Rulan sneered irritably, but he went along with the prince's orders and padded silently after him, the cloak held around himself like a king's cape. He peered around him at the darkened houses of the village; the fact that he'd lost his night-vision along with his wings was maddening. His stomach growled, and he thought of those goats and sheep that had got away into the mountains, and the fact that he'd never get to sink his teeth into pulsing hot flesh again. For a moment he wondered whether being human was really worth all the planning of these centuries past.

"What was your plan, anyway?" he asked after a long while of walking in silence. The Casseion was cold and hungry and angry; he could gather a little satisfaction by ensuring that Cyrus was even more miserable than he was. "You hid among a lion's prey with a stick for a weapon and no armor. What did you think was going to happen? Were you going to poke me until I cried mercy? Or maybe you would stare me to death! Or maybe you'd hoped I would recognize your godly right to the throne and bow at your royal feet." He snorted. "Have you ever actually fought with that stick of yours? Have you ever been in danger for your life until tonight?"