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really believe Orkid and Dejanus’ claim that Lynan had murdered his own brother? Or had she been a member of the conspiracy from the very beginning?
    Hard as he tried, he could not see his way through it. Something else was occupying his mind. At times just a flash—the exultation he felt when he snapped the neck of the grass wolf—and at other times it was as if he was reliving the whole hunt.
    He did not know what happened to him today. He remembered the rage filling his whole being when Gudon’s life was in danger, as hot and great as a summer storm. He remembered spurring his horse out of the protective group and leaping off it to grapple with the wolf. But he did not know
how
any of this had happened. And he did not know where his great strength had come from.
    He swung his feet off his cot and stood up. The plain gold circle of the Key of Union dangled from its heavy chain around his neck. When he looked outside of his tent, he saw a few fires burning, some with people gathered around. He could also see the shape of the grasslands gently rolling away from the hill on which they were camped. Far away, he could make out clumps of trees. Gudon had called them arrow trees. Lynan could even see individual leaves as sharp and deadly as the weapon they were named after. While he could barely squint in the daylight, at night his vision was as good as a hawk’s. He stepped outside. Nearby was a large boulder. He bent over and tried to pick it up. It would not budge. He might as well have tried to move the world. Whatever strength he had during the fight with the wolf was gone now. He was just plain Lynan again.
    Moonlight reflected off his the pale skin of his hand.
Not quite plain old Lynan anymore,
he thought. Or ever again. He did not fully understand what he had become, but the callow, frightened, and often self-righteous boy who had fled Kendra was no more.
    Suddenly he was alert.
    He looked around, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. What had captured his attention?
    He pricked his ears, but heard only the sound of snuffling horses, a few snoring Chetts, the indistinct mumble of close conversation, the crackling of the fires. He could smell the fire smoke, too, and the horses’ hides. And he could smell something else.
    That was it. That smell. He slowly turned on his heels. There, to the northwest. He
knew
that smell, had come across it only recently. Karak. He drew in air through his nose. One karak, he was certain.
    And then a new sensation. Akin to hunger, but greater and fiercer.
    He strode rapidly toward the source of the scent. He passed a lone sentry, who bowed to him. He broke into a trot. The sentry called after him. He waved at her to keep quiet, and she shut up. In a few moments he was almost out of site of the camp. He hesitated. Part of him wanted to return to his tent, to find rest, but another part, a greater and more urgent part, drove him on.

    Korigan’s remark left Kumul and Ager speechless.
    “You mean you don’t intend for him to replace Areava as ruler of Grenda Lear?” she asked, incredulous.
    “Of course not,” Kumul said, his tone more confused than righteous, staring at the queen. “Areava was next in line to Berayma. And after her is Olio, her brother. No one would accept Lynan being placed on the throne.”
    “The Chetts would,” Korigan said evenly, meeting his gaze.
    “Lynan is of royal descent,” Gudon added. “He has been wrongfully outlawed. Those who actually murdered his brother now rule behind the throne, and if Areava was not complicit in Berayma’s killing, she is certainly taking advantage of it.”
    “But we don’t know that Areava knew of the murderers’ plot,” Ager argued. “She was crowned because she was next in succession.”
    “And she gave amnesty to Lynan to argue his case in front of the court?” Gudon said.
    “Well, no ...”
    “Then maybe she does not want to hear what Lynan might have to say.”
    “This is ridiculous—”
    “What is