Kiernan felt as if he were caught in an absurd play. How else to explain it? He was out of his blankets, out of the tent, as the first rays of the sun were only beginning to sneak their way over the mountaintops. The day was windless, at least so far, and the air wasn’t as bitingly cold as it had been, but Kiernan’s mitt-covered hands were still getting numb from their constant contact with the snow and ice.

He’d had no breakfast and had been told quite firmly that he wouldn’t be getting any food, or enjoying the benefits of any other items from his pack—his pack—until he returned with the sword he’d thrown away the night before.

Too bad he hadn’t thrown the sword. He’d never even seen the sword. He’d made up his ridiculous lie to keep the crazy man from beating the life out of him, and it had worked, short-term, but now?

Now he was out in the freezing wind, knee-deep in snow, searching for a sword that didn’t exist.

Yes, it was fit for the stage. A tale to keep people amused on the long winter nights. Kiernan knew he needed to stop there, needed to stop picking at a scab that was still far too fresh and already bleeding and bruised. But he couldn’t help himself.

One of those nights at home, with everyone gathered around the fires in the great hall. The players would be on the dais, the tsarn having laughingly surrendered his place and found a spot at the table with his lords.

A wince when Kiernan thought of the lords around the table. Kiernan’s father had always loved theater, and had always been close by his tsarn’s side. But his father had died the previous year and there was still a dull ache whenever Kiernan remembered his absence. There was a sharper, fresher pain when he let himself picture Vin on the tsarn’s other side, the loyal, dutiful son taking a moment away from his responsibilities to laugh and enjoy himself. He’d turn to Kiernan, because of course Kiernan would be there, and Vin would smile in the way that made his eyes light up, the way he only smiled for Kiernan . . .

Unbidden, the words of his angry tentmate came to the front of Kiernan’s mind. “Was there any reason that person might have wanted you dead, do you suppose?”

Any reason the man who sent Kiernan on his mission would have wanted him dead?

Vin. Wanting Kiernan out of sight for a while, certainly. Maybe for an extended period. But dead?

No. Kiernan wouldn’t allow the ravings of a murderous stranger to infest his thoughts with irrational suspicions. Vin had sent Kiernan on this mission because he trusted Kiernan. Because they’d been best friends their whole lives, even before they’d been . . . whatever else they’d become.

Of course it had been—awful, mortifying, shattering—awkward when Vin’s father had walked in on them. There had been—fury, panic, horror—confusion in the aftermath. That was another reason why it had been a good idea for Kiernan to carry Vin’s important message to the coast. He and Vin had been together too often for too long, and their natural, brotherly affection had become twisted into something else. That was all. Nothing that couldn’t be cured with some distance and time.

It would all work out fine, as long as Kiernan was able to get out of the current mess he was in. He half turned and glared back toward the tent. The interloper was sitting on a chunk of rock, bundled in his own clothes and Kiernan’s blankets, and his face was turned toward the morning sun like a basking cat.

It was easy to see, now, what Kiernan had only sensed the night before. The man was dangerously powerful. Kiernan had noticed the well-muscled chest, and he’d known he was dragging someone who weighed a lot, but the man, unconscious, had created a much different impression than he did now. What had been cold marble was now living flesh, and the man’s strength and vitality shone from him in almost physical beams.

There was something fascinating about it. What must it be like? To be so strong, so effortlessly impressive? Kiernan himself was a good height, but he’d always been slim. Quick and well-balanced and fit, certainly, but not powerful. Not like the man by the tent.

And Kiernan had touched that body the night before, touched it intimately. He’d lain on top of the man, their chests pressed together, their legs entwined, Kiernan’s mouth—his lips—on the man’s throat. That had really happened. It hadn’t been a dream.

What would it be like to lie with the man the same way, but with the man awake, just as warm as Kiernan?

Kiernan wouldn’t stay on top for long, he was sure, and there was a familiar, intoxicating twist in his gut at the thought. The man would roll him over, pin him down, and then he’d do whatever he wanted to Kiernan. None of it would be Kiernan’s fault. He couldn’t be blamed for it, wouldn’t need to feel guilt.

The skin of the man’s hands would be rough and calloused, but he’d use them gently, would use Kiernan gently, intent on taking his own pleasure but not wanting to cause harm.

He’d use his mouth. Vin had only teased with that, only hinted, but this man? He’d want to taste Kiernan, need to taste him, to consume him. To own him. Where Vin had been tentative, this man would be confident. Masterful. Yes, he’d be the master, and Kiernan would be—

“What’s taking so long?” The voice cut into Kiernan’s thoughts, carrying easily through the windless air. “Do you not remember where you threw it? Or have you decided you’re not hungry after all and don’t want breakfast? Or lunch, or any other meal for the rest of your life?”

The cruel glee in the man’s voice shattered Kiernan’s fantasy. This misbegotten hell-spawn wouldn’t be gentle with a sex partner. He’d probably shatter Kiernan’s spine just for thinking about the two of them together, but even getting past that awkward reality, what had Kiernan ever seen in the man that would suggest he might be a considerate lover? Did the brute have the capacity for that?

The man took pleasure in the suffering of others. His body might be beautiful, but his mind was twisted and ugly. Kiernan needed to remember that. He needed to see the ugliness. He had no idea how he was going to make it out of this mess alive, but if there was any chance at all, it would lie in cold, practical realism. There was no time for his daydreaming here in the mountains, no space for the luxury of illusions.

The man by the tent was a heartless monster. Nothing more.

So, yes, Kiernan was in a play. He was the hero. His current quest was somewhat absurd, certainly, but that was only a small part of the full story. He was on a quest, facing a monster, and he would win. The heroes always did, in all of the plays Kiernan had seen. He just had to figure out how it would happen for his particular story.

And he needed to do it before he got frostbite from searching for the damned imaginary sword.

What could be going through the kid’s head?

Grif leaned back on his elbows and stretched his aching legs out in front of him. He could still see Kiernan from that position, still see him searching frantically through the snow, hunting desperately for the sword.

The sword Grif himself had dropped three days earlier, many miles distant.

That had come back to him as soon as he’d woken up that morning and rolled away from the warm body he’d been huddled against. He remembered trying to level a hummock out of the sheltered area underneath the bows of a pine tree so he could sleep in peace. He’d hit a rock, the cheap damned blade had broken, and he’d thrown both pieces away in anger.

And now the kid was out searching for that sword.

Grif was pretty good at ignoring his guilty conscience, and it was funny watching the kid conduct his pointless search. He’d actually worked out a grid pattern and was methodically burrowing through each square in turn. If there’d been a sword to find, the little bastard absolutely would have found it.

As it was, though? Grif wouldn’t let it go on too much longer. There weren’t many ways for a man to amuse himself on a cold, snowy mountain, so Grif wouldn’t stop it right away. But soon. Probably.

In the meantime, he went back to his visual survey of the terrain.

He and the boy were in a narrow valley—was it still a valley when there were cliffs instead of hills on each side? Maybe not a narrow valley, maybe a wide crevasse?

He could see a few places he might be able to climb up the cliff if he had to, but there wasn’t much point in trying. He was a lot better off where he was than back up on the peaks. There was snow down here, and trees. Some hardwoods, which meant the land must be sheltered from the worst of the mountain weather. There’d be game, maybe bits of dried fruit or nuts still left on the trees. Aye, he was safer in the valley where he was.

Well, not exactly where he was. They’d be better off— Wait. Not they. He. He’d be better off trailing downhill, back the way the kid had presumably come, staying in the valley but getting rid of as much elevation as possible. Hells, if he was lucky, he’d be able to follow the gentle slope right down to civilization, but he doubted it. If there’d been that kind of easy path through the west side of the Whitetooths, it would have been discovered long since.

But there were trees. And game. They’d need both of those things if they—

Damn it. He.

He pushed himself restlessly to his feet. He was frustratingly shaky, like he was suffering from the world’s worst hangover, but he could fight through it. He needed to. The tent had only stood as well as it had because the kid had stumbled into the exact angle of cliff to protect it from the wind. If the storm had shifted the slightest bit in the night, the tent would have been blown to pieces and they would have been left without shelter.

So he was moving down the valley. If the kid could show him the way out, and if it was passable? Six days walking out of the mountains might be doable, as long as the weather held. And then . . . what?

No point thinking about that. There was a camp to move.

“Boy!” Grif shouted. What was the kid’s name again? “Kiernan! There’s no use. You’ll never find it.”

The boy glared back in his direction, and Grif forced down a grin as he stood up and ambled forward. The kid knew he’d never find the sword because he knew he’d never thrown it. But presumably he didn’t know Grif knew that, and didn’t know how to react to Grif’s sudden show of apparent generosity.

That could be remedied. “If it makes you feel better, I’m going to take all of your gear,” Grif called.

“Take—” Kiernan straightened up and started wading through the snow back toward Grif. “You think you’re going to trade a stupid sword for all my gear? Everything I need for my journey?”

“Trade? No. I’m not trading. I’m taking. I just thought you might feel better if you knew that you aren’t the only one who takes other people’s things without their permission.”

“I didn’t—” Kiernan began hotly, but stopped himself.

Grif couldn’t remember the last time he’d had this much fun. It probably said something horrible about who he was as a human being, but there was nothing that hadn’t already been said before.

“We’re both thieves,” Grif said calmly. “Of course, I’m a smart thief who keeps what he’s taken; you’re a stupid thief who throws it away. But that’s the only difference. So don’t feel bad.”

“I didn’t take your stupid sword!” Kiernan swayed as if the outburst had made him physically dizzy. Still, he kept his chin high and his gaze firm. A strange little sprout of a man, but not completely without mettle.

But appreciating strength didn’t mean Grif wanted to stop playing. “You didn’t take it? Where is it, then?”

“You never had a sword!”

“I never—” Grif scowled. “I’ve been in more battles than you’ve got hairs on your chin. So you tell me—what was that long metal thing I was swinging around? Not a sword?”

“I didn’t mean—” A deep breath, a moment to visibly collect his thoughts, and Kiernan was calmer as he continued. “When I found you, you didn’t have a sword. Not that I noticed. And I checked over there at the bottom of the cliff, first thing this morning before I started searching here. I didn’t find it. I don’t know what happened to your sword, but I didn’t take it.”

“I’d like to believe you, Kiernan.” Grif stepped closer and smiled in what he hoped was a kind manner. “I would. But if I believe you now, that means you were lying last night. Or if you were telling the truth last night, then you’re lying now. Either way, you don’t seem like someone I can really count on to be honest.”

“I told you I’d thrown the sword away because you were raging! You struck me, and it was clear you were prepared to do much worse. What was it you said last night—I needed to make the decision that would keep me alive for the moment, not the decision that would keep me alive later? That’s what I did.”

“Or you’re doing the same thing now.” Grif shrugged. “But it’s okay. I’m not going to kill you. Not about the sword. We’ve established that you’re a liar. There’s no doubt about that. I’ll keep my eyes on you for a while, and then I’ll decide whether you’re a thief as well. Sound fair?”

Kiernan’s face got so red it seemed likely to melt the snow, but he managed to control himself. After a few more breaths he said, “I don’t think it’s necessary for you to make that determination about me one way or the other. What is necessary is the completion of my mission. I can’t do that without the equipment you’re threatening to take from me.”

“I’m not threatening. I’m taking. And unless you’ve got a pair of wings in that pack, your mission is over. It took me fifteen days, give or take, to get here from Burtonsford, and that was before the weather turned. I hunted as I went, so that slowed me down a little, but you’d have to do the same.” For clarity he added, “If I left you with your food, which I’m not going to do, you still wouldn’t have nearly enough. You’d have to hunt, but you don’t have gear for hunting. Well, you don’t have gear for anything, anymore, but even before I took everything, you didn’t have gear for hunting.”

Grif waited for those words to sink in; he was a teacher again, wise and patient. When the time seemed right he said, “Your plans have changed. That’s all. It happens. After a while, maybe you’ll stop bothering to make plans. That’s what works for me. But that’ll be a decision for another day. For now, we’re going to pack up here, and we’ll walk down the valley together, and you’ll show me how you came in. Once we see that, we’ll be able to figure out our next steps.”

“That’s planning,” the boy growled. “You just said you don’t plan, and then, right after that, you told me your plan.”

“Caught me,” Grif said with a smile. “I’m a liar, like you. We’re two of a kind, you and me.”

The horror on Kiernan’s face probably would have been an insult to a man with any pride left, but as it was, Grif laughed. The sound echoed off the cliffs and came back to him, and it was almost like laughing with friends.

“Come on,” he said, and wrapped a companionable arm around Kiernan’s shoulders, not worrying when the boy tensed and tried to pull away. “The sooner I’m done with you, the sooner you’ll be done with me. So cheer up, and let’s get this over with.”