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Alain blinked, dizzy, and came abruptly awake out of an uncomfortable doze. He heard clerics singing the service of Nones, but the music rang in his ears like a dirge for the forgotten dead and he was pierced with such a vivid memory of Lackling joyfully feeding the sparrows that he thought his heart would rend in two from sorrow. Afternoon light splashed across the chamber. Ardent lay still beneath his hands, and he moved to shift her gently off his legs—only to bruise himself, crushed beneath her weight. She might have been stone.
“Son.” Lavastine stood at the window and now hurried over to brush a finger against Alain’s cheek. “Don’t fight her weight. I didn’t want to disturb you before. She’s rested so peacefully because she lay with you. There, you see. She’s almost gone.”
Ardent whimpered softly, but as he stroked her head, he could see the suck of her lungs grow shallow.
“Where is Tallia?” he whispered.
“When you slept, she took her attendants and went to pray in the chapel. It is better so. God have mercy.” Only the scrape in his voice revealed his grief; his expression was as smooth as Ardent’s coat. He sat on the bed, rested fingers lightly on her muzzle as she stiffened entirely and, at last, ceased to breathe.
The other hounds, who had remained silent at their vigil throughout the day, began to howl. A musky odor seemed to steam up from their bodies, like the heavy scent of mourning. From across the palace grounds, all the other dogs and hounds joined in until their mourning became cacophony.
Lavastine sat on the bed with head bowed and chin resting on his folded hands. With some difficulty, Alain got out from under Ardent’s weight and, with his legs tingling, grimaced as he knelt beside her. Tears came. He could not bear to take his hand off her cold head. Her ears had the same stiff curl as would a sheet of metal molded to form such a shape. The servants stayed back, well aware of the uncertain temper of the other hounds, who might lunge without warning.
Finally Lavastine stirred, and rested a hand on Alain’s hair. “Hush, Son. There is nothing you can do for her now.”
Sorrow barked and the other hounds growled as the servants moved aside to make way for a tall figure.
“Your Highness.” Lavastine stood.
Terror took two stiff steps forward to growl at the prince as he entered the chamber, and immediately all the hounds coursed forward protectively. The servants bolted back out of range. The prince lifted a gloved hand like a weapon and, seemingly without thinking, growled back at the hounds from deep in his throat, a hoarse sound as threatening as the one made by the hounds.
Prince and hounds faced off, not retreating, not attacking. Then, hackles still raised, Terror took a wary sidestep as if to signal to the rest that this foe was worthy of respect—if not friendship. The prince glanced once around to check their positions, then knelt beside Ardent. By every twitch of Prince Sanglant’s body, by his very stance, Alain could see he would strike at any aggressive movement, but the hounds behaved themselves except for a low growl that escaped Rage at intervals.
Alain wiped his nose and tried to speak in greeting, but he could not get words past the grief lodged in his throat.
“I heard the tale,” said the prince, “and I helped the huntsmen beat the bushes on the cliffs and down by the river, but we found nothing. The adder must have gone back into its den.” He glanced again toward the hounds, aware of their least shifting movements. Rage growled again, all stiff-legged, but did not rush in: She knew a worthy opponent when she saw one. “May I look at the wound?”
“I thank you,” said Lavastine.
Alain made to shift Ardent’s right foreleg to turn over her paw … and for a moment could not, until he braced himself and heaved. She was almost too heavy to be moved.
“Strange,” said Sanglant as he examined the paw. “It’s as if she’s turned to stone.” He bent to sniff along her body exactly as a dog would.
Behind, the servants whispered as they watched him, and abruptly Sanglant jerked up, hands clenching at his side, as if he’d heard them. Bliss barked a warning. Outside, the baying and howling had subsided.
“She smells like the Eika.” He shook his head as a hound flings off water. He traced the curve of her ear and the grain of her nose, dry and as cold as stone. “Are you sure it was an adder that bit her?”
“What else could it have been?” asked Lavastine. “She was at the threshold, there—” He pointed to the door of the chamber.
“You saw nothing?” The prince looked at Alain. He had startlingly green eyes and an expression as guarded as that of a caged panther which, given room to bolt free, suspects a hidden weapon is poised to strike it down as it runs.
“I wasn’t here—” Alain felt himself blush.
“Of course not,” said the prince curtly. “I beg your pardon.” He paced to the window, stared out as if searching for someone, then abruptly turned back. “I saw a creature among the Eika that was dead and yet was animated by Bloodheart’s magic.” When he spoke the name of his captor, his gaze flinched inward. He touched the iron collar that ringed his neck, noticed that he had touched it, and jerked his hand down to his belt. A flush spread across his fine, high cheekbones, a dull stain over his golden-bronze complexion.
Lavastine waited, toying with Ardent’s leash, tying it into knots and untying it again without once glancing at his hands.
At last Sanglant shook his head impatiently. “Nay, it is impossible that such a thing could live past Bloodheart’s death. Or that it could follow us so far, when only sunlight animates it and we travel swiftly by horse and it is no bigger than a rat.”
“What you speak of is not at all clear to me, Your Highness.” Lavastine gestured to the servants and, as one, they retreated out the door to leave the count, his heir, and the half-wild prince alone with the living hounds and their dead companion.
Sanglant hissed between his teeth. “Lady preserve me,” he whispered as if struggling against some inner demon. “It was a curse, that’s all I know.” He measured his words slowly, as if he did not quite have control of them—like a nervous horseman given an untried mount to ride. “A curse Bloodheart wove to protect himself from any man or Eika who wished to kill him. Let you and your people accompany me, Count Lavastine. I have certain … skills. Together with your hounds, if there is aught that stalks this place, we can catch it.” He paused, set a hand on Ardent’s cold paw, and shut his eyes as he considered.
Suddenly he started up with such violence that the hounds began barking madly.
“Peace!” said Lavastine over their noise, and they subsided.
“It isn’t you at all,” said the prince. “It’s seeking her. She’s the one who killed him.”
