THE REAL THREAT

Luvo drew a deep breath and walked toward his own tent. Twenty-six years of military service had taught him something far more dangerous than swinging a sword: how to get the right information to the right person at the right time.

The candle's trembling flame barely lit the heavy, damp air inside the tent. Luvo sat at his desk and bent carefully over the parchment with the fine-tipped quill in his hand. His mind seethed with anger, but he kept his hand deliberately calm, in an obedient rhythm.

The ink flowed across the parchment in an elegant but intricate cipher. Only three people in the Imperial army could read this script — himself; his late former father-in-law; and the third, in the Capital, Lord Vael, Director of the Royal Intelligence.

To anyone holding the key, the letter would read as follows: The ravens flying south were caught in a storm. There was broken glass everywhere. No intact glass could be found. The cause of the storm is unknown. The sacred glasses failed to fulfill their purpose. We are returning.

Luvo folded the parchment, dripped melted black sealing wax onto it, and pressed his ring into it. He moved toward the corner of the tent, to the black raven shifting restlessly on its perch. As he fitted the message into the leather tube on the bird's leg and bound it tight, he made sure it would hold against the falling rain.

"I know, friend, you hate flying in this weather," he murmured, stroking the raven's feathers. He released the bird through the tent's upper flap into the night and the rain. Within seconds it vanished into the dark sky.

The Inquisition would come looking for the unit it couldn't reach, and what had happened here would eventually stir up the Capital. He knew he was doing the right thing. He simply hadn't tallied the cost of being right yet.

Garrick, still standing in the middle of the mud, watched his commander enter the tent and, minutes later, watched that black raven glide off into the downpour.

When the bird vanished among the gray clouds, Garrick let out a deep, weary breath. Rain ran down his patched leather armor and seeped into his boots, but he didn't feel the cold. His mind was occupied with the weight of the order he'd just received. He had always hated assignments that left no trace in the army's records. Few who took on that kind of work ever came back.

He turned his steps toward the northern tents, where his own unit was stationed — relatively less soaked in the smell of blood. He passed like a ghost among the medics rushing about and the weary infantrymen hauling corpses.

He stopped in front of a smoke-stained tent whose fire had already gone out. The tent's flap hung half open. The massive shape inside sat on a fallen log, a great hunk of dried meat in one hand while the other clumsily wrapped a deep gash on his leg.

"Broc," Garrick said, approaching the tent's entrance.

The huge man lifted his head. His beard-covered face and thick jaw were in constant motion from chewing. His bulk made even the log he sat on look small. "Captain," he grunted around a full mouth. "If you're calling me to haul those corpses out of the medical tent, my stomach's not ready for that yet."

"You won't be hauling corpses," Garrick said, stepping inside. His voice was low but sharp. "Get your things together. Pack up."

Broc stopped chewing. His wide eyes fixed on Garrick. He recognized at once that unusual, dangerous edge in his commander's voice. "Where are we headed?"

"The Tree of Wisdom. Just us."

Broc's thick brows rose. "The Tree of Wisdom? It's not the destination that worries me, it's the road there. Nothing's left in those passes but opportunists, Captain. Going there would be madness even with a full battalion. And when you say 'just us'... who are we protecting?"

"We won't be taking the pass. We're taking those two prisoners from the medical tent."

Broc slowly set the half-eaten meat down on his knee. "There's a lot of talk going around about that man, Commander. They're saying if the commander hadn't stepped in, he'd have killed the Herbalist on the spot. Fought the guards bare-handed and put men in the infirmary. I saw four soldiers with my own eyes, lying there burning with fever."

"They're down with pneumonia, Broc. The order comes from the commander himself," Garrick said sharply, in a tone that brooked no argument. "It's not our place to question it. I need brute strength and steady nerves, Broc. You'll be guarding the convoy."

The huge man let out a deep sigh. He tied off the bandage on his leg tightly and rose slowly to his feet. As he hauled his massive mace from the corner and slung it over his back, he muttered, "Qysdes forgive us."

Garrick left Broc alone in the tent to gather his things and stepped outside. The rain had eased somewhat. His eyes drifted to the tall oak trees at the edge of the camp. A thin, wet rope hanging from a thick branch caught his attention.

Garrick was about to raise his fingers to his lips to whistle when a cheerful voice right behind him stopped him cold.

"Looking for someone, Commander?"

Garrick spun around. Elara had practically slipped out of the camp's shadows. She wore light, form-fitting, weathered leather armor. The long bow on her back and the quiver shielding her arrows from the rain proved she'd long breathed the dangerous air of the borderlands.

Her usual mocking, reckless grin was in place. The rain had plastered her short-cropped red hair to her face, but her eyes were as sharp and alert as a hawk's.

"How long have you been there?" Garrick asked.

"Since you told Broc 'you won't be hauling corpses,'" Elara answered, deftly slipping a small throwing knife she'd been spinning between her fingers into her belt. "The Tree of Wisdom, huh? Sounds a lot more fun than killing time on the border."

"It won't be fun, Elara," Garrick said, his face hardening. "This isn't an official mission. We won't have the weight of the state or the army behind us. I need eyes and ears. You're the only one who can get us past whoever's in that pass without being seen."

Elara shrugged. "Let's be honest, how 'unseen' can we really be with a seven-foot giant, a man almost as big as a giant, and a kid in tow?" She paused for a moment, her grin fading slightly. "I saw what that man can do when he's awake, Garrick. That thing isn't human. Can we even keep him in the wagon?"

"We have to," Garrick said. "Get the horses ready and bring the wagon around to the north gate."

Elara nodded and melted back into the darkness.

Garrick turned his steps toward the area with the supply wagons and ammunition crates. Beneath a large tarpaulin stretched out against the rain, a tall, thin man was bent over a crate. His fingers were carefully arranging small glass vials filled with liquids of different colors into a wooden box, one by one. He looked as though he were handling a precious jewel collection rather than dealing with the wounded.

"Vance," Garrick said, approaching.

The thin man jumped, the vial in his hand rattling dangerously. Vance was a Herbalist who'd been expelled from the Capital's prestigious Mage Guild; he was known on the front lines as much for his sharp tongue as for his skill at stitching even the worst of wounds. His gaunt face was pale from the rain and lack of sleep.

"Damn it, Garrick, don't sneak up on me like that!" Vance said, setting the vial back in place with meticulous fingers. "That's Remne Root essence in my hand. If it had hit the ground, both our lungs would be full of acid right now. What do you want? We're out of bandages, just so you know, save us both the trouble."

"I don't want bandages. Pack your biggest bag. We're heading out."

Vance shoved the wet hair off the tip of his nose with irritation. "Out? In this hellish mud? Does Luvo know about this?"

"He gave the order himself. We're going to the Tree of Wisdom."

Vance's hand froze on the edge of the wooden box. There was a moment of silence. Then, beneath the irritable expression on his face, something entirely different surfaced: the suddenly gleaming curiosity of a scholar. The Tree of Wisdom. Back in his Guild days, people spoke its name in whispers. The Keepers' archive, the echoes of the dead, centuries of knowledge slumbering beneath its roots... Being granted admission there was the kind of dream a herbalist built only once in a generation.

Then he remembered the gravity on Garrick's face and pulled himself together. He tried to hide the interest in his voice, but didn't quite manage it. "With whom?"

"Me, you, Broc, Elara. And the two prisoners from the medical tent."

Vance let out a bitter laugh, throwing his hands wide. "Wonderful. A giant, a feral scout girl, and some unidentifiable freak with his mind blown next to him. Keep alive a man with no memory and no idea what his connection to the Sanctified Bloodlines even is? A scholar's only luxury is knowing who he's treating, Garrick."

"Don't question it, Vance. You're leaving that luxury at home this time." Garrick gripped the man's shoulder hard and added: "Get your salves and your poisons. Be at the north gate within the half hour. And if we're lucky, you won't need to lift a finger."

Vance opened his mouth to grumble something more, but seeing the dark, unyielding look in Garrick's eyes, he let it go. "Qysdes's hell must be warmer than this," he muttered, hurriedly stuffing his vials into his bag. But his fingers moved faster now. Curious. Expectant.

Garrick stepped out from under the tarpaulin. There was only one thing left.

He turned his steps through the rain and the corpses toward the medical tent. He would check on his prisoners before setting out. It was something he'd learned years ago: look a man in the eyes before you chain him. Are they afraid? Looking to run? Broken? It was all written there, in the eyes.

He reached the tent's canvas flap and parted it with a finger.

The massive man sat on the cot, his wrists and ankles bound to the tent's wooden posts with heavy iron chains. The boy was curled up beside him, his small head resting against the man's arm. He wasn't asleep. His eyes were open, fixed on a point at the far end of the tent.

Krazoc slowly raised his head. His eyes locked onto Garrick's.

Garrick had spent years in the army, and he knew the look of a prisoner. There was no fear. No pleading. None of the things a prisoner ought to have. Only a quiet, cold assessment. This man was deciding whether Garrick was a threat.

A threat to the boy.

Garrick slowly closed the canvas flap. He stood still for a moment in the rain.

He understood now that the commander hadn't been wrong. There had been no prisoner in that tent.

A prisoner would never wait like that.