Sarapen noticed a change in the Empress’s demeanor. She no longer protested at his reluctance to share her sleeping chamber. She didn’t mind if he went missing for long periods. She stopped complaining about his lack of interest in her affairs. At the same time he noticed court officials distancing themselves from him. Even those few who’d sought his friendship were now withdrawing.
The Empress is bored with me, and these people know it.
Sarapen was briefly pleased. Perhaps she’d finally send him home. He still didn’t know if he’d survive on Earth but he was willing to take the risk. He’d been trapped in this palace for far too long, surrounded by elementals he didn’t especially like, wooed by an Empress he didn’t care for.
Sarapen thought about his old keep in Scotland, the ancient family building he’d carefully renovated. He remembered the pleasure of hunting stags on his land, and prowling the forests at night.
The Empress isn’t going to send me back, he realized. Her vanity won’t allow it. His failure to respond properly to the Empress’s advances was a deadly insult. She wasn’t just going to send him on his way. She’d kill him first. Sarapen knew it wouldn’t take much for the Empress to get rid of him. All she’d have to do would be withdraw her sorcerous protection. In the harsh, burning environment of the Fire Elementals, he’d shrivel and die in no time.
He thought about Dominil. She’d agreed to help. Sarapen knew she’d keep her word. She’d try to rescue him. But realistically, how could she? Werewolves could not cross dimensions like elementals. Even if they could, how could she reach him here in the palace?
Still . . . if anyone can work it out, it’s Dominil, he thought. She might manage it. Though I doubt the Empress is going to wait much longer.
His thoughts turned toward Castle MacRinnalch and, inevitably, his brother Markus. Sarapen still hated him.
Some day the MacRinnalchs will regret they elected him as Thane.
At Castle MacRinnalch, Markus was giving no thought to his departed brother. He’d rarely thought of him since his funeral. Sarapen was still sadly missed by some werewolves, but in the past months Markus’s own popularity had been growing. He was friendly and approachable, and he gave the impression of working hard for the clan, an impression that was boosted by the assiduous support of his mother. Not only had Markus shone at several important charitable events, he’d provided work for many local werewolf businesses through his contacts in Edinburgh. He’d persuaded the Great Council finally to release funds for drainage improvements in the marshland that ran between the lands of the MacGregors and the MacAllisters. As if that was not enough, the Mistress of the Werewolves had let it be known that her son had decided it was time the clan’s records were organized properly, and was already hard at work on the task.
Markus had been busy with the database, and was consequently a little deflated when Dominil called to tell him she’d tracked down the Avenaris Guild without his help.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. Thrix has confirmed it.”
Markus put his disappointment aside. This was momentous news. “We have to act quickly.”
“Thrix will give a report at the next council meeting,” said Dominil. “That’s only two days away.”
“Shouldn’t you do it?” asked Markus, who knew that a report from Dominil would be clearer and more concise.
“I’m still in disgrace in certain circles.”
Markus couldn’t contradict her. Dominil’s fall from grace hadn’t been forgotten by his mother, or the barons.
“Dominil, you’ve really done well. I’m grateful. Everyone will be.”
“I hope so,” said Dominil. “Thrix is uncertain that the council will be keen to attack.”
“I’ll get it through the council,” said Markus.