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Five
    S leep was long in coming to Leanna. She lay awake for many hours, praying and weeping in silent torment, both for her father and for Emric. She could not believe the news that her father was dead. There was no tangible proof for it, but his prospects were slim. If he had been captured by his enemies, there would have been a ransom. She clung to hope, even as she knew it might one day exacerbate the pain.
    The bitter ache within her was made even more unbearable by her farewell to Emric. He tried to conceal it from her, but she had seen into his heart and knew the truth of his mission:
My love, would that fate decreed a chance for us.
She cursed the gift that revealed his mind, for it left her feeling as though she were already grieving for him.
    When she woke, she found her face wet. The tears followed her even in her sleep. The fire was dead, the room dark but for a beam of moonlight that filtered through the window. She sighed and wiped the moisture from her cheeks.
    Suddenly, she shuddered, seized by the feeling that she was not alone.
    A cry formed on her lips but was stifled by a great, meaty hand. Sharp terror gripped her as the assailant caught both her wrists in his free hand with a strength that defied her imagination.
    “Quiet, my sweet.”
    She heard the voice as the dark figure loomed over her like a specter from a nightmare.
    “I’ve come to claim my prize.”
    With a menacing chuckle he leaned back, moonlight illuminating his face, and Leanna recognized her assailant.
    “Bran!” She heard the terror in her own voice.
    She kicked at him and struggled vainly to free her hands, but her efforts were as puny to Bran as those of a child. Finally, her movements annoyed him, for he swore and struck her across the mouth with the back of his hand.
    The blow stung and filled Leanna’s mouth with the bitter taste of her own blood. Unwanted tears filled her vision and dropped from her lashes.
    “Enough of that, my pretty,” he hissed, freeing something from his belt. “Fight me again and my next blow shall be worthy of a man.”
    Leanna remembered the sight of Sir Owen on the ground and Bran’s laughter as the blood poured from Owen’s crippled body. The horror of Bran’s thoughts that day flashed into her mind. She wondered how she would be able to defy him.
    Leanna struggled vainly against the filthy cloth with which he gagged her. Bran seized her by the waist, lifting her easily off the bed and onto his shoulder. As he flung her up, Leanna became aware of two shadows on the floor near the door. The shapes resolved into the bodies of guardsmen, black pools of blood spreading from them. Leanna screamed, but only a muted guttural sound escaped her.
    Bran strode into the dimly lit hall, his squirming bundle an easy weight on his mighty shoulders. Several of his bondsmen were in the gloom of the hall, their blades drawn.
    “Come,” Bran whispered hoarsely to one of them. “I have what I desire.”
    They made quickly for the stairs, but came short as a naked blade emerged from the darkness.
    The cloak-wrapped figure of King Morien stepped before them, his sword held high at the ready. He studied the men around him and when he spoke his voice was steady and strong.

    “Sleep did not come tonight, so I paced the ramparts. Then I heard a cry. Now I find this mischief? What have you done here, Bran?” When only silence followed, he roared, “Answer me, boy!”
    Bran slowly lowered Leanna to the floor.
    “Destiny smiles upon me this night, it seems,” he said. “But what’s this you’ve brought for me, Father? The point of your blade?” He drew his own sword in an instant, though his stance remained relaxed, nonchalant.
    Morien stood tensely, watching the crowd of armed men. Then his eye caught the pool of blood that had spread beyond the door of Leanna’s chamber.
    “Whom have you killed this night?” he shouted. “And you dare to draw steel against your king?”
    “Oh, I dare much more than