Renick paced his quarters, his brow furrowed, his rage a growing, living thing within him.
Curse Hardane! Why must the man be so mule-headed? Why did he refuse to reveal the secret of Wolffan shape shifting? A part of the heritage of a seventh-born child, Hardane had said, a part of their infernal religion. Renick had heard all that before. Perhaps it was true, but there was more to it than that. Shape shifting meant power, and Renick was a man who was obsessed with power, who craved it as some men craved women or liquor or the strange foreign intoxicants that made a man's mind wander.
Ah, to be able to change shape, to have the power to appear as a lowly servant or a highborn king. There was no end to the advantages such power would give him. And he meant to have it.
For the past twelve years, he had been a man of power and authority, second in command only to the Lord High Sovereign of Mouldour himself. And when he'd realized that Carrick's brother was about to steal the throne, he had, without a qualm, pledged his allegiance to Bourke. But now he was tired of taking orders, tired of doing Bourke's dirty work.
It was time to usurp the throne for himself.
He wanted the power, and the wealth that went with it.
He wanted the adulation of the people.
And it was all within his grasp. He would learn the secret of shape shifting, dispose of both Hardane and Kylene, thereby thwarting the prophesy, plot Bourke's death, and rule Mouldour.
In time, he might even conquer Argone.
The first step was to bring Kylene to the Fortress.