We left the castle as the sun cleared the horizon.

  The streets of Valdmere woke to another day. Merchants opened shops and workers headed to their trades. It was the ordinary rhythm of a city that didn’t know a prince had been taken from its heart during the night.

  Roderick and Henrick wore their inscribed jerkins beneath traveling cloaks. The detection sticks rested in their belts like batons. They moved with the controlled alertness of soldiers on a mission.

  Felix carried our remaining supplies in a pack across his shoulders. Not much remained, just enough compound for basic work and tools for disabling wards, but those materials might mean the difference between success and failure.

  Brennan led the way toward the stables where horses waited. His limp seemed less pronounced this morning. Purpose had a way of making old injuries fade.

  “The guards will have their own contacts in the city,” I said as we walked. “Street-level information. People who notice things the castle doesn’t see.”

  “Already sent word,” Roderick replied. “Henrick knows people from his time stationed here. They’ll keep their eyes and ears open.”

  “And I have friends who owe me favors,” Brennan added. “The kind of friends who know when strangers come through, when wagons move that shouldn’t move, and when money changes hands in ways that don’t add up.”

  The stable appeared ahead. The smell of horses and hay reached us on the morning air.

  “How long to the farmstead?” I asked.

  “Four hours if we push. Five if we’re careful.” Brennan studied the sky. “We should arrive before midday. Gives us time to scout before we move.”

  I thought about Adrian bound somewhere alone and waiting for help that he could only hope would come.

  Four hours, maybe five. Every minute counted and every decision mattered. Somewhere out there, the people who had taken him made their own plans.

  “Then we push,” I said. “Adrian’s been waiting long enough.”

  Chapter 29

  Distant Voices

  The Harrow farmstead told us nothing.

  We had arrived before midday and found the place abandoned. Cold hearths. Empty rooms. Furniture covered with dust that suggested weeks of disuse. Whoever had prepared it as a holding point had changed their plans.

  “They knew we would come here,” Roderick said. His jaw tightened as he surveyed the vacant building. “Duncan’s information was old. Or they have sources inside the castle.”

  “Or both.” I kicked at a pile of discarded rope in the corner. Cut ends. Someone had been bound here at some point. But not recently. “I don’t think Adrian was ever here.”

  “Then where?”

  I didn’t have an answer.

  We returned to Valdmere as the sun set.

  The ride back felt longer than the ride out. Every mile represented time lost. Time Adrian spent in captivity while we chased shadows. Time our enemies used to move him further away or prepare whatever came next.

  Duncan met us in his private study. His expression shifted from hope to disappointment as he counted our group and found no additional members.

  “Nothing?”

  “The farmstead was empty. Has been for weeks.” I dropped into a chair and felt the exhaustion of the past two days settle into my bones. “They’re staying ahead of us. Moving faster than we can follow.”

  “My investigators found similar results at the consortium warehouses.” Duncan moved to the map table and stared at the marked locations. “Official business. Normal operations. Nothing that suggests kidnapping or conspiracy.”

  “Because the official locations are clean. They’re doing the real work somewhere else.” Felix had pulled out his documentation journal and flipped through pages of notes. “We need to think differently. Stop chasing the obvious targets.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “Follow the money.” I straightened in my chair. The merchant training that Father had drilled into me since childhood pushed through the fog of fatigue. “Whoever took Adrian has resources. Skilled glyphwrights. Properties in multiple locations. Guards willing to assault a foreign prince. That requires funding. Significant funding.”

  “We know that Gray’s consortium has funding,” Duncan said.

  “So do a dozen other operations in Keldrath. We need to narrow it down. Find who’s been spending money on specific things.” I ticked off points on my fingers. “Ward materials. Enough to prepare multiple trap locations. Security personnel. Transport. Properties in remote areas. If we can trace those purchases, we can find where they’re actually operating.”

  Brennan spoke from his corner. He had been quiet since we returned, but his eyes had never stopped moving.

  “The consortium uses intermediaries for sensitive purchases,” he said. “Shell companies. Front operations. Makes it hard to trace anything directly back to the main organization.”

  “You know their methods?”

  “I’ve been guiding people through Keldrath for thirty years. You hear things and learn patterns.” He shifted his weight and rubbed his bad leg absently. “Gray himself never appears. His people handle everything. But they all have tells, habits and preferred suppliers and routes.”

  “Can you help us identify those patterns?”

  “I can try.” Brennan’s expression hardened. “Adrian trusted me. I failed him. The least I can do is help find the bastards who took him.”

  Duncan considered this. “The trade commission has records of material purchases, import manifests and certification documents.”

  “Can we access them?”

  “Officially? Not without cause. But I have people who can look at things unofficially. I’d already sent out feelers.” He moved toward the door. “It will still take time. A day, perhaps two.”

  “Adrian may not have that long.”

  “I know.” Duncan paused at the threshold. “But blind searching hasn’t worked. Better to wait for real information than keep chasing empty buildings.”

  He left. The door closed behind him with a sound that felt like defeat.

  I slipped out of the inn near midnight.

  The ward anchor we had placed in Valdmere sat in a sheltered alcove near the Highland Crown’s rear entrance. It was unobtrusive and easy to overlook unless you knew what to look for. The anchor connected to the network we had built during our journey north, all the way back to Millbrook.

  Felix joined me as I prepared to activate it.

  “You think they can help?”

  “I don’t know.” I touched the anchor and felt the familiar hum of ward energy. “But I need to hear friendly voices.”

  The connection took a moment to establish. It was late, but the resonance chamber hummed to life soon enough.

  “Hello?” I called out. “Is anyone up?”

  “Marcus?” Thomas’s voice came through with the slight distortion of a long-range connection. “Is that you?”

  “It’s me. Is Rose still awake?”

  “She was just here a minute ago. Probably brushing her teeth. What’s⁠—”

  “Marcus? What’s wrong?” Rose’s words came through quickly, slightly breathless like she’d hurried back.

  She knew. She always seemed to know when something was wrong.

  “Adrian’s been kidnapped,” I said.

  Neither of them said anything for a moment. Then Thomas’s voice came through, sharper now.

  “Tell us everything.”

  So I did. The ward trap. The paralysis inscriptions. Waking up bound to find Adrian gone. The note with its simple demand. The consortium we suspected but couldn’t prove was involved. I held nothing back because they deserved to know and because saying it out loud helped me think.

  “Professional work,” Thomas said when I finished. “Planned for weeks. These people have resources.”

  “More than we expected. Prince Duncan’s investigating the consortium, but they’re careful. There’s no direct evidence yet.”

  “What do you need from us?”

  The question was so simple and so Thomas. Not what can we do or how can we help, but what do you need.

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “I just needed to tell someone. Someone outside all this.”

  We’re here. Whatever happens, you’re not alone in this.” Thomas’s voice was steady.

  “Do you have any leads on the people who did this?” Rose asked.

  “The trap inscriptions are still at the inn. We’re documenting everything. Trying to trace the style back to whoever created it.” I paused. “It’s a long shot. Skilled glyphwrights know how to hide their techniques.”

  “But not perfectly,” Felix added. “Everyone has habits. Patterns they fall into without thinking. If we can identify enough of them...”

  “Then you trace the teacher through the student,” Thomas finished. “Same principle as tracking. Follow the trail back to the source.”

  “That’s the theory.”

  “It’s a good theory.” Thomas paused. “Marcus, I need to say something and I need you to hear it.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “These people kidnapped a prince. They built an operation sophisticated enough to trap two journeyman glyphwrights and a pair of royal guards in their sleep. They’re not amateurs and they’re not afraid of consequences.” His voice hardened. “Don’t underestimate them. Don’t take unnecessary risks. Adrian needs you alive to rescue him.”

  “I know.”

  “Then act like it. Careful doesn’t mean slow. It means smart.”

  Rose’s voice came through again, quieter now. “Marcus? Be safe. Please.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Don’t try. Do it.” She paused. “You’re my brother. I need you to come home.”

  The words hit harder than I expected. Felix put a hand on my shoulder.

  “I’ll be careful,” I said. “I promise.”

  “Good.” Thomas again. “We’ll keep the channel monitored. Any time, day or night. If you need us, we’re here.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank us. Just bring Adrian and yourselves home safe.”

  The connection faded. The resonance chamber went quiet. Felix and I sat in the darkness for a long moment.

  “Feel better?” he asked.

  “A little.” I stood and stretched muscles that had grown stiff. “Ready to copy trap inscriptions until dawn?”

  “Not even slightly.” Felix pulled out his journal. “Let’s do it anyway.”

  The next morning brought two developments.

  The first came from one of Henrick’s contacts. A former soldier who had worked security for various trade operations over the years. The man had heard rumors. Nothing concrete. But whispers about a special project that required skilled ward workers. A location outside the city where certain people went and did not discuss what they did there.

  “He doesn’t know exactly where,” Henrick reported. “But he knows who might. A woman named Petra. She works the night shift at a tavern called the Broken Wheel. She handles logistics for some of the less official consortium operations.”

  “Can we talk to her?”

  “Tonight. If we approach carefully.” Henrick’s expression held the calculating look of someone planning an operation. “She won’t respond well to pressure. We’ll need to convince her that talking is in her interest.”

  “How do we do that?”

  “Leave that to us.” Roderick had joined his fellow guard. The two men exchanged a look that communicated something beyond words. “We’ve done this before. Sometimes information comes from fists. Sometimes it comes from coin. Sometimes it comes from knowing what people want to hear.”

  The second development came from Duncan’s unofficial investigators.

  “Someone has been purchasing large quantities of containment materials,” he said when he summoned us to his study. “Specialized compounds used for binding wards. The kind of things you’d need to restrain someone with magical training.”

  “That’s not for Adrian,” Felix said slowly. “His unmake ability would tear through any ward they put on him. They’d have to keep him drugged, physically restrained, or unconscious.”

  “Which means the containment materials are for someone else.” Duncan met my eyes. “For glyphwrights who might come looking for him.”

  “For us.”

  “Or for anyone else who gets in their way.” Duncan’s jaw tightened. “They’re not just holding Adrian. They’re preparing for a fight.” Duncan spread documents across his table. “The purchases trace to a shell company. There are layers of ownership designed to obscure the actual buyer. But my people found connections to three properties outside Valdmere. Two of them are legitimate businesses. The third...”

  He pointed to a location on the map. A rural area to the southeast. Farmland and forest. Remote enough to hide activities. Close enough to the city for easy access.

  “What’s there?”

  “Officially? An abandoned mill. Closed years ago when the river shifted course.” Duncan met my eyes. “Unofficially? Someone has been paying property taxes on it. Maintaining the road. Keeping the buildings in repair. All through intermediaries that eventually connect to our shell company.”

  “That’s more than circumstantial.”

  “It’s not proof, per se. But it’s a place to look.” Duncan straightened. “I can’t send soldiers without cause. Not to private property. But if a group of foreign visitors happened to take a wrong turn on their way somewhere else...”

  “We understand.”

  “I thought you might.” He folded the documents and handed them to me. “The mill is half a day’s ride. If Adrian is there, get him out. If he’s not, maybe you’ll find someone who knows where he is.”

  I took the documents. The weight of paper felt heavier than it should have.

  “We’ll leave within the hour,” I said.

  “Good hunting.” Duncan paused. “And Henrick? If you find the people responsible, I don’t need them alive. I just need evidence.”

  The coldness in his voice reminded me that Duncan was not merely a diplomat. He was a prince. And someone had taken his friend.

  Henrick nodded. “Understood.”

  I filed that exchange away. Duncan had just authorized killing without trial. The fact that neither Felix nor I had objected said something about how far we’d come from Millbrook.

  Chapter 30

  The Right Questions

  The Broken Wheel occupied a corner of Valdmere’s lower district where respectable businesses gave way to practical ones.

  The building looked like it had been rebuilt twice and repaired a dozen times since. Timber patches covered stone walls. The windows sat at slightly wrong angles. A wooden sign hung above the door with a cartwheel that had, appropriately, been broken and repaired with iron bracing.

  Henrick adjusted his cloak to better conceal the axe at his hip. “Follow my lead. Let me do the initial talking.”

  Felix and I exchanged a glance but said nothing. This was Henrick’s contact, and his approach. We were just the glyphwrights with the questions.

  Roderick positioned himself near the building’s back entrance while Brennan watched the street. Felix and I would go inside with Henrick. Three people asking questions drew less attention than five.

  The tavern’s interior matched its exterior. Worn furniture arranged without particular care. A bar along one wall staffed by a heavy man who looked like he had heard every excuse and believed none of them. A few patrons occupied scattered tables. They seemed like the kind of people who drank in the afternoon and did not welcome interruptions.

  Henrick led us to the bar. He ordered three ales and paid with coin that bore Duncan’s seal. The barkeep noticed. His expression shifted slightly, more wariness than respect at what that coin might represent.

  “Looking for Petra,” Henrick said. His tone stayed casual. Just a man asking a simple question. “Got a delivery question.”

  The barkeep studied us for a long moment. His eyes moved across our clothes and our posture and the way we held ourselves. Whatever calculation he performed seemed to reach a conclusion.

  “Back room,” he said. “Blue door.”

  We took our ales and made our way through the tavern. The back hallway held three doors. One blue, one unpainted, and one that looked like it led to storage. Henrick knocked twice on the blue door.

  “What?” A woman’s voice, annoyed.

  “Delivery question.”

  “Deliveries go through the main office. You know that.”

  “This one’s special.” Henrick pitched his voice to carry authority without threat. “The kind of special that needs a face-to-face conversation.”

  Silence stretched. Then the sound of a chair scraping against wood. The door opened to reveal a woman in her middle years with the sharp eyes of someone who tracked details for a living. She looked at us. Then looked past us to check if anyone had followed.

  “Inside,” she said. “Quick.”

  Petra’s office contained more paperwork than furniture.

  Ledgers covered a desk that took up most of the small room. Manifests hung from hooks on the walls. A map of Keldrath’s trade routes dominated the space above a battered filing cabinet. This was where the consortium’s logistics lived. The paper trail of an operation that moved goods and people across the kingdom.

  “You’re not delivery men,” Petra said once the door closed. Her voice held no fear, just the resignation of someone who had expected this moment for a long time. “What do you want?”

  “Information.” I stepped forward and let Henrick fade into a supporting position. Guards could intimidate. But this situation called for something else. “About a special delivery that happened a few nights ago.”

  “I handle a lot of deliveries.”

  “This one involved a person. Young man. Well-dressed. Taken from an inn in the upper district.”