Brant’s touch on her elbow, urgent but patient. She responded to it.
“To me,” she commanded again. “Now.”
Pupp turned back to Pyllor. The squire moaned and pushed against the wall. A trail of wetness flowed from under Pyllor as he fouled himself in his terror. But Pupp finally obeyed. He swung around and trotted sullenly and darkly back to her. He brought with him a whiff of burnt blood-her own and perhaps Pyllor’s.
Brant led her to the door.
Down the hallway, a sharp cry of daemon rang from the central stair.
Brant glanced at her. Dart noted the flecks of gold in his emerald eyes. “Where?” he asked.
“This way,” Dart said and hurried away from the shouts. She led him toward the far end of the hallway. A back stair led to the warren of rooms and narrow halls of Tashijan’s underfolk and small staff.
“It fades,” Brant said beside her, staring at Pupp’s form.
“The Grace that gave him substance has been consumed.”
Pupp slipped back into his ghostly form. And none too soon. A door flew open, revealing an elderly manservant in house livery, drawn by the commotion. Dart and Brant hurried past, while Pupp padded through the man’s legs and the open door as if they were air.
Once they reached the back stairs, they ran down a full flight. Brant asked her as they fled, “What Grace is this you speak of?”
“Something…” She shifted her wounded fist, wrapped and snugged in her half cloak. “Something in my blood.”
Dart knew that what she had revealed was supposed to be kept secret, but she had neither the strength nor the will to roust up some fabrication. Besides, the strange young man seemed to know more than he expressed.
Like how he had come so opportunely to the door a moment ago.
It seemed both had secrets neither was ready to fully bare.
Brant slowed them and drew Dart into a niche. He pulled a bit of scarf from an inner pocket of his cloak. It was mere roughspun. He nodded for her hand. She held it out, and he deftly wrapped her palm, cinching it tight to hold the wound closed.
“Can you move your fingers?”
She demonstrated that she could, though it hurt.
“Nothing appears deeply maimed,” he mumbled. “But you should see a healer.”
She withdrew her hand from his, suddenly uncomfortable with his touch. “I will.”
They stepped back onto the stairs. Voices echoed from above. Inquiries called out, from shadowknights drawn by the commotion. A voice rang through, edged with panic.
“They fled that way with the daemon!”
Pyllor.
Brant sighed through his nose. Dart sensed that maybe he was reconsidering his mercy. They headed down before any pursuers closed in on them.
With the shock worn away, the enormity of what had happened struck Dart. Pyllor and his two cohorts, members of the Fiery Cross, would soon have the story of Dart and her daemon fluttering to the top of Stormwatch, to the Warden’s Eyrie and the castellan’s hermitage. Kathryn would be furious. Dart despaired. In a moment, all had come to ruin. There would be no hiding from accusations of summoning daemons. Her life here was over. She would either be exposed or have to flee again.
Until then, she needed a moment to sit, to think.
“They don’t know me,” Brant said. “We have to go somewhere where they won’t think to look for you.”
But where? Dart could not force her thoughts into any order. She simply ran, winding down the stairs, bumping her shoulders due to the narrowness, dodging a few of the under-staff who were busy with their own labors. Their flight was ignored.
Brant finally slowed her. “I might know a place. I was headed to the Citadel’s houndskeep and kennel. My lord arranged a private pen, one under guard. We could hole up down there.”
Dart nodded. She had been down to the houndskeep only once. It was unlikely anyone would recognize her. “I know a shorter route through the courtyard,” she said.
With a goal firmly in mind, she headed off at a faster pace. Once safe, perhaps she could get a letter to the castellan. Kathryn would know best how to handle this matter.
They fled another three flights to reach the level that separated the upper Citadel from the subterranean realm of the masters. She escaped the stairs through a warren of kitchens, passing baker’s ovens, simmerpots, and spitted roasting fires. Savory scents assaulted them at every turn: rising yeast, bubbling spiced oils, spattering fat, brittling sweetcake. They had to skirt around a team of cooks lifting a full boar from a massive hearth.
“Mind the tusks!” the chief cook hollered, meaty fists on his hips.
Then they were gone, out a door, escaping the ringing din of banging pans and sweltering heat. Brant closed the door against it. They sheltered a moment in an arched doorway, open to the central courtyard.
The cold struck Dart first, like jumping into a cold creek. She shivered all over and must have made some sound, for Brant turned toward her.
“Storm’s already here,” he said quietly and shifted his attention to the gray-cloaked skies above.
Snow sifted down, softly, gently. Sheltered by massive towers on four sides, the winds failed to reach here. Heavy flakes, like downy heron feathers, floated and drifted, almost hanging in the air, refusing to touch land. The snowfall filled the courtyard like sand in a well. Dart could barely discern the giant wyrmwood tree that graced the center of the courtyard. Its lower branches were caked with mounding snow. Its upper branches stretched upward, toward the top of Stormwatch, as if the ancient tree were trying to claw its way out of the courtyard, smothering under the thickening blanket.
Brant held out his hand and let a few flakes settle to his palm. The heat of his body melted them. He dried his hand on his pants. Dart noted a glint of suspicion in the narrowing of his eyes as he studied the skies for another breath.
“The true storm has yet to strike,” he mumbled and headed out into the snow. “The worst is yet to come.”
Dart bundled her cloak tighter and led the way across the courtyard. As she aimed for the far side of the massive trunk of the wyrmwood, she noted one of their party holding back, still sheltered in the archway.
“Pupp-to me,” she said and patted her hip.
He huddled his molten form low to the ground. His usual ruddy bronze had dulled to a wan shine. The spikes of his mane trembled as he shook ever so slightly.
“It’s only snow,” she said, stopping fully to turn to face him.
Brant halted with her. “Your daemon?”
“He’s not my daemon,” she said with a note of irritation. “He’s…he’s…” What could she say? “Never mind. It’s complicated.”
Dart had no desire to tell this emerald-eyed boy who she actually was. And unlike the gods of Myrillia, she was born whole and unsundered. Then again, maybe that wasn’t totally true. Pupp was birthed with her, joined to her, and in some aspects, a part of her. In fact, she grew deathly ill if Pupp was too far separated from her. Sundered yet still together was how Master Gerrod had once described it.
But for as long as Dart could remember, Pupp was just Pupp, her ghostly companion, champion, and forever a piece of her heart.
That was good enough for her.
Though right at this moment, his stubbornness piqued her growing impatience. She didn’t want to be in the storm any longer than necessary.
“Pupp, come here!”
“You can still see him?” Brant asked, his brows pinched as he searched the snowswept courtyard.
Before she could answer, Pupp finally obeyed. He shot out from under the archway and sped low to the ground, skirting side to side, as if trying to avoid any snowflakes. But the path he scribed formed a sigil of panic. He hurried to Dart and past, continuing across the yard.
Now Dart followed, almost running, dragging Brant with her.
At least Pupp must have understood where she wanted to go. He aimed for a short flight of descending
