and over the rail.
Tylar lunged at him, striking the railing hard. One of the crossbow bolts snapped. A rib, grazed by the bolt, cracked with a flare of agony.
No…
Below, Darjon plummeted through window, tumbling past the belly of the flippercraft. Still wrapped in his shadowcloak, darkness shredded from his form, burned away by the brightness of the morning.
Tylar shoved backward, clutching his side. Darjon was no longer a concern.
“Tylar…?” Kathryn came toward him.
“Get back!” he yelled.
Agony flared outward from the snapped rib. Bones broke and broke again: wrist, elbow, fingers. He crashed to the floor as both legs shattered under him. He writhed on the floor for two breaths.
The beast inside shook free of its broken cage, rising from his chest, burning through his shirt and cloak, a fountain of smoky darkness. It fled from his form, stirring and drawing the bones together in its wake, healing with callus and spur.
He saw the look of horror on Kathryn’s face. He lifted a crooked arm toward her. The horror on her face deepened as she stumbled farther away.
Above him, the font of darkness spread its wings. Its shadow-maned head snaked outward. Flaming eyes opened, seeking the danger for which it had been summoned. It found only one target.
Kathryn continued her startled retreat.
The naethryn lunged at her, wings sweeping wide, eyes blazing.
Tylar had to stop it. He smeared his hands on his blood-soaked shirt and grabbed hold of the smoky umbilicus that linked the daemon to the black print on his chest. The Grace in his blood ignited like fire on contact. The cord throbbed and twisted under his fingers. Flames of Grace spread out over it, as swift as flowing water.
The naethryn, in midlunge, contorted as the wash of fire swamped it. Wings snapped wide. Neck whipped up. Then it was consumed. Flame and form lashed back toward Tylar. He braced for it. The kick as it struck knocked him on his rear. Blinded for a breath, he rolled back to his feet. He found his body healed again. Even his cuts. The bolts had vanished. He patted out the smoldering edges of the circle burned through his cloak and shirt.
Kathryn stared across the cabin, still stunned.
But she was safe.
Tylar felt a sudden lurch under him. The flippercraft hove up on its starboard side. The floor tilted. Tylar fell again to hands and knees. Kathryn tumbled backward, landing hard herself.
Tylar then smelled it. An acrid and familiar stench to the air.
Burning blood.
He craned upward. A large swath of crystal piping dripped molten glass. Crimson fluid, the air alchemies, dripped and sizzled through the slagged tubings, raining and flaming from above. The naethryn’s wing must have brushed through the piping.
Gods above…
The flippercraft shuddered. Somewhere under the floorboards, the ship’s mekanicals ground with the sound of tearing metal.
The floor tipped again, this time nose first.
The craft rattled and bucked.
As the angle steepened, both Tylar and Kathryn skidded down the tilted floor, striking the bow wall. She stared at him in raw fear.
They were going down.
Buried in shadow, Dart climbed the familiar stairs. Laurelle kept beside her. They gripped each other’s hands. Yaellin led the way, his cloak draping both girls.
“The eighth level?” Yaellin asked. “Is that correct?”
“Yes,” Laurelle whispered from the nest of shadows. “That’s where Healer Paltry keeps his chambers.”
Dart clutched tighter to her friend. The stair smelled of boiling oats and frying griddle cakes. The homey scent, rising from the kitchens below, triggered memories of a simpler life, where her worst fears were to have a boy see her petties as she climbed these same stairs. Before all the blood and the terror…
Bright laughter flowed down to them. A flurry of thirdfloorers cascaded down the staircase, heading to break their fast in the commons.
Yaellin motioned Dart and Laurelle into the next landing, shielding them fully from sight.
The parade of girls rushed past, all bundled in skirts, hair tucked under caps. Peeking past an edge of shadowcloak, Dart recognized all the faces: Sissup, Hessy, Sharyn, Pallia. Tears welled in her eyes at their chatter and easy manner. Had she ever been so light of thought?
Excitement coursed through the air, carried like a wind about the girls.
“I heard they were Dark Alchemists,” Pallia said, her voice frosted with frightened delight.
“No, I bet they were hinterland spies,” Gerdie countered. “Cursed by rogue blood.”
Only when they noted the Shadowknight posted on the landing did their voices grow hushed, eyes widening. Shadowknights were not an uncommon sight, but with the Conclave stirred up by black tidings, the presence of one drew curious stares. Once past the landing, the chatter resumed more excited than before, whispered behind hands, but still carrying to them.
“Did you see that knight?” Kylee said. “He was looking right at me. I was like to swoon.”
“Me, too,” Sissup said. “His eyes were dreamy.”
As the last thirdfloorers passed, a voice called from above. “Hurry, girls!”Though stern, it was as familiar as a warm hug. Matron Grannice appeared. Her portly form waddled down the steps like a mother goose, herding her goslings ahead of her. “Enough chatter! Jenine, how many times must I tell you to get your fingers from your mouth? What god will choose a girl with fingernails chewed to nubbins? Now get…”
The matron finally noted the stranger on the landing. She stopped, tucked a stray lock of gray hair under her bonnet. “Ser knight, you’ll have to forgive my girls. They are an excitable lot.”
“Not at all, Matron.”
Dart had to suppress an urge to climb out of Yaellin’s cloak and into Matron Grannice’s arms. She wanted to confess all, unburden herself.
Laurelle must have had similar thoughts. But both had seen too much horror in one night. Their only safety had been found in Yaellin’s cloak. So they remained where they were, hidden from sight.
“Have you come from the castillion?” Grannice asked.
“Yes, I’ve been assigned to search every floor, from top to bottom. I pray the intrusion will not be too burdensome, good matron.”
“Certainly not,” the matron said. “I’ve heard all about the uproar. An attack by Dark Alchemists in the Eldergarden. Can these black days get any blacker? Is it true two of Chrism’s Hands were abducted, possibly even corrupted?”
“Such matters I can’t speak of directly, goodly lady.”
She nodded sagely. “A silent tongue is a wise man’s best feature.”
“Indeed.”
“Well, I won’t keep you any longer from your duties. May the gods and shadows lighten your way.”
Yaellin bowed his head.
Matron Grannice departed, waving her arms. “Off with you girls.”
Several of the thirdfloorers had gathered several steps below, watching on, whispering to one another. But under the matron’s glare, they turned and fled down the stairs.
With the way clear, Yaellin stepped back out and continued the climb toward the eighth level. Dart and Laurelle followed, though Laurelle kept glancing back over her shoulder. Dart read her thoughts. How easy it would be to run down those stairs, join her fellow thirdfloorers, and pretend all this never happened. But it had. That life was dead to them… to both of them.
Still, Dart glanced back, too.
Before she could turn around, a figure stepped from the dormitory hall of the thirdfloorers. She was in a hurry, tugging down her skirt over her petties with one hand, pulling her cap on with the other. She must be the head girl of the floor, assigned to douse the lamps and secure the floor. An honor once bestowed upon Laurelle. Plainly the
