II
Brenwyr stalked through the midnight halls in one of her blackest moods. Talking to Adiraina usually calmed her, but not tonight, on the anniversary of Aerulan's death. It didn't help that during this short walk back to the Brandan quarters she had been stopped three times by Caineron patrols, on the last occasion nearly clouting the Caineron captain for daring to question her own presence, abroad so late. That entire house seemed to have run mad tonight, from Lady Kallystine on down—and no, dammit, she would not give them permission to search the Brandan compound.
As Adiraina had guessed, Brenwyr still had a splintering headache. Thirty-four years ago tonight, she had suffered an even worse one, brought on by a row that afternoon with Aerulan. No. The argument had been entirely one-sided, caused by her stupid jealousy over Aerulan's kindness to her cousin Tieri—a mere child, for God's sake! Aerulan had only laughed, and Brenwyr had stormed off. That night, the Tishooo had brought her Aerulan's voice, calling, calling, but she had heard it through such a haze of pain that she hadn't believed it was real, until too late.
It's my fault she died, the Iron Matriarch thought savagely, for perhaps the millionth time. I ill-wished her, that afternoon—in a filthy temper, not meaning it, but it stuck, and it killed her.
Not even Adiraina knew about that.
Sometimes, Brenwyr almost consoled herself remembering how the assassin had shrunk back as he felt her curse strike home: "Shadow, by a shadow be exposed"—whatever that had meant. More to him, obviously, than to her, as was often the case. No, that yellow-eyed bastard wouldn't soon forget the Brandan Maledight. But blood prices weren't paid by words, however blighting, nor the dead brought back by remorse. Because of her, Aerulan was both dead and unavenged.
Thus raging at herself, she entered the Brandan compound . . . and there, coming down the arcade toward her through slanting bars of moonlight, was Aerulan.
Someone whistled—a thin, high, excited note—and then something seized the slim figure from behind.
It was all going to happen again, thought Brenwyr, frozen in sick horror, and she for her sins must witness it, over and over and over . . . .
But this time Aerulan had a moment's warning from the ounce trotting at her side. She grabbed the invisible something which had her around the throat and bent sharply forward. An indistinct form shot over her head. Bright steel clattered on the flagstones at Brenwyr's feet. Hobbled by her tight underskirt, the girl toppled forward to land on something that fought back. The two, visible and otherwise, were rolling about the arcade, pounced indiscriminately by the cat, when Brenwyr finally realized what she was seeing. She snatched up the assassin's knife and ran forward.
The Knorth saw her coming. "No!" she cried.
Brenwyr hesitated, then struck almost at random with the hilt. "What in Perimal's name do you mean, 'No'?" she demanded as the Knorth shoved her stunned attacker aside.
"If he's dead, he can't answer questions. Besides, look." She pulled off the mere hood. Underneath was the face of a surprisingly young, blond boy. "I'd like to know who's sending children to cut my throat, and why."
"Children, eh?" Brenwyr tried desperately to wrench her mind away from the past, to focus on this stranger in Aerulan's clothes whom she had spent the winter refusing to meet. "And just how old are you, girl?"
The other snorted, a most un-Aerulan-like sound. "Older than this fellow, anyway, and better trained, for all that thrashing around just now. Still, he would have had me cold if he hadn't expected an easy kill. This damned dress!"
She hiked up her outer skirt, ripped open the under-gown's side seam, and began to tear long strips off of it as the wind tried playfully to twitch them out of her grasp.
Over three decades preserving those clothes, carrying them to each new house where a contract sent her, clinging to them for comfort in each strange bed, to the last moment, until a stranger's footstep stopped at her door . . . .
Rip, rip, rip . . . .
Berserker heat flared in Brenwyr's blood, kindling red in her eyes, until the other's voice hit her like cold water in the face:
"Lady, for pity's sake, not now."
Impostor, usurper, destroyer . . . .
No. She had made the Knorth wear these clothes. She had pretended that Aerulan again walked these halls, always just out of sight so as not to imperil the illusion. Delusion. Obsession.
"Name a thing," Adiraina had told her, "and you gain power over it."
What a fool the Iron Matriarch had been to believe that. But now, in this moment of hard won freedom, Brenwyr heard her own hoarse voice say, "Do what you must."
"Good!" said the Knorth, and bound the unconscious boy with Aerulan's dismemberments. Where he lay, in the shadow of the arcade's waist-high wall, the white fabric showed up against the mere as though it were wrapped around empty space. "Two down," she said, rising, "eleven to g . . . oh!"
A burly figure had suddenly appeared outside the arcade, thrown an arm around her waist, and scooped her out into the Forecourt.
"Greetings again, Matriarch," said the Caineron captain affably. "I thought I heard familiar voices. It seems that we won't have to impose on your hospitality after all. Lady Jameth, M'lady Kallystine would like a word with you."
The Knorth started to protest.
"Shhh," said the captain and put her hand over the girl's mouth. "Remember the fourth duty of silence. Malie, take that cat back to the stable. Good night, Matriarch."
She strode back across the courtyard with the Knorth, still uttering muffled protests, tucked under her arm. A cadet snatched the ounce as he tried to follow and bore him off in the opposite direction, too well-bred to bite or scratch but with all four legs stuck up in the most awkward angles he could manage.
This joint abduction took place too quickly for Brenwyr to protest; but then again, she thought, watching them go, why should she? The Knorth was a Caineron responsibility. Let them guard her. Brenwyr's duty lay here, with this trespasser in the Brandan domain.
"Two down, eleven to go," the Knorth had started to say. Thirteen what?
But her mind slid off the thought. The wind blew, the moon shone—and she stood at the very spot where Aerulan had fallen, with an assassin of the Bashtiri Shadow Guild at her feet. When this fellow opened his eyes, perhaps they would be yellow, like those of Aerulan's killer. Perhaps . . . perhaps she would wait and see . . .