NOVEL NEXT Chapter 12 - Bloodshed
in shadows deep where echoes blend
the Lady Death guides all to end
through whispered prayer and final breath
the damned will find no peace in Death
- "The Second Lady," Final Verse
About an hour later, Killián finds me on the bench beneath the pergola. Wisteria and ivy surround me on the arbor, tomblike. My gaze is fixed on the beehive in the nearby apple tree—I love the buzzing, the hum, and it distracts me from my own thoughts. The toes of my standard issue combat boots kick circles in the emerald grass. The palazzo looks massive from this angle, fortress-like, a towering castle of sandstone walls and impossibly high towers.
Killián sits beside me.
"I went into the mirror," he says. "Yosif convinced Marix to relinquish Linden's soul. He's been traded, but he's safe."
"Good," is all I can say.
"Marix has never been a soul collector." It's as if he's talking to himself—his gaze is fixed on the palazzo, and he's speaking under his breath. "Besides, Lady Death's elites should belong to her—no one else. That's the way it should be."
"Not with me."
"No," he agrees, a little sadly. "Someone got to you first."
"I wonder who." There's malice in my voice. "This is so effed."
Killián seems to know what I'm thinking. "We don't know it's him, Ko."
"Don't we?" I stare at my boots, slightly damp from the dew on the grass. "He's a Darkbloom. He's got…Love magic, or whatever. Lust magic."
"He's a Tiberius," Killián corrects me gently. "That's a maternal line—he's barely royal, and certainly not a lord."
"He's sixth in line to the throne," I say. "That's what he told Bardic. He wants to be king."
"He's delusional. Even if something happens to Audrin, Prince Lucian will come of age before we know it. At thirteen, we barely need a placeholder. There have been younger kings."
"I'm telling you—he has magic."
"I know. I've played the mirror game with him."
"It's terrible. The magic."
"I believe you."
My throat feels tight and it's hard to speak, but I'm not going to cry in front of Killián—I'm so much better than that, even if my soul is gone and I'm damned. It'll be a good life, I tell myself, trying to believe it. I'll be the best soldier I can be, and I won't let myself think about what will happen to me after. I won't be afraid of dying. I'll just…enjoy life while it lasts. That's all I can do at this point.
It all feels so damn hopeless.
"Were you aware he was doing it?" Killián asks. "Stealing your soul?"
I shake my head.
"It's supposed to be quite painful, and then—emptiness. A hollow feeling. Something missing. Are you sure you didn't notice?"
"I didn't know what was happening," I say, voice clipped. I shouldn't be talking this tone with the general, my boss, but damn it—I've never wanted to have a conversation less. I'm not sure if it's more humiliating or demoralizing; either way, it's none of his business. It must've happened when I was in his office, but I don't want to think about it. I don't want to think about any of it—honestly, the shite he was saying to me while it was happening was almost as bad as the sex stuff. Fucker wouldn't shut up. If I start remembering it, I don't think I'll ever stop.
Like the cabin.
I'm not sure if it's my own thought or someone else's. Doesn't feel like Marix.
I stiffen.
No.
Not going there.
"We'll find it." Killián's hands are clasped on his lap—his fingers twitch. "You aren't doing this alone—and you aren't damned."
"I am, though."
"We will sort this out."
"You don't know that."
"Have a little faith."
I whirl to face him, suddenly and irrationally furious. He's staring straight ahead, not even looking at me—he either won't or can't. He's so much bigger than I am that I have to crane my neck to see his face. The thin white scar is pronounced from this angle—must've been a knife or something, but it doesn't look like it was deep.
"You have no idea what he's capable of," I say.
It's almost a snarl—what's happening to me, and why am I speaking to him like this? Why am I so angry? Why is it still so hard to breathe?
Killián doesn't answer. Still doesn't look at me. Tilts his head to the left slightly—the only acknowledgment I get that he heard me. Not even a grunt.
"Do you have any idea what he'll do to me when I die?" The snarl is gone, but it comes out strained, and somehow that's worse. "Of course you don't. You have no fucking idea, because he was your friend and you trusted him—"
"I know you're hurting, and angry, and afraid." Killián's voice is so quiet I can barely hear it over the buzzing of the bees. "That said, do not swear at me. Remember yourself, lieutenant."
Is he serious right now? "Are you actually on me about my language?"
"Yes."
"You said you were good at listening to troubled spirits." It's a little snide, but it's true—he said it, not me. "Was that a lie?"
He laughs—a little laugh, with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "You aren't confiding in me. You're lashing out."
"I am not," I say, even though I definitely am.
"Lefe's daughter went through something similar," is what he says—it's such a non sequitur that it takes me a moment to realize what he's saying. "After the divorce, the man her mother moved in with was not a good man. It's the first time I ever encountered anything adjacent to this. I admit, the parallels give me pause. He was a soldier, and one I trusted. Bardic was the one she told. She grew angry—distant. And then…well. If you don't want to talk about it, fine—I won't force you. But I have to make sure you're not going to do anything stupid."
"Did he have her soul?" I ask.
"She chose nonexistence—I doubt Samiel would've let her, had he owned her." Killián's voice is low, terribly sad. "He was dead by that point. We took him out to the forest, and Lefe did the honors. I suspect she wanted to escape judgement—not that there was any. But Lefe's a puritan, and she was a vestal…she wanted so badly to keep it from him. It broke Bard, a little, when she begged. He's never been the same. When he told me what you said in the tent—"
"How do I choose that?" I ask, heart hammering in my chest. I didn't hear much after the first couple sentences—I'm barely listening. "Nonexistence? If someone owns my soul, can I still pick it?"
For the first time he looks at me. His tawny eyes are narrow, and there's horror in his gaze. Real, raw, genuine horror.
"Ko," he says, barely a whisper. "Stop."
"Why?"
"We'd lose you forever."
"You'll lose me anyway." There's a knot in my throat. "If there's a way out of this—"
"Eternity as nothing, as opposed to an afterlife?" He sounds anguished, a little angry—he clears his throat. When he speaks again, he's back to his usual level tone. "Is that really what you want?"
I throw my head back and laugh, a wild cackle. "You can't possibly be serious. It's so much better than the alternative."
"I told you—we're going to fix this."
"I'm not planning on killing myself, if that's what you're worried about," I say, my hands clenching into fists. "It's just nice to know there's an option beside spending eternity as Leómadura's bitch."
He stares at me for a long, hard moment.
The thing is, I'm not sure if there's anything he can do.
If he has a plan, he doesn't share it.
###
I guess Kempe does okay in the mirror—Linden swings by Jebah's room to tell me she and I will be playing with the lords tomorrow. He's changed into casual wear—trousers and a blue shirt—and he looks a little sheepish. I'm on Jebah's bunk, reading my copy of Training the Untrainable and taking notes on present-day rank structure and leadership in Lady Death's guard. My essay for Lanista Velma has taken precedent over the Marix paper, which I can't figure out how to stretch into five pages.
"You're going first," he tells me. "Since you don't have a soul, you've got nothing to lose."
"Glad you got yours back," is all I can think to say. It sounds a bit halfhearted—I am glad he got his soul back, but I'm also stressed about the predicament of mine.
"Galtero's got me right now," he says. "I guess I'm serving Hope until Yosif trades Poussin for me. Kempe says you'll handle it tonight."
I'm confused. His gaze is slightly accusatory.
"Sorry about what happened," I say.
"My fault for folding," he says. "I told Killián it wouldn't happen again—I was just frazzled. When those voices are all around you, spewing all that bullshit…well, it just got in my head. He said we couldn't risk it, though."
I can't not feel guilt when I look at him. His bruised cheek, his black eye, his forlorn expression.
"C'mon," I say. "Did you really want to play Galtero?"
"No. But I don't like the idea of you and Kempe doing it, either."
"Nothing to lose," I remind him, a fake smile plastered on my face. "Anything else?"
"Yeah. Dinner's ready. The elite guard is in the formal dinette."
"Not hungry."
He hesitates. "I don't think Killián was asking."
"Still not hungry. Thanks, though."
He leaves. I flip a few more pages in my book, finish a grasspaper sheet of notes, and decide I'm done for the night. I can't focus—I'm too anxious, too tense.
It's all I can do to fall asleep, curled on Jebah's bunk in a pile of blankets.
Then the dreams come.
###
I open my eyes and find myself in a room, surrounded by golden threads. They bind my hands, my feet, tie me to the walls. There are no doors. In the corner, Genevieve weaves on a loom—the tapestry, mostly completed, is magnificent. It's Lefe, sharp features pronounced and expression distant, a young girl curled on his lap. The top portion is unfinished, but I can clearly make out the adoration on her face. On the other side of the loom, seated upon a stool, is the woman who was seventh in line in the God King's courtroom. Brid Naya'il is leaning against a wall, and a blond woman has an arm around her. Lady Love—Adelaide.
"Have you figured out who killed me?" Brid Naya'il asks.
I try to get to my feet and find that I can't—the golden threads are too tight, and I'm tied to the floor, the wall.
"Feel like untying me?"
"We'll keep you there," Genevieve says. "Don't be afraid—the blood of Fate runs through your veins. The strands won't hurt you."
I thought there were three Ladies after me—now there are four? I don't even have a soul to trade away. What could they possibly want from me? I pull at the ropes—there's no give—but eventually manage to push myself into a seated position. I examine the woman from the God King's courtroom. Lady Loss? She's looking at me with an amused expression on her face, and it makes my chest ache.
"I'm sorry if I let you down," I say.
She tilts her head to the side, studies me. "Ladies operate outside the bounds of linear time."
"You're an incarnate, not a Lady. Right?"
"Who exactly do you think I am?"
"Time goes on forever," Brid Naya'il says morosely, and Adelaide strokes her hair. "It never began, and it never ends. Eternity lasts the night and ends tomorrow. There has only ever been one day."
"How am I supposed to prove that Audrin had you killed?" I ask. "Got any tips for the game tomorrow?"
"Audrin had nothing to do with Bee's death." It's the first time Adelaide has spoken directly to me—her features are so delicate, like a ceramic figurine. Her nose crinkles. "He's a good man, Ko, but the spirit of L'Angly is strong within him. It's corrupted better kings, better Darkblooms—he has four conduits in the Lands of the Living, and they grow stronger by the day. Your enemy is not Audrin—it's Lust."
"He married you." Brid Naya'il buries her face in her hands—Adelaide continues to pet her like she's a cat. "Didn't even wait a month."
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"You know why we did what we did."
"It broke Jebah's heart. It broke my heart."
"We never meant to hurt you. We loved you. Both of you."
"What's the deal with L'Angly?" I ask. "Is it true he steals souls? Is that…"
…where mine went is the unfinished part of the question, but I don't have it in me to continue. I stare at Lady Loss, helpless, a little breathless. She's so pretty—her eyes are huge, deep and brown, and she doesn't look away from me.
"You'll have to talk to the sixth Lady to get the answers you seek." Genevieve rolls the accumulated fabric into a fold—the bottom of the tapestry is obscured. "She alone can answer your questions."
I try to remember the name of Lord Ra'mes wife, Lady Life. "Lady Aui, right? Aui Darkbloom?"
The Ladies laugh, exchange glances. It's like I'm the butt of a joke I don't understand.
"Aui is nothing," Loss explains, her expression soft—maybe she feels bad for giggling. "Leclère has held the spirit of Life for two-hundred years—she never passed it on. Ra'mes will deny it, of course, but it's true."
"Doesn't L'Angly have her soul?"
"Ooh, Leclère's going to love him." Adelaide's smile is wry. "Make sure you bring that up the first time you meet her."
"How do I—"
The room disintegrates around me, the golden threads evaporate. I'm falling through blackness, and when I hit the ground leaves crunch beneath me. I'm in the Célestial Forest—I can see the topmost towers of Le Château du Roi Dieu peaking up over the trees behind me. It's nighttime, quiet except for the chirping of crickets. I get to my feet, check my wrists for golden strands—nothing.
Before me stands an overgrown tree, blooming with every kind of fruit I could imagine. Apples, oranges, pomegranates, pears—their colors glow in the silvery moonlight. Below the swaying catkins, a woman—a naked woman, with a snake wrapped around her strategically—strums a lyre. She's singing softly, and as I approach, I'm able to make out the words.
"In twilight hours, 'neath moon's cold gleam,
there walks the Lady Life unseen.
Her touch brings breath, her whispers low.
Shadows and dark, where'er she goes.
In forests deep where wild things creep,
she stirs the woods from ancient sleep.
Those who see her bloodshot eyes,
know every living thing must die.
Her garden blooms with flowers rare,
yet poison lurks in perfumed air.
She dances 'midst the ghostly trees,
with laughter soft that haunts the air.
In crumbling ruins, 'neath starlit skies,
Fate weaves her threads and never dies.
To Lady Life, all living souls
are bound by breath to play their roles."
"Pretty song," I say as I sit in front of her. "I like your snake."
She looks up at me. She's a petite, skinny woman—I'm trying hard to keep my gaze fixed on her face, not allowing it to drop below her collarbones. Her hair is waist length and so light it's almost white—it seems to glow in the moonlight. Her cheekbones are more pronounced than in any other face I've ever seen—it gives her a skeletal appearance. This is enhanced by hollow, deep-set eyes. She's pretty, I guess, but she doesn't look human. I wonder if Yosif and Marix and the other titans look equally monstrous—there was something off about Marix too when I saw him in the mirror. Something not quite right.
"Ko." She dips her head in greeting. "Welcome to Vandame's willow."
"Isn't this where Brid lost two toes?"
"Flesh, blood, and bone for a life," she sing-songs. "A child's game, but I can't say it didn't work. What brings you to my forest?"
"I think Fate sent me here." I pause. "Could've been Love. Or Death. Or Loss."
Her smile is serpentlike, and the snake curls around her—they're pressed cheek to cheek, and its tongue darts over her open eyeball. She doesn't seem to notice.
"You're quite popular with the Ladies," is what she says.
I rub the back of my neck. "No idea why."
"Angel or demon?"
"Neither."
She strums the lyre. "Keep fighting."
I rattle off questions on my fingers. "What happened to Brid Naya'il? Who took my soul? Does L'Angly have yours? What does that mean? Why—"
She holds up a hand to stop me.
"One at a time," she says. "First, Brid Naya'il—someone did pay off her killer, and the soul is in Hel for accepting the bribe. That I know—I was there for the trial, but the God King wishes to keep his secrets under wraps. There are lies that would unravel Yosif's legacy—we wouldn't want that, would we?"
There's something mocking in her tone, something cruel. She spits out Yosif's name like it's a curse. I stare at her, nonplussed.
"As for who took your soul, you know the answer." She tilts her head to the side. "Of course, you were thinking about the cabin—your mind was on other matters. He made sure of that."
My stomach drops like I'm still falling. I open my mouth, close it. No words come out. I can't speak. Don't know what to say. It's like every worst fear that's been flying through my mind in the past 24 hours has just been confirmed—I don't know what to do, how to fight this.
"I choose nonexistence," I say.
"Not your choice, I'm afraid. Not mine either."
"Because L'Angly has your soul?"
"Yes. Also, I could never do that to Mariette. Angeliana. My sisters," she adds, at my look of confusion. "L'Angly's wife and Yosif's wife. The first Love and Death. They need me to function as Life, oversee the incarnates so they can enjoy…retirement. They've always been selfish, but then again—I was the youngest, the smartest, the soldier. It's always been my job to protect them from Life's sin."
"What's Life's sin?"
"Covet."
"What happens when you fall to Covet?"
"It's never happened to me—L'Angly has my soul." She strums the lyre again. "It's not as bad as you might think. Being owned. I think L'Angly likes the control. I think I like being controlled. It's a truly spectacular feeling, owning another human. I would know—I'm no better. Life has many followers."
"He covets you?"
"He loves me."
"How do I get my soul back?"
"Do you think if I knew the answer to that, I would be here?"
"Where else would you be?"
"Enjoying the afterlife. Retirement. Instead, I work—I'm more incarnate than titan. More Life than Leclère. Or perhaps I'm something else entirely. Sometimes I wonder if the Lady proper exists at all, or if I have become her at last. I live among the golden threads, can exist everywhere and nowhere at once, can be in my father's courtroom and this forest simultaneously. I am present in every creature, animal and human, follower and non-follower of Life alike. I have been with you since your first breath. I know you better than you know yourself, Ko—and I like what I see. There's a reason so many Ladies have taken an interest in you. We want to understand your mind."
I want to understand her mind. I learned about her in public school when I lived on L-Street. She fought in L'Anglimar's war for independence against the Xobratic realm, even went undercover in the capitol—Vallatoria. She became the first incarnate, was the only female titan. Even if L'Angly has her soul, she seems to be doing okay for herself—I wonder if there's a way for me to do the same. Somehow I doubt it.
"Change your allegiance to Life," she says, and it sounds like an order. "I can help you. Only I can help you."
I shake my head. "I promised Killián—"
"He's too much like Yosif," she says. "Sometimes I think he is Yosif, but of course my precious brother would never leave the Lands of the Dead to be reborn. No—but he's spent so much time with the second titan in his mind, they almost think as one. You owe him—them—nothing."
"He got me off L-Street," I say. "He got my sisters of L-Street. I'll never stop owing him."
"You would prefer if Yosif owned you?" Her eyebrows almost disappear into her hairline. "You know that's Killián's grand plan. He collects souls for his titan like other men collect hunting trophies. He says he doesn't proselytize, but that's a lie—in Lady Death's guard, all are sworn to the second titan. There are no exceptions."
"Killián doesn't lie," I say. "And what would be so bad about being Yosif's? I wouldn't mind if Death had my soul, but that's not what's happening."
"This is the path you've chosen?"
"Weren't you one of Yosif's fighters too?"
She pauses, nods. "We all were—all the titans. We served Yosif in life, until the revolution ended and L'Angly took the throne. That doesn't mean we serve Yosif in Death."
"You'd rather serve L'Angly than Yosif?" I ask. "He steals souls."
"Yes, and the most volatile and bloodstained general of lore has kept his hands completely clean."
"Bloodshed happens in war."
"As to your other point, I do not serve—I am served."
"You said L'Angly has your soul."
"I'm safe," is all she says. "Who has yours?"
All at once, my chest contracts. I can't breathe, can't breathe, can't breathe. It's like some invisible force is pressing down upon me, like—once again—I've been entombed in stone. I frantically claw at my throat, fall to my back, writhe on the ground. It's suffocating, and I can't stop thrashing. My vision blacks out, the moonlight gets dim. There's nothing—no one—to fight. There's not even enough air to scream—
###
I wake up soaking, still thrashing, a choked yell falling from my lips.
For a second I think I've wet myself in my sleep, and then I see Brid at the end of my bed with an overturned bucket. She's wearing a black dress, lace, fitted tight at the arms and bodice and flaring out around her legs. Her lips are painted black to match, and her face is powdered. I've never seen her in makeup before—it makes her look older than twelve, more mature. Even though she's a good head shorter than me, backlit by the candelabra she looks at least my age.
"Sorry for the rude awakening." She doesn't sound sorry at all—on the contrary, she's staring at my wet midsection with an expression of delight. "Rise and shine! Happy Day of Deceased!"
I run a hand over the soaked sheets and stifle a groan—if I hang them over the balcony and let them dry in the sunlight, maybe they'll be dry by tonight—maybe. With my luck, it'll probably be overcast all day. I'm unhappy and uncomfortable, unsettled by my dream—I have no patience to deal with Brid.
"I think I preferred you smothering me awake," I say.
"I've seen Lindy's face—thought it better not to risk getting close and personal with you."
"What time is it?"
"0500, which means it's time to get a move on," she says. "We have one-hundred servants preparing the castle and grounds for the party—Da's in dithers. He gets so anxious when he has to host events this large—it's delightful. Even Grandfather Médéric's on edge—Uncle Jebah's bent on setting a shrine for his mothers on the Altar of the Fallen, and its rumored Grandfather was the one who did her in. Bad omen for the living—it would be like you celebrating the Xobs you offed on the frontline."
I stare at her. "Jebah's here?"
"Course he is—it's the only day of the year he'll set foot in this palazzo." She grins at me. "Come to breakfast—you must be famished. You weren't at dinner last night."
I am hungry. I put on dry clothes from Jebah's wardrobe and exit the room. Brid's waiting for me outside Jebah's chambers, and we make our way down the five flights of stairs to the formal dinette. We walk down a long hall, passing two parlors—the petit parlor and the grand parlor—both of which are filled with servants dusting, sweeping, and laying out bouquets of flowers. The counsel rooms are similarly occupied, as are the conservatory, armory, and training area. When we pass the kitchen, I see it's packed full of chefs—the smell of cooking meats and baking bread hits me like a punch to the throat. I've never seen so many people in the di Vivar palazzo. No wonder Killián is anxious.
When we get to the dinette, it's almost full. Péri and his wife are sharing a newspaper—Billi is seated on the other side of her father, and she wiggles her fingers at me as I enter. Torrense is attacking a plate of potatoes like they murdered his family, and next to him sits a tall woman with striking features and hair redder than Felicity's. Killián's seated at the head of the table, Bardic at his right and Lefe on his left—they're speaking in low voices and stop abruptly when they see us. Linden and Kempe are a couple of chairs down, sipping from tea mugs and doing a crossword puzzle Péri must've given them from the newsie. Linden's face looks worse today—it's like the bruise got larger. I didn't think that was possible.
"Help yourself to potatoes and bread," Killián says after a pause. "I was sorry you missed dinner—I had Kempe bring you a plate, but you were already asleep. Did you rest well?"
"Terribly," I say, and sink into a chair beside Brid, opposite from Linden. I reach for a slice from the loaf, and Brid hands me a red jam. I use a knife to spread the glop across my bread and take a bite. It's seedy and sweet, delicious. She goes for the potatoes.
"Dreams?" Killián asks.
He's watching me carefully, but I have no intention of answering in front of all the assembled elites.
"It's fine." I brush aside his concerns with a wave of my hand. "Probably nothing."
"I can tell when people are lying to me."
"Ah, yes, the built in lie detector." Péri yawns and flips a page. "Did you know enlistment is up twelve percent in the farming circuits? Say what you will about the famine in Four, but it's getting the guard warm bodies."
"You're a terrible, person, Péri," Linden says. "What's a five-letter word for disgusting?"
"Gross," says Kempe.
"Starts with P."
"Nah—we got two across wrong."
"I want everyone on their best behavior today." Killián picks absently at a hangnail—his finger is bloody. "Torrense and Laetitia—I want you greeting people as they enter the grounds. Péri, Jasiel—run interference and make sure to keep Lambert and his pridemasters away from the king. I don't want him pitching his latest pyramid scheme to Audrin while my back is turned. Sabilli, remind me to introduce you to Ivanna LeBeau—she oversees the guard's counterintelligence division and has many contacts in the industry. I know you're interested in a specialized career path—you might be able to pick her brain. Ko, Kempe—stick close to me or Bard. Don't overexert yourselves—remember our mirror bout is tonight. Linden, stay out of trouble, and stay away from the dames. Brid—don't bite anyone. Any objections?"
"I wish you'd take this less seriously," Péri says. "It's just a party."
"The Day of Deceased is the most important day of the year," Killián says. "Not only does it reflect on my ability to host—the King's Report ranks the festivities in order of extravagance, and last year we were damn near the bottom. I refuse to let that happen again."
"It's always a bit depressing, remembering the fallen," Bard says mildly. "Don't take it personally."
"Easy for you to say. The Day of War ranked near the top—just after the Feast of Affection."
"We've got money to blow. Medi-centers are a racket."
"The problem isn't money—I have more of that than your parents, thank you very much." Killián slams his hand on the table, leaving a smear of blood on the polished wood. "Today reminds people of their own morality. Remembrance rituals are demoralizing and bring back unwanted memories. The silent procession is boring. Memento creation entertains the children, the elderly, and few others. I've purchased enough fireworks to blow up a circuit, but it hardly seems appropriate."
"Didn't your father used to bring in dancers for a performance?" asks Billi's mother—Billi told me our first week at L-Daw her name is Jasiel. She has a soft, low voice—it's sweet and gentle. "I remember that from when I was a child. The Dance of Death was always fun to watch."
"Glorified strippers," Killián says. "Completely inappropriate."
"I don't remember strippers from Médéric's Day of Deceased," Bard says, looking interested. "Is that a fact?"
"Da, what's a stripper?" Brid asks.
"A stripper is a woman who does a special dance to make the lords forget their marital vows," Killián says.
"Lords forget their vows?" Brid's eyes widen. "Just because a woman is dancing? Even the puritans? Is it magic, or is it like the ballet?"
"It's a little like the ballet," Killián says. "If ballerinas took off their costumes for coins, and went into washrooms with any spectator who wanted to stretch them out."
"That's ridiculous," says Bard, shooting a sharp glance in Killián's direction. "Don't listen to him, Briddy. Killi, are you high?"
"How would you stretch out in a washroom?" Brid asks. "There's no space with the sinks and loos."
"Ask your grandfather," Killián says. "He married a stripper—Jebah's mother, Ambre—and he has the audacity to condemn your engagement to my lieutenant. I can't believe Jeb wants to place her portrait on the Lady Death's altar next to Ida. My mother would be distraught."
"So—don't let him." Bardic reaches for another piece of bread. "It's not like your relationship could worsen. Your death duel is tomorrow. This is as bad as it gets."
"Ambre was Brid Naya'il's mother too," Jasiel says, leaning across Péri so she can make eye contact with Killián. "She might not have been highborn, but she gave you your siblings, and she was a lord's wife. Surely that earns her some respect."
"Were you close?" Linden asks Killián.
"To Ambre?" Killián's expression is impassive. "I remember laughing in her face when she told me I could call her mother. I remember watching her read to Jebah and Brid Naya'il. I remember her escorting me to the medi-center and telling them I fell down the stairs and broke three ribs and a wrist—the woman would've lied to a priest to protect Médéric, straight faced, then gone to sleep with a smile. No—I can't say we were close."
"You call Belén mother." Kempe chews with her mouth open. "What's the difference?"
"Belén and my father never married," Killián says. "It's different."
"Petty and sarcastic, you mean."
"I am neither petty nor sarcastic," Killián says. "Nor have I ever treated Staffmaster Belén with anything but the deepest and purest of respects."
Torrense sniggers into a closed fist, and Péri rolls his eyes. Jasiel sighs and exchanges a glance with Billi. Brid turns to face me, her expression thoughtful.
"We could probably both get out of the Day of Deceased if you let me bite you," she says. "You'd go to the hospital gushing blood from your jugular, and I'd be banished to my room. Feel like trying it with me?"
I'm not sure if she's joking. "Uh…what?"
"Brid, behave." Killián glances at the grandfather clock ticking away, pressed against the far hall of the room. "Finish up, everyone. We need to get this cleaned up so we can help the servants prepare the palazzo."