Athena had been quiet in her grief, horribly quiet. It was as though she was somehow absent, even though she took part in meetings, trained with the Sacred Regiment and attended the funeral banquet. The regular trysts between the young King and the Princess had stopped, and Redrought felt that he was being held somehow responsible for Saphia’s death. He sat in his campaign tent stroking Cadwalader, who sprawled across his lap like a large furry rug. “Well, at least you’re not blaming me for everything, Flumfy,” Redrought said, using the cat’s secret name, and the animal purred like a distant peal of thunder. “How was I to know that General Romanoff would mount an assassination attempt?” Cadwalader hissed at the Vampire’s name without opening an eye. “They’re odd creatures, Caddy . . . girls, I mean, not Vampires. Actually, they’re easy to understand; all they want to do is rip out your throat and drink your blood . . . Vampires, I mean, not girls.” Cadwalader rolled onto his back with his legs in the air so that he looked like a particularly messy set of bagpipes, just like the ones the fierce warriors from the land of Caledonia played.
