Bam. Bam. Bam.

  Oliander nearly flipped out of the bed, leaping from the dead of sleep. He scrubbed the crust from his heavy eyes as another blow struck the door, its hinging jolting with him.

  “Open up! In the name of the king, the mage’s boy, Oliander, is to be escorted to the royal garden at once.”

  Oli’s stomach dropped so low he could’ve kicked it as his feet scrambled along the floor. Sleeves tangled. Trousers flung. Panic had turned dressing into a clumsy dance.

  “O-On my way!” He shouted, heart hammering.

  As he searched for his boots, his thoughts lagged somewhere between saving a golden-haired maiden and a well-spoken dragon. But when he fastened the first buckle, reason caught up with him. Why would the king send a knight to fetch a servant boy?

  Not a runner. Not a night servant ending their shift. A knight. A man of power and prestige. A man of hon—

  “Oh,” Oli muttered, buckling the other boot.

  “That old dust bag of a wizard! Damn him.” He kicked the frame of his bed. The knight wouldn’t wait much longer, but he had to think. What was the play here?

  “No, no,” Oli whispered, shaking his head. “I told him I would not lie to my king. I will speak true. And if it brings chaos down on Osric’s head, so be it. He made his choice. I’ve made mine.”

  The moment Oli opened the door, the knight seized him, clean off his feet, and hurled him into the corridor.

  “Move,” the knight growled.

  The force and tone rattled something loose in Oli. Urgency was one thing, but this. This was something else.

  As they rounded a corner, Oli risked a glance back. It was Sir Gillian. Dennemon’s right hand. His face was twisted, caught between duty and something darker.

  Whatever had stirred the king, it wasn’t the missing wizard alone.

  Sunlight crashed into the archways, stripping away the last of the darkness as Oli’s eyes adjusted. And there, hanging from the limbs of the king’s prized oak, lay the answer.

  Strands of flayed skin were wound through the branches. Ribbons of blood and flesh, drawn tight like marionette wires, held the mangled corpse in a grotesque, theatrical pose. Dennemon’s armor looked like it had been peeled with the blacksmith’s tongs. Furls and cuffs made into a mockery of prestige.

  A jester of death.

  Oli froze. It was the single worst thing he’d ever seen. And he had grown up on the streets, among the desperate and the cruel. Even his nightmares had never dared such an invention.

  Whatever had been done to Sir Dennemon, it was with great malice and hate. The hanging had taken place while the man still lived. The branches and leaves would not have been so soaked in scarlet otherwise. Imagining the sounds, it was a wonder no one had found him sooner.

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  And there was the head. Or rather, the lack of one.

  Dennemon had been tortured, flayed, and robbed of what little dignity death might have offered. What unsettled Oli most was he couldn’t find the head anywhere. If the body remained, the head should have as well. Close by, at least.

  “Move, boy,” Sir Gillian snarled, kicking Oli square between the shoulders. “Or I’ll cut you where you stand.”

  Oli stumbled forward, numb, and walked toward the seating area on the far end of the garden. He felt like a ghost. Hollow, drifting, dragged by fear rather than muscle. Only when he met the king’s glare did reality snap back into him.

  “Sit,” the king ordered.

  Oli flinched, then obeyed.

  The king had forgone cup and chalice alike, drinking straight from a bottle of wine. White. There was no world where red would do with that view.

  Sir Gilian hovered nearby, watching Oli like he was the cause of all this.

  “That will be all, Sir Gillian,” the king waved for his leave.

  “But, your grace. I—”

  The king smashed the bottle against the iron table. Glass shattered. Blood spilled as easily from his hand as the wine to his lips.

  “Leave,” he said, his tone smoothed flat with effort. “And fetch me another bottle.”

  Whatever this was, Oli was but an egg in a nest of vipers. Helpless. Every gaze weighing where to strike. He would not be the first to speak. There would be no digging further into the pit.

  “Sir Dennemon was with me from before I ever liberated this realm with my rebellion,” the king said, blood dripping onto the table. “He trained me in sword and shield. In honor and decency. To say I am at a loss for what wretched act has befallen him. . .” His voice failed him. “There are no words.”

  The table nearbuckled as the king leaned heavily against it.

  “Tell me, boy. Where is the wizard? My men have searched this castle, stone by stone, and have nothing to show for it. They’ve tried their hand, now I try mine. It’s always the help that knows. Always. And I damn-well know you’ve got something on that old man.”

  This was the moment Oli had warned Osric about. He would speak true, but he would not bind himself to treason.

  He swallowed and forced the words past the knot in his throat.

  “Y-Your grace. It was the d-doll. Spooked him. He seemed to have gone mad. Ranting endlessly.”

  “Then it was not him who placed it at the foot of my tree?” The king inquired, gesturing with his uninjured hand.

  Oli turned and his breath caught.

  The Chuckle Grim lay against the oak’s trunk, untouched by the blood. Leaning, as if someone had set it down carelessly. The knotted eye in its cheek was angled just enough to face the table.

  To face the king.

  “Your grace. . .” Osric’s warnings flooded Oli’s mind. Tales had roots. Even the worst ones. But a puppet?

  The king noticed the same thing. The placement. But he said nothing. Instead, he leaned back, exhaustion, perhaps the wine, finally overtaking fury.

  “Where has the wizard gone,” he asked.

  There would be no dancing around it. No fanciful wordplay. Oli could read it all over the king’s demeanor. He expected an answer. Straight and true, or else he’d risk waking the king's ire.

  “West. Beyond the realm’s border. A village made from river stone.”

  The king signaled Sir Gillian as the knight returned, scuttling over the roots and vines of the garden.

  “My wine?”

  “The stocks are out of that particular vine, your grace,” Gillian replied stiffly.

  The king sighed and stood. “If you leave at once and fetch what I seek, boy, I will not question your part in letting the wizard flee. Osric was always a touch mad, but spit some logic his way and he could be swayed. One way or another. You’re either dim and failed to find the logic required. Or you’re compliant. Either or, you’ll do this for your king.”

  Oli stared, then bowed quickly. “Y-Yes, your grace. At once.”

  The weight of the morning sagged the king’s shoulders.

  “Gillian. See to the body. Find the head, if you can. And rid us of that accursed puppet. See it done before the nobles’ whispers feed the crows.”

  Sir Gillian struck his fist to his chest and turned away.

  Oli rose to leave when the king called after him from the garden’s edge.

  “Bring the bottles to my war room, Oliander. Three or four ought to do it. I have a feeling the week will be long.”