Bodies on the ground. His father’s Houseblades and others. He saw faces he had known all his life, each one flat as the thinnest paint, the eyes half-lidded and blank. And everywhere, in lurid hues, gaping wounds. When he brought his hands to his face, he felt only numbness, as if even sensation was in retreat.

Fingers now stabbing the air, he staggered on.

The front door of the house was broken, torn from its hinges.

A sound was coming from Kadaspala, an inhuman sound, a sound of something sliding into a pit, an abyss, a fall into depths unending. The cry surrounded him, greeted the empty morning and its senseless light, and the blood on the earth made shadows beneath motionless bodies. He saw the open carriage door and more bodies beyond – more Houseblades, more strangers in filthy rags, eyes staring as dead eyes always did.

A shape on the steps of the house, a thing in a fine woollen cloak as blue as midnight. Grey hair clotted with black gore. The fingers on the end of Kadaspala’s hand danced in frenetic motion, jerking slashes of the invisible brush, and all the while the cry continued, like a soul in retreat, a soul plummeting for ever.

He stepped over his father’s body, and then over Cryl Durav’s. And saw Ephalla’s still, stained form.

He came to stand before the hearthstone.

This was not her. This … thing. Not her. Never her. I don’t know who this is. It’s not—

The face was all wrong. The bloodless cheeks, the swollen lips cracked and torn. He had never seen this woman before. She was staring at the ceiling. He felt himself pulled over her, stepping forward, shifting to intercept that empty gaze. He heard his own howl of protest. Still he leaned closer, watching the play of his own shadow sliding up over her face. He met her eyes.

The fingers of his hands curled into claws. The keening sound filled the chamber, ran wild, was trapped in corners, jolting free and careening against the ceiling. Its pitch was building, climbing ever higher. A sound tasting of blood, a sound smelling of horror. He staggered back and fell to his knees.

Enesdia.

Don’t look at me like that. Don’t—

His fingers reached up, as he stared at the forlorn figure sprawled on the hearthstone, and the invisible brushes stabbed.

Deep into his eyes.

Pain was a shock, rocking his head back, but the artist would not let go – the brushes dipped deeper, soaked in red paint. The cry was now shrieking in a chorus of voices, bursting from his mouth again and again. He felt his fingers grasp hold of his eyes, felt them clench tight, crushing everything.

And then he tore them away.

And darkness offered its perfect blessing, and he shuddered as if in ecstasy.