Shadowfall

20

“Darjon…”Tylar pushed up fromthe railing. his chest and shoulder burned from the two impaled crossbow bolts. Each breath tore his insides further, flaming his lungs.

The three Shadowknights rushed his position. The flanking pair dropped their bows and yanked swords free. The center knight, Darjon ser Hightower, swept at Tylar, his own blade held low and menacingly.

There was no artistry in the attack, no nobility. It was a brutal and swift ambush. Darjon must have anticipated Tylar’s escape from Tashijan, identifying the dawn flippercraft as a point of escape. Tylar recalled a similar ambush as he, Rogger, and Delia had fled the Summer Mount. Darjon had come close to killing Tylar then.

From the glow in his eyes, Darjon meant to finish what he’d started.

Kathryn rushed to block all three knights, swirling out with cloak and shadow. She met Darjon’s sword with a clash of steel.

“Kathryn…” Tylar called, tasting blood on his lips. He shoved from the rail. He had to go to her aid.

“Stay there,” she ordered stonily.

The other two knights closed upon them. Tylar dared not call forth his naethryn daemon. All along the wall and roof ran the intricate steel-and-glass mekanicals that flew the flippercraft. Even a brush of the daemon risked shattering and melting all to ruin, sending the craft to a flaming death.

Instead, Tylar grabbed a dagger from his belt and flung it with a skilled flip of his wrist. The blade struck one knight in the throat. He fell down, gagging on his own blood.

Kathryn continued a deadly dance of shadow and steel with Darjon. She was one of the most skilled knights at shadowplay. Her sword, while not as strong as some men’s, was still swifter than most. She fought with cloak and blade, creating complex feints and lightning-fast parries.

Tylar turned his attention to the other knight as the man lunged at him. Tylar twisted. The man’s blade sliced the air, drawing a line of fire along Tylar’s belly. He fell back to the rail, a vulnerable position.

The sword stabbed again, swung from the side. The tall knight had a long reach. Tylar had no choice but to fall back over the railing that overlooked the flippercraft’s view window. He dropped with enough skill to land on his feet, but the curve of blessed glass was slick. His legs went out from under him. He landed on his backside.

His attacker vaulted over the rail, hooking the edge of his shadowcloak to it. He flew deftly and landed as easily as a skeeterfly on a still pond. His sword struck at Tylar’s floundering form.

Tylar kicked against the slick glass and slid away from the point of the sword. Blood ran down his arm from his wounded shoulder, smearing the glass. While he could not call the daemon, he could employ Meeryn’s gift to him. He touched his right palm to the bloody glass and willed through his sweat the fiercest fire, picturing steam rising from volcanic vents. Blood bubbled around his fingertips; then the blessing passed into the glass. The window’s surface heated. The blessing wasn’t enough to melt the thick glass. It would take much more blood for that… and probably some tears to heighten the effect.

But his attacker didn’t know that.

The knight felt the rising heat and slowed his attack. He stared between his toes at the passing landscape far below, etched in the first light of the day. He seemed suddenly less sure of his footing, falling to one knee.

Tylar scooted to the frame of the glass. He had to move quickly. He slapped his other hand down upon the window and held the bloody palm firm against the hot glass. He narrowed his eyes and imagined the worst winter storm, freezing rain and icy hail, a wind so cold its kiss burned flesh. Deep in his bones, Tylar felt the blessing sink into the glass.

He jumped up, springing with all the force left in his legs, and grabbed the lip of the upper deck.

The hot glass, so suddenly and fiercely cooled, broke with a resounding pop. A thousand cracks skittered its surface. The knight, still on one knee atop the window, drew up fearfully, a skater on deadly ice.

Tylar hung by one hand from the lip of the upper deck. The knight stepped toward him. His cloak billowed upward to snag a purchase. The shift in the man’s weight was all it took. The broken glass shattered under his boots, falling away. Wind tore up through the small hole and more of the window collapsed.

The knight had failed to secure a grip with his cloak in time. He fell with a shout.

Tylar turned away. Hanging above the glass, he reached up to grab one of the railings support posts, meaning to pull himself up.

Then something snagged his ankle.

He stared down. The knight had flung out the edge of his cloak and grabbed Tylar’s leg. Tylar, weak from blood loss and agonized by the two bolts in his chest, almost lost his hold.

Below, the knight hauled himself back out of the hole in the glass, drawn upward by the Grace in his cloak. Tylar let go with one arm and snatched another dagger from his belt. He dragged up his burdened leg with a strength borne of desperation and fury. His body screamed, but he had lived with pain. He found strength in its fire.

He had to cut himself free before the knight used his body as a ladder to reach the rail above. Tylar hacked at the cloak, but its shadows knit back together as fast as he cut.

Trembling with the effort, his entire body strained to keep his snagged ankle in reach. But he could not cut himself free. The knight flew upward now.

The flippercraft passed over the wide Tigre River. The morning light cast the mighty channel below into bright silver. Light reflected upward through the broken window and bathed the area with blinding light. Shadows dispersed-leaving only cloth.

Tylar hacked one last time at the cloak’s edge, wrapped tight to his ankle. The knight was almost upon him, a hand reaching out for his leg. Tylar saw the knight’s face. His masklin had been ripped away by the sudden winds as the window had shattered. He was young, fresh faced, eyes wide with panic. He was no older than Perryl, and perhaps as innocent.

Tylar had no choice. The fingers that gripped the support post overhead were losing their strength. His breath was thick with wheezed blood. He reached down and sliced the cloak from his ankle. The young knight fell with a piercing scream, fingers still reaching. He tumbled out of the broken window and vanished.

Tylar sheathed his dagger, grabbed with his other arm, then used his legs and the last of his strength to pull himself back up. He rolled onto the upper deck.

Freeing his dagger again, he searched the space.

Halfway across the deck, two shadowed figures were locked in a tumbled embrace, writhing in a hand-to-hand battle.

Kathryn…

A final wrench of shadows and the outcome became clear. Rising to his feet, Darjon ser Hightower clutched a fistful of Kathryn’s hair. He held her at his knees, head bent back, face bared. His sword lay at her throat.

“Move and she dies,” Darjon yelled to Tylar.

Behind the bastard, the door to the common room shook with pounding. But it was barred. There would be no rescue. Tylar stared at Kathryn. Her lower lip had been split. Blood ran from both nostrils. Still, a fierceness met his gaze. Don’t give in, she seemed to will him.

“What do you want?” Tylar asked.

“It was lucky you cracked that window. That sudden gust and bobble of the flippercraft saved my life. Your old witch here proved more skilled with a sword than I expected. But she’s not as skilled with a fist, alas. Easy to catch off guard.” He tightened his grip, his blade digging into her neck. Blood dribbled. “Now I want you to step over to that rail and fling yourself through that broken window. Do that and this sell-wench will live.”

“Why?” Tylar asked, needing time to think. “Whose justice do you serve?”

“My own,” Darjon snapped back.

Tylar shook his head. “To what end, then?”

A new fire flamed up in the man’s eyes, sensing he had the upper hand. He sneered, circling more slowly. “For too long, man has been subservient to the Hundred, but a new order rises, a new day. Power shall be returned to the people, to mankind! No longer will we be the playthings, the raw clay, of the gods. The Cabal will set us free. What was settled, will be unsettled. What was stolen, will be returned. What ended so long ago, starts anew.”

Tylar heard the cadence of fervor behind his words. “And the death of Meeryn?” he pressed, buying time.

“The first to fall. But she will not be the last! At long last, the War of the Gods is upon us.”

“And I’m to be the goat for this first kill. If you’re so proud of the death done in the Summering Isles, then why doesn’t the Cabal take credit for it?”

Darjon’s eyes narrowed, irritated. “The time is not yet right. Meeryn discovered the Cabal too soon. She had to be stopped. The naethryn assassin was called forth by one loyal to our cause. Not all gods wish to rule mankind. Some wish for our freedom. We work together-god and man-to free us both.”

Tylar recognized madness when it was bared so plainly.

Pounding continued behind them. The characteristic chop of an ax echoed. Could Tylar stall Darjon enough for the others to break through?

“No more talk,” Darjon said, as if reading his thoughts. “You have until the count of ten to hurl yourself over the railing, or I’ll kill this woman.”

“You made one mistake, Darjon,” Tylar said coldly.

“And what’s that?” he said with a sneer.

“You assumed I still have a fondness for this woman.”

The satisfied sneer faltered.

“This is the woman who damned me with her own testimony,” Tylar said, putting steel into his voice. “She broke her marital vow to me. She swore against me. Upon her words, I was broken on the wheel and sent into the slave circuses. She means nothing to me.”

“You lie.”

“Words are breath,” Tylar conceded. “But actions are flesh.” He turned the dagger in his hand and threw it with all the force in his arm.

Darjon shielded himself with a ward of shadowcloak, but the knight had not been Tylar’s intended target. The blade struck Kathryn in the hollow of her exposed throat, burying itself to the hilt. A killing strike.

The force of the blow threw her back. Darjon held her up by a fistful of hair. Kathryn’s eyes were wide with pain and shock. She gasped like a fish flopping on the bottom of a boat, soundless, yet agonized.

Darjon dropped her with disgust.

Tylar stood. He sidestepped to the first knight he had dispatched and collected the man’s abandoned sword.

Darjon billowed out his cloak, folding darkness into shield, drawing power and speed.

Tylar widened his stance. Blood flowed from the two impaled bolts. He tasted and smelled it with every agonized breath. He was no match for Darjon. Still, he lifted his sword.

“Let’s end this.”

Dart stepped from the carriage. Laurelle followed. Both girls kept behind Yaellin. He paid the coachman and spoke in low tones, menace and warning inflecting his quiet words. The man nodded and remounted his carriage seat. As the horses set off down the street, Yaellin’s cloak soaked up the shadows in the alleyway, stirring the darkness like water.

“Will he tell anyone about us?” Laurelle asked.

“Gold will quiet a tongue for only so long,” Yaellin said. “And fear of reprisal for aiding us may buy us another day. But I expect the bounty on the three of us will be high. The lure will draw him out. Before that happens, we must clear the upper city.”

Dart, like the others, had noted the number of castillion guards out on the street, easy to spot in their gold-and-crimson livery. They were knocking on doors and questioning every wagon. Their own carriage had taken this alley to avoid a patrol. Chrism would soon have every garrison alerted from one end of Chrismferry to the other.

“What now?” she asked. Her eyes stared at the two towers of the Conclave. Yaellin had them dropped off several streets from its doors.

“We go on foot. We move swiftly. We stick to shadows.”

Yaellin drew them across the street and down an alley. Dart ran to keep up. She still ached deep in her belly, her head raced with a thousand questions, and her heart pounded in terror and worry. She wanted to lie down, cover her face, and cry. But Yaellin’s earlier words kept her moving.

And you, little Dart, may be the key all seek.

She prayed it wasn’t so.

And what of Pupp? Where was he? He must be terrified, all alone. Was he suffering from their separation, too? Love for him welled through her, gave her some strength to continue running. The three of them, while heading toward the Conclave, were also moving in the direction of the walled Eldergarden. Each step helped steady her. She would find Pupp. He had protected her at her most dire moment. She could do no less for him, regardless of the risk.

They fled down another street, staying on the shadowed side. Gates to the Conclave lay around the next corner and down a block. “Not much farther,” Yaellin promised them.

The pound of boot steps on cobbles sounded from ahead. The churlish voice of a captain reached them. “Check every doorway, every home, every stall.”

Yaellin searched around them. The street offered no hiding place. “Back,” he said with hushed urgency.

Dart turned around. The closest alley lay too far away. They’d never escape in time.

“Hurry,” Yaellin urged.

“No,” Laurelle said. “This way.”

She ran ahead, toward the nearby corner, toward the approaching guards. Dart hesitated, then raced after Laurelle. She had lost one friend this morning. She’d not lose another.

Yaellin followed with a grumble.

Laurelle reached a shop at the corner and ducked inside. Dart knew the establishment. A wooden rolling pin hung above the lintel. It was Havershym’s Bakery and Sweets. Girls and boys had been coming here for generations to buy or pinch bits of brittlesyrup, gingersnaps, or honeycakes. Laurelle was seldom without a bag of sweets from the shop, passing them out to her dearest friends.

Dart had never been the recipient of such largesse. In fact, she had been in the shop only once, when she was awarded two brass pinches for helping Mistress Grannice spin some raw wool. She had bought four pieces of karamellow, doling them out as a treat to herself once a month.

The brass bell rang as they rushed inside. The smell of sugar and rising bread filled their noses. The heat from the fired ovens in the back room warmed the chill of the streets off them.

The portly baker, Havershym himself, yelled from the back. “Bread’s a-baking. Hold fast. I’ll be up in a breath.” Dart caught a glimpse of his backside as he bent with a long wooden bread peel. The knock and block of pans and utensils echoed from farther back, apprentices mixing and kneading. Laughter chimed out.

Laurelle did not stop. She ducked under the counter and ran past the short rows of sweets and alongside the steaming baskets of loafed breads. She reached a low, narrow door and pushed inside.

“Quickly,” she said.

The space was filled with barrels of dry flour and casks of rock sugar. Bags hung from the rafters on iron hooks, smelling of seed and yeast.

Laurelle stooped under the bags and hurried toward the back door. She yanked it open. A dark alley lay beyond it. Dart and Yaellin caught up with Laurelle, and they headed down the alley to where it crossed with another. Dart suddenly knew where she was. She stared up. The towers of the Conclave climbed into the morning sky. They were in the back alley behind the school’s courtyard.

Yaellin had the same realization. “We’re here.”

Dart glanced to Laurelle.

Her friend shrugged. “I spent so much time going to and from the shop, spending fistfuls of coin, that Havershym eventually allowed me to shorten my steps by using his back door. And I knew at this hour they’d still be busy with their ovens. If we moved swiftly enough, we could pass through their shop unseen.”

They approached the back gate to the school’s courtyard. Mostly used by carts and wagons to deliver goods, seldom did anyone give it any attention.

“Keep with me,” Yaellin said as they neared the ironwork gate. He swept out his cloak and helped hide the girls. “Surely Chrism has sent ravens throughout the city to warn all to watch for us. He wouldn’t have neglected the Conclave.”

“Then where are we to go?” Dart asked.

“To whom we were called to meet. We’ll hole up there until the others arrive.”

“Hole up where?” Dart pressed.

Yaellin nodded to the open gate, sweeping shadows over Dart’s head like gigantic raven’s wings. “With Healer Paltry.”

Tylar waited for Darjon. The knight circled him, clearly suspicious. Or perhaps the knight was simply allowing Tylar to weaken further from his wounds.

Pounding and chopping continued at the door to the flippercraft’s common room. Such ships were built of stubborn stoutoak and ironwood. Rescue would not be swift.

“Why don’t you call your daemon?” Darjon taunted. “Or has it abandoned you?”

Tylar glowered. Darjon clearly had intended to dispatch him in the initial attack. He had been surprised by Kathryn’s skill. And now he was wondering why Tylar hadn’t summoned his daemon. Darjon’s eyes sparked brighter, more confident.

Tylar stepped around, matching Darjon’s dance, one circling the other. “Why forsake your cloak?” Tylar called out. “Why join the Cabal?”

Darjon kept his sword steady but slipped his masklin free with the point of his dagger. He exposed his pale features.

“It was a god’s blood that did this to me,” he spat. “I was to be a soothmancer, but the blessing went awry. It turned my skin at birth so pale that the sun burns with the slightest touch. It can hold no pigment, not even the tattoos of knighthood.”

Tylar stared into those red eyes. He saw as much madness as Grace in that glow.

“Yet still, I sought to serve Myrillia honorably,” Darjon continued, circling with cautious steps. “I trained hard and earned my right to don a shadowcloak. I was distinguished among my peers. But who would have a disfigured knight? One without stripes?” His voice hardened. “They placed me far from all else. In a god-realm of burning sunlight and eternally clear skies, where I dared never to shed my cloak lest my skin be burned or my eyes blinded. The day was forbidden me. Such a cruel assignment was as much a curse as my birth.”

“We go where we are needed,” Tylar said. “We serve who we must. That’s a knight’s duty.”

“And such a condition is no better than slavery. I’m sure you of all people could understand that. Imagine being confined not to a cell or circus, like you were, but imprisoned in one’s own cloak, forever unable to escape its shelter.” He shook his sword at Tylar. “When the Cabal approached me, told me of another way to live, free of gods and enslavement to duty, I knew their cause was just. The Hundred have ruled for far too long. Now is the time for the rule of man.”

Tylar had heard similar complaints in the past. “The Hundred do not rule us. They share their Graces. We honor their duty by offering service to them. It is through their humours that Myrillia has dragged itself out of barbarism and into a time of peace and prosperity. Men are free to live their own lives.”

“And swine are just as free to rut and roll in the mud,” Darjon said. “Blind and oblivious to the killing floor to come.”

Tylar sighed. It was time to end this. He lifted his sword. “The Cabal will be stopped. We will find its head and chop it off.”

Laughter, harsh and cruel, answered him. “The Cabal is legion. It thrives everywhere. Cut once and thrice will you be struck down. Like so…”

Darjon leaped at him.

Caught by surprise, Tylar stumbled back. He parried the knight’s first thrust by brute force, feinted with his shoulders, and attempted a slice to the man’s arm. But his blade found only shadow.

From out of a fold of cloak, a dagger stabbed at Tylar’s side. He could not avoid it, only lessen the injury. He met the dagger with his arm, catching the blade’s point with his forearm. The knife cut to bone.

Tylar twisted away, falling backward. He fled a few staggering steps until he was forced once again against the rail. Winds from the shattered window below rushed against his backside, threatening to buffet him forward onto Darjon’s blade.

The knight closed upon him.

Enough…

Tylar had heard all he needed to hear. He nodded past Darjon’s shoulder.

At his signal, a flow of shadow whisked up. A flash of silver broke through the dark cloud. A sword lanced out and struck Darjon in the shoulder, piercing fully through.

Darjon glanced down in surprise. Before he could react further, the blade was yanked back out, unsheathed from his body. Released, he spun to face his attacker, half-falling.

Kathryn shed her cloak, revealing herself alive and unharmed.

“How…?” Darjon mumbled.

Kathryn cocked back her free arm and struck the man in the teeth with a fist wrapped around a dagger’s hilt. Darjon fell backward, hitting the rail hard and going down on one knee.

“I can fight with fist as well as sword,” she said fiercely and kicked out with a heel. “Not to mention leg.”

Caught in the chin, his head snapped back, then forward. He fell to his hands. Tylar held his sword to the man’s neck. He supported himself on the rail with his other arm.

“The game is over, Darjon,” Tylar said. “While you never were blessed as a soothmancer, others were. You will be exposed. As will your Cabal allies.”

Darjon lifted his face to Tylar. “Myrillia will be free!” A fold of shadowcloak parted. Something dropped into the man’s palm as he sat back.

Tylar pressed his sword into the man’s neck, but he was too late. Darjon crushed the thin crystal vial against the floorboards under his palm. The tinkle of glass sounded.

Tylar kicked the man in the side, rolling him over. Kathryn guarded him with her sword.

Darjon held up a hand, showing Tylar his bloody palm, pierced by glass. “The Cabal lives!”

The man’s palm and fingers melted to slag, losing all form, like warmed wax. The curse spread quickly, down the arm, over the shoulder and neck. The left side of Darjon’s face drooped and sagged. His eye rolled down his flowing cheek.

Tylar and Kathryn both backed a step, fearful of the curse leaping to them. Darjon, still of some mind, took advantage. A snap of shadowcloak whipped out, snagged the rail, and contracted, yanking Darjon off the boards and over the rail.

Tylar lunged at him, striking the railing hard. One of the crossbow bolts snapped. A rib, grazed by the bolt, cracked with a flare of agony.

No…

Below, Darjon plummeted through window, tumbling past the belly of the flippercraft. Still wrapped in his shadowcloak, darkness shredded from his form, burned away by the brightness of the morning.

Tylar shoved backward, clutching his side. Darjon was no longer a concern.

“Tylar…?” Kathryn came toward him.

“Get back!” he yelled.

Agony flared outward from the snapped rib. Bones broke and broke again: wrist, elbow, fingers. He crashed to the floor as both legs shattered under him. He writhed on the floor for two breaths.

The beast inside shook free of its broken cage, rising from his chest, burning through his shirt and cloak, a fountain of smoky darkness. It fled from his form, stirring and drawing the bones together in its wake, healing with callus and spur.

He saw the look of horror on Kathryn’s face. He lifted a crooked arm toward her. The horror on her face deepened as she stumbled farther away.

Above him, the font of darkness spread its wings. Its shadow-maned head snaked outward. Flaming eyes opened, seeking the danger for which it had been summoned. It found only one target.

Kathryn continued her startled retreat.

The naethryn lunged at her, wings sweeping wide, eyes blazing.

Tylar had to stop it. He smeared his hands on his blood-soaked shirt and grabbed hold of the smoky umbilicus that linked the daemon to the black print on his chest. The Grace in his blood ignited like fire on contact. The cord throbbed and twisted under his fingers. Flames of Grace spread out over it, as swift as flowing water.

The naethryn, in midlunge, contorted as the wash of fire swamped it. Wings snapped wide. Neck whipped up. Then it was consumed. Flame and form lashed back toward Tylar. He braced for it. The kick as it struck knocked him on his rear. Blinded for a breath, he rolled back to his feet. He found his body healed again. Even his cuts. The bolts had vanished. He patted out the smoldering edges of the circle burned through his cloak and shirt.

Kathryn stared across the cabin, still stunned.

But she was safe.

Tylar felt a sudden lurch under him. The flippercraft hove up on its starboard side. The floor tilted. Tylar fell again to hands and knees. Kathryn tumbled backward, landing hard herself.

Tylar then smelled it. An acrid and familiar stench to the air.

Burning blood.

He craned upward. A large swath of crystal piping dripped molten glass. Crimson fluid, the air alchemies, dripped and sizzled through the slagged tubings, raining and flaming from above. The naethryn’s wing must have brushed through the piping.

Gods above…

The flippercraft shuddered. Somewhere under the floorboards, the ship’s mekanicals ground with the sound of tearing metal.

The floor tipped again, this time nose first.

The craft rattled and bucked.

As the angle steepened, both Tylar and Kathryn skidded down the tilted floor, striking the bow wall. She stared at him in raw fear.

They were going down.

Buried in shadow, Dart climbed the familiar stairs. Laurelle kept beside her. They gripped each other’s hands. Yaellin led the way, his cloak draping both girls.

“The eighth level?” Yaellin asked. “Is that correct?”

“Yes,” Laurelle whispered from the nest of shadows. “That’s where Healer Paltry keeps his chambers.”

Dart clutched tighter to her friend. The stair smelled of boiling oats and frying griddle cakes. The homey scent, rising from the kitchens below, triggered memories of a simpler life, where her worst fears were to have a boy see her petties as she climbed these same stairs. Before all the blood and the terror…

Bright laughter flowed down to them. A flurry of thirdfloorers cascaded down the staircase, heading to break their fast in the commons.

Yaellin motioned Dart and Laurelle into the next landing, shielding them fully from sight.

The parade of girls rushed past, all bundled in skirts, hair tucked under caps. Peeking past an edge of shadowcloak, Dart recognized all the faces: Sissup, Hessy, Sharyn, Pallia. Tears welled in her eyes at their chatter and easy manner. Had she ever been so light of thought?

Excitement coursed through the air, carried like a wind about the girls.

“I heard they were Dark Alchemists,” Pallia said, her voice frosted with frightened delight.

“No, I bet they were hinterland spies,” Gerdie countered. “Cursed by rogue blood.”

Only when they noted the Shadowknight posted on the landing did their voices grow hushed, eyes widening. Shadowknights were not an uncommon sight, but with the Conclave stirred up by black tidings, the presence of one drew curious stares. Once past the landing, the chatter resumed more excited than before, whispered behind hands, but still carrying to them.

“Did you see that knight?” Kylee said. “He was looking right at me. I was like to swoon.”

“Me, too,” Sissup said. “His eyes were dreamy.”

As the last thirdfloorers passed, a voice called from above. “Hurry, girls!”Though stern, it was as familiar as a warm hug. Matron Grannice appeared. Her portly form waddled down the steps like a mother goose, herding her goslings ahead of her. “Enough chatter! Jenine, how many times must I tell you to get your fingers from your mouth? What god will choose a girl with fingernails chewed to nubbins? Now get…”

The matron finally noted the stranger on the landing. She stopped, tucked a stray lock of gray hair under her bonnet. “Ser knight, you’ll have to forgive my girls. They are an excitable lot.”

“Not at all, Matron.”

Dart had to suppress an urge to climb out of Yaellin’s cloak and into Matron Grannice’s arms. She wanted to confess all, unburden herself.

Laurelle must have had similar thoughts. But both had seen too much horror in one night. Their only safety had been found in Yaellin’s cloak. So they remained where they were, hidden from sight.

“Have you come from the castillion?” Grannice asked.

“Yes, I’ve been assigned to search every floor, from top to bottom. I pray the intrusion will not be too burdensome, good matron.”

“Certainly not,” the matron said. “I’ve heard all about the uproar. An attack by Dark Alchemists in the Eldergarden. Can these black days get any blacker? Is it true two of Chrism’s Hands were abducted, possibly even corrupted?”

“Such matters I can’t speak of directly, goodly lady.”

She nodded sagely. “A silent tongue is a wise man’s best feature.”

“Indeed.”

“Well, I won’t keep you any longer from your duties. May the gods and shadows lighten your way.”

Yaellin bowed his head.

Matron Grannice departed, waving her arms. “Off with you girls.”

Several of the thirdfloorers had gathered several steps below, watching on, whispering to one another. But under the matron’s glare, they turned and fled down the stairs.

With the way clear, Yaellin stepped back out and continued the climb toward the eighth level. Dart and Laurelle followed, though Laurelle kept glancing back over her shoulder. Dart read her thoughts. How easy it would be to run down those stairs, join her fellow thirdfloorers, and pretend all this never happened. But it had. That life was dead to them… to both of them.

Still, Dart glanced back, too.

Before she could turn around, a figure stepped from the dormitory hall of the thirdfloorers. She was in a hurry, tugging down her skirt over her petties with one hand, pulling her cap on with the other. She must be the head girl of the floor, assigned to douse the lamps and secure the floor. An honor once bestowed upon Laurelle. Plainly the girl was frightened to be alone on the stair… especially after all the dread rumors.

Dart recognized the girl as she straightened from spreading her skirt over her ankles. Laurelle knew her, too, and stopped. “Margarite …”

The girl stiffened, hearing her name whispered. She whirled around.

Yaellin had continued up a few steps, unaware Laurelle had stopped. Shadows stripped from her shoulders.

Margarite stared at Laurelle, as if seeing a ghost. She froze.

Laurelle stepped toward her. “Margarite,” she said again.

The girl clutched her arms around her belly, scared, confused. She even backed away a step. “Laurelle… how… why…?”

“Oh, Margarite,” Laurelle said and rushed down, closing the distance. She hugged her friend. After a moment, Margarite did the same. They clung to each other.

Yaellin moved back down the steps, looming over the pair. Dart pushed free of the cloak. Margarite, still embraced, noted Dart’s presence over Laurelle’s shoulder. The girl’s eyes narrowed. She pulled free of Laurelle’s arms.

“What are you both doing here?” Margarite asked. The girl eyed Dart up and down, as if offended by her soiled appearance, though Laurelle was no better clothed.

Laurelle still held her old friend’s hand. “We’re here because-”

Yaellin cut her off. “As you must know,” he said haughtily, “Healer Paltry is the personal physik to the High Wing of Chrism. We’ve come here to make sure these two Hands were not harmed by the attack. We will shelter here until this foul matter is dealt with.”

Margarite stared at his dark form.

“None must know of our presence here,” he continued in commanding tones. “Other Hands are being sequestered elsewhere. It is a matter of utmost secrecy. Can you bear this burden?”

Margarite continued to stare, wide-eyed. Then she seemed to realize the question had been directed at her and nodded.

“Swear upon it.” He held out an edge of cloak. “In the way of Shadowknights, touch the blessed cloak and swear.”

Margarite reached a trembling hand and brushed her fingertips upon the cloak. “I… I swear.”

“You are very brave,” Yaellin said with a nod, dropping his cloak. “Now you’d best return to the others lest you be missed.”

Color blushed Margarite’s cheeks. She offered a quick curtsy, then headed out, but not before Laurelle rushed to her and again hugged her.

“I miss you so,” she whispered in her friend’s ear.

Margarite nodded, but her eyes were on Yaellin’s shadowed form.

They broke their embrace, and Margarite hurried down the stairs, casting many glances back at them.

Once out of sight, they set off again, climbing the stairs.

“Will she keep silent?” Yaellin asked.

“She’s our friend,” Laurelle said sternly.

Dart didn’t bother to mention that such friendship did not extend to herself. She had noted the familiar look of disgust in Margarite’s eyes. Dart trusted more in Margarite’s fear and awe of the Shadowknight than old friendships.

At last they reached the eighth landing. Yaellin led them off the stair and down the main hall to a door carved with oak leaves and acorns on its lintel.

“Stay behind me,” Yaellin said.

Dart needed no prompting to push deeper into the man’s shadows. Laurelle huddled with her.

Yaellin knocked on the door.

Footsteps approached on the far side. A latch snicked. The door pulled open, sucking some of the shadows over the threshold.

“Who calls so-?” The voice rang with irritation, then cut off.

“Healer Paltry,” Yaellin said. “I’ve come from the High Wing. Your presence is requested at the castillion. I’m to escort you on this black day.”

Dart remained hidden, but she heard the satisfaction in the other’s voice. “Of course. I’ve heard word. I’ll gather my bag and be right with you. Step inside. I won’t be more than a quarter bell.”

Yaellin followed the healer into his chamber. Dart and Laurelle stepped after him. Past the entryway, the chamber opened into the healing ward. A hearth glowed with a morning fire, and lamps shone upon the empty cots, lined around the circular chamber’s edges. In the center, a small brazier burned and smoked.

Yaellin closed the door and secured the latch.

Healer Paltry glanced back at the sound. “There’s no need-”

Yaellin let his shadows and cloak drop from him. Dart and Laurelle stood on either side of him.

Healer Paltry’s gaze fell upon Dart. Confusion crinkled his brow, and deep down something darker shone. Still, he kept his voice light. “What is all this?”

Yaellin pulled out his sword with a flash of silver. “I must ask you to keep us company, Healer Paltry. It seems that there is some matter of urgency that must be discussed.”

Healer Paltry ignored the sword. His eyes still fixed upon Dart. “The Hand of Blood,” he said. “And the Hand of Tears. The very ones wanted by the castillion guard. Ravens fly to every corner of Chrismferry. And you come here, I assume for my help.”

Dart stared into the man’s blue eyes, his handsome face. How could such beauty hide such a black heart? She met Paltry’s gaze, sensing his attempt to intimidate her with the weight of his attention, to hold her quiet. Before, Dart had left the healer’s presence trembling and panicked. She was not that girl any longer.

“Do not trust him,” Dart said with a firmness that surprised her, finding strength from the night’s terror to face the horror here. Eyes drew to her. “His vile wickedness runs to the marrow.”

“Dart?” Laurelle said, surprised.

Yaellin glanced to Paltry. “What do you know of him? Do you know why Tashijan seeks him out?”

Paltry’s eyes narrowed to sharp points, threatening.

Dart shook her head, keeping her gaze locked on the healer. “All I know… all I know is he took all from me…” The words came out, dragged up by sheer necessity, but still tearing, too large for her throat. Her vision blurred with tears, but she did not look away. Laurelle appeared at her side, taking her hand. Dart felt the warmth of her friend’s touch.

Walls broke inside her. Reservoirs of bile and bitterness, sorrow and terror, anger and misery burst their holds. She felt lifted and dragged down. She squeezed tightly to Laurelle.

“He sent Master Willet… to the rookery.” Dart began to shake. Tears took her vision, replaced it with flashes of the past, to a place of pain. “I… I couldn’t stop him. He took me by force, broke me, turned brightness to blood. I… I… I…” Her voice turned to a low keening cry of pain and grief.

Laurelle drew her tight. “Oh, Dart…”

She gasped and choked.

“You could’ve told me,” Laurelle consoled.

Dart shook her head, a bit too violently. “Spoiled… I was broken and impure. I had no other home.”

“She lies,” Paltry spat out. “She is corrupted, but not by my hand. She is foul where none can touch. I know!”

Dart felt a fury build in her that had no bounds, not even her own skin.

Laurelle must have felt it. She loosed her hold on Dart.

“Abomination,” Paltry said, pointing a finger at her.

“Quiet!” Yaellin boomed. His sword found the healer’s heart, poking through cloth to skin.

Paltry winced, dropping his arm.

“Do not speak of matters you know nothing about,” Yaellin said harshly. “She is stronger and purer of heart than any who stand in this room. What was done to her…” His voice filled with cold promise. “You shall suffer a thousandfold.”

Paltry glared at him. “That will be seen, ser knight. Not all in Tashijan share your sweet sentiment.”

“Is that so?” Yaellin said. “Then perhaps you’ll share your view with the new castellan. She comes this morning to question you.”

Paltry blanched. “What… how… why…?”

“Yes, I’m sure they’ll be asking you the very same.”

Dart took comfort from Paltry’s sick look, the fear in his eyes.

“Now all we have to do is wait for our new guests.” Yaellin nodded to one of the cots. “If you’d be so kind. We might as well be comfortable.”

Yaellin backed Paltry upon the point of his sword. “Laurelle, will you also bar the door back there? We don’t want to be disturbed while we wait.”

Laurelle nodded and hurried to obey.

Yaellin dropped Paltry to the cot, then motioned Dart forward. He kept his sword at the healer’s throat, but turned his attention to Dart. He reached a hand out. A dagger rested in his palm. “Take it.”

Dart stared. The black blade could not be mistaken. It was the cursed dagger. She shook her head.

“Take it,” he repeated, more commanding.

She obeyed, fingering its hilt with care.

“Here is its sheath.” He passed her a belt.

She accepted it, confused, feeling as empty as the leather sheath.

“Some call this blade cursed, impure, vile, but it is only a dagger. It is only steel. How it is employed is the true character of a blade.” He stared deep into Dart’s eyes. “Remember that. What was done to your flesh does not soil you or defile you. Your heart is still yours. It is still innocent and pure.”

Dart listened, but his words fell on stony soil. She could not.. did not believe them.

Yaellin seemed to understand. He sighed and nodded to the dagger. “It is yours. Wear it well.”

Dart backed up a few steps. She set the dagger down and tied the belt under her robe, over her nightclothes. She worked without looking down. Her gaze remained hard upon Paltry. He watched her. She retrieved the dagger. Its blade ate the light.

Slowly… very slowly she sheathed it.

If not comforted by Yaellin’s words, she was a tiny bit less empty.

She snugged the dagger tight, fingers on the bone hilt.

Cursed or not, she would wear it well.

She still had promises to keep.