Sixteen years ago, Barnslow, Luskan Territory

"With the old wizard slain, the fair maiden came down from her tower. She ran to the youth, her hair shining in the sunset, and threw herself into his arms. 'What took you so long to rescue me?' she asked, looking up at him with sparkling eyes. 'Why,' the youth said, 'I had no idea you were waiting for me.' 'I always have been,' the maiden replied…"

A scream issued from the next room. Kyrwan tensed in his Mum's arms, jerking his eyes away from the pages of the storybook, where fine illustrations showed a lovely blackhaired woman in the arms of a rugged young man. He felt Mum's arms tighten around him. Involuntarily, he started trembling.

"Stop!" his sister screamed, her voice high and hysterical through the thin wood of the wall, "I didn't, I swear, I…"

"Bitch!" father's voice came, "You little whore, I'll teach you to make a fool out of me in front of the entire town!"

There was a crash. He knew that crash. It was the sound of the oil lamp falling from the shelf where it sat and hitting the wood floor. He heard it often, probably around once a week. Whenever Dad got angry at Kyla.

"What's Dad angry about?" he asked.

"Your sister's been naughty," she said, "She gets a beating when she's been naughty, just like you."

"But Kyla's a grown-up," Kyrwan said, "Grown-ups aren't naughty."

"Some grown-ups are very naughty," Mother said.

"No!" the shriek came from the other side of the wall. Her voice became distorted. That's what happens when someone puts his hands around your throat. Kyrwan had tried it once, on the family cat. The cat had yowled, but it had come out garbled and strangled. He'd thrown the cat down, afraid that he'd killed it, but it had run off. It never came within ten feet of him again.

"I don't believe you," he said, "I don't think Kyla's been naughty at all." He felt a rush of adrenaline, felt his limbs trembling with excitement. He'd never said anything like that before. Disobeying Mum, he thought. There was no going back now, "I think Dad is a bad man. He oughtn't hit her like that."

"Hush now, wicked child!" Mum said, smacking his wrist lightly.

"No!" Kyrwan shouted, "It's not right. What did she do?"

"That is none of your business, child! Now just for that, I won't finish my story, and you'll go to bed without any supper."

"Why can't you stop him?" Kyrwan shrieked. He seized the book from her hands and threw it to the floor where the sound echoed, much louder than he had thought it would.

"Stop it!" Mum shouted, raising her hand to strike him. Kyrwan struck out first, sending one tiny fist into her stomach like he'd learned to do with the boys who tried to beat him up. She doubled over. He felt badly for a moment, but Kyla screamed again from the next room. He ran as fast as he could into the next room – it had been a storage room, but Kyla had moved her bed and things there when Kyrwan was old enough to have his own space.

Kyla was bent over her bed, her bodice undone to her waist, her back lined with red and trickling blood from where Dad had hit her with his belt. He had lifted his hand back to strike her again when Kyrwan rushed in and grabbed the buckle end, winding his hand around it. The force of the blow lifted him clean off the ground. Dad turned around and saw what had grabbed on to his weapon. His face was red, his eyes blazed nearly yellow with rage, as he saw his younger child.

"Stop it! Stop it!" he cried, "She's bleeding! You're hurting her!"

Dad wheeled around, and loosed his grip on the belt. Kyrwan gathered it up and held it in front of him, as though it would shield him from the beating that was surely coming. Dad got up right in his face. He could smell the whiskey on his breath. Some of the boys in town said the drink made their dads mean. The drink made Dad mean sometimes, but all in all the man was downright unpredictable.

"Poor little bastard," Dad said, putting his hand on Kyrwan's head. Dad was not a big man, but he had large hands, and he could cup his six-year-old son's. He squeezed his fingers into his skull, and Kyrwan was afraid for a moment that his head would pop like an egg.

Don't cry, Kyrwan told himself, Don't cry. Don't cry. He screwed up his face, made his angry eyes, and he did not cry.

"Poor little bastard," Dad said again. He loosed his grip on his son's head, slapped him soundly across the face, and walked out into the kitchen to fetch himself another whiskey.

Kyrwan ran to Kyla and threw himself onto her, trying to cover up her bleeding back with his small body. She was crying, quietly, not sobbing like she did sometimes. She reached up over her shoulder and pulled him around her body and into her arms, tucking her torn bodice between them. He held her head in his arms.

"Why did Mum say you were being naughty?" he asked her.

"He doesn't want me to get married," Kyla said, wiping her eyes with one bloody hand. It left a rusty streak across her pale skin.

Kyrwan's heart went cold and he felt the cold pain of betrayal, much stronger than that in his still-smarting face, "Why do you want to get married? Are you in love?"

Kyla extricated herself from his arms and tried to pull him into her lap. He wriggled out, and sat down next to her on the bed. He was six years old. Far too old to sit in his sister's lap, though that was what he wanted more than anything. She looked him in the face. They had the same color eyes, light brown. The same color eyes as Dad, though they were much prettier in Kyla's face than his.

"No," she said, "I'm not. But he'll take me away."

"You want to leave me?" he asked.

"No, of course not," Kyla said. This time, he let her lift him into her lap. She held him tight and leaned her head on the top of his, "I'd never leave you."

He saw the light flicker, as Mum approached the door. She watched them for a moment, her face inscrutable.

"You can't have it both ways, you know," Mum said, watching them, arms akimbo.

"Leave us alone, Mum," Kyla said.