I'm sorry to keep secrets from you, Mena thought, but you'll see. You'll thank me later, and we really will find ways to be better, to do something with this rule of ours. Not that she thought it all through in reasoned terms, but Mena half believed that Elya could warm Corinn's heart. By the Giver, she needed that! Something had to melt that icy barrier she maintained between herself and the world. Mena had thought Grae could do it, but Corinn had rebuffed him and sent him away without explanation. Afraid, Mena thought. She's still afraid to love. It did not make much sense, but she could not help feeling that Elya, with time, would change that.

Aaden had dismounted, his stalking game seemingly forgotten. It looked, from a distance, that the two boys were performing an arm-waving drama, with an audience of one rapt creature. Without deciding to, Mena knew that sooner or later she would mention the eggs to Aaden-a slip of the tongue, perhaps, an inadvertent hint dropped in such a way that he, inquisitive as he was, would not let it go unchallenged. It would happen, and she would shrug and they would keep the secret for a time. Eventually Corinn would find out as well. She would purse her lips and ask sharp questions and fume about the dangers and then… well, then it would be fine. How wonderful it would be to have smaller versions of her flying above the island! What tales the people would tell then. A new age dawning, new creatures to announce it.

Mena was still some distance away from the trio. Glancing back, she saw that two of the Numrek had climbed onto the field and were following her. A tingling of unease climbed up her spine. She never liked having people at her back, especially not armed ones. That was nothing unusual. She brushed her fingers along the belt that snugged her tunic at the waist. Just a strip of leather. No weapon on it. That realization was another unnerving jolt, but just as quickly she brushed it away. Of course she was unarmed. She had made a point of putting down her sword when she returned to Acacia. It had been hard to do, but important because of that. Who wanted to live with a sword always in hand like another limb? Not she. She quickened her pace briefly, skipping ahead in a manner meant to keep her mirthful mood physically alive.

Elya-apparently at a signal from the prince-leaped into the air. Her wings rolled out and beat hard enough to keep her aloft a moment. Aaden lifted his bow, nocked an arrow, and drew. For a moment, it looked as if he planned to shoot her. But then he snapped around and loosed the arrow toward the sea. Elya snapped her wings down hard and bolted after it. A game of fetch, then. Watching them, Mena dropped back into a walk again.

She approached the boys from one side as four Numrek came down the stairs and approached them from the other side, and as two others closed the gap behind her. The guard in the front beckoned Aaden toward him with a hand. "Prince," he said, his Acacian thickly accented, "your mother wishes for you to come to her. Please come. I will escort you." He kept moving forward as he spoke, the others close behind him.

"Wait!" Mena called, but she was not sure why the word shot from her mouth. She was only twenty or so strides away. She had only to hurry forward and she could leave with them. Something was wrong. The guard had just done something Numrek never did. Her hand automatically went to where her sword hilt would have been. There was still no real reason to feel threatened by the prince's guards. And yet threatened was exactly what she did feel. She asked, "What are you doing? I will take them. Draw back and-"

"Please, Princess, the queen wants me to-"

That was as much as she heard. Two things happened at the same time. She realized it was that "please" that had sent her pulse racing. Numrek never were polite like that, even when serving the queen. Then a shout turned all their heads. Looking up into the heights of the stadium, a figure she recognized as Melio dashed up from one of the tunnels, armed and followed by a river of Marah, their swords unsheathed. They ran along the landing and hit the stairs at a tumbling run, leaping four and five at a time.

Mena grabbed for her sword again, and again clutched only the air. She looked back at her nephew, who was standing beside Devlyn, perplexed, his hands on his hips as if in grown-up disapproval of the Marah's strange urgency. Mena cried, "Aaden!"

He turned his head.

The chief Numrek turned back to the prince. He stepped toward him, grim faced but unhurried, a dagger slithering from his sleeve and into his hand. The motion was so muted, so in line with the matter-of-fact manner that the Numrek usually kept up around the prince, that Mena did not believe what her eyes told her. Casually, the Numrek reached down and drove the blade into Aaden's belly. He twisted it, studying the boy's face as he did, and then yanked the blade out and jabbed it into Devlyn's abdomen. The Numrek twisted the blade, then ripped it down. Devlyn's intestines tumbled onto the grass, the boy collapsing at almost the same instant.

Mena had started to run forward the moment she saw Aaden stabbed. Her strides ate up the remaining distance so that when she vaulted over Aaden and toward the Numrek she was in full sprint. The Numrek, surprised and still stooped forward with his dagger blade spilling Devlyn's insides, snapped his eyes up. The muscles in his back and shoulders and arms tensed, and had Mena been any slower, he would have caught her with an upswing of the dagger.

But such abrupt, complete Maeben fury drove her actions that she was a blur of deliberate motion. As she flew forward, she kicked her legs out to one side. She caught the Numrek's head to her chest, clamped her talons around it, and held tight as the momentum in her legs swung her around, horizontal to the ground. She felt two moments of resistance. First, the muscle of the Numrek's late reaction, and then the catch as the vertebrae in his neck reached the limit to which they could turn. They snapped.

His body was so heavy, legs planted so firmly, that Mena swung all the way around with the now dead head clutched to her chest. She let go and landed on her feet. She caught the dagger that was just then falling from the Numrek's suddenly limp grip. With her left arm she shoved him in the chest, needing to use all her force to make sure his body, with the wobbling head still attached, fell backward away from Aaden, who was now a knot on the ground, unconscious.

The others were upon her now, two with swords drawn, another swinging an ax before him, intent on killing her quickly. Mena moved faster than thought. She ducked beneath the hissing arc of the ax that was swept around by the first of them to reach her. She stooped under him and sliced the tendons at the back of his knee. The man fell roaring to one side, knocking one of his companions down and entangling another in his writhing agony. The few seconds this allowed was enough for her to scoop Aaden up with one arm, half dragging, half carrying him as she scrambled backward. He was warm and slick with blood, heavy and so very fragile at the same time. He said something, a moan or single word or a hope that Mena could not make out, but that was all.

The two Numrek shoved the wounded man away and came at her, their massive strides eating up the distance quicker than she fed it out. The one approaching from nearest the oncoming Marah said something to the others, but they stayed fixed on her. Mena changed the direction of her retreat to keep him in view as well. She did not look, but in the periphery of her vision she registered that Melio and the others were about to reach the field level. Near, but not near enough.

She feared she would have to put the boy down again to fight, but then something behind her caused the Numrek to slow. They hesitated, weapons raised defensively. Their eyes widened. One of them pointed, as if the others might not be seeing what he saw.