Chapter Thirteen

A silver-haired man stood at the edge of the woods, bathed in moonlight, his skin alabaster.

Eron looked up the castle wall to the statues standing so still along the ramparts, a chill warning racing along his spine. You're being watched .

The dream twisted the two images until each flowed into each other—man and gargoyle, gargoyle and man.

Eron bolted upright, sucking air into his burning lungs.

Why did Cap invade his dreams? Who was he? A guard, based on his uniform, but with no visible rank. If he wouldn't release Eron, perhaps Eron could persuade Cap to send a message to Kene.

Eron snorted. What could Kene possibly do? Arm her staff to take on trained guards? Cook wasn't that formidable. Rolf? Maybe. At least Cap brought food and water, though Kene said abductors sometimes tried to win their prey's cooperation by acting as a friend as she'd done in the past when she'd discovered the plot against King Lothan, though the information had been too late to save the king or crown prince—two people Eron still couldn't quite believe were his family.

Few sounds came from within the cells. He heard scuttling that might be a rat, but nothing to indicate any other prisoners. Had Cap even been here, or had Eron only dreamed of him?

Wrapping his arms around himself didn't create any warmth. Eron shivered, blowing into his cupped hands to warm his fingers. Cold. So cold.

Boot heels tapped out a cadence in the corridor, shattering the near quiet, accompanied by keys jangling. Two guards came into sight, one holding a lantern, the other unlocking and opening the door.

"Don't try anything, thief, or we'll save his majesty the trouble of hanging you," one growled.

So, that was why they'd spared Eron thus far. To make a public spectacle of the menace who'd relieved many pompous nobles of coin and jewels. He didn't regret a thing. "Wouldn't dream of it."

"Come on out."

Eron eased toward the door.

"Raise your hands."

Eron did. The second guard repaid his obedience by clapping irons on his wrists. "Is this quite necessary?" Eron asked in a bored tone. He yawned for added emphasis.

The second guard snorted. "Rumors in the barracks say you fight like a demon. While I fancy myself a good swordsman, I've no desire to test my mettle against a man who once held ten soldiers at bay." He added, "Lord Night." Was that a bit of awe in his voice?

Eron didn't remember exactly how many men he'd fought in his lifetime or how many the actual Lord Night might have defeated. All soldiers appeared the same to a thief except, perhaps, for the pretty ones. However, if the guards wanted to boast of his prowess, Eron wouldn't dissuade them. "More like twenty, but who's counting?" Might as well add to the legend.

The first guard waved the lantern in front of him. "Follow me, and don't try nothing."

The guard behind Eron held a sword. "Where are we going?" Eron asked. He'd been in worse situations, like the time he'd been caught in a nobleman's bed and been forced to defend himself—naked—with quick wits and a generous helping of flattery.

"Feel honored, you swine," the first guard snapped. "Even the highest nobles wait a ten-day for an audience with the king."

"I'm sure the honor is all his." Eron lifted his chin into the air at a defiant angle.

Come face to face with the man who'd murdered King Lothan? Eron pretended to stumble and fall, but the less odious of the two guards caught him.

"Easy now," the guard said, not unkindly. "Take care with those leg shackles. Hey!" The guard tipped Eron's head up with a fingertip to the chin. "Do I know you? You look familiar."

This guard appeared middle-aged. Perhaps he'd known Dafron or even Eron. But if he had, he couldn't have been loyal to King Lothan and remained alive.

Father. Not King Lothan. Perhaps safer to keep a distance in his mind, though. Eron straightened, pulling away from the guard's finger. "I can assure you, sir, we've never met."

The guard tipped his head to the side. "Still, something about you seems familiar, with that dark hair and those green eyes."

If the guard saw through the glamor, could others? What had Kene told him? Anyone who wished him harm would see him as someone else—a non-threat. Nice to know the guard didn't intend harm. Not yet, anyway.

"I have many cousins," Eron ventured, unsure of the truth of his claim, though some noble families of his acquaintance were quite prolific with sons and daughters—bastards as well as legitimate offspring. "We resemble each other. Perhaps you've met one of them."

"Perhaps." The guard continued down the corridor, up too many steps, and emerged into yet another dimly lit corridor. "I wish I could clean you up a bit, but Duke Crau has instructed us to bring you immediately."

Crau. A duke who'd never have to worry about Eron lolling in his bed. Eron did have taste, after all.

In his dealings as Kene's apprentice and presumed heir, Eron had come to realize truly powerful men never boasted of their power. They didn't have to. Braggarts, though, tried to convince others of their importance and station in life as a means of intimidation.

Crau might hold Eron's life in his hands, but probably not. Crau was too much of a lapdog.

The farther Eron and his guards traveled, the brighter the passageways. Soon, ornate tables lined the walls, holding vases of flowers.

They came upon a set of double doors, guards flanking each side. One nodded to Eron's escort and opened the lock with a gilded key. What a feeble lock. Given even the simplest blade and a count of three, Eron would have the thing open.

The guards swung the doors wide. Eron passed them by with a sneer—and stopped.

Eron knew this room! Had played here! Normally, tables occupied the space, filled with courtiers enjoying an evening meal like roasted venison. His mouth watered at the memory. He'd give just about anything to have a plate of roast venison now.

Benches had replaced the tables, though not a soul sat on them. Tapestries hung on the walls, depicting scenes from what must have been his ancestors' lives, some more familiar than others. His heart ached at the image of a beautiful woman captured in thread, who reminded him of… his mother? A memory came to him and promptly left.

Damn the mage for messing with his mind!

His guards marched him forward in the empty room, their bootheels echoing in the cavernous space. At the end of the room, a large chair sat on a raised dais—no, not a chair.

A throne.

"Kneel," the chattier of his guards ordered.

Why? Eron wanted to ask.

A side door opened, and in strutted Duke Crau, in robes so resplendent they restricted his movements. If Eron only had a sword.… Next came the mage who'd visited Kene's estate, wearing deep purple robes. He held a staff in one hand. Hadn't Kene called the man "Father?" Had the mage betrayed Kene's trust as well as Eron's?

But wait. She'd also referred to him as a highwayman. There must be more to him than met the casual eye, though Kene must've taken after her mother in looks, a fact she surely thanked the goddess for every day.

Two uniformed men took positions on either side of the throne. Oh, the pretention. Eron wouldn't be surprised to hear trumpeters announcing the next person to enter.

The king's appearance, though expected, jolted Eron. Another memory returned of King Lo… Father. This man resembled the image in Eron's mind, though much older and with a bitter twist to his thin lips.

He arranged himself on the throne. So much pomp to meet with a mere thief. The false king wore Father's signet ring, but a gaudy, bejeweled crown Father would have laughed at. Wait. How did Eron know these details?

"Your Majesty," Eron's guards said in unison, with an arm crossed over their chests.

"Leave us," the duke barked.

A king who needed a lackey to speak for him? Or was the king too grand to speak to lowly guards?

Eron kneeled, filthy, unkept, in ripped clothing, before the king. The woman hired to teach Eron court manners would be appalled. Or gracefully swoon.

Arrogance shone from King Bain, from his sneer to his pretentious goatee. He'd come to gloat to a thief yet appeared to have spent hours dressing, as did the duke, who'd copied the king's facial hair with a bit less success.

On the other hand, the mage looked as though someone rolled him out of bed and told him to come, similar to Eron's own treatment. Eron and the mage studied each other, but nothing changed on the mage's craggy face. What was his name? Miisov? A feeling of peace swept over Eron, like when bad dreams woke him as a child and Kene had dismissed the staff to provide comfort herself.

Eron had felt safe in Kene's arms—possibly the only time he'd felt safe. Miisov couldn't be Kene's father. Eron snapped his gaze away, breaking whatever spell Miisov held him under—his apprehension returning in full.

The king rose. "You have dared to accost travelers on my lands." His voice came out too high-pitched and whiney to intimidate.

"What proof have you? You found me in the forest, on the site of my father's cottage. I came to pay my respects. Next thing I know, I'm arrested and treated like a common criminal."

"You deny you're a highwayman?"

"I am a scholar, lover of books, an adventurer. I'm also from the north." Eron copied the accent of an Estian noble who'd often visited Kene. "How can I be your highwayman when I'm not from here?"

"If you're a traveler, where is your horse?"

"I do not know. The ornery beast likely ran home when I didn't return. He's very well-trained." Not a complete lie. The finest horseman in all of Ala trained Rhedos.

Bain leaned forward on his throne as though taking a closer look.

Please let him not see me for who I really am.

"You don't look like a traveler. My soldiers found no packs."

Eron fought the urge to snort. "They were on the horse." At least the king didn't seem to recognize Eron's likeness to Dafron. Of course, that meant he intended harm, based on Kene's words. "Do you always attack visitors to your lands? Perhaps you accosted your guests and not me."

The duke darted forward and backhanded Eron across the mouth. Eron's head whipped backward, but he refused to fall. "How dare you speak so to your king?"

Eron spat blood on the marble floor, attempting to wipe traces of a split lip away with manacled hands.

King Bain rubbed his hands together, darting his tongue out to lick his lips. "My men have watched you. You've evaded capture for far too long. With the help of my mage"—hard to miss Miisov's wince — "you'll no longer terrorize the nobles."

Bain reminded Eron of a snake. This was his great uncle? Well, Kene spoke of her own uncle, whom the family seldom mentioned. Perhaps every family had at least one embarrassing member.

"I have use for you," Bain said with a gleam in his eyes Eron wanted to back away from. "In exchange for you performing a task, I'll set you free. Turn a blind eye to your past misdeeds if you leave my kingdom and never return."

"Exactly what is this task?" The next words spoken wouldn't be good.

Bain gave a triumphant smile, likely thinking he'd already won. "I'm holding a ball, and I have invited very important guests to the castle. I want you to kill them."

What? "How many are we talking? All of them?"

The king's smile fell. "Only three are to die."

Three or three hundred didn't matter. While Eron had taken lives before, he only did so when necessary. "I'm not a murderer." He'd gladly make an exception for the king and duke.

"You'll do this if you want to live."

"Why do you want them dead?" If this asshole of a king didn't like someone, they were bound to become Eron's lifelong friends.

Miisov stepped forward. "There is a legend among commoners that a child of King Lothan's line will one day come to claim the throne from King Bain."

Eron swallowed hard. "Who is this you want me to kill?"

King Bain resumed the telling. "My queen has yet to produce a legitimate heir. The former king has one remaining child, a daughter. She has two sons. Lately, word has reached my ears that her conniving husband, ruler of another kingdom, wants to put one of them on my throne. I want the mother and both boys dead. No one must trace the deed back to me."

"You want me to kill a woman and helpless children?" How had no one assassinated this asshole yet?

Bain inclined his head, lacing his fingers beneath his chin. "In exchange for your life, I want theirs."

Miisov's face remained blank. The duke grinned. What a deviant.

Bain wanted Eron to kill his sister and her sons just to remove a potential threat to his rule. What a worthless piece of horseshit. Trading their lives for Eron's? Eron wouldn't buy his own life with the death of the lowest peasant.

"I invited her husband and insisted he bring his family," Bain continued. "His queen is my dear niece, after all. I'd like a chance to get reacquainted."

And somebody believed such shit? "You'd kill your own flesh and blood?" Eron barely controlled his temper. He supposed that if you murdered your way to a throne, killing every new threat might become a habit.

"It is none of your concern," Bain spat. "What is your answer? Consider carefully what you say. Your life depends upon your next words."

Oh, how petty little men liked to lord power over others. If Eron wanted to leave, he'd leave, and not even iron shackles would contain him. Then again, his shackles would slow him down.

A brief flicker of what might have been a memory showed a girl with dark hair and green eyes, hands on her hips, berating Eron for some wrong. Princess Lessa, or rather, Queen Lessa, might put up a good fight herself, which made her even more valuable as an ally.

Eron forced a smile and answered honestly, "I cannot wait to meet them."