The Sea of Time by P C Hodgell

Tori sank down into the opposite chair. Burr gave him a glass of thin wine, which he drained with a shaking hand.
    Dammit, pull yourself together.
    The hand steadied.
    Burr refilled the glass. Over its rim, Tori regarded his visitor. The latter was lanky and liberally bespeckled with pimples. A tangle of ginger curls crowned his head. While his clothes were filthy, they were also of fine fabric and an elegant cut.
    “Who are you?” Tori asked.
    “Do you grant guest rights?”
    Tori gathered that he was being asked to extend his protection to his unlikely visitor.
    “How can I do that when I don’t know why you’re on the run?”
    “Who says that I am—running, that is.”
    Both Kencyr looked at him, the Highborn with a raised eyebrow.
    “All right. So I am.” He took another bite of bread and gazed longingly at the wine bottle. Tori nodded to Burr, who reluctantly poured the boy a glass.
    “Running away from what?” Tori asked patiently.
    “What can I say that you would believe? I hardly know myself, except that I’m scared.”
    “Of what?”
    “Of a man who casts the shadow of a white wolf.”
    “Not good enough. Start at the beginning.”
    “All right.” The boy took a long swig of wine as if to fortify himself, his skinny throat working. “I’m trusting you, d’you hear me? My father, King Kruin, is dying, but he won’t admit it. And he hangs on, past all reason. Meanwhile, the Karnids’ dark Prophet whispers in his ear and my kinsmen die, wasting away as the wolf’s shadow falls over them. All of my brothers are dead. Now my uncles and cousins have started to disappear. No one will believe what I have seen, so I ran.”
    Tori had heard rumors of the mysterious deaths Overcliff among the royal family, not that they had had much to do with him personally. He supposed, though, that anything that affected the Host’s paymaster, King Kruin, would eventually affect the Host itself.
    “So you’re afraid both of this wolf and of the prophet,” he said. “What prophet?”
    “As I said, a Karnid, out of Urakarn. They’re all fanatics there, sworn to a world to come when death itself will die, or so they claim. Father is desperate; he listens to them. So do many of my family, hoping to save their skins. But I am my father’s youngest, last son, too close to the Rose Throne for safety, and I don’t trust any word that comes out of Urakarn.”
    The two Kencyr exchanged glances. The Kendar’s scowl clearly said Don’t trust him .
    Tori wondered, Should I?
    Moreover, what protection could he really offer? His stinging legs reminded him how vulnerable he himself was and, despite himself, he shivered. Still, this boy and he had much in common, both outcasts with problematic fathers.
    “I can’t promise you much,” he said, “only a place to stay and a share in our rations which, I warn you, are meager. That said, again, what is your name?”
    The boy grinned with relief, showing big, white teeth worthy of a colt. “I’ll take whatever you can offer. What other choice have I? To answer your question, I am Prince Krothen, but you can call me Kroaky.”

CHAPTER VI
    Challenges
    Summer 111
    I
    JAME WOKE, confused, in pain. She had met both Kroaky and that great pudding, King Krothen. How could they be the same, hair and voice aside? Then again, how much could one trust in dreams?
    G’ah, the lines of fire across her legs . . .   She thought she could feel the welts, until she was fully awake.
    Was Tori attempting to scry on her through Marc’s growing stained glass window? Did he have any idea that some of his efforts might be flowing in reverse, if indeed that was the case? Genjar and the hazing . . . her own legs aching in sympathy . . .
    For that matter, was Tori also privy to her own dreams? Sweet Trinity forefend.
    She threw off the covers, to the disgust of Jorin who had been curled up under them, and rose. Her new quarters were located on the third floor of the Knorth barracks, looking north