Dust of Dreams

all—but now that she was among the powerful, she could demand a ritual of healing to scour clean the rot in her joints, and she would have to pay nothing, nothing at all.
    Sekara had promised. And Sekara knew the importance of favouring her allies.
    Life would be good once again, as it had been in her youth. She could take as many men as she wanted. She could take for herself the finest furs to stay warm at night. She might even buy a D’ras slave or two, to work oils into her skin and make her supple once more. She’d heard they could take away stretch marks and make sagging breasts taut. They could smooth the wrinkles from her face, even the deep bird-track between her brows, where had gathered a lifetime of injustice and anger.
    Seeing the last of the coals blacken at her feet, she turned away.
    Two warriors stood before her. Barahn—one of them Kashat, Maral Eb’s brother. The other warrior she did not recognize.
    ‘What do you want?’ Jayviss demanded in sudden fear.
    ‘Just this,’ Kashat said, and he lashed out.
    She caught the gleam of an etched blade. A sting against her throat, and suddenly heat poured down the front of her chest.
    The ache in her bones vanished, and after a time the knot in her brow slowly relaxed, making her face, as the rain kissed it, almost young again.
     
    Little Yedin crouched beside the body of Hega, staring at the pool of blood that still steamed even as raindrops pounded its surface. The nightmare would not end, and she could still feel the heat of the iron paddle she’d used to cauterizeHetan’s feet. It pulsed like fever up her arms, but could not reach the sickly chill wrapped about her heart.
    So terrible a thing, and Hega had made her do it, because Hega had a way of making people do things, especially young people. She’d show them the dangerous thing in her eyes and nothing more would be needed. But Hetan had never been mean, had never been anything but nice, gentle, always ready with a wink. And Stavi and Storii, too. Always making Yedin laugh, the acts they put on, all their crazy ideas and plans.
    The world ahead was suddenly dark, unknowable. And look here, someone had gone and killed Hega. The dangerous thing in her eyes hadn’t been enough, but then, what was?
    What those men did to Hetan—
    A hand grabbed the back of her collar and she was lifted from the ground.
    A stranger’s face stared at her own.
    From one side another voice spoke, ‘She won’t remember much of this, Sagal.’
    ‘One of Hega’s imps.’
    ‘Even so—’
    Sagal set her down and she tottered on wobbly legs. He put his huge hands against the sides of her head. Their eyes met and Yedin saw a darkness come to life there, a dangerous thing—
    Sagal snapped her neck, dropped the body on to Hega’s. ‘Find Befka. One more to go this night. For you.’
    ‘What of Sekara and Stolmen?’
    Sagal grinned. ‘Kashat and me—we’re saving the best for last. Now go, Corit.’
    The warrior nodded. ‘And then I get my turn with Hetan.’
    ‘She’s worth it, the way she squirms in the mud.’
     
    Once Strahl had left, Bakal sat alone in his yurt. His wife would not return this night, he knew, and he admitted he would be not too upset if she did not return at all. Amazing, that surprises could come to a marriage after so many years. The skein of rules was torn apart this night, strands winging on the black wind. A thousand possibilities awakened in people’s souls. Long-buried feuds clawed up out of the ground and knives dripped. A warrior could look into a friend’s eyes and see a stranger, could look into a mate’s eyes and see the flare of wicked desires.
    She wanted another man but Bakal was in the way. That man wanted her in turn, but
his
wife was in the way. Bakal’s wife had stood before him, a half-smile playing on her face, a living thing pleased to deliver pain—if pain was possible, which he’d found, to his own bemusement, it was not. The moment she’d realized that, her visage had transformed into hatred.
    When she left, she was holding her knife. Between her and her new lover, a woman would die tonight.
    Would he stop them?
    He had not yet decided. Nothing raged inside him. Nothing smouldered an instant’s breath from bursting into flame. Even the effort of thinking exhausted him.
    ‘Blood runs down.’
An ancient saying among the Barghast. When a ruler is murdered, a thousand blades are drawn, and the weak become savage.
We are in our night of madness. An