Chapter Twelve

A' bheairt sin nach fhaighear ach ceàrr,

‘s e forghidinn as fheàrr a dhèanamh rithe.

(The loom that be awry best be handled carefully.)

— Auld Scots Adage

The slamming of the chamber door yanked Tamlyn from deepest sleep.

Resting on her belly, she pushed up on her palms and blinked, trying to regain sense of mind. So restless within her dreams, her tossing and turning had caused the tunic, too big for her, to slide halfway down her arms and catch on the tips of her breast. The soft tartan covered her hips and legs, but she relished the coolness of the darkened room. Her flesh burned.

The vivid dream washed over her, nearly sucking her under. She yearned to close her eyes and go back there to the waterfall... back to him . Her body pulsed from the warrior's dark touch, as if she had actually lain with him. The images scared her. Terrified her . Her heart pounded out erratic rhythms of fear. Yet, was it truly alarm?

Then, she sensed him . The Kenning reached out and brushed against his mind.

"Good." Julian Challon stepped from the shadows by the fireplace. "You be awake."

Had he been watching her? Her fuzzy mind struggled to break free of the dream, but suddenly, Tamlyn understood the Dragon had slammed the door to break her slumber.

Since the thin tunic was half off her, maidenly modesty should have pushed her to clutch the woolen plaide to cover her body. Yet, some vague quality, a feeling almost feline, drove her instead to arch her spine and stretch, as a cat lazy from soaking up an afternoon of sunshine. Strange, she wanted Challon to gaze upon her body. To provoke his lust. Ancient instincts guided her, whispering there were ways to control a man that had naught to do with fighting him.

Tamlyn eyed the Dragon, judging his mood. After sunbreak, she had awoken to find he was not within the chambers. Evidence of his presence lingered with a pulsing vibrancy, almost with the twinkling of faerydust. His stimulating male scent clung to the pillows, bedding―on her skin.

Then, there were the dreams…dark dreams so acute, so achingly real her body throbbed with unfulfilled need. Images so intense, so sharp to the smallest detail, scents and sounds, that they now seemed memories of actual events.

Echoes of something long ago?

Steeling herself, she pushed out with The Kenning , trying to see into Julian Challon's mind. She wanted to know more of this complex man. Their eyes met and held, guarded. At first contact, a shiver skittered up her spine. Not an unpleasant sensation, just disturbing, more powerful a lifeforce than she had ever come across. Julian Challon was a man rare. Thrumming curiosity mixed with pagan heat in her blood.

It kept Tamlyn from backing down before this English Dragon.

???

Arching a brow, Julian suppressed a smile. Yea, his Cait Sidhe had assumed human form and sheathed her claws. For now. Her long supple spine was arched, presenting Julian with the tantalizing image of her barely covered by the forest green tunic. The thin material seemed dampened by sweat, to where it clung to the upper swell of her belly and hugged the curves of her full breasts.

And look his fill he did.

'Twas a vision which left Julian's mouth arid as the desert of the Holy Land. Instead of scurrying under the covers as if a shy maid, or tugging the tunic up, Tamlyn remained balanced on her palms, her rich gold hair spilling over one bare shoulder and down her back.

Before he found use of his tongue, the door pushed open and Tamlyn's maidservant entered. Several pages followed on her heels, toting pails of the heated water he'd commanded fetched. Tamlyn gathered the tartan to her chest, and curled her legs to sit on the side of her hip, whilst she watched the lads empty the buckets into the tub.

"I ordered you a bath," he informed her redundantly.

As this parade passed between them neither Tamlyn nor Julian spoke, but eye contact never broke.

Strolling to the table, Julian picked up a few hulled hazelnuts and popped them into his mouth, scarcely tasting the treat. The action was a cover for how she unsettled him. Should Tamlyn find her full power as a woman, he would be lost. So odd, each time he saw her, he found her more pleasing to his eyes, as if her beauty increased with familiarity.

Or was it her witch's spell coiling tighter about him?

His gaze stayed fixed upon her, as the servant went and held up a blanket, to allow Tamlyn to climb from the bed, unmolested by his stare. She slid out of the tunic. His tunic . Julian rested his hips against the table, crossing his booted legs at the ankles. His brows lifted in provocation, daring her to raise plaint to his presence since he displayed no inclination of quitting the chambers.

He witnessed strong emotions reflected in her eyes. She half-expected he would stay. Half wanted him to. Yet, this side of her nature asserting itself also troubled her. He saw the confusion.

Tamlyn asked in disdain, "Think you to stay, Lord Challon? 'Tis no' proper."

"Julian."

"Beg pardon?" The huge eyes batted, puzzled.

"I wouldst hear my name from your lips, Tamlyn." His expression had to be predatory. He could not help it. His arms crossed over his chest to emphasize his resolve. After speaking to the Culdee , he was determined to bring Tamlyn to a meeting of the minds. Howbeit, his spirits were suddenly buoyed from the coming battle of their wills. "And aye—I stay."

A blush flooded her cheeks as she wrapped the cloth about her form, leaving it loose enough to hang about her hips in the back. "Plan you to watch as well, Lord Dragon?"

"Julian," he corrected, one side of his mouth quirking with a wicked twitch. "Aye, again. "

He saw her swallow, flustered by the warring emotions within her. She wanted to play siren, yet the beautiful virgin was scared of him, scared of her own womanly power. Sucking in her courage, Tamlyn cross to the tub and unwrapped the wool. Holding it up, she gave pretense he was not there. The maidservant took the ends and held it chest high to create a curtain against his hungry eyes.

Stepping into the steaming water, she chose to sit with her back to him. He almost laughed aloud as Roselynne winked at Tamlyn, before folding the fabric and setting it on the bench. The gesture was one of encouragement. Hmm, he had an ally, it seems.

Roselynne brought the rag and pot of scented soap to her lady. "Shall I stay?"

"Aye," Tamlyn gasped, obviously wanting a buffer between them.

Julian growled in the same breath, "Nay." He raised two fingers and motioned toward the door in dismissal.

Roselynne looked from Julian to Tamlyn, her lady's defiant glare silently ordering her to remain. The woman smiled. With a mischievous twinkle in her brown eyes, the maid curtsied. "As you so wish, Lord Challon," and departed as ordered.

As the door closed, he heard Tamlyn mutter, "Traitor. What about my wish?" but 'twas spoken without rancor.

A flush crawled over her beautiful skin. Tamlyn leaned forward against her knees to shield her body.

The door jerked open again as Moffet rushed in. Encircling her arms around her knees, she pulled them tighter to her chest. The young man was used to entering Julian's quarters without knocking. He pulled up short when he spotted Tamlyn in the tub. Turning beet-red, he backed up a few paces.

"Beg pardon, my lord," his voiced cracked. "I came as ordered."

Julian grinned unrepentantly at Tamlyn, wondering who flustered more―Moffet or she?

"So you did, my young squire. The Lady Tamlyn be adequately concealed. Come, remove my mail." When the lad hesitated to go past the tub, Julian snapped playfully, "Moffet, the lady will be my wife anon. You need accustom yourself to her presence within my chambers."

Blushing, the squire jumped to follow Julian to the long bench. Mounting the three-legged stool, he unlaced the aiguillettes and released the buckles on the black mail.

Tamlyn allowed her long hair to fall forward as a screen. She need not have bothered. Too flustered, Moffet never dared take his eyes from his master. Just the opposite, Julian wore a grin, saying naught could veil her from him. Peeking through her hair, Tamlyn covertly watched as Moffet unbuckled and removed the padded arming jack.

Taking it with him, Moffet seized opportunity to escape. "I shall carry the mail to the sand barrel, my lord. If there be naught else?"

Julian absently waved permission.

Stretching his back, Julian ended the motion by pulling the tunic over his head and tossing it to the bench. He liked how Tamlyn stared at him, though she would be loathe to admit that she did. Her keen eyes roved over the lines of his broad shoulders, the honed warriors chest and waist, as he sauntered to the tub and picked up the pot of soap.

She tensed as he reached out to gather her long hair, the bottom half wet from dragging in the water. He carefully separated the locks to plait them. The way Tamlyn tilted her head he could tell she found the rhythmic pull of his fingers weaving the stands soothing.

Her voice was husky, "Are you planning to bathe, Lord Challon?"

He almost laughed aloud. She had tried to sound so casual, yet he saw her knees tremble. "An invitation, Tamlyn?" His hand stroked over the back of her head, savoring the sleek softness of the deep gold hair. "By lack of response I take the answer be nay. Pity, that. I have too much work this day―though you tempt me. Another time, mayhap? A promise for a rainy day? I merely thought to visit you, and removed my tunic so it would not get soaked. We need to speak of matters, and I thought this a quiet space to do so."

"A dragon playing lady's maid? Surely, 'tis forbad in Dragon's Creed?" She glanced over her shoulder at him.

His hand slid down her neck, then across her shoulder, the thumb tracing a harder trail. She shivered. Julian laughed, mimicking her accent, " Och , a dragon be a mystical beastie and may do as it wishes with none daring to gainsay."

"Assistance from a dragon might prove hazardous. They are no' kenned to be nimble creatures. "

His laughter increased, as did the depth of the bumps raised by his thumb's pad on her sensitive skin. "My lady, you have much to discover about dragons."

The gold eyes stared at him oddly, poignantly. A tear glittered at the corner of one.

"What troubles you, Tamlyn?"

She shrugged, still hugging her knees against her chest.

"Speak freely to me. We have much to learn about each other."

"When you laugh the sun broke through the clouds in your eyes. I think you do not laugh enough, Lord Challon," she answered softly, blinking away forming tears.

"I am a warrior, Tamlyn, and have known little else my whole life. 'Tis not cause for laughter. I want peace here. Mayhap—with encouragement—I shall find a reason." He ran the soapy rag over her back, creating foam.

Julian's blood thrummed when he saw the responsiveness of her soft flesh. Restraint , he cautioned himself. He moved the rag over her gently, wishing his hand were the cloth. "By royal decree, we be betrothed. As you likely know, a betrothal contract binds us in the eyes of the church, even more than marriage vows. We be man and wife in all but act and deed."

"My people permit our women to choose their own husbands, Lord Challon. I cannot be commanded to marry with a stranger."

He watched as she swallowed the emotions rising within her, that stubborn chin tilting in an effort to control them. At the set of her jaw, Julian knew her rebellious blood was coming to a quick boil over his declaring they were betrothed. Tamlyn was too spirited, too beautiful in her wild pagan ways to be broken, but he had to gain her acceptance hastily before Edward came northward and took a hand in matters.

"You say that as if I force this decision upon you. I have no choice, either. Edward decreed I must marry one of the daughters of the laird of Glen Shane." Julian pushed the point. "Would you rather I wed either of your sisters?" He waited for her reaction, smiled when her teeth bit down on her lower lip. Gad, she was stubborn! "I visited the kirk and spoke with Sir Priest."

He slid the soapy cloth over her square shoulder allowing the foam to slide over it and down to her breast. A frisson shook her as she slumped deeper in the water to prevent the suds from reaching her nipple.

"How...did you find Malcolm?"

"Malcolm?" Julian heard jealous tones tinge his voice. 'Twas surely a sign of broaching madness―being jealous of a man of the Cross. Aye, but this brand of priest had fathered seven sons.

"Malcolm Ogilvie, my uncle. My mother's brother."

Julian considered. "Then, why does he not rule Kinloch or Lochshane?"

"Morag and Catriona, my aunts, held those titles. Since neither bore daughters, Rowanne became lady at Lochshane and Kinloch passed to Raven. Titles and lands pass through distaff side of the Ogilvies of Glen Shane. In the Auld Celtic Church —priesthood be an inherited position, passing from father-to-son. Malcolm's line has always been the Culdee line. The kirk shall pass to his eldest son, Jamie."

He swirled the rag down her arm, allowing his knuckles to brush against the side of her breast. Her breath sucked in and held, but she did not challenge his advance. First step in gentling a horse was to allow it to become used to its master's touch, his scent. Julian employed this principle with Tamlyn, though she would likely hit him in the face with the wet rag if he told her that. He planned to use her physical responses to wear her resistance down.

He wanted to fling the cloth aside and allow his hands to slide over every inch of her golden skin. His eyes were drawn to the pale breasts bobbing just under the water. Their seductive sway raised a shiver to crawl up his neck and across his scalp.

Taking it slow with this pagan witch just might kill him.

Fighting the dizziness brought on by her scent, Julian exhaled. "The visit to a church full of pagan carvings was... ah ...enlightening."

Tamlyn's lilting laughter burst forth. " Och , shelia-na-gigs . Aye, 'twas surely that."

Julian thought back upon the carvings of females exposing their genitals, and shook his head, still having a hard time accepting it. "I fear I am unused to seeing pagan fertility symbols within a Christian church."

When the rag roved to the front of her shoulder—and oh so casually downward toward her breast—her hands locked on his wrist, preventing farther encroachment. "I can manage the rest, Lord Challon."

He leaned close, whispering against her ear, "Think hard upon all the delights you deny us."

When she did not relent, he dropped the cloth into the water with a plop, and moved to pour himself a goblet of wine. Leaning his hips back against the table, he sipped the drink and watched her. Tamlyn had no idea how deeply she provoked him. A more experienced woman would use those powers to try to bend him to her will.

Julian was not a patient man. Used to his word being obeyed, rarely had he ever turned his mind to compromise. Yet, he asked it of Tamlyn. For a bargain to be reached, peace made, it would take both of their efforts. Only, sexual tension was playing havoc with his logic.

He wanted her now.

This past year his life had been stagnant, guilt over Christian's death devouring his soul. For the first time since Wales, he was forward-looking, eager to begin his life here. Reawakening of his desires for a home and family were so strong that the need for self-control was almost painful. He had made mistakes with Tamlyn already. No more.

"Are you going to remain?" she asked.

Julian could tell Tamlyn waited for him to leave so she could get out of the tub. Suppressing a smile, he almost laughed at her dark glower. Tamlyn was not passing fond of patience either.

He smirked inside, and yet, kept his expression indifferent. "You shall prune and shrivel like an old woman if you stay in there much longer."

She reminded him of a wet cat ready to hiss. "If you would hand me that drying cloth?" She indicated the blanket of baize on the long bench.

Acting as if he saw it for the first time, he picked it up. "This?"

"Could you fetch it to me?" When he did not move, she snapped, " Amadán ."

Julian moved closer. Still out of reach. Holding it chest high, he let the large sheet unfold. Those amber eyes spoke her fury, but he liked baiting her. In that instant, he realized being with Tamlyn made him happy. The sensation was so foreign that he almost failed to recognize it .

"Hand it to me... please." It frayed the edge of her temper to tack on the please.

The right side of his mouth pulled into a sensual half smile. "A compromise, Tamlyn? I come half way—you come the rest of the distance."

He stood holding it, as she considered simply outwaiting him, her stubbornness biting at her. The chill of the room caused her to shiver. Spring might be upon them, even so it was unseasonably cool for this time of year. Giving up the pretense of modesty, she rose from the tub. Water sluiced off her skin. She did not shrink, but threw her shoulders back, proud of her body, and only now beginning to understand the power it could hold over a man.

Julian felt gut-punched.

His game of playful torment now came back on him, as she turned the tables, her sensual beauty nearly driving all reason from his mind. He wanted her. Badly. The pounding of his blood was near blinding. Even so, he knew this craving went much deeper than mere urges of the body. He needed her. Still, in some fey fashion, he sensed she might be his salvation from the darkness, which consumed his mind.

He would kill for this woman. He would die for her.

She stepped from the tub and took the three paces to the sheet of wool, allowing him to wrap it around her. He did, ending with her in his arms. He leaned close, letting her feel the heat off his skin, the scent of his male body. He was visibly aroused. No way that she could fail to notice. Instead of pulling back from maidenly fear, she arched into him, so close.

He wanted to reach out and claim what was his, take her in a hundred ways, but he dare not. She had to accept him. If she did not come to him freely, willingly of mind and heart, something in him would die. The blackness would claim him and there would be nothing left.

He feared becoming as Edward. Since the death of his beloved Queen Eleanor, that small spark of humanity she instilled in the king had turned to cold ash, leaving nothing but hard-bitten cruelty. Julian would rather die than continue life headed down that same path.

Tamlyn was the sun at dawnbreak. She held the craft to drive away the black miasma devouring his soul. This woman was the beacon by which he could try to find something better in life.

Their bodies close, almost brushing, he let the confusing jumble of sexual desire and emotions spill over him, warmed by the magical radiance she exuded. After feeling dead inside for the last year, all these violent extremes were agonizing, almost too much for him to bear. He closed his eyes against the sheer torment she wrought upon his senses, and let her witchery storm through him.

Oh, please accept me , his soul whispered.

Opening his eyes, he swallowed the dryness in his throat, the muscles so corded it was hard to speak. "You need to sit by the fire. You shiver."

Tamping down the ravenous desire, he helped her into the solar to sit on the bearskin throw before the fire. She watched him warily, as he added more peats, the blue flames spreading quickly.

"You have met my lord father." It was not a question, but a statement. "Before you..."

Her voice broke, unable to finish the question. An arrow that pierced Julian's heart. Pushing down the reaction, he concentrated on the chore of building the fire higher, and forced his thoughts to only that. The shadowy emptiness still raged within him, howling for her light, her warmth. He paused from adding the blocks of peat, and glanced at Tamlyn, staring at him with those luminous cat-eyes.

"Several seasons past." He answered slowly. One of those forgotten shards of memory, really, the significance of their meeting in London suddenly took on a new dimension. Only now did he see the true import. The Earl Hadrian had considered a match. The older two daughters were still married at that point. It could have only been Tamlyn her lord sire had held in mind. "He had spake I should come to the Highlands for a stay, that I would find peace here. Did you know that?"

Stunned, she said nothing. The implication of his reply was not lost on her.

He had delivered her father—a man she obviously held in great esteem—to the enemy. How could one overcome that obstacle? Feeling pressure, regret, Julian jumped up and searched for anything to do, to keep his emotions under control. He tried not to infer too much into The Shane asking him to visit him and his family. Only, there was no way around it. The conclusion was unavoidable .

Nausea rolled in his stomach at the irony.

Well, he had come, but not as the Earl Hadrian had hoped. How different life would have been. Julian swallowed the pang of anguish in his soul. Tamlyn and he would have met in fellowship, instead of the strife of war. Without doubt, he knew he would've been captivated by her and wanted to possess her. They might have a son by now.

Instead, he had followed Edward to Wales and Christian had died. He wanted to throw back his head and howl his madness.

His throat was parched, but he dare not drink more wine. His emotions were too unstable around her, too rattled by this new turn of the screw. He needed all his wits.

Concentrating on the immediate, he fetched a comb for her hair. Figuring his mind would best be occupied, he picked up his misericorde and the whetstone and carried them in as well.

She accepted the comb without word, and quietly began working tangles out of her hair. A safe distance away, he settled in the chair and pretended interest in sharpening the dagger, keeping at bay all these wild thoughts. The simple quiet moment, one which would chafe most men, yet was the precise thing missing from his life. They both seemed content in the amiable silence, leaving Julian to draw some small measure of hope from this shard of serenity.

???

The hand holding the comb dropped as Tamlyn stared at the dark lord. She tried to come to terms with what Challon just told her. Her father had sought him out and asked him to come to Glen Shane. So, the laird had been considering this man in marriage for one of his daughters? Since both of her sisters were still wed, there could only be one conclusion: her father had been contemplating a marriage for her to Challon. These tides only echoed what Auld Bessa had told her about Evelynour's vision.

Still, 'twas much to absorb. She loved her father dearly. He was a constant joy, and oh so handsome with his red hair and pale green eyes. All the females twittered and blushed in his presence. Fear over his fate ripped at her heart.

In spite of it all, Challon drew her so. Oh, much easier it would have been had he come seasons ago! Instead of arriving as friend, he came as conqueror, and delivered her lord father to the hateful English King.

She forced herself to speak. "My men...the ones in the oubliette..."

"They were never in the oubliette, Tamlyn," he said quietly.

"But you told me—"

"I prodded your mind. They are held under guard in west tower. They fare well." He regarded her with hooded eyes. "I am no ogre."

"Just a dragon?" She offered a faint smile. Questions nearly inundated her mind. Worse, it was hard to think clearly when around him. "Your brothers―you spake they are to marry with my sisters. Will they make good husbands for them?"

He nodded. "My brothers may be bastard born, but none dare say ill word to me. They are good men, ones I put above all others. I paid dearly for dispensation for the marriages. Guillaume be calm and steady. He should suit the Lady Lochshane methinks. Destain is reckless in spirit, and loves to laugh, but when needed, he be a rock. The Lady Kinloch is serene, sensible, a good balance for him. I owe my brothers much in life. They chose to follow me, never gainsaid or challenged me. You lady sisters could find no better men to accept as their husbands. They will honor and treat them well."

Tamlyn lowered her eyes to the comb in her hand, not seeing it, instead listening to what could not be heard. She loved her sisters and wanted their happiness ensured, wanted them protected from the ugliness of this world, and the wars made by man. The Kenning only whispered in tones of hope. She had to trust that inner voice. Accepting, she gave a small nod, more to herself than to Challon.

"You and I needs must seek resolve. You have a duty here to your people. They look to you for guidance. There comes a time when we choose for the whole, not for ourselves. Edward means to crush this rebellion, and the manner he wages war can be most foul." Closing his eyes, his face turned ashen, as he seemed to walk through the Hell of his memories. "Pray, God, Edward does not deliver unto Glen Shane what he did at Berwick. Tamlyn, you have no idea just how ugly that fate can be."

Tears welled in her eyes at his words. Aye, she did know. She was coming to understand this man, as she, too, had walked through his dreadful memories. The town of dying―it must be Berwick. What Challon had lived through .

That they shared this fey bond told her much.

Her mind summoned the images the beautiful lad who died in his arms. His younger brother . She choked on a sob, her heart mourning as she could see his horribly mangled body. No man so beautiful, so pure in spirit, should suffer such an end. No brother should have to face what Challon did to ease his passing. She shook with the crippling pain of that vision now forevermore burned into her mind, as strong as if she had been there, experienced it.

Challon surged from the chair, coming to his knees before her. The freshly sharpened dagger was in his hand. Obviously, he mistook her tears for his young brother as ones shed due to sorrow for her own situation.

"You don't get the way of things, do you? I will stand between Edward and Glen Shane. I will be your shield." He grabbed her hand and pushed the misericorde in it, wrapping his fingers around hers. Forcing her to hold it. "You want rid of me, Tamlyn? This be the weapon used to deliver the death stroke. Then do it! Here is your chance."

Tamlyn stared into Challon's eyes, drowning in his anguish, knowing she would sooner take the knife to herself than harm this man. That surety was staggering. So much had changed with his coming.

Her father's destiny hung in the balance. The betrothals of his daughters, decided by a man not even their King. The fact she felt things for this warrior, their dark bond, was still too much.

She needed time to adjust.

His voice was harsh, "Go ahead, Tamlyn. Use the knife! What stops you?"

Tamlyn could barely see through the tears as she tried to drop the weapon. He would not let her. His hand closed around her squeezing tightly. She felt his body vibrate with the raw emotions as he tugged her hand and the dagger toward his bare chest, pointing the tip at the spot where his heart beat.

"Do it!" he barked.

She gasped in shock. She saw into his pain, recognized some dark part of Challon almost hoped she would use the knife to end his torment. His soul rotted with a foul blackness for far too long. His thoughts were so clear. To show him these glimpses of a possible future— a home, a wife and a son—and then to snatch it away, was just too much for his heart to bear.

This man's sanity hung in the balance.

"Accept me or kill me. Here. Now."

Oddly, The Kenning suddenly flooded her mind with images. Some coming so fast she could scarcely understand what she was seeing. Ancient rites, high on the hill. A balefire burning in the ring of sacred stones. Maids dressed in thin baize, with chaplets of flowers adorning their long, flowing hair. Men in mail and plate, standing at attention. A golden cup. Words intoned, but she could not make them out.

She sucked in air, fighting to breathe, unable to control the flashes of foretellings, and the sheer agony that was a living creature within this warrior. "You do not care if you die." It was not a question, but a stating of what she knew from Challon's mind.

"If I cannot have some measure of peace, a home, a family..." The words lodged in his throat. For the longest time they remained frozen. His eyes beseeching, seeming to ask something of her. Something only she could grant. He finally pleaded, "Say it."

"My Lord...say what?" Tamlyn struggled to comprehend his words, too stunned by the depth of agony coiling within this man.

A man so mighty, a King's Champion. Yet, if The Kenning was to be believed, only she could wield the special ability: the power to heal him.

"My name," he replied in a hoarse whisper.

She reeled as more visions flashed through her mind—of the dark knight and the rose, the town of death and ravens, of his brother's passing. So many things. Too many things . The black void of his soul sucked at her, and she had to fight against the near paralyzing anguish tearing this man apart. Her body trembled, his agony now hers.

"Is that so much to ask?" he begged.

Tamlyn tried to form an answer. She could not. The tableaus of visions, raced through her thoughts: the waterfall, scenes she little understood of a ground turned white by petals from flowering apples trees, a stag-man outlined against a huge bonfire. All the ugliness of Berwick. She could not respond to his simple wish. And still, more scenes came, the emotions nearly drowning her. Of his young brother, so like Challon, of them laughing together. Challon kneeling over the crumpled body. Then, him raising his sword high and driving it into the chest of the young man—Christian—who was his mirror image, saving him from an agonizing, lingering death.

The howl of madness that seized Challon as the lifeforce departed the body on the ground.

"Baoth smuain." Foolish thought. Julian jumped to his feet. Standing motionless, he closed his eyes tightly, as if he struggled to gather the frayed threads of his sanity.

So shaken by all the painful glimpses into his soul, Tamlyn tried to cast off the lethargy. She became aware he had pulled on his tabard and was leaving the room.

Through the tears, she called out, "Julian!"

Too late. The door closed.