Night of the Eye by Mary Kirchoff Read Free Book Online

their doddering old chamberlain.
    Narrow, flickering swatches of torchlight danced across the tunnel before her. Kneeling within the light, Kirah wrapped her thin, pale fingers around the bars of the grate and pushed gently. Feeling the weight of the heavy bars as they came loose from their resting place, she struggled the grate to the side, to lean against a leg of the sideboard. Doubled up into a ball, Kirah thrust her head through the very narrow opening between two ornately carved legs. She hated to take the time to replace the grate, but she couldn’t bear to leave a trail.
    Kirah gritted her teeth as she swung the heavy iron vent back into place. Swiveling around on the ball of one foot, she peered out from beneath the sideboard. No one looked to be about. The servants must be between deliveries of platters, she thought. Kirah sighed heavily at the scent of food already placed above her for the feast. Her stomach reminded her painfully that she’d eaten too little for several days.
    Don’t think, just run fast, Kirah told herself. Sighting her goal—another vent—across the room, she made amad dash through the row of banquet tables, not bothering to keep low or quiet. If anyone had seen the darting figure with tangled hair and torn shift, they would have sworn the castle had a wraith in residence.
    Kirah was in the tunnel and replacing the second grate when she heard a gasp and a flurry of activity in the dining room, but she couldn’t wait to listen. She had to cross the length of two more rooms within the keep before she reached the great hall.
    She scrambled through the long, straight length of tunnel that paralleled the east wall of the great room. Rounding the last left turn, she could see the grate ahead, aware that the air grew hotter with each step. This particular tunnel abutted the enormous fireplace that provided heat for the hall. The walls of carved stone block were too hot to touch, and she was careful to keep from bumping them.
    Still, Kirah was sweating like a blacksmith when she made it to the final grate. She squinted through the narrow slits. Set before the fire, Quinn’s ornate bier dominated her limited view. Placing the dead near a fire was a local custom—a superstition, really—meant to keep the beloved’s soul warm on the long journey to the afterlife. It had never seemed a wise custom to the young girl. She wrinkled her nose in distaste. The hot, still air was heavy with the smell of death that no amount of fragrant herbs could disguise. In vain, she tried to push the scent from her nostrils.
    Squinting into the brighter light of the torches, she at last spotted Guerrand in the crowd. He stood on the far right side of Quinn. His back was to her, his shoulders slumped with fatigue. Her heart leaped in her chest. He was still there. He was alone.
    “Guerrand!” she hissed through the bars. No response. “Guerrand!” she called more loudly. Still no sign that he’d heard her over the roar of the fire or the clamor of his own thoughts. She decided to risk it all.
    “Rand!” she hollered aloud, as if calling to him at the distant stables. She saw him jump. His head snapped around, looking for the familiar face that went with that voice. She bellowed again. Guerrand’s gaze closed on the sound, eyes searching the shadows to the right of the fireplace.
    “Kirah?” He easily recognized her voice, though he still couldn’t locate her. “Where are you?”
    “Down here!” she cried. “Behind the grate, next to the fireplace!”
    His eyes finally located the outline of the grate. “What are you doing in there? I’ve been worried about you. Why don’t you just come out? You should, you know, for Quinn—”
    “Forget all that!” she hissed. “Right now, you’ve got to get out of that room! Cormac is coming, and he’s going to tell you—”
    “Master Guerrand?”
    Kirah’s heart missed two beats at the sound of the servant’s voice. “Don’t listen to him, Rand!