Lakini appraised her quickly. She was pale and her eyes were cloudy, but she didn’t appear injured.
“Come,” said the deva. “We’ll get the children, find Lusk, and get you to safety.” First things first-she could tell her of Arna’s death later.
“The children are taken care of. They’re safe now,” said Kestrel, in a voice strange and unlike her own. “You needn’t worry about the children. Except Brioni. Have you seen her?” She reached to touch the charm at her throat with the hand that held the bracelet.
“Kestrel,” said Lakini firmly. The girl must be in shock. “We must go.”
Kestrel’s unfocused gaze sharpened. She suddenly seemed to recognize the deva. Urgently, she held out the strange bracelet.
“Lakini,” she said. “Take this, and get it far away from here. It’s what they’re after, and they mustn’t have it.”
“Later.” Lakini shifted her sword to the right hand and reached for Kestrel’s arm with the left. Shouts and screams were echoing down the corridor. “You can tell me about it after we get clear of this.”
“No!” Kestrel grabbed her hand and shoved the bracelet into it. At the touch of the cold metal, an alien whisper passed over Lakini’s mind. “You swore to serve my family.”
“I swore to protect your family,” said Lakini gently.
It was as if the woman didn’t hear her. “I order you to take it away. Don’t let them get it.”
Lakini hesitated, nonplussed. Kestrel’s eyes went back out of focus, and she walked past the deva into the bedroom, still holding her bloody knife.
The metal in Lakini’s hand felt strange, like the hint of lightning in the air, and it seemed to be vibrating. She tucked the bracelet inside her tunic.
“Give it to me.” Lakini looked up, and her hand tightened again on the sword. Lusk stood there, a stained short sword in his hand, his bow gone. He was staring at Kestrel.
Lusk. She should be relieved to see him.
But his voice, hate-filled and gloating, was the voice he used when talking about the halflings he’d killed.
“No,” said Kestrel. I’ve hidden it where you’ll never find it.”
He snarled and advanced on her. Lakini stepped between them.
Lusk’s eyes narrowed. He tilted his head, very like a big cat. Then he smiled. “Why do we argue, Cserhelm?” he said in his normal voice. “She has a bracelet. Just a little thing, but it doesn’t belong to her. There’s a lot of Power in that bracelet, Lakini. Get it from her, and we’ll go. We’ll take the children and go.”
She said nothing, and once more his face changed, and he lunged at her.
She was ready and beat his blade up. She should have struck him then, under his guard where his side was exposed, but she hesitated too long. He smiled at her mockingly and slashed back, and then it was feint, parry, and thrust, down the halls of sundered Jadaren Hold.
It was like a training exercise gone terribly wrong, with death, instead of merely a sharp rap from one’s opponent, being the consequence of inattention. First Lusk, then Lakini, were shoved up against rough walls, smooth walls, and once Lakini nearly stumbled into a room lined completely with razor-sharp crystal. Sometimes she could glimpse the fighting that didn’t concern her directly, and saw more lycanthropes, and some shambling horror that looked like a ghoul.
An infection in the body of the world.
A fresh breeze stirred her braids. A passage leading to the top of the monolith loomed near. Lakini turned sharply to go inside and ran for the roof, hoping Lusk was not so far gone as to stab her in the back.
On the top of the Hold they faced each other. She lunged. He hopped back, avoiding the sweep of her blade with a sinuous twist of his torso. Recovering quickly, he slashed his weapon down, but she’d seen that trick a thousand times and slipped backward, out of reach of his long arms.
They both knew with a dull certainty that one of them must die. The paraffin lantern, hanging on an abandoned watchman’s pole, flickered and spurted a gout of strong-smelling smoke. Up the passage echoed the voices of people shouting in desperation, anger, and grief, and there was the sharp staccato sound of a woman sobbing.
Lusk swung again, and she lifted her blade sideways, catching his weapon on her hilt. She pushed as hard as she could. He had the advantage of weight and height, but she was more stable, closer to the ground. The force of her thrust flung him up, and he staggered against the rock wall. Taking advantage, she charged, her sword aimed at his midsection. He regained his footing and jumped sideways, bringing the hilt of his sword down hard on her back. She cried out in pain and slashed at his ribs, slicing through his tunic. They circled each other, breathing heavily. A slow flow of blood stained the edges of his damaged clothing.
Dull pain pulsed where he’d hit her. Something was injured inside, muscle torn and bleeding internally. She didn’t have time to worry about that now. Without lowering her guard, she inhaled, forcing the pain into a place down and away. That she would deal with later, if she lived.
Again he struck and again she parried, and she struck in her turn, until both their arms trembled with the strain. Then he snarled and struck fast, blows like the strike of an axe, faster than she could return them. Her grip weakened and with a final blow her sword clattered to the ground. She leaped back while he paused, too exhausted by the effort to push his advantage.
“Lakini!”
The deva spared a quick glance behind her. The slight figure of Brioni Jadaren was framed in front of the flickering light of the torches that still ranged around the perimeter of the roof. Her skirt was kirtled almost to her waist, and she clutched a pole inexpertly in her hands, as if she’d been using it as a staff.
There wasn’t time to apologize for not teaching her sword play, as Lakini had promised.
Brioni turned and shouted, and figures assembled behind her, dressed in sage green. She’d managed to rally some of the guards.
Brioni pointed at her. Lusk shouted something, and two of the guards started toward them, bloodied weapons raised.
Lakini turned to look at Lusk. There was her opportunity-he was distracted by the guards and his shoulder was open. Lakini feinted left, then right, then lunged at him, dagger in hand.
But at the last instant, her knife turned in her hand. She struck him in the shoulder with the fist that was wrapped around the hilt. She felt him stagger.
They grappled at the edge and wrestled their way back. Breathless, she drew back and saw that he didn’t realize how close to the edge he was. Finding a second wind, she shoved against him again, and Lusk began to topple.
He wrapped his arms around her as he went backward, pulling her against his chest in a deadly embrace. She felt a sting in the back of her shoulder. There was a despairing shout behind her, from Brioni or one of the guards.
As they went over the edge together, it occurred to Lakini that never, never in this incarnation had she ever been so close to him, flesh to blood-slicked flesh, the hard muscles in his arms locked around her, the curves of her body fitting so intimately against his. They would both die, clasped breast to breast.
Then Lusk uttered something in a language she hadn’t heard for years, but recognized-Astral, the tongue they had known with every rebirth.
Something that burned with a cold flame surrounded them as they fell-wings, enormous wings of ice-cold flame, feathers that burned faint yellow. Their velocity slowed.
They had no soft landing. Both were stunned with the impact. Lakini was on top, but Lusk beneath her took the brunt of the landing. Still, the air was driven from her lungs and she gasped, trying to suck it back in. She was aware of two of her ribs cracking like dry sticks; pain blossomed white-hot in her side.
She drew back, gasping, stumbling away from him while she still could. He lay prone on the ground. Again she could have killed him. Again she did not.