you kill the wretched thing when you had the chance?” She had asked herself this question a thousand times. “What made you claim it as your prize? Why did you think you deserved one last word instead of simply cleaving its foul neck with your sword the moment it fell? Then it would never have come to this. He would have been spared. You would hold him in your arms right now.”
Marin shuddered as she tormented herself with these questions yet again. It was the same voice with which she’d always said, “I’ve seen worse,” but without the lightness of a casual boast. In the past year, that voice had accused her with the fierce edge that once challenged fate, now focused with all its scorn on her hesitation that night in the wood.
Hesitation that had cost Hiril his life.
“Little time will you live in peace, then cut down to rot,” the kayal-witch had cursed him—and cut down he was.
The curse had come true.
11
MARIN WAS SILENT.
The memories were flooding back into her mind. How irreparably her life had changed. That fateful day played out once more in Marin’s head as clear as it did the first time.
A messenger reached the door; his eyes were downcast and his hands were folded together before him in respectful sympathy. He’d just informed her that her husband Hiril was dead.
Marin had been at their home in Steffra when she’d received the news. What had been a pleasant evening alone had turned into the longest night of her life. The next morning, sleepless and still in shock, she was almost happy when another messenger arrived with a summons from the Rassan Majalis. Traveling to Ruinart was better than doing nothing.
After her ship arrived from Eliës, she was greeted in Cievv as a hero’s widow. Officials and functionaries consoled her, invited her into their homes—but told her little about the hero’s murder. Despair followed disbelief, and Marin grieved in solitude for days before agreeing to see any visitors.
It was weeks before Hiril’s remains reached Cievv, and he was not cremated until some months after his death. Marin was, of course, puzzled by this, but all anyone would tell her was that it had something to do with how the assassin had marked Hiril’s body. The Rassan Majalis’s alchemists came and went, murmuring among themselves but saying nothing to anyone else. Finally, Hiril received the funeral rites reserved for a member of Ruinart royalty, although he was not a citizen of the kingdom. It was a sad and solemn occasion, and still no one discussed the circumstances of his death.
After the funeral, Hiril’s ashes were kept for weeks in the royal family’s citadel before Marin was permitted to take them away.
Meanwhile, she lived in two worlds at once—an inner realm of abject blackness where her spirit withered away, and a city of flowers basking in the glorious light of an early autumn. That world belonged to someone else, even though she walked through it every day. Her inner darkness grew; some mornings, despite the rich golden sunlight, she lay in bed as if waiting for a dawn that never came. The burden of staying in Cievv without her husband had become too much to bear.
At last someone arrived to offer her hope.
Torre Lavvann.
It was as if both suns had finally burst through the clouds. Lavvann’s rugged face and gruff smile reminded her that she still had a place with the Four Banners, and that there was always work to do; and they could certainly use her help again. That was hope enough for Marin. The next day she left Cievv with her captain and returned to her company.
In the months that followed, Marin pursued dangerous paths with her brothers in arms. She rode north into Keafel beyond the Soller Mountains, to a gently rolling landscape of green and golden fields crisscrossed by strips of woodland. She hunted down ruffians and dark things without mercy, and fought fiercely in battle, no longer caring for her own safety.
Her company met with worried officials
Marin shuddered as she tormented herself with these questions yet again. It was the same voice with which she’d always said, “I’ve seen worse,” but without the lightness of a casual boast. In the past year, that voice had accused her with the fierce edge that once challenged fate, now focused with all its scorn on her hesitation that night in the wood.
Hesitation that had cost Hiril his life.
“Little time will you live in peace, then cut down to rot,” the kayal-witch had cursed him—and cut down he was.
The curse had come true.
11
MARIN WAS SILENT.
The memories were flooding back into her mind. How irreparably her life had changed. That fateful day played out once more in Marin’s head as clear as it did the first time.
A messenger reached the door; his eyes were downcast and his hands were folded together before him in respectful sympathy. He’d just informed her that her husband Hiril was dead.
Marin had been at their home in Steffra when she’d received the news. What had been a pleasant evening alone had turned into the longest night of her life. The next morning, sleepless and still in shock, she was almost happy when another messenger arrived with a summons from the Rassan Majalis. Traveling to Ruinart was better than doing nothing.
After her ship arrived from Eliës, she was greeted in Cievv as a hero’s widow. Officials and functionaries consoled her, invited her into their homes—but told her little about the hero’s murder. Despair followed disbelief, and Marin grieved in solitude for days before agreeing to see any visitors.
It was weeks before Hiril’s remains reached Cievv, and he was not cremated until some months after his death. Marin was, of course, puzzled by this, but all anyone would tell her was that it had something to do with how the assassin had marked Hiril’s body. The Rassan Majalis’s alchemists came and went, murmuring among themselves but saying nothing to anyone else. Finally, Hiril received the funeral rites reserved for a member of Ruinart royalty, although he was not a citizen of the kingdom. It was a sad and solemn occasion, and still no one discussed the circumstances of his death.
After the funeral, Hiril’s ashes were kept for weeks in the royal family’s citadel before Marin was permitted to take them away.
Meanwhile, she lived in two worlds at once—an inner realm of abject blackness where her spirit withered away, and a city of flowers basking in the glorious light of an early autumn. That world belonged to someone else, even though she walked through it every day. Her inner darkness grew; some mornings, despite the rich golden sunlight, she lay in bed as if waiting for a dawn that never came. The burden of staying in Cievv without her husband had become too much to bear.
At last someone arrived to offer her hope.
Torre Lavvann.
It was as if both suns had finally burst through the clouds. Lavvann’s rugged face and gruff smile reminded her that she still had a place with the Four Banners, and that there was always work to do; and they could certainly use her help again. That was hope enough for Marin. The next day she left Cievv with her captain and returned to her company.
In the months that followed, Marin pursued dangerous paths with her brothers in arms. She rode north into Keafel beyond the Soller Mountains, to a gently rolling landscape of green and golden fields crisscrossed by strips of woodland. She hunted down ruffians and dark things without mercy, and fought fiercely in battle, no longer caring for her own safety.
Her company met with worried officials
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