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fought against the Fenturi. The Fenturi people had committed no crime save to exist, and for that his father had continued their slaughter.
    In all his secretive studies about the Fenturi, Zebram had learned much, and he’d mourned their loss. Unlike his father, he believed unity with the Fenturi would have made Bylar stronger, not weaker. The Fenturi had never lived to conquer. His studies had pointed to a race devoted to laughter and art, music and the skill of the hunt.
    Much like their guidecats, the Fenturi had an almost feline nature and loved to play. They indulged in their inherent sensuality, and though arrogant, did not destroy life around them as the Bylarans had, but embraced what they did not understand and used it to advance their part in the world.
    What use is thinking of the past? Now is not the time to put in motion my plans for planetary unity. He had much to do, especially now. Zebram turned to see his father pale and still in his large bed.
    His mother suddenly stepped through the doorway, and he crossed to her to offer sympathy. She held him long and hard before she gently pushed him away. He left, giving her the space she needed to deal with his father’s passing.
    His head held low, he almost stepped over the messenger bowing before him.
    “My lord, Prince,” the young boy said awkwardly. “Er, my king. A missive for you. I was told it’s of utmost importance.”
    Zebram took the message and stared down at the words floating before him, trying to make sense of the garbled text. A vast emptiness overwhelmed him as his grief surged to the surface, refusing to stay buried. Then a name caught his attention, and he stared at it in shock.
    Myla had never before contacted him. Ever. For her to do so now meant urgency beckoned. He would have questioned the messenger, but the boy had darted away.
    Impatient to talk with her, Zebram went in search of his advisor and informed Cyka he’d be indisposed. Racing to his chambers, he donned a peasant cloak and hat to hide his distinct features. Then he passed through the secret passage connecting his chamber to a web of concealed underground tunnels and traveled with haste to the end.
    He emerged into a heavily wooded area and took the path to her cottage. He passed no one on the way, which didn’t shock him. Myla felt it safest if she lived on the outskirts of their village. For protection, he wondered, or to be close to her natural world?
    He approached her door, not surprised when she opened it before he could knock. The Fenturi woman had an uncanny sense and always had.
    As soon as he entered, she clasped him to her in a warm hug and held him tight. “I’m so sorry, Zebram.” Her gnarled hands were strong as they cradled his head. “I know your father did not go easily.”
    Zebram withdrew and blinked to hide the tears gathering still.
    “Enough of that,” she chided. “If you’ve a need to cry, do so. Hiding who you are and how you feel is unnatural. That nonsense was your father’s doing. Strong emotion, real feeling, is a blessing, and you should embrace it.”
    He embraced her lecture and let the tears fall freely. She nodded her approval and fetched him a cup of tea.
    “Did you call me here to offer solace?” he asked. He watched the elderly woman bustle about the cottage at the speed of a woman a third her age. She was tall, almost as tall as him. And yet she did not hunch over as many of the elderly did.
    Myla still stood strong, proudly so. Her once black hair was now peppered with white, and the fine skin of her face wrinkled easily, hinting at the lines of laughter around her eyes and mouth.
    Her violet-blue eyes glowed with emotion as she stared at him, and he sat at her table and drank her tea, feeling at peace for the first time since his father had taken ill so many months ago.
    “All will be well…if you and your brother can work together,” she said calmly as she sat next to him.
    He blinked in surprise. Myla had often listened