bright eyes of his wolf. I don't want to kill you. You are too beautiful. I want to keep you. The clean jaws opened, showing fine white teeth, and Cumril's breath drew in, but the young wolf only lolled out its pink tongue and licked Ingrey's hand. The cool black nose nudged his knife-clutching fist, and Ingrey blinked back tears. The wolf sat up between Ingrey's knees, raised its head, and twisted around to gaze into its killer's face with perfect trust.

He must not botch this, must not inflict unnecessary torment with repeated strikes. His hands felt the neck, traced the firm muscles and the soft ripple of artery and vein. The room was a silvered blur. The young wolf leaned into him as Ingrey laid the blade close. He drew back, struck, yanked with all his strength. Felt the flesh part, the hot blood spurt over his hands, wetting the fur. Felt the body relax in his arms.

Shouts of alarm: his father's voice, “Something's gone wrong! Curse you, Cumril, catch him!”

“He's gone all shaking-he's bitten his tongue, my lord-”

A shift of time and space, and his wolf was bound-no, he was bound-red-silk cords whispered and muttered around him, writhing, rooting in him like vines. His wolf snapped at them, white teeth closing, tearing, but the cords regrew with frightening speed. They wrapped his head, tightening painfully.

Unfamiliar voices invaded his delirium then, irritatingly. His wolf fled. The memory of his evil dream spattered and ran away like water.

“He can't be asleep; his eyes are half-open, see them gleam?”

“No, don't wake him up! I know what you're supposed to do. You're supposed to lead them back to bed quietly, or, I don't know, they go all wild, or something.”

“Then I'm not touching him with that sword in his hand!”

“Well, how else?”

“Get more light, woman. Oh, five gods be thanked, here's his own man.”

A hesitation; then, “Lord Ingrey? Lord Ingrey!”