“What—what,” Ophele kept saying, trying to shove Leonin off her and feeling as if she couldn’t breathe. “Leonin, what—Remin! Remin!”
“Get her back,” Davi snapped, and suddenly Ophele was hauled to her feet as if she were weightless, batting at Leonin’s hands as she sought wildly for Remin. No—that wasn’t Remin on the dock, that was Jacot, only something was wrong with his head, and she turned to find Miche beside her, standing with his arms flung out before a stricken Remin.
“No,” Remin said into sudden, complete silence. “No, no, no,no…”
There was a blade sticking out of Miche’s chest.
“Oh, fuck,” said Miche, looking down at it, and then plucked it out of himself with a strange, detached curiosity. The three slim steel prongs of the weapon were red with his blood, and smeared with something darker.
“I told you I didn’t want this. Itoldyou.” Remin’s voice was shaking. “Miche—”
“I said,move!Lie him down, don’t touch that blade!” came Mionet’s voice, and yes, that was Mionet shouting, Mionetrunning,shoving her way through the crowd even as Remin wheeled to face this new threat, one huge fist raised.
“N-no…no, Remin, she knows healing!” Ophele lunged for his arm even as Mionet jerked to a halt. “Remember, Duke Ereguil said!”
Mionet lifted her chin.
“I can save him,” she said.
A violent shudder wracked Remin’s body, his black eyes blazing down at her, his arm straining in Ophele’s grip before he bowed his head and stepped aside.
“Do it,” he said hoarsely.
“Thank you, my lord. Sir Miche, be so good as to lie down,” Mionet ordered. “Davi, for heaven’s sake, cover that up.”
Davi cursed under his breath and threw his cloak over the remains of Jacot’s head. It was as if Ophele had blinked, and lost a few seconds. It was confusing. Somehow she was with Remin, kneeling on the dock and shaking so badly she had to lean against him to stay upright, her chest quivering and hitching in silent, sobbing gasps. Her fingers clutched his shirtfront and his arm was clasped around her like iron.
“You can just unbutton it,” Miche was saying helpfully. “It seems a shame to tear Tiffen’s finest—”
“Do shut up, and try not to breathe,” Mionet snapped, cutting away his shirt and assessing the three puncture woundsin his chest. “Let me see that knife. Someone fetch me a bucket of water.”
“I don’t understand,” Ophele said, her voice high and thin. She was still trying to construct these events into some coherent narrative, and she started wildly as Justenin thudded by her with a grim expression, off on who knew what errand.
Examining the bloody weapon, Mionet sniffed it and flicked away a miniscule amount of the black substance on a fingernail, then set it aside. This couldn’t be real. This was a dream, a terrible dream, where beautiful, perfect Mionet bent to cover Miche’s wounds with her mouth, sucked, and then came up with red lips to spit blood on the dock. Rinsing her mouth, she bent and did it again.
“Why, why did you do this?” Tears streamed down Remin’s face as he gripped Miche’s hand. “I told you, I didn’t want anyone else to die for me,why…”
“You’re the last of your blood,” Miche said. His voice caught in his throat, a sudden wet wheeze. “If you die…that’s the end…of your House…”
His face was ghastly pale. Pink froth bubbled to his lips.
“And what about you? What about your blood?” Remin asked hoarsely. “Miche—”
“The last of my blood is right here.” It seemed horribly literal. Blood trickled from the corners of his mouth, dark red, but for some reason he was looking at Ophele, his hazel eyes made golden in the sunrise, the same unforgettable honey of her mother’s eyes, the same tawny hue she saw in the mirror every morning. Even before her mind grasped the unthinkable truth, her heart had frozen in her chest.
No one knew what had become of Rache Pavot’s brother.
Miche smiled the smile that could charm birds from the trees.
“Take care of her, Rem…”
Epilogue
The message arrived in Starfall five days later.
Bastin was breakfasting on the balcony behind his office at the time, watching gardeners trim the winter from the hedges and prepare the grounds for the year’s planting. The rhythm of spring in the palace was a familiar one: the windows flung open to air rooms long closed against the cold, with miles of rugs and draperies to be taken up and beaten out.
He had given Selenne charge of his private gardens this year, and watched the new patterns emerge with interest. There were traditional forms in the outer hedges bounding the garden, with a fillip of rose trees at the ends, and an impressive tapestry of flowers within, in scrolling, ornate beds that reminded him of Dulcian carpet gardens.
