A quiet wind brushed all the clouds away. Under the clear sky cold crept in, chasing away the dregs of summer. The bitter stars reminded him of Liath, for she would have loved a night such as this, so clear and cold that the stars seemed twice as bright and a hundred times more numerous than usual. The three jewels, Diamond, Citrine, and Sapphire, burned overhead as the Queen drove the Guivre down into the western horizon. The River of Souls streamed across the zenith. Did Liath walk there now? Could she see him? But when he spoke her name softly onto the breeze, he heard no answer.
They kept their secrets well.
After a while the waning moon rose to wash the sky with silver light. He heard them before the sentries did: a muffled yip, softly signaling, and the brush of fur against dry leaves, perhaps a tail dragged along a bush. He jumped up to his feet just as Jerna unwound herself from Blessing’s sling and shot away into the air. With sword in hand, he followed the aery daimones’ form, a shimmering streak against the night sky, to the fort’s wall, which stood chest-high. Wracwulf greeted him briefly, alert enough to notice how Sanglant’s gaze ranged over the forest cover. The soldier, too, turned to survey the woodland.
Three wolves emerged from the undergrowth in that silence known only to wild things. The sentry hissed, but Sanglant laid a stilling hand on the soldier’s arm. A fourth wolf ghosted out of the trees a stone’s throw to the left. They came no closer, only watched. Their amber eyes gleamed in moonlight.
Wracwulf raised his spear. A bowstring creaked from farther down the wall, where Sibold stood watch.
“Don’t shoot!” cried Sanglant.
Shouts and the alarm broke out in camp. The wolves vanished into the trees. Sanglant spun and, drawing his sword, sprinted back to camp to find the soldiers risen in agitation, whispering like troubled bees. They had gathered near Blessing’s sling, but the commotion had not troubled her; she slept soundly.
“Your Highness!” Captain Fulk leveled his spear at a dark figure which stood next to the sleeping baby.
“Who’s this?” demanded Sanglant, really angry now, because fear always fueled anger.
The man stepped out of the shadows. His hair had the same silvery tone as the moonlight that bathed him in its soft light. “When I realized it was you, Prince Sanglant, I had to see the child.”
“Wolfhere!”