He winced and straightened. That he’d done his duty by his mistress didn’t mean he was proud of his actions. But what else was he to have done? “On my life, Lady Sevaka, I did nothing that was not your mother’s instruction.”

Her free hand closed over his wrist. “Answer me.”

Willpower melted beneath the earnest stare. “Because I love her, as I love you. You’re like a daughter to me.”

The words were a mistake. He knew it at once. But that was still an age too late. He glanced away, only to find himself drawn back to that stare.

“A daughter.” Lady Sevaka shook her wrist. The chain jangled. “You’ve abused my trust in almost every way possible. If that weren’t a Freemont tradition with daughters, I’d laugh in your face.”

She drew him in until his face was inches from hers. Stale breath washed across his cheeks. “You heard my mother. Love never did anyone any good. You’ve seen how she treats her own blood. What prospects for you? Run from this house, Marek. Because if my mother doesn’t kill you, I surely will.”

She shoved him away. The tray tipped as Marek lost his balance. He caught the plate of meat and congealed vegetables before it slid free. Cutlery scattered across the floor. A mug shattered on tile.

Marek righted himself and gathered what he could back onto the tray. “Lady Sevaka . . .”

She rested her head against the wall and closed her eyes. “Just go, Marek. As far and fast as you can.”

Tears stinging his cheeks, he fled the chamber.

Forty-Nine

Forty-Nine

Eskavord’s marketplace remained a drab, empty expanse, frequented only by occupation patrols and a handful of shuffling, dead-eyed southwealders. Kurkas held lonely vigil from beneath the lychgate, crutch tucked close, and cloak wrapped tight.

The soldiers barely acknowledged his presence; the southwealders ignored him entirely. At least the air was crisp beneath the overcast skies and the rain gone. More and more, Kurkas had the sense that something beyond the obvious was wrong in Eskavord, though he couldn’t quite put his finger on what.

“Better to have burned the whole bloody place last time around.”

“Be careful,” counselled a soft voice. “The archimandrite doesn’t need ideas.”

Kurkas turned. Yanda stood among the skeletal yews of the outer churchyard. She looked older than he remembered.

Lot of that going around.

He shrugged. “Way I hear it, Makrov’s never short of ideas. And Makrov needs Eskavord, doesn’t he? It’s a trophy – proof that his eminent self was right all along.”

She drew closer along the waterlogged path. “Not much of a trophy.”

“Makrov’s not got much in the way of standards.”

“You want to be careful who hears that, too.”

“I can look after myself.”

“That’s a common sentiment hereabouts.” Her tone darkened. “It seldom ends well.”