Sorrow adjusted her grip on the sword she'd claimed from the freshly dead, facing down the armed patrol of Genevais soldiers with the same implacable, icy hatred flowing through her veins.

"You cannot fight the entire garrison of Astarac. Throw down your weapon and stand before the Duke for justice." Something in her frigid gaze seemed to fix the gate guard in his place at the head of the patrol, his spear leveled at her.

There was some truth to that and Sorrow knew it. Even if she could survive gruesome, lethal wounds in her current cursed form, they could theoretically chain her and lock her away. "The gods have charged me with a task," she rasped. "You will not stay me in it. Walk away and live. Tell your lord to better choose his mercenaries, for his Yssan witch-hunters are no more."

Some of the guards shifted nervously behind the sergeant, but he stood firm. "If men in the King's employ were killed unlawfully, I will have to arrest you."

Sorrow heard the door behind her open, revealing a much more sober Beran. "Sergeant, she was protecting me and mine," he said thickly, still pale as a ghost after seeing what he'd seen. "Sorrow, please, for the love of all that's holy, no one else here needs to die."

"The people of Dalle pleaded so, and were afforded no mercy," Sorrow rasped.

The sergeant didn't lift his spear, the point still leveled at Sorrow, but his expression shifted. "What has become of Dalle?" he demanded, a creak of anxiety in his voice.

Sorrow's face remained a death mask of calm. "A question for your very own butcher bird."

The color drained from the sergeant's face. "Did you come from there?"

Like a mocking laugh, Sorrow again heard her promise to Manon and the tiny baby she'd held to her breast. I will defend you, even if Hell itself assaults your gates.... "They are a harvest fit only for crows. I am all that remains."

"The Duke must know of this," the gate guard said urgently, raising his spear. "You will come with us."

"An arrest or an audience?" Beran asked.

"That depends on your defender's disposition," the sergeant said. "I say only that she must surrender her weapon before meeting with the Duke. This is a time of war."

Sorrow cast the blade forward contemptuously, letting it clatter at his feet. If she had need of a weapon, she would take one. "I have not forgotten that you took my defenses from me once already, Sergeant," she said bluntly. "If this is a trick, you will not live to regret it."

The guard picked up the bloody sword and passed it to one of his men. "Investigate the tavern and gather witness statements," he ordered. "If it is as this merchant says, the Duke will wish to know it. Mercenaries cannot be permitted to abuse the populace." Then he looked to Sorrow. "You will accompany me to speak to His Grace, Duke Petri Elkano. Alone."

Sorrow walked forward without acknowledging the man until she drew even with him. "What I have done is upon my head," she said harshly. "Beran and his caravan only sought safety."

"This is a much more sensitive matter than the deaths of some mercenary trash," the sergeant said. "Follow."

Astarac was a sprawling, untidy city full of gawkers as the guards escorted her through to the Ducal Palace, the only proper fortifications beyond the city's rather impressive walls. The towering keep was surrounded by another set of walls, constructed with an Imperial eye: inner and outer with overlapping fields of fire from towers that didn't obscure each other, protected by a considerable moat. It was better engineered than many fortifications she had seen, the sign of either a clever Duke or one who had benefited immensely from the knowledge of the black shields who had once tried to burn the world.

Sorrow said nothing on the walk. They stopped at the Keep's eastern gate, an impressive feat of engineering in itself: it looked damn near impossible to breach between a narrow drawbridge and a portcullis over the main doors clearly made of dwarven steel.

"Who comes?" a sentry on the wall called down.

"Sergeant Bergara!" her escort called up. "I bring a messenger with urgent news for the Duke."

The gate ground open slowly and Sorrow looked over at the sergeant. "What concern does a Genevais lord have for a Talinese farming village?"

"By oath, I cannot say," the sergeant said in hushed tones. "But your words are for the Duke, not the Duchess. That is my only advice."

Sorrow knew there were volumes going unsaid in those words, but she was not a fool. Ignoring Bergara would likely end in disaster. Genevais nobles were notoriously arrogant and dangerous, far more inclined to quarrel and scheme even husband against wife or vice versa than their brethren in other kingdoms. If the Duke's house was divided, her best chance of getting to Shrike was to stay out of its politics as much as she could.

Courtiers and men at arms alike moved out of their way as they passed through the grand courtyard into the Ducal Palace, but whispers dogged their heels. If Bergara intended to keep her appearance secret, he had failed miserably.

Not that she really cared. They could whisper about the pale, cold stranger all they wanted. The gods had chosen her burden. She doubted they would permit her to be stayed in its execution.

Bergara's face arranged itself into a neutral smile when they rounded a corner and came face to face with a woman in white. The graceful lady was clearly in her thirties, waist thickened by children birthed and soft living, a glittering array of rings on her hands. Her dress was conservative in its cut, but pristine and anything but common. Sorrow recognized silk when she saw it. "Duchess," Bergara said, bowing low.

Sorrow inclined her head, dark hair still stringy and mussed from her night in the rain and the fight in the tavern. There was no sign of a wound on her neck, at least, but her armor was stained and partially ruined by the dark blood oozed from her dead veins. She said nothing, cold and impersonal eyes evaluating this noblewoman.

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She supposed she was meant to see a court bird of paradise, beautiful plumage in a golden cage. Instead, the woman's emerald eyes and sharp smile left her with a distinctly feline impression. "Sergeant Bergara, were you not assigned to gate duty? What motivates you to abandon your post?"

"I am merely escorting a messenger, milady. It is regarding the war, something I am certain you would find quite tiresome."

The Duchess laughed. The sound was pretty and practiced. "Quite the ill-mannered messenger." She looked Sorrow up and down. "One of Roche's by her rather soiled armor. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. You may dispense your message. His Grace is not entertaining visitors."

Sorrow felt a freezing cold settle into her chest at the mention of Roche. When it was clear Bergara was struggling to come up with an excuse, she spoke. "I will deliver my message only to His Grace."

The noble arched a delicate eyebrow. "Is that so?" Her tone had cooled a few degrees, though it wasn't clear if that was due to Sorrow's impudent refusal or her Talinese accent.

Bergara rallied. "Your Grace, she has come a long way and risked much. The Serpentine Crown takes a dim view of defectors, especially those with valuable intelligence treating with their enemy. Surely His Grace can make an exception."

"He cannot, for he is not here," the Duchess said, a faint hint of annoyance glinting in her polished features.

Sorrow turned to look at Bergara. "You waste my time. Perhaps it would be better if you returned to your duty station." Then she pivoted to face the Duchess. "Where is Duke Elkano?"

It was asked so bluntly and disrespectfully that the woman paled almost as white as her dress, clearly insulted. "If this roughness is your custom, herald, perhaps you should await my husband cooling your heels in a dungeon."

Bergara twitched nervously, no doubt remembering Sorrow's promise to hold him personally responsible. "She is a foreigner, milady, she does not know what she is saying—"

"Perhaps she should be educated, then," the Duchess said more harshly. "Guards, you will thrash this knave and she can speak to my husband after rethinking her manners in the dungeons."

The first spear blow came from behind, cracking across the back of Sorrow's knees in a blow that should have dropped her. Instead, the revenant remained standing in her bloody armor, cold eyes fixed on the Duchess. "I am not some disobedient horse you may whip into submission. Call off your guards or I will decorate this hallway with their innards and your husband's threshold with your head."

The next blow hit Sorrow in the side, audibly cracking ribs. She grabbed the spear haft and wrenched it out of the guard's hands like she was disarming a squire. Sorrow brought the hardened oak shaft down over her knee, snapping it in half. Now she had a weapon in each hand, one a club and the other essentially a dagger with a long handle.

"Defend your Duchess!" the Genevais woman shrieked, retreating further down the hall in search of an exit.

Sorrow rounded on the guards behind her. There were four, one drawing his sword while the others readied their spears. Bergara grabbed Sorrow by the right arm. "You will make an enemy here if you slay them!" he warned frantically.

"Your Duchess abandons you," Sorrow spat. "Now the choice is yours: whether to obey and die for one who would not do the same for you or retreat and die another day. I am not your lord's foe."

"You threatened the Duchess," the man with sword drawn said, trying to rally even after how easily she'd disarmed him.

"After she ordered the abuse of a messenger with valuable information for her husband, yes," Sorrow said unflinchingly. "If she is foolish enough to be my enemy, that is her choice. Now make yours."

"Do you intend to carry out that threat?" the guard demanded.

"It was merely to drive her away," Bergara said urgently. "Take us to somewhere we can await the Duke's return without her knowledge and you will have no trouble from the messenger."

"Is what Bergara says true?" the guard demanded.

"I came to speak with Duke Elkano," Sorrow rasped. "That is all I intend to do. If this is not possible and I must cut a path out because of a spoiled noble, I will lay your bodies across the ground like wheat at harvest knows a sickle."

The four men exchanged looks, then looked to Bergaea. "Is she safe to bring before the Duke?"

If he was uncertain, he made no show of it. "She has news he must hear," Bergara said. "Do not provoke her and those fangs will stay behind her lips."

Sorrow's expression remained impassive, not supporting or gainsaying Bergara. She couldn't have smiled if she wanted to, and she certainly didn't care to. These guards were an obstacle, and the only thing that kept her from carving a path through them was the idea Elkano could get her closer to Shrike. Whatever his interest in Dalle, she had a feeling it could serve the gods' purpose as much as her dead flesh and unholy strength could.

"Very well. You will come with us," the guard said. "The spear will draw attention. It would be better to let it fall."

Sorrow opened her hands, the broken spear falling to the ground. "Lead on," she said bluntly.

The guards did not escort her to the dungeon as she'd expected, but instead to a well appointed study with a large mahogany desk and the pelt of a dire wolf spread across the floor. The beasts were exclusively found within Ash Kordh to the best of her knowledge, but Genevais lords were infamous for crossing the border of the Sakana River into the wildlands to the north, beating back orcish raids or instigating them, depending on the lord. Sorrow didn't know what Elkano's disposition was, but the hide suggested he at least liked a dangerous challenge.

Bergara followed her gaze. "A gift," he said by way of explanation. "Duke Elkano has a fast friend in a famed orcish hunter, Vridash of the Wind."

Sorrow sat down on the couch near the desk, still aware only of the cold of death even with a fire burning in the grate. "He is unusual, then," she said, vaguely aware that such friendly relations were not normal.

"He is one of Queen Katalin's staunchest defenders, and well-mannered for his kind," Bergara said awkwardly, in the uncomfortable position of holding up a conversation with someone as disinterested in one as Sorrow was. "For an orc, you could almost consider him civilized."

"Almost." Sorrow's sarcasm scraped across Bergara's nerves, cutting to the quick of Genevais prejudice. "One wonders what an orc must do to pass muster. File his tusks? Gouge out his animal eyes? Starch the grey from his skin? Remove everything that is Orcish until all that remains is some lump of indiscriminate flesh? Yet it will be most civilized a lump, until one asks the Genevais."

"You say that as if Talin is any better," Bergara snapped, clearly offended.

"Only one kingdom has so angered the gods that even the dead can have no peace until its cancer is excised," Sorrow said bluntly. "It is not the Serpentine Crown's doing."

Bergara shifted uncomfortably. "Speak plainly."

"Your butcher bird has offended the goddess Nessa herself. He will be punished for his evil." Sorrow felt the cold fire in her heart flare at the thought, stoked by some approving divine hand. "And the longer he goes unpunished, the worse it will be for Genev."

"There is no one who can punish the Lord Protector with impunity. He commands the armies of the realm," Bergara said. "No one except King Alesander himself."

Sorrow said nothing in answer. There was no point in a rebuttal that might reach Shrike and warn him any more than what she'd said already. That was a conversation better had with Bergara's lord. She turned her eyes to the fire and watched the flames dance, numb to the memories of destruction they spawned. They only fueled her determination to find and kill Ghyslain Roche, Lord Protector or not.

She could wait for Duke Elkano, however. The dead were nothing if not patient. She was certain she would have to explain her threat against the Duchess, but if worst came to worst, she could carve herself a path out. Even if they managed to imprison her or the Duchess demanded her head, there would be a path.

Lady Death always had her way.