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THE rats came out at night to gnaw at the bones. He heard their claws skittering on stone, heard the dogs growling as they crept close enough to clamp their jaws down over his throat, and he bolted up—
Awake.
He was sitting, arms raised to strike, as out of breath as if he’d been fighting. The bed of leaves he’d laid down yesterday at twilight shifted under him. Stars glittered above. The Eika dog whined softly. Liath stirred, murmuring his name.
“Hush,” he said softly. “Go back to sleep.”
She tugged the blanket over her hips, pillowed her cheek on an arm, and was out, that quickly. He knew he would not sleep again.
“Ai, God,” he whispered. “Lord protect me from my dreams.”
He eased away so as not to wake her. He did not bother to pull on his tunic, but he grabbed his sword belt. A hazy night stillness lay over everything except for the faint rustling of wind in leaves, not enough to dispel the weight of summer’s heat. Nearby he heard the chuckling stream at which they’d watered their horses that evening. This night they had camped in woodland just off the old Dariyan road they followed southeast into lands more wilderness than cultivated. This night no intact Dariyan way house had appeared at the expected mile marker, only a ruin torn apart long ago by scavengers. The servants had lashed branches together to make a small shelter for Sister Anne, but Sanglant was used to harsher conditions than these from campaigns. He was happy to collect leaves and, with the dragon sigil quilt thrown over all and a blanket atop, make a bed of them on the ground by the fallen way-house wall.
He was happy … or at least content. The day-to-day rhythms of the journey kept him moving, and when he moved, he didn’t think. If he stayed still for too long, the old nightmare clawed up, as it had this night—and most nights—in his dreams.
He touched his throat, realized he had done so, and shook his hand violently as if to shed the chains that had once shackled him. He was free. But the memories still weighed as heavily as the chains ever had. He had been Bloodheart’s prisoner for a long time.
Something rustled in the trees, and he spun and growled, caught himself. Froze.
A wolf padded out into the clearing. Its amber eyes gleamed softly as it stared at him. A second wolf, lighter, emerged from undergrowth beside the first. He drew his sword. Its ring, coming free of the scabbard, drew an answering bark, crisp, short, and clear, from the lead wolf. A third ghosted into the clearing a short way from the first two, and halted.
How many more were out there?
“Liath,” he said softly.
She stirred but did not wake.
He eased a step sideways, toward her. The Eika dog slept on, too, and it usually woke at once if any danger threatened him, but it had remained terribly weak since Werlida.
A fourth wolf, black enough that it seemed more shadow than body, arrived in the clearing. It growled softly, and he, that fast, unthinking, growled in reply. The lead wolf barked again, like an order. Two more wolves loped into the clearing and halted.
“Liath!” he said, more sharply.
She stirred, yawned sleepily, and murmured his name on a question.
“Get your weapons,” he said without varying his tone of voice.
Three of the wolves broke away to circle them. Liath sat up, grabbing her bow.
Light streaked off the shelter, a silvery thread more thought than form. It bore human lineaments, but in the darkness it shimmered. It slid under the nose of the lead wolf, evaded a snap, and a moment later was joined by one of its comrades. Together, they pulled on the tails of the wolves and otherwise pinched and teased them until the entire pack turned tail and vanished into the forest. The servants disappeared after them, their laughter as soft as the wind.
“Cover yourself.”
Sister Anne emerged from the shelter with the third servant hovering at her side. Liath yanked the blanket up to her shoulders. Sanglant ignored her and went to the edge of the clearing to listen, but although he stood there for a long time, he heard no trace of wolves.
When he turned back, Anne had gone inside. He sheathed his sword and knelt beside Liath, kissed her, then recalled that Anne was, presumably, still awake. He sat back on his heels.
“What happened?”
“Wolves. The servants chased them away. Go back to sleep. I’ll stand watch.”
“I thought my mother said that the servants would stand watch.”
“And so they do, but I can’t sleep now.” But he didn’t tell her it was more because of dreams than wolves. The servants had done a better job of dispelling the wolves than he ever could have. She hesitated, then lay back down, a sumptuous curve under the blanket. For an instant he was tempted—but two of the servants had gone into the wood and had not yet returned. He pulled on his tunic and bound up his sandals, then dragged a fallen log close to the old, ruined way house, midway between Liath’s bed and the shelter, and sat down.
As he sat, he watched the stars. He tried to imagine fixed stars and wandering stars, spheres and epicycles, all these words that Liath used so easily—but it only made him impatient. He got to his feet and began pacing; he couldn’t sit still although he knew full well that a sentry needed to be still. But when he was still, the weight of chains seemed to settle on him, whether Bloodheart’s chains or the chains his own father wanted to bind him with.
