C:\Users\John\Downloads\J\Janrae Frank - Lycan Blood 05 - The Exile's

Return.pdb

PDB Name:

Janrae Frank - Lycan Blood 05 -

Creator ID:

REAd

PDB Type:

TEXt

Version:

0

Unique ID Seed:

0

Creation Date:

29/03/2008

Modification Date:

29/03/2008

Last Backup Date:

01/01/1970

Modification Number:

0

Renaissance E Books
www.renebooks.com
Copyright ©

NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original
purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized
person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file
transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of
International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or
imprisonment.

LYCAN BLOOD: VOLUME FIVE
THE EXILE RETURNS
By
JANRAE FRANK
ISBN 978-1-60089-178-6
All rights reserved
Copyright © 2007 Janrae Frank
This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without written
permission.
For information contact:
PageTurnerEditions.com
PageTurner Editions/Futures-Past Fantasy
A Renaissance E Books publication

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.

THE THREE BROTHERS
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

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 1

CHAPTER ONE
FAMILY MATTERS
Kynyr Maguire stood beneath a patch of oak trees in a secluded bend of the
Bonnie Draw River that ran through Redhand Manor's extensive property. Last
night's autumn gale had stripped the leaves from the trees and reduced the
forest to patterns of skeletal bleakness, except for the pines and evergreens
scattered through it.
The rocky soil showed its teeth along the river in a sharp slope to the far
side with piles of wind and rain smoothed boulders, worn flat and jutting out
in layers. The near side, although less steep in its descent to the deep
waters, had almost as many boulders and rocks as the far side. Stones, many of
them as jagged as a dragon's tooth, broke the surface of the creek, and water
eddied around them in foamy whirls.
He spied Searlait Redhand, youngest sister to Claw Redhand, sitting in her
favorite spot, a large smooth boulder that thrust out over the water from a
root-tangled shelf of dirt and rock.
The young prince's golden ginger hair, so thick it bloused around his face no
matter how tightly he tied it back, hung at his shoulders in a clubbed knot. A
narrow fringe of close-cropped golden beard framed his face from sideburns to
an inch from his chin. His chiseled features, lantern jaw, pronounced
cheekbones with dramatic hollows beneath them, and cleft chin made him
irresistible to the lycan bitches, which gave him great discomfort now that he
had found and married the love of his life, Kady.
Kynyr climbed to the shelf and settled beside her. “I wish you'd stop coming
here alone."
"I've been coming here since I was a cub.” Searlait cast twigs and soggy
autumn leaves into the water, watching them swirl around in frothy riffles, a
distracted air clinging to her. A willow tree sheltered the rock, pressed
along the right side, its roots humped across the edge and rear like a
confusion of dried brown serpents. The long skirt of Searlait's blue dress
spread out around her thin hips and legs, revealing her ankles and the lower
part of her age-withered calves. An inch of cleavage showed above her tightly
laced bodice, just enough to tease in the current de rigueur of fashion among
the upper classes. Her only concession to the chill morning was a fringed
kazamerie shawl that matched her dress.
The majority of her dresses were blue and Kynyr wondered if she had decorated
the Blue Room on the second floor of the manor.
"It's not safe, Aunt Searlait."
"So it's ‘Aunt’ Searlait now?"
Her spiky tone raked Kynyr's nerves like claws. “You always were ... you just
didn't know it."
"They're calling you the Lost Prince.” Searlait threw another twig in the
water. “You swore to me that you had not come to claim your heritage."
"It was forced on me."
"Forced?” Searlait gave him an arch look.
"Sort of.” Kynyr exhaled loudly, turned his hand to show the signet ring that
had been his grandfather's. “Claw begged me to wear it."
"Begged?” Searlait snorted. “My brother has never begged in his life."
"I know. That's why I gave in. He said he wanted to see it on my hand before
he died."
Searlait studied Kynyr's face and then laughed. “My brother can be a
manipulative old sod when it serves his purposes."
Kynyr gave her a startled look, which made her laugh again.
"Just because I don't use the words, Kynyr ... does not mean I don't know
them."
"Then you're not angry with me?"
"You? No. Not really."
Kynyr noticed a sudden tear run down Searlait's cheek. “Is something wrong?"
"He's sent for Brock. Why does he need Brock when he has you?"

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 2

It seemed to Kynyr that most of the family had ambivalent reactions to the
possible return of Claw's brother, who had been banished by their father for
unforgivable transgressions that no one wanted to tell him about.
"I told him I did not want to be heir. He has my brother Bran and Merissa's
twins. Why force something on me I don't want?"
"So he's hedging his bets."
"I guess.” Until Kynyr's relationship to their family had been revealed, the
members of the Redhand family had all been elderly except for Claw's daughter
Merissa who was a year younger than Kynyr. Merissa had been a change-of-life
child, born at the end of Aisha's middle years.
Searlait nodded absently and tossed more twigs and leaves into the water. “You
told Lord Brodrig MacLachlan that you were the prince and heir. It's all over
Wolffgard."
"Myn would have died if I hadn't.” Kynyr studied the fading traces of
Searlait's vanished beauty that had lingered into her old age. She resembled
her niece Merissa, with a wealth of ginger hair that had begun to fade toward
white with age and a single ivory streak at her left temple. He imagined that
Merissa would look like Searlait when she grew old. “Brodrig MacLachlan and
Fergus MacFie were too inexperienced. I had to take command ... and once they
saw the ring..."
"MacLachlan? Is that where my brother sent you?"
"Hell's Widow. MacLachlan was there when I arrived, but they couldn't find
that nest of deatheaters. I took Gram along and she located them. She scryed."
"Cahira?"
"Yeah. I made her unhappy when I claimed my heritage so I could plan and lead
the attack. I killed their leader. We got all of them.” Kynyr averted his
eyes, thinking hard. “I got my myn home with three wounded, none killed."
"I see.” A bittersweet smile teased the corners of her lips and another tear
squeezed from her eyes. “Gods, you remind me of Tarrant. Seeing the portraits
again after all these years. The resemblance is uncanny. You act like him too.
If he weren't buried out back, I would swear you were him."
Kynyr could not think of what to say to that, Tarrant had been Kynyr's
grandfather and Claw's eldest son, so he changed the subject. “I can't always
be here in the mornings to walk back with you."
"I'm not asking you to be."
"I don't want you out here alone. Promise me you'll either stop doing this or
you'll bring someone with you?"
Searlait patted his shoulder. “Kynyr, I'll think about it. How's Kady?"
"I haven't had a night home since I got back from Hell's Widow. Caimbeul's
murder..."
"A nasty business. Have you seen her at all?"
"I stole a couple of hours with her yesterday."
"You tell my brother that he needs to let you spend more nights at home."
"I will."
Kynyr walked her home. He had grown up in a large, loving family as the only
son, smothered at times by his six sisters, on a large prosperous farm in
northeastern Red Wolf. His nearest neighbor growing up, Finn MacIver had had
the misfortune to be an only boy with eight sisters. They had called their
combined sisters the Dreaded Horde, sometimes fondly and other times with a
full measure of exasperation.
"How is Cahira handling the fact that you've finally acknowledged your
connection to my family?"
"She's stopped yelling at me."
Searlait twirled a twig around in her fingers as they walked along the quiet
path back to the Redhand Manor. “Is she still convinced there's a curse?"
"Yes. She beat it into us that if we told anyone that our father was Tarrant's
bastard son, the curse would kill us."
"What about you? Do you still believe in the curse?"
"Sort of.” Kynyr pondered for a bit, wondering if Searlait would think him
crazy if he told about what happened in Hell's Widow, and then decided to take

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 3

a chance on it. “When I killed Heironim Traxton, all the souls he had eaten
came pouring out of him."
"I thought that only happened when you killed them with their own hellblades,
the ones they use to take the souls in the first place. That's what Isranon
told me."
"That's what I thought.” He patted the hilt of Ladyfaith jutting above his
shoulder. “A yuwenghau gave me this sword, but never told me more than its
name. I think the sword did it."
"Interesting. Which one gave it to you?"
Kynyr grinned his reluctance to say more on that. “It isn't the sword I want
to talk about. You see, one of the ghosts I freed told me that it isn't a
curse. It's a prophecy."
"Oh, right. So now you're a legend in your own time."
He blushed to the roots of his hair and made a fending off gesture. “Didn't
say that."
Searlait paused and looked at him with a curious turn. “What does it say?"
"I don't know. Cahira only remembers a few garbled words of it."
"So we still don't know anything."
"Someone knows."
"Who?"
"The ghost called him the ‘boy with the book.’ She didn't say his name."
"I see. Do you still dislike Malthus?"
Kynyr sensed something in Searlait's tone that made him cautious. Months ago,
Searlait had taken Kynyr to task over Malthus and told him to stop trying to
interfere with her niece Merissa's love life. Merissa had proceeded to inform
him that if he did not stop harassing Malthus, she would never speak to Kynyr
again. Fully aware of just how stubborn the Redhand family could be, Kynyr had
stopped persecuting Malthus whenever there was any danger that he might get
caught at it.
"Why are you asking me?"
Searlait averted her eyes, watching her feet as she walked. “I'm starting to
dislike him."
That confession surprised him. Searlait had been one of Merissa's most vocal
supporters in her desire to marry Malthus. “There isn't much that I can do
about it. As Caimbeul liked to tell me ... shoved in my face really ... just
because the Redhands rule does not make them above the law."
"That doesn't answer my question."
"I guess it doesn't. Yes, if anything, I dislike Malthus more now than ever."
* * * *
He called himself Malthus Estrobian.
He lied.
His name was Malthus Tyrins, the bastard son of Sidera Tyrins and the late
Waejontori Lord Feodras Iagaris. The Tyrins were a branch of the Romilays, a
large extended family of arcane toxicologists who specialized in creating
poisons and antidotes—although most of their wealth came from creating toxins
and very little came from curing them.
He claimed to have been serving as a kandoyarin—mercenary—in a distant land
when the Waejontori finally rebelled against their conquerors and occupiers,
the Sharani.
He lied.
Malthus was a bounty hunter with a reputation for subtlety and
resourcefulness. He was the Butchering Serpent, guilty of genocidal
experiments against lycans, toxin testing and vivisections that left behind
mass graves containing hundreds of bodies in them. Very few ever saw behind
his mask and lived to tell of it—except for a few trusted allies.
He claimed to be human.
Malthus lied.
He was sa'necari-born; one of those necromancers notorious for having stolen
all of the powers and abilities of the undead that they could take or control,
assuming them through their rites, mastering and perfecting them in addition

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 4

to their native arcane talents. This had been gained at a price, for they also
had the needs and cravings of the undead, the unnatural appetites for blood.
After generations of sa'necari being created in the rites, their very genes
had altered until more and more of their descendants began to be born
sa'necari with those appetites and powers manifesting in puberty. Their rites
of blood, rape, and death had become merely the means for increasing their
powers through the shattering of souls so that they could be eaten.
The more rites they committed, the more powerful they became. The greater the
victim, the greater the power they gained from it. Some created legacies of
power passed from parent to child through the rites. When a parent became too
aged or injured to survive, the child rited the parent as they were dying. The
late Waejontori prince, Mephistis de Waejonan had set an ugly precedent during
the last Great War, riting his dying mother and stealing the legacy that
should have gone to his oldest brother. With his mother's help, Malthus had
taken that precedent to its logical extreme: he had rited every sa'necari
noble carrying such a legacy that he could capture. Now, he was arguably the
most powerful sa'necari in existence, although few realized it. He knew how to
keep a secret and that it was better to be underestimated than overestimated
in his powers.
Malthus used an embedded spell on the ring he wore to mask his nature, scent
and sa'necari eyes. They could spellcord him, yet his eyes and scent would
still be hidden. The ring had been a gift from Lord Daemon, who appeared to
have an unusually substantial horde of early sa'necari artifacts.
When Tomyrilen Dovane de Waejonan had appeared suddenly out of nowhere,
claiming to be the illegitimate daughter of the dead prince Shintar de
Waejonan, and half-sister to the late King Baaltrystan, nobles and commoners
alike had risen to follow her standard in revolt against the Sharani
occupation forces. Malthus had been hired to eliminate the ruling family of
Red Wolf and conquer it on the Queen's behalf. The valley would fall and
Malthus would be well paid in gold, land, and slaves.
Because of his reputation, Lord Daemon had given him his choice of
assignments. He had turned down an offer to send him to Rowanhart and murder
the twin sons of Mephistis de Waejonan. His old rival Corradeo had taken that
one. Queen Tomyrilen's claim to the throne was tenuous at best, being both a
bastard and a female. In four thousand years, Waejontor had had only two
queens and both had ultimately brought destruction upon the realm. However,
once the boys were dead—Malthus supposed they must be around five years old by
now—all the holdouts among the surviving sa'necari nobility would have no
choice but to follow her.
That morning, Malthus went looking for his nieces. He had begun to regret
bringing them with him to Red Wolf, but he had needed them to pull off his
deception. Malthus had arrived in Wolffgard Village late last spring
pretending to be a refugee from the war. He had needed something to justify
his moving into the refugee camp called Sanctuary. A lone male would have been
viewed as suspicious and probably told to keep moving on. However, the two
little girls had gained him immediate sympathy, and the ploy had worked so
well that he had managed to seduce and marry Merissa Redhand, the only
surviving child of the lycan Chieftain, Claw.
Marrying Merissa had made his job both easier and more complicated.
His father had been nobly born, but Malthus came from the wrong side of the
blankets. He would have inherited nothing, even had his father's estates not
been burned by the Sharani conquerors. Five siblings on both sides of the
blankets had been burned alive by the Sharani. Only Malthus and the two little
girls were left alive.
Failing to find his nieces in either their suite or the manor, he walked out
into the garden. The girls were not supposed to be outside without a guard,
however they sometimes snuck out when no one was looking; and right then
everyone was caught up in dealing with the murder of the lawgiver, Padruig
Caimbeul, and the desecration of the Shrine to Willodarus and Tala.
The garden appeared empty at first glance. He walked the cobblestoned paths

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 5

among the pines and evergreens, certain that they would not have left the
manor grounds without his permission.
Near the rear of the gardens, in the southeastern corner of the manor grounds
lay the Redhand family graveyard. Short hedgerows lined the sides and back. A
rose arbor marked the entrance down a path lined with oaks. Rather than the
open spaces that most humans preferred as a place of burial, lycans,
especially the upper classes, preferred to clutter them up with trees, bushes,
hedges, and flowerbeds, arranging their graves in sheltered rows. Until three
generations ago, the Redhands had burned their dead, burying the ashes in
small urns and planting a shrub over it.
There were only four graves: Suleahan's, Sorcha's, and the remains of Claw's
twin sons, Tarrant and Logan. The Redhands had considered it a kindness that
the sa'necari had returned the bodies of their sons for burial after riting
them for treason during the Lycan Rebellion. Claw had been forced to watch the
executions with Aisha, his wife, held hostage to his cooperation. Malthus’
grandfather had written in his diary of the Lycan Rebellion that Claw had torn
his hair and clothing and keened like an old woman when his sons’ bodies were
dumped in front of him after the sa'necari finished with them.
Lord Carneades Iagaris, Malthus’ grandfather, had not meant it as a kindness.
He had believed that having to care for their graves would serve as a constant
reminder to the chieftain of what it meant to oppose the sa'necari.
Instead, Claw had turned the manor into a fortress, tripled his standing army,
and according to rumor, booby-trapped the bridge over the Eirlys River.
Malthus walked down the shaded path and gazed at the graves of Claw's sons.
The lycans were an emotional race, touch loving and demonstrative. He wished
he could have seen the old bastard's face when they dumped the youths’
mutilated remains in front of him. His grandfather said the style of
mortgiefan used to execute them had been the Fifteen Piercings, one of the
most artistic—and brutal—forms of the rite.
He wondered what Claw would do if he discovered the grandson of his sons’
executioner was now married to his daughter. Perhaps he would inform the old
bastard of that fact when he killed him.
A small-carved bear had been laid on Tarrant's grave and it startled Malthus.
Many times over the past few months, he had found small offerings left on
there, but not on the others. At one time, he had wondered who left them; a
few months ago, he had learned that Kynyr Maguire was the son of Tarrant's
bastard offspring, Branduff Maguire. Malthus had caught Kynyr leaving those
offerings in the past.
He heard giggling and followed the sounds around to the far side of the
graves. His nieces sat upon Suleahan's grave, smearing mud on the headstone.
"What the hell are you doing?"
Lyrri yelped and spun about. Ros thrust her lower lip out and scowled at him.
“Having a little fun."
"You must stop sucking on Darmyk."
"You mean the nasty little lycan cub?"
"He isn't lycan.” He felt a flare of annoyance that the girls insisted upon
referring to Darmyk Redhand as lycan, when he was Merissa's illegitimate
sa'necari-born son by her lover Isranon who was currently in hiding with a
bounty on his head from Queen Tomyrilen.
Ros shrugged. “He came out of a lycan's belly, didn't he?"
Malthus squatted on his haunches and looked Ros in the eyes. “You're making
him ill."
"So? You're going to kill him, aren't you?"
"When the time is right."
"I don't know why you're upset, Uncle Malthus,” Lyrri interjected.
Malthus glanced at Lyrri, and then focused on Ros again. “They mustn't know
you've got your fangs already. They'll spellcord you."
"They won't kill me for it.” Ros tilted her head with a diffident smile.
"They might.” Malthus pulled Ros into his arms and hugged her. “I love you,
Ros. I would be heartbroken if something happened to you. Please, for my sake,

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 6

find someone else to suck on."
"I have."
Malthus tensed. “Who?"
"Kissie's boy is quite tasty.” Ros cocked her head and licked her lips.
“Timerly lets me play with his dangly bits while I suck him."
"Have you blocked his mind?"
"I'm not a fool, Uncle Malthus.” Ros’ face changed into a mask of pique.
Malthus sighed. “At least pick a less obvious place for your sucking than the
neck."
Ros shrugged again. “Okay."
Malthus walked away, uncertain whether he had gotten through to them or not.
Returning to the manor, he went looking for his wife, Merissa, and found her
in the carding room. She sat in a large comfortable chair with three baskets
of uncarded wool to her left and two baskets of cleaned wool to her right.
Her heavy golden ginger hair was pulled into a loose tail, leaving it bloused
around her ears. One hand lay upon her swollen belly. Malthus moved the
baskets aside and knelt at her feet, putting his cheek against her stomach.
His twin sons moved inside her, bringing a smile to his face.
"They will be kings one day.” He filled with pride at the thought of them.
Merissa flinched from his statement and laid the carding combs aside. “Must
you be so rough with Darmyk?"
The mention of his stepson irritated him. Her first lover had been Malthus’
half-brother, Troyes. Isranon, the bastard child's father, had killed Troyes
over Merissa. Malthus tried for a moment to hold back his temper and then gave
into it. “The child is spoiled. I have to take him in hand."
"He's a good cub."
"He's not a cub, Merissa. He's sa'necari. He needs a firm hand."
"Malthus, please..."
He rose to his feet. “I was going to suggest a walk in the gardens, but now
you've ruined my mood."
Malthus heard his wife sob as he stalked from the room in high dudgeon.
* * * *
Cooley Sinclair and his friends, the Scott cubs, Rory and Hamish, sat on the
common with cups and a jug of a thick frothy beverage that John Donegal sold
in his candy shop on Locust Street. Cahira had given them a half-holiday
because they were being ‘much too helpful’ which they knew meant they were
getting under her feet.
They had been scrounging for returnable containers along the alleyways and
raiding people's trash. Eight-year-old Hamish earned two pence a week plus
lunch for working five half days at Cahira's Potions and Notions, but often
put in far longer hours out of choice. Rory, two years older than his brother,
had recently become apprenticed to Cahira and now lived with the Sinclairs
above their shop.
Cooley always had pocket money. He had been left well off, with substantial
inheritances from his father, Cullen Blackwood, and his Uncle Eideard Doyle.
Nonetheless, when his friends decided to go foraging, he went along without
complaint.
Small for his age, the cub looked more like nine than just turned eleven. Not
even the heels of his horsemon's boots could add enough height to make him
seem older. He wore his white at the edge of blond hair in a long tail. The
only thing that he had inherited from his Waejontori mother was his velvet
brown eyes.
Rory took a long swallow from his cup, leaving a milky pink smear around his
lips, and scratched at his reddish blonde mop of hair. Strawberry Delight was
made from fresh goat's milk and strawberry syrup with a few other secret
ingredients that Old John would not divulge. “We need weapons."
"What for?” Cooley gave Rory a long sidewise glance.
Despite the shoes and new clothes that Cahira Sinclair had bought for Rory, he
still looked like a scamp. He had a snub nose and a sprinkling of freckles,
reddish brown hair that never stayed combed for long and azure eyes that

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 7

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. His
pockets bulged with stones and the end of a sling drooped from his left one.
"I gotta kill somebody.” Rory ran his tongue over his lips to get every last
drop of Strawberry delight and hiccupped.
Cooley choked on a swallow of his drink. “K-kill somebody?"
"Kynyr declared war on Malthus. We gotta do our part."
"Where did you hear that?” Cooley earned a scowl from his ten-year-old
spiritbrother.
"I can't betray my sources."
Cooley knew he was in trouble the moment Rory started sounding like Todd
Sinclair. “You mean which door you was—were eavesdropping at."
He had gotten into the habit of trying to correct his grammar lapses in
response to having them pointed out at every turn by Cahira and Todd. However,
it remained a hit or miss effort.
Hamish put his knuckles on his hips in his best imitation of Todd and
demanded, “Spill it."
"Kynyr thinks Malthus killed the lawgiver.” Rory opened his hand and showed
them a milky white crystal. “Evidence is here. You gotta have a strong stomach
to use it."
Cooley leaned close to see it better. “Where'd you get that?"
"I borrowed it. If you're gonna look, you better do it now. I gotta put it
back before Kynyr knows it's missing."
"Who we gonna kill?” asked Hamish, ever the practical one.
"Rheu Lawson. He's a murderer."
Cooley chewed on his lower lip. He had wondered for a long time at what point
his friends would get in over their heads and they seemed to have arrived at
that point. “Do either of you know how to fight with a blade?"
Rory and Hamish shook their heads at him.
"Then you've no business with one.” Cooley took a drink, watching his friends
over the edge of his cup.
Rory had always told Cooley that he needed to learn to keep his mouth shut;
and in many cases, Rory had been right. Yet there were many things that Cooley
Sinclair, raised in a brothel until last summer, had kept to himself.
"You don't know nothing about fighting, Cooley."
Cooley's jaw clenched and then relaxed. “I don't know much about using my
fists, but I know knives. My dad taught me."
"Does that mean you won't buy us weapons?” Rory scowled at him.
"That's right. Stick to your slings."
Cooley went home with his thoughts whirling. War was coming, if it was not
there already. Dark rumors kept drifting down from the north, and it was
impossible not to overhear at least a few of them.
Speculating on that led to a flash of memory that still made his stomach
clench.
A pile of bleeding myn had materialized on the floor. Kady's chair toppled
over as she jumped to her feet. Todd, however, reached them first, settled on
the floor, and cradled his eldest son against his chest.
Trevor's eyes, dulled by pain and blood loss, fixed on his father's face. He
coughed hard and blood ran from the corner of his mouth mixed with white
froth. His lips moved, but no words emerged. Trevor's eyes closed and he
sagged in his father's arms. Only the slight movement of his chest and the
froth oozing from his wounds with each struggling breath showed that he
lived.
Finn pulled the mon off Branduff, took one look at his eyes, and cursed.
“Bloody sa'necari.” He snapped his fingers at Kady and opened his hand. “Give
me your knife."
Kady laid her knife in his hands. “They rise don't they?"
"This one's not gonna.” Finn set to finishing the job that Trevor's earlier
blow had started.
The three cubs clustered behind Kady and Finn, watching with macabre

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 8

fascination as Finn sawed through the sa'necari's neck.
Todd looked stricken, but in command of himself. “Cooley, take Larkspur and
find Pandeena."
Cooley ran out to the barn behind the house as if someone had set his tail on
fire.
He would never forget that ride as long as he lived. Cooley had not bothered
to saddle Larkspur, throwing himself onto her back as soon as he got the bit
in her mouth and the headstrap over her ears. They raced through town as if
they were chasing the wind and reached Pandeena in record time.
Cooley entered the shop and headed for the hallway that led to the stairs to
the living area. A flash of movement made him pause and he saw Todd Sinclair
emerge from the backroom.
Todd was a living legend, accounted the greatest armsmaster the clans had ever
produced. He had studied the fighting arts of the Fae, the Guild, the
Creeyans, and the Sharani. Every time that Cooley thought he knew everything
there was to know about Todd, he learned something else that renewed his awe
of the mon. Cooley had seen Todd working out during the summer, bare to the
waist; seen the massive scars on Todd's chest and mid-section. Few things
could scar a lycan, but it looked as if Todd must have encountered most of
them—and lived to speak of it.
"You got that look in your eye, Cooley."
The cub froze and pivoted to face Todd. “What look?"
"Trouble waiting to happen."
"I haven't gotten into a fight in weeks.” Cooley tilted his head to meet
Todd's eyes. “Though Lani O'Connor sorely tempts me."
That elicited a smile from Todd. He had a strong, hearty face. The folded
lines running from the wings of his nostrils to the outer edges of his lips
were deep; the crinkles around his dark blue eyes were crevices in the
stalwart earthiness of his features; his heavy eyelids did not lend themselves
to clear expression of emotion, making any effort to read his features
difficult even for those who knew him well. His calm, centered mien suggested
a mon who did not go looking for trouble, but once it found him would be
utterly relentless in dealing with it.
"Cooley, you have an uncanny knack for finding trouble."
"I don't find it, it finds me. My clothes are clean, my hair is combed. You
can see I ain't..."
"Haven't."
Cooley gave an exasperated sigh. “I haven't been into any fights."
Todd came closer, forcing Cooley to crane his head back to keep looking him in
the eye. The big lycan stood six foot three inches and weighed two fifty; yet
despite his one hundred and seven years of age, Todd Sinclair was still mostly
muscle and rock hard. His bright red hair was as much a Sinclair trait as was
his size.
"Doesn't mean you're not thinking about it."
Cooley exploded. “I ain't some whore looking to roll johns."
"It's a good thing that Cahira didn't hear you say that.” Todd chuckled.
"I'm trying hard not to talk like that ... but sometimes ... it just gets the
best of me."
"I won't deny you're doing better.” Todd patted Cooley's shoulder. “Iollen
Newell stopped by a bit ago. Kady sent you some cookies."
Cooley let out a whoop and ran for the kitchen. Kady made the best cookies.

CHAPTER TWO
ARRESTED
Preece Malloy intended to take the day at a crawl. While he could manage on
four hours sleep, he had never liked doing so. Vika Softpaws, the supervisor
for the Sanctuary Refugee Camp had awakened him a couple of hours after
sunrise, asking why he had not shown up to work. He pointed her toward the
larder with six deer carcasses hanging from the ceiling hooks, skinned and
draining, which bought him another hour's sleep before Shalto and Oswyl

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 9

Beggins, who had also been rousted by Vika, pried him out of bed.
Fourteen-year-old Rheu Lawson nestled on the far side of Preece's bed, fast
asleep. Rheu was the longest relationship—if you could call it that—which
Preece had ever had: nearly three years. Rheu had been an eleven-year-old
street cub in Skeleton Creek when Preece rescued him from two slavers on a
whim and made the cub say ‘thanks’ by sucking him off. Preece thought that was
the end of it until he discovered Rheu had followed him out of town on a
stolen horse. The youth worshipped Preece and never said no about anything.
Preece liked that, and so he kept him.
"I do my job ... I draw my pay,” muttered Preece dragging his pants on and
tying them closed. As a gesture to the chill autumn day, he pulled on a shirt
and tunic over his slouching pants.
He snatched up his knife belt hanging from a corner on a chair back and
buckled them on, lashing the sheaths to his thighs for an easy draw. His gaze
drifted to the locked chest at the end of his bed, where he had a cache of
anonymous blades that he had filed all identifying marks off. A bottle of
poison lay wrapped in cotton and nestled amongst them. Preece had not yet
applied it to those blades—he was saving it for when he found an opportunity
to stick Kynyr Maguire.
Years of working in the sun had weathered his fair skin to a nut brown. While
his sturdy bones could easily have carried more weight, Preece did not lack
for muscle and the long curves of his biceps looked like hammered steel. A
length of leather held his long, mustard brown hair in a tail at his neck. The
wolf was uneducated and illiterate, but he was not stupid, and he saw deeper,
making more connections than the others as a result of growing up in one of
the toughest lycan ghettos in Waejontor.
Although Shalto was the leader of their little gang, the Lycamornots, there
was nothing at all impressive about him. He had power and influence simply
because Malthus loaned it to him and Preece regarded him as little more than a
wet-tailed cub. The only thing interesting about Shalto was his black hair and
brown sideburns, indicating that in wolf form he was a black and tan.
Shalto reached for Rheu.
Preece's hand shot out, grabbed Shalto by the wrist, and twisted him away from
Rheu. “Let him sleep.
Shalto sucked in a breath, flinching from Preece's vacant eyes, and withdrew
his hand. Preece gave no physical clues to what hid behind his empty gaze; he
never let people know what he was feeling or thinking unless he wanted them to
know. He spooked Shalto. “Right."
Preece fondled Rheu's sleep mussed hair, while giving Shalto a glance that
sent a shiver up the younger wolf's spine. “You don't touch him. He's mine."
"Yeah.” Shalto sucked in a steadying breath. “Let's get on with it."
Preece dug a box and a silver tube from the chest by his bed. He laid out two
lines of White Fire and snorted them. The drug hit his system fast, snapping
him awake and energized.
"Hey, you gonna share?"
"No.” Preece pocketed the box and tube. “You earn it, you get some."
Chores went at a slow pace. In the early afternoon, Preece leaned against a
longhouse, chatting with a mon who had settled her water buckets on the ground
for a moment. Children went about in little groups, raking leaves into piles
and then filling burlap sacks with them. The larger children dragged the sacks
to a shed where it would be added to the mulch bin. Yren Maddox crossed the
yard with an armful of firewood.
A shout drew everyone's notice to the camp entrance. Six guardsmyn, led by
Belgair Doherty, stood talking to one of the camp's nibari slaves.
She pointed at Yren.
One of the guardsmyn seized Yren, who dropped his wood. Preece frowned and
listened without looking directly. Rheu came over to Preece, and started to
peer around the corner. Preece shoved him back. “Stay out of sight."
"What's going on?” Rheu's eyes were wide.
"They're arresting Yren."

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 10

"They know we did it, Thorn.” Rheu called him by the nickname Preece had
gained on the streets of Skeleton Creek years ago.
"Shut up. Go home. Stay there until I come for you."
Rheu scampered.
"I didn't do nothing,” Yren protested. “I was home all night. Ask my Ma."
"Bastard.” Belgair hit Yren in the stomach, doubling him over.
Another guard hit Yren over the head. “Murderer."
Two guards looped spellcord around Yren's wrists and clamped the seals on to
prevent the youth from changing shape. Yren struggled in their grasp. They
pulled truncheons and beat him to his knees in a rain of heavy blows. The
scrawny young wolf collapsed; face bleeding, and blood spreading across the
back of his robe. Yren covered his head with his arms, but the guards jerked
his wrists back and added heavy ropes to hold them behind him.
The youth writhed and continued his protestations of innocence, but the blows
kept coming.
Preece sauntered over. “What's going on?"
"We've caught one of Caimbeul's murderers."
Preece lifted an eyebrow. “Really?"
Belgair's lips curled into a snarl. “Yes. The other one's Nesswen Goff. If you
see him, send for me."
"Oh, I will. I certainly will.” Preece's jaded eyes gave nothing away as he
wondered how they had fingered Yren and Nesswen, yet had no knowledge of the
fact that Nesswen was dead. Caimbeul had killed him in the first moments of
the fight.
The guards dragged Yren to his feet and led him stumbling away. Preece let
them get out of sight, and then went in search of Shalto and Oswyl.
* * * *
Kynyr walked into the yard of the manor with Searlait, content that he had
gotten her home without a major incident. He doubted the local ruffians would
bother her, knowing what kind of reaction Claw would have. The crusty old
chieftain would rip Wolffgard apart if someone touched his sisters. Yet he
could not let go of his gut instinct that matters were becoming too dangerous
for Searlait to go alone. Had he not long ago given his word not to betray her
secret place, Kynyr would have assigned someone to guard her. He had stumbled
upon her there by accident, but that did not mean that someone else—someone
who did not fear the wrath of Claw—might not also find her.
"Searlait, please stop going alone."
She pressed her finger to his lips to stop him from saying anything more. “I
promised to think about it."
Kynyr started to argue and spied Belgair returning with his myn. Yren hung
trussed up and thrown across the saddle of a horse. Kynyr grabbed Searlait
around the waist and hurried her to the door of the manor. “You don't need to
see this."
She squirmed around in his grasp. “See what? Oooh."
Searlait went three shades of pale, gathered her skirts, and went inside.
Kynyr turned and strode across the yard as the guardsmyn began dismounting. “I
see you got Yren."
"Yah,” Belgair growled. “But there was no sign of Nesswen."
"Toniqua says he's dead."
Belgair spit on the ground. “I'll believe that when I see his dead body."
"She said the spirit was gone from his blood. She took samples from the floor
of the Lawgiver House."
"Spirit in the blood.” Belgair favored Kynyr with a contemptuous look. “I've
never heard anything so ridiculous."
Kynyr went cold inside. The past few months, Belgair had begun displaying a
smoldering resentment of Kynyr that the prince could not completely figure
out. In the beginning, it had seemed as if Belgair were pushing for a fight
after learning about Todd Sinclair having trained Kynyr. But it had only grown
worse since the day Kynyr came out as Claw's heir. The Chieftain's failing
health did not help matters.

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 11

"It's written about in the old texts."
"You don't know as much as you think you do."
Kynyr let that pass. There was no point in it. Todd had drilled it into Kynyr
that trivial slights were not matters deserving of a physical quarrel. “Time
will tell."
* * * *
Malthus strode from his chambers intending to have a drink at the Difficult
Horse with members of the Lycamornots, a juvenile gang that Shalto Beggins had
formed at Malthus’ urging. When he reached the foyer, the door opened, and
Belgair entered with four of his guardsmyn, dragging a scrawny mon between
them with his hands tied behind him and spellcorded. The severely beaten youth
sagged in his captors’ hands, barely able to stand.
He lifted his head, made brief eye contact with Malthus, and then looked away
before betraying any connection between them.
Yren.
Malthus stopped them. “What's going on?"
Pale and worn, Claw Redhand entered behind them, and turned to Malthus. “A
witness came forward and identified this asshole as a participant in the
murder of Caimbeul. Nesswen also, but we haven't been able to find him."
"Those two work at the Sanctuary. They've always been good boys. I can't
imagine them murdering someone."
"Well, they did. The witness is reliable,” Claw growled.
"Who?"
"This isn't your affair.” Kynyr Maguire stepped into the foyer and stood
beside his great-grandfather, scowling at Malthus. “Get on with your
business."
"So be it.” Malthus gave a polite bow. “After all, who am I to argue with a
prince? I was just going out for a drink at the tavern."
He went to the barns and ordered his horse, Devilton, saddled. His mind reeled
as he traveled the quiet road to Wolffgard. Malthus’ thoughts ran back over
what had happened when they killed the lawgiver Padruig Caimbeul, trying to
figure out what and how much could have been given away.
They knocked on the door to the Lawgiver House, wearing animal masks over
their faces: a cat, a dog, a lion, a serpent, a bird, a bear, a frog, and a
deer.
"What do you want?” Caimbeul demanded.
He started to close the door, only to have it shoved back in his face by
Torquil hard enough to stagger him. Caimbeul retreated.
The youths pushed in past him.
Malthus wore the same leering serpent mask he had worn while carrying out his
experiments in his lost manor: vivisections and toxin testing on lycans. He
held a long glass rod in his hands, to make it look as if his magic came from
the rod and not himself.
"What's going on?” Caimbeul's hand dropped to the hilt of his blade and he
changed to his hybrid form. “Get out of my house."
"I'm sorry,” said Oswyl. “We must protect ourselves."
"I'm not doing anything to you. Show me your faces, and we'll discuss it."
Malthus wanted to laugh at the way Caimbeul knew he was going to die.
Nesswen's dagger flashed in the lamplight as it came at Caimbeul in an
overhand strike. Caimbeul drew his knife, sidestepped, and hooked Nesswen's
blade, locking their hilts together. Snapping his leg out, Caimbeul kicked
Nesswen in the groin, doubling him over, freed his blade, and shoved it into
Nesswen's ribs. He turned to face another as Nesswen folded onto the ground,
groaning and weeping.
Oswyl shoved his blade into Caimbeul's belly. Caimbeul hit Oswyl in the chest,
slamming him into the wall. Oswyl straightened and lunged in. He seized the
hilt of the blade still lodged to the quillons in Caimbeul's body, jerked it
out, and swept it into a thrust from below. Caimbeul blocked it with a shield
hold on his knife—one hand on its hilt and the other on its blade—forcing
Oswyl's knife down.

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 12

Rheu slashed the lawgiver's right forearm open from wrist to elbow, and then
plunged the knife into his ribs. The blade fell from the lawgiver's hand.
Malthus could tell from the look on Caimbeul's face that he was feeling the
burn of Devil's Silver in his bloodstream.
They circled him with drawn knives that had the coppery stain of Devil's
Silver on all of them. The lawgiver started to unleash a long ululating cry
would bring myn running, but Malthus darted in and put the rod to his throat,
silencing his voice.
"Kill him,” Malthus ordered.
Caimbeul reached for the Malthus's mask to pull it off his face. Malthus
stepped out of Caimbeul's reach as the Torquil caught him by the hair, yanked
him off balance, and thrust a blade into his chest with a ripping twist.
Caimbeul blinked, and his lips parted in a sharp gasp. He shuddered and his
knees wobbled like a drunk's.
Oswyl's expression begged Caimbeul's forgiveness as he slipped the blade into
the lawgiver's ribs.
Three blades tore into Caimbeul's back. Two more plunged deep into his sides.
His attackers made gleeful noises, howling with excitement. They danced around
him, knowing there was no fight left in him, stabbing and slicing for the
unholy pleasure of it.
Yren kept jostling Oswyl whenever he hesitated, pressuring him into delivering
more cuts to Caimbeul's body, more insertions of the blade.
Internal bleeding counted for the worst of it, yet Caimbeul's body was awash
in crimson, and it stained the shreds of his robe. Blood and gore splattered
his assailants’ masks and clothing.
Torquil held onto Caimbeul's hair, plunged his blade expertly into each of his
shoulders, severing the radial nerves, and then striking again to shatter the
shoulder blades.
Breathing hard, Caimbeul started to slump as the knives continued to pierce
his sides, his back, his chest, and his stomach. Only Torquil's hand in his
hair held him up.
Malthus chuckled, tilting his head to the side as if considering a work of
art. “Lovely."
Then Torquil released him.
Caimbeul collapsed in the middle of the floor, listening to their laughter.
Blood pooled around his body. He lay in a crumpled heap. They unbuckled his
belt, rolled him over twice to get his robe off, and left him on his back
nude. Malthus watched him shiver violently, breaking out in cold sweat, and
then rippling with convulsions.
Shalto studied Caimbeul's body. “We cut him up good and fast."
Rheu licked his lips. “The blade slid in so easy..."
"It's good steel.” Torquil adjusted his lion mask. “Parts the flesh like
cheese."
Preece knelt and cleaned his blade on Caimbeul's robe, rose with the cloth in
his hands and passed it around. “Take care of your blades, and your blades
will take care of you."
"We're not finished.” Malthus snarled impatiently. “Open him up, Yren."
Yren slit Caimbeul's belly open from groin to sternum, and poured a vial of
liquid into the lawgiver's guts that poisoned the fireborn half of him. A
canine whimper forced its way from his throat. “That takes care of that. He'll
be good and dead when we're finished."
Shalto wiped his blade and passed the robe on to Oswyl. “The priest is next.
I'm going to fuck her while she's dying. Give her a taste of what she gives
others."
Torquil leered. “I want inside that trolleymog bitch myself."
Oswyl sucked in a breath and stepped away, shaking his head. “I don't know."
"Shut up.” Shalto hit Oswyl's shoulder. “You stuck him at least twice. I saw
you."
"I know. I just ... didn't expect it to feel like this.” Oswyl knelt beside
Nesswen, who still groaned and sobbed. He pulled a wadded handkerchief from a

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 13

pocket of his robe and stuffed it into the wound. “What about Nesswen?"
"What about him?” Torquil came to stand beside Oswyl.
"I think he's dying."
Caimbeul's body jerked as he coughed hard, bringing up a bloody froth from his
lungs.
"We all took our chances, Bear. We all knew he might get one of us.” Torquil
growled behind his lion's mask. “Would you rather it had been you?"
Malthus scowled, knelt beside Nesswen, and pulled the mask off Nesswen. He
took a blue vial from his pouch, and lifted Nesswen's head up. “Drink this.
All of it. It will take the pain away."
Nesswen took a long swallow of Pollendine, and closed his eyes.
"All of it.” Malthus coaxed in soothing tones, putting the vial to Nesswen's
lips again. “You must take all of it, or it won't help."
Nesswen took another long swallow.
"You do want the pain to stop, don't you?"
"Yes,” Nesswen whispered hoarsely.
"Then take the last swallow. When we're finished, I'll find you a healer."
Nesswen gave Malthus a look of gratitude, and drank the last of it.
Malthus pocketed the vial. “Grab a pillow off that sofa for Nesswen. It looks
serious, but I don't think it's fatal."
Oswyl put the pillow beneath Nesswen's head. “Don't die on us."
"I won't.” Gradually the lines of pain eased in Nesswen's face, his eyes
closed, and he lost consciousness.
Malthus stood, walked back to Caimbeul, and kicked him. “That's for Nesswen."
"Did you like sticking him, little dog?” Preece ruffled Rheu's hair. “Do you
want to stick another?"
Fourteen-year-old Rheu looked up at Preece. “It's exciting."
Seeing what Malthus had done, Yren also kicked Caimbeul. “For Nesswen."
"I ought to cut his damned cock off.” Shalto spat on Caimbeul. “If he's
Patton, as you say, then he's been sticking it in the women too."
Preece parted his robe and pissed on the lawgiver. “Wheee!” He shook his cock
to get rid of the dribbles.
They all followed suit, until it seemed like there was as much urine as blood
on the floor.
Malthus pushed at them. “We're losing time. Search the house. Find Clodagh."
The youths dispersed, leaving Malthus alone with Nesswen and Caimbeul. As he
knelt beside Caimbeul, he noticed the wolf's head Godmark on the lawgiver's
chest near the junction of his shoulder. “Godmarked.... “Malthus ripped a
piece of Caimbeul's robe off and used it to wipe the Godmark clean, careful
not to touch it and burn his fingers.
"I don't recognize it. I've never seen a godmarked lycan before. It's a shame
you're in no condition to explain it. You were an interesting old wolf, pity
you stuck your nose where it didn't belong.” Malthus shoved his fingers into
the wounds, glanced to see that he was alone, and licked them off.
“Delicious."
Malthus took out a second vial of the fireborn poison, pouring a little into
each of the wounds until he had used up the last of it. Then Malthus put the
glass rod to Caimbeul's chest, beside, but not touching, the Godmark. He sent
a lance of death magic into Caimbeul. The wolf's eyes bulged and he gasped
like a landed fish.
Caimbeul's lips silently formed the words, “Cockwhoring bastard."
"Intriguing. There's more life left in you than I expected. You might have
been fun to play with in my dungeons.” Malthus slipped the rod into his pouch,
placed his palm on Caimbeul's chest, and stabbed his dark energies into
Caimbeul's heart savagely.
Malthus’ Readers’ gift swirled through Caimbeul's body, dining on his
suffering.
"Relax and it will soon be over.” Malthus spoke in a venomously soothing tone.
“Fight me and the pain will be worse."
"Go to hell,” Caimbeul mouthed the words.

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 14

"I've killed fireborn before. I can make it slow and agonizing or I can make
it swift. It depends on how hard you fight me."
"Damn you."
Malthus’ lips drew back into a sneer. He sent a black wave of death into all
the organs of Caimbeul's body.
Caimbeul experienced a final flicker of consciousness.
Malthus hit him again, harder still. Caimbeul's body jerked, gave a convulsive
shudder, and stilled. His lips parted and his eyes stared unseeing. An intense
erotic pleasure rippled through Malthus in the instant that Caimbeul died. It
whetted his necromantic hunger and he wanted more.
"That's it. We called their names. I'll have to make certain that Yren doesn't
talk."
The rustic village of Wolffgard contained mostly the traditional longhouses of
variegated stone, with newer frame houses sprinkled throughout, painted in the
forest colors beloved of the lycans. A single main street traversed the
village, large enough to be called a small town, with numerous residential
side streets. Malthus passed a large assortment of shops and establishments,
including two eateries, a couple of taverns, a dry goods, a tanner's, and
toward the end a blacksmith and a harness-maker. The majority of lycans were
no more than semi-literate, hence the graphics on the signs over every place
of business. Where human villages tended to be dirty, with streets of dead
brown, packed down earth, the lycan main street was thick with trees of all
kinds and autumn-browned grass in a wide swath down the middle. Trees shaded
the fronts and sides of every building, with tree rounds and benches for
sitting scattered through with comfortable abandon. The lycans were fond of
sitting outside and gabbing with whoever happened by. People stopped to nod at
him as he passed.
Reaching the center of town, Malthus noticed two guardsmyn nailing heads to
the skirts of the scaffolds that the late lawgiver had ordered constructed
some months ago. Dread and presentiment washed through him as he strolled
closer to see them. Kynyr had just returned from some mysterious errand that
Claw had sent him on.
The first head that Malthus saw confirmed his fears. His stomach clenched and
soured; his throat tightened; and he felt a pressure in his chest mingled of
grief and shock. Heironim, my brother, they killed you.
Malthus moved further along the row and spied the head of his close friend,
Alexander Jondries. They got you too, Alex?
The guardsmon nailing up the heads paused when he saw Malthus. “Twenty-two
sa'necari. Quite a catch, don't you think?"
Malthus sucked in a fortifying breath before replying. “Yes, indeed. Where
were they caught?"
"Hell's Widow. Kynyr took two units of Red Wolf soldiers in to aid Clan
MacLachlan."
Malthus walked the rest of the line, recognizing every face, myn he had known
since they were children. It sickened him. Then anger swept in and drove the
rest of his feelings out. You'll pay in blood, Kynyr. You'll watch the others
die and then I'll kill you.
The Difficult Horse, called that because of its sign that featured a horse
sitting on its rump while a mon tugged the reins before it, stood on Main
Street across from the village common. The interior was dark and pleasant.
Barrels with spigots jutting from them lined the rear wall behind a polished
bar of walnut heartwood. Sturdy chairs circled the round tables placed
throughout. The large hearth warmed the interior, driving off the autumn
chill.
A big tiger-striped tomcat lapped from a bowl of cream set by the hearth.
Malthus had seen that ubiquitous cat before. It seemed to be everywhere he
went.
Between Kynyr taking his rightful place at Claw's side, the destruction of his
units in Hell's Widow and the arrest of Yren Maddox, Malthus felt as if his
plots were unraveling. He needed to put more pawns in play, and perhaps he

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 15

needed a new set of them.
One thing at a time.
Malthus scanned the room spying Shalto and Oswyl at their usual table,
enjoying a tankard of Old Hereward the tavern master's best mead. He joined
them. “I can't afford to be here long. Yren's been arrested for Caimbeul's
murder. Have the others meet us at the cottage."
Oswyl paled and glanced at his cousin, his nostrils flaring, and a mute O
forming on his lips.
Shalto stared into his tankard a moment as he composed his face. “We'll leave
first."
Malthus lifted his head and said loudly, “I'll have to postpone my trip to
Hell's Widow for a few days. They caught one of the assholes that murdered
poor Caimbeul."
Heads turned and people began asking him questions. Malthus told them the bare
facts of his encounter with Claw and Belgair in the foyer.
"I always knew that one was no good.” Hereward Wiggins took his spiked club
with the silver nails from behind the counter and laid it where everyone could
see.
His daughters waited tables. Hereward dressed them for coquetry to sell more
liquor, and then applied a spiked club to anyone who tried to touch them
inappropriately. Hereward had always protected his pretty daughters to such a
degree that they were like forbidden fruit begging to be tasted. All the dogs
wanted them; and none of them had the courage to beard the tavernmaster in his
den for a taste.
Malthus sighed. “I fear I was completely taken in by him. He worked hard at
the Sanctuary."
Larena, Hereward's second oldest daughter, came to the table with a tray of
tankards. Her pale hair hung in a long braid down her back. Larena was the
most voluptuous of Hereward's daughter, with full breasts, wide hips, and a
waist so tiny that Malthus could clasp his hands around it. She met his eyes
and then looked away uneasily. “Mead?"
"My cottage tonight?” Malthus asked sotto voce.
"Yes."
"Mead, yes, I could do with one.” Malthus tossed a coin onto her tray and she
set a tankard in front of him.
Her vivacious manner, which always got her decent tips, had vanished days
ago—right after informing Malthus that he had gotten her pregnant. He lifted
the tankard and masked his thoughts with drink, weighing the matter of what to
do with her. Larena needed to be moved somewhere safe before the swelling of
her belly alerted her pugnacious father to the fact that she was no longer a
virgin. With enough preparation, Larena could be put into play as the next
move on the chessboard that his efforts against the Redhand family had become.
With a little luck, no one would see this move coming until it was too late.
His gaze drifted across Hereward's other two daughters, fourteen-year-old
Rachel and sixteen-year-old Sally with a thread of lewd speculation. Which
daughter should I steal next? Sally or Rachel?
Malthus pulled a gold coin from his pocket, holding it beneath the table as he
set the come-hither spell on it.
Shalto participated in the conversation racing through the common room for a
few minutes and then left, ostensibly because he had work waiting at the
Sanctuary. Oswyl followed him out.
Malthus appreciated the skill at subterfuge the gang had developed under his
tutelage.
"Another?” Rachel Wiggins stopped at his table, the delicious mounds of her
white breasts peeping above the neck of her blouse.
Malthus flashed the gold coin at her and dropped it down her blouse between
her breasts.
Her gaze went unfocused as the coin slipped down her bodice and lodged against
her skin.
"My cottage around midnight?"

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 16

"Yes.” She blinked and her eyes cleared. “Did you say you wanted another?"
"I did."
He let the talk get heated and departed as it became a roar around him. He
found the others waiting when he reached the cottage where he had lived before
marrying Merissa. His contributions to the refugee camp were so great that he
had been allowed to keep possession of it. It lay on the far west edge of the
camp in a secluded, tree-shrouded spot close to the Bonnie Draw River that
formed the western borders of the camp. A large rough-hewn table sat in the
yard with tree rounds for chairs.
Torquil stood with his foot on a tree round, staring into the forest. Preece
held Rheu on his lap, in the corner of his arms; the boy looked scared. Shalto
sat at the right hand of Malthus, his usual spot with Oswyl beside him.
Oswyl's face was a study in panic, pale and tight. He clasped his hands
together on the table, attempting to control his shaking.
"The priest came by.” Malthus scanned their deathly serious faces. He did not
need to extend his necromantic senses to taste their fear. “Claw brought Yren
in shortly after."
"Damn that priest,” muttered Torquil.
Preece stroked Rheu's head, and the youth looked up at the older one with eyes
hungry for reassurance. “They'll torture the information out of him."
Shalto nodded. “We're all in danger."
Malthus licked his lips and lowered his head with a glance to the side. “I'll
try to rescue Yren. In the meantime we mustn't be seen together until I say
that it's okay."
"Some of us are always together, we can't just split up,” said Shalto.
"Shalto, you and Oswyl are cousins; no one is going to question that. Preece
and Rheu have lived together for years. Avoid the other groups and Torquil.
Just until I give the word."
Preece fingered his neck with a sly glance at Malthus. “We still going to
Hell's Widow?"
Malthus shook his head. “We must put it off for a few days."
Preece stroked his neck with his finger.
He knows what I am. How? The heads on the scaffolds. Preece met Heironim and
Alex when I sent him with that message to have them ambush Kynyr.
* * * *
Lycan rulers were frequently referred to by the outside lands as farmer-kings.
The lycans themselves referred to them as chieftains. There was a pervasive
informality to their manors and manners. Most chieftains worked alongside
their myn tending herds, mending fences, and branding their stock. They were
not poor, but neither were they wealthy compared to the kings of the human
realms. They kept the common touch that their people loved.
Claw Redhand was no exception.
Until he had two heart attacks close together a few months ago, he had ridden
out with his myn to work at the day-to-day tasks. His days had become empty
and his life more and more restricted. His physician, Sheradyn Kelly had
forbidden him to work, have sex with his wife, change shape, drink, and smoke.
The result was a growing resentment and frustration coupled with occasional
rebellions: he still drank and smoked.
Making matters worse, he had a mysterious group of raiders attacking steadings
and hamlets in the north; a group in Hell's Widow, the nearest Waejontori
town, had been murdering his couriers; and he had just had a second lawgiver
killed—this time a mon he had admired for years.
He stood in a corner of the cell watching his guardsmyn preparing to torture
Yren Maddox, the accused killer of the lawgiver Padruig Caimbeul. All that
Claw felt watching it was an indurate indifference to Yren's pleas and a grim
satisfaction that he had caught at least one of the murderers who would soon
be spilling his guts to identify the others.
The bleak cell had no windows; only the spyhole with its sliding shutter for
the guardsmyn to peer into its straw-carpeted interior from the heavy wooden
door. They stripped the scrawny youth's clothing off, manacled his wrists and

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 17

ankles, and attached the ankle chain to a hook on the floor. They hooked his
wrist irons to a chain that hung over a bar in the high ceiling and linked to
a wheel mounted on the rear wall.
Yren wept and protested his innocence as Belgair turned the wheel, jerking the
young lycan upward. Belgair continued until Yren's body had been pulled as
taut as a bowstring. The youth screamed when his shoulders and hips started to
come loose from their sockets.
Claw circled Yren. “That's tight enough.” Letting his hand turn into a claw,
the chieftain swiped the youth across the back, leaving five deep furrows.
Yren shrieked.
Claw swayed, and grunted, kneading his chest. “Make him talk, Belgair."
"We will."
Two more guards entered, carrying an iron kettle filled to the brim with
burning coals. A third followed with an armload of irons to be thrust into the
coals for heating.
Claw managed to stay on his feet without assistance until he reached the
stairs, and then he leaned against the wall as he climbed, breathing heavily,
and stopping every three or four steps to catch his breath. Yren's screams
followed him, fading slowly from earshot as the thick stonewalls and floor
finally closed the sounds out.
No matter how closely he tried to follow Sheradyn's orders, no matter how
faithfully he took his medicine, the pain dogged him. He staggered along the
corridor to the Great Hall, and sank to his knees in the doorway.
"Master Claw!” Kissie bent over him.
Kissie was Claw's favorite nibari. Her people were a race of slaves created by
the sa'necari necromancers and the vampires. Centuries of deliberate genetic
manipulation had removed the innate human aggressiveness, leaving nothing more
than a tragic docility. They were like the deer, but without the instinctual
capacity for self-preservation. A few well-intentioned attempts to free them
had been made, but always ended in disaster. The nibari could not survive on
their own. They had been too damaged by the genetic experiments of the
hemovores.
"Get someone to help me.” Claw blinked, gulping air, his voice harsh and
raspy. “I think I did too much."
Kissie fetched two myn and they got Claw to his suite, undressed, and put to
bed. Kissie tucked him in. “I'll get Sheradyn."
"No. I just need rest."
* * * *
Malthus stood in the yard and watched the last of his core band of pawns
disappear into the darkness. He needed to increase their numbers. Fifteen
lycan youths worked at the camp. Some of them he influenced, and others he
owned through insinuations of power so subtle they did not realize he had
touched them, and a few he held in his pockets for money and favors.
Regardless of the methods, they all belonged to him. However, only a small
core group had been primed for murder: Preece, Shalto, Oswyl, Yren, Torquil,
Rheu, and the recently killed Nesswen.
A sound in the bushes drew his gaze.
"Come out of there."
Larena emerged, her mouth twisting in unease. “You said to come."
Malthus ran his tongue over his lips and his fangs descended, long and needle
thin. He was getting bored with her already, but her blood still tasted fine.
One of the greatest joys in his life was impregnating them. The vast majority
of his kind were sterile by age thirty. There were many theories as to why
that was and none produced results: except one. Malthus was thirty-six and as
fertile as an adolescent. His mother, Sidera Tyrins, was a bio-alchemist and
toxicologist, and she had found the key to preserving and extending sa'necari
fertility. She kept it very secret. Few knew that she could do it. Sidera
Tyrins had made her son Malthus her greatest achievement.
"Have you been there long?"
"No,” she answered in a small voice.

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 18

Malthus gestured for her to sit at the table. “I haven't much time for you,
Larena. Your sister Rachel should be here soon."
Larena slunk to the table like a beaten puppy. “Poor Rachel."
"Alas poor Rachel.” Malthus sneered. “Your father makes a large matter of
holding his daughters forth as forbidden fruit. Look but don't touch. Taking
his daughters delights me. There's only one of you I can't possess, because
some fool of a mage warded her mind."
"Kady."
Malthus nodded. “So I'll have to kill her instead."
Larena flinched from his words, folding in on herself. “What did she ever do
to you?"
"She married my enemy ... the one who killed my spiritbrother, Heironim."
He wrapped his arms around Larena from behind, causing her to cringe. She
moaned in pain as Malthus’ necromantic gifts slithered into her mind,
strengthening the aspects of her jealous personality that most pleased him,
reducing her inhibitions, and deepening his control over her with Coercions,
Sways, and Triggers.
Malthus patted her shoulder when he finished. “Now, Larena, I want you to go
straight to your sister Kady and throw yourself on her mercy. Poor Larena,
pregnant by a married mon, too in love to abort, and too protective of her
love to reveal his name."
* * * *
When Kynyr had first informed Cooley that Cullen's murderers might be out to
kill him, Cooley had been terrified into silence about his parentage. Cooley
had begun to work through his fears the day that Kynyr's father was murdered.
He wanted his name back. He wanted to be Cooley Blackwood again. He had been
born a bastard, the lycan son of a Waejontori madam and a lycan courier from
Red Wolf. For months now, the orphan cub had been known as Cooley Sinclair,
his ancestry hidden from all but a few who stood as his protectors. Changing
his name made Cooley feel as if a piece of his soul had been ripped out of him
along with a huge chunk of his heart. His perceptions of himself had been
stolen from him.
In the deepest corners of his heart and soul, Cooley wanted to reclaim his
identity as Cullen Diomedes Blackwood, junior. More and more he felt as if he
walked in his father's shoes and found parts of Cullen in himself. He asked
himself each day what his father would have done in his place. Although he was
only eleven-years-old, Cooley began to reshape his self-image into that of his
father. He knew what his father would have done—his father would have fought
to the bitter end and defied his enemies and the enemies of his friends.
Cooley decided that he could do no less.
And with those realizations, Cooley matured. He experienced a sensation of
settling into the role he wanted to play, the person he wanted to be.
"I am my father's son."
Todd still refused to teach Cooley the arts of war, although he had begun
teaching Cooley techniques for avoidance. Cullen had taught him the way of
blades with a fighting knife in each hand since he was five years old.
In addition to the generous stipend that Cahira doled out to him from his
inheritance, Cooley had been sneaking out to ride in secret match races,
pitting Larkspur and Glorygirl against the horses of grown myn—and winning.
Cooley dug his secret stash of money out from behind the headboard of his bed,
and counted the golden coins. Rory had had the right idea, but not the
training or the funds to implement it. Cooley did. Tomorrow he would go and
have a proper belt made to hold his blades—the blades that he intended to
purchase from Raonul the smith.
Todd would try to take his blades away; Cooley felt certain of that. Standing
up to Todd would not be easy, but Cooley now had more than enough reasons for
resorting to what he had learned from his father.
The growling in his stomach interrupted his planning and he decided to go out
to the kitchen and make off with some cookies. As he passed Cahira and Todd's
room, he heard crying and stopped. Cahira put a brave face before the world,

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 19

but Cooley had heard her weeping many nights before over her slain son
Branduff. It filled him with determination to fight back.
* * * *
Once Larena had left, Malthus re-entered his cottage to consider what changes
he needed to make to his plans. When he had accepted the assignment from Queen
Tomyrilen's general, Lord Daemon, Malthus had not known that Daemon was simply
another alias of the ancient vampire Lord Brandrahoon. That had become the
first complication in what was turning into a host of them.
He had arrived here to infiltrate Red Wolf and murder the ruling family, while
his units in Hell's Widow severed the clan's access to Waejontor in the west
and his armies in the north raided villages, hamlets, and steadings as they
moved to cut the clan off from their allies in Creeya and Iradrim.
It had all seemed such a simple matter.
Then he had met and become obsessed with Merissa Redhand and run afoul of
Kynyr Maguire in the course of his pursuit of her. Maguire had destroyed his
forces in Hell's Widow and contributed to the destruction of a third of his
army at Three Stones.
"I can't put off dealing with Kynyr."
Malthus entered his study, activated the spirit door he had created, and
revealed his room within a room. He went to a cabinet and took out his string
of globes, a book, and a ledger. Malthus carried them to his desk and settled
in with them.
The book was a catalog of poisons arranged according to the Romilay scale with
one being the mildest and ten the most deadly. Starting with level four, many
of the poisons mimicked the effects of known diseases in such a way that the
average Reader would not detect them and be forced to diagnose the disease
rather than the poison.
Malthus thumbed through it, scanning the information and the charts that
applied to lycans.
He had scarcely begun when he came across the name Black Mountain Fever, a
disease spread by the bite of infected ticks found in the moist marshy regions
of Waejontor. The disease itself had a ninety percent mortality rate and the
poison one hundred percent. The trouble with level four was the degree to
which it needed to build up in the body tissues.
He glanced at the tables. One dose a day at one-gram doses required one
hundred doses to kill and ten doses to demonstrate the onset. Nearly a third
of a year! Malthus did not have that long to eliminate Kynyr. He saw that
there was a series of charts related to it. Up to six doses a day could be
administered before it became evident that it was not a disease. Dosing at six
a day cut the time required to kill down. Mixing it with certain narcotics,
such as Pollendine, more than doubled the effectiveness, raising the poison
from a level four to a level eight. Dosing would be a matter of opportunity
and hence erratic, but it could be coped with.
"It's time to die, Kynyr."
Malthus tapped the golden globe on his string and six cases of jars appeared
on his desk. Going through them, he found a jar of Black Mountain Fever.
First, he filled a six-ounce bottle, and then filled twenty vials with
individual doses and sent the rest back into the globe. He tucked the vials
and bottle into his pouch, sealed the spirit panel, and headed to the living
room to await the arrival of Rachel Wiggins.
* * * *
The three surviving MacFie brothers, Artair, Eanruig, and Tobrytan, sat
drinking together in the antechamber to Artair's suite at the Three Candles
Inn, located in Hell's Widow, Waejontor, half a day's ride from Red Wolf. The
cozy, parlor like room suited them. It had large cabinets on two sides, a
small hearth to warm it, and a square table in the middle where they sat.
Artair, the youngest of them, was the scholar in the family, educated at the
Monastery of St. Albans. He had wanted to become a monk in the Order of St.
Tarmus located in the far west at Lorendon Crossing. Father Keikero had agreed
to accept him and Artair would have been the first lycan in an otherwise

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 20

entirely sylvan community, practicing celibacy and asceticism in the pursuit
of and devotion to knowledge and learning. Their oldest brother Fergus had
refused to allow it.
Fergus had groomed Artair to be the polished, educated spokesmon for the
family, the one who could do more than simply a bit of reading, writing, and
figuring. Therefore, he had been not willing to allow his youngest brother to
go haring off into the western wilderness. If Artair had a serious flaw, it
was that bitches had a tendency to fluster him.
Until last fall, there had been five of them, close-knit and loyal, like so
many lycan families. Then Jordi, their middle brother, had been killed by a
group of myn led by a sa'necari who shot him from horseback with poisoned
arrows on the edge of their lands. Fergus had roused the clans that served
their Lord Duncan MacLachlan and led them north to avenge Jordi and destroy
the sa'necari at Hell's Widow. Fergus MacFie died, protecting their headstrong
cousin Darcy when her bloodlust got the better of her and she chased an enemy
into the path of a group of crossbowmyn.
Darcy had managed to browbeat Lord Brodrig MacLachlan into putting her in
charge of the MacLachlan forces in Hell's Widow. The youth seemed terrified of
her at times, which both bemused and disturbed the brothers who had grown up
with her and become inured to her temper.
They were supposed to drive out the sa'necari and go home. Instead, Darcy had
turned it into an occupation. The lycan residents were happy to have them. The
humans, from whom Darcy had begun to extract ‘reparations,’ groaned and
growled.
The three brothers were beginning to worry that Darcy was about to get them
into more trouble than they could handle.
"So what are we going to do about Darcy?” Artair sipped from a tankard of
mead.
Eanruig tilted his head with a sidewise nod. “Marry her off?"
Tobrytan choked on a swallow of mead and nearly spewed it back in his tankard.
“Pity the poor sod that gets stuck with her."
"Tie her up and send her home?” Eanruig suggested.
"Not bloody likely,” Tobrytan scoffed. “She'd come back madder than a wet
hornet as soon as Suisan cut her loose."
"I would start by sending a letter to Lord Duncan suggesting that she used
undue influence with Brodrig.” Artair drew circles on the table with his
finger. “He might call her home."
"She needs to be turned over someone's knee and paddled,” said Tobrytan,
adding, “But I'm not going to be the one to try it."
"What about asking Finn MacIver to take her off our hands? She seems sweet on
him.” Eanruig gazed at Tobrytan hopefully.
The three brothers shared a conspiratorial glance and burst out laughing.

CHAPTER THREE
TREACHEROUS REUNIONS
Kynyr had been gone more often than home for a month and Kady missed him.
Married life had not turned out the way she expected it to. She was deeply
involved in Kynyr's private war—and very likely a target for his enemies.
Morning sickness complicated everything and there were days when she could
barely drag herself out of bed. Although just six weeks pregnant, she had
begun lazing about at every opportunity in a comfortable robe and carpet
slippers. Kady had worked hard all her life, and being able to do absolutely
nothing if she wished felt like heaven.
She had a caretaker who often served as a butler, three nibari slaves, a
stablemaster, Kynyr's uncle Trevor Sinclair and his wife Mary, their four
children, and Iollen Newell and his wife Aghavie living with them. They all
fussed over her, which sometimes amused and sometimes irritated her.
Trevor had her coming up to the salle to train twice a day. The current salle
was a converted drawing room. The foundation for a permanent salle had been
laid, but most of the work would have to wait until spring.

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 21

Word had gotten out that Kynyr was the prince and heir to Red Wolf. There were
still people who wanted to dispute the fact, but Sheradyn Kelly had verified
it and the talk was dying down. The abused daughter of a tavern owner had
become a princess and was well on her way to being a warrior as well.
It had been only a matter of time until a member of her family showed up.
However, the last thing she had expected was to have her sister, Larena,
weeping at her kitchen table. It was late and most of Kady's household had
gone to bed. Trevor and Mary had insisted on sitting with Kady and Larena in
case Kady needed moral support.
It soon became clear that she did not need it.
"For the Gods’ sake, Larena. Don't just sit there crying. Tell me what's
wrong.” Kady gave her sister an impatient glare and ran her fingers through
her fluffy short hair. The oil lamp cast orange highlights on her flaxen
curls. She had given up trying to look harsh, yet she went nowhere without her
kendaryl blades strapped to her forearms. They had been a courting gift from
Kynyr.
Her seventeen-year-old sister Larena lowered her handkerchief. “I'm ...
pregnant."
"That's nothing a dose of tansy won't fix."
"No. No, I don't want to lose it.” Larena looked panic-stricken. “I love him."
"Have you told the father?” The entire conversation seemed surreal. Larena had
been one of the first to condemn Kady after her love affair with Cullen
Blackwood that had tarnished her reputation.
"He's married."
"Oh, shit. How could you be so stupid?” Kady knew she was being snide and
insensitive, but she could not seem to rein it in. She fought with her temper,
which wanted to berate Larena in no uncertain terms.
Larena cringed and her crying worsened. “I love him."
"Hereward will toss you out on the street for this."
"I know. That's why I'm so frightened."
Remembering how frightened she had been after their father withdrew his
protection and before Cahira had taken her in, Kady heaved a loud sigh of
resignation. There was no way that she could—in good conscience—allow her
sister to suffer as she had. “I know I'm going to regret this.” She turned to
Trevor. “Would you take her home to get her things and move her in here?"
"Are you sure you want to do this?” Trevor scratched at the cinnabar stubble
on his chin. He was a large wolf, standing six foot three, two hundred and
sixty pounds of muscle, and intimidated many people with his sheer size.
"I can't let her end up on the street. I'm sure you can handle Hereward.” She
refused to call him Dad any longer.
"You can't believe how grateful I am,” Larena sobbed.
"You'd better be.” Kady's lips tightened.
* * * *
At midnight, fourteen-year-old Rachel Wiggins found herself irresistibly drawn
from her home. She passed along the darkened streets beneath a waxing moon and
turned down Cheshire Road. Rachel wore a nightgown and a robe, for she had
been preparing for bed when the come-hither spell seized her. A sense of
dreaming unreality clung to her awareness and wrapped her in its smothering
folds. Half an hour later, Rachel Wiggins stood in Malthus’ sitting room
blinking away the fog that had forced her to his home. “I—I don't know why I'm
here."
Malthus had always made her feel uneasy, although she never showed that in the
tavern because he gave good tips. He was one of four humans living in
Wolffgard proper. The others were Atreius Ivanstern, the apothecary; Luciano
Albertus, a spiritworker and palm reader who had opened a mage shop; and Bella
Montegna, Luciano's assistant. They were all dark-skinned, black-haired
Waejontori.
Malthus’ face filled with predatory cynicism. He stroked the long strands of
his mustache and pulled at his oak leaf beard in a gesture that Rachel had
always disliked. “You don't. I do."

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 22

He stalked toward her, reeking of sexual threat in every angle of his body. A
sick fear seized her and she backed away from him, shifting into her hybrid
form, which stressed the seams of her clothing. “Don't touch me."
She swiped her claws at him. His hands shot out and grasped her wrists,
pinioning them in one hand. Rachel jerked and pulled but could not free her
hands. She brought her leg up to strike him in the groin. Malthus deflected it
with his hip and hit her in the stomach, knocking the wind out of her.
Rachel gasped for air, unable to speak as his fingers stroked her throat and a
sharp pain plunged through her. Her hybrid form wavered and departed.
"Scream if you wish. No one can hear you.” Malthus dragged her stumbling into
the bedroom and forced her down.
She whimpered as he opened her robe and pushed her nightgown up. Another swift
strike of dark magic slammed through her, rendering her paralyzed by pain.
Malthus removed her clothing and fastened her wrists and ankles to the
bedposts.
He extended his necromantic senses and inhaled the fragrance of her terror.
"There will a little pain, Larena ... Rachel,” he corrected with venomous
compassion oozing from his voice.
Rachel regained her wind and shrieked. “You've been with my sister!"
"She's four weeks pregnant by me."
"You're a monster."
"You'll change your mind when I'm finished with you."
Malthus removed his clothing, revealing his smooth, unblemished body. Blood
healed all and there was not a mark upon him. His skin, hairless except for
around his genitals, had the texture of silk. His muscles were so well defined
that he looked as if he had been cast from copper.
Rachel twisted and jerked in vain. “Please, Malthus. Don't do this. I've never
done anything to you."
"You've enticed me for months. This is your fault entirely, Rachel. You made
me want you."
Malthus knew he had hit her fears and insecurities when she wailed, “My father
will kill me."
"He'll think you're a slut like your sister Kady.” Malthus stroked his
hardening spear. “How many dogs has she had inside her? Close to a dozen I'd
guess."
"Bastard. Bastard,” she chanted the word as he climbed onto the bed and
settled between her legs.
"I'm not riting you, Rachel ... although I'm tempted to. Relax. Be calm. I'm
just having a bit of cunt, Rachel. You'll get used to it."
She writhed and pulled at her ropes. Tears ran down her cheeks. “Please,
don't."
Malthus put his hand on her belly and held her still. “First your body and
then your mind."
Rachel gave a loud ululation of despair as her maidenhead tore and he filled
her vacancy with his occupant. Malthus savored her terror and humiliation,
feeding upon it as he thrust into her warm wet hole. The savagery of his
penetration caused her pain and went on for a long time. As Malthus aged it
became harder and harder to achieve ejaculation when a death was not involved,
although he never failed to get there.
She sobbed brokenly. “Bastard. Bloody bastard."
Contempt edged Malthus’ chuckle. He had elected to make this one a rape,
rather than a seduction, just to keep it interesting. “You're enjoying it."
"I hate you.” Her voice had gone hoarse with screaming that went unheard in
the night.
Malthus reached completion, exploding inside her with a moan of satisfaction.
He rolled off Rachel and crouched beside her, his now flaccid member coated
with her maiden's blood. “Not for long."
His fangs descended from their sheaths. She screamed in fresh terror as he
lunged into her brain with his gifts and savagely twisted a coercion into
their gray depths. Malthus knotted it tightly. Rachel would feel ill and weak

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 23

for a few days as a result of his doing it this fast, but she would recover.
Her eyes went unfocused.
"How do you feel about me now, Rachel?"
She answered in a hollow voice. “I love you, Malthus."
He cut her bonds, rose from the bed, and tossed her clothing at her. “Get
dressed and get out of here. I have work to do."
Malthus contemplated his options as he watched her dress. Using the bitches
instead of the dogs would change the direction of the game and, with a little
bit of luck, catch Kynyr off guard.
* * * *
Kynyr went hunting for private justice. Padruig Caimbeul had insisted upon
doing matters as close to legal as could be achieved, and as a result the
Butchering Serpent murdered him. When Caimbeul had been young, his beliefs had
been different. Kynyr had been reading his book: THE WISDOM OF FIREBORN LAW:
the sayings of Padruig Caimbeul.
He had been at odds with Caimbeul more often than not; yet reading those words
on the pages, challenged by the profundity of Caimbeul's early philosophy,
left Kynyr with a poignant ache for having failed to discuss it with him
before he died.
"I'll bring vengeance for you, Caimbeul. I brought it for Cullen in Hell's
Widow. Now, I'll bring it for you."
The murderous attack upon Caimbeul had been recorded upon a memory stone.
Kynyr had viewed the stone, seeing the attack through Caimbeul's eyes—as had
Claw. Of the eight myn who had attacked the lawgiver, one was dead and another
had been arrested and was being put to the question.
The masks had obscured the faces and voices of the assailants. One had been
clearly a very powerful sa'necari. The rest lycans. Yren and his dead friend,
Nesswen, had had several things in common. They both worked at the Sanctuary
Refugee Camp. They both knew Malthus because of working at the camp and were
regularly seen with him. They both belonged to a juvenile gang of
troublemakers called the Lycamornots. There were between fifteen and twenty
young wolves, at any given time, working at the camp; and all of them were
either members of or could be linked to the Lycamornots.
Kynyr had a hunch as to the identity of the big lycan who had pinioned
Caimbeul while the others stabbed him. Three of the biggest lycans in
Wolffgard were Todd Sinclair, Raonul the smith, and his apprentice Torquil
Anderson. Torquil had a connection to Malthus and the Lycamornots.
Whether Malthus was the Serpent or whether he was merely acting for the
Serpent remained to be proven. Malthus’ connections to the ruling family by
way of his marriage to Kynyr's aunt Merissa and the fact that Malthus was
popular with the lycans in the village because of his dedication to providing
for the refugee camp, as well as other acts of Noblesse Oblige made him a hard
target to hit. Belgair and many of Claw's guardsmyn were very taken with
Malthus.
Kynyr had several angles to work from, and he considered all of them:
discredit Malthus so that he could be called out and killed; force Malthus to
come after him through a pattern of pissing contests; identify and take out
Malthus’ followers and sycophants, most of whom would not be missed and whose
deaths could not be directly connected to Kynyr.
With that in mind, Kynyr had left his horse, Bucky, at his Gram's home and set
out on foot for Sanctuary. A tiny sliver of waxing moon interrupted the
darkness with fingerling patches of shimmering light, leaving a subtle edging
upon the leaves of maples leaning across the road, their riotous colors muted
by night. Kynyr had postponed going after Malthus’ lackeys a day longer than
he had wanted to, because it had been dark of the moon, which his people
considered an ill-omened time when dark things crept out, evil things
happened, and it was generally bad luck to be caught out at night.
He had barely passed the town limits when he spotted his quarry returning from
the camp: Torquil Anderson.
The big smith's apprentice walked with his head lowered, lost in thought, a

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 24

faint frown on his blunt heavy features. A sword rested at his hip in a long
leather sheath.
"Hello, traitor."
"What did you say?” The big mon stopped in his tracks, startled, and then
relaxed as Kynyr moved out of the shadows and into the middle of Cheshire
Road. “Well, if it isn't the bastard prince. Bored with your wife already?"
Kynyr ignored the insults. “I see you've started carrying a sword."
"Malthus has been training me.” Torquil shifted uneasily, eyeing the shorter
wolf. Kynyr had a reputation as the best swordsmon in Wolffgard, which made
the others reluctant to fight him, including Torquil.
"Draw."
The steel and ice in Kynyr's glance made Torquil flinch. “I'm no match for
you, Kynyr."
Kynyr drew Ladyfaith from the sheath at his shoulder. “Draw or die where you
stand."
Torquil kicked a rock at Kynyr and drew.
Kynyr glided to the side, avoiding the clumsy missile. Torquil thrust at
Kynyr's head. The prince grabbed the end of the apprentice's blade, entangling
it from above with Ladyfaith and slid the point into Torquil's chest like a
knife through warm butter.
The sword fell from Torquil's hand as he staggered back, clutching at his
chest. Kynyr plunged Ladyfaith into Torquil's belly and jerked it out.
Torquil sank to his knees, eyes dulled by shock and anguish. “Damn you,
Maguire."
"Does it hurt?” Kynyr sneered.
"I'm ... dying ... damn you.” Torquil hunched over, holding his wounds, blood
leaking between his fingers.
"Of course you are. Now you know how Caimbeul felt when you stabbed him. You
urinated upon him as he lay dying. I mustn't forget that."
Kynyr kicked Torquil onto his back, wiped Ladyfaith clean with a handkerchief,
and sheathed her. Then he opened his pants and pissed in Torquil's face.
The big lycan choked and coughed up blood. “Malthus ... will kill you."
"He'll try."
Kynyr closed his pants and retrieved Torquil's sword, thrusting it into the
big lycan's heart with a twist that destroyed the organ. Torquil shuddered,
his eyes staring sightlessly at the night sky.
The Prince of Red Wolf squatted beside the corpse, pulled a piece of paper
from his pouch with words printed large upon it: If Truth Dies. The signature
beneath the words read “Always Faithful."
He drew Torquil's knife and used it to pin the paper to his dead chest.
Dragging Torquil's body to the side of the road, Kynyr left it where it was
less likely to be found before full daylight.

CHAPTER FOUR
BETRAYALS
By the time that Malthus returned from his assignation with Rachel, the
household slept. He stole through the gardens, eluding the patrolling guards,
and entered through the servants’ door. He went up to his study, where he
gathered two mismatched drinking cups and a bottle of wine. He headed
downstairs to the dungeons where he found only one guard on duty, sitting at a
small table near the stairs. Evidently, the lycans did not expect trouble. He
recognized the guard as dull-witted Gorgarty Burr, Belgair's least favorite
guardsmon.
"Hello, Gorgarty.” Malthus waved the bottle at him and sat down. “I was
feeling restless and don't like drinking alone."
Gorgarty eyed the bottle with interest. “I'm not supposed to drink on duty."
"One drink won't hurt you. I won't tell anyone."
Malthus extended the bottle to him.
Gorgarty took it and pulled the cork out with a grin. He sniffed the rim and
his grin broadened. “This is good stuff."

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 25

"I always buy the best. I used to drink at odd hours with Claw, but since his
illness...."
Gorgarty poured for them. “Yah. The old bastard's dying."
"That makes Kynyr the heir."
"I don't like him. He thinks he's too good for anything. Threatened me, ya
know.” Gorgarty gulped the wine down in a single go.
"Really?"
"Over Kady. She asked me to slip her the bone, so I did. I cocked her up good
and she screams rape. Everyone knows you can't rape a slut."
Malthus clucked his tongue. “That was so unfair."
"Yes it was. Can I have.... “Gorgarty's voice trailed off, he blinked, and
then collapsed face down on the table.
Malthus stroked Gorgarty's temples, insinuating subtle needles of power into
his simple mind before easing the spelled cup from Gorgarty's hands. “You
won't remember I came by. You believe that I am one of the finest people you
have ever met. You trust me completely."
Taking Gorgarty's keys, Malthus made his way down the corridor of the
dungeons, glancing into the first cell where he found their only prisoner:
Yren Maddox. Sooner or later Claw's myn would make Yren talk. Malthus regarded
the necessity before him with a twinge of regret. He considered Yren his
favorite, a special pet rather like a fine hound.
He unlocked the cell, and slipped inside.
The scrawny youth hung nude from a ceiling hook by the chains on his shackled
wrists, his bound ankles secured to a hook beneath him, drawn so taut that his
shoulders had been dislocated. Yren appeared thinner than ever, his slender
ribcage standing out beneath his skin. The shadows of exhaustion and pain
underlined his eyes in a battered face made puffy by swelling. The angry red
marks from the kiss of the hot irons ran from his throat to his groin. Long
lacerations from the barbed whips adorned his back—evidence of the torturer's
systematic attentions. Malthus could easily imagine how the fifteen-year-old
must have screamed.
"Ahh, Yren. I'm so sorry to see you like this.” He crossed the cell, and
stroked the youth's body in light touches.
Yren looked up and hope brightened on his face. “I didn't tell them anything,
Malthus. Nothing at all. They can't break me. Get me out of these chains,
please?"
"I'm afraid I can't do that.” Malthus wrapped an arm around Yren's hips as if
he intended to lift him up and remove his shackles from the hook. He wanted a
firm hold to manage the movements of the youth's body once it began to react
to his deadly caresses. “The torture was too much for you, Yren. You were
never a strong boy, so scrawny and undernourished."
Hope vanished and Yren's brow furrowed. “What do you mean?"
Malthus touched the hollow of Yren's throat and reduced his voice to a
whisper.
Yren's eyes widened. “Sa'necari."
"I'm afraid so.” Malthus spoke with exaggerated gentleness. “Close your eyes.
Think pleasant thoughts. Don't fight me. You're my favorite. I will regret
losing you."
The youth began to struggle, twisting and pulling at his bonds. “Oh, gods
mercy, please don't kill me."
"Hush. Resisting makes the pain worse.” Malthus put his hand over Yren's
heart. “They'll get the truth from you eventually. I'm protecting your
friends."
Malthus sent the first thrust of power into the youth, and damaged Yren's
heart to start him dying. This would be every bit as much of a work of art as
the deaths of Tempest Anstey and Granta Softpaws had been. It would take a bit
of thought to do it right; however, the evidence of torture granted him some
measure of creativity.
"Gods, mercy.” Yren whimpered as the death magics surged into his chest.
"Don't fight me.” Malthus kissed Yren's stomach. “Be a good cub."

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 26

Malthus examined Yren's injuries from the outside, and then Read the youth's
internal condition. Several minutes passed in reflection, during which Malthus
did nothing to hurt Yren further.
"Changed ... your ... mind?” Yren looked down at him, pathetically beseeching.
"I'm choosing how best to end your suffering.” Malthus pressed two fingers
over the youth's right lung and shredded it.
Yren screamed, but the sound could not get past the spell. He coughed
violently, bringing up a bloody froth. “Stop. Please. It hurts."
"I know.” Malthus kept his tone soothing. “I'm very sorry."
His fingers roved Yren's body, pausing at each blackening bruise. Malthus
created internal damage beneath them. Lungs, spleen, kidneys, liver—Malthus
damaged all of it.
Yren trembled, not knowing when the next pain would come, but certain that it
would.
Malthus paused on a particularly darkened bruise on Yren's ribs. He snapped
the bone in two places with a word, and nudged the sharp fragment into the
youth's shredded lung.
Yren shrieked. “Fucking goatsucker.” His voice broke off as his body shuddered
up another series of coughs. A frothy blood-flecked drool ran from the corners
of his mouth.
Malthus stroked Yren. “Relax. Relax. I'll break one more and leave your ribs
alone."
The youth's eyes glazed with pain, his head hung forward and tilted to the
side. He breathed heavily through his wide parted lips. “Rot in hell."
"Your soul will go straight to Hadjys. Murder is a sin, you know.” Malthus
broke the next rib above the first one, nudging the sharp fragments into
Yren's lung with the rest.
Yren flinched away from him. “Oooooooooh gaaaawdddddsssss."
Malthus tightened his grip on Yren's waist.
"It must look like the broken ribs caused the damage to your lungs."
"Please stop ... hurting me.” Yren gasped, then choked, and coughed up more
bloody froth.
"If you'll just close your eyes and relax, instead of resisting, it will be
over with less pain. I promise."
"Liar."
Malthus chuckled. “You've still got some spirit left. I like that."
He went back to work on Yren's heart, while speaking to him in loving tones.
“You see, my friend—I'm the Butchering Serpent."
Yren's eyes widened. “Damn you."
The sensation of pressure grew in Yren's chest, and combined with his ragged
coughing spasms from the punctured lung, built into agony. Tears ran down
Yren's face. A convulsion shuddered through him.
Malthus tore open the lower aorta with a blade of power, and Read Yren while
his heart's blood drained into the lycan's chest and stomach.
"I ... didn't ... tell them.” Yren went slack in his bonds.
Malthus Read him, found that he wasn't quite dead, and gave the youth's heart
a final squeeze, emptying the organ of its precious fluid. With a sigh,
Malthus patted the dead youth. “I'll miss you."
He returned Gorgarty's keys, and removed the wine and glasses, returning them
to the kitchen. A long worktable dominated the room and across from that stood
the heavy cast iron stoves imported from Iradrim. Malthus heard movement
coming from the pantry as he left the wine and glasses on the table. He stole
into the pantry and found Isbeth, one of the Redhands’ nibari slaves that they
referred to as servants. She was slight and blonde, her lactating breasts
seeming over large. Isbeth had given birth three weeks ago, and was now back
at work in the kitchen where she had a reputation as a fine baker.
"Hello, Isbeth."
She jumped with a flinch, turned and saw him, relaxing with soft giggle.
“Master Malthus, you frightened me."
"I want to show you something."

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 27

"Yes, Master Malthus."
Malthus opened the lacings on her blouse. She shivered, but did not resist.
Isbeth's aura was fragrant with terror to his arcane senses; but she could not
act upon her fear, because nibari could not produce adrenaline normally. His
fangs came down and he sank them into her breast.
She shuddered with a whimper as he sucked the blood from the vein he had
opened. Then he leaped into her mind tearing it apart like a carnivore into
the flesh of a deer.
When Malthus had finished, he placed four vials into her hands. “Make certain
that Kynyr Maguire gets all four doses today."
"Poison."
"Of course.” Malthus kissed the wound he had left. “Return the vials when
you're finished with them."
Isbeth was the perfect tool. No one would ever suspect a nibari of poisoning
anyone. They lacked the capacity to do harm of their own volition.
* * * *
Belgair entered the dungeons at dawn accompanied by Finn MacIver, Kynyr
Maguire, and Robert Morcar. Finn MacIver had a strong nose reminiscent of a
hound dog's and much too prominent for his long, narrow face. His silken hair,
more white than blond, hung loose past his shoulder blades. His lean body made
him a greyhound when compared to the more leonine Kynyr with his heavier
musculature and undisciplined golden ginger hair. Robert Morcar was a ‘black’
lycan, olive-skinned and black-haired, shorter than Kynyr and Finn with a
stocky build.
Finn moved close to Kynyr. “Times like this, I wish we were going fishing."
In spite of the gravity of the situation, Kynyr could not resist responding as
he had went they were kids together and trying to elude their sisters to sneak
off and fish. “Ugly cubs have more fun."
"I did get a lot more fishing in than you did."
Gorgarty stifled a yawn and straightened in his chair when he saw Belgair.
"You'd better not have been sleeping,” Belgair growled.
"I wasn't."
Belgair eyed him skeptically and thumbed at the stairs. “You're relieved. Grab
some breakfast and get some sleep."
Belgair strode to the wall and took down a nasty looking cat of nine tails.
“We'll see what we get out of the goatsucker today."
They opened the door to Yren's cell and went inside. Belgair stopped short and
stared at the deep purple lividity of Yren's body, darkest in its legs. “What
the hell? Finn, fetch Sheradyn."
Finn ran from the cell, leaving Belgair alone with Kynyr and Morcar.
Belgair walked around the corpse, studying it while slapping the whip against
his palm. “I didn't hit him hard enough to kill him."
Kynyr squeezed Yren's thigh. Pale splotches appeared around Kynyr's
fingertips. “About six hours dead, I'd say. Give or take a bit."
Morcar scratched at the back of his head, making his close-cropped, scruffy
black hair stick out. “He was a scrawny bit. Underfed looking. Maybe he just
couldn't take it."
Belgair scowled. “I've had scrawnier and they lasted for weeks.” He spit on
Yren's corpse. “This is the first I've had die on me this fast."
Sheradyn Kelly arrived, wearing his maroon dressing robe, his gray hair
unkempt, and blinking sleepily. “Killed him already, have you?"
"I didn't kill him. He just up and died on me, damnit."
"Hmph. Just give me a moment to get focused. I'm barely awake yet. Gillivray
and I were just heading down for tea.” Sheradyn gave his mouth a pat to cover
a yawn. Sheradyn Kelly had been sent for to care for Merissa during her
pregnancy and become resident physician to the household.
Belgair's lips curled back and he bared his teeth. The healer's nancidawg
manner grated on his nerves. “Get on with it."
"I am. You can't rush something like this.” Sheradyn rolled his sleeves up and
placed his hand on Yren's chest to Read his remains. A good Reader could

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 28

discern the patterns of the genes; a great Reader could perceive it all right
down to the molecular structure. He frowned in concentration, then pulled a
handkerchief from his pocket, and cleaned his hand off. “Two fragments of rib
are in his lungs. It's possible he drowned in his own blood. However, I'm
inclined to say his heart gave out."
Catching the looks passing between Kynyr and Sheradyn, Belgair shook his head.
“I didn't hit him hard enough to break his ribs. I know what I'm doing."
Kynyr shrugged. “We didn't either."
"Well, one of you did.” Sheradyn's brow furrowed. “If you're going to doubt
me, just cut him open and look at it. You'll find the pieces where I've said
you would."
Belgair left without another word. He climbed the stairs to the second floor
and headed for the Blue Room to see if Claw was up yet.
Malthus fell into step beside him just past the staircase. “What's going on?"
"I must tell Claw first. You can come along. It's no secret."
Claw sat by the hearth in the Blue Room, his face lined and haggard. He held
one hand pressed to his chest, and his other hand gripping the chair arm so
tight the knuckles were white.
Belgair went up to him. “Are you all right?"
The chieftain glanced up at Belgair. “What do you think?"
Malthus glanced at Belgair with a faint shake of his head and then turned to
Claw. “I think you're hurting again. Shall I get Sheradyn?"
"No. Just tell me why you're here so early.” Claw grimaced and shoved his palm
into his chest again.
Malthus lowered his head with a solicitous look. “Shall I at least get your
medicine?"
"I've taken it already. Get to the point."
Belgair shrugged. “Yren's dead."
"How?” Claw's face reddened with anger as he listened to Belgair explain.
"I've never killed one this fast before. I always get the information..."
"Fetch Pandeena. I want a second opinion."
Belgair shook his head, frowning. He looked away and then back again. “That's
not necessary."
"I'll tell you what's needed and you'll do it!"
Malthus went to the liquor cabinet and poured two glasses from a bottle of
whiskey. He carried one to Claw. “You need to relax."
Claw snatched the whiskey from Malthus’ hand and downed it. He wiped his mouth
off on his sleeve. “Go on, Belgair. Have someone fetch Pandeena. Now!"
Belgair retreated to the door without another word.
Claw glared at Malthus. “Pour me another one."
* * * *
Yren's death did not add up. Kynyr walked around Yren's corpse, eyeing the
marks on it. He had come to work for Claw shortly after turning sixteen and
was now twenty-one. In all those years, Belgair had not lost a prisoner
prematurely during interrogation. The broken ribs bothered him the most.
"This stinks."
"He sure does.” Finn's nostrils twitched.
"That's not what I'm talking about. Belgair has a deft hand at torture. He's
never accidentally killed a prisoner.” Kynyr could not stop thinking about it.
His thoughts circled with such intensity that he had to catch himself to keep
from simply repeating it over and over again.
"Either he did or someone else did."
"Did anyone see Malthus come home last night?"
"No idea."
"Ask around for me, Finn?"
"Sure.” Finn gave him a lopsided grin. “You want to go drinking with us
tonight? Or are you too married for that?"
"If I'd married Igrainne, as everyone thought I would, I'd have the Dreaded
Horde trying to tack my hide to the wall."
Finn chuckled at the mention of their sisters, his eight and Kynyr's six.

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 29

“Death by hairbrush is not a pleasant way to go. But seriously, Erskine and
Vayle are going, but it's not the same without you."
"So long as we do it on the early side, I doubt Kady will object."
Kynyr went up to the Blue Room to talk to Claw, and found him drinking whiskey
with Malthus. More and more often, Kynyr found Malthus sitting alone with his
grandfather. The closest thing to proof that Kynyr had of Malthus’ dark
motives were the words of a dead bitch, Baroucha Seaver.
"Malthus will kill you, Kynyr. He'll kill you all."
Kynyr dared not share those words, because they would incriminate him in her
murder.
Frustrated by his inability to deal directly with Malthus, his uncle by
marriage, a surge of irritation derailed Kynyr from what he had originally
meant to say. Suddenly he just wanted to get away from the manor for a bit. He
wanted to hold Kady in his arms and kiss her; tell her how much he loved her,
and take comfort in her presence. “With everything going on, Grandfather, I
haven't had a night home since I left for Hell's Widow."
Claw's expression softened. “Go home. Just remember to bring that wife of
yours to visit me."
* * * *
Preece spied Vika Softpaws, a stout matronly figure, heading in the direction
of his longhouse and faded back into a cluster of trees where he knelt down to
avoid being spotted by her. She had only been in charge of the camp for three
days and already he hated her.
Vika pounded on his door. “Preece, get your lazy self out here. There's work
to be done."
Preece darted deeper into the trees, cutting across the camp to Cheshire Road.
None of the wolves he passed said anything to him. They were all afraid of him
with good reason. Once beyond Vika's reach, his long legs settled into a
comfortable saunter, heading for Wolffgard and a tankard at the Difficult
Horse.
Passing a tree stump, Preece settled cross-legged on the ground to use the
stump as a table. He took his box of White Fire and the metal tube from his
pouch and laid out lines in the lid. Until he met Malthus, he had not had the
wherewithal to feed his addictions in many years. Now he could not seem to go
a full day without using and Malthus always had more for him—free.
He snorted four lines before he felt he had had enough, savored the rush, and
put it all away. Preece had not walked much farther when the harsh sounds of
crows drew him to a stand of pine trees. Three myn stood there, staring down
at something. He approached and they moved away from him. Then he saw what
they were staring at: Torquil's body.
Preece saw the note on Torquil's chest. “What's it say? Can either of you
read?"
One of them nodded and told him.
Alarm shivered through Preece. The last time that Preece had started finding
friends dead on the roadsides had been during a gang war in Skeleton Creek,
Waejontor. Preece had been raised a city wolf, not a clan wolf, and his
instincts screamed that he was facing a turfwar. The problem was ... with who?
* * * *
Raonul's Smithy sat on the north end of Main Street close to where Main became
Cheshire Road. Cooley set off for the smithy as soon as he finished exercising
the horses he had inherited from his father. He walked with a purposeful
stride, wearing his best clothes and a determined look. Rory and Hamish
trailed after Cooley, asking questions and getting no answers.
Raonul was best known for the weapons he made, although he also shoed horses
and occasionally cast steel to produce a few specialty items on commission.
A bell hanging from the door rang as Cooley stepped into the shop section of
the smithy. He stood with his hands on his hips, a determined glint in his
eyes, and scanned the racks and stands of weapons.
The bell had alerted Raonul to their presence, and he appeared in a thrice. He
turned a skeptical eye on the mismatched cubs, two of them scruffy and the

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 30

third well dressed. “What do ya want?"
"I want to buy some weapons.” Cooley looked up at Raonul in an exaggeratedly
business-like manner made ludicrous by his height and years.
Raonul repressed a chuckle only to have it escape as a snort. “They're
expensive. Ya got money?"
Cooley brought out a handful of gold crowns. “Plenty."
"Where'd ya get all that?” Raonul's bushy eyebrows shot up to his hairline
along with the furrowed folds of his skin.
"My stipend."
"Whatcha gonna do? Kill somebody?"
Cooley tilted his head to an exasperated angle, twitching with rebellion, sick
of hiding behind his adopted name of Sinclair and hungry to be his father's
son again. “My father was Cullen Blackwood. I can ride like him and I can
fight like him. I'm Cullen Diomedes Blackwood, junior. But you can call me
Cooley."
"I remember Cullen. Ya look like yer were spit out of his mouth ... except fer
them eyes.” Raonul's expression turned considering. “Come on and have a look."
Rory and Hamish ran to the knives, grabbing the biggest ones. Cooley came up
and took the knives from them. He tested the weight and balance of each. “Not
these."
Cooley put them away, and ran his gaze across the selection. Rory followed him
open-mouthed as Cooley tested each of them in turn.
Raonul lifted an eyebrow at that. “Fer a wisp of a wee cub, ya've got a good
eye."
"My Da taught me.” Cooley picked six blades, tested the temper, and decided he
liked them. “I'll take these."
Then Cooley moved on to the maces and chose the smallest of them, again trying
the balance.
Rory frowned. “Those ain't big enough."
Cooley gave Rory a quelling look. “You want something light enough to swing it
easily. You're not big enough for something heavy."
Cooley paid for six knives and three maces.
As they trailed out of the smithy, Rory remarked, “You gave in and bought them
awful easy."
"Ayup. Cos Cahira still cries at night."
"You going to share those?"
"Nope. I got plans."
By the time that Cooley had finished shopping, he had a heavy leather belt
that been made to fit and sheaths for his blades. He strapped on two blades
and tied them to his legs.
Cahira's Potions and Notions stood around the corner and down two blocks from
the Difficult Horse Tavern. Underneath the words on her sign were three sets
of symbols that the largely illiterate lycan community could understand: a
mortar and pestle; a serpent wrapped staff; a book, a bottle of ink, and a
quill. The shop combined Cahira's four specialties; apothecary, healer,
scribe, and translator. She could read and write in six languages, and she
spoke ten. Even for a lycan that was unusual. Most could manage to speak four:
lycan, common, Sharani and Waejontori. And read none.
Cahira's Potions and Notions had display cabinets along two sides with wall to
ceiling shelves and drawers behind them and along the back. A table with seven
chairs stood at the rear, where customers could discuss their choices and pay
for the purchases. The standard merchandise included medicines, salves,
creams, and cosmetics on one side and sewing needs on their other. The rest of
it changed from time to time as Cahira's suppliers found assorted items of
limited availability to offer her. A stack of ‘pressed’ books occupied the end
of one display counter. The city of Havensword in Creeya had three of the new
printing presses imported from Iradrim; Red Wolf had none. Whenever a supplier
offered her a crate of pressed books, Cahira bought the lot of them,
appropriating what looked like a good addition to her own library; then Todd
went through to see if any ‘naughty’ books had been included and made off with

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 31

those he had not acquired yet; and the remainder were sold in the shop.
When Cooley strode in wearing his blades Cahira was nowhere to be seen and he
found himself facing Todd a lot sooner than he had expected.
The big, red-haired lycan turned from stocking shelves and frowned at Cooley.
“What are you doing with those?"
"Protecting myself. I saw what they did to Kynyr's dad."
Cooley knew he had scored a direct hit on Todd, when his adopted father's
expression went guarded. “You know how to use them?"
Cooley crooked a finger and led Todd out the back door and around behind the
barn where the cubs had pinned a target to a bail of hay. Cooley drew, tested
the balance, and put both knives into the target.
Todd whistled at that. “Don't go sticking cubs because they taunt you."
Cooley looked up at Todd, his eyes and the set of his mouth twisted with
exasperation. “If there were any chance of that I would have already done it.
And I haven't."
"Point made."
"I'm Cullen Diomedes Blackwood. I can ride and I can fight just like my
father. I'm not Cooley Sinclair anymore."
"Your mind's made up?"
"Ayup."
"Then if anything comes of that, we'll deal with it."

CHAPTER FIVE
TAKING CARE OF BUSINESS
The bloody desecration of the shrine to Willodarus and Tala in their joint
roles as guardians of the wolves and lycans had demanded a cleansing by fire.
So Claw's guardsmyn had burned it to the ground. Afterward Pandeena's lycan
congregation had planted the soil with rue, garlic, witch grass, and nettles.
Finally, they set out rowan and birch trees. The cemetery behind the shrine
had been carefully preserved and stood as it always had.
The foundation for a new shrine had been laid several yards from the old one
and the entire village turned out for the raising, but it would still be a
matter of weeks before Pandeena could move into the priest's quarters. They
were building it larger so that Pandeena would not have to live alone, and
risk placing her in danger from the old shrine's desecrators.
For the time being, Pandeena lived at the Lawgiver House where Caimbeul had
died.
Hathura Waveskimmer answered the door and let Belgair in.
The captain of Claw's guards flicked his gaze across Hathura, not bothering to
hide the flash of disdain in his eyes. Hathura's people were regarded as
dandies, dilettantes, and fools by those who did not know them well. But the
true fool was he who underestimated the Fae. Slender to the point of appearing
fragile, yet flaring through the shoulders, translucently pale-skinned with
white hair and silver eyes, the son of Willodarus and Thistlebit the Faery
queen's Captain of the Guard, Hathura was a steel blade in a velvet sheath.
Clad all in shades of green from forest to hunter, he carried his deadly
golden fans folded and tucked into the yellow sash that crossed the leather
belt holding his long bladed knife.
The Fae wondered what Belgair would say if he knew that all seven who were
currently living in the Lawgiver House were yuwenghau, demigods and minor
divines who served as knights-errant, pitting themselves against the greater
evils of their world. Hathura did not intend to tell him, although Claw knew
about four of them.
Belgair stalked into the living room without so much as a greeting.
Hathura shrugged and followed him.
Pandeena sat in a chair by the window while Toniqua sat cross-legged on the
rug checking the drugs and equipment in her medicine satchel. They were a
study in contrasts: tall, blonde, and fair-skinned Pandeena Moonbow; tiny dark
Toniqua Nightsbane.
Pandeena looked up and rubbed her reddened eyes. She had been crying again

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 32

over Caimbeul's death. “What is it?"
Belgair shoved his thumbs behind his sword belt. “Claw wants you. Yren's
dead."
"How?” Pandeena transformed in an instant from a grief-stricken bitch into a
priest alert to trouble.
"Sheradyn says that one of the torturers must have broken his ribs and one of
them punctured his lung."
"He drowned in his own blood?"
"Possibly. Claw wants you to Read the body."
"It isn't me you need. It's Toniqua. But I'll come as well."
Pandeena snatched up her cloak and Toniqua shouldered her satchels, and they
went out with Belgair.
"I'm an old hand at torture ... never had one die this fast on me before.”
Belgair sounded affronted. “I don't usually break bones unless I intend to."
They reached the manor and Belgair led them down into the dungeons. They found
Claw sitting in a chair in the cell staring at Yren's body hanging in its
chains. Sheradyn stood beside the chieftain, arrayed in his usual finery,
maroon jacket and knee-pants, black velvet vest, and hose; looking more
nancidawg than ever.
"Not a pleasant death.” Sheradyn shook his head at them.
Pandeena gave Toniqua a nod, and the Guild-trained coroner touched Yren's
body. “Maybe worse than you know.” She extended her Reader's senses throughout
the corpse, but centered around the ribs and the heart, since the conclusion
to the attack on Caimbeul had focused on his heart. “I'm finding some vague
anomalies."
"How can you tell?” Sheradyn frowned.
"My gift encompasses an awareness of magery. There's traces of it at the base
of two broken ribs, the ones that punctured his lungs, and more traces around
his heart. His heart was stilled before his lungs filled up. Then the heart
was squeezed to fill the lungs."
"I would seriously debate that with you."
Toniqua's frown went deeper and the old healer retreated a step. “Don't
contradict me. I'll need a table for my examination. I want to open the corpse
up and take samples."
Sheradyn looked green and sickened. “Now, just look here. I trained in Creeya
at Havensword. I know what I'm doing. There's no need to violate the poor
lad's body any further."
"So what.” Toniqua tossed her words at him with cheeky disparagement. “I
trained at Havensword also. Graduate work. My first degree is from the Sacred
Heart of Davera Medical College in Shaurone. My third is from..."
Sheradyn's eyes widened as Toniqua rattled off six different accreditations.
Belgair glanced from Sheradyn to Toniqua. “Is that necessary? We hang our
criminals up to rot in the square."
Toniqua favored him with a grin. “Don't worry, I'll stitch him closed when I
finish. Then you can hang him up."
Claw growled. “You're lucky I don't tack your hide to the wall, Belgair ...
for letting this happen."
Belgair stood his ground. “You'll regret bringing in outsiders, Claw."
"Shut up!"
Belgair flinched at the anger in his chieftain's voice, bowed himself out, and
headed for the stairs.
"Fetch Brock, Pandeena.” Claw sounded weary. “I need him now. Right now."
Belgair caught Brock's name, turned around, and drifted back toward the cell
to listen. “That goatsucking, cockwhore rapes his own sister ... and Claw
sends for the arsehole to be regent."
"You ought to be more careful what you say."
Belgair's head jerked up and he turned to find Malthus standing beside him.
“Like hell!"
"Oh, but you should. Claw's very unhappy with you. Brock's his brother. You're
walking on thin ice,” Malthus said smoothly with a trace of concern.

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 33

"You're going to tell him?"
"Me? Of course not. I consider you a friend. That's why I'm warning you."
* * * *
Kynyr smelled bread and cookies baking as he stepped through the front door
into his home. A rush of welcome pervaded this house that he bought for Kady
as a wedding gift. The house had seventy-three rooms and Kady sometimes
complained that she had no idea what to do with it all. They had one hundred
acres of orchards and twice that of grazing land and forest.
He found the bitches of his household in the kitchen chatting and cooking.
Aghavie Newell sat peeling potatoes. She was a waif-like twelve-year-old,
nearly seven months pregnant as a result of being gang-raped last spring.
Iollen Newell married her to give her child a father and save her family from
the disgrace of having an unwed mother as their daughter.
She had arrived in their household frightened and nervous; and blossomed into
a perpetually smiling young bitch under the sheltering kindness of Kady and
Mary.
Kynyr's Aunt Mary Sinclair, a pretty, auburn haired bitch, stood at the stove,
stirring apples cooking in honey that would be canned for the winter. The
final harvest had to be either cooked or dried and the kitchen smelled with
wondrous things. Dried herbs hung in bundles from the ceiling beams.
Kady sat at the table drinking tea and talking to her sister Larena. She
turned around at the sound of Kynyr's voice and rushed to him. She kissed him.
“I'm so glad you're home."
"Me too."
Kynyr's gaze slid to Larena. “What's she doing here?"
Larena flinched at the tone in Kynyr's voice.
Kady drew Kynyr out of the kitchen. “Hereward threw her out."
"Why?"
"Larena wasn't ... as careful as I was with Cullen."
"She's cocked up?” Kynyr's lips twisted on the edge of a snarl.
"You could use a gentler term, Kynyr."
"Why should I? Every time your family comes around, they hurt you."
"She's living here now. Please try to be nice."
"If Larena hurts you, she's out of here. Understood?"
Kady slid her arm around Kynyr's waist and walked him out onto the veranda.
“It's a nice day."
They settled on the sofa together with Kady in the circle of his arm, her head
resting on his shoulder. Kynyr relaxed as a sense of contentment spread
through him and he allowed Kady to change the subject. She knew when, where,
why, and how to choose her battles and Kynyr had not managed to win one yet.
“Yes it is.” His hand went to her belly and rubbed it fondly. “You mind if we
name him Fergus?"
"Fergus? No, I don't mind. But why Fergus?"
Then Kynyr told her the story of Fergus MacFie, the general of Clan
MacLachlan, a brave mon who had died at Hell's Widow, helping Kynyr to rout
the sa'necari there.
"Fergus Maguire. Okay, but I choose the middle name."
Kynyr kissed her. “And what will that be?"
"Todd."
"Fergus Todd Maguire.” Kynyr kissed her again. “I like the sound of that."
* * * *
Guards cleared the way for the wagon carrying Yren's corpse. A cheer went up
from the eager watchers. However, there were not as many present as there had
been on the day that Donald Greenlea and Iollen Newell had been flogged. A
deadmon's corpse held far less fascination than the pain and suffering of
condemned myn.
The scaffolds had originally been four platforms, each of them twenty feet
square, with steps along the sides, and a frame across the top to hold the
hangmon's nooses. Claw had built them four and a half years ago to execute the
outlaws his guardsmyn captured when they ran those renegades to earth. Padruig

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 34

Caimbeul had expanded and re-designed them.
There were now eight square platforms. The side steps had been removed from
each, and a long sturdy walkway connected them in the rear broad enough for
three guardsmyn to march the length of it abreast. A log skirt beneath the
walkway prevented anyone from seeing what went on behind it with the only
steps up to the scaffolds at either end of the walkway. T-shaped flogging
posts had been erected on the two central squares.
A pair of guards let the back of the wagon down, jumped in, and tossed Yren to
two that waited. They carried him on to the platform, tied a strong rope to
the corpse's wrists, threw the end over a frame, and hauled Yren up. They
secured the rope to a sideboard.
The corpse swayed in small circles and finally stopped. It hung as a warning
to those traitors who had not yet been caught. Guards were posted around it to
keep away the ghoulish that stole the bones of executed criminals to sell as
charms. Battle-clan chieftains especially liked braiding the finger bones into
their hair and would pay well for them.
Yren's mother Dahlia Maddox emerged from the crowd, clad in the black of
mourning, and approached the guards weeping. Hisses and insults greeted her
arrival as the crowd realized they would finally get some entertainment.
"He didn't do it. My Yren wouldn't kill anyone."
Obscene noises rose louder from the crowd.
Dahlia saw the black stitching that held Yren's autopsied corpse together,
misinterpreted the significance, flinched, and pulled her shawl tighter. “They
tore him open! They mutilated him."
"Get out of here, old bitch.” A guard took two steps toward her.
She let out a long keening cry and ripped strands of her hair out. “Let me
have his body. Let me bury him."
The guard shoved her down. “You raised a murderer."
"You know the law,” someone shouted from the crowd. “He hangs until the
carrion birds pick his bones clean."
A rotten fruit struck Yren's mother. Rocks, bottles, and garbage flew, driving
her away from the scaffold. She fled, sobbing, with her arms raised to protect
her face.
"They made a mess of him,” Oswyl muttered, standing beside Shalto in the
crowd.
"Come on, let's go to the cottage."
From another section of the crowd, Malthus studied the corpse with a growing
sense of disquiet. He only knew one group that would open a corpse up like
that and then stitch it closed again: the Assassins’ Guild, the Holy Avengers
of the Nethergod, Hadjys the Dark Judge. Somewhere in the village lurked a
Guildsmon. The only person to come close to catching Malthus had been Guild.
Claw had to know who they were, because he had called them in. However,
Malthus doubted he would be able to get the information from Claw. He wondered
who else might know. Belgair?
Preece fell into step beside Malthus as he left the grounds and headed for the
cottage. “We got trouble."
"What do you mean?"
"Torquil's dead."
Malthus stopped dead and drew Preece into an alley. “When?"
"Found his body this morning. Someone tacked a note onto him."
"What did it say?"
"You know I can't read.” Preece squirmed. He had been made a fool of several
times in his life when he asked a mon to read something for him and they lied
about what it said. “Someone said it read, ‘If Truth Dies’ and was signed
‘Always Faithful.’ I don't know if they were pulling my leg."
* * * *
Iollen Newell worked the lids closed on his paint buckets. The weather had
become too wet and cold for paint to dry right. Erwin Twelvetoes was closing
shop until spring, since construction was seasonal work. Kady had switched
Iollen over to her household staff, so he would still have employment to

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 35

support his young wife and their coming child.
He moved the three buckets close together and fumbled with the handles until
he could get a grip on all of them. Iollen managed well for a one-armed mon.
Kady emerged from a room two doors down as Iollen carried the buckets to the
storeroom. “If you're going into town today, I'd like for you to pick some
things up for me."
"Sure thing."
Kady slipped a folded piece of paper into Iollen's pocket.
Iollen put the paint away, wrapping an oilskin cloth around them to keep it
from hardening up anymore than could be helped. Then he went out into the yard
and asked the stablemon, Fychan to hitch the horses to the wagon.
Aghavie came out with a lunch pail. “Thought you might get hungry running Lady
Maguire's errands."
Fychan brought the wagon around and climbed down from it.
"You're the one who's always hungry, Aghavie.” Iollen rubbed her belly fondly.
“You're almost as big around as you are tall."
Aghavie giggled, tucked the lunch pail under the seat of the wagon, and
waddled back into the house.
"Ya ought'n be going alone, Iollen,” said Fychan.
"I doubt Preece will bother me if I don't have Aghavie along."
"But, still..."
"Preece messes with me to provoke Kynyr.” Iollen climbed onto the wagon. “I'm
just the available target."
Iollen released the brake and jiggled the long reins to get his pair of
matched sorrel, Silvershire horses moving and headed for town.
As he drove onto East Pendarke Road, his thoughts started circling in the
quiet as they always did. A few months ago, he had still been running with
Cormic Parry's crowd. Most of them were dead now.
Cormic's favorite pastime had been rape. Any bitch caught walking alone after
dark was considered fair game to Cormic and his buddies. Their first victim
had been Aghavie. Seven of them dragged her into an abandoned house as she was
walking home from visiting a friend one night. Iollen, too nervous to get it
up, had held her down while the others got their jollies. Three of Aghavie's
attackers were still alive other than Iollen: Shalto Beggins, his cousin
Oswyl, and Preece Malloy.
Aghavie's father had been too afraid of Preece to report the rape after he
found his eleven-year-old daughter lying in a pool of blood and semen. Iollen
could understand that, since he was afraid of Preece also.
It would probably still be going on, if they had not finally picked on the
wrong bitch: Kady. She had been their favorite snatch after her father,
Hereward, withdrew his protection from her over her affair with Cullen
Blackwood. Then Kady did the smartest and most unexpected thing she could
have: she moved in with Todd and Cahira Sinclair, Kynyr's grandparents as
Cahira's apprentice. Roughly a month later, when six of them tried to drag her
out of a tavern where she was sitting having a drink with Todd all hell broke
loose. Kady kicked Cormic to death and Todd killed Keith Greenlea with a
single blow. Two of Claw's guardsmyn, Erskine Faraday and Robert Morcar
apprehended Iollen and Donald Greenlea on the spot. The other two fled.
Donald and Iollen were flogged. Donald died. Iollen developed gangrene from
his injuries and would have died also, except that Kady cut his arm off to
save him. Taking his arm seemed to have squared matters between Iollen and
Kady.
Losing his arm had been the best thing that ever happened to Iollen, because
it turned him around and made a better mon of him.
Wolffgard appeared in front of Iollen and he was able to finally free himself
from his musings as he turned onto Main Street.
* * * *
Malthus sat in his cottage with Shalto and his gang—there would be no more
outdoor meetings where someone might stumble upon them together. A grim mood
gripped them. “They tortured him to death.” Malthus stared into his tankard.

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 36

“I tried to reach him, but he was too closely guarded."
"Do you think he told them anything?” Shalto asked.
"Yren died courageously, telling them nothing.” Malthus looked around at each
of them and decided to drop some choice tidbits the Readers had told Claw.
“They are saying that one of the torturers broke his ribs, a piece of it
punctured his lungs, and he drowned in his own blood."
Rheu flinched and nestled closer in Preece's arms.
Anger drove Shalto midway into the change and he snarled. “I'd like to stick
old Claw for this."
"His time is coming.” Malthus’ poisonous smile surprised all of them. I'm
going to pay him back for Yren. A life for a life. His or his sisters’ lives.
Two for one? All for one? I'm going to kill Kynyr and rite Kady for Heironim
and Alex. They'll all pay in blood.
"What do you mean?” Preece inquired softly.
"He's dying. The healer says he won't make it to midwinter."
"What's wrong with him?” Shalto leaned closer to Malthus.
"His heart is failing. They don't want people knowing about it. If something
upset him strongly enough, the old bastard would fall over dead. It would
distress everyone in the manor if word of it got out."
Preece's eyes glittered and he tongued his lips. “That can be arranged."
"We need to increase our numbers,” said Malthus. “Each of you should bring a
friend you trust to the next meeting. One of those who regularly uses the camp
females. Next time we meet, I want the full membership, not just the leaders."
"What about Torquil? What are we going to do about Torquil?"
Malthus’ eyes darkened. “Kynyr Maguire killed Torquil."
"We ought to send him a message,” said Shalto.
* * * *
Iollen had never liked Baroucha Seaver and used to go to great lengths not to
park his wagon in front of her shop. When Baroucha died without heirs, the
crown had seized the shop and sold it. Iollen glanced up at the sign that read
‘Scarlet Angel Mage shop’ and wondered what Kady wanted from the place.
As he stepped inside, Iollen noticed the extensive changes that had been made
to Baroucha's shop by the new owner. A sign hung from the ceiling above a
square table situated in the near left that depicted a palm with the lines
marked in dark ink. Shelves lined the walls and an array of long tables and
short cabinets filled the center. The shop had incense and herbs, potions and
elixirs, stones, cauldrons, athames, and other items used in various rites.
Beaded curtains had replaced the side door into the rest of the building and
the back door into the workroom. The place smelled pleasantly of sandalwood.
A slender dark human emerged from the backroom and bowed to Iollen. 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 narrow beardless
face had an effeminate sensuality, full pouting lips, and a long, straight
nose. Large, long-lashed eyes the color of glistening black pearls dominated
his features. “Welcome. I am the proprietor, Luciano Albertus."
Luciano extended his hand to shake Iollen's, which brought a flinch, and then
Luciano offered his other hand. “So sorry. I didn't notice."
Iollen shook hands. “I have a list from Kady Maguire."
He fished the paper out and gave it to Luciano.
Luciano skimmed the list and gestured at a chair. “Sit. This will not take
long."
Iollen watched him busying around, filling the counter with bottles, measuring
herbs and spices from large green glass containers into jars.
"Where are you from?"
Luciano paused and smiled at him. “Skullbones. I had a mage shop there. My
family owned it for six generations."
"War make you move?"
"Partly.” Luciano measured a liquid into a bottle. “I also wanted to get away
from my father."
"Parents can be difficult."

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 37

Luciano laughed at the rueful tone in Iollen's voice. “Mine was a mage."
"Was?"
"I guess you could say he still is."
Iollen started to feel a bit confused. “Are you a mage?"
Luciano's soft laugh came again. “No. I'm a spiritworker. But I know the
business."
"That means you see ghosts and such?"
"Precisely.” Luciano paused with a small bow. “Anyway, as I was saying,
Lemyari have a taste for mages. One night my father disappeared and three days
later he bit me."
"You've been bitten by a vampire?” Iollen about fell over in surprise.
"Well, yes. But he told me that I tasted bad and never came back."
Iollen choked on a laugh and it emerged as a half-stifled chuckle. “Tasted
bad?"
"Well, yes. You've never heard the old saying that spiritworkers taste bad?"
"Can't say I have."
"Well, they do. All hemovores agree, spiritworkers taste bad and we do. I
suppose that is something in our favor."
By the time that Luciano finished filling his order; Iollen had decided that
he liked him.
Iollen stepped outside with his carrying sack over his shoulder.
"Hello, Cripple."
Iollen turned, his insides going cold as ice. He had half expected it to be
Preece, but found himself facing Shalto, Oswyl, and two others that he did not
know. “What do you want?"
"A friend of ours was killed. You remember Torquil?"
"I heard about it.” Iollen dropped his sack over the side of the wagon.
"Look at me when I'm talking to you.” Shalto grabbed Iollen and spun him
about.
"Getting a bit big for your britches, Shalto?"
"I need to send a message to Maguire. Guess what? You're it."
Shalto hit Iollen, sending him sprawling into the dirt.
Iollen tried to roll aside as Shalto and the others began kicking him. Each
blow brought a grunt of pain from Iollen. The blows seemed to come from all
directions.
"Stop that!” Luciano came outside and stood on the boardwalk.
The blows ceased as the gang turned to see who had spoken.
"Make me.” Shalto kicked Iollen again.
Then Iollen saw the strangest bit of fighting he had ever seen in his life.
Luciano started spinning and windmilling around and hit Shalto with both fists
and both feet in dizzying succession, again and again and again until Shalto
lay unmoving on the ground. Oswyl gestured surrender and shouldered his
cousin, walking off with him.
Iollen accepted a hand up from Luciano. “What the hell was that?"
"Whirling Crane form.” Luciano grinned and gave a small bow with an impish
grin.
"Well, I'll be damned.” Iollen scratched his head, looking more confused by
the moment. “Where'd you learn that?"
"Creeya. I studied under StealsThunder."
"He must be some teacher."
"She. And yes, she is."
"You should come out to the house and show that one to Trevor."
* * * *
In the shadows of a tangled hawthorn hedgerow so dense that it formed a fence
for cattle, Malthus spread a blanket on the ground and sat a wicker basket in
the center as if for a midnight picnic in the manner of a lycan tryst. The
Maguire estate began on the other side with orderly rows of fruit trees. Their
orchards included apples, pears, plums, cherries and mulberries, as well as
quince and medlar. Close to the house were rows of walnut trees.
Larena appeared in answer to his come-hither. She had thrown a hooded cloak

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 38

over her dressing robe and the nightgown beneath it. It was chill with a tang
of imminent frost in the crisp night air.
Malthus pushed her down onto the blanket and took his pleasures before
tightening more knots of coercions in her brain, bringing out the jealous
darkness in her heart and soul.
"You've been thrown upon the kind mercies of your sister. The slut has become
a princess and what are you? Nothing."
"I hate Kady."
"You must take every thing she loves away from her. Revenge, Larena."
"Yes."
"I have the means."
He gave her a small bottle with a dropper. “Six drops in Kynyr's drink as
often as you can manage."
"Poison?"
"A subtle poison. It mimics Black Mountain Fever."
"Kynyr will die."
"And Kady will cry.” Malthus smiled at the rhyme he had made.
* * * *
Kynyr called the L-shaped room his study. He had divided it into three
sections by the arrangement of the furniture. The front section had been
turned into a place to sit and talk, a sofa and three chairs framed a low
table. In the center corner sat his desk and on the right hand, bookcases
lined the walls.
The bookcases were more empty than full. He had only just begun to accumulate
books of his own to put upon the shelves. Mostly the new pressed books from
Creeya. A few of the books provoked moments of melancholy in Kynyr, because
they had belonged to his father. His mother, Ulicia, had given them to him
after his father's death. There were too many memories attached to each
volume. Those that hurt him most to look at had been turned backwards so that
he would not accidentally read the titles and feel the fullness of his grief.
With so many dangers surrounding him, Kynyr could not yet afford to give
himself a moment to grieve fully. So he resisted it and all its symbols.
Branduff Maguire had been a schoolteacher.
Branduff had walked out of his schoolroom one day to speak to the captain of a
unit of Waejontori cavalry that appeared unforeseen on Red Wolf soil, hoping
to buy time for the cubs to escape out the back door. The soldiers had killed
him, but the cubs got away unharmed.
Kynyr, Trevor, and Iollen sat alone there, clustered around the low table and
sharing a bottle of good whiskey. Iollen had been lucky, sustaining only
bruises and no broken bones. Kynyr knew that would not have been the case had
Luciano not intervened.
"Tell it again.” Kynyr poured whiskey for the three of them.
Iollen Newell sat on the sofa across from Kynyr and Trevor. It had taken three
whiskeys to stop Iollen from shaking once he got home and reaction set in.
“There isn't much to tell. I think I've said it all."
Kynyr nodded, his eyes distant and considering as he sipped his drink. “So
they were going to send me a message. Over Torquil?"
"That's what Shalto said. He's getting as bad as Preece."
"No mention of Malthus?"
"None."
"So I still don't have anything that would justify arresting Malthus."
"And we still don't have a lawgiver,” Trevor added. “What's happening with
that?"
"Claw's sent couriers to all the villages and towns that have several."
Lawgivers were chosen by the placement of the stars and other omens, and
trained by the oldest lawgiver in the community. It was not a simple matter to
get another one. Kynyr wondered if what he saw—the process of choosing
lawgivers—was in danger of becoming another of their lost customs.
Taking the law into his own hands as he was doing by hunting down Caimbeul's
murderers would offend Pandeena. She had made it clear that she would not hold

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 39

with private justice and the abandonment of traditional laws and customs. So,
although Kynyr knew what she and some of her companions were, he felt that he
could not go to them.
Kynyr felt certain that the clues to the truth regarding Malthus were all
around him and he was missing them. Caimbeul and Nikko must have gotten too
close to the truth and that was why they had been removed from the equation.
If he could just figure out what they had learned, then he would have the key
to it all.
"So what are we going to do next, Kynyr?” Trevor leaned forward in his seat.
"Take out the rest of the Lycamornots and see what effect that has on Malthus
and the Sanctuary.” Kynyr considered a bit more and added, “Iollen, I don't
want you going into town alone. Not for any reason."
* * * *
Couriers had begun going back and forth between Red Wolf and the occupying
MacLachlan forces in Hell's Widow as soon as Kynyr returned home and informed
Claw that the road was now safe. The first snows had arrived, slowing trade
and travel to a trickle, despite the fact that it had melted by midday.
Conversations with Captain Artemisia Leonidian had revealed to Artair MacFie
that the region was in far more of a shambles than the Sharani, who had
occupied it for close to thirty years, wanted known. The Mar'ajan of Danai
province had jurisdiction over it. The regent had hared off to the Great
Plains in search of her long lost sister, Tomyris Danae de Dovane, as soon as
Tomyris’ daughter came of age to rule. That should have worked fine, except
that Tomyris’ daughter Reynan had vanished soon after that. Reynan's relatives
were jockeying for position to control the province, and the military
government of the occupied sectors of Waejontor had been left in the lurch.
Artemisia had attempted to bypass the confusion by sending couriers directly
to the Saer'Ajan, Zaren Asharen, but had yet to hear back.
With winter arriving, Darcy had managed to table the discussion of going home
until spring. Yet, the more that Artair learned from Artemisia, the more
troubled he became. The three brothers missed Fergus, and while on the one
hand they blamed Darcy for his death, on the other hand, they knew that Darcy
had simply been being Darcy—headstrong, reckless, and impulsive.
Artair strolled through the hallway of the Three Candles Inn with his
brothers, tapping his chin. “Darcy got another letter from Finn MacIver. You
keep her busy. I want to see what it said."
Tobrytan responded with a droll smile. “Your funeral if she catches you."
"I'll chance it. Take her for a walk or something. Get her out of the
building."
Eanruig gave one of his tilted nods. “We'll think of something."
Artair waited until he saw his brothers leave with Darcy, and then he stole
into her rooms. The outer room had a desk in one corner, two cabinets, and a
dresser. He went to the desk and sat down in the small wooden chair behind it.
Pulling open the middle drawer, Artair grinned at the bit of luck that led him
there first, for a small stack of letters lay within it. He sucked in a small
breath of excitement at his own audacity, took the top one, and opened it.
My Dearest Darcy,
The fairest apples of Idyn pale before the beauty of your breasts. Your lips
are like the reddest rose and your nipples are sweet carnations blooming. The
heaven that dwells within your loins fills my dreams with longing to be once
more within you.
Your laugh, your wit, your fire inflames me with desire. I spend sleepless
nights thinking of you.
Always Faithful,
Finn MacIver
"Educated sod. I never expected that.” Artair scanned the letter again, and
realization hit him between the eyes. “They're sleeping together."
Artair took a deep breath, listened for the sounds of anyone approaching and
read another one and then another. They were all love letters, filled with
poetry and nonsense. Deciding that he had already been there too long, he

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 40

shoved the letters back into the drawer and fled.
Once he had got back to his own rooms, Artair realized that he was shaking.
None of them had ever tried to go against Darcy directly since they were
children. That had been Fergus’ job. He remembered the time that Fergus had
knocked her down and sat on her to force a promise of good behavior.
Artair found himself torn between laughing at the memory, and shedding tears
over Fergus. “Gods, Fergus, we're in such a damn pickle without you."
He fetched a bottle of whiskey and three glasses, knowing his brothers would
be along soon. The first drink steadied Artair and he began considering the
implications of the letters he had read. Eanruig's suggestion of foisting her
off on MacIver appealed to Artair more and more. He had written their
chieftain, Duncan MacLachlan about the situation between Darcy and Brodrig,
but getting an answer could take weeks.
"We're back.” Tobrytan sauntered in with Eanruig trailing. “We took her for a
walk and she was a holy terror the entire time."
"Did you find out anything? Or are we going to have to suffer through another
walk with Darcy.” Eanruig dropped into a chair and poured a whiskey.
Artair's eyes went thoughtful and somewhat crafty. “Love letters."
"From MacIver to Darcy?” Tobrytan propped his elbows on the table, looking
mildly interested.
"They're sleeping together."
"Gaah!” Tobrytan smacked the table with his palm. “Anyone with the balls to
stick it to Darcy has got to be mad."
"Or very good at what he does. For one thing he's educated.” Artair began
ticking off Finn's virtues on his fingers. “He's the prince's spiritbrother.
He killed Jondries in single combat. So he's good with his weapons. Sinclair
trained him. So if Darcy needed a paddling, he could give it to her. And I
think Darcy's sweet on him."
"If he got her up the stick...” Eanruig suggested.
Tobrytan shook his head with a snort. “Darcy's too smart to end up with a bun
in the oven."
"I don't know ... have you seen that moony look she gets when one of his
letters arrive?” Eanruig got that hopeful look in his eyes. “Love makes a
bitch forgetful of some things."
"Not Darcy. She's not the cubs and cookies type. It would never happen,”
scoffed Tobrytan.
"I say we talk him up to her. The fight with Jondries impressed her."
Artair took another drink from his glass, tapped his chin, and thought. “Let's
take a ride over to Wolffgard and have a talk with him."
"Have to come up with a good reason for going, or Darcy will get suspicious.”
Tobrytan scanned their faces.
"Cahira.” Artair's eyes lit up. “She has a store and sells books. Darcy knows
how I am about books. I'll go talk to Finn."

CHAPTER SIX
HOSTILITY
Slouched in a comfortable chair in the Great Hall, Kynyr studied the signet
ring on his finger that had turned his life inside out. Tarrant Redhand had
worn that ring when he made love to Cahira. He had promised to marry Cahira
and give their son his name when he returned from a meeting with Romney
Silverpaw about the direction of the war called the Lycan Rebellion. But
Tarrant had never returned. The sa'necari ambushed, captured, and executed
him; thus breaking Cahira's heart.
Kynyr had house duty that day. He had insisted upon retaining control of his
special units despite his changed status. Where the other guardsmyn had once
called them the Bitch Brigade because their primary responsibility was to
guard Aisha, Searlait, and Fianait, they now called them the Prince's Guard.
The change amused Kynyr.
Since all the troubles began, Claw wanted at least one male at large in the
family sections of the manor, watching over his sisters. Frequently there was

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 41

more than one, depending upon Claw's mood, and the gardens and grounds were
patrolled constantly.
Having grown up with so many sisters, Kynyr enjoyed it; and his spiritbrother
Finn did also. That often led to the two of them getting paired for the duty
as they were that day.
Kynyr sat next to Fianait with just enough distance between them that he did
not get in her way as she wove the delicate kazamerie wool on her big loom.
Fianait had always responded well to his questions about the history of their
family even before learning that he was her nephew. His favorite stories
involved Tarrant Redhand and now she knew why.
Fianait took out her scissors and clipped a strand of brown wool before tying
on a green strand for the next row. Kynyr noticed that the ends of the
scissors were blunt and rounded like children's scissors. On impulse, he
glanced at her waist and saw that she carried pouches on her belt, but no
knife. Bitches usually carried a small utility knife, and some of them—those
that had to travel alone for any amount of time—carried a single fighting
knife. The absence of a blade and the blunted scissors increased the air of
fragility that clung to the elderly bitch in a way that Kynyr found difficult
to define.
Searlait occupied the sofa with Malthus’ two nieces. Finn sat nearby watching
them.
A basket of wool rested between Searlait's knees and two smaller ones rested
on the floor beside the girls. Each of them had a drop spindle. Ros reacted to
her attempts to teach them how to spin the wool into yarn with sulky boredom.
"I don't want to learn this.” Ros’ lips bunched into a tight pout.
Searlait frowned. “You must start learning the womanly arts if you're going to
be part of this household."
Finn perked up at the generic human word ‘womanly’ and he grinned. “All the
little bitches learn this stuff. My sisters did."
Ros snarled at him. “I'm not a bitch. I'm sa'necari."
Kynyr tensed. It was not the first time Ros had shoved her nature in their
faces. Until he met those two little girls, he would have said he had never
met a child he disliked. They rubbed him the wrong way. His grandmother had
spoken to him of sa'necari prodigies, children born with their fangs and
appetites instead of gaining them at puberty. If he dared to simply grab the
girl and look, he would have checked Ros’ mouth for fangs. The uproar that
would have resulted if Ros did not have fangs made Kynyr decide that it was
not worth it to harass a child.
"I want to go to the playroom.” Ros glanced from face to face as if looking
for a victim.
Kynyr shook his head. “Cubs should do as they're told."
"I'm not a cub, you stupid wolf!"
Searlait's eyes widened and she slapped Ros. “You'll go to your room and stay
there."
Ros folded her arms and did not move.
"What's going on?” Malthus strode into the room.
"She's trying to make a slave of me.” Ros flounced in her seat with an angry
tilt to her head.
Malthus turned to Searlait. “What are you doing?"
Searlait explained and Malthus’ expression darkened.
Finn and Kynyr exchanged glances. As Claw's health worsened, they saw more
displays of temper from Malthus and it put them on edge.
"My nieces are not destined for the kind of life you live. There will be no
more of this."
"Don't talk to my aunts that way.” Kynyr stepped between Malthus and Searlait.
"Your aunts? What proof have you given anyone that you're really family?”
Malthus extended his hands to his nieces, and the two girls left with him.
Kynyr had not realized how charged the air had become until he became aware
that his hand had gone to his knife. “He's an asshole."
Fianait let out a low moan. “He frightens me."

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 42

Kynyr wrapped his arm protectively around the old bitch's shoulders. “Don't
be, Aunt Fianait. I'm here."
"Malthus has a point, Kynyr.” Searlait adjusted her skirts. “We should have
Sheradyn Read your genes and make a public proclamation of it. Better to quash
trouble before it starts."
"Can you arrange it?"
"I'll talk to Claw."
* * * *
Raonul hung the ‘help wanted’ sign in the window of his shop. There were two
parts to the smithy and he lived above it. One part was the actual working
area where he forged steel and shoed horses. The other was the shop where he
sold what he made and from time to time purchased acceptable inventory from
merchants passing through. He liked Iradrim steel best because the dwarves
were canny folk with a forge.
He had paid for a modest funeral for his dead apprentice. The last few months,
Torquil had been giving him problems and if he had not gone and gotten himself
killed, Raonul had been contemplating dismissing him.
A red-haired lycan stepped into the shop and nodded at the sign. He was nearly
as large as Raonul, with an impressive broad chest and tremendous biceps. “Are
you asking for an apprentice, or are you willing to employ someone with
experience?"
"At this point, I'd take either. There's too much work fer one mon."
"I'm a journeymon. I know the trade, but I also take direction well."
"Ya sound like an educated mon. What would ya be doing as a smith?"
"I come from an educated family, but I like the work."
"Whatcher name?"
"Quinn. Quinn Sinclair."
"Any relation to Todd?"
"I'm one of his grandsons. He's got a lot of them."
Raonul had not yet encountered a Sinclair that he disliked. They seemed like a
good family. “Are ya as good at what ya do as he is what he does?"
"I like to think so."
"Then ye're hired."
Quinn smiled and clasped Raonul's arm in gesture of acceptance. If Raonul knew
anything more about Torquil's association with Malthus, Quinn would now be in
a position to coax it out of him.
* * * *
Since Cooley had begun wearing blades, he had also begun to get more attention
from the other cubs that hung out with Rory. They all wanted to see the
knives, real fighting knives. Cooley refused. He could almost hear his
father's voice in the back of his mind each time one of them asked to hold
them: "Ya don't let some three-fingered idjit touch yer blades."
Cooley noticed Lani O'Connor leaning against the wall of the dry goods store
watching him and the other cubs. When Cooley first arrived last summer, he had
been more impressed with Lani than he had with Rory.
Twelve-year-old Lani had pouchy gooseberry eyes, mousey hair, a lean build,
and a truculent mouth. His father gathered and raised leeches, supplying them
to the various owners of nibari, who needed to periodically bleed their slaves
to avoid their developing a dangerous nibari-specific condition called
Blood-Bloat. Cooley had shared various confidences with Lani, including the
fact that his mother was Silkie Faggini, the Madam of the Crimson Lady
brothel. He had thought nothing of it, for it had never occurred to Cooley
that prostitutes might be held in utter contempt among clan wolves—he had had
much to learn about the differences between city wolves and clan wolves last
summer. The result was that the next day Cooley had a crowd of jeering cubs
led by Lani throwing taunts and insults in his face about his mother.
Cooley had immediately gone for Lani, fists flailing, without a thought for
the fact that Lani was head and shoulders bigger than he was. He ended up with
a black eye and it would have been worse if Rory and his friends had not then
piled onto Lani.

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 43

The cub found himself watching Lani watching them. Cooley did not like the
feeling it gave him. He tried to pretend that Lani was not there, and focused
on Rory and his friends. It might have worked, except that Lani came
sauntering over.
"So it's true that your ma's a whore?"
Cooley's lips tightened and the other cubs started backing away. He pointedly
ignored Lani.
"What'd she charge your Da to stick it into her?"
Cooley sucked in an exasperated breath. “She didn't."
"Everyone knows ya don't poke a whore for free.” Lani brayed with laughter.
Some of the cubs snickered.
Reminding himself that Todd did not want him fighting over taunts, Cooley
turned around and started to walk away. Lani's hand closed on Cooley's
shoulder, jerking him backwards and tottering two steps.
"Hit him, Cooley!"
Cooley spied the one who had barked the order at him.
Kynyr gave him an approving nod.
Cooley reached up, grabbed Lani's finger and snapped it up. Lani's hold
loosened. The small cub dug his thumbnail into the back of Lani's hand, spun
about, throwing weight and momentum onto the captured hand and twisting Lani's
arm around as he slammed his knee into Lani's groin.
Lani's eyes bulged and he went down.
Kynyr put his hand on Cooley's shoulder and they walked away together with
Rory and Hamish following. Cooley heard the other cubs hooting at Lani and
making derisive noises, but showed no sign of it.
"You did good, Cooley. Remember the one who throws the first punch, grab or
whatever, is in the wrong whether he lands it or not."
Cooley filled with pride, but he wanted to hear Kynyr say it again. “So I did
okay?"
"You sure did."
Kynyr had less and less time for Cooley since marrying Kady, and Cooley missed
having Kynyr around as much.
* * * *
For the first time in years, Kynyr had not felt like walking into Wolffgard.
An unusual tiredness clung to him as he dismounted from Bucky and tied him to
the rail in front of the Difficult Horse.
Finn came around beside him. “You okay, Kynyr? You look like you've been
bushwhacked by the Dreaded Horde."
Kynyr managed a meager grin. “I feel like it."
"What's wrong?"
"I haven't had a real break since we paid hell to the widow."
"Speaking of Hell's Widow, I got another letter from Darcy."
Kynyr pushed through the door, chuckling. “Better you than me."
"Aww, Darcy's not so bad."
"That's what you say.” Kynyr remembered with a wince how Darcy MacFie had kept
chasing him with a hungry bitch look even after he told her he was married. He
had greeted the news that Darcy had settled for Finn with a massive sense of
relief.
They had barely settled at a table when Hereward came charging over to them
brandishing his club with the silver nails in it.
"You there! Finn MacIver! It's all your fault."
Finn gave Kynyr a sidewise glance. “What'd I do?"
"You cocked up my daughter. That's what you did."
Hereward swung his club. Finn ducked and went tumbling from his chair. He
scrambled under the table in time to avoid a smashing strike at his retreating
buttocks. Finn darted from beneath the table, made a dash for the door, and
escaped.
Kynyr ambled out whistling, remounted, and rode down the street behind Finn.
“Think we can have a drink at the Striped Dog instead?"
"I didn't touch Larena. Do I look crazy enough to have touched Larena?” Finn

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 44

babbled. “I wouldn't never touch Larena. Only Cullen was ever crazy enough to
touch one of Hereward's daughters. I never touched Larena."
"Well, someone did. She's pregnant."
"I wouldn't touch Larena. If Darcy thought I'd touched Larena, she would have
come herself and not sent a letter. She would have come here just to skin me
and tack my hide to the wall."
"No doubt.” Kynyr rubbed his temples, feeling a dull headache coming on.
Finn calmed down a bit. “You don't look good. Maybe we should just go home?"
"You're probably right.” Kynyr turned Bucky around and headed home. “What did
Darcy have to say in her letter?"
Finn blushed. “Mushy stuff.” He lowered his head as his blush spread. “Kind of
reads like a page out of a naughty book."
"You still thinking about proposing to that hellcat?"
"Darcy's not so bad. You just need to know how to handle her."
"And you do?"
"Yeah.” A big grin dominated Finn's face. “I finally found a use for all that
poetry your dad made us learn."
A shadow passed over Kynyr's face at the mention of his slain father. “I miss
him."

CHAPTER SEVEN
FIRST FLUSTER OF LOVE
Artair's first impression of Wolffgard was the sheer size of it. The ‘village’
was not a village; it was a town as large as Hell's Widow. The people were
friendly and free with directions, so Artair had no problems finding Cahira's
shop.
The bell hanging from the door rang, as Artair stepped inside. He glanced
around, seeing the usual things on the right: notions and needles, creams and
potions. On the left hand side the assortment made his eyes widen. The shop
was a curious place indeed. Books of all kinds were stacked upon a counter and
behind that were racks of swords and axes and daggers and maces.
Artair went to the books first and picked up a black leather bound volume with
a gold leafed swan on the cover. The Black Swan: Verses to Alysinjin. Some
claimed it was the most romantic book of poems ever written. His eyes lit up
at that one. It was perfect for Darcy. His cousin had never had many suitors,
because she was too intimidating.
He had never understood why his uncle had insisted upon giving her a boy's
name, and suspected that was part of what shaped her into a hellcat.
"Can I help you?"
Artair glanced up at the sound of a sweet feminine voice and his heart leaped
into his throat. She was beautiful in a statuesque way, red-haired and strong,
with luminous emerald eyes. “I want to buy this book. And ... and another
one."
He put the book on the table in the rear and extended his hand to her. “I'm
Artair MacFie."
"Betrys Sinclair.” She placed her hand in his.
Artair kissed her fingers and bowed slightly to cover his body's embarrassing
reaction to her. He retreated to the books and she followed him.
"Are you looking for anything in particular?"
He began glancing at titles in a desperate fashion. “A treatise on magic.” He
nodded for emphasis, and scanned the titles without any of them registering.
“Yes, magic. That's it."
Betrys laughed and it was like tinkling bells. “Then you're looking in the
wrong stack. Those are the naughty books."
Artair flushed and covered his further embarrassment with a faux air of
nonchalance. “Oh, right."
She showed him the proper stack, touched his hand and he felt like he'd been
struck by lightning.
"Are you of age?"
She gave him a look mixed equally of suspicion and bemusement. “I'll be

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 45

fifteen next month."
"Do you like books?"
"I can read and write four languages."
Artair goggled at that. “They don't make them like you in MacLachlan."
"I suppose they don't.” Betrys laughed again and Artair loved the sound of it.
"Would you marry me?” Artair covered his mouth in shock at what he had just
said. He had always believed that love at first sight was mere poetic
invention. However, standing there with Betrys Sinclair, he wanted to crawl
all over her and howl like a madmon. “I mean, have a drink with me?"
"If you'll say hello to my grandfather first, I will."
"And who is that?"
"Todd Sinclair."
That name brought him down to earth with a thud. “I know Todd."
"Come along then, he's in the salle."
The salle was on the third floor. Betrys led him inside.
Reed mats took up a third of the large salle. Mirrors lined one wall. Two tall
cabinets bracketed the weapon racks along the opposite side. A square table
with four chairs occupied the center of the clear space fronting the door. A
bottle of whiskey and four glasses stood in the middle of the table. Even by
lycan standards, Todd had an obscene tolerance for and enjoyment of liquor.
There were five wolves with Todd, working out in graceful motions. Artair
recognized all of them from the Battle of the Scarlet Petticoat in Hell's
Widow. They were members of Kynyr's elite unit.
Erskine Faraday, tall and lean, had an easy going, low-key manner that made
his opinions seems weighty and considered.
Robert Morcar, the blocky guardsmon was referred to as a “black lycan” because
of his stiff raven hair that he kept shaved close to his head and the light
olive cast to his skin. They were a minority among the fair-skinned wolves.
Vayle Stewart had craggy features, a wary slant to his eyes, and a
tight-lipped edge to his mouth that appeared to be trapped between a sneer and
a grimace. He came across as a cautious mon, who preferred to pick his
battles, but once committed to an action went at it with ironclad
determination.
William ‘Little Will’ Galloway, was the smallest at five six. His mustard
brown hair, cut short at his earlobes, had a conspicuous cowlick at the crown.
He had a feisty glint in his blue eyes and a determined turn to his lips, the
lower jutting beneath the upper.
The fifth was the mon that Artair had come to see: Finn MacIver.
Todd glanced over and gave Artair a nod. He finished his form, and stepped off
the reed mats with a bow.
"Artair, what brings you?"
"He wants to ask you something, grandfather."
Artair swallowed. “I'd like to have a drink with Betrys, with your permission
of course."
Todd lifted one eyebrow in a blasé expression. “Get out of line with her and
she'll beat you half to death. She's a Sinclair."
"I believe you."
"No wild cousins."
"Oh, definitely not. No wild cousins. I wouldn't dream of it...” oh, I might
dream, but I won't do it. “I also need to speak with Finn MacIver, if I may.
He could chaperone us?"
Todd crooked a finger at Finn, who joined them by the door. “Chaperone."
Betrys smiled broadly. “Let me grab a cloak and I'll meet you downstairs."
Finn and Artair seated themselves at the table in the shop to wait for Betrys.
Artair's confidence returned in Betrys’ absence. “I came to talk to you about
Darcy."
Finn's eyes narrowed in suspicion. “What about Darcy?"
"My brothers and I ... we're very fond of our cousin. She's really a dear
sweet thing."
"That doesn't sound like Darcy."

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 46

Artair squirmed. “Well, anyways, we know about you and Darcy...” He turned his
hand palm up and wiggled his middle finger suggestively.
Finn let out a hiss and glanced at the ceiling. “And?"
"We wanted to know if your intentions were honorable."
"I was planning on proposing to her."
Artair relaxed with a smile. MacIver had to be out of his mind, but Artair
knew better than to look a gift horse in the mouth when it came to Darcy.
“Maybe you should send her presents? Like this?"
Artair waved the book of verses he had purchased at Finn.
* * * *
Navaryn's study let in the frosty light of the winter's day. The journals of
Padruig Caimbeul, the slain lawgiver of Wolffgard, lay open on her fruitwood
desk, dark leather bound tomes filled with cramped letters. The writing in no
way revealed the bold soul of the mon. Caimbeul had been obsessed with
cramming everything he could into a single page. Reading it was hard on her
eyes.
Pandeena settled into a chair before the desk, folded her arms on the edge,
and watched her mother filling pages with strange notations beside the open
journal.
"Are you having any luck deciphering Caimbeul's journals? Or those ledgers
that Hathura found at the steading?"
Navaryn shook her head wearily. “I haven't found the key to the journals.
Caimbeul appears to have used a private alphabet, part Valdren and part
Enockian. As for the ledgers—sickening things—they used code names and not
real names. All I get from the ledgers is that they have killed the males for
their body parts and organs, and sold all the younger bitches and the cubs
into slavery in Waejontor. It's disgusting."
"We're definitely dealing with the Butchering Serpent."
"I fear so, Pandeena."
"If you'd just let me kill him, mother."
Navaryn shook her head back, spilling her moonlight hair over her shoulders.
“No. We don't know whether he is the Serpent or an agent of the Serpent. If he
is only an agent, then we achieve nothing by killing Malthus outright.
Furthermore, that has never been the way of the law. If we violate the ways
and customs that we gave our people, then we set in motion changes that could
have far reaching effects."
"When the law fails?"
"When it fails, it fails, but at least it exists as a castle wall between our
animal natures and our higher instincts."
"Perhaps we should have remained animals and never become people."
"We would have perished. Myn hunt wolves, but wolves do not hunt myn.
Extinction was our destiny until we learned to walk upright and act as myn."
"I won't argue with you, Mother, but I think you're wrong.” Pandeena looked
away and changed the subject. “How's Nikko?"
"Better. He recognized Clodagh. They sit and talk. I had to wall away the last
three years of her memories to prevent the death command the Serpent placed in
her mind from killing her. She can't trigger it if she does not remember
anything."
* * * *
Kynyr completed his morning drill with Trevor, washed up, and came down for
breakfast, smelling of that spicy new scent that Kady purchased and insisted
upon his wearing. His chocolate and claret uniform, cut loose enough to allow
a smooth shift to his hybrid form, looked fine on his muscular body. Only the
faint shadows beneath his eyes hinted at the nagging weariness clinging to
him.
Breakfast, less formal than lunch and dinner, was always held at the long
table in the kitchen. Larena had already begun dishing up steaming bowls of
oat porridge and Kynyr's was waiting for him at the head of the table when he
arrived.
Milk, honey, butter, and cinnamon had been set out on the table, along with a

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 47

covered platter of sliced ham and fried potatoes. He watched her as he
sweetened his porridge and then speared slices of ham and potato onto his
plate.
Larena's presence still irked him. Every time someone prodded her—however
gently—about the name of her child's father, she either went sullen or threw a
fit.
"After seeing what your dad did to Kady, I don't understand why you would go
and get yourself cocked up by a married mon."
Larena flinched. “I love him."
"I guess.” Kynyr started on the porridge first. “Remember that night I asked
you where Kady was?"
"Which night?” Larena shot him a suspicious look.
"Just before my friends and I left for Hell's Widow ... few days before the
ambush? You said ‘how should I know where that slut is?’”
"You're remembering wrong. That wasn't me. That was Rachel."
"Am I? I know for certain I heard you make remarks like that. So what does
that make you?"
"I apologized for it.” Larena dropped into a chair and stared at the porridge
in front of her.
"If you do anything to hurt Kady, I'll see that you regret it."
"I'm not going to hurt Kady."
"See that you don't. Sluts are trouble, Larena. Especially the real ones."
"Stop it!” Larena shrieked, looked up at the door and froze.
Kady stood in the doorway, glancing from Larena to Kynyr and back. “What's
going on?"
Tears leaked from Larena's eyes. “He's calling me a slut. I can't bear it.”
She rose to her feet, trembling. “It's not my fault I fell in love with
someone."
"I didn't call her a slut.” Kynyr scowled.
"Yes, you did.” Larena fled past Kady and out the door.
"Kynyr...” Kady stalked toward him with her hands on her hips.
He ducked his head and finished the last of his porridge. “Well, maybe I
implied it."
"I see you like porridge?” Kady picked up her bowl in passing, and crowned him
with it upside down. “You're acting like an arse and now you look like one
too."
Kynyr stared at her in stunned surprise, not quite certain what to say and
struggling for words as it dripped down his face and oozed through his hair.
The door opened. Mary and Trevor entered. They gazed at him. Mary snickered.
“Did you do that, Kady?"
"He's a bloody arsehole.” Kady grumbled.
Mary snickered again, a small laugh burbled forth, and then she doubled over,
clutching her sides and roaring with mirth.
A naughty smile caught the edges of Kady's lips in response to Mary's
laughter. She glanced at Kynyr surreptitiously, trapped between her fading
indignation and how funny he looked with porridge in his sideburns. Kady
hugged him and kissed his porridged face. “I love you, Kynyr, but I do wish
you would be nicer to Larena."
"I'll try."

CHAPTER EIGHT
TOO MANY PLOTS AND PLANS
Malthus waited two weeks before returning to the Sanctuary Refugee Camp. It
held mostly wooden longhouses. The cluster of woven cone-shaped sheelings that
required dropping to your knees before crawling inside were currently unused
and would remain that way until the weather warmed again in the spring. Vika,
the camp's manager, lived in the stone longhouse at the center of the camp
with a chimney in the middle of its roof. Several storage buildings of wood
stood in rows behind Vika's home. Tree rounds and crude benches provided seats
beneath the trees, as did the scattered small boulders. Horse troughs and tie

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 48

posts dotted the landscape.
The adult inhabitants of the camp were human females who had fled the
sa'necari rebellion raging across the realm as the bastard queen Tomyrilen
attempted to throw out the Sharani occupiers.
Malthus walked through the camp, slapping a riding crop against his leg. All
the females avoided his gaze. He had set death commands in all their minds.
They knew that he could kill all of them with a single triggering phrase.
Their fear pleased Malthus.
He spied Vika Softpaws chatting with some of the females. She was an
unappetizing figure, her graying hair caught at her neck in a severe bun,
plump and matronly. Malthus knew he would have to deal with her eventually and
bring her to heel as he had her two predecessors, but he felt no inclination
to right then.
Walking deeper into the camp, he found Preece unloading a wagon and gestured
toward the path that led to his cottage at the far side of the camp.
Preece answered with a discrete nod and continued unloading.
Malthus reached his cottage by a winding path through the densest section of
trees and brush now denuded of their greenery by the arrival of autumn frosts.
His was the nicest place on the camp lands. That was partly due to the level
of influence he held with the young wolves who worked at the camp.
He had a large hearth, instead of a firepit; built in cabinets, instead of a
few raw shelves and hooks; two bedrooms and a study, rather than the two rooms
with curtained half-walls like the other longhouses.
Preece sauntered in, a mask of insouciant calm barely concealing eager
speculation. “What's up?"
Malthus set out two tankards of mead on the table, watching Preece close from
the corners of his eyes while pretending not to. The time had come to figure
out what exactly Preece had meant by his insinuations in the shrine. “I'm
going to Hell's Widow tomorrow to pick up a few things. I'd like you to go
with me."
"Why me?"
"Because you're good at what you do."
"I'm surprised you're going back after what happened last time."
Malthus shrugged. “It won't happen again."
He walked around and stood behind Preece, put his hands on Preece's shoulders.
“Tell me. How do you feel about working for a sa'necari?"
"So long as it pays well, I'd work for the Hellgod himself.” Preece opened his
robes and tilted his head to the side offering his neck. “Do it."
Malthus’ hands tightened on Preece's shoulders. “How long have you known?"
"Since the day they nailed Heironim's head to the scaffolds."
"Do the others know?"
Preece snorted. “Just me. The others ... they can't see past the end of their
snouts. Well, are you going to do it or aren't you?"
Malthus let his fangs down. “What do you think?"
"Put them into me.” Preece murmured in a throaty whisper with a twist of
sensuality. “I've been waiting a long time for this."
Malthus breathed along Preece's neck and pierced him.
Preece stiffened with a grunt, and then relaxed in his chair, moaning like a
bitch experiencing her first orgasm when Malthus triggered the endorphins in
his brain as he sucked the blood welling into his mouth. “Oh, gaahdss that's
good."
* * * *
Once a week, Cahira Sinclair came to visit her granddaughter-in-law and check
upon the progress of her pregnancy. Mary was a good healer and mid-wife, with
an impressive Reader's gift. However, Cahira was better. Cahira Sinclair was
that rarest of lycans: a mage. She had no large talents; nothing great enough
to call herself anything except a generalist. However, Kynyr's grandmother had
literally dozens of minor talents that she put to such skilled use that her
lack of a major gift often went overlooked by those who did business with her.
Cahira had changed little over the years, beyond gaining laugh lines around

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 49

her eyes and mouth; and remained much as Claw remembered her: a tiny blonde,
barely five feet tall; corn silk hair hanging in a braid past her hips; and a
temper like a stung badger.
Cahira sat beside Kady on the veranda sofa, watching the rain come down.
Larena sat in a chair, carding wool and looking bored.
In addition to everything else that had come with the house, Kady had found
fourteen bushels of raw wool in one of the storerooms. So she put Larena to
carding.
Mary sat at a small table with Cahira's translation and the original text. The
dwarves of Iradrim had unearthed an ancient library from the lost civilization
called Louistrana. The books could not be brought out because when they
touched the fresh air they disintegrated, so the Assassins’ Guild had
volunteered their people to create facsimiles. Cahira, being both a healer and
a translator of note, had been given several medical texts to translate. They
were still trying to figure out how to make the implements depicted in the
illustrations, such as something called a hypodermic syringe that delivered
medicine directly into the blood stream. The section on blood transfusions was
especially fascinating to both Cahira and Mary.
"I'm going to Creeya in three days. I'll be spending a week there going over
that translation with the Patriarch Mikkal.” Cahira glanced around at them.
She could not make the Jump to Creeya as often any longer. Her age had started
to show in how tired it left her. “I think some shopping is in order. I'm
impatient with the seamstresses here. That and the selection of fabrics is
terrible."
Kady shrugged. “I don't mind. I've more than I ever dreamed of having.” She
gestured at the house. “I'm happy with it, Cahira."
"Nonsense.” Cahira's pert smile suggested that she would not take no for an
answer. “I'm taking you shopping in Havensword."
Larena blinked. “That's in Creeya, isn't it?"
"The capital city of Creeya. Magnificent shops, theaters, plays, music,
cabarets, dancing. Havensword is one of the most cosmopolitan cities on the
entire continent. Pack enough for a week and we'll go."
"All of us?” asked Kady.
"You, me, Mary, and Larena. It's time you saw a royal court."
"The manor..."
"Pshaw! It's nothing at all. Rough-hewn den of a farmer king. Wait until you
see the Palace of the Grand Master. It will take your breath away."
"You'll love it,” Mary chimed in. “I haven't been in years."
Kady caught Mary's excitement and nodded. “Yes, let's go."
* * * *
Despite his late years, Claw remained a stubborn, canny wolf. There had been
too many deaths since last spring. Four couriers had died in Hell's Widow, and
only the recent involvement of Clan MacLachlan under the command of their
ornery bitch of a general, Darcy MacFie, who had taken over from her cousin
Fergus, had Claw sending couriers out by horseback again. None of them would
ever be as good as Cullen Blackwood had been, but he had his eye on Cooley as
a cub with potential.
He could smell war and death in the air. It made him uneasy. So he decided to
make another attempt to get his bitches to a safe place and get them to stay
there.
Claw sat his chair in the Blue Room, glaring at his wife Aisha. “You disobeyed
my orders and came home before I sent for you."
"And it was good that we did.” Aisha crossed her arms, defiance gleaming in
her eyes.
Claw made a fending off gesture, growling. “Nah. There's been three more
murders. You're going to your mother's, Aisha. You're going to stay there
until I send for you."
"Father,” Merissa protested.
"No!” Claw roared, going into an irascible fit. “You, Aisha, Searlait,
Fianait, Darmyk. All of you go to your grandmother's, Merissa. One more word

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 50

out of any of you and I'll have Belgair tie you all up, toss you in the
carriage, and take you there."
Aisha sighed and signed the rest of the bitches to follow her out.
He glanced at the clock on the cabinet. Claw could hear the ticking all the
way across the room and it delighted him. Cahira had sent it to him as a
present and it kept good time—better than using candlemarks. He grimly
resisted an urge to open it up and watch the gears go round. The chieftain
felt certain that she had given him that clever device as way of letting him
know that she had forgiven him for tricking Kynyr into accepting his heritage.
Now he needed to figure out how to properly reciprocate without earning
himself a tongue-lashing from her.
"Temper like a stung badger,” Claw muttered. A sudden smile came to his lips.
“I have it! I'll send to Talbot Maguire and commission a portrait of Kynyr and
Kady."
* * * *
Larena set the table in the formal dining room. Kady could have had the nibari
do it, but she had some kind of twisted idea that everyone should participate
and it galled Larena. Why own slaves if you were not going to make them do all
the work? She treated those damned sub-humans like family. All this wealth and
status, and what did Kady do with it?
Nothing. Larena seethed.
Then her eyes went to the glasses of wine that had been set at every place,
and Larena remembered the poison that Malthus had given her. She went to the
head of the table, which was Kynyr's place, and added it to his wine. You're
getting what you deserve, Kynyr. Calling me a slut every time I turn around.
Treating me like dirt.
She heard the door open behind her and shoved the bottle into her pocket.
The nibari set the food out on large platters and the household members
arrived.
Kynyr came in with his arm around Kady, whispering things in her ear that made
her blush. He settled in his place and took a sip of his wine before filling
his plate. “So, Larena, are you liking it here?"
"Yes. It was very kind of Kady to take me in."
Kynyr gave Larena a look that made her squirm. “Yes it was."
As the meal progressed, Larena made no effort at conversation. She gave short
answers and tried to keep the jealousy from her face.
Kady had everything that Larena wanted and it all seemed very unfair.
* * * *
The cubs had unanimously renamed their hideout in the loft of the barn behind
Cahira's shop ‘Cooley's Cave’ in honor of Cooley's victory over Lani O'Connor.
Last summer, Rory had persuaded Cooley to ask Todd for permission to construct
it in the loft. The walls were built from stacked bales of hay. They had a low
table that Rory had rescued from the trash and repaired. Some of them sat on
bales and others on the floor. Their numbers had grown to twelve since Cooley
bested Lani and forced some of them to reconsider their allegiances.
The talk kept coming back to the look on Lani's face as he hit the ground,
interspersed with descriptions of Lani-sightings. Cooley still felt like an
outsider, but he was warming to them.
However, the incessant talk of Lani eventually got on Cooley's nerves. The
others seemed to have framed great expectations of him and the more they
talked and bragged, the more Cooley felt that he would never be able to live
up to them. He excused himself and went inside.
He found Todd in the kitchen eating a bit of cheese and bread. Cooley slid
into a chair, folded his arms on the table, and studied Todd, looking for some
evidence of what exactly made Todd a legend. “I'm not my father."
"And when did you discover that?"
Cooley gave him a look of solemn exasperation. “I'm serious."
"Do you want to be like your father?” Todd's tone turned sober.
"Ride and fight."
"Chase skirts?"

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 51

Cooley's eyes got large with indignation. “Nooo."
"I didn't think so, but thought I should ask."
"I want to be a courier."
"That's a dangerous job."
"Can you teach me?"
"I suppose so. When do you want to start?"
"Tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow it is."
* * * *
Night deepened around Kynyr and Kady. They had watched the sun go down, had
dinner at twilight, and returned to watch the first stars come out. Sitting
there, covered in the soft fur of the first stages of hybrid form, they were
more accepting of the cold than humans would have been. Kynyr put his arm
around Kady, staring out into the velvet darkness as he did so often while
autumn dwindled away toward winter. Wind and rain had taken the leaves from
the trees, and the orchards beyond his yard looked stark against the full moon
as it rose into the sky.
Claw allowed him three nights home each week so long as he spent four nights
at the manor. While he was with Kady, he worried about Claw; and while he was
with Claw, he worried about Kady. The chieftain had suggested moving Kady to
the manor, but Kynyr did not want her near Malthus.
"Kynyr?” Kady gazed into his eyes. “You're very quiet tonight. Is something
wrong?"
Her voice startled him from his thoughts. “There's a lot on my mind."
"Tell me about it?"
"There's four left and then Malthus."
"You're certain he was involved?"
"Yes, but I can't prove it. Don't you?"
"Malthus gives me a bad feeling. I've encountered him in town a few times. He
makes my neck itch."
His eyes roved the night as if he could find his answers in the stars, or at
least think of a better way to say what he wanted to say to her. In the end,
he simply said it. “I want you to promise me something, Kady."
"What?"
"If something happens to me..."
"Nothing's going to happen to you.” She scowled at him. “Don't talk like
that."
Kynyr rubbed his hand over his face, exhaling loudly. “Nothing is certain in
this life. So just promise me. If something happens to me, you'll go to Creeya
and stay there."
"I don't want to make a promise I can't keep."
"Kady, please?"
"Compromise?"
"What?"
"I'll go to Creeya. But I reserve the right to come back with an army."
Kynyr chuckled wearily. “Kady's army. Okay. Promise me you'll go there and
only come back if you have an army."
"I promise."

CHAPTER NINE
STONERIVER
"I've never been to a city before. So I've just thrown in everything I could
think of. I hope it's okay.” Kady stood in front of the full-length mirror
nude except for the blades on her forearms in tooled leather sheaths,
regarding herself with a critical eye, her hands on her lower abdomen. “Do you
think I'm puffy? Just a little?"
Larena reclined on Kady's bed. “I think so."
Mary threw Larena an impatient glance, and shook her head. “It won't be
noticeable for another month, Kady. You're barely past two months."
Larena rose from the bed and went to Kady's closet. “What happened to all your

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 52

dresses?"
"I got rid of them. I don't like dresses."
"Surely Kynyr would like seeing you in a dress once in a while."
"Kynyr likes me just fine in trousers.” Kady grabbed a robe with a flippant
shrug and tied it on. “The dogs are going to have to manage for themselves for
a week while the bitches go shopping."
Larena got a dreamy look in her eyes. “I can't believe we're going shopping in
Creeya.
"Believe it.” Mary laughed. “I haven't been to the palace in years."
The door opened and Cahira came in. “Well, are you packed and ready to go?"
Kady shoved two more things into her case. “Yes."
Cahira went to the middle of the room where the luggage had been stacked. Kady
added hers. Then the four bitches linked hands around their things and Cahira
Jumped.
Larena gasped and put her hand to her lips. “Oh my gods, what is this place?"
Kady had never been there before, but she had read descriptions of it and
immediately started looking for landmarks. “Ishladrim Castle. We're standing
in the quad."
The quad, a large green and gardens located in the center of the compound,
sparkled with light from oil lamps hanging from tall poles along the winding
paths. Kady realized that it must get dark earlier in Creeya, for it had still
been daylight in Wolffgard. Myn bustled around them: Assassins’ Guild students
in bright colors, Guildsmyn in their black uniforms with the book and the
blade embroidered on the left shoulder in gold, guardsmyn in brown, and nobles
in elaborate dress that made the best that Aisha Redhand owned seem shabby.
The city of Havensword had been chiseled into the side of a tall peak in
descending walled levels wrapped around and around it. Ishladrim Castle sat at
the highest point. The castle grounds held the palace on the north side,
forming a quad with the Guild school and university to the west; the library
and the high temple of Hadjys to the south; and the Guild training grounds to
the east. The training grounds included a substantial bit of forest called the
Stalking Grounds, an equestrian section with lists and a salle as well as
several obstacle courses.
They stood facing the Palace of the Grand Master, its base built like a
jutting five spined star, thrust into the mountain. A circular floor
supporting the parts that actually showed had been laid atop it in a long
flare of seven wings, five small sub-wing additions with dozens of spired
towers and multiple staggered stories and onion domes in bright colors. A
whorled maze of other edifices that could only be reached by spans and bridges
from the topmost towers and spires or flying creatures had been spread across
the lower roofs. The palace had been endlessly added onto it over the
centuries until no one alive knew all of its secrets.
"Cahira!” a mild-looking mon in his late forties, clean-shaven and dark
approached them in a Guild uniform with two young myn at his heels. He had
nothing to set him apart as special except for his chestnut eyes.
"Aramyn!” Cahira embraced him.
"I see you've just arrived. Can we help with your things?"
"It would be much appreciated. Aramyn, this is my granddaughter-in-law, Kady
Maguire. And you remember Mary Sinclair."
"A pleasure."
"This is my sister, Larena.” Kady knew that Cahira disliked Larena, but was
surprised by the rudeness of not introducing her.
Aramyn gave Larena a polite nod as he and his companions took charge of their
luggage and headed for the palace.
"We're staying in the palace?” Larena whispered to Kady as they followed
Aramyn across the quad.
"Cahira always stays at the palace."
They stared into the Great Central Hall with its maze of arches, forested with
columns, and filled out with couches, chairs, and tables in little clusters as
a casual meeting place for the aristocracy and other inhabitants of the

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 53

palace. The stairs to the Cloverleaf, a warren of underground shops and cafes,
were in the very center with a half-moon rail around it; while the path to the
Guild Wing lay at a precise diagonal to the West Wing, which was the best wing
of the palace for guests.
"Aramyn, if you do not mind, I would like to go introduce Kady to Lord
Channadar."
"We'll take your things to your usual suite. Then I'll come back and we can
chat."
"Thank you."
Cahira led the way to a sofa where a black-haired Fae with streaks of fiery
orange in his hair held court to a rapt audience of both Fae and humans. He
wore a long blue silk tunic and pants embroidered with birds. One sleeve of
his tunic was pinned up.
Kady had only seen one Fae before, Hathura Waveskimmer. Cahira had been giving
Kady books to read about the Fae for weeks before suggesting the shopping trip
and then spent the past few days teaching her about the differences in
customs. None of it had truly prepared her to see the variety among them.
"He's only got one arm,” Larena whispered.
"Shut up, Larena,” Kady snapped. “Don't embarrass me. That's Lord Channadar,
ruler of Hellsguard.
Larena flushed. “You've met him before?"
"Cahira described him."
While Channadar spoke in lilting terms, a Fae with pale yellow hair wrought
illusions with her pair of flashing fans and dancing steps.
Larena saw a little white-haired Fae in elegant mauve breeches and tunic
carrying a sword at her shoulder and a pair of golden fans in her sash. “She's
tiny."
"Be polite. That must be StealsThunder. I would not mess with her."
Larena frowned. “She's rather unimpressive."
"Your mouth is going to get you in trouble, Larena."
"If you say so."
Channadar noticed Cahira and smiled at her, an impish turn at the corners of
his lips, eyes dancing with a hint of mischief. “Cahira, welcome back. And who
are these lovelies you have brought with you?"
Cahira made the introductions and this time she included Larena.
Channadar tilted his head to the side, focusing on Kady. “Lady Maguire, I have
heard many fine things about you."
Kady flushed. “Your legends pale before your presence, Lord Channadar."
"Your beauty is as the sun and moon, and the blue skies of summer, Lady
Maguire."
The color heightened still more in Kady's cheeks. “You are too kind."
Larena's expression turned petulant and she stared at a point on the floor
with her head lowered.
"If you have questions about your gifts, young mage, just ask me.” A
dark-haired human with doves resting on her arms smiled at Kady. “I'm
Chucomei, the Mage of Wings."
A tall golden-skinned and golden-eyed Fae came to stand beside Chucomei with a
smile. His hand rested on one fan as he regarded Kady. “Welcome to Creeya,
Lady Maguire."
She extended her hand to him. “You must be Tiderider, First of Thirteen."
His eyes slewed toward Cahira with a tiny bow. “You've taught her well,
Cahira."
The lycan mage turned a fond eye on Kady. “She learns easy, studies hard, and
is a joy to work with."
Larena's expression shifted from petulant to bored.
"What brings us such intriguing company?” Channadar gestured at Kady with a
closed fan, although the question was directed at Cahira.
"Shopping. I have an appointment with the High Patriarch to discuss a medical
text I'm translating. So I thought it an excellent excuse to bring Kady and
Mary shopping."

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 54

Channadar gestured with his fan at the white-blonde Fae who had been dancing
his story for him. “Would you like to go shopping?"
"Yes.” She started to say something else, paused and pointed across the room
at a knot of uniformed myn. “There's Stoneriver. I'll fetch him."
Channadar's lips formed an impish smile. “My Dragonfly. My wife."
Kady dipped her shoulders to him politely. “She's beautiful."
"Yes, she is."
Engrossed in further conversation with Channadar, Kady did not take note of
the mon that Dragonfly returned with until he spoke.
"I'm from Red Wolf,” said a basso profundo voice so deep and masculine that
Kady was instantly forced to look at the newcomer. “I assume you're the Lady
Maguire everyone is talking about?"
He wore the uniform of the Netherguard. He had the strangest eyes that Kady
had ever seen, amber with flecks of sparkling silver. She wondered if there
were a horse in creation that could carry a mon that size. He stood six seven,
carrying himself with a casual arrogance. He had rugged features, craggy and
handsome. Black hair and pale skin.
"Yes, I am.” Kady accepted his hand and sniffed his fingers. “Lycan."
He nodded. “They call me Stoneriver."
Larena stared at him with a hungry bitch look that embarrassed Kady.
Kady pointed at each of her companions. “My sister Larena. My aunt Mary
Sinclair. My grandmother Cahira Sinclair."
He gave each of them a courtly dip of his shoulders and then focused upon
Kady. “I've heard that there is trouble in Red Wolf. I'd like to discuss it
with you over dinner."
Kady eyed him. “Well I suppose we could...” She glanced at Cahira.
"That'd be lovely,” Larena said, moving closer to him.
He gave her the merest glance and then turned back to Kady. “In private. Just
you and I."
"Well, I don't know.” Kady felt flustered. Her developing mage senses were
tingling, telling her that he was not all he seemed and he seemed a lot.
Tiderider stepped close to Kady. “You can trust him, Lady Maguire. Stoneriver
is a mon of honor."
"Well then, of course I accept."
* * * *
"This is scarcely what I would call private,” Kady observed.
They stood in the entrance to the Music Chamber, a large cabaret and canteen
maintained to keep the students and holy-assassins-in-training to the
nethergod Hadjys the Dark Judge on campus until the priests could ascertain
whether the deity would confirm them or not.
A harpist accompanied by two myn on dulcimers and one on a harpsichord filled
the cabaret with music.
A wide variety of seating filled the Music Chamber: booths lined the walls,
long trestle tables filled the south end and round tables the north.
A mon in an emerald and umber uniform greeted them. “Will you require a menu?"
"Lycan menus. My lady does not read Creeyan. Is there a balcony table
available?"
"There's two free at the moment. One overlooking the Lover's Garden and one
with an east view."
"We'll take the north one.” Stoneriver offered Kady his arm and she laid her
hand upon it as Cahira had instructed her.
The host swept up two menus smoothly from a counter and led them to the north
side, and through an elegant carved door onto a balcony. The balcony looked
out over a frost-coated maze of hedges, arbors, sculptures, and knots of blue
spruce and white pine.
"Wine?” the host asked as he laid the menus on the table, and held Kady's seat
for her.
"What is your preference, Lady Maguire? Red or white?"
"White."
Stoneriver nodded. “A bottle of Tovantè White, preferably 1057."

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 55

"A fine year. Shall I bring a tray of appetizers as well?"
Kady nodded. “I'm famished."
When the wine and appetizers arrived, Kady filled her plate from the platter
with such alacrity that Stoneriver chuckled. “Lady Maguire has an appetite."
Kady blushed. “I'm eating for two and it seems like I'm always hungry."
"Ah, I understand completely. When is the cub due?"
"Mid-Summer.” Kady bit into an interesting looking pastry which proved to be
fresh trout in a thick creamy sauce. “I do know a few words of Creeyan."
"Which ones?” Stoneriver sipped his wine and watched her eat with a bemused
smile.
Kady blushed again. She had not expected him to ask that. “Swear words mostly.
My husband uses them when he doesn't want people to know they're being
insulted."
"Smart mon.” Stoneriver laughed; a rich resonant sound that Kady liked
instantly. “So tell me what's happening in Red Wolf."
"The Butchering Serpent killed my husband's father."
"That's a strong statement. Tell me about your husband as if I knew nothing at
all."
"Why?"
"Because it fills in the gaps."
"You knew about Cahira and Tarrant?"
"Tell me about it as if I knew nothing at all."
"Cahira became pregnant by him."
Stoneriver gestured her to silence as the door opened and a servingmon
entered.
"Are you ready to order?"
"I haven't even looked at the menu,” said Kady.
Stoneriver smiled at her. “The Lady will have the partridge stuffed duck with
mushrooms. That was a favorite of Talons Trollbane. I think you'll like it.
I'll have your thickest steak in red sauce ... rare."
The servingmon departed.
"Who is Talons Trollbane?"
"She was the heir to the throne ... until someone poisoned her. The healers
all thought it was a disease until it was too late."
"That's terrible."
"We all miss her. Anyway, what were you telling me about Cahira?"
"My husband, Kynyr's father Branduff, was the son of Cahira and Tarrant."
"So that's how a Maguire ends up as Prince of Red Wolf."
"You knew that already?” Kady's eyes narrowed.
"I know a lot of things, but I want to hear you tell it. So go on, please,
Lady Maguire."
"I feel like I'm being interrogated."
Stoneriver chuckled. “You are."
Kady bristled; glanced at the cheese-filled biscuit she had just bitten into,
and tossed it in his face. “You're a bloody bastard."
She pushed away from the table and stalked back into the Music Chamber before
he could stop her. Spotting the host, Kady stomped over to him. “I want a
lycan menu and a table for one."
"Lady Maguire,” Stoneriver said behind her.
Kady indicated him with her thumb. “With chairs too small for the arse to fit
into."
"Lady Maguire...” Stoneriver put his hand on her shoulder.
Kady whirled around, faster than he had expected. A rainbow aura enveloped her
as she lashed out and struck him in the face with her fist. Stoneriver went
flying backwards, overturning chairs and tables in his path until the wall
stopped him.
A stunned look played across his face for an instant before melting into a
rueful expression and he rubbed the back of his head. “I haven't been hit that
hard in years. You might have warned me that you were a battlemage."
"I'm nothing of the sort.” Kady blinked in confusion, uncertain of exactly

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 56

what she had done. “My guurmondru is Todd Sinclair."
"I see.” Stoneriver nodded thoughtfully. “Let's start over? Brock Redhand
asked me to speak with you. I'm his aide-de-camp."
"Ooh.” Kady's eyes widened and she hurried over to him. “You should have said
that in the first place. I hope I didn't hurt you. Kynyr says I'm entirely too
grumpy since I became pregnant."
Stoneriver got to his feet and gestured at the host who looked half-ready to
summon the bouncers. “Put the damage on my account."
"Does this happen often?” Kady asked, following him back to their table on the
balcony.
"About once a year. Only I've never been the one who hit the wall before."
Kady giggled.
A servingmon came onto the balcony with a bottle of sparkling wine and
gestured at a black-skinned giant of a mon wearing a lionskin around his waist
and leaning on a crutch. “Compliments of his lordship. He says he's always
wanted to see someone knock Stoneriver on his ass."
Stoneriver burst out laughing and made an obscene gesture at the black mon
that was returned in kind.
"Who's that?” Kady tried not to stare. She had never seen anyone with such
dark skin before.
"Mohanja Raam, second High Lord Lieutenant to the Grand Master in charge of
Records and Research."
Kady gave him a nod of thanks and waited until Mohanja had moved on before
asking the obvious question. “What's wrong with his leg?"
"He was injured fighting a pack of Ylesgaire vampires. His leg healed wrong.
There was a lot of trouble in the palace that year. If Mohanja had taken the
time to stay off it and let it heal it would have been fine. Instead, he
refused to be invalided by it, and sacrificed his own healing for the good of
the realm."
"He sounds courageous."
"He is.” Stoneriver closed the intervening doors to give them privacy. “Give
me your word of honor not to repeat what I tell you and I will make an
offering of trust to you as an apology."
"You have it."
"I'm an intelligence officer. My immediate superior is Brock Redhand. And
we're Netherguard, not Guild. We have reciprocal ties. I've been assigned to
investigate and research the possibility that the Butchering Serpent is at
large in Red Wolf."
"Oh my.” Kady felt like she was in over her head with this and that thought
triggered a memory of the times that Kynyr had had to fish her out of various
rivers because she had never learned to swim.
"Everything you tell me will be placed in a report to be handed into Brock.
We're giving you the opportunity to convince us whether or not to prove
military assistance to your people."
"So I had better start talking."
"And eating. Don't let your food get cold."
* * * *
Stoneriver paced the parlor of his suite reading a report from the stack on
his table. As soon as he had escorted Lady Maguire to her rooms, Stoneriver
had put in an expedited request for reports concerning events in and around
Red Wolf for the past year. Queiggy the head clerk had gotten them to him in
less than an hour.
If there was a pattern to what was happening, Stoneriver had not found it yet.
He scratched idly at the thick black hair on his chest. He wore only his soft
wool trousers.
A soft knock came at his door. Stoneriver set the report down and answered it.
Larena Wiggins stood there in a filmy dressing robe over a lacy negligee. “May
I come in?"
Stoneriver felt tempted to slam the door in her face, reconsidered, and called
it research. “By all means, Miss Wiggins."

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 57

Larena sashayed over to his couch and settled on it, wiggling a bit as if
trying to get comfortable. One shoulder of her robe slipped off, flashing him
a view of her nipple which the sheer fabric could not conceal.
I've seen better. He turned his back on her, heading for a cabinet as he felt
the old rage and resentment start to sour in his stomach. “Wine, Miss
Wiggins?"
"Whiskey. And call me Larena."
"Larena. Right.” He returned with a bottle of single malt Cair Dairmud.
Stoneriver sat down in his favorite chair, unwilling to sit elsewhere despite
the fact that it put him closer to her than he wanted to be. He poured for
both of them.
Larena turned the bottle around to see the label. “You've got expensive
tastes."
"Why are you here?"
"To get to know you better.” Larena's eyes scanned the lush furnishings. “You
must be a lord or something."
"Or something.” Stoneriver's finger described an impatient circle on the chair
arm. It's hard to believe that you're Lady Maguire's sister.
Larena flicked the tie to her robe open.
Stoneriver tried to ignore it, focused on her face rather than her breasts,
but the hungry bitch look in her eyes infuriated him. “How was your shopping?"
"I bought this today. Do you like it?"
"I suppose."
That must have been the wrong thing to say, because Larena threw herself
between his outstretched legs and buried her face in his crotch. All of his
restraints snapped in a surge of wrath. He threw her to the floor and pounced
on her snarling. “I'll give you what you want, slut. Then you'll answer my
questions."
Larena screamed.
The hulking creature that mounted her was neither human nor lycan. Covered in
coarse black hair, the light-tipped guard hairs gave the beast a grizzled
appearance. Wicked teeth filled the long snout on its terrible broad head. The
paws that gripped her shoulders had heavy claws that could rip the bark from
tree trunks.
* * * *
Mary answered the knock on the door.
Stoneriver stood there, immaculately dressed in wool oxblood shirt and
trousers with a sleeveless black leather tunic, and tall boots. A sword hung
from his tooled leather belt.
Kady glanced over Mary's shoulder and smiled. Even out of uniform, Stoneriver
presented a military figure.
"May I come in?"
Mary opened the door wider and stepped aside.
Kady extended her hand in greeting. Stoneriver accepted it, bowed over her
hand, and kissed her fingers.
"Lady Maguire, Cahira expects to be busy with the Patriarch all day. So
Patriarch Mikkal has asked me to show you and your companions around the shops
in the Cloverleaf."
Larena averted her eyes from him and said nothing.
Stoneriver offered Kady his arm and she took it.
* * * *
Artair MacFie had been gone for over two weeks when he finally rode into the
yard of the Three Candles Inn. He dismounted, threw his reins to a groom, and
strode through the back door of the inn wearing a bright smile on his face.
Artair passed the kitchen on his way to the common room. Nainsi Raggat, the
wife of the owner, raised her hand in greeting and Artair nodded in reply.
Entering the common room, Artair saw that dinner had been set out on a long
trestle table. His dreaded cousin, Darcy MacFie sat at the head of the table.
By rights that should have been Lord Brodrig's place, but the
fourteen-year-old lord never argued with Darcy if he could avoid it.

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 58

Brodrig, seated at Darcy's right hand, grinned at him. “Artair, welcome back."
At Darcy's left hand sat Tobrytan MacFie. His eyes narrowed at the expression
on Artair's face. “You took your time."
Darcy looked up from her dinner and glared at him. She had strong features and
hair the color of a red fox, which she wore in a tight braid, revealing that
she had only half her left ear. A large gold loop hung from the right. She
wore a breastplate over her shirt of heavy chain and carried a broadsword at
her shoulder.
"Where the hell have you been?"
Artair swaggered ever so slightly to the table and sat down between Eanruig
and Tobrytan. “I wrote you about it."
"All you said was ‘having a good time and will be home eventually.’ What the
hell was that supposed to mean?"
Artair laughed. “It means I'm getting married. I'm only back to pack my things
and leave."
Tobrytan rose from his seat, grabbed his youngest brother's arm, and jerked
him to his feet. “Are you drunk?” He sniffed Artair's mouth.
"Perfectly sober.” Artair laughed and shrugged Tobrytan off.
"You're high on something.” Darcy glowered at him.
"Love. I am high on love.” Artair headed for the stairs.
"He's lost his mind. He's lost his bloody mind.” Tobrytan exchanged glances
with Eanruig and then both stared at Darcy. “This is your fault, Darcy. You've
been ugly with him every time he turned around."
"My fault?” Darcy struck the table with her fist. “What do you mean, it's my
fault? If he's lost his mind, then he had best find it."
The two brothers ran from the common room and chased Artair up the stairs and
down the hallway.
"I'm getting married.” Artair shrieked with joy.
"You've lost your mind.” Tobrytan made another grab for Artair.
"Married,” Artair repeated in a very small voice. “I met the bitch of my
dreams."
Eanruig looked at his brother. “I think you're the one we ought to tie up and
send home. Not Darcy."
Artair winked at them. “If I'm not back by midnight tomorrow, Todd's coming to
get me."
"Todd Sinclair?” Tobrytan shared an uneasy glance with Eanruig.
"He's my betrothed's grandfather. Betrys is the most beautiful, most brilliant
bitch I have ever met. She reads and writes four languages. She can speak
seven fluently, and she quotes poetry."
"So you're leaving us to deal with Darcy without you?"
"Toby, think of it this way. I'll be able to give Finn MacIver pointers on
Darcy while I'm there. He intends to propose marriage to her."
Eanruig looked hopeful. “That could work, you know."
"I still think MacIver is mad to court Darcy,” Tobrytan scoffed. “But we'll
work on it from this end."

CHAPTER TEN
RETURN TO HELL'S WIDOW
The morning sunlight slanted through the window and glistened on Preece
Malloy's sweating nudity, writhing and moaning beneath Malthus, their bodies
tangled together in the throes of passion. Preece gasped as Malthus’ fangs
entered the base of his neck.
"Mmmn. Hurts good."
Malthus licked the wound closed, lifted an eyebrow with an impish grin. “You
like pain?"
"I'm not adverse to it ... when it's this good."
"We'll have to test your limits ... I know many interesting ... bedroom
games."
"I bet you do.” Preece rolled over and kissed his blood off Malthus’ mouth.
“We still going to Hell's Widow?"

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 59

"Just the two of us. I need to discover how much damage Kynyr Maguire did to
my organization there."
"I'm gonna kill Maguire."
"Not from the front. He's a master, Preece."
Preece shrugged. “Who said anything about the front? I'm not going to face him
down. I'm just going to stick him."
"Best way to handle it."
"Malthus, about Oswyl..."
"What about him?"
"He's a weak sister. I think we ought to kill him."
"I've no problem with that."
They dressed and hitched the horses to Malthus’ wagon. The journey to Hell's
Widow would take half a day at most. Cullen Blackwood had held the record for
the run from the manor to Hell's Widow, shaving it down to four hours riding
Larkspur. The Race to the Widow had been a regular event each spring until the
war in the north erupted. Wagons traveled slower and, depending on weather
conditions and the quality of the horses, could easily take up to seven hours,
but more commonly it took six. Few people were willing to risk ruining their
horses by making the trip and back the same day, so inns flourished on both
sides of the border between Red Wolf and Waejontor.
Stands of white pine and blue spruce shaded the broad dirt road on the west
side of Wolffgard, making it seem colder there and the bite of late autumn
more bitter. As they neared the bridge, shadowy canine forms moved beneath the
trees, lycans patrolling in full wolf form, watchers whose job was not to
engage the enemy, but to sound the alert should something untoward occur.
The bridge guards lounged on benches set back among a thick stand of fragrant
white pine and cedars three spear lengths beyond the bridge on the lycan side
where a heavy barrier of autumn-browned brush and briars offered them
concealment from people approaching from the opposite side. They had a policy
of getting a look at anyone arriving at the bridge from the Waejontori side
before showing themselves, although they were clearly visible from the lycan
side.
A couple of them waved at Malthus as they passed.
Tree trunks formed the support columns of the bridge that spanned the gorge
that had been cut through the sheer stonewalls by the deep cataract known as
the Eirlys River. The rushing roar of the Eirlys filled the air, drowning out
the calls of circling birds. On three sides the land descended into rugged
canyons and twisted valleys that looked like a giant had ripped his fingers
through the soil. The lycan clans preferred to make their homes in hard to
reach places, areas that could easily be defended against invasion.
The half-walls of the bridge's sides offered limited shelter while not
blocking the view of people approaching it. Malthus’ wagon rattled onto the
heavy boards.
As they crossed over the Waejontori side of the River, Malthus wondered what
he would find when he arrived in Hell's Widow and if there would be anything
left to salvage there. He had been postponing the trip for weeks, but it could
not be put off any longer without arousing suspicion. People had started
asking him when he would be going next and waving lists at him of things to
pick up for them when he went.
* * * *
Fourteen-year-old Rheu Lawson had plans, big plans. He had spent weeks
savoring his memories of the night that he had helped murder three people:
Padruig Caimbeul, Odhran Lafferty, and a nibari whose name he could not
recall. It made him feel powerful and dangerous.
His eyes drifted to the chest at the foot of the bed he shared with Preece.
Rheu knelt in front of the chest and opened it up. The first things he spotted
were the blades that he had worn the night they killed Caimbeul. Preece had
told him not to wear them in public. Carrying a poisoned blade was illegal in
Red Wolf, especially one coated with a blend of Devil's Silver.
The poison called Devil's Silver had been developed by the Romilay family

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 60

specifically for killing lycans. True silver was dissolved in an arcane
solution, blended with other toxins, and processed according to a secret
formula that no one had been able to precisely replicate.
Rheu took his blades from their sheaths and replaced them with the poisoned
ones. Then he took a small box from his pouch and filled it with White Fire
from Preece's stash. Digging in his pouch, Rheu found the metal tube he had
recently acquired. He laid out lines of White Fire on a plate and snorted
them. Preece never let him do more than two lines, but Rheu was feeling like a
big dog, so he did four. He replaced the tube and the box in his pouch, and
swaggered out of the house.
Vika spotted him. “Rheu, I need some help with the goats."
"Forget it, you old slut."
She stared at him open-mouthed as Rheu headed down the path that led to
Cheshire Road. Rheu laughed at the expression on her face. He had always
wanted to say that to someone and now he had.
He intended to find three obnoxious cubs named Rory, Hamish, and Cooley, and
kill them just to watch them die. That would pay Kynyr Maguire back for
interfering with the Lycamornots.
Today Rheu Lawson felt like a big, dangerous dog, and he liked that.
* * * *
Malthus walked into the Devil's Dance Inn with Preece beside him. The large
common room had a long bar to his right, booths along the walls, and round
tables in the middle. The light from the candles in the chandelier above the
room cast everything in flickering shadows. Malthus recognized some of the
faces at the tables. The place had its regulars. No one directly met his eyes,
but they were all aware of him.
The Devil's Dance had a public face and a private one. It served as a
waystation for sa'necari passing secretly through the region and others whose
errands would not bear close inspection by the Sharani garrison.
Dymier Bianco, the owner, frowned at Preece and stalked over to them. “We
don't want your kind here."
Preece dropped his hands to his knives. Malthus touched him on the shoulder
and shook his head. Preece relaxed.
"He's a friend of mine, Dymier,” Malthus said in a soothing voice. “You've
never had problems with my bringing my friends here."
"If it were anyone else, Malthus, I'd toss you both out."
Malthus lowered his head with a small glance to the side. “What's wrong?"
"MacLachlan. That's what's wrong. Their damned bitch of a general, Darcy
MacFie is taxing the human-owned shops on the east side, calling it
reparations. You don't pay; they come in and take every thing you own."
"Shall we take this conversation upstairs in your best room? Just the three of
us?"
Dymier led them upstairs to a small lush room with thick carpets and velvet
drapes. The only furniture was a square mahogany table with four over stuffed
chairs. A nibari appeared with glasses, blood wine, and a bottle of whiskey.
"Have you been in touch with my mother?” Malthus poured for them.
"She's routing her shipments to you here."
"Very good. Has anything arrived for me?"
"A few things."
"Now, tell me what happened to my myn?"
Dymier described the attack. Kynyr Maguire had led a mixed group of Red Wolf
soldiers and Sharani veterans in an attack on the brothel that served as a
front for Heironim's units. Fergus MacFie had led his MacLachlan troops
through from the other side. None of Malthus’ forces got out alive.
Malthus comforted himself that, at least, MacLachlan had not found the
waystation, but the loss of his friends and units here hurt him and that led
in turn to a surge of anger. I hope you're hurting, Kynyr. I want you to
suffer the pains of hell before you die. I want to see you writhing on the
floor, spilling your guts on the carpets.
"Show me my room and have my mother's shipment brought to me there."

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 61

Malthus always stayed in one of the best suites at the inn, with a generous
parlor and a large bedroom.
Three crates sat beside the square table in the middle of the room. Elegant
sofas with brocaded cushions lined two walls. Malthus gestured for Preece to
join him at the table. Food and drink soon arrived.
Malthus lifted one crate to the table and pried it open. The wooden box
contained six bottles of expensive whiskey. He set them all on the table,
turning them one by one in his hand as he sketched a rune on the bottles. It
flared black, sank into the bottle, and vanished to sit there undetectable.
Preece tilted his head, considering what he saw. “What are you doing?"
A sneer drew Malthus’ lips into a thin line. “This is why Claw has heart
trouble."
"Poison?"
Malthus shook his head. “Magic. The liquor is safe to drink ... unless, of
course, you're Claw. It's much more discreet than poison. It affects only
Claw.” Malthus chuckled. “And it goes straight to the heart of the matter. His
heart."
"What about Maguire?"
"Don't get too inquisitive, Preece."
"But what about him? Killing Claw will put him on the throne.” Preece snarled.
“His grandfather killed mine. I deserve to know what your plans are for him."
Malthus shrugged. “Let's just say he's already dying and doesn't know it yet."
"Poison?"
"Drop it, Preece."
* * * *
Cooley trailed the Scott cubs into the alley behind the Difficult Horse. They
had their gathering sacks with them. Most of the shops and houses had covered
areas where they kept their trash. Rory went through the crates of discards,
coming up with jars, jugs, bottles and other things that could be sold.
All of the local cubs had begun to talk about the fact that Cooley now wore
his blades everywhere as if he were a grown dog.
Cooley leaned against the side of a building, losing himself in a daydream of
riding Larkspur across the finish line in a big race. The back door to the
tavern opened, but he did not bother looking to see who had come out.
His head snapped up when he heard Rory yell and then Hamish screamed. Cooley
came around as quiet as a cat to see what was happening. Rheu Lawson had
lifted Rory off the ground by the throat and had his foot in the middle of
Hamish's back, pinning the eight-year-old to the ground.
Cooley's lower lip slid from beneath his upper as he stalked toward Rheu,
remembering his father telling him ‘if you can't beat them, write your name on
their forehead.'
Rheu stood head and shoulders taller than Cooley and wore a pair of fighting
blades at his hips.
Cooley knew that Todd did not want him fighting, so he stepped up to Rheu
determined to try and settle it without blows. “Let them go."
"You gonna make me, mouse?"
"Yes."
Cooley saw that Rory's face had started to turn red and that alarmed him. He
reached up and pried one of Rheu's fingers back.
Rheu yelled and let go of Rory who dropped to the ground, gasping for air.
Cooley kicked Rheu in the shins, which caused him to release the pressure on
Hamish and the cub scrambled away, to crouch beside his brother.
A sharp, searing pain erupted in Cooley's side. He looked down as Rheu jerked
the blade out of him. Rheu backed up laughing. “You ain't the first dog I've
stuck."
Rory's eyes went huge and he shoved Hamish. “Get Todd."
Hamish fled.
Rheu half-turned, shifting his hold on his blades for a throw at Hamish's
retreating back.
Rory tried to scream a warning, but it came out as a fit of coughing. All he

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 62

could do was point frantically at Rheu.
Cooley knew that he had only an instant to act before Hamish ended with a
knife in his back. Fighting the pain, Cooley snatched his blades out, shifted
them in his hands, and threw as Cullen had taught him. The knives hit Rheu
square in the chest. Rheu's eyes bulged and his knees gave. He fell against
the crates of rubbish that Rory had been digging through when Rheu surprised
him.
Hamish darted around the corner and into the street.
Breathing hard, as reaction to his wound overrode the fleeting rush of
adrenaline; Cooley swayed and sank to his knees. He clutched his side, digging
his fingers in around the wound.
Rory knelt beside Cooley. “You killed him."
"I'm as good as my Dad.” Cooley settled in the dirt as consciousness fled.
Rory cradled Cooley, sobbing. His best friend's head lolled in the crook of
Rory's arm and chest, his lips parted and barely breathing. He feared asking
for help in the tavern, not knowing how the adults would react to the death of
Rheu Lawson.
To Rory's vast relief, Todd and Trevor arrived promptly.
Rory poured out the story of what had happened after Hamish made a run for it,
his voice rasping and struggling from having been choked.
At a nod from Todd, Trevor entered the tavern through the back door, and
returned with Erskine Faraday and Vayle Stewart, two of Claw's guardsmyn.
Todd took Cooley from Rory's arms, and clasped the diminutive cub to his broad
chest, heedless of the blood leaking onto his clothing. “Cooley's hurt bad.
I'm going to take him home.” Todd scanned their faces. “Can one of you fetch
Toniqua?"
Erskine turned to his companion. “Vayle."
"On my way."
Erskine turned Rheu's blades over in his hands. “They're poisoned. Rheu Lawson
was looking to kill someone."
Trevor had an ice and steel look in his eyes that reminded Erskine of Kynyr.
“He may have. Cooley."
* * * *
Kynyr came in shouting for Todd, and his grandfather's answering voice led him
to the kitchen. Todd sat at the table with a bottle of whiskey, drinking.
“Cooley?"
"Toniqua's still working on him.” Todd stared into his glass and then drank it
down in a single swallow and poured another. “Kynyr, when Cooley came home
wearing those blades I almost took them away from him. Now, I'm glad I
didn't."
"I told you that you were wrong about Cooley. He'd never kill someone for just
taunting him.” Kynyr searched his grandfather's face for signs of agreement as
he settled into a chair. A nagging weariness clung to Kynyr that not even the
rush of adrenaline on hearing of Cooley's wounding could completely shake off.
"If he makes it, I'll train him right. Just like I did you."
Kynyr glanced at the blades laying on the table. “There's Devil's Silver on
those. They're not Cooley's?"
"Rheu Lawson's.” Todd took another swallow from his glass. “Rheu had Hamish
pinned beneath his foot and was choking Rory so hard he left bruises on Rory's
neck. If Cooley hadn't intervened, Rheu would have killed Rory. Pandeena says
Rheu was gilled up on White Fire."
Toniqua came in, drying her hands on a towel. “I've done all that I can."
Kynyr turned Rheu's blades over in his hands, examining them. “These look like
the blades that were used on Padruig Caimbeul."
"Ayup.” Todd's lips tightened. “And if Rheu was involved, then so was Preece."
"If Cooley hadn't been armed, they'd all be dead,” said Toniqua. “Rheu Lawson
would have killed them."
"They need to train.” Kynyr rubbed his left temple, feeling the beginnings of
a dull headache.
"Ayup. Though Cooley's pretty good already."

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 63

"Cullen must have taught him.” Kynyr rose from his chair. “I'm going to pay
Preece a visit when he gets back from Hell's Widow."
"Don't go alone. Take Trevor."
Kynyr met Todd's eyes with a refusal on his lips, and then acquiesced. “I
will."
* * * *
Todd heard weeping as he passed Rory's door, so he went in to check on the
cub. The room had changed a lot. It used to be Kady's. Now it had shelves of
carved animals and toys. Rory had had very little when he moved in with the
Sinclairs as Cahira's apprentice. His widowed mother worked as a laundress to
support her two children. The toys were the first that Rory had ever owned and
he was not certain what to do with them.
Todd lit the lamp to have a better look at him. Rory's bruised neck had
swollen, and his voice was harsh and raspy. Toniqua had left a box of menthol
lozenges by Rory's bed.
"Is Cooley gonna die?"
"Maybe."
"It's all my fault. I wasn't paying attention. If I'd been paying attention,
Rheu wouldn't've caught me."
"It wasn't your fault. If it hadn't been you, it would have been someone
else.” Todd sat on the edge of the bed and tousled Rory's hair. “Rheu Lawson
came into town all gilled up on White Fire and looking for trouble."
"That's bad stuff.” Rory rubbed his eyes.
Todd shrugged. “It can be. When it's cut with the proper substances it becomes
Amphereon. A stimulant given for heart problems, blockages of certain types, a
bandage solution for overdoses."
Rory settled in for one of Todd's rare lectures and eventually found himself
smiling.

CHAPTER ELEVEN
VISITING
Kady sat beside Cooley's bed. She had had a wonderful time in Creeya, despite
intermittent unpleasantness from her sister; and coming home to this had left
her feeling as if the breath had been knocked out of her. They were all taking
turns sitting with Cooley, who had been moved to the house where there were
more people to look after him—all of them except Larena who was sulking.
Sooner or later, if she kept provoking her like this, Kady intended to light
into Larena and remind her that she was supposed to be grateful.
"Drink ... uh.” Cooley's voice shattered Kady's reverie, croaking and harsh.
“Drink uh water."
Kady filled a glass with water from a pitcher, lifted him up, and held it to
his lips. “Are you hurting?"
"Yes.” His eyes had a glassy solemnity in their depths.
Kady dosed him with poppy milk and settled him again under the blankets.
"Am I ... gonna die?"
Kady ruffled Cooley's hair. “Of course, not. Don't be silly."
"Tell me a story?"
Kady told stories until the drugs sent Cooley to sleep and then she
straightened his blankets and kissed his forehead.
"How is he?” Kynyr slipped into the room.
Kady put a finger to her lips and motioned him into the hall, closing the door
behind them. “Conscious finally. I gave him some poppy milk for pain and it
put him to sleep. I think he's out of danger now."
Kynyr put his arm around Kady and she leaned against him as they walked.
“Trevor and I ... We're going into town in a little while on business."
"You're going after Preece, aren't you?"
"It's got to be done, Kady. We still don't have a lawgiver. No one wants the
job after what happened to Nikko and Caimbeul."
"It's not your job to clean up the town, Kynyr."
"Someone has to do it."

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 64

"So instead of a wolf for a husband, I got a sheepdog?"
Kynyr chuckled. “Not in bed."
Kady punched him.
They walked out onto the veranda and settled together on the sofa.
Larena appeared with a tray of pastries and two glasses of wine, one white and
one red. “I know that Kady likes white."
Kynyr accepted the wine and sat sipping it.
* * * *
Preece could not remember the last time that he had wept. He might have been
six or seven years old when a tear had last run down his face. Now he paced
his longhouse, alternately weeping and raging. He had dug Rheu's grave himself
and buried him alone. No one had offered to help. There had been no grave
gifts for Rheu. There had been no service for the dead—Pandeena had refused to
so much as offer a prayer for him.
They were all fussing over that undersized freak that killed Rheu.
Malthus claimed to be his friend, and yet he had not bothered to help him bury
Rheu before leaving on another errand. Preece had no idea where Malthus had
gone. He felt betrayed by everyone.
Finally he stormed out of the house and headed for town. Maybe he would get
drunk at the Difficult Horse. Maybe he would break something. Maybe he would
break someone.
Myn moved out of his way as he went by. No one spoke. He reached Cheshire
Road, walking rapidly, his head spinning.
"Hello, Preece."
Preece halted, his head snapped up to spot who had called his name. He saw no
one on the empty road until Kynyr Maguire stepped out from between two pine
trees. Then Preece saw Trevor Sinclair standing a few paces off leaning
against an oak.
"What do you want, Maguire?” Preece tensed. He had always meant to take Kynyr
out from the back. Maguire was a master and no one in their right mind fought
fair against someone like him. Preece's confidence wavered, and steadied with
the decision that he would not go down without a fight.
"Your life.” The chill tone of Kynyr's voice carried more threat than anger
would have.
Preece drew and lunged at Kynyr slashing with both blades. Preece Malloy was
considered good with his blades and he was considered fast. However, he was
also self-taught and had learned on the street. Kynyr had been trained by a
master from childhood. The difference between them showed instantly.
Hot rage gets you killed; cold rage gets them killed. The teachings of Todd
echoed through Kynyr's mind.
Kynyr glided to the side, pulled his knives, and feinted at Preece's face. As
Preece shifted to avoid the blades, Kynyr snapped a kick into his ribs. The
impact sent Preece staggering. He recovered his balance, and spun about. A
backhand slash from Kynyr opened Preece's arm from shoulder to elbow.
Kynyr glided away with a thin smile of satisfaction. “First blood."
"Son of a slut!” Preece shrieked, and rushed Kynyr, striking wildly.
Kynyr realized, with a flash of insight, that Preece had probably never been
cut before. He sidestepped just far enough to avoid Preece's slashes, and as
the blades passed him, darted forward to plunge his knife into Preece's side
with a savage twist.
Shock and disbelief flashed across Preece's face. One knife dropped from his
hands. He made a tottering retreat, clutching his wound, blood leaking between
his fingers. “Arsehole."
Kynyr flipped his left blade into the sheath and stalked after him. The
Lycamornot made another swipe at Kynyr, weak and ineffective. Kynyr grabbed
Preece's hand, forced the blade from his fingers, and twisted his arm around,
forcing him over. “How do you want it, Preece? Heart, belly, or kidneys?"
"Gods, don't,” Preece begged, his eyes filling with fear. “Nooo. Please..."
Expressionless as stone, Kynyr shoved his knife up under Preece's breastbone.
Preece shuddered. Kynyr stabbed him again for good measure, released his arm,

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 65

and stood back.
A glassy look came into Preece's eyes as he collapsed in the dirt. Kynyr
watched him die, and then pinned a note to his dead chest: If Truth
Dies—always faithful.
Kynyr took two steps and swayed. Pain and weakness rushed through all the
muscles of his body. Trevor caught Kynyr's arm when it looked like he was
going to topple over. “Are you hurt?"
Kynyr shook his head. “Just dizzy ... I'll be okay."
"You should have Mary take a look at you."
"I'm alright. Let's mount up and get out of here."
Kynyr forced all signs of weakness from his stride as he went to his horse,
Bucky, and climbed into the saddle. He could not afford to get sick. There
were too many things to do. There was still Shalto and his cousin Oswyl left
to kill. Most of all, he did not want to worry Kady over something that was
probably minor and would pass soon.
* * * *
Malthus followed Cheshire Road until it petered out into country lanes, and
finally into a spider web of hunter's traces. At that point Malthus left the
road and kept deep in the forest, making his own paths, traveling through
shadowed places where he was unlikely to be seen. Glimpses of the distant
mountains, seen through partings in the thick vegetation, served as landmarks
to keep his bearings.
After riding for two hours, Malthus caught a flash of orange moving through
the trees above him. More and more of his watchers began to come out of
hiding. Imps scampered through the trees on every side of him, through the
brush and briars, and up in the trees leaping like wizened orange-skinned
monkeys. He had been promised the service of dozens, under the leadership of
the imp-warlord Gahni. Malthus and Gahni had worked together many times over
the years. Yet it had taken substantial promises of food, gold, and booty to
persuade Gahni to bring his people from the West Bank of the Hillora to
Waejontor. There were not as many as before. Isranon had destroyed most of the
tribe on their own grounds.
Lord Brandrahoon had promised to make Malthus his agent here if he could
infiltrate the lycans; and he had. In return, Brandrahoon had kept his
promise, and given Malthus all that he asked for: substantial forces at his
disposal, a wide range of units, and enough dark creatures to encompass all
possibilities.
"All possibilities except for Kynyr Maguire. He should be feeling the effects
by now, but I've seen no sign of it. How much more do I have to get into him
before he starts to die? Damnit."
The trees gave way steadily, thinning into a rocky fell. As Malthus’ horse
topped the first treeless rise, he saw the northern border of Claw's lands,
the Place of Boulders. Huge rocks, which had fallen from the mountains rising
above it, broke up the landscape like the remains of a giant's scattered toys.
It looked like a good place for an ambush and Malthus rode cautiously through
them.
When he reached the far side, he saw a stone bleeding table with a tool table
sitting next to it almost beneath the cliff. A cave with a shaggy overhang of
moss and briars opened beyond the tables.
He rode closer and saw the violated corpse of a young bitch chained to the
bleeding table. Every time he came here, Malthus stumbled over Egidius’
leftovers. It was reaching the point where Malthus had no patience for it. He
wondered how many had been wasted like this and he had not been informed of
it.
"Damn it, Egidius. That one was worth a hundred gold."
Dismounting, he dropped his reins, knowing that his horse Devilton was well
enough trained to not wander far unless something spooked it, which was
unlikely given that it had learned at the hands of an irrfelghau. Lord Daemon
had sent this one to him, bringing his mounts to three at the manor. The
lycans assumed he had purchased it in Hell's Widow.

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 66

Malthus ran his hands over the table, feeling the deaths lingering on the
auric surface. He sensed human, lycan, and a single sa'necari death there.
That last one disturbed him because he had learned last spring that it had
been his brother Troyes who died there.
"The Redhands will bitterly regret murdering you, Troyes. Kynyr Maguire will
regret killing my friends. There will be many regrets by the time that I
finish with these stupid wolves."
He shook the thoughts loose and ducked into the cave. There were two
interlocked caves, and they were roomy, around the size of a bedchamber. The
first one had a dusty cabinet, a table, and two chairs in it.
Egidius sat at the table and raised his head to glance at him. “What now,
Malthus?"
Malthus strolled to the cabinet. Dust flew in his face when he opened the
cabinet's doors and he sneezed hard. Wiping his face on his sleeve, he raised
his eyes to the contents. He found blood in the magical preserving bottles
crowding several shelves.
"At least you're keeping the larder stocked. The place is too dusty. Don't you
ever clean?"
"Sometimes.” Egidius shrugged. “I haven't felt like bothering with it since
Laetus died."
"You've got to stop brooding about it.” Malthus took a bottle out and opened
it, drinking deeply of the delicious blood.
"I'm trying. I loved my cousin. I promised him glory and wealth. Now his head
is rotting on the gates to Three Stones."
"I suppose I should be more understanding.” Malthus’ eyes closed and sorrow
turned his lips. “Kynyr Maguire killed Heironim and Alex, wiped out my forces
in Hell's Widow."
Alarm flashed across Egidius’ dark features. “We're losing, Malthus. We're
losing."
Malthus slapped Egidius across the face, silencing him. “No, we're not. I
haven't played all the cards in my hand yet."
Egidius mastered his panic and sobered. “So what is it you want me to do?"
"Brock Redhand, Claw's brother will be entering the valley from the Creeyan
border. Possibly with an armed company at his back."
"If he knows what's good for him, he will."
"Just so. I want you to send our strongest forces to watch the mountain
passes, catch him entering the valley, and kill him."
"I can do that.” Egidius stared off at the wall. “Any idea what he looks
like?"
"Old. He's around a hundred and thirteen years old. Another old geezer of a
wolf. Can't imagine what he thinks he can accomplish at his age."
"But you still want him dead."
"Can't take chances. He could become a rallying point once I've killed Claw
and his grandson Kynyr."
Egidius’ gaze dropped to his folded hands. “When's Merissa's cubs due?"
"Sheradyn says early spring.” Malthus chuckled. “I think she caught the first
time I shoved my stick in."
"You're forty aren't you?"
"Thirty-six. Why?"
"You've got five women pregnant at the same time ... plus Merissa. You're as
fecund as a fourteen-year-old. I'm barely thirty ... yet it's been five years
since I've managed to swell a woman's belly ... and it's not for lack of
trying."
Malthus flashed a knowing smile. “I told you ... talk to my mother. She can
fix you. Remember Heironim?"
"He was your age?"
"Close. Heironim's lineage will live on. All his concubines are big in the
belly ... so are several of his nibari. That's my mother's doing."
"She has a cure?” Sa'necari were notoriously infertile at a young age ...
especially the males.

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 67

"Not a cure exactly ... but if your sacks aren't completely dead, she can
reverse it."
"Can you tell if mine are?"
"Give me your wrist.” Malthus Read him and smiled. “There's some spark left.
However, no more rites until you've been on the medicine at least a month."
"The rites cause it?"
Malthus shrugged. “Possibly. My mother thinks so."
Getting children had become an obsession with Malthus. It made all his
sa'necari peers envious of him and added to his legend.
* * * *
Pandeena stretched out on her bed at her mother's home. She had come here
because she had not wanted to express her grief around the others, fearing
that it would prove a distraction. “I'm not good at this."
"Is it okay if I come in?"
She heard the young male voice, and then the bark of a small dog an instant
before her face was covered in wet sloppy kisses.
"Moss!” She caught the squirmy little dog and sat up with him in her lap.
“Nikko, you're up."
Nikko was tall and lean, his ginger hair more brown than gold. He still seemed
more like a lost little boy than a grown mon as a result of the attack that
had left him for dead and stolen his memories. “A little at a time. I tire
easy. Navaryn says it's my heart."
"Come in and sit down."
"Do you want to talk about those tears?"
Pandeena expected the young lawgiver to sit on the chair. Instead he sat on
the edge of her bed, and ran his fingers in the tracks of her tears. He seemed
so sweet and gentle that she had a hard time thinking of Nikko as a lawgiver.
"I'm afraid to, Nikko. Last time I said a name, it caused you to have an
attack."
"I'm stronger now. Moss helps. And some of my memories have started coming
back. I want to see my mother."
Pandeena looked away from him and the tears started again.
"She's dead, isn't she?"
Pandeena gave a small nod. “A few days after they decided you were dead ...
her heart gave out."
Nikko sucked in a deep breath. “I wish someone could have told her I was
alive."
"So do I. But she was already dead when I arrived. I'm sorry."
"She was old. I loved her.” Nikko sighed.
"When you remember who attacked you, then I'll see that he never kills again."
"If I remember. Clodagh was always terrified of sa'necari. She used to hide in
her home and stay there whenever word went out that our chieftain was hosting
them."
"You know that she's carrying a sa'necari child."
"Truly? I mean—that doesn't sound like Clodagh."
"We think she was raped. There is a death command in her brain and we can't
reach it. She was living like a slut, but we think that was because of
compulsions. Again, we can't reach them. We need to find a yuwenghau with
greater skills than ours."
"Beth. Oh gods mercy, Beth.” Nikko doubled over, clutching at his chest.
Pandeena wrapped her arm around him and Read him. “Mother! Mother, help me."
Nikko sobbed as much with grief as with pain. “Beth. That's what they did to
Beth."
Navaryn arrived and gave Nikko a glass of medicine to drink. Gradually he
eased and they put him back to bed.
"I need Dynanna. And I need her now."
"Hathura!” Navaryn shouted. When the Fae appeared, she turned to him. “Find
Dynanna and tell her to get her bloody arse to Wolffgard immediately or I'm
going to beat the holy shit out of her."
"Yes, my lady,” Hathura said, and winked out.

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 68

* * * *
Darmyk sat on the steps of his great-granddam's house, feeling sorry for
himself. There were no children to play with there. All of his cousins were
much older than he was and had adult tasks to keep them busy. He kicked at a
cluster of red and gold leaves that had blown up on the steps and sighed. At
least he did not have to worry about Ros and Lyrri trying to suck his blood
out. He hated his step-cousins, Malthus’ nieces. Darmyk wished they did not
have to live with him at the manor.
Another bit of unpleasantness for him had arrived on his first day there in
the form of medicine. A troll had been caught raiding livestock and a skilled
lycan bio-alchemist had turned the best parts of the creature into a blood
tonic for Darmyk. It tasted terrible, yet his aunts, his mother, his
grandmother, and great-grandmother kept dosing him with it every time he
turned around, saying that he still looked peeked.
"I'm looking for something. Can you help me?"
Darmyk looked up at the voice and saw a little boy slightly taller than
himself. “I can try. What are you looking for?"
The boy ran a chubby hand through his scruffy dark strawberry blond hair. “A
bodacious treehouse. The most bodacious treehouse you've ever seen. It's
supposed to be around here somewhere. It sits in a chestnut tree."
Darmyk brightened. “I have a two-story tree house that sits in a chestnut
tree. Is that boda—bodi—bodacious?"
"Sure is.” The little boy pranced in a circle. “Sounds awesome and it might
just be the right one."
Darmyk laughed at him. “You're silly. What's your name?"
"You can call me Bodi or Bodisa or Niwi or Bodisaniwi."
"You sure have a lot of names. Why are you looking for my treehouse?"
Bodisaniwi stopped prancing and looked at him. “Well, if it's a really, really
bodacious treehouse, I'm supposed to play with the little boy who lives
there.” He glanced around sharply. “But it's a secret. You can keep a secret
can't you?"
Darmyk nodded, very, very seriously in a way that only children can nod. “Tell
me."
"He lost his cat and he's lonely."
"Oh, it's me, it's me. You've come to play with me."
"Where's the treehouse?"
"This is my grandma's home. My home is down the road.” He pointed. “Near the
bridge."
"Then I need to keep going...."
"Oh please wait.” Darmyk got up and extended his hands to Bodisaniwi. “Can we
play for a while first?"
A big smile spread across Bodisaniwi's face that looked like a silly upside
down triangle. “Sure. We'll play as long as you can stay outside and then I'll
meet you at the treehouse. I'll hide inside it until you get there."
Then they played happily until the sun went down, romping and chasing each
other, fighting with sticks as pretend swords, hacking at bushes that were
declared to be fearsome monsters.
Darmyk's Aunt Searlait came to the porch and smiled at them. “It's time to
come in. Dinner is ready."
"Can my friend Bodi have dinner with us?"
Bodi shook his head. “Can't. I'm moving to Wolffgard with my grandma."
Searlait ran a hand through her graying ginger hair. “Then perhaps you'll come
visit Darmyk there? We live in the manor. Darmyk is the chieftain's grandcub."
"Sure thing.” Bodi gave a nod and strolled off whistling.
Searlait hugged Darmyk. “It's nice that you've found a friend. He seems like
such a sweet boy."
* * * *
Malthus stopped off for a drink at the Difficult Horse. The mood that greeted
him there was odd. Myn looked away from him. No one spoke. Hereward came into
the common room from the kitchen and glared at Malthus.

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 69

He spied Shalto and Oswyl drinking alone at their usual table. Malthus joined
them there and settled into a chair that placed his back to a wall.
"You look glum? What happened while I was away?"
Shalto raised his head with an uneasy look in his eyes. “Preece is dead. The
same bastard that killed Torquil got him."
Malthus swore in a long blistering streak. “Kynyr Maguire's doing it."
"You've got to do something about it, Malthus.” Shalto stared into his
tankard, refusing to meet Malthus’ gaze.
"We have to."
"No. You do. Folks are getting scared. No one wants to go up against Maguire."
Oswyl whimpered like a broken puppy.
Malthus glanced at him, catching a troubled light in Oswyl's pale eyes. “I'm
working on it."
Hereward came to the table and slapped his hands down, growling. Hair sprouted
along his arms, reflecting the degree of his agitation. “You told me Finn
MacIver cocked up my daughter Larena. Reader says different. It ain't his."
"I only know what Larena told me. However, I wouldn't be so quick to say it
wasn't Finn."
"What'd you mean by that?"
Malthus shrugged. “Finn is Kynyr's spiritbrother. Kynyr has money. He's the
prince. Wouldn't be the first time that money changed a Reading."
"I'll beat his head in. That's what I'll do. I'll beat his damned head in."
"I'd be careful, Hereward. Finn's dangerous. I'm sorry about your daughter."
Hereward went further into the change. His growl deepened and became more
wolf-like. “I'm not afraid of Finn MacIver. I'll beat his head in."
"Don't say I didn't warn you.” Malthus rose from the table and left the tavern
without getting his drink.
So Preece is dead. Maguire has counted for the best of them. Preece was
irreplaceable. All that's left are the dregs. I need to think more about
this.
Malthus rode home thinking about all the grief and aggravation that Kynyr
Maguire had caused him. Georgie Rogan, the head groom, greeted him in the yard
of the manor and took his horse.
Instead of proceeding down the hallway to the Great Hall or upstairs to his
room, he turned left and entered the kitchen. The hearth fires had been banked
and it appeared to be empty. Then he heard the scrape of jars in the pantry.
He opened the door and stepped inside it.
Isbeth turned with a jar in her hand and went pale, her hand shook, and she
nearly dropped the jar before shoving it back on the shelf. “What do you
want?"
"What do you think I want? Did you slip Kynyr all the doses I gave you this
morning?"
Isbeth cringed, tears starting from her eyes. “Yes, Master Malthus."
"Give me the empties."
Isbeth reached into the pocket of her apron and handed Malthus six empty
vials.
"You've done well. Has he complained at all?” He pressed a bottle into her
hand.
Isbeth slipped the bottle into her apron, her eyes wide and troubled.
“Headaches."
Malthus pressed a finger to his lips. “That's a very good sign. What do you
give him for it?"
"Willow bark tea."
"Next time, add that to it. In fact, every time you give him anything at all,
water, wine, tea, add that to it."
"He's dying?"
"Not yet, but he will be soon."
Isbeth wept.
* * * *
They sat on the veranda in what was becoming a nightly custom whenever Kynyr

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 70

was home. A second sofa had been brought out so that Iollen could sit with his
arm around Aghavie, who had a blanket wrapped about her to stay warmer. It had
turned into a celebration, following the news that Preece had been killed. No
one said it, but they all knew that Kynyr had done it.
"How many more, Kynyr?” Kady whispered in his ear.
"Two and then Malthus."
"I worry about you. You seem so tired lately."
Kynyr shrugged and kissed her hair. “Nothing a night's sleep doesn't fix."
"Shall I refill your glass, Kynyr?” Larena picked up his empty wineglass.
"Yeah. Thanks, Larena."
She took the glass and went back inside.
"Larena is trying hard to fit in. You can see that, can't you?” Kady watched
his eyes, searching for something in their depths.
"Yeah, I can.” Kynyr pulled her deeper into his arms. “I'll enjoy being a
father. I want to be as good a father as my Dad was."
"You will be.” Kady glanced up as Larena returned with more wine. “Say
something nice to her."
"Thank you, Larena. You're very helpful.” Kynyr added, sotto voce, “Is that
good enough?"
"For you, yes."
"Someone is spreading it around that Larena's child is Finn's. We haven't been
able to drink at the Difficult Horse since that day that Hereward went after
him."
"I thought Toniqua sorted that out."
"So did I. But Hereward is saying I bribed the Reader."
Kady rolled her eyes at the heavens. “Honestly, my father is such a nasty old
sodomite."
Kynyr chuckled.

CHAPTER TWELVE
NEW FRIENDS
Raised in a brothel until last summer when he came to live with the Sinclairs,
Cooley Blackwood had never been popular with the other cubs. They had
tolerated him because of Rory.
Since saving Rory's life, everything had changed. Cooley basked in his
newfound celebrity status. Cubs came and went all day long, sitting and
talking, playing endless games of checkers with him on a bed table. The only
time he did not have company was when Kady or Mary chased them off so that he
could rest.
Mary's eldest daughter, Betrys, helped Todd and Cahira with the shop to give
Rory more time to visit with his diminutive rescuer.
Rory's neck had turned a mottled gray-green as the bruises started to fade and
the swelling had gone down. He could speak without discomfort, but still spent
a lot of time sucking on the lozenges that Toniqua had given him.
He spent every moment that he could with Cooley, taking care of his needs,
helping him to and from the water closet, fetching him food and drink, playing
endless games of checkers.
However, Cooley tired easy and it was apparent to all that his would be a slow
recovery.
* * * *
A pair of children who were not children and yet they were children forever
stood beneath Darmyk's treehouse. They gazed up into the leafless chestnut
tree at the two level house built high in its branches. The advance scouts of
the Trickster, Dynanna God of Cussedness and Perversity, had finally arrived
in Wolffgard. An enchantary glamour rounded their ears and added a host of
human attributes to their whimsical faces.
Bodi stood with his arms folded and his head craned back as he looked up.
“Humn. That's some treehouse. This must be the place."
Auburn-haired Lilac kissed him on the cheek. “You found it."
Bodi flinched, wiped his cheek off with his sleeve, and scowled at her. “Ewww.

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 71

Girl germs."
"What's a germ, Bodi?” She tried not to look hurt at his rejections.
"It's a tiny invisible squiggly thing that makes you sick.” A strand of unruly
strawberry blond hair slipped across his face and he flicked it back.
"I don't have any of those.” Lilac examined her clothes. “Nope not a one."
Bodi looked impatient, and took his book from his pocket. Lilac could never
figure out how he got such a large book in his pocket.
The title read St. Grambs Bodacious Universal Dictionary.
Bodi patted the book. “You need a microscope to see them."
"You're fibbing. There's no such thing as a microscope."
"It's in the book."
"Who are you?"
At the sound of a new voice behind them, Bodi turned around, bringing him face
to face with a lycan cub who had scruffy reddish-brown hair, a snub nose, a
sprinkling of freckles, and azure eyes glinting with suspicion.
* * * *
Rory walked away from the Maguire House, intending to go home and do some work
for Cahira. He didn't need to as she had given him time off to sit with
Cooley. Despite everyone's assurance to the contrary, Rory still felt guilty
over Cooley's wound. Brooding, he strayed like a lonely ghost across East
Pendarke Road to the grounds of the manor and drifted to the treehouse. He
knew that Darmyk was still away, but he decided to go sit in the treehouse and
think.
When he got close, Rory spied a little girl and boy standing beneath the
treehouse. They appeared to be human and oddly out of place, which spurred his
curiosity. “Who are you?"
Bodi spun around and looked at him. “Friends."
"Friends of who?” Rory asked suspiciously.
"Darmyk and you."
"I don't know you.” Rory's hand slipped down to the sling he carried.
"You do now.” Bodi shoved the book in his pocket and extended his hand.
"I'm Rory Scott. Who are you?” Rory shook Bodi's hand.
"I'm Bodi. Some folks call me Bodisa. Others call me Niwi. My mom named me
Bodisaniwi. That's all of me."
"I'm Lilac.” She curtsied to him.
Rory smiled. It might have been magic or it might have been the simple
intuition of childhood, but Rory felt comforted by their presence in a way he
found utterly inexplicable. “What are you doing here?"
"Darmyk told me to meet him at the treehouse, a bodacious phrontistery of a
treehouse."
Rory giggled. “What's that mean?"
"Can't you talk normal, Bodi?” Lilac lowered her head, giving him a look of
gentle disapprobation.
"The words are in the book. You can look them up.” Bodi's mouth pursed.
"I don't want to look them up. So there!” Lilac stamped her foot indignantly.
“I still say there's no such thing as a microscope."
Inspiration struck Rory. “Darmyk's at his great gramma's place. But I have a
sick friend..."
"A sick friend? Does he like stories?” Bodi began to parade in small circles
around Rory and Lilac. “I have lots of stories. I have a special book. I found
it in a haunted ruin."
Rory blinked. “A haunted ruin?"
"Oh yes, we did,” said Lilac. “I got all scared, but Bodi didn't."
"Frozbie keeps calling us ever cheerful little walking disaster zones, but we
aren't really. We're just plain average..."
Lilac clamped her hands over Bodi's mouth. “I ever tell you that you talk too
much?"
Bodi pulled her hands off his mouth and nodded. “Frequently."
"Would you like to meet my friend and tell him stories?” Rory looked hopefully
from Bodi to Lilac and back again.

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 72

"Sure thing. Take me to your leader."
Lilac frowned. “He's always saying silly things like that. He gets it from
Pieface. I'm constantly having to tell Pieface that there's no such thing as
soggy camels and he should just stop looking for them."
"Now who's talking too much,” Bodi muttered.
"What's a soggy camel?” Rory cocked his head at Lilac.
She stuck her arms out straight and ran around in circles. “Vroooom! Vrooom!
I'm flying! I'm a soggy camel."
Rory giggled. “Come on then. Cooley's going to like you both."
Lilac stopped running and lowered her arms. “Pieface is always telling stories
about soggy camels that get chased by forkers. Sometimes the camels chase the
forkers, but not if there's a purple baron riding on the forker."
Rory led the way to the Maguire home and took them inside.
Kady spotted them as she emerged from Kynyr's study, having left some new
books there for him. “Hello, I haven't seen you before."
Rory introduced them quickly. “Bodi and Lilac are friends of Darmyk's and want
to visit Cooley."
A puzzled look came on Kady's face. “Are you from the Sanctuary?"
Lilac shook her head. “We're staying with our uncle until our gramma gets
here."
"Who's your uncle?"
Bodi glanced at Lilac and she nodded. “Uncle Luciano. That's who we're staying
with."
A bright smile crossed Kady's lips. “I know him. Would you like some cookies?"
Both of them nodded and then followed Rory to Cooley's room.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
A NIGHT OF TROUBLES
It had been a rough day for Kynyr, and yet nothing had happened. He had
awakened in his bed at the manor with a dull headache that worsened as the day
went on. Now, he sat on the edge of his bed, rubbing his temples. The
throbbing in his head had become violent, nausea lurked in his stomach, and
his muscles hurt. He wondered what was wrong with him.
Finn came in. “Dinner has been set out. Claw asked me to look for you."
"I'll be there in a moment."
Finn sat down next to him, head tilted as he regarded his spiritbrother. “You
don't look good."
"I've been getting headaches. They go away for a bit, but then they come
back."
"You taking anything for them?"
"Willow bark doesn't even begin to ease them.” Kynyr grimaced.
"Let's go down to the kitchen and ask Isbeth for something better?"
"Okay.” Kynyr pushed himself off the bed and the change in position made his
head pound so terribly that it felt as if someone was applying a mace to it.
He tottered to his feet and halted, hoping it would subside a bit.
Finn's frown deepened with worry. “You sure you can make it to the kitchen?"
"Yeah. It's just a headache."
When they reached the kitchen, Kynyr settled at the big table where the nibari
prepared food. Kissie poured him a cup of tea and he clutched it in shaking
hands.
Isbeth, standing at the stove, frowned at him. “You don't look well."
"Headache."
"Have you tried willowbark?” Kissie asked.
"Doesn't help."
"I have something better.” Isbeth headed for the pantry.
Kynyr looked up hopefully. “What?"
"Poppy milk."
Kynyr stared into his teacup. “Yeah."
Isbeth went into the pantry, took a bottle of poppy milk from a shelf, and
reached into her apron pocket. She fought back tears. The only thing that

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 73

Malthus could not do was forbid her tears, and Isbeth spent more and more time
weeping. She brought out the bottle of poison, and opened it. Her hands shook
so hard as she added the poison to the drug that she nearly dropped it. Yet
the coercions burning in her brain were too deep and strong, forcing her to
act against her instincts. She got the entire quantity into the poppy milk as
Malthus had instructed. Replacing the lid, Isbeth shook the bottle to blend it
all together. Then she carried it out to Kynyr.
He accepted it and took a large swallow. After a few minutes, he grinned.
“That helps. That definitely helps."
"I knew it would."
Finn frowned and touched Isbeth's cheek. “Is that a tear?
Isbeth flinched from his fingers. “It's nothing, Master Finn. New baby mood
swings is all."
"Since the headaches keep coming back—can I keep the bottle?” Kynyr asked.
Isbeth glanced at Kissie who nodded.
Kynyr slipped the bottle into a small pouch at the bottom of his weapons
harness. “Thanks."
Dinner was served that day in the Blue Room, so Finn and Kynyr headed
upstairs. When they got there, they found that Claw had gotten impatient and
started dinner without them. Claw, Malthus, and Belgair were the only ones
present. It all seemed empty without Aisha, Fianait, Searlait, and Merissa
there.
"Bout time you got here,” Claw growled as Kynyr slipped into his place at the
chieftain's right hand across from Malthus.
"I'm sorry. I was delayed.” Kynyr scanned the food. None of it looked vaguely
appetizing, despite the fact that Isbeth and Kissie had prepared all of his
favorite dishes.
Kynyr picked at his food, eating very little and excused himself at the first
opportunity. Malthus’ gaze trailed him out. Kynyr returned to his bedroom and
took the bottle of poppy milk from the pouch on his harness. He took several
swallows, closed it, and returned it to the pouch. Then he stripped the
harness off and hung it from the chair by his bed.
All he wanted to do was fall asleep and stop hurting. Too tired to remove his
clothes, he stretched out on his bed fully clothed and soon slept. A white
gold chain slipped from beneath his collar and the azure crystal he always
wore, which allowed him to call out to his grandmother Cahira when he needed
her, settled by his head. Kynyr felt it in his sleep as an impossible weight
on his aching neck, pulling at his throbbing head. He reached up without fully
waking, and snapped the chain. It slithered through his fingers onto the
floor, caught upon a knot in the boards and vanished beneath them.
* * * *
Malthus lingered in the Blue Room long after the remains of dinner had been
cleared away and the household settled down to sleep. The signs of illness had
been written large across Kynyr's face and aura. Kynyr would suffer before he
died.
Claw sat drinking the cursed rum that Malthus had given him, looking more
morose as the night deepened.
Malthus could tell that all it would take was one more major upset to push
Claw into another heart attack. He began pacing back and forth as if troubled,
all the while watching Claw. “Yren was just fifteen and you had him tortured
to death. He wasn't a bad young mon. The crowd threw stones and trash at his
mother when she tried to claim his body. It was abominable."
"Why are you bringing this up again?” Claw scowled. “The evidence is genuine.
The dog was guilty."
Malthus spun around and faced him. “What evidence? Did he confess?"
A cloak of exhaustion and pain shrouded Claw, making it hard to think of what
to say. The chest pains were worse than ever. Claw poured a dose of medicine
into his glass and drank it. Then he lit his pipe and puffed for several
moments. “Caimbeul kept a keyed memory stone. His attackers spoke Yren and
Nesswen's names while he lay dying."

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 74

Malthus dropped into a chair confounded. He had expected the witness to have
been someone, possibly a nibari, who had overhead their names called. Malthus
did not remember Caimbeul wearing any rings or other jewelry that might have
contained a memory stone—surely he would have noticed it? Another oddity. The
oddities and surprises had been piling up ever since Pandeena's arrival. But
perhaps it was just because Caimbeul had had a fireborn as a grandbitch. “If
you had not told me, I would never have dreamed."
Claw shoved his hand inside his robe, digging his nails into the left side of
his chest as color fled his face. He panted, the lines of his face tightening
into a grimace. “It's not for you to question."
"I considered the youths working there my responsibility. Beth had asked me to
help with them, because I'm older and more experienced. It's a shock
really—how little I knew about them. I thought I knew them well."
Claw's breathing worsened, and he hunched forward. “We're lycans. Best
intentions or not, you're human."
Malthus watched him closely, watched the next heart attack bear down on the
old wolf, wondering if this one would finally kill him. “You don't look well.
Shall I fetch Sheradyn or get you some wine?"
He lifted the empty rum bottle and wagged it.
"Whiskey. I've taken his bloody medicine."
Malthus fetched a bottle that he had spelled and opened it. “Shall I pour?"
Claw straightened with an effort and snatched the bottle, pouring his own and
slamming the bottle onto the table so hard it rattled the glasses. “I'm not an
invalid."
"I didn't say you were.” Malthus filled his own glass. “This has been hard on
you. You should delegate more. Belgair can handle most of it, and I'm willing
to help him."
"I don't want Belgair. If I need something done, Kynyr will do it.” Claw drank
the first glass and poured a second.
Malthus extended his awareness to taste the distress and pain in Claw's body
that his aura broadcast. He could not feed on it without his hands on the old
bastard, but he could enjoy it. “Didn't Merissa have brothers? I was told not
to speak of them, but I need to know for Merissa's sake."
Claw glared at him over the rim of his glass. “They're both dead. Sa'necari
murdered my sons before Merissa was born."
The chieftain's suffering became intensely fragrant to Malthus’ senses, and he
considered what he might say to push Claw over the edge. Then he remembered
that not only had Claw's sons been rited, but that Claw had been forced to
watch it happen. “They were rited?"
"I don't want to talk about it.” Distress added to the ugliness in Claw's
pain-lined face.
"So there's no adult male heirs besides Kynyr? That must worry you."
"There's my brother, Brock. I've sent for him."
First Kynyr, and then a Guildsmon, then those strangers living with the
priest, and now Brock. Two many variables are entering my equations. I must
move more quickly.
"I've heard things about Brock ... ugly things."
"You've been talking to Belgair.” Claw finished the second glass, and poured a
third.
"Among others. It's all over the village."
Malthus sensed the spell on the whiskey accelerating the approach of Claw's
third heart attack. Anticipation filled Malthus with pleasure.
"Damnit! Why won't those filthy gossips leave my brother alone?” The
chieftain's jaw clenched and he gritted out, “Help me to bed."
The heart attack arrived, far worse than the previous two. Claw groaned,
digging his fingers into his chest, and breathing hard. “Gods, help me. It's a
bad one."
Malthus shouldered Claw's arm. The old wolf leaned heavily upon him, his steps
tottering as they reached the stairwell. The stone stairs were part of the
oldest section of the manor. Malthus halted there instead of continuing down

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 75

the hallway to Claw's chambers.
"What are you waiting for? Get me to bed."
"Guess.” Malthus let Claw's arm slide from his grip.
Claw swayed and grabbed at the wall.
Malthus shoved Claw into the stairwell. For an instant, Claw remained upright,
and then his eyes widened as his knees gave. He swung around in a crumbling
pirouette, and his legs folded. Claw fell hard, striking his head and his back
repeatedly as he tumbled out of control. Bones snapped and broke against the
unyielding edge of the stone stairs. The chieftain sprawled like a broken doll
at the bottom where he lay very still.
Malthus smiled, listening to discover if anyone had heard. Once he ascertained
that one approached or was near, Malthus trotted lightly down the stairs and
knelt beside Claw. He touched Claw's neck to Read him. The chieftain lived,
but his heart was failing. Swiftly Malthus insinuated a fresh memory in case
someone found Claw alive, making it seem that Malthus had gone to bed an hour
before Claw departed the drawing room, erasing their conversation. He shoved
his hand into Claw's robe and gave his heart a small jolt to worsen it.
A noise in the kitchen made Malthus pause, listening. He heard someone opening
and closing the cabinets. A kettle of water whistled.
Malthus jabbed another spell into Claw's heart, and retreated up the stairs,
leaving him to die.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN
DISASTER
Kissie put the tea ball into the ceramic pot just as the kettle whistled. She
poured the steaming water over the tea ball and replaced the lid on the teapot
to let it steep. She set the pot, a bowl of sugar, and a tiny pitcher of fresh
goat milk on a tray to take it upstairs to Isbeth, her baby was colicky that
night and keeping both of the nibari up.
In another week or two Kissie would be coming into season again, as all nibari
did at three months intervals, and she knew that Aisha planned to breed her to
that new stud they had purchased.
They had named him Klaudi because they thought it went nicely with Kissie. The
Redhands had purchased him partly because Kissie did not like the main stud,
Beolagh. Although he had sired Timerly and two others on her, she had become
dissatisfied with him.
Not wanting to give offense, Kissie had never told Aisha that she had liked
Beolagh just fine until they had ordered her to service Isranon. Isranon had
been so gentle and considerate, both between her legs and with his fangs in
her neck, that all other males had seemed clumsy and inconsiderate by
comparison, which left her feeling dissatisfied with the others.
Kissie heaved a sigh and headed for the stairs. She hoped her next baby would
not be as fussy as Isbeth's newest one. She also hoped that Klaudi would at
least be affectionate when the time came to mate. She had heard nothing bad
about his coupling from the other nibari, but neither had she heard any
praise. Too often nibari studs simply did their duties and got it over with,
unless trained otherwise in bedroom arts by a female master.
She pushed those concerns from her mind when she reached the hallway with the
tray in one arm and a lantern in her opposite hand. The light fell upon a
still form on the stairs, and she sucked in a startled breath. She turned
about and left the tray on a small table in the hallway. Lifting the lantern
high, Kissie went to see who was lying on the stairs. Her heart skipped a beat
and leaped for her throat.
"Master Claw?"
She knelt to see him better. Blood dripped from his torn scalp, bruises
purpled across the left side of his face, and he lay at an odd, twisted angle.
Kissie screamed.
* * * *
Kynyr snapped awake at the sound of Kissie's cries. He grabbed his sword,
buckling the harness on as he ran. The sudden movement set his head throbbing

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 76

again. He clenched his jaw against his own discomfort as a rush of adrenaline
hit and focused him away from it.
Finn appeared in the hallway, glancing about for the direction the screams
were coming from. “Which way?"
The stone stairs made Kissie's noises echo and rebound. Kynyr listened for a
moment and gestured for Finn to follow him. “This way."
Kynyr reached the stairwell ahead of Finn, and stared down it. Kissie's
lantern glowed near the bottom and Kynyr could see her crouching beside a
still form. He took the stairs two at a time, stopped two steps above her, and
took the last steps slowly, his throat tightening as his stomach clenched.
Claw looked pasty white except for the edges that were limned with a
yellow-orange from the lantern. Blood pooled around the side of his head that
lay against the step, and soaked his gray hair in a spreading patch of soppy
crimson.
Kissie had tears running down her face as she shook her head frantically, “I
think he's dead."
Kynyr touched Claw's throat, his expression eased. “He's alive. But I don't
like the look of this. Kissie, fetch Sheradyn or Gillivray."
He watched her go, gradually becoming aware that his head had started to throb
again. Kynyr took the bottle of poppy milk that Isbeth had given him from the
pouch on his harness and swigged it.
Finn touched his shoulder. “He hit hard by the look of it."
Kynyr sucked in a deep breath and nodded. “What was he doing alone so late at
night?"
"Drinking?"
Kynyr sniffed Claw and nodded again, his jaw clenching. “Yes. He reeks."
"Could Cahira help him?"
"Maybe.” Kynyr reached beneath his shirt for the crystal with which to summon
his grandmother to help him. His brow furrowed in consternation. “It's gone.
The crystal's gone. I don't remember taking it off."
"Considering how much poppy milk you've been consuming lately, it's a wonder
you can remember your own name."
* * * *
Kissie banged on the door to the suite that Sheradyn Kelly shared with his
much younger lover and assistant, Gillivray Ashby. “Wake up. Claw has fallen
on the stairs."
The door opened and Gillivray blinked at her, rubbing at his sleep bleared
eyes. “What?"
"On the stairs. Claw fell on the stairs."
Alarm wiped the sleep from Gillivray's face. “Go sit with him, but don't move
him. Sheradyn and I will get there fast."
Kissie went back and crouched beside Kynyr, staring at Claw's chest to see if
he still breathed. Movement, if movement there was, was so slight that Kissie
felt uncertain whether she saw it or not. She fought back tears for, like most
of the household, she loved the gruff old chieftain. A sigh escaped her when
Sheradyn and Gillivray finally arrived.
Kynyr straightened and stepped back to lean against the wall, arms folded, and
expression taut.
Gillivray touched Kissie's shoulder, indicating that she needed to move so
that they could get closer and examine Claw.
Sheradyn took Kissie's place on the step, and touched Claw lightly on the
neck, his eyes going distant as he Read the chieftain. “Broken spine.
Concussion. Thank the gods, no ruptured organs. Heart attack. He's had another
heart attack.” Sheradyn's nose wrinkled. “Too much to drink. That's what did
it."
"Is he going to be ... is he...?” Kissie swallowed.
"It's too soon to say.” Sheradyn glanced at Gillivray. “We'll need help
getting him upstairs ... and a litter. I want to move him flat."
Gillivray nodded and turned to Kissie. “Wake Belgair and tell him what we
need."

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 77

Kissie gathered her skirts up and eased past Sheradyn.
Kynyr stopped her. “Finn, you go. Belgair won't hassle you as much."
* * * *
Malthus had barely undressed when he heard the sound of people running about
and talking in loud voices. They must have found Claw—hopefully dead. He threw
on a robe and stepped into the hallway. Kissie rushed past him and he grabbed
her arm. “What's wrong?"
"Master Claw fell on the stairs.” Kissie rubbed her hand across her eyes.
“They're bringing him up now."
"Is he all right?"
"I don't know. You'll have to ask Sheradyn."
"I will.” Sounds like the old bastard's still alive. Malthus smoothed his
scowl into an expression of concern, and headed for Claw's chambers at the far
end of the hallway. When he entered the sitting room of Claw's suite, Malthus
saw Sheradyn and Kynyr speaking in hushed tones near the open door to the
bedroom. Finn leaned against the doorframe with his arms folded, listening.
Malthus tried to catch what was being said, but was too far away.
"Bloody prince."
Malthus pivoted to see who had muttered that. “Watch yourself, Belgair."
Belgair shrugged and walked out.
He joined Kynyr at the door, peering past him to see what condition the
chieftain was in.
Claw lay pale against the sheets, his head bandaged, and the left side of his
face a mass of swollen bruises. Seated in a chair by the bedside, Gillivray
watched for changes in Claw's condition.
Sheradyn gestured for Malthus and Kynyr to step back into the outer chamber,
and closed Claw's door. Finn followed.
"When he wakes...” Sheradyn paused, kneading the back of his neck, and exhaled
heavily. “I should say if he wakes ... this isn't going to be easy ... then
I'll be able to better calculate the extent and effects of his injuries."
Malthus glanced from face to face. “Has anyone sent for Aisha?"
Kynyr nodded. “I have."
Malthus knew then why Belgair was having one of his moods. Kynyr had gone from
being one of Belgair's soldiers to being his superior in a way that Belgair
could not compete with.
Sheradyn gave a small puff of breath. “Claw broke his spine. He's paralyzed
from the waist down. That won't change."
Malthus’ eyes went distant and he shoved a finger against the underside of his
nose. “How did it happen?"
"He was drinking alone last night ... had another heart attack ... causing him
to fall on the stairs."
"You'll have servants sit with him at all times?"
"Yes. He's a stubborn old wolf.” Sheradyn shrugged eloquently and tossed his
head. “He's not followed any of my orders. Now look at what it's gotten him."
Malthus pulled at his oak leaf beard. “But he'll live ... won't he?"
"It's too soon to say."
"Oh gods, what I'm going to tell Merissa? I promised her I would take good
care of him. If I'd dreamed for a moment ... that he'd be left alone...” A
bitter sigh forced itself from Malthus’ lungs. “I would never have gone to
bed. I would have stayed with him."
Malthus stepped into the hallway and found Belgair standing where he could
listen to what was said.
Belgair squeezed Malthus’ shoulder. “You did your best. We all did. Claw's
stubbornness is a thing of legend."
Malthus lifted his head with a grateful glance at Belgair before turning to
Sheradyn. “You'll wake me if there's any change?"
"Of course."
Malthus gestured for Belgair to walk with him. “Let's have a drink together? I
have some very nice whiskey."
Belgair's shoulders relaxed. “Yeah. I'd like that."

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 78

They went up to Malthus’ study and he pulled out a bottle of Tormuth Whiskey
that he had held back for his own uses.
Belgair turned the bottle around and grinned at the label. “Good stuff."
"Very.” Malthus filled their glasses.
After three drinks, Belgair began to loosen up. “My father was in love with
her."
"With who?"
"Fianait. You wouldn't know to look at her now, but she was the real beauty in
the family.” Belgair's thoughts took a melancholy turn. “I imagine you've
never been in Sorcha's solar. It's no longer used, but the servants keep it
dusted.
Belgair tucked the whiskey and glasses under one arm and walked out. Malthus
followed him to a narrow winding stair that he had not been aware of, at the
back of the unused east wing. The stair led up to the roof. Malthus had never
been on the roof of the manor before. A short stonewall ran around the edges
with potted plants creating faux alcoves. Belgair walked south and they passed
piles of quarried stone covered with tarps.
"Claw has been building again,” Malthus observed.
Belgair shook his head. “It's been sitting like this for years. Claw intended
it as the final improvements on the manor. Merlons and arrow slits. He lost
interest in building after Maldwyn Softpaws died. Maldwyn was his best friend,
although they argued more often than not. Come on."
"The architect?"
"Yeah. Nikko's father."
Sorcha's solar rose on the north corner of the east wing. Bas-reliefs were
carved in the forms of dancing animals on wooden panels placed at regular
intervals along the stonewalls: bears, wolves, unicorns, and lions. Belgair
opened the stout wooden door and led Malthus inside.
There were nine windows on the east side, alternating clear and stained glass,
set to catch the morning sun. The west half lay in darkness. Belgair took a
box of lucifers from his pocket and lit a lamp.
As the light flared, illuminating the room, Malthus saw that the west half of
the room was covered in oil paintings—portraits.
Belgair pointed to a picture on the wall of a lovely, delicate bitch with a
fragile smile. “That was Fianait when she was seventeen."
Malthus nodded. “More beautiful even than Pandeena."
"In a way. I come here sometimes to think ... and to look at that picture."
"I can appreciate that."
Belgair gave Malthus a sudden look filled with doubt. “No, you can't.” He
placed the bottle of whiskey and the glasses on the table and sat down where
he could gaze upon Fianait's portrait.
"My father, Cleanan, courted Fianait. That was before Claw dispensed with the
housecarles and replaced them with his guardsmyn. Not all of Claw's changes
have been welcomed."
"Such as?” Malthus settled in a chair to Belgair's right so as not to block
his view of the painting.
"Claw gave more power to the village elders by taking it away from his thanes,
who had disappointed him during the Rebellion."
"How do they feel about that?"
Belgair frowned and filled the glasses. “If you're looking for disloyalty ...
don't. They're loyal myn. The Rebellion left a deep wound in Red Wolf's heart
that has never healed."
Malthus sipped his drink and listened attentively. The whiskey brought out a
side of Belgair that never showed when he was sober.
"My father is the youngest son of last thane of Heatherford. My mother is
Aisha's sister. And I'm nothing."
"Does that bother you?"
Belgair stared into his glass. “Only when I think Claw is doing something that
will hurt the realm ... and Fianait."
"You wouldn't know that the way you talk to her."

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 79

"It's for her own good. I'm trying to shock some sense into them.” Belgair
refilled his glass, rose from the table, and walked over to the painting.
“When I look at that painting, I can understand how my father loved her. If
Brock comes home, I'll kill him for what he did to my father."
Malthus lowered his head with a small tilt to the side to cover a tiny smile
of interest. “Your father?"
"My father caught them together in the woods. Brock...” Belgair downed his
whiskey and returned to the table. “Brock nearly beat him to death ...
crippled him."
"What would you do if you were Regent, Belgair?"
"Restore the old ways.” Belgair stared at the painting again. “My position
here was a bone thrown to my mother. Claw wanted no connections to the old
days amongst his guardsmyn. The conditions set were that I not acknowledge my
relationship to Aisha."
"That's ugly. What about Kynyr? That must have come as a shock."
"He has no right to the throne. It belongs to Merissa's sons. They are the
legitimate heirs, not the offspring of a slut's coupling with a prince."
"Whatever you decide to do, Belgair, count me in. I'm on your side."
"I knew I could count on you, Malthus. You're a good mon."
"Kynyr is a thorn in both our sides. He still resents me for marrying
Merissa."
Belgair took another swallow of whiskey. “I've noticed. He's a bloody arse."
"Might I suggest a solution to our bastard problem?"
"You have one?” Belgair leaned forward on his elbows, intrigued.
"Poison. A very discreet poison. My mother is a bio-alchemist."
"I like it.” Belgair's eyes slitted as realization dawned upon him. “He didn't
look well at dinner. You've already given it to him."
"No bastard is going to steal my children's heritage."
"I agree. How long till he dies?"
"A few more doses should do it."
* * * *
Kynyr went to his suite and sat down at the table in the outer chamber. The
large room had simple furnishings. A small square table with four wooden
chairs in front left corner, three overstuffed chairs in the center and
bookcases along one wall.
His headache had started to ease in response to the poppy milk he had taken on
the stairs.
Finn poked his head inside. “Mind if I join you?"
"Sit."
"I know you don't like talking about this, Kynyr, but it's time you did.” Finn
sat down across from him.
"What?” Kynyr glanced at him without lifting his head, suspicion in his eyes.
"If Claw dies, are you going to take the throne or try and dump it on someone
else?"
"Grab a bottle of whiskey and some glasses from that cabinet and I'll tell
you."
"You shouldn't be mixing it with what you're taking for those headaches."
"Just do it."
Finn fetched the whiskey and poured. “Well?"
"I'm going to take it."
"Why?'
"There's an old Creeyan proverb, ‘duty is where you find it.’ It applies here.
Remember when we were cubs?"
"You swore you were going to hide in the woods and spend the rest of your days
fishing."
Kynyr knocked the drink into his mouth and swallowed it; an edgy misery laced
with regret entered his voice. “I wish I'd never come to Wolffgard. My father
would still be alive."
"Then you wouldn't've met Kady."
"Kady.” He leaned back in his chair, his eyes tracing the ceiling beams. “Make

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 80

me a promise, Finn?"
"You know I will."
"If something happens to me, take care of Kady for me."
"You didn't have to ask. You know I would."
Kynyr's eyes hooded until only a slit remained between his lashes. “He broke
his spine. I wouldn't want to live like that."
"No one would."
"Death doesn't frighten me half as much as the thought of being crippled ...
helpless ... useless. A burden on those I love."
At a loss for words, Finn simply nodded.
"Remember that day on the green? When they flogged Iollen and Donald?"
"Yeah. What about it?"
"Remember my injured leg cramped up?"
"Erskine had to practically force you into the saddle you were so determined
to walk home anyways."
"I looked across the green and saw Preece. Our eyes met and he mouthed the
word ‘cripple’ at me. That's what set me off."
"You should have said something. I'd've gone over and busted his face for it."
"I'd like to have seen that."
"You think these headaches could be a delayed something or other left over
from getting hit with all that Devil's Silver?"
Kynyr glanced at his spiritbrother, keenly aware that Finn was grasping at
straws to explain what was wrong with him. “Might be. I'll talk to Sheradyn."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN
HOMECOMING
Kynyr slid his legs over the side of his bed and lurched into a sitting
position. His head throbbed and he ground his palms into his temples. His
stomach heaved violently and he slipped off the bed onto his knees, vomiting
on the floor.
Eww.” Finn swaggered in, stopped short, and wrinkled his nose. “You must have
really tied one on last night, Old Dog."
Kynyr grabbed the bottle of whiskey off his nightstand and took a long
swallow.
Finn pinched his nose and bent over Kynyr. “I told you not to mix that stuff
last night."
Kynyr took another swallow and stoppered the bottle. “What do you suggest?” He
grimaced, desperate to convince Finn that it was simply a hangover. Kynyr
could not afford to come down sick with something. There were two more myn to
kill and then Kady could fuss over him all she wanted. “This is the worst I've
had since I was a wet-tailed cub just learning to hold my liquor."
"Some of Kissie's hangover tea and a raw egg."
Kynyr staggered to his feet, tottered to the washbasin, and filled it from a
ewer. He washed himself off, fighting dizziness that made the room seem to
tilt with each move he made.
Finn tossed Kynyr's clothes at him. Kynyr caught them, fumbled for a moment,
and nearly dropped them.
"Get dressed and I'll help you to the kitchen."
The only one in the kitchen when they got there was Isbeth. She gave Kynyr a
sad look.
"I'm so sorry about Master Claw."
"Everyone is.” Kynyr settled at the table. “Can you give me something for a
hangover?"
"Kissie's tea, but poppy milk would work better."
"Giving me another bottle won't get you in trouble, will it?"
Isbeth swallowed and a tear leaked from her eye. “No, Master Kynyr it won't."
Isbeth gave him another bottle of poppy milk, which he gratefully accepted.
* * * *
Blue Rock lay only a three-hour ride from Wolffgard on a good horse so the
household had been expecting Aisha to arrive home all afternoon in response to

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 81

Kynyr's summons. One of their outriders had arrived to alert the household
ahead of the return of the Redhand bitches, and so when the carriage drew up
in the yard Malthus was sitting on a bench waiting for them with a strong
autumn wind whipping at his cloak. He rose and helped Aisha and Merissa down
from one side, while the footmon aided Searlait and Fianait from the opposite
door. Their faces were etched deeply with concern and worry. Darmyk jumped
down from the lowered step and tried to get past the adults, but Merissa
grabbed his hand.
The boy whined and pulled in desperation to get inside and find out about his
grandfather. Merissa glanced at her aunts.
Searlait gave her an understanding look. “I'll take him, Merissa."
She led Darmyk off, speaking in low soothing tones. He settled down for her
and she hugged him.
Aisha swept inside without a word, heading upstairs.
Merissa and her aunts went into the Great Hall and lingered there to allow
Aisha time alone with Claw before going up themselves.
Searlait noticed Darmyk fidgeting in his chair. “I'll get Darmyk to his rooms
and be back in a little bit."
She departed with Darmyk in tow.
Malthus put his arms around Merissa. She shuddered, her eyes wary and
accusing. He pressed his face into her hair, kissed her head, and whispered in
her ear. “Yes, I did."
Merissa pulled away from him and fled. Malthus followed her with a mask of
worry on his face, and caught up to her in their suite. She stood trembling in
the parlor, but when Merissa saw him, she retreated to the bedroom. “You're
killing my father."
He dropped the bar, and entered the bedroom, chuckling. “I left him dying on
the stairs, my little cairden-spiursak. It's a shame Kissie found him. With
any luck at all, he'll never wake."
Merissa stood, back to the wall, hands over her ears, and tears streaming down
her face. “Malthus ... please stop. I don't want to hear this."
"Once you started noticing the similarities between me and my brother..."
"I hadn't noticed. Not really."
"You're lying. How many months did you fuck my brother?"
Merissa hesitated.
"How many?"
"All ... all winter. I was afraid of him. Troyes said he would kill my
father."
Malthus laughed. “So I kill the old bastard instead.” He proceeded to tell
Merissa, in great detail, what he had done to her father.
Merissa slid down along the wall, curling her legs beneath her, weeping.
He bent over her, sneering in her face. “Did you eat my brother? I'm told your
father ate Troyes’ heart, and the rest of the guard, your mother and others,
chopped him up and shared out the pieces."
"I didn't touch him."
"What about your aunts? Did they partake of this nasty little feast with my
brother as the main course?"
Merissa pressed her fingers into the sides of her head, digging at her
temples, writhing and wanting desperately to lie. The coercions in her brain
were too firmly lodged, forcing her to tell him the truth. Yet, fear and its
attendant hysteria made it hard for her to remember, and in the end she
blurted out, “Yes. They were there. They ... they ate him."
"Then they all die."
"Oh, gods, Malthus, no. They're old. Have mercy."
Malthus ignored her plea. “Do you know who he wants for regent?"
"Brock."
"It's a long journey from Creeya. He'll never reach here alive."
"Gods’ mercy.” She clenched her eyes closed, and gasped out, “Kynyr ... he'll
stop you."
"He's already dying, Merissa. I poisoned him."

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 82

Merissa gave herself up to despair with a sob.
Malthus knelt and unfastened her clothing.
She shivered, but did not fend him off.
"Open your legs; I've been waiting all morning for you."
"I don't want you...."
"Don't make me hurt you. I've laced my spells through your body for months ...
as you slept."
"I hate you."
"Hate me all you wish. Just obey me."
* * * *
Darmyk clutched Searlait's hand as they walked down the hallway to his rooms.
The journey home had left him tense and frightened. He knew he should have
been worried about his grandpa, but the thought of Ros’ fangs overwhelmed
everything.
Searlait gave him a look of pity, and lifted him onto her hip despite the fact
that he was becoming too heavy for her. “He'll get better. Don't you worry."
They turned a corner, and Darmyk spied seven-year-old Ros and her six-year-old
sister Lyrri standing together in the hallway watching them. He shivered and
the skin on his neck prickled.
—I want to suck you, Darmyk. I want to suck you dry.—Ros’ mind voice echoed
through his head along the link she had placed there when she first bit him.
He wanted to cry, but held it in, expecting her to force him to go to her. The
fact that she never did when an adult was present was no comfort. Darmyk
shivered and pressed his face into Searlait's shoulder, her ginger hair—so
much like his mother's—falling around him.
Once he got to his rooms, that Pandeena had shielded, he would be safe.
Searlait put him down in the parlor of his suite and pressed her hand to her
back. “My, you're getting heavy."
Darmyk fled into his bedroom, crawled onto his bed, and sat sniffling. “Why
does Grandpa have to be hurt?"
Searlait sat on the edge of his bed and hugged him again. She wished she were
younger. A child, even a good one like Darmyk, could be a trial. She no longer
had the strength to lift and carry him easily, which might have been more
comforting to him. “These things just happen."
Malthus did it. I know he did it. Darmyk tensed. Then he remembered that Bodi
had promised to meet him in his treehouse. “I'm hungry. Can I get two pieces
of pie and a really big chunk of cheese? And some nuts?"
Searlait brightened. “I'll go and have a servant bring them up."
Darmyk stopped sniffling. “Can you put it in a pail so I can eat in my
treehouse?"
"It's very cold out."
"Please. If it's too cold for me, I'll come back inside."
"All right."
A nibari servant brought the lunch pail to Darmyk.
Timerly was Kissie's twelve-year-old son, and was such a fine looking boy,
blond and blue-eyed, that Claw had marked him for stud purposes when he got
older. So Timerly had not been sterilized when the rest of the nibari boys in
the household were. He lugged the pail in and sat it down heavily in front of
Darmyk. “There's enough for three. Are you going to play house with Ros and
Lyrri?"
Darmyk repressed a shudder at the thought of what Ros and Lyrri considered
playing house, and shook his head. “Nah, they're just bitches."
Timerly laughed. “They're pretty though."
Darmyk caught a flash of an image—something he had never experienced
before—from Timerly's mind: Ros had sucked Timerly and played with his body in
a disturbing manner. Darmyk felt as if a hand had grabbed him by the throat
and was choking the life out of him. “I want to be alone."
The moment that Timerly left, Darmyk rushed through his rooms, checking the
warding signs that the priest had painted around it and only when he saw that
they were all intact did he relax again. He knew that nibari liked being

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 83

sucked, and needed to be bled in order to remain healthy, yet Darmyk knew he
would never trust Timerly again.
He threw his cloak around his shoulders, went to his window with the pail, and
stepped outside onto the branch of the chestnut tree that grew to his window.
With the easy balance of a lycan—or sa'necari—Darmyk scrambled across the
branch to the tree house as fast as he could.
Bodi sat in the middle of the floor playing with Darmyk's toys. The treehouse
was as warm as springtime despite the winds howling outside it.
"You're here! You're really here!"
Bodi gave him an exaggerated nod. “I gave my jurament to be here. So here I
am."
"You use funny words.” Darmyk sat the pail down beside Bodi.
"Pieface says I make them up, but I don't."
A quizzical frown came over Darmyk's face. “What's a jurament?"
"What's in the bucket?"
"Answer my question first."
"My jurament—my oath. My promise. Now what's in the bucket?” Bodi poked around
in the pail and giggled. “Pie. If Pieface knew I got some pie and he didn't
he'd be chartreuse with envy."
"Lunch for both of us. What's chartreuse?"
"Green. You know. Green with envy. The chartreuse-eyed monster."
Darmyk giggled and lost his troubles for a time, captivated by his strange new
playmate. When it got late, Darmyk reluctantly said good night and headed for
the window where he could climb onto the tree branch to return to his rooms.
"Wait a minute.” Bodi ran up to him. “Still no cat?"
Darmyk shook his head. “We have cats to keep out mice and rats, but Kenly was
special.” A sudden tear slipped from the little boy's eyes.
"I'll getcha a cat. What kind was he?"
"A maned hunting cat."
"Ouch, that's a tough one.” Bodi chewed the inside of his lip as he thought.
“Tell you what; I'll get you a special cat. A really, really special cat. But
it'll probably take me a bit."
Darmyk brightened and hugged Bodi. “Thank you."
"No problem."
* * * *
Cooley had nearly given up on Bodi, when the little boy returned as it was
getting dark. Bodi danced into the room to the sound of music that only he
could hear. Cooley laughed, tried to push himself up better on his pillows,
and winced at the pain in his side. His new playmate bounced across to him,
adjusted his pillows, and reached into a pocket. Bodi produced a handful of
candies wrapped in wax paper twists.
"Sugar Maple's special candy. That ought to fix you up."
Cooley opened one and popped it into his mouth. A look of delight spread over
his face and sense of well-being expanded through him. “Is it magic?"
"Sort of. It wears off after a while, but no harm done. And you'll like Sugar.
She's sweet. Except of course if you aggravate her. She'll drop a tree on
you."
"Can I see the book again?"
Bodi reached into a very small pocket and brought out a very large book. He
laid it on Cooley's lap and pulled a chair up to the bedside.
"Does it really have all the knowledge of the world in it?"
Bodi gave a little shrug while swinging his feet back and forth. “All that you
can get into a dictionary. It's not an encyclopedia. It's just very
locupletative."
"What?
"Never mind. Look it up when you get the chance.” He cocked his head to an
acute angle, watching Cooley turning the pages of his book.
"I can't even spell it.” Cooley paused to consider an illustration. “I've
always wanted to see a gryphon."
"No, you don't. They'd eat you right up. That is unless they belonged to

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 84

someone. I know someone with a pet gryphon. Actually I know many people with
gryphons. But they'll eat you up if they don't know you. Can't tell a stranger
from a dinner plate."
Cooley giggled. “You should show this to Kynyr Maguire. He loves books."
"Who's Kynyr?"
"The prince.” Cooley wondered if there was anything about anything that could
not be found in the book and decided to test it. “There's a curse on his
family."
Bodi turned the book around and thumbed through the book and frowned. “Nope.
No Maguire's curse here."
"It's not called Maguire's curse. It's called Weems’ curse or the Exile's
curse."
Bodi turned more pages and frowned. “You must have the name wrong."
"I don't have the name wrong."
"Give me a clue then."
So Cooley told Bodi about how Tarrant Redhand and Todd Sinclair had killed
Alistar Weems for attacking Cahira. With his last breath, Weems laid the
curse.
A big grin spread over Bodi's face, and he paged through the book to the
section starting with the letter L.
"There it is!"
And Bodi read the words to Cooley.
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
Cooley let out a shriek. “Kady! Kady, come here! I've found the words. I've
found the words."

CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THE EXILE
Stoneriver sat at the table in his favorite chair, his cheek propped on his
knuckles. He had long since banished Larena from his mind, but Lady Maguire
was another matter. He had not been able to stop thinking about her since she
left.
His friend, Aramyn, sat on the sofa in roughly the same spot that Larena had
occupied that disastrous night.
"So what do you make of her, Stoneriver?” Aramyn asked.
"Lady Maguire?” Stoneriver lifted his head from his hand and straightened in
his chair, clasping the ends of the chair arms that had been carved in the
form of bear claws.
"Yes."
Stoneriver considered Aramyn for a time before answering. The unassuming mon
was Lord Lieutenant to the Grand Master in charge of the operations branch of
the Guild. Aramyn had rebuilt that branch from the bottom up following an
attempted coup that had shaken the Guild to its core and ended with all the
ruling family dead, except for the survivors of a hidden branch clan.
"Strong, passionate, concerned ... very in love with her husband."
"Honest?"
"Yes. I can't say the same for her sister. It's hard to believe they're
related."
"How so?"
"Larena is a slut."
"You have that on good authority?"

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 85

"She came to my room in her nightgown uninvited. She amused me ... played Jack
in the Orchard with me. But more important she told me many things. At least
fifty percent of it was lies, if not more."
Aramyn whistled.
Stoneriver shrugged. “She's also pregnant."
"You work fast."
"Not mine. I can't produce a child."
"You sure about that?"
"I'm kweigeyl. I had my fertility sealed off. I never wanted to produce a
child that might one day contest with my brother's family for control."
Silence settled. Kweigeyl varied in its effects. It could reduce, eliminate,
or destroy, depending on its application, sex drive and gender specific
attributes, including fertility. Only a yuwenghau could set that spell; mostly
those who were descended of Willodarus and Ishla.
Aramyn chose to break that silence. “So you are going home?"
"I don't see that I have a choice. My family is in danger."
"It's worse than you know.” Aramyn pulled a sheaf of papers from his pouch and
laid them on the table.
Stoneriver slid them across the table and glanced at them. “What's this?"
"Reports from our agent in Wolffgard."
Stoneriver's face darkened as he read. “The sooner I'm home the better."
"You're good, Stoneriver. But so's the Serpent. Don't go alone."
"I don't intend to. I have a meeting with Alysyn today."
"How's she holding up?"
"Not well. She knew Yukiah was living on borrowed time, but losing him still
hurt.” Stoneriver poured a glass of wine and sipped it. “You want to know what
finally convinced me to go home?"
"Yeah?"
"Lady Maguire. Until I spoke with her, I was reluctant to go. Without knowing
who she was really speaking to, she convinced me beyond all the shadows of my
doubts. She's rallied me to her cause."
"She made quite an impression on everyone."
"A lady caused my exile and a lady has rescinded it."
"Ironic."
"There's a small favor I'd like to ask you."
"If I can grant it, I will."
"Could you air lift some agents into Wolffgard to keep an eye on Lady Maguire?
Keep her safe until I can get there?"
"I have a Shivari in place already. I could send three more."
"Do it."
"Consider it done."
* * * *
Stoneriver had barely finished his meeting with Alysyn when he was asked to
speak with someone in Aramyn's study. The newcomer was striking. Possibly the
most beautiful lycan bitch he had ever seen and it immediately put him on
guard. The most beautiful to look upon were often the meanest in spirit and
the most manipulative in his experience.
"Can I help you?"
She turned. “I'm Pandeena. Are you Brock Redhand?"
"I'm Captain Stoneriver, serving as Commander Redhand's aide-de-camp."
"You're lycan?"
"More or less.” Stoneriver shrugged.
She frowned as if perplexed by his answer. “I was told I could speak to Brock,
and to wait here for him."
"Commander Redhand has been called away. I was just getting ready to join him
when word reached me about your presence."
"Then you can take me to him?"
Stoneriver shook his head. “I'm afraid I can't. You're a civilian and a
foreigner. Netherguard regulations will not allow it. I wish I could help
you."

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 86

"But we need him."
"Does this concern what is happening in Red Wolf?"
"Yes."
"Then perhaps I can reassure you. I'm carrying briefing documents to him about
it."
"Does that mean he'll come?"
"Yes.” Stoneriver unbent. He sensed nothing untoward about her, only a genuine
concern. His encounter with Larena had put him back on guard again around
pretty bitches. “Can I offer you a glass of wine?"
"Yes."
"Red or white?"
"White."
"Please sit down. I see you share Lady Maguire's taste in wine.” He went to
Aramyn's liquor cabinet and poured glasses for both of them.
Pandeena settled on the sofa and Stoneriver placed the glasses on the low
table before it. He settled into a chair.
"You're the one who came and spoke to the Grand Master?"
"Yes, I am."
"Let me tell you a little bit about Brock. I've known him ever since I arrived
in Creeya."
"A long time?"
"A very long time.” Stoneriver sipped his wine. “My own story is similar to
his. Except that the bitch involved was married to someone else. My own exile
was self-imposed, unlike Brock's. He took me under his wing. He's been like a
father to me.” Bitterness twisted the corners of Stoneriver's mouth. “The kind
of father I should have had. The kind I had always wanted, unlike the drunken
skirt-chaser I was born to. So I'm very protective of him."
"Claw told me that Brock came to visit ten years ago and he was still young."
Stoneriver sighed. “That wasn't Brock. That was a Guild operative sent by
Brock to check on his family. I was present at the planning session for it."
"Is he long-lived?"
"No. We chose to do it that way to confuse the issue. The Guild is very good
at that."
"So then ... he's old?” Pandeena sounded disappointed.
"He's old enough to be my father."
"I see."
"I wish I could tell you more, but I would be betraying classified
information. Brock is the highest ranking lycan officer in the Netherguard."
"But you are certain he's coming?"
"Absolutely. Brock told me he was weeks ago. I was the one dragging my heels.
I kept refusing to embark on this expedition—it's volunteers only—until I met
Lady Maguire. I made her a promise.” Stoneriver chuckled. “Brock says he's
never going to let me live it down either."
"What promise was that?"
"To support her cause. Brock is taking an army to Red Wolf and I'm riding with
him. Which is the very last thing I ever wanted to do. My father is the Thane
of Chandler's Rock ... and he's probably going to throw a fit when he hears
I'm back."
"Can I ask a personal question?"
"Ask and I'll answer if I wish to."
"Who was the bitch who caused your exile?"
"My stepmother. I slept with her. Are you shocked?"
"Not really."

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
QUEENS AND BITCHES
Aisha's weeping penetrated Claw's consciousness, drawing him back into the
world again. He opened his eyes and saw Aisha sitting in her chair beside the
bed. A tremor of confusion rattled his thoughts. He did not remember sending
for her. A frown creased his face as he tried to recall how he had gotten into

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 87

bed and experienced a yawning abyss of blankness. A small memory surfaced of
sitting alone in the Blue Room, drinking ... then the pain in his chest.
"Another attack?"
"Yes.” Aisha's voice cracked and caught. “A bad one."
He touched the tears on her face and noticed something wrong. “My ... legs—"
Aisha kissed his hand with a sob. “They're still there."
"I can't ... feel them."
"You broke your spine."
Despair clamped like a vice around Claw's heart and spirit. His face flushed.
Alarmed, Aisha reached for the medicine. “Are you hurting?"
Claw snatched the medicine off the nightstand and threw it hard against the
wall, shattering the fragile glass. “Damnitalltohell! I'm just waiting to
die."
He regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth because Aisha
burst into weeping. “Aisha ... Aisha, I'm sorry. Please don't cry."
She nodded, biting on her lower lip; her voice went so soft that he could
barely hear her. “I don't want to live without you."
"I don't want to leave you."
Aisha looked so sad and worried, that Claw dragged her down, pressed her face
into his neck, and held her for a long time. “Be a good bitch. Tell Sheradyn I
broke the bottle ... accidentally. I'll take the medicine, Aisha. I promise."
"I love you."
"We've been together over a century ... and I've never wanted anyone else.”
Claw kissed Aisha's cheek. “Tell Merissa and my sisters they can come up?"
"Are you sure you're strong enough?"
"I must be. I need to be.” Claw grimaced and kneaded his left arm. “Tell
Sheradyn, I'm hurting ... and send someone for Pandeena."
Aisha pulled away from him, her eyes filled with sorrow and concern. “Not the
Last Rites?"
"I just need to talk to her, Aisha. I've put off too many matters off for too
long. Have her bring that healer, Toniqua."
"Can't you put it off?"
"Humor me, Aisha.” He squeezed her hand. “Send Kynyr up? I need to talk to
him."
Claw hated upsetting Aisha, and decided to try and hold his feelings in more
around her. It seemed as if it were only yesterday that he had chased her
through the woods in wolf form, courting her in the primitive fashion she had
chosen. Claw had gone to her father's farm to purchase livestock, and ending
up coming home with Aisha as well as the cattle. Melancholy replaced despair
with the dance of his memories. Now he was dying in pieces. He would never
chase Aisha through the woods again.
"You wanted me, Grandfather?” Kynyr came in and took the chair that Aisha had
been using.
Claw looked at Kynyr and saw Tarrant instead. He would never forget the day
that Kynyr Maguire, barely sixteen years old, came riding into the yard of the
manor asking to be taken on as a guardsmon. It had been like seeing a ghost
arrive, as if Tarrant had never died.
Belgair had been skeptical. The captain of his guardsmyn could never
understand what went through Claw when he first laid eyes on Kynyr. But
Belgair had never seen the portraits of Claw's sons until the chieftain
ordered them returned to their proper places on the walls. He had ordered them
taken down nearly eighty years ago because Aisha cried every time she looked
at them.
"We need to talk. All hell is going to break out when I die, Kynyr."
"What do you mean?"
"I disinherited Merissa and her children in my will. I've completely
repudiated her."
"Why?” Kynyr looked stunned.
"Malthus."
"That says a lot."

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 88

"I've named you heir ... established a line of succession. You, your son, your
brother."
"I won't let you down."
"I didn't think you would. What's the first thing you would do as chieftain?
The first thing I did was to rescind my father's banishment of Brock."
"Banish Malthus. And I won't let him take Merissa with him."
* * * *
In the sitting room of the Lawgiver House, Pandeena sat scowling at Erskine
Faraday. “Why wasn't I sent for sooner?"
The lanky, sandy-haired Erskine shrugged with a rueful smile. “I don't know.
Nobody tells me anything."
"But you suspect?” Pandeena knew that Erskine was a close friend to Kynyr
Maguire, part of a tight knit group of guardsmyn who had always supported the
prince even before they knew the truth about Kynyr.
"You didn't hear this from me?” His mouth tightened and his brow furrowed as
he waited for an answer.
Pandeena's lips pursed in momentary impishness. “I'm deaf, dumb, and blind. So
tell me?"
"Sheradyn. The nancidawg resents Toniqua disputing his findings. Doesn't help
that Malthus is always agreeing with him either."
Pandeena tapped her lip, seeing an opportunity in Erskine's forthrightness.
“What do you think of Malthus?"
Erskine blew a long breath out before answering. “I'm sticking my neck out,
you know."
Pandeena gave a curt nod.
"A lot of the wolves like him, especially Belgair and Sheradyn. Some of us
don't, but we keep our mouths shut."
"Meaning you?"
"And some others. He's too rough on the boy. Darmyk's a good cub. And Merissa
... well it's just a gut instinct, but I think she's afraid of him."
"Afraid of Malthus?"
"Yeah."
Toniqua came into the room with her satchels slung from her shoulders, straps
crisscrossing her body and making an X between her breasts. “I'm ready."
Pandeena rose from her chair. “Why don't you come to dinner tomorrow night?"
"Can I bring a friend?"
"If you trust him."
"I do."
"Then it's fine with me."
They rode toward the manor, speaking little until Pandeena broke the silence
with a question. “I've heard that you're a widower."
"Why are you asking?” Erskine went guarded.
"I'm your priest and I'm curious about my congregation. That should be
enough."
Erskine sighed. “I don't like talking about it."
"I want to know. You beat Gorgarty Burr into the ground over Kady last
summer."
"Wasn't just me. Robert and Vayle helped."
"You instigated it, according to the rumors. And you apprehended Donald
Greenlea. Again over Kady. Why?"
Erskine averted his eyes, discomfort heightening the color in his thin face.
“I don't like seeing bitches and cubs mistreated."
"How did you lose your wife?"
"If you're thinking it was violence—it wasn't.” Erskine raised his head again.
“Black Mountain Fever. Dympna was seven months pregnant. We were happy. Then
she caught the fever. Cub came early and I lost them both. Life is fragile. I
had lost my father to it the month before."
Pandeena felt suddenly ashamed of pressuring him. “You're right. I thought it
was violence. I thought maybe you had a personal reason."
"I did. Kynyr and Kady are my friends. That's reason enough, isn't it?"

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 89

* * * *
Aisha greeted Pandeena and Toniqua in the parlor of her suite. “Please don't
tire him. When he came to, he insisted on talking to Kynyr. Afterward he
looked worse and Sheradyn had to dose him for pain."
Pandeena hugged her and made a sign of blessing. “Tell us what happened?
Erskine felt that it was not his place to speak."
Aisha gestured for Pandeena and Toniqua to sit, and they settled on the sofa,
while Aisha sat down in a chair.
After they had heard her out, Toniqua gestured at her satchel. “I knew at
least part of it would be his heart, so I brought some medicines."
"Sheradyn..."
Toniqua made a dismissive gesture. “My knowledge is more recent than his.
There have been many improvements in the last ten years."
"Then you can help him?"
"His heart ... possibly. Not even a lifemage can mend a broken spine."
Claw roused when they entered, his eyes dulled by drugs. “Aisha, leave us."
"But Claw..."
"Now."
Aisha wavered, her lips tightening, and then left, closing the door behind
her.
Claw extended his arm to Toniqua. “I'm making you my personal physician."
Toniqua glanced at Pandeena. “Sheradyn will object."
"I don't give a cat's arse what that old nancidawg thinks."
Pandeena and Toniqua were surprised at the vehemence with which Claw used the
term. From the tone of his voice it carried nuances of ineffectuality.
"If you're expecting me to move into the manor ... I can't. I've established a
free clinic for the poor. I am willing to stop in every two or three days ...
and come any time you send for me."
"So be it."
"Is that all you wanted?” Pandeena asked.
"I want Brock. Is he coming?"
"I don't know. I spoke to a lycan called Stoneriver. He said that he was
trying to convince Brock to come."
Claw gave a raspy chuckle. “What did he look like?"
Pandeena described him.
"In the closet there's a painting sitting on the floor, still all wrapped up.
Get it out and look at it."
Pandeena found the painting and removed the wrappings. Her mouth fell open in
shock. “That's Stoneriver."
"That's Brock Redhand. My brother."
* * * *
Malthus considered Rachel lying on his bed nude, her young body so full and
appealing. No one would ever bother to probe deeply enough to find his traces
in a lycan tavern wench. He placed his hands on her belly. “This will feel
strange."
"What are you doing?"
"You'll know soon. Relax.” He extended his powers into her and wrapped his
gifts around her ovaries as he had done to others and tickled forth an egg,
coaxing it down into the secret meeting place.
Rachel whimpered when he mounted her and rode her to completion. Then he
rolled off, placed his hands on her belly again, and completed the
introduction of his seed to her egg.
"You're pregnant, Rachel."
She burst into sobbing. “My Dad will kill me."
"I'm the only sa'necari my age who is still as fertile as a boy. I will soon
have so many children scattered across Waejontor that it will be impossible to
extinguish my lineage."
"You don't care about me."
"You're a brood mare, Rachel. Nothing more."
* * * *

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 90

Kady sat on the sofa with Kynyr, watching a sudden storm sweep across the
night sky. She had become grateful for all the clothes that Cahira had
insisted that she buy while they were in Havensword. Her belly had become
large and round. Movement inside her womb startled Kady and she straightened
with an affronted glance at Kynyr. “Your son is kicking me."
"You set him a bad example."
"I what?"
"Ayup.” Kynyr grinned at her. “Since becoming pregnant, you have knocked me
out of my chair, hit me with a plate, and dumped a bowl of porridge on my
head. Definitely a bad example."
"You had it coming.” Kady folded her arms and huffed. “You were being a smart
arse."
"Are you going to be this grumpy with me every time you're pregnant?"
"Probably.” Kady conceded the point and kissed him. “But you must admit that
I've never heard Mary laugh so hard as when she walked in and saw the porridge
dripping down your face."
Kynyr grinned again, this time with a trace of rue as his fair cheeks colored.
“Yeah."
Kady snuggled deeper in his arms. “Are you alright, Kynyr? You haven't seemed
yourself much lately."
"I'm fine. I just have a lot on my mind is all."
"You would tell me if something was wrong, wouldn't you?"
"Kady, I'm fine."
Larena came out with a tray bearing three glasses of wine—two white and one
red—and a platter of cheeses. “Knew I'd find you storm watching."
A piteous meowing came from the steps and Kady rose to see what was causing
it. Three bedraggled cats came onto the veranda, shivering and soaked to the
skin. They were tiger-striped like Cahira's big tom. The two toms were as
large as Kerry, while the queen was smaller, but still large for a common cat.
"You poor things.” Kady settled on the floor and they rubbed around her.
“Larena, fetch some towels."
When Larena returned with the towels, Kady felt names whispering through her
mind. She held the queen in her lap. “You're Damayanti."
The striped queen jumped from Kady's lap and the larger of the two males took
her place. He purred and rubbed against her while she dried him off.
"You're Tandu.” Kady glanced at Kynyr. “What strange names they have."
She turned to the smaller tom. “You're Iswara. Kynyr, can you tell me what
language they're from?"
Kynyr shook his head. “I've no idea, Kady. It sounds vaguely Creeyan, but I
can't be certain."
"I thought you were fluent in Creeyan."
"I am. But that doesn't mean that there might not be names I don't know.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CONCERNS
A dark mood settled over the manor after Claw's accident. Aisha had forbidden
everyone from carrying tales to him or complaining to him. No one knew what
might set off another attack. The chieftain seemed suddenly fragile. Tempers
frayed and arguments broke out, but none of it reached Claw's ears.
Kynyr sat in the Great Hall with his feet propped up. His leg, which had been
wounded in the ambush last summer, had begun to give him problems again. More
and more, he suspected that this was all some delayed effect from being shot
with arrows coated with Devil's Silver. If so, then it would go away
eventually. He just had to ride it out.
His lips tightened, listening to Belgair throw another hissy over the fact
that Claw had sent for his brother Brock. It was becoming as tiresome as it
was annoying.
"Might as well stick a knife in yourself as to put up with him,” Belgair
growled at Fianait. “Since he likes to fuck family, he'll be shoving his rod
in Merissa."

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 91

Fianait's hand went to her mouth. “Belgair, that's a dreadful thing to say.
Brock wouldn't do a thing like that."
Kynyr rose to his feet and stepped between Fianait and Belgair. “You're out of
line, Belgair."
"This is none of your business, Maguire."
Kynyr scowled. Belgair and Malthus had both become more presumptuous and
argumentative in their dealings with the Redhands since Claw's crippling. He
put his arm around Fianait's shoulders. “Leave her alone."
"Don't get in my way, boy.” Belgair snarled at him. “You may be Claw's
great-grandson but that doesn't mean you'll land on the throne."
"If I ask him to, Claw will send you away."
Belgair snorted. “The old cripple needs me too much."
"When Brock gets here, Claw won't need you at all."
"Neither the Thanes, nor the village elders will ever allow Brock as regent
nor will they allow a bastard as heir."
"Don't be too sure of that.” Waves of pain kept washing through Kynyr and he
wanted to slip his hand in his pocket for the bottle of poppy milk that Isbeth
had given him. He resisted the impulse. If someone saw him sipping that drug,
they would ask why and then call for Sheradyn. The last thing he wanted to
happen was to be ordered to bed while he still had two myn left to kill.
"You're vermin, Kynyr. You know what we do with vermin?"
Kynyr stared at him without answering.
"We poison them."
Fianait gave a tiny cry of dismay and huddled against Kynyr. “Take me out in
the garden. Please?"
Kynyr's expression softened. “Sure. Grab your shawl. It's cold out."
Kynyr and Fianait walked in the garden.
She looked up at him. “You've always reminded me of Tarrant."
"You're kind, Fianait. I always wanted an aunt like you."
"And now you have one.” Fianait smiled; glanced up at the tree they stood
beneath and giggled, pointing. “Mistletoe."
"You're right.” Kynyr leaned in and kissed her forehead.
Fianait giggled again, a girlish sound that tickled Kynyr. And then she
sobered, her eyes mirroring distress. “I'm afraid of Belgair."
"If he keeps harassing you, I'll call him out."
Fianait shivered. “Don't do that. He's good with his blades."
Kynyr shrugged. “So am I."
"Don't mind me. I've always been afraid of things. I'm more a mouse than a
wolf."
"Which is very endearing. I think you should get away from here for a bit.
Between Belgair and your brother's injuries, you could use a bit of
distraction. Would you like to go shopping?"
Fianait brightened. “I'd like that. I could get a new game for Claw.” A tear
started in her eyes at the thought of her brother. She wiped it away with the
back of her hand.
Kynyr pretended not to notice. Fianait was trying to be brave and he would not
deny her that by acknowledging her weakness. “Do you wish to walk? Or should I
have a horse saddled for you?"
"A horse. With a side saddle."
Kynyr lifted an eyebrow at that. “Side saddle?"
"Yes."
He laughed. “Okay. Good nephews always take their dear old aunts shopping.
I'll saddle horses for us."
* * * *
Belgair and Malthus sat in Sorcha's Solar. It had become their regular meeting
place in the evenings. Malthus had stocked one of the cabinets with liquor,
glasses, and rare treats. He had taken the minds of Claw's nibari who tended
this room, so that no word of their meetings would get out.
"The bastard hasn't looked well lately,” Belgair gave Malthus a sly grin.
“Something he's eaten must not agree with him."

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 92

"I'm afraid that's true. The poor young prince is dying."
Belgair laughed, raised his whiskey, and saluted Fianait's portrait. “To the
bastard death.” He downed his drink and refilled his glass, turning to
Malthus. “To the rightful heirs their throne."
They clinked glasses.
"What are we going to do about Brock?” Malthus asked.
Belgair grinned. “I've already told you I'll kill him."
"What if he brings armed myn with him? What then?"
"Then we fight. I've sounded out my myn and they are all with me ... except
for a handful that are enamored of the bastard. When Claw dies, we'll hunt
them down and kill them all. All the traitors will die. Erskine, Finn, Vayle,
Robert, William ... all of them."
* * * *
Word got out concerning Claw's injuries faster than the old chieftain felt
ready to deal with. Six days after he was found at the foot of the stairs,
Raonul the smith showed up at the manor with Quinn Sinclair, his new
assistant, trailing him. Quinn carried a draped object that looked
conspicuously like a chair.
Raonul faced Aisha in the Great Hall, a smile flickering across his face mixed
of equal parts pride and the tentativeness of a little boy expecting
rejection. Everyone knew that Aisha could be as crotchety as Claw was crusty,
and Raonul could not tell whether she would view his gift as welcome or as
presumptuous. “It's a gift. My own invention."
"A chair?” Aisha's gaze traveled the outline of the object beneath the drape.
"My own invention.” He gestured at Quinn to set the object down and remove the
drape. “Have a look at it."
Aisha's expression turned to curiosity as Quinn removed the covering to reveal
a comfortably padded chair on wheels with a board in front to support a mon's
legs.
"Well? What do you think?” Raonul grabbed the two handles in back and turned
the chair about, pointing out how easily it pushed, the brake, and other
aspects. A sudden worry flashed across Raonul's face. “Master Claw's arms are
okay, aren't they?"
Aisha circled the chair, taking in all the different angles. “Yes."
"Well, then!” Raonul's chest puffed out with more than a trace of pride. He
sat down in the chair and demonstrated it. “He should be able to get about in
this chair I've invented."
"What do you call it?"
"Wheel-chair, what else?"
Aisha gestured for them to follow her. “Bring it up."
Quinn carried the chair and followed as Raonul strutted proudly along behind
Aisha. They went up to Claw's bedroom and set the chair where he could see it.
Claw looked at them, a listless depressed air about him. “What do you want?"
"They've brought you a present,” Aisha said before Claw could order them all
out.
"On wheels, see.” Raonul indicated the chair. “You'll be able to move about."
Claw pushed at the bed, dragging himself into a sitting position by grabbing
the headboard. Aisha shoved pillows behind him to support him. He studied the
chair. “Does someone have to push it?"
Raonul shook his head. “Not necessarily. Here, try it out."
The smith and his apprentice got Claw into the chair and Aisha stuffed pillows
around him. They showed him how it worked and Claw's expression lightened.
"You won't be able to use the stairs, but you should be able to get about on
this floor,” Raonul said.
* * * *
Aisha had the Blue Room altered to accommodate the wheel-chair. The damage to
his legs had in no way affected the enormous strength of Claw's arms. At first
the servants got him up each morning, into the chair, and wheeled him to the
sitting room. Then he learned to manage it himself by setting the brake,
dragging himself into the chair, and settling his legs with his hands. Malthus

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 93

and some of the other males, including Belgair, played checkers and cards with
him for hours at a time.
Gifts came in and visitors showed up at all hours, although only a handful
were allowed to actually see Claw because Sheradyn kept telling Aisha that he
feared having him tired by too much company. To Claw's growing irritation,
Aisha kept listening to the bloody nancidawg. More and more, Claw felt as
though control of his life was slipping from his hands.
* * * *
Mages were such a rarity among lycans that most of them never turned a thought
to magic. There were always a few old wives tales floating around about
magical occurrences, but never anything that could be proven. Rachel had
considered going to Luciano's mage shop, but felt that might be too obvious a
choice. Going to Cahira seemed the better choice because of the diversity of
her shop. Cahira's shop carried the best scented-creams and perfumes, and
Hereward's daughters had always been among her best customers.
Rachel's head started throbbing and hurting the closer she came to Cahira's
shop. Her feet felt heavy. Malthus had not forbidden her from going anywhere,
only from doing certain things. She clutched a small bag of returnable jars
and bottles as proof of her reason for going to Cahira.
The abomination growing in her belly made her sick to think about. Rachel
focused her mind on perfumes and creams, thinking of the wonderful fragrances
and delightful scents. She turned down Elmind Street and walked two blocks.
The sign on Cahira's Potions and Notions came into view.
Rachel forced herself the last few steps. The bell on the door rang as she
entered. The heady scent of frankincense filled the shop. Cahira had incense
burning. Rachel's headache vanished and her feet felt light. She did not know
the words for it, but Malthus’ hold on her had loosened when she stepped
inside.
Cahira rose from the table in the rear. “Hello, Rachel."
She smiled back at the elderly mage and strode to the table. Rachel sat down
and handed Cahira her bag of empties. “I've come for some creams and
perfumes."
Cahira sat down again and went through the empties, calculating Rachel's
credit for them. “You have a lot of them. There's five pence worth here."
"I keep forgetting to bring them back."
That brought a smile to Cahira's face. “So I see."
"I hear a lot of odd tales in the tavern and some of them have me wondering."
"About what?"
"If they're true."
"Well, most likely they've been a bit embellished. However, tell me what story
is bothering you and I'll tell you what I think."
"They say that the seiryns can sing a mon out of his home."
"Only if they've met before and set the come-hither on him."
"I see. Well, this customer said that he defeated one by wearing a necklace of
elder berries."
Cahira laughed. “That's nonsense. There's no such property to elder berries.
Rowan is the only way to weaken a come-hither. It won't block it completely,
but if your will is strong enough you can act in spite of it. That's what
Melisande, the wife of Dawnhand, is said to have done. She made a necklace of
rowan twigs to block Waejonan's power and then she jumped to her death. It was
the only way to escape him."
"That's a tragic story."
"Yes, it is."
"I need to get back to the tavern. Thank you for talking to me."
"You haven't picked out your creams."
"I'll get them later."
* * * *
Malthus watched Fianait and Searlait hovering over Claw in the Blue Room.
Aisha had the household to run, so his sisters did most of the fussing over
and tending of Claw. Darmyk sat in a chair at the big table, swinging his legs

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 94

and chattering. Ros and Lyrri sat at the table also, but everyone was ignoring
them: even Fianait who used to make a bit of time each day for the girls. That
irritated Malthus.
His nieces would not be orphans if Claw and Isranon had not murdered their
father Troyes. Troyes had been one of Lord Feodras’ two legitimate sons; the
only one that Malthus felt close to. The other four sons had been bastards
like himself.
Claw's survival festered in Malthus like a splinter rotting beneath his flesh,
itching and burning with growing inflammation. His hatred of Claw spread its
infection to include Fianait and Searlait. He had always intended to kill all
of the Redhands except Merissa, who he regarded as his property and whose
belly he intended to keep filled with his offspring until her body wore out.
His lovely Merissa had become his first experiment in prolonged lycan
fertility.
The original plan that Malthus had envisioned had been to make Claw watch the
executions of his family. After his marriage to Merissa, he had revised it to
kill Claw first. Standing there watching Claw's sisters ignore his nieces; it
made him reconsider it again. Searlait and Fianait would die first.
Malthus left the Blue Room and went to his chambers where he tossed clean
clothing into an oilskin bag, then rolled that up in a backpack. He passed
Kissie in the hallway and nodded at the nibari. “I'm going into the village to
do a bit of shopping. I'll be back late."
He took the path to the village, but turned off into a stand of trees and
doubled back to the Bonnie Draw where Searlait liked to sit in the mornings
before starting her tasks at the loom.
Malthus spotted Searlait's favorite rock and went past it to a pine covert.
There he knelt and removed the oilskin bag from his backpack. With quick
movements, Malthus removed the pine needles and stray branches that had broken
off around a large leaning rock that a pine's roots had forced from the soil
at an angle. He stuffed the bag with his clothes between the rock and the
tree, and covered it up again.

CHAPTER NINETEEN
KERRY
Kynyr woke in the early hours, nauseated and dizzy. Liquor could not account
for it. He wondered if he had come down with some minor but annoying winter
sickness. He could not afford to be ill. Too much needed to be done.
He staggered down to the kitchen, trying to remember where Kissie kept the
poppy milk. If he could just keep masking the symptoms until after he had
killed Shalto and Oswyl, then he could take to his bed and rest until the
worst had passed. Kynyr poked around the pantry, looking for where Kissie kept
it. A hard cramp in his belly nearly doubled him over. He grabbed at a shelf
and sent the bottles cascading toward him. Kynyr managed to keep the bottles
from ending up on the floor, but everything was now out of place and he
doubted he could find the poppy milk. He tottered to the table and dropped
heavily into a chair with a groan as his stomach cramped again.
Isbeth and Kissie came in to get the stoves heating to cook breakfast. Kissie
stared at him in concern. “Are you all right, Master Kynyr?"
"Poppy milk ... I'm sick."
"Isbeth and I shouldn't keep giving it to you. You ought to go to Sheradyn."
"Please, give me enough to get me through the day. I can't afford to be sick."
"You should talk to Master Sheradyn.” She went into the pantry and clucked at
the confusion on the shelf. “You've messed it all up. Isbeth, see if you can
find it."
"I'll talk to Sheradyn, I promise. Just one more bottle."
Isbeth reached onto the undisturbed shelf above the one that Kynyr had left in
disarray. She took down the poppy milk and added the poison to it, relieved to
know that she would not have to administer the poison again today. The thought
of what she was doing made her sick. She shook the bottle until she was
certain that it had mixed well, and took it to him.

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 95

Kissie nodded at Isbeth and turned back to Kynyr. “Try not to go through it
too fast. Mistress Aisha will be unhappy with me if too many bottles go
missing."
"Right.” Kynyr opened it and took a big gulp.
"And you'll talk to Sheradyn?"
"Yeah."
Kynyr rose from the table as his symptoms eased and walked out into the
garden. The shrubs and hedges looked dead in their late autumn retreat. He
could smell the approach of snow. It had already snowed twice, but melted
before noon. He had not left a gift on Tarrant's grave in weeks. At one time,
Kynyr had faithfully gone to the grave each time the moon changed its phases.
He found the headstone half buried in wind tossed debris and that bothered
him. His leg ached, so he gripped the headstone and started to lower himself
to the ground where he could sit and clear it away. Severe cramps began in his
stomach. He lost his grip, doubled over, and fell on his face. His chest felt
packed with stones and he had trouble breathing. He rolled onto his side,
clutching at his stomach and chest. A bloody vomit erupted from his throat. He
fumbled with the bottle of Poppy Milk and drank several swallows. This time it
brought no relief as he sobbed for air and vomited again.
As he finally managed to straighten himself, his gaze fell upon his hand and
arm. Red splotches ran from his palm to the inside of his elbow.
Black Mountain Fever.
His world crashed. He would not see his son born. Despair and a yawning sense
of desolation gripped him. There was still so much to be done to protect his
family. Death did not frighten him as much as dying while matters were still
unresolved.
"Tala, dear my god, let me live long enough to get the last of them. That's
all I ask."
He prayed a long time. The pain eased. Calm acceptance of his fate settled
over him. “I'm cadhbair imhaig."
A ghostly form walked from beneath the trees beyond Tarrant's grave, clothed
in mist and limned in white as pale as the snow. Kynyr shivered at her
approach and then recognized her as the spirit he had freed when he killed
Heironim Traxton.
"Be strong my wolf,” she murmured. “The shadows obscure the truth, and you are
a prince of shadows."
"Am I truly cadhbair imhaig?"
The ghost sighed and it was like the sound of wind stirring the twigs of
sleeping trees at mid-winter. “You are indeed a deadmon walking. The Serpent
has killed you although you yet live. Be strong."
"Who are you?"
"In life, I was Brigit Silverpaw, Tarrant's first love. In death, I am a
fading memory.” She turned wispy and blew away on an autumn breeze.
"I will be strong, Brigit. I will be."
Kynyr rose from Tarrant's grave and walked into the manor.
* * * *
Kady examined herself in the mirror. “What do you think, Mary? Do I look just
a little bit pregnant?"
"Just a little?” Mary chuckled softly. “I'd say thoroughly. Is he kicking
yet?"
"He's been doing that for a while. It feels so startling to have something
moving around inside me."
"Yeah, you're fat,” Larena said in a bored tone. “At least you're married."
Mary caught the tiny wince in Kady's shoulders and changed the subject.
“You're quite the diplomat. If the Grand Master had been in residence, I bet
you'd have had an army marching to the relief of Red Wolf already."
"Actually, Stoneriver promised to bring military aid to Red Wolf."
"He's a bastard.” Larena sprang to her feet and rushed out the door. “A
bastard!"
Kady glanced at Mary. “What was that all about?"

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 96

"No idea."
"Next time we go to Creeya, I want to leave Larena behind. She did nothing but
embarrass me the entire time."
"Agreed. I'm certain Cahira will agree also."
Damayanti rose and stretched in the middle of Kady's bed. She scooped the cat
up and stroked her. “Such a pretty lady."
Kady set the cat down and dressed. She and Mary walked through the hallway
toward the kitchen and heard laughter coming from Cooley's room.
"Cooley's back to normal. Those new children are very good for him."
"Is Kynyr coming home tonight?"
Kady's eyes went worried and her brow furrowed. “Oh, Mary. I completely
forgot."
"What?"
"The curse. I have all the words to it. Don't ask how, but I have them. I was
supposed to show them to Kynyr and I completely forgot. It's been weeks."
"Show it to me?"
"Yes."
The door opened and Betrys came in holding Artair's hand. “Mother, Artair and
I have something to tell you."
"What?” Mary eyed them suspiciously.
"We went to the Clerk of Records. We're married."
Mary's thoughts flew into disarray. “Where are you going to live?"
"The shop. Artair is going to help Gram with the shop."
"Did your Gram agree to this?"
"Yes."
* * * *
The last time that Lokynen came to Wolffgard, he had been accompanied by
Phelan the headmon of Three Stones Village after he, Hathura, and Meleajys
saved Phelan's village from attackers led by sa'necari. Phelan had introduced
him to his sister, Nathara, who rented him a house on the outskirts of
Wolffgard. So far Lokynen had not spent much time there, but he intended to
remedy that now.
Considering that Lokynen looked huge enough to roll an elephant up and bounce
him around like one of those inflated pig bladders the local children used as
balls for their games, he knew that there was absolutely no way he could ever
be inconspicuous. But at least being at the outermost edge of the village
afforded him some privacy. He looked around his comfortable cottage and, after
taking in the dust that had settled since his last visit, decided he would
need to ask Nathara to suggest someone who could do some discreet cleaning.
Lokynen sat down on a large chair, took the carry ball out of his pouch that
his wife Amberlin had been thoughtful enough to pack and send him by way of
one of her shape-shifting apprentices, and tapped it with a word of command.
The sitting room promptly filled with all of his favorite things, including
three casks of his favorite beer. Lycan mead was tasty, but could not match
what came up by ship along the Blood Coast to Rowanhart where Amberlin had her
shop.
He sat the casks on a stand in the kitchen, popped in a spigot, and filled a
large tankard, which he carried back to the sitting room to drink while he
considered where to put everything.
A soft scratching came at his door, like a small creature with claws seeking
entry. Lokynen had seen enough strangeness in his long life to recognize a
summons. So he sat the tankard on a low table and went to the door. As soon as
he opened it, a black and orange, tiger-striped cat darted inside and jumped
onto the sofa.
Lokynen returned to his chair, took another swig from his tankard, and nodded
at the cat. “Welcome. Have we met?"
The cat's form shimmered in an orange field of arcane energy and became a
tall, lean mon. “No, but it's impossible not to recognize the Battle-Master."
Lokynen chuckled. “No one whomps Lokynen. What's your name?"
"You can call me Kerry."

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 97

"What's your business?"
"Advance scout. I need to make contact with all the yuwenghau currently lodged
in Wolffgard so that my mission can be coordinated with theirs."
"Are there a lot of us?"
"Enough. Pandeena, Hathura, Meleajys, Toniqua, Gyongy, Seoshef, Jushan."
"There's fire born too. Caimbeul—"
"He's dead."
Rage flushed Lokynen's face. “How?"
"He was ambushed in his home. Sa'necari and lycans."
"I'll wring someone's neck for that."
"I'm sure you will. Do you know if Dynanna is going to appear?"
Lokynen nodded. “She's supposed to be."
"Toniqua is my main contact. The Guild is going after the Serpent. We owe him
for the murder of one of our agents, a lycan named Dyllys. She got too close
and he rited her. That makes it personal."
A broad nasty grin spread over Lokynen's ugly face. “Someone is in a lot of
trouble."
A small knock came at the door and Lokynen frowned, irritated by the thought
of more company when no one was even supposed to know that he had returned
yet. He opened the door and Bodisaniwi waltzed inside.
"Hiya, Lokynen! I was just ... oooooh, that's some cat you got there!"
Lokynen glanced and saw that Kerry had resumed his tiger cat form, curled up
licking his paws with an insouciant air. “His name is Kerry."
"I been needing a cat. In fact, he's perfect."
Before Lokynen could stop him, Bodi had scooped Kerry up and raced out with
him.
Kerry squirmed out of Bodi's arms, dropped to the ground and backed away,
hissing. “I've had quite enough of this lately."
Bodi blinked. “You talk. Are you a catkin?"
"Hardly.” Kerry shimmered into his human form. “I'm Shivari. Tigerkin."
To prove his point, he shifted shape again and became a five hundred pound
tiger.
Bodi's eyes bugged. “I gotta show you to Cooley."
Kerry changed back to a form in which he could comfortably discuss matters
with the child. “You're not showing me to anyone. I have a job to do."
"Did Dyna send you here? She sent us."
Kerry knew Dyna in several of her guises and realization struck him between
the eyes. “You're not a child at all. You're Badree Nym."
"Me and my big mouth.” Bodi sucked in a sharp breath and sat down on a large
rock.
"Explain yourself, little one. Just what game are you running for the
Trickster?"
"The assignment is to protect a cub from the Butchering Serpent."
"What's so special about the cub?"
"He's the son of Dawnreturning."
That got Kerry's immediate attention and interest. “The Guild owes him several
debts. Tell me more."
* * * *
Rachel Wiggins had made herself a necklace of rowan twigs. When she felt the
first pull of the come-hither from Malthus, she placed it around her neck and
went to the basement of the Difficult Horse. It muted his summons. She knew he
would come after her if she failed to go to him and had decided that she would
never be free so long as she lived. Melisande's decision had to be her own.
She went to a corner and dug behind a pile of grain sacks for the things she
had hidden there earlier. She came out with a rope that had a strong noose in
it. Rachel threw the rope over a rafter and moved a chair beneath it. She
climbed onto the chair, put the noose around her throat, and kicked the chair
away.
* * * *
Betrys’ bedroom above the shop was cozy. The curtains on her windows matched

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 98

her quilt in shades of sea green. Her bed was large with sturdy posts. She
threw back the covers, turned, and unlaced her bodice. Her white breasts
appeared, their roseate nipples erect and ready, crying to be touched.
Panting with nervousness, Artair watched Betrys undressing and half-considered
locking himself in the closet. “I'm not certain I can do this."
"What?” She shoved her skirts to the floor and stepped out of them.
Artair swallowed, patted his loins, and pointed at her. “I was going to be a
priest. Celibacy, poverty, asceticism."
"Virgin?"
Artair nodded.
"Don't worry. It's not hard to do and I've read lots of naughty books."
Having never read a naughty book in his life, Artair did not find that
information comforting. He undressed, stared for a moment at his jutting
erection, and flushed all the way to his navel. Once more he considered
retreating to the closet at the thought of putting his cock inside her. Artair
had always winced away from the randy talk of his brothers’ and their friends
for whom bedroom conquests were a hot topic among the unmarried.
Betrys reclined on the bed with her legs spread and crooked a finger at him.
Artair climbed onto the bed between her legs and looked closely at her
womanhood, spreading it open with his fingers and exploring. “I always
wondered what one looked like."
"Put it in and we'll figure it out from there.” Betrys heaved a loud sigh.
"Right.” Artair grasped his cock and pushed it into her. It felt warm, wet,
tight, and marvelous. He moaned in pleasure. “Oh, that's wonderful."
"Now move it in and out or something."
"Right."
Betrys sighed again. This was not how she had envisioned her wedding night and
it looked to be a long one. “Tomorrow you must start reading the naughty
books."
Then she proceeded to explain to him what to do based on her reading.
* * * *
Oswyl shivered, balled up in a corner of his bed.
"Get your cloak on, we're going drinking.” Shalto glared at his cousin.
"Not going.” Oswyl pulled the blankets around himself, looking more like a
frightened cub than a grown dog.
The argument had gone on for over an hour. Shalto made a disparaging noise and
stomped out of the longhouse.
Alone, Oswyl could hear every creak of settling wood in the house. Outside the
screech of an owl portended its strike as some small creature fell prey to its
claws. Oswyl straightened with a flinch. Wind rattled the shutters and soughed
around the building.
"Look at what you did.” The voice sounded at one removed from the world of
flesh, accusing and hostile.
"No.” Oswyl protested, clenching his eyes shut as if what he did not see could
not hurt him. “I'm sorry. I didn't want to do it."
Fingers as cold as the touch of death stroked Oswyl's cheek. His eyes snapped
open with a shriek.
Caimbeul's mutilated ghost shimmered in the darkness, torn and bloody, his
entrails hanging from his slit belly. “It hurts to die like that, Oswyl. So
much pain."
Oswyl shook his head in denial. “I didn't want to. I apologized. You heard
me."
"Empty words and meaningless actions."
"No. No, I meant it. I did."
"We're the voice of your guilt, Oswyl,” said a new voice.
He shifted on the bed to see the slender bitch. “Who are you?"
"Granta Softpaws. I've brought my friends to visit."
Oswyl screamed as the room filled with ghostly forms he recognized: Ramsey
Fitzgerald, Eideard Doyle, Cullen Blackwood, the priest Tempest Anstey, Nikko
Softpaws, and Odhran Lafferty. Oswyl shrieked in terror of the apparitions.

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 99

"I didn't do it."
"Guilt by association, Oswyl. You killed us all,” said Nikko.
Oswyl ran from the house and stood howling in the drifting snow.
Vika emerged from her longhouse, wrapped in a heavy shawl. “Oswyl?"
He howled again.
Vika put her arm around him and led him into her home. She sat him down in
front of the hearth and got some poppy milk from the cupboard. She filled a
dosing glass and put it in his hands. “You're having nightmares or something.
This will help."
She wrapped him up and put him to bed on her sofa.

CHAPTER TWENTY
THE PEDDLER
A heavily laden wagon, drawn by four stout ponies, halted at the far side of
the sturdy wooden bridge over the Eirlys cataract. Five children of various
ages rode on top of the crates and chests in the back, while a little old mon
drove with a younger mon beside her. The ponies stood tossing their heads
impatiently when she reined them in and waited for permission to cross.
The seven lycan guards dashed out, followed by Pandeena, who alternated with
other members of the Civilian Watch, whose main job was to help determine who
should and should not be allowed into Red Wolf.
"What is it you wish?” Pandeena asked, nibbling on her lower lip to prevent a
smile escaping. The Trickster had finally arrived.
"I am Dyna, a peddler. I acquired these orphans in the course of my travels
and it is getting too dangerous to continue with them. I have heard you give
sanctuary to children and their guardians here."
"Are they sa'necari children?” Pandeena asked the next required question and
had to fight even harder at keeping her face still. Around her, the wolves had
changed to nude, hairy males in their hybrid forms.
The little girl on the wagon flicked her marmalade hair back and stared at the
crotches of the seven males. “Hmmmmmn. So that's what one looks like. Now I
know why it's called poking."
Frozbie swiveled on the seat and spun Sugar Maple around. “Don't stare. Just
because lycans are savages, doesn't mean you should be."
"Human,” Dynanna replied. “Frozbie here is their uncle. Human also. I'm granny
to some of them."
"Are you sa'necari?"
"Who me? Naaaah. Human."
"Come across."
The ponies pulled hard in their traces and the wagon rolled onto the bridge,
which creaked under the weight to an alarming degree. Pandeena frowned at the
sound of it, wondering what Dynanna could possibly be carrying in the wagon.
"What are you laden with?"
"Oh, this and that, all wondrous and fine. From swords to twine and some of it
magic. Oh, yes, many fine magical things. And all of it quite cheap. Good
quality all. Have a look at my wares and call them fair,” Dynanna said in the
singsong voice of an aged fishwife.
"I will,” said Pandeena. “You'll live in one of the sheelings until we can get
a house up. That means we'll have to split some of you up."
"No need. I've brought my own. Ayup, I certainly have."
"It's getting cold here, so if you've brought tents, that won't do."
Dynanna chuckled, and rubbed her forefinger beneath her nose. “Now, I'll need
a lot of space before I put my house in place."
Pandeena took her to the sanctuary and by that time, they had acquired a
following of the curious, for Dynanna was clearly a peddler and few goods had
come in from the outside in months. The war had shut down many of the roads
that travelers and merchants used to reach from the west, the Waejontori side,
and Wolffgard Village had not seen one in many weeks. Having a peddler arrive
was marvelous.
Malthus stood talking to Shalto and Oswyl near a storehouse. He fell into step

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 100

behind them as Pandeena directed the newcomer to a cleared bit of land halfway
between his cottage and the main camp.
"You can put up a house over there. Will that be enough space?"
"Thanks.” Dynanna set the break and dismounted from the wagon. “We'll have it
up in next to no time."
Stout, matronly and gray-haired, Vika Softpaws came around. “If you need help,
just ask anyone who works in the Sanctuary."
Dynanna nodded and started rummaging in her satchel. “Don't need help, but
thanks."
She sat on the ground with what appeared to be a child's play set with houses
and figures. Her hand went to the largest house that looked like a spired
cathedral. “Nope, not that one. I don't have permission to put up a temple.”
Then she rummaged again and came out with a nice two-story house. She walked
around the plot, gauging the trees and such for obstacles and then set the
house down in the perfect center. “Open up!"
The toy house began to expand and everyone moved rapidly away as it grew.
Adults and children from the sanctuary gathered, watching in awe, and
exclaiming over the miracle.
Malthus strode up and stared. “You're a mage?"
"Nope.” Dynanna shrugged. “I deal in secondhand magical items and this is one.
A home you can carry around in your pocket."
"That is impressive.” Vika pulled at her braids. “But such things are very
expensive. This is not a rich valley."
Dynanna gave her a cheeky grin and a wink. “I don't charge near as much as one
might expect and everything is guaranteed to be what I say it is."
Pandeena closed her eyes and shook her head wearily, mentally amending
Dynanna's statement: usually. She knew full well that Dynanna sometimes sold
things—or gave them away—without first knowing what they did. “We have two
shops here. The Scarlet Angel Mage shop and Cahira's Potions and Notions. I
hope you're not planning on undercutting them."
"Now, would I do a thing like that?” Dynanna gave her a reproachful look.
"Yes."
"Oh, okay. I'll go talk to them. Maybe we can work out a consignment deal or
something."
Malthus’ gaze swept the children, his attention attracted to the single girl
among them. She was fair-skinned with marmalade hair, a dreamy expression, and
a twig broom clutched possessively in one hand. “What's your name, little
one?"
He bent so he could look eye to eye with her.
"Sugar,” replied Sugar Maple, smiling serenely at him as if she dwelled
elsewhere even while she looked upon him.
"I'm Malthus. If you should have need of protection, consider me at your
disposal. Now I must get back to work."
After Malthus left, Dynanna nudged Sugar Maple. “Don't lose your temper, but
lycans consider girls your age marriageable."
Sugar Maple smiled, her head tilting. “If I were not what I am, he would be
handsome."
"Don't decide to cocoon and grow up on me, now,” Dynanna whispered. “I need
you."
"I won't."
Pandeena came closer. “Malthus is married to our princess."
"So he's the asshole.... “Dynanna straightened with her hands on her hips.
“Looks just like one to me."
Sugar Maple turned to Dynanna with a wistful sigh of girlish longing. “Can I
put a tack in his chair?"
Dynanna shrugged. “You can drop a tree on him for all I care."
"I'll think about it."
Pieface ran up to them. The pie pans hooked to his belt rattled against his
legs. He wore a sheepskin-lined cap with flaps hanging over his ears and a
dangling chinstrap. His red hair stuck out around it like a sunburst. Freckles

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 101

sprinkled his impish nose and round cheeks topped a broad, eager grin like a
puppy ready to play.
Pandeena regarded him thoughtfully, her eyes settling on the silver pie pans.
If any of them were well equipped to deal with monsters of any stripe, it was
Pieface and his ‘Deadly Pie Pans of Doom,’ which he could throw like a discus
with incredible accuracy and they returned to his hands. She had once seen him
decapitate a stone troll with them.
"I'm glad you're finally here.” Pandeena hugged Dynanna.
"So am I."
* * * *
Kady sat across from Larena at the kitchen table, growing increasingly
irritable, and trying to keep her mouth shut so that she did not say something
hurtful or awkward. Larena had been having fits of weeping ever since Rachel's
body was discovered hanging from the rafters in the basement of the Difficult
Horse. Whenever Larena's fits become too violent, Mary sedated her.
Larena dug her palms into her eyes. “Why would Rachel do that?"
Mary emerged from the pantry with a bottle and a dosing glass. She measured
the proper amount and put it in Larena's hands. “Drink this and go to bed."
"A sedative?” Larena gave Mary a grateful look.
"Yes."
Kady waited until Larena had taken the sedative and left. “I feel strange
about this, Mary. Like I've somehow become callous, but I have no tears to
shed for Rachel."
"Your family treated you badly."
"Larena was the worst of my sisters. But Rachel joined in more often than
not.” Kady exhaled heavily, shifting in her chair. Between the pregnancy,
Larena's attitude whenever Kynyr was away, and now the weeping fits, Kady felt
impossibly tired and irritated. “Rachel laughed when she saw Cormic and his
buddies snatch me. Told me later I had it coming."
"I understand, Kady.” Mary hugged her and then settled into a chair. “Toniqua
says the child was sa'necari."
"We already knew there was a male sa'necari in Wolffgard. He killed Caimbeul.”
Malthus came to mind as Kady remembered conversations she had had with Cahira
over the past few months. If only there was a way to know for certain. Kady
straightened abruptly, her hand going to her belly as the cub's movement
startled her from her train of thought. “I think he objects to the topic of
our conversation."
Mary laughed. “Then maybe we should change it. When's Kynyr coming home? He's
a week overdue."
"I sent Iollen to ask yesterday. All Kynyr said was ‘indefinitely away’ and I
don't like the sound of that.” Kady lips compressed in regretful
disappointment. “I wish he'd just stop by. We're not that far from the manor."
"So you haven't shown him the prophecy yet?"
Kady shook her head. “I'm worried about Kynyr. The last time I saw him, he
looked so tired."
* * * *
Malthus needed to recruit more myn from among the young wolves who worked at
Sanctuary. Either that or seek out the dregs of lycan society at the rougher
taverns. One thought led to another and Malthus found himself thinking about
the young girl with the marmalade hair. Children did not normally attract him,
but there was an air about her that called to him in a way that went beyond
her obvious beauty.
The pointed nipples of her pubescent breasts made his hands tingle with desire
to touch them. Her ethereal visage begged to be brought down to earth by
sinking his cock into the richness of her loins. He fantasized the way she
would squirm and writhe and weep beneath his body.
Two things stood between his dreams of reaching the girl: her strange
grandmother with second hand magic items that might be capable of anything and
her equally strange uncle.
Malthus decided to ask the uncle over to his cottage for a drink and take his

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 102

measure.
* * * *
Frozbie was lean, dark-skinned, and white-haired. He was also a nympire, one
of only two in existence. The other nympire was Drakengrim, currently styling
himself simply Drak, one of the five children who had ridden into Wolffgard on
Dynanna's wagon.
Before Frozbie had fallen into a trap laid by Drakengrim and his Badree Nym
companions, Frozbie had been one of the most feared Lemyari vampires, second
only to Brandrahoon himself. Since his transmogrification by Drakengrim,
Frozbie mostly consumed pie and milk. His stomach ulcers could not manage most
ordinary foods.
Born to the name Frozbrodarbrin, he had been a powerful Waejontori tribal
chieftain in the days that Waejonan was first unifying the tribes. Frozbie had
thrown in his lot with the three brothers and became one of Brandrahoon the
mage's acolytes. When Brandrahoon's corpse was found in the woods, drained of
blood, Waejonan had ordered his brother's remains to be hung on the scaffold
beside that of Dawnhand. Frozbie and Sergei Wraithsbane had stolen
Brandrahoon's corpse and buried him in the forest. Gylorean Galee caught them
in the act. Sergei fled, but Galee had cornered Frozbie and offered to make
him powerful beyond his dreams. He accepted her offer, and soon lay dead upon
the ground beside the grave with Galee's blood in his mouth.
When Frozbie woke from death into undeath, he found himself in a cottage deep
in the woods. There Galee instructed Brandrahoon and Frozbie in the ways of
the Lemyari. He had never forgotten what he learned, although thinking about
it usually made him shake and shiver.
Malthus invited Frozbie over to his cottage for a drink on the grounds that he
liked to get to know all the new people who came to live at Sanctuary. The mon
appeared to consider himself some kind of guardian of the refugee camp, which
puzzled Frozbie because he had been told that the person in charge was Vika.
His initial reaction had been to turn it down, but then he reminded himself
that they were supposed to be investigating matters around the camp. Despite
his white hair, Frozbie looked as if he was in his early thirties. Dyna had
been introducing him to everyone as the children's uncle and he guessed that
he had to act the part.
Which was how he wound up sitting across a table from Malthus Estrobian,
feeling ill at ease and itching to go home.
"So you're their uncle?” Malthus regarded Frozbie, looking not at all
impressed.
"Yes. I'm Frozbie."
"That's an odd name. Where are you from?"
Frozbie swallowed, and squirmed a bit. “Oh, here and there. All over really."
"I promised Beth Ryan, the original bitch in charge of the camp, that I would
provide for and protect the people here. Many of them are vulnerable women and
children. So you can understand my concern at having an adult male here that I
don't know well."
Frozbie nodded. “You told me that already. I'm not dangerous. Not dangerous at
all."
"The most dangerous people in the world do not look dangerous at all."
"You're Waejontori, aren't you?” Frozbie tried to change the subject. The mon
made him feel very nervous.
Malthus looked at Frozbie as if he were an idiot. “Yes. What else would I be?"
"Oh, I don't know. Sa'necari?"
"Is that what you think I am?” Malthus’ voice lowered menacingly.
"No. You just asked a question about what you might be. I was just suggesting
something. Just randomly popped into my head. I didn't say you were. In fact,
I'm certain you aren't. But...” Frozbie gave a helpless shrug. His gaze
flicked across Malthus’ hands, moved to his face, and then flashed back to his
fingers. Among the gleaming jewels adoring Malthus’ hands was a plain golden
band with a thin decorated edge. It struck Frozbie as somehow familiar and he
raked his memory for where he had seen it before.

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 103

Then it hit him: Waejonan. Brandrahoon had made the ring for his youngest
brother. Waejonan betrayed Brandrahoon. When Anksha the Beast killed Waejonan,
Brandrahoon reclaimed the ring.
What in the Nine Hells is Malthus doing with Waejonan's Ring? Frozbie could
not imagine Brandrahoon letting the ring escape his possession. He eased his
way from his chair. “I need to be going. I think I hear one of the children
calling me."
Malthus scowled and rose to his feet. “I don't hear any children."
Frozbie backed toward the door. “I've got very sharp ears."
"Don't move."
Frozbie turned and bolted through the door, running so fast that he started to
stumble halfway to his home. He paused to catch his breath, leaning against a
tree and glancing back to see if Malthus had followed him. Frozbie clasped his
hands together to stop them from shaking. “This could be something. This could
be nothing. I could be mistaken. Oh, what do I do? What do I do?"
"Hiya, Frozbie."
Frozbie straightened with a shriek of terror before he saw Pieface standing
beside him. “Don't do that."
"I didn't mean to scare you.” Pieface craned his head to look up at Frozbie.
"Walk me home?"
"Sure thing, Old Chap.” Pieface swaggered toward home with Frozbie at his
side.
"Old Chap?"
"Yeah, that's what the soggy camel drivers called each other."
"One of these days. One of these days.” Frozbie shivered.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
FEVER
Shalto Beggins left the Difficult Horse late, glanced up at the night sky and
shivered. He had forgotten that tonight was dark-of-the-moon. He walked down
Main Street, feeling uneasy. A few months ago, he would have had friends
along. Yren, Nesswen, Torquil, Rheu, and Preece—they were all dead. The dog
wolves who sometimes ran with Shalto were backing away from him as if he had
the plague, frightened by the deaths among their dominant members.
Fear dogged his steps. Small flurries of snow drifted down around him, making
it harder to see. The swift changes in Shalto's situation left him feeling
bereft and uncertain. Malthus had built them up, made him and the others feel
powerful and dangerous. The sensation of being the big dogs in Wolffgard had
been heady and intoxicating—and entirely too brief. He struggled to decide
where it had all gone wrong, and kept coming back to Kady Wiggins. Cormic
Parry should have left her alone. But how could anyone know that a slut like
Kady would end up married to Kynyr Maguire ... or that he would go after the
ones who had raped her with such ferocity.
"Hello, Shalto."
Shalto backed away from the figure emerging from the darkness of an alley
mouth. “Maguire. What do you want?"
"What do you think?"
Shalto's stomach clenched and soured as he saw death coming for him in the
depths of Kynyr's cobalt eyes. “Oh, gods. I didn't do it. I didn't do it. It
was Preece. Preece put the knife in your back."
"Nice to know, but it's the wrong answer.” The ice and steel in Kynyr's glance
changed Shalto's fear to panic.
He spun about seeking a direction in which to run and saw Finn MacIver closing
on him. Ambush. Shalto had participated in enough of those to recognize the
pattern as he saw Erskine Faraday appear out of the snow flurries to his right
and Vayle Stewart to his left. He had nowhere to run.
Kynyr had brought his friends to corner Shalto, knowing that as bad as he was
hurting he would never be able to chase the Lycamornot down.
Finn's lip curled back from his teeth in a snarl of contempt as he hit Shalto,
knocking him into the dirt-streaked snow.

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 104

Erskine kicked Shalto in the ribs. “That's for Iollen."
"Bastard.” Vayle's boot connected with his side and he screamed, scrabbling
over onto his stomach to protect his belly.
The three myn herded Shalto toward Kynyr with a rain of heavy blows.
Shalto crawled to Kynyr, turning desperate beseeching eyes on him. “Please,
Kynyr. Let me go."
Kynyr stared down at him, brooding and vengeful. His body cramped, pain
radiating through every fiber of his being, and Kynyr realized that he needed
to finish this matter while he could still stand.
"You killed Caimbeul.” Kynyr grabbed Shalto, jerked him close, and shoved a
blade into his kidneys, twisted it in the wound and dropped him.
Shalto grunted and a low moan escaped his lips, but he was in too much pain to
form words. They dragged him into the alley. Kynyr pinned a note on his chest,
and they dumped him behind a group of trash bins to finish dying where no one
would find him before morning. He lost consciousness as his blood stained the
gathering snow.
Kynyr Maguire walked toward their horses with his friends trailing after him.
Pain tore him. His stomach cramped violently and his muscles failed him. Kynyr
swayed, overwhelmed by the grinding distress in his body. He crumpled. “Help
me."
His eyes closed and lay unmoving.
Finn knelt and shook him. “Kynyr?"
Getting no response, Finn touched his spiritbrother's face and looked up
worried. “Fever. He's hotter'n Bellocar's arse."
"Take him to Cahira?” Vayle looked to Erskine for an answer.
Erskine shook his head. “Mary. We don't want anyone to know we were here
tonight."
Vayle and Finn shouldered Kynyr between them and reached their horses. Erskine
took Kynyr up in the saddle before him, and cradled his friend as they rode
through town. “He say anything before about feeling sick?"
"Headaches.” Finn glanced back worried. “He's been complaining of them for
weeks."
* * * *
Kady sat with Mary and Trevor in the kitchen. Kynyr had stopped by earlier
long enough to tell Trevor that he was going after another of Caimbeul's
killers that night and that he would come there when he was done. Larena had
sat with them for a time; however, when the hour grew late, Larena had begged
off and gone to bed, leaving the three of them alone.
Staring into her cup of strong tea, Kady sighed. “I hate when he does this.
I'm always afraid for him."
"Don't be.” Trevor patted her hand. “Kynyr's good with his blades, and he
didn't go alone."
Mary perked up at the sound of the front door opening and gave Kady a smile of
encouragement. “That must be Kynyr."
Kady rose and headed for the front room with Mary walking beside her. “Oh,
gods...” Her hand went to her mouth.
Kynyr hung limp, supported between Erskine and Vayle. She started toward them.
Mary reached him first, her healer training and good sense kicking in. “Put
him in the guestroom bed. It will be easier to handle him there."
"Is he wounded?” Kady's gaze searched Kynyr's body for bloodstains and found
none.
"Sick,” answered Erskine. “Shalto didn't get a blow in before Kynyr killed
him."
Mary threw back the covers, and the two guardsmyn lowered Kynyr onto the bed.
Erskine pulled Kynyr's shoes and socks off. Trevor undressed him. They got him
settled between the blankets.
"What's wrong with him?” Finn asked.
"Give me a moment.” Mary sat down on a chair.
Kynyr's face looked pale with bright fever splotches on his cheeks. One of his
arms lay palm up. She saw the red speckling scattered from his palm to the

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 105

inside of his elbow, grasped his wrist, and Read him. Mary's face turned
grave. “It's Black Mountain Fever."
"He's going to be alright, isn't he?” Finn asked.
"No, he isn't.” Erskine laid a hand on Finn's shoulder. “That's what killed my
father."
"There's no cure for it. The few, pitiably few, that survive experience some
degree of paralysis. As advanced as the symptoms are...” Mary hesitated and
then started talking again. “I'd say he's dying."
A sob forced its way from Kady's lips and tears ran down her face. Trevor
pulled her into his arms and held her, stroking her hair and murmuring words
of comfort.
Mary turned to Erskine. “Fetch Sheradyn. He's closest. This is more than I can
handle."
Kady pulled loose from Trevor, dragged a chair to the bedside, and sat
clutching Kynyr's hand. Her mouth was tight, sorrow edged her eyes and
furrowed her brow. “How long do you think he's been sick?"
"Several weeks,” Mary answered.
"Now I know why he hasn't been coming home."
* * * *
Sheradyn arrived bundled up in a heavy cloak with Gillivray beside him. They
set up their satchels and equipment on a small table that had been moved close
to the bedside. Sheradyn did a visual check first, as he always did, examining
the rash on Kynyr's forearms, feeling the fever in his forehead, and Read him.
The old healer searched Kynyr's body chemistry for a long time before shaking
his head sadly. “Your diagnosis is correct, Mary. It is Black Mountain Fever."
Kady looked from Mary to Sheradyn and back again. “But he is going to be
alright, isn't he?"
"No, child. He isn't. The survival rate for Black Mountain Fever is less than
ten percent. Those who do manage to survive it are never quite right again.
Paralysis, chronic exhaustion, breathing problems are most common."
Kady fought back tears and stalked from the room, certain that there had to be
an answer to healing Kynyr.
Mary trailed after her. “I'm sorry, Kady. I know how much you love him."
Damayanti curled around Kady's feet, purring. She scooped the cat up and held
her. “I'm not giving up, Mary. I need to go to Creeya. I need to talk to Lord
Channadar. If anyone has the answers, it will be him.” Kady still did not know
the ways of magic or had been able to identify her gifts that Cahira insisted
she had. From extensive reading, she knew that, in theory, emotion magnified
the gifts. She focused on Lord Channadar as hard as she could, reaching for
him with her mind in a call for help. Her body tingled with the magic that
desperation kindled. Kady and the cat vanished.
She found herself standing in the Grand Central Hall of the Grand Master's
Palace with the cat in her arms. Lord Channadar stared at her with his head
tilted ever so slightly to the side. “Lady Maguire?"
Kady blinked at him. The shock of translocation had left her weak and
disoriented. She swayed unsteadily, wondering how Cahira managed it.
"Catch her,” shouted Channadar.
Tiderider sprang forward, wrapping his arms around Kady. She looked up at him,
tried to say ‘thank you,’ and fainted.
* * * *
Mary kept praying that someone would have an alternative diagnosis.
Wolffgard's population of healers with the Reader gift had grown since her
mother-in-law's arrival last summer from having just Baroucha Seaver to now
being home to Pandeena, Toniqua, Cahira, Mary, Sheradyn, and Gillivray. Their
presence had reduced the workload on each of them.
Trevor woke Cooley, got him bundled warmly, and sent him for Pandeena,
Toniqua, and Cahira. Mounted on Larkspur, no one could ride as swiftly as
Cooley. Pandeena and Cahira could both Jump, so all three of them arrived
within minutes of Cooley reaching them.
Mary despaired as one after another of them confirmed her initial diagnosis.

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 106

Her daughter Betrys sat with Kynyr while the rest of them gathered in the
largest drawing room. Artair had stayed behind to tend to the shop.
Cahira sat on a sofa with Todd's arm around her shoulders. Gillivray and
Sheradyn had taken over one of the tables. Finn stood with his shoulder
against a wall near the door, while Trevor paced restlessly back and forth.
Mary, Pandeena, and Toniqua occupied a trio of chairs near the hearth.
Pandeena ventured into the yawning silence. “Someone needs to inform Claw."
"I'll do it.” Todd rose sluggishly from the sofa and headed for the back door.
Finn's face was tight with grief. “Once Claw has been informed, I'll speak to
Kynyr's friends in the guard. We'll see that he's not left alone."
Mary could not bring herself to say the word ‘deathwatch’ but she knew that
was what Finn meant. “Thank you."
"Where's Kady?” Pandeena's gaze swept their faces. “I haven't seen her since
we got here."
"She was standing here, holding Damayanti, swearing there had to be a cure...”
Mary twirled a strand of auburn hair. “Then she just vanished."
"Vanished? You mean Jumped?"
Mary nodded.
"Where would she go?"
"Creeya. Probably to Lord Channadar."
Pandeena considered for a moment. “I'll send Hathura to look for her ... make
certain she's alright."

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
PRAYERS FOR THE DYING
Todd Sinclair stood staring up at Redhand Manor. The last time he had been to
the manor, he had brought his sons Trevor and Queran with him because Cahira
had sensed that Kynyr had been wounded. He swept his gaze across the empty
fields behind the manor, wearing winter drab colors although none of the snows
had stuck to the ground, melting at the first kiss of dawn.
The haunted calm of the battlefield lay in his eyes and melancholy lurked
behind the hard line of his mouth. He breathed in shuddering sighs, struggling
with what to say to Claw when he faced him.
Images kept flooding Todd's mind.
Kynyr crawling across the floor with his nappies dragging, a toy soldier
gripped tightly in his hand just before hitting Finn with it and saying,
“brub."
Teaching Kynyr to swim. Taking him fishing. Teaching him to hunt, fight, and
ride. The time that Todd and seven-year-old Kynyr had deliberately rolled
naked in the mud together so they could go home filthy and appall the Dreaded
Horde.
The sorrow welling inside Todd nearly unmanned him.
I've outlived all three of them. Tarrant, Branduff, and now Kynyr. It's
wrong.
Georgie Rogan the head groom emerged from the stables. “Need something, Todd?"
"Take care of my horse.” Todd's gaze fixed on the door, knowing that he had to
go inside.
Georgie took the reins and stood holding them. “Something bothering you?"
"Not now, Georgie. Tell you later."
Todd knocked on the door to the manor and Kissie let him in. She extended her
hands as he removed his cloak. He gave it to her and she hung it from a peg in
the foyer.
"I need to speak with Claw. I want his family present. I have bad news and I
only want to tell it once."
"Master Kynyr?"
"Yes."
Kissie's face fell. “I'm sorry."
"So am I."
She showed him up to the Blue Room. Claw, in his wheel-chair, rolled forward
to meet him. Aisha sat near the fire in the hearth wrapped in a dark umber

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 107

shawl, watching him. Merissa and Malthus occupied a sofa. Fianait had her
embroidery on her lap with a basket of floss on the table beside her.
"Well, what is it, Todd?” Claw demanded.
"Where's Searlait?” Todd's eyes went empty as he encountered Malthus’ gaze. He
remembered the day of Eideard's funeral. Todd had meant to kill Malthus that
day, but Caimbeul had interfered and reminded him of the laws.
"She's never around at this time of day.” Claw's brow furrowed. “What is it?"
Todd scanned the faces of Claw's bitches and then turned again to the
chieftain. “It's about Kynyr."
Aisha's lips tightened. “Has something happened to him?"
Malthus put his arm around Merissa.
"Black Mountain Fever. We're losing him.” Todd stared at the ceiling beams,
his lips parted, and the lines of his face etched with sorrow.
Merissa gave a strangled sob and fled the room with Malthus trailing after
her. Aisha pressed her face into her hands. Fianait turned pale and tears
crept from her eyes.
Claw's gaze swept his bitches, took in all their reactions, and gestured at
them. “Everyone out, but Todd."
Aisha started to protest, but Claw shook his head at her. His wife and sister
left the room as if their feet were made of clay.
"I feel like I barely found him and now I'm losing him.” Claw's eyes went
distant, troubled. “Is his brother still in Longbranch?"
"No.” Todd's expression took a hard line. “Kynyr's mother and his little
brother have been moved to a Guild safehouse in Creeya. They'll stay there
until the Grand Master himself decides it's safe."
Claw wheeled over to a cabinet, took out glasses and a bottle. “Whiskey?"
"Even I don't drink this early."
"Special case, Todd.” Claw set the glasses on the table and poured. “First
time I saw Kynyr ... it was like seeing my son again.'
Todd settled into a chair and stared into his glass, holding it to the lamp
and turning it in his hand. “It isn't easy."
Claw stayed silent for several minutes, drinking and thinking. “I disinherited
Merissa and her children."
"That's extreme.” Todd downed the whiskey. It burned his throat and slammed
into his empty stomach like a hammer. He turned the bottle around to see the
label. “Dragonsbreath. Appropriate."
Dragonsbreath was more famed for its potency than its taste.
"Malthus isn't going to rule through her children.” Claw refilled their
glasses.
"I see."
"Another thing. If Brock has not arrived within two weeks of my death, I want
you to kill Malthus."
An ugly smile touched the corners of Todd's mouth. “You have my oath."
* * * *
Kynyr's eyes opened. He saw Finn and Mary sitting in the room. Tired and
weary, he half expected them to try to conceal the truth from him, so Kynyr
decided to force it and avoid the platitudes they might offer. “Black
Mountain. I've ... known for weeks."
"Kynyr...” Mary's voice thickened with grief, trying to frame a denial.
"Don't say it, Mary. I know what ... it means."
Finn glanced at Mary, his forehead knit, angling his eyebrows and the outer
edge of his eyes.
Kynyr's eyes traced the ceiling beams as he tried to process the implications
for those he loved. “Finn, you'll take care of my son? And Kady?"
"Always."
"Where is Kady?"
"She went to Creeya to find a cure."
"There isn't one.” Kynyr looked at Mary. “How long do I have?"
A sob caught in Mary's throat. “You could last two or three weeks ... or you
could be gone tomorrow. It's hard to say."

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 108

Kynyr's thoughts drifted to Fergus MacFie and how he kept asking repeatedly
for someone to tell his wife how much he had loved her. “Kady ... if I ...
don't last until she ... gets back. Tell her, I love her."
His eyes narrowed and his face twisted into a grimace. A low groan of pain
came growling from his throat.
Mary poured a dosing glass of Pollendine and held it to his lips. Kynyr drank
and then he slipped back into the darkness of fever dreams.
* * * *
For the first time since he arrived late last spring, Malthus sat alone at the
Difficult Horse. No one spoke to him when he entered. No one joined him at his
table. No one so much as looked at him until a nibari arrived to take his
order. He paid for a tankard of mead and sat drinking it.
Hereward went about his business at the bar without as much as a glance in
Malthus’ direction. Grief bowed the tavernmaster's shoulders and dulled his
eyes. Malthus made a surreptitious survey of the common room in quest of Sally
Wiggins and found only nibari waiting tables.
When the nibari returned to ask if he needed a refill, Malthus chanced a
question. “Where's Sally?"
The nibari's eyes filled. “Convent. Master Hereward done shipped her off to
the Sisters of the Woods at Chandler's Rock."
That caught Malthus unprepared, surprising him. Hereward had sent her to one
of the few places that Malthus’ reach did not extend to. Chandler's Rock was a
three or four days ride from Wolffgard and not even Malthus’ arts and
influence could breach the walls of that legendary convent.
He stood the snubbing as long as he could and then headed for Sanctuary. The
snubbing continued as he rode through Wolffgard and turned onto Cheshire Road.
He spotted Oswyl sitting alone on a tree round. “Where's Shalto?"
Oswyl looked up, slack-mouthed, his eyes emptied of spirit. “Dead.” Oswyl
spoke in a hushed voice. “They left a note on him."
Malthus laid his hand on Oswyl's shoulder. “I'm sorry."
The lycan flinched from Malthus’ touch, threw his head back, and howled like a
mad thing. He went hybrid so swiftly that his clothing ripped, and then became
completely wolf. Oswyl tore free of the tattered remnants of his clothes, and
ran for the forest, snapping at demons that existed only in his mind.
Malthus dropped onto the same tree round that Oswyl had been sitting at,
shuddering at the change in Oswyl.
Vika came up to him. “You're not welcome here, Malthus."
"My cottage...."
"Beth left you the cottage in her will. You can keep using it. However, that
still does not make you welcome."
Then she walked away without another word.
Malthus went after her. “Why?"
"You're a jinx.” Vika made a sign against evil. “Bad as Alistar Weems."
Malthus’ stride faltered and he turned toward his tethered horse. He had been
called many things over the years, but this was the first time he had been
accused of being bad luck.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
SEARLAIT
Malthus sat in the Great Hall, watching Aisha and Claw's sisters at their
looms. Robert Morcar and William Galloway had the bitch-watch this morning.
William got up, moved his chair closer to Searlait, and whispered something.
She paused in her weaving with a laugh. “A jinx?"
"That's what they're saying in the taverns.” William chuckled.
Searlait flicked a glance at Malthus and then away, an amused smile teasing
the edges of her mouth.
Malthus seethed. It seemed like everyone in the manor was laughing at him. The
news that the villagers thought he was bad luck had not bothered him much
until Kynyr's friends got wind of it and started turning him into the butt of
the joke.

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 109

He departed the Great Hall abruptly, stalking through the hallways glowering.
The stairs to the roof rose before him and he stared at them for a moment.
Malthus had come here without realizing it. He climbed to the roof and headed
toward Sorcha's Solar.
"Malthus?"
He pivoted on his heel and glared at Belgair. “You followed me ... to tell me
I'm a jinx?"
Belgair shook his head. “That's a bunch of superstitious crap. They're poking
at you because it takes their minds off the bastard."
The captain of the guard walked past Malthus and entered the solar.
Malthus hesitated and then followed.
Belgair sat at the table in his customary chair studying Fianait's portrait
over the rim of his glass. “She was beautiful."
"Yes.” Malthus settled into a chair and poured himself an early drink.
"It's nearly over."
"What is?” Malthus set his glass aside and leaned closer to Belgair, studying
his face.
"I have myn watching the Maguire Estate. They sent for the priest."
"Last rites?"
"Yeah. They'll quit poking at you when they hear that he's dead."
Malthus’ spirits rose after talking to Belgair in the Solar, and he spent the
rest of the morning anticipating word of Kynyr's death.
By early afternoon, with no word concerning Kynyr forthcoming, Malthus began
to feel itchy. He locked himself in his study for a time, and poured over his
coded ledgers, comparing his records against the charts in his book of
poisons. There was a small variation in how much it took to kill a lycan.
Slight differences in bio-alchemy could have outsized effects. He might need
to get a little more of the poison into Kynyr to push him over the edge.
Malthus prepared another bottle of it to take to Larena.
An icy breeze flowed through from an imperfection in the window frame and
pushed a page over. Malthus glanced down to turn it back and saw the entry
about his last letter from Lord Hoon. He put his finger on the date. Zinzi
would be showing up any day now for a progress report.
Malthus had nothing to tell her—no progress to report. Too many things had
gone wrong. His brother was still unavenged. His assignment for Lord Hoon
looked close to becoming impossible to accomplish. His friends and units in
Hell's Widow were dead. He had lost a third of his forces in the debacles at
Three Stones and Longbranch.
"A rite. I need a rite to steady my nerves."
Malthus was accustomed to having access to victims and blood meals any time he
wanted them. The subterfuge required for his prolonged stay in Wolffgard was
turning into a frustrating study in deprivation. The longer he was here; the
hungrier he became.
He threw on a cloak, slipped out of the mansion by way of the servants’
stairs, and saddled Devilton. He turned off Pendarke Road onto a hunter's
trace and took a roundabout path to Sanctuary, avoiding Wolffgard entirely.
Coming up through the forest at the edge of the camp, Malthus spied a lone
female gathering firewood. She startled when she saw him and backed away. He
recognized her as one of those who carried his compulsions and coercions in
her brain.
"Come to me."
She came unresisting. Once he had her up behind him on the horse, Malthus rode
back into the forest. An hour later he had a corpse beneath him, the pleasant
high of sexual climax, and the necromantic satiation of a devoured soul.
He remembered his preparations for killing Searlait as he rode home. Tomorrow
he would have something to report to Lord Hoon.
* * * *
The first payment for the death of his brother had been made when Branduff
Maguire died. With Kynyr out of the way, Malthus felt free to do as he wished.
It was time to kill the rest of the Redhand family. The knowledge that the

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 110

villagers now considered him to be a jinx had startled Malthus. With his usual
self-confidence restored by riting a mon yesterday, Malthus felt certain that
he would either be able to turn that around or make it work to his favor.
He got up before dawn, concealed himself in a thicket of pines, and waited for
Searlait to leave the manor as she always did. When he saw her going into the
trees, he slipped into the woods, smiling to himself, knowing where to find
her. In the night ice had crusted the ground, but melted within hours of dawn.
He guessed that she was going for one last visit to the river before the
weather began to limit her access to it.
Malthus found Searlait sitting at her usual spot on a large smooth boulder
that thrust out over the water from a root-tangled shelf of dirt and rock. She
sat with her legs tucked beneath her long skirt to keep warm, and wore a wool
shawl around her thin shoulders. She cast leaves into the water and watched
them swirl around in frothy riffles, a distracted air clinging to her.
"Hello, Searlait.” Malthus settled beside her.
She jumped and turned, flushing when she recognized him. “Malthus. You
startled me. My hearing isn't as good as it used to be."
"I apologize.” Malthus slipped an arm around her thin shoulders. “You've been
very upset about your brother and Kynyr. I thought...."
Searlait nodded, staring into the water. “It seems that sorrow is our lot."
"Merissa cried herself to sleep again."
Searlait's head came up, concern softening her eyes. “That's not good for the
babies."
"I can't seem to comfort her right. I thought perhaps you'd ... talk to her."
"Of course.” Searlait patted Malthus’ hand. “I'll do what I can."
"Thank you.” Malthus kissed the old bitch on the forehead. His fingers went to
her throat and stripped her voice so that she could not call out above a
whisper. He could have taken it completely, but enjoyed listening to his
victims’ plaints as he killed them.
She flinched, eyes wide, and twisted away from him. Searlait changed: white
hair sprouted along her arms, her fingers grew claws, and canine fangs
appeared in her mouth. Two seams in her bodice burst, dumping her left breast
over the top. She struck at his face, her claws going for his eyes.
Malthus caught her boney wrists, pinioning them together in one hand. When he
had fought Kynyr last summer with practice blades, he had been forced to
conceal his true sa'necari strength, which more than matched that of the
average lycan in hybrid form. The rites had made him strong.
He shoved his other hand down her torn bodice. A small spell, yet sharp as a
narrow blade, pierced Searlait's chest.
Her struggles faltered with a groan, the color fading from her cheeks.
Malthus pressed her white-haired body to his chest in the crook of his arm,
covered her lips with his, and blew a spell down her throat, forcing her back
into human shape. “That's better."
"No, please.... “She pushed at him, unable to free herself. “Don't kill me."
Fear scented her aura, delighting Malthus’ senses. “I won't draw this out any
longer than I'm forced to."
He ground his palm between her breasts, and enervated her.
Searlait sagged against him, breathing hard, her chin resting on her chest.
Sweat broke out on her face. She felt as weak as a newborn field mouse.
“Malthus ... have mercy. I haven't done anything to you."
"Except eat my brother.” Malthus lifted her head by her forelock, settled it
on his shoulder, and shoved his hand into her bodice.
A stunned light entered her eyes. “Troyes?"
Malthus’ fingers tapped a contemplative rhythm across her sagging breasts. His
deceptions depended upon creating a layered effect as if the damage had been
progressive. He waited for his calculated spell to disperse, leaving behind
only its results. “At least you remember him."
"I didn't kill him."
"No.” Malthus inclined his head, tilted at a slight angle, his lips pressed
together in faint amusement. “You ate him."

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 111

"I wasn't there. I never touched him."
"You're lying. Merissa told me you were there."
She shivered as his gifts roved her body in prickling needles of awareness.
“Please don't do this. I've been good to your nieces."
"That's a matter of definition.” He pursed his lips, nodding. “You're ready
for another little jab."
Searlait shrieked behind the muting spell at the stabbing pain of the arcane
thrust. The worst passed quickly, leaving her lungs feeling tender, burning
with each breath she took. Her chest ached as if rocks had been piled against
her heart, and her flesh felt bruised although Malthus had not left the
smallest mark upon her skin.
Malthus amused himself by squeezing her flaccid breast and pinching her nipple
while he waited for the spell to settle properly. “You will have a stroke,
fall into the water, and drown."
"Gods’ mercy."
He chuckled at the same tired, old phrases so many lycans had used while he
killed them. Such a predictable race. Not nearly as intelligent as they think
they are. “Be a good girl, Searlait, and it will end sooner."
A battered puppy whimper shivered from Searlait's throat as Malthus Read her,
found the flaws of age in her body, and constricted various veins and
arteries. A sharp, black lance of power opened a small tear in Searlait's
heart, just enough to pass for a congenital imperfection.
She gasped, her lips drawn back, grimacing at the pain in her left arm, chest,
and temples. “It huuurrts ... Gahds, it hurts ... so ... so bad."
"Silly bitch. Of course it does.” Malthus brushed her hair back from her face
so that he could watch her eyes while the spell subsided and the traces
dissipated.
"You're killing me.” Her head swayed in a listless manner, her lips parted
wide as if she could not get enough air into her lungs.
"And you're stating the obvious. How tiresome.” He Read her again. “Yes, we're
ready for a little more now."
Searlait spasmed with a sob as he applied a steady pressure to her heart,
simulating the first stages of a heart attack. “Oh gahds, my heart ... my
heart."
"Claw says heart trouble doesn't run in the family ... it does now."
Her chest heaved, her heart palpitating like a mad thing. Tears started from
her eyes.
Malthus drew his finger through the salty rivulet on her cheek. “Relax. It
won't hurt as much."
Cradling her against his chest like a lover, he pressed his fingers to her
left temple, insinuating the blades that slashed the insides and left no blood
upon the skin to mark their passage.
Searlait yelped. Her head throbbed as if a migraine had erupted. Blood dripped
from her nose. A flash of temper brought a feeble growl. “Get it over with,
damn you."
"Patience.” Malthus counted down the time it would take for the spell to set,
and then followed it with another strike into her brain. “It takes time to do
it right."
The left side of her face drooped and the edge of her eyes and lips twitched.
Drool dribbled from the corner of her mouth, gathering on her chin. She panted
as if she had been running for miles. “Gaahds..."
"There. There. You've had a tiny little stroke.” Malthus rose with her in the
corner of his arm, straightened her skirts, and picked his way down the shelf
to the brown clay shore.
Searlait dragged her feet and stumbled, resisting him by catching her toes on
every bit of rough ground that she could. Malthus rewarded her attempts with
more disabling pain, making her whimper.
"Don't fight me, Searlait. It's too late for that."
They reached the edge of the shore and Malthus studied the water's movement.
He wanted a spot deep enough in the swift, frothing stream to drown her

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 112

easily, but not so deep that he risked being swept up by the current, which
narrowed from riffles into rapids a short distance from them.
A yard of tall, fang shaped stones half a spear's length out seemed to offer
the best place for his purposes. Searlait tried to pull back from him as he
waded out to the rocks. The water rose to his knees. Malthus flipped her
around putting her back to his chest and knelt, drawing her with him. Her
skirts billowed up about her waist like the broken petals of a crumpled
flower, lending her more buoyancy than he liked.
He took hold of her hair at the base of her neck and, with his other hand
digging into the fabric of her bodice near the middle of her back, Malthus
shoved her under the water. Her skirts rose and swirled around them. A corner
of blue cloth snagged on the rocks, ripped loose, and went spinning in the
current.
Panic sent a fresh surge of adrenaline and some fight back into Searlait. She
shook herself, tore her head free, and left a handful of ginger hair in
Malthus’ hands. He flicked the hair from his fingers as she came up choking,
spitting, and snorting water.
"You're not cooperating.” Malthus stabbed her through the back with a spell.
Searlait jerked, spasmed, and Malthus put her underwater again.
She thrashed hard for an instant and her dress tore, causing him to lose his
grip on her. Another chunk of her hair came free in his grasp as she tried to
scramble forward.
Malthus slammed his fist between her shoulder blades, driving her into the
muddy streambed. He seized her hair and dress again, holding her submerged and
watching her struggling outline distorted by the water. Malthus lowered his
chin to his chest with a blasé sigh, jerked her head up, and snarled at her.
“Whether I drown you or not, you're already dying."
"Noooo.” Blood mixed with froth and mud smeared the lower half of Searlait's
face. She coughed and more blood broke from her sinuses, adding to the mess
beneath her nose.
"What the hell do you think I was doing back there? I was killing you, you
stupid bitch."
"My ... my heart...” She exhaled the words wearily.
"Yesss!” He gave her a violent shake, wished he could be quit of all the
annoying subtleties, and shoved her under again. A simple death web to the
heart or brain would have killed her in moments; however every Reader in the
valley would have recognized the signs of one—especially that Guildsmon.
Searlait jerked and writhed, twice getting her head to the side to snatch a
breath of air, putting up more resistance than Malthus had expected so late in
the game. He managed to retain his hold on her, rolled his eyes, and snorted
in aggravation. Resigning himself to putting more effort into it, he straddled
her, using the weight of his hips on the small of her back to hold her frail
body pinned to the riverbed. Malthus shoved her upper body into the muck with
a hand between her shoulder blades, grasped her hair again, and forced her
face into the mud. Searlait shuddered and spasmed. Her struggles slowed, grew
intermittent, and finally stopped. Bubbles broke the surface of the water as
her lungs gave out. Searlait's body twitched convulsively in his grasp, and he
held her under until the last tiny movements subsided. Shifting his grasp on
her clothing, Malthus wiggled his fingers through a tear in her dress, touched
the chilling flesh, and Read her. His limited assault had left no detectable
residue.
A naughty boy smile touched the edges of his lips. “Well, that wasn't so bad,
was it, Searlait? You're all nice and dead now. What do you think about that?"
He released her dress and patted her head, making it bounce under his fingers.
Malthus let go of her hair, stood up, and watched her body bob to the surface
between his legs. He stepped free of her, disentangling his feet from her
skirts, and thrust her body into deeper water. She floated, the strands of her
hair spreading around her in disarray like strings of pale algae, arms
outstretched. The current caught Searlait's corpse and swept it downstream
into the swiftest part of the churning waters.

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 113

Malthus emerged from the stream shaking himself. He disliked being wet on a
cold day, but at least it would not be for long. Concealed by a thick stand of
pines, Malthus departed by a different path, retrieved his dry clothes from
the pine covert, and changed his clothing before heading into the village.
* * * *
Claw spent the day in the Blue Room at his checkers table, refusing offers to
play, unable to concentrate on anything for along. He shuffled the checkers
around the board, stacked them up, and knocked them down, which necessitated
ringing a bell for Kissie to come and pick them off the floor for him. The
chieftain quickly bored with that and had her get him the chess set instead.
That held his attention for all of ten minutes and then he started throwing
them at the bottles of liquor on a shelf to see if he could break one of them.
Sheradyn tried to coax him into taking a nap. Instead, Claw terrorized the
nancidawg by cussing a blue streak at him until the healer fled the room. The
only time Claw settled down was when one of Kynyr's friends returned to the
manor with news about his grandson's condition.
Malthus stopped by and was greeted with a “Get the Hell out."
Claw heard the swish of Fianait's steps and smelled her distinctive cologne
before his younger sister announced her presence by calling his name.
"What is it?” Claw snarled and downed another glass of whiskey. More and more
he did nothing except drink and stare out the windows.
Fianait looked hesitant, as if she did not want to tell him, but had no one
else to go to. “Searlait is missing."
"Missing?” Claw's head came up and his brow furrowed. “What do you mean
missing?"
"We were supposed to walk into the village to visit that new peddler after
lunch...” Fianait hesitated. “But Searlait didn't show up for lunch. Or any of
the other things we normally do."
"Have you asked Belgair to have a look?"
A single tear slid down Fianait's face as a flush spread across her cheeks.
“He said he had better things to do than go looking for a dotty old bitch
who's probably just forgotten about me."
Rage flashed across Claw's face. “Tell Belgair I want to talk to him. And I
want to talk to him now."
Fianait swallowed and left to find Belgair.
Claw fumed. A year ago, Belgair would never have dared to speak to Fianait
that way. Belgair, Malthus, Sheradyn ... many of his guardsmyn also ... they
were treating him like an invalid child. One whose opinions and desires no
longer mattered.
Belgair arrived with Fianait at his heels. “I think you're making much ado
about nothing,” Belgair said before either Claw or Fianait could speak.
Rage crimsoned Claw's face. “I'll make any ado I wish. Find my sister."
Belgair exhaled loudly. “Claw, it's nothing to become upset or worried about.
She's around here somewhere."
"I said, find my sister."
"Calm down. This isn't good for your heart."
Claw clenched his fingers into fists. “Don't patronize me. I'm your
chieftain."
"I'm not. I'm simply pointing matters out."
The long-suffering patience in Belgair's voice irritated Claw. Ever since he
first began to have trouble with his heart, Belgair had started treating him
differently. Since his fall, Claw felt as if he had become a devalued,
emasculated cripple in Belgair's eyes, one to be humored and ignored. His
command of his household had slipped through his fingers. Claw wondered who
was running things now: Belgair or Malthus.
By nightfall it had become clear even to Belgair that something had happened
to Searlait, and a search was called with most of the villagers participating.
* * * *
Pandeena carried a tea tray into the sitting room, placed it on the low table,
and started filling cups. Hathura flicked his fan closed, shoved it through

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 114

his belt and leaned forward. “I hope you brought honey. I'm not fond of
sugar."
"Same for me,” said Jushan, Hathura's cousin. Where Hathura was pale, Jushan
was golden. His coloring marked him as having been one who explored the
ancient ruins of a city more vast than some kingdoms which lay beneath the
island of Faewin in the middle of the Hillora River. The radiant magic of the
place had altered him.
"I wouldn't ever forget the honey. I know all about your Faery taste buds."
The two Fae chuckled.
An urgent pounding came at the back door. Everyone paused. Hathura frowned.
“Who'd use the back?"
"Don't know. But I'll find out.” Pandeena straightened.
Meleajys Sun-Child, the son of Kalirion by a Sharani woman, pushed away from
the wall he had been leaning against. The dark-skinned blond, whose lanky
build stretched his ropy muscles along a raw-boned frame, went armed almost to
the teeth with daggers hanging from a harness crossing his chest, a Sharani
longsword at his shoulder, knives up his sleeves and in his boot tops. “Let
me."
"I'm not some wet-tailed cub!” Pandeena put her hands on her hips, preparing
to argue.
The pounding on the door came again.
Hathura shrugged at his cousin, and slipped past Pandeena and Meleajys. He
returned a moment later with Erskine.
The guardsmon looked rumpled, as if he had slept in his clothes and armor. A
flush of agitation glowed on his features. “Searlait's missing."
Pandeena stopped short in the middle of framing an irritated non sequitur
aimed at Meleajys. “What do you mean, missing?"
Erskine explained.
"Why didn't you come sooner?"
"Belgair kept me with him the entire time. I couldn't get away. He didn't want
a bunch of outsiders drawn into it."
Hathura tapped his fans, his eyes distant. “Well, we are now."
Erskine looked worried as Pandeena's people started grabbing their cloaks and
heading for the door. “If you don't mind..."
At Pandeena's gesture, everyone paused and glanced at Erskine. “What?"
"Should Belgair ask, I only came to ask you to pray for her safe return. You
took it out of my hands. Otherwise, I'll spend the next month scrubbing
privies."
"Understood."
Toniqua arrived with her satchels slung across her chest, a sword at her hip,
and the javelin she used like a walking stick. “I'm ready."
People were about despite the earliness of the hour. When they reached the
commons, they found Belgair standing in the middle of the green forming search
parties to look for Searlait. The Guard Captain spotted Erskine and gestured
at him. “Where the hell have you been?"
* * * *
Pandeena sat in the Great Hall with Aisha and Fianait. While Aisha had a tense
look, edged with determination; Fianait's eyes were red-rimmed from weeping.
"I'm glad you came,” Aisha said. “Claw wanted to send for you yesterday, but
Belgair and Malthus...” She spread her fingers in a gesture of helplessness.
“I feel like I'm losing control of my own home."
"I'm sorry. Where's Merissa?” Pandeena squeezed Aisha's shoulder.
"Sheradyn sedated her. He's worried the stress will cause her to miscarry."
"I see."
Toniqua settled her satchels on the table. “When was the last time anyone saw
her?"
Fianait lifted her head, rubbing at her eyes. “Yesterday. Just before
breakfast. She's always liked watching the sunrise at the river."
"Was there a special place she went to there?"
"Yes. We used to sit on this rock as girls, tossing cedar chips into the water

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 115

with our sweethearts’ initials on them."
"Can you show me?"
Fianait hesitated. “The path has gotten too hard on my legs the last few
years...” Her head lowered and she sucked in a deep breath. “I'll need my
stick."
Meleajys squeezed her arm. “I'll carry you."
Fianait regarded the handsome yuwenghau with a girlish smile. “I'd like that."
He swept her up, grabbed her cloak, and covered Fianait warmly.
Fianait guided them to the Bonnie Draw where she and Searlait used to sit as
girls and pointed to the smooth rock by the willow tree. “Up there."
Toniqua climbed to the rock, waving the others to stay back while she examined
it. “Look around and see if you spot any footprints."
Meleajys lowered Fianait to a smooth boulder and sat with her.
Toniqua examined the surface of the rock with a Guildsmon investigator's sharp
eye and keen instincts. She spied a spatter of tiny brown stains in an
irregular pattern, took out her knife and a crystal. She scratched the
particles of the stain up and stored them.
"What did you find?” Pandeena asked.
"Blood."
Fianait paled. Meleajys put his arm around Fianait's shoulders, murmuring
comfort noises in her ear. She leaned into his shoulder with a sob.
Toniqua glanced at Fianait. “Not enough to have come from a wound. More like
drops from a pricked finger. Still..."
"Over here!” shouted Hathura.
Toniqua climbed down and joined Hathura at the water's edge. He pointed and
she saw two isolated footprints, one booted, and the other barefoot. She
glanced about for more, but failed to find any. Toniqua opened her satchel,
took out a jar of powder, a bowl and a small canteen. She mixed the powder and
water in the bowl, forming a thick paste.
"What are you doing?” Hathura watched her closely as she poured it into the
footprints.
"Making a cast. Then we can match the foot or shoe to someone."
"I've never heard of it."
"It's something new. Aramyn has been experimenting with the idea. So far
plaster works best."
Moonlight-haired Gyongy had aquiline features more appropriate to a male than
a female and carried herself like the bird of prey she resembled, with a
shield at her back and longsword at her hip. She stepped through a stand of
pine trees with a bit of blue cloth in her hands. “I found this caught on some
rocks in the river."
Fianait's eyes widened and she swallowed several times, her voice cracking
when she finally spoke. “That's the color of her dress."
Everyone went still for a moment. Pandeena took the bit of cloth from Gyongy
and carried it to Fianait. “Could this have come from her dress?"
"Yes."
Gyongy stared at her feet. “It was far out in the rapids. I had a hard time
reaching it."
Pandeena threw her head back and released a long ululating howl to bring
others. As the sound died out, she spoke again. “Then she drowned."
Fianait burst into uncontrolled keening, tearing at her hair.
As more searchers arrived, Pandeena sent them down along the river. The sound
of horses and the jingle of harnesses drew Pandeena to the worn footpath
beyond the Bonnie Draw. Belgair rode up at the head of his myn with Malthus at
his side.
"What the unholy hell is going on here?” Belgair dismounted and stalked to the
rock where Fianait wept in Meleajys’ arms. “Get back to the manor, Fianait."
The fragile bitch cringed against the dark-skinned yuwenghau. He lifted her in
his arms and held her close, her face buried in his blond hair. “She'll go
when I take her."
"She'll go when I tell her, outlander. We don't need your kind around here."

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 116

Gyongy stepped to Meleajys’ side, her lip curling into a sneer. “And we don't
take orders from you. Your priest is our captain."
Malthus regarded them with a twist of venom and mock concern. “I would
question the loyalty of a priest who chooses her guardians from outside her
own people."
"Enough of this!” Pandeena moved to stand between Belgair's myn and Gyongy.
“You should be more concerned about what we have found than who I choose to
employ."
Belgair dismounted and stalked to within killing distance of Pandeena. “And
what is that?"
"Evidence that Searlait has been drowned."
"Show me."
* * * *
Claw heard the sounds of many feet and loud voices echoing in the hallways. He
wheeled his chair to the doorway of the Blue Room and gazed out. Aisha came
toward him, her expression tight with grief.
"What's the commotion down there, Aisha?” Claw asked, and then noticed his
wife's tears. “Searlait?"
Aisha's mouth tightened and she nodded. “Drowned. Sheradyn's Reading her."
Claw's voice caught in his throat. “How?"
Aisha hesitated, struggling for composure. “He thinks she had a stroke and
fell in."
Claw spun his chair around to cross the threshold. “I want to see her."
Aisha rushed to step in front of him, grabbed the arms of the chair, and
prevented him from going forward. “Not until Kissie, Isbeth, and I have made
her presentable. Gorgarty and Belgair are building the coffin themselves."
"Fianait?"
"Taking it hard. Merissa's with her."
Claw felt hollowed out. He was losing Kynyr and now he had lost Searlait. He
could not even go down and sit with his sister's body unless someone helped
him. Tears that he did not want to shed in front of Aisha gathered in his
eyes, demanding the release that he refused them. The old chieftain resented
the sense of impotence that had nagged him since his crippling. He reached for
something, anything to focus his emotions on. “What's that bastard Malthus
doing?"
"Claw, please. Merissa has enough to deal with without you talking of her
husband that way."
"Well, what is he doing?"
"Comforting Merissa."
"Wrap my sister's body and don't do anything more to it until Pandeena and
Toniqua have examined it."
Seeing that Aisha would not allow him out of the room. Claw backed up and
wheeled over to his checkers table. He brought his fist down in the center of
it, sending the checkers flying in all directions.
"Do what I say Aisha! Now."
Aisha acquiesced with an unhappy nod.
* * * *
Malthus watched Pandeena and Toniqua leaving that night after examining
Searlait's body. One of them had to be the Guildsmon. The household had gone
into mourning, everyone dressed in black, and the air hung heavy with their
sorrow. He waited until the household slept, and stole downstairs to confirm
his findings.
Searlait's body lay in a plain coffin on a bier in the center of the Great
Hall. Someone had draped her loom with black cloth to signify that she would
never be returning to it. Malthus went to the body and stared down at her
remains.
Aisha and Fianait had dressed Searlait in her best gown, a long blue dress cut
in the human style with a darker bodice and a lighter skirt. Malthus ran his
fingers over Searlait's face. He felt the stasis spell the priest must have
placed to prevent the body from corrupting further until Searlait could be

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 117

laid into the ground of the small family graveyard at the rear of the gardens.
Pandeena must have mage gifts, for this went beyond the usual priest gifts he
had seen among lycans. Mages were rare among the lycans. Malthus wondered how
Claw had found her. Pandeena seemed more dangerous all the time.
"I need to discuss Pandeena with Belgair."
He unlaced Searlait's bodice, paused to squeeze her spongy breast, and then
opened the garment to examine the corpse. His eyes fell on the black stitching
that showed Searlait's body had been opened and samples taken before they
closed her up again.
Guildsmon. It had to be Toniqua. None of this had been done to his other kills
before she came here. Was she working alone? If they suspected the Butchering
Serpent was involved, there would be a team of them, not just a single mon.
Were all of those myn living at the Lawgiver House Guild? It was possible, but
Malthus doubted it. More likely they had spread themselves out among the
several dozen newcomers that had been pouring into Wolffgard since the queen's
rebellion started against the Sharani occupiers.
Toniqua had to die. But first he needed to learn who her contacts and comrades
were.
He laced the bodice closed, straightened Searlait's clothing, and returned to
his suite.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
KADY'S PLEA
Lord Channadar, his elbow propped on the arm of his chair, rested his head
against two fingers pressed to his temple. “How long do you think she will
sleep, My Dragonfly?"
"First Jump and four months pregnant? Twenty-four hours would not be
surprising. A Jump that far is draining on even a young and fit mage.” Leeza
the Dragonfly, sitting cross-legged upon a large floor pillow, leaned her back
against the wall.
"The time has come to dance once more over the fields of war.” Channadar
turned his gaze to Tiderider, the Golden Fae Who Has Seen the Sea. “Go and
arrange a meeting between Lady Maguire and the Grand Master for tomorrow
morning. If Mohanja gives you the slightest grief over it, you have my
permission to dance on his head."
"It will be done.” Tiderider bowed and departed on his errand.
"She is without clothes or coins in her purse,” protested Damayanti, curled in
a chair with her long legs beneath her. The leather pants and tunic she wore
sheathed her form to perfection.
Channadar straightened and flicked his fan at her. “I will provide for her in
a way that will not offend her pride—if Stoneriver is any example to go by,
she will have too much for her own good. A small dance is called for.” He
waved at Chucomei. “Create an account for her at the Bank of Havensword. Move
one hundred thousand gold from my account into it. We shall tell her Cahira
did it and she will not be able to refuse."
The Mage of Wings rose and left.
"And now for your task, Leeza. Shopping."
"I've always been good at that."
"I know.” Channadar gave her a droll smile. “Can you discern her size at a
glance?"
Leeza nodded. “Easily."
"Buy Lady Maguire a wardrobe fit for a queen. And jewelry that will set her
off to best advantage. I wish to see her dressed as a royal lady in distress
and not a princess of farmers. We must send the right message to the Grand
Master."
"I know exactly where and what to buy.” She darted to the door, opened it, and
stared at the mon who had been about to knock. “What brings you, Cousin?"
Hathura stepped into the room and met Channadar's eyes. “Lady Maguire. This is
my third visit in search of her. I am told you have her."
"I might."

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 118

"Do not dance with me, Channadar. Do you or do you not hold Lady Maguire?"
"Why are you looking for her?"
"The Second Mother has asked me to bring her home. Her husband is dying."
"Do me one favor, Hathura. Then I will tell you where she is."
"Ask."
"Since you clearly Jumped here from Wolffgard, you are the only one who can do
this quickly."
"Ask."
"Install a Mirror Gate in her home."
Mirror magic was peculiar to the Fae. The island their people lived upon
experienced energy fluxes due to the sunken city buried beneath it. It had
made them creative and versatile. They could not establish permanent gates
between Faewin and the outer world, but the use of mirrors had proven a viable
substitute.
"You have the mirror?"
"Yes."
"Shield it properly and I will take it there."
Channadar flicked his fan at Damayanti. “Fetch the mirror.” Then he turned to
Hathura with a tiny smile of sheer impishness. “You had best sit down for
this."
Hathura quirked an eyebrow at Channadar and took the chair that Leeza had
vacated.
"Let me tell you about Kady Maguire."
"I know her."
"Not the way I do. Chucomei Read her. There must have been an Abelard in the
bushes."
"If you are saying what I think you are, then there must be a mistake."
"No mistake."
"She is lycan. They do not produce mages of that caliber."
"Well, they have. She is a pan-elementalist."
Hathura rewarded Channadar with a stunned look. “It is not possible."
"When the stress upon a race or creature becomes overpowering, they either die
off or they mutate. Our people are a prime example of it."
"Using the standard bio-magicalist scale, one to ten, with Cahira a one and
Josiah Abelard a ten, how would you rate her potential?"
"A seven.” Channadar began swinging his closed fan back and forth. “You have a
very dangerous situation here, Hathura. A pregnant, untrained pan-elementalist
with a dying husband that she loves dearly. Either we help her, or we risk her
destroying Wolffgard in the paroxysms of grief when he dies."
Hathura looked shaken. “I am only a six."
"But you are also yuwenghau."
"Small comfort. How soon can you have the mirror ready?"
"An hour. But you must not install it until I have spoken to the Grand Master.
I will send the mirror with or without his consent, but I would rather have
it."
* * * *
Kady woke in a strange suite in the palace. The first things she noticed were
the bed curtains in shades of bright green brocaded with wondrous white birds
whose long tails swirled around them. She turned on her side and saw Chucomei
sitting in a chair by the bed. A strange dark-skinned mon stood beside her in
a kilt and halter so revealing that it appeared shameless. The unknown mon had
feline features.
"Awake at last.” Chucomei smiled warmly at Kady. “You had us very worried,
young mage."
"How did I get here?” Kady blinked away the cobwebs in her mind. Her throat
tightened with a flash of memory in which she saw Kynyr lying in the guestroom
bed, pale and still.
"You Jumped,” said the stranger.
"Who are you?"
"Damayanti. Your cat."

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 119

"You are the rarest of the rare, Kady Maguire,” said Chucomei.
"I know. I'm a lycan mage."
"Oh, more rare than that. I Read you while you slept to be certain you had not
harmed yourself. You are an untutored pan-elementalist."
"Cahira can't teach me that.” Kady immediately decided that had been an inane
thing to say under the circumstances.
"StealsThunder can and she likes you."
"I'm not worried about that. It's Kynyr.” Kady glanced again at her
surroundings and she realized that she must be in one of the chambers of
Channadar's starrooms.
Chucomei nodded, her eyes filled with gentle concern. “Damayanti has told us.
Stoneriver sent her to guard you."
"Stoneriver.... “His image filled Kady's mind, so strong and arrogant, and yet
comforting to have on her side.
"A powerful ally. He has taken an army into Red Wolf and has most likely
crossed the border by now. He went to the Patriarch and pledged himself to
your service before our gods."
Kady's mind reeled and for several moments she could find no words to speak.
“My husband is dying. They're telling me it's Black Mountain Fever.” Out of
nowhere, Kady remembered Stoneriver telling her how the heir of Creeya was
poisoned and everyone thought it was an illness. She got one of those feelings
that she now recognized as intuition and it made her blood run cold. “But I
have the strangest feeling ... that it's poison."
Chucomei glanced at Damayanti.
The Shivari nodded. “Poison is the Serpent's favorite weapon."
"You need to see the Grand Master. He's in residence now. The queen is close
to giving birth and he intends for them to remain here until she is
delivered.” Chucomei stood up with a conspiratorial look. “Get dressed. Your
appointment to see Osterbridge is in less than an hour."
"I didn't bring any clothes.” Kady climbed out of bed.
"Your wardrobe has already been taken care of."
"I can't pay for things. I didn't bring any money."
"Once in a while Cahira has a flash of precognition. She set up an emergency
account for you at the Bank of Havensword and placed Channadar in charge of
it. Ever since your last visit, all those lords and ladies you impressed have
been adding to it."
At a gesture from Chucomei, Damayanti laid out a wool underdress and a heavy
brocaded silk dress in shades of azure. Then she opened boxes of jewelry.
Kady gasped in surprise at the wealth before her. “This is all mine?"
"Yes, indeed it is. It will accentuate that full belly of yours. Ceejorn
Osterbridge has a weakness for rescuing pregnant women in distress. I suspect
it's because of what happened to Talons."
"You're going to run a game on him to get me what I need?"
Chucomei laughed. “How many Fae can dance on the head of a human? As many as
can get their attention."
* * * *
Lord Channadar escorted Kady to see the Grand Master, briefing her on what to
say as they climbed to the seventh level and traveled down a long hallway
lined on the left with stained glass windows that made rainbows on the tiled
floor.
The paladin-king of Creeya, Ceejorn Osterbridge, looked nothing like Kady had
imagined him. She had expected an older, grim-visaged mon as Grand Master of
the Assassins’ Guild. Instead, Ceejorn had a pleasant face and smiled
frequently.
He had not been born noble. Ceejorn had been an orphan, taken in by the Guild
and trained from childhood. He proved himself in defeating a coup against the
kingdom that killed his closest friends and left him bereft. He married the
young girl that he had fallen in love with, only to discover that she was the
last heir to the throne of Creeya, Isen Sinjin.
At heart, Ceejorn would always be the common, ordinary mon who won fame for

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 120

uncommon acts of bravery. All of that showed in his gentle manner.
Channadar bowed to the Grand Master and tilted his head in a sly way as he
waved his fan at Kady and white swans filled the chamber with their illusory
presence. “I bring you, Lord Ceejorn, the White Swan of Red Wolf. Lady Kady
Maguire, Princess of Red Wolf."
"Lady Maguire.” Ceejorn gave her a pleasant nod of greeting and another smile
spread across his plain face.
"She is in dire circumstances that only you can save her from."
"You are known to us, Lady Maguire, Princess of Red Wolf. Tell me your
troubles."
It startled Kady for an instant to be called a princess. “My husband, Prince
Kynyr, is the last adult male heir to Red Wolf."
"That is known to us."
"The healers are calling it Black Mountain Fever. There is no cure for it.
However, Lord Channadar reminded me of the story of Talons Trollbane."
A shadow passed over Ceejorn's face. “You suspect poison?"
"I do. No one knows more about poison and antidotes than the Guild. Please,
Your Majesty, I'm throwing myself on your mercy. Please help me."
Ceejorn turned to Channadar. “Can your people get her home and establish a
mirror gate?"
"Yes, Your Majesty."
"Do so. Lady Maguire, I place my resources at your disposal to save your
husband and your threatened kingdom."
Sudden tears slid down Kady's cheeks. She had never expected that it would
come this easily. Kady glanced at Channadar and received a knowing wink.
“Bless you."
The Grand Master thrust his chin at her belly. “Is it a boy?"
"Yes, your majesty."
"Then I have just one request to make in exchange for my aid. Name the little
bugger Ceejorn?"
"Of course.” A small smile touched the edges of Kady's mouth. Her son was
going to have the longest name she had ever heard of at this rate.
Ceejorn winked at Channadar and Channadar winked back. She did not know
whether to laugh or cry, because she realized this meeting was a formality
only. The decisions had been made before she arrived.
"Does he have a godfather picked out yet?” Ceejorn asked.
"No, Your Majesty."
The Grand master indicated Channadar with his thumb. “Pick him."
"Lord Channadar will make a fine godfather."
"One day there will be a King of Wolves with an amazing court that will go
down in history with the richness of legend. Your son, Lady Maguire.” Lord
Channadar's lips turned impish. “King of all the clans."
* * * *
"Kady couldn't cry for our sister and she deserted her husband. But everyone
cares about Kady and no one gives a bloody damn about me.” Larena snarled
across the kitchen table at Mary.
With Kady gone and Kynyr down with the fever, Larena had been showing more and
more of her true colors to Mary and the other bitches of the household, while
simpering at every male that came through regardless of race. Aghavie had
taken to her rooms and refused to come out after a run-in with Larena within
hours of Kady's disappearance.
"One more word out of you, and I'll rip your bloody face off,” Mary growled,
going hairy on her.
"You wouldn't dare. I'm Kady's sister."
"Act like it."
The sound of strangers in the front room drew both of them from the kitchen.
Hathura stood there with four others. He introduced the three carrying a large
rectangular object wrapped in thick black cloth as Da'Shanagara, Juniperarrow,
and Starsilent. StealsThunder glanced around as if she owned the place, spied
Mary, and declared. “We need to use a drawing room for this."

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 121

"What is it?” Trevor asked, arriving moments after Mary.
"A mirror. We need plenty of room. Show us.” StealsThunder flicked her closed
fan at Trevor, marching past Larena as if the bitch did not exist.
Mary repressed a smile of satisfaction. No one delivered better snubs than the
Fae and Larena had made a very bad impression all around when she met them in
Creeya.
Trevor showed them to a room. They started moving all the furniture and piling
it up in a corner. He raised a quizzical eyebrow at this but said nothing,
figuring they knew what they were doing and that Kady must have okayed it or
they would not be about it.
The mirror was unwrapped. The surface was black and did not reflect. Once it
was mounted on the wall, StealsThunder invoked it. The surface swirled and
cleared revealing another place. A tall dark mon with cornflower eyes stood
there with the satchels of a healer crisscrossing her chest. She stepped
through the mirror and Trevor nearly fell over.
More people started coming through it. Fae in their multi-colored finery,
prancing and mincing, came through first. Humans followed, some of them in the
uniform of the Guild.
"Where are we going to put everyone?” Mary asked.
Trevor lifted an eyebrow in an expression that was startlingly like his
father's. “Buy more furniture?"
"I guess we'll have to."
"Show me to the prince,” demanded Cornflower eyes.
"Who are you?” Trevor asked.
"Shaheeramat. Most call me Sha. I'm senior healer to the Guild."
That said all that needed to be said. Kady had not only involved the Fae, but
brought the Guild to their aid as well.
"Mary!"
She turned at the sound of her name and saw Kady step through the mirror. Mary
ran to Kady and hugged her, sobbing. “Dearest gods, I'm so glad you're back."
"Kynyr?"
"Sheradyn's with him. Kynyr's not expected to last the day. Pandeena is saying
the prayers for the dying over him."
Kady hurried to his room and found it filled with people. She heard Sheradyn's
voice raised in protest as Starsilent and Juniperarrow hoisted him up and
carried him out. If she had not been so worried about Kynyr, Kady would have
laughed at Sheradyn.
Pandeena pushed through the crowd and clasped Kady's shoulders. “I had just
started the prayers. He's nearly gone."
Kady paled, pulled loose from Pandeena, and dragged a chair to his bedside.
She stroked his face, getting no reaction. Her chest and her throat tightened.
“I love you, Kynyr. I wish you could hear me. I love you."
Two myn in the uniform of Guild healers set a table close to the bed. Sha
spread her equipment across it. She grasped his wrist, Reading him.
"I can try something.” Sha took what looked like a glass tube with a plunger
mounted on an extremely long needle. She filled it with fluid from a vial.
"Hypodermic syringe,” Kady gasped.
One of the Guild surgeons present gave her a smile. “Cahira's translations of
that medical text have allowed us to recreate some of the lost technology."
Sha threw back the blankets and opened Kynyr's shirt. She thrust the needle
directly into the heart muscle and pushed the plunger.
Kynyr's chest heaved and jerked. Then his eyes fluttered open, and he breathed
her name. “Kady."
Sha smiled again, and this time there was more feeling in it. She settled into
a chair, took his hand, and Read him thoroughly. “It's not Black Mountain
Fever. He's been poisoned."
"I was right.” A strangled sob escaped Kady, torn between happy and
frightened. She pressed the back of his hand to her cheek. “I love you."
"Poison.” Pandeena's eyes narrowed. “The Serpent's work."
"I'm afraid so. It has all the hallmarks of a Romilay or a Sidera Tyrins

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 122

creation."
"Can you save him?"
"I can try."
Kynyr's eyes flickered from Kady to Sha. “Poisoned ... by Malthus ... or ...
Belgair?"
Pandeena's eyes went distant. “They both gain by Kynyr's death. Belgair, I'm
told, wishes to be Regent. Malthus wants his children on the throne. Kynyr is
a threat. But so is the child growing beneath Kady's heart."
Kady kissed her husband's lips. “When I find out who did it, Kynyr ... I'll
kill them."

EPILOGUE
THE EXILE RETURNS
They rode down out of the Black Mountains from the northeast. Twenty-five
lycans in hybrid form, their harnesses jingling, ten Shivari in mon form, two
hundred humans, and five swan-mays in silver armor with cloaks of black
feathers hanging from their shoulders. Sixty auxiliaries accompanied them with
wagons and supplies. Fifteen gryphons of various species circled overhead,
reds, blues, greens, and whites. Three banners flew above the vanguard: the
golden book and blade on a black field of the Assassins’ Guild; the Black Swan
on an azure field of the Netherguard; and the crimson bear that was the
personal standard of Brock Redhand.
At their head rode Brock Redhand who had taken the name of Stoneriver in his
exile.
Reist Devlin, his lycan second-in-command, rode closer to him. “How does it
feel to be on your home soil again?"
"Strange. I haven't been here in a century and it hasn't changed at all.”
Stoneriver signaled a halt as they reached the broad meadows four days north
of Three Stones. “The question is, how do you feel about it?"
Reist Devlin scratched his tawny head. “So long as I stay away from Chandler's
Rock ... I should be fine. My father ... the bloody thane ... will be having
conniptions the moment he knows I'm back."
"And your stepmother?"
"Ex-stepmother. My father divorced her after catching us in bed together. The
drunken skirt-chaser could not condone his wife doing what he did. Especially
with his son."
"I have a bit of a confession. A bitch named Pandeena came looking for me. I
told her your life story as if it were mine."
"You're a sneaky son of a slut, Stoneriver.” Reist gave him a bemused look and
then sobered. “They kept saying that you visited your niece ten years ago. Do
you know what that was about?"
"I have wondered about that. I suspect it was my mother. Ardala is a true
shape-shifter. The story of the curse has always bothered her. So she checks
on the family from time to time. Never in the same form twice."
"Any way to know for certain?"
Stoneriver shrugged. “I've called out to her, but she's not answering. That's
my fault. I screamed at her the last time we spoke. I think she knows I've
gone home and she's sulking."
"You've got a strange family."
"Not really. Just mother. Claw is rather normal. We were close."
"And the others?"
Stoneriver's eyes went distant. “I suppose I should tell you all of it. You'll
be embroiled in it soon enough. I was raised to believe that Fianait and I
were twins, but it was a lie. My father had only one youthful indiscretion: my
mother. But you know, or should, how difficult it is to resist a yuwenghau's
allure. My father's wife was pregnant around the time that Ardala began to
lust after my father. She seduced him and got me. Female yuwenghau seldom want
to raise their own young, unless a god has sired it. So she dumped me on my
father the same night that Sorcha gave birth to Fianait. Sorcha was a good
bitch. Kind and forgiving. So she told everyone that I was hers."

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 123

"And Fianait? What really happened between you?"
"She was the most beautiful bitch in all the clans. Everyone wanted her. She
was fragile. Mind and body both. The yuwenghau allure kicked in at
adolescence. I didn't know what I was or what was happening, but all the
bitches were throwing themselves at me. Including Fianait, my own sister. The
harder they chased me the harder I said no. Fianait became desperate and she
went to Ishla's temple for a potion to bring me to her bed. It was not created
for what I am; it was created for a normal lycan. The result was that it first
drove me mad and then it nearly killed me. But in the meantime I had gotten
her pregnant."
"So it's true that you are the grandson of our Liege-God?"
"Yes."
"But you're not a lycan?"
Stoneriver was silent for a long time before answering. “I'm not a wolf, I'm a
bear."
THE END

Visit www.renebooks.com for information on additional titles by this and other
authors.

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 124