Alucius’s gaze went to his stolen house, finding the balcony where he ate breakfast and counted the ships every morning. She was there as requested, a small, plump figure leaning on the balustrade, her gaze fixed on Darnel, or rather Darnel’s horse. “It’s all right,” Alucius told his father. “You won’t have to.”
Darnel’s horse gave a loud snort, jerking and shaking its head. “Easy now,” the Fief Lord said, smoothing his hand over its neck. Alucius was relieved to see Darnel wore no armour today, just finely tailored silks and a long cloak. He reached for the dagger at the small of his back, concealed beneath his coat, his eyes intent on Darnel’s horse. It snorted again, giving a loud whinny, eyes widening into panicked mania as it reared, too sudden for Darnel to grab a tighter hold of the reins, pitching him from the saddle. Free of its rider the great warhorse wheeled around, lashing out with its hooves at the nearest of Darnel’s knights, the iron shoes ringing loud on the man’s breastplate as they sent him sprawling. The animal pivoted on its forelegs, vicious hind hooves scattering the remaining knights as Darnel back-pedalled on the ground, eyes wide in panic. The horse stopped its assault on the knights and turned again, wild eyes fixing on Twenty-Seven before charging with a shrill scream. The slave-elite’s expression remained as calm as ever as he attempted to dive clear of the horse’s path, proving fractionally too slow as the animal’s flank collided with his shoulder, spinning him to the ground, slack and senseless.
Alucius drew the dagger from its sheath and sprinted towards Darnel, now climbing to his feet, well clear of any protection. Only use the shortest possible thrust, Vaelin had told him, all those years ago when he fancied himself a hero. It’s the fast blade that draws blood.
Some battle-won instinct must have sounded in Darnel’s mind, for he turned just as Alucius thrust towards his back, the blade piercing his cloak and becoming entangled in the folds. Darnel snarled, bringing his fist around to smash at Alucius’s face. He ducked under it, tearing the dagger free of the cloak and lunging for Darnel’s arm, knowing even the slightest cut would be enough. The Fief Lord sidestepped, his sword coming free of its scabbard in a blur. Alucius felt a great stinging burn flare across his chest, the shock of it sending him to his knees, Darnel looming above him, sword drawn back. His expression was fiercely triumphant, smile broad in anticipation of the kill. “You think to kill me, little poet?” he laughed.
“No,” Alucius replied, feeling blood bathing his chest as he glanced over Darnel’s shoulder. “But I expect he will.”
Darnel whirled but too late. Lakrhil Al Hestian speared the Fief Lord through the neck with the spike protruding from his right sleeve. Darnel took some seconds to die, spitting blood and weeping as he hung from the spike, eyes bulging and lips babbling gibberish before he finally slumped to the wharf. Alucius still thought it hadn’t taken long enough.
A cold hand seemed to enfold him on all sides as he collapsed, feeling his father catch him, smiling up at his ice-white face. “The Aspects,” he said. “Get to the Blackhold . . .”
“Alucius!” His father shook him, his voice a rage-filled scream. “ALUCIUS!”
Alucius was aware of a great clamour somewhere, though his vision was too dim to make out the source, men yelling in alarm and summoning memories of the High Keep. He found it strange that the sky above his father’s head seemed to be filled with black streaks, like the arrows at the Bloody Hill, another unwelcome memory. He closed his eyes, pushing it all away and filling his mind with Alornis’s face as the last of his blood seeped away.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Frentis
“Winterfall Eve,” Brother Lernial said in his perennially dull voice. He had said almost nothing since arriving with the Eorhil woman the day before, slumping in front of a fire and staring at the flames for hours. Insha ka Forna stayed at his side, her gaze continually drawn in expectation.
“The Seventh Order,” Ivern said, watching with Frentis from the fringes of the gathered captains, his face a mix of confusion and suspicion. “Hiding in the Realm Guard. And where else, one wonders.”
“Aspect Grealin gave the impression they had many guises,” Frentis said.
“Grealin.” Ivern shook his head. “Just how many lies did they tell us, do you think?”
“Enough to keep us safe.” Frentis straightened as Brother Lernial said something and Insha ka Forna raised a hand to beckon him over.
“What happens on Winterfall Eve?” Banders asked the brother.
“Varinshold.” Lernial frowned in concentration, a vein pulsing in his temple and sweat beading his brow. “Lord Al Sorna attacks Varinshold. Something . . . something will happen.”
“Al Sorna’s army is in Warnsclave,” Banders said. “How could he make such an attack?”
Lernial gave a pained grunt, arching his back and exhaling slowly, then slumping forward, features slack with exhaustion. “That’s all,” he muttered.
“There must be more,” Banders persisted, drawing a glower from Insha ka Forna.