His first wife Tanya and his three children had died because a group of raiders had decided to head south-east rather than south-west. Coincidentally he had chosen that day to hunt venison, rather than stay and rebuild the south pasture fence. ‘You have no time for self-pity,’ he said, aloud, pushing the awful scenes from his mind.
He truly did not care whether Kydor stood or fell. War was a grisly fact of life, and one that he was powerless to alter. But the enemy had brought death to his house, and that he did care about. Demons had been unleashed within the palace. Omri had been a gentle, kind man. Talons had torn his chest open. Mendyr Syn had devoted his life to the care of others. His last moments had been to witness his patients ripped apart.
Until now this had not been Waylander’s war.
Now it was.
Leaning his head back against the door frame he closed his eyes. Sunlight was warm upon his face. A soft breeze whispered against his skin. He was almost asleep when he heard soft footfalls on the steps. His dark eyes flicked open and he drew a diamond-shaped knife from its sheath.
Keeva appeared, carrying a tray of food. Waylander pushed himself to his feet, and stood blocking the doorway. ‘Emrin asked me to bring you some breakfast,’ she said.
‘Was it you who hurled the carving knife at the beast?’ he asked.
‘Yes. How did you know?’
‘I saw it upon the floor. Where did you aim for?’
‘The eye.’
‘Did you hit it?’
‘Yes. It went in to the hilt.’
‘Excellent.’ He looked at her closely. ‘I want you to do something for me,’ he said.
‘Of course.’
‘I want it done quietly. No one must know. No one at all.’
‘You can trust me, Grey Man. I owe you my life.’
‘Go to the North Tower and the rooms of the priestess Ustarte. Let no one see you. Gather some of her clothes and gloves. Do not forget the gloves. Put them in a sack and bring them here.’
‘She is still alive?’
Waylander stepped back into the apartments, beckoning her to follow him. Keeva paused in the doorway and gazed down on the sleeping priestess. One arm was outside the blankets. Keeva moved closer and stared down at the exposed, fur-covered limb and the sharp claws extending from the short, stubby fingers. She recoiled instantly. ‘Sweet Heaven! What is she?’
‘Someone who has been badly wounded,’ he said softly. ‘No one must know she has survived the attack. You understand?’
‘Is she a demon?’
‘I do not know what she is, Keeva, but I believe there is no evil in her. Will you trust me on this?’
‘I trust you, Grey Man. Will she live?’
‘I have no way of knowing. The wounds are deep, and there may be internal bleeding. But I will do what I can.’
Ustarte opened her eyes. Her vision swam, then focused on the rough wrought ceiling above her. Her mouth was dry, and she became aware of pain. It grew from a dull, throbbing ache to needles of fire in her side and back. She groaned.
Instantly a figure appeared above her. Lifting her head he held a goblet of water to her lips. She drank sparingly at first, allowing the cool liquid to ease its way down her parched throat. The swirling began in her belly and she quelled it. Must not Change now, she thought, an edge of panic seeping into her mind. Looking up into the Grey Man’s face she read his thoughts instinctively. He was concerned for her. ‘I will live,’ she whispered. ‘If I do not . . . become the beast.’ She caught an image in his mind of a golden wolf, dying on the stairs of the library. Sorrow flowed over her and tears welled in her eyes. ‘They died for me,’ she whispered.
‘Aye, they did,’ he said. The tears flowed on to her cheeks and she began sobbing. She felt his hands upon her shoulders. ‘Be calm, Ustarte! You will tear the stitches. There will be time for grief later.’
‘They trusted me,’ she said. ‘I betrayed them.’