“A game lad indeed,” he said. “I should put you to work in the High House.”

Egrin glanced at Tol. “My lord, I must tell you-I gave the boy the Pakin sword. He saved me, and I defeated Lord Vakka. By right of combat, the Pakin’s life belongs to me then, does it not?”

Odovar’s massive hands closed into fists. “Greater things are at stake than the rights of single combat. The Pakin must die.”

Egrin paused, giving his lord’s words due consideration, then said, “Will you at least agree, my lord, the sword belongs to Master Tol?”

The marshal laughed shortly, unpleasantly. “Give a Silvanesti-forged blade to a peasant boy? What would he do with it? Plow a furrow?”

Egrin nudged Tol. The boy stepped forward. He was quaking inside, but as before his voice did not betray his fear.

“My lord, I gladly would give the Pakin sword to you-”

Odovar snorted. “My thanks, boy!”

“-in exchange for the life of Vakka Zan.”

The marshal was out of his chair and down from the platform in one bound. “What knavery is this, Egrin? You bring a peasant brat to bargain with me, like some market day fishmonger? Saved my life or no, if I give the word his head will go on a spike next to the Pakin’s!”

Tol’s hard-won courage failed. He stepped back, trembling.

“The boy meant no harm, my lord,” Egrin said quickly. “I told him what to say.”

Odovar skinned back his lips in a broad, cruel smile. “I am not an ogre, after all. I accept your gift of the Pakin’s sword, boy.” He bowed his head mockingly to Tol. “And I, Odovar of Juramona, will not take the life of Vakka Zan.”

Tol almost fainted with relief at the marshal’s generosity. Yet the warden looked grimmer than ever.

“No, I will not take his life-you shall,” Odovar announced, thrusting a finger at Egrin. “In the main square of Juramona, at dawn tomorrow.” He handed the sword to Egrin. “You may borrow my Silvanesti sword to do the job.”

Smoothing his crimson robe and tightening the sash at his waist, Lord Odovar resumed his seat. The great hall was still, save for the hiss of the braziers. No one moved or spoke for a long minute.

“Go,” said the marshal at last, waving dismissal. “Practice your swing, warden. I don’t want a botched job tomorrow.”

The warriors saluted. As they withdrew, Odovar had one last spear to cast. “Bring brave Master Tol with you to the execution, warden,” he called out. “We have him to thank for both sword and traitor.” Egrin did not acknowledge the cruel command, so Odovar shouted, “That is my order!”

Egrin turned and saluted. “It shall be done, my lord.”

The warriors and Tol remained silent until they had left the High House. Once on the streets of Juramona, Tol said, “I never meant to cause Vakka Zan’s death!”

“You didn’t,” Egrin said grimly. “This is by the will of the High Marshal alone.”

Tol lowered his voice so only the warden could hear him. “It doesn’t seem right.”

“Right is the word of the emperor, and through him, his princes, lords, and marshals. If you intend to live in Juramona, Tol, you’d better learn that truth straightaway.”

Tol was lodged with the stableboys that night, given a berth in a bank of wooden bunks, a rough homespun blanket, and a clay cup from which to drink. The room was warm and smoky from the two banked fires, and alive with snores and snorts, coughs and groans. Crake and Narren were nearby, but sound asleep. Tol kicked off his unnecessary cover and tried to follow their example. Sleep eluded him. His mind wouldn’t settle down.

Five days had passed since he’d left the onion field with Lord Odovar. On their journey here, the marshal had promised to send word to his mother and father. Things got so lively later on, Tol didn’t know whether anyone had been dispatched to the farm after all. He didn’t dare pester Lord Odovar about it. The marshal seemed all too easily angered.

Tol jerked awake, surprised to realize he’d fallen asleep. The boys’ hall was quieter now. Glowing embers on the twin hearths had died, leaving the room fully dark and chillier than it had been.

Accustomed to living by the rhythms of night and day, Tol sensed dawn wasn’t far off. With the sunrise, he remembered, would come the execution of Vakka Zan. He climbed down from the high bunk, threw his blanket around his shoulders like a cloak, and slipped outside.

The flagstone courtyard between the boys’ hall and the stable was slick with dew. It wasn’t actually raining, but a heavy mist silvered the morning in a fine, damp veil. After a drink at the well, Tol passed through the silent stable into the street beyond.

No one was stirring in Juramona at that hour. Following the directions Crake had given him the night before, Tol tramped down the noisome track to the town square, where the execution was to take place. It wasn’t a very big place, nor was it a square-more a rough rectangle. On market days it would be thronged with hundreds of folk, eagerly trading. On this misty morning, there was nothing to see but a tall wooden platform and a few men sleeping on the ground next to it.

Tol approached. As he drew within a few paces, the man nearest him bolted to his feet in a clatter of arms.

“Stand off!” the man shouted, leveling a wicked-looking billhook at the boy.

Tol held up his hands. “Friend! Friend! I am lately come to Juramona with the warden of the Household Guard!”

“And his name is?” the soldier demanded.

“Egrin, Raemel’s son.”

The soldier raised the billhook and rested it on his shoulder. “Aye, that’s him. A right good commander he is, too.”

“Why are you men here?” Tol asked.

The fellow hiked a thumb over his shoulder. “Guarding a prisoner. He’s losing his head this day.”

Tol was surprised. Lord Vakka was already at the place of his execution? He voiced his curiosity, and the guard replied, “We marched him out here just after midnight. Lord Marshal’s orders. ‘No warm beds for traitors. Let ’im soak in the chill of night,’ he says. So here were are, soakin’ it up with him.”

Beneath the tall platform Tol could make out a solitary figure huddled next to one of the center posts. The man’s wrists were chained to the post and his head rested against them, hiding his face, but his fine head of colorless hair marked him as Vakka Zan.

The guard coughed nervously. “Uh, no harm’s done of course-the Pakin is chained and no one could get to him but through us. Still…” He studied Tol from under shaggy brows, then continued in a lower voice, “You won’t say nothing to the warden about us all sleepin’, will you?”

Tol shook his head solemnly, then asked, “Can I talk to the prisoner? Only for a moment?”

The guard hacked and spat, pondering the request. At last he said, “Say your piece. But no touching, nor giving, or taking away anything. Understand?”

Tol swore to abide by the rules, and the guard moved off to roust his comrades from their slumber with the butt of his bill. Coughing and grumbling, the soldiers rose and shook off the clinging mist. Two set to work lighting fires in iron baskets beside the platform.

The Pakin prisoner stirred, raising his head. Tol approached him cautiously. Stripped of his fancy armor, Vakka Zan was revealed to be a slender, youthful man, somewhere between Tol and Egrin in years. Though disheveled and damp from his night in the square, he had remarkably refined, almost girlish, features. His hands and face were streaked with dirt and dried blood. A mighty greenish-blue bruise covered the left side of his jaw. Despite all that, he was a striking fellow. His hair was shoulder length and white, his skin very pale. His eyebrows and eyelashes were so white as to be nearly invisible. But his eyes were strangest of all: The irises were pink and the pupils, a deeper red. In the heat of battle, Tol had not noticed the man’s oddly colored eyes.