"Daemon." He spat the name like a curse. "Prince Daemon and his mercenaries."

She lifted a hand to cover her mouth, not quite fast enough to hold in a small sound of pain. Royce resisted the urge to touch her shoulder and draw her close.

Despite the fact that he had seen carnage of this sort before, his stomach turned. He saw no survivors in the streets but noticed bits of ivory scattered about, barely discernible amid the blanket of white. Not wanting Ciara to guess that they were bones, he touched his heels to Anteros's flanks, turning to circle the city wall.

As they left the town behind, Ciara glanced over her shoulder. "If we cannot stay here, where will we stop for the night?" She looked up at the thickly falling snow.

"At the keep I mentioned yesterday, there." He pointed, seeing it through the swirling flakes, perched high upon a nearby hill-its drawbridge smashed, portions of its curtain wall in ruins, one of its towers half crumbled. "A friend of mine and his wife live there. Or used to." His heart beat painfully hard against his ribs. "Let us hope they are still safe and well."

The great hall overflowed with light from two dozen torches, the scents of spicy rabbit stew and the dried herbs that had been sprinkled in the rushes on the floor-and the noise of more than fifty happy, well-fed women and children.

Seated at a trestle table before the blazing hearth, Royce sopped up one last bite of stew with a corner of bread, smiling at the brawny, fair-haired knight across from him. "I must say, Bayard." He had to speak loudly to be heard over the din. "Never did I think it would be possible to have too many women underfoot."

Bayard shrugged, his smile broad, his blue eyes sparkling with amusement. "What was I to do? They had nowhere else to go."

Royce washed down the last of his supper with a long drink of wine, then pushed aside his empty bowl and trencher. He grinned at his friend, still relieved to have found him not only alive but in good spirits.

And good company. Shaking his head in bemused disbelief, he glanced about the hall as he wiped his hands on the tablecloth. It looked as if Bayard had taken in every female refugee in the mountains. Some were orphans, others widows, many in peasant garb, others dressed in finery that marked them as members of the nobility. A few were still recovering from injuries suffered in the war.

"It began with the handful of local women who survived when the town fell," Bayard explained, "and the families of my men who were killed defending the keep. Then word spread to their relatives, and more arrived. This is the only castle left standing in this part of Chlons."

"You are a generous man, my friend, to take them all in, feed them, care for them."

Bayard waved a hand, dismissing the compliment. "It is no more than any other lord would do. And they have insisted on doing their part, cleaning the keep, working in the kitchens. Still, I had thought the situation would be only temporary." He sighed, the sound of a man who had been outnumbered by females for a little too long. "Almost three score of them wintered here. Now it looks as if they will spring here as well."

Royce laughed. "It is a harem that many a Saracen would envy."

"Do not let my wife hear you say that."

The two of them glanced at a pair of ladies seated together in a far corner, surrounded by children. The din in the hall quieted a bit as music began to fill the air.

Mandolin music.

Royce lifted his goblet and drank another draught of wine, his gaze on Ciara as she strummed her cherished instrument. When Bayard and his wife, Lady Elinor, had met them outside, Elinor had immediately noticed Ciara's mandolin hanging from his saddle and begged her to play for them after supper. It had no doubt been a long time since anyone in the keep had enjoyed such entertainment. There were few traveling minstrels or troubadours in Chlons these days.

Ciara had said she was not accustomed to playing for an audience-but eagerly agreed once she met the children.

Now she sat with her head bowed, her attention on her mandolin. Her fingers moved lightly over the strings, bringing forth the notes of a merry tune. One unfamiliar to him.

He felt like one of the children at her feet, gazing up at her as if they had never heard anyone play so beautifully before. As if the lady seated before them were an angel descended from Heaven with a magical harp. The music became livelier and a small boy began clapping in time, then the others joined in. A little girl, no more than two or three years old, began to dance, waving her chubby hands, gurgling with laughter.

Ciara glanced up, as if surprised that her playing could bring them such joy. Then she smiled, her own happiness lighting her entire face.

Royce's heart seemed to stop. Everything around him seemed to stop-the sounds of the children, the heat and crackle of the fire at his back, even the music she played. All sense of time, of place, seemed to fade from his awareness, and there was only this lady, her sparkling amber eyes. And her smile.

He blinked, unnerved by the sensation. Never in his life had he experienced such a feeling-other than in the keeping-room last night. Never could he remember desire rendering him deaf, dumb, and paralyzed.

But this desire he felt for Ciara was far different from any he had known before. Not only stronger but ... different.

He realized Bayard was speaking to him and finally wrenched his gaze back to his friend. "I am what?"

"I said," the blond knight repeated, his smile filled with understanding, "that your wife's talent is surpassed only by her beauty. You are a fortunate man."

"Aye. Fortunate," Royce croaked. He reached for a nearby jug of wine, refilled his cup, and quickly changed the subject. "Which of these did you say are yours?" Picking up his goblet, he gestured to the children scattered about the hall.

Bayard pointed them out with obvious pride. "That is my daughter, Ilsa, who will soon be two." The dark-haired girl had climbed into her mother's lap to snuggle. "And that"-he indicated a boy who scampered past them chasing a shaggy hound much larger than he was-"is my son, Brandis, who is five."

Royce watched as the lad caught up with the dog and fearlessly wrestled him to the ground. "He seems to take after his father."

"Aye." Bayard grinned broadly. "Hard to believe we were his age when first we met."

Royce nodded. "We had some good times in those years."

"That we did. Do you remember when we were ten and thought it would be an excellent idea to spend an afternoon exploring the caves in Mount Kaladar-"

"Until we got lost. For three days." Royce chuckled. "I thought your father would flay us alive when he finally found us."

"That was almost as bad as the winter when we decided to use our fathers' shields to go sledding."

"It seemed such a sensible idea at the time."

"It was your idea." Bayard's laughter was deep and rich. "And they were much faster on the ice than our wooden sleds."

"Right up to the moment we crashed into the trees and mangled them. Not to mention ourselves."

"And our dignity. How old were we then?"

"Twelve." Royce smiled warmly at the memory. "When winter was naught but skating and sleds-"

"And fighting with snowballs. God's breath, I remember it like yesterday, how we loved battling with your little brothers and pelting your sisters ..." Bayard's voice trailed off. His expression turned somber.

Royce felt his throat tighten, dropped his gaze to his goblet. An awkward silence fell, filled with other, more recent memories.

Bayard cleared his throat. "Royce, I am sorry. I did not mean to remind you of them-"

"It was seven years ago."

"Even so, to suffer such a loss-"

"It was seven years ago," Royce repeated, unwilling to reopen old wounds. For a time, he had tried to purge himself of the fury and pain, spilled a great deal of Thuringian blood, and too much of his own, before he realized that no amount of death and vengeance would help.

Grief, he had learned, was a wound that never fully healed. After all these years, he had simply become accustomed to it, lived with the pain until he did not notice it overmuch. Most of the time.

He lifted his gaze to Bayard's, seeing his own anguish mirrored there. Everyone in Chlons had suffered losses in the war, Bayard included. Their carefree youth had come to an abrupt end on that day seven years ago when Thuringia had suddenly changed from peaceful ally to vicious enemy.

That day when the Ferrano lands, which lay directly on the border, had been taken by surprise-and been the first to fall.

But Royce had vowed long ago that he would not drown himself in bitterness over what might have been. What would never be again.

Because God and King Aldric together could not restore all that this war had cost him.

Bayard pushed his empty trencher around on the tabletop. "So how long has it been since we last saw each other? Five years, is it not?"

Royce felt grateful for the way his friend shifted so easily to a less painful topic. "Aye."

"I take it King Aldric has been keeping you busy. Have you any news from court?"

Royce took another long swallow of wine while he considered his response. Thus far, he had explained only that he and his "new bride" were passing through on their way to see his old home, now that peace had come. Bayard had been happy to offer shelter, food, and drink without asking many questions.

Royce would prefer to keep it that way. For the safety of everyone involved.

"Nay, I have no news," he said as the mandolin music ended and the chamber erupted in applause. "I have not been at court for some time. And I am sorry that it has been five years, Bayard. The war-"

"Aye, the accursed war. It did more damage than merely separating old friends. You do not need to apologize." He took a drink, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "We could have used your skill, here in the mountains. But we all understood that you were needed elsewhere."

Royce looked away, assailed by a pain, a guilt, that was old and deep. His flair for battle tactics had first attracted royal notice when he had been but seventeen and newly knighted. A year later, Aldric had brought him to court to serve as one of his military advisers.

That was where he had been, on that day. That black day when his entire family perished.

He shut his eyes. "I have often wondered, Bayard, whether I could have made a difference, if I had ... if-"

"If you had been there when they attacked? There is no point tormenting yourself, Royce. You would have been killed with everyone else." His tone softened. "It would seem that God had other plans in mind for you, my friend." Sighing heavily, he clicked his goblet against Royce's. "But let us talk no more of the war. We should be drinking a salut, to peace at last."

The bitter note in his friend's voice made Royce pause before he raised his cup. "You do not sound entirely happy about that."

"About peace with the Thuringians? Only months ago they were laying waste to our homes, murdering our families, and raping our women. Now we are expected to lay down our arms and embrace them like brothers. You will forgive me if I find it difficult to be happy."

A prickle of unease chased down Royce's spine. He looked down into his cup, posed his reply carefully. "Those sound like the sentiments of a rebel, old friend." He glanced cautiously, protectively toward Ciara, who was now performing magic tricks for the children, enchanting them, looking enchanted herself.

"Hardly," Bayard scoffed. "I want peace as much as anyone. More so. I do not want my children to grow up in Chlons as it has been these seven years. Nor do I want my son to have to fight the same battles I have fought, against the same foe." He looked around the crowded great hall. "And if my serfs cannot plant new crops this spring, how will I feed all of those who depend on me? I need peace."

Royce probed a bit deeper, casually. "Still, there are those who believe that the peace agreement will only make Daemon more powerful. That it is worth any sacrifice to thwart his plans."

"Sacrifice? Is that what they call it?" Bayard looked disgusted. "I may sympathize with the rebels' desire to keep our country out of Daemon's hands, but I cannot agree with their methods. Have you heard that they made an attempt on the princess's life? In the palace, no less?"

"Aye." Royce kept his tone light. "I heard about it."

"Any traitor who would stoop to that deserves to be drawn and quartered." Bayard's eyes blazed with outrage. "Before he is fed to the royal hounds in small pieces."

Royce nodded in agreement, relieved that his friend seemed as loyal to the crown as ever.

"If these rebels were from the east," Bayard continued hotly, "they would realize that there has been enough death and enough killing " He looked again at the refugees crowding his hall. "King Aldric has made peace, and it is for the best. I may not like the idea of laying aside my sword, but I see no other solution."

"Nor I," Royce said hollowly, glancing toward Ciara again.

She was now sitting on the floor-actually sitting on the floor-with baby Ilsa in her lap, toddlers clambering all over her royal person, and a shaggy gray-and-brown puppy attempting to make a meal of her skirt. All while she tried to show one of the older girls how to pick out notes on her mandolin.

She looked blissfully happy.

"Nor I," Royce repeated, his heart thudding painfully hard against his ribs.

Bayard signaled for servants to bring more food and wine, but Royce found that his stomach had turned sour. Their conversation had left him tense, reminded him that he dare not trust anyone, even his childhood friend. Thus far, the journey with Ciara had gone as planned, so mayhap Aldric had indeed managed to fool the rebels and they were far from here, on the other side of the kingdom, chasing decoys ....

Or mayhap they were much closer, lying in wait and planning an attack.

"So tell me more about this bride of yours, my friend," Bayard said, grinning. "Where did you manage to find a lady so talented, lovely, and seemingly intelligent who was willing to marry you?"

Royce did not want to lie to his friend, but he was not about to reveal any secrets. So he told the truth.

"In a monastery."

"Very funny."

Royce looked up to see Ciara, Elinor, and Ilsa crossing the hall to join them. "She comes from the north," he elaborated. That was true enough.

"Beautiful women they have there in the north."

Elinor came up behind her husband just in time to hear this comment. "Is this what the two of you have been talking about?" She gave her husband a playful poke with one finger. "We leave you alone for a short while and already you are discussing other women."

"Ah, curses, we are caught." Laughing, Bayard tilted his head back as his wife bent over to give him a kiss.

Royce smiled as he watched his friends. Bayard had eyes for only one woman, had been besotted since the age of fourteen, when he had vowed to make the spirited Elinor his wife-after she bested him in an archery match at a local fair. The two of them had lived here, on Elinor's dower lands, ever since Bayard's family holdings were lost in the war.

Straightening, Elinor lifted her daughter to her hip. "It is time to put this little one to bed, milord."

"Aye, you are right." The child had lost a shoe, and Bayard reached up to tickle his daughter's bare foot, making her giggle.

Elinor smiled warmly at Ciara. "Thank you again, milady. I do not believe I have ever heard anyone play so beautifully."

The praise brought a dusting of pink to Ciara's cheeks. Her smile was bright, her eyes sparkling as she cradled her mandolin. "I am glad the children enjoyed it."

"They loved it. And you." Elinor turned her attention to Royce. "This charming bride of yours will make a wonderful mother. She has such a way with children."

Royce could not reply, his gaze on Ciara, his mind filled with a sudden, unbidden image of her round and heavy with child.

His child.

He blinked and the vision vanished, but it left behind a strange, tingling warmth in the region of his heart. A longing he had never felt before.

Elinor was still speaking to him. "And did you know that she composes her own music?"

It took a moment for Royce to find his tongue. "Aye,'' he lied. No wonder he had never heard the tunes before.

Chuckling, Bayard clapped him on the shoulder. "Let us go collect our son, Elinor. I think these two would enjoy some time alone." He pushed back from the table and stood. "They may even wish to retire early." He winked.

Royce forced himself to smile, trying not to think of the comfortable bedchamber his friends had prepared for him and Ciara. "Good eventide to you both."