“Cursed? How so, castellan?”
Kathryn stammered, ticking off her answers. “You threaten Tashijan to ruin, you ploy seersong to trap and twist an ally to her death, you carry ilked wraiths in your storm, and…and you borrow Dark Grace from enslaved rogues, gods snared and sapped by the Cabal itself.”
He listened to her dispassionately, his face frozen. Once she was done, he sighed and sadly shook his head. “I am no puppet of the Cabal, if that is what you suspect. It is the Wyr who made our introductions. I had need for the power they possessed and promises were made. Nothing more.”
“Promises?”
“To kill Tylar. To destroy Rivenscryr. In such matters, I do not disagree with the Cabal, and I’m content to borrow their power to suit me.”
“By enslaving the rogues?”
“They are raving creatures of wild Grace. To let them dream in seersong is a less cruel life. But in truth, I have no pity for them.”
And for little else, Kathryn thought. Ulf might be a sculpture of ice, but apparently the similarities ran deeper than mere appearance.
“What about Eylan and the ilked wraiths?”
“Unfortunate circumstances. I had meant to trap Tylar with the seersong, but caught a smaller fish instead. And need I remind you, it was your forces who destroyed her in the end. Which is another matter entirely. I felt the unthreading of the song in her mind-but could not fathom how it was done.”
“The wraiths?”
Again a hand waved. “To be borne aloft in the storm of Dark Grace, there was bound to be some matter of corruption. It was a risk all my Grace-born were aware of before they swept out from Ice Eyrie. But I still watch over them, controlling them with seersong to keep them focused to my will.”
“Seersong? So you admit to employing a Dark Grace?”
An icy shrug. “Grace is neither bright nor dark. It merely is. It is the heart of the wielder that is either bright or dark.”
Kathryn shuddered. She didn’t know which she feared more: that Lord Ulf was locked in some rich lunacy or that he was dreadfully sound of mind. She had thought the Cabal had been using Ulf-could it be the other way around? Or was it both, two partners dancing cautiously together, each using the other toward a common purpose?
To rid Myrillia of a godslayer and destroy his sword.
But now both had escaped this trap.
“Then with Tylar gone, what do you still want?”
Lord Ulf faced her. “I want your help in destroying Tashijan.”
Kathryn backed a step. “Are you mad?”
His ice eyes glinted in the firelight. “Not even slightly.”
“Have you seen Castellan Vail?” Laurelle asked, breathless with anxiety.
“Not since before midday,” Delia said. “Why?”
Laurelle stood with her fellow Hand in a small room, no more than a closet, across the stair from the fieldroom. She and Kytt had been waiting a full bell for Tashijan’s council to disband for a short break. The young tracker stood at the door, watching the hall.
Moments before, Laurelle had waylaid Delia as she left the fieldroom and silently motioned for her to follow. She had led the woman to the closet with some urgency.
“What’s happened?” Delia asked.
“We’ve run all the way up to the castellan’s hermitage, then down again. Castellan Vail is not in her rooms. And no one knows where she’s gone. Her maid was as skittish as a pony when I questioned her. I bribed a guard who reported some mischance with Master Gerrod, found frozen in his armor.”
“Frozen?” Delia gasped. “Dead?”
“No-” Laurelle took a deep breath to collect herself. “Some matter with his mekanicals. He’s been attended by another master, and afterward both vanished in some hurry. All I could ascertain was that Castellan Vail had disappeared as well.”
“I’ve heard of nothing about any of this. Master Hesharian has mentioned no word.”
“I’m not surprised. You’ve all been holed up in that room for going on three bells. I don’t think whatever is afoot was something the castellan or the armored master wanted the warden to know about. Or anyone else in there.”
Delia’s eyes grew shadowed as she pinched her brow. “So much hawing and posturing…” She waved a dismissive gesture at the fieldroom. “Before the meeting begins anew, I’ll discreetly inquire about the castellan from those I trust.” She stepped toward the door.
“No. Wait!” Laurelle urged. “That’s only half the reason I’ve come. I had hoped to find Castellan Vail here. To report word of what Kytt and I discovered.”
Delia stared back at her.
Laurelle quickly related how she and Kytt had stalked Master Orquell and witnessed his strange communion with his mistress in the dark. “It was plainly Dark Grace. And the woman in the flames…”
“Mirra,” Delia said with a frown, coming to the same conclusion.
“He probably warned her about the skull. No telling what else he has told her.”
Kytt hissed by the door and waved. Laurelle and Delia joined him. Peeking out, Laurelle saw a familiar shape, as if summoned by their words. Master Orquell was headed down the stairs, leaving again on his own. Down the hall, Master Hesharian could be seen huddled with Liannora and Warden Fields. All seemed oblivious that Orquell was leaving.
Laurelle gripped Delia’s arm. “What are we to do?”
“I’ll have to tell my father,” she muttered sourly. “Spy or not, the truth will be soothed from the master-but such arrest would require a warden’s order.” She glanced to Laurelle. “Are you sure what you saw?”
“Dead certain.”
Kytt nodded.
“Then we have no choice.”
“What about Master Orquell?” Laurelle asked. “He should be followed. Before he divulges more secrets from the day’s meeting.”
Delia shook her head. “Nothing of import was related just now, mostly just Liannora’s fawning and scraping. Leave Orquell to the warden’s knights.”
“But-”
“You were foolish to risk what you did. Return to your rooms. I will bring word to you when I’m able.”
Laurelle bristled at being ordered about like a child, but a part of her was also relieved. She had succeeded in passing on a warning, if not to Castellan Vail, at least to someone in power. It would have to be enough.
“Make sure no one sees you,” Delia concluded. “Straight up to your rooms. Kytt, please stay with her.”
He nodded.
Satisfied, Delia slipped out the closet and headed round the stairs toward the far hall. Laurelle waited a breath, then stepped out, too. Kytt trailed her.
“There’s a back stair over that way…” Laurelle pointed the opposite way. “I think.”
They headed off together.
Before reaching a turn, Laurelle glanced back. Delia had stopped by the stair, huddled with a guard. She pointed an arm down the hall, to where Argent stood. Then her arm dropped. She was clearly angry. She glanced her father’s way, nodded, then stepped after the guard, heading down the same stairs where Master Orquell had vanished.
Concerned, Laurelle stopped. Clearly something or someone had thwarted Delia from delivering Laurelle’s warning. Searching farther down the hall, she noted Liannora standing with her arms crossed, wearing a thinly veiled smile.
Oh no…
Laurelle studied the guard more closely. His chin lifted briefly in her direction as he turned to follow Delia. His features were clear.
It was Sten, captain of the Oldenbrook guards.
Only now did Laurelle remember an earlier message she had intended to deliver. A warning meant for Delia. It had been pushed to the side after the harrowing discovery of Master Orquell’s true nature. Laurelle clutched her throat, remembering what she had overheard while she hid in Brant’s room-whispers of accidents, misfortunes, directed toward Delia.
Offered by this same captain of the guards.
The one who now dogged Delia’s steps.
> Laurelle reached behind and grabbed Kytt’s arm. She tugged him forward.
“What are you-?”
“We’re going to need that handsome nose of yours again.”
He allowed himself to be dragged along. “Handsome?”
They dared not tarry.
“Hurry.”
She led him back to the stairs, careful that no eyes were staring too intently in their direction. Laurelle kept her back straight as if she belonged and was going about some urgent matter. She pasted a haughty look upon her features as she passed a guard by the main stair. She sighed with a ringing petulance toward Kytt.
“Oh, please hurry, boy. We can’t keep my seamstress waiting.”
She minced down the steps with feigned exasperation, Kytt in tow. Once out of direct view, she reached out and took his hand.
“Let’s go.”
They hurried down the flights until voices reached them from the lower landing. “I see no reason why this could not wait,” she heard Delia exclaim. “A drunk Hand is a matter for the guards to attend.”
“It is one of your realm’s Hands, mistress. From Chrismferry. Master Munchcryden.” Sten sighed. “Mistress Liannora thought you’d prefer to avoid any embarrassment, especially for someone serving the fieldroom.”
“How generous of her,” Delia commented.
“Plus Master Munchcryden has specifically asked for you.”
“Very well.”
Laurelle knew how protective Delia was of the Hands left in her charge. And all knew Master Munchcryden’s disposition when it came to ale. It was a perfect excuse to lure Delia away for a few moments. A reasonable request. Then she could return to address the concerns raised by Laurelle.
But Delia had not heard the plot whispered in the hall.
It is easy to trip on a stair. To break a leg…or even a neck.
“Off here, mistress. There’s a back way, a little-used stair, where we can haul Master Munchcryden back to your rooms with few eyes present to note his state.”
“Let’s be quick, then.”
“After you, Mistress Delia.”
Laurelle rushed down to the next landing, rounding in time to see Sten vanish down a side passage. Kytt touched her elbow, not to stop her, only to warn her to be careful.
She had only one weapon. Her eyes, as witness.
Surely Sten would not harm Delia if there was a chance others would find out. He would have to back down.
Laurelle left the landing and headed down the hall toward the side passage where Delia and Sten had vanished.
Words carried back to her.
“Who are these men?” Delia asked, her voice muffled by the narrowness of the cross passage. Still, Laurelle heard a sudden note of suspicion.
“My men,” Sten answered calmly. “To help carry Master Munchcryden.”
Laurelle ran faster.
“The stairs are just ahead,” Sten assured her.
Reaching the arched opening, Laurelle spotted the grouping midway down the passage, huddled at the head of a dark stair. One of Sten’s men held aloft a lamp.
Delia took the first step down.
Laurelle lifted an arm. “Mistress Delia!”
Her call rang out just as Sten shoved with both arms. Delia had begun to turn, drawn by Laurelle’s cry-or perhaps sensing something amiss.
She shouted in surprise as she tumbled headlong out of sight. A crash of body on stone echoed to Laurelle-and Delia’s cry suddenly ended.
Laurelle found all eyes staring at her.
Sten lifted an arm. Laurelle backed away, bumping into Kytt.
Shadows shifted to the right. Laurelle saw more guards, more of Sten’s men, crossing from the main stairs into the passageway, latecomers, cutting off their retreat in that direction.
Swords slid from sheaths.
Kytt pulled Laurelle in the opposite direction, away from the stairs, toward the deeper depths of Tashijan. She stumbled after him.
Behind her, she heard one last order from Sten. “Go down. Make sure her neck is broken.”
Laurelle ran. Terror could not stop the tears from welling. Kytt led the way, hand in hers, turning one corner, then another with some instinct born of fear and Grace.
Still, boots pounded after them.
“Tashijan is rotted,” Lord Ulf said. “To the very stones of its foundation. From root to rooftop.”
Kathryn shook her head. Though the fire was at her back, the room had gone colder than the darkest crypt.
“Mirra has weeded seeds throughout your towers,” Ulf stated firmly. “And she is not the first. What you discovered below is but the first sprouts of a greater evil. It winds throughout Tashijan, deep into the past. And if left unchecked, far into the future, where our world will lie in ruins, trod by monsters a thousandfold worse than any carried by my winds.”
Kathryn held up a hand. “But now we know about Mirra’s treachery. We can stop her.”
The figure of ice sculpted its face into a mask of distaste and irritation. “Too late, castellan, too late by far. It is rooted too deeply. Like the seersong in the Wyr-mistress. It can’t be untangled, not without even worse ruin and damnation. Even you have been seeded.”
“Me?”
“With distrust. With impotency. You cannot even stop Warden Fields. He remains a puppet to the witch below, dancing to the pulls of her strings.”
“We can cut those strings.”
“And more will rise to tangle and knot harder. Do you think the Fiery Cross is a creation of the warden? It was birthed by distrust, dissension, suspicion. So thoroughly has Mirra wrought her discord that trust will never return to Tashijan.”
Kathryn remembered her attempt to restore trust between Argent and Tylar. Both sides had equally failed. Even she had whisked Tylar away without consulting the warden.
Distrust, dissension, suspicion.
Lord Ulf must have read her understanding. “There is no way to weed this patch. Best to burn it and salt the ground. Start anew. I’ve brought my forces far, at great cost and risk. Let us use the strength granted by the Cabal to set a cleansing fire here.”
“And do the Cabal’s bidding in this regard, too. Like killing Tylar.” Hardness entered her voice.
“While it might serve the Cabal, it benefits us even more. We must look past the present and take a long view ahead. Even if Mirra could be chased from your cellars, the Fiery Cross will achieve ascendancy. A new Order of Shadowknights will emerge under a new banner. Argent ser Fields intends dominion for this new Order-to place the knights above all else, even the gods. Such an act will open the way not only for the Cabal, but much worse. Myrillia will fall into chaos, return to the time of bloodshed and raving. In this one moment, we have a chance to change that course.”
“By destroying Tashijan?”
“To make it even stronger. The steel of a sword is made harder by fire and hammer. It is time for Tashijan to be forged anew.”
Kathryn could not deny that at moments of despair such thoughts had passed through her own mind. Tashijan was ravaged and weakened. The number of knights and masters had dwindled over the past centuries. And now as a new War of the Gods was upon them, Tashijan created more chaos, rather than less. Its own warden had employed Dark Grace. The Fiery Cross was a banner for the cruel and craven, whether it was men who beat horses or boys who sought to brand girls. And fewer and fewer voices spoke against this tide. There was no stopping it.
She stared into the icy eyes of Lord Ulf, aglow with Grace. She read no madness. Only truth. A hard truth. Did she have such hardness to match? Could she walk a path as ruthless as the one Lord Ulf proposed?
“You know I am right,” Lord Ulf said.
Kathryn bowed her head. “Your claims are indeed just, but before I agree or disagree, I still don’t understand what role you need from me. I’ve witnessed the power in your storm. Of what use am I to you?”
“You must protect the heart of Tashijan.”
She glanced up at him.
“As I open the cellars and lay waste to all, you must gather those you most trust. In secret, you must leave Tashijan. I will open a path through the storm for your exodus. Head away. And don’t look back.”
Kathryn shivered.
“Will you do this?”
She took a deep breath. She pondered the truth in all that was spoken here. As hard as his words were, they were sound of mind.
But not of heart.
As Lord Ulf wanted to lay waste to Tashijan, so had he sought Tylar with equal fervor. And while she might not know the true heart of Tashijan-whether it was salvageable or not-she knew Tylar’s heart. She had doubted him once, a lifetime ago, even spoken against him-but no longer. Fires of grief and bloodshed had already forged her anew, made her stronger in many ways. Also more certain.
She trusted Tylar’s heart-whether it turned toward Delia or back toward her. She knew it remained as true as the diamond on the pommel of her sword. Her fingers came to rest upon it.
If Lord Ulf could be wrong about Tylar, he could be wrong here.
She stared at the icy sculpture of a god.
“No,” she said simply. “When you come, I will be waiting. All of Tashijan will be waiting.”
Lord Ulf sighed, coldly unmoved. “Then even the heart of Tashijan must be destroyed.” He stepped away and lifted an arm toward the door. “Go to your doom.”
Kathryn was somewhat surprised to be so easily released. Lord Ulf made no move against her, honoring the parley. She left the fire’s warmth and headed again into the cold.
“You’ll all die,” Lord Ulf said behind her.
She pictured Mychall, the stableboy, his crooked smile, his bright and hopeful eyes. If she bent to Lord Ulf’s will, she could lead him out. Lead so many others, too. But she also remembered the steaming stable in the storm. Despite the offer of safety, the stablemen had remained with their charges, to protect them, to weather the storm together.
She felt the god’s eyes following her as she moved away.
“Then when the time comes,” she answered him, “we’ll die together.”
As she reached the door, Lord Ulf spoke one last time. “Know this, Castellan Vail: That time is now.”
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