Afterward, Arran never knew how he saw the movement at the corner of the house, nor how he recognized that the lurker had drawn a bow. But he did know.
“Soldor, run!” he screamed, straining to rise from his chair. Anlaida grabbed him and held him upright next to her, as Soldor whirled around. He did not run; he threw himself flat to the earth. And that movement saved his life. The arrow thudded into the turf just beyond him. He did not wait. As soon as he threw himself down, he was up again, dodging under the ropes of the dueling corridor and running toward the shelter of the house. The six marshals drew their swords and followed him more slowly, searching for the shooter.
Arran waved an arm toward the opposite corner of the house. Kalon saw it and ran apart from the crowd, wild-eyed. Bryn grabbed him. “Get inside, man! All of you, go inside.”
Nobles began to run toward the door, shoving one another to get inside. Arran strained his neck toward the direction of the shooter, even as Anlaida and Mostaras helped him toward the door as best they could. Kalon still stumbled on the lawn.
“It—it—” His incoherent gaspings grew and swelled together into one word. “Gavon!” he cried. “Gavon, my son—!”
At that moment, an arrow from the corner of the house struck Kalon in the neck. He collapsed at Bryn’s feet. Bryn gathered Kalon into his arms, dropping his sword. But Kalon was dead already. Blood bubbled from his wound and dripped onto the ground.
Lirath ducked an arrow and dashed across the lawn, his face twisted with the determination to stop the shooter, despite the fact that he had no long-range weapon. He would be killed, Arran thought, struggling against Anlaida’s efforts to push him inside the door.
Soldor reached them, breathing hard. “Arran, stop it. Go.” He pulled his sword and edged along the side of the house, moving toward the corner, his back against the wall. An arrow sped across the lawn, cutting into turf just in front of Lirath. Bryn laid Kalon on the ground and rushed forward, ducking another arrow. Perethor flung himself by Soldor against the wall, while Denath’s marshals raced for the door in terror. Arran stepped aside to let them in. Another arrow skidded across the lawn.
It was then that a scream rang out on the stone walls of the courtyard. Anlaida froze, grabbing Arran and looking wild-eyed across the lawn. A cloaked figure crumpled to the ground at the corner of the house, and Arran saw an arrow in its chest. Soldor stepped away from the wall, staring, when from behind a hedge along the courtyard wall a second archer rose, similarly cloaked. He held a bow loosely in his right hand and stepped into the open.
Slowly the archer stepped across the lawn—small steps. He was not tall, Arran noticed, and the hem of the cloak dragged across the grass. But it was Soldor who first recognized the truth. “Linnerill?” he said. A strand of pale hair straggled from beneath the cloak.
She pulled back her hood and looked at him. “I was worried,” she answered simply. They met on the lawn, and he took her into his arms. The bow dropped to the ground.
Arran limped down the steps toward Lirath. “Arran!” Anlaida said. But she followed him.
Lirath knelt beside Kalon’s killer and loosened the cloak from his neck. He waited until they had come near. “Kalon spoke the truth,” he said quietly. “It was his son.”
Gavon coughed quietly, fixing his gaze on Arran. “Barbarians,” he mumbled. His chest heaved twice more, and he died. Lirath shut Gavon’s eyes and drew the cloak over his body once more.
Linnerill approached with Soldor, the bow in her hands again. She did not touch him, but they walked together. The hood hung down her back, and her hair, so pale that it was almost white, fell down her shoulders. “I am Lady of Salenna,” she said. “Is the man dead?”
Bryn straightened. “Indeed,” he answered. “You shoot well, Lady.”
She looked at Gavon, at her bow, and then at Perethor. “I am head of my household, am I not?”
The older man assessed her gravely, but smiled. “You are, and you shall be.”
“Then I shall honor my father’s memory,” she said. “I shall honor my father’s memory by following his original plans. Salenna and the Northland will be united. Tomorrow, directly following my father’s funeral. He had no siblings, so I trust that a man of my mother’s house will officiate.”
Soldor’s eyes laughed at them all. He spoke no word, but took Linnerill’s right hand.
“Sufficient arrangements have been made.” Linnerill raised her head. “And as for the minor details—musicians and such—which have been untended, that cannot be blamed on the House of Salenna under the present upheaval.” She paused, looking at Soldor for a moment, and then turned to Bryn. “My mother grew up on the River Kirac.”
Bryn blinked. “I had forgotten,” he said, smiling slowly. “I fear that she made an unwise decision. But her daughter, I trust, has not.”
“I have not,” Linnerill said.
“She saved our lives.” Soldor spoke the words softly. “I will see to it that she is rewarded, and not tomorrow only.”
Arran remembered Uliath’s vow to Calwen his mother, and the thought pulled tight across his stomach. But Soldor lifted his chin and met the eyes of Bryn, and Lirath, and Perethor. And Arran knew that it would be all right. Soldor had chosen.
“Soldor, run!” he screamed, straining to rise from his chair. Anlaida grabbed him and held him upright next to her, as Soldor whirled around. He did not run; he threw himself flat to the earth. And that movement saved his life. The arrow thudded into the turf just beyond him. He did not wait. As soon as he threw himself down, he was up again, dodging under the ropes of the dueling corridor and running toward the shelter of the house. The six marshals drew their swords and followed him more slowly, searching for the shooter.
Arran waved an arm toward the opposite corner of the house. Kalon saw it and ran apart from the crowd, wild-eyed. Bryn grabbed him. “Get inside, man! All of you, go inside.”
Nobles began to run toward the door, shoving one another to get inside. Arran strained his neck toward the direction of the shooter, even as Anlaida and Mostaras helped him toward the door as best they could. Kalon still stumbled on the lawn.
“It—it—” His incoherent gaspings grew and swelled together into one word. “Gavon!” he cried. “Gavon, my son—!”
At that moment, an arrow from the corner of the house struck Kalon in the neck. He collapsed at Bryn’s feet. Bryn gathered Kalon into his arms, dropping his sword. But Kalon was dead already. Blood bubbled from his wound and dripped onto the ground.
Lirath ducked an arrow and dashed across the lawn, his face twisted with the determination to stop the shooter, despite the fact that he had no long-range weapon. He would be killed, Arran thought, struggling against Anlaida’s efforts to push him inside the door.
Soldor reached them, breathing hard. “Arran, stop it. Go.” He pulled his sword and edged along the side of the house, moving toward the corner, his back against the wall. An arrow sped across the lawn, cutting into turf just in front of Lirath. Bryn laid Kalon on the ground and rushed forward, ducking another arrow. Perethor flung himself by Soldor against the wall, while Denath’s marshals raced for the door in terror. Arran stepped aside to let them in. Another arrow skidded across the lawn.
It was then that a scream rang out on the stone walls of the courtyard. Anlaida froze, grabbing Arran and looking wild-eyed across the lawn. A cloaked figure crumpled to the ground at the corner of the house, and Arran saw an arrow in its chest. Soldor stepped away from the wall, staring, when from behind a hedge along the courtyard wall a second archer rose, similarly cloaked. He held a bow loosely in his right hand and stepped into the open.
Slowly the archer stepped across the lawn—small steps. He was not tall, Arran noticed, and the hem of the cloak dragged across the grass. But it was Soldor who first recognized the truth. “Linnerill?” he said. A strand of pale hair straggled from beneath the cloak.
She pulled back her hood and looked at him. “I was worried,” she answered simply. They met on the lawn, and he took her into his arms. The bow dropped to the ground.
Arran limped down the steps toward Lirath. “Arran!” Anlaida said. But she followed him.
Lirath knelt beside Kalon’s killer and loosened the cloak from his neck. He waited until they had come near. “Kalon spoke the truth,” he said quietly. “It was his son.”
Gavon coughed quietly, fixing his gaze on Arran. “Barbarians,” he mumbled. His chest heaved twice more, and he died. Lirath shut Gavon’s eyes and drew the cloak over his body once more.
Linnerill approached with Soldor, the bow in her hands again. She did not touch him, but they walked together. The hood hung down her back, and her hair, so pale that it was almost white, fell down her shoulders. “I am Lady of Salenna,” she said. “Is the man dead?”
Bryn straightened. “Indeed,” he answered. “You shoot well, Lady.”
She looked at Gavon, at her bow, and then at Perethor. “I am head of my household, am I not?”
The older man assessed her gravely, but smiled. “You are, and you shall be.”
“Then I shall honor my father’s memory,” she said. “I shall honor my father’s memory by following his original plans. Salenna and the Northland will be united. Tomorrow, directly following my father’s funeral. He had no siblings, so I trust that a man of my mother’s house will officiate.”
Soldor’s eyes laughed at them all. He spoke no word, but took Linnerill’s right hand.
“Sufficient arrangements have been made.” Linnerill raised her head. “And as for the minor details—musicians and such—which have been untended, that cannot be blamed on the House of Salenna under the present upheaval.” She paused, looking at Soldor for a moment, and then turned to Bryn. “My mother grew up on the River Kirac.”
Bryn blinked. “I had forgotten,” he said, smiling slowly. “I fear that she made an unwise decision. But her daughter, I trust, has not.”
“I have not,” Linnerill said.
“She saved our lives.” Soldor spoke the words softly. “I will see to it that she is rewarded, and not tomorrow only.”
Arran remembered Uliath’s vow to Calwen his mother, and the thought pulled tight across his stomach. But Soldor lifted his chin and met the eyes of Bryn, and Lirath, and Perethor. And Arran knew that it would be all right. Soldor had chosen.