"But I am concerned, sir. I can't explain it, but I sense a storm gathering, and it centers on Ethelred."

Caedyrn rose and joined Taran at the main window of the library. "I suppose having all six of you descend on the court for the ball renewed his anti-dragon sentiments," he said in a low rumble, "though none of you caused him or anyone else the least difficulty."

A grim smile twisted Taran's lips. "He means to harm us if he can. We've got to keep Mother and Aislinn safe. Perhaps you should send Aislinn back to the aerie."

Caedyrn lifted a brow. "My, but you are in a jovial mood this morning, aren't you?"

"Father, I mean no disrespect," Taran said with a sigh, "but I don't think you're taking this threat seriously enough."

"Perhaps not," countered his father, "but I think you're giving it far too much weight. Relax, Taran. Go for a ride. Get away from your books and responsibilities for a while. You're too stressed for your own good."

"Maybe so. Maybe I'm worrying too much and the disturbance I feel is merely an echo of my spirit's disquiet."

"There's a good lad. Take a day off. Go hunting or fishing, perhaps--just don't spend your day worrying about castle intrigue. Whatever is going on, it will still be here when you return."

"Fine. I'll go fishing," Taran said, "but you must promise to use our link if anything untoward develops."

Caedyrn clapped him on the shoulder and grinned. "I promise; we won't fight any battles against the anti-dragon league without you."

Taran suppressed a scowl and exited the library. He had no desire to fish, but he was tired of everyone telling him he was imagining things. He strode to his chamber, gathered a few books, stuffed them in a saddlebag and set off for the stable with a deliberate stride.

He knew Luag and Brandubh would have taken their father's side, but he still wished the twins had remained at the castle a few days longer. Their stalwart presence comforted Taran. Aislinn and Prince Ewan seemed to spend every waking moment in each other's company, so Taran thought she was relatively safe. He couldn't imagine the prince allowing anyone to harm Aislinn. Morag and Eibhlinn had returned to the ice aerie with the twins and were out of harm's way.

"Right," he said through gritted teeth. "The family is safe. All but me, and Mother and Father."

But, as Caedyrn had pointed out, he and Sorcha had been dealing with this for a long time and enjoyed the king's protection. Taran simply needed to take control of his imagination.

He reached the stable and waved the groom away. "Thanks," he said in as light a voice as he could manage. "I'll see to my tack myself."

He lead Rory from his stall and hooked him into the cross ties. "We're going to enjoy a day away from the castle, boy," he said, stroking the bay gelding's forelock out of his eyes. "You'll appreciate a good gallop, won't you?"

Taran assembled the bay's saddle and tack with quiet efficiency. The dexterity of human hands still fascinated him. Dragons didn't work with tools or fashion straps and intricate braided leads and halters. Taran took great satisfaction in using his hands to accomplish a task.

"Yes," he told his horse with a whispered sigh, "I was born to wear a human form. Too bad it took so long for me to discover that fact."

He tightened Rory's cinch a final time, unclipped the cross-ties and led the gelding from the stable. Taran stepped up into the saddle and touched Rory with his heels. The gelding responded with a burst of excited speed. Taran laughed and leaned low over his mount's neck. He touched Rory's mind, reveling in the animal's unadulterated pleasure.

His sibs experienced this kind of rush from flight, but Taran never had. Dragon form had never suited him--not like it did the others--but he'd shared this exhilaration with them vicariously when they flew ... and had mourned his lack of joy.

Now, with the wind whipping through his chestnut hair and his mind linked to his mount's burgeoning elation, he experienced the thrill of speed firsthand.

Excitement grew, and power welled up from the deep reservoir of inherited talent, and he threw back his head and laughed. Shards and shells! On such a day, he could do anything!

Rory carried Taran across the fields and meadows surrounding the castle, finally slowing to a walk as they neared the forest.

They stepped into the hushed silence of a stand of aspen, and Taran extended his senses in an excess of caution. He expected to find the trivial scurryings of small animals, the flutter of birds settled in nests or on the wing. What he didn't expect to encounter were the dazed and disjointed thoughts of a young woman in pain.

He focused his attention on her confusion and fear and his heart froze. Senga. The auburn-haired dragon-hater who frequently obsessed his thoughts needed assistance.

He dismounted, tethered Rory loosely so the gelding could rest and graze, and followed his instincts into the wood.

A deer trail wound through the undergrowth, leading him closer to the woman who fascinated him. He'd gone no more than a few hundred feet when he realized she wasn't alone. Men surrounded her, men who had hurt her.

Taran stopped, stepped behind a large oak and pushed his heightened awareness further into the grove where Senga lay bound and gagged on the forest floor. A strong desire to comfort the frightened girl gripped him, but he resisted. She wouldn't understand. Already groggy from a nasty head wound, she would think herself on the brink of madness if he touched her mind. Instead, he insulated his thoughts from her pain and disorientation in order to better observe her situation.

Four men stood in the clearing. Animosity divided them.

"What are we waiting for?" snarled a thick-minded man. An impression of physical power assailed Taran, along with undisguised lust. The man's throbbing cock swept all other thought from a less than facile mind. Need ruled him, but caution kept him from taking the female whose body enticed him.

"We're waiting for Wat," said a second man, whose mind dismissed Senga's feminine allure with complete indifference. "If she's anyone special, we can ransom her," he threw a warning glance at cock-for-brains, "but not if you've ruined her. No father will pay to have a soiled girl returned."

"Yeah," said another voice, thick with excitement, "but if they don't want her back, we can have all the fun we want." He grinned at his horny companion. "And it won't matter if she lives through it."

"In fact," said the final brigand, a mind so dark Taran recoiled from its touch, "we'll be better off if she don't survive. Dead folk don't talk."

Taran received a jolt of lusty anticipation, but not for Senga's living flesh. This man wouldn't be interested in slaking his thirsts until her body lay cold and dead. Necrophilia provided his only true release.

Taran leaned his head against the sturdy trunk of the oak and pushed the filthy images from his mind. He thought of his family, of the flight, of the clean blue sky and crystal ice of the dragon weyr. Emotions under control, he hatched a plan.

One man against four. Not good odds, but Wat might bring others with him when he returned. Besides, Taran wasn't just a man. Senga might dislike and distrust him, but he felt sure she'd prefer him to her present company.

The time had come. Taran couldn't afford to wait longer. He silenced his doubts, focused his attention on the well of power at his core and called a web of energy into being around his hands.

Senga's awareness spiked at the flow of magic, and Taran sent a wave of calming energy toward her. Hush, lady, he thought, I am here to help. Be still.

She relapsed into a haze of pain. He shifted his full attention to her captors and stepped from the shelter of the trees.

"Release the lady and be gone," he cried in a ringing voice, "or prepare to suffer the consequences."

The men jumped to their feet, grabbing clubs and unsheathing swords. When all faced him, the putative leader barked with laughter. "What are you going to do, little man? You aren't even armed, and Cian here could break you like a stick."

"Possibly," said Taran. "In which case, you won't need these." He manipulated the lines of magic from all parts of the glade and pulled the weapons from the men's grasps. Shining swords, clubs and numerous smaller knives hurtled toward him only to stop inches from his person and clatter noisily into a heap at his feet.

The startled ruffians hesitated for a moment and then lunged at Taran en masse. He smiled grimly and flowed from man to dragon.

He realized his mistake at once. Pain wracked his body, but he clamped down on the instinct to link to parents or sibs. He'd made this error in judgment; he'd deal with it.

The attacking men fell over each other in their haste to back away from the mountain of pearly scales, claws and teeth now blocking their path.

Taran took a step forward, covering their weapons with his bulk and said, "Do you really wish to continue this confrontation?" He exhaled a gout of flame, scorching cock-for-brains' arm, and roared, "Be gone! And not just from this glade. I know your faces. Never show them in Glengorm or Rossal again."

The terrified men raced for their horses, and Taran moved closer to Senga. With infinite care, he laid a huge, clawed foot across her body, protecting her from the flurry of hooves.

When the sound of the fleeing men died away and the glade returned to midday silence, he sliced her bonds with a single, delicate stroke of his claw and flowed back into human form. He stood for a moment, swayed slightly, and collapsed to the ground, a naked man convulsed with fever, too weak even to manipulate the link to his family.