I left her, only sleeping!”
“Perhaps she didn’t want to live.” Enissa took his arm and pulled him toward the door. “Wake the servants. I’m afraid there is much to be done here before morning.” She stopped and thought for a moment. “Did any of the rest of the family survive, or was she the last one?”
Kevisson took a deep breath, then shook his head, his eyes dark and miserable. “She said there were two more children, both girls. I haven’t seen them yet.”
Enissa opened the door and guided him out. “Poor little tykes,” she said. “I suppose I’ll have to tell them as soon as it’s light.”
As she watched him walk away, his shoulders slouched in shock and weariness, she was touched by an uneasy feeling that Myriel Lenhe’s death had been no accident.
THE POUNDING IN Haemas’s head crested, ebbed, then resurged again until even the effort to breathe was torment. She was freezing, as if she’d been left on an exposed ledge high up on the mountains that overlooked Tal’ayn. Her body felt like an ice-riddled lump, and every inch of it ached.
She’s nearly conscious!
That transmitted thought, although not aimed at her, thundered in her head and rattled around as if she were trapped inside one of the great festival drums she’d seen once in the Lowlands, bringing so much pain that she almost tumbled back into the beguiling darkness again. She groaned and her teeth chattered from the cold.
“She looks half dead,” a voice said.
“That’s because she fought it.” The second voice paused. “We need to get some of this down her.” An arm propped up her aching head and something hard was thrust against her lips. She tried to turn away. “Drink or I’ll drown you in it.” Although the words were hard, surprisingly the tone was not. Haemas swallowed a little of the warm tea, then choked while the rest ran down her chin.
Sometime after that, the pounding in her head receded a little, though the cold settled into a knot in her middle. Opening her eyes a crack, she gazed at a small, dingy room with only one dim, half-melted candle burning in a sconce high up on the wall. The air smelled dank and stale, as if the room hadn’t been opened in years. Her fingernails dug into patched bedclothes. Something was wrong. These weren’t her chambers.
Several shadowed figures stood looking down on her. “Welcome, Lady,” one of them said softly, then touched his fingertips to his lips in a salute.
She felt she ought to know that mocking voice, but his identity was locked up somewhere in her head behind all the pain. The walls began to swirl. Her stomach lurched and she had to close her eyes. Who were these people? Where was Enissa? If she was ill, then Enissa should be called. She didn’t want some healer employed by one of the High Houses. They were always so grim and disapproving.
Fabric rustled, then voices murmured as footsteps walked away. After a while, she found that, if she lay very still, hardly breathing, the pounding lessened even more. She opened her eyes again, staring into the unsteady half-darkness, trying to understand what had happened.
Shaking, she hitched herself up on her elbows. Again, the room spun crazily. She broke into a cold sweat and thought she would lose what little was in her stomach. Clutching at the mattress, she made herself get up anyway, and staggered a few steps before sprawling face down on the floor. The icy darkness came in waves, rolling over her until she couldn’t see or hear, receding a little, then sweeping back again.
Between waves, she struggled to her knees and hung there, the pounding in her head now a blinding torment. She wanted to call Enissa or one of the girls, but the pain was a universe unto itself and there was no way out.
Slowly she pushed herself back onto her feet, then with her hands out, felt her way through the room, unable to see clearly for the agony behind her eyes. She took one step, then another, and fumbled around a corner
“Perhaps she didn’t want to live.” Enissa took his arm and pulled him toward the door. “Wake the servants. I’m afraid there is much to be done here before morning.” She stopped and thought for a moment. “Did any of the rest of the family survive, or was she the last one?”
Kevisson took a deep breath, then shook his head, his eyes dark and miserable. “She said there were two more children, both girls. I haven’t seen them yet.”
Enissa opened the door and guided him out. “Poor little tykes,” she said. “I suppose I’ll have to tell them as soon as it’s light.”
As she watched him walk away, his shoulders slouched in shock and weariness, she was touched by an uneasy feeling that Myriel Lenhe’s death had been no accident.
THE POUNDING IN Haemas’s head crested, ebbed, then resurged again until even the effort to breathe was torment. She was freezing, as if she’d been left on an exposed ledge high up on the mountains that overlooked Tal’ayn. Her body felt like an ice-riddled lump, and every inch of it ached.
She’s nearly conscious!
That transmitted thought, although not aimed at her, thundered in her head and rattled around as if she were trapped inside one of the great festival drums she’d seen once in the Lowlands, bringing so much pain that she almost tumbled back into the beguiling darkness again. She groaned and her teeth chattered from the cold.
“She looks half dead,” a voice said.
“That’s because she fought it.” The second voice paused. “We need to get some of this down her.” An arm propped up her aching head and something hard was thrust against her lips. She tried to turn away. “Drink or I’ll drown you in it.” Although the words were hard, surprisingly the tone was not. Haemas swallowed a little of the warm tea, then choked while the rest ran down her chin.
Sometime after that, the pounding in her head receded a little, though the cold settled into a knot in her middle. Opening her eyes a crack, she gazed at a small, dingy room with only one dim, half-melted candle burning in a sconce high up on the wall. The air smelled dank and stale, as if the room hadn’t been opened in years. Her fingernails dug into patched bedclothes. Something was wrong. These weren’t her chambers.
Several shadowed figures stood looking down on her. “Welcome, Lady,” one of them said softly, then touched his fingertips to his lips in a salute.
She felt she ought to know that mocking voice, but his identity was locked up somewhere in her head behind all the pain. The walls began to swirl. Her stomach lurched and she had to close her eyes. Who were these people? Where was Enissa? If she was ill, then Enissa should be called. She didn’t want some healer employed by one of the High Houses. They were always so grim and disapproving.
Fabric rustled, then voices murmured as footsteps walked away. After a while, she found that, if she lay very still, hardly breathing, the pounding lessened even more. She opened her eyes again, staring into the unsteady half-darkness, trying to understand what had happened.
Shaking, she hitched herself up on her elbows. Again, the room spun crazily. She broke into a cold sweat and thought she would lose what little was in her stomach. Clutching at the mattress, she made herself get up anyway, and staggered a few steps before sprawling face down on the floor. The icy darkness came in waves, rolling over her until she couldn’t see or hear, receding a little, then sweeping back again.
Between waves, she struggled to her knees and hung there, the pounding in her head now a blinding torment. She wanted to call Enissa or one of the girls, but the pain was a universe unto itself and there was no way out.
Slowly she pushed herself back onto her feet, then with her hands out, felt her way through the room, unable to see clearly for the agony behind her eyes. She took one step, then another, and fumbled around a corner
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