Anastacia chuckled. “Perhaps that’s why I’m doing it – to prove that I’m your better. Or maybe it’s because the greatest gift you can offer is something you desire for yourself. Or it might be that I consider you a distraction your brother can no longer afford. Choose whichever explanation suits you best, but if you are to leave, it must be now. If one of the servants happens upon us, there will be consequences neither one of us will enjoy.”

The explanation left Calenne none the wiser, but it didn’t matter. It was enough that their interests coincided. There was risk, of course. But life was risk.

She took her first hesitant step.

“Tell Josiri I’m sorry.”

Thirteen

Thirteen

It was somehow fitting, thought Malachi, how the skies wept for Kasamor Kiradin upon his homecoming.

The cobbled streets ran like rivers. Rain swept the detritus of the day into overburdened sewers. It had already driven most of the citizenry to the shelter of homes and taverns. Those who remained splashed through the streets with the hunched shoulders and hurried gait of folk wishing themselves already to their destination. They’d not soon return. Even with the sun lost behind the clouds, the bells would soon ring for Ascension.

A full company of the 7th lined the roadway. They stood at silent attention as the covered dray lurched towards the portcullis. No council edict had summoned them, but they had come all the same. A soldier’s bond Malachi understood, but would never share.

Beneath the arch, a gold-robed priest led a handful of veiled serenes in hymn. The holy women looked no more pleased to be present than their master. Their black robes hung drab and dark in the hissing rain; the golden thread of hem and sleeve barely glinted. Malachi strained to hear the serenes’ words. A wasted effort. It took rare voice to elevate traditional mourning-chant to beauty. These were otherwise.

Rosa walked beside the dray, one hand on the bridle. Her features were pale, her blonde hair plastered across her scalp. A forlorn cyraeth spirit come clawing its way from a shallow grave.

Ebigail Kiradin’s carriage sat beneath the archway. Coachmen shivered and sought shelter beneath the ancient stones. Malachi caught no glimpse of their mistress through the veil-draped windows. He supposed even Lady Kiradin was entitled to privacy at a time such as this.

There’d be no tears, Malachi felt certain. She’d offered none in the Council chamber when the herald brought news. But then, nor had he. Public grief was frowned upon. Whether the departed was the oldest of friends or a dearest child, decorum was inviolable.

Yes, the skies wept for Kasamor Kiradin, and the skies alone.