Welstiel was perplexed. Rodek was not at court, and Bus-can was not seeing representatives even of his own house. It made no sense, but the Varanj guard welcomed him into the city just the same.

They entered the open cobblestone market area. It was quiet and still, with canvas tarps covering scores of booths and carts that would come alive at dawn with hawkers selling goods to the city's population.

"Do we find an inn?" Chane asked.

"No, we must see Buscan tonight. This cannot wait."

"He'll be in bed."

"Then we wake him. He will see me, in spite of our young guard's account."

They passed beyond the market and entered a district of inns and taverns where the night was not so quiet. Bargemen, prostitutes, and gamblers kept late hours. Welstiel caught Chane staring at a slender woman in a doorway. She smiled and held up a hand, rubbing fingers and thumb together to indicate that coin was needed for good company. Welstiel was thankful his companion had fed on the boy only last night.

By far, the most common inhabitants moving in the night streets were soldiers. Most were small patrols of Varanj, but there were occasional groups wearing the light yellow surcoats of the Antes. Prince Rodek had left a behind a visible contingent. No noble house was permitted active troops inside the walls of Keonsk, though as citizens they were not barred from partaking of the city's offerings. These men appeared armed and fully outfitted for duty, and it would not be the first time a grand prince had considered his own men an exception to the rule.

Welstiel rode directly toward the city center and the gates of the castle. A dozen Varanj soldiers in red surcoats guarded the courtyard's entryway, and more patrolled the ramparts and walls. He remained mounted, approaching at a leisurely pace. A grizzled and scarred man, perhaps as old as fifty, was cursing at two subordinates.

"You," Welstiel called. "Come here."

The old soldier paused midsentence and turned his head. He did not appear impressed by Welstiel's tone and approached slowly, thumping the butt of his spear with each step.

"Yes, sir?" he replied.

"I am here to see Baron Buscan-now. "

One of the younger subordinates snickered.

The old soldier answered politely. "I'm sorry, sir. The baron doesn't hold audiences at this hour."

Welstiel leaned forward in his saddle and pitched his voice low so that no one but the old soldier would hear him. "My name is Lord Welstiel Massing. My father was Lord Bryen Massing. Do you know that name?"

The man's eyes narrowed, and Welstiel heard his breath catch. He straightened himself with a curt nod.

"Announce me quietly," Welstiel said. "Our business is private."

The old soldier signaled his men to open the gatehouse portal. A few hesitated in surprise but obeyed him. He walked toward the entrance, and Welstiel and Chane rode in behind him.

"If you are known in this country," Chane whispered,

"why haven't we used that ploy all along? We could have traveled in better comfort."

"Quiet," Welstiel answered.

The front entrance was an enormous cedar door three times the height of a man. More portcullis than portal, it opened by cranking upward into the wall on heavy chains. When lowered, the door's bottom edge set into a shallow trough of stone. No one questioned the old guard as he led Welstiel and Chane inward through the gatehouse's tunnel to the courtyard beyond.

In Bela, this stronghold would not have measured up as a castle. It was originally built as a large military keep by whichever house's ancestors had first held this plot of land. It lacked the extensive spread of the Belaskian or even the Stravinan royal grounds, having never been expanded. Perhaps the houses feared it would become a more fortified location, should a grand prince try to keep the throne through force. Still, it was built of solid basalt and granite that had lasted through the centuries.

"Leave your horses here, sirs, and follow me."

They dismounted and tied up their mounts at a rail inside the keep wall. The old soldier led them on through the keep's small and unimpressive main door to the large entry hall. The place was chill and dark, and there was mud on the floor as they stepped in. The sparse rushes in the entryway had not been changed recently. Welstiel had spent too many years living in Droevinkan keeps with his father, and these walls felt distastefully familiar.

"Please wait here, sirs," the old soldier said. "The baron may still be up, but I will need to announce you."

"Of course," Welstiel replied.

He paced, staying clear of the walls and forcing down visions of his father in places such as this. He wanted the entire ordeal to be over. If not for Magiere's foolishness, he would never have been forced to come this far.

"Are you are all right?" Chane asked.

"I'm fine."

"I don't know what you're after in here," Chane said. "So I cannot play out this game for you."

Welstiel straightened. "Be ready to act when I do."

"In what sense?"

"I need to procure documents. Unfortunately, we cannot leave anyone alive who heard my name."

"Then why use the name at all?" Chane asked with some annoyance. "There must have been another way to secure an audience with Buscan."

"We do not have the time to search for him ourselves and kill every guard or servant along the way who sees us. No. We must be granted a private audience, accomplish what is needed, and then leave quietly."

Chane crossed his arms. "Is this Buscan an old friend of yours?"

"Hardly," Welstiel answered. "He has served the Antes for many years. By the time my father requested a specific fief, Buscan granted it, out of fear as much as anything else. Everyone was terrified of my father. " He paused. "Was your father feared?"

"Not by the nobles," Chane answered. "Most of those in Belaski found him charming."

The old soldier trotted back down the hall, lantern in hand, and gestured to them. "This way, sirs."

Wynn stayed close to the campfire that night as Leesil and Magiere crawled into the wagon's bed to sleep. Magiere insisted there was room for all, which was true enough, but Wynn preferred privacy for herself and for them. She assured Magiere that she would be fine by the fire with Chap beside her. Leesil and Magiere whispered to each other for a while. Wynn neither wanted nor was able to hear what they said, and shortly they settled quietly to sleep.

Wynn worked a little longer on her account of the Mondyalitko. It was distracting and less disquieting than her notes concerning Magiere. When she looked up from her work, Chap had crawled close, lying with his head on his paws. She closed up the journal, binding the parchments into their leather cover, and scooted next to him across her blanket spread upon the ground.

His crystalline eyes were full of sorrow.

"I wish you would tell me what is wrong," she whispered.

Chap blinked once but offered nothing more. His long fur was becoming matted, and she would need to brush him come morning. Wynn reached into her pack, pulling out a piece of smoked mutton she had saved from the last breakfast at Lord Stefan's manor.

"I do not care for meat," Wynn said. "I was saving this for your breakfast, but you might like it now."

Chap raised his head with a grunt, and she tore pieces for him to chew upon. When the snack was gone, he laid his head back on his paws. Whatever troubled him could not be fixed with a tasty morsel.

"I saw you in the forest before you healed my sight," Wynn said. "You were part of both worlds at the same time, your kin's and ours. I do not understand what you did to take this form, but it cannot be easy to be trapped between worlds all alone."

She gathered his head in her arms. He resisted at first, then shoved his entire face into her stomach.