It was Sten, captain of the Oldenbrook guards.
Only now did Laurelle remember an earlier message she had intended to deliver. A warning meant for Delia. It had been pushed to the side after the harrowing discovery of Master Orquell’s true nature. Laurelle clutched her throat, remembering what she had overheard while she hid in Brant’s room-whispers of accidents, misfortunes, directed toward Delia.
Offered by this same captain of the guards.
The one who now dogged Delia’s steps.
Laurelle reached behind and grabbed Kytt’s arm. She tugged him forward.
“What are you-?”
“We’re going to need that handsome nose of yours again.”
He allowed himself to be dragged along. “Handsome?”
They dared not tarry.
“Hurry.”
She led him back to the stairs, careful that no eyes were staring too intently in their direction. Laurelle kept her back straight as if she belonged and was going about some urgent matter. She pasted a haughty look upon her features as she passed a guard by the main stair. She sighed with a ringing petulance toward Kytt.
“Oh, please hurry, boy. We can’t keep my seamstress waiting.”
She minced down the steps with feigned exasperation, Kytt in tow. Once out of direct view, she reached out and took his hand.
“Let’s go.”
They hurried down the flights until voices reached them from the lower landing. “I see no reason why this could not wait,” she heard Delia exclaim. “A drunk Hand is a matter for the guards to attend.”
“It is one of your realm’s Hands, mistress. From Chrismferry. Master Munchcryden.” Sten sighed. “Mistress Liannora thought you’d prefer to avoid any embarrassment, especially for someone serving the fieldroom.”
“How generous of her,” Delia commented.
“Plus Master Munchcryden has specifically asked for you.”
“Very well.”
Laurelle knew how protective Delia was of the Hands left in her charge. And all knew Master Munchcryden’s disposition when it came to ale. It was a perfect excuse to lure Delia away for a few moments. A reasonable request. Then she could return to address the concerns raised by Laurelle.
But Delia had not heard the plot whispered in the hall.
It is easy to trip on a stair. To break a leg…or even a neck.
“Off here, mistress. There’s a back way, a little-used stair, where we can haul Master Munchcryden back to your rooms with few eyes present to note his state.”
“Let’s be quick, then.”
“After you, Mistress Delia.”
Laurelle rushed down to the next landing, rounding in time to see Sten vanish down a side passage. Kytt touched her elbow, not to stop her, only to warn her to be careful.
She had only one weapon. Her eyes, as witness.
Surely Sten would not harm Delia if there was a chance others would find out. He would have to back down.
Laurelle left the landing and headed down the hall toward the side passage where Delia and Sten had vanished.
Words carried back to her.
“Who are these men?” Delia asked, her voice muffled by the narrowness of the cross passage. Still, Laurelle heard a sudden note of suspicion.
“My men,” Sten answered calmly. “To help carry Master Munchcryden.”
Laurelle ran faster.
“The stairs are just ahead,” Sten assured her.
Reaching the arched opening, Laurelle spotted the grouping midway down the passage, huddled at the head of a dark stair. One of Sten’s men held aloft a lamp.
Delia took the first step down.
Laurelle lifted an arm. “Mistress Delia!”
Her call rang out just as Sten shoved with both arms. Delia had begun to turn, drawn by Laurelle’s cry-or perhaps sensing something amiss.
She shouted in surprise as she tumbled headlong out of sight. A crash of body on stone echoed to Laurelle- and Delia’s cry suddenly ended.
Laurelle found all eyes staring at her.
Sten lifted an arm. Laurelle backed away, bumping into Kytt.
Shadows shifted to the right. Laurelle saw more guards, more of Sten’s men, crossing from the main stairs into the passageway, latecomers, cutting off their retreat in that direction.
Swords slid from sheaths.
Kytt pulled Laurelle in the opposite direction, away from the stairs, toward the deeper depths of Tashijan. She stumbled after him.
Behind her, she heard one last order from Sten. “Go down. Make sure her neck is broken.”
Laurelle ran. Terror could not stop the tears from welling. Kytt led the way, hand in hers, turning one corner, then another with some instinct born of fear and Grace.
Still, boots pounded after them.
“Tashijan is rotted,” Lord Ulf said. “To the very stones of its foundation. From root to rooftop.”
Kathryn shook her head. Though the fire was at her back, the room had gone colder than the darkest crypt.
“Mirra has weeded seeds throughout your towers,” Ulf stated firmly. “And she is not the first. What you discovered below is but the first sprouts of a greater evil. It winds throughout Tashijan, deep into the past. And if left unchecked, far into the future, where our world will lie in ruins, trod by monsters a thousandfold worse than any carried by my winds.”
Kathryn held up a hand. “But now we know about Mirra’s treachery. We can stop her.”
The figure of ice sculpted its face into a mask of distaste and irritation. “Too late, castellan, too late by far. It is rooted too deeply. Like the seersong in the Wyr-mistress. It can’t be untangled, not without even worse ruin and damnation. Even you have been seeded.”
“Me?”
“With distrust. With impotency. You cannot even stop Warden Fields. He remains a puppet to the witch below, dancing to the pulls of her strings.”
“We can cut those strings.”
“And more will rise to tangle and knot harder. Do you think the Fiery Cross is a creation of the warden? It was birthed by distrust, dissension, suspicion. So thoroughly has Mirra wrought her discord that trust will never return to Tashijan.”
Kathryn remembered her attempt to restore trust between Argent and Tylar. Both sides had equally failed. Even she had whisked Tylar away without consulting the warden.
Distrust, dissension, suspicion.
Lord Ulf must have read her understanding. “There is no way to weed this patch. Best to burn it and salt the ground. Start anew. I’ve brought my forces far, at great cost and risk. Let us use the strength granted by the Cabal to set a cleansing fire here.”
“And do the Cabal’s bidding in this regard, too. Like killing Tylar.” Hardness entered her voice.
“While it might serve the Cabal, it benefits us even more. We must look past the present and take a long view ahead. Even if Mirra could be chased from your cellars, the Fiery Cross will achieve ascendancy. A new Order of Shadowknights will emerge under a new banner. Argent ser Fields intends dominion for this new Order-to place the knights above all else, even the gods. Such an act will open the way not only for the Cabal, but much worse. Myrillia will fall into chaos, return to the time of bloodshed and raving. In this one moment, we have a chance to change that course.”
