Chapter 4: The King's Wound

"You're blocking my light," I said.

It was the only thing I could think of, and it came out steadier than I felt.

The Lycan King looked at me for a long moment.

"So I am," he said.

He did not move.

His eyes had stayed gold, and they were fixed on the pestle in my hand.

"Do you always grind that way? Clockwise, slow, then a hard turn at the end?"

"I don't know how I grind," I said. "I just do it."

"Interesting," he said, in the voice of a man who did not find it interesting but something far larger.

Behind him a lean figure with white-blond hair and wire glasses appeared and said, "Osian. The hall."

"In a minute, Garland."

"They've gathered eleven healers and a goat."

"Then the goat can wait."

I bit down on my laugh and saw one corner of his mouth lift.

It was the smallest crack in a very big wall.

"Your name?"

"Betony."

"That isn't what you smell like."

"I'm not sure that's polite to say to a woman."

"No," he agreed. "It isn't."

He leaned on the doorframe, which creaked.

"Eleven healers have come through that gallery today," he said.

"My side aches whenever the weather turns, and it has ached since I rode into this valley."

"Do you know when it stopped?"

I shook my head.

"On the stair," he said. "The moment I reached you."

Then Garland said "Osian" again, with a sigh, and the King straightened and ducked back out under the beam.

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