"I believe we should not approve the use of [Chants] in such a setting." Sir Bartholomew's expression seemed to have been inspired by a constipated cat. He had been talking for some time at this point. "Given our concerns about releasing such dangerous knowledge, the use of these spells during the initiate trials is inexcusable."

Clay fixed the Master Archivist with a weary look. His head was still hurting from his lack of sleep, and the Councilor's concerns were difficult to square with what he'd seen the night before. "She wasn't exactly teaching them to the cadets during the fight, Sir Bartholomew. They wouldn't have the skill to use them, anyway."

Syr Marissa raised an eyebrow. "Yet there are apparently many others who are using them, whether or not the Council would have approved. Your other [Commoner] cadets among them."

He looked back at her. She clearly hadn't grown any fonder of him with time and distance. "I would apologize for keeping them alive as they fought monsters you had ignored, Councilor, but I'm a bit too honest to do so." As Marissa seethed, he looked around at the rest of the Council. "[Chants] may not be a standard part of an adventurer's training, but the four I brought to join the Guild have been using them for months. They are trustworthy, and capable of knowing when and how to use those spells. Attempting to cripple them just because they embarrassed some new adventurers in a combat trial you all demanded they participate in is not a productive use of time."

Sir Mark grunted sourly. "We might need to have a talk about maintaining morale among the newest recruits, Sir Clay."

Clay met the man's eyes without flinching. "Morale was never a stated purpose of the tests, Sir Mark."

"Enough." Sir Evan seemed tired rather than angry now. He shook his head. "Sir Clay is correct in pointing out that this is a problem we managed to cause ourselves. While I would have appreciated a bit less of a display from the new recruits, and perhaps a bit more information about their abilities—" He pointedly looked at Sir Richard, who returned the glare with a neutral shrug. "We all agreed to having them pass through the tests, when I doubt we would have demanded the same from a level ten adventurer if they had walked in out of the wild. Does anyone disagree?"

Marissa stirred, resentment plain on her face. "We might have questioned where in the abyss they were, or what they were planning…"

She trailed off as Evan gave her a blunt look. He spoke in a firm voice. "We might have, though in this case we know exactly where they came from, and who trained them. Given their previous work in Janburg, I think we can be sure they aren't some pack of would-be Rogues. Especially when they probably could have just kept doing it, instead of dropping by here to reassure us."

Silence followed the words, though Marissa and Bartholomew still seemed on the edge of rebellion. Evan looked back at Clay, his expression rueful. "Sir Clay, I'm afraid what we have here is a case of stubbing a toe and kicking the chair involved. My grandfather often said we're never angrier than when it is our own cursed fault. I'm sure yours said something much the same."

Clay felt his face stiffen slightly. He tried to keep the echo of what he'd seen in the void from his voice. "My father's father died in Sarlsboro, Sir Evan, and my mother's father died in a famine in Tanwell. I'm afraid I wouldn't know."

A brief, awkward silence fell, and Sir Evan visibly winced. As the Guildmaster seemed to grasp for a response, Sir Richard spoke up. "I trust, at the very least, we won't contest the results of the trials? The [Commoners] have all sworn the Oath, and they are battle tested already. It would be pointless to deny their merits now."

There was a chorus of reluctant nods around the curved table, though Sir Bartholomew still seemed unhappy. "They may be members of the Guild, now, but I still say that they should be kept here for at least a little while. Surely they can benefit from some… instruction concerning [Chants] and other techniques. The combat training alone would make them much more formidable."

Sir Evan blinked. He looked back at Clay with a skeptical expression. "Sir Clay, do you think that this suggestion holds merit? You know their abilities better than any of us, no matter what they've done here today."

Despite his initial instinct to refuse, Clay hesitated for a moment. His own experiences in the Guild had been moderately helpful… but he hadn't had the benefit of being trained by someone who had received Guild training, and hadn't enjoyed nearly the same level of combat experience as the others. Mitchell had years of combat training as a soldier, while Andrew's fighting style relied more on his custom contraptions than traditional fighting. Lana might have had some things to learn about close combat, but her type of fighting relied on distance, accuracy, and stealth, something the Guild didn't appear to be able to help her much with—and of course, the idea of Olivia training at the Guild for any length of time was ridiculous.

The Council was unlikely to accept that reasoning though, but luckily, there was an alternative excuse he could use. Clay smiled a little and shrugged. "It's possible. I guess it would depend on how comfortable you all are with the [Commoners] of Crownsguard learning [Chants]."

A stunned silence followed his answer, followed by something resembling a choking sound from Sir Bartholomew. It was Sir Mark who found his voice first. "Is that a threat, Sir Clay?"

Clay raised an eyebrow at him. "No. Just a prediction."

Marissa spoke up next. "So if we decide to provide training for your friends, you'll begin spreading forbidden knowledge to the [Commoners] here in retaliation?" She looked at Sir Evan, who had put a hand over his eyes. "Guildmaster, surely this kind of nonsense demands some kind of response!"

"I'm not threatening anything." Clay shrugged and spread his arms as Marissa gave him an incredulous look. "You're also making a bad assumption there. Who said that I would be the one teaching the [Chants]?"

Sir Bartholomew finally regained his voice, rage turning his face dark. "You aren't saying that your [Commoners] are so ill-disciplined as to—"

Clay snorted. "No. They'd never teach someone [Chants] on accident. They'd absolutely do it on purpose." As the man spluttered, Clay continued with a single, pointed question. "None of you would happen to know where Syr Olivia is right now, would you?"

The Master Archivist's face went from dark with rage to worryingly pale in a single instant. A ripple of shock ran through the rest of the Council as well. It was Syr Alia, who had remained silent until now, who spoke up. "I… believe that she had requested leave to visit the Grand Rectory, Sir Clay."

He looked at her and nodded. "Sounds about right. Her adoptive father had some letters he wanted her to deliver. I'm sure that's all she's doing right now. After all, she has had a long history with the Rectory. I'm sure she'd never share anything else with all of the [Commoners] there, on a regular basis." Clay looked back at Sir Evan and smiled. "You wouldn't want to stand between her and her beliefs, would you?"

There was a moment of hesitation. Syr Marissa looked at Syr Alia. "Could we ask the Rectory to—"

"No." Alia's response was flat and unyielding. Her face might as well have been carved from stone. "They will not support us in this."

Sir Mark grunted. "Then perhaps we could arrange for her to be too busy to make such visits?"

Clay gave him a look. "You're talking about imprisoning Syr Olivia? Because then I might decide to get involved, Councilor." The adventurer glared at him, and Clay snorted. "As if that would even work, anyway. You might have convinced me to not share the [Chants] with my fellow adventurers here. Sir Bartholomew, do you believe you could convince her?"

The Master Archivist still seemed rather stunned. He stared at Clay for a moment before he dropped his gaze. "No."

Sir Richard was the first to speak into the quiet that followed that admission. "Then perhaps it is fortunate that we did not intend to keep the [Commoners] here in the first place, Guildmaster."

Evan gave the quiet man a nod. "Quite so, Sir Richard." He looked back at Clay. "In fact, we were hoping that you could look into at least three things for us. Once you are finished visiting the King, of course."

Clay blinked. The sudden change of subject, accompanied by the abrupt surrender on the topic of 'containing' the [Commoners], was more than a little disconcerting. "We would enjoy being put to good use, Sir Evan."

The Guildmaster's mouth quirked slightly, as if he was restraining a smile. "I am glad to hear it." He looked at the others, as if giving them the chance to interrupt, but none of them spoke. "The first task would be to escort a group of Peacebonded to Hact's Sanctuary. They'll be ready to leave tomorrow morning."

He blinked again. "Peacebonded?"

Syr Alia was the one who answered his question, her voice still a bit colder than it usually was. "Each year, there are some adventurers who do not become initiates of the Guild, either by personal choice or lack of skill. These swear the Oath of Peace, and are given the chance to return to their lives."

Marissa grumbled something under her breath. "This year there were a sizable number of them, and many didn't wish to return home directly. I suppose they think their reception wouldn't be a happy one." Clay nodded slowly; he'd heard of such folks becoming outcasts in their own homes. Who would respect an adventurer who lived as a [Farmer]? She continued as he mulled over that thought. "The Sanctuary is a place where they are given the chance to live in peace, under the authority of the Rectory. From there, some of them may choose to live elsewhere, but many stay in that place."

Sir Evan spoke next. "For obvious reasons, we wouldn't ask them to defend themselves. Not after we've asked them to never use their abilities, and to live under our guarantee of safety." He shook his head. "Yet a caravan of such people presents a terrible opportunity for bandits. We cannot risk them lacking protection."

Clay nodded again, his mind racing. It was a fairly transparent way to keep him from rushing off to break the nearest Lairs, but at the same time, it was a reasonable request. "We will help them reach the place safely, then."

The Guildmaster nodded. "There are two other tasks that we ask that you attend to." He tapped a sheet of parchment on the table in front of him. "One of our teams of adventurers has had some difficulty in finding a group of Rogues that are hiding near Michford. The Rogues have formed a bandit group and are causing trouble. We believe that your ability to track may prove useful there."

Sir Mark spoke before Clay could respond. "The team is made up of your friends from Pellsglade, Sir Clay. You might as well help them out."

Another bait to dangle in front of him. Clay tried not to sound bitter about the fact that they were playing him so easily. "Of course, Sir Mark."

Evan's satisfaction was starting to slip into his expression, but he just tapped the page again. "Finally, Syr Katherine, as you may have noticed, is not in the Academy at the moment." He glanced at Sir Bartholomew, who looked like he was staring off into the middle distance. "She requested the opportunity to lead a team to investigate the Dungeon at Dorthmead. We assigned a group of young adventurers…"

Clay grimaced. "Let me guess. The Ruffians?"

Sir Richard smiled, something that seemed inherently out of place. "You're correct, Sir Clay."

The Guildmaster gave his fellow Councilor a stern look before nodding. "She did request a newer team, one that had not faced a Dungeon before. Your former cadets were ideal candidates." His expression grew a bit somber. "They are somewhat overdue. We would like you to check in on them and report on their progress. Assist in her mission, if necessary."

Another neat little trap, with no way out that didn't involve abandoning his friends. Clay worked through a rough map in his head, trying to guess at the times and distances involved. Even if he was only at each place a day, he'd be more than halfway to winter before the tasks were all done—and that was if there were no complications or further surprises lying in wait.

It would leave him with far less time than he'd like to handle the Lairs he'd agreed to fight, but Clay still forced himself to nod. There was still a way to do it all. He'd just need to get a little… creative, is all. His smile seemed strained, even to him. "I would be happy to help, Sir Evan. The Guild can rely on me to do what needs to be done."

Clay was still thinking over his options a little later that day, as he crossed the bridge and made his way towards the Royal Palace of Crownsguard.

The people in the streets called out to him occasionally as he walked, and Clay waved back at them. He had to restrain a wince or two as a hopeful minstrel started up some bad rendition of his adventures as he passed, though he did toss a few coins. Anyone that poor with music probably needed the support, after all.

He'd never actually had the chance to visit the palace during his time in Crownsguard; the Guild had kept him far too busy training and patrolling the streets to do anything close to sightseeing. Then again, as he approached the fortress on a hill, he wondered if the [Guards] would have simply turned him away if he'd tried.

It was an imposing structure, one that seemed to loom over the rest of the city. Layers of fortifications rose one above another, culminating in a massive tower keep that seemed capable of overlooking the entire city and every piece of land near it. Clay shaded his eyes as he looked up at it, his mind flashing back to the fortress the swinefolk had made around their Lair. He shook away the comparison and headed for the main gate.

Banners of blue cloth and gold thread hung on either side of the portal; a massive portcullis had been raised over the gate, and a drawbridge provided a way to cross the moat dug around the place. Clay couldn't help but analyze the various ways he could breach the place. Mischief's Ladder might be able to help him scale the moat and the walls, while a good shot from the Cannon might crack the portcullis. There were [Guards] seemingly everywhere, peering at him from the walls and standing watch at the gate, but he doubted any of them would be a problem after everything else he'd faced.

One of the [Guards] stepped forward to stop him. To Clay's surprise, he recognized her. It was Sandra, the [Guard] he'd more or less banished from his training exercises back at Janburg. She seemed far more confident than she'd been then; a smug smile crossed her lips as she held up a hand. "Halt. Name and purpose."

He gave her an exasperated look. Did she really think he had time for games? "Clay Evergreen. Responding to a request from the King."

Sandra nodded, her expression full of false solemnity. "We'll need you to wait here while we check to make sure you're expected." A flicker of amusement crossed her lips. "It might take a while."

Clay studied her for a moment. As an adventurer, he'd sworn to obey the laws of the Kingdom and respond to requests from the nobility. Neither of those two promises meant he had to deal with petty nonsense. He stepped around her and started to head for the entrance to the castle.

Her reaction was immediate. Sandra darted out and back in front of him, her spear lining up with his throat. The other [Guards] nearby closed in around him too, bringing their weapons to bear. There was a victorious smile on Sandra's face, now. "I said halt you little—"

She cut off a moment later as Clay grabbed the spear haft and brought his other forearm down on it like an axe. The motion took the [Guard] by surprise; she barely managed to flinch before the upper part of her spear's haft splintered. Clay was left with the broken spearhead in his left hand and a slight ache in his right forearm. He handed it over to the dumbfounded [Guard]. "Good to see you again, Sandra."

Stolen novel; please report.

The other [Guards] remained frozen in place as he stepped around her once again and walked past, leaving Sandra holding both parts of her shattered weapon and a face much paler than it had been before. Clay made it well across the courtyard before he heard her start to swear.

Ahead, he found a pair of much more heavily armored soldiers waiting. Given the way they shifted as he approached, they seemed to be [Nobles], not [Commoners], likely part of the official Royal Guard. He nodded to them, and they stood aside to let him pass.

There was a steward of some kind waiting for him in the entryway. He nodded to Clay. "Sir Clay. We've been expecting you." The man gestured for Clay to follow him. "The King is waiting for you in the throne room. He has a small matter to attend to before he will be ready to see you, but he will be done shortly."

Clay nodded. "Thank you." The steward led him through the hallways of the castle, taking a course that would have seemed a little baffling if Clay hadn't been getting practice navigating through a far more extensive fortress in another world. There was a disturbing level of similarity between the halls of the Dungeon in Sarlsboro and the way the fortress was laid out.

At the same time, the signs of life and cleanliness made all the difference. Everywhere he looked there was some [Cleaner] tidying a corner or another [Commoner] speaking with one of the [Nobles] about a delivery of some sort or another. Some of them stopped to stare at him as he passed, but he just smiled and nodded as the steward hurried him along. They climbed several stairs, until Clay was fairly sure that they had to be somewhat high up in the central tower, a hunch he confirmed by peeking out an occasional window and getting glimpses of the city below.

They reached his destination a short while later, where another two members of the Royal Guard stood watch over two massive wooden doors. The panels were carved, amusingly enough, with a rather inaccurate image of the gods, with the Honored at the center. Clay amused himself by comparing the 'royal' version, with its head full of hair and its sword and shield, to what he'd actually seen.

He was still at it a short while later when the doors opened, and a [Noble] strode out of the throne room, followed by a handful of companions. The man glanced at Clay and paused, obviously curious about his presence. Before Clay could respond, the steward at his side cleared his throat. "If you'll follow me, Sir Clay."

Clay saw the [Noble]'s eyes widen. He grinned a little and then walked off after the steward, hoping his nerves didn't show as obviously as he felt they would.

The throne room was a masterpiece of craftsmanship. A stained-glass window filled the space behind King John's throne, showing a scene where some ancestor of the man had received the crown. Massive windows lined the walls on either side, and light streamed into the room through the columns that stood between each glass pane. Courtiers stood and watched between the columns, but left the space before the throne clear; more were standing on an upper balcony, where they could lounge and look down on those below. Here and there, scattered throughout the room, the Royal Guard was also present, their weapons ready and their eyes cautious.

King John himself was present, sitting on a throne that was raised above the rest of the room on a three-step pedestal. His wife, the Queen, sat one step down on his right hand; an advisor of some sort or another stood on his left. The King himself held a glittering scepter across his lap, and was dressed in the kind of fine clothes that any [Weaver] would have been proud to create. His crown, a thing of gold, velvet, and jewels, rested comfortably on his brow.

Clay paused in the entryway, his eyes tracing the path between him and the throne. There was a carpet of some kind unrolled across that space, a red flood of fine cloth that covered the bare stone beneath. He was suddenly shy about putting his boots on it. The thing had probably cost more than all of Pellsglade.

While he hesitated, the steward stepped forward and spoke over the murmur of [Noble] conversation. "Sir Clay Evergreen, of the Guild of Adventurers."

Then the man stepped back and gestured for Clay to advance. After another moment of hesitation, Clay stepped forward onto that lush carpet and bowed, careful not to move too quickly. He didn't like the way some of the [Nobles] tensed. "Your Highness, I have come to answer your summons."

King John watched him for a long moment, toying with the scepter in his lap. "I had hoped to speak with you some time ago, Sir Clay. I have been… unhappy to hear that you were delayed."

Clay winced. He tried to keep his words circumspect. "I was injured, Your Highness, when I destroyed the Lair outside of Zelton. My injuries and other duties required time to heal. You have my apologies for the time it required."

John leaned forward, his eyes narrow. He looked far less approachable than he had on the field of the Melee. The understated arrogance and brash demeanor were on full display now as he studied Clay from the throne. "I understand, Sir Clay. Your profession carries many dangers with it." He leaned back in his throne, raising his voice slightly. "In fact, I heard that you were assaulted during your attempts to destroy the Lair. By a group of Rogues, I believe."

He tensed at the mention. The Guild had been told about the assassins, but he hadn't remembered that John would also know. "Yes, Your Highness."

"You even took one of them prisoner, as I recall." A terrible kind of satisfaction filled John's expression. "Has she woken from her sleep? I am sure that there are many here that would enjoy hearing what she might say."

Clay shook his head. "No, Your Highness. She remains unconscious."

John sighed. "A pity. Did you bring her with you?"

He shook his head again. "No, Your Highness. She remains at Pellsglade, under the authority of the Baron there. He promised to send word if she awoke."

"Good." John looked around the room. "I had heard that there were indications that she might have come from our neighbors in Merarbor. If that is so, perhaps our royal cousins there would need to answer for their interference."

There was a hint of malice in the words, and Clay frowned despite himself. The last thing he wanted was to be used as an excuse for war between Crownsguard and Merarbor. Didn't they all know there were more important things to worry about?

The images he'd seen in the void danced through his head as he shook his head. "I am sure the Merarbor Chapter of the Guild will look into her when they hear, my King, just as the Chapter here would look into similar Rogues in Crownsguard."

King John paused, his eyes widening slightly at the reference to his own attempt to form a band of assassins from Rogues. He gave Clay a single nod, something he might have offered him after a decent attack during a spar. "I wish that I shared your confidence, Sir Clay, but I suppose it can wait until we have more evidence."

Obviously, John hadn't given up that angle of attack. A flicker of annoyance ran through Clay as John continued. "Nevertheless, I have asked you here to call on you to fulfill your Oaths to this Kingdom. Duke Eldgrass. One of your territories has currently suffered from an intrusion, has it not?"

A portly [Noble] to Clay's left cleared his throat and nodded. "Yes, Your Majesty. One of my lesser towns has discovered a recent Lair in the nearby forests. There have been a few casualties, but none of note."

Another flare of annoyance flickered, but King John went on before Clay could give it a voice. "It sounds like a serious problem." He looked back at Clay. "I would have led an evacuation of the place, but it is a crucial hub of trade and agriculture. Retreating from it would weaken us considerably."

King John leaned forward, his eyes intent. "Therefore, I command you, as King of these lands, to go and destroy the Lair outside of Eldsford. You may consider this a top priority."

Clay felt his heart beat a bit harder. He took a slow breath to steady himself. Olivia was supposed to be the angry one, after all, not him. "Your Highness, I have a number of other responsibilities at the moment."

John grimaced. "Yes, yes, the Guild has their tasks for you. Feel free to resolve their issues first. I would not wish to come between you and your Oath to them."

The derision in his words rankled slightly, and Clay felt his eyes narrow. "I have also been asked by others for help. Baron Glanwood, Baron Rettmore, Baroness Ayleston…" Those were the [Nobles] of the places where he planned on destroying nearby Lairs. He and Olivia had picked them out from the others based on the age and complexity of the Lairs involved; after all, if they were going to find any hint of the Eternal Seal, it would be in a place that had an old Lair, with possibly ancient books inside.

King John made a dismissive gesture. "Those Lairs are secondary concerns." He glanced at the Duke. "While their situation does appear to be a problem, they can wait for a more stable time to be resolved. Rest assured, I am quite capable of directing you to where your efforts will best aid the Kingdom."

The Kingdom, not the people. Clay's mind went back over the letters for help he'd been sent. There had been dozens, all from far-flung Barons and Baronesses, all desperate to hold on, just as Baroness Janburg had been. None of them likely had half the skills of the Duke; his titles alone would have granted him many levels beyond what a mere Baron or Baroness would possess. Why couldn't he hold the line while a worse problem was dealt with?

Clay looked back at the King, whose eyebrow had quirked. He knew Clay couldn't refuse a request; it was part and parcel of his Oath. The King probably knew it would get in his way, though, and he obviously wanted the Duke to feel grateful to him. Yet he didn't actually care about the worsening problems on his far borders. John could have gone with the Duke himself if it was an emergency. Between the two of them, they might have been able to fight the monsters back.

Yet somehow, the man cared more about moving pawns on a board than doing his duty. Was he simply afraid? Or unable to face the beasts?

He thought back to the duel with the King. The King had known [Chants] already, and his titles would have boosted him beyond what even a Duke would have gained. If it had boosted him high enough, he might have been on the level of a journeyman or beyond in the Guild. Combined with his knowledge of [Chants]…

The Honored had called the [Nobles] the last line of defense. He'd mourned them, even as he continued to face those threats beyond the void. What use was a last line of defense that couldn't seal a Lair? The realization that the King likely knew the Garden's Peace flashed through Clay's mind, even as the court continued to look on in expectation.

Clay looked back at the King, aware that the man's expression was growing less and less amused. He appeared to have been expecting an immediate concession. Maybe that was part of the point; Clay had been particularly defiant recently. Getting Clay to back down would prove to the rest of the court that John was in control. Olivia had warned him about something to that effect.

Unfortunately for the King, John had forgotten something about the Adventurer's Oath—and he'd obviously never learned something about Clay to begin with.

He smiled. "Sure. When will you be there?"

King John blinked. Silence suddenly descended on the court. He glanced at his wife before looking back at Clay. "Pardon me?"

There was no chance of that. "I had asked when you would be able to accompany me to the Lair to destroy it, Your Highness."

Anger flickered across John's expression. He leaned forward, his hands wrapped around his scepter like he wished it was his longsword. "I'm afraid I don't understand, Sir Clay. Why would I go with you to the Lair?"

Clay raised an eyebrow at him. "Because I require your presence there, Your Highness."

A snarl appeared on King John's face, and whispers began to spread through the court. "I am not a member of your Guild, Sir Clay. It is your duty to face these things, not mine. You have no authority to command m—" He stopped, and Clay saw sudden shock in his eyes.

Clay nodded. "I have no authority but what I am given through my Adventurer's Oath, Your Highness." He glanced at the rest of the court, who was suddenly silent again. "Which means that you are free to ask me to face any danger short of war for you—and I am free to ask any and all assistance from you in return. Am I wrong?"

King John slowly sat back in his throne. His face had become a neutral mask. "You are not, Sir Clay."

"Then what I will ask is this." Clay locked eyes with John as he continued. "Once you are ready to face the Lair together with me—with whatever companions you choose, of course—you can send for me. We'll work together to close the Lair and resolve the situation for the Duke and his people. You have my word on it."

For a long moment, King John stared at Clay. Then he spoke in an iron tone. "Everyone but the Guard and my wife, out. Now."

The command provoked a sudden jerk of surprise from the other [Nobles]. Then there was a somewhat panicked rush to evacuate the room, even from those lurking in the balconies above. In moments, the throne room was empty except for the King, the Queen, and the Royal Guard. Silence descended, even as Clay stood and waited for the King to speak.

King John stared at him, as if searching for some sign of weakness. Then he stood, setting the scepter back on his own seat. "What in the name of the gods are you doing, Sir Clay?"

Clay looked back at him evenly, his own smugness buried under a level of caution that might have made his father proud. "My duty, Your Highness."

"Your duty." King John growled and swept the crown off his head. He put it on the throne next to the scepter. "Did you swear an oath when I wasn't looking to ruin every plan I make?"

The question made Clay bite his lip to avoid a chuckle. "Not last I checked, Your Highness."

"And yet here we are!" John stomped down the pedestal and began to pace like an angry wolf. Each time he turned back, he shot Clay an angry glare. "I just don't understand why you are making this so difficult. You know Merarbor wants you dead. You know the Guild is trying to sabotage you, to tie you to a leash. I'm trying to give you a chance to get back at them and do what you are meant to be doing. Is that such a bad thing?"

Clay raised an eyebrow. "Really? Because it seems more like you're trying to move me like a pawn on a board, Your Highness." The Royal Guard stirred, and he tightened his grip on his spear for a moment. "You want a leash on me just as badly as they do. How long would it be before I'm running off to Merarbor the same way those assassins came for me here?"

King John stopped pacing and pointed a finger at him. "I'm trying to protect my whole Kingdom, Sir Clay, not just some backwards villages. Sacrifices must be made."

Anger flared until Clay's control again. He clenched his jaw for a moment. "In places like Pellsglade or Zelton. Never in places like Crownsguard, Rodcliff, or Eldsford."

The King stared at him. A small tic had started on one cheek. "You make it sound like it was so easy for me. What options do you think I have?" He started to pace again, shaking his head as he moved. "There are more Lairs and Dungeons every year. I know the Guild can't keep up with them all, and half the time the teams they send come back mangled, if they come back at all. Year after year, Merarbor and their allies press on our borders. A raid here, a robbery there, and soon they'll have almost as many [Commoners] dead as the monsters."

"So your answer is a war?" Clay saw him flinch slightly, and the King avoided his eyes. He pressed further. "You want me to lead your army against another nation, then. To help you destroy your enemies, while your own people suffer."

King John stopped, facing one of the windows. He looked out over Crownsguard, his fists clenched at his side. "The harder we hit, the quicker it is all over. Once it is done, I can turn my attention to the Lairs. Offer the Guild more support in what has to be done."

Clay shook his head. "But would you?" He looked around the room, noting the tense members of the Royal Guard still watching him. "If you aren't doing it now, why would you change then?"

The King looked back at him, his eyes narrow. "I can't just throw everything aside the way you do, Clay. A King must be powerful. He must be wise. I do what must be done. If you could just—"

"Husband." Their gazes both snapped to the Queen, who was still sitting on her throne. She shook her head, and King John paused. He drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. With a slow, deliberate gait, he walked back to the throne and took up his scepter. The crown returned to his head, and for a moment, he paused.

When he turned back to Clay, his expression was back under control. "You are certain you want to oppose me in this, Sir Clay? I do not wish for us to be enemies."

The implied threat chilled Clay's blood for a moment. Then he thought back to what he'd seen and known. He saw again the Honored's face, and the things the gods fought.

Then he nodded. "Yes, Your Highness, I do. Because I recognize what you are trying to do." King John didn't respond, so he continued. "You're fighting for more territory. More control. You want to dominate your opponents. To force them to your will, or destroy them. No matter what it costs."

King John remained silent, and Clay smiled at him. "It's not an unfamiliar plan. I visited something with a similar purpose, not too long ago."

Clay stepped to one side and started the words of a [Chant]. The Royal Guard stepped forward, but John waved them back with a sigh of impatience. It wasn't a long interruption, but the [Chant] wasn't a difficult one to complete, anyway.

Paint of the Sky wasn't the most useful of the spells that Olivia had discovered. The images it created were temporary; they only lasted a few hours at most, though more concentration preserved them for longer. He and the others had experimented with them back at Pellsglade, before concluding that they weren't much use for anything beyond traps and pranks.

Now, however, he called on it and knelt down on one knee. He stretched out a hand and touched the floor, just as the [Chant] concluded.

An image spread across the smooth stone floor, called from his memories. Enough time had passed that they should have been dulled by the passage of months and weeks, but it remained as well-defined as the day he'd experienced the moment. Clay poured that memory into the spell and watched as it spread like spilled ink across the stone.

He heard the Queen hiss in surprise; King John took a step back, though it was pointless. The image rushed beneath him and past him anyway, darkening portions of the stone. A nightmare made of hairy legs and bulbous eyes stared up from the floor, while another climbed down a tower in the background. Slavering jaws yawned open, dripping with a poison that he remembered well.

It was the Guardian of the Tanglewood Lair. The Broodmothers who had almost killed him.

Clay looked up at the King, who was staring down at the image in horror. "They were clever, too, John. Clever, and powerful, and everything you seem like you wish you could be."

King John brought his stare up, anger on his face, but Clay continued before he could. "But you were meant to be more, King John. You're the Honored's chosen for this people. He expects more from you—so this time, I'm going to give you the chance to be more."

He turned towards the door, which had closed behind him. Clay paused for a moment, looking up at it. Then he looked back. "You can meet me if you want. I'll teach you the [Chant] to kill the Lair, if you don't know it already." King John flinched, a flicker of guilt running across his face. "If not, I'll probably go and do it anyway. It's what I'm meant to do, after all."

Then Clay turned to the door. "But I'm going to leave you with a reminder of what you could be. Of what you should be."

Clay began the Refrain, his back still to the King and his Guard. It took mere moments to complete; the words of the [Chant] combined with his various bonuses to finish in heartbeats.

When he reached out and touched the door, a much more fresh and recent memory bloomed.

Green light, stretching through the void. A broadsword, one more massive than it should have been. The god was turned away from him, the way he'd been just before the dream had ended the night before—and in the distance, horrors that defied Clay's attempt to paint them lurked.

As the light from the spell faded, Clay stepped back. The image of the Honored was a fairly good one, though it likely could have used some work. The [Chant] didn't give him the same instinct for art that some might have nurtured, but at least it looked accurate.

There was an impact, the sound of metal on stone. He glanced back and saw the scepter had fallen from John's hand. Both his eyes and those of the Queen were locked on the door, their faces stricken. Even the Royal Guard appeared to have drawn back, their eyes wide and fixed on the image.

Clay watched them for a moment. Then he spoke. "I hope to see you there, John. For all our sakes."

Without a further word, he pushed open the door and walked out of the throne room. Finding his way out without a guide was going to be an adventure on its own, but at least he'd be facing monsters instead of politics soon.

Somehow, he thought it would be far less bloody that way.

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