Pandeena Moonbow rode into the quiet village of Running Horse at the southern edge of the mountain fastnesses of Clan Silverpaw. She had not been here in centuries, yet it had changed little. Cubs played along the streets: in human form wearing scruffy traditional robes; rolling, barking, and darting about in wolf form; two who had mastered the hybrid form wrestled near a horse trough. People walked the tree-shaded main street, most of them wearing the traditional wraparound robes with loose ties, made of embroidered cloth for the bitches and rope for the dogs. The human clothing styles, prevalent in some of the larger towns, had not yet reached Running Horse. She saw few males in trousers and shirt, and no bitches; which made Pandeena all the more conspicuous in her freeranger-style dark green leathers, trousers and jerkin with a pale brown shirt. She carried a Sharani longsword at her shoulder and a pair of lycan fighting knives at her hips. A two-chambered bow case rode beneath the flap on her heavy lycan saddle.

One of the easiest ways to spot a lycan village was to see how green it was. Unlike the humans in other countries, they had not given up their connection to the natural world. They built up instead of out for the most part, to allow for gardens and trees around their businesses and homes. The balconies of the buildings overflowed with flower boxes and roof top gardens abounded, all tended with loving care.

Two things made Running Horse famous: their strong, tough horses that regularly won the log pull at clan festivals and their lawgiver, Padruig Caimbeul, who was celebrated for his wisdom, even-handed decisions, and utter fearlessness. Pandeena pondered what kind of reception she would get from Caimbeul, considering that they had parted in anger a century ago. The average lycan lifespan was six score years, barring accident, disease, or violence. Caimbeul, however, was nearly five hundred years old. His paternal grandmother had been a fireborn, and he had inherited the lifespan, if nothing else.

Pandeena reached the village common, glanced across the expanse of open green, and spied the Lawgiver House sitting on the northeast corner of Roundtop Street facing the common. She turned her horse onto the green and cut across it, avoiding six sheep grazing there under the watchful eyes of two cubs.

The Lawgiver House was a human-style building--Pandeena noted that she was seeing more of those every time she ventured out into the lands of her people--a blunt brick structure with a columned portico across the front and tie-up rails in the yard. Two lycans sitting on the portico in wooden chairs stopped in their conversation to stare at her as she dismounted and tied her horse to the nearest rail.

She was accustomed to being stared at. Part of the reason was the way she dressed. The second reason was her looks: Pandeena was beautiful, as befitted a granddaughter of the Moon God, Tala, Mistress of Wolves and the Hunt.

A young wolf, his silver hair like a touch of moonlight on a bright night, rose to his feet as she mounted the steps. "Can I help you?"

"I'm looking for the lawgiver."

"That's me. I'm Samuel Tarvish, lawgiver to Running Horse."

Pandeena extended her hand to him, palm up, fingers curved into a half-claw.

Samuel raised an eyebrow at that, grasped her hand and sniffed her fingers. "Lycan?"

Pandeena nodded. "I'm looking for Caimbeul."

"Pity that." The other lycan, a gray-beard on his chin, chuckled. "Pretty bitch like you ought to stay away from that old crosspatch."

She frowned. "We are talking about Padruig Caimbeul?"

"Oh, aye. He's retired now. All he does these days is drink and snarl."

"Where can I find him?"

Samuel led her inside, where he drew a map on a scrap of paper to show her how to find Caimbeul's cottage.

Pandeena found a cottage exactly where Samuel had said, but, looking at it, she was certain it could not possibly be Caimbeul's. She wrinkled her nose in distaste. The place was little more than a rundown shack built out of cast off slatboards. One of the posts on the porch had rotted away, causing the roof to droop. The sight of it gave her stomach an odd flutter, remembering how Caimbeul had once disparaged wolves who lived like this. The boards creaked as she mounted the steps and crossed the porch. She knocked on the door.

"Caimbeul?"

"Go away." The voice from inside the shack carried an edge of irritation marred further by slurring. "I don't talk to anyone."

Pandeena frowned. This did not sound like the Caimbeul she remembered. "I need you."

"Go away!"

She turned the knob and stepped inside. The interior shocked her worse than the exterior had. The Caimbeul she had known years ago had been clean and tidy, everything had a place, and he wanted everything kept in its place. A king's ransom in empty beer and whiskey bottles lay scattered over the dirt floor of the one room shack. The acrid scent of rotted food drew Pandeena's attention to the square table shoved in a corner, stacked high with filthy plates and pans whose odorous contents would not bear close inspection. A dozen empty mead kegs with their sides busted in stood silent witness to a recent fit of drunken rage.

"What do you want, Pandeena?"

Caimbeul's surly voice drew her gaze to a corner. The huge, grizzled wolf, nearly completely gray, lay on the floor with a bottle in his hand, and whiskey dribbling down his unshaven chin. He had developed a paunch. The tremendous biceps and muscular chest she had so admired had turned to flab. Caimbeul had finally gotten old; and he had not aged gracefully. Only the craggy features, now lined and weathered, remained to suggest he had ever been handsome.

"I need a lawgiver." Pandeena kicked bottles out of her path and stepped further into the messy cottage.

"I'm retired."

"Are you, old lecher? I say you're sulking." Pandeena scanned the room again, trying not to stare at him. He had changed so much that she wondered if this had turned into a fool's errand.

"Go away, Pandeena. I've had enough aggravation." Caimbeul pushed into a sitting position and leaned his back against the wall. He took another swig from his bottle of whiskey and glared at her.

A faint frown drew lines across Pandeena's forehead. "Seems to me the only aggravation you've got comes out of a bottle."

"Oh for gods' sake, Pandeena. Let me be."

"I need a lawgiver and the best."

Caimbeul threw the bottle at her, sending a spray of whiskey across the room. "Get out."

Pandeena caught the bottle, looked at it, and saw there was some left. She wiped it off and drank it. "You're the best, Caimbeul."

"I'm old. I don't do it anymore." Caimbeul snatched up two empty bottles and threw them in a determined effort to hit her.

Pandeena side-stepped the missiles and the sound of shattering glass told her they had struck the wall behind her. "The Butchering Serpent is in Wolffgard."

"The hell you say." He stopped short with another two empties in his grasp. "Look at you ... a fresh face girl of eighteen for the rest of your life." Caimbeul smashed the bottle he was holding against the wall. "Where were you when I needed you?"

"You knew what I was when you married me."

"And you knew what I was when you divorced me."

"A lecherous old sot with no concern for my feelings."

Caimbeul flinched. "I loved you."

"Is that why I was always hauling your ass out of whorehouses when you went to Waejontor?" Her lips compressed into a tight line of annoyance.

Caimbeul averted his eyes from her cool, blue gaze, and changed the subject. "What's this about the Serpent?"

Pandeena folded her arms and stared at him for a moment before answering. "Are you really interested? Or just trying to avoid an argument?"

"Cut the crap. What's this about the Serpent?"

"Do you even know who he is? For all I know you've been too drunk to notice anything for the past twenty years. Or longer."

"I heard about it. Okay? Sixteen years ago, the Assassins' Guild tipped off a Battle-Clan that someone was kidnapping city wolves and murdering them wholesale. It was a lurid tale. Vivisections. Toxin testing. Mass graves."

"Would Fireborn Law like to take a shot at bringing him down?"

Caimbeul winced. "Don't call me that. Fireborn Law died in Skeleton Creek ... when they killed my son."

"Our son."

"You wouldn't know he was yours ... way you were never home."

"I loved him."

"You barely knew him." Caimbeul snorted. "I raised him alone."

"Not totally." Pandeena glanced away. "Look, I'll stop bringing up the past, if you will."

"So, back to the Serpent."

"Someone murdered the lawgiver ... well, tried to. Nikko Softpaws is with my mother. We don't know if he's going to live or not. He's in bad shape. His people think he's dead and it's best left that way."

"He tell you the Serpent attacked him?"

"No. Trauma wiped his memory. The only thing he knows is his name."

"Then how do you know it's the Serpent?"

Pandeena almost smiled. She could hear the quickening of interest in Caimbeul's voice. "It's a long story. Can I sit down?"

"The floor don't mind."

She cleared a space on the floor and settled cross-legged. "Nikko was shot with a special blend of Devil's Silver that only the Serpent is known to use. I decided to look into it. When I got to Hell's Widow, Amos Raggat told me that Wolffgard's priest had died."

Caimbeul's eyes got that old familiar steel in them, and Pandeena knew that this was not a fool's errand after all. "Priest and lawgiver both?" He scratched at the stubble on his chin. "Sa'necari always send someone in to kill the priest and the lawgiver as a prelude to invasion."

"You taught me that."

"You learned something. Go on."

"Claw Redhand sent his best courier to fetch a priest from Shaurone. Cullen Blackwood."

"How is Cullen? I haven't seen him in years."

"Dead. Sa'necari butchered him. I suspect it happened in Hell's Widow."

"Damn." Caimbeul's hands clenched into fists, his mouth tightened, and his gaze roved the roof beams. "I used to win ... a lot betting on him. He could ride like Death over a battlefield. Cullen was a prick ... and a slut ... but he had a good heart."

Pandeena flicked a strand of golden hair out of her face. "I know. I didn't like him at first. He got on my nerves. I'm the one found his body. Kynyr Maguire asked me to scry for it ... so we could bring his remains home. They'd dumped him into a shallow grave outside Hell's Widow. That's why I think he died there. Cullen was given a proper burial and lies behind my shrine in Wolffgard."

"You think the Serpent did it?"

"I'm certain he did. According to Kynyr, one of the sluts from the Crimson Lady witnessed the murder. A mon in a serpent mask killed Cullen."

"Anyone can wear a mask, Pandeena."

"Put it together, lawgiver. Mask, signature poisons, signature arrows. It's him."

Caimbeul sucked in a deep breath, a calculating look came in his eyes, his manner focused and steadied. "I don't own a horse. Only clothes I got is what I'm wearing. I'm not presentable."

Pandeena eyed him for a second, trying to decide whether his statement was the beginnings of an excuse or a true suggestion of need. "Clothes and a horse ... I can provide them. Does this mean you'll come?"

"Count me in."

New clothes and a bath did wonders for Caimbeul and Pandeena soon had him looking acceptable. She missed his long hair, but the mats and snarls had been so bad when she set to work on it, that Pandeena had been forced to cut it short and close to his head.

Caimbeul stood in front of the mirror in his room at the Sleeping Dog Inn and wagged his head at the image reflected there. "I can't say if I like it or not, Pandeena."

Her nose wrinkled at him. "I imagine it took a lot of scrubbing to get the dirt off."

"Well, yes and no." Caimbeul grinned and left her to make what she would of the implications. "So I'm to be Lawgiver of Wolffgard."

Pandeena had spent the past days giving Caimbeul more details, and he had mulled them over. The facts of the situation bothered him greatly. The previous lawgiver had been unusually young; Nikko Softpaws had received his place at the age of sixteen and held it for only three years when he disappeared. He was believed dead, although his body had never been found. Bits of his flesh had been discovered lodged in the teeth of several dead imps. Imps ate their prey alive. The bits and pieces of Nikko's flesh were Read, and found to contain traces of Devil's Silver, a deadly poison to lycans, but not to imps. Imps did not use Devil's Silver. Myn did. He had scrutinized all of the information that Pandeena had given him and found her reasoning sound.

"Does it bother you? The idea of being senior to all the lawgivers in Red Wolf?"

His eyes went distant and he crossed the room to a small table where his pipe and tobacco pouch lay beside a small box of lucifers. He settled into a chair, filled his pipe, and lit it. "A century ago ... I would have leaped at the chance. Gwythyr would have been proud of me ... he was anyway ... but you know what I mean." Caimbeul caught the look in Pandeena's eyes and made a fending off gesture. "I don't want to talk about our son. I'll try to stop mentioning him. But you must understand, Pandeena ... not a day goes by that I don't think about him."

Her eyes softened. "How does this affect your willingness to go to Wolffgard?"

Caimbeul looked away, his head lowered; then he sucked in a deep breath and straightened. "I'm not as sure of myself as I used to be."

"I know that."

"Have you picked our route?"

"The direct route is across the Hellblade Corridor. However, that's heavily patrolled and I don't wish to reveal myself. It would be in the best interests of our people if no one knew that the Second Mother was at large in the world again."

Caimbeul considered that a wise decision. Before the Lycan Rebellion of 997, Red Wolf had touched on Silverpaw in the north. When the Waejontori crushed the rebellion, they seized that strip of land and fortified it in an effort to isolate the two strongest of the Nine Great Clans: Red Wolf and Silverpaw. That area currently lay in the hands of the Waejontori Queen Tomyrilen the Bastard, who had raised a revolt against the Sharani.

"So you won't simply Jump us there?" He tried to keep his gaze on her face, but his eyes kept drifting across her exquisite body in spite of his best efforts; and he wondered by what cursed chance he had managed to fall in love with the Second Mother of the lycan race. All lycans, to one degree or another, traced their ancestry to Pandeena, a yuwenghau--a minor divine.

"Same reason."

Caimbeul nodded and puffed on his pipe for several minutes, thinking. "That leaves only making a detour through Waejontor proper. We'll still be dodging Queen Tomyrilen's forces until we reach Sharani held territory."

"We're taking the same route back that I took getting here. I know what I'm doing."

"There are things I will need to buy along the way."

"I guessed as much." Pandeena unfastened a pouch from her belt and tossed it to him.

Caimbeul caught it in mid-air with a speed and ease that belied his obvious age, noted the weight, and opened it. Coins filled the pouch, mostly silver, but with a substantial amount of gold. "All of this is mine?"

"I said I would take care of you."

A small smile lit his grizzled face. "You always were as good as your word."

"Don't spend it all on whiskey. A drink or two at the inns we stop at is one thing ... but if I catch you lost in a bottle ... I'm going to beat the unholy hell out of you."

"You have my word. I will stay sober."

The final purchase at Running Horse had been two pack animals and a gentle gelding for Caimbeul. He had thrown a fit, wanting a spirited animal like he had ridden in his youth. Pandeena overruled him; she had no idea how badly his skills might have deteriorated after spending years in the bottle. The single thing she had no doubts about was the condition of his mind: he was as sharp as ever.

They rode out of Running Horse three days after Pandeena appeared at Caimbeul's shack, winding their way down through the western foothills of the Eiralyskali Mountains, heading into Waejontor proper. The Waejontori--and hence the Sharani also--considered the lands of the Nine Great Clans to be part of Waejontor. The lycans considered themselves independent and neutral. The Sharani had respected the lycans' right to rule themselves; while the sa'necari aristocracy of Waejontor never had even to the slightest degree, and with the rise of Queen Tomyrilen, were beginning to pressure the clans. The situation did not bode well for the lycans.

They entered Waejontor in the evening of their second day of travel, stopping for the night at a lycan-owned inn on the outer edge of the town of Skinner's Hollow. Pandeena got them rooms with a connecting door and had dinner sent up to Caimbeul's room. They sat together eating in silence, worn out by the tensions of the day. Pandeena had been bending her Wilderkin talents to avoid the guard patrols, the birds and the beasts alerted her whenever one was near and they got off the road.

Caimbeul pushed his plate away and settled back in the chair with his pipe. "You still haven't told me if you have a suspect."

"I do and I don't. It's hard to explain."

"Try."

"Claw Redhand extended a kindness to the women and children fleeing the war, by creating and supporting a refugee camp they call the Sanctuary."

"Humans?"

Pandeena nodded. "And five sa'necari women with lycan offspring. Some of the children are sa'necari-born."

That brought a frown to Caimbeul's face. "Sa'necari murdered his sons and he's taking their offspring in? Where'd he get that?"

"His grandson is sa'necari. His daughter had a bastard child by a Dark Brother of the Light, possibly a descendant of Dawnhand."

"I thought they were all dead. That massacre ten years ago.... "Caimbeul took a long draw from his pipe.

"There were two survivors. Isranon and his sister. The sister perished three years later. According to Lokynen Willidar, Isranon is now calling himself Dawnreturning."

"What's the cub's name?"

"Darmyk. He's a sweet little cub. However, there are several odd things about him. He's Wilderkin. And he has a wine-stain birthmark on his left shoulder in the form of the Willodarian bear."

"Godmark?"

"I suspect so. I haven't been able to contrive an opportunity to examine it."

"We are living the old curse about interesting times. I've never heard of a sa'necari child who was godmarked and Wilderkin."

"Neither have I. But he is."

"I'd like to have a look at him."

"You will. Any way. There's a mon at Sanctuary who has a lot of influence with the young wolves. He's human. I touched him, so I should know. However, I swear he tried to Read me."

"Mage?"

"No sign of it. His name is Malthus Estrobian. My gut instinct says that's not his real name. He came to the camp with two sa'necari born nieces, orphans. When Lokynen found Nikko, the young wolf said something that sounded like Marl or Mal or something like that, and that there was a sa'necari in Wolffgard who shot him."

"You have five of them to pick from."

"You mean the women? No, they've been there for several years now and they're spellcorded."

"So you think he meant Malthus?"

"Possibly. The mon makes me uneasy."

"Well, you've given me a lot to think about. I'll probably have more questions later."

After Pandeena had gone to bed, Caimbeul slipped downstairs and purchased three bottles of whiskey that he stowed in his packs. He would keep his word about staying sober on the road, but once he got settled into Wolffgard, Caimbeul intended to tie one on.

As they descended out of the mountains where the lycan clan, Silverpaw, dwelled, the tangled forests gave way to larger and larger stretches of farmland, and the towns and villages grew closer together on the flatlands of central Waejontor. Despite the war, people still traveled. They passed peasants on the road; black clad Waejontori women in their headscarves and shapeless dresses following the proper number of paces behind their men. A coach rattled past them at midday with a large armed guard. As the number of people on the road increased, it soon became clear to Pandeena that it would be next to impossible to avoid the Waejontori patrols entirely. They would become mixed in with the others and her animals spies would more easily confused.

What they did not see caused a sense of tension to grow in both of them: there were no lycans anywhere.

"Where have they all gone?" Pandeena asked, frowning at Caimbeul.

"I don't know, but we're conspicuous by their absence. And I think we're about to find out."

Pandeena followed his glance and saw a small unit of guardsmyn approaching them: dark myn in blood-red livery.

"Ho, lycans!" The captain shouted at them.

Pandeena reined in and waited. Had she been alone, or had Caimbeul still had all the skills of his youth, she would have acted against them at once; however, it seemed better to take a wait and see approach to this.

The Captain swung off his horse and stalked toward them. "Dismount and show me your papers."

She blinked. "My what?"

"Travel papers. All lycans in the Queen's territory are required to have travel papers. You must have permission to travel."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

The commander raised an eyebrow at her. "Clans wolves are you?"

Caimbeul dismounted and sauntered up to the commander. "We dinna know aboot this." He thickened his accent in a deliberate fashion, hoping to appear as a simple-minded farmer. "Ah'm takin' mah new bride home. She's a pretty thing, don't ya think?"

The commander glanced at Pandeena. "If you like them pale."

"Sa what we do aboot these papers?"

"You'll have to come into town with us. We'll talk, and if my commander likes your answers, you will be given papers and allowed to go on."

"An if ya dunna like them?"

"Matters could get rather ugly." The captain sneered at them. "I'm sure the garrison will enjoy opening your wife's legs."

Caimbeul frowned. "Ah dunna want thaht. Ah ain't hawd time ta swell her yet."

The captain chuckled at the stupidity of Caimbeul's answer. "If you don't cooperate, you'll leave with her swollen ... but it won't be yours."

"An' if'n ya like muh answers, Ah get her back untouched?" Caimbeul sounded puzzled, scratched behind his ear, and flashed Pandeena a cat sign that was hidden by his large head and thick neck.

Pandeena extended her Wilderkin talents, touching the Waejontori horses' nostrils with the scent of lions. They bucked and reared. Several bolted.

"What the hell?" The captain froze, staring at the spectacle incredulous.

In the moment of distraction, Caimbeul drew his knife, grabbed the captain by the shoulder, and plunged the blade into his throat with a ripping twist. The captain's eyes bulged in shock as he sank to his knees. Caimbeul jerked the blade out, turned, and remounted his horse. "Come on, let's get out of here."

A sharp tingling sensation swept through Caimbeul and his horse shuddered under him. He felt Pandeena's powers gathering for a Jump. They vanished from the road in a shimmer of golden light.

They materialized beneath a stand of beeches and Caimbeul had no idea where they were. The roads had changed a lot over the century that he had retreated gradually into the bottle in Running Horse.

"You should have done that in the first place."

Pandeena shrugged. "I wanted to see if you could talk us out of it."

"I tried. I'm rusty at that stuff."

"I saw that." Pandeena noticed that Caimbeul was shaking. "Are you all right?"

"I haven't killed anyone since Skeleton Creek."

"When Gwythyr died?"

"I put my blades up. This isn't even a proper knife." He pulled his blade and showed it to her as they rode.

"It's just a belt knife...."

"Yah. I'm surprised it worked so well."

"You must start wearing your blades again. It isn't safe."

"I don't own any." Caimbeul's expression darkened as if staring into the mouth of nightmares.

"Then I'll get you some."

He gave a mute nod and did not reply. His thoughts drifted to the pair of fighting knives wrapped in silk and buried in his packs--the ones he had not worn since he failed to save his son. "Where are we?"

"Sharani held territory ... or at least it was last time I was through here."

"Yes, but where?"

"Due west of Tamrath Falls."

Caimbeul scratched his chin, certain that his request would not go over well with her, but deciding to make it anyway. "Can we stop off at Skullbones?"

"Why?" Suspicion crept into her tone. "What do you want there?"

"Stop off at that mage shop ... if it's still there."

A frown deepened on Pandeena's face. "The only thing you ever bought there was contraceptives ... those bloody seed crystals. We're almost killed and all you can think about is sex?"

Caimbeul winced, glaring at his hands as he summoned up the courage to respond, and wondered where he had lost it. It had always been easier to argue with her when a haze of alcohol lay between them. Some days he was painfully conscious of who she was and on other days, she was just Pandeena to him. Caimbeul was too self-aware not to realize how and why he wavered between reverent and irreverent with her. She was both one of his gods and simply a bitch he had gotten his bone into. Life was easier when he took the latter view and he clung to it when he finally formed a response. "Why not? I've no intention of remaining celibate."

Pandeena snarled at him wordlessly.

"I'm male. Deal with it."

"Kynyr isn't like that."

Kynyr? "Who the hell is he?"

"Kynyr Maguire. Cahira Sinclair's grandson."

"Are you sleeping with him?

"Not that it's any of your business ... not yet." Pandeena went arch on him, savoring her jabs in undisguised fashion. "However, we will be soon. Have you ever known a wolf that could turn me down?"

Caimbeul averted his eyes and did not speak to her for the rest of the day except to answer brief questions. Meanwhile, she prattled on about the 'noble' and 'handsome' Kynyr Maguire until Caimbeul wanted to hit him in the face.

The young guardsmon, Kynyr Maguire, strode through the second floor hallway, heading for the Blue Room. His golden ginger hair, so thick it bloused around his face no matter how tightly he tied it back, hung at his shoulders in a clubbed knot. A narrow fringe of close-cropped golden beard framed his face from sideburns to an inch from his chin. His lantern jaw, pronounced cheekbones with dramatic hollows beneath them, and cleft chin made him the visual epitome of lycan masculinity. This often produced more discomfort than pleasure.

Growing up, his four older sisters would start telling him how handsome he was just before admonishing him not to get dirty on pain of being whomped with a hairbrush. He had decided young that ugly cubs had more fun and probably got to go fishing more often. Fishing had been one of Kynyr's favorite childhood pastimes and they had been forever trying to prevent him from doing it. Kynyr had spent many hours making elaborate plans for eluding them and running off with his fishing pole at every opportunity. Now that he was grown and living away from home he rarely got to go fishing, but the reasons were different.

Claw had sent for him to come and play checkers. The chieftain had been sending for Kynyr with increasing frequency just to talk to him over checkers or chess. The servants, as the Redhands insisted upon calling their small herd of nibari slaves, passed him along the way, going about their chores. They always smiled at him.

Redhand Manor had three main sections: the guard wing on the west, the main section where the family lived in the center, and the servants' wing on the east side. Ostensibly, the sections where only connected through doors that opened onto stairs wells on either end of the main hallway through which Kynyr walked. There were rumors of hidden passages and servants' passages that provided closer links with the rest of the house, but if they existed, Kynyr had never found them. The manor had been added onto many times over the five centuries of its existence, making it a veritable warren of halls, passages, drawing rooms, closets, and bedrooms.

The guardsmyn wing, where Kynyr had lived until two months ago, was the most recent addition. Claw had expanded his household forces to two hundred myn-at-arms over the last eighty years since the Lycan Rebellion of 997 had been crushed by their sa'necari overlords. He continued to expand it and still had room to hire another one hundred myn. In addition to his regular patrols that moved through the house and watched the manor grounds and their herds of sheep, goats, and racing horses, Claw had added a unit of at-large guardsmyn to the family section of the house that spent most of their time sitting with his bitches--Aisha his wife, two elderly sisters, Fianait and Searlait, and his daughter Merissa--eight myn and an officer to keep them company, walk in the gardens with them, and take them shopping. As a sign that Claw was adopting more of the human ways, he declared Kynyr their lieutenant, although no one really knew how to interpret the title.

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

Claw sat stacking and unstacking the red and black wooden rounds, his pipe clenched in his teeth although the fire had gone out in it. The chieftain looked up as Kynyr entered. "About time you got here."

"It's my day off," Kynyr protested.

"You get those, do you?" Claw tilted his head, eyes narrowing in an appraising way.

The young guardsmon could tell that Claw was in one of those unpredictable moods that so often threw Kynyr off-stride. "I was out in the barn when Kissie found me. Larkspur needs more exercise than I have time to give her."

"You could sell her to me." Claw arranged the pieces on the board, with a nonchalance that Kynyr recognized as pure fakery. The chieftain had given Larkspur to Cullen Blackwood before he realized just how much horse she was. Larkspur could outrun nearly anything on four legs and she was carrying a foal by Claw's top stud, Stormsong.

"No, sir. I couldn't. Cullen left her to me ... made me promise to take good care of her."

"Then you should hire a boy to take her out every day. She's a racer, Kynyr."

"On my wages?" Kynyr settled into the opposite chair and stared at the checker board.

Claw wagged a thick finger at him. "Don't give me that. I know your gram gives you a stipend. A couple of coppers a week isn't going to steal all your drinking money."

"I don't know a cub who could handle her."

"Don't lie to me." Claw brought his fist down hard in the middle of the checker board, knocking everything onto the floor. "Georgie Rogan says that dwarf of a cousin of yours rides her."

"Cooley?" Kynyr sucked in a breath, and swallowed back a groan. He wished the cub would stay away from the manor. Larkspur had belonged to the cub's murdered father, and so proved an irresistible draw to the boy. However, the last thing Kynyr and his family wanted known was that the cub was actually Cullen Blackwood's bastard son by the Madam of the Crimson Lady Brothel in Hell's Widow. When Cullen died, Silkie Faggini had sent the boy to Kynyr along with permission for his grandparents to adopt the ten-year-old. If these visits kept up, someone might start asking about Cooley and Kynyr worried that Cullen's murderers might come after the boy.

"That one."

Kynyr knelt and picked up the checkers, putting them back on the board.

"If that family of yours objects to mine so bloody much, then why the hell did you ever come to work for me?"

"My family doesn't dislike the Redhands." A note of caution entered Kynyr's voice, knowing how easy it would be to say the wrong thing and let slip matters best left private.

"Cahira..."

"Has issues. Gram doesn't discuss them. So I don't know what they are. I've told you that before. If you want to know what they are, you'll have to ask her."

"I intend to."

"Did you ask me here to play checkers or to interrogate me about my family?"

"Neither." Claw jerked his thumb at the cabinets on the far wall. "Fetch that bottle of Dragonsbreath and a couple of glasses. And while you're at it, close the door."

Kynyr could feel Claw's eyes boring into him with a thousand unanswered questions as he closed the door and fetched the whiskey. Claw snatched the bottle and poured for both of them as soon as Kynyr slipped back into his chair.

"You tell Cooley I'll give him two coppers a week to help Georgie with the horses in the mornings, including Larkspur."

"I'll do that. Now, what was it you wanted to talk about?"

"That no-good son-in-law of mine." Claw's lips pulled back from his teeth in a grimace of distaste.

"If you objected to Malthus that strongly, why did you allow the marriage? He's not right for Merissa."

"Crotchety bitches. All descended on me and complained I was ruining Merissa's life. If I hadn't said yes, I would never have heard the end of it."

Kynyr released a sigh, scratching at his thick yellow sideburns. "I know that one. The Dreaded Horde could be a bit much to handle."

Claw raised an eyebrow and chuckled. "Your sisters."

"Mine and Finn's. My six and his eight."

"You were neighbors?"

Kynyr gave Claw a long look. "I thought this wasn't going to be an interrogation."

Claw considered that for a moment and changed the subject. "Are you certain it wasn't Malthus put a knife in your back last spring?"

"Positive. He was walking away from me when it happened. The bitches and cubs were throwing rocks at me ... I guess because I bested him with the practice blades. Then someone ... it had to be lycan ... threw something sharper."

"Women and children ... they're humans."

"Yes."

"What happened then?"

"I keep telling you. I don't remember. I got hit in the head with one too many rocks. Going over and over this isn't going to make me remember." If I ever find out who did it, I'll gut them.

Claw stacked the red checkers up again and relit his pipe. He puffed for a bit. "I've got too many deaths now. I've stopped sending my messages out on horseback. Someone's killing my couriers. Cullen was just the first."

Kynyr went cold inside. "There's been more?"

"Three. And then you add in the dead priest and the lawgiver. Pandeena's gone to get us a lawgiver. Someone good."

"I thought she was visiting relatives..."

"That's what we wanted folks to think."

Kynyr put his black checkers in their places on the board before answering. "I can see your point. But what has this to do with Malthus? You said that was what you wanted to talk about."

"Make your move. If anyone walks in on us, just shut up."

Kynyr nodded and started playing: suddenly all the invitations to play made sense--the invitations that he was not allowed to refuse--now that the crafty old chieftain had a mon in his household that he did not fully trust, the games had become a way of covering for conversations that Claw did not want anyone to take notice of.

"So tell me, Kynyr. Is it true you beat Malthus?"

"I did."

"The young wolves are all saying you're the best I've got. You trained with Todd Sinclair. You ought to be."

"Finn did also ... but I'm better than Finn." Kynyr tensed. "I wish that hadn't gotten out. Belgair has been pushing for a fight with me ever since people started talking about it."

"Pretty hard not to." Claw chuckled and jumped two of Kynyr's piece. "He shows up with two of your uncles threatening to tear the place apart."

"He didn't!"

Claw shrugged with another laugh. "Nah. But when you said Todd Sinclair was your grandsire, I didn't know you meant that Todd Sinclair."

"Can we stay away from the subject of my family?"

"We can try. I don't know that Malthus had anything to do with what's happening around here. But then I don't know that he hasn't. The only thing I do know is that since the wedding he's kept my daughter in bed all day with her legs open and dumped his nieces on my family to watch."

"You want me to go back to keeping an eye on him?"

"Yeah."

"I'm going into Hell's Widow tomorrow. Aisha gave me a list of things to pick up for the manor. Would you mind if I spent a couple of days there? I want to talk to the prostitute who found Cullen's body."

"Still not going to tell me her name?" Claw gave Kynyr that edgy, appraising look again.

"No. She's frightened enough as it is."

Claw blew a heavy breath out through pursed lips. "Don't go alone. Cullen was good with his blades and they still got him. I want to know how. I want to know who. Once I know who, I want you to take him out."

"And if it's Malthus?"

"Kill him." Claw jumped another of Kynyr's pieces. "King me."

Kynyr's head whirled from the long conversation with Claw. He had promised his grandmother, Cahira Sinclair, that he would pick up some things for her at Hell's Widow when he went to pick up supplies for Aisha Redhand, Claw's wife, tomorrow. As he crossed the yard to walk into the village of Wolffgard, he noticed several children playing in the gardens.

Searlait, Claw's youngest sister, sat watching them. She looked much like Kynyr imagined Merissa would when she reached Searlait's age. He could see the faded beauty in the aristocratic lines of Searlait's face, the wealth of ginger hair mixed with gray and a single white streak at her left temple. A basket of embroidery sat beside her and she held a hoop with a square of cloth in it, stitching, and looking up periodically to check on the children. Malthus' two nieces, Ros and Lyrri, romped with Darmyk Redhand, Cooley, and the two Scott cubs, Rory and Hamish. It looked like a game of tag. Darmyk's maned hunting cat, Kenly, lay beside Searlait's feet drowsing. Darmyk had been a year old when he acquired Kenly, and the name was actually the child's mispronunciation of 'Kynyr' in an attempt to name the cat after him.

Kynyr gestured at Cooley. "I'm going to see Gram and I'd like to have a talk with you along the way."

"I didn't do anything wrong." Cooley shuffled his feet as he joined Kynyr and stood staring at his toes for a few moments.

"I didn't say you did. But we need to talk." Kynyr saw Rory and Hamish start toward them and waved them off. "Alone."

The two brothers shrugged and went back to playing.

"Am I in trouble?" Cooley asked, an uncertain frown wavering on his scruffy face. Small for his age, Cooley looked eight years old rather than ten. Kynyr hoped the cub would get a bit more height than his late father. Cullen had stood only five feet, four inches tall and taken a lot of kidding for his height. Which, now that Kynyr thought on it, might have been what had made Cullen so feisty.

Kynyr noticed a puffiness around Cooley's left eye, stopped walking, and flicked a long strand of white hair that was just darkening into blond back from the cub's face. Under all the dirt was a bruise. "You got into another fight?"

Cooley's expression flashed into sullen. "They were picking on me."

"Did they hit you first? Or was it just words?"

"They were calling my Ma a slut."

"They know about your mother?"

Cooley twisted away from Kynyr. "I told Lany O'Connor my mother was Silkie Faggini. I didn't think he'd tell."

Kynyr stopped and dragged Cooley unresisting into a hug. He ruffled his hair. "You mustn't tell people these things. Especially not about your father." Kynyr took a deep breath and expelled it in a huff. He had not wanted to frighten Cooley, but there seemed no other way to get him to keep his mouth shut. "Did your mother say anything about why she sent you to us? Why she let us adopt you?"

Cooley shook his head, his expression flashing from sullen to sad. "I miss my Ma. I guess she just don't want me any more. I always was a problem."

Kynyr grasped Cooley's hand and started walking with him again. "She sent you to us because she loves you."

"That don't make no sense."

"Cooley, did she tell you much about your Dad's death?"

"Just that Da got killed. Courier's a dangerous job."

"There's more to it. They tortured him to death for information. He died rather than give it to them."

"He was brave."

"Yes, he was." Kynyr ruffled Cooley's hair again. "Your Ma is afraid they'll try to kill you also. That's why she had us adopt you."

Cooley's eyes went large and he made a choking sound. "Ki-kill me?"

"Like they did your dad. That's why you must never tell anyone who your folks were. I'm sure Cahira can fix the situation concerning that slip of your tongue. But it mustn't happen again."

"Ma gave me up because they were gonna kill me?"

"Yes. Like your father."

Cooley burst into tears.

Kynyr stopped walking and gathered Cooley into his arms, patting his back. "Todd and I aren't going to let anyone hurt you. But you must keep your mouth shut."

"I will."

"Good." Kynyr hoisted Cooley onto his shoulders, grasped his legs firmly, and walked on with him.

Cooley's sniffles gave way to laughing and their mood eased.

"Before I forget ... Claw wants you to come to work in the barns for two coppers a week. Half days, mornings."

"Really?"

"Yes. You'll be exercising Larkspur and Bucky as well."

"Bucky's awesome. I've sat on him a few times ... but I haven't exactly ridden him."

Kynyr tried unsuccessfully to repress a smile at the audacity of the boy getting up on his big war-trained stallion. "You've been up on Bucky ... hmmn. Does Georgie know that?"

"He made me get off him."

"You stay off Bucky until I get back from Hell's Widow. Then I'll show you what he can do and how to handle him."

"He's a war horse, ain't he?"

Kynyr half-choked and then smiled. Observant little scamp. "Yeah. Todd trained him."

"Could he teach me to train them?"

"What would like to be when you grow up?"

"A courier like my Da was."

"It got him killed. Are you sure you want to do that?"

"I'm not afraid."

Kynyr lifted an eyebrow at that. "Really?"

"Train horses?" Cooley suggested hopefully, watching Kynyr's face for a reaction.

"That's better."

Cahira's Potions and Notions stood on Elmind Street, around the corner and down two blocks from the Difficult Horse Tavern that Kynyr and his friends frequented. Underneath the words on her sign were three sets of symbols that the largely illiterate lycan community could understand: a mortar and pestle; a serpent wrapped staff; a book, a bottle of ink, and a quill. The shop combined Cahira's four specialties; apothecary, healer, scribe, and translator. She could read and write in six languages, and she spoke ten. Even for a lycan that was unusual. Most could manage to speak four--lycan, common, Sharani and Waejontori--and read none.

Cahira Sinclair was that rarest of lycans: a mage. She had no large talents; nothing great enough to call herself anything except a generalist. However, Kynyr's grandmother had literally dozens of minor talents that she put to such skilled use that her lack of a major gift often went overlooked by those who did business with her.

Kynyr sat Cooley down when they reached the shop. Cahira and Todd Sinclair, Kynyr's grandfather, lived on the second floor. Todd had turned half of the third floor into a salle and taken on a handful of students for combat training. The retired Battle-Clan armsmaster had become a teacher again.

Cooley rushed into the shop, whooping about his new job, and Kynyr followed slower to give the cub room to brag and receive some notice from his adoptive parents. A pleasant array of display cabinets, wood halfway up and clear glass the rest, filled two sides of the shop with shelves built from floor to ceiling behind them. The rear of the shop had a low cabinet that flanked a long table with six chairs around it. Cahira sat at the table, totaling things in her ledger.

His grandmother was a tiny bitch, barely five feet tall, with a long blonde braid hanging down her back. Despite her years, a soft beauty lurked around the delicate bones of her face along with the laugh lines around her mouth and eyes.

Kynyr leaned against a wall with his arms folded loosely and smiled at Cooley. Cahira noticed him and waved a piece of paper.

"Here's my list."

Kynyr strolled over and nodded as he took the list from her hands and shoved it into his pouch. "I need to talk to Todd for a bit."

"He's in the salle."

"Is there anyone with him?"

Cahira shook her head. "He's just working out."

"Okay."

Kynyr headed down the hall and went up the stairs to the third floor. He stepped into the room as quietly as he could, although his horsemon's heels clicked on the wood and gave him away to his sharp-eared grandfather.

"I'll be right with you, Kynyr," said Todd without hesitating in working through his forms.

The big lycan stood six foot three inches and weighed two fifty; yet despite his one hundred and seven years of age, Todd Sinclair was still mostly muscle and rock hard. His bright red hair was as much a Sinclair trait as was his size. Family legend held that the Sinclairs could trace their lineage all the way back for thousands of years to a hero of the first godwar--a mon who was regarded by most as little more than a myth--Aristotle Sinclair. Kynyr had never disparaged Todd's claims, although the older he got, the more it seemed like humoring the man.

Todd left the mat, turned and bowed to it in a conspicuously Creeyan manner, before gesturing at the table and chairs on the far side of the room. The old mon had trained in the Creeyan and Sharani forms as well as the lycan arts. He had trained his children and his grandchildren with a mix of discipline and patience like an iron hand in a velvet glove. As a result of that, Todd and Cahira's huge extended family was the closest thing to a Battle-Clan that the village of Longbranch had.

"You've got that look in your eyes, Kynyr. Something on your mind?"

"Yeah." Kynyr considered his words before saying anything further. They both knew that Cooley was proving to be a challenge. The cub meant well, but he was having trouble fitting in. It was not just the differences between city wolves and clan wolves. Cooley had been raised in a brothel with only the children of prostitutes to play with; more to the point he had been the lone lycan cub in the bunch. The only lycans Cooley had known had been a handful of whores who worked for his mother; his father who rode into town from time to time and stayed only for short periods; and the males who came for their jollies. Now, at ten-years-old, the cub found himself thrust into a lycan clan community as a misfit among his own race. "Cooley. I'm going to Hell's Widow tomorrow."

"Your Gram said. Are you going to talk to his ma?"

Todd Sinclair had a strong, hearty face. The folded lines running from the wings of his nostrils to the outer edges of his lips were deep; the crinkles around his dark blue eyes were crevices in the stalwart earthiness of his features; his heavy eyelids did not lend themselves to clear expression of emotion, making any effort to read his features difficult even for those who knew him well. His calm, centered mien suggested a mon who did not go looking for trouble, but once it found him would be utterly relentless in dealing with it.

"Yeah. I wanted to go before now, but Claw wouldn't let me until he was sure I had healed up."

"Wise decision." Todd settled into a large chair that he reserved for himself alone. "Is he still bothering you about who your grandfather might have been?"

"He stopped trying to convince himself that I might be his great-grandson once you spoke to him."

"That's good." Todd regarded Kynyr for several moments. "You should never have come to Wolffgard. You're the spitting image of Tarrant Redhand. More so than your father."

Kynyr looked away and then back, trying to hide his discomfort. "That's what everyone there keeps telling me. You're probably right. I never had someone try to kill me before ... except for the time Claw sent us to deal with those outlaws. But that's different."

"You think it happened because they figured out you're Tarrant's grandson?"

"I don't know what to think. Right now, I'm more concerned about Cooley. He told Lany O'Connor that he was Silkie's son. That was what the fight was about."

"She was Cullen's favorite whore for many years." Todd rubbed his forefinger across his chin. "It's only a hop, skip, and a jump to seeing Cullen in him."

Kynyr put his hands on the table, laced his fingers, and leaned toward Todd. "That's what worries me."

"You think they'll make a try for the cub?"

"I think the ones who killed Cullen have agents in Wolffgard, possibly in the manor itself."

"So?"

"They killed Cullen in front of Silkie. Until I know more, all I can do is make guesses."

"Make them."

Kynyr glanced away again, wishing that Todd would not put him on the spot this way. It made him uncomfortably aware of the difference between them in terms of age and experience. Todd was the master of strategy and tactics, of discernment and logic--things that Kynyr, although he was considered a master by many of his peers among Claw's guardsmyn, still struggled with. He always worried about appearing the fool in front of Todd. "One. They tortured Cullen to get the names of Claw's other couriers. There's been three more killed. Claw's stopped sending messages by horseback. I don't know how he's doing it now."

"Next guess?"

Kynyr exhaled loudly. "Second concerns Silkie. I think they made her watch him die to intimidate her."

"Good so far. Why would they intimidate her?"

"To take control of the Crimson Lady. Brothels are good places to learn things. Males will spit out stuff to the whores without considering where the information might go from there."

"Now, connect it up to Cooley and I'll give you my thoughts."

"They must know that Cullen and Silkie had been lovers. They may even know that Cooley is Cullen's, although Silkie implied that no one but Cullen knew it. So there's two possibilities. They could be after Cooley because he's Cullen's. In which case they intend to kill him. Or they could be after Cooley because of Silkie, in which case they want him alive as a hostage."

"You're awfully certain they're after the boy."

"Silkie must have reason to think so, Todd. Otherwise why send him to us?"

"Good point. However, I doubt they want him as a hostage."

Kynyr blinked, a sense of unease creeping along his arms. "Why not?"

"We're not dealing with humans or lycans. We're dealing with sa'necari. Sa'necari would not need a hostage. They would simply cram Silkie's mind full of coercions until there was nothing she could do but obey."

"No. I don't think they would. Psi craft like that always has side-effects. Personality changes. Someone would notice."

"Only if they paid attention, Kynyr. No one pays attention to whores. Which is probably the reason males betray themselves so freely to them."

"Cullen did." Kynyr's mouth tightened.

"Cullen was an odd wolf. We'll see what we can do to fix the damage Cooley's caused himself."

"I'd like you to train him."

"He's not emotionally stable. The fight with Lany O'Connor was not the first one that Cooley's had."

"Training could help that." Kynyr met Todd's eyes with a calm steadiness. "The cub's life is on the line. If you don't train him, he'll die."

"Gut instinct?"

"Yeah."

"I'll teach him avoidance. But until he stops fighting with the villagers, I'm not going to teach him the arts of war. I don't want to see him kill another child just because they taunted him."

"Understood."

"Then I'll start with him this evening after dinner."

Relief blossomed on Kynyr's face. "Thank you."

Todd lifted his hand to forestall more talk from Kynyr. "But I expect something in return."

"What?"

"You'll answer all of my questions."

"About what?"

"I want to know everything you learn in Hell's Widow tomorrow. Everything his mother tells you. There will be other questions. Something bad is going on in this town and I want to know what."

Beneath Todd's calm exterior, Kynyr could sense an edge he had never seen before, and it prompted his agreement. "So be it."

The Difficult Horse Tavern, called that because of its sign that featured a horse sitting on its rump while a mon tugged the reins before it, stood on Main Street across from the village common. Hereward Wiggins, the owner, brewed his own mead from locally produced honey and it was considered the best in Wolffgard.

Barrels with spigots jutting from them lined the rear wall behind a polished bar of walnut heartwood. Sturdy chairs circled the round tables placed throughout the common room.

Kynyr occupied a table with his three closest friends, who had become his subordinates in the new unit that Claw had formed. His spiritbrother, Finn MacIver, sat at his right hand. Finn's pale hair hung in a long silken tail to the middle of his back with a neat orderliness that Kynyr envied every time he had to fight with his own discipline resistant mane. Ramsey Fitzgerald had the chair to Kynyr's left. Three tankards of mead had lent a rosette flush to his fair skin and heightened the color in his round cheeks until they nearly matched his fiery red hair. Eideard Doyle, the oldest of them at twenty-four sat directly across from Kynyr. His dramatic cheekbones broke the symmetry of his otherwise bland square face, framed by crinkly ash blond hair that was caught at his neck with a twist of leather.

Hereward's four buxom daughters waited tables at the Difficult Horse, flirting with the customers in a manner that skirted the edges of propriety, strictly 'look but don't touch.' The tavern master kept a spiked club behind the bar and everyone in the village knew better than to test his temper--especially where his daughters were concerned. When it got too busy in the evenings, the two nibari Hereward owned would be sent out to help with the orders.

Kynyr's eyes roved the room, searching for his favorite, LoraKady--or Kady as most called her. She was Hereward's eldest, a sweet-tempered bitch with flaxen hair that hung past her hips and a ready smile that suggested mischief. He frowned when he did not see her. "Where's Kady tonight?"

Finn glanced around the room before answering. "I don't know."

"She hasn't been around much since that Cullen business." Ramsey tilted his head to the side and contemplated his tankard as if he knew something he felt reluctant to share. "There's rumors going around about her."

"Like what?"

Eideard gestured at Rachel Wiggins with his tankard, indicating he wanted another. "Spit it out, Ramsey ... or I will."

Kynyr's frown deepened. "One of you tell me."

Ramsey looked uncomfortable, so Eideard growled something under his breath and then repeated it louder. "They're saying Kady is a slut. A bunch of those wet-tailed wheat-grinders that work at the mill." Eideard snorted derisively. "They're saying they got their rods into her ... and she liked it."

"They said that here?" Kynyr sounded incredulous. "What did Hereward do?"

Ramsey licked his lips and took a drink from his tankard. "That's the odd thing. Nothing. Acted as if he hadn't heard it, and I know damned well he had."

Kynyr blew a breath through pursed lips and scratched his sideburns. "I don't know what to make of that."

Rachel Wiggins, Hereward's youngest, sashayed up with a large tray of full tankards. "Another round?"

Finn and Eideard shoved their empties at her along with a five penny piece. Rachel took the empties and the coins, then placed full tankards in front of them.

"Where's Kady?" Kynyr asked her.

Her smile died and her mouth tightened. "How should I know?"

Rachel moved on to another table and Kynyr stared at her back with one eyebrow lifted.

"What's the plan for tomorrow, Kynyr?" Eideard asked, sipping at his mead.

"We're doing it different. Full arms. Armor."

"That'll mark us, Kynyr." Ramsey leaned across the table. "They'll know we're guardsmyn. The Sharani garrison will get antsy."

Eideard snorted. "Those she-devils aren't stupid, Ramsey. I'm sure they already knew that Claw's errand boys were guardsmyn."

"Probably. But the road's not safe anymore." Sitting his tankard aside, Kynyr got to his feet. "I'll be back in a bit."

"Where you going?" Finn started to push his chair back and follow.

"Out back for a bit of relief." Kynyr's mouth twisted into a crooked smile.

"Oh."

Kynyr passed through the common room and down the short hallway past the kitchen to the back door that opened on the alley. The sheltered rectangle that held the tavern's neatly sorted trash stood to the left of him and beyond that the dingy square of the privy. Kynyr felt as if the beer had gone right through him and filled his bladder to bursting as soon as it passed his lips. He put his hand on the door knob of the privy and started to turn it when a voice from within loosed a string of curses followed by "I ain't done yet."

Kynyr hissed between his teeth, knowing there was no way that he could hold it much longer. He glanced up and down the alley before slipping around behind the privy. Kynyr opened his pants, lifted his bone out, and relieved himself against the stone wall of the tavern like a dog marking territory.

As he finished lacing his pants closed, he heard a muffled cry and the sounds of a struggle. He came around as quiet as he could and saw two myn holding a bitch down while a third moved atop her. They had her skirts shoved up to her chin and a roll of cloth in her mouth. She writhed and jerked in a futile effort to get free.

"Be still you stupid whore or I'll beat the shit out of you," one of them growled.

Kynyr thought he recognized the voice, but was not certain as he slipped up to them. He kicked the one holding her left arm in the head, grabbed the one riding her by the collar and slammed him into the side of a building. The third released her and scrambled away as Kynyr's sword cleared the sheath.

"Kynyr Maguire," one of them spat at him.

"Cormic Parry." Kynyr leveled the sword at him.

Cormic's eyes widened and he backed farther from Kynyr. Then they all broke and fled.

Every since the day he beat Malthus Estrobian with a practice blade, most of the young rowdies did not want to fight him. It gave Kynyr a bitter satisfaction since that was also the day that someone put a knife in his back because they were afraid to try and take him from the front.

Kynyr sheathed his sword, knelt down, and gathered the young bitch in his arms. "Let me help you inside. Do you need a healer?"

"No."

The light from the tavern windows fell across her face. "Kady Wiggins! I'll get your father."

"No! He doesn't give a damn."

That did not sound like Hereward Wiggins. He had always been fiercely protective of his four daughters. "Kady, he's had all the dogs scared to touch you."

"My sisters, yes. Not me." She burst into loud sobbing. "This has happened before. He told me to get used to it ... that you can't rape a slut."

"You're not a slut, Kady."

"He thinks I am."

"Why?"

"Cullen."

"But I thought nothing happened."

Kady lowered her head and her shoulders drooped. "We'd been doing it for weeks ... meeting at the Commons after midnight. Dad had me checked by the midwife when rumors started flying. When Baroucha told him I was not a virgin, he turned his back on me."

"You're lucky you didn't get pregnant."

"Cullen used eelskins. He didn't take chances with that."

"He was your first?"

Kady swallowed and managed a small nod.

"Come on. I'll take you to Cahira."

"No. I'm all right." Kady pushed away from him. "Forget this happened." She got to her feet and fled down the alley.

"Kady!"

She hesitated at the mouth of the alley and glanced back at him.

"I'm going to beat the shit out of Cormic Parry, Kady. I promise."

She dipped her shoulders at him, turned, and vanished into the street.

Kynyr walked back into the tavern feeling troubled. The soul of Wolffgard seemed to be rotting away at its roots and he could not figure out why. He paused at the table he had been sharing with his friends.

"I'm going home."

Finn frowned. "You got that look in your eye. What happened?"

"I don't want to talk about it."