The iron flashes with the gathering flames above. There is a sick, wet sound. The scythe detaches with a spray of blood; the man slumps to the floor, the light chased from his eyes as his head lolls at a ghastly, unnatural angle.
The blonde woman drops the bloodied implement next to him. Trembling, but glaring briefly at the body as if daring it to rise again before rushing over to her children, whispering a stream of quick, comforting words to them. She does not look at her husband’s body. The girl clings to her.
“The way is clear.” I get her attention and point urgently to the forest. She understands, quickly issuing instructions to her children as we work together to boost them out the window. The boy coughs as he follows his sister, the smoke thickening. There is a crackling above our heads now. Heat. The thatched roof is catching all too easily.
The two children are out, running low for the forest. They make the tree line. Vanish. The woman motions to me. She wants to help me out the window.
I shake my head, looking back at the two dead bodies.
“They’re not going to stop,” I say, knowing it’s pointless but voicing it anyway. Cian was so sure he was inviolable. “Not until I’m dead.”
The licking flames are visible now. I move a step toward the half-decapitated warrior. Stop. The fire will hide a lot of things, but not enough. The warbandout there will want to identify him, will probably recognise his height, maybe other features that cannot be burned away.
The woman is watching me. She hesitates. Kneels by her dead husband. Kisses him on the lips.
Then she picks up the dripping scythe and hands it to me. Nods, tears in her eyes. And vanishes out the window after her children.
The heat is intense, now. Smoke almost too thick. The screams have been replaced outside by the shouts of men. Calm. Communicating. I hold the cloth of my shirt to my face. No time for second-guessing or squeamishness.
I shrug off my cloak and bend, arranging it carefully around the farmer’s shoulders. Mouth a silent apology.
Then I raise the scythe high, and aim for the corpse’s left shoulder.
IX
THE TELIMUSES’ CATEN ESTATE ECHOES, A HOLLOWshell, in the predawn light that drifts through the atrium roof. Torches crackle around us. I grit my teeth at an artistic interpretation of Etrius on the wall opposite as I sit, naked to the waist in the chill, while Kadmos unwinds the bandage around my chest. The stringy-haired Dispensator is gentle. It still hurts.
“You really should not be here.” Kadmos says it mostly to himself, another version of something he’s already muttered several times since he let me in.
“Sorry to inconvenience you.”
“You know what I mean.” He snaps it, though his annoyance isn’t at the mild joke. “This isn’t some cut you can just ignore, Master Vis. You need rest. You should have beenforcedto rest.”
“Would you have let them, in my position?”
The portly man accedes with a reluctant twist of his mouth. The last of the stained cloth strips fall away and Kadmos bends, studying the raw stump.
“You said this happened a week ago?”
“Eight days.” I note his frown. “What is it?”
“Nothing.” He hesitates, then carefully pushes at it with a finger. “Pain?”
“A little.” It’s tender, certainly, but not especially so.
“Hm.” Kadmos’s brow crinkles and he brushes a strand of limp black hair from his eyes, probing again. “Here?”
“Same.”
He lets go. Leans back, obviously puzzled this time.
I give him a pointed look.
“It’s healed more than I would have expected.” He’s evidently confused, but eventually shrugs. “Better is better, I suppose. How is your balance?”
“Improving.” I’ve spent every spare second in private since the Necropolis on my feet. Walking. Jogging. Jumping. Testing myself, pushing myself. I fell over a lot, at the beginning. I rarely do anymore.
“Good,” Kadmos murmurs thoughtfully. He applies some ointment and starts on a clean bandage. “I hear you’re going to the Aurora Columnae after this.”
