Sister (Mimir's Story - Part III)

Part I 

Part II 

Casserah didn’t know what she feared more: the current predicament her sister had been consigned to, or the possibility that it would make her fiancé completely lose control.

She only heard secondhand what had happened to Anneth and Mimir minutes after they were dragged to the dungeons. The maids and butlers came scurrying into the kitchens in a great tide of fear and commotion, and it took a while for the communal roar to resolve into anything that had meaning. When Casserah finally registered what they were trying to tell her—that the night’s entertainment had gone disastrously, that that damn Seer had exposed Lord Tristram in front of everyone and gotten her little sister sentenced to death—Casserah’s first question, sharp as a knife, was: “Where is Junoth?”

For Junoth would have been forced to stand witness as his betrothed was hauled away by his own fellow guards. And while Casserah loved the man as a brother—scolding him and nagging him and holding him in familiar sisterly contempt—she did not trust his sense of reason. He was good-natured, and even clever in his own way, but he could never see things clearly. His emotions ruled him, and he had a tendency to charge headfirst into things without considering the consequences. Sweet-tempered Anneth grounded him, a little, but even she was too idealistic and well-meaning for her own good: she’d happily starve to death if it meant she could feed any random beggar she came across on the road. It had always fallen to Casserah to be the navigator for all of them, the hard logical sentry who could evaluate the horizon with cool eyes and steer them away from any obstacles she could espy jutting out of the waters. But she had not been in the banquet hall, and if Junoth had lost his temper, that would be just another person Cass would have to rescue…

“He looked like he was going to do something,” Hanson told her nervously, “but one of the other guards, Yanni, put a hand on his arm and whispered something to him.” All of the servants knew about Junoth and Anneth’s relationship, of course, though the lord of the house didn’t. “So the three of them kept to their posts behind Lord Tristram, and it was the other guards who came from the sides of the room to take Anneth and the Seer away. Junoth stayed calm enough while Tristram was busy dismissing the guests, but now he’s disappeared. And he had a very strange look on his face the whole time.”

“Like a faraway look,” Samhaina added, practically gabbling it. “Almost like he wasn’t inside of himself.”

That was Casserah’s other secret fear. Junoth’s little brother Nawat, seventeen and wiry and mischievous to the extreme, had told her about something once: he’d called it by some Ket name that translated to battle-cold, some sort of mental state or fit that supposedly befell the Ket when they were under extreme strain or duress, or when their lives or the lives of their loved ones were being threatened. Nawat had called it his own personal name—the snap—and said a Ket pushed far past his boundaries was liable to fall into this kind of trance, a cold and brutal killing instinct that drove him mindlessly onward until he had obliterated the threat completely. It was like the berserker rage the Hunters fell into when they caught wind of an Endarkened, Nawat had said, an uncontrollable destructive urge, only in the Ket, it was empty of emotion and stony and pitiless and inhuman, rather than the all-consuming flame of the Hunters’ fury. Anneth had laughed the whole story off as a silly tale—not her Junoth, she’d said, and he was only half-Ket besides—but Casserah had been a little wary ever since. She did not like to suspect her future brother-in-law of anything—but all things Diminished were foreign to her, esoteric and mystical and hard to understand, and it sounded like this cold murderous intent was not a thing that he could control. She had always been watchful for any flicker of anger in him, but he had never shown anything except doting indulgence of Anneth and his brothers, or general everyday ribaldry and buffoonery. Until now.

She tore mechanically at her apron strings, flinging the garment onto the floury counter. “I’ve got to see Lord Tristram,” she gasped, “explain things, tell her it wasn’t Anneth’s fault—he can’t kill her, she hasn’t doneanything—”

“I don’t think you should, Cass,” Hanson warned her. He had always had a soft spot for her, Casserah knew, ever since she and Anneth had come to work at the estate, but there’d never been any time to explore it, and as the years passed, the spark of attraction had faded. Still, they were friends. “Tristram hasn’t thought of you yet, hasn’t remembered that Anneth is your sister, but as soon as he sees you before him, he’ll remember. And with the state he’s in, he’s likelier to have you whipped just for being related to her. You won’t get anywhere begging him for mercy.”

“Well, I have to do something!” Casserah snapped, and tore down the servants’ corridor towards the dungeons.

No one noticed her as she flew down the halls of the manor, taking the least-used passageways and shortcuts. There were still chambermaids and footmen and houseboys and lackeys streaming to and fro, bearing away the half-eaten ruins of Casserah’s meal—how she’d broken her back trying to put that feast together, and how little it all meant now!—while the rumble of shocked, unhappy guests passed invisibly overhead through the main halls. From the tone of their muffled chatter, Casserah could tell they were deeply disturbed by the night’s events… but she wouldn’t have been surprised if they were thrilled, too. Nobles were like jackals: they pretended to operate as a group, but as soon as one of them was wounded, they’d turn on the offender with even more glee than with their normal prey. She wondered how long it would take for word of these events to reach Orlop, the largest major city, or Haven. She wondered if Tristram’s enemies would put any stock into what Mimir had said. Or if—as Junoth had guessed—they already knew about it.

She had never been to the dungeons under the estate before: although whippings and executions were not uncommon, the prisoners they were meant for tended to be held by the town guard, or—if they were servants of the household—under lock and key in their own rooms. The fact that Mimir and Anneth had been taken there was a vivid, ugly signal of the severity of their crimes. Casserah was greeted by an unpleasant, damp smells of mildew and something sour as she descended into the gloom, feeling her way down the half-broken steps, but before she had any time to be unnerved—she never felt comfortable in underground spaces—she was abruptly greeted by one of Tristram’s guards, blocking the narrow archway that led towards the cells. Casserah’s heart sank as she peered up into his half-helmed face. She didn’t think she knew him.

“Sorry, miss. No one gets through until dawn. Orders of Lord Agrane.”

Casserah drew back a little; she had nearly bashed into him in the dim, fluttering torchlight, and she could smell the oil on his armor and the stink of alcohol on his breath. Agrane, the guard called him. All of the veteran servants still called him Tristram, so this had to be one of the newer recruits. Sosie the scullery maid had mentioned one of those—a man with a rough voice, she’d said—pawing at her skirts while soused, lording his guard status over the others as if he were a nobleman himself. It would be just her luck if he was the one placed on guard duty tonight.

“She’s my sister,” Casserah said, striving to keep her voice icy and arch. The more brisk and businesslike she acted, the less she tended to be questioned. “You doubtless have more men back there, and it’s not as if I’m going to do anything—I just need to see her, make sure she’s all right—”

“Sorry.” The guard’s tone suggested he was not sorry at all. “Like I said, it’s Lord Agrane’s orders. No one’s to see the witch or the traitor tonight.”

Traitor? Casserah’s entire body was alive with fear, a flame so cold it turned her veins to ice. “But—”

And now he actually grinned at her, his eyes unfocused and simmering within his sallow face. “Now you turn right around,” he said, mock-gently, “and you run along now. The dungeons are no place for a lady, after all.”

I should have brought my fileting knife, Casserah thought. I’ll kill him. But before she could open her mouth to give this upstart muti the tongue-flaying of his life, there was a slight step, the scrape of boot against stone behind her, and the guard’s eyes flicked up to look at something over Casserah’s shoulder. Before she could turn, or even process what was going on, someone pushed lightly past her and seized the guard by his throat.

Casserah drew back sharply, too shocked to scream, as she watched a wiry, tanned arm haul the guard up and slam him hard against the wall, his helmeted head clanging against the damp stone like a bell. The man’s face purpled as he sputtered and kicked, and he snarled in a choked voice, “Ward—what in Hael’s name has gotten into you—”

Junoth didn’t say a word. Casserah couldn’t see his face, and she was almost afraid to; she was afraid to look into his eyes and see that it was true, that he had been taken over by some instinct that made him not himself. He only tightened his grip, no doubt employing a trickle of the arma he’d inherited from the Diminished side of his parenthood, and the guard’s eyes bugged horribly; Casserah was afraid they were going to pop.

Another man appeared suddenly in the archway behind the guard, and this one Casserah recognized: Yanni, a kind, jovial young father who acted as Junoth’s friend and sometime-mentor. He put a hand to his sword, but when he saw Junoth’s face, he released it again and hissed, “Let him go, Junoth, don’t be a fool. You’re no good to your lady if the rest of us are forced to stick you like a pig.”

There was a moment of silence before Junoth dropped the other guard, who fell to the ground, clutching his throat and gagging and heaving. He said, in a very hard voice that Casserah barely recognized, “You’ll take us to see her, Yanni.”

The older guard waved a hand, turning to lead them through the archway and ignoring the spluttering new recruit completely. “Yes, yes, but don’t do anything stupid, you hear me? These are your friends back here, and we’re just following orders. Don’t make me regret this.”

Casserah hurried after them, leaving the choking man behind as she squirmed through a narrow, twisting passageway. Shortly thereafter, they rounded the corner to find another long hallway with a measly three cells set on the left side, barred simply by an iron grille. On the far end of the hallway, a cluster of more guards were gathered, muttering fervently amongst themselves; at the sight of Junoth and Yanni, who jerked his head meaningfully, they turned and cleared out, shooting pitying looks over their shoulders. Casserah felt a little grip of fear catch at her heart then.

They think this is the last time we’re going to be speaking to Anneth. They’re giving us privacy so we can make our goodbyes.

She gritted her teeth and turned to the cell door in the middle, where Junoth was already kneeling and talking softly, gripping the metal bars as if he could pry them apart with his bare hands. Casserah fell to her knees beside him, and soon enough she picked out her sister kneeling on dirty, wet straw just on the other side of the grille, her face set and white and her flame-red curls askew. One slender hand was fastened around the bars, and Junoth had in turn wrapped his larger, tanned hand around it; the other, she offered to Casserah, who took it and kissed the knuckles. Beneath the sour wet smells of the dungeon, Cass could still make out the thin familiar thread of Anneth’s light green, tea-like tang, and the scent of the powdery soap she used for her laundry.

“Oh, Annie,” she whispered, sounding thick and teary despite herself. “I’m so sorry—I came as soon as I heard—”

“It’s all right,” Anneth said, offering her a brave smile. Junoth said, his tone still sounding altered, “Are you hurt?”

She shook her head. “Not at all. They were quite courteous with us, though me more so than Mimir. They simply escorted us inside and locked the door. They’ve been arguing—some of Junoth’s friends against the new men Tristram hired last fall—”

“We’ve got to get you out of here,” Junoth said then, his voice very flat. “I can get the keys from the guardroom. If they try to stop us, I’ll—I’ll fight them off. And then we’ll fetch my brothers, steal some horses, and ride. Start over in Orlop, or Kinley—”

Anneth was looking at him with a faintly-incredulous expression. “They’ll pursue us,” she said, “and catch us in a heartbeat. We probably won’t even make it out of the estate—you know how many guards there are, you can’t possibly hope to fight them all. You’ll be killed, and all of us will be dragged back to the whipping post, anyway. No, we’re not doing that.”

Casserah stared at her: Anneth was acting strangely calm, almost as if she hadn’t realized what was going to happen. “They’ve sentenced you to be whipped to death at dawn,” she said, her voice a half-strangled whisper. “Oh, Annie, what are we going to do?”

“We have to try,” Junoth broke in then, his voice full of hurt and anger. “We have to do something. We can’t—I can’t just sit by and watch this happen. Isn’t trying better than doing nothing at all? You’ll die.”

“No, I won’t,” Anneth said, her voice trembling a little but steady enough to exude a forced calm. “Mimir says that if we wait, all will be well. We just need to be patient.”

Casserah realized suddenly that the Seer had been behind Anneth all along, huddled on a pile of straw with her veil wrapped around herself like a child’s blanket. She felt a terrible surge of anger towards that small, pitiable figure then, letting out a stilted cry and half-lunging at the metal bars—if they hadn’t been in the way, she thought she could have throttled the Seer with her bare hands.

“You,” she snarled, baring her teeth at Mimir. “Curseyou for what you’ve done! She took you in out of the kindness of her heart, and this is how you repay her? I’d flay you myself if you weren’t already doomed to the post!”

Mimir hardly stirred at the sound of Casserah’s voice: she simply sat there, hugging her knees and staring down at her bare feet in the straw as if all the mysteries of the universe could be found down there. Junoth shook his head in disgust and said in a low tone, “Forget about her, Annie, she’s the reason why you’re in this mess in the first place. We need to think about getting you out of here.”

“Agreed,” Casserah said feverishly. “Here’s what we’ll do. I’m going to fetch the rest of Lady Cythera’s jewels from her room—we can use them to pay our way on the road. Junoth, you prepare your brothers without raising the alarm. But instead of breaking Annie out tonight, when we’ll have to fight our way through the whole of the estate, we should wait until they take her out at dawn, intercept them somehow on the way to the courtyard—we can use the servant-door that no one knows about, the one that leads out to the west road, and your brothers can wait with horses—”

“No,” Mimir said, her voice very faint from the almost-impenetrable darkness of the cell.

Casserah fell silent for a moment, her temples throbbing dangerously. An acid slew of insults sat on her tongue, but she swallowed them with difficulty before saying in the quiet, lethal voice that would have made Junoth’s brothers tremble: “What?”

“No,” Mimir repeated. “You will all die if you try to escape this. If you try and break out tonight, Junoth will be killed instantly—the guard he choked has a pistol, and will put a bullet through his eye the first chance he gets—or he will be beaten, captured, tortured, and hung at dawn. If you try and flee in the morning, you will be stabbed in the back by a flung knife—your blood will coat Anneth, and she will scream and fall over—”

“That’s enough,” Junoth said in a rough voice. “Fine, then; if none of that will work, then I’ll disguise myself in my guard uniform—”

“No,” Mimir said again. “Don’t you see? Those paths always lead to death.” She paused for a moment, closing her eyes, her head swaying on her neck a little. In the glow from the smoking torches, Casserah thought she could see a faint sheen of sweat on the Seer’s pale brow, and her eyes glittered feverishly in the firelight when they opened again. Finally she said, her voice very weak, “Gather your jewels and prepare your horses. But move in secret, for if you are discovered, all will be in vain. Tell whoever will listen to leave the manor tonight. The servants, the guards you can trust: they won’t be safe if they stay. In the morning, come to the courtyard, but do not wear your uniform, nor bring any weapons. Leave them all with your brothers. If you do not heed me, and if you come armed, you will die. That much is set in stone.”

Junoth and Casserah were dead silent for a moment. Finally she stirred and whispered, “You’re mad. You’re completely and utterly mad.”

“No, she isn’t,” Anneth said then, leaning forward and clutching at the bars. And Casserah saw then that her eyes had the same feverish gleam as Mimir’s. “You weren’t there, Cass, you didn’t see it, but everything she said about Lord Tristram—it was all true, she couldn’t have known any of it, she saw so many things that we couldn’t piece together even though we live here, and she knew them all. If we run from him now—if we’d run from him tonight, after the feast, like we were planning—he might have chased us until the ends of the earth, and we would have lived like criminals, always desperate and afraid, and he might have caught us and killed us anyway. But maybe things had to happen like this, exactly like this, and if we do as Mimir says, then everything will be all right—”

“And how could that be, Annie?” Junoth demanded, his voice sounding broken and desperate. “Did you ask her?” To Mimir he said: “How is any of it going to happen?”

“Too many paths,” Mimir muttered, “too many threads, hanging over me like cobwebs. He is coming, amd I cannot see beyond him.” She sank further into a pile of straw, shuddering, before she whispered, “Be ready to run. Come unarmed. He won’t pursue you. You will be safe.” Her eyes drifted shut, but she kept whispering to herself, “Follow the leyline. Bleakmoor, then Haven. Kithma, burning, and the watcher in the night, the threads rewoven and recrossed, bound together and split apart…”

She fell silent, but before any of them could say any more, the far door opened, and Yanni poked his head through. “You have to get out of here,” he hissed. “We’ve just received word that his lordship might be coming down!”

Junoth looked like he was going to protest, but Anneth seized him by the collar and pulled his face up to the bars, his forehead clanging painfully against them as they kissed. Casserah turned away, her mind already whirring—if she worked fast, she could sew Lady Cythera’s pearls into her sleeve, stitch the rest into the lining of her old bag—

“Now,” Yanni said, his voice urgent as he looked fearfully over his shoulder. There was some commotion in the upper distance. Someone was coming down.

Junoth took Cass by the elbow and guided her out before she had a chance to turn and say anything else to Anneth. The last glimpse she saw of her sister was of Anneth standing, straight-backed and slim in her prison cell, wearing a brave smile while she watched them leave with shadowed eyes, the Seer sitting huddled and shivering behind her.

In the hallway upstairs, Junoth turned to Casserah, still with an iron grip on her elbow, and said softly, “What do we do?” Some of the remote, deadly anger had faded from his expression, though not all of it, and now he only looked disheveled and worried beyond reason.

Casserah looked away. “We either listen to the fortune-teller, or we don’t,” she finally said, feeling at a rare loss for words.

Junoth frowned. “I don’t trust her.”

“Neither do I,” Casserah replied. Then she closed her eyes, and Junoth knew then what she was thinking.

“But Anneth does,” he said.

“Yes,” Casserah said heavily. “And if I know anything, it’s that I trust my sister.”

I just pray she’s right.

#

Dawn broke, pale, watery light leaking out across the sky, strangely diluted for the season. It would have seemed an ill omen, Anneth thought, blinking hard as they led her out into the glassy light, but she wasn’t sure if she believed in those anymore. Her head ached fiercely: Lord Tristram had never come down, after all, but she had spent the entire night gripped in a disembodied state of fear and apprehension, expecting to close her eyes one moment and find him standing over her the next. As a result, she’d gotten no sleep whatsoever, and her mind had wandered down strange paths. What if she was wrong about all of this? What if Mimir really was mad? Had she staked her life—and possibly the lives of her sister and lover—on the faith she had in a stranger she’d met only yesterday?

And yet. And yet, in the darkness of that cell, Mimir had lapsed into some kind of fever-state—she’d overtaxed herself, Anneth thought, or else so many things were going on that they were overwhelming her senses like a swarm of ghostly bees—and she had whispered so many strange things to Anneth while she’d tried to give her a little water. “The gods brought me to you,” she’d murmured, staring up at Anneth with clouded silver eyes. “If I hadn’t come, you would have fled with your family, too early, too soon, and he would have caught you and gone to you and escaped his fate. Things will be in balance again.”

And: “There’s someone else I have to meet. My kin. If I don’t get there in time, the luminary won’t be found, and the dark herald will come without warning, and the whole world will be covered in shadow.”

And: “I’ll slip away, and go east. You’ll worry about me, but you won’t need to. The bright burner will find me.”

Casserah would have dismissed it all as the ramblings of a madwoman. And yet there had been such a strange timbre in Mimir’s voice, such a ringing sense of truth to the words she spoke. A heaviness and almost cosmic significance that Anneth couldn’t explain, except with the unnerved feeling that she had no choice but to believe in it.

And so she prayed that she’d done the right thing by obeying Mimir. But still. In her darker moments of doubt, she’d contemplated what it was like to be whipped to death. It had to be a slow, excruciating process—that was the whole point—and, unbidden, she thought of the old Ket novels she’d smuggled into her room when she was first falling in love with Junoth, the stories she’d read about sword-maidens and warriors who bit through their tongues and bled to death, to avoid torture or interrogation or dishonor. Would that be a quicker exit, if things took their worst turn? She had tested her teeth lightly against her tongue, just before the guards came to fetch them. Where did one even bite? And should she do it before the whip touched her, or would she need the pain of the first strike to give her the will?

Six of Tristram’s guards surrounded her and Mimir as they were led out into the courtyard: far too many for two unarmed women. None of them were anyone Anneth knew: Yanni and the others had disappeared sometime in the night, though where they had gone or whether their absence had been noticed, Anneth couldn’t say. This new crop were more loyal to Lord Tristram, having only ever served under him—whereas the others had been hired by his father, their old master—but even they looked faintly uneasy as they flanked her and Mimir, their polished brass armor glinting mirror-like in the weak and hazy sun. Behind her, Mimir stood sedate and silent, her veiled head bobbing under an invisible weight. No one had noticed Lady Cythera’s stolen necklace still gleaming at her throat. It seemed Casserah had been right all along: the lady had so much unused finery that not even her own twin brother could have recognized it.

Anneth’s heart beat thinly in her throat as they rounded the colonnade and came into view of the whipping-post. There was a small, scattered crowd gathered there—some in the colors and liveries of other noble households—and, under the shade of a makeshift pavilion, Lord Tristram sat in a fine chair, his eyes like flint as he gazed over the proceedings. Beside him were seated Lady Charmae and her husband, as well as weasel-faced Lord Tolland. They must have stayed the night to scheme with Tristram, to try and undo the damage that had been caused by Mimir’s accusations at the feast. And now they were taking a pause in their conspiring to watch the witch and maid who’d started it all be put to the death.

Anneth pulled her eyes away from Tristram’s expressionless face to search the crowd discretely for Junoth. He wasn’t wearing his guard armor, thank the One-God, but she still had no trouble picking him out by his fiery hair, though she couldn’t quite see his face from where she was standing. And Casserah—tall, golden-skinned, golden-haired Casserah—was nowhere to be seen. Did she believe the worst? Could she not bring herself to watch, after all?

One of the guards pushed Mimir towards the post and the whipmaster who awaited her there: a lanky, bald, bare-chested man with scars littering his body. Anneth had often wondered where he had come from and what his story was: she thought he was a retired mercenary of some kind, but he did not live at the house and never interacted with any of Tristram’s other staff. She wondered what kind of man took on a job like this, and whether he enjoyed it. Even as she watched, the man unfurled the long leather coil in his hands and flexed it between his hands, as if to test its strength.

Tristram’s voice rang out suddenly across the courtyard, and Anneth’s heart hurtled up into her throat. “No.”

She did not turn to look, but he must have made some indication as he said, with lazy contempt: “The maid first. Save the witch for last.”

So one of the guards pushed her, almost gently, towards the whipping-post instead. Anneth, her pulse hammering in her ears, stared up at it. There was an iron band wrapped around the post, from which two manacles dangled. She looked her trembling lips, tried to clear her salt-dry throat, and said, “I don’t need to be bound. Please.” I’m not a criminal.

The whipmaster was watching her with hard eyes; he seemed to be full of distaste, though whether it was for her or the situation, she couldn’t say. “You might need it,” he said, his voice like gravel. “In case you faint.”

God in heaven. It felt as if there was a rock lodged in her throat. “Well, if that happens, then the whip may land where it may.”

After a long moment, the man shrugged his lean, scarred shoulders. “Suits me. But if you run, they’ll have to drag you back, and he may ask me to do worse.”

What could be worse than being whipped to death? But Anneth nodded, stepping slowly up to the post and gripping the wooden handles that jutted out at about chest height from it. She winced slightly; the wood felt oddly warm and smooth beneath her grip, almost like something made of flesh. Her stomach stirred with bile as she took a deep breath. If she put her tongue to the right, and began to bite when the whip descended, which would be the worse pain? Is this really happening?

A slithering sound—the whip, uncoiled. Someone in the crowd—a voice she didn’t recognize, muttered, “Imagine, whipping a lady. I think I’m going to be sick.”

“Then don’t watch,” someone muttered back.

The reality was beginning to overtake Anneth, a tall dark wave that threatened to crash down with bone-shattering force. I’ve made the wrong choice, I should have run away, she thought. Better to be stabbed trying to escape than to wait like this. More slithering, smacking sounds—was he testing out the whip? She tried not to flinch, but she had to shut her eyes.

Crack.

She did not cower, though it was difficult to keep her shoulders straight and her knees locked. No pain. He had simply been assuring himself of a clean strike. Where was Junoth? Had she said enough to him? Did he know how fiercely she loved him? Would he lose control once he saw the first blow, and would that spell the death of both of them?

“Ready,” the whipmaster called to Tristram.

Anneth bit down, testing her tongue’s resilience. Was it possible, or was it all only a story? She was about to find out. The world faded, save for the humming of a waking cicada, the buzzing in her ears. She clasped her hands against the warm, slick wood, waiting, her vision jumping with sheer terror. Someone in the crowd gave a sharp exclamation, and a deep hush fell over the world.

Then came a rushing sound, like a sudden storm over a dry plain.

Crack.

It still did not hurt. A collective gasp echoed in the small stone courtyard. Anneth’s heart strained at such a gallop she thought her head might swell and burst.

Someone gurgled wetly behind her.

Anneth turned slowly, cautiously, every joint creaking like she was made of wood herself, and what met her eyes was a vision straight out of a nightmare.

A long, wicked blade had burst out of the whipmaster’s chest, the blade itself rippling and sinewy as if it were a metal snake. Blood poured out of the exit wound, and the look on the man’s face was one of abject shock and horror. The sword was withdrawn, with cruel efficiency, and the man crumpled to the ground, his last breaths already rattling out of his mouth as he died.

A tall man clad in black stood behind the body of the whipmaster, holding his dripping sword. For a moment, all her blurred eyes could make out was his red hair, and for a confused instant she thought—Junoth?—but where Junoth was narrow and starkly tanned, this man was pale as bonefire and broad of shoulder, with blood-red hair tucked beneath a wide-brimmed black hat. Worst of all were his golden eyes, darkly-gleaming with lazy malice and tinted an inhuman shade of ochre. A demon’s eyes, she thought, a spike of fear leaping in her chest. This man who had appeared from nowhere looked like a demon.

The stranger hardly looked at her; he inspected the corpse at his feet, his mouth crooked into a half-smile of lazy amusement as he said, “My, my. I know I came all the way from Haven, but I wasn’t expecting such a welcome party.”

No one in the courtyard spoke. No one even twitched, not even the guards, who stared at the red-haired man with open-mouthed shock. Where had he come from, and how had he moved so quickly? The only one who didn’t seem afraid of him was Mimir, who stared at the man from behind her veil with an intent, calculating expression she had never worn before.

It was finally Lord Tristram who broke the silence, safe for the moment in his pavilion across the courtyard. He stood and said, his voice shaking a little, “Who are you? How dare—”

The red-haired man turned easily on his heel to address the lord. “Now, I wouldn’t be speaking of daring, if I were you,” he said, his voice mocking as he tugged on his black gloves more securely. “You, Tristram Agrane, have made certain parties very unhappy with your displays of daring. So they’ve dispatched me to deal with you, and to teach you a little lesson about what happens when you plot to disrupt the natural order of things.” He pointed his sword straight at Tristram, as if it were a needle aligning with the northern point of a compass. “It’s nothing personal, mind you. But I’m nothing if not thorough.”

And then he began to kill the guards.

Things moved too quickly for Anneth to register, after that. People were screaming, scattering, shoving each other aside in their attempt to get away from the man, who had turned into a black whirlwind of furious, flowing motion, and there were the smells of blood and fire and something acrid and dark as his sword lashed out, again and again, biting through the sunlit air and punching through the guards’ armor like a lunging snake. He mowed through five of the guards in less than three minutes, and he didn’t bat an eye when more poured through the sides of the courtyard, driven by Tristram’s hoarse orders, Lady Charmae’s screams. In fact, the man in black was smiling, grinning fiercely like a predator delighted to be given a good hunt, and it was that sight that Anneth would remember most clearly: he treated slaughter with the grim satisfaction of someone performing an appointed task dutifully, but with some measure of enjoyment as well.

But he ignored her and the rest of the fleeing servants, targeting first the guards and then diving in the direction of Tristram’s pavilion. Lady Charmae screamed and screamed. Someone caught her up, and Anneth twisted, crying out, but it was only Junoth, hauling her along towards the western side of the courtyard, towards the servant-door, where she saw Casserah waiting, her eyes wide and shocked, and Anneth thought, If he’d been wearing his uniform, the demon man would have killed him too.

Junoth didn’t say anything, his breath ragged as he dragged her along towards Casserah, and it wasn’t until she cried out for Mimir that he said, “She’s gone, she left, she went for the eastern door, we have to go—”

They made it to Casserah, who grabbed Anneth’s other arm and joined in the dragging, the two of them hauling her between them with the force of a thundering flood. Anneth gasped, “She knew he would come, she knew he was coming to kill Tristram, she had to delay him or else he wouldn’t have been here when the man came for him—”

Behind them, something exploded into light and flame; ash drifted down from the sky like gray snow, and someone screamed Lord Tristram’s name. Junoth was saying, “We make for Kinley, we have the horses—” and Casserah was screaming, “Where’s the Seer, how do we know she got away?”

And Anneth said, “She must be heading for the Bleakmoor—she said she couldn’t be late—”

“She’s completely helpless, Anneth! How do we know she’s still alive?”

“She is,” her sister told her, turning her eyes towards the western road, where she could see Junoth’s brothers waiting anxiously in the distance. “She won’t die. She has much more important things to do than this.”