Preface

This world of yours is falling. Slowly, surely, silent, deadly, it treks into the jaws of despair. It began with a poison you couldn't hope to cure. It kîlled your parents. The country is in mourning. Or, they were. They're setting the castle aflame. Pitchforks glint in the torchlight. You know which lord fanned the flames, but you have to run. You have to get out of there now. And you do. And you don't look back. You hide in the village as a weaver.

You couldn't follow. They'd follow you. You couldn't let them find her. But, in their eyes, you failed your duty. You didn't protect her. The princess is believed to be dead. They stripped you of your knighthood. Traitors, all of them...even you. You were forced to become a mercenary.

You are the lord's child. You know what he did. You taste the blood on your tongue every time he calls you a prince. You can't take it. It's wrong. You're a traitor for sitting where she once did. The guards won't let you run, so you jump. Straight into the icy river you go. You conceal yourself as a baker's assistant.

The royal painter. They fetched you first. How could you possibly paint them so soon? The art is tarnished. Your paintbrush is tainted. They aren't your royalty. You burn their painting once you finish. You are a traitor. In dire straights, you become a dyer.

You were the one who murdered the king and queen. Or, so you believe. Your dish was poisoned. You served it to them. Their majesties did not ask you to test it. It was your fault. You're lucky the guards only branded you and tossed you into the streets. The cook was never seen again. It's a good thing you're a sneaky thief.

Blasphemy! How dare they attempt to switch the official religion of the state! Iscariots! They've turned their backs to the gods! You were just learning the spells. How to heal, how to mend, how to repair. You must take the knowledge with you before they forbid it.

You find them all and more. The worst traitor is the one who kneels first.