A/N: I'm supervising a sleepover this weekend, and I'll start replying to reviews on Monday.

So now the Clayr are back in the game! Despite the title of this chapter, I'm sure quite a few of you – if not all – saw this coming. Enjoy!

Threat Unforeseen

"Attention!"

The sparring young men and women lowered their wooden practice swords and stood as straight as they could, panting with exertion. An expression of awe spread over the faces of several trainees as a small group of people entered the courtyard, one of whom was wearing a crown.

A dark-haired young man nudged his friend. "Look, Madran. It's the King," he whispered out of the corner of his mouth.

"I know," Madran replied. He watched as King Rothain, a man two years younger than himself – still a boy, really – passed through the courtyard and stopped to talk to their Sergeant. At the King's side was a Corporal who bore some resemblance to his friend. "Ciprian, isn't that your cousin?" he asked in an undertone.

The other trainee gave a minute nod. "That's Ghalio."

"He seems to be on familiar terms with the King."

"He's in Rothain's personal guard," Ciprian replied. "They get along well. I think Ghalio has taken on the role of protective older brother, or something."

As everyone else watched the King chat with the Sergeant, Madran found his eyes drifting to Ghalio. Ciprian's cousin seemed indifferent to the importance of the people around him, perhaps a quality that had ingratiated him to the young King. His expression was slightly bored, and otherwise inscrutable. But his eyes... Madran was struck with the sudden thought that there was something terribly cruel and calculating in those eyes. Then like spark the impression was gone, as if it had never been there. Still, Madran could not shake the feeling that there was something impenetrable and dangerous about Ghalio.

The sound of raised voices echoed through the marble Palace halls, and Madran followed them, walking as quickly as he could without breaking into a run. Duty was calling.

After being temporarily relieved of duty for his suspected involvement in Illirae's escape, Madran had been reinstated as Ensign. This seemed to be only one of the symptoms of a return to normalcy. Rothain was holding audiences, and the people of Belisaere were finally having their petitions heard. Funds were being put into projects like water and repairing the roads. And finally, taxes had been lowered, though not to the level they had been before the war. Still, it was a remarkable turnaround, and one that Madran suspected the Chancellor, the Abhorsen, and Captain Finessa were responsible for, though he did not know how they had gotten the King to change his mind.

The arguing voices increased in volume as Madran turned a corner. When the Ensign finally came to the entrance hall, he instantly spotted the source of the commotion: A man wrapped in a tattered dark cloak was shouting at no less than six guards. The stranger was shabbily-dressed and sported several days' worth of beard on his chin, and Madran wondered how a scruffy beggar like him had managed to cross the Palace threshold unchallenged. But watching him quarrel with the six tall men and women, Madran realized that, beggar or not, this man was someone to be reckoned with.

He drew closer, thus far unnoticed by the group. The guards had formed a circle around the man and were trying – unsuccessfully – to reason with him. It seemed that the stranger wanted a personal audience with Chancellor Oraz, which was interesting.

Madran cleared his throat, loudly. "What is going on here?" he demanded, fixing the guards with his commanding gaze.

The guards looked grateful at the interruption, and the opportunity to put the problem in the hands of the Ensign. "Sir," one of them hurried to explain, "this fellow –"

"I demand an audience with the Chancellor!" the man interrupted.

Another guard turned to Madran apologetically. "Poor beggar means the King. Now that His Majesty is giving audiences again –"

"I do not mean the King!" the stranger bellowed, his eyes ferocious over his scraggly beard. "I know who's really in charge here!"

At that, the guards stared at the visitor, and Madran viewed him with a new respect. This couldn't be a mere vagabond off the streets. At the very least, he must have been able to convince the guards at the palace gates that he was someone to be seen. "And what is your name, sir?" he asked civilly.

The man lifted his chin. "Vansen, former Lieutenant of the Guard."

Madran nearly staggered with amazement, and the other guards looked equally as flabbergasted. It was incredible to think that this shabby tramp standing before them had once been a fellow officer, and their superior. Betrys' younger son was one of the last people Madran would expect to turn up in Belisaere. But the man had Vansen's brown hair, his hooked nose, his piercing eyes – and, Madran didn't doubt, if the cloak were drawn aside they would see the stumps of his arms.

"Very well," he said, managing a semblance of calm. "Please come with me."

Vansen followed him through the halls of the palace he had not entered for so long. "It feels strange to be back," he muttered, self-consciously shrugging the cloak tighter around his body.

Madran glanced at him sideways. "Would you like some time to make yourself more presentable?" he asked neutrally.

A bitter smile flashed over Vansen's grubby face, and was gone. "No," he said grimly. "What I have to say cannot wait any longer than necessary."

At the door of the Chancellor's office the guards peered suspiciously at Vansen's unkempt figure, but at a nod from Madran they stood aside. The office contained several large desks at which clerks and the Master of the Seal were industriously sorting through piles of correspondence and copying out documents. Madran and Vansen proceeded to a door at the back of the room, ignoring the stares, and when Madran knocked he was instantly admitted to Oraz's personal office.

The Chancellor was standing over his desk with three clerks bustling around him. "Chancellor Oraz," said Madran, not wasting any time. "It is of the utmost importance that you speak with this man. Privately."

To the Chancellor's credit, he did not ask any questions. "Very well," the older man said, nodding slightly. "Leave us." The clerks bowed and filed past, giving Vansen curious looks.

The instant the door closed behind them, Madran said, "Chancellor, this is Vansen, son of the former Captain Betrys."

The old man started and gazed at Vansen, not saying anything. Slowly, Vansen shrugged back his cloak and lifted his arms. Madran could not help staring at the two bandaged stumps. "Thank you," said Oraz politely, having been given confirmation of his visitor's identity. He sat heavily behind his desk with a sigh. "Now, what do you wish to tell me?"

Madran retired to the corner of the room and watched as Vansen straightened up. Still a soldier. "Chancellor, I came to warn you," the man said firmly. "Things were safe enough when our two sides were at a standstill, but now something new has come up." He hesitated, eyes flickering to the ground, and took a deep breath. "Lieutenant Ghalio is a threat."

"Ghalio?" the Chancellor echoed. "The Abhorsen's nephew?"

"Yes," Vansen insisted. "I left the rebels because I felt I was of no use to them. But rumours travel faster than me, in my current condition." He gestured with the stumps of his arms. "Now I know that Ghalio used me, his old superior, to gain his current rank. He is dangerously ambitious, and ruthless in his quest for power. I was shocked to hear that Ghalio is urging my mother to openly attack Belisaere."

"He is what?" Oraz burst out.

"As a Lieutenant he has my mother's ear," said Vansen, speaking quickly. "If the rumours are true, then Ciprian was also a victim of Ghalio's schemes."

The Chancellor had regained his composure. "What exactly did Ghalio do to you?"

The former Lieutenant lowered his head. "He masqueraded as my friend after my demotion, bringing me cruelty disguised as words of comfort. And he brought me wine. I was wretched, and would do anything to lessen my feelings of shame. He brought me so low that I was no better than an animal, cut off from all of my friends – and my family."

"And Ciprian?" asked Madran, unable to keep quiet any longer out of concern for his old friend.

Vansen looked directly at the Ensign as he answered. "Ciprian replaced me as Lieutenant. I do not know how Ghalio was involved, but they say Ciprian was demoted for drunkenness. Ciprian, who would never in his right mind drink while on duty." Vansen turned back to the Chancellor, gesturing futilely with his mutilated arms. "I do not wish for this Kingdom to fall any more than you do, sir. Let me be frank. I have come to pledge my services to the Crown, such as they are."

There was a short silence during which Madran looked back and forth between the ruined soldier and the Chancellor. "The Crown accepts," said Oraz, rising from his seat. "Thank you, Vansen."

As soon as Madran was dismissed, he made his way to the dungeons to visit Favilliel. He had to take care he did not visit her too often lest Corporal Tralon report it and he be charged with conspiring with a traitor, but this could not wait.

Soon he was standing across the spelled bars from Favilliel repeating everything that he had heard. Almost before he stopped speaking, she was shaking her dark head. "How could anyone accuse Ghalio of telling Betrys to attack Belisaere?" she marvelled. "It does not make any sense. First, he is a member of the Abhorsen line. Second, he was one of the King's closest friends."

"But can you be certain?" Madran countered. "I was baffled too, but why would Vansen lie? Yes, he was a rebel, but he is a changed man. And if what he said is true, Ghalio ruined him."

A shrill laugh came from across the corridor: Lieutenant Padric. Madran looked over his shoulder at the barred door; that man had been a friend of Ghalio's, and now he was awaiting execution for attempting to kill the King. What could he possibly be laughing about? "Padric," he called, ignoring Favilliel's disapproving look. "Do you know something?"

"Don't encourage him," Favilliel protested. "He's mad."

Padric giggled thinly. "Nobody really knows Ghalio," he wheezed.

Peering across the corridor, Madran could barely make out a figure sitting in shadow. "You knew Ghalio," he pointed out.

"Oh yes," the prisoner agreed. "I corresponded with him until I was put in here." Another piercing sent shivers down Madran's spine. "I will be executed tomorrow. I've nothing to lose."

Madran and Favilliel waited in breathless silence for the man to speak.

"There's something not many people know about Ghalio," said Padric, chuckling. "You want to know? It was Queen Irabel." Madran and Favilliel shared a startled glance. "As soon as he set eyes on her, he loved her. I was there. I knew. Maybe it wasn't love. I don't even know if Ghalio can love." Another sputtering laugh. "In any case, he desired the young Queen. And when she refused his advances, he grew angry and vengeful."

The lone figure in the cell began to rock back and forth. It was Favilliel who asked, "What did Ghalio do?" Her voice echoed eerily through the stone corridor.

"Ghalio?" Padric looked up at them. "He was too smart to do anything alone. I helped him. I helped implicate the Queen and Corporal Dernic, her supposed lover."

"They weren't really lovers?" asked Madran, keeping his voice steady with difficulty. This could be the key to the King's madness. After all, it was Rothain's jealousy that had seemed to trigger the first manifestations of paranoia.

"The Queen and Dernic were friends, nothing more," Padric confirmed. He sniggered. "Isn't it funny that when Corporal Dernic was executed, Corporal Ghalio took his place as Lieutenant Vansen's most trusted officer?" He burst into a gale of sobbing laughter, pounding his fists on the cold stone floor.

Madran turned back to Favilliel. She did not look it, but he could tell that she was as terrified as he by this unexpected information. "The Queen and Dernic executed," he muttered. "Vansen's disgrace. Ciprian's demotion. And all because of Ghalio!"

Favilliel bit her lip and shook her head, apparently still unwilling to believe that her cousin could have been responsible for all of this. "Think of Ciprian!" Madran urged her, aware that he was being unusually demonstrative. But at the moment he did not care. "Nobody really knows Ghalio all that well, but we both know Ciprian."

Tears came to Favilliel's eyes and she angrily rubbed them away. "Yes," she admitted heavily. "You're right. The Ciprian we know would never drink on duty. And none of us know Ghalio. His father left the Abhorsen's House before I was born, and then there were those three years he spent wandering the Kingdom after his village was slaughtered by Northerners. But I –"

A step sounded in the corridor. It was close; Madran had not heard anybody approaching due to Padric's raucous laughter. "I have to go," he whispered, stepping away reluctantly. Favilliel just stared at him through the bars. This new information had hit her especially hard. "I'm sorry," he said, distraught. "I cannot be seen talking to you anymore, or we will both be in prison, and then what can I do to help you or Ciprian?" He longed to reach through the bars, run his hands through her hair, feel her arms around his neck. But the spells forbid it. He could only share a brief glance full of unspoken meaning before the approaching footsteps forced him away.