Tris stood a head taller than the sharp-featured general. Darrath regarded Tris coldly through eyes that seemed as if they could see down to his bones, and for a long, uncomfortable moment, Darrath's eyes met his. Tris felt as if he were being measured. "You realize," General Darrath said finally, "that if we support you, Principality will be at war with your homeland."

"I realize that."

"And you realize," Darrath continued, "that many men will die to put you on Margolan's throne. Some might say that's none of our affair."

"It's already Principality's affair," Tris replied. "Jared sent his troops across your borders to hunt down Kiara, persecute the Sisterhood, and look for me. He bargained with slavers who kidnapped your princess, and who took prisoners a day's ride from the Principality border. Margolan refugees crowd your borders. What Arontala hasn't taken already, he'll take once The Hawthorn Moon is past. Margolan's troubles are already Principality's concern."

Darrath regarded him silently for a moment, then nodded. "Well said, Prince Drayke. Yet you ask an enormous favor. I wonder: do you have the mettle to stand against King Jared and his dark mage? You're barely twenty summers old."

"I'm not a boy," Tris replied. "I'm a mage— and a Summoner. And by the will of the Lady, I'll rid Margolan of Jared and his sorcerer or die try-ing."

Darrath nodded once more. "You're willing to give your life. Are you willing to offer up your friends' lives too?"

"I'd give my life willingly to save theirs," Tris replied. "I haven't asked them to go with me. They have reasons of their own to wish Margolan free of its darkness. It's their choice."

"Tris speaks for all of us," Kiara Sharsequin put in. The Isencroft princess, dressed as she had been on the road in the tunic and trews of a soldier, was unmistakably a warrior in her own right. "He hasn't asked us to follow him. But none of us can let Foor Arontala gain the power of the Obsidian King." From beside her, Jae, her hunting gyregon, hissed. Tris exchanged glances with his companions. Jonmarc Vahanian, a fighter whose escapades—and lawbreaking—were legend. Ban Soterius, former captain of the late King Bricen's guard. Tov Harrtuck, Bricen's armsmaster. Carroway the bard, who together with Soterius and Harrtuck spirited Tris out of Margolan after Jared's coup. Carina Jesthrata, sworn to Tris's cause to break Arontala's mage-born curse on King Donelan of Isencroft. Their faces and their murmured assent made their solidarity clear. They were unlikely rebels, each brought into the quest for their own reasons, and now, bound by shared danger and fierce friendship, they were preparing to wage war against Jared the Usurper to destroy the Obsidian King.

Darrath remained silent for a moment, as if considering Kiara's words. "Very well," he said finally, motioning them to sit. "Let's get to it."

Evening found them still so deeply engrossed in their discussion that Staden joined them, and bade the servant fetch them dinner. Mikhail joined them at sundown.

"I trust our kitchen was well-stocked with fresh deer's blood?" Staden asked Mikhail.

Enough faint color tempered Mikhail's usual pallor to indicate that the vayash moru had recently fed. "Your cook has been most generous. I dined very well."

Although his face and form were that of a young man in his early twenties, Mikhail, one of the undead, had been liegeman to Tris's ancestor, King Hotten, two hundred years before. Now, Mikhail pledged his allegiance to the effort to unseat Jared Drayke.

By the evening bells, the group had reviewed the qualifications of every mercenary company in Principality. Famous for the paid companies that operated within its borders, Principality more than compensated for its own relatively small army. Small but wealthy, Principality's northern gold mines were known for their rich veins. A spoil of war in conflicts among Margolan, Eastmark and Dhasson over generations, Principality seized its independence three hundred years before, when the squabbles of the major powers distracted them as a local warlord rose to power.

Back then, Algor the Tall nurtured relationships with the best mercenary companies, augmenting the modest army raised from Principality's own sparse population. In return for the ability to operate freely, the mercenary companies swore their intent, if not quite their allegiance, to protect the small country and made an oath that their swords would never be purchased against Principality. It was an arrangement that served the kingdom well. The mercenary companies that operated from a Principality base were among the most trustworthy in an uncertain business, and the major powers considered the land more trouble than it was worth.

For more than a candlemark, Harrtuck and Vahanian heatedly argued the merits of one company over another, punctuated by Soterius's strong opinions and Mikhail's more moderate views. Kiara chimed in more than once, revealing a knowledge of the mercenary groups and their fighting tactics which impressed Tris. Carina and Carroway sat at the far end of the table, insistent in their wish to be present but silent, watching intently. Royster, the librarian from the Sisterhood's stronghold in Westmarch, chronicled the debate for history's sake.

Tris leaned forward to catch every word, acutely aware of how sheltered he had been as King Bricen's second son. Tiredly, he smoothed back a stray lock of white-blond hair that fell into his eyes. Anxious to learn, he willingly ceded the discussion to the professional soldiers. Darrath presided over the arguments with seasoned tolerance, adding his own impressions of the companies wintering in the area.

They determined that Harrtuck would command the mercenary troops, and ate their meal embroiled in debate over how best to contain Jared and his army. Hant said little, observing the discussion with an uncanny silence, as if he were analyzing the essence of each of the people at the table. His dark eyes darted from speaker to speaker. Finally, Hant held up his hand for silence.

"Have you considered," Hant began in a tone that clearly said he knew that his suggestion had not, in fact, occurred to them yet, "that there is an alternative to taking Margolan by force?"

Harrtuck frowned and sat back in his chair, crossing his arms. "How do you propose to do that? March in and ask Jared to kindly step aside?"

A cold smile flickered at the corners of Hant's mouth. "Something like that, only perhaps less civilly. I suggest," he said, "that the armies be engaged, but not cross into Margolan."

"And just what good will that do?" Soterius demanded, running a hand back through his short-cropped, russet hair.

"You were the captain of the king's guard, were you not?" Hant turned his cold stare on Soterius, who nodded. "Were your troops cold-blooded killers?"

Soterius looked troubled. "Margolan's army was a disciplined fighting force. But they weren't monsters."

Hant templed his fingers in thought. "Do you know these men personally?"

Soterius nodded. "Many of them. I'd recognize even more by sight, although I couldn't put a name to the face."

"Then if they aren't bewitched, might some of them accept the chance to stop the evil that grows in your homeland, if they thought they had a chance of winning?" Hant asked.

Soterius paused as he thought, his dark eyes sober. "I believe so," he replied, "unless Jared's killed the good men and replaced them with his own ilk." He was silent for a moment. "One of the hardest parts will be figuring out which soldiers have done the killing and looting—either on their own, or on Jared's orders."

"Orders or not, every soldier is responsible for his own choices," Vahanian's tone spoke of bitter experience. "The soldiers you want will be outlaws by now—if they haven't been hanged. The ones still in uniform are the enemy."