The guard chuckles darkly. “If she ain’t, thosenecroliphonmages have got even darker proclivities than I thought! Can’t imagine even one of their lotchoosingto marry a corpse, heh heh—”
He breaks off with a scream when my arm shoots through the window, grips him by the front of his chainmail shirt, and drags him hard against the gate. “You will let me through,” I snarl.
“Like hells!” he bellows, struggling to break my grip. “Don’t think I didn’t glimpse that great sword of yours, hidden under that tatty cloak! Man like you ain’t up to no good, and it’s as much as my job is worth if I let you through.”
I shift my grip, taking hold of him by the throat. Deep down in my veins, the virulium madness murmurs, awakened once more, never fully purged from my system. “Let me in, or I’ll snap your neck.”
“Hawlins!” the man croaks, his fingers scrabbling at my forearm ineffectually. “Hawli—” His voice cuts off when I squeeze, but another man is already on the run from the gatehouse, blade drawn. I glimpse a flash of steel and withdraw my hand only just fast enough to keep from losing it in a heavy, downward stroke. The choking guard falls onto his back, gagging and kicking his legs, while his fellow—Hawlins, presumably—shouts for reinforcements against this unexpected gate invader.
I back away ten steps, my gaze taking in the height of the gate and the walls surrounding. The walls themselves are a good fifteen feet high, but the gate is no more than ten. I set my jaw. Part of me knows this is not the cleverest idea I’ve ever had, assaulting a gate guard and roaring threats in his face. But I’m too caught up in the moment now to care. I’ve got to find my way through to the castle somehow.
Ilsevel needs me.
With a great huff of air like a snorting bull, I charge at the gate, leap, and use my feet to propel me up high enough to catch hold of the finial spokes lining the top. I haul myself up and peer over the side, where the first guard is scrambling to his feet. His red eyes stare up into mine. “Oh,hellsno!” he cries. “What are you thinking, boy?”
I climb over the finials, taking care not to let my cloak catch on the sharpened points. The guards below threaten me with lances, but none are tall enough to be much use. Someone shouts for a crossbowman, but none is immediately forthcoming. Iconsider jumping down into the midst of the guard swarm and laying them low with a few deft strokes. Beginning my assault on Beldroth with murder of these men, who are merely trying to do their job, doesn’t seem the most propitious beginning, however. Not if I want to keep the gods on my side.
Instead I look to the gatehouse. The edge of its peaked roof is only a six-foot jump from where I’m perched—difficult without a running start. Impossible?
My muscles coil like a cat’s. Even as the guards below shout, “Is he really going to—” I spring, my cloak rippling through the air behind me. I land on tiles, scrabble for purchase, and just manage to keep my balance.
“Did you see that?”
“Heflew, gods-damn it!”
“What in the blazing hells is hethinking?”
“Get down from there, boy, before I sound the alarm!”
“You ain’t welcome here, and if we’ve got to—”
I don’t wait to hear more. I’ve already climbed to the peak of the roof and balance there, my head high and shoulders back. Many more rooftops, some tiled, some wood, most thatched, spread before my view, a veritable forest of gables, finials, and chimneys. I lift my gaze from these to the castle high on its rocky outcrop.
“I’m coming, Ilsevel,” I whisper. “Wait for me, my love.”
Then I slide down the far side of the roof and spring for the next, even as the guards send up their hue and cry below.
9
ILSEVEL
Bells sound in the village below. Celebratory bells for my wedding, perhaps, but there’s a frantic air to them that makes me unsettled. Granted my own less-than celebratory feelings may influence my perspective, sensing alarm where I’m meant to hear joy.
I stand close to the window, gazing out, though I can see nothing beyond Beldroth’s courtyard wall. Whatever takes place in the town below is entirely separate from me, and my curiosity fades as swiftly as it was roused.
Frowning, I look down at the gown in which I am clad—a long column of soft white with a deeply plunging neckline. A cloak fastens at my throat and falls gently over my shoulders, picked out in complicated patterns of gold thread, depicting the sacred knots of Nornala and holy unity. My hair is gathered up in a goldnet, off my neck and away from my face. It is the ceremonial heartfasting gown, worn by unwed maidens for the sacred rite preceding their wedding nuptials. I’ve participated in many an entourage for brides of my father’s court, seen this dress worn by many a blushing maiden. The priest of Nornala agreed to let me skip my Maiden’s Journey. Considering recent events, it was deemed unnecessary for me to go through that process again. But he had insisted on a heartfasting, which must take place before the wedding ceremony itself. Mine is to happen this morning, followed by my wedding at sundown. An eventful day.
A heavy swath of beaded fabric weighs down my hands. I bow my head, studying it, turning it slowly this way and that to catch the light. It is much like the prayer veils favored by Aurae. For some reason I cannot explain, that thought sends a dart of pain straight to my stomach, there and gone again. I’m starting to get used to that singularly unpleasant sensation.
“What is it, Ilsevel?” Lyria says, dragging my attention abruptly her way. She has been my only attendant this morning, as I banished all my other eager ladies-in-waiting for giggling too much. Lyria herself is not disinclined to indulge in a good giggle now and then, but her face is very solemn today, her eyes shadowed as though she did not rest at all last night. One would think she was the one being married off to a death mage. “Are you in pain?” she asks, coming toward me, reaching out to take the veil from my grasp.
“Another memory,” I answer softly. “Trying to work its waythrough.” My mouth downturns in a grimace. “It hurts sometimes.”
Lyria nods, her gaze fixed on the side of my face. Then she tilts her head, and her eyes move to the low-cut front of my gown and the prominently exposed skin of my bosom. She seems to be looking at something, some mark or flaw, but when I crane my head, I see only my own smooth flesh. Rather more than I care to display, if I’m honest. “What are you looking at?” I demand sharply.
Lyria’s brow puckers, and her eyes flick to meet mine. “It’s best if you don’t remember,” she says, as she has many times over the last few days. Blight her.
“And why not?” I rub three fingers roughly against the skin between my breasts, as though I might feel something my eyes cannot perceive. “What is it that worries you so much about my memories?”
