Ippolyte gasped, staring at the jewel on the man’s chest, her olive complexion paling by the heartbeat. Her eyes widened; the scar on her neck shifted with the tightening of her face. “Shame!” she howled, thrusting an accusing finger at the horseman. “You wear shame upon you!”

Another young man rode up on a black-coated horse. His blue eyes narrowed. “What’s this, Haldrych?”

Haldrych Ameldan rose in his saddle, drawing his horse back. “A Vestulai. No surprise you recognize this.” He pointed to the red jewel. “I wear no shame. The triumph of my house hangs from my neck.”

Ippolyte flashed from pale to red. “A victory from dishonour! A butcher’s blood-price-” She stepped forward.

“Ippolyte!” Thesiliea caught her arm in a tight grip. She bent to her spear-sister, hissing something in low tones. Whatever it was, they froze the words on Ippolyte’s lips.

The Vestulai warriors drew away.

Adelmar gave a snort of amusement and Haldrych’s back straightened. He turned to the crowd of patrons, still snow-drenched.

A smile grew on his face. The scene was perfect for him to do something he had always dreamed of. “Hail, denizens of Paradise!” he called. “I come bringing gifts and tidings!”

He looked about. Their attention was his. Magnificent. With a grunt, he drew from Marctinus’ side a sack so heavy that he nearly bowed at its weight. He brought his steed forward with a tap of heel to flank.

“If it is snow you wish to frolic in, then I shall grant you snow!” He thrust his hand in the bag to a metallic jingle and brought forth a fistful of silver coins.

They gleamed between his fingers.

“I gift you a snow of silver!”

With a booming laugh, the poet cast the coins aloft.

They flew in a shimmering arc above the heads of the gathered, coming to earth akin to hail rather than snow. In a breath, a cheer erupted and folk began grabbing for the coins.

“The Master of House Ameldan buys your drinks tonight!” he laughed, moving Marctinus through the crowd and casting handfuls of coins in a silver snowfall. Adelmar grinned behind him, though not all shared his cheer.

The Vestulai’s glares burned and several of the patrons - mostly older ones - wore looks of distaste. Haldrych could only sneer at their hypocrisy: they came to drown in iniquity yet they found this disdainful?

Yet, he could not voice his derision, for among those regarding him harshly were the servants of Paradise. Juliana’s face was amongst them, with unconcealed disfavour in eyes as hard and cold as ice.

What was this?

“Master Ameldan.”

Jeva approached him with his hands clasped behind his back, passing through the scampering crowd as a shepherd might move among their flock.

He stopped before Marctinus. “You wear the colour black. And only the colour black.”

A barb of accusation lay in his voice.

Haldrych glanced down at his furs and black gloves. “I do. What of it?”

“It is not your usual colour.” Jeva looked at him evenly. “You are in mourning.”

There was no question in his tone.

Haldrych hesitated. “…I am. What of it?”

The admission’s effect was immediate. Many of the guests froze in their scramble for coin, their attention focused on the young master. Only a zealous few continued to snatch the silver up. One was the tiny woman who had nearly bumbled into Marctinus.

The seneschal sighed. “Master Ameldan, it is forbidden to set foot in a pleasure temple when one is in mourning.”

Haldrych’s heat rose. “I have heard of no such forbiddance. It is no law of Laexondael.”

“It is a law of the gods that bless these grounds.” Jeva’s tone was gentle but contained steel. “Many are gods of fertility, and we dare not mingle them with death.”

The poet scoffed. “You cater to slayers and plunderers! They are suffused in death!”

“You misunderstand, Master Ameldan. Those that deal death may carry something of it in their thoughts…but those that are in mourning - who have felt death pass so close, with its gaze fixed upon them - carry more. The weight of loss is heavy and cannot be abided here.”

“My mother has left this world!” Haldrych cried. “I must compose an ode for her funeral three days hence, and I merely seek a little cheer! A small joy for a man now orphaned!” He pointed to Jeva. “You turn me away!? What sort of false paradise is this?”

“Master Ameldan.” Jeva took the tirade as an old oak would face a feeble wind. “Your loss is great indeed. Go home. Mourn properly, free from distraction. When you have completed the custom, we shall balm your pain.”

“Bah!” Haldrych’s chin rose. “Perhaps I shall have found places more deserving of my coin by then!” He turned away from Jeva, looking to the crowd. “Three days! When the sun is at its zenith in three days, a remembrance will be held for my mother on the banks of the river Laexon! Though its waters be stilled by winter’s bite, I will perform an ode in her memory-”

He ensured that this was made known to all.

“-and any who have words or thoughts to share may attend!” He looked pointedly to Juliana and other folk that he had revelled with in the past. “If you truly call Haldrych Ameldan ‘friend’, then you shall be seen there!”

‘To hear my performance,’ Haldrych added in his thoughts. ‘And spread the word that my poetry is not uninspired.’

His head held high, he turned Marctinus and trotted him back to Adelmar. He spared no look for Jeva or any other who might deign to judge him. Not Juliana. Not the Vestulai.

Yet, the hair on the back of his neck rose.

An eerie feeling crawled through his body. He threw a quick glance over his shoulder.

He stiffened.

Towering and lean as death, a dark-skinned man stood a little apart from all others. Some manner of inhumanity must have stained his blood, for his eyes were a deep crimson, darker than those of Vestulai kind.

His expression might have been carved from obsidian: a glare of barely stymied rage and a disgust as deep as the bowels of the earth. It pierced the young poet, forcing a fearful shudder to his core. For a held breath, he believed some denizen of the afterworld was before him. One that knew well just how he had come to his silver coin.

Then Haldrych stiffened in recognition. He knew the red-eyed man! He was one of three beneath the table when they had crafted their plot! Had he heard? Was that what filled his eyes with such terrible violence?

An unease shook the young poet, and he looked for the others from that night.

There.

The little one that nearly crashed into him. She was staring at him as well. And there’d been another. The broad-shouldered woman…there she was. Her powerful arms were folded and her brows bent.

A terrible possibility froze him. With haste, he moved to Adelmar. “We must speak,” he whispered. He was keenly aware of the three gazes fixed on him as they left.

Yet, two things escaped his notice.

First, that the eyes of the little woman were upon the jewel on his chest, not him.

Second, that there were not three intent gazes that watched him leave.

There were four.

Another figure lay flat on a rooftop across the boulevard.

A figure who noted the wealth the young Ameldan spread.

And, that his house would be empty three days hence.