Giliahna felt the vixen’s terror and despair at her kits’ fate. The ledge they were cowering on looked none too secure, and if this rain kept up, they might be swept down into the river below, a river that threatened to flood its banks.

Little sister, if I could aid you, I would. But I am not free to do so—

But I am. It was Stefanohs, clear and determined. Show me the way, little sister. I will get your kits to safety.

“Why?” asked Giliahna.

He shrugged. “1 have to. I can’t let them die, when I can save them. I just can’t.”

He gathered up a saddlebag to stuff the kits into, and riding gloves to protect his hands; even with their mother’s mindspeak to calm them, he didn’t want to risk the teeth and claws of two terrified fox kits. He glanced around the cave—his sword was on his belt, his knife in his boot. There was nothing Giliahna could use to cut her bonds.

“I’ll be back,” he told her.

She waited until he was gone a short distance, using the three-way link to follow him. Then, shielding her thoughts carefully, she inched her way over to the fire. He had tied her ankles together soon after they had made camp, to keep her from taking any foolish chances, he’d said, so she had to pull herself along the cave floor. It took an unbearably long time. Then, when she was close to the fire, she squirmed so that her back was toward it and plunged her rope-tied hands into it.

The first touch of the flames on her skin was agonizing, and she had to bite her lip to keep from crying out. She pulled her hands up, maneuvering so that just the rope was in the fire, but still she could feel the heat, and every so often the wind would blow the flames high enough to lick her wrists. Sweat broke out on her forehead, trickled down her cheeks. Her lips were bloody from her efforts to keep from making a sound, because she really had no idea how far away Stefanohs was and she didn’t want him to be warned.

After what seemed an eternity, she felt the rope give, and she pulled her hands free and unwrapped the bonds. Her wrists were raw and starting to blister in places, but she knew they would heal quickly, though at this moment she was only aware of the pain. Ignoring it, she bent and untied her ankle bonds. She was free. Quickly she glanced around the cave to see if there was anything she could use as a weapon. Nothing. Stefanohs had not been careless.

But the horse was there, tethered under an overhang of rock which kept off the worst of the rain—the cave was too low to accommodate a horse; even she had to bend her head a little, and she was a small woman. She drew on her cloak, semidry from the fire, and started out.

She wanted to know where Stefanohs was, though. No need to run into him. She wanted as much time as possible before he discovered she was gone. Carefully, she reached out to his mind and looked through his eyes.

Stefanohs had followed Silkfur on a winding trail that led partway down the side of the mountain. It was rough going. The mud made it hard to get a safe footing, and it wasn’t easy to explain to the vixen that what would hold her small weight was not safe for him. Finally she had stopped before an outcropping.

Here, two-legs brother. My children are below. He felt her concern and fear for her kits.

All his life he had had a rapport with animals. He had always been able to gentle horses without having to break them to the whip. His hounds had always been faster and more loyal, and he had almost seemed to know what their baying meant. He had often wished he could know, because animals never made him feel an outcast as humans did. Half-breed, son of the enemy, unworthy . . . horses and dogs neither knew nor cared. If his grandfather had not been kath'ahrohs and from a noble line, he would most likely have been assigned to tend sheep and cattle, and he would have been happy enough—but he was his mother’s son (his father’s too, as they never allowed him to forget) and he was meant to be a warrior.

Now he could feel an animal’s thoughts, and the vixen’s need and desperation overrode everything. It didn’t matter that this'was a curse inherited from his father’s people. This blending was a marvel.

/ will fetch them for you. Be calm.

He inched out toward the outcropping of rock, lay down on his belly, and peered over. At first he couldn’t spot them, because their bright fur was caked with mud, but at last he saw two bedraggled, very young, and very frightened kits peering up at him with terrified shoe-button eyes.

The larger kit growled and tried to bristle. Leave us, two-legs. I will protect my sister from your kind.

Hush, Bannertail, the two-legs is a friend. He has come to help. Let him touch you. He will not hurt you.

The growling and the bristling stopped, dissolving into relief at his mother’s mindtouch. He was no longer a would-be hunter, but a frightened kit trying very hard to hide it.

Stefanohs tried not to laugh at the kit’s ferocity. It reminded him of himself at that age, fighting with every bully who dared to call him a half-breed. He’d had his fair share of bloody noses and blackened eyes before they’d learned to respect his courage, if not his prowess.

The kits were on a ledge beneath the cropping, a ledge made mostly of mud and grass. He didn’t want to have to climb down there if he didn’t have to. He wasn’t sure it was secure enough. First he’d try to reach the little devils.

Come to me. Your mother is waiting beside me.

The little male denied needing any help, he’d just been about to figure out how to climb up himself, but if the two-legs insisted, he would allow himself to be lifted to safety.

Stefanohs moved forward as far as he dared and then reached down. He could see the kits, but there were eight feet between his hand and their fur.

They were already at the edge of their ledge, and the dirt was beginning to crumble.

All right. That left him no choice. He’d have to go down to them. He took the rope he’d brought, tied one end around his waist, the other around a sturdy tree. It would give him some security if the ledge gave way. At least he wouldn’t tumble headfirst into the river, which lay a dozen or so yards below. Slowly, carefully, he picked his way down the cliffside. Several times he almost lost his footing from the mud, but finally he was within reach of the kits.

Do as he asks, Bannertail, came Silkfur’s firm mindtouch. Meekly, but with soft growls, the male kit allowed himself to be picked up and stuffed unceremoniously into the saddlebag. His annoyed comments made it plain that he did not care for his temporary home. The small female was easier to handle, and while there was a tinge of fear in her mind, she seemed to regard him as a hero. Stefanohs fastened the leather ties on the saddlebag, assuring them it was only for a few minutes, that they would soon be with their mother.

He held on to the rope and began to swing himself onto the trail he had come down, only to realize that it was not there. The mud had been crumbling under his boots, and when he had pushed off to jump onto the ledge it had collapsed. He couldn’t quite make it to the next foothold. There wasn’t enough slack in the rope.

For an awful moment he dangled there, then he used the rope to haul himself back onto the narrow, crumbling ledge.

* * *

Giliahna felt his fear and fought it back. He was an enemy. He had taken her prisoner, he had hit her, he would turn her over to that Reverend Father of his if he had the chance. She owed him nothing, nothing at all. But she could not quite banish the momentary glimpse she had had of the loneliness he had known all those years—nor could she forget that he had been remarkably gentle with her in a situation in which most men would, at the very least, have indugled in rape. It was almost customary, with a female captive. And he had wanted her, she knew that too. But he had not touched her. She couldn’t let him die.