"I just..." Roland balled his fists at his sides for a moment, tightening his jaw. "This is his work, again. It has his stamp all over it. Whispers in the shadows, seducing men into thinking it's all their own idea... it's how he baited me into fighting Cort, it's how he ruined my mother, it's how he had my father killed. Henry's not the first to fall into Marten's traps, and he won't be the last, and if I could only find the fatherless son of a bitch..."

He shook his head sharply, like a horse trying to dislodge a fly. She was right. Ifs and buts would get him nowhere but deeper into his mounting rage. Swallowing the anger as best he could, he turned away, sloughing off his jacket and tossing it over the back of a chair. The shirt underneath was bloody at the chest and shoulder, but he'd told the truth about it not being deep; the cut had already clotted black.

"This isn't just mine to carry," he said, his back to her. "I want an answer. Are you all right?"