Free Ghost Sword by Jonathan Moeller Page A

claiming the lordship of House Kardamnos for themselves. 
    When Andromache had still been alive, she had kept the bastards in line by assassinating any that grew too ambitious. But Kylon could not be as ruthless as his sister. He had seen the fate her ambition had given her…and Caina had left too much of an impact on Kylon for that. 
    On the other hand, if Thalastre became pregnant, his ambitious half-siblings might try to murder her to prevent a trueborn heir of House Kardamnos. That thought filled him with terror. 
    Thalastre touched his arm. “You worry too much, husband.”
    “Perhaps,” said Kylon. “We live in unsettled times.” He gazed at the crowd in the courtyard as the slaves and freedmen of House Kardamnos went about their duties. “The Assembly sits later today, to greet the new ambassador from Anub-Kha.” A flicker of red in the courtyard below caught his eye. “I should…”
    He froze, a bolt of fear and astonishment burning through him.
    “Kylon?” said Thalastre, her arcane senses detecting his mood. “What is it? What’s wrong?”  
    He could not answer.
    Andromache walked through the courtyard.
    It was impossible. Utterly impossible. 
    He had seen her die in the Tomb of Scorikhon below the Citadel of Marsis, struggling as Scorikhon’s corrupted spirit tried to claim her flesh for his own. Yet it was Andromache, wearing her usual crimson gown with a black vest, her hair bound in a long black braid, her expression aloof and imperious. 
    “She’s dead,” said Kylon. “I saw her die. She cannot be here.” 
    “Kylon,” said Thalastre, and he felt the surge of power as she gathered sorcerous force for a spell. “What is it? Who do you see?”
    “She’s dead,” said Kylon, but by then his mind caught up to his shock.
    Andromache was dead, but someone was masquerading as her. Sicarion had done so, using an amulet that reflected the worst fears of anyone who looked at him. He was slain, but there was no reason another assassin could not follow his tactics. 
    “Something is wrong,” said Kylon, the habits of battle taking over. “Guards!” The door to the bedchamber burst open, and four of the guards of House Kardamnos hurried inside. “You. Go sound the alarm. There is an intruder in the Tower. The rest of you, stay with Lady Thalastre, and let no harm come to her.” 
    “My lord,” said the guard, sprinting from the room.
    “What is wrong?” said Thalastre, her voice cool. To Kylon’s regret, she had been in battle often enough to know how to handle herself in a crisis. Already he felt the spike as she gathered arcane power to strike down any attackers. 
    “I saw my sister,” said Kylon. 
    “She’s dead,” said Thalastre. 
    “Yes,” said Kylon, turning back to the railing. “Which means an intruder has employed her appearance as a disguise. Wait here.”
    Without another word, he turned, grabbed the stone railing, and jumped off the balcony. 
    It was a long way down to the courtyard, but Kylon called upon his own sorcery. The sorcery of air slowed his descent, and the sorcery of water filled his limbs with strength. He landed in the courtyard, his legs flexing to absorb the impact, and drew stunned glances from the slaves and freedmen going about their business.
    “My lord High Seat?” said one of the slaves. 
    The alarm bell rang out from the ziggurat, calling the guards to their posts.
    “There is an intruder among us,” said Kylon, “using sorcery to appear as my late sister.”
    The slaves and freedmen had been well trained, and they rushed to their duties, congregating in groups to seal off the entrances to the courtyard and stand watch over the gates. Kylon hastened to the main doors to the ziggurat, reaching out with his arcane senses. He felt the ancient wards against hostile spells over the Tower of Kardamnos, laid long ago when his ancestor Rykon had led the survivors of Old Kyrace to New Kyre. Andromache had been walking towards the doors.