It was a wide passage. A four-draft carriage could have been pulled over the tapestried rug that ran down the hall. Tall, arched stained windows lined one side with historical depictions, but the starlight was too dim to illuminate the scenes, making them appear gloomy and menacing. Along the other wall, eight narrow doors awaited, one for each handservant. Lanterns flanked each threshold, but a fiercer rosy light rose from a grand brazier that stood halfway down the hall’s length, where the passage widened into a half circle. Its brightness glowed upon a set of golden double doors that opened into Chrism’s private chambers.
Dart’s eyes remained fixed on those massive doors, fearing they would open. She had not faced Lord Chrism since that humiliating encounter in the Eldergarden, where she mistook him for a common laborer, treated him rudely and roughly.
Oblivious to her fear, the matron led them down the passageway. At the end of the hall lay a complex suite of libraries, studies, dining rooms, meant for the private use of the Hands to Chrism. Dart could not imagine communing with such esteemed personages as the other handservants. She heard voices echoing. A few of the Hands were still awake.
Before reaching the central brazier, Shashyl stopped before one of the doors. “Mistress Laurelle, these are the rooms reserved for the Hand of Tears.” She turned and formally placed a thick silver key in Laurelle’s palm. “Blessed in Lord Chrism’s own tears.”
Laurelle gaped at the key in her hand. Dart found some comfort that her normally assured friend was a tad overwhelmed by the moment. Their eyes met. Laurelle smiled almost shyly.
“Go ahead,” Dart said, nodding to the door.
Laurelle used her key. The latch snicked, and the door swung open on silent, well-oiled hinges. Beyond, Dart caught a glimpse of a private greeting chamber, appointed in rich silks, thick carpets, and a hearth gone to ruddy coals. Other rooms could be seen opening deeper into the suite.
“I’ll introduce you to your maids on the morrow,” Shashyl said as Laurelle hesitated at the threshold. “The entire wing was cleared of all but the Hands as a precaution.”
Laurelle took a deep breath and stepped through the doorway, eyes forward.
“Come now, Mistress Dart, let me show you to your room.”
As they began to turn away, Laurelle swung back around and hugged Dart tightly. “I’m so glad you’re here with me,” she whispered.
Dart hugged her back, feeling the same.
Matron Shashyl tolerated their display for only a few breaths. “Enough. It’s late.” She touched Dart’s shoulder. “Let’s get you settled and some willow bark tea into you before you retire.”
They broke their embrace. Laurelle watched them leave.
The matron led Dart past the glowing brazier. It was not ordinary iron, but a cage of petrified bone from some ancient creature. Its heat was like the sun on a summer day. Pupp nosed the bony brazier. His hackles rose as if bothered by the ancient scent of the long-dead beast. Dart tapped her thigh to draw him away.
They circled the brazier, slipping past the wide gold doors that led into Chrism’s private abode.
Matron Shashyl walked her to the neighboring door. “Here are your rooms. The Hand of Blood.” Again a key was pulled from a hidden pocket, but this time placed into Dart’s palm. “Blessed in Lord Chrism’s own blood,” she said formally.
It weighed heavily in Dart’s fingers. Not silver like Laurelle’s, but gold. Dart’s hand began to tremble. With such shaking, there was no way she could fit the key into the lock.
A hand rested on her shoulder. “Be not afraid,” Shashyl whispered with genuine motherly affection. “You would not have been chosen if you weren’t able to fill this duty.”
Dart had a thousand words for why this was not true, but she merely nodded. Taking a deep breath, she turned to the door.
Pupp pranced a step ahead of her, seeming to know her destination. No lock was needed for him. He simply walked through the door.
Fearing his mischief, Dart hurried to unlock the way. The entry hall beyond was laid out the same as Laurelle’s: stone walls warmed with fine Oldenbrook tapestries; floors covered with woven carpets of lamb’s wool, freshly brushed and sprinkled with sweet oils; two winged chairs of tufted goose down facing the hearth and standing as high as a grown man. The only difference to Laurelle’s room was that the tiny hearth had not died to coals in the absence of stoking, but still blazed merrily with licking flames.
Dart stepped into the room, searching for Pupp as the matron closed the door behind her, leaving her alone.
Dart spotted Pupp’s tail wagging from beyond one of the two chairs. She walked around to scold him, only then noting the figure seated in the same chair, the source of Pupp’s attention.
Her eyes grew wide with surprise. She was too startled to fall to her knees. “Lord Chrism . . .”
He was no longer dressed in the simple grubbery of a gardenkeep, but in a finery that outshone the hearth’s flames. His boots, polished and lavishly tooled black leather, reached to his knees. His breeches were billowed silk, dyed bronze to match his hair. His black half cloak mounted a shirt woven of finely spun gold strands.
Yet still there remained a harrowed edge to him. His hair, oiled and brushed back from his face, lay mussed as if worried fingers had combed through it. His eyes were puffy and shot with red. He appeared no more than a few birth years older than Dart, more a boy than a god—an exhausted, heartsore boy. Green eyes flecked with gold fell upon her, full of sorrow.
Lord Chrism raised a hand, motioning to the neighboring chair. “Sit with me. For a moment.”
Dart found his command easy to obey, her legs weakening with every breath. Had he discovered her soiled nature?
“I apologize for intruding into your private spaces,” he said. “But it was here that I knew Willym best. I thought to find some comfort.”
Dart’s voice was as soft as a mouse’s. She kept her eyes lowered to the floor. “All that I have is yours. I’m the intruder here. I’ll gladly return to the closet reserved for those in waiting.”
“No. Please. Stay. There are words I wish to share with you.”
She risked a glance up. “Me?” She recognized the true depth of sadness in his eyes. They were reddened from weeping. Each tear shed, rich in Grace, was as valuable as molten gold. But there was no repostilary resting on the small tea table. He shed such riches freely in the memory of Willym.
He sat forward. His entire manner spoke of exhaustion. “You are now my Hand.” He stretched an arm toward her, palm up.
Dart stared at it dumbly.
He waited, fingers outstretched, pleading in his eyes.
Dart rested her hand in his. Fingers closed around hers. His hand felt like any other. Warm, slightly moist. There was still a bit of dirt from the gardens in the cuticles.
Beneath them, Pupp lifted his nose, as if awaiting a treat to fall.
Chrism finally spoke. “I did not ask Willym to step down from my side. He insisted, as did my Huri.” His voice caught in his throat, thickening with emotion. “A dark time is upon us, and as Willym was wont to say ‘A God is only as strong as his Hands.’ He and Huri knew it was time to step aside for those stronger and younger. We had hot debates on this very subject.”
Dart could not imagine anyone arguing with a god, not even one of his own handservants.
“But Willym was right . . . if only a tad too slow in convincing me. We had thought we had time to train you, to ready you for the war to come.”
“War?” Dart eked out.
He waved away her question. “Dark happenings have been cropping up in the lonely corners of Myrillia: a rash of plagues, ravings among lesser gods, stirrings in the hinterlands. But still, we had thought to have more time. Then Meeryn was slain most brutally. . . .”
Dart, like all others across Chrismferry, had heard of the tragedy down in the Summering Isles, half a world away: an assassin blessed in Dark Graces had slain the Brightness of the Isles. Like the murderer here, he had
also escaped. Her heart beat faster in her chest. Could there be a connection?
“Our enemies grow bolder, showing their true face,” Chrism continued. “There can be no mistaking that a great war looms, one that will sweep all of Myrillia. But I never thought it would strike here so soon, in the very heart of the Nine Lands. And at such cost.” A tear rolled down one cheek.
“But why murder Master Willym?” Dart asked.
Lord Chrism’s hand gripped hers almost painfully. His long gaze focused fully upon her. Only now did she notice the ancient hidden behind the young. “Don’t you know?”
Dart shook her head, beginning to tremble.
“It was not dear Willym who was the target of the assassin,” Chrism said. “It was you.”
Dart waited for dawn. It refused to come. Standing at her bedroom window, she stared out past her private balcony that overlooked the breadth of the Tigre River. The High Wing sat atop the centermost tower of the castillion; four others rose from each bank of the river. Their tower was the tallest rising from the river itself, commanding a sweeping view down the waterway. The city spread to either side, sparkling with lamps and torches in the night.
Dart saw none of it. For the hundredth time since Lord Chrism had departed, her mind’s eye played out the murder of Master Willym. She had glanced up just as the bolt had sliced through the old man’s neck, whistling past her ear.
A bolt meant for her.
Lord Chrism had briefly explained the conclusion drawn by the Watchers of the Court, those men and women blessed with unending sight, tasked with storing all they saw, becoming walking libraries of events frozen forever in their minds. They were rare folk, Graced in the womb with alchemies of air and fire, leaving them weak of limb, requiring air-driven mekanicals to support them. Some said they could speak to each other through their eyes alone.
Dart had spotted one hovering at the back of Tigre Hall, in the shadows, eyes bright with inner fire.
Two others had been present. They had conferred. The bolt was seen leaving the shadowed assassin’s crossbow by one, while another witnessed Master Willym bending toward Dart a fraction of a heartbeat later.
Dart remembered the old man’s words: There’s nothing to fear here.
He was so very wrong.
It was that bit of reassurance that cost Willym his life, bending over her at the wrong moment. If he hadn’t, he would be alive now, and she would have taken the bolt to her left eye. So said the Watchers, playing the alternate scene out in their minds.
As the shock of this fully struck her, Matron Shashyl had come knocking at her door with the promised pot of willow bark tea. Lord Chrism finally seemed to note Dart’s distress and excused himself, leaving her in the matron’s care.
Shashyl had remained with Dart while she drank her tea. She had slipped a small bit of folded paper from a pocket and mixed its contents in the steaming cup. “Valerian root,” she said as she tapped the teaspoon. “I sometimes take it to sleep when my old joints are protesting the cold nights.”
Dart had taken two cups before the steeped water turned tepid and the taste bitter. But at least her limbs finally stopped shaking. The matron had walked Dart to the back room and put her to rest in a canopied bed of carved myrrwood. Before she knew it, she was pillowed in down and wrapped in layers of silk and velvet.
With promises that she would sleep, Dart thanked Matron Shashyl. The old woman had looked down upon her with concerned eyes, kissed her on the forehead, mumbled “poor child,” and departed.
Dart had tried to sleep, but no amount of powdered root could settle her fears. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw sprays of blood, shadowed figures with daggers blackened with Dark Grace; even Healer Paltry’s face floated before her. In all the bloodshed, she had forgotten about his appearance at the ceremony. Her worry brought it back afresh. At every turn, danger threatened. Punishment, banishment, and now the threat of murder from a new quarter.
But was it new? Could Healer Paltry have had a hand in the plot? To silence the girl who knew too much? Or was it the dark figure from the gardens? Had he recognized her as she fled down the twisting paths?
Finally, apprehension forced her from bed. Pupp followed groggily as she paced the length of her bedchamber, wrapped in a thick robe, praying for dawn to arrive, to burn away this long night.
It must not be far off.
Perhaps it was near enough to risk waking Laurelle.
Worry eased with this possibility. Perhaps she could even sleep if she shared her blankets with Laurelle. If only for this one night . . .
Desire became action.
Dart cinched her robe tighter, praying it wasn’t unseemly to wander the High Wing in only robe and slippers. But then again, she didn’t plan on being seen. Surely the remaining Hands were soundly asleep.
She crossed through her rooms, which included a bathing chamber, privy, and a tiny dining alcove. It felt good to be moving. She reached the entry hall, gathered her key from the table beside the door, and took hold of the door latch. She hesitated, then bent an ear against the door. She listened for any voices, any noises from beyond.
All silent.
She continued her attention for several breaths. Satisfied, she tested the latch and crept the door open. She peeked out. The central brazier continued to cast a warm glow down the hall. No one was in sight.
Dart eased the door open fully. No alarm was raised beyond the hammering of her own heart. She leaned out and peered in both directions.
Empty.
She hurried out into the hall and whispered across the tapestried rug on her slippers. She circled past the glowing brazier, followed by an irritable Pupp, his coat dull with exasperation. She fled to the second door past the brazier. The wall lanterns had been turned down by a maid or guard to the merest flicker. Still, Dart felt exposed standing beside the door.
She tapped lightly, hoping to wake only Laurelle. Her first attempt was no more than a brush of knuckle on wood. She barely heard the rap herself. She tried again with a tad more vigor. The knocking was loud to her own ears, but it earned no response.
Please, Laurelle, hear me. . . .
She struck the door again. Three sharp raps. She ducked, hunching close to the door.
Please . . .
A soft sound answered her, sounding like the mild protest of a cat roused from a warm spot on a windowsill. Dart knocked again, more softly.
“Who’s there?” a voice asked shyly from beyond the closed door.
Dart’s lips brushed the wood as she answered. “Laurelle, it’s me.”
The sound of a latch being thrown rang out—it came not from Laurelle’s door, but from down the hall.
Dart ducked close to the floor, her heart fluttering to a stop. Beyond the brazier, light spilled into the hallway as a door opened. A figure stepped into the hall, features cloaked in shadow. One of the other Hands.
“Is that you, Dart?” Laurelle called quietly at her ear.
She could not answer. The frantic beating of raven’s wings filled her ears. She was again in the dark rookery, alone with a dark intruder. Fists clenched, fingernails digging into palms. No, no . . . this is not the rookery.
Dart tapped again on Laurelle’s door, no more than the scratching of a mouse. Still, the stranger seemed to hear her and stepped in her direction. Features pushed into the brazier’s glow, revealing themselves.
No . . .
Dart heard the lock release at her side. The door eased open. Laurelle’s hearth had died to embers. No light flowed out.
Dart fell through the opening. Laurelle’s mouth formed an O of surprise, but Dart silenced her with a finger to her lips and a hiss of warning. She pushed the door closed with the tiniest click of the latch, grateful to whoever oiled the hinges. She leaned against the frame, close to tears.
Laurelle dropped to her knees beside Dart. “What’s wrong?” she whispered.
Dart shook her head, trying to cast out the image. The figure in the hall. Lanky
black hair split by a white lightning bolt. It was the murderer from the gardens, the one who had slain the woman named Jacinta.
He was a Hand of Chrism.
11
SEA HUNT
A CROSS THE DARK SEAS, THE CORSAIRS BORE DOWN ON them. Five in all. Sails abloom and lit by fire lamps in the rigging. They rode across the midnight waters like a storm of flaming clouds.
“Mayhap they’ll miss us in the dark,” Rogger whispered from his perch atop the Fin. To steady himself, the thief kept one hand on the tall fin cresting along the back of the craft, riding the swells.
Tylar shook his head as he peered out of the hatch. “Both moons already rise. The night will be clear.”
Delia agreed from below. She watched from the Fin’s window as the tiny vessel rolled in the gentle waves. “And the greater moon is full faced this night. The entire sea will be burnished silver under her glow.”
Tylar scowled at their situation.
As the sun had set, all they could do was watch as the fleet spread out in a furious search, scribing a path along the fringes of the floating mat of tangleweed. Captain Grayl must have told Darjon ser Hightower where he had taken the godslayer before being hanged. Or more likely, one of his crew had spilled all. Tylar refused to think ill of the good captain.
Either way, they were doomed. Even now the corsairs swung out in a wider sweep, aiming for where the trio still foundered in the tiny Fin. They lacked even a paddle to maneuver out of the way.
“We have no choice,” Delia said. “We must try.”
Rogger turned to Tylar. “She’s determined to kill us as much as that bloody Shadowknight.”
Tylar dropped back into the Fin’s cabin. Delia crouched between the two front seats, staring at the glass sphere, now empty of its alchemy. She unscrewed a silver plug from atop the sphere. “I’ve studied the mekanicals. I think we should risk it.”
“Use my own blood to fuel the Fin?”
She pointed the stopper at him. “You carry Meeryn’s Grace in you. The Grace of water. Like Fyla. Why shouldn’t it power the Fin?”
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