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mother got hold of him.
    Too late now. Much too late, considering that the next paragraph outlined a bare-bones account of Idisio killing a ha’ra’ha: that had been his own mother—and worse than even that was the way he’d done it.
    He fed on his own mother. Good gods...Talk about breaking every major Law!
    Deiq drew a deep breath, shut his eyes, and allowed himself a heartfelt shudder. The Jungles would have Idisio under a death hunt when they heard of his actions, and the boy clearly suspected as much. He was continuing north to Arason, he wrote, to his mother’s cottage by the shores of Ghost Lake. He would continue writing reports on the northern kingdom under the name Gerau Sa’adenit, and had no plans to ever travel below the line of the Great Forest again.
    He would send a full report on Arason as well, to Deiq personally, so there was no further need for Deiq and Alyea to travel all the way north. And in that single sentence stood the only implication in the entire letter, the warning Idisio hadn’t quite been able to make himself say directly: Don’t follow me. Don’t come after me. I’ll fight.
    With the life and strength stolen from Idisio’s insane mother surging through the young ha’ra’ha’s body, standing on the shores of the Lake where he’d been conceived and born...Deiq wasn’t at all sure who would win that fight.
    He sat staring at the letter for some time, as the candles burned down and the rain tapped erratically on the roof. At last he picked the pages up, one by one, and held them to the flame of the nearest candle.
    Just as the last one fell apart into a thin blur of black ash, a hot thread of agony raced from his heels to the back of his head. The chair crashed back as he jerked to his feet, teeth bared; he could feel his eyes sliding out of human-normal, and a rage with roots deep as a mountain swamped over him.
    What the hells—
    Even as he drew in breath to fight off the unexpected fury, the prompt behind it clarified:
    Wet leaves underfoot, bared swords, the smell of blood, sweat, fear, pain: muscles straining, too many opponents, no way out—
    “Damnit,” he said aloud, “you can’t stay the fuck out of trouble, can you—”
    Then all coherence blurred under imperative. Rage swamped through him, deeper, blacker, and less controllable than it had been in hundreds of years: Mine! it screamed. Mine, mine, MINE.
    The room went away, replaced by chill damp air, the smell of wet leaves and rust and blood, human blood, her blood— and Alyea, behind him; those attacking her spread out in front of him. He spared a glance to be sure she wasn’t dangerously injured yet, then turned on the armed men.
    A few bodies later, he caught a glimpse of her white, shocked face: She’s never seen this before; she doesn’t understand. The realization was enough—barely—to slide a bridle of rationality over his rage. He finished what he’d started, forcing himself to stay human enough to avoid scaring her further.
    He turned to face her, breathing hard from the effort of standing still. “Stay or go?”
    What happened, what the hells is going on, what are you doing here instead of at the palace didn’t really matter at the moment. Either she wanted to leave or to complete what she’d come here for. Questions could wait.
    She stared at him, pale and shaken. He repeated the question more sharply. That seemed to push her out of her daze; she said, “Stay. My mother—I have to get my mother out of there.”
    Lady Peysimun could rot for all Deiq cared, but it wasn’t his choice. He nodded acknowledgment. With a brief glance down at the bodies, Alyea started towards the side door. Deiq snorted impatiently and moved into her way, stopping her.
    “Wait,” he said. “Where is she?”
    “I—” She shook her head, her eyes focusing on his left sleeve. Her face went even more ashen. Glancing down, he saw a long arc of blood spattered from elbow to shoulder.
    She would have fainted, if