Laira sat back down and stretched out her feet. Eranor gazed at her wounds, clucked his tongue, and began ordering his son about. Jeid—Grizzly, that was—though large as a great warrior, rushed about at every command. He fetched a bowl of steaming water, a cloth, and several needles and brushes.

"Now get outside!" Eranor said to his son. "Go on. You know the rules. Somebody always stands on the watchtower and guards. Go!"

Grumbling under his breath, the shaggy man shuffled outside.

Eranor watched his son leave and sighed. "I remember when he was a bundle I could hold in one hand. Now look at the boy."

"He does look like a bear," Laira said, remembering the bear she had fought in the forest.

Smiling, Eranor got to work—washing Laira's feet, applying ointment, and stitching up the open wounds.

"I hope Grizzly didn't frighten you. My son tends to do that. I've seen saber-toothed cats flee at the sight of him. I urge him to cut his hair and beard, wear wool instead of fur, and start to look like a proper person, but he won't listen. Children rarely listen to their fathers."

"It's true," Laira whispered, thinking of her own father, a cruel king who had banished her. She wished she had a father like Eranor instead. "Thank you, Grandpapa."

A thought struck her, and she sucked in breath. But he's Zerra's father. A chill flooded her as the realization sank in. This kindly old man who was healing her . . . was father not only to Jeid, but also the cruel chieftain, the brute who had abused her for so many years. Would Eranor attack her now, tie her up, hand her over to the chieftain?

But the man only smiled up at her, seemingly unaware of her distress. "Good! Call me Grandpapa from now on. I like the sound of that." He moved to her ankles, applying more ointment to the cuts. "So, my dear, you are Vir Requis too? I saw you flying outside in the forest. I came back here as soon as I could. A beautiful golden dragon! Now there's a new color."

At the talk of dragons, her fear eased, and she was able to push Zerra to the back of her mind.

"Vir—what?" she asked. "Are you . . . a weredragon too?"

Eranor paused for an instant, and his eyes seemed to darken. Then he smiled again and resumed his work. "I do not like that word, my sweetness. It's a crude word, a word those who don't understand us use. We call this canyon Requiem, a name my son gave it. It was my granddaughter's name. We call ourselves Vir Requis—people of Requiem." He smiled. "And yes, I too am proud to count myself among our number."