Chapter 8: Rule One

Harlan's room was empty, and the bed had not been slept in.

His cloak was gone from the peg.

Rorik stood in the doorway looking at the neat blankets, and I could see the whole story close in his face.

"A guest of mine," he said, "put a knife in two of my guards."

"He's not my guest," I said. "He never was."

Rorik turned his head and looked at me.

It lasted only a moment.

"North gate," he said. "Now."

We ran.

Twenty Ironclad warriors followed us out of the hold and into the pines, and the cold morning air cut at my lungs.

The tracks were plain in the wet ground, six horses riding hard, one of them carrying double.

I could smell her.

Nessa's scent was thin and sour with fear, and it ran ahead of us through the trees.

"They have a lead," Joren shouted. "We'll never catch horses on foot."

"We will in fur," Rorik said, and he stopped at the edge of the wall.

He turned to me.

"I'm outside the hold now," I said. "The wall is behind us."

"Rule one," he said, and a muscle moved in his cheek.

"Rule one," I said. "No shifting inside your hold."

"Then shift, Luna."

I did not need telling.

I dropped to my knees on the cold earth, and I let go of the thing I had been holding since the field.

It tore through me, bones and skin, and the pain was almost a relief.

Nine lives of memory went with it, then came back.

My hands became paws and my sight went sharp and silver.

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