King Gregory leaned on the banister of the balcony and watched his wife slink through the garden below. He knew Margarey's goal, though she thought it secret. A tryst with Captain Norgainen was her destination. Age hadn't weakened her libido, and the Captain fed the Queen's insatiable need to be desired. It wasn't the breaking of their vows that concerned him, Gregory had broken them first, long ago. Her betrayal was at a higher level. Norgainen was Magna'est's man and in charge of her personal guard. Gregory knew the evil she had done and what was promised. He also knew that Norgainen was being groomed to replace him as King.

The Brethren would wait until the land quieted before ending Gregory's reign, time ever their ally. Speeding his removal would not serve them well. Others would begin to doubt the promises, and that would cause serious problems. Margarey was their key to the smooth transition they desired. With no aires, her choice of a new husband would legitimize succession. As if controlling the Hold Lords wasn't enough. Gregory smirked knowing the promises to her would never be kept. The Brethren considered women tools at best, cattle at worst. Gregory had many sins to atone for, but Margarey's were stacked higher than the tallest mountain. It would be his pleasure to make sure her end was long and painful.

"Sire," a page called from inside.

"Aye."

"The man you desired to see is waiting in the library."

"Offer him food and drink. I'll be down shortly," the King replied. He continued watching the Queen until she disappeared beyond the far hedge. Hate was a strong emotion for a man who was considering his wife. In Margarey's case, hatred was too weak.

"Do you ever bathe?" the King asked as he entered the library. He could smell Striker from the hall. A mixture of old sweat and rotting forest after a days rain.

"I can run a bath for him, your Majesty," Luran said. Gregory smiled without thinking. She was pouring a cup of tea for Striker, some of her red curls spilling out of the back of her headscarf. He withdrew the smile quickly when Striker's eyes moved between the two of them in a thoughtful manner. Luran was better at covering her familiarity with the King. She had aged with him, yet he only saw the young woman he had seduced so many years ago. Love hides truth well.

"Aye, a bath," Gregory said with authority. He waved off the beginnings of Striker's objection. "Consider it a command from your King. Aragonia will be the better for it."

"As you wish, Sire," Striker said, with a lack of enthusiasm as he began rising from his chair. Gregory signaled him to remain seated as he took a chair of his own.

"Tea, Sire," Luran offered without expression. Gregory nodded and tried to look kingly as she leaned down to fill the cup she placed on the table near him. He knew her scent well, even masked by the foulness that drifted from Striker. His disgust for the Queen faded away as he struggled not to outwardly acknowledge the cleavage displayed. It was taking forever for her to fill his cup. Intentional, he was sure. Luran enjoyed setting him off balance. She even admitted that it was thrilling to tease him in front of the unknowing. He kept a straight face as he thought of the punishment he would inflict. It would be soft and playful, and so very satisfying. If only he could raise her from servant to queen. Inwardly he laughed. She already controlled him better than Margarey ever could.

"Thank you, Luran," the King said in dismissal. Luran left as intended, brushing his knee as she passed. Outwardly he ignored it, though doubling the punishment was mentally noted.

"Did all go well?" Gregory asked when they were finally alone.

"Aye, as far as I can tell, sire. It is a great risk, this thing you do."

"A greater risk for you, I fear," Gregory said as he lifted the tea to his lips.

"If you wish the boy gone, I could think of many ways for him to disappear, and for much less coin. Forgive me, but it seemed foolish to offer such a sum on the chance the boy were to appear. Let me seek verification of the task at least."

"You are sure it can't be traced back?" Gregory ignored Striker's reservations. He sipped his tea as if the event discussed was an everyday occurrence.

"Aye. The man negotiating was unaware of me, much less you. The sum limits the possible sources, but we aren't linked directly."

"Then the matter is closed," Gregory said, shrugging his shoulders.

"May I ask a question, Sire?" Gregory considered a moment, then nodded.

"Why not just kill the boy and hide the body where it will never be found? The risk would be negligible."

"Because his death is their goal," Gregory responded. "The boy brings me great pleasure as he prances around, sticking his sword up the Brethren's backside." He shifted in his chair, turning his body toward Striker. "I deny them his death, and they remain ignorant of his whereabouts. Self-serving, I admit."

"It does have a nice feel to it," Striker agreed.

"Besides, lives are not as cheap as the Brethren would have us believe. The boy has a knack of killing soldiers who cross his path. The coin was trivial compared to the number of men I may lose trying to end him. My goal is to grow the army, not shrink it."

"And what if he does not travel to Shunneer?"

"Alas, I can only do what I can. Life is a gamble, be you king or beggar. Can you think of any other reason he would be moving north?"

"Mayhap fear. He runs from trouble, and when you're in the south, it is reasonable to head north."

"It may all be for naught, anyway." Gregory sighed. "I have gotten word that one of the cursed was strung up a tree. The boy's witness they claim. It will weaken his influence with the people, and clash with my desire to increase our numbers."

"It may not be my place, sire..."

"I have asked much of you, Striker. You may speak openly here."

"It is this boy. You have taken many risks to hinder his capture, and you know the Brethren will never grow your army to the size of being a threat. We would have to be five times their number in the least, ten times to be truly effective. Why not accept what you have gained and let the boy go? Forgive me, but you seem overly concerned with his survival?"

Gregory smiled at Striker. The man reasoned well with limited facts. There were few the king trusted, and Striker was high on the list. He was risking his life supporting a king who ruled in name only. He deserved some semblance of the truth.

"The Brethren have reservations about me, some of which you are aware. When normalcy returns and the stories of Kushiel's Answer die out, they will move to replace me with someone more pliable to their desires. Someone who will keep the Hold Lords in line and eliminate the leeway I have given. They want iron on the throne, and I am at best wood. The boy causes turmoil and delays their plans. For that, I respect him. For that, I will do what I can to insure his existence. It is my payment for all he has done for me."

"I...I did not know it had gotten so bad," Striker muttered. Concern was etched in his face.

"It is nothing but a game. Unlike them, I prefer my pieces to remain living."

"There are things I can do," Striker said, interest showing in his eyes. "Ways to keep the story going without the boy about." Striker chuckled. "I know some folk that would have fun running about with reddened wig, painted scars, and screaming of dead Brethren. Mayhap, sightings of the boy all over Aragonia."

"That does have some appeal if the risk is small," Gregory said, stroking his chin. "They could appear, then disappear before the soldiers and Brethren arrive. Running the white robes in circles is a pleasant thought." Gregory straighten in his chair and studied Striker for a moment. His reliance on the tracker was growing, and the man shouldered it well. His loyalty was as powerful as his scent. "These things you do...they may cost you everything. Are you sure you do not want to draw a line and end it now? I would not think you less for it."

"No, my King. I wish to continue" Stricker lifted his tea up to his lips and sipped as if his worn leathers and odor were perfectly at home in the castle. "Six winters back, my niece was Chosen. She was a little flower, a small version of Armenia, my sister." Striker smiled at the memory. "Armenia wasn't ugly like me." He chuckled. "Took a bath a sight more often as well."

"Wasn't?" Gregory asked, then wished he hadn't when he saw pain warp Striker's face.

"She didn't take well to the loss of her daughter, not knowing what came of her and all." Striker's voice quieted as he spoke. He took another sip of the tea before continuing. "I found her in the forest. She had used her skirts as a rope and hung herself in a tree." He looked up from his cup. "Two bright flowers left my world that season. It is not blind loyalty that you see in me. It is me trying to put color back into the world. I am using you as you use me."

Gregory studied Striker's eyes. There was intelligence he hadn't noticed before. It was calculating and taut like a coiled snake. If Gregory were to tell Striker the truth of the Brethren, he was sure the man would gut him in the chair. Hatred was a tool, but it had to be pointed the right way.

"And it will take coin for these folk to play the Answer," Gregory reasoned out loud.

"Aye."

"Then you will have it, and anything else you deem necessary. I am sure your sister is in the Goddess' arms and smiling down at you. Mayhap, she is the one who whispered in my ear and convinced me to trust you."

"She had a sweet voice," Striker said, his smile returning. Gregory drained his cup and rose.

"I'll send a page to take you to the bathing room and get those skins cleaned. It will probably break your back, but I insist you spend a night in a cushioned bed. Tomorrow is soon enough to begin your ruse."

"As you command, Sire," Striker said as he stood in respect.

Gregory left, his heart beating louder than it should. Striker's story had hurt more than he let show. Gregory was complicit in the death, might as well have tied the sister's knot himself. Though he was toying with the Brethren, there was not enough strength in him to stand up and completely disavow their promises. Not without a better chance of success. Maybe if he was younger, it could have been done. He remembered being braver back then. Mortality was now his greatest weakness.