The next morning, a knock at the door pulled Garrin from a restless sleep. He was tempted to ignore it, but Jakin’s promise of a bath was powerful enough to draw him out from under the covers and across the cold room. The fire had burned low in the night, leaving a chill that seeped through the stone walls and into Garrin’s stockinged feet. He threw a robe over his shoulders before opening the door, ready to ask Jakin to have hot tea brought up with the bath.

Instead, he opened the door to find not his manservant, but his father.

“I’m sorry to wake you,” the king said, eyeing Garrin’s nightclothes and robe. “But I thought it best not to delay this conversation. Might I come in?”

The castle was his, and with it Garrin’s bedchambers—he didn’t have to ask permission. But King Edric had never been one to take what was not offered, even if it was his right. Garrin stood back and let his father inside, closed the door behind him, and turned awkwardly to face him. “Is something wrong?”

“No, no,” his father said. “At least, not yet. But I worry for you if you continue down this path.”

“What path?”

“This new desire to spite Marshal Renton,” his father said.

Garrin fidgeted with the sleeve of his robe. “I have no desire to spite him. What happened at dinner is now resolved.”

“You’ve spoken with him?” asked his father.

“He came by last night.”

“Good.” The king cast his eyes around as if searching for a spot to sit, but he didn’t move from his place in the center of the room. “But Marshal Renton will be on his guard around you now. He will look for slights. You must not give him an excuse to make you an enemy.”

Garrin crossed his arms. “Is that why you don’t stand up to him? You’re afraid to make him an enemy?”

“Yes,” his father said simply. It took Garrin off guard, leaving him without a response. No matter how weak he suspected his father of being, Garrin hadn’t expected the king to admit to his fear.

“The council is powerful,” King Edric went on. “More powerful than you realize. And Marshal Renton holds a prominent position among them. It is wiser not to anger him. Men who do often meet unfortunate accidents.”

Was his father admitting to knowledge that Renton had harmed those who opposed him? Why had nothing been done? If there was anyone who could challenge Renton, it would be the king. Surely he couldn’t have the support of the entire council. There still had to be someone who was loyal to the king.

Things would be different when Garrin was in charge. Somebody needed to stand up to Renton and the rest of the council, and if his father wouldn’t do it, then the responsibility fell to him.

But then... how could he leave to go adventuring when he knew the state of his kingdom? How could he do anything but fight to right the wrongs his father had allowed?

When had everything gotten so complicated?

“Do you understand what I’m telling you?” Garrin’s father asked, fingering the hem of his cloak.

Garrin hitched one shoulder before straightening his back and summoning a more dignified pose. “Yes. Thank you for your warning.”

Relief spread over the king’s face. “Good. Then I will take my leave of you. I understand you have some extra studying today.”

“Extra studying?” Garrin asked.

“That is what Sage Borrun said,” his father said uncertainly. “He said you had dismissed Sage Dellon and were looking for a new teacher.”

“Dismissed?” That couldn’t be right. He’d questioned Dellon’s curriculum, but he hadn’t sent him away. “Is Sage Dellon leaving?”

His father shook his head. “I’ve only heard that he has been reassigned.”

There was no point in explaining the mistake to his father, so Garrin opened the door and gave a slight bow while the king made his way into the hallway. He would have to talk to Sage Borrun himself if he wanted any answers.

It was looking more and more like he would not get his bath.

“Remember what I said,” King Edric said, placing a light hand on Garrin’s shoulder. Almost before he’d made contact, he was turning and walking away. Glad to be finished with the meeting, no doubt. That was how all of Garrin’s conversations with his father went. Quick, awkward, and often bewildering. Garrin was usually just as glad to be done with them.

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He retreated into his chambers to change, selecting clothes he wouldn’t mind getting dirty if another impromptu lesson in fighting came along. Then he returned to the hall in search of the Sage’s tower.

He paused outside Arya’s room, succumbing to a short internal argument over whether he should check on her. He’d waited up the night before, wondering if she would return to explain her reaction to the darkness—or possibly even to seek further comfort—but the hidden door between their chambers remained closed. Shouldn’t he make sure she was okay? She hadn’t seemed to want his concern last night, at least not after the initial shock had worn off. Maybe it would be better to leave her be.

He could always ask after her once he’d finished speaking to Sage Borrun. After all, it was still early, and princesses generally kept late hours. Arya was probably still in bed.

Garrin wished he were as well.

The tower where the Sages kept their offices also held most of their sleeping chambers. A few lived in Gillesport or other surrounding villages, but most of them preferred to keep residence in the castle, where they could take part in council meetings and court receptions. Borrun was one of the oldest Sages employed by the king, and he’d gone to every court meeting that had been held since he first became a Sage at sixteen. He was stuffy and self-important—nothing like the friendly and humble Dellon. Garrin couldn’t leave the choice of his tutor up to Borrun.

But he had to remain calm. This was a test in diplomacy, and he intended to make the most of it.

By the time he’d reached the studies in the Sage’s tower, his ribs were aching with the exertion. He wished he’d thought to wrap his chest before attempting the climb, just to give his rattled bones a little more support, but he could imagine how Senjay would mock him if he found out. He stood a little straighter on the step before knocking on the door that belonged to Sage Borrun.

“Enter,” came the faint reply from inside.

Garrin opened the door and folded his hands behind his back. “Good morning, Sage. I’m sorry to disturb you so early.”

“Oh!” Borrun sat behind a small desk piled high with papers, a quill and inkpot set before him. The single window in the room let in the light from the sunrise, painting the space with a reddish gold that highlighted the dust floating in the air. Borrun adjusted his spectacles as if questioning his sight and frowned. “Your Highness? What are you—that is—how can I help you?”

“I’ve come for clarification,” Garrin answered. “I hear there’s been a misunderstanding concerning my education.”

The ancient Sage blinked at him. “Misunderstanding? Well, I’m not sure what you’ve heard, but it’s all quite clear on our end. You have graduated on to your next course of study, which will begin this afternoon with Sage Athelthryn.”

“I welcome new material to study,” Garrin said. “But I will continue my lessons with Sage Dellon. He and I have come to know each other well during our time together, and I prefer his style of teaching.”

“I’m afraid that will be impossible,” Borrun said. When Garrin frowned, he added, “Sage Dellon specializes in historical economics. He doesn’t have the background to continue your studies.”

Garrin frowned. “Sage Dellon is well qualified to be my tutor, and I do not appreciate your interference in my affairs.”

“Forgive me, sire,” Borrun said stiffly. “But it was not my interference. Marshal Renton made the decision; I have merely taken care of the details.”

Cold anger spiked through Garrin’s chest. “Why is a military advisor deciding anything about my education?”

“He is the highest ranking member of the council,” Borrun pointed out. “As such, he’s been involved in your education for years. I believe he’s even helped develop the curriculum. But let me assure you that he is well suited for—”

Garrin had heard enough. With a furious swipe of his hand, he cut off Borrun’s excuse and stormed out of the office. How long had Renton been controlling his life behind the scenes? Keeping him weak and untrained, uneducated—unprepared to take the throne. Given what Arya had overheard last night, that had apparently been his plan for years. How had Garrin never realized it?

Fury raced through him, speeding up his heart, pounding in his head. But underneath the anger was something pointed and cold, something he wasn’t used to feeling.

Fear.

Garrin had never been threatened before. His way of life had been boring, but secure—he’d never had to worry about attacks or conspiracies or danger. He’d thought Renton an annoying obstacle to his adventures, but he was turning out to be much more. And if such a high-ranking official in the king’s court was involved, who else might be? Who was left for Garrin to trust?

“Your Highness?”

The voice startled Garrin out of his thoughts. He turned, surprised, and found Dellon peeking out of the doorway to his left. “Come in, sire,” Dellon said, backing into his study. “If you have a moment.”

Dellon’s words were hushed, and the glance he sent up the hall made Garrin curious enough to follow him in. “I want you to know that your dismissal had nothing to do with me,” Garrin said as Dellon closed the door behind him.

The young Sage gave him a small smile. “I know that, sire. It’s because I was asking too many questions.”

“What do you mean?”

Dellon gestured to a wooden chair pressed into a corner between two bookshelves, but Garrin was too anxious to sit. “The questions you raised about your curriculum,” Dellon said, turning toward his desk. “I’ve asked them before. Most of the time the answers I received were vague, but I thought little of them—surely you were taking supplemental classes, or else the curriculum would become more rigorous as you got older.”

“Neither is true,” Garrin said in a flat voice.

“I know that now,” Dellon sighed. “Perhaps I always knew. I should have demanded better answers, but now I fear it is too late.”

Garrin was starting to have the same worry. “Was it Renton who fired you? Because I wanted a different curriculum?”

“It was Marshal Renton, yes,” Dellon said. “But he only dismissed me when I mentioned Anarya Ellysen.”

“The female Architect? What does Renton know about her?”

“He didn’t say,” Dellon said.

It didn’t make any sense. Anarya Ellysen was long dead—what could Renton fear from her? Why would it matter if Garrin had been asking about the history of the Architects?

What was he trying to hide?