"Don't judge your father too harshly," Ammas said gently. "There weren't many who defied the Emperor, and most who did paid for it dearly." He studied Denisius's face, admiring the calm resolution he saw on those earnest features. "Did you hear all? Did you hear her advising me to kill you?"

That calm expression became astonished. "Kill me?"

Ammas nodded with a rueful smile. "To impress the wolf, she said. As part of taming Carala, bonding her to me. I was tempted. Not to kill you, I don't believe I could have done that. But to tame her? To steal her from her father for what he did to my family? Yes, I was tempted. You and I, and Carala, and Othma, too -- we've all been scarred by the Emperor in some way. The best we can do is try to rise above it. You say you will die to cure her. So will I." His one-eyed gaze fixed on Denisius's face, and in his expression Lord Marhollow saw a deep sorrow. "I have no expectations. If you feel I stole her from you -- "

"Carala's not the sort to be stolen by anyone, Ammas."

Ammas laughed at that, collapsing into a pained cough. "No, perhaps not. But whatever happens tonight, I don't expect to see much of Carala again. She will return to the Chalcedony Palace, and I to Munazyr. If all goes well, anyway."

"If all goes well," Denisius repeated with a wry smile. "I can't say I'm surprised. At her, not you. I've known her since before she came of age. She always loved the old stories, the ones about adventuresome knights and old battles and clever wizards. Put a living cursewright in front of her, of course she ends up fascinated with you."

"Her taste is awful."

"On that, I won't argue."

Now they both collapsed in laughter. Perhaps it was anxiety over what they must do that night, what they would find in the manor below, but in that laughter Ammas felt the first trace of real healing since that terrible moment he had put a dagger in his father's heart. He had not spoken of that to anyone yet, and only to Carala had he elaborated on what Andreth had meant when he taunted Ammas with his knowledge that Senrich was still alive.

Denisius's expression began to turn grim. "Ammas," he said haltingly, "I'll do what I can to protect you, but I'm not Vos or Barthim. I don't expect -- well -- er -- it has been an honor to know you. I never thought to meet a cursewright, and I never expected one to be like you."

Ammas remembered meeting Denisius in his ruined temple; how untested this young man seemed; how the tip of his sword shivered with the fear running down his arm. He wondered if that Denisius would have made a desperate leap off horseback to strike at a werewolf before it could flee, or fight side-by-side with Barthim and Vos in that hopeless battle in the Grand Curia, or even cheerfully tell Ammas that he had no regrets over how things had fallen out with his promised bride.

"Denisius Gallis Lord Marhollow," Ammas said firmly, clasping the hilt of his skymetal dagger to his heart. "I have little strength to offer you right now. But on whatever honor my fellowship still possesses, on whatever honor you deem me to have, I swear to you that you will live to see Marhollow again."

Denisius nodded, a thin smile on his lips. "Then I suppose we should do what we came to do."

"Yes," Ammas nodded, turning his attention back to the manor. "How ought we approach it, do you think? I suppose knocking at the front gate would be unwise."

"I don't know anything about the layout. What if -- "

Before Denisius could continue, the still and pleasant night was rent with the sound of howls. Immediately both men dropped to their bellies, Ammas grimacing in pain. How many wolves uttered those sounds neither of them knew, but a round dozen seemed a conservative estimate.

"Merciful gods," Denisius muttered. "Is it a ceremony? Calling a hunt?"

"I don't know," Ammas whispered. Slowly he wormed his way forward, propping himself up on his elbows. "But listen: there's something amiss in it."

Denisius cocked his head to one side, frowning. It didn't take long for him to understand what Ammas meant. The howls echoing across the valley were less a chorus and more a cacophony. Mingled in the howls were more human cries of pain, shrieks of grief, terrible wailings and screams. As they listened the howls themselves began to change in nature, from wolfish sounds to purely human ones. Slowly the cries began to diminish, and before long silence reigned over the valley again.

Ammas suddenly dropped as low to the ground as possible, laying a hand on Denisius's shoulder and urging him to do the same. Down in the manor's courtyard, doors were opening, light spilling out onto the grounds. Figures emerged, moving in swaying, staggering strides that made Denisius wonder if they were drunk. More than one fell to their knees, or even to their faces. On the stillness of the night air the gentle sound of weeping drifted to them.

Ammas rose up, sitting on his heels, clutching his side with a pained grin. "I think," he said slowly, "our peril may not be so great as we imagined."

Denisius got to his feet, helping Ammas to his. "Maybe," he said. "But I'll keep my sword drawn all the same."

Together they descended into the valley, Ammas leaning heavily on the whittled branch he had used as a walking stick since leaving Gallowsport. Neither of them seemed to breathe as they passed the gates of the little manor, but the scattered figures paid them no heed. Some were dressed in the finest clothing, as befitted their master's status. Some were completely naked, and Denisius supposed these were the ones who had melted back into their human shape mid-howl. But their expressions were universally of shock and grief. They gave the impression of wayward children who did not know where their parents had gone.

Nervously Denisius's eyes flicked from one to the next, but to a soul they were too lost in grief to notice. Men and women alike were there, mostly around Denisius's own age, of every appearance imaginable. He wondered how many of them had been part of Swiftfoot, and how many had been lured to the wolf's blood for other reasons, as they had tried to do to Carala.

The interior of the manor reminded Denisius of the finer areas of the Chalcedony Palace. Ammas thought of the Doge's Villa in Munazyr. But those places held an austerity not to be found here. This was a place of pure idleness, and of beauty. Tasteful paintings, masterworks one and all, lined the bronze-papered walls. Sculptures by the Anointed Realms' finest artisans stood on fluted plinths. Long rows of plantered flowers, drawn from every corner of the Malachite Throne's domain, added a touch of vivacious color, illuminated to even warmer hues by gently flickering crystal lamps hanging from the ceiling. And over every inch of it the scent of the wolf drifted, a thick and pungent stink, far less enticing than the clean woodland aroma Ammas had come to associate with Carala. It made both men feel distinctly uneasy, as if they were rabbits foolishly burrowing into a predator's den.