Shadowfall

  Clutching the repostilary, Dart finished her ministrations, wiping the last drops away. The bit of linen would be burned upon the brazier outside the chamber, a fire continually stoked for this very purpose. The residual Grace in the scrap of cloth was too capricious, dangerous, unpredictable, apt to be used in dark rites by black alchemists. Such items had to be purged regularly, including Chrism’s daily garments after the slightest soiling by sweat or bile, the same with his bedsheets. Even forks and spoons were cleansed in fire to burn off any residual saliva.

  Her focus on Dark Graces brought her back to the afternoon in the gardens, to the murder of the woman named Jacinta, turned to ash. She pictured the cursed black blade—and the man who had wielded it, a lord she knew by name now after inquiring discreetly.

  Yaellin de Mar. Another of Chrism’s Hands.

  Dart knew nothing else about the man, avoiding him at every turn. The man oversaw the aspect of black bile, the solids passed by Chrism into a crystal chamber pot, twinned with another pot that collected the god’s yellow bile each morning and night.

  Dart had gone over the murder in the gardens . . . and Jacinta’s final words. Myrillia will be free! What did that mean?

  It was the woman who had brought the cursed dagger onto the grounds. Once exposed, she had seemed to throw herself on the dagger to keep from being captured. Why? And what role did Yaellin have in all this? If innocent, why hadn’t word of the encounter in the garden spread, especially here in the High Wing?

  Dart had her own secrets, too many already. She wanted no others. So she had spoken to no one about it, not even Laurelle. What could she say? How could Dart accuse or slander a Hand who had been in service to Chrism for going on his second decade?

  Distracted by these black thoughts, Dart missed the roll of a drop of blood from Chrism’s wrist. It fell toward the stones. Wincing, she watched the ruby jewel splatter—not against the floor, but upon a bronze nose. Pupp had darted forward, catching the drop in midair.

  Rather than passing through her ghostly companion, the droplet found substance. With the touch of blood, Pupp grew momentarily solid. His bronze nails clicked on the stone floor. His molten form settled into ruddy plates and a mane of razored spikes. Dart felt the heat of his presence like a stoked fire.

  She froze.

  Chrism’s eyes had returned to the view out the window as Dart had finished her ministrations, but now he stirred in his seat. Pupp stared up at the seated god. His eyes flared brighter. His tongue, a lick of flame, lolled out.

  As Chrism leaned forward, the droplet of blood sizzled on Pupp’s nose and burned away. A tiny dance of smoke marked its passage. And Pupp’s form turned just as smoky.

  “What’s that scent?” Chrism asked. He withdrew his arm, placed his palm on the armrest, and shifted upward, staring around the room.

  Dart waved a hand through the puff of blood smoke, clearing her throat. Pupp shook his head like a wet dog and trotted back across the room.

  Chrism failed to note his passage, but his nose remained crinkled.

  Dart quickly bowed her head. “One of the other Hands must be cleansing the utensils from your last meal, my Lord. In the grand brazier outside your doors.”

  With a worried crinkle of brow, Chrism settled back to his seat, but not before glancing one more time around the room.

  Keeping her head down, Dart carefully plugged the repostilary with its crystal stopper and returned it to the wyrmwood box. She then folded the scarf over the box, and though her knees threatened to betray her, she stood smoothly.

  “You did very well, Dart.” Chrism returned to his watch on the flowing river below his window.

  “Thank you, my Lord.”

  “Take the repostilary to Matron Shashyl. She’ll instruct you from here.”

  “Yes, my Lord.” Dart backed toward the door.

  As her fingers touched the door’s latch, Chrism spoke again, only a mumble, still staring out the window. “We must be watchful . . . all of us.”

  “So tell me every bit,” Laurelle said in a rush of breath and silk, sweeping into Dart’s chamber. “Was it terrifying?”

  Dart closed the door behind her friend. Laurelle was dressed in a white cotton dress, belted with silver silk, a match to her slippers. Dart had changed out of her own finery and back into a more comfortable shift that fell about her like a sack. She found its plainness a comfort.

  Laurelle fled to Dart’s bed and perched on its edge. Her eyes glowed in the last rays of the sun. Beyond her windows, the deeper bowers of the Eldergarden already shone with moonglobes and dancing fireflits.

  Dart settled to a spot on the bed beside Laurelle. She took a pillow and hugged it to her belly.

  Laurelle fell back to the crimson coverlet, arms flung out. “To see a god cry . . .” she murmured. “His tears shone like molten silver. I feared collecting them. How my hands shook! The tiny crystal spoon quavered in my grip.”

  Dart listened as Laurelle related her own first collection of Chrism’s tears. It was a heady day for both of them. Dart still felt a twinge of unease. Pupp had almost been seen, made solid by the blood of the very god she served. It awakened her own fear of discovery . . . not only of her strange ghostly companion, but of her corruption.

  Blood . . . why did she have to be chosen for blood?

  “So tell me,” Laurelle finished, sitting back up. “Did his humour glow with Grace? Did you swoon? I’d heard back at the school that some Hands faint away when drawing their first blood.”

  Dart glanced to her friend. “Truly?”

  Laurelle’s eyes widened. She reached a hand to Dart. “Did you faint?”

  Dart shook her head.

  “Then what happened? You have a great look of worry upon you.”

  Dart stared into her friend’s eyes. Perhaps she could tell all to Laurelle. About Pupp, about the murder in the gardens, about her own defilement. Instead she found herself relating the event in dry tones. She spoke of Chrism’s kindness and patience, of her own nervousness, of the successful draw. Laurelle listened to all with rapt attention.

  Dart made no mention of Pupp . . . nor of Chrism’s final cryptic words. We must be watchful . . . all of us.

  “It all went well, then,” Laurelle stated as Dart finished. “Why the long pout?”

  Dart shook her head. “I . . . I’m just tired. It was trying. See . . . seeing the blood and all.”

  Laurelle’s fingers squeezed hers. “But you didn’t faint. You should be proud.”

  Dart offered a weak smile. It was all she could manage.

  Her sour mood dulled the shine from Laurelle but failed to subdue her entirely. “Come,” she said, standing abruptly and drawing Dart up by the hand. “Matron Shashyl has promised us a special feast to celebrate our first day. It’s to be served in the common room. All the Hands will be there.”

  Dart now felt a swoon threaten. All the Hands . . .

  The sixth bell rang out in the courtyard. It was answered by a small chime sounding in the High Wing’s hall.

  “We must get you dressed,” Laurelle said. “Matron Shashyl sent me in here to fetch you. She said you were suffering a headache and she didn’t want to disturb your rest until now.”

  Dart glanced to the cold cup of willow bark tea, untouched. She had feigned illness to escape to her chambers after the bloodletting. Shashyl had seemed to understand, nodding and taking her under her thick arm. She must have suspected, like Laurelle, that Dart had been overcome, perhaps swooned.

  A part of Dart felt a stab of irritation. She had performed the bloodletting without mishap. Did they all think so little of her ability? Had she not accomplished her studies with dutiful alacrity?

  That bit of fire helped steady Dart’s legs. If she could stab a god, she could face the gathered Hands. Even the black-and-silver-haired Yaellin de Mar. He had given no indication that he recognized her from the gardens. And why should he? She had nothing to fear.

  So she allowed Laurelle to tug free her
shift, and together they searched her wardrobe for proper attire.

  “Not too fine,” Laurelle said. “We mustn’t come off too pompous. But then again, we don’t want to appear as drab either.” Dart soon found herself in a ruffled white dress with a crimson sash. Though only of moderate splendor, it was far better than any of her clothes back at school. She felt like a mushroom masquerading as a flower.

  Laurelle gave her one final look, fixing back a few loose curls. “Perfect.”

  As if timed, a knock sounded at the door. Matron Shashyl called from the hall, “How are you faring in there? Dinner is being brought up to the commons. Master Pliny will not leave a quail’s wing to split between the two of you if you keep his ample appetite waiting.”

  Laurelle hid a giggle behind her fingers. It was a common jest across the High Wing that Master Pliny, the Hand of Chrism’s Sweat, was more a servant of his belly than his god.

  Dart and Laurelle crossed to the door. Laurelle took her hand. Dart found comfort in the familiarity and support. Laurelle leaned over and gave Dart a fast peck on the cheek. “As long as we’re together, we’ll always be fine.”

  Dinner lasted past the eighth bell. Course after course had been marched into the common room: a soup of roasted butternut squash sprinkled with sweet cheese, a sour stew of boar’s meat and ale, an oven full of gravy pies, platters of spit-turned rabbit and quails, a huge haunch of roasted boeuf seasoned with peppered apples, and lastly, spun confections of sugar and cinnamon shaped into fanciful creatures of lore.

  By the end, Dart’s head whirled amid the chatter and flows of wine.

  Laurelle kept at her side, bolstering her up. Skilled with a charmed tongue, she had no trouble keeping up conversation. Dart was left mostly to watch, nibble, and sip.

  All the Hands were in attendance. It had been many seasons since any new Hands had been brought into the fold. The six other men and women seemed more family than fellow servants. They squabbled, they pointed forks, they laughed, they taunted with jokes that originated in their shared pasts. Dart sensed it would take considerable time to blend in with this bunch.

  But Laurelle tried her best. “And when all the illuminaria shattered, the looks on the other girls’ faces were shocked to the point of speechlessness. And Healer Paltry, I had never seen him so shook up.”

  Dart had only been half-listening up to this point, having been caught up in a conversation between Master Pliny and Mistress Naff about the price of repostilaries. It seemed the flow of Grace between borders had been slowing of late, due to growing turmoil and odd behavior among some of the realms. Dart had listened intently, only to be drawn back to Laurelle at the sound of her own name.

  “Dart looked the sickest of them all though. So green of face that you could barely note the mark of purity on her forehead.”

  “I can only imagine Healer Paltry’s countenance,” Master Munchcryden mumbled. The diminutive man, the Hand of Yellow Bile, dabbed the corner of his lips with the edge of his sleeve. “How I would’ve liked to have been in that chamber to see that eternal smile of his break.”

  Laurelle turned to Dart. “You know best. You should tell this story.”

  Dart felt an icy finger of terror trace her spine. She knew Laurelle was only trying to include them in the table’s talk, to share anecdotes of their own shared past. Everyone knew Healer Paltry here, as he served as the High Wing’s healer and physik. To gently gibe him seemed to please the table.

  Dart found one set of eyes falling with studied intent upon her. No amusement shone in Master Yaellin’s dark eyes. He wore a silver shirt with an ebony surcoat over it, adorned with raven feathers stitched into it as shimmering accents. The reminder of ravens unsettled Dart further.

  “What reason did Healer Paltry give for the shatter of the illuminaria?” Yaellin asked. The casual manner of his words did not match his eyes.

  Dart found all attention upon her. Under such weight, she lowered her gaze, fixing her attention to her wine goblet. “He said such things sometimes happened. That ofttimes the illuminaria would flare brighter with certain testings.” She attempted to punctuate her disinterest with a shrug. She ended up bobbling her wineglass and spilling it across the white linen.

  A maid quickly scurried forward and dabbed up the pool. The distraction helped divert attention. Other conversations started. Still, one set of eyes remained focused on her.

  Yaellin de Mar’s.

  “Are you all right?” Laurelle asked.

  Dart pushed back her chair. “It’s just the wine. I’m not accustomed to such richness of fare. I think I should retire to my room.”

  Laurelle stood, too. “I’ll go with you.”

  Mistress Naff lifted her wineglass to them. She was lithe of form and generous of bosom, dressed in a gown of red and brown silks, matching the drape and braid of her hair. Though rich of cloth, it was also somewhat chaste, laced to the neck. Naff was the Hand to Chrism’s seed. It was whispered back at school that some such Hands would occasionally bed their gods to collect the vital humours, but these rumors were mostly told among the boys, amid snickers and rude comments. It was in fact not the manner. Once monthly, a god would spill his seed or her menstral bleeding into a crystal repostilary. Sometimes a Hand would attend, more often they would merely be called in to collect the crystal receptacle afterward. As such rare humours allowed Grace to be blessed upon a living person, they were second only to blood in importance.

  Mistress Naff nodded to them. “Sleep well. And welcome to our small family.”

  Dart gave a half curtsy. She recognized a certain sadness in Mistress Naff’s eyes. Did she see her own lost youth in their young faces? Mistress Naff had served Lord Chrism for only eight years, but already Grace had aged her countenance with early lines and sags. The humour she served was said to be the hardest burden to bear. Though handled only monthly, its Grace was attuned to living people, wearing its servant more than the others.

  The other Hands acknowledged the departing girls with raised glasses, except for Master Pliny, who grunted and lifted a honeycake, dusting crumbs from his full belly.

  Here was their new family.

  Master Fairland and Mistress Tre stood up, too, and announced their departure. They were the most silent of the Hands, barely speaking, seldom smiling, a twin brother and sister, both chosen at the same time, representing the humours of saliva and phlegm respectively. They kept mostly to themselves, even shaving their dark heads to match, a custom among the steamy jungles of the Fourth Land. They were also the newest Hands, besides Dart and Laurelle, having been chosen three years ago.

  The assembly continued to disperse in the wake of Dart and Laurelle’s departure. Dart heard the well wishes and good nights spreading among the others. She glanced over one shoulder as the twin Hands departed toward their neighboring rooms.

  In the doorway to the commons, Yaellin de Mar stood, leaning on the frame, his face in shadows. But Dart knew those eyes were on her. Why? He had shown no interest in her before now.

  Without a doubt, the damnable story of the illuminaria had piqued some curiosity in him. None of the other Hands had found the story anything but an amusement. Yet Yaellin’s attention pinned her like a crossbow’s bolt. This last thought drew a shiver. A crossbow’s bolt. The murder of Master Willym replayed in her head. It had been a murder meant for her . . . or rather the position she held, the new Hand of blood. But now Dart wondered. Had it been a more personal attack?

  Without turning, she felt Yaellin’s eyes still upon her. What did the breaking of the illuminaria mean? Prior to this moment, she had never properly considered it, too caught up in terror and circumstance since that day. If it had garnered the attention of Yaellin, had it also attracted someone else’s eye, too? Someone with ill intent? She again pictured the blood pouring from Master Willym, his weight falling on her.

  Was there more meaning upon that attempt on her life?

  She glanced over her shoulder. The doorway to the commons was empty. br />
  Yaellin de Mar was gone.

  She knew she would have to watch him more closely.

  If she was ever to get any answers . . .

  Sleep came hard. The rich food and wine did not sit well on her worried stomach. Dart listened to each bell’s ringing, until the final bell chimed with the rising of the Mother. The greater moon’s face shone full, bright even through the sheer drapery.

  But sleep did finally come . . . and dreams.

  Dart smelled the sea. She was being carried in a woman’s arms, a babe again, her bearer’s bosom pressed tight to her tiny head.

  “We cannot wait the tide,” the woman said to another. “They almost caught us in the wood.”

  The cloaked figure nodded and led the way down a tiny stone quay. He was dressed all in black, even his boots. As he turned to glance behind, she noted his face was masked.

  A Shadowknight.

  He crossed to a low skiff with black sails moored at the quay’s end.

  The woman hurried after, bouncing Dart in her arms. Moonlight shone on her face: auburn hair tied in a single braid, green eyes crinkled with lines of middle years, her complexion bled of all color. Dart knew the woman from vague memories of her earliest years, but even more from the oiled paintings that hung in the Conclave. It was the former headmistress of the school, the woman who had rescued Dart from the hinterlands.

  She reached the skiff and hopped into its bow. “We must be away.”

  “What of the others?” the cloaked figure, a man from the timbre of his speech, asked while freeing the mooring lines.

  “Gone . . . oh sweet gods above, all gone . . .”

  He tossed the ropes into the stern and dropped beside the rudder. He yanked the black gloves from his hands and dropped them in the boat’s bottom.

  A horrible howl erupted, sounding as near as a stone’s throw. It was all blood and bile.

  “They’re here!”

  “And we’re away.” The knight waved a hand at the sails, and they filled with winds. The skiff sped across the silver waters of a cove, aiming for the open waters.