“What happens if you do act contrary to the good of the line?” Amon asked. His father shook his head. “We don’t That’s the thing. We are physically incapable of doing so.”

This was more than surprising. Amon had always considered his family the least magical of any he knew. In fact, he’d always felt left out and rather colorless next to those that had it, like wizards, clan royalty, even the queens.

The Byrnes were dependable, steady, honest, hardworking, loyal—courageous to a fault. The kind of men and women you would want to have fighting beside you or covering your back or guarding the treasury. But magical?

Amon struggled to come up with something to say other than, Are you sure? Or, You’re not serious?

“You have magical powers, then?” he asked.

His father laughed, rubbing his chin as if embarrassed. “Well, it’s a subtle thing.”

“The queen—she knows about this?”

Byrne shook his head. “The queens do not. That’s the way Hanalea wanted it—she was more interested in preserving the Gray Wolf line than in supporting an individual queen.”

“Are you bound to the line, or to an individual queen?”

“I’m bound to the line, but in effect, each captain serves one queen, unless that queen somehow endangers the line. His father paused, then added, softly, “We don’t discuss that particular charge with our queens, either.”

“So…there may be times when we act contrary to the interests of our sovereign queen in order to serve the line?”

“Aye,” his father said, without apology. “Even if Marianna knew, I doubt she’d take it all that seriously. You know how she is about the temples and the faith. For her, it’s rather like believing in garden pixies.”

“So,” Amon said, looking for the point in this bit of history. “You’ll choose your successor when the time comes.”

“The next captain in line would serve Raisa. I’ve chosen you.”

Amon sat stunned, his thoughts swirling, a kaleidoscope of images and memories.

How had he ended up here, in this place, poised to assume the role that fate had handed him?

His father had tutored him in swordplay and horsemanship, but no more so than any other father. He’d spent long hours around the Guard barracks and stables at the castle, because his father was posted there, and he was interested in horses, and he loved to hear the talk of tactics and weaponry.

No one had ever said to him, Go to Oden’s Ford and learn to be a soldier. But he had. And no one had ever said to him, Join the Queen’s Guard. But he had. Serving in the Guard was a family tradition, though he had many aunts and uncles who had not.

But always, of course, at least one per generation had.