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thought.”
    â€œFrom the Prince?” I dragged myself up to sitting. Blaise and I had been scheduled to meet with Aleksander on the day of the spring equinox. But the Prince, bearing the burden of his father’s empire if not the crown as yet, had sent word that he would have to delay until midsummer. That was still more than two months away. “What did he say exactly?”
    â€œSaid he was to give the message directly to the Ezzarian what was the Prince’s slave, the one with the slave mark on his face. Said the message couldn’t wait. Had to deliver it himself.”
    â€œThe Prince’s slave ... Those were his exact words?”
    â€œAye. Arrogant, sneering fellow, he was.”
    Aleksander would never refer to me as his slave. Not anymore. Not to a Derzhi messenger whom he would wish to treat me with respect. “Tell me what he looked like, Farrol. His colors ... a scarf or a crest on his shield or his sword or somewhere on his dress ... And tell me about his hair. Did he have a braid?” I reached for the cup of water Blaise had left on the table by my bed and poured the contents over my head to force my foggy mind awake.
    â€œLooked like any cursed Derzhi. Armed to the teeth. Riding an eighteen-hands bay that Wyther or Dak would kill for. No scarf, but a tef-coat over his shirt. An animal on it—a shengar, maybe, or a kayeet. I don’t know. His braid was like any of the arrogant bastards. Long. Light-colored. Tied with a blue ... no, it was a purple ribbon on the left side of his head. Why do you care? What’s wrong?”
    I jammed the heels of my hands into my eyes, trying to think. “The braid—which side of his head was it?”
    Farrol kicked at the empty water jar. “I don’t know. What does it—?”
    â€œThink, Farrol. You said left. Which was it?”
    The round man threw up his hands. “Left, I think ... yes, it was the left. That’s how I saw the color of the ribbon because the fire was on his left.”
    Left ... spirits of darkness! I staggered to my feet and grabbed Farrol’s arm. “We’ve got to go after them. Hurry. Help me wake up, and get me a sword.”
    â€œWhat’s wrong?”
    â€œHe’s no messenger. He’s a namhir—an assassin.” And Blaise was leading him straight to my son.
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    By the time Farrol had poured enough strong tea down me that I wouldn’t fall off a horse, we were a half hour behind Blaise and the Derzhi assassins; namhirra always traveled in threes. As we raced through the moonlit woodland, Farrol traversing the enchanted ways as Blaise did, all I could think of were the murderous warriors venting their fury on Evan, Elinor, Blaise, and Gordain when they realized they could not fulfill the death vow they had made to their heged lord. Unless Blaise noticed them and shook them off, they could follow him right through the paths of enchantment just as I did. And Blaise was tired and worried, and even in the best of times he lacked a warrior’s instincts.
    Through the open forest of oak and ash, down into stream-cut gullies thick with willow and alder, over a rocky ridge. Each time the route was slightly different, enough that even an experienced tracker could not duplicate it or detect the signs of an earlier passing. By the time Farrol raised his hand in warning, I was grinding my teeth.
    â€œIt’s a direct way, now,” whispered Farrol. “Over this ridge will take you in behind the house. How do you want to work this?”
    I dropped lightly from the horse and yanked my sword from its scabbard. “Circle left and get to the house through the goat pen. Your task ... the only one ... is to get the family away.” I gripped his leg. “Don’t think you can fight these men, Farrol, nor can Gordain or Blaise; namhirra are extremely skilled and failure is worse than death to them. I’ll try to draw them away.” And then I