crisscrossed with two slashes. The sigil of the Fiery Cross, marking them as the warden’s men.
A small crowd gathered outside the open door. They were cloaked and dressed in shades of browns and blacks, plainly finery, but gone a bit tattered.
A voice called from inside the doorway, “Again it is an honor to have a Hand of Lord Balger join us for the ceremonies! My manservant, Lowl, will take you to your rooms, where you may refresh after your trip. He’ll see that your trunks are unloaded from the flippercraft and brought to your rooms.”
Dart stepped against the wall to allow them to pass. The retinue from Foulsham Dell had already arrived, undoubtedly early enough to take full advantage of the flow of wine and ale. She also noted that Lord Balger, god of that realm, had sent only one of his eight Hands to attend Tylar’s knighting. A veiled slight. Plainly there remained ill will between the god of the Dell, a realm of brigands and cutthroats, and the new regent.
Over the past moon, bets had been placed among the knights on which realms would send emissaries and how many Hands from each would be in attendance. Dart eyed the passage of the lone Hand from the Dell, a pot- bellied man with a palsied gait. Few would make money on this wager.
Once the party had passed, Dart continued down the hall.
The pair of black-cloaked guards, who even here kept the wrap of their masklins over the lower half of their faces, barely noted her passage.
Unfortunately she did not escape another’s attention.
“Page Hothbrin…”
She froze.
“A moment, if you please.”
Dart turned to find Warden Fields standing a few steps past his threshold. He was a commanding figure, tall in black boots and trousers, with a gray shirt and silver buttons. His manner was casual as he passed some trifling gift that the Hand of Lord Balger had presented to him to another manservant.
Despite the few streaks of gray in his dark auburn hair, tied and braided with black leather, Argent ser Fields remained solid of muscle and stolid of countenance. He studied Dart for a measuring breath. His attention was disconcerting; one eye had been lost during an acclaimed campaign against a ravening hinterking. The old scar was now covered by a plate of bone, taken, it was said, from the skull of that same king.
Dart backed a step-but she could not escape that easily.
Warden Fields waved her forward with a warm smile. “Fear not, child. I won’t bite.”
Swallowing hard, Dart drifted toward him. She could not refuse. Despite the difficulties last year, he remained the leader of the Shadowknights. She stepped across the threshold and entered his Eyrie.
Argent spoke to the knights at the door. “Have Master Hesharian and his guest indulge me a moment-when they arrive.”
Dart had noted that the large master remained halfway down the hall, greeting Balger’s Hand, wheezing and wiping a brow.
Argent closed the door, nodded to her again, and strode into the room. A fire crackled in a large hearth. The windows that overlooked a central courtyard were heavily draped against the cold. There were few furnishings. Even the back corner of the room had its rugs rolled back to bare stone, with a rack of weapons against one wall. A spot for the warden to spar and keep his skills honed. It was said he remained one of the more formidable swordsmen.
But Dart noted the layer of dust on the weapons rack.
Argent had turned his attention to other battles of late.
Keeping his place here in the Eyrie.
Though he had been voted into position with almost unanimous backing of the knights and masters, all knew by what means he had stretched to capture Tylar when the regent was an outlawed godslayer. All had seen the petrified body of the warden’s former right-hand man, Symon ser Jaklar, accidentally cursed to stone by Argent’s own hand, wielding a sword black with corrupted Graces, a forbidden weapon. The disgrace went far toward unseating the man-but seemingly not far enough.
Symon’s form had disappeared into the masters’ domain, deep under the Citadel, supposedly to seek some way to cure him, but more likely to whisk the corruption away from all eyes, to let time dull the horror.
So with the backing of the likes of Master Hesharian, high master of the Council of Masters, Argent had initially kept his perch here in the Eyrie. And now his position grew more solid with the passing of every moon. Memories ran short when all of Myrillia was holding its breath and searching over its shoulders. Rumors and stories continued to abound: of strange beasts plaguing outlying realms, of madness among gods, of disappearances across the lands.
And as this long winter stretched on, Argent found his support growing. Before his disgrace, he had founded the Fiery Cross among the knights. Over the recent centuries, the shadowknights had been dwindling in both numbers and esteem, seemingly becoming no more than couriers and sell-swords. Argent had promised to reverse that course, to return the knights to glory, to become its own force among the gods, all symbolized under the banner of the Fiery Cross.
Such a conceit found fertile ground in many hearts.
Even corruption could not fully unroot it.
And now this latest ploy: to return to Tylar his shadowcloak and sword. The offer was made more to help Argent than Tylar. But it could not be refused. Such a gesture of unification was necessary. During these dark times, Tashijan needed to be strong, for there were greater dangers than those represented by Argent ser Fields.
“Come inside. I wish to share a few private words with you.” Argent motioned her forward. “Knight to knight.”
Dart remained where she was, head bowed, her eyes narrowed with suspicion. The warden had never once even spoken to her. To all, even the warden, Dart was no more than some page scooped up by Castellan Vail, a servant and courier. The warden remained ignorant of her true role and the secret hidden in her blood and heritage.
So what could he want with her now?
Argent crossed to a small table with a silver platter of brandied nuts and dried baby plums. Fingers waved at the fare. “Please help yourself. I imagine Mistress Yuril has worn you thin and hungry.”
Dart’s belly was indeed empty, but she made no move, mumbling something that was incomprehensible even to her own ears.
Argent plucked up a plum and rolled it between his fingers. “I’ve heard from a certain squire that you seem to be lapsing in your training.”
Dart’s eyes flicked up, her face reddening.
“We can’t have that. Perhaps it would be best if I freed you from your duties with the castellan.”
“Ser,” Dart said, suddenly finding her voice, “please, no!”
“No, I don’t suppose you’d like to lose such an esteemed position. A page serving the castellan. It is a rare honor.”
Dart’s brow crinkled. What was all this about?
“I’m certain the deficit to your training could be corrected…with a tutor, perhaps a bit of fortifying Grace…but such an expense. I daresay it must be beyond your means, yes?”
Dart just bowed her head. She could not stop her knees from shaking. Across the room, Pupp wandered about, poking his nose into corners.
“But in the long run, it might be to the Order’s best suit to have such an esteemed member as yourself, one serving the castellan, to avail herself of such a boon.”
“That would be most generous,” Dart said.
Argent popped the plum between his lips and chewed for a moment, nodding as if in private conversation with himself. He finally spoke again. “Still, what is a boon if unearned? What sort of lesson would that be for a knight-in-training?”
“Ser?”
Argent sighed. “With all the tumult of late, the castellan and I have found so few moments to sit and share our thoughts on matters of Tashijan’s well-being. That is certainly not good for the Order. Perhaps as recompense for the additional expense of tutors and drips and drabs of special Graces, you, Page Hothbrin, could serve an
