THE ROOM WHERE the Kir of House Tenebro questioned his prisoners was, as Hernyn Greystone had expected, unlocked and empty. Though, perhaps, prisoners was too strong a word. After all, some of the people questioned had gone in smiling, had been given wine and dainty edibles before they came out, still smiling, restored to their normal routine. Others, Hernyn knew, had gone in and never came out again-at least not under their own power. What exactly distinguished guests from prisoners-and what made some remain guests while others became dead-had been beyond the concern of Mercenaries employed in the guard.
Lucky thing he was so good at the Stalking Shora. He’d had to dodge three people on his way out of the cellars alone, and there seemed to be an unusual number of the Kir’s guards patrolling the hallways.
Hernyn had been pleased and excited to find two Brothers already in the guard at Tenebro House when he signed up. Fanryn and Thionan were both older, but they’d treated him right, and he’d been careful to follow their examples, especially when it came to being discreet. “Nothing you see or hear ever leaves your eyes or ears.” That was Common Rule no matter who you worked for. The only people you ever told about anything you saw or heard while on an assignment was the Mercenary House itself.
“Do nothing to lose trust and respect, or you’ll lose it for all your Brothers.” That was Common Rule, too.
And, Hernyn thought, a blush rising over him even now, he’d seen some very interesting personal behavior in the months that he had been in Tenebro House. Had even been invited to join in-and by some most unexpected people. The Mercenary’s code prevented him from gossiping about what his old grandmother had called “that kind of thing,” even as it stopped him from discussing the routine security measures of the House. And the kind of people who went into the room he was going to now. Their names. Which ones walked out on their own limbs, and which ones did not.
He hadn’t needed the presence of his Brothers to remind him of the Common Rule. He just hadn’t expected it all to be so complicated. Because he’d gone and made a mistake after all. That he couldn’t have known it would be a mistake, didn’t make him feel any better. He should have known better. Because he’d been bragging. And he’d thought he’d been cured of that, long ago. The hard way. He rubbed the scar on his right forearm.
He crossed quickly to a window, let himself out into the cool night air. Frost before morning, he thought, using the finger- and toeholds provided by old and crumbling mortar to move up to a similar window on the floor above. No one bothered to latch these windows; they were too high up, and gave only on an inner courtyard.
When Rofrin and Neslyn the Fair had asked him about a Brother who was obviously Dhulyn Wolfshead, he’d told them far too much about her-everything he knew, in fact, and he’d known quite a lot. And he hadn’t told them to be helpful, or even to enhance the reputation of the Brotherhood; he’d told them to show off. And just as he’d been warned, showing off had brought trouble-had put another Mercenary Brother in danger.
The long corridor of the south wing took him past the first of Dhulyn Wolfshead’s possible prison rooms. The door stood open, a good sign the room was empty. Hernyn hoped that Dhulyn wouldn’t kill him when she learned what a fool he’d been, even though Parno had said that she wouldn’t.
A noise?
Hernyn held his breath and concentrated, exerting all the skill born in him from generations of desert hunters and honed to perfection by the Stalking Shora of the Mercenary School. Yes. Noises. Still a ways away, but possibly coming closer.
Hernyn eyed the next slot of shadow, marginally darker than the hall around it, created by a bit of uneven wall and a hanging that was just a handbreadth too wide. He took two silent steps and eased himself into its protective embrace.
An arm clamped around his chest, trapping his left arm at the same instant that a hand covered his mouth. He whipped up his right hand, aiming for where his captor’s eyes should be, and cracked his fingers against the stones of the wall.
“Quietly, my Brother,” the soft murmur in his left ear froze him. “Did no one ever teach you to make sure the dark is empty before you hide yourself in it?” The arms around him loosened but did not drop.
“Dhulyn,” he breathed. He had not realized he was holding his breath. He felt her nod, and relaxed against her. Suddenly he was acutely aware of her breasts and stomach pressed against his back and buttocks. He released his mind from the Stalking Shora. This was not the moment for heightened senses. If he moved away from her, he knew, he would be out of the shadow that hid them both. He was embarrassed to react to her physically, but more embarrassed at being so easily caught. It was like being back at School. He should have known better, he thought. Good enough to avoid ordinary people just was not good enough to fool another Mercenary. Nor was he particularly surprised that Dhulyn Wolfshead had stood in the shadow unseen by him. Outlanders were notoriously good at keeping hidden, and an Outlander with Mercenary Schooling, well, you’d need a Finder even to notice them.
Hernyn’s lungs refilled with air. “My name is Hernyn Greystone,” he said. “I was schooled by Dorian the Black. Parno Lionsmane, Fanryn Bloodhand, and Thionan Hawkmoon await in the cell of our confinement. I will lead you there.”
“I thank you for finding me, Hernyn. Is the Lionsmane well?” Dhulyn rested her forehead against the back of Hernyn’s shoulder. He could smell a faint odor of sweat, dust, and a sharp but not unpleasant herbal scent rising from her skin. He found himself thinking of a time that he’d had a bad fever while he was being Schooled. He’d been given a drink that had smelled the way Dhulyn smelled now.
“He is,” he replied. “His right arm bone was cracked, but Fanryn Bloodhand has seen to it. Come, I will take you to them.”
He felt the slow release of her breath. Some of the tension left her body.
“Weapons first,” she said. “Brothers second. Do you know where the north armory is?”
Gundaron stood in the carpeted passageway outside Mar-eMar’s rooms and rubbed his upper lip with a hand that trembled. It was early, still dark, in fact. Mar-eMar had helped him to his rooms after he recovered from his faint, but he hadn’t slept. Since discovering the gap in his memory-He shook himself. He’d already spent most of the night chasing the same thoughts around and around. He’d tried everything he could think of, every technique of focus or relaxation, but nothing had worked. His memory simply hadn’t been there to… he swallowed. To Find.
There. He could admit his Mark to himself, if to no one else. None of his usual methods, untrained and almost unconscious as they were, had helped him at all. He was here to try the only other thing he could think of. He gritted his teeth, squared his shoulders, and knocked.
“Just a minute,” came her voice from within, much more quickly than Gun had expected. It looked as though he was not the only one who’d spent a sleepless night.
The door cracked open, and a deep blue eye looked out.
“Lady Mar, I’m sorry to disturb you so early, but I have need of your bowl.”
“My bowl?” The door swung open, and Mar-eMar stepped back in invitation, one hand still on the edge of the door, the other holding the throat of her dressing gown closed. There were oil lamps burning in this outer room, and neat piles of folded clothing on the low chairs and the single brazier table, but he barely took them in as he scanned the surfaces for the patterned bowl. Could she be keeping it in the bedroom? He glanced from the girl, still standing with her hand on the open door, to the inner door leading to the bedroom.
“I’d only need it for a few minutes, I won’t harm it.”
“But why my bowl? There must be bowls in the kitchens you can use.”
“It’s-” Now that he was faced with it, Gun realized he had no idea what to say next. He hadn’t seen beyond the point at which he had the scrying bowl in his hands. It simply hadn’t occurred to him that he would have to explain what he wanted it for. He glanced over his shoulder at the open doorway, but there was no help there. When he turned back, Mar-eMar was watching him with her liquid eyes.
She had relaxed her hold on her dressing gown. The neck had fallen open and he saw that, under it, she was wearing not a night dress but a shirt and tunic. There was no fear in her face, just a calm query as she waited for him to answer her-and the certainty that he would. She’s very brave, he thought, taking a deep breath. She had to have been, to come all this way not knowing what waited for her. Braver than I am.
“It’s a scryer’s bowl, Lady Mar,” he said. “A Finder would use it to focus the Mark.”
Mar-eMar glanced into the passageway and shut the door.
“Are you sure?” She came toward him. “Dhulyn Wolfshead only said it was very old.”
“I’m sure. Please, my lady. I’ve lost something, and I-” Gun swallowed the sob that threatened to break out. She was from Navra, the Marked were still safe in Navra. She must not think him a coward, she must not. “I have to Find it.”
“You…?” Mar gestured without completing the sentence. “Please.”
She stared at him a moment longer and then turned to the pack that lay open on the round brazier table to the left of the inner door. She removed two rolled gowns, a pair of light brown sueded half boots, and finally the old thick cloth he’d seen when she’d shown the bowl on her arrival. As Mar-eMar turned back the faded folds of material, she looked once more at the door. Gun followed her glance and went himself to secure the latch. When he turned back, she had tossed the old cloth over a chair and set the bowl on the round table.
“Do you have water?” he asked. Without another word, Mar went into the bedroom and returned with a pitcher of water. Gun took it from her and, after moving the bowl nearer the edge of the round tabletop, filled it two-thirds full. He looked around and found Mar taking three folded tunics from a chair. He positioned the now empty chair in front of the bowl and sat down.
His Finding had always been most successful when he was researching. He placed his fingertips lightly on the edge of the table and leaned forward, keeping his back straight, his shoulders down. He was researching again, that’s all; all he had to do was relax.
Gun licked his lips. Research so often started with the printed page. A scroll, or book. The flame of the lamp cast little highlights on the surface of the water, standing out against the pure white of the bowl. A little like letters meticulously copied onto a page of parchment or paper. This was how he’d Found things. Hypnotizing himself with the ink and page. The water-
It’s not water, it’s a bright page of paper. Suddenly he’s in a Library. Familiar. Not one he’s been in, but Libraries are Libraries. He should be able to Find the text he’s looking for. There’s a beautiful jade-green line on the floor before him, fuzzy at first, but stronger and more precise as he follows it. He walks swiftly now, down the main aisle, shelves and scroll holders branching off to left and right. The place is enormous.
He walks faster, following the thin jade line as it rounds a corner into a narrower aisle. The aisle ends, opening into Lok-iKol’s workroom. Of course, this is where his memory must be. There. The Kir is bent over Dhulyn Wolfshead in her chair, her face frozen in that snarling smile. And there he is himself-Caids, how fat he’s become!-sitting in the other chair. Something has frightened him because he has his hands up to his mouth and his eyes are very wide open.
They are motionless as a painting, as if the jade-green mist that fills the room, the exact shade of the line he’s been following, is a kind of ice freezing them into stillness. But his memory is in there, it must be. He focuses, straining to move forward again, and the mist is sucked away, so suddenly that he takes an unintended step forward into the room just as sound and movement returns to the people in it.
Dhulyn Wolfshead stiffens and looks at where Gun sits in his chair, but she also looks at him now, right now, where he’s standing watching them all, and with a shock he realizes that she can See. That she Saw him when they were all in this room together. She is a Seer. Part of him feels triumphant. Her eyes shift and he follows the angle of her glance and sees himself at the door of Lok-iKol’s workroom, trying to work the latch. But he’s transparent, and his hands pass through the mechanism without affecting it. I don’t remember that. Gun looks back to where he was sitting and sees his body is still there, filled with a jade-green light, that makes his eyes glow green in his slack face.
Gun takes a step back toward the Library he has come from. He remembers seeing that green glow, that slack face, in Lok-iKol. With that thought images, memories, cascade through his mind and he remembers-for the first time-seeing the glow, but with no slackness whatsoever, in the eyes of Beslyn-Tor as the Jaldean has passed him in the doorway of this very room. And he remembers that the Jaldean has passed him many times, over and over. All those memories lost-taken, he realizes-until this very moment. And now that he has those memories again, standing there in his mind’s Library, Gun realizes there is a difference between the green glow when it is in Beslyn-Tor and in Lok-iKol, and that same difference-please, blessed Caids-is in himself as well.
There is something living inside Beslyn-Tor, he thinks, his Scholar’s mind weighing and assessing. He and Lok-iKol were tools only, something to look through, as a jeweler looks through a lens. Somehow the Jaldean priest, or the thing living inside him, has pushed Gun out of his own head, out of his own body, and that’s why he has no memory of this. He couldn’t remember what he wasn’t in his body to experience.
And Gun realizes something else.
This is what happened every time I left the room. All those people I’ve Found for them. This interrogation, this torture, this is what happened to them.
At that moment the head on the body he’s not wearing begins to turn to him, and Dhulyn Wolfshead starts to scream, the sound a horrid tearing of the throat. Fear chokes him as he backs away, faster and faster, finally turning and beginning to run as shelves and tables of books and scrolls move to block the aisles between him and the image of the room, shutting it away.
Not that he will be able to forget it now.
“Gundaron?” Mar put out a tentative hand and touched the Scholar’s shoulder with her fingertips. His muscles were so rigid, it was like touching wood.
At first he’d been relaxed, watching the water as though he were reading, eyes flicking back and forth. As the minutes passed, however, he’d become gradually more rigid, and now his grip on the table’s edge showed white knuckles. Mar leaned forward. He seemed to have stopped blinking. She took a firmer hold on his shoulder and shook him. It was only slightly better than pushing at a wall. She reached out and gently touched his face. The skin soft, the muscles under it rigid.
Mar shot a quick glance around. She’d have to hide all her packing before she went to fetch help. Whoever came would be sure to notice it and guess exactly what it meant. Her eyes returned to the Scholar. There was one more thing she could try. She picked up the bowl and dashed the water into Gundaron’s face. He sputtered, blinked, and shook his head.
“I didn’t know,” he said, clutching at her arm as he came fully awake. “I swear I didn’t know.”
“Of course not,” she said. The pressure of his fingers on her forearm made her wince. She gently pulled free and set the bowl back on the tabletop. “I take it you Found what you were looking for?”
He started to nod, turned a pale green, and retched, gagging. Nothing came from his mouth but a thin line of saliva.
Mar ran into the bedroom, snatched up a towel from the washstand and brought it out to him. He disappeared into the towel, and for a moment Mar thought he wasn’t going to come out. When he did, he had rubbed some color into his face, and looked less as though he were about to faint again.
“Don’t tell anyone. Please.”
“What can I tell? I don’t even know what it was.”
Gundaron looked up, eyes wide. “No,” he said finally. “I meant don’t tell anyone I’m a Finder.”
“I won’t.”
“Promise?” His voice was thick, giving weight to the childlike request.
Mar hesitated, but there was something in his face that touched her-something more than fear. She held out her hand, waited until he’d taken it.
“Yes, I promise, but-do you mean no one knows?”
Gundaron rubbed his eyes with his fingertips, lowered his hands, and looked around the room.
“I wanted to be a Scholar. I wanted it so badly. I moved the sun and the stars to be allowed to go to Valdomar. And I’m good at it; I knew I would be. The best Scholar in my class. If they’d known I could Find…”
“You’d have gone to the Guildhall.”
He looked at her. “And now…”
Mar took the towel from him, shook out the creases and began to fold it. It wasn’t the Guildhall he’d go to now if the wrong people learned he was a Finder, but the Jaldean Shrine. “I’ll keep my promise,” she said. “I won’t tell.” She sat down in the other chair, still holding the towel. “What was it you Found?”
A muscle jumped in his cheek as he clenched his teeth. “I Found what they’re doing here. Lok-iKol and…” his eyes shifted away, “and the others.”
Mar waited some minutes before deciding that Gundaron wasn’t going to say anything more. But as she rose to her feet, thinking to take the towel back into her bedroom, the Scholar spoke again.
“This was my first assignment.” He stroked the edge of the bowl with the first two fingers of his right hand. “The Tenebros asked for our best Scholar to write a history of the House, and the Seniors at Valdomar chose me, even though I was their youngest graduate. I’ve never been anywhere but home and Valdomar; I’d certainly never seen such a place as this. I was all alone here-”
Mar thought of the twin sisters Nor and Kyn and knew just how alone he had been. Suddenly she wanted to put her arms around him, stroke his hair, but she knew that if she did, he would stop speaking. And whatever it was he was about to say, he needed to say it.
“Then to have the Kir of such a Noble House take me into his confidence, treat me with respect…”
Mar lowered herself into her seat once more. His words and tone had the flavor of explanation, almost apology, and she waited for him to continue.
“There’s so much data in a Noble House’s archives,” he said. “The kind of private things that never get into the history books. Things that could help me with my personal researches and I was promised all the information I needed-” He got up and moved the short distance between the table and the window, his steps small and abrupt. “I was so excited, I got so interested in what I was learning that I-I forgot to keep my distance.”
“Is that what you Found? Your distance?”
Gundaron licked his lips and Mar got up once more, this time to bring him a cup of water.
He took a deep swallow and gripped the cup tightly in both hands. “Yes. I think I can say that.” He took a deep breath. “I’ve stepped back and taken a good look at what I’ve been doing, and I don’t like what I’ve seen.”
Mar put her hand on his arm. Gundaron was the only person here who had been kind to her, really kind to her, as herself. The only person who had never made her feel apart. “I’m sure whatever you’ve done couldn’t be all that bad,” she said.
The look of despair that passed over his face at her words almost frightened her.
“I’ve been Finding Marked for them,” he said, so quietly that Mar actually leaned toward him to be sure she’d heard him correctly.
“For whom?” The words came out in a hoarse whisper.
“Lok-iKol, for one.” What Mar thought must have shown on her face because he threw himself down at her feet and clutched at the skirt of her dressing gown. “I didn’t know, I swear I didn’t know. I thought it was just research. Families, bloodlines, how talents pass through kinships. I didn’t know about the Jaldeans.” He looked at the bowl. “I didn’t know until now. It’s memories I’ve Found.”
“But Gundaron, you’re Marked.”
“They don’t know!” He waved her words away. “I’m a Scholar.”
Mar shook her head. Surely it wasn’t possible. Surely it wasn’t possible that you could be so focused on your craft, on your research, that you could overlook what was being done with it. Surely you couldn’t feel so separate and apart from people just like yourself.
Families. Bloodlines. She looked from his face to the bowl on the table. Her bowl. Passed through five generations. A scryer’s bowl. A Finder’s bowl. A cold hand closed around her heart.
“That’s why I’m here,” she said. “That’s why they sent for me. And you-”
“I told him you weren’t,” Gundaron said. “I wouldn’t have let them-please, believe me.”
So he had known. Even if some of his memories were missing, to lie to Lok-iKol about her, Gundaron must have been aware that something wicked was happening, even if that awareness had been buried deep. Mar reached to push him away from the skirts of her dressing gown, but something held her back. What had he done, really? Found innocent people and, in return for certain promises and favors, arranged to have them brought to Tenebro House. Hadn’t she done much the same thing herself? In return for comfort, riches, her Holding restored, hadn’t she brought them Dhulyn Wolfshead and Parno Lionsmane? Hadn’t the Wolfshead killed a Cloudboy in the Mountains for her? Were her hands any cleaner than Gundaron’s?
She put her hands on his head, patted his rough hair.
“The Mercenary Brothers,” she said. “That’s why you’re afraid of Pasillon, because you-we-brought them here for Lok-iKol as well.”
He was motionless, but Mar saw in his face that it was so. She looked around the room at her folded clothing, her half-filled travel pack. Her instincts had been better than she knew.
“What can we do?”
“Go to the Tenebroso.” Gundaron got to his feet. “She’s the only person in the House more powerful than the Kir.”
“Will she stop him?”
“I’m sure she will.” But Mar saw the uncertainty cloud his eyes as he turned his head away. What odds the old woman didn’t already know?
A knock at the door startled them both.
Guilt, Mar thought. That’s what’s wrong with us.
Gundaron looked at her and she swallowed, straightened her dressing gown and, closing it once more with her hand to her throat, went to the door.
“Who is it?” she called. And how long have you been standing there listening?
“Okiron, Lady Mar.”
Gundaron motioned to Mar and she backed away, letting him open the door. Standing on the threshold was the boy page who served this corridor. He looked pale, and there were the marks of tears on his cheeks.
“What is it?”
“The House is fallen,” the young boy said, shock apparent in the reediness of his voice, “The Tenebroso Kor-iRok is dead.”
Mar felt her hands and feet go icy cold. Too late, she thought. We’ve left it too late. Is this Pasillon?
Dal-eDal stood at the doorway to the Tenebroso’s-no, Kor-iRok was no longer Tenebroso, and these were no longer the Tenebroso’s rooms. The woman whose rooms these had been was now the Fallen House, and he and everyone else in the family, Households and Holdings, would have to teach themselves to think of her in that way. He’d been young when he came here, but there were others here, many much older than himself, grandparents some of them, for whom there had never been any other Tenebroso but Kor-iRok. For them, this was worse than the death of a parent. For them, the whole world had changed overnight; nothing now could be safe or secure, ever again.
Dal-eDal looked at his cousin, the new Tenebroso Lok-iKol, and knew exactly how that felt.
The man who stood in Kor-iRok’s bedchamber with him, and watched with him while the Steward of Walls and the Steward of Keys examined the room and the tiny figure on the bed-when had the old woman become so small?-was Tenebroso now. Lok-iKol stood halfway between Dal-eDal’s post at the door and the bed on which the body of the Fallen House still lay, observing without apparent emotion as his servants performed their duties,
He is the Tenebroso, Dal thought, watching his cousin, and that means I am the heir. Though he was sure Lok was in no hurry to hold the ceremony that would acknowledge Dal, and change the format of his name. Even if there was no one closer to the succession until Lok married and produced his own First Born, his Kir. Dal tapped his thigh with his closed fist. That wasn’t strictly true, now that he thought about it. There was someone closer than himself to the succession. It must be fifteen years or more since that particular cousin-Dal glanced up at the ruin of Lok’s left cheek, his missing eye-had been Cast Out.
“A seizure of the heart,” Karlyn-Tan was saying. Dal-eDal turned his attention back to the bedside of the Fallen House. Karlyn-Tan rose from the bed, finished with his examination of the body. Semlin-Nor was bent over the Fallen House, making the body straight and covering it with the bedclothes until the lady pages would be allowed back in to tend to it. Both Stewards were in full formal livery, as was every servant and guard in the House by now. Karlyn even wore his sword.
“Are you certain, my Walls?” Lok-iKol’s beautiful voice was softer than usual. Was it possible that he actually had some feeling for the woman who had been his mother? At that moment Dal-eDal realized that he was taking it for granted that Lok-iKol had had his mother killed.
“I am certain, my House,” Karlyn-Tan said. “You may note the color of the skin, and the slight amount of froth on the lips. There are no other marks or wounds.” The man looked up. “It would have happened during the second watch of the night, my House.”
Dal-eDal noted the emphasis on the formal titles absently. Everyone would be very sure to observe strict protocol for the next moon or so, until they had all had a chance to accustom themselves to the new regime. After that, the level of formality would depend on the wishes of the new Tenebroso.
Lok-iKol nodded. “Do you concur, my Keys?”
“I do, my House.” Semlin-Nor gave the heavy quilted bedcover a final tug and stepped back from the bed and its burden. “As the Steward of Walls has said, there is no mark or wound, no sign of struggle.”
“Poison?”
“None we can detect, my House,” the woman continued. “There is no change of skin color, the eyes appear normal. I would also say a seizure of the heart, my House.”
“Very good,” Lok-iKol said, though what exactly he intended by that was not clear, thought Dal. Dal watched his cousin slowly nodding, the man’s gaze fixed on the still figure of the woman who had been his mother, the head of his House, and perhaps, in these later years at least, thought Dal-eDal, the thwarter of his ambitions.
“That will be all, I think, for now,” Lok-iKol said. “Have her people prepare her. Dal, Cousin, may I ask you to send the proper messages?”
“Of course, my House,” Dal replied, inclining his head in a slight bow.
“I thank you all for your service.” It was so obviously a dismissal that Dal bowed again and gestured to the others to precede him out of the room. Perhaps Lok would like to check for himself, make sure the old woman’s really dead, Dal thought.
Lok-iKol, the new embodiment of House Tenebro, looked down at the corpse of his mother. Death had aged her, robbing her face of its stern animation and adding to its lines.
“Thank you, Mother,” he said, sitting down in the slipper chair next to the bed and taking an apple from the bowl on the bedside table. “The timing of your death could not have been more perfect.” In fact, if she hadn’t died in her sleep, he would have had to take measures himself. All his work, all his planning, had not been done to place his mother on the Carnelian Throne.
His mother gone, a Finder, a Healer, and now a Seer in his hands. A Mender located. Lok turned the apple over in his fingers, automatically noting the perfection of its skin. A Seer was the rarest, and the most useful of the Marked. Not to be wasted by giving her to the Jaldeans, watching her disappear or be ruined as others had been.
Let Dhulyn Wolfshead choose to stay, Lok-iKol thought. There must be some way to persuade her. There always was. She seemed to like the Scholar; perhaps something useful could come of that. Lok needed to know what was to come, if he was to perfect his plans.
In any event he had to act quickly. Beslyn-Tor’s unexpected visit had shown him that. Should he wait until the Jaldeans became too strong, he would never free himself of their hold. For it was in no way a part of his plan to become a puppet of the priests. Let them help him to the throne, and then they might find that the pursuers often became themselves the pursued. He knew how to use the Tarkin’s power, better than that soft-handed weakling who had it now.
“Will you excuse me, Semlin?” Karlyn-Tan and the Steward of Keys waited in the outer room of the Fallen House’s suite. “I need a moment.”
“Up to your battlements, are you? I wish I had such a place to help me think. I’m afraid times like this will find me in the kitchen eating the sweetest thing I can find.” Semlyn-Nor’s tone was light, but her face never brightened.
“There are no times like this,” he said, getting to his feet.
“When I think that, but for an accident of birth, it might be you in there…” Semlyn shook her head.
“Rather an accident of marriage, wouldn’t you say?”
“Don’t look at me like that, Kar. There’s plenty in the House will be having these same thoughts just now.”
“Perhaps,” Karlyn acknowledged. “But you should not say them aloud, all the same.” It was a reflection of just how badly she was shaken that she said such a thing at all, he thought. Semlin had been very close to the Fallen House, and this would come harder on her than it would on him.
He patted his fellow Steward on the shoulder and left, directing his steps through the maze of hallways and stairs that would end with the room where Dhulyn Wolfshead undoubtedly lay wondering what had delayed her breakfast. This would be the perfect time to use the hacksaw blade that rested in his scabbard, alongside his formal sword.
This time Karlyn made no attempt to be quiet as he unlocked the door. He was not hiding anything from anyone. He pushed the door open slowly, and as it cleared the bed, his heart stopped.
The cell was empty, the chains with their manacles neatly coiled on the bed.
When his breathing had returned to normal Karlyn left the room, relocking the door behind him and headed to Dal-eDal’s rooms in the east wing. Dhulyn Wolfshead was gone, safe, and therefore his people were safe also-though Karlyn wouldn’t take odds on how long Lok-iKol might live. The man might as well be cursed.
And it was very unlikely he himself would ever see Dhulyn Wolfshead again.
He told himself that what he felt was relief.
He had to breathe carefully, hold this body, this shape together, when everything in him, every instinct, every thought, wanted to dissolve, to undo, to make NOT. But not yet, there were still too many of them, the Marked. They might yet rally and remember him. But it would be soon now. The old House dead. Lok-iKol would move quickly. At any moment would come the summons he expected. Then there would be a new Tarkin in Imrion, and the Marked would be his. All the Marked. Even those the new Tarkin thought were hidden away.