a tongue she did not understand, but they seemed frantic, yelling.
A flash of silver swept over her face.
A cry. A curse. A shouted call.
Blood fountained from the left, bathing her hotly.
She cried now, wailing.
A face crept into view above her, tiny as a babe’s fist, shining brightly under the dark bower, more fire than bronze. He nuzzled into her, panicked, too.
Together they cowered.
The scent of something feral reached her, huffing behind her, rank and musky. A horse whinnied in terror. A wagon jerked under her.
A warning reached her, beyond language, but still clear.
Flee…
Dart woke with a startled wail. She fought the hands that held her.
Flee…
“Calm yourself, child. We must clean the blood off you.”
Her eyes focused upon Matron Shashyl, bent over her, a fouled rag clutched in her hand. Her caretaker turned to rinse the cloth in a bucket of steaming-hot water.
Dart saw that Laurelle was clutched against her, hugging her. Only now did she recognize how naked she was. She was back in their tiny wardroom, sprawled on the same bench where she had chatted with Master Willym.
“Master Willym…!”
“Gone,” Laurelle answered her. “Murdered most foully.”
Dart again heard the whistle of the arrow past her ear. The blood on her face, neck, and chest was not her own. The back of her head, though, throbbed. She reached back and fingered a hard knot.
“You struck your head but good, child.” Matron Shashyl nodded toward a kettle on a tiny brazier. “I’m steeping some willow bark and scamptail. It’ll take the ache away.”
“We thought you dead like… like Master Willym.” Laurelle’s voice dropped to a whisper. Arms hugged her tighter. “All the blood..”
Dart sat up and pulled her friend into her own arms. “I’m fine.” She spotted Pupp down by the brazier, sniffing at the brewing herbs.
Matron Shashyl waved the girls apart. “Be off, Mistress Laurelle. You’ll foul your petticoats. Let me finish the bathing.”
Dart allowed herself to be cared for, too weak to resist. She was bathed clean and dabbed with towels warmed by the brazier. Once done, the matron wrapped her in a dry blanket.
“The assassin?” Dart finally asked. “Why did he…?”
Matron Shashyl hushed her. “He escaped into the dark. Whys and wherefores must await his capture. Dawn nears, and guards have been woken from all the barracks. Grace-blessed hounds have already been loosed. None will rest until the fiend is caught.” She wiped a tear and turned away. “Who could do this? Master Willym was dearly loved.”
Not by all, Dart thought to herself. She remembered his last word. Was it delirium? Beware…
Beware what? Still, Dart sensed the warning had been meant for her and her alone. Spoken with the last trickle of life. If he had a message for her, why hadn’t he spoken it earlier, here on this same bench when they had chatted?
She remembered the attack in the garden. She had told no one of what she had witnessed, trusting in silence, praying to remain unknown to the secretive nobleman. Now a second murder in one day. Were they connected? Maybe she should have spoken to someone about the bloodshed in the garden. Maybe Master Willym’s assassin could have been stopped.
Though clean, Dart still felt bloody.
Laurelle returned from emptying the scrub bucket down the neighboring privy. She had stripped off her own dress and wore only her petties and slippers. “Mayhap we should return to our own room.”
Dart nodded. She would not sleep the rest of the night, but it would be good to be surrounded by her own things. The small closet she and Laurelle shared as servants-in-waiting was cramped, but now Dart longed for its closeness, to lay with Laurelle in the single bed, under the covers until the sun rose and this long dark and bloody night ended.
Matron Shashyl had composed herself and faced them. “You’re most correct. Your rooms are waiting for you. I’ll have a maid bring up tea to your chambers.”
Dart looked at Laurelle.
“Chambers?” her friend asked the matron.
Shashyl nodded. “Indeed. You are no longer servants-in-waiting. Though the presentation ceremony was interrupted so foully, this night still marks your ascendance to full handservants. Matron Willym and Mistress Huri had already vacated their quarters in the High Wing. Your personals should already be up there. Come. I’ll show you the way.”
Dart numbly donned a set of small clothes and slippers, and wrapped herself in a full cloak of warm velvet. Crimson, like her missing gown. Laurelle modestly covered her own limbs with a silver cloak, thick and ruffled at the hems.
“We’ve a ways to climb,” Shashyl warned them.
Dart didn’t care. She was relieved they didn’t have to head back through Tigre Hall. They left by another door. It opened upon a spiral stair that led only upward, to the High Wing. They mounted the stairs, past a guard at his post at the doorway… Dart had been this way once before, late for her studies under the matron. Shashyl had a suite of rooms in the High Wing as was her honor. Besides their tutelage, Matron Shashyl oversaw the maids and manservants that serviced the tower and its nine occupants: Lord Chrism and his eight Hands.
Pupp followed after them, hopping from step to step.
The climb, as warned, was long. Twenty flights. They passed the same number of guards, liveried in gold and crimson, Chrism’s colors, one for each level.
Reaching the top, Matron Shashyl recognized the man guarding the double doors to the High Wing. He was older, black hair going to gray, but his eyes were spry and alert. He wore a nasty, tortured scar across his left cheek. “Kyllan, what are you doing posting a mere door? As Master of the Garrison, shouldn’t you be overseeing the hunt for the assassin?”
His eyes flashed. He spoke with the terse tones of the fierce Thirdlanders. “I’ve given my orders. Huntsman Freetile leads the Graced hounds from the bestiary. Guards are on the streets. A pair of wyld trackers have been summoned from the Seer guildtower.”
“And you?”
“Master Willym were under my protection when he fell. I led the other guards here. I’ll not leave this post. No more of the blessed Hands will come to harm as long as there is strength in these bones.”
He rested one hand on the hilt of his sheathed blade and opened the door with the other, bowing deeply. “Miladies, be welcome. Rest with good assurance. None will disturb the last of this sad night.”
Laurelle took it all with easy aplomb. “Most gracious, Sergeant Kyllan.”
Dart followed after her friend, nodding to the guardsman as she passed. Once the door was closed and secured behind them, Matron Shashyl waved her charges down the hall. Dart stared over a shoulder as she walked.
Pupp had hung back on the stair, sniffing at the guard. He now simply trotted through the closed wooden door, prancing a bit and shaking his molten coat as if he had passed through mere water. He hurried to catch up with them.
It was a wide passage. A four-draft carriage could have been pulled over the tapestried rug that ran down the hall. Tall, arched stained windows lined one side with historical depictions, but the starlight was too dim to illuminate the scenes, making them appear gloomy and menacing. Along the other wall, eight narrow doors awaited, one for each handservant. Lanterns flanked each threshold, but a fiercer rosy light rose from a grand brazier that stood halfway down the hall’s length, where the passage widened into a half circle. Its brightness glowed upon a set of golden double doors that opened into Chrism’s private chambers.
