She hung in Laurelle’s shadow. It took every bit of strength to keep her head high, shoulders straight. Her own stride must appear as graceful as a sway-backed pony.
Laurelle caught Dart’s eye for a brief heartbeat. Her gaze flicked off to the right, indicating where she should look. Dart followed her direction, but saw nothing. Then out in the sea of folk, a small hand waved a bit of white silk, catching her attention. It was Matron Grannice, from the Conclave, the old school, her home.
Dart fought back tears and failed. The same weakness afflicted the portly marm. The matron had to turn away. Only then did Dart spot Grannice’s escort.
Healer Paltry stood at her side, an arm around the woman’s shoulder, comforting. His lips moved with what could only be kind words meant to soothe. But his eyes drilled toward Dart, cold and unreadable.
Dart’s feet moved faster, a reflex to escape. A hollow pain throbbed in her belly, an echo of her attack. The mere sight of the cursed healer was like a phantom finger prodding a bruise that refused to heal. Warm tears turned cold on her cheeks.
As she hurried forward, her toes struck the heel of Master Willym. His enfeebled pace stumbled. He went down on one knee before his startled manservant could catch him up.
Gasps and shocked exhalations spread outward, like the waves from a pebble dropped into a pond. Dart hurried to his side and helped him to his feet.
“Please forgive me,” Dart murmured.
Willym gained his wobbly legs, his face red. Angry? No, just flushed from exertion. He patted her hand and spoke loudly enough for those closest to hear. “Ah, Chrism’s Oracle chose well. A young lass with all the eagerness of an unbridled foal. Plainly ready to take my place. Whether I’m willing or not, it seems.”
Gentle laughter joined his own.
He took her under his arm in friendly fashion and waved aside his manservant, dismissing concern. But his weight leaned heavily upon Dart. He tilted his head toward her. “Be at peace, lass. But get me to my chair.”
“I’m so sorry.”
He smiled gently down at her. “There’s nothing to fear here.”
An arrow pierced his throat, passing clean through. The steel tip of the bolt sailed past Dart’s left ear, whistling away, trailing a spray of blood. Master Willym’s eyes went wide as he fell upon Dart, collapsing atop her. Blood gouted from his mouth and nose.
They fell together to the floor.
Dart’s skull struck the stones with a ringing blow. She felt no pain, only shock.
Screams rose around her like a whirlwind. In a daze, Dart watched Laurelle and Mistress Huri being shoved behind a bench. Nearby, Pupp ran in panicked circles around her, his molten coat as bright as golden sunshine.
Willym lay atop her, choking on blood, bathing Dart’s throat with the last beats of his heart. His lips were at her ear, moving, attempting to speak, but all that came out was blood.
“Be calm,” she urged him as her own vision wobbled and began to close tightly, the injury to her skull throbbing.
Deaf to her, Willym choked a final flow, then lay still. A last breath sighed from him, bearing forth a single word, as clear as crystal. “Beware.”
Black-booted guards tromped to their side, circling them. Several passed through Pupp as he continued his blazing vigil. They were too late. Through her chest, Dart felt the last beat of Master Willym’s heart.
He was gone.
She was now the lone handservant of blood, properly blessed.
Her vision continued to shrink in on itself, to a pinpoint, then nothing. The single word followed her into oblivion.
Beware…
Dart dreamed.
She was a child again, a babe swaddled in furs, being carried in an open wagon. Voices came from all around. A leafy bower flashed past overhead. The scent of torn loam, manure, and decay carried to her. The voices spoke in a tongue she did not understand, but they seemed frantic, yelling.
A flash of silver swept over her face.
A cry. A curse. A shouted call.
Blood fountained from the left, bathing her hotly.
She cried now, wailing.
A face crept into view above her, tiny as a babe’s fist, shining brightly under the dark bower, more fire than bronze. He nuzzled into her, panicked, too.
Together they cowered.
The scent of something feral reached her, huffing behind her, rank and musky. A horse whinnied in terror. A wagon jerked under her.
A warning reached her, beyond language, but still clear.
Flee…
Dart woke with a startled wail. She fought the hands that held her.
Flee…
“Calm yourself, child. We must clean the blood off you.”
Her eyes focused upon Matron Shashyl, bent over her, a fouled rag clutched in her hand. Her caretaker turned to rinse the cloth in a bucket of steaming-hot water.
Dart saw that Laurelle was clutched against her, hugging her. Only now did she recognize how naked she was. She was back in their tiny wardroom, sprawled on the same bench where she had chatted with Master Willym.
“Master Willym…!”
“Gone,” Laurelle answered her. “Murdered most foully.”
Dart again heard the whistle of the arrow past her ear. The blood on her face, neck, and chest was not her own. The back of her head, though, throbbed. She reached back and fingered a hard knot.
“You struck your head but good, child.” Matron Shashyl nodded toward a kettle on a tiny brazier. “I’m steeping some willow bark and scamptail. It’ll take the ache away.”
“We thought you dead like… like Master Willym.” Laurelle’s voice dropped to a whisper. Arms hugged her tighter. “All the blood..”
Dart sat up and pulled her friend into her own arms. “I’m fine.” She spotted Pupp down by the brazier, sniffing at the brewing herbs.
Matron Shashyl waved the girls apart. “Be off, Mistress Laurelle. You’ll foul your petticoats. Let me finish the bathing.”
Dart allowed herself to be cared for, too weak to resist. She was bathed clean and dabbed with towels warmed by the brazier. Once done, the matron wrapped her in a dry blanket.
“The assassin?” Dart finally asked. “Why did he…?”
Matron Shashyl hushed her. “He escaped into the dark. Whys and wherefores must await his capture. Dawn nears, and guards have been woken from all the barracks. Grace-blessed hounds have already been loosed. None will rest until the fiend is caught.” She wiped a tear and turned away. “Who could do this? Master Willym was dearly loved.”
Not by all, Dart thought to herself. She remembered his last word. Was it delirium? Beware…
Beware what? Still, Dart sensed the warning had been meant for her and her alone. Spoken with the last trickle of life. If he had a message for her, why hadn’t he spoken it earlier, here on this same bench when they had chatted?
She remembered the attack in the garden. She had told no one of what she had witnessed, trusting in silence, praying to remain unknown to the secretive nobleman. Now a second murder in one day. Were they connected? Maybe she should have spoken to someone about the bloodshed in the garden. Maybe Master Willym’s assassin could have been stopped.
Though clean, Dart still felt bloody.
Laurelle returned from emptying the scrub bucket down the neighboring privy. She had stripped off her own dress and wore only her petties and slippers. “Mayhap we should return to our own room.”
Dart nodded. She would not sleep the rest of the night, but it would be good to be surrounded by her own things. The small closet she and Laurelle shared as servants-in-waiting was cramped, but now Dart longed for its closeness, to lay with Laurelle in the single bed, under the covers until the sun rose and this long dark and bloody night ended.
Matron Shashyl had composed herself and faced them. “You’re most correct. Your rooms are waiting for you. I’ll have a maid bring up tea to your chambers.”
Dart looked at Laurelle.
“Chambers?�
� her friend asked the matron.
Shashyl nodded. “Indeed. You are no longer servants-in-waiting. Though the presentation ceremony was interrupted so foully, this night still marks your ascendance to full handservants. Matron Willym and Mistress Huri had already vacated their quarters in the High Wing. Your personals should already be up there. Come. I’ll show you the way.”
Dart numbly donned a set of small clothes and slippers, and wrapped herself in a full cloak of warm velvet. Crimson, like her missing gown. Laurelle modestly covered her own limbs with a silver cloak, thick and ruffled at the hems.
“We’ve a ways to climb,” Shashyl warned them.
Dart didn’t care. She was relieved they didn’t have to head back through Tigre Hall. They left by another door. It opened upon a spiral stair that led only upward, to the High Wing. They mounted the stairs, past a guard at his post at the doorway… Dart had been this way once before, late for her studies under the matron. Shashyl had a suite of rooms in the High Wing as was her honor. Besides their tutelage, Matron Shashyl oversaw the maids and manservants that serviced the tower and its nine occupants: Lord Chrism and his eight Hands.
Pupp followed after them, hopping from step to step.
The climb, as warned, was long. Twenty flights. They passed the same number of guards, liveried in gold and crimson, Chrism’s colors, one for each level.
Reaching the top, Matron Shashyl recognized the man guarding the double doors to the High Wing. He was older, black hair going to gray, but his eyes were spry and alert. He wore a nasty, tortured scar across his left cheek. “Kyllan, what are you doing posting a mere door? As Master of the Garrison, shouldn’t you be overseeing the hunt for the assassin?”
His eyes flashed. He spoke with the terse tones of the fierce Thirdlanders. “I’ve given my orders. Huntsman Freetile leads the Graced hounds from the bestiary. Guards are on the streets. A pair of wyld trackers have been summoned from the Seer guildtower.”
“And you?”
“Master Willym were under my protection when he fell. I led the other guards here. I’ll not leave this post. No more of the blessed Hands will come to harm as long as there is strength in these bones.”
He rested one hand on the hilt of his sheathed blade and opened the door with the other, bowing deeply. “Miladies, be welcome. Rest with good assurance. None will disturb the last of this sad night.”
Laurelle took it all with easy aplomb. “Most gracious, Sergeant Kyllan.”
Dart followed after her friend, nodding to the guardsman as she passed. Once the door was closed and secured behind them, Matron Shashyl waved her charges down the hall. Dart stared over a shoulder as she walked.
Pupp had hung back on the stair, sniffing at the guard. He now simply trotted through the closed wooden door, prancing a bit and shaking his molten coat as if he had passed through mere water. He hurried to catch up with them.
It was a wide passage. A four-draft carriage could have been pulled over the tapestried rug that ran down the hall. Tall, arched stained windows lined one side with historical depictions, but the starlight was too dim to illuminate the scenes, making them appear gloomy and menacing. Along the other wall, eight narrow doors awaited, one for each handservant. Lanterns flanked each threshold, but a fiercer rosy light rose from a grand brazier that stood halfway down the hall’s length, where the passage widened into a half circle. Its brightness glowed upon a set of golden double doors that opened into Chrism’s private chambers.
Dart’s eyes remained fixed on those massive doors, fearing they would open. She had not faced Lord Chrism since that humiliating encounter in the Eldergarden, where she mistook him for a common laborer, treated him rudely and roughly.
Oblivious to her fear, the matron led them down the passageway. At the end of the hall lay a complex suite of libraries, studies, dining rooms, meant for the private use of the Hands to Chrism. Dart could not imagine communing with such esteemed personages as the other handservants. She heard voices echoing. A few of the Hands were still awake.
Before reaching the central brazier, Shashyl stopped before one of the doors. “Mistress Laurelle, these are the rooms reserved for the Hand of Tears.” She turned and formally placed a thick silver key in Laurelle’s palm. “Blessed in Lord Chrism’s own tears.”
Laurelle gaped at the key in her hand. Dart found some comfort that her normally assured friend was a tad overwhelmed by the moment. Their eyes met. Laurelle smiled almost shyly.
“Go ahead,” Dart said, nodding to the door.
Laurelle used her key. The latch snicked, and the door swung open on silent, well-oiled hinges. Beyond, Dart caught a glimpse of a private greeting chamber, appointed in rich silks, thick carpets, and a hearth gone to ruddy coals. Other rooms could be seen opening deeper into the suite.
“I’ll introduce you to your maids on the morrow,” Shashyl said as Laurelle hesitated at the threshold. “The entire wing was cleared of all but the Hands as a precaution.”
Laurelle took a deep breath and stepped through the doorway, eyes forward.
“Come now, Mistress Dart, let me show you to your room.”
As they began to turn away, Laurelle swung back around and hugged Dart tightly. “I’m so glad you’re here with me,” she whispered.
Dart hugged her back, feeling the same.
Matron Shashyl tolerated their display for only a few breaths. “Enough. It’s late.” She touched Dart’s shoulder. “Let’s get you settled and some willow bark tea into you before you retire.”
They broke their embrace. Laurelle watched them leave.
The matron led Dart past the glowing brazier. It was not ordinary iron, but a cage of petrified bone from some ancient creature. Its heat was like the sun on a summer day. Pupp nosed the bony brazier. His hackles rose as if bothered by the ancient scent of the long-dead beast. Dart tapped her thigh to draw him away.
They circled the brazier, slipping past the wide gold doors that led into Chrism’s private abode.
Matron Shashyl walked her to the neighboring door. “Here are your rooms. The Hand of Blood.” Again a key was pulled from a hidden pocket, but this time placed into Dart’s palm. “Blessed in Lord Chrism’s own blood,” she said formally.
It weighed heavily in Dart’s fingers. Not silver like Laurelle’s, but gold. Dart’s hand began to tremble. With such shaking, there was no way she could fit the key into the lock.
A hand rested on her shoulder. “Be not afraid,” Shashyl whispered with genuine motherly affection. “You would not have been chosen if you weren’t able to fill this duty.”
Dart had a thousand words for why this was not true, but she merely nodded. Taking a deep breath, she turned to the door.
Pupp pranced a step ahead of her, seeming to know her destination. No lock was needed for him. He simply walked through the door.
Fearing his mischief, Dart hurried to unlock the way. The entry hall beyond was laid out the same as Laurelle’s: stone walls warmed with fine Oldenbrook tapestries; floors covered with woven carpets of lamb’s wool, freshly brushed and sprinkled with sweet oils; two winged chairs of tufted goose down facing the hearth and standing as high as a grown man. The only difference to Laurelle’s room was that the tiny hearth had not died to coals in the absence of stoking, but still blazed merrily with licking flames.
Dart stepped into the room, searching for Pupp as the matron closed the door behind her, leaving her alone.
Dart spotted Pupp’s tail wagging from beyond one of the two chairs. She walked around to scold him, only then noting the figure seated in the same chair, the source of Pupp’s attention.
Her eyes grew wide with surprise. She was too startled to fall to her knees. “Lord Chrism…”
He was no longer dressed in the simple grubbery of a gardenkeep, but in a finery that outshone the hearth’s flames. His boots, polished and lavishly tooled black leather, reached to his knees. His breeches were billowed silk, dyed bronze to match his hair. His black half cloak mounted a s
hirt woven of finely spun gold strands.
Yet still there remained a harrowed edge to him. His hair, oiled and brushed back from his face, lay mussed as if worried fingers had combed through it. His eyes were puffy and shot with red. He appeared no more than a few birth years older than Dart, more a boy than a god-an exhausted, heartsore boy. Green eyes flecked with gold fell upon her, full of sorrow.
Lord Chrism raised a hand, motioning to the neighboring chair. “Sit with me. For a moment.”
Dart found his command easy to obey, her legs weakening with every breath. Had he discovered her soiled nature?
“I apologize for intruding into your private spaces,” he said. “But it was here that I knew Willym best. I thought to find some comfort.”
Dart’s voice was as soft as a mouse’s. She kept her eyes lowered to the floor. “All that I have is yours. I’m the intruder here. I’ll gladly return to the closet reserved for those in waiting.”
“No. Please. Stay. There are words I wish to share with you.”
She risked a glance up. “Me?” She recognized the true depth of sadness in his eyes. They were reddened from weeping. Each tear shed, rich in Grace, was as valuable as molten gold. But there was no repostilary resting on the small tea table. He shed such riches freely in the memory of Willym.
He sat forward. His entire manner spoke of exhaustion. “You are now my Hand.” He stretched an arm toward her, palm up.
Dart stared at it dumbly.
He waited, fingers outstretched, pleading in his eyes.
Dart rested her hand in his. Fingers closed around hers. His hand felt like any other. Warm, slightly moist. There was still a bit of dirt from the gardens in the cuticles.
Beneath them, Pupp lifted his nose, as if awaiting a treat to fall.
Chrism finally spoke. “I did not ask Willym to step down from my side. He insisted, as did my Huri.” His voice caught in his throat, thickening with emotion. “A dark time is upon us, and as Willym was wont to say ‘A God is only as strong as his Hands.’ He and Huri knew it was time to step aside for those stronger and younger. We had hot debates on this very subject.”
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