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personally served—as a groveling apology for
letting in the Valg soldier—to Lords Darrow,
Sloane, Gunnar, and Ironwood. Not to kill
them, but to send them into a deep, dreamless
sleep.
Even a roaring bear couldn’t wake this
lout, Ansel of Briarcliff had sniffed when
she’d stood over Lord Gunnar’s cot, lifted his
limp arm, and let it drop.
The lord didn’t stir, and Lysandra, wearing
a field mouse’s form and tucked into the
shadows behind the queen, deemed it proof
enough.
The four lords’ loyal banner men also
found themselves sleeping deeply that night,
courtesy of the wine that Galan Ashryver,
Ilias, Ren, and Ravi had made sure was
handed out at their fires.
And when they all awoke the next day,
there was only whipping snow beyond their