“Under the warden’s sigil, she is to be taken to be soothed.”
“Where?” Laurelle asked again.
“To the adjudicator’s main chambers. Soothmancers are already testing the word of her accusers.”
Dart scowled. Squire Pyllor and his ilk.
“Mistress,” the knight continued, “even you cannot countermand the warden’s orders.” He seemed to draw strength from that, blustering his cloak more broadly.
Laurelle bowed her head. It was toward Dart, but the knight mistook it as resigned acquiescence. Especially since Laurelle stepped aside.
Dart was dragged up to the landing and off the stairs. The last she saw of her two friends, they were already heading up, flanked by the giants.
Laurelle caught her eye, her expression ripe with guilt.
It seemed the surprise was on the both of them.
Brant paused at the landing of the level where the retinue from Oldenbrook was housed. “Take the whelpings to my room,” he ordered the twin giants. “Keep them protected.”
Malthumalbaen nodded, his brow furrowed heavily with worry. “I can leave the little mites with Dral. He promised not to eat them. Best I come with you.”
Brant appreciated his large-hearted companion’s concern. “None will dare accost two Hands of Myrillia.”
He glanced over to the young woman, a dark-haired beauty with the large eyes to match. He remembered her from the Conclave of Chrismferry, always surrounded by a giggling flock of girls, circled by doe-eyed boys.
No longer.
She stood alone on the step. And though she had grown softer-edged, and more full of figure, she had also grown more serious. A purposeful set to her lips. A hard glint to the eye. Since she had left the school, the world had tempered her like a sword’s blade under a hammer. And if anything, it made her even more striking to the eye.
“Be safe, Master Brant,” Malthumalbaen warned in a fretful grumble.
He nodded and stepped to rejoin Laurelle—as a door swung open across the hall.
“Ah, there you are!” A sharp voice rang out.
Oh, no…
Liannora swept into the hall. She must have heard them talking and come to inquire. She had shed her silver and jeweled finery and wore a simple yet well-cut dress of white silk, a match to her hair, and a blue wool cape that reached to her ankles.
She barely noted the giants, despite their size. “The guards have been looking for you for the past bell. Sten has ordered us all to our rooms.”
And as if summoned by his name, the captain of the Oldenbrook guard stepped out of Liannora’s room. He was still dressed in the stiff-collared blues of Oldenbrook. But Brant noted the top two buttons at his throat were unhooked.
As he pushed into the hall, the two wolf cubbies suddenly wrestled in the giants’ thick-fingered grips, snarling, baring their tiny milk teeth. Their eyes narrowed on the captain of the castillion guard. They had recognized the scent of their mother’s killer.
“What are those two foul creatures doing here?” Liannora asked with a crinkle of her nose. “They reek most pungently. I thought they were to be taken down to the houndskeep.”
Brant had no patience to explain. “They will be kept in my room.” He nodded for the giants to obey, to get the cubbies out of sight.
Liannora started to protest, but Sten lightly touched her elbow. She seemed to melt slightly toward him.
“Be that as it may,” Sten said sternly. “I will ask that you do the same, Master Brant. With whispers of daemons afoot, it is my duty to protect Lord Jessup’s Hands.”
“I have a duty elsewhere,” Brant said. He would not be caged like the cubbies, kept guarded by Sten and his ilk. He turned to step away.
Sten put a hand on Brant’s shoulder. “I must insist.”
Brant glanced from the captain’s hand up to the man’s eyes and hardened his countenance. He let show the danger if the captain persisted.
Sten lowered his arm. “I have my orders.”
Brant noted that several of Sten’s fellow guards had gathered by now. Ahead and behind. He backed toward the stairs. Some silent signal was passed, and Brant heard the snick of steel sliding from sheaths.
“When threatened by danger, it is my duty to protect Lord Jessup’s Hands—whether they want it or not.”
Then Laurelle was there, at his shoulder. “And does that apply to the regent’s Hands as well, Captain?”
All eyes swung to her, seemingly seeing her for the first time.
The first to react was Liannora. She made a small sound of shocked delight. “Mistress Hothbrin…the regent’s Hand of tears…” Liannora pushed through the swords, waving them aside as if they were mere reeds. “It is an honor. A true honor.”
Brant stared at the two Hands—one from Oldenbrook, the other from Chrismferry. One white-haired, the other with tresses darker than a raven’s feather. But their dissimilarity ran much deeper. Though Laurelle was the younger, there was a well of nobility about her that Liannora would forever fail to fill.
Laurelle ignored the guardsmen and barely acknowledged Liannora. She kept her attention on the captain, immediately knowing who held the power.
“I’ve asked Master Brant here to accompany me on a duty vital to Tashijan,” she said. “Upon the orders of the regent himself—who I have heard is most loved by your god. I fear how Lord Jessup might react if he discovers such a simple request was rebuffed upon the point of a sword.”
Sten’s cheeks grew a little color. Brant suspected it wasn’t all her words. Laurelle’s beautiful eyes were full upon him.
Still, Sten had not been made captain of the guard for a weak will. “The safety of my charges—”
“You may relax your guard, Captain. All those involved in the dark matter have been captured. Tashijan is secure again.” She read the doubt in the captain’s eyes, a doubt he dared not speak aloud. “You have my word as the regent’s Hand. You may send word yourself, but in the meantime, our matter is most urgent and we must proceed with haste to speak to the warden and the castellan.”
To the side, Liannora’s eyes widened. With all this talk of high personages, she must have been biting her tongue to keep from licking her lips. But she finally set loose her tongue. “Sten, mayhap it would be best if we all accompanied Mistress Hothbrin to the Eyrie. Your guards can watch the doors here, while we follow Mistress Hothbrin and Master Brant up the tower.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Laurelle assured her.
Liannora would accept no objections. “Since the feast was dismissed, it is only seemly for more than one Hand from Oldenbrook attend an introduction to the warden and the castellan.”
Laurelle glanced at Brant, leaving it to his judgment.
He knew it would take too long to argue here. Besides, Sten still had swords and guardsmen. And he would bend steel to make anything Liannora wished come true. But mostly Brant recalled the fear in Dart’s eyes as she was led away. Better to relent and quash any further delays.
He nodded to Laurelle.
“We must be off quickly, then,” she said and swept back to the stairs.
Liannora hesitated, running a palm over her woolen cape, glancing down to her white dress. Brant read her consternation. For such an important introduction, Liannora was loath to appear in such meager attire. She was caught between missing this chance and settling for her present condition. The lure of power settled the matter. She set off after Laurelle, but not before casting a withering glance at Brant, as if this were all his fault.
Sten followed with Brant after barking a few orders to the remainder of his men. They continued their climb toward the highest levels of Tashijan. Liannora attempted conversation with Laurelle, but the girl set a fast pace on the stair. Soon shortness of wind silenced Oldenbrook’s mistress of tears.
Brant hid a grin. Laurelle had the wits to match her looks.
Around and around they went. The crowds grew thinner the higher they climbed. A commotion drew his attention back down the stai
rs. Below, a shadowknight brushed out of the remaining crowd, cloak billowing with Grace. He was masked, showing only the triple stripes of his caste, but something in his manner was black with danger.
Even Sten lowered a palm to the hilt of his sheathed sword.
In the knight’s wake, a stick of a man with a riotous sprout of red-gray beard followed. It looked as if the second fellow was carrying a dead animal in his arms. Only when half a flight away did Brant recognize it to be no more than a rumpled furred coat.
“Out of the way!” he yelled. “Curse you all black, get clear!”
Laurelle paused, half turning. Her eyes brightened with recognition. “Rogger!”
The gaunt man’s eyes found her. And something glinted in his eye. A warning. As good as a finger to her lips.
Laurelle had barely noted the knight at the man’s side—but now she glanced back and stared more intently. She opened her mouth, closed it, touched her hair. She was hiding something, something about the cloaked figure.
Brant eyed the knight more closely as he swept up to them.
“Ser Knight,” Laurelle said, a bit stiffly. “We are on our way to speak to Castellan Vail. On matters of some importance. Would you be gracious enough to escort us?”
He bowed his head, swept through them, and headed up without a word.
Liannora plainly found some offense at his silence, especially as he displaced her glorious Sten as their protector. But she remained quiet.
They climbed the last three levels in strained awkwardness. At last, they vacated the stairs for a wide hall. Here the roof’s arched supports stretched taller than on other floors. The knight led them forward.
They passed a wide door flanked by shadowknights. The Warden’s Eyrie. Their guide failed to nod toward his brethren, even turning his face slightly away. Brant wondered at it, but then they reached another tall door. It had to be the castellan’s hermitage.
He knocked.
Laurelle stepped up to him, half-blocking the way. “I believe the castellan wishes to see only myself and Master Brant here.”
Liannora overheard. “If Master Brant is to attend Castellan Vail, then I should be present as senior Hand to Lord Jessup.”
The knight studied Liannora over his black masklin. The door opened behind him, limning him in firelight. His voice was a low growl, thick with command. “You will be summoned at the castellan’s pleasure. Until then, you will wait without.”
The gaunt man named Rogger pushed through the doorway, but not before making a bit of sweetbrittle appear in his fingertips and offering it to the mouse-haired maid who bowed at the door.
“Sweet for the sweetest,” he said.
The knight bustled the rest of them inside. Before the door closed, Brant captured the look of raw fury in Liannora’s face. To climb so far, only to be thwarted at the very last step. He knew there would be a cost to all this, but he didn’t have time to worry about such matters.
Especially as the knight shook back his cloak’s hood and shed his masklin. Brant recognized the face with a startled shock.
The castellan, wearing a matching cloak, appeared from a back chamber and hurried forward. She confirmed Brant’s appraisal. “Tylar…where have you been?”
Brant gaped at the man. Tylar ser Noche. Here was the Godslayer…and regent of Chrismferry. In disguise. But why?
“The storm,” the castellan said. “Gerrod believes there is something wrong with it.”
Tylar nodded. “We’re under siege. Eylan has been stolen by seersong. But worst yet, the hand that drives the storm—”
Laurelle cut him off, her voice strident with worry. “Dart is in danger!”
They all glanced to her.
“She’s been captured by the warden’s men. She is to be soothed as we speak!”
Her words drew glances all around, but their eyes settled on Brant. He felt like an intruder, as if he had walked into a private tryst.
Rogger was the only one wearing an amused expression. “It seems we all bring such happy tidings. What about you, young man?”
He blinked, unsure where to start. “I—I bring a message from Tracker Lorr. Something foul hides in the bowels of Tashijan—and has begun to rise.”
The thin man sighed with a shake of his head and mumbled under his breath. “So much for glad tidings this day.”
Tylar stepped closer. Brant had to resist stepping away. The man seemed a thundercloud clenched in a cloak. “Tell us of this danger.”
Brant quickly retold his tale, starting from his discovery of Dart being attacked and ending with the wyld tracker setting off to discover more about what lurked beneath Tashijan.
“Danger from without and within,” Kathryn said.
“It must be the Cabal,” Tylar said. “Seeking to strike at the heart of the First Land. As Tashijan stands, so does Myrillia.”
“We must rally the towers.” Kathryn headed toward the door. “The warden must be informed of the threat. He’s down in the adjudicators’ chamber, attending the soothings.”
“Dart—” Laurelle reminded everyone.
Kathryn nodded. She had not forgotten. “We can use the crisis to help delay her soothing. Even Argent will set aside such matters when all of Tashijan is at risk.”
Rogger scratched his beard with a single finger. “If we’re not too late already…”
Brant followed the others, wondering if the strange man was referring to Dart—or to all of Tashijan.
Dart stood under guard at the edge of the adjudicators’ chamber, under an arched threshold, awaiting her summons. She had a clear view into the oval room—and of her accuser.
Squire Pyllor sat atop a wooden chair, painted crimson. It stood in the room’s center. Before him rose the high bench of the adjudicators, those men and women who settled matters of dispute and justice for Tashijan. It filled the back half of the oval chamber, while behind him rose three sets of tiered seats. But most of those seats were empty.
Not so the high bench.
Warden Fields sat in the centermost seat, flanked by a pair of adjudicators, an elderly man and a younger woman, dressed in gray suits, with the silver rings of their station adorning each finger and ear.
Behind Pyllor stood a figure cowled in a bloodred robe, a soothmancer. A second of his caste knelt nearby, dribbling drops of fiery alchemy into a silver bowl. The first mancer had his fingers spread, touching Pyllor at forehead, temple, and angle of jaw.
Dart read the pain from the squint in Pyllor’s eyes and the thin stretch of his lips as he answered the questions. The soothmancer, his fingertips anointed in the alchemy, read the truth of his words. Dart had never been soothed before, but she had heard tales of the flaming touch of the mancer’s alchemies, born from the blood of gods rich in the aspect of fire. It burnt away all deceptions.
“And you intended great harm to the page?” the elderly adjudicator said.
Pyllor trembled under the mancer’s touch. His severed arm was bound to his chest and wrapped in numbing salves. But the pain of telling the truth could not be so easily numbed.
“We only wanted to scare her,” Pyllor mumbled through a gasp.
A small shake from the soothmancer dismissed his words.
“Do not make us ask you again,” Warden Fields said gruffly. “Out with it. The entire story.”
Pyllor squirmed. “We were only looking for a bit of mischief. It was the ale. We drank too much. Talked too boldly. Dared too fiercely. We went out looking for mischief…not truly expecting to find it. Then…then Page Hothbrin appeared. I owed her.”
“For what?” asked the woman in gray. Her eyes were flint and steel.
“Swordmaster Yuril took me to task for being too hard on her during sword practice. Shamed me.”
“So you sought to do the same to Page Hothbrin.”
Pyllor attempted to hide his face, but his head was firmly gripped by the soothmancer behind him. “Yes.”
Under further inquiry, he went on to describe her abdu
ction and the aftermath of his attempted attack. Though Dart had come too late to hear the other two squires’ stories, most of what Pyllor related seemed only to corroborate the others’ statements.
She found her knees trembling with the telling. Circumstance and chance more than malicious forethought had brought her here. Now she was moments from being exposed, her secrets laid bare before the burning touch of the soothmancers.
“Describe this daemon who took your arm.”
“It—it came out of the darkness. Fiery and fierce. It struck me and knocked me back. I didn’t see it well. Bloodred eyes—that’s all I saw.” Pyllor shook his head, almost dislodging the soothmancer.
Dart knew Pyllor had been panicked, in tears, eyes squeezed closed at the end. Even now terror seemed to leach away any further details.
“Calm yourself,” the elderly adjudicator said with a tempered measure of compassion.
The three at the high bench leaned together, heads bowed in private.
Dart missed most of their words. Only a brief snippet reached her from the younger adjudicator. “Their stories stand together…but they strike out wildly when it comes to this daemon.”
Finally they broke their conversation with a glance toward Dart. From their eyes, she knew they would seek those answers from her.
“That will be all,” Argent said to Pyllor. Fury hardened the edges of his words. “You are dismissed. Your punishment will be settled and exacted later.”
Pyllor was released. He was led to the side tiers by another knight in full cloak and masklin. Pyllor glanced toward her, then quickly away. She was shocked by the fear that shone in his face—fear of her.
Then her name was called.
“Page Hothbrin,” the elderly adjudicator summoned. “Approach the bench to be soothed.”
Ushered by two knights, Dart stepped from under the arched threshold and out into the center of the room. The soothmancer, who had been judging Pyllor, knelt beside the silver bowl on the floor and dipped his fingers into the alchemy, readying for Dart’s inquisition.
She was led to the chair and sat. She gripped the hard edges of her seat to keep from shaking. The source of all this discourse—Pupp—circled and circled the chair. He sensed her consternation but plainly did not know where to direct his wrath.
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