Shadowfall

17

“Again?” Laurelle asked, seated by the hearth to her room. She bent over a lace stocking, darning it with silk on a silver needle. “Is your room too cold at night? If we keep bedding together, folks will begin to speak out of turn.”

Laurelle’s words were softened by a smile.

Dart felt a blush rise to her cheeks. Still, she did not retract her plea to share Laurelle’s room. Dart feared sleeping alone since waking two mornings ago, knowing someone had been in her bedchamber. Even now she imagined Yaellin de Mar leaning over her sleeping form, the streak of silver in his black hair aglow in the dark. She hid a shudder.

Laurelle must have sensed her fear. She sighed. “What is this all about?”

Dart glanced to Pupp. He lay in front of Laurelle. His fiery eyes watched with fascination as she knit a hole closed in her hosiery. Firelight danced behind him, but he cast no shadow. Dart tired of all her secrets, so many now she felt near the point of bursting.

She could stand it no longer. The secrets so filled every space inside her that she found herself unable to eat. Sleep came fitful, even while sharing Laurelle’s bed. She felt worn so very, very thin.

Laurelle stared at her with genuine concern. She set down her darning and reached over to take Dart’s hand. “You’re trembling.” She scooted over, drawing Dart closer. “What is troubling you so?”

Dart shook her head-not so much in refusal as in confusion.

Laurelle leaned until her nose was almost touching Dart’s. “You can speak to me.” Fingers squeezed. “Whatever you tell me can stay between just the two of us.”

Dart felt something loosen deep inside her, shuddering free. A sob rose to her lips and burbled out before she could swallow it back.

Laurelle pulled her into an embrace. “Dart, what’s happened?”

She shook her head, then mumbled in Laurelle’s ear, “Something horrible…”

Laurelle sat back. “Tell me. What one can’t bear alone, two may carry more easily. Share.”

Dart stared at her friend. For all her life, she had lived with secrets. She watched Pupp crawl around them, tail tucked, low to the ground, sensing her turmoil but unable to comfort. For so long, she had found security in silence, keeping her true self hidden away. What would it be like to end all that? To live her life openly? She didn’t know what distressed her more: to speak or not to speak.

Laurelle waited for her to decide, holding her hands.

Dart knew she had no choice. The secrets inside her had become a great ocean of dread, and Laurelle was a moon, drawing a tide. Dart felt the shift inside her. She couldn’t let it all pour forth. To be that empty and exposed was too frightening, too shameful. She could not speak of what happened in the rookery; that was too deep, the darkest part of her inner ocean. But on the surface roiled her most immediate fear.

Yaellin de Mar.

Laurelle seemed to sense the flow before Dart even began speaking. She settled herself as a swordsman might set his footing before an attack. She nodded to Dart, ready.

“It all started in the Eldergarden,” Dart began slowly. Her words came out haltingly, then grew in pace as she related the murder of Jacinta and the Hand that held the blade.

“Yaellin de Mar?” Laurelle’s eyes had grown wide. A trace of disbelief shone there.

Dart stared back at her friend. She had found strength with the telling of the story. She allowed it to shine forth. With her conviction, the glint of disbelief slowly faded from Laurelle’s eyes.

“Why hasn’t he spoken of it?” Laurelle asked. “I’ve heard no whisper of such strange events.”

“I don’t know. Maybe all were sworn to secrecy.”

“And this woman… this Jacinta, have you inquired who she might be?”

“I dared not ask. If Yaellin found that it was I who was spying upon them in the gardens…”

Laurelle reached out and took her hands again. “And you’ve kept this corked up inside you all along.” Her eyes shone with a mix of awe and respect. “You’ve more steel in your blood than I.”

“I… I had no choice.”

“You could’ve told me earlier.” A twinge of hurt entered Laurelle’s voice.

“I didn’t want to involve you. If there was danger, I wouldn’t have you come to harm.”

Laurelle squeezed her hand. “We’re sisters now. Serving here together. What you face, I will face, too. Together.”

Dart so wanted to believe her. Hope swelled through her.

“Is all this why you wish to sleep here?” Laurelle asked. “Are you scared of Yaellin?”

“Something else happened,” Dart said. She told of her waking two mornings ago and finding a brazier still hot, smelling of strange alchemies.

Laurelle covered her mouth with one hand. “Someone was in your room.”

“I think it was Yaellin.”

“Why? Surely he doesn’t know it was you in the gardens. You’ve spoken to no one about it.”

“It was the dinner, after our first harvests from Lord Chrism. You told the story of Healer Paltry and the exploding illuminaria. For some reason, this drew Yaellin’s attention to me. He kept watching me.”

Laurelle nodded. “I remember that. I thought he was just infatuated with you. You were looking lovely in that dress.”

Dart was taken aback. “Lovely? Me?” She shook her head. That was not the point. “No. It was your story of the illuminaria. He was watching me so intently as we left the dinner. I know it was him in my room. Who else could it be? He works in secret, tells no one, dabbles in dark dealings, like in the gardens. Then the very night Yaellin’s attention is drawn to me, someone sneaks into my room, burning strange alchemies.”

“But why would he do that? What did the alchemies do? Do you remember anything from that night?”

“Dreams… bad dreams.” Her voice drifted back to the strange flight and escape from some dark wood, chased by unknown pursuers.

“Nothing more?”

“No.”

“Then I don’t see we have any choice,” Laurelle said.

Dart frowned. “What do you mean?”

“We must tell Lord Chrism all that happened. He’ll know what to do.”

Dart clutched Laurelle’s hand. “We mustn’t.”

“Why? He should know of Yaellin’s strange actions.”

Dart feared the attention such an accusation would raise. She would be singled out. She would most likely be soothed to prove her testimony against one of Chrism’s respected Hands. And when soothed, how much else would be revealed? Her dark secrets could not withstand such a bright light. To expose Yaellin meant exposing herself.

Laurelle continued to stare at Dart, eyes questioning.

“I cannot.” Dart stumbled over her words. She had no way to explain to Laurelle without revealing her deepest shame.

“Well, I can.” Laurelle stood. “I’ll tell Lord Chrism. I can explain to him it was I who saw Yaellin in the Eldergarden. That should raise enough of a tumult to sanction him. He’ll not be able to sneak into your room after that. The truth will come out.”

“No. You’ll be soothed. They’ll find out you were lying.”

“And by that time, Yaellin will be under scrutiny. It will be safe for you to come out of hiding.”

Dart realized Laurelle had misinterpreted her reticence to expose Yaellin as a fear of reprisal.

Laurelle gained her feet. “We should wait no longer. I noticed that Chrism keeps a light burning in his room till past the ring of the final bells. I could go now and tell him what you told me.”

Dart stood. She had an urge to deny everything, to tell Laurelle it was all a fabrication, a fireside story, nothing more. But fear and exhaustion kept her silent. A part of her wanted this secret taken from her. Dart found her voice. “No.”

Laurelle pulled a silver robe over her nightclothes. “We must tell Lord Chrism. Yaellin may even be tied to the assassination of poor Willym.”

Dart nodded. “I know. But it should be I who tells him. It is my accusation to speak.”

Laurelle handed Dart a second robe, a crimson one. “Are you sure?”

She certainly was not. But she had no choice. Laurelle was right. If Yaellin was pursuing some vile purpose, Dart would have to risk herself to expose him. Others, like Willym, might die if she kept silent. With the decision made, she felt a surge of relief. Come what may, it would finally be over.

Laurelle helped her into the robe. “I’ll go with you.”

Dart found her hand in Laurelle’s. Tears rose in Dart’s eyes.

“We’re sisters,” Laurelle said.

Dart quickly hugged her friend… her sister. She wiped her eyes on the hem of a sleeve. In the distance, the final bells of the night chimed.

“We’d best hurry,” Laurelle said, crossing to the door.

Dart went with her, continuing to hold hands. Pupp left his hearthside roost and trotted after them. They made a strange company, two robed girls, one in silver, one in crimson, and a fiery companion with no substance.

Dart’s confidence in her decision persisted, but she sensed she had forgotten something significant. Something that tickled a warning across her skin. Before she could ponder it further, Laurelle opened the door and stepped out.

The bells echoed away.

But not her trepidation.

The pair stood in front of the golden doors. The High Wing was dark, painted in ruddy hues from the giant iron-and-bone brazier at their back. The few lamps hanging on the walls had been wicked low and half-shuttered.

Silence was complete. No voices rose from the common rooms at the end of the hall. Everyone had retired to their respective rooms.

Including Lord Chrism.

In the gloom, firelight flickered from beneath the jamb of his wide doors.

“Maybe we should wait until morning,” Laurelle said, sounding scared for the first time this night. “You could spend the night in my room.”

Dart could not count on her determination lasting until sunrise. “I’ll knock… announce us.” She took a deep breath and pictured Chrism’s warm green eyes, his easy, lazy smile. She regretted bringing bad tidings to his door in the night. She remembered the haunted words, lost and concerned. We must be watchful… all of us.

She had no choice.

She slipped her fingers from Laurelle’s and crossed to the doors. A silver knocker, carved into a flowering branch of a wyldrose, hung on the door. As she reached, she sensed movement beyond the door, a shift of shadows at her toes. Someone had moved across the hearth.

Lord Chrism.

Her fingers hesitated, trepidation flaring.

In the silence, the unhitching of a latch rang sharply.

Off to the left.

Dart flew back. A door opened.

Her door.

Laurelle stared, mouth open. Dart grabbed her arm and drew her down behind the brazier. Two figures stepped from her doorway. The first was a woman, her lithe figure decked in leather from boots to waist-length riding cape, the only dab of color, a blouse of ruby silk. The ruddy glow from the brazier lit her face as she glanced up the hall.

Dart recognized her.

Mistress Naff.

She served as the Hand of Chrism’s Seed.

Behind her came a taller figure, outfitted in shades of green, wearing brown boots. About his shoulders was a cape of tanned leather framed in black fur. His eyes glowed in the darkness, full of Grace.

It was Lord Chrism.

“She must be bedded down again with your Hand of Tears,” Mistress Naff said as Lord Chrism pulled closed the door.

Both glanced in their direction, not toward the brazier but toward Laurelle’s door. Dart ducked fully away, ears craned to hear every word.

“She should be safe enough for the moment,” Lord Chrism said.

“So how long do we dare wait?”

“Until all show their true colors,” Chrism said.

The scuff of boots sounded, moving away.

Dart risked a glance around a corner of the brazier. The pair headed down the length of the High Wing. She watched until they vanished through a door that opened to the lower stair, taking a lamp with them.

Dart turned to the side. Laurelle had also watched them depart, peeking through the legs of a fanciful animal sculpted from the iron of the brazier.

Dart stood up, drawing her friend’s eye.

“Why did we hide?” Laurelle whispered, her voice tremulous. “It was Lord Chrism… whom we had come to find.”

Dart had no cause for such caution, except simple habit. “Maybe we should leave our own accusations until the morning,” Dart said.

Laurelle nodded, her features pale even in the reddish glow.

Pupp sniffed at the brazier, slowly checking out each sculpted beast.

Dart stepped away when another bolt slid free of a lock. This time, Laurelle needed no encouragement to dive behind the far side of the brazier. The door to Chrism’s rooms pulled open as they ducked away.

Dart peered under the brazier and spotted a pair of black boots. Only now did she remember the movement beyond the door to Chrism’s chambers. If Lord Chrism had been in Dart’s room, who was this other?

She risked sliding to the side to spy around the edge of the brazier.

The interloper headed down the hall, aiming to follow Lord Chrism and Mistress Naff. His figure was indistinct, fading into and out of the gloom, appearing as ghostly as Pupp. It took a moment for Dart to recognize the reason why. She watched the shadows seem to swim around the retreating form. A shadowcloak. During Dart’s schooling, knights periodically visited the Conclave. She had witnessed their blessed ability to move through shadows unseen.

The figure pulled up the hood to the shadowcloak, vanishing completely for a breath, swallowed by the gloom, then reappeared briefly on the far side of the High Wing. He vanished down the same stair, following after the earlier two.

Despite the shadowplay, Dart had gotten a good look at the man’s face before it disappeared under the hood of the shadowcloak. She could not mistake the ebony hair split by a shock of white.

“Yaellin de Mar,” Laurelle mumbled at her side, aghast.

He had been in Chrism’s room while the god had been in Dart’s.

Why? What was the meaning of all this?

Dart stood up. All she knew for sure was that she had to follow after them all. She started down the High Wing. Pupp danced after her.

Laurelle hung back. “Dart, what are you doing?”

“I must warn Lord Chrism,” she said, her steps hurried.

“Wait,” Laurelle urged. “We don’t know what’s going on.”

Dart could not argue. All she knew was what she had spotted in Yaellin’s hand as he crept down the hall, before he vanished into the shadows.

A blade.

A black blade.

The same as had murdered the woman Jacinta.

“I must go,” Dart said.

Dart climbed down the stairs, moving as cautiously as a titmouse, staying close to the wall. She hiked up the edge of her robe to keep the hem from brushing the stone and alerting the others of her presence.

Laurelle followed after, moving in Dart’s footsteps, mimicking her careful progress.

Pupp continued ahead of them both, blazing a path onward. His fiery form illuminated their path, at least to Dart’s eyes. Laurelle kept one hand on Dart’s shoulder. Distantly the meager glow of the retreating lamp carried by Chrism and Naff flowed back to them.

Where were the guards posted to this doorway and stair? After the assassination of Master Willym, the High Wing was under constant guard. But none were at this door.

Dart continued onward, ready for living shadow to rush out and nab her. How had Yaellin obtained a shadowcloak? And how did he work its Grace to hide in the shadows? She had been taught that such blessed cloth would respond only to a knight.

She prayed the meager light cast by Pupp’s molten body would be enough to expose a hidden assassin like Yaellin. Because that certainly must be his purpose. Surely the blade could not kill Lord Chrism, but Mistress Naff had no defense against its curse.

Then again, what was Yaellin doing in Chrism’s rooms? Had he gone to harm the god? And what were Lord Chrism and Mistress Naff doing in her room? They had been searching for her, expressing concern for her safety. Did they already know of her nighttime intruder? Or maybe they were the ones who had come in the middle of the night, casting some blessing of protection upon her that she mistook for dark alchemies.

Her mind whirled with various scenarios.

They wound down and around the stairwell, then struck another hallway heading toward the southern half of the castillion. Where were they going? Occasionally a snippet of voice would carry back to them. Lord Chrism or Mistress Naff. But the words were unintelligible at this distance. So the two continued their pursuit.

Finally, another stair-an even darker stair-led downward again. It was narrow and dusty with disuse. Dart considered retreating back to the High Wing, but after coming so far, she had no choice but to continue.

The stair wound deeper and deeper.

“We must be well below the streets now,” Laurelle whispered. “I’ve never been down this far.”

Neither had Dart. Even the subterranean Graced Cache that stored Lord Chrism’s repostilaries was not buried this deep. The air smelled dank, of river water and muck. And a chill had grown around them. Even the stairs had become cruder, hewn roughly from the rock, the edges crumbling.

Laurelle slipped on a stair and clutched Dart’s shoulder to keep from falling. She gained her footing with care, but a slight limp marked her step.

“Are you all right?” Dart whispered.

“Bent my ankle a bit. But I can walk.”

“Are you sure? Maybe we should turn back.” A part of Dart hoped Laurelle would need to return. Determination could be sustained only so long. Fear had worn it thin.

“No,” Laurelle said, her voice struggling for firmness and failing. “We’ve come this far. And besides, right now, down is easier than up with my ankle.”

Dart nodded and slowly crept down the narrowing stairs. They had to proceed one after the other now. Laurelle kept behind.

“It’s dark as pitch now,” Laurelle said. “I can see no glow of the other’s lamp.”

Dart peered ahead. Laurelle was right. She had not noticed that the distant light had faded away.

A full flight ahead of them, Pupp continued downward, a ruddy ember rolling down the stairs. Rounding another turn in the stairs, firelight revealed the end of the staircase.

“There’s a door ahead,” Dart said.

“Where? How can you see?”

“I… I have good night sight,” she lied and guided her friend. “It’s this way.”

Taking Laurelle by the hand, she crossed down the last stairs and approached the door. It was made of stone. Markings etched the door’s surface. Ancient Littick from the look of the writing. And wound throughout, an intricate relief of a flowering wyldrose, the symbol of Chrism and Chrismferry.

Dart placed her hand on the door and felt a tingle under her palm. The door had been warded with Grace, sealed against intrusion. But now it stood ajar-surely left that way by the assassin who followed Lord Chrism. Yaellin must have broken the ward and kept the way open for a fast retreat. There was just enough room to slip through without moving the door. Dart feared the scrape of stone might alert Yaellin.

“This way,” she urged the blind Laurelle. She waved Pupp ahead of her. His ruddy form illuminated a tunnel beyond the door.

The passage was high and narrow, appearing almost to be a natural fissure in the rock. Dart entered first, followed by Laurelle. Bits of silvery quartz caught every trace of light and glistened like tiny stars.

Again the echoed murmur of a pair of voices reached them.

“Oh, I can see a bit of glow again,” Laurelle said, her feet growing steadier, less hesitant. “Where are they all going?”

Dart had no idea. They continued down the passage for a long stretch, chasing after the lamplight. Surely their destination could not be too much farther. In Pupp’s glow, Dart noted flashes of white in the walls. She peered closer at one, then pulled back.

Bones…

A tiny rib cage and skull of an ancient fish. More and more appeared around them, a veritable school of dead fishes… and some larger creatures among them, with pointed toothy jaws. Dart had seen fossilites before, but their presence now boded ill. It was as if they were treading through some haunted sea, frozen in time, populated by skeletal denizens.

At last, the tunnel seemed to climb. Roots began to appear, knotted and thick, frilled by tiny hairs. More and more draped from the high roof or kneed out from the walls. Rock vanished under the mass of vinelike rootlets and thick taproots, forming a leafless forest around them, festooned with hanging falls of moss.

From haunted sea to haunted forest…

“We must be under the Eldergarden,” Dart whispered. She pictured the massive myrrwood tree that graced the oldest section of the gardens. From its spreading limbs, roots dropped to the rich soil and grew into secondary trunks. New limbs then stretched farther, dropping more trunks, until one tree became a forest, filling most of the gardens.

Dart stared around her. She sensed they were under the spread of the myrrwood, with its dark bowers and sweet glens. The path had begun to angle upward, slowly wending back toward the surface. As she walked, she considered the warded door and the direction of the tunnel. She finally understood what path they must be walking, where it was taking them.

Into the heart of the myrrwood.

The tunnel must be Chrism’s secret passage, leading to his private sanctuary, a region of the myrrwood reserved for the god alone.

Dart’s feet slowed as they continued through the subterranean grove of roots and vines. It was not just fear of where she trespassed that heightened her caution. The growing tangle offered too many hiding places, too many cubbies in which assassins might conceal themselves. Furthering Dart’s unease, the hairy rootlets that fringed all the surfaces waved in strange dances, contrary to the breeze that had begun to whisper down the tunnel. When she brushed against them, they clung and snagged, tugging hems and hair, as if trying to pull them away.

Even Pupp seemed uneasy, sniffing the air, pausing there, dropping back closer to them. He kept to the center of the tangled pathway. Dart slowed in turn, needing Pupp’s glow to light her way.

“What’s wrong?” Laurelle asked, noting her caution.

Dart shook her head.

As Pupp edged around a bend in the tunnel, he brushed too closely against a hanging corkscrew of a root-or maybe it had reached for him. Either way, Pupp suddenly jerked away, darting forward, ripping away tiny root hairs… and yanking part of the root down.

It took half a heartbeat for Dart to realize the root had touched Pupp.

His body flared brighter, eyes flashing with fire. In the brightness, she saw the reason why. An oily wetness seeped from the torn root. It dripped to the floor and glowed against the dark stone. The crimson color could not be mistaken.

Blood… blood imbued with Grace.

Before she could react, Laurelle stepped around the bend. A small cry sounded. Dart glanced back. Laurelle’s eyes were huge, shining in Pupp’s radiance. Horror paled her features. Laurelle stumbled back, catching herself up among the roots. Tendrils snagged into her robe, nightclothes, hair. One long feathery root wrapped full around her stretched neck.

A scream strangled from her, coming out as a mewl.

Dart rushed to her, tearing, ripping, clawing at the clinging roots. She tugged Laurelle free, both of them tumbling to the center of the tunnel. Pupp hurried toward them, eyes shining with fury and concern.

Laurelle scrambled and fought to free herself from Dart’s tangled limbs. Dart searched around for what so terrified her friend. Had she seen Yaellin? Was he coming for them?

But the passage, well lit by Pupp, was empty.

“A daemon…” Laurelle cried, still sounding strangled. She gained her feet and backed away, one arm out toward Dart, trying to draw her, too.

On the ground, Dart finally noted the source of her terror. Laurelle’s gaze was fixed upon Pupp. She could see him. The blood from the root must have splattered over him.

“There’s nothing to fear,” Dart said hurriedly and reached out for Pupp. Her fingertips found substance again. He pushed his muzzle happily into her palm, needing reassurance. His bright glow faded with his relief. “He’s my friend.”

Laurelle remained standing, but ready to bolt. “What… how..?”

Dart stared up, pleading with her eyes. “He’s Pupp.”

Laurelle’s brow pinched in confusion, then drew even tighter. “Pupp… I remember… Margarite told me… laughed… some imaginary friend of yours… You used to speak of it when you were a firstfloorer.”

“Not imaginary,” Dart said.

Laurelle stared from girl to daemon. She slowly lowered herself to her knees. The horror faded from her face and something bordering on curiosity replaced it. “What is he?”

Dart glanced to Pupp, who sat on his haunches, glowering at the arch of roots. She remembered bits and pieces of her dream a few nights back. She had been a babe. Pupp had been suckling at her navel. “I don’t know,” she said softly. “He’s always been with me. A shadow no one could see or touch.”

“He’s fading,” Laurelle said.

“Is he?” Dart still felt his bronze shell, smooth, as warm as a mug of steaming bitternut. Then her fingers fell through him again.

“He’s gone.” Laurelle searched the passage, blind to Pupp, who continued to sit on his haunches.

Dart waved her fingers through his body. “No, he’s still here.”

“Truly? Then what made him plain to the eye just now?”

Dart pointed to the glowing ichor on the floor, still dripping from the torn root. “Blood… blood rich in Grace,” she answered, then added quietly, “… or my own blood.”

“We must show him to Lord Chrism,” Laurelle said, renewing her resolve to continue. “Perhaps Pupp has something to do with Yaellin’s interest in you.”

“I don’t see how. No one but me has ever seen Pupp.”

“Lord Chrism will sort it all out.” Laurelle nodded forward. “I think the others have stopped. The light has stopped moving away.”

They continued together. Dart sidestepped the bleeding root and waved Pupp away from the pool below it. He seemed happy to oblige, though he did sniff at it. Could he smell the Grace?

As Dart continued, she eyed the knots of roots with raw suspicion. Blood roots. If these were indeed the roots of the myrrwood tree, why did they bleed? She recalled the history lesson given by Jasper Cheek, the magister of the grounds and towers. His words repeated in her head. She could still hear the pride in his voice. Lord Chrism was the first god to marry himself to the land and share his Grace with all. His own hand laid the first seed, watered with his own blessed blood.

Dart shivered. Was that why the roots bled even now?

She kept well away from the tangled root briers. The tiny hairs continued their ominous waving, seeking purchase.

“Do you smell that?” Laurelle asked.

Dart noted a sweetness to the air, a blend of honey and loam. She drew in a deeper breath.

“That’s myrr,” Laurelle said. “I have some sweetwater scented with it, a gift from my mother.”

Dart felt a slightly warmer breeze wafting to them, the exhalation of spring, warming away the damp, winter chill of the passage. They were drawn toward it. Their pace increased. The lamplight grew brighter, plainly having stopped not far ahead.

They hiked the last few bends in the passage.

A short stair appeared, leading up, lit well.

They cautiously approached. There were only ten steps.

At the top, the lamp appeared in view, hanging on a peg and shining upon another stone door. This was carved like the first: twining rose vines amid a smattering of Littick letters. Warded, too, Dart noted. And like the other, it was ajar.

A murmur of voices could be heard now. More than two. A gathering.

Laurelle glanced to Dart, then back to the door. Together they both cautiously mounted the stairs and crept to the door. There was enough room for both to peek out. Pupp simply walked through the door and out into the open glade beyond.

From the doorway, Dart spotted the limbs and trunks of the ancient myrrwood, lit from below by small fires dotting the edges of a glade. Trunks were so thick that it would take a dozen men linking arms to measure around them. Heavy limbs climbed so high even moonlight failed to shine through. The glade appeared more like a giant raftered court than a forest glen.

Voices could be heard, talking in low tones, but clearly urgent.

The speakers were not in plain view.

Laurelle urged Dart out with a nudge. They slipped out the open door and hurried to a patch of bushes at the edge of the glade. They ducked down. The bushes were unknown to Dart but appeared more thorny than leafy. They could peer through them with ease.

Beyond, lit by the fires, a strange group of people gathered in the center near a raised mound surmounted by a pair of twin stone pillars. The stone columns were plainly ancient, hoary with lichen, half-wrapped in brown vines.

Lord Chrism climbed the mound, arms raised. He was bare-chested now. Both wrists had been cut and bled down the length of his arms.

The others gathered at the foot of the mound, a score of men and women. She recognized not only Mistress Naff, but also Jasper Cheek, and several guardsmen who served the High Wing.

Chrism faced the others, standing between the two pillars. When he spoke, it was in his softly assured, sad tones. “Here is where I first settled the land.” He pointed to the mound at his feet, blood dripping to the soil. “I allowed myself to be tied here, strung between these two pillars. I had my body cut at the throat, at the wrist, and the groin. That is how a god settles a land, tying place to blood and flesh.”

A murmur passed through the crowd.

“No longer.” Chrism stepped back and spat at his feet. “I have broken free of my place, severing my connection, freeing the land and returning it to my people.”

Dart tensed at these words. Laurelle and Dart shared a frightened glance. Was what Lord Chrism claiming true? Had he unsettled himself from the very land he had blessed? Dart remembered Jacinta’s last words before falling upon the cursed blade, expressing a similar sentiment: Myrillia will be free.

Chrism continued. “As I was the first to bring peace to Myrillia, so now I will bring it true freedom. You are my chosen. Together we are the Cabal. Others across Myrillia already join our ranks. Let us once again, as we do with each new moon, swear our allegiance. Raise your cups. Be blessed and draw strength from my Grace.”

All around the mound, the gathered men and women lifted their cups and drank. Dart noted the glow about the cups, the same as seeped from Chrism’s wrists.

Blood… they were drinking his blood.

“No,” Laurelle moaned under her breath.

Blood drinking was an abomination, used in black rites. A god’s Grace was too strong. It took only a touch to the skin, a single drop, to pass on a blessing. To consume blood risked the loss of both will and body. It enslaved and deformed.

Chrism raised his arms out to his minions. A glow spread over the god’s form, starting at the wrist and spreading outward. He was calling down a blessing.

“Be free.”

The men and women gasped and let out small screams. They fell to the soil, on their sides, backs, facedown. They writhed and racked. Dart could hear bones breaking. Cries turned to howls. Across the glade, men became beasts, rising up on misshapen legs. Women crouched and hissed, faces stretched into bestial visages. All eyes, now aglow with wicked Grace, stared toward Chrism.

“As your flesh has changed, so will the world.”

There was only one figure untouched by the transformation.

Mistress Naff climbed the hill to join Chrism. She slipped an arm around his naked waist and pulled him down into a kiss. It was a savage, bloody kiss, less passion than violence. As they parted, a dark smoky tendril connected their lips, a black umbilicus. It pulsed and roiled, seeming to almost take form, but not quite.

From that mass of darkness, fiery eyes opened and stared toward their hiding place. A keening wail filled the glade, sounding like the scream of slaughtered rabbits.

Laurelle pushed back into the wood. A misstep snapped a branch.

The noise was as loud as a clap.

Eyes… all eyes swung in their direction: beast, god, daemon.

Dart stood up, knowing they were found. She turned and fled with Laurelle. But in three steps, shadows swept down from the branches above, falling about them like water. She was blind, choked, panicked.

From the heart of the darkness, words reached Dart. “If you wish to live, move swiftly.”

Dart knew the speaker.

Yaellin de Mar.