“I can travel overland,” Rogger said. “I still have many friends in shadowed corners. Best I disappear again. Let no one know my path except my own ears. I can send a note by raven once behind those stout walls.”
Tylar nodded. “And we’ll meet again in seven days.”
Rogger still hesitated. “My whole story will have to wait ’til then. It is too long to tell as the night wanes. But I must tell you of one other concern.”
Tylar nodded for him to continue, but Rogger drew him aside first, away from Kyllan, even away from Delia again.
“What is it?” Tylar asked once they were alone.
“The skull…I told you I found it in Saysh Mal, but what I didn’t have time to tell was that someone else sought the skull. Someone only a step behind my own.”
“Who was it?”
“That’s just it. It makes no sense.”
“Who?”
“I only saw his face from a distance. At night. A shadowy face painted in ash.”
“One of the Black Flaggers?” Such was the custom among the pirates and brigands who trafficked in all matters that shunned the light of day. They blackened their faces with ash to hide their features.
Rogger nodded. “I was able to capture a message, one sent by wing, but it was cursed. Burned in my fingers before I could read it fully. All I had time to discern was to whom it was addressed.”
Tylar waited.
“The letter had been intended for Krevan.”
Tylar was stung by the words. Krevan was one of their closest allies. A former shadowknight-the famous Raven ser Kay of old-he had been fiercely loyal to Tylar and their cause to free Chrismferry. But the knight had vanished after the Battle of Myrrwood, disappearing back into obscurity. Tylar had suspected he had returned to his role as leader of the Black Flaggers. But what new subterfuge was this? Why would Krevan be looking for the skull, too?
Judging by Rogger’s expression, he had no answers either.
Tylar ached to hear Rogger’s full story, but such tales would have to wait.
“How long will it take you to reach Tashijan?” Tylar asked.
“Two days-if I follow the most circumspect route.”
“I will send a raven to Kathryn to tell her to expect you then.”
“Maybe it would be best if I just surprise her,” Rogger said with a raised brow. “Ravens have a way of being lured astray.”
Tylar quickly gathered everyone outside the shop. He turned to Rogger for one last word, but the thief was already gone, vanished into the Blight without even a farewell.
Tylar shook his head as Delia slipped to his side.
“Will he be safe?” Delia asked, worried for their friend.
Tylar took her hand. Once again he had no answer. And a greater fear loomed in his heart. Would Rogger be any safer once he reached Tashijan?
Would any of them?
A GIRL WITH A WOODEN SWORD
Dart hurried down the spiraling flight of stairs. The fourth morning bell had already rung, echoing through the throat of Stormwatch Tower. As she ran, she hiked the edge of her cloak to keep from tripping.
Mustn’t be late…not again.
Pupp kept pace with her. Her ghostly companion trotted and bounded ahead down the steps, his fiery tongue lolling in the excitement of it all. His form passed through legs and cloaks, unimpeded and unsensed. Nobody could see Pupp, and only stone was solid enough to block his passage.
Dart was not so lucky.
At this hour, the central stair was crowded, thwarting her progress. Messengers dashed about in blue livery, burdened with clutched scrolls or shouldered satchels, as frantic to climb as Dart was to descend. The occasional Masters, their bald and tattooed heads bowed together, moved more sedately, rocks in the flowing stream of activity.
But most of those who shared the stairs were of Dart’s own caste: pages in their half cloaks, squires in their hoods, and towering over all, a jumbling crowd of full-blessed shadowknights. Dart’s brethren marched the stairs in all manner of moods. Some were cloaked and buried in matters that weighted their shoulders; others wore bits of bright colors, enjoying the freedom here. Only in Tashijan could knights walk bare-faced, free of their black cloaks and muffling masklins.
Here was their home.
And it had been Dart’s for going on a full turn of seasons.
Laughter and whispers, shouts and curses, accompanied Dart down the tower toward the practice yard. With the retinue from Chrismferry due in another four days and the festivities to follow, knights had been gathering back home, packing the place full. Even the outlying sections of the sprawling Citadel, long abandoned, had been reoccupied, swelling the ranks.
Along with the bustle came a thousand requests, suggestions, complaints, threats, and bribes, all rising like smoke to the castellan’s private hermitage at the top of the tower. And since Dart served as page to Castellan Vail, her duties had also multiplied, leaving little time for routine.
Like her training practice.
She carried a wooden sword tied to her waist. It was a far cry from the handsome swords of the truly knighted, those rare blades adorned with the black diamonds on their pommels. Still, hers was long enough to bump against her side and threaten to trip her at every step.
At last she reached the bottom of the wide stairs and broke into the cavernous hall beyond. She kept near the wall, skirting the milling crowds in the center.
“Hothbrin!”
She almost didn’t recognize the barked name, not even after a full year here. Then again, it was not really her name. Born an orphan, she had no surname. Only Dart, after the yellow and thorny dartweed that grew stubbornly between stones. Filling the void, Dart had borrowed her friend Laurelle’s family name, taking it on as a mark of their deep bond-though Laurelle was far away, back at Chrismferry, continuing to serve as the Hand of tears for the new regent, Tylar ser Noche.
“Hothbrin!”
Dart turned and spotted one of her fellow knights-in-training, a bristle-headed squire named Pyllor, aide to the swordmaster of the school. Though only two years older than Dart, he stood as tall as any knight, and taller than many. He strode toward her.
Pupp appeared from the throng and stepped between Pyllor and Dart. His molten form grew fiercer, reflecting Dart’s own mood. His mane of spikes bristled at Pyllor’s stormy approach.
“There you are!” Pyllor strode straight through Pupp and grabbed Dart by the shoulder. “Late again! Swordmaster Yuril ordered me to fetch you. By your heels or hair, she said.”
“I-I-I had to attend-”
“I-I-I.” Pyllor mocked her, silencing her. “It’s always about you . Just because you serve the castellan you think you can walk with your nose high and come and go as you please.”
Pyllor’s words could not be further from the truth. Dart’s service to the castellan offered her little freedom of movement or time. And she surely held herself in no higher regard because of it. In fact, the contrary was true. She always felt set apart from her peers, less prepared, always struggling to catch up with her studies and training.
But most importantly, Dart felt herself to be an impostor. She had not earned her place here at Tashijan. Her position was all a ruse to hide her behind the tall walls of the Citadel, to keep her safe and near at hand. Only a year ago, Dart had learned her true heritage, that she was a child born of two rogue gods. And while her humours flowed with none of the rich Graces of the gods, her blood carried a single blessing: the ability to whet Rivenscryr, the Godsword of Myrillia, into existence. Thus, she had been sent here, away from Chrismferry, away from the sword itself, to make it harder for both to be stolen at once.
Otherwise, she was no different from any other girl.
Only perhaps more lost and alone.
“Swordmaster Yuril has everyone laboring with drudges as punishment for your tardiness.”
“But why should the others pay-?”
“‘A knight is only as strong as the Order itself,’�
�� Pyllor quoted with a disdainful smirk.
Dart had heard the same throughout her training. The true strength of the Order lay not in a single knight but in the breadth of the Order itself. As one failed, all suffered.
Such was the lesson being taught this morning.
Courtesy of Dart’s tardiness.
She needed no further prodding to hurry out of the tower and toward the tiers of training fields beyond. The pages apprenticed to the Order held the grounds farthest afield. Dart passed a group of squires practicing lunges on horseback, kicking up clods of mud, earning jeers and accolades from their peers. She sensed the deep brotherhood among them all. What would it be like to be so accepted?
Dart hurried on, eventually spotting her fellow knights-in-training. They were yoked like oxen to wooden and iron drudges, dragging the sleds across the frozen mud and yellow grass, a hard exercise to strengthen back and legs.
Overseeing their labor, Swordmaster Yuril stood with her arms crossed, a pipe of blackleaf clenched between her teeth. Though the woman’s dark hair was streaked with gray, she remained whip-thin and hard of countenance. She heard Dart’s approach and turned to face the late pupil.
“Ah, Hothbrin, good of you to join us.”
Dart dropped to one knee, bowed her head, then regained her feet. “My duties-”
“-are here,” Yuril said. “Not up in the castellan’s hermitage. Castellan Vail knows this as well as I. And you can tell her that from me.”
“Yes, mistress.”
Yuril whistled around the edge of her pipe. “Enough with the drudges! Gather round!”
With grateful groans, Dart’s peers slipped yokes from sore shoulders and hobbled across the field. Dart shied from their hard-eyed glares. All knew whom to blame for their sore morning, but they all also knew better than to complain aloud. That would come later. When they were out from under the baleful eye of Swordmaster Yuril.
“We’ll start today with basic form and position, then proceed with a few sparring matches.”
They lined up in rows of four. Dart wanted to slink toward the back, but the swordmaster would not let her so easily shirk away. She was made to stand at the front of one row. For a full ring of the bell, they ran through the basic forms of defense and offense: Swayback Feint, Dogtoed Parry, Cusp-to-Cusp, Trailing Hilt, Thrusted Lash, and a blur of others.
Dart tried her best, but her lack of practice showed in the dropped point of her blade during Jackman’s Tie and the tremble in her wrist as she moved from Honeynest to Sweeper’s Row. Swordmaster Yuril corrected each mistake. She snapped out with a cane, striking Dart’s wooden sword, stinging her fingers, making her repeat the form.
At these moments, all eyes were on her. Dart felt the weight of their attention, sensed the ill will, the bitter amusement. Tears threatened to rise, but she refused to relent.
Finally she reached the last form, a complicated dance of wrist and steel named Naethryn’s Folly. It was a feint used to disarm an opponent. It was a risky maneuver. If not performed flawlessly, the dance would end with your own sword on the ground. Still, if you could lure your opponent into the dance and not fail, it was almost impossible to counter.
Dart did her best to perform the exacting series of moves.
And failed.
A final twist and her hilt slipped from her tired fingers. Her sword spun into the mud.
Laughter applauded her mishap.
“Disarmed by the wind,” Pyllor said as he strode across the field, arms behind his back, plainly imitating the swordmaster he idolized.
Yuril glowered at Dart, exhaling a trail of smoke from around her pipe’s stem. “Collect your sword, Hothbrin.” She turned her back on Dart, not even bothering to have her repeat the form this time, as if recognizing the impossibility. “We’ll move on to some open sparring now. I’ll be studying each of you to see how you have learned to apply the forms to actual swordplay. In the field of battle, you’ll need to flow smoothly from one to another, to recognize the waxing of one form, to react accordingly, to counter with another.”
The group quickly paired up. Dart soon found herself alone, standing forlornly with sword in hand.
Yuril nodded to Pyllor. “You’ll spar with her.”
Pyllor’s eyes widened in surprise. He was five years her senior in swordsmanship. But he merely nodded. “As you wish.” The pairing was beneath him, but still a glint of wicked delight flashed in his eyes.
Yuril lined the combatants around the field and raised an arm in the air. “Take your stances!”
Dart backed a step, trying her best to settle into a ready guard. She was all too aware of her opponent’s weight, reach, and skill. Would her humiliation never end?
“Swords up!” Yuril barked. “Begin!”
Pyllor attacked immediately. He step-lunged, crackling fast. Dart barely got her guard up, parrying his sword aside. The tip of his sword sailed past her ear. She flinched when she should have taken the advantage with a counterattack.
Pyllor sprang back deftly, turning his shoulder and striking down with his blade. The strength of the impact knocked Dart’s sword almost to the mud. Pyllor rocked forward and slammed Dart square in the chest with the point of his sword, hard enough to knock her back.
She tripped and fell onto her backside.
Pyllor stood over her.
Dart rubbed where he had struck, knowing it would bruise. If the blade had been steel instead of wood, she would be dead.
Around her the clack-clacking of other practice swords echoed. She was the first defeated. In a matter of breaths.
Yuril rolled her eyes and surveyed the others.
Dart regained her feet and stared glumly across the field. There was much crude hacking and slashing, bouts of brawn over skill, but several of her peers demonstrated flashes of talent: a turned feint, a roundhouse parry, a double thrust.
Yuril called out a few rare compliments-which usually caused the receiver to stumble and lose his match, but the loss was greeted with embarrassed grins.
“Again!” Yuril commanded.
Dart picked up her sword. Two more matches and she was on the ground again, favoring a stinging wrist slap. Pyllor was not holding back-neither with his skill nor with his muscle.
Tears threatened, but Dart let her anger pull her back to her feet.
Pupp, bristling and fiery, stalked around her ankles. Dart waved him back with her free hand. Though without substance, Pupp could sometimes rile himself enough to have some impact on his own. Dart didn’t want him interfering.
“Again!”
Dart took her stance. When the call to start was shouted, she took the lead for the first time, lunging out with a feint to Pyllor’s sword. He countered, trying to smack her blade back. She anticipated and nipped her sword point under the swing of his blade.
Pyllor’s eyes widened in surprise, caught off guard.
Dart lunged into the opening, going for a tag to Pyllor’s torso.
Instead, Pyllor reached with his free hand and grabbed her wooden sword, trapping it. He yanked it closer, dragging Dart off her toes. As she stumbled toward him, he clubbed the hilt of his sword into Dart’s chin.
Her head snapped back, and she fell hard onto the frozen field.
Yuril had missed the maneuver, witnessing only the end.
“Hothbrin, never close guard! Learn to keep your distance!”
The swordmaster turned away again.
Pyllor sneered down at her.
He had cheated and now gloated over his ill-gotten victory. If they had been sparring with steel, he would never have been able to grab a razor-edged blade like that. He would’ve lost fingers, and Dart’s lunge would have struck home.
“That’s enough for this morning!” Yuril called out. “Off to your bread-boards! I’ll see you all on the morrow. And you’d better practice your stances!”
Yuril barked the last while staring straight at Dart.
A few chuckles rose from the others.
Wi
th the lessons over, everyone headed across the cold fields toward the warm towers and halls. Most left in groups or pairs. Only Dart walked within a mantle of disgrace thick enough to hold off all others.
A final glance back showed Pyllor with Yuril. The swordmaster’s back was to Dart, but she seemed to be sharing a few hard words with the young squire. Pyllor opened his mouth to offer some protest, but something in Yuril’s face made him close his lips. His eyes, though, noted Dart’s attention and flashed with fury at her. Plainly the discourse concerned Pyllor’s sparring match.
Dart quickly glanced back around.
Had the swordmaster witnessed his deceitful grab of Dart’s sword after all? Or was he merely being scolded for being so hard on such a lesser pupil?
Either way, the black cloud around Dart grew a few shades lighter. Even Pupp shook out of his hunkered tread and trotted more brightly.
Dart felt a renewed determination settle through her. She would practice, every night. She would not end up on her backside in the mud again.
Still, her gaze stretched upward, following the rise of Stormwatch Tower into the steel gray sky. Up near the top lay the hermitage of the castellan, where Kathryn ser Vail held sway. Dart had her responsibilities there, too. The knighting ceremony for Tylar was only days away. There were a thousand details to attend to.
Yet despite her duties here on the field and up in the tower, Dart had never felt more alone. She stared again at her laughing, jostling peers with a heavy heart. She missed her friend Laurelle, sharing a bed, talking in whispers all through the night. She had no friend like that here.
No one even knew her real name.
Pupp must have sensed the clouds about her shoulders, for he bounced back to her, biting at her training sword, his teeth passing harmlessly through the wood. She could almost hear his determined growls.
A small, tired smile formed.
She had at least one friend here.
“Let’s go, Pupp-we’ve got a long climb.”
Dart hurried up the stairs, around and around. After so many flights, her attention drifted, caught in the press and flow of the busy day-then a shout startled her back to alertness.
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