Ilsabet was not the only one wearing the blue and gold of the Obour family. Her father's valet wore his livery, as did a number of the serving maids. Lady Lorena was dressed in similar tones, and her richest gown, Ilsabet noted. Her hair was unbound, a sign of sorrow among her own people, and her face was a moving pattern of fear and grief. Mihael and Mar-ishka stood beside her, black-cloaked, heads bowed.

Baron Peto stood nearby. He'd also dressed simply, his expression as somber as the family's. "At least he shows respect for his enemy," one of the house servants whispered loud enough for his companions to hear.

Respect! Ilsabet thought. The fact that he is here at all shows his lack of respect for our grief. She looked at her father, his body covered by his war shield, his face so serene in death as to seem almost dull. However, the servants who had prepared the body had done well. There was no sign that her father had been beheaded, save for the wide strip of leather covering his neck. She glanced around but saw no sign of Dark or any of the rebels. Apparently, Peto had the good sense to order them to stay away.

Had her father died victorious, one of the priests would pause at the end of the ceremony to recount his deeds and valor in battle. Instead, the service ended with the prayer. Then with a sudden wailing, the priests threw torches on the oil-soaked pyre.

The torches sputtered, then the heated oil flared and spread, the flames so high and hot that the mourners had to step back. As they did, Ilsabet saw Lorena sway on her feet. Was she about to faint again? It would be like her, Ilsabet thought.

Baron Peto moved through the crowd, possibly meaning to catch her when she fell, but just as he grabbed her, she pulled herself out of his grasp, leaving him holding only the ripped hem of her sleeve. Then, with her wail merging with the priests', she flung herself forward onto the pyre. With a wall of flame between her and the crowd, she was beyond the reach of any rescuer.