mountain, and eagerly awaited the arrival of his nieces.
Sanwar Beguine regarded the bodies laid in a row outside the courtyard before the sanctuary.
“The livery of House Jadaren,” he said, his voice shaking in rage. “They dare set an ambush for my niece, on her way to make an alliance with them! Kestrel!” He turned to the girl next to him, who surveyed the bloodstained corpses with a pale but resolute face. “You see the madness in this plan now, I hope, even if your father does not.”
Lakini studied the man’s face-handsome, and indolent in a way she suspected was just for show. She wondered again why he hadn’t made part of the caravan.
He had said that once the traveling party had left, he feared treachery and had a premonition of an assassination attempt, and so had ridden to the sanctuary on his own, risking the dangers of a solitary journey out of love for his niece.
Commendable enough, Lakini thought. But it was strange he had missed the caravan along the way and had chosen instead a back route to reach Shadrun-of-the-Snows before Kestrel and her escort.
Instead of replying to Sanwar directly, Kestrel left her sister’s side and crouched beside the body of the man Ansel Chuit had killed. She took a bit of sage green cloth gingerly between her fingertips. Ansel, having taken Lakini’s lecture to heart, stood close by her side, his hands on the hilt of his newly bloodied weapon. His gaze flicked across the gathered folk, which included those who dwelt at the sanctuary, as well as curious pilgrims. Among them was Diamar, the Vashtun’s right hand. Long ago he had given up family name, status, and inheritance to serve at Shadrun-of-the-Snows and would eventually take on the duties of his master.
Better Ansel take his duties too seriously than neglect them, thought Lakini, as the young guard glanced at the forest stretched below them, at the white-marbled entrance to the Great Hall of the sanctuary, and at the human and half-orc bodies as if their deaths were an elaborate ruse and they were likely to jump up and fight again. If he lived long enough, he would learn balance.
“This cloth is terribly worn,” Kestrel said. “Look. The seam is torn halfway up and has been repaired with crude twine.”
She rubbed the tunic between her forefinger and thumb. “And it has a strange feel to it, as though it’s been churned in the washing like work clothes.”
She straightened and rubbed her hand on her skirt, frowning in concentration.
“What of it?” said Sanwar. “It’s unsurprising that a crew of brigands would take poor care of their clothing.”
“Unsurprising for brigands,” broke in Lakini. “But what of the guards you hire in your household? How do you clothe them? I’ll wager their uniforms are kept in good condition. And likewise I wager House Jadaren is no different.”
“Our worn livery is stripped of its insignia and sold down-market,” said Kestrel. “I know, because I keep the records. I wonder if those chevrons are real.”
“They’re not.”
Kestrel started as a slender young man, perhaps in his mid-twenties, with a thin face and mouse brown hair, spoke behind her. He grinned at her startled expression and made a low bow.
“Arna Jadaren, at your service, my lady,” he said.
Ansel started and drew his sword a few inches from its scabbard. Lakini managed to catch his eye, and at her fierce look he reddened and let it slide back, taking his too-ready hand from the hilt as he did so.
Lakini didn’t miss how Sanwar Beguine, flushed with anger and sputtering at the appearance of the Jadaren heir, looked eagerly at the young guard when he seized his weapon, and frowned when at Lakini’s look he stood down. An attack on Arna Jadaren by those sworn to House Beguine would be disastrous at this point. Lakini was reasonably sure Sanwar knew that.
Kestrel rose, looking at Arna with a puzzled expression.
“But … I’ve seen you before,” she said, her voice uncertain.
Ciari strode over to the young man and peered closely at his face. “As have I,” she said flatly. “On market day in Nonthal, with the Druit boy with the cantrips.”
Arna turned beet red as she put her hands on her hips and lowered her brows at him. “Just what did you mean by that, sneaking under false pretenses into my town? You’re lucky you weren’t found out.”
“In my defense, fairlady,” said Arna, with all the dignity he could muster, “I never said I wasn’t who I am.”
He glanced at Kestrel’s bewildered face with an abashed smile. Then he made a deep, formal bow to Ciari.
“Forgive my curiosity, Mistress Kestrel,” he said, “but when the opportunity to see the maiden that might become my bride arose, I couldn’t resist.”
Ciari looked from the back of his reddened neck to her sister, and back again. At her silence, Arna looked up from his bow, puzzled. She had turned as red as he and made a sputtering noise not unlike the hiss of a kettle.
Arna turned to Lakini, bewildered.
“She’s not going to hit me, is she?” he said.
“She might,” the deva replied.
Ciari didn’t hit him, bursting into laughter instead. Her sister went to her and placed a solicitous arm around her shoulders, a rueful smile playing on her lips.
Arna blinked. “Perhaps someone might tell me the joke?” he asked mildly.
Ansel Chuit had taken his hand from the hilt of his weapon.
“It might have something to do with the fact that you were addressing Mistress Ciari, not Kestrel,” he said, somewhat tartly.
Arna opened his mouth, considered what to say, then shut it with a snap.
“I’m sorry for your disappointment,” said Kestrel, as her sister quieted, “but it’s no more than you deserve for trying to spy us out in the first place.”
She sounded amused, but there was an edge of hurt to her voice.
“I’m not disappointed …” sputtered Arna. He stopped and turned to Ciari. “That is, I wouldn’t … You’re both very …”
He gasped and looked a little like a fish, unable to stop an expression of delight from passing over his face.
“Get over yourself, Jadaren,” said Ciari, pushing Kestrel toward him. “You well know you’re not man enough for me.”
Arna recovered himself and inclined his head to her. “I have no doubt you are correct, Mistress Ciari,” he said.
He turned to the rest of the party.
“My apologies for my early and unceremonious arrival,” he said, acutely aware of Kestrel standing beside him. With an abashed expression he addressed Sanwar. “And to you, sir, for not knowing who you were when you arrived and making your acquaintance.”
Sanwar found his tongue. He was as red as Arna, but with anger instead of embarrassment.
“Am I to understand that you came to Nonthal to spy upon my niece, to see if she was fair enough for you?” he said. “And that you came by stealth to a place of negotiation, seeking to find the advantage of the ground?”
He spat on the ground at Arna’s feet, drawing a low protest from Kestrel. “It shouldn’t surprise me, considering that you sent your men to ambush my niece.”
Lakini tensed, feeling Lusk do the same. But before they could interfere, a voice came from the crowd.
“Arna Jadaren is a guest in this place.” Diamar, clad in a simple white robe and barefoot, stepped forward. In response to his voice, which was at once mild and full of authority, everyone stepped back a pace.
“I gave my name freely when I arrived,” returned Arna, angry in his turn. “I came without guards, only a representative empowered to negotiate for my family. It’s not my fault you didn’t inquire after the guests of the sanctuary when you arrived-as quietly as I did, I notice.”
“Calm yourself, Uncle,” said Kestrel, moving between the two men. “He has no reason to harm me. And he was merely curious.”
Sanwar was still fuming. “So, Jadaren, this ambush was no plan of yours?”
