by Jane Glatt
took one step, then another, towards her. Now he was close enough that one long-armed swipe with the knife would open her throat, but still she didn’t move, didn’t drop her gaze from his. If he was going to kill her she wanted him to remember the anger and hatred in her eyes, wanted the way she died, without fear of him, to taunt him always.
“Ah such a brave child. Such a foolish, brave child,” Thorold said. “Too foolish to realize that there are so many ways to create fear.” And then he quickly stepped back and grabbed Wynne by the arm and yanked her up.
“No!” Brenna reached forward and her hand brushed her mother’s arm for just a second before Thorold wrenched Wynne away.
Holding her against his chest, he backed up into the doorway of the workroom. After a brief flash of panic, Wynne Trewen stopped struggling and lifted her head.
“Good,” Thorold said as she quieted, unaware of the determination on his captive’s face. He smirked at Brenna. “I see the fear in your eyes at last. I was going to let your mother watch you die but now I see it will be much better this way.” Then he reached around and placed the knife against her mother’s throat.
“Run Brenna,” Wynne Trewen said, her last words ever before the knife bit into her neck. With a cry Brenna lurched forward as blood fountained from her mother’s throat. Thorold yelled and stumbled backward into the workroom. He let go of her mother, who slumped to the floor, then he tripped and sprawled beside the old worktable.
“Mama, don’t die.” Brenna dropped to the ground beside her mother. She grabbed her mother’s shawl and pressed it against the wound, trying to stanch the blood even as the healer in her recognized that it was too late - her mother was already dead. Brenna gently wiped the blood from her mother’s face and laid the soaked shawl across the spreading stain, covering the gaping wound in her throat. Her head bent, a great sob lodged in her chest and tears rolled down her cheeks. She wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her shirt and looked up. The Duke’s prone form lay on the hard packed dirt, her mother’s bloody knife a few feet from his hand.
“I’ll make you pay for this,” Brenna said. She staggered to her feet and took one unsteady step towards the Duke. Even as she wondered why he was on the ground, why he was so far away from his victim, he sat up, eyes dazed, and reached wildly for her mother’s knife. His fist closed on it and Brenna stopped. Knife held towards her, he got to his knees.
Brenna’s chest heaved with grief and pain and hatred. As much as she wanted to hurt Duke Thorold, she knew she was no match for him physically. And her mother had told her to run, had sacrificed her life so that Brenna had this chance. She must take it, must make her mother’s death have some meaning.
“Guards!” Thorold’s voice was as a croak. He lurched to his feet, blade pointed at her.
She couldn’t retrieve her mother’s knife. Not now.
“I will make you pay,” Brenna said as she backed away from him. “Someday.”
With a quick look behind her she stooped to pick up her pack. She took a deep breath and looked at her mother’s face, relaxed and peaceful in death, before she turned and headed for the loft. She’d go out the window and across the roof to the woods. The dogs would have a hard time picking up her scent if she stayed high until she was into deeper snow. Then she’d head to Kingsreach and away from Duke Thorold’s lands. It was the largest city in Soule and she was good at hiding. Thorold’s men wouldn’t find her there.
two
Brenna slipped in through the window, careful not to open one of the shutters too widely. She’d spent the better part of two days assessing the inn and knew that the leather hinge on the left-hand shutter was weak and caused the wood to scrape the windowsill. It was less than three hours before dawn and any noise would sound loud in the quiet night.
From the window ledge she carefully eased one soft-soled foot after the other onto the floor. She took a quick look back at the courtyard. The stables sat silent, doors shut tightly against the cool, spring air. A weak light spilled into the night below where the kitchen backed out onto the courtyard. No doubt the baker was getting bread ready for early travelers. She saw no sign of the inn guards – good, she’d not been noticed.
She gently nudged the shutters back in place, careful to make sure they were in the same position she’d found them. The guards employed by better inns, such as this one, were former Kingsguard. They were well trained and observant. But so was she. Brenna had never been caught in her six years as a thief.
She listened to the steady breathing of the room’s single occupant and slowly matched her own breathing to his as her eyes adjusted to the near darkness.
The room was on the second floor - one of the middle rooms - so there was only the one window that faced north. The narrow bed was pushed up against the east wall and a small dresser topped with a washbasin was wedged between the bed and the door.
To her right was a small chair laden with what smelled like well-worn clothes. She wrinkled her nose in distaste. So much for priests being closer to the One-God than the rest of us - the man’s clothing smelled like a mule wet down with cheap wine.
The room’s occupant had left his pack leaning against the door, a country trick to try to foil anyone bent on opening the door. Brenna gave a silent snort of derision. Someone in the hall could snatch the bag and be gone with it in two breaths.
Nothing in the room looked out of place so she focused on the sleeper. It seemed her information about this priest was correct and he’d overindulged in drink, as was his habit. His breath smelled sour and an empty bottle lay on the floor by his bed. A cup with a few drops of dark liquid still clinging to it stood on the washstand.
She silently padded over to the bed. By the throne! The priest was sleeping with one hand curled around the object she’d come to collect. He must be very determined to make this delivery to the High Bishop. But why was the High Bishop was collecting this for Duke Thorold of Comack?
In the six years since she’d fled to Kingsreach she’d been prying into the duke and his affairs and according to her information he’d been quietly collecting similar weapons for a while. She had yet to figure out how to make him pay for her mother’s death, but she would, one day. For now, she stole goods destined for him. It was only a minor irritant for the duke, but Brenna had a secret satisfaction knowing he’d be furious if he learned that she was responsible.
Eryl’s description of the object was accurate, as always. She could clearly see the cracked red leather of the scabbard and the shine - pure gold, according to Eryl - of the knife hilt. On the crosspiece two red rubies winked dimly even in the dark room. Something about the knife felt old, ancient even, which Eryl had not mentioned. She briefly wondered if the other weapons Duke Thorold had collected were old as well. It was something to think about later, after she’d stolen this one.
Brenna stood still and breathed softly in concert with the sleeping priest. She had only another hour or so before the pre-dawn sky lightened. She had to find a way to get the knife without disturbing the sleeper.
The priest snorted softly and Brenna rocked back on her heels until he resettled himself. Her luck was holding – the slight shift of the sleeper had moved his grip from the knife hilt to the scabbard. She should be able to slide the knife out without waking the priest. She might lose some of her commission but that was a small price to pay for successful retrieval of the knife. Let Duke Thorold have the scabbard.
After another silent twenty minutes without any movements by the sleeping priest, Brenna reached out to grasp the hilt of the knife.
A shock of warmth ran up her arm and the hilt under her hand started to glow with a clear, white light. Startled, Brenna stumbled back, but instead of letting go of the knife she pulled the cursed thing from its scabbard. Eyes wide she raised the blade, which now shone brightly enough to illuminate the room. There was a muffled gasp and she turned and met the terror-filled eyes of the priest.
Brenna recovered first. She dropped the knife to floor and i
mmediately the room plunged back into darkness. She swore at herself for losing her composure, but how could she have known what would happen when the knife was out of its scabbard? She carefully backed away, feeling her way in the dark room. The window must be right behind her now.
“Guard! Guard!!” The priest had recovered enough wits to sound an alarm. “Help!”
Brenna heard the rustle of cloth as he got out of bed.
Eyes not quite adjusted to the dark after the blinding glow of the knife, Brenna fumbled the shutters open, wincing as one shutter scraped loudly along the wood. Brothers! She was making too much noise!
With a quick prayer to Jik for protection she peered out over the courtyard. No sign of any guards there but she could hear loud steps coming up the stairs. She glanced back to find the priest struggling to move his pack and open the door. One final look and her stomach tightened - a single guard blocked the light that spilled in from the hallway. That meant the other two were somewhere else. Brenna slipped onto the sill, crouched, and reached to grab the roof ledge.
A hand grasped her right wrist, painfully.
“Got him!”
She was hauled up and onto the roof and then dumped at the feet of one of the inn guards.
Brenna swore under her breath as she looked up at the