Ammas looked over his shoulder at Carala. In her face he thought he saw a storm of conflicting feelings, from rage to fear -- not just fear of Othma and her hatred, but a deeper fear that what the Doyenne said might actually be true. With a smile he rose, offering his hand. Lightly she took it, gratitude sweeping her eyes as she stepped forward into Othma Sulivar's gaze with her sworn cursewright at her side. Casimir returned to his seat, watching the interplay between his master and the Doyenne anxiously.

Othma rose from her seat. Even as shrunken as she was, leaning on her staff as she did, she towered over Carala. Her good eye roamed up and down. One hand went to the belt at her waist, drawing from it a pair of twinhooks very like Ammas's. It sported perhaps a few more filigrees; its crescents a little more jagged. The Doyenne wrinkled her nose. "I suppose, Ammas, you have a better reason for bringing this woman to me than the mere fact she is a werewolf?"

Carala stared at Othma nonplussed. Similar looks of shock surfaced on every face in the room except Ammas's, where a knowing smirk had creased his lips. "How -- how did you -- "

"I can smell it on you," Othma said sourly. "Fresh turned, I should say, and unblooded. Although -- not entirely, no. You've taken animals. No humans. I applaud your restraint, your highness. Even as a feral wolf you have less bloodlust than most of your family."

"Othma," Ammas said sternly, and for a wonder the Doyenne's expression softened.

"Well, Ammas? What is the problem? Do you lack the ingredients for a cure? I had not heard Munazyr's markets were so poorly stocked. I cannot believe that you lack the knowledge, not when it was I who taught you how to approach such matters."

"She has been infected by a ritual werewolf." Othma's eyes widened in surprise. "I cannot identify the ritual. I would be hesitant to try any of the cures I possess. One has already failed."

"A ritual wolf," Othma murmured. For the first time she looked at Carala with something other than contempt or amusement. "The return of such things was inevitable, with our fellowships gone. But so soon?" She held out a twisted hand. Carala bit her lower lip, hesitating. "Come, child. I won't hurt you. Ammas has sworn himself to you, and while I may question his judgment, I won't undermine it."

Even with this apparent truce, and even with Ammas at her side, Carala still felt her heart pounding anxiously in her chest as she extended her hand, and felt no small amount of surprise at how gentle the Doyenne's touch was. Lightly she cupped the back of Carala's hand, turning it to expose her wrist, tracing the delicate web of veins that gleamed blue through her skin. The old woman's fingers were dry and callused, and this close to her Carala could detect an aroma not unlike that which clung to Ammas. She wondered if it was something they could all smell, or something only her wolfish senses allowed her to distinguish.

"Prepare a bandage, Ammas," said the Doyenne crisply. "I need to draw a trace of blood from you, girl. It won't hurt."

Denisius rose from his seat at this. Vos laid a hand on his master's forearm. While Lord Marhollow said nothing, a cautious, watchful look glittered in his eye, and he refused to look away from Carala and the Doyenne. Ammas, meanwhile, had stepped forward with a small wad of batting in one hand, his other touching Carala's shoulders comfortingly.

"She is greatly skilled in things like this," he murmured in her ear. "If she says it won't hurt, believe it."

Carala had come to trust Ammas in the time since she had turned up on his temple doorstep -- truth be told, her feelings might have gone deeper than trust -- but nothing she had experienced of Othma Sulivar's presence made her think this was anything other than a soothing lie. But she felt less than an insect's sting when the Doyenne jabbed her wrist with the golden end of the twinhooks, her grip amazingly firm despite the arthritic knots in her fingers.

Ammas held the batting against the incision, soaking up a surprising quantity of blood. Othma held the tool at an angle to Carala's wrist, until her blood had trickled down the shaft of the device. "That will do. Casimir, bring me a clean bowl." Casimir did so, responding to Othma as quickly as he did to Ammas's own requests. Ammas held the batting firm until the bleeding was stanched. Carala gave him a grateful smile.

Othma tossed her twinhooks into the bowl as Casimir presented it to her. The Doyenne cupped the bowl in both hands, tilting it this way and that, frowning at the blood and the patterns it made as it trickled against the ceramic. A low chuckle rattled from her lips. "Oh, Ammas, you have chanced upon something marvelous. Come and see."

Frowning, Ammas left Carala's side and peered into the bowl. The blood had trickled into strange ideograms which made little sense to him. "I confess I don't know what I'm looking at."

"How many times did I tell you not to just study Durmeer's diagram of blood rituals, but to memorize it?" Othma chided, grinning. "Do not be so lazy as your master, Casimir. The day may come when you don't have a library to consult." Othma pointed to the rivulets of blood that clung to the sides of the bowl. "See how it climbs, fighting the earth's pull? The wolfish humors in the blood yearn for the white moon, seeking its light even through the tons of stone that stand over our heads. This is the mark of the ritual used by the Sons of the Moon, the very same. The very same." A note of amused contempt tinted the Doyenne's words. "So similar there is no artistry in it, no finesse, no telling sign. This was not the work of a cursewright or healer. This was done by someone working from a text, or following instructions. There is not even the whiff of devotion one finds in a fanatic. Someone has stolen our knowledge and put it to an evil purpose."

"Do you know how to cure it?" Carala blurted out. Othma smiled at her gently.

"I do. But it will not be easy. It may not even be possible." Carala sighed, nodding as if she had not expected much more than that. Othma looked over her head, casting her gimlet eye down the table. "Vos of Nythel. Stand for me."

A little unnerved to have caught the Doyenne's attention, Vos rose from his seat. Both Denisius and Barthim looked distinctly unsettled. "Yes, Doyenne?" he said uncertainly.

"Casimir, attend me." She pointed to doorway which led to the kitchens. "Just off the door there is a little closet. In it you'll find an oak case -- a harp case, if you know what that looks like." Casimir, who had aided the occasional minstrel who had come to sing at the Prideful Lioness on festival days, nodded rapidly. Othma smiled fondly as the boy darted where she had directed him. "A fine boy, Ammas. You chose well. Now you, your highness. Have you any of your father's musical gifts?"

"I have some," Carala said quietly. "I can play the harp well enough."

"Good. And here is Casimir. My instrument is out of tune, but then I haven't had the pleasure of visitors in a long while."

At the Doyenne's direction (and feeling as if she were being made an object of derision), Carala opened the case, revealing an exceptionally beautiful willow harp, its body engraved with Siraneshi clan symbols. Barthim smiled fondly at its appearance as Carala sat by the table and gingerly set the instrument on her lap. Strumming her fingers along its strings raised a sound of aching beauty. If the harp was out of tune, Carala thought, it must have been a miraculous instrument when in better maintenance.

"Now, Vos of Nythel," Othma called. Vos nodded warily. "Tell me how well you remember your cradle songs, or the rhymes of your childhood."

"Well enough, I suppose, Doyenne Sulivar." Vos caught Carala's eye for a moment, quickly looking away.

The princess was scowling thunderously, pique overriding her intimidation by the Doyenne. If she knew the answer, why was she dragging this out? If there existed a reason beyond her own amusement, Carala certainly couldn't see it. She would follow Ammas's lead, though. As much as she didn't want to believe what the Doyenne had claimed about her grandson, she had heard too many of Silenio's gruesome boasts, and enough of her father's own reflections on those days, to dismiss it out of hand. If it really were true, then she could hardly blame the woman for her rage, even if such terrible things had happened before Carala was born.

If Othma noted any of this playing out on Carala's face, she made no sign. "Come closer, Vos of Nythel. Let us all attend you." Shrugging, Vos strode down the table until he stood in the little well between the Doyenne's chair and the table's edge. Her eye glittered mischievously as it roved over Vos's rangy form. "Of your cradle-songs, do you remember 'The Bride and the Moon?'"

Vos smiled. "Well, of course I do. We spoke of it not long ago."

"There's wisdom in such old lays. Hum a little of the tune for our harpist. It's simple enough, your highness. I'm sure if you've your father's skills you'll catch it with no effort."

Vos and Carala exchanged a glance, both laughing nervously. "It is simple," Vos said abashedly. "Just a common tune -- " He began to murmur a quick but gentle melody, one that Carala had heard at some concert or other in the Chalcedony Palace. She nodded, following along with the harp. At a sign from Othma, Vos burst into song.