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.
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.
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.
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,
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.
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
