Since he'd witnessed Lady Lorena's death, he'd thought of it at the most inexplicable times. He used to find the sight of flames soothing, but not anymore. And tonight the glimpse of a serving girl's leg made him think of Lorena burning on the pyre.

When he'd assumed she'd immolated herself out of custom, he'd thought her death barbaric. When he'd learned that Janosk had released her from that duty, her death troubled him more. Did nothing stop the fanaticism of these people?

At least the son seemed level-headed. As for Mar-ishka, sitting so silently at her place at the table, he had to admit that he'd never seen a more lovely creature among all the noble maidens of Sundell.

Though her hair was piled high on her head and arranged in beautiful ringlets that glowed in the candlelight, though her eyes were accented with kohl, no amount of dress or makeup could disguise the expression of terrible sorrow on her face. Peto was the source of it, of course, but he longed to sit beside her, hold her hand and comfort her. In time, he thought, and turned to Mihael sitting beside him.

He looked as sad as his sister, and yet Peto thought there was almost a euphoria in the keen interest Mihael spent on all aspects the feast, and in the way he seemed to exude an unsure independence as he ordered the courses served, the entertainment to come forward. All of this made Peto wonder if Baron Janosk had been a tyrant to his children as well as his people.

"I'd like you to dismiss your remaining troops as soon as possible," Peto said, trying to make this sound like a suggestion rather than an order. "But I don't want the wounded to leave until they're well enough to travel."

"It won't make any difference. I suspect their own families will slip knives into most of them the first time they fall asleep."