It was understatement, of course. As for her father, he looked but a shadow of his former self. Stripped of glamour, his face seemed a worn mockery of the handsome figure he had cut. Shorn of his brawn, he slumped wearily in his saddle. Without wit, Lord Sylvarresta gaped about stupidly, enamored of the cattle.

“Princess Iome?” Groverman asked, as if unconvinced.

“Yes.”

Groverman stepped forward, took her hand, and unashamedly sniffed it.

Groverman was an odd man. Some might have called him a Wolf Lord, for he’d taken endowments from dogs, but unlike men who took such endowments only to satisfy a rapacious hunger for power, Groverman had once argued with Iome’s father long into the night, suggesting that it was more morally correct to take endowments from animals than from men. “Which is more benevolent, to garner fifty endowments of scent from a man, or to take one endowment of scent from a tracking dog?”

So Duke Groverman had several endowments from dogs, yet he was a kind leader, well-liked by his people.

He had a narrow face, and dark-blue, close-set eyes. He looked nothing like King Sylvarresta. No one who saw them together would have ventured that the Duke hailed from the same family.

Satisfied with her scent, the Duke kissed her ring. “Welcome, welcome to my home.” With a wave of his hand, Duke Groverman bid Iome dismount, come into the courtyard.

“We have urgent matters to discuss,” Gaborn said, as if to get to the point. He was in such a hurry to get back to his father, he did not even want to dismount.

“Assuredly,” Groverman said, still waving Iome toward his palace.

“We are in a hurry,” Iome said. Almost, she wanted to shout at Groverman that she had no time for formalities, that he needed to call his warriors, send them to battle.

Iome suspected Groverman would resist her will, would try to dissuade her or placate her with lesser offers of aid. She did not want to listen to his caviling and his dodges.

“We must speak immediately,” Gaborn said.

The Duke caught Gaborn’s tone, glanced up with a hurt look. “Milady, does Prince Orden speak for you and the King?”

“Yes, he does,” Iome said. “He’s my friend, and our ally.”

“What would you have of me?” Groverman asked. “You have only to name it.” His tone was so submissive, his manner so meek, that, almost, Iome thought he feigned it. Yet when she looked into the Duke’s eyes, she saw only submission.

Iome came to the point, “Longmot will soon be under attack. King Orden is there, with Dreis and others. How dare you refuse him aid!”