Hinterland

A MEASURE OF DARK GRACE

Abandoning the Upper Citadel, Tylar crossed down into the subterranean lair of the masters. Here the oil lamps affixed to the walls were stationed farther apart, some gone dark, unwelcoming to all but the studious masters who found little cheer in anything but their studies. Tylar did not mind. He drew power from the deeper shadows, swelling the Grace in his borrowed cloak. Below the Citadel, the crowd on the stairs also thinned rapidly.

Rogger matched Tylar’s more hurried pace.

Kathryn had sent the pair below to discover what new threat lay within the cellars of Tashijan and to alert the masters to the danger in their midst. But Tylar also knew she had suggested this mission for a more expedient reason: to keep Argent and Tylar apart. She had to rally Tashijan and draw attention away from Dart. With little love lost between regent and warden, Tylar’s presence would only antagonize. So Tylar had not argued. He had seen the number of cloaks bearing the sigil of the Fiery Cross. They would need Argent’s full support if they were to raise Tashijan’s defenses to their full. And Tylar had no doubt that every cloak and sword would be needed.

Both above and below.

Tylar left the stairs and headed toward the quarters of their one ally here. Gerrod Rothkild. The bronze-armored master knew these levels better than any. But Tylar sought Gerrod for another purpose, too. According to Kathryn, he had been studying the cursed rogue skull and examining its traces of seersong, a measure of dark Grace still locked within the bones. If they were to withstand the threat hidden out in the storm, knowledge could prove mightier than any diamond-pommeled sword.

But as he turned a corner, Tylar saw he was not the only one seeking Gerrod’s attention this night. The master’s door lay open ahead. Firelight shone into the dark hallway, bathing two figures.

Master Hesharian stood with a thinner figure in a master’s robes.

“I will not be thwarted,” the rotund master declared. “Any study into dark arts must be sanctioned by the Council.”

“There is nothing dark in my studies here,” Gerrod answered, hidden within his doorway, blocking the way. From the slight ringing muffle of his words, Tylar could tell that Kathryn’s friend had secured his helmet. “And I will not have my work disturbed at this delicate juncture. So unless you have a signed edict to violate my door, I will ask you to leave me to my studies.”

“If I find out otherwise…” A hard threat echoed behind Hesharian’s words. “Now is not the time for secrets when talk of daemons rings in our own halls.”

Tylar approached, interceding. “If it is daemons you seek, Master Hesharian, then I’ve come in a most timely manner.”

Hesharian turned at his words, as did his companion. The thinner master’s milky gaze fixed upon Tylar, faltering his step. The tattoos of the man’s mastered disciplines seemed to twitch in the flickering hearthlight, like spiders skittering across his bald pate. Then he stepped back from the doorway and into shadows.

Tylar spoke as he reached them. “The castellan’s page has been captured. The one accused of summoning daemons. She is to be soothed as we speak.”

Hesharian’s eyes widened in recognition of who stood before him. “Lord Regent,” he said formally, after tripping over his words for a breath. “How may I be of assistance to you?”

“For the moment, you can best serve Tashijan by joining Warden Fields. Matters move quickly. I’ve come at the request of the castellan to fetch a master to attend the soothing in the adjudicators’ chamber. She sent me to ask Master Rothkild-”

“Then it is timely indeed that you have come upon me,” Hesharian interrupted, stepping forward and half-blocking the doorway. “For such a dark soothing, it is only fitting that the head of the Council be in attendance.”

“Of course. I’m sure Kathryn meant no slight.”

“I’m sure,” he answered with faint enthusiasm. “And besides, it seems Master Rothkild is much too busy with his studies at the moment. Master Orquell and I will answer the castellan’s summons. I’m sure she will appreciate my personal attention.”

Tylar offered a bow of his head in feigned gratitude. Master Hesharian and his elderly companion set off toward the stairs, pushing past them with hardly a glance back.

Still, Rogger slumped into Tylar’s shadow as if not wanting to be noticed. Tylar glanced to his friend, but he merely shook his head, his eyes shadowed with worry. Tylar waited until the two masters vanished beyond the bend in the corridor before turning back to Gerrod.

The bronze master glowed in the firelight. “Thank you for driving Hesharian from my doorstep.” He edged back into his room, inviting Tylar and Rogger inside with a whirring wave of his arm. “I can only guess there was a greater purpose in drawing off the head of the Council.”

Tylar nodded. “Best he is out from underfoot. We have much to discuss.” He quickly related all that had happened in the past half bell, from the storm’s threat to Dart’s apprehension. “As Kathryn works above, we must work below. Word must spread through the Masterlevels. We must be prepared.”

Gerrod nodded, expressionless behind his bronze mask. “But prepared against what?”

“That’s what Rogger and I will seek out. Tracker Lorr is down there somewhere. We must find him. We’ll head to the deepest levels of your domain while you raise your fellow masters.”

“And this storm…” Gerrod turned away and strode toward an arched opening into an inner study. “I knew there was something dangerous in its manner-the way it sucked air alchemies to itself. And now, if the Wyr-mistress was correct, it casts out seersong to bend all Grace to its will.”

Tylar followed the master, drawn by any hope of an answer. He still pictured Eylan vanishing into the storm. If there were to be any possibility of fronting a rescue, they would need to know more.

“Seersong is also fueled by air, darkly twisted as it may be,” Gerrod said, stopping before the closed door to his study. “The storm seems tied back to that aspect of Grace. Air. If only we knew more…”

“Mayhap we do,” Rogger said, warming himself beside the hearth. He turned to heat up his backside and eyed Tylar pointedly. “The storm. The face it bore…”

Gerrod glanced to Tylar for elaboration.

Tylar recalled the countenance shaded in streaks of Gloom-a disquietingly familiar countenance. He had not even voiced his misgivings to Kathryn earlier. There had been no time, and Tylar had wondered if he could be mistaken. Here in the warmth, he had begun to doubt what he had seen.

Or maybe he just wished it to be false.

Rogger dashed that hope. “I recognized the face, too.”

The thief yanked up the sleeve of his woolen shirt and bared his upper arm to the firelight. He tapped a scar burned into his flesh.

Tylar read the Littick sigil. The name of a god. The same as whose face had been borne by the storm winds.

Ulf of Ice Eyrie.

“It was the third god-realm I visited for my pilgrimage,” Rogger said and pulled his sleeve back over the branded sigil. “There’s no mistaking that cold face.”

Tylar slowly nodded. It had been long ago, when he was new to his cloak. He had been hunting some bloodrunners with a small group of knights, tracking them into the god-realm of Ice Eyrie. They had been caught in an ice storm, came close to expiring. Rescue had come from Ice Eyrie. The hunting party had been taken to the hollowed-out mountain that was Lord Ulf’s domain. Tylar had spent the rest of the winter in that ice-locked realm. And in all that time, he saw the aloof god only once. Lord Ulf spent most of his time in his castillion atop the windswept peak. Still, it was hard to mistake him, with his snowy hair framing a dour and long face, as craggy as his peak. He was one of the rare gods who did not bear a youthful and pleasant demeanor.

And now here again was his countenance, painted in swirling swaths of Gloom. Tylar met Rogger’s eyes. There was no denying the truth.

Another of the Hundred had been swallowed by the Cabal. Once again, the War of the Gods stirred, striking openly at the heart of Myrillia.

Gerrod took the announcement with his usual armored indifference. “It makes a certain sense. Lord Ulf bears a Grace rich in air. But it still doesn’t explain how he controls this storm. Not even he can wield such power.”

“Perhaps he is aided by the Cabal’s dark forces,” Tylar offered, picturing the swirl of Gloom, the bleeding of the naether into his world.

Gerrod shook his head. “Such power would still have to flow through Lord Ulf. It would have to be wielded by him. Even Chrism, possessed by his naethryn undergod, would have failed to bind this blizzard to his will.”

“Then how is it being done?”

“I can’t say. Not yet. The answer is hidden behind the white cloak of the storm. But I have a growing fear.”

“What’s that?”

“The storm was not born out of nothing. It rose from the north and traveled south across the First Land. It has taken a full half turn of the moon to reach here. Arriving in a timely manner. Tied to the arrival of the Godslayer.”

“Not all of the Hundred were happy with your regency,” Gerrod continued. “Several spoke against you, while others remained silent.”

“Like Lord Ulf,” Rogger said, worriedly scratching at his beard. “He had closed off his realm, freezing his borders.”

Tylar had never given such actions much thought. Lord Ulf’s isolation seemed merely a solidifying of the god’s usual solitary nature, turned inward to protect his realm. But was there a darker purpose to it all?

“It would take the strength of more than one hand to birth this storm and guide its path and wickedness.”

“Or more than one god…” Rogger mumbled.

Silence settled over them.

Tylar now understood the bronze master’s fear. After the Battle of Myrrwood, Tylar had been wary of another move by the Cabal, the dark naethryn forces who sought dominion over Myrillia. But could Gerrod be right? Could the storm herald something even more dire? A faction of the Hundred now turned against him, against his regency?

Tylar held out one hope. “The face in the storm…it was sculpted of Gloom. Surely that must suggest the Cabal is involved here.”

Gerrod sighed. “Not necessarily. As any alchemist can manipulate Graces to dark ends, so too can any god. Though you are right to still fear the Cabal. When gods corrupt their own Grace, they lay themselves open to the dark forces of the naethryn. It is a dangerous path. And I worry that if we challenge Lord Ulf and his fellow gods too fiercely, require them to tap even more deeply into this dark font, then our own efforts could push them over the edge and fully into that dark abyss.”

“So either we succumb without a fight,” Rogger said, “or risk forging an even greater threat?”

Gerrod nodded. “Where there was one daemon-possessed god before, a legion could arise now. Myrillia would be torn apart.”

Tylar allowed all he had heard to sink into his bones. The others stared at him for guidance. He had none. It was a situation a thousandfold more dire than he had first imagined.

The heavy silence was finally broken-but not by anyone in the room.

A distant baying reached them, rising from far below.

Only one beast could howl that loudly.

“It’s Tracker Lorr’s bullhound,” Tylar said, turning to the door, reminded again that they had more to fear than just the storm.

Kathryn swept forward, casting out her cloak between her young page and the guards’ swords. “None will harm her!” she declared.

To one side, the soothmancer still lay on the floor, cradling the burnt stumps of his fingers. The silver bowl of his alchemies still smoked, casting forth a reek of burnt blood. A second mancer crouched over his companion staring daggers toward Dart.

Bloodnullers swept in from sheltered alcoves to either side, fetid with their black alchemies, ready to strip any Grace from the accused.

Kathryn raised a hand against them all, giving them pause. She kept her focus on the bench, on Argent. “She is still my charge. She will not be slain until a full investigation is made!”

Argent was on his feet, flanked by the two adjudicators. The elderly man and younger woman hung back, plainly shocked and unwilling to intervene. They were as much pets of Argent as the knights bearing the Fiery Cross. There was only one true adjudicator here.

The warden’s one eye glared down at Kathryn. “You protect someone who is plainly tainted by the dark arts. Can there be any question now that she did indeed summon a daemon?”

“That can be decided at a later time. For the moment, we have a greater danger to Tashijan. The storm beyond our walls is not a normal blizzard, but one blown up by Dark Grace, brought to bear against our towers.”

Her words silenced the smattering of cries. A few swords lowered. Eyes turned to the high bench.

“Madness…” Argent mumbled, then continued louder. “Storms of Dark Grace? What ale-addled sop has churned up such a tale?”

“It is no tale. Master Rothkild has studied the crashed flippercraft. He found the alchemies of the ship drained from its reservoirs, bled dry by the storm. Tylar-the regent himself went outside our walls to scrutinize the storm directly. It holds around Tashijan like a whirlwind, while beyond its icy cloak hides a dark force. He saw its face briefly, almost died for the viewing, and lost one of his own for his efforts.”

Kathryn read the wariness in the warden, but also a growing worry.

“And where is the regent now? Why does he not bring this word to me himself?”

Kathryn met the warden’s gaze, wondering if perhaps it had been a mistake to send Tylar off to search the cellars of Tashijan. But she also saw a fire rise in Argent and recognized the manner in which he bit his words upon mentioning Tylar. The two were oil and fire.

“The storm is not the only threat we face. A Hand of Oldenbrook has brought word from Tracker Lorr.” She motioned to the boy named Brant. “Lorr has discovered something foul hidden beneath Tashijan. It stirs now while the storm has us snared. Tylar has gone to seek out the tracker to learn more. The Masterlevels must be cleared. Knights must be gathered to wall and cellar. Before we are caught defenseless.”

Her words stirred the small crowd that had gathered behind her. The two adjudicators had slunk behind Argent’s shoulders and had their heads bent together, speaking hurriedly.

Argent straightened. To his credit, the set of his lips turned thoughtful with concern, ready to take matters from here. He had led many a campaign against forces both human and otherwise. Though lately he had shown a craven lust for power, he was still an able leader of men.

Before he could speak, a sharper shout broke through the murmuring. Kathryn turned to see a squint-faced young squire with piggish eyes push forward, arm pointing, flanked by knights. His voice held a keening edge.

“It is him! That is the boy who helped Page Hothbrin escape! He is in league with her!”

All eyes swung between the accuser and Brant. Even Argent’s. A shadow passed over the warden’s features.

“Brant is a Hand of Oldenbrook,” Kathryn argued. “Just arrived. I have heard his story. He heard my page scream and merely went to her aid.”

Argent looked little mollified. “And according to your testament, he is also the one who brought forth stories of lurkers hiding below Tashijan.”

“He brought such a word from Tracker Lorr-a wyld tracker you’ve known for many a campaign.”

“Then where is Lorr?” Argent held up his hands. “Why does he send a boy to rally Tashijan?”

Kathryn opened her mouth to answer but was cut off.

“No!” Argent leaned forward, leaning fists on the table. “The only dark art I’ve seen with my own eye was the burning of the soothmancer by your page. She has shown herself to be cursed. If there is foulness afoot in Tashijan, perhaps we should look here first for answers.”

“I will let no one harm her,” Kathryn said.

“You have no say in the matter, Castellan Vail. The edict here is final.” Argent stood taller. He waved an arm toward Kathryn and those who had come with her. “Take them all under guard, strip them of their weapons!”

Knights converged from all sides, the Fiery Cross bright on their shoulders. Bloodnullers swept in from sheltered alcoves to either side, ready to strip Grace and power. Kathryn stood her ground as Brant and Laurelle shifted to stand behind her cloak. A dagger appeared in the boy’s hand. He held it low and skilled.

Kathryn’s hand rested on the hilt of her sheathed sword.

To pull it free, to raise it against her fellow knights-such an act would divide their house when it needed to be at its most united. But she had no choice. Dart and her secret had to be preserved. For the sake of all of Myrillia.

“Take them down!” Argent commanded.

Kathryn’s fingers closed on her hilt.

The bullhound bellowed in rage. Tylar followed the echoing howl down the spiral of the narrow stairs. He touched the Grace in his cloak and drew his sword, becoming a flow of shadow.

He had left Rogger and Gerrod far behind. They were rousing the masters from their dens, getting them moving to higher ground.

Tylar needed to know what threat they faced.

Following the howling, he reached the last spiral, the deepest of the Masterlevels, floors long abandoned as the number of those who studied the disciplines waned, matching the decline in shadowknights above. Tylar had not realized the extent of the blight upon Tashijan. They were at their weakest when they needed to be at their strongest.

Pushing back his despair, he burst from the stairs into a dark hall. No lamps lit this level. Dust lay thick on the floor. The strident bawling of the hound drew him deeper. Light appeared ahead.

Tylar rushed toward it, a mothkin to the flame.

As he rounded a bend, he discovered the narrow passage blocked by a shaggy form. The bullhound faced the opposite direction, hunched low to the ground, snarling and gruffing in warning. It backed slowly toward Tylar, retreating from the darker depths of the passage. It herded two forms behind it, one leaning on the other.

“Keep the lamp high!” the taller of the two urged hoarsely.

Tylar closed the distance, recognizing Tracker Lorr. His companion failed to note Tylar’s approach until the last moment. Tylar shed the shadows from his cloak as he entered the pool of lamplight. His appearance startled the younger man, barely older than a boy, plainly a wyld tracker from his muzzled features. The young man squeaked in alarm and came close to fumbling the lamp in his fright.

“Be still, Kytt,” Lorr groaned as he hung on his younger companion. “He’s a friend.”

Tylar held back his shock at the older tracker’s appearance. Lorr’s clothes were burnt to his skin along his left flank. His hair was singed to the roots along the same side, his ear a raw, blistered ruin.

Through the stench, Tylar also smelled oil.

“Shattered my lamp,” Lorr coughed out. “Set fire to myself to keep them at bay. Only way to escape. Got too close.”

Tylar could not fathom such a means of defense. “Who…?”

Lorr shook his head against explanations. He lifted an arm toward the far stairs. “Must climb out of the darkness. Away…” The tracker suddenly swooned on his feet. He fell and pulled down the young tracker with him.

Tylar reached and tugged them both up with one arm. He kept his sword raised in the other. “Get Lorr up on the hound. Head back up. I’ll guard your rear.”

The young tracker, Kytt, nodded. With strength born of terror, he helped Tylar heave Lorr across the withers of the hound. “Barrin,” he keened to the bullhound. “Come away.”

Tylar noted how Kytt trembled all over, lamp jittering in his grip. But a brightness shone in his amber eyes. He held back his panic to control the hound. Together they retreated past Tylar, while he stood guard over the passage with his sword.

As Kytt and the burdened bullhound wound back toward the far stairs, the lamplight receded with them. Tylar faced the deeper darkness, drawing the shadows over his shoulders again, fading his form into the gloom.

His sword-Rivenscryr-held the last of the lamp’s glow to its heart, shining in the shadows. He waited a breath. What had Lorr found? What had set the tracker to burning himself to escape?

Down the passage, where no lamp had been lit for a full century, the darkness stirred. Something-someone-flowed toward him. He heard a vague rustle of cloak. Another knight? Buried in shadows like Tylar?

“Who are you?” Tylar challenged.

Silence answered him.

He stepped down the passage, lifting his sword higher, a beacon in the darkness. The shine of silver slowed the roiling shadows, just at the edge of sight.

A figure stood there, more darkness than flesh.

Deeper down the passage, the blackness churned and a deep rustling of chalk on gravestones whispered to him. Tylar knew a legion waited beyond this one’s shoulder, held back more by the glint of his sword than its keen edge.

As they faced each other across the gulf, Tylar’s vision adjusted to the gloom. He discerned eyes shining back at him. They didn’t so much glow with light, but were wells of blackness deeper than any shadow. He risked another step closer. Features of pale flesh appeared out of the darkness like a skull rising out of black dirt, half hidden by masklin.

It was a knight.

One he knew.

“No…” he moaned, stumbling back, his own breath choking him.

The figure followed with a pall of black amusement.

“Perryl…”

It was his former squire, turned knight while Tylar was in exile. He had vanished from Tashijan over a year ago, believed taken for some dark rites by the Fiery Cross. But seeing what was left of Perryl here, Tylar knew his friend’s fate had taken a much darker turn.

Words reached him, whispered with the coldness of deep caverns. “I bend my knee to a new master now.”

Tylar shook his head against the voice-so like Perryl’s, yet not. The blackest corruption oiled his words.

Fired by revulsion, Tylar stabbed at the dark figure. But his blade found only shadow. The knight flowed away, raising a black sword that ate the light, a match to the daemon knight’s eyes.

“I am ghawl now,” Perryl whispered. “Flesh and death are my past.”

The black blade parried Rivenscryr as if the Godsword were mere steel. Tylar felt the hilt spasm in his grip, clenching hard on his fingers, repulsed by the black blade’s touch.

“The darkness of the naether is so much stronger than mere shadow.”

The black sword slid across Tylar’s blade and drove for his heart.

Then light flared behind Tylar, flashing like the first rays of the sun.

The brightness ate away the dark blade before it could strike his chest. The glow also shed the shadows from the daemon knight, revealing cloak and form.

Tylar thrust out with his own sword. He drove his blade through the heart of the figure that wore his friend’s face. It sank deep and cut free a shriek that pierced beyond hearing. A wash of fetid decay billowed out, shivering Tylar’s skin. At the same time, the daemon’s cloak flew open like the wings of some malevolent raven, revealing what was hidden beneath.

Horror drove Tylar back. He bore only the hilt of the Godsword now. The blade had vanished, eaten away as usual until it could be whetted again in blood.

Tylar gaped at the form beneath the cloak. Naked from neck to toe, all was laid bare-down to the bones. It was Perryl’s body, but the skin had gone translucent, allowing the sudden light to reveal what lay beneath. Where a heart should beat and organs should churn, something else had taken root. Darkness roiled, muscular and substantial, like a giant snake, pushing and kneading against the translucent skin. From the pierced wound, darkness smoked out instead of blood.

It stank of bowel and decay.

Not smoke. Gloom. The black leak of the naether into this world.

Through the pall, Perryl’s black eyes met Tylar’s for a half beat of his heart. Tylar recognized a match to his own horror, a flash of something human, a splinter of his former self. Then it was whelmed away by darkness. The cloak billowed up, sweeping over Perryl. Shadows welled against the light-and the daemon knight fled back into the deeper darkness.

To heal or to die.

Not knowing which, Tylar turned to find the young tracker two steps away, holding aloft his lamp. His savior shook from toe to crown, breathing hard.

“I-I came back for you…” Kytt gasped out. “Barrin…found Master Gerrod.”

Tylar hurried to him, gripped his shoulder, and spun him back toward the stairs. “We must get out of the darkness.”

Tylar knew that was their only defense. Flame, heat, light, warmth. All signs of life. It was all that stood between them and death.

Together, they fled up out of the bowels of Tashijan. They reached the lamplit areas of the subterranean domain. Robed figures crowded the stairs, burdened with books, satchels, and boxes. Shouts and calls echoed. Doors slammed. Gerrod had his brethren on the move. He didn’t know what story the bronze master had related, but from the panic in their eyes and the quickness of their frantic steps, he had succeeded in lighting a fire in them.

“Here!” A voice called to him from off the stairs.

Tylar spotted Barrin hunched just off the next landing. The bullhound stood guard over the prone form of Tracker Lorr. He was propped up against the wall. Gerrod and Rogger flanked him.

Rogger waved again to him, while Gerrod pinched bitter alchemies under the tracker’s nose. Lorr stirred. An arm raised to swat away the sting. From the tracker’s fingers, something fell free. A snatch of black cloth and something that glittered.

Tylar stalked to their side. “We need to get everyone aboveground. Seal off these levels.”

Rogger cast a questioning look in his direction.

Tylar, his heart still thundering in his chest, continued in a rush. “Fires. We need the entire first level of Tashijan blazing.”

Lorr groaned but failed to raise back fully to this world. A few words tumbled from his lips. “…black ghawls…”

“He needs a healer,” Gerrod said, standing. “We’ll have to use the hound to carry him the rest of the way up.”

Tylar waved to Kytt and Rogger. “Hurry.”

He returned to the stairs. He heard the commotion of the masters as they retreated upward, but he kept his attention below. Shadows swallowed the lower stairs. Tylar wove their power into his cloak.

Still, he remembered Perryl’s warning to him.

I am ghawl now. The darkness of the naether is so much stronger than mere shadow.

Tylar’s skin shivered up into pebbling gooseflesh, sensing the meaning behind the claim. Could it be? For centuries, shadows had fed the Grace of Tashijan’s knights, granting speed and cloaking their forms. But Tylar knew there was a darkness blacker than any shadow.

He pictured the smoky Gloom of the naether bleeding from Perryl’s wound. Was that what fed these daemonic knights? A darkness deeper than shadow? Were they knights born of the naether, serving as swords for the undergods in this world?

Lorr moaned behind him.

The tracker had set fire to his own flesh to repel them.

Why had he allowed them so close?

Tylar turned as Barrin shuffled back to the stairs, burdened with Lorr’s weight, guided by Kytt. Gerrod followed, expressionless behind his armor. They set off upward, following the last of the masters. If there were any of Gerrod’s brethren still holed up in their domiciles and alchemical labs, they would discover the true depths of darkness that lurked beneath their feet.

But who had birthed such a dark legion, these black ghawls?

Rogger squeezed up to Tylar on the stairs. He held forth something in his hand. “Lorr dropped this. He had been clutching it all along, burnt to the skin of his palm.”

Tylar took the strap of black cloth, weighted down with a heavy stone. He held the jewel up to the next lamp. The diamond’s facets trapped the light and reflected it back a thousandfold. It was a rare and handsome stone.

And one he recognized.

His blood chilled. Kathryn wore the same stone-though hers was only paste and artifice. Here was the true diadem that marked the castellan’s station, granted and passed from one to the next, over countless centuries. Only the chain was broken last year. The castellan before Kathryn had vanished as surely and completely as Perryl, taking this diadem with her.

“Castellan Mirra…” he mumbled.

He clutched the stone in his palm, picturing the stern face of the old woman, the longtime counselor to good Ser Henri, former warden to Tashijan. Henri had trusted no one more. Now here was the stone again, ripped away by Lorr at the risk of his own flesh.

What did it mean?

Kathryn kept her post, guarding Dart. Brant and Laurelle stood behind her shoulders.

“Take the girl!” Argent said from behind the high bench.

Shadowknights stalked toward her from both sides. Kathryn eyed the rear door to the chamber. It stood unguarded and led back to the adjudicators’ private rooms of contemplation. It would prove their best chance to escape. From there, Kathryn could reach those loyal to her, get Dart into hiding. After that, she would force Argent to face the true threat against Tashijan.

But first she had to get Dart to safety, beyond Argent’s reach.

She began to draw her sword-then a door on the far side slammed open with a resounding bang. All eyes turned. A knight swept into the chamber, flanked by a cadre of men in gray cloaks, a match to the cut of the first, except the men had blackened their faces with ash.

The lead knight ripped away his masklin and tossed back his hood to reveal a knotted braid of white hair. “Back from the girl!” Krevan commanded.

He led his men into the chamber, eyes defiant, staring all down.

The bloodnullers retreated toward their alcoves. The warden’s men paused in their approach.

Argent, plainly shaken by the interruption, collected himself. “You and your men have no bearing on this matter, Raven ser Kay,” he said, using the knight’s old name. “You have served Myrillia in the recent past. That will buy you and your men your freedom to leave Tashijan, but don’t expect further leniency. The Black Flaggers are still considered brigands and pirates.”

Krevan approached the bench and stood between Kathryn and Argent. His men spread out in a threatening stance.

“I have no bearing here?” he said, his voice lowering in threat. He shrugged back his cloak to free an arm and pointed back to Kathryn and the others while keeping his focus on Argent. “I have no bearing on what’s done to my own daughter?”

Silence struck the room.

Dart jerked to her feet in surprise.

Argent also could not hide his shock. “What?” He held up a hand and shook his head. “Page Hothbrin-you claim she is your daughter?”

Kathryn didn’t understand Krevan’s ruse, but she knew it best to follow suit. She stepped forward. “It is the reason I defend her now,” she said. “None were to know she was Krevan’s daughter. The regent and I granted his request to allow her to enter training here. I was sworn to secrecy.”

Krevan cut in. “I was exiled, rightly or not, from these walls because of my history with the Wyr. But my daughter bears no such taint. She was born free from the Wyr, birthed of a tryst in Drush Mire. I wished her to continue where I could not. To be a knight.”

Argent struggled to absorb all this information. “I could not tell you,” Kathryn said. “Even the girl did not know her heritage. She thought her father had died shortly after her birth. Why burden her with the truth? We owed Krevan a debt. Here it was paid in full.”

“Wait!” Argent yelled. “What of the Dark Graces we’ve seen here? Of the daemon witnessed by the squires?”

“That would be my fault,” Krevan said. “I feared someone would discover her secret here. I have many enemies. Her life would be forfeit for my crimes. So I cast a dark alchemy upon her, one crafted by the Wyr. If she were threatened, it would awaken and defend her. Likewise, to keep her secret, I could not have her soothed, lest some truth be exposed. She was ignorant of all this.”

“To bring dark alchemies within the walls of Tashijan, you break our edicts here.”

Krevan stared down Argent. “It seems if matters are dire enough, such actions are warranted. Are they not, Warden Fields?”

Argent’s face flushed, reminded of his own use of dark arts.

Kathryn stepped forward, dropping her voice to a placating tone. “Such matters can be sorted at another time,” she said. “I must remind everyone of the danger that presently looms-from without and within. Tashijan must ready itself before all is lost.”

Argent’s brow furrowed. He looked little resolved.

Kathryn waved Dart to her feet. “I will keep the girl confined to my rooms. Upon my sworn word, I must keep her safe. Once we-”

A clatter of boots interrupted her. Again all eyes turned to the door as a knight burst into the chambers. He drew to a winded stop. “Word from the main guard!”

Argent brusquely motioned to him to speak.

“The Masterlevels…are being emptied. Upon the orders of the regent.”

Behind the man, a squawk of surprise arose from the doorway.

“What?” Master Hesharian pushed from where he had been hiding at the threshold, mopping his shining brow with a folded scrap of cloth, plainly just arrived himself. “Why was I not informed? What is the meaning of all this?”

The messenger ignored him, his full attention on the warden.

Kathryn noted Master Hesharian’s companion, lurking in his larger shadow. Clouded eyes ignored everyone in the room and settled on Dart. She sensed that Krevan’s ruse would be peeled away under such a gaze. She stepped back to Dart, hiding the girl behind her cloak again.

Before anyone could speak, a resounding strike of a gong reverberated from below and traveled up the throat of Stormwatch Tower. As its echoes died away, all gazes turned to the warden. All knew its meaning. Traditionally it was rung only once a year, during a formal ceremony, reminding all of their duty to Myrillia. Otherwise, it was struck for only one reason.

“We’re too late,” Kathryn mumbled to no one and to everyone.

They were under attack.