KINSMAN’S OATH By Susan Krinard

“My sister and the man she chose as husband saved my life that day,” Miklos said, turning down a corridor toward the center of the palace. “I told you that even I had been young and reckless once, before responsibility came to rest on my shoulders. There are times when I wish I could go back to those days, dangers and all.”

“You were selected for your Path at birth,” Ronan said.

“I’m afraid you’re right. Ah.” He paused at immense double doors flanked by guards in more elaborate costume. “In a few moments, I hope to be able to introduce you to some of my family.”

There was a great wrongness here. Ronan stopped when Miklos would have approached the doors. Ne’lin fool. Take what he offers.

But he could not. “I do not understand you, Aino’Kei,” he said. “You take me among your kin, though I may be your enemy.”

Miklos held his gaze. “Are you, Ronan? Are you my enemy?”

He is OutLine, OutClan. There is no shame in deceit. “No.”

“I haven’t telepathic gifts like my sister had, but I have a certain sense, if you will. And I trust your captain’s judgment. She thought you were worth saving. So do I.”

Ronan looked away quickly, unable to trust his voice.

“Well,” Miklos said, “come along, then.”

The doors swung open, held by two of the decorated attendants. The wide hall was carpeted, its length punctuated by numerous tables set with sculptures of naked human figures and containers of flowers. The colors were warm, earth tones such as those preferred by shaauri.

Many smaller corridors and antechambers opened up from the hall, but Miklos passed them by. The security men and women here were not so conspicuous, but Ronan recognized and noted their positions. It was information he might require later.

A second set of high doors led to another hall, and then to a glass-walled room, furnished with padded chairs and heavy woven carpets, overlooking a hidden garden. Miklos stopped at the window and invited Ronan to join him.

In the garden several young humans of various ages were at play, tossing a ball back and forth as an adult looked on indulgently. Ronan saw a resemblance among some of the ba’laik’i, markings of kinship that were not so readily apparent among shaauri.

“My great-nieces and -nephews, the grandchildren of my elder brother Hector and offspring of my nephew Ambros.” He smiled with genuine pride and pleasure. “I have none of my own, so I tend to spoil them. Do shaauri spoil their children?”

Ronan remembered the little treats Hanno had often brought him after a particularly nasty beating, the way her fur had smelled when she held him close with crooning songs passed down among the li’laik’i of Ain’Kalevi.

“All children are valued,” he said seriously.

“Even you?”

Startled, Ronan stared through the glass. Had Cynara found the means to speak to Miklos of his childhood, the portions she had taken from his mind and those he had confided to her?

Use it. Make him pity you, as she did.

“I was human,” he said. “I had to prove my worth.”

“That’s how’ you received the scars?”

“Janek reported this to you.”

“I have several reliable sources of information, but you need have no fear that any will be used to Cynara’s detriment.”

“The captain can care for herself.”

Miklos merely smiled. “Ah. The one who has the ball now, with the freckles and brown hair? That’s my favorite great-niece, Melanthe, Kori’s granddaughter and the child of my nephew Ambros. Quite a little spitfire even at the age of ten.”

Ronan remembered that Magnus Jesper had referred to Cynara by that bali-name. “A child of strength and spirit,” he said.

“Do you hope for any of your own?”

“I never considered it.”

“You’re lying.” Miklos turned a pleasant face on him as if he had not just delivered a breathtaking insult. “You want children. You want a family, to make up for what you lost in your own childhood.”

“I was adequately cared for by the shaauri.”

“So well that you escaped and betrayed them.”

Ronan made his emotions disappear. “I could never be one of them.”

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