But as she reconnected the severed ends of the blood vessels, Alex realized that the Kyn pathogen did more than mutate human beings; it preserved them under the worst possible circumstances. Kyn could live without oxygen, nourishment, or comfort for months, even years. No microorganism, bacteria, or virus could survive in their bloodstream; the pathogen killed everything foreign to the body. All it wanted was human blood, which passed undigested through the Kyn's drastically altered digestive systems and sustained it.

Vampirism for virtual immortality.

Alex couldn't follow a single procedure to repair Nottingham's neck wound; she had to lump together ten different and separate reconstructive surgeries. She was working with the barest, most basic supplies, which didn't help. But as she slowly progressed outward her work held, giving her more confidence. By the time she reached the neck muscles, she felt sure Nottingham had a fighting chance of recovery.

"Start the IV," she told Michael, "and keep your fingers crossed."

"I cannot start the IV if my fingers are crossed," he said, offering her a charming smile when she glared. "You did say to do whatever you told me to, no matter what it was."

"I can still kick you while I'm operating," she told him. "Remember that."

Michael removed the clamp on the IV tube, and blood fed down into Nottingham's arm. As Alex rejoined the neck muscles the interior repairs she had made began to seal over. She had work at top speed to suture the epidermis together before it, too, healed. Feeling a little dizzy, she stepped back to survey her patient.

"Holy shit," she breathed. "I think I did it."

A half-inch channel of new, pink skin enveloped the outer sutures and formed a ring around the outside of Nottingham's throat. At the same time he inhaled, his chest lifting as his lungs filled. Alex listened for any wheezing or whistling that would indicate blockage of the trachea, but his breathing sounds were normal.

She wouldn't break out the champagne just yet. "Okay, let's wake him up."

Michael put a hand on Nottingham's chest. "Ganelon of Florence. Lord Nottingham. It is over. Come back to us."

Nothing happened.

Michael called his name several times more, with the same disheartening results. "Sometimes Kyn retreat to the dreamlands and for reasons of their own never return. I do not think he is coming back, Alexandra."

"Bullshit. I didn't just spend three hours stitching him back together for nothing." She remembered what Skald had told her, and although the idea made her cringe inside, it explained why he wasn't responding to Michael. "Let me try. And don't get pissed off about this." She leaned over her patient. "Guy of Guisbourne, rise and shine."

Nottingham opened his eyes, blinked, and stared at her.

"What did you call him?" Michael asked, his anger flooding the room with the scent of burning roses.

"He's not the same Guy," Alex said. "The Guisbourne you all hate was his half brother. He took his place, had him locked up, and then ran him out of England. This Guy never fought in the jardin wars. He was hiding out in Italy. Skald told me the whole story."

"Before or after he shot you?" Michael's eyes, half amber now, pinned her with a glance. "Very well. Let him speak for himself."

"He can't." Alex faced her patient. "Your larynx was completely crushed, Guy. What little the sword left wasn't enough for me to rebuild. I'm sorry."

Nottingham put a hand to his throat, feeling the new skin, and then stared at the ceiling.

"What difference does that make?" Michael demanded.

"A lot. No larynx, no voice," Alex said flatly. "He'll never speak again."

Byrne woke near sunset and reached for Jayr, only to find himself alone in her bed. On her pillow lay a sketch of a stalk of heather entwined with a tansy flower. He rolled onto his back and looked at it for several minutes before he rose and dressed.

Beneath the flowers she had written his name and hers. Aedan and Jayr. She had also written another word. Evermore.

Byrne went up to the battlements to look out one last time at his lands. Although central Florida was nothing like his birthplace in the Scottish Highlands, the two shared a nameless, untamed quality about them that even the cement and steel of the modern era could not completely mask. He would miss the sweet smell of the orange blossoms in the air when the groves bloomed, and the quiet lapping of the lake's water against its pebbled banks.

Two riders drew his attention as they rode out to the practice field. From this distance they almost looked like twins. Then Byrne recognized one of the horses as Jayr's favorite mount and began to swear slowly and viciously.

Byrne did not have his lover's speed, but he reached the practice field just as the two completed their initial pass.

Amusement colored Jayr's voice as she called out to her opponent, "You do know that you are to strike me with your lance, my lord. Not use it to fan me."

The man removed his helm, and Byrne saw it was Locksley.

"'Strike you?" Rob echoed. "Do you mean give your a shoulder as tender a caress as you did mine?"

Their laughter stopped Byrne as nothing else might have. He had already humiliated her before the Kyn, stripping her of her rank and casting her out of his service. He had come to her bed without an invitation, and had exercised his dominance over her there. Now here she was practicing as if she still meant to ride against Nottingham tonight. Perhaps it was not what it seemed. Perhaps she had come simply to ride with a man she trusted and whom they both called friend.

Byrne stepped back behind the cover of a root-bound ficus tree to watch the next pass, and saw Jayr shift at the last possible moment, avoiding Locksley's lance as her own dipped sharply, catching him under the elbow and tilting up to unseat him. Locksley crashed to the ground, knocking off his helm in the process. His mount rode on, leaving Rob to drag himself up from the ground and slap at the dirt and grass covering him.

She could have beaten Nottingham, Byrne thought.

"Unfair," Locksley shouted, moving to retrieve his helm. He kicked the remnants of his wooden lance, which had snapped in half. "That nag has been trained to throw her rider at the sight of an uncertain lance."

"If that were true," Jayr called back, "she would have bucked you off back at the stables."

Locksley jerked upright, his laughter abruptly cut off. His hands became hooks at his throat, and Byrne saw them tear at a bright streak coiled there. Locksley's body soared straight up into the air and then dangled, twisting and kicking.

The copper noose around his neck tugged him ever higher into the rambling branches of the black oak.

Jayr wheeled her mount around and jumped the tilt barrier, hurtling toward Locksley with reckless speed.

Byrne saw a blur slice through the air. "Jayr! To the right!"

Jayr veered, but not in time. A gleaming lance rammed through her and knocked her backward over the horse's hindquarters. She landed directly under Locksley, pinned to the ground by the lance, the end of it gleaming as it bobbed.

Byrne ran until he reached her, and then dropped to his knees. The lance, made of copper, impaled her on the right side. Was she dead? Someone had surely killed her.

"My lord." Jayr looked up at him. She was not dead; she lived, she breathed. "Robin."

Byrne looked up. Locksley had been lynched with a copper-bound cable, and still writhed furiously as he tried to free himself. "I will cut him down." He put his arm across her abdomen and wrapped his other hand around the lance. "I must take this out of you first."

Fire exploded in Byrne's back, knocking him away from her. A small, hard boot drove into his ribs, flipping him over to roll down the incline. He grabbed handfuls of the grass to stop his fall and tried to rise, collapsing again when the blade in his back twisted. His chin scraped the ground as he saw them coming.

Saracens, led by Skald, advanced onto the field, their weapons drawn and their faces dark with killing rage. They surrounded Jayr in a loose circle as the seneschal went to stand beside her.

Skald looked down at her with an expression of pity. "My master is dead, and my men think you killed him."

Jayr answered him, her voice low and clear: "I did not do it."

"I know. I did. He would not let me claim my bloodright, you see. After I slay you and this fool hanging above us, I will finish your master. My younger brother, in fact." Skald cocked his head. "You can tell the men that I am the murderer, not you. Do you speak Italian, or Arabic?"

"Kill me." Jayr looked past the seneschal, and for an instant her eyes met Byrne's. "Blame me for all of it. Only spare my lord." She cried out as Skald leaned his weight against the lance, driving it deeper into her body. "Please."

"Aedan took everything that belonged to me in Scotland. I was born first, but because my mother was a villein and unmarried, the laird named him heir. When I went to him and told him I was his son, my father sent me away." Skald looked down at her. "I tried to kill my brother at Bannock, to regain my blood-right, but you spoiled that. I had to go away. I tried to forget. I went to Italy. The mac Byrnes died out and I thought…" He shook his head.

"My lord does not know you are his brother." Jayr gasped. "Tell him. He will welcome you in his house."

Skald laughed. "He would not wipe his boots on me."

He held out his hand, and one of the Saracens gave him another lance. "They will say it took two lances to kill you. You will become a legend among the seneschal." He lifted the weapon above his shoulder, aligning it with her heart.

Madness devoured pain as Byrne rose from the ground.

Jayr refused to close her eyes. Her time here had come to an end, and although she ached with the thought of dying now, she would not cower from it. She turned her face away from Skald, determined that the very last thing she would ever see would be of her choosing.

She chose to look upon Aedan mac Byrne, her lord and master, the one she loved above all others.