Winter dies.
Surrounding them, the flames laughed.
* * *
Sandalath rocked, her arms drawn in, wrapped about her body. My boy. I’ve lost my boy. She had seen Ivis leave the barracks, had seen something like a parting between the master-at-arms and Lord Anomander. She had watched the Houseblades preparing, gathering gear as if they were all about to flee. The First Son’s promises seemed to be crumbling in her mind. My son is in there. Yalad mocked my concern – and now look at us.
‘Milady …’
Frowning, Sandalath fought to focus on the face opposite her. ‘Surgeon Prok. What is it? What has happened?’
‘The keep has caught fire,’ he said. ‘I feel I should prepare you. It is not the flames we must worry over – not too much, that is. The smoke is what kills more often than not.’
‘Fire?’
‘In the main hall, milady. The front entrance is blocked – none will come through it. That said, there are other exits. The annexe behind the kitchen, for example. Wreneck knows it, I’m sure.’
‘The house is burning?’
‘Ivis is a brave man.’
She looked to Lord Anomander again, but the First Son had not moved. He stood framed in the doorway, snow swirling in around him. ‘He will do something,’ she said. ‘He always protected me.’
Yalad had been drawn away by one of the Houseblades. The horses were in a frenzy outside the stables. Then there came shouts and Surgeon Prok rose. ‘Forgive me, milady. The horse master has been injured.’
She watched him hurry away, and found herself alone. Gathering up her cloak, she rose and walked through the press of Houseblades with their kits crowding the dining tables, their quick and sure movements as they buckled straps and checked bindings, their closed-in faces as they concentrated on keeping fear at bay. It was all understandable and all very professional.
She was at the barracks kitchen door when Lord Anomander turned and raised his voice. ‘We are leaving the compound now – every outbuilding is at risk from those flames, including this one. Finish up what you’re doing – we are now out of time for anything more. Assemble at the gate, and be quick about it!’
It was well that the First Son had taken command, with Ivis now gone.
There are other ways out. And in.
Sandalath walked into the kitchen, moved down its length to the side door that opened out on to the refuse pit. As she stepped into the night, the howling wind swept in to embrace her, shocking in its intensity. Skirting the pit, she moved along the outer wall towards the main house. Into the shadows between a storehouse and the wall, and then out again, with the servants’ door now directly opposite.
It was unlocked, though she had to pull hard as snow had drifted up against it. Heat and smoke gusted into her face, biting at her eyes.
I used the servants’ door to sneak away from Mother, to find Galdan in the fields beyond. He liked his wine, did Galdan, so I’d bring him a stoppered jar, from the cellar. For afterwards.
Along this corridor, then. Mother hears nothing.
I’ve come for my son, finally. This time, no one will take him away.
She moved beneath the smoke, which roiled along the arched ceiling of the corridor and then began tumbling down as she went deeper into the building. But things were strangely unfamiliar. A doorway she had expected wasn’t where it should have been, and here, when the passage should have swung right, it now swung left.
Ivis. You must have undressed me. In the carriage. I was so hot. Faint. Your hands were upon my body, but I don’t remember that. I wish I did.
She stumbled against stone steps, bruising a shin and then a knee as she fell against the hard edges. Smoke was pouring past her, rushing upward. She heard a scream, and then a piercing howl from somewhere above. Orfantal?
Sandalath climbed upward.
* * *
Caladan Brood stepped into the main chamber. Before him, filling most of the room, was a figure wrought in flames, its belly massive, swollen and stretched as it rested heavily upon the flagstones. In its burgeoning, it had pushed the dining table against one wall, while simply crushing most of the chairs. Above this belly, still huge and yet disproportionately small compared to what lay below, was a woman’s upper torso, heavy breasts, rounded shoulders, a fat-layered neck beneath a round face. The eyes were black coals amidst the fire, fixing now upon the High Mason.
‘I felt you, brother.’
‘Olar Ethil, do you have them?’