“An affront to the grand vicar and quorum indeed.” The guard bowed again, doing the three-fingered sign of the Laijon Cross over his heart.
Tala looked up at the majestic marble face of Laijon—so stern it was, so perfect in its symmetry and allure. Even from her angle looking almost straight up, it was perfection. If there was a heaven, it was Laijon who ruled it. She recalled an Eighth Day sermon in which the grand vicar had read from the Ember Lighting Song of the Third Warrior Angel near the end of The Way and Truth of Laijon—the climactic part of the scriptures. The verse recounted the final day of the Vicious War of the Demons—the final day of the Blessed Mother’s pregnancy. Laijon, bleeding from the wound in his neck, had just been nailed, still alive, to the Atonement Tree by the Last Demon Lord, who then also lay down wounded and dying in the dirt at Laijon’s feet. The final battle between the Last Warrior Angels and the beasts of the underworld had come down to combat between the two men. Both had suffered mortal wounds. It was Mia herself who, after the Demon Lord had died and after Laijon had spent nine days nailed to the tree, thrust the fateful sword, Afflicted Fire, into the chest of her husband, easing the suffering of her beloved, sacrificing his life for the sins of all humankind, fulfilling the prophecies of the ancients that the last of the demons would only be vanquished when the sins of all men were atoned for. Then, as sacrament, she drank of his blood. The next day, Mia gave birth to the baby Raijael.
For the nine days Laijon’s body had hung on the Atonement Tree, the Demon Lord rotting at his feet, thousands had flocked to see their fallen king before Mia and the remaining Warrior Angels had cut his body down. Laijon’s body was dressed in his finest chain mail and horned helm, then placed upon a cross-shaped altar along with all the weapons of the Five Warrior Angels. Mia inserted the angel stones that had once belonged to the Five Warrior Angels into the wound in Laijon’s chest. The shield, Ethic Shroud, was laid atop him, covering the wounds. Then his body was taken up into heaven. And it was prophesied he would one day be reborn and return on the day of Fiery Absolution, along with the other Warrior Angels, to rule forever.
As Tala stepped back from her spot directly under the statue, she began to wonder how anyone could stand guard under such grandeur of the statue of Laijon and not be profoundly moved by its glorious spirit. It surely cast a spell over all. The curve and cut of each muscle rippled under chain-mail armor, arms and legs even stronger than the marble of which they were hewn. This aesthetic perfection in marble was, Tala believed, why men followed Laijon; why knights and gladiators over the centuries were desirous to forge their own flesh in his image. This massive sculpture of Laijon was perfect, supreme and ideal, from his squared chin to the smooth lines of his exquisitely carved mouth and nose and stoic jawline, to his eyes, which—although they gazed toward the dome of the ceiling—seemed to emanate a bravery and caring that no human could possess yet remained set upon heaven forever, and to the polished sweep of his brow leading to the wreath—
—and then as she stepped farther back, she saw it. The flaw in the statue.
It was scarcely discernable, perhaps a trick of light. One petal of the carved marble wreath was a different shade of white than the hundreds of others that encircled Laijon’s brow. “I wish to be alone now,” she blurted. “All must leave save my two friends here.” She nodded toward Lindholf and Glade.
“Of course.” The guard bowed again. “If it please m’lady.” He turned and snapped his fingers. What few guardsmen remained filed out of the inner temple through the polished cedar doors, the spurs of their boots clicking against the marble tile floor. Even the crossbowmen in the gallery above fell back into the shadows. It was customary for the Silver Guards to remain unseen whilst royalty worshipped at the feet of Laijon.
Once the two massive doors were closed and no Silver Guards were left in the temple, Tala’s gaze flew to the top of the statue’s head and the discolored patch on the wreath above. She couldn’t figure how someone could have changed the coloration of that leaf so high up. How could one remain unseen by those who came to worship at the feet of the statue every day all hours of the day? Yet someone had. The Bloodwood. There it was. The object she sought, yet impossible to get.
“What are you staring at?” Lindholf asked, eyes trained upward, voice echoing through the dome.
“The note.” Tala pointed, voice hushed. “Hawkwood left it there. On the wreath. Step back here with me, and you can see it.”
“I see it.” Glade pointed once he stood beside her. “One of the petals is duller than the rest. What of it?” he chuckled. “You think that’s your message from Hawkwood?” He began spinning the chain-mace toy Seita had given him deftly with his wrists, the two small balls just a blur to Tala as they whirled around on the chain, making a low humming noise. She had seen Glade do some interesting tricks with the toy lately, but to Tala, now, here next to the Laijon statue, was neither the time nor the place.
“Put that away,” she said.
“It relaxes me.”
“It makes too much noise. You’ll bring the Silver Guard back.”
“Why leave the note up so high?” Lindholf asked in a whisper. “It’s impossible to get at now.”
“You can climb for it.” Glade laughed.
Lindholf stepped back toward the statue and hopped over the rope barrier.
“Cool your coals.” Glade stopped spinning his ball mace. “I was only joking. The crossbowmen may still be on the balcony.”
“The guards dare not look,” Lindholf said. “They fear getting caught watching those of royal blood pray at the feet of Laijon. It will be quite safe to scale the statue unseen.” He was literally beaming at the idea of climbing the statue.
“I don’t know,” Tala said. “Do you think you can?”
“Indeed.”
“Far be it for me to object to the desires of the king’s sister,” Glade said, looking at her. “But I think you’re going a bit too far this time.”
“Bullocks,” Lindholf said. “I thought you were one for adventure, Glade.” He turned to Tala and bowed. “I insist on retrieving Hawkwood’s note for you, m’lady.”
“The consequences be upon you, Lindholf,” Glade ceded with a grunt. “But I’ll take no part in desecrating Laijon’s likeness.”
Tala was stung by Glade’s refusal to help. She nodded at Lindholf to proceed. He had been doing everything she’d asked almost to the point of doting. Not that she minded all that much. If only some of his enthusiasm could rub off on Glade. She felt a trifle guilty, realizing she had conned the two into this adventure by telling them it was a note from Hawkwood they sought. She had even convinced the Silver Guard into escorting her to the temple to pray. Escorting a group of royals into the city was no small undertaking.
And how would she explain to Lindholf what he might truly find up there? Oh, it’s nothing, Lindholf, just a note from an assassin who has poisoned your sister.
Lindholf scooted around the ox and cauldron and climbed the ten-foot-high tiered dais. Once on the dais, he scrambled atop the statue’s foot and jumped. He grabbed one of the bottom links of carved chain mail that hung below the statue’s knees and nimbly pulled himself up. Soon he was scaling the links of Laijon’s armor as easily as one would climb a ladder. Candlelight played eerily through the empty dome now, and the flicker of red and gold light danced over the chain-mail links that her cousin scaled.
Tala looked back at Glade. He was no longer by her side but now leaning against a carved stone arch supporting the gallery some distance away. He’d put away his chain-mace toy and nonchalantly straightened his mussed-up hair as he watched Lindholf.
Tala tried to concentrate on the progress of her cousin, yet in reality, she couldn’t. Her thoughts were fixed on Glade now. How could he be so infuriating sometimes and other times so charming? Though her eyes were trained upward at Lindholf, her every sense was tuned to the dashing lordling behind her. Having him there was almost like standing with her back to a burning heart
h. Every slight movement he made prickled her ears and sent goose bumps racing over her arms. Why am I so obsessed? It seemed awfully court-girlish for sure. She was practically betrothed to the boy. She needn’t act so flustered around him. As a princess of Amadon, it was she who held the upper hand in the relationship. Still, she found herself most nights lying in bed, thinking about those fierce dark eyes of his. But just what sort of young man there might be behind those eyes remained a puzzle. At times Glade could be so happy-go-lucky and full of enormous bouts of joy—especially when they’d been kids. Other times, especially as they’d grown older, he appeared too determined, conceited, and not in the least friendly.
She glanced back at him and his dark eyes met hers. She turned, blushing.
A yelp came from Lindholf. Her eyes darted upward. Her cousin had slipped, but caught himself, dangling by one hand from Laijon’s shoulder, clinging to a carved link of chain mail. But he gathered himself and was climbing again. If he were to fall, Tala would never forgive herself. She felt as if her heart was squeezing itself through her lungs. Soon Lindholf was perched fifty feet up, atop the left shoulder of Laijon. There was hardly room for him as he clung to the side of the great One and Only’s head, which from neck to crown was taller than him.
Lindholf stretched for the discolored petal on the wreath above Laijon’s forehead. But it was just out of reach. Tala’s heart snuck up her throat as her cousin gained a foothold in Laijon’s ear hole. Still, he had to cling to the top of the statue’s ear as he reached around the forehead of Laijon. Lindholf stretched and strained, fingers coming ever closer to the prize. Glade was standing beside Tala now—she noticed his eyes were now glued to Lindholf as her cousin inched his outstretched fingers farther and farther. . . .
“He got it,” Glade said, a smile playing about the corner of his mouth. Tala looked from Glade back up at Lindholf. Her cousin had the petal in hand. He began climbing down, his descent a bit slower than his climb. Pride swelled within Tala. Lindholf had made a good account of himself today. Soon he was scuttling down the raised dais and walking toward her.
The strain of climbing had left him a tad purple-faced as he stood there flushed and disheveled, his hair all a-tangle, scarred forehead and cheeks a red rash. He also looked a bit disappointed as he held the cream-colored parchment out for her to take. “There’s nothing on it,” he announced.
Tala turned the slip of parchment over and over in her hands. It was blank.
“Naught but some bit of garbage blown in by the breeze.” Glade’s eyes blazed like black jewels in the candlelight. “You’ve put us at risk for nothing, Tala. No more of your wild-goose chases. No more of these silly girlish games.”
Glade’s words caused her a momentary pang of heartache.
And something had also set Lindholf into a spell of blackness. For some reason the abrupt turn in Lindholf’s demeanor concerned Tala more than the blankness of the parchment. His eyes kept returning to the crown of heather atop Laijon’s head. In fact, something dark was growing behind Lindholf’s eyes as he spoke. “Glade is right. It’s not exactly part of the Dayknight training, strictly speaking, to climb the Laijon statue.”
“The entire thing is loopy,” Glade said, disgust underlying his words. “Bloody Mother Mia. Let’s just get out of here.” And he marched for the doors.
The clacking of his boots against the tile floor pounded through Tala’s head. She wanted to crumple the offending slip of paper into a wad and throw it away or rush over to one of the many rows of candles and just burn it, let the flame devour the useless thing.
Then she remembered something. It’s so obvious! The note the Bloodwood had left pinned to her bedroom stool the night Lawri was stabbed was written in an ink that, in time, would slowly fade. She studied the blank paper in her hand. Yes! Her heart soared. There was something written there all right. She just couldn’t see it yet.
Tala was in the secret ways again. She held the candle out before her, hands quivering. Despite the flickering flame that lit her way, the corridor shrouded her in its dark embrace. The words of the assassin’s note were burned into her brain.
Your next task is to get both Glade Chaparral and Lindholf Le Graven to kiss you at the final night of the Mourning Moon Celebration. No peck on the cheek. But a real kiss.
Do this and your next clue to finding Lawri’s antidote will be revealed.
The request seemed so childish. Sure, she would love to kiss Glade—that is, if he were to kiss her first. Yet to act the aggressor, that was a different pill to swallow indeed. But Lindholf, her own blood relative—it was disgraceful.
After returning from the temple, Tala had bid good-bye to Glade and Lindholf and made her way through the secret passages to Roguemoore’s private chambers, hoping he wasn’t there. It was a familiar route she’d traveled often. Her excitement at possibly deciphering the note had her stalking the secret ways again like a hungry cat. Once at her destination, she’d pushed her way through a square block in the wall near the dwarf’s writing desk, then searched his belongings, which were scattered about the room—a room that appeared to have been ransacked recently, by either the Silver Guard, the Dayknights, or Jovan himself; she didn’t want to hazard a guess. But she certainly didn’t want the dwarf to blame her for it, wherever he was. She wanted to find what she came for quickly.
She’d found the small round tin she was looking for concealed in a hidden pocket of a leather pouch tossed carelessly into the corner of the room. Tala had seen the dwarf digging through the hidden pocket before. She prided herself on being observant like that. Like when I found the secret panel in Jondralyn’s bookshelf years ago and read all the little love notes Squireck Van Hester had given her over the years. After opening the tin, she’d dipped her fingers into the black powder and then rubbed her fingers over the piece of paper. Ink from the squid of the Sør Sevier Straits, the dwarf had said. Rare and expensive. The ink fades quickly but the writing remains intact. Soon, through the smeared black powder, the assassin’s words were legible again, though barely.
After slipping it into her pocket, she had left the dwarf’s room the same way she’d entered, sick at the thought of having to kiss Lindholf. But she needed to put all thoughts of kissing anyone out of her mind and concentrate on getting back to her room. There was still an assassin lurking about the castle—a Bloodwood assassin from Sør Sevier, a Bloodwood who had chosen to play a dangerous game with her. So she focused on her path, guiding herself almost by sheer instinct through every twist and turn and secret doorway along her dark route. Perhaps she was being followed to her room right now, perhaps not. Of course, the assassin already knew where her room was. The assassin was one step ahead of her at all times. In fact, the entire affair was approaching the point of being ridiculous. Kiss Glade and Lindholf? Of all the stupid things! Yet here she was, playing this silly game with one of the trickiest and deadliest creatures alive. It excited her. And it made her feel guilty, too. Lawri was sick and it was all her fault. But it was Lawri’s illness and dementia that convinced her that the game was real.
As if touched by a breath of cold air, the tiny flame of her candle flickered and went out. Cursing, Tala snatched the flint from her purse and relit the wick. It danced about in the soft breeze and she shielded it, walking slowly toward the iron door in front of her. She twisted the door’s handle, only to find it stuck. She tugged at the handle again, harder this time, but no luck. Some doors had the habit of locking into place. She knew another route, a branching corridor about thirty paces back that would take her to the long hallway that would empty her out into the castle’s armory. From the armory there were several other passages that would lead back to her chambers. It would take longer to get to her room that way, but she had no other choice.
Keeping the flickering light of her candle under the palm of her hand, she retraced her steps. It wasn’t long before she found the intersection she wanted. There was a crumbling, white-plastered wall to her right and a vast dark holl
ow of wood beams and pillars to her left that stretched into the unknown. The velvet shadows lurking about the dark forest of wood stretching away into the blackness gave her a fright. She hustled her step. A musty smell of mice droppings and moldering wood flooded the air. She came to an area where scattered rays of light rose from cracks in the floor. At one point she thought she might have heard the grand vicar’s voice coming from below. Curious, she slowed her pace, ears trained for any sound. And there it was, a muffled voice from below. The excitement she felt at listening in on a secret conversations grew within her. She continued on, wary, ears alert, stepping lightly, the cracks in the floor growing bigger and the light beaming up brighter.
Her candle flickered out. Suddenly there was a hollowness in the pit of her stomach. She could feel a prickling danger in the air. There was a faint clink, clink, clink just at the edge of her hearing. She stopped, concentrated her gaze, looking for a reflection, a glint of movement, a hooded figure, trying to let no black niche or shadowy alcove escape her scrutiny. There were over a dozen tiny shards of light shooting up from the floor around her, but none bright enough to illuminate her surroundings.
She felt the icy tip of the blade at her throat. A voice spoke in a soft rasp. “I warned you to stay out of the secret ways.”
Tala dropped the candle. Before her was a shadow that devoured what little light there was. There was an unsettling quiver in her voice as she spoke. “You knew I’d use the passages to get to Roguemoore’s rooms unseen. You knew I had to find his black powder to decipher your note.”
“Heed my words.” The voice was now tinged with malice. “Do not venture here again, unless I specifically tell you to do so.”
“And how will you tell me?”
“By the notes I leave you, girl.” The voice carried a hiss of anger, the blade at her throat pressing in.
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