Glass glittered across the marbled floor like winter hail, and the wine that had been meant for a toast ran between the shards in a dark red stain.
Jonas Cutler stood over it as if the mess had happened inside his chest. His fingers shook.
He did not remember throwing the goblet. He only remembered the word that had come to him like a hammer.
Dead.
The doors to the receiving hall opened hard enough to make the hinges complain.
The head guard stumbled in with two men behind him, all three still wearing road dust.
The head guard's eyes had the dull shine of glass.
A handprint bloomed on his right cheek, red and swollen, the mark of someone striking him with an open palm.
Jonas turned on him.
"How can you be so careless?" Jonas roared.
"You said the other guards were traitors. You swore you had rooted them out. Why did you not know about this earlier?"
"We fed you. We paid you well. We put your sons and daughters in school. And you come back to me with this."
