Kathryn shook her head. She stopped her pacing and stared out at the bower of wyrmwood beyond her window. The light glowed green through the foliage, a cheery day, one ill suited for the black mood in her heart. “Warden Fields supposes Tylar is returning to Tashijan because of me. To risk such a dangerous course, a strong desire must be driving him.”
“Desire for what?” Gerrod asked. “To win you back?”
Kathryn turned to the others. “Or for revenge. If anyone hurt him the deepest, it wasn’t the faceless Citadel that sent him into slavery.” Fingers clenched at her side—not in anger, but to hold back the tears that threatened.
Gerrod seemed to sense her distress and straightened in his seat with a whir of his mekanicals. He turned to Perryl. “You met Tylar. Spoke to him. What can you say of his posture concerning Kathryn?”
Perryl looked lost with all that had been spoken here, his amber eyes too young, his beard too thin. He wiped a hand through his blond hair, his gaze sinking to the rugs. “He . . . he wouldn’t let me speak her name.”
“And when he told you this,” Gerrod continued, “was it spoken with sadness or anger?”
Perryl shook his head ever so slightly. “The streets were dark.”
“The manner of a man’s speech does not require lamplight to discern,” Gerrod pressed.
Kathryn knew the young knight’s reticence lay in an attempt to spare her. “Speak plainly, Perryl. It’s important.”
His eyes flicked up to her, then back to the floor. “He was angry. His words laced with fury. He would hear nothing about you.” Perryl glanced fully up at her. Pain and shame mixed in his eyes.
Kathryn took a deep breath. It hurt to hear, but the truth often did.
“So how do we play this?” Gerrod asked. “Do we believe the new warden’s explanations—about his lack of complicity in Ser Henri’s demise and the rather convenient disappearance of your predecessor, Castellan Mirra? Do we cooperate?”
Kathryn moved into the room, stepping out of the sunlight and into shadow. She still wore her shadowcloak, loose over her shoulder, and felt the tickle of its Grace respond to the darkness. “I have no choice. I swore oaths. And until true evidence of Argent’s duplicity reveals itself, I must act accordingly.”
“Ah . . .” Gerrod stood and joined Kathryn as she poured a glass of water from a waiting stand. The armored master touched a point on his breastplate and a small pocket opened. He removed a blackened fold of ermine fur. “Castellan Mirra’s cloak. I’ve tested it with various alchemies. It seems the little maid Penni spoke the truth earlier. It is not any Dark Grace that burned the cloak’s edge, only ordinary fire, most likely from lying too near the hearth.”
Kathryn sipped. “So again, no evidence of misdeed. Nothing to connect to Warden Fields.”
“Perhaps,” Gerrod answered. “But I did discover a trace of blood amid the fur. Too minuscule to see without an alchemist’s lamp.”
“But that could be easily explained away,” Perryl countered, still looking morose from earlier. “It could have come from any scratch or cut.”
“Ah, yes, Ser Corriscan, that might be true if it were human blood.”
Perryl’s brow knit a neat crease. “Are you saying it came from a beast?”
Gerrod shook his head.
Kathryn stepped closer and retrieved the burned bit of fur. The remainder of the ermine garment still hung in her wardrobe on the chance Mirra would return. “If not man or animal, that leaves only . . . ?”
Gerrod nodded. “Blood of a god. The signature of Grace, while faint, was unmistakable.”
Perryl stepped closer. “Which of the gods?”
“Now therein lies the conundrum. Like all alchemists, I have a repostilum, a storehouse of preserved drops of humour from all of the Hundred gods.”
Kathryn nodded. She had been in Gerrod’s study, seen his repostilum, the eight hundred tiny crystal cubes, each no wider than a thumbnail, resting in a special shelving system on the wall. Each crystal die held a droplet of precious humour.
“I tested the signature upon the cloak and found no match among the Hundred.”
Perryl frowned. “Surely a mistake. If the blood didn’t come from the Hundred . . .” His face suddenly paled as understanding dawned.
Kathryn finished his statement. “Then it must’ve come from one of the hinterland rogues.”
Gerrod nodded.
She had to resist flinging the bit of fur from her fingers. Rogue gods were wild creatures of madness and strife. Unsettled to any realm, their humours defied the four defining aspects of fire, water, air, and loam. A mere touch could rave a man’s mind. To traffic in such humours was the blackest of all Graces.
Gerrod took back the scrap of fouled cloak. “There is no danger. The potency of the Grace is long gone, only the signature is left.”
“But what about before?” Kathryn asked. “Argent mentioned Castellan Mirra was showing some evidence of addlement. Supposedly Ser Henri and Ser Fields had even discussed it. Could she have been handling such humours?”
The armored master offered a more dire possibility. “Or the blood could’ve been exposed to her in secret, to weaken the sharpness of her mind.”
“Poisoned by Grace,” Perryl said with a shudder.
Kathryn had trouble fathoming such a horror.
Gerrod held up a hand. “But in truth, I cannot say how the Grace presented itself here. Whether by Castellan Mirra’s own hand or another, further study is needed. I thought to examine the rest of the cloak, to see if any answers could be divined.”
“Of course. It’s in my wardrobe.”
Kathryn crossed to the door leading to her bedroom. As her hand touched the latch, a scuffle sounded beyond the door. She grabbed the handle and jerked the door wide. She found her maid, Penni, scrambling backward out of her way. She carried an armful of folded linen in her arms.
“Mistress . . .” A hurried curtsy helped balance the maid’s load.
“Penni, what are you doing here?” Upon assuming the hermitage, Kathryn had kept Mirra’s maid for her own. “Were you listening upon us?” she asked, her words harsher than she intended, surprised to find the girl in her bedroom. But then again, Penni was always appearing out of nowhere.
“No, mistress, a thousand times no.” She curtsied again, eyes wide with horror. “At least not with good meaning to. I had just finished changing the bed linens to take to the washerwomen when I heard you and Master Rothkild arrive with Ser . . . Ser Perryl.” She glanced sidelong into the room toward the young knight, her eyes shy, clearly enamored. “Mistress Mirra did not like to be walked in upon when speaking with guests. So I waited here until you were finished.”
Kathryn frowned at her own lack of foresight. Knowing such dire matters were to be discussed, she should have thought to make sure no ears were listening. But she was still ill accustomed to having a maid doting about her rooms.
Penni kept her head bowed, hiding her face behind the brown curls escaping her white lace cap. “I beg all your pardons.”
Kathryn reached a hand to console her, but let it drop. “Penni, mayhap it best you went about your chores with the linen.”
“Yes, mistress, right away.” Another curtsy.
She made room for the girl, but Gerrod stopped the maid from escaping. “Hold there, Penni. I would bend your ear a moment longer.”
Penni glanced back to Kathryn, who nodded, then returned her attention to the armored figure. “Yes, Master Rothkild.”
Gerrod motioned for Kathryn to collect the cloak. As she stepped around the corner to reach the wardrobe, she heard his question.
“Penni, you’ve been interviewed about Castellan Mirra’s disappearance, is that not so?”
A silent pause answered him. When Penni spoke next, fear lay thick on her tongue. “Aye. I was put to the chair before the redrobers.”
Soothmancers, Kathryn knew. They were all put to the question. She herself was no exception, having been one of the last to speak w
ith Mirra before she vanished. Kathryn opened the wardrobe, gathered up the ragged ermine cloak, and returned to the room.
Gerrod raised an arm at her appearance, his hand out for the wrap. Kathryn passed it to him.
“Can you tell me, has anyone else handled Mirra’s cloak? Especially in the last quarter moon before your old mistress disappeared.”
Penni scrunched up her face.
Perryl crossed to her, relieved her of the pile of linen wash, and took a seat beside her. He folded his arms atop the pile. “No need to be scared, Penni,” he said with a warm smile.
“You’ve done nothing wrong. But we need to know the answer.”
Penni kept her gaze to the floor. A bit of color flushed her cheeks, and she turned ever so slightly from Perryl, as if he were the sun, too bright to face. “Then I tell you no. Mistress Mirra’s furs were aired out upon the balconies at the end of summer. Otherwise, they are kept in her wardrobe.” She glanced to Kathryn. “Like now.”
“So no one touched them that you know of.”
“No, Master Rothkild.”
During this exchange, Gerrod searched the cloak, one way, then the other. He turned and pointed to an inner pocket. A dab of reddish brown was plain to see along the inner edge as he rolled it back. More blood. The pocket was otherwise empty.
Penni watched his every move, her eyes plainly drawn by the soft wheeze of his mekanicals. Being a good maid, she recognized the stain. She covered her mouth with a tiny hand, making a small sound of distress. “I must soak that in lemon-press. Mistress Mirra will be most upset with me. I thought I had cleaned it more thoroughly.”
Gerrod met Kathryn’s gaze and motioned to the girl with his eyes.
Kathryn dropped to a knee beside her. “Do you know how it became soiled?”
Penni chewed her lower lip. When next she spoke, it was a whisper meant only for Kathryn’s ears. “Mistress Mirra did not want me to speak of it.”
“But now the old castellan is gone, possibly to harm,” Kathryn urged, leaning closer. “If you know something, you must not hide it.”
Penni glanced up at Kathryn, then Gerrod, then back to the rug at her toes. She kept her words hushed. “A man came one night, well after final bells, muddied and unkempt, carrying a rucksack, led by one of the livery stablemen. Mistress Mirra gave the stableman a gold march to keep him quiet. I was sent from the room, too, but not before I saw the stranger remove a rolled length of oilcloth from his rucksack.”
The maid stopped and wrung her hands together at her waist as if kneading dough, clearly consternated.
“And the blood?” Gerrod said softly, his words echoing a bit inside his helmet.
Penni glanced up to Kathryn. “I didn’t mean to watch. I feared for Mistress Mirra’s safety with this stranger, arriving in such an unseemly manner. So I stayed, the door cracked open a finger.”
“It’s all right, Penni. What happened?”
“They whispered together for some time. The man unwrapped the oilcloth to reveal nothing but a bloody swatch of linen. It looked fresh, wet in the hearth light.”
“Either fresh,” Gerrod mumbled, “or the cloth was charmed to keep it so.”
“What then?” Kathryn said to Penni.
“A knock on the door. Hard. Angry. Scared me white. Mistress Mirra hides the bloody snatch in her own pocket. The man rolls the cloth and stuffs it away. The mistress opens the door. It is Ser Henri, right mad and full of flush. I know better than to listen any more. So I sneaks the door closed and hide away.”
“And you heard nothing else?” Gerrod asked as her words ended.
“No, Master Rothkild.”
Gerrod glanced to Kathryn.
Perryl shifted in the chair next to the scared maid. “Penni, do you know anything about this stranger? A name? Where he might have come from?”
“I’d never seen him before. But though he was muddied and sorely kempt, he seemed a high man of some means. He spoke well and his manners were not low.”
“How did he appear?” Kathryn asked.
“He was fair of face . . . not as fair as . . .” Her gaze fluttered toward Perryl. A blush rose on her cheek. “His hair was long to the shoulder, black. I don’t remember his eyes.”
“Any scars? Any marks to distinguish him?” Perryl asked.
Penni thought for a long moment. “No . . . but I heard him speak to the stableman. To ready a fresh horse, a beast blessed in air, a windmare with enough leg to reach Chrismferry in a day.”
Kathryn shared a look with Gerrod. Normally, on horse-back, it would take three days to reach the outskirts of Chrismferry. There was clearly urgency here to employ the speed of a windmare.
“That’s all I know,” Penni finished, almost shaking now.
Kathryn touched her shoulder, causing her to start. “Penni, you’ve done very well. Why don’t you collect the linens and see to the washing.”
She curtsied, relieved. Perryl passed her the pile, earning a bright blush. She fled out the servants’ door.
Perryl waited until the way closed. “So the man was heading to Chrismferry.”
“Or back to Chrismferry,” Gerrod countered.
Kathryn noted Gerrod drawing in on himself, leaning back, folding his arms across his chest. A troubled posture. He stared down at the ermine cloak on his lap.
“What do you make of all this?” Perryl asked.
Gerrod shook his head. It was all the answer they would get out of him for now.
Out in the courtyard, the Sun Tower chimed the sixth bell. Kathryn hadn’t realized how much time had passed. The sun was halfway down the sky. “I have a meeting I must attend,” she mumbled to the others as the bells ceased.
Gerrod glanced her way.
“As I mentioned from the first,” Kathryn answered, “Tylar is coming here. Warden Fields has gathered folk in the field room to oversee the preparations to receive him. I’m to meet with my supposed guardian.”
“A guardian?” Perryl asked. “Do you truly think that’s necessary? I still can’t believe Tylar would harm you.”
Gerrod stirred, standing with a creak. “I don’t trust our good warden is only concerned about his castellan’s security.”
Perryl frowned.
Kathryn understood. “Warden Fields strings a tight net around Tashijan. And I’m to be the bait in the snare. Who I meet will be both guardian and hunter.”
Perryl’s eyes widened, showing too much white. “Who’s been chosen?”
Now it was Kathryn’s turn to frown. “That I don’t know.”
“There is much all of us don’t know.” Gerrod lifted Mirra’s ermine cloak. “I’ll see what I can discern from this, but it would be prudent to see if the stableman who guided our dark stranger up here could be prompted to divulge what was sealed by gold and a promise.”
“I can check the stables,” Perryl offered. “It hasn’t been too long since I was squired down there.”
Kathryn nodded as he made for the door. “Be discreet.”
Gerrod remained behind and fixed her with a stolid stare, his eyes bright through the slit in his helmet. His words softened. “And you be careful. Bait is seldom considered of any value after one sets the hook.”
Kathryn met his gaze. “By sword and cloak, I’ll be careful,” she promised.
Gerrod studied her a moment longer, then turned away. “I suggest you keep both near at hand.”
Kathryn kept her pace hurried but respectful as she descended the twenty flights of stairs. With each nod to passing knight or courtier, she felt the press of the diamond seal fixed under her chin, the emblem of the castellan. It was not the true seal, but mere paste and artifice. The real diamond ornament had vanished with Mirra. Kathryn felt the same about her role here at Tashijan, more paste and artifice than true authority or command.
She rounded the last flight of the central stair and proceeded to the tall doors of the Citadel’s field room. For ages lost to the past, the chamber was used as a place of strategy, plann
ing, and preparation. Over the millennia, the fate of countless hinter-kings and untold armies had been decided behind those doors. Great battles were mapped, wars waged in ink and blood, treaties signed or broken. All of Myrillia had been forged behind those doors.
A pair of Shadowknights, cloaked and hooded, posted the threshold, standing in shallow alcoves. Their forms seemed to flow into the gloom of their niches. The darkness fed their forms, readying them to respond to any threat with the speed borne of Grace. Only the glow of their eyes could be seen above the black of their masklin wraps.
“Castellan Vail,” the closest knight acknowledged with a sweep of cloak. “The warden awaits your presence.”
The other guard opened the door with a surge of darkness.
“Thank you,” Kathryn mumbled. Both were too young, she thought, fresh to their third stripe, too ostentatious with their show of shadowplay, wasting Grace in theatrics.
She stepped into the field room.
The scent of oiled woods and brittle parchment greeted her first—then a familiar booming voice.
“The castellan finally graces us with her presence,” Master Hesharian said. The rotund leader of the Council of Masters stood with four others around a central table.
Despite the chamber’s significance, the field room was cramped and tight. The rear windows, overlooking the tourney grounds, had been shuttered for this meeting, ensuring privacy and forbidding the sun. To either side, the Stacks—giant wooden shelves that stored illuminated maps of all the Nine Lands, even rough sketches of sections of hinterland— lined the walls, buttressed by ladders. The only other significant feature to the room was the massive wyrmwood table. Its patina had blackened from the passing centuries, its surface scarred and pitted.
Kathryn crossed toward the waiting group. “I apologize for my late arrival. Matters of some importance detained me.”
Hesharian raised one brow. “More important than the security of Tashijan?” The large man still resented her assignment as castellan, a post normally held by one of the Council of Masters.
Kathryn ignored his gibe. She nodded to Hesharian’s fellow council members. Master Osk climbed down one of the Stacks’ ladders, burdened with a large map roll. He was as thin as Master Hesharian was vast, a lesser moon before a greater. As always, he kept his eyes pinched as if fearful of being struck. He nodded back at her and turned to the table, exposing the line of tattoos circling the back of his shaved skull.