The land was greening with spring. With the destruction of Grane’s Pakin rebels, farmers, hunters, and herdsmen returned to their work, resurrecting the rhythms of everyday life. It was good to see, but Tol found himself unable to enjoy the sight. Something was nagging at his mind, a feeling that he’d left something undone, or unfinished.
It was not until they reached the village of Broken Tree that the niggling question was resolved. They stopped to have a farrier repair a loose shoe on Old Acorn. While they waited, the farrier shouted for his stableboy, telling the lad to pump the bellows and heat the forge fire.
Stableboy!
“Egrin!” Tol shouted.
The warden was haggling over price with the farrier. Tol’s yell made both men jump and caused the farrier’s lad to drop the bellows.
“Great Draco Paladin! What is it?” Egrin demanded.
“Grane! I know who he must be!”
The warden strode over to Tol, who was still mounted on Smoke.
“What are you talking about?”
“I know who Grane is! He as much as told me so himself at the farm! He called me ‘stableboy,’ more than once. Why would he call me that unless he’d seen me working in a stable? The only stable I ever worked in was the Household Guards’, in Juramona! Grane must have seen me in Juramona!”
Egrin looked stunned. “The traitor’s in our very midst. Still, we don’t know who-”
Tol was shaking with excitement. “I know exactly who he is: Morthur Dermount!”
Egrin’s frown broke and he laughed, unconvinced. “That fool of a feast-hall warrior? How could he be Spannuth Grane?”
“I saw his eyes! Grane wore a hood up to his nose, but I very clearly saw his eyes. They were black, just like Lord Morthur’s, and he has the same thin nose and white skin!”
“It’s little enough to recognize a man by,” Egrin said. “Lord Morthur is an important man in Juramona. How could he leave and assume the guise of Grane without being detected?”
“The same way he left his empty armor in my father’s chair.”
Egrin lowered his voice. “Look here, Tol. You’re a smart lad, but keep this to yourself! By the gods, you can’t go ’round accusing a scion of the Dermount clan of being a traitor! A word from Lord Morthur, and you and I both would end in unmarked graves.”
“But shouldn’t Lord Odovar be told?”
“Yes, but let me tell him. Odovar despises Morthur, but even the marshal of the Eastern Hundred has to be careful who he brands a rebel.”
Old Acorn finally had his new shoe, and they departed from Broken Tree. Egrin was not convinced by Tol’s identification of Morthur Dermount, and he coolly refused to discuss it until they reached Juramona.
Once home, they found the town abuzz with news: The Pakin army in the Eastern Hundred had been defeated by Imperial troops under Lord Regobart, which Egrin and Tol knew already. Besides those killed in battle, hundreds of Pakin levies had scattered across the province. Lord Regobart, one of the greatest warlords of the empire, was hunting down the stragglers. He pointedly declined to invite Lord Odovar to join in the roundup, a snub which put the marshal in a towering rage.
Seeing-and hearing-Lord Odovar’s fury as soon as they entered the High House, Egrin stayed clear of his liege. He sent word of his safe return, but lingered in the High House, keeping to the side and watching the flow of lackeys, servants, and petty officials. Tol asked him what he was waiting for.
“I think I should pay my respects to Lord Morthur,” Egrin said evenly.
Tol’s heart beat fast. “Will you face him, sir?”
The warden put a strong hand against Tol’s back, and propelled him forward. “We shall face him!”
Lord Morthur was a cousin of the imperial house, a direct descendant of Ackal Ergot, first emperor of Ergoth. One did not antagonize so powerful a person with impunity. Tol’s heart continued to hammer as they wound their way through the intricate passages and then mounted a spiral set of steps leading to the floor where Lord Odovar and other high nobles of the province dwelt.
Egrin walked up the door to Morthur’s suite and knocked loudly on the carved oak panel. “My lord!” he boomed. “My lord, I must speak to you on important business!”
A lackey should have answered the warden’s summons, but all was quiet within. Egrin drew his saber and delivered a mighty kick to the door jamb. Tol was appalled. He wished he’d never spoken of his fantastic theory.
Egrin slammed the door again with the sole of his heavy boot, and the wood splintered. Shouldering in, Egrin quickly surveyed the antechamber. It was in disarray. Sheets of parchment were scattered about. Caskets and chests had been flung open, and their contents-mostly clothing-had been tossed all around.
“Lord Morthur!” called Egrin warily. “Where are you?”
Silent as a ghost, the man they sought appeared in the doorway of a side chamber. Morthur Dermount was dressed in a smooth silk robe and velvet vest the color of ox blood.
“How dare you barge into my chamber!” he said. “You’ll pay for this insolence, Warden.”
Egrin extended his saber. “I don’t think so, my lord Dermount. Or perhaps I should call you Spannuth Grane?”
By rights, Morthur could have denied the charge and rejected the warden’s label. Instead, his gaze flickered to Tol, standing behind the warden, and he whipped his right hand out from behind his robe, revealing a long, thin court blade. He lunged.
Egrin parried, shouting at Tol, “Bar the door! Don’t let the traitor escape!” Tol used all his might to drag a heavy chest in front of the broken door.
“Traitor?” Morthur said, laughing. “The blood of emperors flows in my veins-how can I be a traitor?”
They traded four fast cuts, neither man gaining an advantage. “You subvert the rightful emperor in favor of the Pakin Pretender!” Egrin declared.
“I worked with the Pakin claimant, true, but in no one’s favor but my own.”
“You have designs on the throne yourself? You must be mad!” Egrin said. Morthur was many generations out of the line of succession.
The sorcerous noble made practiced, wicked thrusts at Egrin’s eyes. More than once Tol thought the stalwart warden would be blinded or killed, but each time Egrin fended off Morthur’s blade.
“There is only one truth in this world,” Morthur said, panting. “Power belongs to the one strong enough to take it!”
So saying, he drew back suddenly and swept the empty air before him with his sword. Magical sparks fell from the narrow blade. Then voices called from the stairs. The tramp of many heavy feet resounded. Tol heard Egrin’s name being called. He jumped off the chest and shoved it aside, flinging open the door.
“Here! We’re here!” he cried. “Hurry! Help!”
A line of soldiers came storming up the steps. Morthur was inscribing an intricate pattern in the air with his sword, and Egrin could only watch helplessly. Although he strained mightily, grunting with effort, his feet were rooted to the floor.
Felryn led a squad of soldiers through the open door. He snatched the medallion from his neck, uttered a swift, incomprehensible sentence, and hurled the bright metal disk into the room. There was a clap like thunder, and Tol was thrown down. When he regained his senses, Felryn was standing over him. The healer drew him upright with ease and set him on his feet.
Lord Morthur’s suite was now filled with a fine haze, like smoke, but without any odor of burning. Egrin was down on one knee, shaking his head to clear it. Of Morthur Dermount, also known as Spannuth Grane, there was no sign.
“He has escaped?” Egrin asked as the soldiers helped him stand. He was uninjured, only stunned.
Felryn shrugged. “I had to choose: save you two or stop Lord Morthur’s flight,” he said simply.