Shadowfall

10

Matron Shashyl smoothed Dart’s gown with an experienced hand, pulling hems straight, tucking away a loose gather, ruffling her half cloak so it fell evenly from her trembling shoulders.

“Calm yourself, child,” she hushed in warm tones. “You’ll shake yourself right out of your petticoats.”

Dart nodded, but her trembling worsened. Her knees threatened to betray her at any moment. She could not feel her toes.

Shashyl sighed. “Child, you’ve already met the Lord. You know he won’t bite.”

Laurelle stepped to her other side. She moved like a flow of moonlight in her silver dress. She had affixed a diadem of kryst jewels to her ebony hair. The priceless stones, also called God’s Tears, sparked in the light from the chamber’s lanterns. A single Tear could ransom an entire village, but Laurelle wore the diadem as easily as a crown of woven grass.

Dart’s friend touched her cheek. “You look so beautiful.”

The words startled Dart out of her terror of the ceremony to come. Her disbelief must have been plain on her face.

“Come see,” Laurelle urged, drawing her to the silvered looking glass.

Dart stepped in front of her reflection. She was draped in crimson high silk, a rich cloth that flowed like water. Her gown streamed from her buttoned neck to the stone floor beneath her slippered toes. A gold sash cinched the silk tight around her waist, while the sleeves billowed loosely at the wrist. A fire ruby rested in the hollow of her throat, seeming to flash with her own heartbeat.

Her hair had been scented with oils and combed back from her face, held in place by a gold net that sparkled with tiny fire rubies. Her cheeks blushed at the sight. Such richness could make a fatted sow beautiful. Still, she found herself staring at the image in the glass, wondering if this was truly herself. Pupp had followed her. He nipped at the trailing edges of her gown, his teeth passing harmlessly through the silk. She ignored him, focusing on the stranger in the looking glass.

“If you two lasses are done admiring yourselves, perhaps we could finish your primping.” Shashyl waved them over to her. “The horns will be sounding your summons at any moment.”

A knock drew all their attention. The door opened to reveal two figures dressed in similar hues to Dart and Laurelle: a man draped in crimson, a woman in moonlit silver. Blood and tears. They were attended upon the arm by two servants.

Dart and Laurelle bent a knee each in a hurried curtsy.

Shashyl simply placed her hands on her hips. “Mistress Huri and Master Willym, if you get my girls to soil their dresses on this filthy floor, I’ll not forgive you.” Her words were stern, but her face smiled warmly. The woman, Mistress Huri, the Hand of Tears, entered the room, assisted by her maid on one arm and leaning on a cane with the other. “We would not think to spoil such loveliness, Matron Shashyl.” Her eyes were milky, near blind, her back bent under the weight of ages. She was only fifty-six birth years, but appeared twice that. Such was the burden of Grace.

She hobbled to Laurelle, guided by her maid. “Come, child, let us speak.” Laurelle stepped away with the woman whom she was meant to replace. Dart noted the awe in her friend’s gaze.

Next came Master Willym. He was younger. Fifty-two birth years. But he moved as if death had already claimed him. His gold shirt and crimson surcoat hung on a frame of bones. He teetered as he walked, supported by a servant, but he kept no cane. He shuffled into the room toward Dart and lifted a hand. His skin was luminous and translucent, showing blue veins.

“I believe you are named Dart, is that not so?” he asked, his voice surprisingly firm, a remnant of the young man he once was. In his voice, he carried a smile warmer than the feeble curl of his trembling lips. “So you are the young lass come to take my place at my Lord’s side.”

She curtsied again, unable to speak. This was the first time they had met. The other Hands would be introduced at the ceremony as Dart and Laurelle were formally presented and raised to their place in the court.

She followed him to a small cushioned bench. It took him some gentle maneuvering to settle to a seat. He fell the last handspan with a heavy sigh, leaning back, eyes closed. “Ah, to have a young man’s legs and back again…”

Dart hovered over him as Pupp sniffed at his pant leg. Willym finally patted the cushion beside him.

She sat on the edge, back straight.

He swung to face her. His eyes were cloudy, but shone with a spark of fierceness that belied his fading body. “It is custom for one handservant to speak words of comfort and reassurance to their successor.” He reached and took her fingers between his own. “But I was never one for custom.”

He nodded over to Laurelle and Mistress Huri. The pair embraced. “I can only imagine Huri has spoken all the sweet words required with great diligence and earnestness. Such is her way.”

Dart stared over at them. Their very poses spoke of comfort.

Master Willym cleared his throat. His hands were cold on hers. “Instead I will share with you the counsel my esteemed predecessor instructed me with some four decades ago when I sat on this same bench.” He stared hard at Dart. “Gods live forever by sucking the life from their servants.”

Dart gasped at such blasphemy, drawing away her hand.

A dry chuckle escaped him. “Do not look so shocked. I saw your face as I hobbled in here. I must have worn the same expression four decades ago. It is one thing to understand the price of bearing a god’s Grace, but it is another to see its wrinkled face before you, is it not?”

Dart gulped and kept her gaze upon the stone floor.

“Answer me, child.”

She swallowed hard and choked out one word. “Yes…”

He struggled to sit straighter, assisted by his servant. “Face me.”

She slowly turned.

He took her hand again. “Listen closely. Flesh is only wood, slowly burning to ash as we age. It is green when we are young, resisting the flame, smoking with all the fervency of youth. In the middle years, life’s flame begins to lick and devour. And at the end, all will be consumed.” He patted her fingers. “Understand, to serve a god is not a loss of life span. Our fires are not snuffed out early, but only stoked higher, to burn more brightly. Do you understand?”

Dart nodded tentatively.

Fingers squeezed hers as he leaned back. “Then you are better than I,” he sighed. “I think what I said is all so much shite.”

She again started.

A true smile formed on his lips. “I guess all I can really tell you is that I do not regret my life and service. Instead, I rejoice in it. As will you. There are no fancy words I can share that can encompass what you are about to experience, to live in Grace, to shine with it, to share your life with a god.”

Dart trembled, knowing herself unworthy of such an honor, more so now than a moment ago. She was tainted. All would soon know. Lord Chrism had failed to note her disgrace when they had first met within the Eldergarden-he clearly must have been distracted-but her secret could not withstand his full attention.

A trembling hand reached to her chin, drawing her eyes back to Master Willym. Amusement faded to concern in his gaze. He seemed to be searching for something. After a moment, there was the faintest nod. His eyes flicked away to the room, then back again. Almost a nervous gesture. Strange in one so esteemed. His lips parted as if he were to speak again.

A horn sounded from the larger chamber beyond.

Willym turned, breaking the spell. He lifted an arm for his servant to take. “It begins.” For the first time, his voice sounded as tired as he looked. Helped to his feet, he led the way toward the door, joined by Mistress Huri and Laurelle.

Matron Shashyl fussed over Dart one last time before finally letting her go. Dart took her place at Master Willym’s side.

He kept his face forward but spoke one last bit of wisdom to her as the doors pulled open before them. “Trust only in blood… and your own heart. And all will be fine.”

Dart took a deep breath, praying he was right.

Tigre Hall was named after the great river that splits the First Land into halves. It flows through the center of Chrismferry, a township that dates from before the coming of the gods, when the river’s raging course had been forded by a ferry bridge here, the only means of crossing for a thousand reaches. Mills were built, tolls collected, and the trading post grew to a village, and the village into a township. It became a central site for trading, commerce, and countless wars. The ancient stone footings of the original bridge became the foundations for Chrism’s castillion. The very hall down which Dart now paraded stood over the Tigre River. If one listened quietly, the river could be heard passing below.

Dart gaped around her.

Gentlefolk and those of nobility lined the curving rows of benches that faced the central high dais and the lone chair. It was as yet empty, a seat of carved myrrwood, ebonized, tall backed, arms curling to either side in gentle waves.

Behind the throne, a curve of smaller seats lined the back of the dais, four to each side, places for Chrism’s handservants. The seats were occupied-all except two places, of course. Dart eyed the seat to the immediate right of the throne. She knew this was her place. Laurelle’s chair awaited her, second to the left. Panic beat about Dart’s chest like a loose sparrow. She hated to be even that far from Laurelle, especially now.

The pair trailed behind the two Grace-bled servants, hanging back, allowing the pair one last entrance into Tigre Hall as handservants to Chrism. The pace was gratingly slow. Eyes followed Dart’s every step, weighing upon her like lead. She drifted closer to Laurelle, who seemed to take the procession with easy strides. She nodded to the occasional viewer, whether out of simple courtesy or some familial acquaintance Dart knew not.

She hung in Laurelle’s shadow. It took every bit of strength to keep her head high, shoulders straight. Her own stride must appear as graceful as a sway-backed pony.

Laurelle caught Dart’s eye for a brief heartbeat. Her gaze flicked off to the right, indicating where she should look. Dart followed her direction, but saw nothing. Then out in the sea of folk, a small hand waved a bit of white silk, catching her attention. It was Matron Grannice, from the Conclave, the old school, her home.

Dart fought back tears and failed. The same weakness afflicted the portly marm. The matron had to turn away. Only then did Dart spot Grannice’s escort.

Healer Paltry stood at her side, an arm around the woman’s shoulder, comforting. His lips moved with what could only be kind words meant to soothe. But his eyes drilled toward Dart, cold and unreadable.

Dart’s feet moved faster, a reflex to escape. A hollow pain throbbed in her belly, an echo of her attack. The mere sight of the cursed healer was like a phantom finger prodding a bruise that refused to heal. Warm tears turned cold on her cheeks.

As she hurried forward, her toes struck the heel of Master Willym. His enfeebled pace stumbled. He went down on one knee before his startled manservant could catch him up.

Gasps and shocked exhalations spread outward, like the waves from a pebble dropped into a pond. Dart hurried to his side and helped him to his feet.

“Please forgive me,” Dart murmured.

Willym gained his wobbly legs, his face red. Angry? No, just flushed from exertion. He patted her hand and spoke loudly enough for those closest to hear. “Ah, Chrism’s Oracle chose well. A young lass with all the eagerness of an unbridled foal. Plainly ready to take my place. Whether I’m willing or not, it seems.”

Gentle laughter joined his own.

He took her under his arm in friendly fashion and waved aside his manservant, dismissing concern. But his weight leaned heavily upon Dart. He tilted his head toward her. “Be at peace, lass. But get me to my chair.”

“I’m so sorry.”

He smiled gently down at her. “There’s nothing to fear here.”

An arrow pierced his throat, passing clean through. The steel tip of the bolt sailed past Dart’s left ear, whistling away, trailing a spray of blood. Master Willym’s eyes went wide as he fell upon Dart, collapsing atop her. Blood gouted from his mouth and nose.

They fell together to the floor.

Dart’s skull struck the stones with a ringing blow. She felt no pain, only shock.

Screams rose around her like a whirlwind. In a daze, Dart watched Laurelle and Mistress Huri being shoved behind a bench. Nearby, Pupp ran in panicked circles around her, his molten coat as bright as golden sunshine.

Willym lay atop her, choking on blood, bathing Dart’s throat with the last beats of his heart. His lips were at her ear, moving, attempting to speak, but all that came out was blood.

“Be calm,” she urged him as her own vision wobbled and began to close tightly, the injury to her skull throbbing.

Deaf to her, Willym choked a final flow, then lay still. A last breath sighed from him, bearing forth a single word, as clear as crystal. “Beware.”

Black-booted guards tromped to their side, circling them. Several passed through Pupp as he continued his blazing vigil. They were too late. Through her chest, Dart felt the last beat of Master Willym’s heart.

He was gone.

She was now the lone handservant of blood, properly blessed.

Her vision continued to shrink in on itself, to a pinpoint, then nothing. The single word followed her into oblivion.

Beware…

Dart dreamed.

She was a child again, a babe swaddled in furs, being carried in an open wagon. Voices came from all around. A leafy bower flashed past overhead. The scent of torn loam, manure, and decay carried to her. The voices spoke in a tongue she did not understand, but they seemed frantic, yelling.

A flash of silver swept over her face.

A cry. A curse. A shouted call.

Blood fountained from the left, bathing her hotly.

She cried now, wailing.

A face crept into view above her, tiny as a babe’s fist, shining brightly under the dark bower, more fire than bronze. He nuzzled into her, panicked, too.

Together they cowered.

The scent of something feral reached her, huffing behind her, rank and musky. A horse whinnied in terror. A wagon jerked under her.

A warning reached her, beyond language, but still clear.

Flee…

Dart woke with a startled wail. She fought the hands that held her.

Flee…

“Calm yourself, child. We must clean the blood off you.”

Her eyes focused upon Matron Shashyl, bent over her, a fouled rag clutched in her hand. Her caretaker turned to rinse the cloth in a bucket of steaming-hot water.

Dart saw that Laurelle was clutched against her, hugging her. Only now did she recognize how naked she was. She was back in their tiny wardroom, sprawled on the same bench where she had chatted with Master Willym.

“Master Willym…!”

“Gone,” Laurelle answered her. “Murdered most foully.”

Dart again heard the whistle of the arrow past her ear. The blood on her face, neck, and chest was not her own. The back of her head, though, throbbed. She reached back and fingered a hard knot.

“You struck your head but good, child.” Matron Shashyl nodded toward a kettle on a tiny brazier. “I’m steeping some willow bark and scamptail. It’ll take the ache away.”

“We thought you dead like… like Master Willym.” Laurelle’s voice dropped to a whisper. Arms hugged her tighter. “All the blood..”

Dart sat up and pulled her friend into her own arms. “I’m fine.” She spotted Pupp down by the brazier, sniffing at the brewing herbs.

Matron Shashyl waved the girls apart. “Be off, Mistress Laurelle. You’ll foul your petticoats. Let me finish the bathing.”

Dart allowed herself to be cared for, too weak to resist. She was bathed clean and dabbed with towels warmed by the brazier. Once done, the matron wrapped her in a dry blanket.

“The assassin?” Dart finally asked. “Why did he…?”

Matron Shashyl hushed her. “He escaped into the dark. Whys and wherefores must await his capture. Dawn nears, and guards have been woken from all the barracks. Grace-blessed hounds have already been loosed. None will rest until the fiend is caught.” She wiped a tear and turned away. “Who could do this? Master Willym was dearly loved.”

Not by all, Dart thought to herself. She remembered his last word. Was it delirium? Beware…

Beware what? Still, Dart sensed the warning had been meant for her and her alone. Spoken with the last trickle of life. If he had a message for her, why hadn’t he spoken it earlier, here on this same bench when they had chatted?

She remembered the attack in the garden. She had told no one of what she had witnessed, trusting in silence, praying to remain unknown to the secretive nobleman. Now a second murder in one day. Were they connected? Maybe she should have spoken to someone about the bloodshed in the garden. Maybe Master Willym’s assassin could have been stopped.

Though clean, Dart still felt bloody.

Laurelle returned from emptying the scrub bucket down the neighboring privy. She had stripped off her own dress and wore only her petties and slippers. “Mayhap we should return to our own room.”

Dart nodded. She would not sleep the rest of the night, but it would be good to be surrounded by her own things. The small closet she and Laurelle shared as servants-in-waiting was cramped, but now Dart longed for its closeness, to lay with Laurelle in the single bed, under the covers until the sun rose and this long dark and bloody night ended.

Matron Shashyl had composed herself and faced them. “You’re most correct. Your rooms are waiting for you. I’ll have a maid bring up tea to your chambers.”

Dart looked at Laurelle.

“Chambers?” her friend asked the matron.

Shashyl nodded. “Indeed. You are no longer servants-in-waiting. Though the presentation ceremony was interrupted so foully, this night still marks your ascendance to full handservants. Matron Willym and Mistress Huri had already vacated their quarters in the High Wing. Your personals should already be up there. Come. I’ll show you the way.”

Dart numbly donned a set of small clothes and slippers, and wrapped herself in a full cloak of warm velvet. Crimson, like her missing gown. Laurelle modestly covered her own limbs with a silver cloak, thick and ruffled at the hems.

“We’ve a ways to climb,” Shashyl warned them.

Dart didn’t care. She was relieved they didn’t have to head back through Tigre Hall. They left by another door. It opened upon a spiral stair that led only upward, to the High Wing. They mounted the stairs, past a guard at his post at the doorway… Dart had been this way once before, late for her studies under the matron. Shashyl had a suite of rooms in the High Wing as was her honor. Besides their tutelage, Matron Shashyl oversaw the maids and manservants that serviced the tower and its nine occupants: Lord Chrism and his eight Hands.

Pupp followed after them, hopping from step to step.

The climb, as warned, was long. Twenty flights. They passed the same number of guards, liveried in gold and crimson, Chrism’s colors, one for each level.

Reaching the top, Matron Shashyl recognized the man guarding the double doors to the High Wing. He was older, black hair going to gray, but his eyes were spry and alert. He wore a nasty, tortured scar across his left cheek. “Kyllan, what are you doing posting a mere door? As Master of the Garrison, shouldn’t you be overseeing the hunt for the assassin?”

His eyes flashed. He spoke with the terse tones of the fierce Thirdlanders. “I’ve given my orders. Huntsman Freetile leads the Graced hounds from the bestiary. Guards are on the streets. A pair of wyld trackers have been summoned from the Seer guildtower.”

“And you?”

“Master Willym were under my protection when he fell. I led the other guards here. I’ll not leave this post. No more of the blessed Hands will come to harm as long as there is strength in these bones.”

He rested one hand on the hilt of his sheathed blade and opened the door with the other, bowing deeply. “Miladies, be welcome. Rest with good assurance. None will disturb the last of this sad night.”

Laurelle took it all with easy aplomb. “Most gracious, Sergeant Kyllan.”

Dart followed after her friend, nodding to the guardsman as she passed. Once the door was closed and secured behind them, Matron Shashyl waved her charges down the hall. Dart stared over a shoulder as she walked.

Pupp had hung back on the stair, sniffing at the guard. He now simply trotted through the closed wooden door, prancing a bit and shaking his molten coat as if he had passed through mere water. He hurried to catch up with them.

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.