“I thought he was a knight,” Penni said. “What with there being so many strangers, coming and going.”
Kathryn understood the maid’s consternation. Tashijan’s knightly residents had tripled in number, gathering from near and fear, a mad rabble of ravens come to witness the momentous event.
“He claimed to be your friend,” Penni continued in a rush. “Come on urgent matters, he says, so I let him into your rooms.” The maid lowered her voice to a whisper. “But then he let his masklin drop. It were no knight.”
Kathryn relaxed.
There was only one person that would be so bold as to masquerade himself as a shadowknight within the very fold of the Order. Rogger. She had not heard a single word since the thief had vanished into the throngs below. He must have donned such a disguise so he might attend Tylar’s welcome. It would be good to hear what tidings Rogger had gleaned from listening to the low whispers and the ale-addled braggings, words that seldom reached as high as her hermitage.
Kathryn stepped past Penni.
At her elbow, the maid finished her breathless tale. “Though he has a soft tongue, he was too fearsome for me to stay in the same room-so I waited out here.”
Kathryn frowned at the faintheartedness of the young girl. Who would ever find Rogger fearsome? Glad for a familiar face, she pushed into her room with a creak of the door hinges.
Penni shadowed her, keeping behind her cloak. “I’ve heard stories of their ilk,” she said. “Painting their faces with ash to hide their true names, even from each other.”
Kathryn realized her mistake.
It was not Rogger who had come calling.
The tall figure turned from her hearth, the only light in the room. He indeed wore a shadowcloak. She noted how its edges vanished into the darkness beyond. And his face was indeed daubed black, traditional for members of the Black Flag, the murderous guild of pirates and brigands.
He shed his cloak’s hood to reveal a knotted braid of hair made snow white by years under salt and sea. Many years. Centuries in fact. Here stood the near-mythic figure of the Flaggers’ leader. Beneath his cloak he wore a fine cut of black leathers, from boots to collar, and at his waist he carried a sheathed sword, Serpentfang, a blade as famous as the knight who once wielded it.
“It is good to see you again, Castellan Vail,” Krevan said with a slight bow.
She crossed into the room. “Why have you come, Ser Kay?”
The man frowned. “Raven ser Kay died long ago. It is merely Krevan now.”
Krevan the Merciless, she thought to herself. Three centuries ago, he had been a legendary shadowknight. But he had hidden a great secret from all, a secret exposed upon the point of a sword, one driven through his heart. He had not died from his wound-for he had no heart. Born among the Wyr, an enemy of the Order, Raven ser Kay was unlike any other man. Since the founding of the first god-realm, Wyr-lords had been churning dark alchemies in their hidden and forbidden forges, attempting to imbue man with immortality. Krevan was one of their great successes. He had been born with a living blood that flowed through his veins without the need for the beat of a heart, thus slowing his aging.
But exposed as one of the Wyr’s cursed offspring, the former Raven Knight had to die, to vanish into myths. And out of those mists of time, Krevan was born anew, embittered, turning his skills as a knight to less noble pursuits. The heartless became the merciless.
Still, the man had not forgotten his honor.
“How may I help you?” Kathryn asked. “Have you come for Tylar’s knighting?”
Krevan waved such a thought away. “A cloak does not make a man.” He stepped from the hearth toward her. There was an urgency to the motion. A hand reached out for her.
She took a reflexive step back. Her own cloak surged around her, ready to fold her into the shadows and grant speed to her limbs.
“You have the cursed skull,” he said. “The skull of the rogue god.”
Kathryn was taken aback by his statement-then remembered Rogger’s story of another who had been hunting the same talisman, someone with a face painted black. So it hadn’t been just a low-level Flagger seeking a fast splash of silver. The desire had come from the very top.
“What interest is the skull to you?” she asked.
His eyes flashed and a ferocity entered his voice. “I must have it. It should never have been brought here. Especially here. Especially now.”
“Why? What do you mean?”
Krevan suddenly was at her side, moving with the swiftness of shadows. He clutched her elbow. “I must have it!”
Penni squeaked by the door.
Before Krevan could offer any further explanation, a splintering crash echoed from above. The floor shook.
Everyone froze.
A single trumpet blared high above, a warning of fire, a call for buckets. The sound of pounding feet echoed from the hall outside, heard through the crack.
Kathryn turned as someone rapped hard on her door. It creaked farther open with the impact. Penni blocked it with a toe.
“Castellan Vail!” a familiar voice called.
It was Lowl, manservant to the warden. Kathryn turned to Krevan-but the leader of the Black Flaggers was gone from her side. She twisted around. He had vanished into the shadows and away. She noted a slight waft to the heavy drapery over the windows that opened onto her private balcony.
She knew that if she yanked back the drapes, she’d find nothing but a window cracked open and the balcony just as empty.
Krevan was gone.
Through the open window, shouts echoed, coming from the top of Stormwatch. Kathryn pictured the high docks that surmounted the tower. Only one flippercraft had still been expected this day.
Another trumpet blast reverberated, sounding strident and panicked.
“Castellan Vail!”
Kathryn returned her attention to the door and waved Penni to open it. The maid removed her foot and tugged on the latch.
Lowl stood at her threshold, flanked by guards who shifted uneasily, glancing down the hall toward the center stairs. Lowl stood wide-eyed, tall and spindly-limbed. He shook all over. Kathryn expected to hear his bones rattle.
“What has happened?” she asked.
“Warden Fields sent me to fetch you! Word had come that the flippercraft from Chrismferry had been spotted in the skies, outrunning the coming storm, arriving early.” He winced from another trumpet blast. “He-Warden Fields wanted you in attendance above. For-for the welcome.”
Plainly the manservant had been sent before whatever mishap had befallen that same arrival. Kathryn rushed to the door. She would get no answers from the man.
She pushed through the guards, fellow shadowknights with crimson stitching on the shoulders of their cloaks. The Fiery Cross. Argent’s men.
Lowl called to her. “Warden Fields asked that you present yourself in attire most fitting for the occasion and to-”
Kathryn ignored the man and drew power to her cloak from the shadows, increasing her pace. She sped down the hall to the central stair. The steps were packed with other knights, drawn by the commotion. She shed her cloak enough to let her diadem shine.
“Clear the way for the castellan!” she boomed.
The black sea of cloaks parted. She raced upward through them. Near the top, she saw men and women, mostly lineworkers and dock laborers, rushing by with buckets. A large cistern occupied this level, kept always full for just such a crisis.
She followed a burly man in heavy boots, slogging with a bucket in each fist. He plowed a path for her to follow. The door appeared ahead, propped open against a gusting wind that pushed down at them, as if warding them back.
Kathryn smelled the smoke-then she was through the door and out onto the high dock.
The chill struck her first, frigid enough to pierce her fevered panic. She wrapped the tattered shadows around her, pulling her cloak tight. One hand pulled her hood up against the wind.
She then stepped clear of the chao
s, allowing the workers to battle the flames. But it appeared the worst was already over. Smoke churned into the twilight murk as the sun set to the west, already lost in heavy clouds.
A few patches of fire rose from the crushed belly of the flippercraft. It had landed on the cradle, but it had come in too hard, cracking the supports and smashing to the stone. Flames licked from a few cracks in the bottom-most planks, coming from the housing that sheltered the craft’s main mekanicals and reservoirs of alchemy.
Through the smoke, Kathryn smelled the acrid yet oddly sweet tang of burnt blood. The entire mekanicals must have combusted with the crash. Kathryn imagined the ship had come in already overheated, mekanicals under full roil. Now the flames were consuming all.
She edged around toward the far side. She spotted the open rear door to the flippercraft. Men and women were gathered there, churning a bit in confusion. Kathryn spotted Argent ser Fields. He stood head-high above the others, atop a crate. He was shouting something, but the wind took his words.
Kathryn pushed toward the crowd.
Where was Tylar?
Worry had her shoving rudely, almost knocking over a woman rushing past with an empty bucket.
She searched the faces ahead, recognizing guards in the golds and umbers of Chrismferry, alongside several Hands of Chrismferry.
Finally, she reached an eddy in the chaos, an open space between the dockworkers and the gathering passengers who had disembarked. She stepped closer, ready with a thousand questions. But first she had to find Tylar.
From the skies, snow drifted down out of the darkening clouds. Winds buffeted the heavy flakes into thick swirls. The snowfall mixed with the smoke and began to settle over the ruin. It would take several days to clear the wreckage. Not the most auspicious arrival for the new regent.
One flake landed on Kathryn’s cheek.
The cold stung like the bite of a mud-wasp, but she wiped the flake away, too focused on her search to mind the cold. Still, she tugged up her masklin against the icy snowfall. After cinching the facecloth in place, she held out a hand for a moment. Flakes settled to her palm and melted.
She shook her head and stepped again toward the crowd around Argent. She could now hear his voice.
“Everyone head below! We’ll escort you to your rooms!”
The churn of the crowd shifted in her direction. She still had not spotted Tylar. Then motion near the flippercraft drew her eye. She saw Tylar stepping down the rear ramp. He was not alone. A young woman leaned close to him. The ship’s captain flanked his other side. Tylar was speaking to the man with some urgency.
The captain nodded and set off toward the flaming mekanicals.
Tylar stepped to the stones of Tashijan, the first time in a year. His eyes swept the crowd, as if counting heads.
Thank the gods, he appeared to be uninjured.
Tylar’s eyes narrowed when they settled upon Argent.
Kathryn headed toward him. Best to keep Tylar and Argent apart as much as possible, especially when Tylar’s blood was surely overheated already. The storm had ruined the welcome already. No need to make matters worse.
Kathryn recognized the color in Tylar’s cheeks and the narrow set to his lips. Now would not be a good time for anyone to challenge him. Best to get him to his room. Then the two could talk about what had happened here…and other matters.
Tylar turned, as if sensing her approach.
For the first time, Kathryn noted his hand clasped with the woman’s. It was Delia. Tylar’s Hand of blood. Also Argent’s estranged daughter.
Tylar leaned over to whisper something in his companion’s ear. Most likely to reassure the young woman. Kathryn recalled Tylar doing the same with her in the past, his warm breath on her neck, the way his voice could cut through to her heart and calm its beat.
She took a deep breath through her masklin and lifted an arm to catch his eye.
Delia shifted to face Tylar more fully.
For a moment, too quick for any but Kathryn to note, her lips brushed against his. Tylar’s palm slid along her arm. Then the two slipped back and faced the disembarked crowd of fellow passengers.
Kathryn lowered her half-raised arm. Unbidden, shadows drew around her more fully. She took a step away, withdrawing into them. Her heart pounded, and as the sun set into the growing storm, it suddenly went darker-and colder.
The storm would be a fierce one.
Off to the side, a cheer arose from those who fought the fires. The flames had finally been vanquished. All was secure again.
Kathryn retreated, lost in smoke and shadows.
Tylar turned in her direction-but she was already gone.
A SWORD OF STEEL
The blare of a trumpet, muffled and faint, reached Dart’s hiding place. Something had stirred the tower. She heard distant shouts, too.
But she dared not move.
Not yet.
She hid in an alcove down the hall from the central stairs and chewed one of her knuckles. She shared her hiding space with a gray marble statue. It depicted some famous knight, one who bore a raven on his shoulder, though its beak had been broken off some time in the distant past.
She shouldn’t be here. She knew better, but she could not help herself. She was supposed to be down in the library, learning the history of Tashijan, with her fellow pages. But she had begged off, claiming some urgent business with the castellan. With a disinterested wave, the owl-eyed archivist had dismissed her-though her subterfuge earned a rash of sneers from her peers. All would have liked an excuse to escape the tedious study of dates and endless lists of battles. Especially with all the excitement of late. For the past day, the entire Citadel had practically thrummed like a plucked bowstring. It was hard for any of them to sit still.
But worst of all for Dart.
She knew when the retinue from Oldenbrook was due. She had learned which rooms they were to occupy and had gone and found a vantage from which to spy on the outer hall. She had waited through two bells, but she was eventually rewarded by their arrival, led by a tall woman in a snowy fur who seemed as fresh as if she had just returned from a garden stroll. Dart recognized her as the mistress of tears. At her shoulder strode a man, a guardsman from the look of him, resplendent in finery that matched the mistress’s. His eyes remained on the fur-cloaked Hand, while she seemed oblivious to him, deep in conversation with Castellan Vail, talking animatedly.
Dart had pushed deeper into her alcove, fearing being spotted by the castellan. What excuse could she offer for hiding here? Pupp had no such worry. He had been curled at her feet, but the commotion of the arriving party revived him. He trotted out into the hallway.
Though none could see him, she hissed under her breath and waved him back to the alcove. He reluctantly obeyed. Still, his stubbed tail wagged with excitement.
Dart understood. Despite the risk, she could not help peeking out. Another two Hands followed the one in the snowy-furred cloak. A man and a woman. One thin, one wide. Then Dart’s attention shifted to a pair of massive guards-loam-giants from the size of them-who shouldered out of the stairwell. She gaped at them. They carried a crate slung between them.
As they stepped aside, a more familiar figure appeared behind them.
The bronze boy.
Dart’s heart trembled somewhere between relief and terror.
So he had come.
He was a year ahead of her at school, so she had never known him well, but after encountering him in Oldenbrook, she had sought to learn more. Including his name. Brant. She tested the name now, mouthing it. It somehow fit him.
Her former schoolmate stopped with the giants near the stairs, shrugged aside a heavy winter cloak, and pointed an arm. “The houndskeep lies past the bailey. Take them down, get them settled, but keep them under watch. None are to see them until the morning.”
The giants nodded and headed away.
Brant watched them for a breath. He looked somehow thinner, paler than when last she’d seen him-though as he tur
ned back to the hall, a fire burnt in his manner. He tromped after his party. His eyes narrowed upon the mistress of tears and her tall escort. Plainly there was some trouble here.
Dart kept one eye peeked as Castellan Vail assigned rooms. The boy vanished into his own with barely a word to any of the others.
She maintained her post until the hall was empty. Even the escorts had vanished with their captain, gone to break bread. And test the Citadel’s ale, she imagined.
She dared tarry no longer. The regent’s flippercraft would be mooring soon. Still, as Dart stepped out, she had to bite back a desire to knock on Brant’s door. If she could swear him to her secret…then she’d have nothing to fear. Maybe they could even share a-
A latch scraped ahead of her.
Dart crabbed backward with a wheel of her arms, ducking back into her alcove. Brant’s door opened. He glanced up and down the hall as if someone had rapped on his door. Or maybe it was the trumpets that had blared for the past half bell, echoing down from the top of Stormwatch.
Dart studied him.
He was dressed the same, still in his heavy winter cloak and boots. Seemingly satisfied that he was alone, he headed for the stairs. Where was he going? To investigate the trumpets? To sample the ale here, like the guards?
He reached the far stairs. Dart craned her neck to see, curious where he was going. Without a glance back, he headed down.
She drew after him, her feet moving on their own. Pupp trotted ahead of her down the hall.
Upon reaching the landing, she searched below. He had already vanished around a curve in the stairs. She hesitated on the steps. Her spying had already revealed what she had wanted to know. He had come. It was best now that she return to the castellan’s hermitage. The first evening bell would be ringing any moment. The regent’s flippercraft was due to arrive. Castellan Vail would expect her to attend the welcoming.
Still, she stood on the landing, burning with curiosity, tempered by a trace of fear. What to do?
Then her decision was taken from her.
Pupp bounded down the stairs after the boy, perhaps responding to some unspoken desire in her own heart. She hissed at him, but only faintly. A moment later, she pursued her ghostly companion.
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