Gael pounded up the Cliff Stair even more furiously than he’d pounded down the Regenen Stair earlier in the morning. Only this time he was furiously angry instead of furiously worried.

His ankle clicked with the same fury that hammered through his veins, but if the joint hurt he didn’t notice. He wanted to hit someone. Or break something. Or batter his way upward without stopping, past the battlements, past the clouds, beyond the daylight at the top of the sky into night, far far away from this citadel of trolls.

Well, lacking wings, he’d have to stop. But there were more than thirty twists around the newel post of the Cliff Stair between the melee gallery and the quarters of the magus. And he’d need them all to be able to confront the magus with his wits about him.

He felt sick. He felt disgusted. He hated everything and everyone. So long as he dwelt in Belzetarn under Carbraes, he would be called upon to do deeds he deplored. To condemn heroes to death. To deploy the energea that he’d renounced before ever he entered Carbraes’ ban. Even—he faced it squarely now—to equip the troll legions that waged war on the innocent and unafflicted.

He hated himself. And he still wanted to hit someone, to batter some outer enemy to a pulp.

The stink of the latrines halted him three steps above the clogged hole in the wall where he’d found two of his missing bronze ingots last night. The impetus to keep going throbbed like his pulse, but he forced himself to be rational. He needed to know if his trap had been sprung . . . or not.

The stench rolled out as he opened the latched door. He swung it closed behind him reluctantly, shutting himself in with the smell. He couldn’t afford to let someone see him lingering in the stairwell while manipulating energea.

Opening his inner sight took almost no concentration. Was the practice yesterday and today making him faster? There was an unwelcome thought, amongst all the other unwelcome thoughts. But it was obvious that his trap remained undisturbed. He would check it again later.

Back out on the Cliff Stair, all his former fury descended afresh. He’d expected the hiatus brought by the discipline of observing energea might have yielded a lasting calm, but it did not. He’d set a trap for the troll who’d stolen his bronze, but Gael was the one who felt trapped. And enraged to be so. How dared life serve him up such wretched choices. To be a troll. To do evil to live. To be here. Gah!

He gnashed his teeth, just as the brigenen of the First Cohort—the one who rumor said had started a gladiatorial ring, Dreben—hurtled down around the newel post.

Dreben looked even more infuriated than Gael felt, his fists clenched and his jaw bunching. The brigenen was a little troll, shorter than Gael, but wiry and bandy-legged. His nose hooked down, like Gael’s, but more so. Lines bracketed his bright eyes. A brown leather cap secured by a chin strap framed his angry face. Matching leggings were tucked into his boots. His suede tunic was short and of a very dark red.

The instant he perceived Gael, Dreben screeched, “You foul skunk! Hiding in the regenen’s skirts to keep chambers that should go to the magus!” and aimed a punch.

Gael was ready for it. More than ready, he welcomed it, using the momentum of Dreben’s strike to drive his own fist home, once, twice, thrice. The ribs, the side, quick duck, the chin. He’d wanted to hit someone, and the meaty thunk of his blows connecting felt more than satisfying. Again! Again! And again!

Dreben must have mistaken his opponent for the restrained and mannered troll that Gael ordinarily presented himself as, one who sat at a desk far more than anything else, because the first few moments went entirely Gael’s way.

Once again! Twice. Thrice. Three more solid blows drove Dreben up a few steps and off balance.

As Gael leaped to seize his momentary advantage, one of Carbraes’ messenger boys came rattling down from above, legs pumping as he descended, but face turned over his shoulder, calling an answer to someone out of sight and on high.

Dreben’s foot went back and to the side as he struggled not to fall.

The messenger’s leading shin caught abruptly on Dreben’s calf, and the boy plunged head first.

Gael envisioned the sickening possibility of a fractured skull, a blood-spattered step, the blank, empty face of a dead boy, and his next act took no thought at all. He lunged for the boy, hands frantically grasping for something—anything—that would give him purchase and break the lad’s fall.

His fingers tangled in the folds of the messenger’s caputum—loose across his chest like Keir’s—and Gael gripped. Hard.

His momentum carried the boy up against the newel post, battering the messenger’s thin shoulders against the stone, but arresting his plummet downward.

Dreben hesitated no more than Gael had hesitated to save the boy. The brigenen’s blows smote Gael from behind, punishing in their precision: left kidney, right kidney, tailbone.

Gasping, Gael thrust the still teetering messenger upward and at an angle, allowing the boy to encircle the newel post with his arms, so that he would not topple when Gael let go. And then Gael pivoted, just in time to take Dreben’s next strikes on his ribs.

The impact of the brigenen’s fists packed more power than his spare size should have permitted. Gael felt bruises blooming in his flesh, a sharp jabbing in his guts, and a choking blow to his throat. He stumbled, then fell, rolling down uncounted steps to a landing, where his hip thudded against the wall painfully.

Before he could scramble to his feet, Dreben was on him again, seizing the neck of Gael’s tunic and hauling him up, then punching his gut brutally.

Gael started to reach for his energea, and then stopped himself. Just as a secretarius was no match for a warrior, so a warrior would be no match for a magus. And Gael had foresworn those skills. The regenen might prevail upon him to revive them. But for himself, when solely his own fate hung in the balance? No. Never!

A thunderous blow to his solar plexus deprived him of breath, and blackness crashed over him.

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The castellanum accompanied Gael, even though only Gael had been summoned, and a most unpleasant companion did Gael find him. All the way down the Regenen Stair, Theron nattered on about the customs of the royal keeps in southern Istria and the duties of their seneschals and stewards and chatelains.

“When a sovereign possesses more than one stronghold—as does our Lord Carbraes—he gives the entire governance of each over to one personage. So much more efficient to do so,” said Theron fussily.

Gael paid little heed to him, his thoughts on what lay ahead. He had a bad feeling about the situation awaiting him in the melee gallery. He didn’t bother to correct Theron’s assertion that Carbraes ruled several citadels. The outlying beacon towers and war camps were paltry compared with the might of Belzetarn, even though only a fraction of the legions were rotated home at any given time.

The proportion of warriors to scullions might be reversed in the war camps, but Belzetarn’s fortifications stood unmatched.

“Dividing the responsibilities between four, who must then coordinate their efforts, is so inefficient,” complained Theron. “I believe the ancient Hamish found it so, as well, and concentrated authority in one senescalh. And this is a Hamish tower, after all. It would be proper to follow the old tradition.”

Gael couldn’t imagine why Theron believed Belzetarn to be Hamish in origin. The tower was far taller than any structure built by the Hamish-folk, even during the brief interval of years when they’d imported the sophisticated techniques of legendary Navellys. Belzetarn was a troll’s creation, drawn up out of the earth, stone by stone, using energea—the dangerous and more powerful kind, searing orange—and modified in after years by its various overlords. Carbraes had added the kitchen annex, using the muscle power of his followers, not energea. The troll before him had expanded the smithies.

“The magus, the march, and the secretarius should really fall within the purview of the castellanum’s office,” continued Theron, his voice in his most cultured modulations.

But Gael was no longer giving even a sliver of his attention to his irritating companion. They’d arrived at the melee gallery.

Shafts of sunlight shone down from the upper embrasures like holiness through a temple’s oculus or rays of heaven through a break in the clouds, the bright beams piercing the shadows below and illumining the vignette of a prisoner surrounded by troll warriors.

Gael’s heart sank further.

The prisoner—a Ghriana man from the western mountains—knelt on the stone floor, his hands shackled in bronze behind him, his head bent, face obscured by the hanks of his wooly black hair. His tunic had been torn from his shoulders, to hang at his hips over his trews, revealing his muscled back. Fresh blood gleamed on his cinnamon skin.

Gael’s footsteps echoed sharply as he surged across the court, leaving Theron behind.

The scent of sweat drifted to meet him, rising off the Ghriana, acrid with the man’s fear.

Lord Carbraes stepped out from amongst the clump of troll warriors, the butter yellow of his tunic abruptly lit like the sun itself as he left the shadows. His face was stern as his gaze turned to Gael.

“Is he a troll?” Carbraes demanded.

The weight dragging on Gael’s heart increased, pulling every part of him down, as though he might sink into Belzetarn’s very foundations and be buried there.

“I will inspect the configuration of his arcs and nodes, my lord,” Gael answered.

Carbraes nodded. “Do so,” he said.

Gael took the necessary long in-breath, followed by the slow out-breath. He couldn’t imagine relaxing under the circumstances—the usual prelude to opening the inner sight—but, despite his tension, the beautifully curving arcs of the prisoner’s energea kindled in his mind’s eye. So healthy. He knew what he would see next and dreaded it: from the clear violet node at the crown, through the aqua node at the thymus, to the pure silver node at the root, the Ghriana’s energea remained anchored. He was not afflicted. He was not a troll.

“Well?” asked Carbraes impatiently.

The Ghriana man looked up. Gaelan’s tears, but he was young, just emerged from his youth and clinging to courage in his desperate predicament, ferocity in the straight lines of his mouth and the fire in his eyes, belied by the stink of fear.

Hells! Gael delayed his answer to Carbraes’ question. He could lie, of course. And then what? When the Ghriana spy memorized the defenses of Belzetarn to carry back to his superiors, would Gael speed him on his way? For the prisoner was undoubtedly a spy; the mountain people sent them regularly behind troll lines. Even could Gael bring his mouth to utter the falsehood—‘he is a troll’—the matter would not end there.

Gael studied the Ghriana youth, so beautiful in his unafflicted grace, even when kneeling in the moment before his death.

“He is human,” Gael said.

The youth flinched.

Gael looked away as Carbraes’ warriors bustled around their prisoner, seizing his arms and unlocking his manacles, hacking away the longer locks of his hair to his chin, dragging a wooden block out of one of the storerooms.

Gael frowned. Where was Theron in all this? Not lingering in the passage from the place of arms, where Gael had left him. Not standing at Gael’s side. Not even moving graciously forward to give the regenen the benefit of his sagacious advice. Not anywhere in sight.

Gael stifled a snort. The castellanum was all show, with little substance. He wanted stature and honor, without understanding that such qualities must be earned to be real. He might receive the counterfeit of them, because he was castellanum, but he would never inspire real respect. Gael knew this, had known it almost from the first. Why had he expected that Theron might contribute here and now?

The troll warriors forced the Ghriana’s neck down onto the heavy block and locked his wrists to the shackles on each side at its base.

Gael forced himself to look as the brandished axe reached the top of its arc, forced himself to watch as the blade fell, forced himself to see as the severed head bounced on the floor and the blood spurted.

He would not pretend that he bore no responsibility in this, much as he wished that were so, much as he wished Lord Carbraes had summoned anyone other than him. Looking away would not lift this death from him.

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Gael encountered the castellanum much sooner than he expected: on the landing outside his own tally chamber. Theron had just turned away after rapping on the door. He looked very regal, garbed in robes of deep blue suede embroidered with silver. His straight silver hair glinted in the sunlight, almost silken, and he stared down his narrow nose.

“Ah. Secretarius.” He seemed displeased, even though he’d obviously been seeking Gael. But then—when had Theron ever been pleased to see Gael?

“What is it, Theron?” Gael felt less patient than usual.

“Perhaps in private?” suggested Theron, all delicacy in his tone. He glanced at the padlocked door to the tally chamber.

Gael crossed his arms across his chest, standing pat.

Theron sniffed. “As you will, then. I want your notary.”

Gael’s chin jutted pugnaciously. “Feel free to do so,” he said.

Theron’s eyebrows rose. “What? You’ll let him go? Just like that?”

“Not at all.” Gael’s nostrils flared. “You may wish to employ Keir as much as it pleases you to so wish. I shall not gratify your desire.”

“You’ll find I can compel you,” stated Theron.

“I doubt it.”

“Oh, yes.” Theron smiled thinly. “Your friend—what is his name? Barris?—yes, Barris works within my jurisdiction. I think I have some leverage there, do I not?”

Gael’s belly felt abruptly cold. Where was Barris? Summoned on some necessary errand? Or sequestered in a locked cell? Placed there at the castellanum’s command?

“What have you done to him?” he demanded.

“Done to him?” repeated Theron lightly. “Why nothing. Yet.”

“Where is he? Where have you put him?” grated Gael.

“Really, Secretarius. You’re so abrupt. Are these the manners you learned in Hadorgol?” Theron snickered.

“Any courtier can learn to lie sweetly,” Gael reposted. “Only a man or a woman of honor dare be blunt.”

“And we are all trolls here,” said Theron, ever so sweetly. “Yet surely a troll may be mannerly, even if honor lies beyond him.”

Gael reined in his emotion. The castellanum might delight in the exchange of poisonous nothings, but Gael had better things to do. “You’re forgetting I have the regenen’s trust,” he said gently.

“Ah, the regenen.” Theron chuckled. “I think you’ll find that his trust is not infinite.”

“You plan to shatter it, I take it? How, may I ask?”

“You may ask, my dear Secretarius, you may. But I shall not answer you. I shall show you.” Theron’s mocking gaze chilled. Gael’s ire cooled with it. He was abruptly in full control of himself. If Theron’s plan involved stealing Gael’s tin, Gael was on to him. If not, Gael would discover soon enough where Theron saw weakness. It was not his friendship for Barris nor his guardianship of Keir, whatever the castellanum might think. And in either case, Gael’s power within Belzetarn was not inconsiderable. Theron was bold to declare his enmity so openly.

“I shall look forward to your revelations, Castellanum.”

“You’ll rue them!” Theron snapped, whirling toward the stairs up.

Before the discomposed troll took another step, a young messenger dashed onto the landing and skidded to a stop in front of Gael.

“Secretarius! Secretarius!” the boy cried. “My lord Carbraes needs you at once! In the melee gallery!”

Gael resisted the sinking sensation within. Just so had Carbraes’ summons—delivered through Keir—reached Gael yesterday, depositing the unpleasant matter of the gong upon his shoulders. What might this summons gift him with?

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Gael positively pounded down the Regenen Stair, squinting as he passed into the bright sunlight streaming through the arrowslits, blinking when he returned to the shadows that filled the inner loops of the spiraling descent. His ankle clicked more fiercely than ever, jabbing at each heavy footfall. But Gael didn’t care.

He had to talk with Barris and prove the cook innocent of his own suspicions. Or guilty. He could be guilty. That had been Gael’s first thought upon hearing Keir’s account of the tin ingot that disappeared from the privy scullion’s carry sack while the boy dashed from the vaults to the smithy.

But now Gael felt he’d been over hasty in leaping to that conclusion. Keir had believed the theft occurred in the stairwell, not the servery. And Keir had witnessed the scullion’s entire passage. Gael had not. In the wake of Arnoll’s betrayal, it was easy to fear that another friend might do the same. Easy, but not fair. So he would ask Barris straight out, and then judge his answer.

If the cook confessed to theft—Gael’s heart contracted at the possibility—that would be painful. If he lied about it, that would be worse. But Gael couldn’t believe that Barris would lie. Not Barris. And the likeliest thing was that Barris was innocent, and Gael’s suspicions utterly unjust.

But he had to know. And he couldn’t bear to wait.

He stumbled as he reached the servery, staggering a few steps toward the hatch before he caught his balance. Leaning against the hatch counter, he peered into the regenen’s kitchen.

Light flooded through the high eastern casements, illuminating every scorch mark and scuff in the lofty space. Scullions bustled about sweeping, mopping, and schlepping dirty pots away to the scullery. One cook consulted with another, no doubt planning the start of any evening courses that required long roasting. The morning meal was over, and the respite between its preparation and those for the night’s feast would be short.

Gael beckoned one of the scullions over.

“Where is your opteon?” he asked.

The boy blinked nervously, but before he could answer, one of the cooks gestured him furiously back to his broom. The other cook approached the hatch.

“How may I help you, my lord Secretarius?” he said.

“I have a question for Barris.”

“Ah!” The troll drummed his fingers on the counter. “The opteon was called away.” He shook his head. “Just at the height of the serving rush, too.”

“Do you know where he went?” asked Gael.

The cook called his colleague over from the storeroom. “It was one of the castellanum’s messengers who summoned Barris, was it not?”

“Yes, quite urgent about it, he was, too. I heard lots of ‘right away’ and ‘need an immediate decision’ and so on.” The troll frowned. “Odd timing.”

“Do you know when he’ll be back?” probed Gael.

Both cooks looked perplexed. “Should be back now,” said one.

That was worrisome: Barris unaccountably missing, mysteriously summoned away. Gael was tempted to search for him, but Belzetarn was a big place, with its tall tower, its artisan yard and all the lodges there, and its bailey with yet more of the offices: tannery, butchery, kennels, stables, and on and on. One troll searching alone would turn up . . . nothing and no one.

He thanked both cooks, asked them to tell Barris that Gael had a question for him when the opteon returned, and took his leave, feeling strangely bereft. All his impetus to confront his friend and know the truth reaching this deadend left him unenthusiastic about moving on to anything else. But he’d planned to interview both the castellanum and the magus, and the sooner the better.

Resolutely, he trudged back up the Regenen Stair. The castellanum would be in his headquarters off the main great hall at this hour, ordering his messengers here and there, the living strings by which he controlled the housekeeping of the vast citadel.

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