Guards chained Drifter to a chair, and then to a pillar to keep him in place, and then added some extra chains to really keep him still. All he could do was sit and wiggle his fingers.

  And then the guards left, and then Edgar sent out his attendants lurking in the corners. They were alone together.

  Drifter had only met the Regent the night he was arrested, when he was dragged out of prison for Edgar to glare at him. That fresh, boiling rage was subdued now, the passage of time leaving it a lukewarm puddle.

  If anything, Drifter thought he seemed confused; with the red film of hatred peeled away, it seemed less likely to the Regent that Henry Noman was the man in front of him. Noman's skin was a shade lighter and far less abused. Noman kept his hair shorter and had no beard. His fashion sense was entirely different. He had a nicer sword than Drifter had at his arrest. He had a more vibrant countenance, a fire in his eyes and a bounce in his step that Drifter lacked entirely.

  Most of the minor differences were easily explained by the passage of time, or even the circumstances of his arrest, but there was one detail that caused real doubt: Noman had looked older than Drifter. Not by a lot, but the difference went in the wrong direction; after a decade there was no way the man before him should appear younger than he used to.

  At that point it was difficult to walk back the accusation. In his haste, Edgar had pulled in favours from various high-ranking officials to accelerate the legal process and force Drifter through to his execution a few days from then. The execution platform was already set up, and vendors were already planning on hawking food and trinkets to celebrate the occasion. The city was abuzz with the excitement of a public execution, the first since Edgar had taken over as Regent, and was treating it as a once-in-a-lifetime event that everyone was obligated to experience if they could.

  On top of all that, keeping up public appearances was more important to a stable government than justice or truth. Edgar had learned that from his father early in his education. In the privacy of his room, however, lacking even his guards, he could check his confusion however he pleased.

  So Edgar started his interrogation, if it could be called that, with the simplest question: "Who are you?"

  Drifter raised an eyebrow at the question. "It seems a bit late to be asking that."

  "It is," Edgar replied, "But your arrest has triggered a series of events that cannot easily be reversed. Favours have been done, debts have been paid, and the people believe you to be a monster."

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  "And so it is easier for me to die than for a mistake to be admitted."

  Edgar nodded. "That is the gist of it, yes."

  The ring on Drifter's left pinky finger began to itch.

  "You still haven't answered my question, and my questions are the only reason you aren't locked up in the dark." Edgar pulled a chair around to sit in front of Drifter, waiting for him to speak.

  But Drifter didn't have much of an answer. He shrugged - at least as much as he could with his constraints - and said, "I go by Drifter nowadays."

  "That isn't a name. It's a description."

  "What else is a name? Mine at least tells a bit about myself."

  Frustration showed in Edgar's brow. "Then let's try a different angle. Where are you from?"

  "Don't know."

  "Who were your parents?"

  "Don't know."

  "Who do you work for?"

  "Don't know," Drifter replied as he wiggled his fingers, the best he could do with his range of motion, "But probably quite a few people."

  Edgar's eyes widened. Ten rings, each of different make and style, some looking shiny and new and other appearing scratched up and worn. His eyes went specifically to the plain ring of black on his left pinky, a stone too brittle to carve a ring out of but held together by dedication regardless. It was undoubtedly an oath ring.

  More importantly, Edgar recognized it as an oath ring from a small village in Beornia's past, the one that would eventually grow into Beorne, protected by Beorne Wolfblood and his tiny band of warriors. It was from a time nearly a millenium earlier, back when the north was unexplored and barely populated, and the northern wanderers started settling down in the villages the southerners created to begin their northward expansion.

  In a fluke of hyperfixation Edgar's mind narrowed in on that singular ring out of the ten. That one ring warranted questioning, but none of the others. Though Edgar already knew the answer. "The ring on your left pinky, the one of black stone. Where did you get it?"

  "Don't know. Woke up with it."

  "When did you wake up with it?"

  "A few months back."

  "Where?"

  "Dunno. Up north somewhere. Not much around."

  The interrogation, such as it was, seemed to be yielding Edgar few results. "Do you have memory loss or something? Your answer to even the simplest questions seems to be 'I don't know' and it is getting tiresome."

  "Ta."

  "Since when?"

  "A few months back."

  "The same day you woke up with the ring?"

  "Ta."

  Edgar felt like he was pulling teeth, and he was beginning to wonder if it was worth it despite his compulsion to learn about the man before him.

  He asked more questions about Drifter's goals, his purpose in town, his relationship with Virilus Legafil, everything he could think of. He was well aware that this man was not Henry Noman, and he had not killed Edgar's father. He had no memories, no business in town, nothing.

  He was just in prison due to being unlucky.

  For the first time in the conversation, Drifter spoke first. "Is your guilt assuaged at all?"

  Edgar flinched at the words. He had hit the nail on the head. Since Edgar realized that Drifter was not the man his guilt had been eating at him. He had dragged Drifter into this room to ask why he had done it, was it worth it, call him a sick freak and monster who deserved his fate, but Drifter was not Henry Noman. So he decided to be honest, saying "Not at all."

  Drifter nodded. "Ta. Then let us fix that."