

## Incorrigible: Secrets Past & Present

### The Staves of Warrant Book One

### Part One / Entrapments

## Morgen Rich

### Bookmite Press

### Pennsylvania

www.bookmitepress.com

*****

### This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, places, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

### This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

### Copyright © 2013. Morgen Rich. All rights reserved.

### Published by Bookmite Press.

### ebook ISBN 978-0-9892102-0-1

### Smashwords Edition.

### Cover design by Derek Murphy of Creativindie Covers

*****

### Dedicated to Clyde and Craig

*****

### ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

In another place and time, Richard Migliore said, "When you most need help, it will come to you in surprising ways through amazing people. Trust and cherish that." It has, and I do.

Without Julie Hill and the amazing team at Hodgson Elkington, I never would have had a room with a view. What an inspiring one it has been.

To the staff and roleplayers of Incorrigible, your imaginations taught me how to stretch the limits of my own. Thank you for working unselfishly and for joining in to play. I hope you'll enjoy this Incorrigible as much as I enjoyed roleplaying with you in the game.

Fenton Moore believed in me before the first word was written. Your gentle guidance and unwavering support have sustained me through real and imaginary crises, and you have earned my deep respect.

AineMari Murphy made me find my roots and my word—serendipity. Thank you for listening and for refusing to allow me to believe I wasn't where I was meant to be.

Denise Opal and Roberta Noto have been ever bright and cheerful and kindly begged for "More!" Thank you for your confidence and interest in my story and for reading early versions of the novel in its entirety. But, more importantly, thank you for your friendship.

Author and tango enthusiast Gregory Lordi pushed me for drafts daily, insisting I could write a sentence without the words "and" and "that." Greg, I can only say, "You were right. Thank you. You gently coaxed me to accept my worth, _and_ I treasure your honor."

Julie Hill is the best teacher I know, freely sharing knowledge and expertise, taking me to task (and Ikea) when warranted. I love your heart, Julie, and I eagerly await your first book.

Tom Doyle, the big brother I never had. Thank you for sharing your angel, your energy, and your futon. Know Joy!

Jim Perna, thank you for sharing your space with the disabled and for letting me cook with you. You're just plain GLEEful!

Ryuu, the sweetest virtual hugger ever, tested the serial pacing for me. Thank you for not being able to wait!

Deborah Rainwater initiated the building of my dream in Second Life and in First Life long before I ever thought about publishing a book. I love the Soul and Art you share every day. Go well, sister.

Thank you to my clan—Lisa, Chris, Kendra, Jocelyn, Drew, Damien, and Natalie—for supporting my efforts and encouraging me with your enthusiasm.

My husband Walt read drafts and courageously commented on multiple revisions, braving dagger looks to ask one simple question that made all the difference. Thank you.

*****

Table of Contents

Chapter One: Seetans

Chapter Two: Mothers and Daughters

Chapter Three: Disruptors

Chapter Four: Orphans

Chapter Five: Distractors

Chapter Six: Scribes

Chapter Seven: Weavers

Chapter Eight: Cats

Chapter Nine: Cats and Mice

Chapter Ten: Distance

Extras

*****

# Chapter One

### Seetans

Gráinne Roisin Ferrane MacKenna Seetan had never imagined killing. Neither had her mother, nor her mother's mother, nor her grandmother's mother. Ferrane females had built a legacy of preserving life, a legacy so tightly woven into their family fabric that it had become instinct. For Gráinne, daughter of Arianna of Alanna of Adama, killing was genetically inconceivable. That was why her familial instinct now felt defective. What it told her simply wasn't possible. She had become lethal.

Gráinne fought for air as the foul odor of genocide wafted up to the slate courtyard of Vandovir Estate, filling her nostrils with the stench of burning hair and bone. "You have to stop them," she coughed out.

"As soon as you tell me where to find the Staves," replied her husband.

The scene unfolding across the channel in Gráinne's homeland gripped her as tightly as the fingers of the hand she had curled over the stone railing to brace herself in a world that had turned surreal. Drifting smoke stung her eyes, but she couldn't stop searching for escaping citizens. The glint of a sword caught her attention before it disappeared behind a puff of smoke. Through a break in the dense haze between her and the thatched roof cottages and brightly painted shoppes of the Old Village, a ragdoll-come-to-life-horror captured her stare: bodies with flailing arms and legs were being tossed like yesterday's rubbish into burning heaps. She couldn't form a thought that made any sense.

"Look at me." Slyxx Seetan growled as he grasped her chin and forced her face in his direction. "This is your last chance."

She glared into his laurel green eyes, eyes that needed no light to enhance their shininess, for Slyxx's eyes flashed with the passion of whatever conviction he held at any given moment. At this moment, his passion was for the Keeper' Staves, and his eyes brimmed with a glimmer that matched the unyielding nature of the passion spawning it.

Gráinne swallowed, the dry lump in her throat scratching its way down. "I do not know where they are. And what difference would it make to have them? The Staves have not protected the island. Can you not see they have no magic?" She pointed down at the swarm of mercenary soldiers blossoming across the island like a river wild, flowing into winding lanes and empty courtyards, stone-paved roads and dirt paths. Stragglers smashed their way into algae-coated stone warehouses at the Docks of the Obdured and carried sacks and crates of goods back to their ship. The swarm surged in fits and broke off in streams to chase fleeing, child-laden women.

She jerked her chin out of his fingertips. "What possible use could they be to you now? Your thugs have overrun the realm. Stop this!"

A timber roof meeting a floor crashed in the distance, and Gráinne flinched.

Slyxx spoke calmly, but the passion of his conviction, like that in his eyes, still infused his words. "You feign ignorance. You lived with the Order. You know their ways. Tell me where the priestesses keep the Staves, Gráinne. Tell me, and I will have the General call back her army."

"Nowhere. They belong to the citizens, and the Keepers place them outside the doors to the Temple. The Keepers are not priestesses. You _know_ all of this. Why are you . . . ."

"The Staves, Gráinne. The priestesses don't leave them lying about outside the Temple. They don't leave them at all."

His words made no sense to Gráinne, and she didn't have time to argue with him. Citizens were dying. "Then they are somewhere else," she said, "and I will help you find them if you will just stop the soldiers. Please, Sly, please." Grasping his arm, she curled her nails into his leather coat.

Slyxx looked down at his wife's slender fingers. "I _want_ to believe you."

Her mind rushed through memories of her time with the Order but found nothing relating to the Keepers' Staves. She could say the words convincingly. "I am telling the truth. I swear it."

Slyxx cocked his head, the tips of his dark brown hair scrunching when they reached the top of his shoulder. "If you took the Robe before you came here, that oath would prevail over all others. What you swear to after that would mean nothing to you, including the oath you swore when you became my wife. A priestess would never betray her own Order."

He was thinking, at least, and not demanding. Maybe she could tap into his reason. "Please, just stop the soldiers, and we will discuss this civilly. Your father was a Keeper. Perhaps he left a note about the Stave's whereabouts?"

Slyxx's gaze searched Gráinne's, and she caught of spark of hope amid the shimmering green that could be so penetrating as to be intimidating. When he shook his head, the hope disappeared, as if it had been shaken out of his gaze.

"I _want_ to believe you, but I would be a fool if I did. Even if you had no loyalty to the Order, you are who you are, and you will lie."

"I have kept my oath. I have remained here as your wife. Have I not?"

Slyxx looked down and clasped Gráinne's wrist, squeezing. When she opened her hand, he pulled his arm free of her grasp but tightened his own. "Wife?" He laughed. "You are a Seetan only by verdict, Gráinne. You have made that clear. And though a MacKenna by your mother's choosing, you will always be a Ferrane by birth. You will say or do anything to hang onto the throne, and running your merry chase will only be a waste of time I do not have. _Because_ you are my wife, I will say this only once more. Tell me where to find the Staves."

"I do not know!" She let go of the railing and tried to pry his meaty fingers off her wrist.

"Then, my love, your ignorance will set seal to the death warrants of any who have survived thus far." The massive male gestured delicately down at an island aflame but looked into his wife's honey-brown, human eyes. He continued, but speaking over his shoulder, "General, finish the task. Burn everything—buildings, fields . . . animals."

Gráinne waded through a fog of disbelief. "I said I will help you find them. I promise."

Slyxx wheeled around to the mercenary officer standing behind him.

Peering around Slyxx, Gráinne spied the General. From head to toe, nothing about the mercenary officer flowed smoothly. Her height gave the impression of stunted growth, as if she'd been shrunken in youth like a wet skin left to dry under a sweltering sun. The top of the General's head barely stretched up to Slyxx's waist. The Commander's snow-white hair, greasy and mussed, contrasted sharply with her flawless complexion and tailored black uniform.

The officer looked up at Slyxx.

Slyxx's voice resounded with authority. "Before they burn the rest of the buildings, have your men search for the Staves one more time."

The General gave a slow nod.

"And General, they _must_ remain intact. No missing jewels."

_Why is he saying that? He knows the Keepers' Staves have no jewels in them. None of this makes any sense._ Her tone desperate and shaky, her words awkward with confusion, Gráinne called out to the officer, "No! Please, General. This is unnecessary. Surely, we can strike a bargain."

The short officer leaned enough to see around Slyxx's midriff. She locked gazes with Gráinne.

At first, the pitch black orbs staring back at Gráinne appeared barren and lifeless. A fraction of a second before the General clucked her tongue and then spoke, Gráinne knew otherwise. Shards of bitterness and hatred bristled in the mercenary's eyes and then slunk back into hiding behind a flat stare.

"Like mother, like daughter," the General huffed, "beggars dressed as queens." She broke eye contact and gave a clipped nod of affirmation to Slyxx. "As we agreed, Marquis." She pivoted crisply and headed toward the castle's gate. With a marked limp marring an otherwise perfect military stride, the Commander tramped past guards who fell silently into line behind her.

"You planned this! You brought them here! For sticks?" Gráinne jerked her wrist out of Slyxx's clenched hand.

Slyxx's voice floated toward Gráinne, whose gaze still followed the officer rounding the corner of the castle. "Now, about your offer to cooperate . . . ."

"Noooooooooo!" Her nails slashed through the air toward Slyxx's laurel eyes just before her world went as black as the inky aura permeating the air around the General, an aura that was about to reach out, clutch, and draw everyone and everything Gráinne loved into its murky wake.

***

When opaque unconsciousness submitted to awakening's dim light, Gráinne opened her eyes. Her body protested movement. Even breathing hurt. As her surroundings came into focus, she recognized the pleated tapestry overhead as the drapery of her bed. _They are dead, and it is my fault._ Her outstretched right arm recoiled at a sudden sting, and then her ears captured the calm tones of an unfamiliar voice.

"I know it hurts, but you must let me clean it before the flesh begins to rot."

By the time Gráinne's head jerked in the direction of the voice and her gaze landed on its face, the creature standing next to her bed had wrapped its silky fingers around her wrist and gently lifted her arm back into its formerly outstretched position. Gráinne froze.

The creature appeared unfinished. Its skin, face, torso, limbs, and hair resembled those of a human, but peeking out of its hair were furry, cat-like ears, one tuned toward her and the other toward the stairwell on the other side of the bed. The ears moved slowly and independently as if catching sounds simultaneously from multiple directions. Gráinne couldn't remember seeing any animal like it, neither in the flesh nor in paintings or scrolls. _What kind of beast is that?_

Gráinne's surprise turned to panic as the word popped into her head. _Mercenary!_ Without moving or taking her eyes off it, she tried to focus on her surroundings, rather than on the pains emanating from her right elbow and ankle, as well as from her forehead. In a fraction of a second, she did what trapped animals do: she considered her options for fleeing. Although the floor was uncluttered with furniture between the bed and the heavy wooden door leading to the second-floor corridor of the Seetan castle in Vandovir, the door was closed. Gráinne couldn't see if the iron bolt was in place without looking at it, and she couldn't let her eyes wander in that direction. That would tip off the creature. Even worse, it was standing on the side of the bed where she'd need to be if she chose the door as her escape. She'd have to shove it out of the way before she ran, and she wasn't certain she had the strength to do so.

The other option for an escape route was the back staircase, practically hidden from view by the bed. If she slid off the bed on the side without the creature next to it, she could take the back stairs leading to the ground floor, even though the course required she pass through the reception room, where Slyxx spent most of his waking hours when he wasn't in his study. Her husband's size and strength far exceeded hers, but not his speed or agility. She stood a wisp of a chance of eluding him.

Outmaneuvering the thing holding her wrist was less assured. Gráinne knew nothing about its strengths or weaknesses. Making a move to escape without knowing something about the way the creature would react would be utter stupidity. She could end up dead. It would best serve her to study its movements and seize the first opportunity to roll out of bed and run.

"Get away from me" she said, inching toward the staircase side of the bed as she pulled her wrist out of the creature's fingers.

The creature didn't try to hold her wrist again. In fact, it didn't seem to react at all. Instead, it dipped a cloth into a bowl of water resting precariously on the edge of the bed and stretched farther over to squeeze the water onto Gráinne's arm without touching her.

Cool drops plopped onto her elbow, and she winced, her thoughts of escape interrupted long enough to look down and see a gash.

The creature stopped squeezing the cloth and cocked its head to the side in apparent curiosity. Its full lips parted to utter in a voice indistinguishable as either male or female, "Why do you call me a beast?"

Gráinne blinked. Did I say that aloud?

"I am not a beast."

The eyes of the creature softened as it looked from Gráinne's stunned face back to her arm. It dabbed tenderly at the gash. "I am . . . ." Its voice trailed into a brief silence, and its brow wrinkled into a frown. "I am here to attend to your wounds because Master asked me to do so." It hesitated again and dipped the cloth into the bowl once more, squeezing out the water with one hand as it examined her injury. It went on, nonchalantly dabbing at Gráinne's wound though its voice became less comforting and more firm, nearing indignation. "I am not here to kill you, nor am I responsible for your injuries _or anyone's_ for that matter. You fell against the stone railing and could have tumbled to your death had not Master caught you."

Still unsure of the degree of danger the creature posed, Gráinne strained to think past uncertainty and fear to analyze the words it had just spoken. _Details. Precision. Perceptive._ _Defensive._ Though she hadn't meant it to, the thought slid into her mind like snowpack skidding into avalanche. _The creature said "Master." It has a Master._

The creature's eyes fixed directly on Gráinne's before its words confirmed her suspicion about its perceptiveness. "Your husband, Marquessa."

Before today, her marriage had connected her with a power monger. Now, it linked her to a murderer and an underling who could read her thoughts. The reminder of Slyxx rolled into a memory of his order to the General, and images of the slaughter plunged into her mind.

Gráinne retched, and the creature stepped back, jerking its hand away from her. She leaned over the side of the bed, spewing bile that burned her nostrils on its way out and left bitterness in her throat. She closed her eyes and willed herself not to gag again, but memories of fire and flailing arms and legs sent her into another fit of heaving. When the fit ended, her abdomen ached from repeatedly convulsing. After a few minutes, she lay still, struggling to calm her stomach and catch her breath. She froze when she felt something sweep up her long, curly hair and move it away from her face.

As one of the creature's hands gently held her gathered hair, the other moved to tenderly stroke the nape of her neck. And then Gráinne heard a sound she couldn't quite make out.

The sound grew louder, and she caught sight of something moving from behind the creature's calf-length dress coat. Her eyelids opened wide, and she stared unabashedly at a bushy, black tail swishing side to side in rhythm with the sound she now recognized as a rumbling, baritone purr.

"It is a tail," the creature huffed, abruptly releasing Gráinne's hair, which then drooped over her eyes in its own unruly way.

Sitting up, Gráinne groaned and pushed the hair back from her face. Somehow, its tail and purr, as well as its aversion to vomit, made the creature less threatening. "I can _see_ it is a tail," she replied like a child mocking a scold. "Did something go amiss when you Shifted?"

"Shifted?"

She eyed the ears again and murmured to herself. "Usually, it is a complete change, not a partial one." _Maybe it is defective, too._

The creature rolled its eyes.

"If you are not a Shifter, then what _are_ you?"

The creature rolled its eyes again. "My name is Lan Noire thank you for asking I am male not _it_ thank you very much and as I doubt you could pronounce my species in my native tongue you may identify me as Kathan." It took a deep breath. " _Not beast._ "

"Kathan? What is that?"

"Kathans are _creatures_ with tails."

Mention of the tail reminded Gráinne she'd noticed it after the flashes of flame and thrashing limbs had made her throw up. She rubbed her stomach and looked apprehensively toward the iron door leading to the balcony outside her chambers. She frowned, displeased with herself for not considering the balcony door in her escape plans.

"You do not want to go out yet," Lan said.

"Do _not_ tell me what I want," Gráinne snapped back at him, annoyed at his invasive perceptiveness. This was her chance to get away. She slid her feet to the floor, carefully avoiding the puddle of bile seeping into channels of age-worn mortar between the grey tiles of marble. Bracing her arms on the side frame of the bed, she shifted her weight to stand.

What began as a sting in her right ankle sharpened into an agonizing throb. The ankle, swollen and already darkening to the shade of ripening grapes, pulsed with pain.

Gráinne sat back down fully on the edge of the bed and gritted her teeth.

"Are you going to let me clean and dress the wounds, or would you rather bleed and rot?"

"I would rather bleed and rot."

Lan rolled his eyes. "I doubt that is true. Have you ever seen someone with a rotting limb?"

Gráinne didn't seriously consider the question. She had worries greater than rot. If she couldn't stand, she certainly couldn't walk. Running down the stairs was out of the question. If the Kathan was inside her room, what lay outside her door? A mercenary she hadn't stopped before he slaughtered the innocent? The body of someone she knew and had failed to save? The dusty General? Defeat and impotence and uncertainty overwhelming her, she looked up at Lan with tears in eyes that had Shifted from brown to cerulean and narrowed to a shape more befitting his cat-like appearance than did his own dark brown, human-like eyes.

Lan didn't react to the changes if he noted them. Rather, he tenderly lifted Gráinne's legs back onto the bed and fluffed her pillow before nudging her to lie back.

"It was my home."

The Kathan kept his gaze fixed on the bruised ankle. "It is not broken. You probably should not walk on it for a few days."

She needed to know more about him before she escaped, and she did intend to escape, so she started with something non-threatening. "Where is your home?"

"Far from here."

"How did you get here?"

"A woman brought me."

Gráinne stiffened. "The General?"

"No."

"Who?" Her tone stiffened.

"A woman named Niamh."

"I do not know her."

Lan shrugged. With the deftness of a cat, he washed the cuts on Gráinne's elbow and forehead and set aside the bowl of bloodied water before dipping his fingers into a crock.

The putrid odor of the crock's contents wafted up to Gráinne's nose.

She scrunched up her face and leaned away from Lan's fingers. "What _is_ that?"

"A poultice of yarrow and fat. It will prevent rot and stop swelling."

Gráinne sat up. "It smells like it _is_ rot."

"Sometimes, senses fool us." Lan returned to his task, the smirk playing at his lips making him look self-satisfied. He smeared the poultice on the clean gashes on Gráinne's elbow and forehead. Then, he wound two long strips of white cloth around her elbow and tied the strips together in a knot. When he urged Gráinne to lie back on the pillow again, she complied and pretended to watch as he bandaged her ankle.

Conceding she wasn't going anywhere immediately, she assessed her healer while he continued his work unselfconsciously. Despite the seeming contradiction between his human and cat-like features, Lan's overall appearance displayed impeccable refinement. A skirted coat of fine wool lay like smoothed icing over a compact—lean but muscular—frame. A crisp shirt of spotless white linen peeked out above the top button of the coat. A perfectly tied ascot neatly closed the shirt's collar. Gráinne couldn't see Lan's boots, but she suspected they were sleek and made of leather ungouged by rough wear or combat. His face was youthful and smooth but, like his voice, neither distinctly masculine nor feminine. His cheekbones and jawline were chiseled but more delicately than were those of his Master. A meticulous haircut further accented his bone structure and outlined his face. His lips were full and soft, his eyebrows thick and as black as the mop of hair framing his face in a flawlessly symmetrical curve.

When Lan had finished his task, he rose from the bed and picked up the discarded bowl and the crock. "Try to rest, Marquessa. Rest will help you heal quickly. I will return with warm broth if you think you can keep it down." He looked at the puddle on the floor. When Gráinne didn't respond, he turned to leave.

"Wait."

The Kathan stopped and turned around slowly to face his patient.

Gráinne wrinkled her brow.

"Have I overlooked an injury?"

"No. I wondered . . . ."

"Wondered what?"

"How long have I . . . slept?"

"A little more than a day."

Gráinne felt frustrated, afraid, but she had to ask the question with a potentially unpalatable answer. "What . . . what has become of . . . the island?"

Lan delivered his response without emotion. "The fires have mostly burned themselves out."

"And survivors?"

Lan hesitated before responding, "There are none."

Gráinne caught a glimpse of something unsaid in the Kathan's eyes.

"But . . . ."

"But what?"

"What will he do now?"

"You will have to ask him, Marquessa."

The Kathan turned and left Gráinne's chambers via her planned escape route before she could press him for more information.

As light footsteps descended the narrow staircase, Gráinne, too, sank into the void Slyxx had shoved her into. She'd failed to protect what the women of her family had forfeited their lives to save. As a result, her father and cousin and aunt and uncle were likely dead, the citizens of Incorrigible had been slaughtered, and there was no one left to protect, no realm left to defend with her last breath. With each of the Kathan's footsteps, death marched through Gráinne's mind in memories of bodies and swords and something unfamiliar—a growing urge to kill Slyxx. When she heard the door click shut, she turned her face toward the pillow and whispered, "Forgive me." She sobbed into the silk bedding, exhausted and in pain, until she surrendered to sleep and to the ambiguity of not knowing how . . . or if . . . she could ever stop imagining killing.

# Chapter Two

### Mothers and Daughters

Ilythiiria hated water-gazing. Looking through water made her dizzy, particularly when using a deep, round vessel, which distorted the horizon into a sharp curve. It left her feeling like a bubble had enveloped her, a bubble with dissipating air. Water-gazing was, however, the only way to check on Euryale without others knowing. Ilythiiria had done all but suck the air out of the cloister to make the water-bearing Niamh uncomfortable. Though linked as sisters through their vows, Priestesses in the Higher Order of Numinus didn't allow themselves to get too familiar with each other. An appeal for mercy would have fallen on deaf ears and a cold heart, so Ilythiiria had convinced Niamh to help her watch Euryale, whom she claimed had sent an urgent, but vague, message with rumors about war between the Surfacers and the Concealed. Though probably with the intent to bolster her own prestige in the Order, Niamh had agreed it would do little harm to have foreknowledge of trouble by observing an Assembly meeting. Whatever its underlying reason, Niamh's agreement to engage in an act not expressly forbidden but certainly worthy of disapproval had brought the two Priestesses to the vessel of murky water.

Niamh took Ilythiiria's hand and whispered, "Mother, guide me. That through water shall I see."

The murkiness unclouded, and the Assembly Hall of the Concealed came into focus just as a meeting convened. Into the underground chamber of stone streamed dark-skinned women, almost all with albino hair. Most of the older women moved slowly about the chamber, nodding politely to each other before taking their seats at a massive, obsidian table. A few remained standing amid a horde of younger women who closed in as tightly to the table as possible.

Ilythiiria searched the crowd. She spotted Euryale and pointed toward the tiny figure with silky raven hair and frosty blue eyes. "There. In violet."

"I see her. She is the loveliest of them, would you not say?" Niamh asked.

As she listened to the Assembly Mother call the meeting to order, Ilythiiria studied Euryale's face and her slender but curved frame. She was as tall as her mother had been, about a head and a half taller than Dwarfs, making the young woman average in height among the short Concealed. The way she carried herself displayed anything but the commonplace. Unlike the other unseated observers, whose postures betrayed inexperience and apprehension, Euryale stood confidently and relaxed with an expression Ilythiiria couldn't define because it kept changing. One moment it bore curiosity and attentiveness. In the next, it flaunted self-confidence and indifference. Niamh was right, though. Euryale was the most beautiful in her family and by far the most beautiful among the Assembly observers and Representatives. Her dark skin was smooth with a subtle shimmer, her nose small and straight, her lips full but not overly so, and her cheekbones soft protrusions setting off her eyes. "Her eyes are arresting."

The voice of the woman at the head of the table lilted into a question, and both of the Priestesses hushed.

Euryale stepped forward. "I have a matter to bring before this Assembly."

A hush fell over the entire Assembly. The Assembly Mother arched an eyebrow. Her response was curt, impatience breaking in her tone. "Go on, Daughter. State your case."

"Why do you send the Daughter of House Khailani into the midst of Surfacers? What has she done to deserve such honour?" Euryale asked.

The Assembly Hall of the Concealed vibrated with murmurs, as if the engravings on the vaulted ceiling and carved pillars had uttered in hushed tones.

"She'll be cut off from the Great Mother. You know that." Euryale tilted her head and paused.

"Yes," the Assembly Mother said.

"Willfully making such a sacrifice is walking humbly into the Abyss without hope of landing in the arms of the Great Mother. Is that not a sacrifice worthy of the highest prestige?"

"Of course it is." The Assembly Mother sighed.

"Then why send this _particular_ Daughter when the Daughter of House Sheifilli, one who has proven herself worthy through tenure, sits among us?" Euryale motioned first to Davielle of House Khailani and then to her friend Braunise of House Sheifilli.

Davielle rose, her lips closed so tightly her face looked pinched. Her voice quivered as she spoke. "Are you saying I am not worthy to serve as I am needed? Why do you insult my Mother and House Khailani in this way?"

Euryale stretched her expression from surprise to humility. "I do apologize if you sensed insult where none was intended. I meant no disrespect at all. In fact, my questions pay homage to respect itself— _respect_ for the Great Mother who deserves and requires the most valuable offerings, _respect_ for the House whose Daughter has sat longest at this Assembly table, and thus, _respect_ for this Assembly itself. I have nothing but regard for you, Sister, and for your House Mother, even though she does not sit at the table. Indeed, it would be _dis_ respectful to welcome such gossip as has already begun to swirl, especially when we can avoid all such ills."

"What gossip is that?" Davielle smirked.

"I do not wish to repeat it, Sister."

Davielle motioned from one end of the table to the other with a grandiose sweep of her arm. "Please, Euryale. Share with us this blasphemous gossip."

Euryale's gaze softened until it looked almost pained. "That a Mother's sacrifice of her Daughter to Surfacers was made to merely secure her own seat at the Assembly table."

Davielle's mouth fell open.

"I am as horrified as you, Sister," Euryale said, shaking her head. She turned her gaze directly at the Assembly Mother at the head of the table. "What I propose will _assure_ that the Mother of House Khailani receives the respect she so _rightly_ deserves and end this vicious gossip."

"Go on." The Assembly Mother nodded at Euryale.

"I am certain this Assembly wishes to avoid casting aspersions on the Mother of House Khailani as much as do I. The Mother of House Sheifilli already sits at the table. None can question the motives for her sacrifice. Would it not, then, be a service to all for Braunise to replace Davielle? For this Assembly to demonstrate thereby the highest regard for the Mothers and Daughters of both Houses? For this Assembly to _strengthen its position_ in the alliance by sending the higher-ranking Daughter?"

"She chooses her words carefully," Niamh said.

"She always has," Ilythiiria said.

Davielle sank into her chair, and the hall filled once again with a rush of whispers and murmurs from every direction.

Braunise's shoulders rose and fell with each breath as she stared at Euryale. "This is preposterous!"

"Is it?" Euryale replied far too quickly for Ilythiiria's comfort. "You are the most beautiful and clever and talented among us, Braunise, and your counsel at this table is highly valued by all who sit here and all who do not. Who is more deserving of such an honour than you, dear Sister? Who better than you to _control_ the alliance?"

Braunise rose, her palms pressing down on the tabletop, her tone sweltering with unyielding boldness. "The decision has been made, and Davielle was chosen to go."

Euryale smiled at Braunise. "I do not wish to contradict your words, Sister, but choice requires options. The Assembly agreed to an alliance with the Surfacers. Davielle's House Mother made an offer to the Assembly Mother, who accepted the offer. The Assembly did not consider additional candidates. Might our wise Assembly Mother have chosen otherwise if the Assembly had debated the benefits of sending another?"

The hall clattered with the raking of chairs on the black, stone floor. Yaes and naes rose and fell. Angry shouts bounced off the walls.

"Euryale is right," said Niamh. "The Concealed of Unukalhai will control the alliance with those above ground if Braunise represents them. They will not if Davielle goes instead."

Ilythiiria nodded. "She shows a depth of strategic diplomatic wisdom far beyond her years."

"True," Niamh said, "and a talent for covert strategies, but to what end, Ilythiiria?"

In the few moments before the chaos subsided, the two Priestesses watched in silence, the air palpable with Ilythiiria's resentment about Niamh's indifference, and Niamh's discomfort with Ilythiiria's blind devotion to a young woman shunned for the good of all.

Braunise spoke through gritted teeth. "And who are _you_ to question the wisdom of this Assembly or its Mother?"

Euryale smiled at Braunise and gave a respectful dip of her head. "I am a humble student of the Assembly and servant of the Great Mother. Nothing more. I question the lack of options, not the wisdom of decisions made when no options were presented."

"No, I mean who are _you_ to have a voice here at all? You, the bastard offcast of a Surfacer bitch?"

Giggles interspersed with gasps and coughs and murmurs throughout the Assembly. Someone cackled, and then silence and stillness settled over the room.

Ilythiiria held her breath.

Euryale's lips sank into disappointment. "Deserving enough for you to call me _friend_ and _Sister_ all these years. If you have evidence I am unfit to serve as a student of this Assembly, then please present it, Sister. Otherwise, let us not stray from the purpose . . . ."

The Assembly Mother's voice expanded and contracted, sucking the volume out of all other sounds in the chamber. "Enough! Of. This. Banter. Euryale speaks truth in that no other choices were presented to me." She looked at the Mother of House Sheifilli. "Now that we have reason to reconsider this matter of funding our alliance, do you offer the Daughter of House Sheifilli as an alternative? If not, we have nothing further to discuss."

Stunned, Braunise sat down hard, and all eyes shifted toward Braunise's mother.

The Mother of House Sheifilli avoided looking at her first-born as she answered the Assembly Mother. "It is true our treasured Daughter is the most suitable candidate for controlling the alliance with the Surfacers. And though we will mourn our loss, House Sheifilli offers—with humility and in service to this Assembly—the life of our eldest Daughter."

As her mother's words waned into silence, Braunise's eyes widened and then stared down at her own reflection in the table's polished obsidian surface.

The Assembly Mother continued, "As the Mother of House Sheifilli has so generously offered to fund the alliance with the Daughter of her House, this Assembly now has options to deliberate."

"You seriously consider this ridiculous plot by an ambitious half-breed?!" Braunise screamed out, still staring at her reflection.

The Assembly Mother arched an eyebrow as gasps sounded in the cavernous chamber. "I will forgive your insolence at this table, Daughter of House Sheifilli." She looked around the table as she continued, "Service to the Great Mother and the best interests of this Assembly are all that guide my decisions. Do any Representatives object to this change in the funding of our alliance with the Surfacers?"

The seated women looked from one to the other. None spoke up.

"Then our decision is made. The Daughter of House Sheifilli will become our Ambassador. Braunise will leave us to live as the wife of the Surfacers' Prime Minister."

Niamh whispered, "Unfortunate. She will not live happily above ground, nor will she relish the ways of Surfacers. May her Great Mother ease the pain yet to come."

All of the young women standing behind the table except Euryale looked at Braunise, whose expression had blanked. A slight smile stretched Euryale's lips as she continued to watch the Assembly Mother.

"In deference to her willingness to serve, Davielle will keep her seat on this Assembly. Then, none can question the motive of her House Mother." The Assembly Mother looked directly at Euryale. "And you, who so wisely have convinced us to reconsider the situation? You will take the place of Braunise."

"What??!!" cried out one of the standing onlookers. "You allow her to steal the seat of the highest ranking Daughter?"

The Assembly Mother frowned, but her gaze did not move from Euryale. "But not at this Assembly table. Since you have pointed out the close friendship between you and the Daughter of Sheifilli, I will allow you the honour of bearing one of her sacrifices. In service to this Assembly, she leaves us to live with Surfacers, and, in so doing, she defies the laws of the Great Mother and forfeits Deliverance. You will face the Abyss in her place . . . so that your _dear friend and Sister_ may someday claim the reward for her sacrifice and return to the arms of the Great Mother."

Whispers rushed around the room.

Euryale stood stone still and unblinking, but Ilythiiria could tell her former charge was not still. She was probing the aura of someone.

Young women stepped aside to let the guards through the crowd. Euryale turned when the clicking heels of the guards halted, and Ilythiiria caught the satisfied smile previously hidden from Euryale's countenance now displaying itself as the unaffected poise of power. Ilythiiria recognized that poise. Euryale had found something in the probe, and it had made her feel powerful.

Niamh lowered her head. "It would seem the threat of war has been averted. Sadly, our Council's prediction has unfolded true. Euryale has pushed the boundaries of her talents beyond tolerable limits. She would have done the same among her own people."

"But the Abyss? She does not deserve such a dreadful end. We failed to train her from an early age. Why should a child bear responsibility for our failure?" Ilythiiria said.

"Perhaps, we did fail her, but there is nothing you or I can do about that now," whispered Niamh as she withdrew her hand from Ilythiiria's and clouded the pond. "The Council has spoken."

"I do not agree. We can correct our mistakes. We owe her that much." Ilythiiria's stomach knotted.

Niamh sighed. "I know you love her, but we cannot ignore what she knows and does. She has demonstrated we cannot alter her will in using her knowledge or skill. She has chosen her path."

Ilythiiria pursed her lips. "The High Council. I am sure they have watched all of this, just as you and I watched. Why did none speak up and intervene, if not in debt to Euryale or for the sake of preserving life, then on behalf of Euryale's father? He is a widow, and Euryale his only daughter. By default, she was the Head of his House. The very House to which we confined her! Our abandonment of Euryale has left her father in a House without a female. What of him? What path must _he_ trod? This certainly is not the path _he_ chose."

"You know why they chose to leave her to live among the Concealed. Her father knows why, as well. He is not without a hand in this matter. He chose his path long before Euryale was born."

Ilythiiria sighed and conceded to herself that further attempts at soliciting Niamh's help would be fruitless. She doubted _any_ of the Priestesses would help save the woman they had failed at least once as a child and again just now, even if they didn't know it.

Although her colleagues' sudden lack of involvement in Euryale's life concerned Ilythiiria, Euryale's failure to contest the Assembly Mother's decision troubled her even more. Niamh was right in that Euryale's acumen for political strategies was superb. She knew and could recite every word of Concealed law. Her rhetoric was flawless. Yet, she had neither responded nor reacted to a death sentence she easily could have pressured the Assembly into overturning. In fact, she had not so much as acknowledged it, and Ilythiiria wanted . . . no needed . . . to know why.

"Come, Ilythiiria. Let us join the others for wine. Forget your worries for a little while," Niamh said, linking her arm with the arm of her dark-skinned colleague.

Ilythiiria smiled but drew her robed arm away from Niamh. "Thank you for your kindness, but I would make sore company. It would be better if I returned to my compartments."

Niamh nodded and walked in the direction opposite of Ilythiiria's chambers.

A few minutes later, Ilythiiria closed and bolted the door to her private room. Doing nothing was no course for correcting mistakes. Despite what the others said, the Priestesses _had_ made a mistake with Euryale. They had a responsibility to make amends, and if they wouldn't, then she would. She retrieved her Stave, and—arms outstretched skyward—she concentrated on what she remembered—first, the scent of night lilies always surrounding Euryale, and then the water-gazed image of the violet gown she'd worn to the meeting, and finally, the current of her gait rustling the hem of the gown. "Euryale," she whispered.

***

Euryale's skirt moved more than it should have, and she knew something around her had changed. She pressed her palm near the cavern wall and felt its aura. _Nothing_. She looked through the bars of her cell. _Nobody moving_ _._ When her skirt moved a second time, she zoomed in on the air around her and let it filter past fingers spread wide. _Mother beckoning_. She had never known her own mother, but she had imagined how a mother would feel—terrifying and compelling. Ilythiiria had felt that way. "I am here. Come for me if you will." She stiffened and awaited the embrace of the Great Mother's arms, all eight of them.

Nothing touched her.

"Why do you hesitate? Do you fear the light of a single torch? I dare you to leave the comfort of your black Abyss!" Euryale's skirt stopped moving, and the aura faded into remnants of previous inmates' fear.

Nothing grabbed her.

Euryale sat on the stone bench in her cell, trying to keep her mind on anything but the chilled air. Things hadn't worked out the way she'd planned. She hadn't gained a seat in the Assembly. One minor miscalculation had cost her not just the seat, but her life. She hadn't expected the Assembly Mother to fear her so much she felt compelled to eliminate the threat immediately. She had probed the Assembly Mother's aura and confirmed what she suspected after the death sentence had been spoken. The tribal leader's fear had felt satisfying, and Euryale had savored its fullness, despite the twisted irony that it would bring about an unexpected end to her life.

Even now, the intensity of the Assembly Mother's fear warmed Euryale. She wasn't as warmed by the fear she'd gleaned from an aura she was certain belonged to Ilythiiria. She had sensed her mentor's presence when she'd probed the Assembly Mother's aura. Ilythiiria's fear had drawn her attention. It had overpowered the Assembly Mother's fear and felt more substantial, though Euryale didn't know why. _Is that why you did not come? Were you too afraid, Mother?_

A few hours later, at Winter Dark, when the rocky ceilings closest to the Surface grew coldest, Euryale heard the death rattle of cell keys. By then, she had decided to leave the fools who were her father's tribe with impunity and self-judgment. _She_ had been a fool to think the Great Mother might end prematurely the anguish of waiting to die. She had definitely acted the fool in overestimating the Assembly Mother. And perhaps her greatest act of foolishness had come in counting on Ilythiiria's loyalty. "Why have you dallied?" she reproached the guard as he opened the cell door.

"Forgive me, Lady," he replied.

"No." Euryale paraded past him and led the way to the Temple.

As they approached the Sacred Daughter guarding the doorway to the Temple, the celebrant waved her hand in front of the stone door, and it began to slide to the right, complaining like an old washerman's knees. The Sacred Daughter's duty done, she turned her back to Euryale.

The door inched open. Firelight spilled out of the Temple, casting a glow on the image of the Great Mother carved into the obsidian floor of the foyer.

Inside stood the Assembly. Representatives, each dressed in a hooded black robe tied at the waist with a wool belt, formed a circle so tight Euryale couldn't see its center. She didn't need to see it to know what it was: a hole in the floor almost as large as the entire room, a gaping cavity opening into the Abyss, at the bottom of which the Great Mother awaited a sacrifice. On a stone dais across the room stood Braunise beside the Assembly Mother, who wore a black robe similar to those of the others. Unlike the simple robes of the Representatives, however, the Assembly Mother's garment flowed unrestricted by a belt and was adorned on its front with silver embroidery of the Great Mother's Web.

When Euryale made eye contact with the Assembly Mother, the leader of the Concealed raised her arms and motioned for the condemned woman to approach, the embroidered Web expanding and shuddering as if an unseen corner had entangled prey.

Euryale skirted the perimeter of the circle, her gaze fixed on the Assembly Mother, who turned toward her when she reached the elevated platform.

"Euryale Farrior, daughter of Faereich, we welcome you. The Great Mother awaits." She outstretched her arms, and Euryale stepped up and into the embrace of the Assembly Mother.

The stone platform creaked as it slowly crept toward the circle. The Representatives at the edge of the platform moved away from each other, leaving a notch in the ring. When the platform's edge had extended over a quarter of the diameter of the hole, it stopped moving forward and sank until the dais leveled with the floor. The Representatives closed in on either side of Braunise and the Assembly Mother, including them in the reformed circle.

Euryale didn't look at Braunise. Nonetheless, she could feel the cold, smug glare of her former friend. She found it oddly comforting and unique amid the cacophony of so many auras in such a tight space. Most of the auras radiated a sticky combination of terror and avoidance, though Euryale couldn't distinguish if the avoidance was of her—the shunned—or of the Abyss.

"May the eyes of the Great Mother bear witness to your sacrifice," the Assembly Mother said.

Eight globes, dangling from the tips of stalactites above, slowly illuminated, casting crimson beams into the darkness of the hole in the floor.

"And to ours." As her words died into a whisper, the Assembly Mother released Euryale and turned until she faced the back wall of the cavern.

The circle slithered as, one by one, the Representatives followed suit and turned their backs on Euryale, as well. In turn, each chanted, "And to ours."

Euryale rotated slowly and faced the chasm. As much as she had thought herself prepared for this moment, the degree of serenity surprised her. She took a deep breath and lifted a heel to step forward, ready to meet the cowardly Great Mother who would devour her as assuredly as Euryale had devoured Braunise's power in the Assembly.

Braunise whispered venomously, "No one deserves this more than you, dearest _Sister_."

Euryale's knee locked, and her lips twisted into a smirk, but she kept her back to Braunise. When she spoke, her tone dripped the sickly sweetness of nightshade. "Thank you, Sister. I shall die filled with peace and joy, knowing that my suffering will be short-lived while you will live a full _lifetime_ in the light."

"Die, half-breed!" Braunise screeched.

Euryale felt the heels of Braunise's palms jam against her shoulder blades. The slap of palms against the fabric of the gown echoed like the unyielding crash of stone against stone.

Tumbling headfirst into the hole in the floor, Euryale heard the gush of wind and then a panic-stricken scream as the Abyss opened its jaws to engulf her. Unseen in the pitch black void, her arresting eyes widened when she realized the terrified scream streaming behind her was her own.

# Chapter Three

### Disruptors

Euryale knew she was falling even though it felt nothing like when she'd tumbled off a crumbling parapet as a child and had seen the ground rushing toward her. This time, cold air slapped her face and then rushed past the rest of her body. The hem of her gown snapped loudly as it flapped against her legs, stinging them. The aura of the dark space gobbled her inch by inch. _Detached and hungry_ _._

A gush of warm wind reached out and grabbed Euryale's arm, yanking her body violently to a full stop. Warmth coiled around her torso even as blood rushed to her head. A sudden light dilated her pupils painfully.

She squeezed her eyelids shut as her body puddled onto frigid stone.

"Do . . . not . . . open your eyes," said Ilythiiria, panting. "Give yourself a moment to adjust."

Euryale pressed her palms against the stone underneath her, the aura of the place where she'd landed becoming her eyes. _Foreign. Different. Ilythiiria nearby._ "Where are we?" she asked.

"An outlying cave in Alya," replied a masculine voice Euryale didn't recognize.

Euryale turned her head in the direction of the voice. She slowly opened her eyelids, squinting through the filter of eyelashes. She could make out dim light from a torch and the shadowy shape of the being holding it, next to whom stood Ilythiiria.

"Who are you?" she asked.

A sound alternating between a rattle and a ringing bell echoed in the cave, but Euryale was certain it emanated from the area where the figure held the torch.

"His name is Glendoque, and he is here at my request to protect you," answered Ilythiiria before the Alyan could reply. "Have your eyes adjusted to the light?"

"I think so."

"Do not be alarmed by his appearance. He will not harm you."

Euryale's curiosity prompted her to open her eyes fully. She stared at the odd creature holding the torch. He was tall, with a lean body not unlike her own, but with extremely pale skin that shimmered in the torchlight. Dressed in leather layers resembling scales, the bald male carried a bow on his back and a sheathed sword at his hip. _Warrior._

The rattling bell echoed again, and Euryale looked toward the source of the sound. Behind the warrior flicked a lumpy tail, from which chime-like tinkling and a soft rattle radiated. Euryale arched an eyebrow.

"There issss no reasssson to be afraid," Glendoque said.

Euryale stiffened at the hiss. "Help me up," she commanded abruptly.

"Of coursssse, Lady Euryale." Glendoque handed the torch to Ilythiiria and approached Euryale, his tail curling up and sliding under the back of his tunic. He stretched out his hand and grasped Euryale's before sliding the other arm around her waist, lifting her easily to her feet. When he relaxed his arm, her weight swayed slightly. "Can you sssstand alone?" he asked.

"Of course I can, you fool," she snapped at him, prying his hand away from her waist and wobbling a bit. Stiffening her spine, she balanced herself. "Do not lay your scaly hands on me again, or I will skin and roast you, snakeman."

"Euryale," Ilythiiria scolded, handing the torch back to the Alyan. "My time here is limited. I must leave. Glendoque will stay with you until Moira comes for the both of you. Use another name and . . . cloak . . . yourself, at least until I can return to you. We have much to discuss." She looked at the Alyan. "Glendoque, you know what to say and do."

"I do," he replied.

"You are leaving me here with . . . with _that_?" Euryale pointed to Glendoque, whose tail rattled, this time without any tinkling of bells.

"I am. And you will demonstrate respect for him. He will protect you until Moira can take you to a safe place."

"That simply will not do," argued Euryale, "Moira? Do you mean the . . . ."

Ilythiiria lifted her staff into the air. Crisp wind rushed through the cave. "Silence! You will do as I say, or the wind will sweep you back into the Abyss!" Without hesitation, she and the staff faded with a pop into the chilled air, which swirled and then whooshed out of the cave's entrance.

Glendoque stood silently staring at the space where Ilythiiria had stood before disappearing. "Moira travelssss differently," he muttered.

"What?" asked Euryale.

"The other Guide, Moira, travelssss through sssstone."

Euryale shuddered. "Stop standing there like a dolt. Where is my chamber?"

"Thissss way, Lady Euryale," he replied, picking up the torch and setting off in the direction of the fire he'd built. "It issss not the comfort you desssserve, but I can offer you a warm fire and a fur between you and the dirt. Ilythiiria brought a cloak for you. It is warming on a stone by the fire."

Euryale glared at Glendoque's back as she followed him. She hated narrow passages, and the limestone surrounding them looked damp. She frowned, concerned it would crumble before they could get out. "When will Moira arrive?"

"Ilythiiria did not ssssay, but ssssoon."

Euryale followed Glendoque through a tunnel. Observation and discontent made effective distractions from the memory of the terror she'd just experienced. Her eyes now accustomed to the torchlight, she warily watched the Alyan's tail sway and slither while she cursed Ilythiiria under her breath for leaving her with a stranger.

Glendoque stopped after entering an even smaller cave, in the center of which burned a low fire. "Thissss issss where we wait for Moira."

The cave was empty but for the fire, the cloak, and what she assumed were Glendoque's belongings. Euryale sighed. "I suppose there is nothing to eat."

"I hunted thissss morning," he said, reaching for a leather sack crumpled near the fire. He reached inside the bag and rummaged blindly, eventually pulling out a carcass. "Have you ever tassssted a delicassssy like thissss one?"

The dangling cadaver looked like an oversized, furry rodent with bulging, red eyes. "A cave rat? You expect me to eat a rat?"

Glendoque grinned, and he quivered his tail, setting off a subdued rattle, which provided a steady background rhythm for a melody of soft chimes. "You amusssse me, Lady Euryale." He lifted the carcass higher and caught the lip of the rodent-like creature, pulling it back to expose a mouth with no teeth. "Not a rat. A ssssnake sssswallower. It issss quite tassssty roassssted."

Euryale turned her head and waved dismissively. "Put it away. My appetite is gone." She huddled in front of the fire, the damp cold of her cell still infiltrating her bones.

He shrugged and dropped the carcass back into the bag, which he slung over his shoulder. "I will return after I clean it. You may be hungry later."

"I may be sleeping later. Do not wake me."

Glendoque rattled his tail.

More than the warmth of the fire made Euryale want to curl up and sleep. The trip itself, if she could call it that, had made her more aware of her body's density. She'd labored with each step through the tunnel. "You said you had travelled with another guide."

"Yessss, with Moira."

"I see. Why?" Euryale sat down on the fur and smoothed her gown, pulling the cloak around her shoulders. Its toasty warmth settled over her.

Glendoque swayed his tail, and the chimes tinkled. "Moira heard I wassss looking for a new home, and sssshe helped me find one in the Cavessss of Firth."

"I do not care where your home is. Tell me about Moira and how you travelled with her."

"Moira came to the Pit and brought me here. Sssshe moved the wallssss, and we walked out and into thissss cave. After that, sssshe took me to my new home. I assssked to return to ssssay goodbye to thosssse dear to me. Moira brought me back and ssssaid I ssssshould wait here."

She processed the information. So, Moira had elemental talents. That fact surprised Euryale, who had thought of Moira as a bit on the thick side, slower than most and by a grand measure slower than the other Priestesses. _If we are talking about the same Moira_ _._ "You were to wait for Moira. Did Moira say I would be coming with you?"

"No."

"Ilythiiria?"

"Yessss."

"When?"

"When what?"

Euryale groaned. "Tedious snakeman. When did Ilythiira tell you I would be coming with you?"

Glendoque rattled his tail and shrugged. "Earlier today. After ssssunsssset."

So, Ilythiiria's fear hadn't crippled her, after all. Euryale's backup plan hadn't failed altogether, but the reason for its success seemed to be pure luck. She'd counted on Ilythiiria's loyalty, but what had saved her was her mentor's fear, a fear Euryale hadn't had the time to tease out completely. What had Ilythiiria feared so much that she had come out of hiding to arrange and aid in her escape from the Abyss? "Did she say why I was coming with you?"

Glendoque shrugged. "I did not assssk."

Euryale couldn't imagine not asking. "And you never saw Ilythiiria before today?"

"No."

"Back to Moira. After you travelled with her to these Caves of . . . ." Euryale looked around at the walls and ceiling that seemed to inch closer everytime she looked at them. Ilythiiria had said they were in Alya, a place Euryale had never heard so much as mentioned. She waved and scowled. "Caves of Wherever. What happened then?"

Glendoque shrugged. "I sssslept. When I woke up, sssshe wassss gone."

"Did you feel weary, as if you had gone a great distance?"

Glendoque nodded. "Yessss."

So, it wasn't just her feeling tired from the unorthodox travel. "And how did you call Moira back?"

"Back?"

Euryale sighed. "You said she came back to your new home and brought you here."

"Oh yessss. I touched the Guidanccccce and called her."

Euryale scrunched up her face. "Guidance?"

Glendoque pulled open the front of his scaly tunic and looked down at the tattoos on his chest. "Guidanccccce."

Euryale smiled. _Emerald marks. Arcane symbols_ _?_ "You touch that mark, and she comes?"

Glendoque shrugged. "That issss how sssshe told me to call her when sssshe left me in the Cavessss. I have not called her ssssinccccce."

"Go on, then. Clean your rat, and bring me something palatable to eat when I wake. Hopefully, you have not ruined my appetite completely."

"Assss you wissssh, Lady Euryale."

When he reached the tunnel, Glendoque ducked through its opening and disappeared. Euryale fumbled with the fur until she crimped enough of it to form a thick lump on which to lay her head. As she had yearned to do, she relaxed her muscles and let sleep come of its own accord.

A few hours later, she awoke to the smell of roasted meat. She turned her head to see Glendoque turning a spit over the fire.

"Rabbit," said Glendoque, his tail quivering at its base. A low tone undulated.

The cave shuddered and rumbled.

Both Euryale and Glendoque jerked around to see the tunnel caving in on itself. Before either could move, a woman dressed in a robe the colour of pines stepped out of the moving stone. Like Ilythiiria, she carried a wooden staff. Unlike Ilythiiria's, however, this one was topped with a glowing emerald.

_The same Moira_ _._ Euryale quickly looked the other way, took a silent breath, and altered her aura. Unless Moira could sense auras, she wouldn't recognize or remember Euryale.

"Glendoque" the robed woman said.

"Moira."

Seeing Euryale, she glanced back to Glendoque and said with hesitancy, "I thought you would be alone."

Euryale laughed. "My husband goes nowhere without his wife."

"He did not travel with you the last time."

"I was not his wife the last time. We were secretly joined. Look at us. We are not exactly a _conventional_ couple, now are we?"

"Is this true, Glendoque?"

He nodded once.

"What is your name?" asked Moira.

Euryale thought of the chimes. "I am called Lyrica."

"Very well, then. Let us depart before someone wanders in and finds you. Hold onto her and grasp my arm," she said to Glendoque. "Do not let go of either of us, no matter what happens."

Glendoque extended a hand to Euryale and helped her stand up. He passed her the bag containing the carcass to hold in her other hand. "Come wife." The same melody of amusement tinkled, and he then took hold of Moira's hand.

Rocks in the tunnel moved, rolling and crashing into each other until they reshaped the tunnel. Moira led the way into the dark bowels of the passageway.

Euryale's open-eyed stare darted around, untrusting of the movement encircling them. As the tunnel opened slowly before them, rocks behind them began to crash inward, blocking any retreat from what she feared was fast becoming a stone tomb. She squeezed Glendoque's hand.

Glendoque tightened his grasp. "We are ssssafe," he said, reassuring her.

In no longer than it took for the party to walk twenty paces, the tunnel opened into a large cavern lit dimly by shreds of light creeping in from around a bend in the cavern wall. Euryale smelled fresher, lighter air, and she sensed the cave walls were solid and stable. She breathed in the aura of the grotto, silently grateful to be out of the volatile tunnel and standing surefootedly in an unchanging place.

Once all three had entered the cavern, Glendoque let go of Moira's hand, and the Guide turned to the pair.

"Do not waste this chance to begin anew," she said to Glendoque.

"Thank you, Moira. May your Goddesssss guide and protect you."

Moira nodded and then looked at Euryale. "Safe paths, Lyria."

Euryale caught a glimmer in Moira's eyes. "Lyrica."

"Forgive me. Safe paths, Lady _Lyrica_ ," said Moira.

Euryale wasn't buying the woman's seeming sincerity. _What was it she said? Oh yes_ _._ "Safe paths," she replied and then added, "and give my love to Ilythiiria."

Turning back toward the tunnel, Moira walked into it, her staff's gem pulsing. The tunnel closed behind her, leaving Glendoque and Euryale staring at an unmoving wall of grey rock.

The Alyan's voice broke the silence left by the stilled stone. "I have been here before. There issss a larger chamber deeper in the cavern. It hassss a waterfall and a pond with water fit for drinking. Perhapssss you would like to bathe?"

Euryale jerked her hand out of Glendoque's and looked down at her gown, now soiled with the dirt kicked up by the stone avalanches. Her companion, like her dress, was covered with a fine layer of dust. She hated to imagine how scruffy she looked. "I told you not to touch me. Show me the chamber."

Feeling his way through winding tunnels and along the walls of small grottos with streams of light pouring down through holes in their ceilings, Glendoque led Euryale to the cavern he'd told her about. "Pleasssse remember I had not exxxxpected a companion."

"I am _not_ your companion."

Nobody spoke for the remainder of the trek to the large chamber. When they reached their destination, the Alyan trailed his hand along a wall until he found the torch he'd stuck into a crevice. Crouching, he pulled two small stones and a clump of dried grass from a pouch hanging around his neck under the tunic. Chipping one stone against the other, he created a spark that set the grass to smoldering. He blew on it until it burst into flames, and then he lit the torch and held it up to spread light in the cavern.

Euryale was astonished at the size of the chamber. It would have dwarfed even the Assembly Hall of the Concealed, which was the largest cavern in Unukalhai. Just as Glendoque had said, a waterfall spilled down one wall, and a small pond pooled at its feet.

"Welcome to my home, Lady Euryale." Lifting his tail, he rippled it.

Euryale teased out at least five distinct tones in the soothing chorus of chimes. "Your tail is musical?"

Glendoque laughed, goodheartedness forming in the bouncing melody of tones that rang out from his tail in response to the question. "It sssservessss many purpossssessss. I will make a fire to dry your dresssssss." He reached into the bag with the carcass and pulled out a small fur, which he thrust toward her. "It will keep you warm until your gown driessss. You did not bring the larger fur."

Euryale scrunched up her nose at the thought of wearing anything having come in contact with the stiff, dead rat. Looking down at her gown again, she reluctantly admitted she would have to ignore what she knew about the fur's past if she wanted to get rid of the grittiness already irritating her skin. Even more irritating was the nagging in her brain. Instead of feeling grateful, she felt at odds with her rescue. Ilythiiria _had_ saved her from certain death. But why? To dump her in an isolated, uninhabited cave with her only clothing an impractical and dirty gown and ill-fitting robe, her only companion a convoluted creature of a guard she didn't know or trust, and her only food a putrefying, unskinned rat? She snatched the fur out of Glendoque's hands and marched toward the pond, determined to maintain her dignity despite the predicament into which Ilythiiria had plopped her.

As he'd said he would, Glendoque built the fire close to the pond. "There issss an entrancccce into the foresssst. I will get more firewood," he said when the fire roared. Lugging the bag over his shoulder, he traipsed out of the cave.

Euryale had just settled into the cool pond when she heard the pad of boots running. She jumped, startled by the sudden reappearance of her guard. Water splashed onto her face as she submerged herself to the neck. "What do you . . . ."

"Ssssoldierssss. Chassssing," he panted.

_Guards of the Concealed?_ "What do they look like?"

"A child. Women, men, otherssss."

"No, you fool. The soldiers! What do the soldiers look like?"

"Ssssoldierssss."

"Are they dark? Short? Like me? What???!!!!"

"Human, I think."

"Surfacers." Euryale sighed and relaxed her shoulders. "Then, it is none of our affair. Let them settle their own disputes."

Glendoque blinked, his pupils dilating and then narrowing into slits. "But children are among them."

"The responsibility for the children falls to the parents. For all you know, they are a ragged lot of escaped criminals." No sooner had she spoken than the irony of her words slapped her. She persisted, nonetheless. "Stay out of it, Glendoque. It is not in our best interests to be seen _or captured_ by soldiers in a skirmish having nothing to do with us."

"Do assss you want, Lady Euryale. I am going to ssssee what issss happening on the other sssside of the cave."

Euryale watched Glendoque disappear again, this time in the direction of the tunnel and cave entrance. "You will get yourself killed!" she yelled out as she dragged her wet gown up from the bottom of the pond.

When a dripping and enraged Euryale caught up with him, Glendoque had positioned himself just at the edge of the cave entrance. His back hugged the wall, and his head perched to listen to the sounds outside. He held a finger up to his lips.

"Do not shush me, Alyan," she said, squinting at him.

He motioned for her to remain inside while he crept out and hunkered behind a large boulder.

Euryale stepped forward to the vantage point Glendoque had occupied. She could hear what sounded like a battle—yelling, crashes, horses snorting and clomping. She rounded the edge of the cave's maw and looked toward the nearest sounds. Muffled chaos thudded from behind the low-hanging tree branches and squatty shrubs edging the forest. A twig snapped, and then another.

Raspy panting and crackling leaves drew closer, and a suppressed shriek accompanied the rip of fabric as a bronze-skinned female fought her way out of a thicket and then sprinted toward the outcropping housing the boulder behind which Glendoque had nestled. She skidded to a stop when the Alyan popped his face up over the top of the rock shelter, and then her eyes darted in the direction of the rustling behind her as the thicket parted and a soldier emerged.

The soldier froze, and he and the woman locked gazes.

Glendoque reached down from the rocky ledge. "Thissss way. Quickly," he hissed.

The soldier broke the locked stare as Glendoque hoisted the woman up and onto the outcropping. He turned and ran back toward the woods against a tide of Surfacers and other beings heading toward the outcropping.

Euryale looked behind the rolling wave and spotted a handful of soldiers not far behind them. Just as she was about to warn Glendoque, she heard the soldier who had stepped out of the thicket yell, "Turn around! Burn the shanties!"

The still dripping wet Euryale stepped back as, one-by-one, the tide of beings caught sight of the rocky ledge and scrambled up it and into the mouth of the cave just past her. The last of the group stepped inside. Gathered storm clouds burst without warning as if announcing the escape from threat. Booms of thunder reverberated in the cave. Euryale ducked inside with Glendoque on her heels in time to hear a fading command from the woods, "Back to . . . ."

Euryale assumed the command had been to retreat. So far, that seemed to be the case, as she'd heard no sounds in the last two hours indicating the soldiers had neared the cave entrance. No additional auras had pushed into the space once she, Glendoque, and the stragglers he'd brought inside had huddled in the chilly chamber between the two tunnels—the one leading in from the outcropping and the other veering into the bowels of the cave. There, she had waited out the storm with strangers eyeing both Glendoque and her. Euryale didn't have to read their auras to know the reptilian creature frightened them, and her wet gown and plastered hair amused them. She would not crumple and be the first to speak.

The Alyan finally stood. "I am Glendoque," he said, his tail dropping to the ground behind him. He motioned to his soaked companion. "And thissss issss Lady Euryale. Which of you issss the leader?"

_He used my real name_ _._ Euryale looked askance at the Alyan but remained silent as her gaze travelled from face to face. The settlers looked at each other, and Euryale thought there was an unasked question in their glances. She studied their faces.

From the middle of the clustered group, a woman stepped forward, bangles on her wrists and ankles jingling as she moved. "We have no leader," she said. "I am Wren."

Euryale thought the group's members, even those of the same race, looked as if they came from a variety of places. Most of the group appeared human, like the Surfacers of Unukalhai, so their lack of leadership didn't surprise her. Surfacers were weak and prone to sharing governance, a trait she found particularly distasteful.

"Do you have weaponssss?" Glendoque asked.

A tall, pale, and thin fellow with pointed ears stepped forward and stood next to Wren. Had he not been so pale, Euryale would have thought him a stretched out distant cousin.

"Why do you ask?" the male responded. He tilted his head, and Euryale felt the wall of distrust in his aura.

Members of the group began to shift in place.

"The ssssoldierssss will return. Apart from a hidden entry in the woodssss, the tunnel issss the only way into thesssse cavessss," he said, pointing toward the tunnel leading out. "If we sssseal it, they are not likely to find ussss, but if they do, we musssst be prepared to fight."

The tall male spoke up again. "I'm Jarrod. Show me the hidden entrance, and then we'll discuss whether or not to seal the tunnel."

Glendoque nodded and started the trek toward the entrance in the woods. "Thissss way."

Jarrod followed him.

Wren's voice rose above the whispers of the settlers. "Females and children. Look around you. Gather rocks you can throw."

Euryale slipped into the shadows, where she felt more comfortable, and watched as the men took positions near the spot where the tunnel spilled into the grotto. Women and children snatched up fist-sized stones and dropped them into piles.

She'd told Glendoque not to become involved in the matter, but he had ignored her warnings. Now, the once quiet cave brimmed with noisy strangers, and not just any strangers. Surfacers, no less! More importantly, the Surfacers posed an unexpected disruption of the plan Euryale had begun to formulate before Glendoque had so rudely interrupted her bath. She'd gotten as far as one conclusion: Ilythiiria never did anything without a specific purpose in mind, and that purpose always involved a long-term goal. Ilythiiria had chosen the location for a specific reason. Though she didn't know why, she couldn't see how being stuck in an isolated cave would have constituted any less of a punishment than dying in the Abyss. Ilythiiria would have known Euryale would feel that way. Surely, the mentor had intended for her to go somewhere else. And so Euryale had planned on travelling only with Glendoque and at night, when sunlight didn't almost blind her. Along with her magic, darkness and a fierce Alyan warrior would have safeguarded her until she got to wherever Ilythiiria had meant for her to go. She knew she could still follow that plan, even if their encounter with the Surfacers might delay its execution. Still, it was an unwelcome interruption.

But, as she continued to observe the Surfacers from a distance, Euryale began to formulate a different scheme. Perhaps these invaders of her contemplative bathing, this ragged crew of weaklings, could be useful. Their flaw might come in handy. She needed protection, and numbers provided just that, especially if she controlled those numbers. She had occupied the cave first, and that made it her realm unless and until she decided otherwise. Sharing her realm might put her in good stead as someone they could trust enough to follow. They owed Glendoque their lives, and Glendoque served her. That meant the Surfacers owed _her_ their lives. She would collect on that debt and use them to claim what the robed ones had denied her.

_If I can just get past the revolting flavor of their weakness without killing them._

# Chapter Four

### Orphans

Morning light streamed through the stained glass window on the eastern wall of Gráinne's chambers, shooting shards of red and blue radiance past the bed and across the room to the opposite wall. Her eyelids fluttered open slowly, and then her eyes widened as the figure of her husband sitting on the chaise near the bed came into focus.

"Good morning, my dear."

Gráinne remained stonily silent, but her heart beat so fast it made her ears thump with its rhythm.

"Get up and put on something . . . clean. I want you to join me in the dining hall for breakfast."

Gráinne didn't move. She had no will power to fight. _What can he do to me now?_ "I have no appetite."

Slyxx sighed and stood, sending Gráinne's heart into a drum roll.

"I'll expect you straight away."

Although Gráinne hated the malice his voice projected when issuing a command, she especially loathed the way he slurred words together. The combination set her teeth to grinding. While admitting she owed her sensitivity to her grandmother Alanna's meticulous attention to diction and her mother's soothing way of issuing commands in velvet tones that solicited cooperation and solidarity, Gráinne also knew she judged Slyxx in a way she wouldn't judge others with the same mannerisms. At the moment, she was quite content with harshly declaring him as sloppy in speaking and inelegant in the way he ruled. Those were the kindest things she could say about him.

The Marquis turned to exit the room, passing around Gráinne's bed to the staircase. Before he disappeared from sight, his footsteps slowed and stopped. She didn't have to look his direction to know he was peering at her over the edge of a stair tread. His cruelty burned into her back.

"If you can't manage on your own, I can help you dress, my love." He continued down the stairs.

_Unspoken threats._ Gráinne slammed her eyelids shut and listened for the hinge on the stairwell door to stop creaking.

"Someday, you will meet someone you cannot bully," she said in a deep growl. Although she'd witnessed it first hand, Slyxx's viciousness still felt more foreign and dangerous to her than did his new Kathan servant. Until she could think through all that had happened and regain some strength and speed, she could, at the very least, not make matters worse by provoking him.

Slowly, she climbed off the bed, her legs wobbly. Gráinne bent over a well-oiled wooden trunk bearing the MacKenna coat of arms. A white lion dormant on a black background, it was the standard her father's family would have worn on shields and displayed on flags carried into battle . . . if they'd ever gone into a battle, that is. Though brave and powerful, MacKenna men tended to serve as diplomats and sometimes mages, but never warriors. Her father had been an exception in his role as Commander of the Queen's Guard, though he, like his forebears, hadn't seen a single moment of combat beyond training. The occasion had never arisen for the Queen's Guard to draw swords. The garrison of the League of Guardians was little more than an armory and a meeting place for the men of Incorrigible, young and old, who wanted to escape the sharp tongues of their mothers and wives. She supposed it was where her father had gone to feel important while his wife, the reigning monarch, conducted business in the castle of a land at peace within and isolated from other realms by the sea.

Rummaging through the trunk, Gráinne pulled out several simple dresses. With no heart or strength for fussing with frills and layers, she promptly stuffed the dresses back inside without bothering to fold them. She closed the trunk, running her fingers tenderly over the coat of arms before moving on to a smaller, black leather chest without ornamentation of any kind save its iron hinges and the locking mechanism on the front of it.

No longer stretched tightly over its wooden frame, the chest's leather sagged at its nicked and peeling corners. A twelfth-year birthday gift from her grandmother, it had become Gráinne's repository for mementos, jewelry, and clothing with special meaning. Over the years, she had purged and refilled the chest repeatedly. Now, it held only a few items family members had given her and two outfits, both of which Slyxx detested her wearing: a riding outfit and her azure Novice robe.

Gráinne threw open the chest and reached inside, fingering the thick, coarse hemp belt and the heavy fabric of the robe. Deciding she prized it too much to put it at risk of Slyxx's wrath, she dug deeper into the chest and pulled out a pair of black leather pants, a black leather tunic, and a pair of riding boots. She slipped out of the sweat-and-blood-stained dress and draped it across the corner of the chest so it wouldn't stain her robe. Gingerly, she pulled on the leather outfit, which had sleeves long enough to hide the bandages Lan had applied. The snugness of the shirt's fit squeezed her wounds and made them throb. She slipped her feet into the boots and tucked the pants into the tops of them before going to the dressing table and sitting down in front of the looking glass.

The tear-streaked face and knotted entanglement of dark ginger curls staring back at Gráinne disgusted her. She poured water from a jug on the table into a bowl and used the cloth in the bowl to wash her face. Without regard for the tenderness of her scalp, she then pulled a wide comb through her hair and gathered the curls into a braid, letting the full length of the thick plait hang down her back. Rogue strands of curls had already begun to creep out of the weave at the base of her hairline and around her face by the time she stood up and walked down the staircase, a smile playing at the corners of her lips and a dim glimmer of defiance dancing in her eyes.

As Gráinne rounded the corner to the dining hall, the door flew open, and Slyxx's massive figure filled the doorway. His expression, plastered with rage, turned to surprise when he saw his wife, and then he set his jaw almost square. Before he could speak, Gráinne stepped past him to the table, purposefully clicking the heels of her boots on the grey stone floor.

The former grand dining hall now looked like an informal tavern. In place of the formal table was a small, round table low to the floor. Ornately carved along the edges, it had a simple pattern of teal painted on the inside of the swirls carved into its top. Instead of chairs, it had stacks of tapestry pillows on overlapping rugs of all hues and patterns. The stark dining room had exploded into a den of colours and textures since she'd seen it last.

Gráinne walked to the closest pile of cushions and sat down without saying a word, her back to the Marquis, who hadn't moved from the doorway. Under other circumstances, she would have enjoyed the new furnishings for the warmth they injected into a drab, stiff setting. But, her foul mood coloured everything as "difficult." The cushions had required her to bend and lower her aching body. She dreaded getting up. The three place settings of pewter plates and mugs and knives hinted that the third setting was for her husband's new servant. She would have to sit through hearing Slyxx issue more of his loathsome commands.

Lan's entry into the dining room from the kitchen almost immediately after Gráinne sat down confirmed the extra place setting as his.

Gráinne eyed the knives.

Both Lan and Gráinne flinched when the dining hall door slammed.

"Master. Marquessa," Lan said, acknowledging each with a slight bow as he stood behind a stack of cushions.

Gráinne looked at him but offered no response.

Lan remained standing until Slyxx took a seat.

Before anyone could speak, the kitchen door opened, and Caera the cook entered carrying platters laden with fruits and meats, which she set in the middle of the table. Draped over one arm she carried linen cloths, which she handed each diner. The small, thin woman scurried back to the kitchen, her blonde curls bouncing and her green skirt swishing behind her.

"I hear you've met," Slyxx said as he reached for an apple.

Angered that Slyxx thought they were going to have a normal conversation, Gráinne shot him a squinted glare and laid her cloth over her knife before reaching to pluck a small cluster of grapes from the platter. She put them on her plate and began to remove them from their stems one at a time, plucking each gently and laying it aside before moving to the next.

"We have, Master."

"Wife!"

Gráinne glanced up.

Slyxx took his knife in hand and began to peel the apple as he spoke, moving his gaze from her to the apple and back again repeatedly, as if making certain he held her attention. "A merchant ship is on its way. I must soon journey to buy goods."

Gráinne had abandoned study of the grapes on her plate, but she still did not speak. She popped a grape into her mouth and reached for her knife, which she used to stab a piece of meat. She nibbled it, afraid eating too quickly might case the nausea to return. Grainne finished chewing the slice of meat and swallowed its mush. While one hand played with the grapes on her plate, the other slid the knife back under the cloth. _Not soon enough_ _._

Lan covered his mouth and coughed. "Pardon me."

Gráinne searched Lan's face for signs his cough was genuine. She couldn't help but wonder just how much of her thoughts he could hear and how he did it.

Lan answered her question with a smug smile.

"Our storehouses need replenishing before winter." Slyxx bit into a slice of apple.

Gráinne couldn't hold her tongue any longer. "If your murderers had not pillaged and burned the storehouses in Incorrigible, you could have gone _there_ to barter for goods!"

Slyxx finished chewing the apple slice and then shrugged indifferently. "True. But then, I would've missed the chance to spend this uninterrupted time with you before we set sail. We'll be at sea about two moons' time, confined together in a small space." He gave her a lewd wink and chuckled. "Hopefully, you'll have news upon our return that you are with child."

"We? Our return?" She would bite off her tongue before giving him the satisfaction of even saying the word "child." She had no intention of becoming a mother, particularly not the mother of a ruthless murderer's child. _Goddess only knows how such a child would turn out if it were true to its father's blood_ _._

Lan covered his mouth and coughed again.

"Of course, my dear." Slyxx picked up where he'd left off. "You will accompany me on the journey. What kind of husband would I be if I left my beloved all alone for such a long time? And besides, we really must get my son, the future King, into this world, and I think his conception will be easier if we're in the same bed each night."

Caera returned with a jug of wine and another platter, this one piled with breads. Gráinne grabbed the jug from the cook, tipping it over to fill Lan's mug.

Gráinne laid her hand on the cloth covering the knife, and Lan coughed again.

"Hairball?" she snapped. "For mercy's sake, take a drink."

The Marquis burst into laughter, and Lan's ears lay back almost flat against his hair. The Kathan tipped the cup to his lips and shot Gráinne the same squinted glare she had sent Slyxx's way earlier. Gráinne defiantly popped the last of the grapes into her mouth.

Slyxx laughed. Gráinne captured a small piece of bread and tore into it, hoping it would absorb the acid churning in her stomach. Lan tipped his cup and drank more wine.

For the remainder of the meal, Gráinne nibbled to regain her strength and sat in silence as her husband rambled on about the finery he hoped to purchase, the swords he wanted to have made, and the goods required to sustain the household through the winter. Lan picked at his food and inserted commentary about storage methods to preserve the goods for longer periods, and thus, reduce the expense of winter stores, leaving more gold and silver to buy the items Slyxx coveted. When she could stand no more of their talk, Gráinne announced, "If you will excuse me, I need fresh air. I am going for a ride." Her hand rested on the cloth covering her knife.

"Where are you riding?" Slyxx asked.

Caera entered the dining hall and began to clear away the empty dishes and scraps, scooping up Gráinne's knife and the cloth covering it.

Gráinne shrugged. "The Cove of Tears, the Woods of the Dead. There are so many delightful choices. I have not decided. I will know when I get there."

Slyxx turned his gaze to Lan but spoke to Gráinne. "Lan will accompany you. Dressed as you are, a highwayman at a distance might mistake you for a man and aim his arrow in your direction."

Gráinne smiled sweetly at her husband when his gazed returned to her. He hated when she wore men's riding gear. The pain she felt from the snugly fitting sleeves of the tunic had been worth it. "Have you spotted ships landing?" she asked, feigning concern.

"No."

"Then, I am sure I will be fine. There is not a soul who does not work for you who is alive and within an arrow's range."

She turned to leave, but Slyxx caught her wrist. Gráinne winced.

"I'd feel better _knowing_ you are safe."

Slyxx's wife glared at the hand holding her wrist. So this is how it will be, is it? Your little creature is to be the jailer's guard and spy?

Her thoughts and feelings building to a gush, Gráinne was teetering on an unrelenting verbal attack when Lan cleared his throat. Both Gráinne and Slyxx looked in his direction.

"If I may, Master . . . I can follow along behind the Marquessa at a distance close enough to be able to see and hear any lurking dangers before she encounters them and still respect her privacy." He twitched his ears.

Normally, Gráinne might have found the motion humorous. At the moment, she found it exasperating.

"Perfect! Then, it's settled." Slyxx dropped Gráinne's wrist and plunged his hand into the platter of meat, pulling out a charred drumstick of turkey that he gnawed on viciously. While chewing, he slobbered out, "Clever boy. Multiple talents. A wise bargain."

Gráinne walked out of the dining hall, her frustration masking her pain.

Lan stood and bowed courteously to Slyxx. "Master." He followed at the promised distance until Gráinne reached the stables. There, he closed in and entered behind her, snagging a heavy, studded saddle meant for a warhorse.

She saddled Midnight, the black Palfrey wedding present from her father, one she was certain he had hoped she would use to escape the Seetans' island. She refrained from chuckling at Lan approaching a white Courser, which whinnied and snorted and backed away from him.

"Why did you not pick up the knife?" Lan twitched his ears and cocked his head, waiting for an answer.

Gráinne tightened the girth strap. "What are you talking about?"

"You know what I am talking about. I saw you hide the knife. You want to kill him, do you not?"

Biting her lip, she secured the girth strap of the saddle and grabbed the reins in one hand and the pommel in the other. Stepping into the stirrup with her left foot, she straightened her knee and lifted her lithe body easily, swinging her long leg over the saddle and slipping her right foot into the stirrup on the other side in one fluid motion, even though she winced with the pain of movement. She looked down at Lan, who struggled to thread the girth strap because his arms were too short to hold the saddle and reach under the prancing Courser at the same time.

"Of course I do. What do you think he will do to _me_ once his _future King_ is born?" Gráinne bounced on the saddle and pressed her heels inward, signaling the horse, which galloped out of the stables.

For anyone unfamiliar with it, the path winding around the mountain on which Vandovir Estate sat presented a treacherous route. Gráinne knew every twist and turn, and she was especially aware of the spot where the path wound behind the cascade of water that gushed out of the top of the mountain and spilled into the Cove of Tears. Midnight seemed to know it even better, as the mare wove without guidance along the path, stepping on spots where the waterfall's shrugged off pebbles were packed and stable and avoiding spots where the pebbles were loose and capable of rolling off the precipice.

Gráinne rode confidently downward and into the forest at the base of the mountain before turning and heading in the direction opposite of any of the places she'd named when Slyxx had questioned her. Instead, she rode straight toward the western shore, where she could look across a narrow channel and see Incorrigible. Halting and dismounting when she reached the bright red tree the Seetans laughingly referred to as a Blood Tree, she released the reins and let Midnight graze on the lush grass edging the River of Blood, so named not because of its colour—as were the Blood Trees that punctuated the northwestern and southwestern shores of the river—but because it spilled with merciless fury into the seaway between the two islands.

Lan had spoken the truth; a thin, grey fog shrouded her homeland, and crumpling timber added to the shroud with occasional flare-ups that sent embers floating into the air amidst dense, black smoke.

She couldn't see the western side of Incorrigible or make out the castle atop the southwestern hills. The Dancing Goblin, a tavern nestled in the woods on the eastern shoreline, had become a pile of collapsed beams still smoldering. Gráinne looked toward the northeastern side of Incorrigible. The thatched roofs of village cottages were missing. They should have obscured the docks. Instead, the view all the way to the harbour remained unobstructed.

Her temples pounded as her gaze took in one empty space after another. A few stone warehouses where the Harbour Master and a group known as the Obdured had kept the inward and outward flow of trade goods lined the eastern and western sides of the docks. The roofs and doors of the storehouses were gone.

"I have to go there. I have to know. Maybe the creature is wrong . . . or not telling the truth. Maybe there are survivors." she said under her breath. Not finding survivors because she trusted the word of a creature who served the Marquis would have brought more guilt. She already had enough of that. She didn't need more.

Midnight lifted her head from the grassy spot where she grazed.

Gráinne turned and mounted the horse again, urging her up the western coastline toward the stone bridge connecting the northwestern corner of Vandovir with the docks of Incorrigible.

"Stupid woman!" she heard Lan scream.

So he managed to get the saddle on, after all. Let us see how well he rides.

Gráinne didn't slow down until she had crossed the first bridge. When she reached the second one, the one spanning the river between the northern and southern sides of Incorrigible, she looked back toward the first bridge. Lan was approaching it, waving furiously at her. _Still one bridge ahead. He cannot catch me before I get to the gate of the Village on High_ _._

Digging her heels into Midnight's flanks, Gráinne pushed the horse into a full gallop and pointed her toward the gate leading home. On the other side of the gated stone wall lay the most recently built village in Incorrigible, which wound up the hill on either side of a cobblestone path to the castle. A tall, grey stone wall built into the sheer face of a plateau surrounded the entire complex, castle and village. It had proven unscalable, making the gate the only way in to the village, and, ultimately, to the only home she had ever known—her mother's castle.

As she passed through the stone archway, Gráinne pulled back hard on the reins. "Whoa!"

In front of her lay a looking-glass reflection of death. Charred rubble had replaced wooden houses. Stone homes and shoppes looked like eviscerated prey, their upper floors and roofs spilling out windows and doorways, their cavities filled with mounds of burned timber. Soot and smoke stained the cobblestone street, strewn with items tossed from windows and doorways in hopes of saving them—copper pots, urns, family portraits, trampled clothing, broken chairs, a butter churn, and a spinning wheel lying on its side. The only signs of life, hundreds of birds landing atop the rubble piles squawked and pecked at each other over what Gráinne feared were the remains of unidentifiable dead.

"I told you there were no survivors." Lan's voice interrupted Gráinne's survey of the scene.

His words pressed down on her hope. "Perhaps some escaped or hid until the soldiers left."

"There are no survivors, you stubborn woman!" he hissed at her, clearly miffed at her deception and winded from the hard ride to catch up with her.

"I do not believe you!" she yelled back. Gráinne nudged Midnight with her heels and moved slowly through the lifeless village toward the castle.

Lan followed suit.

"My father lived there, along with my aunt and uncle and cousin," she said, pointing toward the dark stone building at the top of the hill.

"They do not live there now. Turn back. You do not want to go there."

"Yes, I do," she barked at him. "I have to know. What if it were _your_ family?"

"I do not remember having a family, and if I did, why would I want to see their dead bodies?"

Lan's words stole Gráinne's venom, and she remained silent the rest of the way up the hill, the desolation around her seeping into her mood. She slid off the saddle and let Midnight graze when they passed through the castle's gates and reached the meadow in front of the castle. Lan did the same with the Courser.

Gráinne took a deep breath and walked through the entrance to find the scene inside much the same as that in the village. Everything made of wood was debris or ash. Items that might have survived fire, such as the granite statues and carved stone benches, were either gone or reduced to smashed bits. She saw not a single personal item—not a treasured urn, a trinket box, a portrait—nor items completely impersonal, like the ash bucket next to the fireplace or the array of flower pots for kitchen herbs. As she roamed from room to room, she prepared herself to find the bodies of her relatives, but she came across nothing resembling either a human or an animal form's skeletal remains.

Lan coughed. "Are you satisfied? Can we go now? The day grows late, and the wolves will come as soon as darkness falls. Besides, I cannot breathe in here."

"Wolves?" Gráinne's eyes widened. She thought back to the birds pecking at the rubble piles and shuddered. Wolves demonstrated more aggressiveness toward live prey. She hadn't thought about having to fight her way out of the castle. The thought terrified her.

As she walked back out to the lawn, she took note of what remained indoors. If looters or anyone else moved anything, she would know when she returned. She prayed that on her next visit, she would discover a chamber pot, a basket of wood, _anything_ indicating her father, aunt, uncle, cousin, or _anyone_ had come back to reclaim the castle.

Silently, the pair rode back toward Vandovir. By the time they reached the bridge at the docks, Gráinne had come to a decision. She stopped and looked behind her.

"What do you think now? Will you believe me when I say there is nothing here for you?" Lan asked.

"What do I think?" she replied. "I think there is plenty here for me."

Lan's mouth dropped open. "Are you mad, woman? It is gone. All of it. The buildings, everything, everyone, an entire realm!"

Gráinne looked from the island to Lan and shrugged. "Maybe I am mad, but you are wrong, cat. It is not _all_ gone, and I suspect _they_ are not either." She nudged the mare with her knees and crossed the bridge, carrying out of Incorrigible the stubborn spark of hope she'd brought into her homeland.

All the way back up the mountain, Lan grumbled under his breath. "What . . . think he will say . . . . You cannot expect me . . . . I cannot lie . . . ."

Gráinne caught all of Lan's last, exasperated mumble, "You are as mad as he. And I am not a cat."

When they reached the castle in Vandovir, Gráinne walked quietly into the hallway, where she spotted candlelight streaming from Slyxx's study. Knowing an encounter with her husband would not go well, she took the back staircase to her chambers and avoided the study altogether. Once safely to her private space, she pulled off her riding clothes and threw them against the wall before slipping under the bedding. Memories of home before and after the attack swirled in Gráinne's mind until she wasn't sure if her hope of finding survivors was founded or if it signaled impotent desperation or, worse if the cat was right, madness.

Weary, sleep mercifully overtook her.

# Chapter Five

### Distractors

Waking was less merciful. The clamor of chains startled Gráinne out of sleep, and without regard for her bruises, welts, and aches, she sat straight up in bed. The bare-chested figure of her husband at the end of the bed smiling lewdly as he untied the cord lacing the front of his pants came into focus in the morning light. _He knows!_

"Get out," she hissed at him as she contemplated which direction to move. She would be vulnerable during the Shift, but she thought she could stave off an attack if she could get the bed between them until the Shift was complete.

"I wouldn't if I were you," Slyxx warned, grasping the chains stretched between iron cuffs wrapped around her ankles, cuffs she hadn't noticed.

He laughed the same cruel laugh she'd heard before, the one that made her crave to Shift and slash unreservedly at him with her claws. Gráinne knew Shifting was impossible, though. Her ankles were bound. There was no way to know what kind of damage she'd do to herself. A larger animal frame would surely form in and around the cuffs.

Gráinne had heard tales of such tragedies. Her grandmother had told her about a Shifter captured and sentenced to Endurance, one of the abominations of justice during the Sieges. In his panic, he had Shifted, and the iron cuffs—large enough to accommodate human ankles but not remotely large enough to accommodate those of a bull—had all but severed his feet from his legs. He had bled to death while his captors mocked the mournful lowing of the dying bull. Gráinne shuddered at the thought of the bull's agony. _What good would a deformed and crippled animal be in this situation?_ Her reasoning resolved the question before her tremble ended.

"I said get out!" Gráinne drew her knees as close together as she could and bent them, drawing herself into a ball sitting up. She let her eyes Shift to their feline state and snarled loudly at her husband. As the sound rumbled out of her, it grew in intensity until it became fierce, deep, and threatening. Perhaps a partial Shift would suffice.

The Marquis dropped his pants to the floor and stepped out of them, his manhood erect. Almost breathless, he mocked her. "That sound is so alluring." Crawling onto the bed, he jammed one knee and then the other between Gráinne's calves before spreading his knees outward to force her lower legs as far apart as the chains would allow.

The rumble became a roar as Gráinne Shifted her hands and fingers into paws with sharp claws. She took a swift swipe at Slyxx's face. His hands flew up to grasp her wrists, but not before she caught the tip of a claw on the side of his neck. As he forced her arms and body backward, falling forward onto her, the claw raked downward and gouged his skin. Blood trickled down his neck and soaked into the collar of his open muslin shirt. Feeling the ankle cuffs tightening as her legs thickened, Gráinne reversed the Shift to avoid malforming.

"Bitch!" His huge hands imprisoned her wrists, and he pressed his weight down harder onto her.

"Get off me!" She struggled for breath as all her energy streamed into shaping her human form again.

Slyxx tightened his grip on her arms, and Gráinne screamed. He lifted her wrists above her head and pressed her hands together so that he could hold both slender wrists with one of his mammoth hands. Though she struggled to liberate one hand, she couldn't manage to do so. With his free hand, he roughly turned Gráinne's face to one side and plunged his mouth onto the curve of her neck, biting her skin hard enough that she screamed again as his incisors pierced her skin. He clamped down harder on her neck so that she couldn't move without ripping open her own throat. Releasing his hand from her face, he slid it down the outer curves of her body. When his hand reached the level of his own hips, Slyxx slipped it between their bodies. Sticky moisture dampened her public hair as he stroked his member against her. Slyxx moaned, and Gráinne stared at the stained glass window she faced.

Concentrate on the colours, the patterns.

She could feel the hardness of his excitement as he repositioned his hips just enough to press toward his target. As he penetrated her, a green sliver of the window glass began to take on the shape of a woman in green robes, and Gráinne's body numbed. She watched the figure while her husband grunted and stroked repeatedly until a final thrust, delivered with malice, spilled his seed inside of her.

"Gather the essence of an entity to control its reproduction."

Gráinne blinked. The voice had been neither hers nor that of her rapist.

Slyxx sank onto Gráinne, shoving the last bit of air out of her lungs. She gasped, but she couldn't catch her breath. Panic overtook her, and she struggled, but with strength rapidly decreasing. The pillow behind her neck grew warmer and wetter. The colours in the stained glass dimmed.

The smell of rot brought Gráinne wide awake and thrashing, arms and legs flinging in every direction.

"Stop it, woman! You will hurt both of us, and then who will tend you?!"

Lan. Was it his voice I heard before? Did he see what happened?

Gráinne stared at the Kathan, her chest rising and falling with each short breath as she considered tossing him out the stained-glass window.

Lan stood well back from the bed, the crock of yarrow and fat in one hand, staring back at her. The stalemate of stares between them ended with the Kathan saying, "The bite on your neck is red and swollen. I will leave the poultice for you to dress it, but I would advise you not delay." Lan set the poultice on the dressing table and left the room.

Gráinne was suddenly aware of the throb in her neck. She slid to the edge of the bed and lowered her bare feet to the stone floor but stopped short of standing. Every movement sent surges of pain to one spot or another. Looking down, she parted her legs slightly. Bruises on her inner thighs were already darkening to indigo.

Do not think about it.

Gráinne stiffened and sat straight up, bracing her hands against the edge of the bed, and stared at the chaise in front of her. She could imagine Slyxx's figure there, his shadow behind him on the grey stone. Gritting her teeth, she rose and walked slowly to the bath Caera drew for her each morning and night.

I will not show pain.

Surprise washed over her when Gráinne lowered herself into the bath. She had felt tenderness between her legs, but she hadn't expected water to sting or blood to trail out of her. Washing her wounds, particularly the one made by Slyxx's teeth, proved even more painful.

When she finished her bath, Gráinne put on a sleeveless cotton top and long knickers, the latter of which she had lined with thick cotton to absorb the blood dripping slowly out of her. Over the undergarments, she slipped into a simple, long-sleeved black gown with an empire waist and high collar. It was made of thinly woven fabric and edged at neck, hem, bodice, and sleeves with a narrow braid of twisted cord coloured in shades of silver, the brightest shade as shimmery as the pupils of her animal form's eyes. She slid her feet into a pair of black leather slippers and sat down at her dressing table to comb her unruly hair.

As she sat staring into the looking glass and gently pulling the comb through her wet hair, Gráinne thought about the voice she'd heard the night before, the one emanating from the window. The voice had sounded foreign, but the words had felt familiar. She tried to recall them perfectly: _Gather the essence of an entity to control its reproduction. What does that mean?_

A knock on her chamber door and the familiar voice of Caera calling out, "Marquessa?" interrupted Gráinne's musing.

"Come in, Caera." She gathered her composure.

"Thank you, ma'am. Will you take your breakfast here or in the dining hall?" the small woman asked as soon as she had opened the door and stepped inside.

"Close the door, please."

"Yes, ma'am," Caera replied, already grasping the iron handle on the door and pushing against the heavy wooden slab to close the door gently.

"Come and sit with me for a moment," Gráinne said, motioning toward a small bench next to the dressing table.

Caera approached and gave a curtsy that sent her green skirt dipping onto the floor before she sat down. She shifted nervously on the bench and looked at the pattern of stones in the floor.

"I am fine, Caera."

"Yes ma'am."

Gráinne sighed softly and concluded delicacy or delay had no place in the conversation. "What do women use to . . . .?" Words failed her, but she struggled to continue. This was too important to let embarrassment interfere with learning what she needed to know. "To . . . rid . . . themselves of the . . . unborn." Gráinne wanted to say "of the unwanted child of an unwanted brute" but held back the expression to save Caera, as much as herself, from further discomfort.

Caera looked up at Gráinne and back down again, speaking in a hushed tone, "A strong infusion of yarrow, feverfew, and blood root, but the yarrow should be added in small quantities, or it induces vomiting, and the infusion will not work." Speaking in a normal tone, she added, "And do you wish to take your breakfast here or in the dining hall . . . with the Marquis and Master Lan?

Gráinne blinked. " _Master_ Lan?"

Caera looked up in surprise. "Yes ma'am. Master Lan, the cat...well...whatever he is. The one at breakfast yesterday. Do you not remember him?"

"Of course I remember him. I meant why do you call him 'Master'?"

Caera seemed relieved. "The Marquis instructed me to do so."

"I see." said Gráinne, snagging the comb on a tangle in her hair and wincing.

Caera stood immediately. "Please let me do that, ma'am."

Gráinne smiled and shook her head, accidentally tugging on the tangle and wincing again. Somehow, that amused her, and a tinkle of laughter escaped. "You should get back to the Marquis and _Master_ Lan," she said, making a comical face as she uttered the Kathan's newly bestowed title. "One of them will think he is starving to death because you have not plopped half a cow in front of him." She laughed again, this time more solidly. Gráinne smiled as she looked at Caera. The cook was obviously suppressing a wide grin.

"Yes, Marquessa."

The title had always seemed an ill fit to Gráinne. It had been given to her through a marriage she didn't want and by a man she would never consider a husband. Clearly, Slyxx had employed Lan to spy, and that alone infuriated her. _Master, indeed._ Caera worked hard, and she deserved fair and respectful treatment. Maybe there was something she could do about that.

Caera took a few steps toward the door before Gráinne called out to her.

"Oh, and Caera, call me Gráinne."

"Oh, no ma'am. I could not."

"Oh, yes ma'am, you can . . . and will."

"But . . . ," Caera protested as she turned around, an expression of fear on her face.

Gráinne interrupted, "No but. My name is Gráinne, and that is what I wish you to call me." After speaking the words, Gráinne reconsidered Caera's expression of fear and her own demands. She added, "In private then. Fair enough?"

Caera again looked relieved. "As you wish, ma'am."

Gráinne lifted an eyebrow in obvious mock disapproval.

"Guh . . . Gráinne," she stuttered with blended apprehension and embarrassment.

"Thank you, Caera." She smiled. For the first time, Gráinne thought the cook looked shy, but she had no opportunity to evaluate her perception because Caera gave a quick curtsy and scurried out of the room.

_Yarrow, feverfew, and blood root._ Gráinne mumbled to herself as she tilted her head and looked at the bite marks on her neck. "Now where is that rot?"

Slyxx's vicious attacks continued, except without need for restraining Gráinne. Rather than fighting his advances, she tolerated them with indifference, so much so that on several occasions, he slapped her after he'd taken his pleasure.

During each vile episode, Gráinne stared at the window if she could and thought about the words she'd heard coming from it. Sometimes, images popped into her mind of women in solid-coloured robes of every shade in the rainbow and more: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet, white, black, gold, and silver. When Gráinne thought about the figure cloaked in green, she saw images of the woman stooping to pluck tender shoots of plants from a meadow. She also saw the woman standing next to another female, one with raven hair dressed in black robes and unrolling a scroll. Gráinne could see the scroll contained a drawing—an outline she couldn't quite make out.

Each day after she'd bathed and dressed and had a hearty breakfast, Gráinne strolled casually down the path from the castle to the dales and gently rolling hills of Vandovir, gathering basket in hand. Lan always followed at a distance, but they didn't speak or even acknowledge each other. He sulked. Gráinne noticed he looked tired and less well-kempt than on the morning they'd met, but she forewent taunting him about it. Instead, she lazily picked wildflowers and berries and searched for the ingredients for the tea Caera had told her would make Slyxx believe she was barren and not worth his time and cruelty. Within days, Gráinne found the blood root and feverfew. She searched for telltale white clusters in meadows of grass, both tall and low, but the yarrow eluded her. Each afternoon, she returned to the castle, the last challenge of her quest as fruitless as she prayed she would remain.

A week into Slyxx's attacks, Gráinne felt less certain her plan would work. She still hadn't located the third ingredient, and it was becoming more difficult each day for her to draw into herself when Slyxx violated her. It seemed to her that her reactions to his torment and his viciousness grew proportionately. The slightest wince or moan or shrinking away from his touch incited new acts of cruelty, more frequent visits to her chamber, and greater satisfaction.

After breakfast on morning, when Slyxx had eaten his fill and stomped off to his study, Gráinne went into the kitchen in search of Caera. She grasped the cook's hand and pulled her out the exterior kitchen door, the one through which Caera brought in wood, food, and water. She whispered, "Yarrow. Where does it grow?"

Caera looked confused and shrugged. "What do you mean, Mar . . . Gráinne?" she asked.

Gráinne looked around nervously, expecting Lan to round the corner of the castle and see the two women standing there. "Please, Caera, just tell me where I can find yarrow."

"Incorrigible."

Gráinne's heart sank. "Where in Incorrigible?"

"In the alfalfa fields."

"On the southeastern corner, not far from the Tower?"

"Yes ma'am."

Distracted by concentrating on remembering what she'd seen when she'd looked across the channel, Gráinne didn't notice Caera's slip-up with her name. She shook her head. "I cannot remember."

"Cannot remember what, ma'am?"

"If the fields were burned."

"You should be able to see them from the western courtyard."

"Yes!" Hope glimmered in her eyes as she pivoted on one foot and ran toward the northwestern corner of the castle. She rounded it tightly and cut across the courtyard toward its southwestern corner. Stopping short of the railing she'd clung to while watching her homeland destroyed, she peered toward the corner where the Tower of the Arcana stood, its windows gone and soot soiling its stone window frames. Tracing the lines of the Tower down to its foundation, Gráinne's heart sank again. The woods in the foreground were nothing but black stubble. The area where farmers and healers grew and harvested low-lying alfalfa had become a perfect square of soot. Gráinne kicked the railing, wailing as the pain of toe against stone registered.

The sound of tromping heels on the stone sent Gráinne spinning around. Expecting to see Caera, she had lowered her gaze. It met the waistband of black leather pants instead of Caera's sweet face. Gráinne turned away.

"Enjoying the view, my love?"

Her toe throbbed, and she remembered an incident in her childhood when her younger cousin had accidentally dropped an ornamental shield on Gráinne's foot. She had acted so grown up as she told Gráinne, "Grandmother says it is especially important to hold your tongue when you are in pain, Ginny." Aine then had stuck out her tongue and pinched it between finger and thumb. "Li thith," her cousin had said. Her cousin's distraction had worked. She'd forgotten all about the pain in her toe as the two giggled over Aine's silliness. For a moment, she was lost in the memory of the closeness she and Aine had always felt for each other, a closeness they'd vowed to keep. They'd sealed the vow by giving each other the secret names of Annie and Ginny. Gráinne wondered if Annie was alive. She knew what her cousin would say. _Hold your tongue, Ginny._ Gráinne remained silent.

Slyxx slipped his arms around Gráinne from behind, drawing her lithe figure closer to him. Gráinne stiffened.

"Is something troubling you?"

"I do not feel well," Gráinne said, her tone flat and lifeless.

"How so?" he asked, sniffing her hair as he rubbed his chin in the curls atop her head in a way an onlooker might have viewed as lovingly.

"I need to throw up."

For the rapidity with which Slyxx released her and stepped back, Gráinne might as well have said she had leprosy. She took advantage of the freedom and wheeled around, running into the castle and up to her private chamber.

Breakfast for the next ten days ended with Gráinne throwing up whatever she'd eaten. She stayed in her room day and night. Slyxx stopped coming into her chamber after two consecutive days of the vomiting.

A few days before the trade ship's scheduled arrival, Gráinne appeared at the breakfast table on the edge of fainting. Her skin had sallowed, and she felt drained of energy.

Lan commented, "You do not look well, Marquessa. Is there something I can do?"

"Aye," she replied weakly. "Bring back a midwife when you return from your journey."

"The Gods be praised!" Slyxx chirped, slamming his hands down on the table. "They've given me a son."

Not yet.

Lan leaned forward to look more closely at Gráinne's face, his eyes wide and his ears tilted toward her as if they'd grown stiff. "Midwife? Are you saying you are with child?"

Gráinne looked back at Lan, humility shrouding her disgust. She chose her words carefully, her thoughts even more so. "I do not think I can travel by sea. It would be too risky. I need to remain . . . ."

"What? Nonsense!" Slyxx interrupted.

Gráinne suppressed the urge to seize the carving knife on the meat platter. "Do you want a son or not?" She lifted an eyebrow as she stared directly at her husband.

Slyxx leaned back on the pile of cushions and drew a boot up to rest on them, wrapping his arms around his bent knee. He stared at Gráinne's face but said nothing.

"You and Lan will have to go without me. Caera can tend to me until you return with a midwife."

After a few moments, Slyxx spoke, looking first at Gráinne and then at Lan. "You are right, my love. It _is_ an unnecessary risk. Lan will remain to keep you and Caera safe. I will go alone."

His term of endearment made Gráinne even more nauseous than did the smell of the cooked meat on the platter. Gráinne turned her face toward Lan again. This time, his face was expressionless, his ears stationary.

"Caera! Bring the best wine! We've cause to celebrate!" Slyxx released his knee and slapped it as his boot thudded on the floor.

Gráinne took a deep breath, drawing in as much of the scent of the meat as she could in one breath. Her face turned a shade bordering on green, and she stood abruptly, knocking over her plate and spilling food onto the cushion as she dashed for the stairway leading to her chamber. Behind her, she could hear Slyxx laughing. Crossing the threshold into the stairwell, she slammed the door and began the climb. _We shall see who laughs last, brute._

The next few days dragged on for Gráinne, who rarely caught glimpses of Lan for more than a few minutes at a time. On the few occasions when she did, he was a blur of black, flying coattails gesturing madly toward crates and sacks piled in the inner courtyard.

Gráinne passed as much time alone as she could, rummaging through chests in her bed chamber. She sorted and folded all of her clothing and set aside some green gowns to give to Caera, certain it was her favorite colour and that the cook had no spare fabric to make her own. She even rearranged her shoes, piling up pairs in need of repair.

Staring at the heap of shoes, she could hear her mother's voice saying, "Child, you are brutal enough on shoes to keep a host of cobblers' children dressed in finery!" The thought made Gráinne smile.

Late one evening, when she had fussed interminably over her clothing and bedding and every trinket in her room, she moved on to the collection of trunks she'd avoided, the ones containing scroll cases Annie's father had sent to Vandovir. About a month after Gráinne had arrived at the Seetans' castle, a courier had delivered the trunks with no explanation beyond stating they were from the husband of her mother's twin sister Brianna. Gráinne had opened the trunks and found them filled with scroll cases. She had dug through them in search of a note explaining why her uncle, Syldhen Rosca, had sent them, but she'd found no such note and had set the trunks aside, too depressed about isolation in Vandovir to focus on them.

While digging into the other chests, Gráinne had wondered if the contents of the scroll cases might hold a clue to the words the voice in the window had spoken. Although she believed there was something important she needed to know, she still found the trunks and the scroll cases inside of them frightening. _What if I learn something I do not want to know?_

The haunting visions of the woman in green would drive her mad if wondering about the meaning of the woman's words didn't. "You are not going to leave me in peace, are you?" she whispered.

Gráinne took a deep breath and began the procrastinated task by sorting the cases according to type. One pile for the leather cases adorned with elaborate patterns of bright fabric, paint, or intricate metalwork. Another for carved wooden tubes. A third for those made of fabric and tied with ribbons or cords. Then, she sat on the floor in front of the piles and sorted each according to the markings on them—seals, names, and symbols. Several hours later, clusters of cases surrounded her.

Gráinne surveyed the piles of cases. Apprehensive about dredging up memories of her family, she decided to begin with the pile of cases not bearing her family crest or a name or seal she recognized. Examining scroll after scroll individually as she pulled them from their cases, she discovered dry rot had taken its toll on some. Several of the scrolls wrapped in fabric were brittle, and bits and pieces of them crumbled on touch as she tried to unroll them. These she left alone upon discovering their fragility. She could almost hear her uncle—not just a Scribe, but a meticulous Elven Scribe—saying, "Scrolls with dry rot require special processes before handling. Skip the work, and dust is the only tale they will tell." She heeded his advice and moved on to the more soft and supple ones, most of which bore signs and symbols painted or penned on them in her native language. Her aversion to scroll cases bearing anything she recognized dissipated increasingly as she concentrated on the careful handling of each.

Her exploration revealed the scrolls were as diverse as their protective cases. Some were land or naval navigation maps bearing their authors' seals, others histories of families who were no more. Among the most intriguing scrolls, she found at least a dozen clearly penned in feminine script, though unsigned.

The female-penned scrolls described a Goddess religion and included references to the ceremonies of a group of unnamed priestesses. Full of axioms and rules, the scrolls of the priestesses read like advanced primers, but for whom, besides neophytes or acolytes, remained a mystery, as the Scribes offered no introductions and named no readers.

As she read on, she learned that the priestesses lived in a vast temple, which was described at length. The whole of the temple encompassed woods, mountains, and meadows. Its central structure, however, was a spectacular cave with levels both above and below ground. Formations of stone growing out of its main cavern walls bore a variety of figures of the Goddess. A winding network of tunnels linked small grottos, and each of these, in turn, contained a unique shrine.

Reading through scroll after scroll, Gráinne felt more and more comfortable with the content she found. In one drawing of a grotto shrine, she saw a vessel bearing a painted symbol for water. In another, she recognized an intricately carved knot representing metamorphosis and rebirth. She concluded the scrolls belonged to a religion with practices much like those she'd studied in her time with the Order of Numinus in Incorrigible.

The candle flickered, and Gráinne realized she'd stayed up for most of the night. Despite all the sorting and reading, none of the scrolls she had opened contained anything matching the diagram she'd seen in the vision. Dry and itchy, her eyes hurt from squinting at parchment. A dull throb had begun to pound in her head. She rubbed her temples. _Who is that woman, and what do her words mean? Why did she say them to me? And why did Uncle Syldhen send me the scrolls? Is there something I am supposed to understand?_

Looking at the piles upon piles of scrolls was enough to set off a full-blown headache. She rubbed her temples again and rolled the scroll she'd last read. She put it in its case carefully and then remembered her cousin's voice saying, "Hold your tongue, Ginny."

Gráinne hurled the case at the wall. "Damn you, Mother! Have you _no_ answers?!!"

# Chapter Six

### Scribes

On the day before the Marquis's departure, Gráinne awoke to the sound of Slyxx's voice.

"Gráinne, wake up. There is much to be done today."

His unexpected voice startled her, and she bolted upright. She could hear water splashing in the marble bath. Gaining her bearings, she slid out of the bed at once and nodded before rushing off, hoping she could escape his advances. "I will be right there, Caera."

Realizing she needed a change of clothes, she approached the chests, alert to Slyxx's ogling. "Is there anything in particular you would like me to wear today, as it _is_ your last day here." _Hopefully the last ever_.

"Something modest and befitting a woman with child. We have guests," he said, his tone unusually withdrawn and official.

Gráinne forewent asking about the guests, whom she assumed came from the scheduled trade ship. She wanted to limit her interaction with her husband as much as possible. Every moment alone with him risked another rape. Satisfied curiosity wasn't worth the risk. "As you wish."

Pulling a rust gown with a high collar from the chest bearing her family seal and a cotton shift and long knickers from another, she scurried off to the waiting bath. She would worry about shoes later. Caera had left the room by the time Gráinne arrived, so she secured the door and leaned against it. She'd become accustomed to mornings without Slyxx's sexual onslaughts, and the thought of them resuming made her shudder. Listening through the door, Gráinne waited for the sound of her husband's heels to fade before she exhaled fully and relaxed enough to take off her night clothes and get into the bath.

The headache from the night before had gone away, but her frustration remained. Delaying exploration of the rest of the scrolls until Slyxx had departed amplified her annoyance.

Gráinne arrived in the dining hall to find the low table and the piled cushions gone and the long, carved dining table with chairs once again in their places. The room teemed with male beings she didn't know. Among them sat a human in a chair closest to Slyxx. A leather hat over a knotted scarf covered his hair and topped off a sunbaked face and stretched torso. His attire—a fitted military jacket with rows of braid on its sleeves—projected an air of authority. Gráinne decided he was most likely the ship's Captain.

The man tipped his hat to her and flashed a set of snow white teeth.

_Those cannot be real._ She smiled back at him.

Across the table from the Captain sat the ugliest being Gráinne had ever seen. She supposed he was male, like the others in the room, though she could see only slightly more than his profile. His face was pudgy—roughly round, though twisted. His nose sloped more to one side than the other and looked as if the end of it had melted. In truth, it looked more like a pig snout than a nose. His shaved head made the fat folds on the back of his short neck appear even fatter. He was at least twice the size of anyone else in the room, including Slyxx, whose frame could fill the doorway of a modest cottage. The saffron tunic—which enhanced the male's yellowish skin—had long, flowing sleeves. As he reached for something on a platter, he dragged a sleeve through his plate.

As Gráinne stood staring at the giant being, others in the room seemed to take notice of her arrival, and their murmurs and laughter died to intermittent hushed tones. The ugly male turned his face toward Gráinne, whose heart thumped out of rhythm when she saw the previously unseen other half of his distorted face. He had only a right eye and no eyebrows. Crudely sewn skin sank into his left eye socket. Gráinne pitied him and looked for some blessing in his misfortune. She decided the missing eyebrows saved his facial asymmetry from even greater pronouncement by lopsided framing.

"Ahh. My wife has arrived."

For once, Gráinne was relieved to hear her husband's voice. She felt self-conscious, as every eye—including the sole one of the giant, jaundiced male—looked toward her. She gave a slight nod and plopped into the chair at the end of the table opposite her husband.

"Marquessa."

The hoarse voice came from the chair to her right, and Gráinne turned her gaze toward it. The male sitting there couldn't have been half Lan's size. Without the neatly braided beard covering a chin barely clearing the edge of the table, he would have looked like a child of five. _Not stocky enough to be a Dwarf._ _"_ Sir," Gráinne replied politely.

"The Marquis says you will not accompany us. I am disappointed. Yes, I am. I had hoped to talk with you about your homeland."

Gráinne wrinkled her brow.

A tiny hand shot out toward hers, which rested on the table. The male's frigid palm blanketed Gráinne's hand and patted it. "I am a collector and keeper of histories, a writer of tales."

She wondered if the movement was supposed to comfort her for the murders and destruction in Incorrigible. "A bard?" she asked, drawing back her hand and placing it in her lap.

"Not exactly. I do not wander from place to place telling stories."

"Then what do you do with your histories and tales?"

"I pen them onto scrolls and sell them. Yes, I do."

"A Scribe then?"

"Of sorts."

"You must know a lot about the origins of scrolls."

The man beamed. "Indeed, I have collected thousands of them from many corners of the world. Yes, I have."

Gráinne feigned composure, but her pulse was racing. "Can you tell the dates of the scrolls or who wrote them simply by reading them?"

"Sometimes."

A clamor in the kitchen interrupted their conversation.

"Stupid woman!" screeched Lan.

"If you will excuse me," Gráinne said politely and then rose and went into the kitchen to investigate.

Caera knelt on the floor, scooping up the remnants of a steaming pie. Lan stood over her. His ears lay against his hair, which stood on end. His tail swished jerkily to and fro.

"What happened, and why are you speaking to her that way?" Gráinne demanded.

Lan hissed. "This stupid woman has spoiled the dessert I baked for the Marquis and his guests!"

"I am sure she did not mean to, La . . . ," Gráinne began.

"But she did!"

Caera began to sob, and anger rose in Gráinne.

"Then bake another for tonight's feast instead. There is plenty of time yet," she commanded.

" _You_ do _not_ issue orders to _me_!" he retorted in a growing rage.

Gráinne cocked her head to the side. "We shall see about that."

Caera sputtered, "I am s . . . sorry."

She crouched beside Caera and put an arm around her. Her tone packed with supportiveness, she said, "Do not let this arrogant cat upset you. You did not drop the pie on purpose."

"I. Am. Not. A. Cat! I am _Kathan_ , you stupid woman . . . or whatever you are!" His words came out infused with a snarl. He wheezed, short of breath. And then his eyes widened.

Gráinne had had her fill of Lan's abuse—of herself and, even more so, of Caera. She was tired of hearing him say "stupid woman" every time things didn't go according to his liking. She was tired of him making Caera call him Master. She rose to her full height and stepped closer to him before she Shifted her vocal cords and drew out a threatening feline snarl.

Lan stepped back, clearly shaken. He hissed back at her but retreated anyway.

Gráinne didn't pursue him. She relaxed and let the inside of her throat return to its human form.

"I am so sorry, ma'am. It was an accident. When I turned to move the pie to a safe place for cooling, I bumped into him and dropped it. I am not accustomed to having anyone in my kitchen."

"It does not matter, Caera. It was not your fault. Do not listen to that creature."

"He worked so hard on the pie, ma'am, and I am sure it was delicious, and I have gone and ruined it, and he has labored so hard all week." Caera stopped only long enough to catch a breath. "Did you see how he looks? He has hardly eaten or slept."

Gráinne looked toward the door and nodded. "Aye." A twang of guilt tugged at her.

"Perhaps he will forgive me if I make another pie and say it is his. It will be the best pie I have ever baked," the cook said resolutely as she scooped the last of the spilled pie onto the platter and stood.

"Thank you, Caera," Gráinne said, distracted by the discussion with the small male at the table. Although she wanted to remain in the kitchen and comfort the cook, she needed to speak more with the guest who knew about scrolls. He would leave Vandovir tomorrow, and that didn't leave much time if she wanted him to look at the scrolls and tell her what he could about them. Gráinne gave Caera a comforting smile and tender pat on the arm before she returned to the dining hall.

Once again, gawks trained on her as she entered, and Gráinne felt like the only drumstick among the starving. She took her place at the table, sending a shake of her head toward her husband's questioning glance. He continued to talk to the Captain, and for the first time, Gráinne noticed the empty chair to her left. Even though thoughts of Lan and his condition nagged her, she was still angry with him. Gráinne turned her attention away from the chair she assumed was his and back toward the male to her right. "I apologize for the interruption. You were saying?"

"I forget."

"The scrolls and how you can identify their Scribes and dates," she reminded him.

"Ah yes. Yes, I can." The man chomped on a slice of roasted lamb he'd stabbed with his knife.

"Where did you say you come from?"

The man didn't wait until he'd swallowed the meat before responding. "I did not say, but I come from a land you have never heard of most likely. Librar. I am Librarian. Yes, I am."

Gráinne shook her head. "Librar. You are right. I have never heard of it, but I am not well-travelled. And your name?"

The male stabbed another piece of lamb. "I am called Argwan of Bédor. Bédor was my father's name. Yes, it was."

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Argwan of Bédor. What a pity we will not have more time to become acquainted. I should very much like to learn about Librar." She paused and then dropped the next sentence as casually as she would have spoken about the weather. "I, too, have a scroll collection."

Argwan perked up.

Gráinne smiled. "Would you like to see it?"

The little male's eyes lit up, and Gráinne thought she caught a glint of greed in them.

Argwan pulverized the lamb in his mouth and swallowed before gushing, "Oh, yes, please. I would very much like to see it. Yes, I would."

"Gráinne! Come and meet the Captain!" Slyxx yelled down the table.

Gráinne looked down at Argwan as she stood. "I will arrange for you to see the collection."

Argwan wrung his hands. "Oh, yes. Yes, indeed, that would be delightful!"

When she reached the end of the table, Slyxx and the Captain stood. The seaman flashed his bright teeth in a lust-filled smile. _Most definitely not real teeth._ She was thankful she wouldn't be confined for three months on a ship with him. She didn't trust him or his white birch teeth.

As the guests finished their breakfast, they filtered out of the dining hall, stopping to tip a hat or bend at the waist before going into the courtyard. Gráinne smiled politely in return as she took in the exotic makeup of the crew members who would accompany Slyxx. One had horns that curled on his head, similar to those of a satyr, but he had the face of a bull and stood on two legs. The remainder of his body seemed more human than not, though his chest was like that of a bull—broad and thick and muscled. He wore boots on enormous feet. After the creature had spoken with the Marquis about which crates to load into the hold first, he went about his business. Gráinne looked over her shoulder at her husband. "Is he a Minotaur? I have never seen one without hooves or with horns that curl as his do."

Slyxx laughed so loudly the crew members turned and looked at him and his wife. Gráinne blushed.

"He's Bovan."

Gráinne looked confused.

"I assure you he's more human than you can imagine. . . ." Slyxx hesitated and leaned down to Gráinne's ear, slowly running his hot tongue up her neck as he ensnared her body and drew her close. "Some say his member is the size of a bull's and that no human woman's fit for pleasure with another once he's had her."

Refraining from further commentary on the Bovan, Gráinne leaned away from the growing hardness Slyxx pressed against the swell of her rump. Slyxx laughed cruelly, wholly amused by his wife's public discomfort.

Just past midday, a fidgety Argwan approached Gráinne. "May I speak with you, Marquessa?" he asked shakily.

"Of course," said Gráinne.

Argwan wasted no time divulging the topic of discussion. Abruptly and unmannerly, he blurted out, "Will you show me the scrolls now?"

_More than greed. Obsession_ _._ Gráinne looked from Argwan to her husband and back again. "They are in my private chambers."

Argwan shifted from one foot to the other. "I . . . I . . . will make it worth your while if they are of value," he said, his hopeful stare into Gráinne's eyes also scrutinizing her expression for signs of approval. "I would not pen copies without your permission, of course," he added.

"I appreciate your consideration. I doubt they are of great value. If my husband does not object, however, I will show them to you," she said, full well knowing Argwan would seize the opportunity for gain if he could.

Argwan's cheeks slumped, and he gave an awkward bow from the waist before bustling off, one hand wringing the other in jittery motions.

Gráinne smiled as she watched him disappear into the throng of taller crew members loading goods onto a cart scheduled to depart for the ship.

Her husband's voice interrupted her amusement. "What did he want?"

Gráinne acted bored, but her pulse raced. This was her chance to gauge her husband's reaction to allowing Argwan into her chambers. "To know if I might be interested in selling him some of my scroll cases."

"I see. And why would you sell them?"

Gráinne shrugged. "I have no use for them. The castle is drafty and damp. Surely, your son will need furs to lie on and to keep him warm, and the fur traders will pass through in a moon or two. Caera can chaperone, to assure Argwan does not steal anything from us and so nobody can say he was alone with me . . . inappropriately."

Slyxx laughed. "As if that little male could do anything you didn't facilitate. He would need a chair to stand on!"

Disgusted at the very thought of Argwan's frigid hand touching her, Gráinne faked a laugh. "Precisely! Nonetheless, we would not want anyone to cast aspersions on the woman who will bear your son, would we?"

Slyxx's laughter faded, and he stiffened. "Take Caera with you, but don't linger. She has a meal to prepare. Tonight, we feast."

"Of course," Gráinne said, setting off toward the kitchen before he reconsidered.

Fifteen minutes later, Caera arrived at Gráinne's door with Argwan following closely behind her. "Marquessa," she called out as she rapped on the heavy door.

"Come in," Gráinne replied, trying not to show the elation she felt that her plan had thus far been successful.

The pair entered the chamber, and while Caera gave a short curtsy, Argwan didn't even acknowledge Gráinne. Rather, his sharp eyes immediately scanned the room, ceasing movement and glimmering hungrily at first glimpse of the piles of scroll cases scattered about the sitting area.

A clamor sounded in the courtyard, and Gráinne walked to the window overlooking it. The gates to the courtyard were swinging open, and men leading horses entered. Among them was Slyxx's horse . . . saddled. Her pulse quickened. A stroke of luck at last had come.

Caera's brow crinkled. "What is it, ma'am?"

"Nothing to worry about. The crew is preparing to load the ship. They will return this evening."

Caera busied herself tidying up the dressing table.

Gráinne turned around to find Argwan already sifting through the scroll cases, so she sat in her favorite chair—the one with the padded back and thick but lumpy cushion made of crimson velvet. Entwining her fingers, she rested her hands in her lap and listened to the Marquis barking out orders over the clanging of crates and the restless clomping of horse hooves on slate. All the while, she watched the scroll collector.

Argwan picked up one after another of the scroll cases, his meticulousness in handling and examining them not lost on Gráinne. He scrutinized each from every angle before setting it down gently and moving on to the next. _My uncle would have approved_ _._

Each time Argwan finished one examination and went on to the next, Gráinne grew more impatient to hear the gates swinging shut. At last, the creaking of the wood strapped with iron came, and Gráinne waited a few moments before rising and walking nonchalantly to look out the window again. _No sign of anyone._

"Caera, you may go to the kitchen and begin preparations for tonight's feast. The crew will be famished by the time they return."

"But, Mar . . . ," Caera protested.

"I will be fine."

Caera bit her lip.

"Truly. I will be fine. We will come downstairs long before they return."

Caera gave a quick curtsy. As she crossed the threshold into the hallway, she glanced apprehensively at Gráinne, who returned the gesture with a grateful nod and comforting smile. When the cook was out of sight, Gráinne returned to the chair and sank into it.

Engrossed in his examinations, Argwan rolled a scroll case between his thumb and forefinger, studying the markings on it.

Gráinne suspected he hadn't paid the slightest attention to her conversation with Caera. "What do you think about that one?" she asked.

The little man continued to study the case, seemingly oblivious to her voice.

She elevated her volume, "Argwan? Have you found anything interesting?"

The collector fumbled the case but caught it before it hit the floor. "Indeed," he responded and scrambled toward her with the case in hand. "This one and several of the others. They bear this symbol. Yes, they do," he said, pointing toward a sketch of knot work Gráinne had seen in Incorrigible—on the backs of chairs, stone tiles, doors, even as the pattern of hedgerows.

"What is so interesting about the symbol?" she asked, wondering if Argwan really was the expert he claimed to be.

His eyes widened in surprise, and Argwan blurted out, "What is so interesting about it? Do you know what this is, Marquessa?"

Gráinne shrugged. "A knot?"

Argwan assumed a condescending tone and air. "A knot? A knot?! This is not just _any_ knot. It is the _Knot of Warrant_."

"The knot of what?" Gráinne asked.

"The Knot of Warrant! It is the symbol of the Priestesses of Warrant." He lowered his voice to a whisper. "Witches."

An image of the robed women she had seen in her visions flashed through Gráinne's memory. "Priestesses who are Witches? What in the stars are you talking about?" Argwan had her attention now. "Please sit and tell me about these priestesses."

The little man seemed pleased with himself. He crawled up into a chair across from Gráinne and sat with legs dangling far off the floor, his braided beard swaying. "The Priestesses of Warrant are a coven. Yes, they are. They are in hiding. Nobody knows what they fear, but rumor has it they hide from something not of this world. I have heard it is one of the many evil creatures they conjured to guard their secrets."

"Go on."

Almost breathless, he continued. "Nobody has ever seen the coven's grimoires. I was not sure their existence was anything more than gossip until now."

"How do you know what is inside _is_ one of their scrolls?" She looked at the case in his hand.

"Hmmm," he hesitated, "I do not know for certain, but if you will allow me to open the case, I can find out. Yes, I can."

"Open it," Gráinne replied. She didn't remember opening the particular case Argwan held, but to her untrained eye, a lot of the cases looked alike. It was possible it contained the scroll from her vision, the one with the diagram.

Beads of sweat popped out of the pores on Argwan's forehead. Something inside the case rattled. Gráinne spied the source of the rattle: the little man's trembling hand.

He twisted one end of the case. Nothing happened. He twisted it again, and still nothing happened. Frowning, he continued to twist with more force, grunting, "It is . . . stuck."

"Let me try. I am stronger than I look."

Argwan let out a sigh of frustration and reluctantly handed over the case. "Yes, yes. You try."

Gráinne grasped one end of the case with her left hand. She cradled the case between both hands and gently twisted. A pop signaled the escape of air trapped inside, acrid air suggesting the case had been sealed for a long time.

Argwan's eyes widened.

"How old is the scroll?"

Argwan sniffed the air. "Indeterminate. Let me see," he twittered before snatching one end of the case from Gráinne, leaving her holding only the end cap in her fingers. He tipped the case and caught the tightly rolled scroll that dropped out of it. Slowly, he unrolled the parchment.

Gráinne watched the male's eyes as they roamed from top to bottom and left to right scanning the scroll.

"What does it say?" she asked.

"One moment, one moment," he replied impatiently. Finally, he lowered the scroll. "It _is_ part of a grimoire. Yes, it is," he whispered.

Gráinne frowned. "How do you know that?"

Argwan huffed, "It illustrates how to call the beast."

Gráinne frowned again. "I do not understand. Explain, please."

Argwan turned the scroll so Gráinne could see an image on it. She held back disappointment that the image wasn't the diagram she'd seen in her dream. Instead, it was a drawing of a female's body, with neat labels identifying parts of her anatomy. Drawn in high detail, one label was penned more heavily than the others, as if it had been written and then repeatedly traced. Gráinne focused on the darkened ink. An arrow pointed toward a small walnut-shaped spot in the abdomen, and written on the shaft of the arrow was the word "Gatherer." She placed her finger next to it.

"This is the beast within. Yes, it is."

"What else does the scroll say?" she asked.

Argwan shook his head. "The spell is incomplete. Perhaps the remainder is on another scroll." He brushed Gráinne's hand away from the paper and followed a line of script with his own cold finger. "This one merely states, 'Essence is collected and sorted for the Gatherer.'"

"Essence?"

"Oh yes. Essence. Life. Spirit. Witches steal it from the living. Yes, they do. And they use it to animate the dead."

"I do not understand."

"Pure evil. The Gatherer is the dead fiend Witches serve. Yes, it is. See here? One of their own has swallowed it and died. The Witches will bring the fiend to life with their cursed incantations." He pointed to the walnut-like shape and tapped the parchment. "The Witch's body is the vessel for the monster's return to this world."

This sounds like a tale to frighten children and keep them away from strangers.

"Would you recognize the remainder of the spell if you saw it in one of the other scrolls?"

"Perhaps." Argwan handed the scroll and its case to Gráinne and slipped out of the chair, returning to the pile of cases in which he'd found the one they'd examined. He filtered through them carefully.

Gráinne turned the scroll around and looked at the image again. Something didn't make sense. _Why would my uncle have this scroll if it had belonged to Witches in hiding, and why would he give it to me?_ Gráinne couldn't help feeling she'd missed something obvious, as her Uncle Syldhen strongly tended not to overcomplicate anything. As Argwan continued to dig through the pile of scrolls, Gráinne eyed the text again. Had he been looking at her, the collector would have seen the surprise that slapped her so quickly and soundly her cheeks flushed. _Of course! It is obvious! Why did I not see it before? The text on the scroll is written in the language of Shifters! The Scribes who penned the scrolls of the Priestesses of Warrant were Shifters!_

Meticulously reading each word, Gráinne concentrated on them in the context of the words she'd heard and the visions she'd had. As she looked at the body parts and coordinated them with text, she came across the line Argwan had quoted: "Essence is collected and sorted in the Gatherer." She almost gasped when she read the line again. _Not FOR the Gatherer. IN the Gatherer!_

Without drawing attention, Gráinne rolled the scroll tightly and slipped it back into its case, which she stuffed under the edge of the cushion beneath her.

By the time the scroll was out of sight, Argwan had located another scroll case with the same markings on it. Once again, he tried to open the case to no avail. He thrust it toward Gráinne. "You try!"

She took it in her hands as before, but this time, she only pretended to apply pressure with her fingers. She had no intention of opening the case. Who was he to call Witches evil? She had seen Witches heal the sick and warn of oncoming drought. He neither understood nor cared for the Shifter Scribes. Only the scrolls mattered to him. Scrolls and slander.

"It will not open."

He snatched it from her. "Let me try again." Argwan struggled to open the case, but its end cap would not budge. Giving up, he sighed. "I will have to pry it open. Yes, I will."

"No," Gráinne declared firmly.

"What?"

"I said no. You will not pry open the case," she repeated, stiffening her posture.

He stared at her with incredulity. "But what about the rest of the spell?! Think of the secrets!"

"Perhaps. And perhaps those secrets are best left unknown. I think you should leave now before my husband returns and discovers you alone with his wife."

"What? Are you mad, woman?" the little man screeched at her, still grasping the scroll case.

"Hardly, but my husband is." She whispered threateningly, "If he finds you alone with me, he will torture you as slowly and meticulously as you examine your scrolls."

Argwan laughed haughtily. "Your cook will tell him you sent her away. If anyone is going to die at his hands, it will be you. Yes. It. Will."

So, he was listening after all. The little man is more clever than I suspected.

Gráinne narrowed her eyes and smiled. "I think not. Do you believe the cook will admit she left me alone with you? We will both swear you slammed the door and locked her out." Although she wasn't sure Caera would lie for her, Gráinne gambled Argwan would assume they would conspire to save themselves. "If my husband had trusted you, he would not have insisted Caera accompany you here."

"What?!" he cried out.

"Now go, and I would advise you keep silent if you value your life."

Argwan jumped to his feet and started in the direction of the door in a fit of rage. "You are making a mistake you will regret! Yes, you will!" he called out as he stomped toward the hallway.

Before he could get to the door, Gráinne sprung forward, her stride long enough to catch up with the little male in two steps. She clasped the top of his shoulder tightly. "Give me the case."

Argwan looked down at his hand, which tightly grasped the scroll case. As Gráinne let go of his shoulder, he flung the case across the room and ran out the door, calling out, "Fine. Take it. Let the Witches come after _you_ for reading their grimoire! Yes, let them!"

"Ignorant, greedy little imp!" She slammed and bolted the door.

# Chapter Seven

### Weavers

Gráinne had no time to spare, or her bluff would be for naught. Scrambling down the back staircase, she darted around the carved settee in the reception room, leaving a lantern wobbling on the table beside it. Dashing through the dining hall and into the kitchen, she slammed the door and leaned against it, out of breath.

Caera looked over her shoulder at the commotion.

"Please . . . do not tell . . . Slyxx you left me alone with that hideous little male," Gráinne blurted out in winded spurts. "If he asks, say Argwan ran inside and locked the door before you could enter. I will say the same."

Caera paled, frozen in mid-task, with a stubby knife in one hand and a half-sliced potato in the other.

Gráinne feared the cook's lack of colour predicted a fainting spell. "He will kill all three of us."

Caera nodded and croaked out, "As you wish, Mar . . . Grahhhh," before she turned back to the wooden table and continued to slice the potato.

Wasting no time, Gráinne headed back up to her room. She thought about Argwan's inability to open the scroll cases, the first of which she had opened with ease. When she arrived in her chamber, she picked up the scroll case Argwan had thrown across the room and held it between her hands, rolling it with her thumbs and forefingers. As the case turned, the scroll inside clunked against the edges of its container. Each thump made her stomach knot until she could stand the suspense no longer.

"Time to find out." She grasped the ends and twisted.

The case opened with a pop, and Gráinne flinched. "Did you enchant them so that only I could open them, Uncle Syldhen?" She pulled the scroll out of the tube and carefully unrolled it.

An intricate design filled the page. Two concentric circles formed an outer ring, a series of various knots filling the narrow space between them. Inside the innermost ring rested nine small circles—four inner ones and five farther out. The four inner circles sat at cardinal locations, and inside each was a symbol for one of the four physical elements: fire, water, earth, and air. Lines connected the inner circles to form a diamond while those connecting the five outer circles formed a five-pointed star. In the center of the star, a stick-figure humanoid lay atop a box. A second stick figure hovered above the first like a floating looking-glass double. The circle at the top of the star bore the word "rebirth" and its symbol while the words "growth" and "spirit" and their respective symbols marked the two circles positioned at the bottom points of the star. The arms of the star ended at the remaining two outer circles, one marked with the symbol for the moon goddess and the other labeled with the symbol for the sun god.

Gráinne studied the design. It reminded her of the mentor clerics in the Order of Numinus dragging sticks in the sand to instruct neophytes in the art of formal rituals for the seasons and to give thanks to the Goddess. Even though she couldn't remember anything from her training about rituals or festivals using nine symbols, nothing about the drawing seemed foreign to her except the central box and the stick-figure duo. Seasonal rituals typically focused on a single physical element, such as fire in Summer or earth in Spring. The Keepers' Ceremony had employed six symbols and was the only one involving the Keepers' Staves. In the annual ceremony, clerics invoked the four physical elements before announcing the Keepers—a citizen-elected male and female to represent the God and Goddess for a year. That the design related to the spell Argwan had described seemed implausible. For one thing, the drawing had nothing on it resembling the walnut-shaped Gatherer. Nor did it have incantations or descriptions beyond the words and symbols.

"Rebirth. Growth. Spirit. Death? A funeral ritual sending the dead into the arms of the God and Goddess?" Gráinne sighed.

She knew practices changed over time and for a variety of reasons. If the scrolls belonged to an ancient order of Shifter priestesses, the settlers of Incorrigible could have decided to abandon the old ways when they relocated to the island. If so, her uncle might merely have wanted to preserve a history of those old ways. And that certainly would explain why the knot work associated with them appeared in so many places in Incorrigible.

Gráinne wrinkled her brow, frustrated with her lack of understanding, but even more so with her impatience. _I should have let Argwan stay until he told me when they were written._

Reminded of Argwan, she remembered he had defined the scrolls' Scribes as Witches. Annoyance bubbled in her.

"Maybe you got it wrong, imp," she said. "Maybe the Priestesses of Warrant did not bring the dead to life. Maybe they prayed for the dead to be reborn as enlightened spirits. Clearly, you have not been reborn." Gráinne traced her fingers over the design.

"Or maybe I _have_ lost my wits. I am talking aloud to nobody." She rolled up the scroll and slid it back inside its case, which she placed, along with the others, back into the trunks and locked them, just in case the greedy son of Bédor decided to sneak into her chamber and steal the scroll. As she locked the last trunk, she felt foolish for being so paranoid. She tucked the keys to the locks under the cushion of the chair she'd sat in while watching Argwan.

Dressing in the crimson gown Slyxx most favored, she readied herself for the feast she knew Caera would have waiting. She secured her hair with a silver comb, leaving the front and sides of her neck exposed but shiny, auburn curls cascading down the back of it. Although Gráinne feared tempting Slyxx with her appearance could net an unwanted advance, she conceded fear to the hope of distracting him enough to steer away from conversations about Argwan or the scroll cases. Nervously, she waited by the northern window in her chamber, watching for the first sign of return through the archway.

As the sun set, Gráinne's wait ended.

When the courtyard gates opened, a lavishly adorned Marquessa stood awaiting her husband. He dismounted his steed, staring at her, and although she wanted to run away, she straightened her spine and planted her feet on the grey stone. Slyxx strode directly over to her, and she spoke before he could. "You must be hungry and ready to sit on something much softer than a saddle."

"Indeed, I am," he replied before crushing his mouth against her lips.

Gráinne tolerated the harsh lewdness without complaint and laced the fingers of one hand between the gloved fingers of her husband's hand. When he finished kissing her, he leaned back and looked her over suspiciously. "Are you unwell?"

Her chance had come. "I do not feel particularly well," she replied, patting her abdomen, "but tonight is your last night here, and I want you to fill your belly, relax, and sleep soundly before your journey. I will be fine. Tonight, I will try to make you proud to have me as your wife." Gráinne had wanted to choke on the words, but she had managed to say them without revealing the disgust that lay beneath them.

The iron hinges on the gates to the courtyard clanged.

Intent on keeping up the façade of a dutiful wife, Gráinne hadn't noticed the remainder of the party arriving. The courtyard now overflowed with crew members, some of whom hadn't attended that morning's breakfast.

"I will check in the kitchen and make sure you have mead awaiting you in the dining hall." Gráinne walked gracefully toward the castle entrance closest to the kitchen. She felt her husband's gaze following her.

When she reached the kitchen, Gráinne discovered Caera had outdone herself. The smell of roasted lamb and chicken sweetened with spices mingled with the heady scent of yeasty breads, filling the air with the heavily hanging scent of musk. Stacks of platters and trays of baked vegetables and splayed fruits cluttered every surface in the kitchen, including the tops of small crates lining one wall.

Caera rushed busily from one spot to another, oblivious to everything around her except the food. She jumped and squeaked when Gráinne spoke, "How could one woman do all of this?"

Caera blurted out, "Who else would do it? That lazy cat?"

Gráinne felt the stab of guilt. "I am sorry, Caera. I should have helped you. Please forgive me."

"Oh no, I did not mean . . . ," Caera sputtered.

"I know. I still should have helped. Speaking of the cat, have you seen him?"

"No, ma'am." Caera pulled more meat from the fire and piled it on an already heaping platter before grabbing a long, wooden spoon and stirring the contents of a blackened iron pot hanging over the fire.

"Are you sure there is nothing I can do to help you?"

"No, ma'am. I mean, yes, ma'am. I am sure."

"I told Slyxx I would take the jugs of mead and wine to the table."

"I can do that."

"It is fine, Caera. I will do it. You have enough to do as it is." Gráinne didn't wait for another protest. She grabbed two jugs of mead and headed out the door with them.

Some crew members already had made their way to the dining hall, but the Marquis wasn't among them. A few sat at the long table. The remainder sat cross-legged on cushions at low tables like the one that had replaced the dining table after Lan arrived. Stragglers continued to file into the room.

Gráinne smiled at the guests as she poured mead into goblets Caera had set to the right of each plate. "Quench your thirst," she said. "There is more to come."

After Gráinne made four trips to the kitchen to refill the jugs, Slyxx finally arrived. All but three chairs at the long table—hers and the two on either side of the Marquis—now had seated guests in them. A few of the low tables had only three sailors at them, but most had four or five.

"Sit down, woman!" Her husband's voice filled the room.

Gráinne sat in her chair. Perspiration glistened in the hollow of her neck.

Caera entered the room and put two heavily laden platters onto the table in front of the Marquis before swinging around to return to the kitchen. As she scurried away, the Bovan reached out and slapped her rump, all but lifting the teensy cook off her feet and propelling her forward. Caera maintained her balance and continued forward as if nothing had happened.

Slyxx laughed loudly at the end of the table, and Gráinne looked his way just in time to see Lan and Argwan entering the room together. Her heart skipped a beat. Then two. She took a deep breath and tried to calm herself before anyone noticed. The pair took their seats.

Slyxx rose and lifted his goblet. The din slowly died, and his deep voice boomed, "May fair winds take us to the richest ports and home again laden with bounty." He looked directly at Gráinne. "And may my son be as _clever_ as his mother and as strong . . . and handsome as his father!"

_Clever?_ Queasiness gripped her. Her mind reeled. _Did Argwan confess to Slyxx? Did Lan overhear my argument with the collector and confirm Argwan's side of the story?_

The crowd of sailors cheered and laughed.

Lan coughed and looked at Gráinne, his expression blank.

Though sure all the colour in her face had rushed from her cheeks, Gráinne remained intent on maintaining her composure. Raising her own goblet, she stood, and the pandemonium waned. "May the Goddess and these good sailors bring you home to us safely," she shouted, moving her goblet to acknowledge first her husband and then the guests. _Or not._

Before the tumult of cheers began, Gráinne heard Lan cough again. Both Slyxx and Gráinne nodded to each other and then tipped up their goblets. The Marquis fell back into his chair and let out a crashing laugh. Gráinne lowered herself into her chair and placed her goblet back on the table, her gaze shifting toward Lan, whose lips had twisted into a smirk . . . directed at her.

Nothing much happened over the next few hours of the feast, save for Caera fending off clutches and swatting at sailors. One, bolstered in bravery by an overabundance of mead and much to the amusement of his fellow shipmates, managed to pull her onto his lap before he became the recipient of a sound bang on the head from an empty pewter platter she carried.

When she thought it safe to exit without much notice, Gráinne made her way to the kitchen with an empty platter in hand. Once there, she held a finger to her lips, slipped out quickly, and ran around to the back entrance to the reception room, where she entered and climbed the staircase two stairs at a time. Reaching her chamber, she rushed to the dressing table and lifted the lid to the crock of rot she and Lan had used to dress her wounds. Gráinne dipped her fingers into it, and as she had every morning for several weeks, she swallowed and stuck her fingers into her mouth, licking the bitter, greasy mixture from them. It made her want to gag.

A cough sounded from behind her.

Gráinne turned to see Lan standing beside her bed.

"So that is how you do it," he said snidely. "I had wondered how the sickness could have appeared so quickly."

Gráinne slammed the crock back down on the table and wiped her fingers on the cushion of the bench that sat in front of the table. She resisted wiping her mouth. "I do not know what you are talking about. Now, get out of my chamber." She picked up the wide comb that rested on the table and reached behind her head to run it through her cascading curls. She struggled not to have thoughts.

"You know exactly what I mean."

Gráinne glared at the Kathan. "Go ahead. Tell him. He will make us go with him. If you think he has worked your fingers to the bone these past weeks, imagine what he will be like when confined on a ship or proving his superiority in the trade ports."

Lan stood silent, and Gráinne could see in the twitching and rotating of his ears that the Kathan was thinking about what she'd said. He turned and left without responding.

Dear Goddess, do not let him tell Slyxx.

From just outside the door, Lan's voice proclaimed, "The Goddess has no power over me!"

Gráinne could feel the nausea starting to build. She didn't have much time before it would overtake her. She would have to chance the Kathan preferred the peace and quiet of Vandovir to Slyxx's constant abuse and orders. She set the comb on the table and retraced her steps back to the kitchen, where she found Caera.

Balancing a platter of meats and vegetables on one hand, Caera was sliding her fingers under a tray of fruit when a pasty Gráinne stepped over the threshold. She spun around, bringing the fruit tray into balance as she raised it above her head. "Ma'am?"

"Tell me where to take it," Gráinne said, whisking the tray off Caera's hand.

"Your end of the table, ma'am." Caera looked apprehensively at Gráinne but with a hint of gratitude that softened her apparent fear.

Time was passing more quickly than seemed possible, and Gráinne needed to get out of the kitchen, not only before her trip away drew undue suspicion, but also before the smells brought the fatty mixture—already churning in her stomach—back up. She balanced the tray as best she could and headed for the dining hall.

Caera followed Gráinne, all but holding her breath.

Successfully setting down the teetering tray, Gráinne slid into her chair and gestured to the food. "Enjoy, gentlemen," she proclaimed.

Caera exhaled and returned her focus to the tasks at hand.

Hands immediately reached toward the piled apples and pears on the platter Gráinne had offloaded.

Gráinne managed a smile and leaned back in the chair. Folding her hands across her midriff, she scanned the row of occupants to her left until her gaze fell on Lan. He was watching her with an indiscernible expression. To the left of Lan sat her husband, who leaned forward, engaged in what appeared to be light-hearted conversation. To Slyxx's left sat Argwan, whose sullen frown wrinkled his forehead.

A sudden tightening of Gráinne's stomach set her mouth to watering. Although she would have redirected blood to cause it if she could have, paling came of its own accord. One of her hands flew to her mouth, and she stood slowly, pushing her chair away from her.

"Marquessa? Are you ill?" asked a seaman a couple of chairs away from her.

Gráinne shook her head and swallowed, forcing the vomit back down her throat.

The motion gained Slyxx's attention and his disapproval when he saw his wife's peaked face. He frowned and then shouted, "My son is not yet born and already he gives his mother grief!"

Spinning around and running into the kitchen, Gráinne barely made it to the slop bucket before the oily combination in her stomach forced its way out.

The crew finally having had their fill, the clamor in the dining hall had died down before Gráinne returned. Looking embarrassed and still pale, she played her expected role. She approached her husband, leaned down, and kissed the top of his head, tenderly laying a hand aside his cheek. "I had hoped to feel better on your last night at home. I am sorry, my dear." Certain the kiss had assured his attention was fully on her, Gráinne suddenly grasped her stomach and bent over, her other hand flying to her mouth. She shook her head and ran out of the dining hall, through the reception room, and up the stairs to her chamber, hoping her husband's aversion to vomit would keep him out of her room for one last night.

Two hours before dawn, Gráinne awoke to success. She listened for the sound of Slyxx's breathing before she moved, but her ears met a silence yielding more relief than she had imagined quiet could produce. Clearly, he had chosen to spend his last night in the comfort of his own chambers.

Although she wanted to dance in celebration, she thought it best to dress quickly and get downstairs before other occupants of the castle awoke, but most particularly her husband. It would be like him to fulfill his desires one last time before leaving her. That he would begin his journey unsatisfied was a gift from the Goddess she intended to help deliver.

Gráinne arrived in the kitchen to find it frigid and empty. No wood burned in the fireplace. She stepped outside and looked around. Caera was nowhere to be seen. Gráinne frowned as she walked around to the back entrance to the reception room and puzzled over the cook's whereabouts before re-entering the kitchen. A snap from the direction of the fireplace startled her, and she jerked her head in its direction to find Caera kneeling and breaking twigs to start the fire. "There you are," Gráinne said.

The cook didn't turn around and look at her, but she replied quietly. "I am sorry to be so late getting started, ma'am."

Something about Caera's voice didn't sound normal or even right. "Caera? Are you unwell?"

"No ma'am."

"You do not sound well. Are you sure?"

"Yes ma'am."

As Gráinne pressed on with questions, she grew more and more uneasy. "Were you up long after I went to my chambers? Did you not get enough rest?"

Caera stopped piling twigs into the fireplace and hesitated before answering. "I will be fine, ma'am. No need to worry."

The cook had not looked at Gráinne even once since she'd come inside. S _omething most definitely is not right._ "Caera?" she called softly, her concern infusing the word.

Caera remained still and quiet, staring at the pile of kindling in the fireplace.

Gráinne approached the kneeling woman and crouched to the left of her. When Caera didn't turn to look at her, she reached out and gently cupped the cook's chin. Nudging Caera's chin toward her, Gráinne saw skin so swollen it stretched the right side of the cook's face. Angry red and black welts started at the corner of her lips, crossed her cheek, continued past the corner of her eye, and disappeared at her temple.

"Which of the sailors did this to you?" Gráinne asked.

Caera shook her head. "It does not matter, ma'am. It is done."

"It _does_ matter. Tell me who did this to you. I will see that he . . . ."

The kitchen door flew open, and Slyxx's massive frame blocked the open doorway. "We leave at dawn. Bread, fruit, and milk will do this morning. I want the crew sober and their bellies light."

"Yes, sir," Caera said, her voice shaky.

Gráinne rose. "One of the crew has hurt Caera."

"Ma'am. . . ."

Slyxx looked confused.

Gráinne repeated her statement more loudly, "I said one of the crew has hurt Caera." She pointed toward the injured cook, who looked down.

A twisted smile slowly stretched Slyxx's lips into a mock. Gráinne froze in horror, and Slyxx barreled out of the kitchen, his laughter as swollen with cruelty as the puffy bruises on Caera's face.

What have I done?

Although Gráinne reached out to hold the cook, a palpable awkwardness pulled her arms back to her sides. _This is my fault for keeping him out of my chambers._

"I am sorry," she croaked out in a whisper.

Caera struck a shank of flint against a slab of flint stone to start the fire. Over and again she repeated the motion, each strike more aggressive than the one before it. Finally, a spark ignited the dry grass and twigs. Caera continued to strike the flint as if she hadn't noticed her success. Teardrops splattered and sizzled in the growing flames.

Gráinne didn't know what else to say or do, so she slipped out of the room to give Caera privacy. As she pulled the door quietly to, she thought she heard the cook whisper, "So am I."

At dawn, Lan knocked on Gráinne's door. "The Marquis requires your presence in his study . . . at once."

Gráinne complied but took her time getting there. The whole of the walk to the study, she thought of her cousin's voice saying, "Hold your tongue, Ginny. Like thith." This time, her mood robbed the memory of its humor. She arrived to find Lan already there and standing behind and to the left of Slyxx, who sat at the oversized oak desk with quill in hand and deeply concentrating on the parchment over which the quill bobbed and perched. Lan stood like a soldier at ease with hands clasped behind his rump and his feet slightly parted. His ears stood attentively but did not move.

"That should do it," Slyxx declared as he put down the quill and leaned back in his chair. "Ah, my dear. Just in time." He nodded toward the freshly inked parchment and continued, "I've set my name to a document appointing Lan as my administrator. In my stead for the length of my journey, he will have all due powers to administer my property and conduct business on my behalf . . . as he deems fit to serve my best interests."

Gráinne could feel what was coming next.

"He will, of course, serve as your guardian, as well."

_You mean jailer_ _._ She wanted him out of her sight, and the sooner the better. "As you wish. I am sure Lan is more than capable of managing your estate."

Slyxx clapped his hands together and stood. "Excellent! I thought you might see the wisdom in my choice." He circled around the end of the desk and gathered Gráinne in his arms, holding her close and drawing in the scent of her hair. "You need only worry about making certain my son is healthy and strong." He tightened his arms and squeezed before relaxing his embrace and bending until his mouth neared his wife's.

His breath hot and sour, Gráinne tasted his pungent threat before he uttered it.

"Take care, little bear. The wife you save may be my own." He pecked at her lips and drew back. Looking at Lan, he gave one final instruction, "If you have to kill her, too, make certain nobody knows she is dead." He strode out of the study, leaving Lan and Gráinne in locked stares.

Neither blinked until after they'd left the study in opposite directions.

When the trade ship's sails disappeared beyond the northern sea's horizon, Gráinne took her first full breath since becoming a Seetan. She felt more light-hearted than she considered appropriate for someone whose homeland and its citizens had been destroyed with such disregard, and she was aware that guilt tinged her relief. Even so, Slyxx's absence gave her berth to hope. _What if he and the Kathan had lied? Perhaps there were survivors._

"All I have to do is figure out how to escape without getting killed."

# Chapter Eight

### Cats

Before dawn on the day after Slyxx's departure, Gráinne awoke and practically jumped into her riding gear before groping carelessly in one of the scroll chests until she found the tube of wood with an emerald-coloured letter "I" painted on it. Shaking it produced a hollow rattle she thought aptly portended its role in her planned escape. She smiled as she trotted down to the kitchen, the most droll scroll she'd read clacking away inside the equally droll case in hand.

"Good morning, Caera. There is no need to heat water for me. I will not be bathing this morning."

Caera looked up from the fire, lifting her eyebrows as she replied, "Oh?" Most of the swelling in Caera's face had subsided, and the bruises had begun to look less angry.

"I am going for a ride and will bathe when I return."

"Yes, ma'am. Will you take your mid-day meal here?"

"No."

Caera returned to stoking the fire. "And before your ride? Do you wish a light meal?"

"No, thank you." The awkwardness of their conversation saddened Gráinne at the same time as it angered her. This was Slyxx's fault. Though she had tricked her husband into staying out of her chambers, Slyxx had made the decision to abuse Caera. _You will not get away with this, Slyxx Seetan_ _._ "Is there anything I can do for you?" Gráinne asked, picking up an empty basket from atop a wobbly stack of woven baskets and trays in the corner.

Caera stopped, withdrawing the iron poker from the kindling she'd been prodding. "Where will you be riding?"

"Nowhere," Lan answered from the doorway.

Gráinne tossed a quick glance at the Kathan. Everything about him seemed to droop—his eyelids, the hollows below his cheekbones, his tail. She dropped the scroll case into the basket, through the handle of which she threaded her arm. Then she snatched a loaf of flax-seed bread from the shelf next to the fireplace and looked at Caera as she responded, ripping the loaf in half, "The meadows near the pines."

Caera's gaze moved from Gráinne to Lan.

"And if I say it is not in your best interests . . . or, more importantly, those of the Marquis?" He crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe.

Caera's gaze moved back to Gráinne.

Gráinne defiantly chucked both ends of the split loaf of bread into the basket and walked to the bin of hard-fleshed tree fruits. She plucked two pears from the top layer and palmed them as she examined each before plopping them into the basket one at a time. Then she turned to the cheese cupboard. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Caera staring at Lan, and the tip of the Kathan's tail twitching arrhythmically.

Gráinne grabbed a cloth-wrapped hunk of cheese and dropped it into the basket, forcing the thought into her consciousness. _What a lovely day for a picnic._ She slid her fingers around the wooden handle of the knife on the table in the center of the kitchen. Fire glinted on the blade as she held it up and examined it. _That is what I would say._

Lan hissed and bounded out of the kitchen.

Caera blinked. "What just happened?"

"That cat just sprayed on the wrong hedge."

"I do not understand."

"I know, and I apologize. Yet again, I cannot explain." She looked toward the empty doorway and back again.

Caera pursed her lips. "Ma'am . . . Gráinne . . . please do not do anything you may not live to regret. No, I mean . . . ."

Though it stabbed at Gráinne, curtness best served Caera. "I know what you meant. I will return before dark."

"As will I," said Lan. He had retrieved a satchel and an alder wood staff engraved with scratchy lines breaking into a pattern of painted azure swirls, like whitecaps slashing into waves. A gemstone the same shade of blue topped the staff, and a shiny ribbon wound around the stave's aged wood.

Gráinne wasted no time in gearing up Midnight and galloping down the mountain trail to the grassy spot near the Blood River. Dismounting, she tossed out a fur, placed her saddlebag on it, and sat among the wildflowers. She could see Lan not far away doing much the same thing, except he hadn't brought a fur, and so he simply stretched out in the grass and let the sun bathe him.

So like a cat.

Grabbing one of the pears and the scroll case from the saddle bag, Gráinne settled on her tummy. Before opening the case, she sank her teeth into the pear and pulled off a hunk, which she crunched on noisily. She took her time removing the scroll from the wooden case and unrolling it. Half of the pear was already in her belly by the time she anchored three corners of the scroll with the hunk of cheese, the remaining pear, and the knife. She had reasoned that if he could hear the voice in her head when she had thoughts, surely Lan could hear the voice she heard in her own head when reading. She counted on the latter as she moved her finger to the first words of the scroll and began to read as painfully slowly as her mind could tolerate.

It is with the deepest regret that we of the Insouciance find we must address rumors and innuendoes. Once again, the ugly head of bigotry rears its crown. Once again, covetous spite spews venom on defenders, nay supporters, of the realm. Once again we must defend the Union. It is our civic duty to slice off this envious, devouring head, but we will not do so at forfeit of the very civility under attack. Before the Council of Elders, we thus offer an exposition on

THE GOOD WORKS OF THE INSOUCIANCE

~Recorded and presented by Insouciance Guild Master Blanchard on behalf of Seated Elder of Insouciance, General Thackeray MacDougal~

Gráinne put her finger at the start of the list below the names and looked up. _Seated Elder of Insouciance, General Thackeray MacDougal . . . Seated Elder of Insouciance, General Thackeray MacDougal._

She turned her head lazily, as if daydreaming, and cast a glance toward Lan. He appeared asleep. She looked back to the scroll and let her finger stumble onto words between long pauses as it fell down the page. _Charity . . . orphans . . . successful location of lost goods_ _. . . ._ Sliding to her knees and then to her feet, she rose. When Lan didn't move, she crept to her horse, leaving her belongings in the tall grass.

Before Lan awoke with a start, she had mounted Midnight and galloped toward the tree bridge. In its former life, it had stood next to the river, a massive oak casting shadows on the water, but lightning had struck it, and it had fallen across the river. Too large to move, workmen had chipped away at it until its trunk was flat enough to serve as a bridge. Gráinne crossed the bridge knowing Lan's horse would resist walking across it. Even Midnight had required coaxing several times before she would step onto it. As far as Gráinne knew, the Courser had never attempted a crossing. When she reached the opposite side of the river, she looked back toward the meadow at the base of the mountain and saw Lan astride the Courser, his short legs stretched wide across the horse's back as he bounced up and down in the saddle. The horse was backing up, resisting stepping onto the tree bridge.

Gráinne nudged her horse toward the wooded area shrouding the entrance to the southern cave. At the edge of the woods, she slid off the saddle and slapped the horse on the rump. "Go home." Although she knew a long walk back up the mountain awaited her, she took the chance Lan would follow the horse's tracks if he convinced the Courser to cross the river. A long walk for privacy was a fair trade.

A dense, impenetrable web of thorny branches covered the opening of the cave. Approaching them, Gráinne whispered, "Mother, I have come seeking wisdom." She closed her eyes and waved her hand in front of the branches before reaching out to touch one. A thorn pricked her finger, and a drop of blood rolled off, landing on the moss-covered soil. The thicket creaked and opened up a space just wide enough for Gráinne to slip inside the cave. Once she had entered, the branches creaked again, closing.

The air inside the cave felt damp and cool and smelled of flowers. A trickle of water sounded from the rear of the cave, and Gráinne walked toward it in the darkness. Her steps sure and solid, she climbed gently upward until they brought her round a turn and into an area in which the scent of flowers grew stronger. Light emanated from a stone-ringed pond in the farthest corner of the rocky chamber. Gráinne stood still and let her eyes adjust to the light while she listened to the trickle of water running down the cave wall and into the pond. The sound soothed her throbbing temples. After a few moments, she walked toward the corner and crouched to sit on one of the smooth stones framing the pond's perimeter. Staring down into the water, she put her fingers into it and made a gentle swirling motion.

"Mother?" she asked, her tone as soft and gentle as a child reciting bedtime prayers.

The water in the pond rippled.

"You know what they have done. Why did you not stop them?"

"Morgraine." The word, spoken with tenderness, filled the cave and echoed as it bounced off the walls, yet it was no more than a whisper.

Except when she was in the cave, Gráinne hadn't heard her true name spoken since she'd come to Vandovir, and the sound of it consoled her despite her emotional pain. "Why, Mother? Why has this happened?"

The pond rippled again.

"What happens is what must be."

" _Must_ be?! How can you say such a thing? Such unspeakable suffering is an abomination of Nature herself." Gráinne's ire rose with each word.

"So short-sighted. Have you learned nothing? Are beings not of Nature, even those whose greed blinds them to peace and tolerance and respect for other living things?"

"Are you saying this is acceptable? The deaths of innocents are acceptable?" Gráinne splashed the water and withdrew her hand.

The voice retorted angrily, and its words grew loud enough to ring in Gráinne's ears. "We are saying no such thing, Morgraine. We take no joy in this tragedy, and we do not condone it. We accept that it occurred. Those who do not respect Nature are doomed to suffer her wrath. All living things must choose their paths."

Gráinne stood up, her chest heaving as she tried to suppress the anger she felt at the indifference bouncing off the cave walls. She thought the voice sounded different than the one she had listened to so many times after she'd discovered the cave and pond. It had been her refuge while grieving her mother's death. There was no comfort in the voice now, and it seemed to come from all around her instead of from the pond. "The scrolls. The visions. Why?"

The water trickled.

"Tell me where they are. I know there are survivors." The echo of her demand bounced back at her and faded into silence.

When no answer came, she turned to leave but stopped and spoke sarcastically without looking behind her, "Choose their paths? Like I did, Mother? Like Caera did? As did the slaughtered children?"

This time, Gráinne didn't wait for a response. She resumed her trek out of the cave. When she reached the brambles covering the entrance, they parted, and she slipped outside, muttering, "A waste of precious time." The answers she'd come for still eluded her. The Mother had spoken in nonsensical riddles, and even her defiance before leaving the cave had not left Gráinne feeling empowered. Defeat had come to Incorrigible, and now it seeped into her soul, as well. The thicket creaked as she walked away from the cave.

Even under the cover of trees, the light seemed intense to Gráinne, and so she opened her eyelids by degrees to become accustomed to it.

"You were not in there for long." Smugness swirled through the treetops.

Gráinne looked up.

"Over here," Lan added, a crack from a breaking branch punctuating his words.

Gráinne tracked the sound and saw Lan sitting in a fork where two thick maple branches parted.

He waved a smaller, leaf-laden branch at her. "He was right. If I were a highwayman, you would be dead."

"Pray a highwayman comes along, then." Gráinne headed in the direction that would take her around the cove and back up the mountain to the castle. It was the longest distance to "home."

A thud resounded as Lan's boots hit the mossy soil beneath the tree, and Gráinne turned around, fully expecting to see him lying on the ground with a broken neck. Instead, he leaned against the tree, chewing on the branch.

Gráinne looked up at the fork in the tree and then back down at Lan. "It must be seven verges from where you were sitting to the ground," she said.

Lan looked up. "I do believe that is a close estimate, Marquessa."

Gráinne was in no mood for the creature's snide comments. "Where is your horse? Drowned in the river? Your _Master_ will have your head for losing one of his horses," she replied with venom.

Lan laughed. "Do you think me so dim?"

"Well, where is he?"

"On the other side of the river, tied to a tree."

Gráinne rolled her eyes and resumed walking, hoping Lan had left enough slack in the rope for the horse to graze. The Kathan bounded on all fours in front of her before standing back up and falling into step beside her.

Gráinne scowled. "You run like a cat?"

"No," he said, shifting his feet to coordinate his step with hers. "I run like a Kathan. What is in the cave?"

Gráinne stopped abruptly and roughly grasped Lan's jacket collar with both hands. Her greater height, her anger and frustration with the voice at the Goddess Pond, and the element of surprise made it easy for her to lift him off the ground. "That is none of your business or the business of _anyone else_!" As she spewed out the words, she Shifted her eyes into a catlike form and drew up a feral growl from deep within her, letting it roll out slowly.

Lan's tail and ears drooped.

She dropped him and let the growl dissipate before she resumed her step. "Leave me alone."

Gráinne opened up a short distance between them before she heard Lan's footsteps pick up. He maintained the space between them until she reached the mountain path, where he veered away to retrieve the Courser. Soon thereafter, she heard the hooves of the horse not far behind her. Even on horseback, Lan stayed well back from her the entire way home.

The uphill trek gave Gráinne ample time to increase her feelings of defeat and of rage. Her trip to the Goddess Pond had brought no knowledge or understanding about the whys of her homeland's destruction or the whereabouts of survivors, if any. She certainly had not learned anything about the scrolls or the visions or the mysterious Priestesses of Warrant. Lost in thought, she paid no attention to the landscape and merely walked by habit along the pathway. When she arrived at the castle, dusk was descending. After unsaddling, grooming, and feeding Midnight, Gráinne went straight to her chambers and plopped on her bed, feeling torn between sobbing and screaming out in anger.

The next morning, movement out the north window of her room caught her eye, and she spied the mast of a small ship anchored off the northern shore of Vandovir. Excited, she rushed to get her horse and made the ride down the mountain to the northern woods. At the edge of the pine trees, she met them, the party of wild-looking males.

"Greetings," she called toward them as they approached on foot. _Five human men_ _._ All had long, scraggly hair and bronze skin. Each wore heavy boots and leather pants. A couple of them wore leather and fur vests open in the front. Judging from the well-toned muscles on the remaining—bare-chested—ones, she surmised they worked hard at something, though Gráinne knew not what. All were armed.

The group stopped when they heard her voice. The one in the middle stepped forward. "Greetings."

"Is that your ship?" Gráinne sized him up. He wore a leather vest trimmed at its bottom with black fur. From chest to shoulder, it gaped open. Laced closed from chest to waist, it fit snugly. The man's eyes looked at least as dark as his mussed, chestnut hair.

"Aye, t'is." He motioned with his chin toward the castle atop the mountain. "Is that yer keep?"

"No. It is the keep of the Marquis of Vandovir." She hesitated and then thought it best to continue. "My husband."

"And this husband sends his _wife_ to meet seafarers?"

Gráinne didn't like the tone he used. "No. I was riding and saw your ship. My husband's soldiers will have seen it, as well," she lied.

Crack!

The heads of the men turned toward the sound. With order and purpose, their hands moved instinctively toward either their swords or the bows on their backs.

Gráinne's gaze tracked toward the sound, too.

Lan emerged from the woods atop the Courser, and Gráinne's eyes widened in surprise. She had only ever seen him in his finely tailored clothing of waistcoats and pants and shirts with ruffled cuffs. His boots were always finely polished and without blemish. Now, the normally delicate looking creature wore thick, scuffed boots, pants made of stiff, black fur, and nothing more! Crossed on his back were two swords, long and curved and elaborately engraved. Inside the engraving was iridescent, blue paint. In his right hand, he held the staff he'd taken with him to the cave. Its painted design shimmered in the same way as the engraving on the swords. Though she didn't recognize the symbols tattooed on Lan's chest, she noticed their colour: the exact shade of pulsating blue as the markings on his weapons. She dismissed the seeming glow and pulse of the tattoos as a trick of the ink itself and not a trait of the markings. Even without the added effect of inexplicable glowing and pulsing, the little Kathan looked fierce and even wilder than the strangers.

"Marquessa," he said as he rode up next to her. His voice deeper than usual, it also had a tone bordering on threatening, even to her.

"My guard," Gráinne announced confidently, knowing she hadn't told a complete lie.

The leader looked hard at Lan. "What is he?"

Gráinne laughed, trying to sound at ease. "A loyal servant of the Marquis. Who else would he trust with his wife but his favorite and most honoured warrior? Now, who are _you_ , and what brings you here?"

Gráinne thought about the Kathan's talent for invading her thoughts. _If they move, show them how a Kathan runs. Get behind them_ _._

"I am Tell Bravin, and these are . . . my travelling companions."

The men on either side of Tell laughed.

"And what brings you to Vandovir, Tell Bravin?"

"Our journey had an unexpected detour, and we need supplies."

Gráinne played along with the word game. "I see. What supplies do you need? I am sure my husband would be willing to sell you enough to get you to the closest trade port."

Tell laughed. "Sell?" He looked to either side of himself at the row of males and said something Gráinne couldn't hear. The two men on either end began to move outward, leaving Tell with one man on either side of him.

They are flanking us.

"I know," Lan replied in a whisper without moving his lips, dismounting the Courser and handing the reins to Gráinne.

She thought he sounded agitated; when he drove the tip of the staff into the ground, she was certain. Its shaft vibrated with such force the soft ribbons whipped against the wood, and the gem at its head caused the staff to bend like a willow branch, so much so that Gráinne thought the alder wood would snap in two.

"Stop!" Gráinne called out. "Tell your men to halt at once!"

"That will not happen," Tell answered in challenge.

Before Gráinne could even consider the implications of the response, Lan had dropped to the ground on all fours and bounded forward in a zigzag pattern. The leader drew his sword. In the time it took him to do so, Lan had leapt through the gap between the man on the left side of Tell and one of the men trying to flank Gráinne and the horses.

Tell started to spin around, but too late to stop Lan, who whirled around in mid-air and landed standing once again on two feet behind the leader, both swords drawn and crossed at Tell's throat.

Lan said nothing. His eyes darted from male to male.

"Order them to return to the ship," Gráinne repeated. "We will counsel with you and you alone."

"I seem to have little choice, Marquessa," he replied. "Return to the ship!"

The men ceased their movement toward Gráinne and turned back in the direction of the northern shoreline.

Lan put a knee into Tell's back and nudged him to move. Like dancers, they slowly turned in a half-circle until they faced the backs of the men walking toward the dock. The pair backed up slowly, each step taking them farther from the other four warriors and closer to Gráinne, who dismounted and positioned herself in front of Tell, standing to her full height and surveying him.

She reached down and took his sword out of its sheath. Holding its tip just below Tell's sternum, she spoke to Lan, "Take his bow and then use the rope on my horse to bind his hands. We are returning to the castle."

While Lan obeyed, Tell smiled at Gráinne. "You are a pretty thing and much smarter than most of your kind."

"My kind?" she asked.

"Females," he replied.

Gráinne pushed the tip of the sword forward just enough to register what she thought of his comment.

Tell's hands bound, the trio set off toward the path leading up the mountain, Lan and Gráinne on horseback and Tell trailing behind at the end of the rope. Off balance because of his bindings and Lan's continual yanking on the other end of the rope, Tell stumbled repeatedly, his boots slipping on small stones littering the pathway.

After one such incident, Gráinne tossed Tell's words back at him. "Handsome and strong though you might be, your clumsiness is typical of _your_ kind."

Lan laughed.

Tell nodded in concession and chuckled, "Ouch. At least you find me handsome and strong." He smirked.

Lan yanked on the end of the rope.

As they climbed the mountain path, Gráinne kept looking toward the northern sea until she saw all four of the other men in the small boat rowing back to the ship. _Maybe they are going back for reinforcements_ _._

"Most likely," Lan said.

Tell looked warily at Lan, and Gráinne laughed.

When they arrived at the castle, Gráinne said, "Take him to the study and tie him to a chair."

While Lan handled his unusual task, Gráinne went into the kitchen to find Caera working as she normally would. "We have a . . . guest. Be wary and watch for anyone approaching. If the castle is breached, get as far from here as you possibly can." She nodded toward the exterior door.

Although Caera looked alarmed when she saw the sword in Gráinne's hand, she nodded in response. "Yes ma'am."

"Will you please bring some food and drink to the study for our guest?"

"Of course, ma'am. Right away."

Gráinne smiled and turned to leave and then stopped and looked back at the cook. "Gráinne. My name is Gráinne." She couldn't leave without addressing the obvious concern on Caera's face. The two still had not spoken of what Slyxx had done to the cook on the night before his departure, and Gráinne wasn't going to force that discussion, but at least she could offer some comfort for what she _could_ control. No, for what she _had_ to control. "It _is_ going to be right again soon, Caera. _We are_ going to be right again soon. I promise."

"I know, ma . . . Gráinne," Caera replied. "I will bring enough for two."

Gráinne smiled. "Thank you." She hesitated before leaving. "Oh, and no knives."

Lan had tied Tell Bravin to the chair by the time Gráinne arrived in her husband's study and announced, "The Marquis has dispatched soldiers. I do hope your men stay aboard the ship." She turned to Lan, who was standing in the same at ease position she'd seen him in when last they'd been in the study, though this time he looked on edge, prepared to attack. She wondered if he could hear Tell's thoughts, too. "The Marquis wishes to see you." _Please close and bolt the courtyard gates, Lan_ _._

Lan turned and left the room without a word.

"Despite all appearances," Gráinne began, looking at the ropes clasping Tell's chest to the chair's back, "we are not rude to our guests. The cook is preparing food for you."

"Thank you, Marquessa," Tell replied. "I take it there is something you wish to discuss?"

Gráinne took a seat in her husband's chair and placed Tell's sword on the floor beside her.

The gates to the courtyard creaked as they closed, and the sound of the enormous beam securing the gates groaned as it slid into place.

"Yes. There is," she said just as her guard returned and positioned himself beside the open door. "You need supplies. We need a ship and crew."

# Chapter Nine

### Cats and Mice

Lan's eyes widened. "Marquessa, before you continue, may I see you outside for one moment, please? The Marquis has a message he has asked me to deliver to you . . . in private. It is urgent, I am afraid."

Gráinne stood still. The Kathan would try to stop her from leaving. That much she knew to be certain. She was less certain she could accomplish her goal without his help. She would have to humor him until she got him out of Tell's hearing range.

From behind Tell's back, Lan glared at Gráinne and tilted his head insistently toward the door.

"If you will excuse me," Gráinne said as she rose and walked out of the study and down the hallway. Lan followed her.

"Keep your voice down," she said pre-emptively.

Lan whispered in a suppressed scream. "Are you mad, woman? We are _not_ getting on a ship with those men! They are nothing short of warring thugs. They will slit your throat and mine, too, and then toss us overboard and come back and take whatever they wish."

"I agree they are thugs, but they are _greedy_ thugs and in need of something we have."

"I will not even _ask_ what that might be, but you and I both know that once they have it, we will be dead!"

"Shhhh!! Then they will not have it until we are safely where we need to be."

Lan rolled his eyes at her and shook his head. "Will you stop being stubborn? There is no way we are boarding that ship with those men. I forbid it. _Master_ forbids it!"

Gráinne arched an eyebrow. The critical moment had arrived. She would have to call his bluff or give up hope of leaving. She chose her words carefully. "I intend to board that ship. You can come with me or not, but I _will_ strike a bargain with this Tell Bravin, and I _will_ board that ship and go wherever I need to go to get the help I need, and if you intend to stop me, you will have to kill me _and_ them, however many they might be."

At that moment, Caera appeared at the top of the staircase. Approaching the pair with a tray bearing a platter of food, a jug, and two goblets, she stopped as she and the tray aligned with Lan. "And me."

Both Lan and Gráinne blinked.

Lan hissed. "What did you say?"

Caera swallowed and straightened her shoulders. "I said . . . _Master_ Lan, you will have to kill me, too."

Tears welled in Gráinne's eyes, and words suddenly felt meaningless.

"And if you do that, you will be left to deal with the warriors on your own," Gráinne added.

Lan snapped his lips shut. He turned and started back toward the study, mumbling, "By thugs or Master matters not. Dead is dead. Stupid women will get all of us killed."

Gráinne composed herself and smiled gratefully at Caera, who cleared her throat and proceeded stoically down the hallway with the tray. Gráinne followed.

Upon entering the study, Gráinne unbound Tell's chest. "That should give you sufficient ability to eat," she said.

Tell nodded and looked toward the platter of food but didn't reach for any.

"I assure you it is not poisoned," Gráinne said, reaching for a slice of meat. She chewed and swallowed it before picking up a chunk of baked pear, which she wallowed in her mouth until she'd sucked the tartness from it. When she'd finished savoring the pear, she filled the two goblets with oak-scented wine and took a long gulp to quench her thirst. "Caera's cooking skills are second to none."

The smells from the platter filled the room, and Tell eyed the food. Finally, he gave in to the temptation and reached for the roasted meat sliced and stacked neatly on the platter. He had barely chewed it before he swallowed and reached for more.

"Are your warriors this famished, as well?" Gráinne asked, baiting Tell.

"We have made do with the supplies we have," Tell replied but continued to eat ravenously. "None this tasty, of course."

_He did not deny they are warriors._ "Then why stop here?"

Tell chewed the meat in his mouth and eyed Gráinne. "Where is it you want to go?" he asked before taking another bite.

"Where there are strong men and crafty women who want to resettle land that has . . . ," she began but hesitated as she searched for the right combination of words, "become available."

"What does that mean?" Tell laughed.

"It means I have property and need carpenters, craftsmen, and farmers to settle it. There are some buildings in need of . . . repair."

Tell laughed. "Are you talking about the island to the west? We saw it as we passed. It looks like the place was raided."

Gráinne couldn't see any reason to lie. "Mercenaries. Now, we are ready to rebuild."

***

For what seemed like an eternity, Tell eyed Gráinne and mentally ticked off what he'd learned or felt reasonably confident he knew. The husband had probably died, along with his soldiers, during the raid. To the west lay a wasteland, but one with potential. The island they were on was bountiful and probably had women they could take back and sell as slaves. The Marquessa was desperate for help. The creature guarding her likely had skills he hadn't shown. Otherwise, the woman wouldn't have exhibited such confidence. Either that or she was delusional. Finally, he spoke, "And what is in this for me and mine?"

***

Gráinne took an equal amount of time to answer. "I will give you the supplies you need to get us to a port where we can recruit settlers. And upon our safe return, I will deed you and your men land fit for farming and animals."

"We are warriors, hunters, and traders, not _farmers_."

Tell practically spewed out the last word, clearly laden with an obvious disdain that Gráinne didn't quite understand, but he finally had used the word she'd expected to hear. _So they are, indeed, warriors_ _._

"Then, you will have a place for your homes and families and free range to hunt and fish if that is what you wish."

"And we control the trade in the port."

Her father had taught her that silence was the strongest tool of keen negotiation, and Gráinne wielded the tool for several minutes. She busied her mind counting while her gaze remained fixed on Tell, and she waited for his discomfort to break the silence.

"Well?" he questioned impatiently.

Gráinne glanced at Lan. "Pen the agreement."

She broke her glance and rose from the chair before Lan could express his disapproval. Raising her hand to head height, she examined her slender fingers. Slowly, her hand became thicker and white fur grew out of its pores. From her fingertips, claws began to extrude, lengthening and becoming sharper as they replaced her neatly manicured nails. She turned her gaze back toward Tell, taking slow steps to reposition herself between him and the desk. Taking care not to scratch deeply enough to scar him, she trailed the claw down the side of his face and neck.

***

Tell sat perfectly still the whole while the woman, or whatever she was, raked her nails, or whatever they hell the claws at the end of her fingers were, down his face and neck.

***

Tell's expression was fixed somewhere between confusion and terror. _Good. That is how I like it_ _._ From the corner of his left eye, he followed her claws' downward motion. _Just a little farther_ _._ When Gráinne placed her paw on his shoulder, she curled the digits so that the tips of the claws pierced Tell's leather vest.

***

Tell swallowed hard. The Marquessa bent forward, her face directly in front of his.

***

Gráinne stared into Tell's eyes so he would have no option but to watch what was about to happen. She let her eyelids droop to a close.

***

When the Marquessa opened her eyelids, Tell found himself staring into the eyes of a cat.

A vicious snarl rippled up the woman's throat, splashing hot air against Tell's face. _No. Something bigger than a cat._

Tell had no saliva to swallow.

***

Gráinne could smell the fear that always oozed from prey. She was certain it was more than that, though. It smelled different than the fear of death. It smelled like fear of the unknown. She'd bet he'd never seen a Shifter. _Good. That will work in my favor. Now let me give you something you will not forget_ _._ She leaned in close to his ear and flexed her claws deeper into the leather.

Drawing from memory the tone Slyxx used, the one leaving no doubt the boundaries of his violence and cruelty were limitless and his threats not idle ones, she whispered hoarsely, "If you dishonour our agreement, human warrior, I will feed the scraps of your shredded carcass to the wolves and place your handsome head on a pike." She exhaled slowly, her hot breath splashing against his skin.

Her lungs empty, her chest burned, but she held the pose. _What have I just done?_

***

Tell sat rooted to the chair. He'd never heard a woman speak to him that way, but then, this was no woman. She was something else. His brain didn't know what that something else was, but his twisted gut told him she meant what she said.

Tell Bravin suddenly understood why the mouse played dead under the cat's claw.

# Chapter Ten

### Distance

"Put that down and listen to me!" Lan's exasperation spewed out. "Despite all logic and reasoning, you simply will not hear what you do not want to hear!"

Gráinne frowned at Lan and continued to sift through a trunk of scrolls. She glanced toward Caera, who was folding a gown to place in another chest. "Not that one or any of the frilly ones. Simple gowns and riding clothes."

Lan rolled his eyes. "This is useless. You are not going to change your mind. If you must do this, at least use your head. Do you think total strangers will talk to a woman dressed in rags?"

Gráinne stopped digging in the trunk and then said, "A careful balance, no? Too rich and regal will draw undue attention from seedy characters. Too plain and poor will not encourage cooperation."

_No other thoughts_ _._ "At least you are thinking more strategically." He waited to see if she would convert strategy to action.

Caera stopped folding the gown. "We do not have much time. I still need to pack cooking supplies and food and. . . ." Her voice trailed off, her brow wrinkling.

Both Gráinne and Lan looked at her.

Gráinne dropped the scroll case into the trunk and approached Caera, taking the half-folded gown from her hands. "You do not have to go if you prefer to stay," she said.

Caera harrumphed. "They would throw you overboard after the first meal you cooked."

Despite his previous protests and serious concerns, Lan saw humor in the image of Gráinne's lanky torso flopping onto a breaking wave. He burst into laughter.

Gráinne feigned a pout. "It is not _that_ bad!"

"I will pack the kitchen goods. You worry about your own clothing," Caera replied matter of factly. She disappeared down the staircase laughing as she impersonated Gráinne, "It is not _that_ bad!"

Gráinne went back to digging through the scroll cases.

"How long will we be gone?" the Kathan asked.

"One moon, maybe a moon and a half," she replied as she continued rummaging through the trunk.

Lan left Gráinne's chambers counting on his fingers and mumbling, "There and back, maybe two moons. No, that is not correct. Two weeks . . . no three."

The next morning passed in a flurry of activity. Lan and Caera barked at each other as they packed necessities. Thankfully, Lan didn't have to dart around Gráinne, too. She stayed in her room and packed. The warrior who would probably slit their throats in their sleep behaved himself, eating and sleeping in Lan's windowless chamber, which the Kathan had declared the safest place to keep him. Aside from the cushions on the floor, the only other thing in the room was clothing. No weapons. Nothing that could be turned into a weapon. They would be safe with him locked in the room while the other three worked.

"I have to go to the cave before we leave," Gráinne said as she appeared with two lumpy sacks slung over her shoulder.

Her face wears concern . . . or the bags are heavy. What are you hiding, woman? "Why?" asked Lan.

She sighed. "I have to leave something there."

_You are purposefully not thinking_ _._ "You cannot go alone, and we cannot take the prisoner with us."

"Then, you may come with me _to_ the cave if you must, but I cannot leave until I have been there. We can avoid being spotted from the ship and get to the cave and back in a few hours if you can keep up."

"Hah! I can keep up if you will stop trying to sneak away!"

"I promise not to sneak away."

_She means it_. "You saddle the horses while I let Caera know where we will be and what to do if you are wrong and the warriors kill us before we make it down the mountain."

They made the trip to the southern cave without incident. Though Lan listened to Gráinne's thoughts, none of them offered a hint at what was in the sacks. When they arrived at the cave, Gráinne dismounted.

"I have to go in alone," she said.

"That was not part of our bargain."

"You are right. Our bargain was that you would come with me _to_ the cave."

Lan thought back to the conversation. _Of course. That was exactly what she said, and she said it that way on purpose. She tricked me!_ "No. I forbid it."

"Then we will stand here until the warriors come, and we will die. They will pick us off like highwaymen from the woods."

Lan's temper flared. He hated when she forced his hand. That was what his Master did, and Lan resented it from all quarters. He hadn't asked for this. He glared at Gráinne. "Ask."

The woman's face curled up in befuddlement.

"Ask, and I will stay here while you go inside."

Gráinne untied the sacks and slung them over her shoulder. "Will you kindly remain here and watch out for highwaymen until I return from the cave?"

"Yes."

Gráinne spun around and headed toward the brambles. She whispered something and made a motion in front of her that Lan couldn't see, and then she disappeared into the cave. Lan caught the sound of water barely dripping before the brambles closed behind his ward. _Enchanted. Interesting_ _._

More quickly than the previous visit, Gráinne emerged from the cave and mounted her horse.

"You were not in there for long," said Lan, suppressing a grin.

"Work remains."

"That is all you have to say?" The first thought she'd had of anything not trivial since she'd appeared with the sacks came to Lan as a seething whisper. " _And my work does not involve trying to understand the wisdom of a Goddess who has yet to give me a straight answer._ _"_

In the early afternoon, the four left Vandovir Estate for the northern shore, with Gráinne riding Midnight, Caera astride the Courser, and Lan and Tell on the bench of a cart pulled by a broad-breasted gelding. At the base of the mountain, they veered past a farm.

An old man stepped out of the ramshackle cabin. "Marquessa," he said, lowering his head.

Tell, laughed and called out to Gráinne, "One of the Marquis's soldiers?"

Gráinne offered no reply. Instead, she smiled at the farmer. Although his smile spoke "welcome," the fear in his eyes said something else. Lan could tell Gráinne pitied him for it when she said, "If one were to ride along the northern shoreline to the docks this evening, one might stumble across horses in need of care until their owners return."

Relief replaced fear in the farmer's eyes, and he straightened his shoulders and smiled brightly. "Of course, Marquessa. One might do just such a thing."

When they arrived on the shoreline, Tell built a fire. "I need a small fur."

Caera dug into one of the trunks and pulled out a black, short-haired fur. "You could have said as much before we left."

Tell laughed and then dipped the fur in seawater until it was drenched. He wrung it, squeezing out excess water. Laying it atop the fire, he lifted it periodically, sending puffs of smoke clouds rising into the air and drifting out to sea on the breeze. Shortly thereafter, the rowboat appeared with two men in it.

Tell and the two men stood away from the others in what appeared to be a heated conversation, judging from their jerky animations and the fact that the two warriors' expressions more than hinted at displeasure. Lan tilted his ears toward the trio.

"Can you hear what they are saying?" Gráinne asked.

Lan shook his head. "No."

When the discussion ended, Tell approached them. "They want horses," he said, nodding toward the Courser that Caera sat on, the large gelding that had pulled the cart, and Midnight.

"I will pay them enough to buy their own horses to bring back _after_ we have what we need. They cannot have ours. Besides," she continued, "your ship's hold is not large enough for three horses, freight, three passengers, and five warriors, much less all the passengers who will return with us. We will need to hire a larger ship and crew for the return trip. There will be ample room for a horse, I am sure."

Tell laughed. "One horse for two men _after_ the woman gets what she wants. This should be amusing." He returned to the other two men, who were casting harsh glances toward Gráinne and her companions. The three rapidly ended their conversation and approached the cart, the two warriors immediately beginning to unload it and carry the trunks to the small boat while Tell spoke to Gráinne. "Two horses on the return trip, and we sail at dawn."

Gráinne laughed. "We have an agreement."

Lan caught a giggle in the clear mental message for him. " _I thought it would cost five._ _"_

Lan snorted.

The small boat went to and from the shoreline to the ship three times, each trip carrying supplies in addition to two rowing warriors. On the last trip back, only one warrior returned. He remained sitting in the bow of the little boat after he tossed Tell the mooring line.

"Time to board, Marquessa," said Tell, delivering a sweeping gesture as if urging Gráinne onto a carpet leading to a grand hall.

Lan stepped into the boat holding the chest with their silver and the scroll case and then placed it on the wooden planks between the bench-like boards where the passengers would sit facing each other. He sat on the chest while Gráinne, Caera, and Tell piled into the boat, the two women facing each other.

Tell snagged the mooring line, tossed it atop the bow, and hopped into the boat. Taking two oars in hand, he slid into his place on a bench in the stern. "Our journey has begun," he said with a chuckle as he slashed the oars into the water.

Lan fidgeted all the way to the ship.

Once aboard, Tell escorted the three below deck via a wooden ladder that descended into the belly of the ship.

Lan was surprised to see the hold brimming with crates and barrels that weren't ones they'd brought aboard. He felt uneasy at the thought that the warriors had more supplies than Tell had led them to believe and wondered what other important information he might have withheld. Small wooden frames with furs stretched over them were nailed to one side of the hull.

"Is that where you sleep?" Gráinne asked Tell.

Tell nodded. "Aye. The racks, we call them."

Gráinne looked at Lan, and he heard her thinking " _Get us as far as possible from the racks._ "

Lan nodded.

She pointed to a space at the bow of the ship. "We will sleep there."

Tell laughed. "In the bow?"

"Yes," she replied.

"If you insist," he said, laughing, and then climbed back up the ladder and out of sight.

"Hang a fur from the rafters," she said to Lan, "so that we have privacy, and put that chest deep in the flour barrel." She nodded toward the small chest Lan had sat on in the little boat, and the three of them went to work moving crates and digging furs out of the trunks, Caera cursing under her breath about having lost a perfectly good fur when a moth-eaten one would have sufficed.

By the time Tell reappeared on the ladder, the trio had completed construction of their crude cabin. A fur hung between the crew's beds and their little space, and other furs lay on the hard wooden planks to serve as bedding. In addition to their own trunks, the three had arranged crates and barrels to serve as walls.

"What the . . . ," Tell said.

"Caera needs access to her supplies. That is . . . if you and your warriors want to eat," Lan said in his gruffest voice.

Tell started to protest, but stopped. "We sail at dawn." He shook his head and disappeared up the ladder again, grumbling something that Lan couldn't make out but which sent Caera, who stood closest to the ladder, into a giggling fit. Its contagion spread, and soon, Lan and Gráinne chimed in with their own giggles.

When their amusement died down, Lan said solemnly, "We will take shifts sleeping. Someone needs to remain awake at all times."

The two women nodded in agreement.

At dawn, the warriors hoisted the ship's anchor and raised its sails.

"Calleigh, send fair winds and smooth seas," Gráinne whispered.

Lan braced himself and then heard Gráinne wondering if maybe she should have spoken at the Goddess Pond. Lan felt the thought pop like a ripe pea when she shrugged it off. The wind filled the sails, which snapped and billowed.

The ship creaked and groaned as it turned and sliced through the waves. Sea spray left the passengers damp, but the wind and the sun, already breaking the horizon, quickly dried them, leaving white streaks of salt on their clothes and skin.

"You look a little green," Tell chuckled from beside Gráinne. "First time on a ship?"

Lan felt relieved not to be the only one on the ship feeling green.

After dinner, the trio stood on the deck of the ship and watched the sun set.

"I am going to stay up here for a while," Gráinne told her companions.

"I will stay near the ladder," Lan said, crinkling his forehead in disapproval. He would be within hearing distance. He didn't mind standing on the deck anyway. His stomach protested less when he was outdoors than it did when he was in the galley or hold. And at the moment, the sea thumped dully against the ship's bow, and the sailing was smooth.

Gráinne stood by the starboard railing within hearing distance of Lan, and under the full moon, he could see her clearly. When Tell approached her, Lan tuned his ears toward them and watched in silence.

Tell whispered from behind her. "Serene, is it not?"

Gráinne straightened her posture. "How long before we arrive?"

Tell stepped beside her and grasped the railing with both hands, looking out. "Two or three days, maybe four if the sea is troubled."

Tell turned his head to look at Gráinne, and Lan caught her purposely averting her eyes. _What are you up to now, woman? He will kill us both if he finds out._ Lan shivered.

"How long will it take you to find a larger ship for hire?"

Tell shook his head slowly and shrugged. "That depends on which ships are docked and which are scheduled to arrive." He turned his face toward Gráinne, and Lan could see him thinking. He struggled to hear Tell's thoughts, but all he heard was breathing. It was just like it had been with the Marquis's crew. _Why can't I hear him?_

Gráinne sighed. "I think I will miss this view. We will not have a full moon on our return." She looked up at the white disk, stretching her neck and chin and sending a ripple through her long curls as they slid farther down her back.

Lan thought Tell was about to say something else, but instead, he dipped his head and said, "Goodnight, Gráinne." The warrior turned and returned to the galley, leaving Gráinne speechless and thoughtless on the deck and Lan with his mouth agape.

Lan cleared his throat. "You should get below. Caera is alone."

Gráinne nodded, and as she turned, Lan thought he saw the remnants of a smile disappearing. He followed her down the ladder, wondering what had made her happy. He hated the sea and its rocking motion, the salt and the way his lips parched. It wasn't a natural place for a feline.

Gráinne tiptoed once in the hold. As she passed the bunk Tell Bravin lay in, Lan noticed movement. The warrior was watching her. Lan stopped while Gráinne folded back the hanging fur and entered the sleeping area, dropping the edge of the fur to close the makeshift entrance.

Tell's gaze followed her and then shifted to Lan.

The two locked stares briefly, and then Tell rolled over to face the hull and pulled a fur over his back and shoulders.

Lan walked forward and turned around when he reached the hanging fur. Two hours later, the other warriors filed in noisily and crawled into their bunks without acknowledging the Kathan, still standing in his wide-legged, at-ease position outside the private space where Gráinne and Caera slept. He paid little attention to them. Instead, he stared at Tell's back. He'd already decided to let the women sleep the remainder of the night.

The ship lurched forward and then back before the hull banged against the wooden dock. Caera practically flew into a stack of crates that teetered from the impact. Lan sprinted toward them, barely stopping the heap from falling on the petite woman.

"What is happening?!" Caera cried out as she regained her balance and stood up.

"The ship just docked," Lan replied. He cast a sideways glance at Gráinne and added, "And they have locked us in the hold."

"What?!!" Gráinne asked. "Locked in? How? Why?"

"You will have to ask the man who signed the agreement with you," he said snidely.

"How did this happen? I thought you were standing guard."

Lan's cheeks flushed crimson. "I fell asleep! There you have it! You can blame me for it. It could not possibly be because _you_ trusted strangers!"

Gráinne stopped talking.

"If you ask me, they will sell us."

"Sell us? What do you mean, Lan?"

Lan exhaled through his nose. "Woman. I told you these men were not trustworthy or honourable. But would you listen? No. And now we wait to become slaves!"

Gráinne flashed a quick look at Caera. Frowning at Lan, she replied, "You do not _know_ why the hold is locked or who locked it. You do not _know_ anyone is planning to enslave us. You fell asleep. You are speculating, and you are scaring Caera, so stop it now."

Lan motioned to the space around them. There were crates and barrels scattered about, and the hanging fur now lay on the wooden planks. The trio was alone in the hold with only a small lantern casting light in the space. "Then _you_ explain why we are locked in."

Anger burst in the flush of Gráinne's cheeks. "I do not know why we are here, and neither do you, but I intend to find out." She got up off the fur bed and stomped over to the spot where the ladder had been.

"It is gone," said Lan.

She looked around.

Lan heard her think " _Crates!_ _"_

Gráinne started lining up crates and then stacked them until they formed steps. She tested the wooden boxes. "I do not think they will topple," she said as she climbed up them. She positioned her ear close to the wooden hatch and then motioned to Lan. "I cannot hear what they are saying. You try."

Lan waited for Gráinne to climb down from the crates before he ascended them. The last thing they needed was for their combined weight to bring the wooden boxes crashing down. The Kathan scrambled two-thirds of the way up and stopped. He listened. After a few minutes, he climbed back down. "I was right," he said, "but not completely. Some of the warriors do want to sell you and Caera. At least one does not agree."

Gráinne's eyes widened as Lan spoke. "Sell us? Like chattel?" For a few moments, she stood so still she looked paralyzed. Her gaze settled on Caera, and Lan heard her think, _"_ _Dear Goddess not again._ _"_ Then her face pulled back into resolve. "Who? Which one does not agree?"

"Their leader."

"Is that all you heard?"

Lan nodded. Silence saved him from lying. She didn't want or need to hear what the men planned to do with the women before they sold them.

"Do you still have your weapons?"

"Yes."

"Let me have one of the swords."

Lan hesitated and then sighed. After locating his personal trunk, he searched through it until he found the sheathed swords. He pulled out both and offered one to Gráinne.

"Is this the right- or left-handed one?"

"You will be lucky if you do not slice off your own foot." Lan rolled his eyes. "There is no right or left grip, if that is what you are asking. Oh, and the blades are sharpened on both sides."

Gráinne snatched the sword from Lan's left hand and climbed the stack of crates again, banging on the hatch with the handle of the sword.

Lan winced at the treatment of his weapon.

"Open this door, Tell Bravin!"

Boot heels stomped on the hatch door, and Gráinne flinched, leaning backward and almost losing her balance. Caera gasped. Lan cringed and let out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding once he saw she had recovered her balance without sending the crates toppling toward him and Caera.

"Open this door, you liar!"

Silence.

The thought was clear and loud. " _Hold him hostage. Do not kill him_."

"You are nothing but a coward, Tell Bravin! A lying, thieving coward! And you call yourself a _warrior_?"

The hatch flew open without warning. Gráinne fell backward. The Marquessa's shoulder blades taking the brunt of the slam against the crates on her way down, she landed on the floor rump first and slumped against a barrel. Lan's sword slid across the wooden planks. His fears came true as the wobbling crates came crashing down toward him and Caera. He dropped the other sword, snatched the blonde from her seated position, and dove with her toward the other side of the bow.

Tell Bravin lowered and then descended the ladder. Before Lan could get up and pick up both of the swords, Tell stopped next to Gráinne, seemingly uninterested in a fight. "Rights to hunt and fish, control of trade at the docks, land for a small village, and _four_ horses," Tell said, staring down at the crumpled female.

"Three," she replied, glaring up at him.

Lan wondered why he didn't go along with the plans of the other men.

"Four," he declared firmly.

Gráinne sighed, and Lan felt his stomach knot. "Fine. Four."

"Then, welcome to Port Firth, Marquessa."

Her voice rang out in Lan's head, " _I was sure he would demand five. Care to wager who will be without a horse?_ "

The Kathan laughed.

# Extras

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The story continues . . .

# Chapter Eleven

### Familiar and Unknown

"What do you mean she is missing?" asked Ilythiiria.

"Niamh is missing. None of us has seen her for at least half a moon, maybe longer."

Ilythiiria thought about how much time had passed since she'd relocated Euryale. She couldn't remember exactly how much of the moon's cycle had passed, but surely at least half a cycle had elapsed since she'd left Glendoque and Euryale in the cave outside Alya's largest city.

"Nobody knows where she is," said Moira.

"This would not be the first time she has disappeared without telling us where she was going, Moira."

"I know, but something does not feel right about it this time."

"In what way?"

"The pond."

"What about the pond?"

Moira frowned and looked around. "In the past, Niamh and I have worked together at the pond. The ground there is saturated with her Essence. I gazed from the bottom of the pond not long ago when I sensed Arianna's daughter near it."

Ilythiiria felt the air around her stop moving. "The daughter of Arianna?"

"And I could not feel her."

"The daughter of Arianna?"

"No. Niamh. I could not feel Niamh."

"Ahhhh," said Ilythiiria. "Perhaps your connection with the daughter of Arianna interfered? Her mother is strong in her."

Moira shook her head. "I do not think so. But even that was strange."

"How so?"

"When she came into the cave, I sensed Morgraine's presence, but I found it confusing."

"Why?"

"Morgraine felt like a weaker vibration of the one I sensed when I guided Glendoque and his wife. Same but different. Less . . . earthy or . . . of the earth . . . if that makes any sense."

Ilythiiria wrinkled her brow. She needed to distract Moira from thinking about Euryale. "The daughter's connection with earth is only through her mother, no?" asked Ilythiiria.

"As far as I know, yes."

"Then could it be she is more distanced from the earth now that her mother is gone?" Ilythiiria reached out and stroked the arm of Moira, whose face responded by smoothing the tension it had worn into Ilythiiria's compartment.

"Yes, that must be the case. She has not visited the pond much of late, at least not when I was with Niamh." Moira's face tightened again.

"I am sorry, Moira. I know you are worried about Niamh. You know how she is, though. Niamh takes in strays the way you do. She is probably Guiding some lost soul." She offered a comforting smile.

"I hope so. Oh, speaking of Guiding lost souls. I forgot to tell you. The wife of Glendoque said you know her."

"I do not know her well." _Why did Euryale draw attention to me? What was she thinking?_

"Lyra sends her greetings nonetheless."

Ilythiiria smiled. _Euryale followed my instructions. Maybe there is hope for her yet_. "If you should see Lyra again, please return my regards."

"Of course," replied Moira, shifting from one foot to another and then turning a quarter-circle to leave Ilythiiria's compartment.

"And speaking of Glendoque . . . as I remember, you aided him in finding a new home. Has he settled in?"

Moira shrugged. "I assume he has if his shrewish wife has not yet insisted on a more lavish home."

Ilythiiria wanted to smack Euryale. She laughed softly. "Every pot has its cover, no?"

Moira nodded and walked to the door. "Yes, it does. If you gain news of Niamh, please inform us at once. The Circle meets soon, and we must call her if she does not return before then."

"Is that not too risky?"

"We do what we must to protect the Staves."

Ilythiiria nodded and patted Moira on the arm. "I am sure your friend will return with tales of wonder and not a clue as to why anyone has worried about her. She always comes home, Moira."

Moira nodded. "Thank you for your kind words."

When the golden-haired protector of Glendoque was gone, Ilythiiria locked her door and sat on her bed. Euryale was up to something. And she was dangerously close to exposing Ilythiiria's role in her escape. "If Moira sensed you, she did so because you made yourself vulnerable. Why, Euryale? What held your attention so raptly you diverted focus from cloaking yourself?" she said aloud.

Hearing the words spoken made their answer all the more instantly clear. "You probed her aura. You could not resist, could you?"

Ilythiiria thought back to the first time she'd realized Euryale had been born with a talent nobody had expected. It had emerged without warning when Euryale's womanhood began to blossom, but not in the normal way an exceptional talent might have, not in the arms of a servant lover or when a rival House Daughter challenged her with a slap. Rather, the young woman's penchant for Aura Shifting slipped out without a physical catalyst.

Ilythiiria had been collecting ingredients for a potion, and Euryale had been watching a procedure Ilythiiria didn't particularly like, but which had to be done. To distract herself from the unpleasantness of it, Ilythiiria had focused on Euryale.

***

Her charge's eyes darted to the sharpened tip of the quill as Ilythiiria pierced the neck of a vole. Euryale's gaze fluttered from the teacher to the screeching vole as Ilythiiria tapped her finger over the end of the quill and drew blood up into it. When it was filled, she emptied it into a bowl and repeated the procedure.

"Wait," Euryale said, her tone raspy with excitement.

Ilythiiria stopped tapping her finger.

"Does it hurt?"

"Does what hurt," asked Ilythiiria.

"To die."

The Priestess looked down at the vole. "I am told it feels like weak relief, but I do not know for sure. I have never died." She had never lied to the girl.

"Why are you killing it?" she asked more loudly.

Ilythiiria felt the vole quiver and flop its body against her palm.

"I need its blood." Ilythiiria prodded Euryale's aura with her own. It felt like curiosity, but not compassion. She had a growing concern about the whispers regarding Euryale's proclivities. It was partly Euryale's fault, in that her sharp tongue had gained her no kindnesses or patience from her other teachers. It was more than that, though. Some of the other Priestesses had treated her with indifference from the beginning. Ilythiiria had never understood why.

Looking up from the vole to Ilythiiria, Euryale searched her mentor's face. "Let me," she said, taking the quill out of Ilythiiria's hand.

The Priestess watched in horror and amazement as her charge drew the blood from the pitiful vole so slowly it seemed she took it by drops. She soaked in every change in the vole's demeanor and reactions, three times stopping in mid-draw to concentrate. And three times, the vole reacted—once stiffening, one time squirming, and finally going limp as it wailed a pleading squeak.

The vole's third reaction pushed Ilythiiria's pity for the pathetic vole to the edge of her tolerance. "Kill it now."

Euryale looked disappointed. She squeezed the vole's neck and snapped it but held onto it and closed her eyes.

"Stop that immediately!" Ilythiiria said.

Euryale's eyelids snapped open. Her eyes looked flat and lifeless.

"Now!" screamed Ilythiiria, slapping Euryale's hand so hard the vole flew out of it and thumped first against the wall and then the floor.

***

Ilythiiria shuddered at the memory of the thud against the wall. She felt more certain than ever Euryale was up to something. It seemed a game to her. In the midst of _not_ trying to save herself from the death sentence, she had probed someone's aura in the Assembly hall. In toying with Ilythiiria through Moira, Euryale also had drawn Moira's attention to a link between Ilythiiria and herself. But why? As she so frequently had felt while mentoring Euryale, Ilythiiria found herself overwhelmed with questions. If she had learned anything about her charge, it was that Euryale employed focus purposefully. What got her attention got all of her attention, but getting her attention meant being unique, useful, and challenging to the point of dangerous. Without those three characteristics, Euryale wouldn't deign to spend her attention on anything or anyone. With them, she would gamble her life for control. What could possibly motivate her to teeter purposely on the edge of disaster in the Assembly hall and with Moira? What did she expect to win when she mastered her game? As Niamh had so succinctly put it, "To what end?"

The same sense of amazement and horror she'd felt watching Euryale with the vole settled over her, and she whispered, "Tell me you did not attempt to shift Moira's aura."

***

A knock rattled Paidraigh Keenan's office door. "Come in." The door opened to a view of Private Lucas snapping to attention, his hand bolting to a salute. "At ease."

"Yes, Sir." Lucas relaxed. "Commander Patrone, Sir. He wants you in his office."

"Did he say why?"

"Yes, Sir. Something about the squatters, Sir."

"Thank you, Private. Dismissed."

Memories of the day he'd seen the squatters haunted him all the way to Patrone's cushy office at the other end of the garrison complex. The storm had sent his troops scurrying back to the garrison, and its deluges had provided the delay he needed to give the squatters a chance to escape. Paidraigh had taken his time returning to headquarters, sheltering the horses and soldiers in farmers' stables twice along the way. None of the men had mentioned seeing the squatters scramble over the rocks at the edge of the woods. Hopefully, none _had_ seen. If any had, he prayed they'd kept it to themselves. "Just a little good luck, Saints," he whispered, grasping the amulet he wore under his shirt. He drew a long breath and knocked on the wooden door of his superior officer.

"Come in," Patrone called out.

The door swung open slowly, and Paidraigh slipped his lanky frame inside the Commander's office, closing the door before he snapped to a salute. He kept his eyes forward, staring at the wall across the room. Mucking stalls had taught him not to look Patrone in the eye.

"Do you have any further report on the squatters, Lieutenant?"

"No, Sir. No incidents since the last report. Our troops destroyed the structures in the woods."

"I see," replied Patrone. "So tell me, do you believe they planned to stay after all?" The Commander's fingers clenched the quill.

"It would appear so, Sir."

Commander Patrone eyed the parchment on his desk and smiled. "I agree, but there's something that troubles me about that."

"What's that, Sir?"

"What troubles me," Patrone said, "is that this group just _evaporated_. They wanted to settle, but they just ran away like vermin in torchlight? That _is_ what you reported. Right, Lieutenant?"

Paidraigh fought to stay at attention. "Something like that, Sir. I believe I said they scattered."

"Well, I'm not convinced they _stayed_ scattered." Patrone huffed with disgust as he crumpled the parchment in his fist. "We ran them out of Port Firth, and they settled in the woods. What makes you think they wouldn't do the same again?"

Paidraigh didn't have an answer.

"Go back tomorrow. They're scavenging squatters. At the very least, they would've returned to salvage what they could. If they were smart, they took their belongings and left. If they returned and stayed, I want you to arrest them."

"There was nothing left to take, Sir. Almost all of the structures had burned completely before the storm began."

Patrone glared at the junior officer. "Did I ask you a question?"

"No, Sir."

"Then follow my order."

"Yes, Sir." Keenan's muscles cramped. He wanted to be out of the office, but he would be damned if he'd ask for permission to leave. Continuing to stare at the wall and hold the salute he'd maintained through their entire conversation, he gritted his teeth behind closed lips.

"Is there something else?"

"No, Sir."

"Then get out."

"Yes, Sir."

Patrone gave a limp salute, quill in hand, eyes fixed on the crumpled parchment he clutched in his fist.

As deftly as he had entered the office, Paidraigh slipped out. Patrone didn't care if the squatters were in the woods. Nobody cared as long as they weren't in Port Firth. He knew what Patrone wanted—slaves to sell at auction. Patrone would add them to the auction manifest, and everyone would assume they came with the transported slaves. Patrone would make a hefty profit; the town would be rid of the squatters; nobody would be the wiser . . . except Paidraigh.

And that was the problem, wasn't it? He would know. He, Paidraigh Keenan—supposed Enforcer who had smart-mouthed his way into a job mucking stalls and snapping salutes and appeasing Patrone while awaiting orders from higher up, a lot higher up—would know.

Paidraigh let out a sigh before heading toward the barracks to organize the patrol. Slavers and those who aided them left a bad taste in his mouth. He would have to dance delicately to avoid getting stirred into their mix. He could keep the troops away from the rocky ledge where the woman in the brightly coloured dress had run if he kept them focused on scouring the charred woods for stragglers. That way, maybe nobody would pick up any scents or footprints to track. He truly hoped the strangers had found an escape route leading as far away as possible.

At first light, the patrol set off for the woods. By noon, they arrived. As planned, Paidraigh steered them toward the place where the squatters had made the camp his troops had torn down and burned.

"Lieutenant, over here!" one of the soldiers shouted.

Paidraigh's chest tightened. "What is it, Private Lucas?" he asked as he stepped into a shady clearing not far from the former camp.

The soldier crouched, tracing his fingers in ash. "Somebody made a fire here."

"Is it fresh?"

Lucas shrugged. "Dunno, but look. No footprints in it or around it. My guess is somebody built it since we were here, and they covered their tracks."

"Any other tracks?"

"Just these. Looks like a wagon." Lucas pointed to two distinct lines in the crushed leaves and then to hoof prints. "Not a big wagon. One horse."

Paidraigh's gaze followed the lines. They headed away from the rocky ledge.

"Sir? Want me to follow them?" the Private asked.

When Paidraigh looked up, he saw a small group of soldiers had gathered near him and the Private. It was too late to make light of the finding. He nodded to the Private. "Let's see where they go." Stepping between the two lines, he added, "Behind me. Stay close."

The soldiers fell into a tight, arrowhead formation with Paidraigh at their point. They followed the lines deeper into the woods, swerving around trees and thickets. In some places, it looked like the wagon barely had squeezed between two trees.

Paidraigh's heart did a drum roll when he heard a twig crack. The soldiers behind him drew their swords.

"No need to get antsy," called the bass voice from behind the brightly painted wagon ahead of Paidraigh. "Just me, and I am unarmed."

"Come out where we can see you," shouted Paidraigh, motioning to his men to stay put. He didn't want a panicked soldier starting a skirmish any more than he wanted a dead soldier.

The wagon rocked and groaned. From behind it stepped a curly-horned, bull-faced giant.

Paidraigh took a step back and prepared to draw his own sword.

The giant raised both of his hands. "I am unarmed."

"What are you doing here?" Paidraigh asked.

"Passing through. I stopped last night to eat and sleep." He nodded in the direction of the burned encampment. "Someone else was here before me, though."

"We saw that," said Paidraigh.

"I saw no sign of them when I got here last night. Are you looking for them? Because it looks like they left in a hurry and did not leave anything behind for others."

It was the second time the giant had mentioned he'd arrived the night before.

"Others?" Private Lucas asked.

The giant shrugged and grinned, his flat teeth filling the broad space between his lips. "Folks like me, who could use a hut for a night." He pointed his thumb toward the wagon. "Not much room in there."

"I suppose you'll be moving along now?" Paidraigh asked.

"That was my plan." The giant eyed the insignia on Paidraigh's collar. "Lieutenant."

Paidraigh nodded. "Good. Turn your wagon around, and you can follow us to the road. We'll point you in the right direction and let you get on your way."

"I appreciate your kindness."

"Back to the road! There's nothing here." Paidraigh yelled.

The men turned around and began their casual march back the way they'd come. The giant climbed onto the wagon and brought it around to follow the soldiers. Private Lucas dropped back near Paidraigh.

"Sir?"

"Yes, Private Lucas?"

"Why did we stop searching?"

"Because our witness told us nobody was there. You heard him."

"Well, yes, Sir, but how do you know he is telling the truth? What if he is one of them?"

Paidraigh stopped and looked at Lucas. He wasn't much more than a boy, and if his curiosity didn't get him killed, he'd apply his bright mind and make something of himself. Paidraigh hated to discourage him. The officer put his hand on top of the boy's shoulder and squeezed. "Good questions, Lucas. Do you remember seeing that fella when we came here the last time?"

Lucas shook his head, his stringy hair shaking vigorously. "No, Sir."

"Do you think we would have missed someone his size?"

Lucas looked back at the wagon and then shook his head, looking down. "No, Sir."

Paidraigh laughed and slapped Lucas on the back. "Not much of a chance he's one of them. But it's good to keep asking questions."

Private Lucas beamed. Paidraigh chuckled and wiped the sweat off his brow when he turned his head.

When they reached the road, Paidraigh yelled, "Form up!" He waved to the giant and pointed toward the direction opposite of Port Firth. "Hold up over there!" As the soldiers formed a column two men wide facing the opposite way, Paidraigh walked to the front of the wagon.

"Thank you, Lieutenant."

Paidraigh leaned and looked at the column, mentally accounting for all the men before he spoke. He patted the side of the wagon seat and looked up at the giant. "Tell the lady in the bright-coloured gown I like her wagon," he said quietly. He turned and walked toward the column, shouting, "You gunna stand there all day? Move it!"

The column rippled like a caterpillar, sole-worn boots thudding on the dusty road.

From the wagon seat came a belly laugh, and then the wagon groaned and toddled away.

The windows of Patrone's office were dark when Paidraigh and his troops arrived at the garrison. _Good. He'll be cranky enough as it is without me rousting him out of bed_ _._ Paidraigh took off his boots and the belt that held his sword and plopped into his desk chair, propping his feet on the desk.

Paidraigh had just closed his eyes when the stone framing the fireplace shook, and the hardened mud between the stones cracked. He swung his feet off the desk and jumped to his feet as the robed woman squeezed out of the rocks.

Stepping forward, she pulled on a leather string around her neck. At the end of it hung a crystal amulet Paidraigh recognized as bearing the Knot of Warrant. "I seek the Enforcer."

He'd seen more than one skyjumper, but he'd never seen one come out of a rock, and he'd never been this close to one. How was one supposed to address a Priestess of Warrant? "Most call me Paidraigh," he said, tugging on the leather string around his own neck to produce an identical crystal amulet. "And you are?"

"Moira."

"And to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, Moira?" _Gods, how awkward_ _._

Moira pulled her hood back, exposing fox-red hair with a white streak, a gaunt face with a sharp nose and eyes as green as the gem atop her staff. "May I?" she asked, nodding at a rigid chair on the visitors' side of Paidraigh's desk.

Paidraigh started. "I apologize. Please sit," he said, motioning to the chair. When Moira had settled onto the chair, he looked around at the sparsely filled room. Until now, he hadn't really noticed all that it didn't have, like a comfortable cushion. "As you can see, I've not much to offer in the way of comforts, but I can make tea if you are in no hurry." Thanks to a dependable Private working to attain rank, he'd arrived to a toasty room and well-stoked fire.

"Thank you, but no. I have come on business and must soon leave."

"And what business would that be?" However one was supposed to speak to a Priestess of Warrant, Paidraigh was pretty sure this wasn't it. He was starting to hate hearing his own voice.

"We have an assignment for you."

Paidraigh rubbed his amulet. _Bless the Saints!_

