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horrors?”
    â€œYes, m’lord. Strongly.”
    â€œSo advise us, loreteller. If winged horrors were sent to ‘kill red-haired girl,’ who loosed them? And why?”
    Nineve stumbled, her gaze fixed at the low ridge to their right. Rhiannon pulled the filly’s head around, but the horse tossed her head and looked back. Her father’s roan kept turning its head to the right as well. Girard’s old gelding, however, plodded along unconcerned, with relaxed ears and droopy eyes. Rhiannon had never seen the animal excited over anything. She glanced again at the ridge, chewing the inside of her lip thoughtfully. It was daylight, many turns of the glass before nightfall. Still . . .
    â€œOnly Serous claims to have heard that,” Girard was saying. “Our lore makes no mention of the Mighty Ones’ beasts talking. None of the other herders heard anything. I asked them out of Serous’s hearing. They were as surprised with that as the rest of us.” Girard shook his head. “If you are thinking of the incident by that deranged monk after Rhiannon’s birth—”
    â€œIt has been almost sixteen years without any further attempts on Rhiannon,” Tellan said. “Like you, I think we can discount what Serous said.” He leaned forward, his dark eyes glittering. “But my questions remain: Why were winged horrors sent to destroy the Rogoth hlaford? And who sent them?”

Chapter Three
    L AKENNA
    â€œM Y LORD HUSBAND indulges Rhiannon shamefully,” Lady Mererid said as they jostled about in the carriage. “It is my hope that your presence will help me lead her to put aside this warrior obsession.”
    Lakenna retied the scarf that secured her hair against the stiff breeze. “This time can be difficult for young ladies.”
    They were half a day’s journey from Lachlann. The road was muddy and rocky. More than once Lakenna had determinedly kept her eyes focused inside the carriage, trying not to speculate on how much room the wheels had before the road gave way to air and the breathtaking scenery beyond. Foothills, Lady Mererid had called them. To Lakenna, they were small mountains. A long valley stretched below the winding road, blue with morning mist. She could see tops of trees, some type of evergreens judging by the foliage and the crisp scent.
    Lakenna brought her gaze back inside the carriage where she sat across from her new employer. The seats were bare wood. Every bump in the road pounded through the tutor’s hips, coursed up her spine, and rattled the top of her skull, which made talking risky. Several times her teeth had clacked together, once catching the side of her tongue painfully. A faint metallic taste of blood still lingered.
    The wind blew wisps of hair across Lady Mererid’s face. Lakenna envied the noble lady’s long elegant fingers as Mererid tucked the wayward strands back under the hood of her cloak. A deep wine-red, the cloak was made of the highest quality wool embroidered in a flower and leaf pattern. Mererid’s dress was a lighter shade of red with the bodice and hem outlined by delicate lace. Around her neck she wore a necklace of gold links with a small cameo pendant nestled in the hollow of her throat.
    â€œI never met my lord husband’s first wife, but I am told that Rhiannon favors her strongly. Lady Eyslk died during Rhiannon’s birth.” Mererid fussed with another windblown strand of hair. “This is my second marriage as well. I lost my first husband and year-old son to lung fever only weeks after Lady Eyslk’s death.”
    Lakenna’s insides roiled. She had lost her father to this dread disease years ago. And just six months ago her betrothed had succumbed to it. He had just finished building their cottage when the constant clearing of his throat started. The next day, his flushed face and chills confirmed . . . Lakenna firmly put those thoughts aside.
    Another strong