He opened the door, and Dart slid through as soon as there was space enough for her. She came close to colliding with Master Hesharian.
“Mind the robe!” he called to her.
But Dart was already away, ducking from the mysterious master in the traveling cloak. She hurried down the hall to the next set of doors, those that opened into the castellan’s private hermitage. Though neighbors on this high level, the occupants of the two sets of rooms could not be further apart in stance and outlook.
She knocked on the door, keeping her eyes fixed to the tight grain of the stout ironwood planks, willing it to open.
Pupp simply ran straight through the door.
Lucky dog.
Moments later, Dart was paid for her patience.
“Uncle Rogger!”
Dart dashed into the castellan’s hermitage, cloak flagging behind her.
The door had barely been opened when she spotted the former thief. It had taken a startled second look, though, to recognize him. Rogger had shorn his usual ragged beard into straight edges, his peppered red hair was oiled and combed, and he wore the sashed purple robe of a learned scribe, those blessed with Grace to write letters sealed and coded with alchemies. Even all his fingers were dyed purple to the first knuckle. Such scribes could be found throughout Tashijan, especially of late.
Rogger had come in disguise.
Kathryn ser Vail rose from a seat by the crackling hearth as Dart flew into the room. She slipped a flap of cloth over something resting atop the table by the hearth. It hid an object the size of a small melon.
A third occupant of the room, Gerrod Rothkild, esteemed master and ally, remained seated, leaning over the table, encased in his usual bronzed armor.
Dart caught the whiff of some foul alchemies—then she was in Rogger’s arms. She hugged him tight to her. It had been an entire year. Too long. He chuckled at the fervency of her greeting.
She didn’t care. Of those who knew the truth about her, there were few who seemed to care less.
“Unhand me, foul wench!” he said after returning her hug.
Dart grinned and backed away.
Rogger searched around the room, then held out an arm. A bit of sweetcrackle appeared in his fingers as if out of the very air. “I think I owe someone else a greeting. Here you lice-ridden slab of mutton.” He bent, resting his other hand on a knee, dangling out the tasty tidbit. “Now where are you?”
Dart pointed toward the table where Castellan Vail stood. “Pupp is over there.”
“Ah,” Rogger said, straightening. He shared a strange glance with Castellan Vail. “Mayhap he should be away from there. Not something to be nosing, that’s for sure.”
Gerrod stirred, collected the covered object, and stood. “I will take the artifact down to my rooms among the masters. See what I can make of it.”
“Thank you, Gerrod.”
“And be careful with the skaggin’ thing,” Rogger added.
With a nod to the thief and a half bow to the castellan, Gerrod strode off with a whir of the mekanicals that drove his armor. Though Dart had never seen the man’s face, hidden behind bronze, all knew his story, how his body had been wasted by the alchemies necessary to attain the fifteen masterfields, the most disciplines ever mastered by a single man. Now he was forever dependent on the blessed mekanicals of his armor for support.
Once Gerrod was gone, Rogger waved Dart to one of the three seats by the hearth. Kathryn took the other. Rogger settled into the third, resting his heels by the fire. He tossed the bit of sweetcrackle to Dart for nibbling.
“What are you going to do now, Rogger?” Kathryn asked.
“I figured I’d stick tight at least until Tylar gets his cloak and sword back. Meantime, I’ll shed these robes, slink into the lower realms of these black halls, and listen about. Have you ever figured out who slew that young knight last year?”
Kathryn’s countenance darkened. She wore a knight’s black leathers, as if she had come in from a recent ride. Even her hair, a dark golden red, was woven into a horseman’s knot at the nape of her neck. It was one of the few ways the castellan relaxed these days, on horseback, the wind in her cloak. Rogger’s arrival must have thwarted a midday ride.
“No. And I fear we may never discover the truth.”
Dart had not seen the murder firsthand, but she had heard the tale in great detail: a knight’s body found slaughtered, sacrificed, drained of blood, alongside a pit of burnt bones. The murderers remained free.
“The trail has gone dead cold by now,” Kathryn explained. “Even Tracker Lorr has given up after spending an entire moon in the warren of sewers that drain the city.”
Rogger grunted. “And I thought my travels were harsh.”
“And now we have the abandoned sections of the city swelling with returning knights and rooms being readied for all the various guests. Any tracks we might have missed or overlooked are surely trampled, swept away, or muddied.”
Kathryn shook her head in defeat.
“So no way to pin it on One Eye?” Rogger said.
Dart knew that the castellan highly suspected Argent ser Fields in the deaths and disappearances. Especially with the warden wielding a cursed sword in his hunt for Tylar. Still, suspicions were not proof that could be brought before any adjudicators. Argent had even passed inspection by soothmancers, bloody-fingered men of fiery alchemies who could probe the truth in one’s heart.
Still, Kathryn was sure the Fiery Cross was somehow connected to the sacrifice. The fire pit, the circle of blood, and the spread-eagled man—all suggestive of some ritual with the Cross. But now they had all slipped away.
“Have there been any more disappearances?” Rogger asked.
“We’re keeping a daily roll now, especially among our younger knights. It seems Perryl was the last to vanish.”
Perryl ser Corriscan was another of their allies, a young knight new to his stripes, one who was taken from his room, leaving only a splatter of blood on his bed. Dart sensed this was who Kathryn sought more than any.
“With all the new knights arriving,” Rogger said, “perhaps a few words will slip, a bit of bragging done under the hem of a cloak. I’ll see what I can discern.”
“Be careful.”
Rogger seemed to read something in Kathryn’s hollowed gaze. “We’re not defeated yet. If One Eye is to blame, or those in his service, we’ll bring him low.”
Her expression didn’t change. “With all that’s happening beyond our walls, maybe that isn’t even for the best. Rather than looking back, seeking to place blame, maybe it is time to make peace. Shaking Argent out of his Eyrie will weaken us most when we need to be at our strongest.”
Dart’s eyes widened, shocked. She had never heard the castellan express such a sentiment.
Even Rogger was struck silent.
“No!” Dart said into the sullen quiet, remembering the artful bit of deceit and bribery just perpetrated against her. “It’s a false strength! He doesn’t seek the good of Myrillia, only his own power.” Dart related what had occurred just moments before in the Warden’s Eyrie.
Now it was the castellan’s eyes that widened. “Argent sought to set you up as a spy here? In my own hermitage?”
Dart nodded vigorously. “Do not let your guard down, Castellan Vail. Better to be few and true of heart than legion and corrupt.”
Rogger chuckled. “From the mouths of babes come the simplest wisdoms.”
Kathryn sagged back into her seat, but she nodded. “I’ve been too long in this tower.”
“But you’re not alone—never alone,” Rogger said. “And Tylar will be here in another day or so.”
These last words only seemed to wound more than heal. Dart had known the castellan long enough to recognize the pained narrowing of her lips, the tightening at the corners of her eyes. Matters between Kathryn and her former betrothed were even more complicated than between castellan and warden.
Rogger seemed blind to all this. “Once Tylar is
here, all will be clearer.”
Dart sensed nothing could be further from the truth.
But this time she stayed silent.
Much later, as the sun sank and the first evening bell rang, Dart closed the door to her private room. Sore and tired, she shed her half cloak and wooden sword and pulled out of her boots. She could hardly think.
After Rogger left, Dart had found the rest of the day a blur of errands for the castellan. It seemed as each bell rang, bringing them only that much closer to the day of Tylar’s ceremony, more duties befell them all. Dart also had to attend a class explaining proper horse grooming and the care of riding tack, where a surly gelding had stepped on her toe. She still limped. It made the final climb up to the top of Stormwatch all that much harder.
But here her room waited. The room was really a closet, formerly a maid’s chamber adjacent to the castellan’s hermitage, but it was gloriously all her own. She even had a slitted window that looked out on the giant wyrmwood tree that graced the central courtyard.
As Dart limped to the window in her stockings, Pupp stretched, circled a few times at the foot of her bed, then settled to the floor.
Dart stared at the lesser moon, a sickle slicing slowly through the leafless limbs of the great wyrmwood. A few stars shone with cold light. She stared, lost in her own bleary thoughts of things she had to remember for the following morning. Another two retinues would arrive tomorrow—from Five Forks and Nevering.
Finally, her warm breath fogged the cold pane and she turned away.
With her thoughts on those arriving, her mind drifted to another worry, one she had been shying away from over the past half-moon since she had traveled with Castellan Vail to Oldenbrook. Dart again pictured the bronze boy, formerly a fellow student at Chrismferry, now a handservant of Jessup. She recalled how his emerald eyes had sparked when she’d last seen him, half-crouched in the High Wing.
Would he come? Would he be one of the emissaries Lord Jessup sent to witness the knighting here?
Dart found the possibility unsettling. He had recognized her, knew her from their days at the school. It would be dangerous to associate with him. Still…a part of her warmed at the thought.
Sighing, she shook her head.
She crossed back to her bed, but left the blankets where they were tucked. Her day was not quite over. She took up her sword again.
Alone in her room, she lifted the sword, shifted her knee, and began pacing through all the forms. With no one watching her every turn and twist, she relaxed into the rhythm, at first haltingly, then with more confidence. She sensed for the first time how one form flowed into another. Again and again she ran the paces, slowly coming to realize that it wasn’t the sword that defended and attacked—it was one’s own body, one’s own heart.
Deaf to the ringing of the evening bells, Dart continued, long into the night, dancing with her sword.
Alone.
Still, a small part of her wondered.
Would he come?
4
A WINTER’S CLOAK
BRANT SCOWLED AT THE FINERY DRAPED OVER HIS FORM. Arms out, he stood perched on a stool as a gaggle of women tucked and folded, pinched and pinned. A slim-waisted tailor in a peaked cap strode in a tight circle around them all, calling out final measurements and instructions.
Finally, the man clapped his hands. “Perfect! But we’ll raise the collar just a bit to hide that scar on your neck.”
Brant gratefully lowered his arms.
He was dressed in shades of blue, from navy leggings to a ruffled azure shirt, the hues of Oldenbrook. But his position as Hand of blood was also represented in his dressings: a piping of crimson down the leggings, with matching sash to be pinned at the shoulder with a clip of gold, along with gold buttons for the shirt. It was all topped by a navy half cloak, tasseled with crimson.
“Off with it! We’ll make the final adjustments and have it all ready for packing by the morning.” A sound escaped the man, a mix of exasperation and satisfaction. “Hurry now! We have another three Hands to fit!”
Brant climbed from the stool, shed the clothes, and ushered everyone out of his rooms. Once alone, he pulled on his usual worn leathers and boots. He caught a reflection in the mirror that the tailor had hauled up here. He lifted his chin. One hand rose to touch the scar, mapping it with a finger, then dropped away.
A reminder of another life—one best forgotten.
He turned away. A loud sigh flowed from him as he grabbed his unstrung bow. It would be good to escape the city for the rest of the day.
All of the High Wing was in an excited flurry. Half the Hands were readying themselves for the flight to Tashijan the day after tomorrow. The others would remain to attend Lord Jessup, who, of course, could not leave his realm. The selected Hands would represent his Lordship and the entire realm at the knighting of the new regent.
After the long winter, the festivities had the entire castillion aflutter, a bit of pomp and color after the perpetual drab.
Brant shook his head at the foolishness.
The coming ceremony at Tashijan was plainly a symbolic gesture of unification and healing for the First Land. Brant would have been happy to forgo such posturing, but he had his reasons for not refusing Jessup’s request that he join the outgoing retinue. First, he respected Lord Jessup and could hardly refuse anyway, but also he wished to investigate further into the mystery of the castellan’s new page.
Brant’s fingers traced the stone around his neck.
A sharp squeal drew his attention toward the door to his room. It came from the outer hall. Now what? He shouldered his quiver of freshly fletched arrows and hurried to the door.
As he pulled it open, he heard Liannora, Mistress of Tears, let out another delighted exclamation. “I must have it before we leave! The fur will make the perfect winter cloak!”
Brant stepped out as Liannora graced a tall man with a kiss to the cheek. Brant recognized the head of the castillion guards, a fellow with flowing blond hair, braided back from an angular face, and flint-hard dark eyes. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, half-bowed to accept her kiss. There were few who didn’t know how the man favored the lithe Mistress of Tears.
“Thank you, Sten. Your gift could not be more opportune.” She clapped her hands in her excitement.
One other didn’t share her mood. The tailor stood to one side, face clouded with worry. “As fresh as this hide is, it will take much Grace and alchemy to tan this much skin in time.”
“I don’t care how much it costs,” Liannora said. “It can come out of my own purse.”
Brant had no interest and tried to sidestep the others, but his motion drew Liannora’s attention. She glanced him up and down, her smile hardening to distaste.
“Off on your hunt for a few scrawny rabbits and frozen birds, are we, Master Brant?” she asked.
Brant shrugged. “Best to be out of the way.”
“Perhaps you should take Sten with you. It seems he could teach you a thing or two about hunting these woods.”
“I’ll manage. Thank you.” He stepped away.
Liannora blocked him and revealed her gift from the guardsman. She motioned with her hand. “Here is the work of a true hunter.”
Brant glanced at the floor, where a fresh hide lay draped and spread.
Liannora turned away, missing Brant’s shocked expression.
“The snowy fur will match my new dress perfectly,” she said, too excited even to toy with Brant any longer. Her full attention was with the tailor. She pointed to the hide. “And we must keep the gray tufts at the ear tips for the hood. Everyone must know it’s not just an ordinary wolf cloak. The tufts will let everyone know it came from a Fell wolf!”
Brant stumbled back. He knew where the hide had come from. He pictured the gaunt and starving Fell wolf that had hunted his track in the icy woods, begging for bloody scraps.
Dried blood still stained the hide. It was a fresh kill, no older than half a day. He note
d the ragged tear of the hide at the rear ankle. No skinning knife had done that. It was the work of a razor snare, a cruel trap. How long had she been snared, the wire slicing to bone as she struggled?
Brant eyed the leader of the castillion guard. The man continued to drink up Liannora’s attention like fine wine. He was no hunter—only a butcher. Brant would remember.
Brant headed toward the back of the High Wing, toward the tower that would lead down and out. He had another duty now before he set off for Tashijan.
He was a hunter. As one who followed and respected the Way, he knew why the she-wolf had come to him in the winter wood—and what pain had dulled the cunning of such a great beast to allow it to be snared.
It was more than hunger.
Brant remembered the smaller eyes that had glowed from the deeper forest as he had departed: a pair of cubbies, the children of the she-wolf.
She had only been protecting her whelpings, driven to extremes, far from home. And according to the path of the Way, such children were now his responsibility.
He had no choice.
He had to hunt them down.
The stilted city creaked and moaned as Brant stepped farther out onto the ice. Though the skies were still achingly blue, the winds had already begun to gust. The air smelled of storm. Snow was coming. Heavy snow. The northern skies were already lowering with dark clouds. Ice fog lay across the frozen lake as the day grew colder with almost every breath.
Brant returned his attention to the pair of loam-giants who stood guard at the foot of the tower. The massive twins huddled from the worst of the wind, buried in their furred long-coats, leaning on pikes.
“The scabbers came from that direction,” Malthumalbaen said, raising a stout arm. “Should’ve seen ’em. All singing and pounding their round shields, like they had wrested a wyrm with their own bared hands.”
Dralmarfillneer nodded his head, scowling his agreement with his twin brother. “Mal speaks true. Stinking of ale, too. Could smell them long before you could see ’em.”
Hinterland Page 7