She paused for a dramatic moment, opened her mouth, and said …
Actually, I have no idea what she said.
I’d never even heard anything like it, let alone understood it. It wasn’t vané. The words flowed and hissed, with sibilants and throaty growls. Combined with a voice that sounded less like it came from a mortal creature than some elemental thing—say, a dragon—and it was guaranteed to impress.
I also realized something else: the acoustics in this place were fantastic. The old woman sounded like she was right next to me, the grinding whispers carrying perfectly to the farthest corners of the temple. It was better than any music hall I’d ever visited back at the Capital. The ceremony, ritual, lecture, or whatever, lasted for a few minutes. I found her speech unsettling and disquieting, even if I couldn’t understand a word of what she said.
When she finished, she lowered her arms. Teraeth reached under the altar and brought up a chalice with a shallow, wide bowl. He filled the cup from a basin of cloudy water near the altar and added a long splash of something from a red decanter. Teraeth then produced a black dagger with a wavy blade. He sliced the blade against his own arm, and let the blood trickle into the cup.
His mother said something else, and one by one, people approached the altar. Each said a few words, often in whispers. Most spoke that strange hissing language, but sometimes I caught a hint of a familiar tongue.
Then they drank from Teraeth’s chalice, which was a bit disgusting considering one of the contents was his own blood. Each time, they paused. When nothing happened, Teraeth motioned them away. The tension amongst those waiting to drink was palpable, as was the relief of those same people when they walked back into the audience.
When everyone returned to their places, Khaemezra spread her arms wide and said an impressive piece of gibberish. Silence followed. No one moved for a moment.
Teraeth stepped forward and put his hand on the knife. Someone in the audience gasped.
“Not you,” Khaemezra said, sounding surprised.
Teraeth shook his head. “Me.”
“It’s not your turn—”
“He almost died because of me. I have to do this.”
They stared at each other until Khaemezra took the knife from her son’s hand. She flipped the blade over and gave it back to him, hilt first.
“So be it.” She walked to the side, as if excusing herself from what would follow.
Teraeth thrust the blade into the air above his head and screamed something in that strange foreign tongue. The drummers started up a furious beat and the people in the audience stomped their feet in time. Teraeth, standing underneath the statue, began to move his arms and his legs. The movements were so rhythmic and strange it took me a moment to realize he was dancing. His dance was not provocative, did not arouse: it was powerful, wild, and angry. The tempo of the drums increased and my heart rate sped up in time and he was whirling and flashing the dagger so fast around his body I was amazed he didn’t land in pieces.
Then he stopped.
He faced the audience, head tilted back to gaze up at his goddess. The drumming ceased.
He lifted his arm and with one smooth, graceful motion he brought the blade down into his own heart.
“Shit!” I gasped.
Even though the acoustics dampened the sound of my voice, everyone heard me.
Several things happened at once. First, Teraeth collapsed, his chest soaked in red. Second, several hundred people in hooded black robes looked back in my direction. Third, the two drummers raised their heads, which, because of the nature of their anatomy, meant the hoods fell away to reveal their faces.
Their serpent faces, I should clarify.
They looked just like the statues I’d seen out in the hall, except these were not inanimate. They stood.
I panicked and ran.
It seemed to be the sensible thing to do, under the circumstances.
24: THE HAWK’S TALON
(Talon’s story)
As Kihrin ran into the courtyard of the Shattered Veil Club, Ola opened the door to her apartment. She carried a crossbow in her hands and a worried look on her face.
“Ola, where’s Morea?”
“Oh! You just about gave me a heart attack. I was gonna ask you that, sweet cheeks. I heard a scream, and not the right kind. Where’s your girl? And what are you doing up and about?” She glued a hand to her hip and looked at him indignantly.
“We don’t have time to talk about that. She wasn’t inside?”
“Not that I saw. Now what’s going on?”
“Give me your crossbow.” He looked up the stairs to his room and wondered with sick dread if Morea had even made it that far.
“You give me an explanation, Bright-Eyes.”
“Does the name Darzin D’Mon mean anything to you?”
Ola turned gray. She clutched the crossbow to her bosom as if it were a doll.
“Damn it, Ola. You should have told me.”
“It’s not what you think!”
“He’s killed Butterbelly,” Kihrin whispered. “He’s coming here. Do you understand? His people may already be here.”
“Oh goddess,” she cursed under her breath.
“Take Roarin and Lesver, then run. Don’t stop to take anything. Just leave. You know the safe house.”
“What are you going to do?”
Kihrin inhaled, steeling himself. “I’m going to grab your spare crossbow and make sure the others are okay.”
He ducked past her into her apartment before she could stop him.
The front parlor was just as he remembered, exotic and sparkling. The masks looked menacing in the dim light. The harp sat by the door, exactly where he’d left it, still covered by its cloth case. There was no sign of Morea.
He crossed over to a cabinet and pulled down the spare crossbow and a quiver of bolts.
He was good with a crossbow, a handy skill for a burglar. Crossbows were useful for grappling hooks and rappelling gear, and sometimes, for guard dogs. He’d never fired one at a person before, but he was pretty sure the technique was the same.
He cranked back the winch on the crossbow. As he loaded a bolt, he heard a noise. It wasn’t much. A scuff of leather against tile. Maybe it was Morea in the bedroom, still pretending to be asleep. Maybe.
But Kihrin didn’t think so.
He made his way over to the jade bead curtain, parted the strings, and slipped inside.
This room, too, looked normal. Tya’s Veil shone in through the windows, limning shafts of teal, pink, and lilac light over the bed linens. He frowned. There were two human-shaped lumps under the sheets.
His stomach twisted. Ola couldn’t have missed this. No way she wouldn’t have checked.
Kihrin’s throat felt thick and gummy as he inched his way to the bed and threw back the covers.
Morea and Surdyeh both lay there.
They had been meticulously posed, hands crossed over their hearts, eyes closed as if sleeping. It only made their slit throats more obvious: deep slashes on each neck, exactly like the wounds that had killed Butterbelly. Blood stained the bedding under their bodies black.