Gilliad drew his sword, and Haledren’s head tilted with a catlike precision, listening to the ring of the blade against the scabbard.
“Hypocrite,” he whispered. “You dare to wield Felan’s sword after what you did? May it sing to you only of treachery and death. May it never bring a moment’s peace and chill the cursed blood that runs in your veins.”
“I don’t want you dead, Haledren.” Gilliad’s voice sounded remarkably calm, almost kind. He didn’t move, either to advance or retreat. He was a rock in the sea of chaos, and Jeren longed to hide behind him. “We can get you a healer…”
The Fair One threw back his head and howled, a laugh born only of pain. “You know as well as I that none but a Seer may lay healing hands on the Shistra-Phail.”
“Why not?” The question was sharp, irritated. Then Gilliad brought his emotions under control, his voice gentling to the sound of reason once more. “Come Haledren,” he murmured. “You are hurt. Now is not the time for your archaic ideas of honour and purity.”
“Honour?” The laugh barked out again. He raked his hands over his ravaged scalp. “The Lost have no honour, Scion of Jern. You wanted to see insane, to see the Shistra-Phail become one of the Lost?”
Biting down on her lower lip, Jeren edged towards her brother, her back pressed to the wall, seeking a small measure of protection from the monster before her. The heavy fabric of her gown whispered as she moved. Haledren’s eyeless gaze snapped around to her and he snarled.
In that moment, she truly knew the face of insanity. Gilliad had realised his ambition and he had his answer now. Losing the braids drove the Shistra-Phail far beyond reason. No longer the noble warrior of ancient legends, like those who stood with the Bright God against Khain’s horde in the beginning times, or those who befriended and taught Felan. No longer the remote and untouchable captive she had seen in the Greeting Square. No. This was the monster of her mother’s tales, the figure that haunted her darkest nightmares.
All this she absorbed in that instant. She only had a moment before Haledren surged towards her, bloody teeth bared, his hands like claws. She slammed herself back against the wall.
But he never reached her.
A force impacted his back, driving him to his knees before he reached her. Confusion melted the hatred in his face to peace and he fell forwards, onto his face. The hilt of Maldrine’s knife jutted from his neck.
Breathing too hard to scream, Jeren slid down the wall, fighting against the tremors that gripped her body. Gilliad ignored her and turned Haledren’s body over with his foot.
“Damn, I thought we could make him last longer than that.” Then he turned on Jeren, anger darkening his face in the dancing torchlight. “What were you doing down here?” He pulled her up, his grip uncomfortably tight on her upper arms. “Got lost, did you?”
Jeren recoiled, backing up as far as she could. “Gilliad?” He didn’t release her. If anything his fingers tightened, his grip iron. She fought to keep from wilting in his grasp, and as she looked into his face, she couldn’t find her brother there. A stranger glowered at her. He raised Felan’s sword.
The blade came to rest against her cheek, its flat surface icy cold as it slid down to her jaw. She drew in a terrified gasp. He trailed the sword down her neck, and the edge came to rest on her shoulder. In the torchlight, his dark eyes reflected only flames.
“Gilliad,” she whispered, as if his name would call him back from whatever dark place his soul had strayed to. “Gilliad, please.” The final word emerged as no more than a sob, and at the sound his face softened. As if it was all no more than a childish game of pretend, he grinned at her.
“You shouldn’t wander, little sister. I think your days are too empty. When you’re married things will be fuller.” He laughed and grabbed her, pulling her close. His hand rubbed her stomach, pressing in painfully and laughing when she yelped in horror. “Your belly most of all. But not with Grey Holt seed, I think. We should keep what belongs to River Holt, here in River Holt. What do you think, Maldrine? Wouldn’t she make a perfect wife?”
A look passed between them and Jeren stiffened. Maldrine’s eyes turned hard and hungry, dangerous, not a look of love or even friendship. She could recognise the desire for murder when she saw it. Gilliad looked even worse—hard-edged with determination, and an utter disregard for the fact that Maldrine would clearly rather kill her than wed her.
Then Gilliad ruffled her hair and the threats vanished from his eyes. He became her brother again, teasing her, scaring her, but ultimately still her brother. Somehow, that was worse.
“Jeren, you really are an idiot some times.” He gave her an affectionate pat on the back. “Go on back to your rooms. Mina will be sick with worry.”
Jeren fled, the sound of Gilliad’s laughter ringing after her. Only Gilliad’s laughter, not Maldrine’s. She thundered up the stairs and flung open the door to find Mina standing there. Jeren threw herself into the older woman’s arms.
“What is it?” Mina exclaimed, cradling her close.
“We have to leave.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Gilliad! Oh gods, Mina. We have to get to Grey Holt so I can be wed to Vertigern, otherwise Gilliad will keep me here and marry me off to Maldrine. Please, Mina. We must get away from here!”
Chapter Three
Shan knew he should have left the girl there in the wreckage at the foot of the cliff. He should have kept on walking. Then he would never have become involved in the vagaries of the Holters’ world.
But Shanith Al-Fallion had never been able to abandon a soul in trouble. The silver-grey wolf padding at his side, once a starving cub lost in the snow, gave testimony to that. Her breath misted the evening air, and she nuzzled his hand in an effort to distract him from the shattered carriage.
“Stop Anala,” he said. “I’ll just take a look.” The wolf growled but remained with him, pawing impatiently in the snow.
They were all dead but for the girl, and she wouldn’t be long in joining her companions. The marks of the Snow Child cast blue tones on her skin.
He knelt at the survivor’s side, aware of her shallow breath, the feeble rise and fall of her chest. He hesitated before touching her—a Holtwoman and, judging by her delicately embroidered clothes, one of some standing. Silver threads depicting jasmine and ivy encircled her throat and wrists, sewn into the deep green velvet by an expert hand. Girl was probably wrong too. She looked old enough to be judged a young woman by the Holters’ terms. And a beautiful one at that, fine-boned and elegant. But to his people—the Fair Ones, the Feyna—most humans never reached an age where they would be considered adults.
Voices carried on the breeze from men climbing down from the road. Relieved to be free of the niggling sense of responsibility for the girl, Shan readied himself to dart into the safety of the trees. Then his sharp ears caught what the men were saying.
It wasn’t good.
“Bloody stupid misadventure. Who’d survive a fall like that, anyway? They’re already dead, I tell you. No one’s going to come back from that drop.”
“We have our orders,” said another voice. “Make sure they’re dead. All of them.”
Shan frowned and glanced towards Anala. Part guide, part companion, the wolf knew what Shan’s soul told him to do, and she liked the idea even less than he did. She heaved out a breath, shaking her head rapidly. But that didn’t change anything.
If those men reached the girl, she would die.
It never paid for any of Shan’s people to deal with humans. The cost was always too high. Had not a man the humans counted as a great leader, a lord of many tributes, murdered Shan’s sister, Falinar?