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PROLOGUE

Ravenspur Manor, the Borderlands, 1374

"So ye think this is a bad idea?"

Ian Kirallen asked the question lightly as he swung himself into the saddle. His cheeks were ruddy, his dark eyes snapping as he took up the reins. At twenty-eight, Ian was at the very height and pride of manhood, as restive as the blooded stallion between his knees. The beast pranced and reared, its hooves striking sparks from the frozen cobbles, but Ian brought him easily under control. Having completed this dazzling display of horsemanship, he grinned down at the fair-haired man planted solidly before him.

"Aye, I do," Alistair said, his jaw set in a stubborn line.

The eight knights who were already mounted sat back in their saddles. They're at it again, they signaled to each other with rolling eyes and shrugs. Sir Alistair was preaching caution, but he might as well be speaking to the wind. Lord Ian's mind was set upon this venture.

Not that any of them doubted Alistair's courage for a moment. Their captain was without dispute the finest swordsman on the borderlands, a matter of great pride to his knights. Whether or not it was a source of pride to him, they could not say. Alistair never wasted words on matters he considered trivial. Often silent and always watchful, his cool gray eyes summed up each situation with a composure that never wavered, not even in the hottest battle.

When it came to planning an engagement, they could rely upon his judgment absolutely, for they knew every possible contingency had been accounted for. If the Captain said, do this or that and thus-and-so will happen, a man could rest assured it would fall out that way exactly.

The same could not be said of their lord. Ian's ideas were bold and striking, always daring and often brilliant, designed to win the maximum of honor. But once the action started, anything might happen. He was wild and he was fearless, and he threw himself into each new adventure with a reckless abandon that set fire to his men.

Every young squire dreamed of joining Lord Ian's personal guard, whose exploits were recounted in awe-struck voices all along the border. Those chosen few would have followed him to hell and back—and counted themselves lucky to have made the journey. And though Ian's impetuous ways might drive his foster brother to distraction, they all knew that in his heart, their Captain felt the same.

Once committed, even to a course of action with which he disagreed, Alistair would back his foster brother to the hilt. And if the plan developed some unexpected turnings—as Lord Ian's plans had a tendency to do—it was often Alistair's genius for the split-second decision that turned a potential rout to the stuff of songs and stories.

Two sides of a coin, that's what they were, and for all their disagreements, nothing could divide them.

As Ian grinned down at Alistair, inviting him to share the fun, Alistair steeled himself against his foster-brother's contagious high spirits. There was something wrong with this plan. Alistair was sure of it, even if he could not say precisely what the trouble was. But since last night he had felt a pricking of his thumbs, a stirring of the Sight that sometimes visited him.

"If ye won't be stopped, then at least let's take more men," he said.

Ian frowned and glanced back at the eight knights ranged behind him. "'Tis too late for that. We'll go carefully."

For a moment Alistair considered digging in his heels. Let Ian call him coward if he liked, just as he had done the night before when Alistair tried to dissuade him from this venture. It wasn't as though there was any need to ride out this morning. Two dozen stolen cows meant nothing to the clan and Ian knew it well enough. But of course the cows were not the point. Ian would not let the Kirallens be bested over what was, to him, a point of honor.

It was so like Ian. There was nothing Kirallen's heir would not dare to score a victory over the English, particularly if the Englishman happened to be Darnley.

Ian's face tightened into annoyed impatience and Alistair knew that nothing he could say would change his mind. With a sigh of resignation, he mounted and took his place at his foster brother's back.

A chill January mist clung to the hollows and hung heavy over the moat. Just as they clattered to the other side, Alistair felt his horse's pace falter. Dismounting, he used his dagger to pry the stone loose from the animal's hoof, muttering a curse when the horse stumbled on its next step.

"I'll have to fetch another," he said to Ian.

Ian sighed, his breath misting the air. "Catch up to us."

"I'll only be a moment."

Ian laughed. "I canna waste the morning waiting about for you! You can catch us—and hurry, man, 'tis late enough already."

Alistair felt his temper rise. What was wrong with Ian this morning? His eyes were feverishly bright, his color high—he was drawn as tightly as a bowstring...almost fey.

The sharp answer Alistair was about to make died on his lips when he felt the hair stir on the nape of his neck. His mouth went dry, and though he tried to shout a warning, his words came out as hardly more than a whisper.

"Wait—don't go—"

Ian heeled his horse into a canter and looked back with a grin. "Try not to miss all the fun!"

"Ian, don't—wait!"

But Ian was gone. Alistair turned and ran back to the stables, shouting for a groom. Ten minutes later he was galloping over the drawbridge, the icy wind stinging his cheeks.

The day was dark and overcast, shrouded in mist, cutting visibility to almost nothing. But Alistair had no trouble following their tracks in the new-fallen snow. Above the dull pounding of his horse's hooves he heard noises in the distance—a cry, cut quickly short, the ring of blades. Then silence.