But Delia had not heard the plot whispered in the hall.
It is easy to trip on a stair. To break a leg…or even a neck.
“Off here, mistress. There’s a back way, a little-used stair, where we can haul Master Munchcryden back to your rooms with few eyes present to note his state.”
“Let’s be quick, then.”
“After you, Mistress Delia.”
Laurelle rushed down to the next landing, rounding in time to see Sten vanish down a side passage. Kytt touched her elbow, not to stop her, only to warn her to be careful.
She had only one weapon. Her eyes, as witness.
Surely Sten would not harm Delia if there was a chance others would find out. He would have to back down.
Laurelle left the landing and headed down the hall toward the side passage where Delia and Sten had vanished.
Words carried back to her.
“Who are these men?” Delia asked, her voice muffled by the narrowness of the cross passage. Still, Laurelle heard a sudden note of suspicion.
“My men,” Sten answered calmly. “To help carry Master Munchcryden.”
Laurelle ran faster.
“The stairs are just ahead,” Sten assured her.
Reaching the arched opening, Laurelle spotted the grouping midway down the passage, huddled at the head of a dark stair. One of Sten’s men held aloft a lamp.
Delia took the first step down.
Laurelle lifted an arm. “Mistress Delia!”
Her call rang out just as Sten shoved with both arms. Delia had begun to turn, drawn by Laurelle’s cry—or perhaps sensing something amiss.
She shouted in surprise as she tumbled headlong out of sight. A crash of body on stone echoed to Laurelle—and Delia’s cry suddenly ended.
Laurelle found all eyes staring at her.
Sten lifted an arm. Laurelle backed away, bumping into Kytt.
Shadows shifted to the right. Laurelle saw more guards, more of Sten’s men, crossing from the main stairs into the passageway, latecomers, cutting off their retreat in that direction.
Swords slid from sheaths.
Kytt pulled Laurelle in the opposite direction, away from the stairs, toward the deeper depths of Tashijan. She stumbled after him.
Behind her, she heard one last order from Sten. “Go down. Make sure her neck is broken.”
Laurelle ran. Terror could not stop the tears from welling. Kytt led the way, hand in hers, turning one corner, then another with some instinct born of fear and Grace.
Still, boots pounded after them.
“Tashijan is rotted,” Lord Ulf said. “To the very stones of its foundation. From root to rooftop.”
Kathryn shook her head. Though the fire was at her back, the room had gone colder than the darkest crypt.
“Mirra has weeded seeds throughout your towers,” Ulf stated firmly. “And she is not the first. What you discovered below is but the first sprouts of a greater evil. It winds throughout Tashijan, deep into the past. And if left unchecked, far into the future, where our world will lie in ruins, trod by monsters a thousandfold worse than any carried by my winds.”
Kathryn held up a hand. “But now we know about Mirra’s treachery. We can stop her.”
The figure of ice sculpted its face into a mask of distaste and irritation. “Too late, castellan, too late by far. It is rooted too deeply. Like the seersong in the Wyr-mistress. It can’t be untangled, not without even worse ruin and damnation. Even you have been seeded.”
“Me?”
“With distrust. With impotency. You cannot even stop Warden Fields. He remains a puppet to the witch below, dancing to the pulls of her strings.”
“We can cut those strings.”
“And more will rise to tangle and knot harder. Do you think the Fiery Cross is a creation of the warden? It was birthed by distrust, dissension, suspicion. So thoroughly has Mirra wrought her discord that trust will never return to Tashijan.”
Kathryn remembered her attempt to restore trust between Argent and Tylar. Both sides had equally failed. Even she had whisked Tylar away without consulting the warden.
Distrust, dissension, suspicion.
Lord Ulf must have read her understanding. “There is no way to weed this patch. Best to burn it and salt the ground. Start anew. I’ve brought my forces far, at great cost and risk. Let us use the strength granted by the Cabal to set a cleansing fire here.”
“And do the Cabal’s bidding in this regard, too. Like killing Tylar.” Hardness entered her voice.
“While it might serve the Cabal, it benefits us even more. We must look past the present and take a long view ahead. Even if Mirra could be chased from your cellars, the Fiery Cross will achieve ascendancy. A new Order of Shadowknights will emerge under a new banner. Argent ser Fields intends dominion for this new Order—to place the knights above all else, even the gods. Such an act will open the way not only for the Cabal, but much worse. Myrillia will fall into chaos, return to the time of bloodshed and raving. In this one moment, we have a chance to change that course.”
“By destroying Tashijan?”
“To make it even stronger. The steel of a sword is made harder by fire and hammer. It is time for Tashijan to be forged anew.”
Kathryn could not deny that at moments of despair such thoughts had passed through her own mind. Tashijan was ravaged and weakened. The number of knights and masters had dwindled over the past centuries. And now as a new War of the Gods was upon them, Tashijan created more chaos, rather than less. Its own warden had employed Dark Grace. The Fiery Cross was a banner for the cruel and craven, whether it was men who beat horses or boys who sought to brand girls. And fewer and fewer voices spoke against this tide. There was no stopping it.
She stared into the icy eyes of Lord Ulf, aglow with Grace. She read no madness. Only truth. A hard truth. Did she have such hardness to match? Could she walk a path as ruthless as the one Lord Ulf proposed?
“You know I am right,” Lord Ulf said.
Kathryn bowed her head. “Your claims are indeed just, but before I agree or disagree, I still don’t understand what role you need from me. I’ve witnessed the power in your storm. Of what use am I to you?”
“You must protect the heart of Tashijan.”
She glanced up at him.
“As I open the cellars and lay waste to all, you must gather those you most trust. In secret, you must leave Tashijan. I will open a path through the storm for your exodus. Head away. And don’t look back.”
Kathryn shivered.
“Will you do this?”
She took a deep breath. She pondered the truth in all that was spoken here. As hard as his words were, they were sound of mind.
But not of heart.
As Lord Ulf wanted to lay waste to Tashijan, so had he sought Tylar with equal fervor. And while she might not know the true heart of Tashijan—whether it was salvageable or not—she knew Tylar’s heart. She had doubted him once, a lifetime ago, even spoken against him—but no longer. Fires of grief and bloodshed had already forged her anew, made her stronger in many ways. Also more certain.
She trusted Tylar’s heart—whether it turned toward Delia or back toward her. She knew it remained as true as the diamond on the pommel of her sword. Her fingers came to rest upon it.
If Lord Ulf could be wrong about Tylar, he could be wrong here.
She stared at the icy sculpture of a god.
“No,” she said simply. “When you come, I will be waiting. All of Tashijan will be waiting.”
Lord Ulf sighed, coldly unmoved. “Then even the heart of Tashijan must be destroyed.” He stepped away and lifted an arm toward the door. “Go to your doom.”
Kathryn was somewhat surprised to be so easily released. Lord Ulf made no move against her, honoring the parley. She left the fire’s warmth and headed again into the cold.
“You’ll all die,” Lord Ulf said behind her.
She pictured Mychall, the stableboy, his crooked smile, his bright and hop
eful eyes. If she bent to Lord Ulf’s will, she could lead him out. Lead so many others, too. But she also remembered the steaming stable in the storm. Despite the offer of safety, the stablemen had remained with their charges, to protect them, to weather the storm together.
She felt the god’s eyes following her as she moved away.
“Then when the time comes,” she answered him, “we’ll die together.”
As she reached the door, Lord Ulf spoke one last time. “Know this, Castellan Vail: That time is now.”
She opened the door to the beat of wings. She stepped out and searched the narrow strip of sky between the tavernhouse and the stable. Snow swirled, but higher still, dark shapes sailed and flapped, all headed for one place.
Tashijan.
Kathryn flipped her cloak and borrowed speed born of shadow. She ducked back into the stable and leaped up into Stoneheart’s saddle. Her mount didn’t need heel or snap of rein. They had ridden too long for such necessities. The stallion knew her heart.
He twisted, half-rearing toward the door, bunched his haunches, and charged through the gate.
Kathryn ducked low to his neck as they flew outside. She remained low and gently urged him forward.
The stallion raced with a flowing gallop. She matched his pace, high in the saddle, floating above. They wended through the streets and alleys—then suddenly the town opened and fell behind them.
Rider and horse burst out into the field. She had guided the stallion to the same street down which they’d entered the town. Her path through the drifts stretched ahead. She had not wanted Stoneheart to have to plow a fresh track back home. Speed was essential.
She glanced past her shoulder. Snow filled the world behind her like a mighty wave about to crash, erasing the town street by street as it swept forward. Overhead, the front edge of Ulf’s corrupted legion rode the eddies and drafts.
A mighty screech sounded, splitting the howl of the growing winds.
One of the wraiths had spotted the fleeing horse. It dove toward them, drawing others in its wake. A flock of hawks after a lone mouse. Whatever protection had been extended by the parley was now over.
“Fly,” she urged her mount.
Legs churned faster, hooves cast snow higher. She felt the pound of the stallion’s heart in her thighs. His breath streamed in a continual blow of white.
Still, they would never make it. The walls of Tashijan were too far.
A screaming wail filled the world overhead. Kathryn pulled her sword, twisting up in her saddle.
The wraith plummeted, wings tight, claws out.
No sword would block such an assault. Even if she could strike a blow, the plunging weight alone would knock her from the saddle. And other wraiths followed, spiraling tightly down behind the first.
Then a flash of fire burst past and struck the wraith in the shoulder. A wing snapped out reflexively. The timbre of its hunting cry changed to a wail of pain. The flapped wing caught air and flipped the wraith’s dive into a wild tumble. It slammed hard into a neighboring drift. The flame sizzled and stubbornly refused to douse.
Then they were galloping past.
More arrows shot past overhead, oblivious of the gusts. Each arrow ignited with fire in midflight. Plainly the bolts had been Graced with powerful alchemies, loam and fire, doubly blessed to resist wind and ice.
A few more wraiths were struck and tumbled out of the skies.
The others fled higher, out of bow range.
Kathryn searched forward. She spotted figures atop the shield wall. Knights in black cloaks, barely discernible, and a few robed masters.
Lower, down where her path ended, a figure stood at the open gate.
His armor almost glowed.
Gerrod.
He backed up as she galloped through without slowing, tucked tight, an arrow of horseflesh and iron. She knew that Gerrod, though masked by his helmet, had noted what rose behind her, ready to crash into Tashijan.
Still, she screamed into the wind as he shouldered the gate closed.
“Strike! Strike up Tashijan!”
The gong echoed through the darkness, hollow and haunted.
“What is that?” Laurelle whispered.
“War,” Kytt answered in a hushed breath.
The two hid in a dark cell. They were huddled tight. It had been a full quarter bell since they’d last heard any sign of pursuit. But Laurelle knew Sten would not give up this hunt so easily. He could not tolerate witnesses to his assault on Delia. He would have all paths out of this area guarded. And surely if he had planned an ambush here against Delia, he had the region well mapped.
She shivered.
Kytt tightened his arm around her. “Whatever has roused the striking of the gong might draw away the hunters.”
As if hearing him, another ringing echo droned through the stones. Laurelle felt it in her bones, along her spine. She had never been so desperate. Her heart pounded in her throat. She wanted to cry, but nothing would break loose.
“We can’t stay here,” he whispered as the ringing faded. “And I think I might know a way to get us safely past the others.”
“How?”
“A wyld tracker has keen eyes in the dark. The guards are also unwashed, easy to smell from several paces off. With care, going slow, we might be able to find a weakness through whatever snare has been laid.”
She considered his plan. She did not have his senses. She would be blind, totally in his care.
“Laurelle?” he asked, noting her silence.
She felt his breath on her cheek, heated, worried. Again she was struck by his scent and she turned to him, followed the breath to his lips. She kissed him.
He pulled back, startled.
She followed, making sure he knew it was no accident. Then she spoke between his lips. “I trust you,” she said.
She gripped his hand and shifted to her feet. After a stunned moment, he rose beside her.
“Stay with me,” he whispered as they set off.
He guided them down black corridors, moving in fast steps and sudden stops. They crisscrossed, then backtracked when he scented something. Finally the darkness turned gray ahead, but he balked.
She saw enough of his silhouette to see him shake his head.
Back they went into the darkness.
“Stairs,” he whispered, guiding her by the hand. “An old servants’ stair, I think. Dusty and forgotten.”
She hoped so.
He headed down it. To follow, she searched with her toes for each step. It was narrow and frighteningly steep, more like descending a ladder than a stair.
They finally reached the bottom. He led the way again. They continued more cautiously, then he slowed even further. “I think…I think we’re not far from the stair where Mistress Delia was pushed.”
“Are you sure?”
He didn’t answer for a long moment. “I also scent something…a faint trace…” His hand tightened on hers. “Blood.”
Laurelle felt her stomach clench.
“Stay here.”
“No.” Her answer was immediate and certain. Her fingers clamped onto his.
He didn’t argue, only edged forward. In another turn, darkness turned to a deep twilight. Ahead, a body appeared, sprawled on the floor, unmoving. Even in the gloom, Laurelle noted the unnatural twist to the body.
She bit back a sob, feet slowing. She didn’t want to see.
“It’s not Delia,” Kytt assured her and led her forward.
In another two steps, she saw he was correct. The body wore a guard’s livery. One of Sten’s men.
Kytt dropped to a knee and placed a hand on his neck. “Broken.” He straightened and stepped over the body. He touched something on the floor. “Drops of blood.” He sniffed at his fingers. “Mistress Delia’s scent.”
Could she still be alive?
Hope rising, they hurried forward. The trail led to a closed door. They hesitated—but even Laurelle could see the wet blood on the floor. She tent
atively reached for the latch, but Kytt suddenly placed his hand over hers.
“Wait. There’s someone—”
“Get in here,” a voice barked, startling them both back a step. “Quit skulking and help. Before it’s too late.”
Though Laurelle recognized the voice, she pulled on the latch. She refused to abandon Delia again.
Inside, the room held scant furniture. Only a small lamp rested on the stone floor, dancing with a tepid flame. But it was enough to illuminate Master Orquell crouched beside Delia’s limp form, sprawled across a small plank bed. One side of the woman’s face was bloody, hair soaked and matted. The old master wiped her cheek with a wet cloth, then pointed an arm toward the lamp.
“Bring that closer,” he ordered.
Laurelle obeyed, reacting to the command in his voice. She picked up the lamp and carried it nearer.
Master Orquell slipped a tiny leather bag from inside his robe and dumped a gray powder into his palm, then held it before the lamp’s flame. The powder turned a rosy hue.
“You broke that guard’s neck?” Kytt asked, equally unsure.
“Before he could break hers,” Orquell answered sourly, weighing the powder in his palm, studying it closer. “Lucky I was down here. Then again, the flames guide us where we’re best needed.”
“The flames…?” Laurelle echoed, suspicions piqued again.
The master glanced up at her. His eyes appeared less milky in the close light of the lamp. They pierced through her, questioningly.
“We followed you,” she explained. “Earlier in the morning. Into the back of the master’s quarters.”
His eyes narrowed in confusion, then brightened with understanding.
“You saw me cast a pyre.”
She nodded.
“Ah…no wonder you are suspicious.” He reached again to the wet cloth. “Then perhaps this will steady your hand so you stop shaking the lamp.”
He sat back and wiped his forehead. Face paint, a perfect match to his yellow parchment skin, smeared away. Beneath the paint rose a hidden crimson mark, bright on his skin, resting in the center of his forehead like an awakening eye.
Laurelle gasped at the mark, knowing it well.