Renaissance E Books
www.renebooks.com

Copyright ©

I am dedicating this to my first readers:

Mark Prins, Steven Beeho, and Andrea Wideman. Thanks for all the input, the aggravation, the arguing, and the fact that you're not afraid to tell me when I'm wrong. No one could hope for a better set of first readers.

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.

Lady Kady Maguire, six months pregnant, folded her hands together across her swollen belly. Her flaxen curls had grown out and hung to her shoulders. She wore her hair brushed behind her ears and secured in place with elegant clips. The night after she killed Cormic Parry in the Difficult Horse Tavern for trying to kidnap her, Kady had shown her hair off as a symbol of making a new beginning. The abused daughter of a tavernmaster with little hope for the future, Kady persuaded Cahira Sinclair, Kynyr's grandmother, to take her on as an apprentice. Kady had not really expected Cahira to accept her, because eighteen was considered too old to start an apprenticeship; since most cubs were apprenticed at ten. She fell in love and married Kynyr Maguire, only to discover that her dashing guardsmon was actually the bastard prince and heir to the lycan realm of Red Wolf. Treachery had struck him down, leaving him crippled and ill; however, in her heart, he would always be her Kynyr, strong and capable.

She regarded her husband with fond and loving eyes.

"We won, Kynyr."

Kynyr stirred in his wheel-chair. His chiseled features, which had been so handsome, were gaunt with deep purple circles beneath his blue eyes, rendered haggard by lines that aged his face beyond his twenty-one years. “We won a battle. Not the war."

"We'll win the war, too.” Her tone of voice betrayed her: she sounded as if she were trying to convince herself as well as Kynyr.

"I want to believe that, Kady. I really do. But it won't be easy.” Bitterness at being crippled edged his words, although he tried to hide it more and more. Iollen Newell, the one-armed widower who worked for them as an odd jobber, had slapped him with a stinging accusation of cowardice, jolting Kynyr into trying to cope with his situation.

"I'm not saying that it will be."

Belgair Doherty, the Captain of Claw's Guardsmyn, had thrown in his lot with Kynyr's mortal enemy, Malthus Estrobian. A bloody purge of the guardsmyn, prelude to a coup, had left many of Kynyr's friends dead or wounded. The next morning, Belgair attacked the Maguire Estate. Tobrytan MacFie had marched an army from Clan MacLachlan across a makeshift bridge during the night, arriving in time to hand Belgair's forces a devastating defeat. Belgair himself had perished in the battle, cut down by Kynyr's legendary grandfather, Todd Sinclair.

"Kynyr Maguire?” A giant of a lycan entered the room and raked his amber eyes across Kynyr. He stood six seven, with big, thick bones, black hair, and fair skin. His air of casual arrogance proclaimed an ability to tackle whatever life threw at him and beat it into submission.

Kynyr stared uneasily. He had never seen anyone larger than Todd. He let the brake off on his wheel-chair and rolled forward. “Yes, I'm Kynyr."

A smile blossomed on Kady's face. “Hello, Stone."

Stoneriver had been born Brock Redhand, the younger brother of the late chieftain Claw. By rights, Stone should have been old. The average lycan lifespan was one hundred twenty. He looked barely thirty, although he was well past one hundred.

"There are no miracles, except those we make for ourselves,” said Stone. “Allow me."

Kynyr could not think of what to say and so sat motionless, watching Stone roll up his own sleeve. Then he pushed Kynyr's out of the way and pressed his forearm to his, skin to skin.

The prince could not do magic, but he could see the patterns of arcane energy—an inheritance from his grandmother, Cahira. Stone spoke words in a language that Kynyr, fluent in many tongues, had never heard before. A pattern of crimson and azure wrapped around their arms. A jolt of energy rushed through Kynyr, filling him with a sense of well being. His body tingled from the tips of his toes and fingers to the top of his head.

"What was that?"

"Shared Life done wrong.” A leisurely smile, laced with cockiness, spread across Stone's face. “I can't say how much good it will do, but my kinsmon Dynarien says it might surprise you."

"You're a lifemage?"

"No. I just do tricks. There will be no more chieftains in Red Wolf, if I have any say in it, and I think I will have a lot. No, there will be a king."

"Who?"

"Kynyr Maguire."

His name, so simply spoken, stunned Kynyr, and he repeated an old Creeyan proverb without thinking. “Duty is where you find it."

Kady moved closer, and laid her hand over Kynyr's squeezing it.

The edges of Stone's mouth twitched. “After everything that has happened, I am surprised that you can still say that."

"What else would I say? I'm Todd Sinclair's grandson.” Kynyr shrugged, grasped his thigh, and shifted the unresponsive leg into a more comfortable position. Kady immediately tucked his lap blanket into place again. Kynyr caressed Kady with his eyes, and then turned back to his uncle. “What did you do to me? What do you mean by Shared Life done wrong?

"Do you know what Shared Life is?"

"My grandmother's a mage. My father was a schoolteacher.” Kynyr felt suddenly defensive. Too many people had assumed in the past—including Malthus—that because he had chosen to become a guardsmon, he was the usual ignorant sod with more fight than sense. “Josiah Abelard created it to mimic the gifts of the lifemages, transferring both blood and life force."

"I see you're an educated mon. Done wrong, it leaves in the random factor, and what might come of that, no one can predict."

Kynyr considered the implications. It was a strange introduction to his infamous uncle; so he decided to let the matter drop.

The number of banners flying from the tall pole in the middle of the commons had grown. As each thane arrived for the witan, another banner was added to the others. The seventeen thanes of Red Wolf had gathered in the capital of Wolffgard to confirm or deny the last wishes of their late chieftain, Claw Redhand.

Thane Clennan Doherty was a hard mon. The cut of his dark clothing concealed the withered left leg and arm; while his glove made a black sheathed claw of that hand. He drew rein on the common and stared first at the long scaffolds. The icy weather had preserved the bodies of scores upon scores of myn hanging from them like grotesque fruit.

"What happened here?” He demanded and then his eyes fell upon a body, set higher and apart from the rest: Belgair. “They killed my son."

A stout horsemon rode up to him, round as an apple and ruddy cheeked. “It's been a while, Clennan."

"Vertram,” Clennan acknowledged the Thane of Chandler's Rock. Vertram Devlin was the richest thane in Red Wolf. Three major trade routes met at Chandler's Rock and, as a result, his wealth rivaled that of the Redhand family. He was also a drunken skirt chaser whose present official mistress was Clennan's eighteen-year-old granddaughter Jocelyn.

"They've split us up, Clennan. Some of us are staying at the Lawgiver House, others at the Manor, and a privileged few at the bastard's mansion."

"Which way does the wind blow for you, Vertram?"

"Same as yours. Hang the bastard."

Clennan raked the thumb of his dessicated claw across his chin. “Who killed my son?"

"Todd Sinclair. The legend has returned."

"Legends can die, Vertram.” His tone made that statement a promise.

Two horsemyn reined in behind Clennan, watchful guardians wearing Battle-clan fingerbones braided into their long pale hair. Slender, straw-haired Faerwald Davies and his brawny towheaded companion, Lairgan Yates, enforced Clennan's wishes. They were duelists by trade, bodyguards by circumstance, and—if the rumors that Vertram had heard were true—they dabbled in assassination at Clennan's orders. The soulless gaze of a true predator jarred with the easy set of their mouths, as if they found amusement in everything they saw and did. Faerwald's thin lips acknowledged Vertram in a manner that sent a shiver up the thane's spine.

Each of them carried a plain-looking saber with a solid half basket hilt at their hips and a main gauche on the opposite side. There was nothing fancy about them; everything was serviceable and practical as befitted myn who knew their business.

Clennan's eyes drifted again to his son's dangling body. No signs of grief showed on the Thane's face, nor in his words. His voice remained hard and steady. “Tell me how my son died."

"I don't know much of it. Todd put a blade in his belly. The one you want to speak with is Lennox Strahan. However, he's gone into hiding."

"Can you arrange a meeting?"

Vertram nodded his answer, unable to think of what more to say.

Sorcha's Wing contained the most spacious suites in the manor; yet it had remained empty and unused since shortly after the Lycan Rebellion of 997. With all the thanes present, Stone had ordered those suites opened and cleaned. As the rooms became ready, Stone allowed those thanes lodged in temporary quarters at the Lawgiver House to move into the manor for the duration of their stay. He hoped to swiftly have them all under one roof where he and his myn could keep an eye on them. Custom limited each of them to not more than twenty myn-at-arms at a witan. It did not limit the number of myn in their baggage train, such as servants and ladies’ maids for those who brought their mistresses and wives.

He made them draw lots to see who got each suite as they became available; which irritated them. To his second in command, Lord Reist Devlin Thane-Regent of Gateshead, this proved awkward when both his father Vertram Devlin and Clennan Doherty managed to land at the manor ahead of the others. Reist experienced misgivings toward the entourages of those two, because some of those ‘servants’ had the look of housecarles and soldiers. Despite the customary limit, Reist doubted that either of them held any qualms about sneaking in more fighting myn than they were allowed.

The spacious Audience Chamber of Stone's father, Suleahan Redhand, had been re-opened and now served as a gathering place for the Thanes and others. Claw's Great Hall had been relegated to a viewing room for the bodies of the three members of the Redhand family who had died the day of the purge. Reist drifted through the Great Hall toward the three coffins on the viewing platform. Normally, those who died in the winter were not buried until spring. The ground was too hard to dig graves. The dead were simply laid out on the rooftops and preserved by the snow that covered them.

However, Stone had given the task of digging to the gryphons and mages of Lieutenant Jennifer Sherbourne's unit; the latter to thaw the ground and the former to do the actual digging. The graves had been dug and then covered with wood panels to keep the snow out until the day of the funeral. A time had been set for viewing the dead each day. The citizens of Red Wolf started lining up outside the manor doors at sunrise for an opportunity to pay their final respects to the dead chieftain. Claw Redhand had been well loved by the people, if not always by the thanes.

The center of the Great Hall had been roped off into viewing lines. Trestle tables and rough wooden chairs that did not encourage long spells of sitting lined the sides. The looms and spinning wheels that once sat near the huge hearth had been placed in storage; and most of the furniture that had filled the room had been moved to the Audience Chamber.

Tension threaded Reist when he heard Vertram's voice at the far end of the dimly lighted hall. Desirous of avoiding his father, he would have turned around and left had he not heard his wife's voice sharp in reply. He had married his widowed cousin Regina in a move that had been purely political and based on atonement. Her husband and his family had been butchered in the massacre at Gateshead. Thane Cedric Hargrave of Whiteford had then pressed Reist into marrying her to provide a legal protector to Regina and her two surviving cubs.

Regina stood facing Vertram, the color heightening in her cheeks as she spoke. She had put off her black robes of mourning, which startled Reist, and wore a cobalt blue dress that accentuated the mounds of her breasts with a delicate kazamerie shawl thrown over it. She carried the saber that Reist had given her as a wedding gift at her side, hanging from a tooled leather belt. It destroyed the illusion of femininity provided by the dress, but Reist liked it.

"The marriage can be set aside, Regina.” Vertram's eyes drifted from her face to her breasts.

It had been twenty years since Reist had laid eyes on Vertram. He noticed, with vindictive satisfaction, that his father had gotten fat. A huge paunch hung over the sword belt worn low on Vertram's hips to accommodate his girth. There would be no more of his youthful shenanigans such as disguising himself as a hunter to stalk a bitch whose father objected to him—with that girth, Vertram was unmistakable.

"It most certainly cannot.” Her eyes flashed. “Consummation was duly recorded."

Reist sensed, more than saw, the desperation beneath Regina's words as she floundered in her defense. He decided to put a show on and swaggered to her side with a naughty boy gleam in his eyes.

Regina flinched when he put his arm around her shoulders and kissed her cheek.

"I wondered where you were, Reggie."

Vertram glared at Reist and then exploded, making him wonder how long that argument had been going on between his father and his wife. “Don't cross me, Reist."

"Why would I do that, Vertram?” Reist tilted his head with a devil-may-care smile.

The thane of Chandler's Rock stiffened. “Show some respect! I'm your father."

Anger wilted Reist's determination to make a game of it. His jaw clenched. “Only because it was your seed that quickened my mother's belly. In none of the ways that count are you my father. Don't expect any familial pleasantries or sense of obligation from me. I don't owe you any."

"I have other heirs, Reist."

Reist shrugged. “I disowned you twenty years ago, Vertram. Enjoy your other heirs. They are all you have.” He looped his arm through Regina's. “Come on, Reggie. Jenny has called a meeting in the Blue Room."

He led her upstairs and when they passed the Blue Room heading in the direction of Sorcha's Wing, Regina stopped him and turned to face the door. “Jenny?"

"I lied. I figured that you wanted to get away from him."

"I did. Thank you."

"Why the dress?"

"For the sake of appearances. I decided I should look like a new bride rather than a mourning widow.” She lowered her head; an edge of uneasiness lined her mouth. “Jenny suggested it. We've been going through some chests of clothes we found stored—with Stone's permission of course."

When Reist and Stone rescued her from the slavers, Regina had had only the torn dress she had been captured in. Thane Cedric's wife had found a few things that would fit her before they left Whiteford, but Regina needed a wardrobe suited to her circumstances.

Reist kissed her hair again, and felt her flinch. “Reggie, you don't have to be afraid of me. It's only affection. I won't claim my conjugal rights."

He had mounted her only once, which had been on the day of the wedding. The Readers had needed to confirm consummation to prevent the marriage from being set aside by the greedy thanes with their eyes upon the lands and the titles of her children.

"Reist, I'm just..."

"Don't worry about it. The bitches have started gathering in Sorcha's solar to gossip or whatever it is they do. Why don't you join them? I'll show you the side stairs so you don't have to cross the roof."

"Bloody thanes ... can't go anywhere without someone to warm their bloody beds."

Reist chuckled. “That's my Reggie. The soul of propriety and outrage."

"I don't understand why I have to return the horses,” Darcy grumped, while running a comb through her fox red hair. Her mutilated left ear showed for an instant before being covered as she tied her hair into a tail. The lower end of the earlobe had been bitten off in a tavern brawl when Darcy was sixteen. She carried a pair of axes in her belt with a cross-hilted broadsword hanging from her shoulder.

The night of the purge, Darcy had been sent on a reconnaissance of the manor grounds, and returned with every single horse she could steal from Claw's barns and stables, forcing Belgair's troops to fight on foot.

"They're Kynyr's horses now that Claw is dead.” Finn reached out and brushed his fingers across his wife's cheek. Cahira Sinclair had completed the repairs on his right arm and the splints were gone. It hurt and throbbed if he used it too much; Cahira was a Mender, not a lifemage. The effort required to fix the extensive damage to Finn's body left Cahira exhausted; which meant that she had to take it a bit at a time allowing several days between each session to recover her strength and energies.

When Belgair Doherty, Captain of the Guards to Claw Redhand, turned traitor and launched a violent purge of the guards, Finn MacIver had been captured and tortured. Belgair's chastisemon, Damien Kildare, had broken his arms and legs, dislocated his hips and shoulders, and applied both a silver spiked whip and hot irons to him.

"They're his only if the thanes don't decide to hang him instead.” Darcy's lips curled back; she doubled her fists and punched the wall.

Darcy was a battle-bitch; full of temper and savagery, except in the bedroom. Battle-bitches were rare, but not unheard of. Finn adored her, tantrums and all.

He took her hand and kissed her knuckles. “I think you cracked it."

"My knuckles?"

"The wall.” His eyes turned impish and his smile droll.

Darcy stood and examined the wall, finding not a mark upon it. “Oh, you wicked runagate, Finn MacIver."

"Afraid I won't be running at any gates soon.” Finn indicated the splints on his legs.

"You know what I meant."

"Yeah."

"So I've got you trapped. You're at my mercy.” Darcy leaned in and kissed her husband thoroughly.

"Always was. You just didn't know it."

"Ugly cubs do have more fun.” She shoved her hand under his blankets; receiving a silly grin from Finn when she found the right spot to fondle.

The east side of Sorcha's Solar received sunlight through a long row of windows that alternated in stained glass and clear. A succession of fine cabinets stood between the windows. Sofas and chairs formed false alcoves around low tables and higher end tables. A fire burned in the hearth on the west side, warming the room in ways that the sunlight could not on that chilly day close to winter solstice. The windowless walls of the west side bristled with fine portraits of generations of the ruling Redhand family, painted by artists famous in their day. A sturdy square table, higher than the others, had place of honor on the west side for playing games.

Merissa Redhand Estrobian sat weeping. The chamber had not been used since before her birth. The portraits made her feel as if the long dead had their eyes upon her in judgment of her sins. The one that bothered her most, however, was the painting of Tarrant Redhand, the brother she had never known because he had died before her birth: the mon in the picture looked precisely like Kynyr down to the tiniest detail. The portraits of Tarrant, which now hung throughout the manor, had been taken down soon after his death because, Merissa had been told, seeing them had made her mother cry. Claw ordered them returned to the walls after the details of Kynyr's ancestry came out.

Nearly to term with Malthus’ twins, she felt awkward and uncomfortable at the best of times. Merissa hated her husband. She could not imagine ever having loved him. Malthus had murdered her parents, her two aunts, and poisoned her nephew Kynyr. She wished with all her heart that she could betray him to her Uncle Brock, who now called himself Stoneriver. However, Malthus was sa'necari, one of the blood-drinking necromancers at war with her people. His arcane coercions lay so deeply set in her brain that she could not speak of what she knew. She had not known that he was sa'necari when she married him. Like everyone else, Merissa had believed him to be human. It was too late now and all she could do was mourn.

A witan had not been called since before her birth, and the number of thanes that Merissa had met over the years could be counted on one hand. Her mother, Aisha, had tried to protect her from the backbiting and intrigues of a formal court by dispensing with them. Merissa found herself unprepared for the degree of slanderous talk poured into her reluctant ears at every opportunity by the seven mistresses of the thanes that had accompanied their lovers to the witan.

They sat gossiping and making catty remarks, verbally jockeying for dominance. Jocelyn Doherty lorded it over them in ways that no one could compete with. The eighteen-year-old mistress of Thane Vertram Devlin possessed a measured sensuality gilded with a twist of venom, enhanced by the skilled application of rouge, eye shadow, and lip-stain. Although she told everyone how much in love she was with her wealthy paramour, most believed that she loved his money more.

Jocelyn patted Merissa's hand. “It's just baby blues. You should have seen me when I had my second one."

"My father and mother are dead,” Merissa snarled. “It's not baby blues."

"So how many bastards have you given Vertram so far, Jocelyn?” Lillian Morrissey's salacious smile bloomed. She belonged to the thane of Castleborough, Banan Garrard.

"Just two. You should see the ruby pendant he gave me after I birthed the last one. I swear it's as big as my fist."

"The greatest sign of a thane's favor is a large belly,” said Lillian, quoting an old proverb, adding, “And also plenty of jewelry, of course."

Berneen Hamilton, Clennan's sixteen-year-old mistress, dropped her hand to her belly. The puffiness showed only when her clothes were off, but loomed conspicuous in her own mind.

Jocelyn noticed the gesture and sneered at her. “Oh, has grandfather finally managed to get you all nice and full?"

Berneen winced. “Two months ago."

"At least we don't have to worry about him marrying you or something equally stupid.” Jocelyn sniffed. “He says that, after outliving three wives, he has no interest is doing so again. No need to dilute our inheritances further."

"He's told me that.” Berneen shifted uneasily, averting her eyes from Jocelyn's condescension.

Emma Smythe kept her head down, focusing on her embroidery, threading a strand of lavender floss. She seemed to be no more than fourteen, and yet her belly was so swollen she looked ready to burst like an overripe melon.

"Such a sorry lot of bloody whores you all are.” Regina Devlin stalked through the room. “You'll take any worn cock into your hole if it's got a title and money. Then you parade your swollen bellies around as if they were badges of honor. You make me sick."

Emma cringed, ducking her head as a sudden tear trickled down her cheek.

"How dare you!” Jocelyn raised her hand to slap Regina.

"Touch me and Vertram will have a dead slut to bury.” Regina jerked Jocelyn from the chair, sending her tumbling onto the floor, and settled into the vacated seat. She put her arm around Merissa. “If you need to cry, you need to cry. Don't listen to them. It looks like the thanes brought their whores, but not their wives."

Regina's mouth curled around the word ‘whore’ and she mouthed it at them several times without quite saying it.

Merissa laid her head on Regina's comforting shoulder and wept freely. The rest of the bitches withdrew to the other side of the room, whispering and throwing baleful looks at Regina.

"It's always okay to cry, Merissa. I've done a fair bit of that myself lately."

"Johfrit?"

"And my son Gadhra. They butchered him in front me.” Regina's lips tightened for an instant. “Those who did it have been sent to hell."

"I'm so sorry about your husband and son."

Regina hugged her. “Then we'll be sorry together."

Darmyk Redhand eyed the gathered bitches distrustfully as he trotted into the room with his cat, Kerry, clutched to his chest and something wiggling in his other hand. He headed straight for Merissa. “Mama?"

Jocelyn gave a high-pitched laugh of disdain. “Speaking of bastards, Merissa. Here's yours. At least mine are not sa'necari."

Regina bristled. “Just because you're not happy to see me, Jocelyn, don't take it out on the cub."

Merissa went pale and averted her eyes. They would never have dared talk to her like that when her father was alive. Her first love had been sa'necari, the last Dark Brother of the Light, Isranon who now called himself Dawnreturning. He had left her to rejoin his prince fighting a war he could not hope to win. Custom had the force of law, and under a less enlightened ruler than her father Merissa would have been stoned to death for bearing the child of a sa'necari.

She clutched her three-year-old son to her. Darmyk had developed swiftly, in those intermittent rushes to maturity that came of having a lycan mother. Despite his small size, he moved and spoke on a par with a seven-year-old human.

"Mama, Kerry caught a rat. I don't want him to eat it, Mama.” Darmyk looked up at his mother solemn eyed and released the squirming rat on her lap. Darmyk was a wilderkin, with a talent for talking to animals and understanding them. The rat jumped down and made a beeline for Jocelyn.

The cluster of bitches sprang to their feet screeching. Lillian snatched up a chair and tried to beat the rat with it, but the chair was too large and the creature too small. It leaped onto Jocelyn and swarmed up her shoulder before springing onto a cabinet and disappearing.

"Your filthy little blood-drinker is a beast,” snarled Jocelyn.

Darmyk's lips trembled. “I don't want to drink blood."

"Well, you will and you'll like it once you get your fangs. Filthy sa'necari bastard.” Lillian joined Jocelyn, glaring at Darmyk. “They should have stoned your mother for bearing you."

Darmyk burst into sobs.

"Let him alone. He's only a child.” Regina lifted Darmyk onto her hip and held him. “Come on, Merissa. Let's go sit in the Rose Room. I hear it is a nice place."

Merissa gave Regina a grateful look and rose to her feet. “My mother always loved it. It was her special place."

The Rose Room was small—by the standards of the manor—decorated in deep shades of rose and mauve. Regina lowered Darmyk to the floor and he scampered to join his mother sitting on the sofa. She crossed to the south wall and admired the mural of lycans at a picnic in the middle of a rose garden; the males in hybrid form and the females in human while true wolves romped around them. The wall hangings were all of pastoral scenes. Sofas and chairs formed half circles around three low tables, upholstered in matching rose brocades. A woven reed basket, containing knitting, occupied the corner of a sofa.

"Yours?” Regina asked, lifting a square of pale blue knitting from the basket.

Merissa shook her head. “My mother's.” Fresh tears leaked from her eyes. “My mother died in this room. Kissie found her on the floor over there."

Regina followed Merissa's pointing finger to a sofa with a pale mauve and butter-cream yellow brocade covering it. “I'm sorry. I didn't know that."

"I don't mind. I like it here.” Merissa rubbed her eyes. “I feel like she's watching me. I loved her. She was the only person I could always talk to. I dream of her."

"Sometimes those who have passed on communicate in dreams. What does she say?"

Merissa averted her eyes, her fingers tracing a pattern on the sofa. There was so much that Aisha said to her in those dreams. Some of it frightened Merissa, while other things that Aisha said comforted her. The coercions in her mind were so strong that Merissa could not speak of her husband in a negative manner, and so she could not tell Regina that Aisha spoke of a curse upon Malthus. “She says that the cubs will be born lycan. That our liege-god, Tala, has promised her a boon. She was a devout bitch."

"Then let us hope that it is a true dream."

A tiny knock came at the door.

"I swear,” Regina muttered, “If one of those whores has followed us..."

She stalked to the door, chanting ‘whore’ under her breath, and jerked it open.

Emma flinched at Regina's glare and spoke in a tiny voice with a hopeful smile flickering uncertainly on her lips. “Can I join you?"

"Come sit with me,” said Merissa, extending a kindly hand toward her.

"Merissa...” Regina cast a dubious glance at Merissa.

"She never joins the gossiping, Reggie."

Emma sucked in a breath, looking close to tears as she edged past Regina and joined Merissa on the sofa. She took her basket of embroidery from her arm and placed it beside her. “I don't like them."

Regina's ire melted away at the neediness in Emma's manner. She pulled a chair close and settled into it. “Which thane do you belong to?"

"Fletcher Matheson, Thane of Ottercreek. I didn't want him. I was going to marry my Jamie. He was saving up for the brideprice my Da wanted. Only Fletcher saw me..."

"Damnedable bloody thanes and their appetites.” Regina moved to the sofa and held Emma while the young bitch sobbed. She wondered how long Emma had been holding it in before the argument in the solar had brought it all to the surface. “How old are you, Emma?"

"Just turned fourteen."

Regina burst into a long string of curses.

Todd Sinclair was a legend: the greatest armsmaster the lycan clans had ever produced, and the last surviving hero of the Lycan Rebellion of 997. At one hundred and nine, he could feel his years in the aching of his bones on cold mornings. Age had crept up on him despite the stalwart resistance Todd had raised against it.

His wife, Cahira, reached for a robe to clothe her nakedness while he pulled on his trousers. They no longer made love with the intensity they had in their youth. Age and seventy years of marriage had turned it into an act of cherishing rather than passion.

Bare to the waist, massive scars showed on Todd's chest and mid-section. Few things could scar a lycan, but Todd had encountered most of them—and lived to speak of it. Deep folded lines ran from the wings of his nostrils to the outer edges of his lips; the crinkles around his dark blue eyes were crevices in the stalwart earthiness of his features. His heavy eyelids had never lent themselves to clear expression of emotion. Even those who knew him well sometimes had difficulty reading his face. His calm, centered mien and steady patience had won Cahira's heart and drawn her from mourning over the death of her first love, Tarrant Redhand. Todd never went looking for trouble, but once it found him was utterly relentless in dealing with it. He was as gentle with Cahira as he was dangerous to his enemies and those of his family.

He settled onto a chair beside the stool in front of her dresser. “Come here. I've mussed your hair."

"You're always mussing my hair.” Cahira smiled indulgently, gathered her hip-length blonde hair over her shoulder, and joined him at her dresser.

Todd brushed her hair lovingly, drawing the brush down in long strokes. When he finished, he braided it and kissed her cheek.

Every morning for more than seventy years—except when Todd was away—he brushed her hair. It had streaks of gray in it and the color had faded from the glorious cornsilk of her youth. She was a tiny bitch, barely five feet tall; made all the more diminutive by the contrast with her husband.

Todd stood six five and weighed over two hundred and fifty pounds. Most of it was still muscle despite his advanced age; rock hard and solid, broad through the shoulders and narrow through the hips. Strands of white streaked his bright red hair. Great size and red hair were Sinclair traits. All of his sons and grandsons had inherited it.

He left the chair, drew on a warm woolen shirt, and buckled on the leather harness that carried his two basket-hilted claymores at his shoulders. Todd shoved a pair of viciously curved battle-axes through his belt, and strapped two lycan fighting knives to his thighs.

She watched him with apprehensive eyes. “I'm afraid, Todd. I haven't been this afraid since the Rebellion."

"Don't be.” Todd crossed the room again and kissed her thoroughly.

"The thanes ... and the fighting on the borders. Thunder told me about the massacre at Gateshead yesterday."

"Anyone trying to get at Kynyr will have to go through me first."

"We're getting too old for this, Todd."

"I'll be too old when I'm dead.” The weary tone in Todd's voice, and the haunted calm of the battlefield in his eyes mitigated the harshness of his answer. “I failed Tarrant. I'm not failing Kynyr."

He turned away from her and walked out. Every morning, Todd went to the salle in the Maguire Mansion and worked through his complicated forms and exercises. Mirrors lined one wall and woven mats took up a third of the room. Cabinets, weapon racks and a small square table with four chairs occupied the rest of the salle. He found Stone waiting for him there. The Creeyan commander sat at the table near the door with a bottle of whiskey open and two glasses set out. Lycans had a high tolerance for liquor and produced very few bona fide alcoholics. Drug addicts were more common than chronic drunks; yet even they accounted for a no more than a tiny percentage of the population.

"I'd have come sooner had I known you were here.” Todd seated himself across from Stone, assessing him with wary eyes. “It's been a long time, Brock."

Stone's usual arrogance faded in discomfort. Todd had been the only mon to beat him in the days before the Rebellion; and Stone had given him a grudging respect as a result. But more to the point, he knew that Todd's legend was well deserved. “I'd rather you didn't call me that."

Todd shrugged. “Stone then."

"You've gotten old, Todd.” Stone drained his glass and refilled it.

"And you haven't. They're saying you're yuwenghau.” Todd had not credited the rumor that Stone was yuwenghau—one of those minor divines and demi-gods who roved the land as divine knights-errant—and occasionally as troublemakers. Looking at Stone again after ninety years had passed, seeing that he had not aged and, if anything, grown stronger, Todd rethought his assessment of the rumor.

"I am.” Stone lowered his head. “You know what Suleahan did to me? He chained me up. Put me in a mage-locked cage, covered it so that I would not know where they were taking me ... and abandoned me in a desolate spot in the Black Mountains. I pounded on that lock for three days before it finally broke."

"Ayup. I suggested it. Your father wanted to execute you ... asked me to do it. Don't make me regret talking him out of it."

"I'm your ally, Todd. Not your enemy."

"That remains to be seen.” Todd's mouth tightened.

"I suppose."

"I had no desire to spare you. Tarrant begged me to ... the only time I ever heard him beg ... and it wasn't for himself ... it was for you."

"I didn't know.” Stone stared into his glass for several minutes.

Todd refused to fill the silences with questions and just watched him.

"I'm not the mon I was, Todd. I've spent eighty years in the Netherguard atoning for what I did to Fianait and others."

"Like Clennan Doherty?"

A smile of rue with a trace of satisfaction touched the edges of Stone's mouth, and lit his eyes. “I don't regret what I did to Clennan. He tried to pull a cuckholder's strike on me ... to put a sword through me and Fianait as I was riding her."

"Doesn't surprise me. Clennan always was the jealous sort ... possessive of things he could not own. After you left, he used his injuries to play on Fianait's sympathies. When the healers said there was too much scar tissue for her to catch one in the belly again; he abandoned the courtship and made a play for Searlait. She rejected him soundly.” Todd paused, sidestepped the issue of Stone and Fianait having been brother and sister, and poured a glass of whiskey for himself. “Why have you come back?"

"People came looking for me when Claw became ill. I refused to come home until I met Kady. She appealed to my honor."

"Have you regained your honor?"

"If eighty years of atonement can't give that to me, then nothing in creation can."

"Perhaps."

Stone's wily arrogance crept back into his face. “I've met Kynyr ... or should I say Tarrant?"

"He looks just like him...” Todd settled back in his chair, trying not to show that Stone's change of subject had just hit him where it hurt. He had been Tarrant's guurmondru, a lycan term that incorporated father, brother, mentor, friend, and in some cases, protector. Cahira had been secretly betrothed to Tarrant and pregnant by him at the time of Tarrant's death. Todd had raised Tarrant's bastard son, Branduff, as his own. “Thinks a lot like him too. Even Claw noticed. He said it was like having Tarrant back."

"That's not what I'm talking about. He's Tarrant."

"It's not possible. Tarrant was rited. His soul was shattered."

"Kynyr's got only half a soul. I ought to be able to recognize that better than most. My maternal grandfather is Hadjys. I lost what little humanity was left in me and ravaged the villages of the Black Mountains. When Hadjys found me, I was completely insane. He tossed me into the deepest pit of his ninth hell. I was the only living mon amongst the tormented souls, observing their punishments, listening to the tale of their sins and their regrets. I spent nine years in hell. As my sanity returned, I was allowed to ascend to the next level and the next until finally I could breathe the sweet air of Daverana once more. I didn't know about the Rebellion until long after it ended."

"What's that got to do with saying Kynyr is Tarrant?"

"There's been rumors among my divine kinsmyn ... that one of the Nine crystalled the pieces of Tarrant's soul."

Todd sprouted hair along his arms and down the sides of his clean-shaven face. His lips curled back from his fangs and he snarled. “Give me the truth. I can see the lie in your eyes, Stone. I know you too well."

"You won't like it, but it won't change the fact that Kynyr is Tarrant."

"Say it."

"When Carneades Iagaris rited Tarrant, he bound a soul crystal into his mouth before starting the rite. He collected all the surviving pieces, intending to place them on a hellblade."

"Damn."

"I'm not finished. Have you ever wondered why Dynanna took such an interest in you?"

"She stumbled on me at Kinsdale Wood.” Tarrant had been captured by the Waejontori and their sa'necari masters at Kinsdale Wood, where Todd had been left for dead by his fleeing compatriots. Dynanna found him and nursed him back to health. He felt indebted to her.

"Every bit of good fortune that has followed you around since that day can be traced to her. Shortly after you left her care, she chanced upon another of the sa'necari soul vaults she loves to raid."

"But his soul shattered ... The Bloody Sa'necari doomed Tarrant to wander the world in torment."

"Usually, when someone attempts to bring back a shattered soul, the infant dies soon after birth, or dies in the womb. However, Dyna has found ways to achieve such births successfully—in most cases. The key seems to be bringing them back into their own lineages or the one they were born into. Possibly it's because the broken soul has an easier time bonding with those genetics."

"Assuming that you're right, Stone. Why give the father's soul to his own son to sire? Especially a son who had no direct connection to the rest of the family?"

Stone leaned his elbows on the table, his voice taking on an earnest tone, determined to convince Todd. “At the time, everyone was saying that Aisha was too old to conceive another child. No one expected her to produce Merissa two years later. I'm kweigeyl ... by my own choice. Better sterility than risk siring a monster. Bran was the only option. The pieces of Tarrant's soul would have kept breaking into smaller and smaller fragments over time until they were an insubstantial dust of memories scattered through the void. So Dyna must have been desperate to bring him back while she could still count on a high probability of success."

"But why bring him back at all?” Todd persisted in his disbelief.

"That's simple. Because you loved him, Dyna gave you a second chance to be there for him."

The hybrid state faded from Todd as he listened. “Gods, I want to believe you."

"Tell me, did Branduff meet a little old peddler? Did she give him something that looks like this?” Stone reached into his pocket and brought out a flat clear stone with crimson threads in its depths. It hung from a white gold chain.

Todd straightened and stared. “In Creeya. He helped this crone whose wagon wheel had gotten caught in a pothole. She asked him what his heart's desire was and he told her he wanted a son. He already had three daughters and no sons. She gave him one of those things. Called it a good luck charm. She told him to wear it when he made love to Ulicia and that it would get him a son. The family teased him incessantly over it. What is it?"

"Soul crystal. Only three groups use them. The sa'necari, the taladrim, and the Guild. This one is empty."

"Kynyr..."

"Is Tarrant. Tell me. Has she given him a sword?"

"Yes. Ladyfaith."

Stone's mouth twisted with rue and he chuckled. “Appropriate. Ladyfaith is the sister blade to Spiritdancer. He'll need it to get the rest of his soul back."

Todd looked thunderstruck as it all sank in, and the hope of his own personal redemption kindled in his heart. “The first word he learned to say was my name. The moment that Ulicia would set him on the floor as an infant, Kynyr would make a beeline for me, saying my name. My name. I never understood why he did not say ma or da first.” Todd's eyes searched the ceiling, putting more pieces together. “He told me that Brigit's ghost has appeared to him several times. He thought she must have confused him with Tarrant because she called him her prince."

"Dynanna is fond of bringing back powerful myn who have no love for the sa'necari."

"She's done this before?"

"Many times. Eldarion Havenrain is back. So is Josiah Abelard. She brought him back twice now."

"Abelard is back? I thought it had to be from his own direct lineage in accordance with the curse."

"The owner of a mage shop traded Josiah something he wanted in exchange for several well-filled seed crystals. She used one to bring him back as her son. The others were sold along with certificates of paternity."

Joy faded from Todd's eyes. “Ladyfaith is no good to Kynyr. You've seen how crippled he is."

"Miracles have been known to happen."

"What did you do to Kynyr?” Todd eyed Stone closely, trying to perceive whether there had been harm or aid behind his statement.

"How much lore do you have?"

"My wife is a mage."

Mages were rare among the lycans. When they did produce a mage, they were rarely above first level, able to do only small magics. Pandeena and Kady were among the rarest of the rare; the former a battlemage and the latter a pan-elementalist.

"Shared Life ... done wrong."

"Who was the donor?"

"Myself."

Dread mingled with hope in Todd's heart. “What if you've made him a monster? Have you considered that?"

"I think it's worth the risk, Todd. Most of the changes will not be clear until his soul is healed. You do want to see him walk again, don't you?"

"It depends upon what the price is, Stone. Some prices aren't worth paying."

Cooley Blackwood headed for Darmyk's treehouse at his first opportunity since returning to Wolffgard. He had a present for the boy that Jennifer Sherbourne, Stone's Master of Mages, had made at Cooley's request. The eleven-year-old cub looked closer to nine because of his small height and stature, but he carried himself as confidentially as an adult. His long, white at the edge of blond, hair hung in a tail down his back. The only thing that he had inherited from his Waejontori mother was his velvet brown eyes. He wore a pair of lycan fighting knives strapped to his thighs and he knew how to use them well, having killed three myn in the last six months; one of them to save Rory, and later two thieves that had tried to rob him on the road to Three Stones. His late father, a military courier, had taught Cooley to fight with a knife from the moment he could hold one steady in his hand.

Ten-year-old Rory Scott trailed after him, looking like a scamp despite the shoes and new clothes that Cahira Sinclair had bought him. He had a snub nose, a sprinkling of freckles, reddish brown hair that never stayed combed for long, and azure eyes that glinted with mischief. The citizens of Wolffgard considered him the town sneak because he always knew what was going on and showed up in unlikely places.

"You sure we ought to go there? Malthus threatened to tan our arses if we stepped onto the grounds again."

"He's got no more rights than a rolled john,” Cooley scoffed. He had been reared in a brothel, where his mother Silkie was the madam, until he was ten. Last summer he had been sent to live with Kynyr Maguire following the murder of his military courier father, Cullen Blackwood, in hopes of being safe there. He had become Todd Sinclair's youngest student.

"You're not afraid of him, Cooley?” Hamish trailed them. Rory's brother would not turn nine until spring. He had the same scruffy hair as Rory, but his eyes were more green than azure.

The Scott cubs hesitated at the edge of the property, eyeing the guards on duty. One of them was hulking Gorgarty Burr. No one liked Gorgarty Burr, and more than a few were afraid of the big guardsmon who was too quick with his fists and not overly bright.

Cooley strode into the yard as if he owned the place. Rory and Hamish exchanged uneasy glances. Then Hamish shrugged and trotted to overtake Cooley.

Gorgarty let out a loud guffaw when he saw them and stepped in front of Cooley. “Well, if it ain't the slut's son. Your ma let you watch it?"

Cooley gave the big guardsmon a tight-lipped look filled with cocksure attitude. “You'd stick it inna mud hole if you thought it'd suck."

"Why you little..."

Gorgarty made a grab at Cooley. The cub ducked and sidled out of reach.

"Touch the young master and I will kill you.” Iswara appeared out of the trees, his hand resting upon his tulwar. He carried a wicked kandjarli dagger with a thrice-curved blade thrust through his sash, and wore a heavy coat that flared at the waist with long slits front and back for riding. His brown matte skin and luminous black eyes in a face suggestive of his feline nature set him apart from the lycans as much as his outland clothing.

Cooley snickered. He had known from the first that Iswara was shadowing him. Over the weeks of their journey in search of a lawgiver for Wolffgard, the cub had developed an instinct for knowing when Iswara was about.

Gorgarty straightened and glared at the newcomer. “He's just a smart arsed son of a slut."

"Another word and I will open your gullet to see what spills out.” Iswara drew his blade. “You are insulting Prince Cooley Blackwood."

"That cub ain't a prince."

"His highness is the grandson of the late Prince Shintar of Waejontor. I am his bodyguard."

Gorgarty glanced around at his companions for support, but the guardsmyn moved away from him. He sucked in a breath and backed down; discretion proving stronger than stupidity at that moment. “If you say so."

Cooley strutted to the treehouse with his growing entourage and climbed the rope ladder without a backward glance.

Rory gave Cooley a skeptical going over with his eyes. “Your ma was a princess?"

"Yes, she was.” Bodi poked his head out of the door of the treehouse and slapped his book. “It says so right here."

As Rory climbed the rope ladder that led into the first floor of the huge treehouse, he caught sight of Ros and Lyrri, Malthus Estrobian's nieces. “There's the trouble makers!” He stuck his tongue out and made a rude noise at them.

Hamish sat down on the edge of the flat skirting and waved his feet back and forth. Lyrri had blacked his eye weeks ago in a fistfight in the cemetery. “Cooley's a prince and you're not good enough to play with us now."

The two girls were stronger than they looked and twice as mean. They all knew that Darmyk was afraid of them with good reason, and had begun to snub the girls.

The entire gang was in the treehouse to Cooley's delight: Sugar Maple, with her dreamy eyes and long marmalade hair; Pieface the carrot top with a pair of pie pans hanging from his belt; Bodi sitting curled up in a chair with his book open on his lap; Drak with his pale skin and inky black hair and a cummerbund around his waist; Frankie, who never seemed quite human; Lilac with her auburn hair and pouches of pennies; and Grymmy with his miniature scythe; as well as Darmyk.

Sugar Maple tilted her head and smiled at Cooley, patting the spot on the floor beside her. She spooked Cooley at times, never seeming entirely present in her mind, as if her thoughts were drifting across worlds unseen. “We are speaking of tacks and chairs. I hear you are a warrior now."

Cooley put his hands on his blades and swaggered as he joined her, feeling a swell of pride at his adventures. “Military courier's gotta know how to fight. And I do. So if anybody bothers you, Sugar, you just tell me."

She laughed softly and clapped her hands. “My champion."

Cooley settled closer to her and she kissed him on the cheek, sending a bright blush across his face.

Pieface patted his two silver pie pans hanging on his belt. “I'm a paladin. Yes, I am and Talons gave me a big smackaroni right there!"

He patted his cheek.

Lilac leaned forward, a strand of auburn hair slipping across her round face. “Hush, that's a secret, Pieface."

"Nah, Cooley's okay. We can tell him."

"What about them?” She pointed at Rory and Hamish.

"I can keep a secret.” Rory scratched at his nose. “I'm better'n Cooley at keeping secrets."

Sugar Maple's vision seemed to turn inward, her eyes went distant, and then she shook her marmalade hair back. “We can tell them."

"Who gets to do the tattling ... err telling?” Bodi leaped off the bed where he had been sitting with Darmyk and paraded in small circles. “Me? I can tell it good."

"No.” Sugar Maple gestured. A tree branch snaked into the treehouse through the door. It picked Bodi up and put him back on the bed.

Cooley blinked and the Scott cubs stared. “Muh-magic."

Sugar Maple gave a slow nod. “We're all magic, Cooley. Except for you, Rory, and Hamish."

"Does your grandma know?” Rory asked, recovering.

The children laughed.

"Yes, she knows.” Sugar Maple gestured again and the tree branch withdrew from the room. “That is why she brought us. We are the paladins of Dynanna."

Cooley put his back against the wall with a whistle of surprise. He knew the old saying well, and could not help muttering it. “The trouble the Trickster can get people into and out of is both legion and legend."

Frankie extended his hand, and as the glamour dropped, Cooley nearly choked in startlement: Frankie was made of living stone.

Rory then let out a shriek as Grymmy's hood slipped back, revealing a pale, gaunt, almost skeletal face and skin the color of a dead fish's underbelly. “Holy shite..."

"Don't be afraid.” Sugar Maple laughed. “We're here to help."

Eight-year-old Ros Estrobian watched the children with a petulant expression. No one ever came to play with her and Lyrri. They all came to play with the nasty boy that had crawled out of a lycan's belly. She could smell death on Darmyk every time she passed him. Her Uncle Malthus had told her he intended to kill the boy once Claw was dead. She felt cheated and deprived, having wanted to kill Darmyk herself.

Ros was a prodigy, born with the fangs, appetites and powers that normally only came to the sa'necari-born at puberty. She was forever licking at her fangs when no one would see her, testing to see if they had gotten any larger. Ros closed her mouth tightly and allowed her needle-like fangs to descend from their sheaths in her gums and ran her tongue over them, unable to detect any changes at all.

They slipped back into the manor through a servants’ door. The place was crowded with new faces and the livery of many different households. Ros heard Stone's voice and stiffened, pausing in place like a frightened animal, alert to trouble. As he drew closer, Ros grabbed her sister and pulled her into a large closet filled with linens and blankets.

The two little girls were conspicuous among the children at the manor. Their silken black hair and coppery skin set them apart from the fair-skinned, light-haired lycans.

"What is it?” Lyrri grumped. “Why are we hiding now?"

Since the Creeyans arrived, it seemed as if all they did was sneak about and hide.

Ros opened the door a crack and peered through it. “The monster is coming."

"Which monster?” Lyrri crouched and peered through with her head below her sister's.

"The Stone monster."

Reist and Regina walked beside Stone talking. He seemed like a giant to the two little girls—a big ugly giant from one of the cautionary tales their Uncle Malthus was always telling them.

Stone kneaded his neck. “Everything's a mess. Merissa's too ill to run the household. The nibari are managing, but they need more direction."

"What have you got in mind?” Regina asked him.

"I want you to do it, Reggie."

"Me?” Regina scoffed. “You'd be inundated with complaints in no time."

"That's because you won't take any guff from the thanes and their entourages,” Reist said in a droll tone. “You could handle it, Reggie."

She glanced from one to the other. “I think you've been discussing this already."

Stone gave her a smile of swaggering cheek. “I want you to take them in hand. Especially Malthus’ nieces. They're always darting here and there as sneaky as thieves. Darmyk seems to be afraid of them."

Ros waited until they had passed before snarling softly. “Take us in hand? Sneaky as thieves are we?"

"You think he wants to eat us?” Lyrri's eyes saucered in alarm. She remembered what their Uncle Malthus had told them about the lycans not only killing their father, but eating him as well. “Maybe we should stay in the playroom. Or in our rooms."

"We'll do what we want to do."

Loitering in the hallway, Faerwald watched the girls emerge from the closet. He stopped talking to Lairgan, and moved toward them, noticing the way that Ros limped. “Another bloody cripple. Seems there's a lot of them."

Ros flinched at the disgust in his voice. “Filthy lycan."

"You're the sa'necari pair, aren't you?"

Ros drew herself up into a stance of childishly exaggerated defiance. “Yes."

"Come here."

Ros backed away from him, keeping Lyrri behind her. “Don't touch me."

"I said, come here. I want to have a look at you."

Ros retreated and Faerwald followed. Unable to run with the damaged leg, she headed down the hall, slinging it from the hip to move faster and glancing over her shoulder at the lycan who seemed more menacing by the moment. Ros held onto the shoulder of Lyrri's dress, pulling her along. She glanced back again and stumbled, pulling both of them to the floor. Faerwald loomed above them, scanning her critically.

"The only thing I've ever done with a sa'necari was slip them the blade. But then those were adults."

He reached out and grasped Ros’ arm, lifting her up. She spied her uncle stepping out of a room two doors from them and let out a yelp. “You're hurting me."

"Let go of my niece!” Malthus lunged for him, and clamped down on Faerwald's hand with a twist to free Ros. She dropped to the ground and cowered.

Faerwald responded with a counter grab, yanking Malthus close. A dagger appeared in his hand and he pricked Malthus under the chin with it. “Don't cross me. I wasn't going to hurt her ... just curious."

"Who the hell are you?"

"Faerwald Davies. Captain of Lord Clennan Doherty's bodyguards."

Kissie had come into season two months ago, and Aisha had ordered her bred to the new stud, Klaudi. He had been kind and gentle in his mountings, yet Kissie had been glad to see it over and done with once she caught.

Nibari had ninety-day fertility cycles with only a week of opportunity for breeding each time. They caught easily, which made up for narrowness of their infrequent cycles. The sa'necari owners tended to breed them frequently; the lycans were more considerate. It had been six years since Kissie was last bred, and the pregnancy was reassuring to her in the disturbing times she found herself in.

If the thanes elected to give the realm to Merissa, then Malthus would have ownership of her as Merissa's husband. She disliked Malthus. He seemed so harsh and cruel. On the other hand, if Kynyr became chieftain, then she could trust him to treat her kindly.

She gathered her cleaning tools onto a wheeled cart and pushed it down to the suite that Claw and Aisha had occupied. Kissie had put off cleaning it after their deaths, because it made her cry at the thought that they were both dead.

Stone glanced at her as she came in. He stood at Aisha's dresser, trailing his forefinger through a thick spill of fragrant dusting powder on the surface. “Are you the one who usually cleans this room, Kissie?"

"Yes, Master Stone."

He jabbed his finger into the spill. “Was Aisha always this messy?"

Kissie dipped her finger into it and sniffed the powder. “This is Aisha's favorite. The Creeyan Rose. She would never have spilled it like this and left it."

"Could it have been spilled when my brother was murdered?"

Kissie flinched, lowering her eyes. “Master Claw died of a heart attack."

"Master Claw was murdered. I just haven't figured out how yet."

"You're frightening me."

Stone gave her head a comforting stroke, feeling the tension melt away from her. “Do not clean this suite until I have more time to investigate it. Sit down over there, Kissie.” He pointed at an overstuffed chair flanking a small wooden table.

He gave her a glance that, while not unkind, still made her want to cower. Kissie left her cleaning cart by the door and sank into the chair with her hands folded in her lap.

"I want to ask you a few questions."

"Yes, Master Stone."

"Just Stone, Kissie. We're going to be friends."

"Yessir."

Stone settled into a chair opposite her. “Tell me, when did you notice the first signs that my brother did not feel well?"

Kissie prided herself on having a good memory, which was why Aisha had made her head nibari. “The day of the wedding. He kept kneading his chest and arm. He asked me to send for Baroucha."

"So the problems might have started before Malthus began living here. Did Malthus give him presents?"

"Yessir. Wine and liquor mostly. The first gifts came while Master Malthus was courting Merissa."

"Anything else?"

"Tobacco. That was a father gift on the wedding day."

It was traditional for the groom to give the parents of his new bride gifts on the wedding day. Stone wondered what Malthus had given Aisha, and if it might have contributed to her death as well.

"I want you to gather everything that Malthus gave him ... everything that you can find ... and I want this suite kept locked."

"Yessir."

"Then I want you to tell Ossian everything you can remember about Malthus."

"The lawgiver?"

"Yes."

"I will do that."

Stone dismissed her with a wave of his hand and moved to the stool before Aisha's dressing table. The delicate stool creaked ominously beneath his weight. He sprang up and gazed at it, a touch of rue curving the left corner of his mouth. Then Stone set it aside and replaced it with the stoutest chair in the antechamber.

He had concentrated his search upon places which he believed most likely to hold the information he had been looking for: his brother's desks and drawers. Stone now realized that Aisha's things might also hold clues. He ran his finger through the powder again and rubbed it off.

Stone opened the middle drawer and brought forth a handful of papers. He pulled the drawer completely out, laid it in his lap, and felt around in the back of the shelf it came from. His questing fingers tapped the hard cover of a book and he drew that out. Bitches were more likely to keep a diary than a dog wolf. Stone opened the diary and flipped to the last pages to check Aisha's final entries. A piece of paper fluttered out and drifted to the floor.

He scooped it up and read it.

It was a note from Kady to Aisha.

Aisha,

I keep getting distracted; I suppose it's the pregnancy, and I felt you needed to read this. Apparently someone who knew the exact words of it at the time wrote it down.

THE EXILE'S CURSE

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.

It does not look like a curse to me, Aisha. It looks like a prophecy.

Yours,

Kady Maguire.

Stone's eyes narrowed as he read.

"I'm the only one left ... and I renounced my name. Merissa is an Estrobian by marriage. Fireborn Law? Caimbeul? There's two princes of shadows, Kynyr and Cooley. But it has to be Kynyr. Doesn't it?"

Lord Hoon had promised his myn and himself that they would winter in Red Wolf. He had forced them through the snowy passes of the Eiralyskali Mountains with threats and exhortations, punishments and promises. The town of Anglecyn had fallen in less than a day of fighting, and the Waejontori Army took possession of it as their wintering ground.

He had made the Lawgiver House his headquarters with a keen sense of irony. The law in Anglecyn was now his law: the law of conquest. The family of Thane Selwyn Brawleigh had been captured, but the Thane himself and a small number of his housecarles were missing.

Zinzi sat with her feet propped on the table and a goblet of red wine in her hand. She divided her attention between the young lycan on his knees by the hearth and Sergei Wraithsbane, both for different reasons. Zinzi despised Sergei and distrusted him with good reason. Sergei was not only a Lemyari vampire, but a battlemage of considerable ability, as well as a murderous pedophile who left a wake of dead girls behind him everywhere he went.

The spellcorded lycan had his wrists bound behind him, while his ankles and knees were roped together. His head had been tied to a small frame that kept him on his knees with his throat temptingly exposed. Lacerations from the whip and other implements of torture marred his back and chest. Lord Hoon's favorite torturer had left his face alone at Zinzi's request. She liked his face, and had asked Hoon to give him to her, but he had denied her request.

Sergei, a courier for Lord Hoon, was a short, ill-favored looking mon with four rows of heavy frown lines etched into his forehead. His brow ridge jutted over his small, deep-set eyes, and a thick nose, humped and hooked above his thin sneering lips.

"I suspect he's mine,” Sergei said smugly.

Zinzi drained her goblet, sat it on the table, and threw an obscene gesture at Sergei. Sometimes she handled being around him well and other times she simply wanted to get away from him as swiftly as possible. “You lied about it being your blood that night."

Sergei gave a snort of laughter. “Since I've become bored with you ... yes. I lied. I killed you. I didn't turn you. I don't make little girls, I eat them."

"Then whose blood was it?"

"Mine.” Lord Hoon swept into the room. “Had you ever asked, I would have told you. It was my blood in a glass of wine that turned you."

Not even the scowl that he threw Sergei could rob Hoon's elegant face of its innate sensuality.

"I have tasks for each of you. Tell me, Sergei, do you still take messages to Malthus when you make your regular circuits?"

"Yes, but I haven't had any for him in months."

Zinzi tossed a glance of languid contempt at Sergei. “Not since he nearly killed Malthus’ seven-year-old niece. I think Sergei's afraid of Malthus."

Hoon quirked an eyebrow. “Why was I not told of this?"

"I promised Malthus I would tell you. However, I seem to have forgotten to."

Sergei shifted in his chair to look more fully at her. “Ros lives?"

"All you managed to do was damage her leg. I suspect that's because you had to spread them so far open to get your damned piece into her."

"Enough, Zinzi!” Hoon snapped his fingers at her. “Sergei, Malthus betrayed me. He sent me the wrong child in place of Darmyk. Next time you have messages for him; issue a small vengeance for me. I will see you well rewarded. Now, you are dismissed. You will find the larder well stocked. You may have three tidbits, but no more."

"Are there any special ones?"

"Yes. The thane's six year old daughter."

The bound lycan issued a string of curses followed by pleading when he heard that. “Not Shelley. Please not Shelley."

Hoon gestured for Sergei to wait and strolled over to the lycan. “I am a mon of my word. Tell me where your father is, and I will see that your sister remains safe."

Lord Hoon's honor was as famed as his savagery. When he gave his word he kept it; however, he was not above twisting it if he had left himself some wiggle room in the phrasing. A thin smile lit Hoon's face as he gazed expectantly at Thane Selwyn's sixteen-year-old heir, Ocvran.

"Wolffgard. The thanes are holding a witan. Claw is dead and the succession is in doubt. A priest, who Jumps, fetched him four days ago."

Hoon laughed softly. He had known the directions that Zinzi and Sergei's conversations usually went, and had counted on it to influence Selwyn's heir in ways that direct threats and torture had not. “I guess he is yours after all, Zinzi. But first fetch Shelley from the larder so she can keep her brother company."

Shelley, a delicate little bitch, sloe-eyed and blonde, hugged Gilzean. The two cubs sat wailing on the sofa in Zinzi's bedchamber, filling her ears with their unwelcome noises. Zinzi had once more been relegated to the role of cub sitter until Sergei left the area. She resented being stuck with them. Children got on her nerves and hampered her lifestyle.

Malthus had sent Gilzean to Hoon, with the cub's mind altered into believing that he was Darmyk. Hoon sensed the lie, broke Malthus’ coercions in Gilzean's mind, and discovered that Malthus had double-crossed him for reasons that Hoon had yet to be certain of. He now intended to punish Malthus for it. Zinzi wanted to get on with the punishing, and be quit of the cubs.

Ocvran, Shelley's brother, lay nude in the middle of Zinzi's bed. She straddled him, her fangs deep in his throat, feeding noisily. He trembled and spasmed beneath her, whimpering. Shelley gave another piercing shriek, which ruined Zinzi's mood further.

"That's enough!” The Waejontori Princess Silkanna Mircala de Waejonan swept into the room, her dark eyes flashing with righteous fury. “I won't have you doing it in front of the cubs."

Zinzi withdrew from Ocvran, and glared at her. Blood flowed freely from the wound in his neck. When Zinzi first encountered her, she had liked Silkie. Lord Hoon had sent Zinzi to investigate rumors of a newborn Lemyari vampire in the Sharani occupied sections of Southern Waejontor. She returned with Silkie, who had first appeared to be a confused eighteen-year-old newborn. Zinzi learned later that Silkie had been in her mid forties when she drank a vial of Hoon's blood laced with spells to restore her youth. Silkie had been a favorite of Hoon's more than twenty years ago; and now with her admission into the dark ranks, she was his favorite once more.

"Then keep them away from me."

"Close the wound, Zinzi or he's going to bleed out.” Silkie's eyes had an edge that only a long hard life could have given them. Everything about her reflected the inner toughness that had ensured her survival in escaping and then hiding from her sa'necari relatives who wanted to sacrifice her to Bellocar, and the Sharani who would have burnt her alive for being born into the ruling family.

"That might be entertaining.” Zinzi bent and licked it closed. “But I want him to last awhile. He has a pleasant face."

Silkie took Shelley by the hand, hoisted Gilzean to her hip, and left. No one troubled her in passing. No one questioned why she had the two cubs with her. No one dared. Silkie was not only Hoon's favorite, but a Princess of the Blood of Waejonan; and therefore she had more freedom in the manor than anyone else. She had made many mistakes over the years. Zinzi had been happy to inform her of them. Her decision to drink Hoon's blood, which he had given her more than twenty years ago, had been predicated upon hearing that her only hope for escape from Hell's Widow, Kynyr Maguire, was dead. It had been a lie. Not only was Kynyr alive, but her son, Cooley, was with him. Hoon would never have learned about Cooley's existence had Silkie not given into despair and fled to the vampire lover of her youth. Hoon wanted Cooley as a pawn in his game against the Waejontori Queen, Silkie's half sister.

She had loved Cullen Blackwood, a profane, rambunctious lycan military courier, with all of her heart; and borne him a son. The Butchering Serpent, a sa'necari bounty hunter and mercenary, murdered Cullen in front of her. A genocidal mastermind, the Serpent had killed hundreds of lycans in vicious experiments that had included vivisections and toxin testings, leaving behind mass graves on a deserted estate in the north. Silkie knew that Hoon had an agent in Wolffgard named Malthus; but whether or not Malthus was the Serpent himself still lay in question.

She carried the two children to her bedchamber and sat them on the sofa furthest from the windows. Gilzean immediately wrapped his arms around Shelley and clung to her. The terror in their eyes troubled Silkie. The helplessness of children always stirred the memories of how helpless she had felt as a child. Only a core of tenacity had carried her through to grow up hard and fast on the streets of Lake Torment, earning her bread and shelter as a child prostitute at twelve. Only her faithful friend, Iswara, had prevented her from being treated as roughly as others. No one in Waejontor would employ a Shivari, and the prejudice against his people prevented him for supporting them; but neither would the Waejontori argue with one when Iswara informed her johns that roughing her up would earn them a beating. He had been forced to flee after Lord Hoon entered her life the first time. Silkie often wondered what had become of him.

Jerking the heavy drapes closed, Silkie turned to the cubs.

"Do not leave this room. So long as you remain here, I can protect you."

"I want my mama,” said Shelley.

"I know.” Silkie patted her head. “I'm going to talk to her."

She went through the halls with a determined stride and descended to the cells beneath the Lawgiver House. Silkie needed a messenger to the lycan rulers that would be above question; someone they would trust implicitly. Shelley's mother, Lady Brawleigh, offered her the best hope for one.

The guard on duty straightened in his seat when she entered. “What'd you need?"

"To speak with Lady Brawleigh.” Silkie sneered, letting her fangs descend from their sheaths. She flicked her tongue across them suggestively. “Which cell is she in?"

"Last one on the right.” He took the keys from the peg and tossed them to her.

Silkie let herself into the cell and tried not to stare at the state that Lady Brawleigh and her children were in. Thane Selwyn's wife and two daughters stank of rape in their torn clothing and bruises—the daughters appeared to be in their mid-teens. The little boy could be no older than ten, and reminded Silkie poignantly of her own son, Cooley. “I'm not going to mince words, Lady Brawleigh. If I can get you out of here, will you carry word to Kynyr Maguire that my son is in danger?"

"You'll get my children out also?"

"Yes. All of them except Ocvran. Your son is dead.” As good as. I'll never be able to get him away from Zinzi.

Lady Brawleigh clenched her eyes shut briefly, and then opened them, putting on a brave face. “You have my word. What is your son's name?"

"Cooley Blackwood."

"I knew a Blackwood ... Cullen."

A brittle smile came to Silkie's lips, and then tightened. “Cullen was my husband; Cooley's father. Hoon plans to kidnap my son. His agents murdered Cullen in front of me. That's why I want to help you."

"I will do everything in my power for your son, if you can get us out of here."

A sudden tear crept down Lady Brawleigh's face, nearly triggering Silkie's own. They were two desperate women, mothers trying to save their children, and Silkie felt a kinship to her.

"Are there myn you can trust with your life?"

Lady Brawleigh thought for a moment. “I do not know if they still live."

"Names?"

"Captain Aelfwin Cadwallader. Ezra Loyt. Conyn Pritchard.” She drew a ring from her finger. “If they question you about me, remind them of the time that I fell into the pig trough at nine."

"Be ready. We will get only one chance.” Silkie drew a sharp pin from her dress. “I must give the jailer an excuse for my presence here. Let me prick your finger and smear the blood around my mouth."

Lady Brawleigh extended her hand. Silkie pricked Lady Brawleigh's finger. The blood smelled intoxicating and Silkie grimly resisted an urge to suck the bleeding finger. She wiped the blood around her mouth and then along the lycan's neck. “Give me a loud scream, Lady Brawleigh and then go lie on the cot as if you're faint."

Despite knowing what was coming, Audra Brawleigh's screams caused her daughters to flinch and shriek also. Silkie gestured at the cot, and Lady Brawleigh stretched out on it. After studying her for a moment, Silkie adjusted her position, turning her head to the side so that the smear of blood would show if someone glanced through the tiny shuttered window in the door, and dangled her arm lifelessly, fingers brushing the straw on the floor.

Silkie locked the cell and returned the keys to the jailor.

He leered at her. “Did she taste good?"

"Noblemyn always do."

Then she started back to her rooms to check on the cubs. Leaving them alone for too long worried her. She needed to secure a cat's paw to carry out the next part of her plan in such a way that it could not be easily traced to her; and he needed to be someone above reproach. Her greatest talent, other than having a good head for business, had been manipulation—both sexual and otherwise. It had seen her in good stead while she was Madam of the Crimson Lady Brothel in Hell's Widow.

She passed Captain Paolo Nicoletti in the corridor of the second floor. He had a face that was all angles from the sharp nose jutting above his thin lips to his narrow chin. His eyes raked her insolently and she paused to tilt her head at him with a come-hither smile. The unbridled lust in his eyes flashed an awareness of opportunity through Silkie.

While the myn showed her every consideration as their long lost princess restored to them; there were a few officers and nobles who still regarded her as the most celebrated prostitute in Waejontor during the early years of the Sharani occupation of their lands. Clearly, Paolo fell in that latter category. He was well known for his cruelty and strict enforcement of the rules of military protocol; the fact that he lived up to his own standards in both courage and leadership commanded his myn's loyalty as well as their obedience.

"Captain Nicoletti?” She simpered at him.

"Your highness.” He swaggered across the corridor, took her hand, and laid a kiss upon the back of it that included a suggestive swipe of his tongue.

Silkie purred, deep and throatily sensual. “I've been watching you, Captain. Come to my rooms? I could use a bit of help with a few things."

"Like what?” He took a clean handkerchief from his pocket and wiped Lady Brawleigh's blood from around her mouth.

"It's so embarrassing.” Silkie giggled like a young girl, and since Hoon had restored her youth it did not seem out of character for her. “May I whisper it in your ear?"

"Of course."

She leaned in. “The fastenings on my dress."

"I will be happy to help you.” He straightened, giving her a naughty boy smile. “I'm very good with such things."

"I'm sure you are, Captain. I'm very sure you are."

The door to her antechamber had barely closed before he wrapped his arms around her from behind and cupped her breasts. She arched against him, rubbing his loins with her hip. “A moment, My Randy Stallion. I wish to change into something more appropriate."

Silkie slipped into her bedroom. Shelley and Gilzean were still huddling on the sofa. “Quick, into the closet and stay there until I say otherwise."

The two cubs scampered into hiding and Silkie closed the door on them.

"I knew it was only a matter of time before you yielded to me,” Paolo called from the antechamber.

"How could I not?” She could hear him pacing as she unlaced her bodice. “Come help me with the fastenings, Paolo."

He entered her bedroom and gazed at her breasts. “You're beautiful."

"Appreciate me, Paolo."

Her appetites were still that of a newborn. Hoon, fully aware of it, had allowed that she could have whatever she wished, including other males—some of whom had left her bed as corpses when her hunger got the better of her. The Passion Dance of the Vampire had gotten hold of Silkie twice, causing her to mistake appetite for love, and she had killed two lovers since joining Hoon. Lord Hoon found it all amusing, giving her what guidance he could in the ways of the undead.

Paolo unfastened her skirts, slipped them down to her ankles, and pressed his face into her loins. Silkie's next moan was real as his tongue darted over her clit and into her womanhood. He licked his way to her breasts and sucked her nipples. Silkie teased his cock through his trousers, and reached to open his shirt. He stopped her.

For an instant she hesitated, wondering if he had guessed her intentions. He scooped her into his arms and laid her on the bed. Paolo opened his trousers, lifting his hardened spear out. She understood then. Paolo intended to make the final act one of dominance. As he mounted her, thrusting deep into her moist tissues, Silkie pulled him close and sank her fangs into his neck. He climaxed instantly as her power rolled through him with all the sensuality Silkie had mastered while learning the whore's craft.

His eyes glazed.

Silkie wrapped her influence into the fibers of his mind with a deft hand. “I need you, Paolo."

He stared into her eyes, breathing hard. “I live for your wishes."

"Bring me three meals from the larder. Captain Aelfwin Cadwallader. Ezra Loyt. Conyn Pritchard."

"Your wish."

Silkie threw on a dressing robe and let the cubs out of the closet as soon as Captain Nicoletti departed.

She settled on the couch with them. Shelley looked up at her and burst into tears, pointing at Silkie's mouth. She touched the edges and felt the sticky dampness of Paolo's blood drying around her lips. Heat burned beneath the dark shading of her skin. The very last thing she wanted to do was to make Shelley afraid of her. Silkie went to a stand near the window that had a basin and a ewer. She washed the blood away.

A knock at the door, and Paolo entered with six guardsmyn and four lycans. The oldest, Aelfwin Cadwallader, threw Silkie a defiant look. Aelfwin had a square face with a strong jaw and a sprinkling of middle-aged gray amidst the russet brown at his temples. He and his three companions had their hands chained behind them and their feet shackled so tightly that they shuffled as they walked.

"Paolo, can your myn be trusted?"

"Picked myn, My Princess. I can trust them with my life."

"Good enough. Give me the key.” Silkie extended her hand to him and he surrendered his ring of keys.

She approached Aelfwin to unlock his bonds.

"Best leave me chained, vampire. Release me and I will break your foul neck."

Paolo whipped around and slammed his fist into Aelfwin's stomach, sending the lycan to his knees gasping for breath.

Shelley let out a shriek and ran to Aelfwin, hugging his neck. “Waller. Don't be hurt, Waller."

"Shelley?” Aelfwin pressed his head against hers. “What are ... you doing here?"

"Escaping from Anglecyn, I hope.” Silkie stroked Shelley's head. “I am Cullen Blackwood's widow. An eye for an eye. No one does it better than a lycan ... except those who have loved them."

"Then you're Silkie Faggini."

"I was. Now I'm once more Silkanna Mircala de Waejonan. I became a vampire to gain vengeance for Cullen and safety for our son, Cooley.” Silkie frowned. “Paolo, I asked for three..."

"The fourth is my brother,” said Aelfwin. “He insisted upon dying with me."

"I see. Then I am glad he has come. There will be no more dying if I can help it."

"Then why have you sent for us, if not to sate your unholy appetites with our blood?"

Silkie ignored his return to the topic of her undead state, realizing that he needed more convincing. “I'm saving my son. Paolo will help you four escape with Lady Brawleigh and her children so that she can warn my son's protector of a threat to my Cooley."

"Our little prince.” Paolo gazed at Silkie in a way that alarmed her. Somehow, without intending to, she had twisted his lust into love and devotion. She had much to learn about her new gifts.

Silkie stepped into the role that Paolo and those watching expected her to play, stroking Paolo's face, and then kissing him fondly. “Guard my messengers well, darling. And save my son from the minions of the Queen and Lord Hoon."

The six soldiers of Waejontor straightened with the pride that came of being given a truly noble task.

"Is he lycan?” Aelfwin eyed her with traces of suspicion.

"Yes. But that does not make my son any less a prince of Waejontor.” Silkie sucked in a breath, her lips framing a brittle smile as she turned again to Aelfwin. “I see that you still don't trust me. Let me explain myself in more detail and perhaps then, you will understand. I was the madam of the Crimson Lady Brothel in Hell's Widow, Waejontor. That's where I met Cullen. He taught our son to ride and to fight. I loved being with them. Then last summer, the sa'necari returned to Hell's Widow. They captured Cullen and tortured him for information. My Cullen was tough and he gave them nothing."

Silkie's eyes started leaking tears and her mouth trembled as she finished the tale. “On the day that they captured another courier, they took me to see him. They had broken his arms and legs ... nailed him into a chair with silver spikes. They thought to break my will by making me watch him die. All they broke was my heart. They shoved a silver rune blade into his belly and then locked me in with him. It took him three days to die."

Paolo put a comforting arm around her shoulders, and she leaned her head against his chest.

"Fancy that, a lycan heir to the throne of the bloody sa'necari.” Daffyd Cadwallader grinned at his brother with grim humor and a large dollop of drollery.

"I'll do everything in my power to help your son.” Aelfwin turned his back to Silkie and held out his wrists to be released from his shackles. “Who is his protector in Wolffgard?"

Silkie unlocked the shackles. “A friend of Cullen's and myself. A guardsmon named Kynyr Maguire."

Aelfwin stopped trying to rub the feeling back into his wrists and stared at his brother.

Silkie glanced back and forth between the two Cadwalladers, trying to puzzle out what she had said to get this reaction. “Do you know him or of him?"

Aelfwin let out a bark of harsh laughter. “We should. He's the King of Red Wolf."

Zinzi sat playing with Ocvran's long blonde hair. Intelligence lingered in his eyes, the windows of his shattered mind, and he smiled at Zinzi with the guileless simplicity of a child. The majority of lycans had strong minds, and Ocvran's had proven no exception to the general rule. She had had to nearly break him down to kindling to insure his acceptance of her affections. Dressed in blue silk, Ocvran looked satisfyingly attractive. Zinzi kissed his cheek and began braiding his hair.

"Happy now, Zinzi?” Hoon leaned his hips against the desk in his office, his hands to either side of him. The elegant burgundy silk dressing robe clothing his lean body was as informal as the old-fashioned vampire ever allowed himself to appear.

"Very.” She stroked her finger along his neck. Ocvran tilted his head to the side and back, offering his neck to her. “He can barely remember his own name, but he's picking up the nibari positions of submission quick, and he's good in the bedroom."

"You made a fine choice. Lycans have more resilience than humans; they can take more damage ... more blood loss. He should last longer than your previous choices."

"I hope so. I am pleased with him so far."

"Now I want your report on Malthus."

Zinzi gave Ocvran another stroke, and straightened, her tone going formal. “The Redhand family has been extinguished, except for Merissa and Darmyk."

"And the bastard prince?"

"Alive. He either has powerful allies or uncanny luck. Kynyr Maguire has survived three major attempts on his life. However, he's now crippled and no threat."

"Never underestimate your enemies."

"Shall I kill him?"

"Not until after we have secured Merissa, Darmyk, and Cooley."

"And Malthus? Shall I kill him?"

"In good time. First my prizes."

"What will I be doing then?"

"Spying. I want to know more about this Creeyan force I have heard is lodged there. If you find a good opportunity to snatch my prizes, you may do so."

Dressed in Waejontori uniforms with the hoods of their cloaks pulled around their faces, the four lycan housecarles marched to the stables with Captain Nicoletti and his myn. At that late hour, there was no one about in the stables. A ladder to the loft stood at the far end of a row of box stalls. Paolo indicated that Aelfwin should follow him up the ladder.

Aelfwin wondered if they had been brought out there only to be murdered, and then shoved his suspicions away when Shelley erupted from hiding among the bales of hay, followed by Gilzean.

"Waller! I knew you'd come, Waller."

Lady Brawleigh rose from the shadows of the fodder and embraced him. “I am so relieved to see you, Waller."

A grim smile touched his mouth at seeing her. Shelley had given him the nickname, but the rest of the family had begun using it. “We're getting out of here, Audra. I promise."

When they climbed down, they found Silkie standing beside the saddled horses.

Audra Brawleigh pushed her sleeve up and extended her wrist to Silkie. “I want to thank you."

Waller pushed her arm aside. “If that's the way you want her thanked, I'll do it."

Silkie flushed. “It's not necessary."

"Let's make it an act of trust and apology for misjudging you, Silkie.” Aelfwin pulled Silkie into his arms before she could stop him and pressed her face into his neck.

She could smell his blood, and the warm lycan musk that reminded her of Cullen. Her fangs came down from their sheaths, but she sent them away, struggling against the temptation to sink them into Waller's neck. Silkie shoved free of him. “No. I accept your apology, but I refuse to taste your blood."

Daffyd gave his brother a grim nod of approval as he lifted Shelley onto a horse.

"When you reach Sunderborough, you should be able to find an ice rig to get you to Wolffgard down the Bonnie Draw. It's the fastest way.” Silkie pressed a purse into Lady Brawleigh's hands. “There's as much gold here as I could gather. It should be enough. Remember, my son is Cooley Blackwood. Hoon is going to snatch him. Tell Kynyr Maguire that."

"I will, Silkie. And thank you."

"Take good care of Gilzean. He's from Wolffgard. I have no idea who his mother is, but I'm sure she's missing him.” Silkie unshouldered a courier's pouch and handed that to Lady Brawleigh next. “Give this to my son."

Finally, Silkie turned to Paolo Nicoletti and embraced him. “When the war is ended, we will find each other again, my love."

She sealed her words with a kiss and tied her scarf around his arm as her token.

Silkie watched them ride off into the darkness. She doubted that she would ever see Paolo again.

When she returned to her suite she found Lord Hoon stretched out on her bed waiting for her.

"Where have you been?"

"A romantic assignation. At least it was romantic until there was no more blood left in him."

Hoon laughed. “Which one?"

"Paolo Nicoletti."

"One of my best officers.” Hoon sobered. “Silkanna, you must leave my officers alone."

"I will try.” She disrobed and climbed onto the bed beside him, drawing Hoon's face to her breasts. “Make love to me, my lord, and comfort me of my loss."

He pulled away from her. “After we have spoken."

"Have I done something wrong, My Undead Dragon of Damnation?"

He quirked an eyebrow at her use of the sobriquet she had given him so long ago. “Possibly. I have been told that you drank Lady Brawleigh into a faint."

"She tasted very good."

"I want you to leave the Brawleighs alone. They are my best hostages."

"What about Shelley and Ocvran? You gave Ocvran to Zinzi and you were going to give Shelley to Sergei. What about me? Don't I deserve to taste noble blood myself?"

"Are you jealous of Zinzi?"

"Not at all. Please answer my question."

"I never intended to give Shelley to Sergei. It was a ruse to get Ocvran to tell me where his father had gone."

"And Ocvran?"

"I needed to make an example to the people here. I had planned to kill him myself. Zinzi wanted him. Our desires dovetailed. Nothing more."

"How is giving him to Zinzi an example to the people?"

"It will be when I hang his dead body in the square."

"I see.” Silkie lowered her eyes, trying to accept the fact that she could only save a few at a time. “What are you going to do with Darmyk?"

"Offer Isranon a trade. His son and Merissa for Anksha."

"So it's true. You lost her."

"It is true. But once I have her back, I will remind her that she loves me. My demon-eater has always been my greatest weapon. She will be again, once I make this trade."

Mornings. Kynyr had grown to hate them. Qaseem, the primary assistant to the senior healer from Creeya attending him, was a kind mon, and Kynyr tried to hold his tongue with him. Every morning Qaseem came to Kynyr's bedroom and built the fire up before working with his legs.

Qaseem swabbed Kynyr's arm and poked the syringe into his bicep. Syringes were a new invention out of Creeya; based upon information from an ancient medical text that Kynyr's grandmother, Cahira Sinclair, had translated. First the holadil to keep down infection and then Narcantha to make certain that Kynyr's seizures and pain remained under control. Once that was done, Qaseem helped Kynyr out of his trousers, removed the wrappings on his legs, and used a cloth tape measure to check for signs of atrophy, patiently noting down the numbers.

The poison, which Kynyr had been fed over a period of weeks, had been an insidious creation. It perfectly mimicked the symptoms of Black Mountain Fever, a disease spread by infected ticks that had an exceptionally high mortality rate. Among the lingering effects were spinal lesions that damaged and often destroyed the nerves; seizures; pain, and chronic exhaustion.

Kynyr flinched away from Qaseem's touch. “Hey, your hands are cold."

Qaseem stared at him, reached out, and touched Kynyr's calf.

Kynyr shuffled his legs away again, glaring now. “Stop that."

"You moved them."

Kynyr's eyes widened. “I did."

Qaseem laid aside his tape measure, and launched into a series of tests to see what more, if anything, Kynyr could do in view of the unexpected miracle.

He could not lift his legs, but he could draw them sideways. When Qaseem raised Kynyr's legs off the bed, he could hold them trembling in the air for nearly half a minute. It was so little, and yet it filled Kynyr with jubilation.

"Now I wish to try something else. Are you game, Master Kynyr?"

"Yes.” Hope flared within Kynyr, lending excitement to his voice.

Qaseem searched around for the largest bathtub in the mansion. He had it filled with water as hot as Kynyr could comfortably bear and then placed him in it.

"First relax and let your legs float."

Kynyr watched his legs rise in the water, trapped again between hope and fear.

"Now try to move them."

Kynyr's eyes widened and he gasped. “I can move them. I can move them in all directions."

"I will prescribe exercises and two long hot baths a day. You will walk again. How well, I cannot say. But you will walk."

A beatific smile came to Kynyr's face. Thank you, Stone. The only miracles are those we make ourselves. I'll never forget that.

Stone leaned against a wall, watching Pandeena Moonbow and Toniqua Nightsbane examining the three bodies on the viewing dais. Toniqua was attractive in a small, dark way; however, Pandeena was genuinely beautiful, blonde and fair skinned, high firm breasts and feminine hips. Pretty bitches made him uneasy, and beautiful ones drove him to the edge of paranoia.

Toniqua released Claw's dead wrist and shook her head. “The heart attack was genuine, but there's an odd aftertaste to it."

Pandeena lowered Aisha's wrist back into the coffin. “She was raped."

Stone's eyes narrowed as he pushed away from the wall and stalked to the coffins. Aisha had always been kind to him. The thought that she had been raped the day she died kindled a righteous anger in him. “Semen residue?"

Pandeena shook her head. “Psychic scarring. Whoever did it cleaned her female parts out afterward. It happened minutes before she died."

Rage started its familiar build up in Stone. He forced a deep breath down his lungs to control it. If the rage reached too high a level, Stone would change before he could stop himself. He did not wish for them to see his other form; to know that although his father had been lycan, Stone was not. His eyes lowered and he found himself staring at Fianait's corpse. She had gotten old, but in his memories she would always be young and beautiful.

"Sheradyn told me they had to break her fingers to get the letter opener out."

"They should not have moved her before I saw her,” Toniqua grumbled, stalking angrily around to Fianait's coffin. “Now it's been five days. The embalming chemicals make my task harder. If they had sent for me or Pandeena ... or even Cahira ... we could have laid a preserving spell that would not have disturbed the evidence."

"They didn't want any of you Reading the fresh corpses.” Stone rested his hands on his knife belt. “According to Sheradyn, Claw left with the suicide note. I've ransacked his chambers and his study. But I haven't found it."

"What about Fianait's suite?” Pandeena moved close to Stone.

He tensed. Pandeena stoked both the fires of his rage and his manhood, provoking an unwelcome tightening in his loins with her nearness. Stone stepped to the other side of the coffin. “I had it secured. If anything was altered, it happened before I got here."

"I want to have a look at it,” said Toniqua.

"You may. I admit I was surprised to find you here, Toniqua. It's been a long time."

"Yes, it has. But you know what they say about us. We wander not because we wish to, but because we outlive our homes. Mine has been gone to dust for two hundred years. At least you still have yours, Stone."

Pandeena looked at him in stunned surprise. “Yuwenghau?"

Stone favored her with an arrogant smile. “I am astonished that you failed to discern that earlier, Pandeena. After all, I'm long lived."

"It could have been sylvan blood."

"Isn't that what they say about you?” Stone's words dripped sarcasm gilded with hauteur. “Pandeena Moonbow, the only lycan battlemage ever born, long-lived. Named for the Second Mother. Real name or assumed name? No one knows."

Toniqua snickered.

Stone glanced from Toniqua to Pandeena. Realization struck him like the blow of a mace in the side of his head. “What in the unholy hells are you doing here?"

"Playing it by the book. I don't know about you, but I don't wish to see my descendants turned into a bunch of bickering humans; lost from the sanctity of the customs and laws my mother gave them."

"We play by a different set of rules, Second Mother. My grandfather is Hadjys the Dark Judge and I have seen his nine hells."

"Harm my people, Stone, and I will destroy you."

"You'll try.” Stone swaggered over to her, dragged Pandeena into his arms, and kissed her thoroughly.

She struggled for a moment, but her great strength was not enough to free herself.

Stone released her when he finished his kiss and she moved away from him, trembling. He laughed at her with a naughty boy smile that could have melted steel. “I've always wanted to do that to one of the Mothers. Now I have."

"If you think I'm going to come crawling into your bed, you have another think coming."

"I could say the same for you. However I have far more self-control than you give me credit for."

"I give you no credit at all."

Sheradyn Kelly charged into the room, smacking the tip of his gold headed cane on the floor in a rhythm of irritation. He glared ferociously at Toniqua. “It was a suicide. Plain and simple. Stoneriver had no business sending for you. As it is, I had to sedate Merissa. You're just going to make matters worse."

"Shut up, old fool.” Stone snarled. “My sister was murdered. Anyone who knew her well would know it."

Sheradyn straightened with a sniff of disapproval.

Toniqua drew a chair up to the coffin and sat down. She stroked Fianait's cold flesh and extended her gifts through the corpse. “I'm sensing odd echoes that I can't explain. There is a lingering taste of terror."

"Of course, she was terrified.” Sheradyn jabbed a finger at Stone. “He was returning. I read the note.” Sheradyn adjusted his top coat and pulled at his cravat. “She killed herself because she was afraid of you, Stone."

"Stone would never have touched her. Fianait knew that.” Pandeena's tone filled with irritation and impatience.

"Did she tell you that?"

"I told her the story.” Stone's voice took on a severe tone. He had known that all the old wounds would reopen: the truths had been liberally gilded with lies and gossip at every opportunity in his long absence. Everywhere he turned they were being thrown in his face.

"And you believe him?” Sheradyn demanded indignantly.

Pandeena gave Stone a wicked smile. “Yes, I do."

Toniqua pushed her chair back. “I want to take tissues samples. I also want to see the blade and where she died. I hope you haven't cleaned the room up."

"That's out of the question! Absolutely out of the question.” Sheradyn sputtered.

"You're no longer dealing with Aisha or an ailing chieftain. They're dead.” Pandeena propped her hands on her hips and took a threatening stance. “It may well be that you're about to find yourself on the wrong end of a rope for your mistakes."

Stone lifted an eyebrow at that. Rumors of Sheradyn's incompetence as a healer was rife and some were accusing him of outright carelessness as well as darker matters. “She's right, Sheradyn. Ossian is already considering whether you have been making simple errors or acting in complicity with the villains in this situation."

Sheradyn went pale and stammering. “I-I have done nothing—done nothing wrong. Nothing whatsoever."

"That remains to be seen."

Stone showed them upstairs to Fianait's room with Sheradyn trailing them. They passed a few nervous guardsmyn in the chocolate and claret livery of Red Wolf and many myn in the diverse colors of the various thanes as well as Creeyan. Two Creeyans stood guard at the door to Fianait's apartments. They came to attention when Stone arrived.

"At ease.” The two myn relaxed.

Stone indicated that Pandeena and Toniqua should precede him and then he noticed Sheradyn. “Get out of my sight,” he growled at the healer.

Sheradyn winced and fled.

Down the corridor, in the shadows of a vestibule, Malthus Estrobian watched Sheradyn's retreat, and then faded out of sight into the passageway linking the family section of the manor with the barracks wing.

Pandeena watched Sheradyn's retreating back and turned to Toniqua as soon as he was gone. “What do you think?"

"I believe she was murdered. However, I don't think I can prove it.” Toniqua ran her hands through her hair with a sigh of frustration. “I wish they had sent for me before they moved her body."

Pandeena nodded. “We were deliberately excluded."

"No doubt.” Toniqua's eyes narrowed as her gaze swept the parlor. “Where was she found?"

Stone walked to the center of the room and turned about; seeing it again after all those years tugged at his heart. She had still loved pink and mauve. “At the desk. According to Merissa, Fianait was slumped over with her head on it."

Toniqua walked to the desk and saw the letter opener laying there with blood and gray bits of dried flesh on it. “That's the weapon?"

Stone nodded, closing his eyes briefly. Fianait had always been so fragile, both physically and emotionally. The thought of Belgair shoving the letter opener into her while Malthus held her—his imagination obsessed upon it—killing her as justification for the attempted coup; the image made his insides clench.

Picking the letter opener up with two fingers, Toniqua examined it. “If she were going to kill herself, why didn't she use something sharper?"

"Fianait was always nervous around sharp objects. She fell with a knife in the kitchen when she was fourteen and nearly severed her shoulder. Her scissors had to be blunted on the ends before she would use them."

"That doesn't answer my question, Stone. Most females choose poison or an overdose of Pollendine. Or Fire Poppy. So why use a blunt letter opener? She had to have been extremely determined to get that all the way into her heart. It would have taken a lot of pressure."

Stone could not completely hide his distress at the thought of what had happened to his sister. I loved you, Fianait. “Ossian thinks it took two people to do it. One to hold her still while the other shoved the blade in. There is no sign of bruising except on her hands. Malthus and Belgair, with Belgair as the instigator because he had the most to gain by it. The regency. And of course, his father had issues with both Fianait and myself."

Pandeena's expression turned ugly. “I'm more inclined to suspect Malthus as the instigator."

"Why?"

"Myn have been known to do ruthless things to ensure their children inherited."

"He would not have gained anything by it. The laws restrict humans from gaining in such a situation."

"You're wrong, Stone. The Butchering Serpent is in Wolffgard.” Pandeena's tone turned cautious, as if testing him with the information.

"I have read the reports,” Stone admitted, yet then gave a shake of his head. “Ossian needs something more than vague rumors to act upon."

Toniqua set the letter opener aside and pointed to a line of dried bloodstains on the desk. “Was there blood on her hands? It looks like she spurted when her heart was pierced."

"The one who would have known would be Aisha. The nibari here insist that Aisha was the one who washed Fianait's body."

"And she's conveniently dead.” Pandeena snarled wordlessly for several moments.

"There should have been some on her hands—or the hands of the one who killed her.” Toniqua straightened the desk chair, stood behind it, and put her hands together in front of her, drawing them toward her in a simulation of the blade going in.

"There still would have needed to be two myn."

"Or one sa'necari."

Stone nodded. “Or a sa'necari."

"Thank you. If you'll just keep everyone out of the Great Hall until we finish, Pandeena and I will arrange Fianait's body back as we found it. You don't need to delay the funeral. You can bury her tomorrow as you planned to."

"Custom decrees a public funeral for my brother after two phases of the moon have passed so his people can view his remains. However, I would prefer to see my sister and Aisha laid to their rest in a small private ceremony. Just the immediate family and close friends. My sister was a private soul ... easily overwhelmed."

"I understand and have no problems with it. I will see you tomorrow at noon for their funeral."

"Then, if you will excuse me, I will leave you to it.” Stone gave them a polite bow and left.

Until the arrival of Stoneriver and his Creeyan forces, Malthus had been conspicuous among the lycans living in the manor. Like most Waejontori males, his waist length black hair would easily grow to his ankles if he did not keep it trimmed. His dark skin contrasted sharply against that of the fair-skinned lycans. He had more facial hair than the average sa'necari-born and carried a straight razor in his pocket to keep it fastidiously trimmed into an oak leaf beard and a pencil thin mustache with long drooping edges. Malthus used the razor to cut throats as well as shave.

His people had originated as a small religious cult that practiced necromancy. Only one hellgod escaped when the Nine Elder Gods of Light rounded up her brethren and imprisoned them behind the Katal Escarpment; and she tutored them in the rites of Mortgiefan. That ritual of rape and death allowed them assume all the powers and appetites of the undead while still living myn. Over the generations, their genes had altered and their children began to be born sa'necari, rather than made such by the rites. They still practiced mortgiefan to enhance their powers.

Malthus took a roundabout path through the manor. He had come to know the place well over the months that he had lived there. Fear of discovery now dogged the sa'necari bounty hunter's heels at every moment. He had removed everything that might be incriminating from his study and hidden it. Lord Hoon had hired him to murder the Redhand family and he had done so.

He slipped down the servants’ staircase, reached the second floor, and entered a bedroom there. The rooms were small. The ‘servants’ did not get suites with an antechamber. A double bed occupied the far right hand corner. A sturdy cradle sat between the bed and a tall chest of drawers. A smaller bureau and a dressing table stood crowded together on the left hand. Braided rugs covered the floor. Near the door sat a small square table with four bare wooden chairs. All cozy in a worn way.

Like most of the lycan aristocracy, the Redhands had politely referred to their nibari as servants when in fact they were slaves. Nibari were genetically altered humans, bred for centuries for docility. They were as tame as mice and as harmless as deer; so obedient that they went to their deaths without resistance when ordered to do so by their masters.

Isbeth sat in a chair by the hearth, suckling her infant. When she saw Malthus enter, a flush of alarm spread over her face. Malthus savored her fear. It stoked his necromantic appetites. He had not had a rite in weeks, and he hungered to feel a mon die beneath him at the moment of sexual climax. Malthus would have had matters right where he wanted them if Belgair had not been handed a devastating defeat by Todd Sinclair. In order to kill Kynyr, he would have to first kill Todd. He would have to talk to Clennan. The thane might prove an ally since it meant destroying his son's killer. He needed new cat's paws, since Todd and Kynyr managed to dispose of all of his except Isbeth.

He had gotten into Isbeth's mind with layers of coercions that forced her to do things that ran against her instincts. Isbeth was the only hold card Malthus had left in the manor and he would need to play her again soon. She had poisoned Kynyr, and betrayed to their deaths the small band of guardsmyn that had supported the bastard prince.

The nibari quarters were the one place that no one would ever search. In myn's minds, their innocence was a given. Malthus opened the drawer of her dresser and took out a long chain of small globes that appeared to be simple baubles of various colors, which he carried to the table. He tapped the green one with a word of command and the surface was suddenly covered in crates, boxes, and books.

He located two tiny vials of the poison he had originally been giving Kynyr that mimicked Black Mountain Fever. He slipped them into his pocket, and hid the globes again. His eyes brushed the small golden ring on his right hand. Lord Hoon had given the ring to him. It allowed him to conceal his true nature and appear to be human. Malthus had recently learned that the ring had once belonged to Waejonan the Accursed, founder of Waejontor. With it, he could raise and lower the level of arcane power he channeled. According to some ancient texts the ring could counteract the effects of spellcord, which was used to separate a mage from his powers.

Malthus started walking. He kept to the least used ways, and the hidden servants’ stairways. Belgair should never have told Finn MacIver that he poisoned Kynyr. But then they had not believed that Finn would be rescued from the dungeons.

Belgair had been overconfident; certain of victory. Therefore Belgair would not have bothered to conceal his crimes. History was written by the winners. Still, it should not be too obvious.

Malthus slipped into Belgair's chambers, pulled the top drawer of his dresser open, and left one vial at the back of it. Then he headed for Sheradyn's suite.

On the day that the coup failed, Belgair had left behind a token force at the manor; mostly the untried newest myn in his ranks and a few that he trusted to keep them in line. Stone had retained them as part of the household guard to mitigate the perception of a foreign takeover by Creeyan units; however, all the key posts were manned by his own forces.

No more than forty odd myn out of Belgair Doherty's forces had surrendered when the battle went against them at gates to the Maguire Estate, and now cooled their heels locked in the basement storerooms and pantries beneath it. Another twenty wounded were taken into custody by Todd Sinclair's myn and were being treated in the Maguire infirmaries.

Those who had managed to flee had scattered through Wolffgard and gone to earth wherever they could find sufficient concealment. However, within a few days, some of them had grown brave enough—or resigned enough—to take their chances on fair treatment and given themselves up to Stone's forces. The surrendering myn all had the same plaint: they were simply following orders.

They all knew that if Todd's forces had really wanted to find them, they could have. Wolffgard was large by lycan standards, but small by those of neighboring Waejontor. Years of comfortable familiarity between the citizens of Wolffgard and the guardsmyn served both sides in good stead. Those guardsmyn who had committed no outrages against the community were allowed to hide in plain sight, with the civilians politely pretending not to notice them. Those who have given the citizenry cause to hate them found themselves on the wrong end of lycan private justice.

Belgair's surviving officers did not fair as well as his myn. They were rounded up by the town's volunteer militia as suspect in the coup, and turned into Stone who then locked them in the manor's dungeons.

Lieutenant Lennox Strahan had been one of the lucky ones, and escaped notice from the militia. Although if asked, he would say that he had made his own luck. A week without shaving had concealed much of his face, but it was impossible to conceal his protuberant eyes. He had a face that looked like a fig someone had squashed against a wall. His nose had been broken more than once and the only reason he could still use it was because the healers had placed metal tubes in his nostrils while they healed and then removed them. The end result was that it had flattened out.

Lennox had moved into Preece Malloy's old longhouse on the grounds of the Sanctuary Refugee Camp. Vika Softpaws, who ran the camp, had hired him; with a few caveats about his good behavior. He had been drinking heavily to mask the fatigue and aching; the way his stomach felt twisted. Lennox had recognized the signs of withdrawal from White Fire. What little sleep he had managed to get had been poor. He had not realized that he had developed a dependency upon it, buying it from Belgair's chastisemon, Damien Kildare, at every opportunity. One of the other guardsmyn who bought from Damien must have stolen it from the chastisemon's rooms after someone with claws tore Damien's face off in the dungeons beneath the manor. If he could figure out which of them that was, then he could get more.

He sat in a worn chair. The best chair had been given up to Thane Clennan Doherty. The harsh-eyed Thane had brought his own liquor. The two myn who had come with him had the look of lions in their eyes; hungry and ready to pounce. Faerwald Davies sat on the edge of the table with his knee pulled up. Lairgan stood behind Lennox, which made his neck itch with nervousness. No two myn had ever made Lennox that uneasy before.

"Vertram says you saw my son killed.” Clennan sipped his whiskey with a casualness belied by his eyes and the turn of his mouth.

Lennox nodded, trying not to stare at the twisted, leather-clad claw that was Clennan's crippled left hand. “He surrendered ... threw his sword down ... and begged quarter. Todd gutted him and walked off."

Faerwald and Lairgan shared glances at that, but said nothing.

"Start at the beginning of the attack upon the estate and tell me everything you actually saw."

"Yessir. Belgair left a token force at the manor. Counting the bridge watchers, we had nearly four hundred myn with us. To our knowledge, Sinclair had no more than seventy. We expected Todd to put up a token resistance while they got the bastard out the Orchard Gate. So Belgair assigned me fifty myn and we went around to that gate to wait for them. Instead, we found nearly three hundred MacLachlan soldiers—cavalry, infantry, and archers—led by Tobrytan MacFie. They rode us down. My myn were slaughtered. I escaped by crawling through the hedgerow. I killed one of Maguire's guards and stole his uniform. That got me to the pathway leading to the front gate. Sinclair had trapped the forward hedgerows. There were spikes the length of sword blades hidden beneath the snow. There were pit traps along the front path. Just as I got to the front, MacFie hit Belgair's forces in the rear. Trevor Sinclair then emerged from the trees and attacked. They pincered Belgair's soldiers, and cut Belgair off from his own forces. That's when Todd reappeared and killed your son."

Clennan had listened quietly. Now he tossed Lennox a gold crown, the largest denomination of coinage in Red Wolf, and four months pay in a guardsmon's wages. “You now work for me."

"Yessir. Thanks."

Clennan rose and stepped outside. Snow had begun to fall. He stared into the white curtain of flakes. “When you kill Todd ... start by cutting him up good and then open his belly."

"Count on us, Lord,” said Faerwald.

"They'd better be good.” Lennox stood in the doorway of his home with his arms folded. “Belgair tried to take Sinclair out before attacking Maguire. We sent five myn against him and he killed them all."

Clennan gave him a thin smile. “They're professionals."

Kady waddled onto the veranda, feeling awkward and uncomfortable with her belly protruding so far beyond her breasts. Kynyr rolled along ahead of her. Her husband had learned to maneuver the wheel-chair over and around most obstacles.

A guardsmon had alerted them that a fine carriage had arrived at the front gate and been told to go around and enter through the Orchard Gate. The traps that Todd had ordered built between the front gate and the abatis surrounding the mansion itself were still in place.

"I wonder who it is.” Kady settled onto the sofa, spreading her skirts to either side of her.

"Thanes probably. Stone says they're all demanding a look at me.” Kynyr fought down a wave of bitterness. “Todd and Stone are all that's keeping them from having us both hung."

"Don't say that. Not all of them have sided with Clennan and Vertram."

"Perhaps."

Only two of the thanes had come to extend the hand of friendship to Kynyr. Just two out of seventeen, and that rankled Kady more and more as the days passed. Old Sedley Wescot, Thane of Silvershire, had brought Kynyr a gift of two fine warhorses. He had also brought his middle-aged son, Lyncoln, along. Lyncoln was a childless widower with a sense of humor that grated on Kady's nerves. Sedley's reason for bringing Lyncoln became apparent from pointed questions concerning the marital status of Kynyr's three younger sisters. Kynyr had sidestepped the questions, trying to pretend he could not tell that Kady was close to snapping at Sedley over it.

However, Thane Cedric Hargrave of Whiteford had proven to be a welcome relief to the intrusions of Sedley. He brought Kady lovely quilts and a wealth of baby blankets, which she and Kynyr's Aunt Mary were still oohing and aahing over.

The carriage pulled up and a footmon climbed down to help three aristocratic bitches out.

A smile spread across Kady's face when she recognized Kynyr's three older sisters: Phoebe married to Weylen Tully, a goldsmith; Russa, wife of Blayne Albryn, a merchant in Middleborough; and Kathleen, whom they called Leeny, wed to Wallace Callaghan, a farmer.

Leeny's eyes softened and she bent to hug her brother. “I'm so sorry, Brubs. It's unfair."

"I'm handling it.” Kynyr kissed her cheek.

"Careful she doesn't tip over on you, Brubs.” Phoebe chortled. “Wallace has seeded her field again."

Leeny blushed. She had been born with a cleft palate that took her grandmother years of Mending to finally repair properly. Kathleen's trouble with certain letters had led to her becoming Leeny and to Kynyr's family nickname of Brubs.

"When's it due, Leeny?” Kady smiled at her, recalling the night she helped Gillivray deliver Leeny's cub.

"Close to Sowayn."

Russa thumped Phoebe's shoulder. “At least we spaced ours out. Stair steps is the best way to have them."

Phoebe ignored her sister and joined Kady on the sofa. “I see our obnoxious brother has gotten you all motherly right off the mark. I told Weylen when I married him, that I wanted to get used to the cookies before moving on to the cubs. He was perfectly fine with it. Of course, Weylen never expected to find himself a thane suddenly. He's still getting used to the idea. Now all he talks about in bed is heirs. I keep telling him that he'll get more when I'm damned well ready for them. And not a moment sooner."

Russa ran her fingers through Kynyr's short locks with a critical eye. “What happened to your hair?"

"He was spending so much time in bed, that it was the only way to keep the mats out,” Kady explained.

"I see.” Russa examined the wheel-chair. “Is that the brake?"

Kynyr started to answer and let out a ‘woof’ as Russa let the brake off, grabbed the handles, and ran him down the veranda at top speed. She shrieked in delight and ran him back to the sofa.

"Stop that!” Kynyr gripped the arms so tightly that his knuckles whitened. “You'll dump me in the snow if you're not careful."

"In the snow?” Mischief gleamed in Russa's eyes. “Now, there's an idea."

Kynyr gave Kady a woebegone look. “This is why Finn and I call them the Dreaded Horde."

"I'll give you Dreaded Horde.” Russa's sky blue eyes flashed. She seized the wheel-chair again, and ran her brother to edge.

Kynyr stared down at the big pile of snow that had been swept from the veranda earlier that day. “Oh, no. You wouldn't do that to your poor crippled brother ... now would you?” He tried his best to sound pathetic, and Russa immediately dumped him into the snow.

Kady snickered, wiggled her fingers, and levitated him back into the wheel-chair. “You had that coming."

The three sisters stared in surprise and then shared a laugh. Russa wheeled Kynyr back to his place beside the sofa. “Aunt Mary said you were a mage like Gram ... but I've never seen her do anything like that."

"I'm not like Gram. I'm a level seven pan-elementalist."

Russa let out a long whistle. “And what's Gram?"

"A level one."

Russa whistled a second time.

"So the emissaries of the Dreaded Horde have arrived.” Todd stepped out onto the veranda.

Russa made a moue at Kynyr and slapped his cheek with the tips of her fingers. “Now you've got Grandfather calling us that. You ought to be ashamed. You're a bad influence on him, Kynyr."

Then the three sisters enveloped Todd in hugs; kissing his cheeks and fussing over him.

Todd chuckled, gently freeing himself from their grasp. “Come inside. Your Gram has been waiting for you in the kitchen since she saw you arrive from her window."

Russa grasped the handles on the wheel-chair. “Lead on."

"Oh, no.” Kynyr threw a glance of exaggerated alarm over his shoulder at her. “You're not pushing, Russa."

"I'll do it.” Todd placed his hands on the wheel-chair and Russa relinquished it with a snicker.

Kitchen sitting had become a tradition with the Sinclair family long before the birth of Kynyr and his six sisters. Kady had embraced it, since the ovens made it the warmest room in the house. The huge first floor kitchen was perfect for a crowd of chattering bitches, and the dogs tended to join them there.

"I'll show you around in a bit.” Kynyr leaned forward, snatching at a plate of fresh baked cookies as Todd slid the chair into place.

"How do you manage the stairs? Do we get to carry you?” Russa grinned.

Phoebe thumped her sister. “Once in the snow was quite enough."

"I'll show you."

Kynyr wheeled to the broad sweep of the staircase in the main living room. A secondary railing had been built beside the balustrade. He put the brake on, grasped the rail and the balustrade, and lifted himself from the chair. The prince went up the stairs with his hands and arms carrying his weight. His family followed with appreciative noises. When he reached the top, another chair waited. Kynyr eased into that one, let off the brake and wheeled triumphantly down the hallway.

"By the way,” Phoebe turned to Kady as they followed their brother, “I hope you have room for us here. The husbands are staying on at the manor, but they don't want us there."

"Why not?"

Russa shrugged. “Safety. All the recent violence has them nervous about us.” She slipped her arm through Todd's and leaned against his shoulder. “What do you think about that, Grandfather?"

"Wise move."

Russa pulled away from him and thumped his shoulder. “You think we've forgotten everything you taught us, haven't you?"

Todd chuckled. “Not at all. You're still a bunch of rascals."

"Well, you're certainly welcome here.” Kady gestured at a nibari passing in the hallway. She owned ten, including the wet nurse she had purchased to care for Iollen Newell's motherless daughter. His young wife, Aghavie, had died in childbirth. Nibari breast milk was richer than lycan, but never seemed to bother the cubs a bit. “Ready three more of the suites on the east end."

The nibari smiled with a small curtsy and ran off to get it done.

Malthus sat in Clennan's suite, having been fetched there by Faerwald Davies. He chaffed under the constraints of uncertainty. Without Belgair to advise him, the Thanes—including Clennan—were unknown quantities.

It was larger and nicer than those in what had been the family wing. It had a central sitting room with a warm hearth, and four bedrooms that linked in the middle with the sitting room.

Berneen Hamilton, Clennan's sixteen-year-old mistress, had a bedroom that had both a door into the suite and a connecting door to Clennan's bedroom. She was his current fancy, and as was inevitable in their ranks, her belly was already swelling. Her father had run the Weaver's Guild, and become heavily in debt to Clennan. In an attempt to get Clennan to forgive the debt—something the thane rarely did for any one, he had persuaded one of the thane's housecarles to introduce her to him at court six months ago. Snub-nosed with a piquant attractiveness, Berneen had caught Clennan's eye and lost her virginity to him three days later.

His bodyguards, Faerwald and Lairgan, had the remaining two bedrooms.

"So, you're Malthus.” Clennan cast a skeptical gaze at him. “My son thought highly of you. Impress me."

"I doubt that I could. Belgair and I were friends. I'm certain that colored his letters to you with praise I did not deserve."

"Modesty has no place with me. I want to know what you can do. Belgair said you were kandoyarin. I've heard many impressive things about those Ocelayen mercenaries. I want to see you go a round with Faerwald in the salle. If you can hold your own with him, I'll support you. Otherwise, you may find yourself banished when I become regent for your sons."

"Can I watch?” Berneen joined Clennan on the sofa, snuggling against him.

Clennan placed his withered arm around her shoulders, the twisted, fingers closed upon her nipple, playing with it. “Of course you can."

Faerwald regarded Malthus with speculative contempt as they walked.

Word got out the moment they emerged from the suite and they acquired a tail as they headed for the guardsmyns’ wing of the manor.

Creeyans were working out in the salle with a few of the remaining lycan guardsmyn, and a scattering of the thanes’ myn. They eyed the newcomers with interest.

"All of you move off.” Faerwald gestured at them. “We're putting on a show."

The Creeyans glanced at Reist, who had lowered his own practice blade and grinned at Regina. “Might as well, better than letting you see Reggie kick my arse."

"I wasn't.” Regina scowled.

Reist winked at her, rubbing a forefinger across his chin as they passed and turned to his wife. “You want to watch, Reggie?"

"Why not?"

Everyone settled on the benches, except for Clennan who had a chair brought in, and Reist who stood with his shoulder against the wall and one arm around his wife.

Malthus chose the broadsword that he normally used for practice from the weapons rack. Faerwald unbuckled his sword belt, handing his saber and knives to Lairgan before selecting a practice saber from the rack. He tested it with a few swipes and moved into the center of the salle.

"So you were a kandoyarin?” Faerwald had a tiny arrogant smile as he spoke. “I thought I recognized the move you used to break my hold on your niece."

"Keep your hands off my niece."

"I don't harm little girls. Not even with a friendly weapon."

Faerwald made Malthus work hard: the duelist was as good as Kynyr had been before his crippling. Malthus would never forget the humiliation of losing to Kynyr during a practice session at the refugee camp. He pushed himself to his limit without accessing his sa'necari speed and strength. They danced, parrying and slashing.

Reist's attention kept moving between the fighters and his wife. Regina focused tightly upon them, her brow furrowed and eyelids angled. He turned his head slightly, just enough to keep Malthus in view and catch the look in Regina's eyes from the corners of his own. “They're good, Reggie."

"Matches are usually over fast, aren't they?"

"Unless it's a pair of masters fighting."

"So they're masters?"

"Evidently."

Time and again, Malthus blocked Faerwald with hanging parries and attacked with flurries of crosscuts so fast that Reist began to watch more closely. Lycans and a few other arcane races handled heavy swords with the ease of a human with a rapier.

"And I've seen a few humans that good with the heavier blades,” Reist conceded under his breath. “Few and far between though."

Faerwald dodged and pressed. The heavier broadsword could put him down in a single blow—nearly unstoppable by his saber if Malthus got in a good swing. He had expected the human to give him an easy victory. Now, sweat ran down their faces from effort, and yet neither could touch the other.

"What do you think? Could you take him?” Regina asked Reist.

"Which one?"

"Either of them."

"I would not wish to bet my life on the difference between myself and either of those two."

Malthus’ lip curled back in a snarl. His temper rose and months of frustration boiled to the surface at having to pretend to be less than he was. Being beaten by Kynyr had been bad enough. He upped the level of his strength and speed by a fraction, losing a bit of his humanity in the process. His broadsword connected with Faerwald's saber, entangled it from above, and jabbed the blunted point against the lycan's chest.

Faerwald grimaced and ceased fighting. “Oh well, just a practice. Not like I was trying to kill you..."

Malthus walked off, smirking.

Reist shook his head, wondering if he had seen what he thought he saw. The human was good. But how could such a slender human be that good with a heavy sword? He frowned, puzzling upon it further. Something did not seem right.

"Reist?” Regina touched his arm. “Reist, why are you looking that way?"

"I don't know. Just something wasn't right."

Kynyr had escaped from his sisters at the first opportunity and rolled his wheel-chair out onto one of the third floor galleries. Iollen Newell's innovations had made it easier for him to get about. He would park his chair at the foot of the stairs, and then use the special rails that Iollen had installed to get to the next one using his hands to climb instead of his feet. A chair was always parked at the top for him to use.

He watched the coffin maker arrive with more pine boxes. A few at a time, the bodies of his friends and comrades killed by Belgair's purge were being claimed by their grieving relatives. After his initial rage had passed, Kynyr had requested that Stone allow families to claim the bodies of Belgair's slain soldiers who were hanging from the scaffolds on the common.

"Been looking for you.” Todd pulled a chair up, turned it around, and straddled it.

"You've found me.” Kynyr continued to stare from the window; his tone distant.

"You can't keep brooding about it. It was not your fault those myn died."

"I feel responsible. If I had not come to Wolffgard five years ago..."

"If you hadn't, we would have Belgair as regent and Malthus running the realm. Would you want that?"

"No. Duty is where you find it."

"What do you make of your uncle?"

"Stone? He's not what I expected."

"He told me what he did to you."

Kynyr's eyes slewed sideways at the disapprobation in Todd's tone. “I can move my legs. And they're not as cold as they were."

"I suppose that is something."

"You don't like him?"

"I haven't decided. When he was young, he was nothing but grief for everyone who cared about him. Now? Who can say?"

Kynyr's gaze returned to the window and he scratched at his golden ginger sideburns. Kady had shaved them off during his illness and they were just then growing back. “I have to trust him, Todd. I need Stone every bit as much as I need you."

"Ayup. I'm aware of that. At least he doesn't want the throne. His claim is as good as yours; better in some ways."

"Ironic. Neither of us wanting the throne. Now I'll fight the Hellgod himself, to protect Claw's legacy."

Todd leaned over and hugged Kynyr. “I raised you right."

Wallace Callaghan, new made Thane and hero of Longbranch for defeating a unit of Waejontori cavalry, considered his opposite number, Selwyn Brawleigh of Anglecyn. They sat near the hearth in the sitting room of Selwyn's large suite. “I tell you, if he got the use of his legs back, there would not be a mon who could match Kynyr Maguire. And I'm not just saying that because I'm married to his sister. He was the best Todd Sinclair ever trained."

"All the more shame on the House of Doherty then.” Selwyn took a swallow from his tankard of mead.

"Hard to understand how the son of a Thane would poison someone."

"You're refreshing, Wallace. You don't know us well enough yet to see all the tawdry trappings that dangle from our tails."

"Like yours?” Wallace's tone turned wary.

"I would like to think I don't have any.” Selwyn's lips pursed in bemusement. “However, from what my grandfather used to tell me, there was more honor among thanes before the Rebellion, than afterward. There's still more honor in the north than the south, possibly because we're not as prosperous, so we have less to lose by being honorable.” Selwyn shook himself. “I apologize. I'm being cynical. I get that way every time I have to deal with the likes of Clennan Doherty and Vertram Devlin."

"I don't like them either."

"I almost brought my family along. But Audra can't stand being around Jocelyn and Lillian."

"Audra?"

"My wife. I wish I had now. Audra would like Leeny, Phoebe, and Russa."

"They're easy to like. The whole family is. Both the Maguire side and the Sinclairs."

"I am looking forward to meeting them. All of the northern thanes have sided with Kynyr. The midlands could go either way. As for those bloody southerners, they seem to be lining up behind Clennan and Vertram."

"Politics!” Wallace brandished his tankard. “I'd rather fight a war with swords than a skirmish of words."

"Leave the politics to Cedric and me. Get Blayne and Weylen to follow our lead, and we'll have Kynyr crowned as soon as Claw is buried."

"I'm with you on it."

"Good.” Selwyn turned a canny eye to Wallace. “Now, I need to point out a danger you are probably not aware of.... Those two myn you see with Clennan all the time?"

"The ones who walk like swordsmyn?"

"You've a good eye. They are Faerwald Davies and Lairgan Yates. They are professionals."

"Soldiers?"

"Killers. Duelists. Doherty calls them his bodyguards, but they are hired murderers. Nothing more. Every member of your family is in danger ... especially Todd and Kynyr."

"Thanks for the warning. We'll deal with them."

"I think you're being overconfident. Todd's old and Kynyr's crippled."

"You don't know the Sinclairs.” Wallace's eyes narrowed with a flash of fierce certitude. “Todd has three sons, all masters of the sword. I doubt that these professionals can match Trevor, Queran, and especially Jordan. Jordy's another Todd."

"Then you'd best get them here. I have a feeling you're going to need them."

"I will see what I can do, but I doubt we'll need them. Trevor's already here. And so is StealsThunder."

"StealsThunder? Who is he?"

"She. Fae armsmaster. Thunder is Captain of the Chosen Thirteen, Kady's bodyguards."

"She'd better be very good."

"She is. Thunder eats vampires."

"How do you eat a vampire without becoming one?” Selwyn laughed.

"You roast them first."

Selwyn choked on a sip of mead. “You're serious?"

"Absolutely."

"I'll have to take your word for it then."

"What about this gossip about Stone? Clennan threw it in my face yesterday."

"Oh that old shite. There's as many versions of the story as there are people to tell it. Yes, Fianait and Stone were lovers. It's said that was the reason their father banished him. Claw rescinded the banishment as soon as he became chieftain, but Stone refused to come home. All things considered, it can't have been as bad as some say, since Claw's first act was to try and get his brother to come home."

"Is this going to hurt Kynyr?” Wallace felt driven to ask the question. He recalled holding Kynyr while the younger mon wept for the loss of his father Branduff and his cousin Duggan last summer; which had engendered in him the protectiveness of an older brother for a younger.

"Not with the northerners. The past is the past. We have to worry about the present and the future. Those sa'necari bastards had been ravaging the northlands for months. Gateshead fell. Whiteford and Three Stones were attacked. If Stone had not destroyed their army at Maerse Field, they would still be murdering and raping their way through our territories. When you owe your life and the lives of your families to a mon, forgiveness is a given."

The new lawgiver to Wolffgard, Ossian O'Reilly, wasted no time in making his presence felt within the community. Ossian was a stern visaged young wolf who dressed like a Battle-Clansmon in black leathers with two fighting knives at his hips, a claymore at his shoulder, and a crossbow clipped to his belt. He and his brothers had made a point of drinking in each of the taverns in Wolffgard just so that people would take note of them, wearing their lawgiver runes in plain sight.

He was a shrewd mon who had made a fine art of listening to his gut instincts. A trio of desks stood facing the door into the first of the three infirmaries where the wounded from the night of the purge were being cared for. Folding screens had been extended to give the myn in the beds beyond them privacy. Two wheel-chairs stood empty opposite the desks. Ossian strolled over to them and pushed one back and forth watching how the wheels worked.

"Clever thing."

Sha, the senior healer, turned from making notations at her desk. Her cornflower eyes took in the runes hanging from his neck and then his face. “What can we do for you, Lawgiver?"

Ossian quit toying with the wheel-chair. From her no nonsense bearing to the harsh upswept way she wore her black hair, Ossian could tell that she took her position as seriously as he did his. “I need to speak with some of the wounded."

"Don't tire them."

"I'm looking for William Galloway first."

"Last bed on the left."

Ossian walked down the aisle, nodding to the myn in the beds as he passed. Several of them called out to him.

"We got us a lawgiver!"

"Welcome to you!"

"It's about time we got one of you again."

Ossian arrived at the end and found a slender young human sitting at the bedside of Willy Galloway. “What is your name? And where do you live?"

"I'm Bella Montegna. I work for Luciano Albertus at the Scarlet Angel Mage Shop. I live above it."

"Don't leave town."

"Am I under suspicion?” She clutched at Willy's hand in a spasm of fear.

"At this point everyone is.” He turned to Willy. “So you're William Galloway. You warned Todd Sinclair of the purge."

Willy sucked in a breath. “I was attacked in my rooms by Lennox Strahan, Derek, and Eamon. I was unarmed, but they cut me up anyway. I went out a window and reached the stables where Georgie Rogan helped me to get mounted and I rode here."

"Is there anything else you think I should know?"

"A few weeks ago, Belgair Doherty ordered Lon Anglesey flogged for allowing Darcy MacFie to cross into Red Wolf."

"Finn MacIver's wife?"

A flush of joy colored Willy's pale face. “He married her?"

"As I understand it, the same day I arrived. Yes. Now go on."

"Anyway, Belgair refused to allow Sheradyn to tend Lon's injuries. So I went down to the pantry. Isbeth keeps a few supplies there. While I was grabbing stuff ... bandages, salve, and poppy milk ... I found a strange bottle that I took to Luciano Albertus. It had no labels and the contents smelled strange. Luciano told me that it was poison and might be the same they had been slipping Kynyr that caused his collapse."

"What did you do then?"

"Nothing. We didn't have a lawgiver and I didn't know who to trust."

"Do you still have the bottle?"

"Unless they ransacked my quarters, it should still be there. I put it on the ledge of the bed frame behind the headboard. I didn't want anyone finding it until I could decide what to do."

The presence of a solid clue to the poisoning excited Ossian. He had intended to talk to more of the wounded guardsmyn; instead, he altered his plans, seized by the need to find the bottle that Willy had told him of before anyone else stumbled upon it.

"I'll want to speak with you further, Willy. So don't go anywhere."

Willy grabbed the crutch leaning against the headboard and wagged it at Ossian. “As if I could."

Berneen feared Clennan.

He had difficulty getting his clothes off, fumbling with his good hand at the lacings. The sagging muscles and age-slicked skin of his right side looked bad enough, but the twisted, desiccated limbs on the left made her stomach clench at the thought of his touching her. She had prayed from the first day that her father arranged for Clennan to mount her that his seed would have withered with age and leave the joining barren. Berneen had grown into a feeling of safety only to have it dashed two months ago when she missed her menses.

She had contemplated tansy, but Clennan must have guessed her thoughts; he warned her that if she lost the cub, he would give her to Faerwald.

Her father's plan had backfired. As old as Clennan was, her father had believed that having such a young and appealing bitch in his bed would soften the thane into forgiving his debts. Instead, Clennan had seen having her as a right, not a favor. Berneen had threatened to leave Clennan one day following one of his public humiliations of her. His response had been to foreclose on her father's estates, leaving him penniless and Berneen with no place to flee to. After that, Berneen did whatever Clennan asked of her.

Her hatred of the old mon lay smothered beneath her fear. Her anger became secondary to a determination to get something in the way of money and prestige out of her position as his mistress. Berneen sent part of everything Clennan gave her to her father so that he had a roof over his head and food on his table.

After building up the fire in the hearth, Berneen stretched naked on the bed with a forced smile on her lips and a come-hither glance.

He dragged his left leg, grabbing and moving it with his hand in order to straddle her. His member hung limp. He sat on her shoulders and breasts. It took effort to get an erection from him. Berneen patiently licked and sucked him to hardness.

He stroked her face with the back of his twisted hand and Berneen tried not to shudder.

Once she had gotten him as stiff as he was likely to get, Clennan crawled down her until he had it bobbing at her clit. He got the knob inside her and started snarling. Berneen's heart sank. He had gone soft again.

"Faerwald!” Clennan twisted around, grabbed the bedpost, and used it to ease himself off the bed and into a nearby chair. “Faerwald."

The tall bodyguard came in grinning. “Yes, lord?"

"Entertain me."

Faerwald snatched cords from his pouch and bound Berneen's wrists and ankles to the posts. She did not resist. She had been through it before. Faerwald disrobed and climbed onto the bed between her legs.

"Rough or gentle, my lord?"

"Rough, but stay away from her belly."

Clennan had seven sons and five daughters from his three wives. Having another cub at this point meant little to him beyond the fact that he could brag about his fertility at age one hundred and twenty. The Reader had told him it was his. It could have been Faerwald's or Lairgan's.

Faerwald hit her twice and then shoved his cock inside.

The thane leaned forward in his chair, watching avidly and stroking his member.

Ossian gave Georgie Rogan a curt nod as the stablemon took his horse, and those of his two brothers. Ultan, the youngest, was an eager puppy at barely sixteen, with a spiky crop of sandy hair close cut. Waid, the middle brother, was quiet and intense, sharply focused and ready for trouble. They dismounted and stood prepared to back any move that Ossian made. The brothers were well aware that the two previous lawgivers, who had each worked alone, were dead; and determined that it would not happen this time.

"Business, Lawgiver?"

"You'll know it soon enough."

Ossian strode to the door and entered without knocking. He spotted two Creeyan guardsmyn and gestured for them to follow him.

"Do either of you know which rooms were Willy Galloway's?"

One of them thumbed at Kissie for her to join them. “She does."

Kissie showed them to the suite that Willy had shared with Vayle Stewart. Cold air leaked into the bedroom between the wooden slats nailed over the window, which Willy had broken in his escape from the manor. Equally divided between the two myn who had shared it; each side had a single bed, a nightstand, a chest of drawers, and a weapons rack. A chair, that matched those in the antechamber, had been overturned beside the left-hand bed. Dried bloodstains marred the quilt covering that bed, and the weapons were still in the rack. That led Ossian to suspect it was Willy's. So he climbed onto it, feeling around behind it. His fingers closed upon a bottle and he brought it out. “Kissie, bring me six or seven burlap sacks."

Ossian stroked the memory stone in the ring he wore, activating it. “I wish you to note for the record that this bottle was found behind the headboard of William Galloway's bed, where I was informed it would be found by Galloway himself, who allegedly found it in the kitchen pantry."

He opened the bottle and sniffed it carefully, then extended it to the rest in the room. “Just sniff. This is what we are looking for.” He located a pen, ink, and paper; scratched Willy's name onto it and shoved it along with the bottle into a burlap sack.

"Waid.” Ossian glanced at his brother. “Have Stone assign you a couple of deputies and escort one Luciano Albertus to the Lawgiver House. I have some questions to ask him before anyone else tells him what we are about."

Ossian's middle brother departed with a nod.

"Ultan, search Belgair's quarters.” Ossian handed his youngest brother a sack. “I'll take Malthus’ rooms."

"His study or his suite?” asked Kissie.

"Study first; show me where it is, Kissie."

Ossian went through Malthus’ study. As he finished with the contents of a desk drawer, he hurled it across the room to lie beneath the window seat. A messy pile formed swiftly. When he finished with that he checked the chest of drawers, the cabinets, and the chests. Finally, he cleared the fireplace out and climbed inside it. Ossian found nothing on the ledge inside, and emerged from it coated in soot.

He removed paintings from the walls and jerked down the tapestries.

Nothing.

"What's going on in here?” Malthus stepped into the room and stared at the mess.

"An investigation. I informed you two days ago that I intended to carry one out."

"I have nothing to hide."

"Finn MacIver says different. He told me that you were with Belgair the night he was tortured."

"I have never denied that."

"He also says that you and Belgair admitted to him that you poisoned the prince."

"He's mistaken. Belgair admitted it. But that night was the first I knew of it."

"I see. Did Belgair tell you where he had gotten it from?"

"Baroucha Seaver."

"The murdered healer?"

"Yes. Luciano Albertus bought her shop after the crown seized it on her death. He acquired her entire stock as well as the property. I suggest that you ask him what he found there."

"I intend to."

Ultan came in with a burlap sack over his shoulder and a bottle in his hand. “Found this in Belgair's desk."

Ossian sniffed the contents. “It matches."

"I found a lot of letters from various thanes in Belgair's drawers.” Ultan took the vial from his brother and added it to the contents of the sack.

"Check Sheradyn Kelly's suite while I check Malthus Estrobian's."

"I must object,” said Malthus. “My wife is fragile. Disturbing her could be dangerous for the cubs she carries."

"I have been so informed. Move her to another suite. But not until we get there."

Ossian strode through the hallway with Malthus trailing after him. Merissa was moved to the Rose Room with Regina and Emma accompanying her. Ossian started turning their chambers inside out.

Ossian encountered Toniqua as he emerged from Malthus’ chambers. The small dark mon puzzled Ossian. When he had arrived days ago to become Lawgiver to Wolffgard, he had been surprised to find that while the capital had had no lawgivers since the murder of Padruig Caimbeul, they had an experienced Creeyan-trained coroner. It troubled him not a whit that she was human. So long as she did good work, Ossian would be satisfied with her.

"You have the coroner reports ready for me?"

"They're on your desk. Luciano is talking everyone's ears off at the Lawgiver House. How long are you going to make him wait?"

"Ultan should be nearly finished with Sheradyn Kelly's suite. Once that is finished, I'll be heading home. I will talk to him then."

Ossian currently lived in one wing of the Lawgiver House while Pandeena and her curious companions had another. Rivaling the manor for size, it had taken ten years to complete. The spaciousness of the building, an eccentric pastiche of various styles of human architecture designed by Maldwyn Softpaws, kept them out of each other's way; therefore Ossian had no objection to their presence.

It stood four stories high with a basement equally divided into storerooms and dungeons. The building had balconies, parapets, gargoyles, towers and dormer windows, as well as other architectural nightmares that made Ossian wince to look at it from the outside. He had been told that the oddities of the place resulted from too much interference on the part of Claw Redhand. The chieftain had built the Lawgiver House as a way of relieving the sense of emptiness that had plagued him after the deaths of his sons, turning it into an obsessive hobby and Maldwyn's artistic bane.

Nonetheless, Ossian was getting a feel for the place; becoming comfortable with its peculiarities. “Do you ever wish that Claw had built something more sensible than the current Lawgiver House?"

Toniqua shook her head, trailing after him. “Actually, I find it charming."

They found Sheradyn Kelly and Gillivray Ashby standing in the chaos that their suite had been reduced to by Ultan's search. The older mon was livid, his lips trembling. When he saw Ossian, Sheradyn turned his outraged attention upon the lawgiver.

"What is the meaning of this?"

"It's on my orders. I intend to have either your license or your life. Depending on what we find.” Ossian glanced about for his brother. “Ultan? Where are you?"

"In the closet."

Ossian walked to the deep closet and found his brother stretched over a chest digging behind it.

"For an impeccable nancidawg, this closet is a rat's nest.” Ultan tossed several stockings over his shoulder. A collection of empty bottles and vials followed. “I noticed the chest was not sitting right. So I.... “Ultan stopped in mid-sentence and his tone turned suddenly serious. “Ossian. Ossian, I found it. Arrest them."

Ultan emerged victorious from the closet clutching a small vial that matched both what Willy had discovered and what he had found in Belgair's desk.

"Poison?” Toniqua stared at it.

Ossian sniffed the contents and nodded.

Gillivray stood trembling beside his lover, glancing at Sheradyn uneasily.

Sheradyn blinked. “It's not mine, I tell you. I've never seen it before in my life."

"It makes sense now,” Toniqua said. “Sheradyn has repeatedly blocked my investigations. He knew about Fianait. He mishandled Claw's illness."

Ossian put his thumbs through his belt. “Sheradyn Kelly. Gillivray Ashby. I am arresting you on a charge of murder, attempted murder, conspiracy to murder, and as possible accessories to the deaths of Fianait Redhand and Claw Redhand."

He gestured at Ultan and the guardsmyn. They seized the two healers, spellcorded them, and bound their wrists behind their backs.

Sheradyn shrieked in terror.

"Lock him up in the lawgiver cells.” Toniqua said. “We've had one suspect die in the dungeons here already."

Darmyk lay moaning, clutching his side, tears running down his face. Merissa had tears of her own, sitting on the bed beside him and rubbing his back.

Regina sat in a chair nearby. She had sensed from the first that Merissa needed a friend. Emma joined them. They had formed their own little clique and no longer went to Sorcha's Solar.

"They arrested Sheradyn. I don't know what I'm going to do.” Not wanting to frighten her sick child, Merissa struggled not to weep aloud—her silent tears were bad enough.

"I would send you one of my healers,” said Jenny leaning against the door facing. “But they know nothing of either sa'necari nor treating children. They're all battlefield medics and surgeons."

"What about Pandeena or Toniqua?” Regina suggested.

"They frighten me.” Merissa rubbed at her eyes.

"Mary Sinclair is a midwife and works with children. And she's close. We could send for her."

The waiting for Mary to arrive grew tense. They could all see how terribly the child hurt. Emma edged her chair closer to the bed and stroked Merissa's hair comfortingly. “Is she a good midwife? I'm due soon."

Mary Sinclair arrived with a satchel hanging from her shoulder and a case in her hand. Standing five ten, Mary was tall for a bitch. Her auburn hair was pinned into an upswept style that lent an uncompromising turn to her face. She dragged a small table close to the bed and chased the others into another corner of the room. Then she settled into a chair, grasped Darmyk's wrist and Read him. Married to Trevor Sinclair, Todd's eldest son, Mary had never expected to be sent for by the manor; yet she kept her surprise schooled from her features. “There's damage to his kidneys. I don't understand it at all. Have you tried giving him blood?"

Mary prescribed limited doses of poppy milk, a gentle diuretic, and glasses of fresh blood with every meal.

Malthus came in as Mary was sending the bitches from the room so the boy could rest. She ignored him long enough to close the bedroom door, and faced him in the antechamber with her hands on her hips.

His eyes glittered with rage. “There's nothing wrong with Darmyk. He's faking it."

Mary Sinclair stared unflinching at Malthus, her hackles up and hair beginning to sprout along her arms. “I assure you, the cub is not faking it. I Read him. Darmyk is dying."

Malthus glared and swallowed back an imprecation. “If you go to Merissa with this, I'll have you thrown out."

"Malthus, I'm not afraid of you. There's nothing you can do to me. Todd and StealsThunder will be all over you if you so much as grunt in my direction."

Malthus stiffened and said nothing. Instead, he consoled himself by imagining Mary on his altar dying beneath him. With Kynyr crippled, that family would be nothing without Todd. Once Clennan's myn had removed Todd from the equation, Malthus would take Mary and rite her. The thanes would take care of the problem of Stoneriver. Malthus would be back in power and he intended to see that everyone in Red Wolf knew it.

"The only reason I'm not telling the rest of the household is because of Merissa's fragile condition."

"Then what's wrong with him?"

"I have very little knowledge of the sa'necari. Darmyk is the first one I have ever treated. However, I will make an educated guess. I think it is a congenital deformity. His liver and kidneys are failing."

Malthus sighed and rubbed his hand over his face. “It will break Merissa's heart when he dies."

"She loves him. Merissa is extremely sensitive and fragile. Losing her parents has been very hard on her. That bloody purge you and Belgair committed has gone hard on her also. To be honest, the odds of her carrying your twins to term are not good."

Malthus dropped into a chair. “I had nothing to do with that."

"So you say. You're extremely strict with young Darmyk and very possessive and controlling of his mother."

"I've made a mess of things. I'm too set in my ways, but I'll try to change. I've never been married before, nor had so much as a long-term relationship. I spent my entire life with the kandoyarin. A mercenary's life is hard and disciplined. There was no room for me to learn the gentler arts. Perhaps I'm too old for the role of husband and father."

Mary eyed him suspiciously, refusing to take his explanation at face value. “I think you're a despicable arse. However, I'm too professional to let that get in my way while treating Merissa and Darmyk."

"Thank you, Mary. I know you have every reason to distrust me. But I want to assure you that I love my wife and I'm fond of my stepson."

"I will try to keep Darmyk as comfortable and out of pain as I possibly can."

"And Merissa?"

"If her condition gets any worse, I'll simply order complete bed rest. That's the best I can do at this point."

Malthus nodded wearily. “Thank you, Mary. I know you have all their best interests at heart. I apologize for becoming upset with you. Is it all right if I go and check on the boy?"

"Of course."

"How long do you think the boy has?"

"A month. Six weeks at the most. I'm sorry."

"My poor wife. She's already been through so much. And now to lose her child too.” Malthus rose to his feet. “I'm going to look in on the boy now. Perhaps I can comfort him."

"You do that."

Malthus walked out of the room and as soon as he was out of Mary's sight, he began to seethe again. He strode to Darmyk's door and slipped inside. The boy was sleeping.

"Wake up, you stupid little bastard.” He shook Darmyk.

Darmyk woke and stared at his stepfather with frightened eyes. “Have you come to hurt me again?"

"Of course I have. I'm going to teach you to keep your mouth shut. You are not to discuss your illness with anyone."

Malthus shoved his hand up Darmyk's shirt and threw a hard strike of death magics through Darmyk's organs. The boy shuddered with a loud groan and began whimpering.

"Look forward to your death, child. Because then I won't be hurting you any longer."

Tears ran down Darmyk's face. “I won't tell anyone."

"I know you won't.” Malthus pushed Darmyk's head to the side and sank his fangs into the boy's neck.

Luciano Albertus, owner of the Scarlet Angel Mage Shop, was generally regarded as a funny little human and harmless by the lycan population of Wolffgard. They had accorded him a measure of respect after he battered a local ruffian to rescue the one-armed odd jobber, Iollen Newel, who worked for Kady Maguire. He was a small mon in a knee-length brown tunic, split to his hips for riding, over a pair of loose-legged trousers stuffed into short boots. His beardless bronze-skinned face had an effeminate sensuality, full pouting lips in a narrow face, and a long, straight nose. Large, long-lashed eyes the color of glistening black pearls dominated his features.

He had been chattering nervously to Lawgiver Waid O'Reilly for two hours, flitting from subject to subject.

Waid eyed him closely as he tried to get Luciano back onto the topics that concerned the lawgivers. “Tell me again why you left Skullbones?"

"Sa'necari. I'm a spiritworker. They eat us when they catch us. Well, they don't eat us, exactly. Just roast us or rite us. We taste bad."

Waid shook his head. “Yes, you've already said that. It doesn't answer the question."

"Well, what was the question? I am always helpful."

Luciano sucked in a deep breath and held it for a count of six to calm himself. He hated to admit just how nervous the lawgivers were making him. “General Mardreth Dovane's forces were routed at Wolfsbane Field. She retreated to Skeleton Creek to regroup. Skullbones is just a two or three day ride from Skeleton Creek."

"I see. That store of yours is extremely well-stocked for a refugee..."

"I borrowed a carrying globe, put my shop in my pocket, and ran."

"You still have the globe?"

Luciano shook his head. He had not expected that question. “No, I returned it to her."

Waid quirked an eyebrow at that. “What's her name?"

"Dyna."

"The peddler living at the Sanctuary Refugee Camp?"

"Yes."

"Mighty convenient, her having one of those globes and just happening to arrive here a couple of months after you did."

Luciano squirmed. He did not dare tell the lawgiver who Dyna really was, but feared he was sounding more and more like a suspicious character to the lawgiver. “She advised me to come here. Said she was too. Lycan lands are safer right now."

"That's open to debate. I'm thinking of having her brought in for questioning also."

"You do that. She'll be very cooperative.” I hope.

"I've been told that she put up that big house in minutes. Care to explain that?"

"Her stock and trade is secondhand magic items."

"She's a mage?"

Luciano pressed his hands tightly together to stop his shaking. It would never do to inform the law that their town currently had the Trickster herself in residence. “Sort of."

Ossian arrived and reclaimed his desk from his brother. “I understand that you purchased your shop from the crown as is. Baroucha Seaver's entire inventory was still there."

"Yes."

"Did you find any poisons in her inventory? Especially unusual poisons?"

"Yes, I did."

"Do you still have them?"

"I put them all in a box and locked them up."

"Waid, escort Luciano to his shop and retrieve the box."

Having something to do besides ask questions came as relief to Waid. His older brother had always been better at that. He headed for the door with Luciano in tow and squeezed past his younger brother as Ultan strode in.

"I've locked them in separate cells, Ossian,” Ultan grinned. “They won't be comparing their stories."

"Who else in this town might have or previously had access to drugs and poisons?"

"Well, there's the apothecary Atreius Ivanstern. There's also Cahira Sinclair."

"Cahira would not poison her own grandson, but check it out anyways. Same with the apothecary. I don't want to make a mistake or overlook anything."

Stone's thoughts took a melancholy turn as he wandered Claw's suite. The mon in the coffin downstairs looked more like their father than his brother.

When he failed to keep himself busy, Stone experienced the loss of his family more sharply. He felt displaced in time, as if he ought to be able to take a step backward and everything and everyone would be as it had been before he left Wolffgard. Stone had wanted to come home, right up until he met his grandfather, Hadjys, and learned that he would never grow old. He dreaded the thought of watching those he loved age and change while he did not. It had been easier to simply let go of the past and not think about them.

He remembered meeting Aisha for the first time as he settled at her dresser and drew circles in the spilled dusting powder. Claw had gone to purchase cattle from Aisha's father. The cattle came home, but Claw did not. So their father sent Stone, then just fourteen, to find out what was delaying his brother's return. Aisha had demanded a Wild Cousins Courtship; an old-fashioned country ritual of chase and capture for the right to mate and marry. Stone had laughed at Claw's angst and frustration. The heir to the throne should not have to chase a bitch; they should be chasing him. Then he met Aisha, beautiful, high-spirited, and clever; and he understood the attraction. Stone swept the dresser clean of powder, fighting the poignant ache in his heart.

He remembered Claw's joy when his sons, Tarrant and Logan, were born; and imagined Claw's grief when they perished.

"I should have come home sooner."

"So this is where you are?” Clennan Doherty limped into the suite with his bodyguards behind him.

Vertram followed with Jocelyn simpering on his arm.

"Get out of here, Clennan. Vertram. Get the hell out of here."

"High and mighty as ever, Brock?” Clennan favored him with a contemptuous glance.

"Don't call me that. My name is Stoneriver now.” Stone's rage kindled and he fought it.

"Your name will be mud when the witan sends you packing."

"If it sends me packing, Clennan. If."

Stone rose to confront the thane.

Clennan's bodyguards stepped between them. They had the look of professionals. Stone wondered at the bones braided into their hair; the mark of myn who either were or had been members of a Battle-Clan. They could be members of a clan that Clennan had allowed to settle on his hereditary fief in return for defending it. Or they could be renegades. If it was the latter, could there be a Bane Shepherd hunting them? Stone decided that would bear looking into once matters were more settled in Wolffgard.

"Stand back from the thane,” said the slender one.

"What's your name?"

"Faerwald Davies. I'm the best sword in nine clandoms."

"Then I'll only warn you once, Davies. Cross me and die. Now get the hell out of here. All of you."

"We will finish this later, Stone.” Vertram shared a glance with Clennan. “Fletcher is expecting us."

The Thane of Heatherford cocked his head with a sneer. “Another time then. Cross me, Stone, and this time it won't be me bleeding in the dirt."

Stone shrugged.

They trailed out and he closed the door. He swept his gaze across the room.

"Brother, I did not get here in time to save you, but I'll be damned if I don't see your last will carried out."

Cahira spent less and less time at her shop, Cahira's Potions and Notions, on Elmind Street two blocks from the Difficult Horse Tavern. She had originally opened it as a reason for staying in Wolffgard after Kynyr was wounded last summer. Since her main income came from translating ancient texts for the High Patriarch of Hadjys at Havensword, Creeya, she had turned over the day-to-day tasks to her granddaughter, Betrys, and her husband Artair MacFie.

The big wooden sign on her shop read Cahira's Potions and Notions. Underneath the words 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 three cubs, Rory, Hamish, and Cooley, used to work in the shop. Concerns for their safety had prompted Cahira to send them to Kynyr's home where they did various small tasks for Kady. They had stumbled upon Malthus jacking Kady's sister Larena, who was subsequently caught in the act of poisoning Kynyr, and killed out of hand by Trevor Sinclair. When it was reported to Belgair, his response had been to threaten to have Cooley ‘put to the question.’ It was only a hop, skip, and jump to realizing that the Scott cubs had been witnesses also. Cahira had not wished to risk them.

Cahira's Potions and Notions had display cabinets along two sides with floor to ceiling shelves and drawers behind them and along the back. A table with seven chairs stood at the rear, one end shoved against a short glass cabinet, 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 their other. The rest of it changed from time to time as Cahira's suppliers found assorted items of limited availability to offer her.

She crossed the room with a list in her hand and examined a stack of ‘pressed’ books occupying 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.

Cahira frowned. “Have we sold some of them?"

Artair glanced at Betrys, who giggled. “The missing ones were naughty books."

"Doesn't Todd have enough of those?” Cahira grumbled.

Artair blushed to the roots of his hair and Betrys’ giggle became a loud roar.

"Aha!” Cahira swatted him with the list. “Picking up Todd's reading habits, are you?"

Artair gave her a guilty shrug. “Research?"

"You don't need research.” Cahira pointed at Betrys’ puffy belly. “For a mon who wanted to become a monk, you certainly got down to business fast once you changed your mind."

The bells hanging on the front door jingled as Todd came into the shop. He had a tight-lipped expression. “Cahira, the lawgivers have arrested Sheradyn and Gillivray."

"Whatever for?"

"Word is they supplied the poison that Belgair used on Kynyr."

"Sheradyn wouldn't poison a mouse even if it chewed holes in his shoes.” Cahira stomped her foot indignantly. “Hitch up the wagon, Todd. I want to have a talk with them."

"Already done it. I figured you would.” Todd glanced at Artair. “I should warn you. The bitches of the family all have the temperament of a stung badger.

"That lawgiver will think he's been bitten by a badger when I get done with him.” Cahira snarled.

Todd drove Cahira to the Lawgiver House, and by the time they arrived—even though it was only ten blocks away—she had worked herself into a fury. Nodding and saying as little as he could get away with, Todd let her rant with the same patience that had won her heart when they were young. In seventy years of marriage, he had never lost his temper with her.

Cahira swept into the wing of the building that Ossian and his brothers were using, casting a baleful eye at everyone she passed.

"Can I help you?” Waid stepped into her path, eyeing her uncertainly.

"Are you Ossian O'Reilly?"

Waid flinched at the ire in her voice and instinctively tried to calm her. “I'm his brother, Waid. I'll be glad to help you with whatever your problem is."

Cahira snarled, placed her hands on her hips, and glared up at him. “I will speak to Ossian and no one else. You will take me to Ossian immediately."

"Yes, ma'am, I understand that you want to talk to Ossian.” He glanced at Todd, hoping for assistance. “Are you with her?"

"You could say that. I'm her husband, Todd Sinclair."

"The Todd Sinclair? Kinsdale Wood?"

"Ayup."

Faced with Cahira's rage and Todd's stolid battlefield calm, Waid's resolve wavered and deserted him. “I'll take you right there."

Waid had them wait outside while he went into Ossian's office and announced them. He returned with his cheeks glowing and gestured for them to enter.

Ossian rose from his chair and came around from behind his desk to greet them. “Todd Sinclair. I've heard so much about you. It's an honor to meet you."

"I suppose.” Todd's eyes twinkled in amusement at Ossian's reaction.

"I'm here because you arrested Sheradyn Kelly.” Cahira stepped between the two myn in an effort to drag Ossian's attention away from Todd.

"I've read every account I could lay my hands on about your exploits."

"Sheradyn Kelly. About Sheradyn Kelly! My husband brought me here to talk to you about Sheradyn Kelly."

"Is it true that the Divinators summoned hordes of demons during the Battle of Skeleton Creek?” Ossian looked at Todd with open adulation.

"Sheradyn Kelly. You arrested him. Look at me. I'm talking to you."

"Ayup.” Todd's hand shot out and he captured Cahira's wrist as she drew back to slap Ossian. Holding it firmly, yet gently, he glanced down at his wife with a tolerant expression. “It's against the law to smack a lawgiver, Cahira."

"He's not listening to me.” Cahira relaxed and Todd released her.

"Give her a listen, Ossian? I'll be happy to answer all of your questions over a tankard at the Difficult Horse."

"I would enjoy that."

"Ayup.” Todd drifted toward a large woodcut print hanging on the wall where Ossian could gaze at it from his desk, unintentionally closing out the sounds of Cahira berating the young lawgiver. He hoped that he was mistaken about the print, but when he got close an uncharacteristic sigh escaped him followed swiftly by a wince. Few things could make Todd want to hide under the furniture. That print was one of them.

It was an early work by a distant cousin of Kynyr's, Talbot Maguire. Although famed primarily for his paintings, Talbot had produced several dozen woodcuts in his youth.

The tremendous figure, his musculature exaggerated, stood on a rocky hillside with a claymore in each hand. The bodies of the slain were heaped all around him. His armor was rent and his body pierced by arrows. A mon's severed head hung from the figure's belt by its hair.

Had Todd noticed the print sooner, he would never have offered to share a tankard with Ossian.

The title plate read:

TODD SINCLAIR AT THE BATTLE OF KINSDALE WOOD.

Todd turned away from it with a soul-weary shake of his head. Talbot's original title had been ‘Todd's Last Stand.’ That was before myn started to discover that, although he had been left for dead there, he had survived through the intervention of Dyna.

Cahira snagged Todd's arm and started pulling him toward the doorway. “They're not paying any attention to what I'm saying. All this talk of evidence is preposterous."

Ossian met Todd's eyes. “I'm sorry I could not do more. But evidence is evidence. I hope that offer of hoisting a tankard is still good?"

"Ayup. It is."

None of the guardsmyn, who had been attacked by Belgair's myn during the purge, wished to return to the manor. One by one, as the wounded were declared fit for light duty, they enlisted in Kady's Army. Vayle Stewart and Robert Morcar were the first to do so. Willy Galloway soon followed them into Kady's service. In exchange, Kady gave them rooms in the mansion and a small enlistment bonus.

Willy decided to surprise Bella and take her to the Difficult Horse for a drink and dinner. The new management of the tavern now served meals and provided entertainments each evening. With winter having stopped work and trade for the season, entertainment had become prized. A small theater had been added to the common room of the Difficult Horse, and plays, story-telling, minstrels, and music drew crowds there.

Luciano was polishing some new crystals when Willy walked into the Scarlet Angel Mage Shop.

"Is Bella around?"

"She's in her room."

Willy grinned. “Mind if I go on up?"

Luciano gave him a suspicious look and wagged his finger. “No wild cousins, Willy."

Willy nodded solemnly and repressed another grin both at Luciano's protectiveness and his use of the lycan term for premarital sex. “My intentions are strictly honorable."

"They better be."

Willy sauntered into the hallway and climbed the stairs, whistling to himself.

Bella sat at the little table in her cozy room with a book open. Willy stepped around behind her, and nuzzled her neck. “Let's go to the priest, Bella. It's time you wore my ring and my name."

She stiffened and a sob broke from her. “You don't really want me, Willy."

"What do you mean, I don't want you?” Willy frowned and snagged the chair opposite her. He straddled it, draped his arms over the back, and stared perplexedly at her.

"I'm not right for you."

"You're not making sense, Bella. I love you."

"I'm not human, Willy."

Willy's brows knit. “Then what are you?"

"You're going to hate me.” She lowered her head until her chin was nearly to her chest.

Willy's mind whirled through dozens of possibilities and settled on the worst possible just to get it out first. “Sa'necari?"

"Yes."

Willy was thunderstruck. “Dark Brothers?"

She shook her head and let her true appearance come through. Her eyes lost their whites, pupils, and irises, becoming a solid amaranthine.

Willy had known some of the sa'necari women who lived at the refugee camp; and he had known Isranon. He had liked them and could not bring himself to judge her harshly because of it. “Tell me about it, Bella."

"Confess my sins, Willy? Tell you how evil I have been?"

"If you wish."

"I have committed the rites. The color of my eyes will tell you that much. Have you ever wondered why I can't sit facing the spigots in a tavern?"

"Yes. I think I know now. You were a sanguiner, weren't you?"

Bella gave a weary nod. “We were the poor relations of a noble family. I was sent to university, but I had to work part time to buy the extras I needed. So I worked as a sanguiner, mixing blood, draining myn for the bottles. It bothered me a bit, but I became inured to it."

"I see."

"No, you don't. Let me finish, please?"

Willy nodded and held his tongue, determined to let her get it all out of her system before he spoke.

"The lycans who live in the cities are periodically subjected to pogroms. Many of them end up at the sanguiners on their draining posts. I put the spigots in their necks and drained them to death."

Willy shuddered and pressed his hand to his neck.

"My father was not a kind mon. He wanted sons, but all he got was daughters. They were all sa'necari-born. Those who refuse to participate in the rites are declared heretics and killed. I did not want to die, Willy."

"I can understand that."

"My father had many mistresses, but few children. You know how we lose our fertility young?"

"Yes."

"But anyway, he finally got a son. His name was Nudd."

"That's a lycan name.” Willy thought of the sa'necari women who had allowed themselves to be spellcorded so that they could shelter their lycan children in Red Wolf.

"He was lycan. That disgraced my father. Nudd was sweet and gentle. I think he was the only member of my family who actually loved me for myself.” Bella paused and pointed at a cabinet. “There's a bottle of gin there. I need a drink if I'm going to tell you this."

"Is there blood in it?"

Bella swallowed. “Yes. We have a nibari now."

Willy found the gin and his hand wavered at the glasses. Steeling himself, Willy brought two glasses to the table with the gin. He poured for them both.

"Keep talking."

"One day there was a pogrom in the city. When I came to work the next day, many young lycan males were hanging from the posts. When I came to the last one...” Bella's throat tightened and her voice caught. She downed the contents of her glass, refilled it, drank that, and started over, trying to finish her sentence with great effort. “The last one was Nudd. I had no choice, Willy. I had no choice. It was his life or mine. I would have been called heretic and killed. I had to do it."

Willy squeezed her hand. “Go on."

"He looked at me with those blue, blue eyes and said ‘I'll always love you, Bella. Do what you must.’ I broke his mind so that he would not feel it when I pierced his neck with the sharp end of the spigot. I was never the same after that.” Her sobbing worsened. “Now, go away, Willy. I never want to see you again."

"Why?"

"Because I love you. It breaks my heart looking at you."

Willy rose and put his arm around her. “The Clerk of Records closes soon. If we're going to get that license, then we ought to go."

Hope had banished the last of Kynyr's bitterness. The morning started off the same. Qaseem administered Kynyr's medicines, measured his legs and muscles, and made his notations. He exercised Kynyr's legs and tested and prodded and poked. Then came the long hot bath and the fierce joy of movement. Finally his legs were wrapped; they helped him into his best clothing and returned him to the wheel-chair.

The Dreaded Horde met him in the front sitting room, and Russa took possession of the wheel-chair from Qaseem.

Trevor gave her an askance look. “Don't dump him in the snow today?"

"Best behavior, Uncle Trevor."

Kynyr eyed his sisters. They wore nice dresses in somber colors; which left him wondering where they had concealed their weapons, since he felt certain that they wore some. None of his family trusted the thanes.

Henry, the butler, held the front door open, and Russa rolled him onto the veranda.

Two carriages waited in the yard. The less elegant of the two would transport his three sisters, and Kynyr appreciated that he would not be riding with them. Despite Russa's promise to Trevor, she had a familiar glint of mischief in her eyes that Kynyr hoped was not directed at him.

The second carriage sent a wave of melancholy through Kynyr. It had belonged to Aisha. He had never been inside the carriage before, but he had ridden alongside it as part of Aisha's guard many times over the past five years. He remembered when Claw bought it for her as an anniversary gift; remembered the delight in her eyes.

And now it's carrying me to her funeral.

Russa pushed him down a ramp, and to the carriage. There Kynyr was lifted and settled inside. The wheel-chair was fastened to the back. Kady slipped inside and sat beside him. Qaseem and Cooley entered the carriage last.

The honor guard mounted up, six riding about it in pairs: Todd and StealsThunder; Tobrytan MacFie and Darcy MacIver; Trevor and Iswara.

Gorgarty Burr took a box from the chest at the end of his bed, chuckling to himself. As soon as he heard that Damien Kildare had died, he searched the late chastisemon's room and found what he sought: a thousand crowns worth of White Fire. He felt pleased that he had been so clever. The drug was illicit rather than strictly illegal. The apothecary association refused to sell it to anyone except a licensed apothecary and a mon could lose that license if they were caught selling it bulk for distribution on the street. It formed the raw base for the drug called Amphereon.

He laid out lines on the lid, took out a silver tube, and snorted three lines of it. It filled him with energy and a sense of being above the world. It took his cares away. Damien had found it in the chest of a dead mon named Preece who managed to upset the wrong wolf and was found murdered on Cheshire Road.

Gorgarty was one of those who had been left behind to guard the manor while Belgair attacked the Maguire Estate with the intention of hanging the bastard prince.

Eamon came in. “Gorgarty, get out in the yard."

"I'm coming. Hey, you want some?” He pointed at the box.

Eamon came closer and his eyes widened. “I wondered who nabbed that."

"Go on, lay some out. You won't feel as cold standing out there in the garden."

Eamon accepted the tube and did two lines of it. “You're right. But be careful with this stuff. It's pure quill."

The two guardsmyn walked downstairs to the door that led into the yard and took up their assigned places. It seemed like there was far more going on, far more being guarded, and more hours of duty than Gorgarty would have liked.

The carriage drew up in the yard and Gorgarty snickered. “There's the bastard. Maybe the thanes will hang him."

Eamon shot him an askance look. “Shut up, Gorgarty."

Gorgarty noticed the two females in Kynyr's guards. He ignored the little Fae, and centered upon the bitch with the fox-red hair. “Who's the red-head?"

"Darcy MacIver. Finn's wife."

"Bet she's not getting any with him all busted up."

"Stay away from her. She's bad news."

Gorgarty locked eyes with Darcy. She gave him a glare, and then it melted into a come-hither smile and a suggestive wink. “Did you see that? By damn, she wants me."

Although Stone had tried to make it a small gathering for the funeral of Aisha and Fianait, the seventeen thanes and seventeen elders invited themselves as well as those wives and mistresses they had brought with them. He knew that the reason was simple: they wanted a glimpse of Kynyr. He could have kept them away, but politics were in full swing and he did not wish to make more enemies by handing out personal affronts wholesale or acting in ways that could easily be misconstrued. What affected him would ultimately affect Kynyr. He also knew that the gossip about himself and Fianait had started again. Too many myn remained convinced that she had killed herself because she knew he was returning to Wolffgard.

I loved you, Fianait. It wasn't your fault anymore than it was mine. How could you have known that your little love potion would drive me mad? I didn't know what I was then. If I had, I would have tried to dampen the attraction field and you would never have become obsessed with me. So many mistakes. So many regrets.

The flagstone paths had been shoveled clear of snow and then swept to get every last bit off. Snow now lay in piles beneath the low hedges and the trees. While it made the procession easier, it also made it more difficult for the thanes to crowd the paths, which amused Stone.

Only three of the thanes had brought their wives. That had surprised Stone, until he learned which ones they were: Weylen, Wallace, and Blayne were all new made thanes, married to the sisters of the mon who would be king.

Stone met the coach, lifted Kynyr out of it himself, and settled him in the wheel-chair. “Put on some righteous airs, Kynyr. We need to make a show of it."

"I intend to. But the real show is Kady."

Stone glanced back at the carriage as Tobrytan helped her from it. She wore a long black satin dress with three quarter sleeves, revealing the wrist length ones of the fine wool underdress. A tiara of rare black diamonds set amidst small rubies adorned her head. A three hundred carat black diamond in a white gold setting surrounded by rubies and blue diamonds hung from a chain around her neck. He had to tear his eyes away from the gems. Kady dripped with them; earrings, bracelets and rings on her fingers.

As soon as he got Kynyr settled into the wheel-chair, Stone turned to Kady. “You look beautiful today, Lady Maguire. Can I ask how you came by all that?"

"Interrogating me again, Stone?"

"Somewhat.” Stone tossed her a guilty grin, thinking how badly Red Wolf needed a queen like Kady.

Kady searched his face before answering. “The tiara was a gift from Meileilyki. The pendant was given to me by Dyna."

"The Faery Queen and the Trickster have adorned you. That pendant, you do know what it is?"

"No.” Kady frowned, suspicion and unease gathering in her face.

"It's called Persephone's Black Arcane. It sat for six centuries in the hoard of the Obsidian Dragon."

"A dragon?"

"The dragon encountered the Trickster, developed a severe case of hives as a result, and scratched himself to death."

"No.” Kady giggled.

"Absolute truth.” Stone's arrogant lips twitched with impishness. “Your husband is ready. Go join him."

Qaseem rolled the wheel-chair down the pathways toward the little family cemetery with Stone leading. Todd and Tobrytan walked in front of Kynyr, Trevor, and Iswara to either side, while Darcy and StealsThunder walked in the rear. Most of the guards posted were Creeyan with a handful from the Redhand guardsmyn.

Darcy spotted a familiar figure and felt a rush of barely controllable anger. She mastered it, changing a glare into an inviting smile and a suggestive wink.

"What is it?” Thunder asked, following her gaze to a big, ugly guardsmon.

"Gorgarty Burr,” hissed Darcy. “If there is one thing that I have learned from Todd, it's choose your battleground. Lure them out and then cut their throats. He raped Kady and Betrys. He gutted my friend Erskine. I'm going to kill him."

"Don't try it alone,” cautioned Thunder.

"I don't intend to. What would you say to going with me for a drink at the Striped Dog? That's the arse's favorite tavern."

"Consider it done. Who else can we get to go along?"

"Have to think about it. Females only. Best to be tempting and underestimated."

Regina studied the crippled prince, shivering at the similarity between Kynyr and the portrait of Tarrant Redhand in Sorcha's Solar. He was one of the handsomest dogs she had ever seen from his chiseled cheekbones to his strong jaw and cleft chin.

She scanned the thanes. Most of them were watching Kynyr like great white owls preparing to pounce upon an unwitting mouse. The princess was pretty in an unconventional way. She outshone the measured sensuality of Jocelyn and put to shame the tawdry elegance of Lillian.

Seven of the thanes had brought their young mistresses and three had brought their wives. The wives stood with their husbands as members of the Redhand family. The aristocratic beauty of those three bettered that of every bitch there. Then the similarity to Kynyr's chiseled features registered. They had to be his older sisters.

"You're holding up well, Reggie.” Reist kissed her head.

"My anger is a suit of armor, shielding me from my grief ... and you'd best remember it.” She bristled at him.

"If you don't let it out, it will blow up in your face like a shaken bottle of Iradrim Fire."

"There'll be time enough for that when the war is over."

"Hello, Regina.” Jocelyn sashayed over, followed by Lillian and Berneen. “Enjoying your new husband? I see you wasted no time mourning for Johfrit before remarrying. Your loins are as hungry as my own. Slut blood run in your family?"

"You'll get your comeuppance, Jocelyn. Uncle Vertram will tire of you eventually, and then where will you be?"

Regina walked off with Reist before the affronted Jocelyn could say another word.

"I'm surprised you didn't call her a whore. That seems to be your favorite word lately."

"I already have."

Reist shook his head ruefully and chuckled. “That's my Reggie."

Todd had come to the funeral armed to the teeth, determined that if any or all of the thanes got a hair up their arse toward Kynyr he would be ready to block any and all attempts upon his grandson's life. He carried a pair of axes in his belt, fighting knives strapped to his legs, and his pair of claymores at his shoulders in the Sharani Aluintri Borderer style. The big lycan towered over everyone except Stone.

Creeyan guardsmyn had cleared all the gathered myn from the flagstone path leading through the garden and into the small private cemetery so that Kynyr's party could enter first. Snow clung to the low winter-browned hedges like frigid blooms. Leafless trees stretched their skeletal fingers to the sky, while the evergreens and pines mitigated the starkness with their comfortable green presence.

Todd had always avoided the garden, knowing that the cemetery lay beyond it, reluctant to look upon the grave of Tarrant Redhand, his closest friend and first student. Tarrant had been Kynyr's grandfather, and Todd had made him a promise that if something happened to Tarrant, Todd would look after Cahira. He raised Tarrant's son Branduff as if the cub were his own. In all the ways that counted, in all the ways of the heart, Branduff's son Kynyr was Todd's grandson.

As they progressed down the path, Todd gained insight into the allegiances that were forming. All of the village and town elders from across Red Wolf greeted Kynyr with polite bows. Some of the thanes bowed also. The undecided amongst them gave restrained nods. Those who had already chosen to oppose seeing Kynyr on the throne stood stiffly without acknowledging him. Lines were being drawn in the soil of Red Wolf.

A crippled mon with a dragon-headed cane hobbled into the middle of the path, his eyes cold as steel. The Lycan Rebellion of 997 had left almost as many cripples in its wake as dead. Todd had not seen the mon since they were both very young, and age had brought a lot of changes in both of them; so Todd guessed who he was, based on descriptions he had heard over the years: Clennan Doherty, crippled not by war, but by Stone in an altercation over Fianait Redhand who they were burying today alongside Aisha.

Vertram Devlin stood behind Clennan on the path, offering his silent support.

Clennan blocked Kynyr's progress, staring at Todd. “You're Todd Sinclair?"

Todd's eyes narrowed. “What of it?"

"I'm Thane Clennan Doherty. You killed my son."

"Your son led an attack upon my grandson's estate."

Clennan gestured and two myn stepped from the crowd. They were young, moving with the leashed violence of the true predator. Todd noted the bones braided into their long pale hair. They either were or had been members of a Battle-Clan. Professionals. Or they might be swaggering gallants wearing them for effect; somehow Todd doubted that last possibility.

"Faerwald Davies.” Clennan indicated the slender mon with the straw-colored hair first and then the brawny towhead. “Lairgan Yates. They've been looking forward to meeting you. I'm certain that a time can be arranged."

Todd had never met them before, but he recognized the names. Clennan had hired two of the best young duelists around. Suddenly he felt old. In his youth, they would have been no competition. At one hundred and nine years old, Todd felt a trace of uncertainty; yet it was not in him to back down. If they got him, then they would get Kynyr. “I'm sure it can."

Kady clutched Kynyr's hand, feeling him shake with anger at Clennan threatening Todd, and both of them uncertain what to do about it.

Darcy impulsively seized the initiative and rushed around Kady. She got in Clennan's face, jerked her axe out, and started punctuating her sentences with it. “You look here, you withered old geezer. You go threatening my mentor, and I'll chop that little gray twig of yours off and shove it down your throat."

Regina, standing nearby, leaned close to Jenny and whispered. “I like her. Who is she?"

"Darcy MacIver."

Stone stalked across the garden with Reist at his heels. “Show some respect for the dead,” he roared.

That ended it and Kynyr's party was allowed to travel the last few yards into the cemetery.

The thanes were kept at a distance from the family members until the funeral ended. It was a modest ritual observance, since the final touch—planting something over the graves—could not be done until spring. Pandeena spoke the words of farewell to the dead, and then indicated that it was time to cast the dirt over Fianait and Aisha. Kynyr held his grief in check, although his eyes tended to leak. He had loved his aunt and his great-grandmother dearly. It was one more failure added to the total that nearly overwhelmed him at times. He had been unable to save himself or the Redhand side of his family. A desire to protect them was what had brought him to Wolffgard six years ago, hiring on as a guardsmon under Belgair Doherty without telling anyone of his ancestry.

The mistresses accompanied their lovers, casting the dirt as custom decreed. It went smoothly until the funeral ended. As they scattered through the winter garden, attitudes that had been subdued for a brief time returned. Clusters of folk formed, like being drawn to like in the politics of the moment.

Jocelyn's eyes kept straying to the pendant that Kady wore. “How does some slut of a taverner's daughter merit gems like that?"

Lillian snickered. “Must have spent most of her life on her back, I'd say."

"Those gems can't be real. They must be fakes."

Regina sauntered over with a roguish manner. “They're real. That's Persephone's Dark Arcane. Not even Vertram has enough money to buy its like.

"She's already spending the crown's money on gewgaws,” Jocelyn snarled, her eyes burning with jealousy.

"Hardly.” Regina favored Jocelyn with a venomous look. “She's independently wealthy."

"A taverner's daughter? Wealthy?” Lillian sneered. “She must be good on her back. The dogs have a peerage. Maybe we should start a sluttage and make her head slut?"

Berneen giggled in spite of herself.

Emma, standing behind her, looked close to tears.

Jocelyn put on a haughty air. “I've heard that she's had half the dogs in town between her legs. Her father was going to marry her off to a laborer named Preece Malloy. Only she let Kynyr get her up the stick. Now she thinks she's going to be queen."

"Where are you getting all this, Jocelyn?” Regina's voice lowered threateningly, but Jocelyn did not seem to notice.

Jocelyn flicked her shoulders with a poison smile. “Uncle Belgair wrote grandfather all about it. Grandfather told Vertram ... and of course, Vertram told me."

Lillian glanced across the garden at Kynyr talking to Thane Sedley Wescot of Silvershire, an impossible old mon cranky and cantankerous. “The bastard's not bad looking. If he does become King, I'll have to take him away from her."

"As if you could,” Regina snarled. “It wasn't an arranged marriage. No brideprice. It's a love match."

"Just watch me.” Lillian strolled to the males and bent over Kynyr, mussing his hair. “My, what a handsome king we're going to have."

Kynyr recoiled from her, spotted Darcy, and shouted, “Ugly cubs have more fun."

"Handsome ones are more fun.” Lillian reached for him again.

"Off with ya, slut,” Sedley growled.

"When I'm ready, Thane Sedley.” Lillian sniffed exaggeratedly. “When I'm ready."

Darcy came striding, grabbed Lillian by the hair, and spun her about. “Keep your damned hands off my husband's spiritbrother."

"How dare you!” Lillian glared at Darcy, smoothed her hair back, and stuck her breasts out smartly. They were more ample than Darcy's, and Lillian was very proud of them. “You're not much to look at, are you? I mistook you for a boy at first."

Russa charged to Darcy's side with Phoebe and Leeny right behind her. She grabbed Lillian's arm and hair, turned sharply with her hip up, and executed a perfect first level throw. Lillian hit the ground hard and stared at her in shock.

"Now that's my kind of bitch.” Sedley gave a loud belly laugh. “If I were forty years younger, I'd be chasing her around Sherwood's barn."

"You stay away from my brother! You hear me?” Russa stomped her foot for emphasis. “You stay away from my brother. You don't touch my brother. You don't speak to my brother. You don't get near my brother. Or next time I knock you down, I'll stomp the unholy shite out of you."

Stone watched the proceedings with a speculative eye and a bemused smile. He shifted closer to Todd. “Russa learn that from you?"

"Ayup. Every bitch in the family can fight like a hellcat. I saw to that."

"And what's this about ugly cubs?"

"It's a long story, Stone. Suffice to say, it's a call to arms among the bitches of the family."

"I'd like to hear it sometime."

"Ask Kynyr. Or better yet, ask Finn."

"I'll do that."

Standing with the bitches, Jocelyn's jaw dropped and her eyes went wide as saucers. “Did you see what she did? Did you see?"

"Stop repeating yourself, Jocelyn.” Regina snickered. “I think our new royal family is going to prove more than you, Clennan, and Vertram can handle."

Regina linked her arm through Emma's and headed off to introduce herself to Kady.

Wallace Callaghan led Selwyn across the winter-clad garden to where Todd stood speaking with Stone and Reist.

"Todd, I'd like you to meet the Thane of Anglecyn, Selwyn Brawleigh.” Wallace indicated his companion.

"So you're Todd Sinclair?” Selwyn Brawleigh extended his hand to Todd and they shook.

"Ayup."

"My son, Ocvran, has read everything he could get his hands on about you."

"Nice to hear."

Wallace's eyes slewed to the side and he nudged Selwyn.

"I heard that you've started teaching again.” Selwyn pressed his hands together.

"Ayup."

"I would consider it an honor if you would train Ocvran."

"I'd have to meet him first. See what his temperament is like. I don't train bullies."

"When we get these matters settled and Kynyr crowned, I'll send for him. I think you'll approve of him. He's a good lad."

Zinzi paced her parlor, snarling. Blood rimmed her mouth and her fangs were descended. “Where is your sister? Where is Shelley and Gilzean? Where are they hiding?"

Ocvran Brawleigh sat on the sofa bare to the waist, his arms and neck marred by fresh bites and his chest marked by long tears and bruises. He regarded her dull-eyed, worn down by abuse.

"Where are they?"

"I don't know.” Ocvran whimpered far back in his throat. Terror lit his eyes and sent tears down his cheeks. “Please don't hurt me."

She stopped pacing and leaned into his face. “I don't like you any more."

"I love you, Zinzi. Please don't hurt me."

Zinzi wrinkled her nose and barred her fangs. She had liked him better before she broke his mind open. “Oh, I'll do more than hurt you."

She extended her right hand palm up. Her venomous secondary nails emerged from beneath her primaries and she jabbed two into his chest. Zinzi felt the satisfying relief of pressure in her fingertips as the venom pumped into him.

"Oh, gahh ... gaahhds.” Ocvran Brawleigh sagged against the arm of the sofa, a bluish tinge to his parted lips, his breathing stertorous. He twitched and shuddered uncontrollably, his fingers jumping.

"I love the taste of poisoned blood.” Zinzi bit him again, extended her sense through his body, and enjoyed the way that his struggling heart kept fluttering.

"You still have not found the cubs?” Hoon strolled into her apartment.

She lifted her mouth from Ocvran's throat. His head fell back, mouth slack and eyes staring without seeing. “They're hiding. They're always hiding."

"And he is dead. I was going to ask for him back. Now I have no Brawleighs."

"Ask Silkie what happened to them. She came and took them from me."

"Yes, ask me what happened to them.” Silkie swept in, her expression haughty and stained with ire. “I gave them back to you before my last assignation. I think you ate them."

"You're always having assignations. Can't keep your bloody twat filled, whore?” Zinzi leaped at Silkie with her claws out.

Silkie backhanded her across the room. “Don't threaten me. I have crushed little girls like you many times before."

Zinzi crouched, gathering herself for another spring.

"That is enough.” Hoon stepped between them. “I do not know whether my Brawleighs were eaten or whether they escaped. Considering the nature of my forces, it could be either. However, I will discover the truth. Then someone will be punished for it."

Zinzi straightened with a huff and adjusted her dress, smoothing the skirts down. “It wasn't me."

"Enough, Zinzi. I am sending you to Wolffgard. I want you to stay in the field until I send for you."

"Why?"

"Because you are good at it."

Silkie put her arm around Hoon's waist and laid her head on his shoulder. He kissed her hair and then walked out with her.

"Silkie,” Zinzi snarled. “Always Silkie."

Aelfwin Cadwallader led them southwest to Sunderborough. Paolo Nicoletti and his myn made odd companions to the lycans. The deeper into Red Wolf they rode, the quieter the humans became.

Shelley rode behind Aelfwin on his horse, patting his back frequently and prattling on about “Waller this” and “Waller that.” All of the fear had gone out of her as soon as she had her ‘Waller’ back and they were away from the city. The absence of her brother, Ocvran, puzzled Shelley; however no one ventured to tell her that he was dead.

The little girl was the only one who could get more than two or three words out of Gilzean. Last night Shelley managed to coax the name of the boy's father out of him: Domhnall Taite. All attempts to elicit his mother's name led to tears, and either sobs or silence. Aelfwin suspected that something bad must have happened to her and the cub was trying to block it.

The day after reaching Sunderborough, Aelfwin sold their horses, parceled their supplies out into backpacks, and set a large crate down on the banks. “This is how we're traveling. Can you skate?"

Paolo lifted a critical eyebrow as he watched the lycan bring forth an assortment of ice skates. The lycan skates were built to handle rough going. They were twice as long as their feet with wooden platforms and metal blades. Their boots were strapped near the back of them. “I haven't since I was a boy. I suppose it will come back to me."

"I hope so. This is faster than the horses in this weather. We'll tow the little ones. And, best of all, we're not likely to encounter someone trying to stop us. Straight down the Bonnie Draw now that it's iced over."

Shelley settled beside Daffyd Cadwallader and patted his arm. “Nother Waller, which skates are mine? Which are Gilly's? Gilly wants to know, Nother."

"The two of you are going on the sled."

She clapped her hands. “A sled for Gilly and me."

Paolo cast a glance at Shelley and Daffyd filled with envy and longing. “I wanted a family. I never had the opportunity ... or the time."

"Career military?” Aelfwin moved on, checking that Lady Brawleigh and her daughters had their skates on proper.

"Yes. I was with King Baaltrystan when the palace collapsed ... barely got out."

"Sa'necari in your family?"

"None. We've been soldiers to the crown for generations. The opportunity to embrace the rites has been offered us, but we've always turned it down."

"I find that hard to credit."

"I'm a captain. None of my family has ever risen higher than that. Had any of us embraced the rites, there would have been a General Nicoletti at some point."

"Good point. But that still doesn't answer the question. Why refuse power when it's offered?"

"Maybe we find value in our humanity.” Paolo shrugged and changed the subject. “You know, there's something I have always puzzled over."

"About lycans?"

"No. About the collapse of the palace. Most of those sa'necari who carried a long legacy of the rites ... those who got out ... I'm certain that there were far more than showed up afterward. It's as if someone were waiting for them and grabbing them up."

"Maybe there was."

Paolo nodded. “Two-thirds of the highest ranked, the greatest powers in the old families vanished."

"You shouldn't be telling me this."

"Because you'll go to the King with it? Maybe I want you to. You see, Aelfwin, Queen Tomyrilen is a usurper. The throne belongs to a legitimate male heir, and there's three of them. Or there was. An assassin was dispatched to kill the twin sons of Mephistis, Fauxx and Wolff. The deed is probably already done by now. That leaves just one legitimate heir."

"Cooley?"

"Yes."

"Does it bother you that he's lycan?"

"Not as much as it bothers me that Tomyrilen is a murderous usurper."

Conyn Pritchard sauntered over with the sled he had carried from town. He uncoiled the rope hanging from his shoulder and attached it to the front between the back-curved runners. Two small seats with raised backs would keep Shelley and Gilly from falling off if the cubs became drowsy or tired.

Had ‘Waller’ been traveling alone, he could have made the journey down the Bonnie Draw in two days. As it was, between the less experienced humans, ten-year-old Jeremy Brawleigh, and the three bitches it would take considerably longer. They would need to stop periodically throughout the day to let them rest; and it was decided that each time they stopped it would be at villages and towns where the lawgivers could be alerted to the fall of Anglecyn.

Then Waller took the point as the strongest skater among them.

They overnighted at Doningcote. The cubs were exhausted. Waller carried Shelley and Daffyd brought Gilzean. The boy tended to flinch away and start crying whenever one of the Waejontori tried to touch him.

Once everyone was settled in, Waller went down to the common room for a tankard and a chance to spread the word about Anglecyn to the regulars. His knowledge of the sa'necari was limited to how to kill them and the fact that they became stronger the more lives they took in the rites. Some of the things that Paolo had said to him that morning hung in his mind.

"These legacies you were talking about, what are they exactly?"

"Souls."

"I gathered that. The Steeped-in-Death have taken a great many souls. It was one of those buggers that captured me."

Waller found it disturbingly easy to talk to Paolo. They were both officers and career soldiers of military families. Waller's family had served the thanes of Anglecyn for generations. Their loyalty ran deep and there was a strong bond between them.

"Legacies are nasty things. When a sa'necari gets too old and feeble or when he's injured past healing, his son—usually it's the son—rites him. That adds the father's stolen souls to that of the son and doubles his power."

Waller's sphincter tightened at the thought. “So those who went missing when the palace collapsed ... supposing a single mon got them all? How powerful would he be?"

"I can't imagine it."

"Try."

"As strong as a yuwenghau I would think. Several of those legacies counted for thousands of souls."

Waller had been hearing odd and troubling rumors for months before Anglecyn fell and now he tried to piece them together. “There's a rumor, Paolo. I'll understand if you can't answer my question."

"Ask and then I'll tell you whether I can or not."

Waller stared into his tankard as if there were truths written in the drink. “The Butchering Serpent is in Red Wolf."

"I've heard that one."

"What if the reason he's so powerful is because he took those legacies?"

"If he did, Waller, he would not be able to hide from your people. He'd stand out like a bonfire in a midnight field. You haven't been around sa'necari like I have. When you come across those with the greater legacies, it makes your skin itch to be in the same room with them."

"Did anyone recognize or catch the names of those two professionals Clennan brought to the funeral?” Stone stood on the roof with his foot resting atop the short stonewall.

He had spent hours walking the roof. The plants that made up the avenues of alcoves had either gone dormant in their pots or been taken inside for the season. A few of the larger pots contained the withered remains of plants that had not survived the first sudden frost. Piles of hewn stone squares lurked beneath snow covered tarps. Stone could tell that Claw had intended to add merlons and possibly arrow slits to the roof. Seeing how many things his brother had left unfinished sent a wave of melancholy through Stone. He longed to finish them for him.

It all added an edge to his thoughts as he listened to his second.

"You're not going to like it.” Reist's lips pursed and his head angled.

"Who are they?"

"Faerwald Davies and Lairgan Yates."

"Davies. That's the one. Slender?"

"Yes."

"We exchanged threats yesterday.” Stone leaned farther out, gazing down on the empty yard. He saw the barns and cotes beyond the main stable. Claw had added several. That used to be thickets of ash and elm.

"He's a master, Stone.” Reist shrugged abruptly, a contemptuous twist coming to his lean features. “Even if his talent is as large as his ego, which it isn't, he'd never be able to take you."

"No doubt. They can see I'm long-lived. They've been told by Cedric that I'm yuwenghau. And yet, it doesn't really sink in. I'm still Mad Brock to them.” Stone dragged a deep breath through his nostrils. “I had a feeling that Clennan would bring his pet duelists along. At least I know what they look like now."

"Clennan has sicked them on Todd. Sinclair is good, but he's old. They'll kill him."

"Goat-lickers. The only way they are getting to Todd is through us. Agreed, Reist?"

"Agreed. I'll stick a tail on them."

"Have one of Jenny's girls put a bug in Lawgiver Ossian O'Reilly's ear about them. And set a watch on Todd as well."

"Am I interrupting?” Pandeena appeared on the roof, materializing out of thin air in a sparkling shower of silver motes.

"Yes, you are.” Stone threw her a contemptuous look.

Pandeena's mouth tightened. “It's important."

"It had better be."

Reist glanced from one to the other, gave a small bow, and left them alone.

"Now that you've chased my second off, what was it you wanted?” Stone turned and sat on the wall with his hands gripping the edge. His body reacted to her presence, and he could not decide whether the attraction was genuine or a response to the native allurement of their kind.

"I wanted to tell you about Nikko Softpaws."

"The first lawgiver they killed?” Stone frowned, wondering why Pandeena had been finding every little excuse she could to talk to him. He had his suspicions and felt tempted to test them.

"That one. Except he isn't dead.” Pandeena settled on the wall at a modest distance from him.

Stone tilted his head away, watching her covertly, a twist of arrogance on his lips. “You've been holding back on us."

"I had to.” Pandeena shifted uneasily and crossed her legs. “Nikko was shot several times. The trauma took his memory. He's begun to remember. But at first he could not even recall his own name."

"Why bring it up now?” Stone's voice hardened as the intelligence officer he had been trained to be came to the fore.

"He wants to come home."

"I know a lot about coming home.” Stone's hand shot out, snaked around her waist, and pulled her close. He had not told her the full truth when he said he had always wanted to kiss one of the Mothers—he had fantasized about doing much more than that.

"You shouldn't do this.” Pandeena pushed away from him, and rose.

He swaggered after her. “Don't speak to me of shoulds."

Pandeena swallowed, backed into a stack of cut stones covered with a tarp, and flinched. “Stone, don't."

"I make you nervous?” Stone pressed himself against her. This close together, if she Jumped, she would only take him with her.

"Yes ... yes, you make me nervous.” Pandeena squirmed, pushing at him vainly.

"You're a battlemage. A warrior. The Second Mother. And I make you nervous.” Stone nuzzled her hair, licked her ear, and kissed his way down the side of her neck.

"Stone..."

He slid his hands beneath her winter tunic, pulled the bottom of her shirt free of her trousers, and caressed her breasts.

"Stone, it's wrong.” Pandeena trembled violently, her legs went weak. “We're cousins."

"When has that ever stopped our kind?” Stone nuzzled her neck.

Pandeena sucked in a shuddering breath as he massaged her nipples. “I'm afraid of you."

"You're afraid of yourself, of your needs and desires. You want to be dominated in bed. You want me, Pandeena. Say it."

"No."

Stone lifted her shirt free, exposing her breasts. The shock of cold air followed by the touch of his warm tongue flicking across her nipples felt like being struck by lightning. Pandeena moaned.

"Caimbeul dominated you in bed. That was the bond."

Pandeena shivered as he sucked her nipple to hardness. Her loins grew wet and aching with need. “Yes. YES!"

"Take us someplace warmer ... before I pull your trousers down ... and introduce you to the best part of me."

Her power wrapped around them and they vanished from the roof, materializing in her bedroom at the Lawgiver House. Stone swept her into his arms and placed her in the middle of her bed.

She lay waiting with the stillness of a trapped deer, trembling in the presence of a predator. Stone unlaced her trousers, pulling them to her ankles. Then he opened his own and lifted his manhood out. He was large and hard beyond anything Pandeena had ever experienced.

He entered her and Pandeena burst into tears and sobbing.

As Stone thrust deeply into her body, they both knew that he had conquered her.

Finn plopped into the wheel-chair like a cub with a new toy. Sha did not want him putting weight on his legs or his arms until the Mending had settled properly. Crutches remained out of the question. He tested it, turning it this way and that.

Then he went looking for Kynyr. Wheeling through the corridors, people nodded and greeted him, glad to see him at last. Russa popped out of a room and grabbed the handles.

She caromed him through the corridor before he could stop her. “Where you going, Finn?"

"Hey! Hey, stop! Russa, stop.” Finn's eyebrows shot toward his hairline as a large cabinet loomed with a threat of imminent collision. Russa veered at the last possible moment and collided with Trevor who was on his way to the salle.

Trevor gave her a long disapproving glance as he picked himself up. “Russa..."

She flushed, her guilty smile changing to a moue. “I know, Uncle Trevor. I have the lecture memorized."

"Are you this madcap with your cubs, Russa?"

"Absolutely. They love it.” Then she set off again at a more sedate pace.

It took some searching before they found Kynyr. They checked the kitchen first, then his suite, the study, the Command Chamber, and the chapel.

Finn thought for a moment. “Infirmary. Maybe Sha and Qaseem are poking at him again?"

When they arrived, they found Sha at her desk, transcribing her notes. “Do you need something?"

"Kynyr. Is he around?"

"He's talking to Vayle and Robert.” She pointed down the aisle and went back to work.

Vayle Stewart sat with a bed table across his lap and a checkerboard. He had taken a bolt in the shoulder and another in the thigh the day of Belgair's purge. Afterward, Belgair's chastisemon had worked him over almost as thoroughly as he had Finn. Vayle was a cautious mon who had broken his custom and done a couple of incautious things out of loyalty to Kynyr. One of them had been telling Claw about Cooley catching Malthus with Larena. The other had been making it clear whose side he was on. 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. The look was habit more than the present situation, which was losing to Robert Morcar sitting in the chair beside the bed.

A ‘black’ lycan, Robert Morcar had light olive skin and raven hair. His blocky build and big bones, despite being only five eight in height, gave him a solid look. Five of Belgair's guardsmyn had beaten him into submission after he managed to kill one of them. Robert had tried to reach Claw and get his chieftain out of the manor. He had gotten within three doors of the Blue Room before they overtook him. The chieftain had been sitting in the doorway, watching what happened. Robert would never forget the look of fear and startlement in his late chieftain's eyes seeing Malthus and the others overtake him. Despite Kynyr telling Robert over and over that he should not blame himself for Claw's death later that night, Robert could not let it go.

Kynyr sat on the near side of Robert in his wheel-chair, observing the game with a pensive look that suggested to Finn that the three myn had been discussing that night again. It seemed like they were all still trying to piece the events together, asking themselves what they did wrong.

"Hey, Kynyr! Ugly cubs have more fun."

Kynyr's good looks had led his six sisters to treat him like a pretty toy that was never supposed to get dirty. As a result it seemed his homely spiritbrother got to go fishing far more often than Kynyr did growing up.

"What's up?"

"Darcy's having a bitches’ night out with Thunder and a couple of new friends from the manor. So I was thinking about how I promised you a race as soon as I could sit up proper and get me one of these things."

"This I must see.” A spark of humor touched Vayle's worn face.

"The halls are crowded.” Kynyr started to refuse, and then noticed the way that both Vayle and Robert perked up.

"There must be somewhere in this place with a straightaway?"

"Yeah, Vayle. Let me think a minute.” Kynyr's brow creased. “There's a hallway just off the West wing that isn't seeing much use yet..."

"So? Let's do it."

Phoebe appeared. “Quite a gathering you have here, Brubs. What's up?"

"Finn and I are going to have a race.” Kynyr did not care for the sudden glint in her eyes. “Vayle and Robert are going to watch."

"In that case, Brubs, there are a lot of extra chairs on wheels out front."

Kynyr's eyes narrowed in suspicion. “What are you up to, Phoebe?"

"Nothing. It would just be an awful lot of standing and them wounded and such.” She put on her nicest smile, which made Kynyr all the more suspicious.

Vayle glanced at Robert. “I have no objection, if you don't?"

"So long as someone pretty pushes them?” Robert chuckled.

Phoebe favored Robert with a disarmingly sweet smile. “I am certain that Leeny and Mary will want to help."

Kynyr thought that his sisters were taking far too much delight in the chairs. “Maybe this isn't such a good idea...."

Phoebe wrinkled her nose at him playfully, and dashed out of the room.

"Don't you dare change your mind, Kynyr,” Russa warned him.

Vayle and Robert laughed as a dubious look passed between Finn and Kynyr.

Phoebe soon returned with Leeny and Mary to push Vayle and Robert.

On the far side of the manor there was a dusty corridor where most of the rooms were currently being used for storage. The few tables scattered along the length of the hallway were soon moved into a room. With the corridor cleared for the race, Kynyr let the brake off and started. He had not gotten far when Russa seized the handles of his chair and took off at a run. Phoebe squealed, grabbed Finn, and raced after her. They careened along, bumping them together heedless of the myn's protests.

Leeny suddenly shrieked “charge” and snatched the handles of Vayle's chair.

Vayle swallowed a curse and gripped the arms so tight that his knuckles whitened. “What are you doing?"

Mary shrugged and went racing off with Robert.

Cries of “No,’ ‘Stop,’ ‘Wait,’ and ‘Watch out for that wall,’ soon echoed through the corridor.

Kynyr and Finn stopped hollering first and simply held on tight. Vayle and Robert continued to shout until they ran out of breath. It was not until Russa managed to bump Kynyr into Vayle and overturn both chairs, spilling the myn onto the floor, that the mad dashing about ceased.

"That's why you call them the Dreaded Horde?” Vayle asked ruefully, as Leeny uprighted his chair and Phoebe helped him back into it.

"Ayup,” Finn and Kynyr chorused.

Darcy had not been to the Difficult Horse since Hereward sold it to Juniperarrow and Starsilent. The two Fae had kept the name and the sign that featured a horse sitting on its rump while a mon tugged the reins before it, but otherwise the place had changed a lot since the first time that Finn brought her there. The tavern sat across from the town common on Main Street. The interior was warm and brightly lit, and pleasant compared to the snowy cold outside. 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 main change had been the stage constructed on the far side. Juniperarrow had torn out the wall between the common room and a storage area to build it. A wintering minstrel had been traded a place to stay, meals, and tips to perform each night until the spring melt would allow him to move on. That night he sang a ballad about the Lycan Rebellion of 997 filled with the deeds of Todd Sinclair, Tarrant Redhand, and other heroes. Darcy grinned into her glass of whiskey, certain that the minstrel was pandering to the audience by reminding them that they had the last surviving hero of that conflict living amongst them.

Jennifer Sherbourne lowered her eyes, flicked a strand of saffron hair behind her pointed ears, and swirled her glass of dark violet wine. A spiritworker, Jenny served as Stone's Captain of Mages, commanding the magic workers as well as the swan mays and their gryphon units. She 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.

"So what do you do, Darcy?"

"I was general to MacLachlan, but now I'm Todd's second.” Darcy drained a glass of whiskey.

"She's a newlywed.” StealsThunder wiggled her eyebrows. The tiny snowdrop of a Fae—hair, eyebrows, and eyes like ice—sat at Darcy's right hand across from Regina Devlin.

"I married Finn MacIver, Kynyr's spiritbrother."

"No wonder you're so protective of the family.” Regina glanced over the edge of her glass and whispered. “Here comes trouble. Clennan's bodyguards. Reist doesn't like them. Neither do I."

Faerwald and Lairgan sauntered across the room and flanked Darcy. Lairgan bumped her shoulder. “Thane Clennan did not appreciate having an axe waved in his face."

The three females froze, eyeing the duelists. Darcy ignored them, drained her glass, and refilled it.

Faerwald leaned in on the other side. “He suggested that you needed a spanking."

"Ayup. Sometimes I do. However, neither of you are dog enough to do it."

Darcy drained her second glass and reached for the bottle as if to pour again. Instead, she shoved her chair backwards and spilled herself on the floor with the bottle in hand. The maneuver surprised them. Darcy slammed the bottle down on Faerwald's instep, causing him to jump back with a cry of pain. She shifted form as she moved, brought the bottle up between Lairgan's legs hard enough to double him over, and then broke it over his head.

Lairgan went down on his arse hard, clutching at his abused balls, whiskey running down his face.

Regina leaped to her feet as Faerwald realized they had a hellcat on their hands and reached for his sword. She smashed a chair across his back, staggering him.

StealsThunder jumped onto the table and somersaulted over Faerwald. Snatching out her fan, she grabbed hold of his trousers, and jerked them down around his ankles. “Peekaboo!"

The proprietors, Juniperarrow and Starsilent, charged across the room to break it up. They tossed the pair of surprised duelists out in short order.

"Did you see the looks on their faces?” Regina chuckled.

"Todd says if my sword skills were as good as my brawling, I'd be better than Finn.” Darcy shrugged. “I grew up brawling with my male cousins."

Only Jenny remained thoughtful as the others shared jubilant toasts to their victory. “You got lucky. Just because a woman carries a weapon, it does not mean she knows how to use it."

Jenny's tone sobered them. Darcy inclined her head, listening in a manner new to her. “What do you mean?"

"Had they known we could actually fight, they would have threatened Darcy with something more than a spanking. They approached us as bitches, rather than fighters."

"They will not do that again.” StealsThunder looked as considering as Jenny. “How good are they?"

"Very. Reist and I watched Faerwald in a practice duel with Malthus. They're both blademasters.” Regina's gaze searched the rafters. “Reist is good with his blades, but he said wouldn't want to fight them ... either of them."

Faerwald and Lairgan sat on the boardwalk two doors down from the Difficult Horse sharing a rueful laugh. A full moon interrupted the velvet darkness of the midnight sky. Their breath made frosty little clouds in front of their faces.

"I wasn't expecting that.” Lairgan grinned, rubbing his crotch. “Should have. Bitches usually aim for the grapes. Jealousy, you know.” His voice and expression went droll. “Cause we've got them and they don't."

"I wonder what such an able brawler is like in bed? Does her husband have to tie her down first?"

"She probably ties him to the bedposts."

Faerwald sobered. “Clennan wants her spanked, chastised, and in his bed."

"Not bloody likely."

"He's bored with Berneen.” Faerwald stared into the night, thinking. They had been on a long roll, the dice of chance always landing in their favor; yet, Faerwald knew that sooner or later they get a bad throw. The debacle at Clan MacGregor had been one of those, and it had taken all of Faerwald's wits and skill to get them out of it. Having a patron as powerful as Clennan had kept them in both money and good times; getting away with all the hell they wanted to raise. They were running closer and closer to the edge all the time, which made it even more important to keep Clennan happy. “He's even getting bored with watching us do Berneen. So the hellcat's caught his fancy."

"If wishes were horses."

"Clennan wants Darcy; Clennan gets Darcy."

"You really want to fight those Fae?"

Faerwald saw no need to answer that. They both knew that the closest Faerwald had ever come to dying was when he went up against a Fae armsmaster. “We'll catch her somewhere else."

"What do you think? Try the Striped Dog next?"

"Nah. Belgair liked it. That's not a point in its favor."

Lairgan got a gleam in his eye and a turn of mischief to his lips. “I heard a rumor..."

"Yes?"

"It could be just a rumor, mind you."

"Spill.” Faerwald exhaled a breath of irritation. He hated it when Lairgan acted cagey.

"Malthus told me the humans over at that refugee camp will put out for free. They're hungry for dogs like us.” Lairgan winked.

"Let's have a look."

They retrieved their horses and rode down the street. Main Street became Cheshire Road at the outskirts of town at a branch in the snow-gilded dirt path. Lairgan paused and considered before pointing at the right hand branch. “That way."

A few minutes later, a half-finished gate appeared. Longhouses sprinkled the landscape, some built of stone, and the vast majority constructed from wood. A generous camp common spread out from a stone longhouse with a sturdy chimney. Evergreens dotted the common in little clusters and thickets. A few benches and tree rounds for sitting looked to have been recently swept clear of snow. Past the main house, stood a wealth of unused sheelings. Young rowdies moved through the shadowed places and knocked on doors, going to exaggerated lengths to not notice each other.

They tied their horses in a cluster of evergreens where the animals were unlikely to be seen. Faerwald moved into the long shadow thrown from a pine tree beneath the light of the full moon. His high spirits had returned during the ride. Grinning, he nudged Lairgan. “Watch them trying to pretend it's a secret."

"Shall we pick a door?"

"Rather like a pot luck dinner. You can't tell if it's worth eating until you take the lid off and sample the contents."

"I suppose. Shall we do it anyways?"

They picked a house at random and sauntered into the moonlight heading for the door.

"You're not wanted here.” Two young dogs stepped from the shadows beside a house.

They were townsmyn judging by their rough clothing, except that one of them carried a sword and the other a cudgel.

"All you foreigners are hogging the women,” growled the taller of the two.

"We're hardly foreigners, are we, Faer?"

Faerwald shrugged. “We're from Heatherford. That's hardly foreign."

"You know what I meant!"

"Actually I did.” An impish grin perched upon Faerwald's lips with a twist of venom. He enjoyed baiting wet-tailed dogs who thought they were tough. Neither of them could have been more than eighteen-years-old. They were mere youths clinging to their unproven self-myths of invincibility—an attitude that irritated Faerwald, and he took great pleasure in destroying it.

Lairgan gave a sidewise nod at his friend and a wink. More of the young wolves came from the shadows—dozens of them. “I'm afeared they've got a gang, Faer."

"You have a problem about sharing?” Faerwald's pleasant smile lingered as his eyes hardened.

"They're ours. Get off the grounds, filthy pig-pizzles."

"Not bloody likely.” As always, Faerwald called it, snapping his fingers in the dog's face. “A bunch of wet-tailed dogs are in no position to trouble us."

"Oh we'll trouble you, alright.” The youth swung his sword at Faerwald.

The duelist glided to the side, avoiding the swing. Drawing his saber and main gauche, he backhanded his sword across the youth's throat. The younger dog's eyes bulged as he staggered back, clutching vainly at the gushing wound, and sank to his knees.

Lairgan gave his wrists a twitch and two knives appeared in his hands. He placed one in the chest of a lycan with a cudgel to his right and the other into the belly of the one behind him as he spun.

Faerwald gutted the next to reach him, stalking forward, and forcing a path from the clumsy encirclement. Each blow killed or crippled.

Some of them appeared to have had a bit of training, but not enough to keep them alive. The attack faltered to a halt in minutes. The youths broke and fled. The brevity of the skirmish left Faerwald feeling dissatisfied until Lairgan's laughter and hooting provoked a smile from him. Lairgan retrieved his knives, cleaning them off, as they sauntered toward their horses nudging and slapping each other like children who had pulled a devastating prank. Mounting their horses, they rode away, leaving behind them twenty odd youths either dead or crippled.

"Amateurs,” muttered Faerwald. “Hardly the lark I was hoping for."

"Entertainment's hard to come by. Wolffgard's more of a backwater town than I expected it to be. You think those that got away will turn us in?"

"No. For one thing, they attacked us. For another, what they were doing here was illegal."

Lairgan acknowledged his friend's answer with a nod. “I've been thinking about that bitch. Since Clennan wants her undamaged, we could try catching her alone. Maybe drop a net over her."

"A net sounds fine, Lairgan. Roll her up in it and then beat her with a friendly weapon."

Lairgan started laughing and Faerwald soon joined in.

Jocelyn huddled down in her chair, arms folded tight against her middle, in Sorcha's Solar seething. It was empty at that late hour. She had thrown a robe over her nightdress and gone there to brood after cleaning Vertram's enthusiasm from her loins. He had muttered Regina's name at the height of their passions. Jocelyn had pretended not to hear and then gotten away from him at her first opportunity. She resented his wandering eye.

Lillian joined her. “What are you doing here so late?"

"Thinking.” Jocelyn pursed her lips in annoyance. “I do know how to do that."

"Thinking's not good for you. It will give you wrinkles."

"Then what are you doing here?"

"Fuming.” Lillian made a moue. “That Gateshead slut is so annoying. She and Merissa, and poor little woebegone Emma and her ugly little newborn are using the Rose Room instead of the Solar. She turned me away at the door and said I wasn't welcome. So I came here."

"Fletcher's cubs are always ugly.” Jocelyn folded her arms with a glare. “And what are they doing up so late?"

Lillian snickered. “Regina went drinking in the taverns."

"So?” Jocelyn's interest perked, anticipating something juicy.

"Without her husband."

"Slutting around is she?"

"Sounds it. She had that pointy-eared half-breed with her."

Jocelyn flashed Lillian an irritated glance when the door slowly opened and Lyncoln Wescot strolled in. The rumor was all over the manor that Sedley had brought his widowed son along in search of a wife for him.

"What do you want, Lyncoln?” Jocelyn settled deeper into her chair.

"I was feeling restless. Bed's too empty at night with Terry gone. Come up to see the portraits.” Lyncoln leered at her. “Didn't expect to find the place full of pretty bitches at this hour."

"Pretty spoken for bitches."

"Spoken for? Only a wife is spoken for, and I should know. I had one once.” Lyncoln's leer broadened into a lecherous grin. “You're fair game."

"Not to a Wescot.” Jocelyn straightened into a haughty angle. “Grandfather says you're just a bunch of filthy horse traders."

Lyncoln's hearty laugh brought a flush to Jocelyn's cheeks. “We beat his best at the log pull and the cabber toss last Autumn Faire."

"What's that got to do with anything?” Lillian flounced into a chair closer to Jocelyn.

"It's what makes a dog a dog, and bitch a bitch. Separates the men from the cubs."

"You're a nutter, Lyncoln Wescot. Your whole family is a bunch of nutters.” Jocelyn swiveled around in a pout and refused to look at him.

Lyncoln sauntered over to the portrait of a delicate young bitch with a fragile smile and pointed at it. “Fianait at seventeen. Now that's beauty. Can't say as much for you, Jocelyn."

Her lower lip thrust out. “Who cares what you think?"

"Me. Do I need anyone else?"

"There isn't anyone else."

A fit of whimsy seized Lyncoln. He spread his arms wide and charged at them laughing.

Lillian lunged from her chair, grabbed Jocelyn's hand, and pulled her away before Lyncoln reached them. They gathered their skirts and fled.

Lyncoln's laughter followed them out the door.

Ossian and his brothers mounted up when word reached them at dawn about a massacre at the Sanctuary Refugee Camp. The three brothers split the night shifts between them and it had been Ossian's turn to watch the sunrise.

Vika Softpaws, the matron in charge of the camp, sat upon her wagon with the reins in her hands. “I was gone to my sister's for the night and came home to find a litter of bodies practically on my doorstep."

"Yes, you've said that already.” She had been repeating it over and over again since she first arrived. Ossian gave her a nod, and bit back an irritated non sequitur. The adrenaline rush had knocked the drowsiness from him, but not the edgy desire for sleep.

Reist Devlin rode up. “If you don't mind, Lawgiver, the Regent would like me to come along."

Ossian's eyes narrowed. Reist Devlin had a mixed reputation, and Ossian had not yet decided how far the mon could be trusted, him being both a thane-regent and second in command to foreign troops under the current Regent Royal, Stoneriver. “It's my jurisdiction."

"We understand that. I'm just an observer. I won't step on your toes."

"Come along then."

Ossian did not argue when Reist insisted upon riding beside him at the head of their small band. The Thane-Regent of Gateshead carried himself with the easy confidence of a mon long accustomed to command. There had not been a thane for Three Stones, where Ossian was from, since before his birth. The title had lain empty until recently. Ossian supposed he would have to get used to having them around, meddling with his jurisdiction.

When they reached the camp, members of the militia had arrived ahead of them and were keeping back the curious.

Reist's gaze roved the camp commons, his mouth spreading into a thin line of grim assessment. “Looks like a battlefield."

"If so, I would like to know who the enemy was.” Ossian dismounted, threw his reins to a militiamon, and walked through the carnage counting the dead. “Twenty-one bodies. How many survivors were there, Vika?"

"Three, Lawgiver.” Vika's brow furrowed. “There were five when we found them, but two died soon after we got them inside."

"Twenty-three dead. Waid, go talk to the wounded. Ultan, speak with the residents and see if anyone heard something last night? This could not have happened quietly.” Ossian dropped to his haunches to examine a cluster of bodies. Something set his instincts screaming, but the recognition of what it was did not arrive until he had examined the first ten bodies: single wounds. Only one of them had more than a single wound. He unwrapped a memory stone and began recording what he saw.

The area around the bodies had already been trampled, but Ossian decided to swing wide in search of footprints leading away from the scene. He found a clear set of prints near a cluster of evergreens. Ice had formed around the edges, so the prints had to have been made the night before. The depth of the prints suggested one mon was heavier than the other by a fair bit. They ended amidst scattered horse droppings. The killers had ridden off.

Ossian sucked in a breath and walked back.

Silas Lafferty, the Captain of Militia, was waiting for him, looking as if he had not bothered to comb his hair. The edge of his nightshirt poked above one side of Silas’ trousers, completing the image of haste. “Can we start removing them now?"

"Yes."

"Reist, I have a question.” Ossian motioned him over to the side. “You're a soldier and I know you have seen battlefields before. What do you make of this one? Could, perhaps, two myn,—just two—have done this?"

"If they were pros. Or simply gods-awful good."

"Taking that a step further. How many pros do we have in Wolffgard right now?"

"Too many. And probably a few I'm not aware of. The really good ones don't like drawing attention to themselves."

"Names?"

"Stone, for one. Eiko Morikawa. StealsThunder.” Reist shrugged. “Todd Sinclair, but he'd never do something like this. Malthus Estrobian. Faerwald Davies. Lairgan Yates. Darcy MacIver."

"I see what you meant by too many."

"That's just off the top of my head. You can rule some out right off. The Fae for instance. Those are sword and dagger wounds. They fight with fans. Darcy favors axes. If Stone had done it, you would not be finding bodies; you'd be finding body parts."

"Can you get me a list? As complete as you can make it?"

"Yeah. Give me a couple of days and I'll get some help putting it together. Jenny might know more names than I do."

"I would appreciate that."

Ossian had many matters on his mind by the time that he returned to the Lawgiver House. He had his brothers transcribing their memory stone recordings into written reports. The three survivors of the camp massacre refused to cooperate and describe their assailants. The only thing that Waid was able to get out of them was the fact that it had been, indeed, just what Ossian suspected: two myn had done all the killing and escaped unscathed. Ultan reported that the women, all human, who lived at the camp with their children, were nervous and refused to say anything about it. All of them claimed to have heard nothing. It was as if a conspiracy of silence had been laid over the camp and had been there for some time. He decided to do nothing further until he had received Reist's list.

Although Baroucha's box of poisons had proven both interesting and suspicious, none of them matched what Willy had discovered in the pantry. Ossian had given samples from the bottles taken from Willy, Sheradyn, and Belgair's rooms to Sha who sent them to Creeya for testing. Word had come back an hour ago that the contents were identical and matched what had been given to Kynyr Maguire. Searching Ivanstern's apothecary and Cahira's shop had proven fruitless. The evidence stared him in the face. The only ones who had been found with bottles of the poison were Sheradyn and Belgair.

He felt a whiff of regret as he headed down to the dungeons beneath the Lawgiver House. Sheradyn was well regarded in many circles. He was also old and frail. “Politics makes for strange companions."

Ossian had brought his own chastisemon, Gavin Ellis, with him from Three Stones. Gavin was a brawny, taciturn mon. Ossian could never tell whether he took pleasure in his job, which he was good at, or whether he simply took it all as second nature and did what he had to do. Like most lycans, he had gone into the profession of his forefathers.

He had not changed from his riding boots before heading for the dungeons, and they made a click-slap—heel and toe—noise as he descended the narrow stone stairs. The only way in or out of the dungeons was through that single door at the head of the stairs. At the bottom, a square table occupied the left hand side by the door with the corridor between the rows of cells to the right.

Gavin sat watching the two guardsmyn dicing. Ossian used members of the town militia as much as possible when he required more hands. However, the six guardsmyn who spelled each other in pairs for dungeon duty were drawn from among those of Belgair's troops who had been vetted for loyalty. Ossian wanted experienced myn for this job. He did not want a repetition of the still largely unexplained way that so many of those loyal to Kynyr had escaped from the manor dungeons the night of the purge.

Ossian snagged the keys from a long peg and gestured for Gavin and the two guardsmyn to follow him. He had only two prisoners, other than four myn who had been hauled in the night before after a brawl at the Wolf in Sheepskin got out of hand.

The chastisemon shoved from his chair without a word.

Stepping into Sheradyn's cell, Ossian could not repress a nagging tremor of regret at what he needed to do. “The only evidence I have been able to find, links him."

Ossian pointed at Sheradyn. The old healer huddled in a corner, deep in the straw, his long white hair laying in matted strings. The lawgiver steeled himself against the feelings of pity that the forlorn figure engendered within him. The healer had almost as many defenders as detractors. Some insisted that he was innocent; while others believed the mere fact that his royal patients died made him incompetent, if not guilty of darker matters. No matter how he looked at it, the evidence could not be ignored.

Sheradyn raised his eyes. “Please, I didn't do it."

"Strip him and hang him up.” Ossian turned his gaze away. “Twenty lashes to start. Ten at a time. Don't overdo it. Just get me my answers."

The guardsmyn removed his clothing. Sheradyn accepted the rough handling with listless movements, deep into depression and despair. They attached his shackled feet to the hooks in the floor, and his wrists to one that hung from the ceiling on a chain. Ossian flicked his finger at the door and the guardsmyn left. Gavin moved to the wheel on the wall and began turning it, tightening Sheradyn's body out as it drew him higher and higher, stretching him into a taut line.

Nude, Sheradyn's aged skin hung loose on his bones and about his sagging muscles. He made a pathetic figure with his round little belly the only bit of flesh on his gaunt old body. It troubled Ossian to look at him, knowing that he was about to have an old mon put to the question. The others were dead who could have given him the answers he sought—the answers behind the attempted coup that had killed Claw Redhand. He had no choice. It had to be done.

In deferment to Sheradyn's age, Gavin had chosen to use a simple cat-o'-nine-tails and not the spiked whips used on younger wolves.

"I'll return later. Just give him something to think about."

Gavin nodded his answer and laid Sheradyn's back open with the first blow. The healer shrieked.

Ossian walked out, Sheradyn's screams echoing in his ears. His stomach churned. Too many people had died. Ossian felt driven to act upon whatever evidence he could uncover.

After a consultation with Todd, Kynyr decided to keep the progress of his improvement a secret from all except his immediate family. So far it had come in tiny increments. Kynyr's moods vacillated wildly between hope and despair. Hope because the improvements were there; despair because they failed to come swiftly enough to satisfy and reassure him at times.

Steam filled the bathing chamber. Sha had tried to recreate the hot springs in Creeya that they used to treat the crippling aftereffects of certain diseases. The huge porcelain tub had a cork stopper in one end. A tall apparatus, which Kynyr did not know the name for, heated water and delivered it to the tub through a long set of pipes and a spout. He had only to pull on a chain to send more of the pleasantly heated water into the bath when it began to cool too much.

His long, warm robe lay draped over a chair and a table beside the tub had a stack of fleecy towels on it. A bell sat within reach on another small table so that he could summon assistance if he required it and to let the servants know when he was ready to get out. The wheel chair made a silent reminder that he was not yet walking, but he had hope now. Qaseem came and went, checking on him frequently. Sha always showed up at least once, even though it brought a flush to his cheeks when she ran a clinical eye across his nakedness.

He moved his legs around, swishing them about, letting them float to the surface. Kynyr raised and lowered them. On the third try, his right leg broke the surface and rose into the air. A thrill rushed through Kynyr as his leg trembled and wobbled, unsupported by the water. He could not hold it long, but he had done it. His efforts with the left leg were less successful, but that one had been more heavily affected by the poison.

He grabbed the bell off the table and rang for the servants.

Qaseem often sat outside and waited for him, so the healer was the first into the room. He saw Kynyr's expression. “What happened?"

"Watch.” Kynyr pointed at his legs and lifted them free from the water.

Qaseem's quiet smile bloomed. “Time to try something else."

"What?” Kynyr's voice filled with eagerness.

"You'll see.” Qaseem helped Kynyr from the tub, got him into a chair, and dried off.

Once wrapped in his robe, Kynyr sat waiting.

Qaseem grasped his hands and said, “Stand up."

Kynyr sucked in a breath, grasped the healer's hands, and stood.

"Come forward. Keep holding my hands."

Another deep breath, and Kynyr took a shuffling step forward, and then another. His eyes widened. Holding onto Qaseem, he made a short tour of the room. When his legs began to tremble and grow unsteady, Qaseem returned him to the wheel-chair.

A quiet exultation filled Kynyr. “I'll be walking on my own soon."

"Soon."

The lycans slowly adjusted to the wealth of strangers in Wolffgard. The Creeyans who arrived with Stoneriver were an odd lot; swan mays in silver armor, Shivari in their hybrid tiger forms haired up to deal with the cold, and gryphons who were currently housed on the roof of the manor in makeshift aeries. Pandeena, their priest, had brought in strangers who appeared to be human but most suspected were not. Soldiers in MacLachlan livery mingled with the housecarles of the thanes. Wives and mistresses shopped in small clusters accompanied by bodyguards, ate and drank at the inns and taverns, and added color to the drabness of winter in the town.

Yet beneath it all simmered an undercurrent of violence and threat. There were now many different factions in Wolffgard, and old rivalries kicked up between the myn of various thanes. The northerners, who had borne the brunt of the Waejontori incursions, felt less tolerant than usual toward their wealthy southern compatriots. The southerners suspected that the northerners were overstating matters when they complained of raiders in the north. The midlanders generally felt put upon, ignored, and disregarded by both the northerners and the southerners. Brawls broke out.

Ossian had his hands full dealing with it. The thanes harangued him every time they had to fetch their myn from his holding cells and pay for damages to the taverners and shopkeepers. All that they succeeded in doing, however, was to make Ossian dig his heels in deeper and lecture them back about no one being above the law.

A black-haired mon strolled down Main Street. He had large scars cutting across his forehead, nose, and down the side of his face. Even without the scars he would have been plain ugly. A too large, mobile mouth dominated his seamed, jowly face. His eyes were deeply set, black as night, with dark purple shadows beneath. His bushy eyebrows sat on a heavy ridge. His nose looked like it had been broken more than once. His height was six five and his body broad and blocky, with a thick, barrel chest, arms like temple columns, and legs like tree trunks. Lokynen Willidar the Battle-Master weighed nearly four hundred pounds, all of it muscle.

Cubs ran to him and clung to his arms. With six of them hanging onto each arm, Lokynen lifted them up and swung them around in a gentle turn. They laughed in delight and Lokynen laughed with them, a large deep laugh that rose from his belly and carried through the streets. He lowered them to the ground, signaling that he was done. “Have any of you seen the Peddler?"

Rumors of a peddler at Wolffgard had drawn Lokynen back to the town. She always seemed to be at a different end of the valley from him. He had a suspicion that it was Dynanna. He had known for centuries about her disguise as the aged peddler named Dyna. Long association had given him an instinct for spotting her no matter what face she wore.

"Yes.” A young lycan boy with an unruly mop of light brown hair and the bright blue-green eyes of a scamp darted to Lokynen's side. “She's at the house where the children live."

Lokynen lifted an eyebrow at that. The Trickster only brought her paladins along if she expected trouble. “Show me."

The boy ran ahead of him.

In an isolated corner of the northwest end of the Sanctuary Refugee Camp, stood a large two-story house that had not been there a month ago. Lokynen recognized it, because Dyna could shrink it down with a word and carry it in her pocket when she moved. The God of Cussedness and Perversity, a minor divine that myn generally referred to as simply the Trickster, had many odd gifts and odder playthings. In her guise as the peddler Dyna, she sold secondhand magic items.

Lokynen spied Sugar Maple sitting beneath a pine tree with her back to it and her broom across her knees. His guess had been right. He handed the boy a gold coin and the boy's eyes saucered. “Thank you. Thank you!” Then the boy ran off to show everyone what Lokynen had given him.

"What's your name?” Lokynen shouted after him.

The boy called back over his shoulder, “Hamish Scott."

Lokynen squatted in front of her. “Hello, Sugar. Where's Dyna?"

Sugar Maple tilted her head, her marmalade hair sliding across her face. “In the house."

"I found the child."

"I play with him."

Lokynen frowned, making his face still uglier. “Damn, she found him before I could tell her."

Sugar Maple smiled. “I don't like his stepfather. He keeps trying to kiss me. But I don't let him."

Lokynen's expression hardened. “Mother-swiving cockwhore. If he touches you...."

Sugar Maple laughed, which made Lokynen blush. “Don't worry about me, Loky. Worry about him. The trees are my friends. So long as we walk beneath them when he takes me home, I am safer than he is."

"That's true, little one."

Lokynen went on into the house to find Dynanna and tell her all that he had learned. The large house overflowed with mismatched furniture; no two pieces alike and many of them upholstered in clashing colors. Dynanna had a habit of snatching whatever caught her fancy, especially from the wealthier classes. Lokynen still chuckled at the time she stole all the doors off the Priest-King of Timbren's palace because he refused to let her inside. Like most of the yuwenghau, Dynanna and Lokynen had never been particularly monogamous. Lokynen had mostly mended his ways since marrying Amberlin and no longer left a string of bastards in his wake. He and Dynanna had been lovers for a brief period two centuries ago, and she had always liked the fact that Lokynen had used seed crystals to absorb and store his seed so that he did not get her pregnant.

But they had more often been rivals than lovers. Lokynen's facial scars were the result of bulling his way through the trapped ruins at Lightning Strike Crest to reach Thunder, the Sword of Justice, ahead of the Trickster who had set out to steal it. She had emerged from the ruins unscathed, but Lokynen had been marked for life. Remembering that moment sent Lokynen's hand to pat the hilt of Thunder hanging at his shoulder.

"At least I beat you to it, Dyna.” He strode into the kitchen where the godling was shoving wood into an iron stove and trying to figure out how to light it.

Dynanna straightened and flicked back her long red-gold hair. “Yeah, but pulling the damned thing put you in Torrundar's debt."

Lokynen shrugged. “He doesn't tag me for favors that often."

His eyes went to a row of barrels with spigots sitting on a rack at the other end of the kitchen. “You wouldn't happen to have something nice to drink?"

Dynanna grinned broadly. “Same old Loky. Always thirsty. I have mead, ale, and dark beer. What would you like?"

"Beer."

"I made a good haul in Iradrim a few months ago. I have one hundred barrels of stout, two hundred barrels of dark beer, and fifty casks of ale."

"I hope you paid for it."

Dynanna filled two tankards with beer and led Lokynen to the living room. “I don't steal from honest merchants."

Lokynen spotted an enormous over stuffed chair with a footstool. “Looks like you were expecting me."

"I was.” She handed him a tankard and moved to a smaller chair next to his.

Taking a long drink from his tankard, Lokynen smiled. “Good beer. Did you pay for it?"

"With fresh minted gold."

"That you stole."

Dynanna giggled. “Of course. But the dragon had stolen it first. So I was just stealing from a thief."

"Stealing from dragons is as dangerous as stealing from gods. I hope you had Dynarien with you."

Dynanna gave a long sigh. “I don't run with my brother much now that he's married."

"So catch me up on the gossip. I've been away for several weeks."

"We think Malthus murdered Searlait and Fianait Redhand."

"Claw's sisters?” Lokynen's features darkened with rage. “Tell me about it."

"The day after Fianait was murdered; Belgair Doherty, Claw's Captain of the Guard, staged a purge. Claw and Aisha are dead too."

"I'm going to whomp someone,” Lokynen muttered darkly.

"Can't whomp Belgair. Todd did him."

Regina stepped into running the day-to-day affairs of the manor with ease. Her previous father-in-law, Adderuig Balfour, had been an old-fashioned mon. Instead of having a seneschal, his wife ran the affairs of the household until her death two years ago of a fever. As the wife of his heir, Johfrit, Regina had been given her late mother-in-law's duties, so she was well acquainted with the demands of running a large household.

Her daily routine started in the salle, working out with Reist. Once breakfast preparations were underway, Regina checked upon Merissa. The midwife, Mary Sinclair, who came by every morning to check on Merissa and Darmyk, had made it clear that she disliked Malthus. Regina's answer to that was to gather them into the Rose Room before Mary arrived and have the examinations there.

After checking on Merissa, Regina went to look in on Emma.

Fletcher Matheson, Thane of Ottercreek, stood in the parlor of his suite staring into the flames of the hearth. He was tall, broad through the shoulders, and sturdy. He turned when Regina entered. “If you're looking for Emma, she's not here."

"Where is she?"

"How should I know? You're the one putting odd notions in her head."

Regina blinked at the anger in his tone. “I don't know what you're talking about."

"Of course you don't. Odd notions are normal for you.” He stalked close to her, his stance threatening. “People still talk about you slicing Vertram over a kiss all those years ago."

"He had it coming. I was only fourteen."

"Did he?"

"If you don't mind, I'll go look for her...” Regina started to back away from him, but Fletcher's hand shot out and clamped onto her wrist.

"I do mind."

Regina cast a warning look at his hand. “Let go. Or we'll be burying a thane."

"Cut me up, will you? Like Vertram?"

"I won't have to. My husband will.” She stepped in and dropped her weight forward to break Fletcher's grip on her arm, whirled and lunged out of the room.

Instinct sent her jogging through the corridors, which were too crowded at that hour for her to run without bowling someone over, and jerked open the door to the Rose Room. It had a warm, welcoming feeling as if Aisha's spirit lingered there.

She found Emma Smythe curled up on the sofa nearest the hearth, suckling her newborn and crying. “What's wrong, Emma?"

"Fletcher. We had a fight. Percival is barely out of my belly, and Fletcher is riding me again."

"Are you using any kind of protection? Eelskins? Herbs?"

Emma shook her head miserably. “Fletcher says it ruins his pleasures."

"Bloody thanes! They're a bunch of fecking sodomites. Insensitive bastards.” Regina snarled wordlessly for a moment, hair sprouting along her arms. Then she took hold of Emma's upper arm. “You're not his wife. If he wants to keep a bitch's belly filled, let him do it to his wife."

"Where are we going?” Emma's lips trembled and she flinched from the wrath in Regina's eyes.

"To talk to Stone."

"I'm afraid of him."

"Stone? Or Fletcher?"

"Both."

"Which one scares you more?"

"Stone.” Emma answered without hesitation.

"Me too.” Regina acknowledged with a wry twist. “Come on. If we want you safe from Fletcher, then we must speak to Stone."

Emma cradled her infant tight to her breast as Regina pulled her through the hallways. At the door to the study Stone used, which had once been Claw's, Regina slammed the door open and went inside.

Stone looked up from the reports he had been reading and frowned at her. “That's quite an entrance, Reggie. You'd best have a good reason for it."

"I want to place Emma Smythe under your protection, Stone."

"Emma?” Stone gestured at the chairs and the two bitches settled into them. “Do you wish to be under my protection?"

Emma ducked her head. “I don't know."

Regina threw a furious look at Emma. “Of course you do."

"Stand down, Reggie.” Stone's voice softened. “You're afraid of me, Emma?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

Reggie folded her arms, glaring at him. “That should be bloody obvious, Stone. You're a great big..."

"Uh uh.” Stone wagged a finger at Regina. “I want Emma to answer."

"You raped your sister ... and you crippled Clennan Doherty.” Emma kept her head down, staring at the floor. “Fletcher says so."

"Is that all?"

"You're scary."

"I see. Do you love Fletcher?"

Emma shook her head and her eyes leaked. “I was going to marry my Jamie. He was saving for the brideprice my Dad wanted for me."

"So how did you end up with Fletcher?"

"My Dad's a tailor. The best in Ottercreek."

"And?” Stone coaxed.

"Usually my Dad went to the manor. I don't remember why Fletcher came to the shop instead that day. He saw me...” Emma's voice caught. “Didn't get no say in it. Fletcher already had a wife. Told my Dad he was taking me and he did."

"Fletcher had no legal right to just take you. No one is outside the law. Ask Ossian."

"He'll ruin my Dad. That's what Clennan did to Berneen's family."

"There is no perfect decision, Emma. I can protect you, but not your family."

"I'll stay with Fletcher.” Emma rose.

Regina jumped to her feet, her hand closing on Emma's arm.

"Let her go, Reggie."

"But..."

"Let her go.” The edge in Stone's voice cut through Regina.

Emma fled.

"You're a bastard, Stone."

"I'm a realist. You can't save them all, Reggie."

"I can try."

"Claw tried to break the power of the thanes when he was young. His reasons were much like your own. He objected to their excesses. My brother failed. If a strong chieftain can't achieve it, then what hope can you have to?"

"Bloody thanes..."

"Sit down.” Stone scowled when Regina did not obey immediately and repeated the command in a stronger tone. “Sit down."

She dropped into a chair, glaring.

"Now, listen to me. The sins of the thanes can't be corrected overnight. It's the work of generations. But there is a good place to start."

"Where?"

"Lady Maguire. And our king to be."

Hamish marched down the hallway with a superior air, the gold crown jingling in his hand along with a couple of copper pennies. He did not need the additional pennies to purchase what he planned to buy, since a crown was more than he earned in a year; he simply liked listening to the noise they made clashing together, calling everyone's attention to the fact that he had money.

"What are you going to do with that?” Rory trailed after his younger brother, his neck craned to keep his eye on his brother's hand. The most money either of them had ever had before was when Kynyr gave them two silver nobles to break the windows of Baroucha Seaver's shop following the death of his father, Branduff.

"Buy Ma the best solstice presents she's ever had."

"Share it?” Rory asked hopefully.

"What do you mean share it? I earned it."

"But I want to buy her something nice too."

"No."

Rory followed his brother into the kitchen. Todd sat there with several crates around his feet, filling sacks with small boxes of toy soldiers and pretty cloth dolls.

"What are you doing?” Rory slipped into the chair beside Todd, watching him.

"Gifts for my tenants’ cubs. They can't afford a proper solstice for the young ones.” Todd stuffed another sack as he spoke.

"Are you going into town today?” Hamish laid his coins on the table and made a big show of circling the pennies around the crown.

"Ayup. Cahira wants to check some new inventory arrived at the shop."

"Can I come? I got solstice shopping to do."

"Have."

Hamish ducked his head. “I have shopping to do."

"If you speak like an educated mon, myn will think you one.” Todd tousled Hamish's hair. “And you can come with us."

"He won't share the crown.” Rory cast a glare at his brother, his lower lip sliding from beneath his upper.

"It's his coin, Rory."

"But I can't buy Ma something nice."

"Whatever you buy her, she'll love it. That's because she loves you, Rory."

Rory gave up, left his chair, and paced from the room with his head down.

Merissa walked with her hands pressed to her lower back, trying to relieve some of the stress that her swollen belly placed upon it. Darmyk accompanied her. He always seemed better in the mornings, more like his old self.

"Hello, Merissa.” Jocelyn fell into step beside her. “Going to the Rose Room?"

"Yes."

"Shall I walk with you?"

"No."

"Well, I think I will anyway. I haven't seen the Rose Room yet."

"It was my mother's room...” Merissa's voice trailed off helplessly. She wished that Jocelyn would go away, but did not have the energy to deal with her.

"Yes, I've been told that."

"You don't like me."

Jocelyn flipped her hair with a shrug of her shoulders. “That has nothing to do with anything. My grandfather is going to be regent for your little heirs. So I thought we should get better acquainted."

"I don't think so."

"You don't think what?” Jocelyn's attitude turned haughty. “That my grandfather is going to be regent? Or that we should get better acquainted?"

"Both.” Merissa's hand closed on the knob of the door into the Rose Room. She entered, hoping that Jocelyn would not follow, but was disappointed.

Jocelyn ran her hands over the fabric of the sofas as she strolled around looking at the tapestries and paintings. “Nice. Your mother had nice taste."

"Yes, she did.” Merissa used the arm of a chair to lower herself into it.

"As I was saying, Grandfather thinks we should get better acquainted. Perhaps a betrothal when your sons are born. I have a daughter. She's a pretty little thing. Just a year old."

"No."

"Face reality, you stupid bitch. I'm trying to be nice, but you're not letting me.” Jocelyn barred her teeth at Merissa. “My grandfather is going to be regent. The Dohertys are going to run things, and your eldest lycan heir is going to marry a Doherty."

"I thought I saw some lovelies hide themselves in here.” Lyncoln Wescot came in without knocking.

Jocelyn's eyes widened and she put Aisha's desk between herself and Lyncoln. “Get out of here."

Merissa allowed a tiny smile to light her face. She was not fond of Lyncoln; however, she was less fond of Jocelyn. Right then Lyncoln seemed like one of the knights in shining armor from a book of human legends. “Sit right there, Lyncoln.” Merissa pointed at a chair close to her. “Shall I ring for some tea?"

"That would be right nice.” Lyncoln settled into his seat. “Terry always liked having tea with me in the mornings.” He patted the arm of the chair to his opposite side. “Come on, Jocelyn. Sit and talk a bit."

"Not on your life, Lyncoln Wescot. You're a nutter. My grandfather says so.” Jocelyn threw Merissa a glare. “Make him leave, or I'm going to tell my grandfather."

"Lyncoln, shall I have Kissie bring some scones and clotted cream as well?” Merissa smiled at him.

"Uhmn. Clotted cream and scones. I would like that.” Lyncoln winked at Merissa. “Jam too?"

"Did you hear me, Merissa? I said..."

Merissa ignored Jocelyn's interruption. “Strawberry. I enjoy your company, Lyncoln. You should join me here for tea each morning."

"What? You're having him for tea and scones each morning? Him?” Jocelyn's eyes widened. “You're both nutters."

Lyncoln leaned back, reached around, and grabbed at Jocelyn. “Come on. Be a good girl and sit with us."

"Not on your life.” Jocelyn hissed at him. She edged past them and darted out the door, nearly colliding with Regina.

"What the bloody hell, Jocelyn? What were you doing in there?"

"Getting out. Merissa's having tea with a nutter.” Jocelyn snatched her skirts high and fled.

Ossian considered his options as he listened to Gavin's report on the interrogation of Sheradyn Kelly and Gillivray Ashby.

"Ashby's close to breaking, Ossian. But the old one ... maybe if you'd let me get rougher with him."

"No.” Ossian stared at the reports on his desk without reading them. “He's frail. I don't want to kill him."

"They poisoned the prince, Ossian. It's cut and dried."

"No one knows it better than I.” Ossian closed the folder.

"You could offer Ashby a deal."

"What?” Ossian raised his eyes.

"If he confesses, you could let Kelly go."

Ossian sucked in a deep breath. “No. It would be putting words in his mouth."

"It would work."

"I know. But it would not feel right.” Ossian rose from the desk. “Come on. One more try and then I'll have to think of something else."

Gavin followed Ossian down to the cell. Sheradyn had already had his first session of the day with Gavin. Blood oozed from the fresh tears in his back and some of the old ones that had re-opened.

Sheradyn raised his head when they entered, his face lined by suffering, and his eyes pleading. “I'm innocent, Ossian. I swear by all that's holy. I'm innocent. I didn't do it."

Ossian winced inwardly from the look in the healer's eyes and steeled himself. He settled into his chair, propped his elbow on the arm and rested his chin upon it. “You were always fond of Merissa. Fond enough to kill her children's rival for the throne?"

"No. I would never do that."

Gavin picked up his whip from the table of implements and moved to stand behind Sheradyn.

Ossian gestured at Gavin. “Three, Gavin."

Gavin uncoiled his whip and laid it on in precise strokes. Sheradyn shrieked.

"Tell me. Were you friends with Belgair Doherty?"

"Yes. I liked the mon."

Finally, an admission. “Enough to give him poison to use on the prince?"

"Noooo."

"What about Malthus? Are you friends?"

"Merissa loves him."

"Answer my question."

"Mercy! Please, mercy. I'm a healer. I wouldn't poison anyone."

Ossian shrugged. “You wouldn't be the first healer to have had poison as a sideline. Three more, Gavin."

Sheradyn gasped, tears streaming down his face. “My chest ... hurts."

Gavin stopped at the second strike, glancing at Ossian.

The lawgiver raised one finger as he considered, his young brow furrowed. “Gavin, fetch a healer."

Gavin dropped his whip on the table and darted out the door running.

Sheradyn stiffened, the breath seeming to catch in his lungs. “Oh gods ... my heart. My heart."

The healer sagged in his bonds.

Alarmed, Ossian lurched from his chair and touched Sheradyn's neck. He saw Pandeena and Gavin standing in the doorway. “He's dead."

Ossian walked out, trapped between a dawning suspicion of Sheradyn's innocence and the facts as he had discovered them so far. He let himself into Gillivray's cell; uncertain of what he intended to do.

Sheradyn's young lover sat in a chair, his wrists manacled to the arms, and his ankles fastened to the legs. Gillivray had been flogged; his fingers had been crushed with the thumbscrews. He raised his head and looked at Ossian.

"I did it,” Gillivray said. “I gave Belgair the poison. Sheradyn is innocent. Let him go. Please let him go."

Ossian averted his eyes, feeling deeply troubled, recalling his earlier conversation with Gavin. “I can't. He's dead."

Gillivray unleashed a long howl of grief and desolation.

"Well, at least we got our confession,” said Ultan, stepping into the room with Gavin and Pandeena following.

Ossian gestured for Ultan to be quiet. “Gillivray, if you were only confessing to spare your lover, you may recant and I will accept it."

"Why?” Gillivray's voice, choked up with emotion, accused Ossian. “You'll still think we were guilty."

"The evidence..."

"You killed him.” Gillivray unleashed another howl. His eyes went empty, lost. “What's life without him? No. I won't recant.” The healer spat in Ossian's face. “Send me to join him."

Ossian wiped the spittle from his cheek and nodded, saying without anger. “Hang him."

He walked from the dungeons and climbed the stairs feeling as if there had been no victory there.

Malthus watched Gillivray Ashby mount the scaffolds with his wrists secured behind him. The nancidawg showed more courage than Malthus had thought Gillivray possessed. He had expected that the two healers would have to be carried screaming and weeping onto the platform. Sheradyn's naked corpse hung like withered fruit from the next place down. Malthus felt safer now.

The lawgivers were not as smart as they thought they were.

Ultan O'Reilly brought Gillivray Ashby to his place over the trapdoor. Waid knelt, fastening the healer's ankles together. Gillivray stood with his back straight and his head high, despite the tears squeezing past his closed eyelids. Ultan fastened weights to Gillivray's ankles, tightened the noose around his neck, and stepped back.

Gavin Ellis kept his hand on the lever as Ossian read Gillivray's sentence to the gathered crowd.

A familiar voice drew Malthus’ attention to the side.

Cahira stood with Todd's arms around her shoulders. “I can't believe they did it. I've known Sheradyn since I was a girl. He would never do something like this."

Todd, gazing over Cahira's shoulder, spied him. “Your time is coming, Malthus."

"Or yours.” Malthus inclined his head at Todd with a sneer and moved farther from them.

Ossian nodded. Gavin pulled the lever. Gillivray dropped as the trap door opened beneath him.

The weights failed to provide the hard drop that Ultan had hoped for, which would have broken Gillivray's neck. The healer jerked and twisted, choking.

Cahira pressed her face into Todd's shoulder, unable to watch it.

Satisfied, Malthus skirted the edges and walked off. When he reached the street, he heard footsteps behind him.

"Hello, Malthus."

He paused and turned. “Zinzi."

She strolled up to him. “You know, Malthus...” she rolled his name off her tongue in a saucy manner, “Hoon is very unhappy with you."

"Why?"

"You sent him the wrong child."

"I-I did?"

"Don't play games with me, Malthus. That boy is not the last descendant of Dawnhand. How could you be so stupid? Hoon knew instantly that child was not of his blood."

"Dawnhand? Isranon Dawnhand?"

"Brandrahoon, Isranon, and Waejonan. You know the story."

"Are you warning me?"

"I just want to watch you squirm before we kill you."

Malthus reached for his powers. Before he could strike, Zinzi ran off laughing. He sucked in a sharp breath, glancing back at Cahira. Damnit. I'm getting jumpy. That mage would have recognized my power.

Feeling trapped between Cahira and Zinzi, Malthus tried to pick the lesser of two dangers and turned again toward the scaffolds. He drifted closer, shaking. “No one double-crosses Brandrahoon and lives to speak of it."

I might be the exception. I have never tested my powers ... not since riting all those sa'necari ... stealing those legacies to make me strong. Maybe I'm as strong as Brandrahoon now. Maybe.

He stopped in front of the dangling bodies of the executed healers. Gillivray no longer moved.

The three brothers always breed true. Malthus had heard that said a thousand times over the years. Had he realized that Isranon's name was not the whim of a Dark Brother's reverence for one of their iconic figures, he would have chosen the child he sent Brandrahoon more carefully.

"Having another look?” Vayle Stewart lounged on the steps to the scaffold.

"It's good they caught the traitors."

Ossian stepped out of the shadows, gestured for Malthus to follow, and led him up onto the scaffold. “I'm still watching you. One more questionable death and.... “Ossian dropped a noose over Malthus’ head. “Do we understand each other?"

"Yes.” Malthus flung the noose off and stalked away.

Preparations for the four myn's trip to the Striped Dog began in the late afternoon. Jenny and Regina joined Darcy and StealsThunder at the Maguire Place. They sat at the table in Darcy's suite. Six strands of hair had been clipped from each of their heads.

Jenny leaned in, watching in fascination as Thunder braided three strands from each together. “I always wondered how Channadar did that trick."

Thunder grinned and nodded. “When I lay that on the table, we'll have five minutes to get clear of the tavern."

After that she braided four bracelets from the remaining hair and handed one to each of them. “Don't put those on until just before we enter the Striped Dog. It should hold for half an hour, but we don't want to waste them."

In the yard of the mansion, Fychan the stablemaster waited with the wagon and four saddled horses. A long wooden object shaped like a coffin lay in the wagon with a tarp thrown over it and some smaller crates around it. Fychan tied Darcy's horse to the back of the wagon, and Darcy climbed up into the driver's seat. Her three companions mounted up and they set out for Wolffgard.

They dropped off their horses at Cahira's Potions and Notions, where they picked up Darcy's cousins, Artair and Tobrytan. Darcy drove and the rest of them sat in the back on the crates. Drawing rein in front of the Striped Dog, Artair climbed down and poked his head into the tavern. He returned with a broad grin. “He's in there."

The four females climbed down, walked to the door, and put the bracelets on. A flash of silver light flowed over them and four red-haired bitches stood there arrayed in nice dresses instead of the trousers and tunics they had arrived in. Illusion was one of the most finely honed skills of the Fae.

The Striped Dog Tavern was a rough place. Bitches rarely came there without a male companion. So it was with some surprise that the regulars saw four pretty bitches enter and take a table. A nibari came instantly with a tray of mead and set out the tankards in front of them. Darcy paid.

They had not sat there long, before some of the bolder dogs sauntered over and offered to buy them drinks.

Gorgarty spotted Darcy. She winked and smiled at him suggestively. He sat straight up with an excited look of anticipation, and nudged Eamon sitting beside him. “Oh, ohohoh, I'm gonna get my bone wet tonight."

Eamon's gaze strayed to Darcy's companions. “They're pretty."

"She wants me."

"You're always saying that. I hear the last bitch you thought wanted you, kicked you in the grapes."

"You just watch.” Gorgarty rose from the table.

"One of these days, your stupidity is going to get you killed."

Gorgarty bristled. “You'll see who's stupid."

He swaggered to the table and sat down beside Darcy, pulling her onto his lap. They exchanged whispers, and then Gorgarty, his face flush with eagerness, followed her out the back door that led to the alley.

Thunder laid the braided hair on the table. “Now."

Regina, Thunder, and Jenny rose from the table and headed for the back door. Regina glanced over her shoulder and gasped. The four of them appeared to be still sitting at the table flirting with the customers. Jenny grabbed her arm. “Keep walking."

Gorgarty pressed Darcy against the side of a building, fumbling with the lacings to his trousers. “You're gonna like this. You're gonna really like this."

The three myn fanned out behind them, unnoticed by Gorgarty.

"So will you.” Darcy's voice took on a darker edge. Her hand seemed to disappear as it dipped beneath the illusion and came out with her long knife. A short, hard thrust popped the finely honed steel into Gorgarty's belly.

Gorgarty stiffened in shock, his eyes bulging, as he glanced down at the knife protruding from him. “Bloody ... slut."

Jenny snapped a gag into his mouth before he could say anything more, while Thunder fetched Artair and Tobrytan.

Gorgarty raised his arms to hit Darcy. Regina shifted into her hybrid form, slammed her fists into Gorgarty's kidneys, and brought her knee up hard between his legs to take the fight out of him. He shuddered and looked ready to topple over. Then she and Jenny grabbed his wrists, jerked them behind his back, and fastened them together.

"This is for Erskine.” Darcy worked the knife higher in his gut. His knees buckled.

The wagon trundled down the alley, and stopped. Artair and Tobrytan jumped off and lifted Gorgarty between them. Thunder threw back the tarp and opened the coffin.

The two brothers dumped Gorgarty into it. Darcy slapped a note to Gorgarty's chest that read “Rapist,” and was signed “Always Faithful.” Then they all climbed aboard the wagon and headed back to the shop where Artair nailed the coffin shut. They concealed the coffin in a deep drift of snow near a thicket of evergreens a short drive beyond Wolffgard.

It would take many hours, and possibly days, for Gorgarty to die; and he would suffer as his victims had.

The four horsemyn drew rein before the front gate of the Maguire Estate.

"Why did you sign it ‘Always Faithful'?” Regina asked.

"Before his crippling, Kynyr took on a vicious gang that were raping bitches for sport. His wife had been one of their victims. One by one, he hunted them down and killed them, leaving a note on their bodies signed ‘Always Faithful.’”

"I'm beginning to like our prince.” Regina reined off and rode home with Jenny.

Qaseem arrived, as he did each day, with his satchel over his shoulder. Another mon walked at his heels carrying a pair of crutches. He sat them near the bed and left. Kynyr's trousers came off and the ritual with the tape measure seemed to take forever.

"I do not know what caused this miracle.” Qaseem wrote a series of notations down. “All previous signs of atrophy have vanished."

He gripped Kynyr's wrist, closing his eyes as he Read the prince. “All the spinal lesions are gone. The nerve connections have grown back. It is as if there were never any damage at all."

Only Kady and Todd knew what Stone had done. Kynyr debated and then decided against telling Qaseem about it.

"Lycans heal better and faster than humans, and you can take more damage. But you do not regenerate. Your people are not trolls. Yet this, Master Kynyr ... this is regeneration."

"I'm an exception to the rules, I guess.” Kynyr shrugged.

"An exception, most definitely. Now we test it further."

"The crutches?"

"Yes."

Kynyr's stomach churned as he gripped the crutches, torn between hope and dread. Qaseem stood with his hands ready to grab the prince if he fell. Kynyr levered himself up and paused, got his balance, and took the first tentative step. His legs trembled and then steadied. Step by halting step, Kynyr crossed his bedroom.

"Do you wish to try for the kitchen, Master Kynyr?” Qaseem's patient, encouraging voice reassured Kynyr.

"Yeah."

"We can take it in stages. There are plenty of chairs in the hallway."

"I'd better get dressed first."

Kynyr went to the closet. Leaning on one crutch, he picked out something to wear and tossed it onto the bed. Just that much filled him with joy. Qaseem offered to help, but Kynyr savored his independence after being so long without it. Pulling on a warm woolen shirt and trousers, Kynyr decided he wanted to wear something that would bring a smile to Kady's face that went beyond everything. So he topped his black clothing with a bright holiday tunic, crimson with dark green trim. Kynyr had meant to wear it when he took her to the Autumn Faire, but trouble had come between them and she went with Todd and Cahira instead.

Kynyr maneuvered into the hallway, and stopped dead in his tracks.

"What is wrong?” Qaseem hovered about him. “I will move the chairs."

"No. That's what's wrong.” Kynyr pointed at Russa talking to Trevor. “The Dreaded Horde."

Qaseem's gaze followed Kynyr's pointing. “Your sister?"

"Ayup."

Russa's eyes lit up when she saw him and rushed over, her arms open to hug him. “Kynyr! You're walking."

"Stop. Stop. If you hug me I'll lose my balance.” Kynyr swallowed, his eyes going wide.

Trevor lunged for Russa and wrapped his arms around her, but Kynyr was already in motion to avoid his oncoming sibling. The edge of the crutch caught on a chair leg and Kynyr toppled into a table. He sank to the floor, glaring and muttering ominously in six languages.

Russa whistled innocently, looking at Trevor's arms. “You can let me go, Uncle Trevor. I didn't touch him.” She snickered. “Brubs did it all by himself."

Qaseem extended his hands to Kynyr. “I will help you up."

Kynyr's lips tightened. “I'll manage."

Grabbing the edge of the chair, Kynyr pulled himself up, got the crutches in place, and set off at a fast angry pace.

Russa lifted her head to an airy tilt. “He always tries harder when he's upset with me."

Then she followed with Trevor in tow while explaining to Qaseem. “You see, it's perfectly all right for us to pick on him. The Dreaded Horde has special privileges. But it isn't at all permissible for others to do so. Except for Kady. She has special privileges too. We've decided to make her an honorary member of the Dreaded Horde."

Qaseem scratched at the back of his head, listening with a dubious expression.

Kynyr snarled all the way to the kitchen, slammed the door open, and stepped through.

Kady glanced to see who came in. Excitement flushed her face. “Oh my gods, Kynyr! You're walking!"

Lokynen had put off going to the manor for several days after talking to Dyna. He was slow to anger, but once there he generally broke something or someone. The big yuwenghau had liked the Redhands, and felt tempted to go barreling in and start breaking things over their deaths. His temper still simmered over Malthus trying to kiss Sugar.

When he walked up to the house that day, he saw Darmyk sitting on the steps watching the other children throwing snowballs at each other. Cooley and the Scott cubs rushed about playing with the Badree Nym. Kerry nestled in the boy's lap. There was a listless light in his eyes and a bruised appearance to the skin beneath them that worried Lokynen. He turned aside and went to check on him.

"What's wrong, Little Bear?” Lokynen asked. “Why aren't you playing with the others?"

Darmyk shook his head. “Don't feel like playing."

"What's wrong?"

Darmyk shook his head again. “I'm tired."

Lokynen felt the boy's forehead. “No fever. Are you sleeping all right?"

Darmyk shook his head again.

Lokynen frowned. “Talk to me, Darmyk. What ails you?"

Darmyk lowered his head with a sad shake. “I'm not supposed to talk about it. My stepfather gets angry. I want to go inside now."

Lokynen resisted cursing Malthus to his stepson and lifted Darmyk into his arms. “You know you can talk to me? Doesn't matter what it's about, Little Bear. I'll always listen."

"Just don't feel good."

Lokynen knocked on the door.

A male nibari that Lokynen did not know answered. He handed Darmyk into the nibari's arms. “He doesn't seem well."

Kissie stepped from the kitchen to see who had come to the door. “He's sick. Has been for a while."

"Is Stone around?"

Kissie gestured for the nibari to take Darmyk to his room, and turned back to Lokynen. “Master Stone is in his study."

She opened the door wider for him to enter.

Lokynen had to edge slightly to get through. “Small door."

Kissie laughed. “It's big enough for everyone else."

She led Lokynen through the manor. As they neared the door to Stone's study, he spotted Malthus in the corridor. He instantly swerved aside and stomped to Malthus. His big hand shot out and he jabbed his finger into Malthus’ chest.

Malthus staggered backwards. “What's wrong with you? Lummox!"

"You stay away from Sugar.” Lokynen poked Malthus in the chest again.

"Why?” Malthus schooled his face into a look of utter innocence.

"Keep your lips off her!” Lokynen poked him a third time with such force that Malthus sailed into the wall, struck hard and slumped to the floor. Grabbing Malthus by the collar, Lokynen jerked him to his feet. “You hear me?"

"Let him go, Loky.” The noise had drawn Stone from his study. “Humans break easily."

Lokynen released Malthus and the sa'necari slumped to the floor, shaking his head dazedly. The big yuwenghau swaggered over to Stone, grinning. “Hi. I'm glad to see you again."

Stone shook his head in bemusement. “You too, Loky."

"I got something for you.” Mischief shone in Lokynen's eyes.

"What?"

Lokynen's fist shot out and hit Stone square in the chest, knocking him halfway down the hallway and into a wall.

Myn shouted and swords came out. Jocelyn, who had been barely missed by Stone flying past her, shrieked. A crowd of curious folk had gathered, watching them both.

"Stand down!” Stone roared, climbing to his feet with one hand on the wall for balance. He shook his head groggily. “Why did you do that, Loky?"

Lokynen laughed so loudly the walls vibrated. “I heard Kady wanted to see someone knock you into a wall. So I did."

Stone managed a rueful chuckle. “You got it wrong, Loky. It was Mohanja who wanted to see someone toss me into a wall and it was Kady who did it."

"Oh.” Lokynen flushed and offered his hand in apology.

Malthus scrambled to his feet and fled. He had never seen such physical power before. As much as Lokynen's strength worried him, making him grateful for Stone's intervention; the way that Stone could shrug off a blow like that suggested that there was far more to them both than he had previously believed.

"Same old Loky.” Stone ignored Lokynen's hand, and bearhugged him instead, patting him on the back.

Lyncoln Wescot pushed his way through the crowd and extended his own hand to Lokynen. “I'd put good money on it to watch you wrestle. I don't know about you two, but roughhousing always makes me thirsty. I just put in a couple of casks of good beer. Would you and Stone like to have a drink with me?"

"I could use a beer.” Loky shook hands with Lyncoln and the three of them headed for the suite.

Jocelyn shook her head at them dubiously. “Nutters. All of them."

Qaseem called it an exercise room for Kynyr. The prince called it a private salle.

Kynyr lay on his back, working his legs, doing sit-ups and push-ups. Pain arrived swiftly as his healing muscles protested the exercise. Kynyr tired before he reached the halfway mark of the goal that he had set himself. He forced himself through it until his legs and arms were trembling, and then grabbed the crutches that leaned against a chair and dragged himself to his feet. Kynyr reached the table and sank into the chair. Just over a week had passed since the day that Stone had worked his magic, and Kynyr had recovered to an astounding degree. Far from being content with the improvements, the prince hungered for more.

"You're progressing rapidly, Kynyr. Better than I had hoped."

Stone stood near the door, leaning his shoulder against the wall as he watched Kynyr.

"It's not that I'm not grateful, Stone. But I want to know what you did to me."

"I would explain it, if I could."

"Do you know what it does?"

"In principal. I gambled. Had I not heard that you were telling folks that you would rather be dead than crippled, I would not have hazarded it."

"Could it have killed me?"

"The possibility existed.” Stone thought for a moment. “There are compatibility issues with Shared Life, especially when the random factor is invoked. It's a chancy thing."

"Have you done it before?"

"Twice. Once it worked and once it failed."

"How did it fail?” Kynyr's brow knit.

"She died.” Stone's eyes went distant as it touched the memory. “She wasn't pretty. Leila was plain. Some said she was ugly. But her heart was gentle and her voice was sweet. I loved her, Kynyr. But I could not save her."

"I'm sorry."

Stone shrugged free of the memory, stirred from the wall with a boneless grace, and joined him at the table, pouring a glass of cold water from a pitcher. “You're healing at the same rate that I do. However, there may yet be some side effects that you will find hard to cope with."

"Such as?"

"I'd rather cross that bridge when and if we come to it. You are healing at the rate of a yuwenghau. Because that's what I am."

Kynyr's mouth twisted; resisting an urge to push for more answers, certain that he would not get them. “I would prefer you did not mention how much improved I am to anyone. Todd thinks it's best we let the thanes continue to think of me as a cripple."

"Probably wise."

Lokynen sprawled in a large chair near the hearth in the cottage he had rented at the north edge of Wolffgard. He had never been much for reading or writing, but he enjoyed the letters that he received from his wife, Amberlin. A war had broken out to the south. The so-called God-Queen of Minnoras, Gylorean Galee, had gobbled up the city-states along the east bank of the Hillora River, taken a savage swipe at Gormond's Reach—which King William Gryphonheart had managed to defeat at great cost—and then lunged into Angrim. As a result, Amberlin's couriers were having a difficult time getting through to him. The newest letter, which had arrived yesterday, had been sent a month ago.

My Dearest, Dearest Loky,

How I miss you. Home, they say, is where the heart is; and my heart is with you. So therefore, I have no home when you're away. I wish that you could see our son. Josaerin is growing so fast. He seems to change day by day. He has your hair and eyes.

The King has taken her army east to the relief of Gormond's Reach, taking Dynarien with her. In exchange, King William has sent his son Rudyard to Rowanhart in a betrothal pact to become husband to her daughter Ellynis Rowan when she comes of age. Everyone fusses over the boy, including Prince Becca.

There has been a lot of unrest in the city since the King's departure, especially in the Triton enclave. I haven't been able to put my finger on what's wrong, but I'm certain that it is not something I can't handle.

Still, I wish you were home. I miss you terribly.

Your loving wife forever,

Amberlin

"I miss you too."

He folded the letter and stuck it in a drawer of the bureau. The thought of his son growing in his absence led to thinking about Darmyk. He wanted to go and see the boy again. Stone had admonished Lokynen that if he chose to return to the manor for visits, he had to be on his best behavior.

"Best behavior,” he muttered. “Not supposed to whomp Malthus. Not supposed to roughhouse. Not supposed to have any fun. Too many do's and don't's, Stone."

Lokynen had made a habit of walking past the manor everyday, but he had not gone in. He had simply kept hoping to catch sight of the boy, Darmyk, playing or sitting out of doors. In fact, now that he thought about it, he had not seen any children playing in the yard.

That bothered him. He snatched his cloak up and headed for the door, muttering over and over, “Don't whomp Malthus. Don't whomp Malthus."

His heavy strides carried him down Main Street. Most myn nodded politely as he passed. Others took note of the frown he wore and simply got out of his way. A rush of children's voices as he passed Locust Street made him pause and look, searching the happy faces for Darmyk even as he knew in his heart that the boy would not be among them. Hamish Scott raced up to Lokynen and grabbed his arm.

"Swing me, Loky!"

Lokynen's frown melted. He loved the sound of children's laughter. Hamish's companions trotted up. Lokynen knew all of them: Cooley, Rory, Sugar Maple, Pieface, Bodi, and Lilac.

He stuck his arms out. “All of you! Hang on. Get good holds."

The children locked their hands together around his huge arms and Lokynen turned about, waving his arms back and forth, swinging the giggling children off the ground. The louder they laughed, the happier he felt.

"Hold on tight,” he hollered and charged down the middle of the street with them dangling from his arms.

Adults scattered from his path to stand watching him go, shaking their heads and chuckling at the sight. Of all the newcomers in their town, Lokynen had to be the oddest, but they all liked him best.

When Lokynen reached Elmind Street, he ceased his madcap rush and lowered the children to the ground. He surveyed their faces. “Have any of you seen Darmyk lately?"

Cooley stared at his shoes for a moment, gathered his nerve, and spoke. “He's sick, Loky. He can't play anymore."

"They won't let us see him, either.” Sugar Maple's serene face showed no trace of emotion, yet Loky could tell that it bothered her.

Lokynen frowned. “I'm going to see him."

He set off again and the children had to trot to keep up.

"Don't scare the thanes again,” Lilac suggested.

Lokynen stopped. “Is that what I did?"

Cooley rolled his eyes. “Terrified is closer. They're as jumpy as rolled johns with a hangover. That old figgity fanny Doherty says you're a menace."

"A what?"

"A menace,” said Lilac, patting her pouches. “Everyone is saying how far you knocked Stone was scary."

"No, no. The other thing. A figgy whatsits."

Sugar Maple breathed an eloquent sigh. “You do not need to know, Loky. It's nasty."

Lokynen scowled at Cooley, making his ugly face hideous. “I'm supposed to behave and you're calling him nasty names?"

"I outrank him. I'm a prince.” Cooley shrugged.

"Yes, you are, young master.” Iswara glided across the street. He had been shadowing Cooley for hours that morning. “Is it a problem you are having, Master Lokynen?"

"Cats are sneaky things.” Lokynen eyed Iswara closely.

"When needs must.” Iswara gave him a polite bow of acknowledgement.

"I need to check on Darmyk. But if I see his stepfather, I'm apt to whomp him."

"Ahh, and that would produce much unhappiness among the thanes and difficulties for Stoneriver."

"Can you help me?"

"Not directly. However, if I might make a suggestion?"

"Make it."

"When you go to the door, ask for Lady Regina Devlin. You will find her helpful."

"I'll do that.” Lokynen set off without another word.

This time the children did not follow. Instead, they danced around Iswara chanting “Don't scare the thanes."

The closer he got to the manor, the more edgy Lokynen felt. He repeated his chant from earlier in an attempt to remain calm. “Don't whomp Malthus. Don't whomp Malthus."

He reached the manor and noted the wary looks in the patrolling guardsmyn's eyes. “Maybe I did scare them."

Giving a shrug, Lokynen went to the door and knocked. It opened and a slender nibari greeted him. “Yes?"

"I'm here to see Regina Devlin. I promise not to break anything. I just want to talk to her."

Isbeth smiled and gestured for him to enter.

She led him through the hallways and up to the second floor to the Rose Room.

Regina had begun using Aisha's desk in the Rose Room for her work. The chamber had become a peaceful spot within hours of Jocelyn fleeing Lyncoln Wescot. Every morning without fail, Lyncoln arrived for tea and scones with Merissa and Emma. The mistresses were in such dread of his whimsical audacity that they had begun sending Regina notes, rather than bring their demands in person and risk encountering him.

She cast a dubious glance at the big mon that Isbeth let into the room, rose, and went around the desk with her hand extended politely. “Is there something you need, Lokynen?"

Regina could not get the image of Stone hitting the wall out of her head and finding herself alone with the man-mountain who had struck the blow left her feeling uneasy; however, she had no intention of letting him know that. Lokynen was not as tall as Stone, but much more powerfully built.

"Just Loky, if you don't mind, Lady Devlin.” He glanced away like a schoolboy expecting a scolding. “I'm on best behavior. I won't break anything."

"I'm sure you won't. And you may call me Reggie, if you like."

Lokynen's eyes lit upon the saber she wore at her hip. “My wife favors the saber."

"Your wife has trained?"

A deep chuckle bubbled from Lokynen. “Only one she can't whip is me."

"Are you sure?” Regina found his laugh infectious. “What about Stone?"

Lokynen considered for a moment. “Well, maybe not Stone, but I bet she'd carve her name on his forehead."

"She sounds impressive, Loky."

"Oh, she is. Amberlin's the toughest battlemage out there."

"I'm certain that you did not come to talk about your wife.” She pointed at the largest chair in the room, which also happened to be the one that Lyncoln used, and hoped it was big enough. “What can I do for you?"

Lokynen settled into it with exaggerated care, and gave the arms a cautious pat that suggested to Regina that he had had chairs break beneath him before. “Iswara said you might help me."

"Well, tell me what it is and I'll try."

"I haven't seen the little boy in awhile. His friends said he doesn't play anymore. I got worried about him."

"You mean Darmyk?"

Lokynen nodded. “I don't like his stepfather, but I promised Stone I wouldn't whomp him."

"Before I decide whether to help you, would you answer a few questions for me?"

"Ask."

"Why are you so interested in Darmyk?"

"His dad and I...” Lokynen's brows knit as he tried to decide how to answer. “Well, you see, we have a mutual friend. She asked me to look out for him. His dad is worried about him."

"You know, Loky...” Regina seated herself on the sofa and ran her gaze across the tapestries. “Many sa'necari-born males see having lycan offspring as abhorrent, a disgrace."

"And?” Suspicion crept into Lokynen's voice.

"Isranon repudiated Darmyk. Merissa still cries about it."

"It's a lie. A nasty god-fecking lie."

The vehemence in his voice set her aback. “Isranon and Nevin wrote letters to that effect."

"Dawnreturning would never do anything like that."

"Dawnreturning?” That caught Regina by surprise. The rumors and tales of the mon had been reaching legendary proportions over the past two years, ever since he destroyed a small army of demons to rescue King William Gryphonheart. She struggled to wrap her mind around it. “His father is Dawnreturning? The first Mage-Paladin to Kalirion in centuries?"

"That's him. Kalirion and I might have our differences, but he would never take to a mon who would repudiate his own son."

The way that he said it sounded so personal that Regina was thrown off-stride again. “You've met the Sun-God?"

Lokynen's mood shifted mercurially with a laugh. “Knocked him across his own garden once."

"Who are you, Loky?” Regina's mind raced. The mon was immense and powerful, but hitting the Sun Lord created a dichotomy of astonishment and confusion.

"Lokynen Willidar."

"Oh.” Regina's voice dropped to a whisper. He was yuwenghau, the demi-god son of Badonth, God of Aggressive Warfare and Vengeance. She ran her eyes over him again, and it made sense. “Does Stone know this?"

"About me? Yeah. About Darmyk's dad? I don't know."

"Do you mind if I tell him?"

"Nope. Go ahead."

The rest of Regina's questions had vanished from her mind in reaction to the revelations Lokynen had given her. He had swept away all her doubts about him; and Regina could see no reason to delay him. “Would you like to see Darmyk?"

"I would.” Lokynen followed Regina, who led him along the corridor to Darmyk's room.

The boy lay beneath a wealth of quilts and comforters. His color was off and his eyes had an odd glaze that worried Lokynen.

"Hello, Little Bear.” Lokynen spotted the largest chair in the room, pulled it close to the bed, sat and leaned forward. “They tell me you don't feel well."

Darmyk shook his head. “Tired."

"You'll get better.” Lokynen patted the boy's hand.

"What in Hell's name is going on in here?” Malthus stalked into the room, and flicked a wary glance at Lokynen seated hunched on the edge of a chair with his back to him. “Regina, I won't have you making a circus of Darmyk's illness ... bringing people in here without asking me first."

"I simply brought a friend to cheer him up. There's no harm in that.” Regina kept her voice even.

"That oaf is no friend of mine,” Malthus snapped.

"He's your son's friend."

Lokynen ignored Malthus, muttering sotto voce, “Don't whomp Malthus."

"Would it be too much for you to ask first before bringing people here?” Malthus gestured at Darmyk. “Did you ask Merissa first?"

Darmyk whimpered, retreating further into his blankets. The harsh exchange between the adults frightened him.

Regina glanced away, and Malthus knew he had been right. “You will get my permission before doing this again."

"I don't need your permission, Malthus.” Regina stiffened, her eyes flashing. “In case, you've forgotten, I run the household."

"I haven't forgotten,” he sneered. “Johfrit's not a week in his grave and you're already remarried."

Regina went from stiff to tense as Malthus parroted things she had overheard both Clennan and Jocelyn saying about her. “I did what I had to do."

"Slutting it up to Stone's second in command to further your own agenda."

"That's enough out of you.” Lokynen straightened and rose to his feet, turning with a glare. “I promised not to whomp you ... but that doesn't mean I won't thump you."

Malthus stopped short. Stone had assured him that the big mon would not touch him again, but seeing the savage look on his face rattled Malthus, causing him to take a step backwards. He lowered his tone, clinging to a semblance of righteous indignation. “I told Mary Sinclair that I did not want people disturbing my boy. It is hard enough on Merissa as it is."

Regina's eyes blazed and emotion pushed her midway into her transitional form. Her mouth edged toward becoming a snout and fangs appeared. “I know what's hard on Merissa. She is my friend."

"And I am her husband."

Lokynen's face tightened in fury and he took a step toward Malthus. “Get out of here."

"As you wish.” Malthus retreated to the door. “However, I will speak to Stone about it."

Then he turned and left.

"I hate that mon, he treats her shamefully, but she allows it,” Regina snarled.

Lokynen was silent for a moment, watching her calm a little. “Promise or no promise, I just might whomp him."

Regina gave a sigh. “If Merissa weren't so ill..."

"Say the word and I'll rip his head off."

"You really mean that...."

"Of course.” Lokynen blinked, wondering how she could even doubt it. “It would scare the thanes again.” He considered for a moment, and an unexpected chuckle emerged. “Darmyk's friends followed me through Wolffgard this morning, chanting ‘don't scare the thanes.’ But I might have to."

Malthus sat in his study with Clennan and Vertram. Regina and Mary had chased him out of the suite as soon as Merissa went into labor. She was near enough to term that Mary Sinclair had assured Malthus there would be no problems with it. However, he could not stop worrying. Merissa had become so fragile over the past few months, and birthing twins presented its own share of difficulties.

Clennan toasted the imminent birth. “To the rightful heirs."

Vertram had insisted upon having a proper table set up in the room, sent for food from the kitchen, and sat gnawing on roasted goose leg. He waved the leg in acknowledgement of Clennan's toast, but did not reach for his tankard.

Malthus stirred from his brooding and lifted his tankard of mead. “To the rightful heirs."

Then he sank back into his thoughts again. Clennan and Vertram had been doing their best to distract him from his worries, but could not quite manage it.

"When I'm regent for your sons, there will always be a place for you in Red Wolf.” Clennan took another sip from his tankard.

"I'm grateful for your support, Clennan. And yours, Vertram.” Malthus tried not to stare at Clennan's withered claw in its black glove. Stone must have battered Clennan horribly to cause that kind of crippling. “Stone worries me ... the way he supports Kynyr."

"Don't let it concern you.” Vertram bit off another chunk of meat and talked around it. “His time is coming."

Malthus’ gaze wandered to Faerwald Davies standing by the window, watching another light snowfall descend over the yard. Lairgan Yates sat by the fire in the hearth, warming his hands. Clennan never went anywhere alone, and his most frequent companions were that pair. He found himself wondering if Yates was as good with his blades as Davies was. Lairgan Yates would have to be if that pair were going to take on Todd Sinclair. Without Todd and Stone, Kynyr would be nothing.

"It was wrong of Claw to disinherit Merissa and her children."

"They're your children also,” Vertram pointed out. “You have an investment there."

Clennan snagged a sweet roll, his claw closing on it without bending his stiff fingers. “The witan will reject Claw's will. Everyone knows he was in his dotage."

The door swung open and Jocelyn fled into the room, shrieking. “Stop it. Stop it."

She rushed to Vertram and settled in the closest chair to him, eyes wide with fright.

The door opened again and Lyncoln Wescot sauntered in. “Ah, so this where you've all got off to. I was just asking your pretty bit about it, Vertram."

"You have a peculiar effect upon bitches, Lyncoln,” Vertram observed in a droll tone.

"My late wife always said that.” Lyncoln settled into a chair between Clennan and Vertram, grabbed an empty tankard, and filled it. “Waiting for a birth must be thirsty work, seeing as you've got so much here. I never had the pleasure, you know. Terry was barren. At least, that's what the healers said.” Lyncoln took a large swig of mead. “That it was her and not me. You know what I mean?” He winked at them. “Won't know for sure until I get me another wife. A young, pretty one. I want a prettier one than the one you've got, Vertram. Her eyes are set too close together."

"You're a nutter, Lyncoln Wescot. There's nothing wrong with my eyes."

Vertram chuckled, earning him a glare from Jocelyn.

"Tell him, Vertram. I've got pretty eyes."

"They're pretty enough.” Vertram waved the bone at her, having chewed off the last bit of meat. “I wouldn't let Lyncoln's opinion get to you so much. Midlanders say the same thing about horses. Don't they, Lyncoln?"

"We like our horses and our bitches with large clear eyes.” Lyncoln grinned into his tankard. “Not little beady eyes."

Jocelyn let out another shriek. “My eyes aren't beady."

Clennan's gaze slid across the table in a frown. “Leave her alone, Lyncoln. A Wescot will never marry into my family."

"Wasn't looking to. It's a caber toss, you know."

Clennan's frown deepened. “What has tossing trees got to do with bitches?"

"It doesn't.” Lyncoln's eyes got a sudden canny gleam. “The witan. It's a caber toss. The one who tosses their weight the farthest wins. You're sitting here, trying to toss your cabers, and it's nothing without the midlands votes.” He gave them another wink, drained his tankard, and swaggered out.

"He's a nutter. That's what he is.” Jocelyn's eyes followed Lyncoln through the door.

"Shut up, Jocelyn,” Clennan snarled. “Find another word for him. I'm tired of hearing it."

"But he is,” she protested.

"I'm beginning to think he isn't."

The room went quiet again. Faerwald left the window, prowling the study like a restless lion. Malthus watched him from the corners of his eyes. Trying not to stare at him, he remembered their practice match, and how he would have lost to Faerwald if he had not cheated.

Regina came to the study. “You have two healthy lycan sons, Malthus. Merissa is asking for you, so you ought to go to her."

"Regina, do you think my eyes are—"

"Beady? Yes.” Regina turned on her heel and left.

"Lyncoln told her to say that. I know he did."

The males ignored Jocelyn, turning to Malthus with a hearty round of congratulations. Malthus excused himself and went to his suite. Apparently, his spells to conceal the true nature of his sons had worked even better than he expected. He congratulated himself as much upon that as on the birth of his sons.

Merissa looked worn out, laying in bed with her newborns beside her. He kissed her cheek, opened the blankets that the midwife had wrapped them in, and stared.

"No."

His twin sons were fair-skinned, blue-eyed, with wisps of blond hair on their heads—and their bodies were covered in a soft coat of what the lycans called babyfur. He touched them, Read them, and sucked in a disbelieving breath. They were lycan.

All these months he had Read them in the womb and they were sa'necari. This was not possible.

A ghostly laughter echoed through the room. Malthus’ head shot up and he shivered. Ghosts avoided sa'necari. They were souls that still walked the land; while the sa'necari shattered and devoured souls in their rites. He could not be hearing a ghost.

The laughter came again.

"Did you hear that?"

Merissa gave him a puzzled frown. “Hear what?"

"Laughter."

"I didn't hear anything."

Then he remembered the disturbance in the ether when Aisha told him she had cursed him. Could she have cursed my sons out of their heritage?

"This isn't happening. It isn't."

Malthus retreated from the room and the laughter followed him.

Faerwald Davies applied a small whetstone to his blades, whistling a tune he had heard at the Difficult Horse. The boring weeks of bodyguarding had ended that morning when Clennan finally let them off the leash to do their real jobs. For the next several days they would work their own hours, study their prey, and close in on it. Clennan had given them two assignments: snatch Darcy MacIver for a bedroom lark he hankered for; and kill Todd Sinclair.

He fancied having a ride on that feisty little Missus MacIver, certain she would probably cuss him out the entire time he was getting his wagstaff wet. The thought tickled him. He guessed that Darcy must know every word in the book to call him. She went to the taverns a lot; too much for a decently married bitch.

Testing the edge of his blades with his thumb, Faerwald decided that they were satisfactory, and slipped them back into their sheaths. He heard Lairgan laughing as he emerged from his bedroom buckling them on.

Faerwald Davies and Lairgan Yates were a practical pair. Clennan paid them well and most of it was banked for their old age. Faerwald always sold their services to powerful myn who could shelter them from the wrath of the Bane Shepherds. Renegades from a battle-clan, they moved on whenever the Shepherds came nosing too heavily along their trail. Faerwald had a knack for disappearing and emerging somewhere safe with a new patron. However, he had staked a lot on Clennan. When the thane became regent, they would be safe from the Shepherds.

He heard Lairgan laughing again and poked his head into his friend's room. Lairgan sat in the middle of the floor with a heavy fishing net across his lap, braiding spellcord through it from a pile beside him.

Faerwald sauntered into the room and toed the spellcord. “Where'd you get all that?"

"The manor's armory. I can't wait to see the look on that bitch's face when I drop this over her."

Faerwald snickered at the image it conjured in his mind, and remembered the brief humiliation he had endured when Thunder yanked his trousers down in the tavern. “I'm going to pull her trousers off and flash the town. Carry her bare arsed all the way to the manor."

"The trolleymog deserves it."

The two of them completed the job and rolled the net up. Then they carried it out to the stable and saddled their horses.

The day started bright and early for Darcy. Wolffgard seemed like a city to her; twice the size of any place she had ever been before, except for Hell's Widow in Waejontor. When her cousin, Fergus, led the punitive invasion of Hell's Widow last autumn, she had been impressed by the size of the place.

For the first time in her life, Darcy had friends who weren't part of her extended family. That was another novel experience that she savored. She had plans to meet Regina and Jenny at the Difficult Horse in the afternoon, and decided to get in some shopping for solstice gifts ahead of that.

Darcy strolled down Locust Street with a burlap sack of purchases swung over her shoulder. She had bought candy for the cubs at John Donegal's shop, scented creams for the bitches at Cahira's Potions and Notions, and new boots for Finn who would soon be getting out of the wheel-chair and be about on crutches. Finn's old boots had looked entirely too worn out for her taste. She expected him to laugh when he got them and make remarks about the fact that, while she was not the cubs and cookies type, she still managed to function with a wifely attitude.

"Hello, Darcy."

She turned and saw the duelist who had threatened Todd standing there. “What do you want?"

"A full serving of payback for that little incident a few days ago.” Faerwald Davies leered at her.

Without stopping to think, Darcy swung her burlap sack of purchases in his face.

Faerwald swayed aside, grabbed the sack, and jerked her forward. “Apologies can start with a kiss, I think."

His lips covered hers, and Darcy punched him in the stomach.

"Woof...” Faerwald stepped backwards, gasping for air. His fist shot out and connected with Darcy's face, bloodying her nose.

He eluded her responding jab, laughing between gasps.

"What the hell are you laughing at?” Darcy snarled.

Lairgan Yates’ net sailed over her head. Startled, she pulled at it, trying to get it off, and only became tangled worse.

Faerwald pinned her arms, dancing a bit as she tried to stomp on his feet. Lairgan slid a rope around her, binding her arms to her sides. Faerwald hoisted her over his shoulder, grabbed the top of her trousers, slashed the lacings, and jerked them down around her knees.

"Payback is a three fingered whore.” He slapped her buttocks. “This spanking was overdue."

"We've got some friendly weapons just itching for you.” Lairgan chuckled.

Darcy let out a shriek of rage and indignation. “Stupid buggering bastards! You're cheating."

Faerwald gave her another series of quick swats.

"Put me down, you god-fecking cockwhores! Put me down!"

"When we're ready."

They headed for the alley where they had left their horses. A lycan stepped from the alley mouth before they could get there, unclipped a crossbow from his belt, and loaded it.

Lairgan's eyes widened. He paused and swiveled about. “Trouble, Faer. Lawgivers."

Ossian O'Reilly moved to intercept them, his crossbow leveled at Lairgan who was closest to him. “Put her down."

"I don't appreciate having that pointed at me.” Lairgan's smile never wavered as he stared past Faerwald at Ossian's two brothers coming up behind his friend with their claymores ready. He scratched his nose, tapping it twice in the process.

Faerwald caught the signal, and turned to see Waid and Ultan standing there. He dumped Darcy into the muddy snow. “Just a lark, Lawgiver. No harm done."

"Attempted kidnapping with intent to commit rape is punishable by fifty lashes,” Ossian stated.

"It's just a lark. Thought she deserved a spanking for bottling Lairgan in the grapes."

"I heard about that. I still say it looks like a kidnapping."

Faerwald shrugged and held his hands out, palms up. “We're just a pair of good old dogs, Lawgiver. Just ask Thane Clennan of Heatherford. He'll tell you we've never ever hurt a bitch in our lives."

"No one is above the law. What're your names?"

"I'm Faerwald Davies and that's my spiritbrother, Lairgan Yates. I'm captain of Thane Clennan's bodyguards. We're law-abiding folks."

"I'll only give you one warning, Davies. I catch you doing something like this again, and I'll have you flogged."

"Does that mean we can go, Lawgiver?"

"Get out of here."

The two myn from Heatherford sauntered away, laughing.

Ossian relaxed the tension on the crossbow and hung it again from his belt. He drew his knife, knelt, and began cutting Darcy loose.

Darcy fumed in silence. She should have known that Lairgan was about when she saw Faerwald. No one had ever bested her before—unless she counted her endless childhood skirmishes with her cousin Fergus. Figuring that he was the one to beat, she had gone after him hammer and tongs, swinging her fists fast and hard. The outcome never changed, even when she faced off against him as an adult in a flurry of temper. Fergus knocked her down and sat on her, patiently suggesting that she cool off. She missed him.

She amended that thought. Finn had beaten her repeatedly with practice swords. That and his easy-going manner had attracted her to Finn MacIver.

And then there was Todd.

A touch of rue twisted the edges of Darcy's mouth. She began to calm herself and assess what had happened to her, analyzing it as Todd and Finn had taught her.

She felt a jerk on her trousers, started to spit out an imprecation, and saw it was just Waid. The blush of embarrassment on his quiet face disarmed her.

"I figured you'd want to be covered up."

"Thank you, Waid."

Todd shook his head in disbelief as he watched Kynyr going through his forms. Sweat beaded on Kynyr's forehead. “Arms up! Arms up,” Todd barked at him. “That's better."

Kynyr adjusted his form. “I hope so."

Trevor stood with his shoulder leaned against the wall. “I never expected it to work this fast when you told me about it."

"How do you feel, Kynyr?"

"Tired. Why?” Kynyr glanced from the corner of his eyes at his grandfather.

"Good. Trevor, knock him down."

Kynyr's eyebrows shot toward his hairline. “Wait, I'm not ready."

Trevor bowed to the mat, stepped onto it and attacked with a left jab. Kynyr swayed away from it straight into the path of a right cross that sent him staggering backwards.

"You're forgetting to widen your vision, Kynyr. Trevor, your shoulder twitched. You're getting into bad habits."

"Yes, Dad."

Kynyr swallowed.

"Now, my children, let's start over. Best two out of three. Let's see who hits the mat first."

As Kynyr kept refusing to take the offensive, Todd grew worried. Kynyr's body was back in perfect condition, but somehow Kynyr continued to think of himself as crippled and not give his all to the fight.

"You're thinking too much, Kynyr.” Todd realized that he had to provoke Kynyr to force him past that block. “You've lost your nerve, Kynyr."

Shock showed on Kynyr's face. Todd had never been ugly with him, just blunt and to the point.

"Stop being a wuss, Kynyr!"

As Todd continued to berate him, Kynyr grew angry and began to fight more seriously.

Instead of swaying or dodging, Kynyr dropped into a low squat letting Trevor's punch go over his head, his hands went to the floor, and his leg shot out in a full sweep that took Trevor's feet out from under him.

Todd exhaled heavily. He gave a quick bow to the mat, stepped onto it, and pulled Kynyr into a hug, pounding on his back. “Now, one more round. And control it, Kynyr."

Kynyr won the next round, but not as easily as he would have a few months ago. He was still being too cautious. Kynyr had lost his confidence, and Todd feared that if he did not get it back fast it could cost his grandson his life.

No matter how often the Maguires and the Sinclairs admonished Rory Scott to remain at the mansion and not go into Wolffgard alone, the ten-year-old cub continued to sneak into town. He had left Hamish behind to tell people that he was home somewhere so that they would not decide to search for him there.

His widowed mother, Lynette Scott, had worked as a laundress, supporting herself and her two young sons, until trouble with Belgair Doherty cost her all her customers. Kady's generous heart went out to them and now his mother worked for the Maguires as a lady's maid.

The day before winter solstice had arrived, and Rory had not managed to earn enough money to buy his mother a present. His only choice was a foraging expedition into town. Haired over and wrapped in a warm cloak, he sauntered down an alley between Locust and Main streets, digging into the trash behind the shops, filling his gathering sack with bottles, jugs, jars, and anything else that had resale value. In the past, Rory would have whistled contentedly as he foraged; however, a few months ago he had been attacked and nearly killed by a mon who was gilled up on White Fire. The experience had made him even more of a sneak than he had been before.

Rory dipped into a crate of discards behind the Raging Lizard Inn and straightened at the sound of voices approaching. He ducked around the crate and squatted low out of sight. The two duelists, who had tried to snatch Darcy and threatened to kill Todd, led their horses around into the alley. Rory tensed, ready to run if they spotted him, and glad that he had hidden himself. They were always talking like they were nice fellows, and then they did mean things that scared the cub.

"Todd rode out a few minutes ago. He'll be making a lot of stops, so we shouldn't have much trouble getting ahead of him.” Faerwald Davies mounted his horse, a big sorrel gelding.

"You don't fight fair with someone like that old geezer.” Lairgan turned his mount to follow Faerwald. “Just take him down fast and hard."

Faerwald laughed. “Clennan says he's going to decorate his solstice tree with Todd's head. We better be about collecting it for him."

They headed west down the alley. Rory waited until they were out of sight and then crept from behind the crate. He glanced in both directions to see that it was safe, and then he ran. His legs carried him faster than ever before in his life, and he arrived at Cahira's Potions and Notions with his heart pounding and his legs trembling. He hit the door without slowing down, and burst inside screaming. “Those duelists have gone to ambush Todd."

Cahira looked up from the table where she sat sipping tea. Betrys stopped stocking the shelves of face creams. Her husband, Artair MacFie, tossed his feather duster onto a cabinet and ran to the back for his medical satchel and his weapons.

"We have to find him.” The color faded from Cahira's face.

"We will. Do you know where he's gone to?” Artair fastened the last buckle on his harness, which carried a mace and a sword.

"He's delivering those gifts to the children and intends to stop off at Gowyn Caldwell's afterward."

"I'm going too.” Betrys patted the mace she wore.

"No. You're staying here.” Artair gave her a no-nonsense look that quashed her protests before she could speak them. “You must tell people what is going on. Tell everyone who enters the store and send for the lawgivers and the militia."

Betrys nodded her acquiescence.

Cahira seized Rory's and Artair's hands and Jumped to the Maguire Home. They materialized in the kitchen, startling everyone present.

Several conversations were going on at once. Kady sipped tea, while chattering with Mary over a stack of baby clothes. Trevor, Kynyr, and Tobrytan MacFie were grabbing a bit of breakfast and discussing what to do about the newest recruits with Darcy. Finn sat on the other side of Darcy in his wheel-chair, which had become a toy while he healed, explaining to Ossian O'Reilly about what had happened the night of the purge.

"They're ambushing Todd,” Artair shouted.

Kady nearly dropped her cup of tea. Trevor and Kynyr sprang to their feet. Finn stopped in mid-sentence. Darcy knocked her chair over as she leaped up with a hand to her axes.

Matters were swiftly explained. Trevor ordered everyone into search parties.

Tobrytan added his myn to the search, while Darcy paired off with Kynyr.

"I'm coming also. I'll go with Ossian.” Mary grabbed her satchel. “You may need me."

Todd had gathered small presents for the cubs of his tenants and a bottle of whiskey for his gamekeeper, Gowyn Caldwell. He rode along Pendarke Road, and turned onto Elmhurst Road that led through his extensive property just past the Maguire Estate.

He had noticed the hardscrabble poverty that most of his tenants lived under. They were a rugged people, but the land demanded everything they could give it. His parents had been farmers on leased land and he remembered how difficult it had been. He had been thirteen years old before he got his first set of new clothes; until then everything had been hand-me-downs. Elton McCain, who had owned the land before Todd, had insisted on getting everything he could squeeze from them. Todd had reduced their rents, and told them that if they had trouble buying seed in the spring, they were to come to him.

He left packages on the steps, gave a quick knock, and made a hasty retreat before the doors opened. Todd turned down the path heading for the gamekeeper's cottage. Gowyn Caldwell had become a valued ally. Gowyn's father, Anbiddian, had served with Todd in the Rebellion eighty years past, and Gowyn liked hearing stories of his late father.

As he emerged from a stand of evergreens into a snow-covered rocky clearing, his horse stumbled, shuddered, and collapsed in the dirt of the road with several arrows sprouting from its neck and chest. Todd tried to throw himself from the saddle as it went down, but his foot caught in the stirrup. His right shoulder blade struck a large sharp rock hidden by the snow. The loud snap of breaking bone preceded a nauseating rush of pain. His right arm hung useless. The dying horse rolled over on Todd and then settled, leaving his lower body contorted beneath its weight, and his left shoulder tightly wedged between the fangs of the outcropping. He heard footsteps crunching across the ice-glazed snow; glanced, and found himself staring into the grinning, hard-eyed face of Faerwald Davies.

Todd twisted in an attempt to get his imprisoned left hand and arm loose to grasp the battle-axe in his belt. His fingers brushed the edge of it. Between the horse pinning him, the angle at which he lay trapped, and the agony in his broken shoulder, he could not get it free. He triggered the shift into his hybrid form, but that only made him feel the pressure of the rocks worse. Wedged too tight. Bloody bad luck.

Lairgan Yates sauntered from the trees with his bow in hand. Yates shoved the bow in its case, and unshouldered the quiver, casting it aside as he drew his saber.

Davies waved his saber in Todd's face suggestively. The six-inch back edge caught the morning light, glinting like fresh-minted silver.

"You going to kill me where I lie, Davies?” Todd locked eyes with Faerwald, stern and unblinking. “Or make a fair fight of it?"

"They say you're the best. Why take chances?” Faerwald's saber darted across Todd in a swift flourish, slashed his arms, and maimed his hands, dotting the snow with pieces of his fingers. Then he opened two long cuts in Todd's chest.

My hands. Dear gods, my hands. Todd stiffened with a grimace. Too old to shrug off pain as he had when he was young; the strength vanished from Todd's aged body in a rush of anguish. “Craven bastards."

"Nothing personal.” Lairgan laughed. “Just business."

Faerwald flicked his saber across Todd's cheek in casual contempt, leaving a bleeding furrow, and then rested the point over Todd's chest. “You killed Belgair after he surrendered. He begged for quarter. You refused."

"He poisoned my grandson.” Todd gazed steadily at the duelist with no sign of fear. They were going to kill him; and there was nothing he could do about it. Not since he tried to chase a grizzly bear off with a stick at twelve had he been this helpless. Bloody bad luck.

"Beg, Todd. Beg for quarter."

"Go to hell.” His calmly spoken defiance brought a fleeting scowl from Lairgan. Todd had always known, deep in his heart, that someone who had lived so much of his life by the sword—as he had—would probably die by it. So he had long ago made his peace with death; and he saw no reason to fear the moment now that it had come.

"Clennan wants you to suffer at great length,” Faerwald said conversationally. “I'll give you an easier death than Clennan asked for, if you'll beg."

"Kynyr'll ... kill you ... both for this.” His maimed hands burned and ached more than the rest of his wounds, tensing together like claws.

"Really? Until I came here, I'd never heard of Kynyr Maguire."

"Pity that."

"If he's so good, why haven't I heard of him, eh? Answer me that. Anyway, isn't he a cripple now?"

"Ignorant sod."

"I assume that's your answer.” Faerwald plunged the point of his saber into Todd's lung with a corkscrew twist, dragged it down, and pulled it smoothly out.

"That's ... done it.” Todd's eyes clenched shut and his lips peeled back from his teeth as his body spasmed. Each word brought another wheezing, coughing breath; accompanied by yellow phlegm and a bloody froth from his shredded lung that dribbled down the corners of his mouth. “You'll pay ... in kind ... for ... this. Bastards."

"Not likely.” Faerwald gestured with his saber, the blade wet with Todd's blood, bits of flesh clinging to it.

Todd had assumed that the bones in their hair was an empty affectation. Now, he wondered. “If Kynyr ... don't get you ... Jordy will."

Lairgan's expression sobered and he glanced at Faerwald. “Jordy? Jordan Sinclair?"

"Bane Shepherd ... North Watch ... my son.” It gave Todd a grim satisfaction to see that he had struck a blow to Lairgan's confidence with that revelation.

"Shite, Faer. The Shepherds will get us this time."

"Buck up, Lairgan. I haven't let them catch us yet? Now have I?"

"True.” Lairgan recovered his nerve; his faith in Faerwald undiminished.

"Lairgan, get his weapons. He doesn't need them now."

Lairgan removed Todd's swords from the harness, tossed them away, and fumbled with the axes. “I can't get them at this angle."

"We'll drag him loose.” Faerwald wiped his saber clean and sheathed it.

Lairgan shoved a tree branch under the horse, lifted it up, and held it. Faerwald grasped the leather shoulder straps of Todd's weapons’ harness and extracted him from beneath the fallen animal.

The lycan armsmaster stifled a scream at the drag on his broken shoulder, and coughed up more blood. Faerwald dropped him in the snow beside the horse, shifted form to put as much power behind his next blow as he could, and stomped Todd's leg, breaking it.

Todd cried out, which brought on another fit of coughing. Blood dribbled from the corners of his mouth.

"Clennan wants to decorate his solstice tree with your head.” Faerwald drew his saber.

"It will make a fine ornament, Faer.” Lairgan sauntered to his companion's side, eyeing the fine workmonship of the large crescent heads of Todd's kendaryl axes with their silver inlays. “Nice axes. I think I'll keep them."

With a final flare of his old stubbornness, Todd dragged his good foot beneath him and rose, determined to get one blow in before he died. The stubs of his fingers brushed his axe haft. Blood running down his arm made his grip slippery as he tried to make his damaged hand pull it from his belt.

Lairgan's eyes widened in astonishment. He backhanded his blade into Todd's side, the sharp steel biting deep between his ribs. Todd jerked, gasping. His legs buckled, sending him to his knees. Todd's hips settled on his heels and his mangled hands clutched at his ribs and chest. He threw his head back and howled the lycan death scream.

"There's no one around to hear you, old sod.” Faerwald leveled his saber at Todd's belly. “Clennan wants you gutted like Belgair."

Todd's chin sank to his chest and rested there, his eyes half-closed and his shoulders drooping. Breathing became more and more difficult with each passing moment. Blood filled the lower half of his lung, and the building pressure in his chest began collapsing the rest of it. His severed spleen flooded his clothing with crimson. Dizziness and exhaustion pulled at him. His vision grayed around the edges.

"I want to watch his eyes when you put it in his belly.” Lairgan tangled his fingers in Todd's hair and pulled his head back. “We've never killed a legend before."

"They all look the same when they die.” Faerwald regarded Todd, his mouth pursed. He took a firm grip on Todd's harness to hold him steady so that the big lycan did not topple over before Faerwald could get his business done.

The jingling of caparisoned horses in the quiet morning announced new arrivals. Darcy and Kynyr rode into the clearing. Lairgan released Todd's hair and withdrew to give himself room to deal with the newcomers.

Todd's head bobbed on his neck like a daisy on a broken stem as he lifted it. His lips moved, and he exhaled Kynyr's name.

"Bloody, goat-fecking bastards!” Darcy sprang from her mount, and stalked toward the duelists with Kynyr following close behind.

"Give him a bellyful, Faer.” Lairgan observed dryly. “We've got more customers."

"The cripple has come to fight?” Faerwald eyed Kynyr, incredulous at seeing how he moved with the authority of a lion and no trace of a limp. The duelist smelled a deception, understanding Todd's reason for saying that Kynyr would kill him. “Whatever your game is, I play it better. I'll gut Todd before you can reach me."

"Do it and die.” Ossian emerged from the shadows with a crossbow leveled on Faerwald. Mary stepped around him, the bottom of her skirts tucked into her belt to free her legs.

"Another pair of customers.” Lairgan's laughter masked his annoyance at seeing the crossbow pointed at them again.

Kynyr touched Darcy's arm and halted her. “It's Ossian's move."

She gave him a doubting look, and waited. “He better make it a good one.” Darcy inclined her head toward the dead horse. “Looks like the horse fell on Todd and they cut him up there. Bastards."

"It's a duel.” Faerwald kept his grip on Todd's harness as he watched Ossian warily.

"I'd call it murder.” Ossian took another step toward them.

Faerwald's eyes slewed sidewise at Lairgan with a slight nod. Lairgan's wrist twitched. A knife flashed from his fingers, striking Ossian in the chest. The lawgiver staggered and triggered the crossbow, but the bolt flew wide as he fell. Ossian lay half-curled in the snow, his fingers clutching at the blade protruding from him, his breathing labored. “Murderers."

"You're learning, Lawgiver.” Lairgan's lips tightened. “Pity it's going to be a fatal lesson."

Kynyr cursed and glided across the clearing; his ginger blond hair bloused around his face like the mane of a hunting cat. Darcy walked to his right with enough space between them that they would not get in each other's way.

"Wait your turn, Kynyr.” Lairgan moved to intercept the prince before Kynyr could reach Faerwald and Todd.

Faerwald shoved his blade into Todd's belly, gave it a savage twist, and drew it across to make a mess of his guts. “Finished here. Who's next?"

Todd shuddered as the sword was withdrawn from him, blinking dull-eyed at his severed entrails bulging through the long tear. He swayed for an instant when Faerwald released his harness, and then crumpled to lay staring at the sky, his blood spreading through his clothes and staining the snow around him. His thoughts turned to Cahira and how much he loved her; recalling her face again through the eye of memory.

Seeing Faerwald open Todd's belly sent a shock through Kynyr. He went cold as a winter storm inside; clarity took hold as crisp and sharp as ice, and his pace slowed to a cautious walk.

Mary screamed Todd's name, scrambling to his side. Small animal noises of suffering emerged from far back in his throat and the slight gleam in his otherwise dull eyes was the glazing of pain. Her fingers brushed his face, and then she lifted her eyes to stare hatred at Faerwald. “You cold-hearted bastard."

She spit in Faerwald's face.

He flicked her a condescending smile. “You have so many pretty bitches, Kynyr ... Guess what the thanes will do to them when you're dead?"

Faerwald's eyes narrowed when his taunt brought no change in the ice and steel of Kynyr's expression. Doubt flickered through him for an instant.

No insult, no taunt, no threat could touch Kynyr. When he gutted Todd, Faerwald had hurt Kynyr beyond the power of words to reach him. His enemies had taken Kynyr's friends, his father, the Redhand side of his family, and now Todd. Within the halls of his psyche at that moment, Kynyr became a mon with nothing left to lose; possessed of a chill determination to pursue and destroy all who dared to harm or threaten those he loved.

Mary drew an axe from Todd's belt and chopped at Faerwald. He stepped away, blocked it desultorily, and kicked Mary in the face. “Now, now. We'll have time to get better acquainted once my business is concluded."

"Faerwald's mine.” Kynyr drew Ladyfaith. “Darcy?"

Her lips curled back into a sneer as she paced toward Lairgan, going deeper into her transitional form with each step she took. Although she carried a basket-hilted claymore at her shoulder, Darcy went for her axes instead.

Mary cradled Todd's head in her lap, unshouldered her satchel, snapped her various cases open, and got a pressure bandage on the chest wound. She fastened clips to his spleen to stop the bleeding as the Creeyan surgeons had shown her. Mary started to fill a syringe with Narcantha and changed her mind, filling it instead with Pollendine; a narcotic so strong and potentially addictive that most healers reserved it for the dying. It was a silent acknowledgement of what Mary could not bring herself to say.

Kynyr circled toward Faerwald, and the duelist moved farther into the open, away from the obstacles provided by Todd, Mary, and the dead horse. Keeping half an eye on the duelist, Kynyr dropped to one knee by Todd and scooped up his axe that Mary had tried to hit the duelist with. He kissed Todd's forehead. “I love you, grandfather."

Mary looked into Kynyr's eyes, her face taut with grief. “Gut him, Kynyr."

"I intend to.” Kynyr moved away.

Faerwald had chosen his spot of ground on which to fight; and the easy confidence had returned to his stance and lips.

The pain eased and Todd could speak again. “Lift me up, Mary ... I want to see."

Mary shifted into her hybrid form, gathered Todd into her arms, and cradled him. His head rested against her shoulder, a smile of weary pride on his lips as he watched Kynyr driving Faerwald back while Darcy opened a gash in Lairgan's chest.

"They're my legacy, Mary.” Fits of coughing punctuated his words, bringing a bloody froth running from the corners of his mouth. “Kynyr ... Darcy ... Finn. My legacy ... the three finest ... warriors ... I've ever ... trained..."

"I know, Todd. I know.” She stroked his head.

"If I don't get to ... you tell Kynyr ... for me ... I loved him.” His voice grew faint and then he sagged against her, his head falling back.

A sob broke from Mary as she Read him. “Hang on, Todd. Please hang on. Just a little longer."

Tobrytan arrived with twenty MacLachlan horsemyn, and spread out around them, blocking any retreat that the duelists might have hoped for.

Artair threw himself from his horse, knelt beside Ossian, drew the blade, and bandaged the wound.

"Murdering scum,” Ossian grumbled.

Tobrytan dismounted beside Mary. “Todd?"

"He's in a bad way.” Mary raised her tear streaked face to him. “We need to get him to the house."

Faerwald Davies made small circling movements and suggestive feints with his saber while holding a main gauche at guard. Kynyr recognized the style: Sharani. Faerwald may have originated from a Battle-Clan or he might have braided the bones into his hair to make myn think he had. Faerwald's opening moves merely tested Kynyr's ability to assess his style. Kynyr did not have one—he had several and could switch between them or combine them. Todd had trained him well.

Kynyr moved with an elegant economy of motion; cold and calculating. Faerwald danced and taunted with his sword. Kynyr parried and answered with Ladyfaith alone, as if the axe he carried was symbolic only. That tempted Faerwald to attack Kynyr's left more than his right. The duelist was fast and quick. He came close to touching Kynyr several times and that emboldened him.

Darcy went at Lairgan in a white-hot frenzy of rapid blows, her berserker nature barely held in check by Todd's training. She beat down Lairgan's defenses as fast as he could put them up, leaving him with neither time nor openings to launch a counterattack. Her right axe chopped his left arm so hard it shattered the bone.

Faerwald unleashed a fury of swift darting attacks on Kynyr's left. Fighting with ruthless precision, Kynyr's axe swept out; the inner curve of the crescent head hooked Faerwald's saber and entangled it. The duelist tried one of his circling disengagements only to find that he could not free his blade. The axe moved with him just enough to keep the sword trapped. The main gauche shifted into a parry as Ladyfaith came at him. Kynyr reversed his motion and Ladyfaith bit into Faerwald's arm inches above the guard. The dagger fell from his fingers. He disengaged his sword and retreated only to discover that horsemyn had surrounded them as they fought. Then a scream from Lairgan made him glance to his left.

His friend was on his knees with an axe buried in his chest and Darcy standing over him grinning as she chopped his neck with the other one.

Faerwald glided to the side, and attacked again, desperate now. Twenty years of easy victories had not prepared Faerwald to fight someone like Kynyr Maguire.

Once more Kynyr entangled the saber with the axe. Then he slammed Ladyfaith into Faerwald's belly and tore it across as the duelist had done to Todd.

Faerwald's lips parted, his eyes widened, and he stared down at Ladyfaith as Kynyr drew it out of him. Denial swept across his face and into his voice. “Nooo. No one's ... better ... than me."

"I am."

The duelist toppled to the snow.

Kynyr stepped back, cleaning his weapons. He had been so focused upon Faerwald that he had not noticed the arrival of Tobrytan's soldiers. Darcy crouched over the body of Lairgan, cutting his genitals off as a souvenir.

"Toby?” Kynyr scanned the clearing, turning slowly to look at Tobrytan. “Where's Todd?"

"Artair and Mary took him to the house. Ossian went with them.” Tobrytan drew Kynyr into an embrace, stroking his head in a lycan gesture of comfort. “Kynyr, he's dying. I'm sorry."

Kynyr pulled away from Tobrytan, walked to his horse without speaking, and mounted, riding off toward his home.

The Creeyan Mender took one look at Todd as they brought him in, and shook his head sadly, before examining Ossian. Sha ordered Todd moved to the surgical room next to the main infirmary and sent Qaseem to summon her team.

Mary stood sobbing in the hallway just beyond the door. Cahira arrived with Trevor. Mary swallowed back her sobs, mastered her own grief, and put an arm around Cahira. “I'm sorry, Gram."

"Todd? Or Kynyr?” Cahira glanced from Mary's frown to her son's lowered eyes. “Trevor refused to tell me."

"Tell her, Mary. I-I can't."

"Todd."

Cahira's face crumpled and she pushed away from Mary, making her way into the room.

Todd's eyes fluttered open as the surgeons began undressing him. “Don't bother.” His voice was harsh and gasping.

Cahira sidled around the surgeons as she attempted to reach her wounded husband. Her eyes took in the long ugly tears in his body and his maimed hands. She shoved her knuckles into her mouth to stop her mounting scream from escaping.

Sha leaned over him. “Todd..."

"No. Bastard ... did his ... job right.” Todd grimaced and the breath seemed to shiver in his lungs. “Get me ... a memory ... stone."

Ossian, his shirt hanging open and his chest bandaged, pushed between the healers, and placed a stone in Todd's hand. “Here."

Todd closed his damaged hand around it and flooded the stone with his memory of the attack by Faerwald and what happened afterward.

"At least let me ease your pain?” Sha brandished a syringe at him as Ossian took the stone from his hand and wrapped it in a piece of shielding black silk.

"Not the ... Gentle Path. Just a bit ... more Pollendine?"

"Just Pollendine. That's all.” Tears gathered in Sha's cornflower eyes, and her mask of authority slipped askew.

"Do it.” Todd glanced and saw Cahira. He extended his hand and she caught it before it could fall. “I love you. Always."

Sha administered the injection, turned, and ushered everyone out of the room.

He felt no pain as his life faded. “We had ... a lot of years, Cahira."

"Good ones.” She pressed the back of his big hand to her cheek.

His eyes closed as if in sleep, and Todd Sinclair breathed no more.

"Gram?” Kynyr stepped inside.

She gave him a brittle smile at the edge of shattering. “He's gone."

Kynyr went cold inside as if he had been plunged through his grief and out the other side into the clarity of wrath that Todd had trained into him. He hugged Cahira and kissed her forehead. “I'll be back in a few hours."

"You sound like Todd...” Cahira swallowed, tears running down her cheeks. “What are you going to do, Kynyr?"

"Hang Clennan Doherty."

Kady sat rigid in her chair in the Command Chamber, fighting back tears. Todd's death had devastated both her family and her household. Everywhere she went, someone was crying. She had finally taken refugee in that deserted room.

Mary joined her there and Kady brushed her finger around the edge of the blackening cheek and eye. “What happened to you?"

"Faerwald kicked me."

"Why?” Kady's voice caught on the edge of the word.

"I tried to chop him up with Todd's axe."

A wan smile touched Kady's lips. “You're a healer ... not a warrior.” Kady lowered her head. “If I weren't so pregnant, I would have ridden with them. I-I could have saved him."

Mary put her arm around Kady and felt her shaking. “We did what we could. Don't blame yourself. There's a lot of blaming going on. Don't add to it."

"I'll try not to. Where's Kynyr?"

"He's taken the army to the manor. Cahira says he intends to hang Clennan Doherty and anyone else who gets in his way."

"Who's defending the house?” Kady's ire flashed away her grief, remembering the attack upon the estate led by Belgair Doherty. Todd had turned it into a devastating defeat. Now, Clennan Doherty's pet murderers had killed Todd, destroying Kady's sense of security in the world. StealsThunder's words came back to her in that moment: 'Think like a general.'

I will think like a general, Todd. I will hold everything you taught me in my heart and I will beat them.

More memories flooded her; things she had been told and taught by brave myn now dead.

Cullen saying “If you can't beat them, write your name on their foreheads."

Todd telling her, “Hot rage gets you killed, cold rage gets them killed."

"Duty is where you find it.” The old Creeyan proverb that Todd so often quoted ran through her thoughts last.

"It's what Todd would have done."

"No, Mary, it isn't.” Kady rallied, rising to the occasion from a core of stubbornness. “Todd would have seen to the defense of the house first, and then gone after Doherty. Which of my officers are still here? What if killing Todd was a prelude to attacking the estate?"

"Kady ... Kady, please calm down. It's not good for the baby."

"Kynyr didn't consult me. He didn't inform me. He just runs off with my army. The safety of the people here is my responsibility. I deserved to be consulted."

"Kady, please."

"It's my bloody army. Which of my officers are still here?"

"Trevor."

"That's all? I want to talk to him and I want to talk to him now, Mary. Fetch him."

"Kady..."

"Now."

Kady settled deeper into her chair, adrenaline flooding her and disturbing the cub in her belly. Fergus kicked and stirred. Kady extended her mage senses and connected psychically with Fergus, calming and soothing. Her powers were growing; partly through need and partly through study. She had applied herself to learning with the single-minded ferocity of a warrior-born.

She tried to think of everything that could pose a danger to them. Raking her mind through the book of clan protocol, she recalled the part that said each thane could only bring twenty myn-at-arms—whether housecarles or guardsmyn—to a witan.

Trevor arrived, accompanied by Ossian and his brothers. A mon wearing the hunter green tabard of the Wolffgard Volunteer Militia, an officer's patch on the shoulder, followed them. Their hard-eyed expressions held a promise of decisive action.

"Who are you?” Kady pointed at the Militia officer.

"Silas Lafferty. You knew my brother, Odhran."

"He was a good mon."

"Yes, Ma'am. I'm sorry for your loss. One way or another there's gonna be a hangin’ for it."

"There had better be.” Kady gave him a curt nod, and turned to Ossian. “Shouldn't you be resting?"

The lawgiver looked pale and weary; yet his face was locked into an expression of grim determination. His childhood hero had been murdered in front of him and he had no intention of letting that act go unpunished. “I have a job to do. Waid assembled as much of the militia as he could on short notice. We're going to arrest Clennan Doherty."

"You just missed Kynyr. He's gone to hang Doherty. If you're going to do your job, then I suggest you get on over there."

Ossian instantly excused himself and left with Silas.

"How many myn did he take with him, Trevor? What are our defenses like?"

Trevor's cinnabar hair looked as if it had not been combed, simply pulled back and tied. The sorrow in his eyes contrasted with the resolute set to his mouth. “Kynyr took one hundred MacLachlans, all three Guild units, and the Chosen Thirteen."

"What does that leave us?"

"Two hundred MacLachlans under Artair's command. We're not in any danger, Kady."

"I'll be the judge of that. How many myn have the thanes brought?"

"Protocol says twenty each. But they are not united against Kynyr."

"That's not what I'm asking. How many are against him?"

"There's no way to know for certain. It appears fairly evenly split. The northern thanes are for him and the southern thanes are against him."

"And the midlanders?"

"Mixed so far. The Thane of Silvershire has come out in Kynyr's favor. The others seem to be listening to him—at least that's what Wallace told me."

"I see. Well Todd always told me to count my enemies twice.” A single tear slid across Kady's cheek when she said Todd's name. “Is there anyway that one of them could have brought more myn than they were allowed?"

"Well, both Clennan and Vertram brought huge baggage trains. But those are servants and ostlers, Kady. Not fighting myn."

Kady's eyes narrowed, her thoughts lunging through every text on military history that she had read over the past weeks. “Are they? According to a book I read, traitors have gone so far as to disguise killers in everything from a priest's robes to women's clothing. I say, assume that at least part of those servants are soldiers."

"I didn't think..."

"That's my job.” Kady's glance softened for a moment, knowing how hard Trevor had been hit by the death of his father. “I want the gate guards doubled and the patrols increased until Kynyr returns. I want watchers on the roof. If any one tries to march in this direction, I want to know about it."

"I'll take care of it."

Kady went to the second floor parlor. Kynyr's three sisters had insisted upon being the ones to bathe and dress Todd's body; and went to the chapel to pray afterwards. Several of the myn who had survived Belgair's purge had built the simple pine coffin that now contained Todd's remains.

It hurt her to see him, lying there in the coffin, knowing that his eyes would never open again, that she would never again hear his voice. None of them would have survived the past months if it had not been for Todd.

She saw Cahira sitting with her hand inside the coffin and joined her there. As she looked down upon him, Kady noticed the long blonde braid wrapped around his right arm. She turned to Cahira, knowing full well where the braid had come from. Cahira had shorn her hair off at the base of her neck.

Kady controlled herself, kissing Todd's forehead, cheeks, and lips in the farewell to the dead. “I loved you like a father. The father I should have had."

"Father...” Cahira stirred from her pit of sorrow, gazing up at Kady, as if her words had touched a chord in her heart. “Kady, I'll be back."

"Gram, where are you...” Kady's question died in her throat.

Golden motes sparkled over Cahira, and she vanished.

Fergus unleashed a particularly hard kick, startling her. Kady gave her belly a severe look and folded her hands across it. “I'll be glad when you're out of me. Then I can swat you when you do that."

Cahira returned with two large stern myn who looked like younger versions of Todd.

Kady blinked. “Where did you go?"

"Need lends wings to the heels of the desperate, Kady. I've been to Longbranch and Havensword."

Kady remembered Queran from last summer, when one of his sons had been killed by Waejontori raiders. His solemn cobalt eyes smoldered with repressed violence. He had the same strong features as his father, softened around the edges by what he had gotten from his mother. The other mon looked as if he had been spit from Todd's mouth and Kady realized that had to be Jordan Sinclair, the only brother she had not met before. He had steel gray eyes, not blue ones like Todd's, and yet they were Todd's eyes, Todd's look, and the same expression of ‘I did not seek this trouble, but now that it's found me, I'm going to beat it into the ground.'

Jordan Sinclair carried a pair of Sharani longswords at his shoulders, fighting knives at his hips and a pair of big axes in his belt. He stared down at his father's body for a long time without speaking, taking in the maimed hands that had fingers missing. Then he bent, gave Todd's cold face the kiss of farewell, and turned to Kady.

"Tell me about the myn who killed my father.” His quiet tone carried the inner strength that Kady now associated with the Sinclair line.

"I'm Kady."

"I guessed. Now what about those myn?"

"They're dead. Kynyr and Darcy got them."

"Darcy?"

"Darcy MacIver, Finn's wife. Todd was her mentor, she ... she's my general now."

"They were professionals employed by Thane Clennan Doherty.” Trevor entered the room and gripped the forearms of his two brothers in restrained greeting before continuing. “You may have heard of them, Jordy. Faerwald Davies and Lairgan Yates."

"Ayup. Nasty pair."

"Gram, I just heard...” A voice from the door interrupted them. Quinn Sinclair stood two steps beyond the threshold, a sledgehammer in his hand with the heavy head hooked over his shoulder. “Dad."

Quinn crossed the room, lowered the sledge, and leaned the handle against the table. He hugged Jordan Sinclair.

Jordan ended the embrace and turned again to his older brother. “How'd they get him, Trevor?"

"Ambush. Shot his horse. Dad got pinned between the dead animal and an outcropping of sharp rocks. They butchered him before he could get free."

"Sounds like them. Never fought fair when they could fight dirty."

"You knew them?"

"I knew of them. They've been making their way through the various clans for twenty years, selling their swords to whoever could pay them enough. Outlawed in three. Wondered where they had gone to earth after the debacle at Clan MacGregor. Had I known they were here, I'd've come sooner."

"You knew about those myn, Jordan?” Kady moved closer to Trevor.

"It's what I do. When members of a Battle-Clan turn renegade, the chieftains send for me. I put the renegades back on the straight and narrow path ... usually in a pine box."

Kady shivered, her arcane senses discerning the touch of death about him.

"Lawgivers just passed!” Rory rushed in with his brother and Cooley close behind. They looked red-eyed from weeping, but in the grip of grim excitement. “They got Clennan Doherty and they're gonna hang him."

"And there's myn following them.” Cooley hooked his thumbs into his belt. “Some riding down Pendarke Road. Others going through the trees, trying not to be seen."

Jordan ran his gaze over his brothers. “I think we should head for the commons."

Stoneriver sat at the desk that had been Claw's and was now his. An open chest sat beside the desk. For the past few days, Stone had ransacked his brother's desk, chests, bureaus, and every place that might conceal evidence or clues to what had happened to Claw and his family. The first time Stone went through it all, he put things back where he found them. The possibility that he might have missed something had nagged at him until he tried another approach: removing everything to a set of empty chests once he had gone over it.

He found a bottle of expensive Cair Dairmud whiskey in the deepest drawer of the desk, along with a set of fine crystal glasses. He poured himself a glass. Even in Creeya, that whiskey from Doronar was hard to come by. Stone turned the bottle about in his hand between sips, guessing that it probably came up through Chandler's Rock, and looking for the importation stamp to confirm it. His brow furrowed in question: there was no stamp to show that the taxes had been paid on it.

"One more thing to ask Aramyn about."

Stone had spent eighty years in the Creeyan Netherguard. The estimates of how many foreigners served in the Netherguard varied from thirty to fifty percent. Most of them arrived in search of atonement for crimes and sins that their own people found unforgivable. They were demon-slayers; patrolling the length of the Katal Escarpment that bordered Creeya. The Escarpment was the physical manifestation of the arcane prison that the Gods of Light had sealed the Hellgod, Bellocar, and his surviving pantheon behind. The imperfect seal had begun to fray in sections enough that dark creatures sometimes escaped. The Netherguard hunted them down.

In the aftermath of the Battle of Maerse Field outside the gates of Whiteford, Stone had sent word of the presence of Waejontori armies on Red Wolf soil to Aramyn, the lord-lieutenant to the Grand Master of Creeya in charge of operations. Stone had guessed from discussing the maps that they had either bridged the Eirlys River or descended through the Hellblade Corridor by way of Foulmuth Pass through the Eiralyskali Range.

The letters and reports sitting on his desk confirmed Stone's suspicions and edged his thoughts with dread for his people. The Waejontori had bridged the river. That was where the initial force came from. Both Aramyn's scouts and Stone's swan-mays had found the bridge two hours ride north of Red Wolf's borders.

The newest report, which had arrived that morning from Aramyn, disturbed Stone the most. Lord Hoon had made a forced march through the snowy passes of the Eiralyskali Mountain spur to reinforce the units still camped on Red Wolf soil. An army of six thousand myn and monsters now bivouacked on the Red Wolf side of Foulmuth Pass. There had not been a force this size thrown at the lycans since the Lycan Rebellion of 997.

Grand Master Ceejorn Osterbridge had responded swiftly to the news, calling up the Creeyan reserves and preparing to send a substantial army to the relief of Red Wolf; wiser to fight them here than on Creeyan soil. The only thing holding them back was the weather. The passes through the Black Mountains were snowbound. Stone, himself, had barely made it through the mountains ahead of the worst of the winter storms. His one hope was that the weather would keep Hoon pinned down as well.

Reist entered without knocking, the lines of his face tight. “Stone, you'd better get downstairs fast."

"What is it?"

"Kynyr's in the yard with a Fae battle group, one hundred MacLachlan soldiers, and three units of Guildsmyn. He's threatening to lay siege to the manor."

"Why?"

"Davies and Yates murdered Todd Sinclair, presumably on Clennan's orders."

"I thought you had myn watching them.” Stone leaned back in his chair, his hands gripping the edge of the desk.

"I did. All three of them. It isn't easy keeping tabs on myn like that."

"And now the king has come in wrath.” The sound of wood cracking startled both myn. Stone released the edge of the desk and two chunks of wood fell to the floor. “Reist, get all the thanes and the elders to the Audience Chamber and send someone down to inform Kynyr I said he may enter with the Thirteen Chosen only."

"And Darcy. You'll never keep her out."

"And Darcy. I have a feeling we'll be hanging thanes before the day is over."

Stone lowered his eyes and said a quiet prayer to his grandfather that Todd's good deeds would outweigh his sins.

The thanes shifted uneasily in their seats. Stone had taken the advisor's chair at the right hand of the throne on the dais. Previously, he had sat the throne itself as a reminder to the thanes of the power he held as Claw's brother.

"Why have you brought us here?” Vertram demanded.

Before Stone could reply, the door opened and Kynyr stalked down the aisle to the throne, his expression hard and his eyes like sword blades. Todd's axes hung from his harness. Todd's lycan knives were strapped to Kynyr's thighs. The only weapon he carried that had not belonged to Todd was Ladyfaith.

Clennan Doherty's gaunt face tightened and his jaw clenched as he leaned closer to Vertram Devlin. “I thought he was crippled..."

"A deception?” Vertram's gaze trailed Kynyr down the aisle, and watched him sit on the throne as if he owned it. “He moves like a true blademaster."

"I am King of Red Wolf,” Kynyr announced in a tone that dared anyone to dispute that fact. He had deliberately chosen to call himself king, rather than chieftain. “I will have your oaths now."

"You'll have no such thing!” Clennan banged his cane on the floor. “The witan has not met."

"This is as much of a witan as I am predisposed to grant you.” Kynyr showed them all the arrogance and presence of a mon born to be king.

"This is outrageous. I protest."

Kynyr drew Ladyfaith, laid the sword across his knees, and flicked a finger at Darcy.

At Kynyr's gesture, Darcy opened a sack. She placed the heads of Faerwald and Lairgan at the bottom step of the dais. Then she added two large jars of brine in which floated the manhoods of each.

"No more outrageous than murdering my grandfather. They butchered him on your orders, Clennan. They cut him up while he lay pinned beneath his dead horse. Todd was delivering solstice gifts to the children of his tenants when they ambushed him."

Cedric smiled thinly and nudged the thane sitting next to him, jutting his chin at Kynyr. “Tarrant Redhand has returned as he promised he would. An indomitable king puts fire into the bellies of his subjects and fear into the hearts of his enemies."

"I had nothing to do with it.” Clennan looked furious. “You killed my bodyguards. Bastard swine! How many myn did it take to butcher them?"

Darcy turned a cheeky glance stained with bitterness on Clennan. “Just me and Kynyr. They weren't as good as they thought they were."

Thane Wallace Callaghan's expression tightened. “They killed Todd."

Selwyn Brawleigh leaned close. “I am sorry for your loss ... for the realm's loss. He was a great mon."

"Children, Clennan. He was taking gifts to the children of poor farmers.” Kynyr's lips curled back in a snarl. “And your hired blades killed him."

Two Creeyan guardsmyn pulled the doors open. Ossian strode in with his brothers beside him and twenty members of the Wolffgard Volunteer Militia behind him. Ossian walked down the aisle to the middlemost spot between the door and the throne. “Clennan Doherty, Thane of Heatherford,” he roared. “I am here in my god-given right, as senior lawgiver to Red Wolf, to arrest you for the murder of Todd Sinclair."

Kynyr pinned Clennan with a look of steel and ice. “Hang him."

"I demand a trial of my peers.” Clennan glanced around him for support, and a rumble of outrage at Kynyr came from the southern thanes.

"You've got no proof!” Fletcher sprang to his feet. “You can't just hang him out of hand."

Ossian opened his shirt, revealing his bandages. “I was there. I saw it. I heard it. Lairgan Yates put a knife in me."

Thane Fletcher Matheson went pale, dropping back into his chair, shaking his head in stunned disbelief. “They attacked a lawgiver on Clennan's orders ... a lawgiver..."

"You can't arrest me.” Clennan's gaze swept the thanes, his eyes demanding that they rise in his defense. “You can't let this bastard usurper do this to me. It's an outrage."

The thanes all looked away, except Fletcher. “There are limits, Clennan. Boundaries.” Fletcher lowered his eyes, shaking his head again. “I-I can't support you."

"Hang him,” Kynyr repeated.

No one moved as Ossian's brothers seized Clennan, dragged him from his seat, bound his hands, and hauled him from the chamber.

Standing at the window facing the courtyard of the manor, Regina stared down at the army in MacLachlan colors. The White Swan banner of Princess Kady Maguire waved in a gentle breeze; but it had not been Kady who brought them there: it had been Kynyr. An air of threat seemed to waft from the hardened myn.

She had believed Kynyr a cripple, seen him in his wheel-chair; now she had seen him stride into the manor with the look of stormbirds in his eyes, moving with such sternness of purpose that Regina shivered. Death was in the wind, and Regina could smell it.

Tobrytan MacFie occupied the sofa nearest to Regina's desk, his feet propped on the table, and a tankard of mead in his hands. “I probably should not have accepted your invitation. Stone has not granted the rest of us permission to enter."

"Stone be damned.” Regina snarled. “I had a right to know and no one else to ask."

Tobrytan gave a nod of weary acknowledgement. “It wasn't just about vengeance, Reggie. Clennan thought he'd break Kynyr by murdering Todd. Instead, he's unleashed the king upon the thanes."

"You really think Kynyr will hang Clennan? He's one of the two most powerful thanes in Red Wolf."

"It's very bloody likely, I'd say.” Tobrytan settled back on the sofa, cradling his tankard. “Reggie, when MacLachlan invaded Hell's Widow, we were unprepared for some of what went on. We found the first nest of those pig-sucking sa'necari cockwhores, but could not find the main one. Kynyr came in with Todd and Cahira, leading a small band of elite troops. We had three hundred myn, not counting the officers. He had twenty. Kynyr not only located them in less than a day, he ripped them apart. No one who was with him then would ever doubt his ability to achieve his aims. So, if he wants to hang Clennan, then hang Clennan he will."

Regina shivered. “I've no love for Clennan Doherty; but this scares me."

A soft knock at the door preceded Kissie's entry into the Rose Room. “Mistress Regina, there's a lady wanting to speak with Thane Selwyn."

"Did you tell her they're closeted for the nonce?"

"Yes. She's most insistent."

"Send her up, Kissie. I'll deal with her.” She turned to Tobrytan. “It's always something."

Instead of leaving, Kissie simply opened the door wider and let them inside.

The bitch that entered was dressed in rough clothing; trousers, tunic, and cloak; yet there was no mistaking Audra Brawleigh. Two myn came in behind her. Regina recognized Aelfwin Cadwallader, but not the dark-skinned human who carried himself like an officer.

"Audra.” Regina hugged her. “What are you doing here?"

Lady Brawleigh looked to her like a bitch who had been standing on a precipice so long her legs were trembling and about to drop her over the edge. “Anglecyn has fallen. Captain Nicoletti,” she pointed at Paolo, “helped us escape from Lord Hoon."

Paolo gave Regina a precise bow from the waist.

"Merciful Tala. Come on, Audra, I'll get you in to see Selwyn right away."

Regina's mind whirled with questions she wanted to ask, but she held them back. When they reached Sorcha's Wing, Jocelyn rushed past them, crying out at the top of her lungs, “They're going to hang my grandfather. Someone help me! Help me."

"I told you so.” Tobrytan gave Regina a droll smile.

She sucked in a deep breath, noticing that he had followed her. “Yes, you did."

Silence wrapped the Audience Chamber with the solemnity of a burial shroud. Wallace Callaghan raised his eyes to gaze at his brother-in-law. Kynyr had said nothing since Ossian dragged Clennan from the room. No one appeared to be ready to take the next step. Wallace knew how to handle a sword and a plow; he knew how to kill and how to grow crops; he had known the joys of life and the sorrows of death. He was a mon of deeds, and not of words. Wallace saw the myn about him, myn who had known power and privilege all their lives, unable or unwilling to extend themselves to Kynyr in that moment because of the gravity of what they had just witnessed.

Reluctance to be first weighted Wallace's heels. If no one else would rise to it, then he saw no choice but to step into the void. He pushed his chair back and stood, scanning the assembled thanes. Wallace felt naked and exposed, until the warrior side of his instinct roused and he extended his battlefield courage to this strange new form of fighting in which he was woefully inexperienced.

"Claw named Kynyr his heir. Therefore any who side against him are traitors.” Once he had said it, Wallace felt his insecurities fall away and vanish. “Kynyr is king."

Weylen Tully, husband of Phoebe, rose to his feet. “Kynyr is the rightful king. And we're prepared to fight for him."

Blayne Albryn, Russa's husband, following his brother-in-laws’ example, rose in a show of support. They presented a stalwart and united front to the rest of the thanes. Selwyn Brawleigh joined them standing. Cedric Hargrave of Whiteford was quick to follow.

One by one, the northern thanes came to their feet.

Then irascible old Sedley Wescot of Silvershire pushed his creaking bones from his chair. “I'm for Kynyr. He's a better mon than the rest of you bloody toss-pots!"

That decided it for the midlanders and they stood also.

Thane Cedric left his place and approached the throne. When he reached the dais, Cedric dropped to one knee before Kynyr without hesitation.

Kynyr rested the sword on Cedric's shoulder. Ladyfaith glowed blue, confirming the truth in Cedric's words as the aged Thane spoke his oath.

When Cedric returned to his chair, another northerner moved to pledge his allegiance to Kynyr. Once the last of the northerners had given their oaths, Sedley began shoving his midland comrades at the aisle. “Go on, do it. We got us a real one now."

Fletcher went after Sedley finished, but his action appeared to have no impact, and the southerners continued to hesitate.

Reist, watching from beside the door with his guardsmyn, saw his father rise and approach Kynyr. He felt a grudging admiration for the old mon. Vertram's sins were many, but cowardice was not one of them.

Vertram placed his hands on his hips, as he regarded Kynyr. “I supported Clennan. I had no part in the attack upon your grandfather. I still don't like the idea of having a bastard on the throne when legitimate offspring exist. However, I will give you the benefit of the doubt. I'm beginning to see what it was Old Claw must have seen in you to make you his heir."

Vertram went to one knee and bowed his head before Kynyr.

The king placed Ladyfaith on Vertram's shoulder. The glow turned gray. “I'll give you the same."

The elders followed the thanes to give their allegiance to the new king. When all was done, Stone stood.

"I have bad news. I was about to inform you of this when our king arrived; so I had to wait. Lord Hoon has entered Red Wolf through the Foulmuth Pass with six thousand soldiers and monsters. The weather is keeping him pinned down for the moment. However, we can only count on another four to six weeks of winter. Then he will come through here with a fury not seen since the days of the Rebellion."

The chamber erupted in alarmed discussion.

Reist turned as the door opened behind him. He saw a bitch in trousers standing with her hand upon the knob. Five cubs clustered behind her with six humans and four lycans, who had the stance of soldiers, around them.

"I'm sorry. You can't come in. The thanes are busy. They are crowning a king."

Regina stepped around Audra. “Reist, let her in. She's Lady Audra Brawleigh. And she's brought terrible news."

Reist Devlin glanced from his wife to Lady Brawleigh. “What is it?"

Audra met his eyes and held them without wavering. “Anglecyn has fallen."

Reist stepped aside and let them in.

"Audra?” Selwyn rose from his chair with Wallace following.

She threw herself into his arms, sobbing as the floodgates, which she had been holding closed with such fierce determination, opened wide.

Selwyn held her tight to his chest, gazing over her shoulder at the children. “Where's Ocvran?"

Aelfwin Cadwallader shook his head sadly. “They killed him."

A long keening howl of lycan grief shivered from Selwyn's throat.

Weylen Tully, once a goldsmith, approached Kynyr with half an eye on the grieving Brawleighs. “You should look the king you are. We need you."

"What?” Kynyr turned, frowning in perplexity.

Tully reached into his pouch and brought forth an elegant golden circlet. “It ought to fit. Phoebe measured it against one of your old hunting caps."

"You made it?"

"Ayup. Being a thane takes most of my time, but I had to make one last piece."

Kynyr lifted the circlet up to set it on his head only to have Darcy snatch it out of his hand.

"Not supposed to do it yourself the first time.” She gave him one of her cheeky grins and placed it on his head. “There. You are now King Kynyr the First of Red Wolf. Anyone says otherwise, they can eat my axe."

Kynyr rose from the throne and walked down the aisle. “I vow to rescue Anglecyn, free your people, and punish those who have invaded our lands."

Selwyn turned a tear-streaked face to Kynyr. “Thank you, my King."

Ossian stood at the steps to the scaffolds, ready to climb them and pronounce sentence on Clennan Doherty. His eyes scanned the crowd, noting how many of the Heatherford myn were there. He wondered if they intended to try and rescue their thane.

Then his gaze fell upon the four large lycans, all of them with the red-haired, strong-featured stamp of the Sinclairs on their faces.

He signed his myn to wait and approached them. His eyes fixed upon the chain around the largest one's neck. Bones and runes hung from it. Ossian realized that he was looking at a Bane Shepherd of the Battle-Clans, one of the most dangerous enforcers of lycan law that existed.

Ossian greeted him with a polite dip of his shoulders. “Shepherd, what brings you?"

"The murder of my father, Lawgiver."

"I am Ossian O'Reilly, Senior Lawgiver to Red Wolf. This is my jurisdiction."

"I'm Jordan Sinclair, Bane Shepherd of the North Watch. I am not here to contest your jurisdiction. I am here to extend my services to my King and nephew Kynyr Maguire as is my right and privilege before my liege-god, Tala. And to see the murderer of my father hung."

"Then be welcome, Shepherd.” Ossian sketched the sign of the crescent moon between them and Jordan responded with the sign of the bear.

"Get it done, Lawgiver."

"I intend to.” Ossian made a curt gesture with his right arm before he thought, and blinked as a wave of pain went through him. He clutched at his chest. Blood spread through his clothes. The Mender had reconnected the internal damage and the surgeon had stitched the wound closed. They had ordered Ossian to rest, but he had not. Now he had torn it open again, as they had warned he might.

His knees buckled in a rush of dizziness.

Strong arms caught him and lifted him up, supporting Ossian.

"You're wounded.” The formality had melted from Jordan's voice, replaced by an unexpected gentleness.

"Lairgan Yates ... I tried to stop them."

"Let's get the job done. It looks like you're about to have trouble."

A large group of myn forced their way to the front of the crowd. Some of them were housecarles in the livery of Heatherford. The others walking with them, although dressed in ordinary clothes, carried swords and axes as if born to their use. Jordan's brows knit as he watched the two groups merge into mixed units with disturbing precision. The locals seemed to sense their purpose and faded back from them.

"They're all housecarles. Every damn one of them.” Jordan handed Ossian to Queran. “Get him onto the scaffolds. Stay with him."

"Will do, Jordy.” Queran went up the steps, shouldering Ossian's weight.

A contingent of the Wolffgard Volunteer Militia interposed themselves between the approaching housecarles and the scaffolds. Brave myn, but no match for the trained soldiery of Heatherford.

Jordan strode to the front of their skirmish line and faced the Heatherford myn with his son Quinn and his brother Trevor beside him.

"I'm Jordan Sinclair, Bane Shepherd of the North Watch,” Jordan roared. “Disperse or die."

The family and their neighbors had always said of the four sons of Todd Sinclair—Branduff, Trevor, Queran, and Jordan—that Jordan was the one most like their father. He stood there, solid as a rock, with his Sharani longswords in his hands, one held high and the other low.

The Heatherford myn drew their weapons and charged, focusing their wrath upon the three Sinclairs—who they recognized as the real threat—not the militia.

So Jordy started killing them. He sliced the first Heatherforder to reach him across the belly, backhanded his right blade into neck of the one beside him, and moved on. Jordan slashed a mon's leg open to the bone with a blow that also broke his knee.

Needing room to swing his sledgehammer, Quinn moved further from his father and uncle. There was no art to his movements, just a steady precise thunder of deadly blows. He smashed in a mon's head, caught the next one with a blow to the belly that ruptured every organ in his opponent's body, and caved in the chest of a third. He sent his adversaries crashing into their compatriots, taking more myn down than he hit.

Trevor had more style to his fighting. His saber spun and danced, circling around the heavier claymores. He slid his blade along the edge of a claymore in a binding parry, kicked the wielder in the chest, and backhanded the saber into the mon's neck.

Across from the common, Bella emerged from the Difficult Horse with her husband, Willy Galloway. She pressed her knuckles into her mouth to stifle a scream.

He seized her shoulders and shoved her back into the tavern. “Stay inside. The closest help is the Lawgiver House. I'm going there."

Queran Sinclair laid Ossian gently against a post. Whoever had designed the scaffolds had done so with defense in mind. There were only two places of access: steps on the north and south ends. The militia had barricaded the north end, but the south end was starting to bulge inward as their myn perished before the skilled onslaught.

Ultan O'Reilly got the noose around Clennan's neck. The thane's ankles were bound together and his hands tied behind him. Clennan struggled in Ultan's grasp.

Waid knelt beside Ossian. “You reopened it."

Queran straightened, drew his big, cross-hilted claymore, and stalked past the lawgivers. “Get him hung!” he barked.

The ranks of the defending militia broke and spilled toward Queran. He stepped into the breach, clove a mon through the shoulder, swayed to the side to avoid a lunging thrust, and split the Heatherforder's head open. The surviving militiamyn rallied around him. The tide of battle turned against the myn of Heatherford before they realized what had hit them.

Lokynen had come into town for a drink at the Difficult Horse as he had done each afternoon since returning to Wolffgard. Fleeing citizens flowed all around him. No one stopped to give him a clear answer. The sound of fighting drew his gaze to the commons. Pausing in front of the tavern, Lokynen stared at the myn killing each other around the scaffolds. “What the unholy hell?"

It took him only a second to recognize the Sinclair brothers struggling against the Heatherford myn and that decided him.

The big yuwenghau unlimbered his sword. “Law breakers. Dozens of them."

He strode across to the common, roaring his defiance and hit the Heatherford myn from the rear.

Behind him, Pandeena shimmered into being, accompanied by her seven yuwenghau companions and Willy Galloway. “Let's at them."

Ossian fought down another wave of dizziness. Waid had opened his brother's shirt and shoved a folded handkerchief against the blood-soaked bandage, attempting to slow the bleeding with pressure.

Ultan scanned the scene, taking in all the fighting. “What do we do?"

Gavin Ellis, the chastisemon, shook his head. “If we drop him, and it doesn't kill him right off, they might save him."

"You have a suggestion, Gavin?” Ossian grimaced, digging his fingers into the edges of his wound. “Well?"

"Yes, I do.” The chastisemon stepped to Ultan's side, and drew his knife.

Clennan stared at Gavin in sudden realization. “You can't do that. It's not legal. I'm a thane."

"You're a dead thane.” Gavin took hold of Clennan's shoulder. Ultan pulled Clennan's arms together tighter behind him to that the thane could not squirm, which angled his chest up more.

"You were only allowed twenty myn, but it seems you brought a lot more than that.” Ossian nodded at Gavin. “Do it."

"No. Noooo. You can't. Please...” Clennan Doherty stiffened, his eyes bulging as Gavin's big knife entered beneath his sternum and angled up into his chest. Once Gavin had it all the way in, he gave the knife a savage twist. The Thane of Heatherford's head fell backward, his lips parted, and his eyes stared unseeing.

"Now, drop him and let them see how he hangs,” said Ossian.

Waid rose and hit the lever. Clennan's corpse dropped through and hung turning.

A cry went up from the knots of Heatherforders still fighting. Myn began casting aside their weapons and surrendering.

Ossian leaned back and closed his eyes. “I'm so tired."

Consciousness slipped away from him and Ossian sagged against the post.

"Would someone care to tell me why this happened?” Pandeena stopped walking and stared at Jordan. “What's a Bane Shepherd doing in Wolffgard?"

"I'm Jordan Sinclair, Bane Shepherd of—"

Pandeena cut him off with a gesture. “Forget the formalities, just answer my questions."

"Which one first?"

Her eyes widened and her lips parted in shock as she spied Clennan's body dangling from the scaffold. “You've hanged a thane."

"Lawgiver Ossian O'Reilly pronounced sentence upon him for the murder of my father, Todd Sinclair."

"Todd—Todd is dead?"

"Pandeena.” Trevor approached her with weary steps, bleeding from cuts to his arms, forehead, and one across his chest. “Our father was ambushed and butchered this morning on Clennan's orders."

"Butchered?” Her voice caught on the word.

"Can we have this discussion later?” Queran came walking beside Waid, who bore Ossian in his arms. “The Lawgiver needs assistance."

"Give him to me. I'll take him to the infirmary at the Maguire home.” Pandeena lifted Ossian from Waid's arms. “I will be back."

She vanished in a shimmer of golden light.

"Mage?” Jordan raised an eyebrow at Trevor.

"Ayup. Battlemage."

"I see I have a lot to learn.” Jordan thought for a moment. “Where was Dad attacked?"

"He was delivering solstice presents to children of the poor."

"Delivering? You mean he didn't finish?"

"He was about half done."

"Dad wouldn't want to leave something like that unfinished. Give me a list and directions when we get home. I'll take care of it."

Jordan scanned the commons, watching the militia gathering the survivors of Heatherford and tying their hands behind them. He squeezed Waid's shoulder. “Time to give them the bad news."

Waid blinked. “What's that?"

Jordan strode into the center of the common and shouted at the crowd. “Myn of Heatherford and all others who participated in the attack upon the lawgivers of Wolffgard. You are all under arrest for treason against the crown, attempted murder of a lawgiver, and...” Jordan's lips twitched with dark humor, “making a mess of the town common."

Ossian opened his eyes and tried to sit up only to discover that someone had tied him to the bed. The folding screens extended upon both sides told the lawgiver that he was at the infirmary on the Maguire Estate. He pulled at his bindings. Bells attached to the ropes rang and Sha appeared.

"Don't move.” She gave him a stern look.

"I have work to do."

"I knew I'd never keep you in bed if I didn't tie you up. You're going to rest."

"I'm the lawgiver...” Ossian scowled at her. “You can't keep me here."

"And I'm your physician. That means I am in charge."

Waid and Ultan stepped around the extended screen and grinned at him.

"Untie me!” Ossian snarled at them.

Both of the younger lawgivers shook their heads.

"It's for your own good, Ossian. We almost lost you,” said Waid.

Ossian quieted. “How long have I been out?"

"It's solstice evening."

"I've been tied up here for over a day?” Ossian felt unsettled by the news. “I'm needed."

"Don't worry, Ossian,” said Ultan. “Jordy is helping us."

"Jordy?” The comfortable familiarity in Ultan's tone irritated Ossian.

"The Bane Shepherd."

"Yes, I know, but when did you get to calling him that?"

Waid's quiet eyes regarded his brother. “He's a good mon ... reminds me of Todd."

"Cahira sent you a present.” Ultan cut in and brought the wrapped package from behind his back, a smile playing hopefully across his lips.

Pulling at the cords, Ossian gave his brother a querulous look. “I can't open it."

Ultan ducked his head. “Want me to open it for you?"

"It's my present. Untie me."

"Ossian...."

"I promise not to get out of bed. So untie me."

Neither of them moved.

"I want to open my present. Untie me!"

The vehemence in Ossian's voice made Ultan wince and he cast a helpless glance at Sha.

The physician relented with an admonition. “If I catch you out of bed before I give you permission, I'll tie you up for a month."

The two brothers grinned and set to releasing Ossian as Sha went back to her desk. They soon had him propped up with pillows to his back and put the present in his lap.

A note was fastened to the top. Ossian opened that first and read it.

Ossian,

You tried to save him, and for that, I am eternally grateful. I thought I would never be able to forgive you for what happened to Sheradyn and Gillivray. Now I know I was wrong.

Please take this as both an apology and a token of my gratitude. I am certain that Todd would have wanted you to have it.

A few years ago, our son Branduff, who was a schoolteacher, helped Todd write down his memories of the Rebellion. They had one hundred copies printed in Creeya, intending it for members of our extended family only. However, I think that you deserve one.

Gratefully yours,

Cahira Sinclair

Ossian's mouth tightened and his eyes leaked. “I finally met my childhood hero, and I couldn't save him."

He opened the package and hugged the book.

Jocelyn's reddened eyes looked sore from weeping. Her hair lay in disarray about her shoulders. She had set aside her lovely dresses in favor of a black traditional robe. A shriek of rage followed on the heels of another keening cry that made Vertram wince.

"They killed him! That bloody bastard prince..."

"King.” Vertram corrected her without thinking.

"He's not my king. Our myn might have rescued Grandfather ... but oh, no. His goat-fucking lawgivers had to stick a blade in him."

Vertram exhaled loudly. “It went against custom and law. I'll give you that much. Under the circumstances, it was understandable."

"Don't give me that. It was murder. Plain and simple. My uncles are going to punish Kynyr. Mark my words, Vertram. They're going to punish him."

"Stop talking that way, Jocelyn. What's done is done. No one in their right minds will go against King Kynyr now."

"Have you gone coward on me, Vertram?” Jocelyn's words dripped with venomous contempt. “Is there a yellow stripe up your spine now?"

"We are at war with Waejontor, Jocelyn. It's more than petty raids."

"My uncles—"

"I don't want to hear about your uncles,” Vertram roared.

"I'll find someone who does.” Jocelyn flounced from her chair and rushed out into the corridor. Myn, who normally greeted her, turned their faces away and strode past her. She spotted Lillian talking to Fletcher.

"Lillian...” Jocelyn grabbed her arm.

Lillian Morrissey pulled loose. “Not now, Jocelyn."

Fletcher took a step back from Jocelyn, staring at her as if she carried the plague.

Appalled and hurt, Jocelyn fled to the back stairs that led to Sorcha's Solar. She stomped up them, filling the air with imprecations and vows of vengeance. Throwing the door open, Jocelyn found the chamber empty; or so she thought until a familiar voice greeted her from a chair in a shadowed corner.

"I've been expecting you, Jocelyn."

She whirled around. “Lyncoln Wescot."

"So how is Miss High and Mighty now? Not so high and mighty, I wot.” Lyncoln chuckled darkly. “As you may or may not be aware, treason is a crime."

"Bastard."

"Oh, so now I'm a bastard and no longer a nutter? I'm not certain whether that's an improvement or not. I really ought to spank you. You might like it."

"You wouldn't dare.” She wrinkled her nose and hissed at him.

"It's not a matter of dare. It's a matter of whether I really want to. You see, Jocelyn, what happened to Clennan is partly your fault."

"Mine?"

Lyncoln chuckled again. “Yes, yours. All the time you thought I was merely chasing your skirts; you were filling my ears with your grandfather's intentions. You were spitting them in my face. Very obliging of you. I rather imagine the arrest warrants will be going out for your uncles before sundown."

Jocelyn let out a despairing shriek and fled.

Solstice should have been a happy time, filled with song and good cheer. Regina had not expected to find any of that, but neither had she expected the chaos that greeted her. The execution of Clennan Doherty, combined with the news about Anglecyn, had thrown many of the thanes and their bitches into a panic.

Walking down the corridor as Regina left her suite, Emma appeared looking rumpled and disheveled her troubled blue eyes bleary with fatigue.

"Reggie? Reggie, can I talk to you?"

"What is it?"

"It's about Fletcher."

"You'll have to talk to Stone, if you've changed your mind."

"No. No. Not that. You've got to tell Kynyr that Fletcher had nothing to do with it."

That stopped Regina in her tracks. “What are you talking about?"

"Fletcher's terrified that Kynyr will hang him. He did nothing but pace up and down all night long."

Regina glanced around to see who might be listening, took Emma by the hand, and drew her into the first room she spotted that did not belong to someone. It turned out to be a large linen closet. “Take a deep breath, and then explain why Fletcher should be afraid of Kynyr."

"Fletcher supported Clennan."

"Did Fletcher know about Clennan's plans for Todd?"

"Everyone did, Reggie."

"Everyone?” An edge sharpened her dubious tone.

Emma gave a sidewise nod. “The scene at Aisha's funeral."

"You can't weasel out that easy, Emma. What did Fletcher know?"

Emma ducked her head. “Fletcher used to have Clennan, Vertram and a few others over in the evenings for drinks in our suite. Clennan and Vertram were regulars, the rest were usually thanes they hoped to bring over to their side of the matter."

"And?"

"All they wanted was the votes, Reggie."

Regina's jaw clenched in irritation. “If you don't tell me right this instant what Fletcher's afraid of, then I'll have Stone ask him."

Emma blanched. “Fletcher's just afraid that holding those meetings makes him look like a conspirator."

"Is that all?” Regina could see how that might look bad for Fletcher.

"Yes."

"Tell Fletcher that he should speak to Reist about it. In the meantime, I don't think he has anything to worry about and you can tell him I said that."

Emma's lips trembled. “Thank you."

Reggie walked out, leaving Emma alone in the closet. All the myn she passed greeted her. She received more smiles, nods, and other acknowledgements than she had ever got before. Behind much of it lurked a nervousness that she could not miss.

Lillian fell into step beside her. “Happy solstice, Reggie."

Regina's eyes slewed sideways in dubious surprise. “Same to you."

"Banan and I were wondering if you would care to have lunch with us in our suite."

"Lunch. Right. No.” Regina's mouth tightened. “I haven't time today."

"Oh, but we would so enjoy having you.” Lillian made a moue. “You could bring Reist. Please, don't disappoint us."

"No."

"Pretty please?"

Regina stopped walking to glare at Lillian. “Ask Reist. If he says yes, come back to me. Until then, I'm too busy."

Six more myn stopped her before she could reach the Rose Room; and by then Regina had figured it all out. They were terrified of Kynyr.

She closed the door and put her back against it.

"Have some tea, Reggie. You look like you need it.” Lyncoln Wescot waved the pitcher at her.

"Where's Merissa?” Regina settled on the sofa and accepted the cup of tea that Lyncoln poured for her.

"She's not coming. Got a note from her."

"Then why are you here?” Regina eyed him suspiciously.

"I thought you might like someone to talk to."

"I can't imagine what we would talk about. I'm overwhelmed already and it isn't even noon."

"The southerners are all over you like a plague of ticks. They lost the caber toss and now they're frantic to find themselves a winner.” Lyncoln tapped a package on the tea table. “That's for you. A solstice present."

"You didn't need to do that..."

"Just say thank you and open it up. Something to sweeten your day, which I'm sure will be a trying one."

Regina's cheeks colored. “Thank you.” She tore the wrapping and smiled at the box of chocolates. Chocolate was expensive and not always easy to come by in Red Wolf. “Oh, Lyncoln, this is so kind of you."

"Consider it a bribe to sit and listen to me for a bit. I want to tell you a story."

"Tell it.” Regina bit into a piece of chocolate and smiled in pleasure.

"A few weeks ago, I was staying overnight at an inn in Thorn Tree on my way home from visiting a friend. The Goose on a Bucket is a nice inn. Loni Calhoun runs it. I always stay there. Anyways, this cub comes in with a foreigner and Loni stands the cub on a table and announces to the room that he's Cullen Blackwood's son. My ears perked up. I always wagered on a horse if I knew Cullen was riding it."

"So did Johfrit. Cullen rode like Death over a battlefield."

"I hear that his son is every bit as good as Cullen, but we're getting off the topic. Cooley had a lot to say about Kynyr. When I got home, I related it to my Dad. We came to Wolffgard for the witan, already aligned with Kynyr. Furthermore, we knew about his unmarried sisters. We hoped I could make a match with one, but Kady made it clear that we were fishing in the wrong lake."

Regina laughed. “You've always fished the wrong lakes, Lyncoln."

"Not always. I caught Terry, didn't I?” Lyncoln studied the teacup in his hands for a moment. “My devotion to whimsy puts a lot of myn off. It never bothered Terry, or her family."

"You miss her?"

"Terribly. There's a hole in me large enough to chase a pig through.” Lyncoln tried to smile at the comic image, and failed, falling back into the mood that had hold of him. “Do you miss Johfrit?"

"Do you really need to ask?” Regina's eyes softened, looking close to sudden tears.

"Why'd you remarry so soon?"

"Vertram. Without a legal protector, he would have seized my cubs, their inheritance, and myself."

"Do you love Reist?"

"Not that way."

"I see.” Lyncoln raised his eyes from his cup, shaking himself loose from his memories, and focused on Reggie again. “Getting back to my story. I need to get it told and over with. I don't like being serious, Reggie. It's not how I prefer to relate to the world; which is why my Dad made me point dog for the midland thanes. I'm the only dog that no one would ever suspect of doing something serious."

"Oh my gods. You told Stone and the others about Vertram and Clennan's plans."

"And there's my story, Reggie. I felt that you ought to know, because you'd be one of those who will find themselves in the middle of fires I lit. I apologize in advance for any difficulties it causes you.” Lyncoln drained his cup and rose. “Enjoy your chocolates and try not to let those southern vultures pick your bones clean. If it gets to be too much, just holler and I'll give them the what for."

Lyncoln opened the door to leave and nearly pulled the knob out of Reist's hands who was entering at the same time.

"Excuse me.” Lyncoln squeezed past Reist and disappeared down the corridor.

Reist frowned at Lyncoln's back until he lost sight of the mon, and then slipped into the Rose Room, closing the door behind him. “Was he bothering you, Reggie?"

"He gave me a box of chocolates and told me a story. Nothing more."

"If he bothers you, tell me."

Regina bristled. “I can take care of myself, thank you kindly. Lyncoln's a bit queer, but he's nice once you get used to him."

"That must have been some story.” Reist kissed Regina's forehead and dropped onto the chair nearest her. He pulled a pocket flask out and poured himself a measure of gin—which was easier to come by than whiskey—into a teacup and sipped it.

"You're drinking early."

"I've been up since before dawn and got very little sleep last night. Kynyr's moving into the manor in two days and I need to be certain the place is secure."

"Where did Clennan get so many myn? From what I'm hearing, Heatherford practically threw an army at the lawgivers."

Reist propped his feet on the table. “Near as I can tell—Clennan brought somewhere between forty and fifty myn with him. His ‘servants’ and such were all soldiers. The one time I don't act on my gut instincts, I nearly get our lawgivers killed. I thought they seemed a bit off-kilter, but I didn't follow up on it. There were too many other things demanding my attention."

"You can't blame yourself for that."

"Oh, I'm not—yet. I'm still at the cover my arse stage. I arrested everyone from Heatherford."

"Then why's Jocelyn still loose?"

"Standing orders direct from Kynyr by way of Stone. Don't touch the bitches or cubs."

"So Jocelyn is free to go around spewing her venom."

Reist shrugged. “No one's listening to her. The arrest warrants have gone out to Heatherford. Pandeena and her bodyguards—or whatever they are—have Jumped to Heatherford to implement them. We're pulling Heatherford's teeth; making an example of them."

"Putting them in cells or house arrest?"

"House arrest."

"More suites to ready. More work for me. How many?"

"Six. I want them all at the end of one of the wings, adjacent to each other so it's easier to keep an eye on them and control their movements."

"I'll see what I can put together."

"Which brings us to my next reason for coming. I want you to evict Berneen from Clennan's suite. I have orders to secure and search it for documents and other evidence of what Clennan was up to."

"The sooner I do that the better, I suppose.” Regina moved her box of chocolates to a desk drawer.

"Do you mind if I just sit here a bit?"

Regina made a moue at him. “So long as you don't touch my chocolates and I don't find you drunk when I return—I have no problem with it. Just don't make a habit of it."

"I won't.” Reist straightened and took another sip from his cup. “If you encounter my father, don't tell him where to find me."

Regina shook her head. “You can't avoid him forever, Reist."

"I can try.” He ran his finger idly around the rim of his cup. “When I first knew I was returning to Wolffgard, I told Stone that I could not imagine facing Vertram sober. Now I have you and your cubs to consider."

"You were as bad as he was.” Regina moved back to the chair as if to sit down, and then stood with her hand on the arm, studying his face.

"Was. That's the key word, Reggie. My life isn't about hopes and dreams—like other myn. It's a process of atonement. I'm not there yet, but I want to be one day."

"I don't know what to make of you."

"Then don't. Just let it be."

"You're talking in circles."

Reist averted his eyes, lowering them to the table. “Go evict Berneen and let me be. This conversation is heading in a direction I'm not ready to go yet."

"So be it.” Regina left the room, wondering what to do with Berneen.

Malthus paced his study, fuming, hands clasped behind his back. The thanes had been snubbing him ever since Kynyr hanged Clennan and declared himself king. With all the mutual animosity between them, Malthus felt certain that Kynyr would either hang or banish him. His pawns and allies gone, Malthus felt the itch of desperation climb his back. Only a single mon remained alive of the guardsmyn that Malthus once drank and played cards with: Eamon Sumner. Better a single small pawn than none at all.

He went to the liquor cabinet, took one of his mismatched glasses out, and sketched a spell on it. The rune appeared, glittered for an instant and melted into the crystal surface, vanishing.

He closed the cabinet and turned as a knock on the door preceded Eamon's arrival. Malthus gestured at a chair by the low table.

Eamon settled uneasily into his chair. “You sent for me. What do you want?"

"Conversation. Would you care for a drink?” Malthus opened the liquor cabinet, took out the pair of mismatched glasses, and a bottle of wine.

"No, thank you.” Eamon lowered his eyes.

"You never had any trouble drinking with me at the Striped Dog. Why now?” Malthus poured two glasses and settled across the table from Eamon.

"My being here doesn't look right."

"Let me worry about that. Do you still believe my sons should inherit?"

Eamon shrugged. “Don't matter what I think. Kynyr is king."

"True.” Malthus pushed the spelled glass toward him. “Drink. It's very fine wine."

"I'd rather not."

Malthus lunged for Eamon's mind, only to be forced aside. His eyes narrowed, and he noticed the edge of a chain around the lycan's neck. “What's that you're wearing?"

"This?” Eamon grasped the chain and pulled it out. An eye carved from rowan hung upon it. “Had the priest bless it. All this talk of vampires has me nervous."

"I can imagine.” Malthus extended his hand. “Can I have a look at it?"

"No.” Eamon dropped the charm down his shirt again.

"You killed Lon Anglesey and wounded William Galloway."

"I was only obeying orders. That's all.” Eamon pressed his hands together and stared at them.

"I need your help. My sons need your help."

Eamon shoved himself off the chair. “I'm not playing that game anymore."

Then he plunged from the room as if a devil rode his heels.

Berneen Hamilton huddled on the sofa in the parlor of Clennan's suite. At first she had been glad that he was dead. Then Reist came and took away the servants. Terrified that they were coming for her next, she had been afraid to sleep; afraid to emerge; afraid to run; afraid to be seen. Terror had immobilized her with indecision.

The door opened and Jocelyn came in. Berneen had left it unlocked, because locking it did not matter—the soldiers would only knock it apart otherwise.

"Hello, Berneen.” Jocelyn had a quaver in her voice. “I see they didn't arrest you either."

"Jocelyn.” She acknowledged her in a dull voice, blinking at her through a fog of weariness.

"No one will talk to me. You'll talk to me, won't you?"

"Why should I talk to you?” Berneen shifted listlessly on the sofa, refusing to look at Jocelyn.

"You loved my grandfather.” Doubt flickered in Jocelyn's eyes. “You were his last mistress."

Berneen glanced at Jocelyn with a flash of temper. “I hated him. I'm glad he's dead."

Jocelyn recoiled in dismay, recovered in an instant, and slapped Berneen's face. “Slut. Stupid filthy slut."

Berneen snarled and haired over, barring her fangs at Jocelyn. “Don't go calling me a slut. You're no better than I am. Vertram's got a wife. You're just his whore."

"I'm a Doherty!"

Jocelyn slapped her again and this time Berneen went for her, grabbing her hair and yanking her head around.

With a yelp, Jocelyn shoved Berneen off the sofa; however, Berneen refused to let go of Jocelyn's hair and they both tumbled to the floor.

Jocelyn landed atop Berneen, trying to pry her opponent's hand from her hair, and slapping her with the other. Berneen's hand changed to claws and she raked Jocelyn's face. Jocelyn shrieked, twisted away from Berneen, and scrambled for the door, leaving Berneen with a fistful of hair.

Berneen gained her knees and lunged, catching the sash of Jocelyn's robe. She jerked Jocelyn off her feet, straddled her, tangled her fingers in Jocelyn's hair, and began banging her head against the carpets. “I hated him! I hated him. And I hate you too."

Jocelyn tried to crawl forward, but Berneen held on tight. Caterwauling at the top of her lungs, Jocelyn seized the edge of the sofa, but only succeeded in overturning it.

The door opened.

"Excuse me, ladies. If this is a private conversation, I'll be glad to leave you to it."

Berneen released Jocelyn and clambered off her shame-faced. “No, Lyncoln, I-we ... uhm."

"I've always enjoyed watching a pair of bitches rolling around on the floor—or the bed for that matter—having a good time."

Jocelyn got to her feet and headed for the door only to find her way blocked by Regina.

"What's going on?” Regina frowned, running her gaze from the bleeding scratches on Jocelyn's face, to Berneen's blush, and Lyncoln's bemused smile. “What are you doing here, Lyncoln?"

"Rescuing Jocelyn from Berneen, I think.” He chuckled. “I was walking by and heard the screaming, so I poked my nose in."

"That carpenter's castoff started it.” Jocelyn shot Lyncoln a venomous glare. “And I didn't need your help. I was winning."

"Oh?” Lyncoln raised an eyebrow at her. “Is that why you were on the bottom getting your head banged against the floor?"

"No one whips the Dohertys.” She fled past Regina and out the door.

"What started it, Berneen?” Regina fixed Berneen in place with a stern glance.

"I did, I guess. I told her how much I hated Clennan and she started slapping me.” She swayed and started to crumble.

Lyncoln caught her before she could fall, swept her up in his arms, and cradled her. He studied her face. “When's the last time you ate?"

"Yesterday morning.” Berneen lost the battle with her emotions, and broke into sobbing. “I've been afraid to go out and no one's come to check on me. The servants are all gone."

"No one is going to hurt you, Berneen.” Regina brushed Berneen's hair back from her face. “The king has ordered that none of the bitches will be harmed. But I must move you to another room."

"My things."

"I'll have them brought to you."

"If her room is ready, then lead on Reggie.” Lyncoln settled Berneen in his arms better and followed Regina through the manor.

They passed Kissie in the hallway, and Regina gestured her over. “Bring Berneen some breakfast to the Ivy Suite. She'll be staying there from now on."

The Ivy Suite was small and cozy, just three rooms, a parlor, a private study, and a bedroom.

Lyncoln laid Berneen on the sofa and moved a small table close to it so that she could eat comfortably when the food arrived. He pulled a chair up and sat across from her, employing the table as a reassuring wall of distance. Lyncoln hoped that would lessen any feelings of panic Berneen might experience on being alone with a male.

"Now, my flower, tell me what has you in such a tizzy. I'll fix it if I can. I may be a nutter, but I assure you I'm harmless.” Lyncoln chuckled, savoring the word that Jocelyn had become so fixated upon.

"I was Clennan's mistress. They executed him."

"Well, he was a traitor. That doesn't reflect prettily on you, but King Kynyr is an understanding sort. I doubt you have aught to fear on that account."

Berneen swallowed, lowered her eyes, and said in a very small voice. “I'm pregnant."

"Clennan liked to brag about that; about how his withered twig still had some life in it. I had never had the pleasure. Terry was barren."

"A mistress?"

"Never wanted one. Terry ... well, Terry was unique.” Lyncoln pulled back from his memories. He was having one of his bad days, when all he could think about was his late wife. Any and all sources of distraction were appreciated, and he had been hunting them from the moment he awakened. “Tell me, is it really Clennan's? Is that the problem?"

"The Readers said it was."

"I'm not asking what they said. Clennan's proclivities were not as hidden as you might believe. Servants talk. And they talk to harmless nutters rather freely.” Lyncoln's expression turned smug. “If I ever told myn what I know about the thanes, half of them would be hanging themselves tomorrow out of shame and humiliation."

Berneen giggled, caught at the edge of hysteria. “Faerwald. I think it's Faerwald's."

"I assure you, Berneen. No one is going to hurt you.” Lyncoln patted her hand. “Must be tough having the wrong dog's bun in your oven. Comes out either burnt or tasting bad."

Berneen giggled again.

"You don't have to keep it, my dear. No one would blame you for ridding yourself of it. A trip to the midwife would cure what ails you."

"But Mary's a Sinclair.” The edge returned to Berneen's voice. “She'd never help me."

"Mary Sinclair would never turn away a bitch in your kind of trouble. Besides, I'd pester her until she did and she knows it."

"Pester her?"

"I'm very good at pestering, if you haven't noticed."

Kissie arrived with a tray of tea, hot scones, clotted cream, and strawberry jam.

"Kissie, would you have Georgie Rogan hitch up a wagon?"

"Yes, Master Lyncoln."

He waited until she left, and smiled at Berneen. “Eat first. Then I'll drive you over and pester her into a mouse hole if I must."

Reist's myn had already begun searching Clennan's suite for incriminating evidence. Lyncoln prevailed upon them to allow Berneen her clothing. Once he had got them both dressed to deal with the chill weather, he drove Berneen to the Maguire home. The butler, Henry Butterum, let them inside and they stood in the foyer.

Berneen's tightly laced fingers twisted, fighting an attack of nerves.

Lyncoln gave her a sympathetic look, and lunged into the fray on her behalf. “We've come to offer our condolences to the family. Lady Hamilton needs to speak with Mary on a private matter first. If you'll just show us to her, good mon, we can be about the rest of our business."

Henry eyed Berneen with open disdain and a shade of dubiousness. “The family would appreciate it if you came another day."

"You know how these things are, don't you?” Lyncoln grabbed Berneen's arm, hooked it through his, and strolled past Henry. “I seem to remember they like to sit in the kitchen..."

"Master Lyncoln..."

"Oh, no problem, Henry. We can find our way. Don't let us keep you from your tasks."

"Master Lyncoln..."

Henry trailed them halfway to the kitchen and gave up.

A tiny smile brushed the corners of Berneen's lips, and she struggled not to look at Lyncoln.

Sitting alone at the long kitchen table, Mary Sinclair stared into a cup of mulled wine. She raised her eyes to Lyncoln and then swept her gaze across Berneen, a wary light entering their depths. “Why have you brought her, Lyncoln? If Cahira sees her, you'll be able to hear the screams a mile off."

Berneen cowered against Lyncoln, tears starting from her eyes.

Lyncoln put his arm around her, and held her close. “Well, you see, Mary. She got into a bit of a scrap with Jocelyn. When I found her, Berneen was astraddle of Joc, banging her head against the floor."

"Why?” Mary's face filled with incredulity.

"Berneen hated Clennan. He destroyed her father's business so that Berneen had no place to go and could not leave him."

"That's terrible."

"Oh, it gets worse, Mary. It gets much worse. Can we sit down?"

Mary gestured at the table, studying Berneen's face as if seeing her for the first time. “Would you like a glass of wine, Berneen?"

"I think something stronger is called for, Mary. Would you have whiskey or gin about?"

"That cabinet over there, Lyncoln. That's where Todd keeps it.” Mary's face crumpled into a freshet of tears as she corrected herself. “That's where he kept it."

Lyncoln got Berneen settled into a chair, and fetched the whiskey along with three glasses. “I think you could use a shot of this yourself, Mary. Todd was a fine mon and we all miss him. Clennan was a dastard of the darkest waters, but we're only beginning to discover many of the details. Like what he did to Berneen.” Lyncoln placed a glass of whiskey in Berneen's hand, closed her fingers around it, and then squeezed her shoulder. “Drink it down and then tell her about it."

Mary pulled herself together, wiping her eyes on a handkerchief. “Tell me, please?"

Berneen's lips trembled. She struggled to frame her words without a sob catching in her throat. “The Heatherford healers said it was Clennan's. However, he used to have Faerwald and Lairgan mount me while he watched. They would tie me up and beat me first."

Lyncoln refilled her glass, and spilled whiskey on the table as Berneen unlaced her bodice and pulled it down. Long scars that could only have been made by silver crisscrossed her breasts. “Ungodly foul sodomite. Filthy piece of regurgitated goat-shite.” Lyncoln continued to curse in colorful, inventive language for several breaths.

Mary moved to Berneen's side, hugged her, and pulled her bodice up. “Let's take this to my office where I see patients."

Lyncoln tucked the bottle under his arm, gathered the glasses, and followed after them. Mary walked with a protective arm around Berneen.

Myn paused to stare, but no one tried to stop them until they turned the corner. Russa stood talking to Trevor in the hallway. He wore a bandage around his head where he had taken a long shallow gash during the fighting around the scaffolds.

Russa stopped talking and intercepted them glaring. “What's she doing here?"

Mary gave her a quelling look. “Clennan abused her. There's silver scars all over her. Help me get her to my office."

"Oh, my gods, what a beastly mon he was.” Russa went from outraged to shocked. “Don't you worry, Berneen. You're safe now."

Together, Russa and Mary rallied their family around Berneen as they proceeded through the hallways. Phoebe joined them.

"What's going on?” Trevor fell into step beside Lyncoln.

Lyncoln rotated his neck as if he had a crick in it. “I hate having to repeat this, Trevor. Kindly share it with those who need to know, will you? Berneen was held against her will by Clennan. He destroyed her family's livelihood, and abused her. She's been living in terror for months, and now she's ready to collapse."

Trevor's eyes went distant and considering. “I'll get the word around so folks don't keep asking."

Mary's office had a desk, chairs, and sofas on the left and a folding screen and examination table on the other.

"Sit down over there, Lyncoln.” Mary pointed at the chairs as Russa extended the screen.

"No.” Berneen clutched at him. “Don't leave me."

"I'll be back presently. Don't you worry.” Lyncoln gestured for Mary to step outside with him. “She is in very bad shape. Been on the edge of hysteria ever since I found her. Hadn't eaten since yesterday morning."

"I understand. Why has she come to me?"

"Tansy. I think it'd be better if you let her ask for it."

"How much liquor has she had?"

"Just the two in the kitchen."

Mary calculated for a moment. “I think it's safe to give her a quarter dose of Narcantha. That will settle her."

When they returned, Russa and Phoebe had gotten Berneen out of her dress and into a comfortable robe. She lay on the table with the robe open. The lycans had no nudity taboos; such things did not work well when a full change to wolf required disrobing. Nonetheless there was a time and a place for such things; and a time and a place where nudity felt inappropriate.

Seeing the massive scars on Berneen's young body sent a wave of discomfort through Lyncoln as he recalled all the playful spankings he had given Terry, which never left a lasting mark on her. She grabbed at him and he caught her hand, holding it with gentle firmness. “It's alright, Berneen. They're going to help you."

Mary swabbed Berneen's arm and injected her with the Narcantha. Russa and Phoebe continued to pat, stroke, and murmur words of comfort to Berneen.

Berneen's eyes grew heavily lidded and she reclined against a pile of pillows that supported her back. “I want a dose of tansy..."

"You'll need to stay here overnight. We'll take care of you. Won't we, Russa?"

"Of course we will.” Russa's voice carried a hard edge. “If he weren't already dead, I'd go over and kill him myself. These scars are the worst thing I've ever seen."

Tears crept into Phoebe's eyes. “Except for what they did to Grandfather."

Lyncoln remained quiet, feeling out of place before their grief. If Berneen had not kept holding onto his hand, he would have slipped out the door. He pitied her. He had never seen a bitch so broken and destroyed.

"Do you feel like telling me about it, now?” Mary asked, her healer's voice filled with compassion.

"Yes.” Berneen's tongue felt thick and awkward in her mouth, making her slur her words. “Tansy. But I've ... wondered for so many weeks ... so many weeks..."

She started to drift and Mary brought her back with an encouraging question. “What have you wondered?"

"Whose stick it was ... got me up.” Berneen giggled, deep in the hollows of whiskey and Narcantha. “Curses in the night ... and bad language. Whose seed I punished with death."

Mary searched the faces around her and the answer came from Russa, who was unusually serious. “Closure, Mary. You can give her closure."

"How many were there?” Mary returned her attention to Berneen.

"Faerwald, Lairgan, and Clennan. Only those three rump stickers.” Berneen released Lyncoln and placed her hand over her mouth to stifle another round of giggles.

"Narcantha's odd stuff,” observed Lyncoln.

Mary nodded. “Especially mixed with whiskey."

"Can you do it for her? Give her peace of mind?"

"Probably. Sha has tissue samples from each of the three that I can use to make the comparison."

Mary sent for the crystalled samples. Holding one in her hand, she grasped Berneen's wrist and Read her. “It's not Clennan's."

One by one, she went through the three crystals. “It's Faerwald's."

A giddy smile lit Berneen's face. “A pox upon the silly blighter ... ding dong all gone ... Faerwald is fairly walled in his coffin ... and his stick's in a jar. His nastiness we'll flush from my barrel."

"And now the tansy?” Lyncoln stroked Berneen's hair. “Poor little flower."

A gesture from Mary sent Russa for it.

"We'll want to keep her here over night in case there's a problem. She's close to three months. The farther into a pregnancy that you abort, the greater the chance of complications."

"I understand."

Berneen smiled into the glass she held in her hand. “Thank you, Mary."

Berneen's legs were too wobbly to walk, so Mary put her in a wheel-chair and left it for Russa and Phoebe to move Berneen into one of the many extra bedrooms.

Lyncoln retrieved the whiskey and glasses before following Mary to a drawing room on the third floor.

He settled on the sofa, poured two glasses, and pushed one toward Mary. “Nothing like whiskey to put the heart back in you."

Mary regarded the glass with trepidation. “I rarely drink anything stronger than mulled wine."

"It's not a day for mulled wine. It's a day for something stronger. I only met Todd a few times, but I liked the mon. Not everyday a legend dies. Especially that way."

Mary sipped at the whiskey and grimaced at the glass. “That's awful."

Lyncoln turned the bottle around so that Mary could see the Dragonsbreath label. “Hold your nose and down it goes. You'll feel better, I promise."

"Are you still looking for a wife?” Mary swallowed the rest of the whiskey in her glass with a wry face, and changed the subject.

"As Regina put it, I've been fishing the wrong lakes. But yes. Or rather, my Dad is hunting one for me. As a middle son, I have no inheritance coming. Terry was a love match. This time around?” Lyncoln shrugged. “Money and connections. Children are a commodity, even at my age. Dad wants an alliance out of my next marriage. No for love about it. But maybe a bit of fun."

"How do you feel about it?"

Lyncoln poised the bottle over her glass and she covered it with her hand. “Oh, come on, Mary. One more won't ruin your day."

Mary moved her hand and Lyncoln poured her a second drink. “You're trying to get me drunk, Lyncoln Wescot."

"Well, yes, I am. You're all tied up in knots, you've got the bloody big shiner, and I would bet good coin that you've not let yourself have a good cry yet."

Mary gave him an uncertain but game smile. “You'd win the wager, Lyncoln."

"Yes, well...” Lyncoln flinched away from the flash of grief in Mary's eyes. “Now, back to this wife hunt. I'm indifferent, really. There's no replacing Terry. Still a dog is happiest when he's got a bitch to warm his bed and cheer his nights. Are you certain there are no unmarried Sinclairs or Maguires lurking about the premises?” He winked at her. “I would not mind fishing that lake."

"You just missed them. The Dreaded Horde would see you more as a target than a suitor anyways."

"Well, I'd rather be the bowmon than the deer. So I guess that's out.” Lyncoln chuckled.

"No one strikes your fancy?"

Lyncoln stared into his fourth glass of whiskey. “I wouldn't call it fancy. Whimsy, maybe. There's one I've daydreamed of bending over my knee and giving her the paddling her father should have given her."

"Jocelyn?"

He chortled. “I'd tame that little trolleymog and teach her to laugh at my jokes. Must laugh at my jokes, even when they're lame."

Cooley sat with the letter from his mother on his lap. He had not opened it yet. Nightmares had besieged his sleep. Silkie had been in all of his dreams; a face twisted by inhuman appetites, fangs long and threatening. They all ended with him dying; her fangs in his throat. Unable to shake himself free of the lingering images and the taste of terror, Cooley shoved the letter behind the cushions and walked away.

They held Claw's funeral the day after solstice. Everyone in the village gathered for it wearing black and stayed at a respectful distance from the family—a distance enforced by Reist and his guardsmyn. The crowd opened as Ossian approached, allowing him to walk into the cemetery. He had his right arm strapped down. Sha had been reluctant to allow him out of bed, but his brothers had promised to see that he did not become tired or worn. His presence as senior lawgiver was expected at the funeral of a chieftain as a matter of form. It was rumored that Kynyr would issue a formal declaration of war against Waejontor at the funeral.

The lawgiver had always wanted to see Wolffgard, their capital, but never expected it to be under these circumstances. Ossian had fought at the Battle of Three Stones where he had first met three of Pandeena's yuwenghau companions, Lokynen Willidar the Battle Master, Meleajys Sun-Child, and Hathura Waveskimmer.

The three Sinclair brothers stood with Kynyr and Kady at the graveside looking as stalwart as a castle wall. Stone had stationed himself to Kynyr's right.

"Now there's one I would not wish to go against,” Ossian muttered.

Then he spied Malthus standing with his arms around Merissa who sobbed with her face pressed into his shoulder. Ossian disliked that mon. There was something about him that did not seem right. People had told Ossian that Malthus treated his wife badly and that Merissa was afraid of her husband, but no one would know it from the protective way that he held and comforted her.

Three children watched the scene from behind Malthus. Ossian recognized two of them as Malthus’ nieces and the other as Merissa's sa'necari bastard son. The girls looked blasé about everything, while the boy was in tears. Ossian could understand the tears, as he had been told more than once that Darmyk had been close to his grandfather. The girls were an enigma to him. If Malthus had intended harm to the realm, why had he not come alone? Enigmas were all around him and as lawgiver, people expected Ossian to decipher them. He had been there for weeks and barely scratched the surface of it all.

Ossian glanced at the thanes and their bitches. They appeared oddly subdued compared to how they had been at Aisha's funeral. He had left early from that one, and all he had of it were mostly secondhand accounts of what transpired there.

He supposed that their mood reflected more their reaction to all the bad news that had been laid on them the day that Kynyr made himself king, than actual grief at the loss of a chieftain whom many of them had been at odds with. As a matter of habit, Ossian counted the thanes to see if any were missing. There were sixteen of them. The only one missing was Clennan. By right, Kynyr could seize Heatherford since Clennan's murder of Todd and the subsequent attack upon the lawgivers constituted treason. Ossian found himself wondering if Kynyr would take the fief from Clennan's heirs.

A flash of orange distracted Ossian from his speculation and he watched that tiger-striped cat, which Darmyk had named Kerry, maneuver through the crowds, nearly getting stepped on several times. Once in the clear, the cat bolted over to Tarrant Redhand's gravestone and sat with a watchful poise.

"Odd creature."

"What did you say?” Waid's intense blue eyes studied his brother. “Are you tired? There's some benches in the back for those who need to rest."

Ossian shook his head. “I was wondering about the cat. There's something strange about him."

"Looks like just a cat to me,” Ultan scoffed.

"Maybe."

Pandeena moved to the graveside and the service began.

Malthus stood with his arm around Merissa, who sobbed against his shoulder. He stroked her hair and patted her back. He schooled his face into an expression of concern, glancing surreptitiously about. His neck itched when he saw Ossian, remembering the day that the lawgiver had dropped that noose around his neck as a threat. That thrice-damned lawgiver was out to get him.

The debacle at the Sanctuary had made Malthus reluctant to go there again. Ossian had been sniffing around the refugee camp ever since Faerwald and Lairgan made hash of the rowdies who frequented the women there.

With the death of Clennan, Malthus had run out of cat's paws unless he could bring Bella to heel. However, there was nothing he could really use her for at that point, so it scarcely seemed worth the effort.

Kerry hissed at Malthus in passing, startling him out of his thoughts. Malthus wondered who had let the beast out. That cat had a talent for escaping the closets that Malthus locked it in. He had left poisoned food out for the cat several times, but although the food was always gone, the cat remained healthy. Malthus could not put his finger on why the cat bothered him so much, only that his gut instinct said there was something uncanny about the creature.

Pandeena's voice, ending the first part of the service and initiating the eulogies, distracted Malthus again. The bitch priest conducted the funeral as if she owned the manor. Malthus concealed his anger behind a mask of sorrow, determined to put on the proper show for the villagers as the concerned husband who had loved his father-in-law.

Stone stepped up to give the first eulogy. He made Malthus nervous.

It's time to look for an escape route. But I'm not leaving without Merissa, my sons, my nieces, and that little bastard, Darmyk.

Kynyr stepped forward, straight and strong, a fistful of dirt in his hands.

"Eighty years ago, my great grandfather, Claw Redhand, fought a war with the Waejontori. We lost. Twenty years ago, Claw negotiated with the Sharani, who had conquered this realm, for the autonomy of the lycan clans. Because of my grandfather, we have known thirty years of peace. He might not have been a great ruler, but he was a good one, a strong one, and a fair one.

"I came here six years ago to protect my family, the Redhands. In that I failed. However, I got to know my grandfather, which had been a dream of mine since childhood. I knew him as an irascible fellow. When I was wounded last summer in an ambush, my ancestry became known to him. Duty is where you find it. I found it the day that he gave me Tarrant's ring and informed me that I was his heir. The outpouring of love from him filled my heart with joy. I miss him."

"The bastard speaks well,” Vertram muttered to Jocelyn.

"Pretty words do not a king make.” Jocelyn tilted her head to a sullen angle. “It's a shame that Faerwald failed to kill him."

"Those are treasonous words, Jocelyn. This is not the place to speak them."

"Are you afraid of him, Vertram?"

"No. I don't think I need to be."

"My uncles will tear him apart."

"Are you out of your mind, Jocelyn? We need a warrior-king. Once the snows melt, Hoon will be ravaging our realm no matter who is on the throne."

"My uncles would do it better."

"Shut up, Jocelyn."

Kynyr cast the dirt he held into the grave and moved away from it, signaling that the eulogies were finished. The line began to move forward, each person tossing a handful of dirt over Claw's coffin.

Once the family had done their parts, the thanes and elders followed and the villagers were allowed in a few at a time to send a handful of dirt over the coffin. Those who were too far back in line to get there before the coffin had been completely covered, laid sprigs of mistletoe, wreaths and pine boughs over the grave until it was so thickly covered that Claw's headstone disappeared beneath their offerings. Children laid pinecone dollies and cloth dolls amidst the other offerings so that Claw would not be alone in his grave, but have servants in the afterlife.

Merissa started toward the house as the funeral ended. “Where's Darmyk and Ros?"

Malthus scanned the grounds and failed to spot them. “I'll go look for them."

Ossian interposed himself between Malthus and the barn. “If you cross the Bonnie Draw, I will have you executed."

"Both children have already been attacked by vampires once and barely survived. The creature could be out there now. I'm not going to sit on my hands when they might be in danger."

Ossian's mouth twisted up. “Go on. I'll get more people looking."

Malthus went to the barn, saddled Devilton, and rode out into the night. Once alone, Malthus summoned his blades from the globe he wore around his neck, and threw a low-level scan toward the trees at the edge of the forest. Ros had to have taken Darmyk. He cursed silently. The boy was his to kill, not Ros', and he would punish her if she had killed him. A lingering aura of both Darmyk and Ros drew him deeper into the forest.

Darmyk tried to look brave, standing beside his weeping mother, but could not repress his sniffles. He heard a noise, glanced, and wished he had not. Ros smiled at him. “It's your turn,” she whispered in his ear and snared his mind.

The boy shuddered with fear, but could not resist her. Her coercions were in too deeply.

Ros extended her hand and Darmyk placed his into it. She led him through the crowd and into the forest. They walked deeper into the trees than Darmyk had ever been before, down among the slumbering stalks of the sweet pepper bushes along a nameless stream that fed into the Bonnie Draw River.

She pointed at the ground. “Lie down."

Darmyk knew what was expected of him, and did not have the strength to resist. He had felt sick and weak all day. The cub lay down on the cold earth and opened his robe obediently. He remembered Ros telling them that she would kill him as soon as his grandfather died. “I'm going to die now?"

"Yes."

Tears ran from his eyes, but he could not will himself to move.

Ros covered Darmyk with her body and bit him savagely. She sucked his neck, hauling his blood out in huge pulls. Darmyk blacked out and went very still. Ros drank faster. She sensed his heart fluttering and knew it could not be much longer before she killed him. A large cat's savage yowl of rage made Ros look up. Her eyes saucered.

In tiger form, Kerry came at Ros snarling. One swipe of his big paw sent her sprawling with her back torn open. She scrambled to her feet and fled deeper into the forest, moving as fast as her damaged leg allowed her.

Kerry let her go, more worried about Darmyk than about catching her. He licked the wound in Darmyk's neck closed, changed into a mon, and carried Darmyk away, heading for the Lawgiver House where the assembled yuwenghau could protect him.

A slender form loomed out of the gathering winter mist. “Hand him over."

Kerry stopped in his tracks. “Get out of my way."

"I don't think so.” Zinzi's secondary nails slid from beneath her primaries, dripping venom. “Lord Hoon wants the boy."

"Lemyari."

Kerry squatted and lay Darmyk on the ground. Before he could rise and change, Zinzi sprang onto him, sinking five nails into his right arm. Kerry's eyes bulged, he made a hiccupping sound, and convulsed. Zinzi scooped Darmyk up and ran off into the night with him.

Kynyr rode his big warhorse, Bucky, deeper into the woods. Several of his guardsmyn had changed into wolves and ran ahead of him like hunting dogs trying to pick up the children's scent. Trevor and Queran rode with him. Jordan had gone off on foot alone.

He did not like Ros, but neither could he abide the thought of something happening to a child.

"You think they just wandered off?” Trevor scanned the forest as they rode.

"I don't know what to think. I can't imagine someone snatching them. There were too many guards around."

"According to Audra Brawleigh, Silkie says that Hoon intends to snatch Cooley, Darmyk, and Merissa."

"Darmyk is wilderkin. If something went after him in the forest, he could call the animals."

"Maybe. Maybe not."

"What do you mean?"

"The vampire bit him before, right?"

"Yes. Pandeena warded his room and his treehouse afterward."

"Then the vampire can call him out if he were exposed ... Like he was at the funeral."

Kynyr felt a rush of guilt and anger. “I would never have allowed him there had I thought."

"Let's just hope we find him in time."

In her mad flight to escape the tiger, Ros lost her way among the dense trees. She floundered among the roots near the Bonnie Draw River, falling to her knees.

"Hello, Ros,” said a familiar voice that Ros had not heard in a long time.

Ros lifted her head and went cold with terror when she saw Sergei. “What do you want?"

"Is that any way to speak to someone who loves you?” The vampire squatted down beside her.

Fear raced through Ros. She wanted to scream, but if she did they would find Darmyk. “You don't love me."

Sergei gripped Ros’ shoulder hard, and shoved his other hand into her underpants to finger her vagina. “I see you like little boys as much as I like little girls."

Ros squirmed and struck out at him with her power. Sergei turned it with a disparaging laugh, and enveloped her in thick cords of scarlet force. Ros thrashed as he shoved her onto her back and tore her clothes away. Sergei jerked her legs open savagely, dislocating her hips and Ros screamed. The vampire stuffed a wad of her clothing into her mouth and then stroked her throat to mute her voice. He thrust his cock into her immature womanhood. Ros’ eyes teared up as he continued to shove at her, ripping her inside. He came quickly; his milk filled her to overflowing and leaked out as he pulled his cock from her body.

"You'll make such a pretty corpse and your uncle will weep. He should not have threatened me."

Sergei brought forth his secondary nails, detected the artery in her arm, and plunged them home. Ros sobbed as the burning venom flooded her blood stream. He exhausted the contents of five sacs and then yanked his claws out. Ros stilled beneath him, eyes glazed, barely breathing, yet completely aware of everything that Sergei was doing to her. She coughed blood and a crimson stream ran from the corner of her mouth. Sergei licked it off. He flipped her on her stomach and raped her anally as well. Finally, he gathered Ros in his arms, sank his fangs into her throat and began sucking. Reading her body as she died satisfied Sergei immensely. Ros turned pasty white and then blue. Her heart faltered and stopped. Her chest no longer moved.

"We must make you presentable for your uncle, my dear.” Sergei addressed the small corpse.

Sergei walked deeper into the forest toward the refugee camp and Malthus’ old cottage carrying Ros.

A bat fluttered around his head. Malthus extended his necromantic senses toward it and detected that it was undead. “Zinzi?"

The bat flew into the trees.

Malthus dismounted, tied his horse, and walked into the copse. The Lemyari standing there was male and the very last person Malthus wanted to see.

Sergei tossed the pouch to him. “They're all for you this time."

Malthus caught the pouch and threw it aside, scowling. “I don't have your payment with me. I wasn't expecting you."

Sergei smiled thinly. “I've already gotten my payment. She was delicious."

"Ros.... “Malthus’ stomach clenched and then rage burned away the rest of his emotions.

Sergei laughed.

Malthus threw his strongest spell of undeath denial at Sergei to rip the undead soul out of him. Sergei threw up a shield and turned it. With a dismissive gesture, the vampire tossed a handful of fiery darts at Malthus. The sa'necari ducked, hit the ground, and rolled. Tossing a death web at Sergei's ankles, Malthus rose to his knees, drew his blades, and slashed Sergei's legs.

Sergei staggered back cursing, and flicked his fingers with a word of command, striking Malthus with darts of dark energy.

Malthus screamed in pain and lunged upward, driving both blades into Sergei's belly with a ripping twist. Sergei clutched his spilling entrails, the arcane acid on Malthus’ blades eating his flesh, and fled. Malthus sank to the ground, writhing, and breathing hard, certain that Sergei had killed him.

"Malthus?"

He glanced up at the sound of a shaky voice and saw Oswyl Beggins looking down at him. The last time that he had seen Oswyl, the mon had been fleeing into the woods insane.

"Are you all right?"

"No. Help me up.” Malthus extended his hands.

Oswyl knelt and grasped Malthus’ arms.

Malthus jerked Oswyl down and sank his fangs into the lycan's throat. Oswyl gasped and struggled, but Malthus wrapped his arms around him, imprisoning the lycan in a grip like steel. Malthus’ pain retreated as he drank the warm, rich blood. Oswyl's thrashing slowed. His skin turned clammy. Malthus sucked harder, trying to get every single bit of the healing juice. The lycan went limp across him and still Malthus drank. Oswyl became a gray, withered husk. Malthus wiped his mouth on Oswyl's robe and pushed the corpse to the side. He stood, dismissed his blades, and headed back for the manor, hoping that someone had found the children.

Malthus saw guards searching the grounds and Merissa in tears.

"Are they still missing?” Malthus demanded.

"Yes.” Merissa grabbed at him and he set her aside.

Malthus’ chest tightened and his stomach soured. Darmyk was no loss, but Malthus loved Ros. “Get everyone looking,” Malthus ordered. “Get the villagers to help. The more searchers there are, the more likely we are to find them."

Despite his overwhelming similarities to his father in both temperament and appearance, Jordan Sinclair was not without inheritances from his mother. He had a sensitivity to the presence of magic. He could see the patterns of magic when a spell was cast, smell the places it had been, and taste its nature in the back of his throat.

He came upon an area of ground where the snow had been churned into mud by fighting. A blood trail led off to his left; someone had run off wounded. Jordan circled around the edges, trying not to disturb whatever signs might remain and glimpsed a mon sprawled upon the ground. Jordan moved nearer. The grayed flesh and shrunken appearance made it clear the mon was a corpse.

Circling back, he found the blood trail again. Two had fought here. One died and the other fled.

Jordan knelt, scooped up a handful of blood-flecked snow, and sniffed it.

Vampire. Lemyari, if I'm not mistaken.

He pulled his right axe, shifting into his transitional form as he moved into a thicket of evergreens. It seemed too quiet. There should have been winter birds in the trees.

Unless the beast is still close.

He drew the left axe. Scattered footprints appeared along the trail of blood; the right deeper and the left more shallow, indicating that the creature was limping. Jordan knelt again, sank an axe in the snow, and scooped another splotch of bloody snow into his hand and sniffed.

Minutes old. Wound seems to be bleeding out faster than the damn thing can heal it. Why?

His ears, now pointed and hairy, twitched at a noise behind him. The snow scattered from his hand as he snatched up the axe, dodged to the side, and spun about to face the direction of the sound.

Sergei came leaping out of a tree, entrails bulging through the tears in his belly, and landed on damaged legs that buckled beneath him. His face had a greenish tinge from the effects of the acids and poisons on Malthus’ blades. He lunged at Jordan with the unthinking precipitousness of the dying; desperate to glut himself on lycan blood for a chance at healing.

Jordan cross-stepped, avoiding Sergei's rush, and brought the kendaryl axe smartly down on the vampire's left shoulder, shattering the upper edge of the shoulder blade, and severing the arm. Sergei twisted, shrieking, and sank his claws into Jordan's forearm. The Bane Shepherd chopped that arm off and backhanded the axe into Sergei's neck, beheading him.

The expected burn of Lemyari venom did not come. Jordan dropped the axe on the ground, and pried the claw from his arm. He squeezed the fingers of it and nothing came out of the venom sacs.

"Used it up on someone already, did you?"

He cut lengths of cloth from Sergei's clothing and used them to tie the severed pieces of the vampire together, making a bundle of him. Then Jordan cleaned his axes, shouldered Sergei's remains, and headed toward the manor.

As dusk arrived, Ossian and Ultan came to Malthus with long faces. “We found her.” Ossian had a look of infinite sorrow. “I'm sorry."

"Where?” Malthus demanded, clutching at Ossian's arm.

"On that table in front of your old cottage. She's dead."

"Oh gods, noooo.” Malthus ran off with the two lycans following him.

Waid and Luciano were waiting at the cottage. The small body lay on the table, covered by Ossian's cloak. Malthus lunged toward it. Waid grabbed him, holding on tightly. “You don't want to see her."

"Ros. Ros!” Malthus screamed.

"There's pieces of her missing."

Malthus’ lips quivered, and his brow furrowed. “Let me go."

Ossian walked up. “Let him go. It's his right."

Waid released Malthus. He walked to the table, flicked back the cloak, and shrieked in horror and grief. Ros was pasty white from being completely drained; and there were bites all over her body. Her hips lay at an odd angle as if they had been dislocated and Malthus could see the crust of semen on her thighs and the tiny little vagina. The worst was that her chest had been opened and her heart taken. Malthus dragged her into his arms and wept.

Pandeena walked in a widening pattern through the forest. Bodi had all of his animal friends looking, but it was still taking time. Word had reached them that the little girl had been found dead, the victim of a vampire. She worried that the vampire had also gotten Darmyk and they were searching for his dead body.

As they neared the Bonnie Draw River, Pandeena spotted a nude mon writhing on the ground in the grip of convulsions. When she got close, Pandeena recognized the feline scent emanating from him. She did not recognize him in human form, so Pandeena guessed that this had to be Kerry. Five necrotic punctures in his arm spelled Lemyari attack. Just five years ago, the Lemyari were believed extinct. Now, everyone knew otherwise. The vampires referred to as ‘royals’ were indeed the dreaded Lemyari of legend.

Kerry's eyes had a glistening half-mad look. “Help ... me. Lemyari venom. She ... took Darmyk. Oh gaaahds ... help me."

"There's an antivenin if we can get it into you fast enough.” Pandeena lifted Kerry into her arms as if he weighed nothing and Jumped to the infirmary at the Maguire Estate.

Sha started when Pandeena appeared out of thin air, and had her hand upon a loaded crossbow. She was up in a flash, directing Pandeena to a bed, and shouting to her assistants as soon as she saw the punctures.

"We've had a fifty percent survival rate with the oral antivenin. However...” Sha loaded a syringe. “We recently developed one for intravenous injection that we hope will work faster and more effectively."

Sha talked as she worked, delivering the antivenin into Kerry's good arm. Qaseem debrided the punctures; removing the necrotic flesh, and washing them out with an astringent.

"Can't suture immediately,” Qaseem told them, applying some of the salve Pandeena had brought them called Idyn Gold to the wounds. “Five day observation for signs of further infection."

"Meanwhile, we treat the symptoms."

Myn were assigned to sit with Kerry and they settled in to wait out the night with him. Sha returned to her desk to transcribe the memory stone she had used to make notes about Kerry's condition. The little girl's remains had been brought in an hour ago for Sha to issue a coroner's report on before releasing them for burial. She and Toniqua had begun operating by Guild protocols in dealing with questionable deaths; and assembling three independent statements on each of them.

Jordan Sinclair sauntered in with Russa hanging on his arm, periodically digging her heels in and attempting to drag the massive lycan along. He refused to move at any faster pace than he wished to. She shook her finger in his face. “You have to let them look at it, Uncle Jordy."

He gave her a dubious glance. “We're here. They can look. But I tell you, there was no venom in his sacs."

Jordan came to a halt in front of Sha's desk and unshouldered the bundled pieces of Sergei.

"What's that?” Sha came around from her desk and squatted beside the bloodstained package.

"Vampire meat. My niece wants you to look at my arm."

"Lemyari?” Sha's initial reaction was fascination at the opportunity to dissect the pieces, and then Jordan's second statement registered. “It stuck you?"

"Ayup."

Russa pushed his sleeve up, revealing five punctures, but not a sign of blackening flesh.

Sha ushered Jordan to a chair, and Read him. “No venom."

"I've already said that."

"Uncle Jordy!” Russa put her hands on her hips and gave him a rebuking look. “Cooperate."

Jordan responded with a tolerant smile.

Pandeena came down the aisle of beds and poked at the bundle. “That's the one killed the little girl. There were two. A male and a female, and the female escaped with Darmyk."

"Damn."

Jordan Sinclair sat in a cozy second floor parlor sipping mead. A bitch pushed Finn MacIver into the room in a wheel-chair with a plate of pastries on his lap. Jordan stared at the chair.

Finn flushed and patted the chair arm. “It's temporary. Sha says my arms and shoulders aren't healed enough to handle crutches."

"That's good to know, Finn. I heard about what happened to you. Torture's a nasty business."

"Yeah.” Finn glanced away and then back, reticent to speak further of it. “This is my wife, Darcy."

Jordan regarded her. She was pretty. The maimed ear simply added character in Jordan's estimation. “I hear that you were my father's last student before he died."

Darcy settled in at the table and took the plate of pastries from Finn's lap. “Yes. He trained you too, didn't he?"

"To a point. When I was sixteen, he said we were too much alike and sent me to Creeya. I studied under Yukiah Woodbourne and later under Meileilyki in Faewin."

"The Faery Queen?"

"Ayup. I was the first lycan to set foot on their island. They're insular folk."

A look of awe settled into Darcy's eyes.

The sleeve of Jordan's shirt rode up, revealing the bandage on his arm. Darcy pointed at it. “I didn't know you were hurt."

Jordan shrugged. “Nothing to speak off. That ornery healer of yours insisted on cleaning and bandaging it. The one with the cornflower eyes."

"Sha?"

"Ayup, that one.” His eyes turned haunted. “I miss my father. I've been meaning to come home for the past five years. But there was always one more renegade to hunt down. One more monster to kill. Now, it's too late."

"Jordy, duty is where you find it. Todd understood.” Finn stroked his fingers through Jordan's hair in a gesture of comfort.

"I hope so. I loved my father.” Jordan rubbed his hand across his face. “I stopped coming home as much after I lost Bethany to one of those spring fevers. I regret it. Always seems to kill more bitches and cubs than grown dogs."

Finn bit into a pastry and chewed for several minutes before responding. “Quinn doesn't talk much about his ma."

"Cherished things lost, Finn. Sometimes we hold them closest by not speaking of them.” Jordan snagged a pastry. “Every mon handles grief in his own way. Look at Queran. Every time I see him, he's got a block of wood in his hand whittling.” Jordan shook himself loose from his memories and eyed Darcy again. “So you're Lord General of Red Wolf."

"You got a problem with that?” Darcy bristled.

"None whatsoever. My father always said one day the bitches would come into their own."

Darcy warmed with a smile. “Finn's right. You're a lot like him."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

Reist slept lightly. The creak of the intervening door between his bedroom and Regina's plunged him to full wakefulness and he grabbed his dagger from beneath his pillow. Regina stood illumined by the candle she held. She wore a dressing robe wrapped around her nightgown.

"What is it?” Reist laid the dagger on the nightstand.

"Three Stones, Gateshead, Whiteford, and now Anglecyn. I'm frightened. What if we can't stop them?"

She sat the candle on the opposite nightstand, and climbed onto his bed. Her robe opened slightly and Reist caught a glimpse of her fair breasts.

"We'll stop them, Reggie.” He pulled her robe closed. “If you wish to talk, get dressed first."

She gripped his hands, removed them, and opened her robe, revealing herself to him. “Comfort me. Make me forget for a little while."

"Are you certain? I made you a promise ... I wouldn't ask for my conjugal rights."

"It's not you asking. It's me."

Reist drew her into his arms and kissed her, holding her in the corner of his arm as his other hand explored her body. He chuckled as he disrobed her. “You're so aggravating at times."

"You love it."

"I know.” His mouth covered her nipple and she moaned.

Ever since finding Ros’ mutilated body, Malthus had felt sick inside, vacillating between rage and sorrow. In the pit of his being it seemed as if an eternity had passed since he first crossed the bridge into Red Wolf; supremely confident in his ability to achieve his goals. Hoon had summoned the best bounty hunters and mercenaries that the sa'necari had produced to take on a handful of dangerous missions. As best of the best, Malthus had been given first choice of them. He had chosen the Red Wolf assignment for several reasons. Among them, his half-brother, Troyes Iagaris, had vanished here nearly five years ago. Also, he had a fetish for lycans; most of his lovers had come from that race.

After reading reports on the realm, Malthus had decided to use his nieces as his excuse for going there and staying. The two pretty little girls won him the sympathy he needed from the lycan folk, who opened their doors and hearts to them as refugees from the war in Waejontor. He had felt secure in his ability to keep them safe. Now Ros was dead; and Lyrri had become so terrified that she spent most of her time hiding, emerging only when he called out to her.

He knew that Ossian was closing in on him. The lawgiver had ordered the militia to patrol the roads leading out of Wolffgard, and doubled the compliment of Bridge Watchers on duty. Ossian was waiting for Malthus to try and make a break for it. He could not leave without Lyrri; he did not want to leave without Merissa and his sons. However, if he had to abandon one to save the other, he would leave behind his sons and Merissa. The lycans would not harm them. Lyrri was another matter. She was sa'necari-born. If something happened to him, there was every reason for him to believe the lycans would kill Lyrri.

Malthus had to plan for eventualities; for getting himself and Lyrri safely out of Wolffgard, if worse came to worst. He went down to Isbeth's room and dropped the bar across the door. His arrival startled Isbeth. She sat nursing her infant, seated in a chair by the cradle.

"What do you wish, Master Malthus?"

"Put the brat down and join me at the table."

If they took Waejonan's ring from his hand, Malthus would be revealed as sa'necari. He had a theory, however, and was about to give it a try.

As Isbeth watched him, he took a knife out and began cutting around the finger that wore the ring. Gritting his teeth, he opened a flap of skin and peeled it back. He shoved the ring under the skin close to the knuckle to disguise its presence, drew the flap over it, and gestured peremptorily at Isbeth.

She laid her child in his cradle and joined Malthus. He grasped her wrist, sank his fangs into her, and sucked the blood out. His finger healed over the ring. It looked like a calcium deposit from an old injury.

Now, if they stripped him of his rings, the lawgivers would not find that one.

Kynyr stood in the center of the largest suite in the manor. He had never suspected that anything this splendid existed there.

"This was Suleahan's. My Father's.” Stone ran his hand over the gold-leafed arm of a sturdy chair. “This was his favorite chair."

"As king, this should be mine and Kady's."

"No. It should be yours alone."

"Why?"

"Let me show you."

Stone led Kynyr into the master bedroom of the suite, walked to a door on the side, and gestured for Kynyr to enter. He found another bedroom.

"This is the main bedroom of the Queen's suite. It was my mother's. Or so I thought."

"Sorcha was not your mother?"

Stone shook his head. “My mother was Ardala, daughter of Tala and Hadjys. My father's lover. I was born two days before Fianait and delivered to my father on the night that Fianait was born. Sorcha covered Suleahan's indiscretion by saying she had borne twins."

"That was generous of her."

"She was kind and understanding. I'm told that her heart broke the night that I was exiled. She died the following winter."

"Kynyr!” Darcy burst into the room, breathing hard. “Come home quick!"

"What's wrong?"

"Kady's gone into labor."

"It's too early."

"Mary says the stress brought it on."

Kynyr followed Darcy into the hallway, gripped by a tense urgency to be with his wife. Ahead of him, he spied the one person he had no desire to encounter.

Jocelyn stopped speaking with Vertram and stepped into his path. “So your slut is going to lose your son. It serves you right. I hope they both die."

Kynyr stopped to avoid colliding with her. “You're lucky I don't hit bitches."

"Too bad. I will.” Darcy grinned and backhanded Jocelyn into a wall.

Jocelyn struck hard and crumpled, weeping.

Kynyr rolled his eyes at the ceiling. “If you don't mind...” He strode on.

Jocelyn glared at Darcy and then turned to Vertram. “Help me, Vertram,” she whined. “Help me. She hurt me."

The thane of Chandler's Rock shrugged and made no move toward her. “I think Darcy was within her rights."

"That's General MacIver to you, thane.” Darcy tucked her thumbs in her belt.

"General MacIver.” He gave her a polite bow.

"And don't forget it,” Stone added. “She killed Lairgan Yates in single combat."

Silence settled over the watching crowd.

Vertram studied Darcy for a moment. “Impressive feat. No wonder you're the general."

"It's what Todd trained me for.” Darcy loped off to overtake Kynyr.

Kady sweated through contractions. She lay with her feet in the pair of crude stirrups on what Qaseem called a birthing bed; another of the new inventions to come out of Creeya since the discovery of the ancient library of Louistrana. An assistant wiped her face with a cool damp cloth.

They had shaved her womanly parts and that made Kady feel all the more naked and exposed.

Power kept flashing through her and over her in intermittent rainbow patterns. The premature birth had triggered her talents. Kady had no control over it and no idea what was happening to her. She struggled to ride it, but coupled with the contractions it overwhelmed her senses. Kady whimpered as much in confusion as pain.

Pandeena entered the room alongside Kynyr. She went to Kady and extended her power through her. “Breathe deep, Kady. Enter rapport with me before you hurt someone."

"Can I touch her?” Kynyr asked, watching Kady's eyes close.

"No.” Cahira came in and put her arm around him. “You might knock her out of rapport."

"Gram...."

"No, come away with me, Kynyr."

Qaseem looked up at Mary. “We'll have to turn him. He's in the wrong position."

"I'll get the obstetrical forceps.” Mary went to the cabinet.

Kynyr glanced back at them and then left with Cahira. He followed her to the kitchen and settled into a chair, feeling sick and weary. “If I lose Kady..."

"You're not going to lose Kady.” Cahira stroked her grandson's head.

"Aghavie died in childbirth."

"Kady isn't Aghavie."

Kynyr glanced around him. He had never seen the kitchen this empty before. “Where is everyone?"

"My sons are sitting with their father. I'm sitting with you.” Cahira went to a cabinet and returned with a bottle of whiskey and cups. She rarely drank hard liquor, but it seemed a good night for it.

Kynyr accepted the cup gratefully, his eyes going distant with brooding. “Being king isn't going to be easy."

"What makes you say that?"

"Thinking about the Dohertys. I had a confrontation with Jocelyn on my way over. Darcy knocked her into a wall."

"What did she say?"

"That she hoped Kady and Fergus died. She's getting on my nerves, Gram.” Kynyr took another sip from his cup. “And I don't know what to do about it."

"Marry her off to someone unimportant. You're king. Issue a royal decree and get rid of her."

"I can do that?"

"Yes, you can.” Cahira squeezed his arm. “When I first lost Todd, I wanted to follow him. I've outlived both myn I loved. But you need me. A king needs an advisor who knows what it is all about. So I'll stay until I'm so withered and old I look like a misplaced twig."

Kynyr hugged his grandmother and kissed her cheek. “I love you, Gram. You've always been there for me."

"I know.” She hugged him back. “Now about Jocelyn. Marry her off or toss her into a meditative convent where she's never allowed out."

Cahira kept her grandson distracted while they waited for news of his son's birth, filling his mind with all the things that a king could and could not do. The time passed quickly.

Pandeena came in. “Kynyr, you have a son."

"And Kady?"

"She's fine too. Exhausted, but fine."

"Is Fergus healthy? I mean, coming so early?"

Pandeena laughed at Kynyr's concern. “He's as developed as a full term cub. That's what all the power fluctuations were about. You have an amazing wife."

"Can I see them?"

"Yes, but I must warn you."

"Of what?"

"He's mage-born. It will be years before we know his full potentials, but he's got the brightest aura I have ever seen in a newborn."

The three brothers sat with Todd's body. Jordan had finally let go and wept.

Cooley crept in and crawled into a chair near Trevor. He wore a robe over his pajamas. “Can I sit with you?"

Trevor stared at him. “What's wrong?"

"I keep having nightmares."

"About Todd?"

"No. Well, sort of. About my ma wanting to eat me ... and I try to find Todd to protect me and he's not there anymore."

Jordan straightened in his seat and looked at Cooley. “Why would she want to eat you?"

"Waller says she's a vampire now. And she sent me a letter."

"What did the letter say, Cooley?” Trevor asked.

"I'm afraid to read it."

Jordan came over and lifted Cooley into his arms. “Why don't you let me read it first?"

Cooley snuggled against Jordan as he once had Todd. “If there's anything scary in it, don't tell me."

"I won't."

They fetched the letter and returned to their seats in the drawing room. Cooley watched apprehensively as Jordan opened the letter and began to read.

My Dear son, Cooley,

I ask your forgiveness for what I have done. I did it to gain vengeance for your father. I loved Cullen with all my heart.

This is both a way of telling you I love you and to warn you of many dangers. Lord Hoon has sent agents to kidnap you because you are a prince of Waejontor. His agent in Wolffgard is named Malthus Estrobian. You must inform Kynyr Maguire of that. Tell him also that should he attempt to liberate Anglecyn, I will betray Lord Hoon to him.

Remember always that I love you.

Your loving mother,

Silkanna Mircala de Waejonan.

"Damn it! Damn it! Where's Kynyr?” Jordan stood up, fire in his eyes and barely controlled rage in his manner.

Cooley cowered in his chair. “Kady had her baby."

Trevor's brow furrowed. “She'll be in the infirmary most likely. Come on, Cooley. Let's get you some tea and cookies."

Taking Cooley by the hand, Trevor led him out.

Jordan strode through the hallways at a rapid pace. The lateness of the hour had emptied the corridors, so there was nothing to slow him down. He burst into the infirmary, startling Qaseem who was sitting at his desk with his weary head in his hands. “Where's Kynyr?"

Kynyr stepped around one of the folding screens. “Here. Come see my son."

"No time for that. We're betrayed."

The smile vanished from Kynyr's face. “By whom?"

"Malthus. He's an agent of Lord Hoon's.” Jordan brandished the letter in Kynyr's face.

Kynyr took it from him and read it, his mouth tightening. “Come on. We've got the bastard now."

"What do you intend to do?"

"Fetch Ossian. As Merissa's husband, he's a prince of the realm. A bit more problematic about hanging him."

"I'd just gut him."

Kynyr shook his head. “I'd like to. However, I don't dare make a habit of hanging myn without a trial. The thanes are spooked enough over what I did to Clennan."

"I'll fetch Ossian,” Pandeena volunteered and they noticed her for the first time.

Kynyr gave Pandeena a long considering look. “We might as well get all my affairs in order at the same time. Fetch Ossian."

"I'll do it.” Pandeena vanished.

Malthus sat in the parlor of the suite lost in contemplating his options; his feet propped up on the low table, a glass of wine in his hand. Waejontor was out of the question, with both the Sharani occupiers and Lord Hoon's people hunting him. Shaurone held no haven for him. Creeya had been alerted to his presence, and he felt certain that he would find the passes guarded against him. His only option was to go east into the Iradrim Mountains and try to make his way to Doronar. The dead of winter was no time to try crossing Red Wolf with a little girl in tow; and he would not abandon Lyrri.

A loud knocking came at the outer door. Malthus frowned and answered it.

Ossian shoved the door open all the way, nearly hitting Malthus with it. His brothers stood behind him with the three Sinclair brothers. They appeared well prepared for a fight.

"What is this about?” Malthus demanded.

"In the name of the king, you are under arrest as a foreign agent and provocateur."

Malthus stiffened. “I assume you do this on good evidence?"

"The evidence will come out in your trial."

"So be it.” Malthus did not resist as they bound his hands behind him and hurried him from the manor. Now was not the time.

Darmyk Redhand woke confused. His head ached, his sides felt tender, and his belly had swollen hard. The last thing he remembered was Ros leading him into the forest to kill him. A gentle hand stroked his face. His eyes focused and he saw the young, dark-skinned mon sitting on the edge of his bed.

"I want my mama,” Darmyk moaned.

"Your mama's not here. I'm Silkie. I'm going to take care of you."

The name sounded familiar. He searched his memory and found it. “Cooley's mama."

"Yes,” she said in a soothing tone. “I'm Cooley's mama."

"Ros was gonna eat me. Malthus was going to kill me.” Darmyk blinked, surprised at what had come out of his mouth. “I can say it."

"Yes, darling. You can say it.” Silkie continued to stroke him and smile. “I don't know how much you understand, but all the nasty things are gone from your head. Your Uncle Hoon got them out."

"My family breeds true.” Hoon leaned against the mantelpiece with a glass of wine in his hand. “The consanguinity is obvious. He looks like the very son of my brother. How Malthus could have thought to fool me with the other child is beyond comprehension."

Darmyk shivered when he noticed Hoon. His words were strange and Darmyk could not understand what he meant by them. “Are you my daddy?"

Hoon shook his head, drained his glass, and placed it on the mantelpiece before crossing to the bed. “No. I am your uncle. Your great, great, many times great uncle. I am Hoon."

"I'm gonna die."

Anger flashed in Hoon's eyes. “No, you are not. Silkanna, give him a glass of Sanguine Rose and see that he drinks it all. From here on, my nephew must drink a glass of it each day first thing in the morning, with all meals, and before he goes to bed at night."

Silkie favored Hoon with a smile and obeyed.

Discounting the bastards of his youth, Clennan Doherty had had seven sons. Tremayne, Selyv, and Isgynan by his first wife; Belgair and Mael by his second; Cynfor and Gusk by his third.

The Audience Chamber had been rearranged for the meeting. Three trestle tables had been turned to directly face the throne and there sat the six surviving sons of Clennan Doherty. The others had been removed and replaced by rows of benches. The families were segregated upon the benches according to which son they belonged to. Jocelyn Doherty, youngest daughter of Tremayne, sat with her family. Fear and uncertainty showed on all their faces. Kynyr sat with Ladyfaith unsheathed across his knees, one hand upon the hilt. He scanned the faces of their families, noted the large number of small children, and hoped that he would not soon be hanging their fathers.

The rest of the thanes had been assembled and given a row of tables on either side of the throne where they could observe the proceedings.

Guards lined the walls, stood in the aisles, and fanned out to each side of the throne. Major changes were in the wind and everyone knew it. Some ranks and stations were being restored and others set aside. Stone's people had been busily going through the storage rooms, looking for things that he remembered from his father's days. Jordan Sinclair, sitting on the dais one step below the throne, now wore the ring and badge of King's champion—a post that Claw had abolished after the Rebellion failed. Trevor was present as Captain of the Guard, whose sorely depleted ranks were being filled through recruitments among the younger myn of the Wolffgard Volunteer Militia.

The post of seneschal had been created and given to Queran Sinclair. Darcy MacIver had begun to discuss raising an army, of which she was general. Stone and Ossian flanked the throne standing.

"I have brought you here, Sons of Clennan, to decide where your loyalties lie. I will not tolerate treason. We are at war with Waejontor. Even now, Lord Hoon occupies the ruling seat of Anglecyn. When the snows melt, he will march south with fire and sword to decimate our people. The slightest disloyalty will doom us all. The Grand Master of Creeya, King Ceejorn Osterbridge, has pledged to send his armies to support our cause in an alliance forged by my beloved queen, Kady. Clan MacLachlan has sent troops and has promised us more. My royal sister, Scarlet, has wed the heir of MacLachlan and we are now allied by blood. And we have other allies in this war against the dark ones."

Kynyr gestured at the door, and Reist swung it open.

Lokynen Willidar strode in at the head of twenty myn, shimmering with power and presence. One of them stood out above the others. Seven feet tall with mahogany skin and long green hair that hung past his hips, there was no mistaking Teakamon the Shepherd of the Wilds.

Awe swept through the room at the arrival of the demi-gods.

"We are faced with an implacable enemy. The same one that once broke across our lands and ravaged them. However, now we have allies fit to do battle with these invaders."

Kynyr gestured at the sons of Clennan. “Until I can discern your loyalties, you and your families will remain here as my guests. Heatherford will be entrusted to the guardianship of my liegemon, Lyncoln Wescot of Silvershire, son of Thane Sedley of Silvershire."

Sedley let out a whoop, banging his withered knuckles on the table. “That'll show those wet-tailed southerners! Put a real fighting dog in charge."

The midlanders chuckled, accustomed to the sheer cussedness of old Sedley.

The door opened a second time. Pandeena glided into the room wearing her priest robes and runes. She approached the throne and bowed to Kynyr.

"Your Majesty. I am sent here by the Mothers and my liege-god, Tala, Mistress of the Moon and Hunt. The soul of Todd Sinclair has found favor with Tala. He now runs with the moonwolves. From this day forward, he shall be known as Saint Todd. My god has decreed that a temple be built in Wolffgard and his mortal remains interred within it in a suitable sepulcher."

Jordan bowed his head with a smile and a prayer of thanksgiving on his lips.

Lyncoln Wescot leaned back in his chair and hoisted his tankard high. “Here's to the midlands."

Kynyr clinked his tankard against Lyncoln's. “To the midlands."

"And the king."

"And me.” Kynyr chuckled and they clinked tankards again. He was finding Lyncoln an infectious fellow, full of good humor.

"And to the heir, Prince Fergus!"

It was the third time that Lyncoln had toasted the birth of Prince Fergus. Kynyr decided that since the toasts were becoming circular, it might be a good time to move on to more serious matters. “Lyncoln, I want you to get Heatherford readied for war. I need Heatherford. The Doherty assets are almost as large as Vertram's. My Gram and Artair have been going over their books, and estimate that the amount of coin Clennan had salted away was close to six hundred thousand crowns. A tidy sum for a lycan thane. We're also exploring the possibility that he had some hidden away in foreign banks."

Lyncoln sobered. “And then there are the levies to consider. Not counting their standing forces, Heatherford's levies would be close to three thousand myn if called up."

"That many?” Kynyr found himself reassessing Lyncoln.

"Yes. I could probably squeeze a bit more out of them given time. However, we don't have time, Kynyr. Hoon wants to dance on our graves before equinox."

"I need Vertram's money and Heatherford's army."

"Vertram will be most generous with me sitting in Heatherford at his elbow ready to dump his tankard on his head ... and the army's a given."

Kynyr considered that. “Your father has reminded me again that you are a childless widower.” Kynyr lowered his tankard. “While I could do this by royal decree, I would rather have the agreement of all parties."

Lyncoln drained his tankard, and leaned across the table with a conspiratorial smile. “What have you got in mind? Finding me a wife?"

"Yes. And an alliance that will work to all our favors."

"Who is she? I hope she's pretty."

"She's pretty. She's also a pain in the arse."

"You don't mean Jocelyn, do you? She's got two bastards by Vertram."

"Jocelyn. She'd give you heirs and you'd keep her out of trouble. Furthermore, it would give you a legitimate claim to Heatherford if push came to shove."

Lyncoln grabbed the pitcher and refilled his tankard. “If it'd been me, I would have turned her over my knee and spanked her bottom till she squealed. That's how you handle a shrew.” He belched forth a belly laugh that echoed through the chamber.

"Well then.” Kynyr picked up a bell on the table and rang it loudly.

The door opened and two guardsmyn escorted Jocelyn into the chamber.

She eyed them with suspicion and disdain. “Why have you sent for me?"

"I won't hit a bitch, but she sorely tempts me, Lyncoln. What do you think?"

Jocelyn glared at Kynyr. “You're a bully."

"I have no problems hitting a bitch. Sometimes they need it.” Lyncoln winked at Kynyr.

"I have a proposition for you, Jocelyn.” Kynyr's glance hardened. “You can remain here as my prisoner. Or you can marry Lyncoln."

"Can I think about it first?"

"No. I want your answer now."

"I want Vertram. You can't do this to me."

"You can't have Vertram. I have a third idea for what to do with you. How about a convent, Jocelyn?"

"You wouldn't dare...” Jocelyn sputtered. “A convent?"

"Don't tempt me."

She looked at Lyncoln, her mind racing. “I'll marry the old sod, but I won't like it."

Kynyr settled back in his chair, feeling smug. “I want it done and consummated within the hour."

Jocelyn sucked in a breath. “I want a real wedding."

"We're at war. There's no time for it.” Kynyr glanced at Lyncoln. “Take your betrothed to the priest, Lyncoln. If you keep her belly full for a few years, that should mellow her.” He winked.

"I should think so.” Lyncoln drained his tankard and rose, taking Jocelyn by the arm. “Let's hie to the priest, my darling."

Jocelyn's pretty face twisted into sullenness, but she went without resistance.

Once Kynyr was alone again in his chambers, he burst out laughing. Jocelyn was no longer his problem.

"What are you laughing about, Kynyr?” Darcy sauntered in without knocking.

"Jocelyn."

"I've never found her funny.” She lifted the pitcher of mead and sniffed it. “Got a clean tankard around?"

"Cabinet over there.” Kynyr thumbed at it.

Darcy returned with a tankard, filled it, and settled across the table from him. “I've been thinking."

"That will get you in trouble, Darcy.” Kynyr teased.

She had never seen Kynyr in such high spirits and wondered exactly what was going on. “Shaurone has orders of knighthoods. I want one here. An elite order of the sons of the thanes."

"And what would you do with it?” Kynyr sobered, a considering look came to his face.

"For one thing it would keep them out of trouble, and keep their fathers in line, even when away from you. It would also be considered an honor and please the families. Something like Shaurone's Ha'taren Guard."

"Who would train them, Darcy? Have you considered that?"

"Jordy would."

"Have you spoken to Jordy about it?"

"Yes. He likes the idea. We would call them the Knights of the Order of Saint Todd."

A sudden tear crept down Kynyr's cheek and a bittersweet smile crossed his lips. “Todd would like that. You have my permission to found the Order."

Jocelyn put her back against the wall, a distrustful light in her eyes. Lyncoln had locked all the doors to the suite and put the key on a chain around his neck.

"Get your clothes off, darling and I'll do it up proper."

"Don't touch me.” Jocelyn glanced around the room, spied a vase, and threw it at him.

Lyncoln ducked the vase and chuckled. “Now, now. Were you this testy with Vertram?"

"I love Vertram.” She fled into the sitting room.

Lyncoln strolled after her. “You love his money."

Jocelyn snatched the top book off a stack on a low table and threw it at him. The rest soon followed. “Don't touch me."

Lyncoln ducked and dodged the succession of objects she found to throw at him and gradually cornered her beside the sofa. “My late wife always said I was good at it."

He grabbed her bodice and tore it along the seams. “Thorough, she said."

Jocelyn snatched the pieces together and shrank to the floor, cowering. “Bloody bastard."

"My late wife, Terry, used to say that.” Lyncoln burst out laughing. “We're married now, Jocelyn. Consummation and conjugal rights and all that."

"Nooo."

"Shall I spank you first? Terry liked being spanked. She said I gave good spankings."

Jocelyn's eyes saucered. “Noooo."

Lyncoln seized the waistband of her skirt and yanked it off her. Jocelyn shoved him backwards and fled on all fours. He crawled in pursuit.

She gave him a look over her shoulder, suggesting that he was out of his mind, and glanced about for a new direction to flee in.

He shoved his trousers off and came hopping after her. Jocelyn let out a shriek and squirmed behind the sofa.

"Rather tight squeeze, don't you think?” He wormed his way in.

Jocelyn shrieked again and tried to get under the sofa. He rolled his shoulders, overturning it, caught her by the hips, and flipped her onto her back. She pummeled him ineffectually as he threw himself atop her.

"You're a nutter, Lyncoln Wescot. You hear me? You're a nutter."

"I prefer to call it whimsy.” He grasped his cock, got it into her, and rode hard.

Jocelyn surrendered, wrapping her legs around him with a sigh.

Kynyr sat a throne on a raised dais at the very head of the courtroom, where he could witness the proceedings, but not be actively involved. Jordan stood beside Kynyr as did Stone.

Sixteen thanes and one guardian took their places on the flaring wings of the tables set to either side of the judges’ station at the head of the room. Phelan O'Reilly took his place at the head in the senior judge's chair. The village elders from the seventeen major towns of Red Wolf seated themselves at the tables forming an el beyond the thanes.

It would take a two-thirds majority vote to condemn a prince, which Malthus was by right of his marriage to Merissa. Lesser myn and lesser crimes never came to trial if the evidence was strong enough against them.

The witness box stood catty corner to Phelan's chair. Ossian's witnesses were seated in comfortable chairs in the next row of tables beyond those of the elders with a space between them. At the very back stood fifteen rows of benches where those members of the citizenry, fortunate enough to have arrived earliest, were seated to observe the proceedings.

Malthus sat at the table of the accused centered between the aisles, close to the front and facing Phelan. Guards stood behind and around him under the command of Lawgiver Waid O'Reilly.

Malthus scanned the witness chairs, wondering at the large number of people there. He had believed that he had covered his trail well over the past few months and could not conceive of how so many might have evidence against him. Pandeena sat among the witnesses, although there was a chair near the head for the senior priest. A mon huddled next to her, a hooded cloak concealing his face. The way that the mon's shoulders drooped, he seemed to be ill.

Ossian gestured at Pandeena. “Bring the first witness forward. You've not given me his name, Your Holiness."

"That will become known presently.” Pandeena helped the mon to rise, and walked him to the witness box where she remained standing.

The mon threw back his hood and faced Ossian. A gasp ran through the crowd. His face lined by suffering and his cheeks hollowed by illness; the mon was still recognizable.

"Please the court, my name is Nikko Softpaws. I was once lawgiver to Wolffgard."

Vika Softpaws, sitting among the citizenry, sprang to her feet with tears in her eyes. “Nikko, you're alive!"

A trembling smile touched Nikko's lips. “Aunt Vika."

"Silence!” Phelan pounded the table with a small hammer.

Vika sank back into her place. Myn to either side of her patted and stroked her, comforting and rejoicing.

"Please the court.” Pandeena turned to Phelan. “I would like to give a bit of testimony, standing here."

Phelan nodded. “Speak, priest."

"Early last summer, Nikko was brought to my mother's house by Lokynen and Hathura. They rescued him from imps, but he had been shot by arrows containing a particularly nasty blend of Devil's Silver. Trauma had blocked his memories, but they have been slowly returning."

"I see.” Phelan turned a kind eye on Nikko. “Tell us what you remember."

"Tempest Anstey and I were investigating the Accused. Tempest had confirmed his humanity and that he bore no coercions or other sa'necari bindings in his mind. Nevertheless, he appeared to be suspicious. One morning I followed him from Wolffgard. Halfway to the Place of Fallen Stones, he shot me."

"Did he say why he shot you?” Ossian stared hard at Malthus.

Nikko shook his head. “No sir. My last memory was of him standing in the path and shooting me."

"Is there anything more you wish to say?"

"No."

"Then you may return to your seat.” Phelan glanced at Ossian. “Bring your next witness, Lawgiver."

Kynyr leaned close to Jordan and whispered in his ear. “That's enough to hang him for right there."

Jordan gave a faint nod. “Due process, Kynyr. You've already hung one thane out of anger. Let's make this one a righteous hanging."

"Or a beheading. After all that he has put my family through, I would enjoy seeing his head roll off the block."

"So would I.” Jordan muttered. “My gut instincts say he had something to do with my father's murder."

Ossian quirked his finger at Gavin Ellis. The chastisemon was acting as his bailiff. After a moment of whispered consultation, Gavin went to the witness table and returned with Iollen Newell, walking him to the box.

Iollen settled in and scratched at the shoulder of his missing arm. His eyes had the look of a mon who had been to hell and lived to speak of it.

"Tell us your name, what you do, and a little bit about yourself."

"I'm Iollen Newell. I work for Kady Maguire as an odd jobber around the place. You might say, I'm the only surviving member of a gang called the Lycamornots."

"Tell us about the Lycamornots?"

"I was never part of the leadership. That was Shalto and Oswyl Beggins, Preece Malloy, Nesswen Goff, Rheu Lawson, Yren Maddox, and Torquil Anderson."

"Ya see! Ya see!” Raonul the smith gesticulated wildly from the benches in the rear. “I knew Torquil was up to no good. I knew it."

Quinn Sinclair patted his business partner's shoulder to quiet him, grinning.

"Preece and Torquil were their enforcers.” Iollen continued. “If you didn't follow orders, they beat you up—if you were lucky. I suspect that if you combed through the woods north of the Sanctuary Refugee Camp, you'd start finding a lot of shallow graves. When the dregs of society go missing, no one notices they're gone.” The haunted look deepened in Iollen's eyes. “Preece told me he intended to put a knife in my ribs ... that he was just waiting for the right opportunity. That he intended to bury me in the north woods. If it had not been for Trevor Sinclair, and later, Luciano Albertus, that's exactly what would have happened."

"Getting back to the gang itself. How did they make their money?"

"I protest!” Malthus stood up. “This has nothing to do with me. I had nothing to do with that gang. I didn't even know it existed!"

"You damn well did!” Iollen's eyes flashed. “You held little meetings with them at your cottage."

Waid shoved Malthus back into his chair. “Keep silent until you're called to testify."

Malthus subsided with a glare.

"Getting back to the money. Their earnings working around the camp were meager. Yet they always had money to drink on, and they spent money on weapons they could not have normally afforded, such as quality knives and swords."

"Yessir. The money. It came from prostitution."

"They owned a brothel in Hell's Widow?"

"No, sir. They ran it right here in Wolffgard."

A buzz of crosstalk erupted in the benches and Phelan had to pound his hammer for silence.

"And where is this brothel?"

Iollen exhaled heavily and stared at his hands. “All the females living on the grounds of the camp whored for them. At first, it was free, but then they started asking for donations. You knocked on the doors after dark and gave the code phrase ‘my friend says you can help me.’ The door would open and the female would say, ‘I can but I'm expecting company.’ After that you told them how you wanted it. Nothing was out of bounds."

"A large number of women and children disappeared from there two weeks before the murder of Lawgiver Padruig Caimbeul. Do you know anything about that?"

"Yessir."

"Were they killed?"

"No. Not that I know of. They were pregnant. The gang had to get them away before someone noticed."

"Do you recognize that little cub?” Ossian turned and pointed at Gilzean sitting on Lady Audra Brawleigh's lap.

"Yessir."

"Is he one of the missing cubs from the camp?"

"Yessir, he is. That's Gilzean Taite. His mother was a sa'necari married a lycan. A sa'necari gang killed her husband and she fled here to protect the cub."

"That's all for now. You may return to the witness table."

Iollen returned to his place shaking like a leaf. Pandeena reached over and patted him. “You did good, Iollen."

"I hope so.” Iollen's voice caught. “I'm trying to make up for what I did. For Aghavie. I'm scared as hell. The only thing holding me together is my daughter ... and my memories of Aghavie. Just that and nothing more, Pandeena. I'm a coward."

Stone frowned at the renewed outbreak of enraged talk among the onlookers. “Kynyr, excuse me. I need to get a guard detail out to the camp before there's a riot."

Kynyr gave a nod and Stone headed down the back of one row of tables, moving as quickly as he could.

Ossian gestured at Audra. “Lady Brawleigh, if you would be so kind as to bring Gilzean to the witness box?"

She settled into the chair, brushed her skirts down, and cuddled Gilzean who nestled in her arms with a frightened expression.

"What is your connection to Gilzean, Lady Brawleigh?"

"My husband and I are adopting him."

"Where did you meet this little fellow?” Ossian gave Gilzean a reassuring stroke.

"Anglecyn."

"That is a very long way for a cub this young to have ventured. How did you know that Gilzean came from Wolffgard?"

"Princess Silkanna Mircala de Waejonan told me. She asked me to return him to his family ... that he had been sent to Lord Hoon as a gift from Malthus Estrobian."

Malthus schooled his face into a mask of impassivity, even as his heart threatened to climb into his throat. Silkie?

"Hello, Gilzean.” Ossian looked the little boy in the eyes. “My name is Ossian and I won't let anyone hurt you. Will you answer a few questions for me?"

Gilzean took his thumb out of his mouth and nodded. “Yes."

"What happened to your mother?"

"The bad mon took her away."

"Do you see the bad mon in this room? The one who took your mother away?"

Solemn-eyed, Gilzean nodded again.

"Will you point him out to me?"

Gilzean jabbed his finger at Malthus. “That's the bad mon."

"Thank you, Gilzean and Lady Brawleigh.” Ossian crossed to stand in front of his grandfather. “With your permission, I would like to call a recess."

As myn returned to their places, Ossian went to his small table and opened a satchel. He took out two pieces of paper and strode to the front where he waited for the trial to resume.

Phelan pounded the table to call everyone to order and silence the crosstalk.

Ossian turned and waved the papers at the courtroom. “I would like to enter into evidence these two letters. One addressed to His Majesty and the other to Prince Cooley Diomedes de Waejonan-Blackwood. Will you read them to the gathered peers or shall I, Elder Phelan?"

"I will.” Phelan accepted the letters.

Dear Kynyr Maguire.

Cullen trusted you. So I am trusting you. By now you must know, or at least suspect, that Cullen is dead. They forced me to watch him die. The sa'necari have returned to Hell's Widow. I am trusting you with our child and my secret so that you will understand why I do not dare go to the garrison with this. You know me as Silkie Faggini. I was born Silkanna Mircala de Waejonan. Get word to the garrison, but do not tell them how you know. And, I beg you. Take care of our child. Cooley is no longer safe in Hell's Widow.

Sincerely,

Silkie

Phelan paused to let the import of the letter sink into the listeners and then he read the second one.

My Dear son, Cooley,

I ask your forgiveness for what I have done. I did it to gain vengeance for your father. I loved Cullen with all my heart.

This is both a way of telling you I love you and to warn you of many dangers. Lord Hoon has sent agents to kidnap you because you are a prince of Waejontor. His agent in Wolffgard is named Malthus Estrobian. You must inform Kynyr Maguire of that. Tell him also that should he attempt to liberate Anglecyn, I will betray Lord Hoon to him.

Remember always that I love you.

Your loving mother,

Silkanna Mircala de Waejonan.

The courtroom erupted in loud talk. Phelan had to strike the table so hard that he felt certain he had left dents in it.

"Are there more witnesses, Lawgiver?"

"One, Frozbie."

"Ossian!” Reist came striding up the aisle. “We have another one and she's more important."

"What?"

Reist pointed at the door.

Bella walked up the aisle with Willy's arm around her, fighting to control her terror.

"Your honors,” Willy said. “My wife would like to offer testimony here."

Malthus’ lips parted as he swallowed back a protest. He tried to capture Bella's eyes, but she kept them averted.

"Come forward,” said Ossian.

Willy accompanied Bella to the questioner's seat, and stood holding her hand while she settled into it.

"Your name?” asked Ossian.

"Bella Galloway, if you please."

"Tell us your tale."

She sucked in a nervous breath. “Malthus is my cousin."

The room exploded in crosstalk and Phelan pounded the table.

Bella flinched and ducked her head. Willy squeezed her hand. She swallowed and forced the next words out. “I am sa'necari."

Another chaos of conversation erupted and again Phelan pounded the table. “The next ones to raise their voices without permission will do thirty days in a cell."

"My cousin is not an Estrobian. He is Malthus Tyrins, the bastard son of Lord Feodras Iagaris. He is a sa'necari bounty hunter and mercenary in the employ of Lord Hoon."

Ossian's eyes widened and he gestured at his brother. “Waid! Spellcord him."

Malthus sprang to his feet. “She's lying!"

A heavy hand closed on Malthus’ shoulder and he looked up into Lokynen's grinning face. Waid spellcorded Malthus’ wrists. The sa'necari's stomach clenched and soured as he felt his connection to his powers and mage-senses go dead. Ultan pulled the rings from his fingers and checked him for other jewelry. He turned his mind inward, brushed against the embedded ring, and felt his power kindle. The spellcord had been defeated. A glimmer of satisfaction stirred in Malthus. The Butchering Serpent would be free.

Lokynen pulled Malthus’ arms behind him and a member of the militia secured them with heavy ropes.

"Why did you come forward now, Missus Galloway?” Seeing how obviously frightened she was, Ossian put as much kindness and reassurance into his voice as he could.

Bella looked at Willy, who gave her an encouraging nod. “We're having a baby. I want him to grow up in a safe world. I had to overcome my fear of Malthus for the cub's sake."

"Is the child lycan?"

"Yes."

Phelan regarded the room. “Under the circumstances, I could simply order Malthus Tyrins Iagaris hung. However, I would prefer to observe the legalities. The court will recess for three days to deliberate. During that time, the Accused will be put to the question. Perhaps, when we return, we will have the full details of every single atrocity this mon has committed."

Ossian glanced at Gavin who slammed his fist into his other hand.

"My chastisemon is prepared for the interrogation."

Malthus hung from the ceiling in chains, nude, the skin of his back in bloody tatters from the whip. He knew, even without searching his body with his arcane senses, that he had at least one broken rib. Breathing hurt. The spellcord on his wrists had revealed nothing to Ossian. The ring protected him from discovery and lessened the effects of the spellcords.

He had given Ossian only silence and denial. Gavin had left moments ago after promising to return in an hour and move onto worse torments: thumbscrews and the rack. Malthus had no intention of waiting for Gavin. He reached into the power of the Ring of Waejonan, and separated his etheric body from the cords, creating a barrier that would allow him to function normally despite them.

There was no longer a need to hide his powers. Malthus sucked in a deep breath and flexed his arms, tightened his fists, and poured all his sa'necari strength into grabbing the chains connected to his manacles. With a savage twist, he broke them. Malthus fell backwards to the ground, wincing at the pain in his ribs and back. He forced his anguished body up into a sitting position, seized the chains on his ankles, and broke them also.

"What the hell?” Gavin stood in the open doorway staring down at Malthus. The chastisemon reached for his sword, but Malthus was faster. He pounced upon Gavin, sending them both down into the filthy straw, and buried his fangs in Gavin's throat before the lycan could call out for help. Pinning Gavin's arms down with his hands, he sucked his blood out in huge, starving pulls. His body healed. Gavin writhed and twisted beneath him to no avail. Malthus was too strong. Within minutes, the chastisemon was a withered gray husk.

Malthus removed Gavin's keys from his belt, unlocked the manacles and leg chains, and then the deadly seals on the spellcord. He had never tried to test his limits as a sa'necari, but Malthus had long suspected they were immense. Riting members of the highest echelons of the sa'necari, those who carried legacies of power going back as far as twenty generations, had been a heady experience. Theoretically he had the strength and power within him equivalent to having taken over a million souls. It was time to test it.

He required a diversion to escape from Wolffgard, and he was not leaving without his niece, his wife and twin sons. Malthus spread a high-level scan through Wolffgard, sending it as far and wide as he could. His awareness touched each and every person that carried his coercions in their brains. He placed a shielding spell around Merissa, and felt her startled reaction to it.

He spoke a single phrase and over fifty myn died.

Then he stripped Gavin's body, covered his nudity in the chastisemon's clothing, and buckled on his weapons. The clothes hung loose on him, but that was better than nothing. His instinct for discretion still dogged him. He pulled the hood of Gavin's cloak around his face and stalked out of the cell.

"Gavin?” The guard on duty rose from his chair by the door.

Malthus lifted his head with a sneer and let the guardsmon see his face.

"You're not Gavin!” The lycan reached for his blade.

Malthus’ hand came up and he threw a surge of tearing force into the mon.

The lycan's eyes bulged as he staggered backwards. He struck the wall behind him and his chest exploded. Malthus gazed at the shattered corpse, exulting in his power. After so many, many months of restraining himself, he felt giddy at the release and the freedom.

Furthermore, he had achieved something that he knew to be possible in theory, but never put it to the test before. Rumor held that an exploding strike of that nature was how the late Prince Mephistis had brought down a dragon. He marveled at his untested potentials; yet, even then his reason told him to hold back as much as possible—there were more dangerous opponents out there and he would need it then. Best to not waste it. This isn't the time or the place for it.

Malthus climbed the stairs and stepped out into the corridor.

Waid O'Reilly strode toward him. “Gavin, Ossian wants to know...."

Malthus’ hand came up.

Waid recognized an arcane gesture and threw himself to the floor, rolling. The glancing edge of the spell caught him in the side. Pain geysered through him, and Waid stilled.

Malthus walked on.

The lawgiver listened to Malthus’ footsteps and then heard a door close. Waid dragged himself up using a doorknob. His vision grayed around the edges. He fought for consciousness. Had the spell struck him square, Waid was certain that he would be dead. As it was, he felt like curling up and screaming.

Screaming. Yes, screaming.

Waid threw his head back and howled his warning. He heard it echoed far down the corridor. Others had heard him. Weakness swept through Waid, and he sagged to the ground and into darkness.

The pleasant warmth of the kitchen made it one of Kissie's favorite places. She sat at the table across from the huge ovens, rolling bread dough, and braiding it. Isbeth, the best baker among the nibari, would only let her do that much.

Isbeth laughed. “My baby is growing so fast!"

"He surprises me. I can't wait for mine to get here.” Kissie rubbed her belly. “Timerly is twelve. It's been so long that I can barely remember what he looked like crawling across the floor."

"I know. Mistress Aisha waited so long...” Isbeth suddenly stiffened, her eyes glazing as she collapsed in the floor.

Kissie screamed and dropped to her knees beside her.

Emma stepped tentatively into the room, like a little mouse, glancing about. Her gaze fell upon Kissie and Isbeth. “What's wrong with her?"

"She's dead."

Emma shrieked, which triggered off another round of shrieking from Kissie.

Lyncoln came in with Jocelyn on his arm. Jocelyn looked pale and uncertain, as if she were being run ragged.

"Quiet!” He knelt beside Isbeth, feeling for a pulse. “What happened here?"

Kissie mastered herself, swallowing back another scream. “She-she just keeled over."

Jocelyn stared at the corpse and looked ready to vomit.

"Fetch a healer, Jocelyn. They'll want to examine what's left of her."

She backed toward the door, nodding, and fled.

"I do hope you'll forgive Jocelyn's rudeness.” Lyncoln attempted a bit of levity to change the mood of the room. “She gets decidedly odd after I've chased her about the suite a few times."

Sitting in Jenny's parlor, Regina rubbed the hilt of her saber obsessively. “Merissa refuses to stop crying. You'd think she'd be glad we caught him."

"It's hard sometimes. Love is an odd—” Jenny stopped speaking in mid-sentence and staggered, reeling into the wall.

Regina sprang to her feet and slipped her arm around Jenny's waist, supporting her. “What is it?"

"High level necromantic scan. The Butchering Serpent ... his power is terrible. We must assemble my mages."

Regina helped Jenny into the hallway. Jenny used the Blue Room for her meetings. Everyone who had felt it would go there out of habit. Or at least I hope so.

Reist appeared from a side room. “Reggie, what's happening?"

"The Butchering Serpent is making his move.” Jenny gasped as if struggling to breath. “It must be. No other sa'necari can be that powerful."

Stone came striding down the hallway, his face stern. “The Serpent is unleashed. I've ordered the swan mays and their gryphons into the yard. If he's coming here, he's going to have to go through a wall of teeth and claws."

He swept Jenny into his arms and headed for the Blue Room.

Kynyr appeared with Jordan at his side. The king buckled on his weapons as he strode along. “You think it's Malthus?"

"That's exactly what I think.” Stone kept walking, forcing the others to trot to keep up with him.

Kady sat nursing Fergus in the chapel. It had been turned into a temporary shrine to Todd. His body, with a preservation spell over it, sat before the altar. The coffin maker and his assistants were working on a fine carved box, but it would take weeks to build.

"You see him?” Kady pointed to the coffin. “That's your great-grandfather. He's a saint now. I want you to be just like him when you grow up."

Cahira came in and walked over to the coffin. She stroked his still features. “I love you, Todd. Always and forever."

Kady blinked. “What was that?"

"The Serpent is unleashed. He's coming in this direction.” Cahira straightened, her eyes narrowing.

Kady rose and placed Fergus in her arms. “Take him to Creeya."

"What are you going to do?” Cahira cradled the infant tight.

"If he's going after Kynyr, he'll have to go through me first."

Silvery light shimmered over both bitches and they vanished.

Ossian cradled his brother's head. “Don't die on me, Waid."

A tight group of myn stood around the two lawgivers: Ultan, Pandeena, Toniqua, and Lokynen. Ultan had tears in his grim eyes. Pandeena leaned her shoulders to the wall.

Toniqua knelt, shoved Waid's sleeve up and injected him with a blend of Narcantha and Amphereon.

Waid's eyes opened. “Malthus ... wearing Gavin's clothes ... attacked me."

"Where do you think he's going?” Toniqua asked.

Pandeena considered for a moment. “The manor. He's going to the manor to fetch his family and kill the king.” She grabbed Lokynen's hand. “Come on, Loky. Hathura's already left with the others."

"I get to whomp Malthus?"

"Yes, Loky, you can whomp Malthus."

"I'd go, but I'm needed here.” Toniqua returned her syringes to her kit.

"We'll handle it.” Pandeena's power swirled around herself and Lokynen. They vanished.

Ossian stroked Waid's hair from his sweating face. “Will he live?"

"I don't know.” Toniqua shook her head. “It depends on whether I can keep his organs from failing. I've never seen anyone hit so hard before."

"Brothers ... I love you.” Waid's eyelids fluttered. “I love you."

He slid back into the darkness.

"Let's get him to the infirmary.” Toniqua lifted him up easily and started walking fast.

Bella sat dipping the sticks in the incense mix and setting them in the drying rack.

Willy put bottles on the shelves. “Can't feature myself as a shopkeeper, Bella. But I don't mind helping."

A cloaked mon entered the shop.

"Can I help you?” Willy set the bottle on the shelf and turned.

"Yes, I think you can.” He stepped close to Willy. His hand shot out and touched Willy's chest.

Bella sensed the surge of dark power and shrieked, rushing toward them.

Willy's lips parted and his eyes bulged. He shuddered. His knees buckled. Willy collapsed and lay unmoving.

"Your turn, Bella.” Malthus flicked his hood back.

She threw everything she had at him, screaming Willy's name over and over.

Malthus shrugged it off and stalked toward her.

Bella retreated, shaking her head.

He conjured a major death web and tossed it at her. “Die, Bella."

A shimmering wall of white light sprang up between Bella and Malthus.

"Get out of my shop!” Luciano stalked into the room, cloaked in the white magic of the spiritworker.

Malthus struck the shield again with his power.

Luciano staggered backward two steps, recovered and came on again, reaching into his pocket for a handful of fragile glass globes. He pitched them at Malthus.

Malthus raised his shields. The globes struck it and exploded in a tremendous stench. It splashed around his shield. He gasped and choked, backing away. His lungs felt as if they were on fire and he could barely breathe. Spinning about, Malthus plunged out of the shop and fled.

Bella sank to the floor and cradled Willy's head in her lap, searching his body with her arcane senses. “He's dead."

Luciano's eyes widened and his brow furrowed as he knelt beside Bella. “How?"

"Malthus stopped his heart."

Luciano shoved his hand down Willy's shirt and poured all his power into the stilled organ.

Willy's body jerked and his chest heaved.

Luciano threw power into him again.

Willy's heart beat raggedly at first, and then stronger. His eyes fluttered open and he breathed her name. “Bella."

"Help me get him upstairs.” Luciano hooked his hands under Willy's arms. Bella took his legs and they carried him to bed. Luciano supported Willy while Bella turned the blankets back. Then they eased him between them and Bella sat on the edge, holding his hand.

"Bella, stay here. I must go after him.” She looked so shaken that Luciano wished he did not have to leave her.

"You're not strong enough to fight him."

"I can try. Remember those crates behind the counter? The ones I told you not to touch?"

"Yes."

"Go through them. They're gifts from the Trickster. There must be something there to help. At least to keep you safe in case he comes back."

"Wait. What did you hit Malthus with?"

"Badree Nym Beast Repellent. There's a crate of it under the palmistry table."

Luciano ran downstairs, pausing to fill his pockets and pouches with Beast Repellent. There were three colors; red, green, and black. The red were explosive, the green caused acute itching, and the black were skunk juice. Then he rushed out the door.

Malthus left a trail of dead lycans in his wake. He wished he had killed Ossian. However, the Lawgiver House was too large and too filled with people for him to go looking for the lawgiver and he had contented himself with escaping.

His head swam and his lungs still burned.

"What in the unholy name of hell did Luciano hit me with?"

He faded back into an alley and jogged down the length of it. A mon emerged from the back door of the Difficult Horse, heading for the privy. Malthus grabbed him and sank his fangs deep, draining him in moments. The pain from breathing the fumes vanished before the blood restorative.

Malthus dropped the corpse behind the trash boxes, and went to the edge of the street. Looking out, he saw the myn of the militia running to form up on Main Street. He darted across with his hood pulled around his features. A militiamon on a horse spied him and urged his mount into a gallop down the alley. Malthus waited, letting him come. When he got near, the militiamon drew his sword. A sneer was on Malthus’ lips as he knocked the rider from the saddle with a bolt of arcane force. He caught the reins, swung onto the horse, and galloped down the alleyway, reveling in his power.

He kept to the alleys until the curve of Pendarke Road appeared. As he turned onto the road, the militia moved to block his path. They raised their bows.

Malthus swept his hand out and punched a hole through their ranks. As the screams of the dying filled the air, the others scattered and fired from cover. The arrows flew all around him. Malthus crouched low over the neck of his horse and kept riding.

The front gate of the Maguire Estate opened to his left. For an instant he considered turning aside to gift Kynyr with a massacred family. In the back of his mind, Lyrri's voice whispered.

"Uncle Malthus, what's going to happen to me? Are they going to eat me?"

"I'm coming, Lyrri. No one's going to hurt you."

Stone surveyed the Audience Chamber. He had all the thanes and their bitches assembled there with a heavy guard. “I want all of you to stay here where we can protect you. The Butchering Serpent is coming.

Merissa lay upon a pallet in the corner near the throne. Mary Sinclair sat cross-legged next to her. The twin sons of Malthus lay beside Merissa. Mary had sedated her and she slept.

Jocelyn sat beside Lyncoln. Her gaze was drawn to Vertram and she found herself reassessing him. He was fat, and despite the sword he wore, clearly not a warrior. Then she looked at Lyncoln, stalwart and tough in his way, wearing a claymore that he clearly knew how to use.

"Lync, you'll protect me, won't you?” Her voice trembled and caught.

"I would stand between you and hell itself.” He put a protective arm around her shoulders. “After all, if I lost you, I'd have no one to chase about the suite."

"I love you, Lyncoln."

"No. You don't love me.” He shook his shaggy head. “It's the fear talking. Maybe in time. If we get through this."

Jennifer Sherbourne sat on a pallet in the middle of the chamber, eyes closed, her mind turned inward and focused. Her mages sat around her, linked to her in rapport.

Stone finished addressing the thanes and strode over to her. “Report, Jenny."

She shivered back to awareness. “Scry wards and shields holding. Serpent has hit us twice so far. He's scanning again."

"Keep the thanes safe, Jenny."

"I'll try."

Stone thought for a moment. “Can you spare enough power to mind-speak an alert to Mage-Central in Havensword? Tell them Malthus is the Serpent?"

Jenny closed her eyes, her lips tightening. Then she relaxed and glanced up at him. “Done, Stone."

Stone turned to Kynyr. “I need to join my myn. Units are forming up to try and stop him. I'd like you to stay here."

"I don't lead from the rear.” Kynyr's eyes held a look of ice and steel.

"Neither do I.” Kady shimmered into the room. “Where you go, I go, Kynyr."

"Where's Fergus? You left him?"

"Gram has Jumped him to Creeya. On my orders."

Kynyr pulled her into a tight embrace. “My wise queen."

"Good move, Kady,” said Stone, his eyes grim. “If we did not have so many Jumpers in the ranks, I would have set up a translocation vortex. But I can't risk it trapping the wrong myn."

A harsh high-level scan tore through the chamber. The shrieks of dying gryphons drew Stone to the window with Kynyr and Kady close behind.

"What the hell?” Stone stared out at three dead gryphons, and six injured, looking as if an incredible force had ripped through them. Swan mays lay unmoving about them. “I've known yuwenghau who weren't that powerful."

"He's in the building,” said Kynyr.

"Servants entrance. He came in through the servants’ entrance.” Stone gestured for various people to follow him.

"If he's this powerful, why didn't he just strike us all dead long ago?"

"He must have had his reasons,” stated Stone. “Besides, reputation is a two-edged sword. Create one and you'll have rivals flocking to you. There is no peace for the strong once the world learns of you. You will need to remember that."

"Duty is where you find it."

Stone gave a curt nod. “Right now, duty is stopping the most powerful sa'necari in existence.

Reist came up to them. “Where's Reggie? I can't find her."

"I asked her to fetch Lyrri."

"She's not here either.” Reist ran for the door and plunged through it before anyone could stop him.

Pandeena slipped through the door, and then it was yanked wide open as Lokynen entered behind her.

A big grin lit Lokynen's face. “I can whomp Malthus now?"

Stone chuckled in spite of himself. “Yes, Loky, you may now whomp Malthus."

Lokynen spun about with a speed belied by his size and plunged back through the door with a whoop.

"I'm glad you've come, Pandeena. Kady's going with you."

"What about Kynyr?” Kady's voice rose in protest. “I'm not going anywhere without him."

Stone raked his eyes across them. “Kynyr's coming with me."

"But..."

"No but's, Kady. If something goes wrong, I don't want little Fergus losing both his parents in a single blow."

Kynyr gave a thoughtful nod. “He's right, Kady. You go with Pandeena."

Malthus entered the grounds of the manor through the cemetery. A light fall of snow swirled about him. He scarcely noticed it; his thoughts focused upon his niece more than anyone else. He made another high-level scan of the grounds. It would betray his arrival to the mages, who would certainly sense it. However, he needed to know where his enemies were and, most importantly, where Lyrri was hiding.

He flicked his necromantic awareness across the ring beneath his flesh and released the next layer of his power from its chains.

His scan picked up no guards in the garden and he extended it, brushing against the hunger and rage of the gryphons.

"Good move, bastards, but not enough."

Malthus dismounted and sent his horse racing into the yard of the manor. The gryphons reacted faster than the swan mays, pouncing upon the riderless horse. As they tore it apart, he hit them with a slicing arc of power, splitting open the throats of two and nearly beheading the third.

Steeped-in-death, Malthus strode like a lion into their midst. The swan mays saw him and charged with their swords drawn. He laughed and struck them down as he had their mounts. A gesture sent them sprawling. Three more gryphons, the big reds—the most powerful and savage of the species—came at him from his right and three greens appeared on his left. Malthus tore the wings off the reds with a slicing motion of his hand and sent crippling waves of death webs into the greens.

Eiko Morikawa, mounted upon her big red Lars, shouted for her warriors to rally and reform. Bows came out and peppered Malthus. Two went deep into his chest and another into his belly. He pulled them out and roared with laughter at them, riding high on his power.

"You can't stop me! I'm steeped-in-death!"

He drew upon the legacies he had eaten and threw a bolt of hell at Eiko. Lars dodged the strike.

Eiko gestured, filling the yard with white light reflected off the snow, blinding Malthus.

He staggered toward the servants’ door, blinking at the dancing specks of blackness that threw his vision off, and found it locked. Eiko raised her arm for a second strike. Malthus drew himself together and kicked the heavy door to splinters.

He plunged inside and threw a ward over the ruined doorway.

Eamon had never been so frightened before in his life. He stood at the head of the stairs in the servants’ quarter, shouting at the nibari. “Come on! Come on, come on. Everyone out."

They clustered around him, weeping and getting in each others’ way like panicked cattle.

He kicked and shoved them, keeping them moving.

Kissie tried to squeeze past them, going in the wrong direction.

Eamon caught her shoulders. “What do you think you're doing?"

"Isbeth's baby. I've got to get the baby."

"The monster's down there, Kissie. You can't go."

"The baby,” she moaned, tears running down her face.

Eamon wavered before her distress, yielded to her tears, and glanced at his myn. “Keep them going. If I'm not back by the time you've gotten them all out, forget me."

He grasped Kissie's hand. “Let's get the baby, Kissie."

Malthus opened doors as he went. The fighting had begun to take its toll on him and his hunger for blood crawled along the back of his throat. There ought to be nibari huddled somewhere, waiting to be eaten. The lycans were softheaded; softhearted. They protected their two-legged sheep like shepherds.

"They've moved the flock ... penned them up somewhere ... I'll find them."

As he moved deeper into the corridor, he heard screaming and shouting. Frustrated by the empty rooms, Malthus threw a low-level scan, searching for life. The floor was empty. He listened again to the noise and it drew him to the stairs.

He climbed the narrow stairway, listening and searching with all of his senses.

As Malthus reached the second floor landing, he heard a baby crying. A remembrance swished along the edges of his awareness. He had left his gear in Isbeth's room.

Entering the room, Malthus eyed the baby hungrily. Its blood called to him. He forced the temptation aside and yanked the drawer of Isbeth's dresser open, taking out the chain with the globes upon it. Draping that around his neck, he felt the call of the baby's blood again. His throat itched.

"Stay away from the baby.” Wary-eyed, Eamon entered the room, staying between Malthus and Kissie. He held his sword at guard, cross-stepping in cautious movements; his hackles up and the thick hair of his hybrid form standing on end along his arms. Kissie edged along the wall behind him, moaning with terror.

Malthus chuckled. A flick of a thought and his poisoned sword sprang from the carrying globe into his hand. “Come to die, Eamon?"

"Belgair trusted you. We killed our own for you. We thought you were a friend."

"You're animals raised above their station.” Malthus walked toward him.

"Damn you."

Eamon lunged at Malthus.

A gesture sent Eamon slamming into the wall.

Malthus stood over him, still chuckling as he plunged the sword into Eamon's belly.

The guardsmon grunted in shock as Malthus twisted the blade around and around.

"Run, Kissie,” Eamon gasped. “Run."

Malthus spun about, but Kissie had already snatched the baby and plunged through the door. He let her go. Yanking the sword out, Malthus straddled Eamon, grasped his hair, and twisted his head about. “I'm hungry."

"Gods ... damn you."

Malthus sank his fangs into Eamon and drank the wondrous restorative. His powers sang within him. He felt giddy and drunk.

Lyrri huddled in the linen closet where she and her sister used to hide to watch the lycans passing by. Her heart beat loud in her ears. The corridor was empty except for a single set of footsteps that echoed strangely.

"Find me, Uncle Malthus. Find me before they eat me."

Everyone had told her a vampire killed her sister; but Lyrri remained convinced that the lycans had eaten Ros. They had eaten her father. Uncle Malthus had told her so.

"Come out, Lyrri.” Regina walked the hallway, scanning about for where the child might have hidden. “Lyrri, please come out. No one's going to hurt you."

"Just going to eat me.” Lyrri muttered under her breath. “Going to eat me."

She peered through a tiny crack in the door.

Regina went into the Blue Room and Lyrri could hear her opening and closing the doors to the cabinets where Darmyk used to hide. She knew she could not stay in the closet forever. Regina would find her.

Lyrri bolted from the closet with her skirts tucked into her waistband. Her small feet were bare and made little noise. She heard Regina in the hallway again and darted into the next room she reached.

"Darmyk's room."

The room looked exactly as it had on the day that he disappeared. Toys scattered across the floor. She glanced about, frantic for a place to hide. Regina would look under the beds and in the closets.

The fire in the hearth had not been lit in several days. Lyrri climbed into the fireplace. The hearth was deep and a ledge jutted above it. She climbed onto the ledge and curled up, sobbing softly.

Dyna materialized in the yard of the manor with her paladins beside her. She dropped the glamours.

The Gruesome Foursome, one of her strongest bands of paladins, stood forth in their strange glory. Drakengrim led, his fruit fangs extended fully. Frozbie stood shivering beside him.

Frankie Grymlynstine brandished his stone fingers at the sight of the dead and dying gryphons. “He kill the birds."

Standing just four feet tall, the stone golem appeared unprepossessing in his knee trousers, bare feet, and artfully torn orange shirt. He had a blocky head, somewhat flat on top, with black hair. His skin, if it could be called that, had a greenish tinge.

"Winter is not my best season,” said Sugar Maple. “So I will bring up the rear."

Pieface looked grim as he patted his pie pans of doom. “I'll get him."

"No, I will.” Bodi drew his wooden sword, Sillior, from his belt and brandished it.

Lilac stood close to Bodi. “Let's get him."

Grym Ghoul shouldered his scythe and headed through the shattered door.

They spread through the first floors in pairs: Grym and Frankie; Sugar and Pieface; Lilac and Bodi; and finally Drakengrim and Frozbie.

Eiko walked over to Dyna. “Try not to knock the manor down?"

Dyna shrugged. “We'll try. If we knock down too much of it, I'll give them a new one.” Then she ran through the door to overtake her paladins, shouting “Funsies!"

Frankie sauntered over to a wall and placed both hands upon it. His eyes closed for a moment and then he opened them. “Blood on the stones of the second floor."

"He's up there.” Pieface ran for the stairs with his friends close behind.

Eamon gave a coughing jerk as his heart stopped. A loud pop sounded and the pouches hanging from Eamon's belt exploded. Malthus wore Gavin's money pouches and they exploded an instant after Eamon's.

Windows shattered and trees stretched their long limbs through to grab him. Malthus sprang to his feet, backing up before the strange manifestation. Twigs closed upon his sleeves and wrapped around his arms. He threw everything he had at the branches to no avail. He drew his sword and chopped himself free, wishing for an axe. He retreated into the corridor.

The sound of footsteps and children's voices came from behind him. Malthus turned and stared. A silver disk flew from the hand of the oldest boy. Malthus ducked and the pie pan struck the wall, knocking a chunk from it.

Malthus’ hand swept out in the same spell that had killed the gryphons. Sugar Maple sprang forward and waved her broomstick at him. The spell turned aside at an oblique angle and struck the ceiling above him, raining chunks of stone on his head.

A slender mon stalked along behind them. She reached into her pocket and brought out a handful of glass globes. “This is for Todd and all the rest of them."

She hurled the globes of Beast Repellent at Malthus. They exploded around him. His skin itched, his lungs hurt, and his clothes were singed.

Bodi gave Lilac an impish smile. “I like it when she's angry."

Every time that Malthus threw a spell at them it missed. The tables along the corridor began to dance around. More chunks of the ceiling fell on his head. The furniture flew at him. A tapestry began jerking and swirling on a wall, leaped off as if it were alive and came down over Malthus’ head. As he thrashed free of it, Bodi charged in and smacked him soundly on his shins.

Malthus threw the tapestry off and it settled over Bodi. The strange assault had him confused. He retreated down the hallway to buy himself a moment to regroup and scanned the children. The swirling confusion of power brushed against his awareness and he realized what he faced.

"Badree Nym."

Those ever-cheerful little walking-disaster-zones had a poltergeist-like effect that protected them on an instinctual level while they wielded their affinities on a conscious level. To those nasty children, a battle was a romp. No one in their right mind went up against them.

Malthus did what most sane myn would: he took to his heels.

At the top of the second flight of stairs, Malthus paused to get his breath. He threw every bit of power he could gather down the stairwell at the Nym scampering after him and then turned to run again.

He got only two steps from the stairwell when he heard the resounding crash of the walls collapsing. They had turned his spell, as he knew they would, and brought down a long section of the walls and ceiling, blocking it.

Spending power at such a great rate made hunger an issue for Malthus again. At the end of the short hallway that led into the old family section of the manor, a group of guardsmyn were herding the last of the nibari to safety.

Food at last.

He loped toward them. The six guardsmyn recognized him and made a vain attempt at forming a shield wall between Malthus and the nibari. He felled the lycans with a gesture; but the nibari were already bolting down the hallway, escaping him.

He dropped to his knees and sank his fangs into the nearest mon. The heady rush revitalized him. Malthus grabbed another and drained that one also.

"There he is!"

The familiar baritone, too deep to be anyone but Stone, brought Malthus’ head up and he dropped his meal.

Stoneriver, Kynyr, and Jordan appeared at the head of twenty Guildsmyn.

Ladyfaith leaped from her sheath into Kynyr's hands.

Jordan went for his axes.

Stone raised his arms to the heavens, called upon his grandfather, and felt the flash of divine power as the change swept over him. Silvery light shone around him, and the change arrived with suddenness, without shifting, in a transformation of divine response. His armor altered with him. One moment a mon stood there, and in the next a gigantic grizzly bear in armor confronted Malthus.

The sa'necari faltered, recovered in an instant, and threw a scything attack at them, centering it on Kynyr in deep hatred.

Stone stepped into the path of the spell, shoving Kynyr behind him. It staggered Stone. He dropped to his knees with a groan; his eyelids fluttering as he tried to keep them open. His shoulders jerked and twitched, but Stone remained on his knees and did not topple over as Malthus had expected him to.

"What madness is this?” Malthus retreated two steps, incredulous and disturbed by Stone's survival. He turned, and fled down a side corridor. Jordan set off in pursuit and half the myn followed him.

"Stone?” Kynyr touched his shoulder.

"Get after him. I gotta catch my breath. Spending power like that ... he's going to be hungry. Don't let him eat."

Kynyr took the rest of the myn and ran on.

Stone crawled to the wall and put his back against it. His yuwenghau healing processes had begun working; however, he was out of the battle. His eyes closed as he tried to rest. He did not realize that he had slipped from consciousness, until soft hands on his face brought him back to full awareness.

"Stone?"

He opened his eyes and a weary smile touched his lips. “Pandeena."

"Where did they go?"

He glanced at the myn assembled behind her: Kady, Hathura, his cousin Jushan, and fifteen lycans in their hybrid forms.

Stone pointed. “Don't let him eat. He's some kind of freak. Be careful."

"I will.” Pandeena kissed him, straightened and loped in the direction that Stone had indicated.

Jordan Sinclair surveyed the empty corridor, counting the closed doors along the length of it. One of the Guildsmyn had his hand on a doorknob and Jordan motioned him back.

"He's gone to ground in one of these rooms. That's for certain, myn. However, I don't think he's hiding. Whichever room the bastard is in, the first mon to open that door is going to get blasted."

Jordan moved to the wall beside the door and gestured for one of the Guildsmyn to do the same to the other side of it. The mon turned the knob and quickly put his back to the wall. Jordan pushed the door open with the head of his axe. Nothing happened. Jordan faced the door and stepped inside, looking around.

Kynyr and his myn joined them as they searched the second room. The fact that they were single rooms and not suites, suggested to Kynyr that they had once been servants’ quarters. Despite the tense situation, he found himself wondering what the manor had been like during the reign of his great great grandfather, Suleahan.

"How's Stone?"

"Hanging on, Jordy."

They searched four more rooms and by then Pandeena had joined them.

Kady hugged Kynyr. “I worry about you."

"It's mutual."

A bit of brightness on the floor drew Kady's eye. “What's that?"

She bent, scooped up a bright penny, and spied another and another. “It's a trail of pennies."

Kady continued down the hallway picking up pennies. They felt strange in her hand, conjuring images of Bodi and Lilac—and Malthus. She closed her hand around them, jingling them and trying to read the vibrations. A scene of Malthus’ pouches exploding and then coins leaking through the tears flashed across her awareness. The trail ended abruptly in front of a large door near the end.

"Kynyr, I know where he is.” She pointed at the door.

"Don't open it.” Jordan came to stand beside her. “He's probably crouched in there with a spell in his hand."

Kady chewed her lip for a moment in thought. “Everyone move away from the doors. I'm going to open all of them at once."

Stepping away, Kady swept her hand out. Every door in the hallway banged open.

A blast of black energy burst from the door where the trail of pennies ended. Kynyr darted through as soon as it dissipated.

Kady shrieked for him to stop.

Pandeena rushed in on Kynyr's heels and threw a golden shield around him. A hard explosion shook the walls as raw arcane power struck the shield. She swayed and recovered, holding it steady.

Kady joined her and they stood side by side.

Malthus snarled and drew his sword when he realized he could not get past the barrier.

It was a large room, filled with furniture. The one talent that Kady had gotten down pat was levitation. She flicked her hands at the chairs and tables, sending them flying across the room to batter Malthus.

Ducking and dodging the wooden missiles, Malthus lunged at Kynyr; swinging his sword with a strength and speed that Kynyr had never suspected the sa'necari had. The sword struck the golden shields and they shattered.

Pandeena staggered.

Malthus threw another spell at Kynyr, but the king saw the patterns of the energy. Kynyr brought Ladyfaith up as if in salute and the spell broke against the magic of the sword. The power recoiled on Malthus and he screamed.

Kynyr glided to the side and then lunged. Ladyfaith slammed into Malthus’ belly. Light burst forth as the power of the sword swept through Malthus’ body, sundering his dark arcane magics.

Malthus stiffened, staring down at the sword in his gut. “No. No, I'm steeped-in-death."

He crumpled, dragging the blade from Kynyr's hand and convulsed on the floor; vomiting forth the souls that had given him his power. On and on they came, flowing in a ghostly white stream of billowing vapor. They filled the room and flowed through the corridors.

Kynyr blinked and swayed as his soul healed.

"Spare Lyrri.” Malthus’ eyes began to glaze.

When the white flood dwindled to a trickle, Kynyr knelt and touched Malthus.

"He's dead."

Kynyr watched the children playing. Lyrri had been found by Jenny Sherbourne and coaxed out of the hearth. She had become a sad, quiet child; accepting the overtures of the other children with a fragile tentativeness. The irrepressible Shelley Brawleigh had made a project of her and the two little girls became inseparable.

When the defenders of Wolffgard counted up their losses, they discovered that Merissa was missing. Some suggested that Lord Hoon had made good on his threat to kidnap her. Others believed that her fragile mind had finally given way and she had wandered off into the woods never to be found again.

Prince Cooley Diomedes de Waejonan Blackwood was sent to Creeya both for his safety and to be educated at a proper court in the ways of nobility. He became a ward of the Grand Master of Creeya and, despite missing his friends, Cooley thrived in the exotic atmosphere of that realm.

Ossian O'Reilly welcomed Nikko back to Wolffgard and gave him a place among the lawgivers. He set Nikko to work upon a codex of the laws and customs of his people, had him keep the books, and record the evidence on various investigations. It meant a great deal to the invalided young lawgiver to be part of it all again. Waid O'Reilly lived, but his wounds mended slowly.

Although the spring would bring a time of war, for now, the people of Wolffgard were content to enjoy the respite that their king and his allies had brought them.