“Mind the robe!”
Dart danced around the rotund form of Master Hesharian, head of the Council of Masters. He huffed on the stairs ahead of her, filling the passage, one hand on the wall to support himself. His bald pate shone with a slick of sweat, highlighting the eleven sigils tattooed around the crown of his head, marking his mastered disciplines.
He must have important duties with Warden Fields to have climbed so far out of his subterranean den. The levels of the masters were said to delve as deep below the land as Stormwatch climbed into the sky. It was the masters’ sole domain. Down below lay their domiciles, alchemy labs, and storehouses. Dart had heard rumors of Hesharian’s personal menagerie, where he studied new alchemies on beasts of the field.
Dart pushed past him with distaste, earning a disgruntled glare from the massive man. He climbed with another master, one Dart didn’t know, an ancient man in a muddied traveling cloak. He also noted Dart’s passage. His gaze fell upon her. She glanced up-then shuddered, almost tripping on a step. His eyes were the color of milk. He should’ve been blind, so scaled did his eyes appear, but Dart sensed the cold weight of his attention. For a breath, she heard the flutter of ravens’ wings, taken back to another moment of terror, of violation.
Then his gaze drifted off, freeing her.
She hurried past, followed just as quickly by Pupp, his stubby tail tucked low. She was relieved to finally reach the twenty-second flight, where both the Warden of Tashijan and Castellan Vail had their rooms. She fled the stairs, happy to be rid of the midday crowd ascending and descending Stormwatch Tower, though at this lofty height, most of the crowd had thinned. The only folk still on the stairs were those who had matters to settle with Castellan Vail or Warden Fields.
Like the two masters.
Glancing back, Dart saw them enter the stone hallway.
What matters had drawn them so high?
Dart turned away from them, toward the tall doors that marked the Warden’s Eyrie. The doors were open but flanked by a pair of knights. Dart noted the crimson stitching at the shoulder of their cloaks. A perfect circle crisscrossed with two slashes. The sigil of the Fiery Cross, marking them as the warden’s men.
A small crowd gathered outside the open door. They were cloaked and dressed in shades of browns and blacks, plainly finery, but gone a bit tattered.
A voice called from inside the doorway, “Again it is an honor to have a Hand of Lord Balger join us for the ceremonies! My manservant, Lowl, will take you to your rooms, where you may refresh after your trip. He’ll see that your trunks are unloaded from the flippercraft and brought to your rooms.”
Dart stepped against the wall to allow them to pass. The retinue from Foulsham Dell had already arrived, undoubtedly early enough to take full advantage of the flow of wine and ale. She also noted that Lord Balger, god of that realm, had sent only one of his eight Hands to attend Tylar’s knighting. A veiled slight. Plainly there remained ill will between the god of the Dell, a realm of brigands and cutthroats, and the new regent.
Over the past moon, bets had been placed among the knights on which realms would send emissaries and how many Hands from each would be in attendance. Dart eyed the passage of the lone Hand from the Dell, a pot-bellied man with a palsied gait. Few would make money on this wager.
Once the party had passed, Dart continued down the hall.
The pair of black-cloaked guards, who even here kept the wrap of their masklins over the lower half of their faces, barely noted her passage.
Unfortunately she did not escape another’s attention.
“Page Hothbrin…”
She froze.
“A moment, if you please.”
Dart turned to find Warden Fields standing a few steps past his threshold. He was a commanding figure, tall in black boots and trousers, with a gray shirt and silver buttons. His manner was casual as he passed some trifling gift that the Hand of Lord Balger had presented to him to another manservant.
Despite the few streaks of gray in his dark auburn hair, tied and braided with black leather, Argent ser Fields remained solid of muscle and stolid of countenance. He studied Dart for a measuring breath. His attention was disconcerting; one eye had been lost during an acclaimed campaign against a ravening hinterking. The old scar was now covered by a plate of bone, taken, it was said, from the skull of that same king.
Dart backed a step-but she could not escape that easily.
Warden Fields waved her forward with a warm smile. “Fear not, child. I won’t bite.”
Swallowing hard, Dart drifted toward him. She could not refuse. Despite the difficulties last year, he remained the leader of the Shadowknights. She stepped across the threshold and entered his Eyrie.
Argent spoke to the knights at the door. “Have Master Hesharian and his guest indulge me a moment-when they arrive.”
Dart had noted that the large master remained halfway down the hall, greeting Balger’s Hand, wheezing and wiping a brow.
Argent closed the door, nodded to her again, and strode into the room. A fire crackled in a large hearth. The windows that overlooked a central courtyard were heavily draped against the cold. There were few furnishings. Even the back corner of the room had its rugs rolled back to bare stone, with a rack of weapons against one wall. A spot for the warden to spar and keep his skills honed. It was said he remained one of the more formidable swordsmen.
But Dart noted the layer of dust on the weapons rack.
Argent had turned his attention to other battles of late.
Keeping his place here in the Eyrie.
Though he had been voted into position with almost unanimous backing of the knights and masters, all knew by what means he had stretched to capture Tylar when the regent was an outlawed godslayer. All had seen the petrified body of the warden’s former right-hand man, Symon ser Jaklar, accidentally cursed to stone by Argent’s own hand, wielding a sword black with corrupted Graces, a forbidden weapon. The disgrace went far toward unseating the man-but seemingly not far enough.
Symon’s form had disappeared into the masters’ domain, deep under the Citadel, supposedly to seek some way to cure him, but more likely to whisk the corruption away from all eyes, to let time dull the horror.
So with the backing of the likes of Master Hesharian, high master of the Council of Masters, Argent had initially kept his perch here in the Eyrie. And now his position grew more solid with the passing of every moon. Memories ran short when all of Myrillia was holding its breath and searching over its shoulders. Rumors and stories continued to abound: of strange beasts plaguing outlying realms, of madness among gods, of disappearances across the lands.
And as this long winter stretched on, Argent found his support growing. Before his disgrace, he had founded the Fiery Cross among the knights. Over the recent centuries, the shadowknights had been dwindling in both numbers and esteem, seemingly becoming no more than couriers and sell-swords. Argent had promised to reverse that course, to return the knights to glory, to become its own force among the gods, all symbolized under the banner of the Fiery Cross.
Such a conceit found fertile ground in many hearts.
Even corruption could not fully unroot it.
And now this latest ploy: to return to Tylar his shadowcloak and sword. The offer was made more to help Argent than Tylar. But it could not be refused. Such a gesture of unification was necessary. During these dark times, Tashijan needed to be strong, for there were greater dangers than those represented by Argent ser Fields.
“Come inside. I wish to share a few private words with you.” Argent motioned her forward. “Knight to knight.”
Dart remained where she was, head bowed, her eyes narrowed with suspicion. The warden had never once even spoken to her. To all, even the warden, Dart was no more than some page scooped up by Castellan Vail, a servant and courier. The warden remained ignorant of her true role and the secret hidden in her blood and heritage.
So what could he want with her now?
A
rgent crossed to a small table with a silver platter of brandied nuts and dried baby plums. Fingers waved at the fare. “Please help yourself. I imagine Mistress Yuril has worn you thin and hungry.”
Dart’s belly was indeed empty, but she made no move, mumbling something that was incomprehensible even to her own ears.
Argent plucked up a plum and rolled it between his fingers. “I’ve heard from a certain squire that you seem to be lapsing in your training.”
Dart’s eyes flicked up, her face reddening.
“We can’t have that. Perhaps it would be best if I freed you from your duties with the castellan.”
“Ser,” Dart said, suddenly finding her voice, “please, no!”
“No, I don’t suppose you’d like to lose such an esteemed position. A page serving the castellan. It is a rare honor.”
Dart’s brow crinkled. What was all this about?
“I’m certain the deficit to your training could be corrected…with a tutor, perhaps a bit of fortifying Grace…but such an expense. I daresay it must be beyond your means, yes?”
Dart just bowed her head. She could not stop her knees from shaking. Across the room, Pupp wandered about, poking his nose into corners.
“But in the long run, it might be to the Order’s best suit to have such an esteemed member as yourself, one serving the castellan, to avail herself of such a boon.”
“That would be most generous,” Dart said.
Argent popped the plum between his lips and chewed for a moment, nodding as if in private conversation with himself. He finally spoke again. “Still, what is a boon if unearned? What sort of lesson would that be for a knight-in-training?”
“Ser?”
Argent sighed. “With all the tumult of late, the castellan and I have found so few moments to sit and share our thoughts on matters of Tashijan’s well-being. That is certainly not good for the Order. Perhaps as recompense for the additional expense of tutors and drips and drabs of special Graces, you, Page Hothbrin, could serve an additional duty-bringing to me Castellan Vail’s thoughts and words on matters of interest to the Order.”
“I’m sure, ser-”
Warden Fields silenced her with a stern look. “Of course, we wouldn’t want the castellan to know of your duties. I’d hate for Castellan Vail to think herself neglectful in making time for private meetings here at the Eyrie. She has enough to juggle as it is. So this would be between just the two of us.”
Dart’s mouth dried, and her heart climbed to her throat.
“If this is too burdensome, I’m sure we could find another page who might serve the castellan with more alacrity.”
“No, ser…”
Argent smiled again. The warden was asking her to spy upon the castellan, plying her with promises of boons while threatening to displace her from her position. All the while couching it as for the good of the Order.
“Fine, fine…so it’s settled.” He strode back to the door. “I won’t keep you from your duties any longer.”
He opened the door, and Dart slid through as soon as there was space enough for her. She came close to colliding with Master Hesharian.
“Mind the robe!” he called to her.
But Dart was already away, ducking from the mysterious master in the traveling cloak. She hurried down the hall to the next set of doors, those that opened into the castellan’s private hermitage. Though neighbors on this high level, the occupants of the two sets of rooms could not be further apart in stance and outlook.
She knocked on the door, keeping her eyes fixed to the tight grain of the stout ironwood planks, willing it to open.
Pupp simply ran straight through the door.
Lucky dog.
Moments later, Dart was paid for her patience.
“Uncle Rogger!”
Dart dashed into the castellan’s hermitage, cloak flagging behind her.
The door had barely been opened when she spotted the former thief. It had taken a startled second look, though, to recognize him. Rogger had shorn his usual ragged beard into straight edges, his peppered red hair was oiled and combed, and he wore the sashed purple robe of a learned scribe, those blessed with Grace to write letters sealed and coded with alchemies. Even all his fingers were dyed purple to the first knuckle. Such scribes could be found throughout Tashijan, especially of late.
Rogger had come in disguise.
Kathryn ser Vail rose from a seat by the crackling hearth as Dart flew into the room. She slipped a flap of cloth over something resting atop the table by the hearth. It hid an object the size of a small melon.
A third occupant of the room, Gerrod Rothkild, esteemed master and ally, remained seated, leaning over the table, encased in his usual bronzed armor.
Dart caught the whiff of some foul alchemies-then she was in Rogger’s arms. She hugged him tight to her. It had been an entire year. Too long. He chuckled at the fervency of her greeting.
She didn’t care. Of those who knew the truth about her, there were few who seemed to care less.
“Unhand me, foul wench!” he said after returning her hug.
Dart grinned and backed away.
Rogger searched around the room, then held out an arm. A bit of sweetcrackle appeared in his fingers as if out of the very air. “I think I owe someone else a greeting. Here you lice-ridden slab of mutton.” He bent, resting his other hand on a knee, dangling out the tasty tidbit. “Now where are you?”
Dart pointed toward the table where Castellan Vail stood. “Pupp is over there.”
“Ah,” Rogger said, straightening. He shared a strange glance with Castellan Vail. “Mayhap he should be away from there. Not something to be nosing, that’s for sure.”
Gerrod stirred, collected the covered object, and stood. “I will take the artifact down to my rooms among the masters. See what I can make of it.”
“Thank you, Gerrod.”
“And be careful with the skaggin’ thing,” Rogger added.
With a nod to the thief and a half bow to the castellan, Gerrod strode off with a whir of the mekanicals that drove his armor. Though Dart had never seen the man’s face, hidden behind bronze, all knew his story, how his body had been wasted by the alchemies necessary to attain the fifteen masterfields, the most disciplines ever mastered by a single man. Now he was forever dependent on the blessed mekanicals of his armor for support.
Once Gerrod was gone, Rogger waved Dart to one of the three seats by the hearth. Kathryn took the other. Rogger settled into the third, resting his heels by the fire. He tossed the bit of sweetcrackle to Dart for nibbling.
“What are you going to do now, Rogger?” Kathryn asked.
“I figured I’d stick tight at least until Tylar gets his cloak and sword back. Meantime, I’ll shed these robes, slink into the lower realms of these black halls, and listen about. Have you ever figured out who slew that young knight last year?”
Kathryn’s countenance darkened. She wore a knight’s black leathers, as if she had come in from a recent ride. Even her hair, a dark golden red, was woven into a horseman’s knot at the nape of her neck. It was one of the few ways the castellan relaxed these days, on horseback, the wind in her cloak. Rogger’s arrival must have thwarted a midday ride.
“No. And I fear we may never discover the truth.”
Dart had not seen the murder firsthand, but she had heard the tale in great detail: a knight’s body found slaughtered, sacrificed, drained of blood, alongside a pit of burnt bones. The murderers remained free.
“The trail has gone dead cold by now,” Kathryn explained. “Even Tracker Lorr has given up after spending an entire moon in the warren of sewers that drain the city.”
Rogger grunted. “And I thought my travels were harsh.”
“And now we have the abandoned sections of the city swelling with returning knights and rooms being readied for all the various guests. Any tracks we might have missed or overlooked are surely trampled, swept away, or muddied.”
Kathryn shook her head in defeat.
“So no way to pin it on One Eye?” Rogger said.
Dart knew that the castellan highly suspected Argent ser Fields in the deaths and disappearances. Especially with the warden wielding a cursed sword in his hunt for Tylar. Still, suspicions were not proof that could be brought before any adjudicators. Argent had even passed inspection by soothmancers, bloody-fingered men of fiery alchemies who could probe the truth in one’s heart.
Still, Kathryn was sure the Fiery Cross was somehow connected to the sacrifice. The fire pit, the circle of blood, and the spread-eagled man-all suggestive of some ritual with the Cross. But now they had all slipped away.
“Have there been any more disappearances?” Rogger asked.
“We’re keeping a daily roll now, especially among our younger knights. It seems Perryl was the last to vanish.”
Perryl ser Corriscan was another of their allies, a young knight new to his stripes, one who was taken from his room, leaving only a splatter of blood on his bed. Dart sensed this was who Kathryn sought more than any.
“With all the new knights arriving,” Rogger said, “perhaps a few words will slip, a bit of bragging done under the hem of a cloak. I’ll see what I can discern.”
“Be careful.”
Rogger seemed to read something in Kathryn’s hollowed gaze. “We’re not defeated yet. If One Eye is to blame, or those in his service, we’ll bring him low.”
Her expression didn’t change. “With all that’s happening beyond our walls, maybe that isn’t even for the best. Rather than looking back, seeking to place blame, maybe it is time to make peace. Shaking Argent out of his Eyrie will weaken us most when we need to be at our strongest.”
Dart’s eyes widened, shocked. She had never heard the castellan express such a sentiment.
Even Rogger was struck silent.
“No!” Dart said into the sullen quiet, remembering the artful bit of deceit and bribery just perpetrated against her. “It’s a false strength! He doesn’t seek the good of Myrillia, only his own power.” Dart related what had occurred just moments before in the Warden’s Eyrie.
Now it was the castellan’s eyes that widened. “Argent sought to set you up as a spy here? In my own hermitage?”
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