On an unusually hot day for late spring, Malthus stood in the middle of the stout wooden bridge spanning the gorge cut through the sheer stone walls by the deep cataract known as the Eirlys River: the rushing roar of the Eirlys made fitting music for the entrance into the lands of one of Waejontor's most powerful lycan clans. On three sides the land descended into rugged canyons and twisted valleys that looked like an impossible giant had ripped his fingers through the soil. Most of the ruling sa'necari culture did not know this valley existed, except for the upper castes and their liegemyn who had used it as a waystation during the years that the late King Baaltrystan's lords still held their mountain fastnesses.

He clutched two small girls close to him in a protective embrace, and hesitated as the seven lycan guards in gigantic wolf form emerged from the thick stand of fragrant white pine and cedars three spear lengths beyond the bridge where a heavy barrier of brush and briars offered concealment for many things.

The newcomers looked ragged and worn: the girls' dresses were stained and soiled. The hem of the older girl's skirt had come partially loose and dragged in the dirt. Trail dust smudged their faces, forming muddied lines around their mouths and noses where it had mixed with their sweat.

Malthus wore a brace of long belt knives at his hips, an empty scabbard that had once held a sword at his shoulder, and a scruffy pack on his back. Several pouches hung from his belt. He gazed at the assembled lycans through eyes wide with fear and trepidation. "Please help us. I've been told sanctuary can be found here for the children."

"Come to our side," said a tall lycan in transitional form, stepping forward from among his wolf brothers and speaking with authority. He wore the runes of a lawgiver.

While considering the lycans, Malthus immediately wondered how someone as young as this mon could have become their lawgiver: he looked to be in no more than his late teens, and the last time Malthus heard, the lawgiver for this place was Nevin Scarface. Malthus began reassessing the situation in light of this.

Although they traveled swiftest as wolves, they were at their most dangerous in their hybrid shapes. All of the clans had a reputation for caution, especially this one: with their valleys laying in Sharani-occupied Waejontor, they were vigilant against both their old sa'necari overlords and their new ones, the Sharani. One wrong move and they would rip him apart before he could bring his magic to bear. The last thing he wished was for them to discover what he was. However, the lawgiver was young, and probably no challenge.

Malthus' arm tightened around the two girls, squeezing them together against his body while eying the lycans warily. He walked across, his worn boot heels clicking on the wood scarcely heard above the water far below.

"These are my nieces. Sa'necari born. Their parents were slain. We barely escaped with our lives."

The lawgiver nodded as if that was what he expected to hear but that it made no difference. "These are the rules. No lives are taken by appetite or rite on Clan Red Wolf lands: we are Willodarians. Those who have are unwelcome here. If you are sa'necari, state it now and return across the bridge or be spellcorded." For emphasis he drew the bands and seals from the pouch hanging on his wide leather belt. "Someone will be sent to Read you for the taint, and if you have lied, we will execute you."

"I am not sa'necari," Malthus said. "My mother was human, unlike my brother's, so I did not inherit the tainted gene."

Nikko the lawgiver nodded again with his hand held up to forestall more words from Malthus, and continued in his speech. "From the Eirlys River," he pointed at the river, and then indicated the direction of the rest of the landmarks, "to the piled boulders and six pines, north to the caves and south to the broad meadows and place of fallen trees. All that belongs to Red Wolf. All must ask permission before feeding on blood; make certain that your nieces adhere to that."

"They carry the sa'necari gene, but they have not matured into their fangs yet."

"All the better," replied Nikko. "You are welcome here so long as you obey our rules, and you may make a place for yourself among the others who have come seeking sanctuary. The homes and farms on clan land you enter only if invited. You hunt game only if invited. If the Sharani should have reason to pursue you to our borders we will kill you. We are law-abiding citizens of the occupied zone. These are the rules."

Occupied zone. The words framed in Malthus' thoughts with distaste. These stupid wolves. The young Queen Tomyrilen de Waejonan was beating the Sharani back at every turn and they still considered themselves citizens of the occupied zone. It did not matter to the sa'necari and other Waejontori gathering to her banner that she was the bastard daughter of the late Prince Shintar and a Sharani banewitch: what mattered was that, so far as any one knew, she was the last of the Waejonans. If these foolish wolves continued to obey the Sharani, then she would soon be torching their valleys. "We accept them. You have teachers for the children to bring them to the path of Light?" Malthus asked.

"Yes. A Willodarian priest. You look as if you haven't eaten."

"Not in three days. The children are hungry. I can work with my hands. I am strong. I can earn whatever bread you can provide." I also have plenty of gold to spend, but you needn't know that yet.

"The Sanctuary Refugee Camp can always use more hands. We are building shelters and houses for the refugees like yourselves. Come and let us see that you are fed. I am Nikko the Lawgiver."

"I am Malthus Estrobian. My nieces are Ros and Lyrri. I was kandoyarin, serving in Ocealay until I heard about the rebellion. Fearing for my family, I came home. We're all that's left."

At their names, the two girls smiled shyly at the lycan lawgiver.

Nikko smiled back at them. "Welcome to Wolffgard Village."

Malthus smirked as Nikko led them into the yard around the Chieftain Claw Redhand's home, which was the nearest building to the bridge, and sucked in a breath of relief. He was in. Soon he could begin to sniff around for what had happened to Troyes, his nieces' father. So far as he had been able to learn, this was the last place Troyes had been seen.

Tomyrilen Dovane de Waejonan had appeared suddenly out of nowhere, claiming to be the illegitimate daughter of the dead prince Shintar de Waejonan, and half-sister to the late King Baaltrystan. Nobles and commoners alike were rising to follow her standard. The rebellion had made reaching this valley difficult, but Malthus had made a deal with the young queen's first advisor, Lord Daemon. He had been allowed to slip through in exchange for becoming Daemon's agent here. The valley would fall and Malthus would be well paid in gold, land, and slaves.

Malthus was a bounty hunter with a reputation for subtlety and resourcefulness--and sa'necari by birth. His father had been nobly born, but Malthus came from the wrong side of the blankets. He would have inherited nothing, even had his father's estates not been burned by the Sharani. Five siblings on both sides of the blankets had been burned alive by the Sharani. Knowing the swift way that sa'necari fertility faded, his father had gotten as many children as he could in his youth. Yet, even so, only Malthus and these two little girls were left. Unless Troyes was still alive somewhere. He would let this play out to his advantage; once he decided what that advantage was and who it lay with.

They followed Nikko past a large manor house with elaborate gardens surrounding the back and east side. A large barn and stables swept out to the west side of it. The simple practicality of water troughs and hitching posts in the courtyard contrasted sharply with elegance behind it. Blue veins shot through the chinked pale yellow stone of the manor house.

Nikko pointed at it. "That is the chieftain's house, Claw Redhand."

Malthus nodded, his trained eyes swept the grounds. The three-story structure wasn't as large as some sa'necari manors, but he estimated that it must have at least sixteen bedrooms in the main part and an equal number in the servants' wing. Lycans did not build their homes for defense. They counted on stopping invaders before they reached the houses and generally they were alerted by the packs of true wolves that freely ran their valleys, which were defensible areas in and of themselves. Those wild packs would need to be located and destroyed early.

"How far have you traveled?" Nikko asked.

"Too far," Malthus replied. "Two months ago I was in Ildyrsetts."

"I have never been there. It is down along the coast?"

"Yes. A little over two weeks ago, I was in Dragonton near Torment Lake." Malthus rubbed his pen quill thin mustache, pulling at the curving ends a moment. He had more facial hair than most sa'necari because of his inheritance from his human mother, which required daily shaving with the elegant folding razor in his pocket to keep neat. Malthus used it to cut throats as well as to shave. He had picked it up in Timbren while working for one of the wealthiest bounty hunters in the business, Necrodez. There were rumors that Necrodez had finally met his match near Ildyrsetts last winter, but Malthus would have to see it to believe it.

Nikko nodded thoughtfully. "I hear there has been violence there."

"Not all of the old nobility wanted to accept the new queen. They met in Dragonton to discuss what actions to take. The queen swept down upon them..." Malthus let his voice trail away and made a cutting motion across his throat with his finger. "My family was among them."

Malthus studied Nikko. The mon seemed much too young for his position, no more than seventeen, or eighteen. Lawgivers were chosen by the location of the stars at their birth or other omens and reared for the job, serving the elder lawgiver. Malthus wondered what had happened to the old one, Nevin Scarface. Well it worked to his advantage to have such an inexperienced lawgiver to deal with. Now, if only he could be so lucky with the Willodarian priest.

They walked farther and entered the village proper. By that time Ros and Lyrri were stumbling with exhaustion. Malthus lifted Lyrri into his arms. Seeing the way Ros was faltering also, Nikko picked her up with a glance at Malthus who nodded his permission.

"I am sorry that it is so far," Nikko said. "We built the sanctuary in the protected area on the northeast side."

"I can understand that. It is a logical way to protect those less able to protect themselves." And a good way to isolate people until you decide whether you can trust them. Canny wolves.

The rustic village contained mostly the traditional longhouses of variegated stone, with newer frame houses sprinkled through, painted in the forest colors beloved of the lycans. A single main street traversed the village, which was almost large enough to be called a small town, with numerous residential side streets. They passed a large assortment of shops and establishments, including two eateries, a couple of taverns, a dry goods, a tanner's, and toward the end a blacksmith and a harness-maker. The majority of lycans were no more than semi-literate, hence the graphics on the signs over every place of business. Where human villages tended to be dirty, with streets of dead brown, packed down earth--the lycan main street was thick with trees of all kinds and grass growing in a wide swath down the middle. Trees shaded the fronts and sides of every building, with tree rounds and benches for sitting scattered through with comfortable abandon. The lycans were fond of sitting outside and gabbing with whoever happened by. People stopped to nod at them and acknowledge the lawgiver in a mix of politeness and curiosity as they sized up the newcomers.

Malthus gave them his most humble expression salted with suitable anxiety as if uncertain of his welcome. The two pretty little girls were his key to opening doors and hearts, and he would see that they played it very well. He patted Lyrri's back, slid into her mind, and sent her to sleep. Over the course of their journey, he had placed coercions, sways, and triggers in their minds as deeply as possible. "She's exhausted. We all are. Is it much farther?"

"Only a little. Poor little thing," Nikko said. "We'll have you a place to sleep and food in no time."

The sanctuary proved to be mostly a cluster of woven cone-shaped sheelings that required dropping to your knees before crawling inside. Smoke rose from ventilation holes in the roofs of the sheelings. A long house built of stone stood at the center with a chimney in the middle of its roof. Several smaller buildings of wood stood half finished. A short distance away three more stone houses were being raised as permanent shelters; as well as others that were still being constructed by the refugees along with volunteers from among the lycans. Tree rounds and crude benches provided seats beneath the trees, as did the scattered small boulders.

Most of the volunteers were teenagers, yet they moved to their tasks capably and without hesitation. All lycans were reared to a trade as soon as they could walk.

A plump, middle-aged lycan wearing a shapeless, dark blue dress stood on the green in front of the long stone house. Nikko walked up to her. "Beth, I have more folks for you to care for. This is Malthus. The girls are Lyrri and Ros. They're sa'necari born, but their uncle isn't. Their family was wiped out in the rebellion."

Beth quirked an eyebrow at that. "We're getting a few of those. Come inside." She gestured at the longhouse.

Malthus said nothing when he saw her nostrils flare and she sniffed him in passing. Lycans did not consider it rude to check newcomers out with their noses. He knew that she was confirming his claim to be human. She would not find anything. Malthus used an embedded spell on the ring he wore to mask his nature, scent and sa'necari eyes. They could spellcord him, yet his eyes and scent would still be hidden. The ring had been a gift from Lord Daemon, who appeared to have an unusually substantial horde of early sa'necari artifacts.

The longhouse had a dirt floor and a deep fire pit in the center, around which several children lay sleeping. A room at either end was separated from the rest of the building by a half wall that had a curtained door and window built into the slat panels. Weathered gray wooden frames were built into the windows to the outside to hold the shutters that they closed on cooler nights.

Beth grabbed some bowls off a shelf and knelt by the pit. A huge kettle hung above the pit, suspended on two iron posts with a rod across them. She dipped up a hearty stew of lentils, lamb, and vegetables.

Malthus woke Lyrri as he knelt and set her on the ground. Nikko placed Ros by her sister near the fire pit.

"I'll return tomorrow and check on how you're doing," Nikko said. He left as Beth began handing bowls around to Malthus and his nieces.

Beth had a sweet, apple-cheeked face and a pleasant manner. She beamed at the girls as they ate hungrily. "Have they been blooded yet?"

Malthus gave her a startled grin. "That's some years off. Female sa'necari get their fangs with their menses, or so that side of my family told me."

Beth glanced at his wrists as if looking for spellcord, leaned in, and sniffed him again. "You're human."

"I'm afraid so."

Beth sniffed Ros and Lyrri. "Sa'necari. How is it you're not?"

Malthus had expected to be interrogated. The lycans were cautious about outsiders. Odds were that Beth might prove to be a bit of a gossip and that could work to his favor. He gave her a straight look with just an edge of concern. "My mother was human. One of my father's numerous mistresses. I was born in Dragonton near Torment Lake."

Beth brightened. "I know the area. I have cousins up there. City wolves, but nice folk."

Mixing lies with his truths, Malthus described a bit of his youth growing up along the lake where their sa'necari overlords had once held most of their rites since the days of Waejonan. His last name was not Estrobian, but he had known the Estrobians well, having grown up with Volosarius Estrobian, the mon who introduced him to Necrodez, his last teacher.

Beth warmed to him steadily.

"I never met any of the Estrobians when I visited my cousins, but I heard of them," Beth said. "Fancy folk."

"Aren't all sa'necari in this land?"

Beth chuckled. "Not the ones working the sanctuary. We got them spellcorded, sealed, and doing chores."

Shivers ran through Malthus at the thought of being spellcorded. "You have adult sa'necari here?"

"Yup. Five women. Only way we'd let them accompany their children across the bridge."

Malthus swallowed back his reaction to that news and changed the subject. "Where will we sleep for the night? I would like to get the girls settled soon."

"Here for the moment. I'll get you some mats and blankets. Tomorrow one of the women should be moving into a new house with her children. It's there near enough finished. Then you can have their sheeling for the time being, until you can get a house up."

Dynanna sat in the middle of her bed in Imralon, where she had remained after Isranon left early last spring. Normally she would have gone home to either her cottage in the garden that she shared with her brother, or her little house in the Badree Nym village of Summersnow near Blue Dog Pass. Nothing she did could distract her from moping over the black bottle Dynarien had given her for Isranon.

The bottle contained a euthanasia drug the Assassins Guild used. Isranon carried a divinator's curse inside his damaged body. Divinators used the bodies of their victims to turn the tides of wars, destroy kings, and deliver terrible curses. She had no way to know what would happen if the embedded spells killed Isranon.

Dynanna squeezed the bottle until her knuckles whitened. She shoved the bottle into her pocket with a heavy sigh, and got up, wandering listlessly to her wall with the slingshots on it. Dynanna took each of them down, turning them around in her hands half-heartedly before replacing them with another sigh. No doubt existed in her mind but that a great and powerful curse would be unleashed upon someone with Isranon's death. The only ways to avert it were to either get the spells out before they could kill him or to change the manner of his death. Certain ways of dying would accommodate the spells, such as the dark rites or a violent death, especially if blades were involved. Contrariwise, if Isranon died quietly by his own hand...

Dynanna worried that if she gave him the bottle and explained about the curse lodged within him, he might decide to simply take the drug and die, rather than continuing his struggle to live and risk releasing the curse should the embedded spells finally claim him. Her hand went to the bulge in her pockets that was the bottle. "I wish you hadn't left this up to me, Dynarien," she muttered.

Then a thought struck her that sent a shivering sea of goose bumps over her body. What if Isranon's death was a curse directed at the destruction of the Sacred King? Without the Sacred King and at least one mage-paladin of Kalirion, matters could soon spiral out of hand what with the dark forces pounding along the eastern bank of the Hillora. Kalirion had his king, but not his mage-paladins; they were always pan-elementalists and lifemages. Usually an Abelard.

But there were none of them left. Except ... except...

Dynanna suddenly had an idea. She had to talk to Kalirion. Dynanna had been putting that conversation off because Kalirion always tried to seduce her and he could be very persistent. She sucked in a fortifying breath and Jumped for the Gardens of the Sun.

It was night in the world below, but it was always daylight in the garden of Kalirion, which lived and blossomed in a wondrous eternal springtime. The garden was incredibly lovely. Trees bloomed and fruited all year round. Flowers in every shade of blue imaginable grew there.

Few signs remained to show that, up until a year ago, Kalirion's Jesmyrran angels had still been coaxing Dynanna's gophers from it. At Dynanna's insistence, they had released those gophers where they were now harassing the fields and gardens of a particularly nasty tribe of goblins. The garden now bloomed in its full beauty and luxuriant growth. Every shade of blue and yellow could be found in a lush riot of color; from blossoms to fruit; on bushes, vines, and trees. The grass grew deep and sweet in a soft carpet over every open space. The winding paths were paved in topaz and turquoise, the broad stones set in interesting patterns.

The Idyn tree at its center overflowed with large, iridescent, peacock blue fruit and flowers, showing every sign of recovering from Dynanna's long ago gopher curse. Looking closer, however, she could still detect a droop in its branches. She felt a flash of guilt at that. Dynanna sighed. One of these days, she would learn to keep her temper in check and not react without thinking. She had come here seeking answers to a prophecy and Kalirion, who was in love with her, had insisted she trade him a day and a night of sex for it. Dynanna had agreed to the deal and then cursed his garden afterward. It had taken his angels years to catch and remove all of her gophers.

She settled on an elegant white bench to wait for him to appear. He always knew when she arrived these days.

Dynanna did not have long to wait. Kalirion emerged from his palace beyond the Idyn tree, wearing only a short white kilt. He was an immense man, six foot five inches, very muscular and clean limbed. Every time she saw him, Dynanna became wet between her thighs with longing; however, her perverse sexuality was such that every single time she had sex with a god, she got pregnant. What was worse was that she could get pregnant with another child every twenty-four hours for up to a week before it stopped. Multiple births were a commonplace for her. Gods were fun in bed, but she preferred mortals since she had not yet managed to get pregnant by one. Kalirion and Ishla both said they were looking into a solution to her problem, but neither of them had found it yet.

"Have you come for conversation or for a favor, belovèd?" Kalirion asked, joining her on the bench.

She looked into his eyes of flame. "A favor."

A bright, eager smile spread over his fair face and he flicked back a blond curl from his forehead. "You know the price."

"Nope." Dynanna grinned cheekily. "I have something else you want just as much."

The Elder God arched an eyebrow at her. "What would that be?"

"A mage-paladin. An Abelard."

His lips thinned. "There aren't any."

Dynanna grinned. "Oh, yes, there is."

"Give me his name. If you're right, then I'll give you your favor."

"Lord Isranon Dawnreturning of the lineage of my brother Dawnhand." The words were scarcely out of her mouth when Dynanna could tell that she had Kalirion's full attention. "He's mine, but I'll trade him to you."

The Great Hall of the Redhand Manorhouse was the largest room in the building. Two rows of stone support columns ran along the south and north sides of the room. Clusters of comfortable chairs, sofas, and low tables in dark-stained wood broke the Great Hall into false alcoves. The sections of a large trestle table stood stacked along the south wall to be assembled for rare formal dinners. At the east end stood the deep hearth and to the left of the hearth were three looms, a spinning wheel, and several baskets of wool and yarn.

Claw sat in his big over-stuffed chair. Like most of the lycan clans, he maintained an informal household, rather than the elaborate courts of the sa'necari and the humans of Shaurone to the south and Creeya to the Northeast. On the side table sat his pipe rack with a jar of tobacco in the center and four pipes in cradles around it. He filled his pipe, struck a lucifer and lit the herb. Claw took several puffs, then slid his gaze across the four guardsmyn seated around him: stout Belgair, the Captain of Claw's Household Guards for the past two decades, reputed to be a bully although Claw had yet to witness it himself; blond Kynyr Maguire, the youngest of the guardsmyn at twenty and so handsome that some said it was downright sinful; tow-headed Finn MacIver, who had missed being youngest by two months; and Ramsey Fitzgerald with hair as red as a whore's petticoats and a temperament so mellow and staid that it proved you could not judge a mon's nature by the color of his hair.

A slender nibari slave entered with a tray and handed out tankards of mead. "Will that be all, Master Claw?"

"Yes, Kissie."

His gaze rested longest on a handsome young male named Kynyr Maguire. Kynyr looked so much like Claw's long dead son, Tarrant, that it often caused a poignant flutter in the otherwise crusty, obdurate old chieftain. "I hear they've a new one at the Camp."

Kynyr glanced at the Captain of the Guard, Belgair, before answering. He drew a glare followed by a shrug from Belgair. "A male with two little girls."

"I don't like it. Males don't stop here."

The Sanctuary Refugee Camp existed only because Claw permitted it, and he liked to keep a close watch on it.

"They do if they've children along." Belgair pointed out, and took a long draw from his tankard.

"Yaw. And how many times has that happened in the last four years? They stay just long enough to dump the cubs and run."

Kynyr shook his head at Claw, drawing another glare from Belgair. "Nikko says this one is insisting he's here for the long haul ... that he won't desert his nieces."

"Sa'necari?"

"Only the girls. He's human."

"Or so he says. Go ask around, Kynyr. Ramsey, you and Finn go with him."

Kynyr finished his mead and they left.

Belgair out-stayed the others, leaning in toward Claw. "Just because he's got a pretty face..."

"Shut up, Belgair." Belgair had never known Claw's twin sons, Logan and Tarrant. They had died ten years before Belgair's birth. Belgair had no idea what they looked like because Claw had ordered all their portraits removed from the walls of the manor after their deaths: looking at them made his wife Aisha cry. Let Belgair think what he would; Claw had no intention of opening himself up for accusations of sentimentality by telling Belgair what it was that drew him to Kynyr.

"I wouldn't put so much trust in Kynyr ... if I were you."

"I'll be the judge, Belgair. You've made your points, now get out."

Belgair frowned and removed himself.

Claw sat a long time alone, smoking and drinking, ringing the bell for Kissie repeatedly to refill his tankard. He kept hoping that Kynyr would draw the eye of his daughter Merissa, but she seemed determined never to fall in love again; and like the rest of the Redhand family, stubbornness was proving a curse. So far all that Claw had was the bastard child Merissa had borne her sa'necari lover--a child that could not inherit the realm because he had not been born lycan. If Merissa did not find a husband in the next year, Claw intended to exercise his rights and arrange a marriage for her whether she wished it or not.