She could flee, keep running, disappear into the low, shadowed streets of Chrismferry, and never be seen again. It was banishment… but it would be by her own hand, not another’s.
She raced along a path that was gravel rather than cobbles. It was one of the older sections of the garden. Here, the beds ran wilder, overgrown, and the occasional fishpond or stream was coated with green and moved sluggishly, if at all. Trees reached higher, spanning the path. Shadows thickened.
Her feet began to slow. She passed a crumbled line of stone that bisected her path. One of the old garden walls. Over the many centuries, the Eldergarden had grown, spreading south from the river and castillion, requiring old walls to be knocked down and new ones to be raised farther out, continually consuming a part of the central city. It had happened twenty-two times over the four millennia, according to Jasper Cheek.
Dart crossed through the stone row and entered an ancient section of the garden. She was surprised to find the branches of the myrrwood stretching over her. She glanced behind.
The castillion’s nine towers, the Stone Graces, formed a half-moon, cupping the vast Eldergarden within the palm of their battlements. Each tower rose twenty stories, yet only the tops could be discerned between the trees.
Dart found herself frozen in place, pulled in two different directions. A part of her heart begged for continued flight, to escape while she could, but a part of her felt drawn back, to face her responsibilities, to not abandon Laurelle without even the kindness of a good-bye. But deeper still lay a fear of what awaited her beyond the walls of the Eldergarden. The city was an unknown that still terrified her. Would she toss herself to its mercies without hope of redemption?
Before she could make her choice, voices intruded, drawing her attention back to the shadowed bower of the myrrwood. They were accompanied by laughter, as merry as the dappled wood. A small party approached.
Though Dart had broken no rules, she feared being spotted. She searched quickly for a hiding place. Pupp merely sat on his haunches, tongue lolling, his stumpy tail wagging.
She retreated through the broken wall, finding a tumble of blocks on the far side to shelter behind. A few steps away, Pupp nosed through a bit of fiddleleaf shrubbery, hunting a scrub mouse that had scampered from Dart’s toes.
The voices drew nearer, two people, a woman and a man. Laughter continued to trail them. Lovers on a picnic, Dart imagined. Oh, to live a life where such simple pleasures were allowed. She hunkered down lower as they came to the breach in the wall.
They stopped. Dart peered through a crack in the rockery. For a moment, Dart thought it was Laurelle. Wrapped in a brown velvet cape, the girl bore the same fall of ebony hair, the same creamed skin. But as she turned her face into the sunlight, she was clearly a few years older, and not as fair of features, though her beauty still far outshone Dart’s. Her lips parted as she tilted to accept a kiss from her companion.
He, in turn, could have been the young woman’s father. Older by far, his black hair was touched by white at the temples and in a narrow streak, like a lightning strike, across his crown. He was dressed in a brown riding cloak with knee-high boots, coat open at the collar to reveal a deep burgundy silk shirt. Nobility, for sure.
They kissed for several breaths. The woman leaned against the wall, only an arm’s length from Dart’s cubby. The man ground into her, one hand reaching beneath the cloak to grope. He found what he sought and suddenly broke the embrace, stepping back.
His hand came free from the woman’s cloak. A long dagger lay in his palm. “Did you think us so easily fooled, Jacinta?”
The woman gasped, then crouched slightly.
The man examined the weapon in the sunlight. Its blade was black, a shadow given substance. It ate the light, rather than reflected it. “A blade blessed in Dark Graces… brought here of all places. To the heart of Chrismferry. And you thought we wouldn’t know?”
Jacinta straightened, but her voice lowered to a poisoned edge. “We’ll stop you… all of you, by any means, foul or fair.”
Her words built storm clouds upon the other’s brows. He leaned closer to her. Even hidden behind rock, Dart sensed a font of power in the man. His eyes snapped with lightning. “Who sent you? Who supplied you with this?” He shook the dagger at her.
She laughed, but not the merry sound from a moment ago. She sounded much older than she appeared. “That you will never know!”
Before he could answer her challenge, Jacinta lunged at the man, grabbing for the dagger. He misjudged her intent. She snatched at his wrist, not to wrest the weapon away, but to hold his grip firm. With a kick off the wall, she hurled herself forward, onto the blade.
“Myrillia will be free!” she shouted as the dagger struck home, into the hollow above her collarbone.
Dart saw it all, biting on a knuckle to keep from screaming. She watched the man fall away, yanking the dagger free. Blood shot out-and a spat of flame, chasing the retreating blade. The woman fell to her knees and then face forward to the ground.
As her body struck the path, her cloak collapsed in on itself. A billow of ash and smoke swirled up, filling the gap in the wall. It was all that was left of the woman named Jacinta. Flesh turned to dust.
Dart didn’t escape the backwash of ash. In one breath, it filled her nostrils-what was once the woman’s flesh.
A racking gag escaped her. She could not stop her revulsion.
Knowing her presence could be hidden no longer, she fled back to the path. The empty cloak lay in the wall’s breach, the gap still smoky with the cloud of ash. A dark shape moved beyond it.
The man with the dagger.
If she couldn’t see him clearly, there was a good chance her features were shaded, too. Perhaps she could escape unknown.
A shout chased her. “Stop!”
She ignored the command, thumped over a small bridge, and dodged behind a hedge. Ducking low, she ran to the hedgerow, attempting to keep out of direct light.
A pounding of boots on the bridge sounded behind her. He was closing fast, having no need to hide. Dart straightened and sprinted down the row. From behind, dressed in her plain bonnet and skirt, she would appear no more than a scullery maid. She prayed it would be enough to keep her unknown.
“Fear not, lass! There is no reason to flee!”
Mayhap the man was right. From the exchange, it was hard to say who might be the wronged party. Had it not been the woman who had thrown herself on the dagger, her own dagger, one blessed in Dark Graces? Was such a death murder? Still, Dart sensed dread matters afoot in their dealings, matters in which she had no wish to become embroiled. She had enough secrets to bear. A single more would break her back.
She searched for a crisscrossing of paths, praying for some fast turns to lose her pursuer. But she had fled back to the younger sections of the garden, to the cobbled paths. Here the shrubs were low, and the trees spindly and still leafless from winter. Her heart pounded in her ears… or was it the man’s boot steps?
The garden flew in a blur around her. The path took a sharp jag to the right, away from the castillion. Dart felt a sob build in her chest. She was lost. The castillion loomed before her, but she could not find the set of paths that led back there. Cutting straight through would only get her trapped by hedges or bogged down in the deeper ponds. She had to stick to the paths.
With her skirts flying around her ankles, she rounded past a whistledown bush. A shape suddenly loomed into the path before her, a dark shadow.
She screamed, but her momentum was unstoppable. She crashed into the figure. She scrambled and kicked to be free of the other’s arms as they sought to catch her up. He held something in his hand. The cursed dagger!
She cracked a knee up into the man’s groin.
A loud oof followed, and she was free, stumbling backward.
Only now did she truly see her attacker. He was as tall as the man who had accosted the woman in the gardens… but much younger. No more than five or six years older than Dart. The young man was dressed in simple rough-spun breeches and shift, gripping a small spade-not a dagger.
“Skags, girl, what the naether is wrong with you?” he asked, half-hunched over. “You came close to unmanning me there.”
