Andri was dismayed to hear what had happened to Quillion’s body, but surely the shifter was mistaken. Irulan had expected the rats would come to claim the werewolf for their own-perhaps they had conquered their fear and begun their feast with his fingers, only to be frightened away by the shifter’s return before they could finish the job.
And why had Ostra been with the werewolves and not in the shifter encampment? Surely he couldn’t have known Quillion’s ramblings would lead them to the Burnt Wood? Even the reachrunner had been surprised to find him there, though Andri had heard something about a schedule being “moved up.” The shifter leader must have had some other reason for being there, then, one that had nothing to do with them. But what? Obviously, he was in league with the werewolves, but what did that mean, exactly? Was he helping to harbor the murderer, or simply trying to protect them from discovery and persecution, as he had claimed to be doing for Quillion?
But that line of thinking left Andri with even more disturbing questions. Andri’s father had been infected by a werewolf from the Burnt Wood. It stood to reason that the lycanthrope was a member of Pater’s pack. So if Ostra was helping the werewolves and had been for some time, how much did the shifter really know about what had happened to Alestair Aeyliros? Ostra had called him “child of the moontouched,” yet the true tale of what had transpired that night in Flamekeep was not widely known. Either the old shifter had a spy network to rival the Queen’s, or he had gotten his information from the only other party to Alestair’s infection-the werewolf that had doomed him and Chardice to death.
Which meant the werewolf had survived his encounter with Andri’s father and might still be alive.
The possibility stunned Andri. His father had been sure of the lycanthrope’s demise-Andri wore the thing’s claws around his neck, for Tira’s sake-and the paladin had never had any cause to doubt Alestair’s certainty. He had never even contemplated seeking revenge for the deaths of his parents, because he’d believed the one who had cursed his father-and, ultimately, his entire family-was already dead.
And now, it seemed, he might have been wrong.
Andri tried to marshal his thoughts as he stumbled along behind Irulan and Greddark. The Keeper had sent him to find a killer and prevent potential genocide, not to pursue a personal vendetta. He had to focus on his duty, not vengeance.
But the opportunity to make someone else pay for taking his parents from him … the thought of it was heady and sweet, like fine Aundairian wine.
Too sweet.
He knew temptation when it reared its vile head, and he would not be lured by its empty promises. He was here to apprehend a murderer, not slay a demon from his own past.
But, Flame help him … what if they were one and the same?
It was nearing evening on the second day of their capture when Andri began to notice subtle changes in the forest around them. As he followed Irulan and Greddark along a game trail, pulled along by the chains that bound them at the wrists and ankles, he realized that it wasn’t as humid as it had been, or as warm. Though he wasn’t a ranger by any stretch, the trees seemed different to him-taller, perhaps, with thicker trunks and darker foliage. The animal life seemed more abundant-birdsong trilled overhead and the leaves all about rustled with unseen activity. It was as if they had entered some primal place in the woods, an area ancient and undisturbed by even the faintest vestiges of civilization. Andri found it both peaceful and profoundly unsettling.
“Where are we?” It was Irulan, the first words she had spoken in nearly two days, since she’d gotten backhanded by one of Ostra’s men. Her lip was still puffy and bruised. “Is this … Lamannia?”
Lamannia. The Twilight Forest, a plane of untamed beauty, where nature and her wild children ran riot. They must have stepped into a manifest zone, a place where the normal boundaries between planes were fluid and shifting, sometimes allowing passage from one plane to another without a traveler even realizing they’d crossed over into a different realm of existence. Such zones were not unusual-the great Brelish city of Sharn, with its floating towers, was located in a manifest zone linked to Syrania, for instance-but Andri had never heard of one in the Burnt Wood. The lairing choice of the lycanthropes seemed much more logical now.
“I said no talking!” one of their escort snarled, a big brute of a shifter with horns and a wide, boarish face-the same one who had struck Irulan earlier. He raised his hand to do it again, and Andri tensed, wanting to jump in the way of the blow, but the chains and another shifter’s dagger at his ribs stopped him.
But Irulan did not need his aid. She was ready for the attack this time, anticipating it, and when the gorebrute shifter’s hand connected with her face, she stood her ground. Instead of allowing the impact to force her head to the side, she moved into the blow, opening her mouth and latching onto the other shifter’s hand with her sharp teeth. Then she bit down, hard, and Andri could see the blood starting to flow.
“You bitch!” The gorebrute spat, trying to extricate his hand, but Irulan held on with the tenacity of dog, her teeth sinking even deeper as the shifter’s struggles jerked her to and fro, nearly toppling Greddark in the process. The shifter punched her in the ear, trying to get her to release him, but she refused. With a howl of pain and outrage, the shifter drew his sword, intending to run her through.
“Hold!”
The voice held all the command of a general or a high priest, and Andri found himself turning with the others to find its source. Even Irulan loosened her hold on the gorebrute’s hand, and he wrenched it away, cradling the abused appendage against his chest. His sword remained poised near Irulan’s midsection, but he, too, turned his head to look.
An old werewolf stood on the path before them, upright in his hybrid form, but leaning heavily on a walking stick. His fur was brown but grizzled with age, and his eyes were a milky blue, the sockets surrounded by thick scar tissue.
Pater.
Two human men and an elf woman stood behind him. They were dressed in simple, loose-fitting clothes and wore no weapons. The woman carried a wolf pup in her arms.
Ostra stepped forward, cuffing the gorebrute as he passed. Then the shifter leader went down on one knee before the old werewolf, reaching out to grasp Pater’s free hand and touch the werewolf’s claws to his forehead. It was the same gesture of respect Irulan had given to Ostra in the shifter’s own tent.
“Grandfather,” the old shifter said, though Andri suspected the term was merely an honorific, “I bring you the werehunters, as you requested.”
“And did I request that you to bring them to me in chains?” the werewolf asked, pulling his hand out of Ostra’s grip, his displeasure clear. “How are we to convince them of our innocence if you imprison and abuse them?”
Ostra straightened. “Your pardon, Grandfather. The chains were to ensure they would refrain from attacking long enough to hear you out. You heard what they did to Quillion. I will remove their bonds, if you so desire.”
Pater ignored him, walking slowly over to the prisoners. He stopped in front of Irulan, cocking his head to the side. His nose twitched once.
“Bennin’s daughter,” he said, by way of greeting.
Irulan’s eyes narrowed, but she did not respond.