Renaissance E Books
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When the Serpent comes, they all shall perish,

The Redhands fall like sheaves of grain,

Until only the Exile shall remain

Of those who own their name.

When Fireborn law breathes hot upon the root

One born of fire shall perish for the truth

The exile's victory shall be his pardon

Those he claims will rule

The prince from shadows shall emerge

To sit a blood drenched throne

...Alistar Weems’ dying words.

Once there were three brothers, Brandrahoon the vampire, Isranon called the Dawnhand, speaker to spirits, and Waejonan the Accursed, first of sa'necari. Isranon defied his brothers and was destroyed, his descendants forced into the darkness.

St. Tarmus of Lorendon

We howled to the moon one winter's night

And she howled back to give us might

From all the packs gathered ‘neath her light

She chose among us one single wight

Tala took that male to her silvery home

She told the packs to hide, not roam

From that mating, Navaryn came

To make us men in more than name

Navaryn, first mother to us all

By her blood our shapes are tall

Pandeena, second mother to us all

When they howl, heed their call

They gave us laws, the ways, and speech they changed all things within our reach

The ways of culture we were taught

To bring us from old Skawtsslund fraught

By dangers vile and dangers fell

So goes the ancient, ancient tale

Navaryn, first mother to us all

By her blood, our shapes are tall

The woodland god, at their pleading,

Opened a Gate Arcane to end our bleeding

On the strands of Skawtsslund fraught

With the dangers mankind brought

Pandeena, second mother to us all

When she howls heed well her call

We passed between the pillars tall

To these new lands beyond man's pall

We settled here and built our lives

Where lycan kind can grow and thrive

In a new world of hope and promise

Beyond the reach of murdering Thomas.

My Dear Malthus,

This bastard prince, Kynyr Maguire, that you mentioned in your last dispatch, must die. I grow impatient. You will receive no further supplies or units from me until you have eliminated the entire ruling family. It has been seven months since you infiltrated Clan Red Wolf's territory and yet there have been only two deaths in their family. You have until winter solstice. If the goal has not been accomplished by then, I will replace you.

Furthermore, I am no longer negotiating for you to send me the bitch and her cub, I am ordering you to.

Yours,

Lord Hoon.

"I have no intention of giving you my wife or my stepson."

Malthus Estrobian crumbled the letter up, snarling under his breath, and tossed it onto the fire in the hearth. He had not planned to become obsessed with Merissa to the point of marrying her—at least not at the time he wrote Hoon about her. Darmyk was the son of a sa'necari apostate, Isranon. Rumor had it that Isranon was the impossible mage known as Dawnreturning. Both the god-queen of Minnoras, Gylorean Galee, and Lord Hoon had placed bounties on Isranon's head. That prompted Malthus to write both of them about Darmyk to see who would make him the better offer for the boy. Galee wanted just the boy; Hoon wanted both the boy and his mother. Malthus regretted those letters.

Over the months that had passed since he sent them, he had learned that his brother Troyes, who disappeared in Red Wolf four years ago, had been killed by Darmyk's father in a quarrel over Merissa. There was not enough money in the world to buy the boy from him—when Malthus planned to chop the child up and send the pieces to Isranon.

Stalking to the window of his study, Malthus threw the heavy brown drapes open and stared out at the flurries of snow swirling across the stableyard. That light dusting would not impact upon Malthus’ plans for the day, unlike a week ago. A large barn and stables swept out to the west side of the yard with more buildings concealed behind them with the grazing lands sprawled to the northwest beneath their white blankets. The simple practicality of water troughs and hitching posts in the courtyard contrasted sharply with elegance behind it.

Troubled and restless, Malthus began pacing back and forth between the window and his desk, thinking furiously. Lord Hoon was not someone whose desires could be safely ignored, and Malthus wondered what kind of devil's bargain he had entered into. Lord Hoon was a powerful Lemyari vampire of many aliases, of which Hoon was merely his favorite and best known. His true name, which he used only when he wished to intimidate, was Brandrahoon—which meant fire dragon in an old language. Had he known at the outset that he was dealing with Brandrahoon, Malthus might have turned the job down. On the one hand, Malthus was the most powerful sa'necari necromancer in existence. On the other, Brandrahoon was his equal and opposite number in the dark ranks. No one knew the full extent of Brandrahoon's power: the vampire preferred calculated deception and subterfuge to pyrotechnics. Malthus shared his reticence, seeing no point in the use of conspicuous force when dissembling and treachery would suffice.

Sa'necari were the only serious rivals within the ranks of darkness that the vampires like Lord Hoon had. They had stolen all of the matchless powers and abilities of the undead that they could take or control, assuming them through their rites, mastering and perfecting them in addition to their native arcane talents. This had been gained at a price, for they also had the needs and cravings of the undead, the unnatural appetites for blood. After generations of sa'necari being created in the rites, their very genes had altered until more and more of their descendants began to be born sa'necari with those appetites and powers manifesting in puberty.

The rite of mortgiefan made them what they were, triggering the final transition from human to sa'necari. They took a life in a rite combining sex and death, sticking their victim repeatedly with their hellblades while sheathing themselves in their bodies, finally killing them at the moment of sexual climax, causing the victim's soul to shatter so that the sa'necari could suck pieces of it into themselves, enhancing their powers. The more lives they took in the rite, the more powerful and nearly unkillable they became. Even when slain, they had to be properly destroyed or they would rise undead, like vampires. Their eyes were the single most condemning evidence of their true nature. The first time they took mortgiefan their eyes changed to amaranthine lacking in iris, whites, and pupils.

Most concealed it with a minor glamour. Others went still further, imbuing the deception on an item of jewelry they wore so that the spell could not be defeated by the use of spellcord or detected by a Reader. The latter was the option that Malthus had chosen and the innocuous golden band on his right hand concealed his sa'necari nature beneath an effective guise of humanity.

Malthus’ gaze wandered to a curious device lying on his desk. He lifted and held it where the glow from the lamp could best illuminate it. The glass tube had a plunger at one end and a hollow needle at the other. Various groups of healers had been attempting to create something similar for years, inspired by the way that a viper's hollow fangs injected venom into its victim. Malthus paused, trying to recall what Larena Wiggins had told him they called it and then it returned to him.

"Syringe. Devilishly simple thing."

She had stolen it for him at his urging. Things that could heal could also kill and killing was more to Malthus’ liking than healing. He wondered at the strange markings on it ‘cc’ and ‘ml’ at different lines across it. That had to be some kind of measurement, but Malthus was uncertain how that related to using it.

He laid the syringe in a bed of wool within a small wooden casket, opened the drawer to his desk, and took out a golden chain with small globes strung on it like glass baubles. He studied the globes. Some were red, others amber, and a few were green. Malthus tapped a green one with a word of command and three crates appeared on his desktop.

Taking a leather-bound book from the crate, he opened it to consider his options. It was a catalog of poisons arranged according to the Romilay scale with one being the mildest and ten the most deadly. Starting with level four, many of the poisons mimicked the effects of known diseases in such a way that the average Reader would not detect them and be forced to diagnose the disease rather than the poison.

He had employed a poison that misled the healers into thinking that Prince Kynyr had Black Mountain Fever, a disease spread by the bite of infected ticks found in the moist marshy regions of Waejontor. The disease had a ninety percent mortality rate.

The Assassins’ Guild, the holy avengers of the nethergod Hadjys the Dark Judge, had involved themselves and had determined that Kynyr had been poisoned. That obviated the need to continue the pretense and Malthus no longer had Larena dose the prince with it. The time had come to administer something more lethal before the Guild found a way to cure him. The syringe had given Malthus an idea. Kynyr's death would satisfy Lord Hoon and buy Malthus more time to complete his assignment.

Malthus thumbed through the book, scanning the charts that applied to lycans. When it came to a knowledge of poison, Malthus had few peers. His name was not Estrobian, it was Tyrins. He was the bastard son of Sidera Tyrins and the late Waejontori Lord Feodras Iagaris. The Tyrins family were a branch of the Romilays, a large extended family of arcane toxicologists who specialized in creating poisons and antidotes—although most of their wealth came from creating toxins and very little came from curing them.

He came across a level eight that appealed to him, certain that he had it in stock. Malthus tapped the golden globe on his string and six cases of jars and bottles appeared on his desk. Going through them, he found a bottle of hedysmorte. Primarily an arrow poison, he judged that it would work well with this new invention. He could get more into Kynyr with it than he would have been able to by coating an arrowhead.

Malthus filled the syringe completely with the nacreous liquid and returned it to the little box. He had no idea how his poisons would work injected directly into the body like this, but he suspected it would be faster and more efficient. He pocketed the box, returned everything else to the carrying globes, and shoved them into the drawer.

Stepping into the corridor, Malthus glanced to see who was about at that early hour. The last time he had gone out this early had been the morning that he drowned Searlait Redhand, the Chieftain Claw Redhand's youngest sister. Malthus had lived in the manor since summer, having married Claw's daughter Merissa. That both gave him easy access to his targets, and forced him to be more circumspect since he had the eye of Claw's guardsmyn upon him.

The manor was built mostly of stone with wood layered over portions of the interior. Tapestries and paintings lined the walls. Malthus passed two servants as he returned to his bedchambers to grab a coat and a heavy cloak to put over it. His eyes trailed the delicate blonde Kissie until she disappeared around a corner.

Merissa sat staring out the window in the antechamber of their suite, a blanket wrapping her swollen belly. Malthus’ twin sons were due in early spring. She had already been pregnant by him when they married. It had irritated him that Merissa waited until a month after the wedding to inform him of that fact.

He noted the tears running down her face and then the chilliness of the room. Merissa had allowed the fire in the hearth to go out again.

Malthus knelt at the fireplace, filled it with wood from the bin, and got a fire going. “You must stop doing this. You'll catch your death of cold."

"Would you care?” Merissa's voice sounded hollow and lifeless.

"Of course I would.” Malthus snorted. He snatched a long doeskin coat, a heavy wool cloak, and a scarf from the closet.

Merissa watched him dressing. “You're going out?"

"I have unfinished business to take care of."

"Kynyr?” A sob caught in her throat.

"You're learning.” Malthus tied his cloak on and crossed the room. He cupped her chin, his nails digging into her left cheek as he forced her to meet his eyes. “He'll be dead by nightfall."

"Please don't."

Covering her lips with his mouth, Malthus breathed a spell down her throat. “You won't be telling on me."

Merissa grimaced at a sharp pain in her head and blinked as if to clear her eyes. “Don't hurt me."

"Don't tempt me."

He had placed so many spells of coercion within her mind and body over the past few weeks that his wife would die rather than betray him. Her love for him had faded; however, arcane methods existed to restore it once he had destroyed her family.

Malthus left, walked down the corridor to its end and turned right. He passed the landing to the stairs he had shoved Claw down a month ago. It would have killed a human, but all that Malthus had achieved was to break Claw's spine and put the old bastard in a wheel-chair.

Reaching the servants’ stairway, Malthus saw Darmyk's tiger-striped cat sitting on the landing, licking his paws. The cat gave Malthus an indifferent look and went back to ignoring him. His stepson called the cat Kerry. Although clearly a domestic cat, the creature was the size of a lynx, fifteen inches at the shoulder and weighed at least thirty-five pounds. Malthus kicked Kerry in the ribs. The blow caught the cat and lifted him into the air, sending him across the landing and into the wall. Kerry struck hard, but recovered quickly. Malthus sucked in a breath and backed away as Kerry, instead of fleeing as other cats would have, stalked hissing and spitting toward him, showing every intention of attacking.

The sa'necari reached for his knife, spooked by the uncanny beast.

Before matters could go any further, a small boy darted onto the landing, scooped Kerry into his arms, and draped the cat over his shoulder. Kerry's hissing changed into a purr, as Darmyk wrapped protective arms around him.

"I hate you,” his stepson snarled at Malthus. “I hate you."

The boy spun about and ran off with his cat.

"You can both die,” Malthus murmured, his lips tight. “I'll send you to your father in pieces."

He descended the stairs, and went out the side door into the garden. His breath made little puffs of mist in the frosty air. This put him at the north corner of the garden, and on a whim, he headed for the Redhand family graveyard.

Small for his age, the lycan cub looked more like nine than eleven-years-old. Not even the heels of his horsemon's boots could add enough height to make Cooley Blackwood seem older. His white at the edge of blond hair hung in a long tail. The only thing that he had inherited from his Waejontori mother was his velvet brown eyes. His knee length doeskin coat with a sheepskin lining concealed the fighting knives he carried strapped to his thighs for an easy draw.

Most cubs his age might own a small belt knife for utilitarian purposes, but only Cooley—in all of the town of Wolffgard—went armed with fighting blades. Lycan fighting knives were among the best of their kind on the continent, with an edge, a curved back edge that ran a third of the way up the blade, and strong quillons. They had evolved over the centuries out of the hunting knives carried by rural folk. They well served the practical lycan nature, which viewed with contempt the human habit of carrying a sword whether they knew how to use it or not.

He and his two closest friends, the Scott cubs, Rory and Hamish, had stolen into the southeastern corner of the winter-clad gardens at Redhand Manor where the family graveyard lay.

Short hedges lined the sides and back. A rose arbor marked the entrance down a path lined with oaks. Rather than the open spaces that most humans preferred as a place of burial, lycans, especially the upper classes, preferred to clutter them up with trees, bushes, hedges, and flowerbeds, arranging their graves in sheltered rows. Until three generations ago, the Redhands had burned their dead, burying the ashes in small urns and planting a shrub over it.

The graves of Suleahan and Sorcha Redhand, parents of the current chieftain, Claw Redhand, lay in the farthest corner to the northeast. The remains of Claw's twin sons, Tarrant and Logan lay buried south of those graves. The Redhands had considered it a kindness that the sa'necari had returned the bodies of their sons for burial after riting them for treason during the Lycan Rebellion. Lord Carneades Iagaris had not meant it as a kindness. He had believed that having to care for their graves would serve as a constant reminder to the chieftain of what it meant to oppose the sa'necari. Instead, Claw had turned the manor into a fortress, tripled his standing army, and according to rumor, booby-trapped the bridge over the Eirlys River.

The fifth grave was only two weeks old. Searlait Redhand, Claw's youngest sister had drowned in the Bonnie Draw River. Cooley had heard it whispered that Searlait's death had been murder and not an accident.

The three cubs had come to keep a promise they had made to Kynyr Maguire. Eight-year-old Hamish acted as lookout, crouched beneath the low hanging branches of an evergreen tree. They did not have permission to be there and never thought to ask for it. Kneeling beside the grave of Tarrant Redhand, they cleared the snow from the headstone, and placed sprigs of rowan and mistletoe along it.

Cooley froze when he heard Hamish sound the alert with three hoots in perfect mimicry of a snowy owl. He and Rory faded back into the shelter of an evergreen, stepping carefully on rocks and clusters of windblown debris so as to leave no tracks.

Malthus walked down the shaded path and gazed at the graves of Claw's sons, then moved to Searlait's grave. “Don't worry, Searlait. They will follow soon."

He opened his pants and urinated on her headstone.

Rory's eyes bugged. “Did you see that?"

Cooley jabbed his finger into Rory's shoulder and shook his head. Normally, Rory was the sneakier of the two, but Malthus’ desecration of the grave had shocked him.

As Malthus turned to walk back, he noticed that Tarrant's grave had had another visitation. He frowned and knelt by it.

"Who's doing this? It can't be Maguire. He's dying. What makes Tarrant so important to someone?"

Malthus scanned the winter-clothed cemetery. The rows of hedges lining the place, brown knots of bushes sprinkled with white. The trailing evergreens beyond it. And saw nothing.

Crouched down and tight-lipped, the three cubs watched him leave.

Cooley turned to Rory. “He's creepy. You think he poisoned Kynyr?"

Rory shook his head. “He wouldn't get his hands dirty. He'd get someone else to do it."

"Let's get out of here. He might come back."

They stole out of the manor grounds to a place in the woods where Cooley had two of his horses tied. He had loaned Glorygirl to Rory and mounted his big sorrel, Larkspur. Rory climbed into the saddle and Hamish got up behind him.

Malthus had been meeting Larena Wiggins, Kady Maguire's sister, outside the hawthorn hedge circling the Maguire Estate ever since he planted Larena in Kady's household to poison Kynyr last autumn. The hawthorn hedges’ thick, strong tangle of growth set atop a three-foot embankment prevented livestock from wandering, but a mon could slip through easily. Malthus sat on a heavy blanket concealed in an evergreen thicket on a patch of cleared ground, resisting an urge to pace. A blind hid him from the road, spelled to appear as an accidental fall of branches should anyone stumble upon it, and sheltered him from the winds and breezes. The sound of someone moving through the trees brought him to full attention.

Larena's buxom form appeared, her belly rounded with his child. She smiled at him, letting her hood back. Her waist-length flaxen hair bloused around her shoulders and she pulled it free of the neck of her cloak. A tentative smile brushed the edges of her mouth.

"You're late.” He snarled at her, letting his needle thin fangs show.

She flinched with a whimper. “The place is crowded. It was difficult to get away unseen."

"But you managed?"

"Yes."

Malthus embraced her, nuzzled her neck, and let his fingers trace her stomach. “How is our poor prince?"

"Stronger."

"That won't do.” Malthus reached into his pouch and brought out a small wooden casket. “I've been experimenting with that object you brought me. What do they call it?"

"A syringe. That's what the Guild calls it."

"They've made some interesting discoveries in that ancient library.” He opened the box. The syringe that Larena had brought him lay there in a bed of cotton, filled with a nacreous liquid. “I assume they leave you alone with him?"

Larena nodded. “We all take turns sitting with him."

"Give him all of this at one time.” Malthus mimicked pushing the plunger in. He knew the risks. If they caught Larena, he would lose his only pawn in Kynyr's household. She could not betray him because of the coercions in her brain. It was a gamble, but the injection would be quick and efficient compared to his past efforts.

"That looks different from what I was giving him."

"It is.” Malthus closed the box and handed it to her.

Larena slipped it into her pouch. “Will it kill him fast?"

"In minutes."

"Good. I'm sick and tired of living under my sister's thumb."

"Once he's dead, I'll move you to a better place."

Malthus pulled her down, pressed his body over hers, and pushed her skirts up. He made no pretense of giving her pleasure—it was too cold for it. Unlacing his pants, Malthus shoved his erection into her hole and began his ride.

Cooley and his friends circled around, riding through the clusters of evergreens along the hawthorn hedgerow heading for the rear gate as quiet as they could. They heard the groans and grunts of sex and glanced at each other. Rory slid off Glorygirl with a grin. Hamish followed. They tethered the horse to a tree.

"What are you doing?” Cooley whispered.

"Going to have a look.” Rory slipped into the trees as quiet as a fox.

Cooley sighed. One of Rory's previous expeditions had nearly gotten the three of them killed, yet the cub's curiosity and general nosiness remained indefatigable. Cooley dismounted and reluctantly followed the Scott cubs as they stole from cover to cover among the evergreens.

Rory grinned. “I heard folks doing it before. I ain't never had a close look at it though."

"Haven't ever,” Cooley corrected him. “I seen it plenty of times. There's not much to it."

Cooley, raised in a bordello, had known what sex looked like almost since he could walk. He had seen so much of it that he had wearied of the topic long before his first wet dream. Whereas, Rory and Hamish had only the vaguest notions from catching glimpses of domestic animals doing it.

"Bet you have.” Rory stole closer to the sounds. “I always wanted to watch it."

"Don't go playing peeping john, it's rude.” Kady and Cahira would be appalled if they learned what the cubs were doing. Cooley put a lot of effort into schooling his tongue and not doing or saying anything that might offend them.

Rory ignored Cooley, darting to the next cluster of trees. “It's Malthus."

Cooley caught a sharp breath and joined Rory crouching by the tree. His side twinged and he placed his hand on it. One of the village toughs, Rheu Lawson, had stabbed Cooley in the side. Cooley killed him. However, the blade had been coated with a blend of Devil's Silver, which had slowed the healing. Cooley's side remained tender and Mary Sinclair kept it bound tight.

For the first weeks of his stay in Wolffgard, Cooley had been stalked by Malthus, which left the cub so rattled that he quit his job working for Georgie Rogan in the stables. The fight with Rheu had given Cooley an edge that he did not have before. More and more he tried to act with the same courage his murdered father had always shown. He had begun to lose his fear of Malthus, but not his wariness.

He squinted through a parting in the branches. The flaxen hair spilling around the bitch's face was the wrong shade of blonde to be Malthus’ wife Merissa. “Who's he poking?"

"Don't know.” Rory's eyes remained locked on Malthus’ buttocks. He darted to the closest cover he could find and squatted as low as possible, hoping for a flash of skin. A flush lit Rory's cheeks as Malthus reared back and he finally got a peek at the important parts. “Damn, that dog's big. He's stuffing her good."

Cooley glanced around and then dashed over to Rory. “Sonuva dirty mare,” he muttered sotto voce. “It's Larena."

"Ginny, ginny cumtwig,” Hamish murmured, watching fascinated alongside his brother.

For once, Cooley made all the possible connections first. Rory and Hamish were too caught up in their peeping to think about anything else. Cooley backed away, remembering Rory telling him that if Malthus wanted to poison Kynyr that he would get someone else to do it for him—and he had someone else to do it: Larena. Cooley withdrew silently, and the moment he was well out of sight, he bolted for his horse.

Kady Maguire watched the snow drifting down across the yard of her home, as she sat at her husband's bedside, feeling numb past tears. His chiseled features had become gaunt, his cheeks sunken, and dark purple shadows made pools beneath his eyes. Kynyr could not keep down solid food, and subsisted on water and broth.

He had been poisoned with an arcane substance that mimicked the effects of Black Mountain Fever. The physicians and healers were treating the symptoms while looking for a cure. Drugs reduced Kynyr's fever, eased his pain, and mitigated the seizures. The most frightening thing to Kady was the fact that Kynyr's legs stayed cold and cramped despite any and every thing they did. He was in constant pain throughout his body, especially his muscles. Lesions had formed in spots along his spinal column. The high-level bio-alchemical Readers, loaned to Kady by the Assassins’ Guild of Hadjys the Dark Judge, had found them days ago.

Kynyr Maguire would never walk again. She had forbidden the healers and others from informing him of it. After his grandfather, Claw Redhand, had been crippled by a fall on the stairs, Kynyr had told several of his closest friends that he would rather die than live like that.

The possibility that Kynyr might try to take his own life once he knew the truth overshadowed Kady's hopes. She would rather have him crippled and alive than lose him to death.

She thought about how every time that the enemy had knocked him down, Kynyr had picked himself up and gone after them again. He had defeated them at Hell's Widow, wiped out their followers in Wolffgard, and then ... they finally managed to bring him down forever.

Death would have been kinder. Every time that Kady overheard one of Kynyr's friends say that it made her stomach clench. It made them seem like traitors in her heart.

Death might yet take him, but Kady refused to surrender him to it without a fight.

He lay propped against a pile of pillows. His heavy blond hair had become so matted from sleeping on it, that Kady had—regretfully—cut it short. Kynyr's Aunt Mary brought a bowl of broth in, placed it on the bedside table, and withdrew. Kady lifted a spoon of broth to Kynyr's lips.

He turned his head away, refusing it with a dull listless expression. “I'm not going to make it, Kady.” He sounded so weary and forsaken that it tore at Kady's heart.

"Don't say that, Kynyr. Don't say that. You're not going to die."

Finn MacIver came into the room. He had white blond hair that he wore in a tail down his back, a long narrow face, slightly flaring at the cheeks, and a hound dog nose that overpowered the rest of his features. He and Kynyr were spiritbrothers, friends since birth, united against the Dreaded Horde—their name for their combined sisters, Finn's eight and Kynyr's six—who were always trying to prevent them from going fishing. He settled into a chair next to Kady. “Claw gave me an extended leave, so I could keep you company, Kynyr."

"How's Searlait?"

Finn tensed and glanced at Kady for permission to tell him. Kady averted her eyes with a tiny nod. Finn's lips tightened and he expelled a breath through his nostrils. “She's dead, Kynyr. She drowned."

"When?” Grief harshened Kynyr's voice.

Searlait had always enjoyed sneaking from the manor at dawn to sit by the Bonnie Draw River and think. Kynyr had discovered Searlait's secret place and walked her home each morning to ensure her safety. Two days after Kynyr collapsed, Searlait died in the swirling waters of the Bonnie Draw. Most said it was an accident, but a few like Finn believed she had been murdered.

"Just over two weeks ago."

"I begged her, Finn.” Kynyr struggled with his words. “I begged her ... to stop ... going out alone."

"Sheradyn says that she must have had a stroke and fell in."

"We need a lawgiver,” said Kady. “There must be one we can get."

Lawgivers were chosen by the position of the stars and moon at the time of their birth, and trained from childhood by the oldest lawgiver in the village. Most of their people were illiterate or semi-literate, so the laws and customs were committed to memory, often in the forms of poems.

Finn looked thoughtful for an instant. “You know, I just remembered. Old Phelan at Three Stones. He's got three in his family."

"That's a week's ride northeast, isn't it?” Kady glanced hopefully at Finn as she removed the empty bowl from Kynyr's bed table and then the table itself.

"Closer to three in this weather. Two in good."

Kynyr's face twisted into a grimace, his eyes narrowing into a slant of suffering as his brows knit, and his color faded. He stiffened, his fists clenching against the pain. “Gaahds. Bad one."

Kady gestured at a table across the room, and Finn lunged for it. “Narcantha and Amphereon."

She filled the syringes as Shaheeramat had instructed her, making certain there was no air in the cylinder, cleaned Kynyr's arm off with a swipe of astringent and injected him with the drugs.

He eased and settled against his pillows, sliding into sleep and breathing easier. The only way to stop the episodes of seizures and pain was to sedate him so heavily that nothing woke him.

Last summer those syringes, which Kady had begun to appreciate, were just pictures in an ancient text from the lost civilization of Louistrana. Cahira Sinclair, Kynyr's grandmother, had translated most of one book and the Creeyans were already busy trying to recreate the simpler things.

"You ought to get something to eat.” Larena entered the room.

"I don't think I could swallow anything.” Kady averted her gaze to hide a frown. Larena always disappeared for a few hours in the morning, and Kady suspected that her sister was simply trying to avoid doing her share of the chores.

"Think of the cub, Kady.” Larena gave her a look of firm and insistent concern.

Finn nodded. “Come on. She's right, Kady. You need to eat something."

Kady exhaled heavily. She could argue with Larena, but not Finn—all past attempts had failed. “Take good care of him, Larena. I dosed him for pain, so he should be out for a while."

"I'll take very good care of him."

Kady rose and walked slowly toward the stairs. The closer she came to the stairs, the more her feet dragged. The kitchen was on the lower floor. It had always been her favorite place to sit and visit before Kynyr's collapse. Visions of all the times she had sat there with him filled her mind. Kady laid her hand upon the balustrade and then drew back. “Bring me something up, Finn?"

"Where will you be?"

"The north drawing room."

The mansion had so many rooms that Kady had long ago given up trying to count them. Before she had gotten so far into the pregnancy, she had enjoyed exploring and making lists of them. The larger her belly became, the more tired Kady felt.

Cooley raced through the orchard gates, past the guards that Kady had stationed. They knew Cooley and made no effort to interfere with him. Slumbering fruit trees gave way to a sweep of walnut trees and ended at the edge of a wide courtyard defined by bushy hedgerows. Benches, stone water troughs, and elegant stone tie rails stood like stark sentinels among the remnants of the winter-slain gardens. A broad cobblestone carriage path veered to the cub's right, leading to the stableyard. Last night's snowfall had been cleared from its surface, but the afternoon flurries had lain a fresh white drape across the golden orange of the cobblestones.

He rode into the stableyard as if someone had singed his tail, and threw himself from the saddle. “Fychan! Take Larkspur."

Fychan Helmsley, the head stablemon, came out of the barn. His nose, grotesque on his withered face, sat amidst a wealth of seams and folds of sagging skin, weathered to the appearance of old leather. He caught hold of Larkspur's reins. “What's got ya riled?"

"No time."

Cooley went in the side door that led in through the kitchen. Since Kady returned from Creeya with help from the Fae and the Grand Master, the place was always filled. Cooley did not know and had not bothered to get acquainted with most of them. Before Kynyr's illness, Cooley would have gone straight to him with the information. He might have gone to Kady, but the further into the pregnancy she got, the crankier she became. Cooley knew that worrying about Kynyr caused part of that. He did not know whether Todd was there that day or not.

He pushed through the room, past a chattering band of Fae and burst into the hallway, trying to decide whether to check the front room or the salle for Trevor Sinclair, Kynyr's uncle.

The front room was closer. Cooley darted down the hallway and poked his head through the door. Myn turned to stare after him. He scanned the crowd and failed to see Trevor, so he went to the stairs and climbed to the second floor. As he walked down the second floor corridor, Cooley started trying to compose his words to get the most important fact first.

Trevor stood in the center of the mats, working with Tiderider, performing with the practice version of the deadly fans the Fae fought with. For all of Trevor's size, and he was a big mon, he had speed and grace also.

Tiderider had golden skin, eyes, and light caramel-hair with golden highlights. He wore the latter in a tail that exposed his pointed ears. He stood nearly six feet tall—an effect of the unbridled magic still found around the edges of his homeland. His eyes, like those of all the Fae, were like slits in his face from the double epicanthic fold of skin at the edges of them. That characteristic was more strongly pronounced among the Fae than with any other of the sylvan races.

His eyes flicked to see Cooley, and then he ignored the cub.

Cooley sucked in a breath. “Trevor, I need to talk to you."

"Can it wait?” Trevor never missed a movement as he and Tiderider worked their way along.

"It's about Malthus."

That got Trevor's attention; his bushy cinnabar eyebrows went up and he excused himself from the mat with a bow, putting the fans away on the shelf. The entire family suspected that Malthus was the mon behind all the dark happenings in and around Wolffgard, but they had been unable to find proof of it. “What about Malthus?"

"He's over by the hawthorn hedge."

"On this property?"

"Other side. He's jacking Larena."

Tiderider joined them near the door. “Kady's sister is sleeping with the enemy."

"How long ago, Cooley?"

"I was up on Larkspur, so I had to go through the orchard gates. But I went fast."

Trevor patted Cooley's shoulder. “Good cub.” Then he turned to Tiderider. “If she came directly back, she could have gotten home ahead of Cooley by squeezing through the hedgerow."

"We must find her."

As they went through the house, Trevor and Tiderider set people to searching with instructions to secure her in the basement. If the cub Larena carried belonged to Malthus, then it explained why she was so reticent about the name of her lover.

Trevor saw Kady coming out of the kitchen. “Where's Larena?"

"Sitting with Kynyr. Why?"

Alarm flashed across Trevor's face with a sudden realization, and he ran for Kynyr's bedroom. “She poisoned him."

Larena sat by Kynyr's bed, clasping and unclasping her hands. Her confidence had begun to waver the moment she found herself alone with him. Giving an injection seemed far more complicated than slipping a few drops of poison into his food and drink at every opportunity as she had been doing for weeks. She dreaded the possibility of being caught and likely hanged for it. Her people did not hang pregnant bitches—no, they put them in a cell until the bitches delivered their cubs and then they hanged them. Larena rubbed her neck, imagining the feel of the noose around it.

Nervousness magnified the task in her mind until it seemed as if it would take forever to complete. Although Larena had seen Sha and Kady administer the injections, the thought of doing it herself intimidated her. The longer that she postponed doing it, the more likely she was to be caught. Larena rose from her chair and stepped into the antechamber, scanning the room, and trying to decide the best way to prevent anyone from walking in and catching her in the act.

She locked the outer door, and dropped the bar across it. Lycan homes tended to have excessive amounts of security compared to those of humans. Where a human would have a bar across the doors to the outside only; lycans tended to have them across many private rooms within their dwellings also. Larena ran her fingers along the bar. If anyone discovered the locked door, she would simply tell them she had gotten frightened.

Yes, that's it. I got frightened. After all, they're saying that Searlait's drowning might not have been an accident. There's been murders and rumors of murders all around me.

In an effort to control her nerves, she reminded herself that Malthus had promised this would be the last thing he asked of her. He would send her away to a wonderful place where she would be treated like royalty because she carried his child. Her hand went to her rounded belly and caressed it. All her dreams would soon come true.

Larena returned to the bedroom. She took the box from her pocket and laid it on the nightstand, opened it and took the syringe out. Her hand trembled. She stepped to the bedside and stared down at Kynyr's sleeping face.

"You were so handsome. Now you look like a corpse."

She wrinkled her nose. If Kynyr had been given his usual dose of Narcantha, then it would be hours before anything short of an earthquake could wake him. Larena flicked the edge of the blanket back. She glanced at the syringe, and depressed the plunger a tiny bit to see how it worked. Larena held the needle close to his bicep and hesitated for an instant. Gathering her nerve, she jabbed it in quick with a motion like throwing a dart at a board, lost her tentative grip, and winced. The syringe had gone deep and jutted from his arm. Sucking in a sharp breath, Larena grasped it again and pushed the plunger all the way to the bottom, emptying the contents into him.

She withdrew the syringe and stood back trembling with relief. It had been easier than she expected. A sense of triumph followed swiftly on the heels of her first reactions, making her giddy. All that remained to be done was to hide the syringe and unlock the door.

"No more Kynyr. Always calling me a slut. Treating me like shite."

Kynyr gave a wheezing groan and convulsed, his chest heaving. Pain forced him back to consciousness. “Larena ... aaah gahd."

"Hurting, dear Kynyr?” Larena sneered, brandishing the empty syringe. “Would you like a little more?"

"Whaaat ... have ... you ... done?” He groaned, his limbs trembling and then seizing up again.

"Killed you."

He tried to speak, and failed as the convulsions worsened, racking his body.

The doorknob rattled. Someone pounded on it, and then Trevor's voice shouted. “Open the door, Larena! Open it now!"

Larena's lips parted. She hyperventilated in panic, glancing from Kynyr's thrashing body to the outer door and back again. “Die faster, damn you."

Her gaze fell upon the syringe. She fumbled, trying to get it back in the box. She could not get her fingers to work right as fear flooded her.

"Please don't kill him, Larena. Please.” Cooley's voice begged her, nearly drowned out by Trevor's assault on the door.

It burst into flame and fell away into ash.

Larena shrieked, threw her hands up, and the box flew from her fingers, skidding across the threshold into the next room. The lid popped off and the syringe rolled across the carpet.

She met Trevor's enraged eyes for an instant and defiance flared. “He's dead. He deserved it."

Larena slammed the bedroom door, locked it, and dropped the bar. She headed for the window as she shifted into her hybrid form.

My Dear Egidius,

I have been alerted to the nature of the force you face. Elite Hadjyshen units have been sent into Red Wolf. They are escorting Brock Redhand to Wolffgard to take command of the kingdom on the advent of his brother's death, which I assure you is not far off. I have found the perfect cat's paw who will provide me with an opportunity to make the kill.

I have reason to believe that there are mages and spiritworkers attached to Brock's units. I advise leading with a divinator strike directly at Brock. By the time that you get this, he should be nearing Gateshead. Kill him and exterminate his forces.

Yours,

Malthus Tyrins

Egidius nodded, folded the paper up, and surveyed the basement of the desecrated temple to Tala, Mistress of Wolves and the Hunt, at Gateshead.

"I'm ahead of you for once, Malthus."

He raised his head and scanned the room. Twenty-one myn, all lycans, lay bound to makeshift sacrificial slabs aligned in an inverted V. The divinator, a small mon named Bucerious, moved among them slashing their eyes. Divinators always blinded them before opening them up.

A worktable sat in the center, filled with runed stones, carefully stitched packets of arcane herbs, and a variety of blades. The divinator's assistants brought him his tools and other things as he extended his hand for them.

Divinators did not read prophecies. They created them by twisting fate.

The Thane of Gateshead, Adderuig Balfour, screamed as the blade flashed across his eyes. The fluid leaked down his face and into his blood matted gray hair. Bucerious pressed the leaking orbs with his fingers to get all the moisture out. Then he moved back to the first lycan in the set, delicately splitting him from groin to the base of his throat. Crosscuts followed. He peeled back the flesh and sinew, exposing all of the internal workings with the precise skill of a trained vivisectionist. Packets were forced into all the orifices of the victim, laid inside him and hung from his ribs. Wounds were inflicted to time the death of the lycan. It was a complex and exacting rite. The victims had to die in a certain order.

A slender sa'necari joined Egidius. “When this strikes Brock, the old bastard will fold up and die."

Egidius cast an irritated glance at his lieutenant for stating the obvious. “And that's why we're doing it."

Divinators had devastated Shaurone a thousand years ago with a ten-fold rite of hecatomb, blasted the lycan armies to shreds eighty years ago, reduced sections of Creeya to dust fifty-odd years past. Like most sa'necari, Egidius had a healthy respect for their arts. This was a small rite; less than two dozen deaths, but it should prove quite effective. Brock's sudden death would throw his forces into chaos.

Egidius watched until Bucerious finished and the dying began. He knew the fundamentals of divinator rites, but this was the first one he had ever witnessed. The dying was too slow to feed his necromantic appetites; too measured and controlled. He quickly grew bored, rose, and left.

On the green outside the temple, several of his myn were feeding infants to the rakshashas and the brukulacos. They made a mess of their dinner, biting into the squirming bellies first. There was no art to it. Egidius hungered for a rite. The medicine that promised to restore his lost fertility had arrived from Malthus’ mother, Sidera Tyrins. The instructions accompanying it had forbidden the rites to him for a period of three months. It had only been two weeks since a mon had died beneath him at the moment of sexual climax and already Egidius felt deprived and starved.

He wandered aimlessly, trying to distract himself. The battle had taken the edge off his appetites for a few hours, but now they were back and worse than ever. Scrying for Brock's forces had proved fruitless. He had sent out a dozen scouts, but only one returned. The Creeyans must have killed them all. However, the single report had contained a bit of interesting data that sparked his fantasies. There were swan mays in the entourage. He looked forward to capturing a few of them, feeling their writhing struggles as he mounted them. It would have to be rape, not rite. Still, he would get some pleasure out of it.

On Stimmons Green, his myn were crating lycan organs and placing preservation spells upon them. Although he had to split the proceeds with Malthus and Sidera, the fall of Gateshead would make him wealthy beyond his wildest dreams once the slaves and organs reached the markets. He had been impatient for months, wanting to take a town instead of raiding hamlets and steadings. Now he had and it felt good.

Zinzi wore her wealth of pale wheaten hair upswept and held in a twist by a large sapphire headed pin. She looked to be a blasé sixteen-year-old with an air of jaded arrogance. Lord Hoon's favorite messenger, Zinzi had been his Master of Birds at the fallen estate near Minnoras. Her mage gifts had been honed to a fine degree over the centuries of her life as a vampire.

She leaned against the edge of the mantelpiece, her head tilted against the shelf, arms folded with one elbow angled to rest beside her head. “The cub does not look anything like I expected him to."

"I'm not certain what you expected him to be. His mother is lycan.” The brawny young son of a merchant sitting on the couch looked tired, his long neck marred by dozens of bruises and small punctures. Bronze-skinned, the circles of exhaustion looked black beneath his deep-set brown eyes. Zinzi had met him in the marketplace while shopping for baubles. In the precincts of Waejontor ruled by the queen, there was no need to hide what she was. His family had pleaded and begged her not to claim him, but she had gotten her snares into his mind and Julius went home with her to Hoon's mansion. Zinzi had recently heard that the headstone for his grave had already been commissioned by his family.

She regarded him. Julius had been bright and energetic when she acquired him, but now her gluttonous appetites had worn him down. It was not the Passion-Dance of the vampires, mistaking appetite for love, and gradually killing their mortal lover. Zinzi simply liked to run her affairs as if it were the Dance. It made life more interesting.

Julius reached out to stroke the lycan huddling in the corner. The cub sat with his legs drawn up to his chin, his lower lip trembling, and his large dark eyes filled with fear and sorrow.

"Where did you say he came from?"

Zinzi sighed. Julius’ memory had begun to fail with his health, and this would make the third time that Zinzi had been forced to explain it. He bored her. “A present from Malthus Tyrins. The cub says his name is Darmyk Redhand and that his father is Isranon Dawnreturning."

"Is Malthus’ messenger still here?"

Zinzi shook her head. “He dumped the cub with me and left. That was it.” She walked over and looked the cub in the eye. “I can't believe that this is Isranon's offspring. Something isn't right here."

Julius shrugged. “Just because he doesn't look like his sire, doesn't mean he's not the right child."

A scowl darkened Zinzi's face. Four days of cub sitting had palled on her. It would end as soon as Lord Hoon, who had recently arrived from the Hellblade Corridor, had a look at him. “Don't argue with me."

"I am not arguing."

"Yes, you are.” Zinzi pushed away from the mantelpiece and sauntered to the couch.

The cub trembled and fled the couch to hide behind it with silent tears dripping down his face. Zinzi frightened him.

She unlaced Julius’ shirt and pulled it over his head, tossing it in a corner. His eyes widened. “Surely you do not wish to feed in front of the cub?"

"He'll get used to it."

Zinzi flexed her fingers in Julius’ face, allowing her secondary nails to emerge from beneath her primaries. Venom oozed from the tips.

Julius’ face went pale and his eyes pleaded. “I've done nothing wrong. I've been good. Please, Zinzi. Don't do this."

"Your parents have bought you a headstone."

He froze like a mouse caught in the glare of a sudden lamp when her hand closed upon the base of his neck. “Please, Zinzi. I love you. Don't do this."

"You bore me.” She yawned, flexed her fingers again, and gripped his bicep. Five nails went deep into the muscles. Venom pumped into him.

Julius shuddered, eyes bulging. A long groan slipped from his throat. Zinzi plunged her fangs into his neck as he began to convulse, his chest heaving, and his limbs jerking.

The cub screamed in terror, unable to take his eyes from the dying mon.

Zinzi drank until Julius stilled in death. She liked the taste of poisoned blood.

A servant entered and stood at attention while Zinzi wiped her mouth off on Julius’ shirt.

She glanced up at him. “What is it?"

"Hoon wishes the cub taken to his private apartments. Shall I have the body removed?"

"Put it in a bag and send it to his parents."

The cub wept and thrashed as Zinzi fished him out from behind the couch. “Let's go. I'm tired of dealing with you."

Lord Hoon stepped out onto the balcony. Wrought iron railing made delicate intervals amidst the gray stone posts around the edge. A fine oak table centered on the balcony, carved with leaves along the edges and feet like gnarled nests of old roots. The city had grown since he last lived here, but he could still see the full sweep of Torment Lake from there. Workmyn busied themselves preparing the broad green along the lake for the winter solstice rites. The long scaffolds had been adorned with wreaths of finger bones and polished skulls. Two hundred bleeding tables had been set out, worktables beside them. City wolves had been selected from those taken to the concentration camps and brought to Torment Lake to be sacrificed in an orgy of blood and death. The sa'necari aristocracy had paid good coin to the crown for them and would have their pleasures. The vampires had been left out of it. Hoon had chosen not to complain. Instead he and his household would have a quiet celebration of their own. His tastes ran to captured enemy soldiers for his rites. They put up a more spirited resistance as they died.

The first thing he had done, after Queen Tomyrilen restored his old estates to him, had been to return it all to the way it had looked when he lived here four thousand years ago. The house was now the only connection he had with the mon he once had been. Rumors had reached him recently that his son, Timon, was dead, gone to the true death after centuries of undeath. Shortly after his brother Waejonan outlawed him, Anksha—then just a small child—had fetched Hoon from his cavern hideaway with word that his estate had been attacked. Hoon had arrived too late to save his family. His wife had betrayed him to his brother; and murdered his children for a promise of power. He found Timon dying and turned him. They had had centuries together; but now Timon had perished in Tovantè at the hands of a nomad war-leader called Chimquar, the Lionhawk. When the Sharani occupiers had been forced from the realm and the lycan clans brought to heel once more, Hoon intended to journey to the Great Plains and kill that war-leader, exterminate his tribe, and teach them all a lesson.

A lovely black-haired mon sat at the table watching him and sipping blood wine.

He turned to her with polished elegance, brushing his lips across her hair. “My lady of Silken Grace, I had begun to think you would never return to me."

Silkanna Mircala de Waejonan lifted her eyes to his, steel and fire in her glance. “How could I not? Malthus butchered my husband and all those who tried to aid me. I had no choice but to come to you."

From the day that she fled Hell's Widow, Silkanna had begun to refer to Cullen Blackwood as her husband, when in fact they had been only lovers.

"Are you hungry, Silkanna?” Hoon spoke with an old-fashioned precision as crisp as if it had come from the pages of a book.

"You know that I am.” Her fangs descended and she ran her tongue across them.

Hoon nodded. He remembered the appetites of the newborn. Silkanna was only a few months old and still in the voracious stage. Hoon's spies had alerted him to the presence of a newborn vampire in a region that, to his knowledge, had none. She had solved the homeless problem in several villages and towns as she journeyed to Torment Lake—by eating them. Hoon had dispatched Zinzi to look into it and she brought Silkanna home with her to Hoon's complete delight.

She studied him, trying to find some evidence of alteration, and found him unchanged except for a single thing: he was missing the tip of his left ear. His shoulders were broad and his hips narrow. Sunlight glinted on his black hair and gilded his olive skin with golden highlights. She knew well the dangerous sensuality in the depths of his large eyes, admired the chiseled planes of his cheekbones with their hollows; and could still taste his full lips from the searching kisses he had given her as they lay together an hour past.

"I sent my son to safety because Malthus intended to kill him."

"It is well that you did. Newborns frequently eat their family when they rise.” Hoon poured wine in a glass and sipped it. “What is your son's name?"

"Cooley Blackwood."

"That's a lycan name. Is he human?"

Silkanna shook her lovely head. “Lycan. But he's still my son.'

"What a shame."

"What were you thinking, Hoon?” Silkanna straightened in her chair, suspicion glinting in her hard eyes.

"Had he been human, I could have offset the queen with him ... put him on the throne if she crossed me. But a lycan? The nobles would never allow a lycan to hold the throne of Waejontor."

"I don't want him here. He's happy where he is."

"A cub should be with his mother."

"I. Don't. Want. Him. Here. Do you understand me?"

Hoon smiled, curled a finger under her chin, and lifted her face up. “You are beautiful when you are roused. However, the decision to fetch him here is mine. I will consider it. For now, I have other matters to attend to. Please, excuse me."

Lord Hoon paced before the fireplace in his audience chamber, fury lurking in his dark eyes. Zinzi lounged on a sofa, her feet propped up on the arm, and a glass of blood wine in her hands.

The lycan cub cowered in a chair, watching him with wide, fearful eyes.

"What is your name?” Hoon repeated for the eighth time.

"Darmyk.” The cub spoke in a small voice barely above a whisper.

"Who is your father?"

The cub flinched. “Isranon, son of Isranon."

"You're lying, child."

The cub began to sob.

"You're frightening him, Hoon.” Zinzi refilled her glass and raised it in a silent toast. “I told Julius he didn't look like Isranon."

"He does not resemble my brother or his descendants."

"If there is a deception here, I would look somewhere beyond the cub. He's too young to deceive anyone."

"You are saying that the lie belongs to Malthus?” Hoon stopped pacing, his eyes narrowed. “It has been seven months and Malthus has not yet fulfilled his contractual obligations. The chieftain and the bastard prince are still alive."

Zinzi's lips pursed into a look of contempt and disdain. “Malthus has every reason to send you the wrong child."

"Why is that? What are you holding back, Zinzi?"

"He married the bitch he promised you."

"Merissa?"

"Yes. And he's got her belly swollen. The boy is now his stepson."

"So many surprises.” Hoon knelt in front of the cub. “Do not be afraid of me."

The cub whimpered as Hoon's fingers caressed his temples, and settled there. Hoon reached into his mind, searching and tasting until he found a knotted coercion. Rocking back on his heels, Hoon considered the situation and repressed his growing rage lest he frighten the cub further. “Your mind has been tampered with. I wonder who you are really."

He methodically peeled back the layers of the cub's memories to find what lurked beneath them. “Ahh. I knew it. No descendant of my brother would ever be lycan. We breed true."

The boy shuddered, but did not try to escape the contact.

"What is your name?"

The child's lips trembled. “Gilzean."

"Your parents’ names?"

"Domhnall and Kandaishee."

Hoon rang a bell, summoning a servant. The small mon who answered stood waiting for orders. “Take him out of here, Tito. Give him some sweets, whatever he wishes. Tell Catarina to take good care of him.” Hoon dismissed them with a wave.

"What are you going to do,” asked Zinzi.

"Punish Malthus of course."

"Can I do it?"

Lord Hoon shook his head. “I want you to spy. Bring me back all the information on his forces, his camp, and his habits."

"Consider it done."

"And send for my commanders before you depart. I am taking my army to Red Wolf. I will be returning with two children and a bitch."

"Merissa and Darmyk. Who is the other?"

"Cooley Blackwood."

Word flashed through the mansion concerning the threat Larena posed to Kynyr as soon as Trevor, Cooley, and Tiderider left the salle on the third floor. The first myn they encountered ran off to inform others. People began to fall into step behind them and Trevor soon acquired a posse.

Reaching the door to Kynyr's room on the second floor, Trevor turned the knob and found it locked. Trevor rattled the knob and banged on the door. “Open the door, Larena! Open it now!"

"What's wrong?” Cooley asked.

"She's dropped the bar."

Cooley looked up at Trevor, wide-eyed. “Why would she do that?"

"She's killing him.” Trevor struck the door with his shoulder. “Get me an axe."

"Please don't kill him, Larena. Please.” Cooley begged.

"Step aside, Trevor.” Tiderider pulled his fans and snapped them open. He swept the fans across the door. The wood burst into flame and exploded inward. He snapped his fans closed, shoving them into his sash.

Larena stood in the bedroom door. She flinched and a wooden box flew from her trembling fingers. The lid popped off, spilling a syringe onto the carpet.

Tiderider scooped it up and grimaced. “Hedysmorte."

Trevor met Larena's eyes and thought she looked half-mad.

"He's dead. He deserved it.” Larena slammed the door before Trevor could cross the antechamber.

"No.” Trevor faltered, remembering how he had failed to save Kynyr's father. A unit of Waejontori cavalry had ridden into the yard of the school where Branduff taught. Trevor had herded the cubs out the back door while Branduff walked out unarmed to try and talk to them, buy time for the children to escape. They killed him in cold blood. Trevor flinched away from the thought that he was too late once more. He charged the bedroom door, pounding on it. “Get it open."

"I-I wasn't fast enough,” Cooley said in small wavering voice as his throat tightened. Hands closed on his shoulders, moving him out of the way.

Tiderider handed the syringe to Sha who had entered behind them with a loaded crossbow. The senior Guild healer, a black-haired mon with cornflower eyes, frowned at the syringe. “Hedysmorte works fast. Administered this way? In that amount? He would be dead in minutes."

A sob catching in his throat, Cooley fled.

Tiderider blew the bedroom door apart, saw Larena straddling the windowsill about to escape, and lunged across the room. The Fae seized Larena's arm, jerked her back inside, and threw her into a cabinet. She staggered up, retreating towards a chifferobe.

Kynyr writhed in the grip of hard convulsions, struggling to breathe, his chest heaving. His hands clawed at the bed. His open eyes were glassy and bright. A cyanotic tinge colored his face, and his lips were blue. Small gasping noises escaped him, interspersed with faint canine whimpering. “Gaahds, help me."

Calm and professional, Sha laid the crossbow aside and snapped her case open. She was running on instinct as she filled a syringe with Amphereon and shoved it into Kynyr's arm, depressing the plunger slowly. The convulsions abated.

Kynyr gazed at her and then slipped away.

Sha grabbed his wrist and Read him. “No. This isn't right."

Mary joined her at the bedside. “What?"

"He should not have lost consciousness.” Sha went through her case, trying to think of what to do next.

Larena sidled into a corner, mad with terror as Trevor advanced upon her. “Don't touch me."

Rage suffused Trevor's face making his skin as red as his hair. He had too much of his mother's fire and not enough of his father's discipline. His big fist shot out and he stepped in with the blow, striking before he could stop to think, slamming into Larena's chest with all the strength he possessed and all the power he could bring to bear.

She hurled across the room. The sound of shattering bone accompanied the thud of impact as Larena struck the wall. She flipped sidewise, hitting her head against the sharp edge of a dresser. Larena left a streak of blood along the dresser as she slipped to the floor and lay unmoving.

Trevor knelt beside Larena, a stunned look on his face as he gazed into her unseeing eyes. “I killed her."

Kady stepped into the room, surveying the havoc with Finn beside her, tight-lipped and grim.

Sha sat on the edge of Kynyr's bed, grasping his arm, as she Read his bio-alchemy and assessed his physical state with her arcane senses. “I've done everything I can think of, but he's just slipping deeper into it, Mary. We're losing him."

Trevor scarcely noticed the people moving around him. He had never killed a bitch before. Unless they were a credible threat, like some of the bitches in the battle-clans, Trevor had been taught not to hurt them. Like his father, he was as gentle as he was dangerous. A sob came from behind Trevor as he rose to his feet and turned. Kynyr lay as still as death. Sitting in a chair beside the bed, Trevor's wife Mary wept.

Trevor moved to Mary's side and put an arm around her shoulders. He glanced at Sha. “Is he gone?"

Sha shook her head, weary resignation etched across her features. “Coma. Nothing more can be done for him. I'm sorry."

Kady fought down a spiral of emotions and went cold inside. “Finn, hang Larena's body from the scaffolds on the common. Order a guard out to see that no one removes it until the carrion birds and rats have picked it clean."

"Kynyr..."

"Finn, I'm ordering you. Hang my murderous slut of a sister from the scaffold."

Finn hefted Larena's body to his shoulder and walked out with it.

Cooley pushed through the crowds of people gathering in the hallway to learn what had happened. Tears rushed freely down his face. His nose ran and he wiped at it with the back of his hand. He fled downstairs and out onto the veranda where he hunkered down behind the far side of the sofa.

Rory and Hamish sauntered across the yard, laughing and shoving each other between obscene gestures and a running commentary on how well Malthus had gotten his cock into Larena.

Hamish paused on the veranda, pointing at the sofa, and squatted down to see who was hiding on the other side. “Cooley?"

The two cubs circled the sofa and settled on their haunches looking at their friend. Rory gave his brother a shove, and reached out. “Cooley? Why're you crying?"

"Kynyr's dead."

Rory's brow knotted. “He was getting better..."

"Larena killed him.” Cooley let go a long howl of grief, his features going furry. “Hedysmorte."

Hair erupted over the Scott cubs as they lent their grieving voices to Cooley's, howling like the Wild Cousins.

"Shush.” Starsilent bent over them. He had the silver hair and eyes, almost frost child look of a trueblood, which he was not. Starsilent was a half-blood who had been a member of Lord Channadar of Hellsguard's band of Thirteen Chosen, a Fae combat unit that served as bodyguards.

Four years ago, all but four of them died defending Channadar from a force of vampires that attacked him. Instead of rebuilding the old unit, Channadar had brought in a new one comprised entirely of truebloods under the command of Tiderider. Until now, the three survivors of Tiderider's original unit had been left at loose ends. StealsThunder, a trueblood of legendary proportions, brought Starsilent, Juniperarrow, and Da'Shanagara to serve Kady and give their lives meaning again.

The cubs quieted and stared up at Starsilent. Cooley had not yet decided whether he liked the Fae or not. They puzzled him mightily.

"Why?” Cooley responded, considering the intruder with a hurt softness in his voice and expression.

"Because he isn't dead yet. Sha is working on him. Dry your eyes and go see him—if only to say farewell."

Cooley cocked his head and stared at Starsilent for a moment, before rising to his feet.

"What's going on?” Todd Sinclair, Trevor's father, started up the steps of the veranda.

Starsilent turned. “Larena injected Kynyr with a fatal dose of hedysmorte. He's gone into a coma. It's no longer a matter of if, but when."

Cooley looked up at the big lycan. “I caught Malthus fucking Larena ... I was up on Larkspur ... had to go around to the gate. She must have slipped through the hedges ... cos she got back ‘fore I did.” Cooley stifled a sob. “I wasn't fast enough."

"You did your best."

Trevor sat in the antechamber of Kynyr's rooms, weeping. Lycans were a passionate race, whose public displays of emotion often made their human counterparts uncomfortable. He had to grimly resist the urge to throw his head back in a long forlorn howl of wolven grief. Sha had already informed him that he would have to go sit in another part of the house if he would not stop howling.

Sinclair males tended to marry late and the females tended to marry early. Trevor had set a record in the family by waiting until he was nearly sixty. Nieces and nephews had satisfied the need to have young people around.

Kynyr had been everyone's favorite, the only son of their oldest brother—only son until three months ago when Kynyr's brother was born the same day that their father, Branduff, died.

Too much grief in our lives now. Trevor sucked in a shaking breath and traced the angles of the ceiling with his eyes. The memory of Branduff's death haunted Trevor. He worshipped his half-brother, ten years older than himself, as a child and admired him as an adult. Trevor had gone to the schoolhouse where Branduff taught to tell him that Ulicia had gone into labor. While he was there, a unit of Waejontori cavalry had ridden into the yard. Branduff had asked Trevor to get the children out the backdoor to safety while he tried to talk to them. As Trevor got the last of the children out, he heard his brother scream and knew they had killed him.

"Kynyr?” Todd settled into a chair. He was a legend among his people: the greatest armsmaster the lycan clans had ever known, trained in the Creeyan, Fae, Assassins’ Guild, and Sharani forms as well as the lycan arts. Todd had trained his children and his grandchildren with a mix of discipline and patience like an iron hand in a velvet glove.

As large as Trevor was, he did not match his father. The older lycan stood six foot five inches and weighed two fifty. Despite his one hundred and seven years of age, Todd Sinclair remained mostly muscle and rock hard. His bright red hair, now streaked with white, was as much a Sinclair trait as was his size.

Trevor gazed into his father's strong, hearty face, and struggled for composure. The folded lines running from the wings of Todd's nostrils to the outer edges of his lips were deep; the crinkles around his dark blue eyes were crevices in the stalwart earthiness of his features; his heavy eyelids did not lend themselves to clear expression of emotion, making any effort to read his features difficult even for those who knew him well. His calm, centered mien had always proved impossible for Trevor to equal. His youngest brother, Jordan—Jordy to the family—came the closest to it. They knew their father as a mon who did not go looking for trouble, but once it found him would be utterly relentless in dealing with it.

Trevor found his voice, but could not school the desolation from it as he answered his father's question.

"Coma. Hedysmorte. Larena was sleeping with Malthus. The cub's probably his. She poisoned Kynyr. Possibly on Malthus’ orders."

"She say anything?"

"I killed her. I didn't mean to hit her that hard. But I couldn't stop myself. I-I came in. Kynyr was convulsing on the bed. She'd injected him with hedysmorte."

Todd thumbed at the two doorways, blankets tacked up across them until the doors could be replaced. “You do that?"

Trevor's lips compressed and he shook his head wearily at his father. “Tiderider. Larena tried to lock us out long enough for Kynyr to die."

"Claw disinherited Merissa and her children in his will.” Todd scratched at the back of his head. “Malthus has a vested interest in seeing Kynyr dead, both because of the bad blood between them and the fact that Kynyr stands between his children and the throne. Belgair has made no secret of his desire to be regent and his hostility toward Brock. I need to think about this.” Todd heaved himself up from the chair. “I'm going to be away for a few days. If anyone asks, it's business."

"Dad..."

"I don't want to be here when he dies."

Todd rose and left without going in to see Kynyr. That bothered Trevor, but he understood it. Kynyr had been the best student Todd had ever had, a natural talent, which had led Trevor's father to viewing Kynyr as the heir to his martial legacy. Trevor pressed his fingers into the corners of his eyes as they began to leak again.

"We all thought Kynyr would equal your legend one day ... and now he never will. Damn them. Damn them all for what they've done to Kynyr ... to us ... to our family.” .

When Kady had been establishing her household in the weeks leading up to her marriage to Kynyr, she had hired Iollen Newell to do odd jobs around the place and assist Henry Butterum the caretaker. Now Iollen and his child-bride, Aghavie, lived in the Servants’ Wing of the house. The only other inhabitants of the wing were the three nibari that Kynyr had purchased for Kady as a wedding present.

The cozy bedroom had a worn dressing table with a mirror, two aging wardrobes, and a chest-on-chest set of drawers in the farthest corner. A tapestry had been tacked up behind the chest-on-chest to hide the door into the hallway. The door between the wardrobes let into the second room, making it a suite. The two rooms had originally been adjacent bedrooms in the servants’ quarters of the mansion. Kady had suggested the alternations when she heard that Iollen Newell intended to offer bride price for Aghavie Dunne.

Iollen Newell rubbed the stump of his left shoulder. His fingers itched. It frustrated him because the fingers were not there any longer. The entire arm was missing and part of his shoulder as well. He had been flogged for attempted kidnapping with intent to commit rape. The whip the lawgiver used had silver spikes braided into corded lengths. Iollen developed gangrene as a result and it had been either die or lose the arm. Kady and her grandmother-in-law, Cahira Sinclair, removed it.

He sat on the edge of his bed, caressing his child-wife's pale hair. The cub in her swollen belly was not his. Twelve-year-old Aghavie had become pregnant as a result of a gang rape. He had married her to give her child a name and save her from the shame of unwed motherhood. Iollen had intended it as a form of atonement for his sins and it had blossomed into love.

She looked at him whey-faced. “I don't feel well."

Her eyes had an odd brightness. He felt her forehead. She was very hot.

Fever.

A tremor of fear ran through Iollen. “I'll find Mary."

When Iollen reached the door to the antechamber of Kynyr's suite, Iollen stood for a moment shaking his head at the blankets covering the empty places where the door should have been. He knew a few bits and pieces about what had happened a short while ago, but had no idea of the details. It simply looked as if a war had been fought there.

Then he went inside. Mary and a mon he failed to recognize sat with Kynyr.

"I hate to bother you, Mary. Aghavie's sick. She's got a fever."

Mary checked on Aghavie.

She touched her forehead and then Read her. “Some kind of infection. I'm not familiar with it. I'll fetch Sha and we'll see what we can do."

Iollen sat with his wife until she slept and then he slipped out into the little parlor room. A covered plate and a carafe of tea in a cozy waited for him in the middle of the small square table. Kady always had the nibari bring something up to him when he failed to show for dinner. She treated her servants and hired help like liegemyn.

His thoughts started circling in the quiet as they always did. He felt unworthy of Aghavie's love, undeserving of Kady's kindnesses, and ill prepared for the second chance that Kynyr had given him.

A few months ago, he had still been running with Cormic Parry's crowd. All of them were dead now. Cormic and his friends got their jollies from rape. Any bitch caught walking alone after dark was considered fair game to them. Their first victim had been Aghavie. Seven of them had dragged her into an abandoned house as she was walking home from visiting a friend one night. Iollen, too nervous to get it up, had held her down while the others fucked her.

Only one of Aghavie's attackers other than Iollen still lived: Oswyl Beggins. Kynyr Maguire and Padruig Caimbeul had been thorough in hunting them down. The members of Kynyr's little band had not pursued Oswyl. It seemed pointless, because Oswyl had gone mad and fled into the forest in wolf shape.

The rapes would still be happening, if they had not made Kady their favorite snatch after her father, Hereward, withdrew his protection from her over her affair with Cullen Blackwood. Then Kady moved in with Todd and Cahira Sinclair, Kynyr's grandparents as Cahira's apprentice. The next time that six of them tried to drag her out of a tavern where she was sitting having a drink with Todd all hell broke loose. Kady kicked Cormic to death and Todd killed Keith Greenlea with a single blow. Two of Claw's guardsmyn, Erskine Faraday and Robert Morcar apprehended Iollen and Donald Greenlea on the spot. The other two fled.

Belgair's favorite chastisemon, Damien Kildare, administered the flogging to Donald and Iollen. Donald died. Iollen developed gangrene from his injuries and would have died also, except that Kady cut his arm off to save him. Taking his arm seemed to have squared matters between Iollen and Kady.

Losing his arm had been the best thing that ever happened to Iollen, because it turned him around and made a better mon of him.

"Please be all right, Aghavie. Next time I go into Wolffgard, I'll bring you some of that candy you like so much."

They came down out of the Black Mountains flying three banners: the golden book and blade against a black field of the Assassins’ Guild of Creeya; the black swan rampant against a pale azure field of the Netherguard; and the crimson bear on a hunter green field of Brock Redhand, the long exiled prince of Red Wolf, brother of Claw. Twenty-five lycans in hybrid form, their harnesses jingling, ten Shivari in mon form, two hundred humans, and five swan-mays in silver armor with cloaks of black feathers hanging from their shoulders. Sixty auxiliaries accompanied them with wagons and supplies. Fifteen gryphons of various species circled overhead, reds, blues, greens, and whites.

They traveled cautiously with scouts deployed. In the early afternoon of the third day since crossing into Red Wolf, Stoneriver stood in the center of the town common at Gateshead.

A lady caused my exile and a lady has summoned me home from it, Stoneriver mused, fully cognizant of what an odd thought it was under the circumstances.

He had wondered why he encountered no patrols or other obstacles to slow his march from Creeya down once he crossed the Black Mountains and descended into Red Wolf. Now he knew.

The wind whistled forlornly through the empty streets, creaking the broken doors on their shattered hinges, and pulling at shutters torn half from their moorings. Evidence of violence lay everywhere. They had found bloodstains on floors and beds. However, they had found no bodies. Snow had covered what traces might lie upon the streets themselves, but nothing would show until spring.

Stoneriver held the reins of his horse; his opposite hand curled around the hilt of his greatsword. It took a large horse to carry a mon his size. The dapple-gray with a braided white mane and massive white-feathered feet was a Silvershire charger, a breed created by crossing the heavy, big-boned horses of Silverpaw with the swift and courageous racers of Redhand. Its long, wide back perfectly suited Stoneriver.

The flecks of sparkling silver in Stoneriver's amber eyes glittered with a repressed urge toward violence and an edge of tension. He stood six seven and carried himself with a casual arrogance. His jet-black hair hung in a long braid down his back, contrasting strongly with his pale skin, its heavy thickness bloused around his face despite his best efforts to control it. Although the color was wrong, the texture of his hair resembled that of his brother. He had rugged features, craggy and handsome. His myn adored him; Stone was a mon that they would willingly follow unto death with fearless devotion.

"My lord?” A slender mon in an ankle length dress topped by leather armor approached him. “The search is vain. There are no living myn in Gateshead besides our own."

Stoneriver observed her from the corners of his eyes without taking them off the ruined lawgiver house. “I had hoped, Jenny. I had hoped."

Jennifer Sherbourne lowered her eyes, flicking a strand of saffron hair behind her pointed ears. “I'm sorry, Stone. Really. I searched thoroughly. Even the ghosts of the soil are gone."

Jenny had known Stoneriver for nearly a century, and for a time they had been lovers. But Jenny had wanted marriage and children—things that Stoneriver could not give her. The romance had died, but the friendship remained strong. He turned at last toward the spiritworker. “Divinator?"

"Possibly. If so, he's a strong one."

"Scry wards still holding? I don't want them to know where we are or what we're fielding against them."

None of the military intelligence reports he had read before leaving had prepared him for this. Seeing the empty town hit Stoneriver such a deep blow, that he wanted to lash out and kill someone, something—make someone pay for the atrocities that must have occurred there. In battle, he had to fight his behrsark instincts; and now they were twitching at the edges of his concentration.

"Keretaki says we've been poked at, but not penetrated. The touch was sa'necari, not divinator. Low level scans. They're looking for you, Stone."

"Do not drop the wards until we are on top of them."

Reist Devlin, his second in command, came striding toward him tight-lipped. They were a study in contrasts. Where Stoneriver was rough-hewn and earthy, Reist's features were chiseled as if by a talented sculptor and he had the look of eagles in his steel gray eyes. Reist had a broad forehead, high cheekbones, and a nose that was a bit too long for perfection.

He had a dark, brooding look that Stoneriver knew well. “You found something?"

Reist nodded, his thumbs hooked in his belt, and tension showing in the angle of his shoulders. “Two things. But I think you ought to see what Eiko found first and then what Ramsden discovered."

"Just tell me."

"Stone, we finally found some bodies.” Reist turned, gesturing for Stoneriver and Jenny to follow him.

Reist led them to Stimmons Green on the southeast side of town. Bushes had been pulled up days ago and lay strewn to every side. Blood had dried on the stone benches where once the lycan inhabitants had gathered to chat and visit. In the center of the green, a long trench had been exposed by the gryphons. Eiko Morikawa, a swan may in silver armor, stood beside her blue gryphon, Lars, staring down into the trench with a troubled expression on her delicate face. Lars made distressed noises.

They were soldiers by trade, training, and inclination; veterans and elite. They had seen mangled bodies strewn about a battlefield, and yet what they found disturbed them.

It was a mass grave.

Snow had been cleared from the ground and the top layer of soil removed. Had the weather not been so cold, the bodies would long ago have decomposed. As it was, Stoneriver's stomach tightened although he let no sign of it cross his face.

"Report, Lieutenant Morikawa."

She stiffened and dragged herself to attention. “We estimate there are over two thousand bodies. All male. Stomach and chest cavities empty. Testicles removed."

Stoneriver scanned the troops gathered around the trench. He addressed them in a loud voice, his vibrant baritone carrying across the green with righteous anger and steely determination. “Their souls cry out for retribution. It is owed them. As paladins of Hadjys, it is our sacred duty to bring it for them. What do you say?"

A roar of agreement went up.

He gave them a nod of acknowledgement and turned away with Reist and Jennifer beside him.

"I had heard rumors that the trade in lycan organs had started up again...” Stoneriver's hands clenched and unclenched as he strove to contain his reactions. “This is the first time I have seen them take an entire town for them."

"And now Ramsden's find. It's different, but just as ugly.” Reist walked west along the broad thoroughfare.

"Another mass grave, Reist?"

"No. Worse than that."

Stoneriver wondered what could be worse than what they had already found.

The Temple to Tala, God of the Moon and Hunt, appeared undisturbed on the outside. Reist led them down the inner ambulatory and into the nave. The walls looked as if they had been painted in blood. Stoneriver walked down the nave of the temple between the rows of blood-spattered pews. They reached the kneeling rail, and saw what rested upon the cracked altar. A cub's body lay bound to the altar slab spread eagle, her body violated by blades. Stoneriver touched her, extending his divine senses through the corpse. She could not have been more than ten years old. Semen lingered within her vagina and salted her wounds.

"Gods. Mortgiefan. They shattered her soul and desecrated the altar.” Stoneriver had seen the remains of such malignant blood magic before, but it always hurt him. He could not help but imagine the terror and pain she must have suffered, and he had to force away the images that filled his brain.

"What's in the basement is worse.” Reist led them on.

As they walked, Stoneriver noticed that many of the doors were missing. He thumbed at them as they passed. “What happened to them?"

Reist shook his head. “You'll see when we get to the basement.

When they got there, the killing rage returned to Stoneriver. He never understood whether the nearly uncontrollable anger in his soul came from what he was and who he was or whether it was a permanent legacy of the aphrodisiac that Fianait had slipped into his drinks. She had fallen in love with him in a totally inappropriate manner.

They had been raised to believe they were twins, when actually he was the cuckoo's egg laid in Sorcha Redhand's nest. Their father, Suleahan Redhand, had gotten his mistress pregnant at the same time that his wife Sorcha was, and he and Fianait had been born within days of each other. The lie that both cubs were Sorcha's had been cultivated by both Sorcha and Suleahan. The aphrodisiac had been crafted in Ishla's temple for ordinary lycans. Stoneriver had not been an ordinary lycan. His mother, Ardala, was a minor divine, daughter to Tala and Hadjys. It drove Stoneriver to madness and acts that he would be forever ashamed of—and then it nearly killed him. Fianait became pregnant by him and aborted it on the orders of their father. Yet the scandal had so stained the family, that Suleahan banished him. When his brother Claw ascended the throne of Red Wolf, his first act had to been to rescind the banishment; yet Stoneriver had never gone home again.

All that ran through his mind as he fought his rage and the desire to destroy everything he saw in that basement.

It had been turned into a killing chamber.

The missing doors had been turned into twenty-one crude sacrificial slabs.

Twenty-one bodies lay upon them, their faces twisted into a frozen rictus of anguish. The runes of Bellocar had been drawn large upon the walls in blood. All of the bodies were male. Had they been mixed, both dogs and bitches, Stoneriver would have suspected that the spell was aimed at Red Wolf itself. Instead, it appeared to have been directed at a single individual and he felt certain that person was himself. In which case, the deathmage who had cast it was in for a very unpleasant surprise.

The altar set at the head of the others contained an older, gray-bearded lycan. His belly and chest had been opened. Tiny packets of spelled herbs had been bound to his ribs, placed amidst his entrails, and shoved into various orifices. Seeing it filled him with a terrible resolve.

Stoneriver shook his head. “The thane of Gateshead and all three of his sons. Damn them."

"The enemy commander has acquired a divinator. This could complicate matters.” Reist's eyes narrowed and his lips set in a grim line.

"No, it won't Reist."

"But that's how they destroyed us during the Rebellion."

Stoneriver had not been present during the rebellion eighty years ago. He had been exiled to Creeya eleven years earlier.

"They didn't have me then.” Stoneriver's jaw tightened and he touched the body of Thane Adderuig Balfour, Reading the anguish of the spirit that had lodged within it. “This is recent. Twelve hours ago. Damn them."

He stalked to the stairs. “Burn the bodies in the square. Have Jenny do a turning and binding over them. Reist, let me know when our scouts get back. I want the arses dead for this."

"I'll do it, Stone."

Reist watched Stoneriver climb the stairs. He knew his commanding officer well. Stoneriver had taken him under his wing when Reist first arrived in Creeya.

During Reist's first five years in Creeya, he had left a string of bastards in his wake before he stopped hating women. Reist had enjoyed dumping them after they caught one in the belly from him. He had been cruel and angry ... His actions had been an expression of the emotional pain that lingered from having a drunken skirt chaser for a father—a father who was the Thane of Chandler's Rock in Red Wolf, and a mon that few had the courage to say no to.

Stoneriver showed him how to acknowledge and reach beyond. That led him to legitimize his offspring and provide for them.

He felt, at times, that he owed Stoneriver the salvation of his soul. Reist bore a long scar on his chest where he had stepped between Stoneriver and the blade of an assassin. The Assassins’ Guild did not attack their own. However, there were other groups, small petty bands of killers for hire who did not operate with same principles of honor that the Guild did. The blade had been runed silver and Reist had nearly died; but he would gladly do it again. His devotion to Stoneriver knew no bounds.

Reist gave the orders to a Guildsmon he passed, and ran after Stoneriver, overtaking him at the landing.

"Are you certain we can take them? A divinator is nasty. We could be up against demons."

"Yes. We don't follow the rules ... we make our own."

A thin smile quirked the edges of Reist's mouth. “Now that you've seen this, I can give you the rest of it. They've split their forces. The main army is headed toward Whiteford, but there's a slaver caravan moving slowly just west of here."

"Slavers first. Then we go after their army."

They emerged into the sunlight and stood together, breathing in the cold sweet air where no taint of blood lingered.

"How do you feel about being home, Reist?"

"Strange. At first I blamed my stepmother for ruining my life. Then I blamed my father. No bitch was safe around him. The old dog's appetites were legend. The chambermaids got used to straightening their rumpled petticoats and going on about their business."

Stoneriver gazed down at him unspeaking, so Reist rambled on. His days at court still haunted him.

"You know how it is, Stone. Myn groom their daughters for seduction, and push them at the King ... or in my case the Thane, saying the best proof of a lord's favor is a big belly ... not caring whether the poor bitch ends up as wife or mistress. Why do you think Claw refused to have a proper court? Why he dispensed with the housecarles and hired the guardsmyn? He was sick of it. They are all for their daughters making bastards with the king and thanes, but not for having one of them on the throne."

"Not all of them. I'm my father's only bastard."

"I'm sorry, Stone. I didn't mean to go off like that."

Stone laid his hand on Reist's shoulder and squeezed it. “I know. Come on; let's get after those slavers before they can cross the border."

"You are not going to let borders stop you."

"Of course not, but the mountains complicate matters. So let's catch them on the plains."

Georgie Rogan, the stablemaster to the Redhand family, emerged from the stables as Finn rode into the yard. The gnarled mon had a gaunt face stretched tight across his bones and an over large nose that resembled a chunk of sandy loam slapped between his eyes. He started to greet Finn and then fell silent when he saw the blanket-wrapped form hanging from the packhorse.

"That's a body.” He stated in a flat voice devoid of reaction.

"Larena."

Georgie flicked back the corner of the blanket, gazing at the shattered skull, the gray matter pushed through the cracks in Larena's head, the bloody ruin of her lovely hair. “Bashed her head in. You do it?"

Finn remembered that rumor that had gone around that he had fathered her cub. Hereward Wiggins, Larena's father, had tried to beat his head in over it. “Trevor. We caught her poisoning Kynyr.” His voice tightened, caught between anger and grief. “She may have killed him."

"Slimy whore.” Georgie spit on the corpse. “How'd you catch her?"

Finn shook his head. “Later. It's a long story. Just hold my horses while I fetch some people out."

He went inside, through the foyer, and entered the Great Hall of the Redhand Manor. Two rows of stone support columns ran along the south and north sides of the room. Clusters of comfortable chairs, sofas, and low tables in dark-stained wood broke the Great Hall into false alcoves. The sections of a large trestle table stood stacked along the south wall to be assembled for rare formal dinners. At the east end stood the deep hearth and to the left of the hearth were three looms, a spinning wheel, and several baskets of wool and yarn. Finn's eyes flicked across the black draped loom where Searlait always sat and a tremor of sorrow shivered through him.

Fianait Redhand leaned around the edge of her loom with a pair of blunted scissors in her hand. Finn recalled all the times that Kynyr and he had speculated over the fact that Fianait refused to touch anything sharp. Searlait and Aisha had always cut her meat up for her at meals.

He spied Erskine and Robert sitting with them, and gestured at Erskine.

The lanky guardsmon pushed from his seat, and sauntered over to him, eyes narrowing. “What's up?"

"I got a body to hang from the scaffolds. Kady's orders. Keep it quiet. Gather ten myn and meet me at the common. Don't tell Malthus or Belgair anything."

Erskine gave a discreet nod and headed upstairs to the guardsmyns’ wing of the manor.

Aisha caught the looks passing between the two myn and left her loom. “Is something wrong?"

"I'm not at liberty to say."

"Kynyr? Is he dead?"

"Not when I left.” Finn retreated, feeling as if a spectral hand had reached into his chest and squeezed his heart.

Finn drew rein in front of the scaffolds and stared at them, remembering the day that Claw built them. The scaffolds had originally been four platforms, each of them twenty feet square, with steps along the sides, and a frame across the top to hold the hangmon's nooses. It would be five years come spring that twelve outlaws had been hanged there, four at a time while their companions were forced to watch it, knowing they were next.

Greygor Traygarde had led a mixed group of rogues—lycan, human, and rakshasha—that raided merchant caravans coming up from Chandler's Rock. The town of Chandler's Rock contributed in a large measure to Claw's wealth, since it made Red Wolf the only lycan clan with a major trade route running through it. The outlaws had based themselves east of the Blacktooth Falls in a warren of coombes among the foothills of the Iradrim Mountains. Traygarde had spent his youth in Shaurone and fancied himself a Sharani-style duelist. Kynyr had disobeyed Belgair's direct orders, ridden into a village that the outlaws controlled, and called Traygarde out in Sharani terms that Greygor could not ignore and save face. Kynyr defeated him in single combat, which so demoralized the outlaws that they were easily defeated by Belgair's units. Kynyr and Finn had only been sixteen years old, but they had trained with Todd Sinclair and that made all the difference.

If Finn lost Kynyr, it would mean standing on his own in a way that he never had before. He had been trailing after Kynyr, following his lead since the day he learned to walk. In three days, he would turn twenty-one and he could not get his mind around what life would be like without Kynyr. He no longer remembered some of the things that Todd described to him, like when he and Kynyr were just learning to walk and Kynyr would throw toy soldiers at him.

The last lawgiver, Padruig Caimbeul, had made alterations to the scaffolds. Finn studied it, trying not to think about Kynyr. There were now eight square platforms. The side steps had been removed from each, and a long sturdy walkway connected them in the rear broad enough for three guardsmyn to march the length of it abreast. A log skirt beneath the walkway prevented anyone from seeing what went on behind it with the only steps up to the scaffolds at either end of the walkway. T-shaped flogging posts had been erected on the two central squares.

The doubled number of platforms seemed like an omen of doom as Finn regarded them.

Caimbeul knew matters would get worse before they got better.

More memories of Kynyr danced through Finn's mind.

Kynyr sitting on that rock shelf above the river, brooding. Finn had never told Kynyr that he had found his hiding spot. There were many things he wanted to tell Kynyr and now he might never get to. Confessions of minor transgressions. How he had actually broken Kynyr's fishing pole after borrowing it without asking; instead of the fib he told about it.

"I wish we could go fishing again, Kynyr. Life always seemed so much simpler then."

Finn clenched his eyes shut, muttering to the corpse. “If you've killed him.... “He pounded Larena's dead body with his fist.

Movement at the edge of his vision brought Finn back to his senses. A crowd had gathered. He brandished his fists at them. “Get out of here."

They drew back from him, but made no effort to leave the common.

The jingling of harnesses turned all their heads as Erskine rode up at the head of ten myn. They used their horses to move the crowd back to the edge of the common. Erskine dismounted.

"You want to tell me what this is about, now?” Erskine flicked the edge of the blanket back. “Larena Wiggins?"

"You know those things they use?” Finn imitated the motion of pushing the plunger into a syringe. “Larena used hedysmorte on Kynyr."

"He's dead?” Erskine's voice dropped low, with an edge in it that Finn had never heard before.

"Coma when I left.” Finn's voice was soft, cracking around the edges with grief.

Erskine blew out a heavy breath, his eyes narrowing in a mix of wary concern and foreboding. “You've been gone a lot lately, Finn. So you may not realize this. We're on the edge of a rebellion in the ranks. The myn are taking sides."

"In what way?” Finn tensed, thinking of the cub that Kady carried. Every nerve in his body came to attention and, without realizing it, Finn shifted into a guard stance as if readying for battle.

"There's two factions and the myn are split. Half of them, maybe more than half, object to both Kynyr and Brock. The other half will accept Brock if Kynyr does. Belgair is making no secret of the fact that he wants to be Regent and see Merissa's sons on the throne. Belgair supports Malthus."

"Who is leading the other faction?"

"I am. If Kynyr dies, I'll see his son on the throne with a proper regent even if I have to gut Belgair and Malthus to get it."

Finn met Erskine's eyes, surprised by the vehemence in the usually easy-going mon's voice. Erskine was a widower. Ten years ago, he had lost his wife to Black Mountain Fever a month after it claimed his father. Dympna had been seven months pregnant and the cub died with her. So far as Finn could judge, Erskine had filled the void in his life with Kynyr and Kady as if they had become his family.

"I'm with you. Now shall we hang this whore?"

"Yeah."

Once they had Larena's body hanging by her wrists from the central platform on the scaffolds, Finn headed back to the Maguire Estate. The ride seemed long and desolate. He gazed at the stark fingers of trees in their death-like winter slumber, resenting being ordered away from Kynyr to hang Larena's body. There had been no one else to ask; no one else at the estate right then who could slip into the building and ask Erskine for assistance without raising questions from everyone he passed. Finn feared to the bottom of his soul that Kynyr would be dead by the time he returned.

He rode slowly through the main gate that fronted on East Pendarke Road and along the path to the courtyard. Fychan appeared and took his reins as he dismounted. Finn felt as if someone had been piling stones in his belly when he crossed the columned veranda and entered the house.

StealsThunder sat talking to three Fae—Finn still did not know all of their names—and she sprang to her feet when she saw him. The diminutive Fae grabbed him by the arm. “Kady needs you to write a letter to Darcy."

"What for?"

"Kady needs her help."

Erskine settled on the top step of the stairs that faced Main Street. He rubbed the back of his long neck, pinched the corners of his eyes, and released a weary sigh that had been gathering in his chest for hours.

His thoughts wandered to his dead wife, thinking of the ways that Kady reminded him of her. If he and Dympna had had a daughter, Erskine liked to think she would have been like Kady. One thought led to another, and eventually, he found himself remembering the night that Kynyr collapsed.

Four of them had gone after Shalto Beggins, one of the last two members of a juvenile gang that had murdered the lawgiver Padruig Caimbeul. Kynyr had looked haggard that night, lines in his face that should not have been there, and a listless quality to his movements. Erskine had been tempted to ask, and kept silent, deciding that if Kynyr wanted to talk about what was bothering him, he would. Erskine wished, now, that he had asked when he first noticed the changes in Kynyr, wondered if matters would have turned out better if he had.

"You okay, Erskine?” Robert Morcar sat down one step lower than Erskine. Morcar was a ‘black’ lycan, light olive skin and stiff black hair that he wore short, with a stocky build.

He started to answer ‘yes’ and changed that to a shake of his head. “Thinking about Kynyr. Belgair. Malthus."

"We're with you all the way, Erskine."

"I know.” Erskine squeezed Robert's forearms in acknowledgement.

"Always faithful. Remember that."

Always faithful. Kynyr had signed the notes he left on the bodies of Malthus’ followers—the ones who had murdered the lawgiver Padruig Caimbeul—always faithful. The significance of the words had grown among those loyal to the bastard heir. We'll always be faithful, Kynyr. Always.

Willy Galloway climbed the steps and stood looking down at them. The small wiry wolf only managed to seem taller when everyone else was seated. He had his thumbs in his belt as he considered them. “I don't know whether to be suspicious or not, but the timing's nasty."

Robert and Erskine turned wary eyes to Willy.

"Belgair sent a courier to his father this morning. They've been exchanging letters for weeks now. You know who he is, don't you?"

Erskine thought for a moment. Belgair had always been reluctant to speak of his family. Then it hit him. “The Thane of Heatherford."

"Bloody hell!” Robert snarled. “He's rousing the thanes."

Belgair's father, Clennan—an embittered cripple—was the only surviving son of the previous thane. With the exception of Belgair Doherty, all of Claw's guardsmyn were commoners. When Claw had dismissed his housecarles, replacing them with his soldiers, he had wished to be rid of all the old ways that had failed him during the tragedies of the Lycan Rebellion. Which was, Erskine reflected, why Belgair would keep his family origins to himself. Erskine's father had been a wheelwright; Robert's a tanner; and Willy's was a farmer.

"Belgair may have the thanes, but we have Todd Sinclair."

Richard Dunwoody joined them on the steps; a rock-solid guardsmon with a blocky build, sucking on a stick of horehound candy that bobbed up and down at the corner of his mouth. “You're talking civil war here."

"I know it.” Erskine pinched the corners of his eyes. “We didn't ask for it. They did. But we either crawl on our bellies or we stand like fighting dogs and protect what's ours."

Morcar, ever the quiet pragmatist, scanned their faces and then lowered his head like a wolf protecting his throat. “You know, or should, that if we allow the thanes and Belgair to place Merissa's children on the throne, the first thing they'll do is execute Kynyr, Kady, and their child to remove them as rival claimants."

Robert Morcar had never shown the slightest inclination toward history and politics, or any knowledge of it before; so the assembled myn were as surprised to hear his observation as they were quick to agree.

"We can't let that happen,” said Erskine.

Robert nodded. “My father always said the reason Claw replaced his housecarles with soldiers from the common folk, was to eliminate the politics, and the chance of something like this happening."

"If that's what he wanted, then why in the hell did he keep Belgair?"

"My father says that hiring Belgair was a bone thrown to Aisha's sister—Belgair's mother."

Erskine blew a harsh breath through his pursed lips. “Belgair is more loyal to the old ways, than he is to Claw."

"What are we going to do?” Richard pulled the candy from his mouth, pointing the sharp end at Erskine.

"For now? Just keep an eye on Belgair and Malthus. See what Todd thinks."

Darmyk had his own suite of rooms and only used the general playroom when coerced into it by Malthus’ two nieces, Ros and Lyrri. That night he had gone to bed early rather than deal with the two terrifying little girls. He kept toys in the antechamber of his suite and toys in his treehouse. The only children that he played with willingly were the Scott cubs and Dyna the peddler's grandchildren.

Malthus had taken note of this. He always studied his victims’ habits as much as he could. The boy had not yet begun to show signs of Malthus’ depredations, but that would come and myn would notice the child was sick and dying. The constraints of Malthus’ pretence in this place, the requirements of subtlety had begun to pall. Drowning Searlait had appeased him for a time, but boredom had set in swiftly afterward. His only gesture of impatience had been to have Larena inject Kynyr with the hedysmorte.

Stealing into Darmyk's room late at night, Malthus found the boy sleeping with that ‘uncanny beast’ named Kerry. The cat hissed at him as if sensing his intentions. Malthus took his robe off and threw it over the beast. Kerry twisted and ripped and squirmed and struggled to get at Malthus, which gave the mon an intense satisfaction at having defeated the beast so easily. Malthus carried the cat down the hallway and thrust him into a closet, robe and all. Then he shut the door and headed for the kitchen. Removing the beast would not prove difficult.

In the cool room, Malthus found a pan of table scraps intended for the rest of the felines in the manor. He filled a bowl with them and carried it to his study, where he placed them on his desk and sat down. After treating the food with an appropriate poison, Malthus placed the bowl in the closet with Kerry. He would return for his robe in a few hours and toss the cat's carcass on the midden heap.

Malthus walked back to Darmyk's room feeling satisfied with himself. He had hated that tiger-striped cat with a passion. He slipped in while the boy slept and locked the door. He sent Darmyk into a deeper sleep and pushed his nightshirt off him. Malthus regarded the boy a long time. Darmyk reminded Malthus of Isranon, and he remembered Isranon's fourteen-year-old body squirming and struggling beneath him as he raped the youth. He would have gone back for seconds, except that Prince Mephistis had violently objected to the rape of his catamite, and Malthus had not dared to touch Isranon after that.

That was a long time ago, before Malthus had begun stealing legacies. He suspected that he was now as powerful a sa'necari as Mephistis had been at his death.

He toyed with the idea a bit more of raping the son as he had the father, and then discarded it. Maybe after Claw had died. Malthus drew his hand over Darmyk's body and the body shivered in his sleep. One by one, he found the sa'necari linkages along Darmyk's mage nets, neural centers, and shaukra connections. He charred the boy's ability to heal with blood, and his general gift for healing his body. Then Malthus drew from his own life essence to heal over the damage until it looked like very old scarring. A Reader would be forced to assume that it had happened at birth.

Darmyk moaned and opened his eyes, staring up at his stepfather in alarm.

Malthus’ hand shot out and he covered Darmyk's mouth. The boy squirmed, his eyes huge. Malthus lunged into Darmyk's mind and knotted a coercion into it. He noted Ros’ coercions that she had laid months ago and smiled at his niece's skill with a swell of pride. “You cannot tell on me now, Darmyk. No more than you can on Ros."

"She said she was going to kill me."

Malthus chuckled. “She isn't going to kill you. I am."

Tears rolled down Darmyk's cheeks.

Malthus sat down on the bed, stroking Darmyk's thin chest. “Now, now. I haven't given you a bad death. In a few days, you'll start to feel sick. Eventually, you'll be too tired and sick to play."

"Like my grandpa?” Darmyk shivered.

"Not at all. I damaged different organs in your body."

Darmyk cringed at the idea that Malthus had put something inside him. “You hate me."

Malthus chuckled. “I don't hate you, Darmyk. It's your father I hate. You're just inconvenient."

Darmyk did not understand that word, but decided to ask Bodi what it meant. Bodi knew more words than anyone else did in the whole world.

"Turn your head to the side. I haven't had sa'necari blood in a long time."

Darmyk obeyed, and Malthus bit him.

Kerry sniffed at the tainted food.

"Of all the stupid tricks..."

He felt affronted by the entire matter of being shoved in a closet with a bowl of poisoned meat. Kerry pissed upon Malthus’ robe and then took a large shit in the middle of it. That mollified him a bit.

Rearing onto his hind legs, Kerry placed both forepaws on the knob and tried to turn it.

"Locked or sealed?"

He put his ear to the door and listened to see if anyone was around. For the longest time, he heard people moving about. He waited with growing impatience, certain that Malthus intended to hurt Darmyk. The boy's stepfather abused the child, punishing Darmyk for assumed wrongs by battering him. Darmyk always had bruises. Kerry did his best to stay close to the child, but it was not always possible. Malthus smelled human. Kerry could not reconcile that fact with the sliver of intuition that said there had to be more to the mon. He had reduced his duties as far as he could. Kerry had not requested approval from his superiors in Creeya to cease his observation of Wolffgard; instead he had split his duties with his friends, Tandu, Iswara, and Damayanti. The lycans could not tell the three tomcats apart, but Damayanti was conspicuous as the only queen cat in the band.

Once the sounds died down, and he ascertained that the hallway was empty, Kerry shifted to his human form and broke the knob off. The door opened easily. He turned back into a cat and slipped out. Then he changed his mind and went back for the dish. It would not do for some of the house cats to get themselves poisoned. He turned back into a mon, picked up the bowl, and stole into the first room he found empty. There he went out the window and leaped to a tree with the dish.

Kerry buried the food, pissed on it, and piled rocks atop it. He hoped that would keep other animals from getting into it. Becoming a cat, Kerry returned to Darmyk's room. Springing onto the bed, Kerry sniffed Darmyk. The child seemed unhurt. From now on Kerry would have to either hunt for his dinner or steal from the pantry; he could no longer trust his food to be safe. He knew of a patch of rabbit burrows where he could catch a nice warm furry dinner with little effort. Then he would eat it in the treehouse where he could hear if Darmyk needed him.

A little old mon in black robes sauntered along Main Street untroubled by the snow on the ground, giving the village of Wolffgard the first good looking over that she had had time for since her arrival two weeks ago. Hump backed and bent with age, the lines and folds of Dyna's face were crevices around her hooked nose.

Main Street traversed the village, which was large enough to be called a small town, from east to west with numerous residential side streets. She passed mostly the traditional longhouses of variegated stone, with newer frame houses sprinkled through, painted in the forest colors beloved by the lycans. Wolffgard supported a large assortment of shops and establishments, including two eateries, five taverns, two inns, a dry goods, a tanner's, a blacksmith and a harness-maker.

The majority of lycans were no more than semi-literate, hence the graphics on the signs over every place of business. Where human villages tended to be dirty, with streets of dead brown, packed down earth, the lycan main street was thick with trees of all kinds and gardens. Come spring the town would bloom with color, grass would grow in a wide swath down the middle, and the trees would shade the fronts and sides of every building. The tree rounds and benches for sitting scattered through with comfortable abandon were empty since the weather had driven folks indoors.

When she reached the center of town, Dyna spied the first of the two shops she had come looking for: the Scarlet Angel Mage shop. It sat five doors down from the Difficult Horse Tavern, which was the most popular one in Wolffgard. The second shop, the one that Dyna considered most urgent to visit right then, was Cahira's Potions and Notions.

It stood around the corner and down two blocks from the Difficult Horse Tavern on Elmind Street. Underneath the words on the sign were three sets of symbols that the largely illiterate lycan community could understand: a mortar and pestle; a serpent wrapped staff; a book, a bottle of ink, and a quill. The shop combined Cahira's four specialties; apothecary, healer, scribe, and translator. She could read and write in six languages, and she spoke ten. For a lycan that was unusual. Some could manage to speak four: lycan, common, Sharani and Waejontori.

The bell hanging from the door rang as Dyna pushed it open and went inside. Cahira's Potions and Notions had display cabinets along two sides with wall to ceiling shelves and drawers behind them and along the back. A table with seven chairs stood at the rear, where customers could discuss their choices and pay for the purchases. The standard merchandise included medicines, salves, creams, and cosmetics on one side and sewing needs on the other. The rest of it changed from time to time as Cahira's suppliers found assorted items of limited availability to offer her. A stack of ‘pressed’ books occupied the end of one display counter. The city of Havensword in Creeya had three of the new printing presses imported from Iradrim; Red Wolf had none. Whenever a supplier offered her a crate of pressed books, Cahira bought the lot of them, appropriating what looked like a good addition to her own library; then Todd went through to see if any ‘naughty’ books had been included and made off with those he had not acquired yet; and the remainder were sold in the shop.

Dyna had never met Cahira, but she had known of her for more than eighty years. She spied a tiny lycan bitch sitting at the table in the rear of the shop. The bitch's long blonde hair threaded with gray matched the description of Cahira Sinclair that Dyna had been given. The only thing Dyna could not yet be certain of was whether she had the temper of a stung badger that so many people had mentioned.

"Is Todd around?"

Cahira looked at her curiously. “You know my husband?"

Dyna grinned. “Met him at Kinsdale Wood."

"Dyna?” Cahira's mouth fell open. “Is that you?"

"Yup."

Dyna had found Todd lying on the battlefield where he had been left for dead following the ambush at Kinsdale Wood. Her ‘grandchildren’ Lilac and Bodi had been stripping the dead of whatever looked worthwhile and discovered that Todd was still alive. They took him home with them and nursed him back to health.

Cahira rose and came around the table, hugging her. “I'm so glad you've come."

"Most folks hate to see me coming.” Dyna grinned and hugged her back. “So where's Todd? I got some stuff for him."

"Todd's not here right now. He's gone to see our grandson, Kynyr."

"How is Kynyr? I been meaning to come by. Just been too busy with other things since I got here."

Cahira averted her eyes, the corners of her mouth trembled. “Black Mountain Fever."

Dyna settled into a chair across from Cahira. “Sorry to hear about that."

Cahira sucked in a breath and grabbed Dyna's hand. “Forgive me, but I know who and what you really are."

Dyna shrugged with a quick sideways wag of her head. “I figured you did by now, considering all the presents I sent Todd last autumn."

The crone pressed her forefinger to her temple and chewed on her middle nail while she reached a decision. She let the concealing glamour drop and stood revealed. Dynanna God of Cussedness and Perversity had an upturned pixie nose; high well-formed cheekbones with delicate hollows beneath; full lips that seemed to promise trouble; and an abundance of long red-gold hair. She wore a longshoremon's shirt with the first three buttons open and a loose pair of pants with dozens of big pockets.

According to many priests of many gods, Dynanna's unpredictability and uninhibited impulsiveness made her potentially one of the most dangerous deities in their world; far beyond her stature as a very minor young god—a yuwenghau. The tales of the trouble she could get people into—and out of—where both legion and legend; for that reason she was most often referred to as the Trickster. She had cursed the Sun God's garden with gophers, a dwarf family with seven generations of six foot children, given the Obsidian Dragon a case of hives that kept him scratching frantically for centuries, caused the entire household guard of the Grand Master of Creeya to simultaneously shit their britches, and stolen more than half of the War God's armories. She had done much, much more than that, but most gods and myn did not want to admit that they had had a visit from Dynanna.

Cahira nodded. “You must help us."

"I can try. Tell me what's going on?"

"We thought that Kynyr had the fever. Then we learned it was poison. But we're not letting that out."

"I'm an aggravationist, not a healer."

"I know. But you've saved people from worse."

Dyna considered for a moment. “I guess our business can wait. I better have a look at Kynyr. Tell me how to get there?"

Cahira did so.

Dyna took a glass globe from her pocket and placed it on the table. “Pandeena don't want me undercutting the merchants around here, so I'd like to have you sell this stuff for me and take your percentage.” She tapped the globe with a word of command and Cahira's shop overflowed with merchandise.

By the time that Cahira could think of what to say, Dyna had vanished.

Henry Butterum had been the caretaker for the mansion since Elton McCain built it fifty years ago. Kady Maguire had insisted upon retaining his services when McCain sold the estate to them last fall. As lycans went, Henry was solidly middle-aged, a mere eighty-years-old. With winter's arrival and the huge influx of myn into the mansion, Henry found himself doing more butlering than caretaking. He answered the knock at the door.

A little old mon stood there. She gave him a cheeky grin as if to offset the fact that she was clearly human. “My name is Dyna and Cahira sent me."

Not including the human females and their children living at the Sanctuary Refugee Camp in the northeast, Henry could count the humans living in Wolffgard on one hand.

"I assume you're another healer come to examine the prince?"

"Yuppers, I am."

Henry escorted Dynanna to Kynyr's bedroom. He lay unconscious, his breathing harsh and struggling. A mon with long black hair and cornflower eyes pulled a syringe out of his arm. “I doubt I can keep him alive."

"But you're still going to try?” Kady held Kynyr's opposite hand, her face tight.

"Yes.” Sha moved away from the bed as she finished her examination.

"Excuse me.” Henry interrupted. “This is Dyna. Cahira sent her."

"There's nothing you can do,” Sha said. “He lapsed into coma two hours ago."

"We'll see about that.” Dyna settled into a chair and grasped Kynyr's arm to Read him. “He looks bad. Ya know. What he needs is someone who can cast Shared Life."

"I don't know anyone who can cast it. Tell me what that would accomplish, and perhaps I can come up with an alternative."

"Sharani have immunities. Sometimes you can move that to a mon by using Shared life."

The Sharani were an odd race that had been altered by Ishla the Tinkerer. It took three parents, bloodmother, wombmother, and sire to produce a viable offspring. The bloodmother moved the embryo to the wombmother by way of an arcane energy called the kyndi. Their large, muscular females were more than fifty percent stronger than they looked, and they were immune to nearly all poisons and toxins.

Sha's attention perked up. “I've seldom worked with Sharani. The immunities are in the blood, aren't they?"

"Yeah."

"What about an infusion of Sharani blood?"

"The blood would have to be compatible to his.” Dyna chewed her lower lip, thinking. “Yeah, that might do it."

"Such as a lycan with mixed ancestry?"

"That would do it."

Mary shook her head. “I don't know of any. Our people don't find theirs attractive."

"I know of one such marriage.” Kady looked hopeful. “When Kynyr was in Hell's Widow, he met Captain Artemisia Leonidian, who is married to a lycan named Tully Abernathy. I don't know if they have children."

"It would be worth finding out.” Sha placed her equipment back into the case as she spoke.

Mary shook her head. “In this weather ... it would be hard to get there. Take at least a day and a half."

Hope faded from Sha. “He won't last that long."

A sly smile came over Dyna's face. “Write a letter, loan me a messenger they know and two horses. I'll be back with what you need in a couple of hours. You think you can hold him together that long?"

Sha nodded. “I can try."

In the shadow of a leafless walnut tree, Vayle Stewart glanced at Dyna, who sat her horse as easy as a youth. He had craggy-features, a wary slant to his eyes, and a tight-lipped edge to his mouth that appeared to be trapped between a sneer and a grimace. He came across as a cautious mon, who preferred to pick his battles, but once committed to an action went at it with ironclad determination.

There was more to her than first appeared, yet he could not quite decide what. He pulled at the beard he grew each winter to keep his face warm.

"Well, ready to ride?"

Dyna laughed. “Ready to Jump?"

Before he could respond, a tingling sensation swept through him and his horse shivered violently. He blinked and they were sitting at the outskirts of Hell's Widow.

"You could have warned me."

"I did."

They rode along Main Street—seemed like every town had one—and the Devil's Dance Inn came into view. Dyna reined and stared at it for a moment, frowning. She glanced from the sign of three demons dancing to the intricate scrollwork around the windows and door. The three-story building was brightly lit and looked too expensive for the east end of town. She scrutinized the architecture, the colors it was painted—red and black—and counted the dormer windows on the third floor. “Uh, huh.” Dyna gave an emphatic snort. “Thought ya could put one over on me, did ya? Boy do I have some funsies for you."

"What is it?” Vayle nudged his horse closer to hers.

"I heard you got all the sa'necari out of Hell's Widow."

"We did."

"Then what's a Sa'necari waystation doing still standing?"

Vayle's eyes searched the structure for evidence of the nature his strange companion had attributed to it. He had never gone into most of the various inns and taverns that the humans ran, sticking closely to the lycan ghetto where he did not have to interact with them. “How can you tell?"

"Trade secret. You can't trick a trickster.” Dyna hummed for a moment, considering. “Wrong season for snakes. Badgers are sleeping. How about some rats?” Dyna dismounted and stalked over to the Devil's Dance Inn. She drummed her fingers on the side of the building. “Yuppers, I bet this town is just plain full of rats."

Vayle gave her an uneasy look as he dismounted and joined her by the building. “If there are sa'necari here, then it's dangerous. We need to tell the garrison."

"Nope. This one's mine.” Dyna turned to him. “Mount up and get ready to ride hellbent for leather."

"Huh?"

She stalked to the door of the inn, and stepped inside.

Everyone turned to stare at her. Dyna grinned, shoved her hands in her pockets, and came out with a handful of glass globes. “Happy Solstice!"

She hurled the globes into the common room. As they shattered, a terrible stench poured out of some and an ichorous green vapor out of others. Dyna darted out of the inn, holding her nose, and shrieked at Vayle, “Run!"

Dyna sprang to her horse and kicked him into a gallop. Vayle stared for an instant as shouts and screams erupted. Then myn started tumbling out of the inn. His attempt to mount normally turned into a leap and he raced after her.

"What the unholy hell did you do?"

"Beast repellent."

When they had put six blocks between them and the inn, Dyna slowed her horse down to a walk.

"You know, Vayle. Most folks like me are all tangled up in rules and regulations. I just ignore those things."

"Humans?"

"Nah.” Dyna chuckled.

"Mages?"

"Nah, not them either."

Vayle's frown deepened and he scratched at his blond beard. “What are you?"

"Trade secret. But don't worry. I'm on your side."

"I certainly hope so,” Vayle said, without sounding the least bit convinced.

"You see, I not only don't think inside the box. I don't live in it either."

They passed Corbie Way and Dyna glanced down the street. “Whoa, you must have had some fire."

"Six square blocks burned. Todd thinks the fire was set to cover the murder of Cooley's mother, Silkie Faggini."

"The little cub with the brown eyes?"

Vayle nodded.

A reflective look came over Dyna's face. “You know, if the lycans wanted to make a stink about it—which I doubt they do—Cooley's got as much claim to the throne of Waejontor as the current queen does."

"How do you figure that?"

"Cause his ma was Silkanna Mircala de Waejonan, Prince Shintar's daughter."

"Bloody hell."

"Yup. The queen's his aunt. Except Cooley's not a bastard and the queen is."

"How do you figure that? Cullen Blackwood never married."

Dyna winked at him. “Trade secret. I took care of that."

Barricades crossed the streets leading into the lycan district. Soldiers and armed civilians manned them. Vayle was recognized and they opened a way for him and Dyna to ride in. They rode three blocks further and arrived in the yard of the Three Candles Inn. A soldier took their horses and they entered through the back door that led past the kitchen. The interior was done in lightwoods and trimmed in forest green.

Amos Raggat the owner, a fat lycan who looked like an apple dumpling on legs, trotted up to them. “Hello, Vayle. What can I do for you?"

"Darcy around?” Vayle scanned the tables. The place had been rearranged again. A long trestle table dominated the middle with smaller tables around it.

"Still using the north room as before."

Vayle headed for the stairs at the rear with Dyna following. He found her spryness astonishing. Dyna did not move like an old mon. Vayle took the stairs two at a time and she kept up with him. She stayed right on his heels all the way to the north room.

Four myn sat at the long central table. Darcy occupied the head of it, although that should have been Lord Brodrig's place. She had a sharp, aquiline gaze like a hawk eager to strike, and fox-red hair she wore pulled back in a braid, revealing that half her left ear was missing. Vayle had always been curious about the maimed ear, but knew better than to ask.

Tobrytan MacFie, Artair's oldest surviving brother, sat at Darcy's right hand. He reminded Vayle poignantly of Fergus MacFie, whose irascible courage had struck a chord in Vayle's heart. Tobrytan's brother Eanruig filled the chair beside him.

Darcy sprang from her seat and hugged Vayle. “Where's Finn? I thought he was coming."

Vayle's mouth tightened and he shook his head. “Can't come. Kynyr's sick."

"Bad?” Darcy sobered.

"Yeah.” Vayle took Finn's letter from his pouch and handed it to her.

"Amos, fetch a bottle of whiskey.” Darcy returned to her chair and opened the letter.

My Dearest Darcy,

I write this on behalf of the Princess Kady Maguire. Prince Kynyr has been poisoned and lies close to death. We need you. The only thing that might help him is a lycan that carries the Sharani immunities.

I need you.

Always Faithful,

Finn

Darcy tapped the letter against her chin. “Tobrytan, assemble a unit of twenty myn. We're riding for Wolffgard as soon as I talk to Tully Abernathy.” She sucked in a deep breath and blew it out through her flared nostrils. “How did this happen?"

"He was poisoned by his wife's sister,” said Vayle Stewart.

"A terrible thing that. Why would she do it?"

"I suspect that she wanted Kynyr and when she could not have him, she decided to kill him instead."

"Have they executed her?"

"Trevor Sinclair knocked her head in."

"Appropriate, I suppose.” Darcy rested the letter against her chin, tapping it from time to time. “How is a lycan with the Sharani immunities supposed to help the prince?"

Dyna answered. “A method of giving blood transfusions. The healer thinks that a transfusion from a lycan with both the Sharani immunities and a compatible blood type might transfer those immunities to Kynyr."

"Tully Abernathy has three children, ages twelve, fourteen, and sixteen by his Sharani wives. Will this hurt them?"

"Nah. Just a little will do it."

Darcy nodded. “Okay, let's go talk to Tully."

Dyna Jumped Darcy, a unit of MacLachlan soldiers and a matching unit of Sharani to a bend in Pendarke Road, three hundred yards from the bridge that crossed onto Red Wolf soil. She gave Darcy a wink and vanished, leaving them to ride the last distance without her.

Broad spectrum Jumps had become easier for Dyna to manage over the years. There were no more catastrophes like the one that happened a few years ago when she Jumped a tent full of lycans, vampires, and yuwenghau to Imralon in a fit of pique. That time she had nearly killed Isranon, knocked all the lycans unconscious, and really made a mess of everything.

She shimmered into being in front of the Devil's Dance Inn and dropped her disguise. Dynanna God of Cussedness and Perversity tied her red gold hair back with a length of black suede, summoned her gold washed armor with her personal device of an emerald squiggly question mark in the middle, clipped her mace called Basher on and stepped inside.

"I'm here to take names and kick butt!"

The owner, Dymier Bianco, was opening more windows to get the last of the stench out from Dynanna's previous assault. His waystation no longer harbored any sa'necari from the upper ranks or the steeped-in-death variety. The last of those who had frequented his establishment had been killed at the Battle of the Scarlet Petticoat along with Alexander Jondries and Heironim Traxton. Most of his patrons were humans sympathetic to the sa'necari, smugglers, and others whose activities did not bear close inspection.

He goggled at her for an instant before shouting, “Get her."

Dynanna shrugged and cast Revelation, which she had learned from Josiah Abelard. All illusions and glamours exploded. Many of the myn in the room remained unchanged, so she knew they must be human. However, some, including Dymier had their eyes altered by her spell. They changed to Sa'necari amaranthine without whites, iris, or pupil.

As the swordsmyn bore down on her, Dynanna wiggled her fingers at them. “Flux."

All of them dropped with stomach cramps and raging diarrhea. Spells flew as the sa'necari threw death webs at her. She deflected them, pointed, and began reducing the sa'necari, leaving them whimpering on the floor. “Kidney stones! Hives! Gout!"

Her curses took them down and, as she walked past each sa'necari, she bashed his head in and hollered “Splat."

"Man, I hate you guys,” she muttered.

To Dyna's vast annoyance, she found the rest of the inn empty save for a large herd of nibari huddling in their rooms.

"Don't know what to do with you guys. Maybe Kady needs more servants?"

Tree trunks formed the support columns of the bridge spanning the gorge that had been cut through the sheer stonewalls by the deep cataract known as the Eirlys River. Winter had muted the rushing roar of the Eirlys, covering its raging depths with thick ice and a layer of snow. On three sides, the land descended into rugged canyons and twisted valleys that looked like a giant had ripped his fingers through the soil. The lycan clans preferred to make their homes in hard to reach places, areas that could easily be defended against invasion. The half-walls of the bridge's sides offered limited shelter while not blocking the view of people approaching it from the Waejontori side.

Forty-seven myn approached the bridge flying three different banners: the golden gryphon against a green background of the Sharani Mar'ajanate of Danae; the wolverine banner of MacLachlan; and Darcy MacFie's personal banner of a swan and three snow jasmines.

Darcy MacFie raised her arm and signaled a halt with a closed hand.

The ha'taren, a Sharani paladin of Aroana, rode forward to join Darcy at the bridge. “Are you going to handle this or do you need me?"

"Best that I do it, Jocasta."

Jocasta Doraymus arn Leonidian nodded. “As you wish."

She sat head and shoulders taller than Darcy, bronze-skinned with glossy black hair down her back in a braid. Her broad shoulders would have done a male proud. She sat upon a barded wynderjyn, a unicorn-horse hybrid.

Darcy rode forward into the middle of the bridge accompanied by Brother Malcolm who carried her parley flag in his lance cup. She did not immediately see the bridge guards, but she knew they were there.

Three lycans emerged from a thick stand of fragrant white pine and cedars three spear lengths beyond the bridge on the lycan side where a heavy barrier of snow-clad brush and briars offered them concealment from people approaching from the Waejontori side.

A rough-featured lycan in Red Wolf colors and the wolf's head badge of a sergeant at arms stepped to the edge of the bridge and frowned at her. “What brings Clan MacLachlan to Red Wolf?"

"I'm Darcy MacFie, General to Lord Duncan MacLachlan in charge of the occupation of Hell's Widow.” She pulled Finn's letter out. “My presence has been requested at the Maguire Estate by Finn MacIver and the Princess Kady."

The sergeant thawed with a smile. He had always admired the way that Kynyr and Finn handled themselves. Their training showed and Kady's did also. He would never forget the night at the Difficult Horse when Cormic Parry and his buddies tried to abduct her. She kicked Cormic to death. Lon had helped arrest Cormic's companions, including Iollen Newell and Donald Greenlea. “Sergeant Lon Anglesey, Lady MacFie."

Darcy's mouth tightened in irritation. “General MacFie."

Lon gave her a quick nod of acquiescence. “You and yours may cross onto Red Wolf lands. You need a guide..."

"I don't. Brother Malcolm knows the way."

"Nah, you need a guide. I'm letting you in because of Kynyr. But if Belgair sees you ride past the manor, he's going to throw a fit. Take the road over there and avoid it. Just go straight along it.” Lon gestured for one of his myn to mount up and lead them.

"Who's Belgair?"

"The Captain of the Guardsmyn. A word of warning. Belgair hates Kynyr and all who side with him."

"Then, I'll just have to hate everyone who opposes Kynyr.” Darcy gave him a wry smile.

"You do that. I'd like to see it."

"Keep watching.” Darcy raised her arm with a ‘move out’ gesture to her troops and MacLachlan entered the kingdom of Red Wolf for the first time in centuries.

"What's this?” Trevor Sinclair looked out the window. “MacLachlan soldiers? And Sharani troops also?"

Finn joined Trevor at the window and then bolted out the front door. “Darcy!"

She dismounted.

Finn grabbed her, giving her a strong hug and a thorough kiss.

Darcy pushed away from him with a wink. “Save that for the bedroom, lover."

Fychan Helmsley appeared and gestured for the myn to bring their horses around to the stables in the back.

Jocasta arrived and gave a small bow of her shoulders to Finn. “May the Light of Aroana bless you."

Finn looked up at her. He was not short by lycan standards, but she had to be at least six five. “Yes, Ma'am, thank you. Same to you."

A slender dog lycan who barely came up to her shoulder joined her with three young myn in tow. He extended his hand to Finn. “I don't think we met the last time you were in Hell's Widow. I'm Tully Abernathy arn Leonidian. Jocasta Doraymus arn Leonidian's ba'haleaf.” He used the Sharani word for husband. “These are our cubs."

He introduced fourteen year old Sheila, sixteen year old Icarys, and twelve-year-old Nectarios.

They went inside and to Kynyr's bedroom.

Darcy took one look at Kynyr and caught her breath. He looked terrible.

Sha came in with her cases and satchels. “These are the donors?"

Sheila was a young bitch scarcely more than a cub, her crimson hair distinctly lycan, yet dark-skinned like the Sharani. Icarys was smaller than his sister, and looked solidly lycan except for his eyes, which were nearly black.

Sha studied them for a moment and then gestured at Sheila since she was the largest and strongest of them. Judging by her size, features, and coloring, the Sharani genes were strong in her. “I do not know if this will work. Theoretically it might."

She gripped Sheila's wrist and Read her. “Interesting. I think she would classify as a universal donor."

Tully walked over and watched Sha. “What exactly are you going to do?"

Sha produced the glass tube with a plunger on one end and a hollow needle on the other. “We have replicated an ancient device called a hypodermic syringe. Louistrana was far in advance of our own civilizations."

Tying a leather strip around Sheila's upper arm, Sha tapped the largest vein located on the inside of her elbow. “This will sting a bit. I'm going to insert this into the vein, and draw enough blood from you to fill the syringe."

Sheila nodded, sucking in a breath. “Shouldn't be any worse than getting my arse slammed in the salle."

Sha inserted the syringe and drew the blood from her arm.

Sheila watched it indifferently. She came from sturdy stock.

When Sha finished, she pressed a folded piece of gauze over the bleeding puncture. “Hold that there until it stops."

Then she removed the tie and carried it along with the syringe to Kynyr and sat down beside him.

She tied the leather strip around Kynyr's bicep and thumped the inside of his elbow until she brought up a vein. Then she injected Kynyr with Sheila's blood. “Now we'll check him every hour to see if there is any change."

Darcy scanned the room. “Are any of these bitches his wife?"

"No. Kady's hard to miss.” Finn held his hands together in front of him, indicating a swollen belly.

"Pregnant?"

"Five months, maybe a bit more."

"If I were her, I'd be sitting with him.” Darcy snarled deep in her throat.

"She usually is. This time of day, she goes to the chapel to pray for him."

The family chapel to Willodarus and Tala, in their joint roles as guardians of the wolves and lycans, lay in the east wing of the mansion. A marble statue of Willodarus in his tree form extended twiggy arms around Tala. At their feet crouched three lycans in hybrid form and six wolves.

Cedar chips smoldered in an incense burner along with dried rose buds. Candles burned in tall holders, prayers carved into their thick sides.

Kady Maguire knelt, praying for her husband's survival. She came there each morning and evening since the night Kynyr collapsed—except for the two days she had been in Creeya seeking help for him.

Her son growing beneath her heart stirred and Kady placed her hand on her stomach, feeling him. “Fergus Ceejorn Todd Maguire. Cub of many names, may you grow up to be as formidable as your father was."

Kady lurched to her feet. The larger her belly grew, the harder it was to get up and down.

She left the chapel, walking slowly along the corridor to sit with Kynyr again. Kady tried not to think of her sister, twisting away from each memory as it arose. Hatred mingled with her grief.

Erskine's words flooded back into her mind. "Because life is fragile. If you haven't already told him, you ought to."

"It scares me."

"Then you'd better find some courage. Someone's out to get him. Next time, Kynyr might not be so lucky ... and you can't tell a deadmon that you love him."

A tear slid down her cheek. Kady placed her hand on her belly as Kynyr's child moved. She continued walking and saw Shaheeramat come striding toward her.

Sha had a peaceful expression as she extended her hands to Kady. “He's stabilized. The donors got here in time."

Kady burst into tears of relief.

Darcy stalked along the hall with Finn tagging at her heels. “I want to meet this bitch."

She had an image in her head of what she expected Kady to be like. Darcy pictured Kady as some fragile, helpless feminine wisp of a thing too delicate for common sense. She decided that the time had come to confirm or disprove that notion.

Finn watched Darcy's expression with a host of misgivings. “Darcy, don't go off and say anything you'll regret."

"Would I do something like that?” Darcy asked with faux innocence.

"Yes."

She wrapped her arms around Finn and nipped him on the ear.

A pleased smile spread across his large mouth. “You just wait till I get you in bed, you little vixen."

Darcy pulled away, tapped him on the nose playfully, and headed for the chapel. She saw a very pregnant bitch emerge from a room and stand speaking with Sha.

"Finn, is that her?"

"Be nice, Darcy."

She shrugged, strode over to Kady, and stuck out her hand. “Lady Maguire, I'm Darcy MacFie."

Kady wiped the back of her hand across her eyes, a brittle smile edging her mouth. “You brought aid to my husband. I'm grateful."

"You should be.” Darcy gave her a cheeky grin. “You're exactly what I expected."

"And what's that?” Kady's tone caught on the edge of wary and lodged against suspicion.

"A pretty little piece of fluff. But don't worry; I won't hold it against you."

Before Kady could respond, Darcy did an about face and headed back down the hallway.

Finn hesitated, his cheeks burning, and glanced from Darcy's back to Kady's glower. “Darcy's not so bad, Kady. Not once you get used to her."

Then he fled.

Todd turned his horse over to the stablemon they had hired and went into the shop through the backdoor. When he stepped into the front room of the shop, his eyes widened. The tables sparkled with jars and dishes of bright beads, spools of thread made rows beside them. Another table held tools, saws, wood chisels, and hammers. Still another had bolts of cloth, linen, silks, and cottons such as the lycans did not produce for themselves.

The floor overflowed with crates and boxes that had not yet been opened. Cahira sat on the floor going through a crate. Artair MacFie sat on a chair with a wooden box between his feet, handing books to his wife Betrys who stacked them on a glass counter. Betrys, Trevor's oldest child, had run off to the Clerk of Records and married Artair MacFie, a mon her father barely knew. Trevor had yet to decide whether he liked Artair or not, but Todd had gotten to know Artair well enough before the Battle of the Scarlet Petticoat to sense the warrior behind his grandson-in-law's monkish ways. Todd believed that it was only a matter of time before Trevor saw likewise.

He picked his way through the chaos. “What's all this?"

Cahira turned and Betrys looked up.

Betrys was definitely a Sinclair. At fifteen, she was already a statuesque five eleven. She stood two inches taller than her twenty-year-old husband. Married for three weeks, the worshipful glow of newly-weds shone in their faces every time they touched or looked at each other.

"Dyna. Items placed on consignment.” Cahira frowned. “You don't look happy."

Todd's wife, Cahira, had changed little over the years, beyond gaining laugh lines around her eyes and mouth; and remained much as she had been when he married her: a tiny blonde, barely five feet tall; cornsilk hair hanging in a braid past her hips; and a temper like a stung badger. Cahira Sinclair was that rarest of lycans: a mage. She had no large talents; nothing great enough to call herself anything except a generalist. However, she had literally dozens of minor talents that she put to such skilled use that her lack of a major gift often went overlooked by those who did business with her. She was most noted for two talents. Cahira was a Mender capable of repairing wounds with the precision of a master surgeon. She also ‘Jumped’ and could carry a handful of people with her when she leaped across vast distances in a wink of her powers.

His shoulders drooped. “Cahira, you need to come over here and sit down.” He settled into a chair and patted the one next to him.

"Kynyr?” Her face twisted and tears leaked

"Coma."

"But he was improving...” Cahira joined her husband at the table. She wept and cursed as Todd told her what Larena had done to Kynyr.

"I'm going to him."

She vanished in a shimmer of blue light.

Betrys burst into tears. Artair blinked back tears of his own and wrapped his arms around her, patting her. “Treachery was the only way they could bring him down. I'm so sorry."

Todd glanced up at them. “Can one of you grab me a bottle of whiskey and some glasses?"

Betrys mastered herself and fetched it from the back room. Artair sat down across from Todd.

"I'm very sorry. If it had not been for Kynyr, our losses at Hell's Widow would have been much worse."

Todd gulped his first glass of whiskey down in one go and refilled it. “Can you and Betrys take care of the shop for a while?"

"Yes. And the infirmary too. I had some basic medical training when I was studying to become a monk."

"I can't see you as a monk."

Artair gave a diffident shrug. “Fergus wouldn't let me. My first clear thought ... first selfish clear thought after he died, was that I was finally free to run off to the monastery of my dreams. Then I met Betrys."

Todd thought for a moment. “Take care of the store. I don't know when I'll be back."

Todd climbed to the third floor. On the north end of the hallway there was a mage-locked storeroom. It had once been a servant's bedroom. There were six of them. Whoever had owned the building before the Sinclairs had either had enough money to employ servants—or had owned slaves.

Last autumn, the Trickster had opened her armories and sent Todd a chest of presents. It must have had a translocation spell on it because the chest refilled itself six or seven times—at one point Todd had lost count. She rarely gave a care to what harm they might do or what uses they might be put to.

Weapons and armor were piled along the right side of the room; and an almost equal number were stacked on the opposite side. A long table acted as a divider between the two and it was covered in small boxes, bottles, and jars.

The things on the left had been vetted by Pandeena, so Todd had a fair idea of what they were capable of. Kynyr had armed the ten myn of his personal guard from this hoard and all of them had come back alive as a result of it.

Todd picked through the weapons, which were all made of either kendaryl or rustrametan, the two finest metals in creation. He hung a pair of throwing axes at his sides, a pair of claymores at his shoulders, and strapped a pair of long fighting knives to his thighs. Then he went to the table. There were dangerous things there, especially the two sets of three bottles bound together. That was the Trickster's secret recipe made from the fruit that grew in each of the Nine Elder Gods’ special gardens. She called it ‘Be Careful What You Wish For’ and it could turn a dragon into a mouse or a mouse into a dragon, if that was what the creature was in its inner most heart. The danger lay in the fact that very few people knew what was really in their hearts.

The heavily padded boxes contained an explosive known as Iradrim Fire. He slipped three of the little boxes into the pouches on his harness. Todd did not intend to go looking for trouble, but if it found him, he intended to be ready for it. The last object that he added to his gear was the black leather case containing his spyglass.

Todd had his stablemon saddle him a fresh horse and ready a packhorse for a few days of camping out. Finally, he rode north through Wolffgard to the Clerk of Records.

The Town Hall of Wolffgard could have been one of architect Maldwyn Softpaws greatest achievements—if Claw Redhand had not decided to dabble again in architecture. It was a magnificent Sharani-style building with a marble columned portico and statues of the Patron Saint of Literature, Karren Teylur, on pedestals throughout the front and rear gardens. Unfortunately, Claw had insisted on adding leering gargoyles to the roof.

Todd tied his horse to a rail in front of the hall, and went inside. Claw's gargoyle motif had been repeated on the inside with dozens of the little monstrosities peering from niches in the walls. Todd shook his head at that ruefully. With Claw it was always something.

The Clerk of Records recorded deeds, transactions, marriages, and births. Another of his functions was to hold the right to sell properties entrusted to him by absentee owners and such like a land agent.

Todd knew that a war was coming; only it would not be with the Waejontori—not yet—but with Belgair and Malthus. Because of Todd's connections among the upper ranks of the Assassins’ Guild, the Holy Avengers of the Dark Judge, word had a way of reaching him sooner than others. He knew that the Thanes of Red Wolf were becoming restless.

He walked into the clerk's office. The previous clerk had had expensive tastes and both Maldwyn and Claw had humored him. The floor was marble from the quarries in the Black Mountains to the northeast. The sofas and chairs had silk brocade cushions and the desk was walnut heartwood. The present clerk had a pinched look, narrow features, and deep shadows beneath his eyes.

"Can I help you?” asked the clerk.

"Yes. I want to know if there is land for sale between the Maguire Estate and the Eirlys River."

"Elton McCain owns it. He put it up for sale ten days after selling the manor to your grandson. This war with Waejontor was making him nervous about being set so close to the western border. However, he wants an outrageous price for it."

"How much?"

The clerk named him a price.

Under the circumstances, considering the land would be the first to fall if war came to the Red Wolf, Todd guessed that McCain had been asking more for it than he expected to get. It left the mon room to haggle for the best he could obtain to tide him over the lean times they all saw coming; however McCain had moved to Chandler's Rock. It would take weeks of sending letters back and forth to settle such matters—time that Todd could not afford. He needed the land now, not in a few weeks time, and the very reason McCain wanted rid of it was the reason Todd had to have it. The clerk looked astonished as Todd made out a bank draft for the full amount. Cahira would probably throw a fit when she knew what he had paid for it.

Todd went to the dry goods store, picked up staples for a camp out, and bought the biggest chopping axe they had. Then he rode off to the land he had just purchased.

Along with the land, Todd had acquired the people who leased sections and those who had worked for McCain. Most of them were farmers, but there were a few gamekeepers. The first order of business became a matter of poking his nose in, informing them that he had purchased the land, and sounding out their loyalties. Any that failed to support the Maguire claim to the throne of Red Wolf were about to find themselves out on their arses. It was not a matter of politics, but of security. Todd could not take chances by having someone living on the land that might betray his actions to Belgair and Malthus.

Todd had expected to find farmers leasing sections of the land, but the fact that McCain had employed two gamekeepers proved a pleasant surprise. That could only mean that there was a decent sized pack of the wild cousins living on the property.

As the day progressed, Todd found all of his tenants to be satisfactory. He left the gamekeeper for last.

The gamekeeper's cottage had only three rooms: sitting room, kitchen, and bedroom.

"Don't get much news around here.” The gamekeeper said. “This time a year I don't get into town much."

"You do know that Claw made his great grandson, Kynyr Maguire his heir?"

"Ayup. Good move that. I was in town the day after the wedding banns were posted. She's a pretty thing he married."

"Ayup."

"So you're Todd Sinclair. My father fought at Kinsdale Wood.” The gamekeeper poured mead for them both.

"What was his name?"

"Anbiddian Caldwell."

"I remember him. He used to laugh all the time."

The gamekeeper stared into his tankard. “I never saw him laugh. He got hit with a mace at Kinsdale Wood. Knocked out all his teeth and shattered his jaw. Passed away last winter. Pneumonia. He talked about you. Every time I turned around it was Todd this and Todd that. He said you were dead."

"Should have been.” Todd unbuttoned his shirt, revealing the massive scars across his chest and abdomen.

Very little could scar a lycan and the gameskeeper's eyes widened. “Shite mon. All that's from Kinsdale Wood?"

"Most of it."

"Then you're every bit the mon my Da said you were."

"They left me for dead. A peddler named Dyna found me, healed me."

Todd found a willing audience in Gowyn Caldwell. He told him the stories that should have come out long ago, Cahira's romance with Tarrant Redhand, tales of the Rebellion, stories about Gowyn's late father that brought a smile to his face, and finally the disaster at Kinsdale Wood.

When Todd left the next day, he had a firm ally.

The Difficult Horse Tavern, called that because its sign featured a horse sitting on its rump while a mon tugged the reins before it, stood on Main Street across from the village common. The interior was brightly lit and pleasant. Barrels with spigots jutting from them lined the rear wall behind a polished bar of walnut heartwood. Sturdy chairs circled the round tables placed throughout. The large hearth warmed the interior, driving off the winter cold.

Yet despite the bright illumination from the lamps and the candles on the spoked wheel chandelier, the somber mood in the tavern seemed to darken everything. The tavernmaster, Hereward Wiggins had lost his four daughters. His oldest, Kady, had disowned him after he withdrew his protection from her on learning of her love affair with the randy courier, Cullen Blackwood. Hereward had allowed her to be raped as punishment for her transgressions with Cullen. Larena, his second eldest, had become pregnant by a married mon she refused to name and Hereward had thrown her out. His third daughter, Sally, now resided in a convent at Chandler's Rock. His youngest daughter had been the hardest to bear. Pregnant, Rachel had killed herself. Hereward found her hanging from a ceiling beam in his basement.

His daughters had waited tables, dressed for coquetry to sell more liquor. With the exception of Kady, Hereward had applied a spiked club to anyone who tried to touch them inappropriately. He had always protected his pretty daughters to such a degree that they were like forbidden fruit begging to be tasted. All the dogs wanted them; and now Hereward wondered if that was what had brought such misfortune on his family.

A big tiger-striped tomcat lapped from a bowl of cream set by the hearth. No one knew who the cat belonged to, but he was a fine mouser and everyone in the town welcomed and fed him.

Hereward looked up with a glint of irritation as the door slammed open and then slammed closed again. His grief over his daughters had emerged as anger and every little thing set him off. “Close it, don't bang it!"

Ezra, who worked at the mill, was a hoary old mon. He lunged to the bar, his expression agitated. “Someone's been executed. They're hanging a body up on the scaffolds. Guards wouldn't let me close enough to see whose it was. But it's a bitch. That much I can tell you."

As his patrons rushed out to see who had been executed, Hereward Wiggins followed, grumbling.

The voluptuous corpse hung nude, her belly swollen in the middle stages of pregnancy. Hereward frowned; appalled because his people did not execute pregnant bitches. Whenever a bitch was slated for execution, they confined her until after the cub was delivered.

Long flaxen hair veiled her face. A guardsmon glared at Hereward and then a nasty sneer spread across his mouth. He used his polearm to lift the corpse's head up. The icy cold had gilded the blood in her hair and on her face with ice crystals. “Know her, Hereward?"

Hereward began to shake and then to howl with grief. He sank to his knees in the snow. “My daughter."

Erskine stalked across the common and stopped in front of Hereward, saying in a loud voice. “They caught her poisoning the prince. She used something called a syringe ... works like a viper's fangs. Stuck it in his arm and pumped him full of hedysmorte.” Erskine sucked in a weary breath. “Our prince ... is most likely dead by now."

Everyone drew away from Hereward as if he had suddenly contracted the plague.

Hereward wagged his head in frantic denial, muttering over and over again, “No. No."

Myn began picking up stones. Hereward threw his arms across his face and fled stumbling toward the door of the tavern. Erskine ignored it and signaled his myn to not interfere as the crowd drove Hereward off the common, pelting him with rocks. Hereward got inside just as they started breaking his windows.

Kady sat by Kynyr's bed as the afternoon waned around them and evening drew near. The cub moved within her womb and she caressed her stomach, struggling to think comforting thoughts toward her unborn son.

Cahira came in and sat down beside her. “How is he?"

"His breathing is easier. Sha says he's improving, but he hasn't awakened."

Cahira took Kynyr's wrist and Read him. “He's stable, Kady. I think he'll make it."

Relief swept through Kady. She kissed Kynyr's forehead. “I love you."

A desire to know for herself how much Kynyr improved and not wait for others to inform her took hold of Kady. She gave Cahira a long searching look. “I've been told that I'm a pan-elementalist. Can you teach me to Read?"

"If you have the gift, I can teach you to use it."

Kady extended her arm and Cahira grasped her wrist. She felt Cahira's power swirl through her, checking and examining.

"Ground and center, Kady."

: Relax and open up. Let me establish rapport with you. :

Kady repressed a moment of startlement as she realized that she could hear Cahira's voice in her mind. : How? :

: It's called the Third Ear. Follow me. : Cahira placed Kady's hand on Kynyr's shoulder.

Kady blinked as Kynyr's pain swept through her. Cahira broke the contact and smiled at Kady. “Yes, you're a Reader. A very sensitive one at that. I must teach you to shield before we try it again."

Of the dozen drawing rooms in the manor, the Redhands used the Blue Room most often. The room was done in shades of blue: rugs, furniture cushions, and curtains. A long row of built-in cabinets—another thing borrowed from the humans—lined the south wall. A stout dining table that could seat forty stretched its polished surface near the west windows, which were open to cope with the summer heat. The hearth on the north end had not been lit in months, and a cluster of chairs with end tables and a pair of sofas framed its heavy bricks. A square table that normally sat off to the side had been moved over to the chairs and the checkers and board rested in the middle.

Since the crippling of the chieftain, Claw Redhand, the chair he had normally used had been moved away so that he could get his wheel-chair to the table in its place. A bottle of expensive whiskey, a gift from Malthus, sat on a corner of the table beside two glasses. Claw's capacity for liquor still astonished Malthus at times. A subtle curse lay upon all the liquor that Malthus supplied to Claw. It affected only Claw. Everyone else could drink it and have no ill effects. The more of it that Claw drank, the swifter his final heart attack approached.

Malthus sat playing checkers with Claw, and growing restless. All afternoon, Malthus had anticipated word reaching the manor that Kynyr Maguire was finally dead. Now evening drew near. He had planned on going into Wolffgard for a drink at the Difficult Horse where he hoped to be able to recover some of his lost standing in the community.

He glanced at the door as Vayle Stewart entered. Malthus knew that Vayle had spent the entire day at the Maguire Estate and anticipation made his heart race.

Claw Redhand, a stout, grizzled old wolf—hairy even in his human form—pinned Vayle with a look. “Kynyr?"

Vayle nodded and then a smile spread across his face. “The prince will live. He began improving within an hour of receiving the new treatment."

Rage flared hot in Malthus, but he managed to repress the outward appearance of it. “New treatment?"

"The peddler brought it with help from Darcy MacFie."

Relief lit Claw's eyes. “Praise be to the gods for that."

"What new treatment?” Malthus asked again.

Vayle turned a cheeky grin on Malthus. “I've no idea.” The guardsmon turned back to Claw. “There's one matter we haven't informed you of, although we have known for over a week. Your wife did not want us to upset you. Kynyr never had Black Mountain Fever."

Claw frowned. “What do you mean?"

"He was poisoned."

"POISONED!” Claw's roar shook the bottles of liquor on the shelves. His fist came down on the table, knocking the checkers onto the floor. “By who?"

Vayle glanced at Malthus and then away.

Claw caught the hint and snarled at his son-in-law. “Get out."

Malthus rose from his chair. “It's getting late, and I promised to meet a friend at the Difficult Horse."

As soon as the door closed behind Malthus, Vayle sucked in a breath, lines gathering along his forehead in a crisscross pattern. “Larena Wiggins."

Claw seized the bottle of whiskey sitting beside the checkerboard, smashed it into wall behind him. “Damn sluts."

Vayle exhaled heavily and glanced around the room. “Cooley caught Malthus..."

"Caught Malthus what?"

"Stuffing Larena's hole."

The two glasses, from which Claw and Malthus had been drinking, followed the bottle to smash against the wall. “Belgair!"

Claw rolled his wheel-chair to the door, jerked it open, and shouted. “Belgair!"

Aisha arrived first, her brows knit with worry. “What's wrong?"

"Fetch Belgair."

Claw's shouting drew others to the Blue Room. Kissie and Isbeth shared confused looks as Claw's rampage continued.

Merissa tottered in with a hand to her belly. “What's going on?"

Belgair pushed his way through the crowd, turned, and chased them off with a blunt gesture. “What is it now, Claw?"

"Malthus. Throw him out. I want him out of here now. Right now, damn you."

"What did he do?"

Belgair's blasé tone irritated Claw.

"He's stuffing Larena Wiggins, that's what he's done. He's cheating on my daughter with the slut that poisoned my grandson."

Belgair glanced at Vayle. “You tell him this?"

"Cooley caught them together.” Vayle's hand settled on his blades.

"Maybe I should haul the cub in for a little talk...” Belgair sneered. “In the dungeons."

Vayle's stomach soured. He had been prepared for threats from Belgair and Malthus, but not for having those threats directed at the cub. The cautious side of his nature reasserted itself. “Maybe Cooley didn't see it right."

The guardsmon left.

Belgair chuckled.

"I want Malthus out of here.” Claw glared at Belgair.

"We don't know that anything happened. I'll look into it."

"Belgair, Larena poisoned my grandson ... she was sleeping with Malthus."

"I said I'd look into it.” Belgair stalked out of the room.

Claw stared after Belgair. His face livid with rage at Belgair's indifferent attitude and disregard of his commands. He started to curse. Pain shot along his left arm and pressure built in his chest. He grabbed at the edge of the table with one hand and clutched his chest with the other. “Sheradyn. Find him. I can't breathe."

Betrys Sinclair had never minded being alone. She had grown up safe and sound on the Maguire Farm at Longbranch, which her father ran since Uncle Branduff Maguire was a schoolteacher and his wife Ulicia a midwife and healer. Her extended family living at the farm had included dozens of aunts and uncles, cousins and siblings, and her grandparents, Todd and Cahira. Part of each day had been spent drilling under the watchful eye of Todd, who insisted they all know how to defend themselves.

Since the murder of her Uncle Branduff and the Waejontori attack on the farmstead, Betrys had begun to feel less safe. She had not told anyone, fearing that they might deride her concerns. However, it had been part of the reason that her father relocated his family to Wolffgard after her cousin Kynyr invited them to become part of his household.

She heard a noise in the hallway and frowned, wondering who that could be. Whoever it was, they were opening and closing doors as if looking for something or someone. Artair was making a delivery. The cubs were all out at the estate. Curious, she went to the threshold and glanced down to see who had come in. The Sinclairs had two stablemyn working for them, who had been hired since Cooley began living with Kady. They lived in the servants’ section of the building, and used the side door to come and go, not the back that led directly into the shop and family sections. She saw him: a large, ugly mon with unkempt hair a shade of faded chestnut and a day's unshaven stubble on his chin. He wore the chocolate and claret uniform of Claw Redhand's guardsmyn.

"You aren't supposed to come in through the back,” she said indignantly.

"I'm looking for Todd.” His pale blue eyes flicked toward the stairs and then focused upon her, raking her body in lecherous speculation.

"He isn't here."

The guardsmon took a step toward her and Betrys retreated. She bumped her hip against a low display cabinet to her right, and started. Grabbing the edge, Betrys tried to slide along it. Despite being trained since childhood in the arts of war by her father and grandfather, Betrys had never put them to the test. Most folks knew better than to mess with a Sinclair. She had always wavered between certainty that she could handle herself in a crisis, and an equal certainty that her training would fail her.

"Oh, that's good. That's really good.” Gorgarty rubbed his crotch. “Just you and me."

She glanced behind her, gauging the distance between herself and the end of the cabinet. Betrys would have to get around it to reach the door to the backroom. The weapons for sale, hanging on a wall rack behind the cabinet to her left, were closer. She decided upon a dash to the weapons. “Who the hell are you?"

"Gorgarty Burr. I have a message for Todd. You'll make a good one."

Before she could react, Gorgarty punched her in the stomach, knocking the wind out of her. She sank to her knees, arms folded across her belly as she sobbed for breath. Gorgarty kicked her in the chest and sent her sprawling. Her head hit the floor with an audible crack and the world tilted, going gray around her. He grasped her ankles, dragged her into the backroom, and deposited her in the middle of the floor.

"This room sure brings back memories. I stuffed Kady's hole over there by the cabinets. She's got such a tight little cunt, ya would not believe."

Betrys watched him dull-eyed, groggy from the impact to her head. The knowledge that he intended to rape her echoed in the back of her thoughts as if from a distance. Her vision narrowed and the room seemed filled with shadows.

"Don't need someone stumbling on the fun.” Gorgarty closed the door, returned, and straddled Betrys. He inflicted a fresh succession of blows to her face and body for several minutes. “I know all about you Sinclair sluts. Gotta take the fight out of ‘em before getting to the good part."

A low, canine whimpering escaped Betrys. Hurting too much to move or speak, Betrys could only stare at him.

Gorgarty grasped her bodice, ripped it to her waist and then across, baring her breasts. “Todd roughed me up on account of I slipped Kady the bone right over there."

He paused to point at the row of cabinets behind them, and then ran his finger around the dark rose of Betrys’ nipples.

"Oh, I like those. Those are real nice.” He squeezed Betrys’ breasts in a perfunctory manner, pinched her nipples, and grinned. “Kady wanted it. I knew she did. Todd called it rape. I ain't never raped no bitch—until now."

Bit by bit, her mind cleared as he fondled her. Pain from the beating he had administered still clouded Betrys’ mind, but she fought through the anguished tangle, trying to think like a soldier. Breathing hurt, and she wondered if Gorgarty had broken her ribs. She remembered Todd's lecture about what could happen if captured by the Waejontori—rape had figured in it as a strong possibility. She had been told that she had to be tough, that she had to face it straight on if it happened. Yet, the shock of being mounted against her will—not by an enemy soldier but by one of her own kind—nearly overwhelmed her senses.

The big mon shifted in order to straddle her better, using his knees to spread her legs open as he flicked her skirts up. His passionless searching of her body chilled Betrys.

Gorgarty stared and licked his lips when he saw that she wore no small clothes. “I knew you had to be a slut."

Betrys swallowed. She had been leaving her panties off in order to more easily seduce Artair in unlikely places, catching him off guard just to see the looks that crossed his face, acting out the things they read in the naughty books. “Please, don't."

Gorgarty pinched her cheeks together and forced her head around. “One more word and I leave Todd a dead message. Understand?"

Betrys nodded as he released her.

He opened his pants and lifted his heavy balls and cock out. “You'll like this part. Once you've had me inside, you won't settle for less."

Tears of rage and humiliation ran down Betrys’ face.

Gorgarty probed her with his thick fingers. “Oh, you're ready for me, you are."

Gorgarty grabbed his cock and shoved into her. “Don't that feel good? Tell me that feels good."

Betrys stiffened at the violation, forced a deep breath into her lungs, and felt some of the strength return to her muscles. I'm a Sinclair. I'm tough. I'll get past this. “Filthy pig."

Gorgarty paused in his thrusting and hit her in the face. “Tell me it feels good."

"Kill me.” Betrys’ mouth tightened in revulsion as Gorgarty's sweaty, odorous body moved atop her grunting. When I get my strength back, I'll beat the crap out of you.

"Oh, here we go.” Gorgarty reared back and crammed himself into her as deep and hard as he could. An inane grin of satisfaction glowed on Gorgarty's face when his milk spilled into her.

"My grandfather will kill you."

"Tell Todd he can find me at the Striped Dog.” Gorgarty settled on his haunches and closed his pants. “Tell him what I did."

The bell hanging on the front door rang and Betrys heard familiar steps crossing the shop. She snatched a deep breath and let it out in a croaking scream. “Artair! Help me!"

Gorgarty backhanded her across the face. “Shut up. I'll kill him."

The door to the backroom slammed open. Artair's gaze flicked from Betrys’ torn bodice to Gorgarty crouching over her. His foot snapped up and he kicked Gorgarty in the chest, sending him tumbling into the wall. Artair advanced on Gorgarty, pausing to jerk Betrys to her feet and place her behind him. “Get me a mace. I'm going to beat his head in."

"We sold them.” She eyed Gorgarty warily as the guardsmon pushed away from the wall.

"Get me something to hit him with."

"I'm a guardsmon. I got friends.” Gorgarty staggered to his feet.

"I'm a MacFie. I have family.” Artair watched Gorgarty, his fists raised.

The crowded room, filled with cabinets, shelves, and tables, made it difficult to maneuver. The guardsmon lunged at Artair. MacFie got in two quick blows to Gorgarty's face, ducked a clumsy punch from the larger mon, and drove a solid strike to his belly.

Gorgarty thudded into the wall near the door.

Carrying two heavy cudgels, Betrys sprang aside to avoid him. One cudgel bumped a shelf, sending canisters cascading onto the floor. Artair stepped between her and Gorgarty, his hand outstretched. She slapped a cudgel into it and lifted her own.

Gorgarty glanced from one to the other, and stepped backwards through the door, reaching for his sword. “You'll be sorry."

Artair smashed Gorgarty's arm before the sword could clear leather. The guardsmon howled.

The bell on the shop door rang again and a familiar figure stepped into the room, glancing at the tableau.

"Hit him!” Artair bellowed.

Betrys stared uncertainly at the newcomer, lowered her cudgel, and pulled her bodice together in a vain attempt to cover her breasts.

Tobrytan MacFie's fist connected with the side of Gorgarty's head. Gorgarty jerked around and faced him. Artair took advantage of that to smash the guardsmon in the shoulder. Gorgarty spun about and stumbled into a table, overturning it and spilling jars of perfumed creams onto the floor.

Betrys shrieked at the carnage, forgot her dishabille, and smacked him in the back with a cudgel. Gorgarty landed on his knees, and scrambled for the door.

Tobrytan jerked the door open. Artair kicked Gorgarty in the ass and sent him sprawling across the threshold. Betrys rushed in and began kicking him, cursing. Gorgarty got to his hands and knees, only to let out a loud squall as Betrys’ foot caught him between the legs. Artair moved her aside, lifted the cudgel, and struck Gorgarty's buttocks hard enough to send him skidding across the boardwalk and into the snow-covered street beyond.

"I'm Artair MacFie. You're banned from this place."

Gorgarty fled, limping and muttering, clutching his abused genitals.

Passers-by paused to stare and Artair shouted to them. “Fetch Toniqua, that arsehole attacked my wife."

Tobrytan whipped his cloak from his shoulders and handed it to Betrys while trying not to stare at her breasts. The bruises on her face failed to conceal the fact that Tobrytan's brother had gotten himself a very pretty wife.

Betrys blushed, wrapping the cloak around herself.

Artair closed the door and seized his older brother in a hug. “Toby!"

Betrys barely heard the introductions, as reaction set in threatening to take her by storm. She lowered her cudgel, and drifted toward the rear table muttering to herself. “I'm going to hang bells from all the doors and entrances to the outside. Loud ones. No one is taking me by surprise again."

"No more going about unarmed either.” Artair trailed after her.

Tobrytan frowned in concern. “What happened beyond the obvious?"

Betrys became aware of the oozing dampness of Gorgarty's juices. She swayed, clutched at the table edge, and dropped into a chair.

Artair sprang to her side. “Betrys? Are you badly hurt?"

"No.” She propped her elbows on the table and pressed her face into her hands, shaking.

He touched her shoulder tentatively. “Did he ... did he get it...” Artair searched for a way to say it and failed.

"Don't say the word.” Betrys raised a tear-streaked face to him. “And yes, he did."

Rage suffused Artair's face. “I'll kill him."

"Eanruig and I will help,” Tobrytan volunteered their middle brother without blinking.

Betrys flinched. “No!"

Tobrytan regarded her and then scanned the room. “You keep any whiskey about?"

"Over there.” Artair pointed at a cabinet and turned back to Betrys. “What do you mean ‘no'? Look what he did to you."

Her shoulders drooped. “It's a trap to murder grandfather. I'm the message."

"He say that?"

Tobrytan found three bottles of whiskey in the cabinet, choosing between Tormuth single malt—famed for its smoothness—and Dragonsbreath, better known for its potency than its taste. He carried the Dragonsbreath and three glasses to the table where he poured for them.

Betrys gave him a grateful look and gripped her glass with trembling fingers. “He said I was the message, and to have grandfather find him at the Striped Dog."

"Ambush for certain.” Tobrytan sipped whiskey. “Send for the lawgiver?"

Artair rubbed his neck and stared at the table uneasily. “We don't have one."

"The capital of Red Wolf does not have a lawgiver?"

"The last two were murdered.” Betrys explained about the deaths of Nikko Softpaws and Padruig Caimbeul. “Belgair Doherty doesn't give a wet-tailed damn what his guardsmyn do. With Claw ill and Kynyr—if he survives—crippled, I don't know what we're going to do."

"I see. Then the question is, do we tell Todd or handle it ourselves?"

Artair started to answer his brother and stopped when the bell on the door rang for the third time.

Toniqua Nightsbane joined them at the table, settling her satchel beside her chair. She completed her Reading of Betrys, laid the young bitch's arm on the table, and turned to Artair. “Considering the beating she took, it's a miracle she hasn't miscarried."

"Miscarried?” Artair stared at his wife.

Betrys ducked her head, blushing beneath her bruises.

He turned to the healer. “How long?"

"Four weeks."

Artair went pale. “You mean the first time I...” He paused, trying to get his bearings. “First time I...” He tried again and failed, turned his hand palm up and wiggled his middle finger. “Oh my."

Tobrytan laughed. “That's what usually happens, Artair, once you start poking a bitch on a regular basis."

Evening deepened into night as Malthus rode into Wolffgard. Torches illuminated the scaffolds on the common and threw shadows from the scattered trees; guards had been posted along it. Malthus dismounted in front of the Difficult Horse, tied Devilton to a rail, and stared at the darkened tavern in surprise. The Difficult Horse was never closed at this hour. He went up to the window to peer inside and saw the ‘For Sale’ sign gilded in orange from the torches across the street.

"If you're looking for a drink, Malthus, you'd best try the Striped Dog. Hereward closed up and left this morning."

Malthus turned and saw Erskine Faraday leaning against a tree on the opposite side of the street at the edge of the commons. “Why?"

Erskine thumbed at the body dangling from the scaffold.

Malthus had a sick feeling that he knew who hung there as he crossed the street for a closer look. “Larena."

"Yup.” Erskine trailed after him. “They're saying you got her up the stick."

"She told me it was Finn MacIver."

"It wasn't Finn that was seen this morning stuffing her hole near the hawthorn hedge by the Maguire Estate."

Malthus fought down an edge of panic. “I've never been near the Maguire Estate."

"Then you won't mind giving Toniqua a sample? Seems there was still semen in her hole."

"That's a humiliating request."

Erskine shrugged. “Ain't it though? And a bunch of us will be glad to watch you give that sample to be certain you don't try to switch it."

"You're a bastard."

"Maybe.” Erskine picked up a stick from the ground and struck Larena's corpse, making it swing back and forth. “Maybe I just don't appreciate you cuckolding Merissa.” He hit Larena again. “Maybe I just don't like poisoners and the people who put them up to it."

"Are you calling me out?"

"Not yet."

Malthus turned on his heel, remounted his horse, and headed back to the manor. He spent the entire ride home thinking about Erskine. Until now, Erskine had never been so forward with Malthus, so pushy. Erskine currently had charge of Kynyr's old unit from before the days that Claw had officially recognized the bastard's ancestry and legitimized him. The myn had become used to going to Erskine to talk and for leadership. Erskine would never replace Kynyr, but he had influence. Erskine Faraday and Finn MacIver ... I don't dare dirty my hands with their deaths ... but Belgair? Belgair would do it for me.

A thin smile crossed Malthus’ lips as he rode into the stableyard, dismounted, and tossed his reins to Georgie Rogan. With a little effort, Belgair could be provoked into killing Faraday and MacIver.

He went to the east wing. That section of the manor had fallen into disuse for reasons that Malthus had yet to discover. Cobwebs dangled from the corners and drifted back and forth in currents of the winter air that crept through imperfections in the stone. He climbed the backstairs and emerged onto the roof. A short stonewall ran around the edges with potted plants creating faux alcoves. Snow lay over everything in a clean blanket spoiled by the dirty tracks of Belgair's feet. Quarried stone stood in scattered piles shielded from the elements by tarps to bear silent testament to the day that Maldwyn Softpaws the architect died of heart failure fifteen years ago. Claw had intended merlons and arrow slits as his final improvements on the manor. He lost interest in building after losing Maldwyn, who had been his closest friend.

Sorcha's solar was another abandoned spot on the manor. Built for Claw's mother by his father, the family never went there after her death. It rose on the north corner of the east wing. Bas-reliefs were carved in the forms of dancing animals on wooden panels placed at regular intervals along the stonewalls: bears, wolves, unicorns, and lions. Malthus let himself inside.

There were nine windows on the east side, alternating clear and stained glass, set to catch the morning sun. The west half of the room was covered in oil paintings—portraits.

Belgair sat where he always did; at the square table in the center of the room, staring at the portrait of a lovely, delicate bitch with a fragile smile. The captain of Claw's guardsmyn had a look of intense thought. He thumbed at a chair.

"How long until the bastard dies?"

Malthus settled at Belgair's left. “I expected him to be dead hours ago."

"Then why haven't we heard anything?"

Malthus shook his head. “I have no idea. Vayle Stewart mentioned a ‘new treatment’ today ... said the prince would live."

"Damnitalltohell.” Belgair poured a glass of whiskey. “If he doesn't die one way, he'll have to die another."

"I will see what I can find out."

"We've got other problems as well."

"How so?"

"Brock."

"What about Brock?"

"A courier ... one of mine ... came in an hour ago. A large force has entered Red Wolf. They're flying three standards. The book and the blade of the Guild. The Black Swan of the Netherguard. And Brock's personal banner of the red bear."

"Impressive. What are we going to do about it?"

"My myn are no match for that."

"Surely you're not going to just give up?” Malthus replenished Belgair's glass of whiskey.

"If we attack them, that will put us at war with Creeya.” Belgair downed half the glass in a single gulp. “My father was quick to point that out to me in his last letter."

"There's always a knife in the back when he gets here."

"Or poison."

Malthus sipped his whiskey and nodded his agreement. “Or poison. Let them come unopposed and then kill Brock when he lets his guard down."

He reached out and touched Belgair's hand, sending a subtle comfort into him, reassuring him. Malthus could have assured him far better, if he had dared mention Egidius. The trap had already been laid to insure the death of Brock Redhand; however, Belgair would never countenance allies of that nature.

Belgair steadied. “The thanes and the elders don't want him. We'll figure something out."

"I made a disturbing discovery while I was in town.” Malthus ran his finger around the edge of his glass. “Finn and Erskine hanged the body of Larena Wiggins from the scaffolds."

"What?” Fury lit Belgair's features.

"Erskine said she poisoned the prince. He threatened me."

"Did she?"

"Yes. She was my agent in their household. Today, on my orders she injected the prince with a substantial quantity of hedysmorte. It should have killed him in minutes."

"Hedysmorte. Nasty stuff.” Belgair stared over the rim of his glass, his face hard and thinking. “Can that be tracked back to you?"

"I'm not certain."

Belgair finished his drink and went for another. Malthus wondered how many shots of whiskey Belgair had had before he arrived. “It can. I just remembered. You were seen stuffing her hole."

"By who?"

"Cooley Blackwood. Cullen's bastard. I threatened to haul him in and put him to the question. That took the fight out of Vayle Stewart. Still, they're overstepping their bounds. They should have come to me about it, not Claw and not acted on their own."

Malthus lowered his head, and tilted it sidewise. “I suspect they're part of a conspiracy against you. But I can't prove it yet."

"Bastard-loving filth. What kind of conspiracy?"

"Purge."

Malthus knew that he had struck one of Belgair's secret fears on the head when the guardsmon smashed his glass against the wall and began cursing in the foulest language Malthus had heard in years.

Heat lingered in the kitchen. Malthus glanced across the long table that the nibari prepared food upon. It had been cleared off and cleaned. A noise came from the pantry. Malthus opened the door and stepped inside. Isbeth startled, straightened, and saw him, recoiling with a flinch.

"What do you want, Master Malthus?” Her blue eyed widened with fear.

"A simple matter."

It was time to put Isbeth back into play. She had served him well, getting more poison into Kynyr than Larena had. Having two cats’ paws in different places delivering the poison insured that it went into him at a sufficient rate and in sufficient quantity to kill him quickly. Then the Guild had involved itself, for reasons Malthus had yet to discover, and kept the dying prince alive. He and his mother were members of the extended Romilay Clan, and the only ones who matched the Romilays’ knowledge of poison were the Poison Masters of the Guild.

The nibari carried his coercions set deep in her mind, making her cooperative and willing against her will. Nibari were genetically altered humans, bred as slaves and cattle by the sa'necari and the vampires who had perfected the genetic tinkering that produced them. Their ability to generate the adrenaline levels needed for assertive or aggressive behaviors had been so reduced that they had few survival instincts left and could not properly care for themselves when set free.

"Yes?"

"I want you to watch Erskine for me. I want to know the names of every mon that goes to see him in his office."

"Why?"

"So I know who to kill.” Malthus pulled her unresisting to the floor of the pantry, shoved her long skirt up, started to mount her, and then reconsidered. He climbed off her and straightened, his lips tight. He had gotten caught once, and did not dare allow it to happen again. I'll breathe easier once Cullen Blackwood's bastard brat is dead. For now, I'll get my rides in private places.

Pain had become Kynyr's constant companion since he was poisoned. It shaped his dreams into nightmares, and his waking into anguish. He opened his eyes in response to someone lifting him up and putting pillows to his back. She settled a bed table across his lap, placed a bowl of broth on it, and stroked his cheek with her finger to get his attention.

"Come on, Kynyr. Just a swallow.” She dipped up a spoon of broth and held it to his lips.

He blinked at her in disorientation. The spoon continued to press against his mouth until his lips parted and she poured the liquid in.

The bitch stroked his throat until he swallowed. She repeated the process until the bowl was emptied.

Her flaxen curls reminded him of someone, but the name eluded him.

She removed the bed table, took his hand, and kissed it before placing it on her hugely swollen belly. “Can you feel your son moving, Kynyr?"

He tried to answer, but no sounds came out.

A tear slid down her cheek as she laid his arm back on the bed. “Do you even know I'm here?"

Kynyr's eyes closed and he slipped away from her again.

A strangled sob escaped from Kady. An aged arm went around her shoulders and she glanced up into Cahira's face. “Gram, he took the broth, but he doesn't seem to be aware of anything."

"Give it time, Kady.” Cahira hugged her. “Give it time."

Stoneriver sat his horse, Codger, on a hilltop screened from view by a cluster of tall evergreens. He took his spyglass from the case hanging from his saddle and extended it. This section of Red Wolf did not have true plains. It was mostly rolling hills; forest broken up in spots by wide patches of meadowland. Eiko and her swan mays, flying by night with their gryphons, had gotten ahead of the slavers’ caravan traveling the Ellenshire High Road. Snow had slowed the slavers’ progress.

He watched them make camp for the night and nodded at Reist with a smug turn to his lips. “They're ours."

"How many do you make them out to be?"

"Sixty soldiers and ten drivers. Close to one hundred and fifty bitches and cubs."

"That's not much to have taken from a town the size of Gateshead."

"The ones they didn't want, they killed. We just didn't search long enough to find the grave. I'm certain they must have sent some with the main army as whores. You know how it is."

"Only too well."

Stoneriver raised his hand and signaled with two fingers. Behind him, his troops moved out.

Scouts ran ahead to kill the sentries as he descended from the hill.

The Creeyans completed an encirclement of the slavers’ camp to prevent any of them escaping. When word of it reached Stoneriver, he dismounted and shifted, becoming a tremendous grizzly bear in armor. The time of concealment had ended. Although he had been born to a lycan sire, Stoneriver was not lycan.

He stared into the camp. Firelight limned the edges of the brown tents, throwing them into lightened frames against the darkness. Screams echoed here and there, mingling with the laughter of soldiers. Stoneriver's jaw tightened. They were raping the bitches.

"You should stay here.” Reist stepped to his side. “You're too valuable to risk."

"I don't lead from the rear.” Stoneriver drew his greatsword and stood waiting for the proper moment to attack.

A spear length behind Reist, Jennifer stood facing the camp. Their mages stretched blankets on the snow-covered ground and settled into a circle, linking in rapport. They raised power and she held it. If any of the sa'necari and magical others in the camp held either psi or mage links to their main army, they would soon find their connections blocked. No word of what happened here would reach the enemy. Her face taut with concentration, she spoke a single word. “Done."

Stoneriver signaled his myn to move out, and strode into the camp with Reist close beside him. Two soldiers wearing the crimson and black of Waejontor, walking near the edge of tents, unlimbered their swords and began shouting. Stoneriver's sword shattered the nearer one's ribs and broke his chest open. The other retreated half a step. Stoneriver smashed his sword aside and whipped back, cutting the mon's throat open and snapping his neck.

Blood lust soared through him, blotting out everything around him except the enemy. He did not notice his own myn spreading out around him in answer to Reist's commands and signals. All humanity vanished from Stoneriver as the bear's soul sprang to life within him. Myn emerged from their tents and died before they knew what had hit them. Half of the group broke off at a signal from Reist and headed for where the bitches and cubs were held. Stoneriver walked on.

Any sa'necari among the slavers would be found in the center of the camp. The hair rose on his arms as Stoneriver smelled dark magic gathering and quickened his pace. By the central fire stood three sa'necari with swords in their hands and spells on their lips in poses more common to battlemages than to other magical warriors. The novelty of that did not faze him. They recognized the threat he presented and turned their attack from Stoneriver's soldiers to himself, hitting him with everything they could conjure. He shrugged off the deathspells and dark webs. His sword lashed out, chopping an arm off one and beheading another. The armless one collapsed to his knees. Stoneriver kicked him in the chest knocking him onto his back, and stomped his head in. The third tried to flee. Stoneriver shattered his spine and sent him sprawling in the snow. The second blow took his head off.

He glanced about for more foes, but there were none.

The only sounds in the camp were the voices of the Waejontori soldiers begging to be spared and the weeping of the rescued bitches. The pleas of the conquered enemy fell on unmoved ears, turning to screams as the Creeyans ruthlessly executed them. Reist winded his horn, calling the encircling army in.

"It's over, Stone."

"All except the weeping. Get the healers and surgeons in to check the bitches and cubs."

"Will do."

Stone settled in front of the campfire. “And while you're at it, break me out a bottle of whiskey. I doubt there's anything to drink here that isn't spiked with blood."

"I would think that blood would not bother you,” Reist said jokingly.

"It doesn't. That's the problem.” Stone gave him a weary look, speaking in a dull, distracted tone. “I like the taste too well. Before I got my sanity back, I ripped a mon apart and ate him raw."

Reist repressed a shudder. There were times when Stoneriver frightened and disturbed him.

Stone stared into the flames, gradually losing himself in thought.

I'm coming, Kady. It's going to take a bit longer than I expected, but I'm coming. Hold fast.

"Stone? I have someone who wishes to speak with you.” Jennifer gestured for a slender, aristocratic bitch to come forward. The shoulders of her ripped bodice had been tied together in a failing attempt to cover her modest yet attractive breasts. Feeding bruises showed on her neck. Lines of suffering marred her delicate features. Stone's nostrils flared as she offered her hand palm up and fingers curved in a lycan gesture of validation. He took her hand, lifted it to his nose, and sniffed it. Her pleasant lycan musk was mixed with the scent of the sa'necari that had raped her, but he said nothing of it. His senses were sharper than the average wolf. “Lycan."

"Yes.” She drew herself up with all the pride she could muster. “We are grateful for our deliverance, Lord?"

"Stoneriver."

"You ride beneath the banner of Brock Redhand. Where is he?"

Stoneriver considered a moment. He knew he could not hide it forever. “I am Brock."

"You're young."

"I'm long lived."

She frowned, the corners of her eyes taking in the mon beside him. Reist stood with a bottle of Cair Dairmud in his hands, his eyes fixed upon the ground, and practically squirming inside his skin. Stone realized that Reist's dishonor must still be spoken of among the nobility of Red Wolf. She shifted uneasily. “That's Reist Devlin."

"We are what are, lady and we can only be what we are."

"I am Regina Balfour, wife of Lord Johfrit Balfour."

"Your husband is dead. So are his brothers and father."

A single tear broke her steely façade. “I feared it.” She fell silent for a time, squared her shoulders resolutely, and spoke again. “You know you're not welcome any more than he is.” Regina indicated Reist with her chin.

"I didn't ask to be. I'm going to Red Wolf because my brother sent for me. Reist is my second-in-command. He has been for twenty years. He is here because I am."

Regina heaved a bitter sigh. “You're the last person on Daverana that I ever expected to be rescued by. The thanes have been in a dither ever since they heard you were coming home."

"That is their problem. Not mine."

"The thanes are assembling for a witan at Wolffgard. My father-in-law wanted to hang you.” She lowered her eyes from his. “However, I owe you a debt. I will go with you and speak on your behalf."

"Your kindness is appreciated."

"It is not kindness, Brock or Stoneriver or whatever it is you wish to be called. It is honor."

"Honor then. I will send a company of soldiers to take your people to Moondarc. It would be best if they did not go home until spring. Let some of the signs of the atrocities fade with the snow before you have to face them."

"Wise words from a cruel mon."

Stone shrugged. “I am what I am.” He turned to the spiritworker. “Jenny, see that she's taken care of."

Regina recognized the dismissal and said nothing more as she departed with Jennifer.

Reist settled by the fire with Stone. “If that's our greeting, I would rather stay drunk."

Stone eyed him in knowing contemplation. “If you fall off your horse in battle because you are too woofled to ride, don't expect me to pick you up."

Reist produced two cups and filled them with whiskey. “You know me. Just wishful thinking. All the same, I don't think I can face my father without half a bottle in me."

"Then you should not have come.” Stone drained his cup and extended it for more.

"Where you go, I go. It has been that way for twenty years. It's not going to change."

Stone patted Reist's shoulder. “Good mon. So long as we stand together, we can face them all down and spit in their faces if necessary."

"It just might be."

Stone nodded and sipped his drink.

Silence lay between them until Reist broke it. “Is it really worth it, Stone? Is she?"

"You mean Lady Maguire?"

"Yes. Is she worth it? You know we may have to fight our way back out of Red Wolf or end on the gallows."

"She's strong, honest, passionate. She fires my blood and stirs my honor."

"Are you in love with her?"

Stone tried to think of how to explain his feelings. “Yes. But not romantically. I gave her my allegiance. My love for her is that of a mon for his liege lady. I would lay down my life for her and feel that I had done an honorable deed."

"Then she's worth it and I'm in this to the end."

"Speaking of ladies, do you know this Regina?"

Reist looked uneasy. “I ought to. She's my cousin."

Belgair's threat to torture Cooley Blackwood had shaken Vayle Stewart. He should have known that Belgair would react that way and not told Claw. Malthus and Belgair were thicker than thieves and matters were getting out of hand faster than Vayle had expected. One incautious word could get them all killed. Troubled, he sought out Erskine Faraday as dawn arrived, knocking on Faraday's door.

"Come in."

Vayle entered and found the room filled with an enticing aroma. “What's the smell?"

"Coffee.” Erskine sat at his desk pouring a black liquid into a cup. He wore a traditional robe, wraparound and tied closed. The robe, still favored by the commoners, allowed for ease of removal to facilitate a full transition into wolf. He glanced up at Vayle. “Grab a cup from the cabinet and have some."

Vayle fetched a cup and sat down. His nostrils flared as Erskine filled it, and he brought the cup to his nose, sniffing it. “What is it?"

"Coffee. It's bitter, but you can add some honey, if you wish. Cahira gets it from Creeya."

He took a taste and wrinkled his nose. “You're right. It's bitter."

Erskine shoved the honey pot across the table. “Add some."

Vayle did so and drank it, warming to the taste. “I told Claw about Malthus and Larena."

Erskine paused with the cup in his hands. “What did he say?"

"He wanted to toss Malthus out, but...” Vayle stared at his hands, unable to mask his unease. “Belgair threatened to put Cooley to the question. So I said that Cooley might have been mistaken. There seemed nothing else I could do."

"I see."

"Belgair would have killed the cub, and you know it."

A shadow passed over Erskine's face. “Do you think that Belgair deliberately killed Yren?"

Vayle felt a cold shiver crawl up his spine. Yren had been the only one of Caimbeul's murderers to be caught on good evidence—evidence that Claw had refused to divulge. Belgair put Yren to the question, but the youth died before anyone could get information from him. “It's possible. But then he would have had to be covering up for someone."

"Malthus? Or himself?"

"Both? Belgair is quick to smash any source of aspersions against Malthus."

Erskine took another sip of coffee. “We need to get Cooley out of town. The Scott cubs should be safe enough at the estate. We probably need to move their mother somewhere safer. Sooner or later, it will come out that the three cubs saw Malthus playing jack in the orchard with Larena and they'll all be in danger. We need a lawgiver."

Lawgivers were chosen by the placement of the stars and other omens at their birth, reared to their jobs, and trained by the oldest lawgiver in the community. Theoretically, he could arrest a king. In practice, it rarely happened. Wolffgard had not had a lawgiver since the murder of Padruig Caimbeul; and Belgair seemed to be trying to become a law unto himself in the absence of a lawgiver.

"I'll talk to Kady. Right now, she's the only mon who can get us one."

"Do that, Vayle. I can't get away from here as often as I used to."

Ros and Lyrri stole into the stableyard. They were supposed to have guards with them at all times in the yard and garden, because of the murders in the town. However, they had eluded them. Ros carried a burlap sack that she had stolen from the kitchen as she limped into the stable. She had turned eight years old, but the Redhands had denied her a party because they were still in mourning for Searlait Redhand who had drowned weeks ago.

She grabbed at her leg as it cramped. She had been attacked by a vampire last summer and left for dead. Sergei Wraithsbane had stabbed his venomous nail into her leg. One nail, but it should have been enough to kill her. Her uncle Malthus had fed her his own blood to save her. Ros loved her uncle.

Her fangs came down and she felt around them with her tongue, wondering if they had grown any since the last time she covertly allowed them from their sheaths. Ros was a prodigy, born with her fangs and powers, which normally were not gained until adolescence. If the lycans knew that she was a prodigy they would have spellcorded her, instead of treating her like a normal little girl.

Two of the stableboys passed with wheelbarrows filled with soiled straw from the stalls they had been mucking out. Ros and Lyrri crouched down in an empty stall. There were few of those that time of year, with the herds brought in for the season. They waited until the piles had grown and then filled their sacks with horse droppings and snuck back out. Putting horse droppings on Searlait's grave and the other graves to get even with the Redhands for refusing to give her a party seemed a delightful bit of fun to Ros.

They reached the little cemetery and walked deep into it. Ros stopped and they lowered their sacks by three buckets into which the contents of several chamber pots had been dumped. Ros grinned and Lyrri giggled. It took both of them to hoist the buckets, one at a time to the graves of Searlait, Tarrant, and Logan. They poured it over the headstones.

"Hey, stop that!"

Rory and Hamish darted from hiding beneath an evergreen tree and confronted the girls.

"Make me,” Ros snarled at them.

Rory stalked up to her with exaggerated menace. “You're disgusting."

She glanced into her bucket and saw that there was still a bit of nastiness in the bottom. Ros threw the contents over him.

"Eww!” Rory sprang back, his nostrils twitching.

"We'll tell on you,” Hamish yelled.

Lyrri tackled Hamish about the knees, sending him sprawling in the snow.

He blinked in momentary confusion, having never been attacked by a girl before. Hamish found himself trapped between countless admonitions about not hitting girls and an urgent need to defend himself. Lyrri straddled him and popped him a good one in the eye.

Rory grabbed Lyrri by the arm and tried to haul her off his brother, at which point Ros slugged him in the back.

All notions of propriety vanished into the confusion of melee, as they went down in the snow and mess, punching and kicking for all they were worth.

"Hey! Hey.” Georgie Rogan and three of his hands waded in, separating them. By then Ros sported a bleeding nose, Hamish was well on his way to an awesome shiner, Lyrri's dress was torn, and Rory had the first swellings of a substantial goose egg on his forehead.

The two boys quieted, gazing up at the adults. The girls jerked and twisted in indignation. Then a chorus of “They started it,” went up from all parties.

"What's going on here?” Malthus came down the path. “Let go of my nieces."

The stablemyn released the girls, who went to their uncle and glared at the boys from his protection. Malthus knelt and examined Ros’ nose. He took a handkerchief from his pocket, pressed it to her nose, and put her hand over it. “Hold it a bit."

Georgie sauntered over and put himself between Malthus and the Scott cubs. “Those nieces of yours were defiling the graves."

Malthus straightened. “Don't be absurd."

"I saw them filling those sacks over there."

"He's lying, Uncle Malthus.” Ros leaned against him and he lifted her onto his hip.

"I'm not the one who's lying.” Georgie said, clamping down on his own irritation.

"If I catch you touching my nieces again, your next conversation will be with Damien. As for those two...” Malthus pointed at Rory and Hamish. “If I find them on the manor grounds again, it will go hard on all concerned."

Silence settled until Malthus was out of sight with the girls.

"We didn't do it, Georgie. Honest.” Rory cast a pleading look at the stable master.

"I know. Go home and stay there. It's for the best."

Finn MacIver regarded himself in the mirror and straightened his uniform. His first day back at the manor for duty and Claw had immediately asked him to come play checkers. Kynyr had played checkers with Claw nearly every day before his illness, and had confided to Finn that checkers was Claw's way of masking a discussion he did not wish for people to get nosy about.

Claw had an odd, indecipherable look that disturbed Finn. Usually, the crusty old chieftain was easy to read. He sat stacking and unstacking the black checkers.

"You sent for me?"

Claw raised his head and gazed at Finn for a moment before answering. “Bring the board. We'll play in my study."

Claw hated clutter. The top of his desk was bare because he always put everything away as soon as he finished with it.

The chair that had once sat behind the desk like a throne now stood over to the side so that Claw could wheel himself up to it.

"You're not Kynyr.” Claw set his side of the board up as soon as Finn put the board and checkers down.

"I know I'm not Kynyr.” Finn found that Kynyr's shoes were hard to step into, yet more and more people were asking him to do just that. He had always been second best at everything. It never bothered him because second best to Kynyr Maguire was still better than every one else out there. Kynyr had been good with his blades, brilliant at tactics and strategy, but treachery still brought him down.

"You're all I've got. Belgair defied me."

Finn waited for the explosion of temper that would normally have followed or accompanied Claw's statement, but it did not come. Instead the chieftain seemed tired and troubled. “When?"

"Yesterday. Vayle told me about Malthus’ indiscretions with Larena."

"If Kynyr had known about that, he would never have let Kady move her into the house."

"I ordered Belgair to remove Malthus from the manor. Instead he threatened to have Cooley put to the question.” Rage had given way to resignation.

Finn's brows knit in a frown of perplexity. “I don't know where this is going ... what Belgair's up to."

"I do.” Claw dug his palm into his chest, pressing and rubbing. “Belgair always favored the old ways. According to his views, a bitch's legitimate cubs have more right to the throne than those of a dog's bastard."

"Kynyr and Merissa?"

Claw nodded. “If only Kynyr...” The chieftain lowered his eyes. “Without him, I'm losing control of the manor, and by extension, my realm."

"Not if I have anything to say about it."

The chieftain cast a grateful look at Finn, and then shook his head. “How many guardsmyn would support me if I tried to send Belgair away?"

Finn squirmed in his seat, wanting to lie and knowing that only the truth would serve. “Not that many. Erskine and Vayle have been feeling them out for several weeks now."

"Whose side is Erskine on?"

"Yours. Kynyr's."

Claw reached into the biggest of the drawers along the right hand side of his desk. He produced glasses and a bottle of Cair Dairmud that Malthus had given him. Then he and Finn drank in silence for several minutes. “I've outlasted Sheradyn and Pandeena's estimations of how much time I had left. They said I'd never make it to solstice, and here we are with only two weeks left to get there."

Finn could not think of what to say to that, so he just nodded and drained his glass.

"As ill as he is, do you think that Kynyr will put up a fight when I die?"

Finn watched Claw refilling their glasses, gnawing on the corner of his lower lip in thought. “If he doesn't, Kady will. She has an army. They're calling themselves Kady's Army."

"Kady's Army. I like that. How many myn does she have?"

"Just over seventy."

"That's not much."

Finn's lips screwed up with a twist of amusement and a dash of mischief. “Quality versus quantity. She's got an elite Fae battle unit, sixty Netherguard veterans, and Todd Sinclair. That's hard to beat."

"I hope so, Finn. I truly hope so."

The abandoned east wing of the manor stood on the northeast corner of the tall stone structure. Few living in the manor still recalled its original name: Sorcha's Wing. The oldest section of the manor, it had been abandoned in 1005 after the Lycan Rebellion of 997 failed. Claw had moved the family to the middle section, the newer parts, in an effort to escape from things that reminded him of his murdered twin sons, Tarrant and Logan.

The guardsmyn had recently begun using some of the abandoned rooms when they wanted to get space from each other. One drawing room had been discreetly changed into a meeting room for those of Belgair's guardsmyn who shared his aversion to seeing Kynyr on the throne.

They had to bring their own liquor; Belgair refused to be out of pocket for their excesses. Gorgarty sulked in a corner with a bottle of cheap whiskey, his right eye puffy and bruised from Tobrytan MacFie's blow. “Stupid bitch liked it. I got it into her good and hard. She liked it."

Gorgarty's muttering drew the attention of Lennox Strahan. He cast about, and seeing that the only one there was Gorgarty, sauntered over and joined him at his table. “What bitch? The one that gave you that black eye?"

"She didn't. That other bloody sodomite did. She kicked me in the wag-staff. Damn well hurts ta piss, it does."

Lennox bit his tongue to keep from laughing. “Who was she?"

"Betrys Sinclair."

"Todd's slut.” Lennox sobered. Todd Sinclair was a legend; but no one had ever expected the legend to show up alive in Wolffgard. It had been generally believed that Todd had perished in the Ambush at Kinsdale Wood. Todd's arrival had increased the standing of Kynyr Maguire in the eyes of the townsmyn as well as some members of the guard. “Take away the old mon and that pretty boy will be nothing."

Gorgarty grumbled. “That bloody gray cock gets it in all the bitches. I betcha that cub in the slut's belly is Sinclair's."

"Kady?"

"Yeah. The slut called it rape, even though she was opening her legs to all the other dogs. And now she thinks she's a princess ‘cause she's married a bastard. As for Sinclair ... I'd like to stick him ... watch his eyes bulge when I twist the blade."

Gorgarty hated Todd Sinclair. The mon had taken him by surprise and beaten him over Kady. To make matters even more humiliating, Erskine, Vayle, and Robert had administered a sound beating to Gorgarty over Kady that same day. Now some stupid monk had beaten him over Betrys.

"He's out of town, Gorgarty,” said Lennox.

"When he comes back, I'll get him."

"He isn't coming back. I've sent some myn to slip him the blade. It didn't take much asking around to figure where he was."

A grin spread across Gorgarty's face. “That's good. That's real good."

"I've heard all the stories about Sinclair. It's bullshit. And even if it isn't, he's old, Gorgarty."

"Once he's gone, we can all take turns with his bitches."

Lennox shook his head. No one would ever accuse Gorgarty of being intelligent. “That's not the reason for taking out Sinclair."

"No?” Gorgarty sounded puzzled.

"No. If we're going to hang Claw's pretty little bitch-boy, then Sinclair needs to die."

"Oh, right. I still get ta stuff his bitches, don't I?"

"Yeah.” Lennox could only stand Gorgarty in small measures or at the Striped Dog where he could let others do most of the interacting. Gorgarty was big and half-decent with his fists and his blades. Their goals ran together, and that was all of it. Kynyr had been a thorn in Lennox's side for years, getting promoted over him time and again even before it came out that he was Claw's bastard grandson.

Damien Kildare drifted into the room carrying a large satchel at his side, spied them sitting and grabbed a chair at their table. He placed the satchel in the middle of the table, took out a bottle of good wine, glasses, and a wooden box. Damien grinned broadly as he opened the box. It contained a wealth of fine white powder and a metal tube.

Gorgarty leaned in, fascinated. “Is that what I think it is?"

"The purest White Fire I've ever seen."

Lennox gave Damien a skeptical look, dipped his little finger into it, and sucked it. “You're right. That's damned pure. Must be worth a thousand crowns. How'd you get it?"

"When Preece Malloy got himself offed by that fellow who calls himself ‘Always Faithful’ ... well, I was in charge of the crew sent to clean his possessions out for the crown. I kept a few things for myself."

"You going to share? Or are you looking to sell?"

"Do a few lines, friendly like. If you want more than that, I'd like to see some coin."

Lennox laid three lines out in the lid and gestured for Damien to give him the tube. He pressed one nostril closed, put the tube to the other, and snorted it. Blinking his bulbous eyes at the rush, a pleased smile settled on Lennox's lips. “Whoa, that's good stuff."

Damien grinned and passed the tube to Gorgarty.

Taking a snort, Gorgarty matched Damien's grin. “That'll sure stiffen the bone."

Belgair's favorite chastisemon and executioner as well as a guardsmon, Damien Kildare put the whip to myns’ backs and the axe to their necks. He took pride and pleasure in his work; never failing to satisfy Belgair's needs and expectations. Lennox believed that Damien got away with far more indiscretions than the rest of them put together; but knew better than to say so, since he had no desire to find himself on the receiving end of Damien's ire.

Gorgarty started describing how he had gotten his cock into Betrys, how much she had secretly wanted him, and how he expected her to come begging for more. Lennox rolled his eyes, made a quick purchase from Damien, and excused himself before he could lose his temper with Gorgarty. The names of the bitches changed, but Gorgarty's descriptions remained the same.

They had come to the hard part. Iollen could barely contain his fears, pacing back and forth in the small servants’ kitchen. Aghavie had gone into labor hours ago. Mary had chased him out of the bedroom for being underfoot as she and Cahira tended his wife. He cursed himself under his breath for every sin he had ever committed, begging the gods for Aghavie's life.

They had never spoken about it, but they both knew that Aghavie was too young, too small to safely give birth.

Kady came in and settled across from him. “She'll be all right. I know she will. The gods are merciful."

"I'm not a good mon. I never deserved Aghavie. I'm sorry, Kady. I'm sorry for what I did to you. I'm sorry for what I did to her."

Kady tensed, remembering for the first time in months, the first time since cutting his arm off, remembering the terror she had felt as Iollen entered her while Cormic Parry and Donald Greenlea held her down. “Why did you do it, Iollen?"

"The rape?"

"Yes."

Iollen poured himself a glass of whiskey. “The first few times I went out bitch-stalking with Cormic, I was reluctant. I could not get it up.” He stared at the wall, shifting in his chair uneasily, drained his glass, and refilled it. “One day Cormic decided I was not participating properly. Six of them jumped me. He pinned my arms behind my back and held me while the others hit me. Seemed to go on forever. That was a few weeks before we grabbed you the first time."

"That's terrible.” Kady winced at the image, appalled.

Iollen sucked in a deep breath, feeling more unsettled by the moment, wishing that Kady had not asked the question. “I'm a coward, Kady. I mounted you that night because I was a coward. I was terrified of Cormic and of Preece. I was always certain that one day Preece would slip a knife in my ribs."

"He's dead, Iollen. Kynyr killed him."

"Not a day goes by that I don't think about Preece ... and hate myself."

The door opened and Mary stood there, her eyes reddened. She carried a newborn cub in her arms, wrapped in a blanket. “I'm sorry, Iollen. We saved the cub, but we lost Aghavie."

Iollen sprang from the table, shoved past her, and lurched down the hallway to his suite. He reached the door to his bedroom and hesitated with a long keening howl. Then he forced himself through the door, staggered to the bedside, dropped to his knees, and gathered Aghavie's still body into the crook of his arm, burying his face in her hair. His howls of grief echoed through the building.

Lon Anglesey had served Claw for over twenty years as senior officer to the Bridge Watchers. They were a separate unit from the guardsmyn, but served in a similar capacity, and they were answerable to Lon as their immediate superior. However, Lon was answerable to Belgair. There were seventy myn in the Bridge Watchers unit, less than a quarter of the total soldiery employed by Claw Redhand. Some of them were recent hires foisted onto Lon by Belgair; a fact that did not sit well with him.

He had broken the rules when he let MacFie and the Sharani enter Red Wolf unopposed. He should have waited for Pandeena or Belgair to approve their admission to the kingdom. Normally such approval came from the lawgiver, but since they no longer had one, it fell to the Priest or the Captain of the Guard. Instead, Lon had taken it upon himself to allow them across and give them a guide to avoid Belgair's notice.

He had no illusions about why Belgair had summoned him to his office that morning. Word must have gotten out about just how many members of MacLachlan and Shaurone had been allowed across. Either someone saw them or—Lon dreaded to consider it—one of his own had betrayed him to Belgair.

One or two might have been ignored, but forty odd soldiers could not be.

Lon stood with his hands clasped behind his back and his eyes straight ahead. Two guardsmyn lounged near the door and another pair stood beside Belgair's desk. An itch crawled up Lon's spine. Belgair never had that many guardsmyn with him when he decided upon one of his little talks. The only reason that Lon could come up with was that Belgair had already decided to punish him.

Belgair shuffled some papers, signed one, and then moved them aside before looking at Lon. “How many?"

"How many what, sir?"

Belgair favored him with a skeptical look. “Soldiers. How many did you let into Red Wolf?"

Lon shrugged. “You're talking about MacLachlan?"

"How many MacLachlan soldiers did that MacFie slut bring?"

Lon sucked in a deep breath. “I did not count them."

"How many?"

"Twenty odd. They were an escort. Darcy MacFie came at the prince's request."

"Sharani?"

"Same."

"You had no right to make that decision."

"The prince would have died if I hadn't.” Lon kept his tone even.

"What happens to the bastard is none of your concern. The rules are.” Belgair gestured and his myn grabbed Lon, spellcording him, and then tying his wrists behind him. Lon knew better than to resist. He did not struggle or protest. Giving them problems would not help him and only result in worse treatment. It was best to simply accept his punishment, and get it over with.

"Fifty lashes for disobedience."

Lon sucked in a breath at being given the maximum sentence for a first offense. Belgair had not exceeded his authority, leaving Lon with no recourse for complaint to Claw. He had half expected it to be worse. Lon had seen for himself, as well as hearing from his friends, that Belgair ran things his way more and more and followed the book less and less.

Belgair followed as they led him down a less used hallway and back stairs. In the dungeons, Damien sat rolling the bones with the guardsmon on duty that day. He pocketed his dice when he saw them bring Lon in.

"I been waiting for you."

"Guess so.” Lon lowered his head.

They unfastened his wrists, stripped him to the waist, and took him into the room at the end. Three flogging posts—poles with a crosspiece—stood at the end of the long room. A rack occupied the right. Two heavy wooden chairs, with manacles attached to the arms and legs, sat to the left, flanked by tables and the stacked implements of Damien's art.

"Fifty lashes. Make him hurt, Damien."

"Always do, Belgair."

They stood Lon facing the post, bound his wrists to the crosspiece, tied his ankles together, and chained them to the floor. Lon prayed that Damien would not resort to the cat with the silver spikes—the one that killed Donald Greenlea and maimed Iollen Newell. He rested his forehead against the post.

"You should not have disobeyed orders, Lon.” Belgair stepped to the side where he could see the quiet resignation in Lon's face.

"Guess not."

"You could make it up to me, Lon. You could prove you're a loyal mon."

"Give me what I got coming, and be done with it."

Lon could not see which whip Damien had chosen, but he knew it as soon as it struck his flesh: silver had a particularly nasty burn when it broke the skin.

By the time that Damien got to the thirtieth blow, Lon was sagging in his bonds and groaning, but he made it to fifty without fainting. His knees buckled when they released him. Two guardsmyn had to shoulder his weight between them to get him to his room where they dumped Lon on his bed and left him there.

Willy Galloway knocked on the door to Lon's chambers, and opened it when he got no answer. “Hey, Lon! You going drinking with us?"

The windowless room was dark. Willy heard a groan and pulled a box of lucifers from his pocket. He struck one and took the chimney off the nearest lamp, lighting the wick, and turning it up. Willy's eyes widened when he saw Lon lying on his stomach, with one arm dangling from the bed.

"What the hell?” He carried the lamp closer and saw the bloody ruin of Lon's back. “What did you do to catch that?"

Lon's eyes slewed to the side and he gazed at Willy with weary resignation. “I let Darcy MacFie cross the bridge."

"If you hadn't, Kynyr'd be dead."

"I know it. That's why I'd do it again, if I had to.” Lon groaned as Willy eased him into the middle of the bed and a more comfortable position. “Don't know what Belgair has against Kynyr. He saved your hides in Chandler's Rock five years ago ... handled Hell's Widow well too."

"Jealousy?"

"Could be.” Lon's face tightened in a grimace. “First time I saw Kynyr ... said there must have been ... a Redhand in the bushes."

"Has Sheradyn looked at you?"

Lon shook his head. “Been told not to."

"I'll be back.” Willy trotted through the guardsmyn section of the manor, down the main stairs and poked his head into the kitchen. Seeing no one there, he darted into the pantry. Isbeth kept some basic medicinals and supplies there. Willy gathered linen bandages, a healing salve, and nosed around for something to reduce pain. His gaze fell upon a bottle of poppy milk. As he pulled it off the shelf, Willy noticed another bottle. That one was strange looking and had no label to indicate what it was for. He shoved the poppy milk into his pouch and took that one off the shelf. There was a tiny bit of liquid left at the bottom.

His mind strayed to Kynyr and Willy leaped to the conclusion that it might be poison in the bottle. He put that one in his pocket, considering who to show it to. If it was not poison, he would put the bottle back, but right then his mind was filled with conspiracies. What if Larena had not been the only one slipping poison into Kynyr's food and drink? What if ... Willy's thoughts buzzed.

The pantry door opened and Isbeth glanced in at him. “What are you doing here, Willy?"

"Not a damned thing.” Willy kissed her forehead and walked off with an armload of bandages without giving the startled nibari time to think or question further.

Willy spent the next hour bathing the blood from Lon's back with all the gentleness he could manage, smeared the salve on, and wrapped it up. He dosed Lon with the poppy milk, and eased the injured mon between the blankets.

"I'll be back, Lon. I promise."

His head buzzed with the noises of distress as he fetched a warm cloak from his room. He shared it with Vayle Stewart. The guard officers had single rooms in the barracks wing of the manor. The myn were grouped in long rooms that slept twenty. When Claw created Kynyr's special unit last summer, he had moved ten myn plus an officer into the family section of the manor. Their purpose had been to guard Aisha, Fianait, Searlait, and Merissa. After the ambush at Pendarke Road, Claw had increased their number to twenty. The rooms in the family section were mainly suites, and the smallest of those had a bedroom and a parlor. The myn were doubled up, while the officers—currently Erskine and Finn—each had suites to themselves.

Twin beds sat at opposite sides of the bedroom. Vayle's side was neat and tidy; Willy's was a mess. As soon as he had been excused from living in the barracks and transferred to Kynyr's special unit in the manor, Willy had reverted to type. His mother had always said that she despaired of him ever learning how to stay tidy and that he ought to be made to live in the pigsty.

Vayle had become so dyspeptic about Willy's habits, that he had laid a throw rug down in the middle of the room as a line of demarcation to be certain that Willy's mess stayed on Willy's side.

"You coming or aren't you?” Vayle stepped into the room. “Erskine's already left for the Wolf in Sheepskin. Robert, Finn, and Richard went with him. Darcy and her cousin are supposed to meet them there."

"Yeah, I'm coming.” Willy followed Vayle heading for the stairs.

"What kept you?"

"Belgair had Lon flogged."

Vayle stopped short and turned to face Willy. “What for?"

"Letting Darcy MacFie cross the bridge."

Willy stopped off at the Scarlet Angel Mage shop after promising Vayle that he would be along quick as could be.

Luciano was just closing for the night when Willy pushed the door open. “What is with that look on your face, Willy?"

He pulled the bottle from his pocket and extended it to Luciano. “I found this. Tell me if it's poison?"

Luciano gave Willy a questioning look as he took the bottle and carried it to the small side table that he used for palm readings. His brow furrowed as he extended his arcane awareness around the small quantity of liquid in the bottom of the bottle.

"You are very right, Willy.” Luciano set the bottle aside. “It is poison. However, I cannot say if it matches what they were feeding the prince."

"I'm going to assume it matches. Too many coincidences.” Willy looked unhappy. He had hoped that he would be wrong. It meant that someone besides Larena had been slipping the poison to Kynyr.

"Am I interrupting?"

The pleasant female voice made Willy glance up. Luciano's assistant was a pretty mon, silken black hair and chocolate eyes. Most lycans favored smaller breasts and wider hips, but Willy thought there was something striking about her.

"Hello, Bella.” Willy's smile lit his entire face. “We're getting together for a drink at the Wolf in Sheepskin. Like to come along?"

She turned to Luciano. “Will you need me to help you close up?"

"Have a good time, Bella. You do not get out enough."

Bella went upstairs to grab a cloak.

"You have been seeing her for months, Willy.” Luciano handed him back the bottle.

Willy gave a self-conscious shrug, uncertain as to where Luciano intended to go with that comment. “She's nice."

"She works hard. She is easy to get along with.” Luciano shook his finger at Willy. “No wild cousins, you hear me, Willy? No wild cousins."

"No wild cousins.” Willy made a sign of the crescent moon over his heart. “My intentions are honorable."

Bella came down, wearing a hooded cloak, smiling at him with sweet fondness. “I'm ready."

Snow flurried and swirled around them as they walked. Willy held her hand. It had taken weeks for him to persuade her to walk next to him that way. Waejontori women walked ten paces behind their men according to the dictates of custom. Willy could tell that Bella was only then beginning to be comfortable with the degree of equality they granted their bitches.

"You'll learn to like it here, Bella.” Willy pulled her closer and put his arm around her shoulder. “We're good folks ... mostly."

Bella looked away, her lower lip trembled. “I know lycans ... my father...” She hesitated and seemed to pull in on herself. “My father had a lycan mistress for a time when I was twelve."

"Did you like her?"

"She was kind. She used to brush my hair and tell me I was pretty. No one else did."

"You stay in touch with her?"

"I was sent away to school when I was fifteen ... when I came back, she'd died."

Willy glanced down, uncertain how to answer, and felt his words were lame even as they came out of his mouth. “I'm sorry."

"Come on, we're going to have a drink. Will the other old dogs be there? Erskine?"

"Yes."

Bella's face lit with pleasure. She liked all of Willy's friends. At first they had been cautious and slow to warm to her, but after months of seeing her with Willy they had begun to include her. She had met Willy in John Donegal's candy shop on Locust Street last autumn, while spending her first wages from Luciano by satisfying her sweet tooth. Bella had been amazed at the breadth of the selection and was having a difficult time making her choices. Willy had offered his opinion, which led into a long conversation, and then he had asked her out. She had been seeing Willy ever since. Had he been sa'necari, he would have bedded her willing or not the first night. Instead, he had been a perfect gentlemon.

For the first time in her life, Bella was out from under the watchful eyes of her immediate family and enjoying herself. They reached the Wolf in Sheepskin and Willy held the door for her.

The tavern was rougher than the Difficult Horse had been. The clientele were mostly tradesmyn with a scattering of guardsmyn. Long trestle tables dominated the center with small booths along the west end and round tables along the east. The long counter of the bar had tall stools. Barrels with spigots lined the back.

Bella's gaze drifted to the bar, lit upon the spigots, and she shivered. Her family had been the poor relations to a powerful sa'necari clan. She and Malthus had a great-grandfather in common. Their grandmothers had both belonged to the harem of Avery Tyrins. She had taken thirty-three lives in the rites of mortgiefan. She was sa'necari to the core. And yet looking at those spigots sent her to the edge of nightmares. She had worked as a sanguiner, mixing blood and wine for the flavors that would please the palette of both vampires and sa'necari, putting spigots into the necks of nibari and other chosen victims. Bella had been fine with it. One day she came to work, examining the myn who had been bound to the draining racks, and found her lycan half-brother among them. She had been forced to put the spigot in and drain him. Nudd had always been kind to her. Her heart broke and her psyche acquired a crack in it. Bella had always made everyone think she was the toughest sa'necari woman around. She held tight to her façade, like a mental tourniquet on a wounded heart.

"Do you mind if we sit on the other side, Willy?"

"Whatever you wish.” He gave her that easy smile of his and helped her settle onto the short bench on the opposite side.

Bella sat down and he kissed her hair. He reminded her of Nudd in ways that went beyond the casual racial similarities. Bella noticed again that the lycans treated their women better than the sa'necari aristocracy and the Waejontori in general. Her cousin Malthus had kept after her to join him for various things. Bella knew she had been brought here for the purposes of betrayal, but the longer she spent among Willy's friends, the less inclined she was to participate in her cousin's plots.

There were two new faces at the table. Finn sat with his arm around a handsome bitch dressed in trousers and tunic with a pair of axes in her belt and a sword at her shoulder. Bella guessed that must be Darcy. A ruddy-haired male sitting on the other side of Darcy was introduced to her as Tobrytan MacFie. He gave her an askance look, surprised at having a human join them.

Bella scanned the faces. “Where's Lon? Is he coming?"

A troubled silence settled over the table, broken finally by Willy. “Lon isn't coming. Belgair had him flogged."

"Why?” Alarm seized the edges of Bella's voice.

"For letting Darcy MacFie cross the bridge."

"That's wrong. That's so wrong.” Malthus, is Belgair your doxy? Did you poison Kynyr? The first time she refused Malthus’ requests, he stopped telling her what he was planning. He seemed convinced that sooner or later she would come around and help him. If her cousin learned about her feelings toward Willy ... Malthus would kill him.

"Bloody hell!” Darcy's face went livid and she smashed her fist on the table. “Doesn't he realize the prince would have died?"

Erskine shifted in his chair and rubbed his hand across his eyes. “Belgair wanted him to die."

"That makes no bloody sense."

Bella flinched at the rage in Darcy's voice, and snuggled deeper into the curve of Willy's sheltering arm. A woman of her people would never have dared to display their temper to that degree and in that manner.

"He ought to be gutted.” Darcy snarled and smashed the table again.

"Easy, Darcy.” Finn pressed his face into her hair.

"There's not much we can do.” Erskine's brow knit. “Not while Claw's alive."

Vayle licked his lips. “Belgair supports Malthus and Merissa. He wants their children on the throne. His issue seems to be that Kynyr's father was a bastard."

"Claw accepted him, didn't he?” Tobrytan took a long swallow from his tankard and wiped his mouth off on his sleeve. “That's all that should matter."

"You'd think it would be,” Erskine acknowledged in the slow easy way he had of speaking. “A lot of folks just aren't comfortable at the thought of a bastard on the throne. Belgair among them."

"Old ways die hard.” Tobrytan shrugged. “Tell me, has anyone seen Todd lately?"

"Why?” Erskine set his tankard aside and leaned forward on his elbows.

"Gorgarty Burr raped Betrys. He beat her badly. The healer says it's a miracle she did not miscarry. Gorgarty told her to inform Todd of where to find him."

"Bloody three fingered cockwhoring ... I'll pickle his balls ... after I cut them off and choke him with them.” Darcy jerked away from Finn and slammed both fists on the table, making the tankards shake and slosh.

"Ambush,” said Vayle quietly.

Tobrytan gave Darcy a sidewise glance, remembering that Darcy had cut off the balls and cock of a sa'necari and pickled them. She kept them in a jar as an obscene trophy. “Artair and I are convinced of it."

"Where did he say to find him?"

"The Striped Dog."

"I think we should drink at the Striped Dog next time.” Erskine scanned his friends’ faces and received nods of acknowledgement from them.

Bella curled up in her bed and wept. She was becoming weak. She had used up the last bottle of blood that she had brought with her. Now her choices were difficult. If she went to Malthus for it, he would demand something in exchange. If she simply bit into a lycan, it would be revealed that an uncorded sa'necari was loose among them. Or she would have to go into their minds and more and more she did not want to hurt them.

Luciano came in and sat on the edge of the bed. “Is something wrong?"

She looked up at him and almost flinched from the compassion in his gaze. Malthus had told her to kill him and take over the shop. Bella had refused. Luciano was a simple, uncomplicated mon; full of caring and kindness. “Many things. I think I'm in love."

"Love is never bad."

Bella looked into his gentle eyes. “It is for me."

"Why?"

"I'm a bad mon."

"I see. Baroucha Seaver was a collaborator with the sa'necari. It got her killed. She sent for you in Waejontor. Are you a collaborator?"

"Worse."

"A spy?"

"Worse than that."

"Sa'necari?"

Bella made a choking sound and nodded.

"I thought so. Who sent you?"

"I can't betray him. But I refuse to work with him. I ... I love someone. I like these people. I never expected that."

"Why did you come here?"

"Baroucha Seaver was collaborating with the sa'necari. They paid her well. When Cahira set up her shop, Baroucha began losing business to her. Her contact decided that having a young female working for her would make her shop more appealing. I worked as a sanguiner while I was going to school. I have degrees in bio-alchemy, apothecary science, and bio-magicalist studies. But..."

"But what?"

"My specialty is poisons and toxins. I'm so sorry. So sorry."

"Do not be.” Luciano nodded and stroked her hair. “I will buy a nibari for you."

"You're not going to throw me out? Or turn me in?"

"Of course not."

Bella straightened and looked him in the eye. “You've never made the slightest attempt to lift my skirts in all the months I've been here. You're a good mon."

Luciano laughed softly. “I'm coshorach."

Bella started at his use of the formal lycan term for homosexual and then hugged him. “There's nothing wrong with that."

Four days passed without Kynyr regaining full consciousness, although Sha insisted that his condition had improved. The cyanotic tinge had left his face, along with the fever patches on his cheeks. His breathing had become normal, no longer wheezing and struggling. Kynyr's few half-conscious periods had not been lucid, but Kady had been able to get some broth into him during them.

What troubled Kady most was that Todd had been missing ever since the morning that Larena injected Kynyr with the hedysmorte and no one knew where he had gone or what might have happened to him. The last mon to see him had been Artair, who said that Todd had had business to take care of. Todd's business was killing, which made his prolonged absence all the more worrisome for Kady. Todd was skilled and tough, but no longer young, and Kady had seen the signs of aging begin to overtake him. The day after Kynyr's father was murdered, Todd had gained streaks of white in his red hair.

She sat on the veranda wrapped in a wolverine cloak, watching the snow descend over her property. Five months pregnant, she had stopped working out in the salle with Trevor. Her sister's treachery had left a hole in her heart. Kady kept telling herself she should have expected treachery from Larena. At one time, Kady had felt loved and safe, protected by her family. When her affair with Cullen Blackwood had come out, they all deserted her. Now it seemed as if all that early love and caring had been illusory; a self-deception. They had cared for who they wanted her to be, who they thought she was, and not who and what Kady really was. It had all been conditional to what they wanted her to do. And yet, of all the things she could have imagined Larena doing to hurt her, killing her husband had not been among them.

"I want my vengeance against the mon who poisoned my husband,” Kady muttered, watching the diminutive captain of her personal guard, the mercurial and unpredictable StealsThunder moving restless up and down before her.

StealsThunder stood only four foot ten, slanted silver eyes, silver hair and eyebrows, ivory skin. Kady thought she looked like a pale doll or statue carved from marble or alabaster. She wore pale blue knee pants, tucked in shirt and an open jerkin of deep amethyst.

She wiggled her eyebrows at Kady and then turned serious, moving to take a stance with wrists crossed before her as if to draw her fans and fight.

"Sit down. All this movement is making me itchy.” Kady felt her child move and laid her hands over her belly. “Vengeance, Thunder. How do I get it?"

StealsThunder studied the determined look on Kady's face. “You'll have to think like a general."

"What do generals do? Besides order armies around?” Cahira had not given her any books to read on armies. Kady had arrived with only the barest level of literacy when Cahira took her in as an apprentice and set out to cure her ignorance about the world, history, and literature. Kady had set to the task that Cahira presented her and embraced reading with such tremendous enthusiasm that everyone around her had been impressed.

"Lots of things."

"Advise me. Teach me to think like a general."

"First, you need to get all your information together. Make a list of all the people who know anything at all about Malthus. Record it on a memory stone so they don't know you're taking notes."

"Sheradyn once asked me if I knew how to transcribe one of those. I still don't."

"It's easy when you have the right gifts—which you do. I'll teach you."

"In the meantime...” Kady rose from the sofa and went inside to her study, where she got paper, pen, and ink out. She started her list, then stopped and wrote out two notes. “I need to send someone to Phelan at Three Stones. We need a lawgiver."

"Hathura could Jump there. In this weather, that would be best."

Kady shook her head. She did not trust anyone who she did not know well and distrust loomed large in her mind now. She had trusted Larena, despite their verbal skirmishing because Larena was her sister. If she could not trust her family, she could certainly not trust anyone she knew as slightly as Hathura. She hated to admit it, but she had moments throughout the day when distrust paralyzed her. “Until I've spoken to him, I don't want anyone to know what I'm doing or why."

She wore Kynyr's signet ring on her right hand, yarned to fit her finger. Kady wrote a quick note and sealed the letter with his ring. “Have Cooley take this to Georgie Rogan. No, wait. I want to give Cooley more instructions than that. Have him come here first."

She wrote out another. “Have Iollen take this to Luciano Albertus at the Scarlet Angel Mage shop."

"Pardon me; I hope I'm not interrupting anything?” Robert Morcar came into the room. “I thought you'd like to know that your father packed up and left town within an hour of seeing Larena's body hanging from the scaffolds. The Difficult Horse is for sale."

Kady stiffened, trapped between relief and a further sense of abandonment. “To blazes with him."

A crafty look entered StealsThunder's eyes. “Buy it under a proxy company."

"A proxy company? How do I do that?” Last summer she had been simply the daughter of a tavern owner and now she was a princess. Kady knew she had a lot to learn. The Fae were the masters of subterfuge and dissembling. If StealsThunder wanted her to purchase the tavern, then there had to be a good reason for it.

"You send someone down to purchase for you and make it look like they're the owner, but then they sign the title over to you in secret."

"Who do I send?"

Robert sucked in a breath and exhaled loudly. “Don't look at me."

StealsThunder laughed. “Send Juniperarrow, and staff it with Fae. We know how to bring the business in. A tavern is perfect for spying."

Robert's laugh came roaring out of him. “You'll need a go between, Kady. That I can do."

Kady considered it. “Robert, take Juniperarrow to the Clerk of Records and buy the tavern."

"It's late. He'll be closed already,” Robert said.

Kady's expression tightened. “Rouse him. I want it done tonight."

Robert left and Kady sat contemplating what to do next. “It's all fine to try and think like a general, but I need a real one. Find Todd."

"Todd will come when he's ready. Until he does, what about Darcy?"

"She's obnoxious. I don't understand what Finn sees in her."

"More obnoxious than a wife who dumps a bowl of porridge on her husband's head?"

Kady flushed and her lips twitched. “I'm never going to live that down. It's one of the first things Mary tells everyone about me. Oh gods, Kynyr looked so funny with porridge dripping down his face and a look of astonishment...” Her throat tightened, and her eyes started to leak again. “Sha keeps saying he's getting better, but I'm so afraid, Thunder. If he dies ... I don't know what I'll do.” Kady drew herself up, her mouth tightening into a grim turn. “No. I know what I'll do. I'll kill them all. All of them."

StealsThunder dashed over and patted her shoulder. “You're sending Cooley on an errand?"

"To get me a lawgiver.” Kady blinked back her tears, her expression hardening. “And to find Stoneriver."

"That's a big job for a cub."

"Cooley can handle it. He was raised in a brothel and he rides like Death across a battlefield. More to the point. If someone is looking to ambush a courier, they will be looking for a grown mon, not an undersized cub."

"You're starting to think like us. I have a suggestion. Send Iswara with him."

Iswara, a tiger-striped cat, emerged from beneath Kady's desk. She had not noticed him there. : I suppose I will go. If only for the sake of the pleasant toweling off you gave me. :

Kady flinched at his mind voice and then settled again. It took some getting used to. When she had rescued three bedraggled cats that came onto her veranda during a storm, Kady had never suspected that she had actually taken in three Shivari—Tigerkin. “I should hope so."

Darcy appeared with Iollen at her heels. “More and more, Claw rules in name only."

Kady cast her a questioning glance, wondering how much they had overheard. If Darcy had heard Kady call her ‘obnoxious', she gave no sign of it. She was beginning to appreciate the people who had warned her that Darcy was hard to handle. “Who does then?"

"In his household?” Darcy turned a chair around and straddled it. “From what I am hearing, I would say either Malthus or Belgair. Red Wolf ... well, the Elders and priests are doing most of it. However, Wolffgard belongs to you, Kady. The town just doesn't realize it yet."

"What do I do?"

Iollen Newell had not been the same since Aghavie's death. Dark circles hung beneath his eyes, heightening the haunted look there. Iollen had never been forthcoming about his days with Cormic Parry's gang until recently. Now facts had begun to fall from his lips at frequent intervals as if begging for atonement and forgiveness with each revelatory offering. He licked his lips nervously. “You destroy the rest of Malthus’ hold over Wolffgard."

"What hold? I thought Kynyr..."

Iollen shook his head. “The young wolves are starting to respond to Malthus again. Simple enough reason. He's operating an illegal brothel out of the Sanctuary Refugee Camp."

Kady's lips tightened. “That explains a lot."

"I don't know what kind of hold he has over the females there, but he has one. The wet-tailed dogs use the women and pay Malthus. I used to think it was Shalto or Preece, but now I think Malthus was behind it all because it's still going on."

"When does this happen?” StealsThunder tapped her closed fan on the table.

"After dark. They knock on the doors and when the female answers says to her, ‘a friend told me you could see to my needs.’ She lets him in."

"I see.” Kady turned to StealsThunder. “I need someone to investigate this. Someone who can deal with it discreetly."

Darcy stood up to leave, but Iollen gestured for her to sit back down. She glanced at Kady and received a nod that returned her to her chair.

"Tell her, Darcy. Tell her what happened to Lon and Betrys. If she doesn't know what's going on, she can't make good decisions."

Darcy flashed Iollen a look of irritation. “We were going to handle this ourselves."

Iollen shook his head. “Kady needs to know. She's our leader."

Leader. I'm the leader. It should have been Kynyr. “Tell me."

"Lon was flogged ... rather savagely ... for letting me cross onto Red Wolf land. A few nights ago, I went drinking with Finn. Willy came late. He told us."

"And Betrys?"

"Raped by Gorgarty Burr. He did it to force Todd to come to him ... an ambush for certain. We were going to handle it ourselves.” She glared at Iollen, her fingers caressing an axe at her belt.

"Who is we?” Kady shivered, remembering the day that Gorgarty shoved her against a wall and raped her late last summer.

"Erskine, Finn, Vayle, and their friends. Me. We can't let them kill Todd."

"Todd. Where is Todd?” Kady could not keep the worry from her voice. “Find him."

The way the others glanced at each other, it was clear that no one knew.

"I must think about this. I cannot act without thinking about it. Gods, where is Todd? Please let him be safe.” Kady's eyes traced the ceiling beams. “Tell Erskine not to act until he's spoken to me."

The Striped Dog Tavern lay on the north end of Main Street, three blocks south of where it became Cheshire Road. Malthus had known about the place for the entire nine months that he had been in Wolffgard, yet had never gone there before. It had a reputation as a rough place, unlike the Difficult Horse that had been his haunt from his first day in the valley. Belgair had always favored the Striped Dog over the Difficult Horse, and recommended it to him.

It felt odd entering an unfamiliar tavern after months of knowing all the regulars at the Difficult Horse. He had carefully cultivated the people who frequented the establishment, and the thought of having to start over again without knowing what to expect irritated him. He had destroyed the tavern by ravaging Hereward's daughters. Malthus knew that he should have expected a reaction like Hereward's, but had never given it a thought. The common room was a morass of trestle tables that could be put up or taken down at need. Rowdies in rough clothing filled it. A couple of them looked at Malthus. One snickered and nudged his companion.

"Jinx."

Malthus let that pass and walked deeper into the large tavern. He spied Belgair and some of his myn drinking, taking up most of a long trestle table on the east side of it.

Belgair gestured for Malthus to join them. Malthus scanned the table, seeing some faces that he knew; others that he did not. Many of them he had played cards with in the evenings. Claw had approved an increase in the numbers of his guardsmyn shortly after Kynyr was ambushed. There were now over three hundred fifty of them, not counting the twenty in Finn's unit and the seventy bridge watchers. Belgair had made all of the picks himself. The five new myn at the table—Lennox, Mortimer, Harald, Eamon, and Derek—were all of a similar type that Belgair appeared to favor: crude, rough, and vulgar; given to casual cruelty when they thought they could get away with it.

Malthus acknowledged Belgair's invitation with a nod and wound his way through the crowded room. All the servingmyn were nibari dressed for fondling in a way that no decent bitch—not even Hereward's daughters—would dare to. A laborer in coarse clothing pulled one of the females into his arms, squeezing her breast. Before Malthus could cross the room that lycan had risen, heading for the backrooms with her. He tossed a few coins onto the bar and the owner nodded.

Malthus realized that the owner had found a discreet exception to the law against brothels on clan lands: the law did not recognize nibari as myn and the laws did not apply to them with the exception of property laws.

A truculent lycan stepped into Malthus’ path. “Don't need a jinx here. Spoils the beer."

Malthus met his eyes and started to go past him. The lycan grabbed Malthus’ arm.

"Remove your hand or I'll break it.” The smooth threat in Malthus’ voice should have backed him up.

The lycan shifted into his hybrid form and closed his hand tighter.

Malthus counter-grabbed the lycan's wrist, yanked the arm in as he brought his other arm down and his knee up. Bone cracked.

The lycan staggered backwards, eyes bulging, clutching his broken arm. One of his drinking companions helped the mon toward the door with a leery glance at Malthus Estrobian.

Malthus’ eyes narrowed and contempt lit his face. “I'm kandoyarin. Remember that."

He had never been kandoyarin, one of the mercenaries that served the Captains of the Coast at Ocealay; Malthus had simply used that claim as part of the persona he had created for himself in Wolffgard. He was a bounty hunter by trade and training.

A roar of approval from the guardsmyn sitting at Belgair's table told Malthus that he had regained some of his standing by disposing of the rowdy wolf so easily. Belgair laughed and his companions joined in. Malthus seated himself among them, smiling as they patted him on the back. He noted the absence of Gorgarty Burr and the presence of Damien Kildare, Belgair's chastisemon.

"You'll like this place, Malthus.” Belgair grinned at him.

"Not the kind of place you'd ever find that nancidawg thought he was a prince,” Lennox scoffed. “Guess he got what was coming to him."

Malthus stared into his tankard of mead, uncertain of what to make of such open speech aimed at Kynyr. His gaze shifted to the side, concealed by the angle of his head. Lennox had protuberant eyes and a face that looked like someone had smashed it like a fig against a wall.

"Nah.” Derek sneered, waving his tankard at Damien. “He won't get what's coming to him until we put the noose over his neck."

Damien's features, sharp as fox, turned up in a twist of predatory pleasure. “I'll make him hurt first."

"You always do, Damien.” Lennox waved his tankard at the chastisemon in casual acknowledgement. “And I've never seen better at it."

"Here's to the rightful heirs.” Belgair lifted his tankard in salute and every mon at the table did likewise.

The evening turned into an amusing and satisfying round of disparaging exchanges concerning Kynyr, toasts to the eagerly anticipated arrival of Malthus’ sons, and a coarse congeniality. The irritations and frustrations of the defeats that Kynyr had handed to him over the past months dissolved into pleasure, and Malthus realized that he should have gone to Belgair sooner. He had been as cautious with the Captain of the Guard as he had been bold with the Lycamornots.

Riding home with Belgair and his myn, Malthus noticed lights on in the Difficult Horse when they passed by.

"What's going on there?"

"More bloody foreigners.” Belgair hawked and spat onto the road. “Some prancing fool of a Fae bought it. No idea whether they're part of Kady's group or Pandeena's.

"I'm a foreigner."

Belgair gave Malthus a long look. “You're the father of the heirs. Besides, you fit in. They don't."

Malthus returned home late. Belgair and his companions went off to the guardsmyn's wing of the Manor. The household slept, and Malthus did not expect the timid knock at the door when it came.

"Come in.” Malthus’ hand dropped to the knife at his side.

"Master Malthus?” Isbeth turned the knob and peered in at him with the nervousness of a deer in the meadow scanning for hunters.

Malthus’ eyes lit up. “You have the list for me?"

She nodded, an apprehensive expression on her face. Isbeth could not refuse him anything. His coercions riddled the pathways of her mind like a checkrein. Isbeth had been forced to poison Kynyr and been far better at it than Larena had, because no one ever suspected a nibari of anything.

Currently, Malthus’ pawns were all limited to those in the manor. He had gotten his cousin Bella Montegna a job working in the shop of Luciano Albertus. However, she had avoided him since her first day in Wolffgard and he had yet to gain access to her. It irritated him. He had had such large plans for her. Now he wondered if she had accepted his offer merely to get out from under her family's thumbs.

Isbeth took a piece of paper from her apron pocket and laid it on Malthus’ desk.

He glanced at it. There were fifty names.

"This can't be all of them."

"It's all I've seen since you first asked me to watch."

"Keep watching and adding until I tell you to quit."

"I will."

Malthus rose from his desk and lifted her skirts. She shivered, but did not move away from him. Letting her skirts drop, Malthus pulled her to the floor, pushed them up again, and unfastened his pants. He shoved into her without preliminaries, concerned only with getting himself off in a warm wet hole—which was the closest he ever came to masturbation.

Raonul Kilcannon the blacksmith had the heart of a tinkerer and sufficient self-discipline not to. He made weapons and shoed horses, as well as purchasing weapons and armor from a supplier in Creeya who could get things from time to time that Raonul had never tried to make. Half of his smithy was a work area and the other half was a store. The second and third stories of the strong stone building were his living area and, since he had never married, it became lonely at times. He had had an apprentice for a while, Torquil Anderson; however the younger wolf had become unpleasant company, hanging around with a juvenile gang that called itself the Lycamornots. Then Torquil had gone and gotten himself murdered. The entire leadership of the gang had been killed. Raonul guessed they must have crossed the wrong wolf. The smith replaced Torquil with an out of work journeymon smith, Quinn Sinclair, a member of Todd Sinclair's large, extended family.

Winter was the off-season for Raonul and that was when he indulged his urge to tinker and test. Most of his inventions came to nothing with the exception of the wheel-chair that he created for Claw Redhand after a night of drinking led to a fall on the stone stairs of the manor that severed the chieftain's spine. A few days ago an order had come in for another such chair. Raonul had mixed feelings about it. The chair was for Kynyr Maguire, the chieftain's great-grandson and heir. The cause of the heir's crippling differed from Claw's in that Black Mountain Fever had caused it—although rumors claimed it had actually been poison. Raonul's heart went out to the family at the tragic coincidence that led to the crippling of their two strongest males; yet he was also pleased to see that his invention had gained some acceptance.

While Quinn hitched the horses to the wagon, Raonul made a last check of the chair they had built and then draped it with a heavy cloth. They drove it over to the Maguire Estate. Fychan the stablemaster came out and eyed the odd bundling as Quinn handed it down to Raonul and they carried it inside.

Raonul the smith and his partner, Quinn Sinclair, brought it into the clinic that Sha had set up on the south end of the mansion. It was the season for sniffles and Sha's healers spent part of each day dispensing medicine for it. With so many myn now lodged at the estate, it had quickly become apparent to her that an infirmary was required.

She turned and stared at them, her lips set in prim inquisition. “What's that?"

"My invention,” said Raonul. “Lady Maguire says the prince will need one, so I made another few of them."

Quinn settled it in front of Sha, whipped the drape away, and gestured at it.

"A chair on wheels?” Sha's skepticism grew.

Raonul and Quinn shared a glance and then Quinn swept his arms at the chair. “Sit down in it."

The two smiths explained to her how to work it and she wheeled herself around for a bit, testing it out. A smile of delight crossed her face when she started to imagine the uses it could be put to. “How much do they cost?"

They dickered over the price for a bit and Sha ordered seven of them, adding that she intended to send one to the Royal Medical College at Havensword. “I rather imagine they will be very impressed with these chairs. The sick would not need to spend all their time in bed. We could get them up and wheel them into the solar and other sunny places."

"It's my best invention.” Raonul beamed in pleasure.

Sha looked thoughtful for a moment. “Cahira translated an ancient medical text. There are many things in it that we have not yet discovered how to reproduce. If I brought you one of the facsimiles, would you be willing to try your hand at it?"

"Certainly. I'm always willing to try."

"Good. I'll have it for you tomorrow."

Raonul and Quinn headed back, wondering at their luck.

Quinn was a Sinclair right down to his manners. He spoke little, and too the point at all times.

Raonul glanced at Quinn as they climbed onto the seat of their wagon. “Tall order. We'll need ta hire some helpers."

"We?"

Raonul gave a diffident shrug, trying to mask his excitement. “If orders keep coming in like this, I'll need a business partner more than a hireling."

"Then you've got one."

Moonlight glittered off a fresh layer of snow and the sky promised more with a frosty bite in the air. Georgie Rogan emerged from his loft room in the huge stone and oak stables with great reluctance. Myn always wondered how he seemed to have a sixth sense about folks entering the yard of the manor. The answer was simple, but elusive: he kept a shy little cat with a twice broken tail that had an uncanny ability to know when guests arrived and was all too happy to alert Georgie to it.

He snatched his pants on, shoved his nightshirt into them, and threw on a coat and cloak. Georgie haired over as a last concession to the weather before stepping into the yard and seeing Cooley mounted on Glorygirl heading for the stables. “What are you doing out so late?"

"Hello, Georgie. I need some horses."

The cub dropped from his horse and sauntered up to the stablemon.

"Thought you had horses."

"Not the kind I need. I need three courier mounts. One of them with a packsaddle. The best you can loan me."

"You'd have ta speak ta Claw.” Georgie scowled his skepticism at this unexpected request. At least he hoped it was a request and not a demand.

Cooley shook his head. “I'm fetching help for Kynyr and I need to get gone before anyone knows I've left."

Kynyr's name brought a shadow over Georgie's eyes. All the grooms and stablemyn had been fond of Kynyr long before they knew he was the prince. There had always been something different about him and Georgie had spotted it the first day the young mon rode into the yard looking to hire on as a guardsmon. “Whatever you need is yours. How's our prince doing?"

"Not good, Georgie."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

Iswara picked that moment to poke his head from the big knapsack hanging from Cooley's shoulders.

Georgie blinked. “You're taking a cat?"

"Don't ask.” Cooley chewed his lower lip for a moment. “About Kynyr, you know it wasn't Black Mountain Fever?"

"There's been rumors.” Georgie turned cagy, wondering where Cooley was going with that and how much the cub knew.

"He was poisoned."

"Yeah, I was told that."

Georgie saddled and brought out the three best courier mounts the Chieftain owned. Two proud-cut geldings named Springer and Battlecry, and a mare called Autumn. He shifted Cooley's saddle to Springer and his gear to Battlecry. Then he clipped the leads on Autumn and Battlecry to Cooley's saddle.

Georgie watched Cooley mount and set off at a strong canter. He thought for a long time after he returned to his quarters. His brownish, smoke colored cat curled up beside the hearth, enjoying the warmth. The minute that Georgie settled into his chair, the cat moved to his lap. He stroked the creature.

"Bodkins, there's been a lot uh trouble lately, but I've a feeling it's gonna get worse ‘fore it gets better."

Cooley set off at a gallop to strike the back roads before anyone at the manor could spot him. He had never expected to be given as much responsibility so young. It haunted him that he had failed Kynyr by not getting home ahead of Larena. Sending him for a lawgiver seemed like a second chance, and Cooley intended to make the most of it. A lawgiver would put to good use the testimonies of those who had incriminating evidence against Malthus. The cub had a feeling that so long as Malthus remained free, Kynyr's life would be in danger. So Cooley imagined himself as his father, and tried to think like Cullen.

He found Todd in the kitchen eating a bit of cheese and bread. Cooley slid into a chair, folded his arms on the table, and studied Todd, looking for some evidence of what exactly made Todd a legend. “I'm not my father."

"And when did you discover that?"

Cooley gave him a look of solemn exasperation. “I'm serious."

"Do you want to be like your father?” Todd's tone turned sober.

"Ride and fight."

"Chase skirts?"

Cooley's eyes got large with indignation. “Nooo."

"I didn't think so, but thought I should ask."

"I want to be a courier."

"That's a dangerous job."

Once out of sight, Cooley slowed to a comfortable trot. It was going to be a long ride. Winter storms could blow up in nothing flat. He raked his mind for every bit of advice his father had ever given him as he rode along.

A tickle of words at the edge of his mind made Cooley glance back at Iswara who had poked his head out of the pannier on Battlecry. “I knew you wasn't no cat."

: wasn't a cat. :

"Yeah, wasn't a cat. What are you?"

: Your bodyguard, young prince. :

"That don't answer the question."

: Halt for a moment and I'll show you. :

Cooley drew rein in the shadows of a patch of spruce and watched Iswara, a trace of nervous anticipation running through him. Iswara jumped down from his basket. His form shifted and Cooley's eyes saucered. “I knew you wasn't a cat."

"Well, I am and I'm not.” Iswara pulled clothes from his packs and dressed in long, loose trousers, shirt, and an odd coat that flared at the waist and hung to his knees, split along the sides and sashed closed. He took a tulwar out and shoved it through his sash. Then he threw a heavy cloak on over it all.

"Just what are you?"

"Shivari and Guild, young prince.” Iswara had an odd, deep-throated burr to his words.

Cooley frowned. “Would you explain why you keep calling me ‘prince'?"

"I take it that you do not know about your mother?"

"My mother was a whore.” Cooley's face darkened.

"Your mother was a princess. Her father was Shintar de Waejonan. His legitimate child, rather than his bastard like Tomyrilen.” Iswara mounted Autumn and urged her into a trot.

"Then how'd she end up working on her back?"

"The sa'necari gene is a recessive, except when two sa'necari produce a child. Then it is a dominant. Yet sometimes they produce a normal human child. When that happens, it is a disgrace upon their family. Traditionally, such children are sacrificed to Bellocar at puberty. That was to be Silkanna's fate. Instead she ran away. She always had courage, that one."

"I'm glad she ran away."

"So am I. You see, I helped her do it. I had been her pet, but when the time came for her to die, I revealed myself. I became a tiger and she rode me far away, as trusting as if I were a good horse. When Brandrahoon came into her life, I was forced to flee. That one has no love for the Shivari. However, by then she had the matters of her life well under her control."

Cooley spent the rest of the day learning things about his mother that he had never suspected.

Cooley Blackwood took after his murdered father in more ways than he realized. Running on an instinct based unconsciously on his father's teachings, Cooley made record time reaching the town of Thorn Tree. He rode with an intuitive feel for what his horses could give him and when to ask them for it. He missed Larkspur, but he had not wanted to risk her in the winter weather so close to foaling.

For generations the lycans had not required walls to defend their cities. They relied upon an early warning system based on their interactions with the packs of Wild Cousins that roamed the hills and forests of Red Wolf. They had a philosophy that if their soldiers and housecarles could not stop an advancing army then it was foolish to let their people huddle behind stonewalls and slowly starve. However, that had begun to change as word of the atrocities in the northwest began to filter down. Thorn Tree had an abatis around it and the beginnings of a stonewall.

The town's volunteer militia stopped him at the edge of the entrance past the abatis, eyeing Iswara with open suspicion.

"What's your business?” asked a grizzled veteran.

"Courier.” Cooley drew himself as straight in the saddle as he could with a proud angle to his shoulders. He had papers in his pouch with Kynyr's seal affixed to them in case anyone questioned him.

"Mite young."

"I'm Cullen Diomedes Blackwood jr. I'm the best there is, like my dad."

"Can you prove that?"

Another old timer strolled forward and studied Cooley for a moment. “He don't have to. Looks like he was spit out of Cullen's mouth. Let them in."

"Thank you.” Cooley smiled.

"Only you're a lot more polite."

"Can you recommend an inn?"

"Goose on a Bucket. North end of Main Street. Your dad always stayed there. Just tell Loni Calhoun who you are and no one will mess with you. And tell her Emory Jones sent you."

Cooley suppressed a wince at the tavernmaster's name. Loni was too similar to that of his nemesis, Lani O'Connor, for comfort. He thanked the mon and rode into Thorn Tree.

His father always told him that to the trained eye each town and village looked different. Cooley tried to see the obvious differences, but could not. The houses and shops all looked similar to those in Wolffgard.

He found the Goose on a Bucket across from the common and the differences slowly sank in. The broad stone inn had a deep yard, stone benches placed among the trees, and a wide cobblestoned path veered to the left that Cooley suspected led to the stables. Cooley rode down the path and saw the stables. An ostler emerged from them as Cooley dismounted. He glanced at Iswara. “Will you be staying the night?"

Iswara turned to Cooley. “Ask the young master."

The stablemon lifted an eyebrow at that and faced Cooley. “Well?"

"Yes. We'll want our horses ready to ride first thing in the morning."

"As you wish."

Cooley took out a silver coin and tossed it to the mon, who caught it with a smile. “Take good care of them and there will be more."

The stablemon gave Cooley a polite bow, took the reins of their horses, and led them into the stables.

"I can't imagine my dad staying here."

Iswara looked down at him as they walked into the building. “Why not?"

"It seems too nice."

"Hah! You did not know your father so well as you thought."

The dark wood interior had a warm feel that went beyond the heat from the kitchens and the hearths. Myn filled the common room talking in pleasant tones, sharing stories, and laughing. Cooley scanned the room surreptitiously, making an assessment of the clientele. His experiences growing up in the Crimson Lady Brothel in Hell's Widow colored his perceptions and sharpened his judgment. They seemed to be mostly tradesmyn and middle level merchants with their guards and drivers.

A rotund mon in a stained white apron approached him. “Can I help ya?"

Iswara inclined his head toward Cooley. “Ask the young master."

Cooley faced the mon, his serious expression stained by defiance, settling his hands on his hips. “Emory Jones said to ask for Loni Calhoun."

"Oh ee did, did ee? Well, I'm Loni. An’ who ya be?"

"Cullen Diomedes Blackwood, jr. You can call me Cooley."

Loni blinked and then grabbed Cooley, hugging him. “Gads, it's good ta seeya. Can't say how sorry I was when I heard them deatharses killed yer dad."

Cooley could not think what to answer so he just said, “Thank you."

Loni guided them to a table and rattled off a list of what they had available. Then she lifted Cooley onto a table and hollered for silence. “Everyone, this's Cooley Blackwood, Cullen's son."

Words of welcome echoed throughout the common room.

One gaunt, grizzled gaffer leaned forward on his elbows. “Your dad was foul-mouthed, but he was honest. I'll give him that."

Loni wiped her hands on her apron. “Be nice, Ian. The cub don't need ya bad-mouthing ‘is dad. Give us some news, my flower."

Cooley's lips tightened an instant at being called ‘my flower,’ and then he started telling them about Kynyr, only to be interrupted by Ian.

"Your dad was shut-mouthed about politics."

Cooley shrugged. “I'm only telling what needs to be told."

"Talking up this bastard prince..."

Cooley lost his temper. “You silly son of a three-fingered gutterwhore! You wouldn't know sense if it stuck a pole up your arse."

Loni chuckled. “Now ee sounds like ‘is father. Ian, if ya don't want ta listen, go somewhere else to drink. Go on, boy. Give us the news. Spin us some tales of what's happening in Wolffgard."

Ian slunk from the inn and Cooley settled back in his chair, enjoying the attention as he told them of all that was going on in their capital of Wolffgard.

The roar of the Eirlys River had dimmed with the arrival of winter. An accumulation of snow and ice made it sluggish. It ran deep, far below the rock walls of the high cliffs bracketing it. Todd rode along the edge of the cliffs, watching for both the spot he wanted and the tallest trees he could find. Periodically, Todd glanced behind him, watching for a spot that would not be visible from the distant bridge near the manor. Gowyn had told him that the Eirlys had a big bend in it on the property, about a three-hour ride south of the spot where the Bonnie Draw fed into it.

Todd found it around mid-morning. The River curved and the cliff walls bent with it. Todd dismounted, walked to the very edge of the cliffs, and squatted down, narrowing his eyes. A crafty smile brushed his lips.

He leaned his head back and studied the trees spreading above him. Two tall ash trees appeared to be perfect for his purposes. Todd unlimbered the woodsmon's axe he had purchased at the dry goods, shifted to his hybrid form, took a sturdy stance, and began to chop. The steady rhythm of his blows filled the air and frightened the winter birds from the branches. They rushed up, circled, and fled.

Todd chopped halfway through and moved to the other side. He glided away as the tree began to topple. It crashed to earth and Todd grinned. The tree lay upon both cliffs, and he had a solid start to his private bridge. It was crude, but it would do the job.

He smelled civil war in the air. Kady needed allies. It had been one of the reasons that Todd, as the patriarch to his large clan, had agreed to the sudden marriage between Betrys and Artair. The marriage allied his family with the MacFies who were related to the ruling family of MacLachlan. Clan MacLachlan ruled the smallest of the lycan territories, and previously they had stayed out of the affairs of the Nine Great Clans. However, after seeing them bite a chunk out of Hell's Widow, Todd knew that the mouse had become a badger. And, it was badgers that Kady needed.

Once he finished here, Todd intended to sound out Tobrytan and Darcy MacFie about the possibility of bringing their troops across this bridge to support Kynyr's claim to the throne of Red Wolf—or his son's if Kynyr died, which seemed more likely to Todd by the hour.

His failures to protect Tarrant, Branduff, and Kynyr did not embitter him so much as goad him to greater efforts. Tarrant had been his first student, more like a younger brother than a friend, and Todd had loved him. It seemed like everyone in Red Wolf had loved Tarrant, Todd mused.

Claw's right. Having Kynyr around has been like having Tarrant back. Tarrant was only twenty-one ... same age as Kynyr ... when they killed him. Bloody sa'necari bastards.

Todd stopped working as the light began to fade and made a proper snow camp for the night, settling down beside his fire. The stillness of the night sent his mind drifting over the past. He could feel the hours of work as a dull aching in his arms and back.

"Face it, you're getting old.” And what have I accomplished? I promised Tarrant I would protect his lover and his child. I could not make a warrior out of Bran. I tried, but he was always too gentle ... too lodged in his belief that myn could be reasoned with. Now he's dead like his father. Kynyr's probably dead by now. Treachery was the one thing I never could protect him from. Gods, I loved Tarrant. We thought we could win ... or at least make a difference. What did it get us? Nothing.

The memory of struggling to reach Tarrant as the minions of the sa'necari pulled him from his horse, pulled him down. Todd, massive wounds covering his body, kept dragging himself up and trying ... trying so hard to reach him and failing ... falling to the blood-soaked ground unable to struggle further.

Todd shook himself loose from the memory, shoving more branches into the fire. The big chopping axe lay by his knee. His hand closed upon the axe as if he could drive the pain away with a weapon. He released it and clenched his fists, determined to endure the remembered anguish and not yield to it.

Despite Todd's great strength and stamina, it had required a full year to recover from his wounds taken at Kinsdale Wood. The news that Tarrant had been taken alive and executed along with his twin brother, Logan, left him feeling bitter and heartbroken. The only thing that had kept him going was his determination to be with Cahira. Once Todd was able to travel again, it took nine years to find her; and he slowly found himself again as a result.

He wondered what had become of the headstrong, quick-tempered, and idealistic boy that he had once been. There were times that it felt as if the boy he had been and the man he had become were not the same person. Orphaned at ten, after his parents and two younger brothers died of Scarlet Fever, Todd had been passed from one group of well meaning relatives to another. They tried to make a farmer of him. Their efforts had been doomed from the outset. He had wanted to be a soldier. Todd had had too much anger and pain in him—and guilt. The fever had taken his family, half his village, and all of his friends. The twist of fate that had allowed him to survive the fever when the others perished seemed more cruel than merciful. Unconsciously he had gone looking for something to vent his rage upon and the depredations of the sa'necari rulers of Waejontor had offered him a target.

At twelve, he had runaway and tried to persuade the leader of a Battle-clan to take him in. The chieftain refused and told Todd to go home to his family. Stubborn to the core, he tried to reach Creeya carrying his meager belongings and food in a pack on his back.

The memory closed around his quiet mind like a vise, and he relived that turning point in his life with all the intensity with which he had first experienced it.

Todd settled down in an elm hollow, watching the last embers of his fire die down. He had gone into his hybrid form in an attempt to stay warm on a spring night that still whispered of the faded winter. The cub was large for his age, already six feet tall and only twelve years old. Earc McLeod's rejection still stung. One of Earc's warriors had recognized Todd, and informed him that for all of the cub's size, he was still just a cub. The Battle-Clan chieftain had threatened to tie him up and send him home to his uncle.

"As if he could have,” the cub muttered. “I'm going to be a warrior and no one's going to stop me. No one."

His food had dwindled to almost nothing, but he had been lucky and brought down a brace of pheasants with his sling. Todd had set out, following the north star in the direction of Creeya, certain that he could persuade either the Guild or an armsmaster to take him on as a student. What he had not realized was just how far it was to Creeya. Todd had been walking for weeks, avoiding villages and towns rather than risk encountering someone who might try to send him home.

He did not remember falling asleep. A low rumbling and snuffling woke him. He opened his eyes cautiously. A huge brown bear with gray tipped guard hairs sat eating his pheasants. The grizzly bear was the size of a horse. Rage overwhelmed Todd at the thought of going hungry, of all the work he had put into killing those birds, and how happy he had been at the thought of having something better than porridge to eat. Todd grabbed his quarterstaff, sprang to his feet, and charged the beast yelling.

The bear flinched when Todd landed two blows to its face, gave a tremendous roar, and reared on its hindlegs. It stood twelve feet at the shoulder. Todd sucked in a breath, and chill fear doused the flames of his anger. The first swipe of its claws broke his staff. The second ripped his chest. Todd staggered back. It clawed his chest again and then his face. When Todd tried to run, the huge jaws clamped down on his arm and dragged him from his feet. Weak and in pain, Todd looked up into its heavy face, smelled its fetid breath, and screamed.

Abruptly, the bear released him with a growl and turned. The ugliest mon that Todd had ever seen faced off against the creature with a huge sword in his hands. The mon beat the bear down and drove the sword through its ribs. The bear shuddered and dropped. The mon cleaned his sword, sheathed it, and knelt beside Todd.

"I'm Lokynen,” he said as he cleaned Todd's wounds. “You can call me Loky."

"The Battle Master?"

"Yes."

Todd could not believe his good fortune. After having nearly gotten himself ingloriously killed, he had found the mon to make him great.

The memory fled when Todd heard movement in the darkness and recognized it as booted feet on all sides of him.

He lifted his eyes.

"What are you doing here, Old Mon?” Five guardsmyn came into the firelight.

Todd turned his head slowly to see which of them had spoken. They were some of Belgair's new recruits. “Camping on my property."

The fellow who had spoken was a ‘black’ lycan, black-haired and olive-skinned like Robert Morcar. “You Todd Sinclair?"

"Ayup."

"We have a message from Gorgarty Burr.” The dark one reached for his sword.

Todd's hand dropped to the woodsmon's axe laying beside him. He lunged to his feet before the mon's sword could clear leather, swinging hard with the axe. The blow caught the mon in the side with enough force to chop through his boiled-leather armor. Todd's opponent dropped to his knees and Todd put the next blow in his face, splitting his skull. He dropped the axe and spun around as he drew his twin basket-hilted claymores. The torchlight limned the kendaryl blades with orange.

Their intention had been to get him in the back by circling him and Todd had neatly eliminated that possibility.

Leather armor, all that those arseholes could afford, was not made to withstand kendaryl in the hands of a master. They spread out, trying again for an encirclement.

"C'mon you bastards.” Todd smiled at them, shifting into his hybrid form with well-trained speed. The first one to move to his side was a yellow-bearded fellow. Todd glided in his direction, beat his guard down, entangled his sword, and shoved the other blade into his belly.

The remaining three charged in with yells of rage.

Todd let them come.

It was a slaughter.

Parrying one mon's attack, Todd glided to the side and backhanded a blade into the second one's face, blinding him. He shoved a blade into the third's stomach, released it, and pulled a throwing axe from his belt, pivoting in time to block the first one's attack. He brought his sword down in a hard whack that forced his opponent's blade aside and popped the axe into the guardsmon's chest.

Todd regarded the carnage with a distasteful sneer. “Amateurs. Bloody amateurs."

He executed the blinded one with a blade across his throat. Todd cleaned his weapons and sheathed them before going through their pockets and pouches. None of them had carried papers of any kind. They probably could not have read them if they had. He claimed the money in their pockets, the rings from their fingers, and everything else that had a bit of resale value. It could be sold in Creeya and no one would be the wiser.

Then he loaded the bodies onto their horses, took them to the edge of the cliffs, and dumped them over into the Eirlys River. The ice was still thin on the river. They struck and plunged through. The bodies would probably not be found before spring thaw.

Todd turned their horses loose, broke camp, and headed for home. Next time he came to work on his bridge, he would bring others with him.

Todd turned his horse over to the stablemon who worked for him and slipped into the shop through the back door. The bell startled him. He stopped and glared at it, hanging from the door at the end of a pink ribbon.

"Betrys.” He shook his head.

He had only been gone four days, and already Betrys was making changes.

"Grandfather?” Betrys peeked around the corner of the hallway.

"Speak of a devil..."

"What did I do?"

"Hung a bell on the back door so I couldn't sneak in."

"I did it because someone came in that way."

Betrys came out where he could see her clearly. Todd saw the bruises on her face, and the mace clipped to her belt. His eyes narrowed. “Who?"

"A guardsmon. Said his name was Gorgarty Burr. He was looking for you. To leave a message ... and that I was it. Artair took after him with a cudgel and drove him off."

"I like your husband more all the time."

That brought a smile from Betrys.

"He bounced Gorgarty off a wall twice and told him he was banned from this place."

"I told him that myself last summer.” Todd searched his granddaughter's face for signs that she might have taken more than just a beating from Gorgarty. He recalled the day that Kynyr and his friends had been ambushed. Kady came to help and Gorgarty raped her. “He sent me another message and it caught up to me."

"What did it say?"

"I killed it. All five of them."

Betrys looked shaken, and then recovered. “Have you been to the estate?"

Todd shook his head, his eyes half-closing as all expression faded from his face. “I wanted to come home before someone told me he was dead."

"Grandfather, he isn't.” Betrys put her comforting arms around the big mon. “Kynyr is out of danger."

"But that much hedysmorte...” Todd refused to let himself feel joy at Betrys’ news until he could be certain that she was not mistaken.

"Dyna did it. She saved him.” Betrys eyes softened in concern as she tried to be reassuring. She knew how much Todd loved Kynyr. Their family was very close knit. “But the healers say he's crippled."

"I'll go see him, but first I need to speak with your husband. Where's Artair?"

"Cahira's study. He's doing the books. Gram has fallen several weeks behind on them."

"Doesn't surprise me. The family has been through too much this year."

The study where Cahira did the bookwork and managed the financial affairs for the family had carpets rather than the usual rugs. She had begun to complain that the cold got into her aging bones; so Todd had tried to make it the warmest room in the house. Artair sat at Cahira's desk with the receipts in two stacks and an abacus at his right hand to avoid errors in his addition. He wrote an entry, speared the receipt on a spindle, and then clacked the beads.

"Artair, I need to speak with you."

The seriousness in Todd's voice made Artair squirm. His oldest brother, Fergus would have simply spit it out in feisty tones. Todd was different. “What about? I haven't upset Betrys, have I?"

"You're just fine. If Gorgarty comes back, kill him."

"Gladly."

"Civil War."

"What? In Red Wolff?"

Todd nodded. “Some folks don't hold with having Kynyr on the throne. Tarrant was going to marry Cahira when he returned from a meeting with Romney Silverpaw. Only the ambush happened."

"At Kinsdale Woods."

"You know your history. So Kynyr's father was a bastard. The son of Tarrant, but we hid it."

"The curse..."

"Can I finish without being interrupted?” Todd raised a bemused eyebrow, his lips pursed. He had long ago discovered that when Artair became nervous the young dog had a tendency to babble and interrupt—and no matter how hard Todd tried not to, he still made Artair nervous.

"Oh, of course. Sorry."

"Do you think MacLachlan could be convinced to support Kynyr?"

A slow smile spread over Artair's face. “Darcy would have our forces at Hell's Widow here in a flash. Fi-Kynyr made quite an impression.

"Then we'll have to arrange for a visit."

"But they're already here. I mean, over at the estate."

"Then let's go."

"I don't want to leave Betrys alone.” Artair frowned.

Todd studied his grandson-in-law. “Tell me the truth. He raped her, didn't he?"

"We weren't going to tell you."

"Why not?"

"Because he said you were to meet him at the Striped Dog. It's a trap."

"Obviously.” Todd went to the cabinet, took out a bottle of whiskey—he had them stashed all through the house and shop—and glasses. He poured a drink for both of them. “I'll pick my own battlefield."

"You're taking this rather calmly."

"I ever tell you that hot rage gets you killed, but cold rage gets them killed?"

"No."

"Well, it does. We'll close the shop for the day and take her with us."

"What are you going to do?"

"I promised Cahira I'd kill him."

The big bed in the north wing of the Maguire mansion had rough posts, a dusty canopy, and bed curtains. It had not been used in years. The more people who moved into the Maguire Estate, the more rooms had to be opened up, aired out, and readied.

Finn MacIver lay naked beneath a pile of hastily acquired comforters and quilts with a satisfied smile. Kady had given him a room of his own in the mansion following Kynyr's collapse; however, the bed he had just awakened in was not that one. He intended to postpone leaving for duty at the manor as late as he could, to steal as much time with Darcy as possible, and to generally enjoy having his lover back in his life. It felt good to have Darcy with him again, and it was not just her rowdy ways in bed.

Darcy snuggled close and licked his neck. “Once before breakfast?"

"Don't see why not.” He rolled over and fondled her breasts.

Finn had been Darcy's second choice. She had turned to him after being rejected by Kynyr. He had become used to getting bitches on the rebound from Kynyr, because Finn's nose made him homely looking, while Kynyr was so damned good-looking that he usually had bitches falling all over him. However, his relationship with Darcy had shaped up better than anything Finn had ever had before.

"You ever think about getting married, Darcy?"

"I'm not the cubs and cookies type.” She writhed against him.

"I don't want the cubs and cookies type.” Finn ran his tongue over her nipple and she moaned.

"I'd lose my command.” Darcy grasped his cock, squeezing and rubbing it.

"Kady needs a general. Oooh.” Finn gave a satisfied gasp of pleasure as she guided him inside her.

"Tell you what. If Kady'll give me a command to match what I have now, I'll marry you."

"I'll talk to her. Consider yourself betrothed.” Pressed tight against her, Finn rolled Darcy over on her back. She locked her legs together across his buttocks, and he plowed her field in earnest.

The fresh snow reflected the morning light through the window and into Kynyr's sleeping face, tickling his eyelids open and bringing him out from the depths of dreams that vanished from his memory and consciousness like melted fog. His gaze roved the room, trying to remember where he was, for it was not the room he shared with Kady. Wisps of knowledge tugged at him in tantalizing fragments.

The guestroom. What am I doing in the guestroom?

It came back to him that he had been ill. He felt weak, as if all the strength had been washed from his muscles. His legs were cold as ice, although the rest of him felt warm and snug. He reached down and rubbed one. The sensation in his thighs felt fuzzy and prickly. He tried to move them, but they would not respond. Panicked, Kynyr grabbed the headboard and pulled himself into a sitting position. He had feeling in his legs, but they would not respond. Not respond.

A vision of his grandfather in his wheel-chair filled Kynyr's mind and he screamed. He pounded the headboard, cursing, and tumbled onto the floor. He lay there breathing hard. Kynyr had prepared himself to die, but not to awaken from his fever alive and crippled. His entire life had been built upon his skills and his strength, proud that he was acknowledged the greatest swordsmon the clans had ever produced—and now he was nothing. He raged in silence against the unfairness of life as he dragged himself to the door, struggling for each inch of ground he crossed. The rug bunched up beneath him, hampering his progress. He shoved at it with a wordless cry of anger and frustration, trying to get it out of his way, but only succeeded in making it worse. Taking deep breaths, Kynyr forced aside the anger, forced himself to become calmer. By pushing himself up on one hand, Kynyr managed to shove the rug aside. With only the wood beneath him, Kynyr managed to cross to the door. He stretched out his hand for the knob, and the door opened before he could touch it.

His Uncle Trevor stood there. Trevor squatted, shifting into his hybrid form. He gathered Kynyr into his arms and lifted him up, cradling him to his chest like a child.

"My legs..."

"I know.” Trevor sounded sad with an undercurrent of resignation. “Quinn and Raonul have made you a chair."

Kynyr glanced and saw the wooden abomination with the steel-rimmed wheels, knowing from that alone that his condition was not something that could be fixed. His throat tightened. A sudden tear ran down his cheek and buried itself in his beard. He could not think what to say.

Trevor carried Kynyr to the bed. Mary and a black-haired mon with cornflower eyes came in behind Todd. Kynyr could not remember who the mon was, but felt that he ought to know her.

"Put him in a chair.” Sha instructed and unshouldered her satchel.

"Not that thing.” Kynyr pointed at the wheel-chair.

Trevor settled Kynyr instead into a large, overstuffed chair and Mary added pillows to either side of him. The mon wore a black Guild uniform with the book and the blade embroidered in gold on her left shoulder and the serpent wrapped staff of a healer on the right.

"I know you,” said Kynyr.

She nodded. “Shaheeramat. You call me Sha.” She took his memory lapse for granted, took a triangular mallet from her satchel, and tapped his legs just beneath the knees. The right reacted with a weak jerk. The left did not react at all.

"What's that?” Kynyr asked.

"Testing your reflexes. Close your eyes and tell me if you feel this?” Sha turned the mallet around and stroked his legs and the undersides of his feet.

What sensation Kynyr did have was muted.

"What does it mean?” Kynyr asked.

"The poison mimicked Black Mountain Fever all the way to the side effects. There are lesions on your spine. Some of the neural pathways have been damaged and others have been destroyed."

Kynyr's stomach went hollow. He felt as if he had been dropped from a great height and smacked his head. “I'm crippled?"

"The odds of you ever walking again are remote."

Resentment surged within Kynyr and he shouted before he thought. “I'd rather be dead."

A sob drew Kynyr's gaze to the doorway. Kady stood there, very swollen with his child, her face white as she bit down on her knuckles. Before Kynyr could say anything else, she turned and fled.

"You're a stupid sod, Kynyr.” Mary snarled at him, hair sprouting along her arms, then she turned and ran after Kady.

Kynyr flushed, started to speak, and folded over his arms with a grimace.

"Hurting?” Sha asked.

"Yes,” he groaned between his clenched teeth.

Sha poured a measure of Narcantha for him. As soon as he drank it, Trevor put him back to bed.

Trevor lingered after the others left and watched Kynyr grow sleepy. “You'll get through this, Kynyr ... if you've got the guts."

Then his uncle left him.

Mary found Kady curled up crying in the middle of her bed. “You knew he was going to react that way."

Kady swallowed and nodded, wiping at her eyes. “I didn't think he'd spit it in my face."

"Kynyr didn't do that.” Mary settled on the edge of the bed and put her arm around Kady. “I don't think he even knew you were there until you ran."

"Maybe.” Kady rubbed her eyes. “I'm doing the right thing, Mary? About Kynyr? I knew he was going to come out of it crippled, but I couldn't just let him die. I couldn't."

Mary squeezed Kady's shoulder. “I would have done the same. Now, let the rest of us deal with Kynyr. There are more urgent matters for you to handle."

"Such as?” Kady straightened, forcing calm into her voice.

"You remember the night the Sinclairs made a pact to carry the war to Malthus?"

"Yes.” Kady would never forget that night. Kynyr had returned from Hell's Widow triumphant, only to learn that the lawgiver, Padruig Caimbeul, had been brutally murdered by a lycan gang led by a masked sa'necari the previous night. Although Kady had had mixed feelings toward Caimbeul, her world felt far less safe with him gone and Kynyr crippled.

"It's your war."

"I can't do it. I can't be a general.” Kady prayed that StealsThunder would volunteer, putting all of her need and frustration into her complaint as she framed it. “I don't even understand what they do."

"You don't need to be. You've got a general.” Darcy leaned against the doorframe, arms folded. Every inch of her radiated smug confidence and cheek.

"You shouldn't just walk in like that!” Mary snarled at her.

Darcy gave her a shrug and a wry grin. “The door was open. Finn says you need a general. So here I am."

"You're MacLachlan.” Kady straightened and pushed away from Mary.

"That depends on you. Will you have me?"

"Yes. Finn says you're the best. Are you?"

"I like to think so,” Darcy said and seemed to be certain of it.

"She isn't the best. I am.” Todd Sinclair stepped into the room. His presence filled it.

"Todd!” Kady's eyes lit, she crossed the room, and hugged him. “Where have you been? I was beginning to worry."

"I had some business to take care of.” Todd turned to Darcy. “You're too hot headed for a good general, Darcy. But I'll take you as my second if you'll obey orders and be willing to learn."

Darcy met Todd's eyes. The haunted calm of the battlefield looked out at her from those eyes, unremitting and relentless. She swallowed and dropped her gaze, an edge of bitterness crept into her voice. “I don't want less than I have now."

"I talked to Artair.” Todd regarded her with stern patience. “I know you browbeat Lord Brodrig into giving you a command you had not earned."

Darcy flushed. “I did earn it."

"Did you? You're the first bitch to own the title of general. You skipped steps to get there."

"I did not!"

"Your impulsiveness got Fergus killed."

The color faded from Darcy's face as fast as it had risen and she fled the room. Todd went after her, knowing that he had hit a nerve. For all of her bravado, there was still a grieving bitch beneath her armor.

She ran down the hallway, shoving past the myn in her path until she reached the room Kady had given her. Darcy threw herself down on her bed with a sob mingled of humiliation and grief.

"Darcy?"

She glanced up and saw Todd. Her hand closed on the bottle of wine she had shared last night with Finn and threw it at Todd's head. “Get out."

Todd caught the bottle and laid it on a dresser. “We need to talk."

"I hate you."

"Really?” Todd walked over and sat down on the edge of the bed. “Bitches never get treated fair when they decide to be warriors. Not even in the Battle-Clans. You'll never see a bitch leading one."

"We're as good as you are!"

"Me personally?” Todd quirked an eyebrow at her. “Or me male?"

"Me male ... I mean, you males."

"I agree with you."

That took Darcy aback. “You do?"

"Ayup. You'll always get an honest answer from me, Darcy. You may not like it, but it will be honest. I can teach you—if you'll let me. You can either go down in history as MacLachlan's greatest mistake or the best decision that Red Wolf ever made. It's up to you."

"I'd be second to you?"

"Basically. For the time being, at least. But eventually, if you learn well, the job is yours."

"I'll take it.” Darcy rubbed at her eyes. “You've no idea how hard it is..."

"I've got eyes. Bitches who try to compete with the dogs in their territory ... get labeled sluts and other nasty things. I've trained bitches as well as dogs and then seen how life ran for them."

Darcy's eyes searched the ceiling. “Gods, I miss Fergus. He treated me as an equal. Tobrytan and his brothers ... they've been looking to get rid of me.” She faltered and the tears started.

Todd drew Darcy into his arms and held her while she alternately wept and raged, pouring out tales of mistreatment that had resulted because her people did not tolerate bitches like herself.

Kady slid off the bed and padded to the dresser. She regarded herself in the mirror and ran a brush through her curly flaxen locks while trying to process what she had just witnessed between Darcy and Todd. Kady had not meant to set off a conflagration by asking Darcy to be general, but then neither had she known that Todd was back. Otherwise, she would never have asked Darcy. Todd would always be her first choice for anything that required fighting or a command of soldiers.

For the past few weeks, StealsThunder and Tiderider had been coordinating the soldiers that Lord Channadar had sent through the mirror gate to guard her household and the healers who had come there on the orders of the Grand Master of Creeya, Ceejorn Osterbridge. They had begun calling themselves ‘Kady's Army,’ although they were scarcely an army. There was StealsThunder and her three survivors of the attack roughly four years ago upon Channadar's private quarters in the Palace of the Grand Master; Tiderider's band of Thirteen Chosen, one of the three units of bodyguards employed by Channadar; and the sixty Guildsmyn drawn from an elite company.

Kady wished Finn would get back, but knew she was not likely to see him before early evening since he had duty at the manor that day. He had told her that Claw had over three hundred guardsmyn plus the Bridge Watchers, but Kady could not remember the exact figure. No matter how she looked at the situation, they were still outnumbered three to one. Their only advantage lay in quality versus quantity.

StealsThunder slipped into the room. “Kady, Lord Taurlys Kjarten requests an audience with you. Says the Grand Master sent him."

Darcy sauntered in, red-eyed, yet smiling beside Todd.

Kady felt relieved to see that they appeared to have made up. “Lord Kjarten wants to see me. I have no idea what it is about."

Darcy's lips came together in a bemused look. “Foreign allies?"

"They've been contributing to my war chest."

Darcy burst out laughing. “You do realize that you've got what every lycan chieftain has been lusting after for the past eighty years?"

Kady flushed, embarrassed by her lack of knowledge. “No."

"Foreign allies. Creeya and Shaurone. If we'd had allies eighty years ago, the Rebellion would have succeeded."

Kady turned and stepped just far enough from Todd to slug him in the shoulder. “Where have you been?"

"Spending Cahira's money. I just purchased all the land between the estate and the Eirlys River. If matters are heading in the direction I think they are, we're going to need a way across the River other than riding beneath Belgair's nose to use the bridge or taking the long route down to Chandler's Rock."

Merissa sat in her sleeping robe all day, staring out the window into the withered garden. The only time in the past three weeks that she had dressed had been for her aunt's funeral. She barely ate, even though this late in the pregnancy she should have been voracious.

She felt too tired to eat, too tired even to chew. Merissa knew that Malthus had killed her aunt and poisoned her nephew, Kynyr. She knew that he was somehow killing her father with his arcane arts. Depression gripped her.

Merissa glanced at the door as Malthus entered and a glimmer of insight lit her thoughts. “Isranon and Nevin didn't send those letters repudiating Darmyk, did they?"

Malthus chuckled. “I sent them."

"Oh gods.” Merissa's fingers locked together across her swollen belly and she swayed.

Malthus darted forward and caught her as she fainted. “Merissa?"

She lay unresponsive in his arms. Without thinking, Malthus lifted her up as if she weighed nothing at all and carried her into the bedroom where he laid her on the bed and drew a quilt over her. Normally, he never did anything that would reveal his more-than-human strength; yet Malthus did not stop to think about it. Merissa remained an obsession for him. Once he had killed the rest of her family, he intended to go deeply into her mind with his gifts and make her fall in love with him all over again. Until then, Malthus did not dare to make major changes in Merissa's personality and risk her family noticing it.

The children she carried were precious to Malthus—not so much because they were Merissa's, but because they were his legitimate offspring, not the questionable bastards he had gotten upon his various doxies. Although bastards were commonplace among the sa'necari aristocracy of Waejontor, Malthus had always felt the sting of having been born on the wrong side of the blankets.

He hurried along the hallway and knocked at Sheradyn Kelly's door.

The Lycan healer shared a suite with his young lover and assistant, Gillivray Ashby. He opened the door at the first knock. Only a few strands of russet lingered amongst the white of Sheradyn's hair. The old mon smelled of flowery cologne, and dressed in immaculate knee breeches, heavy wool stockings, and a quilted waistcoat. “What is it?"

Malthus explained as Sheradyn followed him back to his rooms.

Sheradyn examined Merissa. “The stress is becoming too much for her. I'll prescribe something to soothe her. Plenty of bed rest will help. She's at risk of a miscarriage."

Malthus sat for a long time beside the bed, thinking, watching her. Merissa had told him before that she was at risk. He had eased up on her each time, but somehow her warnings never bore as much weight as this.

He locked the door, and leaned close to her, stroking her hair. Then he reached into her mind and added a small sway. “When we sit down for meals, you will relax and eat."

Anything stronger than that was chancy and he did not want to risk it so near to satisfying his obligations to Hoon and to the memory of his dead brother.

Kady would have preferred to meet with Lord Taurlys Kjarten under less formal arrangements, but too many people were deeply involved in keeping Kynyr and herself safe to leave them out. Therefore, she assembled them around the long table in her Command Room. She took the head of the table and seated Lord Kjarten at her right hand, placing Todd at her left. Kady had wanted Cahira present, but she had begged off in order to sit with Kynyr. Finn had excused himself on the ground that he needed to get back to the manor for duty. She ended up with just Todd, Mary, StealsThunder, and Darcy.

Lord Taurlys Kjarten was a small mon, with bushy gray hair and skin a shade of copper that suggested he had either Sharani or Waejontori blood. “The Grand Master and Queen Isen send greetings to Prince Kynyr and his family."

Kady smiled to buy her a moment to think of the proper response. Cahira had been giving her a whirlwind course in manners ever since she married Kynyr; however, she still felt uncertain of herself at times. The tavern master's daughter had become a princess, but learning to be one was not easy. Kynyr would have died weeks ago if the Grand Master had not intervened. “You will carry my greetings back to him. I am grateful for his aid and support. He is a kind mon."

"That he is,” Lord Kjarten agreed.

Kady's hands drifted to her belly as her child moved.

Lord Kjarten noted the gesture, his eyes shining. “There is no greater proof of a king's favor than a large belly, your highness."

"Well, I've certainly got that. Now what brings you?"

"It has come to the Grand Master's attention that Prince Kynyr has three unmarried sisters of marriageable age."

Kady wondered where that was leading. “He does. Why?"

"You're inviting them to court with the intention of a suitable marriage alliance?” Darcy's eyes had sparks of interest in them.

"Exactly so, Lady MacFie. The Grand Master wishes to present them at court. There are many young nobles at the court, sons of good families, who are unwed."

Kady's stomach tightened. Lord Kjarten had to be talking about arranged marriages. Such things were still new among the lycans, and Kady had personal issues with it. She remembered how frightened she had been when her father had tried to sell her to Preece Malloy, a nasty mon whom Kynyr killed just before his illness worsened.

Darcy leaped in without consulting Kady, coming down on them like a cat with four sets of claws out. “We'll make you a deal. One sister will go to court and just one. She will be accompanied by a suitable chaperone, two ladies’ maids, and Lord Brodrig MacLachlan."

Kady blinked, wondering how Darcy dared to speak for Brodrig. Then she recalled Darcy telling her that what the clans had always wanted most was foreign allies. Lord Duncan MacLachlan would probably leap at the chance to make a marriage alliance with Creeya. The discomfited expression on Lord Kjarten's face informed Kady that he had not expected opposition with a counter offer.

Lord Taurlys glanced at Kady.

She gave him a tiny smile. “Darcy has made some good points. Kynyr's father is recently deceased, and under our customs that makes Kynyr head of the family and guardian of his unmarried sisters as eldest son. However, my husband is still too ill to take up his responsibilities. Therefore, I will need to call a family meeting before anything can be decided."

Lord Taurlys gave her a nod of acknowledgement and turned to Darcy. “I take it that Lord Brodrig is unmarried?"

"That is correct."

Lord Taurlys smiled. “I happen to know a wealthy northern lord with far too many daughters."

"Then we have a deal?"

"Yes, we do."

"Wait a minute!” Kady plunged back into the discussion. “I said we would discuss it first. Nothing is set in stone until I speak with my husband, his mother, and his sisters.” And Lord Brodrig. I'm not going to let Darcy thrust him into a situation he cannot handle. He's only fourteen.

"Of course, Lady Maguire. The Grand Master is well aware of your situation and would not wish to presume upon your circumstances. I'll return for your answer in two weeks.” Lord Taurlys rose from his chair with a polite bow and quit the room.

Kady sat for a long time in silence after he departed. “Send for Dyna and inform Cahira, Mary. Then have Fychan hitch up the wagon. I'm going to see Claw."

"Don't go alone."

"I don't intend to. Todd, have StealsThunder detail guards to accompany me."

Todd started from his thoughts and looked at her. He had been silent throughout the exchange with Taurlys. “I never held with the trend toward arranged marriages. Cahira and I once asked our granddaughters what they would do if Branduff or Kynyr became chieftain and were asked to make a marriage of state. They said they'd deal with it. Guess that time has come."

Kady thought for a moment. “Todd, I'll try to make this as painless as I can for them. I won't let them be forced into a marriage they abhor.” She sucked in a breath and then inspiration struck. “Suppose, instead of sending them as bitches in search of a good marriage alliance, I call them our emissaries?"

"That's an idea.” Todd seemed visibly relieved.

"It would put them on an equal footing with the lords there. But I want to speak with all of the family before I commit to anything. Kynyr is going to be chieftain, and matters are going to change for the entire family."

Kady sat for a time thinking after everyone left to see to the tasks she had set them. Todd was Kynyr's step-grandfather, and although Kynyr deferred to him, her husband was technically the head of the Maguire side of the family since the death of his father. His mother and unmarried sisters were expected to do as Kynyr instructed. Except that Kynyr was not in shape to execute his familial duties and Kady was being forced to act more and more in his stead. She could not think what to do if his sisters refused Ceejorn's request. The family and the realm needed his good graces to survive. If nothing else, the lives of the family depended upon the Grand Master's continued aid. She hoped that his sisters would understand that.

She looked up and realized that Darcy was still sitting there. “Don't ever ... ever again, make a counteroffer to someone without first having my approval. Do you understand?"

Darcy's eyes lit up as she framed a fiery retort and quieted without saying it. Kady's aura shimmered in a rainbow of dancing colors. “Mage..."

"Level seven pan-elementalist mage,” Kady corrected.

"There's never been one before.” Darcy squirmed, her eyes wide at the implications.

"There is now."

Instinctively, Kady flicked her fingers at the nearest chair. It flew across the room and shattered against the wall.

Darcy swallowed, went pale, and fled from something she had no idea how to fight.

When Luciano informed Dyna several months ago that he needed to flee Skullbones because of the approach of the Waejontori army, she had directed him to go to Wolffgard and open a shop there. He had done so. On the day that he signed the papers and became owner of this shop, which had belonged to the murdered healer, Baroucha Seaver, he found Bella sitting on his doorstep in tears. Baroucha had sent for her with a promise of employment.

That day he discovered several arcane poisons among the shop's merchandise in the backroom. His discovery aroused his suspicions about what Baroucha had been doing and by extension, Bella. However, it passed as he watched Bella's romance with Willy Galloway flower and the fact that she did no harm to anyone.

Luciano had never been this close to a sa'necari before. They had come into his store in Skullbones from time to time, and he had dealt with them. Having Bella living with him was a novel experience.

She sat in a chair, the nibari kneeling between her legs in what Bella had explained was called position one. The nibari's hands were behind her back, fingers laced, her head tilted to the side. Bella's fangs had descended from their sheaths and she licked along the nibari's neck. The nibari stiffened for an instant and then relaxed with a sigh.

Luciano shivered as a trickle of blood ran down the nibari's neck where it had escaped Bella's sucking mouth.

Bella licked the wound closed and raised her eyes to his, gratitude in their depths. “Thank you."

"Does Willy know what you are?"

She shook her head. “I'm afraid to tell him. I don't want to lose him, Luciano."

"You will have to tell him eventually."

"I know.” She stroked the nibari's back. “Go get something to eat."

The nibari left and Bella settled back in the chair.

"If something happened to Willy, I'd kill myself."

"You would only rise undead."

"Not if I did it right. When sa'necari kill sa'necari, they do it well."

Luciano had heard that phrase many times over the course of his life. His eyes softened with concern. “Sooner or later, you have to take a side or a side will take you."

"No. I can't take sides. I can't."

He could hear the panic rising in her voice and wished he could spare her this conversation; yet he could not. Lives might depend upon it. “Bella, who is he? Is he passing for one of the humans here? Or is he a shape-thief."

"I can't tell you.” Bella pressed her hands to her ears. “He'd kill me."

Luciano grasped her wrists and pulled her hands down, firmly yet gently. “Please, Bella. I will protect you."

"You can't protect me. No one can. He's the Butchering Serpent."

He felt as if someone had put a knife through his soul. Her terror was understandable. “I will not press you further. But I want you to think about something. Willy is a guardsmon. If the Serpent is here, then all of the guardsmon are in danger. Willy is in danger. Taking sides could mean the difference between life or death for Willy."

"They'd burn me alive."

"The Sharani do that. Lycans are more reasonable ... up to a point."

"Please, I can't deal with this.” She rose and fled the room.

Luciano dropped into the chair she had vacated. He needed to inform someone about the Serpent, but who? It had to be someone whose temper he could trust. The last thing he wished to do was to endanger Bella. He would think about it, but not for too long.

"I think I have jumped from the frying pan into the fire."

Belgair stood in the Great Hall with Aisha shaking her finger in his face. Fianait attempted to ignore the tableau, but from her covert glances, she was not succeeding. Malthus licked his lips, and pulled at his beard as he took a few steps into the hall and stopped to watch and listen.

Aisha's face was scarlet. “Stop aggravating Claw. Remember his heart."

Erskine rose from his chair and strolled close. More and more Kynyr's illness and Finn's frequent absences forced Erskine into the position of acting in their steads. “You're out of line, Belgair."

"Stay out of it, Faraday.” Belgair snarled. “I'm not starting it. He is. I've been trying to avoid the subject for the past few days."

"It's none of your business who he makes regent.” Erskine kept his voice even, knowing his words alone were provocation enough.

"Keep getting in my way, and you'll regret it."

"Maybe."

Finn walked into the Great Hall, frowning from Belgair to Erskine and back. “What's going on?"

Belgair stiffened, his lips thinning in a line of annoyance. “If he wants Brock.... “Belgair paused with a shrug. “Then he gets Brock. I still say it's a bad decision."

"Belgair...” Aisha said in a warning tone.

He pointed at Fianait. “Perhaps you should ask her if it's a good idea."

Belgair stalked out of the room. Malthus saw Fianait flinch, and went after Belgair.

Malthus fell into step beside him. “Let's take this to Sorcha's Solar?"

"Yeah.” Anger provoked the first stages of the change into wolf as Belgair walked.

Once they were there, Belgair took his usual place at the table where he could stare at the portrait of Fianait at seventeen. “She was so very beautiful. And so fragile. Bloody Brock. Bloody fucking Brock ... cocked up his own sister, swelled her belly, and then ran off."

Malthus had heard the story countless times now. Belgair always came back to it. The closer Brock came to Wolffgard and the manor, the more obsessively Belgair went on about it.

"I think you need a drink."

"I need more than one."

Malthus went to the cabinet that he kept stocked in the room and brought out an expensive bottle of whiskey. Like so many lycan males, Belgair loved hard liquor but rarely got it because Red Wolf produced mostly beer and mead. Whenever a shipment came in from Creeya or Iradrim, it sold out fast.

"The body of your whore is rotting on the scaffolds, Malthus."

"Larena?"

"Rumors are flying that you got her pregnant."

Malthus considered for an instant. “She was my mistress."

"Then you're not denying it?"

Malthus lowered his eyes and then threw his head back and stared at the ceiling beams. “The cub was mine."

Belgair refilled his glass and leaned forward on his elbows. “Can this be tracked back to you?"

"If one of the Readers checks the genetics...” Malthus took a deep breath, laced his fingers together, and lowered his eyes to his hands.

"I'll have the body removed before morning. Next time, Malthus, be more discreet, and don't cock them up? You get a bad name in the community and it will hurt what we're trying to achieve."

Belgair knocked his whiskey down and refilled his glass, well on his way to becoming drunk. His eyes lit upon the portrait of Fianait. “She was so beautiful. People still talk about it. Brock was twisted. Most of the village knew about it long before old Claw's father did. Myn kept stumbling on them in the woods, Fianait sobbing and begging him to stop hurting her. Brock jacking her like a savage. His own sister."

"That's terrible. Why didn't she tell someone?"

"My dad says she was afraid of Brock. Probably wouldn't've come out except he got her cocked-up."

"I'd be afraid to have him around."

"My dad says when he does show, someone should put a blade in him.” Belgair lifted his glass as if to toast the portrait. “And I will."

Malthus lifted an eyebrow. “He's bringing an army. Have you heard from your father yet?"

"Takes time. My father has sent couriers to the rest of the thanes. He's only gotten a few replies back so far."

"And?” Malthus refilled Belgair's glass.

"They favor Merissa's cubs. No bastard is going to sit the throne of Red Wolf."

Malthus decided to play his final hold card. “I have seen Claw's Will. He disinherited Merissa and my children."

Belgair's face flushed. “He can't do that. We'll call a witan. The thanes will tell him what he can and cannot do."

"Claw has designated that the order of succession is Kynyr, Kynyr's son, and then Kynyr's brother."

"When my father gets here ... we'll hang them. The bastard and his slut."

Kady sat upon the seat of the wagon while Trevor drove. Six guards rode along, four in the rear and two before the wagon. They entered the yard and Georgie appeared.

"Cold day for a visit."

"Business, Georgie.” Kady reached out and Trevor helped her down.

"How's Kynyr?"

"Healing."

"That's good. We think a lot of him. The stablehands and all of us. He's a good mon. Red Wolf could not have a finer heir to the throne, Kady.” Georgie's eyes gleamed with playfulness as he thumbed at Kady's belly, and added, “Except for that little guy."

"Thank you, Georgie. And thank you also for protecting Rory and Hamish. The cubs told me about it."

"My pleasure. They are good cubs."

Kady swept into the manor as if she owned it, wearing her best finery purchased in Creeya. Lord Channadar's wife had picked well and Kady looked every inch a princess.

Aisha was impressed.

"I've come to talk with Claw."

"About Kynyr?"

"Partly."

She found Malthus and Belgair sitting in the Blue Room with Claw.

Claw had to struggle to get around; however, giving in to his disability was not in his nature. He had learned to get himself into and out of the wheel-chair, and to wheel himself about. He tired easily. Inevitably, he had to ring for a servant to wheel him back to his rooms when his meager strength gave out. He refused to be confined to his rooms and bed ridden. The image of himself as an invalid frightened him more than the thought of dying. Sheradyn had said that the next attack would likely kill him, so the healer had changed his diet, and taken all the pleasures out of his life. The two things he refused to give up were his smoking and his drinking.

He kneaded his chest. Some days the pain and discomfort never went away and Claw became more conscious of and on edge about his failing heart.

Where the thought came from, Claw could not guess, but the moment that he muttered the words, he knew they were true. “Belgair ... Belgair and Malthus poisoned Kynyr."

A sense of foreboding filled Claw. He cursed himself for his blindness. Never before had he perceived Belgair's increasing resistance to obeying him as anything more than well intentioned, but misguided meddling. Claw had suspected Malthus of wanting to control Red Wolf through his children; which was why Claw had gone to such extremes in his will to prevent Merissa's offspring from inheriting the realm. Both myn had had issues with Kynyr.

As his health failed, he had relied more and more upon Kynyr; and now they had taken Kynyr from him with a failed murder attempt that had left his grandson crippled. Finn had promised to try and fill the vacuum of power to protect both Claw and his interests. However, they both knew that Finn would never be a Kynyr. There had to be a solution, but if there was one, Claw could not see it.

"Good morning, Claw.” Malthus sauntered in with Belgair following.

"Speak of a devil,” Claw growled. “It's bloody well after noon. So don't good morning me."

Malthus gave a tiny shrug, little more than flick of his shoulders. “We thought you would like to play cards ... or checkers?"

Belgair went to the cabinet and returned with glasses and the most expensive bottle of whiskey that Claw possessed. It had been a gift from Malthus, one of his interminable peace offerings to mollify Claw; and right then, the old chieftain was in no mood to be mollified.

"I don't want to speak to either of you."

"Calm down.” Belgair poured and handed a glass to Claw. “Remember your heart. Sheradyn says you need to relax more."

Claw swallowed the whiskey in a single go and threw the glass at Belgair's head. Belgair ducked and the glass shattered against the wall.

"If Merissa sees how you're acting, it will upset her,” Malthus said in a tone so patronizing that it grated on Claw's nerves. His son-in-law rang for servants to clean the mess up and fetched another glass for Claw.

"I'll act however the hell I want to.” Claw snatched the bottle and poured himself a double.

Kissie stepped into the room. “Master Claw, Lady Maguire is here to see you."

Belgair went livid. “Tell the slut to get out."

"Shut up, Belgair.” Claw nodded at Kissie. “Send her up."

Claw's eyes brightened when Kady swept into the room on the arm of Trevor Sinclair, head held high and proud with an air about her that transcended her humble roots. She wore an azure silk dress brocaded with gold and scarlet roses. The broach holding her cloak in place was a silvery swan set with costly diamonds and rubies. His gaze lowered to her swollen belly, and the thought of Kynyr's child growing there gave the old mon hope unlooked for.

Her guards spread around her, alert and ready. Claw scanned them, surprised to see a mix of Fae, human, and lycan.

Belgair scowled at her. “What do you want?"

"I'm here to speak with Claw. It doesn't concern you."

"I'll judge that."

"Shut up, Belgair.” Claw's hand dug into his left arm in what was becoming a habitual gesture. “Leave us."

Belgair stalked to the door, muttering. “Cheap slut thinks she's royalty..."

StealsThunder extended her foot and hooked Belgair behind the knee, sending him staggering into the wall. She spun him around, snapped her fan open, and laid the gold-gilt kendaryl against his throat. The edge pricked Belgair's skin, opening a tiny line of blood.

Belgair froze.

StealsThunder smiled at him. “You'll watch your language around my lady."

Claw snickered and laughed loudly.

Kady settled into the chair that Belgair had vacated, “I have one thing to inform you of before you leave, Belgair Doherty."

"What's that?"

"I have an army. You'll start noticing their tabards and uniforms about town. Don't mess with me. The commander of my Army is Todd Sinclair."

Belgair glanced at Claw. “Are you going to put up with this?"

"I heartily approve of Kady's Army.” Claw winked at Kady.

Kady drew the golden fan from her belt and flicked it at StealsThunder. The fan was symbolic only, not actually one of the fighting weapons of the Fae. Thunder had suggested it as an affectation of sorts to add a flavor of imperiousness to Kady's gestures. “Let him up."

The Fae snapped her fan closed and stepped back.

"Get out of here, Belgair."

Belgair did not need telling twice, he lunged to his feet and bolted through the door.

"How's my grandson?"

Kady's gaze raked Malthus as she responded to Claw. “Healing. My husband is in no danger. However, the poison crippled him. So I act in his stead."

"How bad?” Claw sobered.

"He can't walk.” Kady continued to stare at Malthus. “When I find the ones behind it all, I'm going to have them drawn and quartered."

Malthus averted his eyes. “A worthy goal, no doubt, Kady."

"That's Lady Maguire to you, Estrobian.” The hostility in her voice was thick enough to part with a knife. “Furthermore, if I catch you on my lands again, I'll hang you."

"If you'll excuse me.” Malthus rose.

"You may leave, but I'll never excuse you."

Malthus walked out.

The temperature in the room rose.

Claw shook his finger at the door, and StealsThunder closed it. “What brought you, Kady?"

"The most important thing in my life right now is keeping Kynyr safe. For that, I need things."

"Such as?” Claw regarded her with a fond eye. He had only met her a few times. Whenever she had come to the manor before, it had been to visit with Aisha. He had always admired spiky bitches.

"Horses. I want twenty warhorses and seven courier mounts. The best you have."

"You're asking a lot,” Claw observed without judgment.

A hint of uncertainty shadowed the corners of Kady's mouth. “I know it. My army needs horses. If it were not so late in the season, I could buy all I wanted and have them brought here. You've the only major herd in the area."

"True."

"They don't have to be fully trained, so long as they have what I need. My myn can train them."

"Tell Georgie I said to give you whatever you want from my herds.” Malthus wants power and wealth. Belgair wants that also. The greatest source of wealth I have is my horses. “Hah! I've finally come up with the perfect gift. Stormsong, Robintree, Elfshot, and Wellington."

Kady blinked and glanced at Trevor.

Her uncle-in-law leaned forward, his elbows on the table. “You sure you want to do this?"

"I can't think of anything I would rather do.” Claw chuckled and rubbed his hands together. Paybacks are a three-fingered whore, Belgair.

"What are they, Trevor?"

"Kady, he's giving you his four top studs. Racers. Wellington sired Larkspur."

"Thank you. I won't be coming back here again until the game is played. I can't put myself at risk this way. Belgair and Malthus will deal with my dancers."

"You're starting to sound like the Fae.” He cast StealsThunder an appreciative glance.

"I have good teachers."

"Anything else? Anything at all, Kady."

"Patents of nobility."

Claw lifted an eyebrow at that. “I haven't done that in eighty years. Who are they for?"

"The husbands of Kynyr's three oldest sisters and recognition that all six of them are your great granddaughters and a similar paper for Kynyr's baby brother."

"Hell, I should have done that months ago. Grab me a pen and paper from that drawer over there.” Paybacks, paybacks, paybacks. I can still cause the arses trouble, by gods’ damn. “You give me hope, Kady. Can I feel him?"

Kady's expression softened. She rose from her chair and stepped close to Claw. He pressed his hands to her belly and smiled. “Is he always this restless?"

"Always. Cahira says that Kynyr and Bran were also."

"Gods fore-fecking slut cunt of a bitch,” Belgair swore in a low growl as he stomped through the west end of the manor with Gorgarty and Lennox beside him. The chill winter weather would keep Larena's corpse from decomposing properly, so he had to get it down before Toniqua—or any of the other Readers—got their hands on the parts they wanted to use to identify the father of Larena's cub.

Lennox’ mouth slewed to the side as he listened to Belgair. “Which one?"

"Kady. The bastard's cocked-up slut. She came to see Claw today. One of her guards tripped me and put a blade to my throat."

Gorgarty guffawed. “Sounds like she needs her hole stuffed. Probably not getting any with the bastard's wagger busted."

"Shut up, Gorgarty. You're stupid.” Belgair snarled at him.

Gorgarty lowered his head to conceal a scowl at being called stupid.

Erskine emerged from a side corridor.

"Grab him.” Belgair pointed at Erskine.

Belgair shoved Erskine up against a wall with Lennox and Gorgarty holding his arms.

"You listen to me, Faraday. Stop getting in my way."

Erskine did not resist the rough handling, merely stared into Belgair's eyes unflinching and calm. “I'm not."

"I'll open you up from groin to sternum.” Belgair drew his knife and dragged the pommel along his stomach suggestively.

Erskine said nothing.

"You hear me?"

"I hear you."

"Stay out of my way.” Belgair hit Erskine in the solar plexus with the pommel, knocking the breath out of him.

Lennox and Gorgarty released him and Erskine sank to his knees, sobbing for breath.

Belgair sheathed his knife and strode away.

"If he's aggravating you that much, Belgair,” Lennox said in a quiet voice. “Maybe Damien should have a private talk with him in the dungeons?"

"Claw would object. Still, I'll think about it."

They emerged from the manor into the stableyard.

Georgie came out, looking as if he had swallowed a rabbit whole and was eager to spit it out. “Shall I have your horses saddled?"

"Yes."

Georgie started to turn and paused with a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Todd Sinclair came by and left a message for you, Belgair. He said to tell you that your myn are a bunch of bloody amateurs and that he barely broke a sweat dancing with them."

Then the stable master turned and scurried into the barn while Belgair hurled curses after him.

Belgair growled low. “Lennox, why is that old sodomite still alive?"

Lennox shifted uneasily beneath Belgair's scowl. “I sent five myn."

"Try something else. I want Sinclair dead. And while you're about it, grab Cooley Blackwood and give him to Damien."

"No one's seen Cooley in several days."

"Find him."

Tobrytan MacFie examined the anchoring of Todd's bridge. “Sturdy. We'll need to get a good floor on it. Anchor it on my side. Put up a guardrail of some kind. It ought to hold horses. Even barded ones."

"It's crude.” Todd stood back with one hand on the haft of his axe.

"Ought to do the job.” Gowyn Caldwell looked it over. “You'll need a work crew for this side. Some of the farmers could use some winter work."

Todd glanced at Gowyn. “They'd need to be close-mouthed about it."

Gowyn nodded. “I know just which ones to ask."

"The Sharani left this morning.” Tobrytan thought for a moment. Fergus had been the tactician in their family, but Tobrytan liked to believe that he had learned from his brother. “I'm going back to the estate, gather my myn, and make a show of leaving. Let Belgair see it. Once we've gotten well beyond the bend, we'll double back and get our side of the bridge secured. Send for more help. Should not take long to get it done."

"That's a fine plan, Tobrytan."

"Toby. We're family now, Todd."

"Toby it is."

As they walked back to the horses, Tobrytan slipped his gloves back on. “It's a miracle that Betrys did not miscarry, considering the beating that Gorgarty inflicted on her."

Gowyn snarled, hairing over as his temper flared. “Bloody arse. I've had some run-ins with him."

"We need to watch for spies,” Todd said.

"I'll wolf it over to the wild cousins. The pack will keep watch."

"Lord Duncan MacLachlan is quite taken with Scarlett Maguire.” A bemused smile made Tobrytan look almost handsome. “Kady made a good choice in sending her to MacLachlan. Duncan's heir has always been a bit light of love until now; however rumor has it that she's wrapped Uilleam around her little finger."

Todd chuckled, a rich vibrant sound. “She's got her gram's fire and her mother's wiles. Have you heard from Brodrig?"

"Talked to him, actually. Tiderider took me through the mirror gate a few days ago ... uncanny thing. Seems like half the eligible ladies are stalking him through the halls of the Grand Master's palace with come-hither eyes."

Todd's gaze turned reflective. “You think the alliance will hold?"

"Certain of it. Oh, Duncan knows he's gambling. However, with Creeya having thrown their support to Kynyr, the odds look to be in our favor. Wouldn't you say?"

"Yes, I would.” Todd clapped him on the shoulder.

Darcy stood in the yard of the mansion, watching Tobrytan and the MacLachlan soldiers depart. She swallowed her misgivings. For the first time in her life, she was without a horde of cousins about her and felt unexpectedly vulnerable.

Finn put his arm around her shoulders and kissed her hair.

She gazed into his blue eyes. “You still want to marry me?"

"Since the first day I laid eyes on you."

"I'm not the cubs and cookies type."

"I don't mind."

She exhaled heavily, shook herself, and got a cheeky grin. “If we do have a family ... and I'm not promising anything ... you'll be the one to change the nappies."

Finn chuckled. “You may not believe this, but I'm real good at changing nappies ... and I can cook."

"You? Cook?” Darcy eyed him with a full measure of skepticism, remembering how well he fought. Somehow cooking and fighting did not seem to go together.

"Comes natural. I got eight sisters. You ever been fishing?"

"Not since I was a cub."

"Come spring, I'll show you my favorite fishing spot. The trout bite like you won't believe."

Stoneriver watched Lady Regina Balfour from the corners of his eyes. She had a quiet anger about her like the stillness before a storm. Clad in boiled leather armor stripped from an executed Waejontori soldier with a hand and a half claymore hanging from her shoulder, she claimed that she could fight and that she intended to. Regina had seen her eldest son, eleven-year-old Gadhra, brutally murdered, his belly opened and his throat slit. Her husband had been rited with his brothers and father. She had been two months pregnant with her fourth child when Egidius Estrobian raped her with such savagery that she miscarried before he tossed her to his soldiers for another round of violation. Two of her cubs had survived among the slaves only because she lied to Egidius, telling him that they were not hers. Stone had heard the story over and over again as she obsessed upon what had happened to her; her ranting liberally sprinkled with threats and curses. Vengeance was a roaring need in Regina. Stone could smell it even when she was not speaking of it.

His conversations with Regina had revealed many things that Stone had only suspected and others that he had not hoped to know. He knew now that the divinator rite had been directed at him, yet it had not given him so much as a pimple on his ass. The commander of the opposing army was named Egidius Estrobian, whose name was known to the Guild because of his association with the Butchering Serpent. Stone looked forward to meeting Egidius in combat and putting an end to him.

"Whiteford is just over the next hill, M'lady. I wish you would reconsider fighting."

She gave him a steely glance with an edge of ire. “I'm not a delicate flower ... like the one you raped. I was trained by Angus McCutcheon."

Stone felt the pressure building in his head and heart. He had known that returning would re-open old wounds, and he tried to side step the subject of Fianait. “He was a good mon. I was sorry to hear about the Iudris Meadow Massacre."

"What did it feel like, shoving your bloody cock into your own sister? Did it make you feel like a man?"

Stoneriver refused to be baited. There had been a second reason for his banishment; a reason even darker than his mating with Fianait. Suleahan had covered it up with great skill. Rumor said that the eldest son and heir of Thane Mannuss McCrea was killed and eaten by a bear—except that the bear had been Stone. That was when Suleahan finally became convinced that Stone was mad; and that he had only three choices for dealing with it: death, imprisonment, or banishment. Stone had been chained up, placed in a stout cage covered with a heavy cloth, and carted deep into the Black Mountains where Suleahan released him with the admonition to never come home again. The memory and the taste of lycan blood still haunted him.

"That was long ago. I'm not the mon I was."

"So you say."

Stone's legs pressed Codger into a trot and moved away from her, but she followed. Her horse paced Codger, matching his heavy stride.

"How many bastards have you made? How many bitches and women have suffered beneath you?"

Stone's eyes narrowed. “None. I'm kweigeyl. My seed is dead. By my choice."

The enormity of his statement left her speechless. There were many forms of kweigeyl. Only a yuwenghau of the bloodlines of Willodarus, Davera, or Ishla could cast the spells of kweigeyl. It could strip a mon of all gender characteristics in its most extreme form. All versions had one thing in common: sterility.

Reist trotted his horse up the line and joined Stone. Jenny appeared and gestured Regina to drop back with her. Stone tried not to look at them directly.

"I asked Jenny to take her in hand. With gratitude like hers, who needs enemies?"

Stone nodded at Reist. “Did she really study with Angus?"

"Yes.” Reist looked suddenly wearied to the depths of his soul. “Regina's bitter. My father did not bugger his own daughters, but he had no qualms about dragging his nieces into bed with him. No bitch could grow up under that abomination's attentions without being broken in some way."

"You did some of that yourself, Reist."

"I know. I acted just like him. I regret it. I never wanted to be like him ... but the rage..."

Stone could see the anguish in Reist's eyes, and changed the subject. “So how did she end up with Angus?"

Reist gave a harsh bray. “She objected to my father's lecherous attentions ... with a knife in her hand. She cut him twice. Shortly after that, Johfrit Balfour offered brideprice for her sight unseen. My uncle bundled her off to him fast, glad to be rid of her. After all, what sane bitch would not want her belly filled by a thane? Bloody cockwhores all. Johfrit arranged the training, said he liked a spirited bitch. I think they came to love each other in time."

"If I did not need her support with the thanes, I would have her bound and gagged."

"Good luck with that.” Reist's attention twisted away from Stone. “Ho, what's this?"

A black swan fluttered down to land ahead of them, changing into a swan-may in silver armor, her face flushed with excited urgency. “Battle at Maerse Field outside Whiteford. The Thane of Whiteford and his housecarles are trying to hold off a larger body of monsters and myn. We've found their main force."

Stone raised his hand and signaled for a swifter pace. He cantered Codger to the crest of the next hill and gazed down into the valley. The city of Whiteford lay spread to the left of him, and the broad expanse of Maerse Field stood directly ahead where the outnumbered forces of the Thane were being ripped apart by brukulacos, rakshasha, mountain trolls, and along the edges sa'necari throwing spells. The Waejontori flank offered a juicy target. The spellcasters in the rear were exposed to him.

"Reist, take your units and try to punch through to Cedric."

"Will do."

Jenny rode up the line and drew rein beside them. “Same as always, Stone? The spellcasters?"

"Chew them up, Jenny."

Stone raised his arms to the heavens and called upon his grandfather's power. The avenging fury of the Nethergod seized him. Silvery light shone around the grandson of Hadjys the Dark Judge. Divine might spread through him, altering both Stone and Codger. The change came upon Stone with suddenness, without shifting, in a transformation of divine response. His armor altered with him. One moment there was a mon sitting a horse and in the next moment a gigantic grizzly bear in armor sat upon a strange steed that looked as if it had been birthed in the fires of hell. Codger's braided mane became tassled flames, his dapple-gray body darkened to a shimmering black sapphire hue.

He lifted his hand and signaled the charge.

The lycans fought in their hybrid forms, howling and roaring their defiance even as they perished. Thane Cedric had thrown everything he had into this battle to protect his city: his housecarles, levies, and the volunteer militia of Whiteford. If they failed here, there would be nothing left to defend his people. The archers of Whiteford had dropped their bows and drawn their swords as the Waejontori cavalry crashed into them. Their feather stuffed jacks offered little protection from the lances and blades of the enemy. The levies in their boiled leather armor fought with spears, axes, and swords, whatever they had been able to set hand upon. What they lacked in armament, they made up for in courage. Thane Cedric's housecarles, their shields rent and shattered, struggled to hold fast around him; yet one by one they fell.

Egidius fought his way through the mass of struggling warriors, determined to cleave a path to the Thane. The housecarles were infantry. They had stood well against Egidius’ cavalry charges, but then the brukulacos, mountain trolls, and rakshasha foot troops came in and turned it into a massacre. The lycan right flank disintegrated before their onslaught and the left started to give as the casualties mounted among the levies. They retreated toward the clustered housecarles at the center. The inexorable Waejontori envelopment of the lycans had begun. Fighting from horseback, Egidius split a lycan's head.

Horns sounded across the field. Egidius glanced and cursed. “The Creeyans! Where the hell did they come from?"

Led by a mon out of Egidius’ darkest nightmares, they descended upon his army like a storm-driven wave, a flying wedge of Creeyan cavalry with wings of lancers spread to each side. The gryphons circled shrieking, and plunged into the ranks of the Waejontori spellcasters. They smashed into his flank and broke through it.

"No, this isn't happening. Bellocar aid me!” Egidius called out to his dark god and wheeled, breaking off his attack upon the Whiteford forces just as victory had seemed within his grasp, turning to face the new threat.

A ragged cheer went up among the Whiteforders and they rallied.

Reist's lancers hit the Waejontori square on, breaking through and scattering them. Mostly lycan and Shivari fighting in their hybrid forms, they withdrew at a horn call, wedged up, and hit them again with swords. Horses jostled each other as they fought. Reist bashed a horse's head in and, as the horse collapsed, his warsteed trampled the rider.

Discipline showed quickly. The Creeyan ranks, focused on their goal, hammered deeper into the Waejontori lines with a chill and measured fury. The Waejontori, mostly myn and not monsters, struggled to form up to meet the new threat and more infantry were pushed to the front.

Reist could see that Thane Cedric's banner still stood, a knot of housecarles striving about it. He blocked a strike and backhanded his blade into a rakshasha's throat. His horse sprang forward and lashed out with its hooves at a blow to its rump. The barding held and his mount was uninjured. He split a rakshasha's skull and clove another through the shoulder. Reist howled the name of his liege god as he swung his sword and killed both myn and animals.

"Hadjys!"

Cedric's banner sagged as his banner mon died, and then rose again as a housecarle snatched it up. The hard-pressed Whiteforders made a valiant, but doomed stand around their thane. A chill rage seized Reist and he redoubled his efforts to smash through the Waejontori ranks. He broke through with a suddenness that even he had not expected. The aging thane had been driven to his knees by a rakshasha wielding a tulwar. Reist rammed his horse into the cat just as the killing strike descended upon the thane. The blow went awry when the cat stumbled, missing Cedric. Reist's sword came down on his neck, snapping it.

Thane Cedric rose shakily to his feet as the Creeyans formed a fighting wall around him. His gaze fell upon Reist's face, and surprise flashed across his hoary visage. “As I live and breathe. Reist Devlin."

The Waejontori line faltered, fell back, and began to break up. Myn threw down their shields; the better to flee.

"After those sons a sluts,” Reist shouted, and dismounted, leaving command of the pursuit to his unit second.

Cedric swayed and looked ready to topple over. Reist grasped his arm and steadied him. “Are you wounded?"

"Not enough to complain about.” Cedric threw a hug around Reist. “Thank Tala, you came."

Stone plunged raging into the thick of the battle. His heart and soul demanded that he forge a path to Egidius for the same reason that Egidius had gone after Thane Cedric: take out the leader and the odds were good that his forces would lose heart. Experience and training held that the greatest threats should be eliminated first. Three brukulacos moved to intercept Stone, monster recognizing monster. Those creatures stood eight feet at the shoulders; hulking things with skin the color of a dead fish's underbelly, black hair on their boxy heads, and glittering ruby eyes. They swung their tremendous clubs, beating down the lycans in their paths. Codger reared, striking with his steel-shod hooves and shrilling his challenge. In Stone's powerful transformed hand, the greatsword darted about as if it were no more than a rapier. His greatsword blocked a swing. The brukulaco's club cracked and split on impact. Stone backhanded his blade through its throat. The creature fell to its knees, clutching at the wound in a vain effort to contain the blood gushing from its arteries. Codger sprang aside, anticipating Stone's needs through the urging of his legs. The greatsword flashed in the frosty sunlight, caught the second monster in the side, and tore through to the backbone. Codger pivoted. Stone saw the third go down with a gryphon fastened upon its back.

The tide of battle swirled away from him. Hooves and feet had churned the snow, transforming the white field into a grimy gray-brown befouled with blood. The dead and the dying lay scattered around him. Stone's gaze fell upon a lone figure regarding him with the amaranthine eyes of the sa'necari, seated upon a heavy charger four spear-lengths from him. His opponent held a bloodied sword in one hand, the fingers of the other cupped to toss a spell. Stone could see the patterns of dark power swirling in the mon's palm, lips curled back in a look of rage that matched his own, and recognized the mon he had come to kill.

"Egidius."

"Who the hell are you?” Egidius screamed.

"Brock Redhand."

"Liar!” Egidius urged his mount forward, knowing that to turn away was to die, and to attack was fraught with peril.

Their blades met and danced. Egidius relied on speed, of which he had plenty; his bloody saber darted and wove. Yet the greatsword matched him, forcing Egidius to resort to combining spells with his swordcraft. He wished Malthus were with him, certain that his friend could take the abomination he faced. Egidius had come late to this way of fighting, unlike Malthus who had been trained from childhood by Sidera Tyrins. He threw spell after spell at Stone as he strove to force him back, only to see them fail and fall away into nothing.

Stone's greatsword hammered at Egidius, frustrated by the skill of the sa'necari that held him at bay. They circled; their mounts trampling over the corpses. Snow flurries drifted swirling from the sky, obscuring light and vision.

The transformed Codger broke the stalemate. His head snaked out and his teeth tore into the throat of Egidius’ mount. The sa'necari's eyes widened in disbelief as his charger fell, a ton of horseflesh rolling over on him. Egidius struggled to free himself, and in that moment of distraction, Codger's steel-shod hooves shattered his ribs, driving fragments of bone through his heart.

Stone sprang from the saddle, raised his sword high, and beheaded Egidius’ corpse. He remounted with his enemy's head dangling from his hand by its long black hair.

Regina Balfour had ridden into battle in a manner that both exulted and disturbed her. Jenny had persuaded Regina to mount a gryphon and fight alongside the swan mays as they attacked the spellcasters. Blood crusted her wounds and stained her clothing. She lifted her face and saw Stone approaching her, once more in his natural form.

"A gift for you, M'lady.” Stone tossed Egidius’ head to her.

She caught it. “My family is avenged."

Her gryphon dipped its head, tearing strips of flesh from a dead horse and gobbling it down.

Stone started to reply to her words, when they were hailed, and he shifted in the saddle.

Thane Cedric, a grizzled old wolf a decade younger than Claw, came striding toward them with his housecarles about him. He took note of Stone, and went to Regina instead. “Word reached me of your losses. You have my condolences. Johfrit was a good mon."

"Yes, he was.” Regina lowered her gaze and tied Egidius’ head to her belt.

Cedric's gaze fixed upon Stone. “Brock. I never believed I would be grateful to see you again, but I am."

Regina's mouth twitched and she raised her head to an arrogant angle. “Call him Stoneriver, Cedric. He prefers it."

"Stoneriver?"

Stone nodded. “I've tried to put my days as Brock behind me."

The Waejontori wounded were dispatched with ruthless efficiency as the Creeyans and Whiteforders stalked the battlefield. A few Waejontori had managed to flee, but the hunt was on and bands of Whiteforders tracked them with relentless determination.

The Creeyans camped beyond the walls of Whiteford. Their gryphons made the citizenry uneasy. The carcasses of the enemy dead were burned. Dead horses were left upon the field as food for the gryphons.

Although those rescued remained uncertain of their foreign rescuers; the gratitude of the citizenry erased much of the bad feelings that might have come from having Brock Redhand and Reist Devlin among them once more. A time of forgiveness had arrived among the Whiteforders.

They gathered around the hearth of a second floor sitting room in the Thane's home: Stone, Reist, Cedric, Regina, and Jenny.

Cedric stared into his cup of mead, somber and contemplative. “Johfrit and I knew it was only a matter of time before the raiders went after the towns and cities. The attack on Three Stones ... Johfrit's father thought that was the end of it when the army was destroyed by those three yuwenghau."

"Which ones?” Stone sipped his mead and watched Regina covertly. The battle seemed to have settled her for the present.

"Lokynen, Meleajys, and Hathura."

"I know them ... except for Meleajys."

"Then you know more than I do. I had hoped they would come to Whiteford, but they haven't.” Cedric paused, pressing the aching wound in his shoulder, and then resumed his story. “I had a feeling in my gut that Thane Adderuig was wrong. That they were still out there. But I had no idea their forces were so large. I started calling up the levies months ago. I called in everything I had and it was not enough."

Regina's expression darkened into sorrow. “Johfrit and I tried to talk to him, but Adderuig thought we were safe.” She drained her cup and refilled it. Stone could see that she was beginning to be a bit woofled by the liquor, but better that than shaking with reaction to the battle, which had been her first ever. “I've no idea how they got into the manor ... but we were surprised and taken without a fight. The town was a different matter. The militia tried to fight back. Egidius Estrobian butchered my son Gadhra in front of me. I was placed among the slaves ... as were my little Nimiane and her brother Bors.” Tears crept into her eyes. “Stone rescued us from the slavers."

"You owe my intervention to Lady Maguire.” Stone averted his gaze from Regina's face. A bitch's tears had always affected him strangely, and he could never discover how to deal with them. “I had no desire to come home until I met her."

"The bastard's wife?"

Stone stiffened at Cedric's tone. “Prince Kynyr's wife."

"There are those who would question that. Clennan has called a witan. Many of the thanes are already marching to Wolffgard. The idea of having a bastard on the throne does not appeal to most of them."

"I'm aware of it. However, there are legalities you may not be aware of. Tarrant Redhand signed a betrothal promise, witnessed by Padruig Caimbeul and Sheradyn Kelly. In it, Tarrant acknowledged that the cub Cahira Maguire carried was his son."

"Now that's a whore of a different color.” Cedric saw Regina flush. “Excuse my language."

"Bloody thanes ... getting bastards in all directions and complaining because Claw wants to make one his heir.” Regina drained her cup and filled it a third time.

Jenny took Regina's arm. “I think you've had enough."

Regina allowed Jenny to guide her from the chamber. As they reached the door, Stone heard Regina sob. His insides tightened, and he felt an unexpected admiration for her. She had held up well until the mon who had butchered her family was dead.

Cedric gazed after them. “I pity Regina."

"Why?"

Reist glanced from Stone to Cedric. The old thane nodded at him to speak. “Because, with the Balfours dead except for Regina's cubs, the thanes will want a male regent in control. And according to custom, that will be my father, Thane Vertram."

"Unless we get her a husband before we reach Wolffgard. I have an unmarried grandson. Turned fourteen last summer. However, she needs someone strong enough to stand up to the thanes.” Cedric tossed Reist a meaningful look.

"Me? Oh, no, not me.” Reist made a fending off gesture. “The thanes hate me."

"After what happened today, they will not want to cross you, Reist. You're one of the heroes of Maerse Field."

Stone studied his second in command. “Once your father is regent, Reist, those cubs’ lives will be very short."

"Don't put that on me.” Reist ran his fingers through his hair. “I would rather sleep with a viper."

Stone kept his voice even, his strange eyes boring into Reist. “What is the first thing your father will do as Regent?"

Reist clenched his eyes shut, his head thrown back, and his lips parted, breathing heavily against the images in his mind. “Rape her. Regina is strong. When Vertram gets hold of a strong bitch, he breaks them."

"I know she annoys you; but do you want to see that happen to her, Reist?"

"No.” Reist exhaled heavily. “I don't want to see her hurt."

Cedric watched the two myn closely.

"We're always talking about atonement, Reist. This is part of it. You told me you wanted to be a better man than your father."

"I do. Stone, please..."

"You've been working upon atonement, just as I have, ever since you joined the Netherguard. You've been celibate three years?"

"Five. I made a vow not to touch another bitch outside of wedlock ... swore it by the book and the blade before the High Patriarch himself. I'm never going to hurt another bitch that way."

"What is going to happen to Regina and her cubs with no legal protector except your father?"

"I don't want to think about it.” Reist's expression folded up into a pattern of distraught lines. “I'll do it. But I don't want to be the one to tell her."

Cedric stared at Stone as he spoke. “I'll send for the priest and inform Regina. Since she's a widow, consummation will require a Reader to verify it."

"Well, that's done.” Stone eased back in his chair. “I'm looking forward to meeting my nephew Kynyr. I'm told he's good with a sword. I want to see what he can do."

"Then you don't know.” Cedric's expression turned troubled.

"Know what?"

"This is best told over a glass of whiskey. It's stronger than mead.” Cedric retrieved a bottle and fresh glasses from a cabinet.

"Is he dead?"

"Death would have been kinder. Someone poisoned him. Healers thought it was Black Mountain Fever. For the first few days they treated it wrong. Then some healers came from Creeya. How they got there, I have no idea."

"They found the poison?"

"Yes. They say that he'll live, but he's crippled and ill. So we'll not only be putting a bastard on the throne, but a crippled bastard at that."

"Damn.” Stone closed his eyes, imagined Kady's grief, and made it his own.

Cooley had grown up listening to his father's stories. Cullen had not told them to brag about his adventures, as much as to allow his anecdotes to serve as object lessons to his son, freely pointing out the things that he had done wrong as well as those he had done right. Those stories made the difference for Cooley, a city wolf with no experience of the road and its perils. He remembered his father telling him about everything from how to screen a fire to how to tell which inns to stay at in the towns along his line of travel.

Iswara helped a lot, and it felt good to have an adult companion. However, the cat was definitely a cat and Cooley a wolf, which made the cub uneasy at times, because there were things about felines that simply did not always make sense to him.

That morning they were less than a day's ride from Silvershire—if the weather held. Cooley's hopes for making Silvershire before nightfall were dashed at midday. The snow came drifting down, lightly at first and then thick and swirling. The road became harder and harder to make out. To leave the road by accident would mean becoming lost in the forest. A streak of Blackwood stubbornness kept him riding until he could not see the road in front of him.

He and Iswara found a sheltered spot in a thicket of pine trees. Iswara gathered fallen branches, creating a windscreen to offer more protection for them and their horses. Cooley built a sheltered fire and they warmed themselves as best they could. He had spent the day in his hybrid form attempting to stay warm. At Iswara's insistence, Cooley removed gloves, cloak, and jacket so that his body could better absorb the heat from the fire.

He eyed Iswara closely with a glint of skepticism. “My ma really was a princess?"

Iswara smiled. “Silkanna Mircala de Waejonan was a princess."

"How'd she end up as a whore then?” The two images, princess and prostitute, did not match up in Cooley's mind.

"For one thing, there is very little work in Waejontor for women that does not involve opening their legs at one point or another."

"They're all whores?"

"That is not what I said. Females have few legal rights in Waejontor. Had she sought work as a servant, or a servingmon in a tavern, or as a weaver, or any of a dozen professions, sooner or later the master or the owner would expected to be entertained—in bed."

"I'm starting to hate them."

Iswara shrugged. “Hate them if you wish, but it will not change their culture. Among the lycans, your bitches have more rights. Your culture is not perfect, but then none of them are."

Cooley remembered the tiger-striped cat that had belonged to Cahira until his friend Bodi gave it to Darmyk Redhand. “Is Kerry one of you?"

"Yes and no. He is Shivari, tiger catkin, or tigerkin as some call it. However, he is a Netherguard. Tandu, Damayanti, and myself ... we are Guild."

"What's the difference?"

"Your curiosity is as insatiable as a cat's, young master."

Cooley gave him a sharp-eyed frown. He disliked it when adults tried to sidestep his questions. “So tell me."

"As you wish. Both of us serve Hadjys the Dark Judge. The primary duty of the Netherguard is to see that no demons escape from the section of the Katal Escarpment that borders Creeya. First and foremost, they are demon-slayers. Kerry was loaned to the Guild because of his expertise in certain areas."

"What areas?"

"Ah, ah, ah. There are some matters that I cannot share, young master.” Iswara's head came up, listening alertly. He signed Cooley to silence.

Three myn stepped into the firelight, rangy looking lycans in worn leathers.

One of them squatted in front of Cooley. ‘What's a little cub like you doing out in this weather?"

Cooley eyed him suspiciously. “None of your business."

"That's not very friendly."

"You're not my friend.” Cooley gave him a harsh eyed look worthy of his father.

The mon nearest Iswara slid his hand to the hilt of his knife, but Iswara was faster, his hand became a claw and he swiped it across the mon's face, blinding him.

The second one jumped up and drew his sword.

"Self-taught ruffians, are we?” Iswara threw him a disdainful look as he drew his tulwar.

The third lunged at Cooley, trying to grab him. Cooley threw himself sideways, rolling to his feet. The knives at his sides came from the sheaths fast and Cooley faced him in a crouch.

"Put those down before you hurt yourself."

Cooley spit at him. “Stupid three-fingered fuckwit."

The mon glared. “Mouth like that'll get you killed, boy."

He grabbed for Cooley. The cub darted beneath his swing and slashed his arm open. The mon howled in pain and spun about, but Cooley had moved with him, staying behind him. He could almost hear his dead father's voice shouting “kidneys."

Cooley dodged and kept moving, watching for an opening, muttering sotto voce, “Kidneys."

A heavy hand closed on Cooley's wrist, lifting him off the ground.

"Now I gotcha."

The blade in Cooley's free hand shifted and he plunged it deep into the arm of the hand holding him. The mon let go and screamed. “I'll kill ya for that."

The moment that Cooley's feet touched the ground, he darted forward, risking all. He plunged one knife into the mon's side and the other into his belly.

The mon sank to his knees, clutching his wounds. “Bloody little bastard."

Cooley heard movement behind him and pivoted with his blades ready. Iswara stood there, blood dripping from his tulwar. The Shivari slashed the wounded mon's throat, wiped his blade, and sheathed it.

"Why'd you do that?"

"A belly wound is a long painful death."

Iswara shoved the blinded mon against a tree and tied him there. He took his double-curved kandjarli dagger from his sash, gripped the hilt with its odd guard, and shredded the mon's shirt and jerkin.

Cooley's eyes bugged. “What are you doing?"

"Getting answers, my prince.” Iswara made a shallow cut across the lycan's chest. The blinded wolf shrieked and jerked at his bonds. “Thieves you may be, or agents of the enemy."

Cooley sickened watching Iswara interrogate the mon, but he kept silent because that seemed best. Gradually Iswara reduced the mon's chest to bloody ruin.

Iswara stepped back, cleaning his kandjarli, and sheathed it. “Thieves. End his suffering, young master."

"Muh-me?” Cooley gulped.

"It is a lesson to be learned. There is a time for mercy and a time for cruelty; and knowing the difference can be a matter of life or death ... yours."

Cooley steeled himself, shoved his knife through the mon's heart. The blind mon stiffened with a groan.

Iswara placed his hand over Cooley's. “Twist it like this. Stop the organ."

The mon sagged in his bonds. Cooley stared for an instant, and then spun about, dropping to his knees to vomit in the snow.

Iswara knelt and cradled Cooley. “Killing in cold blood is harder than in hot. Some can do it, and others cannot."

"Could my dad do it?"

"Yes."

Kady pressed her hands across her stomach, feeling Kynyr's child move. The further into the pregnancy she got, the more restless his son became. Winter Solstice, the Night of God Return, neared, which put her closer to six months pregnant than to five. Mary had begun to nag her about putting up decorations and a Yule log.

"If you want to decorate so badly, Mary, then do so. But please, don't ask me to help. I've no heart for it. I have nothing to be joyful about."

"Kynyr's alive."

"And every waking moment I worry that he'll do something stupid. He refuses to let us get him up in the chair that Quinn and Raonul made for him. I take him books to read, offer to play checkers with him. I try and try and try. All he wants to do is stare at the ceiling and brood."

"Given time, he'll get over it, Kady. He's still adjusting."

"I hope so. Fergus needs his daddy. Don't you, Fergus?” Kady stroked her belly, with a fond eye and a twist of sorrow. “How bad does it hurt to give birth, Mary?"

"Feeling nervous?"

"A bit. I remember Leeny screaming with contractions."

"That was Leeny. I never screamed once. Not even with Betrys."

"How is Betrys?"

"She's a Sinclair. She took the rape like a soldier. Her morning sickness is another matter entirely. Oh, she's handling it. It's Artair I worry about. Seeing her sick upsets him. He's so worried about her that I swear the mon will be gray by the time the cub is born."

Kady managed a half-hearted smile, wrapped her wolverine cloak around her shoulders, and wandered out onto the veranda to watch Trevor overseeing the destruction of her garden. Kady remembered how she and Kynyr walked there in the fall, enjoying the autumn glory of the maple trees. The trellised roses had been dug up and cast aside.

Todd insisted that a possibility of attack existed. Felled trees surrounded her garden. Lycans climbed about them, hacking off the unneeded branches, sharpening the points on the ones they had left. Todd called it an abatis. There were now pit traps around the gates with sharpened stakes in them. Trevor had informed her that there were far uglier traps out there than the pits. Kady had asked him not to describe them and he responded that she should not venture into the yard without someone along who knew what to avoid and where.

Gowyn Caldwell and Iollen Newell vetted the myn they hired to work on the defenses, picking only those they could reliably be certain supported Kynyr. Those who had supported the Lycamornot gang and Cormic Parry's little band of villains were excluded. Work was scarce in Wolffgard, especially in the winter, and there was a lot of grumbling in the taverns about Kady's hiring practices. One of the town elders had brought the grumbling to her attention and Kady had tossed him out.

"To bloody hell with them,” Kady muttered.

"Lady Maguire?"

She turned to see who had spoken and found one of Sha's assistants standing there. “What is it?"

"A nibari took Lord Kynyr a bowl of porridge and he threw it at her."

A wave of irritation swept Kady. She had become the one that people went to when Kynyr needed to be sorted out; since Todd and Trevor were too busy with the defenses to deal with Kynyr's moods. “Have another bowl dished up and I'll go sit with him. He won't throw it at me."

Kady stalked through the house, aggravation lending color to her cheeks. Kynyr was finally able to keep down a bowl of porridge and half the time he either refused to eat it or threw it at someone.

The nibari with the fresh bowl arrived in Kynyr's room at the same time as Kady. She placed it on a side table and fled. Kady shook her head at that, settled into a chair by the bedside and cast a stern look at Kynyr. “You throw this one ... or refuse to eat it, and you'll wear the next one, Kynyr. You hear me? I'm all out of patience with you. From now on, every time you throw one, I'm going to make you wear one."

Kynyr flinched from the anger in her voice as Kady continued to rant at him, recovered, and snarled back at her. “Feed the cripple. Feed the stupid cripple. I might as well be dead."

Kady stopped in mid rant, and stared at him as her anger dissolved into hurt. “I'm starting to hate you, Kynyr. All you do is say hurtful things. All you do is brood and feel sorry for yourself. What will I tell our son? Daddy doesn't want you because he's too busy pitying himself? Sorry, Fergus, but your daddy's a bloody bastard?"

"Shut up! Shut the hell up, you bloody slut!"

Kady burst into tears and retreated from the room. She swept past Iollen Newell who stood in the hallway with his good shoulder against the wall.

Iollen sauntered into the bedroom and regarded Kynyr, trying to appear calm. “You shouldn't talk to her like that."

"It's the truth,” Kynyr said his voice thick with bitterness.

"Then you're either a coward or a bastard.” Iollen snarled. “If you love Kady as much as I loved Aghavie, you wouldn't act like this."

Kynyr's lips parted, his brow furrowing in suspicion. “Loved?"

"Didn't they tell you?"

"Tell me what? No one tells me anything."

"She died ... in childbirth."

Shame flooded Kynyr. His anger drained away and he averted his eyes, remembering how happy Aghavie had been, how much she and Iollen had come to care about each other. “I'm sorry."

"What if Kady dies? All the stress she's under won't make it easy to birth that cub. You're adding to it."

"I'm crippled,” Kynyr said in a flat voice. “I'm not a man anymore."

"I used to think you were a better mon than I am. Yet, you're wallowing in self-pity and bitterness. I have only one arm. I have lost my wife, and I'm trying to rear my daughter alone. Don't speak to me about the difficulties of being crippled. You either rise to the challenges or you burden everyone with your bitterness."

Kynyr's gaze flicked across the empty pinned up sleeve of Iollen's shirt. “I'm sorry. Get someone to help me into the chair and I'll—oh gahds...” Kynyr twisted up in pain.

"Hold on."

Iollen fetched one of Sha's assistants, Qaseem, a kind and thoughtful mon who took pleasure in caring for those in need.

Kynyr's hands clawed at the bed, his chest heaving.

Qaseem opened his small case on the table and filled a syringe.

Kynyr shook his head, grimacing. “Don't put me out. Just take the edge off. I want to see Kady ... use the chair."

"As you wish.” Qaseem nodded, returning half the fluid to the vial. He wiped Kynyr's arm and slipped the needle in.

The pain eased and Kynyr breathed easier. “Am I ever going to stop having these spells?"

"Who can say?” Qaseem shrugged helplessly. “There is too much we do not know about the creations of Sidera Tyrins. She is clever that one."

"Can you take me to the kitchen, Qaseem?” Kynyr glanced at Iollen who gave him a nod of encouragement.

Qaseem helped Kynyr into the chair, quietly explaining how to use it as he pushed Kynyr through the hallways. Kynyr got appreciative smiles from the myn they passed. He felt conspicuous and humiliated by his helplessness, but he tightened his resolutions, telling himself that the feeling would pass if he simply began to use the chair more often. Iollen trailed after them.

He heard hammering near the sweeping staircase. “What's that?"

"Go and see. It's something I thought up,” said Iollen.

When Kynyr got to the stairs, he saw a secondary railing system going in. “What's it for?"

"So you can get down the stairs without help. Use your hands instead of your feet."

Iollen's care and resourcefulness touched Kynyr. He squeezed Iollen's hand. “Thank you."

Iollen sucked in a breath, tilting his head aside in a half-nod. “I learned a lot ... losing my arm. The most important was that a mon is only as crippled as he lets himself be."

Qaseem rolled Kynyr into the kitchen. Kady sat staring into a cup of tea with Mary next to her rubbing her back and murmuring words of comfort.

"Kady?” Kynyr spoke her name softly, blending hope and trepidation. “Kady, I'm sorry."

He leaned forward, put his hand on Kady's stomach, and felt his son move. Kynyr smiled, and Kady kissed him.

Malthus slipped into Darmyk's room and bent over the sleeping child, feeling satisfied and smug; knowing the others downstairs would hear nothing. With Claw dying, no one argued with anything he did in the household. Aisha pressed matters sometimes, but not to any extreme degree because she did not want an uproar in the house that might reach Claw's ears and upset him. She protected Claw to the best of ability, and made all the wrong decisions as a result—decisions that played nicely into Malthus’ hands.

Done right, no one would be able to tell that the child had not died of an illness. He would die shortly after his grandsire. After the funeral, Malthus intended to dig up the little body, butcher it, and send the pieces to Isranon. Malthus put his hands on both sides of the boy's head to send him deeper into sleep, too deep to awaken. Then he pushed the child's nightshirt up. Malthus’ fangs came down and he sank them into Darmyk's small arm. He fed for a long time, and when he finished drew his fangs out carefully so as not to tear the child. A lick of his tongue and a tiny glamour swept the evidence away.

Now, where to start the illness? Which organs to use? Or perhaps start it in the blood? First, destroy the child's sa'necari healing ability. Done subtlely, Sheradyn will find it, but not know what caused it. He probably has little or no knowledge of how sa'necari bodies work.

The door opened behind him. Merissa appeared, her eyes narrowed and her lips trembled. “What are you doing?"

Malthus wiped his mouth on his sleeve before turning. “Checking on him."

Merissa's brow furrowed, and her expression grew troubled. “Not Darmyk. Please not Darmyk."

"I haven't touched him.” Malthus kissed her, blowing a spell into her, and led her out the door, closing it softly behind him. He walked her back to their bedroom with his arm around her waist, holding her tightly against him. “I love you, Merissa."

Merissa's face softened and her smile brightened. Studying the love on her face, Malthus regretted tormenting her. The spell that had brought back her love would fade, but for the moment, he would enjoy it. He should never have given in to the over excitement that followed killing Caimbeul and Odhran, the hunger for more pain and suffering. There were others that he could have gotten it from besides Merissa. That was neither here nor there now. Once all of her family was dead, he would twist her mind and bring back her love permanently.

Malthus’ hand crept up to her breast as they entered and caressed it. “Let's go to bed, sweetheart."

As soon as he got her into bed, he touched her forehead and sent her to sleep.

"Sorry, Merissa, but I have a tryst with Fianait. Tomorrow the manor will be mine."

Fianait sat at her dressing table, brushing out her thinning white hair. The suite seemed so much lonelier without Searlait comfort nesting with her. A half-finished letter to a friend in Big Willows lay on the small desk near the window. A branch of candles on the desk and another on the low table near the sofa threw light across the room in a shivering glare, their tongues of flame stirred by a breath of wind that slid in around the subtle imperfections in the window frame. It was Dark of the Moon, the three days each month when there was no moon in the sky at night and the lycans believed that evil things crept out to destroy the unwary.

The yawning maw of the window with empty darkness beyond it reflected in the mirror of Fianait's dressing table and gradually its appearance began to itch at Fianait, so she rose and closed the light inner curtains as if not having to look at the darkness would keep it out, and left the heavy drapes still caught in their tasseled ties.

Hearing a soft knock at her door, Fianait pulled a robe over her modest nightgown. “Who is it?"

"Malthus. I want to talk. Merissa's worried about you."

Fianait heaved a sigh. It seemed like everyone in the household had come to comfort her since her sister's death, although they generally left her alone when she went up to bed at night. Yet night was the worst time for her. She had not told anyone that she had nightmares in which she saw Searlait's bloated corpse reaching out to her, struggling to tell her something, but Fianait always fled before the corpse could speak and woke herself up. “Come in."

She moved to the couch and gestured for Malthus to join her. “I'm just mourning. We all are."

"Belgair told me about Brock.” He settled on the couch beside her. “He's worried about how you'll feel when Brock gets here ... considering what happened before."

The subject took her by surprise. Her head and shoulders drooped. The old rumors had started again. She wanted to protect Brock, put a stop to any lies that were going around about him. The last thing her brother needed was for the rumors and gossip to be thrown in his face when he returned. “We were young. It was my fault."

"How can you say that? You'd never hurt anyone."

"I was young. I had always loved Brock—in a very inappropriate way. I used a potion from Ishla's Temple...."

"You can tell me the truth. I want to protect you.” Malthus patted her hand.

"That is the truth.” Fianait's hackles rose.

"And Brock's child?"

"Claw and our father pressured me into aborting it.” Tears filled Fianait's eyes. “I was already far into the pregnancy ... it went wrong. I became unable to conceive."

"And yet you want him here? Reminding you of it all?"

"Malthus, I'm old. Brock and I have put it behind us. You shouldn't worry about me."

"But I do."

His hand went to her throat, muting her voice, and he lunged into her mind.

"Noooooo!” Fianait tried to scream, but it emerged as a hoarse moan. Her fingers went to the hollow of her throat as Fianait realized, with a shock, that she could not speak above a whisper. Her eyes saucered and she shifted to hybrid form, clutching at his hands and shaking her head frantically.

He pinned her wrists together with one hand, shoved his other hand inside her nightgown, pressed his fingers against her sternum, and stole the strength from her body, thrusting her back into human shape. “Everything's all right, Fianait. You didn't really want to go on living. Not after what Brock did to you."

She trembled, fear making the corners of her mouth quiver.

Malthus pressed his face into her hair. He fondled her breast, and sent a lance of dark magic into her. Since he had no intentions of doing permanent damage, as he had with Searlait, he could afford to hit her more often if need be. Fianait was far more frail than her sister had been, and Malthus wished only to reduce her resistance.

"They all know how fragile you are, Fianait. Your suicide will surprise no one."

Fianait howled in anguish behind the muting spell, the sound failing to reach beyond the room. “Please don't kill me."

He repressed an urge to laugh. Playing with them as they died was half the fun. “Searlait's struggles amused me. I had to straddle her to keep her head under."

Malthus blew out the branch of candles on the table and went to the window where he closed the heavy drapes.

Pushing at the sofa, Fianait tried to rise on legs that refused to support her.

He crossed to the sofa in three long strides, put his finger to her forehead, and struck deep to keep her immobilized while he went about his preparations. Fianait fell back, clutching at her head. From the terrified look in her eyes, Malthus knew she would amuse him as much as Searlait had.

She slumped against the arm of the sofa, eyes dull, breathing heavy.

Malthus dropped the bar across the door, and sketched a spell on it that would cause people to change their minds about entering. However, it was a delicate spell. If the mon on the other side were experiencing strong enough emotions, he would be able to disrupt it. Therefore, Malthus did not wish to fight her and risk the sounds of a struggle escaping the suite to draw the curious. Returning to the sofa, Malthus sent successive waves of anguish through Fianait's frail body, making her too weak to resist him.

Her eyes reflected her knowledge of his intentions. She whined in faint sub vocalizations.

He pushed her robe off, unfastened her nightgown, and stripped it over her head. When females killed themselves with a blade, many of them had an odd habit of doing it in the nude so as not to get their clothing dirty. The old bitch was not much to look at, flaccid breasts drooping to her waist, most of the muscle withered from her bones with age, no ass left to speak of. Nothing about her resembled the face in the portrait that Belgair obsessed upon. He ran his finger from her slit to her breasts, torturing her organs and muscles with needles of black energy.

Fianait, who had never been strong, even as a young wolf, shuddered, and collapsed, whimpering. Malthus folded her nightgown and robe as neatly as a woman and laid them on the far corner of the sofa. He unbuckled his knife belt, removed his shirt, and tossed them next to her clothing so as not to get any blood on them.

He lifted her in his arms, savoring the skin-to-skin contact, the feel of her fragile bones. Malthus carried Fianait to the small writing desk and settled her into the narrow-backed chair, stroking her head as he knotted a coercion into her mind. Then he dug in the desk drawer for paper, dipped a pen in the ink well, and handed it to Fianait.

Her mind struggled in his grasp, but he made her fingers close on the pen while he whispered the words into her ear and pressured her to write them:

Brock raped me. All these years, I've kept it secret. Now Claw has sent for him to be regent. I can't bear it any longer. Forgive me.

When he released her, Fianait sank forward, her head and shoulders resting on the desktop, her chest heaving. The color drained from her face, and lines of exhaustion gathered around her eyes and mouth.

Malthus rummaged through all the drawers in the desk, the dressers, and bureaus for something to stab her with. All he found was a decorative letter opener made like a dagger with an ornate crosspiece and a blade half as long as a lycan fighting knife. The damned thing was blunt except for the very tip. Malthus thumbed the point, scowling. There was barely enough point to prick her with. “Do you keep anything sharper around?"

"No.... “Fianait quailed, her heart racing with terror.

Even that much sound from her made him nervous. If people heard them talking, they would wonder what he was doing in Fianait's room at this hour, especially after she was found dead tomorrow. Should the wolves suspect what he was about, they would rip him apart. Granted, he would kill several, but there were too many of them and they would pull him down. Malthus always picked his battles and he did not want to fight all the wolves in the manor. He touched her throat, reducing her voice still more. He knew that he should have taken all of her voice, but hearing her suffering noises formed a large part of his pleasure, and Malthus was determined to get at least some enjoyment out of this.

Malthus muttered in barely audible tones while listening for anyone who might be moving about the halls that late. He had never before encountered a lycan of either gender who did not keep at least a belt knife around. “If I'd known this was all you had, I'd have stolen something better. However, once started.... “Malthus shrugged.

He noticed her listless, feeble squirming and gripped her shoulder, slamming another spell through her. “Be still. I'm thinking.” Malthus thumbed the point of the letter opener again. “With a little effort, I should be able to get this inside you."

Fianait wept.

Malthus ignored her, weighing his options. He did not dare use his own knives, since the blade had to remain in her body. Nor should he leave her alone in this condition to fetch a blade lest someone stumble on her in his absence and send for Sheradyn. His spells would fade and leave no traces once Fianait died, but while they were fresh, the healer could detect them.

"This will have to do."

Malthus stepped behind the chair, and reached around to place both of Fianait's boney hands on the letter opener. He pinioned her hands with one of his so that she could not release the hilt. If she spurted when he got it in, it would be away from him, not toward him and the splatter patterns would be correct.

In his long career as an assassin and bounty hunter, he had only once come close to being caught. That had been when an Assassins’ Guild investigator had been brought in to examine the scene. The innocuous young mon named Aramyn had almost trapped him. Malthus had learned from the experience, and would not repeat those mistakes.

Resting the point over her heart, he considered the possible angles of entrance for the blade that would work well for him and be appropriate for an old bitch who knew nothing about killing. He decided to insert it a little to the left of her heart with a diagonal thrust through the ribs that would spear the organ. “Brace up, Fianait. It's an easy death."

He put his head against hers to hear the indistinct little sounds he forced from her. His free arm slipped across her collarbones. Malthus gripped her shoulder, straightened her in the chair, and held her upright against the back of it.

Fianait trembled violently, anticipating the blade, yet too debilitated to fight him.

Malthus pressed his mid-section against the chair for better leverage. His eyes danced like a mischievous boy's, his lips drew together into an impish smile, and he could not resist whispering, “In it goes."

Fianait sobbed, found a tiny bit of resolution, and struggled—for an instant—to keep the blade from her breast. Malthus sent pain crashing through Fianait, and her arms went limp. The blade broke her skin open and stopped.

Malthus cursed when the point met resistance, wishing he had had the foresight to bring a carving knife from the kitchen that would have parted her flesh like warm butter. Instead, he had to force the nearly blunt opener into her. If he tore her too much it would look like someone other than Fianait had shoved it in.

He applied himself and managed to lodge the tip firmly inside her, but it was like trying to slice meat with a butter knife.

"Oh gahdss.” Fianait's eyes bulged and she stiffened. Her gaze flinched across the blade in her breast. Closing her eyes, Fianait turned her head away with a shivering whine.

"For Hell's sake, Fianait! I've barely got the tip in."

She shuddered and groaned as the steady pressure of Malthus’ hand inched the opener in deeper and deeper. “Gahhhhdss ... it huuuuurts."

"Of course it does."

The gratifying sounds and sensations of pushing the steel into her hardened his loins. His fangs came down and he licked them before drawing them back into their sheaths. When he finished here, he would go fuck his wife and relieve himself.

Malthus got another quarter of the blade in and Fianait's body spasmed. Her breathing became labored. She panted in a mix of dread and pain.

The opener caught on her rib. Malthus stopped pushing.

"Damnit.” He resented the complications stealing his pleasure. “If you'd kept a blade like a sensible bitch..."

Blood welled around the opener, trickled along her left breast, and dribbled onto her thigh. Malthus looked at the trail of blood and had to resist an impulse to stick his tongue in it, which would have left a betraying trace of his saliva for a Reader to find.

"It's your fault I'm hurting you.” He snarled in her ear, wanting to stab and stab and stab, to watch the blood spurt, and hear her scream aloud. This is so damned tedious.

Disciplining his urges, Malthus worked the opener up and down in careful increments until he got it past the rib. He paused to Read the wound, making certain that he had not been too rough. Satisfied, Malthus resumed the opener's journey, speared her heart, and got it all the way inside her. “There we go. That wasn't so bad, now was it?"

He smiled, savoring the necromantic fragrance that Fianait's dying body gave off.

Fianait's lips parted and her head bobbed as if her neck could barely support it. She made a gurgling noise in her throat.

Malthus released her shoulder, holding her against the chair with the opener. He stroked her silken hair as if to reassure her. “The worst is over."

A glance showed him that the opener had not been long enough to come out her back, as he would have preferred. He Read her again, discovering that it had pierced, but not ruptured the organ and was partially plugging the wound. Malthus sighed in frustration. All the complications were spoiling his enjoyment.

This would take longer than he wanted it to. A twist of the opener would still her heart—but that would look like murder, not suicide. Pulling it out so she would bleed faster and then re-inserting it into the wound when Fianait died would produce the same suspicions when Sheradyn Read her corpse. He had to be patient and wait for her to die.

It annoyed him.

He peered over her shoulder to inspect his handiwork, and saw that a small space remained between the decorative crosspiece and Fianait's breast. With an upward yank, he brought the crosspiece flush against her clammy skin and studied it, deciding that it looked better now.

Malthus continued to grasp Fianait's hands tightly while her heart bled out, Reading her progress through his hand on hers while he stroked her face. “We're almost done."

He felt her lapse into shock. Although the letter opener had been less than satisfactory as a weapon, it had achieved its purpose. The bleeding around Fianait's wound increased, yet most of her hemorrhaging remained internal. At least, using the opener was not messy and he would not need to wipe himself off before leaving her rooms.

Fianait sagged, her head fell backwards, and she stared up at Malthus with glazing eyes, reminding him of how Granta Softpaws had looked dying. Her feeble jerks and twitches subsided. Fianait's lungs made a rattling noise, and her chest deflated around her bones.

Arching an eyebrow, Malthus murmured facetiously, “I hate to inform you of this, Fianait, but you're quite dead."

Malthus placed a dry kiss on Fianait's forehead and released her hands, which had become locked around the hilt in a cadaveric spasm. He examined his hands and arms before touching anything, noticing a few splashes of blood on his fingers and wrist. He wondered how he could have failed to notice when she spurted on him. Malthus licked himself clean, appreciating the taste of lycan blood, and wiped his hand on his pants to dry it. He moved the suicide note to the side, and tilted her forward, careful not to bump her hands and the hilt on the edge of the desk. Malthus laid her head to the side on the surface and studied his artwork.

"You amused me even more than Searlait. I hope your brother proves as entertaining.” I hope to hell I get to enjoy killing him without any inconveniences.

He put his shirt on, buttoned it up, and tucked it in, glancing at himself in the mirror as he buckled his knives on. He opened the door a crack and listened for footsteps in the hallway. Hearing none, Malthus stepped into the empty corridor, pulled Fianait's door closed and walked to his suite, his soft carpet slippers making no sounds at all. He slipped inside, and debated whether to go into the bedroom or make his wife come out to him. His cock was as hard as the opener he had stuck Fianait with.

"Merissa! Merissa! Come and take your clothes off for me."

"I'm tired."

Malthus walked into the bedroom, climbed onto the bed, and jerked open Merissa's nightgown. “I said, take your clothes off."

She wept from exhaustion as he opened his pants and mounted her.

Zinzi strolled through the little cemetery at the back of the Redhand's garden. If Malthus had been doing what he was paid for, then there ought to be new graves here. Darkness held no secrets from a vampire, and she read the names on the gravestones easily. She found the grave. The first night frosts of late autumn had killed all the flowers, so the lycans had placed sprigs of dried herbs, woven wreaths of mistletoe, and pine boughs over it. Zinzi cleared them away from the headstone, and read the name on it: Searlait Redhand, beloved daughter of Suleahan and Sorcha Redhand.

"So, you've finally started killing the Redhands ... you were supposed to have done that months ago. What are you doing, Malthus?"

The scent of blood and death reached her sensitive nostrils, and Zinzi's head turned to catch the direction it came from. Someone was dying in the manor. Malthus at work?

She stole silently through the shadows, tracking the scents and vibrations through the darkness, hoping to catch a glimpse of it through the windows. The sound of heavy boots alerted Zinzi to the passage of a lycan guard making his rounds. She faded into the shadow of a pine tree and let him pass her. He started to turn as if he had caught her scent, and Zinzi lunged, clapped her hand over his mouth, and sank her fangs into his throat, injecting her venom directly into his carotid artery with her free hand. He thrashed a moment, eyes bulging, and then went still. Zinzi drank her fill and hid his dead body in a stand of wild rose briars, intending to return and dump the remains into the Eirlys Cataract where it would be swept away and never found.

Resuming her quest, Zinzi located the window from whence the scent of death came strongest. She climbed the side of the manor like a lizard, her fingers and toes clinging to the surface. The filmy curtains had been drawn and the drapes dropped in place, but she could see through a slender parting in the edge.

Zinzi watched Malthus force the letter opener into Fianait and licked her fangs at the smell of blood and the aura of incipient death. Too little, too late, Malthus. Killing them now won't make up for double-crossing my master.

She sensed Fianait die with a small tremor of satisfaction. Zinzi loved the taste of death. She was one of Lord Hoon's favorite assassins as well as his messenger. When Malthus finished, Zinzi climbed down and returned for the guard's body, which she disposed of. Once she had completed her tasks, Zinzi changed into a moonhawk and flew off to find Lord Hoon to report her findings. His army should have crossed the Hellblade Corridor by then and started into the mountains.

"I'm sorry, Regina. I'm so damned sorry.” Reist sat on the edge of the bed, lacing his trousers closed. Their laws demanded proof of consummation; because otherwise his father might try to have the marriage set aside. Now he wanted to get as far from her as he could, and try to think clearly. “If there had been any other way..."

She lay beneath the blankets nude with the quilts clutched in her hands, tears streaming down her face, and anger glowing in her eyes. “Send the Readers and the midwife in and get it over with."

"I'll do that.” He reached for his shirt.

"What are you going to do now that you're the bloody thane-regent of Gateshead?"

"Get you a better sword. That claymore is not right for you. I don't like the balance. You need something lighter. A saber I think.” He refused to meet her eyes, feeling the taste of bitterness in the back of his throat. Reist laced the neck of his shirt closed and snatched his sleeveless tunic up.

Regina blinked in confusion. “A better sword? Why?"

"You're coming to Wolffgard with us, aren't you? Someone needs to tell them what happened at Gateshead."

"You want me to?"

"I can't replace Johfrit, but I can do everything in my power to protect you and your children."

She pushed herself to a sitting position and touched his shoulder. “I don't believe I know you any longer, Reist Devlin."

"It's been twenty years. Myn change.” A breath of regret blew across his heart. “For now, you'll ride with Jenny's units. You'll need more training. We don't do things the way the clans do."

"My cubs..."

"Will remain here. Cedric's family will protect them until we can get this mess sorted."

"Cedric is a good mon."

Reist buckled his sword on. “You'll share Jenny's tent."

"Why?"

His throat tightened and his words seemed to catch in the narrows of it. “Because I won't touch you again. And I won't take a mistress, so you don't need to worry about that. I won't do anything to hurt or humiliate you. Now just let me be."

Reist plunged through the door before she could say anything else. The Readers and the midwife sat chatting on a bench nearby. They had been waiting to confirm that he had done his duty and it made him feel dirty, like some prize stallion that had just serviced a mare. “Go on in. It's done."

Then he stalked down the hallway looking for Stone. They would be riding out for Wolffgard in a few hours. An aide directed him to Stone's suite, and Reist found his commander pouring over maps and a list of places, jotting notes beside the names.

Stone raised his eyes from the documents. “I think I have figured out where they entered Red Wolf. They must have a camp there."

Reist placed his palms on the table and leaned to see Stone's notations. “Down from the Hellblade Corridor and either they built a bridge over the Eirlys or they descended that spur of the Eiralyskali range through the Foulmuth pass."

"Agreed."

"Are we going after them?"

"Not yet. I will send word to Aramyn. He has more resources than we do. He'll want to scout it.” Stone studied his maps. “Did you do it?"

Reist tensed. “I felt like I was raping her.” He dropped into a chair and crossed his arms on the table. “It's a marriage of convenience, Stone. She'll be sharing Jenny's tent."

"And your father?"

"I'll see him in hell before he touches her or the cubs."

"Could you love her?"

"I grew up with her. I have always had a grudging fondness for Regina. That's all."

"You could take a mistress. The thanes tend to turn a blind eye to that."

"No. I have sown my wild oats. All of my bastards are grown and there will be no more of that."

"Atonement?"

"Atonement.” Reist glanced again at the maps. “I still can't get my head around the fact that they crippled the prince."

"I did everything in my power, Reist. When I asked Aramyn to put bodyguards on Kady, it did not occur to me to ask him to put them on Kynyr also. I will regret that to the end of my days."

"You can't save them all, Stone."

"I can try."

Claw maneuvered the wheel-chair down the hallway. His ability to get about improved all the time and gave him a measure of independence he had feared gone. He knocked on Fianait's door.

"Fianait?"

He opened the door and rolled inside, glancing about for her. She had promised him a game of checkers after breakfast, but she had not shown up for either.

The chair partially blocked his view of her, but she appeared to be lying with her head on the desk. Claw wheeled himself closer. “Fianait?"

Getting no answer, Claw brought the wheelchair about and lined himself up with her chair in order to see her better. The color of her body told him that his sister was dead, ghostly pale above the waist with lividity staining her legs dark blue. His chest clenched up. He touched her tentatively and found that her body was stiff and unresponsive. Breathing hard, Claw lifted her head. Her body fell from the chair as if it were made of wood and landed in a twisted heap on the floor. She seemed to be clutching something against her chest. Claw wheeled himself to the other side. The pommel of the opener jutted above her clenched hands.

"FIIIIIAAANAAAIIIT!"

His chest hurt, and his heart palpitated so wildly that only the growing pressure in his rib cage seemed to be keeping it inside him.

Aisha reached him first. “Claw, what's wrong?"

Claw clutched at his chest with one hand and pointed with his other.

Aisha followed his pointing and saw Fianait's body partially concealed by the chair and desk. Her hand went to her mouth as she swallowed back a scream. Then she turned and saw that finding Fianait had driven her husband close to another heart attack. The needs of the living forced Aisha to control her reactions. She went to the door and shouted for help.

Kissie, her twelve-year-old son, Timerly, and Isbeth arrived first. Aisha stopped them from entering. “Fianait is dead. Claw's having trouble. Fetch Sheradyn."

Kissie nudged her son, and the boy took off running.

"Can we help, Mistress Aisha?” Kissie squeezed Aisha's arm, but Aisha shook her head.

"Not until after Sheradyn has been here. I don't want anyone inside until then."

"What happened?” Kissie's frown of concern deepened.

Finn pushed through and stared into the room over Kissie's shoulder.

"Letter opener...” Aisha's voice tightened. “Through her chest ... I think—I think she killed herself."

"Gods’ mercy.” Kissie blanched, her hand going to her mouth in a gesture reminiscent of Aisha's.

"No.” Finn shook his head in denial, his lips pulled back from his teeth. “No. She wouldn't have done it."

Isbeth released a sob. She had helped Fianait since childhood. Isbeth had been born in the manor, to a young nibari, which Claw had purchased in Hell's Widow, and a famous stud owned by one of the farms around Wolffgard.

Servants began to gather more thickly, including their nibari mule, Donato, and the young stud, Klaudi, that Aisha had purchased to breed Kissie to the next time she came into season.

Sheradyn and Gillivray pushed through the crowd of servants. Finn seized the opportunity to follow them inside.

The first thing that Sheradyn did was to administer more medicine to Claw.

"Someone killed her.” Claw sat gasping and panting.

Sheradyn examined Fianait's body, Reading her. “This happened last night, around the twentieth hour. Death occurred about twelve hours ago."

Gillivray glanced at the desk and his eyes widened as he picked up a piece of paper. “There's a note."

"Give it to me.” Claw snatched at the paper in Gillivray's hands. He read it, shaking his head in denial as he crumpled the paper. “Brock didn't rape her. He wouldn't have."

Merissa arrived with Malthus. She looked up at her husband with horror in her eyes, and then fled.

Finn glanced at Merissa's retreat. “That note is a lie.” He glanced around the room for support. “She was happy Brock was coming home. She told me so."

"What position did you find her in?” Gillivray touched the bloodstains on the seat of the chair and a splatter pattern on the desk.

Claw glared at Gillivray. “Sitting at the desk with her head on it."

Finn went silent when he saw that everyone was ignoring him. His stomach twisted up. Try as he might, he could not replace Kynyr in the household. If Kynyr had been there, they would have been forced to listen to him.

Sheradyn extracted the paper from Claw's hands, smoothed it out, and read it. “It was a suicide. Look at the way her hands are on the opener. She did it herself. Obviously, Fianait sat down there, wrote the note, and then took her own life."

"Nooo! I refuse to believe it. If Fianait was going to do it, why didn't she the first time Brock came to visit?” Claw demanded.

Sheradyn patted Claw's arm. “Because then he was only visiting. She knew he'd leave soon. This time Fianait was going to have to look at him every day for the rest of her life. Possibly the death of Searlait contributed to this. Fianait has been very depressed since Searlait died."

"What happened?” Belgair and Gorgarty came in, glancing around.

"Fianait committed suicide,” Sheradyn said in a firm tone.

"That's a lie!” Claw snatched the paper from Sheradyn, nearly toppling himself from the chair. “Fianait wouldn't do this."

Belgair spotted Finn. “What the hell are you doing here?"

"I came to help.” Finn whipped about and steadied Claw's chair before he could fall, gripping the handles.

"Get out.” Belgair growled.

Finn shook his head. “If Claw wants me to leave, then I'll leave. But only Claw."

Sheradyn touched Claw's arm, his eyes gentle. “Be reasonable and stay calm. Getting upset isn't good for your heart."

"Stop talking to me as if I were a wet-tailed cub."

Belgair's eyes were wide and he glanced from face to face. “What did the paper say?"

"None of your damned business!” Claw tucked the paper under his leg, started to back the wheelchair up, and gave Finn an odd look as he realized that Finn had the handles. “I don't want people talking about it. If I hear that word's gotten out in the village ... and I will ... then people are going to regret it."

Sheradyn glanced over at Belgair and said sadly, “Suicide."

Belgair's face went livid with rage and grief. “Claw, I warned you about Brock."

"Shut up, Belgair. Just shut up. Finn, get me out of here."

Finn wheeled Claw from the room with Aisha hovering over him.

Malthus’ brow furrowed with concern. “I must go see to Merissa."

Sheradyn nodded. “You'll tell me if she needs a sedative?"

"Of course."

Malthus passed Kissie in the hallways. She had Darmyk in her arms, struggling with the squirming cub who was demanding to see his aunt. The first signs of blood-bloat were on her face. Aisha would be bleeding her soon. Malthus considered that to be a waste, since the lycans usually discarded the blood. Once the manor became his, he would have Kissie writhing beneath him with his fangs in her throat as befitted a nibari. He would re-train the household's entire nibari herd.

The door to his suite hung open. Malthus went in and dropped the bar. “Merissa?"

"Leave me alone."

Malthus walked into the bedroom and found Merissa weeping on their bed.

She looked up and drew a shuddering breath. “You killed her ... and then you came to me with bloody hands ... and kept your cock in me most of the night.” Merissa released a strangled sob, sucking in a breath before speaking again. “Your bloody cock."

Malthus chuckled. “You must admit I stuck you with a far friendlier weapon than I did Fianait."

"Do you like killing?"

Malthus snorted. “All sa'necari like killing. It's our nature. We're predators. The blood excites us."

"Isranon doesn't."

Malthus slapped Merissa's face before he could stop himself. “Don't throw his name at me. He and I have history."

"Troyes."

"Oh, more than that, dear Merissa.” His voice oozed contempt. “I raped him. He whined about it to his bloody Prince Mephistis. I was nearly executed."

"You deserved it! I hope he kills you."

"He's no match for me. No one is."

"Isranon will kill you.” Merissa gritted the words out between her teeth.

Malthus tangled his fingers in Merissa's hair, dragging her head over, and snarling in her face with spittle frothing around his lips. “Don't ... ever ... say his name again. Don't make me hurt you."

"I might miscarry."

Reminded of the dangers in upsetting her, Malthus mastered his anger, and released her head, his voice softening. “I'm sorry."

Malthus turned away and walked out. Knowing that she still loved Isranon made Malthus want to torment her endlessly. However, he did not wish to trigger a miscarriage and lose the twin sons he wanted so strongly. He had five bastards coming, assuming whoever was holding Clodagh had not dosed her with tansy. Merissa's offspring would be his first legitimate heirs. They seemed more precious to him than the others.

More and more, Malthus could tell that the stress and aggravation of his prolonged stay in Wolffgard, the frustrations of the losses that Kynyr had handed him, grief over lost friends—all of it combined to set him on edge at times and he knew full well that he tended to take it out on Merissa. Yet catching himself and backing away from the emotional precipice was not easy. He needed someone else to vent his frustrations on.

Kissie would serve nicely.

As Georgie Rogan rode along the edge of the Maguire Estate, heading for the front gate, he found himself studying it for defensibility. A mon would have a damnedable time getting a horse over and through the hedgerows, but on foot he could wiggle through the dense growth of hawthorns and briars.

He and his myn rarely ever ventured into the manor itself, living in apartments built into the stable loft. However, many of the guardsmyn liked to gossip with the stablemyn and all the tidbits made it back to Georgie in short order. He had an idea of what was coming. There was too much talk among the guardsmyn of wanting to see Kynyr hung. When word reached him of Fianait's suicide, his gut instincts told the stable master that it boded ill for Kynyr. Malthus’ veiled threat to have Georgie flogged hovered over him as he rode. It was why he decided to go himself, rather than send someone else. If anyone got flogged for carrying word of Fianait's death to the Maguires, Georgie preferred that it be him rather than one of his myn.

Georgie eyed the front gate when he reached it. The simple slatwood gate would offer no resistance to a concerted attack upon it. It stood only four feet high and was easy to climb, meant only for keeping livestock in. There were two guards on the gate dressed in black and wearing tabards over it that bore a red wolf and a white swan separated by a chocolate brown bar sinister. They were neither lycan nor Waejontori.

"What do you want?” one of them shouted.

"I'm Georgie Rogan and I have news for Kady."

They opened the gate and Georgie rode in.

"Stick to the left side of the path."

Georgie wondered at that, but obeyed since there had to be a reason for it. When he rounded the bend in the path, and saw the abatis going up, he gained an inkling of why they had warned him.

"You're a canny old dog, Sinclair. You've trapped it, haven't you?"

Trevor stopped supervising the workmyn and strode to Georgie. “What's brought you?"

"Bad news, I fear."

"Claw?"

"Fianait. I'll only tell it once. Can you show me to Kady?"

A stableboy took charge of Georgie's mount, and Trevor led Georgie through the house to the Command Chamber. Kady sat at the head of the table with Todd at her right hand. Trevor turned a chair around beside his father, and straddled it.

"I can't stay long,” said George, slipping into a chair opposite Todd.

Todd gave him a long considering look. “Then what brought you?"

"Fianait is dead. They're saying it was suicide. That Brock coming home caused it."

"You don't believe it?"

"No.” Georgie averted his eyes, disturbed by Todd's gaze. “I knew Fianait for close on forty years. She was afraid of sharp objects. Yet they found her with a letter opener through her heart and her hands still on it."

Kady's breath caught in her throat. “They murdered her."

"That's my thought."

Todd gestured at Georgie with a bottle of whiskey and the stablemon nodded. Once he had a drink inside him and another in his hands, Georgie added onto his observations. “There are dark deeds happening at the manor. Remember that you can count on my myn and me. I just hope that we can count upon you, Todd."

"You can."

Malthus went to his study, took out the globes on the golden chain, and summoned a variety of objects from one of them. The next cards in his hand were best played quickly before Belgair could recover from the death of Fianait.

He picked out what he wanted, placed them in a satchel, and went to Sorcha's Solar to wait for Belgair.

The Captain of Claw's guardsmyn came in sullen faced and settled into his usual chair. He poured a whiskey and stared at the portrait of Fianait. “Suicide. I warned them. I warned them all. Claw drove her to it ... insisting on bringing Brock home."

Belgair sucked in a deep breath and consumed the contents of his glass in one swallow. He refilled it and knocked that one back too. A haunted light crept into his eyes, drinking and staring at the painting. “She was beautiful."

"I'm sorry this happened. She was so fragile."

"Bringing the arsehole back will destroy the family ... destroy the realm."

Malthus considered him. “The family is already in danger. The source of it is here, in the manor. I fear for Merissa's life."

Belgair leaned forward with his fourth drink in his hands. “What do you mean?"

"I'm surprised you don't already know about it."

"What?"

"Some of the servants have warned me. Erskine Faraday and Finn MacIver are planning on killing Merissa before she can give birth. They want Kynyr on the throne."

Belgair's face reddened with fury. “Claw..."

"Claw has been taken in by them. We must act to protect the family."

"That would mean disobeying Claw."

"We must take control of the manor away from him for his own good. We must protect my wife."

"Do you know who all is part of this plot?"

"I have a list."

"Give it to me."

Malthus reached into the satchel and gave the list to Belgair.

Belgair read it and counted the names. “Eighty-five myn. Nearly a quarter of my guardsmyn, counting the new ones and the Bridge Watchers. Treachery is all around me."

"Frightening.” Malthus drank his first glass of whiskey and refilled it, sipping slowly. “You must do something."

"I will."

"Tonight. Don't give them time to make the first move."

Belgair nodded, his eyes going distant. “They'll all be dead by morning ... or locked into cells ... to be hanged tomorrow."

"Then you'll also need some presents. As a kandoyarin I have been up and down the west coast. I acquired many interesting things in my travels."

Malthus laid out the rest of the things he had in his satchel.

Belgair's eyes lit upon a long thin dagger with strange runes on the blade, the crosspiece, and the hilt. “Runed silver."

"I acquired that in Ildyrsetts. They have a large mage community there."

"Those are sa'necari runes. I've never seen them on a silver blade before."

"I've been told that those runes are potent enough to kill a yuwenghau. I have no idea if that's true or not, but I suspect it might be."

"Impressive.” Belgair's expression became one of lust as he picked it up and turned it in his hand.

"It's yours if you want it."

"I do."

Belgair paced back and forth in his rooms. He had informed his most trusted myn of his plans and they in turn had set the final preparations into motion. He went to the common room above the barracks where his soldiers stayed.

He found Finn playing poker with Erskine, Vayle, and Morcar. “You're getting in my way, Finn. I want you out of the manor, now. Get your things and get out."

Finn's lips tightened. “Is that your order? Or Claw's?"

"I said, get out."

Finn felt edgy and angry. Ever since seeing Fianait with the letter opener in her chest, he had wanted to hit something. “Let's go talk to Claw or Aisha."

"I said, get out."

Finn's head tilted slightly with an exasperated exhalation, his eyes went steely. “Make me."

Finn had been studying Belgair's moves for three years. The wolf would either grapple or go from his blades.

His companions shared glances and pushed back from the table.

Belgair slammed Finn in the chest hard enough to topple Finn's chair. Finn spilled onto the floor. Belgair overturned the table and sprang at him. Finn brought his knees up and drove his feet into Belgair's stomach, knocking the Captain to the side before the pounce could land.

Finn changed as Belgair regained his feet. Belgair charged in determined to bull right over Finn with his greater size and weight. Finn sidestepped and stomped Belgair behind the knee, driving him to the floor. The younger wolf's elbow crashed into Belgair's neck and followed through with a hammer punch to the side of Belgair's head.

Belgair roared, changed, and lunged to his feet. He came up with the table and broke it across Finn, staggering him. “I'm gonna kill you, Finn. You hear me? I'm gonna kill you."

Finn straightened and saw that the side of Belgair's face was bleeding. “Try it."

Belgair circled Finn, looking for an opening.

Finn brought his hands up to guard and opened his awareness as Todd had taught him, going still and quiet inside, sliding from rage and grief into absolute clarity.

Belgair grabbed Finn's arm, his claws digging in as he tried to drag Finn close. Finn counter-grabbed with a twist and stepped into Belgair, jerking the larger wolf off balance. He hit Belgair twice in the stomach. Belgair grunted a curse, came free of Finn, and managed to strike him in the face hard.

Finn caught Belgair's wrist instinctively, whipped around, and twisted it up behind Belgair's back. He grasped the shoulder of Belgair's tunic and ran him into the wall. Belgair thrashed but could not get loose. Finn shifted his hold from Belgair's tunic, to the hair at the back of his head and began pounding Belgair's face against the wainscoting. “You bastard! You treated her like shit and now she's dead."

Every few words, Finn drove Belgair's face into the wall. The crunch of bone brought an ugly smile to Finn's lips. “Bastard! God fucking bastard."

Erskine and Vayle grabbed Finn and dragged him off Belgair. The captain slid down into a limp heap on the floor.

"That's enough, Finn. You're going to kill him,” Erskine shouted.

Finn shook them loose, and stalked toward the door.

Belgair got to his feet, pointed at Finn and shouted to all the guards in the room, “Arrest Finn MacIver."

Erskine and Vayle backed toward the door. “Run, Finn!"

Finn bolted through the door, dodging guardsmyn who came after him. Violence erupted all around him. He heard Belgair ordering more myn arrested, naming all those who were considered friends of Kynyr and himself.

He dodged down the corridor that led to the family section of the manor. In the narrow corridor ahead of him, Kissie and Isbeth emerged from one of the drawing rooms. Isbeth had her infant cradled in her arms, cooing at him.

"Get out of the way,” Finn shouted.

Instead of moving as he had hoped, they froze in the hallway. He slowed, half-skidding, as he tried to avoid crashing into them. A hard blow smashed into his head from behind.

Finn went down hard and lay unmoving.

Erskine realized he had been betrayed. The handful of myn in the room, who had been part of his plan to protect Claw and see Kynyr on the throne according to Claw's wishes, were cut down by Belgair's myn before they could even draw steel. His eyes went wide. He shoved Vayle through the door and Robert after him. “Run!"

Erskine reached for his sword as he started to follow his friends.

Gorgarty Burr hit Erskine in the back, sending him into the wall, and then pounced upon him, punching and kicking. The big, ham-fisted guardsmon grabbed Erskine's wrist and snapped it. The sword dropped from Erskine's numbed fingers.

He tried to twist around, but two more guardsmyn seized his arms. Gorgarty stepped aside, and they jerked Erskine backwards. Despite the pounding that Gorgarty had given him, Erskine struggled in their grasp.

They spellcorded his wrists, and bound them together.

Belgair and Gorgarty regarded him with contempt. Belgair spit in his face. “You're the ringleader."

"I'm loyal to Claw."

"He's a doddering old fool.” Belgair gestured at Erskine. “Strip him to the waist."

The fighting in the common room had died down even as it erupted elsewhere.

Gorgarty removed Erskine's weapons belt and tossed it aside. He drew his knife and sliced Erskine's tunic open. The burnished kendaryl corselet glittered in the torchlight. Gorgarty licked his lips. “Nice. Too bad it won't fit me."

At a nod from Belgair, two guardsmyn cut the lacings and jerked the armor and padding beneath it off Erskine, leaving him bare to the waist. Erskine knew he was about to die; and prayed they made a quick death.

Belgair gave Gorgarty a tiny nod. “Do him and let's get after the rest of them."

Gorgarty Burr grinned. “Now who's stupid?"

"You'll always be stupid,” Erskine snarled.

"Hold him steady.” Gorgarty sliced the top of Erskine's pants open, pulled them down around his loins.

Belly wound. Gods, no.

Lennox stepped inside, his head tilted in speculation with an ugly turn to his mouth.

"Did you get Finn?” Belgair asked.

Lennox nodded. “In the back."

Gorgarty chuckled. “Erskine gets it in the front."

"Stupid bastards. Traitorous shite.” Erskine growled. “Todd'll get you."

Gorgarty grinned and brought his knife level with Erskine's belly. “Eager for it, ain't he?"

"Get it done, Gorgarty.” Belgair gestured impatiently.

Erskine shuddered, his back arching briefly as he stiffened when Gorgarty slammed the blade into him two inches above his loins. Gorgarty twisted the blade back and forth as he worked it upward, laughing at the way that Erskine jerked and screamed. Gorgarty sliced his way up to Erskine's navel and then across. He yanked the knife out, reached into the wound, and completed the evisceration. Faraday's eyes bulged and then fluttered closed. He sagged in their grasp.

"Dump him in the midden,” said Belgair. “That's where we'll throw all of them."

Malthus came down the hallway with six soldiers. Belgair had sent them to him when the violence first erupted. Three myn carried loaded crossbows. As they turned a corner, Malthus saw Vayle and Robert.

He gestured at the guardsmon beside him. “Give me that. You'll never hit him at this angle."

The guardsmon gave him the crossbow.

Malthus aimed and squeezed the trigger. He cursed under his breath as Vayle staggered. The shot had gone high, striking Vayle in the shoulder instead of the chest. Malthus snatched another bolt from the mon at his side and reloaded. He sighted the bow, intending to put the next shot into Vayle's belly, and then reconsidered, lowering the bow. If they took him alive, Vayle would still hang tomorrow; and in the meantime Malthus could add to his own reputation as a just mon.

A bolt from the guardsmon beside Malthus caught Vayle in the thigh and he went down hard.

"That's enough, we have him.” Malthus strode forward.

Robert looked back and then fled.

Malthus and his myn stood surrounded Vayle.

The downed guardsmon, his back propped against the wall, glared up at them. “Traitors."

"Speak for yourself, Vayle Stewart.” A guardsmon pointed his crossbow at Vayle's belly and pulled the trigger.

Malthus saw the movement and knocked the bow aside, sending the bolt smashing against the wall instead of deep into Vayle's flesh. “Belgair wants to hang him tomorrow. Let's get after Robert."

At Malthus’ gesture, the mon who had surrendered the crossbow to him, passed the quiver over also. Malthus shouldered the quiver and jogged after Robert. Belgair had guards posted at every exit from the manor. Robert would not get away from them.

Robert Morcar ran hard. His short stout legs were not as long as Vayle's, but he picked them up and put them down faster. The hallway was clear. The guardsmyn there had all gone after Finn. He said a silent prayer that Finn escaped. A corridor opened to his right as they reached the family section of the manor, and a quick glance showed Malthus and six guardsmyn heading their way. Three of them carried crossbows.

"Tala help us,” he muttered, running on.

He heard Vayle cry out and looked back. His friend sagged against the wall on his knees, a bolt lodged in his shoulder and another in his thigh. He saw Malthus reloading his bow, and knew who had shot Vayle.

He started back for Vayle, but his friend shook his head. “Forget me. Run."

Robert backed away, spun on his heels, and headed for the main corridor into the family section, arriving in time to see two myn dragging Finn away with the back of his head bloodied. Desperation gave way to despair as four myn turned away from Finn and moved to block Robert's path. He could hear Malthus and the others approaching. He unlimbered his sword, deciding to sell his life dear, expecting at any moment to feel a bolt in his belly.

The Blue Room lay four doors down from where Robert entered the corridor. He could see Claw staring out the door at them with a stunned expression on his face.

Robert had been training with Todd for a few months, just since Kynyr was ambushed late last summer. He was not as good as Kynyr and Finn had been, but he had improved. He tangled the sword of the first mon to reach him, whipped back, and slashed the mon's throat.

Malthus frowned, lowered one hand until it was hidden by cloak, and gestured, tossing a minor death web at Robert.

Pain ripped through Robert and he collapsed writhing on the floor. The guardsmyn gathered around him, took out their truncheons, and began to beat him.

Consciousness fled beneath the blows.

Claw sat before the fire in the blue room, watching the first flurries of snow. A thick white mist had risen off the rivers and filled the yard with a wall of frosty vapor through which he could just make out a few shapes. His head came up as he heard screams in the hallway. He rolled himself to the door and stared out in time to see Robert Morcar go down beneath a hail of blows. Malthus stood watching them beat Robert, arms folded, a considering look upon his face. Two guardsmyn bracketed Malthus, enjoying the beating.

"What the hell is going on?” Claw shouted.

Malthus glanced down the corridor and saw Claw in the doorway. He gestured at the myn beating Robert. “Put him in a cell. We'll hang him tomorrow."

He stalked past the myn dragging Robert out. Two guardsmyn walked at his heels.

"What is happening?” Claw demanded again.

Malthus grabbed the handles of Claw's wheel-chair and pushed him toward his suite. “You are going to your rooms and stay there."

"Finn..."

"Is dead. You rule in name only. For the good of the realm, Captain Belgair Doherty is in charge now."

"That's treason!"

The two guardsmyn shared an uneasy glance.

"You're old, Claw. Easily confused. We're doing this to protect you from yourself,” Malthus said in soothing tones. “Belgair is going to take good care of you. Once the traitors are caught, I'll send someone to let you out."

"You're the traitor,” Claw growled.

Malthus gave his companions a helpless look and tapped the side of his head. The guardsmyn responded with nods. They had all seen the childish tantrums that Claw had been throwing since his accident and other peculiar behaviors from the chieftain that lent weight to Malthus and Belgair's claims that he was no longer in his right mind.

"I've not lost my mind ... nor am I senile.

Malthus sighed, gestured for the guardsmyn to wait in the hallway, and shoved Claw's wheel-chair inside his chambers. He closed the outer door with his foot, and then pushed Claw into the bedroom beyond, dropping his pretense of concern once they were out of the earshot of the guardsmyn. “You should never have tried to put Kynyr on the throne."

"Bastard!” Claw snarled, whipped the chair about the moment that Malthus released the handles, and spit in his face. “Treacherous, gutter-fucking, bloody bastard. I should have killed you when you first came to Red Wolf."

Malthus wiped his face off with a corner of a handkerchief. “It's a bit too late for that now."

"Tala damn your soul."

Malthus shrugged. “Just do as you're told."

"Bastard."

"I'll be back later. We have unfinished business, Claw."

"I've no business with you."

"Death has a business appointment with you ... before morning."

The chieftain stared at the door long after Malthus had left. He felt worn and tired, wondering whether it would be Belgair or Malthus who came to kill him; whether it would be a pillow over his face or a blade through his chest. He wheeled across the room to a small desk where Aisha some times sat and made lists of what needed to be done.

He pulled it open and fumbled around for ink and paper. He needed to write it and put it somewhere that someone would find it ... the right person would find it, but not the wrong one.

Claw wrote the note.

Belgair and Malthus have informed me that I will be executed before morning.

Claw Redhand

"Now what to do with it?” Claw muttered, glancing around the room. Then he remembered the story of how Rory and Hamish were foraging for bottles and returnable containers the day that they were attacked by Rheu Lawson.

Claw hated wasting good whiskey, but there seemed no other option. He opened the bottle on his bed stand, and poured it into the chamber pot. The bottle was still wet inside. That would make the ink run.

Claw went to Aisha's dresser and looked through the things there. He found a box of some kind of scented powder and poured that inside the bottle to rob it of moisture. Then he stuffed the letter inside and corked the bottle. He wheeled to the window, got it open a crack, and threw the bottle as far as he could into the garden. He followed that with a prayer that one of the cubs would find it.

"What are you doing at the window?” One of the guardsmyn walked in and the other followed.

"Looking out, you bloody arse."

They exchanged glances and one grabbed the back of the wheel-chair, shoving it up next to the bed.

"I'm sorry. This is for your own safety."

The other one jerked Claw from the chair and rolled him onto the bed before the chieftain could even try to stop him. Then they left with his chair, leaving Claw effectively imprisoned.

He cursed his useless legs and wept.

Georgie Rogan sat by the fire in his hearth with a cup of hot mulled wine, staring at the white wall of mist through the window. He had expected it to burn off by midday, but instead it had grown thicker. The sound of claws scratching at the door preceded Bodkin's plaintive yowl. He set his wine on the end table and let his cat inside.

"Bout time you got back. It's nasty out."

Bodkin walked circles around him, yowling and hissing.

Georgie frowned. “Give me a moment.” He slipped into his coat and threw a heavy cloak on over that.

The cat darted out ahead of him; stopping whenever it looked like Georgie was not keeping up. It would be too easy to lose the cat in the mist.

Bodkin led him to the trash and Georgie was about to get skeptical, when he heard the groaning of a mon in pain. He followed the sounds and found Erskine laying amid the trash and discards, stripped to the waist, his stomach opened and his guts hanging out. The sight nauseated Georgie. Outrage steadied him, and he dropped to his knees beside Erskine.

"Who did this?"

"Belgair ... purging guards ... he ordered it ... Gorgarty did me."

Georgie took his cloak off and covered Erskine. “Hold on. I'll fetch a horse."

"More than me ... out here."

"Several horses then.” Georgie tried to stay calm. Belgair was an idiot, murdering the best myn that Claw had.

"Tell Todd ... they got Finn ... in the back."

Last night had been Dark of the Moon, an inauspicious time, and Claw always increased the number of guards on duty for those three moonless days. Willy Galloway had had the midnight to morning shift and followed that with his regular errands. By early afternoon he was in need of sleep. He hung his sword belt on the weapons rack, his blade dangling in its sheath, and stripped off his shirt and tunic, tossing them onto a chair.

He sat down on the edge of his bed and pulled his boots off, tossed them into a corner and sent his socks after them.

The door opened. Willy assumed that it was Vayle and did not look up; instead he leaned forward and rubbed his toes. “I thought you'd be playing cards."

"Stand up, Galloway."

Willy started at the sound of Lennox's coarse voice. He glanced and saw Lennox standing there with two others, that might have been Derek and Eamon, Willy had not bothered to learn all of the new myn's names.

The three myn had their swords out and the blades had blood on them.

"What the hell?” Willy lunged for his sword.

Before he could reach it, Lennox slashed his chest. Willy threw himself backwards, rolled across the bed, and dropped onto the floor on the far side.

Derek reached him as Willy gained his feet, and slashed his left arm open from shoulder to elbow.

Eamon's sword point caught Willy just beneath the ribs and gashed his left side open.

Willy spun about with the energy of adrenaline, and plunged through the window, leaping for the trees with the last of his strength. Glass splintered around him. A sharp pain in his thigh erupted as a thrown blade lodged deep in his flesh. He caught at the evergreen tree that he landed in and went down it as well as he could, shivering in the chill night air.

Willy dragged his wounded leg as he shambled toward the stables, leaving a trail of blood across the fresh snow. He had to get mounted and alert Todd. His mind framed a single word and he knew then what was happening. “Purge."

His strength had begun to fail as he slipped into the stall of his horse.

Willy grabbed the bridle and managed to get the bit into the horse's mouth one handed. A wave of dizziness swept him. He nearly lost his grip as he tried to get the headstrap in place.

"Let me help."

Georgie Rogan had his cat under one arm. He set Bodkin down, and got the bridle settled properly. Then he saddled the horse and helped Willy into it. “It's a purge, Willy. They're throwing the dead and wounded on the trash heap. They gutted Erskine. I've been told that Finn MacIver is dead. He got it in the back."

"Damn them all. I'll tell Todd."

Willy trotted his horse out of the stable and then urged him into a gallop. His eyes flicked to the blade still protruding from his leg, afraid to pull it out lest the bleeding worsen. Time seemed odd to his perceptions. The Maguire place was only a short distance from the manor; the ride seemed to take forever. Willy's consciousness began to gray out. He slumped forward and to the side, his shoulder resting against the horse's neck. Awareness faded still more and Willy had no memory of reaching the front gates. When his head cleared, he found himself laying on the ground with two of Kady's guardsmyn looking down at him. Someone had placed a folded cloak beneath his head and thrown another one over him. He shivered in the snowy cold.

"Todd ... tell Todd. Purge."

Two myn set a litter down beside him and lifted him onto it. Sha took his wrist, Reading him swiftly. She tucked blankets around him, and then ran along behind the litter as they carried him to the house.

Sha's infirmary had seventeen beds with folding screens that could be extended between them. They laid Willy in the last bed so that if more wounded arrived, they would not disturb him. Sha's assistants went about their tasks with efficiency, getting soap, water, and astringents together as well as laying out bandages.

"Tell ... tell Todd.” Willy moaned as Qaseem began washing the blood off and cleaning his wounds. His vision had narrowed until all he could see was Sha. At her nod, a mon went running for Todd. She gripped Willy's wrist and Read him again before doing anything else. “Internal bleeding. Level one blood loss. Fast approaching level two. Someone find Cahira quick or we're going to lose him."

Willy grabbed Sha's arm, his eyes pleading. “Todd ... get Todd."

She disengaged his hand and patted it. “He's coming.” She glanced, saw the big mon striding down the row of beds and corrected herself. “He's here."

Todd radiated serenity and iron determination, his presence filling the room. Darcy trotted beside him, a flush of anger coloring her face. “Why would anyone want to hurt Willy?"

"Hush. We'll know soon."

Willy gazed at them, his eyes lit by desperation as he reached out to Todd. “Belgair ... purging the guards ... throwing the bodies ... on the ... midden."

Todd grasped Willy's hand and squeezed it. “We'll take care of it."

Darcy's brow furrowed. “Where's Finn?"

"Dead.” Willy struggled for breath. “Georgie said ... Finn dead ... got it in the back. Erskine dead too."

"That's enough talk.” Sha prepared a syringe. “He's told you all he can. I need to put him back together."

Cahira came in wearing her dayrobe. “What can I do?"

"Stop the bleeding. The blade in his thigh is pressing an artery. The minute I pull it, the artery is going to open up. He's losing a lot of blood as it is."

Todd gestured for Darcy to leave with him and headed for Kady's Command Chamber, giving orders as he passed people.

Striding along beside him, Darcy's eyes flashed with fire. “I'll kill Belgair for that. I'll kill him."

"Hush, Darcy."

She looked for an instant as if he had slapped her, and then she quieted. “Finn and I ... we were going to be married. We hadn't announced it yet."

"I'm sorry. But you cannot go off like a misfired crossbow. We'll raid the manor my way and free any of them that survive. We'll also retrieve the bodies for burial."

Rory Scott rested on his knees in a chair, studying the maps on the long table in the Command Chamber. He had been sneaking in there every night for the past week, trying to figure out what was going on. The odd symbols on the map confused him and he had yet to decipher them. He missed Cooley, and hoped that his friend was safe. Cooley could read maps and would have explained it all to him if he had been there.

He heard a hand on the knob and ran over to the large desk in the north corner, crawled under it and hunkered down, hoping that no one would see him.

Todd and Darcy came in followed by the two cats, Tandu and Damayanti. He scooped up Tandu. “You and Damayanti scout the place?"

Tandu leaped from Todd's arms and ran out followed by the tiger-striped queen. Rory crouched as far down and back as he could manage and still see what was going on. Those were some very strange cats.

"Trevor, you'll remain here to defend the mansion.” Todd clicked off orders as if he were directing a Jarienday romp. “StealsThunder, Darcy, get your units together."

Darcy started off, and Todd gestured for her to wait a moment.

"Darcy, send someone to Hell's Widow and have your cousin bring his army to the estate. Use the hidden bridge."

"Will do."

Kady came in, grim-faced and rubbing at her eyes. “What happened?"

Todd studied her before answering. She had proved stronger than he expected, but now Kady had a crippled husband and a cub on the way. “Purge. Belgair is murdering all the myn that supported Kynyr. Willy says that Finn and Erskine are dead."

Kady stiffened, closed her eyes, and sucked in a series of deep breaths. The steel in her nerves came to the fore. “Do what you will, Todd. I told Belgair that if he messed with me, I would hang him. If he can be taken alive, I intend to put the noose around his neck with my own hands. I'll be here in the Command Chamber if you need me."

Her ankles tended to swell when she was on her feet too much, so she propped them upon an adjacent chair and folded her hands across her belly, taking comfort in the child she carried and wondering how to break the news to Kynyr that his spiritbrother was dead. Counting the Fae, she had only seventy-seven myn to Belgair's estimated three hundred fifty, counting the Bridge Watchers. It would take a miracle to save them if Belgair turned his forces loose upon them once he had massacred her friends in the manor. However, if anyone could turn this into a victory, it would be Todd and she had to put all her faith in him.

"We need to send someone to alert Dyna and Pandeena and spread the word about what's happening,” Kady suggested. “Someone who can get to Wolffgard without being seen or caught by Belgair's forces in case he's watching for us to try that."

A noise from beneath the desk drew Trevor from his seat. He walked over to it and squatted down, finding himself nose to nose with Rory Scott. “I know just who to send. The village sneak here is the best one for the job."

He grabbed Rory by the collar and dragged him out.

Rory gave them his best uncertain but game smile. “I ... uhm ... just wanted to help."

Aisha heard someone cry out. She set her knitting aside, and went to the door of the Rose Room. A guardsmon staggered toward her, his hand on the wall to keep from falling. Bloodstains spread from a wound in his chest and another in his side. He saw her and stretched out his hand.

"Flee, Aisha. Belgair ... purging the ... guard."

A scream welled in Aisha's throat as she recognized the bloody, battered mon. “Lon!"

He grimaced, leaning his shoulder against the wall in an attempt to remain upright. “Coup. Going to ... murder Claw."

She knelt beside him, looking into his pain-glazed eyes, scanning the wounds in his body. “I'm too old to run."

"If not ... for yourself ... then Kynyr. Warn him.” A fit of coughing took Lon and a bloody froth ran from the corners of his mouth. “I ... walked right ... into it. Caught them ... dragging Faraday's body out."

Belgair rounded the corner with four myn behind him. “There he is."

At his gesture, two myn seized Aisha and pulled her to her feet. Belgair and the others shoved their blades into Lon, gave them vicious twists, and jerked them out.

Lon Anglesey's eyes bulged; he shuddered, and fell to the floor unmoving.

"You bastards,” Aisha shrieked, struggling in the grasp of the myn holding her arms. “You killed him!"

"He had it coming.” Belgair pointed at Aisha. “Put her in with Merissa. See that she stays there."

Aisha pulled at her arms in a vain effort to free herself from the two guardsmyn holding her as they forced her along the hallway. “Let go of me."

"When the killing's done."

They propelled her into Merissa's suite and thrust her inside.

Lennox sauntered down the hallway and paused beside his myn. “Belgair wants you all in one suite where you can be protected."

"I want Finn. Send him to me."

Lennox shook his head. “That's not possible."

"What do you mean?” Aisha felt a cold chill sweep over her body.

"He's dead.” Lennox gave her a contemptuous smile. “Executed for treason."

"Treason?"

Lennox closed the door and secured it.

Darmyk climbed into his grandmother's lap, red-eyed from weeping. “I want my cat. I want Kerry. They wouldn't let me look for him."

Aisha hugged him. “I'm sure he's safe. Cats are clever things."

Her thoughts returned to Lon's final words: going to kill Claw.

Aisha began to pray silently in her mind. All the deaths made sense now, as well as the attempted murder of Kynyr. Malthus and Belgair had done it.

Sheradyn cocked his head to the side, listening. “I think I heard screams."

Gillivray, who had been preparing for bed and a round of playful sex with Sheradyn, threw a robe on over his nudity and walked to the door.

Gillivray flinched in startlement to find a guardsmon standing just outside. The guardsmon, whom Gillivray did not recognize, turned and pointed for him to go back inside.

"You're not allowed out. Stay in your quarters until Belgair says otherwise."

Gillivray frowned deeply and tried to reason with the guardsmon. “But I hear screaming. Someone is hurt."

The guardsmon chuckled. “Lots of someones are dying. Traitors like Finn MacIver and Erskine Faraday. Your skills aren't needed there."

Gillivray's eyes saucered in shock as the door was slammed in his face.

He walked to the couch like a somnambulant, and dropped onto it. Sheradyn joined him there and the two lovers clung to each other in fear and distress.

Finn regained consciousness as Gorgarty and Eamon—one of Belgair's recent hires—dragged him into a cell. They had spellcorded him to prevent Finn from shape shifting, and he had shackles on his ankles and wrists. Belgair followed with two others. The table of implements had been set up. Finn had seen Belgair's work many times over the years, and he knew what was coming.

They fastened Finn's shackled ankles to hooks in the floor and secured his wrist shackles to a hook attached to a chain that ran over a frame on the ceiling. Belgair turned the wheel, pulling Finn upward until his shoulders dislocated.

Finn screamed.

Malthus’ lips twisted into a tiny smirk. “Nice sound he makes."

"He'll make nicer,” replied Belgair. “I just wish it were Kynyr."

Once they had him stretched out as far as they could without tearing him apart, Belgair took a silver-spiked whip and circled him.

Damien Kildare sauntered in, eyed Finn with a critical expression. He had served for years as Belgair's favorite chastisemon and executioner. Belgair had discovered the guardsmon's talents in the aftermath of defeating the outlaws raiding around Chandler's Rock. “Think you got him tight enough?"

"Yeah.” Belgair tossed the whip to Damien. “Give him the usual. Don't slip him the blade before midnight. I'll know by then whether I need a hostage or not."

"Any special way you want me to do him? Throat, kidneys, heart, belly?"

"Your choice."

Damien laid Finn's back open with the lash, applying it in a precise pattern, left and then right, while Belgair and Malthus watched.

Finn sucked in a breath, trying to breathe the pain away as Todd had once told him could be done, fighting to hold back a scream.

Belgair folded his arms and leaned his shoulders against a wall. “Tomorrow we hang Maguire and his slut."

Realization came to Finn. “You poisoned Kynyr."

Belgair shared a smile with Malthus. “That's what folks do with vermin. We poison them."

"You crippled him."

"Shut up, MacIver.” Damien laid more of Finn's back open.

Belgair shrugged. “He was supposed to die."

"Bloody bastards,” Finn groaned.

"Matter of opinion.” Belgair picked up a mace, shifted into hybrid form, and smashed Finn's right leg a few inches above the knee.

A jagged bone broke through the skin. Blood streamed down Finn's leg.

Finn writhed and screamed.

"That's just a taste of what you've got coming.” Belgair listened to him, laughing at Finn's noises. He gestured with the mace at Damien before laying it back on the table. “When you get bored with the whip, bust up his arms and legs good. Make him hurt, Damien."

"Be glad to.” Damien grinned broadly.

Belgair turned and strode out with Malthus. “I need to check on my little war."

Vayle tried not to cry out when they fastened the wrist shackles to the hook on the ceiling chain, secured his ankles to the hooks on the floor, and began to winch him tight. The pain in his wounded shoulder became a sharpened agony as they pulled him taut. Mortimer Romney, one of Belgair's newest recruits, turned the wheel, watching Vayle's expression with harsh amusement.

"What do you think, Gorgarty? Tighter?"

Gorgarty grinned at Vayle, gloating and malevolent. He drew back and punched Vayle in the stomach. Vayle gasped and jerked. Gorgarty shook his head. “Tighter."

Vayle could hear Finn screaming and could not stifle the images in his mind of what Damien must be doing to him.

Mortimer gave the wheel another turn.

Vayle groaned as the pressure and pull built on his wounded shoulder and leg.

"Give him another one,” said Gorgarty.

Mortimer shook his head. “Any more and I'll pull his fecking arms from the sockets."

"So?"

"That's Damien's decision. Not ours."

Gorgarty spit. “You're a wuss, Mort. A wet-tailed wuss."

"I follow orders."

Robert's screams blended with Finn's, and Vayle's stomach soured. “Todd will come for us."

"Nah. Todd ain't gonna know. None of you got away.” Gorgarty sneered at Vayle.

"You're a traitor, Gorgarty. A big fat stupid one."

Gorgarty hit him. “You're the one who's stupid. Damien's gonna slip Finn the blade round midnight. But we're going to hang you."

Mortimer shook his head, determined not to get into a quarrel with the big mon. “I'm out of here. I've done my job.” And then he left.

Vayle had always been a cautious mon, but caution no longer mattered. He was going to die. He did not rail against death, he accepted it and in so doing the rage that he had repressed for much of his life came boiling out of him. All he wanted to do was find a way to hurt Gorgarty. “Not even the whores would have you."

Gorgarty stopped and stared at him. “You don't know what you're saying, stupid mon."

"You had to rape them. Kady and Betrys and the rest of them. Rape because no bitch would have you."

Gorgarty hit him again; and Vayle locked his jaw, determined not to cry out. Then Gorgarty punched him in the wounded shoulder and he screamed in spite of himself.

"Stupid bastard.” Vayle flinched and jerked beneath the pounding from Gorgarty. Go on, kill me. I don't want to hang.

The cell door swung open and Damien stood there with the light turning his form to a dark and featureless shape limned in orange. He had a sliver-spiked whip in his hands still wet with Finn's blood. “Get the hell out of here, Gorgarty."

"I just wanted the cock-gobbler to get his deserts."

Damien moved deeper into the room, glaring at Gorgarty. “That's my job. Not yours. Get out. Belgair needs you upstairs."

Gorgarty stomped out in a sulk.

Damien noticed the way that Vayle stared at the whip. “If you're wondering whether it's Finn's blood or not ... it is. Orders are I make you hurt and then Robert. Tomorrow you all hang. Except for Finn because he pounded Belgair ... and Robert because he killed Harald when they took him. I'm to slip them the blade in a few hours."

Vayle said nothing. The beating started. Damien kept talking as he administered it, enjoying himself. Gradually, Vayle could no longer understand what Damien was saying. His awareness slewed sidewise and then vanished into the darkness.

Erskine lay upon the midden heap amongst the trash and discards, shivering from the cold, and shuddering from the pain of his wound. He was dying slowly, inch by inch. He had lost count of the bodies tossed upon the heap around him. They were all myn he had known for years. His failure to anticipate Belgair's move hurt as much as his body. A small flurry of snowflakes drifted across Erskine's face. He shivered beneath Georgie's cloak, wondering why it was taking so long for the stablemon to return.

A tiger-striped cat came and stared at him. He thought for an instant that he had lost his mind as the cat changed and sat cross-legged. “What happened?” the cat asked him. “I was off hunting and came back to this."

"Purge. Belgair...” Erskine grimaced and swallowed. “Belgair kills ... the prince's myn."

Kerry shook his head, feline eyes troubled. “We can't have that."

The sound of guards approaching sent Kerry shifting form again. He had not brought his clothing or weapons, so he had no choice but to go tiger.

The two lycans carrying a mon between them stopped and stared at the five hundred pound tiger. The Shivari tiger-form was larger than that of the rakshashas and far more formidable. Kerry hunkered, his tail lashing back and forth.

They dropped the mon, shifted to their hybrid form, and reached for their weapons, only to stagger and fall to their knees.

Tandu and Damayanti crouched over them, eating chunks of their flesh.

"I am glad you have arrived,” said Kerry.

"I hope you're friends.” Georgie Rogan stepped from behind a stand of evergreens with six lycans—grooms and herdsmyn. He carried an armload of blankets, while his companions held the leads of Claw's best horses.

Kerry shifted to mon form and tilted his head speculatively. “It depends. Whose side are you on?"

"The prince's."

"Then we're allies."

"That's good to know.” Georgie knelt beside the unmoving body that the slain guardsmyn had dropped, turning it over and cursed a blue streak. “Lon Anglesey. One of the gate watchers. He was a peaceable mon."

"Get them to the Maguire place. I need to get back inside and see what I can do there."

"That was our intention."

Kerry headed for the one place he knew he would find an unlocked window. Darmyk always left his window open for Kerry to come and go, never dreaming that his cat was more than a simple cat.

Georgie and his companions began tying the dead, the dying, and the wounded to the saddles wrapped in horse blankets. One would mount and another would tie the leads to the saddle so they were stretched out like a string and head off to the mansion.

Malthus had spent most of the evening playing the voice of reason to the six soldiers assigned to him by Belgair, making captures more often than kills. Most of the nearly thirty myn in the dungeons waiting to be hung the next day were alive because of him. It cost him nothing to see that they lived for a few hours more; and his actions had won him both respect and a reputation for justice. When he excused himself from the endeavor, they accepted it with regret and promised to hold to the example he had set them.

Belgair had played into his hands.

From the look of it, the fighting would continue long into the night. Malthus bided his time for an hour, and then decided that it was time to relieve Claw of his life. This was the only part of his plans that Malthus did not dare to allow Belgair to discover. For all of Belgair's darker inclinations, the captain would never countenance regicide.

He considered several plausible excuses for dismissing the guards at Claw's door, and then saw that he had no need of them. Claw's wheel-chair stood empty in the hallway and the guards had gone. “They must have resented being left out of the fighting."

Malthus walked into Claw's bedroom.

The chieftain lay nude to the waist, a quilted coverlet drawn to the base of his hairy chest. Illness had stolen the color from his cheeks and lips, leaving his face looking washed out and pale, which contrasted against his salt and pepper hair.

Claw's eyes opened when he heard the door. “I've been expecting you."

Malthus settled in the chair. “Then you know why I'm here."

"To kill me.” Claw pushed himself into a sitting position, cursing his useless legs and struggling to shift to his hybrid form.

"Exactly.” Malthus’ hands shot out. He touched Claw's throat with one hand, muting his voice, and pressed the other over his heart. Malthus tore the strength from Claw's body, followed that with a sharp thrust of death magic into the aged wolf's heart, and took the fight out of the chieftain in a swift, decisive manner.

Claw stiffened in shock. His shoulders rocked, dipping forward ready to collapse. Claw's chin sank to his chest. His lips struggled to form words. “Gods ... damn you."

"I've anticipated this for months.” Malthus’ pleasant tone made it all the more chilling. He rested his fingertips in the middle of Claw's chest, laid his cheek on the top of the chieftain's gray head, and inhaled the aroma of his suffering.

Another thrust and Claw sagged forward over Malthus’ hands. His eyes went wide, and then narrowed as his knitting brows came together. He groaned in pain. “Sa'necari ... bloody ... goat-licking sahh—"

Malthus hammered Claw in the chest with power.

"Saaah ... ne—ohhh gaaahhhds ... gaaaahhds.” He writhed, unable to call for help. He forced his hand to the nightstand, walking his fingers toward the bell.

"Naughty, naughty.” Malthus sneered, his tone playfully venomous. “Not that anyone will answer with the fighting still going on."

He moved the bell beyond Claw's reach, tapped the middle of the chieftain's chest with one forefinger, devitalizing him more deeply, sucking the delicious essence of Claw's life force out.

"Gahhds.” Claw's shoulders hunched. He shuddered. His hand fell away from the nightstand and lay twitching on the edge of the bed. Claw snarled at Malthus, showing his teeth.

"I'm the Butchering Serpent.” Malthus calculated and administered three small stabs into Claw's heart. “My grandfather was Carneades Iagaris."

The old wolf howled in pain behind the muting spell. “My sons ... my sisters ... you murdering ... cockwhore."

"They begged for their lives. Searlait was easy. Fianait...” Malthus shrugged. “The letter opener wasn't sharp. I had to force it all the way in. It was tedious ... the way she wept and begged ... even after I had it part way into her."

"Bas ... tard.” Claw gasped for breath. “Stop ... playing with me.” He hesitated, grimacing. “Get it ... over with."

"Patience. You're having a fatal heart attack.” Malthus tangled his hand in Claw's hair and brought his head up to look into the wolf's eyes as he hurt him. “We must do this right."

He plunged dark energies into Claw's chest and arms like a thousand tiny needles. Claw flinched and jerked convulsively, anguish glazing his eyes. Malthus relished the glassy brightness of Claw's orbs. Death had such a delectable quality to it, and lycans died the best of all, fighting it every inch of the way. Not since Caimbeul had Malthus been able to enjoy a kill to this extent. There would be no complications as there had been with Fianait.

"You never liked me. You thought I wasn't good enough for your daughter.” He sent a small lance of power in under Claw's breastbone.

The chieftain shuddered, and a suffering cry escaped him. “You aren't."

Malthus laughed softly, drinking the flavors of Claw's torment like fine wine that satisfied his necromantic hunger. “You started dying the day of the wedding. Remember that dizziness you felt after I gave you that new pipe and tobacco?"

Realization shone in Claw's eyes like burning coals on a hearth of rage, but the strength of his body already lay in ashes and he could not act upon it. “You ... you cursed it.” He panted with the effort to speak.

Malthus chuckled. “Smart wolf. I cursed your liquor also. You've been drinking your death for months. Calm yourself. Anger will merely hasten it."

A death scream crawled up Claw's throat, and was smothered by the spell. Pain squeezed moisture from his eyes and soon his entire face grew wet. “Damn you."

"I'm enjoying this.” Malthus leaned in and licked away the salty tears.

A death such as Claw's was a fine delicacy, richly flavored to the necromantic taste. Proper pacing released the fullness of the gustatory experience. Claw's anticipation, not knowing when or how intense the next torture would be, spiced the stew of suffering. Malthus chuckled again.

Hurt them a little or hurt them a lot, but never let them see it coming.

Malthus pushed Claw onto his back. He rested his finger lightly in the middle of Claw's hairy chest, with an impish smile on his lips, savoring the piquant seasoning of despair in the old wolf's anguish. Malthus pierced him again with another arcane blade of energy that left no stain or parting of the flesh.

"Bloooody ... gah—” Claw panted and gasped, his face gone as white as bleached muslin. His heart palpitated wildly, and his body twitched.

Malthus tapped Claw's bare chest. “It will end soon."

The Serpent's cock hardened in response to the fragrance of Claw's pain, which filled his senses with intense erotic pleasure. He thought of Merissa, imagined her delicious grief, and how it would feel to sink his cock into her while she wept for her father. “Belgair and the thanes are going to hang Kynyr and Kady."

Delivering another measured jab into Claw's body, Malthus Read him to estimate the pace of his dying. It proceeds nicely. I'll finish before anyone comes to check on him.

"Damn ... you.” Claw's tone was as lifeless as his body soon would be. “Murderer."

Malthus chuckled. “Don't fight me. It makes the pain worse."

Dark power lanced through Claw's chest. Malthus settled more comfortably in his chair, leaning forward with his hands busily stroking Claw's body from chest to stomach, inflicting intermittent stabs into Claw's heart, various organs, and muscles.

"Payback for Troyes, my brother whose heart you ate."

Claw's hand clutched at the blanket and the other slid from the bed, his knuckles striking the floor. He twitched violently. His chest heaved and fell, heaved and fell again and again as Malthus savaged him. A low canine whimpering betrayed the agony stripping away his warrior's pride. Malthus sensed Claw's awareness graying.

"Not yet. I don't want you fainting.” Malthus touched Claw's temples, insinuating a spell to control his consciousness. “I want you to feel all of it."

Malthus paused in his obscene stroking and pressed his palm hard over Claw's heart, focusing the pressure and constriction. “Besides, we're nearly done.” He tilted his head to the side with a little smile. “I'll rape Aisha ... then stick the blade in her."

The old wolf's eyes tightened shut and his head wagged back and forth listlessly. Cold sweat erupted over him and beaded on his face. “Aisha ... Aisha."

"You're fighting me,” Malthus chided, wagging an admonitory finger in Claw's face. “Calm yourself. I know it hurts, but you're only making it worse."

"Mur ... der ... er.” The chieftain struggled feebly, the jerks of his body grew fewer and fewer as his strength and his hold on life ebbed.

"Your brother will never get here alive. My myn have laid an ambush for him.” Malthus kissed Claw's forehead, cheeks, and lips in the farewell to the dead. “Just a little more and it's over."

He gave a final thrust into Claw's failing heart.

The old wolf stopped moving. His gaze went distant, as if he were sliding into some other place. “Aisha."

Claw's heart stilled.

Malthus exhaled heavily and licked his lips. “There, old wolf. It didn't take long."

He regarded Claw's staring eyes and parted lips from which breath no longer came. The bedding had gotten shoved down and tangled in a disturbing disarray. That won't do.

Malthus tidied the bed so it would look as if Claw had died peacefully in his sleep. He put one of Claw's arms under the blanket and left one atop it. Malthus tucked the blankets around him neatly, but not too neatly. He closed Claw's staring eyes. Studying his efforts once more, Malthus decided that Claw looked as if he had fallen asleep. Pressing two fingers to Claw's dead flesh, he Read the corpse and inspected the damage that had killed him. By taking his time and not rushing it, Malthus felt he had created another perfect work of art. No one would suspect this had not been a natural death.

I must describe the stages of his death to mother. She'll appreciate the nuances.

Zinzi crouched on a tree branch watching Malthus murder Claw. Her lips curled back from her fangs and her eyes glittered. “It's time for Lord Hoon to collect his packages."

"He certainly took his time about it."

Zinzi spun about at the sound of a voice behind her in the tree. “Ssssergei,” she hissed. “What are you doing here?"

The ugly vampire shrugged. “Running messages, as usual."

"That's a demeaning task for Hoon's first born."

Sergei shrugged again. “I like it."

Zinzi hated Sergei. Lord Hoon had thrown a party—Zinzi had not known he was a vampire then—and someone spiked her wine with undead blood. Sergei killed her at the party, and she rose three days later in Hoon's bedroom. She had never learned whose blood had been in her wine. Zinzi preferred to believe that it was Hoon's, but suspected that it had been Sergei's. Spiking the wine was an old trick for making forced conversions. Lord Hoon had once turned an entire noble family into animalistic lesser bloods—Ylesgaires—by spiking the wine at dinner, and then killing them. When the family rose, they ate everyone in their castle and a large percentage of the people in the surrounding city before they were located and staked. That had allowed Hoon to move in and take over the city during the War of the Three Queens.

Zinzi had used the trick a few times herself to convert males she fancied into Lemyari like herself. Sometimes it worked out well, and sometimes it did not.

"Get away from me, Sergei. I ought to rip your goat-fucking heart out."

Sergei laughed mockingly at her. “Five hundred years and you can't forget having my fangs in your throat?"

Zinzi shivered. She would never forget or forgive being beaten, raped, and drained by Sergei in the gardens of Hoon's castle. “I hate you."

"You should consider what I did a compliment. I don't normally like old women."

"Old? I was sixteen!"

"Old. I prefer them smooth loined. Preferably twelve or under. The hair around your cunt was scratchy. I can't imagine what possessed me to stick my cock into you. It was very unpleasant."

Zinzi's eyes filled with tears of rage. She wanted to fight him, but her duty lay with Hoon. “I hope Malthus kills you."

She jumped from the branch, shape-shifting into a large moonhawk, and flew away.

At twenty, Glorygirl was past her prime, but Rory and she were well acquainted. He knew better than to try and pull a Cooley by riding bareback. So Fychan got her saddled for him. Then Rory took off on her, heading for Wolffgard by the back roads. The darkness of the misty night, with only a sliver of new moon to light it, sent a thrill through Rory. Urgency gripped him in its fist and he rode the high of an adrenaline rush. Shapes and shadows seemed to jump out at him at every turn. His lycan eyes dealt better with the darkness than a human's would have. Leafless trees stretched their bony fingers as if to grasp him. His cub's imagination made monsters of everything he passed.

He reached Cahira's Potions and Notions, tied Glorygirl to a hitching rail in front of the shop and jumped off her. Snow had blown over the boardwalk and lodged against the shop. The lights were out, but Rory spotted one glowing candle on the second floor. He banged on the front door frantically.

"Open up! Open up!"

A lamp glow descended the stairs and emerged from the hallway into the shop. It illumined Artair's face as he approached the door, wearing a hastily thrown on night robe. What is it?” he asked sleepily."

He opened the door, and Rory darted inside. “Belgair is purging the guards. He killed Finn and Erskine. Willy's in bad shape."

"Finn ... Does Darcy know?” Artair snapped awake, dropping the bar across the door.

"Yeah. She was crying last time I saw her. Finn got it in the back is what they're saying."

"Zeist.” Artair's lips tightened and his insides churned at the thought of how Darcy must feel, how she must be grieving—although Darcy's grieving often took the form of chopping someone with an axe or stealing horses.

He headed for the stairs. “Stay here, Rory. I'll be right back."

Rory drifted over to the collection of weapons they had for sale. It had been a one time purchase. The knives and mace he had lusted after had been sold long ago.

Artair returned, buckling on a broad belt. He stuck a pair of hand axes in it and hung a sword at his shoulder. Betrys followed him with a mace clipped to her belt. She carried a small knife belt and two long fighting knives in tooled sheaths.

"We decided to give you your solstice gift early, Rory. You may need it.” Betrys extended the belt and knives to him.

Rory accepted them quietly. The night had filled him with strangely jumbled feelings. “Thank you."

"Rory, you wake Raonul up. Betrys will go to the Difficult Horse since it's close and I'll ride for Pandeena. Between us we'll rouse the town. I've a feeling that the volunteer militia will side with Kynyr. He's better liked than Malthus and Belgair."

"Why Betrys?"

"Because, if those cockwhores come into Wolffgard looking for Sinclairs, they will come here first and I don't want them to find her."

Finn MacIver lay naked in the straw on his side wedged against a corner of his cell, his knees and arms drawn up. The straw smelled of blood and urine. He had been fading in and out of consciousness since Damien dumped him there. The straw stuck to his wounds.

They had broken his arms, legs, and ribs; dislocated his hips and shoulders. His left eye was swollen closed, huge bruises covered him amid the burn scars from hot irons and long cuts from the spiked lashes with which he had been beaten. Blood had dried on his split lip and chin.

In his lucid moments, he had tried to pray and make peace with the knowledge that he was going to die there.

In those moments that his mind retreated from the anguish of his body and spirit, Finn slipped into an altered state, hallucinating that he was back again sitting in Marston Woods on a hot summer day, his bare feet dangling in the waters of Willow Creek, playing his fishing pole with a caterpillar speared on the end of the barb.

"What are you going to be when you grow up, Kynyr?"

"A soldier.” Kynyr had that pensive, brooding look in his eyes that he got sometimes.

"I thought you were just going to fish."

"Gram told me how my grandfather died last night. Duty is where you find it, Finn."

"I guess."

Damien Kildare sat in a straight-backed wooden chair beside the stairs. The guardsmon counted the candlemarks. Belgair had told him to wait until after midnight to finish his work. His orders were to dispatch Finn MacIver and Robert Morcar once the manor slept and no one would catch him at it. He applied a whetstone to his long knife, wanting it nice and sharp when he popped it into MacIver.

The tiger-striped cat that belonged to the little prince, Darmyk Redhand, padded down the stairs and sat looking at Damien. He wondered how the cat had gotten down there, and then wrote it off to the fact that cats were uncanny creatures. It had probably slipped inside without anyone noticing when they brought the last batch of prisoners in.

Damien wagged his fingers at it. “Nice cat. You're a big one."

The cat ignored him, licking its paws.

"Come here, puss. Come here. Damn, I've forgotten what the cub calls you."

Kerry leaped onto the table and stretched, batting at the keys hanging from a hook on the wall.

"Nah, stop that.” Damien grabbed at Kerry and the cat eluded his grasp, moving to sit across the corridor from him. “Come here."

After several tries to coax the creature to him, Damien gave up and decided it was time to slip MacIver the blade. Traitors like MacIver got what they deserved. Damien was loyal to Belgair, and Belgair was loyal to Claw. MacIver was one of those bastard-lovers who were trying to destroy the legitimate lines of inheritance. Damien anticipated his work with eagerness. Like Belgair, he was a loyal mon protecting the realm.

Damien took the keys to the cell and walked down the row until he came to the one that contained Finn MacIver.

Finn lay unmoving, except for the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.

Damien stood over Finn, scanning his handiwork with a swell of pride. He had made a proper mess of the traitor. “Wake up, MacIver."

When Finn did not respond, Damien kicked him.

Finn came out of his pain-laced nightmares with a jerk. “Bastard."

"Time to slip the blade in.” Damien seized the shackles on Finn's wrists, jerked him away from the wall, and flipped him onto his back.

Finn swallowed a scream, grunting at the pull on his broken arms and dislocated shoulders as Damien moved him. “Bloody ... goat-fucking..."

"Needed a good angle.” Damien grinned. “A little more pain and then no more ever. You'll like that."

"Go to ... hell."

"That's where you're going.” Damien squatted in front of Finn and regarded him. “Still can't get an angle I like."

Damien pulled Finn out more.

Finn stiffened, his lips peeling back from his teeth in a grimace as the rough handling shifted his broken body. Noises of canine suffering emerged between gasps.

"Once I've done you, then it's Robert's turn.” Damien straddled Finn, drew his knife, and rested the point at Finn's sternum. “As sharp as I have it, the blade'll slide right in, easy as you please."

Finn's muscles crawled, anticipating the blade. Of all the ways he had imagined dying, this had never been one of them.

The roar of a large cat made Damien whirl. Before he could react, claws ripped his face. He screamed and thrashed beneath five hundred pounds of enraged tiger. The tiger pulled him down, bit his throat out, and worried the body.

"Tala, bless cats ... and ugly cubs.” An inane smile of relief wavered on Finn's face.

Kerry changed into a fur-covered mon. Removing Damien's clothes and weapons, he dressed himself, and fastened the sword belt around his waist. Kerry preferred his tulwar to a lycan claymore, but beggars could not be choosers. For the time being, Kerry's tulwar lay hidden at the bottom of the toy chest on the upper floor of Darmyk's treehouse.

He examined Finn as gently as he could, but even that was too much and the lycan blacked out with a grimace.

Appropriating Damien's keys, Kerry opened all the cells and released twenty-nine myn. All but three of them had simply been thrust into the cells. Vayle hung from the ceiling in chains, his hair falling about his face. Kerry released the shackles. Vayle's knees gave and he fell limply against Kerry. The cat caught and held him.

Vayle's eyes opened. “Is it time?"

"For what?” Kerry scowled the question.

"To hang."

"No one's going to hang you."

"You're saved, Vayle. We all are.” Richard Dunwoody stood in the doorway, a rock-solid figure with a long cut on the side of his head as evidence of how much it had taken to capture him.

Two lycans in torn clothing took Vayle from Kerry, supporting him between them as they half carried him into the corridor between the cells. Vayle's vision cleared and he saw Robert hanging unconscious between two of their friends.

"Who ... are you?” Vayle gasped out.

"Lieutenant Kerr of the Netherguard. Kerry to my friends. I'll be right back."

Kerry returned for Finn, unlocked his shackles, and bore him to the far end of the corridor between the cells.

"This isn't ... the way out,” Richard Dunwoody said.

Kerry ran his claw along the seam of the wall. With a click it slid back revealing a narrow stairway.

"I didn't know this was here."

Kerry smiled at Richard, his eyes glinting with feline slyness. “Cats discover the most interesting things."

The stairs led to a copse of trees where Tandu in his human form waited beside Georgie Rogan with the horses. The dead had been draped across empty saddles and the horses tied to a long string. Those who were whole took their injured up in the saddles before them.

Kerry noted that the wounded appeared to outnumber the dead. Belgair had stripped, spell-corded, bound, and tossed the wounded onto the midden for the freezing weather to finish them. It must have seemed expedient to that asshole.

"Get me a blanket before the cold finishes what Belgair started.” Kerry cradled Finn.

Darcy came round in hybrid form with an axe in each hand, checking again for guardsmyn. Her gaze fell upon the mon in Kerry's arms. Her throat tightened. She shoved the axes back into her belt and reached out, fond and hesitant at the same time. “Finn?"

His lips twitched, but his eyes did not open. “Darcy?"

A lump formed in her throat. “I'm here.” She flicked a strand of blood-matted hair from his battered face.

"Ugly cubs ... Darcy.” He stilled.

"Finn?” She caressed his face, but got no response. He breathed, but consciousness had fled.

Kerry nodded. “They tortured him. Long story."

The grooms and stablemyn had spent the entire night moving the wounded and the dead to the Maguire Estate while Tandu and Damayanti made corpses of any of Belgair's myn that chanced the yard and gardens.

When all was done, the stablemyn fastened all the horses on long strings and led them away, leaving none behind. That had been Darcy's idea and she was calling it wergild.

Kynyr heard running feet in the hallway, shouted orders, and the cries of the wounded. He caught the edge of the hated wheel chair, unlocked the break, and pulled it close to the bed. Locking the break again, Kynyr dragged himself into it, using his hands to settle his legs in place.

He opened the door into the hallway just as a mon was carried past on a litter. “What's happening?"

Trevor halted, gesturing for the myn with him to go on with the litter. “Purge. Belgair's purging the guards. Erskine's dying."

Kynyr followed the litter with Trevor walking beside him. “Finn?"

"I'm sorry, Kynyr."

Kynyr felt as if his world were crashing; as if he had been slammed in the stomach. His throat tightened. “Has his body been brought in?"

"I haven't seen it."

"Then how do you know he's dead?"

"Georgie Rogan said Finn got it in the back."

Grief washed across Kynyr's face, vanishing behind a mask of self-control. He wheeled into the suite and saw that four cots had replaced the sofas and tables in the antechamber. An assistant moved from mon to mon, injecting them with something. Kynyr frowned as Trevor gestured for him to follow and they entered what had been the original bedroom.

"What is all this?"

Trevor looked distressed.

Kynyr glanced again, noticing that the syringes were filled with a purple fluid that could only be Pollendine, a narcotic so strong and potentially addictive that healers generally reserved it for the dying. “Mortally wounded?"

"Yeah. Sha managed to enlist two more Menders from the Havensword Medical College, but that only makes three—counting your gram—and they're doing all they can. They're overburdened, Kynyr."

"Which leaves most of it up to the surgeons...” Kynyr entered the next room, where they had taken Erskine.

There was a bed and three cots in the second room, but only one wounded mon.

Sha bent over Erskine, shoving his intestines back inside his belly. She filled a syringe and the dying lycan officer shook his head. “No. I want the Gentle Path."

"You know about that?"

"Yeah. More do ... than you know."

Sha took a fresh syringe out and brought a bottle of liquid so dark it looked black. “Are you certain?"

"Yes."

Sha used a leather strip to tie the upper part of Erskine's arm and thumped the inside of his elbow. When she got a good vein, Sha inserted the needle and with slow measures pushed the black drug into it.

The lines of pain eased from Erskine's face. He smiled with angelic simplicity, closed his eyes, and stilled.

Sha pulled a chair up, settled beside him, and took his wrist, Reading him.

"What are you doing?” Kynyr wheeled closer.

Sha shook her head at him and said nothing. After several minutes of holding Erskine's wrist, Sha gave a weary sad smile, and covered Erskine's face.

"What did you do?” Kynyr demanded more urgently.

"The Gentle Path. Erskine could have lingered for several hours yet, but he had no wish to."

"Euthanasia?"

"Yes. I'll explain the customs later."

"Finn?"

"There's too many wounded. We haven't enough people to even begin to identify the dead."

Kynyr wheeled back into the hallway. People either swerved or stood aside to let him pass.

"Trevor, where are they putting the dead?"

"Third drawing room north of the infirmary."

"I'm going to find Finn."

Trevor nodded and turned away. “I need to get back to the Command Chamber. We're trying to decide how to handle this situation. Will you join us there?"

Kynyr's lips trembled. For a moment he looked ready to crumble. Then he hardened, mastering himself with his old strength and resolution.

"After I find my brother,” he said quietly.

As the wounded, the dead, and the dying continued to pour into the estate, Kady gathered all of her advisors that she could locate into the Command Chamber to learn where matters stood at that point: Todd, StealsThunder, Iollen, and Trevor.

"This bloodbath, massacring innocent myn enrages me.” Kady's features were taut. “And Finn ... he was always so good to me.” Her lips trembled and tears filled the corners of her eyes. She fought down the expression of her sorrows, forced her voice to steady. “Can we fight them, Todd?"

The big lycan sitting at her right hand nodded. “If Tobrytan gets here in time, we can wipe Belgair off the map. Otherwise, the best we can hope for is to hold long enough to get you and Kynyr to safety."

"Then we pray for Toby to get here."

"Where's Darcy?” asked Trevor, his inquiring glance roved the room.

"Reconnaissance.” Todd settled back in his chair, feet spread. An undercurrent of tension contradicted his calm expression.

"Is Kynyr coming?” Kady asked.

Trevor shook his head. “He's searching for Finn's body."

That brought more tears to Kady's eyes at the thought of Kynyr grieving. “Hasn't he had enough grief? Losing his father and now Finn?"

Thunder put her hand over Kady's and pressed her fingers wordlessly.

"Aisha, Claw, Darmyk.” Todd's eyes had shadowed as he stared down at his fists on the table. “I wish I could count on Belgair deciding to hold them as hostages. My gut instinct says otherwise. I believe that Claw will be dead by morning and possibly the others as well. Merissa is the only one that Belgair has no reason to harm."

Trevor's expression turned haunted. “They are killing all of the guardsmyn who support Kynyr. I agree with you about gut instincts, Dad. I think Belgair will kill Claw."

"Regicide is an ugly thing. If there were any way to reach him, I would try,” said Todd. “But I'm not throwing myn's lives away on a doomed effort."

"Damn them all!” Kady snarled. “It isn't fair."

"There's no rule that life has to be fair, Kady.” Todd stroked her hair. “Our first duty is to protect the prince."

Kady started. Todd spoke of her husband like a liegemon pledged to an ancient lord. He had never done that before.

StealsThunder drew her fan, tapping it on the table. “They'll do it discreetly. A pillow over his face most likely. Done right, the Readers will not be able to tell whether it was suffocation or another heart attack."

Kady shuddered, averting her eyes to hide a fresh rush of tears, when the door opened and Darcy came in. She glanced a question at Darcy.

"You're back sooner than I expected,” Todd studied her face.

Darcy looked torn between relief and fear, crushed by a wavering uncertainty. Her lips trembled. “I found him."

"Finn?” Kady leaned forward over her folded arms, hope banishing her tears. “Alive?"

Darcy sucked in a shuddering breath and answered with a nod. “He'd be dead if it weren't for Kerry. They shattered his arms and legs ... there are bones sticking out."

"Report, Darcy.” Todd ordered, his voice crisp but his eyes kind, his calm control drawing Darcy from her horror and grief.

Darcy composed herself, and began to describe everything she had seen, done, and heard about while scouting the manor grounds.

Todd and Kady could both see that Darcy was turning out better than they had hoped.

Kynyr hated the wheel-chair, but he used it more each day. Iollen had drawn up plans for a set of bars and other equipment for Kynyr to begin exercising his arms and upper body with based upon pictures in a book that Sha had loaned him. He had begun to feel a bit of hope, only to be tossed back into depression when news of the purge reached him. As the rescued myn poured in along with the wounded and the dead, his frustration at his crippling increased along with the heartbreak.

He wheeled into the temporary morgue to search for Finn's body. Trestle tables had been set the length of two sides and the covered bodies laid out upon them. As his fingers touched the blanket covering the first one, he realized from the rough texture and dull color that it was a horse blanket. The stablemyn must have been the ones who covered the dead before sending them to the estate. Georgie and his myn had sided with him.

He flicked a corner of the blanket back, and gazed into the still face of Lon Anglesey. Lon had been stripped to the waist. The terrible wounds wrenched Kynyr's heart. Not even the Bridge Watchers had been spared in Belgair's terrible purge.

Kynyr's fingers traced the lines of Lon's face. “You were a good mon. I'm sorry this happened to you."

He recovered Lon's face and continued on. All of the myn had been stripped; some partially and others completely; some wore spellcord banding their wrists, suggesting they had still been alive when they were thrown on the midden to die of wounds and the freezing cold.

None of them were Finn.

"Kynyr?"

He glanced and saw Kady standing in the doorway.

"Finn?"

Kady's eyes were soft with concern and love. “They found him. Finn's alive. He's hurt bad. Cahira and Sha are working on him now."

Relief eased the churning on Kynyr's insides. “Take me to him?"

"Of course."

Darcy cried, stroking Finn's battered unresponsive face. “He called my name and now nothing."

The Creeyan surgeons and Cahira had spent hours working to save Finn and the other seriously wounded. He lay with his arms splinted and bound to his sides to hold his shoulders in place. His hips and legs had been similarly treated. The dislocations had been forced back into place and were now held rigid. Cahira had told Darcy that it would probably take months of working on and with Finn to get him back on his feet, but that it could be done because there had been no injury to his spine.

The sound of her weeping tore the heart out of Artair to hear it. He could not remember ever hearing Darcy cry, not even when Fergus died. She always seemed built more for anger than grief.

Kynyr rolled his chair into the room and close to the bed. He leaned forward and grasped Finn's hand. “Ugly cubs have more fun."

No response came from Finn and that hurt.

The degree to which his spiritbrother had been brutalized by Belgair made Kynyr rage, especially since he could do so little since his crippling.

"the first thing I intend to do, once I am chieftain ... is hang Belgair."

"You'll have to wait your turn, Kynyr.” Darcy threw him a glance filled with chill rage. “I want a piece of him first."

Lennox moved cautiously through the yard of the manor with six myn at his back. The yard was too silent. It gnawed at him and put him on his guard. He walked to the midden. Belgair wanted the bodies hung from the scaffolds and trees on the common. The greater the number of dead, the greater the warning to be sent to any who tried to oppose them.

He found only twelve bodies and anger darkened his face, for they were all Belgair's myn.

Acting on a hunch, he checked the stables and barns. All of the horses were gone.

"Sinclair! This is Sinclair's doing."

Belgair detailed twelve myn to accompany him to the dungeons. He had managed to catch a short doze a few hours before dawn in his office. Other than that he had not slept since the purge began yesterday afternoon.

He wanted to get the prisoners hung on the scaffolds before Todd Sinclair could make a move to stop him. Finn's body could be hung up also. His myn were weary, but there were matters that could not be put off. He had to get over to the Maguire place in force to arrest Kynyr.

The dungeons were silent. Belgair glanced at the empty table where Damien should have been sitting, then at the hook where the keys should have hung, and frowned.

"Damien?"

No one answered.

"Check the cells."

The cells that had been full last night were empty and in the last one, they found Damien's body.

Raging, Belgair headed upstairs. Lennox appeared.

"The horses are gone. So are the stablemyn, the grooms, and the stablecubs. They removed the bodies and the wounded we'd left for dead. We found twelve of our own ripped apart."

"Sinclair.” Belgair snarled, hair sprouting and thickening along his arms and across his forehead. “He found out what was happening and struck at us. The next strike is ours. We'll hang the whole godsdamned family. Or gut them.” He licked his lips, imagining opening Todd's belly the way that Gorgarty had Erskine's.

Belgair had just started into the family section of the manor when he heard Aisha scream and broke into a run.

Aisha sat in the rocking chair before the hearth in the antechamber of Merissa's suite. It had taken a long time to get Darmyk to sleep. He was terrified by what was happening. Merissa eventually slept also. However, Aisha remained awake all night long, praying and rocking.

Malthus opened the door. “You can come out now. All is safe."

"Safe?” Aisha glared at him. “We were safer before you did this."

"I did not do this, Aisha. It was Belgair's decision."

"Lying bastard."

Malthus shrugged, heaving a deep sigh. “As you wish. All the traitors are dead. Belgair asked me to inform you that for your own protection, you are no longer allowed to go anywhere outside the mansion without a guard of his choosing. Including the gardens. But you are free enough inside."

Aisha pushed past him, heading for her suite with a growing sense of fear. Seeing Claw's empty wheel chair, she quickened her pace.

She stepped into the antechamber. The bedroom door was closed. Her heart pounded. “Claw?"

No answer came.

Aisha went to the door on trembling legs, her stomach feeling hollowed by dread, repeating his name louder and louder as she crossed the room. Her hand closed upon the knob and she sucked in a breath to fortify herself just before turning it.

"Nooooooooo.” Aisha collapsed to her knees with a long keening howl of grief and desolation.

Malthus followed Aisha at a distance, contemplating what she would find when she reached the bedroom. A thin smile touched the edges of his lips seeing her enter the antechamber of her suite. A loud keening shattered the air. Myn emerged from chambers and corridors as Malthus ran for the room and went inside.

Aisha sat in a chair near the window, staring at Claw's corpse. A deep purple lividity had settled over it, as evidence of massive heart failure.

"You killed him. Lon said ... you were going to.” Her voice was dull, empty, and distanced as if she were not really there at all. “And you did."

Malthus covered his satisfaction by lowering his head while he assumed a mask of concern. A buzz of voices behind him, alerted Malthus that a crowd had gathered. He went to the door and shouted at them. “Go back to your chores, you're blocking the way."

The nibari, who had only that morning begun venturing from their chambers, retreated down the hallway. Belgair reached Malthus with Sheradyn and Gillivray at his heels. He grasped Malthus’ arm, drawing him aside. “Claw's dead?"

"He must have had an attack in his sleep. If he called out, no one would have heard him last night ... not with all the fighting.” Malthus gestured helplessly.

Belgair looked as sobered by Claw's death as he had been angered by Fianait's suicide.

"You killed him.” Aisha repeated it like a mantra of grief. “You killed him. You killed him."

Gillivray gripped Claw's cold wrist and Read him. “Heart failure. Died just after midnight."

Sheradyn put his arm around Aisha's shoulders. “No one killed him, dear. It was a heart attack."

Aisha closed her eyes and turned away from the healer. “They killed him. Malthus and Belgair. They killed him."

Belgair shivered and backed away from her. “She's mad. I never went near him last night. Nor did Malthus."

"If your mother were alive, she'd be ashamed of you, Belgair.” Aisha rocked back and forth without looking at anyone. “She'd hate you."

Aisha lifted her eyes and pinned Belgair with a glance.

"I didn't kill Claw, Aunt Aisha.” Belgair dwindled before the look in Aisha's eyes, becoming again the boy he had been, dwarfed by her madness. “I did what I had to. For the sake of the realm. You must understand that."

"You killed him."

Belgair retreated to the door, making a peasant gesture against evil, and vanished down the corridor.

The healer drew the sheet over Claw's face.

Merissa arrived, her swollen body listing as she walked. “Father?” she asked in a tremulous voice. Malthus stopped her at the door, and she rose on her tiptoes to see over his shoulder.

Malthus wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. “His heart gave out. I'm so sorry, darling. Sheradyn did everything he could. Your father was a good mon."

Merissa began to shriek. She tried to push away from him, but he held Merissa tight as he walked her over to Sheradyn. Malthus handed her into Sheradyn's arms. “Please take care of her and Aisha."

Malthus went looking for Belgair. He found him in Sorcha's solar, staring at Fianait's portrait as he always did when he was troubled.

"I can't believe he's dead.” Belgair held a glass of whiskey in his shaking hands. “I never expected him to just up and die like that.” Belgair made the sign of the bear. “If Aisha had started screaming and keening, I could have handled it."

"She's not mad, Belgair. She's just trying to spook you."

"All the horses are gone. The prisoners too. The bodies we tossed in the midden ... gone also."

"What do you mean the prisoners are gone?"

"Just that. Damien's dead. Sinclair made his move last night."

"Don't lose your nerve."

Belgair sucked in a breath. “I'm not. Lennox is assembling the myn. We'll strike at the Maguire's before Todd can get organized."

"The thanes should start arriving in a few days,” Malthus said. “We must have everything resolved before they get here."

Belgair poured a second whiskey, drained his glass, and steadied. “We'll have the entire family dangling from the scaffolds before noon."

Belgair stalked out. Malthus followed him through the manor.

With the horses gone, Belgair and his myn were forced to march on foot to the Maguire place. Malthus stood and watched them leave. It was early, but he had much to do.

Malthus waited until the manor had gone quiet with the departure of Belgair and his army. Then he went looking for Aisha. He found her sitting in the Rose Room, wrapped up in a layer of shawls as if she could not get warm. He wedged a chair beneath the doorknob.

"Now we will not be disturbed."

Aisha knelt by the window, staring out at the sunlit sky, her hands clasped together in prayer. “It's my turn now?"

"To die? Yes."

She made the sign of the bear and followed that with the curve of the moon. “I'm ready."

The haunted serenity that she presented to Malthus disturbed him. He wondered if, perhaps, Belgair was right and she had gone mad.

"Brock is dead.” Malthus settled upon the floor, cross-legged, beside her. “My people got him."

She did not respond to that, merely waited in silence.

"Aisha, did you understand me?” Malthus lowered his head, tilted it slightly to watch her reactions, and regarded her.

"Yes."

The lack of reaction infuriated Malthus. He seized Aisha's shoulders, jerked her up against his chest, and touched the hollow of her throat, shrinking her voice to the level of a croaking whisper. “I killed them all. Tempest, Granta, Beth, Caimbeul, Nesswen, Yren ... I drowned Searlait, stabbed Fianait, ruptured Claw's heart, and poisoned Kynyr. You're next."

"I told you I was ready."

Rage twisted Malthus’ features and he struck her across the face.

The tiniest flash of hurt touched Aisha's mouth and vanished again into schooled indifference. She unfastened her robe and let it drop from her shoulders. “There is my heart. Strike now. I am ready."

"You know what I am?"

"Sa'necari."

"Are you mad?” Malthus jammed his palm between her breasts, striking hard and deep. Access to her organs was easier skin to skin, but Malthus had not yet encountered anything that could completely block his arts. Desirous of doing it faster and different from the others—similarity bred suspicion—he protracted the current of energy searing through her.

Pain drove the breath from Aisha's lungs, leaving her gasping and grimacing. Her voice remained emotionless when she regained the strength to speak a single word. “Murderer."

"You're animals raised above your stations. Killing animals is not murder.” A thread of aggravation stole through Malthus. He felt impossibly bored by the thought of doing one more subtle kill. Malthus slammed another spell through her. There was no taste of fear to delight his senses, no panic, and no resistance. “Say something, slut. React, damn you."

He pounded through her body, hurting her in dozens of ways. She sagged in his grip. Malthus released her, watched her fold up on the floor and settle onto her back.

"I told Claw as I killed him that I intended to rape you before you died."

Malthus opened her robe the rest of the way, placed his hand over her heart, and Read her. “My what a strong heart you have for an old bitch. No matter. The next one should put you over the edge. But first, my pleasures."

"So be it."

Malthus opened his pants and lifted his cock out. He pulled her small clothes aside, shoved into her, and laughed.

"The dying bitch's last fuck."

She lay still and unresponsive while Malthus rode her to completion.

"You enjoyed that?” Malthus sneered at her as he pulled his flaccid member from her body. He stiffened, blinking at the room in momentary confusion. His necromantic senses had sensed a shift around him like the settling of a dark spell.

Aisha smiled at the look that passed over Malthus’ face. “I cursed you. You felt it didn't you?"

Cursed? Malthus hit her in the chest with his fist. “You've no power! You can't lay curses."

"My god can."

Her calm belief rattled Malthus. He had felt something. “No. There is no curse, you stupid bitch. Now, be good. Die nicely for me."

Malthus pressed his hand between her breasts.

Aisha shuddered, whimpering as he flooded her with pain. A smothering pressure gathered in her chest and lungs. Aisha's palpitating heart struggled to continue beating. Too debilitated to put up even a token resistance, her face grew pale, her shoulders slumped, and her head bobbed listlessly.

"He died with your name on his lips.” Malthus eased the spell back, ended it, and grasped her teat to maintain a low-level scan. Her heart, although damaged, still beat strongly enough to sustain life. With no way to know how much time he did, or did not have, Malthus wanted to drive the next one into her at the first opportune moment.

He finally got an emotional reaction. A freshet of tears covered Aisha's cheeks. “I—I loved him."

Malthus slid off her, gathered her to his lap, and cradled her like a child, his arm supporting her head and shoulders while he stroked her hair and face. The change in position forced Aisha to gaze into the eyes of her killer. He studied her nude body. The chill air sent goose pimples rising across her pale skin. Malthus appreciated what he saw. Age had been kinder to Aisha than it had been to Claw's sisters. He resented the fact that Brock's unexpected arrival prevented him from keeping Aisha as a plaything. Most sa'necari looked upon sex with lycans as little more than bestiality. Malthus appreciated their finer points, which had made them his favorite fetish both in bed and on his altars.

"What shall we talk about while you're dying?” Malthus kissed her forehead, smiling like a cobra. “Your family? Darmyk? I caused his illness. He'll be dead soon."

Aisha wept harder. “Not the cub."

"My orders, you see, were to kill all of Claw's family."

Malthus fondled her breast, and shoved a vicious thrust into her heart, sustaining it for several minutes in a calculated flow.

Aisha writhed. Cyanosis stained her skin blue and lined her lips in purple. Her breathing became choppy.

"I'll spare Merissa. I like the idea of keeping her swollen. There's a pleasing irony to it.” Seeing the changes in her face, Malthus released the spell, and deepened his scan. “Well, well. Dying at last. And a bonus. You've had a stroke."

Claw's widow tried to speak, but the words came out garbled. Aisha tried again. Her lips moved. No sounds emerged.

For the first time in recent memory, Malthus could think of nothing more to say. Out of boredom, he played with her nipples and clit. He glanced at the sky, trying to gauge the time, trying to guess how much longer he could stay here with her. He considered leaving her to finish dying alone. She could not have more than a few minutes of life left. But, then, he had thought the same of Claw when he left him on the stairs. Malthus chose to Read her again before deciding what to do. Depending on how close she was to death, he would either leave her there, or wait and give her heart another squeeze first. He saw that the traces of the last spell had faded. Malthus glanced at the sky again to see how high the sun had risen. He had time to give her one more.

"It's time to join your husband.” Malthus stabbed into her, chained three spells together, extended his assault, and made it the longest yet. He severed the flow and found the results satisfying. A few moments more and all the Redhands who had eaten his brother Troyes would be dead. “There, Aisha. That does it."

He kissed her forehead, cheeks, and lips.

She stilled, her eyes dulled and became unfocused. Her heart fluttered; stopped. The breath rattled from her lungs.

"Death becomes you, Aisha."

He fastened her robes, wrapped her shawls around her again, and eased her body to the floor.

Malthus wondered how long it would be before someone went looking for Aisha and found her corpse. Telling Merissa or sending her to find her mother would be delicious, but more and more he worried about the children she carried. Malthus wanted his sons to be born safely, and Sheradyn already feared that Merissa might miscarry them. It would be better if someone else found Aisha.

"Kissie?"

She emerged from the kitchen, her eyes wet and red-rimmed. “Yes, Master Malthus?"

"Aisha would like you to take her up some tea to the Rose Room."

"I'll do that right now."

Malthus sauntered into the Great Hall and settled into Claw's favorite chair. Gorgarty sat where Kynyr used to near the looms. Malthus gestured at him. “Fetch a bottle of whatever you like from the cabinets in the Blue Room, and we'll sit here and split it."

"I'd like that.” Gorgarty grinned and headed upstairs.

Malthus leaned back and propped his feet on Claw's footstool.

Kissie's screams echoed down the corridor.

"That's all of them except the prince."

The mist burned away with the dawn. While it had lingered, it had worked in favor of rescuing the wounded myn from the manor. Kynyr had managed a few hours of fitful sleep that ended the moment that sunlight grazed his lids. He pulling himself into a sitting position and then maneuvered into the chair.

"Kynyr?"

Todd stepped through the door.

"What?” Kynyr let the break off and turned it around so that he could face his grandfather.

"I have a job for you."

"If it's busy work ... I'd rather sit with Finn."

"We need someone on the roof watching the manor through my spyglass."

"You think Belgair will attack us?"

"He can't afford not to. So long as you're alive, you're a threat."

Kynyr kneaded his thighs self-consciously. “I don't feel like much of a threat."

"Your mind's not crippled. Just your legs. I need your mind and powers of observation.

"I'll do it."

A crude shelter had been thrown together upon the roof. A brazier provided warmth. They had wrapped Kynyr up so warmly that he felt squeezed into the spare wheel-chair. Rory and Hamish crouched beside him as he scanned the manor grounds with his spyglass.

He could not say what instinct made him look at the roof, but when he did, Kynyr saw Lennox and Gorgarty standing at the flagstaff. They were lowering Claw's banner.

Rory caught the intent expression on Kynyr's face. “What's going on?"

"Hush."

The banner vanished and a new one was raised to half-mast, a black banner now flew above Claw's banner.

Kynyr's lips parted. “Nooo. Belgair ... Bloody Belgair. He killed him."

"Who?” Rory cocked his head to the side.

"Claw. They killed Claw. Rory, tell Todd. And ... it looks like they're mustering in the yard."

"They ain't got no horses."

"What?"

"No horses. Darcy grabbed them all. Kady's put them in the grand ballroom cause there's not room enough in the stables for all of them."

Kynyr laughed with a bitter edge. “She always steals the horses."

The news that Belgair marched against them plunged the estate into action. Kynyr was relieved and brought inside. He immediately rolled himself to the makeshift infirmary.

Sha looked exhausted as she stood explaining to Kynyr. “We saved as many as we could. Those tossed onto the trash heap arrived in many different conditions. There were the dead and the mortally wounded. There were also some wounded who had been bound and thrown there nude so the plunging temperatures last night could kill them. I have seven cases of pneumonia among the wounded. A large number of the rescued prisoners were either wounded or had been tortured. Out of eighty-nine myn, I was able to save only forty-seven of them. I'm sorry, Kynyr. I know that many of them were your friends."

Kynyr listened in silence until Sha finished with her report. “Finn?"

"He woke this morning.

Kynyr felt his burden lighten a tiny bit, but he remained grim. “I want a list put together of the dead. I don't want them buried like nameless myn."

"I'll see that it's done."

Kynyr rolled himself through the infirmary. He went to the end first, and as he passed the dividing screen, Kynyr stopped and fell silent. Willy and his human girlfriend were holding hands.

"Marry me, Bella?"

She sat with tears in her eyes as she smiled at him. “Yes, Willy."

Kynyr quietly eased back and turned around.

Two beds down, he found Vayle. One of Sha's assistants inserted a syringe into Vayle's arm and then Read him. It seemed to Kynyr that everywhere he looked the healers and surgeons were using those things. Vayle looked haggard with pain.

The assistant turned to Kynyr. “Don't stay long, he needs to rest."

"No problem.” Kynyr rolled close to the bed as the healer assistant left. “You okay, Vayle?"

"As can be. Bloody turncoat shot me."

"Belgair?"

"Malthus."

Kynyr visited each of the wounded in turn. He obsessively wiggled his toes inside the carpet slippers that Kady had put on his feet to keep them warm.

He held out more hope each day.

Some of the damaged nerve endings had begun to grow into new pathways. Sha said that was unusual, but then she knew very little about the potentials of lycans.

"Claw has died.” Todd gave the news. “Whether his heart gave out because of the strain of the purge or whether he was murdered, we don't know yet. However, my guess is that Belgair will either declare martial law in Wolffgard, or try to assault us here. Or both. However, he does not have enough myn to achieve both of them effectively."

Kady sat in the drawing room that she had turned into a command room for her army. “I don't care which of them killed the Redhands, they're both going to die for it. They're going to die for what they did to Kynyr, to Finn, and to the others."

Todd gave a slow nod. “We're ready for them."

Last minute orders went out. The Command Chamber emptied. Finally only Pandeena and Kady remained.

"Hathura and I are going to look for Brock. We need him now."

Kady considered. “He'll be riding with Stoneriver."

Pandeena's eyes narrowed as she considered. “Brock is Stoneriver."

Kady blinked in surprise, and then sidestepped that. “What can you hope to achieve?"

"Two translocationists of the caliber of Hathura and myself can create a temporary Gate Arcane. We'll bring Brock and his troops here. With luck by nightfall."

"If you encounter Cooley, would you bring him home also?"

"Where is he?"

"I sent him to Three Stones for a lawgiver."

Pandeena Jumped to the lawgiver house. Her companions dispersed through the village to protect key areas in case Belgair turned in their direction with his forces.

The village militia had gathered on the green, roused by Raonul and Artair. If Belgair marched upon Wolffgard, he would have a fight on his hands. The village elders had thrown in their lot with Kynyr.

Phelan O'Reilly sat in a large chair, warming his hands at the hearth. The headmon of Three Stones, and senior to his village elders, ran his hand through his long, grizzled hair, his expression troubled. “The story and letters you have brought me, little courier, are disturbing. Of course, I'll send a lawgiver to Wolffgard. Claw should have come to me in the first place. By some twist of fate, Cooley, we have five. Three of them are my grandsons."

"See, young master?” Iswara gave Cooley a languorous smile of feline pleasure. “I told you Phelan was the mon to see."

Cooley smiled back. He felt relieved and warmed by Phelan's calm presence and reassurance. “Thank you."

His youngest granddaughter came into the living room, her eyes large. “More myn to see you, granddad."

He gazed behind her at the enormous mon in darkened armor. “Brock!"

Then he recognized the myn standing behind Brock, seven were thanes and fourteen were village elders.

"Call the witan Phelan. Summon the thanes, the elders, the lawgivers, and the priests. Tell them I will abide by their decisions. My brother has sent for me to aid him and I ride to that purpose, but I will not flaunt the will of the witan."

Cedric stepped forward and sank into a chair. “All of the northern thanes and elders support Prince Kynyr and Brock Redhand. Our people were being slaughtered and our lands ravaged until Brock destroyed the Waejontori forces."

Stone flinched inwardly at being referred to as Brock, but it seemed neither the time nor the place to make his wishes known.

"Claw Redhand is dead."

All eyes turned at the new voice and saw Pandeena standing with Hathura and Jushan.

Tales were shared and decisions were made rapidly.

Phelan listened quietly, giving occasional guidance to the stories. “Claw was a good mon. It saddens me to hear that you believe he and his family were murdered, Pandeena. But the proofs you offer lead me to suspect that you are right."

"Then you'll support me in calling Belgair to account?"

"Yes. I knew Claw very well when we were younger. Aisha comes from my village. Claw would never have put a stranger in control of his family so long as a single male relation survived."

Pandeena sucked in a breath and ran her hand through her golden hair. “That is my feeling. I support Kynyr. As priest, I hold a vote in the council and you already know how that will go with me."

Phelan tapped his steepled fingers against his lips. “There is something else you should know that makes me doubt Belgair."

"What?"

"Belgair's father, Clennan, wanted Fianait. He tried to kill Brock twice before Brock left."

Stone nodded. “He did a poor job of it."

Phelan jabbed a finger at Stone to stop him from interrupting. “Clennan was then the captain of Suleahan Redhand's housecarles. Brock crippled him. Clennan limps with both legs. He had an affair with Fianait after Brock was banished. The entire village knew about it. When it became clear that Fianait could no longer conceive because of the nature of her abortion, he abandoned her and chased Searlait instead. Searlait rejected him. Suleahan figured out what was going on and threw Clennan out. Shortly after that, Clennan took Aisha's sister as his second wife. She gave him Belgair a few months later, and four more in quick succession before dying in childbirth with the sixth."

"You think that Clennan raised Belgair to hate Brock?"

"Absolutely. Clennan always swore that Brock destroyed his chances to marry into the ruling clan."

"I hope that you'll point all of this out to the rest of the Elders."

Phelan gave a sharp nod. “I fully intend to. You may count on me. You need a lawgiver. I understand that you have had trouble replacing Caimbeul. People here are spooked by the fact that two lawgivers have been murdered in short succession."

"That's true. Who do you have in mind?"

"My grandson, Ossian, is a lawgiver. Three Stones has five. We can spare him and his two brothers."

"You're putting his life at risk."

Phelan nodded, his face tightened. “I know it. However, Ossian is prepared to risk it. He's good at his job and he was trained by a Battle-Clan chieftain."

When the hedgerows of the Maguire Estate came into view, Belgair signaled a halt. He split fifty myn off from his main force, placed them under the command of Lennox, and sent them around to the Orchard Gate. They would lie in wait there for any members of Kynyr's household who attempted to escape.

Then Belgair led his more than three hundred myn to the front gate of the Maguire Estate. He had Todd's small force outnumbered more than three to one, not counting the myn under Lennox.

The narrow country gate stood open and standing in the middle of the path a mere three spear-lengths further was Todd Sinclair with fifty myn arranged in skirmish lines behind him. The motley band of humans, Fae, and lycan brought an amused sneer to Belgair's lips.

He stalked through the gate and halted on the path that led around through the fruit trees and evergreens to the mansion. Flagstones showed through in small scattered patches of ice-gilded orange and brown rocks. Belgair's gaze roved the trees, remembering all the times that he had been told they were the finest orchards in Red Wolf. He had never been on the property before. Elton McCain, the previous owner, had disliked him. As regent, Belgair could claim the property for the crown once Kynyr and Kady dangled from the scaffolds, and then bestow it upon himself.

Belgair sauntered closer to Todd, took a balanced stance, and hooked his thumbs into his belt. Fifteen myn crowded through to the Maguire side behind him and waited for his next orders.

"Surrender the bastard and his slut. The rest of you can depart with your lives."

"I've heard that before ... and from tougher myn than you, Belgair.” Todd wore a leather harness and a pair of bandoleers. Twin claymores hung at his shoulders and a pair of axes were shoved through his belt. Long fighting knives were strapped to his legs. “My answer ... as always ... is no."

"Don't be a fool, Sinclair."

"You poisoned the prince ... admitted it to several myn I freed from your dungeons.” Todd gave Belgair a measured stare, his voice even, and his manner calm.

Poison was a coward's weapon and Belgair heard his myn muttering behind him. “That's a lie."

"You murdered Fianait. She was afraid of sharp objects ... too afraid to have killed herself with a letter opener."

"Shut up, Sinclair. I would never have hurt her."

"How did you kill Claw? Drive him to a heart attack with your treachery? Or hold a pillow over his face?"

Belgair went livid. “Attack!"

He charged down the path with his myn following. They could only get through a handful at a time and were massed solid behind the gate, jostling each other to get inside and chase down the promised rewards. Those already on the Maguire side with Belgair, ran forward, following their captain to attack Todd's meager forces.

Todd palmed a small object from his pocket and sailed it through the gates into the thick of Belgair's myn. The ground exploded, hurling myn in several directions. Dead littered the path beyond the gates.

The charge stopped in its tracks.

"Iradrim Fire,” Belgair snarled and began shouting. “Get him or hang!"

The guardsmyn surged forward again.

Todd reached into his pocket for the second bottle of Iradrim Fire.

Lennox jogged through the snow with his fifty myn, already thinking about his rewards. On foot around to the orchard gate. He assumed that Todd would try to delay Belgair long enough for the bastard and his slut to escape through the Orchard Gate. Lennox would make the capture. He rounded the curve of the hedgerows, stopped short, and stared.

A force of cavalry on barded horses faced him with a substantial number of longbowmyn and infantry.

He recognized the MacLachlan colors they wore and the personal banner of Tobrytan MacFie.

"Go no farther.” Tobrytan urged his mount forward a few paces.

"Get out of my way, MacFie,” Lennox growled. “I'm here to arrest the bastard who thinks he's a prince."

Tobrytan raised his arm. Behind him swords were drawn and arrows nocked. “You have until a count of ten to withdraw or die."

Lennox glanced from side to side. “The thanes will declare war on MacLachlan. Are you willing to risk it?"

A thin smile came to Tobrytan's face. “Ten."

The archers fired. All of Lennox's myn that could not get their shields up in time went down.

The MacLachlan forces charged forward.

Lennox fled into a stand of evergreens, trying to close out the sounds of his outnumbered myn dying behind him. He sheathed his sword and threw down his shield. Safety seemed to lie in going where they did not expect him to. Lennox hauled himself up onto the embankment of the hedgerow and wiggled between two hawthorn trees. The briars along the back tore through his shirt and the legs of his trousers. Blood stained his clothing. Spying a patrolling soldier, Lennox drew his knife and crept up on the mon. He threw an arm around the mon's head, cutting his throat with quick efficiency. Trading uniforms, Lennox settled the mon's helmet on his head, and concealed the body beneath a heavy layer of snow. Then he strolled down the orchard path toward the mansion.

With only a few dozen myn already through the gates, Belgair grinned when Todd's forces retreated without engaging them. “Coward!"

Belgair jogged along the snow covered flagstones leading his myn deeper into the property as Kady's Army disappeared around a bend in the trees where he lost sight of them. “You were bluffing, you old sod. But I've got you."

Some guardsmyn, seeing how choked up matters were at the gate, started climbing through the hedgerows to either side of it. Snow had settled high against the embankments beneath the rows. The myn heaved themselves over, landed in the deep snow, and screamed. Their bodies twitched and jerked, impaled upon the tall spikes concealed beneath the drifts. The attempts to pass the hedgerow ended abruptly.

As their screams echoed around him, Belgair froze, wondering if they had somehow been attacked from the side. He saw first the dying men along the rows, and then the gaping holes in the ground along the path on the Maguire side. Belgair stepped to the edge of one and stared down at six of his myn transfixed upon the sharpened stakes of the pit trap.

The charge slowed to a cautious walk. Most of Belgair's myn remained outside the gate, and waited to see if the few brave souls among them could establish where it was safe to step.

Belgair turned and shouted at them. “Get in here, you arses! Traitors! I'll hang the lot of you."

Shouts and screams erupted beyond the gate. The hedgerows blocked Belgair's vision and he started back, wary of traps. He caught a glimpse through the gate, no more than a flash of livery, and then he knew.

"MacLachlan! What in the unholy hell?"

Those who had continued to venture into the estate now ran to join their beleaguered fellows fighting outside the gate. Trevor reappeared from the shadows of the fruit trees, his forces attacking from both sides. Far from retreating as Belgair had believed, they had circled back around.

Belgair soon found himself standing alone, cut off from his myn. By some inexplicable turn of fate, he had lost. MacLachlan had arrived without any of his watchers seeing them. The orchards were probably trapped. For the first time in his life, Belgair felt torn by indecision. He had to get off the property and find a place to hide until his father could arrive. Belgair gambled and crossed to the trees, scanning the ground ahead of him for more of Todd's unpleasant surprises.

"Hello, Belgair."

His blood seemed to chill in his veins as he turned. “Todd."

The big lycan slashed Belgair's face before he could get his sword to guard.

"That's for Kynyr."

Belgair blocked a slash from the sword in Todd's right hand, and Todd caught him in the shoulder with the left one. Staggering back, Belgair considered trying to flee, but that could easily land him in a trap.

"That's for Kady.” Todd continued talking smoothly.

"One sword. Fight fair!"

"As fair as poison?"

Belgair retreated, fear riding his chest and breathing down his throat like a night hag. Todd was playing with him. There was no contest here, and Belgair knew it full well.

Todd followed.

The Captain of Claw's Guard was thrown onto the defensive by the hammering speed of the incredible old mon, unable to venture an attack; and then Todd sliced him across the chest.

"Fianait.” Todd held his blades ready, waiting to pounce.

"Mercy.” Belgair had heard over and over that Todd was an honorable mon. He lowered his sword. “I can't match you."

"Should have thought of that sooner.” There was no feeling in Todd's hard eyes, measuring Belgair without a shred of compassion.

"I yield.” Belgair threw his sword down and raised his hands palms outward. “Spare me. I yield."

"Pity that.” Todd drove his blade deep into Belgair's belly, gave it a twist, and yanked it out. “Claw."

Belgair sank to his knees, clutching at his stomach, his face twisted into a grimace. “Bastard ... uuhh haauh ... bloody bas uh uh ... tard."

He fell to the snow, curled into a ball of suffering, and wept.

Todd stood over him, indifferent to his anguish. “You should have left my grandson alone."

The big lycan cleaned his swords and walked off. Ahead of him the fighting had ended. Sha and her stretcher-bearers passed him. He stepped through the gate.

Of the over three hundred myn—including Lennox's forces—that Belgair had brought with him only forty odd were still standing. They were spellcorded and their hands bound behind their backs. Caught between the trapped hedgerows, the MacLachlan soldiery, and the Creeyans, a devastating defeat had been administered to Belgair's forces. A few had escaped, but until the toll was tallied, they would not be able to make a fair estimate of how many had gotten away. Tiderider began escorting the prisoners to the mansion where they would be secured in the basement.

The jingling of harnesses and snorting of horses threw the MacLachlan forces on guard again only to relax when they saw the Creeyan banners.

The giant on the dapple-gray nodded to Todd and kept riding, leading the Creeyan troops with him.

At the head of the next group rode the thanes, Pandeena, Phelan, and the elders. Behind them, riding with Iswara came Cooley. The cub reined in and threw himself from the saddle, rushing to Todd and hugging him.

Todd lifted Cooley into his arms and ruffled his hair. “I'm glad to see you, you little rascal."

Cooley laughed at the unexpected sobriquet. “I'm glad to be home."

Malthus ordered Claw and Aisha's bodies laid beside that of Fianait on the bier, and settled into Claw's chair in the Great Hall to await Belgair's return. He had fulfilled his obligations to Lord Hoon. He expected to hear from Egidius soon that Brock Redhand had perished. He had turned his luck around.

Merissa entered the Great Hall, moving slowly, and went to the bodies of her family. She eased down and kissed their faces, tears slipping from her eyes.

He rose and put his arm around her shoulders. “Go rest, Merissa."

"No."

Gorgarty came in frowning. “There's a shitload of bloody foreigners in the yard."

"Any sign of Belgair?"

"None."

"Do you recognize their banners?” Malthus felt uneasy.

"Creeyan."

Merissa headed for the front door. “Uncle Brock is home."

Kissie appeared and placed a cloak over Merissa's shoulders.

Malthus followed his wife into the yard, accompanied by Gorgarty and a handful of guardsmyn that Belgair had left behind at the manor.

A large number of horses stood in the yard. When no stablemyn came forth from the barns, a slender lycan started detailing myn to see to their animals. The lycan dismounting from the dapple-gray was a giant of a mon. Malthus ran his gaze across the ranks, seeking a gray head among them and found none.

His lips tightened with an indignant expression. “What is the meaning of this?"

Merissa pushed past him before the newcomers could answer and hugged the giant. “Uncle Brock! They told me you were dead."

That can't be Brock. He's not much older than Merissa. And the size of him. That cannot be Fianait's twin.

Stone snorted. “I'm rather healthy for a corpse, don't you think?” He leaned in and kissed the top of her head. “Merissa. You look so much like Searlait.” Then his eyes lit upon Malthus, the only human in the group, and his hand settled on the hilt of his knife. “You must be Marlow. I'm Brock Redhand, Lord Regent of Red Wolf until after my nephew Kynyr's coronation. I prefer to be called Stoneriver."

"Malthus Estrobian.” Malthus extended his hand and Stone ignored it.

The Creeyans poured into the manor unopposed. Malthus turned about, confused and uncertain. “Belgair..."

Stone gave him a contemptuous look. “I assume he's dead. The only ones left standing there appeared to be MacLachlans."

"MacLachlan?"

"It's always amusing when a mouse turns out to be a badger."

"How have you been?” Merissa asked.

"Fine, fine. I've had to spend more time at court than I would have liked, but duty is where you find it. Grand Master Ceejorn's wife should be birthing their third child about now."

Assassins’ Guildsmon. Malthus’ stomach did a slow roll, remembering Aramyn.

"I've been taking care of the manor since Claw's illness,” Malthus said.

Stone frowned at Malthus. “Well, you won't be doing any of that now, Mural."

Malthus winced. “That's Malthus. Malthus Estrobian.

"Right.” Stone turned to Merissa. “I'm sorry I didn't get to see your father before he died. Aramyn moved as quickly as he could to get me here."

Malthus restrained an angry retort and managed to school his face to a pleasant mask only to lose it for an instant at Aramyn's name. He mastered himself a second time. “If you need me to help or explain anything...."

"Thank you, but I doubt it, Miguel. Your only responsibility is keeping my niece happy, and making lots of little lycans for the throne. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to get my people settled."

Malthus flinched and sucked in a breath. Stoneriver had to be the stupidest Guildsmon he had ever encountered. “Malthus. My name is Malthus."

"Okay, right. No problem, Mario.” Stone paused and frowned. “Where's Aisha?"

Merissa frowned. “She died this morning."

"My name is Malthus."

Stone turned with a venomous smile. “Your name is whatever I wish to call you. If I say that your name is shit, then you will answer to it."

Three lycans came forward. They looked enough alike to be brothers. One of them eyed Malthus. “My name is Ossian O'Reilly. I am senior lawgiver to Wolffgard and therefore to Red Wolf. I am legally required to inform you, Malthus Estrobian, that you are under investigation for complicity in the suspected murders of Fianait Redhand and Claw Redhand, as well as the attempted murder of Prince Kynyr Maguire. Your movements are hereby restricted to the precincts of the manor and Wolffgard. Should you attempt to leave before the initial hearing, you will be considered outlaw, and subject to the laws of outlawry, including but not limited to the forfeiture of your life."

Malthus felt as if he had been pole-axed.

"Now that you have met Ossian, I will go and pay my final respects to my murdered family.” Stone followed Merissa into the Great Hall.

EPILOGUE

Kynyr went to see Finn as soon as word of the MacLachlan victory reached him. As he wheeled himself into the room he saw the Darcy and Pandeena were there ahead of him.

Darcy sat holding Finn's hand with tears in her eyes and a brittle smile. Pandeena spoke a series of phrases and then blessed both of them.

It took Kynyr a moment to recognize what was happening, and then a grin lit his face.

He wheeled closer. “Congratulations. Can I kiss the bride?"

Darcy flushed. “You certainly cannot."

Finn gave Kynyr a wan smile. “Soon as I can sit right, I'm gonna get me one of those chairs and race you down the halls."

"Yeah, Finn. Ugly cubs have more fun,” said Kynyr. “Except when you fail to invite me to the wedding."

Darcy ran her finger through the remains of Finn's pale hair. The surgeons had shaved the back of it to get a better look at the place where the mace had met Finn's skull. “We didn't plan it. Spur of the moment, you know?"

Pandeena laughed. “I only came to check on Finn."

Lord Hoon had crossed the Hellblade Corridor, descending into Red Wolf with an army of six thousand by way of the Foulmuth Pass. When he arrived at the place where Malthus and Egidius had placed their camp, Hoon found that less than two hundred remained of the thousand he had provided over the course of seven months.

Zinzi came into his tent and dropped into a chair. “There has been some kind of a purge at the manor. They were throwing bodies on the trash heap."

Hoon frowned at Zinzi. “If an opportunity presents itself, seize the two boys, Darmyk and Cooley. Get them out of there and bring them to me. I will not have them at risk. They are the pawns I need to checkmate a queen."

"As you wish.” Zinzi poured a glass of blood wine. “And what will you be doing?"

"Burning Red Wolf to the ground."