"My joints are so rusty that I doubt I will give you much sport." Will's narrow features acquired a long-suffering expression.

"Some lords, you see, do not believe in following the old ways."

"Some seneschals dwell too much in the past," Robin replied loftily. "One no longer need ride into battle and swing a sword to acquire power. This era is far more civilized. Raiders confine themselves to acquiring corporations. Hostile takeovers no longer involve holding hostage members of the loser's family. The only decent, wholesale pillaging accomplished these days is on the stock market."

"Do not ask him about the stock market," Will advised Phillipe in a mock stage whisper. "I beg you."

As Cyprien's seneschal, Phillipe was accustomed to Kyn lords treating him and every other seneschal with a sort of distant acknowledgment. Both he and Will had been lowborn peasants; Phillipe's family had served Cyprien's for ten generations.

When their noble masters had taken up the cross and joined the Order of the Knights of the Temple of Solomon, their families had persuaded Phillipe and other villeins to take vows as well. The seneschal did not have to be told to sacrifice their lives on the battlefield to protect their masters. Preserving the lives of the highborn was practically second nature.

Robin of Locksley, however, treated every Kyn the same, regardless of the circumstances of his birth. He regarded the humblest member of the garrison as important as Cyprien, and spoke to every man as though he were his equal. This did not sit well with those Kyn who believed in the preservation of rank, but Phillipe often thought Locksley also took some private pleasure in that.

"What are you doing up before sunset?" Locksley wanted to know.

"I must retrieve the rest of the master's luggage," Phillipe told the suzerain. "In the confusion last night I forgot to secure it."

"Jayr likely had the men take it from your car before it was put away," Will said. "She will see to it that it is brought to Cyprien before nightfall."

"If you two are finished fretting over garment bags, I have some news," Locksley said as he walked with Phillipe down the corridor that led to the center of the keep. "Will is weary of being soundly beaten on the ranges. What about you, Navarre?"

Phillipe nodded to a passing guard before he replied, "I have no skill with the bow, my lord, and I believe the last time we met I promised your seneschal a thrashing in the lists."

Will snorted. "Go back to sleep, Navarre, for such a thing will happen only in your dreams."

"I can wait for Lord Halkirk, I suppose," Locksley said. "Will, did you find out when he is to arrive?"

"Jayr told me that he took a commercial flight, and it has been delayed," his seneschal said. "He will not arrive until tomorrow, Christ preserve him." He crossed himself.

Like Scarlet and most of the Kyn, Phillipe also disliked flying. It did not seem a natural method of travel for human or Kyn. The private jets Cyprien and the most powerful Kyn used were some of the best in the world, but not all of their kind could afford the luxury of keeping a private aircraft.

Commercial airliners were more dangerous because they enclosed the Kyn in a small, poorly ventilated space with many human passengers. Phillipe had heard darkly comic stories of what happened when dozens of passengers succumbed to Kyn scent simply by close proximity. More troubling were the number of commercial airlines that crashed for one reason or another. Such a disaster might kill every human on board, but unless completely dismembered, Kyn passengers survived. If a flight went down in a remote, unpopulated area or in the deep ocean, it almost guaranteed any surviving Kyn a slow, painful death by starvation. "I shall have to find Jayr and... ask her if..." Locksley came to a halt and stared over his head. Hatred flared in his amethyst eyes. "Tell me I am imagining that thing."

Will looked up. "Bloody hell."

Phillipe followed his gaze and saw an overlarge banner of purple and gray silk. It was the Sherwood colors, the likes of which he had not seen since the end of the jardin wars.

Sherwood had once belonged to Robin of Locksley. When he had become an outlaw the king had taken it, along with all of his family's holdings, and had bestowed it on Lord Guisbourne, Robin's worst enemy. Like Robin, Guisbourne had also died of plague, only to rise again as Darkyn.

Phillipe did not want to think of what had happened to Sherwood after that. "Perhaps someone's idea of a tasteless joke, my lord."

"Indeed. Someone who should be beaten until their bones are dust." Locksley's voice lost all feeling. "Scarlet, take it down."

"My lord, perhaps I should speak to Jayr about it," Will said slowly. "So that she may-"

Robin of Locksley snapped out an arm, seizing his seneschal by the front of his shirt and dragging him around to face him. His eyes never left the banner. "Take it down," he said, his dents acerees gleaming like white daggers, "carry it outside, and burn it."

Will's voice trembled as he said, "At once, my lord."

"I will be on the range. Come to me when it is done." Locksley released him and strode away, leaving both seneschals to stare after him.

"What is this?" Phillipe asked, looking up at the banner. "Guisbourne is dead, Sherwood destroyed. Who could possibly wish to honor their memory?"

"I don't know," Will muttered. "But God save his soul, for if my master finds him it will shortly be leaving his body."

Although a few stragglers had yet to check in, the Kyn attending the tournament had in large part arrived. Jayr sent word to the various tresori and seneschal that the first gathering would be an early evening assembly in the guards' hall. As in years past, the lords and their jardins would come to exchange greetings and news with one another before the tournament officially began.

It took some diplomacy, of course. The large round tables and seating had to be arranged so that none held a particular advantage over the rest of the room. All of the goblets were filled with the same vintage of bloodwine, and a server was assigned to each table so that no one was kept waiting. Byrne would make an appearance, as he always did, but he would likely do little more than introduce the seigneur and allow him to address the assembly.

Things had changed in the last year, however, and Jayr knew that the American Kyn had become restless. Michael's first decision as seigneur, to allow Richard's chief assassin, Lucan, to create a new jardin in the south of Florida, had not been a popular one. Nor was the seigneur's decision to confront Richard in Ireland and take back his sygkenis after the high lord had abducted her. Now he had opened their borders to the French and Italian Kyn, and territorial lines would have to be redrawn.

Some did not agree with Michael Cyprien's leadership; others were fearful of the future changes he would make to their long- established way of life. The fact that his sygkenis was the first human to be turned since the Middle Ages fascinated some, but troubled most.

If they made it through the night without any incident, Jayr thought, it would be a minor miracle.

Once she saw to the guests' needs, Jayr occupied herself by circulating, exchanging greetings with the other seneschal present, and silently observing their masters. The ruling Kyn seemed more secretive this year, guarding their looks and keeping their voices low as they spoke with old friends. What Jayr overheard indicated that the Kyn's main concerns centered around the newcomers, and what lands they would be accorded by the seigneur.

"I petitioned Richard a dozen times to extend my territory into Canada," one suzerain, a ruling lord in the Midwest, complained to his cluster of friends. "I have business interests in the north, and my men desire new hunting grounds. Now I expect the seigneur will give them over to the French."

"Can you blame him?" one of the Irish-born lords asked. "They are his closest blood Kyn."

"I told you to petition the seigneur before the tournament begins," the suzerain's wife said as she plied her fan. "Make it plain to him that you have first claim, or might have, if the high lord had been more generous."

The Irish lord nodded. "'Tis well-known that Cyprien has no more love for Richard. You could work that to your advantage."

"Or petition his sygkenis to endorse the claim," the wife put in. "I have heard she is weak. Some say she is still human enough to succumb to talent."

"Do we know anyone who can introduce us?" her husband asked.

Jayr stopped beside the suzerain's wife. "I will be glad to introduce you to Dr. Keller when she joins us, my lord. The seigneur, you see, has charged me with her protection." She rested a hand on the dagger hilt in her right hip sheath. "It is a charge I take most seriously."

The female glowered. "Who are you to-"

"We are much obliged for your advice, seneschal." As the suzerain spoke, he put a restraining hand on his wife's arm. "Women have no head for these matters. I will petition the seigneur directly."

"As you wish, my lord." Jayr bowed and, hiding her satisfaction, moved on.

Chapter 9.

It was some time later that a curious hush fell over the guards' room. Heads turned and hands froze in midgesture. Jayr followed the direction of the stares to the side entry doors, where a Kyn lord and his entourage stood as if waiting to be announced or greeted.

Jayr's hands went to her blades before she realized what she was doing and dropped her hands.

The newcomers' lord stood tall and straight in a long black coat and polished boots; long dark hair spilled to curl about his broad shoulders. His face might have been carved by an ambitious hand from pure alabaster, save for a tightly controlled mouth and dark eyes so thickly lashed they seemed bruised. A thin chain of silver relieved the funerary grimness of his garments; on the end of it hung suspended a chunk of crystal striped with uneven bands of green and purple.

Fierce as the new lord appeared, it was not him but his entourage that held the room riveted. A dozen silent, motionless men in flowing black robes and dark blue turbans surrounded him in neat ranks. Each carried a curved sword hung by a scarlet cord from his wide waist sash. Dark beards covered the bottom half of their swarthy faces, while their narrow black eyes beheld the room with decided indifference.

The dark lord had brought with him Saracen guards. Saracens, against whom the Kyn had waged war during their human lives.

"God have mercy on us," Harlech said as he came to stand beside her. "What are those heathens doing here?"

"The suzerain of this castle does not bid welcome to his guests?" the dark lord asked in the silence. He delivered his question in flawless, unaccented English made beautiful by the deep, melodic quality of his voice.

Jolted by the reminder of her duty, Jayr strode forward. "Suzerain Aedan mac Byrne welcomes all Kyn to the Realm, and glad I am to announce your arrival, my lord. If you will but give me your name, I will make you and your men known to our other guests."

The dark lord's face turned toward her. Eyes like soot-scarred crystal flicked a single glance over her before shifting back to gaze upon the room.

He did not know who she was, and obviously would not lower himself to ask.

"I am privileged to serve Suzerain Byrne as seneschal." Jayr stopped a few feet short of the lord and his entourage and offered them a deep, respectful bow. "Jayr, my lord, at your service."

The dark eyes subjected her to a second, longer inspection. Not a single muscle moved in his face, but he gave the impression of affronted displeasure. As Jayr straightened, he looked into her eyes, at her hair, and then at her mouth.

He knows me, Jayr thought, bewildered. Just as she opened her mouth to ask how, the dark lord walked past her without a word.

Gasps, whispers and more than one smothered chuckle abraded Jayr's ears. She kept her face from reflecting her humiliation, but her heart pounded painfully in her chest. Among the Kyn, refusing to return such a direct greeting as she had offered was the bluntest and most direct of insults. It meant that in the dark lord's eyes, Jayr did not exist. Even the Kyn who disapproved of her serving as Byrne's seneschal had never subjected her to such public censure.

He sees you are female, she told herself, serving in place of a male. That is what offends him.

It still stung, no matter how Jayr rationalized it. She wished Byrne would arrive, so she could stand at his side. Being near him was the reassurance she needed now, both of his regard and her place among the Kyn. Whatever the dark lord might think of her, she had earned both.

A shorter, auburn-haired man shouldered his way around the Saracens. The dull green and poor fit of his garb made him appear shorter and plumper than he was. He strode up to Jayr with a wide smile on his broad face.

"My ill-mannered master is Ganelon of Florence, the Lord Nottingham," he told Jayr, speaking loudly enough for the rest of the Kyn to hear. He sketched an unsteady bow. "I am his seneschal, Skald."

Jayr clasped hands with him and greeted him as an equal, although she kept an eye on his master. "Nottingham is an English name."

"My lord's father hailed from that region," Skald said. "My lord deeply honors his memory."

Nottingham, Jayr recalled, was but forty miles from Sherwood. "We received no notice of your visit, brother."

"I fear the Brethren burned us out," the seneschal told her. "There was no time for anything but immediate, uncomfortable travel.

Word of this tournament was sent to us before we left Italy; my lord thought it best we come here." His smile turned rueful.

"You cannot tell it by his demeanor, but we have come to beg sanctuary."

"I see." No, she didn't. She had never heard of a Kyn lord named Ganelon, of Nottingham or Florence or any other city, and she doubted the arrogant Italian would stoop to ask for anything, much less haven. Perhaps he served the high lord as a spy.

"May I ask your lord's title, so that I might make him known to my master?"

"My lord Nottingham has not yet been granted official rank among the Kyn. We have lived in solitude since rising to walk the night, you see." Skald's gaze bounced from her face to the assembly with uncommon interest. "I hope our lonely state will come to an end here in America, brother. 'Tis said that your seigneur is known for his largesse."

He thought her a male, when it was well-known among the Kyn that she was not. Perhaps what he claimed was true, although Jayr found it hard to believe that the Italian had sequestered himself so completely. Even the most remotely located jardins kept in contact by various means, and sent emissaries back to Europe to meet with the high lord on a regular basis.

Odd, too, that an Italian living as a recluse would wish to be addressed as Nottingham to honor an English father. That would draw more attention from the humans around him, not less.

"I wish you well." She eyed the Saracens, all of whom carried cooper-plated scimitars. "Your lord has curious taste in bodyguards."

"Ah, yes, the guard." He cast a rolling glance at the ceiling. "Christians were not the only souls cursed on the sands of Jerusalem, you know. The heathens were equally stricken. Most lost their heads, but some escaped to the mountains and lived very well there. They were even worshiped for a time as gods by some of the primitive local tribes."

"Why are they not there still?" Jayr asked.

"They were forced to flee their homeland when the Jews invaded it after the second of the humans' world wars. They found their way to my lord's home and begged to be made useful. Since we were only two, my lord allowed them to make their oath to him." Skald spread his hands in a helpless gesture. "They are quite loyal to my lord, and will cause no trouble. I swear it."

Over Skald's rounded shoulder, Jayr spotted Nottingham going from table to table, nodding and clasping hands with other lords as he apparently introduced himself to his peers. The reception he received seemed lukewarm at best, but none yet chose to give him their shoulder. His guards followed and were completely ignored, but did not appear troubled by that, or the many angry looks being directed at them.

"How many Kyn lived in Florence?" Jayr asked as she signaled for one of the servers.

"Only my lord Nottingham. His mother was the last of an old and honored family," Skald told her. "His wealth and resources remain quite vast. The seigneur could do much worse in choosing a suzerain."

Now it became clear. Nottingham had not come to beg. She instructed the server who came to her to bring in a table and chairs to seat the Italian and his guard. To Skald she said, "You heard a great deal before you fled Florence."

"I serve my lord with all my heart. I fell stricken in Florence, you see, and he brought me to his home and helped me through the change. I would have died in the gutter where they left me." Skald's attempt at modesty fell a little flat; his eyes searched the room with incessant eagerness, and his tense frame almost vibrated with impatience. "Would you do me the honor of making me known to the other seneschal among you?"

Heads turned once more as Byrne entered the guard's hall with Cyprien and Alexandra.

"I fear I cannot, for my lord has arrived with the seigneur." Relieved, Jayr caught Harlech's eye and inclined her head toward Skald. "My second will be pleased to perform introductions. Excuse me, brother."

Before Jayr could take her place beside Byrne, Robin of Locksley strode in from the opposite side of the hall. In both of his fists were wads of torn satin. He walked rapidly toward Byrne and Cyprien, with an anxious-looking Will Scarlet trotting after him."Seigneur," Locksley all but shouted. "I would speak with you."

Footsteps echoed in the silence as the suzerain rounded a table of Welsh-born Kyn, and then something happened. Locksley's head turned toward Nottingham and his guards. One of the latter had unfurled a banner and was attaching it to one of the poles on display at the front of the room.

Locksley walked into the back of a chair, beginning to fall over. Scarlet grabbed the back of his tunic just in time to keep him from sprawling face-first onto the stone floor.

"You."

As the word burst from Locksley, he shrugged off his seneschal as if he were nothing more than a mosquito. His face twisted into a snarl as he threw the shredded banners to the floor and drew his sword. When Will stepped in front of him, he knocked the seneschal out of his way.

Jayr recognized the ruined banners at once. They were the purple and gray that Viviana had been working on yesterday.

The sound of Locksley's sword being drawn stirred every male in the room. Chairs scraped back as lords and warriors rose.

The men moved silently into position to shield the un-armed women. Every seneschal in the room drew swords and daggers and took position in front of their lords.

Jayr's first impulse was to run at Locksley and disarm him, until she met Byrne's gaze. He lifted a hand in a simple gesture that meant, Stay where you are.

Jayr nodded, but remained prepared to move in an instant. She had never seen Locksley angry, and it made her stomach turn over in a sickly manner. Seeing Sherwood's colors displayed so openly must have driven all the sense out of his head.

"Lord Locksley." Michael Cyprien moved with the lethal grace of a great cat, and placed himself between the suzerain and his intended target. "Hold."