After Aylee had wandered for over an hour, her exhaustion finally overwhelmed her, and she lay down within a small patch of short, soft moss at the northern edge of the clearing. The moon had set low in the western sky, and the new darkness wrapped her in a cocoon that approximated peace. She could not pretend to possess any real peace, but the warmth of the earth and the chill of the breeze over her cloak soon lulled her into a fitful sleep. She dismissed the rumbling as a dream when it first disturbed her slumber, but a moment later, the gentle clopping of hooves passed too close to her head to ascribe to a dream. Lurching upward, she spotted the shining white coat of a beautiful stallion.

She rose to her feet, shocked at the horse's presence and a tad frightened that it had so nearly trampled her hiding place. To her surprise, she spied a seal upon the saddle, and on further inspection she could make out the letter W inscribed in the seal. Butterflies danced in her stomach. Though she had always rejected rank as a determiner of worth, she had trouble dismissing something of such import – though she had not paid mind to the seals of nobility, the letter gave her pause..

The scrollwork and flora were similar to the medallion she had carried around in her pocket before she lost it, and she almost mistook them for each other, but the flower was different, and the stem was replaced with a branch. The thread interwoven among the petals reflected gold, and Aylee wondered at the disparity. Had Itchy said “a bastardization?” Certainly the markings resembled those that had adorned the horses of Malchus's troops. She caught her breath. Where was the horse’s rider? One of Malchus’s men, she guessed. Or Jess’s, though she could not imagine where he stored the tapestries to adorn the troops and their steeds.

Now nearing fear, Aylee opened the corral and led the horse in among the others. She had waited too long to escape – she needed to get away. Within a few minutes of returning to her tent, Aylee had bundled some belongings into a cloth and stepped out into the night. Whatever happened from now on in the camp would happen without her.

When Aylee had entered her tent, the sentinel who had kept track of her returned to Jameson. The dawn had barely lightened the sky, but Jameson had awakened after only a couple of hours of fitful slumber. With the sentinel's footstep, Jameson rose from his tent and moved forward to meet the young man, eager to know why he had abandoned his charge.

“If you'll excuse me, sir,” the man began, “something occurred that I thought you would wish to know.”

“Continue,” Jameson prompted.

“By the time I reached the edge of the wood, Miss Aylee was nowhere to be seen. I spent most of an hour searching for her, and then she appeared on the far edge of camp leading a horse. Once she reached the corral, she set the horse inside and went to her tent.”

“A horse?” Jameson wondered. Where could she have acquired a horse if not from the corral? “Show me,” he commanded.

The sentinel led Jameson to the corral and to the beautiful horse, which stood out among the others because of its quality and beauty. When Jameson recognized the insignia on its coverlet, he felt as if he had received a physical blow. It was a horse from his father's herd, and Jameson could think of only two reasons why it should appear so close to his camp.

Turning to the sentinel, Jameson adopted his natural authority and poured it into his words. “Go to Miss Hembry's tent. Neither let her out nor let anyone else in.” If Aylee herself had brought the horse, as it appeared, then she had received it from someone in Capigan, and he had much greater problems than he had imagined. It provided further evidence that she had been working against him. If she had merely found the horse, then Jameson needed to protect her from the horse's owner, who likely worked for Malchus Lorne. Either way, Aylee must stay put, and Jameson must set the camp into motion to find an unknown person.

“Sound the alarm!” Jameson commanded the watchman, mounting his own horse as he said the words. A moment later, the sentinel reappeared.

“She is gone,” he informed his leader.

“You should never have left her!” Jameson chastised him, but then relented. “I'm sorry. You chose best – I needed to know about the horse. But now find her and bring her back to my tent. Quickly, before she can flee.”

The sentinel mounted his own horse and returned to the area around the tent. Within the camp, a general sense of chaos had erupted as men began to pull on their boots and gather their weapons. Itchy stepped from his own tent and called up to Jameson. “What is going on?”

“This is not for you,” Jameson replied shortly. “You have not spoken to me for days, and now is not the time to make your appeal.” With manic rapidity, Jameson considered all of the intelligence a messenger between Maximus and his camp could manage, the destruction to his cause. Would his father even still be alive if Maximus knew that Jameson lived, and worse, was amassing troops. If Jameson stormed into his castle and into a prepared army, much blood would be shed, and Jameson didn’t know if he could stomach the responsibility of such an outcome.

Reading the distress on his master’s face, Itchy bowed to him without a word, and Jameson paused in a moment of regret. Until he knew with certainty that Itchy had betrayed him, Jameson would proceed cautiously. Justice must tread lightly lest it trample the innocent, he reminded himself.

“If you are still here when I have finished, we will talk, Itchy,” he offered gently. “Though you may abandon me, our friendship compels me to forbearance, and I will let you explain.”

Itchy peered up into his master's face with a moment of hurt. Where did Jameson expect he would go? Yet, Jameson seemed to expect him to flee. Rather than stay behind helplessly, though, Itchy turned to the nearest man he could see and asked the reason for all of the turmoil.

“A riderless horse has appeared, and Miss Hembry has disappeared.”

“So, we are on a search mission?” Itchy demanded.

“Not we, Master Itchy. I am here to guard you, so we will remain by your tent.”

Undaunted, Itchy strode to the soldier. The lymer stood almost half a foot taller than the soldier, and with equal weapons and armor, Itchy did not worry about his chances in a fight. Still, he would prefer to use reason.

“First, let me assure you that I have no desire to leave, so I can search for Miss Hembry, and you can still do your job. Secondly, I will search for Miss Hembry whether you do your job or not, so I suggest you concede to my request.”

After peering up into Itchy's eyes, the soldier offered a sharp nod before following Itchy into the brightening dawn air. They no longer needed lanterns, and the circumstance greatly aided their search. Within ten minutes, Itchy nearly stumbled over a form that lay hidden among bushes at the forest's edge. To his surprise, he looked down into the bloodied and bruised face of young Chester Hembry. Itchy raised the cry for help, and a few moments later, several men had thrown together a palette and carried Chester back into the camp.

When Aylee heard the commotion behind her, she quickened her pace, fearful that someone had set the troops off in search for her. She decided that she would fend better by slinking through the remaining darkness than by rushing at top speed. Without a horse, she would hold little hope of outpacing a pursuer.

After waiting for the clatter of hooves to pass, Aylee peeked from behind a tree at the way that led most nearly to Lady Willen's home. She rose up and directed her steps accordingly, but she found herself cut short when a horse pranced directly into her path. When her mind flashed to the memory of Malchus, that image so like what stood before her, her mind stuttered in terror. Instead of Malchus, though, she now peered up into the face of Jess. He sat astride his steed, and Aylee saw with shock that he wore the noble attire that he had worn the night of the Ponsit fire. At the time, she could not see clearly the details of the clothes, but with the newly-risen sun piercing through the trees, he seemed bathed in a brilliant beam of sunlight.

“You will return with me,” he commanded, bending down to scoop her up onto his horse. When she considered struggling, Jess lowered his voice. “I have brought with me several lengths of rope, and if I must, I will bind you and bring you back to my camp.”

All at once, she recognized that in his eyes which froze her blood. Fury. She had kissed Itchy, but he had ignored that fact. Was he really so angry that she had tried to run away? For himself and whatever strange connection he had imagined? The thought brought a shiver to her skin. She had largely given over the idea, but what else could drive him? If not for himself, then maybe for ambition. For Malchus. I guess if I threaten to cost him his champion, then his anger makes sense, she decided. As he swung her onto the saddle before him, a shiver ran over her skin. Somehow, Jess felt both icy cold and feverishly warm in the same moment. For the first time since Lady Willin’s table, Aylee began to cry.

“Save your tears,” Jameson demanded harshly. She had played on his sympathy for almost two months, it seemed, distracting him from her manipulations of Itchy by so often tugging on his own heartstrings. Confusing Jameson by her feigned mistrust, playing the ingenue while enticing him to kiss her, stealing away with his closest friend and confidant – she had duped him entirely.

Listening to her tears, though, the pain in his chest told him that he could not yet believe what his suspicions fed him. Though he should have hurried as quickly as possible to rid himself of her, he slowed the horse to a brisk trot. He had missed the feel of her in his arms, and now that he felt her once again, his ire melted into hurt and regret. If he had only risked his own heart and not his father’s name, Jameson would have lain himself bare to her, consequences be damned, risked her duplicity just to keep her in his arms. Steeling himself against the thought, though, he forced an iron barrier between himself and his desire.

“Please,” she forced her breathy voice to speak. “I am sorry I kissed Itchy. I behaved infamously, but I did not mean it. And I am sorry I tried to run away. I was afraid, and I – ” She cut herself off – did she think a man like she knew him to be would show pity?

“If those were your only trespasses, then I could forgive you in a moment.”

Her only trespasses? The accusation alter her tears to a rain of indignation. How could he, who was holding in check her for a scoundrel, talk of trespasses? Because he held the power, and she could do nothing. He could accuse her of whatever he wished, and she could do nothing to resist him.

“Aylee,” Jess spoke much more calmly, “do not make yourself ill. I will not harm you. Your guilt will determine your future, but I am not a cruel man.” He hated himself for his compassion at the moment, but there it lay, alive in his chest even for the woman who had possibly cost him everything.

Not a cruel man? He was the cruelest of men. With all the appearance of goodness, he constantly proved her instincts liars, instincts that wanted more than anything to lean back into the respite of his arms even as he carried her to her condemnation. Despite the fact that she knew the reality, when he pulled her more tightly to him, she leaned back against his chest. She would mourn for him until the moment she had to defy him.

Without warning, Itchy appeared, a look of near panic on his face. The expression pulled Jameson up short despite his friend’s apparent disregard of his master’s command.

“Forgive me, sir,” Itchy begged, bowing respectfully. “I am afraid that you must come at once. And bring Miss Hembry as well.”

“What is the situation?” Jameson inquired of the sentinel he had placed on his servant. Unless the lymer offered a good explanation, Jameson would not approach him as an ally.

“It is the rider, and he has carried news from Capigan.”

Capigan, Jameson gasped internally.

“Why must I come, too?” Aylee managed to squeak.

“It is your brother,” Itchy offered gently. “He will live, Miss Aylee, but he is not a pretty sight.

Jameson inadvertently squeeze his arms more tightly around her.

“Can he speak?” she whispered.

“He can,” Itchy informed her, “but I'm afraid he needs to speak with Jess first, and without witnesses.”

When Jess dismounted from the horse, he turned and coldly offered his hand to assist Aylee. She still felt weak from her encounter with him, and now worry had rendered her even less stable on her feet. As she lowered to the ground, her eye caught sight of the insignia that clasped the cape at Jess's neck. He wore the same symbol as the horse, not the strange stem of the medallion she had found and carried in her pocket for weeks on end. She had not remembered the difference in Glowigham, but now she could see it – a bastardization. Had Itchy been right?

If Jess were the measure of nobility that the seal seemed to indicate, then Aylee had made a powerful enemy. The scrollwork of the horse’s seal, the gilding, the quality of the cloth – everything spoke the highest of finery. Jess was not just a noble – he was of the highest class of nobles, of which there could be less than a handful. How many of those could wield the letter W? If she survived the night, and if she maintained any semblance of freedom, she would soon know Jess’s identity.

As she watched Jess enter the tent where her brother lay in some state of injury, her mind could not rest. Now that she lay openly at the mercy of the man, she wished more than ever that she knew his identity. With events coming to a head, it would make the difference between justice and devilry. Even if he punished her, she would have to confront him and demand an answer. If Itchy were wrong, a slight increase in Jess’s fury would matter little. If Itchy were right, though, then Aylee might cling to hope that Jess would forgive her for her distrust, for her disrespect and cruelty – because if he were not what she had imagined, then she had, indeed, been cruel.

Jameson stepped gingerly in through the flaps of the tent, prepared to encounter the ruins of the young man whose company he had so enjoyed. The reality met his expectation, though the right side of Chester's face seemed almost angelic in its pristine condition.

“You said he can speak?” Jameson inquired of Itchy, who nodded his agreement.

“He is tired, but you must hear him out. I believe you might wish to take certain actions based on the information he imparts.”

Though Jameson had not banished his suspicion of Itchy, he could not ignore the boy before him. Even if Aylee had proven manipulative enough to toy with Jameson, surely she would not bear responsibility for causing such devastating damage to her own brother, not even yet a man.

“What is the news?” Jameson ventured toward the apparently sleeping boy.

Chester opened his eye. “Your father,” Chester began, and all of Jameson's other concerns evaporated in light of Chester's information.

“Please, tell me quickly,” Jameson commanded.

“I heard them talking. They have decided to finish the job rather than wait anymore. You have to hurry. You can make it if you leave now. Hurry!” With his final words, Chester reached for Jameson's cloak, pulling himself up close to punctuate his words.

“Of whom do you speak, boy? My father? How do you know my father?”

“I saw the portraits – in the anteroom of the study. Your father, James...”

“You saw him? Alive?”

Chester nodded, though the motion sent his eyes rolling.

“Gentle, Chester. You saw him. Did he speak? What was his message?”

“He said something about moonflower, changing seasons, and a language I didn’t know. Perservatum regla, I think.”

It was not correct, but it was incredibly close, and Chester had never shown himself to be highly clever with words. Perhaps he would regret it, but Jameson had to believe his father had spoken to Chester. “Enough, Chester. Rest. You have acted bravely. I will do what I must now.” Per servitium regula. It had to be his father, didn’t it? The phrase was their unique communication, Rule through service. Jameson did not believe that his father would betray the phrase even under the greatest duress. If he had, Jameson would not likely find success in his endeavor.

All at once, the memory of his nightmare crashed into him, and Jameson lurched to his feet with a sudden urgency. During some moment of his disturbed slumber the previous night, he remembered seeing his father's peaked face, hearing the voices of the conspirators, sensing the hovering presence of danger. Perhaps Jameson's mind had meant to refocus him, as distracted as Aylee had made him. Providence, it seemed, had then offered him a more direct command, provided by the mouth of Chester Hembry. Well, whatever his enemies had planned for him, they could not enact it if he came upon them unawares before they made their move. Jameson must remove at once, tackle his mission without hesitation.

“Thank you, young man.” Jameson managed to pat the boy's hand as he hurried out the door.

“Wait!” Chester mumbled, his words struggling to escape his swollen face. “My family. Malchus will target my family. He wants to use them…”

The words stabbed Jameson in his chest – poor Chester, to be a pawn in the machinations of politics! Perhaps Malchus would target the family, for some reason or other, but just as likely the miscreant had made the claim to manipulate a young, desperate man. I certainly understand, he lamented silently.

“I will send a soldier to your family to warn them, friend. Now rest.”

Hearing the words, Chester seemed willfully to unclasp his hold on consciousness, and a moment later, his breathing grew deep and steady. Jameson drew a steeling breath and stepped out of the tent and into the night, to chase whatever fate befell him.

As he rushed to his steed, he spared a surge of compassion for Aylee Hembry. Regardless of her callousness toward Jameson himself, some portion of a sister’s heart must ache for the suffering of her younger brother, and even deeper if she were the cause. “You may enter,” he allowed, “but you must know that you will be detained once you have done with him. It is possible that I will allow you to accompany him to your home, but I will post a guard at your door to monitor your moves until such a time as I am able to offer your trespasses more attention.”

“But, Jess…please!” she tried to delay him, but he ignored her, rushing to his horse and galloping into the night. Aylee stood, stunned, as she watched him ride away.

“I am undone…” she whispered desperately.

Jameson paused, turning back to her. On her face she wore an expression of fear and confusion. Swallowing, Jameson hardened himself against her feigned misery and directed his horse to Capigan. Knowing all he knew, he realized that Aylee, Chester, Itchy – any number of his companions could be conspiring against him, and he may very well be riding to his death. As a ruler, he probably should refrain to protect the political system. As a son, though, he had to try to save his father.

Though Aylee could not comprehend the sentence she had just received, she stared after Jess as if an explanation might write itself on the dust that flew behind him while he fled. Such fury – almost hatred – in his eyes. Whatever his identity, an offended noble could literally destroy a woman’s life. Would Jess do it? The cold expression on his face as he turned from her and rode away spoke a resounding yes. Her heart thundered in her chest.

Unable to process the possibilities and remain sane, she pressed them to the back of her mind, forcing them under the equally vital question of her brother's condition. Spinning on her heels, she rushed into Jess's tent, prepared for a new world of pain to add to the already momentous one she had lived in for the past few days.

From what she gathered, Chester had arrived on the horse that she had found. Somehow as far from Capigan as possible in the forest. Chester’s cheek, laid open to the bone, suffered from a severe infection, and he had lost consciousness after he spoke to Jess. When Aylee saw her brother, she finally gave full vent to her tears, her reasons for misery from the previous few days fading into insignificance in light of the seriousness of Chester's condition. The healer informed her that he had applied a very powerful salve and had forced a small amount of herb into Chester's mouth, and he felt hopeful that the infection would decline over the next few hours.

Aylee, against all counsel, set up a little palette beside Chester's bed, determined to stay with him as long as they would allow. For the next few hours, Aylee sat by the bed. Itchy immediately had the men move a little log beside the bed to serve as a chair, and once she had settled into a spot, she lay her head upon the covers and wept. Itchy would have stayed to offer her what comfort he could, but more pressing matters forced him to leave her in the hands of the healer and her guard.

“Your commander has misunderstood some action of Miss Hembry's and attributed to both her and me an act of disloyalty. You must understand, though, that she has committed no such act, and when he has the time to attend to her, he will find out the truth. Treat her with the kindness and tenderness, therefore, with which you would treat your leader's mother or sister, and offer her every comfort you can manufacture for her. I promise you will find reward for such attentions even were she a criminal.”

After months of traveling as a unit, the troops had grown to respect Itchy perhaps as much as his master, and so when the guard recognized the intensity in Itchy's command, he determined to carry it out to the highest extent. “You have me pledge,” the sentinel replied, and Itchy breathed in relief. He hated to leave her to suffer through her ignorance alone, but more pressing matters drew him into action elsewhere.

Itchy fled the tent as his master had, striding rapidly across the camp to the ridge where the elite troopers had just begun to unwind from their early morning excursion. Just before he reached them, he turned to the guard that had unrelentingly stuck by his side for the past twelve hours. “You have been given orders to attend me. I must ask you to accompany me, then, on a trip that will perhaps seem inexplicable. In light of your commander's flight, though, I believe you will find that dispatch is imperative. I promise I will not endeavor to lose you, but I will fly as quickly as time allows. Will you allow me this?”

For as long as the troops could remember, Itchy had stood as the one edifice of honor in the camp outside of their leader. The guard, therefore, could not mistrust his ward any more than he could distrust his commander.

When the man nodded, Itchy turned to the patch of tents and addressed their subcommander. “You must stir your force again – we must away at once.”

“We have no orders from Friend Jess,” the man countered.

“Yes, and if you do not obey me now, you will never receive orders from Friend Jess again. By the time we reach him, he may find himself under attack from an entire army. If you would like to avoid such an outcome, I suggest that you assemble your ten best men and your ten fastest horses and follow me toward Capigan within a quarter hour.”

After a moment of assessing the seriousness in Itchy's eyes, the man turned and began the process of preparing his best men to follow blindly behind a marked man. No one who beheld Itchy at the moment could doubt him, so acutely did his concern for Jameson pour through his demeanor. Within ten minutes, the troop had assembled and headed out after their leader.

Despite her agitation, Aylee could not maintain her level of upset, and after half an hour of attending her brother, she lapsed into a delicate sleep. Her guard, mindful of Itchy's command, gently laid her face against the warm blanket that covered Chester. She lay there, unmoving, until Chester began to stir beneath her.

At first, Aylee could not believe she had fallen asleep, desperate as she felt to take care of Chester. She knew, though, that she had struggled constantly for the last several days, and she imagined that the excess of her weeping had finally overwhelmed her strength. She glanced around the tent, confused by the odd sensation that someone had jerked her awake, that only a moment before, someone had jarred the tent to such an extent that it had shaken. Still, she could see no one.

Reaching down, she stroked the healthy side of her brother's face. He stirred again, and she held her breath as she watched for any sign of consciousness. After several minutes, she had seen none and, her grief spent, her mind began to run over the events before she had entered the tent. She had still sensed so much fury in Jess's eyes.. What Itchy told him to exonerate himself that would create such vitriol? He had placed no guard on Itchy, so the friends had apparently made some inroad into reconciliation. With Chester unconscious, she was now utterly alone.

Still, as Jess had ridden away, the glance he laid upon her carried in it compassion, concern – even a hint of regret. Such conflicting impressions! Could her imagination have manufactured the emotions within him? Perhaps. Still, they so reflected her own feelings that her mind read them as sincerity.

Chester lay before her now, though, and Jess had rushed away, unable to spare more than a few minutes for the young man he had led into danger. She had led him into danger, too, she suddenly realized, and a fresh wave of tears welled within her. Laying her head back on the bed, she returned to her mindless repose, awaiting the distraction that would materialize when Chester awoke. Soon enough, she would find herself forced to move, and she would not stir until that moment.

As the sun rose high in the sky, Jameson's heart teemed with worries and concerns to which he could not pay attention. Had he acted rightly by Aylee? Could he have misread her actions? Perhaps he should have worked harder to find all the details of what had happened, seeking from her – or at least from Itchy – an explanation other than the one his imagination had supplied. Why his mind chose now to bring up his missteps, he could not imagine. Now, when he could spare no thought except for his father! His insecurity grasped onto the memory of how completely she had strengthened him, of the confidence he carried with her by his side. Was it all an illusion?

If he survived, he would seek her out. She will not be hard to find since I have imprisoned her with a guard! he realized. The thought both comforted and distressed him. If she proved guilty, the guard would ensure that Jameson could enact justice. If she proved innocent, the guard would provide safety from Malchus or any other power that might intend her harm. With the comfort of the latter thought, he turned his mind to Capigan and the duties that lay before him. They would offer more than enough to keep him busy until he could dedicate more time to Aylee.