The beastly howl chased after them.
The headmistress slunk to the floor of the skiff, cradling Dart in her lap. The swaddling fell open. Dart felt a small tug on her belly. Something fiery rose from the edge of her swaddling, where her navel lay. An ugly face of molten bronze, barely formed, only the pair of fiery eyes, glowing agate stones, were familiar.
Pupp . . .
He was no bigger than a kitten, curled on her belly. He lay nested around a blackened knot on her belly, the tied stump of her umbilicus. He attempted to suckle it like a nipple, seeking milk. Again she felt that tug at her belly . . . no, deeper . . . coming from beyond flesh and bone. Pupp’s form flared brighter. He then settled back to her belly, half-sunken in her flesh, ghostly.
The man spoke as they cleared the cove. “You can still drown the babe. Be done with the abomination.”
A shake of the head. “She is no abomination.”
Dart was collected back to the headmistress’s bosom, her swaddling secured. Neither seemed aware of the suckling Pupp.
“The Cabal wanted her blood,” the headmistress continued. “Rivenscryr must not be forged anew.”
The skiff reached the open waters, now riding smooth swells. Behind them, the howl echoed.
The Shadowknight guided the craft, one hand on the rudder, the other occasionally waved at the sails. Dart noted the black tips of his raised fingers, dark to the first knuckle. Dried blood. A blessing of air alchemies.
“There will be others,” the man intoned.
The woman clutched her tighter. “But they won’t have this one.”
A strong gust filled the sail with a snap of cloth and rope. The boat sped faster. The man glanced back to the receding cliffs of the shoreline, then forward again. “We’re clear. Even their naether-lenses won’t be able to track us.”
The headmistress relaxed, though her hands still trembled. Her next words were a mumble meant only for her own ears. “What have I done?”
The knight heard. “What you had to. You know that, Melinda.”
A sigh answered him. “But have we done the child any kindness?”
The man stared down at Dart, his eyes aglow with Grace above his masklin. “These are not kind times,” he said sadly. “And the worst is yet to come. If what we dread comes to pass . . .”
“I know . . . I know . . . but it seems such a large burden for one so small.”
The man grunted. “Sacrifices must be made by all. You saved her from the knife, now you must leave her hidden and unnoticed, a buried key.”
The woman rocked the baby. As Dart felt her dream self grow droopy, one tiny hand rose to nuzzle her thumb. She struggled to listen, to hold the threads of her dream.
They proved too fragile, more light than substance.
Words began to dissolve. Images, too. Her blood . . . the headmistress whispered as the boat and sea grew darker.
The knight’s words faded. It will take corruption to fight corruption.
Will she be strong enough . . . ?
She must be.
Oh, Ser Henri, what have we done?
There was no answer, only darkness and quiet as true sleep carried her deeper, both babe and girl, beyond dreams, beyond words.
Dart woke with sunrise. Her tongue felt thick, and her head addled. The light through the drapery felt brittle and sharpened to points. She sat up, thirsty, her stomach churning. Had she drunk too much wine?
She shoved her feet free of the bedclothes and stood unsteadily.
Pupp poked his bronze nose from under the bed, blinked at her, then retreated back into the darkness. He seemed no more pleased with the morning.
Dart crossed to the privy, unsure if her stomach would hold. Every joint ached as she pumped cold water into the carved marble basin. She soaked a cloth and pressed it to her face. The icy chill quickly cooled the slight fever to her skin, her head ached less, and her stomach settled.
Echoes of the night’s dream played in her head. A vague remembrance of a boat ride, the headmistress, and a Shadowknight. They had been talking about her, a babe. Any meaning had been clouded, snatches of a conversation, more inference than communication. Chrism’s words returned instead: We must be watchful . . . all of us.
She knew this to be true.
Dart stepped back to her room. In the light of morning, it was easier to set aside her disturbing dreams.
She crossed to her wardrobe and was struck by an odd odor. She had not noted it before; perhaps she had been too addled. The scent was as faint as a whisper and seemed to fade with every breath she took, making its source difficult to discern. It smelled of sweated horses and the tang of wintersnap.
Halting in the middle of the room, she turned slowly around.
Pupp remained hidden, but his eyes shone from the gloom under her bed. He must have sensed her sudden tension.
Dart moved slowly to one of the four iron braziers that dotted each corner of the room. Each was identical, shaped like a repostilary jar, covered by a tiny grate. She checked the two closest to the window first. Both were cold to the touch.
She moved to the one by the privy. Also cold.
Already the scent faded beyond her senses. Perhaps she had imagined it. Maybe it had been a miasma from her morning illness.
She crossed to the last brazier, by the door. Her fingers brushed its surface.
The iron warmed her cold fingertips. She placed her palm on its side. It was not hot to the touch, but it was not cold either. Whatever small fire had heated the metal had only recently been extinguished.
Bending down, she creaked open the grate and peered inside. The strange scent wafted stronger again, but the brazier was empty, cleaned, and wiped. Yet coals had been burned here. Recently.
Cold dread crept up her spine, drawing her upright.
Pupp slunk from his hiding place and belly crawled to her side.
Someone had been in her rooms last night.
Someone had lit her brazier.
Who . . . and why?
Perhaps it had only been Matron Shashyl. But she always knocked before entering, announcing herself, awaiting invitation. Though the elderly matron might have a sharp tongue for the newest of Chrism’s Hands, she had always respected their private spaces.
No, someone else had been in here.
Dart knew this with horrified certainty. She glanced around the room, fearful of discovering an extra shadow, a hand clutching a fold of drapery. She took a few shuddering breaths to calm herself. Whoever had been here had cleaned the brazier, covering their steps. They were surely gone again.
Still, Dart found her chest constricting. Whatever security and solace there had been behind the locked doors of her rooms was shattered. She had no safe place to call her own.
She trembled. Tears rose.
Someone had been in here, perhaps standing beside her bed, looking down on her. Why?
She remembered her disturbed slumber, the restless dreams, the morning queasiness. She could only imagine what dark alchemies had been burned on the brazier.
To what end? By whose hand? Or rather which Hand?
Dart pictured the dark eyes of the Hand of black bile, studying her over dinner, watching her. There could be no doubt.
Yaellin de Mar had been in her room.
15
BORDERLANDS
TYLAR STARED INTO THE SMALL CAMPFIRE. THE TINY HEARTH smoked more than it flamed, fed with wet wood, but that was all that could be found in the moldering swamps and bogs. The party gathered as best they could around the meager source of heat.
Rogger spit roasted a marsh hare over the pit. Upon the thief’s recommendation, they had built the fire in a shallow pit to shield its sallow flame in the night. He had even caked the rabbit’s skinned flesh with clay to cut down the scent of its sizzling flesh.
Next to him, Delia huddled in a cloak lined with otter fur. She was bone tired, as were they all.
No one spoke. Their small party, led by Krevan and his band of cloaked
knights, had ridden all day, then fled all night through the marshes: punting a pair of skiffs, trekking salt flats, crawling through a forest of vines and creepers. They dared not risk the main road through the swamps, a rutted overgrown path that wound around stagnant stretches of water and forded bubbling rivers with bridges of stout oak.
And it was good they had taken Krevan’s advice to abandon the road and seek out old trapper paths and animal trails. Lord Balger had not waited long before sending out his hunters, a mix of his own sworn Shadowknights and swamp trackers. Their pursuit proved dogged.
A full day and night stretched into one endless chase. Krevan set up traps and looped their course to confound pursuit. But the hunters had the advantage: the blessing of the god of the land. They followed with scent hounds Graced in alchemies of air, they bore weapons anointed in fire, and followed in swamp crawlers fueled as much by Balger’s fury as the god’s blood.
With such pursuit, the party had little chance to rest. But with dawn nearing, they were forced to ground, too exhausted to tackle the rolling mounds that marked the borderlands of the accursed Dell.
“What do you suppose is waiting beyond those hills?” Tylar asked.
Krevan shrugged.
“Will Balger have sent word ahead?” Tylar glanced to the east, where the skies were just beginning to lighten. “Will he have alerted Tashijan?”
Rogger snorted and pulled the spitted hare from the fire. He sniffed at its baked clay surface. “To raise the alarm, Balger would have to admit that he had you and let you escape. The bastard has too much pride for that. He’d lose face among the brigands and sly folk that make up his countrymen. Word won’t travel beyond his borders until you’re either dead or captured.”
Krevan lifted a hand, standing quickly with a rustle of cloak and shadow. “Someone comes.”
Tylar’s palm dropped to the hilt of his sword, a borrowed short sword with a bone grip.
Krevan stepped back, half-dissolving into shadow. A whistle of skit-swift sounded from his lips. It was answered by another . . . and another. He stepped back into the circle of firelight. “One of the scouts.”
As if drawn out by his words, shadows stretched and birthed the figure of a cloaked man. It was one of Krevan’s knights. The man stepped into the glow, shedding darkness from his form. Tylar recognized him as an older knight named Corram. While it took a keen eye to discern one masked and cloaked Shadowknight from another, years of living among such men and women had sharpened Tylar’s attention: to the cut and color of hair, to the shape and hue of eye, to the subtle scars and wrinkles. Even the manner of movement, rhythm of gait, and a knight’s carriage revealed clues.
Despite his advanced years, Corram moved with a stealth few could match. His eyes were ice, his hair a matching silver.
He nodded to Krevan. “The hunters have found our scent again. They move even now to close us off from the border mounds.”
“How quickly?”
Corram shook his head. “We have a quarter bell at best.”
Rogger swore and began kicking dirt atop the wood coals, dousing the flames. “Then let us not tarry.” He lifted the roasted hare and cracked the caked clay. The scent of sizzling fat and flesh wafted strongly. He handed the spitted hare to one of Krevan’s men. “Stake this little bait on the raft by the stream. The current will carry her off, drawing the scent hounds away from our path. I never knew a hound that wouldn’t follow a bit of roasted hare.”
With a nod, the knight stepped away.
The others quickly broke camp and set off.
Krevan again led the way. His ten knights flanked forward and behind, alert for attack. Rogger strode behind the leader of the Shadowknights. Tylar followed next with his short sword and kept Delia close to his side. She met his gaze for a breath. Her face was smeared with mud, a cheek scratched deeply, and her eyes were rimmed with fear.
“Stay with me,” he whispered. It was the only consolation he could offer.
It seemed enough. Taking a shuddering breath, she nodded.
The party stumbled through the tangle of bog brier that had been their bower and splashed across a sluicing riverbed, smelling of stagnant mud and root rot. As they climbed the far banks, the mounds rose before them, limned in the thin light of approaching dawn.
These borderlands, named the Kistlery Downs, were chalk-and-flint hills rising from the swamplands, a hard boundary separating the lowland swamps and bogs of Foulsham Dell from the central plains of the First Land. While the mounds were not high, they were steep sided, creating a maze of vales, hollows, and dells. Confounding the matter, the lowest portions remained shrouded in foul mist. It was as easy to get lost among them as it was to be trapped.
“Do you know the way through here?” Tylar asked.
“Rough enough,” Krevan answered.
Tylar found little comfort in his answer.
Rogger dropped beside Tylar. “The only known route through Kistlery Downs is the main road. And that will be guarded.”
Delia studied the white cliffs on either side of them. They glistened with bits of gypsum and quartz. “I heard that dark alchemists set up black foundries here, dug into the hillsides, spewing corruption and burned Graces from their subterranean chimneys.”
Rogger waved aside such worries. “Blood witches and Wyr-lords are the least of our concerns. They may haunt the Downs, but they’ll shy from us as much as we might wish to avoid them.”
“Why doesn’t Lord Balger rid the hills of their foul ilk?”
Rogger glanced back to her. “Where do you think His Largeness gets most of his revenues? More of Balger’s humours flow through the black fires here than are traded across borders.”
Tylar noted the deepening frown on Delia’s face. Sheltered in schools and selected young as a handmaiden to Meeryn, she’d had little chance to understand how trade among the lands was more often black rather than white. Whereas Tylar had direct dealings with the Gray Traders, those who plied the rivers of commerce that flowed beneath all else, traffickers in Dark Graces, stolen humours, and accursed weapons and tools. Tylar knew that the bale dagger he had stolen from Lord Balger, a blade that healed as fast as it cut, would fetch a significant ransom among the Traders.
And one time he would have made that deal.
As a young man, he had thought himself wise in the ways of the world, capable of moving within that gray territory between the light and the dark. He had raised coin through some shady profiteering. And while most of it went to help the orphanage where he had been raised, a fair amount still found its way into his own pocket.
He’d had a wedding to plan . . . to Kathryn.
He shoved this last thought aside.
But memories still flooded through him: of blue eyes looking deep into his own, of hushed breaths in the stillness of a long night, of tender lips, of promises both whispered and shouted aloud. And through it all, laughter flowed, light, yet coming from the heart.
All had been so easy, so very easy.
No longer.
He gripped his short sword, fingers firm and sure. While his body had been healed by Grace, his heart remained untouched. There was no blessing to heal that which had died long ago.
“How far to reach the border?” Delia asked, drawing his attention to his current plight.
“Another six reaches,” Rogger answered. “Barring any missteps—which is not hard in this skaggin’ place—we’ll reach the far plains a bell or two after sunrise. And if the morning sea mists have burned away, we might even catch a glimpse of Stormwatch Tower in the distance.”
Tashijan’s tallest spire.
“So close . . .” Delia mumbled.
She glanced over to Tylar. Both had listened silently to Krevan’s report on the current tidings at the Citadel. Argent ser Fields had been named the new warden. After hearing this, Delia had bowed her head. Tylar kept silent about the familial tie between Argent and Delia, father and estranged daughter. It was not his place to speak of it.
r /> But all knew of Tylar’s tie to Argent’s new castellan, Kathryn ser Vail. His former betrothed. Eyes had carefully avoided his as this detail was recounted.
Only Delia had the courage to meet his gaze. Both their pasts had become tied together in one place. A place they must explore to solve a riddle uttered by a dying god.
Krevan stopped ahead, his form barely discernible in the fetid fog that filled the hollow spaces between the hills. With his head cocked, he waved them to his side.
“What—?” Delia began.
He shushed her. Silence pressed down upon them—then a wheezing rasp echoed from up ahead. It was not unfamiliar. They had heard the same telltale noise chasing them all night.
“How many?” Rogger asked in a matching wheeze.
“Too many,” Krevan answered under his breath.
He motioned them back. A fresh rasping rose behind them. This was no echo. They were being surrounded. From the darkness, Krevan’s knights coalesced, closing ranks.
“They’ve cut us off,” one of the knights hissed.
“What do we do?” Tylar asked, raising his sword, firming his stance.
Krevan glanced to him. “Run, fight, or die. Take your pick.”
Beyond Krevan’s shoulder, a tall spindly shape crept out of the fog. It moved on eight jointed legs, like some bronze metal spider, twice the height of a man. Each leg ended in a sharpened point, perfect for maneuvering through the muck and rot of the swamps, jabbing into logs and tree trunks for purchase, slipping in and out of the mud with ease.
A swamp crawler.
Tylar smelled the blood burning from exhaust flutes behind the mekanical crawler. Its two riders crouched in the central egg-shaped seat. One controlled the swamper, the other squatted with a crossbow. Both were deadly.
A bolt sliced through the fog, ripping through a fold of a knight’s shadowcloak. At the same time, one of the sharpened legs lashed out with a burr of mekanicals, nearly impaling the same knight. But a dance of cloak saved the man. Tylar recognized Corram—then the older knight vanished into deeper shadows.