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him in his tracks.
    “When this is done, return to me guilt-free, or not at all.”
    Allion hesitated, his hand upon the iron pull. When he turned, he found her standing beneath the arch that separated the royal chambers, clutching the Sword by its scabbard. Light cast by the hearth’s flames flickered upon her pale, implacable face.
    Having no better response, he slipped the latch, stepped out into the hall, and closed the door behind him.
     
    H EAD BOWED, P AGUS SCUFFED ALONG the gravel paths of the palace grounds. There were no torches along this route, no cressets or braziers to light the way, for it was a winding back course seldom traveled. The lantern he bore was his only aid in the moonlit darkness. And even this he kept shuttered, its glow muted, for he did not care to draw attention to himself.
    Every so often, he would reach up with a soiled sleeve to wipe his dripping nose. The tears, for the most part, he had managed to keep in check. Nothing was ever set right by a woman’s weeping, his father had always told him, and it seemed now that his father might have been correct. For on this, the second day of his lord king’s death, he was surprised he had any left to shed. And all that lamenting hadn’t changed a thing.
    He’d been unable to help it, however, and none were more taken aback by the truth than he. He was not his mother or sister. He did not cry every time a baby bird fell from its nest or a dog was run over by a wagon. When the Red Death had taken his family, and he had gone to live with his uncle, a royal guardsman, he had been saddened, to be sure, but had acclimated quickly enough to his new life. Life, death—the two were inseparable, and there wasn’t much a lad like him could do about either. So why fuss?
    But with Torin, something within had seemed to snap, and he couldn’t figure why that might be. A lack of appreciation for what the king had done, perhaps. Like most palace servants, he was well accustomed to being orderedhither and fro, kicked around like a lazy cat. He had never really taken offense at such treatment; while others let themselves be cowed or else muttered curses under their breath, he had simply smiled all the brighter and labored all the harder. His reactions had vexed some, but not Torin. The king was the one person, he now realized, to have ever accorded him a measure of courtesy and respect, treating him not as a callow youth, but as a young man whose enthusiasm was to be admired, and whose counsel was always welcome.
    Pagus sniffed and slowed, picking his way now through an overgrown stand of brambles that crossed his path to scratch at the bailey wall. The pricks he suffered seemed well deserved. None other than the king himself could have elevated him to the position of chief herald. It was a calling Pagus had done nothing to seek and little to deserve, having performed his duties the same as always. That he had somehow found Torin’s favor was a quirk of fate, not something for which he felt beholden. Nevertheless, he could have done better to express his gratitude.
    Rather than act in a manner that might have contributed to the king’s death.
    His path came to an end at a weather-beaten portal in one of the old, abandoned guard towers. Withdrawing a key tied to a string around his neck, Pagus struggled with the lock until its rusted tumblers finally relented. How many times, he wondered, had he used this forgotten trail—its twists and turns and the keys to its gates provided him by the sneaky armorer, Faldron. Tonight, without a word of the truth to Allion as to how it had been discovered, he had used it to help slip Torin’s body to an out-of-the-way stable, so that the regent could bear his friend from the city in order to bury him in secret.
    Allion had thanked him for his assistance. Pagus had only shrugged, wanting once again to cry.
    Never before had he seen the harm his actions might bring. Whispers and intrigues were a part of city