Warcry

and hedge. He and Lara had played here for years under his mother’s watchful eye.
    Atira was following as quiet as he could wish. Heath wasted no time; the Castle Guard was known to him, and he to them, but there might be others out this night that were not quite so friendly.
    He reached the edge of the kitchen gardens and paused for just a moment.
    There was smoke rising from the kitchen chimneys, which was not unusual. The ovens and hearths were busy night and day, feeding the denizens of the castle. That was his mother’s kingdom, and she ruled it with an iron hand.
    He could hear her voice, shouting some orders at the undercooks, no doubt. Out of nowhere, a wave of homesickness hit him. It wasn’t just that he wanted to be able to enter the kitchen and hug his mother. He wanted to be sure of his welcome there.
    Atira stepped to his side, clearly puzzled at his delay. He hadn’t introduced her to his mother, hadn’t dared.
    But they needed to keep moving.

    HEATH TUGGED AT HER HAND AND ATIRA ALLOWED him to lead her around the kitchen gardens to the back wall where the gardeners kept their tools. He pointed at the tree that grew there, its thick trunk at an angle to the ground. “Up there,” he said.
    Atira peered up through the branches. All she saw were leaves. She’d never climbed a tree before.
    “I’ll lead the way,” Heath said, grabbing a branch and hauling himself up.
    Atira hesitated.
    “What’s wrong?” The whisper floated down. “Are you scared?”
    With a glare, Atira reached out and heaved herself into the tree. She concentrated on not looking down. Instead, she watched where Heath placed his hands and feet and copied his every move. Faster than she thought possible, she was up the tree and on a slanted roof.
    Heath led the way again and she followed, having a care at this angle. The last thing she wanted was a fall.
    One roof led to another, then another still, until Heath leaped for an open window. He gestured for her to follow. Atira didn’t let herself think about it. She just jumped. Heath helped her in and over the windowsill.
    “My old room,” he breathed in her ear.
    She stood there, breathing hard, as Heath padded across the room, and she watched as he eased the door open. He looked back, a shadow in the darkness. “Make sure you keep up.”
    Atira growled softly, but Heath just slid out the door.
    She followed him through a bewildering array of rooms, halls, and doors. She caught glimpses of wide corridors lit with torches and hung with colorful tapestries. But Heath always chose the smaller ways, dark and narrow.
    Atira had never been in a building this large, and it seemed to her that the walls were never ending, closing in on her, getting closer and closer all the time. But she reminded herself that she’d felt this way at Eln’s as well and had managed to survive that.
    She focused on Heath’s back, and on breathing. The rest was in the hands of the elements.
    Heath stopped, finally, in front of two large double doors. He knocked twice and waited.
    Inside, a bolt was drawn, and a slice of light grew as Eln appeared in the doorway, looking as calm as he always did. But his eyes went wide as he saw the two of them. “Heath? Atira?”
    Heath pushed through gently. Atira followed as Eln moved back into the room, then shut the door and bolted it. “My father,” Heath asked. “How—”
    A groan issued from beyond.
    Heath’s face went white. Eln shook his head. “Heath, he’s—”
    Heath ignored the man, crossing the wide room for another door on the other side. Atira saw a large lump of a man under blankets, one pale hand on that broad chest. Another moan filled the air.
    Heath walked to the bedside, his face etched with pain. “Papa?”

CHAPTER 7
     
    “HEATH.” ELN’S REASSURING VOICE DID NOTHING to ease the pain in Heath’s heart as he advanced into the room. “He’s just—”
    Othur jerked up in bed. “Heath?” To Heath’s astonishment, Othur threw back the blankets, leapt to his feet, and caught Heath up in his arms.
    “—overacting,” Eln finished, his tone as dry as always.
    “Papa.” Heath hugged his father hard, and tears filled his eyes as relief flooded through him. “Papa, you are well?”
    “My son, my son.” Othur grabbed Heath’s shoulders and took a step back. “Let me look at you!”
    “Keep your voices down,” Eln said sharply. “Or the entire castle will be in here to look at him. And you.”
    “Returned from the