Night of the Eye Read Online Free PDF Page A

death-dry, suddenly wrapped around Guerrand’s like a hawk’s talon on a perch. “Promise you won’t leave until I see the Blue Phoenix’s face at last. Promise me!”
    “I promise, Father!” Young Guerrand had kept his promise, staying at Rejik’s side until his coffin was placed upon its pedestal in the family crypt. He’d had no way of knowing when Habbakuk would come for his father, but he would take no chances. Guerrand DiThon kept his promises.
    Standing next to the bier that held his younger brother Quinn now, Guerrand searched his memory for promises made to Quinn. There were the little ones between close brothers—“Don’t tell Father I broke the leaded window in his study.” The great, unspoken oath to defend each other, no matter the cause or cost. But, unlike Rejik’s death, there had been no warning, no way for Guerrand to help Quinn when he needed him most. The young cavalier had survived two years on the road only to be slain by bandits mere leagues from his home and family.
    The day Quinn had left on his crusade seeking life’s adventures, he’d not spoken of mortality. Quinn had been too full of hope, of possibilities to think dark thoughts. But a last, long solemn glance between the brothers had reaffirmed the unspoken vow.
    Guerrand had not been able to defend his brother against death, but he would stay by him until Habbakuk came, as much for his own sake as for Quinn’s. The young lad of sixteen had grown into a deeply tanned, thickly muscled man of eighteen. His raven-black hair, longer than Guerrand remembered it, in death curled below the neckline of his surcoat. Beneath the tunic, he’d been dressed in royal blue leggings and a warm silk shirt. Across his breast was laid his gleaming sword, polished, no doubt, by some faceless servant for the young cavalier’s final appearance.
    Guerrand forced shallow breaths. The scents of bergamot and balsam, used to wash and perfume the decaying body, smelled overpoweringly of death. After the viewing, Quinn’s body would be sewn inside deerskin, along with the cloying scent. There was no death chamber to drape with black serge, so the drab woolen cloth was hung about the vast great hall, which now held the body for viewing.
    The last three days had been the worst Guerrand could remember. The entire village of Thonvil hadgone into mourning for the immensely popular Quinn DiThon. Guerrand knew why. Quinn had been the kindest and most noble of the family. A steady stream of mourners had traveled between town and castle from the moment the public crier announced Quinn’s death in the square. The village bell tolled endlessly, plaintively, until the distant sound felt like a dull, ever-present thudding at the back of the skull.
    Wearily rubbing the knotted muscles there, Guerrand looked among the throng of mourners for the wan face of his sister, not really expecting to spot her. No one had seen hide or hair of Kirah since Cormac had called her into his study to deliver the news. Guerrand would never forget his young sister’s reaction. She’d given one great, slow blink of her blue eyes. Then, in a remote voice that sounded far older than her twelve years, she’d said, “Death follows this family like some hungry hound.” She’d turned on her tiny heels and walked from Cormac’s study, leaving the adults in an awkward silence of agreement.
    Guerrand thought it somehow fitting, given their opposing natures, that as committed to staying by Quinn as he was, Kirah had not shown up once. He knew from the servants’ gossip that Cormac and Rietta were furious at her days-long disappearance and absence from the viewing. Not for Quinn’s sake, but because people would think Cormac couldn’t control his wayward half sister. Which he couldn’t. Guerrand was certain that, wherever she was, Kirah knew of their humiliation and received some small measure of comfort from the couple’s anger. When all this ceremony was done, he would find her and help