Blood Ties

She does not make her dwelling in Qul-na-Qar, although she has long claim to a place of honor there, by her blood and her deeds — and by deeds of blood as well. Instead she makes her home on a high ridgetop in the mountains called Reheq-s'lai, which means Wanderwind, or something close to it. Her house, although large enough to cover most of the ridge, is a dull thing from most angles, as is the lady herself. Only when the sunlight is in the right quarter and a watcher's face turned just so can crystal and skystone be seen gleaming among the dark wall-stones. The house cuts deep into the rock, with many rooms below the light of day and a profusion of tunnels extending beyond them like the roots of an old, old tree. The windows are always shuttered, or seem that way. Her servants are silent and she seldom has visitors.

Some of the younger Qar, who have heard of her madness for privacy but of course have never seen her, call her Lady Porcupine. Others who know her better cannot help shuddering at the accidental truth of the name — they have seen how in moments of fury a nimbus of prickly shadow flickers about her, a shroud of phantom thorns.

Her granted name is Yasammez, but few know it. Fewer still speak to her. Her true name is known to only one living.

The lady's high house is called Shehen, which means "Weeping." Because it is a s'a-Qar word, it means other things, too — it carries the intimation of an unexpected ending, and a suggestion of the scent of the plant that in the Sunlight Lands is called myrtle — but more than anything else, it means "Weeping".

She stands in her garden of low, dark plants and tall gray rocks whose twisted shapes are like terrified dreamers and looks out over her steep lands. The wind is fierce, as ever, wrapping her cloak tightly around her, blowing her hair loose from the bone pins that hold it, but it is not strong enough to disperse the mist lurking in the ravines which gouge the hillside below like claw-scratches. Still, it blows loudly enough that even if any of her pale servants were standing beside her, they would not be able to hear the very ancient song Lady Yasammez is humming, nor would they even believe their mistress might do such a thing.

A voice speaks in her ear and the old song abruptly stops. She does not turn because she knows the voice comes from no one in the stark garden or high house. Secretive, angry, and silent as she is, Yasammez knows this voice almost better than she knows her own the only voice that ever calls her by her true name.

It calls that name again now.

"I hear, o my heart," says Lady Porcupine, speaking without words.

"I must know."

"It has already begun," the mistress of the ridgetop house replies, but it stabs her to hear such disquiet in the thoughts of her beloved, her great ruler, the single star in her dark, cold sky. This is the time for wills to become stony. "All has been put into motion. As you wished. As you commanded."

"There is no turning back, then."

It almost seems a question, but Yasammez knows it cannot be. "No turning back," she agrees.

"So, then. In the full raveling of time we will see what new pages will be written in the Book."

"We shall." She yearns to say more, to ask why this sudden semblance of weakness in the one who is not just her ruler but her teacher as well, but the words do not come; she cannot form the question even in the silence of shared thought. Words have never been friends to Yasammez; in this, they are like almost everything else beneath the moon or sun.

"Farewell, then. We will speak again soon. You have my gratitude."

Then Lady Porcupine is alone again with the wind and her thoughts, her strange, bitter thoughts, in the garden of the house called Weeping.

The longer, heavier sword skims off Barrick's falchion and crashes down against the small buckler on his left arm. A lightning-bolt of pain leaps through his shoulder. He cries out, sags to one knee, and only just manages to throw his blade up in time to deflect the second blow. He climbs to his feet and stands, gasping for breath. The air is full of sawdust. He can barely hold even his own slender sword upright.

"Stop." He steps back, letting the falchion sag, but instead of lowering his own longer sword, Shaso suddenly lunges forward, the point of his blade jabbing down at Barrick's ankles. Caught by surprise, the prince hesitates for an instant before jumping to avoid the thrust. It is a mistake: as he lands awkwardly, the old man has already turned his sword around so he clutches the blade in his gauntlets. He thumps Barrick hard in the chest with the long sword's pommel, forcing out the rest of the boy's air. Gasping, the prince takes one step backward and collapses. For a moment black clouds close in. When he can see again, Shaso is standing over him.

"Curse you!" Barrick wheezes. He kicks out at the old man's leg, but Shaso steps neatly away. "I said stop!"

"Because your arm was tired? Is that what you will do in battle? Cry mercy because you fight only with one hand and it has wearied?" Shaso makes a noise of disgust and turns his back on him. It is all Barrick can do not to scramble to his feet at this display of contempt and skull the old Tuani with the padded falchion.

But it is not only his remaining shreds of civility and honor that stop him, or even his exhaustion. Even in his rage, Barrick doubts he would actually land the blow.

He gets up slowly instead and pulls off the buckler and gauntlets so he can rub his arm. Although his injury has curled his left hand into something like a bird's claw and his forearm is thin as a child's, after countless painful hours lifting the iron-headed weights called poises Barrick has strengthened the sinews of his upper arm and shoulder enough that he can use the buckler effectively. But — and he hates to admit it, and certainly would not do so aloud — Shaso is right: he is still not strong enough, not even in the good arm which must wield his only blade, since even a dagger is too much for his crippled fingers.

As he pulls on the deerskin glove he wears to hide his twisted hand, Barrick is still furious. "Does it make you feel strong," he shouts, "beating a man who can only fight one-armed?"

The armorers, who today have the comparatively quiet task of cutting new leather straps at the huge bench along the room's south wall, look up, but only for a moment — they are used to such things. Barrick has no doubt they all think him a spoiled child. He flushes, slams down his gauntlets.

Shaso, who is unstitching his padded practice-vest, flicks a glance over his shoulder. "I am not beating you, boy. I am teaching you."

They have been out of balance all day. Even as a way to spend the tedious, stretching hours until his brother convenes the council, this has been a mistake. Briony would have made it something civil, even enjoyable, but Briony is not here.

Barrick lowers himself to the ground and begins removing his leg-pads. He stares at Shaso's back, irritated by the old man's graceful, unhurried movements. Who is he, to be so calm when everything is falling apart? Barrick wants to sting the master of arms somehow.

"Why did he call you teacher?"

Shaso's fingers slow but he does not turn. "What?"

"You know. The envoy from Hierosol — that man Dawet. Why did he call you teacher? And he called you something else — 'Mor-ja". What does that mean?"

Shaso shrugs off the vest. His thin undershirt is soaked with sweat, so that every muscle on his broad, brown back is apparent. Barrick has seen this so many times. Even in his anger, he feels something like love for the old Tuani — a love for the known and familiar, however unsatisfying.

What if Briony really leaves? he thinks suddenly. What if Kendrick really sends her to Hierosol to marry Ludis? I will never see her again. His outrage that a bandit should demand his sister in marriage, and that his brother should even consider it, suddenly chills into a simpler and far more devastating thought — Southmarch castle empty of Briony.

"I have been asked to answer that for the council," Shaso says slowly. Overwhelmed by his bleak vision, Barrick is confused: he has momentarily forgotten his own question. "You will hear what I say there. I do not want to speak of it twice." He drops the vest to the floor and walks away from it. Barrick cannot help staring. Shaso is usually not only meticulous in the care of his weapons and equipment, but sharp-tongued to any who are not — Barrick most definitely included. The master of arms sets the long sword in the rack without oiling it or even taking off the padding, takes his shirt from a hook, and walks out of the armory without another word.

Barrick has long felt that of all the heedless folk in Southmarch, he is the only one who understands how truly bad things have become, who sees the deceptions and cruelties others miss or deliberately ignore, who senses the growing danger to his family and their kingdom. Now that proof is blossoming before him he wishes he could make it all go away — that he could turn and run headlong back into his own childhood.

After supper Chert's belly is full but his head is unsettled. Opal is fussing happily over Flint, measuring the boy with a knotted string while he squirms. She has used the few copper chips she had put aside for a new cooking-pot to buy some cloth, since she plans to make a new shirt for the child.

"Don't look at me that way," she says. "I wasn't the one who took him out and let him rip and dirty this one so badly."

Chert shakes his head. It is not paying for the boy's new shirt that concerns him.

The bell for the front door rings, a couple of short tugs on the cord. Opal hands the boy her measuring string and goes to answer it. Chert hears her say, "Oh, my — come in, please."

Her eyebrows are up when she returns trailed by Cinnabar, a handsome, big-boned Funderling, the leader of the important Quicksilver family.

Chert rises. "Magister, you do me an honor. Will you sit down?"

Cinnabar nods, grunts as he seats himself. Although he is younger than Chert by some dozen years, his muscled bulk is already turning to fat. His mind is still lean, though; Chert respects the man's wit.

"Can we offer you something, Magister?" Opal asks. "Beer? Some blueroot tea?" She is both excited and worried, trying to catch her husband's eye, but he will not be distracted.

"Tea will do me well, Mistress, thank you."

Flint has gone stock-still on the floor beside Opal's stool, watching the newcomer like a cat spying an unfamiliar dog. Chert knows he should wait until the tea is served, but his curiosity is strong. "Your family is well?"

Cinnabar snorts. "Greedy as blindshrews, but that's nothing new. It strikes me you've had an addition yourself."

"His name is Flint." Chert feels sure this is the point of the visit. "He's one of the big folk."

"Yes, I can see that. And of course I've heard much about him already — it's all over town."

"Is there a problem that he stays with us? He has no memory of his real name or parents."

Opal bustles into the room with a tray, the best teapot, and four cups. Her smile is a little too bright as she pours for the magister first. Chert can see that she is frightened.

Fissure and fracture, is she so attached to the boy already?

Cinnabar blows on the cup nestled in his big hands. "As long as he breaks none of the laws of Funderling Town, you could guest a badger for all it matters to me." He turns his keen eyes on Opal. "But people do talk, and they are slow to welcome change. Still, I suppose it is too late to reveal this secret more delicately."

"It is no secret!" says Opal, a little sharply.

"Obviously." Cinnabar sighs. "It is your affair. That's not why I'm here tonight."

Now Chert is puzzled. He watches Cinnabar snuffle at his tea. The man is not only head of his own family, but he is one of the most powerful men in the Guild of Stonecutters. Chert can only be patient.

"That is good, Mistress," Cinnabar says at last. "My own lady, she will re-use the roots over and over until it is like drinking rainwater." He looks from her expectant, worried face to Chert's and smiles. It cracks his broad, heavy-jawed face into little wrinkles, like a hammerblow on slate. "Ah, I am tormenting you, but do not mean to. There's nothing ill in this visit, that's a promise. I need your help, Chert."

"You do?"

"Aye. You know we're cutting in the bedrock of the inner keep? Tricky work. The king's family want to expand the vaults and stitch together various of their buildings with tunnels."

"I've heard, of course. That's old Hornblende in charge, isn't it? He's a good man."

"Was in charge. He's quit. Says it's because of his back, but I have my doubts, though he is of an age." Cinnabar nods slowly. "That's why I need your help, Chert."

He shakes his head, confused. "What ...?"

"I want you to chief the job. It's a careful matter, as you know — digging under the castle. I don't need to say more, do I? I hear the men are skittish, which may have something to do with Hornblende's wanting nothing more of it."

Chert is stunned. There are at least a dozen other Funderlings with the experience to take Hornblende's place, all more senior or more important than he is, including one of his own brothers. "Why me?"

"Because you have sense. Because I need someone I can trust as chief over this task. You've worked with the big folk before and made out well." He flicks a glance at Opal, who has finished her tea and is again measuring the child, although Chert knows she is listening to every word. "We can speak more of it later, if you tell me you will do it."

How can he say no? "Of course, Magister. It's an honor."

"Good. Very good." Cinnabar rises, not without a small noise of effort. "Here, give me your hand on it. Come to me tomorrow and I'll give you the plans and your list of men." He turns to Opal. "Thanking you for your hospitality, Mistress Opal."

Her smile is genuine now. "Our pleasure, Magister."

He does not leave, but takes a step forward and stands over Flint. "What do you say, boy?" he asks, mock-stern. "Do you like stone?"

The child regards him carefully. "Which kind?"

Cinnabar laughs. "Well questioned! Ah, Master Chert, perhaps he has the making of a Funderling at that, if he grows not too big for the tunnels." He is still chuckling as Chert lets him out.

"Such wonderful news!" says Opal when he returns. Her eyes are shining. "Your family will regret their snubs now."

"Perhaps." Chert is glad, of course, but he knows old Hornblende for a level-headed fellow. Is there a reason he has given up such a prestigious post? Could there be something of a poisoned offering about it? Chert is not used to kindnesses, although he knows no reason to mistrust Cinnabar, who has a reputation for fair-dealing.

"Little Flint has brought us good luck," Opal purrs. "He will have a shirt, and I will have that winter shawl, and you, my husband — you must have a new pair of boots. You cannot go walking through the big folk's castle in those miserable old things."

"Let's not spend silver we haven't seen yet," he says, but mildly. He may be a little uncertain about this surprising good fortune, but it is good to see Opal so happy.

"And you would have left the boy there," she says, almost giddy. "Left our luck sitting in the grass!"

"Luck is a strange thing," Chert reminds her, "and there is much digging before the entire vein is uncovered." He sits down to finish his tea.

Kendrick has convened the council in the castle's Chapel of Erivor, dedicated to the sea god who has always been the Eddon family's special protector. Though the room is small, generations of the prince regent's family have been named and married there. Echoes drift back from the high, tiled ceiling. Chairs have been brought and set in a circle beside the low stone altar.

"It is the only place in this castle we can close the door and find any privacy," Kendrick explains. "Anything important said in the throne room or the Oak Chamber will be spread across Southmarch before the speaker has finished."

Barrick moves uncomfortably in the hard, high-backed chair. He has been chewing willow bark since supper, but his crippled arm still aches miserably from Shaso's blows. He darts a sour look at the master of arms, but Shaso's face is a mask, his eyes fixed on the frescoes which, with so many lamps lit, gleam daytime-bright, as though the birth and triumph of Erivor is the most interesting thing he has ever seen. Barrick has not attended many of these councils: he and Briony have only been invited since their father's departure, and this is his first without her. He cannot shake off the feeling that a part of him is gone, as though he has woken up to find he has only one leg.

Kendrick is listening to Gailon of Summerfield, who sits on his left and talks quietly in his ear. Sisel, Hierarch of Southmarch, has been given the position of honor on the prince regent's other hand. The hierarch, a slender, active man of sixty or so, is the leading priest of the Marchlands, and although in some things he must act as the hand of the Trigonarch, he is also the first northerner to hold the position, so he is unusually loyal to the Eddons. The Trigon was unhappy that Barrick's father Olin chose to elevate one of the local priests over their own choice, but neither Syan nor the Trigon itself wield as much power in the north as they once did.

Ranged around the table are many of the other leading nobles of the realm, Blueshore's Tyne, Nynor the castellan, the constable Avin Brone, Barrick's dandified cousin Rorick, who is earl of Daler's Troth (strangely matched with those dour, plainspeaking folk, Barrick has always felt) and a half-dozen more. Shaso is at the table's far end, with a space between him and the nearest nobles on either side: Barrick thinks he looks a bit like a prisoner in the dock.

"Your argument should be made to all," Kendrick tells Gailon. The others, who have been talking quietly among themselves, turn their attention to the head of the table.

Gailon pauses. A bit of a flush creeps up his neck and onto his handsome face. Other than Barrick and the prince regent, he is the youngest man at the gathering. "I simply said that I think we would be making a mistake to so easily give the princess to Ludis Drakava. We all want nothing more than to have our King Olin back, but even if Ludis honors the bargain and delivers him without treachery, what then? Olin, may the gods long preserve him, will grow old one day and die. Much can happen before that day, and only the blind Fates know all, but one thing is certain — when our liege is gone, Ludis and his heirs will have a perpetual claim on the throne of the March Kings."

And his claim will be a better one than yours, Barrick thinks, which is your real objection. Still, he is heartened to discover he has an ally, even one he cares for as little as he does Gailon.

"Easy enough for you to say, Summerfield," growls the Earl of Blueshore, "with all your share of the ransom gathered already. What of the rest of us? We would be fools not to take up Ludis' bargain."

"Fools?" Barrick sits straight. "We are fools if we don't sell my sister?"

"Enough," says Kendrick heavily. "We will come back to this question later. First there are more pressing matters. Can Ludis and his envoy even be trusted? Obviously, if we were to agree to this offering, we could not allow my sister to leave our protection until the king was released and safe."

Barrick is squirming now, almost breathless with fury — he would never have believed that Kendrick could talk so carelessly of giving his own sister to a bandit — but the prince regent has spoken with another purpose.

"In fact," he continues, "we know little about Ludis, except by reputation, and less of his envoy. Shaso, perhaps you can make us wiser about this man Dawet dan-Faar, since you seem to know him."

His question settles on the master of arms as softly as a silken noose. Shaso stirs. "Yes," he says heavily. "I know him. We are ... cousins."

This sets the table muttering. "Then you should not be seated in this council, sir," says Earl Rorick loudly. He is dressed in the very latest fashion, the slashes in his deep purple doublet a blazing yellow. He turns to the prince regent, bright and self-sure as a courting bird. "This is shameful. How many councils have we held, speaking though we did not know it for the benefit not only of the Marchlands, but Hierosol as well?"

At last, Shaso seems to pay attention. Like an old lion woken from sleep, he blinks and leans forward. One hand has fallen to his side, close to the hilt of his dagger. "Are you calling me a traitor, my lord?"

Rorick's returned look is haughty, but Barrick sees that the earl's cheeks are pale. "You never told us you were this man's cousin."

"Why should I?" Shaso stares at him for a moment, then sags back, his energy spent. "He was of no importance to any of you before he arrived here. I myself did not know he had taken service with Ludis until the day he arrived. Last I had heard of him, he led his own free company, robbing and burning across Krace and the south."

"What else do you know of him?" Kendrick asks, not particularly kindly.

Shaso closes his eyes for a moment. "He was the fourth son of the old king of Tuan. I taught him and his brothers, just as I have taught the children of this family. He was in many ways the best of them, but in more ways the worst — swift and strong and clever, but with the heart of a desert jackal, looking only for what would advantage himself. Twenty years ago, when I was captured by your father in the Battle of Hierosol, I thought that I would never see him or any of the rest of my family again."

"So how does this Dawet come to be serving Ludis Drakava?"

"I do not know. I heard that Dawet had been exiled from Tuan because of ... because of a crime he had committed." Shaso's face is hard and blank. "His bad ways had continued and worsened, and at last he despoiled a young woman of good family and even his father would no longer protect him. Exiled, he joined a mercenary company and rose to lead it. He did not fight for his father or Tuan when our country was conquered by the Autarch. Nor did I, for that matter, since I had already been brought here."

"A complicated story," says the hierarch Sisel. "Your pardon, but you ask us to take much on faith, Lord Shaso. How is it that you heard of his doings after your exile here?"

Shaso looks at him but says nothing.

"See," Rorick proclaims. "He hides something."

"These are foul times," says Kendrick, "that we should all be so mistrustful. But the hierarch's question is a fair one. How do you come to know of what happened to him after you left Tuan?"

Shaso's expression becomes even more lifeless. "Ten years ago, I had a letter from my wife, the gods rest her. It was the last she sent me before she died."

"And she used this letter to tell you the tale of one of what must have been many students?"

The old man places his dark hands flat on his knees, looks at them carefully, as though he has never seen such unusual things before. "The girl he ruined was my youngest daughter. Afterward, in her grief, she went to the temple and became a priestess of the Great Mother. When she died from a fever two years later, my wife wrote to tell me. She also told me something of Dawet, full of grief that such a man should live and prosper when our daughter was dead."

Silence reigns for long moments in the small chapel.

"I ... I am sorry to hear it, Shaso," Kendrick says at last. "And doubly sorry to make you think of it again."

"I have thought of nothing else since I first heard the name of Hierosol's envoy," he says. Barrick has seen Shaso do this before — go away to somewhere deep inside himself, like the master of a besieged castle. "Were he not under the March King's seal, one of the two of us would already be dead."

Like all the rest, Kendrick is shaken. It takes him a moment to speak. "This ... this speaks badly of the envoy, of course. Does it also mean his offer is not to be trusted?"

Hierarch Sisel clears his throat. "I for one think the offer is honest, although the messenger be not. Like many bandit-lords, Ludis is desperate to make himself a true monarch — already he has petitioned the Trigon to recognize him as Hierosol's king. It would be to his advantage to link himself to one of the existing noble houses. Syan and Jellon will not do it — Hierosol is too close to them, and they deem him too ambitious. Thus, I suspect, his mind has turned to Southmarch." He frowns, thinking. "It could even be he planned this all along, and is the reason he took King Olin."

"He wanted the ransom to begin to pinch before he offered us this other bargain?" asks a baron from Marrinswalk, shaking his head. "Very crafty."

"All this talk of why and what happened does not change the facts," snaps Tyne of Blueshore. "He has the king. We do not. He wants the king's daughter. Do we give her to him?"

"Do you agree with the hierarch, Shaso?" Kendrick looks at the master of arms keenly. He has never felt Briony's loyalty to the old Tuani, but he does not share Barrick's grudges, either. "Is the offer to be trusted?"

Shaso speaks reluctantly. "I think it genuine, yes. But the earl of Blueshore has reminded us of the true question here."

"And what do you think?" Kendrick prods him.

"It is not for me to say." The old man's eyes are hooded. "She is not my sister. The king is not my father."

"The final decision will be mine, of course. But I wish to hear counsel first, and you were always one of my father's most trusted counselors."

Even Barrick cannot help but notice that Kendrick has called him his father's trusted counselor, not his own. Shaso's face becomes even more stony at this slight, but he speaks carefully. "I think it a bad idea."

"Again, one who does not suffer makes an easy choice," says Tyne. "You have no ransom to raise, no tithe of crops to deliver. What does it matter to you whether the rest of us are crippled by this?"

Shaso does not answer Blueshore, but Gailon the duke of Summerfield does. "Can you see no farther than the boundaries of your own smallholdings?" he demands. "Do you think you alone suffer hardship? If we do not give the princess to Ludis, as I think we should not, we all must still share the burden of the greatest hardship — the king's absence!"

"What does our father say?" Barrick asks suddenly. The whole gathering has been like a bad dream, a confusion of voices and faces. He still cannot believe his brother is giving the Lord Protector's suit any consideration at all. "You read his letter, Kendrick — it must have said something about this."

His brother nods but does not meet Barrick's eye. "He did, but in few words, as though he did not take it seriously. He called it a foolish offer." Kendrick blinks, suddenly weary. "Does this help us to decide? You know that Father would never allow himself to be bartered for anyone, even the lowest pig-farmer. He has always put his ideals above all else." There is a note of bitterness, now. "And you know he dotes on Briony, and has since she was in swaddling clothes. You have complained of it often enough, Barrick."

"But he's right! She is our sister!"

"And we Eddons are the rulers of Southmarch. Even Father has always put those responsibilities above his own desires. Who do you think is more important to our people, our father or sister?"

"The people love Briony!"

"Yes, they do. Her absence would sadden them, but it would not make them fearful, not as they have been fearful since the king has been gone. A kingdom without its monarch is like a man without a heart. Better Father were dead, the gods preserve him and us, than simply gone."

There is a silence around the table at this near-treason, but Barrick knows that his brother is right — the king's absence has been a kind of living death for Southmarch. And now, for the first time, Barrick can see the strain beneath what he sometimes thinks of as his brother's guileless features, the immense worry and exhaustion. He can only wonder what other things Kendrick has been hiding from him.

The other nobles take up the argument. It quickly becomes apparent that Shaso and Gailon are the minority, that Tyne and Rorick and even the terse constable Lord Avin think that since one day Briony will be married off for political gain anyway, her maidenhead might as well be bartered for something as valuable as restoring King Olin. However, few beside Tyne are honest enough to admit that part of the plan's appeal is that it will spare them many golden dolphins as well.

Tempers fray and the discussion becomes loud. At one point, Avin Brone threatens to strike Rorick, although both are arguing in favor of the same position. Kendrick holds his hands up and demands quiet.

"It is late and I have not made up my mind yet. I must think and then sleep on it tonight. Prince Barrick is right in one thing, especially — this is my sister, and I will do nothing lightly that will so greatly affect her. Tomorrow I will announce my decision."

He stands; the others rise and bid him goodnight, although ill-will is still in the air. Barrick is dissatisfied with many things, but he does not for a moment envy his older brother, who must like a cattle-herder's dog nip at the heels of these vexatious bulls to keep them moving together.

"I want to talk to you," he tells Kendrick as his brother leaves the chapel. The prince regent's guards have already formed a silent wall behind him.

"Not tonight, Barrick. I know where you stand. I still have much to do before I sleep."

"But ... but, Kendrick, she's our sister! She is terrified — I went to her chambers and heard her weeping ...!"

"Enough!" the prince regent almost shouts. "By Perin's hammer, can't you leave me alone? Unless you have some magical solution to this problem, all I want from you tonight is silence." Despite his fury, Kendrick seems on the verge of weeping himself. He waves his hand. "No more."

Stunned, Barrick can only stand and watch his brother walk back toward his chambers. When Kendrick stumbles, one of the guards kindly reaches out a hand to steady him.

"That's enough, Briony. I cannot tell you more — not yet. I still must think and talk on this entire matter. You are my sister and I love you, but I must be the ruler here while our father is gone. Go to bed."

Remembering Kendrick's words, thinking back on the whole terrible day, she lies sleepless in the dark — although, judging by the sounds, her ladies are not having the same problem: as always, pretty little Rose is snoring like an old dog. Briony has managed to drowse for a little while, but a terrible dream awakened her, in which Ludis — who in truth she has never seen; all she knows about him is that he is near her father's age — was an ancient thing of cobwebs, dust and bones, pursuing her through a trackless gray forest. She has not been able to sleep since.

What hour is it? she wonders. She has not heard the midnight bell yet, but surely it cannot be far away. I must be the only one in the castle still awake.

In other times such a thought would be more exciting than troubling, but now it is only testament to the terrible fate hanging over her like a headsman's ax.

Has Kendrick decided?

When she saw him in his chambers during the evening, he had given away nothing of his thoughts. She wept, which makes her angry with herself now. She also begged him not to marry her to Ludis, then apologized for her selfishness. But Kendrick must know I want Father back as much as anyone does!

Her older brother had been distant and preoccupied the whole time she was in his chamber, but took her hand when they parted and kissed her cheek, something he rarely does. In fact, the memory of that kiss chills her now more than his preoccupation. She feels certain that he was kissing her good-bye.

Pain is wearying. Perpetual fear becomes numbness. For a little while Briony's mind wanders and she imagines all the things that could happen. Somehow her father could escape and Ludis will have no claim on the Eddons. Or she could find that the Lord Protector is a slandered man, that truly he is handsome and kind. Or that he is worse than the tales, in which case she will have no choice but to kill him in his sleep, then kill herself. She lives so many lives in that hour, both grim and fanciful, that at last she slips into a dream without knowing it — a kinder one this time, the twins playing at hide-and-seek with Kendrick when they were all young — and sleeps through the midnight bell. But she does not sleep through the shriek that comes just a short while later.

Briony sits upright in bed, half-certain she has dreamed. Nearby young Rose squirms in her sleep, lost in some nightmare of her own.

"The black man ...!" the girl moans.

Briony hears it again — a terrified wail, growing louder. Moina is awake now, too. Something bangs hard on the chamber door and Briony almost falls out of her bed in fright.

"The Autarch!" Moina squeals, plucking at the charm she wears about her neck. "Come to kill us all in our beds ...!"

"It is only one of the guards," Briony says harshly, trying to convince herself as well. "Go and take off the bolt."

"No, Princess! They'll ravish us!"

Briony wraps her blanket around her and stumbles to the door. Her heart flutters as she calls out to know who is outside. The voice is not one of the guards, but it is familiar: it is Briony's great-aunt Merolanna who flaps into the room as the door opens, crying, "Gods preserve us! Gods preserve us!", her nightdress askew, her long gray hair down on her shoulders.

"Why is everyone shouting?" Briony asks, fighting against growing fear. "Is it a fire?"

Merolanna stumbles to a halt, panting and peering shortsightedly. "Briony, is that you? Is it? Oh, praise the gods, I thought they had taken you all."

The old woman's words run through her like icy water. Now she can see that the duchess is weeping. "What are you talking about?"

"Your brother — your poor brother ..."

The chill freezes her heart. "Barrick!" she cries, and shoves past Merolanna. There are no guards outside, but the passage is full of disembodied sounds, wails and distant shouting. She hesitates, then turns back for her dagger and pulls it from beneath her mattress. Her two ladies-in-waiting huddle behind Merolanna, using the sobbing old woman as a wall against any invaders that might come.

The halls of the residence are in chaos. People drift confusedly in the near-darkness, calling questions or babbling religious oaths, all in pale nightclothes, so that the passages seem filled with ghosts. Nynor the castellan stands in the middle of the shield hall wearing a ridiculous sleeping cap, his beard tied up in a strange little bag. He calls out orders but no one is listening to him. The scene is all the more dreamlike because no one stops Briony or even speaks to her. Everyone seems to be going in the wrong direction.

She reaches the hall outside Barrick's chamber but finds it deserted, her brother's door closed. She has only a moment to wonder at this before something grabs her arm and she lets out a small, choked shriek. When she sees whose wide-eyed face is beside her, she grabs at him and pulls him close. "Oh, oh, I thought you ... Merolanna said ..."

Barrick's red hair is dissheveled still from bed, wild as a gale-blown haystack. "I saw you go past." He seems like one dragged from sleep but still dreaming. "Come. No, perhaps you shouldn't ..."

"What?" Her relief vanishes as swiftly as it came. "Barrick, what in the names of the gods is going on?"

He leads her around the corner into the main hall of the residence. The corridor is full, and guards armed with halberds are pushing servants and others back from the door of Kendrick's chambers. She suddenly realizes her misunderstanding.

"Merciful Zoria," she whispers.

Now she can see in the light of the torches that Barrick's face is twisted in a kind of wide-eyed terror, his lips trembling. He takes her hand and pulls her through the crowd, which shrinks back from them as though the twins might carry some plague. Several of the women are weeping, faces as grotesque as festival masks.

The guards kneeling around the body glance up at the twins' approach, and for a moment do not seem to recognize them. Then Ferras Vansen, the captain of the royal guard, stands, his long-jawed face full of dreadful pity, and roughly pulls one of the crouching soldiers out of the way. The room is full of terrible smells, slaughterhouse smells. They have turned Kendrick onto his back. His face gleams red in the torchlight.

There is so much blood that for a fleeting instant she can tell herself it is someone else, that this horror has been visited on some near-stranger, but Barrick's despairing gasp destroys the flimsy hope.

Her dagger falls from her hand and clinks onto the flags. Her knees sag and she half-falls, then crawls toward her older brother like a blind animal, tangling herself for a moment with one of the guards as he mumbles a prayer. Kendrick's face twitches. One blood-slicked hand opens and closes.

"He is alive!" Briony screams. "Where is Chaven? Has someone sent for him?" She tries to lift him, but he is too wet, too heavy. Barrick is pulling her back and she strikes at her twin. "Let me go! He's alive!"

"He can't be." Barrick too is in some other world, his voice confused and distant. "Just look at him ..."

Kendrick's mouth works again and Briony almost climbs on top of him, so desperate is she to hear him speak, to know that he is still her brother, that life is in him. She searches for his wounds so she can stop them up but the whole front of him is soaking wet, his shirt in tatters, the skin beneath it just as ragged.

"Don't die," she says in his ear. His eyes roll; he is trying to find her. His mouth opens.

"... Isss ..." A sibilant whisper that only Briony can hear.

"Don't leave us, oh, dear dear Kendrick, don't." She kisses his bloody cheek. He lets out a whimper of pain, then curls as slowly as a leaf on hot coals until he is lying on his side, bent double. He kicks, whimpers again, then the life is out of him.

Barrick is still pulling at her, but he is weeping too — Everyone is crying, Briony thinks, the whole world is crying. Dimly, as though it is happening in another country, she can hear people shouting down the corridor, "The prince is dead! The prince has been murdered!"

The guard-captain Vansen is trying to lift her away from Kendrick. She turns and slaps at him, grabs at the man's heavy tunic and tries to pull him down, so full of fury she can barely think.

"How did this happen?" she shrieks, her thoughts as red and slippery as her hands. "Where were you? Where were his guards? You are traitors, murderers!"

For a moment Vansen holds her at arm's length, then his face convulses with grief and he releases his grip. Briony scrambles to her feet, strikes hard at his shoulders and face. Ferras Vansen does nothing more to defend himself than lower his head until Barrick pulls her off.

"Look!" her brother says, pointing. "Look there, Briony!"

Her eyes blurred with tears, she does not at first understand what she is seeing — two stained lumps of shadow on the floor beside the prince regent's bed. Then she sees the Eddon wolf on the slashed tunic of one of the figures and the pool of blood a shiny blackness beneath them both, and understands that Kendrick's guards, too, are dead.