Bloodred eyes-that’s all I saw.” Pyllor shook his head, almost dislodging the soothmancer.
Dart knew Pyllor had been panicked, in tears, eyes squeezed closed at the end. Even now terror seemed to leach away any further details.
“Calm yourself,” the elderly adjudicator said with a tempered measure of compassion.
The three at the high bench leaned together, heads bowed in private.
Dart missed most of their words. Only a brief snippet reached her from the younger adjudicator. “Their stories stand together…but they strike out wildly when it comes to this daemon.”
Finally they broke their conversation with a glance toward Dart. From their eyes, she knew they would seek those answers from her.
“That will be all,” Argent said to Pyllor. Fury hardened the edges of his words. “You are dismissed. Your punishment will be settled and exacted later.”
Pyllor was released. He was led to the side tiers by another knight in full cloak and masklin. Pyllor glanced toward her, then quickly away. She was shocked by the fear that shone in his face- fear of her.
Then her name was called.
“Page Hothbrin,” the elderly adjudicator summoned. “Approach the bench to be soothed.”
Ushered by two knights, Dart stepped from under the arched threshold and out into the center of the room. The soothmancer, who had been judging Pyllor, knelt beside the silver bowl on the floor and dipped his fingers into the alchemy, readying for Dart’s inquisition.
She was led to the chair and sat. She gripped the hard edges of her seat to keep from shaking. The source of all this discourse-Pupp-circled and circled the chair. He sensed her consternation but plainly did not know where to direct his wrath.
“Are you ready?”
She had no choice but to acquiesce. She nodded, not trusting her voice.
The adjudicators motioned in unison to the soothmancer. He rose from his bowl of alchemies and stepped behind Dart.
“We will know the truth about this daemon,” Argent warned, his one eye bearing down on her. There was a measure of calculation in his gaze.
From the corner of her eyes, Dart watched the blood-tipped fingers of the soothmancer rise on either side of her head. They glowed with fiery Grace. Dart attempted to brace herself, not quite knowing how to gird against what was to come.
“Stop!” a shout burst out behind her.
Too late.
Wet fingers touched her-at forehead, temple, and throat.
Dart could not turn. Fire locked her in place, burning and probing through her skin toward the core of her being. Still, she recognized Castellan Vail’s voice. Relief flowed through her.
“Tashijan is under attack!” Kathryn called firmly as she stepped into Dart’s view.
Before anyone could react, the soothmancer behind Dart suddenly screamed, a bloodcurdling cry that burst from the man as if from his very bones. His hand fell away from Dart, freeing her. He stumbled to the side, holding out his arms.
Smoke curled from his fingertips, each digit burnt away to the first knuckle.
The stench of cooked flesh swelled out.
Seeking relief, the soothmancer sank to his knees and plunged his seared fingers into the alchemy in the silver bowl. The blood in its basin ignited as if oil had been set aflame. The fiery conflagration coiled up the mancer’s arms, turning robe to ash, searing skin and hair beneath.
Betrayed by his own alchemy, the man fell back into a contorted sprawl, writhing on the stone.
At the high bench, the adjudicators were all on their feet.
Cries echoed around the room.
Dart noted Kathryn’s worried expression. Behind her, Brant stood with Laurelle, each with a look of dismay.
A voice boomed with authority, cutting through the growing mayhem. Warden Fields stood with an arm pointed at Dart. “Daemoness!” he cried to the guards, to the knights of the Fiery Cross. “Slay her!”
A MEASURE OF DARK GRACE
Abandoning the Upper Citadel, Tylar crossed down into the subterranean lair of the masters. Here the oil lamps affixed to the walls were stationed farther apart, some gone dark, unwelcoming to all but the studious masters who found little cheer in anything but their studies. Tylar did not mind. He drew power from the deeper shadows, swelling the Grace in his borrowed cloak. Below the Citadel, the crowd on the stairs also thinned rapidly.
Rogger matched Tylar’s more hurried pace.
Kathryn had sent the pair below to discover what new threat lay within the cellars of Tashijan and to alert the masters to the danger in their midst. But Tylar also knew she had suggested this mission for a more expedient reason: to keep Argent and Tylar apart. She had to rally Tashijan and draw attention away from Dart. With little love lost between regent and warden, Tylar’s presence would only antagonize. So Tylar had not argued. He had seen the number of cloaks bearing the sigil of the Fiery Cross. They would need Argent’s full support if they were to raise Tashijan’s defenses to their full. And Tylar had no doubt that every cloak and sword would be needed.
Both above and below.
Tylar left the stairs and headed toward the quarters of their one ally here. Gerrod Rothkild. The bronze- armored master knew these levels better than any. But Tylar sought Gerrod for another purpose, too. According to Kathryn, he had been studying the cursed rogue skull and examining its traces of seersong, a measure of dark Grace still locked within the bones. If they were to withstand the threat hidden out in the storm, knowledge could prove mightier than any diamond-pommeled sword.
But as he turned a corner, Tylar saw he was not the only one seeking Gerrod’s attention this night. The master’s door lay open ahead. Firelight shone into the dark hallway, bathing two figures.
Master Hesharian stood with a thinner figure in a master’s robes.
“I will not be thwarted,” the rotund master declared. “Any study into dark arts must be sanctioned by the Council.”
“There is nothing dark in my studies here,” Gerrod answered, hidden within his doorway, blocking the way. From the slight ringing muffle of his words, Tylar could tell that Kathryn’s friend had secured his helmet. “And I will not have my work disturbed at this delicate juncture. So unless you have a signed edict to violate my door, I will ask you to leave me to my studies.”
“If I find out otherwise…” A hard threat echoed behind Hesharian’s words. “Now is not the time for secrets when talk of daemons rings in our own halls.”
Tylar approached, interceding. “If it is daemons you seek, Master Hesharian, then I’ve come in a most timely manner.”
Hesharian turned at his words, as did his companion. The thinner master’s milky gaze fixed upon Tylar, faltering his step. The tattoos of the man’s mastered disciplines seemed to twitch in the flickering hearthlight, like spiders skittering across his bald pate. Then he stepped back from the doorway and into shadows.
Tylar spoke as he reached them. “The castellan’s page has been captured. The one accused of summoning daemons. She is to be soothed as we speak.”
Hesharian’s eyes widened in recognition of who stood before him. “Lord Regent,” he said formally, after tripping over his words for a breath. “How may I be of assistance to you?”
“For the moment, you can best serve Tashijan by joining Warden Fields. Matters move quickly. I’ve come at the request of the castellan to fetch a master to attend the soothing in the adjudicators’ chamber. She sent me to ask Master Rothkild-”
“Then it is timely indeed that you have come upon me,” Hesharian interrupted, stepping forward and half- blocking the doorway. “For such a dark soothing, it is only fitting that the head of the Council be in
