“Yes, Matron,” Laurelle said with a perfectly serene face.
But once the door closed behind them, Laurelle burst with laughter. They fled down the stairs, as if late for their morning meal. They wound around and around the narrow stairs. Pupp lit the way, racing ahead. They finally reached the bottom and burst into the antechamber.
They almost collided with the bulk of Master Pliny. He had been bent over, securing a bootlace. He straightened, his jowled face flushed. “There you are, Mistress Laurelle. I was to wait for you so we can enter, arm in arm.”
“I’d be honored,” Laurelle said and leaned out an elbow. But she winked past his shoulder to Dart.
Dart hid a giggle behind a fist. The Hands had no recollection of their enthrallment by Chrism. Once the monster had been vanquished, the blaze of fire had died in their eyes, and they had all collapsed. Each slept for a full day, then woke as if from a regular slumber.
But they had all heard the tale afterward.
Each still held a haunted look in the eye.
Guards at the doors, new to their posts, opened the way. The muffled voices of the crowds filling the grand hall rose to a din. Laurelle and Master Pliny set off into the arched chamber.
Dart watched from the doorway. Tigre Hall was in the midst of repair. Temporary planks covered the holes in the floor, but the rush of the river could still be heard below.
Laurelle and Pliny slowly traversed the aisle between the curved benches that fronted the grand dais. The wood smiths had built most of the seating in only the past few days, working through all the bells.
Laurelle finally reached the dais and climbed with Pliny. They each took their seats, filling their proper places as Hands of the realm. Dart glanced to the chair to the immediate right of the center myrrwood throne. It had been her place. Hand of Blood. But another sat there now.
Delia.
It was her right as Meeryn’s original Hand of Blood.
But others were empty. Yet to be filled.
The smile on her lips faded as she remembered Yaellin, fallen to save her. She would honor him as best she could. She reached and clutched the black diamond at her throat.
“There you are,” a firm voice cracked behind her.
Dart jumped and turned. She curtsied again. “Castellan Vail.”
“A page does not curtsy,” Kathryn said sternly. “They bow, first the head, then at the waist.”
Dart licked her lips. She was to leave in the next day or so for Tashijan, to train as a knight. She would serve as page to the castellan herself. The clothes she wore now were reflective of her station. It had taken a bit of convincing to fight for this opportunity.
Tylar and the others had refused at first.
But Dart had not backed down. Yaellin had been both knight and Hand. To honor his sacrifice, she would become the same.
Surprisingly, Kathryn had come to her defense.
“None know the girl there,” the castellan had said. “Only those loyal to us, like Krevan and Gerrod, know the secret of her godhood. Not even Argent is aware. What better place to keep her safe than at the heart of Tashijan, surrounded by knights? And perhaps it’s still best to keep you and Dart apart for now.”
Tylar had finally relented, bowing to the wisdom of it.
So Dart had been bled almost daily by Delia, the new Hand of Blood. Her humour was stored in secret, available for Tylar to ignite Rivenscryr whenever necessary. Dart was no longer needed here, not as Hand, nor as sheath.
Dart attempted to bow now as the castellan directed.
Kathryn watched. “Much better.” Then she leaned down and faced Dart. “Is this something you truly want? To come with me to Tashijan? You are safe here.”
Dart met her gaze. Nowhere was truly safe. She had learned that too well. True security could be found only in one’s own heart. She would learn to defend herself, to find a place for herself.
“I want to be a knight,” Dart said solemnly. “I will be a knight.”
Kathryn stared at her and nodded. “Then come with me.” She crossed to the door. “Stay by my side.”
Dart fell in step with Kathryn as she traversed the hall. Cloaked knights and tattooed masters filled all the benches to the right. It was as if all of Tashijan had come.
Kathryn stepped to the very front bench. She sidled over and sat next to a tall man with a plate of bone over one eye.
“Warden Fields,” Kathryn said icily.
“Castellan Vail,” he answered with as much warmth. His one good eye settled to Dart. Pupp gave the man a wide berth.
“My new page,” Kathryn said and patted the open seat next to her.
The man nodded. His interest glazed over, and he turned away.
Dart fell into her seat, sitting straight, clutching the front edge of the bench.
She stared across to the other side of the hall. Nobles throughout the First Land and beyond had come to attend, as had Hands from realms throughout Myrillia. Each god had sent at least one Hand. Most gods from the First Land had sent all their handservants.
As Dart gawked, she spotted a face staring back at her. Her brow crinkled with recognition. It was one of her fellow thirdfloorers from the Conclave. A dark boy. His bronzed face was easy to pick out among the older, paler Hands of his retinue. She had never learned his name. He had been chosen the same night as Dart and Laurelle, chosen by Jessup of Oldenbrook, a distinguished house of the First Land. But Dart also remembered how he had spoken up for her when the others had ridiculed her.
His eyes met hers. He nodded.
She was surprised to feel heat suffuse her face.
A trumpet sounded, startling her back around.
Drums beat at the rear of the room.
Folk throughout the hall stood. Dart rose with the tide.
Doors opened at the back, and a march of castillion guards entered Tigre Hall. Stepping in beat to the drums, they crossed down the center aisle, taking up stations to either side, forming an alley. Swords were raised, forming an archway.
Another trumpet blasted-and he appeared, stepping into the hall.
Kathryn stiffened at Dart’s side. Tylar strode down the tunnel of swords. His black hair had been oiled straight back. His face had been shaved to polished smoothness. As he marched, his gray eyes shone with the storm inside him. This was not a role he cared to play. He wore a solid outfit of black: boots, pants, shirt, and cloak. The only color was the silver scabbard worn at the waist.
It bore the Godsword.
Rivenscryr.
He marched down the long aisle toward the chair that awaited him. Since that bloody day, ravens had been flying throughout Myrillia. The skies were thick with their wings. Gods were consulted across the Nine Lands. It was decided that Chrismferry could not be left fallow after the slaying of Chrism. It was the city around which all of Myrillia turned.
A regent was needed.
Someone with Grace to share, to keep commerce flowing.
Still bearing Meeryn’s blessings, Tylar had been chosen.
He strode up to the tall myrrwood seat, faced the crowd, and pulled forth Rivenscryr.
He had no choice.
At the end, the godslayer had become a god.
Tylar stood by the central brazier in the High Wing.
“It’s about time you returned these,” Rogger said and strapped on his belt of daggers. “I expect I’ll be needing them.”
“Are you leaving already?” Tylar asked. “The sun’s almost setting.”
