






lois Mcmaster Bujold

The Hallowed Hunt





CHAPTER ONE


THE PRINCE WAS DEAD. 
Since the king was not, no unseemly rejoicing dared show in the 
faces of the men atop the castle gate. Merely, Ingrey thought, a furtive 
relief. Even that was extinguished as they watched Ingrey's troop of 
riders clatter under the gate's vaulting into the narrow courtyard. They 
recognized who he was-and, therefore, who must have sent him.

Ingrey's sweat grew clammy under his leather jerkin in the damp 
dullness of the autumn morning. The chill seemed cupped within the 
cobbled yard, funneled down by the whitewashed walls. The lightly 
armed courier bearing the news had raced from the prince's hunting 
seat here at Boar's Head Castle to the hallow king's hall at Easthome in 
just two days. Ingrey and his men, though more heavily equipped, had 
made the return journey in scarcely more time. As a castle groom 
scurried to take his horse's bridle, Ingrey swung down and straightened 
his scabbard, fingers lingering only briefly on the reassuring coolness of 
his sword hilt.

The late Prince Boleso's housemaster, Rider Ulkra, appeared 
around the keep from wherever he'd been lurking when Ingrey's troop 
had been spied climbing the road. Stout, usually stolid, he was 
breathless now with apprehension and hurry. He bowed. Lord Ingrey. 
Welcome. Will you take drink and meat?

I've no need. See to these, though. He gestured to the half 
dozen men who followed him. The troop's lieutenant, Rider Gesca, 
gave him an acknowledging nod of thanks, and Ulkra delivered men 
and horses into the hands of the castle servants.

Ingrey followed Ulkra up the short flight of steps to the 
thick-planked main doors. What have you done so far?

Ulkra lowered his voice. Waited for instructions. Worry 
scored his face; the men in Boleso's service were not long on initiative 
at the best of times. Well, we moved the body into the cool. We could 
not leave it where it was. And we secured the prisoner.

Yes, my lord. This way. We cleared one of the butteries.

They passed through the cluttered hall, the fire in its cavernous 
fieldstone fireplace allowed to burn low, the few red coals half-hidden 
in the ashes doing nothing to improve the discomfort of the chamber. A 
shaggy deerhound, gnawing a bone on the hearth, growled at them 
from the shadows. Down a staircase, through a kitchen where a cook 
and scullions fell silent and made themselves small as they passed, 
down again into a chilly chamber ill lit by two small windows high in the 
rocky walls.

The little room was presently unfurnished but for two trestles, the 
boards laid across them, and the sheeted shape that lay silently upon 
the boards. Reflexively, Ingrey signed himself, touching forehead, lip, 
navel, groin, and heart, spreading his hand over his heart: one 
theological point for each of the five gods. 
Daughter-Bastard-Mother-Father-Son. And where were all of You 
when this happened?

As Ingrey waited for his eyes to adjust to the shadows, Ulkra 
swallowed, and said, The hallow king-how did he take the news?

It is hard to say, said Ingrey, with politic vagueness. 
Sealmaster Lord Hetwar sent me.

Of course.

Ingrey could read little in the housemaster's reaction, except the 
obvious, that Ulkra was glad to be handing responsibility for this on to 
someone else. Uneasily, Ulkra folded back the pale cloth covering his 
dead master. Ingrey frowned at the body.

Prince Boleso kin Stagthorne had been the youngest of the 
hallow king's surviving-of the hallow king's sons, Ingrey corrected his 
thought in flight. Boleso was still a young man, for all he had come to 
his full growth and strength some years ago. Tall, muscular, he shared 
the long jaw of his family, masked with a short brown beard. The 
darker brown hair of his head was tangled now, and matted with 
blood. His booming energy was stilled; drained of it, his face lost its 
former fascination, and left Ingrey wondering how he had once been 
fooled into thinking it handsome. He moved forward, hands cradling the 
skull, probing the wound. Wounds. The shattered bone beneath the 
scalp gave beneath his thumbs' pressure on either side of a pair of deep 
lacerations, blackened with dried gore.

The prince's own war hammer. It was on the stand with his 
armor, in his bedchamber.

How veryunexpected. To him as well. Grimly, Ingrey 
considered the fates of princes. All his short life, according to Hetwar, 
Boleso had been alternately petted and neglected by parents and 
servants both, the natural arrogance of his blood tainted with a 
precarious hunger for honor, fame, reward. The arrogance-or was it 
the anxiety?-had bloated of late to something overweening, desperately 
out of balance. And that which is out of balancefalls.

The prince wore a short open robe of worked wool, lined with 
fur, blood-splashed. He must have been wearing it when he'd died. 
Nothing more. No other recent wounds marked his pale skin. When 
the housemaster said they had waited for instructions, Ingrey decided, 
he had understated the case. The prince's retainers had evidently been 
so benumbed by the shocking event, they had not even dared wash or 
garb the corpse. Grime darkened the folds of Boleso's bodyno, not 
grime. Ingrey ran a finger along a groove of chill flesh, and stared warily 
at the smear of color, dull blue and stamen yellow and, where they 
blended, a sickly green. Dye, paint, some colored powder? The dark 
fur of the inner robe, too, showed faint smears.

Ingrey straightened, and his eye fell on what he had at first taken 
for a bundle of furs laid along the far wall. He stepped closer and knelt. 
It was a dead leopard. Leopardess, he amended, turning the 
beast partly over. The fur was fine and soft, fascinating beneath his 
hands. He traced the cold, curving ears, the stiff white whiskers, the 
pattern of dark whorls upon golden silk. He picked up one heavy paw, 
feeling the leathery pads, the thick ivory claws. The claws had been 
clipped. A red silk cord was bound tightly around the neck, biting 
deeply into the fur. Its end was cut off. Ingrey's hairs prickled, a 
reaction he quelled.

This is no creature of our woods. Where in the world did it 
come from?

Ulkra cleared his throat. The prince obtained it from some 
Darthacan merchants. He proposed to start a menagerie here at the 
castle. Or possibly train it for hunting. He said.

How long ago was this?

A few weeks. Just before his lady sister stopped here.

Ingrey fingered the red cord, letting his brows rise. He nodded 
at the dead animal. And how did this happen?

We found it hanging from a beam in the prince's bedroom. 
When we, um, went in.

Ingrey sat back on his heels. He was beginning to see why no 
Temple divine had yet been called up to take charge of the funeral rites. 
The daubing, the red cord, the oak beam, hinted of an animal not 
merely slain but sacrificed, of someone dabbling in the old heresies, the 
forbidden forest magics. Had the sealmaster known of this, when he'd 
sent Ingrey? If so, he'd given no sign. Who hung it?

With the relief of a man telling a truth that could not hurt him, 
Ulkra said, I did not see. I could not say. It was alive, leashed up in 
the corner and lying perfectly placidly, when we brought the girl in. We 
none of us heard or saw any more after that. Until the screams.

Whose screams? 
Wellthe girl's.

She cried for help.

Ingrey stood up from the exotic, spotted carcass, his riding 
leathers creaking in the quiet, and let the weight of his stare fall on 
Ulkra. And you responded-how?

Ulkra turned his head away. We had our orders to guard the 
prince's repose. My lord.

Who heard the cries? Yourself, and?

Two of the prince's guards, who had been told to wait his 
pleasure.

Three strong men, sworn to the prince's protection. Who 
stood-where?

Ulkra's face might have been carved from rock. In the corridor. 
Near his door.

Who stood in the corridor not ten feet from his murder, and did 
nothing.

We dared not. My lord. For he did not call. And anyway, the 
screamsstopped. We assumed, um, that the girl had yielded herself. 
She went in willingly enough.

Willingly? Or despairingly? She was no servant wench. She 
was a retainer of Prince Boleso's own lady sister, a dowered maiden of 
her household. Entrusted to her service by kin Badgerbank, no less.

Princess Fara herself yielded her up to her brother, my lord, 
when he begged the girl of her.

Pressured, was how Ingrey had heard the gossip. Which made 
her a retainer of this house. Did it not?

Ulkra flinched. 
Even a menial deserves better protection of his masters.

The ugly incident with the murdered manservant was the reason 
Prince Boleso had suffered his internal exile to this remote crag. His 
known love of hunting made it a dubious punishment, but it had got the 
Temple out of the royal sealmaster's thinning hair. Too little payment for 
a crime, too much for an accident; Ingrey, who had observed the 
shambles next morning for Lord Hetwar before it had all been cleaned 
away, had judged it neither.

Any lord would not then go on to skin and butcher his kill, 
Ulkra. There was more than drink behind that wild act. It was 
madness, and we all knew it. And when the king and his retainers had 
let their judgment be swayed, after that night's fury, by an appeal to 
loyalty-not to the prince's own soul's need, but to the appearance, the 
reputation of his high house-this disaster had been laid in train.

Boleso would have been expected to reappear at court in 
another half year, duly chastened, or at least duly pretending to be. But 
Fara had broken her journey here from her earl-ordainer husband's 
holdings to her father's sickbed, and so her-Ingrey presumed, 
pretty-lady-in-waiting had fallen under the bored prince's eye. One 
could take one's pick of tales from the princess's retinue, arriving barely 
before the bad news at the king's hall in Easthome, whether the cursed 
girl had yielded her virtue in terror to the prince's importunate lusts, or 
in calculation to her own vaulting ambition.

If it had been calculation, it had gone badly awry. Ingrey sighed. 
Take me to the prince's bedchamber.

The late prince's room lay high in the central keep. The corridor 
outside was short and dim. Ingrey pictured Boleso's retainers huddled 
at the far end in the wavering candlelight, waiting for the screams to 
stop, then had to unset his teeth. The room's solid door featured a 
wooden bar on the inside, as well as an iron lock.

The windows to the right of the armor stand were narrow, with 
thick wavery circles of glass set in their leads. Ingrey pulled the 
casements inward, swung wide the shutters, and gazed out upon the 
green-forested folds of countryside falling away from the crag. In the 
watery light, wisps of mist rose from the ravines like the ghosts of 
streams. At the bottom of the valley, a small farming village hacked out 
of the woods pushed back the tide of trees: source, no doubt, of food, 
servants, firewood for the castle, all crude and simple.

The fall from the sill to the stones below was lethal, the jump to 
the walls beyond quite impossible even for anyone slim enough to 
wriggle out the opening. In the dark and the rain. No escape by that 
route, except to death. A half turn from the window, the armor stand 
would be under a panicked prey's groping hands. A battle-ax, its 
handle inlaid with gold and ruddy copper, still rested there.

The matching war hammer lay tossed upon the rumpled bed. Its 
claw-rimmed iron head-very like an animal's paw-was smeared with 
dried gore like the blotch on the rug. Ingrey measured it against his 
palm, noted the congruity with the wounds he had just seen. The 
hammer had been swung two-handed, with all the strength that terror 
might lend. But only a woman's strength, after all. The prince, 
half-stunned-half-mad?-had apparently kept coming. The second blow 
had been harder.

Ingrey strolled the length of the room, looking all around and 
then up at the beams. Ulkra, hands clutching one another, backed out 
of his way. Just above the bed dangled a frayed length of red cord. 
Ingrey stepped up on the bed frame, drew his belt knife, stretched 
upward, cut it through, and tucked the coil away in his jerkin. 
He jumped down and turned to the hovering Ulkra. Boleso is 
to be buried at Easthome. Have his wounds and his body 
washed-more thoroughly-and pack him in salt for transport. Find a 
cart, a team-better hitch two pairs, with the mud on the roads-and a 
competent driver. Set the prince's guards as outriders; their ineptitude 
can do him no more harm now. Clean this room, set the keep to rights, 
appoint a caretaker, and follow on with the rest of his household and 
valuables. Ingrey's gaze drifted around the chamber. Nothing else 
hereBurn the leopard. Scatter its ashes.

Should he and his captive travel with the slow cortege, or push 
on ahead? He wanted to be away from this place as swiftly as he 
could-it made his neck muscles ache-but the light was shortening with 
autumn's advent, and the day was half-spent already. I must speak to 
the prisoner before I decide. Take me to her.

It was a brief step, down one floor to a windowless, but dry, 
storeroom. Not dungeon, certainly not guest room, the choice of 
prisons bespoke a deep uncertainty over the status of its occupant. 
Ulkra rapped on the door, called, My lady? You have a visitor, 
unlocked it, and swung it wide. Ingrey stepped forward.

From the darkness, a pair of glowing eyes flashed up at him like 
some great cat's from a covert, in a forest that whispered. Ingrey 
recoiled, hand flying to his hilt. His blade had rasped halfway out when 
his elbow struck the jamb, pain tingling hotly from shoulder to 
fingertips; he backed farther to gain turning room, to lunge and strike.

Ulkra's startled grip fell on his forearm. The housemaster was 
staring at him in astonishment.

Ingrey froze, then jerked away so that Ulkra might not feel his 
trembling. His first concern was to quell the violent impulse blaring 
through his limbs, cursing his legacy anew-he had not been caught by 
surprise by it sincefor a long time. I deny you, wolf-within. You 
shall not ascend. He slid his blade back into its sheath, snicked it 
firmly home, slowly unwrapped his fingers, and placed his palm flat 
against his leather-clad thigh.

Ingrey licked dry lips. I cannot see you in that den. And what 
I saw, I disavow. Step into the light.

The lift of a chin, the toss of a dark mane; she padded forward. 
She wore a fine linen dress dyed pale yellow, embroidered with flowers 
along the curving neckline; if not court dress, then certainly clothing of a 
maiden of rank. A dark brown spatter crossed it in a diagonal. In the 
light, her tumbling black hair grew reddish. Brilliant hazel eyes looked 
not up, but across, at Ingrey. Ingrey was of middle height for a man, 
compactly built; the girl was well grown for her sex, to match him so.

Hazel eyes, almost amber in this light, circled in black at the iris 
rim. Not glowing green. Not

With a wary glance at him, Ulkra began speaking, performing 
the introduction as formally as if he were playing Boleso's house-master 
at some festal feast. Lady Ijada, this is Lord Ingrey kin Wolf-cliff, who 
is Sealmaster Lord Hetwar's man. He is come to take you in charge. 
Lord Ingrey, Lady Ijada dy Castos, by her mother's blood kin 
Badgerbank.

Ingrey blinked. Hetwar had named her only, Lady Ijada, some 
minor heiress in the Badgerbank tangle, five gods help us. That is 
an Ibran patronymic, surely.

Chalionese, she corrected coolly. My father was a lord 
dedicat of the Son's Order, and captain of a Temple fort on the 
western marches of the Weald, when I was a child. He married a 
Wealding lady of kin Badgerbank.

And they aredead? Ingrey hazarded. 
She tilted her head in cold irony. I should have been better 
protected, else.

Umum After a moment's thought, Ulkra gestured them to 
follow. He did not, Ingrey noticed, hesitate to turn his back upon the 
girl. This prisoner did not fight or bite or scratch her jailers, it seemed. 
Her pace, following him, was steady. At the end of the next passage, 
Ulkra waved to a window seat overlooking the back side of the keep. 
Will this do, my lord?

Yes. Ingrey hesitated, as Lady Ijada gracefully swept her 
skirts aside and seated herself on the polished boards. Should he retain 
Ulkra, for corroboration, or dismiss him, to encourage frankness? Was 
the girl likely to become violent again? The unbidden picture of Ulkra 
crouching in the corridor above this one, waiting in the dark for 
screams to stop, troubled his mind. You may go about your tasks, 
housemaster. Return in half an hour.

Ulkra frowned uncertainly at the girl, but bowed himself out. 
Boleso's men, Ingrey was reminded, were out of the habit of 
questioning the sense of their superiors' orders. Or perhaps it was that 
any who dared were got rid of, one way or another; and these were the 
remainder. Residue. Scum.

A little awkwardly, for the short length of the seat forced them 
uncomfortably close together, Ingrey sat beside her. His presumption of 
prettiness, he decided, had been inadequate. The girl was luminous. 
Unless Boleso had gone blind as well as mad, she must have arrested 
his eye the moment it fell upon her. Wide brow, straight nose, sculpted 
china livid blotch darkened one cheek, and others ringed her fair 
neck, a pattern of plum-colored bruises. Ingrey lifted his hands to lie 
lightly over them; she flinched a little, but then bore his probing touch. 
Boleso's hands were somewhat larger than his own, it appeared. Her 
skin was warm under his fingers, fascinating, transporting. A golden 
haze seemed to cloud his vision. His strangling grip tightened-he 
whipped his hands away, his gasp masked by hers, and clenched them 
on his knees. What was that?

She sat back, her startled glance altering to a piercing regard. 
He caught her scent, neither perfume nor blood but grown woman, 
and, targeted by that gaze, for the first time wondered what he looked 
like-and smelled like-to her. Riding reek, cold iron and sweat-stained 
leather, chin dark-stubbled, tired. Weighed with sword and knife and 
dangerous duties. Why did she not recoil altogether?

Which beginning? she asked.

He stared at her for a blank and stupid instant. From your 
arrival here at Boar's Head, I suppose. Was there another? He must 
remember to return to that question.

She swallowed, possessed herself, began: The princess had 
started out in haste for her father's hall, with only a small retinue, but 
she was overtaken by illness on the road. Nothing out of the usual, but 
her monthly time brings her dire headaches, and if she doesn't rest 
quietly through them, she becomes very sick. We turned aside to this 
place, for it was as close as anything, and besides, Princess Fara 
wished to see her brother. I think she remembered him from when he 
was younger and lessdifficult.

How very tactful. Ingrey could not decide if the turn of phrase 
was diplomacy or dry wit. Caution, he concluded, studying her closed 
and careful expression. Wits, not wittiness, kept close about her.

We were made welcome, if not to her custom, then to this 
place's ability.

Had you ever met Prince Boleso before? 
No. I've only been a few months in Princess Fara's service. My 
stepfather placed me there. He said- She stopped, began again. 
Everything seemed usual at first. I mean, for a lord's hunting lodge. 
The days were quiet, because the prince invited her guardsmen out to 
the hunt. Prince Boleso and his men were very boisterous in the 
evenings, and drank a great deal, but the princess did not attend, being 
laid down in her chambers. I took down complaints from her of the 
noise twice, but I was little heeded. They set the dogs on a wild boar 
they'd caught alive, out in the courtyard beneath her window, and made 
bets on the fight. Boleso's huntsman was very distressed for his hounds. 
I wished Earl Horseriver had been there-he could have quelled them 
with a word. He has a deadly tongue, when he wishes. We bided here 
three days, until the princess was ready to travel again.

Her lips thinned. Not that I could tell. He was equally 
obnoxious to all his sister's ladies. I knew nothing of hisregard, 
supposed regard, until the morning we were to leave.

She swallowed again. My lady-Princess Fara-told me then I 
was to stay. That this might not have been my first choice, but that it 
would do me no harm in the long run. Another husband would be found 
for me, after. I begged her not to leave me here. She would not meet 
my eye. She said it was no worse a barter than any, and better than 
most, and that I should look to my own future. That it was just the 
woman's version of the same loyalty due from a man to his prince. I 
said I did not think most men wouldwell, I'm afraid I said something 
rude. She refused to speak with me after that. They rode away and left 
me. I would not beg at her stirrup, for fear the prince's men would 
mock me. Her arms crossed, as if to clutch a tattered dignity about her 
anew.

I told myselfmaybe she was right. That it would be no worse 
than any other fate. Boleso wasn't ugly, or deformed, or old. Or 
diseased.

Ingrey couldn't help checking himself against that list. At least he 
did not match any of the named categories, he trusted. Though there 
were others. Defiled sprang to mind.

Then what happened?

At nightfall, they brought me to his chamber and thrust me 
within. He was waiting for me. He wore a robe, but under it his body 
was naked and all covered over with signs drawn in woad and madder 
and crocus. Old symbols, the sort you sometimes still see carved on 
ancient wooden foundations, or in the forest where the shrines once 
stood. He had his leopard tied up in a corner, drugged. He said-it 
turned out-it seemed he had not fallen in love with me after all. It wasn't 
even lust. He wanted a virgin for some rite he had-found, made up, I 
am not sure, he seemed very confused by this time-and I was the only 
one, his sister's other two ladies being one a wife and the other a 
widow. I tried to dissuade him, I told him it was heresy, dire sin and 
against his father's own laws, I said I would run away, that I would tell. 
He said he'd hunt me down with his dogs. That they would tear me 
apart as they had the pig. I said I would go to the Temple divine in the 
village. He said the man was only an acolyte, and a coward. And that 
he would kill anyone there who took me in. Even the acolyte. He was 
not afraid of the Temple, it was practically the property of kin 
Stagthorne and he could buy divines for a pittance.

The rite was meant to catch the spirit of the leopard, as the old 
kin warriors were supposed to do. I said, it could not possibly work, 
nowadays. He said, he'd done it before, several times-that he meant to 
capture the spirits of every wisdom animal of the greater kinships. He 
thought it was going to give him some sort of power over the Weald.

Ingrey, startled, said, The Old Weald warriors only took one 
animal spirit to themselves, one in a lifetime. And even that risked 
madness. Miscarriage. Worse. As I know to my everlasting cost.

Her velvety voice was growing faster, breathless. He hauled the 
leopard up by its strangling cord. He hit me and threw me down on the 
bed. I fought him. He was muttering under his breath, spells or raving 
or both, I don't know. I believed him, that he had done this before-his 
very mind was a menagerie, howling. The leopard distracted him in its 
death throes, and I wrenched out from under him. I tried to run, but 
there was nowhere to go. The door was locked. He'd put the key in his 
robe.

I suppose so. I scarcely know. My throat was raw, after, so I 
suppose I must have. The window was hopeless. The forest beyond 
seemed to go on forever, in the night. I called on my father's spirit, on 
his god, for my aid, out of the dark.

Ingrey couldn't help thinking that in such an extremity Lady Ijada 
would call on her proper patroness, the Daughter of Spring, the 
goddess to Whom virginity was sacred. It seemed very strange for a 
woman to call on Her Brother of Autumn. Though this is His season. 
The Lord of Autumn was the god of young men, harvest, the hunt, 
comradeship-and war. And the weapons of war?

You turned, said Ingrey, and found the hammer handle under 
your hand.

The hazel eyes widened. How did you know?

I saw the chamber.

Oh. She moistened her lips. I struck him. He lunged at me, 
oror lurched. I struck him again. He stopped. Fell, and did not rise. 
He wasn't dead yet-his body spasmed, when I was groping in his robe 
for the key, and I nearly fainted. I fell to the floor on my hands and 
knees, anyway, and the room darkened. IitFinally, I got the door 
unbarred and called his men in.

Were they-what? Angry?

More frightened than angry, I think. They argued forever, and 
blamed each other, and me, and whatever they could think of. Even 
Boleso. It took them ages to decide to lock me up and send a courier.

What did you do? 
I sat on the floor, mostly. I was feeling very unwell. They asked 
me such stupid questions. Had I killed him? Did they imagine he'd 
bludgeoned himself? I was glad for my cell, when they finally put me in 
it. I don't think Ulkra ever noticed I could bar its door from the inside.

Her face lifted; her eyes glinted. No.

Truth rang in that voice, and a kind of rocky triumph. In the 
uttermost extremity, abandoned by all who should have protected her, 
she'd found that she need not abandon herself. A powerful lesson. A 
dangerous lesson.

In an equally flat tone he asked, Did he complete his rite?

This time, she hesitated. I don't know. I am not surewhat his 
intent was. She gazed down into her lap; her hands gripped each 
other. What will happen next? Rider Ulkra said you would take me in 
charge. Where to?

Easthome.

Good, she said, with unexpected fervor. The Temple there 
will surely help me.

You do not fear your trial?

Trial? I defended myself! I was betrayed into this horror!

It is possible, he said, still very level-voiced, that some 
powerful people will not care to hear you proclaim so. Think. You 
cannot prove attempted rape, for one thing. A half dozen men could 
testify that you appeared to go to Boleso willingly.

Compared to fleeing into the woods to be eaten by the wild 
beasts, willing, yes. Compared to bringing a brutal death on anyone 
who tried to help me, willingly. She stared at him in sudden incredulity. 
Do you not believe me?

Oh, yes. Oh, yes. But I am not your judge.

She frowned, a glint of white teeth pressing into a lower lip gone 
pale. In a moment, her spine straightened again. In any case, if the 
rape was not witnessed, the unlawful rite was. They all saw the 
leopard. They saw the secret drawings on the prince's body. Not 
assertions, but material things, that any man might reach out and touch.

A step sounded on the floorboards; Ingrey looked up to see 
Ulkra approaching, seeming to loom and crouch simultaneously. Your 
pleasure, my lord? he inquired nervously.

To be anywhere but here, doing anything but this.

He'd been over two days in the saddle. He was, he decided 
abruptly, too mortally tired to ride another mile today. Boleso could be 
in no hurry to gallop to his funeral, and divine judgment. And Ingrey 
had no burning desire to rush this accursed naive girl to her earthly 
judgment, either. She was not afraid of the right things. Five gods help 
him, she seemed not afraid of anything.

Will you, he said to her, give me your word, if I order your 
guard lightened, that you will not attempt to escape?

Of course, she said. As if surprised he even felt a need to ask.

He gestured to the housemaster. Put her in a proper room. 
Give her her things back. Find a decent maid, if any is to be found in 
this place, to attend her and help her pack. We'll leave for Easthome 
with Boleso's body at first light tomorrow.

Yes, my lord, said Ulkra, ducking his head in relieved assent.

Ingrey added as an afterthought, Have any men of the 
household fled, since Boleso's death?

No, my lord. Why do you ask?

Ingrey gave a vague gesture, indicating no reason that he cared 
to share. Ulkra did not pursue the question.

Ingrey creaked to his feet. He felt as if his muscles squeaked 
louder protest than his damp leathers. Lady Ijada gave him a grateful 
curtsey, and turned to follow the housemaster. She looked back over 
her shoulder at him as she turned onto the staircase, a grave, trusting 
glance.

Nothing more.



CHAPTER TWO


THE CORTEGE, SUCH AS IT WAS, LUMBERED OUT THE CASTLE gate 
in the dawn fog. Ingrey set six of Boleso's guards riding before and six 
behind what might charitably be described as a farm wagon. The 
wagon was burdened with a hastily cobbled-together oblong box, 
heavy with Boleso's body and the coarse salt, meant to preserve game, 
which made his last bed. In some sad effort at proper ceremony, Rider 
Ulkra had found a stag hide to cover the coffin, and funereal cloths to 
wrap the posts at the corners of the wagon bed, in lieu of draperies 
unlikely to survive the local roads. Whatever attempts the guardsmen 
had made to furbish up their gear for this somber duty were lost from 
view in the clinging mists. Ingrey's eye was more concerned for the 
security of the ropes that bound the box in place.

The teamster that Ulkra had drafted was a local yeoman, owner 
of both wagon and team, and he kept his sturdy horses well in hand 
during the first precarious turns and bumps of the narrow road. By his 
side, his wife hung on grimly but expertly to the wooden brake, which 
shrieked against the wheel as the wagon descended. She was a staid 
older woman, a better female chaperone for his prisoner, Ingrey 
thought, than the slatternly and frightened young servant girl Ulkra had 
first offered, and she would be guarded in turn by her husband. Ingrey 
trusted his own men, but remembered that inner bar on the prisoner's 
chamber door; whatever Lady Ijada had supposed, Ingrey was quite 
sure that obstacle hadn't been an oversight on Ulkra's part. 
The whitewashed walls and conical green slate tower caps of the 
castle disappeared dreamlike among the smoke-gray trees, and the 
road widened and straightened for a short stretch. Ingrey gave a quiet 
salute to the two of his own escort bringing up the rear, which was as 
silently returned, and urged his horse forward around the wagon and its 
outriders. In the lead, the other two pairs of Ingrey's guards bracketed 
Lady Ijada.

Ingrey had no intention of making idle conversation with his 
charge, so merely favored her with a polite nod and pushed on to the 
head of the column. He rode in silence for a time. The dripping of water 
from high branches in the steep woods and the gurgling of freshets, 
running melodiously beneath the road through hollowedlog culverts, 
sounded loud in his ears despite the creaking of gear, groaning of the 
wagon wheels, and plodding of hooves behind him. They rounded a 
last dropping curve, the road leveled, and they emerged from beneath 
the leafy canopy into an unexpected well of light.

The sun had broken through a gap in the ridges to the east, 
turning the moist air to floating gold and the far slopes to a fiery green. 
Only one trickle of smoke, probably from a party of charcoal burners, 
marked any human occupation in the dense carpet of woods rising 
beyond the hamlet and its fields. The sight did not lift Ingrey's spirits. 
He frowned down at the mud of the road instead, then reined his horse 
aside to check that the tail of the cortege cleared the trees without 
incident. He turned back to find himself riding beside Lady Ijada.

It's difficult and dangerous country, said Ingrey, but the roads 
will improve once we descend from the wastes.

She tilted her head at his sour expression. This place does not 
please you? My dower lands are a like waste, then, west of here in the 
marches where the mountains dwindle. She hesitated. My stepfather 
is of your mind about such silent tracts-but then he is a town-man bred, 
a master of works for the Temple in Badger-bridge, and likes trees 
best in the form of rafters and gates and trestles. He says it were better 
I made my face my dower than those haunted woods. She grimaced 
abruptly, the light fading in her eyes. He was so pleased for me when 
one of my Badgerbank aunts found me the place in the Horserivers' 
high household. And now this.

Did he imagine you would snare a husband, under the 
princess's eye?

Something like that. It was to be my great chance. She 
shrugged. I've since learned that high lords get to be such by being 
more concerned, not less, with dowers than other men. I should have 
anticipated Her mouth firmed. I might have anticipated some 
seducer, arrogant in his rank. It was the heretical sorcery and howling 
madness that took me by surprise.

For the first time, Ingrey wondered if the husband whose eye 
Ijada had snared might have been Earl Horseriver. Four years he had 
been married to the hallow king's daughter, and no children yet; was 
there anything more to the delay than ill luck? Reason indeed for the 
princess to barter her handmaiden out of her household at the first 
opportunity-and if jealous enough of her lovely rival, to a fate Fara must 
have known would not be pleasant? Had the princess known of her 
brother's perilous plans? Aside from the rape, you mean?

What did you think of Earl Horseriver? Ingrey inquired, in a 
neutral voice. The earl was landed, of an ancient kin, but his most 
arresting power at present was doubtless his ordainer's vote, one of the 
thirteen needed to confirm a new hallow king. Yet such political 
concerns seemed quite over this young woman's head, however level it 
might be.

Now the lips pursed in a thoughtful frown. But not in dismay, 
Ingrey noted, nor in any flush of embarrassment. I'm not sure. He's a 
strangeman. I almost said young man, but really, he scarcely seems 
young. I suppose it's partly the untimely gray in his hair. He's very sharp 
of wit, uncomfortably so at times. And moody. Sometimes he goes 
about for days in silence, as if lost in his own thoughts, and no one 
dares speak to him, not even the princess. At first I thought it was 
because of his little, you know, deformities, the spine and the oddly 
shaped face, but truly, he seems not to care about his body at all. It 
certainly doesn't impede him. She glanced at Ingrey with belated 
wariness. Do you know him well?

Not since we are grown, said Ingrey. I have a near tie to him 
by blood through his late mother. I met him a few times when we were 
both children. Ingrey remembered the young Lord Wencel kin 
Horseriver as an undersized, clumsy boy, seeming slow of wit, with a 
rather wet mouth. Perhaps shyness had rendered Wencel tongue-tied; 
but the boy-Ingrey had lacked sympathy for a smaller cousin who did 
not keep up, and had made no effort to include him. Fortunately, in 
retrospect, Ingrey had made no effort to torment him, either. His father 
and mine died within a few months of each other.

Though the aged Earl Horseriver had died quietly and decently, 
of an ordinary stroke. Not in his prime, baying and foaming, his feverish 
screams echoing through the castle corridors as though rising from 
some pit of agony beneath the earthIngrey bit back the memory, 
hard.

He was castlemaster of Birchgrove, under the lordship of old 
Earl Kasgut kin Wolfcliff. And I am not. Would her rather too-quick 
wits notice, or would she merely assume him a younger son? 
Birchgrove commands the valley of the Birchbeck, where it runs into 
the Lure. Which did not, precisely, answer the question she'd asked. 
How had they drifted onto this dire subject? Her tone, he realized, had 
been as tensely neutral as his leading question about Horseriver.

So Rider Ulkra told me. She drew a long breath, staring ahead 
between her horse's ears. He also said, it was rumored that your 
father died from the bite of a rabid wolf, that he'd tried to steal the spirit 
from, and that he gave you a wolf spirit, too, but it turned out to be 
crippled, and only made you very sick. And your life and wits were 
despaired of, which is why your uncle succeeded to Birchgrove and not 
you, but later your family sent you on pilgrimage, and you grew better. I 
wondered if all this was true, and why your father committed so 
reckless an act. Only when she had spat out all this hurried chain of 
tattle did she turn her face to his, her eyes anxious and searching.

Ingrey's horse snorted and tossed its head at his jerk on the 
reins. Ingrey loosened his fist, and, a moment later, unclenched his 
teeth. He finally managed to growl, Ulkra gossips. It is a fault.

He is afraid of you.

Not enough, it seems. He yanked his horse away and 
pretended to inspect the cortege, returning up the other side to the head 
of the column. Alone. She looked after him as he passed, her mouth 
opening as if to speak, but he ignored her.

Forcing the cortege up the muddy road out of the valley diverted 
his mind enough to regain his calm, or at least replace his fuming with 
other irritations. On a steep incline, with the blowing team's hooves 
slipping, the wagon began to slide sideways toward a precipitous edge; 
the teamster's wife screeched alarm. Ingrey flung himself off his horse 
and led the quicker-witted among the guards to brace themselves and 
strain against the wagon's side and rear, pushing it away from the 
dizzying drop and up through the mire.

They paused at noon at a wide clearing just off the road, home 
to an ancient spring. His men unpacked the bread and cold meats 
provided by the castle cook, but Ingrey, calculating distances and hours 
of light, was more concerned for the horses. The team was 
mud-crusted and sweaty, so he set Boleso's surly retinue to assisting 
the teamster in unharnessing and rubbing them down before they were 
fed. The worst of the gradients were behind them now; with a suitable 
rest, he judged the beasts would last till nightfall, by which time he 
hoped to reach the Temple town of Reedmere, commandeer some 
more fitting conveyance, and send the rustic rig home.

More princely conveyance, Ingrey revised his thought. A former 
manure wagon seemed to him all too fitting. Closer to Easthome, he 
decided, he would send a rider ahead to guide a relief cortege to him, 
and hand off Boleso's body to more gaudy and noble ceremony, 
provided by those who cared for the prince. Or at least, cared for 
Boleso's rank and the show they made to each other. Maybe he'd send 
the rider tonight.

He washed his hands in the spring's outlet and accepted a slab 
of venison wrapped in bread from his lieutenant, Gesca. Gnawing, he 
looked around for his prisoner and her attendant. The teamster's wife 
was busy about the food baskets by the unhitched wagon. Lady Ijada 
was walking about the clearing-in that costume, she might whisk into 
the woods and disappear among the tall tree boles in a moment. 
Instead, she pried up a stone from the crumbled foundation above the 
spring and picked her way over to where Ingrey rested on a big fallen 
log.

Ingrey looked. On one side of the stone a spiral pattern was 
incised into the weathered surface.

It's the same as one of the symbols Boleso had drawn on his 
body. In red madder, centered on his navel. Did you see it there?

No, Ingrey admitted. His body had been washed off already.

Oh, she said, looking a little taken aback. Well, it was.

I do not doubt you. Though others will be free to. Had she 
realized this yet?

She stared around the clearing. Do you think this place was a 
forest shrine, once?

Very possibly. He followed her glance, studying the stumps 
and the sizes of the trees. Whatever holy or unholy purposes the 
original possessors had held, the latest ax work had been done by 
humble itinerant woodcutters, by the evidence. The spring suggests it. 
This place has been cleared, abandoned, and recleared more than 
once, if so. Following, perhaps, the ebb and flow of the Darthacan 
Quintarian war against the forest heresies that had so disrupted the kin 
lands, four centuries ago when Audar the Great had first conquered the 
Weald.

I wonder what the old ceremonies were really like, she 
mused. The divines scorn the animal sacrifice, but reallyWhen I was 
a child at my father's Temple fort, I went a few times withwith a 
friend to the marsh people's autumn rites. The fen folk aren't of the 
same race or language as the Old Wealdings, but I could almost have 
imagined myself going back to those days. It was more like a grand 
party and outdoor roast than anything. I mean, they made some songs 
and rituals over the creatures before they slaughtered them, but what's 
the difference if we pray over our meat after it's cooked instead of 
before? She added with an air of fairness, Or so my friend said. The 
fort's divine disagreed, but then, the two of them disagreed a lot. I think 
my friend enjoyed baiting him.

Well, she said thoughtfully, that's true. Or at any rate, 
everyone ran about splashing each other and screaming with laughter. It 
was all very messy and silly, and rather smelly, but it was hard to see 
any evil in it. Of course, this tribe didn't sacrifice people. She looked 
around the clearing as if imagining the ghostly image of some such evil 
slaying here.

Indeed, said Ingrey dryly. That was the sticking point, 
between the Darthacan Quintarians and the Old Wealdings. For all 
that both sides had worshipped the same five gods. So when Audar 
the so-called Great slaughtered four thousand Wealding prisoners of 
war at Bloodfield, it's said he didn't pray at all. That made it a proper 
Quintarian act, I suppose, and not heresy. Some other crime, perhaps, 
but not human sacrifice. One of those theological fine points.

That massacre of a generation of young spirit warriors had 
broken the back of the Wealding resistance to their eastern invaders, in 
any case. For the next hundred and fifty years, the Weald's lands, 
ceremonies, and people had been forcibly rearranged into Darthacan 
patterns, until Audar's vast empire broke apart in the bloody squabbles 
of his much less great descendants. Orthodox Quintarianism survived 
the empire that had fostered it, however. The suppressed animal 
practices and wisdom songs of the forest tribes had been lost and all 
but forgotten in the renewed Weald, except for rural superstitions, 
children's rhymes, and the odd ghost tale.

I suppose we are all New Wealdings, now, mused Ijada. She 
touched her Darthacan-dark hair, and nodded to Ingrey's own. 
Almost every Wealding kin that survived has Darthacan forebears, 
too. Mongrels, to a man. Or to a lord, anyway. So we inherit Audar's 
sins and the tribes'. For all I know my Chalionese father had some 
Darthacan blood. The nobles there are a very mixed lot, really, he 
always said, for all that they carry on about their pedigrees.

Ingrey bit, chewed, did not answer.

When your father gave you your wolf, she began, how-

You should go eat, he interrupted her, around a mouthful of 
cold roast. It's going to be a long ride yet. He rose and strode away 
from her, toward the wagon and its baskets. He did not want more 
food, but he did not want more of her chatter, either. He selected a 
not-too-wormy apple and nibbled it slowly while walking about. He 
stayed on the other side of the clearing from her, during the remainder 
of their rest.

AS THE CORTEGE RUMBLED ON THROUGH THE AFTERNOON, THE 
rugged angles of the hills grew gentler and hamlets more frequent, their 
fields more extensive. The sun was slanting toward the treetops when 
they came to an unanticipated check. A rocky ford, hock deep on the 
ride in, had risen with the rains and was now in full and muddy flood.

Ingrey halted his horse and looked over the problem. Boleso's 
wagon had not been made watertight with skins or tar, so the chance of 
its floating away at an awkward angle and yanking the horses off their 
feet was slight. The chance of its shipping water and bogging down, 
however, was good. He set mounted men at the wagon's four corners 
with ropes to help warp it through the hazard, and waved the yeoman 
onward with what speed he could muster from his tired team. The 
water came up past the horses' bellies, pushing the wagon off its 
wheels, but the outriders held it on course, and the whole assemblage 
struggled safely up the far bank. Only then did Ingrey motion Lady 
Ijada ahead of him into the water.

The cold water tugged at his knees as he urged his horse 
downstream. The dark head bobbed up by a trio of smooth rocks that 
stuck out of the spate boiling around them. An arm reached, caught

Hang on! yelled Ingrey. I'm coming to get you-!

Two arms. Lady Ijada heaved herself upward, belly over the 
rock, wriggled and scrambled; by the time Ingrey brought his snorting 
horse close, she was standing upright, dripping and gasping. Out of the 
corner of his eye, he saw her horse make it to the bank farther 
downstream, where it surged up, stumbled through the mud, and bolted 
into the woods. Ingrey spared it an unvoiced curse and waved one of 
his men after it.

He did not look to see if he was obeyed, for now he was within 
arm's reach of Lady Ijada. He leaned toward her, she leaned toward 
him

A dark red fog seemed to come up over his brain, clouding his 
vision. Gripping her arms, he toppled into the stream, pulling her from 
her perch. Down, if he held her downwater filled his mouth. He spat, 
gasped, and went under again. He was blinded and tumbling. Some 
distant part of his mind, far, far off, was screaming at him: What are 
you doing, you fool! He must hold her down

The force of the water clubbed his head into something hard, 
and starry green sparks overflowed the red fog. All thought fled.

Stop fighting me! Lady Ijada's voice snapped in his ear. 
Something circling his neck tightened; he realized after a dizzy moment 
that it must be her arm. He must save her, drown her, save her-

She can swim. The belated realization slowed his flailing, if only 
in shock. Well, he could swim, too, after a fashion. He'd stayed alive 
through a shipwreck, once, admittedly mostly by hanging on to things 
that floated. The only thing floating here seemed to be Lady Ijada. 
Surely the weight of his blades and boots must drag them both 
down-his feet struck something. The current spat them into a back 
eddy, the river bottom flattened out, then she was dragging him up 
onto some welcome, blessed shore.

He twisted around out of her arm's grip, crawling up on hands 
and knees over the rocks onto the moss-covered bank. Pink water 
flowed from his hair, growing redder. He dashed it from his eyes and 
blinked around. The woods here were thick and tangled. He was not 
sure how far downstream they had come, but the ford, the wagon, and 
his men were nowhere in sight. He was shivering in shock from the 
head blow.

She stood up, water streaming from her clothes, and staggered 
out of the river toward him, her hand reaching. He cried out, a 
wordless bellow, and recoiled, wrapping his arms around a small tree, 
in part to hold himself upright, in part to holdDon't touch me!

What? Lord Ingrey, you're bleeding-

Don't come any nearer!

Lord Ingrey, if you will just- 
His voice cracked. My wolf is trying to kill you! It is coming 
unbound! Stay away!

Three times, he gasped hoarsely. That was the third time. 
Don't you realize, I tried to drown you just now? It's tried twice before. 
The first time I saw you, when I drew my steel, I meant to run you 
through on the spot. Then when we were sitting, I almost tried to 
strangle you.

She was pale, thoughtful, intent. Not running away screaming. 
He wanted her to run, whether screaming or not made no matter to 
him. As long as she could outrun him

Run!

Instead, maddeningly, she leaned against a tree bole and began 
to remove her squelching boots. It wasn't until she had tipped out the 
second one that she said, It wasn't your wolf.

His head was still ringing from the blow against the boulder. By 
the unpleasant rumbling in his gut, he was due to vomit some river 
water soon. He didn't comprehend her. What?

It wasn't your wolf. She set the boot down next to its mate 
and added in a tight, even voice, I can smell your wolf, in a sense. Not 
smell really, but I don't know any other way to describe it.

It-I tried to kill you!

It wasn't your wolf. It wasn't you, either. It was the other smell. 
All three times.

Now he merely stared, all words deserting him.

Lord Ingrey-you never asked where the ghost of Boleso's 
leopard went.

It wasn't a stare anymore, he feared. It was a gape.

It came to me. Her hazel eyes met his for one level, intent 
moment.

He retreated around his too-narrow tree, for what little privacy it 
could render him. He wished he could say the spasm gave him a 
moment to gather his wits, but they seemed scattered for a mile behind 
him up the river valley. Drowned, they were, without benefit of wine. 
All of the punishment, none of the reward.

He stumbled back around the tree to find her calmly wringing 
out her jacket. He gave up and sat down with a thump upon a mossy 
log. It was damp, but he was damper, his wet leathers sliding and 
squeaking unpleasantly.

She looked no different, to his eye. Well, wet, yes, sodden and 
wild, but still caressed by the slanting light as if the sun were her lover. 
He saw no cat shape in her shadow. He smelled nothing but himself, a 
sickly mix of wet leather, oil, sweat, and horse.

I don't know if it was Boleso's intent that I should have it, she 
continued in that same flat tone, undaunted by the repulsive interruption. 
It came to me when I touched his dying body, looking for the key. The 
other animals stayed bound, and went with him. He had held them 
longer, or perhaps the rite hadn't been finished. The leopard's spirit was 
very frightened and frantic. It hid itself in my mind, but I could feel it.

I did not know what to do, or what it might do. Boleso's men 
were fools. I said nothing about it, and no one asked.

Your defense-that could be your defense! he said in sudden 
eagerness. The leopard spirit killed the prince, in its frenzy. Not you. 
You were possessed by it. It was an accident.

She blinked at him. No, she said in a voice of reason, I just 
told you. The leopard did not come to me till Boleso lay dying.

Yes, but you could say otherwise. There is none to gainsay 
you.

Her stare grew offended. 
We must return to this argument, I think. Ingrey waved a 
weak hand. Well. And then?

I first thought that I was going mad, but then I decided not. 
That closet was just like a cage, in a way; cruel and kind men brought 
food and cleaned it out. It was familiar. Calming.

On the second night, I dreamed the leopard's dreams again. 
But this time Her voice faltered. Steadied. This time, there came a 
Presence. There was nothing to see, in that black wood, but the smells 
were wonderful, beyond any perfume. Every good scent of the forest 
and field in the fall. Apples and wine, roast meat, crisp leaves and sharp 
blue air. I smelled the autumn stars, and cried out for their beauty. The 
leopard's spirit leapt in ecstasy, like a dog greeting its master or a cat 
rubbing around the skirts of its mistress. It purred, and writhed, and 
made eager noises.

After that, the leopard's ghost seemed pacified. No longer 
frightened or wild. It justlies there contentedly, waiting. No, more 
than contentedly. Joyfully. I don't know what it waits for.

A presence, echoed Ingrey. No-she said, a Presence. Did 
a-do you think-was it a god? That came to you, there in the dark?

Did he doubt it? Luminous, Ingrey had called her, with a 
perception beyond sight, however denied. And even in those first 
confused moments, he had not mistaken it for mere physical beauty.

Her face grew suddenly fierce; she said through her teeth, It 
didn't come to me, it came to the accursed cat. I wept for it to come to 
me. But it did not. Her voice slowed. Perhaps it could not. I am no 
saint, fit to have a god inhabit me.

Ingrey grubbed in the moss with nervous fingers. His split scalp 
had stopped dripping blood into his eyebrows, finally. It was also 
said-though not by the Quintarian divines-that the Old Wealdings used 
animal spirits to commune with the gods.

Hers was not some idle curiosity, spurred by gossip. It was a 
most desperate need to know. And how much would he, in his first 
confusion so long ago, have given for some experienced mentor to tell 
him how to go on? Or even for a companion as confused as he, but 
sharing his experience, matching his confidences instead of denying 
them and naming him demented, defiled, and damned? And all the 
things he could never have explained even to a sympathetic ear, she 
had just experienced.

It still felt like hauling buckets from a well of memory with a rope 
that burned his hands. He gritted his teeth; began.

I was but fourteen. It all came upon me without warning. I was 
brought to the ceremony uninstructed. My father had been for some 
days-or weeks-distraught about something that he would confide to no 
one. He suborned a Temple sorcerer to accomplish the rite. I do not 
know who caught the wolves, or how. The sorcerer disappeared 
immediately after-whether in fear of having botched the rite, or because 
he had deliberately betrayed us, I never found out. I was not fit to 
inquire, just then.

A sorcerer? she echoed, leaning against a tree bole. I saw no 
sorcerer with Boleso. Unless he had one hidden in disguise. If Boleso 
himself was demon-ridden, I saw no sign, not that I would. Well, you 
can't, unless you are god-sighted or a sorcerer yourself.

No, the Temple would have Ingrey hesitated. In Easthome, 
some sensitive from the Temple must have detected it, if Boleso had 
caught a demon. If he'd caught it more recently, since his exilehe 
might not have encountered anyone with the gift to discern it. But 
whatever had been wrong with Boleso had surely been going on since 
before he'd slain his manservant.

Because I have worked for a decade and more to cripple it, 
bind it down tight. And I thought I was safe, and now your 
questions frighten me worse than the wolf-within. You said there 
was a thing, anothersmell, not me or my wolf. A third thing.

She stared at him unhappily, her brows drawing in, as though 
she grappled for a description of something that had no relation to 
language. It is as if I can smell souls. Or the leopard does, and leaks it 
to me in patches. I can smell Ulkra, and know he is not to fear. 
Another few men in the retinue-I know to stay out of their reach. Your 
soul seems doubled: you, and something underneath, something dark 
and old and musty. It does not stir.

My wolf? But his wolf had been a young one.

Imaybe. But there is a third smell. It is wound about you like 
some parasitic vine, pulsing with blood, that has put tendrils and roots 
into your spirit to maintain itself. It whispers. I think it is some spell or 
geas.

Ingrey was silent for a long moment, staring down at himself. 
How could she guess which was which? His wolf spirit was surely a 
kind of parasite. Is it still there?

Yes.

His voice tightened. Then in my next inattentive moment, I might 
try to kill you again.

Perhaps. Her eyes narrowed and nostrils flared, as if seeking a 
sensation that had nothing to do with the senses of the body. As futile 
as trying to see with her hands, or taste with her ears. Till it is rooted 
out.

Don't you see? I must get to the Temple at Easthome. I must 
find help. And you are taking me there as fast as may be.

The divines were never much help to me, he said bitterly. Or 
I would not still be afflicted. I tried for years-consulting theologians, 
sorcerers, even saints. I traveled all the way to Darthaca to find a saint 
of the Bastard who was reputed to banish demons from men's souls, to 
destroy illicit sorcerers. Even he could not disentangle my wolf spirit. 
Because, he told me, it was of this world, not of the other; even the 
Bastard, who commands a legion of demons of disorder and can 
summon or dismiss them at His will, had no power over it. If even 
saints cannot help, the ordinary Temple authorities will be useless. 
Worse than useless-a danger. In Easthome, the Temple is the tool of 
the powerful, and it seems you have offended the powerful.

Her gaze sharpened. Who put the geas on you? Must it have 
been someone powerful?

His lips parted, closed again. I am not sure. I cannot say. It all 
slips away from me. Unless I am reminded, I don't even remember, 
between one time and the next, trying to kill you. A moment's 
distraction on my part could be deadly to you!

Then I will undertake to remind you, she said. It should be 
easier, now that we both know.

As he opened his mouth to protest, he heard a distant crashing in 
the woods. A man called, Lord Ingrey? and another, I heard voices 
toward the river-over that way!

They're coming! He struggled to his feet, swaying dizzily, his 
hands extending to her in pleading. Before they find us. Flee!

Like this? she said indignantly, sweeping a hand down her 
damp costume, her bare feet. Soaking wet, no money, no weapons, 
no help, I am to run off into the woods and-what? Be eaten by bears? 
Her jaw set. No. Boleso came from Easthome. Your geas came from 
Easthome. It is there that the source of this evil must be stalked. I will 
not be diverted.

Then you'd better not babble about this to anyone.

I don't babble- he began in outrage, but then their rescuers 
were upon them, two of Ingrey's men on horseback hacking through 
the undergrowth. Now he wanted to talk to her, and could not.

My lord! cried Rider Gesca in gladness. You have saved 
her!

Since Ijada did not correct this misperception, neither did 
Ingrey. Evading her gaze, he climbed to his feet.



CHAPTER THREE


WHEN THEY ARRIVED BACK AT THE WAGON WAITING ON THE far 
bank, the sun had slipped behind the treetops. A level orange glint 
shone through the tangled branches by the time Ingrey and his prisoner 
had traded off for dry clothes and mounted their recaptured horses. 
Ingrey's head, wrapped in a makeshift strip of cloth, was pounding, and 
his shoulder was stiffening, but he refused even to contemplate the idea 
of sitting in the wagon atop Boleso's box. The cortege clambered out of 
the wooded valley and on into the gathering twilight.

A chill mist began to arise from the ditches and fields. Ingrey 
was just about to order his lead riders to light torches to guide them 
when a distant glow on the road resolved into a string of bobbing 
lanterns. A few minutes later, an anxious Halloo sounded above 
trotting hoofbeats. The man Ingrey had sent ahead that morning to 
ready Reedmere for Boleso spurred forward to greet them. He brought 
with him not only Temple servants with lights, but a fresh team of 
horses already harnessed, together with a wheelwright and his tools. 
Ingrey gave the prudent guardsman a heartfelt commendation, the 
teams were exchanged, and the procession started up again at a faster 
pace. In a few more miles, the lights above the walls of Reedmere 
shone to guide them to the gate held open for them.

The temple's outbuildings seemed mostly to consist of nearby 
houses recommissioned to new duties. The divine's residence was in a 
building with the Temple notary's office; the library and scriptorium 
shared quarters with the Daughter of Spring's Lady-school for the 
town's children; the Temple infirmary, dedicated to the Mother of 
Summer, occupied the back rooms of the local apothecary's shop. 
Ingrey saw his prisoner turned over to some stern-looking female 
Temple servants, gave a few coins to the wheelwright for his time, 
made sure the horses were stabled and his men housed, paid off the 
yeoman-teamster and his wife and found them and their horses lodgings 
in the town for the night, and, finally, reported to the infirmary to have 
his head stitched.

To his relief, Ingrey found that the Mother's practitioner here 
was more than just a local seamstress or midwife; she wore the braid of 
a school dedicat on the shoulder of her green robe. With briskly 
efficient hands she lit wax candles, washed his head with strong soap, 
and sutured his scalp.

She laughed. Oh, not here, my lord! Three years ago, a Temple 
inquirer from the Father's Order brought a sorcerer with him to 
investigate a charge of demon magic against a local woman, but nothing 
was found. The inquirer gave her accusers a pretty scorching lecture, 
after, and they were fined his travel costs. I must say, the sorcerer was 
not what I expected-sour old fellow in Bastard's whites, not much 
amused, I gathered, to be dragged out onto the roads in winter. There 
was a petty saint of the Mother at my old school-she sighed in 
memory-I wished I'd had the half of his plain ordinary skill, as well as 
his holy sight and touch. As for scholars, Maraya who runs the 
Lady-school is about the best we can do, apart from the lord-divine 
himself.

Ingrey was disappointed, but not surprised. But sorcerer or saint 
or someone Sighted, he must find, to confirm or deny Lady Ijada's 
disturbing assertions. And soon.

There, added the dedicat in satisfaction, giving a tug to her last 
knot. Ingrey turned a small yelp into a grunt. A snip of scissors told him 
this little ordeal was over, and, with difficulty, he straightened up again.

Voices and footsteps sounded at the back door of the shop, and 
the Mother's dedicat looked around. The pair of female Temple 
servants, one of the lay stewards, Lady Ijada, and Rider Gesca 
trooped in. The servants were carrying piles of bedding.

What's this? said the dedicat, with a suspicious glance at Lady 
Ijada.

By your leave, Dedicat, said the steward, this woman will be 
housed here tonight, as there are no sick in your chambers. Her 
attendants will sleep in the room with her, and I will sleep outside the 
door. This man-he nodded toward Ingrey's lieutenant-will post a 
night sentry to check from time to time.

Ingrey glanced around. The place was clean enough, certainly, 
butHere?

Lady Ijada favored him with an ironical lift of her eyebrows. By 
your order, I am not to be housed in the town lockup, for which I thank 
you. The divine's spare room is reserved for you. The inn is full of your 
men, and the temple hall is full of Boleso's retainers. More sleeping their 
vigil than standing it, I suppose, though some are drinking it. For some 
reason, no goodwife of Reedmere has volunteered to invite me into her 
home. So I am fallen back on the goddess's hospitality. Her smile was 
rigid.

Oh, said Ingrey after a moment. I see.

To people who knew Boleso only as a rumor of a golden prince, 
she must appearwell, scarcely a heroine. Not merely a dangerous 
murderess in herself, but leaking a taint of treason on any who might be 
seen to aid her. And it will get worse the closer we get to Easthome. 
With no better solution to offer, Ingrey could only exchange an 
awkward nod of good night with her, and let the medical dedicat usher 
him to the door.

Off to sleep with you, now, my lord, the dedicat went on, 
standing on tiptoe to take one last look at her work and recovering her 
cheer. With that knock to the head, you should stay in bed for a day 
or two.

My duties will not permit, alas. He gave her a stiff bow, and 
went off across the square to fill at least the first half of her prescription.

The divine, finished with praying over Boleso, was waiting up for 
him. The man wanted to talk of further ceremonies, and after that, hear 
news from the capital. He was anxious for the hallow king's failing 
health; Ingrey, himself four days out of touch, elected to be reassuringly 
vague. Ingrey judged the Reedmere man an unlordly lord-divine, a 
sincere soul-shepherd, backbone of the rural Temple, but neither 
learned nor subtle. Not a man in whom to confide Lady Ijada's current 
spiritual situation. Or my own. Ingrey turned him firmly to the needs of 
tomorrow's travel, made excusing references to his injuries, and 
escaped to his bedchamber.

INGREY DREAMED OF WOLVES

He would have thought black midnight to be the time for the rite, 
but his father summoned him to the castle hall in the middle of the 
afternoon. A cool shadowless light penetrated from the window slits 
that overlooked the gurgling Birchbeck sixty feet below. Good 
beeswax candles burned in sconces on the walls, their warm honeyed 
flicker mixing with the grayness.

Lord Ingalef kin Wolfcliff appeared calm, if grave with the strain 
that had ridden him of late, and he greeted his son with a reassuring nod 
and a brief, rare smile. Young Ingrey's throat was tight with nervous 
excitement and fear. The Temple sorcerer, Cumril, made known to 
Ingrey only the night before, stood at the ready, naked but for a 
breechcloth, bare skin daubed about with archaic signs. The sorcerer 
had looked old to Ingrey then, but through his dream-eyes he saw that 
Cumril had actually been a young man. With the foresight of his 
nightmare state, Ingrey searched Cumril's face for some intimation or 
mark-did he plot the betrayal to come? Or was he just in over his 
head-not in control, unlucky, incompetent? The worry in his shifting 
eyes could have betokened either-or, indeed, all.

Then young Ingrey's gaze locked upon the animals, the beautiful, 
dangerous animals, and he could scarcely thereafter look away. The 
grizzled huntsman who handled them would die of rabies three days 
before Ingrey's father.

The young wolf, barely more than a pup, scrabbled away from 
its larger comrade in evident fear, claws scratching on the floorboards. 
The huntsman took it for cowardly, but later Ingrey would come to 
believe it had known of the contagion. Otherwise, it was startlingly 
docile, attentive as a well-trained dog. Its fur was dark and wonderfully 
dense, its silver-gilt eyes clear, and it responded at once to Ingrey's 
arrival, straining toward him and sniffing, staring up in evident adoration. 
Ingrey loved it instantly, his hands aching to run through the 
pewter-black pelt.

The sorcerer directed Ingrey and his father to strip to the waist 
and kneel on the cold floor a few paces apart, facing each other. He 
intoned some phrases in the old tongue of the Weald, pronouncing 
them carefully with many a side glance at a piece of wrinkled paper 
plucked from his belt. The language seemed to hover maddeningly just 
on the edge of Ingrey's understanding.

At Cumril's sign, the huntsman dragged the old wolf to Lord 
Ingalef's arms. He let go of the young wolf's leash to do so, and the 
animal scampered to Ingrey's lap. Ingrey held its soft warmth close, and 
it wriggled around to eagerly lick his face. His hands buried themselves 
in its fur, petting and stroking; the creature emitted small, happy whines 
and tried to wash Ingrey's ear. The rough tongue tickled, and Ingrey 
had to choke down a reflexive, unfitting laugh.

Muttering briefly over the blade, the sorcerer delivered the 
sacred knife to Lord Ingalef's waiting hand, then stepped back hastily 
as the disturbed wolf snapped at him. The beast began to struggle as 
Lord Ingalef's grip tightened. The struggle redoubled as he grasped it 
by the muzzle and tried to tilt its head back. He lost his hold, the jaw 
straps slipped loose, and the animal sank its teeth in his left forearm, 
shaking its head and snarling, worrying the flesh. Muffling a curse, he 
regained a partial purchase with knees and the weight of his strong 
body. The blade flashed, sank into fur and flesh. Red blood spurted. 
The snarls died, the jaws loosed, and the furry bundle subsided limply; 
then, a moment later, into a more profound stillness.

Oh, he said, eyes wide and strange. It worked. How 
veryodd that feels

Cumril cast him a worried look; the huntsman hastened to bind 
his savaged arm.

My lord, should you not? Cumril began.

Lord Ingalef shook his head sharply and raised his sound hand in 
a unsteady Continue! gesture. It worked! Go on!

The sorcerer picked up the second blade, gleaming new-forged, 
from the cushion on which it rested, and trod forward mumbling again. 
He pressed the knife into Ingrey's hand and stepped back once more.

Ingrey's hand closed unhappily on the hilt, and he looked into the 
bright eyes of his wolf. I don't want to kill you. You are too 
beautiful. I want to keep you. The clean jaws opened, showing fine 
white teeth, and Cumril's breath drew in, but the young wolf only lolled 
out its pink tongue and licked Ingrey's hand. The cool black nose 
nudged his knife-clutching fist, and Ingrey blinked back tears. The wolf 
sat up between Ingrey's knees, raised its head, and twisted around to 
gaze into its killer's face with perfect trust.

He must not botch this, must not inflict unnecessary torment with 
repeated strikes. His hands felt the neck, traced the firm muscles and 
the soft ripple of artery and vein. The room was a silvered blur. The 
young wolf leaned into him as Ingrey laid the blade close. He drew 
back, struck, yanked with all his strength. Felt the flesh part, the hot 
blood spurt over his hands, wetting the fur. Felt the body relax in his 
arms.

Shouts of alarm: his father's voice, Something's gone wrong! 
Curse you, Cumril, catch him!

He's gone all shaking-he's bitten his tongue, my lord-

A shift of time and space, and his wolf was bound-no, he was 
bound-red-silk cords whispered and muttered around him, writhing, 
rooting in him like vines. His wolf snapped at them, white teeth closing, 
tearing, but the cords regrew with frightening speed. They wrapped his 
head, tightening painfully.

Unfamiliar voices invaded his delirium then, irritatingly. His wolf 
fled. The memory of his evil dream spattered and ran away like water.

He can't be asleep; his eyes are half-open, see them gleam?

No, don't wake him up! I know what you're supposed to do. 
You're supposed to lead them back to bed quietly, or, I don't know, 
they go all wild, or something.

Then I'm not touching him with that sword in his hand!

Well, how else?

Get more light, woman. Oh, five gods be thanked, here's his 
own man.

A hesitation; then, Lord Ingrey? Lord Ingrey!

Candlelight doubled, doubled again. Ingrey blinked, gasped, 
surged to wakefulness. His head ached abominably. He was standing 
up. Shock brought him fully alert.

He was standing once more in the temple infirmary, if the room 
in back of the apothecary's could be so designated. He wore the 
divine's nightshirt half-tucked into his trousers, but his feet were bare on 
the board floor. His right hand gripped his naked sword.

I'm-he had to stop, swallow, moisten his lips-I'm awake.

What am I doing here? How did I get over here?

He'd been sleepwalking, presumably. He had heard of such 
things. He'd never done it before. And it had been more than just 
blundering about in the dark. He'd partly dressed, found his weapon, 
somehow made his way in unobserved silence down a stairway, 
through a door-which surely must have been locked, so he must have 
turned the key-across the cobbled square, and into this other building.

Where Lady Ijada lies asleep. Five gods, let her go on 
sleeping. The door to the bedchamber was closed-now. In sudden 
horror, he glanced at his blade, but it was still gleaming and dry. No 
dripping gore stained it. Yet.

His guardsman, with a wary glance at his sword, came to him 
and took him by his left arm. Are you all right, my lord?

Hurt my head today, Ingrey mumbled. The dedicat's 
medicines gave me strange dreams. Dizzy. Sorry

Should Iumtake you back to bed, my lord?

Yes, said Ingrey gratefully. Yes-the seldom-used phrase 
forced itself from his cold lips-please you. He was shivering now. It 
wasn't wholly from the chill.

He suffered the guardsman to guide him out the door, around the 
shop, back across the silent, dark square. Back into the divine's house. 
A servant who had slept through Ingrey's exit was awakened by their 
return and came out into the hall in sleepy alarm. Ingrey mumbled more 
excuses about the dedicat's potions, which served well enough given 
the porter's own muzzy state. Ingrey let his guardsman guide him all the 
way to his bed and even pull his covers up, sergeantly maternal. The 
man retreated in a clanking, board-creaking sort of tiptoe, pulling the 
door shut behind him.

He blew out the candle, went back to bed, lay stiffly for a time, 
then got up again and felt in the dark in his saddlebags for a length of 
rope. He tied a loop tightly around his ankle, played out a length, and 
tied another loop around a lower bedpost. Clumsily, he wrapped 
himself in his covers again.

His head throbbed, and his strained shoulder pulsed like a knot 
of fire under his skin. He tossed, turned, came up short against his 
rope. Well, at least it worked. He started to doze in sheer exhaustion, 
turned, and came up short again. He wallowed onto his back once 
more and lay staring up into the dark, teeth clenched. His eyes felt 
coated in sand.

Better than dreaming. He'd had the wolf dream again, for the 
first time in months, though it was now only slippery fragments in his 
memory. He had more than one reason to fear sleep, it seemed.

How did I get into this position? A week ago, he had been a 
happy man, or at least, contented enough. He had a comfortable 
chamber in Lord Hetwar's palace, a manservant, horse and clothing 
and arms by his lord's grace, a stipend sufficient for his amusements. 
The bustle of the hallow king's capital city at his feet. Better, he had an 
engagingly irregular but solid rank in the sealmaster's household, and a 
reputation as a trusted aide-not quite bravo, not quite clerk, but a man 
to be relied upon for unusual tasks discreetly done. As Hetwar's high 
courier, he delivered rewards intact, and threats suitably nuanced. He 
was not, he thought, proudly honest, as some men; perhaps he'd simply 
lost too much already to be tempted by trumpery. Indifference served 
him quite as well as integrity, and sometimes served Hetwar even 
better. His most pleasurable reward had usually been to have his 
curiosity satisfied.

The rope yanked his ankle again. His right hand clenched in the 
memory of his sword hilt. Curse that leopard girl! If she'd just lain 
down under Boleso like any other self-interested wench, spread her 
legs and thought of the jewelry and fine clothing she would undoubtedly 
have earned, all this could have been avoided. And Ingrey wouldn't be 
lying here with a line of bloody embroidery itching in his hair, half the 
muscles in his body twitching in agony, tied to his own bed, waiting for 
a leaden dawn.

Wondering if he was still sane.



CHAPTER FOUR


THEY ESCAPED REEDMERE LATER IN THE MORNING THAN Ingrey 
had desired, owing to the insistence of the lord-divine in making a 
ceremony, with more choirs, out of loading Boleso's coffin aboard its 
new carrier. The wagon at least was tolerable-very well made, with 
somber draperies disguising its bright paint, if not the distinct smell of 
beer lingering about it. The six horses that came with it were grand 
tawny beasts, massive of shoulder, haunch, and hoof, with orange and 
black ribbons braided in manes and bound-up tails. The bells on their 
glossy harness were muffled with black flannel, for which Ingrey, head 
still throbbing from yesterday's blow, was grateful. Compared to their 
usual load, Ingrey imagined, the team would tow Boleso up hills and 
through mire as effortlessly as a child's sled.

Lady Ijada appeared as trim as she had yesterday morning, now 
in an even more elegant riding habit of gray-blue trimmed with silver 
thread. Clearly, she had slept through the night. Ingrey wavered 
between resentful and relieved, as his headache waxed and waned. An 
hour into the bright morning, he began to feel about as recovered as he 
was likely to get. Almost human. He gritted his teeth at the bitter joke 
and rode up and down the column taking stock.

Ijada's new female attendant, one of the middle-aged Temple 
servants on loan from Reedmere, rode in the wagon. She was wary of 
her ward, much more frigid than the rural wife from Boar's Head who 
had known more of Boleso. She seemed even more wary of Ingrey. 
He wondered if the woman had told Ijada of his sleepwalking episode.

Boleso's retainers, too, seemed edgier today, as they drew 
closer to Easthome and whatever chastisement awaited them for their 
failure to keep their banished prince alive. More than one cast glances 
of dark resentment at Boleso's victim-and-slayer, and Ingrey resolved 
to keep them from both drink and his prisoner until he could turn the 
whole lot and their dead leader over to someone, anyone, else. Ingrey 
had dispatched a Temple courier last night to Sealmaster Hetwar with 
the cortege's projected itinerary. If Hetwar left it to his discretion, 
Ingrey decided, Boleso was going to be galloped to his burial in record 
time.

Ingrey checked himself; this squealing prey did not seem to 
attract or excite him unduly, which was as well. He sat his horse in grim 
silence till the pigs had been driven again into the tangled verge. Lady 
Ijada, he noted, also sat her horse quietly, waiting, although with a 
curious inward expression on her face.

He did not attempt speech with her on the ride. His guards, by 
his order, kept close to her while she was mounted, and the servant 
woman dutifully dogged her steps during the stops to rest the horses. 
But his eye returned to her constantly. All too often he crossed her 
grave glance at him: not a frown of fear, more a look of concern. As 
though he were her charge. It was most irritating, as though they were 
tied to each other by a tugging leash, like a pair of coupled hounds. Not 
looking at or speaking with her seemed to consume all his energy and 
attention, and left him exhausted.

The town's superior size, however, meant it had not merely a 
larger inn, but three of them, and Ingrey had mustered the wit that 
morning to instruct his advance scout to bespeak rooms. The middle 
hostelry had also proved the cleanest. Ingrey himself escorted Lady 
Ijada and her warden up to its second floor, and the bedchamber and 
private parlor his man had secured. He inspected the portals. The 
windows overlooked the street, were small, and could not be readily 
accessed from the ground. The door bars were sound solid oak. Good.

He dug the rooms' keys from his belt pouch and handed them to 
Lady Ijada. The woman warden frowned curiously at him, but did not 
dare demur.

Keep your doors locked at all times, tonight, Ingrey told Lady 
Ijada. And barred.

Her brows rose a little, and she glanced around the peaceful 
chamber. Is there anything special to fear, here?

Nothing but what we brought with us. I walked in my sleep 
last night, he admitted with reluctance. I was outside your door 
before anyone woke me.

She gave him a slow nod, and another of those looks. He unset 
his teeth, and said, I will be staying at one of the other inns. I know 
you gave me your word, but I want you to stay close in here, out of 
sight. You'll wish to eat privately. I'll have your dinner brought up.

She said only, Thank you, Lord Ingrey.

With a short return nod, he took himself out. 
Ingrey went down to the taproom, lying off a short passage, to 
give orders for his prisoner's meal. A couple of Boleso's retainers and 
one of Ingrey's men were already there, raising tankards.

We're housed everywhere, my lord, said the man. We've 
filled the other inns.

Better than bedrolls on the temple floor, said Ingrey's man.

Oh, aye, said the first, and took a long swallow. His burlier 
comrade grunted something that might have been agreement.

A commotion and a small shriek outside drew Ingrey to the 
taproom's curtained window, which looked out into the street. An open 
wagon pulled by a pair of stubby, sweaty horses had drawn up outside 
in the dusk, and one of its front wheels had just parted company with 
its axle and fallen onto the cobbles, leaving the wagon tilted at a 
drunken angle. Its lanterns swayed on their front posts, casting 
wavering shadows. A woman's brisk voice said, Never mind, love, 
Bernan will fix it. That's why I-

Had me bring my toolbox, yes, finished a weary male voice 
from the back of the wagon. I'll get to it. Next.

The manservant hopped out and set some wooden steps beside 
the now-sloping driver's box, and he and a woman servant helped a 
stout, short, cloaked figure to descend.

Ingrey turned away, thinking only that the late-arriving party 
might find rooms hard to come by in Red Dike tonight. The burly 
retainer drained his tankard, belched, and asked the tapster for 
directions to the privy. He lurched out of the taproom ahead of Ingrey 
and turned into the passageway.

The bulky cloaked woman had arrived therein; her maidservant 
was bent to the floor behind her, muttering imprecations and blocking 
the way. The voluminous cloak was grubby and tattered, and had 
clearly seen better days.

The burly retainer vented a curse, and growled, Out of my way, 
you fat sow.

The woman unhooked the clasp at her throat and let the cloak 
fall away; she was dressed in robes of Mother's green, and was not fat, 
but very pregnant. If some midwife-dedicat, she would shortly be in 
need of her own services, Ingrey thought bemusedly. The woman 
reached over her jutting belly to tap her left shoulder, and cleared her 
throat portentously. See this, young man? Or are you too drunk to 
focus your eyes?

See what? said the burly retainer, unimpressed by a midwife, 
still less if she were some gravid poor woman.

She followed his gaze to her frayed green-clad shoulder, and 
pursed her lips in annoyance. Oh, dratsab. Hergi-she twisted around 
to her maid, now rising to her feet-they've fallen off again. I hope I 
haven't lost them on the road-

I have them right here, my lady, wheezed the harried maid. 
Here, I'll pin them back. Again.

She came up from the floor with not one but two sets of Temple 
school braids clutched in her hands, and, tongue pinched between her 
teeth, began to affix them in their proper place of honor. The first loop 
was the dark green, straw-yellow, and metallic gold of a 
physician-divine of the Mother's Order. The second was the white, 
cream, and metallic silver of a sorceress-divine of the Bastard's Order. 
The first brought even Boleso's retainer into an attitude of, if not greater 
respect, at least less careless contempt; but it was the second that 
drained his face of blood.

The retainer scowled. Those can't be yours!

The blood had drained from his brain, too, evidently. Those 
who are unwilling to admit error are fated to repeat it? Prudently, 
Ingrey backed a few paces down the passage; also because it gave him 
a better view of the proceedings.

I do not have time for you, said the sorceress in aggravation. 
If you insist on behaving as though you were in a sty, a pig you shall 
be, until you learn better manners. She waved a hand in the retainer's 
general direction, and Ingrey quelled an impulse to duck. He was 
entirely unsurprised when the man fell to all fours and his yelp turned 
into a grunt. The sorceress sniffed, gathered up her robes, and stepped 
daintily around him. Her head-shaking maid, toting a leather case, 
scooped up the cloak in passing. Ingrey bowed the women politely into 
the taproom and turned to follow after, ignoring an agonized snuffle 
from the floor. His other two men edged around the taproom and 
peered worriedly into the passageway.

Apologies, Learned, said Ingrey smoothly, but will your most 
salutary lesson last long? I only inquire because the man must be fit to 
ride tomorrow.

The blond woman turned to frown at him, her floating strands of 
hair seeming now to be trying to escape in all directions. Is he yours?

Not precisely. But though I am not responsible for his behavior, 
I am responsible for his arrival.

Oh. Well. I will doubtless restore him before I leave. Else the 
delusion will wear off on its own in a few hours. Meanwhile, the 
encouragement of others and all that. But I am in the greatest haste. 
There was a grand cortege that arrived in Red Dike tonight, of Prince 
Boleso who they say was murdered. Have you witnessed it? I seek its 
commander. 
Ingrey half bowed again. You have found him. Ingrey kin 
Wolf-cliff at your service and your gods', Learned.

She is in my charge.

Is she. The stare sharpened. Where?

She has chambers upstairs in this inn.

The maidservant huffed in relief; the sorceress cast her a look of 
cheery triumph. Third time is the charm, murmured the sorceress. 
Did I not say so?

This town only has three inns, the maidservant pointed out.

Are you, Ingrey added hopefully, sent by the Temple to take 
her into your hands? And off mine?

Notprecisely, no. But I must see her.

Ingrey hesitated. What is she to you? Or you to her?

An old friend, if she remembers me. I'm Learned Hallana. I 
heard of her plight when the news of the prince came to my seminary in 
Suttleaf. That is, we heard of Boleso's murder, and who had 
supposedly done the deed, and I presumed it for a plight. Her stare at 
Ingrey did not grow less disconcerting. We were sure the cortege 
must come by this road, but I feared I would have to chase after it.

The seminary of the Mother's Order at Suttleaf, a town some 
twenty-five miles to the south of Red Dike, was well-known in the 
region for its training of physicians and other healing artisans-the 
dedicat who had stitched Ingrey's head last night had likely learned her 
craft there. Ingrey might have searched the surrounding three earldoms 
for a Temple sorcerer and never thought of looking at Suttleaf. Instead, 
she had found him

Could she sense his wolf? A Temple sorcerer had inflicted it 
upon him; later, a Temple divine had helped him learn to bind it. Might 
this woman have been sent-by whom or what, Ingrey did not wish to 
guess-to help bind Ijada's leopard? Incomprehensible as the 
sorceress's presence here was, it seemed not to be a coincidence. The 
notion raised all the hackles of his neck and spine. On the whole, 
Ingrey thought he would prefer coincidence.

The woman favored him with a brief, approving nod. Yes, 
please, Lord Ingrey.

He preceded the women into the passageway and indicated the 
stairs to the left. In the opposite direction, the be-pigged retainer was 
still down on the floor, shoving his head against the door and grunting.

My lord, what should we do with him? asked his unnerved 
comrade.

Ingrey turned to observe the scene for a moment. Watch over 
him. See he comes to no harm till his lesson passes off.

The comrade glanced past Ingrey at the retreating sorceress and 
swallowed. Yes, my lord. Umanything else?

You could feed him some bran mash.

The sorceress, making her way up the stairs with hand to the rail 
and her maid close behind, glanced back at this, her lips twitching. She 
lumbered on upward, and Ingrey hastened after.

To his satisfaction, he found the door to Lady Ijada's parlor 
locked. He rapped upon it.

Who is there? came her voice.

Ingrey.

A slight pause. Are you awake?

He grimaced. Yes. You have a visitor.

Puzzled silence for a moment, then the clink of the key in the 
lock and the scrape of the bar being withdrawn. The warden drew the 
door wide, blinking in astonishment as the sorceress and her maid 
swept within. Ingrey followed.

Ijada? said the sorceress, sounding taken aback. My word, 
child, how tall you've grown!

Then Ijada's face was swept by such joy as Ingrey had never yet 
seen illuminate it. Hallana! she cried, and hurried forward.

The two women fell into each other's arms with feminine shrieks 
of recognition and pleasure. At length, Lady Ijada stood back with her 
hands upon the shorter woman's shoulders. How ever did you come 
here?

The news of your misadventure came to the Mother's seminary 
at Suttleaf. I teach there now, you know. And then there were the 
dreams, of course.

And how came you there-you must tell me everything that has 
happened with you since-oh, Lord Ingrey. Ijada turned to him, her 
face glowing. This is my friend I told you of. She was a medical 
missioner at my father's fort on the west marches, and a student in the 
Bastard's Order as well, pursuing both her callings-learning the fen 
folk's wisdom songs, and treating what of their sicknesses she could, to 
draw them to the fort and our divine's Quintarian preachings. When she 
was younger, of course. And me-I was the most gangling awkward 
child. Hallana, I still don't know why you let me tail around after you all 
day long, but I adored you for it.

Well, aside from my not being immune to worship-makes me 
wonder about the gods, indeed it does-you did make yourself quite 
useful. You were not afraid of the marsh, or the woods, or the animals, 
or the fen folk, or of getting thoroughly muddy and scratched or of 
being scolded for it.

Ijada laughed. I still remember how you and that dreadfully 
priggish divine used to argue theology over the meal trestles-Learned 
Oswin would grow so furious, he would positively stamp out afterward. 
I should have worried for his digestion, if I had been older and less 
self-absorbed. Poor skinny fellow.

Oh, but look at you-here, you must sit down- Lady Ijada and 
the maid Hergi joined forces briefly to find the best chair, pad it with 
cushions, and urge Learned Hallana into it. She sank down gratefully, 
blowing out her breath with a whoosh, and adjusted her belly in her lap. 
The maid scurried to prop her mistress's feet on a stool. Lady Ijada 
pulled a chair to the table opposite her friend, and Ingrey retreated to 
the window seat, no great distance away in the tiny room, where he 
could watch both women. The warden hung back, cautious and 
respectful.

Your double scholarship is a most unusual combination, 
Learned, said Ingrey, nodding to the woman's shoulder braids. Their 
pin was working loose again, and they hung precariously on their perch.

Oh, yes. It came about by accident, if accident it was. She 
shrugged, dislodging the braids; her maid sighed and wordlessly 
retrieved and reinstalled them. I had started out to be a physician, like 
my mother and grandmother before me. My apprenticeship was quite 
complete, and I had begun to practice at the Temple hospital in 
Helmharbor. There I was called to attend upon a dying sorcerer. She 
paused and glanced shrewdly at Ingrey. What do you know about 
how Temple sorcerers are made, Lord Ingrey? Or illicit sorcerers, for 
that matter?

His brows rose. A person comes into possession of a demon of 
disorder, which has somehow escaped from the grip of the Bastard into 
the world of matter. The sorcerer takes it into his soul-or hers, he 
added hastily. And nourishes it there. In return, the demon lends its 
powers. The acquisition of a demon makes one a sorcerer much as the 
acquisition of a horse makes one a rider, or so I was taught. 
Very correct. Hallana nodded approval. It does not, of 
course, necessarily make one a good rider. That must be learned. Well. 
What is less well known, is that Temple sorcerers sometimes bequeath 
their demons to their Order, to be passed along to the next generation, 
with all that they have learned. Since, when a sorcerer dies, if she-or 
he-does not bear the demon back to the gods, it will jump away to the 
next living thing nearby that may sustain it in the world of matter. It is 
not a good thing to lose a powerful demon into a stray dog. Don't 
smile, it has happened. But done properly, a trained demon may be 
directed into one's chosen successor without ripping one's soul to 
pieces in the process.

You were ten. All the world is an equal mystery then. She 
shifted in her chair, not without difficulty, evidently seeking a more 
comfortable position. The Bastard's Order in Helmharbor had 
groomed this divine, a very scholarly young fellow, to receive his 
mentor's powers. All seemed to go as planned. The old sorcerer-my 
word, but he was a frail thing by then-breathed his last quite peacefully, 
all things considered. His successor held his hand and prayed. And the 
stupid demon jumped right over him and into me. No one was 
expecting it, least of all that lofty young divine. He was livid. I was 
distraught. How could I practice the healing arts when plagued with a 
demon of disorder itself? I tried for some time to be rid of it-even made 
pilgrimage to a saint reputed to have the Bastard's own power over His 
strayed elementals.

In Darthaca? inquired Ingrey.

Her brows rose. How did you know?

Fortunate guess.

The flare of her nostril expressed her dim opinion of that quip. 
Well, so. We made the rite together. But the god would not take His 
demon back! 
Darthaca, confirmed Ingrey glumly. I believe I once met the 
same fellow. Remarkably useless.

Lady Ijada bowed her head, a shadow crossing her face. Ours 
was not a high-walled fort for no cause. Angry, foolish men, an 
imprudent ride out to attempt reason at a time when tempers were 
running too highI had seen only the lovely side of the marsh country, 
and the kindness of its people. But they were only people after all.

What happened to you and your lady mother, after he was 
slain?

She went back to her own kin-my own kin-in the north of the 
Weald. In a year, she married again-another Temple-man, though not a 
soldier-her brother made little jokes about that. She did not love my 
stepfather in the way she had loved my father, but he was fond and she 
was ready to be comfortable. But she died-um. Ijada stopped, 
glanced at Learned Hallana's belly, and bit her lip.

I am a physician, too, Hallana reminded her. Childbed?

About four days after. She took a fever.

The warden, listening in all too much fascination, signed herself in 
sympathy, caught Ingrey's eye upon her, and subsided.

Hm, said Hallana. I wonder if-no, never mind. All too late. 
And your-?

Little brother. He lived. My stepfather dotes on him. But he 
was the reason my stepfather remarried so very quickly.

It was the first Ingrey had heard Lady Ijada had living siblings. I 
hadn't thought to ask. 
And so you found yourself living withno one you'd ever 
planned to, Learned Hallana mused. And vice versa. Was your 
stepfamily comfortable?

And she's, ah, how many years older than you?

A dry smile fleeted across Ijada's face. Three.

Hallana snorted. And so when your chance came to go, she 
bade you farewell with right goodwill?

Well, it was goodwill. My Badgerbank uncle's wife actually 
found me the position with Princess Fara. She thought my stepfamily 
dreadfully common, and that I should be raised up out of it before 
yeomanry became a habit with me.

Hallana's snort was more caustic, this time. The very learned 
divine, Ingrey realized, had not introduced herself as kin anyone.

But Hallana, Ijada continued, physician or not, I do not 
understand how you may safely bear a demon and a baby at once. I 
thought demons were terribly dangerous, in that state.

They are. Learned Hallana grimaced. Disorder flows naturally 
from demons; it is the very spring of their power in matter. The creation 
of a child, wherein matter grows an entirely new soul, is the highest and 
most complex form of ordering known, apart from the gods 
themselves. Given all that can go wrong with the process without a 
demon, keeping the two apart becomes rather urgent. And difficult. 
The difficulty is why some divines discourage female sorcerers from 
becoming mothers, or women from seeking that power until they are 
grown old. Well, and some of them are just self-satisfied fools, but 
that's another subject. It's all very well, you know, but I saw no reason 
to stop my life for other people's theories. My risks are no greater-or 
different-than any other woman's, if my skills match them. Oh, apart 
from the danger of the demon entering the baby during the distractions 
of birth. Ordinary infants are demonic enough! The secret of safety 
turns out to be to, ahhow shall I put it. Shed excess disorder. By 
cascading small amounts of chaos continually, I keep my demon 
passive, and my baby safe. A fond maternal smile lit her eyes. Alas, 
it's a trifle hard on everyone around me for those months. I have a little 
hermitage on the edge of the seminary grounds that I move into.

Not at all. My dear husband brings the two older children to 
visit me every day. And some evenings without the children, too. I 
catch up on my reading and my studies-it makes the most wonderful 
retreat imaginable. I should be quite too inclined to repeat it, but I 
imagine a dozen babies would be a mistake, and anyway, I think my 
husband would draw the line well before then.

The maid Hergi, who had made herself small and quiet near her 
mistress's feet, giggled in a remarkably unservile fashion.

It is not, you know, different in kind from the sort of thoughtful 
self-discipline any Temple sorcerer must keep. To use disorder alone, 
never trying to reverse the flow of its nature, but in good causecalm, 
careful, never yielding to the temptation of shortcuts. That was the 
salvation of my calling-when a certain brilliant logician pointed out that 
surgery destroys to heal. And I saw how to correctly use the powers 
that had been granted me in the direction my heart desired. I was so 
overjoyed, I married him.

Ijada laughed. I am so happy for you! You deserve all good 
things.

Ah, what we may deserve, well, the Father alone knows that, in 
the balance of His justice. The sorceress's face grew solemn again. 
So tell me, love, what truly happened out in that cold castle?



CHAPTER FIVE


IJADA'S LAUGHTER WAS ABRUPTLY EXTINGUISHED. INGREY 
QUIETLY rose and sent the warden out for the meal that he had been 
diverted from ordering, increasing the servings. This also removed her 
interested ear from the proceedings. She looked disappointed, but 
dared not disobey.

He was alert for discrepancies, but the tale Ijada told Learned 
Hallana was much the same as what she had-finally-told Ingrey, though 
this time all in order with nothing left out. Except that she revealed much 
more to Hallana of her suffocating fears. Hallana's expression grew so 
intent as to be stony during Ijada's account of her leopard dreams. 
Ijada brought her story up to her nearly disastrous fall at the ford, 
yesterday, and hesitated, glancing across at Ingrey. I think the next 
part should be Lord Ingrey's to tell.

Ingrey jerked in his seat, flushing. For an instant it almost 
seemed like the red fog returning, and his hand spasmed on the edge of 
the sill on which he sat. He became uncomfortably aware that he had 
grown careless again, on some dim assumption that the sorceress could 
protect both herself and Ijada. But sorcerers were not proof against 
steel, not once it closed on them. He'd allowed himself to be alone with 
the women while still armed. And now his direst secrets were 
challenged

He blurted, I tried to drown her. I've tried three other times to 
kill her, that I know of. I swear it is not my desire. She thinks it is some 
spell or geas.

The sorceress pursed her lips and vented a long, thoughtful 
stream of breath. Then she sat back and closed her eyes, her face 
growing very still. When she opened them again, her expression was 
enigmatic.

No sorcerer has currently bespelled you. You bear no 
sustaining link-no spirit-threads wind to or from you. No elemental 
from the fifth god lies within your soul. But something else does. It 
seems very dark.

He looked away. I know. It is my wolf.

If that's a wolf's soul, I'm the queen of Darthaca. 
It always was a strange wolf. But it is bound!

I don't know if I amsafe.

Her brows twitched up; she looked him over, and he grew 
acutely conscious of his road stains and brigand's beard stubble. I 
think I shall not argue with that. Ijada, what do you see in him?

I don't see anything, she replied unhappily. It is as though the 
leopard smells him, and I overhearoversmell? Howsoever, I am lent 
these unfamiliar sensations. There's the dark wolf-thing you see-at least, 
it smells dark, like old leaf mold and campfire ashes and forest 
shadows-and a third thing. Whispering around him like a rumor. It has 
a most strange perfume. Acrid.

Hallana tilted her head back and forth. I see his soul, with my 
soul's eye. I see the dark thing. I do not see or hear the third thing. It is 
not of the Bastard in any way, not lent from the world of spirit that the 
gods rule. Yet-his soul has strange convolutions. A clear glass that one 
cannot see with the eyes, one might still touch with the fingers. I must 
risk a deeper touch.

Don't! said Ingrey, panicked.

Lady, ought you? murmured the maid, her face crimped 
with alarm. Now?

Hallana's lips moved on what might have been, Dratsab, 
dratsab, dratsab. Let us think.

A knock sounded at the door; the warden had returned, flanked 
by some inn servants with trays and the man Hallana had called Bernan, 
who lugged a large chest. He was a wiry, middle-aged fellow with an 
alert eye; his green-leather jerkin was spattered with old burn spots, 
like a smith's. He inhaled with deep appreciation as the trays were 
borne past him. The delectable odors of vinegared beef and onions 
seeping from under the crockery covers forcibly reminded Ingrey that 
he was both ravenous and exhausted.

Hallana brightened. Better still, let us eat, then think. 
The inn servants set the table in the little parlor, but after that the 
sorceress sent them away, saying she preferred to be served by her 
own folk. She whispered aside to Ingrey, Actually, I make such a 
mess, just now, I don't dare eat in public. Ingrey, warily circumspect, 
sent the warden downstairs to eat in the common room and tarry there 
until called for. She cast a curious look back as she reluctantly 
withdrew.

Hergi whipped a napkin the size of a tablecloth around her 
mistress and helped her to her food, deftly catching tilting glasses, 
skidding jugs, and sliding stew, often before they spilled, but sometimes 
not. Drink up your wine, the sorceress recommended. It will go sour 
in half an hour. I should take myself off before the innkeeper discovers 
the trouble with his beer. Well, his store of fleas, lice, and bedbugs will 
not survive me, either, so I hope it is a fair exchange. If I linger, I may 
have to start in on the mice, poor things.

Lady Ijada seemed as famished as Ingrey, and the conversation 
waned for a time. Hallana reopened it with a blunt inquiry of the origin 
of Ingrey's wolf-affliction. His stomach knotted despite his hunger, but 
he mumbled through an explanation rather fuller than he had yet 
confided to Ijada, as well as he could remember the confusing old 
events. Both women listened raptly. Ingrey was uneasily aware that 
Bernan, who had taken his plate to a seat on his wooden chest, and 
Hergi, who snitched bites standing between mopping up after her 
mistress, were listening, too. But a Temple sorceress's servants must 
surely be among the most discreet.

Had your father had a previous interest in the animal magic of 
our Old Wealding forebears? Hallana inquired, when he had finished 
describing the rite.

Why attempt such a thing then? said Ijada.

Ingrey shrugged. All who knew died or fled. There were none 
left to tell by the time I recovered enough to ask. His mind shrank 
from the fragmented memories of those dark, bewildered weeks. Some 
things were better forgotten.

Hallana chewed, swallowed, and asked, How came you to 
learn to bind your wolf?

Things like that, for example. Ingrey rubbed his tense neck, 
without relief. Audar's ancient law, that those defiled by animal ghosts 
should be burned alive, had not been carried out within living memory 
at Birchbeck. Our local divine, who had known me all my life, was 
anxious that it not be invoked. As it turned out, the Temple inquirer sent 
to examine the case ruled that since the crime was not of my making, 
but imposed upon me by persons whose authority I was bound to 
obey, it would be tantamount to cutting off a man's hand for being 
robbed. So I was formally pardoned, my life spared.

Ijada looked up with keen attention at the news of this 
precedent, her lips parting as if to speak, but then just shook her head.

Ingrey gave her an acknowledging nod, and continued, Still I 
could not be left to wander freely. Sometimes I was lucid, you see, but 
sometimesI could not well remember the other times. So our divine 
set about trying to cure me.

How? asked the sorceress.

Prayer first, of course. Then rituals, what old ones he could 
find. Some I think he made up new out of bits. None worked. Then he 
tried exhortations, lectures and sermons, he and his acolytes taking 
turns for days together. That was the most wearisome part. Then we 
tried to drive it out by force.

We? Hallana cocked an eyebrow. 
It was notnot done against my will. I was desperate by 
then.

We tried everything we could think of that wouldn't outright 
cripple me. Starvation, beatings, fire and threats of fire, water. It did 
not drive out the wolf, but at least I learned to gain ascendance, and my 
periods of confusion grew shorter.

Under those conditions, I should imagine you learned rather 
quickly.

He glanced up defensively at her dry tone. It was clearly 
working. Anyway, better to be shoved under the Birchbeck till my 
lungs burst than listen to more sermons all day and night. Our divine 
held everyone steadfast through the task, though it was hard. It was the 
last thing he could do for my father, whom he felt he had failed.

Ingrey took a swallow of wine. After some months, I was 
pronounced well enough to be let out. Castle Birchgrove had been 
settled on my uncle by then. I was sent on pilgrimage, in hopes of 
finding some more permanent cure. I was glad enough to go; though as 
hope failed, and I grew to man size and shed my keepers, my search 
turned into mere wanderings. When I ran out of money, I'd take what 
odd tasks came to hand. Anything had seemed better than turning his 
steps toward home. And thenone day, it hadn't, anymore.

I met Lord Hetwar when he was on an embassy to the king of 
Darthaca. His desperate contrivances to win access to the sealmaster, 
he didn't think worth recounting. He was curious how a Wealding 
kinsman should be serving strangers so far from home, so I told him my 
tale. He was not daunted by my wolf and gave me a place in his guard 
that I might work my way back to my own country. I made myself 
useful during some incidents on the road, and he was pleased to make 
my place permanent. I rose in his household thereafter. Ingrey's mouth 
firmed in tight pride. By my merits.

He applied himself to his spiced meat, sopping up the last of its 
gingery gravy with the inn's good bread. Ijada had stopped eating a 
little while ago and sat solemn with thought, running her finger around 
the rim of her empty wine beaker. When she looked up and caught his 
eye, she managed a wan smile. Hallana waved away her maid's attempt 
to feed her a second apple tart, and Hergi rolled up the stained napkin 
and bundled it away.

Yes, he admitted reluctantly.

Do you have any idea who laid this bridle on you?

No. It's hard to think about it. It almost bothers me more that I 
cannot feel it, between fits. I begin to mistrust everything in my mind. 
As if straining to see the insides of my own eyeballs. He hesitated, 
marshaled his nerve. Can you take it off me, Learned?

She huffed uncertainly, while the manservant, behind her, made 
an urgent negative gesture to Ingrey, and Hergi squeaked protest.

The one thing I might safely do right now, said Hallana, is add 
to the disorder in your spirit. Whether this would break or disrupt the 
hold of this strange thing Ijada smells upon you, I do not know. I dare 
attempt nothing more complex. If I were not pregnant, I might try-well, 
never mind. Yes, yes, I see you, Bernan, please refrain from bursting, 
she added to the agitated manservant. If I do not vent disorder into 
Lord Ingrey, here, I shall just have to kill some mice, and I like mice.

Ingrey rubbed his tired face. I am willing to have you try, 
butfetter me, first.

Her brows climbed. You think it necessary?

Prudent.

The sorceress's servants, at least, seemed greatly in favor of 
prudence in any form. While Ingrey laid his sword and belt knife against 
the wall by the door, Bernan opened what proved to be a well-stocked 
toolbox and rummaged within, producing a couple of lengths of sturdy 
chain. In consultation with Ingrey, he fitted loops tightly around Ingrey's 
booted ankles, and secured them with an iron staple and hasp. Ingrey 
crossed his hands at the wrists and suffered a similar arrangement there, 
then tested both bindings, twisting and straining. They seemed solid 
enough. Then he sat on the floor with his back to the window seat and 
had Bernan bolt the wrist chains to the ankle chains. He felt an utter 
fool, sitting crouched with his knees up halfway to his ears. His 
audience looked extremely bemused, but no one demurred.

The sense of heat flowing from her touch was pleasant for the 
first few seconds, and he leaned into her hand. But then it grew 
uncomfortably warm. A disturbing haze clouded his vision. Abruptly, 
the heat was roaring like a smithy's furnace across his mind, and he was 
seeing double. The second image parted from the first: twisted, altered.

The room was still present to his physical senses. But equally 
present was another place. In it

In it, he was standing nude. Above his heart, his pale flesh 
puckered, then swelled. The skin burst. From it, a vine, no, a vein, 
sprouted, and began to wind and twist around him, climbing. He felt a 
second hot bulge burst on his forehead, and saw the vine-vein wind 
down from it, blurred by its proximity. Another from his navel, another 
from his genitals. Their moving tips muttered and dripped blood. His 
tongue, too, was transformed, pushing out from his mouth, forming into 
a pulsing tube.

In the material room, his body began to writhe and yank against 
his chains. Harder. His eyes half rolled back, but still he could see the 
Learned Hallana leaning near-she scrambled back as he opened his 
mouth to howl. But between her two glowing hands, held apart, violet 
fire still roared, spiraling into his horribly transformed mouth. 
The long tentacle growing from his tongue flapped and jerked in 
agony, its unintelligible whisper speeding into a hiss, yet seemed to 
devour the heat. The other four, mirroring its excitement, continued to 
mutter and thicken, splashing him with blood. The hot metallic smell and 
slippery feel of it drove him to distraction. His real body bucked and 
arched with near bone-cracking force, straining against his chains. His 
hair rippled, and his genitals engorged and stiffened. He fell sideways, 
convulsed, began to try to roll and rock himself across the room 
toward the wall where his sheathed sword leaned.

Its fur was a silken ripple over moving muscle, its claws carved 
ivory; its brilliant amber eyes flashed with golden lights. It fell upon the 
writhing veins for all the world like a kitten upon a mess of cords, paws 
patting, then clawing, then pulling the hissing things toward it to bite at 
them with its great teeth. The veins lashed like whips of acid, leaving 
black burns across the elegant, spotted coat, and the leopardess 
snarled, a rich sound that shook the air, that shook Ingrey to his heart. 
From somewhere deep inside him, an answering growl arose.

His jaw began to lengthen

No. No! I deny you, wolf-within! He bit down, clenched his 
teeth. Fought wolf, fought tentacles, fought his body, fought his mind, 
rocked nearer to his sword. Fight. Killsomethingeverything

The tortured chain twisted, an iron link snapping like a stick. His 
wrists and ankles were still bound, but freed from each other. His body 
straightened, and then he could writhe and roll, arch and turn. His 
sword was very close. Panicked feet trampled about him.

His real hands were as slippery with real blood as his second 
body now was with the strange red spew that flowed out of himself, 
onto himself. To his utter horror, he began to feel the links slip from his 
bleeding wrists, over his yanking hands. If he freed his right hand, 
reached his swordsurely none would leave this room alive. Perhaps 
not even himself. 
He would take the yammering manservant's head first, with a 
single stroke. Then turn upon the screaming women. Ijada was already 
on her knees like an executioner's victim, strands of loosened hair 
falling forward veiling her face. The whipping sword edge, the pregnant 
onehis mind shied, denied.

His jaw lengthened, his teeth grew into sharp white knives. He 
began to bite and rip at the veins, snarling and shaking his head as a 
wolf shakes a rabbit to break its back. The hot blood spurted in his 
mouth, and he felt the pain of his own bites. He gripped, ripped. Pulled 
the things out of his body by their gory roots. Then it was no longer 
inside him, but in front of him, wriggling like some malevolent sea 
creature brought to the lethal air. He kicked at it with naked, clawed 
feet. The leopardess pounced, batted, rolled the shrieking red thing 
across the floor. It was, briefly, alive. Dying.

Then it was gone.

The second vision vanished, or rejoined the first, melting one into 
another, the leopardess into Ijada, his wolf-jaw-where?

His body sagged. He was lying on his back near the door, 
ankles still bound, bloody hands free. Bernan was standing over him, 
his face pale as parchment, a short iron crowbar gripped in his shaking 
hands.

A little silence fell.

Well, said Hallana's bright, strained voice. Let us not do that 
again

A rumble of footsteps sounded from the corridor outside the 
chamber. An urgent thumping on the door: Ingrey's soldier called in 
alarm, Hello? Is everyone all right in there? Lord Ingrey?

The warden's frightened voice: Was that really him, screaming 
like that? Oh, hurry, break it down! 
A third man: If you break my door, you'll pay for it! Hey in 
there! Open up!

Hallana was standing with feet braced, breathing rapidly, staring 
at him with very wide eyes. Yes, she called out. Lord 
Ingreytripped and upset the table. It's a bit of a mess in here just 
now. We'll see to it. Don't concern yourselves.

You don't sound all right.

Ingrey swallowed, cleared his raw throat, adjusted his voice. I'll 
come down to the taproom in a while. The divine's servants will deal 
with thewith themess. Go away.

We will take care of his injuries, added Hallana.

A baffled silence, a mumble of argument: then the footsteps 
retreated.

A sigh seemed to go through everyone in the room but Bernan, 
who still brandished his crowbar. Ingrey lay back limply on the 
floorboards, feeling as though his bones were turned to porridge. He 
was sick to his stomach. After a moment, he raised his hands. The 
chains dangled heavily from his left wrist; his right, lubricated with 
blood, was free. He stared at it, barely comprehending the torn skin 
and throbbing pain. By the unpleasant trickle in his hair, his furious 
thumping around had ripped apart some of his new stitches, as well.

At this rate, I'm going to be dead before I ever get to 
Easthome, whether Lady Ijada survives me or not.

IjadaHe twisted around in feverish concern. Bernan made a 
warning noise and raised his crowbar higher. Ijada was still on her 
knees a pace or two away, her face very pale, her eyes huge and dark.

No, Bernan! she said. He's all right now. It's gone.

I have seen a man afflicted with the falling sickness, said 
Hallana in a distant tone. This most assuredly wasn't that. She 
ventured near Ingrey again and walked around him, peering down 
searchingly over her belly.

Hallana's head came round. What did you just experience?

I fell to my knees-I was still on my knees, in this room, but at 
the same time, I was suddenly in the leopard's body. The leopard's 
spirit body-I did not mistake it for flesh. But oh, it was strong! 
Glorious. My senses were terribly acute. I could see! But I was 
mute-no, beyond mute. Wordless. We were in some bigger space, or 
other space-it was as big as it needed to be, anyway. You-her gaze 
swung to Ingrey-were in the place before me. Your body was 
sprouting scarlet horrors. They seemed to be of you, yet attacking you. 
I pounced on them and tried to bite them off you. They burned my 
jaws. Then you started to turn into a wolf, or a man-wolf, some strange 
hybrid-it was as if your body couldn't make up its mind. You grew a 
wolf's head, at least, and started tearing at the red horrors, too. She 
looked at him sideways, in a fresh fascination.

Ingrey wondered, but dared not ask, if she'd hallucinated a 
loincloth for him as well. The wild arousal of his frenzied state was only 
now passing off, damped by confusion and pain.

When we had ripped the burning, clutching things all out of you, 
they could be seen to be not many, but all one thing. For a moment it 
looked like a ball of mating snakes, raked from under a ledge in the 
springtime. Then it went silent and vanished, and I was back here. In 
this body. She held up one long-fingered hand before her eyes as if 
still expecting to see pads and claws. If that was anything like what the 
Old Weald warriors experiencedI think I begin to see why they 
desired this. Except not the part about the bleeding things. Yet even 
thatwe won. The pulsing dilation of her eyes was not just fear, 
Ingrey thought, but also a vast, astonished exhilaration. She added to 
Hallana, Did you see my leopard? The bleeding things, the wolf's 
head?

Ingrey started to shake his head, discovered that his brain felt as 
though it had come loose, and mumbled, No!

I'm not sure, said Ijada. The leopard took me there-I didn't 
go myself. And it wasn't exactly a there. We were still here.

Hallana's expression grew, if possible, more intent. Did you 
sense any of the gods' presences, in that space?

No, said Ijada. None. There was a time I might not have 
known for sure, but after the leopard dreamno. I would have known, 
if He were back. Despite her distress, a smile softened her lips. The 
smile was not for him, Ingrey knew. It still made him want to crawl 
toward her. Now, that was madness by any measure.

Hallana stretched her shoulders, which had alarming effects 
given her current girth, and grimaced. Bernan, help Lord Ingrey up. 
Take off those bolts.

Are you sure, Learned? the manservant said doubtfully. His 
eyes flicked toward Ingrey's sword, now lying in the room's corner; he 
had apparently kicked it out of Ingrey's rolling reach during his 
scramble to get into striking position with his crowbar.

Lord Ingrey? What is your opinion? You were certainly correct 
before.

I don't thinkI can move. The oak floor was hard and chilly, 
but by the swimming of Ingrey's head, horizontal seemed vastly 
preferable to vertical.

He was forced to the vertical despite himself, dragged up and 
placed in the divine's vacated chair by the two servants. Bernan tapped 
off the bolts with a hammer and Hergi, clucking, collected a basin of 
fresh water, soap, towels, and the leather case of what proved to be 
medical instruments and supplies that she had brought in with her. She 
tended expertly to Ingrey's injuries, new and old, under the divine's eye, 
and it occurred to Ingrey belatedly that of course the sorceress would 
travel with her own midwife-dedicat, in her present state. He wondered 
if Hergi was married to the smith, if that was Bernan's real calling.

In that place you found yourselves, Hallana began again.

It wasn't real, mumbled Ingrey.

Mm, well, yes. But while you were in that, um, state, what did 
you perceive of me, if anything?

Colored fire flowed from your hands. Into my mouth. It drove 
the vein growing there into a frenzy, which it passed on to the others. 
Its other parts, I suppose. It was as though your fire flushed them from 
their hiding places. He ran his tongue around his mouth now, to 
reassure himself that the hideous distortion was truly gone. More 
disturbingly, he found his face was slimed with spittle. He started to 
wipe away the sticky foam with the bandage on his left wrist, but his 
hand was intercepted by Hergi, protecting her work. She gave him a 
disapproving headshake and wrung out a wet cloth instead. Ingrey 
swabbed and tried not to think about his father.

The tongue is the Bastard's own sign and signifier upon our 
bodies, Hallana mused.

That ought to mean something. I wonder what? I wonder if 
there are any manuscripts of Old Weald lore that would illuminate this 
puzzle? When I get back to Suttleaf, I will search our library, but I'm 
afraid we've mostly medical tracts. The Darthacan Quintarians who 
conquered us were more interested in destroying the old ways than in 
chronicling them. It was as if they wished to put the old forest powers 
out of reach of everyone, even themselves. I'm not sure they were 
wrong.

When I was in the leopard-when I was the leopard, said 
Ijada, I saw the phantasmal images, too. But then it was all shut away 
from me again. A faint regret tinged her tone.

I, on the other hand-the sorceress's fingers drummed on the 
closest level surface, which happened to be the top of her 
stomach-saw nothing. Except for Lord Ingrey ripping his way out of 
iron chains that should have held a horse, that is. If that was typical of 
the strength their spirit animals lent the old warriors, it's no wonder they 
were prized.

If the old warriors had hurt like this afterward, Ingrey wasn't so 
sure their ghost animals would have been as prized as all that. If the 
forest kin had carried on as he just hadhe wanted to ask about the 
noises he'd made, but was too mortified.

If there was anything to see, I should have seen it, Hallana 
went on in increasing exasperation. She plunked down on a spare 
chair. Dratsab, dratsab. Let us think. After a moment, she narrowed 
her eyes at Ingrey. You say the thing is gone. If we cannot say what it 
was-can you at least now remember who put it on you?

Ingrey leaned forward, rubbing his scratchy eyes. He suspected 
they were glaringly bloodshot. I'd better have these boots off. At 
Hallana's gesture, Bernan knelt and assisted; Ingrey's ankles were 
indeed swelling and discolored. He stared down at them for a moment 
more.

Hallana sucked on her lower lip. Think harder. A compulsion to 
kill your prisoner was more likely laid on you between the time the 
news came of Boleso's death and the time you left Easthome for Boar's 
Head. Before then, there was no reason, and after, no time. Whom did 
you see in that time?

Put like that, it was even more disturbing. Not very many men. 
I was called to Lord Hetwar's chambers in the evening. The courier 
was still there. Hetwar, Hetwar's secretary of the chamber, Prince 
Rigild the king's seneschal, Earl Badgerbank, Wencel kin Horseriver, 
Lord Alca kin Otterbine, the kin Boarford brothersWe spoke but 
briefly, as Lord Hetwar gave me the news and my instructions.

Which were?

Retrieve Boleso's body, transport his killer Ingrey hesitated. 
Make his death discreet.

What did that mean? asked Ijada, sounding genuinely puzzled.

Make all evidence of Boleso's indiscretions vanish. Including 
his principal victim?

What? But aren't you an officer of the king's justice? she said 
indignantly.

Strictly speaking, I serve Sealmaster Hetwar. He added after 
a cautious moment, It is Sealmaster Hetwar's steadfast purpose to 
serve the closest needs of the Weald and its royal house.

Ijada fell silent, dismayed, her brows drawing down. 
The Temple sorceress tapped her lips with one finger. She, at 
least, did not look shocked. But when she spoke again, her swift 
thoughts had plainly darted down yet another road. Nothing of spirit 
can exist in the world of matter without a being of matter to support it. 
Spells are sustained by sorcerers through their demons, which are 
necessary but not sufficient; the demon's sustenance must come from 
the sorcerer's body, ultimately. But your spell was being sustained by 
you. I suspecthm. To use your word, Ijada, a parasite magic? The 
spell was somehow induced in you, and your life maintained it 
thereafter. If this strange sorcery has any resemblance to my own, it 
flows most readily, like water, downhill. It does not create, but steals its 
capabilities from its host.

Wasn't it?

But Ijada's lovely lips thinned with thought. Sealmaster 
Hetwar must have a hundred swordsmen, soldiers, bravos. A half 
dozen of his guardsmen rode out with you. Thethe person, 
whoever-might have laid the geas on any of them just as well. Why 
should the only man in Easthome who is known to bear an animal spirit 
be sent to me?

A flash of expression-insight, satisfaction?-flew across Learned 
Hallana's face and vanished. But she did not speak, only sat back more 
intently, presumably because leaning forward more intently was not 
feasible. Is it widely known, your spiritual affliction? she asked.

Ingrey shrugged. It is general gossip, yes. Variously garbled. 
My reputation is useful to Hetwar. I'm not someone most men want to 
cross. Or have around them for very long, or invite to their 
tables, or, above all, introduce to their female kin. But I'm well 
accustomed to that, by now. 
Ijada's eyes widened. You were chosen because your wolf 
could be blamed! Hetwar chose you. Therefore, he must be the source 
of the geas!

Two extremely unpleasant realizations crept over Ingrey. One 
was that he was still bearing Lady Ijada toward her potential death. 
Her drowning in the river yesterday could have been no worse than 
some later poisoning or strangling in her cell, and a hundred times more 
merciful than the horrors of a dubious trial and subsequent hanging.

And the other was that an enemy of great and secret power was 
going to be seriously upset when they both arrived at Easthome alive.



CHAPTER SIX


INGREY WOKE FEVERISH FROM DIMLY REMEMBERED NIGHTMARES. 
He blinked in the level light coming through the dormer window in the 
tiny, but private, chamber high up in the eaves of his inn. Dawn. Time to 
move.

Movement unleashed pain in every strained and sprained muscle 
he possessed, which seemed to be most of them, and he hastily 
abandoned his attempt to sit up. But lying back did not bring relief. He 
gingerly turned his head, his neck on fire, and eyed the trap of crockery 
he'd set on the floor by his door. The teetering pile appeared 
undisturbed. Good sign.

The wraps on his wrists and right hand were holding, although 
stained with brown blood. He stretched and clenched his fingers. So. 
Last evening had been no dream, for all its hallucinatory terrors. His 
stomach tightened in anxiety-painfully-as the memories mounted.

Hinges squeaked; a clatter of crockery was overridden by Rider 
Gesca's startled swearing. Ingrey squinted at the door. Gesca, 
grimacing in bewilderment, picked his way across the dislodged barrier 
of tumbling beakers and plates. The lieutenant was dressed for the road 
in boots and leathers and Hetwar's slate-blue tabard, and tidied for the 
solemnity of the duty: drab blond hair combed, amiable face 
new-shaved. He stared down at Ingrey in dismay. My lord?

Ah. Gesca. When the noise of rolling saucers died away, 
Ingrey managed, How is pig-boy this morning?

Gesca shook his head, seeming caught between wariness and 
exasperation. His delusions passed off about midnight. We put him to 
bed.

See that he does not approach or annoy Learned Hallana 
again.

I don't think that will be a problem. Gesca's worried eyes 
summed the bruises and bandages. Lord Ingrey-what happened to 
you last night?

Ingrey hesitated. What do they say happened?

They say you were locked in with that sorceress for a couple of 
hours when suddenly a racket rose from the room-howling, and 
thumping to bring down the plaster from the ceiling below, and yelling. 
Sounded like someone being murdered.

The sorceress and her servants went out later as though nothing 
had happened, and you left limping, not talking to anyone.

Ingrey reviewed the excuses Hallana had called through the 
door, as well as he could remember them. Yes. I was carrying 
aham, and a carving knife, and I tripped over a chair. No, she 
hadn't said a chair. Upended the table. Cut my hand going down.

Gesca's face screwed up, as he no doubt tried to picture how 
this event could result in Ingrey's peculiar array of bandages and 
bruises. We're almost ready to load up, out there. The Red Dike 
divine is waiting to bless Prince Boleso's coffin. Are you going to be 
able to ride? After your accident. He added after a reflective moment, 
Accidents.

Do I look that bad? Did you deliver my message for Lord 
Hetwar to the Temple courier?

Yes. She rode out at first light.

Thentell the men to stand down. I expect instructions. Better 
wait. We'll take a day to rest the horses.

Gesca gestured assent, but his stare plainly questioned why 
Ingrey had driven both men and animals to their limits for two long days 
only to spend the time so gained idling here. He picked up the 
crockery, set it on the washstand, gave Ingrey another bemused look, 
and made his way out.

Ingrey had scrawled his latest note to Lord Hetwar immediately 
upon their arrival last night, reporting the cortege in Red Dike and 
pressing for relief of his command, feigning inability to supply adequate 
ceremony. The note had contained, therefore, no word of the Temple 
sorceress or hint of the later events in that upstairs room. He hadn't 
mentioned the incident of the river, or, indeed, any remark upon his 
prisoner at all. Uneasy awareness of his duty to report the truth to the 
sealmaster warred now with fear, in his heart. Fear and rage. Who 
placed that grotesque geas in me, and how? Why was I made a 
witless tool?

His own anger frightened him even as his fear stoked his fury, 
tightening his throat and making his temples throb. He lay back, trying 
to remember the hard-won self-disciplines that had stilled him under the 
earnest holy tortures at Birchgrove. Slowly, he willed his screaming 
muscles to resistless quiet again.

His wolf had been released last night. He had unchained it. Was 
it leashed again this morning? And if notwhat then? For all the aches 
in his body, his mind felt no different from any other morning of his adult 
life. So was his frozen hesitation here in Red Dike just old habit, or was 
it good sense? Simple prudence, to refuse to advance one step farther 
toward Easthome in his present lethal ignorance? His physical injuries 
made a plausible blind to hide behind. But were they a hunter's screen 
or just a coward's refuge? His caged thoughts circled.

Another tap at the door broke the tensing upward spiral of his 
disquiet, and a sharp female voice inquired, Lord Ingrey? I need to 
see you.

Mistress Hergi. Come in. Belatedly, Ingrey grew conscious of 
his shirtless state. But she was presumably an experienced dedicat of 
the Mother's order, and no blushing maiden. Still, it would be courteous 
to at least sit up. It would.

Hm. Her lips thinned as she stepped to the bedside and 
regarded him, a coolly capable glint in her eye. Rider Gesca did not 
exaggerate. Well, there is no help for it; you must get up. Learned 
Madam wishes to see your prisoner before she leaves, and I would 
have her on the road home at the earliest moment. We had enough 
trouble getting here; I dread the return trip. Come, now. Oh, dear. Let 
me see, better start with

She plunked her leather case down on the washstand and 
rummaged within, withdrawing a square blue glass bottle and pulling out 
the cork stopper. She poured a sinister syrup into a spoon, and as 
Ingrey creaked up on one elbow to ask, What is it? popped it into his 
mouth. The liquid tasted utterly vile. He swallowed, afraid to spit it out 
under her steely gaze.

Ingrey swallowed medicine and a surge of bile. It's revolting.

Eh, you'll change your mind about it soon enough, I warrant. 
Here. Let's see how my work is holding up.

Efficiently, she unbound his wrappings, applied new ointment 
and fresh bandages, daubed the stitches in his hair with something that 
stung, combed out the tangles, washed his torso, and shaved him, 
batting his hands away as he tried to protest his own competence to 
dress himself. Don't you be getting my new wraps wet, now, my lord. 
And stop fighting me. I'll have no delays out of you.

He hadn't been dressed like this by a woman since he was six, 
but his pain was fading most deliciously away, to be replaced by a 
floating lassitude. He stopped fighting her. The intensity of her 
concentration, he realized dimly, had nothing to do with him.

Is Learned Hallana all right? After last night? he asked 
cautiously.

Baby's shifted position. Could be a day, could be a week, but 
there are twenty-five miles of bad roads between here and Suttleaf, and 
I wish I had her home safe now. Now, you mind me, Lord Ingrey; 
don't you dare do anything to detain her. Whatever she wants from 
you, give it to her without argument, if you please. She sniffed rather 
fiercely.

Yes, Mistress, Ingrey answered humbly. He added after a 
blinking moment, Your potion seems very effective. Can I keep the 
bottle?

No. She knelt by his feet. Oh. Your boots won't do, will 
they? Do you have any other shoes with you? She scavenged 
ruthlessly in his saddlebags, to emerge with a pair of worn leather 
buskins that she jammed onto his feet. Up you come, now.

THE SORCERESS-PHYSICIAN WAS ALREADY WAITING IN THE TAP-room 
of Ijada's inn at the other end of Red Dike's main street. Learned 
Hallana eyed his bandages, and inquired politely, I trust this morning 
finds you much recovered, Lord Ingrey?

Yes. Thank you. Your medicine helped. Though it made an 
odd breakfast. He smiled at her, a trifle hazily he feared.

Oh. It would. She glanced at Hergi. How much? Hergi 
held up two fingers. Ingrey could not decide if the twitch of the divine's 
eyebrows was censure or approval, for Hergi merely shrugged in return.

Ingrey followed both women upstairs once more. They were 
admitted to the parlor, a little doubtfully, by the female warden. Ingrey 
looked around surreptitiously for signs of his late frenzy, finding none 
but for a few faint bloodstains and dents on the oak floorboards. Ijada 
stepped from the bedchamber at the sound of their entry. She was 
dressed for travel in the same gray-blue riding costume as yesterday, 
but had put off her boots in favor of light leather shoes. Uneasily, Ingrey 
searched her pale face; her expression, returning his gaze, was sober 
and pensive.

More uneasily, he searched his own shifted perceptions. She 
seemed not so much different to him this morning as more, with an 
energetic density to her person that seized his focus. A heady warm 
scent, like sunlight in dry grass, arose from her. He found his lips 
parting to better taste that sun-smell-a futile effort, as it did not come 
through the air.

Hallana, too, had more than a taste of the uncanny about her, a 
dizzying busyness partly from her pregnancy but mostly from a subdued 
swirl, smelling like a whiff of wind after a lightning strike, that he took 
for her pacified demon. The two ordinary women, Hergi and the 
warden, seemed suddenly thin and flat and dry by comparison, as 
though drawn on paper.

I must leave very soon, or we won't be home before dark, the 
divine told her. I wish I could go along with you, instead. This is all 
most disturbing, especially She jerked her head at Ingrey, indicating 
his late geas, and his lips twisted in agreement. That alone would make 
this Temple business, even withoutwell, never mind. Five gods guard 
you on your journey. This is a note to the master of my order in 
Easthome, begging his interest in your case. With luck, he can take up 
with you where I am forced to leave off. She glanced Ingrey's way 
again, an untrusting tension around her mouth. I charge you, my lord, 
to help see that this arrives at its destination. And no other.

He opened his hand in an ambiguous acknowledgment, and 
Hallana's lips thinned a little more. As Hetwar's agent, he had learned 
how to open and copy letters without leaving traces, and he was fairly 
certain she guessed he knew those tricks of a spy's trade. Yet the 
Bastard was the very god of spies; what tricks might His sorceress 
know? And to which of her two holy orders had she addressed her 
concerns? Still, if she had enspelled the missive in any way, it was not 
apparent to Ingrey's new perceptions.

Learned Ijada's voice was suddenly thin and uncertain. 
Learned, not dear Hallana, Ingrey noted. Hergi stood alertly ready to 
usher her mistress out the door; she frowned in frustration as the divine 
turned back.

Yes, child?

Nonever mind. It's nothing. Foolishness.

Suppose you let me be the judge of that. Hallana lowered 
herself into a chair and tilted her head encouragingly.

I had a very odd dream last night. Ijada stepped nervously 
back and forth, then settled in the window seat. A new one.

Unusually vivid. I remembered it in the morning right away, 
when I awoke, when my other dreams melted away out of my mind.

Go on. Hallana's face seemed carved, so careful was her 
listening.

It was brief, just a flash of a vision. It seemed to me I saw a 
sort ofI don't know. Death-haunt, in the shape of a stallion. Black as 
soot, black without gleam or reflection. Galloping, but very slowly. Its 
nostrils were red and glowing, and steamed; its mane and tail trailed 
fire. Sparks struck from its hooves, leaving prints of flame that burned 
all to ash in its wake. Clouds of ash and shadow. Its rider was as dark 
as it was.

Hm. Was the rider male or female?

Ijada frowned. That seems like the wrong question to ask. The 
rider's legs curved down to become the horse's ribs, as if their bodies 
were grown together. In the left hand, it held a leash. At the end of the 
leash ran a great wolf.

Hallana's eyebrows went up, and she cast a glance at Ingrey. 
Did you recognize this, ah, particular wolf?

I'm not sure. Maybe. Its pelt was pewter-black, just like 
Her voice trailed off, then firmed. In my dream, anyway, I thought it 
felt familiar. Briefly, her hazel eyes bored into Ingrey's, her sober look 
returning, to his immense discomfort. But it was altogether a wolf, this 
time. It wore a spiked collar, but turned inside out, with the sharp 
points digging inward. Blood splashed from its paws as it ran, turning 
the ash it trod to splotches of black mud. Then the shadow and the 
cinders choked my breath and my sight, and I saw no more.

Learned Hallana pursed her lips. My word, child. Vivid, 
indeed. I'll have to think about that one.

Do you think it might have been significant? Or was it just an 
aftershock from She gestured around the room, plainly recalling the 
bizarre events of last evening here, then looked at Ingrey sideways 
through her lashes.

No. It was very brief, as I said. Though intense.

What did you feel? Not when you awoke, but then, within the 
dream? Were you frightened?

Not frightened, exactly. Or at least, not for myself. I was more 
furious. Balked. As though I were trying to catch up, and could not.

A little silence fell. After a moment Ijada ventured, Learned? 
What should I do?

Hallana seemed to wrench her distant expression into an unfelt 
smile. Wellprayer never hurts.

That hardly seems like an answer.

In your case, it might be. This is not a reassurance.

Ijada rubbed her forehead, as though it ached. I'm not sure I 
want more such dreams.

Ingrey, too, wanted to beg, Learned, what shall I do? But 
what answer, after all, could she give him? To stay frozen here? 
Easthome would only come to him, with all due ceremony. Travel on, 
as was his plain duty? Surely a Temple divine could advise no other 
course. Flee, or set Ijada to flight? Would she even go? He'd offered 
escape to her once, in that tangled wood. She'd sensibly refused. But 
what if her flight were made more practical? An escape in the night, 
with no hint to Ingrey's masters, oh no, as to how or from whose hand 
she had acquired horse, pack, moneyescort? We must speak again 
of this. Or could he give her over to the sorceress, her friend-send her 
in secret to Suttleaf? Surely, if such a sanctuary were possible, Learned 
Hallana would have offered it already. He strangled his beginning noise 
of inquiry in a cough, scorning to be dismissed with instructions to pray. 
Hergi helped her mistress to rise again from her chair.

Not for you, dear, said Hallana in an absent tone. Or not for 
you alone, at least. This is all much more complex than I anticipated. I 
long for the advice of my dear Oswin. He has such a logical mind.

Oswin? said Ijada.

My husband.

Wait, said Ijada, her eyes growing round with astonishment. 
Not-not that Oswin? Our Oswin, Learned Oswin, from the fen fort? 
That fussy stick? All arms and legs, with a neck like a heron swallowing 
a frog?

The very same. Oswin's spouse seemed unruffled by this 
unflattering description of her mate; her firm lips softened. He's 
improved with age, I promise you. He was very callow then. And I, 
well, I trust I may have improved a trifle, too.

Of all the wonders-I can scarcely believe it! You two used to 
argue and fight all the time!

Only over theology, said Hallana mildly. Because we both 
cared, you know. Wellmostly over theology. Her mouth twitched 
up at some unspoken memory. One shared passion led to others, in 
due time. He followed me back to the Weald, when his cycle of duty 
was ended-I told him he just wanted to have the last word. He's still 
trying. He is a teacher, too, now. He still likes to argue-it's his greatest 
bliss. I should be cruel to deny it to him.

Learned Sir has a way with words, he does, confirmed Hergi. 
Which I do not look forward to hearing, if I don't get you home safe 
and soon as I promised him.

Yes, yes, dear Hergi. Smiling, the sorceress at last turned to 
lumber out under the close attendance of her handmaiden. Hergi gave 
Ingrey a nod of judicious approval in passing, presumably for his 
cooperation, or at least, for his failure to interfere.

Oh, she said, one hand flying to her mouth.

Oh what? he inquired, puzzled.

You can smile! From her tone, this was a wonder tantamount 
to his sprouting wings and flapping up to the ceiling. He glanced 
upward, picturing himself doing so. The winged wolf. What? He shook 
his head to clear it of these odd thoughts, but it just made him dizzy. 
Perhaps it was as well that Hergi had taken the blue bottle away with 
her.

Ijada stepped to the window onto the street, and Ingrey 
followed. Together they watched Hergi load her mistress into the 
wagon, its wheel repaired, under Bernan's anxious eye. The groom, or 
smith, or whatever he was took up the reins, clucking at the stubby 
horses, and the wagon trundled up the street and turned out of sight. 
Behind them in the chamber, the warden made herself busy unpacking 
a case evidently bound up for the road, but like Boleso's coffin not 
loaded because of Ingrey's order of delay.

He was standing very close to Ijada, looking over her shoulder; 
he might readily reach up and rest his left hand on the nape of her neck, 
where her hair, lifted into its bundling net, revealed the pale skin. His 
breath stirred a stray strand there, yet she did not move away. She did 
turn her head, though, to meet his glance. No fear convulsed her 
features, no revulsion: just an intense scrutiny.

And yet she had seen not just that other vile thing, but his wolf; 
his defilement, his capacity for violence, was not rumor or gossip to her 
now, but a direct experience. Undeniable. She denies nothing. Why 
does she not recoil?

His perceptions spun. Turn it around: how did he feel about her 
cat? He had seen it, in that other reality, as clearly as she had seen his 
wolfishness. Logically, her defilement should seem twin to his own. Yet 
a god had passed her in the night, the mere brush of His cloak hem 
seeming a breath of exaltation. All the theological theories of all the 
Temple divines who'd dinned their lessons into Ingrey's unwilling ear 
seemed to melt away under the pitiless gaze of some great Fact, 
hovering just beyond the reach of his reason. Her secret beast had 
been gloriously beautiful. Terror, it seemed, had a new and entrancing 
dimension today, one Ingrey had never before suspected.

His mind lurched back into motion. It would be perfectly 
unexceptionable to conduct his prisoner to the temple without her 
chaperone; at this hour, it would be nearly deserted, and they might 
converse in plain sight undisturbed. No one would wonder if I 
escorted you to the altars of the gods to pray for mercy, lady.

Her lips twisted. Say justice, rather, and it would do.

He backed a little from her and made a sign of assent. Turning, 
he dismissed the warden to whatever of her own affairs she cared to 
pursue for an hour, and saw Ijada out of the parlor. When they gained 
the street and turned up it, Ijada tucked her hand in his elbow and 
picked her way carefully over the damp cobbles, not looking at him. 
The temple loomed up at length, built of the gray stone of this district, 
its size and style and solidity typical of great Audar's grandson's reign, 
before the Darthacan conquerors demonstrated that they, too, were 
capable of racking themselves to ruin in bloody kin wars.

They walked past the iron gates into the high-walled, quiet 
precincts, and under the imposing portico. The inner chambers were 
dim and cool after the bright morning outside, with narrow shafts of 
sunlight streaming down from the round windows high above. Some 
three or four persons were on their knees, or prone, before the 
Mother's altar in Her chamber. Ijada stiffened briefly on Ingrey's arm; 
he followed her glance through the archway to the Father's altar to 
catch sight of Boleso's coffin, set up on trestles, blanketed with 
brocades, and guarded by soldiers of the Red Dike city militia. But 
both the Daughter's chamber and the Son's were empty at this hour; 
Ijada turned into the Son's.

What, Ingrey began quietly, did you think would happen to 
you once you reached Easthome? What had you planned to do?

Her glance shifted to him, though she did not turn her head. In a 
like undertone, she replied, I expect I shall be examined, by the King's 
justiciars or the Temple inquirers, or both. I should certainly expect the 
Temple inquirers will take an interest now, given what has lately 
happened and Learned Hallana's letter. I plan to tell the exact truth, for 
the truth is my surest defense. A wry smile twitched her lips. Besides, 
it's easier to remember, they say.

Ingrey let out a long sigh. What do you imagine Easthome is 
like, now?

Why-I've never been there, but I've always supposed it is a 
splendid place. The king's court must be its crown, of course, but 
Princess Fara told me tales of the river docks and the glassworks, the 
great Temple schools-the Royal College as well. Gardens and palaces. 
Fine dressmakers. Scriptoriums and goldsmiths and artisans of every 
sort. There are plays put on, and not just for holy days, but for the 
great lords in their high houses.

Ingrey tried again. Have you ever seen a flock of vultures 
circling the carcass of some great and dangerous beast, bull or bear, 
that is not quite dead enough yet? Most hold back, waiting, but some 
dart in to peck and tear, then duck away. All hover closer as the day 
wears on, and the sight of the wheeling death watch draws in more 
distant kin, hot with fear of missing the best tidbits when all close in at 
last for the disembowelment.

Her lips thinned in distaste, and she turned her face toward him 
in question: What now? 
At present-Ingrey dropped his voice to a growl-Easthome is 
more like that. Tell me, Lady Ijada, who do you think will be elected 
the next hallow king?

So many others had assumed, till the hallow king was struck 
down with that wasting disease, then this palsy-stroke. If the blow had 
held off for five more years, Hetwar believes the king might have 
secured Biast's election in his own lifetime. Or if the old man had died 
quickly-Biast might have been rammed through on the momentum of 
grief, before the opposition could muster. Few could have foreseen or 
planned for this living half death, lasting months, giving time and motive 
for the worst, as well as the best and all between, to maneuver. To 
think. To whisper to each other. To be tempted. Kin Stagthorne had 
held the hallow kingship for five generations; more than one other kin 
believed it might now be their turn to seize that high seat.

Who, then?

If the hallow king were to die tonight, not even Hetwar knows 
who would be elected next week. And if Hetwar doesn't know, I 
doubt anyone else can guess, either. But by the pattern of bribes and 
rumors, Hetwar thought Boleso was to be a surprise candidate.

Her brows flew up. A bad one, surely!

A stupid and exploitable one. From the point of view of certain 
men, ideal. I thought such men were underestimating just how 
dangerous his erratic nature had become, and would have lived to 
regret their success. And that was before I knew of any bleeding of the 
uncanny into the mix. Ingrey frowned. Had Hetwar known of Boleso's 
blasphemous dabblings? The sealmaster was concerned enough to 
have me deliver a deposit of some one hundred thousand crowns to the 
archdivine-ordainer of Waterpeak, to secure his vote for Biast. His 
Grace thanked me in nicely ambiguous terms, I thought.

The sealmaster bribed an archdivine? 
Ingrey winced at her tone, so innocently aghast. The only thing 
unusual about the transaction was me. Hetwar normally uses me to 
deliver his threats. I'm good at it. I especially enjoy it when they try to 
bribe or threaten me back. One of my few pleasures, leading them into 
ambush and then, ah, into enlightenment. I think I was intended to be a 
double message, for the archdivine was nervous enough. A fact that 
Hetwar putwell, wherever he puts such things.

Sometimes. Sometimes not. Now, for example? He knows I 
have a curious mind, and feeds me tidbits now and then. But I do not 
press. Or I should get none.

Ingrey took a deep breath. So. Since you have not taken my 
hints to heart, let me lay it out for you more plainly. You did not just 
defend your virtue, there on the top of Boar's Head Castle. Nor did 
you merely offend the royal house of Stagthorne by making its scion's 
death a public scandal. You upset a political plot that has already cost 
someone hundreds of thousands of crowns and months of secret 
preparation. And involved illicit sorcery of the most dangerous sort. I 
deduce from my geas that somewhere in Easthome is a man-or men-of 
power who does not want you blurting the truth about Boleso to 
anyone at all. Their attempt to kill you subtly has miscarried. I am 
guessing that the next attempt will be less subtle. Or were you picturing 
some heroic stand before a justiciar or inquirer as brave and honest as 
yourself? There may be such men, I do not know. But I guarantee you 
will meet only the other sort.

Her jaw, he saw out of the corner of his eye, had set.

I amirritated, he finally chose. I decline to be made a party 
to this. I can arrange your escape. Dry-shod, this time, with money and 
without hungry bears. Tonight, if you like. There: disloyalty of secret 
thought made public words. As the silence grew thicker, he stared at 
the floor between his knees.

Her voice was so low it vibrated. How convenient for you. 
That way, you won't have to stand up to anybody. Nor speak 
dangerous truths to anyone for any honor's sake. All can go on for you 
just as it was.

Scarcely, he said. I have a target painted on my back now, 
too. His lips drew back in a sort of grin, the one that usually made men 
step away from him.

Does that amuse you?

Ingrey considered this. It stirs my interest, anyway.

Ijada drummed her nails on the pavement. It sounded like the 
clicking of distant claws. So much for high politics. What about high 
theology?

What?

I felt a god brush past me, Ingrey! Why?

He opened his mouth. Hesitated.

She continued in the same fierce whisper, All my life I have 
prayed, and all my life I have been refused answer. I scarcely believed 
in the gods anymore, or if I did, it was only to curse them for their 
indifference. They betrayed my father, who had served Them loyally all 
his life. They betrayed my mother, or They were powerless to save her, 
which was as bad or worse. If a god has come to me, He certainly 
hasn't come for me! In all your calculating, how do you sum that?

High court politics, said Ingrey slowly, are as godless as 
anything I know. If you press on to Easthome, you choose your death. 
Martyrdom may be a glory, but suicide is a sin.

And just what do you press on to, Lord Ingrey?

I have Lord Hetwar himself as a patron. I think. You will 
have no one.

Not every Temple divine in Easthome can be venal. And I have 
my mother's kin!

Earl Badgerbank was at that conference that dispatched me. 
Are you so sure he was there in your interests? I'm not.

Ingrey lay on his back and stared at the domed ceiling, angry, 
dizzy, and a little ill. Hergi's potion was beginning to wear off, he 
feared. His frustrated thought circled, then drifted, but not into piety. 
He let his tired eyelids shut.

After a formless time, Ijada's tart voice inquired, Are you 
praying or napping? And are you, in either case, done?

He blinked his eyes open to find her standing over him. 
Napping, apparently, for he had not heard her rise. I am at your 
disposal, lady. He started to sit up, stifled a yelp, and lay back more 
carefully.

Yes, well, I'm not surprised, you know. Did you look, 
afterward, at what you did to those poor chains? She held out an 
exasperated hand. Curious as to her strength, he grasped her hand and 
wrist with both hands. She leaned back like a sailor hauling on a rope, 
and he wallowed up.

As they made their way out under the portico into the autumn 
sun, Ingrey asked, And what guidance did you receive for all your 
prayers, lady?

She bit her lip. None. Though my thoughts are less disordered, 
so a little quiet meditation did that much good at least. Her sideways 
glance at him was enigmatic. Somewhat less disordered. It's just 
thatI can't help thinking about

He made an encouraging noise of inquiry.

She burst out, I still can't believe that Hallana married Oswin!

THEY FOUND IJADA'S WARDEN IN THE TAPROOM OF HER INN. SHE was 
sitting in the corner with Rider Gesca, their heads bent together, 
tankards and a platter with bread crumbs, cheese rinds, and apple 
cores on the table between them. The walk up the warm street had 
loosened Ingrey's stiff muscles a trifle, and he fancied he strolled rather 
than limped over to them. They looked up, and their talk ceased.

The cheese is excellent. Stay away from the beer, though-it's 
gone sour.

Ijada's eyes widened, but she forbore comment.

Ah. Thank you for the warning. He leaned over and nabbed 
the last bread crust. And what have you two been finding to talk 
about?

The warden looked frightened, but Gesca, with a hint of 
challenge, merely said, I've been telling Ingrey stories.

Ingrey stories? Ijada said. Are there many?

Ingrey controlled a grimace.

Gesca, grinning at the encouragement, said, I was just telling the 
tale of how Hetwar's train was attacked by those bandits in the forest 
of Aldenna, on the way home from Darthaca, and how you won your 
place in his household. It was my good word in the sealmaster's ear 
that did it, after all.

Was it? said Ingrey, trying to decide if Gesca was gabbling 
nervously or not. And if so, why.

We were a large party, Gesca continued to the women, and 
well armed, but this was a troop of outlaws who had fled to the forest 
and grown to over two hundred men, mostly by the addition of 
discharged soldiers and vagabonds and runaways. They were the 
plague of the country round about, and we likely looked rich enough 
that they dared to try us. I was right behind Ingrey in the van when they 
fell on us. They realized their mistake soon enough. Astonishing 
swordplay. 
I'm not that good, said Ingrey. They were bad.

Ingrey had no memory of the moment, though he recalled the 
attack, of course. The beginning and the end of it, anyway. Gesca, you 
are making up tales to swagger with. Gesca was near a decade older 
than Ingrey; perhaps the staid middle-aged warden seemed a less 
unlikely object for dalliance to him.

Ha. If I were making up grand lies for swagger, I'd tell them on 
myself. At that point, the rest turned and ran. You hewed down the 
slowest Gesca trailed off, not completing the story. Ingrey suddenly 
guessed why. He had come back to himself while methodically 
dispatching the wounded. Red to the elbows, the blood smell 
overpowering. Gesca, face appalled, gripping him by the shoulders and 
crying, Ingrey! Father's tears, man, save some for hanging! He 
hadnot exactly forgotten that. He had merely refrained from revisiting 
the memory.

Gesca covered his hesitation by taking a swig of beer, evidently 
remembered its taste too late, and swallowed anyway. He made a face 
and wiped his lips. It was at that point that I recommended to Hetwar 
that he make your place permanent. My thinking was purely selfish. I 
wanted to make sure that you never ended up on the opposite side to 
me in a fight. Gesca smiled up at him, but not with his eyes.

Ingrey's return smile was equally austere. Subtlety, Gesca? 
How unlike you. What are you trying to say to me?

The ache from his head blow day before yesterday was 
returning. Ingrey decided to repair to his own inn to find food. He bade 
the warden to her duty, instructing the women to lock their chamber 
door once more, and withdrew.

returning. Ingrey decided to repair to his own inn to find food. He bade 
the warden to her duty, instructing the women to lock their chamber 
door once more, and withdrew. 
N


A FTER FORAGING A MEAL OF SORTS IN HIS INN'S COMMON room, 
Ingrey returned to his chamber to fall across his bed once more. He 
was a day and a half late fulfilling the Reedmere dedicat's prescription 
of rest for his aching head blow, and he apologized humbly in his heart 
to her. But for all his exhaustion, in the warming afternoon, sleep would 
not come.

It was no good dashing about arranging all in secret for Ijada's 
midnight escape if she refused to mount and ride away. She must be 
persuaded. If her secret beast was discovered, would they burn her? 
He imagined the flames licking up around her taut body, evil orange 
caresses, igniting the oil-soaked shift such prisoners were dressed in to 
speed their agony. He visualized her swinging from a hemp rope and 
oak beam, in vicious, senseless parody of an Old Wealding sacrifice 
hanged from a sacred forest tree. Or would the royal executioners 
allow her a silk rope, like her leopard, in honor of her kin rank? Though 
the old tribes, lacking silk, had used rope woven from shimmering nettle 
flax for their highest born, he had heard. Think of something else. But 
his thoughts circled in dreary morbidity.

They had begun as messengers to the gods, those willing human 
sacrifices of the Old Weald. Sacred couriers to carry prayers directly 
to heaven in unholy hours of great need, when all mere spoken words, 
or prayers of the heart or hands, seemed to fly up into the void and 
vanish into a vast silence. Like mine, now. But then, under the 
generations-long pressure from the eastern borders, the tribes' needs 
had grown, and so had their fears. Battles and ground were lost; woes 
waxed and judgment slipped; quality gave way to quantity, in the 
desperate days, and heroic holy volunteers grew harder to find.

Their ranks were filled by the less willing, then the unwilling; at 
the last, captured soldiers, hostages, kidnapped camp followers, 
worse. The sacred trees bore a bumper crop. Children, Ingrey had 
heard, in some of the Quintarian divines' favorite gruesome martyr tales. 
Enemy children. And what benighted mind places the name of 
enemy on a bewildered child? At the very least, the Old Wealding 
tribal mages might have reflected on what prayers that river of sacrifice 
had really borne to the gods, in their victims' weeping hearts.

His thoughts were growing worse, he was uncomfortably aware, 
but not wider. At length, he dozed. It wasn't a good doze, but it was 
better than the writhing that went before.

HE WOKE AS THE AUTUMN SUN WAS GOING DOWN, AND TOOK himself 
again to Ijada's inn to invite her to evening prayer.

She cocked an eyebrow at him, and murmured, You are grown 
pious, of a sudden. But at his tight-lipped look of anguish, she relented 
and accompanied him to the temple once more.

When they were on their knees before the Brother's altar-both 
the Mother's and the Daughter's chambers were full of Red Dike 
supplicants again-he began under his breath, Listen. I must decide 
tonight whether we ride or bide tomorrow. You cannot just drift into 
disaster with no plan, no attempt even to throw some rope to shore. 
Else it will become the rope that hangs you, and it drives me half-mad 
to picture you dangling as your leopard did. I should think you'd both 
have had enough of hanging. 
Ingrey, think, she returned in as low a voice. Even assuming I 
could escape unseen, where would I go? My mother's kin could not 
take me in or hide me. My poor stepfather-he hasn't the strength to 
fight such high foes, and besides, his would be among the first places 
they'd look for such a fugitive. A woman, a stranger, alone-I would be 
utterly conspicuous, and a target for the vile. She had taken thought, 
too, it appeared.

A long silence; he glanced aside to see her face gone still, staring 
straight ahead, wide-eyed. You would do that? Desert your company 
and your duty?

He set his teeth. Perhaps.

Then where would we go? Your kin could not take us in either, 
I think.

I cannot imagine going back to Birchgrove for any reason. No. 
We would have to get out of the Weald altogether, cross the borders. 
To the Alvian League, perhaps-slip into the Cantons over the northern 
mountains. Or to Darthaca. I can speak and write Darthacan, at least.

I cannot. I would be your mutewhat? Burden, servant, pet, 
paramour?

Ingrey reddened. We could pretend you were my sister. I 
could swear to regard you with that respect. I wouldn't touch you.

How very enticing. Her lips set in a flat line.

He paused, feeling like a man crossing river ice in winter and 
hearing a first faint cracking sound coming from under his feet. What 
did she mean me to make of that remark? Ibran was your father's 
tongue, presumably. Do you speak it?

A little. Do you?

A little. We could make for the Peninsula, then. Chalion or Ibra 
or Brajar. You would not then be so mute. There was work for 
swordsmen there, too, Ingrey had heard, in the interminable border 
wars with the heretical Quadrene coastal princedoms-and few 
questions asked of foreign volunteers, so long as they signed the Five.

Which? She talked a great deal. Clouds of chatter.

Look to her silences, then.

That sounded so like one of Lord Hetwar's favorite aphorisms 
that Ingrey jerked. Did she have any?

She said she sought me out-at a moment of great 
inconvenience, perhaps peril, for herself, mind you-for two reasons. 
Because she'd heard the news-and for the dreams, of course. Only 
Hallana could make that second reason sound like an afterthought. That 
I have had strange and dark dreams, nightmares almost as disturbing as 
my waking life, I take to be the result of fear, weariness, andand 
Boleso's gift. She moistened her lips. But why should Hallana dream 
of me or my troubles? She is a Temple woman to the bone, and no 
renegade, for all that she clears her own path. Did she speak to you of 
her dreams?

No. But I didn't think to ask.

She asked many questions, learned I-know-not-what from 
watching us, but she gave me no direction, one way or another. That, 
too, is a silence. All she gave me, in the end, was the letter. She 
touched her left breast, fingering the fine-embroidered fabric of her 
riding jacket. Ingrey fancied he heard a faint rustle of paper beneath the 
cloth, from some inner pocket. She seemed to expect me to deliver it. 
As the only thing resembling guidance that she gave me, I am loath to 
give it up for some chancy flight into exile withwith a man I'd not met 
till four days ago. She was silent a moment. Especially not as your 
little sister, five gods spare me!

He did not understand her offense, but he certainly could not 
mistake her refusal. He said heavily, We'll continue on toward 
Easthome tomorrow, then, with Boleso's coffin. Which would give him 
perhaps three more days to come up with some better argument or 
plan, less the time he spent sleeping. If any.

As he neared his inn, a dark shape thrust itself off the wall where 
it had been leaning. Ingrey's hand strayed to his sword hilt, but relaxed 
again as the figure moved into the yellow light of the lantern above the 
door, and he recognized Gesca. The lieutenant gave him a nod.

Walk with me, Ingrey. I would have a word in private.

Ingrey's brows twitched up, but he fell in willingly enough. They 
matched steps on the cobblestones, took a turn about the next square 
up the street near the city gates, and settled on a wooden bench by the 
covered well in the square's center. A servant turned away and 
stumped off past them with a pair of dripping buckets hung from a yoke 
over his shoulders. Beyond, in the street, a couple hurried home, the 
woman holding a lantern, the man with a boy atop his shoulder, who 
curled his small hands in the man's hair; the man laughed protest at the 
grip. The man's eyes shifted to assay the two loitering swordsmen, took 
reassurance from their repose, and returned to his woman. Their 
footsteps faded.

Silence fell, and lengthened. Gesca's fingers drummed uneasily 
on his thigh. Is there a problem in the troop? Ingrey prompted at last. 
Or with Boleso's men?

Huh. Gesca sat up and straightened his shoulders. Maybe 
you'll tell me. He hesitated again, sucked on his lower lip, then said 
abruptly, Are you falling in love with that accursed girl, Ingrey?

Ingrey stiffened. Why should you think that?

Sarcasm edged Gesca's voice. Well, let me see. What could 
possibly have suggested this thing? Could it be the way you speak to 
her apart at every chance? Or could it be the way you plunged like a 
madman into a raging torrent to save her? Could it have been how you 
were surprised, half-dressed, trying to sneak into her bedchamber at 
midnight? The pale and starveling look on your face, when you think no 
one is watching you, when you look at her? The way the lovesick 
circles darken daily under your eyes? I admit, only Ingrey kin Wolfcliff 
would ignite with lust for a woman who bludgeons her lovers to death, 
but for you, that's not a deterrent, it's a lure! Gesca snorted.

What?

That she bludgeoned. He added after a moment, I admit, 
whatever her game bag lacks in numbers, it makes up in weight. And 
after another moment, In any case, she isn't attracted to me, so your 
fears are moot.

Not true. She thinks you a very comely man, though glum.

How do you know that? Ingrey rapidly reviewed the past 
days-when had Gesca ever spoken with the prisoner?

She discussed you with her warden, or perhaps it was the other 
way around. Quite frank and outspoken, that one, when you get her 
going. The Mother's work does that to some women.

The warden doesn't speak so to me.

That's because you terrify her. I don't. At least by contrast. 
Very useful, from my point of view. But have you ever overheard two 
women discussing men? Men are crude liars, comparing their drabs, 
but women-I'd rather have a Mother's anatomist dissect me alive than 
to listen to the things the ladies say about us when they think they are 
alone. Gesca shuddered.

Ingrey managed not to blurt, What else did Ijada say of me? 
His prisoner, it occurred to him, would have had to fill the hours with 
something, when locked up with that countrywoman; and 
inconsequential chatter might conceal dire secrets better than silence 
itself. So. He ventured a blander, Is there anything else I should 
know?

Gesca's smile, Ingrey thought, was an altogether evil smirk. 
Evidently, however, the shadows were not deep enough yet to hide 
Ingrey's return glare, or possibly it burned through the darkness with its 
own heat, for Gesca sobered, raising a warding hand.

Ingrey, look. Gesca's voice grew serious. I don't want to see 
you do something stupid. You have a future in Hetwar's house, far 
beyond mine, and it's not just your kinship that gives you the leg up. 
For me, maybe I'll make guard captain someday. You're a lettered man 
in two tongues, Hetwar talks to you as an equal-not just in blood, but in 
wits-and you give him back as good as you get. Listening to the two of 
you makes my head spin round, sometimes. I don't even want to walk 
the paths you seem destined to tread. Heights make me dizzy, and I 
like my head where it is. But most of allI don't ever want to be the 
officer who's sent to arrest you.

Ingrey unset his teeth. Fair enough.

Right.

We ride again tomorrow.

Good.

If I can get my boots on.

I'll come help you.

And I will dismiss that prying, spying, gossiping warden 
back to Reedmere, and replace her with another. Or with none. 
Feminine chatter was annoying enough, but what if her gossip dared 
extend to the curious events she had witnessed swirling around 
Hallana's visits? 
What if it already has?

So. Gesca watches me. But why? Idle-or carnal-curiosity? 
Self-interest, as he claimed? Worried comradeship? Strange gossip? 
It occurred to Ingrey that for all Gesca's modest claims to be an 
unlettered man, he was perfectly capable of penning a brief report. The 
sentences might be simple, the word choices infelicitous, the spelling 
erratic, but he could get his observations down in a logical enough 
order for all practical purposes.

And if Hetwar had both men's letters before him, which would 
be very like HetwarIngrey's silences would shout.

Ingrey swallowed a curse and went indoors.

DURING THE NEXT DAY'S RIDE, THE AUTUMN COUNTRYSIDE PASSED in 
a blur of inattention for Ingrey. But he was all too keenly aware of 
Ijada, riding alongside the wagon near her new warden, a daunted 
young dedicat from the Daughter's Order in Red Dike, plucked by the 
local divine from her teaching duties for this unaccustomed task.

Once, when they first mounted up, Ijada smiled at him. Ingrey 
almost smiled back, till Gesca's mockery echoed in his mind, freezing 
his face in an uncomfortable distorted grimace that made her eyes 
widen, then slide away. He spurred ahead before his mouth muscles 
went into spasms.

He wondered what madness had seized his tongue last night in 
the temple. Of course Ijada must refuse to fly, even from the gallows, 
with a man who had tried to kill her, what, three times? Five? What 
sort of choice was that to lay before the girl? Think, man. Might he 
offer her another escort? Where could one be found, that he could 
trust? A vision of kidnapping her and riding off with her across his 
saddlebow led to even less useful imaginings. He knew the speed and 
ferocity his wolf could lend to him; what might her leopard do for her, 
woman though she most undoubtedly was? She had already slain 
Boleso, a bigger man than Ingrey, though admittedly, she had taken the 
prince by surprise. She'd even surprised herself, or so Ingrey read her. 
If she chose to resist him-if he thenand then sheThe curiously 
absorbing reverie was shattered by his memory of Gesca's other jibe-
For you, it's a lure!-and his scowl deepened.

Nor in lust.

Much.

Nothing that he could not fully control, anyway.

He spent the rest of the day not smiling at her, nor looking at 
her, nor riding near her, nor speaking to her, nor betraying any 
awareness of her existence in any way whatsoever. The effect seemed 
contagious; Gesca trotted near him to make some remark, took one 
look at his face, swallowed his words, and prudently retreated to the 
opposite end of the column. No one else approached him either, and 
Boleso's retainers shrank from his glower. At his few commands, men 
hastened to obey.

Their start had been late and their progress slow, seldom 
pushing the horses faster than a walk. As a result they arrived that 
afternoon at a smaller town than any prior stop, though still more miles 
nearer Easthome than Ingrey would have liked. Ingrey ruthlessly sent 
Boleso's men to bed down with their late master in Middletown's rustic 
temple, and seized the sole inn for himself, his prisoner and her duenna, 
and Hetwar's troop. He stalked the town's perimeter in the twilight, all 
too brief a task. There could be no excursion this night to that crowded 
temple for undervoiced argument. Tomorrow night, he must select a 
larger town for their halt, Ingrey determined. And the next nightthere 
weren't enough next nights.

Since Gesca chose a bedroll in the taproom rather than to share 
Ingrey's chamber, Ingrey took his still-recovering hurts to bed early, 
and alone. 
WITH A SHORT LEG PLANNED FOR THEIR JOURNEY, INGREY DID not 
drive his men to an early start the next morning, either. He was still 
desultorily drinking bitter herb tea and nibbling bread in the little inn's 
taproom when Lady Ijada descended with her new warden. He 
managed to return her nod without undue distortion of his features.

It sufficed. Her return frown was searching, but better than 
that hazardous smile.

He thought of asking after her dreams, but hesitated for the fear 
that this would prove not a neutral topic at all. Perhaps he might dare to 
ride by her side for a time later today; she seemed fully capable, once 
given the lead, of carrying on an oblique conversation before unfriendly 
ears that might convey more information than it appeared.

The sound of horses' hooves and a jingle of harness from outside 
turned both their heads. Halloo the house! a hoarse voice shouted, 
and the tapster-and-owner scurried out through the hall to greet these 
new customers, pausing to send a servant to roust the stableboys to 
take the gentlemen's horses.

Ijada's nostrils flared; she drifted toward the door in the 
innkeeper's wake. Ingrey drained his clay beaker and followed, left 
hand reflexively checking his sword hilt. He came up behind her 
shoulder as she stepped onto the wooden porch.

Four armed men were dismounting. One was clearly a servant, 
two wore a familiar livery, and the lastIngrey's breath stopped in 
surprise. And then blew out in shock.

Earl-ordainer Wencel kin Horseriver paused in his saddle, his 
reins gathered in his gloved hands. The young earl was a slender man, 
wearing a tunic from which gold threads winked under a leather coat 
dyed wine-red. The coat's wide collar was trimmed with marten fur, 
disguising his uneven build. His dark blond hair, lightened with a few 
streaks of premature gray, hung to his shoulders in ratty corkscrew 
strands, disheveled by his ride. His face was elongated, his forehead 
prominent, but his odd features were redeemed from potential ugliness 
by sharp blue eyes, fixed now on Ingrey. His presence here on this 
bright morning was unexpected enough. But the shock

Too.

And I have never perceived it before.

Ingrey's head jerked toward Ijada; her face, also, had gone still 
with astonishment.

She senses it-smells it? Sees it? And it is a new thing to her 
as well. How new is it?

The perceptions, it appeared, ran three ways, for Wencel sat up 
with his head cocked, eyes widening, as his gaze first summed Ingrey, 
then turned to Ijada. Wencel's lips parted as his jaw dropped a 
fraction, then tightened again in a crooked smile.

Of the three of them, the earl recovered first. Well, well, well, 
he murmured. A pair of gloved fingers waved past his forehead in 
salute to Ingrey, then went to his heart to convey a shadow-bow to 
Ijada. How very strangely met we three are. I have not been so taken 
by surprise forlonger than you would believe.

The innkeeper began a gabble of welcome, intercepted, at a jerk 
of Wencel's chin, by one of his guardsmen, who took the man aside, 
presumably to explain what would be wanted of his humble house by 
his highborn guests. By trained civility, Ingrey went to Wencel's horse's 
head, though he did not really want to stand any nearer to the earl. The 
animal snorted and sidled at his hand on the bridle, and his grip 
tightened. The horse's shoulders were wet with sweat from the 
morning's gallop, the chestnut hairs curled and darkened, white lather 
showing between its legs. Whatever brings him, Wencel wastes no 
time.

Ingrey licked dry lips. That will be a relief.

I thought it might be. His eyes went to Ijada, and the sardonic, 
rehearsed cadences ceased. He lowered his head. Lady Ijada. I 
cannot tell you how sorry I am for what has happened-for what was 
done to you. I regret that I was not there at Boar's Head to prevent 
this.

Ijada inclined her head in acknowledgment, if not, precisely, in 
forgiveness. I'm sorry you were not at Boar's Head, too. I did not 
desire this high blood on my hands, northe other consequences.

Yes Wencel drawled the word out. It seems we have 
much more to discuss than I'd thought. He shot Ingrey a tight-lipped 
smile and dismounted. At his adult height, Wencel was only half a hand 
shorter than his cousin; for reasons unclear to Ingrey, men regularly 
estimated his own height as greater than it was. In a much lower voice, 
Wencel added, Strangely secret things, since you did not choose to 
discuss them even with the sealmaster. Some might chide you for that. 
Be assured, I am not one of them.

Wencel murmured a few orders to his guardsmen; Ingrey gave 
up the reins to Wencel's servant, and the inn's stableboys came pelting 
up to lead the retinue away around the building.

Where might we go to talk? said Wencel. Privately. 
Taproom? said Ingrey, nodding to the inn.

Ingrey would have preferred to follow, but led off perforce. Out 
of the corner of his eye, he saw Wencel offer a polite arm to Lady 
Ijada, which she warily evaded by making play with lifting her riding 
skirts up the steps and passing ahead of him.

Out, Ingrey said to Hetwar's two breakfasting men, who 
scrambled up in surprise at the sight of the earl. You can take your 
bread and meat with you. Wait outside. See that no one disturbs us. 
He closed the taproom door behind them and the confused warden.

Wencel, after an indifferent glance around the old-fashioned 
rush-strewn chamber, tucked his gloves in his belt, seated himself at 
one of the trestle tables, and waved Ingrey and Ijada to the bench 
across from him. His hands clasped each other on the polished boards, 
motionless but not relaxed.

Ingrey was uncertain what creature Wencel bore within. Of 
course, he'd had no clear perception of Ijada's, either, till his wolf had 
come unbound again. Even now, if he had not known from seeing both 
the leopard's corpse and its renewed spirit in their place of battle with 
the geas, he might not have been able to put a name to that disquieting 
wild presence within her.

Far more disturbing to Ingrey was the question, When? He had 
seen Wencel only twice since his own return from his Darthacan exile 
four years ago. The earl had been but lately married to Princess Fara, 
and had taken his bride back to his rich family lands along the lower 
Lure River, two hundred miles from Easthome. The first time the 
new-wed Horserivers had returned to the capital, for a midwinter 
celebration of the Father's Day three years back, Ingrey had been 
away on a mission for Hetwar to the Cantons. The next visit, he had 
seen his cousin only at a gathering at the king's hall when Prince Biast 
had received his marshal's spear and pennant from his father's hand. 
Wencel had been taken up with the ceremony, and Ingrey had been 
tied down in Hetwar's train. 
They'd passed face-to-face but briefly. The earl had 
acknowledged his disreputable and disinherited cousin with a courteous 
nod, unsurprised recognition with no hint of aversion, but had not 
sought him out thereafter. Ingrey had thought Wencel vastly improved 
over the unprepossessing youth he remembered, and had assumed that 
the burden of his early inheritance and high marriage had matured him, 
gifted him with that peculiar gravity. Had there been something strange 
underlying that gravity, even then? The next time they had met was in 
Hetwar's chambers, a week ago. Wencel had been quiet, self-effacing, 
among that group of grim older men-mortified, or so Ingrey had 
guessed, for he would not meet Ingrey's eyes. Ingrey could barely 
remember his saying anything at all.

The intensity of his gaze upon Ijada was not only, Ingrey 
thought, perturbation with her leopard. I think Princess Fara was not 
so astray in her jealousy as Wencel feigns. Four years married, and 
no heir to the great and ancient house of Horseriver; did that silence 
conceal barrenness, disaffection, some subtler impotence? Had it fueled 
a wife's fears, justly or no?

I do not know how you may do so either, returned Ijada. 
Ingrey was uncertain if the edgy chill of this represented anger or fear, 
and stole a glance at her face. That pure profile was remarkably 
expressionless. He suddenly wanted to know exactly what she saw 
when she looked at Wencel.

Wencel tilted his head in no less frowning a regard. What is 
that, anyway? Surely not a badger. I would guess a lynx.

Wencel's mouth screwed up in surprise. That is noand 
where did that fool Boleso get aand whymy lady, I think you had 
better tell me all that happened there at Boar's Head.

She glanced at Ingrey; he gave a slow nod. Wencel was as 
wound up in this as any of them, it seemed, on more than one level, and 
he appeared to have Hetwar's confidence. Sodoes Hetwar know of 
Wencel's beast, or not?

Ijada gave a short, blunt account of the night's deeds, factual as 
Ingrey understood the events, but with almost no hint of her own 
thoughts or emotions, devoid of interpretations or guesses. Her voice 
was flat. It was like watching a dumb show.

Wencel, who had listened with utmost attention, but without 
comment, turned his sharp gaze to Ingrey. So where is the sorcerer?

What?

He gestured at Ijada. That did not happen spontaneously. 
There must have been a sorcerer. Illicit, to be sure, if he was both 
dabbler in the forbidden and tool to such a dolt as Boleso.

Lady Ijada-my impression from Lady Ijada's testimony was 
that Boleso performed the rite himself.

We were alone together in his bedchamber, certainly, said 
Ijada. If I ever encountered any such person in Boleso's household, I 
never recognized him as a sorcerer.

Wencel absently scratched the back of his neck. Hm. Perhaps. 
YetBoleso never learned such a rite by himself. He'd taken up many 
creatures, you say? Gods, what a fool. IndeedNo. If his mentor was 
not with him, he must certainly have been there recently. Or disguised. 
Hidden in the next room. Or fled?

I did wonder if Boleso might have had some accomplice, 
Ingrey admitted. But Rider Ulkra asserted that no servant of the house 
had slipped away since the prince's death. And Lord Hetwar would 
surely not have sent even me to arrest such a perilous power without 
Temple assistance. Yes, Ingrey might have encountered something far 
less benign than salutary pig-delusions.

The reports of the tragedy that Hetwar received that first night 
were garbled and inadequate, I grant you, said Wencel with a scowl. 
Leopards were entirely missing from them, among other things. StillI 
could wish you had secured the sorcerer, whoever he was. His gaze 
wandered back to Ijada. At the least, confession from such a prisoner 
might have helped a lady of my household to whom I owe protection.

Ingrey flinched at the cogency of that. I doubt I should be here, 
alive or sane, if I had surprised the man.

An arguable point, Wencel conceded. But you, of all men, 
should have known to look.

Had the geas been fogging Ingrey's thinking? Or just his own 
numb distaste for his task? He sat back a little, and, having no defense, 
countered on another flank: What sorcerer did you encounter? And 
when?

Wencel's sandy brows twitched up. Can you not guess?

No. I did not sense yourdifference, in Hetwar's chamber. 
Nor at Biast's installation, which was the last time I'd seen you before.

Truly? I was not sure if I had managed to conceal my affliction 
from you, or you had merely chosen to be discreet. I was grateful, if 
so.

I did not sense it. He almost added, My wolf was bound, but 
to do so would be to admit that it now was not. And he had no idea 
where he presently stood with Wencel. 
That's a comfort. Well. It came to me at much the same time as 
yours, if you must know. At the time of your father's death-or perhaps, 
I should say, of my mother's. At Ijada's look and half-voiced query, 
he added aside to her, My mother was sister to Ingrey's father. Which 
would make me half a Wolfcliff, except for all the Horseriver brides 
that went to his clan in earlier generations. I should need a pen and 
paper to map out all the complications of our cousinship.

Close and tangled. And I have long suspected that all those 
tragedies falling together like that were somehow bound up one in 
another.

Ingrey said slowly, I knew my aunt had died sometime during 
my illness, but I had not realized it was so near to my father's death. No 
one spoke of it to me. I'd assumed it was grief, or one of those 
mysterious wastings that happen to women in middle age.

No. It was an accident. Strangely timed.

Ingrey hesitated. TiesDid you meet the sorcerer who placed 
your beast in you? Was it Cumril for you, too?

Wencel shook his head. Whatever was done to me was done 
while I was sleeping. And if you think that wasn't the most confusing 
awakening of my life!

Did it not sicken you, or drive you mad?

Not so much as yours, apparently. There was clearly something 
wrong with yours. I mean, over and above the horror that happened to 
your father.

Why did you never say anything to me? My disaster was no 
secret. I wish I had known I was not alone!

Ingrey, I was thirteen, and terrified! Not least that if my 
defilement were discovered, they would do to me what they were 
doing to you! I didn't think I could survive it. I was never strong and 
athletic, like you. The thought of such torture as you endured sickened 
me. My only hope seemed concealment, at all costs. By the time I was 
sure of my own sanity again, and I began to regain my courage, you 
were gone, exiled, shuffled out of the Weald by your embarrassed 
uncle. And how could I have communicated? A letter? It would 
certainly have been intercepted and read, by your keepers or mine. 
He breathed deeply, and brought his rapid and shaky voice back under 
control. How odd it is to find us roped together now. We could all 
burn jointly, you know. Back to back to back.

Powers that can grant such mercies can also rescind them, 
said Wencel darkly. Ijada and I, then. Not the relation, front to front, 
that my wife feared, but a holy union of sorts.

Ijada did not flinch from this remark, but stared at Wencel with a 
tense new interest, her brows drawn in. Reassessing, perhaps, a man 
she'd thought she'd known, that she was discovering she had not 
known at all? As I am?

Wencel focused on Ingrey's grubby bandages. What happened 
to your hands?

Tripped over a table. Cut myself with a carving knife, Ingrey 
answered, as indifferently as possible. He caught Ijada's curious look, 
out of the corner of his eye, and prayed she would not see fit to expand 
upon the tale. Not yet, anyway.

Instead, she asked the earl, What is your beast? Do you 
know?

He shrugged. I had always thought it was a horse, for the 
Horserivers. That made sense to me, as much as anything in this could. 
He drew a long, thoughtful breath, and his chill blue eyes rose to meet 
theirs. There have been no spirit warriors in the Weald for centuries, 
unless maybe some remnant survived hidden in remote refuges. Now 
there are three new-made, not just in the same generation, but in the 
same room. Ingrey and I, I have long suspected were of a piece. But 
you, Lady IjadaI do not understand. You do not fit. I would urge 
you search for this missing sorcerer, Ingrey. At the very least, the hunt 
for such a vital witness might delay proceedings against Ijada.

Wencel's hands spread flat on the table in unease. We are all in 
each other's hands now. I had imagined my secret safe with you, 
Ingrey, but now it seems you were merely ignorant of it. I've been alone 
so long. It is hard for me to learn trust, so late.

Ingrey bent his head in wry agreement.

Wencel pulled his shoulders back, wincing as though they ached. 
Well. I must refresh myself, and pay my respects to my late 
brother-in-law's remains. How are they preserved, by the way?

He's packed in salt, said Ingrey. They had a plentiful supply 
at Boar's Head, for keeping game.

A bleak amusement flashed in Wencel's face. How very direct 
of you.

I didn't have him properly skinned and gutted, though, so I 
expect the effect will be imperfect.

It's as well the weather is no warmer, then. But it seems we'd 
best not delay. Wencel let out a sigh, planted both palms on the 
tabletop, and pushed himself wearily to his feet. For an instant, the 
blackness of his spirit seemed to strike Ingrey like a blow, then he was 
just a tired young man again, burdened too soon in life with dangerous 
dilemmas. We'll speak again.

The earl made his way out to the porch, where his retainers 
jumped alertly to their feet to escort him toward the town temple. In the 
door of the taproom, Ingrey touched Ijada's arm. She turned, her lips 
tight.

What do you make of Wencel's beast? he asked her, 
low-voiced.

She murmured back, To quote Learned Hallana, if that's a 
stallion, I'm the queen of Darthaca. Her eyes rose to meet his, level 
and intent. Your wolf is not much like a wolf. And his horse is not 
much like a horse. But I will say this, Ingrey; they are both a lot like 
each other.

much like a horse. But I will say this, Ingrey; they are both a lot like 
each other. 
T


I NGREY RETURNED UPSTAIRS TO PACK HIS SADDLEBAGS, THEN

sought Gesca. The lieutenant's gear was gone from the corner of the 
taproom. Ingrey walked down the muddy street of Middletown-better 
named Middlehamlet, in his view-to the small wooden temple, in hopes 
of finding him. He reviewed which of the half dozen village stables they 
had commandeered for their horses and equipment Gesca was likely to 
have gone to next, but the plan proved unnecessary; Gesca was 
standing in the shade of the temple's wide porch. Speaking, or being 
spoken to, by Earl Horseriver.

Gesca glanced up at Ingrey, twitched, and fell silent; Wencel 
merely gave him a nod.

Ingrey, said Wencel. Where is Rider Ulkra and the rest of 
Boleso's household now? Still at Boar's Head, or do they follow you?

They follow, or so I ordered. How swiftly, I do not know. 
Ulkra cannot expect much joy to await him in Easthome.

No matter. By the time I have leisure to attend to them, they 
will have arrived there, no doubt. He sighed. My horses could use a 
little rest. Arrange things, if you will, to depart at noon. We'll still reach 
Oxmeade before dark.

Certainly, my lord, said Ingrey formally. He jerked his head at 
the unhappy-looking Gesca, and Wencel gave them a short wave of 
farewell and turned for the temple.

And what did Earl Horseriver have to say to you? Ingrey 
inquired of Gesca, low-voiced, as they trod down the street again.

He's not a glad man. I cringe to think how black things would 
be if he'd actually liked his brother-in-law. But it's plain he does not 
love this mess.

That, I had already gathered. 
Still, an impressive young fellow, in his way, despite his looks. I 
thought so back at Princess Fara's wedding.

Eh. It wasn't that he did anything special. He just never

Never what?

Gesca's lips twisted. Iit's hard to say. He never made a 
mistake, or looked nervous, never late or earlynever drunk. It just 
crept up on you. Formidable, that's the word I want. In a way, he 
reminds me of you, if it was brains and not brawn that was wanted. 
Gesca hesitated, then, perhaps prudently, declined to pursue this 
comparison any farther down the slope into the swamp.

We are cousins, Ingrey observed blandly.

Indeed, m'lord. Gesca gave him a sideways glance. He was 
very interested in Learned Hallana.

Ingrey grimaced. Well, that was inevitable. He would hear 
more from Wencel on that subject before the day was done, he was 
sure.

THE MIDDLETOWN TEMPLE DIVINE WAS A MERE YOUNG ACOLYTE, and 
had been thrown into panic by the descent upon him, on only a half 
day's notice, of the prince's cortege. But however much ceremony Earl 
Horseriver was sent to provide, it was clear it was not starting yet. The 
cavalcade left town promptly at noon with a grimmer efficiency than 
Ingrey in his vilest mood would have dared deploy. He applauded in his 
heart, and left the pallid acolyte a suitable purse to console him for his 
terrors.

Middletown was not yet out of sight on the road behind them 
when Wencel wheeled his chestnut horse around beside Ingrey's, and 
murmured, Ride ahead with me. I need to speak with you.

Certainly. Ingrey kneed his horse into a trot; he gave what he 
hoped was a reassuring nod to Ijada as they passed around her riding 
beside the wagon. Wencel favored her with a somewhat ambiguous 
salute.

Reedmere.

Ha. At least one thing about his funeral will match poor 
Boleso's taste. They're hauling that silver-plated royal hearse from 
Easthome to meet us in Oxmeade. I trust it will not collapse any bridges 
on the way.

Indeed. Ingrey tried to keep his lips from twitching.

My household awaits me in Oxmeade to attend to my comfort 
tonight. And yours, if you will join me. I recommend you do so. There 
will be no lodgings to be found for love nor money once the court 
arrives there for this procession.

Thank you, said Ingrey sincerely. There had been duels fought 
by desperate retainers over the possession of haylofts, in certain 
unwieldy royal excursions of Ingrey's experience. Wencel would 
certainly have secured the best chambers available.

Tell me of this Learned Hallana, Ingrey, said Wencel abruptly.

At least he did not tax Ingrey for his failure to mention her 
before. Ingrey wondered whether to feel relieved. I judged her to be 
exactly what she claimed to be. A friend of Lady Ijada's who had 
known her as a child. She'd been a physician at some fort of the Son's 
Order out west in the fen marches-Ijada's father was a lord dedicat, 
and its captain, at the time.

I knew something of Lord dy Castos, yes. Ijada has spoken of 
him. But my mind picks at the coincidence. A sorcerer with some 
connection with Lady Ijada-and her new affliction-disappears from 
Boar's Head. Days later, a sorcerer-or sorceress-with a connection 
with Ijada comes to her in Red Dike. Is this two sorcerers, or one?

Ingrey shook his head. I cannot imagine Learned Hallana 
passing without note at Boar's Head. Inconspicuous, she was not. And 
she was very pregnant, which I gather lays great constraint upon her 
use of her demon for the duration. She stays in a hermitage at Suttleaf, 
for safety. I admit my evidence is indirect, but I'm certain that Boleso 
was already deep into his disastrous experiments when he murdered his 
manservant so grotesquely, six months ago. Which must put his pet 
sorcerer at Easthome then, or near then, as well.

It is as much an error to take truth for lies, as lies for truth, 
Ingrey pointed out. The dual-divine was a most unusual lady, but that 
she might also be Boleso's puppet is one too many things to believe 
about her. It doesn't fit. For one thing, she was no fool.

Wencel tilted his head, conceding the point. Suppose she were 
his puppet master, then?

Less unlikely, Ingrey granted reluctantly. Butno.

Wencel sighed. I shall give up my simplifying conjecture, then. 
We have two separate sorcerers. But-how separate? Might Boleso's 
tool have fled to her, after the debacle? The two in league?

An uncomfortable idea. It occurred to Ingrey suddenly that the 
suggestion-misdirection?-that his geas had been laid on him at 
Easthome had come from Hallana. The timingwould not be 
impossible.

Wencel grunted disconsolately, staring between his horse's ears 
for a moment. I understand the learned divine wrote a letter. Have you 
read it yet?

Curse you, Gesca. And curse that gossiping warden. How 
much else did Wencel already know? It was not entrusted to me. She 
handed it directly to Lady Ijada. Sealed.

Wencel waved a hand in dismissal of this. I'm sure you've been 
taught how to do the thing.

For ordinary correspondence, certainly. This is one from a 
Temple sorcerer. I hesitate to think what might happen to the letter-or 
to me-if I attempted to tamper with it. Burst into flame, maybe. He left 
it to Wencel to decide if he meant the paper, or Ingrey himself. 
Passing it on to Hetwar also has problems. At the least, he would 
need another Temple sorcerer to open it. I should think even the royal 
sealmaster would find it a challenge to suborn one to pry into letters 
addressed to the head of his own order.

If this multiplication of hypothetical sorcerers goes on, we shall 
have to hang them from the rafters like hams to make room. Although, 
Ingrey was uncomfortably reminded, there was still his strange geas to 
account for.

Wencel gave a short, unhappy nod, then fell silent for a little. 
Yes, speaking of hams, he finally said. His voice grew conversational. 
It is not, you know, that you lie well, cousin. It's merely that no one is 
foolhardy enough to call you on it. This may have given you an inflated 
idea of your skill at dissimulation. The voice hardened. What really 
happened in that upstairs room?

If I had anything more to report, it would be my duty to report 
it first to Lord Hetwar.

Wencel's brows climbed. Oh, really? First, and yet 
somehownot yet? I saw your letters to Hetwar, such as they were. 
The number of items missing from them turns out to be quite notable. 
Leopards. Sorceresses. Strange brawls. Near drownings. Your 
romantic lieutenant Gesca would even have it that you have fallen in 
love-also, if more understandably, without hint in your scribblings.

Ingrey flushed. Letters can go astray. Or be read by unfriendly 
eyes. He glowered, pointedly, at the earl.

Wencel's lips parted, closed. He attended for a moment to his 
horse, as he and Ingrey separated to ride around a patch of mire. 
When they were stirrup to stirrup again, Wencel said, Your pardon if I 
seem anxious. I have a great deal to lose.

With false cheeriness, Ingrey replied, While I, on the other 
hand, have already lost it all. Earl-ordainer.

It was Ingrey's turn to fall silent, abashed. Because Wencel's 
marriage was arranged-and, up till now, barren-did not necessarily 
entail that it was also loveless. On either side. Indeed, Princess Fara's 
betrayal of her handmaiden spoke of a hot unhappy jealousy, which 
could not be a product of bored indifference. And the hallow king's 
daughter must have seemed a great prize to so homely a young man, 
despite his own high rank.

Besides, Wencel's voice lightened again, burning alive is a 
most painful death. I do not recommend it. I think this missing sorcerer 
could be a threat to us both, in that regard alone. He knows many 
things that he should not. We should find him first. If he proves to 
contain nothing, ah, personally dangerous, I'd be glad enough to pass 
him along to Hetwar thereafter.

And if the sorcerer was dangerous to him, what did Wencel 
propose to do then? And, five gods, how? Leaving aside all questions 
of duty-this is not an arrest I am equipped to handle, privately or 
otherwise.

How if you were? Does having first knowledge not attract you?

To what end?

Survival.

I am surviving.

You were. But your dispensation from the Temple depends, in 
part, upon a bond of surety now broken.

Ingrey's eyes flicked to him, wary. How so?

Wencel's lips tightened in a small smile. I could deduce it by the 
change in your perception of me alone, but I don't have to; I can see it. 
Your beast lies quietly within you, by long habit if nothing else, but 
nothing constrains it except that you do not call it up. Sooner or later, 
some Temple sensitive is bound to notice, or else you will make some 
revealing blunder. His voice grew low and intense. There are 
alternatives to cutting off your hand for fear of your fist, Ingrey.

Wencel's hesitation was longer, this time. The library at Castle 
Horseriver is a remarkable thing, he began obliquely. Several of my 
Horseriver forefathers were collectors of lore, and at least one was a 
scholar of note. Documents lie there that I am certain exist nowhere 
else, some of them hundreds of years old. Things old Audar's 
Temple-men would not have hesitated to burn. The most amazing 
eyewitness accounts-I should tell you some of the anecdotes, 
sometime. Enough to lure a not very bookish boy to read on. And then, 
later-to read as though his life depended on it. His gaze found Ingrey's. 
You dealt with your so-called defilement by running away from all 
knowledge, and acknowledgment. I dealt with mine by running toward. 
Which of us do you think has the best grip by now?

Ingrey blew out his breath. You give me a lot to think about, 
Wencel.

Do so, then. But do not turn away from understanding, this 
time, I beg you. He added more softly, Do not turn your back on 
me.

Indeed not. I should not dare. He gave Wencel an equivocal 
salute.

The cortege came then to a rocky ford, fortunately not in so 
great a spate as the near-disastrous crossing on the first day, and 
Ingrey turned his attention to getting all across in safety. A mile farther 
on, the wagon nearly bogged in a stretch of mud, then a guardsman's 
mount went lame from a lost shoe. Then, at a stop to water the horses, 
a fight broke out between two of Boleso's retainers, some smoldering 
private quarrel that burst into flame. Ingrey's customary menace almost 
did not contain it, and he turned away from the separated pair pale with 
worry, which they fortunately took for rage, about what might happen 
the next time if mere threat was not enough, and he was forced to 
follow with action.

Ingrey had thought his anxiety over the strange geas to be his 
most pressing problem. The notion that Wencel's lore might contain 
clues to the matter was doubly exciting. It suggested Ingrey might have 
an ally to hand. It equally suggested that Ingrey might have found his 
unknown enemy. Or, how was it that Wencel seemed to regard illicit 
sorcerers as minor inconveniences, to be so readily handled? He 
glanced toward the head of the cortege where Wencel now rode, 
beyond earshot once more, interrogating one of Boleso's men. The 
guardsman was a big fellow, yet his shoulders were bowed as though 
trying to make himself smaller.

Wencel had dragged a number of lures across Ingrey's trail, yet 
it was not the new mystery but the old one that most arrested him, 
caught and held him suspended between fascination and fear. What 
does Wencel know about my father and his mother that I do not?

OXMEADE WAS LARGER THAN RED DIKE, BUT BOLESO'S CORTEGE was 
received at its big stone temple that afternoon with only moderate 
ceremony, mostly, it seemed, because the town was a madhouse of 
preparation for greater events tomorrow. Ingrey was hugely relieved 
finally to hand off responsibility for the corpse and its outriders to 
Wencel, who handed them in turn to his sober seneschal, a gaggle of 
Easthome Temple divines, and a formidable array of retainers and 
clerks. Princess Fara and her own household, Ingrey was glad to learn, 
had not followed on, but awaited them all in the capital. It was not yet 
twilight when Ingrey and his guard mounted up again with their prisoner 
and followed Wencel through the winding streets. 
Passing along the edge of a crowded square, Wencel pulled up 
his horse, and Ingrey stopped beside him. A street market was open 
late, presumably to serve the needs of the courtiers and their 
households already starting to arrive for the last leg of Boleso's funeral 
procession. Ingrey was not sure at first what had caught Wencel's 
attention, but he followed the earl's gaze past the busy booths to a 
corner where a fiddler played, his hat invitingly laid upside down at his 
feet. The musician was better than the usual sort, certainly, and his 
mellow instrument cast a strange, plaintive song into the golden evening 
air.

Wencel kept his face averted until the song ended. When he 
looked forward his profile was strange. Tense, but not with anger or 
fear; more like a man about to weep for some inconsolable, 
incalculable loss. Wencel grimaced the tension away and clucked his 
horse onward without looking back, nor sending anyone to throw a 
coin in the hat, though the fiddler looked after the rich party with 
thwarted hope.

They came at length to the large house Wencel had rented, or 
commandeered, one of several in a row in this wealthy merchants' 
quarter. Bright brass bosses in sunburst patterns studded the heavy 
planks of its front door. Ingrey handed off his horse to Gesca, 
shouldered his saddlebags, and oversaw Lady Ijada and her young 
warden taken upstairs by a maid. By their strained greetings, this was a 
servant who had known Ijada before. The Horseriver household, it 
seemed, found the justice of Ijada's case as disturbingly ambiguous as 
did their master.

Before Wencel went off to deal with the sheaf of messages that 
had arrived in his absence, he murmured to Ingrey, We shall eat in an 
hour, you and Ijada and I. It may be our last chance for private speech 
for a while.

Ingrey nodded. 
He was guided to a tiny chamber on the top floor, where a basin 
and a can of hot water were already waiting for him. It was clearly a 
servant's room, of whatever wealthy family the earl had dislodged, but 
its solitude was most welcome to him. Horseriver's own servants were 
likely crowded into some lesser dormitory or stable loft in this crisis, 
and Gesca and his men would fare little better. Ingrey trusted 
Horseriver's cook would console them.

Wencel was speaking to Ijada's warden, who was listening with 
a wide-eyed, daunted expression. He wheeled at the sound of Ingrey's 
step, and grimaced. You may go, he said to the warden, who 
bobbed a curtsey and withdrew into what was presumably Ijada's 
chamber. Wencel joined Ingrey at the staircase, motioning him ahead, 
but excused himself when they reached the ground floor to go off and 
confer with his clerk.

Ingrey stepped outside in the dusk and made his circuit of the 
environs of the house. Arriving again at the front door, he was passed 
from the porter to another servant and into a chamber at the back of 
the second floor. It was not the grand dining room, almost suitable to 
an earl's estate, but a small breakfast parlor, overlooking a kitchen 
garden and the mews. Its single door was heavy, and would muffle 
sound well, Ingrey judged. A little round table was set for three.

Ijada arrived escorted by a maidservant, who curtseyed to 
Ingrey and left her. She wore an overdress of wheatstraw-colored 
wool upon clean linen high to her neck. The effect was modest and 
maidenly, though Ingrey supposed the lace collar was mostly to hide 
the greening bruises on her throat. Wencel came in almost on her heels, 
glittering in the abundant candlelight, having also changed into richer 
garb than what he'd ridden in. And cleaner. Ingrey briefly wished his 
own saddlebags had held a better choice than least smelly.

Ah, murmured Wencel, lifting a silver cover and revealing a 
ham. Dare I ask you to carve, Lord Ingrey?

Ijada blinked warily. Ingrey returned Wencel an equally tight 
smile and haggled off slices. He slipped his hands below the table, after, 
to pull his cuffs down again over the bandages on his wrists. He waited 
to see how Wencel would bend the talk next, which resulted in a 
silence for a space, as all applied themselves to the meal.

At length Wencel remarked, I had nothing but secondhand 
reports about the dire events at Birchgrove that left your father dead 
and youwell. They were quite jumbled and wild. And certainly 
incomplete. Would you tell me the full tale?

Ingrey, braced for more questions about Hallana, hesitated in 
confusion, then mustered his memories once more. He had held them 
for years in silence, yet now recounted them aloud for the third time in a 
week. His story seemed to grow smoother with repetition, as though 
the account were slowly coming to replace the event, even in his own 
mind. Wencel chewed and listened, frowning.

Your wolf was different than your father's, he said, as Ingrey 
wound down after describing, as best he could, the wolfish turmoil in 
his mind that had blended into his weeks of delirium.

Well, yes. For one thing, it was not diseased. Or at leastnot 
in the same way. It made me wonder if animals could get the falling 
sickness, or some like disease of the mind.

I do not know. He was dead before I recovered enough to ask 
anything.

Huh. For I had heard-a slight emphasis on that last word, a 
significant pause-that it was not the wolf originally intended for you. 
That the rabid wolf had killed its pack mate, a day before the rite was 
to be held. And that the new wolf was found that night, sitting outside 
the sick wolf's cage.

Then you have heard more than I was told. It could be, I 
suppose.

Wencel tapped his spoon beside his plate in a faint, nervous 
tattoo, seemed to catch himself, and set it down.

Ingrey added, Did your mother say anything to you about your 
stallion? That morning when you awoke changed.

No. That was the morning she died.

Not of rabies!

No. And yet I have wondered, since. She died in a fall from a 
horse.

Ingrey pursed his lips. Ijada's eyes widened.

It died in the accident, too, Wencel added. Broke its leg. The 
groom cut its throat-it was said. By the time I came to wonder about 
it-some time afterward-she was long buried, and the horse butchered 
and gone. I have meditated by her grave, but there is no lingering aura 
to be sensed there. No ghosts, no answers. Her death was wrenching 
to me, so soon, just four months after my father's. I was not insensible 
to the parallels with your case, Ingrey, but if Wolfcliff brother and sister 
had some plan concocted, some intent, no one confided it to me.

Or some conflict, Ijada suggested thoughtfully, looking back 
and forth between the pair of them. Like two rival castles, one on each 
side of the Lure, building their battlements higher. 
Wencel opened a hand in acknowledgment of the possible point, 
though his frown suggested that the idea did not sit easily with him.

Wencel shrugged. Guesses, conjectures, fantasies, more like. 
My nights grew full of them, till I was wearied beyond measure with the 
wondering.

Ingrey chased his last bite of dumpling across his plate, and said 
in a lower tone, Why did you never approach me before, then?

You were gone to Darthaca. Permanent exile, for all I knew. 
Then your family lost all trace of you. You might have been dead, as far 
as anyone had heard to the contrary.

Yes, but what about after? When I returned?

You seemed to have reached a place of safety, under Hetwar's 
protection. Safer with your dispensation than I was with my secrets, 
certainly. I envied you that. Would you have thanked me for throwing 
your life back into doubt and disarray?

Perhaps not, Ingrey conceded reluctantly.

A crisp double knock sounded at the room's thick door. Ijada 
started, but Wencel merely called, Come!

Wencel's clerk poked his head around the door and murmured 
apologetically, The message you were awaiting has arrived, my lord.

Ah, good. Thank you. Wencel pushed back from the table, 
and to his feet. Excuse me. I shall return in a few moments. Pray 
continue. He gestured at the serving dishes.

As soon as Wencel exited, a pair of servants bustled in to clear 
used plates, lay new courses, renew the wine and water, and retreat 
again with equally wordless bows. Ingrey and Ijada were left looking at 
each other. Some tentative exploration under the dish covers revealed 
dainties, fruits, and sweets, and Ijada brightened. They helped one 
another to the most interesting tidbits. 
Ingrey glanced at the closed door. Do you think Princess Fara 
knows of Wencel's beast? he asked her.

Was he not courtly?

Oh, he was always polite, that I saw. Cool and courteous. I 
never saw why she seemed to have always a touch of fear around him, 
for he never raised his hand or even his voice to her. But if it was fear 
for him, and not-or not just-of him, perhaps that explains it.

And was he in love with her?

Her frown deepened. It's hard to say. He was so often moody, 
so distant and silent, for days on end it seemed. Sometimes, if there 
were visitors to Castle Horseriver, he would rouse himself, and there 
would be a spate of conversation and wit-he's really extraordinarily 
learned. Yet he has spoken more in one evening to you, here, than I 
ever heard him speak at any meal with his wife. But thenyou are 
arresting to him in ways that she is not. Her eyes slid toward and away 
from him, and he knew she tested her inner senses.

So are you, now, Ingrey realized. He has only a little time to 
assure himself of his own safety in this new tangle. Perhaps that explains 
why he's pushing. He is pushing-don't you think? Ingrey at least felt 
pressed.

Oh, yes. She paused in thought. Too, it may be an outpouring 
long suppressed. Who could he speak to of this, before us, now? He's 
worried, yes, but alsoI don't know. Excited? No-subtler or stranger 
than that. Surely joyful cannot be the word. Her lips screwed up.

I shouldn't think so, Ingrey said dryly. 
The door clicked open, and Ingrey's gaze jerked up. It was 
Wencel, returning. He seated himself again with an apologetic gesture.

Well enough. If I have not yet said so, Ingrey, let me 
congratulate you on the speed of your mission. It does not look as 
though I shall be able to emulate it, to my regret. I'll likely send you 
ahead with Lady Ijada tomorrow, as her presence in the cortege is like 
to be, hm, awkward, as it is turned into a parade. At half march all the 
way on to Easthome, five gods spare me.

Where in Easthome am I to be sent? Ijada asked, a little 
tensely.

That is a matter still being settled. I should know by tomorrow 
morning. No place vile, if I have my way. He stared at her through 
lidded eyes.

Ingrey stared at them both, daring to extend his senses beyond 
sight. You two are different from each other. Your beast is much 
darker, Wencel. Or something. Her cat makes me think of sundappled 
shade, but yoursgoes all the way down. Past the limits of his 
perceptions.

Indeed, I think that leopardess must have been at the peak of 
its condition, said Wencel. He cast Ijada a smile, as if to reassure her 
that the comment was well meant. It has a fresh and pure power. A 
Weald warrior would have been proud to bear it, if there had been 
such a clan as kin Leopardtree back then.

But I am a woman, not a warrior, said Ijada, watching him 
back.

The women of the Old Weald used to take in sacred animals as 
well. Did you not know?

No! Her eyes lit with interest. Truly?

Oh, seldom as warriors, though there were always a few such 
called. Some tribes used theirs as their banner-carriers, and they were 
valued above all women. But there was a second sortanother sort of 
hallowed animal made, that women took more often. Well, more 
proportionally; they were much rarer to start with.

Made? said Ingrey.

Wencel's lips curved up at the tautness in his voice, in an angler's 
smile. Weald warriors were made by sending the soul of a sacrificed 
animal into a man. But something else was made when the soul of an 
animal was sacrificed into another animal.

Ijada shook off her arrested look, and began, Do you think 
Boleso was attempting-wait, no.

I have still not quite unraveled what Boleso thought he was 
about, but if it was in pursuit of some rumor of this old magic, he had it 
wrong. The animal was sacrificed, at the end of its life, into the body of 
a young animal, always of the same sort and sex. And all the wisdom 
and training it had learned went with it. And then, at the end of its life, 
that animal was sacrificed into another. And another. And another. 
Accumulating a great density of life. And-at some point along the chain, 
five or six or ten generations or more-it became something that was not 
an animal anymore.

Ananimal god? ventured Ijada.

Wencel spread his hands. In some shadowy sense, perhaps. 
It's what some say the gods are-all the life of the world flows into them, 
through the gates of death. They accumulate us all. And yet the gods 
are an iteration stranger still, for they absorb without destroying, 
becoming ever more Themselves with each perfectly retained addition. 
The great hallowed animals were a thing apart.

How long did it take to make one? asked Ingrey. His heart 
was starting to beat faster, and he knew his breath was quickening. 
And he knew Wencel marked it. Why am I suddenly terrified at 
Wencel's bedtime tale? His very blood seemed to growl in response 
to it.

Decades-lifetimes-centuries, sometimes. They were vastly 
valued, for as animals, they were tame and trainable, uncannily 
intelligent; they came to understand the speech of men. Yet this great 
continuity suffered continuous attrition, and not just through ordinary 
mischance. For when a Weald man or woman took one of the great 
beasts into their soul, they became something far more than a warrior. 
Greater and more dangerous. Few of the oldest and best of the 
creatures survived unharvested under the pressure of Audar's invasion. 
Many were sacrificed prematurely just to save them from the 
Darthacan troops. Audar's Temple-men were specially disposed to 
slay them whenever they were found, in fear of what they could 
become. Of what they could make us into.

Wencel bent his hand back and forth. Let us not become 
confused in our language. A sorcerer, proper-or improper, if illicit and 
not bound by Temple disciplines-is possessed of an elemental of 
disorder and chaos, sacred to the Bastard, and the magic the creature 
endows is constrained into channels of destruction thereby. Such 
demons are bound up in the balance of the world of matter and the 
world of spirit. And the old tribes had such sorcerers, too, with their 
own traditions of discipline under the white god.

The great hallowed animals were of this world, and had not 
ever been in the hands of the gods. Not part of their powers. Not 
constrained to destruction, either. A purely Wealding thing. Although 
their magic was wholly of the mind and spirit, they also could affect the 
body that the mind and spirit rule. The animal shamans had a quite 
separate tradition from the tribal sorcerers, and not always in alliance 
with them even in the same clan. One of the many divisions that 
weakened us in the face of the Darthacan onslaught. Wencel's eyes 
grew distant, considering this ancient lapse.

Ijada was looking back and forth between Wencel and Ingrey. 
Oh, she breathed.

Ingrey's face felt drained. It was as if his fortress walls were 
crumbling, inside his mind, in the face of Wencel's sapping. No. No. 
This is rubbish, nonsense, old tales for children, some sort of vile 
joke Wencel is having on me, to see how much I can be persuaded 
to swallow. What he whispered instead was, How?

Ijada sat up with an even sharper stare. A flick of Wencel's eyes 
acknowledged his audience, and he continued: Even a century and a 
half of persecution afterward did not erase all knowledge, though not 
for lack of trying. Pockets endured, though very few in writing like the 
library at Castle Horseriver-specially collected by certain of my 
ancestors, to be sure, but collected from somewhere. But in remote 
regions, fens and mountains, poor hamlets-the Cantons broke from the 
Darthacan yoke early-traditions, if not their wisdom, continued for long. 
Passed down from generation to generation as secret family or village 
rites, always dimming in ignorance. What even Audar could not 
accomplish, Time the destroyer did. I had not imagined any to be left, 
after the relentless erosion of centuries. But it seems there were at 
leasttwo. His blue gaze pierced Ingrey.

Ingrey's thoughts felt like frantic claws scrambling and scraping 
on the floor of a cage. He managed only an inarticulate noise.

For your consolation, Wencel continued, it explains your long 
delirium. Your wolf was a far more powerful intrusion upon your soul 
than your father's or Ijada's simple creatures. Four hundred years old 
seems impossible-how many wolf generations must that be?-and 
yet His gaze on Ingrey grew uneasy. All the way down, indeed. 
An apt description. The spirit warriors mastered their beasts with little 
effort, for the ordinary animals were readily subordinated to the more 
powerful human mind. In the Old Weald, if you'd been destined to be 
gifted with a great beast, you would have had much preparation and 
study, and the support of others of your kind. Not abandoned to find 
your own way, stumbling in fear and doubt and near madness. No 
wonder you responded by crippling yourself.

Oh, aye.

Ijada, her tone shrewd, said to Wencel, And are you?

He held a palm out. Less so. I have my own burdens.

How much less so, Wencel? Yet Ingrey was less moved by the 
suspicion that he might have found the source of his geas, as by the 
notion that he might have found his mirror.

Wencel turned again to Ingrey. In the event, yours was a happy 
ignorance. If the Temple had suspected what manner of beast you 
really bore, you would not have found that dispensation so easy to 
come by.

It wasn't easy, muttered Ingrey.

Wencel hesitated, as if considering a new thought. Indeed. To 
bind a great beast could have been no small task. A respectful, even 
wary, smile turned one corner of his mouth. He glanced at the candles 
burning down in their holders on the center of the table. It grows late. 
Tomorrow's duties crowd the dawn. We must part company for a 
while, but Ingrey, I beg you-do nothing to draw fresh attention to 
yourself till we can talk again.

Ingrey scarcely dared breathe. I thought my wolf was just a 
well of violence. Rage, destruction, killing. What else can it-could I 
do?

That is the next lesson. Come to me for it when we are both 
back in Easthome. Meantime, if you value your life, keep your 
secrets-and mine. Wencel pushed himself up, wearily. He ushered 
them out the door before him, plain signal that both the dinner and the 
revelations were done for the night. Ingrey, nearly sick to his stomach, 
could only be thankful. 
CHAPTER NINE


THE SERVANT'S COT CREAKED IN THE NIGHT SILENCE OF THE 
house as Ingrey sat down and clenched his hands upon his knees. 
Introspection was a habit he'd long avoided, for aversion to what it 
must confront. Tonight, at last, he forced his perceptions inward.

He pushed past the generalized dull terror, as through a 
too-familiar fog. Brushed aside clinging tendrils of self-deception, a veil 
on his inner sight. He had no time or patience for them anymore. Once, 
he had conceived of his bound wolf as a sort of knot under his belly, 
encysted, like an extra organ, but one without function. The knot, the 
wolf, was not there now. Nor in his heart, nor in his mind, exactly, 
though trying to see into his own mind felt like trying to see the back of 
his own head. The beast was truly unbound. Sowhere?

It is in my blood, he realized. Not a part, but every part of him. 
It wasn't just in him, now; it was him. Not to be ripped out as readily as 
cutting off his fist, or tearing out his eyes, no, no such trivial surgery 
would answer.

It came to him then, a possible reason why the fen folk practiced 
their peculiar blood sacrifices, a meaning lost in the depths of time even 
to themselves. The marsh people were old enemies of the Old 
Wealdings. They had faced the forest tribes' spirit warriors and animal 
shamans in battle and raid along their marches for centuries out of 
mind-taken captives, perhaps including prisoners far too dangerous to 
hold. Had those sanguinary drainings once had a more grim and 
practical purpose?

Could a mere physical separation, of blood from body, also 
create a spiritual one, of sin from soul?

Denial, it seemed, ran at the end of its long road down into a 
bog of blood. More in a sort of chill curiosity than any other emotion, 
Ingrey rummaged in his saddlebags and drew out his coil of rope. He 
laid it and his belt knife out on the quilt beside him and glanced upward 
in the light of his single candle at the shadowy ceiling beams. Yes, it 
could be done, the supreme self-sacrifice. Bind his own ankles, hoist 
himself up, loop a knot. Hang upside down. Lift the finely honed blade 
to his own throat. He could let his wolf out in a hot scarlet stream, end 
its haunting of him, right here and now. Free himself of all defilement in 
the ultimate no.

So would his soul, rejected by the gods, just fade quietly into 
oblivion as the sundered and damned ghosts were said to do? It 
seemed no fearful fate. Or-if he had misjudged the rite-would his lost 
spirit, augmented by this unknown force, turn into somethingelse? 
Something presently unimaginable?

Did Wencel know what?

All those lures the young earl had thrown out, all that bait, were 
plain enough indicators of how Wencel thought of Ingrey, and about 
him. I am prey, in his eyes. Watch me run. He could deny Wencel his 
quarry.

Ingrey stood up, reached, felt along the beam, tucked the rope 
through a slight warped gap between the timber and the attic floor 
above, sat again and studied the cord's dangling length in the shadows. 
He touched the gray twist; his brain felt cool and distant, in this 
contemplation, and yet his hand shook. That much blood would make a 
mighty mess on the floor for some horrified servant to clean up in the 
morning. Or would it flow between the floorboards, seep through the 
ceiling of the room below? Announce the event overhead by a dripping 
in the dark, spattering wetly upon a pillow or a sleeping face? Was that 
thunder, does the roof leak? Until a light was struck, and its bright 
flare revealed the drizzle as a redder rain. Would there be screams?

Was Lady Ijada's room below his? He calculated the placement 
of corridors, and of the chamber door into which the warden had 
retreated. Perhaps. It hardly mattered.

He paused for a long time, barely breathing, balanced on the 
cusp of the night. 
No.

The thought did very odd things to his heart. He rejected the 
poets' phrases as drivel; his heart did not turn over, nor inside out, nor, 
most certainly not ever, dance. It went on beating right side up in his 
chest as usual, if a little faster and tighter-seeming. Was he odd, to 
relish the peculiar perilous sensation so? It wasn't exactly pleasant. 
Exactly. But what he relished in the darkness of his dreams wasn't what 
most men he'd known spoke of, in the crude braggings of their lusts, as 
pleasant; he'd been aware of that for some time.

His hand drew back, clenched closed.

So if I choose not to wake you so redly, Ijada, what then?

He had come to the end of the road of No; he could go no 
further down it without drowning in his own blood. I have three 
choices, I think. To wade into the red swamp and never come up 
again. To linger in numbness and immobility as before-yet it was certain 
that neither the tide of events nor the relentless Wencel would permit 
the continuation of his paralysis very much longer. Orhe might turn 
around and walk the other way.

So what does that mean, or has my thinking turned 
altogether to a poet's twaddle? His bedchamber was so quiet he 
could hear the susurrus of the blood in his ears like an animal's panting.

Could he stop denying himself, and deny others instead? He 
tested the phrases on his tongue. No, you are wrong, all of you, 
Temple and Court and folk in the streets. You always were wrong. 
I am notam not what? And are these the only terms I can think 
in, these shouted nos? Ah, habit.

Or Who I may meet along it, and that thought disturbed him 
more than knife and cord and haunted blood together.

Though if I can find a darker dark along it than this one, I 
shall be surprised.

He rose, sheathed his knife, packed the rope away. Stripped for 
sleep and lay down under the servant's sheets. Old and thin and 
mended, they were, but clean; it was a rich household that afforded 
even its servants such refinements.

I do not know where I am going. But I am quite weary 
enough of where I've been.

AFTER THE BRIEFEST DAWN MEETING WITH WENCEL, ALL 
practicalities, Ingrey took his prisoner on the road. Hetwar's troop still 
escorted them, glad enough to be lighter by one dead prince and a 
dozen surly retainers and all their baggage. Ingrey had even sent the 
latest warden-dedicat home, her place taken by a middle-aged 
maidservant of Horseriver's household who rode pillion behind Gesca. 
The small cavalcade climbed out of the valley of Oxmeade into the 
breaking day, and began to wind through the settled country of the rich 
lowlands belonging to the earldom of Stagthorne.

Taking a lead from Horseriver, Ingrey edged his mount forward 
and without apology motioned Ijada to ride ahead with him. He was 
nonetheless conscious of Gesca's narrow gaze, following them. Just so 
they outdistanced the curious lieutenant's ears.

Ijada was unusually pale and withdrawn this morning, with gray 
smudges under her eyes. Her smile, returning his curt nod, was brief 
and muted. Was she finally coming to realize that she rode into a trap? 
Too late? 
We cannot continue to flounder along with no attempt at a 
plan, he began firmly. You've rejected mine. Have you a better?

His mouth, tightening, paused. The first hour I saw you at 
Boar's Head, five gods help me. In the upstairs room of that inn at 
Red Dike, he answered instead.

She tilted her head in a conciliating nod.

We share a certain problem apart from your legal morass, he 
continued. Cat maiden.

Oh, it's not apart. Dog lord.

Despite himself, his lips twisted up in return. Did he truly smile so 
little, that his mouth should feel so odd doing this? Earl Horseriver has 
promised this much to shield you. He told me this morning that you are 
to be lodged in a house in the capital that he owns, with his servants 
about you. Better than some dank cell down by the river, and a sign, I 
think, that your destruction is not yet set in train. There may be a little 
time.

He means to keep me close, she said thoughtfully.

At Wencel's request, Lord Hetwar has appointed me your 
house warden for this arrest. No need to mention how his breath had 
skipped at this unexpected stroke of good fortune. Judging by the note 
his courier brought me, Hetwar is glad enough to have you kept out of 
sight for a time.

Her eyes flew up. Wencel means to keep us both close, then. 
Why?

I judge his voice slowed, uncertain. I judge he is a little 
off-balance, just now. So much is happening at once, with the funeral 
and his distraught wife, atop the roil already with the hallow king's 
illness and-the Mother avert, but it seems most probable-the impending 
election. Biast and his retinue will be arriving in Easthome, and the 
prince will certainly draw his brother-in-law into the concerns of his 
party. Beneath that lie Wencel's other uncanny secrets, old and new. If 
Wencel can make one piece of his puzzle hold still till he has time to 
attend to it, well, so much the better. For him. As for me, I don't intend 
to hold still.

I've had one idea, so far. If, as I suspect, more than one power 
in Easthome would like to see your trial suppressed, this scandal swept 
quietly aside, it might even be accepted. Your kin might call on the old 
kin-law, and offer a blood-price for Prince Boleso.

She inhaled, brows climbing in surprise. Will the Temple care to 
have its justiciars excluded from so high a case?

If the highest lords of kin Stagthorne and kin Badgerbank 
agree, the divines of the Father's Order will have no choice. There lies 
my first doubt, for the king is unfit to accept any proposal; at the time I 
left Easthome, Hetwar was uncertain that the old man had even been 
made to understand that Boleso had, um, met his death. Biast, once he 
arrives, will be half-prepared and wholly distracted. Clear decisions 
from the Court at Easthome have been hard to come by, these past 
weeks, and it will likely get worse before it gets better. But 
Earl-ordainer Badgerbank is no small power in his own right. If he 
could be convinced, for the honor of his house, to sponsor you, and 
Wencel urged to help persuade him, the scheme might have a chance.

A prince's blood-price could be no small sum. Far beyond my 
poor stepfather's means.

It would have to come from Badgerbank's purse. With Wencel, 
perhaps, helping fill it on the left hand.

Have you met Earl Badgerbank? I did not think he had the 
reputation as a generous man.

Um Ingrey hesitated, then answered honestly, no, he 
doesn't. He glanced across at her, riding in the warming morning light. 
But if the money-

Bribe? she muttered. 
-were raised elsewhere, I think there would be less trouble 
coaxing him to lend his name. Your dower lands-how large are they?

Ingrey blinked, taken aback. That is rather larger than you led 
me to picture. A forested tract is no small resource; it may yield up 
game, timber, charcoal, mast for pigs, perhaps a great prize of minerals 
beneathyou have nearly the price of a prince right there, I think! 
How many villages or hamlets are to be found there, how many hearths 
in the tax census?

None. Not in those lands. No one hunts there. No one goes in.

The sudden tension in her tone arrested him. Why not?

She shrugged, unconvincingly. They are accursed. Haunted 
woods, whispering woods. The Wounded Woods, they are called, and 
indeed, the trees seem sick. All who enter are plagued by nightmares of 
blood and death, they say.

Tales, Ingrey scoffed.

I went in, Ijada replied steadily. After my mother died, and it 
was at last made clear that the tract had indeed come to me. I went to 
see for myself, for I believed I had the right. And duty. The forester 
was reluctant to escort me, but I made him. My stepfather's grooms 
and my maid were terrified. For a full day we rode in, then made a 
camp. Most of the land is raw and steep, all ravines and abrupt cliffs, 
briars and stones poking through, and gloomy hollows. At the center is 
one broad, flat valley, filled with great oak trees, centuries old. That is 
the darkest part, said to be the most haunted, a cursed shrine of the 
Old Weald. Local legend says it is lost Bloodfield itself, for all that two 
other earldoms along the Ravens claim that doubtful honor.

Many old shrine sites have become farmers' fields, in time.

Not this one. We slept there that night, much against the will of 
my escort. And indeed, we dreamed. The grooms dreamed of being 
torn apart by animals, and woke screaming. My maid dreamed that she 
drowned in blood. Come morning, they were all wild to get away.

She hesitated so long this time he almost asked again, but held 
his tongue. His patience was rewarded at length when she murmured, 
We all dreamed. It took me some time to realize that my dream was 
different.

Silences, he reminded himself, had a power all their own. He 
waited some more. She regarded him under her lashes, as if gauging his 
tolerance for further tales of the uncanny.

She began, he thought, obliquely. Have you ever witnessed an 
almsgiver mobbed by famished beggars? How they gather in a vast 
swirl, each one weak, but in their numbers strong and frightening, 
frantic? Give to us, give, for we starve Yet however much you 
gave, all that you had, it would not be enough; they might tear you apart 
and devour you without being satisfied.

He granted her a wary nod, uncertain where this was tending.

In my dreammen came to me out of the trees. 
Bloody-handed men, many headless, in the rusted armor of the Old 
Weald. Some bore animal standards, the skulls all decorated about 
with colored stones, or wore capes of skins; stag and bear, horse and 
wolf, badger and otter, boar and lynx and ox and I know not what else. 
Faceless, blurred, horribly hacked. They raved around me in a great 
begging crowd, as though I were their queen, or liege-lady, come to 
spread some strange largesse among them. I could not understand their 
language, and their signs bewildered me. I was not afraid of them, for 
all they pawed my garments with rotting hands until my dress was 
soaked in cold black blood. They wanted something of me. I could not 
make out what it was. But I knew they were owed it.

A terrifying dream, he said, in the most detached voice he 
could muster.

I did not fear them. But they split my heart. 
Were they so pitiful?

Began again. Until Wencel said those words last night. 
Banner-carrier. I had half forgotten the dream, in the press of more 
recent woes, but at those words the memory of it slammed back, so 
vivid it was like a blow-I don't think you know how close I came to 
fainting.

Ino. To me, you just looked interested.

She gave a relieved nod. Good.

And so what new thing do you make of your dream as a 
result?

I thoughtI thinkI think now the dead warriors made me 
their banner-carrier, that night. Her right hand rose from her rein to her 
left breast, and spread there in the sacred gesture; he thought the 
fingers clutched in a tiny spasm. And I was suddenly reminded that the 
heart is the sign and signifier of the Son of Autumn. The heart for 
courage. And loyalty. And love.

Ingrey had tried to wrench their thoughts to shrewd politics, to 
good, solid, reasonable, practical plans. How had he stepped hip deep 
into the eerie once again? It was but a dream. How long ago?'

Some months. The others could not wait to break camp and 
gallop home, next morning, but I rode slowly, looking back. 
What did you see?

Surely someone might be found who does not know their local 
reputation.

She shook her head. You don't understand.

What, are the lands entailed to you?

No.

Already pledged for debt?

No! Nor shall they be. How would I ever redeem them? She 
laughed mirthlessly. No great marriage, or likely, any marriage, looms 
in my future now; and I have no other prospects of inheritance.

But if it might save your life, Ijada-

You don't understand. Five gods help me, I don't understand. 
Butthey laid the woods into my charge, the dead men. I cannot lay 
that charge down until my men arepaid.

Paid? What coin can ghosts desire? Or hallucinations, as the 
case may be, he added testily.

She grimaced in frustration, and with a little slice of her hand 
batted down his doubting shot. I don't know. But they wanted 
something.

Then I shall just have to find another way, Ingrey muttered. Or 
return to this argument later.

Now it was her turn to stare thoughtfully at him. And what 
plans have you made to seek out the source of your geas?

None, yet, he admitted. Though after, um, Red Dike, I think 
no such thing could be laid upon me again without my seeing it. 
Resisting it. Stung by the doubtful quirk of her eyebrows, he added 
more sternly, I plan to be on my guard, and look about me.

Ingrey's frown deepened at this unwelcome thought. Many 
men. It's my calling. But I always figured an enemy would just send 
paid bravos.

Do you think the average bravo would be inclined to take you 
on?

His lips lifted a little at this. They might have to raise the price.

Her lips curved, too. Perhaps your unknown enemy is a 
pinch-purse, then. The bounty for a wild wolf warrior might be too 
steep for him.

Ingrey chuckled. My reputation is more lurid than my sword 
arm can sustain, I'm afraid. An adversary has merely to send enough 
men, or shoot from behind in the dark. Easily enough done. Men alone 
are not hard to kill, despite our swagger.

Indeed, she murmured bleakly, and Ingrey cursed his careless 
tongue. After a moment, she added, It's still a good question, though. 
What would have happened to you if the geas had worked as planned?

Ingrey shrugged. Disgraced. Dismissed from Hetwar's service. 
Maybe hanged. Our drowning would have passed as an accident, true. 
Some several men might have been happy that I'd relieved them of a 
dilemma, but I should not have looked to them for gratitude.

But it would be safe to say you'd have been removed as a force 
in the capital.

I'm no force in the capital. I'm just one of Hetwar's more 
dubious servants.

Such a charitable man Hetwar is to sponsor you, then. 
Ingrey's lips opened, closed. Mm.

You thought it, too? Ijada, Ingrey reminded himself, had never 
known Wencel as a small, slow child. But did that leave her to 
overestimate, or Ingrey to underestimate, his cousin?

Ijada continued, But in that case, I do not understand why we 
were both allowed to leave his house alive today.

That would have been too crude, said Ingrey. A hired 
assassin is always his own witness, but the geas would have left none. 
The spell-caster, Wencel or not, desired greater subtlety. Presumably. 
He frowned in renewed doubt.

He was never a comfortable man, but this new Wencel scares 
me to death.

Well, he does not me. Ingrey's mouth and mind froze as he 
was suddenly reminded of how close he'd come to death at his own 
hand, not twelve hours past. A subtle enough death to pass 
unquestioned even under Wencel's roof? It was no geas that time, 
though. I did it to myself.

After Wencel cried wolf at me

Now what makes you grow grim? Ijada demanded. 
Nothing. 
Her lips twisted in exasperation. To be sure. 
After a few more minutes of riding in silence, she added, I want


to know what else Wencel knows of Bloodfield-or Holytree, as he 
called it-if he's such a scholar of the Old Weald as he claims. Tax him 
on it, if-when-you speak again. But do not tell him of my dream.

Ingrey nodded agreement. Had you ever discussed your legacy 
with him?

Never. 
With Princess Fara?

Ingrey drummed his fingers on the thigh of his riding leathers. It 
must have been but a dream. Most souls would have been taken up by 
the gods at the hour of their deaths, whether your woods were 
Bloodfield or some lesser Wealding defeat. Any sundered who refused 
the gods would have blurred to oblivion centuries ago, or so the divines 
taught me. Four hundred years is far too long for ghosts to survive so 
entire.

I saw what I saw. Her tone neither offered nor requested 
rationalizations.

Maybe that's what the addition of animal spirits does to men's 
souls, Ingrey continued in a spurt of inspiration. Instead of dissolution, 
damnation becomes an eternal, cold, and silent torment. Trapped 
between matter and spirit. All the pain of death lingering, all the joy of 
life stripped away He swallowed in sudden fear.

Ijada's gaze grew distant, looking down the winding road. I 
trust not. The warriors were worn and tormented, but not joyless, for 
they took joy in me, I thought. Her eyes, turning toward him, crinkled 
a little at the edges. A moment ago, you said it must be a dream, but 
now you take it for truth, and your doom foreshadowed. You can't 
have it both ways, however delightfully glum piling up the prospects 
makes you.

Ingrey was surprised into a snort; his lips curled up at the sides, 
just a little bit. He yanked them back straight. So which do you think it 
is?

I think she said slowly, that if I could go back now, I 
would know. Her lids lowered briefly, and the next look she gave him 
seemed to weigh him. I think you might, too.

They were interrupted then by a crowd on the road, some 
kinlord's entourage from Easthome traveling to the funereal duty at 
Oxmeade. Ingrey motioned his men aside, scanning the mob of 
outriders for faces he recognized. He saw a few, and exchanged brief, 
sober salutes. Boarford's men, and therefore the two brotherearls and 
their wives sheltered in the tapestry-covered wagon that jounced along 
the ruts. Almost immediately thereafter, Ingrey's troop had to make 
way again for a procession of Temple-men, lord dedicats and high 
divines, richly dressed and well mounted.



CHAPTER TEN


THEY CRESTED THE RANGE OF LOW HILLS NORTHEAST OF THE 
capital in the late afternoon. The town and the broad southern plains 
beyond spread out before their gaze. The river Stork curled away from 
the town's foot in a bright silver line, growing more crooked until lost in 
the autumn haze. A few boats, merchant craft, sculled laboriously up or 
drifted down its length, making their way from or to the cold sea some 
eighty miles distant. As Ingrey reined back beside her, Ijada rose in her 
stirrups and stared.

He studied her expression, which was part fascinated, part 
wary. Easthome might well be the largest city she'd seen in her life, for 
all that perhaps a dozen Darthacan provincial seats eclipsed it, and the 
Darthacan royal capital could have held it six times over.

The town is divided into two halves, Templetown and 
Kingstown, Ingrey told her. The upper town, on those high bluffs, 
holds the temple, the archdivine's palace, and all the offices of the holy 
orders. The lower town has the warehouses and the merchants' 
quarters. You can see the wharves beyond the wall, where the drainage 
runs out to join the Stork. The hallow king's hall and most of the 
kin-lords' houses are on the opposite end from the docks. His hand 
swept out the sections. Easthome used to be two villages, back in the 
old days, belonging to two different tribes. They feuded and fought 
across the creek that divided them till it ran with blood, they say, 
practically up to the time Audar's grandson seized the place for his 
western capital, and stamped out all division with his new stonework. 
You can scarcely see the creek now, it is so built across. And no one 
now chooses to die for the sake of a sewer. Hetwar told me this tale; 
he takes it for a parable, but I'm not sure what he thinks the moral is.

They came at length to a narrow curving street in the merchants' 
quarter, and dismounted before a slim stone house in a row of several 
such built abutting one another, though obviously at different times by 
different masons. Ingrey wondered if Horseriver owned not just this 
house but the row, and if such lucrative property had come to him with 
Princess Fara. The house was neither so rich nor so large as last night's 
lodging, but it appeared decent enough, quiet and close.

Ingrey dismounted and passed his and Ijada's horses to Gesca's 
care.

Tell my lord Hetwar I will report to him as soon as I see the 
prisoner secured. Send me my manservant Tesko, if you find him 
sober, with what things I am likely to need for the next few days. Clean 
clothes, for one. Ingrey grimaced, stretching his aching back; his 
leathers reeked of horse and the grime of the road, and the stitches in 
his scalp were itching again, maddeningly. Ijada, stripping off her riding 
gloves and craning her neck, managed somehow to appear nearly as 
trim and cool as she had that morning.

The house's porter saw them inside; the woman warden-servant, 
guided by a housemaid, marshaled Ijada at once up the stairs, her 
leather-strapped case hoisted after by the porter's boy. Ingrey set 
down his saddlebags and stared around the narrow hall.

Ingrey grunted, and said, No hurry. If this place is to be my 
charge, I had best look it over. He prowled off through the nearest 
doorway.

The house seemed simple enough. The cellar and the ground 
floor were devoted to storage, a kitchen with antechamber and pallets 
for cook and scullion, an eating hall, a parlor, and a cubby under the 
stairs where the porter lurked. Ingrey poked his head out the only other 
outer door, which led to a back court with a covered well. The second 
floor included what might have been meant for a study, as well as two 
bedrooms. Passing the door of similar chambers on the next floor up, 
Ingrey heard the murmur of women's voices, Ijada and her warden. 
The top floor was divided up into smaller rooms for the servants.

He descended again to find the porter's boy lugging his 
saddlebags into one of the bedrooms on the second floor. The 
furnishings were sparse-narrow bed, washstand, a single chair, a 
battered wardrobe-and Ingrey wondered if the place had been 
tenanted or not before Horseriver's couriers had arrived last night 
demanding its possession. Light, distinctive footsteps and the creaking 
of, perhaps, a bed overhead marked Ijada's location. The proximity 
was both reassuring and unsettling. When he heard her steps on the 
stairs, he turned for the hall.

She had her hand raised to knock on his door as he opened it. 
In the other, she held Learned Hallana's letter, a little crumpled now. 
Her warden-or was that, Wencel's warden?-hovered behind her, 
peering suspiciously.

Lord Ingrey, she said, reverting to formality. Learned Hallana 
charged you to deliver this. Will you do so? Her level eyes seemed to 
bore into his, silently reminding him of the rest of the sorceress's words: 
to its destination, and no other.

He took it, glancing at the scrawled direction. Do you know 
who this-he peered more closely-Learned Lewko may be?

What does that prove? Hallana trusted me. And a 
Temple-man neither foolish nor untrue might yet be no friend to the 
defiled.

Still, Ingrey remained deathly curious as to what Hallana had 
reported of him, and of the strange events at Red Dike. The only way 
he might find out short of opening the letter himself was to be there 
when it was opened. And if he delivered it on his way to Hetwar's 
palace, he would be relieved of any possible need to conceal it or lie 
about it to his master. Hetwar could not demand it of him then. If 
chided, Ingrey could feign its faithful delivery was just the sort of 
virtuous act Hetwar might properly expect of his henchman.

Yes. I will undertake the charge.

Ijada nodded intently, and he wondered if she read his 
corkscrew thoughts in his eyes, or not: or if she judged him as blithely 
as Hallana had.

He added, Stay in; stay safe. Lock your inner doors as well. I 
presume whatever comforts this house may offer are yours for the 
asking. He let his eye fall on the servant-warden, and she made a 
circumspect curtsey of acknowledgment. I don't know what else Lord 
Hetwar may want of me tonight, so eat when you will. I'll be back as 
soon as I can.

He tucked the letter in his jerkin, bowed her a polite farewell, 
and made his way down the stairs. He wanted a bath, clean clothes, 
and a meal, in that order, but all such niceties would have to wait.

Leaving instructions with the porter for his servant, should Tesko 
arrive before he returned, Ingrey walked out into the town.

Familiar smells and sights subtly reassured him. He wound his 
way through the cobbled streets of Kingstown and across the 
half-buried creek, then climbed the steep steps up the near cliff of the 
temple side. Two switchbacks and a breathless ten minutes brought him 
to the stair-gate, winding crookedly under a tower and two houses, into 
the upper town. In the dark corner where the passage turned, a little 
shrine for the safety of the city stood, a few candles flickering in the dim 
drafts flanked by wilted garlands; reflexively, Ingrey made the fivefold 
sign in passing. He came out again into the early-evening light and 
turned right.

The central court was open to the air, and in its middle the holy 
fire burned quietly on its plinth. Through an archway into one of the five 
great stone domes surrounding it, Ingrey could see a ceremony 
beginning-a funeral, he realized, for he could glimpse a bier, surrounded 
by shuffling mourners, being set down before the Father's altar. In a 
few days, Prince Boleso's body, too, would pass through these rites 
here.

On the other side of the court, the acolyte-grooms were 
marshaling their sacred animals for the little miracle of the choosing. 
Each creature, led by its handler dressed in the color of his or her 
order, would be presented before the bier, and the divine would 
interpret by its actions which god had taken up the soul of the recent 
dead. This not only guided the prayers of the mourners, but also their 
more material offerings, to the altar and the order of the proper god. 
Ingrey would be more cynical about this, but that he had more than 
once seen results clearly unexpected to all parties involved.

A woman in Mother's greens had a large green bird, which 
cawed nervously, perched upon her shoulder. A maiden in Daughter's 
blue held a young hen with purple-blue feathers tightly under her arm. 
An immensely fluffy gray dog cowered close to the gray robes of an 
elderly groom of the Father's Order. A young man in the reds and 
browns of the Son led a skittish chestnut colt, its coat brushed to a 
shimmering copper and its eyes rolling whitely. The animal snorted and 
sidled, yanking its groom almost off his feet, and in a moment, Ingrey 
saw why.

The man was nearly as arresting as the bear. He was 
broad-shouldered to match his height, with hair in a dense red horsetail 
down his back. Thick silver clamps held it in place, and thick silver 
bracelets clanked on his arms. Bright blue eyes held an expression of 
amiable bemusement which Ingrey was not sure whether to take as 
acuity or vacuity. His clothes-tunic, trousers, a swinging coat-were 
simple enough in cut, but colorfully dyed and decorated with elaborate 
embroidery. Big boots were stamped with silver designs, and the hilt of 
his long sword glittered with crudely cut gems. In the belt sheath at his 
back rested not a knife, but an ax, also elaborately inlaid, its blade 
gleaming razor-honed.

A brown-haired man in similar but less gaudy dress, a good 
head shorter than his fellow yet still tall, leaned against a pillar with his 
arms folded, watching the proceedings with a most dubious expression. 
Some of the grooms shot him looks of supplication, which he 
steadfastly ignored.

Ingrey tore his attention from this peculiar drama as he saw an 
older woman in the white-and-cream robes of the Bastard, the loops of 
a divine's braid bouncing on her shoulder and her arms laden with 
folded cloth, scurry through the court, evidently intent upon some 
shortcut. Ingrey barely caught her sleeve as she sped past. She jerked 
to a halt and eyed him unfavorably.

Excuse me, Learned. I carry a letter for one Learned Lewko, 
which I am charged to deliver into his hand. 
Her expression altered at once into something, if not more 
friendly, much more interested. She looked him up and down; indeed, 
he imagined he looked the part of a road-weary courier, just now.

She led him through a discreet side entry, down and up some 
steps, back outside behind the temple, and past the archdivine's palace 
into the next street. Down one more narrow alley they came to a long 
stone building some two stories high, passed through a side door, and 
wended up more stairs. Ingrey began to be grateful he hadn't just asked 
for directions. They passed a succession of well-lit rooms devoted to 
scriptoria, judging by the heads bent over tables and scratching of quills.

Coming to a closed door in the same row, she knocked, and a 
man's calm voice bade, Enter.

The door swung open on a narrower room, or perhaps that was 
an illusion created by the contents. Crammed shelves lined the 
chamber, and a pair of tables overflowed with books, papers, scrolls, 
and a great deal of more miscellaneous litter. A saddle sat propped on 
its pommel in one corner.

The man, sitting in a chair beyond one table near the window, 
looked up from the sheaf of papers he was reading and raised his 
brows. He, too, was dressed in Bastard's whites, but the robes were 
slightly shabby and without any mark of rank upon them. He was 
middle-aged, spare, perhaps a little taller than Ingrey, clean-shaven, 
with sandy-gray hair trimmed short. Ingrey would have taken him for 
some important man's clerk or secretary, except that the woman divine 
pressed her hand to her lips and bowed her head in a gesture of utmost 
respect before she spoke again.

Learned, here is a man with a letter for you. She glanced up at 
Ingrey. Your name, sir?

Ingrey kin Wolfcliff.

No special reaction or recognition showed in her face, but the 
spare man's brows notched a trifle higher. Thank you, Marda, he 
said, polite dismissal clear in his tone. She touched her lips again and 
withdrew, shutting the door behind Ingrey.

Learned Lewko set down his sheaf of papers rather abruptly 
and sat up to take it. Hallana! Not ill news, I trust?

Notthat is, she was well when I last saw her.

Lewko eyed the missive more warily. Is it complicated?

Ingrey considered his answer. She did not show me the 
contents. But I expect so.

Lewko sighed. As long as it's not another ice bear. I don't think 
she would gift me with an ice bear. I hope.

Ingrey was briefly diverted. I saw an ice bear in the temple 
court, as I came in. It was, um, most impressive.

It is utterly horrifying, I think. The grooms were weeping. 
Bastard forfend, are they actually trying to use it in a funeral?

So it appeared.

We should have just told the prince thank you, and put it in a 
menagerie. Somewhere out in the country.

How did it come here?

By surprise. Also by boat.

How big was the boat?

Lewko grinned at Ingrey's tone, and looked suddenly younger 
thereby. I saw it yesterday, tied up at the wharf below Kingstown. 
Not nearly as big as one would think. He ran a hand through his hair. 
The beast was a gift, or perhaps a bribe. Brought by this giant red 
hairy fellow from some island on the frozen side of the south sea, who 
is either a prince, or a pirate-it is hard to be sure. Prince Jokol, fondly 
nicknamed by his loyal crew Jokol Skullsplitter, I am informed. I didn't 
think those white bears could be tamed, but he seems to have made a 
pet of this one since it was a cub, which makes the gift even more dear, 
I suppose. I cannot imagine what the voyage was like; they say they 
met storms. I suspect he is quite mad. In any case, he also brought 
several large ingots of high-grade silver for the bear's upkeep, which 
apparently robbed the temple menagerie-master of the wits to refuse 
the gift. Or bribe.

The Skullsplitter wants a divine, to carry off to his 
glacier-ridden island in place of his bear. This is a fine work of 
missionary duty that any divine should be proud to undertake. 
Volunteers have been called for. Twice. If none steps forth by the time 
the prince is ready to cast off again, one will simply have to be found. 
Dragged from under a bed, perhaps. His grin flickered again. I can 
afford to laugh; they can't send me. Ah, well. He sighed once more 
and set the letter before him on the table, with the wax seal uppermost. 
He bent his head over it.

The amusement drained from Ingrey, and he came alert. His 
blood-that blood-seemed to spin up like a vortex. Lewko did not bear 
the braid of a sorcerer, he did not smell of a demon, and yet Temple 
sorcerers answered to him? Threw their most complicated dilemmas 
in his lap?

Lewko laid his hand across the wax seal, and his eyes closed 
briefly. Something flared about him. It was nothing Ingrey saw with his 
eyes or smelled with his nose, but it made the hair stir at the nape of his 
neck. He'd felt a trace of this stomach-wrenching awe once before, 
from a stronger source, but with inner senses at the time much weaker. 
At the end of his futile pilgrimage to Darthaca, in the presence of a 
small, stout, harried fellow, to all appearances ordinary, who sat down 
quietly and let a god reach through him into the world of matter.

Lewko's not a sorcerer. He's a saint, or petty saint. And he 
knew who Ingrey was, and he had seemingly been here at the temple 
for years, judging by the state of his study, but Ingrey had never 
seen-or was that, noticed?-him before. Certainly not in the company of 
any of the high Temple divines who waited upon the sealmaster or the 
king's court, all of whom Ingrey had dutifully memorized.

Ingrey nodded.

This letter has been opened.

Not by me, Learned.

Who, then?

Ingrey's mind sped back. From Hallana to Ijada to himIjada? 
Surely not. Had it ever been out of her possession, parted from her 
bosom? It had rested in that inner pocket of the riding habit, which she 
had wornall but at the dinner at Earl Horseriver's. And Wencel had 
left the table to receive an urgent messageindeed. Easy enough for 
the earl to overawe and suborn that warden to rifle Ijada's luggage, but 
had Wencel thought to use some shaman trick to fool a sorcerer about 
his prying? But Lewko is not a sorcerer, now, is he. Not exactly. 
Ingrey temporized: Without proof, any guess of mine would be but 
slander, Learned.

Lewko's look grew uncomfortably penetrating, but to Ingrey's 
relief he dropped his eyes to the letter again. Well, let us see, he 
muttered, and stripped it open, scattering wax.

He read intently for a few minutes, then shook his head and 
stood to lean nearer to the window. Twice, he turned the closely 
written paper sideways. Once, he glanced across at Ingrey and 
inquired rather plaintively, Does the phrase broke his chants mean 
anything to you?

Um, could that be, chains? Ingrey ventured.

Lewko brightened. Ah! Yes, it could! That makes much more 
sense. He read on. Or perhaps it doesn't

Lewko came to the end, frowned, and started over. He waved 
vaguely toward a wall. I believe there is a camp stool under that pile. 
Help yourself, Lord Ingrey.

I pity the spy who had to decipher this, he said, without heat.

Is it in code?

No: Hallana's handwriting. Written in haste, I deem. It takes 
practice-which I grant I have-to unravel. Well, I've suffered worse for 
less reward. Not from Hallana, she always touches the essential. One 
of her several uncomfortable talents. That demure smile masks a holy 
recklessness. And ruthlessness. The Father be thanked for Oswin's 
moderating influence. Such as it is.

You know her well? Ingrey inquired. Or, why does this 
paragon write to you, alone of all the Temple functionaries in 
Easthome?

Lewko rolled the letter and tapped it gently on the edge of the 
table. I was assigned to be her mentor, many years ago, when she so 
unexpectedly became a sorceress.

Surely it took one sorcerer to teach another. Therefore and 
thereforeLike a stone across the water, Ingrey's mind skipped two 
begged questions to arrive at a third. How does a man become a 
former sorcerer? Undamaged? It was the task of that Darthacan saint 
to destroy illicit sorcerers, who were reported to fight like madmen 
against the amputation of their powers, but Learned Lewko had surely 
not been such a renegade.

It is possible to lay down the gift. Lewko's mouth hovered 
between faint amusement and faint regret. If one chooses to in time.

Is it not a wrench?

I didn't say it was easy. In fact-his voice softened still 
further-it takes a miracle.

What was this man? I have served four years here in Easthome. 
I'm surprised our paths have not crossed before. 
But they have. In a sense. I am very familiar with your case, 
Lord Ingrey.

No, that was another man. My involvement at the time was less 
direct. The inquirer brought me a bag of ashes from the castle, to turn 
back into a letter of confession.

Ingrey's brow wrinkled. Isn't that what I believe Learned 
Hallana would call a bit uphill for Temple magic? Chaos forced back to 
order?

Indeed and alas, it was. It cost me a month's work and 
probably a year of my calling. And all for very little, as it turned out, to 
my fury. What do you remember of Learned Cumril? The young 
Temple sorcerer whom your father suborned?

Ingrey stiffened still further. From an acquaintance lasting the 
space of an hour's meal and a quarter of an hour's rite, not much. All 
his attention was on my father. I was an afterthought. He added 
truculently, And how do you know who suborned whom, after all?

That much was clear. Less clear was how. Not for money. I 
think not for threats. There was a reason-Cumril imagined himself doing 
something good, or at least heroic, that went horribly awry.

How can you guess his heart when you don't even know what 
his mind was about?

Oh, that part I don't have to guess. It was in his letter. Once I'd 
reassembled it. A three-page screed descanting upon his woe, guilt, 
and remorse. And scarcely one useful fact that we didn't already 
know. Lewko grimaced.

If Cumril wrote the confession, who burned it? asked Ingrey.

Now, that is a guess of mine. Lewko leaned back in his chair, 
eyeing Ingrey shrewdly. And yet I am surer of it than many an 
assertion for which I had more material proof. Do you understand the 
difference between a sorcerer who rides his demon, and one who is 
ridden?

Not from the inside. The difference is very clear. The gulf 
between a man who uses a power for his purposes, and a power that 
uses a man for its purposes, issometimes less than an ant's stride 
across. I know. I rode dangerously close to that line myself, once. It is 
my belief, after the debacle that left your father dead and youwell, as 
you are, Cumril was taken by his demon. Whether despair made him 
weak, whether he was overmatched from the first, I can't now guess, 
but I believe in my heart that the writing of that confession was Cumril's 
last act. And the burning of it, the demon's first.

Ingrey opened his mouth, then closed it. In his mind, he had 
always cast Cumril in the part of betrayer; it was uncomfortable to 
consider that the young sorcerer, too, might have been in some strange 
sense betrayed.

So you see, said Lewko softly, Cumril's fate concerns me. 
More, it nags me. I fear I cannot encounter you without being 
reminded of it.

Did the Temple ever find out if he was alive or dead?

No. There was a report of an illicit sorcerer in the Cantons 
some five years ago that might have been him, but all trace was lost 
thereafter.

Ingrey's lips started to shape the word Who but he changed it: 
What are you?

Lewko's hand opened. Just a simple Temple overseer, now.

Of what? Of all the Temple sorcerers of the Weald, perhaps? 
Just seemed scarcely the word for it, nor did simple. This man could 
be very dangerous to me, Ingrey reminded himself. He knows too 
much already.

And he was about to learn more, unfortunately, for he glanced 
down at the paper and asked Ingrey to describe the events at Red 
Dike. No great surprise; Ingrey had certainly guessed those at least 
would be in the letter.

Who do you think placed this murderous compulsion, this 
strange scarlet geas, upon you, Lord Ingrey?

I very much wish to know.

Well, that makes two of us.

I am glad of that, said Ingrey, and was surprised to realize it 
was true.

Then Lewko asked, What do you think of this Lady Ijada?

Ingrey swallowed, his mind seeming to spiral down like a bird 
shot out of the air. He asked me what I think about her, not what I 
feel about her, he reminded himself firmly. She undoubtedly bashed 
Boleso's head in. He undoubtedly deserved it.

A silence seemed to stretch from this succinct obituary. Did 
Lewko, too, understand the uses of silences? My lord Hetwar did not 
desire all these posthumous scandals, Ingrey added. I think he has 
even less than your relish for complications.

More silence. She sustains the leopard spirit. It islovely in 
her. Five gods, I must say something to protect her. I think she is 
more god-touched than she knows.

That won a response. Lewko sat up, his eyes suddenly cooler 
and more intent. How do you know?

Ingrey's chin rose at the hint of challenge. The same way I 
know that you are, Blessed One. I feel it in my blood.

The jolt between them then made Ingrey certain he'd 
overstepped. But Lewko eased back in his chair, deliberately tenting 
his hands. Truly?

I do not think you are a fool at all, Lord Ingrey. Lewko 
tapped his fingers on the letter, looked away for a moment, then looked 
back. Yes. I shall obey my Hallana's marching orders and examine this 
young woman, I think. Where is she being held?

More housed than held, so far. Ingrey gave directions to the 
slim house in the merchants' quarter.

When is she to be bound over to stand her indictment?

I would guess not till after Boleso's funeral, since it is so near. 
I'll know more once I speak with Sealmaster Hetwar. Where I am 
obliged by my duty to go next, Ingrey added by way of a broad hint. 
Yes-he needed to escape this room before Lewko's questions grew 
even more probing. He stood up.

I shall try to come tomorrow, said Lewko, yielding to this 
move.

Ingrey managed a polite, Thank you. I shall look for you then, 
a bow, and his removal from the room without, he trusted, looking as 
though he were running like a rabbit.

He closed the door behind himself and blew out his breath in 
unease. Was this Lewko potential help or potential harm? He 
remembered Wencel's parting words to him: If you value your life, 
keep your secrets and mine. Had that been a threat, or a warning?

He had at least managed to keep all mention of Horseriver from 
this first interview. There could be no hint of Wencel in the letter; his 
cousin had not impinged on Ingrey's life until after Hallana had been left 
behind, thankfully. But what about tomorrow? What about half an hour 
from now, when he stood in his road dirt before Hetwar to report his 
journey and its incidents?

Horseriver. Hallana. Gesca. Now Lewko. Hetwar. Ingrey was 
starting to lose track of what all he had not said to whom. 
He found the correct direction and began to retrace his steps 
back to the shortcut through the temple, keeping the cadence of his 
footfalls deliberate.



CHAPTER ELEVEN


AS INGREY MADE HIS WAY UP THE CORRIDOR TOWARD THE side 
entrance of the temple court, a cry of dismay echoed along the walls. 
His steps quickened in curiosity, then alarm, as the cry was succeeded 
by a scream. Frightened shouts erupted. His hand gripped the hilt of his 
sword as he burst into the central area, his head swiveling in search of 
the source of the uproar.

A bizarre melee was pouring out of the archway to the Father's 
court. Foremost was the great ice bear. Clamped in its jaws was the 
foot of the deceased man, an aged fellow dressed in clothes befitting a 
wealthy merchant, the stiff corpse bouncing along like some huge doll 
as the bear growled and shook its head. At the end of the silver chain 
hooked to the bear's collar, the groom-acolyte swung in a wide and 
stumbling arc. Some of the braver or more distraught mourners pelted 
after, shouting advice and demands.

His voice nearly squeaking, the panicked groom advanced on 
the bear, yanking the chain, then grabbing for the corpse's arm and 
pulling. The bear half rose, and one heavy paw lashed out; the groom 
staggered back, screaming in earnest now, clutching his side from 
which red drops spattered.

Ingrey drew his blade and ran forward, skidding to a stop 
before the maddened beast. From the corner of his eye he could see 
Prince Jokol, grasped in a restraining hug from behind by his 
companion, struggling toward him. No, no, no! cried the red-haired 
man in a voice of anguish. Fafa only thought they were offering him a 
meal! Don't, don't hurt him! 
By him, Ingrey realized, blinking, Jokol meant the bear

Everything around him slowed, and Ingrey's perceptions came 
alight, in the black exultation of his wolf ascending, seemingly pumped 
from his heart up into his reeling brain. The noise in the court became a 
distant rumble. His sword in his hand felt weightless; the tip rose, then 
began to curve away in a glittering back-swing. His mind sketched the 
plunge of the steel, into the bear's heart and out again before it could 
even begin to react, caught as it was in that other, more sluggish stream 
of time.

It was then that he felt, more than saw, the faint god light 
sputtering from the bear like sparks off a cat petted in the winter dark. 
The light's beauty confounded him, burning into his eyes. His heightened 
perceptions reached for it in a desperate grasping after the fading god, 
and suddenly, his mind was in the bear's.

He saw himself, foreshortened: a doubled image of leather-clad 
man and moving blade, and a vast, dark, dense wolf with glowing 
silver-tipped fur spewing light in an aureole all around him. As his heart 
reached after the god light, so the bear's astounded senses reached 
toward him, and for an instant, a three-way circle completed itself.

A laughing Voice murmured in his mind, but not in his ear: I see 
my Brother's pup is in better pelt, now. Good. Pray continue 
Ingrey's mind seemed to explode with the weight and pressure of that 
utterance.

For a moment, the bear's dazed and wordless memories became 
his. The recent procession into the Father's court, with the other 
animals all about. The distraction of the groom, the stink of his fear, but 
the reassurance of the familiar one, his smell and his voice, providing a 
link to calm in this disordered stone world. Voices droning, on and on. 
A dim comprehension of movement, positioning, yes, there had been 
food not long ago, when he did this, and let them lead him over 
thereAnd then his bear-heart swelled and burst with the 
overwhelming arrival of the god, followed by the happy certainty of a 
rocking amble toward the bier. Then confusion and pain; the small man 
hooked on the end of his chain was pulling back, yanking, punishing 
him for doing this thing, frustrating his happiness. He lunged forward in 
an attempt to complete his god-given task. More of these puny 
creatures ran about getting in his way. A red rage rose in his brain like a 
tide, and he grabbed that cold odd-smelling lump of meat and lumbered 
off with it toward the laughing light Who called him, Who was, 
confusingly, everywhere and yet nowhere

Ingrey seemed to reach deep into his chest, his belly, his bowels, 
and brought out one word: Down! The command flew through the 
air with the weight of a stone from a catapult.

His sword tip circled once, then fell in a silver arc to the 
pavement before his feet. The bear's snout tracked it, following it 
down, and down, until the great beast was crouched before Ingrey's 
boots, pressing its jaw to the tiles, its paws drawn in close to its head, 
its massive haunches bunching up behind. The yellow eyes looked up at 
him in bear-bewilderment, and awe.

Ingrey glowered around to find the groom-acolyte scrabbling 
away on hands and knees nearby, white robes bloodied, eyes now 
more huge on Ingrey than they'd been on the ice bear. The claws had 
merely grazed his ribs, else he might have been disemboweled. The 
bear's rage still boiled up in Ingrey's brain. Letting his sword fall with a 
clang, he advanced upon the man. He scooped him up by the front of 
his robes, jamming him against the plinth of the holy fire. The man was 
as tall as Ingrey, and broader in the beam, but he seemed to float in 
Ingrey's grasp. Ingrey bent him backward over the licking heat. The 
groom's flailing feet sought the floor, without success, and his squeaking 
strained up beyond sound into silence.

What did they pay you, to thwart the god's blessing? Who 
dared this execration? Ingrey snarled into the groom's contorted face. 
His voice, pitched low and vibrating, snaked all around the stone walls 
like a rustle of velvet, and back into his own ears like a purr.

He lies! yelped the groom in the Father's livery, dragging his 
frightened gray dog on its lead, circling wide around the still-crouching 
bear.

The white-clad groom's eyes focused on Ingrey's, inches from 
his face, and he inhaled deeply and screamed, I confess! Don't, don't, 
don't

Don't what? With difficulty, Ingrey straightened, opened his 
hands, and let the man fall back to his feet. He kept on going down, 
however, knees crumpling, till he was curled up in a bleeding ball at the 
base of the plinth, sniveling.

Nij, you fool! screamed the Father's groom. Shut up!

I couldn't help it! cried the Bastard's groom, cowering from 
Ingrey. His eyes shone silver, and his voice had a terrible weirding on 
it!

Then you'd best listen, hadn't you, said an unsympathetic voice 
at Ingrey's elbow.

Ingrey jerked away to find Learned Lewko, out of breath, 
exasperation manifest in the set of his teeth, standing looking over the 
chaotic scene.

Ingrey inhaled deeply, desperately trying to slow his heart, will 
time to its normal flow, calm his exacerbated senses. Light, shade, 
color, sound, all seemed to strike at him like ax blades, and the people 
all around him burned like fires. It was gradually borne in upon him how 
many people were staring at him now, mouths agape: some thirty or so 
mourners, the divine conducting the ceremony, all five groom-acolytes, 
Prince Jokol and his dumbfounded friend, and now, Learned Lewko. 
Who was not looking at all dumbfounded. 
I have let my wolf ascend, Ingrey reflected in a dizzied 
delirium. In front of forty witnesses. In the middle of the main 
temple court of Easthome.

Learned, Learned, help me, mercy mumbled the injured 
groom, crawling to Lewko's feet and grabbing the hem of his robe. 
Lewko's look of exasperation deepened.

A dozen people now seemed to be arguing at once, accusations 
and counteraccusations of both bribes and threats, as the mourners fell 
apart into two camps. An inheritance seemed to be at stake, from the 
fragments of speech that reached Ingrey's ears, although the thread of 
this instantly tangled with other old grudges, slights, and resentments. 
The hapless divine who had been conducting the funeral ceremony 
made a few feeble attempts to restore order among his flock while 
simultaneously threatening discipline upon his grooms, then, thwarted in 
both tasks, turned instead to an easier target.

He whirled to Prince Jokol, and pointed a shaking hand at the 
bear. Take that thing back, he snarled. Get it out of this temple at 
once! Never return!

The towering red-haired man seemed nearly in tears. But I was 
promised a divine! I must have one! If I do not bring one back to my 
island, my beautiful Breiga will not marry me!

Ingrey stepped forward, chin up, and put all the authority of 
Sealmaster Hetwar's most dangerous sword hand into his voice. And 
perhapssomething extra. The Temple of Easthome will give you a 
missioner in exchange for your silver ingots, Prince. Or perhaps I 
missed the offer to return them? He let his eye fall stonily on the 
harassed divine.

Learned Lewko, in a tone seeming singularly calm compared to 
everyone else's, soothed, The Temple will make all right, Prince, once 
we have ironed out this regrettable internal fault. It seems that your fine 
bear was the victim of an impious machination. For now, will you 
please take Fafa back to your boat for safekeeping? 
He added out of the corner of his mouth to Ingrey, And you, 
my lord, would oblige me vastly if you would go with them, and see 
that they both get there without eating any small children on the way.

Lewko's eyelids flicked down; he added, And take care of 
that.

Ingrey followed his glance. New blood was leaking in a dark 
trickle down his fingers from beneath the soiled bandage on his right 
hand. Something half-healed had burst during his manhandling of the 
guilty groom, presumably. He'd felt nothing.

He looked up to find himself fixed with a fierce blue stare. 
Jokol's eyes narrowed; he bent his head for a low-voiced, rapid 
exchange with his brown-haired comrade. Then he looked up and 
favored Lewko with an abrupt nod, which he extended to Ingrey. 
Yes. We like this one, eh, Ottovin? He gave his companion a nudge 
in the ribs that might have knocked over a lesser man, and marched 
over to his bear. He picked up the silver chain. Come, Fafa.

The bear whined and shuffled a little, but kept its crouching pose.

Lewko's hand griped Ingrey's shoulder; a nearly soundless 
breath in his ear said, Let it up again, Lord Ingrey. I think it is calmer 
now.

I Ingrey stepped nearer to the bear, and scooped up and 
resheathed his sword. The bear shuffled about some more, pressed its 
black nose to Ingrey's boots, and stared up at him piteously. Ingrey 
swallowed, and tried in a cracked voice: Up.

Nothing happened. The bear whimpered.

He reached down into a deep, deep well within himself, and 
brought up the word again; but a word given weight, a growling song 
that made his own bones vibrate. Up.

The great animal seemed to unfold. It lumbered to its master 
then, and Jokol dropped to his knees and petted the huge beast, big 
hands ruffling the thick fur of its neck, murmuring soothing endearments 
in a tongue Ingrey's ear could not translate. The ice bear rubbed its 
head on the prince's embroidered tunic, smearing it with bear spit and 
white hairs.

The short, strange parade exited the temple, leaving Learned 
Lewko to manage the babble and wailing left in their wake. Ingrey 
heard his crisp voice, addressed to the still-yammering groom and 
anyone else within earshot, then it must have been a trick of the 
light. At Ingrey's last glance over his shoulder, Lewko's eyes met his, 
and his lips formed the word Tomorrow. Ingrey found it an 
un-reassuring but credible promise.

His eyes shone silver, and his voice had a terrible weirding 
on it Familiar pain crept over Ingrey, and he realized he had done 
some most unpleasant things to his still-healing back, as well as to his 
hand. But the ringing in his ears was new, as was the thick tightening in 
his raw throat.

His memory returned unbidden to his old torments at 
Birchgrove. Of his head shoved under the Birchbeck, his lungs pulsing 
with red pain. Not even screams had been possible in that breathless 
cold. Of all his trials, that had proved the most effective, and his excited 
handlers had repeated it often, until his lucidity locked in. The strength 
of his silence, appallingly grim in a barely-boy, had been forged and 
quenched in that icy stream: stronger than his tormentors by far, 
stronger than fear of death.

He shook off the disquieting recollection and attended to guiding 
the island men back to the docks below Kingstown through the least 
crowded streets he could find. Lewko's concerns seemed less a joke 
when they picked up a tail of excited children, all pointing and chirping 
at the bear. Jokol grinned at them. Ingrey scowled and waved them off. 
His intensified senses seemed to be quieting, his heart slowing at last. 
Jokol and Ottovin spoke to each other in their own dialect, with 
frequent glances in Ingrey's direction.

Ingrey.

Jokol grimaced apologetically. I fear I am a very stupid man in 
your talk. Well, my mouth will get better.

You speak Wealdean well, said Ingrey diplomatically. My 
Darthacan is hardly more fluent, and I do not speak your tongue at all.

Ah, Darthacan. Jokol shrugged. That is a hard talk. His blue 
gaze narrowed. Do you write?

Yes.

That is good. I cannot. The big man sighed mournfully. All 
feathers break in these. He held out one thick hand for Ingrey's 
inspection; Ingrey nodded in an attempt at sympathy. He did not doubt 
Jokol's assertion in the least.

At the ice bear's ambling pace, they came at length to the gate in 
the Kingstown walls that led out to the cut-stone embankment and 
wooden wharves. A grove of masts and spars made a black tangle 
against the luminous evening sky. The working riverboats were flat and 
crude, for the most part, but scattered among them were a few 
seagoing vessels of light draft, up from the mouth of the Stork. Above 
Easthome no such ships went, for the rising hills created impassable 
rapids, although timber and other goods, on rafts or in barrels, were 
routinely floated down them whenever the water rose high enough.

Jokol's ship, tied up alongside one outthrusting jetty, proved 
altogether a different breed. It was easily forty feet long, curved out in 
the middle as gracefully as a woman's hips, narrowing on each end to 
where matching prows curled up, artfully carved with entwined rows of 
sea birds. It had a single mast, and a single deck; its passengers must 
presumably suffer the elements when it sailed, although at the moment, 
a large tent was arranged along the back half.

A crew of perhaps two dozen welcomed their prince back 
gladly, and the bear, if less gladly, at least familiarly. They were all 
strong-looking men, though none so tall as their leader: most as young, 
but a few grizzled. Some kept their hair in similar horsetails, some 
braided, and one had a shaved head, though judging from his pale and 
mottled scalp, that might have been in some desperate recent attempt 
to combat an infestation of vermin. None was ill clothed, and, taking a 
swift count of the weapons neatly stored along the vessel's sides with 
the shipped oars, none ill armed. Retainers, warriors, sailors, rowers? 
All men here did all work, Ingrey suspected; there could be no room 
for purposeless distinctions on this boat when the seas rose high.

The bear delivered, Ingrey considered escape, but as Hetwar's 
man he supposed he'd better accept Prince Jokol's bowl first, lest he 
give some offense that might reflect on the sealmaster. He trusted the 
ritual would be brief. Jokol waved Ingrey into his tent, which made a 
spacious enough hall. The fabric was wool, made waterproof with fat; 
Ingrey decided his nose would grow used to its odor soon. Two trestle 
tables with benches were set up within, and another bench at the side 
to which his host led Ingrey. Jokol and Ottovin plunked down on either 
side of him; the other men bustled about, efficiently setting out utensils 
and food.

Beyond the far end of the tent, through an open flap, a brazier 
and temporary kitchen were set up, and a smell of grilling meat made 
Ingrey's mouth abruptly water. We will eat much soon, Jokol assured 
him, with the smile of a host anxious to please.

Ingrey would have to eat sometime, to be sure; and drinking this 
pungent brew on an empty stomach seemed a dangerous indulgence 
just before an interview with the sealmaster. He nodded. Jokol slapped 
him on the back and grinned.

Jokol's grin faded as his eye fell on Ingrey's gory right hand. The 
prince caught a comrade by the sleeve, and gave a low-voiced order. 
In a few minutes, one of the older men appeared, laden with a basin, 
cloths, and a bundle. He evicted Ottovin from the bench and signed 
Ingrey to give over his wounded hand. As the grubby bandage came 
off, the man winced at the new rupture and the aging, dark purple 
bruises. Ottovin, leaning over to watch, gave a short whistle, and said 
something that made Jokol bark a laugh. Jokol kindly held the drinking 
bowl to Ingrey's lips again before the grizzled fellow stabbed and 
sewed the flesh once more. When the fellow had finished, wrapped the 
hand, gathered his gear, ducked his head, and gone off again, Ingrey 
resisted the strong desire to put his head down between his knees for 
sheer dizziness. It was plain he was not going anywhere just yet.

Full night had fallen before the men began actively to resist their 
cheerful kitchen comrades' attempts to reload their platters. Ingrey's 
plan to let time and the meal sober him enough to rise and go seek the 
sealmaster's palace seemed to need more time. Or less mealThe 
lamps blazed brightly on flushed and shining faces all around.

A babble of talk resolved in one man making some petition to 
their prince, who smiled and shook his head, but then made some 
compromise involving offering up Ottovin.

They want tales, Jokol whispered to Ingrey, as Ottovin rose 
and put one booted foot on the bench, and cleared his throat. We 
shall have many, this night.

Now, a new drink was offered around. Ingrey sipped cautiously. 
This one tasted like pine needles and lamp oil, and even Jokol's men 
took it in small glasses.

Ottovin launched into the sonorous speech of the islands, which 
seemed to bounce around the tent in rich rhythms. The dialect lay, 
maddeningly, just on the other side of Ingrey's understanding, though 
recognizable words seemed to spring out of the stream here and there. 
Whether they were Wealdean cognates or just accidents of similar 
sound, Ingrey was not sure.

He is telling the tale of Yetta and the three cows, Jokol 
whispered to Ingrey. It is a favorite.

Can you translate it? Ingrey whispered back. 
Alas, no.

Jokol's blue eyes danced, and he blushed. Too filthy.

What, don't you know all those short words?

Jokol sniggered happily, leaned back, and crossed his legs, his 
hand tapping his knee keeping time to Ottovin's voice. Ingrey realized 
that he'd just managed to make a joke. Across a language barrier. And 
had not even given offense. He smiled muzzily and took another sip of 
his liquid pine needles. The men crowding the benches and ranged 
along the walls laughed uproariously, and Ottovin bowed and sat, 
collecting his due drink; the custom seemed to involve tipping it back in 
one gulp. The islanders applauded, then began shouting at their prince, 
who acquiesced and rose in turn to his feet. After a rustling and 
murmur, the tent fell so silent Ingrey could hear the river waves lapping 
gently on the hull.

Jokol drew a deep breath and began. After the first few 
sentences, Ingrey realized he was listening to verse, rhythmic and 
alliterative. After the first few minutes, he realized that this was to be no 
short or simple offering.

This is an adventure tale, good, Ottovin confided to Ingrey in 
the usual behind-the-hand whisper. These days, it is hard to get 
anything but love stories out of him.

The sound of Jokol's voice washed over Ingrey like the rocking 
of a boat, a cradle, a horse's stride. The beat never wavered; he never 
seemed to pause at a loss for a word or phrase. His listeners 
sometimes giggled, sometimes gasped, but most often sat as though 
enspelled, lips parted, the lamplight caressing their faces and gleaming 
from their eyes.

He's memorized all that? Ingrey whispered in astonishment to 
Ottovin. And at the man's slightly blank look, repeated, tapping his 
forehead, The words are all in his head?

Ottovin smiled proudly. That and a hundred hundred more. 
Why do you think we call him Skullsplitter? He makes our heads burst 
with his tales. My sister Breiga will be the happiest of women, aye.

At astounding length, Jokol finished, to the enthusiastic applause 
of his men; they cheered as he knocked back his drink. He grinned 
sheepishly and waved away an immediate demand for more, with some 
vociferous debate over the selection. Soon, soon! It will be ready for 
you soon, he promised, tapping his lips, and sat for a time, smiling 
absently.

One of the other men took a turn then, though not in verse this 
time; judging from the raucous laughter, it was another that Prince Jokol 
might be too shy to translate.

Ah, said Jokol, leaning close to Ingrey to refill his glass. You 
grow less glum. Good! Now I shall honor you with Ingorry's Tale.

He rose again, and seemed to settle into himself, his face 
growing solemn. He launched again into verse, serious and, at 
moments, even sinister, judging from the riveted looks of his listeners. 
In very short order, Ingrey realized Jokol was retelling the tale of the 
corrupted funeral, and of Ingrey's rescue of the bear and the situation, 
for Ingrey's own name, in Jokol's rolling pronunciation, and that of 
Fafa, appeared often. The titles of the gods were quite distinct. And, to 
Ingrey's dismay, so was the term weirding. Which, judging by the way 
the men's eyes shifted to look warily at Ingrey, meant much the same 
thing in the island dialect as it did in the Weald.

Ingrey studied Jokol once more, considering the nature of a 
mind that could take his disaster of sunset and transmute it into heroic 
poetry by midnight. Extemporaneously. Or perhaps that was, into a 
campfire tale-the sort designed to send one's spooked listeners off to 
bed, but not to sleepIf the sense was represented by the sound, 
Jokol's observations had been more acute and detailed than Ingrey 
would have believed possible, not that his own had been exactly 
coherent. There seemed not to be any references to wolves, though. 
The response when Jokol finished this time was not raucous 
applause but something more like a sigh of awe. It became a murmur of 
commentary and, Ingrey suspected from certain voices rising from the 
back row, interested critique. Jokol's smile was more sly, this time, as 
he tipped back his glass.

Tomorrow night, said Jokol, I will make them listen to a love 
story, in honor of my beautiful Breiga, or they shall get none. You are a 
young fellow like me, I think, Lord Ingorry. Do you love a one?

Ingrey blinked, a bit owlishly. Hesitated. Claimed. Yes. Yes, I 
do. Sat shocked to hear those words coming from his mouth, in this 
place. Curse that horse urine.

Ah! That is a good thing. Happy man! But you do not smile. 
Does she not love you back?

Idon't know. But we have other troubles.

Jokol's brows rose. Unwilling parents? he inquired 
sympathetically.

No. It's not likeIt'sShe may be under a death sentence.

Jokol sat back, stunned serious. No! For why?

It was the inebriated haze he was seeing everything through, 
Ingrey decided, that made this southern madman seem such a cheerful 
confidant, a brotherly repository of the most intimate fears of his heart. 
Maybemaybe no one would remember these words in the morning. 
Have you heard of the death of Prince Boleso, the hallow king's son?

Oh, aye. 
She beat in his brains with his own war hammer. This seemed 
too bald. He added by way of clarification, He was trying to rape her 
at the time. The uncanny complications seemed beyond explanation, at 
the moment.

Brother indeed! What came of it?

Well, I asked her to marry me. Jokol's grin flashed. They 
were my horses. The thieves' blood-price was made low, because of 
the dishonor of their crime. I added it to her bride gift, aye, to please 
her father. He glanced benignly over at Ottovin-his future 
brother-in-law?-who had slid off the bench a short while ago and now 
sat draped half over it with his head pillowed on his arm, snoring gently.

Justice is not so simple, in the Weald. Ingrey sighed. And the 
blood-price of a prince is far beyond my purse.

Jokol cocked an interested eye. You are not a landed man, 
Lord Ingorry?

No. I have only my sword arm. Such as it is. Ingrey flexed his 
bandaged right hand ruefully. No other power.

I think you have one more thing than that, Ingorry. Jokol 
tapped the side of his head. I have a good ear. I know what I heard, 
when my Fafa bowed to you.

Ingrey froze. His first panicked impulse, to deny everything, died 
on his lips under Jokol's shrewd gaze. Yet he must discourage further 
dangerous gossip on this topic, however poetic. This-he pressed his 
hand to his lips, then spread it on his heart, to indicate what he dared 
not name aloud-must stay bound in silence, or the Temple will make 
me outlaw.

Jokol pursed his lips, sat up a little, and frowned as he digested 
this. 
Ingrey's somewhat liquefied thoughts sloshed in his head and 
tossed up a new fear on the shores of his wits. Jokol's face bore no 
look of dismay or revulsion, though his interest was plainly deeply 
stirred. Yet even a good ear could not recognize something it had never 
before heard. This, earlier-he touched his throat, swept his hand 
down his torso-have you ever heard the like?

How? Where?

Jokol shrugged. When I asked the singing woman at the forest's 
edge to bless my voyage, she gave me words in such a weirding voice 
as that.

The phrase seemed to slide through Ingrey's head as sharply as 
the scent of pine needles. The singing woman at the forest's edge. 
The singing woman at Yet Jokol seemed untouched by the 
uncanny; no demon-smell hung about him, certainly, no animal spirit hid 
within him, no geas clung to him like some acrid parasite. He gazed 
back at Ingrey with a blank affability that one might 
easily-fatally-mistake for oxlike stupidity.

A thump sounded upon the deck from outside the tent, then a 
silvery rattling, a bass growl, and a strangled cry.

Fafa at least does not sleep through his watch, murmured 
Jokol in satisfaction, and rose to his feet. He prodded Ottovin with a 
booted toe, but his kinsman-to-be merely stirred and mumbled. Jokol 
slipped a big hand under Ingrey's elbow and heaved up.

I don't, Ingrey began. Whups The ship's deck heaved 
and swayed under his feet, though the tent's sides hung slack in the 
windless and waveless night. The lamps were burning low. Jokol's smile 
twitched, and he kindly kept Ingrey's arm, guiding him toward the tent 
flap. They stepped out into the gilded shadows to find Fafa sniffing and 
straining at the end of the taut chain toward an immobilized figure with 
his back pressed to the vessel's thwart.

Jokol murmured some soothing words in his own tongue to his 
pet, and the bear lost interest in its quarry and returned to flop down 
again by the mast. Ingrey staggered as the boat really rocked, this time, 
and Jokol's grip on his arm tightened.

Oh, said Ingrey. Gesca. 'Ware the bear. Ingrey smiled at his 
rhyme. The big islander shouldn't own all the good poetry. Yes. I was 
just coming to see m'lord Hewwar. Het-war.

My lord Hetwar, said Gesca, recovering his dignity and a 
frosty tone, has gone to bed. He instructed me to-after I found 
you-inform you that you may wait upon him first thing tomorrow 
morning.

Ah, mumbled Ingrey wisely. Ouch. Then I'd best get some 
sleep. Hadn't I.

While you can, muttered Gesca.

A friend? Jokol inquired, with a nod at Gesca.

More or less, said Ingrey. He wondered which. But Jokol 
seemed to take him at his word, and he handed off Ingrey to his 
lieutenant. I don't need

Lord Ingorry, I thank you for your company. And other things, 
you bet. Any man who can drink my Ottovin off his bench is welcome 
on my ship anytime. I hope I see you again, in Easthome.

Youyou, too. Give my bes' to dear Fafa. He groped with 
his numb tongue for further suitably princely farewells, but Gesca was 
steering him toward the gangplank.

The gangplank proved a challenge, as it was seized with the 
same wavering motions as the ship, and was much narrower, after all. 
Ingrey, after a short pause for consideration, solved the problem by 
tackling it on all fours. After crawling across without falling into the 
Stork, he rolled over and sat up triumphantly upon the dock. See? he 
told Gesca. Not so drunk. Jokol is a prince, you know. S'all good 
diplomacy.

Ingrey, a little sobered in mind, though his body still lagged, 
made an effort to put his boots one in front of the other for a time, as 
they made their way up through the gates and began to wind through 
the dark streets of Kingstown.

Gesca said in a voice of aggravation, I've been hunting all over 
the city for you. At the house, they said you'd gone to the temple. At 
the temple, they said you were carried off by a pirate.

No; worse. Ingrey cackled. A poet.

Gesca's face turned; even in the shadows, Ingrey could see the 
lieutenant was looking at him as though he'd just put his head on 
backward.

Three people up there said they'd seen you enspell a giant ice 
bear. One said it was a miracle of the Bastard. Two others said it was 
no such thing.

Ingrey remembered the Voice in his head, and shivered. You 
know what nonsense frantic folks in crowds come up with. He was 
starting to feel steadier on his feet. He withdrew his arm from Gesca's 
shoulder. Anyway, in the absence of a menacing bear in the midst of a 
funeral miracle, it hardly seemed something likely to happen again. No 
god-voice jarred him now, and animals were a quite different 
proposition from men. Don't be gullible, Gesca. It's not as though I 
could say-he reached down within himself for that hot velvet rumble- 
halt, and have you suddenly-

Ingrey became aware that he was walking on alone.

He wheeled around. Gesca was standing frozen in the dim light 
from a wall lantern.

Ingrey's belly twisted up in a cold knot. Gesca! That's not 
amusing! He strode back, angry. Stop that. He gave Gesca a short 
shove in the chest. The man rocked a little, but did not move. He 
reached up with his bandaged hand-it trembled-and took Gesca by the 
jaw. Are you mocking me?

Ingrey licked his lips, stepped back. His throat seemed almost 
too tight to speak at all. He had to take two breaths before he could 
reach down again, and that barely. Move.

The paralysis broke. Gesca gasped, scrambled back to the 
nearest wall, and drew steel. Both wheezing, they stared at each other. 
Ingrey was suddenly feeling far too sober. He opened his hands at his 
sides, placating, praying Gesca would not lunge.

Slowly, Gesca resheathed his sword. After a moment, he said in 
a thick voice, The prison house is just around the corner. Tesko is 
there waiting to put you to bed. Can you make it?

Ingrey swallowed. He had to force his voice above a whisper. I 
think so.

Good. Good. Gesca backed along the wall, then turned and 
walked rapidly away into the shadows, glancing often over his shoulder.

Jaws clamped shut, hardly daring to breathe, Ingrey paced the 
other way, turning at the corner. A lantern hanging on a bracket beside 
the door of the narrow house burned steadily, guiding him in.



CHAPTER TWELVE


INGREY DIDN'T HAVE TO POUND ON THE DOOR TO WAKE THE 
house, for the porter, though wearing a nightshirt and with a blanket 
wrapped around his shoulders, came at his first quiet knock. The firm 
way the man locked up again behind Ingrey did convey a strong hint 
that this should be the last expedition of the night. He readied a candle 
in a glass holder to assist Ingrey's way up the stairs.

Ingrey took it with muttered thanks and scuffed up the steps. 
Light glimmered above on his landing, which proved to be from both a 
lamp burning low on a table and another candlestick sitting on the steps 
up to the next floor. Beside it, Lady Ijada crouched, wrapped in a robe 
of some dark material. She raised her head from her knees as Ingrey 
swung out of the constricted staircase with a slight clatter of his sword 
sheath against the wood.

Ingrey blinked around into the shadows, startled. The last time 
any woman had waited up in concern for him wasbeyond the reach 
of his memory. There was no sign of her warden, nor of his servant 
Tesko. Should I not be?

Gesca came, three hours ago or more, and said you'd never 
come to Lord Hetwar's!

Oh. Yes. I was diverted.

I was imagining the most bizarre things befalling you.

Did they include a six-hundred-pound ice bear and a pirate 
poet?

No

Then they weren't the most bizarre after all.

Her brows drew down; she rose and stepped off the stairs, 
recoiling as his no-doubt vaporous breath reached her flaring nostrils. 
She waved a hand to disperse the reek and made a face. Are you 
drunk?

By my standards, yes. Although I can still walk and talk and 
dread tomorrow morning. I spent the evening trapped with twenty-five 
mad southern islanders and the ice bear on their boat. They did feed 
me. Have you seen Tesko?

She nodded toward his closed door. He came with your things. 
I think he fell asleep awaiting you.

Unsurprising.

What of my letter? I worried it had gone astray. 
Oh. It was her letter she'd feared for, why she had waited up in 
the dark. Safely delivered. Ingrey considered this. Delivered, 
anyway. How safe a man Learned Lewko is, I would hesitate to guess. 
He dresses like a Temple clerk, but he's not one.

Idoubt he's a bribable man. It does not follow that he will be 
on your side. Ingrey hesitated. He is god-touched.

She cocked her head. You look a little god-touched yourself, 
just now.

Ingrey jerked. How can you tell?

Her pale fingers extended, in the flickering shadows, as if to feel 
his face. I once saw one of my father's men dragged by his horse. He 
was not badly hurt, but he rose very shaken. Your face is more set, and 
not covered with blood and dirt, but your eyes look like his did. A bit 
wild.

He almost leaned into her hand, but it fell back too soon. I've 
had a very strange night. Something happened at the temple. Lewko is 
coming to see you tomorrow, by the way. And me. I think I'm in 
trouble.

Come, then, and tell me. She drew him down to sit beside her 
on the steps, her eyes wide and dark with renewed disquiet.

Ingrey stumbled through a description of his encounter with the 
bear and its god in the temple court, which twice made her gasp and 
once made her giggle. He was a little taken aback at the giggle. She 
listened with fascination to his description of Jokol, his boat, and his 
verse. I thought, said Ingrey, what happened with Fafa was the 
white god's doing, in His wrath at the dishonest grooms. But just now, 
coming back here with Gesca, it happened again. The weirding voice. I 
did not know if it was my wolf, or me. Five gods, I am no longer sure 
where I leave off and it begins! It has never spoken like this before. It 
has never spoken at all. 
Ijada said thoughtfully, The fen folk claimed that wisdom songs 
were magical, once. Long ago.

Ijada sat up and caught her breath. Oh! What did the letter 
say?

I did not read it, but I gather it described the events at Red 
Dike in some detail. So, at least from the time he came back in to join 
us at the table, Wencel knew of the geas, and he knew that I concealed 
it from him. Did you sense a change in his conversation, then?

Ijada frowned. If anything, he seemed more forthcoming. In 
hope of coaxing a like frankness?

Ingrey shrugged. Perhaps.

Ingrey

Hm?

What do you know of banner-carriers?

Scarcely more than I know of shamans. I have read some 
Darthacan accounts of battles with the Old Wealdings. The Darthacans 
did not love our bannermen. The spirit warriors, and indeed, all the kin 
warriors, fought fiercely to defend their standards. If the banner-carrier 
refused to retreat, then the warriors would fight to the last around 
him-or her, I suppose, if Wencel speaks true. Audar's soldiers always 
tried to bring the banners down as quickly as possible, for that reason. 
It was said one of the banner-carrier's tasks was to cut the throats of 
our own who were too wounded to carry away. It was considered an 
honorable ending. The wounded warrior, if he still could speak, was 
expected to bless the bannerman and thank the blade.

Ijada shivered. I did not know that part. 
Her expression grew inward for a moment, on what thoughts 
Ingrey could scarcely guess. Her dream at the Wounded Woods? But 
warriors already dead could scarcely require such a gruesome service 
from their bannerwoman.

Mm, and there's another meeting I'm not looking forward to. I 
don't think Wencel is going to be best pleased with me over this 
spectacle tonight. Farcical as it was, I drew the Temple's attention in 
the most serious way. I am afraid of Lewko.

Why? If he is a friend and mentor of Hallana's, he cannot be 
dishonorable.

Oh, I'm sure he would be a good friend. And an implacable 
enemy. It is merely worrisome to imagine him on the other side. Or 
was this just habit? He remembered the earnest divines at Birchgrove, 
torturing him back to silent sanity. It had left pain as an unreliable guide 
to Ingrey of the line between his friends and his enemies.

Ijada said impatiently, What side do you imagine you are on?

Ingrey's thoughts came to a full stop. I don't know. Every wall 
seems to curve away from me. I spin in circles. He glanced up, finding 
her eyes, close to his, turned amber in the shadows. The pupils were 
wide in the dimness, as if to drink him in. He might fall into them as 
deep wells, and drink deep in turn. She possessed physical beauty, yes, 
and beneath that the edgy thrilling wildness of her leopard spirit. But 
beyond thatsomething more. He wanted to reach through her to that 
something, something terribly importantYou are my side. And you 
are not alone.

Then, she breathed, neither are you.

Oh. Neither time nor his heart stopped, surely, and yet he 
floated for the space of a breath as though he'd stepped from some 
great height, but not begun to fall. Weightless. Sweet logician.

Closing the handbreadth between their lips was the work of a 
second. Her eyes flared open.

A wave of lust ran in the track of that first shock, firing his loins, 
kindling an awareness of just how long it had been since he'd held a 
woman like this. No, he'd never held a woman like this. The kiss 
grew abruptly passionate, and not chaste at all. He explored her mouth 
in desperate haste, and the white hands wrapping him fairly wrenched 
him toward her, crushing the softness of her body against his. Their 
breath synchronized; their heartbeats began hammering in time.

And then they were reaching through each other

A magical kiss was suddenly not a romantic turn of phrase. It 
was not, in fact, romantic at all. It was terrifying beyond breath. She 
choked, he gasped, they drew apart, though their hands still gripped; 
not lustful now, but more like two people drowning.

Her eyes, wide before, were huge, the pupils stretched black 
with only a narrow ring of gold iris shimmering around them. What are 
you? she began, as he panted, What have you done?

One hand released him to clutch at her heart, beneath the dark 
robe. What was that?

I don't know. I've neverfelt

A creak of floorboards, a clank, a scrape; Ingrey sprang back 
as his chamber door opened. Ijada folded her arms together like a 
woman freezing, and spat an unexpected short word under her breath. 
He had just time to cock a wry eyebrow at her, and she to grimace 
back at him, before he twisted to see Tesko poke his yawning face 
through the door into the dim hallway. 
M'lord? he inquired. I heard voices He blinked in mild 
surprise at the pair sitting on the steps.

For a brief, self-indulgent moment, Ingrey pictured himself 
drawing his steel and beheading his servant. Alas, the hall was too 
narrow for such a swing to be executed properly. He gave over the 
vision with a long sigh and levered himself to his feet.

Tesko, perhaps sensing Ingrey's displeasure at the ill-timed 
interruption, bowed him warily into his chamber. The clubfooted youth 
had been issued half-trained to Ingrey when he had first taken up his 
place as Hetwar's more-than-courier. Used to caring for his own 
needs, Ingrey had treated the menial with an indifference that had 
overcome Tesko's initial terror of his violent reputation a little too 
completely. The day he had caught Tesko pilfering his sparse property, 
however, he had replaced repute with a vivid demonstration. After that 
Hetwar's other servants did more to whip their junior into shape than 
Ingrey ever had, for if Tesko were dismissed, he would have to be 
replaced with one of them.

Ingrey let Tesko remove his boots, gave curt orders for the 
predawn, and fell into bed. But not to sleep.

He was too spun up to sleep, too drunk to think straight, too 
exhausted to sit up. His blood seemed to hiss through his veins, growl 
in his ears. He was intensely conscious of every faint creak from 
overhead. Did Ijada's breathing still rise and fall in time with his? He 
was still aroused, and more than half-afraid to do anything about it, 
because if she felt his every heartbeat and movement the way he 
seemed to feel hers

They had surely been falling toward that moment of meeting for 
days. He felt coupled to her now as though they were two hunting 
dogs, leashed to each other for their training. So who is the 
huntsman? What is the quarry? The heavy click of that binding 
reverberated in his bones: chains thinner than gossamer, stronger than 
iron, less readily parted.

HE MUST HAVE SLEPT EVENTUALLY, FOR TESKO NEARLY HAD TO pull 
him from the covers and onto the floor to wake him again. Tesko's 
jerky motions betrayed a fear balanced between the dangers of dealing 
with an Ingrey half-awake and the dangers of disobeying; Ingrey 
swallowed the glue from his mouth and assured his servant that 
disobeying would have been worse. Sitting up proved painful but not 
impossible.

He let Tesko help wash, shave, and dress him, in the interest of 
protecting his new bandage; Ingrey frowned to see it nearly soaked 
through again with browning blood, but there was not time to change it 
now. The filthy covering on his left wrist he at last abandoned, as that 
wound was now better than half-healed, all black scabs and new pink 
scars and greening bruises. The sleeves of his town garb-gray and dark 
gray-covered it well enough. With sword, knife, and clean boots, he 
was made presentable, if one ignored the bloodshot eyes and pale face.

He rejected bread with loathing, gulped tea, and took the stairs 
down with a faint clatter. He glanced up through two opaque floors. 
Ijada still sleeps. Good.

The chill, moist air outside was tinged with just enough light for 
Ingrey to make his way through the streets. He arrived at the opposite 
end of Kingstown with his head, though still aching, a little clearer for 
the walk.

Color was leaking back into the world with the dawn. The stolid 
cut stone of the wide front of Hetwar's palace took on a buttery hue. 
The night porter recognized Ingrey at once through the hatch in the 
heavy carved front doors, and swung one leaf just wide enough to 
admit him into the hushed, rich dimness. Ingrey turned down the offer 
of a page to announce him and made his way up the stairs toward the 
sealmaster's study. A few servants moved quietly about, drawing back 
curtains, stirring fires, carrying water.

Is the prince here? Ingrey murmured to him.

Aye.

When did you arrive?

We reached the Kingstown gate about two hours ago. The 
prince left his baggage train in the mire near Newtemple. We rode all 
night. Symark hitched his shoulders, dislodging a few small lumps of 
drying mud from his coat.

Is that you, Ingrey? Hetwar's voice called from within. Enter.

Symark raised a brow at him; Ingrey slipped inside. Hetwar, 
seated at his desk, motioned him to close the door behind him.

Ingrey made his bow to the prince-marshal, seated with his 
booted legs stretched out before him in a chair opposite Hetwar, then 
to the sealmaster. Both men returned acknowledging nods, and Ingrey 
stood with his hands clasped behind his back to await his next cue.

Biast looked as mud-flecked and road-weary as his bannerman. 
Prince Biast was a little shorter than his younger brother Boleso, and 
not quite as broadly built, but still shared the Stagthorne athleticism, 
brown hair, and long jaw, resolutely shaved. His eyes were a touch 
shrewder, and if he shared Boleso's sensuality and temper, they were 
rather better controlled. Biast had become heir presumptive only three 
years ago, on the untimely death through illness of the eldest Stagthorne 
brother, Byza. Prior to those expectations falling so heavily upon him, 
the middle prince had been guided toward a military career, the rigors 
of which had left him little time to match either Byza's reputation for 
courtly diplomacy or Boleso's notoriety for self-indulgence.

What neither sealmaster nor prince-marshal bore was any smell 
of the uncanny, to Ingrey's newly awakened inner senses. The 
perception did not ease him much. Magical powers worked sometimes; 
material powers worked all the time, and this chamber, these two men, 
fairly resonated with the latter.

Hetwar ran a hand through his thinning hair and favored Ingrey 
with a glower. About time you showed up.

Sir, said Ingrey neutrally.

Hetwar's brows rose at his tone, and his attention sharpened. 
Where were you last night?

What have you heard so far, sir?

Hetwar's lips curved a little at the cautious riposte. An 
extraordinarily garbled tale from my manservant this morning. I trust 
that you did not actually enspell a giant rampaging ice bear in the temple 
court yesterday evening. What really happened?

I had gone up there for a brief errand on my way here, sir. 
Indeed, an acolyte had lost his hold on a new sacred animal, which had 
injured him. I, um, helped them regain control of the beast. When the 
Temple returned it to its donor, Learned Lewko requested me to 
accompany it back through town, for safety's sake, which I did. 
Hetwar's eyes flashed up at Lewko's name. So, Hetwar knew 
who Lewko was, even if Ingrey had not.

A small snort from Biast, with a renewed look at Ingrey's pallor, 
testified to the prince-marshal's amusement. Good. Better to be the butt 
of a tale of drunken foolishness than the nexus of out-of-control illegal 
magic, shattering miracle, and worse.

Ingrey added, Learned Lewko was witness to the whole of the 
incident with the bear, and the only one I would suggest that you regard 
as reliable.

He is peculiarly qualified.

So I understood, sir.

A passing stillness of Hetwar's hands was all that revealed his 
reaction to this. He frowned and went on. Enough of last night. I am 
told your journey with Prince Boleso's coffin was more eventful than 
your letters to me revealed.

Ingrey ducked his head. What did your letters from Gesca say?

Letters from Gesca?

He was not reporting to you?

He reported to me yesterday evening.

Not before?

No. Why?

I suspected he was penning reports. I assumed it was to you.

Did you see this?

No, Ingrey admitted.

The eyebrows climbed again. 
Ingrey took a breath. There are some things that happened on 
the journey even Gesca does not know.

Were you aware, sir, that Prince Boleso was experimenting 
with spirit magic? Animal sacrifice?

Biast jerked in surprise at this; Hetwar grimaced, and said, 
Rider Ulkra apprised me of some dabblings. Leaving a young man 
with that much energy too idle may have been a mistake. I trust you 
removed any unfortunate traces, as I requested; there is no point in 
besmirching the dead.

They were not idle dabblings. They were serious and successful 
attempts, if ill controlled and ill-advised, that led directly to a state of 
mind I can only name violent madness. Which also leads me to wonder, 
for obvious reasons, how long they had been going on. Wen-it is 
suspected the prince had the aid of an illicit sorcerer at one point or 
another. Lady Ijada testifies Boleso had some garbled theory that the 
rites were going to give him an uncanny power over the kin of the 
Weald. He strangled a leopard the night he tried to rape her, and she 
killed him trying to defend herself.

Hetwar glanced worriedly at Biast, who was now sitting up 
listening with a darkening frown. Hetwar said, Lady Ijada testifies? I 
trust you see the problem with that.

I saw the leopard, the strangling cord, the paint traces on 
Boleso's body, and the chamber. Ulkra and several others among the 
prince's household can confirm this. I believe her without reservation. I 
believed her from the first, but later, another incident confirmed my 
conviction.

Hetwar opened a hand, inviting Ingrey to go on. His expression 
was anything but happy.

It became apparent to meit was revealed that This was 
harder than Ingrey had expected. Someone, in Easthome or 
elsewhere, had undertaken a plot to murder my prisoner. It is not clear 
to me who, or why. He kept half an eye on Biast as he said this; the 
prince looked startled. It became clear how.

Me.

Hetwar blinked. Ingrey he began warningly.

It was revealed to me, through four failed attempts on my 
prisoner's life and the help of a Temple sorcerer we met in Red Dike, 
one Learned Hallana-who was once a pupil of Learned Lewko's, by 
the by-that a compulsion or geas had been placed upon me by magical 
means. Hallana says it was not common demon magic, not something 
related to the white god's powers.

Hetwar stared his swordsman up and down. Understand, 
Ingrey, I do not-yet-accuse you of raving, but I fail to see how anyone, 
let alone an ordinary young woman, could survive any sort of single 
combat with you.

Ingrey grimaced. It turned out she could swim. Among other 
talents. The sorceress broke the geas in Red Dike, fortunately for us 
all. Close enough to the truth, for his current purposes. The event was 
extremely peculiar, from my point of view.

Gesca's, too, it seems, muttered Hetwar.

In a perfectly calm, level voice, Ingrey said, I am infuriated 
beyond bearing to have been so used.

He had meant his tone to convey restrained displeasure; by the 
heat in his belly and tremble of his hands, he realized just how much 
truer his words were than he'd intended. Biast snorted at the odd 
juxtaposition of tone and content, but Hetwar, who was watching his 
body, went still.

I wondered if it had been by you, sir, Ingrey continued in the 
same deadly cadences.

No, Ingrey! said Hetwar. His eyes had gone a little wide; his 
hands, flat on the desk top, did not reach for the hilt of his court sword. 
Ingrey could see the strain of that withheld motion. 
Ingrey had spent four years watching Hetwar spin out truth or 
lies as the occasion demanded. Which was it now? His head was 
pounding, and his blood seemed to simmer. Was Hetwar conspirator, 
tool, blameless? It came to him that he did not have to guess.

I didn't!

Silence fell, with the force of an ax blade. Biast was suddenly 
plastered back in his chair.

Or perhaps I should have bitten my tongue in half.

That is very good to know, sir, Ingrey said, in a spuriously 
tranquil tone, deliberately easing his stance. Scramble out of this, now. 
How does the hallow king fare?

The silence stretched too long, as Hetwar stared at him. Without 
taking his eyes from Ingrey's mouth, he made a little commanding 
gesture at the dismayed Biast.

Biast, after a questioning look at the sealmaster, licked his lips. 
I visited my father's bedside before I came here. He is worse than I 
had imagined. He recognized me, but his speech was very slurred, and 
he is very yellow and weak. He fell back to sleep almost at once. The 
prince paused, and his voice fell further. His skin is like paper. He was 
alwayshe was never The voice stopped before it broke, Ingrey 
thought.

You must, said Ingrey carefully, both be giving thought to the 
risk of an election very soon.

Hetwar nodded; Biast nodded more reluctantly. The 
prince-marshal's lidded eyes only half concealed a lingering alarm, and 
his glance at Hetwar plainly questioned whether Ingrey's eerie revolt 
was usual behavior for the sealmaster's infamous wolf-swordsman, or 
not. Hetwar's expression was grimly uninformative.

Ingrey said, I am more than half-convinced that Boleso's 
forbidden experiments were aimed at a grasp for the hallow kingship. 
But he is the younger! objected Biast, then added, Was.

Hetwar suddenly looked furiously thoughtful. It is true, he 
murmured, that more votes have been bought and sold than actually 
exist. I'd wondered where the sink could be

How much doubt is there of the prince-marshal's succession? 
Ingrey asked Hetwar, with a diplomatic nod at Biast. Should the king 
chance to die when so many are gathered in Easthome for Boleso's 
funeral, it seems to me the election could come to a head very quickly.

Hetwar shrugged. The Hawkmoors, and their whole eastern 
faction, have long been preparing for such a moment, as we all know. It 
has been four generations since their kin lost the kingship, but they still 
hunger for a return to their old ascendancy. They had not, I judged, 
secured enough certain votes, but given the uncertain onesIf Boleso 
had been secretly gathering those, they are now scattered again.

Do you see such scatterings returning to his brother's faction? 
Ingrey glanced at Biast, who looked as though he was still digesting the 
intimation of fratricide, without pleasure.

Perhaps not, muttered Hetwar, brows drawn deeply down. 
The Foxbriar kin, though they know their lord cannot win, surely 
know they hold a deciding edge if things run too close. If the ordainers 
were to fail repeatedly to effect a clear outcome, the argument could go 
to swords.

Biast's frown was no happier, but his hand drifted resolutely to 
his hilt at these last words, a gesture Hetwar did not miss; he held up a 
restraining palm.

Were Prince Biast removed, said Ingrey carefully, indeed, 
whether he were removed or not, it seems to me that a spell that could 
compel a murder could as secretly compel a vote.

Ingrey had thought he'd held all of Hetwar's attention before. 
He'd been mistaken. 
Really, breathed Hetwar. He could hardly grow more still, but 
the stillness turned much colder. And-Ingrey-can you perceive such 
spells?

Hm. His stare on Ingrey grew freshly appraising.

And so I am saved, in Hetwar's eyes. Maybe.

Hetwar vented a noise between a groan and a sigh, running his 
hands through his hair once more. And here I thought bribery, 
coercion, threats, and double-dealing were enough to contend with. 
His eyes rose to Ingrey again, narrowing in new thought. And whom 
do you suspect of this illicit magic? If not me, he added dryly.

Ingrey gave him a polite, apologetic shrug. Apologetic, but 
unabashed. If you value your life, keep your secrets and mine I 
possess no proof yet sturdy enough to stand on. It's a serious 
accusation.

Hetwar grimaced. Your gift for understatement has not 
deserted you, I see. This is going to be Temple business, you know.

Ingrey nodded, briefly and unhappily. He wanted the mage-even 
in his mind, he yet withheld the too-specific terms sorcerer or shaman 
-who had laid that evil geas upon him to be brought low. He was not at 
all sure he wished to be brought down with him. But to know that 
Hetwar, at least, was one wall that stood squarely at his back was an 
enormous relief. Ingrey prayed he had not damaged that wall in the 
testing of it.

And if Hetwar was not in league with Ijada's would-be 
murderer, then perhaps a plea for justice would have a chance, here? 
When else, indeed, was Ingrey likely to come face-to-face with Biast in 
the next few days? He took a breath.

There remains the matter of Lady Ijada. If you desire to draw a 
veil over Boleso's late madness and blasphemy, a trial is the last thing 
you want. Let the inquest return a verdict of self-defense, or better still, 
accident, and let her go. 
She killed my brother, said Biast, a little indignantly.

The precedent is scarcely a good one for the royal house, said 
Hetwar. As well declare hunting season on Stagthornes, or all high 
lords. There are sound reasons the Father's Order spent so much effort 
eliminating that old custom. The rich might without fear purchase the 
lives of the poor.

And they don't now? said Ingrey.

Hetwar gave him a little warning growl. It is certainly to be 
preferred that her execution be swift and as painless as possible. 
Perhaps she might be granted a sword, instead of a rope or the pyre, 
or some like mercy.

And I a swordsman. There is more going on here than is 
yetclear. He had not wanted to play this card, but their closed 
expressions terrified him. He had planted his ideas in their heads; 
perhaps he should give them time to germinate. Should her life be 
forfeit, then, because I am afraid to speak? I think she is 
god-touched. You pursue her at your peril.

Biast snorted. A murderess? I doubt it. If so, let the gods send 
her a champion.

Ingrey held his breath lest it huff from his mouth like that of a 
man punched in the gut.

It seems They have. He's just not a very good one. You 
would think the gods could do better

His pent breath found other words. How long, my lords, has it 
been since the hallow kingship grew so hollow? This was once a sacred 
thing. How did we dare to come to treat it as merchandise to be bought 
and sold at the best market price? When did god-sworn warriors 
become peddlers?

The words stung Hetwar, at least, for he sat up in open 
exasperation. I use the gifts the gods have given me, including 
judgment and reason. My task, my tools. I have served the Weald 
since before you were born, Ingrey. There never was a golden age. It 
was always only iron.

Ingrey, peace!

Biast was rubbing his brow, as though it ached. Enough of this! 
If I am to attend the procession, I must go wash and dress. He stood 
and stretched, wincing.

Hetwar rose at once. Indeed, Prince-marshal. I, too, must ride 
out. He frowned in frustration at Ingrey. We will continue this when 
you have regained a more considered temper, Lord Ingrey. In the 
meantime, do not speak of these matters.

Learned Lewko desires to interview me.

Hetwar blew out his breath. Lewko, I know. A most unhelpful 
man, in my experience.

I defy the Temple at my gravest risk.

Oh? That's a new twist. I thought you defied anyone you 
damned well pleased.

How long they would have locked each other's gazes, Ingrey 
was not sure, but Biast reached the door first. Hetwar perforce 
followed, waving Ingrey out. You had better not lie to Lewko. I'll 
speak with him later. And with you later. His gaze flicked down. 
Don't drip on my carpets.

Ingrey flinched, and clasped his right hand with his left. The 
bandage was wet through, and leaking.

What happened to your-no, tell me later. Attend on me at the 
funeral rite. Dress properly, Hetwar ordered.

Sir. Ingrey bowed to his retreating back. Symark, who had 
wandered away down the hall to examine Hetwar's tapestries, hurried 
to join the prince.

It was full morning in Easthome, lively with bustling crowds, 
when Ingrey regained the street and turned toward the river. Ijada was 
awake now, he felt in his heart. Awake, and not, at the moment, unduly 
distressed. The reassurance eased him. Without what he now realized 
was an endemic state of covert panic driving his strides, his feet found 
their own pace, and it was a slow one. Did this strange new perception 
run two ways? He would have to ask her. He trudged wearily back 
toward the narrow house.



CHAPTER THIRTEEN


THE PORTER ADMITTED INGREY AGAIN TO THE HALL. INGREY'S 
gaze flicked up. Ijada was above, locked in with her warden as 
instructed, presumably. It crossed Ingrey's mind that while Horseriver's 
servants and one somewhat-damaged swordsman might be enough to 
keep a docile naive girl from escaping this imprisonment, it was a 
woefully inadequate force to ward off attack. Ingrey might foil one 
assailant-well, a few-several-but a sufficiently determined enemy had 
merely to send enough men, and the conclusion would be grimly certain.

For some subtler, uncanny attackthe outcome was not so 
obvious. Could the weirding voice prove a defense? The hum of 
questionable power in his blood unnerved him still. Earl Horseriver 
apparently knew, even if Ingrey did not, of the full range of Ingrey's 
new capacities. Wencel's oblique promise of some sort of training 
troubled Ingrey's thoughts.

The porter produced a slightly crumpled piece of paper. 
Temple messenger brought this for you, my lord.

Ingrey broke the seal to find a short note from Learned Lewko, 
the penmanship blocky and neat. It appears my time will be taken 
today with that matter of internal Temple discipline you helped to 
uncover yesterday, for which I thank you, it read. I will wait upon 
you and Lady Ijada as soon as I may following the prince's funeral 
rites tomorrow.

He climbed to his rooms to have Tesko help change his soaked 
bandage and take away his town garb to clean the bloodstains. The 
new stitches proved intact, and the spaces between them had scabbed 
over again. The unhealing wound was beginning to disturb him. His 
episodes of bleeding had perfectly reasonable explanations, most 
having to do with his own carelessness; it was only in his nervous fancy 
that they were beginning to seem like unholy libations. And if small 
magics draw a small blood sacrifice, what would a great one do?

His bed beckoned, and he sank down on it. The notion of food 
was still repulsive, but perhaps sleep would help him heal. He no 
sooner lay down than his thoughts began spinning again. He had been 
assuming from the beginning that the motivation of Ijada's mysterious 
assassin must be political, or revenge for her killing of Boleso. Perhaps 
such theorizing was an effect of his being so long in Hetwar's train. Yet 
trying to widen his thinking only made it feel more diffuse and foolish. I 
know less and less each day. What was the end of this progression, a 
glum future as a village idiot? The absurd images trailed off at last in 
muzzy exhaustion.

HE WOKE LATER THAN HE HAD INTENDED, THIRSTY, BUT FEELING as if 
he had paid off some accumulated debts to his body. Inspired, he sent 
down orders via Tesko that dinner should be served to him and his 
prisoner in the ground-floor parlor. He donned town garb again, 
combed his hair, wondered why he owned no lavender water, 
considered sending Tesko out to buy some tomorrow, scrubbed his 
teeth, and shaved for the second time that day as the shadows 
deepened outside. He took a breath and descended the stairs.

He could not very well fall upon her like a ravening wolf, not 
least because the accursed warden stood at her side, hands and lips 
tightly folded. The table, he saw to his dismay, seemed to have been 
reflexively set for three. Horseriver's servant was surely Horseriver's 
spy. Simply to dismiss the duenna bore unknown dangers.

Regardless of his own strangely shifting internal allegiances, he 
supposed he must guard his own reputation as well as Ijada's, or risk 
being relieved of his post. But he might hazard a smile, and did. He 
might chance a touch of her hand, brought formally to his lips. The 
scent of her skin, so close, seemed to bring all of his senses to 
heightened sharpness. The sheer intensity of her, at this range, almost 
overwhelmed him.

One desperate return squeeze, her nails biting fiercely into his 
skin, was all her opportunity to say, I feel it, too. She muted her smile 
to something social, the trained courtesy of a high household, as he 
helped her to her seat and a manservant brought their meal.

I believe this is the first time I have seen you out of your riding 
leathers, Lord Ingrey. Her tone seemed to be quite approving.

He touched the fine black cloth of his jerkin. Lady Hetwar 
makes sure that her husband's men do not disgrace her house.

She has a good eye, then.

Oh? Good. Ingrey swallowed wine without choking. Good. 
His thoughts tangled on too many levels at once: the arousal of his 
body, the political and mortal fear of their situation, the remembered 
shock of that mystical kiss. He dropped a bite of food off his fork, and 
tried surreptitiously to retrieve it from his lap.

Oh. Yes. He sent a note; he means to come tomorrow, after

the funeral.

Did anything further come of your ice bear? Or your pirate?

Not yet. Though the rumors had already reached my lord

Hetwar.

How did your conference with the sealmaster go?

He tilted his head. How would you guess? Do you sense

where I am, how I feel, as I do you?

She gave a small nod in return, and essayed slowly, Tense. 
Uncertain. There wasan incident. Her gaze now seemed to dig 
under his skin. She glanced at the warden, who was chewing and 
listening.

Truly. He drew breath. I believe Sealmaster Hetwar is to be 
trusted. His concerns, however, are wholly political ones. I am less and 
less of the opinion that your concerns are wholly political ones. 
Prince-marshal Biast was there, which I did not expect. He did not 
warm at once to the idea of a blood-price, but at least I had a chance 
to set the idea in his mind.

She pushed some noodles across her plate with her fork. I 
think the gods have little interest in politics. Only in souls. Look to 
souls, Lord Ingrey, if you seek to guess Their minds. She looked up, 
frowning.

Conscious of the glowering warden, Ingrey asked more lightly 
after Ijada's day; she returned in kind a description of an amusing old 
book of household hints, apparently the only reading matter the house 
had offered up. After that the conversation fell flatly silent for a space. 
Not what he had hoped, but at least they were both in the same room, 
alive and breathing. I must raise my standards for dalliance.

A sharp rap on the front door, the shuffle of the porter, voices; 
Ingrey tensed, aware he'd left his sword upstairs and bore only his belt 
knife, then relaxed a trifle as he recognized the new voice as Wencel's. 
He rose to his feet as the earl-ordainer entered the parlor, and the 
warden scrambled up and curtseyed apprehensively.

The woman curtseyed again and removed herself promptly. She 
did not need to be told, by Wencel at least, to close the door behind 
her.

Have you eaten? Lady Ijada inquired civilly.

This and that. He waved. Just some wine, please.

She poured from the carafe, and he took the beaker and sat 
back in his chair, his legs stretched out, his head tilted back. You are 
well, lady? My people are seeing to your needs?

Yes, thank you. My material needs, anyway. It is news that I 
lack.

Wencel's chin came down. There is no news, at least of your 
plight. Boleso has arrived in Templetown, where his body will rest 
tonight. By this time tomorrow, that carnival, at least, will be over. He 
grimaced.

And Ijada's legal one will begin? I have been thinking, 
Wencel Succinctly, Ingrey explained his blood-price ploy once 
more. If you really seek to redeem the honor of your house, cousin, 
this could be one way. If the Stagthornes and the Badger-banks could 
both be persuaded. Which you are also in a position to do, I would 
point out.

Wencel gave him a shrewd look. I see you are not an impartial 
jailer.

If such a jailer was what you really wanted, I'm sure you could 
have found one, Ingrey returned dryly.

I have managed to keep you out of my conversations so far, 
yes. I don't know how much longer I can succeed. I've drawn some 
unfortunate attention from the Temple. Did you hear about the ice bear 
yet?

Wencel's lips twisted. This funeral procession today being short 
on piety and long on gossip, yes. The tales I heard were lurid, 
conflicting, and ambiguous. I was possibly the only confidant to whom 
the events were crystal clear. Congratulations upon your discovery. I 
didn't imagine you would learn of that power for quite some time yet.

My wolf never spoke like this before.

The great beasts have no speech. That shaping must come from 
the man. The whole is a different essence from either part; they alter 
each other as they merge.

Ingrey contemplated this remark for a moment, finding it 
plangent but maddeningly vague. He decided to leave out mention of 
that other Voice.

And, Wencel added, your wolf was truly bound before. 
Separated from you even while trapped within. Neither the Temple nor 
I was mistaken on that, I promise you. It is its unbinding that remains a 
mystery to me. Wencel raised his brows invitingly.

Ingrey ignored the hint. What else might it-might I-we-do?

The weirding voice is actually a great and subtle power, nearer 
the heart of the matter than you know.

Since I know practically nothing, that is no great observation, 
Wencel.

Wencel shrugged. Indeed, the shamans of the forest tribes bore 
other powers. Visions that did not deceive. Healings, of wounds of the 
body or mind, of fevers, of sicknesses of the blood. Sometimes, they 
could follow men who had fallen into great darkness of mind and bring 
them back out again. Sometimes their powers were reversed; they 
could plunge victims into those darknesses, or thwart healing, even unto 
death. Darker necromancies still, consuming mortal sacrifices.

Great powers, Wencel continued more lowly, and yet-even in 
the days of the Old Weald's greatest glory and heartbreak, not great 
enough. Outnumbered, the shamans and spirit warriors were borne 
down under the weight of their most implacable enemies. Let that be a 
lesson to you, Ingrey. We are far too alone in this. Secrecy is our only 
source of safety.

Ijada took a breath and ventured, I have heard that great 
Audar overcame Wealding sorceries with swords alone, in his last 
push. Swords and courage.

Wencel snorted. Darthacan lies. He had gathered all the 
Temple saints and sorcerers that Darthaca could muster in his train. It 
took the gods' own betrayals to bring us down at Holytree.

Ingrey guessed at Ijada's direction, and followed her lead. Yes, 
what does your library at Castle Horseriver have to say about 
Bloodfield that the Darthacan chronicles do not?

Wencel's lips curled up in a weird little smile. Enough to know 
that whatever they've taught you of it in these degenerate days is 
fabrication.

Ingrey said, Whatever evil rites the Wealdings were attempting, 
Audar won. No lie there.

Wencel's shoulders jerked in aggravation. Not evil, but a great, 
if desperate, deed. The Weald was sorely pressed. We had lost half 
our lands to the Darthacans in the past generation. The bravest of our 
young men were dying in droves beneath the Darthacan lances.

The military accounts I have read all assert that Audar's army 
was better organized, trained, and led, and its baggage train a wonder, 
by the standards of the day, Ingrey observed. They built their own 
roads through the forests almost as fast as they could march.

Ijada, listening with breathless attention, murmured, So what 
went wrong?

Wencel shook his head, his lips tightening to paleness. It would 
have worked, had not Audar, with the aid of his sorcerers and the 
gods, come upon us too soon. A forced march at unprecedented speed 
through the forests and hills, then, instead of waiting till dawn for the 
light and to rest his men, an immediate attack in the darkness. It was 
the night of the second day of the great rite, and we were unprepared 
and vulnerable, the kin shamans exhausted and drained with their 
labors, the king already bound but the men still partly not.

You-we did fight, though? she pressed.

Oh, fiercely. But Audar had concentrated three times our 
numbers. I-no one thought he could gather that many, that fast, and 
move them so far.

Still, magically healing warriors must have been hard to 
overcome. How?

Audar's men worked all night and all day, he continued, red 
to their waists and half-mad with the task. Some broke from the horror 
of their own deeds, sat and rocked and wept. They slew all they found 
within the bounds of Holytree, whether surrendered or resisting: 
shamans, spirit warriors, innocent camp followers, males, females, 
children. They were taking no more chances. They leveled every 
structure, killed every animal, cut down and burned the Tree of 
Sacrifice. The hallow king's eldest son and holy heir they beheaded last, 
at the end of the next day, after he had witnessed it all. When no living 
thing was left within the sacred bounds except the trees, they withdrew, 
and forbade entry. As if to bury their own sins along with us. And the 
rains came, and the snows of many winters, and men died, and forgot 
Holytree, and all the glory that had passed there.

Ingrey found his breath had nearly stopped, so caught up was he 
in Wencel's impassioned delivery of this old tale. What else might 
Wencel be prodded into revealing? They say Audar was made furious 
with tribal treaty betrayals, and was sorry afterward for the massacre. 
He made great gifts to the Temple for the forgiveness of his soul.

His Temple! Wencel scoffed. He received with his left hand 
what he gave with his right. And a forced treaty is no treaty at all, but a 
robbery. The Darthacan encroachment was never-ending, and their 
treaties, self-serving lies.

I don't know, said Ingrey judiciously. It's clear enough from 
the chronicles that the Darthacans did not start out intending to conquer 
the Weald. They slid into it over two generations. Every time they set 
up a boundary, they found themselves with a new frontier to defend, 
and the unruly kin tribes picking piecemeal at their defenses, until they 
moved the outposts farther to defend those lines, and it started all over 
again.

Most of us are, these days.

Yes. I know.

But some kin warriors escaped to the borders, said Ijada, 
watching Wencel closely. Her hands were tight in her lap. They fought 
on, our ancestors. We fought back. In time, we won. The Weald was 
renewed.

Wencel snorted. Audar's empire fell to the squabbles and 
stupidities of his great-grandsons, not for any virtue remaining in the 
Weald. What came back, a century and a half later, was a shadow and 
a mockery of the Old Weald, emptied of its essences and its beauties, 
stamped in the mold of Darthacan Quintarian orthodoxy. The men who 
re-created that parody of the hallow kingship thought they were 
restoring something, but they were too ignorant even to know what had 
been lost. The great free days, the forest days, were gone, netted under 
the roads and mills, cut down with the trees turned to towns, weighted 
beneath the groaning stones of Audar's temples. A hundred and fifty 
years of tears and strain and blood had been spent for nothing. They 
congratulated themselves most smugly, the new kin lords, the grand rich 
earl-ordainers-and archdivine-ordainers, what a travesty!-but their 
vaunted throne was empty of anything but men's buttocks. They should 
have been weeping in the ashes, on that day of final betrayal.

Wencel at last seemed to grow conscious of the wide-eyed 
stares of both his listeners. Faugh! So ends the lesson, children. He 
exhaled. I grow morbid. It has been an ugly day, and too long. I 
should go home. His lips compressed. To my wife.

Ijada said in a constricted voice, How is she taking it all?

Not well, Wencel conceded. 
Ingrey worried suddenly how much of a push against Ijada might 
come from that quarter. Princess Fara was one Stagthorne who might 
well want blood, not money, in order to wash her own hands of a 
grievous guilt. And Fara surely had not only Wencel's ear, but her 
brother Biast's.

Ingrey saw him out the front, then nipped back into the parlor 
and closed the door once more before the warden could reappear. 
Ijada was frowning, as he seated himself beside her.

I wonder, she said slowly, what dreams Wencel has been 
having?

Hm?

She tapped two fingers on the table edge. He did not speak of 
Bloodfield as one who has read or heard. He spoke as one who'd 
seen.

As you have-do you think? Yet at a different time.

My dream was in the present, I thought. Why should he dream 
of the past? Why should he dream of my men at all?

Ingrey noted her unthinking possessive. He seems to feel they 
are-were-his men. He hesitated. His father had a reputation for a 
historical mania. So did his grandfather, I think, from some things my 
father and aunt said. He was not drawn in to his sires' passions as a 
child, that I know, but perhaps some crept upon him as he studied their 
writings later. He must have been frantic for explanations of what had 
happened to him. He added after a moment, Have you dreamed 
again of the Wounded Woods since you were there?

She shook her head. There was nono need. The task, 
whatever it was, was done. It didn't need to be done twice. Nothing of 
it has faded or changed since then. Her eyes sought his face. Until 
you came along, that is. 
Alone as they briefly were, Ingrey was torn between desire and 
fear of another kiss. What else might such a caress reveal? His 
bandaged hand crept toward hers and closed over it, and a small 
grateful smile flashed at him from those dizzying lips.

We should be trying to stay alive, Ijada!

I am not at all sure, she said rather quietly, that staying alive is 
what this is all about.

His hand clutched hers on the tabletop despite the twinge of 
pain. Don't you become fey!

Why not? Do you imagine feyness is only your task? Her 
brows twitched up in sudden amusement. It is most becoming upon 
you, I admit. Unfairly so. She leaned toward him, and he froze 
between terror and joy as her lips brushed his. Only flesh on flesh this 
time, only a touch of warmth.

Before he could lunge at her in a quest for holy fire, the door 
clicked open. The warden entered and eyed them both, unsmiling. 
Unwillingly, he released Ijada's hand and eased back. He was 
conscious that his breath was coming too fast.

The warden sketched a curtsey. Begging your pardon, my lord. 
The earl instructed me to keep close to my lady.

I am obliged for his consideration, said Ijada, in a voice so 
expressionless even Ingrey could not decide if it was sincere or dry. 
She tipped up and drained her beaker and set it down. Should we 
retire again to that dull chamber?

If it please you, my lady, it was what the earl said.

Beneath the woman's stodgy stubbornness Ingrey perceived a 
real unease. The earl-ordainer's secular powers alone were enough to 
overawe his servants, Ingrey supposed, but did they sense-or had they 
experienced-more?

Ijada nodded and rose. I should be grateful if you would wait 
upon me after, and tell me of them.

Certainly, Lady Ijada.

He watched her pass out of the parlor. It was only in his 
overwrought fancy that the room seemed to grow darker for her going 
from it.



CHAPTER FOURTEEN


THE TEMPLE SQUARE WAS ALREADY CROWDED WITH COURTLY 
and would-be-courtly mourners when Ingrey arrived there in the 
midmorning. His eye picked out a few of Gesca's men at the outer 
edges of the mob, indicating that Lord Hetwar was already within. 
Ingrey lengthened his stride and shouldered through the press. Those 
who recognized him gave way at once.

The sky was a bright autumn blue, and he shrugged in relief as 
he stepped out of the sun into the shade of the portico. His best court 
dress was heavy and a trifle hot, the somber sleeveless coat swirling 
about his ankles and tending to tangle with his sword. The sunbeams 
shone down also into the open central court, where the holy fire burned 
high on its plinth, and he blinked at the adjustment from light to dark to 
light. He spotted Lady Hetwar, attended by Gesca and Hetwar's oldest 
son, made his way to her side, and bowed. She gave him an 
acknowledging nod, her glance approving his garb, and shifted a little to 
make him space to loom in proper retainer's style beside Gesca at her 
back. Gesca gave him a nervy sideways stare, but by no other sign 
revealed any aftereffects of their last tense encounter, and Ingrey began 
to hope Gesca had kept the eerie incident to himself. 
Beyond the plinth, Ingrey also noted Rider Ulkra and some of 
Prince Boleso's higher servants; good, the exiled household had arrived 
in Easthome as instructed. Ulkra cast him a polite nod of greeting, 
though most of the retainers who had ridden escort to Boleso's wagon 
with him avoided his eyes-whether conscious of his contempt or simply 
unnerved by him, Ingrey could not tell.

Boleso's body was tightly wrapped in layers of herbs beneath his 
perfumed princely robes, Ingrey guessed, though his swollen face was 
exposed. The delay in his burial pushed the limits of a decomposition 
that would necessitate a closed coffin. But the death of one so highborn 
demanded witnesses, the more the better, to prevent later imposters 
and pretenders from troubling the realm.

The principal mourners followed next. Prince-marshal Biast, 
resplendent of dress and weary of face, was attended by Symark, 
holding the prince-marshal's standard with its pennant wrapped and 
bound to its staff as a sign of grief. Behind them, Earl Horseriver 
supported his wife, Princess Fara. Her dark garb was plain to severity, 
her brown hair drawn back and without jewels or ribbons, and her face 
deathly white by contrast. She had not her brothers' height, and the 
long Stagthorne jaw was softened in her; she was not a beauty, but she 
was a princess, and her proud carriage and presence normally made up 
for any shortfall. Today she just looked haggard and ill.

Horseriver's spirit horse seemed stopped down so tight as to be 
mistakable for a mere blackness of mood. I must find out from 
Wencel how he does that. Ingrey began to see how Wencel might 
long evade the lesser among the Sighted, but he wondered at the cost.

Ingrey was relieved to see that the hallow king had not been 
dragged from his sickbed and propped in some sedan chair or litter to 
attend his son's funeral. It would have been too much like one bier 
following another.

A rustling sounded from the central court as the crowd parted to 
allow the procession of the sacred animals to pass. Three of the 
stiff-looking groom-acolytes who led them were not the ones Ingrey 
had seen the other day. Fafa the impressive ice bear had been replaced 
by a notably small long-haired white cat curled tamely in the arms of a 
new woman groom in the Bastard's whites. The boy who led the 
copper colt was the same as before, though; while he kept his attention 
on his animal and the archdivine, his glance did cross Ingrey's once, 
above Lady Hetwar's head, and his eyes widened in alarmed 
recognition.

With extreme circumspection, each animal was led to the bier to 
sign the acceptance, if any, of Boleso's soul by its god. No one much 
expected a blessing from the Daughter of Spring's blue hen nor the 
Mother of Summer's green bird, but nerves stretched as the copper 
colt was led forth. The horse's response was ambiguous to nonexistent, 
as were those of the gray dog and the white cat. The grooms looked 
worried. Biast appeared grim indeed, and Fara seemed ready to faint.

Was Boleso's soul sundered and damned, then, rejected by the 
Son of Autumn Who was his best hope, unclaimed even by the 
Bastard, doomed to drift as a fading ghost? Or defiled by the spirits of 
the animals he had sacrificed and consumed, caught between the world 
of matter and the world of spirit in chill and perpetual torment, as 
Ingrey had once envisioned to Ijada?

The heat and the tension were suddenly too much for Ingrey. 
The chamber wavered and lurched before his eyes. His right hand 
throbbed. As quietly as he could, he stepped back to the wall to brace 
his shoulders against the cool stone. It wasn't enough. As the copper 
colt clopped forth once more, his eyes rolled back and he crumpled to 
the pavement in a boneless heap, the only sound a faint clank from his 
scabbard.

AND THEN, ABRUPTLY, HE WAS STANDING IN THAT OTHER PLACE, that 
unbounded space he had entered once before to do battle. Only it 
seemed not to be a battle to which he was called now. He still wore his 
court garb, his jaw was still human

Out of an avenue of autumn-scented trees a red-haired young 
man appeared. He was tall, clothed as for a hunt in leggings and 
leathers, his bow and quiver strapped across his back. His eyes were 
bright, sparkling like a woodland stream; freckles dusted across his 
nose, and his generous mouth laughed. His head was crowned with 
autumn leaves, brown oak, red maple, yellow birch, and his stride was 
wide. He pursed his lips and whistled, and the sharp sweet sound 
pierced Ingrey's spirit like an arrow.

Bounding out of the mists, a great dark wolf with silver-tipped 
fur ran to the youth's side, jaws agape, tongue lolling foolishly; the huge 
beast crouched at his feet, licked his leg, rolled to one side and let the 
red-haired youth crouch and thump and rub its belly. A collar of 
autumn leaves much like the youth's crown circled the thick fur of its 
neck. The wolf seemed to laugh, too, as the youth stood once more, 
legs braced.

The youth gestured; Ingrey's and Ijada's heads turned.

Prince Boleso stood before them in an agonized paralysis. He, 
too, wore what he'd been found in the night he'd died: a short coat and 
daubs of paint and powder across his waxy skin. The muted colors 
made Ingrey's head ache; they clashed, not rightly composed. They 
reminded Ingrey of an ignorant man, hearing another language, 
responding with mouthed gibberish, or of a child, not yet able to write, 
scribbling eager senseless scrawls across a page in imitation of an older 
brother's hand.

Boleso's skin seemed translucent to Ingrey's eyes. Beneath his 
ribs, a swirling darkness barked and yammered, grunted and whined. 
Boar there was, and dog, wolf, stag, badger, fox, hawk, even a 
terrified housecat. An early experiment? Power there was, yes; but 
chaos even greater, an unholy din. He remembered Ijada's description: 
His very mind seemed a menagerie, howling.

The god said softly, He cannot enter My gates bearing these.

Ijada stepped forward, her hands held out in tentative 
supplication. What would You have of us, my lord? 
The god's eye took in them both. Free him, if it be your will, 
that he may enter in.

The Son of Autumn tilted his wreathed head a trifle. You chose 
for him once, did you not?

Her lips parted, closed, set a little, in fear or awe.

He ought to feel that awe, too, Ingrey supposed. Ought to be 
falling to his knees. Instead he was dizzy and angry. With a piercing 
regret, he envied Ijada her exaltation even as he resented it. As though 
Ingrey saw the sun through a pinhole in a piece of canvas, while Ijada 
saw the orb entire. But if my eyes were wider, would this Light blind 
me?

You would-you would take him into Your heaven, my lord? 
asked Ingrey in astonishment and outrage. He slew, not in defense of 
his own life, but in malice and madness. He tried to steal powers not 
rightly given to him. If I guess right, he plotted the death of his own 
brother. He would have raped Ijada, if he could, and killed again for his 
sport!

The Son held up his hands. Luminescent, they seemed, as if 
dappled by autumn sun reflecting off a stream into shade. My grace 
flows from these as a river, wolf-lord. Would you have me dole it out in 
the exact measure that men earn, as from an apothecary's dropper? 
Would you stand in pure water to your waist, and administer it by the 
scant spoon to men dying of thirst on a parched shore?

Ingrey stood silent, abashed, but Ijada lifted her face, and said 
steadily, No, my lord, for my part. Give him to the river. Tumble him 
down in the thunder of Your cataract. His loss is no gain of mine, nor 
his dark deserving any joy to me.

The god smiled brilliantly at her. Tears slid down her face like 
silver threads: like benedictions.

It is unjust, whispered Ingrey. Unfair to all who-who would 
try to do rightly.

Ingrey swallowed nervously, not at all sure the question was 
rhetorical, or what might happen if he said yes. Let Ijada's be the 
choosing, then. I will abide.

Alas, more shall be required of you than to stand aside and act 
not, wolf-lord. The god gestured to Boleso. He cannot enter in my 
gates so burdened with these mutilated spirits. This is not their proper 
door. Hunt them from him, Ingrey.

Ingrey stared through the bars of Boleso's ribs. Clean this 
cage?

If you prefer that metaphor, yes. The god's copper eyebrows 
twitched, but his eyes, beneath them, glinted with a certain dark humor. 
Wolf and leopard now sat on their haunches on either side of those slim 
booted legs, staring silently at Ingrey with deep, unblinking eyes.

Ingrey swallowed. How?

Call them forth.

Ido not understand.

Do as your ancestors did for each other, in the purifying last 
rites of the Old Weald. Did you not know? Even as they washed and 
wrapped each body for burial, the kin shamans looked after the souls 
of their own. Each helped his comrade, whether simple spirit warrior or 
great mage, through Our gates, at the end of their lives, and looked to 
be helped so in turn. A chain of hand to hand, of voice to voice, 
cleansed souls flowing in an unending stream. The god's voice 
softened. Call my unhappy creatures out, Ingrey kin Wolfcliff. Sing 
them to their rest.

Ingrey stood facing Boleso. The prince's eyes were wide and 
pleading. I imagine Ijada's eyes were wide and pleading that night, 
too. What mercy did she get from you, my graceless prince? 
Besides, I cannot sing worth a damn.

I have no mercy in me, lady. So I shall borrow some from 
you.

He took a breath, and reached down into himself farther than 
he'd yet done before. Keep it simple. Picked out one swirl by eye, 
held out his hand, and commanded, Come.

The first beast's spirit spun out through his fingers, wild and 
distraught, and fled away. He glanced at the god. Where-?

A wave of those radiant fingers reassured him. It is well. Go 
on.

Come

One by one, the dark streams flowed out of Boleso and melted 
into the night. Morning. Whatever this was. They all floated in a now 
somewhere outside of time, Ingrey thought. At last Boleso stood before 
him, still silent, but freed of the dark smears.

The red-haired god appeared riding the copper colt, and 
extended a hand to the prince. Boleso flinched, staring up in doubt and 
fear, and Ijada's breath caught. But then he climbed quietly up behind. 
His face held much wonder, if little joy.

I think he is still soul-wounded, my lord, said Ingrey, watching 
in bare comprehension.

Ah, but I know an excellent Physician for him, where we are 
going. The god laughed, dazzlingly.

My lord- Ingrey began, as the god made to turn the unbridled 
horse.

Yes?

If each kin shaman delivered the next, and him the next He 
swallowed harder. What happens to the last shaman left? 
The Lord of Autumn stared enigmatically down at him. He 
extended one lucent finger, stopping just short of brushing Ingrey's 
forehead. For a moment, Ingrey thought he was not going to answer at 
all, but then he murmured, We shall have to find out.

INGREY BLINKED.

He was lying on hard pavement, his body half-straightened, 
staring up at the curve of the dome of the Son's court. Staring up at a 
ring of startled faces staring down at him: Gesca, a concerned Lady 
Hetwar, a couple of men he did not know.

What happened? whispered Ingrey.

You fainted, said Gesca, frowning.

No-what happened at the bier? Just now?

The Lord of Autumn took Prince Boleso, said Lady Hetwar, 
glancing over her shoulder. That pretty red colt nuzzled him all over-it 
was very clear. To everyone's relief.

Yes. Half the men I know were betting he'd go to the Bastard. 
A twisted grin flitted over Gesca's face.

Lady Hetwar cast him a quelling frown. That is not a fit subject 
for wagering, Gesca.

No, my lady, Gesca agreed, dutifully erasing his smirk.

Ingrey hitched up to sit leaning against the wall. The motion 
made the chamber spin in slow jerks, and he squeezed his eyes shut, 
then opened them again. He had felt numb and bodiless during his 
vision, but now he was shuddering in waves radiating out from the pit of 
his belly, though he did not feel cold. As though his body had 
experienced some shock that his mind was denied.

Lady Hetwar leaned forward and pressed a stern maternal hand 
to his damp brow. Are you ill, Lord Ingrey? You do feel rather warm.

I He was about to firmly deny any such weakness, then 
thought better of it. He wanted nothing more passionately than to 
remove himself from this fraught scene at once. fear so, my lady. 
Pray excuse me, and excuse me to your lord husband. I must find 
Ijada. He clambered to his feet and began to feel his way along the 
wall. I would rather not pitch up my breakfast on the temple floor in 
the middle of all this.

Over by the altar, the choir was again singing, forming up to lead 
the procession out, and people were beginning to shuffle themselves 
back into their positions. Ingrey was grateful for the covering noise. 
Across the crowd, he thought he saw Learned Lewko crane his neck 
toward his disruption, but he did not meet the divine's eyes. Keeping to 
the walls, half for support and half to skim around the throng, he made 
his escape. By the time they exited the portico, he was towing Gesca.

Leave me, he gasped, shaking off Gesca's hand.

But Ingrey, Lady Hetwar said-

He didn't even need the weirding voice; Gesca recoiled at his 
glower alone. He stood staring in bewilderment as Ingrey weaved away 
through the crowded square.

By the time Ingrey reached the stairway down to Kingstown, he 
was nearly running. He bolted down the endless steps two and three at 
a time, at risk of tumbling head over tail. By the time he passed over the 
covered creek, he was running, his long coat flapping around his boot 
heels. By the time he pounded on the door of the narrow house, and 
stood a moment with his hands on his knees, wheezing for breath, he 
had nearly made his lie to Lady Hetwar true; his stomach was heaving 
almost as much as his lungs. He fell through the door as the astonished 
porter opened it.

Lady Ijada-where is she?

Before the porter could speak, a thumping on the stairs 
answered his question. Ijada flew down them, the warden in her train 
crying, Lady, you should not, come back and lie down again-

I saw-

Come! He yanked her into the parlor. Leave us! he 
shouted back over his shoulder. Porter, porter's boy, warden, and 
housemaid all blew back like leaves in a storm gust. Ingrey slammed 
the door upon them.

The handgrip turned into a shaken embrace, having in it very 
little romance but a great deal of terror. Ingrey was not sure which of 
them was trembling more. What did you see?

I saw Him, Ingrey, I heard Him. Not a dream this time, not a 
fragrance in the dark-a daylight vision, clear. She pushed him back to 
stare into his face. And I saw you. Her look turned to disbelief, 
though not, apparently, of her vision. You stood face-to-face with a 
god, and you could find nothing better to do than to argue with Him! 
She gripped and shook his shoulders. Ingrey!

He took Boleso-

I saw! Oh, grace of the Son, my transgression was lifted from 
me. Tears were running down her real face, as they had her dream 
face. By your grace, too, oh, Ingrey, such a deed She was kissing 
his face, cool lips slipping across hot sweat on his brow, his eyelids, his 
cheeks.

He fell back a little, and said through gritted teeth, I don't do 
this sort of thing. These things do not happen to me.

She stared. They happen to you rather a lot, I'd say.

No! YesGods! I feel as though I've become some unholy 
lightning rod in the middle of a thunderstorm. Miracles, I have to stay 
away from funeral miracles, they dodge aside from their targets and 
come at me. I don't, I can't

Her left hand squeezed his right. She looked down. Oh! 
The wretched bandage was soaked again. Wordlessly, she 
turned to the sideboard, rooted briefly in a drawer, and found a length 
of linen. Here, sit. She drew him to the table, stripped off the red rag, 
and wrapped his hand more tightly. Their mutual wheezing was dying 
down at last. She had not run across half of Easthome, but he did not 
question her breathlessness.

I won't say you're mistaken.

She leaned forward and pushed a lock of sweat-dampened hair 
off his forehead. Her gaze searched his face, for what he did not know. 
Her expression softened. I may have murdered Boleso-

No, only killed.

But thanks to you I did not encompass his sundering from the 
gods. It's something. No small thing.

Aye. If you say so. For her, then. If his actions had pleased 
Ijada, perhaps they were worthwhile. Ijada and the Son. That was it, 
then. That was what we were chivvied here for. Boleso's undeserved 
redemption. We have accomplished the god's will, and now it's over, 
and we are discarded to our fates.

Her lips curved up. That's very Ingrey of you, Ingrey. Always 
look on the dark side.

Someone has to be realistic, in the midst of this madness!

Now her brows rose, too. She was laughing at him. Utterly 
bleak and black is not the sum of realism. All the other colors are real, 
too. It was my undeserved redemption as well.

He ought to feel offended. Not buoyed up by her laughter as if 
floating in some bubbling hot spring.

She took a breath. Ingrey! If one soul trapped in the world by 
an anchor of animals is such an agony to the gods that they make 
miracles out of, of such unlikely helpers as us, what must four thousand 
such souls be?

I don't think we're done. I don't think we're even started yet!

Ingrey moistened his lips. He followed her jump of inspiration, 
yes. He wished it wasn't so easy to do. If freeing one such soul had 
been an experience of muted terror to himNor shall we be, if I am 
burned and you are hanged. I do not say you are wrong, but first things 
first.

She shook her head in passionate denial. I still do not 
understand what is wanted of me. But I saw what is wanted of you. If 
your great-wolf has made you a true shaman of the Weald, the very 
last-and the god's own Voice said it was so-then you are their last hope 
indeed. A purification-the men who fell at Bloodfield were never 
purified, never released. We need to go there. She jerked in her seat 
as if ready to leap up and run out the door at once and down the 
morning road on foot.

His hands tightened on hers, as much to hold her in place as 
anything. I would point out, we have a few hindrances here. You are 
arrested and bound for trial, and I am your arresting officer.

You offered to smuggle me away once before. Now I know 
where! Don't you see? Her eyes were afire.

And then what? We would be pursued and dragged back, 
perhaps even before we could do anything, and your case would be 
worse than before, and I would be wrenched from you. Let us solve 
this problem in Easthome first, then go. That is the logical order of 
things. If your men have waited four hundred years for you, they can 
surely wait a little longer.

Can they? Her brows drew down in a deep frown. Do you 
know this? How?

We must concentrate on one problem at a time, the most urgent 
first.

Her right hand touched her heart. This feels most urgent to me. 
Ingrey's jaw set. Just because she was passionate and loving and 
beautiful and god-touched didn't mean she was right in all things.

But only redeemed in her soul and sin. Her body and crime were 
still hostage to the world of matter and Easthome politics. Whatever he 
was called to, it was not to follow her into plain folly.

He drew breath. I did not dream your dream of the Woods. I 
have only your-admittedly vivid-description to go on. Ghosts fade, 
starved of nourishment from their former bodies. Why have not these? 
Do you imagine they've been stuck in the blasted trees for four 
centuries?

He'd meant it for half a joke, but she took it wholly seriously. I 
think so. Or something of a sort. Something alive must be sustaining 
them in the world of matter. Remember what Wencel said, about the 
great rite that Audar interrupted?

I don't trust anything Wencel says.

She regarded him doubtfully. He's your cousin.

Ingrey couldn't decide if she meant that as an argument for or 
against the earl.

I do not understand Wencel, Ijada continued, but that rang 
true to me, it rang in my bones. A great rite that bound the spirit 
warriors to the Weald itself for their sustenance, until their victory was 
achieved. A most unsettled, and unsettling, look stole over her face. 
But they never achieved victory, did they? And the Weald that came 
back, in the end, was not what they'd lost, but something new. Wencel 
says it was a betrayal, though I do not see it. It was not their world to 
choose, anymore.

A knock sounded on the street door of the narrow house, 
making Ingrey flinch in surprise. The porter's shuffle and low voice 
sounded through the walls, the words blurred but the tone protesting. 
Ingrey's teeth clamped in irritation at the untimely interruption. Now 
what?

Ingrey's teeth clamped in irritation at the untimely interruption. Now 
what? 
N


A PERFUNCTORY RAP SHIVERED THE PARLOR DOOR, AND IT swung 
inward. The porter's voice carried from the hall, no, Learned, you 
daren't go in there! The wolf-lord ordered us not-

Learned Lewko stepped around the frame and closed the door 
firmly on the porter's panicked babble. He was dressed as Ingrey had 
glimpsed him earlier that morning, in the white robes of his order, 
cleaner and newer than what he'd worn in his dusty office but still 
unmarked with any rank. Unobtrusive: against the busy background of 
Templetown, surely nearly invisible. He was not exactly wheezing, but 
his face was flushed, as if he'd been walking quickly in the noon sun. 
He paused to reorder his robes and his breathing, his gaze on Ingrey 
and Ijada penetrating and disturbed.

I am only a petty saint, he said at last, signing himself, his 
touch lingering on his heart, but that was unmistakable.

Ingrey moistened his lips. How many others there saw, do you 
know?

As far as I know, I was the only Sighted one present. He tilted 
his head. Do you know any differently?

Wencel. If there had been signs apparent to Lewko, Ingrey 
rather thought Wencel could not have been unaware. I'm not sure.

Lewko wrinkled his nose in suspicion.

Ijada said tentatively, Ingrey?

Ah. Ingrey jumped to his feet to perform introductions, grateful 
to take refuge for a moment in formality. Lady Ijada, this is Learned 
Lewko. I have, umtold you each something of the other. Learned, 
will you sit? He offered the third chair. We expected you.

I fear I cannot say the same of you. Lewko sighed and sank 
down, flapping one hand briefly to cool his face. In fact, you become 
more unexpected by the hour.

Lewko drew breath. When the animals were first presented at 
the prince's bier, I feared an ambiguous outcome. We do try to avoid 
those; they are most distressing to the relatives. Disastrous, in this case. 
The groom-acolytes are normally under instruction to, ah, amplify their 
creature's signs, for clarity. Amplify, mind you, not substitute or alter. I 
fear that this habit became misleading to some, and led to that attempt 
at fraud the day before yesterday. Or so our later inquiries revealed. 
None of the orders was pleased to learn that this was not the first time 
recently that some of our people let themselves be tempted by worldly 
bribes or threats. Such corruption feeds on its own success when it 
meets no correction.

Did they not fear their gods' wrath? asked Ijada.

Even the wrath of the gods requires some human opportunity 
by which to manifest itself. Lewko's eye gauged Ingrey. As the wrath 
of the gods goes, your performance the other day was remarkably 
effective, Lord Ingrey. Never have I seen a conspiracy unravel itself 
and scramble to confession with such alacrity.

So happy to be of service, Ingrey growled. He hesitated. This 
morning was the second time. The second god I'vecrossed, in three 
days. The ice bear now seems a prelude-your god was there, within 
the accursed creature.

So He should be, for a funeral miracle, if it be a true one.

I heard a voice in my mind when I faced the bear.

Lewko stiffened. What did it say? Can you remember exactly?

I can scarcely forget. I see my Brother's pup is in better pelt, 
now. Good. Pray continue. And then the voice laughed. Ingrey 
added irritably, It did not seem very helpful. And more quietly, It 
frightened me. I now think I was not frightened enough.

Was it your god, in the bear? Do you think? Ingrey prodded.

Oh-Lewko waved his hands-to be sure. Signs of the 
Bastard's holy presence tend to be unmistakable, to those who know 
Him. The screaming, the altercations, the people running in circles-all 
that was lacking was something bursting into flame, and I was not 
entirely sure for a moment you weren't going to provide that, as well. 
He added consolingly, The acolyte's scorches should heal in a few 
days, though. He does not dare complain of his punishment.

Ijada raised her brows.

Ingrey cleared his throat. It was not your god this morning, 
though.

No. Perhaps fortunately. Was it the Son of Autumn? I saw only 
a little stir by the wall when you collapsed, a felt Presence, and a flare 
like orange fire as the colt signed the body at last. Not, he added, 
seen with my eyes, you know.

I know now, sighed Ingrey. Ijada was there. In my vision.

Lewko's head whipped around.

Let her tell of it, Ingrey continued. It was herit was her 
miracle, I think. Not mine.

You two shared this vision? said Lewko in astonishment. Tell 
me!

She nodded, stared a moment at Lewko as if determining to 
trust him, glanced again at Ingrey, and began: It came upon me by 
surprise. I was in my room upstairs, here. I felt odd and hot, and I felt 
myself sink to the floor. My warden thought I had fainted, and lifted me 
to my bed. The other time, at Red Dike, I was more aware of my 
body's true surroundings, but this timeI was wholly in the vision. The 
first thing I saw was Ingrey, in his court dress-what he wears now, but I 
had never seen it before. She paused, eyeing his garb as if about to 
add some other comment, but then shook her head and went on. His 
wolf ran at his heels. Great and dark, but so handsome! I was leashed 
by a chain of flowers to my leopard, and it pulled me forward. And 
then the god came from the trees

Tears glistened at the corners of her eyes as she finished, and 
Ingrey asked him what happens to the last shaman left, if there are none 
to deliver him, but the god did not say. It almost seemed as if He did 
not know. She swallowed.

Lewko leaned his elbows on the table and rubbed his eyes with 
the heels of his hands. Complications, he muttered, not approvingly. 
Now I remember why I fear to open letters from Hallana.

Ingrey asked, Could this affect Ijada's case, do you think? If it 
should be brought to testimony? How goes the preparation for her 
case? I think-I am guessing-you hear all such news early. If Lewko's 
subtle resemblances to Hetwar extended beyond age and style, that is.

Oh, aye. Temple gossip is worse than court gossip, I swear. 
Lewko sucked on his lower lip. I believe the Father's Order has 
empaneled five judges for the pretrial inquiry.

That in itself was news of significance; minor cases, or cases that 
were to be treated as minor, would only get three such judges, or one, 
or if the accused was especially unlucky, a junior acolyte just learning 
his trade. Do you know anything of their characters? Or against 
them?

Lewko raised a brow at that question. Highborn men, 
experienced in capital cases. Serious-minded. They will probably begin 
to question witnesses as early as tomorrow.

As you were not there at the time of the prince's death, perhaps 
not. Do you wish to speak?

Perhapsnot. I'm not sure. How experienced are these serious 
men in matters of the uncanny?

Lewko grunted and sat back. Now, that's always a problem.

Ijada was following this with a frown. Why?

He cast her a measuring glance. So much of the uncanny-or the 
holy, for that matter-is inward experience. As such, testimony about it 
tends to be tainted. People lie. People delude themselves, or others. 
People are swayed or frightened or convinced they have seen things 
they have not. People are, frankly, sometimes simply mad. Every young 
judge of the Father's Order soon learns that if he were to dismiss all 
such testimony at the first, he would not only save endless time and 
aggravation, he would be right nine times out of ten, or better. So the 
conditions for acceptance of such claims in law have become strict. As 
a rule, three Temple sensitives of good reputation must vouch for each 
other and the testimony.

You are a Temple sensitive, are you not? she said.

I am only one such.

There are three in this room!

Mm, sensitive perhaps, but somewhat lacking the further 
qualifications of Temple and good reputation, I fear. His dry glance 
fell as much on Ingrey as Ijada.

Hallana, it occurred to Ingrey, might be another valid witness. 
But difficult at present to call upon. Although if he wanted a delaying 
tactic, sending all the way to Suttleaf for her would be one, to be sure. 
He filed the thought away.

Lewko's lips compressed. Yes. Yes, I do, Bastard help me. 
But belief enough for private action, and evidence sufficient for a court 
of law, are two separate things.

Private action? said Ingrey. Do you not speak for the 
Temple, Learned?

He made an equivocal gesture. I both stand within and 
administer Temple disciplines. I am also barely god-touched, though 
enough to know better than to wish for more. I am never sure if my 
erratic abilities are my failure to receive, or His failure to give. He 
sighed. Your master Hetwar has always resisted understanding this. 
He plagues me for aid with unsuitable tasks and dislikes my telling him 
no. My order's sorcerers are at his disposal; the gods are not.

Do you tell him no? asked Ingrey, impressed.

Frequently. Lewko grimaced. As for great saints-no one 
commands them. The wise Temple-man just follows them around and 
waits to see what will happen.

Lewko looked briefly introspective: Ingrey wondered what 
experiences he might have had in this regard. Something both rare and 
searing, at a guess. Ingrey said, I am no saint of any kind.

Nor I, said Ijada fervently. And yet

Lewko glanced up at them both. You say true. And yet. You 
have both been more god-touched than anyone in the strength of such 
wills ought to be. It is the abnegation of self-will that gives room for the 
gods to enter the world through saints. The rumors of their spirit 
animals making the Old Weald warriors more open to their gods, 
mediating grace as the sacred funeral beasts do for us, have suddenly 
grown more convincing to me.

So is my dispensation as much in danger as Wencel asserts?

Ingrey decided to probe the question more obliquely. Ijada is no more 
responsible for receiving the spirit of her leopard than I was my wolf's. 
Others imposed it upon her. Cannot she be granted a dispensation like 
mine? It makes no sense to save her from one capital charge only to 
lose her to another.

I have not mentioned the leopard to Lord Hetwar yet.

Lewko's brows went up.

He does not like complications, Ingrey said weakly.

What are you playing at, Lord Ingrey?

I would not have mentioned it to you, except Hallana's letter 
forced my hand.

You might have undertaken to lose that missive on the way, 
Lewko pointed out mildly. Wistfully?

I thought of that, Ingrey confessed. It seemed but a 
temporary expedient. He added, I could ask the same question of 
you. Pardon, Learned, but it seems to me your allegiance to the rules 
flexes oddly.

Lewko held up his outspread hand and wriggled it. It is 
murmured that the thumb is sacred to the Bastard because it is the part 
He puts upon the scales of justice to tip them His way. There is more 
truth than humor in this joke. Yet almost every rule is invented out of 
some prior disaster. My order has an arsenal of rules accumulated so, 
Lord Ingrey. We arm ourselves as needed.

Making Lewko equally unpredictable as ally or enemy, Ingrey 
realized unhappily.

Ijada looked up as another knock sounded at the street door. 
Ingrey's breath stopped at the sudden fear it might be Wencel, 
following up this morning's events as swiftly as Lewko, but judging from 
the muffled arguing in the porter's voice, it could not be the earl. At 
length, the door swung inward, and the porter warily announced, 
Messenger for Learned Lewko, m'lord.

A man dressed in the tabard of Prince Boleso's household 
shouldered past him; a servant, judging by the rest of his clothes, his 
lack of a sword, and his irresolute air. Middle-aged, a little stooped, 
with a scraggly beard framing his face. Your pardon, Learned, it is 
urgent that I speak- His eye fell on Ingrey, and widened with apparent 
recognition; his voice ran down abruptly. Oh.

Ingrey's return stare was blank, at first. His blood seemed to boil 
up in his head, and he realized that he smelled a demon, that distinctive 
rain-and-lightning odor, spinning tightly within this man. One of 
Lewko's sorcerers in disguise, reporting Temple business to his master? 
No, for Lewko's expression was as devoid of recognition as Ingrey's, 
though his body had stiffened. He smells the demon, too, or senses it 
somehow.

It was the voice more than the appearance that did it. Ingrey's 
mind's eye scraped away the beard and eleven years from the servant's 
face. You!

The servant choked.

Ingrey stood up so fast his chair fell over and banged on the 
floor. The servant, already backing up, shrieked, whirled, and fled back 
out the door, slamming it behind him.

Ingrey, what-? Ijada began.

It's Cumril! Ingrey flung over his shoulder at her, and gave 
chase.

By the time Ingrey wrenched open both doors and stood in the 
street, the man had disappeared around the curve, but the echo of 
running footsteps and a passerby's astonished stare told Ingrey the 
direction. He flung back his coat, put his hand on his sword, and 
dashed after, rounding the houses just in time to see Cumril cast a 
frightened look back and duck into a side street. Ingrey swung after 
him, his stride lengthening. Could youth and fury outrun middle age and 
terror?

Cumril was gasping and whimpering: No, no, help!

So enspell me, why don't you? Ingrey snarled. Sorcerers and 
shamans, Wencel had said, were old rivals for power. With the dizzied 
remains of his reason, Ingrey wondered which was the stronger, and if 
he was about to test the question.

I dare not! It will ascend, and enslave me again!

This response was peculiar enough to give Ingrey pause; he let 
his hand, now clenched on Cumril's throat, ease somewhat. What?

The demon will t-take me again, if I try to call on it, Cumril 
stammered. You need, need, need have no fear of me, Lord Ingrey.

By my father's agony, the reverse is not true.

Cumril swallowed, looking away. I know.

Ingrey's grip eased yet more. Why are you here?

I followed the divine. From the temple. I saw him in the crowd. 
I want to, I was going to try to, I meant to surrender myself to him. I 
wasn't expecting you.

Ingrey stood back, his brows climbing toward his hairline. Well, 
I have no objection to that. Come along, then.

Keeping a grip on Cumril's arm just in case, Ingrey led him back 
to the narrow house. Cumril was pale and trembling, but as he 
recovered his breath, his initial shock seemed to pass off. By the time 
Ingrey pushed him through the door of the parlor and closed it again 
behind them, Cumril had revived enough to shoot him a look of 
resentment before he straightened his tabard and stood before Lewko. 
Learned. Blessed One. I, I, I

Yes, Learned. Cumril sank down. Ijada returned to her own 
seat; Ingrey folded his arms and leaned against the nearby wall.

Lewko pressed his palm to Cumril's forehead. Ingrey was not at 
all sure what passed between the two, but Cumril eased back yet 
more, and the demon-scent grew weaker. His panting slackened, and 
his gaze, wandering to some middle distance, bespoke the lifting of an 
invisible burden.

Are you truly of Prince Boleso's household? Ingrey asked, 
nodding to the tabard.

Cumril's eyes refocused on Ingrey. Yes. Or I was. He, he, he 
passed me off as his body servant.

So, you were the illicit sorcerer who aided him in his forbidden 
rites. Iit was guessed one must exist. But I never saw you at Boar's 
Head.

No, I made very sure you, you, you did not. Cumril gulped. 
Rider Ulkra and the household arrived here late last night. I had no 
other way to get back to Easthome except with them. I, I could not 
come sooner. This last seemed to be addressed to Lewko.

Did anyone else of Boleso's household know what you really 
were? Ingrey pressed.

No, only the prince. I-my demon-insisted upon secrecy. One of 
the few times its will overrode Boleso's.

Perhaps, Lewko interrupted gently, you should begin at the 
beginning, Cumril.

Cumril hunched. Which beginning?

The burning of a certain confession might do.

Cumril's gaze shot up. How did you know about that? 
I reassembled it for the inquiry. With great difficulty.

Lewko held up a restraining finger. It was my guess that the 
destruction of that document marked the loss of your control over your 
power.

Cumril ducked his head in a nod. It was so, Blessed One. And 
the beginning of my, my, my slavery.

Ah. A brief smile of satisfaction tugged Lewko's lips at this 
confirmation of his theory.

I will not say the beginning of my nightmare, Cumril continued, 
for it was blackest nightmare before. But in my despair after the 
disasters at Birchgrove, my demon ascended and took control of my 
body and mind. I, we, it fled with my body, which it was overjoyed to 
possess, and we began a strange existence. Exile. Always, its first 
concern was to keep out of sight of the Temple, and then, on to 
whatever erratic pleasures in matter the thing desired. Which were not 
always what I would call pleasures. The months it decided to 
experiment with pain were the worst-Cumril shuddered in 
memory-but that pass, pass, passed off like every other passion. 
Fortunately. I swear it had the mindfulness of a mayfly. When Boleso 
foundusand pressed us into his service, it became quite rebellious 
in its boredom, but it dared not thwart him. He had ways of asserting 
his will.

Lewko moistened his lips and leaned forward. How did you 
regain control? For that is a very rare thing to happen, after a sorcerer's 
demon has turned upon him.

Cumril nodded, and glanced somewhat fearfully at Ijada. It was 
her.

Ijada looked astonished. What?

The night Boleso died, I was in the next chamber. To assist him 
in enspelling the leopard. There was a knothole in the wall, from which 
we could remove the knot and look and listen through.

Cumril bore up under their speculative glowers, and continued, 
Boleso believed that the animal spirits he took in would allow him to 
bind each kin to himself. He had a, a, theory that the leopard was your 
kin animal, Lady Ijada, by reason of your father's Chalionese 
bloodlines. He meant to use it to bind your mind and will to his, to 
make you his perfect paramour. Partly, partly for lust, partly to test his 
powers before he took them into the arena of politics, partly because 
he was half-mad with suspicion of everyone by this time and only by 
such iron control dared to have any woman so close to his person.

No wonder, said Ijada, her voice shaking a little, he took no 
trouble to court me.

Lewko said quietly, That was grave sin and blasphemy indeed, 
to attempt to seize another's will. Free will is sacred even to the gods.

Was the leopard spirit meant to go into Ijada, then? asked 
Ingrey, puzzled. Did you put it there? As you once gave me my 
wolf?

No! Cumril fell silent a moment, then gathered himself again. 
Boleso took it, had just taken it, when the lady fought free from under 
him. And thensomething happened that no one controlled. I know 
not by what courage she seized the war hammer and struck him, but 
death, death opens the world to the gods. It all happened at once, in a 
moment. I was still working upon the leopard as Boleso's soul was torn 
from his body, and the godthe shockmy demonBoleso's soul 
struggled wildly, but could not get free of its defilements either to 
advance or retreat from the Presence.

The leopard, so barely anchored, was torn from him, and fell 
intono, was called into the lady. I heard a music like hunting horns in 
a distant dawn, and my heart seemed to burst with the sound. And my 
demon fell screaming in terror from it, and released its hold upon my 
mind, and fled in the only direction it could, inward and inward into a 
tight knot. It cowers there still-he touched his chest-but I do not 
know for how long. He added after a moment, Then I ran away and 
hid in my room. I wept so hard I could not breathe, for a time. He was 
weeping again now, a quiet sniveling, rocking in his chair.

From his place by the wall, Ingrey growled, I would know of 
an earlier beginning, Cumril.

Cumril looked, if possible, more fearful, but he ducked his head 
in acquiescence.

Ingrey breathed exhilaration and dread. Finally, some truths. He 
contemplated the miserable sorcerer. Maybe some truths. How came 
you to my father? Or did he come to you?

Lord Ingalef came to me, my lord.

Ingrey frowned; Lewko nodded.

His sister Lady Horseriver had fled to him in great fear, begging 
his aid. She had a frantic tale of her son Wencel having become 
possessed by an evil spirit of the Old Weald.

Lewko's head came up. Wencel!

Ingrey choked back a curse. In one sentence, a whole handful of 
new cards was laid upon the table, and in front of Lewko, too. 
Waitthis possession occurred before Wencel's mother's death? Not 
after?

Indeed, before. She thought it had happened at the time of his 
father's death, some four or so months earlier. The boy had changed so 
strangely then.

So already Wencel was caught in a lie. Or Cumril was. Or both 
could be lying, Ingrey reminded himself; but both could not be telling 
the truth. Go on.

The two concocted a plan for the rescue of her son, they 
thought. Lady Horseriver feared to go to the Temple openly, in part for 
terror that they might burn her boy if they could not release him from 
the possession. Cumril swallowed. She meant to fight Old Weald 
magic with Old Weald magic.

I, I, to this day I do not know. The huntsman spoke to me on 
his deathbed, half-raving by then; he, he, he was not bribed to the 
deed, of that I am sure. He did not guess his animals were diseased, or 
I think he would have handled them more carefully himself!

Ijada asked curiously, Where was young Wencel when all this 
was going on at Birchgrove?

His mother had left him at Castle Horseriver, I understood. She 
meant to keep her actions secret from him until she could bring help.

And the implications of this wereShe feared him? As well as 
for him? asked Ingrey.

Cumril hesitated, then ducked his head again. Aye.

Soif a geas could be set in a man to make him kill at another's 
will, as the parasite spell had been set in Ingrey, how much easier 
would it be to set one in a wolf-or in a horse? Was the death of Lady 
Horseriver, trampled by her mount, no accident either? What, now you 
suspect that Wencel killed his own mother? Ingrey's blood was 
thudding in his head now, but mostly in a sick headache.

But the why of his wolf was answered at last. A lethal mix of 
family loyalty, good intentions, bad judgmentand secret uncanny 
malice? Or was that last some lesser intent, gone wrong? Had the 
unseen foe meant to kill Lord Ingalef, or just his animals? My 
wolf-what of my wolf, which arrived so mysteriously?

Cumril shrugged helplessly. When its effect on you proved so 
disastrous, I thought it must have been sent like the rabid ones.

Lewko was pinching the bridge of his nose, his eyes squeezed 
shut. Lord Ingrey. Lady Ijada. You have both seen Earl Horseriver 
lately, and not just with mortal eyes. What do you say of this 
accusation?

You have seen him, too, said Ingrey cautiously. What did you 
sense?

Lewko glanced up in irritation; Ingrey thought him about to snap, 
I asked first!, but instead he took a controlling breath, and said, His 
spirit seems dark to me, though no more so than many a man who 
courts death as though to embrace it. It crossed my mind to fear for 
him, and for those near him, but not like this!

Ingrey? said Ijada. Her question was clear in her rising tone:

Should we not speak?

Wencel had been right: once the Temple started looking, they 
must find. And silence was the only sure safety. And it would, indeed, 
have been prudent to find and question Cumril before the Temple 
authorities did. Ingrey wondered grimly what else he would discover 
Wencel to have been right about. Wencel bears a spirit animal, yes. Its 
evil or good I cannot judge. I had guessed Cumril must have laid it in 
him, too, as part of the same dire plot that gave me mine, but now it 
seems not.

No, no, muttered Cumril, rocking again. Not me.

You did not mention this earlier, said Lewko to Ingrey, his 
tone suddenly very flat.

No. I did not. He returned the tone precisely.

Wild accusations, murmured Lewko, a questionable source, 
not a shred of material proof, and the third highest lord in the land. 
What more joys can this day bring me? No, don't answer that. Please.

Lewko glowered at her.

Cumril's confessions didn't make sense, in Ingrey's head. Why 
sacrifice one child to save another? What gain could there be in both 
heirs being defiled? His thrill at the seeming chance of uncovering old 
truths faded. How was making my father and me into spirit warriors 
supposed to rescue Wencel?

Lady Horseriver did not tell me.

What, and you did not ask? It seems a blithe disregard for your 
famous Temple disciplines, oh sorcerer, to kick them all aside at a 
woman's word.

Cumril stared at the floor, and muttered with extreme reluctance, 
She was god-touched. Mostmost grievously.

A new thought chilled Ingrey. If bearing an animal spirit 
sundered one from the gods, like Boleso, what had happened to Lord 
Ingalef's soul? That funeral had long been over before Ingrey had 
recovered enough to ask about it. None had told him that his father 
was sundered. None told me otherwise, either. Lord Ingalef had been 
as well buried in tacit silences as in earth.

He must have been sundered. There was no shaman at 
Birchgrove to cleanse him.

Oh. Wait. There had been one, hadn't there. Potentially. Ingrey's 
heart seemed to halt. Might I have saved?

He gulped back the unbearable realizations and stared at Cumril 
in a frustrated, hostile silence. Lewko's silence was far less revealing. 
Their gazes crossed and clashed. Ingrey began to suspect he was not 
the only man here who preferred to collect the information first and 
dole it out at his discretion later. The divine rose abruptly to his feet.

You had best come up with me to the temple now, Cumril, till I 
can make better arrangements for your safety. We will speak further on 
these matters. In private hung unspoken.

He saw shepherd and lost sheep out the front door; Lewko 
bade him and Ijada farewell with a promise, or threat, to meet again 
soon. Now that they seemed to have emerged officially from the private 
conclave, the warden fell upon her charge and hustled her upstairs once 
more. Ijada, her face set with dark thought, did not resist.

Ingrey took the stairs two at a time to his room, there to shed his 
court finery for clothing he could better move in, which would not catch 
his blades. He had a visit to make, and without delay.



CHAPTER SIXTEEN


IN THE WANING AFTERNOON LIGHT, INGREY MADE HIS WAY through 
the crooked streets of Kingstown. He wended past the old Rivermen's 
Temple that served the folk of the dock quarter, then around the town 
hall and the street market in the square behind it. The market was 
closing down for the day, with only a few peddlers left under awnings 
or with their goods spread out on mats, sad leftover vegetables or 
fruits, wilting flowers, rejected leatherwork, picked-over piles of 
clothing new or used. He threaded his way upslope into the district of 
great houses nearest the King's Hall, deliberately dodging over one 
street to avoid Hetwar's mansion and the heightened chance of 
encountering men he knew.

Earl-ordainer Horseriver's Easthome manse was a bride gift 
from Princess Fara, the cut-stone facade decorated with a frieze of 
bounding stags for the Stagthornes. Only the banner over the door 
displayed the running stallion above the rippling waters of the Lure, the 
badge of the old high kin that marked the earl as in residence.

In residence, but not yet at home, Ingrey shortly discovered 
from the liveried door guards. The earl and princess's party had not yet 
returned from the interment and whatever funeral feast had followed in 
the hallow king's hall. Ingrey encouraged the porter's assumption that 
he bore some important message from Sealmaster Hetwar, letting 
himself be escorted to Wencel's study, provided with a polite glass of 
wine, and left to wait.

The earl still wore the somber court garb Ingrey had seen him in 
at the funeral. He was shrugging out of his long coat as he shouldered 
through the door and shut it behind him. He folded the cloth over his 
arm and circled around Ingrey, who circled around him, each keeping a 
wary distance as though they were on two ends of a rope. The earl 
tossed the coat over a chair and half sat, half leaned against the writing 
table, motionless but not relaxed, not yielding any advantage of height 
or tension. His stare at Ingrey was speculative; his only greeting a 
murmured, Well, well, well.

Ingrey took up a careful position against the nearest bookcase, 
arms crossed. So what did you see?

My senses were tightly furled, as they always must be when I 
risk contact with the Temple's Sighted. But I hardly needed more; I 
could infer it all well enough. The Lord of Autumn could not have taken 
Boleso uncleansed, yet take him He did. There were but two men 
present who might have turned the task, and I knew it wasn't me. 
Therefore. Your masteries proceed apace, shaman. His slight bow 
might or might not have been mockery. Had Fara known and been 
capable of understanding, I'm sure she would have thanked you, 
wolf-lord.

Oh, fine new friends you have-until They betray you. If the 
gods toy with you, cousin, it is for Their ends, not yours.

Still, it seems I might be gifted with the salvation of more than 
Boleso. I could rescue you from your secret burden, save you from 
your fear of Temple pyres. How if I attempt to relieve you of your spirit 
horse? A safe offer; Ingrey suspected Wencel would rather be 
stripped of his skin.

Wencel's lips curled up. Alas, there is an impediment. I am not 
dead. Souls yet anchored to matter do not yield their loyal companions, 
any more than you could sing my life itself out of my body. Ingrey 
wasn't exactly sure what his expression revealed, but Wencel added, 
Don't believe me? Try it, then.

Ingrey moistened his lips, half closed his eyes, and reached 
down. He lacked the floating glory of the god's inspiration, but as it was 
the second trial, he might make up for it in confidence, he thought. He 
felt for that furled shadow within Wencel, extended his hand, and 
rumbled, Come.

It was like tugging on a mountain.

The shadow unfurled a little, but did not follow. Wencel's brows 
rose in brief surprise, and he caught a breath. Strong, he allowed.

But not strong enough, Ingrey conceded in return.

No.

Then you cannot cleanse me, either, Ingrey followed this out.

Not while you live, no.

Ingrey felt his careful course between opposed sides, Wencel 
and the Temple, to be narrowing dangerously. And if he did not choose 
before he lost all turning room, he risked betraying both powers. It was 
surely better to have one powerful enemy and one powerful ally than 
two offended enemies. But which should be which? He drew a long 
breath. I met an unexpected old acquaintance this afternoon. We had 
a long talk.

Cumril. Remember him?

A flare of nostrils and a sharp intake of breath. Ah.

Coincidentally, he proved to be just the man you were looking 
for as well. Remember your insistence that Boleso must have suborned 
an illicit sorcerer? Cumril was the one. I'd missed encountering him at 
Boar's Head, for he recognized and avoided me.

Wencel's eyes glittered with interest. Not so coincidental as all 
that. Illicit sorcerers are few, and the Temple expends much effort 
toward making them even fewer. He, at least, was one Boleso might 
have heard about, and secretly sought. He hesitated. It must have 
been an interesting chat. Did Cumril survive it?

Temporarily.

Where is he now?

I can't say. Precisely.

At some point very soon, I am going to grow tired enough to 
stop humoring you. It has been a long and most unpleasant day.

Very well, I shall come to the point. A question for you, 
Wencel. Why did you try to make me kill Ijada? A shot not quite in 
the dark, but Ingrey held his breath to see what target it found.

Wencel grew perilously still, but for a slight flare of his eyes. 
Where do you come by this conviction? Cumril? Not the most reliable 
of accusers.

No. Ingrey quoted back to him: There were but two men 
present who might have turned to the task, and I knew it wasn't me. 
Therefore. He added after a moment, I must find out how you make 
a geas. I suspect necromancy.

Wencel paused for a long time, as though sorting through a wide 
variety of responses. In a sense. He sighed, by the squaring of his 
shoulders seeming to come to some unwelcome decision. I would not 
call it a mistake, for if it had succeeded, it would have simplified my 
present life immeasurably. I would call it a false move, because of its 
peculiar consequences. I note merely, I am not playing against you.

Only indirectly.

Ingrey resolutely ignored the shivering in his belly, the thudding in 
his ears. The whirling confusion in his mind. What is really going on 
here, Wencel?

What do you think is going on?

I think you will do anything to protect your secrets.

Wencel tilted his head. Once, that was true. He added more 
softly, Though not for much longer, Iwell, do not pray.

Ingrey's body felt like a coiled spring. His hand caressed his 
knife haft. Wencel's glance did not miss the gesture.

How if I release your soul the old hard way? Ingrey returned 
as softly. Whatever your powers, I doubt they would survive if I 
sawed off your head and tossed it in the Stork.

At least Wencel did Ingrey's menace the compliment of holding 
very, very still. You cannot imagine how very much you would regret 
such an act. If you seek to rid yourself of me, that is exactly the wrong 
method. My heir.

Ingrey blinked in bafflement. I am no heir to kin Horseriver.

At law and in property, no. By the laws of the Old Weald, 
however, a nephew is next to a son in kinship. And as it seems this 
ill-made body of mine will not engender a son on Fara, you are the heir 
of my blood, should you be living when I next die. This is no particular 
joy or choice of mine, understand. The spell adopts you. 
The conversation had tilted too suddenly and violently for it to 
be all Ingrey's doing; Wencel had met his daring push with a mighty 
yank, which was doubtless why Ingrey felt as though he were hanging 
upside down just now. Over a dire drop. Into a most uncertain 
darkness. The pressure of his hand on his hilt sagged. Next die?

Oh, gods, Wencel, is this another of your bedtime tales?

This one shall keep you awake, I promise you. He drew 
breath. For sixteen generations of Horserivers, my soul has passed 
from father to son in an unbroken chain, save when it passed between 
brothers. It has proved an evil heritage. The death of this clay will not 
release me from the world of matter, but only into the next male body in 
my line. Which is yours, at the moment. My blood coils in you through 
your mother's and your father's sides both, for all that the unruly 
Wolfcliff camp lends so much to your singular surliness. Wencel 
grimaced.

Ingrey envisioned it: not a great beast, but a great man? And if 
the piled-up spirits of animals blended and transmuted into something 
more powerfully uncanny, what strange thing might the piled-up souls of 
men become? You have told me many lies, Wencel. Why should I 
believe this one?

Ingrey had spiraled toward the table as he paced, as though 
drawn on a cord. Wencel bent his head toward the threat looming at 
his shoulder, and his eyes glimmered steel-colored with a crush of 
emotions too strange for Ingrey to unravel: anger and scorn, pain and 
cruelty, curiosity and animosity. Shall I show you? It would be a just 
punishment for your presumption, I think.

Aye, Wencel, Ingrey breathed. Tell me true. For once.

Since you ask so pressingly Wencel rotated until they were 
face-to-face, inches apart, and placed his stubby hands on either side 
of Ingrey's head. I am the last high holy king of the Weald. Or Old 
Weald, so-called to distinguish it from modern mockeries.

Not at all. Or twice, depending on how you look at it. The 
earl's fingers found Ingrey's temples, caressing them in small sweaty 
circles, and he continued, I was a young man, heir to my high house, 
hunting in the meadows along the Lure before ever Audar was born to 
soil his swaddling clothes. The Darthacans pressed my kin tribe, 
squatted on our lands, cut down our forests, sent missionaries to defile 
our shrines, then soldiers to drag the missionaries' bodies home. My 
people fought and fell. I saw my father die, and my hallow king.

Pictures bloomed in Ingrey's head as Wencel spoke, too vivid to 
be his own imagination. This is a weirding voice indeed, to make me 
remember what I never saw. Dark forests, green valleys, palisades of 
timber embracing village houses built of wattle and daub, smoke rising 
sharp-scented from vents in their thatched roofs. Horsemen armored in 
boiled leather passing out the gates to battle, or back in, bloodied and 
drooping, their scant metal chinking in the chill air. Exhausted voices 
carried by the winter fog in a tongue that just eluded Ingrey's mind, but 
recalled Jokol's rolling poetry.

The next election cast the kingship upon me, for I was grown 
leader of a grim people by then, with sons to follow at my back. They 
made me their torch, and I burned for them in the gathering shadows. 
Our hearts were hot. But the gods denied our sacrifices and turned 
Their faces from us.

A tawny young man, anxious and resolute, nude but for signs 
painted upon his body, stood high on an oak branch in flickering 
torchlight. A halter of silky nettle flax circled his neck, and blood ran 
down his limbs from a careful series of cuts. He raised his outstretched 
hands high, and spoke, vibrant voice marred by a quaver; then fell 
forward as a man might dive off a high rock into a pool. Nearly to the 
ground the fall was jerked to a neck-cracking stopWencel's dilated 
eyes shivered. Was that one of the princely sons, sent to the gods as 
courier from his hallow king? This was truth by the riverful; Ingrey 
felt as if he were being held head down in it till his brain might burst. 
The visions flowed on, engendered by the whispered words, in an 
overwhelming stream.

Voices sang, beating upward against the night like wings. The 
trees shivered as if caressed by the breath of them. The deep blended 
tones made Ingrey's every hair rise.

But we could not risk the continuity of the kingship in battle, for 
if I were to fall, the spell would shatter, and all who were bound into it 
would be lost in the instant. So my eldest son

Bearded blond youth, faithful face etched by strain to untoward 
age. Some kinship in both those features and that strain, yes, to the 
tawny youth in the oak-brother or cousin?

and I together undertook the great binding, so that kingship, 
soul, horse, hub, and all together might be handed down without a 
break, regardless of where or when or how our bodies met their ends. 
Until the victory was ours.

Wencel paused. You do begin to see where this is going?

Ingrey made a faint noise through parted lips, not quite a squeak, 
not quite a sigh. Wencel shifted to place himself more square to Ingrey. 
He did not draw back; his breath ghosted against Ingrey's face as he 
spoke.

Audar's troops took me in the first hours of the fight. Broke my 
body, wrapped me in my royal banner, threw me in the first ditch they 
dug. They began the butchery even before the fighting was done. I died 
with my mouth full of black blood and dirt

The stench of it made Ingrey gag, a soup of filth and blood and 
urine.

and awoke in the body of my child, man-child by then. 
Prisoner, by then. Our eyes were spared no horror. The ax fell upon 
our neck like a lover's welcome kiss, at the end. I thought it ended. 
Defeat was ashes in my mouth

then I awoke in the body of my second son, miles away 
upon the border. I had escaped the massacre at Bloodfield in the 
hardest way, upon the wings of our weirding. His mind was unprepared 
for me. I had to wrestle him for speech, motion, the light of his eyes. 
We were all mad for a little while, we three, trapped in his skull. But 
first I won his body, then began my war to win back the Weald.

Ingrey gulped for control of his own voice, if only to be 
reassured by the sound of it that he was still inside his own head. I 
have heard of that Horseriver prince, I think. He was a famous battle 
lord. Campaigned for twenty years along the fens, till his defeat and 
death.

Defeat, yes. Death-ah. My son's son was but twenty when I 
took his body from him. Holytree was an abandoned waste by then

A sodden woods, leafless in an icy mist, struggled up from black 
mire. The trees were twisted, knotted with cysts from which cold sap 
smeared down in frozen grains like phlegm from rheumy eyes.

every kin warrior who had been spell-bound there was 
dead, by battle or accident or age, even the few who had escaped the 
massacre. Save one.

Wencel's own eyes, boring into Ingrey's, now seemed something 
from a dream. The visions circled in those pupils, sucked away as by a 
drain. Visions that did not deceive, Wencel had once said. Perhaps; 
but Ingrey, too, knew how to lie with truth, truth and selected silences. I 
believe what I see. What do I not see?

The resistance went ill. There were many deaths in quick 
succession, among the exiled Horseriver kin of the old royal line. I 
found myself trapped in the body of a useless child, and in my 
impatience ate him; they treated us as mad. It was thirty years and 
another death before I won my way to leadership again. But no kin 
would fight for us anymore. I turned to politics, to the attempt to win 
back the Weald from within. I amassed wealth, and what power I 
could, and learned to bend men when I could not break them. I 
watched for fissures in the Darthacan royal house and applied myself to 
widening them.

Aye, and his son, and his son's son. I cascaded from body to 
body, amassing a great density of life. But my sons were not voluntary 
sacrifices to me, anymore. The gods, they say, accumulate souls 
without destroying them, which is proof, if any were needed, that I was 
no god on earth. If the invaded minds were not to explode in madness, 
only one could dominate. There was by then no choice of whose.

For a hundred and fifty years I fought, and schemed, and bled, 
and died, and defiled my soul by fatal error and the cannibal 
consumption of my children's children's children. And for one glorious 
moment I thought myself done, the Weald renewed. But the new 
kingship had no weirding in it, no song of the land, none of the old 
forest powers. It was adulterated by the gods. I was not released from 
my cycle of torment. My war was over but not won.

Thus began that line of strange and famously reclusive Earls 
Horseriver

Can you not be released from your spell? Ingrey whispered. 
Somehow?

Wencel's voice and face both cracked. Do you think I have not 
tried?

Ingrey flinched at the shout. You need a miracle, I think.

Oh, the gods have long hunted me. Wencel's grin grew unholy. 
They harry me hard, now. They want me; but I do not want them, 
Ingrey. 
Ingrey had to force his voice to an audible volume. What do 
you want, then?

The vision returned in breathtaking light, drenched in color. A 
man, a laughing woman, and a gaggle of youths reined in their horses on 
the reedy margins of the Lure, and watched in awe as a family of gray 
herons flew up into the bursting gold of dawn.

And for an instant, Horseriver's eyes cried, Damn you for 
making me remember that! The hour of drowning in blood and 
despair had borne with it a less piercing pain. His trembling grip 
tightened on Ingrey's face, fingers pressing hard enough to bruise. I 
want my world back.

Ah. That was not an image doled out by design. It escaped.

Ingrey moistened his lips. But you can't have it. No one could.

The brief flare faded back into dry dark, darkness absolute, and 
Ingrey knew the visions were over.

I know. Not all the gods together, by any miracle they might 
devise, can give me my desire.

Do you fear the gods will destroy you?

That disturbing smile again. That is not a fear. That is a prayer.

Ordo you fear their punishment? That they would plunge 
your soul into some eternal torment?

Wencel leaned forward, up on his toes. That, he breathed in 
Ingrey's ear, would be redundant. To Ingrey's intense relief he finally 
released his grip, stepping back once more. He cocked his head as if 
studying Ingrey's face. But you'll learn all about that, if your luck holds 
ill. 
Ingrey should have thought he'd faced a raving lunatic, but for 
the stream of searing sights Wencel had sent spinning through his head. 
Whatever truth he had sought to shake from Wencel, it had not been 
this. Staggered he was, and Wencel could doubtless tell it from the 
winded way he sagged against the table, for all that he clutched the 
edge to conceal any betraying shudder in his body. Disbelievinghe 
merely wished he could be.

A knock sounded on the chamber door, and both men jerked. 
What? the earl called, his sharp tone not inviting entry.

My lord. The dutiful voice of some senior servant. My lady is 
ready to depart and begs your company.

Wencel's lips thinned in annoyance, but he called back, Tell her 
I come anon. Footsteps faded outside, and Wencel sighed and turned 
back briefly to Ingrey. We are to attend upon her father. It is going to 
be an unpleasant evening. You and I shall have to continue this later.

I, too, would wish to go on, Ingrey conceded, considered his 
words, and decided to let the dual meaning-speaking or just 
breathing-stand unaided.

Wencel measured him, still wary. You understand, our family 
curse is asymmetrical. While my death would be your disaster, the 
reverse does not hold.

Why do you not slay me as I stand, then? For all of Ingrey's 
fighting edge, he did not doubt Wencel could do so. Somehow.

It would stir up troubles I am still contemplating. At present, the 
spell would merely replace you with another, perhaps more 
inconvenient. Your Birchgrove cousin, likely. Unless you have some 
Darthacan by-blow I know nothing of.

The matter shifts, over time, in ways I do not control. You 
might have died in Darthaca. Fara might have conceived a son. 
Wencel's mouth twisted. Others might be born or die. I learned long 
ago not to exhaust myself grappling problems that time will carry away 
on its tide. He walked back and forth once across the chamber, as if 
to shake the tension out of his body. Ingrey wished he might dare do 
the same.

At the end of his circuit, Wencel turned again. It seems we are 
to be saddled with each other for a little, will or nil. How if you enter 
my service?

Ingrey rocked back. He had a thousand questions, to which 
Wencel, and possibly Wencel alone, held the answers. Close 
attendance upon the earl must reveal something more. And if I say no, 
how long do I get to live? He temporized. I owe Lord Hetwar much. 
I would not lightly leave his house, nor would he lightly release me, I 
think.

Wencel shrugged. How if I begged you of him? He would not 
lightly refuse Princess Fara's husband such a favor.

No, but I might beseech Hetwar to evade or delay. If 
Hetwar gives his leave, then.

A nice loyalty. I cannot fault it, who would have a like one from 
you.

I admit, your offer interests me strangely.

Wencel's dry smile acknowledged all the possible meanings of 
those ambiguous words. I have no doubt of it. He sighed and walked 
to the chamber door, indicating this interview was drawing to its end. 
Obediently, Ingrey followed him.

Tell me one thing more tonight, though, Ingrey said as he 
reached the portal. 
Earl Horseriver raised his brows in curious permission.

Horseriver touched his forehead. His memories still exist, lost in 
a sea of such.

But Wencel does not? He is destroyed?

The earl shrugged. Where is the fourteen-year-old Ingrey, then, 
if not there-he gestured to Ingrey's head in turn-in like disarray? They 
are both victims of a common enemy. If there is one thing that I have 
come to hate more than the gods, it is time. He gestured Ingrey out. 
Farewell. Find me tomorrow, if you will.

There seemed something terribly wrong with Wencel's argument, 
but in his present dizzied state Ingrey could not finger what. In a few 
moments he found himself in the street again, blinking in the sunset light. 
It somehow surprised him that Easthome was still standing. It felt as 
though the city ought to have been churned to rubble during the small 
eternity he'd spent within, not one stone left upon another.

As I have been?

Gaps. Silences. Things not mentioned. For a man so sick with a 
surfeit of time, why was Wencel so anxious now? What drove him out 
of his reclusive routine, and into, apparently, such unaccustomed 
action? For Ingrey read him as a man pressed, and silently furious to be 
so.

He shook his aching head and turned for the sealmaster's palace.



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN


HE WAS HALFWAY TO HETWAR'S WHEN THE REACTION SET IN, 
turning his knees to tallow. A low abutment along a house wall flanking 
the street made a good enough bench, and he sank down upon it, 
bracing his hands on his thighs and his back against the day-warmed 
stone. He blinked and breathed deeply against his dizziness. It felt 
peculiarly like the aftermath of one of his wolf-fits, tumbling back into a 
stream of time he had temporarily exited; like falling back to earth after 
a dream of flight. Except that it was his mind, and not his body this 
time, that had ascended into that state where response flowed without 
thinking in some desperate dance for survival.

That was real, Wencel's tale. Five gods.

Horseriver's tale, he amended this thought. How much of 
Wencel lived on in that slight and crooked body was hard to say.

His second thought was a flash of envy. To live forever! How 
could a man not achieve happiness, with so many chances to flee old 
errors, to make it right? To build up wealth and power and knowledge? 
The envy faded upon reflection. Horseriver had paid for his many lives 
with many deaths, it seemed, and the spell gave him no respite from any 
horror entailed. Burning is a painful death. I do not recommend it, 
Wencel had once remarked, and Ingrey had thought him joking. In 
retrospect, the tone seemed more the judgment of a connoisseur.

Would surety of his own survival make a man more brave in 
battle? It was true that many of Wencel's ancestorsrephrase, that 
Earl Horseriver had many times died not-peacefully. Or would the 
knowing of how much pain a death could inflict make one more afraid? 
Two of the most grotesque endings, Ingrey had just relived body and 
mind along with Horseriver, and the mere memories shook him near to 
vomiting. More ghostly suggestions of other such fates spun outward in 
repetition like a man's image caught between two mirrors, and the 
thought of them going on past counting made his stomach clench again.

Realization of the other cost came to him then, not one 
Horseriver had held up before his mind's eye, but still leaking in around 
all of the searing visions. Ingrey had no child, had scarcely considered 
the possibility, but the dream of a son inspired in him a fierce vague 
sense of protectiveness nonetheless. Rooted, perhaps, in his own 
child-mind's hunger for a father's regard, bolstered by his happier 
memories of Lord Ingalef, Ingrey at least had some notion of what a 
father ought to be.

And not just bodies and wives. Where did the souls go of all 
those spell-seized sons? Bound into the whole, digested but not wholly 
destroyedit seemed the spell stole not only lives, but eternities. 
Carrying them along in broken pieces to the next generation, the next 
century, a jumbled, melting accumulation. Had Horseriver-the thought 
gave Ingrey more pause than all that had gone before-had Horseriver 
himself ever slain an especially beloved child before his own foreseen 
death, to spare that soul before it could be bound into this horror?

I think that may have happened a time or two, as well. In 
four centuries of lives frequently shortened by violence, there had surely 
been opportunity for every variation on the theme.

Dangerous, powerful, magical, immortaland mad. Or nearly 
so. Wencel's brittle glibness took on a new tone, in retrospect. His 
baffling actions, wrenching back and forth between spurts of energy 
and withdrawal, still bewildered Ingrey, but Ingrey no longer reached 
for the reasons of ordinary men to explain them. He still did not 
understand Wencel, but the depth of his own misapprehension was at 
least revealed to him. Look to souls, Ingrey, Ijada had said. Indeed.

How many more iterations before Wencel lost even his present 
fragile function, and became so deranged as no longer to pass as lucid 
at all? As the spell spun on, it might look to the outside eye perhaps like 
some family disease, one blood relative after another struck down by 
dementia in youth, or middle age. 
One more iteration, I think. The next transfer was going to be 
different, if Ingrey lived to receive it. His wolf would make it so. 
Different, but not, necessarily, good.

Save for when he had received his wolf, this day was shaping up 
to be the most devastating Ingrey had ever experienced, beginning with 
looking a god in the eye and ending with Wencel's terrifying visions. He 
wanted nothing more now than to stagger home to clutch Ijada and 
howl the news into her ear. Home? The narrow house was surely no 
home to him. But wheresoever she is, there is my place. In the chaos 
and confusion of a battlefield, the standard held up above the swirl was 
the meeting point for the battered and lost, the place to regroup, find a 
trusted comrade against whom to place one's own bleeding back, and 
face outward again.

And she must be warned of this threatened transformation. 
It was disturbing beyond measure to realize that Wencel's fearsome 
heritage had been hanging over his head for years, and he had never 
known it. The timing of his body's capture was wholly in Wencel's 
power. The earl could have taken a knife to his own throat at any time 
and effected his preternatural transfer at will. Althoughupon 
reflection, Ijada was perhaps the only person in the Weald who might 
be able to perceive his soul's adulteration upon sight. Perceive, but not 
necessarily understand; and Wencel's lies, coming out of Ingrey's mouth 
in Ingrey's voice, would surely be artful and practiced.

He forced himself back to his feet and started down the street 
again, trying not to weave like a drunken man. The motion helped settle 
his stomach and mind a little. He found himself passing the yellow stone 
front of Hetwar's palace, home of sorts for the past four years, and 
hesitated, reminded of his first panicked impulse to run to his patron. 
He was suddenly entirely unsure of what he wanted to tell Hetwar 
about Horseriver now, but the sealmaster had instructed Ingrey to see 
him earlier; at least he should discover if new orders awaited. He 
turned in.

The porter warned him, My lord is in council. 
Ingrey nearly decamped, but said instead prudently, Tell him I 
wait, and ask his pleasure of me.

Ingrey nodded, made his way up the wide stairs, and turned 
down the familiar corridor. He weaved around a servant lighting wall 
sconces against the gathering twilight. A rap on the study door elicited 
Hetwar's voice: Enter.

He turned the latch and slipped within, then controlled a recoil 
against the closing door. Grouped around Hetwar's writing table were 
Prince-marshal Biast, Learned Lewko, and the archdivineordainer of 
Easthome himself, Fritine kin Boarford. Gesca stood against a wall in a 
strained posture that hinted of a man making difficult reports to his 
superiors. The whole array of eyes turned upon Ingrey.

Good, said Hetwar. We were just discussing you, Ingrey. 
Are you recovered from your morning's indisposition?

His expression was decidedly ironic. Concluding, after a short 
mental review of the options, that the question was unanswerable, 
Ingrey returned a mere nod and studied his unwelcome audience.

Archdivine Fritine was an uncle of the present twin earls, a scion 
of the prior generation of Boarfords, dedicated to Temple service when 
too many older brothers made his chance of achieving high place in his 
kin lands unlikely. A long and typical career of a noble Temple-man lay 
behind him, by no means unhonorable; if he favored his kin, he equally 
ensured that they disgorged a steady return of favors to the Temple. 
His appointment to Easthome, with its important ordainer's vote, had 
occurred some seven years ago, the culmination of that career. And 
those favors.

In Ingrey's observation, Fritine and Hetwar tolerated each other 
fairly well, both men being equally practical. Through them, Kingstown 
and Templetown worked more often in tandem than opposed-often, 
but not invariably. A certain tension lay between them at present over 
the impending election, as Hetwar counted Fritine's vote among the 
uncertain; the archdivine had connections on his mother's side to both 
the Hawkmoors and the Foxbriars. And Fritine had used the excuse of 
his mediating Temple position to avoid promising his vote to anyone, 
yet. No doubt he found that uncertainty useful.

Who was presently chewing on his knuckles and staring at 
Ingrey in a most unsettling fashion, Ingrey realized. Ingrey favored him 
with a polite nod and waited for someone else to begin. Anyone but 
me. Five gods, my wits are unfit for this perilous company just 
now.

The archdivine plunged in at once. Learned Lewko tells us you 
claim to have experienced a miracle in the Temple court this morning.

Ingrey wondered how Fritine would react if he said, No, I 
granted one. I was disinclined, but the god begged me so prettily. 
Instead, he replied, Nothing I could prove in a court of law, sir. Or so 
I am informed.

Lewko shifted uncomfortably under his level look.

I was there, said the archdivine coolly.

So you were.

I saw nothing. To Fritine's credit, in his expression of mixed 
worry and suspicion, worry seemed uppermost.

Ingrey inclined his head in a suitably infuriating gesture of utter 
neutrality. Yes, let them reveal their thoughts first.

Prince-marshal Biast said, rather hopefully, One could assert 
that the Son of Autumn taking Boleso's soul was good evidence against 
the accusation of his tampering with animal spirits. 
One could assert anything one pleased, Ingrey agreed 
cordially. And as long as one's eyewitness Cumril was found floating 
facedown in the Stork by tomorrow morning, there would be none to 
gainsay it. Certainly not me.

That will not happen, said the archdivine. Cumril is in strict 
custody. Justice will be served.

Good. Then howsoever Boleso's soul be rescued, at least his 
character will get what it deserves.

Biast winced.

Hetwar said firmly, So tell me, Lord Ingrey. At what point did 
you discover that Lady Ijada had also been infected with an animal 
spirit?

Ah, they had indeed been comparing Ingrey stories. No help for 
it now. The first day out from Boar's Head.

With his usual deceptive calm, Hetwar inquired, And you did 
not think this worthy of mention to me?

Gesca, standing by the opposite wall and doing his best to 
appear invisible, shrank at that tone. And who were you penning your 
letters to, Gesca, if not Hetwar? Horseriver, judging by the neat way 
he'd turned up on the road. And if so, was Gesca a conduit to him still?

Ingrey replied, At first opportunity, I placed the problem before 
Temple authority in the person of Learned Hallana. Who sent me to 
Learned Lewko. In a sense. I awaited his guidance, it being clearly a 
Temple concern, but alas it was delayed by the crisis of the ice bear. 
By the time we had another chance to speak, this afternoon, it was 
rather overridden by other matters. Other matters? Or the same 
matter, from another angle of view? Who but the gods saw around all 
corners simultaneously? It was a disturbing new thought. Well, shift the 
blame to the saint-who was watching Ingrey's shuffle with a certain dry 
appreciation-and see who in this room dared to chide him.

Ingrey drew a long breath. That such a grave charge is surely a 
matter for a proper Temple inquiry.

And what would that inquiry find?

How great were Wencel's powers of concealment? Better than 
Ingrey's own, that was certain. I imagine that would depend upon their 
competence, sir.

Ingrey. Hetwar's warning tone, the special one pushed 
through his teeth, made both Gesca and Biast flinch, this time. Ingrey 
stood fast. The man is an earl-ordainer, and we are on the verge of an 
election. I thought he was a staunch advocate of the rightful heir.

He nodded to Biast, who nodded back gratefully. Fritine 
blinked, and said nothing.

Hetwar continued, If this is not the case, I need to know! I 
cannot afford to lose his support in some untimely arrest.

Well, said Ingrey blandly, then your solution is simple. Wait 
until after you have extracted his vote to turn and attack him.

Biast looked as though he'd bitten into a worm. Hetwar seemed, 
for a moment, as if he was actually considering this. Fritine looked 
blank indeed, and Ingrey wondered anew where his ordaining vote was 
promised.

Had Cumril's chances of kissing the Stork just gone up? Do I 
care? Ingrey sighed. Probably. Ingrey came to the glum realization that 
there was not a man in this room that he would fully trust with his 
newest revelations about Horseriver. I want Ijada.

Ingrey clenched his hands behind his back. My turn. 
Archdivine. You are both theologian and ordainer. You must know if 
anyone does. Can you tell me-what is the precise theological 
difference between the hallow kingship of the Old Weald and its 
renewed form under Quintarian orthodoxy?

Fritine drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. The old 
hallow king was elected by the heads of the thirteen strongest kin 
tribes. The new, by eight great kin houses and five Temple ordainers. 
The rights of blood and primogeniture are given greater 
precedence-he glanced at Biast-after the Darthacan manner. Since 
the election of the hallow king more often than not used to be a pretext 
for tribal warfare, this more peaceful transfer of powers between 
generations itself seems the mark of godly blessings. His further nod to 
Biast gave impulsion to the hint, And let us keep it that way.

A political answer was not what I asked for, said Ingrey. 
Was the old hallow king always a spirit warrior, oror a shaman? 
And how unsafe was it going to prove, to release that particular term 
into the conversation?

Lewko sat up with a look of growing interest. I have heard 
something of the sort. The old hallow king was supposed to be the hub 
of many intertribal rites; perhaps more mage than holy, in truth.

Ingrey tried to imagine any hallow king in the recent past as 
magical, and failed. Nor holy either, in truth. So that-uncanny 
power-is all gone from the kingship?

Yes? said Lewko.

Ingrey wasn't sure if that rising inflection was meant as assent or 
encouragement. So-what's left? What makes the hallow kingship 
hallowed now?

The archdivine's eyebrows went up. The blessings of the five 
gods. 
Your pardon, Learned, but I get blessed by the five gods every 
Quarterday Service. It does not make me holy.

Ingrey ignored him and forged on. Is there any more to this 
kingly blessing than pious good wishes?

The archdivine said sonorously, There is prayer. The five 
archdivine-ordainers pray for guidance in their vote; all invite their gods 
for a sign.

Ingrey rather thought he had delivered a couple of those signs 
himself, in clinking bags. It had not made him feel like a messenger of 
the gods. What else? What other changes? There must be something 
more. The slight strain in his voice betrayed too much urgency, and he 
swallowed to bring it back under close control. Five old kin groups 
were now missing from the mix, true, three of them extinct, two 
diminished. Five Temple-men replaced them smoothly enough, and 
who could say they were any less true representatives of their people? 
Yet the election had created Horseriver a mage-king once, created him 
something extraordinary. Aye, and he never stopped being it, did he? 
Was the present kingship empty in part because Horseriver held on to 
something in his deathlessness that he should have yielded back?

Biast, who had been jittering in his chair during this, interrupted. 
If the accusation against Wencel is true, I am deeply concerned for the 
safety of my sister.

Ingrey bore no love for Fara, after what she had done to Ijada, 
but considering his suspicions of the fate of Horseriver's last 
wife-mother, he had to allow the point. Your concern seems valid to 
me, my lord.

Hetwar sat up at that admission.

Ingrey added, I am reminded, Sealmaster. Earl Horseriver has 
lately hinted to me that he desires my service. I beg you, if he asks, to 
say you will not release me. I fear to refuse him to his face. I don't wish 
to invoke his enmity. 
Hetwar's brows drew down in furious thought. The archdivine 
stared, and said, Two spirit-defiled men to be in the same house? 
Why does he desire this?

Fritine turned in his seat. Lewko?

Lewko spread his hands. I would need a closer look at him. 
And the aid of the god, which I cannot force.

Fritine turned back to Ingrey, frowning. I would have you 
speak more plainly, Lord Ingrey.

Ingrey shrugged. Consider what you demand, Archdivine. If 
you wish my testimony of the unseen and the uncanny, you cannot pick 
and choose. You must take all, or none. And I doubt you are ready to 
accept me as some sort of courier from the gods, bearing orders for 
you.

While Fritine was digesting the implications of that remark, 
Ingrey continued, As for Wencel, he claims to be reminded of our 
cousinship. Belatedly enough. Well, that too was true in a sense.

Biast said indignantly, You would leave my sister unprotected in 
a house where you fear to go yourself? His brow wrinkled, and he 
added more slowly, You are loyal to my lord Hetwar, are you not?

He has never betrayed me. Yet. Ingrey gave a little ambiguous 
bow.

Biast continued, But if the accusation is truewho better to 
protect the princess from, from any uncanny act her husband might 
take, or to rescue her from that place if the need arises? And you might 
observe, inform, report

Spy? said Fritine, in an interested tone. Could he do that, do 
you think, Hetwar?

Ingrey raised a brow. Now you would have me take a lying 
oath of service, my lords? he inquired sweetly. 
Ingrey, stop that, snapped Hetwar. Your graveyard notions 
of humor have no place in this council.

As close as he ever comes to it.

I wonder that you endure it.

His trying style has proved to have its uses. From time to time. 
He wanders his own twisted path, and brings back prizes no logical 
man would have even suspected were there. I've never been sure if it 
was a talent or a curse. Hetwar sat back and regarded Ingrey acutely. 
Could you do this?

Ingrey hesitated. It would make official what he had been doing 
half-awarely all along; playing both ends against the middle while 
desperately collecting fragments that he hoped would fall into some 
pattern. And keeping his own counsel betimes.

He could say no. He could.

I admit, he said instead, slowly, I, too, desire to understand 
more of Wencel. He added to Biast, And why do you suddenly think 
your sister in danger now, and not anytime these past four years?

Biast looked a trifle embarrassed. These past four years, I was 
scarcely paying attention. We met but once after her wedding, and 
wrote seldom. I assumed, assumed she was well disposed of by my 
father, and content withal. I had my own duties. It was not till she 
spoke with me-well, I taxed her-this past day that she revealed how 
unhappy she had grown.

What did she say to you? asked Hetwar.

She'd intended no such harm to fall out of the, um, events at 
Boar's Head. She thought Boleso had grown too wild, yes, but hoped 
that perhaps he and, um, Lady Ijada might grow content with one 
another, in time. That the girl might calm him. Fara feels her lack of 
children keenly, though I must say, it is not clear to me that the fault in 
that is hers. She thought her husband's eye had fallen on her new 
handmaiden, for it was he who brought her into Fara's household. 
That last is new, thought Ingrey. Ijada had thought the offer the 
work of her Badgerbank aunt, but who had stirred up the aunt to 
remember her? Could Wencel have been thinking of a new heir, to 
place between himself and Ingrey? Or were his motives in securing 
Ijada something altogether else? Altogether else, I now think. He 
would not so bestir himself without reason, but his reasons are not 
those of other men.

The prince-marshal vented an unhappy Mm. It was not a noise 
of disagreement.

The archdivine cleared his throat. I would observe, Lord 
Ingrey, that by your testimony to Learned Lewko-and certain other 
evidences-it seems your spirit wolf is now unbound. You stand in 
violation of your dispensation.

His bland tone concealed not so much menace, or acute fear, as 
pressure, Ingrey decided. So. He knew how to deal with simple 
pressure.

It was not by my will, sir. A safely uncheckable assertion. It 
was an accident that occurred when Learned Hallana took the geas off 
me. And so, in a sense, the Temple's own doing. Yes, blame the 
absent. While I can't say it was the gods' will, two gods have been 
quick enough to make use of it. Was that the barest nervous flinch on 
Fritine's part? Ingrey took a breath. Now you desire to make use of it, 
too, setting me to guard Princess Fara. This seems to me a grave 
mandate, for a man you do not trust. Or do you mean to extract the use 
of me first, then turn on me? I warn you, I can swim. 
Fritine considered this bait for a long moment and shrewdly 
declined to bite. Then it behooves you to continue to make yourself 
useful, don't you think?

Hetwar shifted a little uncomfortably at this blatant exchange. It 
was not that he was above threats, but he had always managed to find 
smoother ways to move Ingrey to his will, a courtesy Ingrey 
appreciated aesthetically if nothing else.

Since you put it so compellingly, said Ingrey-Hetwar 
grimaced, he saw out of the corner of his eye-I will undertake to be 
your spy. And the princess's bodyguard. He gave Biast a polite nod, 
which Biast, at least, had the mother wit to return.

This brings up the disposition of the prisoner, said Hetwar. If 
Wencel is suspect, so is his courtesy of housing Lady Ijada. It may be 
time to move her to more secure quarters.

Ingrey froze. Was Ijada to be torn from his wardenship? He said 
carefully, Would that not prematurely reveal your suspicions to 
Wencel?

By no means, said the archdivine. Such a change was 
inevitable, after the funeral.

It seems to me her present lodging is adequate, protested 
Ingrey. She makes no attempt to run, trusting to Temple justice. I did 
mention she was naive, he added, by way of a jab at Fritine.

Yes, but you cannot guard two places at once, Biast pointed 
out logically.

Hetwar, finally growing alive to the sudden tension in Ingrey's 
stance, held up a restraining hand. We can discuss this later. I thank 
you for volunteering in this difficult matter, Lord Ingrey. How soon do 
you think you might slip into Horseriver's household?

Tonight? said Biast. 
No! I must see Ijada! It would look odd, I fear, if I were to 
arrive before he begged me of you, Lord Hetwar. Nor should you let 
yourself be persuaded too readily. And I am in need of food and 
sleep. That last was unblunted truth, at least.

Perhaps you might arrange to visit her yourself, then.

I have no uncanny powers to set against Wencel!

You begin to believe you need me unburned, then, do you? 
Good. Is there no Temple sorcerer to set in guard, meanwhile?

The ones I deem suitable are out on tasks, said Lewko. I 
shall dispatch an urgent recall as soon as I may. Fritine nodded to this.

Peace, prince, said Hetwar to Biast, who was opening his 
mouth again. I think we can take no further sensible action tonight. 
He pushed up from his writing table with a tired grunt. Ingrey, step out 
with me.

Ingrey excused himself to the seated powers, making sure to 
direct a special little farewell bow to Gesca just to worry him. If Gesca 
was Horseriver's spy, how would Wencel react when this report 
reached him? Although the earl must have anticipated Cumril's 
accusation. At least Gesca might testify that the suspicion hadn't come 
from Ingrey. Yes. Let Gesca run, for now. Follow his scent, see if it 
goes where I think.

Ingrey followed Hetwar down the dim, carpeted corridor, well 
out of earshot of the closed study door. My lord?

Hetwar turned to him and stood close under a sconce. The 
candlelight edged his troubled features. It had been my belief before 
now that Wencel's keen interest in the upcoming election was on his 
brother-in-law's behalf. He has been deep in my councils therefore. 
Now I've cause to wonder if, like Boleso, it is some much closer 
desire.

Has he made new actions aside from his odd interest in Ijada? 
Say rather, old actions seen in a new light. Hetwar rubbed his 
forehead, and squeezed his eyes shut, briefly. While you are guarding 
Fara, keep your eyes open for evidences of any, shall I say, unhealthily 
personal interest on Wencel's part in the next hallow kingship.

This statement does not reassure me, Ingrey. Not when a 
certain wolf-lord has uttered the words kingship and magery in the 
same breath. I know very well you left things unsaid in there.

Wild speculation bears its own hazards.

Indeed. I want facts. I do not wish to lose a valuable ally 
through offensive false accusations, nor conversely to fail to guard 
against a dangerous enemy.

My curiosity in this matter is as great as yours, my lord.

Good. Hetwar clapped him on the shoulder. Go, then, and 
see about that food and sleep you mentioned. You look like death on a 
platter, you know. Are you sure you weren't really ill, this morning?

I should have much preferred it. Did Lewko report my 
confession?

Of your so-called vision? Oh, aye, and a lurid tale it was. He 
hesitated. Though Biast seemed to take some comfort in it.

Did you believe it?

Hetwar cocked his head. Did you?

Oh, breathed Ingrey, yes.

Hetwar stood very still, first seeking Ingrey's eyes, then, after a 
moment, dropping his gaze uncomfortably. I regret missing that 
entertainment. So what did you and the god really say to each other?

Weargued.

Hetwar's lips curled up in a genuine, if dry, smile. Why does 
this not surprise me? I wish the gods well of you. May They have better 
luck getting straight answers from you than I ever did. He began to 
turn away.

Hetwar turned back. Aye?

If, ah Ingrey swallowed to moisten his throat. A favor. If, 
for any reason, my cousin Wencel should suddenly die in the next few 
days, I beg you will see that I am brought at once before a Temple 
inquiry. With the best sorcerers Lewko can muster doing the 
examination.

Hetwar frowned, staring at him. The frown deepened. He 
started to speak, but closed his lips again. I suppose, he said at last, 
you imagine you can just hand me a thing like that and walk off, eh?

So you swear, yes.

You are confusing swear and curse, I think.

Swear.

Yes, then.

Good.

Ingrey bowed and retreated. Hetwar did not call him back. 
Though a low and breathy cursing did, indeed, drift to Ingrey's ears as 
he turned for the stairs.



CHAPTER EIGHTEEN


IJADA WAS SITTING AT THE BOTTOM OF THE STAIRCASE AS THE 
porter admitted Ingrey to the prison-house's entry hall, hunched over 
with her arms wrapped even more tightly about herself than the last 
time. Her warden sat a few steps above her, looking on in disquiet. 
Ijada sprang to her feet, her eyes searching Ingrey's face for he knew 
not what, but she seemed to find it, for she pounced upon him. 
Grasping his arm, she dragged him into the side room, slamming the 
door on the disapproving but cowed face of the warden.

What was that, a while ago? Ijada demanded. What 
happened to you?

Visions, Ingrey, terrible visions. Not from the god, I swear. 
Some little while after you went out, I was overcome again. My knees 
gave way. The world around me did not fade altogether this time, but 
the pictures were stronger than memory, less than hallucination. Ingrey, 
I saw Bloodfield, I saw my men! Not tattered and worn as they were in 
my dream in the Wounded Woods, but from before, when they yet 
lived. She hesitated. Died.

Did you sense Wencel? Did you see him or hear his voice?

No, notnot as he is. These visions were in your mind, I think. 
Were they not?

Yes. Pictures from before-times, yes? The Old Weald. The 
massacre at Bloodfield.

She shuddered and touched her own neck, and the horrible 
crunch of the ax parting bone sounded again in Ingrey's memory. She 
felt that, too.

Why do we share such things? What has happened between 
us? she asked.

The pictures, those visions-Wencel put them in me. He is not 
just spirit warrior like you, not just shaman like me. He's more. Lost out 
of time, terrible in his power and pain. He thinks he is-he claims to 
be-hallow king.

But old Lord Stagthorne is king, has been since before I was 
born-how can there be two?

I think that is some problem, some mystery, that I have not yet 
come to the core of. I went to Wencel planning to beat the truth out of 
him if I had to. Instead, he beat it into me

He guided her into a chair and sat next to her, their hands still 
gripping each other across the tabletop. Haltingly, Ingrey described his 
terrifying interview with the earl. Ijada seemed to have shared only the 
mystic visions, not their context; Ingrey thought she must have spent the 
last hours wild with bewilderment, for even now her eyes were dilated 
and her body shivering.

My other dream, she breathed. Of the burning horseman, the 
leashed wolf racing through the ash. It was you! It was both of you.

Do you think? Perhaps

Ingrey, I recognized Holytree, I recognized my men. I am 
bound to them as certainly as I am bound to you, though I do not know 
how. And if Wencel spoke true, he is bound to them as well, and they 
to him.

Wencel's tale was full of gaps, but he did not lie about that, 
said Ingrey certainly. That binding is at the very heart of all this.

Then the circle is complete. You are bound to me, me to my 
ghosts, they to Wencel, and Wencel, it seems, to you. Is Wencel trying 
to work some great magic with all of us here?

I'm not sure. This is not all Wencel's doing, exactly. For one 
thing, the choice of his mystical heir is not his own, or he would surely 
have picked someone other than me. Which makes a sort of sense; the 
spell must have been made to work in the chaos and heat of battle, 
when both king and next heir might fall in the same hour-as happened at 
Bloodfield, more or less. The transfer must take place without attention 
or will on the part of the hallowed ones. So that part of the spell must 
be bound up with the dead spirit warriors in the Wounded Woods. It's 
as if the whole of the Old Weald, or what remains of its kin powers, 
chooses its heir through Wencel. There seemed to Ingrey to be an 
enigmatic, daunting validation in the notion.

Ijada's eyes narrowed. Are we all three supposed to go to 
Bloodfield, then? And if so, what are we supposed to do when we get 
there?

Ijada rubbed her wrinkled brow. What am I, in this? Half-in, 
half-out-do I even belong? I am alive, they are dead; I am a woman, 
they are men-mostly-I thinkMy leopard is not even a proper 
Wealding beast! I did nothing for Boleso's soul this morning; I just 
stood there stupidly gaping. It's you that's wanted, Ingrey, you who 
might free the ghosts from their old creatures! Her gaze upon him was 
devouring in its conviction.

A door in a wall is at once both inside and outside, said Ingrey 
slowly. Half and half, as you are in your very blood, by your father's 
grace. And you were wanted, too, though not, I think, by Wencel. Did 
your ghosts not choose you? Of all who slept and dreamed in the 
Woods that night?

She hesitated, straightened a little. Yes.

So, then. Then what? Ingrey's exhausted brain did not supply 
an answer. More matters arose, after the visions. Wencel wants very 
much to keep me closer, I think. He coaxed me with an offer of a post 
in his household. More than coaxed. Coerced.

She frowned in new worry.

Hetwar, Ingrey continued, instead of protecting me, wants me 
to take up the station so as to spy for him. Cumril raised the suspicion 
that Wencel bears a spirit animal, though the Temple and Hetwar do 
not yet know how much else he claims to be. I did not tell them. I'm not 
sure what consequences will spin from that, nor how quickly Wencel's 
darker secrets will unravel. Nor how I will be caught up in the tangle. 
Worse, Biast has taken a fear of his brother-in-law and wants to set me 
to guard Fara. Ingrey grimaced.

You don't see. If I am drawn off to Horseriver, they will take 
you from my charge, give you over to some other jailer. Maybe shut 
you up in some other prison, less easy of access. Or of escape.

Tension tightened her face. I must not bemust not be 
constrained, when it is finished. When it is time to go.

When what is finished?

Her hand grasped air in a gesture of frustration. This. Whatever 
this is. When the god's hunt closes in upon what He seeks. Do you not 
feel it, Ingrey?

Feel, yes, I am feverish with the strain, but I do not see it. Not 
clear.

What is Wencel about?

Ingrey shook his head. I am less certain all the time that he is 
about anything, besides defending his old secrets. His mind is so full, he 
actually seems to have trouble paying attention at moments. Not that 
this makes him less dangerous. What does he really fear? He cannot, 
after all, be slain, it would seem. Execution would not stop the earl. 
Imprisonment, were Wencel desperate enough, he might escape the 
same hard way, no matter how deep the dungeon or heavy the guard. 
It came to Ingrey that he really didn't want to risk Wencel being 
imprisoned.

Ijada's lips twisted in new puzzlement. And how has the earl 
been getting through his funerals, all these centuries, if his soul never 
goes to the gods?

Ingrey paused, considering the lack of rumor, then made a little 
gesture of negation. Occupying the body of his own heir, he would 
usually be in close charge of his own rites. I'm sure he became expert in 
arranging them to display what he willed. And if he missed a few, well, 
some men are sundered.

Ijada nodded, some similar reflection sobering her face. She 
tapped the tabletop. If the Temple were brought to attend upon his 
spell, what might they do?

I'm not sure. Nothing, I think, except by sorcery or miracle.

The gods are already hip deep in this. With very little reference 
to the Temple.

So it would seem. Ingrey sighed.

So what are we to do?'

Ingrey rubbed the back of his neck, which ached. Wait, I think. 
Still. I will go to Horseriver's household. And spy, but not only for 
Hetwar. Maybe I will find something there to make sense of this, some 
piece yet lacking.

At what danger to yourself? she fretted.

Ingrey shrugged.

She looked dissatisfied. Something feels horribly unbalanced in 
this pause.

What pause? Ingrey snorted. This unmerciful day has 
battered me half to bits.

Her hands waved in renewed exasperation. While I have been 
mewed up in this house!

He leaned forward, hesitated for a fraction of fear, and kissed 
her. She did not retreat. There was no sudden shock this time, no 
change in his sense of her, but that was only because her steady 
presence had never faded from their first kiss. He could feel it, a 
current like a millrace flowing between them. The arousal of his body 
was muted now in exhaustion, the pleasure of her lips drowned in a 
desperate uneasiness. She clutched him back not in lust or love, it 
seemed, but starveling trust: not in his dubious abilities, but in him 
whole. Wolf and all. His heart heated in wonder. He trembled.

Not lately.

You look so tired. Perhaps you should.

Hetwar said the same.

Then it is so. She rose. I will order the kitchen to bestir itself 
for you.

He pressed the back of her hand to his throbbing forehead, 
before reluctantly releasing her.

Halfway to the door, she looked over her shoulder, and said, 
Ingrey

Hm? He lifted his head from where it had sunk down upon his 
arms crossed on the table.

If Wencel is truly some mystical hallow king, and you are truly 
his heirwhat does that make you?

Terrified, mostly. Nothing good.

Huh. She shook her head and went out.

INGREY SLEPT LATER THAN HE'D INTENDED THE NEXT MORNING, and 
his new orders arrived earlier than he'd expected, by the hand of Gesca.

Still adjusting the jerkin and knife belt he'd just donned, Ingrey 
descended the staircase to meet his erstwhile lieutenant in the entry hall. 
Gesca lowered his voice to Ingrey's ear as the porter shuffled out the 
door to the kitchen, calling for his boy.

You are to report to Earl Horseriver. 
Already? That was fast. What of my prisoner?

Ingrey stiffened. In whose name? Hetwar's or Horseriver's?

Hetwar's, and the archdivine's.

Do they plan to move her elsewhere?

No one has told me yet.

Ingrey's eyes narrowed, studying the nervous lieutenant. And

whom did you report to after Hetwar's meeting, last night?

Why should I have reported to anyone?

With a casual step that fooled no one, Ingrey backed the man to 
the wall, leaning on his braced arm and turning to trap Gesca's gaze. 
You may as well admit you went to Horseriver. If Wencel means me 
to serve him as I served Hetwar, I will be deep in his councils before 
long.

Gesca's lips parted, but he only shook his head.

No good, Gesca. I knew of your letters to him. It was another 
shot in the almost-dark, but by the lieutenant's jerk, it hit the target.

How did you-I thought there was no harm in it! He was Lord 
Hetwar's own ally! I just thought I was doing a favor for m'lord's

friend.

Suitably recompensed, one feels certain.

WellI am not a rich man. And the earl is not a nip-purse.

Gesca's brows drew down in new wariness. How did you know? I'd 
swear you never saw.

By Wencel's so-timely arrival at Middletown. Among other 
things.

Oh. Gesca's shoulders slumped, and he grimaced.

So was Gesca unhappy to have been lured into disloyalty to 
Hetwar, or merely unhappy to have been caught at it? Slipping down 
the slope, are you? It makes a man as vulnerable to give favors as to 
take them. I seldom do either, therefore. Ingrey smiled his most 
wolfish, the better to uphold the illusion of his invulnerability in Gesca's 
mind.

Have I accused you yet?

That's not an answer. Not from you.

True. Ingrey sighed. If you were to confess yourself to 
Hetwar, instead of waiting for an accusation, you'd be more likely to 
earn a reprimand than a dismissal. Hetwar cares less for perfect 
honesty from his men, than that he understands precisely the limits of 
their guile. It's a comforting certainty of a kind, I suppose.

And what of your limits, then? What comfort does he find in 
them?

We keep each other alert. Ingrey looked Gesca over. Well, 
there could be worse wardens.

Aye, and worse-looking wards.

Ingrey dropped his tone of edgy banter in favor of a much purer 
menace. You will treat Lady Ijada with the strictest courtesy while she 
is in your charge, Gesca. Or the wrath of Hetwar, the Temple, 
Horseriver, and the gods combined will be the least of your worries.

Gesca flinched under his glower. Give over, Ingrey. I am no 
monster!

But I am, Ingrey breathed. Clear?

Gesca scarcely dared inhale. Very.

Good. Ingrey stepped away, and though he had in fact not 
touched him, Gesca slumped like a man released from a throttling grip, 
patting his throat as if to probe for bruises. Or tooth marks.

Ingrey scuffed back upstairs to roust Tesko to pack his meager 
belongings again for transfer to Horseriver's mansion. He reviewed his 
last night's meeting with Hetwar and its probable effect, as filtered 
through Gesca's memory and wits, on Horseriver. As long as Ingrey 
was not so stupid as to pretend to conceal it from the earl, he doubted 
Horseriver would be much disturbed by the assignment to spy on him. 
And the earl would surely have gleaned from Gesca the fact that Ingrey 
had kept the darkest of his secrets. On the whole, Gesca's little 
betrayal of trust might prove more useful than not, Ingrey decided.

Lady Ijada, if you please.

Ijada shouldered past the woman into the little upstairs hall, her 
expression grave and questioning.

Ingrey ducked his head at her. I am called away to Earl 
Horseriver's already. Gesca will be taking my place as your keeper, for 
a time.

She brightened at the familiar name. That's not so bad, then.

Perhaps. I'll try to come back and speak with you if I find, um, 
better understandings of things.

She nodded. Her expression was more thoughtful than 
panicked, though what she was thinking, Ingrey could scarcely guess. 
She possessed no more answers than he did, but he admired her talent 
for finding very uncomfortable questions. He suspected he would be in 
want of it shortly.

He clasped her hands, in lieu of the good-bye kiss they could 
not make under watchful eyes. The strange current that seemed to flow 
between them still lingered, in that grip. I will know if they move you.

She nodded again, releasing him. I'll be listening for you, too.

He managed a ghost of a bow and tore himself away.

INGREY REPEATED HIS UPHILL WALK OF YESTERDAY THROUGH 
Kingstown, trailed this time by a puffing Tesko burdened with his 
belongings. Horseriver's porter was plainly expecting them, for they 
were shown at once to Ingrey's new room. It was no narrow servant's 
stall under the eaves, but a gracious chamber on the third floor 
appointed for highborn guests, with an alcove for Tesko. Leaving his 
servant to arrange his scant wardrobe, Ingrey left to explore the 
mansion. He wondered if Horseriver would expect him to clear the rest 
of his possessions from Hetwar's palace, and what the earl would 
construe if he did not.

Lord Ingrey-is it?

Princess. Ingrey essayed a sketchy salute, his hand to his heart 
recalling, but not quite completing, a sign of the Five.

She looked him over, frowning. Biast told me last night you 
were to enter my husband's service.

And, ahyours?

Yes. He told me that. She glanced at her attendant. Leave us. 
Leave open the door. The woman rose, curtseyed, and slipped out 
past Ingrey; Fara beckoned him within.

She looked up at him in wary speculation as he came to the 
window. Her voice was low. My brother said you would protect me.

Keeping his tone neutral and equally quiet, Ingrey said, Do you 
feel in need of protection?

She made an uncertain gesture. Biast said a dire suspicion has 
fallen upon Wencel. What do you think of it?

Can you not tell if it is so, lady? 
She shook her head, not exactly in negation, and raised her long 
chin. Can not you?

Her thick black brows drew down in deeper unhappiness over 
this not-quite-answer. Noyes. I don't know. He was strange from 
the start, but I thought him merely moody. I tried to lighten his spirit, 
and sometimes, sometimes it seemed to work, but always he fell back 
into his blackness again. I prayed to the Mother for guidance, and, and 
more-I tried to be a good wife, as the Temple teaches us. Her voice 
quavered, but did not break. Her frown darkened. Then he brought 
that girl in.

Lady Ijada? Did not you like her-at first?

Oh, at first-! She gave an angry little shrug of her shoulders. 
At first, I suppose. But Wencelattended to her.

And what was her response to this regard of his? Did you tax 
her about it?

She pretended to laugh. I didn't laugh. I watched him, watching 
her-I had never seen him so much as look twice at another woman 
since we wed, or before for that matter, but he looked at her.

Ingrey composed a question that would lead to Fara's version of 
the events at Boar's Head, though it scarcely seemed needful. No 
searing intellect here, no subtle guile, no eerie powers, just a hurt 
bewilderment. There seemed to be no uncanny tracks lingering upon 
her, either; Wencel did not choose to bespell his wife, it seemed. Why 
not?

But Fara's mind was circling in another direction. Biast's 
accusation she murmured. Her gaze upon Ingrey sharpened. It 
could be so, I suppose. I can tell nothing by looking at you, after all. If 
you really hide a wolf within, it is as invisible as any other man's sins. It 
would explainmuch. She drew breath, and demanded abruptly, 
How did you get your dispensation?

If Wencel controls his beast so well that even I cannot tell he 
carries it, is that not proof enough to gain a like pardon? she asked, a 
plaintive note leaking into her voice.

Ingrey moistened his lips. You would have to ask the 
archdivine. It is no decision of mine. Was Fara thinking in terms of 
protecting and preserving her husband? Could Wencel slip through a 
Temple examination such as the one that had vacillated so long over 
Ingrey's case? Horseriver had so much more to conceal, but also, it 
seemed, more power to bring to bear on the task. If he desired. 
Perhaps he would be driven, through the destruction of his old 
concealments now in progress, to attempt some such ploy.

In fact, one would think the task would claim all his attention. He 
pursues something else. Intently. What?

For whatever private reasons, Fara clearly found the accusation 
that Wencel possessed a spirit beast to be alarmingly believable, once 
presented to her imagination. She had the look of a woman fitting 
together some long-worked puzzle, the last pieces falling into place 
faster and faster. Frightened, yes, both of and for her husband, and for 
herself.

Why not ask Wencel these questions yourself? said Ingrey.

He did not come to me last night. She rubbed her face, and 
her eyes. The hard friction might be supposed to account for their 
reddening. He doesn't, much, lately. Biast said to say nothing to him, 
but I do not know

Wencel already knows he is privately accused. You would 
betray no one's secret by trying him. 
She stared timidly at him. Are you so much in his confidence 
already, then?

Her hands wrung each other. I shall be glad of you, then.

That remains to be seen. Unfortunately, he could not very well 
express his low opinion of her betrayal of her handmaiden and 
simultaneously expect to cultivate her confidences. He stiffened, his 
senses attuned to an approaching presence even before the sound of a 
light step wafted from the corridor and a throat was cleared in the 
doorway.

Lord Ingrey, said Wencel, in a cordial voice. They told me 
you had arrived.

Ingrey made his little sketch bow. My lord Horseriver.

I trust you have found your new chambers to your liking?

Yes, thank you. Tesko thinks we rise in the world.

So you might. Wencel's gesture of greeting to his wife was 
unexceptionably polite. Attend on me, if you please, Ingrey. Lady, 
pray excuse us.

Fara's return nod was equally cool, only a slight rigidity of her 
body betraying her confusion of emotions.

Ingrey followed Wencel out and down two turnings of the halls 
to his study. Wencel pulled the door firmly shut behind them; Ingrey 
turned so as not to present his back to his host. Horseriver had 
certainly had time to prepare a magical attack, if he were so disposed. 
But the hairs on the back of Ingrey's neck stirred in vain, for Wencel 
merely waved him to a chair and hitched his hip over the edge of his 
writing table. He swung one leg and studied Ingrey through narrowed 
eyes.

Hetwar released you most promptly, Wencel observed. 
Did Gesca tell you why?

Biast is most concerned for his sister. Fara dreams of saving 
you, I believe. How you came to deserve your wife's love, I cannot 
guess.

Nor can I. Horseriver grimaced and spun one graying-blond 
ringlet, strayed to overhang his face, in his fingers in a gesture almost 
nervous. I suspect her governesses allowed too much court poetry to 
rot her brain, before marriage. I have buried over a score of wives; I 
do not allow myself to become fond, these days. I can hardly explain 
what these women look like to me now. It is one of the subtler horrors 
of my present existence.

Like kissing a corpse?

Like being the corpse so kissed.

She seems not to know this.

The earl shrugged. For some notion now discarded-habit-I 
began this union intending to engender one more son, and for that, the 
body must be aroused somehow. Fortunately, this one is still young, 
and simple Wencel would have been quite pleased with his princess, I 
think.

Did Horseriver allow that half-digested soul to surface, when 
feigning to make love to his bride? And how appallingly confusing for 
Fara, when the eager lost boy of the night gave way to the glacial 
stranger at breakfastCould Horseriver call other faces to the fore, 
when dealing with other tasks? The princess might well spin herself 
dizzy, trying to follow such a progression of moods in her spouse.

Wencel had fallen into one of his forthcoming humors again, for 
whatever purpose. Ingrey decided to pursue the opportunity. Why did 
you bring Lady Ijada into your household? Considering the 
consequences, that would seem to have been a mistake.

Wencel grimaced. Perhaps. In hindsight. 
Fara thought her intended for your new Horseriver broodmare.

If not that, thenfor the Wounded Woods? And not merely 
Ijada's inheritance of the tract. It went against Ingrey's habits to give 
away information, but in this case, it might prime the pump. She told 
me of her dream of it.

Ah, yes, said Wencel grimly. So you do know about that, 
now. I wondered.

Did she tell you of it, too?

No. But I dreamed it with her, if from another angle of view. 
Since it was more than dream: it was event. Even acting as the gods' 
cat's-paw, she could not very well trouble my own waters without the 
ripples reaching me. Wencel sighed. She created me a very great 
puzzle thereby. I brought her into my household to observe her, but I 
could discover nothing unusual. If the gods intended her for bait, I 
declined to bite. She had undoubtedly become bound into the spell 
during her night camping at Holytree, but she remained as sightless and 
powerless as any other ignorant girl.

Until Boar's Head.

Indeed.

Did the gods intend all of this? Boleso's death as well?

Wencel drew a long, thoughtful inhalation. Resisting the gods 
somewhat resembles playing a game of castles and riders with an 
opponent who can always see several moves ahead of you. But even 
the gods cannot see infinitely far ahead. Our free wills cloud Their 
vision, even though Their eyes are more piercing than ours. The gods 
do not plan, so much as take advantage.

Why then did you send me to kill her? Mere prudence? Ingrey 
kept his tone casual, as if the answer were of only scholarly interest to 
him. 
Hardly mere. Once she had slain Boleso, she was most 
assuredly bound for the gallows. If there is a more perfect symbolic 
representation of an Old Weald courier sacrifice than to hang an 
innocent virgin by a sacred cord from a tree, with divines singing 
blessings about her, I cannot think of it. Death opens a gate to the 
gods. Her death in that mode would have opened Holytree wide, 
barricaded against Them as it has been these four centuries.

Wencel merely shrugged, and made to slip off his perch and turn 
away.

Unless-Ingrey's mind leapt ahead-there was more to that 
geas than murder.

Wencel turned back. His face bore that deeply ironic look that 
masked irritation, which Ingrey took as a sign that his digging was 
striking something worthwhile. It would have bound her murdered soul 
to yours in a haunting, until it faded into nothingness. Keeping her, and 
her link to Holytree, beyond the reach of the gods. It was a variant of 
an old, old spell, and I spent far too much blood on it; but I was 
hurried.

Charming. Ingrey failed to keep the snarl out of his voice now. 
Murder and sundering both.

Wencel turned his palms out in a What would you? gesture. 
Worse: a redundancy. For her leopard spirit would have done the 
same. If I had known of it. That move, I must concede to my 
Opponents. I still do not know if we were counterblocking each other 
to stalemate, or were all victims of Boleso's idiocy, or if more lies 
hidden beyond. He hesitated. For the haunting to be effected without 
the murder first was not in my plans. But it happened. Didn't it. 
Wencel's eyes were cool upon Ingrey now, and it came to him that he 
was not the only man digging, here. Wait, was Horseriver saying that 
the current of awareness between Ingrey and Ijada was his doing?

At Ingrey's sudden silence, he added kindly, Did you imagine 
you had fallen in love with her, cousin? Or she with you? Alas that I 
must shatter that idyllic illusion. Truly, I would have thought you-though 
perhaps not her-harder-headed.

Wencel did not look entirely convinced of Ingrey's placidity, in 
the face of this, but he did not pursue the issue. In truth, I have 
scarcely had time to consider the possibilities.

Inventing as you go, are you?

Yes, I am quite godlike in that way, if no other. Perhaps I shall 
give you a horse.

Hetwar spared me that expense. I rode his nags at need, and 
he fed them whether they were needed or not.

Oh, the beast would be stabled at my expense. It would uphold 
the distinction of my house to mount you properly.

Ingrey was put instantly in mind of Horseriver's last 
wife-mother's death in her so-called riding accident, but he said merely, 
Thank you, then, my lord.

Be at your leisure this morning. Plan to attend on me when I go 
out, later.

I am at your disposal, cousin.

Wencel's mouth quirked in mockery. I trust so.

Ingrey took this for a sufficient dismissal and retreated from the 
study.

Nor I. Yet. Ingrey shook his head. He had much to think upon, 
in the next hours.



CHAPTER NINETEEN


BY RELENTLESS PROWLING, INGREY FAMILIARIZED HIMSELF with 
every corner of the Horseriver mansion that day, to little effect. Wencel 
had arrived here bare weeks ago to attend on the hallow king in his 
worsening illness, and Fara had followed shortly despite her fatal 
diversion to Boar's Head. The city house was but lightly occupied, as 
though the couple were merely camping in it. There were no old secrets 
buried here, though five gods knew what Ingrey might find at Castle 
Horseriver. But the earl's haunt was two hundred miles away on the 
middle Lure, and Ingrey doubted anyone would be going back there till 
all this was long over.

As promised-or threatened-Earl Horseriver did conduct Ingrey 
later that afternoon to his stable mews, a stone building a few streets 
down the hill. Most of the great kins' livestock was kept outside the 
walls, in pastures along the Stork above the glassworks and the 
tanners. Horseriver's household was no exception, but a few beasts 
were kept nearby for the lord and lady, for grooms to use to collect 
other mounts at need, and for couriers. As befit the earl's state, the 
appointments within the mews were very fine: the central corridor 
paved with colored stone, the stall walls of rubbed oak, the metal bars 
decorated with twining bronze leaves. Ingrey was bemused to spy 
Ijada's showy chestnut mare, moving restlessly in a straight stall.

Ingrey refrained from patting its haunches, lest he be kicked. I 
know this one-I'd guessed it might be one of yours.

Aye, said Wencel absently. She was too mettlesome for 
Fara. I was glad to find someone else to ride her.

The gelding was undoubtedly a beautiful beast, well muscled, 
clean-limbed, its dappled coat polished to a shimmer by the earl's 
grooms. Ingrey suspected the animal concealed an explosive burst of 
speed. What else it might conceal-deadly geases sprang to mind-Ingrey 
could not tell. Did Wencel imagine it a bribe? So he might. Well, Ingrey 
could not look this gift in the mouth while the earl was watching. 
Thank you, my lord, he said, in a tone to match Horseriver's.

Would you care to try his paces?

Later, perhaps. I am not wearing my leathers. And ever since 
his be-wolfing at Birchgrove he'd always made new mounts peculiarly 
tense; he preferred to make their first acquaintance in private, in an 
enclosed space where the spooked horses might be more readily 
re-caught and remounted till they had come to mutual understanding, or 
at least mutual exhaustion. This one looked as though it might take 
some time to wear down to tameness, under him.

Ah. Pity.

Two stalls away, an unhorselike movement caught Ingrey's eye. 
Frowning, he walked down to peer into another loose box. His nostrils 
flared in surprise. An antlered stag abruptly raised its head from where 
it was lipping at a pile of hay, snorted, and sidled about. It banged its 
rack twice against the boards, causing a desultory wave of motion 
among the horses nearby.

I think your presence disturbs him, murmured Wencel, in a 
tone of dry amusement.

After turning in a few more circles, the handsome beast stilled at 
the back of the stall, though it did not yet lower its head again to the 
hay. Its dark and liquid eye glowered at the men. Ingrey judged it 
captive for some time, for it no longer struggled; new-taken stags could 
kill themselves in their first frenzy to escape.

Wencel's lips twisted a little as he studied the nervous beast past 
Ingrey's shoulder. When one plays against such farsighted opponents 
as I do, it is as well to have more than one plan. But chances are it is 
fated for a spit. Come away, now.

Horseriver did not look back as they exited the mews. Ingrey 
inquired, Do you ride much for sport, these days? As I recall you 
were excited by your father's horses. It had been one of the few topics 
his slow young cousin had actually chattered about, in fact.

Was I? said Horseriver absently. I fear I feel about horses 
much as I feel about wives, these days. They last such a short time, and 
I am weary of butchering them.

Unable to think of a response to that, Ingrey followed him 
silently up the hill.

He considered the method in Wencel's madness, or perhaps it 
was the other way around. Wencel's rationale for his murderous 
attempt on Ijada and its equally swift abandonment was too peculiar to 
be a lie, but it did not follow that he was necessarily correct in it. Still, 
Wencel's erratic tactics against the gods must have worked before. In 
naming Ijada god-bait, he was surely not mistaken. That alarm alone 
must be enough to trigger his nervous malice. He'd eluded four hundred 
years of this hunt if his claims were true.

The gods would do better to wait at some choke point and let 
Wencel flail all he liked till he arrived there. But the strange intensity of 
Wencel's greetings when they'd all met on the road to Easthome was 
now explained; the man must have been thinking five ways at once. Yes, 
but so must his Enemies.

A disturbing notion came to Ingrey: perhaps Ijada had not been 
the bait at that fated meeting after all. Perhaps I was. 
And Wencel has swallowed me down whole.

Fara's first response was angered insult that a daughter of the 
hallow king would be ordered before the bench like a common 
subject-her secret fears taking shelter in injured pride, Ingrey judged. 
But some clever man-Hetwar, no doubt-had made Prince-marshal 
Biast the deliverer of the unwelcome summons. Since Biast had less 
interest in defending dubious actions, and more in finding the truth, his 
levelheaded persuasion overcame his sister's nervous protests.

Thus it was that Ingrey found himself pacing up the steep hill to 
Templetown as part of a procession consisting of the prince-marshal, 
his banner-carrier Symark leading the princess's palfrey, Fara's two 
ladies-in-waiting who had attended her at Boar's Head, and Fara's 
matched twin pages. In the main temple court, Symark was dispatched 
to find directions to where the judges sat, and Fara slipped her 
brother's leash, briefly, to lead her ladies to kneel and pray in the 
Mother's court. Whether Fara was trying to call upon the goddess who 
had so signally ignored her prayers in the past, or merely wanted an 
unassailable excuse to compose herself in semi-privacy for a few 
minutes, Ingrey could not guess.

In either case, Ingrey was standing with Biast when an 
unexpected figure exited the Daughter's court.

Ingorry!

Prince Jokol waved cheerfully and trod across the pavement 
past the holy fire's plinth to where Ingrey waited. The giant islander was 
shadowed as usual by his faithful Ottovin, and Ingrey wondered if the 
young man was under instructions from his formidable-sounding sister 
to make sure her betrothed was returned from his wanderings in good 
order, or else. Jokol was dressed as before in his somewhat gaudy 
island garb, but now he had a linen braid dyed bright blue tied around 
his thick left biceps, mark of a prayer of supplication to the Daughter of 
Spring.

Eh! The big man shrugged. Still I try to get my divine I was 
promised, but they put me off. Today, I try to see the headman, the 
archdivine, instead of those stupid clerks who always tell me to go 
away and come back later.

Do you pray for an appointment? Ingrey nodded to Jokol's left 
sleeve.

Jokol clapped his right hand on the blue braid and laughed. 
Perhaps I should! Go over his head, eh.

Ingrey would have thought the Son of Autumn to be Jokol's 
natural guardian, or perhaps, considering recent events, the Bastard, 
not that praying to the god of disasters was exactly the safest course. 
The Lady of Spring is not your usual Patroness, surely?

Oh, aye! She blesses me much. Today, I pray for poetry.

I thought the Bastard was the god of poetry.

Oh, Him, too, aye, for drinking songs and such. And for those 
great songs of when the walls come crashing down and all is burning, 
aye, that make your hairs all stand up, those are fine! Jokol waved his 
arms to mime horripilating tragedies suitable for epic verse. But not 
today. Today, I mean to make a beautiful song to my beautiful Breiga, 
to tell her how much I miss her in this stone city.

Behind him, Ottovin rolled his eyes. Ingrey took it for silent 
comment on the sisterly object of the proposed song, not on the song 
itself. Ingrey was reminded that in addition to being the goddess of 
female virgins, the Daughter was also associated with youthful learning, 
civil order, and, yes, lyric poetry.

Biast was staring up at Jokol, looking impressed despite himself. 
Is this by chance the owner of your ice bear, Ingrey? he inquired.

Though longing to deny all association with the ice bear, now 
and forever, Ingrey was reminded of his social duties. Pardon me, my 
lord. Allow me to present to you Prince Jokol of Arfrastpekka, and his 
kinsman Ottovin. Jokol, this is Prince-marshal Biast kin Stagthorne. 
Son of the hallow king, he added, in case Jokol needed a touch of 
native guidance among the perils of Easthome high politics.

The promising mutual appraisal of the two princes was 
interrupted by the return of Symark, clutching the arm of a gray-robed 
acolyte. Having secured a guide to the proliferating hodgepodge of 
buildings that made up the Temple complex, Biast went to collect his 
sister from the Mother's court.

Jokol, taking the hint, made to bid Ingrey farewell. I must try 
harder to see this archdivine fellow. It may take some time, so I should 
start, eh?

Wait, said Ingrey. I'll tell you who you should see. In a 
building two streets back, second floor-no, better. He darted over to 
pluck a passing boy in Bastard's whites, a young dedicat of some sort, 
out of the thin stream of people passing through the central court bound 
on various errands. Do you know the way to Learned Lewko's 
office? he demanded of the boy.

The boy gave him an alarmed nod.

Take this lord to him now. He handed off the dedicat to a 
bemused Jokol. Tell him Lord Ingrey sends a complication for his 
collection.

Will this Lewko help me to see the archdivine? asked Jokol 
hopefully.

Either that, or he'll go over Fritine's head. Threaten to give him 
Fafa; that will stimulate him on your behalf. Ingrey grinned; for the god 
of vile jokes, this practically constituted a prayer, he decided. 
He is a power in the Temple?

Jokol pursed his lips, then nodded, brightening. Very good! I 
thank you, Ingorry! He trudged off after the boy, trailed by the 
dubious Ottovin.

Ingrey thought he heard someone laughing in his ear, but it 
wasn't Symark, who stood looking on somewhat blankly. A trick of the 
court's acoustics, perhaps. Ingrey shook his head to clear it, then pulled 
himself to an attitude of grave attention as Biast returned with the ladies.

Biast, after a glance around the court, gave Ingrey a peculiar 
stare, uncertain and searching. It occurred to Ingrey that the last time all 
of this party had been present in this place was two days ago, for 
Boleso's funeral. Was Biast wondering whether to believe in Ingrey's 
claimed shaman-miracle of cleansing his late brother's soul? Or-almost 
more disturbing-belief accepted, was he wondering what further 
consequences must flow from it?

In any case, the gray-robed acolyte led them around the temple 
into the maze of buildings housing clerks and works of the various holy 
orders. Some structures were new and purpose-built, but most were 
old and reassigned. They passed between two noisy and busy, if 
slightly dilapidated, former kin mansions, one now a foundling hospital 
run by the Bastard's Order, the other the Mother's infirmary, its 
colonnades echoing with the steps of physicians and green-clad 
acolytes, its tranquil gardens sheltering recovering patients and their 
attendants.

In the next street over they came to a large edifice, three stories 
high and built of the same yellow stone as Hetwar's palace, dedicated 
to the libraries and council rooms of the Father's Order. A winding 
staircase circled a spacious hall and brought them at length to a hushed, 
wood-paneled chamber.

The inquiries were already under way, it seemed, for a pair of 
retainers Ingrey thought he recognized from Boar's Head were just 
shouldering back out the door, looking daunted but relieved. They 
recognized the prince-marshal and princess and hastened to get out of 
their way, signing sketchy gestures of respect. Biast managed a return 
nod of polite acknowledgment, although Fara's neck stayed stiff, pride 
starched with mortification. Fara caught her breath in a little snort like a 
startled mare when the first person they encountered on the other side 
of the door was Boleso's housemaster, Rider Ulkra. Ulkra bowed, 
looking at least equally queasy.

The judges all rose and made obeisance to the prince-marshal 
and courtesies to the princess; a couple of dedicat-servants were sent 
scurrying to secure padded chairs for the Stagthorne haunches. While 
this was going on, Ingrey circled in on Ulkra, who swallowed nervously 
but returned his greeting.

Have you been questioned yet? Ingrey inquired politely.

I was to be next.

Ingrey lowered his voice. And do you plan to tell the truth, or 
lie?

Ulkra licked his lips. What would Lord Hetwar desire of me, 
do you suppose?

Did he still think Ingrey was Hetwar's man? So was Ulkra 
exceptionally shrewd, or just behindhand on capital gossip? If I were 
you, I should be more worried about what Hetwar's future master 
desires. He nodded toward Prince Biast, and Ulkra followed his 
glance, warily. He is young now, but he won't stay that way for long.

Would one? said Ingrey vaguely. Let's find out. He 
beckoned to Biast, who trod over curiously.

Yes, Ingrey?

My lord. Rider Ulkra here cannot decide if you would wish him 
to tell the exact truth, or shade it to spare your sister chagrin. What that 
says about your reputation, I must leave you to decide.

Sh, Ingrey! whispered Ulkra in furious embarrassment, with a 
fearful glance over his shoulder at the table down the room.

Biast looked taken aback. He said cautiously, I promised Fara 
that none would shame her here, but certainly no man should violate his 
oath of truthsaying before the judges and the gods.

You set the path for your future court starting even now, prince. 
If you discourage men from speaking unpalatable truths in front of you, 
I trust you will develop your skill for sifting through pretty lies, for you 
will spend the rest of your reign, however short, wading in them. 
Ingrey let his mild tone suggest that it was a matter of utter indifference 
to him which Biast chose; Ingrey would manage just the same.

Biast's lips twisted. What was it Hetwar said of you? That you 
defy whom you choose?

Whom I please. I please Hetwar best so. But then, Hetwar is 
no man's fool.

Verily. Biast's eyes narrowed; then he surprised and gratified 
Ingrey altogether by turning to Ulkra, and saying shortly, Tell the exact 
truth. He inhaled, and added on a sigh, I'll deal with Fara as I must.

Ulkra, eyes wide, bowed and backed away, presumably before 
Ingrey could wind him into further coils. The chairs arrived; Ingrey gave 
Biast a slight, sincere bow, rather ironically returned, and took his place 
on the rear bench where he could watch the whole room, and the door.

After a short, whispered consultation among the judges, Ulkra 
was called up to take his oath and answer the inquirers. Ulkra stood 
before them with his hands clenched behind his stout back, feet apart, 
taking some refuge in the soldierlike pose. The questions were to the 
point; the panel had already, it appeared, acquired some grasp of the 
outline of events at Boar's Head.

As nearly as Ingrey could discern, Ulkra did tell the exact truth 
of the chain of deeds that had led to Boleso's death, insofar as he was 
eyewitness. He did not leave out the leopard, nor his suspicions about 
Boleso's earlier dabblings, though he managed to cloak his own 
complicity of silence under protestations of the loyalty and discretion 
due from a senior servant. No, he had not suspected that Boleso's 
body servant was the illicit sorcerer Cumril. (So, the judges had heard 
of Cumril's existence-from Lewko?) At one point, the scholarly divine 
on the side bench silently passed a note across to one of the judges, 
who read it and followed up with a couple of especially penetrating and 
shrewd questions of the housemaster.

The unsubtle ugliness of Ijada's sacrifice at Boleso's bedroom 
door came through clearly enough to Ingrey's ear, despite Ulkra's 
self-serving phrasing of it. By the stiffening of Fara's features, this was 
the first fully objective account she had heard of the consequences at 
Boar's Head after she had abandoned her maiden-in-waiting there. She 
did not weep in whatever shame she swallowed, but her face might 
have been carved in wood. Good.

When Ulkra was dismissed, to flee from the chamber as swiftly 
as he decently could, Fara was called up. Ingrey, playing the courtier, 
made of helping her from her chair the chance to breathe in her ear, I 
will know if you lie. 
Her eyes shifted to him, coldly. Should I care? she murmured 
back.

She hesitated. No.

Good. You begin to think like a princess.

Her gaze grew startled as he squeezed her arm in 
encouragement before letting her go. And then, for a moment, 
thoughtful, as though a new road had opened up before her not 
previously perceived.

The judges kept their questions to her brief and courteous, as 
befit equally law and prudence. The truth she spoke was, like Ulkra's, 
softened in her own excuse, and the motivation of her jealousy largely 
left out, which Ingrey thought all to the good. But the most critical 
elements in his view-that the demand had come from Boleso, been 
accepted without consultation by Fara, and that Ijada was no 
seductress nor cheerful volunteer-seemed plain enough, between the 
lines. Fara was released with diplomatic thanks by the panel; her eyes 
squeezed shut in bleak relief as she turned away.

With Fara leading the way, her two senior ladies-in-waiting told 
the truth as well, including a few side incidents not witnessed by Fara 
that were even more damaging to Boleso. Biast looked decidedly 
unhappy, but made no move to interfere with the testimony; though 
there was no doubt the judges were very conscious of the 
prince-marshal's presence and expressions. The scholarly divine, Ingrey 
noticed, also sent sharp if covert glances Biast's way. If Biast had 
chosen to cast the right frowns, snort, or shift at the key moments, 
might he have shaped the questions? Distorted them in his late brother's 
favor? Perhaps; but instead he listened in guarded neutrality, as befit a 
man seeking truth before all other aims. Ingrey hoped that the idea of a 
blood-price might now be sounding better to him.

Shuffling echoed in the room as the party rose to leave. Ingrey 
directed the page to go in pursuit of his twin and bring around the 
princess's palfrey; the boy bobbed a bow, and replied, Yes, Lord 
Ingrey! in his high, clear voice before scampering out. The scholarly 
divine's head swiveled; he stared at Ingrey, frowning, then went to bend 
over the shoulder of one of the empaneled divines and murmur in his 
ear. Brows rising, the judge nodded, cast a glance Ingrey's way, and 
murmured back. He then raised his hand and his voice, and called, 
Lord Ingrey! Would you stay a moment?

I will catch you up, my lord, said Ingrey to him. Biast, with an 
expression that plainly said they would speak together later, nodded 
and followed his sister out.

Ingrey took up a stance before the judges' table reminiscent of 
Ulkra's, and waited, concealing extreme unease. He had not expected 
to be questioned today, or possibly at all.

The scholarly divine stood behind his colleague and folded his 
arms, shoulders hunched and face outthrust in his concentration upon 
Ingrey. With his beaklike nose and receding chin, he resembled a stork 
wading in the shallows, intent upon some fish or frog concealed below 
the water's surface. I understand, Lord Ingrey, that you had an 
experience at Prince Boleso's funeral very pertinent to these 
proceedings.

This man had to have spoken with Lewko. How much had the 
Bastard's divine conveyed to the Father's scholar? The two orders 
were not usually noted for their mutual cooperation. I fainted from the 
heat. Anything else is not such testimony as is admissible in a trial, I 
thought.

The man's lips pursed, and to Ingrey's surprise, he nodded in 
approval. But then said, This is not a trial. It is an inquiry. You will 
observe I have not requested your oath.

Was that of some arcane legal significance? From the slight nods 
of a couple of the judges, apparently so. The scribe, for one thing, had 
set aside her quill and showed no sign of taking it up again, although she 
was staring at Ingrey in some fascination. It seemed they were 
speaking, at the moment, off the record. Given the company, Ingrey 
was not sure this was any aid to him.

Wellno.

Please describe your vision, said the scholarly divine.

Ingrey blinked, once, slowly. If he refused to speak, how much 
pressure would they bring to bear? They would likely place him under 
oath; and then both speaking and silence would have potentially more 
dire consequences. Better this way. I found myself, Lady Ijada, and 
Prince Boleso's sundered soul all together in aplace. A boundless 
place. I could see through Prince Boleso's torso. It was full of the 
spirits of dead animals, tumbling over each other in chaos and pain. The 
Lord of Autumn appeared. Ingrey moistened his lips and kept his 
voice dead level. The god requested me to call the animal spirits out of 
Boleso. Lady Ijada endorsed the request. I did so. The god took up 
Boleso's soul and went away. I woke up on the temple floor. There, 
not too bad; as truthful as any madman and with quite a number of 
complications left out.

How? asked the divine curiously. How did you call them 
out?

It was but a dream, Learned. One does not expect things to 
make sense in a dream.

Nevertheless.

I wasgiven a voice. No need to say how, or by whom, was 
there?

The weirding voice? As the voice you used on the rampant ice 
bear two days before?

A couple of heads along the panel came up at that. 
Damn. I have heard it called that.

It was all Ingrey could do not to use it right now; paralyze this 
roomful of men and escape. Or else squeeze his strangely diffuse wolf 
into a tight little invisible ball under his heart. Fool, they cannot see it 
anyway. I do not know.

More specifically, the divine went on crisply, Lady Ijada is 
imputed to have been defiled with the spirit of a dead leopard. It is the 
teaching of Temple history, which your vision with the late prince would 
seem to support, that such a defilement sunders a soul from the gods.

A dead soul, Ingrey corrected cautiously. For both he and 
Ijada bore animal spirits, and yet the god had spoken to both. Not to 
Boleso, though, Ingrey realized. He was moved to explain how the 
shamans of the Old Weald had cleansed their departed comrades' 
spirits, then thought better of it. He was not at all moved to explain how 
he'd learned all this.

Quite so. My question, then, is: were Lady Ijada to be 
executed as a result of her future trial, could you, Lord Ingrey, remove 
the defiling animal spirit from her soul as you did for Prince Boleso's?

Ingrey froze. The first memory that roared back into his mind 
was of Wencel's worried vision of Ijada as an Old Weald courier 
sacrifice, opening Holytree to the gods. Wencel had thought that path 
safely blocked by Ijada's defilement. Not so safe, and not so blocked, 
if Ingrey could unblock it again. And I could. Five gods, and curse 
Them one and five, was this the unholy holy plan for the pair of them? 
Is this why You have chased us here? Thoughts tumbling, Ingrey 
temporized, Why do you ask, Learned?

It is a theological fine point that I greatly desire clarified. 
Execution, properly speaking, is a punishment of the body for crimes in 
the world of matter. The question of the salvation or sundering of a soul 
and its god is not more affected than by any other death, nor should it 
be; for the improper sundering of a soul would be a heinous sin and 
burden upon the officers charged with such a duty. An execution that 
entails such an unjust sundering must be resisted. An execution that 
does not may proceed. A silence followed this pronouncement; the 
divine added solicitously, Do you follow the argument, my lord?

A warm autumnal voice murmured, somewhere between his ear 
and his mind, If you deny Me and yourself before this little 
company, brother wolf, how shall you manage before a greater?

Ingrey did not know if his face drained white, though several of 
the judges stared at him in alarm. With an effort, he kept himself from 
swaying on his feet. Or, five gods forbid, falling down in a faint. 
Wouldn't that be a dramatic development, coming pat upon his words 
of disavowal.

Hm, said the scholarly divine, his gaze narrowing. The point is 
an important one, however.

How, then, if I simplify it for you? If I have not this ability, the 
point is moot. If I haveI refuse to use it so. Eat that.

Could you be forced? The divine's tone conveyed no hint of 
threat; it seemed the purest curiosity.

Ingrey's lips drew back in a grin that had nothing to do with 
humor, at all, at all; several of the men pushed back in their seats in an 
instinctive recoil. You could try, he breathed. Under the 
circumstances-under those circumstances, with Ijada's dead body cut 
down from a gallows and laid at his feet-he might just find out 
everything his wolf could really do. Until they cut him down as well.

Hm. The scholarly divine tapped his lips; his expression, 
strangely, seemed more satisfied than alarmed. Most interesting. He 
glanced down the panel. Have you any more questions? 
The senior judge, looking vastly disturbed, said, Notnot at 
this time. Thank you, Most Learned, for yourumalways 
thought-provoking commentary.

A slight tilt of the scholarly divine's head and a glint in his eye 
took this as more compliment than complaint, despite the tone. Then I 
thank you, Lord Ingrey.

It was clearly a dismissal, and not a moment too soon; Ingrey 
managed a civil nod and turned away, quelling an urge to run. He 
turned onto the gallery outside the chamber and drew a long breath, but 
before he could entirely compose himself again, heard footsteps behind 
him. He glanced back to see the strange divine following him out.

The lanky man signed the Five by way of greeting; a swift 
gesture, but very precise, neither perfunctory nor sketched. Ingrey 
nodded again, started to rest his hand on his sword hilt, decided the 
gesture might be interpreted as too threatening, and let his hands drift to 
clench each other behind his back. May I help you, Learned? Over 
the gallery rail, headfirst, perhaps?

My apologies, Lord Ingrey, but I just realized that I was 
introduced before your party came in, but not again after. I am Learned 
Oswin of Suttleaf.

Ingrey blinked; his mind, briefly frozen, bolted off again in a 
wholly unexpected new direction. Hallana's Oswin?

The divine smiled, looking oddly abashed. Of all my titles, the 
truest, I fear. Yes, I'm Hallana's Oswin, for my sins. She told me much 
of your meeting with her at Red Dike.

Is she well?

Well, and delivered of a fine little girl, I am pleased to say. Who 
I pray to the Lady of Spring shall grow up to look like her mother and 
not like me, else she will have much to complain of when she is older.

I'm glad she is safe. Both safe. Learned Hallana worried me. In 
more ways than one. He touched his still-bandaged right hand, 
reminded of how close he had come to retrieving his sword, in his 
scarlet madness in that upstairs room.

Ah?

She would have terrified you, just like the rest of us. Yet 
somehow, we all survived her, again. She sent me here, you see. Quite 
drove me from her bedside. Which many women tend to do to their 
poor husbands after a childbirth, but not for such reasons.

Have you spoken with Learned Lewko?

Yes, at length, when I arrived last night.

Ingrey groped for careful wording. And on whose behalf did 
Hallana send you? It occurred to him belatedly that the divine's 
alarming theological argument back in the chamber might well have 
been intended to impede Ijada's execution, not speed it.

Wellwell, now, that's a little hard to say.

Ingrey considered this. Why?

For the first time, Oswin hesitated before he answered. He took 
Ingrey by the arm and led him away, around the corner of the gallery, 
well out of earshot of the door where a couple of what looked like 
more servants from Boar's Head were just being led inside by a 
gray-robed dedicat. Oswin leaned on the rail, looking down 
thoughtfully into the well of the hall; Ingrey matched his pose and 
waited.

When Oswin resumed, his voice was oddly diffident. You are a 
man with much experience in the uncanny and the holy, I understand. 
The gods speak to you in waking visions, face-to-face.

No! Ingrey began, and stopped. Denial again? Wellin a 
way. I have had many bizarre experiences lately. They crowd upon me 
now. It does not make me deft. 
Oswin sighed. I cannot imagine growing deft in the face of this. 
You have to understand. I had never had a direct experience of the 
holy in my life, for all that I tried to serve my god as seemed best to me, 
according to my gifts as we are taught. Except for Hallana. She was the 
only miracle that ever happened to me. The woman seems vastly 
oversupplied with gods. At one point, I accused her of having stolen 
my share, and she accused me of marrying her solely to sustain a 
proper average. The gods walk through her dreams as though strolling 
in a garden. I just have dreams of running lost through my old seminary, 
with no clothes, late for an examination of a class I did not know I had, 
and the like.

Either, variously. Oswin's brow furrowed. And then there are 
the ones where I am wandering through a house that is falling apart, and 
I have no tools to repairwell, anyway. He took a long breath, and 
settled into himself. The night after our new daughter was born, I slept 
once again with Hallana. We both shared a significant dream. I woke 
crying out in fear. She was utterly cheery about it. She said it meant we 
must go at once to Easthome. I asked her if she had run mad, she could 
not rise and go about yet! She said she could put a pallet in the back of 
the wagon and rest the whole way. We argued about it all day. The 
dream came again the next night. She said that cinched the matter. I 
said she had a duty to the babe, to the children, that she could neither 
abandon them nor drag them along into danger. She gave way; I 
gloated. I took to my horse that afternoon. I was ten miles down the 
road before I realized that I had been neatly foxed.

How so?

Separated, there was no way for me to continue the argument. 
Or to stop her. I have no doubt she's upon the road right now, not 
more than a day behind me. I wonder if she will have brought the 
children? I shudder to picture it. If you see her, or her faithful servants, 
in this town before I do, tell her I have taken rooms for all of us at the 
Inn of Irises across from the Mother's Infirmary. 
Would, um, she be traveling with the same ones I met in Red 
Dike?

The dream, Ingrey reminded him.

My apologies. I do not normally rattle on like this. Perhaps that 
explains something about my HallanaI have laid it before Learned 
Lewko, now you. There were five people in it: Hallana, me, Lewko, 
and two young men I had never seen before. Until today. Prince Biast 
was one of them. I nearly fell off my bench when he walked into the 
chamber and was named. The other was a stranger fellow still; a giant 
man with long red hair, who spoke in tongues.

Ah, said Ingrey. That would be Prince Jokol, no doubt. Tell 
him to give Fafa a fish for me, when you meet him. In fact, you might 
catch him now; I just sent him to Lewko. He could still be there.

Oswin's eyes widened, and he straightened as though to dash off 
at once, but then shook his head and continued. In the dreamI am a 
man of words, but I scarcely know how to describe it. All the five were 
god-touched. More, worse: the gods put us on and wore us like 
gauntlets. We shattered

They harry me hard, now, Horseriver had said. So it seemed. 
Well, should you determine what it all meant, let me know. Were any 
others in the dream? Me or Ijada, for example?

Oswin shook his head. Just the five. So far. The dream did not 
seem finished, which upset me yet Hallana took in stride. I both long 
and fear to sleep, to find out more, but now I have insomnia. Hallana 
may be willing to run off into the dark, but I want to know where the 
stepping-stones will be.

Oswin tapped a hand on the railing. Hallana and I have argued 
this point-the foresight of the gods. They are the gods. They must 
know if anyone does.

Perhaps no one does, said Ingrey easily.

The expression on Oswin's face was that of a man forced to 
swallow a vile-tasting medicine of dubious value. I shall try Lewko, 
then. Perhaps this Jokol will know something more.

I doubt it, but good luck.

I trust we will meet again soon.

Nothing would startle me, these days.

Where might I reach you? Lewko said you were set as a spy 
upon Earl Horseriver, who also seems somewhat involved in this 
tangle.

Ingrey hissed through his teeth. I suppose it's fortunate 
Horseriver already knows that I spy on him, with that sort of loose 
gossip circulating.

Oswin shook his head vehemently. Neither loose nor gossip, 
and the circle is a tight one. Lewko had something like the dream, too, 
from what he says.

Somewhat involved, indeed. Stay away from Horseriver for 
the time being. He is dangerous. If you wish to see me, send a message 
there, but put no matter of import in the writing-assume it will be 
intercepted and read by hostile eyes before I see it.



CHAPTER TWENTY


INGREY COULD NOT MUSTER MUCH SURPRISE WHEN, AFTER 
crossing the buried creek into the lower city, he rounded a corner and 
found Hallana's wagon blocking his path.

The two stubby horses, dusty and sweaty from the road, were 
standing hip-shot and bored, and Bernan sat on the driver's box with 
reins slack and his elbows on his knees. A riding horse, unsaddled, was 
tied on behind the wagon by a rope to its halter. Hergi crouched behind 
Bernan's shoulder. Hallana was hanging off the front brace of the 
canopy with one hand, shielding her gaze with the other, and peering 
dubiously up an alley too narrow for the wagon to enter.

Hergi pounded on Bernan's shoulder, pointed at Ingrey, and 
cried, Look! Look!

Hallana swung around, and her face brightened. Ah! Lord 
Ingrey! Excellent. She gave Bernan a pat on the other shoulder. See, 
did I not say? The smith gave a weary sort of head bob, halfway 
between agreement and exasperation, and Hallana stepped over him to 
hop down to the street and stand before Ingrey.

She had abandoned her loose and tattered robes for a natty 
traveling costume, a dark green coat upon a dress of pale linen, notably 
cinched in around the waist. Her shoulder braids were absent-traveling 
incognito? She remained short and plump, but trimmer, with her hair 
neatly braided in wreaths around her head. There were no visible signs 
of children or other trailing chaos.

Ingrey gave her a polite half bow; she returned a blessing, 
although her sign of the Five more resembled a vague check mark over 
her torso. So glad to see you, she told him. I'm seeking Ijada. 
How? he couldn't help asking. Presumably, she was once

I usually just drive around until something happens.

That seemsoddly inefficient.

You sound like Oswin. He would have wanted to draw a grid 
over a chart of the city, and mark off sections in strict rotation. Finding 
you was much faster.

Ingrey started to consider the logic of this, then thought better of 
it. Speaking of Learned Oswin. He told me to tell you he has taken 
rooms for you all at the Inn of the Irises, across from the Mother's 
Infirmary on Temple Hill.

A slight groan from Bernan greeted this news.

Oh! Hallana brightened still further. You have met, how nice!

You are not surprised to be expected?

Oswin can be terribly stodgy at times, but he's not stupid. Of

course he would realize we'd be coming. Eventually.

Learned Sir will not be pleased with us, Hergi predicted 
uneasily. He wasn't before.

Pish posh, said Oswin's spouse. You survived. She turned 
back to Ingrey, and her voice dropped to seriousness. Did he tell you

about our dream?

Just a little.

Where is Ijada, anyway?

The passersby all seemed ordinary folk, so far, but Ingrey 
declined to take chances. I should not be seen talking to you, nor 
overheard.

Hallana jerked her head toward the canopied wagon, and Ingrey 
nodded. He swung up after her into the shadowed interior, clambering 
over bundles and seating himself on a trunk, awkwardly adjusting his 
sword. Hallana sat down cross-legged on a pallet padded thickly with 
blankets and looked at him expectantly.

Hallana's eyes narrowed. Interesting. Is Fara's husband no 
friend to Ijada after all-or too much the reverse? Or is it that wretched 
princess who is the problem?

Fara is a tangle of problems, but Wencel's interest in her 
handmaiden was not the simple lechery she had imagined. Wencel has 
secret powers and unknown purposes. Hetwar has just set me in his 
household to spy upon him in an effort to determine those purposes. I 
don't want the waters there muddied worse than they are already.

You think him dangerous?

Yes.

To you? Her brows went up.

Ingrey bit his lip. It has become suspected that he bears a spirit 
animal. Like mine. This istrue but incomplete. He hesitated. The 
geas we broke in Red Dike-he was the source of it.

She huffed out her breath. Why is he not arrested?

No! said Ingrey sharply. And at her stare, more quietly, No. 
In the first place, I have not determined how to prove the charge, and 
in the second, a premature arrest could trigger a disaster. For me, at 
least.

She blinked up at him in a friendly way. Oh, come, Lord 
Ingrey. You can tell me more. 
He was sorely tempted. I thinknot yet. I am at the stage of 
thingsI don't yetI am still driving around in circles waiting for 
something to happen.

He ran a hand through his hair. It was growing again around the 
stitches, which were surely ready to come out. I cannot linger. I must 
catch up with Prince Biast and Princess Fara. Your husband was at 
Ijada's inquest this morning, and can likely tell you more of it than I can. 
Lewko knows something as well. I wonder-Ingrey faltered-if I can 
trust you.

Her head came up, cocking a little to one side. She said dryly, I 
assume that was not meant as an insult.

Ingrey shook his head. I stumble through a murk of lies and half 
lies and stranger tales right now. The legal thing, the obvious thing-like 
arresting Wencel-may not be the right thing, though I cannot explain it. 
All feels fluid. As though the gods themselves hold Their breaths. 
Something is about to happen.

What?

If I knew, if I knew- Ingrey heard the rising tension in his own 
voice, and yanked it to a stop.

Shh, hush, Hallana soothed him, as though calming a nervy 
mount. Can you trust me, at least, to move cautiously, speak little, 
listen, and wait?

Can you?

Unless my gods compel me otherwise.

Your gods. Not your Temple superiors.

I said what I said.

Ingrey nodded and took a breath. Ask Ijada, then. She is the 
only one I have trusted with everything I know so far. The others have 
only bits and pieces. She and I are bound together in this by more 
than-his voice stumbled, choked-more than affection. We have 
shared two waking visions. She can tell you more.

I am not sure if the gods and I seek the same ends. I am 
absolutely sure the gods and Wencel do not seek the same ends. His 
brow wrinkled. Oswin said you shattered. In your dream. I did not 
understand what was meant.

Neither do we.

Would the gods use us to destruction? She had not brought 
her children-for speed, for simplicity? Or for safety? Theirs. Not hers.

Perhaps. Her voice was perfectly even, delivering this.

You do not reassure me, Learned.

Some might call her return smile enigmatic, but Ingrey thought it 
more sardonic. He returned her a salute in the same mode and glanced 
out the wagon back for witnesses. He added over his shoulder, If you 
go at once to Lewko, you might find your husband still there. And 
possibly a red-haired islander whose tongue is lubricated by either vile 
liquor or holy kisses from the Lady of Spring, or both.

Ah-ha! said Hallana, sitting up in sudden enthusiasm. That is 
one part of my dream I should not object to finding prophetic. Is he as 
darling as he seemed?

Idon't think I can answer that, said Ingrey, after a bemused 
pause. He swung out of the wagon, slipped around its side, and took 
the shortcut up the alley toward the Horseriver mansion.

THE EARL'S PORTER ADMITTED HIM WITH A MURMURED, MY LADY 
and the prince-marshal await you in the Birch Chamber, Lord Ingrey.

Ingrey took the hint, nodded, and ascended the stairs at once. 
The room was the same in which he had surprised Fara on the first day 
of his so-called service-perhaps its quiet colors and sober furnishings 
made it a favorite refuge of hers. He found the little company gathered 
there, Biast and Symark conversing over a tray of bread and cheeses, 
Fara half-reclining upon a settee while one of her women pressed a 
damp cloth to her forehead. The scent of lavender was cool and sharp 
upon the air.

Lord Ingrey. Biast graciously gestured him to sit. The learned 
divine kept you long.

Ingrey let this pass with a nod; he had no desire to explain 
Hallana.

Fara was not inclined to await a diplomatic lead-in. What did 
he ask you? Did he ask you anything else about me?

He asked nothing further of you, my lady, nor of anything that 
happened at Boar's Head, Ingrey reassured her. She sat back in 
evident relief. His questions were largely-he hesitated-theological.

Biast did not seem to share his sister's relief. His brows drew 
down in renewed concern. Did they touch on our brother?

Only indirectly, my lord. There seemed no reason not to be 
frank with Biast about Oswin's inquiries, although Ingrey was not at all 
sure he wanted to reveal his other connections with the scholarly divine 
just yet. He wished to know if I could cleanse Lady Ijada's soul of her 
leopard spirit, in the event of her death, as I had seemed to do for the 
late prince. I said I did not know.

Biast dragged one booted toe back and forth over the rug, 
frowned down and seemed to grow conscious of the tic, and stilled his 
foot. When he looked up, his voice had grown quieter. Did you really 
see the god? Face-to-face?

He appeared to me as a young woodland lord of surpassing 
beauty. I did not get the sense Ingrey paused, uncertain how to 
express this. You have seen children make shadow puppets upon a 
wall with their hands. The shadow is not the hand, though it is created 
by it. The young man I saw was, I think, the shadow of the god. 
Reduced to a simple outline that I could understand. As if there lay 
vastly more beyond that I could not see, that would have appeared 
nothing at all like the deceptive shadow if I could have taken it in 
withoutshattering.

No, my lord. Are you feeling in need of some?

Biast's lips huffed on a humorless laugh. I reach for some 
certainty in an uncertain time, I suppose.

Then you come to the wrong storehouse, said Ingrey bitterly. 
The gods give me nothing but hints and riddles and maddening 
conundrums. As for my vision, I suppose I must call it, it was for 
Boleso's funeral. In that hour, the god attended to his soul alone. In our 
hours, we may receive the same undivided scrutiny.

Fara, rubbing her hand along one skirt-clad thigh in a tension not 
unlike her brother's, looked up. The vertical grooves between her thick 
eyebrows deepened, as she considered this dark consolation with the 
wariness of a burned child studying a fire.

I spoke at some length last night with Learned Lewko, Biast 
began, and stopped. He squinted at his sister. Fara, you really don't 
look well. Don't you think you had better go lie down for a while?

The lady-in-waiting nodded endorsement to this idea. We 
could draw the drapes in your chambers, my lady, and make it quite 
dark.

That might be better. Fara leaned forward, only to sit staring 
down at her feet for a moment before allowing her waiting woman to 
pull her reluctantly upright. Biast rose also.

Ingrey seized the moment to conceal calculation in courtesy. I 
am sorry you are so plagued, my lady. But if the inquest returns a 
verdict of self-defense, there might be no need for you to be so 
imposed upon again.

Biast saw his sister out, but then left her to her waiting woman; 
he looked up and down the corridor a moment before returning to the 
chamber, shutting the door firmly behind him. He frowned at his 
bannerman Symark and then at Ingrey, as though considering some 
comparison, though whether of physical threat or personal discretion, 
Ingrey could not guess. Symark was a few years older than his lord and 
a noted swordsman; perhaps Biast imagined him a sufficient defense 
from Ingrey, should the wolf-lord run mad and attack. Or Symark and 
Biast together so, at least. Ingrey did not seek to disabuse the 
prince-marshal of this comforting error.

As I said, I had some conversation with Lewko, Biast 
continued. He sat again by the low table with the tray, gesturing for 
Ingrey to do likewise. Ingrey pulled his chair around and composed 
himself in close attention. The Bastard's Order-which I take to mean, 
Lewko and a couple of forceful Temple sorcerers-have questioned 
Cumril in greater detail, at length.

Good. I hope they held his feet to the fire.

Something of a sort. I gather they dared not press him to the 
point of such disarray that his demon might reascend. That fear alone, 
Lewko assured me, was a greater goad to him than any threat to his 
body that any inquirer might make. His brow wrinkled doubtfully. 
I understand this.

So that's why he had urged Fara out, that he might address these 
painful matters discreetly. Ingrey shrugged. I am no seer. For anyone 
seeking the hallow kingship with less backing than you already have, it's 
a logical step.

Yes, but not my own- Biast stopped, bit his lip.

Ingrey grasped the chance to cast another thread. So it seems 
Lady Ijada saved your life, as well as her own. And your brother's soul 
from a great sin and crime. Or your god did, through her.

Biast paused as though thinking uneasily about this, then began 
again. I do not know how I earned my brother's hatred.

I believe his mind was well and truly unhinged, toward the end. 
Boleso's fevered fancies, not any actions of yours, seem to me the 
springs of his behavior.

I did not realize he was so-so lost. When that first dire incident 
with the manservant happened, I wrote my father I would come home, 
but he wrote back ordering me to stay at my post. Reducing one 
rebellious but ill-provisioned border castle and a few bandit camps 
seems to me now a less vital tutorial than what I might have been 
learning in the same time at Easthome. I suppose my father wished to 
insulate me from the scandal.

Or, perhaps, to protect him from worse and subtler things? Or 
was Biast's diversion to the border in this crisis engineered by other 
persuaders? Was the print of Horseriver's hoof anywhere in this?

Biast sighed. In the fullness of time I expected to receive the 
crown from my father's own hands, in his lifetime, like every Stagthorne 
king before me. He'd had the election and coronation of my older 
brother Byza all planned out three years ago, before Byza's untimely 
death. Now I must grasp with my own hands, or let the crown fall. 
Byza's was a sudden illness, wasn't it? Ingrey had been gone 
from Easthome on an early courier mission for Hetwar to the Low 
Ports, and had missed that royal funeral. Biast had received the 
prince-marshal's banner that had belonged to his brother before him 
only a few weeks later. Had Boleso dwelt too unhealthily upon the 
precedent?

Ingrey had last seen the dying hallow king in person some weeks 
ago, just before his palsy stroke. He had been yellow-skinned, 
belly-swollen, and cheek-sunken even then, his movements heavy and 
voice low and slurred. I think we must pray for other blessings for him, 
now.

Biast stared away, not disputing this. The charge against 
Boleso, if it is not just Cumril's calumny, has left me wondering whom I 
can trust. His gaze, returning to Ingrey, made Ingrey feel rather odd.

Each man according to his measure, I suppose.

This presumes an ability justly to measure men, which begs the 
question. Have you taken the measure of my brother-in-law yet?

Not, um, entirely.

Is he a danger like Boleso?

He'ssmarter. And so, Ingrey was beginning to be 
convinced, was Biast. No insult intended, Ingrey added, in a belated 
attempt at tact.

Biast grimaced. At least, I trust, he is not so mad.

Silence.

One does so trust-doesn't one? 
I trust no one, Ingrey evaded.

Them least of all.

Mm. Biast rubbed his neck. Well, the impending kingship 
does not give me joy, under the circumstances, but I am not at all 
inclined to hand it on, over my dead body, to monsters.

Good, my lord, said Ingrey. Hold to that.

Symark, who had been listening to this exchange with arms 
folded, rose and wandered to the window, evidently to check the clock 
of the sun, for he turned and gave his master an inquiring look. Biast 
nodded in return and stood with a tired grunt; Ingrey came to his feet 
likewise.

Biast ran a hand through his hair in a gesture copied or caught, 
Ingrey was fairly sure, from Hetwar. Have you any other advice for 
me this day, Lord Ingrey?

Ingrey was only a year or two older than Biast; surely the prince 
could not see him as an authority for that reason. In all matters of 
policy, you are better advised by Hetwar, my lord.

And other matters?

Ingrey hesitated. For Temple politics, Fritine is most informed, 
but beware his favor to his kin. For, ah, practical theology, see Lewko.

Biast appeared to muse for a moment over the unsettling 
implications of that practical. Why?

Ingrey's fingers stretched out, then tapped across the ball of his 
thumb in order, little finger to index. Because the Thumb touches all 
four other fingers. The words seemed to fall out of his mouth from 
nowhere, and he almost jerked back, startled.

Biast too seemed to find the words fraught beyond their 
simplicity, for he gave Ingrey a peculiar stare, unconsciously clenching 
his hand. I shall hold that in my mind. Guard my sister.

I'll do my utmost, my lord. 
Biast gave him a nod, gestured Symark ahead of him, and went 
out.

The situation seemed to have more need for wits than a strong 
sword arm, and if the body was neglected, the brain flagged, too, so 
Ingrey took himself to the earl's kitchen to forage a meal, which was 
served to him along with certain oblique complaints. After that, he 
tracked down Tesko and bullied him into giving back to the scullions 
the money he'd won cheating at dice. His servant temporarily cowed, 
Ingrey then had him snip and extract the stitches from his scalp and 
rebandage his sword hand. The long and ragged tear in his discolored 
skin seemed closed, but still tender, and he pressed the gauze wrapping 
warily after Tesko tied it off. This should have healed by now.

Autumn dusk crept through the window embrasures as Ingrey 
sat on his new bed and meditated. The princess's impending 
bereavement curtailed the sort of society that had enlivened Hetwar's 
palace of an evening, or demanded Ingrey's services as an escort for its 
lord or lady. If Earl Horseriver chose to send him off on some untimely 
courier mission, how then could he carry out his princely mandate to 
guard Fara, or his self-imposed task to save Ijada? Get one of 
Hetwar's men to ride, and remain in Easthome sneaking about spying? 
The notion seemed stuffed with disastrous complications. His public 
duty to obey the earl was a pitfall waiting to swallow him, it seemed to 
Ingrey, and he was not sure Hetwar had quite thought it through.

Could he defy Horseriver? Each of them, it seemed, had been 
gifted with kindred powers. Horseriver was vastly more practiced, but 
was he stronger? And what did strength mean, in that boundless 
hallowed space where visions took seeming shape?

How old is my wolf? The question niggled him, suddenly. 
Warily, he turned his perceptions inward, and once more, the sensation 
was akin to trying to see his own eyes. The accumulated wolf souls 
seemed to meld together into a smooth unity, as though their 
boundaries were more permeable somehow; wolves became Wolf in a 
way that Earls Horseriver had failed to achieve in that tormented soul's 
cannibal descent through the generations of his human kin. Ingrey sifted 
the fragmentary lupine memories that had come to him, both in that first 
terrible initiation and in later dreams. The viewpoint was odd, and 
scents seemed more sharply remembered than sights. A sufficiently 
impoverished rural village of recent days was hardly to be distinguished 
from a forest town of the lost times.

But suddenly a most peculiar memory surfaced, of chewing with 
wolf-puppy teeth upon a piece of boiled leather armor, a cuirass almost 
bigger than he was. The chastisement when he'd been caught at it did 
not diminish the satisfaction to his sore mouth. The armor had been 
quite new, dragged to a corner of some dim and smoky hall. The 
design was distinctive, the breast decoration more so, a silhouette of a 
wolf's head with gaping jaws burned into the leather with hot iron. My 
wolf is as old as the Old Weald, and then some.

As old as Wencel's horse? Older, surely, in a sense, for his wolf 
had been abroad, repeatedly reincarnated, for four hundred extra years 
before being so bloodily harvested. Part of that time had been spent 
high up in the Cantons, judging by the pictures of cold peaks that 
lingered in his mind. A long happy period, several domesticated 
wolf-lives, in some tiny hamlet in a forgotten vale where seasons and 
generations turned in a slow wheelThe attrition of mischance might 
have cut short the accumulation of wolf souls, yet had not. Which 
suggested in turn that Someone with a long, long attention span might 
have been manipulating those chances. Must have been, his mirthless 
reason corrected this.

He lay back and sought within himself for that millrace-current 
sense of Ijada. The quiet song of it calmed him instantly. She was not, 
at this moment, in pain, nor unduly fatigued, except for a tense piling-up 
of boredom. It did not follow that she was safe; the banal comfort of 
the narrow house was deceptive, that way. Horseriver had named this 
link the unintended relict of his murderous geas, and it might be so. 
Was not some good salvaged from evil, from time to time? He must 
contrive some way to see her again, secretly and soon. And to 
communicate. Could this subtle perception be made more explicit? One 
yank for yes, two yanks for no. Well, perhaps not that, but there must 
be something.

His brooding was interrupted by a page rapping on his door, 
bidding him to attend upon the earl. Ingrey armed himself, grabbed up 
his long court cloak, and descended to the entry hall, where he found 
Horseriver, who could only have come in a short time ago, preparing to 
go out again.

With some low-voiced instructions, the earl finished dispatching 
an anxious groom, then granted Ingrey a civil nod.

Where away, my lord?

The hallow king's hall. 
Didn't you just come from there?

And Horseriver ought to know. From both sides, Ingrey 
realized. They were briefly alone in the hall, the servants having been 
sent to hurry Fara; Ingrey lowered his voice. Ought I to suspect you of 
some uncanny assassination?

Wencel shook his head, apparently not the least offended by the 
suggestion. His death comes quite without need of any man's 
assistance. At one time-long ago-I might have sought to speed it. Or, 
more vainly, to retard it. Now I just wait. A flicker of days, and it is 
done. He vented a long, quiet sigh.

Death, an old familiar, did not disturb Wencel, and yet his 
languid weariness seemed a mask, to Ingrey. He was tense with some 
hidden anticipation, revealed, barely, only when his eyes repeatedly 
checked the staircase for some sign of Fara. At length the princess 
appeared: pale, chill, cloaked in black.

Ingrey, bearing a lantern, led the way through the darkening 
streets of Kingstown; the sole retainer, he noted, called to this duty. 
The evening air was chill and damp-the cobbles would be slippery with 
dew by midnight-but overhead the first stars shone down from a 
rainless sky. Wencel escorted his wife on his arm with the unfailing cold 
courtesy that was his studied habit. Ingrey extended his senses-all of his 
senses-yet found no new threat looming in the shadows. Indeed, no. 
We are the threats, Wencel and I.

Torches in brackets lit the entrance to the hallow king's hall in a 
flickering glow. Only the name recalled the old forest architectures of 
timber and thatch, for it was as much a stone palace as any other 
Easthome noble pile built during the latter days of Darthacan glory. 
Guardsmen hurried to swing wide the wrought-iron gates and bow 
apprehensively to the princess and her husband. The sentries seemed 
faintly mortified by how useless all their pikes and blades were to 
protect their lord from what stalked him tonight. As distant as they still 
were from the king's bedchamber, the servants' voices were hushed 
and tremulous as they escorted the party along the dim and musty halls.



CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE


THE HALLOW KING'S BEDCHAMBER WAS LESS CROWDED THAN 
Ingrey had imagined it. One green-robed physician and his acolyte sat 
near the head of the canopied bed with an air of depressed quietude 
that acknowledged all their medical efforts now vain. A divine in the 
gray garb of the Father's Order waited also, in an inverse mood of 
stretched readiness not yet called upon. In a room beyond an 
antechamber, out of sight and, thankfully, muffled by the intervening 
walls, a five-voice chorus of Temple singers started a hymn. The quintet 
sounded hoarse and tired; perhaps they would take a rest soon.

Ingrey studied the king in the bed. He was not weighted by such 
dark intrusions as Ingrey's or Wencel's, not shaman, nor sorcerer, nor 
saint; he was but a man, if a riveting one even in this last hour. He was a 
long way now from the Stagthorne scion Hetwar nostalgically spoke of 
from his childhood, who had taken the prince-marshal's banner from his 
own father's kingly hand to earn early victory and reputation in a now 
half-forgotten border clash with Darthaca. When Ingrey had first 
returned to the Weald in Hetwar's train, the king had been hale and 
vigorous despite his graying head and all the sorrows of his life. The 
past months of creeping illness had aged him speedily, as if to make up 
for lost time.

Now his final sleep was upon him. Ingrey hoped Fara had 
exchanged whatever last words she wanted with her father earlier, for 
there would be no more tonight. The thin, spotted skin, an ugly yellow 
shade, indeed bore that waxy sheen Horseriver had named the 
harbinger of finality. More: the king's breathing was harsh and hesitant, 
each breath drawn in and released, followed by a pause that drew all 
eyes, until the chest heaved again, and the gazes dropped away.

The glance Fara cast him was equally devoid of both fear and 
consolation, or indeed, much expression at all. Ingrey was impressed 
that she did not snarl in return; if offered such a platitude in such a 
moment, he would have been tempted to draw steel and run the divine 
through. She merely murmured, Where is my brother Biast? He should 
be here. And the archdivine.

He was here earlier, my lady, for a good long time, and will 
return shortly. I expect the archdivine and my lord Hetwar will be 
accompanying him.

She nodded once and shrugged away from him. His hand 
hesitated in air, as if to offer another consolatory pawing, but 
fortunately he thought better of it, stepping away to leave the princess in 
her stolid sorrow.

Horseriver stood watching all this with his feet braced a little 
apart, the picture of a supporting spouse and lord. His face seemed no 
more stern than the occasion demanded. It was only to Ingrey's eye 
that he seemed crouched like a cat at a mousehole. What more was 
about to happen in this room than the long-expected death of an aged 
man, even if aged king? Horseriver had been hovering in Easthome for 
weeks. What did he await, besides the end of this vigil? And if his 
presence here was so vital to his schemes, how much had it maddened 
him to have to break away and tend to the untimely intrusion of 
Boleso's funeral?

There are two hallow kings in this room. How can there be 
two?

The question Ingrey had asked in Hetwar's chambers, to which 
he'd received no satisfactory reply, came back to him now. What made 
the hallow kingship hallowed? Ingrey could barely guess. Horseriver, 
he suspected, knew.

Ingrey felt his own blood pulsing through his veins. He would 
have thought the piling up of his wolf's wolf-lives, and of Horseriver's 
stallion's horse-lives, would have made each more quintessentially wolf 
or horse, but it seemed not; it was as though all such wisdom-creatures 
converged on some common center, the denser and deeper they grew. 
They are both a lot like each other, Ijada had said. Indeed.

The hymn singers came to the end of their piece, and stopped; a 
faint shuffling suggested a recess. The Mother's acolyte had been 
dispatched down the corridor to watch out for Prince-marshal Biast. 
The divine had walked to the other side of the chamber and was 
helping himself to a glass of water. From the bed came a labored 
breath that was not followed by another.

Fara's face went stiffer, her eyes glassy with moisture that did 
not fall. Horseriver stepped briefly forward only to hand her a lace 
handkerchief, which she clutched with a spasm of her hand, then 
stepped back. The earl did not say anything foolish. He did not say 
anything at all.

He did shift back a pace, then rose almost on his toes, stretching 
his arms out like a falconer calling his bird to him.

Ingrey boiled up to full alertness, craning his neck and straining 
his senses. Ingrey could not see souls, as saints were reputed to do. He 
discerned the departing essence only because something unwound 
from it in its passing, spooling off like some heady perfume spiraling 
through the air. Gods, he had more than felt before; only by that 
experience could he identify the vast Presence that raised his hackles 
like a breath in the dark. But this One was not to his address, and was 
gone with its prize before his pupils could widen in a futile effort to take 
it in.

Ingrey caught the moment when Horseriver's head jerked back 
and breathed the kingship in. The earl staggered a little, as though a 
great eagle had landed upon those outstretched falconer's arms. His 
eyes squeezed shut, he folded his arms around himself, and he breathed 
out in a satisfied huff. When his eyes snapped open again, they blazed.

Holy fire, thought Ingrey. And, So fast! What just happened? 
Surely Horseriver had not-no, he had not waylaid the hallow king's 
departing soul and taken it in like another spirit animal atop the dark, 
distorted hoard he held already. And his spell for deathlessness 
captured body and soul both, leaving his own corpse behind like an 
emptied husk. Ingrey whispered in mystification to Wencel, Have you 
stolen a blessing from the gods?

Horseriver's faint mirth nearly melted his heart. This-the earl 
gestured down himself, barely breathing the words-was never the 
gods'. We made it ourselves. It belongs here. It was wrenched from 
me two and a half centuries ago. Now it returns. For a little time.

The Father's divine, oblivious to all this, had hurried to the 
hallow king's bedside, where the physician was bent over making his 
final examination. They murmured together in grave consultation. The 
divine signed the corpse and himself, and began intoning a short prayer.

So. Wencel was revealed in another lie, or half-truth; Ingrey 
could not summon the least surprise anymore. There had not been two 
hallow kings in this room; there had been two partial kings, mutually 
crippled, each holding hostage the other's fulfillment. Now there was 
one, whole again. Ingrey shivered under the terrible weight of his 
sovereign smile.

Fara turned to glance at her husband: her eyes widened and her 
breath drew in. If she saw one-tenth the towering glamour with her 
ordinary eyes that Ingrey sensed with his shaman's sight, he could not 
wonder at her sudden awe. Horseriver licked his thumb again and 
touched her brow, then moved to embrace her, leaning their foreheads 
together in a gesture one might mistake for comfort or blessing. Fara's 
eyes, when he drew back, were glazed and staring. Ingrey wondered if 
his own eyes looked just like that.

His arm around his wife's waist as if to support her, the earl 
turned to the Father's divine. Tell my brother-in-law, when he arrives, 
that I have taken the princess home to lie down. All of this has brought 
on one of her debilitating headaches, I'm afraid.

The divine, suddenly very attentive to the earl, nodded eager 
understanding. Of course, my lord. I am so sorry for your loss, my 
lady. But your father's soul is born now into a better world.

Horseriver's lips twisted. Indeed, all men are born pregnant 
with their own deaths. The experienced eye can watch it quicken within 
them day by day.

The divine flinched at this disturbing metaphor, but plowed on 
sturdily. I'm not sure that- 
Horseriver held up a restraining hand, and the man fell silent at 
once. Peace. Tell the prince-marshal that we will meet with him in the 
morning. Late morning, probably. He may begin the arrangements as he 
wills.

Ingrey Horseriver turned to his retainer, and his lips drew 
back on the most disquieting smile yet. His voice dropped to an eerie 
low register that vibrated through Ingrey's bones. Heel.

Furious, fascinated, and frantic, Ingrey bowed and followed his 
master out.

HORSERIVER HUSTLED HIS WIFE AND INGREY SWIFTLY AND ALONE 
through the darkened corridors of the hallow king's hall. Another 
murmur of Peace had the gate guards saluting them through without 
hindrance or question. They turned into the night streets, the air growing 
misty in the gathering chill. As they rounded the first corner, Ingrey 
looked back over his shoulder and saw a procession of swinging 
lanterns. Voices carried through the fog: Biast and a noble company 
hurrying back to his father's deathbed. Too late. Ingrey's ear picked 
out Hetwar's voice, replying to the prince-marshal. He wondered if 
Hetwar carried the hallow king's seal that was his charge in its oak box, 
together with the silver hammer to break it at the bedside.

Horseriver's party was lightless, black-cloaked, stepping softly; 
Ingrey doubted anyone from the prince-marshal's retinue saw them at 
all. They started down the hill. A few streets farther on, they did not 
turn aside to Horseriver's mansion as Ingrey expected, but continued till 
the stable mews loomed out of the darkness. The doors were open 
wide, and a few lanterns, hung from the rafters, burned softly within the 
redolent space.

A groom scrambled up from the bench by the outer wall and 
bowed fearfully as the earl approached. All is ready, my lord. The 
clothes are in the tack room. 
Good. Stay a moment.

Horseriver pointed to a lantern, which Ingrey reached up and 
retrieved, then led them through the open door of the tack room. 
Harness glowed on the wall pegs, with leather burnished and 
brightwork shining. Across some empty saddle racks, three piles of 
garments waited. Ingrey recognized his own riding leathers, together 
with his boots standing below. Another was a woman's riding habit in 
some wine-dark fabric picked out with gold thread. Horseriver 
gestured to the piles. Clothe yourselves, he addressed Fara and 
Ingrey equally, and make ready to ride.

Stone-faced, Fara dropped her voluminous cloak, which 
whispered to the wooden floor. I must have help with the buttons, my 
lord, she said levelly.

Ah, yes. Horseriver grimaced, and with practiced fingers undid 
the row of tiny pearl buttons down her back from their velvet loops. 
Ingrey stripped off court cloak, town shoes, and silver-stitched jerkin 
and had his leathers hiked up and fastened before Fara's dress and 
petticoats fell in a pool at her feet. He did not think either of them was 
prey to embarrassment at this unexpected intimacy. Exaltation, 
bewilderment, and terror left no room for lesser emotions. He slipped 
his boots on and straightened, then cinched up his belt for knife and 
scabbard. His unholy liege lord was still absorbed in the intricacies of 
his wife's garb.

As the earl raised his arms to help Fara into her jacket, Ingrey's 
eye caught the gleam of new leather from a knife sheath at his waist. 
New sheath; new knife? Quietly, he backed out of the tack room into 
the stable aisle. Could he defy Horseriver's entrancing will? If he could 
think resistance, surely he could act it? If he did not think too hard? 
Ijada, what is happening to you now? He could no longer tell. This 
moment was clearly well prepared for; with Ingrey securely leashed, 
had the earl readied some fatal assault on that narrow house, as well?

He was still standing there strugglingnot so much to move, as 
to want to move, when the earl appeared again, his own town robes 
exchanged for leathers and boots, escorting Fara firmly with one hand 
clenched around her upper arm. Horseriver glanced aside at the empty 
stall and, to Ingrey's dismay, merely smiled sourly. You almost frighten 
me, he remarked in passing. That was inspired. So nearly right. 
Perhaps I should muzzle you, as well.

He said no more, but aimed Fara into the straight stall where 
Ijada's chestnut mare shifted uneasily.

I'm afraid of that horse, my lord, Fara quavered.

Not for much longer, I promise you, he murmured back. 
Ingrey could not see more over the boards and past the vine-decorated 
metal bars than the horse's flickering ears and the tops of Horseriver's 
blond and Fara's dark heads, but he heard a leathery whisper as of a 
knife being drawn. A low murmur from the earl in words he half 
recognized made his blood race and raised all the hairs on his arms. 
Then a meaty thunk, a truncated squeal, a jerk against a head rope that 
shook the walls-then a thudding of a heavy body collapsing, convulsing, 
and going still.

The two heads moved back into the aisle. Fara was leaning 
against Horseriver, shuddering fiercely. If blood spattered her riding 
costume, it did not show in the dark. What have you done to me? 
she moaned.

Sh, Horseriver soothed her. He touched her brow with his 
thumb again, renewing her glassy stare. The horse-shadow, too, 
quieted, though seeming more benumbed than calmed. It will be well. 
Come along, now.

The apprehensive groom had reappeared. My lord? What 
was-

Fetch the horses.

The three saddled horses were marshaled in the darkened court 
before the mews. The groom and Horseriver between them boosted 
Fara aboard her bay mare; Horseriver himself checked her girths, 
adjusted her boots in her stirrups, smoothed her split skirts, closed her 
trembling gloved hands tightly over her reins.

Mount up, Horseriver directed Ingrey, handing him the gray 
gelding's reins. Ingrey did so, though the horse skittered and hopped 
beneath him, trying to get its head down and buck. Horseriver glanced 
back and cast another Peace! over his shoulder in a voice of mild 
irritation, and Ingrey's mount settled down, if still uneasily. The earl 
closed the stable doors behind them.

The groom gave Horseriver a leg up, and the earl caught up his 
stirrups with the toes of his boots without looking, settling himself in his 
saddle. He reached down and laid a beneficent palm across the 
groom's forehead. Go home. Sleep. Forget.

The groom's eyes went vague, and he turned away, yawning.

Horseriver raised a hand and called to Ingrey and Fara, 
Follow. He wheeled his mount and led off at a walk into the foggy 
dark. Hooves scraped on the sloping cobbles, the sound echoing off 
the walls of the buildings as they wound down through the Kingstown 
streets. 
As they passed through the empty market square, Horseriver 
leaned over the side of his saddle, pressed his hand to his stomach, and 
quietly retched. He spat something dark and wet upon the paving 
bricks. Ingrey, passing after, smelled not bile but blood. Does he bleed 
for his weirding voice as I do for mine? More discreetly, it seemed. 
And how much of that treasure had he misspent for Ingrey's murderous 
geas, that he named it too much?

Where are we going? Why does he want us? What are we 
going to do when we get there?

Ingrey gritted his teeth in frustration that he'd had no chance to 
send a message. Or leave oneHe tried to imagine what folk would 
make tomorrow morning of the mess left in the stables: three horses 
and the stag gone, one mare bloodily dead, an untidy pile of court dress 
left on the tack room floor. They had left Easthome swiftly and quietly, 
to be sure, but by no means in secret. For Fara's sake alone, there 
would surely be pursuit. Then whatever Horseriver plans, he expects 
it to go quickly, before pursuit can arrive. Should I seek delay?

It was Ingrey's charge to spy on Horseriver and guard Fara. So 
far the first was going swimmingly, in a way, but he was surely making a 
hash of the second, for all that he rode beside her seeming to guard her 
still. He'd made an effort with the stag that had proved sadly 
misdirected. His lurid fear that Horseriver might want his wife for some 
bizarre blood sacrifice did not stand up to reasonable examination. She 
could not be hanged from a tree as courier to the gods in her new 
horse-spirit-ridden state, nor was she virgin for all her barrenness. Nor 
did Ingrey think that Horseriver wanted to communicate with the gods, 
beyond obscene gestures of defiance. And where were They, in this 
night of inexplicable events?

A hallow king's banner-carrier was traditionally a close kinsman. 
Symark was second cousin to Biast, and had been his elder brother 
Byza's bannerman before that. The late king's own longtime bannerman 
had died half a year before him, from natural causes, and the old man 
had delayed replacing him-anticipating his own end even then and 
scorning to set some latecomer in that treasured companion's place? Or 
had a new appointment been blocked by Horseriver, for arcane 
reasons? A hallow king needed a bannerman of his own high blood, to 
match his honor. Or banner-woman? Ingrey glanced aside at Fara, 
clinging to her mount, her face pale and shadowed. She was an 
adequate horsewoman only. This night would test her endurance.

Hetwar would blister him for this. If he lived. If he lived, Ingrey 
decided, Hetwar could blister him to his heart's content. Better-if he 
and Fara lived, it would set an interesting conundrum for Ijada's judges. 
Any precedent of punishment or reprieve to Ijada for bearing her 
leopard must logically apply also to the princess and her new 
night-mare. I think I could do something with this. And if I couldn't, 
I'll wager Oswin could.

They neared the Stork and turned north along the main river 
road. The moonlight reflecting off the river's broad surface filtered in 
bright bursts through the trees lining the banks. Past the clip of hooves 
and creak of leather Ingrey could hear the faint rippling of the current, 
mixing with the whisper of falling leaves.

He kneed Wolf forward to match the big chestnut's long gait. 
Sire, where are we going?

North. They could be in flight to exile in the Cantons, but 
somehow Ingrey thought not. A two-day ride at a courier's pace would 
bring them to the edge of the Raven Range

The Wounded Woods. Bloodfield.

Holytree that was. Very good, my wise wolfling.

Ingrey waited, but Horseriver added nothing else. After a 
moment, the earl urged his horse into a canter, and the other two 
mounts snorted and picked up the pace.

Ingrey's reason still worked, it seemed. It was his emotions that 
Horseriver's kingship had overwhelmed. What a strange geas-no, this 
was no mere spell. Not at all like the tight, self-contained parasite 
magic he had fought and defeated at Red Dike. This was something 
else, huge and old and strong. Older than Horseriver himself? Nor did 
it feel intrinsically evil, though all gifts turned to despair in Horseriver's 
age-blackened hands.

The terrible charisma of kingsmen crept close, longing to bask 
in it, for something more than material reward. The lure of heroism, the 
benediction of action, might have only death for its prize, and yet men 
flocked to the king's banner. The seductive promise of perfection of self 
in service to this high bright-seeming thing?

Horseriver had not made his kingship out of himself alone, all 
those centuries ago. He had received it as heirloom-time immemorial 
was all too true a phrase for a tradition that knew no writing to bind the 
years in tame ranks, but the kin tribes had been on this ground so long 
they seemed as old as the great dark forest itself. Whatever royal magic 
they had made out of themselves, they had been making it for a very, 
very long time.

The old kinsmen, even by their own accounts, had been a 
collection of arrogant, stiff-necked, bloody-minded, and 
bloody-handed madmen. It would take something as intense as this 
burning glamour to bring them into any sort of line, however ragged. 
Fear of Audar had driven them, to be sure, in their late days, but fear 
was as likely to scatter efforts like leaves in a storm as to concentrate 
them. How much energy had Horseriver possessed, how much 
expended, to bring that great rite at Holytree even to a beginning, let 
alone to fruition? If this was his kingship's last dying gasp, what must it 
have been in its fierce prime?



CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO


BY THE TIME THE MOON WAS HIGH, THE LATHERED HORSES were 
flagging. They were miles beyond the point at which a royal courier 
would have stopped to change mounts, and Ingrey was beginning to 
wonder if Horseriver planned for them to ride the animals to death, 
when the earl finally allowed his big chestnut to drop to a weary walk. 
After a few more minutes, he pointed and led them off the road toward 
a farmhouse set alone in the trees toward the river. A lantern hung from 
its porch rafters, burning faint and red in the moon-blue dark.

Three horses were waiting, tied to the railing. As they 
dismounted a Horseriver groom scrambled up from a bedroll and set 
about transferring the tack. Horseriver allowed only enough time for 
Ingrey and Fara to consume some cheese wrapped in bread, swallow 
some ale, and visit the privy behind the house before mounting and 
taking to the road again. Fara was pale and strained, but the hallow 
king's will held her to her grim task of clinging to her fresh horse and 
galloping once more. 
Even Ingrey was swaying in his saddle by the time they stopped 
again, at another old thatched farmhouse just over a hill from the main 
river road. They had passed no other riders in the deep night, and had 
swung quietly around the walled villages lying farther and farther apart 
up the narrowing Stork. Fara fairly fell out of her saddle into her 
husband's arms.

It is just as well. Even you and I could not ride straight through 
without stopping. We'll take a rest here.

An arranged rest, clearly, for a daunted-looking farm girl 
appeared to take Fara in charge and lead her into the house. The earl 
followed another Horseriver groom, obviously stationed here for this 
duty, as he led the horses around behind the rambling house to a 
rickety shed. Wencel looked over the waiting remounts and grunted 
satisfaction. No farm nags, these, but more horses sent ahead from the 
earl's own stables.

This flight was well planned, it seemed. Pursuers might inquire at 
roadside inns and other public liveries where men in a hurry could rent 
remounts, yet find no trace of them, no witnesses, no abandoned 
horses. To stop and inquire at every farmhouse along the Stork 
between Easthome and the northern border would waste precious time, 
even for men with such resources as the prince-marshal and Hetwar. 
And they would have half a dozen other roads away from Easthome in 
all directions to search, as well.

To what degree can I resist this kingly geas? Ingrey 
wondered, in a sort of melted desperation. If he could but once gather 
the will and wits, that is. Would escape from the range of Wencel's 
voice break this false calm in which he seemed to float, would the 
trance falter if Wencel's attention was divided? Ingrey felt as hungry for 
that royal regard as a dog desiring a bone from its master or a boy a 
smile from his father. The dogged fawning merely made him grit his 
teeth, but that Horseriver should so casually pilfer a filial loyalty Lord 
Ingalef had never lived to enjoy sent a vein of molten rage through 
Ingrey's heart. Still he found himself creeping after his lord like a cold 
tired child huddling to a hearth.

It is beautiful, my lord, Ingrey said, nodding to the light-frosted 
view.

Wencel's lips twitched in an odd little grimace. I have seen 
enough moonsets. He added after a moment, Enjoy it while you can.

A disturbingly ambiguous remark, Ingrey thought. Why do we 
gallop? What foe do we outrace? Pursuit from Easthome?

That as well. Wencel stretched his back. Time is not my 
friend. Thanks to the Stagthorne kin's shrewd habit of electing their 
sons hallow kings in their fathers' lifetimes, it has been more than a 
hundred and twenty years since the last interregnum. The effort of 
creating another such gap seems overwhelming to me, just now. I shall 
seize this one. His lips drew back. Or die trying does not apply.

So, Hetwar's suspicions seemed sustained; Horseriver did covet 
the election, and had been manipulating the ordainers. And possibly the 
lives and deaths of potential rival candidates, as well? Is this all to 
make yourself hallow king again, then?

Horseriver snorted. I am hallow king. I need no further 
making.

He had needed something, however; some missing piece, spun 
off from the old Stagthorne king's departing soul. Somehalf magic, or 
fragment of the Weald: but surely not political in its nature. Hallow 
king in name and form, then. Publicly elected and acclaimed. 
If I had desired the name of king of this benighted land, I could 
have taken it years ago, Ingrey, Horseriver said mildly. In a better 
body, too.

If you don't want to win the election for yourself, what do you 
want?

To delay it.

Ingrey blinked grimy eyes. Will this flight do that?

Well enough. The absence of one earl-ordainer-Horseriver 
touched his chest-alone would not be enough, but Biast will be 
distracted by Fara's disappearance on the eve of her father's funeral, 
once he discovers it. I have planted a few other disruptions. The 
multiple proxies I left for different candidates should be good for 
several days of argument all by themselves, when they surface. He 
grinned briefly and not especially humorously.

Ingrey hardly knew what to reply to that, although the term 
interregnum seemed to rumble in his mind, fraught with elusive weight. 
Through the mellow glow of his embezzled fealty, he gleaned his wits, 
and asked, What was the stag for?

What, hadn't you guessed?

I thought you meant to invest it in Fara, to make her a spirit 
warrior, or to carry something away from her father. But then you 
chose the mare.

When playing against the gods, sudden unexpected ploys 
sometimes work better than deep-laid plans. Even They cannot block 
every chance. The stag was a great beast in the making; four stag-lives 
it has accumulated since I began it. But the hallow king's death fell 
before the stag was ready. I don't know if They hastened the one or 
delayed the other.

Someone. I had not yet decided whom. Were it not for 
securing you instead, I would have had to chance the unripe beast. 
Your wolf is surer, despite being less, ah, tame. Stronger. Better.

Ingrey declined to wag his tail at this pat, though it took effort. 
Better for whom? His exhausted mind struggled to put the pieces 
together. A shaman, a banner-carrier, a hallow king, and the sacred 
ground of Holytree. And blood, no doubt. There had to be blood in 
there somewhere. Assemble them and achievewhat? No mere 
material purpose, surely. What was Wencel about, that the gods 
themselves should struggle to invade the world of matter to oppose it? 
What could Wencel aspire to beyond his bedazzling kingship?

What was greater than a king? Had Wencel's aspirations 
outgrown matter altogether? Four had become Five once, in the 
legendary past; could Five become Six?

What do you plan to make of yourself, then? A god, or 
demigod?

Wencel choked on his wine. Ah, youth! So ambitious! And you 
yourself have seen a god, you claim. Go to bed, Ingrey. You're 
driveling.

What, then? Ingrey asked stubbornly, although he did press 
himself to his feet.

I told you what I wanted. You have forgotten.

I want my world back, Wencel had cried in fierce despair into 
Ingrey's face. He had not forgotten, and wasn't sure he could if he tried. 
No. But it cannot be had.

Just so. Go to bed. We ride at midmorning.

Ingrey staggered into the farmhouse to find the cot that had been 
prepared for him, then lay staring upward in the dark despite his 
weariness. Surely his thrall to Horseriver was not absolute, or it would 
not chafe him so. Wencel's glamour sat ill upon his crooked shoulders, 
like a king's gilded armor, made in the flush of his youth, put upon a 
wizened old man. A dissonance between the man and his kingship that 
even Ingrey could sense whispered through the fissures.

His own present duties, to penetrate Horseriver's secrets and to 
defend Fara, both glued him to Horseriver's side perforce. Perhaps an 
effort to escape was premature. Better to lull his captor, watch, and 
wait his chance? Trust in the pursuit that his reason and private 
knowledge told him must follow? Pray?

He hadn't prayed before bed in his adult life. But sleep gave 
dreams and in dreams, gods sometimes walked. And talked. His 
dreams were no garden for Them to stroll in, as Hallana's were said to 
be, but in this remnant of night he prayed to be possessed.

BUT WHATEVER INGREY DREAMED VANISHED UPON AWAKENING. He 
shot up with a start when the groom shook his shoulder. Washbasin, 
food, and drink were thrust at him; Wencel had them on the road again 
within half the turning of a glass.

The rising land grew ever more rural and remote. There were 
other people and beasts on the road now in the broad day: farm 
wagons, pack trains, slower riders, sheep, cows, pigs. Wencel's gallop 
of last night gave way to a less conspicuous canter, alternated with 
trotting and walking where the road grew steep or, increasingly, bad. 
Nonetheless it was apparent that the pace was finely calculated to 
wring the maximum distance from their mounts in the minimum time. An 
hour after noon, another aging farmhouse yielded up another meal and 
change of horses.

Given the effect that Wencel's kingship had on him, it occurred 
to Ingrey to wonder what it would do to women. He watched Fara's 
response to Wencel, seeking his female mirror. She was dazzled, even 
astonished, when her eyes rested on her transformed husband, her lips 
parting in unconscious desire. But not happy. She already possessed 
what other women might vainly aspire to, and yetnot. Wencel's gaze 
in return offered nothing but cool evaluation, as though she were a 
mount of dubious soundness somehow foisted upon him, and she 
flinched under the disdain. Fara might not be brilliant or brave, but 
neither was she safe to betray. She had resisted Wencel's perceived 
infidelity before, if to disastrous consequence. Was she as entirely his 
chattel as he seemed to think?

Was Ingrey? Ingrey sought inward. His wolf and he were no 
longer divisible in this life, but it seemed to him that the uncanny part of 
himself was more fully and fawningly under Horseriver's spell than the 
rational. The part of him that thought in words remained more free. He 
had chained his wolf once, when he'd been younger and more 
frightened and bewildered than this. If the hallow king had leashed his 
wolf, did he truly control all there was of Ingrey?

He seeks speed. To resist, I should seek delay.

Horseriver slowed them to a walk again, looking leftward. At 
length, he turned toward the river upon a lesser road, and the horses 
slithered down a long bank through a thin screen of pine trees. Dirt 
gave way to stones; they faced not a rickety rural bridge, but a ford 
across the upper Stork. The Raven Range gave forth steady and 
abundant springs. The water here was not in so muddy a spate as the 
ford at which Boleso's cortege had so nearly come to grief, but the 
river was wide and deep despite the recent drought in this region that 
put a dusty autumn haze in the blue air.

Both horses stumbled, and Fara's went down. Ingrey had 
already kicked his feet free of his stirrups. He lunged out of his saddle, 
slid over the flanks of her plunging horse, and made a valiant grab for 
the princess.

She'd kept a grasp on one stirrup. Her wallowing mount might 
well have towed her to the far bank, but Ingrey's grip and weight 
yanked her away. She gave a brief cry ending in a gurgle as her head 
went under. Horseriver whipped around in time to see Ingrey trying to 
pull her back to the surface as they both were swept downstream.

Stay! the earl cried. Ingrey jerked in response, but though 
that uncanny voice might command man or beast, it had no effect on 
the heavy current. The water was chill but not bitterly so, and this time, 
Ingrey managed to avoid clouting his head on a boulder. But this time, 
he also discovered immediately, his partner could in truth not swim. He 
renewed his grip on the flailing woman and gasped as he in turn went 
under, and his struggle for breath grew as unfeigned as hers.

He still managed to push them back into the swiftest current 
three times, as his longer legs dragged the gravel, until at last the stream 
broadened and slowed in a pool so shallow that even Fara's feet could 
touch bottom. Sliding and floundering, they waded to shore.

Ingrey scanned the bank. They had passed some mighty tangles 
of brush, a stretch of high and rocky overhangs that had constricted the 
waters into a frighteningly speedy chute, and now, a clot of young 
willows growing thickly along the farther shore. Wencel, especially if 
he'd stopped to secure their abandoned mounts, would not soon catch 
up with them. Ingrey had a very clear idea of just how much delay such 
a sopping mishap might cause, and hoped to extend it even further.

It was not in Ingrey's present interests to clarify this. My duty, 
my lady. And my fault-my horse stumbled into yours.

I thought I-I thought we were both going to drown.

So did I. No, my lady.

Did we she hesitated, turning her dark eyes up at him. Did 
we escape?

Ingrey took a long breath, and let it out slowly. Distance from 
the hallow king was, as he'd hoped, sobering-but not enough. The 
unwanted sense of Wencel that had replaced his link with Ijada was still 
present, body deep. The earl was urgent, somewhere upstream. But 
not panicked. I don't think so. But we may be able to delay.

To what end?

We must be followed. You must be followed. Maybe more 
quickly than Wencel thinks. Biast will be frantic on your behalf. The 
earl might have pictured them not being missed till the next day, but 
Ijada would have known instantly. Would she have thought him killed? 
Would she have been able to communicate with anyone? Lewko, 
Hallana? Would Gesca have listened to her pleas to seek them, late last 
night? Once faintly guilty for intimidating Gesca on her behalf, Ingrey 
was now sorry he had not terrorized the lieutenant more. Five gods 
help her. And us.

And if They are as interested as They seemed, where are 
They now, curse Them?

Fara stood shivering in a patch of sunlight, her heavy sodden 
garments clinging to her solid form, hair knocked loose from its braiding 
tailing in wet, miserable strands down her face. Ingrey was in little 
better case, wet leathers squeaking irritatingly as he moved. He 
stepped apart, drew his blades, and made a futile effort to wipe them 
dry.

Holytree, that was. Bloodfield. The Wounded Woods that are.

Ijada's woods? Her dower land? She stared in astonishment. 
Is this for her, somehow?

The other way around. It is the Woods that Wencel desires, 
not their heiress. They are old, old and accursed.

Fara's face pinched in, half-reassured, half-more alarmed. 
Why? Why did he drag me from Papa's deathbed, what evil thing 
does he intend? Why did he defile me with this, this She turned in a 
circle, clawing at her breast as if she could so dig out her unwanted 
haunt.

Ingrey caught her clay-cold hands and held them. Stop, lady. I 
do not know why you are wanted. Ijada thought I was destined to 
cleanse the ghosts of the Woods of their spirit animals, as I did for 
Prince Boleso. If this is what Wencel wants of me, I don't know why 
he doesn't just say so; it seems no improper charge.

She looked up at him eagerly. Can you take this horrible animal 
thing out of me, as well? As you did for my brother? Now?

Not while you live. The Old Weald shamans cleansed their 
comrades' souls only after death, it appears.

Then you had best outlive me, she said slowly.

I don't know. I don't know what will happen.

Her face grew stonier. She grated, I could make certain of it.

No, lady! His grip tightened. We are not in such dire straits 
yet, though I will swear to you if you wish that I will try, if our deaths 
fall out that way.

She gripped him back, looking disturbingly possessive for an 
instant. Perhaps. Perhaps. She released him and wrapped her arms 
around her torso, shoulders hunching.

Then you could not cleanse Wencel, alive, either, she 
continued, brows pinching in worry.

Wencel, well, Wencel is not just infested with a simple spirit 
horse like yours. He ispossessed, I suppose is as good a word as 
any, by a spirit, a soul, a concatenationhe claims, anyway, to be the 
sundered ghost of the last hallow king of the Old Weald. More than 
claims. Kept alive whether he will or nil by a great spell based in 
Bloodfield.

Her voice went hushed. Do you think he has gone mad?

Yes. He added reluctantly, But he's not lying. Not about that.

Fara stared at him for a long, long moment. He almost expected 
her to ask, Do you think you have gone mad? to which Ingrey did 
not know the answer, but instead she said, I felt it when he changed. 
He changed last night, when Papa died.

Yes. He reclaimed his kingship, or some missing part of it. 
Now he iswell, I'm not sure what he is. But he races time.

She shook her head. Wencel always ignored time. He was 
maddening, that way.

This thing in Wencel's body isn't really Wencel. I have to keep 
remembering that.

She rubbed her temples.

Is your head bothering you? Ingrey asked cautiously.

No. It's very strange.

How should they delay further? Split up, so as to take longer to 
find? A clever notion; he could get back in the water, which was 
immune to the hallow king's glamour, and let it carry him downstream 
for miles until Wencel overtook him. Ingrey tried to remember if they'd 
passed any waterfalls coming up. But no. He could not leave this 
woman alone, shivering in the wilderness, waiting for the uncanny 
chimera she'd married to find her. Prince-marshal Biast commanded 
me to guard you. We cannot separate.

Wencel will search first along the banks. Let us at least go a 
little more into the woods.

It would not be enough to elude Horseriver altogether; he could 
already feel the tug of their tie, growing tighter. But truth to tell, he was 
becoming wildly curious about Bloodfield. He wanted to see it, needed 
to see it. And the straightest way was to let Horseriver take him there. 
But not too swiftly. Wencel might have had all he required in Ingrey 
and Fara, but Ingrey didn't think he had all he needed. I need Ijada. 
I'm sure of it. Did Horseriver know it, to separate them so? Trust in 
the gods, They will supply? Hardly. He wondered suddenly if it was 
as hard for the gods to have faith in Ingrey as it was for him to have 
faith in Them, and a weird wild urge to show Them how it should be 
done swept him for a moment.

Whatever fey look had possessed him made Fara step back. I 
will follow you, she said faintly.

They turned to scramble into the brush. Over rotting logs, up 
past the high-water mark of a second stony bank, into deeper shade. 
Out across a sunny meadow high with purple thistles and prickling 
weeds that laid a dotted trail of burrs on their damp clothes. Through 
scratching brambles into more shade, laced with fine spiderwebs that 
caught across their mouths. The hike did some good, he thought, if only 
to render them drier by the exercise.

But the crashing of a large animal sounded through the woods 
soon enough. There was nothing in this waste more dangerous than 
what sought them already, but it need not be more dangerous to be 
dangerous enough. Ingrey froze, hand on his hilt, and Fara cowered 
near him, until Horseriver's mount emerged from the blinking shadows, 
snorting displeasure at the clutching undergrowth that scraped its hide.

Thank you, Lord Ingrey, Wencel said, riding up.

Sire.

My horse stumbled, said Fara, unasked. I almost drowned. 
Lord Ingrey held me up.

Ingrey did not bother correcting that to I clambered on top of 
Lord Ingrey. A matter of viewpoint, he decided. His had been largely 
underwater.

Aye, I saw, said Wencel

Not all, or you wouldn't be thanking me so sincerely.

Wencel's look at Ingrey was searching but not unduly suspicious.

Get her up, said Wencel, holding out his hand, and Ingrey 
cupped his hands for the princess's muddy foot and boosted her up 
behind her husband. He took up station after the horse, to let it trample 
down the trail and rake off the spiderwebs, and followed Wencel 
wearily back upstream.

It took upwards of an hour for them to find the road again, and 
then they turned back eastward for more than half a mile to the river 
where Wencel had left their horses tied. There, to Ingrey's silent 
satisfaction, they found that Fara's horse had strained a tendon in its 
fall. Wencel pulled its tack off and turned it loose, had Ingrey lash the 
spare gear behind his own mount's saddle, heaved Fara up behind him 
once more, and led off west at a much slower pace.

Four hours lost at least, perhaps more by the time they dragged 
in to their next stop. Not enough. It's a start.

Ingrey had added another two hours to his tally by the time they 
turned off the back road to a grubby and impoverished little settlement 
scarcely meriting the name of hamlet. A rotting timber palisade 
provided bare defense from wild beasts and none from evil men. The 
sun was setting; Horseriver frowned at its yellow glint through the trees.

Wencel was indifferent to a set of surroundings that made Fara 
recoil. She was so unnerved by the slatternly sallow woman with no 
teeth and a near-unintelligible dialect, drafted to serve her, that she 
made Ingrey act her maid instead. He himself ended up sleeping on a 
blanket across her doorway, screened with only a tattered curtain, 
which she took for courtly devotion; Ingrey didn't explain that it was 
excuse to avoid the infested straw pallet he'd been offered. If Wencel 
slept, Ingrey did not see where.

DESPITE THE POOR AND IMPROVISED BEDDING, BOTH HE AND Fara 
rose late the following morning, drained by exhaustion of both body 
and heart. Without haste, but without undue delay, Wencel led them 
once more onto the rural road, in places hardly more than a track, 
which skirted the Raven Range now rising to their right.

The Ravens were rugged but not high; no snow, either early or 
late, clung to their green-and-brown heights, though here and there 
some sheer fall of rock, gleaming in the sun, gave the illusion of ice. 
Their deep folds were rucked up like a blanket, cut with sharp ravines 
and secret places. Autumn had turned their summer verdure to gold, 
brown, and in places splashes of scarlet like sword cuts, laced in turn 
by the dark green of pines and firs. Beyond the first line of slopes, seen 
through an occasional gap, the humped ranks swiftly receded into a 
hazy blue distance that blended imperceptibly with the horizon, as 
though these hills marched to some boundless otherworld.

Ingrey wondered how in five gods' names Great Audar had ever 
dragged an army through here, at speed. His respect for the old 
Darthacan grew despite all. Even though Audar had lacked the uncanny 
charisma of the hallow kings he opposed, his leadership must have 
been impassioned.

For a little while, they joined a larger road until they crossed the 
river by the stone bridge just above the town. Under the arches, 
lashings of timber and some barrels moved down the rocky stream, 
attended by nimble men and boys with poles. They passed carts, 
trudging husbandmen with their beasts, pack trains of mules. Horseriver 
hurried them along here without pausing, turning upstream, ignoring a 
main crossroad, then once more striking west into the woodlands on a 
lesser track.

Horseriver marked the course of the sun and picked up the pace 
for a while, but as the track dwindled was forced to a more careful 
progress. The horses labored up and slid down the steepening slopes. 
More up than down, and finally they turned right onto a faint trail, 
heaved up a short slope, and descended into a hidden dell.

No hamlet or farmhouse awaited here, but a mere campsite. A 
pair of grooms jumped up as they approached and ran to take the 
horses. The usual three remounts were picketed among the trees: 
sturdy cobs, this time, rather than the long-striding hot-blooded 
coursers Horseriver had favored for the roads. Fara, exhausted, 
dismounted slowly and stiffly and stared in dismay at her next proposed 
abode, bedrolls sheltered in a stand of fir trees, less even than last 
night's dire hovel. If she had ever camped before on royal hunts, Ingrey 
was fairly sure her days had ended in silken pavilions attended by 
cooing handmaidens and all possible comforts. Here, every other 
consideration was clearly sacrificed to speed and efficiency. We travel 
light now, and will not be here long.

The man signed himself in respect, ducking his head. Yes, my 
lord.

Fetch it out.

Aye, my lord.

Leaving the tired horses to his younger companion, the 
bowlegged groom trudged to the campsite and bent over a pile of 
packs. Horseriver, Fara, and Ingrey followed. The groom rose 
clutching a pole some seven feet long, wrapped about with ancient, 
brittle canvas tied with twine. Horseriver sighed in satisfaction as he 
took it, his hands wrapping about the canvas binding, and swung it 
upright, planting the butt by his boot. Briefly, he leaned his forehead 
against it and squeezed his eyes shut.

Ingrey led the weary Fara to one of the bedrolls and made sure 
she was able to sit down without falling. She stared up through 
shadowed eyes as he turned back to Horseriver. The groom trod away 
again to assist with the horse lines.

What is that, sire? Ingrey asked, nodding to the pole. It made 
his hairs stir, whatever it was.

Horseriver half grinned, though without mirth. The true king 
must have his hallowed banner, Ingrey.

That's not the royal banner you had at Bloodfield, surely.

No, that one was broken and cut to shreds and buried with me. 
This is the one I carried when I last was king in name, if only to the 
remnant of the faithful kin who followed me, when I raided Audar's 
garrisons from across the fen borders. It was wrapped after my last 
death in battle and put away; and later delivered, it was thought, to my 
son and heir. Little comfort it brought me, but I was glad to have it 
nonetheless. I hid it in the rafters at Castle Horseriver. For three 
hundred years it has lain up there, preserved against some better day. 
Instead, it comes down to this day. But it comes.

Horseriver licked his lips in something like satisfaction. Good, 
my wise wolfling. Being so shrewd, have you realized yet what the 
other function of a banner-carrier was?

Eh? said Ingrey. When Wencel wasn't deceiving him or 
terrorizing him, the earl also did a very good job of making him feel a 
fool, he reflected glumly.

And yet you cleansed Boleso, no small task, Horseriver 
mused. I do weary of trying to herd your wits, but last time pays for 
all. He glanced aside at Fara, as if to be certain she was listening, 
which caught Ingrey's attention, for Wencel had avoided looking at her 
or speaking to her beyond the most direct commands.

The banner-carriers slit the throats of their comrades too 
wounded to carry from the field, you said, Ingrey put in. A ghastly 
enough duty, but Ingrey was suddenly sure there was more. Ghastly, 
ghostly, wait

Horseriver took a breath. Put it together. The soul of a slain 
spirit warrior had to be cleansed of its life-companion before it might go 
to the gods. But a warrior was likely to fall in battle, when there was 
not time for proper rites or sometimes even the chance to carry the 
body away. For when even the wounded must be abandoned, the dead 
fare no better. Nothing of spirit can exist in the world of matter without 
a being of matter to support it, I know you have been taught this 
orthodoxy. That a warrior's soul might not drift as a sundered revenant 
and be lost, it was the banner-carrier's task to bind it to him or her as a 
haunt, and carry it away to where it might at length be cleansed by his 
true kin shaman. Or whatever shaman might be had, in a pinch. 
Five gods, whispered Ingrey. No wonder the bannermen 
were desperately defended by their comrades. And had Wencel's 
binding of Ijada to him been some variant of this ancient practice?

Now, the hallow king's bannerman Horseriver trailed off. 
He straightened his shoulders and began again. He had this same duty 
to his lord's soul, should the hallow king bear a kin beast. Not all 
elected kings were so graced, though many were, especially in 
unsettled times. But whether his lord were spirit warrior or no, the 
hallow king's banner-carrier had another sacred task, and not only 
when his lord died in a battle going ill. Though you may take it that if the 
hallow king was slain on the field, that battle was generally going quite 
ill indeed. Water. Wencel licked dry lips, and stared into his lap, his 
back curving again.

Ingrey glanced to the pile of packs, spotted a flaccid waterskin, 
and brought it to the tale-teller. Wencel tilted his head back and drank 
deep, indifferent to the musty staleness of it. He then sighed and 
propped himself on one hand, as though the burden of this telling was 
slowly driving him into the earth.

It was the royal banner-carrier's duty, upon the death of his 
lord, to capture and hold the hallow kingship itself, until time to transfer 
it back to the ordained heir. And so this greatest of native Wealding 
magics was passed down from generation to generation, from times lost 
in time untilnow.

Lord Stagthorne-the late king-had no banner-carrier when he 
died, day before yesterday, Ingrey observed suddenly. Was this your 
doing?

One of several necessary yet not sufficient arrangements, yes, 
murmured Wencel. If true interregnums were easy to come by, more 
would have occurred by chance ere now, I assure you. Or by design.

He grimaced and drew breath, continuing: The royal 
banner-carrier, by tradition and profound necessity, had several 
qualities. He-or she-his glance at Fara sharpened-was usually of the 
same kin, close-tied by shared high blood, though not always the heir. 
Chosen by the king, bound to the task by the royal shaman-the king 
himself if he was one-acclaimed by the spirit warriors assembled in the 
kin meeting. And so we have all here that is needed to make another 
such, if in miniature. Though ceremony, likewise, shall be lacking. Not 
in song but in silence, shall the last royal banner-carrier of the Old 
Weald ride at her beloved lord's side. His side glance at Fara was 
blackly ironic.

To what purpose? whispered Ingrey. For he does not tutor 
us for no reason, of that I am certain. Horseriver had been 
instructing him for days, he realized in retrospect.

Wencel crouched, hesitated, pushed himself up with a pained 
grunt. He turned his head and spat a gobbet of blood into the gloom. 
The iron tang smote Ingrey's nostrils. The earl stared into the gathering 
twilight where the grooms had finished with the horses and were 
diffidently approaching. We must have a fire. And food, I suppose. I 
hope they brought enough. Purpose? You'll see soon enough.

Should I expect to survive it? Ingrey glanced at Fara. Either 
of us?

Wencel's lips curved, briefly. You may. He walked off into the 
resin-scented shadows.

Ingrey wasn't sure if that last was meant as prediction or 
permission.

INGREY WAS AWAKENED IN THE DARK BEFORE DAWN BY HORSERIVER 
himself, tossing wood on the fire to build it up to a bright flare. They 
had all slept in yesterday's riding clothes, and the grooms, it seemed, 
were to be left to break camp and ride the spent horses home. So there 
was little for Ingrey or Fara to do to prepare beyond sitting up, pulling 
on their boots, and eating the stale bread, cheese, and blessedly hot 
drinks shoved into their hands.

Through the night fog that had risen from the forest, creating a 
dripping hush, gray light began to filter. Fara shivered in the cold and 
damp as Ingrey boosted her aboard her horse, a sturdy little black with 
a hogged mane and white socks. Horseriver disposed his banner pole 
rather awkwardly along his horse's off side, tied beneath the stirrup flap 
to ride under his leg. He mounted and motioned them forward with a 
wave of his arm: as he had promised, in silence. Ingrey glanced back at 
the grooms. The elder stood at attention, looking worried; the younger 
was already climbing back into an abandoned bedroll to steal some 
extra warmth and sleep.

Horseriver led them up into a gap in the hills, first on a trail, then 
on a path, then on deer paths. Ingrey, bringing up the rear, ducked 
swinging branches. Gray twigs scraped on his leathers like clawing 
fingernails as the way narrowed. The horses' hooves crunched through 
the fallen leaves, and slid, sometimes, on last year's black rot beneath 
the drifts, sending up a musty dank smell.

The brightening day drew up the soft curtain of mist, and the 
boles of the beeches stood out in sharp relief at last, as though the fog 
had clotted into firm gray bark. Then, beneath the pale blue bowl of 
sky, it grew hot. Biting black flies found the riders and their mounts, so 
that to the heave and plunge of the horses over the uneven terrain was 
added the occasional squeal and buck as the insects tormented them. 
When Horseriver led them into a ravine that ended in a cleft, with no 
way out but back the way they'd climbed in, Ingrey grew aware that 
however well Horseriver had known this land once, it had changed 
even beyond his recognition. How long? They backtracked and 
scrambled up an opposite ridge instead.

We are in Ijada's country, Ingrey realized. He was not sure at 
what point they had crossed into her dower gift: possibly as far back as 
the campsite. The scene took on a sudden new interest, and he was 
almost prepared to forgive even the black flies. Broad lands did not 
precisely convey their mood, though if they could be rolled out flat, 
Ingrey thought, they would equal a small earldom. Instead they were 
crimped into something difficult, stony, and wild; beauty that arrested 
rather than soothed. Yes, that is Ijada.

He felt in his mind for her absence, like a tongue probing the 
wounded socket of a drawn tooth. All he could find was the hot 
infection of Horseriver. Alone together, this taciturn royal procession 
of three seemed to him. Godsforsaken.

The sun was sinking toward the western horizon when they 
clambered up through another gap, angled left, and came out upon a 
sudden promontory. They pulled up their horses and stared.

Two steep-sided, undulating ridges embraced a valley about two 
miles wide and four miles long, then curved around again to enclose the 
far end like a wall. The valley floor was as flat as the surface of a lake. 
On the near end, beneath their feet, lay a stretch of dun grasses and 
yellowing reeds, a half-dried marsh. Beyond it, a few twisted oak trees 
stood out like sentinels, then a dark and dense oak wood crouched. 
Even with half the leaves down, backlit by the setting sun, its shadows 
were impenetrable to Ingrey's eye. His head jerked back at the miasma 
of woe that seemed, even from here, to arise from the trees.

Feel it, do you? the earl inquired, as if lightly.

Aye. What? What do I feel? If Ingrey had possessed a back 
ridge, all the fur along it would be rising in a ragged line right now, he 
thought.

Horseriver dismounted and untied his banner pole from under his 
saddle flap. He stared briefly and without pleasure at his wife for a 
moment; Fara stared back wide-eyed, her shoulders bowing in, then 
dropped her gaze and shuddered. Horseriver shook his head in 
something that, had it more heart, would have been disgust, and strolled 
over and handed the pole to Ingrey.

Bear this for a time. I don't want it dropped.

Ingrey's left stirrup included the small metal cup of a spear rest. 
He swung the pole up and seated it, and took up his reins with his right 
hand. His horse was far too tired by now to give him trouble. 
Horseriver remounted, swung his animal around, and motioned for 
them to follow.

They descended from the promontory in a zigzag through a 
thinning woods. At the bottom, Ingrey was compelled to dismount, 
hand the banner back to Horseriver, draw his sword, and hack a path 
for them all through a head-high hedge of brittle brambles that seemed 
not just thorny, but fanged. A few whipping backlashes pierced even 
his leathers, and the punctures and scratches bled flying drops as he 
fought his way in. On the other side, at the edge of the dried marsh, 
Horseriver dismounted again and unwrapped his banner at last.

The desiccated twine parted with faint puffs of powder as his 
knife touched it, and the brittle canvas cracked away. A discolored 
nettle-silk banner unfolded, bearing the device of his house, the running 
white stallion on a green field above three wavy blue lines; in the fading 
light, more gray stallion above gray lines on a gray field, disappearing 
into a fog. This time, he made Fara take it. He murmured words Ingrey 
could barely hear and still less understand, but Ingrey sensed it when a 
new, dark current sprang up between the two. The silent-silenced 
-Fara's backbone stiffened as though braced, and her chin came up; 
only in her eyes did pools of muted terror lurk.

They approached the outlying oak tree, and the name of 
Wounded Woods seemed doubly earned to Ingrey. The tree was huge 
and old, but seemed blighted. The leaves still clinging to its withered 
branches were not crisp, brown, fluted curls, but limp, blackened, and 
misshapen. Trunk and branches seemed knotted and twisted far 
beyond the rule for oaks-wrung like rags-and tumorous burls wept 
sickly black ooze.

A warrior stepped from the tree. Not from under it, or beside it, 
or behind it: he stepped from the trunk itself as though passing through 
a curtain. His boiled leather armor was rotten with age. From the haft 
of his spear, upon which he leaned as though it was an old man's staff, 
an unidentifiable scrap of animal fur fluttered. His blond beard was 
crusted with dried blood, and he still bore the wounds of his death; an 
ear hacked away, ax gashes splitting the armor, a dismembered hand 
tied to his belt with a bit of rag. A badger pelt was attached by its skull 
to his rusty iron cap, peering through sightless dried eyes, and the 
black-and-white fur dangled down the back of his neck as he turned to 
slowly scrutinize each of the three before him.

Ingrey grew aware only then that sometime during the passage 
of the marsh they had stepped from the world he knew into another, 
where such sights were possible; its congruence with the world of 
matter filling his fleshly eyes was but a feint. Fara, too, was drawn into 
this vision; her body remained rigidly upright, her face blank, but from 
the corners of her eyes a faint gleam of moisture trickled downward. 
Ingrey decided not to draw Horseriver's attention to this, lest he 
subtract her tears as well as her voice.

Horseriver's face could have been a carved wooden mask, but 
his eyes were like a night without end. Aye, he breathed.



CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE


THE SENTINEL LED OFF, LIMPING, USING HIS SPEAR AS A walking 
stick. Horseriver continued to lead Fara. Her hand clutched the banner 
pole tightly, and its tremble and her horse's rocking were all that gave 
the limp flag motion in the breathless twilight. Ingrey's horse snorted 
and sidled, and the mount he led yanked at its bridle and dug in its 
heels, eyes rolling. Disliking the feel of both his hands encumbered, by 
his own horse's reins and by the other's, Ingrey dismounted and let the 
animals go free. They wheeled and skittered back past the tree, then, 
too weary to bolt farther, put their heads down and began nibbling the 
tough marsh grass. Ingrey turned and paced after the hallow king's 
banner.

As they entered the margins of the woods, more revenants 
stepped from the trees. They were as tattered as their sentry, or worse; 
most were decapitated, and carried their heads, sometimes still in 
helmets, variously: tied to belts by the hair or braids, tucked under their 
arms, over their shoulders in makeshift carrier bags made of rope or 
rags. It took Ingrey's disquieted gaze a few moments to wrench from 
their wounds and begin to take in other details of decoration, 
weaponry, or garb that told of their kin identities. Or personal identities.

silently cried belts, loops of necklaces, and furs and skulls and pelt after 
pelt of the wisdom animals whose strength they'd hoped to inherit. 
Everywhere, faded stitchery peeked out, on collars, on baldrics, on the 
hems of cloaks, on embroidered armbands. My wife made this, my 
daughter, my sister, my mother. See the intricacy, see the colors 
intertwined; I was beloved, once.

A tall soldier, whose head still balanced upon a neck half-cut 
through and crusted with dark blood, sidled close to Ingrey. He bore a 
thick wolf pelt over his shoulders, and he stared at Ingrey in as great a 
wonder as if Ingrey had been a ghost and he a living man. He reached 
out a hand, and Ingrey first flinched away, but then set his teeth and 
endured the touch. More than a gust of air, less than flesh, it left a liquid 
chill in its wake across his skin.

Other wolf-skin-clad warriors clustered about Ingrey, and a 
woman as well, gray-haired, stout, her torn dress elaborated with 
twining strips of gray fur, her looping gold armbands tipped with elegant 
little wolf's heads with garnet eyes. Some of these could be my own 
forefathers, Ingrey realized, and not just on the Wolfcliff side; a dozen 
other kins' blood ran through his veins from foremothers as well, in a 
turbulent stream. It had disturbed him to think himself an intruder in a 
graveyard; it devastated him to suspect the fascination of the ghostly 
warriors with him was the excitement of grandparents seeing for the 
first time a child they'd never hoped to look upon. Five gods help me, 
help me, help me to do what?

He blinked in astonishment when the growing parade was joined 
by half a dozen dark-haired hacked-about men wearing the tabards of 
Darthacan archers of Audar's day. They swung wide around 
Horseriver, but crept up to Ingrey's heels. The other revenants did not 
seem to mind their presence here; equal in death for four centuries, 
perhaps they had made their own soldier's peace. Audar, Ingrey had 
heard, had carried out his own dead rather than burying them in this 
accursed ground, sealed from men and gods, but the battle had been 
great, and conducted largely in the dark; it was no wonder a few had 
been missed.

The bowl of the valley had turned shadowless with evening, but 
the sky above was still pale, and the oak branches overhead interlaced 
against it like crooked black webs. Horseriver seemed to be aiming 
generally toward the center of the wood, but not in a straight path; it 
was as though he searched for something. A faintly voiced Ah told 
Ingrey he had found it. The roof of branches thinned and drew back 
around a long low mound upon which no trees grew. Horseriver halted 
beside it, pulled Fara down from her wary cob, and helped her step up 
the bank and plant the banner pole by her boot.

Released, the horse sidled nervously away through the trees, 
somehow avoiding touching any of the gathering mob of curious 
revenants. More than curious, Ingrey realized; agitated. His blood 
seethed in the surf of their excitement. More and more came, crowding 
up thickly around them, and Ingrey began to feel in his marrow just 
how many four thousand murdered men were. He tried to count them, 
then count blocks and multiply, but lost his place and abandoned the 
attempt. It failed utterly to aid his sweating grip on reason anyway.

Horseriver knelt upon the mound, pushed aside a thin screen of 
sickly weeds, and ran his fingers through the dark soil. This was the 
trench I was buried in, he remarked conversationally to Ingrey. I and 
many others. Though I never actually spilled my blood at Holytree. 
Audar was careful about that. That shall be rectified. He climbed 
wearily to his feet. All shall be rectified. He nodded to the ghosts, 
who stirred uneasily.

At the outer edges of the circle, late arrivals milled about; those 
few who could, craned their necks. It seemed they spoke to each 
other; to Ingrey, the voices were blurred and faint, like hearing from 
underwater men calling or arguing on a shore. Ingrey touched the dirty 
bandage on his right hand, hardly more than a rag wrapped about to 
keep knocks from paining the healing wound's tenderness. It wasn't 
bleeding again, at least. Yet.

Horseriver smiled, faintly. Finish it, Ingrey. If you hold to your 
task, and my banner-carrier holds to hers, that is. Finish it.

Hadn't you better tell us how, then?

Yes, sighed Horseriver. It is time. He glanced skyward. 
With neither sun nor moon nor stars to witness, in an hour neither day 
nor night; what more befitting a moment than this? Long was the 
preparation, long and difficult, but the doing-ah. The doing is simple 
and quick. He drew his knife from his belt, the same he'd used to cut 
the throat of Ijada's mare, and Ingrey tensed. Kingly charisma or no, if 
Horseriver turned on Fara, Ingrey would have to try toHe made to 
lift his hand to his sword hilt, but found it heavy and unresponsive; his 
heart began to hammer in panic at the unexpected constraint.

But Horseriver instead pressed the haft into Fara's limp hand, 
then took the banner pole and ground it deeper into the soil so that it 
stood upright, if slightly tilted, on its own. This will best be done 
kneeling, I think, he mused. The woman is weak.

He turned again to Ingrey. Fara-he nodded to his wife, who 
stared back with eyes gone wide and black-will shortly cut my throat 
for me. Being my banner-carrier, she will hold, for a little moment, my 
kingship and my soul here. You have until her grip fails, no more, to 
cleanse my spirit horse from me. If you do not succeed, you will have 
the full, but not unique, experience of becoming my heir. What will 
happen then, not even I can predict, but I am fairly certain it will be 
nothing good. And it will go on forever. So do not fail, my royal 
shaman.

Ingrey's pulse throbbed in his ears, and his stomach knotted. I 
thought you could not die. You said the spell held you in the world.

Follow it around, Ingrey. The trees, and all the living web of 
Holytree, are bound to the souls of my warriors, and support them in 
the world of matter. These-he gestured broadly at the clustering 
revenants-create my hallow kingship that binds them to me. My spirit 
horse-he touched his breast-my power as a shaman, binds the trees 
to the men. I told you that the hallow king was the hub of the spell for 
invincibility, I do remember that. Cut the link at any point, and the circle 
unwinds. This is the link you can reach.

I suppose you could call it that.

How many people did you actually kill to arrange this? As 
carelessly as you set me on Ijada?

Not as many as you'd think. They do die on their own. 
Horseriver's lips twisted. And to say I would rather die than to have all 
this to do over again both sums and fails even to touch the truth.

Ingrey's mind lurched. This will break the spell.

It's all of a piece. Yes.

What will happen to these, then? Ingrey waved about at the 
crowding ghosts. Will they go to the gods as well?

Gods, Ingrey? There are no gods here.

It is true, Ingrey realized. Was that part of what disturbed him 
so deeply about this ground? The interlocking boundaries of the spell, 
the will of this unholy hallow king, excluded Them. Had done so for 
centuries, it appeared. Horseriver's war with the gods had been in 
stalemate for that long, while his host had slowly become instead his 
hostages.

Horseriver pressed Fara to her knees and knelt in front of her, 
facing away. He pulled her knife hand round over his right shoulder and 
briefly kissed the white knuckles. A flash of memory washed over 
Ingrey, of his wolf licking his ear before he'd cut its throat. 
The unmaking of this twisted spell, the long-delayed cleansing of 
Bloodfield, seemed no intrinsic sin, apart from Wencel's self-murder. 
Yet five gods had opposed this, and Ingrey could not see why. Not till 
now.

You will be sundered? Wait-you will all be sundered?

You ask too many questions.

Not enough. A very late one came to Ingrey then. Ijada, she 
had said, had given half her heart to these revenants. They held it still, 
somewhere here, somehow. What would happen to whatever piece of 
her soul she had pledged when these lost warriors went up in smoke? 
Could a woman live with half a heart? Wait, said Ingrey, then, 
reaching deeper, wait!

A ripple ran through the revenants as if they swayed in an earth 
shock, and Fara looked up, gasping.

And you argue too much, Horseriver added, and drew Fara's 
knife hand hard around his throat.

Blood spurted for three heartbeats while Horseriver stared 
ahead, his expression composed. Then his lips parted in relief, and he 
slumped forward out of Fara's grasp. She clutched the banner pole to 
keep from falling atop him, her lips moving in a soundless cry.

The world of magic peeled away from the world of matter then, 
ripping apart the congruence, and Ingrey found his vision doubled as it 
had been in Red Dike. Wencel's body lay facedown upon the mound, 
and Fara bent over it, half-fainting, the bloody knife fallen from her 
grasp. But upon the mound there arose 
A black stallion, black as pitch, as soot, as a moonless night in a 
storm. Its nostrils flared red, and orange sparks trailed from its mane 
and tail as it shifted. It pawed the mound, once, and a ring of fire 
shimmered out around its hoofprint, then faded. Upon its back a 
man-shaped shadow rode astride, and the figure's legs curved down 
into the horse's ribs and united with them.

The stallion snorted. Ingrey pulled back his black-edged lips 
along his long jaws, bared his sharp teeth, and snarled back. His tongue 
lolled out to taste a rank sizzle in the air, like burning rotted hair, and 
saliva spattered from his jaws as he shook the toxic tang from his 
mouth.

The stallion stepped off the mound and circled him, tracking little 
flames.

If I lose this fight, what returns to my body will not be me. It 
would be Horseriver re-formed. With such a prize, no wonder Wencel 
had not bothered to bespell him further in his cause. Ingrey was battling 
for more than his life.

So.

He circled the stallion in turn, head lowered, neck ruff rising, the 
earth cool and damp under his pads. Fallen leaves crackled like real 
leaves, and the sharpness of their musty scent amazed his nose. The 
stallion swirled, its hind legs lashing out.

Ingrey ducked, too late; one hoof connected with a heavy thunk 
to his furry side, and he rolled away, yelping. How could an illusion not 
be able to breathe? He would have to pay as implacable an attention 
as in any sword fight, but now he had to watch four weapons, not just 
one. How do you kill a horse with your teeth? He tried to remember 
dogfights he had witnessed, boar-baitings, the climaxes of hunts.

He gathered himself on his haunches and launched himself at the 
horse's belly, twisting his open jaws at an awkward angle. He scored 
the skinless surface in a long slash, and barely made it away from a 
retaliating stamping. The-not blood-uncanny ichor, ink-black fluid, 
burned his mouth as the red snakes had, before. Worse. His jaws 
foamed madly in pained response.

The ghosts crowded around in a ring for all the world as though 
they were watching a boar-baiting. Which beast were they betting on, 
whom did they cheer? Not their lives but their souls had been wagered, 
and not by them. That Horseriver rode himself to oblivion, to sundering 
from the gods, was regrettable, but not even the gods could override a 
person's will in that matter. That his will overrode all these other wills 
seemed a blacker sin. Ijada would surely weep, Ingrey thought 
bleakly as he dodged the stallion's snapping teeth, swung round at the 
end of a suddenly snaky neck, ears back flat. And, Five weapons. I 
have to watch five weapons.

This is going badly. He was too small; the stallion was too 
large. Real wolves hunted prey this size in packs, not alone. Where can 
I get more me? Nothing of spirit could exist in the world of matter 
withoutHe eyed his standing human self, shivering mindlessly on his 
feet at the edge of the clearing. Dolt. Dupe. Useless son. All or 
nothing, then. All.

He pulled strength from his body, all he could. The emptied form 
swayed and collapsed onto a drift of leaves. Everything in the clearing 
slowed, and Ingrey's already-searing perceptions came ablaze. His 
wolf-body felt at once both dense as the past and weightless as the 
future. Yes. I know this state. I have traveled this path before.

He was, abruptly, half the size of the horse, and it shied back. 
But slowly, so slowly, as though it swam in oil. His mind sketched his 
strike at his leisure, measuring the arc of his leap. This looted strength 
could not last. No time. Now.

The thing in his jaws stilled. Then melted away and ran down his 
lips like a bite from an icicle in winter. He spat and backed up. 
Horse-shape became shapeless, a mound, a puddle, a blackness 
soaking into the ground like a spilled barrel of ink. Gone.

Wencel stood up, freed from his dark mount. On two bowed 
legs. His shape was restored to humanity, but his face

I'm glad I didn't use that stag, he remarked from one of his 
mouths. It would not have had the strength for this. Another mouth 
grinned. Good dog, Ingrey.

Ingrey backed away, growling. Across Horseriver's skull, faces 
rippled, rising and sinking like corpses in a river. One succeeded 
another haphazardly, all the Earls Horseriver for four centuries and 
more. Young men, old men, angry men, sad; shaven, bearded, scarred. 
Mad. Young Wencel passed like a bewildered waif, his dumb gaze 
alighting on Ingrey in recognition and plea, though plea for what, Ingrey 
could not tell.

The body was worse. Cuts, scars, dreadful gaping wounds rose 
and fell from the surface of the skin, every death wound Horseriver had 
ever received. The burns were the most frightening, wide patches of 
red and weeping blisters, cooked and charred flesh. The stink of them 
wafted across Ingrey's sensitive wolf-nose, and he sneezed and backed 
away, whimpering for a moment and pawing his muzzle like a dog. This 
was Horseriver, turned inside out. This was what being Horseriver had 
been like, behind that smooth ironic mask, the brittle wit, the jerky 
rage, the apparent indifference. Every hour, every day, sunsets falling 
like trip-hammers, time without end. 
The eyes were worst of all.

Had Horseriver planned this? With his wolf and most of his own 
soul removed, Ingrey's silent husk was empty as an abandoned house, 
and as available for squatters to move into. If the undoing of his spell 
went awry, Horseriver might still have a body-heir, and now without 
the complications that had worried him earlier. Ingrey glanced up at the 
agonized thing that was Horseriver. No, that was not an end Horseriver 
desired, but if he indeed found himself with it all to do over again, 
well, he could. And judging by his level silence, watching Ingrey, he 
knew it. Ingrey shivered and pawed his unresponsive body again.

Hoofbeats and a frightened equine squeal sounded from the 
woods, and Ingrey whirled around. Could the haunt-horse have 
reanimated? No, this was a real horse; he could feel the thudding of 
its gait through the solid ground as he had not the fiery footfalls of the 
other. The hoofbeats stopped, shuffled about in the leaf drifts; then 
lighter footsteps rustled, running flat out.

The ghosts spun aside, opening an aisle, and many lifted their 
hands in clumsy salutes. And blessings, or troubled supplications; the 
fivefold sign wandered awkwardly, when forehead and lips were hung 
at a belt, and the hand moved only aside to navel and groin before 
rising to the unbeating heart. Wolf-Ingrey's head lifted and he sniffed in 
wild surmise. I know that blissful smell, like sunlight in dry grass

Running through the gap between the ghosts, Ijada appeared. 
She wore her dark brown riding dress, the jacket sweat-stained, her 
split skirts splashed with mud, and all of it scored with little rips as 
though she'd galloped through a thorn hedge. Wisps of dark hair clung 
to her flushed face. She stopped short, and her gasping became a cry; 
then she staggered more slowly to where Ingrey's body lay and 
dropped to her knees beside it, her face draining white.

She cannot see me, wolf-Ingrey realized. She cannot see any 
of us. Except for the very material Fara, still collapsed beside the 
throat-slashed body of Wencel. Ijada spared the couple a brief, 
appalled glance, clenching her teeth in distress, then turned back to 
Ingrey.

Oh, love She lifted his face to her own teary one, and 
pressed her lips to his. Wolf-Ingrey danced around her in frustration, 
for he could not feel those warm lips or taste that wasted honeyed 
breath at all. Frantic, he pawed her sleeve, then licked her face.

Her breath drew in sharply, and she lifted her hand to her cheek 
and stared around. Had she felt some disturbing liquid chill, as he had 
from the ghost's hand? He licked her ear, and her breath huffed out in 
what might have been a laugh, under other circumstances; she scrubbed 
at the ear as though it had been tickled. She laid Ingrey's body out on 
his back, felt along it-oh, if I might feel that touch-and frowned. 
Ingrey, what have they done to you? His body bore no visible 
wounds, no crookedness of broken bones, but his rag-wrapped right 
hand, he saw, was soaked with blood, and his leather jerkin was 
smeared slippery with it. Ijada's frown deepened as she clutched the 
gory hand to her breast. If I might only move those fingers Or 
you to yourself? she added more shrewdly. You tried something 
brave and foolish, didn't you? Her gaze rose once more to Wencel's 
corpse and Fara.

Horseriver snorted, and Ingrey spun around, growling. The face 
of the moment stared across at Ijada with a mixture of astonishment 
and revulsion. You do keep turning up where you are not wanted, 
don't you, girl? he remarked to the air, or perhaps to Ingrey. Ijada, in 
any case, did not seem to hear him. Always in ignorance, but does that 
slow you? Taste the betrayal of the gods, then; I have dined on it for 
ages.

The looks the revenants gave him in return were not loving, 
Ingrey thought, but wary and dismayed. A faint translucence hung 
about them, and Ingrey realized that they were already starting to fade. 
The ghost of a man fresh-killed, if he did not go at once to the gods 
through the gates of his death, might yet be redeemed from sundering 
during the god-touched rites of his funeral, as Boleso's had been. Up to 
a point. But the sundering soon grew irrevocable, the soul, in that last 
refusal, self-doomed to fade. That period of uncertain grace had been 
prolonged for these, not for days or weeks, but for centuries. With their 
link to the Wounded Woods now broken, they would not linger long, 
Ingrey thought. Hours? Minutes?

Ijada started to rise to go to Fara, but then gasped and sank 
back down. Her hand touched her left breast, then her forehead; her 
lips moved in surprise, then pinched in pain. Ingrey's whines redoubled.

The mob of ghosts shuffled aside once more, and a great-limbed 
warrior strode forward. He wore a broad gold belt, and bore a 
spearhead-tipped banner staff, its furled flag stippled in grass green, 
white, and blue. His head hung from the gold belt, tied on by its own 
grayed-yellow braids. The grizzled head's gaze flicked up to 
Horseriver, who started in surprised recognition, and raised his hand to 
return a salute that had not, in fact, been given; the gesture faded at the 
end as Horseriver belatedly realized this. The warrior knelt by Ijada, 
bending over her in concern, his hand touching her shoulder.

Ingrey danced anxiously around the pair, his wolf's head 
lowering to the warrior's eye level. The warrior stared across at him in 
some silent query. Ijada's spine bent, and her grip on Ingrey's bloody 
hand grew limp; it slipped from her grasp, and her own white hand fell 
atop it. Oh, she breathed, her eyes wide and dark. She was growing 
still more pale, almost greenish; when wolf-Ingrey licked her face now, 
she did not respond.

He bowed low, Ijada had said. And placed my heart on a 
stone slab, and cut it in two with the hilt-shard of his broken 
sword. The other half, they raised high upon a spearpoint. I did 
not understand if it was pledge, or sacrifice, or ransom

All three, thought Ingrey. All three.

He did not know what, on this eerie ground, his actions all 
meant. But even with his voice muzzled, they were not without power. 
He was not without power. I brought down Horseriver's horse, and 
it is gone. Maybe I can do more. Horseriver plainly thought him spent, 
his task over, his use used up. Meant to just leave him, perhaps, in this 
disarray of body and spirit, to die alone upon the ground when the 
ghosts and all their magic drained away. And in and of himself, lone 
wolf, he did not think Horseriver was mistaken. But I am not alone, 
am I? Not now. She said it, so it must be so. Truthsayer. How was 
it that I came to love the truth above all things?

Shall I die of love, then? murmured Ijada, sinking onto Ingrey's 
chest. I always thought that was a figure of speech. Together, then? 
No! My Lord of Autumn, in this Your season, help us!

There are no gods here.

But Ingrey was here. Try something else. Try anything. 
Maybe the revenant captain had some power here as well; he carried a 
banner, after all, Old Weald sacred sign of rescues beyond death and 
the death of all other hopes. Ingrey whined, danced around the man, 
scratched at his booted leg with one paw, then crouched and nudged 
his long nose repeatedly at the scabbard hung on the gold belt on the 
opposite side from his head. Would the revenant understand his plea? 
The man swiveled his hips to regard him, his sandy gray brows rising in 
surprise. He stood and drew the hilt shard. Yes! Ingrey nudged the 
hand some more, and turned to bite at his own side.

Ijada didn't say this had hurt! Ingrey strangled a yelp and 
controlled a twisting jerk away. The ghostly hand descended into the 
gaping gash in his wolf-chest and emerged dripping red. The shard 
edge sliced across a slippery object in the warrior's palm, and then the 
warrior tossed something skyward. The bloody fist descended once 
more, and Ingrey's wolf-self seemed to breathe again as the hand 
withdrew emptied and the gash closed up in a long red line. Ingrey 
scrambled upright on his paws once more.

High on the spear tip, a whole heart beat, picking up the pulse.

Ijada inhaled sharply and sat up, blinking around. Her eyes met 
Ingrey's wolf-gaze, and widened in astonishment and recognition. 
There you are! Her head swiveled, as she took in the mob of agitated 
ghosts who had crowded up around this strange operation. There you 
all are! You! She struggled to her feet and curtseyed to the 
bannerman, signing the Five. I was looking for you, my lord marshal, 
but I could not see.

The ghost bowed back in deep respect. Ijada's hand curled in 
Ingrey's neck ruff, clutching and stroking the thick fur. He pushed up 
into the caress. She looked down at him-not very far down, for his big 
head came nearly to her chest. How came you to be all apart like this? 
What is happening here? Her gaze traveled around the clearing till it 
caught on the multifaced Horseriver. Oh. She flinched a little, but then 
her back straightened. So that's what you look like, out of the 
shadow. What are you doing on my land?

Horseriver had composed himself in an attitude of utter 
indifference, but this last jerked him into rage. Your land! This is 
Holytree!

The form of Horseriver stiffened, and the ironic mouth 
murmured, Indeed, we go. Alas that you shall find your enjoyment of 
your legacybrief. That mouth smiled nastily, and Ingrey growled in 
response. Ijada's hand tightened in his fur.

And these? Ijada glanced up at the gold-belted marshal, and 
gestured at the gathered revenants.

I am their last true hallow king. Follow me, they must.

Into oblivion? she demanded indignantly. Shall they die for 
you twice? What kind of king are you?

I owe you nothing. Not even explanation.

You owe them everything!

He could not, exactly, turn away, with the faces chasing each 
other around his skull, but he turned his shoulders from her. It is done. 
It is long past done.

It is not.

He whipped back, and snarled, They will follow me down to 
darkness, and the gods who denied us will be denied in turn. Oblivion 
and revenge. They have made me, and you cannot unmake me.

I cannot She hesitated, and gestured at the banner pole 
upon which the marshal-warrior now leaned, listening. Raising her face, 
she pointed to the mound where Wencel's body lay huddled and Fara 
knelt silent and staring. You died, I think. Death lays a kingship down, 
along with all else a life accumulates in the world of matter. We go to 
the gods naked and equal, as in any other birth, but for our souls and 
what we've made of them. Then the kin meeting makes the king again. 
She stared around at the ghosts, challengingly. Do you not?

An odd rustle ran through the revenants. The marshal-warrior 
was watching with a most peculiar expression on his face, an amalgam 
of sorrow and unholy joy. It dawned on Ingrey then that this man must 
have been the very first Horseriver hallow king's royal banner-carrier, 
who had died by his lord's side at Bloodfield. His body was doubtless 
buried in this same pit, for Horseriver had said his banner had been 
broken and thrown in atop him. And this warrior would never have 
given it up alive. The royal bannerman should have received the hallow 
kingship in trust, to carry as steward to the next kin meeting, to be 
surrendered in turn to the new king-but for the great, disrupted spell, 
that had carried it instead into this far, unfriendly future.

Horseriver snorted. There is no other.

The rustle grew, racing around the mob like fire, then back to 
the beginning. The marshal-warrior stood up straight, then saluted Ijada 
with that eccentric looping sign of the Five. The ghostly lips turned up in 
a smile. He let his banner pole fall out of his hand; Ijada's hand caught it 
and gripped it tight.

Wait, thought Ingrey, we living ones cannot touch these 
ghostly things, they run through our fingers like water

Ijada grasped the pole with both hands and gave it a great yank. 
Above her head, the banner unfurled and snapped out in no breeze. 
The wolf's head badge of the Wolfcliffs snarled upon it, black on red.

Ingrey blinked up through his human eyes and wrenched to his 
feet, stunned. He was back in his body again, and it felt astounding. 
He inhaled. His wolf was goneNo. He clutched his heart. It's right 
here. Howling joyously through his veins. And something moreA line 
ran between him and Horseriver: the current between Ingrey and Ijada 
that Horseriver had made, broken, and bound again to his kingship. 
Tension seemed to reverberate back and forth along that line now, its 
power ascending. The pull between them was massive, straining.

Horseriver reached down and yanked Fara to her feet, and 
clasped her hands around his banner pole. Hold! She stared at him 
in terror and gripped as though her life depended on it. Grounded upon 
that mound of death and woe, the strength of the old kingship was vast.

He could feel Horseriver's geas of silence fly away from around 
her face like a spring of metal released, spinning away in the air. Fara 
took a huge breath.

Horseriver turned to her, and Wencel's face rose fully to the 
surface for the first time. One hand reached out toward her. Fara? 
that young voice quavered. My wife?

Fara jerked as if shot with a crossbow bolt. Her eyes closed in 
pain. Opened. Glanced at Ijada, at Ingrey. At the ghastly revenant 
before her. I tried to be your wife, she whispered. You never tried 
to be my husband.

And she lowered the tip of the banner pole to the ground, the 
gray rag falling in a silky puddle, put her foot upon the dry wood, and 
snapped it in half.



CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR


HORSERIVER FELL BACK A PACE. HALF HIS FACES SEEMED 
contorted in rage. Others registered ironic resignation, disgust and 
self-disgust, and one sad visage an ageless, dignified endurance. His 
hands dropped to his sides, and the current between him and Ingrey 
faded away like sparks burning out in the dark. The unspeakably 
agonized eyes stared across at Ingrey, and almost all of his expressions 
melted into a bitter pity.

Ingrey found himself clinging to Ijada's banner pole lest he fall 
down. The immense flaring pressure of Horseriver's kingship was not 
gone, exactly, but it seemed to become dispersed, as if pouring in from 
all sides and not just from the one quarter. And then there came a 
moment of stillness, hushed hesitation, and the inward flow of the kingly 
current seemed to turn, becoming an outward urgency. And with that 
came a diffuse dread unlike any other he had experienced in these long 
hours filled with fierce shocks.

Though Horseriver did not move from his burial mound, he grew 
distanced, silenced at last, like a corpse seen underwater. Stripped of 
both his yoked powers-his great horse and his hallow kingship-he was 
reduced to one revenant among the many, except for his dire 
multiplicity, an extra denseness that lingered about him. Yes, thought 
Ingrey, he, too, is a ghost of Bloodfield, who died on this sacred 
and accursed ground; he is no longer more, but he cannot become 
less.

But what have I become?

He could feel the mystical kingship settle into place upon him, in 
him, through him. It did not make him feel as though he'd been stuffed 
with pride and power, replete and overflowing. It made him feel as 
though all his blood was being drawn out of him.

Ijada and Fara both, he realized, were staring at him with that 
same openmouthed awe tinged with physical desire that Horseriver had 
inspired. Such stares ought to make any man preen, surely. Instead, he 
felt as though they contemplated eating him alive.

No, not Ijada and Fara-well, yes, them, too-it was the ghosts 
that alarmed him now. They crowded up closer as if fascinated, 
reaching for him, touching him in chill liquid strokes that stole the 
warmth from his skin. They were growing unruly in their urgency, 
shouldering past and even climbing over one another, thicker and 
thicker about him. Famished beggars.

Nothing of spirit can exist in the world of matter without a 
being of matter to support it. The old catechism rang through his 
spinning head. Four thousand still-accursed spirits swarmed upon the 
ground of Bloodfield, upon it but no longer sustained by it. Instead, 
they were all now connected to

Ijada His voice came out a wail. I cannot maintain them 
all, I cannot hold!

He was growing colder and colder as the ghosts pawed him. He 
grabbed for Ijada's outstretched hand like a drowning man, and for a 
moment live warmth, her warmth, flooded him. But she gasped as she, 
too, felt the unholy pull of the ghosts' insatiable hunger. They will pull 
us both to shreds, drain us dry. And when there was no more warmth 
left to give, his and Ijada's frozen corpses would be left upon the 
ground, fog steaming off them in the night air. And all trapped here 
would dwindle to oblivion in a last, starveling cry of abandonment, 
betrayal, and despair.

Ijada! Let go! He tried to draw his hand back from hers.

No! She gripped him tighter.

You must let go! Take Fara and run, out of here, back through 
the marsh, quickly! The revenants will consume us both if you do not!

No, Ingrey! That's not what is meant! You must cleanse them 
as you cleansed Boleso, so that they may go to the gods! You can, 
that's what you were made for, I swear it!

I cannot! There are too many, I cannot hold, and there are no 
gods here!

They wait at the gate!

What?

They wait at the gate of thorns! For the master of the realm to 
admit them. Audar cursed and sealed this ground, and Horseriver held 
it against the gods ever after in his rage and black despair, but the old 
kings are gone, and the new king is acclaimed.

I am only a king of ghosts and shadows, a king of the dead.

Soon to join my subjects. 
Open your realm to the Five. Five mortals will bear Them 
across the ground, but you must admit Them-invite Them in. Shivering 
now almost as badly as he was, she eyed the thronging ghosts, and her 
voice went quavering up: Ingrrreyyy, hurry!

Outside the gate he'd made, a multiple Presence waited, 
impatiently as supplicants on a king's feast day. How did one admit 
Them? It seemed to call for hymns and hosannas, chants and 
invocations of great beauty and complexity, poets and musicians and 
scholars and soldiers and divines. Instead, They must make do with 
me. So be it.

Come in, Ingrey whispered, his voice cracking, and then, I 
can do better than that, Come in!

The reverberation seemed to split the night in half, and a shiver 
of anticipation ran through the four thousand like a great wave crashing 
upon a disintegrating shore. Ingrey set himself again to endure, for all 
that he felt his strength pouring out in a cataract. The ghostly jostling 
settled, no less starveling, but with its desperation stemmed by 
astonished new hope.

IT SEEMED FOREVER BEFORE A HUMAN SOUND PENETRATED THE dark 
woods, and a faint orange light drew near. A crackle and crash of 
brush; a thump and a muttered oath; some rolling argument cut short by 
Learned Hallana's crisp cry: There, over there! Oswin, go left!

What was to Ingrey's eye the most unexpected cavalcade 
imaginable blundered into the clearing. Learned Oswin rode a stumbling 
horse, with his wife riding pillion, clutching him around the waist with 
one arm and waving directions with the other. Prince Biast, a staggered 
look upon his face as he gawked at the milling ghosts, rode behind on 
another worn horse, and Learned Lewko and Prince Jokol brought up 
the rear on foot, Jokol holding a torch aloft. Lewko's once-white robes 
were mired to the thigh on one side, and all were sweat-stained, 
disheveled, and peppered with road dirt.

You were expecting them? Ingrey asked her.

We all came together, pell-mell down the road for the past two 
days. Five gods, what a journey. The prince-marshal commanded 
everything. I galloped ahead at the last-my heart was calling me to 
hasten, and I was desperately afraid.

Learned Lewko limped up to Ingrey and signed a hasty blessing. 
Jokol trod behind with the sort of breathless, maniacal grin upon his 
face that Ingrey imagined he'd have worn while facing a storm at sea, 
his boat climbing mountainous waves while all the sane men clung to the 
ropes and screamed.

Ho! Ingorry! he cried happily, saluting ghostly warriors right 
and left as though they were long-lost cousins. This night will make 
some song!

Are you the mortal vessels for the gods, then? Ingrey asked 
Lewko. Are you all made saints?

I have been a saint, wheezed Lewko, and it isn't this. If I had 
to guess His glare around the densely haunted clearing ended on a 
narrow-eyed look at Ingrey.

Oswin and Hallana abandoned their blown mount and came up, 
clutching each other by the arm over the uneven ground, staring at the 
ghostly warriors in wonder tinged with trepidation and, Ingrey would 
swear, a blazing scholarly curiosity not far removed, in its own way, 
from Jokol's appalling enthusiasm. 
If I had to guess, Oswin, Lewko continued to his 
colleague-Ingrey sensed the tail of a hot debate-I think we are all 
made sacred funeral animals.

Ingrey must cleanse my ghosts, Ijada said firmly. I told you it 
would be so.

Two days of debate, Ingrey guessed, but in a company, 
however odd, fearsomely well equipped for it. The gods have no 
hands in this world but ours. Hand to hand to hand

Biast spied his sister, now sitting slumped on the long mound not 
far from Wencel's body, and hurried to her, going to his knees and 
gathering her in his arms. Their heads bent together; they spoke hastily 
in low tones. He held her as she shuddered. She did not, yet, weep.

Ijada, murmured Ingrey, I don't think we had best delay, if 
this is to work. He looked around at the revenants, who had stopped 
milling and jostling and now stared back at him in yearning silence. As if 
I were their last hope of heaven. How do Iwhat do I What 
do I do?

She grasped the wolf's head standard in both hands and set her 
shoulders. You're the shaman-king. Do what seems right to you, and it 
will be. Beside her, the gold-belted marshal made a gesture of assent.

Four thousand, so many! It matters less where I begin, as that 
I begin.

Ingrey turned slowly around and caught sight of the tall warrior 
with the wolf cloak he'd seen earlier. He motioned the revenant 
forward and stared into his pale features. The ghost smiled and nodded 
kindly, as if to reassure him, fell to one knee before Ingrey, captured his 
left hand, and bowed his head. Fascinated, Ingrey extended his right 
index finger, down which a trickle of blood flowed from the soaked rag 
wrapping his reopened wound, and smeared a drop across the 
warrior's forehead. It disturbed Ingrey more than a little that the ghost 
felt solid to him now, not liquid as before, and he wondered what it 
bespoke of his own changed state.

Oh, said Oswin, and his voice shook, tears starting in his eyes. 
Oh, Hallana, I did not know

Shh, she said. It will be very well now, I think. She 
moistened her lips and gazed at Ingrey as though he were a cross 
between some famous work of Temple art she'd traveled days to see, 
and her favorite child.

Ingrey glanced around again, his eyes crammed with choices, 
and motioned another warrior to him. The man knelt and awkwardly, 
hopefully, presented his head held up between his two hands. Ingrey 
repeated the crimson unction upon the forehead, for whatever this last 
libation from the world of matter was worth, and released a dark 
hawk-spirit to fly into the night and vanish. The warrior reached for 
Oswin again, and this time Ingrey could see, just before he melted 
away, that the man was made whole. The Father speed you on your 
journey, then.

A woman revenant came forward, young-looking, carrying a 
banner that unfolded to display the ancient spitting-cat sigil of the 
Lynxlakes, a kin that had dwindled to extinction in the male line two 
centuries past. When Ingrey took her hand, he was startled to feel two 
other tattered souls clinging to her through her banner. Her lynx was 
sad and shabby, and the other two creatures so ragged as to be 
unidentifiable, in passing away. He signed her forehead in three parallel 
carmine strokes, which seemed to suffice, for she rose and strode to 
Jokol, who brightened and stood very straight, taking her hand to kiss it 
and murmuring something in her ear before she vanished. Ingrey swore 
he heard a faint low laugh, suddenly merry, linger for a moment in the 
air behind her. Jokol for the Daughter, aye. The Lady of Spring 
gives notoriously abundant blessings.

Prince Biast, called Ingrey softly. I'm afraid I need you here.

Biast for the Son. Of course.

I suspect I will be least used, this night, murmured Hallana. 
She cast a shrewd glance toward the mound. I will sit with poor Fara 
till you need me. I would guess she's had a time of it.

Thank you, Learned, yes, said Ingrey. She was treated most 
miserably from first to last. But in the end she remembered she was a 
princess.

Biast came forward to Ingrey's side, studying him warily. The 
entranced expression upon his face when he looked at Ingrey was 
laced with a thread of defiance. In an attempt at irony that faltered, he 
murmured, Should I call you sire, here?

You need not call me anything, so long as you turn your hand to 
the task. Will Fara be all right? Ingrey nodded across the clearing to 
where the princess sat huddled, watching grimly, as Hallana lowered 
herself beside her.

I offered to take her to where Symark and the divines' servants 
wait, but she refused. She says she wants to bear witness.

She has earned that. And it would make her the one person 
besides Ingrey who had seen all of Horseriver's actions from her 
father's death towhatever the end of this night brought. If he 
survived, that could be important. And if I don't survive, it could be 
even more important.

The most here will be yours, I suspect, Ingrey told Biast. The 
old kings had two tasks: to lead their men to battle and to lead them 
home again. Horseriver lost sight of the second, I think, in his black 
madness and despair. These warriors of the Old Weald-their duty to 
their king is done; there remains only their king's duty to them. It's going 
to be-Ingrey sighed-a long night.

Ingrey looked around at the apprehensive revenants, pressing 
close again, and raised his voice, though he was not sure he needed to; 
within the bounds of Bloodfield, his voice carried. Fear no stinting, 
kinsmen! I will not end my watch till your long watch is done.

A blond-bearded young man knelt, first of a long string of such 
youths, many desperately mutilated. Ingrey released creature after 
creature: boar and bear, horse and wolf, stag and lynx, hawk and 
badger. Biast studied each man, as they passed through his hands, as 
though looking in some disquieting mirror.

It had taken a cadre of Audar's troops two days to slay all these 
here; Ingrey did not see how he was to release them all in a night, but 
something odd seemed to be happening to time in this woods. He was 
not sure if it was a variant upon what happened to his flow of 
perception in his battle madness-a shaman skill-or if the gods had lent 
some element of Their god-time, by which They attended to all souls in 
the world both simultaneously and equally. Ingrey only knew that each 
warrior was owed a moment at least of his hallow king's full regard; 
and if the debt had not been Ingrey's to contract, it had still fallen to him 
to pay. Heir indeed.

Then he wondered which he would come to the end of first, his 
warriors or himself. Perhaps they would end together, in perfect 
balance.

The Darthacan archers came forward midway through the night. 
Ingrey puzzled mightily over them, for they bore no spirit beasts for him 
to release. In what backwash of the uncanny their souls had been 
caught up, by what concatenation of disrupted magic, god-gift, night 
battle and bloody sacrifice they had been imprisoned here, he could not 
imagine. He signed them in his blood all the same, they thanked him 
with their eyes all the same, and he handed them off to their waiting 
gods, all the same. 
The Wolfcliff woman with the gold wolf's head arm rings gave 
him a kiss upon the brow in return for his blessing of blood, then, 
apparently in a moment of pure self-indulgence, a kiss upon the lips, 
before she turned to Hallana. His lips stiffened with the chill of her 
mouth, but her lips warmed to a faint color, like a memory of 
happiness, so he thought it a fair trade.

Ingrey turned to Oswin. Learned, what shall I do with these? 
He gestured to the revenants: unable to flee him, unwilling to come to 
him.

Oswin took a deep breath and said reluctantly, as if reciting an 
old lesson, Heaven weeps, but free will is sacred. The meaning of yes 
is created by the ability to say no. As a forced marriage is no marriage, 
but instead the crime of rape. The gods either will not or cannot rape 
our souls; in any case, They do not. To my knowledge, the meticulous 
scholar in him added.

These, too, died at Bloodfield; my duty to them does not 
change. All the same. Ingrey unlocked his voice and ordered each 
dark despairing revenant forward, and gave them their little gift of 
blood, and freed their spirit beasts. And let them go. Most unraveled, 
fading into utter nothingness, before they even reached the trees.

Two left now: the marshal-warrior, who had stood all night with 
Ijada and the royal Wolfcliff banner; and the being beside whom-for 
whom-he had once died at Bloodfield. It took most of Ingrey's 
remaining strength to compel Horseriver forward to face him; they both 
ended on their knees.

This one is not the same. Horseriver's spirit horse was gone, 
his kingship rescinded, but the concatenation of souls remained, 
generations of Horserivers still churning through his anguished form. 
Tentatively, Ingrey reached for the shreds of Wencel in the mass, and 
whispered, Come. And, louder, Come! A shudder ran through 
the being in front of him, but no individual soul peeled out. Ingrey 
wondered if he'd made a tactical mistake; if he had attempted 
Horseriver first, before he'd been exhausted by this night, could he have 
taken apart what Horseriver's long curse had welded together? Or was 
this simply not within his earthly powers? He was almost certain it was 
not. Almost.

What is your whole desire? Ingrey asked it. Lost centuries 
are not within my gift. The revenge of sundering these other souls from 
the gods I have denied you, for that was not the right of your hallow 
kingship, but its betrayal. What then is left? I would give you mercy if 
you would take it. The gods would give you rivers of it.

Mercy, whispered some of the voices of Horseriver, looking 
to the gates, and Mercy, whispered the rest, looking away. One 
word, encompassing opposite and exclusive boons. Could Ingrey, by 
any physical or magical strength, wrestle this divided being to any altar? 
Should he try?

Time had lingered for Ingrey this night, but time was running out. 
If dawn came without a decision, what would happen? And if he 
waited for dawn to carry the choice away from him, was that not itself 
the same decision? If Ingrey fell into his judgment out of sheer 
weariness, well, he would not be the first man or king to do so. He had 
thought leading men into battle against impossible odds to be the most 
fearsome task of a king, but this new impossibility enlightened him 
vastly. He stared at Horseriver and thought, He must have been a 
great-souled man, once, for the gods to desire him still, here in his 
uttermost ruin.

He looked around at the witnesses: three Temple divines, two 
princes, a princess, and the two royal banner-carriers, the quick and 
the dead. Biast's earlier little flash of princely jealousy was entirely 
drained from his face now. Not even he wanted the hallow kingship in 
this moment. The marshal-warrior's watching face was without 
expression.

Slowly, like thick smoke rising up from a pyre, Horseriver 
dissipated, until soul-haze could not be told from the hanging fog. The 
marshal-warrior's dead eyes closed, for a moment, as if it would spare 
him the knowledge with the sight. Of all here, he was the only one 
Ingrey was sure understood the choice. All the choices. The clearing 
was very silent.

Ingrey tried to stand up, failed, and tried again. He stood a 
moment with his hands on his knees, dizzy and faint. He did not think 
he had lost enough blood this night to kill him, but the amount strewn 
about on the ground and down his leathers was impressive nonetheless. 
It always looks like more when it's spread around like that. Finally, 
he straightened his back and looked at the last revenant, and at Ijada, 
still holding up the wolf's head standard. High upon its steel point, a 
shadow-heart still pulsed.

He bowed to the marshal-warrior. I would ask one gift of you 
in return, my lord bannerman. One moment more of your time.

The marshal-warrior opened a hand in curious permission. All 
my time now is your gift, sire, his eyes seemed to say.

Ingrey stepped forward and closed his hand around Ijada's 
shoulder; she smiled wearily at him, her face pale and dirt-streaked and 
luminous. Ingrey looked over the five of the sacred band. Yes 
Learned Oswin, Learned Hallana, would you come here a 
moment?

They glanced at each other and trod near. Yes, Ingrey? said 
Hallana. 
Would you each take one end of this, and hold it level. Not too 
high.

Ingrey turned to Ijada. Take my hand.

She touched his right hand uncertainly, careful of the damp red 
mess, but he squeezed her fingers in return, and then she gripped more 
tightly. He turned them both to face the horizontal staff.

Jump over with me, he said, if we shall be allies in such nights 
as this and lovers in all nights hereafter.

Ingrey She peered doubtfully at him, sideways through 
escaped strands of hanging hair. Are you asking me to marry you?

More or less, he started to say, and thought the better of it. It 
was only more. Yes. You should marry a king. This is your great 
chance. He looked around; Oswin's sober face had lightened in 
comprehension, and Hallana's had broken into a broad grin. The 
company of witnesses could not be improved: three Temple divines of 
good character, two princes-one a poet who will doubtless immortalize 
this moment before we've made it halfway back to Easthome-

Jokol, who had loomed closer to see and hear, nodded 
delightedly. Ah, Ingorry, good work! Yes, jump, jump, Ijada! My 
beautiful Breiga would like this one, yes!

A princess Ingrey cast a half bow somewhat uncertainly at 
Fara, now sitting up somberly on the edge of the mound; she returned 
him a grave but not disapproving jerk of her chin. And one other. 
Ingrey nodded to the marshal-warrior; Ingrey had not known ghosts 
could be bemused, but this one's surprised smile blessed him in 
advance for this unexpected last use of his long-defended emblem. 
You can have other ceremonies later, if you like, Ingrey added to 
Ijada. With better clothes or whatever. As many as you want. As long 
as they're with me, he added prudently. 
One or two is the usual limit, Oswin rumbled from his end of 
the pole, starting to smile.

Looking at each other, Ingrey and Ijada held hands and jumped.

Ingrey stumbled a little on the landing, as his head was 
swimming, but Ijada steadied him. They exchanged one kiss, which 
Ingrey began to make swift and promissory; Ijada captured his face 
between her hands and made it more thorough. Yes, Ingrey thought, 
pausing to feel the softness, the warmth, the faint hint of her teeth. This 
is the only living Now.

They parted, trading pensive smiles, and Ingrey retrieved the 
standard. The pulsing heart had vanished from the spearpoint. But 
which of us received back which half? He wasn't sure he knew.

The marshal-warrior knelt on one knee, undid his graying braids 
from his gold belt, and held his head up before him. Ingrey knelt, too, 
and shook down one last generous splash of blood to smear across the 
furrowed brow. The old spirit stallion he released was very worn, but 
Ingrey thought it must have been a fine fast beast in its time, for this 
night it flew.

The marshal-warrior rose whole: he rolled his shoulders as if in 
relief and nodded solemnly at Ingrey. He then turned and reached for 
Learned Oswin's hand, and, not looking back again, was gone.

The real darkness flowed in across Ingrey's eyes for the first 
time that night; only then did he become truly aware that he had been 
seeing, with unnatural clarity, by ghost-light for most of the hours past. 
Jokol grunted and hurried to stir up a small fire, unnoticed by Ingrey, 
that he had evidently built to warm Fara sometime during the night while 
waiting for devotees of his Lady to present themselves. The orange light 
licked up to gild the tired faces that now huddled around it.

What, indeed? He straightened up and stared at it, discomfited. 
It felt as solid under his hand as the Horseriver staff Fara had broken, 
but it had not come from the outer world, and Ingrey doubted he could 
carry it back there, beyond the borders of the Wounded Woods. He 
was equally doubtful that it would survive the dawn, presaged by a faint 
gray tinge in the mists that drifted through the gnarled trees. Ingrey's 
hallow kingship was more bounded by space and time and need than 
Biast perhaps realized, or the prince-marshal would not look so 
uneasily at him, Ingrey thought.

He was disinclined to hand his standard humbly to Biast, 
politically prudent as that might seem. It was Wolfcliff not Stagthorne, it 
was a thing of the night not the day, and anyway, anywayLet him 
earn his own.

In the Old Weald, said Ingrey, the royal banner-carrier 
guarded the standard from the death of the old king to the investment of 
the new. And now I know why. Then it was broken, and the pieces 
burned on the pyre of the dead king, if events made such ceremony 
possible. And if not, he began to suspect, someone had made it up as 
best he could out of inspiration, urgency, and whatever came to hand. 
He looked around a little vaguely. Ijada, we must cleanse this ground 
as well, before we leave this place. With fire, I think. And we must go 
soon.

Before the sun rises? she asked.

That feels right.

You should know.

I do.

She followed his gaze around. My stepfather's forester said 
these trees were diseased. He wanted to fire the woods then, but I 
wouldn't let him.

It is your realm.

Only till dawn. Tomorrow it is yours again. He glanced aside 
at Biast, to see if he took the hint.

Perhaps it is as well, sighed Ijada. Perhaps it is necessary. 
Perhaps it istime. What, um, she moistened her lips, what of 
Wencel's body?

Learned Lewko said uneasily, I don't think we can carry it out 
with us now. Our beasts were used hard yesterday, and will have 
burden enough getting us back to the main roads. Someone will have to 
be sent back for it. Should we build a little cairn, to protect it from the 
wild beasts and birds till then?

The last Horseriver king never had his warrior's pyre, Ingrey 
said. No one here did, except for a few trapped in burning huts that 
night, I suppose. I don't know if burying them all in pits was a 
theological act of Audar's, or part of his magic and curse, or just 
military efficiency. The more I learn of Bloodfield, the more I think no 
one really knew, even at the time. It is late; it is the last hour. We will 
fire the woods. For Wencel. For all of them.

Ijada moistened a cautious finger and held it in the air. The 
wind's a little in the east, such as it is. It should do even if the rain 
doesn't come on.

Ingrey nodded. Biast, gentlemen, can you help Fara get out? 
Can someone collect the horses?

I can do that! said Hallana brightly, and took everyone but 
Oswin aback by stepping up onto the mound, turning to the four 
quarters, and calling loudly and rather maternally through her cupped 
hands, Horses! Horses!

Oswin looked a trifle pained, but appeared not in the least 
surprised when after a few minutes a crashing and crunching through 
the undergrowth announced the arrival of their several abandoned 
mounts, trailing reins and snorting anxiously. Jokol and Lewko, at 
Ingrey's nod, had quietly collected more dry deadfall from the margins 
of the clearing and discreetly piled it around Wencel's body. Lewko 
took charge of Wencel's purse, rings, and other items of interest to his 
future heirs at law. Ijada tucked the broken pieces of the Horseriver 
banner atop the pile. Hallana helped the widowed princess mount her 
horse. The company straggled into the foggy shadows in the direction 
of the marsh. Fara never looked back.

Yes, said Ingrey. Make for the gate of thorns. We will catch 
you up.

Gravely, Ijada took the standard, backed a few paces, and held 
the black-and-red banner in the fire till it caught alight. She handed the 
staff to Ingrey. Ingrey gripped it tightly in both hands, closed his eyes, 
and heaved it skyward. He opened his eyes again, grabbed Ijada's 
hand, and prepared to dodge whatever fell back. If anything.

Instead, the staff spun up and burst into a hundred burning 
shards, which rained down all around.

Oh, said Ijada in a tone of surprise. I thought we would have 
to walk through the woods with torches for a while, finding dry brush 
piles

I think not, said Ingrey, and began to tow her toward Biast, 
who was staring back wide-eyed in the growing yellow light. But it's 
time to go. Yes, definitely. Somewhere in the woods behind them, 
something very, very dry went up with a roar and a fountain of sparks. 
Briskly, even.

Biast's horse jittered despite its weariness, but the 
prince-marshal kept pace with them as they wound through the 
misshapen trees back toward the marsh. He eyed Ingrey and Ijada as if 
trying to decide which of them to pull up behind him on his horse and 
gallop for it, if the wind shifted. Happily, in Ingrey's view, because he 
did not have the energy for another argument tonight, the faint breeze 
didn't shift, and the ring of fire crept out from its center at no more than 
a walking pace. They reached the edge of the woods if not well in 
advance of the flames' steady destruction, sufficiently so.

Lewko helped Ingrey down from Biast's horse. Ingrey was 
shivering badly now, in the dawn cold. Seeing Lewko draw Ingrey's 
arm over his shoulders to escort him to the campfire, Hallana 
abandoned Fara, who was being hovered over by Hergi as well, and 
hurried to them. Ingrey found her low mutter of Dratsab! more 
alarming than his own weakness.

She frowned medically. Get him hot drinks and hot food, 
swiftly, she ordered Bernan and Oswin. And whatever blankets and 
cloaks we have.

Ingrey sank down on a saddle pad, because standing was no 
longer quite feasible.

Has he spent too much blood? Ijada asked her in worry.

Hallana replied, a little too indirectly, He'll be all right if we can 
get him warmed up and fed.

Hergi appeared with her leather case, and Ingrey endured yet 
another washing and rebandaging of his crusted right hand, though the 
wound was closed-again-and the bruises green and fading. Others 
bustled about with what seemed to him needless excitement, 
scavenging food and blankets and building up the fire. Ingrey was tired, 
breathless, and dizzy, and his chilled shaking threatened to spill the 
odd-tasting herb tea from his cup before he could get it to his numb 
lips, but Ijada plied him repeatedly with refills and what bits of fare the 
camp could supply. Better still, she huddled under his blankets with him 
to share the warmth of her own body, warming his hands with hers. 
Eventually the shudders stopped, and then he was merely very, very 
tired.

I had escorted Hallana to interrogate Ijada that night. We were 
talking together when Ijada became most upset, insisting something dire 
must have just befallen you.

I could not feel you anymore, Ijada put in. I feared you had 
been killed. She would have inched closer, but they were out of inches 
already; her arm around him tightened instead.

Horseriver stole our bond.

Ah! she breathed.

Lewko raised a curious eyebrow at this, but elected to go on 
with his narrative. Lady Ijada insisted we go investigate. Hallana 
agreed. Idecided not to argue. Your Rider Gesca also decided not 
to argue, at least not with Hallana, though he followed along for the 
sake of his warden's duty. We all four walked up to Horseriver's 
palace, where they told us you had gone to the hallow king's bedside. 
Then up to the hallow king's hall, where we found Biast at his father's 
deathbed saying you had all gone back to the earl's. We knew we had 
not missed you in the dark. Hallana got, well, the way she gets 
sometimes, and led us to the earl's stables.

That must have been quite a scene, Ingrey remarked.

To say the least. Biast had been unconvinced of anything 
untoward beyond his sister's usual illness, till then. From that point on, 
no one could have been more urgent in pursuit. Hallana hurried off to 
fetch Oswin and Bernan and their wagon, and found Prince Jokol 
talking to Oswin-he still wants a divine to carry back to his island-and 
she brought everyone. I was uncertain about taking this unruly mob 
upon the road, but, well, I can count to five. At least-Lewko 
sighed-Jokol didn't bring his ice bear.

Yes, said Ijada. But I talked him out of it. He is a very sweet 
man.

Ingrey chose to let that pass without remark.

Lewko continued, That was the point at which I decided the 
gods must be on our side-how does one say five gods help Them 
when it is the gods?-just imagine this same jaunt with the ice bear. He 
shuddered. Fafa would have had to ride in the wagon, I suppose, 
although the beast is big enough to ride. He blinked for a moment, 
looking reflective. I wonderdo you suppose this whole quest for a 
divine was a ploy on the beautiful Breiga's part to get rid of the bear 
before it ended up sleeping at the foot of her marriage bed?

Ijada's eyes lit, and she giggled. Or worse, on it. Possibly. She 
sounds a determined lady. For pity's sake, don't suggest that in Jokol's 
hearing.

I wouldn't dream of it. Lewko rubbed the grin from his mouth 
and continued, Biast thrust everything in Easthome onto Hetwar's 
shoulders, which I think are sturdy enough to hold them. We were on 
the river road pelting north not four hours after you three had left 
Easthome. After that it was all commandeering Temple courier horses 
and royal mail station remounts, and taking turns resting in the wagon, 
all the way to Badgerbridge.

You took the main road straight there? said Ingrey, 
considering a mental map. That would have saved some time. We 
took a lesser track when we turned west, for secrecy I think.

Yes. There appeared never to be any doubt about where we 
were going. Such a deluge of dreams! I did not see why, untilwell. I 
have now seen why. We traded the wagon for fresh mounts and 
outraced the prince-marshal's escort out of Badgerbridge; they may yet 
catch us up, if they have not lost themselves in Ijada's forest, here. 
Ijada nodded thoughtfully, as she considered this possibility. 
The forester is with them; they will find their way eventually, maybe by 
another pass. She glanced out over the valley. The smoke must draw 
them, if nothing else.

He unclutched the blanket from around his neck and sat on it, his 
arms wound about his knees, and stared into the graying gulf of mist 
and smoke. The earlier hot bright yellow that had seared the dark was 
dying down to a sullen red ring, black in the growing middle. The 
bloody light reflected off the undersides of the charcoal-colored clouds; 
far off, Ingrey heard a faint rumble of thunder reverberate through the 
serried hills, and the heavy scent of the coming rain mixed in his nostrils 
with the stink of smoke. He wondered if the morning after the original 
massacre had looked and smelled like this, and if Audar himself had 
also paused upon this spot to reflect on what clashing kings had 
wrought.

Biast strolled over to stand beside him, his arms crossed, staring 
out likewise, as if sociably. The prince-marshal was a little too drawn to 
bring off the illusion, but Ingrey spread his hand in invitation 
nonetheless, and Biast sank down next to him. Biast's tired sigh was not 
feigned.

What will you do now? Biast inquired of him.

Sleep, I hope. Before we must ride.

I meant more generally.

I know you did. Ingrey sighed, then a small smile turned his 
mouth. After that, I shall pursue a courtier's supreme ambition-

He made the slightest of pauses, to give Biast time to tense.

-and marry a rich heiress, and retire to a life of ease on her 
country estates. He waved about at the enclosing hills.

Well, she may find a task or two to which to turn my hand.

She may, said Biast, surprised into a chuckle.

If she is not hanged.

Biast grimaced and waved away this concern. That will not 
happen. Not after this. If you do not trust in me and Hetwar, well, I do 
think Oswin and Lewko will have a thing or two to say about it. Among 
such a fellowship, some sensible path to justice must be found. 
And-his voice grew hesitant not in doubt, but in a kind of 
shyness-mercy.

Good, Ingrey sighed.

Thank you for saving Fara's life. More than once, if she tells me 
true. Making you her guard wolf was one of my luckier decisions, if 
luck it was.

Ingrey shrugged. I did no more than my duty to you, nor less 
than any man's duty to his conscience.

Any man could not have done what I saw you do last night. 
Biast stared at his feet, not meeting Ingrey's eyes. If you chose to be 
more now-to reach for my father's seat-I do not know who could stand 
against you. Wolf king. Not I, his bowed shoulders seemed to add.

Now he comes to it. Ingrey pointed outward. My kingdom 
measured two miles by four, its population included not one breathing 
soul, and my whole reign ran from one dusk to one dawn. The dead 
did but lend my kingship to me, and in the end I handed it back. As any 
king must do; your father, for one. Although not Horseriver: one root 
of the problem had lain in that, to be sure. You, too, prince, come 
your turn.

Upon consideration, Ingrey's geography lacked a dimension, he 
decided. Eight square miles by four centuries-or more, for all of the 
history of the Old Weald had surely concentrated itself upon this patch 
of ground that fatal night, to be so thoroughly dislocated thereafter. 
Like the abyss beneath the deceptive surface of a lake that this valley 
floor resembled, time went down unimaginably far beneath this ground-
all the way down. My domain is larger than it looks. He decided 
not to trouble Biast with these reflections, but said only, If any kingship 
lingers on me, this little realm will content it.

Tell me true, Lord Ingrey, said Biast suddenly. He turned to 
look Ingrey full in the face for almost the first time. What makes the 
hallow kingship hallowed?

Ingrey hesitated so long in answering, Biast began to turn away 
again in disappointment, when Ingrey blurted, Faith. And at the 
puzzled pinch of Biast's brows, clarified: Keeping it.

Biast's lips made an unvoiced O, as though something sharp had 
pierced him through the heart. He sank back wordlessly. He said 
nothing for a rather long time. They sat together in more companionable 
silence as the glimmering fires crept across the ground below, in the last 
deconsecration of Holytree and Bloodfield's belated pyre.



EPILOGUE 


I NGREY LEFT IJADA'S FOREST THAT AFTERNOON CLINGING dizzily 
to his saddle, his horse towed by one of Biast's late-arriving 
guardsmen. He spent most of the following week flat on his back in 
Ijada's stepparents' house in Badgerbridge. But as soon as he could 
stand up without blacking out, he and Ijada were married-or married 
again-in the house's parlor, and then he had her fair company by night 
as well as day in his convalescent chamber. Some things one didn't 
need to get out of bed to accomplish. 
Prince Biast and his retinue had hurried back to Easthome and 
the prince's duties there; news of his election as hallow king arrived the 
day after the wedding. Prince Jokol and Ottovin lingered just long 
enough to enliven the wedding party, and to amaze the town of 
Badgerbridge, then took horse on the southern road to return to their 
ship.

Fara settled swiftly into a very private widowhood, under her 
brother's protection. If her spirit horse rendered her less a prize for 
some new political marriage, she seemed more grimly pleased than 
regretful. Her sick headaches did not recur.

Just exactly how Lewko and Oswin between them produced a 
divine for Prince Jokol, Ingrey never found out, but he and Ijada did 
come down to the docks to bid the island prince and his comrades 
farewell. The young divine looked nervous and clung to the ship's rail as 
though he expected to get seasick going downriver, but seemed very 
brave and determined. Fafa the ice bear, in a move of swift wit on 
someone's part, was gifted to King Biast as an ordination present, and 
took up residence on a nearby farm, with his own pond to swim in.

Withal, snow was flying by the time Ingrey and Ijada rode out of 
Easthome free, on the southeastern road toward the Lure Valley, with 
Learned Lewko's expert company. Ingrey spurred them all onward 
despite the cold. That he was too late about this business was all too 
probable-but that he might be just too late seemed unendurable. They 
came to the confluence of the Lure and the Birchbeck on the winter 
solstice, the Father's Day, an accident of timing that gave Ingrey's heart 
hope despite his reason and the learned saint's advice.

Of course, said Ingrey, with a polite nod. Islin returned the 
courtesy and took himself out of the great hall.

Ingrey glanced around. A couple of good beeswax candles in 
silvered sconces cast a warm honeyed flicker over the chamber; a fire 
burning low in the stone fireplace drove back some of the chill. Beyond 
the window slits, only midnight darkness lurked, though the gurgle of 
the fast-flowing Birchbeck, not yet frozen over though its banks were 
rimed with ice, came up faintly through them. The room was much the 
same as on the fateful day he and his father had received their wolf 
sacrifices here, and yetnot. It is smaller and more rustic than I 
remembered. How can a stone-walled room grow smaller?

Ijada said in a worried voice, Your cousin seemed very 
reserved all through dinner. Do you think our spirit animals disturb him?

Ingrey's lips twitched up in a brief, unfelt smile. Perhaps a little. 
But I think mostly he's wondering if I mean to use my new influence at 
court to take back his patrimony. Islin was only a little older than 
Ingrey, and had inherited his seat from Ingrey's uncle some three years 
past.

Would you wish to? Ijada asked curiously.

Ingrey's brows bent. No. Too many bad memories haunt this 
place; they overtop my good ones and sink them. I would rather leave 
them all behind. Save for one.

Ijada nodded to Lewko. So, saint. What does your holy sight 
reveal? Is Islin right? Are there no ghosts here?

Ingrey lifted his head, closed his eyes, and sniffed. From time to 
time, it seems I smell an odd little dankness in the air. But at this time of 
year, that's no surprise. He opened his eyes again. Ijada?

I am too untutored to be certain, I'm afraid. Learned?

Lewko shrugged. If the god will touch me tonight, any ghosts 
nearby will be attracted to the aura. Not by any spell of mine, you 
understand; it just happens. I will pray for my second sight to be 
shared. The gods are in your debt, Ingrey, Ijada; if only you can 
receive, I think They will give. Compose yourselves to quietude, and 
we shall see. Lewko signed himself, closed his eyes, and clasped his 
hands loosely before him. He seemed to settle into himself; his lips 
moved, barely, on his silent prayer.

Ingrey did his best to quell all desire, will, and fear in his own 
mind; he wondered if just being very, very tired would be enough, 
instead.

At length Lewko opened his eyes again, stepped forward, and 
wordlessly kissed first Ijada, then Ingrey on their foreheads. His lips 
were cool, but Ingrey felt a strange welcome warmth flush through him. 
He blinked.

Oh! said Ijada, looking with interest around the chamber. 
Learned, is that one? She pointed; Ingrey saw a faint pale blob 
floating past, circling in toward Lewko, scarcely more substantial than a 
puff of breath in frosty moonlight.

Aye, said Lewko, following her gaze. There is nothing to fear, 
mind you, though much to pity. That soul is long sundered, fading and 
powerless. 
To imply that Ijada, who had shared the terror and triumph at 
Bloodfield, might fear a ghost seemed absurd to Ingrey. His own fears 
lay on another level. Learned, could it be my father?

No, Ingrey admitted.

Then it is some other, long lost. Dying beyond death. Lewko 
signed the Five at it, and it drifted back into the walls.

Why would the god lend us this sight, if there was nothing to 
see? said Ingrey. It makes no sense. There must be more.

Lewko looked around the now-empty chamber. Let us make a 
little patrol around the castle, then, and see what turns up. But 
Ingrey-don't hope too hard. The ghosts of Bloodfield had great spells 
and all the life of that dire ground to sustain them beyond their time. 
Lord Ingalef, I fear, had none of that.

He had his wolf, said Ingrey stubbornly. It might have made 
some difference. At his tone, Ijada's hand found his, and squeezed; 
they left the chamber arm in arm, and took the opposite direction in the 
corridor from Lewko, the better to quarter the castle while this gift of 
second sight lasted.

In the bleak winter darkness the castle was cold and dank even 
without ghosts, but Ingrey found his night sight keener than heretofore. 
They paced the corridors and chambers, Ijada trailing her hand over 
the walls. Exiting the main keep, they circled the buildings along the 
inner bailey wall; in the shadows of the stable, warm with the breath 
and bodies of the horses, Ijada whispered, Look, another!

The pale mist circled them both as if in anxiety, but then faded 
again.

Was it? asked Ijada.

I think not. It was simple like the first. Let us go on.

As they trod across the snow in the narrow courtyard, Ingrey 
muttered, I am too late. I should have come earlier.

But it rides me to know that there might have once been a time 
for rescue, and it slipped through my hands. I scarcely know whether 
to blame myself, or my uncle, or the Temple, or the gods

Blame none, then. My mother and father both died before their 
times. Yes, they went to their gods, which was some consolation to me, 
but-not enough. Never enough. Death is not a performance to rate 
ourselves upon, or berate ourselves upon either.

He squeezed her hand in return and bent to kiss her hair in the 
moonlight.

They made their way up the inner steps of the wall and along the 
sentry walk to the battlement's highest point, above the river, and 
paused to look out across the steep valley of the Birchbeck. The water 
of the stream rippled like black silk between the steel sheen of the 
spreading ice along its banks. The snow cover on the slopes caught the 
light of the westering moon in a pale blue glow, webbed with the bare 
tree branches like charcoal strokes, save where stands of black fir 
marked the rises, or clusters of holly made mystery in the dells. The 
bare boles of the birches blended with the snow and shadows, eluding 
the eye.

They stood for a time, gazing out. Ijada shivered despite her 
woolens, and Ingrey wrapped himself around her like a cloak. She 
smiled gratefully over her shoulder. You warm me just as much as I 
warm you, love

For once, Ingrey sensed the revenant before Ijada, although she 
felt him stiffen and instantly turned her head to follow his glance. A few 
paces away floated a shape like mist in the moonlight, denser than the 
others had been, elongated, almost a man length. Within it, another 
shadow lurked, like smoke shrouded by fog.

Ingrey's arms spasmed around Ijada, then released her. Fetch 
Learned Lewko, hurry!

Ingrey stood silent, scarcely daring to breathe, lest this image 
fade or flee like the others. A head end it seemed to have, and feet, but 
he could not discern any features. His imagination tried to paint it with 
his father's face, but a chilled realization came over him that he no 
longer remembered exactly what Lord Ingalef had looked like. His 
father's appearance had never greatly mattered to Ingrey; it was his 
solid presence that had warmed, and his rumbling voice, resonating in a 
chest to which a child-ear pressed, that had promised safety.

The illusion of safety. I might now become a father in my 
turn, and I cannot give such perfect safety. It was always an 
illusion. Will my own children forgive me, when they find out?

Rapid footsteps scrunching through the snow and heavy 
breathing heralded the return of Ijada with the divine, making their way 
up the steep steps to this high point. Lewko paused at the top, gazing 
past Ingrey at the smoky revenant. Ingrey, is it?

I Ingrey started to say, I think so, but changed it to, Yes. I 
am sure of it. Learned, what should I do? I wanted to ask a thousand 
questions, but it has no mouth. I don't think it can speak. I don't even 
know if it can hear me.

I believe you're right. The time for questions and answers 
seems past. You can only cleanse it, and release it. That is what a 
shaman does, it seems.

And when he's cleansed and released, will the Father of Winter 
take him up? Or is he sundered beyond recall? Are there no rites you 
can offer to help him?

He had his funeral rites long ago, Ingrey. You can do what you 
can do, which is cleanse him; I can pray. But if it has been too long, 
there will not be enough of him left to assent to the god, and then not 
even the god can do more. It may be that all you can do is release him 
from this thrall. 
To nothingness.

Like Horseriver. Horseriver's hatred of irrevocable time made 
more sense to Ingrey now.

Somewhat.

What is the use of me, if I can send four thousand 
stranger-souls to their proper gods, but not the four-thousand-first that 
matters most to me?

I do not know.

And that is the sum of Temple wisdom?

It is the sum of my wisdom, and all the truth I know.

Was Temple wisdom like a father's safety, then, an illusion? And 
it always had been? Would you rather Lewko told you comforting 
lies? Ingrey could not walk back through that veil of time and 
experience to a child's sight again, and wasn't sure he would if he could. 
Ijada stepped forward and laid a hand upon his shoulder, lending the 
comfort of her presence, if not the comfort of some more desirable 
answer. He let himself absorb the warmth of her body against his for a 
moment, then touched her hand for release and stepped forward.

From a pouch on his belt he fumbled out a fine new penknife, 
purchased in Easthome for this moment. The thin blade reflected the 
face of the moon in a brief blink. Ijada gritted her teeth along with 
Ingrey as he took it in his left hand and pressed the edge into his right 
index finger. He squeezed his fist and raised his hand to the top of the 
fog-shape.

The drops fell through onto the trampled snow in a spatter of 
small black circles.

Ingrey's breath drew in, and he clutched the knife harder. 
Lewko barely caught his arm as he made to stab his hand more deeply.

No, Ingrey, Lewko whispered. If a drop will not bless it, 
neither will a bucketful. 
Ingrey exhaled slowly as Lewko let go again, and tucked the 
knife back in the pouch. Whatever of his hallow kingship lingered in his 
blood, it seemed it had no power over this. I had to try.

Whatever you thought you were about, the thing you began 
here is finished, and done well. Your sacrifice was not in vain. He 
thought of adding I forgive you, then thought better of it. Fatuous, 
foolish, hardly to the point now. After a moment he merely said, I love 
you, Father. And, after another, Come.

The dark wolf-smoke spun out from the pale fog and through his 
fingers, and away.

More slowly, the frost-fog dissipated as well, with a last faint 
blue sparkle.

The god did not take him up, Ingrey whispered.

He would if He could have, Lewko murmured back. The 
Father of Winter, too, weeps at this loss.

Ingrey was not weeping, yet, although little trembles ran through 
his body. He could feel the second sight fading from his eyes, the gift 
returned. Ijada came to him again and tied a strip of clean linen around 
his finger. They wound their arms around each other.

Well Learned Lewko signed them both. It is finished. His 
voice grew more gentle. Will you not come in out of the cold, my lord 
and lady?

Soon, sighed Ingrey. Moonset over the Birchbeck is worth a 
shiver or two.

If you say so. Lewko smiled and, with a nod of farewell, 
clutched his coat about himself and made his way down the steps, 
careful now on the ice.

Ingrey stepped behind Ijada and rested his chin on her shoulder, 
the both of them staring out over the valley.

No, it wasn't. But it was better than nothing, and vastly better 
than never knowing. At least all is concluded, here. I can go and not 
look back.

This was your childhood home.

It was. But I am not a child anymore. He hugged her a little 
fiercely, squeezing a breath of a laugh from her belly. My home has a 
new name, and she is called Ijada. There will I abide.

Her warm laugh now was voiced, enough to make moon-mist 
before her lips.

Besides, he said, I expect Badgerbridge is warmer in the 
winter than Birchgrove, am I not right?

In the valleys, yes. There is snow enough on the upper slopes, 
should you miss it.

Very good.

After a dozen slowing breaths, he added, He did not seem to 
be in any great pain or torment. So. I have seen my fate. I will not fear 
it.

Ijada said thoughtfully, Mine and Fara's, too, if you do not 
outlive us to cleanse our souls in turn.

I scarcely know which order dismays me more. He turned her 
to face him, and stared in worry into her eyes, wide and dark with a 
faint amber rim in the blue shadows. I must pray I may go last, 
mourning and unmourned. I don't know how I'll bear it.

Ingrey. She placed her chilled hands on either side of his face, 
and brought it directly before her intent gaze. A year ago, could you 
even have imagined, let alone predicted, standing here being what you 
now are?

No. 
Neither could I have imagined me. So perhaps we should not 
be so sure of our future fate, either. What we don't know of it is vastly 
larger than what we do, and will surely not stop surprising us.

Then let their vote rule your mind in this, as well.

Ah. The bleak midnight mood was losing its hold upon him, in 
favor of her wool-wrapped warmth.

She added, It is premature to call yourself the last shaman, too, 
I think. You yourself could make more great beasts and spirit mages.

I would not send any other into this state unless I knew they 
could find a way out again.

Indeed. And do you think the Temple must always oppose the 
old forest magics? If they came in some fresh version, reformed to our 
new days?

That would take much thought. Five gods know we've seen the 
troubles the old ways can cause.

Yet the Temple manages its sorcerers, and not perfectly. Look 
at poor Cumril, for one. But they manage well enough to go on with. 
And we both know divines who are capable of much thought, now.

Huh. His eyes narrowed in a hint of hope.

You are very arrogant, wolf-lord. Her hands gave his head a 
tiny, reproving shake.

Ah? What now, sweet cat?

How can you say that multitudes yet unborn shall not mourn 
you greatly? It is not yours to dictate their hearts.

Do you prophesy, lady? he inquired lightly, but even as he 
spoke a shiver ran through his belly, as though he had heard a weirding 
voice.

Her lips were warm, like rising sunlight chasing an icy moon. She 
rubbed her face against his, sighing contentedly. But then added, Your 
nose is cold, wolfling. You are not so hairy that I take this as a sign of 
health in you. If we are ever to be ancestors and not just descendants, 
perhaps we should return to that feather bed your cousin promised us.

He snickered and released her. Aye, to bed then, for the sake 
of our posterity!

And I can thaw my feet on your back, she added practically.

Ingrey yipped in mock-dismay, and was graced with her fairest 
laugh yet. The sound lifted his heart like a promise of dawn, in this 
longest night of the year.

Arm in arm, they descended the snowy steps. 






