“The Tigre use drums to signal messages—just for fun things, a dance, an impromptu gathering,” Saetan replied absently. “The wolves became intrigued by it and developed a few particular howls of their own.”

The same series of yips and howls came again.

“Graysfang could have mentioned that,” Surreal grumbled. “What’s that one mean?”

“It means there’s a message that should be heeded.”

The wolf raised its voice again in a different song. Then another wolf joined in. And another. And another.

Listening, he started to cry—and laugh. There was only one reason the wolves raised their voices in quite that way.

Surreal gripped his arm. “Uncle Saetan, what is it?”

“It’s a song of celebration. Jaenelle has come back.”

5 / Kaeleer

It was early autumn, almost a year since he’d first come to Kaeleer.

Daemon carefully landed the small Coach in the meadow and stepped out. At the edge of the meadow, Ladvarian waited for him.

For weeks, he had raged and pleaded, begged and sworn. It hadn’t done any good. Draca had insisted that she didn’t know exactly where the kindred had hidden Jaenelle. She had also insisted that the healing was still very delicate and a strong presence—and difficult emotions—could easily interfere. Finally, exasperated, she had suggested that he make himself useful.

So he’d thrown himself into work. And every evening he had written a letter to Jaenelle, telling her about his day, pouring out his love. Two or three times a week, he went to the Keep and annoyed Draca.

Now, finally, the message had come. The kindred had done all they could. The healing wasn’t complete, but the rest would take time, and she should be in a warm human den now.

So he’d been told where to bring the Coach that would take Jaenelle back to the Hall.

He crossed the meadow, stopped a few feet in front of Ladvarian. The Sceltie looked too thin, but there was joy—and wariness—in the brown eyes.

“Ladvarian,” Daemon said quietly, respectfully.

*Daemon.* Ladvarian shifted uneasily. *Human males…Some human males pay too much attention to the outside.*

He understood the warning, heard the fear. And now he understood why they hadn’t let him come sooner—they’d been afraid he wouldn’t be able to stand what he saw. They were still afraid.

“It doesn’t matter, Ladvarian,” he said gently. “It doesn’t matter.”

The Sceltie studied him. *She is very fragile.*

“I know.” Draca had drummed that into him before she’d let him come.

*She sleeps a lot.*

He smiled dryly. “I’ve hardly slept at all.”

Satisfied, Ladvarian turned. *This way. Be careful. There are many guard webs.*

Looking around, he saw the tangled webs that could ensnare a person’s mind and draw him into peculiar dreams—or hideous nightmares.

He walked carefully.