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Westoreth. Korel had risen among the servants and had become Syrilla's favorite messenger and personal man at arms. And although he had never been given official rank or standing within the army, his authority was now second only to the captain of the guard himself. Korel's authority, however, was not accompanied by autonomy, and he did nothing nor gave any order except upon the explicit dictate of Syrilla or, on rare occasion, the king himself. He had begun to attend court at Syrilla's request but knew his role consisted of novelty and display, that he and the chained leopards that occasioned the courtyard were kin in their station and purpose. But there were lesser lords and ladies whose scorn did not wholly consume them, and one lady in particular seemed to him quite fair.
    Korel rode on horseback with a small company as he approached the hard, gray stone of Lord Targor's keep. Syrilla's orders had been specific: to behead Targor, announce the sorceress's ascension to the throne, and return to Westoreth with Targor's head on a pike—a spoil of war but also a caution to the infidel. The sorceress was at times capricious and even petulant but had never before commanded such a senseless death. Korel had never until now been charged with the execution of another, and he found himself wondering about the virtues of one so condemned.
    His approach had been noticed, and as the hard black gates swung forward in front of the harder blacker palace, Lord Targor strode out to meet him. Targor was an older man with flowing white hair whose grace and presence seemed to have grown tired with battle and the ravages of age. He wore light armor with the metal elements beginning to corrode, and his face was blacked with soot that traveled in smudges around the contours of his face. In contrast to his moderate dishevelment, a coarse kind of grace flowed through him, giving a hardness to his eye and manner that seemed to lend him an elegant danger. This hardness nearly covered the other more subtle light in his eyes, a yellowing glow that spoke of wisdom gained through the weathering of years, time both tarnishing and polishing its depths.
    Lord Targor spoke, "So the witch has sent her lapdog to bring me to heel? You seem to me but a pup, but your reputation suggests yours are not the works of babes."
    Korel answered, "I have been charged with your execution and the assumption of your realm. But these tasks weigh heavily upon me, and I would know, Lord Targor, what offense you have given."
    "You would know my offense? Would you be my judge as well as executioner?"
    Though his face was a granite slab, a crack of grim amusement broke over Lord Targor's countenance.
    "Is there no truth within you that cries against this sentence?" Korel asked plaintively.
    "The reason for my treason is not in the execution of my fealty to thee and thine, but in the execution of my fealty to me and mine. Mine offenses are my own and I will defend myself only in this: my realm is not entirely mine alone but was accomplished by the aid of another, the aid of a sorceress. This eventually became a hardship I could bear no longer, a hardship that slowly wore upon me as the drops of water wear upon the rocks, breaking them into fine powder. I walk in the rain no longer. My crime is to give unto sorcery what is sorcery's and to give unto me what is mine."
    With that, Lord Targor bent to one knee and removed his golden ring of kingship, proffering it to Korel in the palm of his hand, head bowed.
    Korel received the ring into his hand. "I cannot in good conscience slay you but will bear back your offering."
    As Korel and his company reined their horses to leave, Targor raised his hand to stay them. "I am constrained to ask you to stay a little longer. I have some lore in wisdom. You should know there is wisdom in you that requires wisdom in me."
    Targor led Korel through catacombs that twisted beneath the palace, the tangle of passages eventually terminating in a small,