KANYTH WAITED IN the hall as Emeline quietly closed the door to his chamber.

“She’s gone back to sleep,” the nurse said. “She was a bit bewildered, and the screaming left her throat sore, but otherwise she seemed fine.”

He wanted to go in and see for himself. But the memory of how she had screamed after coming to and seeing him kept him in the hall.

“What of her hand,” he said, “and the mark?”

“It’s still there.” She stepped away from the door, and her voice grew softer. “It’s a confusing business to be sure, but so these things are. Once we were marked Althea, Lily and I were fine. Eventually we all fell in love with our husbands, and accepted being chosen as their mates. You know what Ru would say: trust in the Gods.”

She implied that Perrin would do the same as the other women. Ruadri must not have told his wife about Kanyth’s power, or the grim reality of being the Skaraven forge.

“The sight of me fills the lady with terror, no’ love.” He still heard her piteous screaming in his head, a sound that would haunt him forever. It made it easy to add, “I dinnae want her as wife.”

“Then I hope for both your sakes the old druid has a spell to unmark her. Let me know when he’s here.” Emeline smiled sadly before slipping back into the chamber.

Kanyth would have remained pacing before the chamber, but Flen would soon arrive. He wouldn’t let the old meddler lay a finger on Perrin until he explained in detail what he meant to do. The lady would not suffer another moment of fear or pain because of him.

“You look in need of whiskey,” Maddock said as Kanyth came down to the great hall, and beckoned to a passing maid. “Lass, bring a bottle of that malt from Skye that ever sweetly pickles my belly.”

Since awakening to immortality Kanyth had become immune to the effects of drink, but the whiskey would doubtless scour the bitterness of despair from his mouth. He joined the little laird at the table, and glanced over the map he’d unrolled.

“Your lands, my lord?”

“Aye, and McFarlan’s,” Maddock said as he removed some of his rings and set them in different places on the scroll, identifying them as he did. “My castle and his. Here the villages attacked. All lay on the borders between our lands, and share no kinship with either clan.”

Kanyth studied the various positions. “Which claims their loyalty?”

“Coin.” The laird made a lazy gesture. “The first two supplied wool and mutton to McFarlan. Colbokie here, burned yesterday, provided his milk and beef. Since we McAra raise our own, we did little trade with them.”

The distance between the two clan’s strongholds appeared split down the middle by the attacks. Yet the fact that all the villages that had been burned sold their goods to McFarlan suggested that as a common connection.

“Why should they move against your ally, and no’ you?”

“McFarlan claims greater holdings, but I’ve the larger clan as well as immortal allies.” Maddock rubbed his chin. “Something feels amiss here, but I dinnae see it.”

The maid arrived with the whiskey, and set it on the table before bobbing and hurrying off. The laird poured a measure for them both before he retrieved his rings and rolled up the map.

“Come and sit by the fire. You maynae feel the cold, but my bones do.”

As they sat and sipped the very fine malt Kanyth stared into the flames. Until Perrin had fully recovered he couldn’t risk taking her by water back to Dun Mor. Nor could he leave her here alone and defenseless. Even if the mad druids and their giants had targeted McFarlan instead of the McAra, that could change overnight.

“McFarlan’s stores shall see his clan through winter,” Maddock said, setting aside his goblet. “He’ll feel the loss once the planting and breeding season begins. Rebuilding those villages shall cost him dearly. I’ll wager he marries off his son to an heiress—if he can find one gone blind.”

Kanyth recalled something from the time they had gone riding across the midlands in search of Cadeyrn and the missing druidesses.

“How many midlanders fell to the plague this past harvest season?”

The laird thought for a moment. “I cannae say exact, but it took dozens of farms and villages to the south. I sent men to help bury the poor souls, and they toiled for weeks. Their fields remain unworked, for fear they’re yet tainted, or cursed by the Gods.” He gave him a narrow look. “You fathom something from that, Skaraven?”

Cadeyrn would have, in an instant. The war master’s owl spirit gave him the gift of strategy unmatched by any other Skaraven. Even so, Kanyth knew weapons of all manner, even those not created of iron but of want.

“To lay siege to a castle you first cut off their necessities, my lord. Grain from the south fell to the plague. Now the giants burn out the stockmen and their spredith to the west.”

Maddock nodded. “And McFarlan maynae have the stores I’d reckoned.”

One of the sentries approached them, and bowed before offering Maddock a small scroll. “’Tis from the tree-knowers, my lord.”

The laird took and unrolled it, and glanced at Kanyth. “Flen is delayed with the Sky Thatch. Likely that murderous acolyte of his. The wench serves a bone-conjurer so vile even thought of her makes me boak. He writes that he’ll come on the morrow.”

Kanyth drank down the rest of his whiskey. “May I remain the night, then, my lord? Mistress Thomas shouldnae be moved, and Lady Emeline will want some rest.”

“As you wish.” Maddock yawned. “Only keep her quiet after we retire, for my lady needs her sleep. Indeed, when we heard the lass scream before from the gallery, I thought she’d set herself afire.”