They stopped. Dart peered through a crack in the rockery. For a moment, Dart thought it was Laurelle. Wrapped in a brown velvet cape, the girl bore the same fall of ebony hair, the same creamed skin. But as she turned her face into the sunlight, she was clearly a few years older, and not as fair of features, though her beauty still far outshone Dart’s. Her lips parted as she tilted to accept a kiss from her companion.
He, in turn, could have been the young woman’s father. Older by far, his black hair was touched by white at the temples and in a narrow streak, like a lightning strike, across his crown. He was dressed in a brown riding cloak with knee-high boots, coat open at the collar to reveal a deep burgundy silk shirt. Nobility, for sure.
They kissed for several breaths. The woman leaned against the wall, only an arm’s length from Dart’s cubby. The man ground into her, one hand reaching beneath the cloak to grope. He found what he sought and suddenly broke the embrace, stepping back.
His hand came free from the woman’s cloak. A long dagger lay in his palm. “Did you think us so easily fooled, Jacinta?”
The woman gasped, then crouched slightly.
The man examined the weapon in the sunlight. Its blade was black, a shadow given substance. It ate the light, rather than reflected it. “A blade blessed in Dark Graces… brought here of all places. To the heart of Chrismferry. And you thought we wouldn’t know?”
Jacinta straightened, but her voice lowered to a poisoned edge. “We’ll stop you… all of you, by any means, foul or fair.”
Her words built storm clouds upon the other’s brows. He leaned closer to her. Even hidden behind rock, Dart sensed a font of power in the man. His eyes snapped with lightning. “Who sent you? Who supplied you with this?” He shook the dagger at her.
She laughed, but not the merry sound from a moment ago. She sounded much older than she appeared. “That you will never know!”
Before he could answer her challenge, Jacinta lunged at the man, grabbing for the dagger. He misjudged her intent. She snatched at his wrist, not to wrest the weapon away, but to hold his grip firm. With a kick off the wall, she hurled herself forward, onto the blade.
“Myrillia will be free!” she shouted as the dagger struck home, into the hollow above her collarbone.
Dart saw it all, biting on a knuckle to keep from screaming. She watched the man fall away, yanking the dagger free. Blood shot out-and a spat of flame, chasing the retreating blade. The woman fell to her knees and then face forward to the ground.
As her body struck the path, her cloak collapsed in on itself. A billow of ash and smoke swirled up, filling the gap in the wall. It was all that was left of the woman named Jacinta. Flesh turned to dust.
Dart didn’t escape the backwash of ash. In one breath, it filled her nostrils-what was once the woman’s flesh.
A racking gag escaped her. She could not stop her revulsion.
Knowing her presence could be hidden no longer, she fled back to the path. The empty cloak lay in the wall’s breach, the gap still smoky with the cloud of ash. A dark shape moved beyond it.
The man with the dagger.
If she couldn’t see him clearly, there was a good chance her features were shaded, too. Perhaps she could escape unknown.
A shout chased her. “Stop!”
She ignored the command, thumped over a small bridge, and dodged behind a hedge. Ducking low, she ran to the hedgerow, attempting to keep out of direct light.
A pounding of boots on the bridge sounded behind her. He was closing fast, having no need to hide. Dart straightened and sprinted down the row. From behind, dressed in her plain bonnet and skirt, she would appear no more than a scullery maid. She prayed it would be enough to keep her unknown.
“Fear not, lass! There is no reason to flee!”
Mayhap the man was right. From the exchange, it was hard to say who might be the wronged party. Had it not been the woman who had thrown herself on the dagger, her own dagger, one blessed in Dark Graces? Was such a death murder? Still, Dart sensed dread matters afoot in their dealings, matters in which she had no wish to become embroiled. She had enough secrets to bear. A single more would break her back.
She searched for a crisscrossing of paths, praying for some fast turns to lose her pursuer. But she had fled back to the younger sections of the garden, to the cobbled paths. Here the shrubs were low, and the trees spindly and still leafless from winter. Her heart pounded in her ears… or was it the man’s boot steps?
The garden flew in a blur around her. The path took a sharp jag to the right, away from the castillion. Dart felt a sob build in her chest. She was lost. The castillion loomed before her, but she could not find the set of paths that led back there. Cutting straight through would only get her trapped by hedges or bogged down in the deeper ponds. She had to stick to the paths.
With her skirts flying around her ankles, she rounded past a whistledown bush. A shape suddenly loomed into the path before her, a dark shadow.
She screamed, but her momentum was unstoppable. She crashed into the figure. She scrambled and kicked to be free of the other’s arms as they sought to catch her up. He held something in his hand. The cursed dagger!
She cracked a knee up into the man’s groin.
A loud oof followed, and she was free, stumbling backward.
Only now did she truly see her attacker. He was as tall as the man who had accosted the woman in the gardens… but much younger. No more than five or six years older than Dart. The young man was dressed in simple rough-spun breeches and shift, gripping a small spade-not a dagger.
“Skags, girl, what the naether is wrong with you?” he asked, half-hunched over. “You came close to unmanning me there.”
Dart balanced between relief and shame. It was one of the groundskeepers. His hair was cut to the shoulder, deep brown, like the rich loam of the gardens. His eyes were as green as its ponds.
“I’m sorry,” she said, stepping closer and half-turning to check the paths behind her.
They were empty. Only Pupp danced on the cobbles, bouncing a bit, ready to run some more, his molten skin shining bright in the sunshine.
“I… I thought someone was…” Dart let her words die and shook her head. “I think I got myself lost. I was trying to find my way back to the castillion.”
“I can take you back to the maid’s drudgery, if you’d like.” He carefully straightened. “That is, if I can still walk.”
Relieved at his offer, Dart glanced down at her stained and scratched skirts. She must appear to be a low maid. “Thank you, but I need to reach the overlook terrace.”
He studied her up and down, one eyebrow cocked. “Truly… the overlook?”
“Yes,” she said, more sharply than she intended.
He shrugged and stepped around her. He reached for her elbow. She sprang away, having to force herself not to swat at his hand. She didn’t want to be touched.
“It’s back this way,” he said, letting his arm drop.
She followed him from a couple steps away. He smelled of the plants he had been weeding, a spicy musk that bordered on sweet. She found herself moving closer, studying him. His back was broad, his shift clinging to his muscular shoulders. He could probably carry her all the way back to the terrace without raising any sweat on his brow.
She pushed such thoughts aside and turned her attention to the gardens around her, watching for any sign of the dark man. But the sun seemed to have warmed all menace from the Eldergarden. Pupp trailed them both, eyes fiery, a lightness to his step.
They continued down a maze of paths. The keeper spoke quietly, a comforting sound, relating details about various plants. “The jackawillows will be blooming in another moonpass,” he said, pointing to a small tree leaning over a pond, branches weeping to the water’s edge. Small buds hung from tiny stems, like the heads of drowsy children. “They open as large as fists and appear in every hue of a rain’s bow.”
He sighed.
By now, Dart had crept up even with h
im. She found his voice comforting.
“You never did tell me your name,” he said. “If I might be so bold.”
She considered lying but found she could not. “Dart,” she finally said.
“Ah, like the dartweed,” he said with a deep laugh. “I’ve punctured a finger or two on that thorny, yellow-headed invader.”
She bristled, reminded of the teasing back at her old school.
“You have to respect that weed,” he continued, oblivious. “It appears a tender, fragile shoot, but at its heart, it’s as tough as the strongest stranglevine and blooms despite adversity.”
He glanced over to her. Tall for her age, she stood only a couple fingers shorter than him. His voice cracked with wry amusement. “A fitting name, I’d say.”
Unbidden, a blush rose to her cheeks.
“Ah, here we are,” he said, turning away, saving her from embarrassing herself. He pointed a hand forward.
Dart spotted the familiar arch of ginger roses. Beyond the garden’s edge, up on the terrace, Laurelle stood at the rail… alongside Matron Shashyl. The matron wore a deep scowl as she searched the gardens below. With sudden trepidation, Dart realized how late she was. And in all the terror of the gardens, she had forgotten what lay ahead of her on this day.
“There you go, lass,” the groundskeeper said. “I hope to see you again sometime.”
Dart doubted that would ever happen. She would surely be cast out before the sun rose on the next day. She hurried forward. “Thank you,” she mumbled as she passed.
He followed her to the arch of roses. She hurried up the curving staircase, holding her skirt’s edge up to keep from tripping. Laurelle and Matron Shashyl had noticed her approach. They crossed to await her at the top of the steps.
“Child, do you know how long we’ve been waiting?” Matron Shashyl asked, fists on her wide hips. She grabbed Dart by the elbow and hauled her up the last step. “And on this day of all days!”
Laurelle hovered on her other side. “Dart, what happened to you?”
Her friend’s words drew the matron’s attention to the condition of her skirt. Its hem was stained and wet. Tiny rips frayed its edges.
“Is this how you care for items left in your charge?” Matron Shashyl shouted. “I should strip you bare right here and march you straight down to the laundress, have you explain to Mistress Tryssa how your clothes came to such a sorry state.”
Tears rose to Dart’s eyes. She hated to show such weakness, but the day had worn her too thin. First the broken repostilary down in the Cache, then the revelation that she was to meet Lord Chrism, and now the terror of the gardens. “Leave the girl be,” a familiar voice said behind her from the stairs. “She’s had a bad fright.”
Matron Shashyl’s grip on her elbow snatched tighter. Before Dart could turn, the matron dropped to her knees, tugging Dart with her. Dart fell amid a tumble of skirt. She landed on her hands.
Laurelle looked confused until the matron waved her down, too. With her brows knit together, she lowered slowly, careful of her own skirt.
Matron Shashyl bowed her head. “Lord Chrism.”
Laurelle’s eyes flew wide-then she, too, dropped her head, fingers folded at her bosom.
Dart, still on hands and knees, found herself unable to move. Horror dried the earlier tears. She knew that voice. Only now did she connect the man in the gardens to the face carved and sculpted throughout Chrismferry. Who would’ve expected the eldermost god of the Hundred to be found without his guards, walking the gardens?
A weary sigh sounded behind her. “Enough of this foolishness. Please stand.”
“Of course, Lord Chrism,” Matron Shashyl said, obeying him, but keeping her head bowed. She waved up Laurelle and Dart. “These are your two chosen handmaidens-in-waiting.”
Laurelle gained her feet smoothly, a flower rising toward the sun.
Dart, tangled in her skirts, had to crawl a bit, struggling.
A hand reached to her arm and helped her up. “There you go, lass.”
On her feet, Dart turned and stared up at the god she had mistaken for a groundskeeper. She remembered crashing into him, striking him with her knee. Her gaze tore away, unworthy, horrified at how she had treated him.
Lord Chrism lifted her chin to face him. “It seems my Oracle chose well indeed.”
9
GLOOM
“Are we still supposed to be panicking?” Rogger asked. “Because I’m getting sores on my arse from all this waiting.”
Tylar shrugged. He had no idea why they hadn’t been attacked yet. He and the thief, along with Delia, sat on a shadowed bench under a fold of sail and watched the seas.
The Grim Wash lay mired in the tangleweed, like a bottle-fly in a spider’s web. The slack sails fluttered weakly with the occasional gust of wind, as if trying to fly free. But escape was impossible.
Tylar stared at the entwining growth. The field of tangleweed undulated with the ocean swells, surrounding the ship in all directions. It took a spyglass to see the open water now.
Earlier in the day, they had crashed broadside into the edge of the choked patch. While they foundered there, the tangleweed flowed past the ship’s flanks, encircling the boat, its passage marked by a ghostly scritch-scratching against the planks, like drowning men clawing to board the ship. Captain Grayl had attempted to keep at least the keel clear by lowering a man on ropes with an ax, but with every chop, more weed writhed up from below. It was futile. The weed was relentless. Even the galley cook reported tendrils sprouting through the boards of the galley, twining inside.
With the ship mired, there was nothing the crew could do but watch the sun crest the sky and begin its slow fall toward the western horizon, baking the ship beneath it.
Eyes narrowed at Tylar. “We should just throw his arse over the rail,” he heard a sailor mumble to another. “Give the watery god what she wants.”
Tylar had heard similar rumblings all day. Only the captain’s goodwill protected him from attack. But how long would it last? Gold bought only so much loyalty, especially among the ilk that bartered with the Black Flaggers.
As the day wore on, the heat continued to rise, damp and salty, smelling of wet weed. It didn’t help the crew’s temperament. The occasional gusts brought a bit of movement to the air, stemming the heavy heat and wafting upon them a sweetness from the fields of blooming spore heads. The thorny flowered stalks pushed above the roll of weed, jostled sluggishly by the current. They looked like white-haired old men, skeletally thin, shaking their heads at the sorry state of the wooden intruder into their midst. But these flower-headed men remained their only companions. The weed hid all else below.
“Are you certain this is Tangle Reef?” Tylar asked for the hundredth time.
Captain Grayl spoke behind them, where he oversaw the repair crews. “It be the Reef, surely. I’ve never spotted a patch of tangle so large. It can be no other.”
As confirmation, Rogger tapped the brand on the underside of his right forearm, reminding everyone that he had been here before. “The good captain is correct.”
Tylar motioned to the spread of weed. “Then where are all the trading barges, the supply ships, the floating dockworks that service the city below the waves?”
Delia answered, waving a small silk fan before her face. “The Reef is as changing as the seas it rides on. It is a living creature whose heart is Fyla.” She touched her chin with the back of her thumb, respect for letting a god’s name pass from her lips. Though the young woman had nailed her fate to theirs, she was still a handmaiden and would not speak harshly of another god, even one meant on capturing them, most likely killing them.
Delia continued. “The weed moves through the Deep by Fyla’s will, but it still requires preparation. Once the hunt began, she would have no choice but to unfetter the Reef’s support ships, to withdraw her surface docks below. There are limits even to the tangle’s reach.”
“It reached us fair enough,” Rogger grumbled, glaring dow
n the length of the Grim Wash.
The wavecrasher listed about four hands to port, tilting the crowded decks. Most of the ship’s crew had come topside, standing, sitting, pacing, all eyes on the horizons. Some attempted to keep busy under the baleful eye of Captain Grayl. Others stood by the rails in supplication, rubbing prayer beads between palms, spitting into the sea to add their waters to the Deep. But most, like Tylar, Rogger, and Delia, stared listlessly at the weed, awaiting certain doom.
“So why isn’t Fyla attacking?” Rogger asked, keeping his voice low. “She must know you’re here.”
Tylar shook his head. “Perhaps she’s consulting with the other gods.”
Rogger spat over the rail in irritation. “It’s not like our watery mistress of the weed doesn’t have the time to dally. We’re certainly not going anywhere. There’s no swimming to freedom, not through this snarl. It’ll pull you under before you’re past the ship’s shadow.”
The chief mate crossed by them, headed for his captain. He had come up from below. His leggings were soaked from the knees down. Not a good tiding. He tapped Grayl’s shoulder.
“Captain, we’re taking on water in the bilge. I have men working the bellows pumps, but it’s a lost battle.”
“Maybe Fyla means to sink us,” Rogger said, leaning back and stretching. “Why dirty her hands with air breathers when she can drown the lot of us?”
Delia stirred. “No. Fyla would want to face Tylar at the very least.”
“Face a godslayer?” Rogger asked doubtfully. “Would she take such a risk?”
“For Meeryn, she would,” Delia answered. “Fyla and Meeryn were close. Both were water gods of the warm seas. Once a decade, the Reef would sweep into the Summering Isles. And though Meeryn could never leave the islands to which she was bonded, the two gods would meet near the Tumbledown Beaches. Fyla would ride in upon a woven carpet of weed, pulled by a pair of silverback dolphins. I saw such a meeting once with my own eyes. Two gods within arm’s reach of each other.”
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