"HALT!"

  Sael's descent slowed. Not because of the command itself—he'd been planning to land gently regardless—but because there was something to be said for not startling men with weapons. Around him, Ilsa, Orion, and Robin drifted downward in the invisible cradle of his magic, their feet dangling several meters above the plaza cobblestones.

  He looked down and the reception was... extensive.

  Two dozen soldiers had formed a semicircle beneath them, and every single one had a weapon raised. Crossbows, mostly, bolts gleaming in the morning light. But there were also rifles—newer models, by the look of them, probably from the capital's armories—and a handful of mages stood slightly apart from the regular soldiers, their hands already glowing with half-formed spells. The Mages of State, then. They were easy to pick out even without the magic crackling between their fingers. Blue military coats, elegantly cut and buttoned to the throat. Black boots polished to a mirror shine. White gloves. And those caps—soft, round things that sat tilted on their heads.

  Sael noted, with mild interest, that their uniforms were considerably more sophisticated than the last time he'd seen them. Someone had been investing in the kingdom's mage corps.

  "Identify yourselves!" the same voice bellowed. The speaker was a captain of some sort, judging by the insignia on his shoulder. Royal guard. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, though he hadn't drawn it. "By order of the Crown, you will identify yourselves immediately!"

  Sael continued his descent at the same measured pace.

  "Master?" Orion's voice came from somewhere to his left, pitched low. "Should we be worried?"

  "I don't believe so."

  "They have a lot of crossbows."

  "They do."

  "Pointed at us."

  "Yes."

  "And rifles."

  "Also yes."

  Orion was quiet for a moment. "Just checking."

  Their feet touched the cobblestones.

  The soldiers didn't lower their weapons. If anything, the semicircle tightened, men shifting their weight, fingers adjusting on triggers and bowstrings. The captain stepped forward with his chest puffed out and his shoulders squared, one hand still resting on the hilt of his sword.

  Sael took a moment to study the faces around him.

  This was strange.

  Some of these men wore the crimson and gold of the royal guard, yes. But others—perhaps a third of them—wore the familiar blue and silver of House Eryndor. Ducal soldiers. Men who had been stationed here for years and had seen Sael come and go through this very castle at least once. Some had even nodded respectfully to him just yesterday morning.

  Now they stood with crossbows leveled at his chest, their expressions blank.

  One of them, a man with a gray-streaked beard, wouldn't meet his eyes.

  Sael found this somewhat rude, if he was being honest with himself. Not the weapons, necessarily; those were at least impersonal. But the refusal to acknowledge recognition felt like a small betrayal. They knew him. They knew Ilsa. And yet here they stood, pretending otherwise.

  Oh well.

  "I am Sael of Hel," he said, keeping his voice pleasant. "This is Ilsa Eryndor, daughter of Duke Richter Eryndor. This is Orion, my apprentice."

  He paused, glancing at the fox still blinking sleep from his eyes, ears flattened against his skull in obvious alarm at the wall of weapons.

  "And this is Robin."

  The name hung there, and Sael realized, somewhat belatedly, that he had no idea what came after it. Robin... something. Surely the Feytouched had family names? He filed this away for later. It seemed like the sort of thing one should know about one's companions.

  "And this," he added, lifting the chicken in his arms slightly for visibility, "is a chicken."

  Oz didn't react.

  And the soldiers didn't move, crossbows still leveled and unwavering. The captain's jaw had tightened further at Sael's name, and several of the Mages of State had exchanged glances.

  Sael waited, but nothing happened.

  "I notice," he said eventually, "that you're still pointing weapons at us."

  The captain's throat worked. "Sir. I have orders."

  "Orders to point weapons at the daughter of your duke?"

  "Orders to secure the plaza, sir. No one enters the castle."

  "We weren't planning to enter the castle. We were planning to land in the plaza, which we've now done." Sael kept his tone conversational. "Although I confess I'm curious what exactly—"

  "And you, sir." The captain cut him off. "You specifically, sir. Sael the Great."

  "Yes?"

  "You are to be... arrested. Upon arrival."

  The silence that followed was absolute.

  Sael wasn't entirely sure he'd heard correctly. The words had been clear enough, spoken in plain Common, and yet they refused to arrange themselves into coherent meaning in his mind.

  Perhaps he had misunderstood? It happened often, to be honest. One could hear words and interpret them another way entirely, based on context, and this particular context seemed propitious for translating everything into threats. He'd learned that from an old librarian named Berthold a few centuries ago, a scholar fascinated by the quirks of human perception under duress. Bless his heart.

  "I'm sorry," he said. "Could you repeat that?"

  "You are to be arrested, sir. Upon arrival. Those are my orders."

  "Arrested?" Orion's voice cracked on the word. "On what grounds?"

  "That information wasn't provided to me."

  "You can't just arrest someone without grounds! That's not how—there are laws—"

  "Orion." Sael raised a hand. The boy fell silent, though his face had flushed an impressive shade of red.

  Ilsa had gone very still beside him. Whatever sleepiness had lingered from their descent was gone now; she stood straight-backed, her chin lifted, looking for all the world like the duke's daughter she was. Her eyes swept the line of soldiers, and when they landed on one of the ducal guards—the gray-bearded man who still wouldn't meet anyone's gaze—something flickered across her face.

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  "Velren."

  The man flinched at his name.

  "Look at me."

  Slowly, the guard's eyes rose. There was genuine misery in them, Sael noted. This was not a man comfortable with his current position.

  "My lady, I—"

  "Whose orders?"

  "My lady, please understand, we had no choice—"

  "Whose. Orders."

  The plaza had gone quiet. Even the birds seemed to have stopped singing. Ilsa's voice hadn't risen—if anything, it had dropped, becoming something cold and utterly unlike the warm young woman who had hugged Sael just hours ago.

  Velren swallowed visibly.

  "The King, my lady."

  Another silence.

  "King Cedric."

  Sael let the silence stretch for a moment. Then another.

  "May I ask," he said, "what precisely I'm being arrested for?"

  The captain's expression flickered, not quite in discomfort, but something adjacent to it. "I wasn't given that information, sir."

  "You weren't given the charges?"

  "No, sir."

  "Hmm."

  Sael considered this. It was an unusual way to conduct an arrest. In his experience—which was admittedly limited, as he had never been arrested before—there was typically some explanation involved, as the boy Orion had mentioned. But perhaps procedures had changed since the last time he'd paid attention to such things. It had been a while.

  "And the King," he said. "Where might I find His Majesty at this particular moment?"

  The captain opened his mouth to answer, but didn't get the chance to do so.

  Behind the line of soldiers, the castle's main gate groaned and figures began to emerge.

  The first two were soldiers. Royal guard, by their uniforms, but not like the ones already in the plaza. Their armor was darker than standard issue, trimmed with silver. They descended the stone steps with their hands nowhere near their weapons, eyes half-lidded, like they were out for a morning stroll. One of them yawned.

  And behind them came the women. Seven of them, filing out of the gate in a loose formation. They wore uniforms—matching gray dresses, high-collared, practical in cut. The kind of thing household staff might wear. Servants, perhaps, or attendants of some sort.

  Except servants didn't typically carry weapons.

  The first woman held a scythe. The blade curved past her shoulder, nearly as tall as she was. Sael looked looked at it for a while, trying to work out how one would even swing the thing without hitting yourself in the back of the head. He gave up. Behind her came a woman with a longsword. Then one with a mace. Twin daggers. A spear. A rapier. And finally—

  Ah. Ororo.

  Sael recognized her immediately. The dark hair pulled back from her face, the amber eyes, and now she had a greatsword at her side. The leader of the Furies. She was looking at him now the same way she had looked at him then. Professional and just as unreadable.

  So the others were Furies as well, he realized. That explained the weapons, he supposed.

  The procession continued down the stairs. The soldiers first, then the Furies in their servant-gray uniforms, spreading out to flank the path. Creating a corridor. And then, finally, the last two figures emerged from the gate.

  The first was Richter.

  He looked... diminished, somehow. He walked stiffly, his shoulders held at an angle that suggested tension rather than posture. His face was neutral and he wore his formal attire, the ducal sigil prominent on his chest.

  Beside Ilsa, Sael heard a sharp intake of breath.

  The second figure was shorter than Richter by nearly a head. Young—barely more than a boy, really. Blond hair, styled in a way that looked deliberately messy. Sael wondered if that was fashionable now. His own hair had always just done whatever it wanted, so he'd never paid much attention to these things. The boy wore fine clothes, greens and golds, and a thin circlet rested on his brow. Oh, and he wore a crown.

  It sat on his head at a slight angle, as if it had been placed there hastily. It was gold, studded with emeralds. Too large for his head, Sael noted.

  King Cedric of Albyon descended the steps slowly, pausing twice on the way down—once to adjust his cloak, once to look out over the plaza. The Furies fell in around him, and Richter walked one step behind and to the left.

  The procession crossed the plaza in silence, boots on cobblestones, the whisper of cloaks, the soft clink of weapons. They stopped ten paces from where Sael stood.

  Up close, Cedric looked even younger. There was a softness to his jaw, and his hands were smooth. He was nineteen, Sael reminded himself. Koleen had said so. Only two years on the throne.

  "Sael the Great," Cedric said. "At last."

  He seemed to wait for a response, but Sael looked at the young king and there was a piece of something green caught between his front teeth. A vegetable of some kind, perhaps from breakfast. Cedric seemed entirely unaware of it.

  Sael wondered if he should mention it.

  He would have wanted someone to tell him, if it were him. There was something deeply uncomfortable about walking around with food in your teeth while everyone pretended not to notice. It felt like a small cruelty, almost. Letting someone embarrass themselves when a quiet word could spare them.

  But this didn't seem like the moment.

  Later, perhaps. Yes, later would be better. After whatever this was had been sorted out, Sael would find an appropriate pause in the conversation and quietly let the boy know. It was the polite thing to do.

  For now, though, there was the matter of his arrest.

  Now that Sael thought about it, he had refused the king's summons when Ororo had come to fetch him and had declined to accompany her to the capital. Politely, he thought. He'd had other things to attend to.

  He thought perhaps the current situation was because Cedric had taken offense to that.

  This felt rather something a child would do. You didn't come when I called, so now I'm going to have you arrested. It had that flavor to it. Sael supposed he should be irritated. He tried to summon the appropriate feeling and found it somewhat elusive. Mostly he just felt socially exhausted.

  Suddenly, the sound of steel sliding from leather cut through his thoughts.

  One of the two soldiers who had descended with the king—the fancy ones, in the dark armor with silver trim—had drawn his sword. The one who had been yawning earlier. He wasn't yawning now. His blade was leveled at Sael's chest, and his expression had arranged itself into something meant to convey authority.

  "You will show proper respect to His Majesty," the man said. His voice was loud enough to carry across the plaza. "Hero of old or not, you stand before your king. You will answer when spoken to."

  Sael regarded him for a moment.

  "Answer what?"

  The soldier's expression flickered. "What?"

  "His Majesty said 'at last.' That was a statement, not a question." Sael paused, genuinely puzzled. "What exactly am I meant to answer?"

  The man's jaw worked. His sword hadn't moved, still pointed at Sael's chest, but uncertainty had crept into his eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, but found little to say so closed it for a moment before opening it again.

  "You will show respect—"

  "General Joren." Richter interrupted. The duke hadn't moved from his position behind the king, but his eyes had gone cold. "You will not disrespect the Archmage in my territory."

  The general—Joren, apparently—turned his head slightly. Not enough to take his eyes off Sael, but enough to acknowledge the duke. "Lord Eryndor, this man has insulted His Majesty by his very bearing. He stands there as if—"

  "As if what?" Richter's voice remained level. "As if he were a guest in my home? Which he is?"

  "He is a prisoner of the Crown."

  "He is an Archmage of Albyon. One of the heroes of Pointbreak. And until formal charges are presented and a proper hearing convened, he is my guest." Richter paused. "Put away your sword, General."

  Joren's face had flushed a deep red. He didn't lower his weapon. Instead, he raised his voice further, projecting now, playing to the assembled soldiers. "All present will kneel before His Majesty King Cedric of Albyon."

  Around the plaza, soldiers shifted uncertainly. Some of the royal guard began to lower themselves. The ducal soldiers hesitated, looking between Richter and the general.

  Sael remained standing.

  "I will do no such thing," he said.

  Joren's eyes snapped back to him. "You dare—"

  "As one of the surviving heroes of Pointbreak," Sael continued, "I was granted certain privileges in perpetuity by the Crown. One of which is exemption from the requirement to bow or kneel to the monarch." He paused, tilting his head slightly. "I asked for it specifically, actually. My mother taught me never to bow to anyone. An old Tellem custom, you see. I grew up with it."

  The silence that followed was deeply uncomfortable.

  Joren stood frozen with his sword still extended, but the certainty had drained from his face. His eyes darted toward the king, looking for guidance, but Cedric's expression had gone oddly blank.

  Sael waited a moment longer, then turned away from the general entirely.

  Cedric looked smaller than he had a moment ago, though he hadn't moved. That softness in his jaw was more pronounced now, and his hands—still at his sides—had curled into loose fists. His eyes met Sael's, and the boy's jaw tightened.

  "Your Majesty," Sael said. "I confess I'm curious. Why, exactly, have you ordered my arrest?"

  The plaza went very still.

  Cedric wet his lips as his gaze flickered sideways toward the Furies, then snapped back to Sael. He didn't answer.

  Behind him, the Furies had arranged themselves in a loose semicircle. Ororo stood at their center, her hand resting on the hilt of her greatsword, her expression revealing nothing. The other women were similarly still, watching, waiting.

  "You will not speak to—" Joren started.

  "General," Richter said. "I told you to put away your sword."

  Joren's face contorted. The red in his cheeks had spread to his neck and ears. He was breathing hard now, chest rising and falling beneath that silver-trimmed armor, and his sword arm was trembling.

  Sael turned to the general.

  "Young man, I see you have some difficulties managing your temper," he said. "I recognize the signs. I have a similar problem myself, though it takes somewhat more to provoke it." He considered the man for a moment. "What helps me is breathing. Slowly. Through the nose. Count to four on the inhale, hold for four, exhale for four. It sounds simple, but it works. You might try it."

  Joren screamed.

  It was a raw, wordless thing, more animal than human, and Sael heard the boots hammering cobblestones before he could finish the thought. The blade came up over Joren's shoulder in a two-handed grip, angled for Sael's neck, and the man's face had twisted into something beyond reason.

  Sael was confused, he had just given him advice.

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