“Have a heart, boys—can’t you see I’m busy?” The slender figure that had been stooping over the fire turned to reveal a fair-haired woman whose delicate elfin features no longer held the smooth glow of youth.
Grince looked at her and the world seemed to whirl around him. For a moment he was a ten-year-old boy again, who had just been given the first true possessions of his life by the first person to be truly kind to him. “You!” he gasped. “Emmie! I never thought I’d see you again!”
The woman’s silvery brows drew together in puzzlement. “Do I know you?”
The thief was just opening his mouth to explain when it happened. There came a low whine from under the table, and a huge white dog emerged, yawning and stretching its great limbs. Memory struck Grince down like a sword. His throat clogged, and his vision swam as his eyes flooded helplessly with tears. The dog could have been the ghost of his own lost, beloved Warrior.
The crowded kitchen with all its heat and noise vanished from the thief’s perception. He and the white dog were the only creatures in the world. Grince couldn’t speak. His heart was foundering in a vast and swirling wave of mingled memory, sorrow, and joy. The dog, noticing a stranger who had plainly been accepted into Emmie’s pack, came ambling over to investigate, and thrust a cold nose into the thief’s hand, its tail sweeping back and forth. Grince ruffled the sharp-pricked, silken white ears and dropped to his knees, throwing his arms around the broad, shaggy neck as tears ran down his face.—Emmie looked down at the lad, trying to remember where she had seen him before. He wasn’t part of the Nightrunner community, and yet, and yet... The memory lurked teasingly at the edge of her mind, but as yet, she couldn’t bring it to light. She was sure the youth must be older than he looked—his short stature and ragged appearance were deceptive—yet he couldn’t be more than twenty, if that. And what was the mystery with Snowsilver? Clearly, the white dog held some tremendous significance for him. It was difficult to interrupt such an emotional scene, but after a moment’s hesitation, Emmie reached out gently and touched the stranger’s shoulder. “Are you all right?”
The lad started and looked up at her, and gradually his expression cleared and composed itself as though he was coming back from a far, far place. He sniffed hard and rubbed his face on his ragged sleeve. Then, to her astonishment and faint alarm, he scrambled to his feet and grabbed hold of her hand. “Emmie, don’t you remember me? It’s Grince—from Nexis. You gave me the puppies....”
“Grince . . . ?” As the memories came flooding back, his smudged, unshaven face resolved into the pinched, unhealthy features of the neglected, starveling child she had rescued from the squalid back streets of Nexis.—Grince’s expression changed to a sullen scowl and he turned away from her abruptly. “Never mind,” he muttered. “Forget it. Why should you remember me?”
“No! Wait! Grince, I do remember.” Though he resisted, Emmie grabbed his shoulder and pulled him firmly back to face her. Gently, she touched his face.
“Truly, I remember,” she told him softly. “You pulled a knife on me and told me to bog off, and ...”
“And you took me to see the white dog and her puppies,” the young man finished for her. “You were the first person who was ever kind to me.” His voice was thick with emotion. “All these years, I thought you were dead.” As she reached out to hug him, Emmie was suddenly aware that the burden of the past had been lightened, and one of the wounds of grief she had carried with her from those dreadful, tragic days had been healed at last. She tugged Grince’s hand. “Come back to my rooms with me. We have so much catching up to do—I want to hear everything. I can’t believe you managed to survive that terrible night. Come on—” She scooped up some pasties that were cooling on the table and folded them into a cloth. “This lot can make their own bloody supper for once.”
Zanna strode purposefully down the corridor, trailed by a pair of chattering young Nightrunner lasses bearing fresh linens, dust rags, and brooms. She was on her way to prepare the chambers for her guests, having volunteered to undertake the task herself in the hope that brisk activity might dull the scalding sense of shame she felt at Dulsina’s hostile welcome of the Mage.—It’s my fault, she thought for the hundredth time. I knew perfectly well the uncertain state of Dulsina’s mind since Dad was taken. I should have known better than to let her near Aurian . . . The rest of the thought was lost in the surge of dull and empty pain that accompanied any memory of Vannor—not only a loss, but a betrayal. I lost him before the Phaerie took him, she thought. After he was poisoned, he was never the same.
Zanna shook her head and pushed such sad thoughts to the back of her mind.—After all, she had so much to be thankful for—Tarnal and their two boys most of all. Valand and Martek, aged eight and six, were growing up to be fine, sturdy boys, and she was proud of them. Indeed, since Emmie and Yanis had no children and looked unlikely to have any now, the Nightrunner leader had named Valand his successor, and the lad, taking after his father no doubt, was already proving himself to be a natural seaman. In fact he had already been brought back twice from attempts to stow away on board the smuggler ships.—Feeling cheered by the thought of her family, Zanna hastened on her way. She had decided to put Aurian in the guest quarters near her own rooms, but as she passed the chambers that she shared with Tarnal, she was halted by the sound of raised and angry voices coming from within.
Zanna frowned. “You two girls start without me—go on, get busy, if you want to be finished by suppertime. I’ll follow you in a few minutes.” When they were safely gone, she stood for a moment outside the door, trying to get some idea of what was going on before she went bursting into the middle of it.
“. . . And I say we don’t want ’em and we don’t need ’em. They have no business here.”
“Gevan, Aurian and Anvar are our friends. They have every right to be here.”
Though Tarnal was trying hard to be patient, Zanna recognized from his clipped tones that his temper was fraying. She sighed. For her mild-tempered husband to be that exasperated, the two men must have been wrangling for some considerable time.
“Damn all Mages—they’re nothing but bad luck and trouble! Why couldn’t they stay gone, and leave the world to decent folk? She’s bad enough—last time she came it was bloody wolves and I don’t know what else—but have you seen that Anvar? He don’t look right—there’s something badly amiss with him, you mark my words. And what about that other one, that spook, all muffled up like that and never showing his face nor saying a word. Not to mention that other lowlife little blackguard they dragged along. There’s trouble there for somebody, you mark my words. You’d best make bloody sure the storerooms are locked up tight!”
“Gevan, that’s enough!” Finally, Tarnal had been goaded to anger. “Let me remind you that in Yanis’s absence I am in command here. Now you either accept that, or you go.”
Zanna caught her breath sharply. Yanis used this ploy often enough to put Gevan in his place—but it worked for him because he was Leynard’s son, and Gevan had first and foremost been Leynard’s man. Whether he would accept it from Tarnal . . .
“All right then, if that’s the way you want it. But mark my words, you’ll be sorry!” Wrenching the door open, Gevan strode out of the room, white-lipped with anger. Pushing Zanna roughly aside, he rushed away down the passage, and was gone. As Zanna entered the room, her husband was rubbing his forehead wearily. Rushing to his side, she put her arms around him. “Never mind,” she said. “Gevan’s just a loudmouthed, bad-tempered fool. He’ll never change.”
Tarnal grimaced. “You heard, then?”