I fail to see how this is any of our concern.” Astasia leaned back in her chair, letting her long, chestnut-colored hair fall across her shoulders, spilling down over full breasts barely hidden by her revealing neckline. The vayash moru ’s pale skin was a sharp contrast to the deep burgundy of her gown. Astasia met Jonmarc’s eyes with a look that combined both seduction and malice.
“It’s your concern because you’re the Blood Council, dammit!” Jonmarc glared at Astasia. Once, being the only mortal in a room of vayash moru might have tempered his comments. Now, a year after he had come to Dark Haven as its lord, he had fought and bled for its residents, living and undead. The insurrection he’d quelled that winter had set him directly against two of the Blood Council’s members, Uri and Astasia, at peril of his life. He still had a scar from two puncture wounds at the base of his throat, where Malesh, one of Uri’s renegade vayash moru, had tried unsuccessfully to kill him. Surviving that attack had made Jonmarc a legend, as had returning alive from making Istra’s Bargain, a pledge to forfeit his soul in exchange for the death of his enemy. Having stared down both the goddess and Malesh, Jonmarc found his fear of the undead was considerably diminished.
“My brood has no quarrel with the Durim,” Astasia said blithely.
“Then you are a fool.” Riqua wheeled on Astasia. “The Dark Gift is no protection against their torches. They hunted me when I lived, and I hid from them when I was first brought across. No more. I will fight.” In life, Riqua had been the wife of a wealthy merchant, and that sensibility still served her. She was a handsome woman in her midfifties, with upswept, dark blonde hair. Her gown was of the most current fashion favored at court, and the expensive jewelry that glittered at her throat and on her wrists was a testimony that undeath had been favorable for building wealth.
“Of late, you seem ready to battle anyone,” Astasia purred.
Riqua’s scorn was evident on her face. “I’m not ashamed that my brood fought alongside Lord Gabriel’s to defeat Malesh. We preserved the Truce with mortals to protect ourselves. I paid a price for that; half my brood was destroyed in the fighting. You might not have dirtied your hands with battle, but I recognized many of your brood among those who fought for Malesh.”
“So?” Astasia pouted. “It’s the way of things. Uri’s fledge started the war. Mine just played along. Immortality without conflict is… boring.”
“You brought our kind to the edge of destruction because you were bored?” Riqua hissed. “You were a stupid, empty-headed whore in life and you haven’t learned anything in death to improve on that.”
Astasia started from her seat, and Jonmarc thought she might attack Riqua, but just then, Gabriel rose to his feet. He fixed Astasia with a cold glare, and she sat down. She’s afraid of him, Jonmarc thought, suppressing a smile. He knew just how formidable Gabriel could be. Astasia might be willful and utterly self-centered, but if she recognized Gabriel’s power, she wasn’t quite as stupid as Riqua supposed.
“One war is behind us,” Gabriel said. When he was certain Astasia was silenced, he turned his gaze toward the other members of the Blood Council, the ruling body whose word was law to the vayash moru in much of the Winter Kingdoms. “Now, another threat has risen. The question is: What will we do about it?”
Gabriel’s cold gaze went first to the Council’s chairman, Rafe. Though dead for centuries, Rafe still had the look of a priest or scholar. He had the ebony skin of an Eastmark noble and eyes that were almost black. Although he’d been in his early thirties when he’d been brought across, his hair had grayed to a sand color. “You’re certain the Durim are behind this?”
“Does being dead affect your hearing?” Jonmarc growled. “I just took a strike force of vayash moru and mortals into the caves to burn out a group of Durim. It took a mage and a hell of a fight to get out of there in one piece. They were draining vayash moru and slaughtering vyrkin. I’ve got a manor house full of vayash moru and vyrkin refugees. The war has already started.”
“You’re good at burning things, aren’t you?” Uri tented his fingers over his chest. He had the olive skin and dark features of a Trevath or Nargi native, and even centuries after his death, he still had the air of a card sharp and two- skrivven hustler.
Jonmarc met his eyes. “When I have to be, yes.”
Uri made a show of sighing, a completely artificial gesture since he no longer had to breathe. “As much as it pains me, I actually agree with you for once.” Uri toyed with the heavy gold rings on his fingers. “The Durim’s threat is real. Like Riqua, I also remember when the followers of Shanthadura drove us from our homes and then from our crypts. I have no desire to see their ilk return to power.” His expression darkened. “It was plague that brought them to the fore, long ago. Lady knows, I have no love for the Crone priests, but they are nothing compared to the Durim.” He leaned forward, looking past Astasia toward Rafe. “We must do something.”
Rafe frowned. “What would you have us do? We’ve only barely restored the Truce. The people of Dark Haven may suffer the Lord of Dark Haven to lead his guards against other mortals, but if we begin to strike the living, they’ll all turn against us.”
“Leave the Durim to Jonmarc and King Staden’s men,” Gabriel countered. “Our own kind needs our help. Riqua and I have been funneling supplies and funds to help the Ghost Carriage.” He met Uri’s dark eyes. “Kolin has led dozens of vayash moru and vyrkin out of Nargi and Trevath to safety in Dark Haven. As plague spreads, the need becomes more desperate. Even in those areas where the Durim have not yet gained power, as the mortals die with the plague, they fear and hate us because we’re untouched. And the burnings begin.”
A shadow seemed to pass over Uri’s face. For once, all bluster was gone. “Unlike Jonmarc, I did not get out of Nargi alive. I swore I would never return.”
“You’ve done business there, through intermediaries,” Gabriel replied. “Kolin needs money, horses, safe houses. He needs connections who have no love for either the Crone priests or the Durim.”
Uri gave a short, sharp laugh. “Honor among thieves, is that what you’re expecting?” His eyes darkened. “There are a few of my associates who have their own reasons to wish to see the Durim become nothing but a bad memory. The Crone priests are bad enough.
“To a point, fear is profitable. It keeps order. But when people are terrified, they stop spending money, stop hiring whores, stop betting their gold. Bad for business.” Uri touched the heavy gold bracelets that hung from his wrist. “I have names I can give Kolin, and I can change his skrivven to Nargi coin. But he should remember that my contacts have no love for me-or him-because he is vayash moru . They tolerate me because I make them a profit. They will help Kolin only so long as it protects their interests.”
“Thank you,” Gabriel said. “It’s gotten bad enough that even a dimonn ’s bargain looks good.”
Uri clapped his hands and gave a deep belly laugh. “Is that what you think of me? A dimonn ’s bargain. That’s rich. I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“I see no benefit in bringing more vayash moru into our territory,” Astasia said. She could be beautiful when she wished. Her looks and body had brought her wealth and position as a consort to rich old men, until one of her suitors brought her across to make her a more permanent possession. Like Uri, it was rumored that she had eventually destroyed her maker. Jonmarc looked at her pale blue eyes, and he did not doubt that she was capable of doing anything to preserve her interests.
“Will these newcomers respect the Council? Must we take them into our broods, knowing nothing about their makers? Will Old Ones arise to challenge us?” She crossed her arms across her bosom. “What’s in it for us? The mortals in Dark Haven tolerated us-before Malesh’s war-better than in many places. They put up with us because they know they still outnumber us. If they fear that we’re growing in strength, will they still observe the Truce? Maybe not-and maybe they’re right to doubt. There is, after all, only so much blood to go around.”
“Astasia is correct that as new vayash moru come to Dark Haven, the Council must be the ultimate law,” Gabriel said. Jonmarc noticed that Gabriel avoided looking at Astasia directly.
“It would be best if we could replenish our broods by accepting refugee vayash moru instead of turning mortals,” Riqua said. From her expression, Jonmarc guessed that it galled Riqua to agree with Astasia in any way. “Both methods have risks. Without broods of sufficient strength, we lack the strength to hold our seats on the Council. Turning mortals-given the situation-could lead to reprisals. But accepting strangers into our broods can be dangerous, even if we know their makers. Our power over our broods must be ruthless and absolute. Otherwise, some of these newcomers will see an opportunity to better their station at our expense.”
“Then you see my point.” Astasia’s voice was a cool purr.
“Much as it pains me, on this, we agree in principle even if our means may differ,” Riqua replied.
“With the Durim’s power growing, you’ll also need to keep a close eye on your broods,” Jonmarc said. “The Durim are opportunists. They’ll go after lone vayash moru who make an easy target. They’ve also been going after the mortal families of the vayash moru.”
“What do you propose?” Rafe asked. There was an edge to his voice.
Jonmarc kept his expression neutral. “Secure your day crypts. Alert your mortal family members and arm them so they can protect themselves. Your people are in danger if their families can be used against them. Don’t take unnecessary risks.”
Rafe leaned forward. “We’re predators. We don’t hide.” His eyeteeth showed plainly, something Jonmarc knew was intentional.
He met Rafe’s eyes. Jonmarc knew it disquieted Rafe that the vayash moru could not use his glamour or compulsion against Jonmarc’s natural resistance. “Until we defeat the Durim, you can hide or you can burn. It’s your choice.”
“That went well.” Jonmarc and Gabriel rode away from the meeting at Rafe’s villa toward Wolvenskorn, Gabriel’s manor.
Gabriel gave him a bemused look. “Oh?”
Jonmarc shrugged. “Any time I leave the Blood Council alive, it’s a good day.”
Gabriel chuckled. “You have an interesting way of looking at things.”
“Riqua is solidly on our side. We knew that going in. Rafe doesn’t like it, but he sees the logic. Uri’s actually scared. For once, I think he might do what he’s supposed to do. That leaves Astasia.”
“She’s a formidable enemy. And she hates you.”
“Coming from Astasia, that almost counts as a character reference.”
Gabriel gave him a wary smile. “Don’t underestimate her. She earned everything in life-and after death-by being ruthless. If she sees an opportunity in the current situation to advance her position, she’ll take it.”
Jonmarc glanced sideways at him. “Astasia is the Council’s problem. I’ve got my hands full with the Durim and the refugees.”
“I’ll make sure Kolin learns of the Council’s support when he gets back from Nargi,” Gabriel replied. He fell silent. Jonmarc glanced in his direction.
“What’s bothering you?”
Gabriel frowned. “I share Riqua’s sentiments about the point Astasia made. Gathering the vayash moru in Dark Haven may enable us to save our kind. In plagues past, retaliation from the mortals nearly wiped out the vayash moru in Trevath and Nargi. All of the kingdoms have had their day hunting us, some more recently than others.”
“On the other hand, gathering everyone in one place not only makes for more family squabbles, it gives your enemies a central place to strike, and a reason to rally the locals.”
“Exactly.”
“I don’t see many alternatives.” The night was cool and Jonmarc shivered despite his traveling cloak.
“Neither do I. But I’ve always believed there was a reason why the vayash moru are spread out across the kingdoms. Death changes everything and nothing. The Dark Gift gives us speed and strength and immunity to the things that killed us as mortals. Immortality provides perspective and time to reflect. On the other hand, greed, lust, and vengeance don’t require a heartbeat. Grievances nursed over centuries have a way of flaring into conflict. Dark Haven will be a tinderbox full of frightened mortals and threatened immortals. All it will take is a spark to set it ablaze.”
They reached Wolvenskorn, Gabriel’s manor, just before midnight. Wolvenskorn’s oldest sections were built back when the Winter Kingdoms were ruled by independent warlords, before the monarchies were established. Three levels of tall, sharply sloping peaks made of wood and stone thrust skyward. The oldest section was daub and wattle with a sod roof that sloped down to meet the forest soil. A tall, slim cupola ringed by carved monsters crowned the manor.
Grotesques and gargoyles watched from the peaks. Runes and sigils were carved into the doorposts and sills. Jonmarc doubted their function was decorative. Carved panels on the wooden sections of the building hinted at some of its history. Overlapping shingles covered the lowest portions. Although only one of the pillars was visible from the coachway, Jonmarc knew that thousand-year-old stone monoliths ringed Wolvenskorn, a remnant of ancient times. Though the makers of the stone pillars had died long ago, the enclosure still possessed powerful magic.
Jonmarc and Gabriel dismounted and handed over their reins to waiting groomsmen. Sior, one of the ranking vyrkin, was waiting for them. “You appear to be intact,” Sior noted with a raised eyebrow.
Jonmarc gave a lopsided grin. “The Blood Council was as charming as ever.”
“Is the ceremony on schedule?” Gabriel glanced toward the trail that led into the forest.
Sior nodded. “Vigulf and the others are heading to the grotto. You’re just in time.”
Sior took a torch from one of the sconces in front of the manor house and Jonmarc followed him down the forest path. Jonmarc was certain the torch was for his benefit, since neither Sior nor Gabriel needed the extra light. He guessed that although he could not see them, Gabriel’s vayash moru were patrolling the outskirts of the area to make certain that there would be no interruptions.
“How did the negotiations go?” Jonmarc asked Sior quietly.
Sior sighed. “It was predictably complicated. Some of the descendants of our older, most established packs feel threatened. But the numbers don’t lie. We lost three quarters of our males of breeding age in the war with Malesh. And we had barely enough females to replenish the pack and care for the pups before the war. When we lost more to the war, the pack became endangered. The elders can squabble over bloodlines all they like, but we must accept the newcomers or face extinction.”
“I’m less worried about the elders than the females,” Jonmarc observed dryly. “What did they have to say?”
Sior chuckled. “Spoken like a married man. What would you expect?”
“I’d expect them to be choosy and aloof, but when push comes to shove, they’ll do what’s right for their pups. My money is on the females.”
“You’d have made a good wolf,” Sior replied. “Our packs are extended families, each one headed by a top hunter. Unlike animal wolves, the male and female share the duty to protect the young. In human form, they’ll share the work of a farm or craft, just like mortals. And in some pairs, the female is the more deadly hunter.”
“That doesn’t surprise me at all.”
Sior gave him a grin. “I thought you’d understand. So the elders debated territory and power and bloodlines for several candlemarks, until the four top hunter-females had enough of it. Together, they have twelve pups, and half of those are females with no likely males for partners. Two of the females were widowed in the war, as were over half of our pack females.” He gave a grim laugh. “Kella, our top huntress, invoked the ancient right of females to choose their mates. She’d already rallied all the other females, including the mates of the elders.”
“So she handed them their balls on a plate.”
“An interesting image, but accurate. Kella and the widowed huntresses had already chosen from among the new males. They extracted a vow of vyrgild from the other single males.” He glanced at Jonmarc. “Are you familiar with the term?” Jonmarc shook his head. “It means blood oath. In exchange for acceptance into our extended pack, the new males forswear their right to challenge for a leadership role, on pain of death. Their children will be full pack members who can lead if they’re able, but it keeps the pack stable for now. It’s something the elders might have actually thought of themselves if they hadn’t been so busy marking their territory, figuratively speaking.”
They veered from the path through what seemed to Jonmarc to be unbroken forest. Even with the torch, it was difficult for Jonmarc to keep his footing as they moved through the dense brush. Sior and Gabriel did not seem to have any trouble, moving with the grace of a predator. They came to a cave opening that was partially obscured by vegetation. As they drew nearer, Jonmarc could see that the scrub plants had been arranged to appear as if they were blocking the opening, but, in fact, a narrow trail led behind them. Sior motioned for Gabriel and Jonmarc to follow him, and as they headed into the caverns, Jonmarc could hear singing in the clipped, tonal language that seemed to be the speech of wolves adapted to humans.
The cave path gradually widened and became a true corridor. Jonmarc glanced around as they walked down a torchlit hallway carved into the rock. Runes and paintings adorned the walls. Some appeared to have been placed for protection, while others seemed to tell the story of the Dark Haven vyrkin, or perhaps of all vyrkin in the Winter Kingdoms.
The corridor opened into a series of large chambers. These chambers had been decorated with carvings, paint, and embedded precious stones and metals. It was clear that they had entered a place of high ritual, and Jonmarc wondered whether or not these caves connected to the crypts below Wolvenskorn. A glance around the chamber revealed skulls-both human and wolflike-stacked or placed near every wall.
Vigulf, the vyrkin shaman, stood in the center of the largest chamber. He was a powerfully built, older man with a trim, gray beard and deep-set eyes. Tonight, he wore his shamanic robes, a richly woven cloak embroidered with symbols that seemed to change and move although always just beyond the ability to see them clearly. He carried a wooden staff set with the carved head of a wolf. The wolf’s mouth was open as if to strike, and its eyes were rubies.
Six couples stood hand in hand in the center of the room. They might be the couples who were about to wed, but to Jonmarc’s eye, they looked nervous. None of the brides or grooms appeared to be older than their midtwenties, and one couple looked to be in their late teens. Jonmarc recognized the women as belonging to the local families of vyrkin, but the betrothed young men were unfamiliar. He did recognize the faces of the few vyrkin males who stood alone around the edge of the room, and there was no mistaking the animosity in their mood.
“If you have unmarried men, why not marry within the local packs?” Jonmarc murmured to Sior.
Sior glanced over the crowd. “The single men who are left are all too closely related to the single females. Brothers, half-brothers, first cousins. The war forced us to do what would have become inevitable in a few years: seek out new blood. But whether we did it out of necessity or out of choice, some of the males would have resented the intrusion.”
That was an understatement, Jonmarc thought. Several of the men along the wall looked like they were spoiling for a fight. The only question, Jonmarc thought, was whether the brawl happened during or after the ceremony.
He’d wondered whether the vyrkin married in human form or in their wolf form. It appeared they at least planned to begin the ceremony on two legs. The women wore dark green robes. The men were bare-chested, with dark pants. All of the participants had bare feet. Each wore a chain with a single silver disk representing the full moon.
Vigulf stepped into the center of the chamber. “Welcome, honored pack,” he said, looking to the vyrkin who surrounded him. He looked toward the skulls along the wall. “Greetings, esteemed ancestors.” His gaze fell on Jonmarc and Gabriel. “And welcome, honored guests. Tonight we join more than the lives of the individuals who stand before us. We join together the present and the future, and from the loss of the past we weave the promise for tomorrow. Tonight, we strengthen the pack by your joining,” he said solemnly to the nervous young couples who stood in front of him.
Vigulf began to chant in the clipped, tonal language of the vyrkin . Although Jonmarc had no idea of the words, he guessed the meaning clearly enough. Vigulf was hallowing the space. But as Vigulf chanted, Jonmarc felt the air in the cave grow colder. Wraiths began to stream into the cavern from the passageways that led into darkness and to rise from the stacked skulls along the wall. Not quite solid but no mere illusion, the wraiths brushed past Jonmarc with a cold, moist feeling that made the hair on the back of his neck rise. He’d grown accustomed to ghosts after a year on the road with Tris Drayke, and Dark Haven had its share of resident and visible spirits. But these spirits felt different. Some of the spirits had the shape of men and women, while elsewhere ghost wolves glided through the assemblage. A few of the revenants had no real shape at all, and some manifested as a faint green glow.
The spirits apparently were expected. They moved among the crowd, gradually gathering around the betrothed couples. Whether the ghosts were direct ancestors or just spirits from the pack, Jonmarc had no way of knowing. When the ghosts were quiet, Vigulf stepped forward along with an assistant. He approached the first couple and removed a long rope tied with objects from the bag of ritual items his assistant carried. Jonmarc was close enough to see that the rope looked like felted fur or hair and that the objects knotted into it were bits of bone, tooth, and claw.
The first couple looked to be no older than their late teens. The girl had long, dark brown hair and a pretty, heart-shaped face. Her groom was a tall, thin young man with lank brown hair that fell into his face. He looked scared. There was something different about him, Jonmarc thought, whether it was his features or a slightly lighter hue to his complexion, but Jonmarc guessed that the young man was one of the pack outsiders Sior had mentioned. When Vigulf stepped toward the couple, one of the men who had been standing along the back of the chamber edged forward, making his way to the front of the crowd. One glance told Jonmarc that the man was closely related to the bride, a brother, most likely. He did not look pleased.
Vigulf withdrew a knife from his belt and took the first young woman’s hand, turning it face up. She flinched as he drew a thin cut down her palm. The cut beaded with blood. Vigulf lifted the woman’s palm and solemnly gave it to the young man who stood beside her. The groom murmured something in the vyrkin language and bent his head, licking the cut clean. Vigulf repeated the cutting ritual with the young man’s hand, and the woman did likewise. Then Vigulf took the rope and wrapped their hands together, raising and lowering his staff four times. The spirits began to stir, passing not just around the newly wed couple but ghosting through their bodies. Vigulf repeated the ritual with each of the couples until all six pairs had been joined.
The gathered vyrkin began to chant. While the chanting had a definite rhythm, it was unlike any human speech Jonmarc had heard. It seemed as if the entire assemblage was breathing as one, and although Jonmarc possessed no magic of his own, he could feel the power rising all around him.
A figure appeared from the depths of one of the corridors. Jonmarc was uncertain whether the figure was real or another spirit. It was taller than a man and wraith thin. It wore a mask over its head that looked like the head of a large, black wolf with eyes that glowed in the firelight. Its garment was made of many-hued wolf skins, some that looked recent and some that appeared quite old. The figure stopped just at the edge between light and darkness, and the room fell silent.
“I bless you, my children.” The voice that came from the figure sent a chill down Jonmarc’s back. Whatever-whoever-the thing was, the sound that came from its throat was not entirely human. The spirits glided across the cavern chamber to mass around the gaunt figure, and the vyrkin bowed deeply. Following suit, so did Gabriel and Jonmarc, although Jonmarc never took his eyes from the shadowed visitor. “Restore the pack. Replenish the blood. Remember our way.”
Jonmarc blinked and the figure vanished.
The figure’s sudden departure seemed to trigger something within the pack. Several of the vyrkin began to shift, changing into their wolf forms. But as the first couple turned around, a cry came from the crowd and the man Jonmarc guessed to be the bride’s brother launched himself at the groom, tackling the younger man and crashing to the ground.
Jonmarc started forward to break up the fight, but Gabriel caught his arm and gave a warning shake of the head. Vigulf stepped toward the two men who were struggling on the floor, and Jonmarc expected the shaman to intercede. Instead, he raised his staff and gave a deep-throated cry that sounded more wolf than human.
Like a blast of winter air, the spirits came rushing toward the struggling pair on the floor. They swarmed around the attacker, lifting him into the air although he was a muscular man. The spirits seemed to be entering the attacker’s body through his mouth, eyes, and ears, and from the silent scream that formed on the man’s face, it was obviously not a gentle possession.
Three of the vyrkin who were still in human form rushed forward to drag the injured groom away from his attacker. The bride stood transfixed, looking in horror between her wounded husband and the punishment her brother endured for the attack.
“What the Wolf Father has blessed, no one may challenge,” Vigulf warned. “Harm to one is harm to the pack. You must be made to remember.”
As abruptly as the spirits had seized the attacker, they now departed, streaming from his mouth. The man’s body twitched and his eyes were wide with terror. As the spirits rushed from him, he grew paler, finally collapsing on the ground. Sior tugged at Jonmarc’s sleeve as the rest of the assemblage began to file silently from the room, following the narrow pathway up to the forest.
No one spoke until they reached a clearing where a meal had been set out on large tables, which Jonmarc guessed had been brought from the manor house. That the menu consisted of nearly raw meat did not surprise him. To one side, Jonmarc saw a table by itself. It was set with a plate of food, a goblet, and a large hunk of bread. Dozens of candles glittered atop the table. There was no chair. “An offering to the ancestors, who are honored guests at the feast,” Sior murmured from just behind Jonmarc, following his gaze and guessing at his thoughts. Jonmarc followed Gabriel and Sior to places that had been set for them. Conversation resumed and the gathering regained a festive air, although Jonmarc did not see any of the newly married couples, nor was there a table set for them.
“What will happen to him?” Jonmarc asked Sior.
Sior frowned. “Eljan didn’t like his sister marrying someone outside of our pack. Vigulf tried to reason with him. What he did endangered the pack, because we need new members in order to survive.”
“Will Vigulf kill him?”
Sior met Jonmarc’s eyes. “No, we’re already too few. But he’ll be punished.”
Jonmarc remembered the terrified look on the man’s face and did not doubt that a repeat of the attack was unlikely. “And what about the newlyweds? Where are they?”
Sior’s expression softened to a knowing grin. “They’ll celebrate privately.”
The night was mostly spent before Jonmarc and Gabriel returned to Wolvenskorn. Torches blazed at the entrance and candles gleamed in the windows. Between the posturing of the Blood Council and the tension of the vyrkin weddings, Jonmarc was tired and ready to rest. He followed Gabriel into the manor and they walked into Gabriel’s well-appointed study. Books and scrolls filled shelves that went from floor to ceiling. The library was worth a fortune, and Jonmarc wagered that few kings could boast of so large a collection. Gabriel poured a brandy for Jonmarc and a goblet of goat’s blood for himself and motioned for Jonmarc to take a seat in one of the large leather chairs that sat in front of the now-darkened fireplace.
“So you expect Kolin back from Nargi… when?” Gabriel asked.
Jonmarc took a sip of the brandy and let it burn its way down his throat. “Depends on how thick the patrols are, and how many safe houses Kolin needs to use along the way. They don’t dare travel openly in Nargi, and it’s gotten to be more of a problem getting across Dhasson, Kolin says. From what I’ve heard, King Harrol tries to be neutral when it comes to the vayash moru, but all that really means is that he doesn’t organize purges. He also doesn’t go after the Durim or the occasional lords who do order a purge. But I would expect Kolin within a few weeks.”
Gabriel nodded, sampling the blood in his goblet. “I had hoped for a better showing from the Council tonight. Uri can actually be a help to Kolin and the Ghost Carriage. I think Rafe will support us as well. He plays the ascetic, but he’s a very wealthy man.”
“And Astasia?”
Gabriel’s expression hardened as he finished his drink. “This is a dangerous time for her to be playing games. Leave her to me.”