graciously toward them. Firo. “I’ll be up in a while,” Judah said.
Theron blinked in surprise, but when Elly nudged him and gestured toward the approaching figure, the surprise crumbled to disgust. “Fine, then,” he said, curt, and started up the hill.
“Ask if he’s seen Gavin,” Elly muttered, and followed him.
When he was close enough, Firo gave Judah a courtly bow. “A surprise to see you here.”
“I wish I could say the same,” she said.
He cocked his head. The gems in his ears were blue instead of white today. “While I admit to occasionally going out of my way to find you, today it’s you who’s found me. I had no idea you’d be here when I came to watch the training. Did you find it diverting?”
“Not especially.” Her tone was flat.
“Nobody does. It’s tedious and dusty. But the House is very excited about the hunt this weekend, and when word got around that Lord Theron was here—well, we couldn’t very well stay away, could we?” He leaned in close. His eyebrows were drawn in kohl, as well. “Odds are being taken.”
“On what?” she said, suspicious.
“Why, the results of the hunt. We’re all intensely curious about the outcome. I had to call in quite a few favors to get myself invited along. Naturally, it’s a disappointment that Lord Gavin wasn’t on the field today, but we’ve seen him at arms before. And watching Lord Theron is its own satisfaction.”
Judah had seen nothing satisfying in Theron’s performance on the field. “Hunting is different than combat.”
“Is it?” Firo made a humming noise under his breath. He nodded toward the benches below, where a tiny figure in emerald green broke away from the cluster of blossoms. The blossoms followed after it like windblown petals. “That’s Lady Amie, by the way.”
“Was Gavin with her last night?” Judah said.
“Indeed. He’s probably in her rooms right now.”
“Then why is she here?”
With faint surprise, Firo said, “Letting him sleep, I imagine. And, as I said, watching Lord Theron.” Firo stared out onto the field, though there was nothing to see. “Have you ever read the work of the Zeldish poets?”
Judah didn’t care about poetry. “No.”
“One of the wandering guilds. Lunatics to a one, of course. At least they were. Nobody’s sure if they still exist. Their devotion is—was—poetry. Strange poetry, about the least poetic things. Dead leaves and barren fields. Things like that. And yet somehow rather appealing.”
“I don’t care.”
“Beauty in death, or that which is about to die. The beauty of transience. Watching a flame, knowing it will burn out, and be gone forever.” His eyes were level and unblinking. “It’s a shame that Lord Theron is not, himself, more beautiful.”
“What are you talking about?”
“What, indeed,” he said. “Didn’t I say I would warn you, if a warning was necessary?” On the benches, the courtiers rose en masse, and slowly began to climb the hill like one single, multi-hued creature. “Ah, lunch. I must go,” he said, and did.
Cold sick heat flooded Judah. Her mind whirled. A warning.
Beauty in death. That which is about to die.
The hunt.
Theron.
* * *
Elly was in the parlor. A pile of armor sat discarded in the corner but there was no sign of either brother. Lunch waited on the table, bread and cheese and cold meat with vinegar sauce. A knife to cut it with. All untouched. “Theron went to the workshop,” Elly told Judah. Frustration twisted the word, stretched it in Elly’s mouth. “Gavin hasn’t come back.”
Judah crossed to the table. The meat was rimmed in a thick layer of fat but the cheese looked delicious. It reminded her that she hadn’t eaten since the night before. She picked up the knife. Then she flattened her left hand against the table, and drove the blade through it.
Elly gasped. Judah didn’t even flinch.
“He will now,” she said.
* * *
Judah let Elly wrap her hurt hand in a towel, knife and all, to contain the blood. But she refused to let Elly remove the knife or dress the wound. Nor would she tell Elly what had upset her. (She knew nothing, anyway, she told herself; she had only Firo’s unpleasant intimations.) Elly was furious. She paced, lips tight and silent. Judah watched with dull detachment as bright splotches of blood bloomed on the towel. Once it had been white, the towel, but now it was a dim sort of gray. Somebody—Clorin, perhaps—had embroidered peonies on its edge. She had known that towel her whole life. It would probably have to be burned now.