“Yes, Captain,” said the guard. “Of course.”

Argoth walked with Hogan out of the barbican and onto a wooden drawbridge that led over the dry moat and to the first gate of the fortress. The gate stood open before them like the dark maw of a giant beast, the raised portcullis a sharp row of teeth.

A set of guards with mastiffs stood just inside that mouth out of sight, waiting and watching for an enemy who might be able to slip by all the outer defenses.

On the drawbridge, away from the guards, Hogan ran his fingers through his beard braids and said, “I will hate to lose this tree.”

The Order patterned itself after an aspen tree. Aspens sent runners under the ground that would shoot up saplings, which in turn would grow and send out runners of their own. A grove of aspens could cover acres and acres, and yet, they were not separate trees. They were all connected to one another at the root. And so it was with the Order. Each area where the Order was established had a Root, a trio of leadership, that governed the tree and branches that might grow in that area. Hogan was the chief Root here, Argoth the second. Matiga, the Creek Widow, was the third.

Of course, the guards wouldn’t call the grove an “order.” To them all combinations of people such as Argoth and Hogan were nests, tangles, or murders. For some combinations those were appropriate terms. But not for those of the Order. Nevertheless, the guards would be horrified to know that a Root of the Grove of Hismayas was about to walk right past them.

A tree might be felled by Seekers, but unless they pulled up the whole grove, the Roots would grow another tree somewhere else, and another and another, until the Order filled the earth. Of course, some trees had to be culled to protect the grove.

“Did you contact Matiga?”

“I did,” said Hogan. “She is prepared.”

In each conflict, the Order took great precautions to make sure the full trio of leaders could never be found together at the same time. If two fell, the third would have a better chance to bear the rest of the grove off to safety and start again somewhere else. Or to mount a counterattack.

“I told her to take the victor’s crown,” said Hogan. The crown of a victor was a special weave. An ancient device used by the old gods that bestowed great might upon its wearer.

“Do you think it will come to that?” asked Argoth.

“This situation is odd. It’s not right.”

Argoth nodded. “So be it. Although I do wish she were here. How can we make a decision to cull this tree without her?”

Matiga was strong-willed. Sometimes to the point of being obstinant. She was currently many months into a grudge against Hogan. She had found an excellent woman for him. The widow of a Koramite boat builder. She’d prepared the woman and asked Hogan and Argoth to consider her for admittance to the Grove. Of course, the woman knew nothing of the Order. She could not. They had tested her in many ways for almost a year. Argoth and Matiga had been satisfied. But Hogan found her wanting. The trio had to act in perfect unison on such matters. And so the woman was rejected. Matiga had been furious. In this case, Argoth thought she had grounds. Matiga might be strong-willed, but she was also perceptive in her odd way. The woman would have been an asset.

Purity was an asset. Matiga’s clear vision was needed here. It was a terrible decision before them. Purity had been a friend for so long. But the Grove couldn’t risk putting all three roots together in this situation. And even if they could, he doubted he would have been able to convince the lords of the Shoka to let him bring in yet another person to see the prisoner.

“If this tree can be saved,” said Hogan, “we will do it. But if it cannot, are you prepared?”

“I am prepared,” Argoth said, his heart heavy. He had brought the required poison with him.

They said nothing more. Argoth led Hogan past the guards and mastiffs, and into the first bailey. They turned left and walked to the second gate and another set of guards.

The whole design of the castle was to create a series of killing fields, areas where attackers would be forced to expose themselves to fire from many directions. The path from the first to the second gate was just such a killing field. The moat, the fortress road, and the spaces before the gates and barbican were killing fields as well.

Something small, probably a rat, scurried out of the gate tunnel before them and into the inner courtyard.

The courtyard itself lay in darkness. An armsman on a horse trotting to the gate nearly collided with Hogan. He jerked his horse to the side and headed for the gate, the clopping of the horse’s hooves on the cobblestones echoing in the tunnel.

Across the deep courtyard, the sea tower rose into the sky, moonlight gleaming dully off its ramparts. From the top of that tower a watchman could see miles out to sea. On a clear day he could see the outer islands.

In most fortresses, prisoners held for ransom were kept in the tops of towers. To escape they would have to make their way through all the defenses below. Besides, it was more comfortable living at ground level, and the lower rooms would be taken by those with authority. But Sleth were a different matter. They could descend heights and break timber floors that other men could not. Experience had shown that they needed to be held behind tons of rock. The cleansing room, the only place in all of the New Lands capable of holding Sleth, was built in the cellar of that tower.

Argoth led Hogan across the courtyard to the tower. They passed a group of soldiers drawing water from the well. A number of yards farther they arrived at the first gate of the sea tower and stopped. The gate was a low wall a dozen paces from the door of the tower. Half a dozen guards stood along the wall with two more mastiffs in their midst.

“Hold,” one of them said.

“Captain Argoth, here on at the warlord’s request. We’ve come to question the woman.”

“Aye,” said the man, then he walked back to the tower door and knocked. The door of the tower was set deeply between two wings much like a fortress gate, but in a smaller dimension. There were dark arrow loops in those wings that would allow archers to cover the door with crossfire.

Moments later, a small block of wood set behind bars opened at eye level revealing lamplight within. Part of a face filled the opening.

“Your visitors have arrived,” the man said.

The face disappeared and the block closed. A moment later the crossbar on the other side scraped, then the door opened. A giant of a man with a bushy beard held the door with one hand and a lamp with the other. His name was Droz. Many straps hung from his armsman’s apron-for not only was he experienced, but he was also a dreadman of immense ferocity. Argoth had seen him chop men in two. Both his right and left forearms were covered with warrior tattoos.

“Ah, Captain,” Droz said. “We’ve been waiting for you.” He motioned for Argoth and Hogan to enter.

Argoth led Hogan through the opening in the wall and to the door. When they entered the dimly lit room, Droz shut the door behind them and swung down the crossbar.

The room was windowless, wide, and bare, with only a plain hearth burning to one side. There were no wooden tables or benches. Not a chair or cupboard. Nothing a Sleth might use as a weapon. The only seats or shelves were those carved in the stone. It was purposely large enough for half a dozen men to wield spears and bows freely. A few guards slept on the floor. Three stood behind Droz holding their weapons. One stood at the far end of the room next to an iron lever set in the wall.

The giant motioned at Hogan with his lamp. “I expect you want irons for him?”

“No,” said Argoth. “He’s working with me.”

“But he’s not working with me,” said Droz, “now, is he?”