Sword held ready, she followed the gravel drive to the rear of the house, the pain of injuries already fading as the wounds closed. Truth hardened into unassailable creed. Elzar had been right – an eternal’s existence didn’t make her a monster. Rather, it gave her the means to punish monsters. What other fate fitted a woman who’d sought the deaths of her children? Who’d so cleanly manipulated Rosa into turning on Viktor?

Rosa’s skin prickled as she approached the garden. She’d downed what, a dozen hearthguards? There should have been twice as many on duty, given the recent string of deaths and assaults. But then . . . Ebigail was behind those, wasn’t she? What need had she of increased protection, when hers was the only life not in danger. Raven’s Eyes! Why hadn’t she seen it before?

At last, she reached the terrace. The thick, sweet fragrance belonged to secret assignations and whispered intimacies. Perhaps that was fitting. After all, there was nothing so intimate as betrayal . . . or the murder that would wipe the slate clean. There was no proof. No leverage. There was only the sword and the will to use it.

Rosa ignored the distant barking and picked her way through the maze of trellises. At last, there she was, stood at the centre of the terrace. A spider in a web of thorns.

“Hello, Roslava. You’ve come to kill me, haven’t you?”

“Yes.”

A gentle tilt of the head. An eyebrow arched, barely visible in the soft glow of the firestone lantern. “And for which crime have you come? For making you see a fool in the mirror? For the fate of my feckless daughter? Or have you come to avenge the death of a man who was never capable of loving you?”

Ebigail sat down on a bench. Skirts shifted as she hooked one knee over the other. “Not to me. They’re all pathetic. You’re a soldier. Soldiers serve the Republic, and you have served well. A shame it must end like this. I’d such hopes for you.”

“I’m glad to disappoint.”

Ebigail laughed. “So many are. Am I permitted to plead for my life? To convince you that what I did was necessary for the Republic’s survival?”

Rosa strode closer. Strange how knowledge altered perception. No longer did Ebigail Kiradin resemble the ideal of Tressian matronhood, but a withered, embittered old witch cackling at the world.

“No, but you may choose between the sword and a broken neck.”

Ebigail folded her hands in her lap. “I can’t say either of those appeal.”

Something hissed out of the gloom and thunked into Rosa’s chest.

Croaking for breath, she closed a hand about the crossbow bolt and ripped it free. Bright spots of pain burst behind her eyes. They passed as all pain had passed since Kas’ murder. Ebigail had underestimated her. A rare lapse, no doubt.