Brant recognized the tufts of gray fur tipping each ear, marking the wolf as a hunter of Mistdale, far to the north. A Fell wolf. It did not belong so far south. But this winter had been long—too long. Rain should have been falling since the passing of the last moon, but snow still drifted from the slate skies. Even the hares over his shoulder were mostly bones, having barely survived on the few roots and tubers under the snow.
Brant met the wolf’s gaze, acknowledging the sunken eyes and thin stretch of fur over bone. He noted a single drop of crimson on the lower curled lip.
Blood.
He eyed his own trail of bootprints.
The wolf must have come upon the entrails of his catch, feasted upon them, then followed his track. Looking for more. It seemed the Way was as unknown to the beasts of the forest as the people of Oldenbrook. Or maybe hunger broke all pacts.
Brant sensed that to wait any longer would only drive the wolf to attack.
He knew what must be done.
The wolf had growled. Therein Brant placed his life.
In a swift motion, he swept the arrow from his shoulder and cast the meat toward the wolf. If the wolf had meant to attack, it would not have growled and given itself away. The rumble had been a warning, a challenge, and a cry of hunger.
The trio of hares landed near the wolf.
The beast lunged and snapped up arrow and meat. With a low growl, it retreated to the shadows under a tanglepine.
Brant used the moment to retreat, too. He backed out onto the ice, snapping through the dry reeds. The wolf kept to its bower, satisfied with its catch. Only then did Brant see a pair of eyes deeper in the forest, drawn by the meat and blood. Smaller eyes, closer together. Cubbies. Two.
With a flash of white pelt, the large Fell wolf—a she-wolf—fled with her catch and her offspring. No wonder the wolf had come so far south. Not for herself but for her cubs. Spring cubs, born too soon, born into a bad season. Still, she fought for them, to give them a chance.
Brant understood that only too well.
He rubbed a knuckle along the scar under his jaw.
As he crossed the frozen lake, he sent a silent prayer up into the aether for the she-wolf, from one stranger in this land to another.
With the sun a quarter-way up the sky, Brant climbed a last ice ridge. The full breadth of his new home appeared ahead. Oldenbrook. The city, the second oldest of all the Nine Lands, rose out of the lake itself, raised on stone pylons and stout poles of ironoak. It was a city of archways, bridges, and frozen boats. The sprawl hugged the southern coastline and climbed in snowy tiers from the city’s lowest level to the blue-tiled castillion that sat atop Oldenbrook’s highest point.
Beneath the city’s vast belly, the water remained unfrozen, melted both by the Grace of its god and the heat of the city itself. Even from here, Brant noted how the edifice steamed and misted, like some monstrous slumbering beast, waiting for true spring.
He could also hear the echoing groan and creak of the city. The song of Oldenbrook. On the calmest day in summer, it could be heard. It reminded Brant of the deepwhaler he had sailed aboard when forced from his homeland to these cold shores. The rub of ropes, the pop of planks. Sometimes he woke at night in his room, certain he was back in that ship’s cramped cabin. He would rub his wrists, remembering the shackles.
Brant found himself doing the same now as he stared at the city. As royally as he was treated here, Oldenbrook was not so much home as a place of exile and banishment.
Movement drew his gaze to the sky. A small flippercraft descended toward the city, aiming for the high docks neighboring the lofty castillion. The airship steamed as much as the city, its blood-fed mekanicals hot as red coals in a brass warming pan. Its rudders and skimmers churned the air. A trail of smoke vented from its topside. Burning blood. Someone came with urgency.
Brant squinted at the flag fluttering near the bow. He could not make out the full details. Silver on black. He knew what he would have seen if he’d had sharper eyes. A silver tower embroidered on a black field. A ship from the citadel of Tashijan.
It was not a particularly unusual sight. After the tragedy and bloodshed in neighboring Chrismferry last spring, all of Myrillia was still unsettled. For a turn of seasons, ravens had filled the skies. Ships had sailed water and air in every direction. The thunder of hooves over the stone bridges of Oldenbrook had woken many each night.
But as summer wore to winter, and winter stretched endlessly, the ravens returned to their rookeries, the ships were tied back to their docks, and horses remained stabled. It was as if all the northern lands had pulled into themselves, guarding, wary, waiting for this long cold to break.
Or for something else…an unnamed fear.
Gods had been slain.
With the deaths of two gods—Meeryn of the Summering Isles and Chrism of Chrismferry—the Hundred now numbered Ninety-eight. Though order had been restored by the new regency in Chrismferry, the world still felt out of kilter, unbalanced, and every inhabitant of each of the Nine Lands sensed the rockiness of this ship.
Brant increased his pace toward the city. A flippercraft from Tashijan could only mean some business with the lord and god of the city, Jessup of Oldenbrook. And as the god’s Hand of blood, Brant should be in attendance. It was only through the indulgence and understanding of Lord Jessup that Brant was allowed these morning excursions. He would not pay back such kindness by tarrying too long.
He hurried toward the nearest stone pylon. Each of the hundred support pillars of the city was as thick around as the encircling arms of fifteen men. Four of the columns had hollow hearts. Named the Bones of the city, they were positioned at the cardinal points of the compass. But it was not marrow that ran through these four Bones. Instead it was the true lifeblood of Oldenbrook.
Water.
Brant aimed for the western Bone.
The door to its interior was guarded by two massive loam-giants, men born under the Graced alchemy of loam to grow to hulking proportions. Heavy-browed, limbs like trunks, double muscled. And though Brant had lived all his life under the auspices of a god of loam, he still had a certain discomfort around these guardians of the Bones. The Huntress of Saysh Mal had always refused to allow her Grace to forge men in such a manner, finding it distasteful. Some of her prejudice had found its way into Brant’s heart.
Not that the guards here had ever given him reason to feel uncomfortable. Despite their large size and dour appearance, there was a vein of good nature in their hearts.
And by now the guards certainly knew him. As he approached, heavy axes were lowered, and the iron bar was lifted from the door.
“No luck,” one of them boomed, noting Brant’s empty hands. The guard was a red-mopped giant named Malthumalbaen. It was said that a giant’s name was as long as its bearer was large.
Brant slipped his bow from his shoulder. “Long winter,” he answered with an apologetic tone. He often shared his catch with the guards here. Paid little coin for these long, cold vigils, they appreciated the extra bits.
Malthumalbaen cursed under his breath, but not at Brant, only at the truth in the young man’s words. The large man shrugged deeper into his rabbit-fur-lined longcoat.
The other guard, brother to the first, Dralmarfillneer, only chuckled and clapped Brant on the shoulder as he passed. “Winters always end, Master Brant. Soon Mal will be cursing the heat and swelter.”
“Shine my arse, Dral! You were just whining about the wind yourself.”
Dral opened the door for Brant. “Only because I had to empty my bladder, Mal. Once you unbutton, the wind climbs right into your trousers and grabs hold of your eggs. And when you’re as blessed as I am, it takes time to free yourself.”
“Blessed, my arse, brother,” Mal replied. “We’re twins. What Father gave you, he gave me.”
Brant was ushered into the hollow center of the Bone column. He heard Dral’s last retort before the door closed. “Not in all ways, Mal…not in all ways.”
The iron bar scraped back into place, securing the exit.
Brant shook his head and waved a hand over the stone post rising from the floor’s center. Immediately the floor under his feet began to push him upward, sliding smoothly along the polished walls, propelled by the rushing column of water beneath it.
The Grace-fed water chute carried him toward the castillion far above. While bridges and ladders led from the ice to the lowermost tier, the Bones led to the four wings of Lord Jessup’s castillion.
As he was whisked up, his ears noted the climb past the many levels. The snowy castillion lay at the top of the city, the thirty-third tier. He braced his feet as the end of the chute neared. He craned his neck. The ceiling rushed toward him. From the stone roof, steel spears pointed down at him. An extra assurance against the unwelcome intruder. The platform, when bidden, could drive its passengers into those spikes.
As always, Brant ducked his head a bit as he neared his destination—but his life was spared. The platform settled to a stop, and the door was opened by another loam-giant, a mute.
The giant sternly nodded Brant out of the Bone’s chute.
“Thank you, Greestallatum,” Brant said, returning the nod. He knew that only another giant dared shorten a giant’s name, and even then, they’d best be friends.
The giant crossed and opened the far door into the main keep. The western wing of the castillion, the High Wing, housed the eight Hands of Oldenbrook. Brant moved into the wide hall. As was traditional, windows lined one wall, facing out to Oldenbrook Lake. Along the other wall, eight doors marked off the private rooms to the castillion’s Hands.
Brant hurried along the woven rug. As the Hand of blood, he had the room at the far end, closest to the residence of Lord Jessup himself. The god’s chambers rose from the center of the castillion and its four wings. A giant iron hearth stood outside the wide double doors, used for cleansing traces of corrupted Grace from cloth, stone, and steel.
Otherwise, the hall was empty.
Where was everyone?
As if his inquiry were heard, a door opened on his left. A tall, lithe woman dressed in silver strode out of her room. Liannora, Mistress of Tears. She was one of the eight Hands, each representing one of Lord Jessup’s blessed humours: blood, seed, sweat, tears, saliva, phlegm, and both yellow and black bile. A Hand’s duty was to collect and preserve the assigned humour, rich in the god’s powerful Grace.
Such a duty was a rare honor, and one Liannora considered Brant to be undeserving of attending. She stood before him, as pale as the snow outside. Her long straight tresses flowed like an icy waterfall. The only true color was the blue of her eyes. She seemed to typify Oldenbrook in winter. Even the hue of her eyes matched the tiles of the city.
“Master Brant,” she said with a calculating glance over his leathers, furs, and sodden boots. “Have you not heard?”
“Heard what? I’ve only just returned.”
One eyebrow arched. “Oh, yes…traipsing in the woods.” Her disapproval hung about her like a dark cloud. She joined his step down the hall. “We’ve all been commanded to assemble in Lord Jessup’s greeting chamber. A most important guest arrives even now.”
Brant pictured the flippercraft. “From Tashijan.”
“Then you did hear?” Her manner hardened further, if such a thing were possible.
“I saw the ship descending, flying the Tashijan flag, as I arrived back at the city,” he explained, rather hurriedly, trying his best not to seem rude.
“Ah,” Liannora said as they neared the hall’s end, plainly not mollified.
Brant headed for his room, glad to escape. He had never fully fit in here. The previous Hand of blood had been an elder statesman of the High Wing, well respected, revered, loved by all. It was a station Brant seemed to continually fail to fill: too young to respect, too quiet of disposition, and too darkly complexioned in a land of pale men and women.
“Where are you going?” Liannora asked as he stepped away.
Brant stopped. “To freshen and change.”
“There’s no time for that. I’m the last to respond to the summons. The party from Tashijan is already in attendance. You’ll just have to appear—” She waved a hand disparagingly over his clothes. “Few will expect otherwise anyway.”
Brant knew the words she didn’t add. For an Eighthlander.
Resigned, Brant headed toward the double doors. Before they could reach the threshold, one of the doors opened. A small figure stepped through, dressed all in black, from half cloak to boot. A hood was pulled up, and a masklin covered chin and lips.
A word escaped the figure, whispered, yet urgent. Brant’s ears, sharpened by seasons of hunting, picked the word out of the air.
“Pupp…”
Then the cloaked figure stiffened and went silent, spotting their approach. Under the hood, a pair of eyes widened, flashing from Liannora to Brant. The figure then glanced away, but not before a surprised second twitch in Brant’s direction.
“I’m sorry,” the figure squeaked out, proving herself to be a girl or young woman. She bowed her head slightly. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”
Here was plainly one of the visitors from Tashijan.
Brant noted a black stripe tattooed on each side of her face, running jaggedly from the outside corner of each eye to each ear. But it was not one of the illustrious Shadowknights of Tashijan. The girl here had earned only her first stripe, marking her as a page. It would take a second stripe to be called squire, and a third to be a full knight. Even her cloak was ordinary cloth, not the shadow-shifting cloak of a true knight.
“Be not afraid,” Liannora said with surprising warmth, almost oily. “Any servant of Tashijan is always welcome in our halls.”
“I only came to look.”
“Certainly,” Liannora said. “And we’d be honored to have you escort us to the greeting hall to join the others.”
The page bowed and retreated back through the door. “It—it would be my honor,” she mumbled, but in fact it looked as though she would prefer to run and hide.
Liannora stepped between the page and Brant. She touched the young woman’s shoulder lightly, in an oddly possessive gesture. “So I hear that Castellan Vail herself will be seeking audience with Lord Jessup. What a distinct honor to have one so highly ranked at Tashijan coming to visit Oldenbrook. I can’t imagine what would warrant such a strange appointment.”
The silence that followed hung heavily in the air.
Plainly Liannora sought to extract knowledge from the page, perhaps something more than would be formally revealed during the high assembly here.
The girl did not bend. She even stepped away from Liannora’s touch, not enough to be rude, but refusing to be lured.
Brant found a ghost of a smile rising unbidden to his lips, suddenly liking this girl very, very much. He remembered that second startled glance a moment before when they had first met. He had dismissed it as surprise at his rough clothes and poor appearance. But now he wondered. He sensed that such things would not matter to the black-cloaked girl.
So why the second glance?
The trio passed through the anteroom to Lord Jessup’s rooms, down a short curved hall, and ended up before the door to the greeting room. The door was already open. Voices, polite and jovial, reached them.
As he stepped to the doorway, Brant noted a mix of familiar figures, dressed resplendently in jewels and fine cuts of cloth. The other Hands of Jessup. Amid them mingled five black shapes, the entourage from Tashijan.
The leader stood near the center. A bright diadem at her throat marked her as castellan of Tashijan, the second in command of the mighty Citadel, after the warden himself.
Brant focused upon her. Castellan Kathryn Vail had played a critical role in ridding Chrismferry of the daemon in its midst. Few in Myrillia didn’t know her story—or that of her former lover, Tylar ser Noche, once named godslayer but now the regent of Chrismferry.
The castellan’s gaze swept over t
he latecomers. Above her masklin, Kathryn Vail’s eyes found her page and hardened to fire-agates. The young girl hurried to the castellan’s side. So the page served the castellan. No wonder the girl had been so sturdy in the face of Liannora. She had been forged in fires hotter than any Liannora could muster.
As the girl reached the castellan’s side, she glanced once more back at them. No, back at him. Then away again.
This time, Brant knew what lay behind those cornflower blue eyes.
Recognition.
And with that realization, the same occurred to him. As she turned, a slip of hair fell from beneath her hood. She tucked it back, but not before Brant recognized the distinct yellow-blond curl.
Memories disassembled and came together in a flash. He stumbled as he entered the hall, bumping into Liannora, who shot him a daggered look, then left his side, as if proximity to him might taint her.
Brant stared at the girl. He remembered the night he had been chosen from among his fellow students, when Jessup’s Oracle had placed a stone into his waiting palm, claiming him as his new Hand of blood. Prior to that, down below in the chamber beneath the High Chapel, Brant had defended a young girl from the bitter words of other students.
The same girl now hid in black here.
Like Brant, she had been chosen that night, to serve as a Hand of blood for the daemon-possessed Chrism. But then after the Battle of Myrrwood, when the daemon had been vanquished, she had vanished. Few noted her disappearance on a night when gods were slain.
Now she was here.
Alive.
A girl named Dart.
For a full quarter bell, Brant kept to the shadows of the gathering and edged along the room. He kept watch on his quarry as he maneuvered around the chattering islands of castle gentlefolk and mingling visitors. He approached no closer, preferring to study the castellan’s page from afar.
What was the girl doing here?
Before any answers could be discerned, the resonant strike of a gong echoed across the greeting hall. All chatter stopped, and eyes turned toward the arched back door as it swung open.