Mott reined in his horse and watched Sage thoughtfully as the boy grabbed a fistful of rocks from the bank and flung them one by one into the river, where they sank with a splash. Mott approached him and asked, "Do you mind a little company?"

Without turning his head, Sage said, "Yes." He must have seen Mott following him because he was not surprised by his presence.

Ignoring his answer, he dismounted. He walked to him, and they stood side by side, watching the river. Mott wondered what the boy was thinking. His expression was somber. Was he thinking of his coming ascension to the throne, or was he reflecting on his past? A past that no one else truly knew about?

Although he thought he already knew the answer, Mott still asked the question. "Did you know he'd pick you, because of that trick you can do with the coin?"

Sage returned evasively, "I don't think anyone can predict what Conner will do. It's what makes him so dangerous."

Mott's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "But you must have guessed it, or else you would have escaped this morning. Using the passages, it would have been an easy thing to run."

"Look what happened to Latamer when he tried to run."

Mott fell silent. Conner had ordered Cregan to kill Latamer. He still felt guilty that he had been unable to stop his death. Sage had figured out what was happening before he did himself. He shook his head slowly. Finally, he said, changing the subject, "Conner wants you to know that we're ready to leave soon. Errol is waiting to help you change into traveling clothes."

"You'd think they'd make traveling clothes more comfortable," Sage muttered. Mott rolled his eyes. "I believe when I'm king, my first order will be to let everyone wear whatever they want."

Mott chuckled at the ridiculous idea. He said sarcastically, "Fashion. What a mighty beginning that will be for your reign." After another pause, he continued, "What kind of king will you be, Sage? Tyrannical and fierce, like Veldergrath would be? Complacent and indifferent," he said, eyeing his reaction closely, "like your father?"

Sage turned to him. Was that a flash in his eyes? "Like Eckbert, you mean?" he corrected.

"Of course," Mott said, retreating to safer ground. With a cough, he added, "Get used to it. If you are Jaron, then Eckbert is your father."

Sage let the comment pass, although Mott was certain he had grasped what he had insinuated. "If I'm the king, then you have a higher loyalty to me than to Connor, correct?"

"Yes." Mott wondered where this was going.

"Then tell me this, did Conner kill my family?" There was ice in his words, and his gaze was penetrating.

"I can't answer that, Sage." Truthfully, Mott did not know who had done the terrible deed, but he was beginning to suspect that Conner had truly been the assassin. He would have denied it before the boys arrived, but since they came, he had seen a different side of the nobleman. One that could reason away any crime. He had reasoned away Latamer's death as a necessary lesson, and he wondered if he could dismiss the royal's death just as easily. He felt sick at the thought.

Sage persisted, "Can't, or won't?"

"You haven't been declared the prince yet." Mott did not know what Conner would do if he heard that he had spread rumors. He had been punished enough as a result of Sage's lie about Tobias. His back still ached from the whip's sting.

Sage held out his arms to Mott. "Who do you see now, Sage or Jaron?"

Mott studied him for a long time. He saw the foolish orphan, but he noted the stubborn set of his jaw, and the sharp glint in his eyes. He returned, "The bigger question may be, who do you see?"

"I don't know. It's not easy to be one type of person when you've worked so hard to be a very different type of person."

Seizing the opening, Mott quickly replied, "And tell me, Sage, which person have you worked so hard to be? The orphan or the prince?"

Before Sage could answer, Mott walked to his horse and untied a bundle on its back, unwrapping it as he carried it to him. Then he carefully placed the imitation of Prince Jaron's sword in the boy's hands. He had taken the weapon and hidden it in his own room after Sage had killed Veldergrath's man with it. Sage's thumb rubbed the rubies in the pommel.

"Thinking of how much you could get for them at market?" Mott asked.

"No." Sage held the sword out to him. "I don't understand."

"I thought you must want it. You stole it before, didn't you?" Sage didn't bother denying it. "Which means you must have controlled that foul mare Cregan gave you long enough to get to and from the sword arena without being seen." A feat which still astonished him.

"I wouldn't say I ever controlled her," he admitted with a grin. "I was so worn out at the end, she really did dump me into the river."

Mott smiled and tapped the sword. "I figured you must want it back now, before we leave for Drylliad."

"Are you giving it to me? Is it mine now?"

Mott nodded. Without giving it a second glance, Sage hurled it into the deepest bend of the river. Mott started forward to rescue it, but it was already submerged. After all that effort to claim it, he had simply tossed it aside. He asked in confusion, "What did you do that for?"

Sage arched his head to stare at him. "The prince of Carthya will never wear a cheap copy of a sword at his side. That sword is an insult to him."

He understood the full meaning of his words. "Is that why you stole it?" He didn't wait for an answer. "It would have helped you look more authentic."

Sage arched an eyebrow. "Do you really think I needed that, Mott, to help me?"

Mott nodded, very slowly, coming to his decision at last. This boy had no need of a fake sword, nor anything else to prove his identity. He finally settled it in his mind. "No, you will not need that sword, Your Highness."

Sage blinked at the address, saying quickly, "Then you think I can convince the regents that I'm the prince?"

After a deep breath, Mott lowered himself to one knee and bowed his head. "What I think, if you forgive me of my blindness before, is that I never was looking at Sage the orphan. I kneel before the living prince of Carthya. You are Prince Jaron."

The boy hesitated, looking Mott over warily, unconvinced of what to say next, if he should deny it. But Mott knew, and there was no point of pretending any longer. He straightened his shoulders, and looked him in the eye. "Then I must ask you to keep this secret to yourself."

Mott stood, saying, "You have my loyalty." Jaron exhaled in relief. Mott stared at him, still trying to register the truth. He, as all other Carthyans, had loved hearing the stories of the rambunctious prince, the stories of how he nearly burned the castle down and challenged King Humphrey to a duel. When he heard of the prince's disappearance, he had thought he was certainly dead and had mourned for him. But now, he stood in front of him, very much alive. Mott had so many questions to ask the prince. How had he survived the pirates? Where had he been? Why had he pretended to be Sage in the first place?

Jaron turned, mounting his horse with an easy leap. "We should go back. Connor will wonder where we've gone. I promise I will explain everything to you once this is all past."

Mott nodded, mounting his steed as well. "Then let's go." Jaron kneed his horse, turning toward Farthenwood and the path toward his ascendance to the throne. Mott followed, thoughts churning through his head. Not only was Prince Jaron alive, but he was returning to claim the crown. Conner thought that he would put a false prince on the throne, an imposter to secure his own power. Little did he know that he was paving the path for the true prince's return.