Embers still glowed hopefully in the hearth, lighting that small part of the room and scattering shadows from the jars and boxes littering the floor. It was so cold the blood on the slats of wood had frozen.
The healer was lying face down. The brave woman was clutching a sword. Tarquin smiled a little to see the dark blood on it.
The shareblood firu was still in her bed, but she wasn’t thrashing or screaming anymore. She was on her back and staring sightlessly at the ceiling, with a careful red seam carved across her throat. Her blood had splashed on the bed and walls. She’d died quickly, with minimal pain. Tarquin knew the haldur hadn’t done that.