Hinterland

AN INOPPORTUNE SURPRISE

“Not a sound,” Lorr breathed out.

In the dark, Dart perched atop her step, with Pupp beside her. Brant crouched on the stair above. Below, the two trackers huddled over their dimmed lamps, their glow further shadowed by their cloaks. In the darkness, Dart noted that the light far below was growing fainter. The furtive voices faded with it.

Whoever was down there was retreating deeper. Surely they were just masters, going about their usual secretive pursuits, buried away under Tashijan. But from the sounds of them, these skulkers were sunk quite deep.

A spider thread tickled Dart’s cheek. She brushed it away.

The air slowly stirred in the passage, flowing up, then down again, as if some great beast slumbered below, breathing in and out.

The tickle returned-then she felt something scurry down her cheek to her neck. Skags! She swatted at it, shifting in disgust.

The sudden movement almost dislodged her, but Brant caught her before she slipped from her stair and bumped into Kytt. Unfortunately the turn of her heel ground heavily upon an old lip of stone, and it broke away under her. A fist-sized chunk of rock bounced off the lower step and rolled down the ladder-steep staircase.

Crash…Crash…Crash…Crash

The echo faded into silence.

No one breathed.

Maybe the ones below hadn’t heard…

But the quiet was too deep. The bits of whispers had fallen silent. And Dart could still discern the glow below, steady now, no longer fading.

Keep moving away, Dart willed the light.

Lorr made a motion, waving them off, back up the stairs, but before any of them could move, a new sound flowed to them: a hushed noise. No voices, no words. Just a fluttering raspiness, like a flock of bats taking wing at sunset. Sweeping toward them.

The glow below suddenly vanished or was blocked by what rose toward them now, sinking all into an inky cavernous darkness.

Dart’s heart rose to her throat, choking back a rising scream. She reached blindly for the wall to make sure she was still in this world.

Even Pupp was a dull ember, as if fearful of revealing himself.

Down two steps, Lorr hissed as the noise grew, plainly sweeping up toward them. He stood and tossed back his cloak to reveal the amber glow of his lamp.

“Go!” the tracker urged with quiet command. “Kytt, take them back up. Keep your lamp shuttered.”

Defying his own words, Lorr opened the doors on his lamp, flooding the stairs with light. He took a step downward.

“What are you-?” Dart began.

“There is a side passage four steps down. I will set a false trail.”

As Lorr began to turn away, two small shapes soundlessly rounded the lower stairs and dashed into and through the group.

Pupp flared brighter in molten warning, bristling and snarling.

Dart squeaked in fright, flattening against the wall.

But Brant knelt and caught one in his cloak, bundling it up. Lorr snatched the other by the nape of its neck. Dart noted the dark fur, the white-tipped ears.

The lost whelpings.

The one in Lorr’s grip mewled in abject terror, pissing a hot stream of yellow bile. The tracker bent to sniff its fur. His nose crinkled.

“Black blood,” he mumbled just loud enough for Dart to hear. She heard a note of recognition in his voice-and deep concern.

Lorr heaved the wolf cubbie toward Brant, who scooped it under his cloak, alongside the first. Bundled together, the whelpings quickly settled. Perhaps they knew Brant’s scent. Perhaps they simply knew it was best to hide.

Lorr lifted his lamp. “Kytt, get ’em up there. Take Barrin with you. Get these two to Castellan Vail.”

Dart hesitated, not wanting to leave the tracker’s side.

Lorr’s yellow-gold gaze fell upon her. “Tell Castellan Vail that something foul has taken root deep in Tashijan. And now it stirs.”

“But what-?”

“That’s what I mean to find out.” Lorr swung away and swept down the steps, heading toward the heart of the darkness. As the tracker’s light vanished around the turn of the stair, Brant touched Dart’s arm.

“Hurry,” Kytt urged needlessly.

They set off back up the stairs, the young tracker in the lead, guiding with his shuttered lamp. Dart followed, while Brant stumbled after them, one arm supporting the whelpings, the other running along the wall, supporting himself.

Around and around, they ran.

Dart kept glancing behind her. She realized that they had outrun whatever had made that strange noise. Lorr must have succeeded in drawing it off. Still, the tiny hairs all over her body stood on end.

Behind her, Brant stumbled, brushing the wall with his cloak. The whispering rasp of cloth over old dusty brick struck her ear. She frowned, slowing a step.

Brant misinterpreted her hesitation. “I’m fine. Keep going.”

Dart hurried on after the weak glow of Kytt’s lamp, but her thoughts remained behind her. The brush of Brant’s cloak. It sounded the same as what had swept up toward them out of the bowels of the land. Only not one cloak but a host, a legion, rising swiftly, too swiftly, unnatural.

Or maybe not.

While training, Dart had witnessed many times the speed born of shadows, when a knight drew upon the Grace of his shadowcloak.

Her frown deepened by the time they reached the dislodged stone.

Kytt kept guard with his lamp and waved them to crawl through to the far room, back into the Master levels, into Tashijan proper.

Dart went first at Brant’s urging, herding Pupp ahead of her. On the far side, she waited, her arms hugged around herself, fearful for herself and for her friend she had left behind. In her ears, she could still hear the rustling rush. She remembered Lorr’s cryptic mumble to himself.

Black blood…

Dart knew she had to reach Kathryn as soon as possible. The urgency kept her heart pounding in her ears. Brant struggled through with the pair of cubbies. Kytt followed on his heels.

Dart waited until they all stood. “What about Lorr?”

Kytt spoke stolidly. “A wyld tracker knows how to hide a trail.”

Dart wished she had as much confidence, but she had no other choice. Together, they fled through the dusty chamber and found a large mound blocking the door.

Barrin lifted his head from his paws. He lay sprawled across the opening. He shoved up to his haunches, then to his legs. Kytt went to get the bullhound moving out into the hall.

Dart smelled blackleaf smoke and discovered its source. The two loam-giants flanked the threshold on either side, leaning against the wall. They shared a single pipe, blackened from years of use. Smoke palled the air.

“Master Brant, there you are! Thought maybe I’d have to cram Dral here through that tiny mouse hole of yours.”

Dralmarfillneer straightened and puffed out a perfect ring of smoke. “Would have to be me. That wide arse of yours barely fits through most barndoors.”

Brant hefted up his bundled cloak. “I have the whelpings.”

Dralmarfillneer’s eyes widenened. “Ock! Masterful, Master Brant!”

Malthumalbaen clapped the young man on the shoulder, almost dropping him to his knees.

“Enough,” Brant said harshly. “Take the cubbies up to my room. Don’t let any of the house staff tell you otherwise.”

The giant brothers responded to Brant’s tone, faces growing hard with worry, nodding.

“It will be done,” Malthumalbaen said.

Brant passed them the pair of whelpings. Both giants got bit, but neither complained. Freed of the wolves, Brant turned to Dart. “I’ll go with you to see the castellan.”

Dart was relieved. It was a long climb. She would appreciate someone at her side, but she needed to be discreet.

Kytt stood with Barrin, ready to follow, but Dart knew that the bullhound would draw too many eyes.

“Best you stay,” Dart told the tracker. “Watch for Lorr?”

Kytt frowned.

“Barrin knows his master,” she pressed. “Search deeper through the Masterlevels for him. None of the masters will bother you-not with Barrin at your side. Once Lorr shows his face, fetch him up to the castellan’s.”

Kytt nodded his head.

With matters settled, Dart led the giants and Brant toward the stairs. She had to take the central staircase. It was the only one that connected the masters’ subterranean domain to the knights’ Citadel. Once above, she could slip into less-well-traveled passages and stairs.

As they climbed, Dart kept to the shadows of the giants, allowing the large men to draw attention. No one was looking for a company that included giants. Brant took the lead, too, assuming a commanding posture. Dart kept her shape small behind them all, playing servitor, just a page guiding one of Tashijan’s new guests.

And for once, Dart was happy to find the crowd on the stairs. Their group was jostled and pummeled. But the giants forged through them, moving their group steadily out of the Masterlevels and into Tashijan’s upper floors.

Dart allowed herself to breathe easier once they had cleared the logjam at the crossroads between the Masterlevels and the Citadel. They continued onward, climbing higher. Another floor up and Dart knew a quieter path. Though it was more circuitous, there would be fewer eyes.

She increased their pace.

Pupp bounded at her side, plowing through cloaks and legs.

Then disaster-

“Dart!” A shout of glee rose ahead.

She glanced up, recognizing the voice. A tallish girl resplendent in silver loose blouse, half coat, and billowing dress rushed down the steps. A flag of ebony hair flounced as she flew down the four steps and drew Dart into a firm hug.

Dart returned the affection, if not without a sinking of her stomach. “Laurelle! What are you doing here?”

Laurelle was the regent’s Hand of tears. The last Dart had heard, Laurelle was unable to attend the knighting ceremony, though her excuses now in hindsight seemed trivial. It had been a ruse.

“Isn’t it a wonderful surprise?” Laurelle said. “I wanted it to be a delight! Is it not?”

Dart might have appreciated the sudden appearance of her friend from school if not for the poor moment of its revelation. Others noted Laurelle’s outburst. And though only a year older, Laurelle had filled out more fully into a woman. Her figure’s always generous curves had deepened. Several of the young knights must have been already trailing her heels, like the boys had at school.

Those same eyes discovered Dart.

She heard the murmurs-at first uncertain, then more solid.

“It’s the castellan’s page!”

“It’s her!”

A knight in full cloak stood at the next landing, arm pointed at her. “Hold her! By order of the warden!”

Behind her, arms reached and grabbed: elbow, shoulders, back of her neck. Their grips were iron hard.

She was torn from Laurelle’s shocked embrace.

“Dart…?”

Plainly her friend had yet to hear the talk of daemons-or maybe she had but had not associated it with Dart. Either way, Laurelle’s ire was piqued.

“Unhand her!” she said with an imperious authority.

The grips on Dart loosened.

Then the knight from the landing drew up to them. “She is the one we seek!” he said, sweeping out his cloak. He wore the Fiery Cross stitched at his shoulder. “Warden Fields has ordered her apprehension.”

Laurelle attempted to protest, but she was ignored.

Pupp ran about the stairs in a molten panic.

Dart remained calm, though her knees threatened to weaken. She caught Brant’s eye. He stood to the side with the giants. None seemed to notice him or be aware of his complicity. But judging by the dark set to his lips, he was weighing coming to her aid, calling upon the strength of his twin companions. That must not happen.

“Castellan Vail,” she mouthed to him. Word had to reach the hermitage. Dart also gave a half nod in Laurelle’s direction.

Brant understood and stepped forward to touch her friend’s arm, drawing her attention. Laurelle opened her mouth, then suddenly recognized the young man from school. He whispered into her momentary confusion.

“Leave her to the knights. Come with me. We can help your friend better above.”

Laurelle glanced to Dart, ready to protest.

Dart nodded. Go with him.

Laurelle took a shuddering breath and composed herself by shifting a stray lock of ebony hair from her cheek. It was a familiar resiliency that Dart envied. Her friend stared up at the knight in charge, meeting his gaze without flinching.

“I am the regent’s Hand of tears. Where are you taking her?”

The knight seemed abashed to be so confronted, but Laurelle held her step, blocking him. He would have to knock her aside to proceed. But even a member of the Fiery Cross was reluctant to assault someone who shared the High Wing of Chrismferry with the new regent.

“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 stairs. 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 abduction 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.

“Are you ready?”

She had no choice but to acquiesce. She nodded, not trusting her voice.

The adjudicators motioned in unison to the soothmancer. He rose from his bowl of alchemies and stepped behind Dart.

“We will know the truth about this daemon,” Argent warned, his one eye bearing down on her. There was a measure of calculation in his gaze.

From the corner of her eyes, Dart watched the blood-tipped fingers of the soothmancer rise on either side of her head. They glowed with fiery Grace. Dart attempted to brace herself, not quite knowing how to gird against what was to come.

“Stop!” a shout burst out behind her.

Too late.

Wet fingers touched her-at forehead, temple, and throat.

Dart could not turn. Fire locked her in place, burning and probing through her skin toward the core of her being. Still, she recognized Castellan Vail’s voice. Relief flowed through her.

“Tashijan is under attack!” Kathryn called firmly as she stepped into Dart’s view.

Before anyone could react, the soothmancer behind Dart suddenly screamed, a bloodcurdling cry that burst from the man as if from his very bones. His hand fell away from Dart, freeing her. He stumbled to the side, holding out his arms.

Smoke curled from his fingertips, each digit burnt away to the first knuckle.

The stench of cooked flesh swelled out.

Seeking relief, the soothmancer sank to his knees and plunged his seared fingers into the alchemy in the silver bowl. The blood in its basin ignited as if oil had been set aflame. The fiery conflagration coiled up the mancer’s arms, turning robe to ash, searing skin and hair beneath.

Betrayed by his own alchemy, the man fell back into a contorted sprawl, writhing on the stone.

At the high bench, the adjudicators were all on their feet.

Cries echoed around the room.

Dart noted Kathryn’s worried expression. Behind her, Brant stood with Laurelle, each with a look of dismay.

A voice boomed with authority, cutting through the growing mayhem. Warden Fields stood with an arm pointed at Dart. “Daemoness!” he cried to the guards, to the knights of the Fiery Cross. “Slay her!”