Second King Shelton was worried, and he hated worrying. He supposed it was his own fault, this time. He had agreed to let Wildas go to Arren when his instinct told him it was a terrible idea. All he could do was remind himself that Varin didn't have the financial or political strength to risk a war by harming a prince, especially the heir to the throne.

Shelton sighed and stopped pacing his office. He had wanted to double the size of the guard traveling with Wildas, but that would only have made Varin think they were trying to force him to bend to them. The conflict between the Earls of Arren and the Throne had been going on for eight generations, and no one had ever used military force in all that time. Now wasn't the time to start.

The fact they still had to bother speaking to the man annoyed him, however.

And Deandre was going to have a fit when Shelton finally had to tell him where he'd sent the heir.

The thought had barely crossed his mind when Deandre himself entered the room. He was dressed in his typical deep blue silk and velvet. His graying brown hair was perfectly arranged and his beard was neatly trimmed.

"You look morose," Deandre observed. "Another magical idea bothering you?"

"Yes," Shelton replied, turning away so Deandre couldn't see his face and catch the lie. Gods, he hated lying to his husband. But making him stress and fret wasn't going to accomplish anything.

"Shall I send for your sister so you have someone to express your frustrations to who actually knows what you're talking about?"

Shelton shook his head. "She's away from the city for the next several days. I'll just have to take my mind off it. Did you need something?" he asked, turning back to Deandre.

"I just thought to check in on you," Deandre replied. "I'm also talking to Yvona about the ball at the end of the month. He will be back by then, correct?"

Hopefully. "He should be," Shelton said instead. "And he's going to hate having to go to yet another ball."

"How else will he meet potential spouses?" Deandre questioned. "We'll have to choose for him this winter if he doesn't choose before then."

"I don't want to do that to him," Shelton stated.

"Neither do I and neither does Yvona, but it'll need to be done. Unless he chooses on his own. It shouldn't be this difficult for him to choose a husband and two wives."

"I'm fairly certain an arranged marriage would kill him like it killed Xiao."

"We all cared about her. We all mourned for her."

"But she was never truly happy," Shelton argued. "She never overcame being the only spouse chosen for you. She was already dying on her own long before the winter sickness took her."

Deandre sat down heavily in a chair. "Three years ago, almost, and sometimes it still feels like last night we all sat with her when she passed."

Shelton went to him and put a gentle hand on Deandre's shoulder. "I feel the same sometimes. As distant as she always was, I still miss her."

"So do I."

Shelton found himself suddenly worrying even more, not only for Wildas's current welfare, but his future. Even if he wasn't Shelton's own child, watching Wildas live in misery would break Shelton's heart. He'd watched his wife waste away in anguish, no matter what any of them did to show her that they did care, did love her and consider her a dear part of their family. Wildas, whether he knew it or not, clearly had his mind set on finding that mysterious figure from his many dreams. A forced marriage would destroy all his hope for finding someone who could love him without wanting money or status.

It would kill him, Shelton was sure of it.

When dusk came, Coulta reluctantly left the castle of Arren and began to look for the first names on his list from Varin. He didn't know how he found the people he was required to kill, but he was always able to do so without difficulty. It was something he simply attributed to the curse as it was, after all, what forced him to obey Varin's every command.

He arrived at a cramped shack built against the city wall in time to watch the people inside settle down to bed. Using some of his magic he hid in the shadows of the dark street outside the shack. He didn't have a great understanding of magic, but he knew he had some separate from the curse. The curse controlled him. The magic he could control – most of the time. It came from his parents, who were both people of magic, and his father had taught him basic uses for it – including how to hide the mysterious marks on his skin – before abandoning him. Everything else he knew he had figured out for himself by trying new things whenever he got the chance.

He'd also learned the restrictions of his curse over the years. That had been done by fighting it, trying to stop himself from killing each person Varin instructed him to kill. He'd even tried to tell Varin exactly how he felt about the bastard, but that had just resulted in a coughing fit. He had sworn to respect his master, after all.

Still hidden, Coulta peeked into the shack's only window. Three adults – a young man and woman, and a much older man. They all slept in one room, on two separate mats on the floor. The two younger ones shared a mat while the older one had his own.

Coulta waited until it seemed that the people were asleep, then slipped inside the window. He moved silently, even as his hands began to tremble. He wanted to leave, to let these innocent people live. But he drew a dagger from his belt of weapons.

He closed his eyes and let the curse use his body, let it kill the people he was powerless to save.

It forced him to speak as it struck down its victims, used his very voice to terrify before killing. "Your cult of Favi is no more. There is no god or goddess in this world. Your death is as empty as your life."

The power of the curse abruptly released him and he opened his eyes. He tried not to look at his victims as he wiped his dagger on a blanket with shaking hands and returned it to his belt. At least the curse had let him kill swiftly. As always, he cringed when he saw Varin's name carved into the flesh of each person, to remind others just who held their lives in his hands.

He stumbled from the shack, only remembering to conceal himself at the last moment, and began the long walk back to the castle and a quiet space.

The pain and guilt followed him into his room, just as expected. He sighed and undressed for bed, hoping that maybe he could escape in his sleep. Maybe he could have a few moments of peace before the nightmares started. He saw their faces in the shadows, heard their voices in his mind, saw their blood all around him.

Many times before he had tried filling his room with candles when he slept, to chase away the torment, but the color of the light reflected on the plain walls and ceiling reminded him of blood, and the dancing shadows looked like his victims. There was no escape.

Coulta grew restless as the night passed. Unable to sleep at all, he finally climbed out of bed, pulled his black clothes back on, along with his black boots - complete with hidden blades, as a precaution - and headed for the open window.

Calling up his magic, he jumped out, landing effortlessly on the covered doorway of the kitchen two stories below. The fall to the ground was much shorter, and he was running even before his boots touched down. He sprinted across the deserted castle yard to the stables, easily hopping onto an iron fence as if it were just a step in a staircase, and jumping onto the stable roof from it. He ran along the length of the stable roof until he reached the other end, and from there he leaped onto the roof of the barracks thirty feet away. It was an easy jump from there to the wall surrounding the yard, and he hopped it effortlessly, landing on the roof of a house below.

Coulta had learned, years ago, that the best way for him to clear his mind was to go out at night and run the roofs of the city. The feel of the wind in his loose black hair and the calm of the night made him feel the closest thing to peace that he had ever felt while awake. And knowing that he was alone up here... that comforted him even more. He'd never seen anyone else running roofs, not even thieves trying to break into homes or shops after dark.

As he jumped from rooftop to rooftop, he passed over the central market, deserted for the night. He hopped street after street where not a sign of human life could be seen, only to pass over other streets where people bustled in and out of taverns and whore-houses. He stopped on the roof across the road from one such establishment and watched a pot-bellied man saunter out the front door. His sharp senses caught the sounds of pleasure from within through the many open windows, and he cringed. He knew why there seemed to be several of these places on almost every street: denied the ability to marry by Varin's obsessive control, women turned to prostitution when they wanted to have a baby and avoid the risk of a lasting relationship. From the spying he had done, he had noticed that many older women often helped raise their own grandchildren, and he rarely, if ever, saw men involved in those households unless they were other children of either generation. He couldn't help but wonder if the men within the city ever knew their own children, or if anyone knew who their father was.

He shuddered at the thought of a woman unknowingly sharing pleasures with her own father or brother, and he forced himself to continue his run through the city. Before he'd even realized it, he was standing atop the city gate, looking out at the farmlands beyond.

The gate was closed for the night, and the guards were asleep at their posts, as usual. Coulta couldn't help but look out over that vast land beyond the dirty streets and cold castle he knew. A wide, though lightly used road cut through the farmsteads and vanished into the woods and hills in the distance.

Coulta caught himself wondering what would happen if he jumped down to that road, and followed it for days on end. Where would he end up?

His toes were on the very edge of the stone arch above the gate. He looked down, then out at the stars in the sky and the road vanishing away. He jumped, knowing exactly what would happen.

He turned in the air without thinking, and his hands caught hold of a ledge in the stone just above the gate. He hung there, willing his grip to give way so he could hit the ground, but his hold never weakened. After nearly an hour of trying to let go, he finally climbed back onto the wall, defeated as usual.

His hands ached as he ran back toward the castle, not even bothering to look back. He should have known better than to try to leave. It was a waste of his strength.

He couldn't leave the city, no matter how he tried.