“She is a Protector of the Throne.”

“I don’t want to hear that anymore, Aidan!”

Since they’d still been whispering all during their conversation, the strong knock at the door had all four of them screaming in panic.

The door opened and Keita stepped in. She’d also had a bath and was now sheathed in a soft red robe.

“Everything all right?” she asked, gazing at them.

Brannie cleared her throat. “Yes. Of course. You just . . . uh . . . startled us.”

“Don’t worry. I wouldn’t expect any more of the Zealots anytime soon. Last I heard, their attack squadrons were heading north.”

“Great,” Brannie muttered.

“So, tomorrow . . .”

“Yes. We were just discussing that.”

“We’ll be heading to the Port Cities. See if we can pick up Ren’s tracks. If we’re lucky, he’s already caught a boat back to the Eastlands.”

“I don’t understand, Keita. I know Ren’s skills. Why wouldn’t he just open a doorway and . . . you know . . . go home?”

“Unless you’re at my mother’s or Brigida’s level of skill, the Zealot priests can disrupt open doorways. Snatch witches right out of them. If Ren had tried, he’d have definitely been caught. We tried to get him to my mother, but we had to separate when we ran into a few . . . legions. I haven’t seen him since.”

“I’m sure he’s fine, Keita.”

“I hope so,” she said softly, her expression—for once—sad. But just as quickly she went back to the old Keita. “Anyway, we head out tomorrow morning?”

“We’ll be ready.”

“Excellent! See you all in the morning then.” She smiled and waved before walking out, closing the door behind her.

Once Aidan heard another door close somewhere in the castle, he went back to whispering. “If we’re going to survive this, we’re all going to have to calm down!”

“You calm down!” Brannie snapped back in a desperate whisper. “She likes you! I’m just the cousin with the high moral ground!”

“Aye, Branwen,” Uther muttered. “I do not envy you that.”

Brannie spun, one finger pointed in Uther’s poor face. “Is this you helping?”

“Oh, no,” Uther answered honestly. “Not at all.”

* * *

The next morning, Brannie rose before the two suns. She put on her chain mail and boots and went down the stairs and outside to the guards’ quarters. There she found only a few, very battered old weapons—not much better than the ones they’d taken off the dead guards—but an ample supply of surcoats. Some that might actually fit the Mì-runach, big bastards that they were.

She slipped one of the surcoats on over her head and wrapped a belt around her waist. The guard’s weak sword and dagger hung from it. Better than nothing she supposed, but she’d give anything for a real weapon. Perhaps they could find a solid blacksmith along the way. Even weapons made only for humans that never changed their size would be better than these.