feast hall, there was shouting, of course.
“You shouldn’t have done this without talking to me!” Balat said. He stood before the high table, Eylita at his side, holding to his arm.
Father stood on the other side of the table, half-eaten meal before him. “Talking to you is useless, Balat. You don’t hear.”
“I love her!”
“You’re a child,” Father said. “A foolish child without regard for your house.”
Bad, bad, bad, Shallan thought. Father’s voice was soft. He was most dangerous when his voice was soft.
“You think,” Father continued, leaning forward, palms on the tabletop, “I don’t know about your plan to leave?”
Balat stumbled back. “How?”
Shallan stepped into the room. What is that on the floor? she thought, walking along the wall toward the door into the kitchens. Something blocked the door from closing.
Rain began to pelt the rooftop outside. The storm had come. The guards were in their guardhouse, the servants in their quarters to wait the storm’s passing. The family was alone.
With the windows closed, the only light in the room was the cool illumination of spheres. Father did not have a fire burning in the hearth.
“Helaran is dead,” Father said. “Did you know that? You can’t find him because he’s been killed. I didn’t even have to do it. He found his own death on a battlefield in Alethkar. Idiot.”
The words threatened Shallan’s cold calm.
“How did you find out I was leaving?” Balat demanded. He stepped forward, but Eylita held him back. “Who told you?”
Shallan knelt by the obstruction in the kitchen doorway. Thunder rumbled, making the building vibrate. The obstruction was a body.
Malise. Dead from several blows to the head. Fresh blood. Warm corpse. He had killed her recently. Storms. He’d found out about the plan, had sent for Eylita and waited for her to arrive, then killed his wife.
Not a crime of the moment. He’d murdered her as punishment.
So it has come to this, Shallan thought, feeling a strange, detached calm. The lie becomes the truth.
This was Shallan’s fault. She stood up and rounded the room toward where servants had left a pitcher of wine, with cups, for Father.
“Malise,” Balat said. He hadn’t looked toward Shallan; he was just guessing. “She broke down and told you, didn’t she? Damnation. We shouldn’t have trusted her.”
“Yes,” Father said. “She talked. Eventually.”
Balat’s sword made a whispering rasp as he pulled it from its leather sheath. Father’s sword followed.
“Finally,” Father said. “You show hints of a backbone.”
“Balat, no,” Eylita said, clinging to him.
“I won’t fear him any longer, Eylita! I won’t!”
Shallan poured wine.
They clashed, Father leaping over the high table, swinging in a two-handed blow. Eylita screamed and scrambled back while Balat swung at his father.
Shallan did not know much of swordplay. She had watched Balat and the others spar, but the only real fights she’d seen were duels at the fair.
This was different. This was brutal. Father bashing his sword down again and again toward Balat, who blocked as best he could with his own sword. The clang of metal on metal, and above it all the storm. Each blow seemed to shake the room. Or was that the thunder?
Balat stumbled before the onslaught, falling on one knee. Father batted the sword out of Balat’s fingers.
Could it really be over that quickly? Only seconds had passed. Not like the duels at all.
Father loomed over his son. “I’ve always despised you,” Father said. “The coward. Helaran was noble. He resisted me, but he had passion. You . . . you crawl about, whining and complaining.”
Shallan moved up to him. “Father?” She handed the wine toward him. “He’s down. You’ve won.”
“I always wanted sons,” Father said. “And I got four. All worthless! A coward, a drunkard, and a weakling.” He blinked. “Only Helaran . . . Only Helaran . . .”
“Father?” Shallan said. “Here.”
He took the wine, gulping it down.
Balat grabbed his sword. Still on one knee, he struck with a lunge. Shallan screamed, and the sword made a strange clang as it barely missed Father, stabbing through his coat and out the back, connecting with something metallic.
Father dropped the cup. It smashed, empty, to the ground. He grunted, feeling at his side. Balat pulled the sword back and stared upward at his father in horror.
Father’s hand came back with a touch of blood on it, but not much. “That’s the best you have?” Father demanded. “Fifteen years of sword training, and that’s your best attack? Strike at me! Hit me!” He held his sword out to the side, raising his other hand.
Balat