Something shifts in the guard's ember. Although he towers over me, he seems almost fearful as my eyes move over his face. He won't meet my gaze. He's one of the most changed of the group, his head somewhere between that of a stag and a wolf, but with something still just a bit human about the eyes. His antlers are crusted over with a film of blackish crystal, and his blue-black and gray fur covers every part of him that I can see, disappearing into his tunic. The tops of his hands are furred and tipped in long, sharp claws.

"What's your name?" I ask.

"I am Thrallin Sawstone of Pike Lodge, Dhajia," he signs.

Oh. He's Falruni, then. Like my father.

"Do you object to being my guardian?" I ask. For the first time, he looks directly into my face. Blinks. Then he shakes his head, signing "No."

I take a deep breath. "Alright, then. I choose you. Who else should I pick?"

His brow twists and his lip quirks, baring a quick flash of fangs.

"You want me to choose for you?"

"You're the one I'm sure about, and you're the one who'll have to work alongside them for...who knows how long. Yes, I want you to tell me who you think I should choose."

For several moments his hands are still. Then, turning a bit, he brings up one long-clawed finger and points to one of the other guards. The one who stands out almost as much from the rest as he does. She steps forward as the Secretary of the Guard speaks her name.

"Pashava Mira's-Daughter, of Almai."

"Pash," she says, her Morovani accent obvious from that one syllable alone as she steps forward.

She has the light skin that's more common in her nation, but there's something unusual about it. It's hard to tell in this light, but it looks almost golden, and has a subtle sheen to it. Her eyes are like those of a bird of prey-but as she blinks down at me, transparent membranes close over them just before her regular ones do, in a sort of two-step rythm. Her hair is short-cropped, bronze or blonde in color. And parts of it seem odd, almost feather-like.

"Pash. I'd like you to be my other guardian, if you don't object."

The remaining guards all bow and turn to leave. My second choice moves to stand beside Thrallin, and I follow her with my gaze, unable to help myself. Like the other guard, she's tall-inhumanly so, and moves with the easy purpose of a predator.

How is she one of the last to be chosen?

"Very good," says the Secretary, although there's a snap to his tone. "Shall we proceed?" he asks, looked pointedly at Steward Andris and drawing out the end of his sentence as though hoping she'll object.

"Yes," she says, the word clipped with finality.

"Please, take a seat," the steward turns back to me, motioning to the cushions. Bemused, I return and sit crosslegged on a leather cushion. Thrallin and Pash take the ones facing me. The latter scratches Puka's ears when he came sniffing up to her, smiling.

Stepping up before me, the Secretary of the Guard produces a gleaming object from a small sheath on his belt and holds it outward. A polished, silvery knife-delicate and studded with bits of garnet like little thorns.

"Um," I say, blinking down at it. "What?"

"The Blooding, Dhajia," answers the High Steward, her teeth flashing in the cool light. "Each of your guards must consume a small amount of your blood to forge the connection we spoke of. Afterwards, they will be able to sense where you are and what condition you're in at any given time. They'll even have a sense of your emotions."

I stare at her.

"Imagine this," she coaxes. "Even if you were to be abducted-lands forbid-they would be able to find you. It is this, more than any other of their extraordinary qualities, that truly makes the Gray Guard the only ones worthy of Heirs."

My eyes flash back and forth between the guardians I've chosen. My eyes lock with Pash's. Thrall stares at his hands.

"May I, um," I swallow, my throat suddenly dry. "May I have a moment alone with them, please?"

I look up at the Steward and the Secretary, hoping my obvious panic will at least win me some sympathy.

They exchange a glance.

"Of course, Dhajia," says Steward Andris after a pause. "A moment."

She jerks her head to the Secretary, and the two shuffle off, closing the door heavily behind them.

I turn back to Pash and Thrallin.

"Are you really alright with this? The affect it will have on you? With...with being bound to protect me for who-knows-how-long?" In my panic the words tumble out at me. I clutch at my sleeve, twisting the fabric compulsively.

Pash has an odd sort of smile on her face. She laughs lightly and shakes her head.

"Dhajia, this is the best life we could hope for in this world. There is no better place for us."

I frown. "Are you..treated cruelly, where you come from?"

Pash smirks."We're new and strange, and apparently people find us a little unnerving. Trust me, Dhajia. Neither of us would be here if we didn't think it was our best possible option." I can't help but feel she's holding something back, but from the calm of her ember, at least, what she did say rings true.

I look to Thrallin, tilting my head as I try and fail to catch his eye."Does she speak for both of you?"

"Yes," he signs.

I take a shallow breath, sigh, swallow again. "Alright, then."

I call out to the High Steward. A heartbeat later, the door swings open and my attendants return. This time I take the knife when it's offered. My hand shakes.

"How much blood do they need?"

"A few drops at the least, a spoonful at the most. A very shallow cut to the top of the forearm should do just fine. I know the method seems...well, crude-but apparently there is a ritual significance to it, something from the Legends. The Falruni insisted on it before they'd give their vote to implement the program."

Another shaky breath, this time a deep one.

"Alright then," I repeat.

Just step back from yourself, and move like clockwork.

I take the blade in my right hand, brace my left against my thigh. I press the tip into the flesh at the top my forearm, wincing and hissing through my teeth as I drag a stinging red line down the length of it.

The instant my blood touches the air, the guards ember's go suddenly hot, their vibrations quickening. Thrall's mouth works, and he swallows.

Is he...drooling?

"Thrallin should drink first," says the Secretary of the Guard.

My arm trembles as I hold it out. The secretary, now producing a small silver bowl from a pouch that hangs about his belt, kneels before me. When several drops have spattered into it, he sets it down. From the same pouch he pulls a cloth-damp and medicinal smelling-which he pressed to my arm. He turns to Thrall.

The guard's nostrils flare, hands flexing convulsively, and for an instant he cringes back. But in a few heartbeats he leans forward, dropping off the cushion and onto his knees before the secretary, who brings the bowl up to his snout. His tongue flicks out, lapping at my blood.

Eyes flashing open, his pupils contract into slits and flare wide again. He grasps at the bowl and tries to wrest it away, saliva dripping from between his wolfish teeth.

Then Pash is behind him. She has him by the scruff, looming over him where he kneels. "Thrall."

His ember contracts in on itself and he withdraws. Shakily, he signs something, but from where I am, I can't see what it is.

Slinking back, Thrallin remains on his knees as Pash takes his place before the Secretary of the Guard. He tilts the bowl to her lips, and with complete composure she drinks. It takes half a heartbeat-there isn't much left. She closes her eyes, is silent for a moment after she swallows it. Then she stands, towering over me like a golden statue, eyes fixed on my face.

"I'll take the first shift," she says.