“Do they know you’re a shapeshifter?” he inquired coolly.

“No.” She grinned at him. “You know that the only people who would believe such a story are barbarians of the Rethian mountains. Besides, it’s much more useful being a shapeshifter if no one knows about it but me.”

“Home is where they know all of your secrets, Featherweight, and love you anyway.”

Aralorn laughed, and the tears that had been threatening since she heard about her father fell at last. When Falhart opened his arms, she took two steps forward and hugged him, kissing his cheek when he bent down. “I missed you, Fuzzhead.”

He picked her up and hugged her, stiffening when he looked over her shoulder. He set her down carefully, his eyes trained on whatever he had seen behind her. “That wolf have something to do with you?”

She turned to see a large, very black wolf crouched several paces behind her. The hair along his spine and the ruff around his neck was raised, his muzzle fixed in an ivory-fanged snarl directed at Falhart.

“Wolf!” Aralorn exclaimed, surprise making her voice louder than she meant it to be.

“Wolf!” echoed an archer on the walls, whose gaze was drawn by Aralorn’s unfortunate exclamation. The astonishment in his voice didn’t slow his speed in drawing his bow.

Lambshold had acquired its name from the fine sheep raised here, making wolves highly unpopular in her father’s keep.

Aralorn threw herself on top of him, keeping herself between him and the archer, knocking Wolf off his feet in the process.

“Aralorn!” called Falhart behind her. “Get out of the way.”

She envisioned the large knife her brother had tucked in his belt sheath.

“Hart, don’t let them . . . ooff—Damn it, Wolf, stop it, that hurt—don’t let them shoot him.”