“Well, we are in some danger,” she admits. “But we just … We just need to wait.”
The two attackers, she notes, are growing increasingly uncertain, so when Vohannes says, “For what?” they look a little relieved he asked.
“For Sigrud.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“We just have to wait,” says Shara, “for him to do what he does best.” She says to the attackers, “I will help my friend up now. I am unarmed. Please do not hurt me.” She reaches down and helps Vohannes up to sit on the bed.
“Who is … Sigrud?” asks Vohannes.
There is a horrific scream from nearby, and a burst of breaking glass. Then silence.
“That is Sigrud,” says Shara.
The two masked men look at each other. Though she cannot see their faces, she can tell they are disturbed.
“You need to put down your weapons,” says Shara. “And wait here with us. If you do, you might survive. Be reasonable about this.”
One of the masked men, apparently the leader, says, “It’s a mind game. A filthy shally mind game. Don’t listen to her. It’s the butler making noises. Go check it out. And if you see anyone, kill them, and do so with a clean conscience.” The second masked man, still shaken, nods and begins to walk out the door. The leader grabs his shoulder, says, “Only a mind game. We will be rewarded,” and pats him on the back before sending him on the way.
“You just sent him to his death,” says Shara.
“Shut up,” snaps the leader. He’s breathing hard now.
“The rest of your men are dead, or dying. You need to surrender.”
“That’s what you all always say, isn’t it? Surrender, surrender, always surrender. We’re done surrendering. We can’t give you any more.”
“I ask nothing of you,” says Shara.
“If you ask me to lay down my weapon, to lay down my freedom, then you ask everything of me.”
“This is not war. This is a time of peace.”
“Your peace. Peace for things like him,” he says with disgust, gesturing to Vohannes.
“Hey … ,” says Vohannes.
“You embrace sinners, cowards, blasphemers,” says the leader. “People who have turned their backs on their history, on everything that we are. This is how you wage your war on us.”
“We,” says Shara forcefully. “Are not. At war.”
The leader leans in and whispers, “The minute a shally steps within the Divine City, I am at war with them.”
Shara is silent. The leader stands up, listens. There is nothing to hear.
“Your friend is dead,” says Shara.
“Shut up,” says the leader. He reaches over his shoulder and pulls out a short, thin sword. “Stand up. I’ll get you out of here myself.”
Shara, supporting Vohannes’s limping weight, walks out of the guest room and down the hall while the leader stalks behind them.
After a few seconds, she stops.
“Keep going,” barks the leader.
“Can you not see ahead of you?” asks Shara.
He steps around them and sees there is something lying in the hallway.
“No,” he whispers, and walks to it.
It is a crumpled, masked body lying in a copious pool of blood. Though it is hard to see through the soaking gray cloth, his neck appears to be slashed wide open. The leader kneels and gently reaches up behind the mask to touch the man’s brow. He whispers something. After a moment, he stands back up, and the hand holding the sword is trembling.
“Keep moving,” he says hoarsely, and Shara can tell he is weeping.
They walk on. At first, the house seems terribly silent. But before they reach the stairs they hear the sounds of a struggle—wood snapping, the tinkle of breaking china, and a rough shout—before seeing an open door to a large room on their left, with many shadows dancing on the threshold.
“The ballroom,” mutters Vohannes.
The leader walks forward quickly, sword held out front; then he braces himself and wheels into the room.
Shara, dragging Vohannes, follows and looks in, though she already knows what she will see.