Shurik tried to summon a flame, reaching for his power as a starving man grasps at offered food. He felt nothing. He could conjure nothing. For tonight at least, his magic was gone.
He turned from the window and began to pace the small room, pausing at the hearth to stir the fire and add another log. Once more, he thought of going to the sanctuary, but at this point he would have to make the journey alone, in the dark. He couldn’t bring himself to try.
Instead, he lay down on the bed and closed his eyes, trying to calm his nerves.
He was awakened by a loud voice in the corridor, a man’s voice. He was singing poorly, as if drunk. After a moment Shurik heard pounding on the door next to his.
“Shara!” the man called. He battered the door again. “Shara!”
Shurik sat up, rubbing his eyes. He had no idea of the time.
His door shook with the force of the man’s knocking. Too late, the Qirsi realized that he hadn’t bolted the lock before lying down.
“Shara!” came the voice again.
The handle turned and Shurik’s door swung open, revealing an Eandi man who held a lute in one hand and a flask in the other. He was young, his face clean-shaven, his hair yellow. He stood in the corridor a moment, tottering in the glow of the torches. Then he took two unsteady steps into Shurik’s chamber.
“Is Shara in here?” he asked loudly.
Shurik fumbled for his dagger, his hands trembling. “Get out of here!”
“I’m just looking for Shara.”
“She’s not here! Now get out!”
The man raised the flask to his lips and took a long drink. “Do you know where she is?” he asked a moment later. “I wrote a song for her. Would you like to hear it?”
He bent over and carefully placed the flask on the floor, nearly toppling onto his back as he did. Straightening, he began to pluck tentatively at the strings of the lute.
Shurik stood, still clutching his dagger. “Look,” he said, trying to sound forceful. “I don’t know who this woman is or where you can find her, and I don’t want to hear your song. Now either you leave my chamber, or I’ll call the castle guard.”
The man shrugged. “Fine then.” He stooped to retrieve his wine. But rather than picking up the flask, he laid the lute on the floor. And faster than the Qirsi would have thought possible, he stood, lashed out with his left hand to knock the blade from Shurik’s grasp, and hammered his other fist into the Qirsi’s throat.
Shurik fell back onto the bed in agony, clutching his neck and fighting for breath. The Eandi kicked the door closed and advanced on him, brandishing a blade of his own. Cowering away from him, Shurik tried to scream for help. But with his throat shattered, he could only manage a pathetic coarse sob that barely carried past the walls of his room.
In the end, they kept their plan as simple as possible. Cadel had spoken of scaling castle walls in Kentigern and killing a guard in one of the cities of Sanbira. Neither of those approaches seemed necessary here. The two of them were renowned throughout Mertesse City and had befriended several of the castle guards. No soldier of Mertesse would have any trouble believing that the musicians had won the affections of two court ladies, nor would they doubt that with the city taverns closed for Pitch Night, the two men would be eager to indulge in a more private performance. When Dano and Cadel arrived at the castle gate bearing wine and Dario’s lute, the soldiers let them pass without question.
From there, it was a small matter to find the Qirsi’s quarters. Once he had rendered the man helpless, Dario wasted little time. It might have been Pitch Night in Qirsar’s Turn, and he might have spoken brazenly to Cadel of taking care of this kill on his own, but the lutenist was no fool. He strode to the bed, grabbed the white-hair by his throat, and thrust his blade into the man’s heart.
The Qirsi’s body went rigid, a small gasp escaping his mouth. Then he sagged, his eyes rolling back in his skull. Dario lowered him to the bed, and took a long breath.
He heard a soft footfall behind him and spun, dropping into a fighter’s crouch. Seeing Cadel close the door behind him, he relaxed.
“What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be watching for guards?”
“He’s not going to make any more noise, is he?”
Dario grinned. “No.”
Cadel crossed to where the lutenist was standing, pausing for a moment to retrieve the Qirsi’s dagger. Stopping next to Dario, he looked down at the white-hair’s body. “I wanted to see how you did.”
“I did fine, just like I told you I would.”
“It seems you were right. Any trouble?”
“None. But I wouldn’t have wanted to try this any other night of the year. Any sign of the castle soldiers?”
“No.” Cadel glanced at Dario, a small smile on his lips. “Who is Shara?” he asked. “Is that your sister’s name?”
“No, it’s just a name I made up.”
The singer gave a puzzled frown, gazing at the Qirsi again. “I was sure you told me your sister’s name was Shara.”
“No. My sister’s name is Lettalle.”
“Lettalle,” Cadel repeated. “And what’s your family name?”
“Hunfeurta,” Dario said, staring at him. “Why?”
By the time it occurred to the younger man to be afraid, Cadel had already started to move. Grabbing a handful of Dano’s hair, the singer ducked behind him. Dario tried to twist away, but then felt a sudden burning pain in his heart. Looking down with a strangled cry, he saw the Qirsi’s dagger sliding up into his chest, just below his breastbone. He flailed at Cadel, desperate to free himself from the man’s powerful grip. But already he could feel the life draining from his body.
“I’m sorry,” Cadel whispered to him, easing Dario down onto the bed beside the Qirsi. “Truly I am. It wasn’t my intention to do this when I found you in Dantrielle. But circumstances have changed. I need to end this, and I can’t have you wandering the land knowing all you do about me, about my past and my ties to the conspiracy.”
It seemed to Dario that Cadel was already leaving him, that his voice was receding like an ocean tide. He could barely see for the darkness of the chamber.
“They’ll find you,” he whispered. He was shivering, his legs and hands growing numb. He had never known the snows could bring such cold. “They’ll find you and kill you. You’ll be with me soon enough.”
Cadel’s face loomed above him, wraithlike and grim.
“I know,” the singer said.
Dario wanted to say more. He wanted to close his fingers around the man’s throat for what he had done. But the cold held him fast, and Cadel’s face seemed to drift away, leaving only blackness.
He had only felt this way about a kill once before: in Kentigern, after murdering Lady Brienne. Cadel shuddered to think how he would suffer on Pitch Night in Bian’s Turn for what he had just done. Facing Brienne had been bad enough. Now he’d have to face Dario as well.
He lifted the lutenist’s body and draped it over the Qirsi’s, staining the white-hair’s blade hand with Dano’s blood. Then he overturned the Qirsi’s chair and picked up the flask Dario had left on the floor, only to drop it again so that it shattered, sending shards of clay and dark streaks of wine in all directions. Surveying the room briefly, he nodded to himself, satisfied with the way it looked. He took the lute, wiping it clean on the inside of his riding cloak, and opened the door quietly, peering out into the hallway before making his way to the nearest of the towers.
He descended the stairs to the first of the castle’s two wards and hurried on to the gate.
The guards there waved and smiled. Seeing the lute in his hands, however, their smiles faded.