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was abundant on this very mountain. Rayne hadn’t known it was possible to fashion such a dagger, but her mother, who never seemed to care much for weapons at all, had spent more than a year crafting the dagger this man sought.
    She’d also kept her workings a secret, from her husband and the servants of this household. Even after death, Rayne had continued to keep that secret. Until now.
    From above, the invaders made horrible, destructive noises. By sound alone she could tell that they tore apart furnishings and broke down walls. She should have been outraged, but was not. This house had ceased to be home long ago, and when she left here, she could not look back with any fondness. Would the soldiers find the dagger on their own? Possible, but unlikely. Her father was quite proud of his ingenious and secret hiding places, and Rayne had one of her own. So had her mother.
    Rayne knew that her father likely had many secret hiding places she had never known of. For the most part, she did not wish to know what her father hid from her and others. While he had never confessed that his magic was of the dark sort, she knew Fynnian was not a good man. She knew that her father studied and practiced the darkest of enchantments.
    But not her mother. Her mother had been light and good, and since she had crafted the crystal dagger with her own hands, then it, too, must be meant for goodness.
    The swordsman who might be the answer to all her prayers seemed quite content to sit comfortably and wait for his men to complete their task. He did not seem the dark sort, but if he would ride away and leave her here, chained to the wall, alone and helpless…if he did that, then he was most definitely not an honorable man.
    But if he agreed to see her to a safe place in exchange for the dagger, then she’d be in good hands. His four had beaten Ciro’s eleven, and when Jiri had turned his sword on her, Lyr had responded very quickly. She’d been so sure she was about to die, and then…
    â€œPrince of Swords,” Rayne said, making conversation while his men searched above. “What sort of position is that?”
    â€œIn Tryfyn, Prince of Swords is the leader of the Circle of Bacwyr and war advisor to the King.”
    â€œWhat is the Circle of Bacwyr?” she asked.
    â€œA brotherhood,” he answered simply.
    â€œA brotherhood of warriors?”
    â€œWarriors, wizards, and a few witches.”
    â€œAnd you lead them all?”
    He sighed gently, as if he were already tired of her questioning. “I lead the warriors, as did my father before me.”
    â€œYou inherited the position when he died?”
    â€œMy father is very much alive. He stepped down from the position and now serves as an advisor.”
    â€œTryfyn,” she said, her tone conversational, as if she were not in chains and he did not hold her very life in his hands. “That accounts for the accent, I suppose.”
    â€œI have no accent,” he replied. “Yours is quite lovely, by the way.”
    She did not argue with him that he was the one who spoke oddly, not her. Now was not the time. “You have mighty responsibilities for one so young.”
    â€œI was born to those responsibilities,” he said, only slightly defensive. “And I suspect that I am older than you.”
    â€œNot by much, I’d wager.” Since it was clear that he was a bit touchy about his young age, she let the matter die. Since he led men much older than himself, she could see why he might be sensitive about the subject.
    Even though he was young, he did not appear to be foolish or capricious. His eyes were quite steady; they were narrowed and piercing and seemed to see all. They did not flicker with uncertainty or flit about. No, they were unwavering, ancient eyes set in a face which had not seen its first wrinkle. He moved as if he were in tune with his body, as if he would never make a misstep or stumble, as if he never