Now, he thought. This is the time. Now.
Miles away, deep in the bowels of the labyrinthine monolith, Kestrel lay sleeping beside her husband in their private chamber. She lay on her back, her hair tumbled about her, and Arna slept on his side facing her, one arm draped across her body. The bead around her neck suddenly flared with a deep purple light. Brighter and brighter it grew, then faded until it glowed like a strangely colored ember against her breast.
Kestrel’s eyes snapped open and stared at the ceiling. Her eyes were completely black, with no white or iris, as if her pupils had swallowed everything up.
A faint green haze was gathering in the room, like mist on a cool evening. The green particles, each so faint that singly they couldn’t be seen by the human eye, swirled around one another and coalesced until they became a transparent ribbon. The ribbon reached for Kestrel where she lay, eyes still open.
It hovered over her face, and an end of it paused over the glowing charm. The ribbon reached for the charm as if to touch it, then reared back, like a startled snake.
The green ribbon floated a moment, sinuous as a flag in the wind, as if deciding what to do. It thinned out until it was simply a mass of green specks again. The particles retreated to the walls and soaked through as if the stone were porous.
Kestrel rose and pushed back the covers, not bothering to put on her slippers, but going straight to the little table where she kept her cosmetics and little trinkets. Here were her comb and the brush she used to untangle her daughter’s hair, as her mother had before, and a little woven box containing a chunk of dirty-white quartz that her husband had given her on her wedding night.
There was a box there, a beautifully inlaid piece made of a curious wood. It was a present from her uncle, sent on her birthday this past year. The note said it was a puzzle box, with a prize inside, and challenged her to open it without breaking it apart.
She had fiddled with it almost nightly, but the solution eluded her. Sometimes she was tempted to take the lazy man’s way, and pry the end off.
She pressed the lid of the box, and it popped open with no effort at all. Inside was a knife with a long, thin blade and a grip that fit all the curves of her hand as if it were cast for it. Kestrel looked at her own hand and opened and shut it reflexively.
In the bed, Arna muttered to himself and rolled onto his back, snoring faintly with his hand dangling over the side.
She took the knife and walked around the bed to Arna’s side. Her bare feet made no sound on the cold stone floor. With her left hand she stroked his hair, all that black, silky hair he had. She ran her fingers through it, and cupped the back of his head. He opened his eyes and smiled sleepily up at her.
She took a handful of his hair, pulled his head back, and slit his throat. The knife was so sharp, it cut right to the bone. He died still looking at her.
It was only a few steps to the nursery, where little Bron was sleeping. The nurse had a bed beside the crib. She woke when she saw the shadow at the door and rose to see what her mistress wanted. She was a short woman, and the top of her head barely reached Kestrel’s shoulder. All Kestrel had to do was swing the knife up, under her jaw, through the top of her mouth, and into her brain.
The weight of the woman falling pulled the knife from her hand. She walked to the side of little Bron’s crib. The boy was sleeping on his back, his arms spread-eagled in that utter sleep they are capable of at that age. She took the blanket from the foot of the crib, wadded it up, and covered his face.
When the baby was still, she left him covered. She pulled the knife out of the nurse’s jaw and shoved her inside the nursery door, so the alarm would not be raised right away. Then she went to Brioni’s room, next to the nursery.
Brioni was so proud when she was old enough, just that past year, to have her own room. But her covers were cast aside, her bed empty. Kestrel waited awhile, but Brioni didn’t return to her room. So she went on to the boys’ room-to Geb and Shev. Geb was fast asleep, and a quick blow finished him, just like his father. But though she could swear she made no sound, Shev was awake when she went to his bed. He stirred, and she saw his eyes glitter up at her, puzzled. She grasped his jaw before he could make a sound and put the point under his ear. Like his father, he was still looking up at her when he died.
Miles away, poised at the rocky edge of the cliff with the wind roaring through her hair, Lakini felt something twist in her stomach.
Something is wrong at the Hold.
She had sworn to serve and protect them, and then she had run away, and now the Hold and everyone in it was in danger.
She turned from the wind and the view and ran, surefooted over the rocks and the places where the path disappeared.
Lusk needs you, sounded the familiar voice from the sanctuary. He needs you, and you’ve left him behind.
Jadaren Hold was stone and should never have burned; yet from the basalt mass beneath her, a haze of smoke emanated. She ran faster, almost flying over the ground as she let pure instinct take over where she put her feet.
There was fighting, and knots of people were at the top of the Hold. Before her eyes, a couple ventured close to the edge and a body, attacker or defender, fell twisting to the ground below.
The wards, she thought. The wards have been broken.
An image of Lusk burning with green fire flared in her mind, and she forced herself to run faster.
“Lusk, Lusk, I am coming for you,” she whispered to herself as she ran, as if he could hear her. And yes, I am waiting for you, she heard, as if he bent again to speak roughly in her ear.
Almost there. Something rushed her from the side, and she ducked and drew back, letting her assailant’s weight unbalance him.
There was an angry snarl, and a set of razor-sharp claws slashed in the air over her head. Lakini drew her sword overhead in a single smooth motion and lunged at whatever it was.
A werewolf, here at the Hold-how was that possible?
There was no time to wonder. A single thrust and her sword pierced the slavering creature’s throat.
Reaching the Hold, she paused before a body sprawled across the threshold of one of the doorways carved out of the black rock. The face was turned up to the sky, the eyes open and expressionless. One hand was flung upon, palm up, as if in his last extremity the owner had appealed for mercy to some passing god.
The face was Ansel Chuit’s.
She stepped over him, into a mass of fighters, some in the sage green of House Jadaren, some in the blue of House Beguine. What was happening? Had some outlaw element of House Jadaren turned against Kestrel, and House Beguine come to rescue her?
She must find Kestrel and the children.
She pushed and fought her way past clusters of fighters, horrified to see that werewolves fought there as well. Servants and family members, confused and terrified, ran back and forth, and everywhere there was a choking haze of smoke.
Where was Lusk?
Finally she shouldered her way into Kestrel and Arna’s private quarters, with the chamber where their children slept adjoining. Their door was slightly ajar. Had they hid inside?
She shoved open the door. Kestrel was not there. There was a bed, with a pale cover streaked thickly with red. Under the cover, his calm eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling, was Arna Jadaren, his throat slit open like a second mouth.
“Lakini.”
She whirled, bloodstained sword upraised, to see Kestrel, standing in her nightclothes. She was barefoot and her skirt was stained with blood. She held a small knife, clotted to the hilt, in her right hand. In her left, she held a dull silver bracelet with three red stones.