Kevin Laine, eschewing both his seat at the high table as a guest of honor and the not-very-subtle invitation of the Lady Rheva, had decided to ignore protocol by opting for a masculine enclave partway down one of the two tables that ran along the hall. Seated between Matt Sören and Diarmuid’s big, broken-nosed lieutenant, Coll, he attempted to preserve a cheerful appearance, but the fact that no one had seen Paul Schafer since last night was building into a real source of anxiety. Jennifer, too: where the hell was she?

On the other hand, there were still many people filing into the room, and Jen, he had cause to remember, was seldom on time for anything, let alone early. Kevin drained his wine goblet for the third time and decided that he was becoming altogether too much of a worrier.

At which point Matt Sören asked, “Have you seen Jennifer?” and Kevin abruptly changed his mind.

“No,” he said. “I was at the Boar last night, and then seeing the barracks and the armory with Carde and Erron today. Why? Do you—?”

“She went riding with one of the ladies-in-waiting yesterday. Drance was with them.”

“He’s a good man,” Coll said reassuringly, from the other side.

“Well, has anyone seen them? Was she in her room last night?” Kevin asked.

Coll grinned. “That wouldn’t prove much, would it? A lot of us weren’t in our beds last night.” He laughed and clapped Kevin on the shoulder. “Cheer up!”

Kevin shook his head. Dave. Paul. Now Jen.

“Riding, you said?” He turned to Matt. “Has anyone checked the stables? Are the horses back?”

Sören looked at him. “No,” he said softly. “We haven’t—but I think I want to now. Come on!” He was already pushing his chair back.

They rose together and so were on their feet when the sudden babble of sound came from the east doorway, and the courtiers and ladies gathered there moved aside for the torches to reveal the enormous figure with a bloodstained body in his arms.

Everything stopped. In the silence Tegid moved slowly forward between the long tables to stand before Ailell.

“Look!” he cried, grief raw in his voice. “My lord King, here is one of the lios alfar, and see what they have done to him!”

The King was ashen. Trembling, he rose. “Na-Brendel?” he croaked. “Oh, Mörnir. Is he…?”

“No,” a faint, clear voice replied. “I am not dead, though I might yet wish to be. Let me stand to give my tidings.”

Gently, Tegid lowered the lios to stand on the mosaic-inlaid floor, and then, kneeling awkwardly, he offered his shoulder for support.

Brendel closed his eyes and drew a breath. And when he spoke again his voice, by some act of pure will, rang out strong and clear beneath the windows of Delevan.