CHAPTER ONE-- UNTOUCHABLE

The thump of footsteps on the cold ground made Émon’s head snap up. He felt a bead of sweat slide down his face, frosty in the winter air; every muscle was ready to move. But the sound came from a fellow laborer bent under a load of bricks. Émon allowed breath to return as he watched the man limp by. He always looked at people; really looked, never glanced.

Their gazes met. Émon smiled. The man’s weary frown became a scowl. “Grin while you can, brown-eyes. You’ll be worm meat by sundown.” He trudged past.

Émon sighed through his nose. “And a good morning to you too, Master Sunshine,” he mumbled. He didn’t need to be reminded. Drawing a deep breath, he ran his fingers through his hair and pushed the dark locks out of his eyes. Great grief, Émon, don’t be so jumpy! Still, he wondered why an overseer didn’t just confront him and get it over with.

Back to work. He picked up another mud-and-straw brick and fitted it between two others on the load in front of him. The bricks now formed a neat cube. Émon frowned at the load for a moment, retightening his sash around his tunic. What do I care if the bricks are stacked right? Most of the other workers just piled them in a heap.

He didn’t know why he felt the need to do a good job. He tried not to care.

Émon rubbed his shoulders and challenged the bricks to a staring contest. Once again, he would hoist the huge load to his back. Once again, he would haul it from the brickyard to the storehouse. Two hundred and sixteen steps. Enough beats to sing— or chant, since he couldn’t get his throat to form a tune— seven verses of a song his mother had taught him.

A curse upon the spider-mark

The ink that creeps beneath our skin

The brand that makes us who we are:

A blight to those “untouched by sin…”

Sarcasm was the heavy factor in the song. Émon liked it. After all, it wasn’t fair that a poorly-drawn spider tattoo on his breastbone could make him an Untouchable. From what his mother had said, the tattoo hadn’t been such a handicap twenty years ago. Now, however… His gaze strayed to the metal-spiked walls a stone-throw away. No, not fair at all. Émon stood and stretched his arms, hearing the joints in his back pop.

“Émon—”

He spun to face the voice, fists clenched and ready, but slumped in relief when he saw the sun-weathered man. “Traistal, don’t do that to me.”

Traistal eased down his load of bricks and straightened, fixing a slim gaze on Émon. “Nervous today, are we?” He spoke with his usual careless tone, but the somberness in his gray-green eyes made Émon’s hope sink.

“They know it was me, don’t they.”

“Afraid so.”

“An overseer’s coming to—?”

“Undoubtedly.”

Émon rolled his shoulders and felt the scabs that striped his back wrinkle. They’ve just begun to heal, too. “It’s going to be a bad one, right?”

“They’ll lay your guts open for this one.”

“Oh.” Émon cracked his knuckles. “Optimistic as usual, I see.”

“Of course.” Traistal’s half-smile faded. “Afraid?”

Émon scoffed. “Fear is for the weak, the pitiful, the higher castes. I don’t know the meaning of the word.”

“You’re terrified out of your mind, aren’t you?”

Émon’s gaze traced the stonework of the far wall for several long seconds. “Traistal, when am I going to stop getting myself in trouble?”

“Probably when you die. Nothing like death to teach submission. But look on the cheerful side— if you keep this up, your scars are going to outnumber mine.”

Émon half-smiled. He’d seen Traistal’s back; it was almost completely scar tissue. “Not a chance.”

“We’ll see.”

Émon sighed and gazed at the pale gray sky above the looming walls “I heard the Untouchables in H-section are going to try another tunnel.”

Traistal shook his head. “They’re too disorganized. They won’t make it ten yards.”

“I was thinking I could help out anyway. I’m not bad at digging—”

“I thought you weren’t going to escape.”

Émon rubbed his cold fingers together. “Mom’s getting better.”

Traistal didn’t comment; he stretched. “Just concentrate on living through today, all right?”

“I’ll try.” Émon hesitated. “So I had another dream last night…”

“Yes, people generally do.”

“About Eiamar.”

Even after knowing Traistal for two years, Émon still couldn’t decipher his neutral expression. “And?”

Émon hesitated, remembering the image from his dream: a tall man standing on a fog-shrouded hill. “He was gazing up at the stars, I don’t think he saw me. And I just… felt this voice.”

“Again? What did the mystery mystical voice say this time?”

“‘Behold, it is Eiamar. He is the key to the Untouchable’s freedom.’”

Traistal knelt beside his load and absently ran his fingers over a small white scar along his left temple. “That sounds rather straightforward.”

“Traistal, why won’t you tell me about him?”

“I already have. We were friends, but political issues divided us. That was eighteen years ago, Émon, it has no bearing on the situation.” He touched his scar again. He always did when Émon mentioned Eiamar. “I suspect your mysterious Eiamar is different than the one I knew. It’s an unusual name, but not that unusual.”

Émon sat down heavily, cross-legged, and massaged his bare toes for warmth. “It just doesn’t make sense.”

“I agree wholeheartedly.” Traistal prepared to lift his load. “I’ll be back to gather up your remains after your overseer’s through with you.”

“You’re encouraging.”

“When am I not?” Traistal smirked. “Just remember to be useful. If you’re useful, they won’t kill you.”

And if not… Well, those were the terms. Everyone knew it.

“I hope to see you later.”

“You too.”

“Well…” Traistal heaved the load to his back. “Stay warm.” He turned and walked out of the brickyard. Émon swallowed bile and prayed he would live to see another sunrise.

* * *

An explosion of pain plunged Émon into the world of unconscious. He swam furiously away from it when he first passed out, then the coolness of sleep obliterated all feeling. He sank deeper, savoring the nothingness— he promised himself would never wake again, only float in the void. Then images began to form. He tried to push them away, but they persisted until he descended into a dream, a memory of nearly twelve years ago.

He was five, sitting on the floor and running his fingers over the dirt. Several other children near his age played together in a corner of the shack. Some sort of singing and hand-clapping game. A few of them were probably his siblings, but Émon was never sure. As usual, they didn’t include him in their game.

The children’s voices rose in tuneless melody.

The sun is scorching hot above

It burns the man who cannot die

The wars that brought the Masters down

Have painted blood across the sky!

Émon stared at the dirt, listened to their chorused rhyming, a ritual he would never be part of. The only time he’d ever tried, the other children covered their ears and yelled at him to stop. He didn’t really know what the words meant— no one did— but it would’ve been nice to play with the other children, anyway.

His mother, Shaitha, sat cross-legged on the ground nearby, hugging to her breast a sickly baby whose only parent was working a late shift. The child tugged a lock of Shaitha’s silver-brown hair as Shaitha talked to another mother.

Émon didn’t listen to them much, too absorbed in the dirt. All he caught were fragments of conversation— incomprehensible concepts such as “freedom” and “the old days.” He stopped for a moment when he heard the other woman say, “We have our young emperor to thank for our chains.”

“Feron-Shious,” Shaitha breathed.

“Curse his name.”

Émon raised his head and spoke a rare comment. “Someday,” he said, “I’m goin’ ta punch Feron-Chious in the face.”

Both mothers laughed. Émon smiled, and somehow felt that everything was going to be all right.

With a flash of white light, he was torn from the comforting moment and plunged two years ahead. Now he was seven, a scrawny boy whose sunburned skin clung to him. He hunched over a tray of brick molds and pressed mud into them with his hands. A little rhyme ran through his head, and he chanted it as he worked. “Hungry, hungry, I am hungry, give me rations, give me…” He trailed off. What rhymed with “hungry,” anyway? His stomach growled, and he doubled over as pangs shot through him. Deep breath, then he straightened again. “Hungry, hungry, I am hungry…”

He glimpsed movement and turned to watch Shaitha kneel beside him. She ruffled his hair. “Rations soon, son. Just one more load and we can rest.”

“Mom, what rhymes with hungry?”

Shaitha rubbed her eyes. “I don’t know.”

“How about ‘dung heap?’ Hun-gry, dung-hea-p, that kind of rhymes.” Émon giggled and held up his palms. Blood seeped from raw scrapes where he’d run his hands over the rough mixture. “Look, Mom, blood!”

“Oh, you poor thing.” Shaitha managed a small smile. She embraced Émon and kissed his head. Émon snuggled against his mother, closing his eyes tightly. Shaitha began to hum. A lulling tune, a sad tune, one that made Émon want to cry every time he heard it. Still, it was comforting. Shaitha rocked him, Émon clung to her, soothed by the mournful melody.

At last she released him. “You’re a brave boy, Émon,” she whispered. Shaitha kissed him on the cheek, and her cracked lips left a bloody mark.

She stood. Émon missed the warmth of her embrace; nothing could hurt him when he was in his mother’s arms. With a deep sigh, Shaitha stacked three sets of molds on top of each other and heaved the load up. She took a single step, wavered. Émon went back to work and took up the chant again. “I am hungry, I am hungry, give me rations, put the overseers in a dung heap!” He frowned. Now the rhythm wasn’t quite right. “Mom, how would you say it?”

Shaitha didn’t answer. Her breath came a little faster, louder.

“Mom?”

She quickly dropped to her knees, setting down the trays.

Émon sprang to his feet and bounded over to her side. “Mom— don’t— it’s all right, I can take one.” He grabbed a tray and heaved it up. It weighed nearly as much as he did, but he vowed he wouldn’t fall.

“Thank you,” Shaitha gasped. She stared for a moment at the trays as if they weighed a thousand pounds, then slid her arms under the burden and lifted it again. “Follow me.” She shuffled toward the kilns. Émon trailed behind, gasping with the effort.

They passed the great iron cages where huge grey wolfhounds snapped and snarled at anyone who passed by, then filed through the gate to the brick-baking yard. A wave of heat blasted them as they entered. Shaitha staggered. Émon’s arms felt like they were on fire now. This was harder than he thought.

“Hurry up!” An overseer lashed his whip in their direction. This was the first day Émon had seen this young man. The new overseer’s face was hard, jaw set; some of the Untouchables were mocking him behind his back, others asking stupid questions and pretending not to understand. Even in the two weeks since he’d started work, Émon had seen this happen before— most Untouchables took great delight in pushing new overseers until they snapped.

A murmur of singing from a corner of the brickyard became intelligible: “Gi-rec, Gi-rec, son of a werak…”

So the new overseer’s name was Girec, Émon thought. Which rhymed with werak, mongrel. Pretty good rhyme, why hadn’t he thought of it? Girec turned sharply toward the corner and demanded who was singing. Shrugs, muttered comments, but there was no one in particular to blame.

Émon followed his mother toward the kilns. He could feel Girec’s anger rising as the song broke out in another part of the area. It immediately silenced when he turned to face it, only to return, louder, in another corner.

Shaitha faltered again, slowed. Émon focused on her, trying to ignore Girec’s growing rage. Hurry, Mom, please hurry! Shaitha’s thin arms strained, sweat dripping down her forehead.

Now the chant sounded in spurts from different areas. Girec seized his whip, turning from side to side, unsure who to attack. He was losing control, Émon could see it. He turned toward the loudest chorus of the song— directly into Shaitha’s path.

Shaitha came to an abrupt halt, nearly crashing into Girec’s back. She tried to retreat, but her foot snagged on uneven ground. She lost balance, stumbled sideways, crashed into a stack of bricks that were dry but still unfinished. Mud exploded everywhere, dotting Émon with clay. The pile of bricks toppled and shattered.

Girec whirled, his wrath focusing on Shaitha. “Idiot!” he yelled.

Shaitha lay face down on the ground for a moment, then struggled to her knees. Her blue eyes shone with terror. Girec seized her arm and yanked her up, shouting in his rage. “That was two hours’ work you shattered, bitch!”

“Sorry—” Shaitha gasped.

“I don’t make quota, I don’t eat! You get that?” He flung her to the ground.

Émon didn’t breathe.

Shaitha staggered upright again. “I’ll work extra tonight, I’ll—”

Girec struck her with a blow that sent her sprawling to the ground.

Émon’s tray slipped from his hands, crashed to the ground. “No!” he screamed. His shrill voice echoed through the yard. “Nobody hits my mom!”

For a moment, there was silence. Then Girec turned to look at Émon. Émon shrank under the steely gaze. With a blur of motion, Girec’s whip was out; it lashed across Shaitha’s back.

Shaitha screamed. Émon stared, open-mouthed, for a second, then hurled himself on the brick pile. He grabbed two bricks, one in each hand, and heaved one at Girec.

It missed the overseer’s head by a hair’s breadth. He stopped in the middle of a lash, turned on his heel and charged toward Émon.

Émon shrunk as the overseer barrelled toward him like a raging bull. Dust pounded up beneath the overseer’s feet, and he loomed like a huge shadow through the cloud, whip raised for a lacerating blow. He was right there, blocking out the sun—

“Stop,” Émon whispered.

Girec lurched to a halt inches from him.

Émon stared up at the towering figure. “Please don’t beat me, sir.”

Girec glanced sideways.

“I didn’t hit you. So you don’t have to hit me.”

For a moment, Girec let down his guard.

Émon threw the second brick as hard as he could.

It smashed into Girec’s face and sent him tumbling backward. Émon scrambled to his feet and ran.

Two, three, four bounding steps; Girec’s whip curled around his legs and sent him flying to the dust. Before he could move again, the cord lashed his chest, again and again, ripping his flesh, scattering drops of blood. Pain— blind, burning pain— He screamed until his lungs hurt. And for some strange reason, all he could think about was that, since he was going to die, he would never get a chance to punch Feron-Shious.

He was never sure if he passed out or not. All he knew was that the blows stopped, and he felt someone carrying him, and he was sure his whole body was on fire. He cracked his eyes open, and his rescuer looked down at him. The keen blue eyes, the dark eyebrows, the white energy in that gaze— they burned into his memory forever.

Émon forced his mouth to form cracked words. “Who’re you?”

“Eiamar,” the man whispered. “My name is Eiamar.”

CHAPTER TWO-- ELUSIVE HOPE

Émon slowly opened his eyes. He lay on his stomach, cocooned in a pile of straw; his back pulsed dully. His gaze swept the room and took in the familiar lines of the ten-by-ten-foot shack. Shaitha lay nearby on a straw pallet, shivering in her sleep.

He pressed his palms to the dirt floor and pushed himself up. True to his word, Traistal had carried him home and bandaged his back and arms with rags. Émon smelled the distinct odor of mud and yarrow, a salve that eased the pain of slow-healing wounds. He brushed straw off his chest, then peeled back a bandage. The bloody gash beneath stretched from his collar bone down to his stomach, and the outer layer of skin was gone.

“Curses,” he whispered aloud, feeling along his ribs. The latest beating had stripped his favorite scar, the one he’d gotten in a knife-fight at the last uprising. He wondered if it would still show when the skin grew back.

The wind moaned outside. Émon crawled to the rag that hung over the doorway and pulled it aside. Maybe the sky would threaten a winter rain; if it rained he wouldn’t have to go to work. The sun wasn’t up yet, but a cold dew caught the light and sparkled like tears on the branches of the small apple tree that grew outside their door. Beyond the tree stood a maze of hundreds of gray shacks, rag doors rippling in the breeze. No sign of rain.

His mother coughed, and Émon crawled to her side. “Morning, Mom. You feeling any better?”

Shaitha smiled weakly, making the small sores that spotted her face crinkle. “Y-yes.”

Émon touched her brow and flinched at the burning fever. “You know, you didn’t have to get sick to keep warm. I could’ve just made you another blanket.”

Shaitha wheezed, which Émon took to be a laugh. He smoothed the hair from her pox-ridden forehead. “The apple tree’s beautiful this morning. The dew sparkles like it’s got a light of its own.”

“Spring is coming, yes?” she whispered.

Émon glanced toward the door and the gray January sky. “Soon, Mom. Very soon.”

Shaitha tried to speak, but a coughing fit seized her. Émon tucked her thin blanket around her shoulders. “Stay right here, I’ll catch you breakfast.”

The fit subsided. She shook her head.

Émon was already on his knees, rewrapping long strips of cloth around his arms to help keep warm. “You have to eat if you’re going to get better.”

Her voice came out hoarse. “You’ll be late.”

“No arguments, Mom.” He refolded his tunic around his chest, tightened his sash to hold it in place and stood up. Too quickly. Blood rushed to his head as a spasm of pain ripped down his back. He collapsed on hands and knees, sucking breath through his teeth.

He could sense his mother wince. With a deliberate breath, he said, “I’m all right.” He got to his feet again, much slower, and looked over his shoulder at her. Shafts of gray light had slipped the holes in the roof to alight on her speckled face; her pale blue eyes shimmered with tears.

“Honestly, Mom.”

Shaitha’s mouth drew up into a smile. Émon mirrored it. “I’ll be back,” he whispered, and ducked out the door. He stopped to touch a branch of the tree and watch the dew drip from the twigs. The poor tree had budded already, even though a month of winter lay ahead.

Émon limped his way between the hovels as fast as he could. It was a fifteen-minute walk to the river at normal pace; in his wounded condition it seemed hours. At last he climbed down to the bank of the Sa-trani River. Brown water lapped rhythmically at the muddy bank; after a few minutes of pacing the deserted shore in search of food, Émon realized he was mumbling a rhyme to the sound of the river. He spoke a little louder.

“The fish are gone, the sky is clear, I’m late for work, the time is near, when I will have, to go without, my breakfast and…” He paused. His rhymes always seemed to break down so quickly. “…I’ll catch some trout.” He groaned and shook his head. Sleep deprivation and loss of blood always did strange things to him.

Movement caught his eye, and he turned to see a rat scuttling through the mud toward the water to drink.

Émon dove for the creature, seized it and broke its neck before it could even squeak. He held up breakfast and frowned at it. Rats seem to be the only things that get fed around here, he thought. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing— at least he could take a few bites without guilt. Of course, he’d have to build a fire, which would take no small amount of time. He was going to be late again. He turned to start up the bank, and saw Traistal glowering down at him from the ridge.

“Thanks for the bandages,” Émon said.

“What are you doing here?”

Émon scrambled up the bank and held out the rat. “Breakfast.”

Traistal snatched the rat from him, pulled some sort of root from his sash and thrust it into Émon’s hand. “No, you have to get to work. If you run right now, you’ll barely make it.”

“Mom needs food.”

“Émon, I know where you live, I’ll bring this to her.”

“But what about you?”

“I can afford to be late once, whereas you are on record as a lagger. Go!”

Émon hesitated for one moment, then took off in a limping run toward the work area, stuffing the root into his mouth. Traistal was right— he couldn’t be late today. His clothes grated against his wounds as he ran, and he felt his vision blurring. He slapped himself hard. Stay awake, stay awake or die. That was the deal, wasn’t it?

Of course it was. Émon forced himself to focus and ran even as his wounds broke open again. Then a thought struck him. I didn’t say good-bye to Mom. He slowed a little, then thought better of it and ran faster. I’ll see her tonight, anyway, he thought. She’ll be fine.

As soon as the thought entered his head, he felt his temples begin to pulse. And he knew it wasn’t because of the pain.

* * *

The bright winter sun flashed off the tiny diamonds that edged Eiamar’s tunic as he spun to clash swords with his opponent. Khalid stumbled under the force of the blow, allowing Eiamar to flip his blade underneath his opponent’s, twisting it from his grasp. The sword clattered to the polished stone floor of the courtyard.

Eiamar flicked a piece of lint off the sleeve of his scarlet tunic. “Excellent work, Khalid, my muscles are warmed up now. I would prefer to break a sweat, however.”

Khalid was too out of breath to speak for a moment. “Master, you—”

“Eiamar. Not Master. My weapons instructor should not have to address me by my title.” He shot a glance at the younger man. “Any title. As long as we are in this courtyard, I am Eiamar, simply Eiamar.”

Khalid sighed to gain his breath, rubbing his forehead. “Eiamar, there is nothing left for me to teach you of fencing.”

“I know.” Eiamar swung his sword through the air a few times, watched the sun reflect off the blade, then sheathed it in one smooth motion. “You have little left to teach me of anything.”

“Understand, I know you have little joy that I’m your new instructor—”

Eiamar kept smiling. “Let’s just say that most men in my position would have you beheaded by now.” His old instructor, Sayuran, hadn’t been dead three days when another had been forced on him: an inexperienced boy, only twenty-three years old. They think they can send someone more than ten years younger to teach me? They’ll regret it. And, if I’m not careful, so shall I. “You’ve given me little reason to respect you in the past two weeks.”

Khalid didn’t reply. Eiamar turned his back on him and strode toward the edge of the courtyard, a railing that overlooked the rest of the capital city. The courtyard was eighty feet up on the roof of a building, allowing a sweeping view of the entire five-sided city: the houses crowded together behind the inner wall, the cliffs that sloped down to the moat, the old outer wall that crumbled with each passing day. The emperor had just ordered repairs to begin, even if there was no immediate danger of attack except for the simpering country to the south. Damned idiots. Naryen-Mair had been the ruling power for centuries; Thalisser didn’t stand a chance. The real danger to the empire came from within…

There, he was thinking about politics again. Curse it all! He felt a faint throb in his temples and frowned. He knew shutting out the sensation was impossible, so he didn’t even try.

“Eiamar…” Khalid spoke hesitantly. “I find you to be a difficult student because you’re superior to me in every way.”

Flattery. How original. Eiamar groped for the sprig of pine he kept bound around his neck. Breathing deep the fragrance of the sap, he felt the throbbing ebb under the power of distant memories the scent brought him.

He heard Khalid walk closer. “Perhaps if you allowed me to be a bit more formal? Emperor—”

“To Hell with the emperor.”

Khalid paused, a little surprised by the response. “You know, if it weren’t you speaking, you’d be swept off to the torture chamber before your next heartbeat.”

Eiamar smiled wryly and tucked the pine necklace back into his scarf. “I enjoy what privileges I have.”

He felt a blast of energy a millisecond before he heard the swish of Khalid’s sword.

In the next second, three things happened at once. Eiamar whirled around, whipped out his sword and caught up Khalid’s stabbing blade before it rammed into his chest. He was shoved against the railing, the stone gnawing into the small of his back.

“Attacking before I’m ready, Khalid? That’s not exactly fair, is it?”

Khalid thrust his weight against the blade. His eyes flashed. “When, in your twenty years of luxury, have you ever been fair?”

Eiamar pressed on the sword a little, testing his strength. “You realize you’re the third assassin this month? With which rebellion are you affiliated?”

Khalid pushed harder, grunting with the effort.

Eiamar refused to lean further backward and forced his face to remain smiling. “When will you anarchists learn? Weapons instructor was an idiotic role to play. You should’ve tried to infiltrate my personal guard.” He bent a little under the pressure. “At least you’d have a chance—” He cut his sentence short as Khalid leaned all his weight on him, pushing the blade close to his throat.

A single bead of sweat seeped from Eiamar’s forehead and ran down his cheek.

“I’m impressed,” Eiamar said.

Khalid looked confused.

“You made me break a sweat.”

Eiamar shoved with all his might— Khalid reeled off balance. With one leap, Eiamar lunged forward and stabbed, thrusting his sword all the way through Khalid’s chest. Khalid fell to his knees, eyes frozen open in shock.

At that moment, one of Eiamar’s teenaged servants, Calum, trotted up the marble stairs to the roof. He stopped with his foot midair. His jaw hung slack for a moment, then he tried to compose himself. “Er, if this isn’t a good time…”

“No, it’s fine.” Eiamar yanked his sword out of Khalid’s chest; the body collapsed. “Just doing a little weapons practice. What’s on your mind?”

Calum was still staring at the body. “M’lord, I’ve just been brought urgent news.”

Eiamar stepped over Khalid. “What’s the matter, can’t the cooks decide what to make tonight?”

“Not quite.” Calum gave a courtesy laugh, then lapsed into seriousness again.

“You’re sweating, Calum.”

Calum shifted from foot to foot. “There’s a letter for you…” He swallowed.

“Yes, Calum, I receive many letters.”

“…From Avanmore.”

Eiamar felt his air knocked out by the name. His composure held on by a thread; his chest constricted with a pain like someone had broken his ribs. With great effort, he dragged a breath through his lungs. “Avanmore?”

Calum nodded.

Ach, how his temples ached… “A dead man has sent me a letter?”

“Well, they never found the body—”

“Calum.” Eiamar’s voice was soft, but he knew it was sharp as a razor. “The letter?”

Calum handed it forward, and Eiamar couldn’t keep his hands from shaking as he took it. He unfolded the parchment, and the flowing script was unmistakable. My dear Eiamar, I am certain this letter is something of a shock for you, but I have neither the time nor the means to explain properly… He leaned slightly on his sword as he read, willing his legs to be steady, then froze a smile on his face. A mask, a facade. No one could know how he was feeling.

When he finished the short letter, he looked up. His voice came out huskier than he intended. “What measures are being taken to investigate this?”

“Soldiers are on their way to Trethaner as we speak.”

Eiamar nodded, still wearing his smile. He forced confidence back into his voice. “Deepest thanks for informing me, Calum.” He stared for a moment at the sword in his hand. Then he plunged it as hard as he could into the corpse’s back.

Calum flinched.

“I’ll be in my chambers if anyone inquires.” Eiamar strode from the courtyard, temples throbbing with every step.

* * *