“Or one whose sanity is so tightly wound it’s snapped like a rotten mooring rope. Excuse me.” Josiri pushed past into the house. “Braxov? Are you there?”

The steward appeared from the kitchen at close to a run. “Your grace?”

“The children. Make sure they’re ready to travel.”

The unspoken question dissipating from his lips, Braxov hurried upstairs.

Sevaka stood in the sitting room doorway, her face as pale as her borrowed dress. “It’s my mother, isn’t it?”

Josiri nodded. “She’s intent on remaking the Republic. I doubt she has any place therein for the Reveques. Can you walk?”

“I shouldn’t be able to. I shouldn’t be able to stand, but . . .”

“Yes or no?”

“Yes.”

“Go with them. Your mother thinks you’re dead. If you’re found here, you will be.”

Braxov reappeared on the stairs, a coated and booted Constans and Sidara in his wake. Constans regarded the assembled adults with suspicion, Sidara with apprehension.

“Uncle Josiri? What’s happening?”

How much should he tell her? How much could he tell her? “You have to leave the house for a time. Perhaps a long time. Your father will explain.”

“No!” The door slammed back on its hinges, admitting a Lilyana of very different mood to the one Josiri had last seen. “This is my home! I am not leaving!”

Malachi hurried in behind. “There’s no choice; it’s not safe.”

“You’re right,” Lilyana snarled. She reached up behind the sitting room doorway and unhooked a battered militiaman’s sword from the wall. “If Ebigail wants my children or my husband, she’ll have to go through me.”

“She will,” said Sevaka. “She’ll have you cut down in a heartbeat and not shed a tear.”

“Let her come.”

Josiri stepped past two startled children and laid a hand on the scabbard. “Fifteen years ago, I heard many speak with that same defiance. They’re all dead.”

The anger in her eyes guttered and died. “But . . . this is our home.”

“And it might be again tomorrow. But for today, you must leave.”

She shuddered. The sword, still sheathed, fell to her side. Slowly, she nodded her head.

Malachi shot Josiri a grateful glance. Josiri turned away. Tressia was starting to feel like home for all the wrong reasons. Why did he even care? They were northwealders, one and all. They weren’t his people. What battles they had were theirs, with allies and hearthguard aplenty to fight for them. Not like Ana, or Calenne.

Hurried footsteps sounded on the gravel. A breathless hearthguard appeared in the doorway.

“My lord,” she gasped. “Captain Horden’s at the front gate with warrants for your arrest. He has a score of men and two kraikon besides. If they make a fight of it . . .”

Josiri scowled. “Is there any chance?”

“Against a kraikon? Let alone two?” Malachi shook his head. “Thank you, sergeant. Tell everyone to lay down their arms.”