Dreams Made Flesh

Suppressing a sigh she was sure would only irritate him further, she selected her silverware and began to eat. The fried potatoes were quite good, the scrambled eggs were bland but not bad, and the steak, despite its treatment, was still tender. But every bite she chewed and swallowed was an effort of will. She was too aware of the annoyed man sitting across from her, too aware that she hadn't yet performed her first task in her new position and he was already displeased with her.
    After a few bites, her aching stomach threatened to rebel if she forced
    another mouthful of food into it, so she pushed the food around, wish-
    ing the meal would end…and afraid to consider what might happen when it did.
    Suddenly, Yaslana set his knife and fork down and pushed back his chair, his half-eaten meal another silent criticism.
    "I have to go out for a few hours," he said. "I should be back by midday."
    As he moved toward the archway, she half turned in her chair but couldn't look at him. "What…What would you like me to do?"
    "Whatever hearth witches do."
    Defeated, she said, "Nothing important."
    She thought she'd said it quietly enough that he wouldn't hear, but he stopped in the archway and stared at her for a long moment. Then he was gone.
    She sat at the table for a long time, trying to convince herself that she had work to do. The dishes to wash at the very least, and the remains of the meal to store, and the midday meal to plan once she'd taken a look at what was available. The task of exploring her domain should have delighted her. Instead, she sat.
    She was a hearth witch whose Jewels weren't dark enough to give her any status worth mentioning, and her skills had no value. So what was the point of trying, always trying? The only time anyone had valued her was when those five Warlords wanted to kill her. What did that say about a woman who, being from one of the three long-lived races, had already lived thirteen centuries and would live many more…and would never do or be anything important?
    Maybe Lady Angelline didn't do me a favor when she rescued me. Maybe it would have been better if- …
    Marian shook her head. No. This was just another rough patch of road, just another part of the journey that she had to get through before she could turn the dream of having a place of her own into a reality.
    A whine made her turn toward the archway. The wolf was back, still looking woeful.
    Kindred. Blood. Warlord. Young.
    She finally realized why he made her think of a small boy. He was still young.
    "Good morning, Lord Tassle." When he didn't respond, she tried again. "I'm sorry I reacted badly. I… I've never talked to a wolf before."
    *We do not talk to many humans. Only friends.*
    She raised one hand. "Would you still like me to pet you?"
    *Pet?* He came forward, slipping his head under her hand. *Pet.*
    So she petted…and the wonder of touching a wild animal who was more than a wild animal began to fill her.
    She glanced at the unfinished meals. "Would you like some steak, Tassle?"
    *Burned meat?*
    "No, it isn't burned…" Oh.Wolf."…but it is cooked."
    He sighed. *I will eat it anyway*
    She gave the meat to Tassle, ignoring the fact that she could have made a nice steak pie out of it, and began to clear the table.
    "After I wash up and get dressed, could you show me around?" she asked him.
    *I can show you,* Tassle replied. *You do not have to mark territory. I mark our territory. Even Yas cannot mark territory as well as I can.*
    She thought about that for a moment, then bent her head so her long black hair fell forward and hid her grin. Even if nothing else was what she'd hoped for, learning about the kindred was going to be interesting.
    Lucivar stormed into Saetan's study at the Hall and slammed the door behind him. Saetan didn't even flinch, just set the documents he'd been reading aside and leaned back in his chair.
    It figured that the High Lord wouldn't have much reaction to that kind of entrance. After all, he'd been dealing with Jaenelle, the coven, and the boyos for the past five years, and the combination of adolescence, power, and those particularly agile minds when it came to using Craft would have shattered the nerves of a less strong-willed man.
    But that lack of reaction annoyed Lucivar. He needed a battleground on which to vent the emotions churning inside him, and his father wasn't being accommodating. So he shaped the battleground himself.
    "This isn't going to work," he snarled as he paced in