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selection—they’d grown to nearly fifty. It would be time to execute Lord Dark’s plan soon.
    Ferrin rode up the moonlit avenue toward the castle, feeling positively ebullient. Some people sought intoxication in powders and potions; he found his in performing before a crowd. He’d sorely missed it, the first few months away from Haven.
    The Companions had spooked him, but he took it as a sign that the denouement drew near. Highjorune would be one among the many, nibbling away at Selenay’s power. Like tiny worms boring into a mighty oak, all it would take then would be one strong wind—say, from the direction of Hardorn—to knock the whole thing down.
    That’s what the Bardic Circle gets for exiling me to this godsforsaken place.
The memory filled him with white-hot rage every time it crossed his mind.
Like those girls weren’t begging for it, the way they dressed and simpered before us. Like there weren’t a half-dozen other lordlings doing the same as me.
    He took a turn before arriving at the courtyard, heading toward an old stone building. The Companions. Yes, the Companions.
They
would not be a problem soon. Eel had been an experiment—a ridiculously easy one, in the end. Ferrin just needed to extend that to his audience. He had every confidence it would work; Madra herself had told him over and over again it would. His mobwould descend on the inn in an ecstasy of violence, and seal themselves to his cause in their lust to please him. Sharlot hadn’t even flinched when he’d mentioned the stable might burn tonight. He’d found a dark spark in both her and Eel and fanned it week after week, month after month. They were his now.
    He smiled at that thought.
Mine.
    He dismounted, tied his horse to a rusted iron ring, and took a small lantern hanging off the saddle.
    He didn’t realize he’d been flanked until he felt the swish of air against his cheek.
    In his last moments of consciousness, he saw the two Companions looming over him. Incredulously, a small child rode pillion behind a woman on one.
    â€œWhat—” he started to say.
    Then something grabbed him from behind, and he found himself locked in a chokehold. He gasped and clawed at the air as stars sparkled across his vision, then collapsed in on themselves into darkness.
    â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢
    Ferrin groaned and got up—or tried to. He seemed to be tied up. His head pounded and throbbed. A draft told him he’d been stripped down to his smallclothes. A small lamp lit the space around him, and he smelled a dank, mushroomy smell. Dust and mold. The castle.
    A bearded man sat down beside him, his eyes pinned to a point above Ferrin’s head. The Bard blinked. “Attikas. What are you—”
    Cold gray eyes focused on him. “I’ve cast Second-Stage Truth Spell on you,” he said.
    Ferrin’s head swam with confusion. “But . . . only a Herald could do that.”
    Attikas’ smile stretched thin and toothy across his face. “What is your name?” he asked.
    â€œFerrin.” His heart pounded and his mouth went dry. “You—this whole time—” His eyes widened. “But—your daughter!”
    â€œContrary to popular belief,” the Herald said, “even
we
procreate. Now. Who is Lord Dark?”
    â€œMy employer.” Ferrin screamed and writhed. “No! Stop! I can’t! He’ll kill me!”
    â€œWhat an incalculable loss that would be,” the Herald said with withering dryness. “Where is he?”
    â€œI don’t know.” Ferrin felt sweat pop all over his body.
    â€œName? Face? Description?”
    â€œI don’t
know
.”
    The Herald nodded. “So you’re someone’s catspaw. How does Lord Dark communicate with you?”
    â€œHis agent, Madra. And I am
no one’s
—”
    â€œAnd the Guard you murdered. Where’s his body?”
    â€œThe