Shadowkill

##

The morning was cool and damp with dew. In the distance Kizra could hear the blatting of some kind of beast, a fussy, irritated sound. She could hear men’s voices mixing with the blats; she couldn’t make out the words, but she thought that they were swearing. Probably at those beasts, sounded like the kind of misborn creatures who stubbornly and perversely refused to do what they were supposed to do.

And how do I know that? Gods, I wish… I wish the wipe had took all the way, then I wouldn’t have these ghosts… no, 1 don’t, no…

She could hear squeals and loud whinnies. She could hear a rhythmic thudding, with a second thudding just off the beat, she could hear singing that wove around that thudding. She could hear birds twittering, insect buzzes, a thousand small sounds that blended into a sense of peaceful purpose, a pleasant background hum for a bright sunny morning at Winter’s End.

Matja Allina stood on the steps pulling on her gloves and letting Aghilo tuck shawls about her to keep her warm.

Her daughters were there, a short distance from their mother, Ingva the older, thirteen, almost as tall as her mother and thin. An austerely pretty child, with the promise of beauty later on, intelligence sparkling in violet-blue eyes, spirit in the set of her body, the alertness of her face as she looked about. There was a wildness in her that burned through the patina of control. Kizra thought she looked like a deer about to start running, not because it was afraid but from the sheer joy of stretching its muscles.

Three years younger than her sister, Ylapura was shyer and less appealing, a wispy child with a worried little face. She had her mother’s eyes, pale shining aquamarines set in sooty lashes, but she lacked her mother’s vigor, maybe her intelligence.

The Jili (tutor) Arluja stood behind them, a thin gray woman with a tired, too-intelligent face.

Kulyari was there, too, hanging about the edge of things, looking very pretty, her hair braided and wired into intricate whorls, her skin milk white and rose pink; her mouth was a soft rose and her eyes a dark blue; they glared hate when she glanced at Kizra and a sullen dislike when she looked at Allina, a dislike that melted into demure shyness whenever Pirs was around.

Polyapo was there, Tinoopa beside her; the Ulyinik was a sour woman, full of vague resentments, but she’d pasted a simpering smile on her face in honor of the occasion.

Kizra couldn’t understand why Allina kept these two around, what constrained her. It wasn’t Pirs’ doing, he was indifferent to both women, barely noticed them. He was indifferent to everyone but Allina and his children.

Leaning heavily on Aghilo’s arm, Matja Allina walked down the stairs and across the courtyard to the long table where her female overseers waited with the new women lined up behind them.