Chapter 4 - Traitorous Night

A rumbling like angry thunder roused Arual from fitful dreams. Then a bark, loud and furious as lightning cracked through the room. Adrenaline suddenly flooded Arual's veins, and she sat bolt upright in bed, a curse on her lips.

"Bran?" she called to the Mabari.

The hearth fire was down to embers, each burning gleed casting amber shadows about the bedchamber. In the dun room, Arual could just make out the shape of Bran at the door. His short, pointed ears were forward, hackles and stubby tail high in the air as lips curled away from his teeth. Even at a distance, Arual could see the gleam of his fangs.

"What is it, boy?" she asked, throwing off the furs of her bed. The moment her bare feet touched the floor, she could hear the sounds of shouting outside. The words were too muffled to make out, but the tone was perfectly clear: angry and urgent.

What is going on?

Arual took a step forward, meaning to open her door and find out what in the Nine Hells was going on, when the door burst open. Light and sound erupted into the room. Arual, whose eyes were adjusted to the gloom, recoiled and hissed a curse. Bran was faster. He lunged at the silhouette in the doorway, teeth flashing. The man had enough time to scream before Bran's maw closed around his windpipe. There was a clatter of metal as the man dropped his sword and the two went down in a tangle of fur and limbs. There was a grunt. A growl. A sickening sound like the snapping of a chicken bone. Blood painted the door the color of an angry dawn as the man died with a gurgle.

Arual's eyes went wide as her breath caught in her throat. A man was dead. Dead before her eyes, with his blood on her hound's teeth.

"Maker..." she prayed.

"Damn you!" someone outside the door shouted. Arual heard the sound of a sword coming free of its scabbard. The sound sent a prickling sensation along her scalp and put her teeth on edge.

Some part of her knew she needed to move, to act, but her body felt as though it were made of iron. She couldn't move. Couldn't think.

Another silhouette filled the doorway, light flashing off a sword poised to strike. Bran barked and lunged again, but this time the stranger was ready. He brought up an arm to defend himself. Bran's teeth met the steel of his gauntlet instead of flesh. The Mabari shook the stranger as though he could pry the armor from his body with force alone.

The man swore and raised his blade.

Suddenly, Arual's body was moving of its own volition. With a cry, she lunged forward. Her hands gripped the haft of the sword on the ground. The worn leather was slick with blood as she brought it to bear. The stranger was still trying to fend off Bran with a slurry of curses. With a cry, Arual slipped between his defenses and plunged the blade of her borrowed sword into the meat of his neck.

Once, as punishment for avoiding her studies, her father had sentenced her to helping in the kitchens. Nan had been preparing a fat pig for dinner that evening, and had ordered Arual to help the servants skewer the thing for the spit. Arual remembered how the skewer had slid into the gutted hog with only the slightest effort, the whole of the carcass having been prepared precisely for this moment.

That was how it felt when her blade sunk into the neck of the man who attacked her and Bran. There was a slight tension as the blade pierced flesh, then slid down with ease, as though the man were nothing more than a pig ready to be roasted.

Blood bubbled in his mouth as his eyes rolled into his head. A few weak spurts of viscous crimson erupted from his neck—like a child spitting water while playing in water.

He crumbled to the ground. Dead.

Arual had killed him.

The sword slipped from her hands as the man collapsed at her feet. Blood welled from the corpses in her doorway, seeping into the carpet and stone, filling the air with a sickly, metallic scent.

Arual blinked, stunned.

She'd killed a man.

Killed him.

The teyrn had trained his daughter as a warrior since her toddling years. From the day she was old enough to hold a wooden blade, she'd been in the yard—practicing swordplay and footwork alongside the squires. She was no stranger to bumps, bruises, and the occasional blood. But death. She had never seen death. Never dealt death.

"What have I done?" Arual breathed, her voice thin. The sword, now twice bloodied, fell from her grip and clattered to the floor. Her legs felt weak beneath her. 

"Maker forgive me..."

Arual collapsed, sinking to the floor in a heap. Bran was there to catch her, after a fashion. Arual buried her face in the scruff of Bran's neck, breathing in the musky scent of her beloved hound. It was a smell she'd known for as long as she could remember, as familiar as her own mother's. It grounded her, helping her to still her rampant heart and ragged breathing.

Bran let out a sympathetic little whine and moved to lick her cheek. He nuzzled her and shook his shoulders, coaxing her to her feet.

Arual understood: whatever was happening, she did not have time to balk or grieve. These men had attacked them for a reason. They were in danger, meaning the rest of her family could be in danger, too.

She had to act. There would be time for questions later.

As though reading her thoughts, Bran chuffed and nodded in a motion that was equal parts encouragement and approval.

Arual nodded in turn.

She swallowed past the lump in her throat, pushing her tumultuous thoughts down with it. There would be time later. Hopefully.

Arual took up the discarded blade once more and used it to cut slits in her nightdress and girded her loins in quick fashion. As she tied up the fabric, she eyed the corpses on the floor, seeing them for the first time as anything more than shadows and dead men. One wore a mail hauberk and a tabard of white and gold and a mail coif; the other a breastplate emblazoned with a giant bear and a helm with a plume of white.

Arual's blood ran cold as she eyed the men.

It can't be… she thought, but she knew those colors. These were Howe's men. But why? Why would her father's greatest friend and ally attack them? After he'd just told her father his men were delayed, after planning the marriage of his son to a Cousland daughter?

No, she told herself, and shook her head as though it might dislodge the thought. There's no time for questions. Not yet.

Still gripping the bloodied sword, Arual stepped out into the hall, Bran at her side. She needed to find Nathaniel. He could explain this. He had to.

A door yawned at the end of the hall. Arual whirled, bringing the borrowed sword to bear, ready for an attack. What she saw instead sent her jaw to the floor.

Eleanor Cousland jogged toward her in full armor, a short sword belted at her hip and a small round shield marked with the Cousland laurels in her off hand.

"Arual!" she called to her daughter as she approached. "I heard fighting outside and I feared the worst! Are you hurt?"

"Mo-Mother?" Arual gawked, still disbelieving her eyes. "You're…what are you wearing?"

If the teyrna noticed how shocked her daughter was, she didn't show it. 

"A scream woke me up," she explained quickly. "There were men in the hall, so I barred the door. Did you see their shields?"

Arual nodded grimly. "Howe's men. But I don't understand. Why would they attack us?"

"I don't know, darling, but we need to get out of here. Have you seen your father? He never came to bed."

"No, I was in my room."

"We must find him!"

Arual set her jaw and nodded eagerly. Her father would know what to do. He always did. If they could find him, then surely whatever was happening could be stopped.

"With me, Bran," she called to her faithful Mabari. The hound barked an affirmation and fell into line with her as she and the teyrna moved down the hall. Even though the hewn stone and thick tapestries, Arual could hear the cries of battle—shouts of alarm and rage, the sound of sword and shield meeting, and the low crackle of fire. It all seemed distant, somehow, as though the walls of the castle would protect her.

The castle…

Highever was her home, and for all her years, Arual had thought it impregnable. But that had proved false. The enemy was inside, killing and burning. She could smell the smoke—the scent of her family's history turning to ash.

If they're starting fires, Arual thought as her bare feet pounded the ground, then they must mean to end us all.

"Oh no…" she breathed. Dread settled in her stomach as real and cold as stone. Her feet faltered and she nearly lost her footing.

"Oren!" Arual cried, picking up speed. 

"Arual, wait!" her mother cried, but Arual wasn't listening. She ran through the royal apartments, heedless of the dangers that lay ahead. With each breath, she whispered a prayer to the Maker.

"Let him be safe," she pleaded. "Let him be safe…"

None of Howe's men were there to meet her as she ran toward her nephew's rooms. Was that good? Bad? Had Howe's men already been to this part of the castle?

"Please…let him be safe."

Arual did not allow herself to pause at the door to Oren and Oriana's chambers—did not allow herself a moment to doubt, to search for enemies, or to listen. She burst through the door, shouting for her family as she went.

There was no answer.

Motes of dust danced in the moonbeams that shone over the bodies of Oren and Oriana Cousland. In the silver light, their blood looked almost black. It soaked through the cracks in the stone floor creating a labyrinthian pattern that reached almost to the doorway—almost to Arual's bare feet.

She stood there, numb, toungeless, with eyes wide and filled with horror.

There was some mercy in seeing that Oriana still had on all her clothes. There would not have been time to violate her, even as she crawled toward her son, bleeding from her belly, to die beside him. Little Oren, who had never—could ­never—hurt anyone, even with so much as an unkind word, lay on his back. Tears still stained the sides of his face as he stared up, unblinking, at the ceiling. Small, bloodied hands tried futilely to staunch the bleeding where he took a sword to the stomach. Oriana's hand covered his. She had died trying to be beside him, to comfort him.

The scene blurred before her as tears swam in her eyes.

In its place were memories—memories of her and Oren playing in the yard, of sneaking snacks from the kitchens, of telling ghost stories late into the night. Memories of losing games of Wicked Grace to Oriana, of selecting matching gowns to the summer balls at the Winter Palace, of every shared secret and laugh. 

Grief bloomed in her chest, a white-hot pain that spread through her like cracks in marble, threatening to rent her asunder. The cruelty of it all was too much. Arual felt weak—ready to crumble to dust until the sound of footsteps fast approaching ripped her from her daze. 

Her mother was coming. 

She couldn't allow her to see her grandson. Not like this. Not ever like this.

Arual dashed back into the hall and nearly collided with the teyrna.

"What is it?" her mother asked in a high voice. "Where is Oriana? Where is my grandson?"

Arual placed a hand on her mother's shoulder, as much to steady herself as to keep the teyrna from entering the chambers. Arual opened her mouth to explain, to beg her mother not to go in, but nothing came out. She could not bring herself to speak the words—to make the horror real. She closed her mouth and clenched her teeth, grounding herself on the sensation of bone against bone. She met Eleanor's eye and shook her head.

The teyrna's expression did not change, but Arual watched her mother's eyes fill with tears as the realization of what had happened crept into her.

"No..." she whispered hoarsely. "Not my little Oren..."

Arual said nothing. Her throat burned for want of a scream. Her head pounded as tears fought to break free, but her body, somehow, would not relent to either.

"But he's just a boy!" the teyrna cried. "What manner of fiend slaughters innocents?"

"Howe's men aren't even taking hostages," Arual hissed. "He must mean to kill us all."

"I don't understand," the teyrna sobbed angrily, giving voice to the questions Arual had fought into submission earlier. "Why is Howe doing this? Our families have been allies for years!"

Arual's grip on her sword tightened. "I intend to ask him directly."

"No, darling," the teyrna said, her voice suddenly imbued with all the power and confidence of her station. She blinked and the tears were gone, replaced by a resolve as hard as diamond. "We must get you out of the castle."

Arual blinked, aghast. She took an involuntary step away from her mother, her hand leaving the woman's shoulder to become a fist at her side.

"You're asking me to run away?" Arual said, flabbergasted. "To abandon my home? My people!"

Eleanor put both hands on her daughter's shoulders, gripping her tight.

"I am telling you to live," the teyrna said through her teeth. "You and Fergus are the last remaining heirs to the Cousland name. If either of you perish, the clan dies with you. You must get out of the castle. Find Fergus. Tell him what has happened. Then, you can both make your claim to the king in the south."

"But—"

"Arual," her mother cut her off before she could make her argument. She shook her a little, grip tightening. "There is no time. You must do as I say. Do you understand?"

Arual bit back a retort. As much as Arual hated it, Eleanor was right: the Cousland line had to live on, and if no one else escaped the castle—no one of the Cousland name to beg justice from the king—then Howe would have won. And that was not something Arual could not allow.

"We must find father, first," Arual said.

The teyrna nodded. "If I know your father, he'll be at the front gates. If we can meet with him there, we can escape through one of the servant's passages."

"If Howe's men control the castle," Arual reasoned, "they may have cut us off from the servant's passages."

The teyrna nodded. If Howe's men would go so far as to murder children, then they had to assume Howe's goal was the eradication of the whole Cousland line. He'd fought alongside Couslands before, however. He knew how they fought, and how they won. He knew they would not go down without a fight. Bottlenecking any survivors into narrow spaces filled with archers or mages was just the kind of thing a man like Rendorn Howe would cook up.

Clever coward, Arual seethed.

Something about the thought triggered a memory in her—a memory of something her father had said to her long ago.

"You have to assume your enemy is clever, pup. If they're making a move, it's because they think they can win, and that there's nothing you can do to stop them."

"So how do you win?" A young Arual had asked.

"Be cleverer than they are."

Be cleverer... Arual ruminated on the words. The odds were against them. There was no way of knowing who or how many of their forces remained, but they were up against what had to be the bulk of Howe's army. Fighting their way out was impossible. If she and her parents were going to get out of the castle, they were going to have to outsmart the Howes, not just bloody their nose.

So where wouldn't Howe of thought to guard? she wondered.

Bran gave a low, rumbling growl like lazy thunder. Arual guessed he was feeling as anxious as she was.

Her eyes went wide as an idea struck her like a bolt of lightning.

"Rats!" she cried.

"Rats?" her mother echoed incredulously

"In the larder, earlier today," Arual began to explain quickly. "There were the largest rats I'd ever seen. Almost as big as Bran. He'd followed them into the larder while he was chasing them. If he can fit through the tunnels, so can we."

Eleanor pinched her chin as she thought, brows furrowing.

"It'll be a tight fit," she mused.

"It may also be our only chance."

The teyrna seemed to consider her words for a moment longer, then nodded firmly.

"I fear you may be right, darling. All right. The rat tunnels it is."

Before Arual could take a step in the direction of the front gates, her mother reached out and cupped her face, forcing her to meet her gaze.

"You must promise me something, darling," she said gravely. "Promise me that if the worst should happen, you will save yourself."

Arual's brow furrowed. Was her mother implying she leave her and her father...to die?

"Mother—"

"Promise me!" the teyrna commanded.

Arual's mouth became a thin line as she searched her mother's face for a sign she was anything less than serious, but, of course, she found none. Teyrna Eleanor Cousland, Lady of Highever, was prepared to lay her life on the line to ensure the survival of her children. Arual could see the resolve in her mother's eyes—cold and hard as ice, unbreakable as diamond.

Arual wanted to rail against that unstoppable force, to scream that she would never leave her parents behind.

"Arual..." her mother prompted hurriedly.

"I promise," Arual said, though the words sounded thick and heavy on her tongue.

It was enough to satisfy the teyrna, however.

She nodded sharply and stepped away from her daughter. The two women took up their swords and were on the move with the teyrna taking point.

"We must hurry," she hissed. Arual could hear the relief in her voice, however sharp. Relief that, should it come down to her life or her daughter's, Arual would live on.

Arual grit her teeth again as they marched forward, eyes burning a hole in her mother's back.

I shall not let it come to that, she promised herself. I will save you, mother, and father if it is the last thing I do.