance appears to turn the tide of battle. I may not be able to save Carr, but by all the gods, large and small, I will avenge him.

The candlemarks passed too quickly, and Quintrel sent for Guran and Carensa to meet him at the room where Carr was imprisoned. With Quintrel was Stanton, a dark-haired talishte Carensa recognized but did not know. She memorized his face, for later. For the reckoning.

Two guards stood in front of the door to Carr’s room, and when Quintrel nodded, one of them turned the key in the lock. When they entered, Carr was nowhere to be seen.

“Where is he?” Quintrel demanded of the guards, who stared at the empty room, wide-eyed. Carensa felt a surge of hope.

“No one left the room after we locked him in,” the senior guard replied. “And the window hasn’t been tampered with.”

Stanton made a careful circle of the room. “I believe I’ve found the problem.”

Stanton stood by the garderobe, which was hidden from view by a curtain. He threw back the cloth to reveal Carr slumped next to the stone seat, with both arms thrust into the hole.

The senior guard grabbed Carr by the shoulders and pulled him back. Carr’s head lolled, and his body tumbled from its perch. Carr looked unnaturally pale, even before the lantern light revealed a new set of cuts, long, straight gashes that ran from wrist to elbow on each forearm.

The guard felt for a pulse in Carr’s neck, then looked up. “He’s gone, m’lord.”

Quintrel turned to Stanton. “Can you—”

Stanton shook his head. “No. If we had reached him at the moment of death, perhaps. But I can’t read the dead, nor could I read still blood, even if it hadn’t flowed down the castle wall by now.”

“He must have had a blade hidden on him that was missed,” Guran said.

“If so, then I suspect it’s at the bottom of the chute as well,” Stanton remarked. “An unexpected complication. But he may still be valuable.”

“We’ve lost our leverage,” Quintrel snapped. “I fail to see the value in that.”

Stanton turned to him. “He can still be used to send a message.” He looked back down at Carr’s body. “I can get him to Glenreith before daybreak, drop him off in front of the manor. I don’t think it will take McFadden long to figure it out. He has a temper; perhaps this will goad him into something rash.”

“And if it doesn’t?” Quintrel challenged.

Stanton shrugged. “You’ll still have scored a blow close to home. McFadden won’t let that go. And when he strikes back, we will be ready.”