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his earnings as a hand at his parents’ stables, trained her himself, and refused several good offers for her. Roanne was going to be his mount, proof that the Carter talent for judging horseflesh had been passed to the new generation.
    Over time, Roanne had become more than a pride piece. During the journey west over the Iron Mountains Roanne had been Derian’s confidant, his friend when he felt out of place among Earl Kestrel’s men. When he went north to the Norwood estate, Roanne had been a touch of home. When their travels had taken them into New Kelvin, Roanne had been someone reliable in increasingly unpredictable surroundings.
    Now she was dead, slaughtered for dog food. Colby Carter, Derian’s father, had tried repeatedly to convince his son to breed Roanne and begin a line of gleaming chestnut foals. Putting her image on the sign for the newly rechristened Prancing Steed Stables had been a bribe to get Derian to see things his father’s way. Derian had refused, wanting his horse with him. Colby’s most recent try had been last season, but had Roanne been bred then, she would have foaled this spring, and Derian, who had already suspected he’d be traveling again, had not wanted to relinquish his favorite mount.
    Now there would be no copper-bright chestnut foals, no dynasty claiming proud foundation in Roanne. All that would remain would be her image, swinging from the iron support in front of his father’s office.
    Derian ground his teeth together, finding anger easier to admit to than grief. He grabbed the bolt and twisted. This time it turned so easily he was surprised. He twisted again and the length of metal worked free from the wood.
    “Firekeeper,” he called softly, hearing the surprise in his own voice. “I got it loose.”
    “Good,” Firekeeper said. “I almost have one of these free. Two and Blind Seer can push through. Can you get the chain from your ankle? I can give you iron bar to help.”
    Derian inspected the chain. It was fastened to an iron cuff. The cuff fit loosely enough on the outside of his trousers to prevent chafing, but not so loosely that he could slide his foot free. The first link of the chain was attached to a loop in the cuff, and with the use of the iron bar, Derian thought he might be able to force apart that link or one close to it.
    Firekeeper handed him an iron bar, reminding him that she would need it back if the sailors returned before she had finished freeing Blind Seer.
    “Light’s going,” Derian said. “Either they’ll be back soon or we may not be fed until morning.”
    Firekeeper grunted.
    “Is raining, too,” she commented. “Maybe they not want to get wet.”
    The sailors did not return that night, and when Derian complained of hunger, Firekeeper offered him a piece of stale and straw-adorned buttered bread.
    “I not hungry,” she said in a curt fashion that forbore disagreement. “Wolfs not eat so as humans.”
    Derian, who had seen Firekeeper tuck in as if every meal might be her last, wondered at this, but didn’t comment. He ate the bread, picking off the straw as best he could and washing the whole down with water.
    He was adjusting to the idea of Roanne’s death, determined to somehow get revenge for her. He didn’t know just how he’d manage, since, if they escaped, relocating Harjeedian and his allies would not be easy. Nonetheless, Derian made his promise that Roanne’s death would not go unrevenged to the Horse, his society patron and the guardian of all equines.
    The vow was an empty gesture, but it made him feel better.
    Derian was just swallowing the last of the bread when Firekeeper gave a grunt of satisfaction.
    “There!” she said softly. “Blind Seer is now free. Let me do what I can with your chain. Have you had luck?”
    “I managed to separate it a little,” Derian said. “Not the link closest to the cuff—that was too near to my foot—but the next one. I kept hitting myself after the light failed. Can you see