all the stones to have been tallied.
“That’s why I hurried here. Word is that the vote was so overwhelming that the outcome was plain from the first spill of the stones.”
Kathryn wore a worried expression. There had been five main candidates for the seat of Tashijan, each represented by a different colored stone: red, green, blue, yellow, and white. During the secret ballot, Kathryn had chosen none of them, selecting instead a black stone, a vote against all the candidates.
“What stone leads?” Gerrod asked, though there could be only one answer.
“White,” Perryl confirmed. “Ser Fields’s color. Word whispering from the council hall is that the other colors were but a few daubs against a sea of white. No count will be necessary to declare the victor.”
“Then it’s over,” Kathryn whispered. She faced the others. “We should bring the news to Castellan Mirra. See what she has to say.”
As a group, they vacated Gerrod’s rooms and climbed out of the Masterlevels buried under the central keep of Tashijan. The floors above, the Citadel as it was called, were the domain of the Order of the Shadowknight. The Citadel and the Masterlevel composed the two halves of Tashijan, one above-ground, the other below. And the loftier the level in the Citadel, the more esteemed the residents. A castellan was second only to the warden. That meant a climb of twenty-two flights to reach Castellan Mirra’s hermitage.
They climbed in silence, lost to their own thoughts and worries. But they were not alone. Young squires and pages sprinted up and down the central staircase as it wound through the heart of the keep, voices sharp with excitement. A few knights marched the same steps, mostly heading down toward the Grand Court. Word of the early pronouncement had spread quickly.
Kathryn nodded to her brothers and sisters as they passed.
“Have you heard?” one called to her. “Argent’s color rides high. Looks like ol’ One Eye will be leading us from here!”
Kathryn attempted a smile, but it felt crooked on her face. Then the other knight was gone, vanishing around a turn of the stairs.
They climbed the rest of the way up to the proper level and crossed down the resident halls of those who ruled Tashijan. By morning, there would be new occupants in all of these rooms as Argent ser Fields picked those who would work beside him. A new warden meant an entire upheaval for those in power. Kathryn glanced to the doorway that led to Ser Henri’s private rooms, the Warden’s Eyrie, as it was called. Soon it, too, would have a new resident, an eagle replaced by a blood vulture.
Perryl reached Castellan Mirra’s door first and knocked. The sound was unnaturally loud in the stone hallway. They waited for a response, but there was none.
“Perhaps she’s already heard,” Gerrod said. “As castellan, she’ll have to make an appearance at the Grand Court when the pronouncement is made.”
“Or perhaps she’s asleep,” Perryl added. “Her hearing is not as keen these last years.”
“Try again,” Kathryn urged.
Gerrod shifted past Perryl and knocked an armored fist on the door. Though he didn’t pound hard, the strike of bronze on wood startled Kathryn with its clangor. Even the stone deaf could not fail to hear his hail.
A small, frightened voice finally sounded from beyond the door. “Who is it?”
Kathryn recognized the shaky tone. It was the scrap of a girl that served as maid to Castellan Mirra. She tried to remember her name and failed. “Child… it is Kathryn ser Vail.”
There was a long pause. “Castellan Mirra… she’s not in residence.”
Kathryn frowned at her two companions. Perhaps Gerrod was right.. she’d gone already to the Grand Court.
The maid spoke again. “She’s been gone the long day, since the midday break.”
Kathryn’s lips hardened further, her eyes sparking toward the others. Surely the old castellan would return to her rooms to freshen herself before appearing before the court. The maid’s name snapped into her mind. “Penni, did she say when she would be back?”
“No, ser. I can’t say. I left to fetch some fresh water and hard coal, but when I returned the mistress had already left. I don’t know when to expect her back.”
Kathryn did not trust such strange tidings. Not on this day. “Penni, please let us in. I would rather not discuss this out in the hall.”
Another long pause stretched.
“Penni…” Kathryn’s tone grew more firm.
“I’m not supposed to allow anyone in when the mistress is away.”
“It’s important. You know we were speaking with Castellan Mirra only this morning. You know your mistress’s trust in me.”
“Still, I… I dare not disobey. The mistress does not like her word to be ignored.”
Kathryn sighed. She couldn’t argue with that. Few disobeyed the old castellan. Her tongue could sting sharper than a whip’s tip.
Perryl stepped closer. “Let me try,” he whispered, then turned to the door. “Penni, it’s Perryl. I’m with Ser Vail and Master Rothkild. You need not fear. On my word and honor, I will assert your honest and firm guardianship of her rooms. But it is of utmost importance that we attempt to find some clue to your mistress’s whereabouts.”
Kathryn glanced to Gerrod and rolled her eyes. Since when had Perryl developed such a sweet tongue? When last they were here, Kathryn had noticed how the maid had glanced from under heavy eyelashes at Perryl before being dismissed. He did strike a strong, willowy figure. Who said a knight’s strength lay only in his cloak?
The door swung slowly open. A small face framed in brown curls tucked under a lace cap peeked out at them. The cheeks reddened as her eyes glanced over them, settled on Perryl, then swept away again.
“Thank you, Penni,” Perryl said with a half bow. “You have done your mistress no disservice.”
She returned his bow and waved them inside.
The hermitage was uncomfortably warm after the unheated halls. The thick drapes had been drawn over the balcony windows, shuttering out the storm and making the room seem smaller. Tiny lamps dotted the room, wicked low to conserve the oil until the castellan’s return.
The wool rug muffled their footsteps. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. The room simply awaited the return of its master.
“Your mistress left no message, no note?” Perryl pressed the maid, whose head remained bowed, hands clasped together at her bosom.
“No, ser.”
Gerrod had crossed to the room’s center and searched slowly, standing in one place. Only his eyes could be seen through his bronzed armor. “The castellan’s cane is still in its stand,” he noted aloud.
Kathryn glanced in the direction he indicated. A tall ebony walking stick, swirled in silver filigree, rested in a brass stand. Castellan Mirra’s legs were not as stout as once they were. She required either a supportive arm or a cane.
The maid stepped forward again, bowing slightly as she spoke. “That is her fancy stick, Master Rothkild. Her regular one is gone from the wardrobe.” She pointed an arm, not looking up.
Kathryn nodded. Castellan Mirra was not one given to show. She usually hobbled on a greenwood stick knobbed in bronze. Kathryn waved a hand, turning away. “That one is used only for ceremonial occasions.”
“Like the passing of wardenship to a new hand,” Perryl said. “Would she not have taken it to the Naming Ceremony?”
Gerrod mumbled inside his helmet, “Unless it was her way to insult the proceedings. A jibe against those who would succeed her.”
Kathryn crossed to the hearth, ruddy with coals. Mirra was supposed to have met with those loyal to Ser Henri and herself, those who had set themselves against the Fiery Cross. Had she met with them? Had they all decided to flee?
Kathryn felt an ache behind her eyes. She was not used to thinking in terms of such intrigues and machinations. She turned from the hearth, her eyes settling on the chair where Mirra had sat earlier. The ermine- edged cloak still lay over its back. Like Mirra herself, it was old, ragged at the edges, but still retained a certain beauty.
