With a sigh, Ihra shifted her legs gingerly beneath her, trying to restore what little circulation was left. When she’d managed to sneak away from the crowd of laborers who brought the bread, the abandoned garden along the north edge of the courtyard had provided ample cover from the lax watch of the guards. Unfortunately, she had then found herself stuck there as the nearest entrance into the inner keep was nearly a hundred feet away, a hundred feet across a well-stomped-down training field that had absolutely nothing she could take cover behind.

Still, she might have risked a quick dash across the open field if a small horde of guards hadn’t emerged from the castle as soon as the laborers left and begun preparing supper. While the soldiers weren’t paying any particular attention to the courtyard around them, many of the tables faced in her direction, so she doubted she could cross the long stretch of open ground without someone noticing. If only I had a stealth skill.

Thus, she’d been stuck crouching in the tall grass and bushes for an hour, waiting for a moment of opportunity that had yet to arrive. With nothing better to do, Ihra let her eyes wander around the courtyard, looking for any useful information. Aside from the group of soldiers preparing the meal, the courtyard was abandoned. A handful of soldiers were posted at even intervals along the wall, occasionally leaving their post to patrol back and forth, but their attention was firmly focused outside the castle.

The clatter of hooves against stone caught her ear, and she swiveled her gaze toward the entrance in time to see a small squad of cavalry enter the courtyard. Most of the men were clad in armor as if they had just left the battlefield, but the two who rode at the head of the company were not soldiers.

One was an old man with a hooked nose and an angry scowl. Though he wore a bright blue tunic that spoke of money, the sword dangling at his hip and the way he held himself told Ihra that he was a man acquainted with combat. For a moment, Ihra wondered if it was Lord Sarganīl himself, but her breath caught as she saw the second man, who wore a shabby brown tunic, complete with a hood drawn over his head. The mind mage?

As if he’d heard her thoughts, the man’s head swiveled in her direction. There was no way he could see her through the thick underbrush, no way he could have detected her, no way unless he’d heard her thoughts. Her blood froze in her veins and Ihra barely dared to breathe as she did her best to drive every errant thought out of her mind. Time ticked on interminably as the mage stared in her direction, and panic clawed at the edges of her mind. Help came from an unexpected direction as the noble at his side asked him a question, and the mage reluctantly tore his gaze away from here to respond.

She sucked in a ragged breath, her limbs trembling fiercely beneath her, but kept her mind as blank as possible as the small entourage stopped beside the donjon entrance and dismounted. The mage’s eyes flickered in her direction once or twice as the soldiers tied up their horses, but he never approached her, following Sarganil inside quietly.

That was too close. It took nearly fifteen minutes before the racing in her heart and the trembling in her limbs finally dissipated. While she waited, she analyzed the situation. Although the group’s arrival had not provided the distraction she’d been hoping for, the long line of horses now tethered to the hitching did provide something else useful - cover. She eyed the gap between the edge of the garden and the first of the horses. That’s what - twenty, thirty feet? I could probably make it.

Ihra knew it was a bit of a gamble; her plan before then had been to wait for the cover of night, but when Sarganil and the mage showed up, she knew her chance to learn something useful was now.

Before she could talk herself out of it, Ihra darted out of the shrubs. She kept close to the ground, hoping she’d be too low to be noticed, and dove behind the nearest horse. There she paused for a moment, her heart thumping against her chest, and prayed she hadn’t been noticed. The hubbub of the men preparing supper continued uninterrupted, and she breathed a sigh of relief. Now to get inside. Crouching beneath the hitching rail, she scooted over the door, careful to keep the horses between her and the men, and peeked through the entryway.

Like everything else in this blasted city, the first room was a kill chamber designed to hold out even if the fort’s other lines of defense had been lost. It had a single entrance on the far side of the room, guarded by an iron portcullis, that was only wide enough to allow two men at most to enter at a time. Arrow slits flanked the door on either side, and there was a row of openings in the ceiling above the gate from which boiling oil could be rained down on any intruders. Fortunately, the portcullis was locked in a raised position, and she snuck over to the edge of the gate.

She listened first for any sign that someone was on the other side and, hearing nothing, peaked her head inside. Given the proximity of the outdoor kitchen, it was perhaps not surprising to find she’d discovered the barrack’s meal hall. But, though it was empty, Ihra hesitated to continue further. Supper was surely about to begin, and the hall would soon be bustling with hundreds of men. Her promise to Jasper flashed through her mind, and she eased herself back into the entrance chamber. I won’t help anyone if I get caught.

As she hesitated, voices echoed in the banquet hall, coming from the northern wing, and she peeked around the corner again. Lord Sarganil entered the chamber, accompanied by the heavy cavalry he’d brought to the fort, as well as a large contingent of infantry, led by a man she hadn’t seen before.

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“My lord,” the unknown commander spoke up, “I cannot in good conscience allow this Stryn bastard to enter Dūr-Biḫurtu.”

“And can you, in good conscience, disobey a direct order from your lord?” Sarganīl replied coldly.

“The lords of Stryn have been our enemies for thousands of years and remain our enemies now,” the commander thundered back. “I kept silent when you refused to help the villagers, our people, while those fiends destroyed our lands and fields, because I thought you knew some stratagem by the enemy I wasn’t privy to. I kept silent when you arrested the priests and half the bloody merchants in town because I convinced myself that maybe, somehow, you’d detected some treasonous plot against our fair city. But now - now?!”

The man ground his teeth. “Now I find out that you had a contingent of our king’s men executed behind our back, and have ordered me to welcome a lord of Stryn into our gates. My lord, you must see reason before it is too late - that man is twisting your mind, turning you against our king.”

“That man?” A dark laugh echoed off the rafters as the brown-cloaked mage shoved his way through the gathered soldiers. “You do not even know the name of Lord Sarganil’s chief advisor, and you seek to give him advice.”

“I know your name, Rahûm,” the commander growled. “And your fancy tricks shall not work on me.” The man raised his hand, and shoved his bracer back, revealing a green amulet bound around his wrist.

“Now, my lord,” he turned back to Sarganīl. “Please, listen to me. I have always been your faithful servant, but what you ask is treason. Don’t force my hand.”

“Force your hand - what hand is that,” the mage asked mockingly. “It’s a pity you can’t be reasoned with, but I’m sure your men are not such fools. Lord Sarganīl has merely realized the truth. For generations, the men of Birnah have suffered and bled as sacrificial lambs for the lords of Sapiya. How many armies have broken against these walls, how many lives have been lost - and for what? So that the king of Sapīya may rule over you instead of the king of Stryn. No, the lords of Stryn are not enemies - they are our saviors, those who will bring us peace.”

As the mage spoke, the amulet around her wrist and the runes she’d carved into her flesh burned. His speech seemed to have a physical presence, an oppressive pressure that choked the air.

The commander stood unbowed by the mage’s speech and raised his hand. “Men, please take Lord Sarganīl into custody until we can undo the damage this fiend has caused and, as for you, mage,” he drew his sword and stepped forward. “I think I’ll take your head.”

“Will you?” The mage seemed amused. “Do you see your men springing to your command?”

The captain paused, noticing his men hadn’t budged. “What are you doing? I gave you all amulets?!”

“Indeed, you did, Captain Marīltu. Amulets I gave you.”

“What? No - they were from the castle’s stores.”

“I replaced them three months ago,” the mage smiled. “Yours, I admit, was out of my reach, but the rest? Your little coup is over, Marīltu. You lost.”

The captain sent one glance at his men, who stood ensnared by the mage’s words, and then he snarled. “You bastard!”

As he charged toward the mage, the brown-cloaked man slipped behind the closest soldier and raised his voice. “Kill the traitor!” he commanded. As one, the men closed in around their former commander.

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Is this really how it ends? Marīltu deflected the blade aimed at his throat almost lethargically and, twisting his wrist, jerked the sword out of his assailants. His former aide. His former friend. I thought I had selected my men so carefully, had protected them with those damned charms.

He slipped to the side as a sword was thrust toward his back, and the long blade plunged into a man approaching from the front. Spinning around before the attacker could dislodge the blade, he slashed the man’s throat. I’m sorry, Nakīltu, he apologized to the man he’d recruited personally.

A shadow flickered across his feet, and he ducked in time to send a sword whistling over his head. He staggered backward, slamming his elbow into the man’s ribs as he wrestled for control of the arm. The sword clattered to the ground a second later, and he spun free as another charged toward him. But he watched in confusion as an arrow sprouted from the man’s throat. Did one of them resist?

He had no time to ponder the strange arrow as he was forced to deflect another strike. A quick flurry of blows sent the man’s sword spinning away, and Marīltu forced himself to move in for the kill, but a second arrow beat him to it.

“Over here.” He was baffled as a feminine voice, definitely not one of his own men, called out from the small door that led into the courtyard, but he stumbled in that direction anyway. The possibility that it was all a cruel trick by the mindworm occurred to him, but any shred of hope was better than nothing.

As the men surged forward to stop him, several pitched forward with arrows quivering in their backs, but plenty more remained. “Moon Shards,” the voice called out, and his men’s charge was halted completely as unseen shards shredded their feet. Taking the opportunity she’d bought him, Mariltu dodged around them and charged toward the woman standing in the door.

“Young woman, surely you do not wish to stand against your lord. Shoot down this man and you will be rewarded-” Marīltu’s heart sank as the mage’s silky voice swelled to fill the room. Of course, I should have known he’d just dominate her too.

Without hesitation, the woman pulled an arrow out of her quiver and sent it flying toward him. He raised his sword half-heartedly to deflect the blow as his last hope of escape succumbed to the mage's wicked words, but the arrow flew two feet to his right. She missed? His shock intensified as the mage’s speech turned into a strangled cry, and the woman raised her hand. “Are you coming?” He saw the amulet dangling from her wrist and hope returned anew.

“Kruvas̆, yes!”