The portly baker, Havershym himself, yelled from the back. “Bread’s a-baking. Hold fast. I’ll be up in a breath.” Dart caught a glimpse of his backside as he bent with a long wooden bread peel. The knock and block of pans and utensils echoed from farther back, apprentices mixing and kneading. Laughter chimed out.
Laurelle did not stop. She ducked under the counter and ran past the short rows of sweets and alongside the steaming baskets of loafed breads. She reached a low, narrow door and pushed inside.
“Quickly,” she said.
The space was filled with barrels of dry flour and casks of rock sugar. Bags hung from the rafters on iron hooks, smelling of seed and yeast.
Laurelle stooped under the bags and hurried toward the back door. She yanked it open. A dark alley lay beyond it. Dart and Yaellin caught up with Laurelle, and they headed down the alley to where it crossed with another. Dart suddenly knew where she was. She stared up. The towers of the Conclave climbed into the morning sky. They were in the back alley behind the school’s courtyard.
Yaellin had the same realization. “We’re here.”
Dart glanced to Laurelle.
Her friend shrugged. “I spent so much time going to and from the shop, spending fistfuls of coin, that Havershym eventually allowed me to shorten my steps by using his back door. And I knew at this hour they’d still be busy with their ovens. If we moved swiftly enough, we could pass through their shop unseen.”
They approached the back gate to the school’s courtyard. Mostly used by carts and wagons to deliver goods, seldom did anyone give it any attention.
“Keep with me,” Yaellin said as they neared the ironwork gate. He swept out his cloak and helped hide the girls. “Surely Chrism has sent ravens throughout the city to warn all to watch for us. He wouldn’t have neglected the Conclave.”
“Then where are we to go?” Dart asked.
“To whom we were called to meet. We’ll hole up there until the others arrive.”
“Hole up where?” Dart pressed.
Yaellin nodded to the open gate, sweeping shadows over Dart’s head like gigantic raven’s wings. “With Healer Paltry.”
Tylar waited for Darjon. The knight circled him, clearly suspicious. Or perhaps the knight was simply allowing Tylar to weaken further from his wounds.
Pounding and chopping continued at the door to the flippercraft’s common room. Such ships were built of stubborn stoutoak and ironwood. Rescue would not be swift.
“Why don’t you call your daemon?” Darjon taunted. “Or has it abandoned you?”
Tylar glowered. Darjon clearly had intended to dispatch him in the initial attack. He had been surprised by Kathryn’s skill. And now he was wondering why Tylar hadn’t summoned his daemon. Darjon’s eyes sparked brighter, more confident.
Tylar stepped around, matching Darjon’s dance, one circling the other. “Why forsake your cloak?” Tylar called out. “Why join the Cabal?”
Darjon kept his sword steady but slipped his masklin free with the point of his dagger. He exposed his pale features.
“It was a god’s blood that did this to me,” he spat. “I was to be a soothmancer, but the blessing went awry. It turned my skin at birth so pale that the sun burns with the slightest touch. It can hold no pigment, not even the tattoos of knighthood.”
Tylar stared into those red eyes. He saw as much madness as Grace in that glow.
“Yet still, I sought to serve Myrillia honorably,” Darjon continued, circling with cautious steps. “I trained hard and earned my right to don a shadowcloak. I was distinguished among my peers. But who would have a disfigured knight? One without stripes?” His voice hardened. “They placed me far from all else. In a god-realm of burning sunlight and eternally clear skies, where I dared never to shed my cloak lest my skin be burned or my eyes blinded. The day was forbidden me. Such a cruel assignment was as much a curse as my birth.”
“We go where we are needed,” Tylar said. “We serve who we must. That’s a knight’s duty.”
“And such a condition is no better than slavery. I’m sure you of all people could understand that. Imagine being confined not to a cell or circus, like you were, but imprisoned in one’s own cloak, forever unable to escape its shelter.” He shook his sword at Tylar. “When the Cabal approached me, told me of another way to live, free of gods and enslavement to duty, I knew their cause was just. The Hundred have ruled for far too long. Now is the time for the rule of man.”
Tylar had heard similar complaints in the past. “The Hundred do not rule us. They share their Graces. We honor their duty by offering service to them. It is through their humours that Myrillia has dragged itself out of barbarism and into a time of peace and prosperity. Men are free to live their own lives.”
“And swine are just as free to rut and roll in the mud,” Darjon said. “Blind and oblivious to the killing floor to come.”
Tylar sighed. It was time to end this. He lifted his sword. “The Cabal will be stopped. We will find its head and chop it off.”
Laughter, harsh and cruel, answered him. “The Cabal is legion. It thrives everywhere. Cut once and thrice will you be struck down. Like so…”
Darjon leaped at him.
Caught by surprise, Tylar stumbled back. He parried the knight’s first thrust by brute force, feinted with his shoulders, and attempted a slice to the man’s arm. But his blade found only shadow.
From out of a fold of cloak, a dagger stabbed at Tylar’s side. He could not avoid it, only lessen the injury. He met the dagger with his arm, catching the blade’s point with his forearm. The knife cut to bone.
Tylar twisted away, falling backward. He fled a few staggering steps until he was forced once again against the rail. Winds from the shattered window below rushed against his backside, threatening to buffet him forward onto Darjon’s blade.
The knight closed upon him.
Enough…
Tylar had heard all he needed to hear. He nodded past Darjon’s shoulder.
At his signal, a flow of shadow whisked up. A flash of silver broke through the dark cloud. A sword lanced out and struck Darjon in the shoulder, piercing fully through.
Darjon glanced down in surprise. Before he could react further, the blade was yanked back out, unsheathed from his body. Released, he spun to face his attacker, half-falling.
Kathryn shed her cloak, revealing herself alive and unharmed.
“How…?” Darjon mumbled.
Kathryn cocked back her free arm and struck the man in the teeth with a fist wrapped around a dagger’s hilt. Darjon fell backward, hitting the rail hard and going down on one knee.
“I can fight with fist as well as sword,” she said fiercely and kicked out with a heel. “Not to mention leg.”
Caught in the chin, his head snapped back, then forward. He fell to his hands. Tylar held his sword to the man’s neck. He supported himself on the rail with his other arm.
“The game is over, Darjon,” Tylar said. “While you never were blessed as a soothmancer, others were. You will be exposed. As will your Cabal allies.”
Darjon lifted his face to Tylar. “Myrillia will be free!” A fold of shadowcloak parted. Something dropped into the man’s palm as he sat back.
Tylar pressed his sword into the man’s neck, but he was too late. Darjon crushed the thin crystal vial against the floorboards under his palm. The tinkle of glass sounded.
Tylar kicked the man in the side, rolling him over. Kathryn guarded him with her sword.
Darjon held up a hand, showing Tylar his bloody palm, pierced by glass. “The Cabal lives!”
The man’s palm and fingers melted to slag, losing all form, like warmed wax. The curse spread quickly, down the arm, over the shoulder and neck. The left side of Darjon’s face drooped and sagged. His eye rolled down his flowing cheek.
Tylar and Kathryn both backed a step, fearful of the curse leaping to them. Darjon, still of some mind, took advantage. A snap of shadowcloak whipped out, snagged the rail, and contrac
ted, yanking Darjon off the boards and over the rail.
Tylar lunged at him, striking the railing hard. One of the crossbow bolts snapped. A rib, grazed by the bolt, cracked with a flare of agony.
No…
Below, Darjon plummeted through window, tumbling past the belly of the flippercraft. Still wrapped in his shadowcloak, darkness shredded from his form, burned away by the brightness of the morning.
Tylar shoved backward, clutching his side. Darjon was no longer a concern.
“Tylar…?” Kathryn came toward him.
“Get back!” he yelled.
Agony flared outward from the snapped rib. Bones broke and broke again: wrist, elbow, fingers. He crashed to the floor as both legs shattered under him. He writhed on the floor for two breaths.
The beast inside shook free of its broken cage, rising from his chest, burning through his shirt and cloak, a fountain of smoky darkness. It fled from his form, stirring and drawing the bones together in its wake, healing with callus and spur.
He saw the look of horror on Kathryn’s face. He lifted a crooked arm toward her. The horror on her face deepened as she stumbled farther away.
Above him, the font of darkness spread its wings. Its shadow-maned head snaked outward. Flaming eyes opened, seeking the danger for which it had been summoned. It found only one target.
Kathryn continued her startled retreat.
The naethryn lunged at her, wings sweeping wide, eyes blazing.
Tylar had to stop it. He smeared his hands on his blood-soaked shirt and grabbed hold of the smoky umbilicus that linked the daemon to the black print on his chest. The Grace in his blood ignited like fire on contact. The cord throbbed and twisted under his fingers. Flames of Grace spread out over it, as swift as flowing water.
The naethryn, in midlunge, contorted as the wash of fire swamped it. Wings snapped wide. Neck whipped up. Then it was consumed. Flame and form lashed back toward Tylar. He braced for it. The kick as it struck knocked him on his rear. Blinded for a breath, he rolled back to his feet. He found his body healed again. Even his cuts. The bolts had vanished. He patted out the smoldering edges of the circle burned through his cloak and shirt.
Kathryn stared across the cabin, still stunned.
But she was safe.
Tylar felt a sudden lurch under him. The flippercraft hove up on its starboard side. The floor tilted. Tylar fell again to hands and knees. Kathryn tumbled backward, landing hard herself.
Tylar then smelled it. An acrid and familiar stench to the air.
Burning blood.
He craned upward. A large swath of crystal piping dripped molten glass. Crimson fluid, the air alchemies, dripped and sizzled through the slagged tubings, raining and flaming from above. The naethryn’s wing must have brushed through the piping.
Gods above…
The flippercraft shuddered. Somewhere under the floorboards, the ship’s mekanicals ground with the sound of tearing metal.
The floor tipped again, this time nose first.
The craft rattled and bucked.
As the angle steepened, both Tylar and Kathryn skidded down the tilted floor, striking the bow wall. She stared at him in raw fear.
They were going down.
Buried in shadow, Dart climbed the familiar stairs. Laurelle kept beside her. They gripped each other’s hands. Yaellin led the way, his cloak draping both girls.
“The eighth level?” Yaellin asked. “Is that correct?”
“Yes,” Laurelle whispered from the nest of shadows. “That’s where Healer Paltry keeps his chambers.”
Dart clutched tighter to her friend. The stair smelled of boiling oats and frying griddle cakes. The homey scent, rising from the kitchens below, triggered memories of a simpler life, where her worst fears were to have a boy see her petties as she climbed these same stairs. Before all the blood and the terror…
Bright laughter flowed down to them. A flurry of thirdfloorers cascaded down the staircase, heading to break their fast in the commons.
Yaellin motioned Dart and Laurelle into the next landing, shielding them fully from sight.
The parade of girls rushed past, all bundled in skirts, hair tucked under caps. Peeking past an edge of shadowcloak, Dart recognized all the faces: Sissup, Hessy, Sharyn, Pallia. Tears welled in her eyes at their chatter and easy manner. Had she ever been so light of thought?
Excitement coursed through the air, carried like a wind about the girls.
“I heard they were Dark Alchemists,” Pallia said, her voice frosted with frightened delight.
“No, I bet they were hinterland spies,” Gerdie countered. “Cursed by rogue blood.”
Only when they noted the Shadowknight posted on the landing did their voices grow hushed, eyes widening. Shadowknights were not an uncommon sight, but with the Conclave stirred up by black tidings, the presence of one drew curious stares. Once past the landing, the chatter resumed more excited than before, whispered behind hands, but still carrying to them.
“Did you see that knight?” Kylee said. “He was looking right at me. I was like to swoon.”
“Me, too,” Sissup said. “His eyes were dreamy.”
As the last thirdfloorers passed, a voice called from above. “Hurry, girls!”Though stern, it was as familiar as a warm hug. Matron Grannice appeared. Her portly form waddled down the steps like a mother goose, herding her goslings ahead of her. “Enough chatter! Jenine, how many times must I tell you to get your fingers from your mouth? What god will choose a girl with fingernails chewed to nubbins? Now get…”
The matron finally noted the stranger on the landing. She stopped, tucked a stray lock of gray hair under her bonnet. “Ser knight, you’ll have to forgive my girls. They are an excitable lot.”
“Not at all, Matron.”
Dart had to suppress an urge to climb out of Yaellin’s cloak and into Matron Grannice’s arms. She wanted to confess all, unburden herself.
Laurelle must have had similar thoughts. But both had seen too much horror in one night. Their only safety had been found in Yaellin’s cloak. So they remained where they were, hidden from sight.
“Have you come from the castillion?” Grannice asked.
“Yes, I’ve been assigned to search every floor, from top to bottom. I pray the intrusion will not be too burdensome, good matron.”
“Certainly not,” the matron said. “I’ve heard all about the uproar. An attack by Dark Alchemists in the Eldergarden. Can these black days get any blacker? Is it true two of Chrism’s Hands were abducted, possibly even corrupted?”
“Such matters I can’t speak of directly, goodly lady.”
She nodded sagely. “A silent tongue is a wise man’s best feature.”
“Indeed.”
“Well, I won’t keep you any longer from your duties. May the gods and shadows lighten your way.”
Yaellin bowed his head.
Matron Grannice departed, waving her arms. “Off with you girls.”
Several of the thirdfloorers had gathered several steps below, watching on, whispering to one another. But under the matron’s glare, they turned and fled down the stairs.
With the way clear, Yaellin stepped back out and continued the climb toward the eighth level. Dart and Laurelle followed, though Laurelle kept glancing back over her shoulder. Dart read her thoughts. How easy it would be to run down those stairs, join her fellow thirdfloorers, and pretend all this never happened. But it had. That life was dead to them… to both of them.
Still, Dart glanced back, too.
Before she could turn around, a figure stepped from the dormitory hall of the thirdfloorers. She was in a hurry, tugging down her skirt over her petties with one hand, pulling her cap on with the other. She must be the head girl of the floor, assigned to douse the lamps and secure the floor. An honor once bestowed upon Laurelle. Plainly the girl was frightened to be alone on the stair… especially after all the dread rumors.
Dart recognized the girl as she straightened from spreading he
r skirt over her ankles. Laurelle knew her, too, and stopped. “Margarite …”
The girl stiffened, hearing her name whispered. She whirled around.
Yaellin had continued up a few steps, unaware Laurelle had stopped. Shadows stripped from her shoulders.
Margarite stared at Laurelle, as if seeing a ghost. She froze.
Laurelle stepped toward her. “Margarite,” she said again.
The girl clutched her arms around her belly, scared, confused. She even backed away a step. “Laurelle… how… why…?”
“Oh, Margarite,” Laurelle said and rushed down, closing the distance. She hugged her friend. After a moment, Margarite did the same. They clung to each other.
Yaellin moved back down the steps, looming over the pair. Dart pushed free of the cloak. Margarite, still embraced, noted Dart’s presence over Laurelle’s shoulder. The girl’s eyes narrowed. She pulled free of Laurelle’s arms.
“What are you both doing here?” Margarite asked. The girl eyed Dart up and down, as if offended by her soiled appearance, though Laurelle was no better clothed.
Laurelle still held her old friend’s hand. “We’re here because-”
Yaellin cut her off. “As you must know,” he said haughtily, “Healer Paltry is the personal physik to the High Wing of Chrism. We’ve come here to make sure these two Hands were not harmed by the attack. We will shelter here until this foul matter is dealt with.”
Margarite stared at his dark form.
“None must know of our presence here,” he continued in commanding tones. “Other Hands are being sequestered elsewhere. It is a matter of utmost secrecy. Can you bear this burden?”
Margarite continued to stare, wide-eyed. Then she seemed to realize the question had been directed at her and nodded.
“Swear upon it.” He held out an edge of cloak. “In the way of Shadowknights, touch the blessed cloak and swear.”
Margarite reached a trembling hand and brushed her fingertips upon the cloak. “I… I swear.”
“You are very brave,” Yaellin said with a nod, dropping his cloak. “Now you’d best return to the others lest you be missed.”
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