The White Mists of Power by Kristine Kathryn Rusch Page A

pallet, his arms flung over his head. He snored softly, and occasionally one of his muscles world twitch. Seymour had examined Byron’s knees earlier, and except for the aging scabs, the knees had healed.
    Byron should have talked to Seymour about the Kinsmail heritage. Seymour would have understood. Perhaps Byron felt that a peasant could only relate to one of his own kind. But to make up the elaborate story about barding, about Rury–Seymour shook his head. He didn’t know what to believe. If Byron were truly a Kinsmail, it made no sense to tell the Lady Jelwra. She had no scruples. She would probably tell Lord Dakin about Byron right away because Byron’s claim threatened them both. Then Byron would be in even more trouble.
    Seymour sighed. He wished he were home, on his soft bed, away from everyone. He could practice his little magicks, take care of himself, and talk to no one. Life had been good there. He wished he had never heard the hounds, had never helped Byron. But Lord Dakin would still have discovered the hut, and Seymour would have had nowhere to go. If he hadn’t come into the city with Byron, he wouldn’t have known how to take care of himself.
    The drunk sat in a doorway, his head against the door jamb, probably passed out. The sounds from the common room had grown stronger. He thought he heard the Lady Jelwra’s voice, answered by a man’s. Something about that other voice sounded familiar. The hair rose on the back of Seymour’s neck. He stood up and went to the door, opening it a crack. Below, a man laughed, a thick, gruff chortle. Seymour recognized it. Lord Dakin’s laugh.
    Seymour’s heart beat in his throat. He closed the door quietly and tiptoed to the bed, grabbing Byron’s shoulders and shaking him.
    “Byron,” he whispered. “Lord Dakin’s downstairs.”
    Byron didn’t open his eyes. “It’s just a dream.”
    “I wasn’t asleep,” Seymour said. “It was Dakin. I heard him.”
    Byron stretched. “Get some sleep, Seymour. This may be the last bed we see for days.”
    “He was talking to the Lady Jelwra.”
    Byron didn’t answer. His breathing sounded even again, as if he had fallen back to sleep.
    Seymour grabbed his boots. He was not going to stay here, not if there was even a slight possibility that Lord Dakin was downstairs. This time Byron could save himself from the lord. Byron sighed deeply. Then another wave of laughter rose from the room below. Byron sat up so quickly that Seymour almost dropped his boots.
    “That is Dakin!”
    “I know,” Seymour said.
    “I’m sorry, Seymour. I should have–”
    “Don’t apologize.” Seymour winced as he pulled on his boots. He grabbed his shirt and slid his arms into it. The material felt sharp and scratchy–new. “We’ve got to get out of here. I don’t want to see Lord Dakin.”
    “He doesn’t know we’re here.”
    “The Lady Jelwra’s bound to tell him about you, Sir Geoffry . I just want to be out of here before he decides to come up and get rid of the last Lord of Kinsmail.”
    “She wouldn’t say–”
    “You don’t know that. And it’s my neck you’re risking. Now get dressed and let’s go.” Seymour was amazed to hear his father’s voice come out of his mouth. He had never been commanding before. But then, he had only been this frightened one other time in his life. “I’ll go down first. Then you toss me the valise and follow.”
    “What about the boys?”
    “What about them?” Seymour had never seen Byron so indecisive. It irritated him.
    “I promised that they could come with me.”
    Seymour pushed the shutters open farther. He didn’t care about the boys. If Byron wanted to risk his life for those children, he could, but this time Seymour was going to look after himself. He straddled the windowsill. “Just toss me the valise.”
    He didn’t wait for a reply. He gripped the windowsill tightly and swung his legs outside. The sudden pull on his arms made his shoulders crack. He glanced