She swallowed hard and choked out one word. “Yes…”
He struggled to sit straighter, assisted by his servant. “Face me.”
She slowly turned.
He took her hand again. “Listen closely. Flesh is only wood, slowly burning to ash as we age. It is green when we are young, resisting the flame, smoking with all the fervency of youth. In the middle years, life’s flame begins to lick and devour. And at the end, all will be consumed.” He patted her fingers. “Understand, to serve a god is not a loss of life span. Our fires are not snuffed out early, but only stoked higher, to burn more brightly. Do you understand?”
Dart nodded tentatively.
Fingers squeezed hers as he leaned back. “Then you are better than I,” he sighed. “I think what I said is all so much shite.”
She again started.
A true smile formed on his lips. “I guess all I can really tell you is that I do not regret my life and service. Instead, I rejoice in it. As will you. There are no fancy words I can share that can encompass what you are about to experience, to live in Grace, to shine with it, to share your life with a god.”
Dart trembled, knowing herself unworthy of such an honor, more so now than a moment ago. She was tainted. All would soon know. Lord Chrism had failed to note her disgrace when they had first met within the Eldergarden-he clearly must have been distracted-but her secret could not withstand his full attention.
A trembling hand reached to her chin, drawing her eyes back to Master Willym. Amusement faded to concern in his gaze. He seemed to be searching for something. After a moment, there was the faintest nod. His eyes flicked away to the room, then back again. Almost a nervous gesture. Strange in one so esteemed. His lips parted as if he were to speak again.
A horn sounded from the larger chamber beyond.
Willym turned, breaking the spell. He lifted an arm for his servant to take. “It begins.” For the first time, his voice sounded as tired as he looked. Helped to his feet, he led the way toward the door, joined by Mistress Huri and Laurelle.
Matron Shashyl fussed over Dart one last time before finally letting her go. Dart took her place at Master Willym’s side.
He kept his face forward but spoke one last bit of wisdom to her as the doors pulled open before them. “Trust only in blood… and your own heart. And all will be fine.”
Dart took a deep breath, praying he was right.
Tigre Hall was named after the great river that splits the First Land into halves. It flows through the center of Chrismferry, a township that dates from before the coming of the gods, when the river’s raging course had been forded by a ferry bridge here, the only means of crossing for a thousand reaches. Mills were built, tolls collected, and the trading post grew to a village, and the village into a township. It became a central site for trading, commerce, and countless wars. The ancient stone footings of the original bridge became the foundations for Chrism’s castillion. The very hall down which Dart now paraded stood over the Tigre River. If one listened quietly, the river could be heard passing below.
Dart gaped around her.
Gentlefolk and those of nobility lined the curving rows of benches that faced the central high dais and the lone chair. It was as yet empty, a seat of carved myrrwood, ebonized, tall backed, arms curling to either side in gentle waves.
Behind the throne, a curve of smaller seats lined the back of the dais, four to each side, places for Chrism’s handservants. The seats were occupied-all except two places, of course. Dart eyed the seat to the immediate right of the throne. She knew this was her place. Laurelle’s chair awaited her, second to the left. Panic beat about Dart’s chest like a loose sparrow. She hated to be even that far from Laurelle, especially now.
The pair trailed behind the two Grace-bled servants, hanging back, allowing the pair one last entrance into Tigre Hall as handservants to Chrism. The pace was gratingly slow. Eyes followed Dart’s every step, weighing upon her like lead. She drifted closer to Laurelle, who seemed to take the procession with easy strides. She nodded to the occasional viewer, whether out of simple courtesy or some familial acquaintance Dart knew not.
She hung in Laurelle’s shadow. It took every bit of strength to keep her head high, shoulders straight. Her own stride must appear as graceful as a sway-backed pony.
Laurelle caught Dart’s eye for a brief heartbeat. Her gaze flicked off to the right, indicating where she should look. Dart followed her direction, but saw nothing. Then out in the sea of folk, a small hand waved a bit of white silk, catching her attention. It was Matron Grannice, from the Conclave, the old school, her home.
Dart fought back tears and failed. The same weakness afflicted the portly marm. The matron had to turn away. Only then did Dart spot Grannice’s escort.
Healer Paltry stood at her side, an arm around the woman’s shoulder, comforting. His lips moved with what could only be kind words meant to soothe. But his eyes drilled toward Dart, cold and unreadable.
Dart’s feet moved faster, a reflex to escape. A hollow pain throbbed in her belly, an echo of her attack. The mere sight of the cursed healer was like a phantom finger prodding a bruise that refused to heal. Warm tears turned cold on her cheeks.
As she hurried forward, her toes struck the heel of Master Willym. His enfeebled pace stumbled. He went down on one knee before his startled manservant could catch him up.
Gasps and shocked exhalations spread outward, like the waves from a pebble dropped into a pond. Dart hurried to his side and helped him to his feet.
“Please forgive me,” Dart murmured.
Willym gained his wobbly legs, his face red. Angry? No, just flushed from exertion. He patted her hand and spoke loudly enough for those closest to hear. “Ah, Chrism’s Oracle chose well. A young lass with all the eagerness of an unbridled foal. Plainly ready to take my place. Whether I’m willing or not, it seems.”
Gentle laughter joined his own.
He took her under his arm in friendly fashion and waved aside his manservant, dismissing concern. But his weight leaned heavily upon Dart. He tilted his head toward her. “Be at peace, lass. But get me to my chair.”
“I’m so sorry.”
He smiled gently down at her. “There’s nothing to fear here.”
An arrow pierced his throat, passing clean through. The steel tip of the bolt sailed past Dart’s left ear, whistling away, trailing a spray of blood. Master Willym’s eyes went wide as he fell upon Dart, collapsing atop her. Blood gouted from his mouth and nose.
They fell together to the floor.
Dart’s skull struck the stones with a ringing blow. She felt no pain, only shock.
Screams rose around her like a whirlwind. In a daze, Dart watched Laurelle and Mistress Huri being shoved behind a bench. Nearby, Pupp ran in panicked circles around her, his molten coat as bright as golden sunshine.
Willym lay atop her, choking on blood, bathing Dart’s throat with the last beats of his heart. His lips were at her ear, moving, attempting to speak, but all that came out was blood.
“Be calm,” she urged him as her own vision wobbled and began to close tightly, the injury to her skull throbbing.
Deaf to her, Willym choked a final flow, then lay still. A last breath sighed from him, bearing forth a single word, as clear as crystal. “Beware.”
Black-booted guards tromped to their side, circling them. Several passed through Pupp as he continued his blazing vigil. They were too late. Through her chest, Dart felt the last beat of Master Willym’s heart.
He was gone.
She was now the lone handservant of blood, properly blessed.
Her vision continued to shrink in on itself, to a pinpoint, then nothing. The single word followed her into oblivion.
Beware…
Dart dreamed.
She was a child again, a babe swaddled in furs, being carried in an open wagon. Voices came from all around. A leafy bower flashed past overhead. The scent of torn loam, manure, and decay carried to her. The voices spoke in
