While Hadrian made merry in the courtyard and great hall, up in the tower where the music and chatter didn't reach, a young man lay on a lavish bed, bathed in the full moon's light, deep asleep.

Cast in shadow, the heavy wooden door opened and closed on its own. A draft fluttered the curtains around the four-poster. The victim-to-be didn't stir.

A figure clad head to toe in black edged into the moonlight. He crept one step at a time, slow, precise and feather-light, to the edge of the bed. His eyes fixed upon his target; he unsheathed a curved dagger and lowered it to his victim's exposed neck.

The blade jittered above the young man's pulsing jugular vein; the assassin's hand trembled, a moment of hesitance that would spell failure.

A blinding flash of moonlight on metal. A sword reached from the shadows, its tip stopping just short of the assassin's neck, as his free arm was pinned to his back.

The sleeping victim snatched the assassin's wrist and twisted. The dagger dropped to the silk blankets. A crack, a sizzle, then a matchhead bloomed into fire. Its flame was transferred to a candle on a stand, flooding the area with a halo of light.

Coris tightened his grip on the assassin's thin arm, his eyes cold as his voice.

"Who sent you?"

The assassin remained silent, dark green eyes downcast. Coris pressed his sword to her neck—she didn't have the lump of an Adam's Apple. The knowledge didn't stop him from twisting her arm further.

"I won't ask thrice. Who. Sent. You?"

The woman met his gaze, eyes watering with pain, but refused to utter a word. Coris nodded, and Christopher moved in to unmask her. In his grasp, the assassin's arm twitched. Metallic jangling rang from her belt—

WHUMP!

A muffled explosion followed by billowing, dark gray smoke snuffed out their candle and blotted out the moonlight. Particles of fine sand flew into their eyes, blinding them. By the time Coris, Simon and Christopher finished coughing, stumbling and rubbing their eyeballs, the assassin was gone.

"Fyr!" Simon swore. He kicked away the blankets as Christopher relit the candle, "Coris, I'm so sorry. I've failed you."

Coris shook his head and waved it aside, sheathing his sword. He wiped the dust from his tunic and held his blackened thumb and forefinger before his eyes, rubbing them together to feel its texture.

The dark gray dust was fine, oily as silk, sparkling like ground diamond. He recognized it. As a little boy, he'd sat by her side on the banks of the crystal-clear rapids, kicking his feet in the healing gray sand as they debated the secrets of the three lands.

"Sand from the Graye River. Our old friend strikes again." He whispered as pallor consumed his gaunt cheeks, then a sudden realization sent a chill down his spine. His eyes widened,

"Get to the feast! They must know Arinel's betrayed them now!"

Coris dashed towards the door, his confused friends hurrying in his wake.

"Coris, she'll be fine! Zier's with her!" Simon called over the clatter of their footsteps echoing around the spiral stairwell, picking his way over the legs of snoring guards. Hulking Christopher struggled to keep up with Coris's lightweight, nimble frame.

"You don't think—Is it possible she's still—Was that Agnes?" He panted. Coris's heart lurched. He pushed aside the irrational hope it brought,

"Those weren't Agnes's eyes. And no, it's not possible. Agnes is gone. How many times do I have to repeat this?" He snapped.

"But—" Christopher argued, but Simon silenced his friend with an understanding look.

"So this is it? The bandits Arinel was talking about?" He asked.

"I hope so." Coris was thankful for the subject change, "Seems unlikely two heists would happen at the same time."

"Not if you consider the rare opportunity window," Christopher pointed out, "How often do you get a manor-wide celebration and a suspected Axel holder marrying into Hadrian?"

Stolen novel; please report.

They landed on the foot of the stairs. Coris threw open the doors to the great hall. For a moment, the boys stood rooted, gaping at the surreal spectacle, then they spotted familiar faces among the slumbering crowd.

"Father!"

Simon and Christopher rushed over to their families.

"Father! Mother! Oh no. Please no." Simon skidded to his knees beside his father. He heaved up old Lord Amplevale's limp body, bent low and listened to his breathing, then collapsed with relief, "They're just asleep. Oh, thank Freda."

"Same here. And there's Fione and Heloise." Christopher surfaced from his assessment of his mother, then motioned toward their unconscious lady friends. He noticed Coris still standing where he was, glancing about the room.

"Coris?"

Coris turned around, his hollowed face even paler than usual, his eyes wide with horror.

"They're not here." He croaked.

"What?" Simon cried. He and Christopher held their parents, staring at the listless Coris.

"Father. Mother. Zier. Arinel. They were lying right here," said Coris in that same lifeless voice, nodding at his feet. He stood in the center of an empty space before a snoring Marquess Fratengarde. Four empty glasses rolled on the carpet, dark stains of spilled drinks spreading from their mouths.

The two squires laid down their fathers and rose, scanning the snoozing guests for a sliver of Hadrian Red. There were none. They looked to Coris, wordless with shock. Coris knelt and retrieved the glass of wine bearing his mother's rouge stain. His hands shaking, he smiled mirthlessly.

"Looks like you're right, Chris. That woman isn't Arinel's bandit. She assumed The Axel is inside me; why must she drug the guests? This second group clearly wanted to buy time for a search."

"But why would they take your family, then?" Simon argued, frowning, "Doesn't this mean in case the woman failed, their backup plan is to take hostages?"

Coris hung his head. He turned and slammed his mother's glass on the table, collapsing into a wretched heap.

"Fyr, I don't know anymore." He swore, pulling his hair with trembling fingers, "Zier was right. I should've let Father deal with this."

"Coris," Christopher skipped over the sea of limbs back to his side. Simon slapped his forehead, raking back damp locks of dark hair.

"Oh, Freda. What do we do now?"

As Christopher rested a firm hand on his shoulder, Coris gathered himself. He'd have time to beat himself up after he'd gotten his family back safely. He patted Christopher's arm in thanks, then turned to Simon,

"Either we wait for the ransom demand, or we—track them down before the ransom drop."

Coris trailed off, his eyes fixed on something glinting on the carpet. He heaved himself up and scampered towards the winking light on unsteady legs, skidding to his knees.

He pinched the tiny crimson sequin from the equally crimson carpet. More beads and sequins were scattered nearby, drawing a squiggly line toward the ajar side door.

"Follow the beads, go!"

Coris barked his command. The squires knew not to wait for their weary lord to lead the charge. Simon bolted out the door, stopping only to snatch a torch from the wall. Christopher helped Coris to his feet, heaving his feet off the floor in the process, then half-dragged, half-supported him along.

The boys hurtled down hallway after hallway, squinting for the meandering line of kicked-about beads, dodging snoring guards strewn along the way. Snippets of music, bursts of laughter and mingled aromas of cooking food wafted from the courtyard whenever they streaked past open windows. Celebrations were still in full swing there, it seemed.

The bead trail led them to the ground floor, towards the back of the keep, turned sharply into an alcove in the wall, then pooled before an open door revealing a sliver of the outside night.

"The sally port?" Simon skidded to a halt before the alcove, Christopher and Coris hot on his heels, "They'd only been here days. How come they know our castle layout so well?"

"They're disguised as guards, remember?" Coris strode to the front of the throng. His foot bumped against something heavy; a picked padlock was left on the flagstone amid a spattering of beads, glinting in the light of Simon's torch. He pushed the door wide open.

The moat rippled in the night wind like a black ribbon on a blanket of silver grass. The sloping terrain fell out of sight in a steep dive, then evened into a hillocky moorland that stretches towards the Lord's Forest. Twenty or so dark figures approached them. Moonlight reflected on their crimson guard and maid uniforms.

"Oh, Fyr. Are those—" Simon poked his head out beside Coris.

"The Crossetians," Coris finished for him, "Sent back with the ransom demand, probably. Seems they're already at the drop point. Must be the moorlands beyond the forest."

Simon and Christopher didn't react yet. They knew that look; Coris wasn't finished. After a minute of rapid thinking, Coris snapped out of his trance.

"Simon, fetch the hounds," He said brusquely, "All of them. Kit them out. Full battle attire. Meet me at the foot of the hill. Christopher, wake the morning shift guards. Circle around the forest and wait at the stream. "

"Battle attire? We're talking scent hounds, right?" Simon blinked, incredulous. Coris stared back, looking dead serious.

"I said all hounds, Simon." He repeated flatly, "You know the rules of hostage-taking. Bring no man or the deal's off. And leave no witnesses."

Simon mouthed, still unconvinced but silenced by Coris's icy look. Christopher braved another question,

"Wouldn't it be better to wait at the edge of the forest? Or go through it?"

Coris closed his eyes, trying to keep his temper in check.

"They'd be expecting us from this direction. Through the forest may be the shortest way, but it will slow our men down. And believe me, they won't give us enough time to set up an ambush before they start killing off hostages."

With that, Coris turned his focus to the approaching party. Although they had but a vague idea of what their charge was planning, the two squires pursed their lips and hopped to it. In the absence of the Baron, his son's word was law. And in hostage situations, time was always their worst enemy.