Forest Kingdom Trilogy 2 - Blood and Honor

me?'
    'Of course, Dominic'
    'That's nice.'
    There had been a time when he'd thought she might be enough to keep away the darkness. Certainly he'd never before wanted anything as much as he'd wanted her. But in the end even she began to pall on him, and the never-ending horror of boredom crept back over him. He kept her with him anyway, because he had a use for her, and it wasn't the use she thought. He went to her smiling, and she only thought she knew what he was smiling about.
    Catriona Taggert ran down the corridor at full pelt, struggling to keep up with the guard leading the way.
    This was going to be a bad one, she could tell. She hadn't been able to get much sense out of the guard when he'd come to summon her, but from his pale face and stuttering voice she knew it had to be something really nasty. It took a lot to upset a Castle Midnight guard. Taggert fought for breath as she ran, and wondered, not for the first time, why she hadn't resigned long ago. She'd never planned to become Steward. Her father had been the previous Steward, and he'd spent years training an Apprentice. Then the Dark Horse had broken loose in the North Passage. Her father had been lamed, and the Apprentice died. Catriona had started out helping her father just as an excuse to keep an eye on him while his injuries healed, but somehow she became his Apprentice in spite of herself. Being Steward of Castle Midnight was a hard job, even at the most peaceful of times. It killed her father when he was still in his early fifties. There was a bitter irony in that. All the terrors and creatures he faced, and he finally died at the dinner table, of a heart attack. That was seven years ago, and Taggert was only now beginning to realise that her father's early death had left her dangerously unprepared. She just wasn't experienced enough to handle this level of emergency. But with her father gone, there was no one left for her to turn to. She had to be good enough, because there wasn't anyone else.
    Cord tried to help, bless his heart, but he wasn't what you'd call bright. If you couldn't hit it or stab it, he was mostly lost for an alternative. Taggert almost smiled, but then she realised the guard was leading her into the South Wing. Up until now, the worst outbreaks of the Unreal had all been in the North. If it had established a foothold in the South as well, that could mean the beginning of the end. She couldn't fight on
    two fronts at once. Taggert silently cursed King Malcolm's murderer yet again for having dropped her in this mess. She'd been kept so busy since the King's death that she hadn't even been able to help hunt down the murderer. Strictly speaking, that was Security's province rather than hers, but she'd never trusted Brion DeGrange, geas or no geas. And with the King's death she was cut off from the Stone, which meant she had to rely on her own High Magic. Which meant she had no time for anything but the job she'd grown to hate. She ran on after the guard, her sword slapping painfully against her leg. Her breathing was growing harsh and ragged, but she was damned if she'd slow down before the guard did.
    She had an image to maintain. Besides, sometimes a few minutes' difference in getting to the scene was all that stood between saving someone from the Unreal, and standing helplessly by as they died horribly.
    One of these days we're going to have to organise a better system, thought Taggert determinedly.
    There's got to be an easier way. Or at least one that doesn't involve so much running. I must have lost ten pounds in the last few days . . .
    She finally rounded a corner and stumbled to a halt as her guide leant against the corridor wall and gasped for breath. He gestured weakly at the group of guards ahead, and Taggert started towards them.
    She felt a little better as she saw the Captain in charge was Matthew Doyle. She'd worked with him before. He knew his job, he didn't panic easily, and his men trusted him implicitly. He didn't bathe often enough, but you couldn't have everything. Doyle left his squad of worried-looking guards and stepped forward to greet her. He was a tall, wiry man in his late thirties, with a shock of dark curly hair and a perpetually thoughtful expression. His uniform was scruffy, he'd been on report for insubordination more times than any other guard in the Castle, and he was resigned to never rising any higher in rank than Captain. If he gave a damn about it, Taggert had never seen it. Doyle grinned