Hugh opened his eyes and saw a familiar ceiling. The tech was up. Everything hurt. Daylight streamed into the room through the east window. It was morning.

Lamar’s slow measured voice floated to him.

“For this reason the best possible fortress is—not to be hated by the people, because, although you may hold the fortresses, yet they will not save you if the people hate you, for there will never be wanting foreigners to assist a people who have taken arms against you…”

“Why are you reading him this boring shit?” Bale asked.

“Unlike your half-blood prince, this is a classic.”

“Half-Blood Prince is a great book.”

“Of course it is. What could be better than stories of clueless teenagers sent off to… Bale, what is that?”

“What, this?”

Lamar’s voice took on a sharp edge. “Is that a wand?”

“It’s a stick.”

“Are you pointing a wand at me?”

“Who, me?”

“Bale, if any Latin comes out of your mouth, it better be a litany of the saints, because I will end you.”

Hugh made his mouth move. His voice came out hoarse. “Bale’s right. It’s too early in the day for Machiavelli.”

Bale charged the bed and gripped him in a bear hug. Hugh’s bones groaned.

The berserker let go, punched the air, shoveled himself halfway out of the window, and bellowed, “He’s awake!”

Lamar heaved a long sigh and took his glasses off. “Brace yourself. The parade is coming.”

It started with Stoyan, who came running down the hallway. Unfortunately, Cedric beat him by about ten feet. The huge hound jumped on the bed, squealing, whimpering and licking his face. Hugh had barely fought him off when Elara’s people flooded the bedroom. Dugas came in at the head of a procession of apprentices and they walked around the bedroom chanting and waving bunches of wet flowers and herbs.

“Congratulations on surviving,” Dugas told him.

“Thanks.”

Felix’s orphaned scouts were next, followed by the stable girl – he still didn’t remember her name. She gave him a detailed report on Bucky, who seemed to be depressed and apparently, Hugh needed to get down to the stables as soon as he could.

Then came the Iron Dogs and the villagers. His head was swimming and he had a hard time keeping faces straight. Somewhere in there, Savannah showed up, peered into his eyes, squinted at him, and shrugged. “No worse for wear.”

Johanna came in, hugged him, and walked out.

Bakers, archers, smiths, druids, medical staff, bulldozer crew, they came on and on, until he was sure he would pass out from the noise alone. He smiled and made the right noises, while his mind sorted through the fragments of his memories. Nez’s camp, Elara carrying him within her body that faded in and out of existence, sliding beyond the three-dimensional reality of their space, the undead and Masters of the Dead dying as they tried to reach for her, the dark trunks of the trees, the icy presence of her magic, spinning out of control in his soul, threatening to devour… He remembered the walls of Baile and then his recollection stopped, sharp as if cut by a knife.

Finally, Lamar had had enough. He and Stoyan kicked everyone out and shut the doors.

“What happened to the remaining mrogs?” Hugh asked.

“Both the mrogs and the soldiers died with the first tech shift,” Stoyan reported. “Mrogs died first. The humans lasted almost twenty-four hours, but eventually died as well. Elara’s people are dissecting them.”

“Nez?”

“Withdrew,” Lamar said. “He evacuated the night Elara brought you back. What the hell happened?”

“I saw Roland,” Hugh said. “We talked.”

The two centurions went silent. He saw alarm on their faces.

“I burned the bridge,” he said. “We’re on our own.”

The relief in their eyes was so clear, it stabbed at him.

“So this is home?” Stoyan asked.

“It is.”

“Good.” Stoyan smiled. “It’s good to have you back, Preceptor.”

Hugh nodded. “It’s good to be back.”

Stoyan walked out, closing the door behind him. It was only Hugh and Lamar now. Hugh beckoned and Lamar moved to the bed, sitting only a few inches away.

“Did you see what she is?” Hugh asked quietly.

“No,” Lamar said. “They made us go in before she turned. They sacrificed the cows. I think she might have fed off of them, but I’m not sure.”

“I saw her,” Hugh said.

“What is she?”

He struggled for the words to describe the ancient power and chaos existing in more dimensions than a human mind could comprehend and couldn’t find any.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Find out, Lamar. If she turns on us, I need to know how I can kill her.”

The centurion nodded and left the room.

Hugh sat alone. Elara… The Ice Harpy. The Queen of the Castle. And something else, something that set off every primitive fear that lived deep inside.

His mind juxtaposed that Elara and the woman gasping with pleasure as he thrust into her. She was the scariest thing he had ever seen, but he’d slept with her, and he’d liked it, and he had wanted her to stay. It was good, and he knew it could be better. The Iron Dogs used to play a stupid game by the campfire, Marry, Fuck, Kill. They were already married, and he had no idea which of the other two he needed to pick.

They were married.

Fuck.

He remembered her words. “They are my people and I love them. They’ve proved their loyalty beyond anything I had a right to ask. There is no limit to how low I will sink to keep them safe.”

He had thought it was a figure of speech. Now he knew better. He had to make sure his people never became a threat. What would constitute a threat to her? Would he have to stop her from human sacrifice? Where would he draw that line? It might be wiser to take his people out now, before it came to that. He wasn’t sure a blood sword would work. A sword he shouldn’t have been able to make. How the hell was the blood power still working? Why?

She came for him. She threw caution to the wind, displayed her power, and came to get him away from Nez. She faced Roland for him and would’ve fought him.

Hugh never expected it. She should’ve left him to rot, yet she pulled him out of there and somehow dragged him to the castle. Nobody, in his entire life, would’ve done it for him, except for his Iron Dogs.

He wished the world would make sense.

The door swung open, and Elara walked into the room. Her hair fell on her shoulders in a long white wave. Her dress, a pale green, the color of young leaves, hugged her, cradling her breasts, tracing her waist, and skimming the curve of her hips.

He looked into her eyes. They were laughing, but behind the humor, he saw something else, a cautious wariness.

He finally noticed she was carrying something wrapped in towels. She set the object on his night table and looked at him.

He looked back at her.

“I hate you,” she told him.

Testing the waters. “Hardly a surprise,” he told her.

“If you ever pull a demented stunt like that again, I will make your life a living hell.”

He bared his teeth at her. “You already do, darling.”

He got the message loud and clear. She wanted to pretend that nothing happened. They were back to normal, sniping at each other every chance they got and stopping just short of drawing blood.

“Do you think the mrogs will be back?”

“Unlikely,” he said. “They went all out, and we kicked their ass. We offer too little reward for too great an effort. Most likely whoever commands them will move on, but if not, we will be ready.”

“Leonard has a theory about the elder being behind it.”

The Pictish scholar. Right. “He does?”

“When you’re better, I’ll send him up. It’s a bit out there, but it makes sense in an odd way.”

She turned around.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“To the greenhouses. Our herbs keep dying. We have to figure out why.”

“Elara,” he called.

She turned around, walked up to the bed, and leaned over him, one knee on the covers. “You’re my husband, Hugh. We no longer walk alone. We are each other’s shelter in a storm. As long as you want to stay here, you’ll have a home. I’ll never abandon you.”

She leaned forward. Her lips brushed his and she kissed him. He tasted her, fresh and sweet, a hint of honey on her tongue. He got hard.

She let him go and walked away, closing the door behind her, like a phantom, there one moment, gone the next.

He stared at the door, tried to sort out what the hell just happened, and failed.

He didn’t want to let her go.

Fuck.

He reached for the towels and pulled them off. A plate waited for him, covered with a glass cover, fogged up from the inside. He took it off. Stacks of warm crepes waited for him, drizzled with caramel and honey.

The Preceptor of the Iron Dogs laughed and reached for his fork.

THE END