“Saw it in her dreams?” Laurelle asked a question Dart was too agonized to voice.
“After I heard your tale of the shattered illuminaria,” Yaellin said, addressing Laurelle, “I thought Dart might be the one. Impossibly brought here, to the one place she must not be. I had to be sure. So I snuck into Dart’s room two nights back and cast a blessing of dreamsight upon her.”
Dart groaned. So it had been Yaellin. He had been in her room.
“I wakened her earliest memories. I saw my mother… my father
… stealing her away. I saw it all through her dream eyes. Even the tiny form of the creature.”
“Is it some daemonspawn?” Laurelle asked. “Was she cursed?”
“I… I’m not sure.”
Despite the agony, Dart heard the obfuscation behind Yaellin’s words. He knew more than he was willing to speak, but she did not have the strength to confront him.
“If it’s separated from her now, the loss must be causing her this pain. We must head back.” Worry etched his words.
The carriage continued back the way they had just come. Dart felt strength return to her with every turn of the cart’s wheel. The world slowly returned in shades of gray.
“Where will we go?” Laurelle asked. “Not back to the Eldergarden.”
“No, we can’t risk that. We’ll have to find someplace close to the castillion as refuge. Then I need time to think.”
“Where-?”
Something struck the side window, startling all. Dart lifted her aching head enough to look. A large bird perched on the window’s sill. It cocked its head one way, then the other. A raven.
Dart gasped and pulled away from it. Her most intimate fears were tied to ravens. She pictured another set of ravens, flocked above her, staring down. She again felt rough hands pinning her, hot breath at her throat.
The dark bird pecked at the window, drawing her back.
“It’s a messenger,” Laurelle said, pointing to the white tube tied to the bird’s foot.
Yaellin reached to the window latch, releasing the pane.
“No,” Dart moaned.
Ignoring her, Yaellin pushed the window open. The bird hopped to his arm. “Air blessed,” he said, noting the glow to the bird’s eyes. “Homed to me.”
“Is it from Chrism?” Laurelle asked, frightened.
“No. It bears the mark of Tashijan.” He pointed out the sigil painted upon its right wing. The raven breathed rapidly, panting through an open beak. “It must have been searching the upper city until the null blessing we cast faded.”
Yaellin worked loose the message tube. Dart still felt a deep unease at the raven’s black presence. She kept well back.
“This is the seal of the castellan of Tashijan,” Yaellin said with a frown. He broke the wax on the message tube and shook out the tiny scroll. He uncurled it and read the note silently. The raven took the moment to leap toward the window, wings snapping out.
Dart was happy to see it depart.
Finished reading, Yaellin rerolled the message. His brow had furrowed even deeper.“It seems we are not the only ones in flight this night. A meeting has been requested. It is with someone I trust… and my father trusted. It should be safe and may give us a place to hide that lies near Chrism’s castillion.”
“Where are you to meet?” Laurelle asked.
“At the Conclave,” Yaellin answered. He turned to the coachman’s hatch to inform him of the change.
Laurelle relaxed, obviously relieved to go to a place where she’d felt safe for so long. “Back to the school.”
Dart remained still. Yaellin spoke to the coachman, but all Dart heard was the flapping of raven wings.
20
BURNING BLOOD
“Darjon…”Tylar pushed up fromthe railing. his chest and shoulder burned from the two impaled crossbow bolts. Each breath tore his insides further, flaming his lungs.
The three Shadowknights rushed his position. The flanking pair dropped their bows and yanked swords free. The center knight, Darjon ser Hightower, swept at Tylar, his own blade held low and menacingly.
There was no artistry in the attack, no nobility. It was a brutal and swift ambush. Darjon must have anticipated Tylar’s escape from Tashijan, identifying the dawn flippercraft as a point of escape. Tylar recalled a similar ambush as he, Rogger, and Delia had fled the Summer Mount. Darjon had come close to killing Tylar then.
From the glow in his eyes, Darjon meant to finish what he’d started.
Kathryn rushed to block all three knights, swirling out with cloak and shadow. She met Darjon’s sword with a clash of steel.
“Kathryn…” Tylar called, tasting blood on his lips. He shoved from the rail. He had to go to her aid.
“Stay there,” she ordered stonily.
The other two knights closed upon them. Tylar dared not call forth his naethryn daemon. All along the wall and roof ran the intricate steel-and-glass mekanicals that flew the flippercraft. Even a brush of the daemon risked shattering and melting all to ruin, sending the craft to a flaming death.
Instead, Tylar grabbed a dagger from his belt and flung it with a skilled flip of his wrist. The blade struck one knight in the throat. He fell down, gagging on his own blood.
Kathryn continued a deadly dance of shadow and steel with Darjon. She was one of the most skilled knights at shadowplay. Her sword, while not as strong as some men’s, was still swifter than most. She fought with cloak and blade, creating complex feints and lightning-fast parries.
Tylar turned his attention to the other knight as the man lunged at him. Tylar twisted. The man’s blade sliced the air, drawing a line of fire along Tylar’s belly. He fell back to the rail, a vulnerable position.
The sword stabbed again, swung from the side. The tall knight had a long reach. Tylar had no choice but to fall back over the railing that overlooked the flippercraft’s view window. He dropped with enough skill to land on his feet, but the curve of blessed glass was slick. His legs went out from under him. He landed on his backside.
His attacker vaulted over the rail, hooking the edge of his shadowcloak to it. He flew deftly and landed as easily as a skeeterfly on a still pond. His sword struck at Tylar’s floundering form.
Tylar kicked against the slick glass and slid away from the point of the sword. Blood ran down his arm from his wounded shoulder, smearing the glass. While he could not call the daemon, he could employ Meeryn’s gift to him. He touched his right palm to the bloody glass and willed through his sweat the fiercest fire, picturing steam rising from volcanic vents. Blood bubbled around his fingertips; then the blessing passed into the glass. The window’s surface heated. The blessing wasn’t enough to melt the thick glass. It would take much more blood for that… and probably some tears to heighten the effect.
But his attacker didn’t know that.
The knight felt the rising heat and slowed his attack. He stared between his toes at the passing landscape far below, etched in the first light of the day. He seemed suddenly less sure of his footing, falling to one knee.
Tylar scooted to the frame of the glass. He had to move quickly. He slapped his other hand down upon the window and held the bloody palm firm against the hot glass. He narrowed his eyes and imagined the worst winter storm, freezing rain and icy hail, a wind so cold its kiss burned flesh. Deep in his bones, Tylar felt the blessing sink into the glass.
He jumped up, springing with all the force left in his legs, and grabbed the lip of the upper deck.
The hot glass, so suddenly and fiercely cooled, broke with a resounding pop. A thousand cracks skittered its surface. The knight, still on one knee atop the window, drew up fearfully, a skater on deadly ice.
Tylar hung by one hand from the lip of the upper deck. The knight stepped toward him. His cloak billowed upward to snag a purchase. The shift in the man’s weight was all it took. The broken glass shattered under his boots, falling away. Wind tore up through the small hole and more of the window collapsed.
The knight had failed to secure a grip with his cloak in time. He fell with a shout.
Tylar turned away. Hanging above the glass, he reached up to grab one of the railings support posts, meaning to pull himself up.
Then something snagged his ankle.
He stared down. The knight had flung out the edge of his cloak and grabbed Tylar’s leg. Tylar, weak from blood loss and agonized by the two bolts in his chest, almost lost his hold.
Below, the knight hauled himself back out of the hole in the glass, drawn upward by the Grace in his cloak. Tylar let go with one arm and snatched another dagger from his belt. He dragged up his burdened leg with a strength borne of desperation and fury. His body screamed, but he had lived with pain. He found strength in its fire.
He had to cut himself free before the knight used his body as a ladder to reach the rail above. Tylar hacked at the cloak, but its shadows knit back together as fast as he cut.
Trembling with the effort, his entire body strained to keep his snagged ankle in reach. But he could not cut himself free. The knight flew upward now.
The flippercraft passed over the wide Tigre River. The morning light cast the mighty channel below into bright silver. Light reflected upward through the broken window and bathed the area with blinding light. Shadows dispersed-leaving only cloth.
Tylar hacked one last time at the cloak’s edge, wrapped tight to his ankle. The knight was almost upon him, a hand reaching out for his leg. Tylar saw the knight’s face. His masklin had been ripped away by the sudden winds as the window had shattered. He was young, fresh faced, eyes wide with panic. He was no older than Perryl, and perhaps as innocent.
Tylar had no choice. The fingers that gripped the support post overhead were losing their strength. His breath was thick with wheezed blood. He reached down and sliced the cloak from his ankle. The young knight fell with a piercing scream, fingers still reaching. He tumbled out of the broken window and vanished.
Tylar sheathed his dagger, grabbed with his other arm, then used his legs and the last of his strength to pull himself back up. He rolled onto the upper deck.
Freeing his dagger again, he searched the space.
Halfway across the deck, two shadowed figures were locked in a tumbled embrace, writhing in a hand-to-hand battle.
Kathryn…
A final wrench of shadows and the outcome became clear. Rising to his feet, Darjon ser Hightower clutched a fistful of Kathryn’s hair. He held her at his knees, head bent back, face bared. His sword lay at her throat.
“Move and she dies,” Darjon yelled to Tylar.
Behind the bastard, the door to the common room shook with pounding. But it was barred. There would be no rescue. Tylar stared at Kathryn. Her lower lip had been split. Blood ran from both nostrils. Still, a fierceness met his gaze. Don’t give in, she seemed to will him.
“What do you want?” Tylar asked.
“It was lucky you cracked that window. That sudden gust and bobble of the flippercraft saved my life. Your old witch here proved more skilled with a sword than I expected. But she’s not as skilled with a fist, alas. Easy to catch off guard.” He tightened his grip, his blade digging into her neck. Blood dribbled. “Now I want you to step over to that rail and fling yourself through that broken window. Do that and this sell-wench will live.”
“Why?” Tylar asked, needing time to think. “Whose justice do you serve?”
“My own,” Darjon snapped back.
Tylar shook his head. “To what end, then?”
A new fire flamed up in the man’s eyes, sensing he had the upper hand. He sneered, circling more slowly. “For too long, man has been subservient to the Hundred, but a new order rises, a new day. Power shall be returned to the people, to mankind! No longer will we be the playthings, the raw clay, of the gods. The Cabal will set us free. What was settled, will be unsettled. What was stolen, will be returned. What ended so long ago, starts anew.”
Tylar heard the cadence of fervor behind his words. “And the death of Meeryn?” he pressed, buying time.
“The first to fall. But she will not be the last! At long last, the War of the Gods is upon us.”
“And I’m to be the goat for this first kill. If you’re so proud of the death done in the Summering Isles, then why doesn’t the Cabal take credit for it?”
Darjon’s eyes narrowed, irritated. “The time is not yet right. Meeryn discovered the Cabal too soon. She had to be stopped. The naethryn assassin was called forth by one loyal to our cause. Not all gods wish to rule mankind. Some wish for our freedom. We work together-god and man-to free us both.”
Tylar recognized madness when it was bared so plainly.
Pounding continued behind them. The characteristic chop of an ax echoed. Could Tylar stall Darjon enough for the others to break through?
“No more talk,” Darjon said, as if reading his thoughts. “You have until the count of ten to hurl yourself over the railing, or I’ll kill this woman.”
“You made one mistake, Darjon,” Tylar said coldly.
“And what’s that?” he said with a sneer.
“You assumed I still have a fondness for this woman.”
The satisfied sneer faltered.
“This is the woman who damned me with her own testimony,” Tylar said, putting steel into his voice. “She broke her marital vow to me. She swore against me. Upon her words, I was broken on the wheel and sent into the slave circuses. She means nothing to me.”
“You lie.”
“Words are breath,” Tylar conceded. “But actions are flesh.” He turned the dagger in his hand and threw it with all the force in his arm.
Darjon shielded himself with a ward of shadowcloak, but the knight had not been Tylar’s intended target. The blade struck Kathryn in the hollow of her exposed throat, burying itself to the hilt. A killing strike.
The force of the blow threw her back. Darjon held her up by a fistful of hair. Kathryn’s eyes were wide with pain and shock. She gasped like a fish flopping on the bottom of a boat, soundless, yet agonized.
Darjon dropped her with disgust.
Tylar stood. He sidestepped to the first knight he had dispatched and collected the man’s abandoned sword.
Darjon billowed out his cloak, folding darkness into shield, drawing power and speed.
Tylar widened his stance. Blood flowed from the two impaled bolts. He tasted and smelled it with every agonized breath. He was no match for Darjon. Still, he lifted his sword.
“Let’s end this.”
Dart stepped from the carriage. Laurelle followed. Both girls kept behind Yaellin. He paid the coachman and spoke in low tones, menace and warning inflecting his quiet words. The man nodded and remounted his carriage seat. As the horses set off down the street, Yaellin’s cloak soaked up the shadows in the alleyway, stirring the darkness like water.
“Will he tell anyone about us?” Laurelle asked.
“Gold will quiet a tongue for only so long,” Yaellin said. “And fear of reprisal for aiding us may buy us another day. But I expect the bounty on the three of us will be high. The lure will draw him out. Before that happens, we must clear the upper city.”
Dart, like the others, had noted the number of castillion guards out on the street, easy to spot in their gold-and-crimson livery. They were knocking on doors and questioning every wagon. Their own carriage had taken this alley to avoid a patrol. Chrism would soon have every garrison alerted from one end of Chrismferry to the other.
“What now?” she asked. Her eyes stared at the two towers of the Conclave. Yaellin had them dropped off several streets from its doors.
“We go on foot. We move swiftly. We stick to shadows.”
Yaellin drew them across the street and down an alley. Dart ran to keep up. She still ached deep in her belly, her head raced with a thousand questions, and her heart pounded in terror and worry. She wanted to lie down, cover her face, and cry. But Yaellin’s earlier words kept her moving.
And you, little Dart, may be the
key all seek.
She prayed it wasn’t so.
And what of Pupp? Where was he? He must be terrified, all alone. Was he suffering from their separation, too? Love for him welled through her, gave her some strength to continue running. The three of them, while heading toward the Conclave, were also moving in the direction of the walled Eldergarden. Each step helped steady her. She would find Pupp. He had protected her at her most dire moment. She could do no less for him, regardless of the risk.
They fled down another street, staying on the shadowed side. Gates to the Conclave lay around the next corner and down a block. “Not much farther,” Yaellin promised them.
The pound of boot steps on cobbles sounded from ahead. The churlish voice of a captain reached them. “Check every doorway, every home, every stall.”
Yaellin searched around them. The street offered no hiding place. “Back,” he said with hushed urgency.
Dart turned around. The closest alley lay too far away. They’d never escape in time.
“Hurry,” Yaellin urged.
“No,” Laurelle said. “This way.”
She ran ahead, toward the nearby corner, toward the approaching guards. Dart hesitated, then raced after Laurelle. She had lost one friend this morning. She’d not lose another.
Yaellin followed with a grumble.
Laurelle reached a shop at the corner and ducked inside. Dart knew the establishment. A wooden rolling pin hung above the lintel. It was Havershym’s Bakery and Sweets. Girls and boys had been coming here for generations to buy or pinch bits of brittlesyrup, gingersnaps, or honeycakes. Laurelle was seldom without a bag of sweets from the shop, passing them out to her dearest friends.
Dart had never been the recipient of such largesse. In fact, she had been in the shop only once, when she was awarded two brass pinches for helping Mistress Grannice spin some raw wool. She had bought four pieces of karamellow, doling them out as a treat to herself once a month.
The brass bell rang as they rushed inside. The smell of sugar and rising bread filled their noses. The heat from the fired ovens in the back room warmed the chill of the streets off them.
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