Captain Arturian swallowed and seemed to be holding his spine straight only by an act of will. “We, um, habeas corpus is holding the corpse? So I have to bring two witnesses or provide motive before you’ll let me arrest the duke?”

“If you have the corpse,” Count Drake said.

The man nodded. “We, uh, we do, sir. The prince’s body was found last night at the Jadwin estate, and the motive is a matter of …uh. It doesn’t bear speaking, sir.”

“If you attempt to arrest Duke Gyre at my home outside the provisions of the law, as a noble of the land, I have the right and the obligation to protect him with the force of arms.”

“We’d slaughter you!” one of the guards said, laughing.

“And if you did, you’d touch off civil war. Is that what you want?” Count Drake asked. The man who’d spoken fell silent, and Vin Arturian went gray. “Either produce a motive that would lead a man of known moral excellence like Duke Gyre to kill one of his best friends, or begone.”

“Milord,” Captain Arturian said, his eyes downcast. “Forgive me. The motive was jealousy.”

For some reason, Kylar’s eyes moved to Serah. She still looked stricken by the news, but as the captain grew more awkward, she seemed to shrink into herself, as if she knew what he was going to say next.

“Duke Gyre found out that the prince was having …sexual relations with your daughter.”

“That’s ludicrous!” Logan said. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. For godsake, she hasn’t even made love with me! Her fiancé! Aleine gets around, but he would never—”

Logan looked at Serah and never finished the sentence. “Serah, you …you didn’t. Tell me you didn’t.” It was as if his soul had been stripped naked and all the darts in the world sank into it at once.

Serah keened, a sound of such woe it tore the heart, but none of the men moved. She ran away, back into the house, but they stood transfixed in Logan’s pain.

Logan turned to the count. “You knew?”

Rimbold Drake shook his head. “I didn’t know who, but she said she’d told you. That all was forgiven.”

Logan looked at Kylar.

“The same,” Kylar said quietly.

Logan took it like another dart. He struggled for breath. “Captain,” he said. “I’ll go with you.”

The soldier who’d spoken before moved forward at the captain’s signal and started putting the manacles on Logan’s hands. “Damn, boy,” he said quietly, obviously only for Logan’s ears, but in the stillness of the yard his words were clearly audible. “You got fucked without even getting fucked first.”

It was only the second time Kylar had seen Logan lose his temper, but the last time, he’d been a boy and he hadn’t been nearly as powerful as he was now. Maybe a wetboy would have noticed the muscles tensing in Logan’s shoulders and arm. Maybe a wetboy would have had the reflexes to dodge, but the guard didn’t stand a chance. Logan ripped his hand away before the second manacle clicked shut and hit the guard in the face. Kylar didn’t think he’d ever seen anyone hit so hard. Master Blint, with his Talent-strengthened muscles, could probably hit that hard, but he wouldn’t have the mass behind the blow that Logan did.

The guard flew backward. Literally. His feet left the ground and he knocked over the two men behind him.

Kylar’s Ceuran blade was in his hand before the guards hit the ground, but before he could wade into battle, he felt the count’s fingers dig into his arms.

“No!” the count said.

Guards piled onto Logan, who roared.

“No,” the count said. “It is better …” his face was as pained as Logan’s, torn between sorrow and conviction. “It is better to suffer evil than to do evil. You will not kill innocent men in my house.”

Logan didn’t put up a fight. The men took him down to the ground, put the manacles on him behind his back, put a second set on his legs, and finally stood him up.

“Did the count say your name is Kylar? Kylar Stern?” Captain Arturian asked.

Kylar nodded.

“The crown charges you with treason, membership in the Sa’kagé, accepting payment for murder, and the murder of Prince Aleine Gunder. We have a witness, corpse, and motive, Count Drake. Men, arrest him.”

The captain might have been sympathetic, but he wasn’t a fool. Kylar had been so caught up in what was happening to Logan that he hadn’t noticed the men circle behind him. At the captain’s word, he felt two men take hold of his arms.

He swung his arms forward, only hoping to throw the men off balance so he could fall backward between them. But once again his Talent was there like a coiled viper, and he was suddenly stronger than he’d ever been. The men flew forward and crunched together, meeting along the blade of Kylar’s sword. If he’d turned the blade, he could have gutted either of them, even through their boiled leather gambesons. Instead, he sheathed the sword—how had he done it that fast?—he was still falling backward from throwing the guards harder than he intended, and the sword was already sheathed.

Turning his fall into a back handspring was child’s play. Kylar turned and ran toward a wall on one side of the count’s small garden. He jumped to grab the lip of the twelve-foot-high wall, and found the wall approaching instead at the level of his knees. It sent him over the wall in a vicious spin, and only by rolling into a ball and some significant luck was he able to land on the other side without killing himself.

He stood and let the Talent go. There were cries coming from within the walls, but they’d never catch him. Kylar was a wetboy now in truth. He wondered what Blint would say. Kylar had achieved his lifelong dream, and he couldn’t have been more miserable.

“How was it?” Agon asked Captain Arturian, as they walked through the halls of the castle toward the Maw.

“It was …awful. Absolutely awful, sir. I’d say it ranks with the worst things I’ve ever done.”

“Regrets, captain? They say he killed one of your men.”

“If I may be blunt, he rid me of a fool that I couldn’t kick out because the man’s sister is a baroness. The idiot had it coming. I know it’s not my place to say, lord general, but you didn’t see Logan’s face. He’s not guilty. I’d swear it.”

“I know. I know, and I’m going to do everything I can to save him.” They passed the guards who held the underground gate that separated the tunnels beneath the castle from those of the Maw. The nobles’ cells were on the first level. They were small, but in relative terms, luxurious. Agon had Elene placed in one of these cells, though her status didn’t afford it. He couldn’t bear to have her put any lower, and if the king asked, he’d say that he wanted her kept close for further questioning.

Agon stopped outside Logan’s cell. “Vin,” he said. “Does he know about his family yet?”

The squat man shook his head. “I’d already lost one man, sir. I didn’t know what he would do if we told him.”

“Fair enough. Thank you.” It wasn’t the dismissal Agon would have given to one of his subordinates, but though the lord general’s rank was the second only to the king’s, the captain of the king’s guards wasn’t technically under Agon’s command. Fortunately, though they weren’t friends, they were on good enough terms that Captain Arturian took the cue and excused himself.

It wasn’t going to be fun to tell a man who’d been jailed for a murder he didn’t commit that his family had been slaughtered, but it was Agon’s duty. He always did his duty.

Before he unlocked the door, Agon knocked as if he were coming for a visit. As if they were anywhere else besides the Maw. There was no response.

He opened the door. The nobles’ cells were ten feet square, all rock polished smooth to prevent suicides. Each had a bare rock bench that served as a bed, and fresh straw was brought in every week. It was luxury only compared to the rest of the Maw, and even with fresh straw, nothing could erase the rotten-egg stench or the ripe tang of massed humanity in an enclosed space that wafted up from the rest of the cells. Logan looked oblivious. He looked like hell. Tears streamed down his bruised face. He looked up when Agon came in, but his eyes took a long time to focus. He looked lost, his big shoulders slouched, big hands open on his lap, hair askew. He wasn’t alone. The queen was seated beside him, holding one of those limply open hands as one would hold a child’s.