Casimir looked down at his bark, toying with the scraps, making strange words and phrases out of them in a language he could not speak. "It makes me think of Lena. She didn't want to work at the Lioness anymore. She used to talk to Selene about it when she didn't think I could hear."

Ammas stared at his apprentice. "Is that what you think I'd be doing to her?"

Casimir shrugged, not looking up from the bark.

"Casimir, I am not Madame Laurette, and I wouldn't -- "

"Then tell her," Casimir exclaimed, looking up, his eyes wide and glittering. "Tell her what you're doing and let her tell you yes or no. Please, Ammas. Don't -- don't trick her. Please?"

For a moment Ammas felt the strangest sense of doubling, not unlike the sensation that had rushed through him when he first met Carala and was so strongly reminded of her mother. But now he saw Casimir and heard Othma Sulivar, urging him to tame Carala-the-wolf, something that could almost surely not be done in an open way. The oldest surviving cursewright he knew, and the only living apprentice of any sort he was aware of, each telling him to do exactly the opposite of the other. However much Casimir had liked Othma, however he had cherished the gift of the skymetal blade, it hadn't been enough to alter his essential nature: the boy had loved Lena and maybe was coming to love Carala, and hated to see either of them deceived or otherwise misused. Had it been otherwise, Ammas reflected, Casimir might never have used the stilling charm to such great effect that night in the catacombs. Slowly he reached across the table and squeezed Casimir's hand.

"I will do as you ask," Ammas said quietly. Casimir sighed with such relief his shoulders slumped. "It can't be tonight. The wolf is too close. But before she changes again, I will make it clear what I might offer her. All right?"

"All right, Ammas."

He let go the boy's hand and began sifting through the carved totems he had fashioned. To Ammas's surprise a large number of them were perfectly usable -- they only needed about twenty-four hours' worth of strength, after all -- and so they set out for the Heptarch's hunting preserve at once.

For much of the afternoon they ranged up and down its edge, tossing the charms into the branches, stuffing them into knotholes, draping them within the forks of trees which had split. Casimir wore a braided device around one wrist which dulled the effects of the charms; on his belt were three more, one each for Vos, Denisius, and Barthim. Ammas, of course, was entirely unaffected by them.

"You really can do some astonishing things with the Therkostic tongue once you know how to speak it," Ammas informed Casimir, who seemed much more his open and curious self now. "I've heard tales of cursewrights stopping hearts with terror, but I'm not sure that's actually possible."

"These won't stop anyone's heart, will they?" Casimir asked, though he looked more curious about such a prospect than frightened of it. Ammas laughed and shook his head.

The sun had begun to wester, filling these autumn-tinged trees with a fading light that sent an atavistic shudder up Ammas's back: the moon would be rising quite soon. Catching his apprentice's eye, he led him back toward the watchtower, where he frowned to see a cloud of dust as one raised by a horse-drawn cart approaching the tower's clearing. That turned out to be exactly the case: Denisius was mounted on a sturdy chestnut courser, while Vos was driving a cart pulled by a pair of roans. Carala was in the seat beside him, while Barthim was sprawled in the cart itself.

"I don't suppose there's an explanation for this?" Ammas said as Denisius helped Carala dismount from the cart.

"Ask him." Vos thrust a thumb over one shoulder.

Barthim grinned at Ammas, unabashed. "I do not ride horseflesh, Ammas. I thought you were knowing this."

"Barthim," Ammas said through gritted teeth. "I might need you to move at speed, if anything happens with Swiftfoot tonight."

"And so I will. Do not be fretting about that, or about the cost." If Barthim were at all moved by Ammas's irritation, he made no sign of it. "I have paid for all this. It is a good cart, Ammas. It will see us to Gallowsport in comfort, I am thinking, once we are headed there. And maybe not all of us will be fit to sit in a saddle tomorrow morning?"

That, Ammas thought, sounded uncomfortably plausible. He sighed and waved it off, helping Casimir into the cart with Barthim. "Casimir has something for each of you. Make sure you wear it at once. If you need to approach the forest tonight, you'll have a difficult time without it." He nodded to Carala as she slipped into the watchtower.

Denisius watched her go with a troubled expression. They had not spoken much after Vos's story of the Silverlamp Theatre, and as disturbed as they had all been by it, in Carala he saw both a restlessness and a rage none of the rest of them could match. How much of it was the she-wolf he had no idea, but an icy worm of fear gnawed his belly. He very much wished to see her in wolf shape again, if only to assure her that he would still fight for her. But he really had no idea how dangerous that might be.

"Keep her safe, Ammas," he said softly.

The cursewright nodded. "I will do everything I can, Lord Marhollow."

Denisius mounted his horse again, and soon the four of them had set off on the road back to Vilais. They would not be going all the way there: about a mile away they had picked out a roadside shrine where they would make camp for the night, awaiting Ammas's signal if it came. He could see Casimir handing the braided charms to Barthim and Vos, then showing his dagger to each of them as well. A smile touched Ammas's face. If nothing else he felt relieved at being back in his apprentice's good graces, though he supposed whether he could live up to his promise remained to be seen.

At last he stepped into the watchtower. Carala stood by the hearth, her hood cast back, a strange expression on her face: something between regret and unease. He had expected anger at his ill-chosen words, not this. Drawing a deep breath, he began to speak. But she spoke at the same time, their words crossing insensibly.

"Carala, I must -- "

"Ammas, listen -- "

They grinned a little. "Allow me to speak first, if you would," Ammas said. A small smile still on her lips, Carala nodded. Ammas's expression became grave. "I must apologize for what I said to you. A cursewright who would abandon a client, especially one to whom he has sworn a vow, is not worthy of the title. I spoke in grief and haste. I will not turn from you, or cease in my efforts to treat you, unless it is your will to dismiss me."

"There is no need," Carala said quietly, her face now serious and composed as well. In Ammas's face she seemed to see the softer cheeks and darker hair of a man twenty years younger, someone not much older than herself or Denisius, forced to bear witness to a horror she had never imagined. That horror was one she would have denied if someone had described it to her only a few months ago; a horror committed at the order of her own father. She remembered Barthim, Barthim who spent most of his time gently mocking Ammas, Barthim who grimly averred this was something that must never be mentioned to him. At once she found herself in agreement with him. Maybe if her last name were not Deyn, she could speak to him, offer some sort of comfort. But that was beyond her reach. "I have spent my entire life thinking most of what my father did was just or at least excusable. I think whatever happened to your father was not. I should not have been so cavalier."

Ammas was actually smiling, though a sadness was in his eyes. "It's all right. The wolf is close. Your temper -- "

She shook her head. "I will not allow my affliction to be an excuse for treating you -- for treating a friend -- so poorly."

"We are friends now?" Ammas laughed.

Carala blushed, her smile widening. "If you can be friends with a Deyn, I would like that."