Shadow and Betrayal

bow, and went to stand near her brother. He looked at her, then away.
    ‘He didn’t come this way,’ Danat said. ‘He’s tricked us again.’
    ‘Perhaps. But he won’t survive. Even if he killed you, he could never become Khai Machi. The utkhaiem and the poets wouldn’t support him.’
    ‘It’s hatred now,’ Danat said. ‘He’s doing it from hatred.’
    ‘Perhaps,’ Idaan said. Out on the lake, a bird skimmed the shining surface of the water, then shrieked and plunged in, rising moments later with a flash of living silver in its claws. A quarter-moon was in the sky - white crescent showing through the blue. The lake smelled colder than it was, and the wind tugged at her hair and the reeds alike. Danat sighed.
    ‘Was it hard killing Kaiin?’ Idaan asked.
    Danat looked at her, as if shocked that she had asked. She met his gaze, her eyes fixed on his until he turned away.
    ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes it was. I loved him. I miss them both.’
    ‘But you did the thing anyway.’
    He nodded. Idaan stepped forward and kissed him on the cheek. His stubble tickled her lips, and she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand as she walked away, trying to stop the sensation. At ten paces she put an arrow to her bow, drew back the string. Danat was still looking out over the water. Passionlessly, she judged the wind, the distance.
    The arrow struck the back of his head with a sound like an axe splitting wood. Danat seemed at first not to notice, and then slowly sank to the ground. Blood soaked the collar of his robes, the pale cloth looking like cut meat by the time she walked back to him. She knelt by him, took his hand in her own, and looked out over the lake.
    She was singing before she knew she intended to sing. In her imagination, she had screamed and shrieked, her cries calling the hunters back to her, but instead she sang. It was an old song, a lamentation she’d heard in the darkness of the tunnels and the cold of winter. The words were from the Empire, and she hardly knew what they all meant. The rising and falling melody, aching and sorrowful, seemed to fill her and the world.
    Two hunters approached her at last, unsure of themselves. She had not seen them emerge from the trees, and she didn’t look at them now as she spoke.
    ‘My brother has been murdered by Otah or one of his agents,’ she said. ‘While we were waiting for you.’
    The hunters looked at one another. For a long, sick moment, she thought they might not believe her. She wondered if they would be loyal enough to the Vaunyogi to overlook the crime. And then the elder of them spoke.
    ‘We will find him, Idaan-cha,’ the man said, his voice trembling with rage. ‘We’ll send for the others and turn every stone on this mountain until we find him.’
    ‘It won’t bring back my father. Or Danat. There won’t be anyone to stand at my wedding.’
    She broke off, half surprised to find her sobs unfeigned. Gently, she cradled the corpse of her brother to her, feeling the blood soak her robes.
    ‘I’ll gather his horse,’ another of the hunters said. ‘We can strap him to it—’
    ‘No,’ Idaan said. ‘You can give him to me. I’ll carry him home.’
    ‘It’s a long ride back to the city. Are you sure that—’
    ‘I’ll carry him home. He’d have done the same if our places were reversed,’ she said. ‘It is the way of our family.’
    In the end, they draped him over her mount’s haunches. The scent of the blood made him skittish, but Idaan held control firmly, cooing in the animal’s ears, coaxing and demanding. When she could think of nothing else, she sang to the beast, and the dirges possessed her. She felt no sorrow, no regret. She felt no triumph. It was as if she was in the moment of grace between the blow and the pain. In her mind were only the sounds of the songs and of an arrow splitting bone.
     
    The farmstead was set back a short walk from the road. A creek ran beside it, feeding, no doubt, into the river that was even now carrying dead men down to the main channel. The walls were as thick as a man’s outstretched arm with a set of doors on both the inside and outside faces. On the second story, snow doors had been opened, letting in the summer air. Trees stood in close, making the house seem a part of the landscape. The horses were kept in the stables on the ground floor, hidden from casual observers.
    Amiit led Otah up the stairs and into a bright, simple room with a table, a few rough wooden chairs, an