Page 297 of Vasmora

“And what will you do? Carry out assassinations for the kind and benevolent Calisza?”

Not even Lothare’s question could drag his attention away from my exposed leg.

“There have been discussions with Calisza about reviving some dead veins,” Dolion chimed in, nodding toward Zevander. “It’s been proposed by the House of Sages that Zevander might be appointed our first Lithoviver.” In recent months, Dolion had returned to his beloved university, to continue his studies and teach up-and-coming mages about the Corvikae.

“Might I entice you to consider some veins in the north, as well?” Lothare asked.

“You might.” Zevander’s grip of my waist tightened, and he pulled me closer. “But first, I’m going to enjoy some time with my mate.”

“Fair enough. Send a mimicrow when you’re available.” Lothare turned toward Kazhimyr. “I hear you’ve been made Captain. Congratulations.”

Kazhimyr gave a nod. “Thank you.”

“So then, Torryn, any interest in the north?”

The much bigger man stroked his jaw, looking pensive for a moment. “Nah. Think my killing days are over.”

Kazhimyr spun. “Is that so? Heard you roughed up a highblood’s son pretty good.”

Brows raised, Lothare tipped his head. “I’m intrigued. What prompted that?”

Jaw clenched and hands curled into tight fists, Torryn stared off, his eyes vacant, as if he were reliving the moment all over again.

Kazhimyr glanced at Zevander, both of them exchanging a tense look that had me frowning. “We’ll just say it was deserved.” Kazhimyr cleared his throat and elbowed Torryn. “C’mon. One of the Queen’s Guard asked to see your wood carvings.”

Torryn snapped out of his trance. “Really?”

“Dabbles a bit himself, I guess.” Kazhimyr jerked his head, and the two of them strode off.

“Well …” Lothare turned his attention toward me. “Before I forget, I’ve brought a gift for you, Lady Rydainn.”

“A gift?”

He twisted around for a large, square object I hadn’t noticed before, black silk draped over it, and threw the draping from over whatever lay inside. When he turned back around, a pup wriggled in his arms. Not the tiny little beast I’d carried around all those months ago, but the size of a full-grown coyote—an armful, even in Lothare’s brawny clutch. “He’s a little groggy at the moment. Had to put a sleep spell over him, or he’d have surely ruined the surprise.”

Eyes wide, I glanced to Zevander and back. “Is that Rho?”

“It is. A hefty eight months older and feistier than ever.” The moment Lothare set him on the ground, Rho darted for my dress, biting the hem of it. “Hey, hey!” Lothare dragged him back, my gown lifting with the pup’s refusal to release it. “That’s no way to treat your new mother.”

The dress fell from Rho’s mouth, as though the comment had surprised him, too.

Again, I snapped my head toward Zevander and back. “Well, his … his father? And his Aunt Verena?”

“They’re expecting a child soon. It’s not been easy for Rho, having a human father. So, we gave him the choice. Stay with his pack, or come live with you. As small as he is, he’ll experience great difficulty with his pack brothers. But with you, he’d be a fierce and loyal protector.”

I knelt down and gently scratched the back of his ear. “Is that what you want, Rho? To live with us, here at Eidolon?”

He dragged his tongue across my cheek, and I chuckled as I wiped the sticky saliva from my skin.

“Then, it’s settled,” Zevander said, reaching for my hand. “The runt stays.”

I let him pull me to my feet, and once upright, he pressed his lips to mine. “Thank you.”

Lothare gave the wolf a pat on his rump and pointed toward the far end of the crowd. “Stand guard over there.”

Without a second’s hesitation, the razorwolf prowled through the crowd, and the staring guests parted for him, drawing their limbs tight to their bodies as he stalked past and posted himself where Lothare had ordered him.

Dolion held up his almost drained glass. “I think I’m going to replenish my drink and mingle a bit. I will circle back to the two of you later this evening.” He bowed toward me, then Zevander, and hobbled off toward the table where Corwin served as a barkeep.