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don’t know that I’ll have a choice, Christoff.”
    “But—”
    “I’m having the matter looked into. At the very least, she will need to be brought here for a trial.” He sighed. “We know so little of witches, except that their magic can be very dangerous. You know they plotted to murder your grandfather, which was how the law was made in the first place. There are few I would trust with this task, but I know I can count on you to see it through. I need you to go to Farr and arrest her. But before you do,” he pinned his son with a meaningful look, “talk to the witnesses in the village. Get a verbal account from the ones on the list, just so there is no doubt. I have no wish to have the death of an innocent person on my conscience. I only hope she is innocent—” Steffan softly groaned and clutched his stomach.
    Christoff rushed to his side, tossing his dirty helmet on the gold carpet. “What’s wrong? Is it your stomach again?” He placed a hand next to his father’s, feeling for heat or swelling as if the king were an injured animal.
    “Cease that,” said the king, pushing his son’s hand away. “I am not one of your horses to be prodded and poked about. It is merely time for me to take my medicine. Don’t worry, I won’t be dying and giving you the throne anytime soon.”
    Christoff dutifully smiled at the joke, but Steffan could see beyond the smile to the concern in his son’s eyes.
    “Now, off with you,” he ordered, gruffly. “Go select your men. I don’t want anyone getting hurt in the process, so take every precaution. I imagine this witch will be angry, and we don’t want her using magic on you or your knights. Talk to Lucien about the craftiness of witches. I’m sure he’s learned plenty about them from those big books he likes to read.” The king concluded by taking a rolled scroll from an ornately carved side table. “Here. This is my declaration to be made at the witch’s arrest, as well as details of where she resides in the village. Be safe, Christoff, and don’t trust anyone. We do not know what we are dealing with.”
    He handed the parchment to his son. Were it anyone else, he would be worried. But his son was as strong and smart as they came, and Steffan knew that he would complete the mission without a problem. He would bring the witch to the palace, of that Steffan had no doubt.
     
    Christoff exited the hall and moved quickly to Lucien’s office. A witch! He could hardly believe it. He’d read the historical accounts, the judgments, the horror stories of what had transpired under his grandfather’s rule. But to face this problem now, after so many years, was troubling.
    His father was worried, that was for certain.
    “Lucien?” Christoff knocked on the older man’s office door. His father was right; if anyone knew what to do about the witch, it would be Lucien. The man surrounded himself with books, learned them, memorized them. His thirst for knowledge was unquenchable, and even as a little boy, Christoff had looked up to him. Not as he had looked up to his father, naturally, but still, the tall, thin counselor had been a role model of sorts, particularly during Christoff’s youth, when his emotions tended to overrun his thoughts and impede his ability to strategize. Lucien had inspired Christoff to think, to read, to study, convincing the youngster that brawn was not always better than the brain. It had helped Christoff develop into the man he was today—a man not only considered a master of arms, but one of strategy.
    “Enter,” came the reply through the door.
    Christoff turned the handle and stepped through. As usual, Lucien was bent over his desk, his hand working a quill and ink quickly over parchment.
    “I just came from my father.”
    The quill paused, and silver eyes lifted to his. “Oh?”
    “He said there’s been a witch found up north and to talk to you before collecting her.”
    The older man put down his quill, his face serious, intent.