Dart’s eyes remained fixed on those massive doors, fearing they would open. She had not faced Lord Chrism since that humiliating encounter in the Eldergarden, where she mistook him for a common laborer, treated him rudely and roughly.
Oblivious to her fear, the matron led them down the passageway. At the end of the hall lay a complex suite of libraries, studies, dining rooms, meant for the private use of the Hands to Chrism. Dart could not imagine communing with such esteemed personages as the other handservants. She heard voices echoing. A few of the Hands were still awake.
Before reaching the central brazier, Shashyl stopped before one of the doors. “Mistress Laurelle, these are the rooms reserved for the Hand of Tears.” She turned and formally placed a thick silver key in Laurelle’s palm. “Blessed in Lord Chrism’s own tears.”
Laurelle gaped at the key in her hand. Dart found some comfort that her normally assured friend was a tad overwhelmed by the moment. Their eyes met. Laurelle smiled almost shyly.
“Go ahead,” Dart said, nodding to the door.
Laurelle used her key. The latch snicked, and the door swung open on silent, well-oiled hinges. Beyond, Dart caught a glimpse of a private greeting chamber, appointed in rich silks, thick carpets, and a hearth gone to ruddy coals. Other rooms could be seen opening deeper into the suite.
“I’ll introduce you to your maids on the morrow,” Shashyl said as Laurelle hesitated at the threshold. “The entire wing was cleared of all but the Hands as a precaution.”
Laurelle took a deep breath and stepped through the doorway, eyes forward.
“Come now, Mistress Dart, let me show you to your room.”
As they began to turn away, Laurelle swung back around and hugged Dart tightly. “I’m so glad you’re here with me,” she whispered.
Dart hugged her back, feeling the same.
Matron Shashyl tolerated their display for only a few breaths. “Enough. It’s late.” She touched Dart’s shoulder. “Let’s get you settled and some willow bark tea into you before you retire.”
They broke their embrace. Laurelle watched them leave.
The matron led Dart past the glowing brazier. It was not ordinary iron, but a cage of petrified bone from some ancient creature. Its heat was like the sun on a summer day. Pupp nosed the bony brazier. His hackles rose as if bothered by the ancient scent of the long-dead beast. Dart tapped her thigh to draw him away.
They circled the brazier, slipping past the wide gold doors that led into Chrism’s private abode.
Matron Shashyl walked her to the neighboring door. “Here are your rooms. The Hand of Blood.” Again a key was pulled from a hidden pocket, but this time placed into Dart’s palm. “Blessed in Lord Chrism’s own blood,” she said formally.
It weighed heavily in Dart’s fingers. Not silver like Laurelle’s, but gold. Dart’s hand began to tremble. With such shaking, there was no way she could fit the key into the lock.
A hand rested on her shoulder. “Be not afraid,” Shashyl whispered with genuine motherly affection. “You would not have been chosen if you weren’t able to fill this duty.”
Dart had a thousand words for why this was not true, but she merely nodded. Taking a deep breath, she turned to the door.
Pupp pranced a step ahead of her, seeming to know her destination. No lock was needed for him. He simply walked through the door.
Fearing his mischief, Dart hurried to unlock the way. The entry hall beyond was laid out the same as Laurelle’s: stone walls warmed with fine Oldenbrook tapestries; floors covered with woven carpets of lamb’s wool, freshly brushed and sprinkled with sweet oils; two winged chairs of tufted goose down facing the hearth and standing as high as a grown man. The only difference to Laurelle’s room was that the tiny hearth had not died to coals in the absence of stoking, but still blazed merrily with licking flames.
Dart stepped into the room, searching for Pupp as the matron closed the door behind her, leaving her alone.
Dart spotted Pupp’s tail wagging from beyond one of the two chairs. She walked around to scold him, only then noting the figure seated in the same chair, the source of Pupp’s attention.
Her eyes grew wide with surprise. She was too startled to fall to her knees. “Lord Chrism…”
He was no longer dressed in the simple grubbery of a gardenkeep, but in a finery that outshone the hearth’s flames. His boots, polished and lavishly tooled black leather, reached to his knees. His breeches were billowed silk, dyed bronze to match his hair. His black half cloak mounted a shirt woven of finely spun gold strands.
Yet still there remained a harrowed edge to him. His hair, oiled and brushed back from his face, lay mussed as if worried fingers had combed through it. His eyes were puffy and shot with red. He appeared no more than a few birth years older than Dart, more a boy than a god-an exhausted, heartsore boy. Green eyes flecked with gold fell upon her, full of sorrow.
Lord Chrism raised a hand, motioning to the neighboring chair. “Sit with me. For a moment.”
Dart found his command easy to obey, her legs weakening with every breath. Had he discovered her soiled nature?
“I apologize for intruding into your private spaces,” he said. “But it was here that I knew Willym best. I thought to find some comfort.”
Dart’s voice was as soft as a mouse’s. She kept her eyes lowered to the floor. “All that I have is yours. I’m the intruder here. I’ll gladly return to the closet reserved for those in waiting.”
“No. Please. Stay. There are words I wish to share with you.”
She risked a glance up. “Me?” She recognized the true depth of sadness in his eyes. They were reddened from weeping. Each tear shed, rich in Grace, was as valuable as molten gold. But there was no repostilary resting on the small tea table. He shed such riches freely in the memory of Willym.
He sat forward. His entire manner spoke of exhaustion. “You are now my Hand.” He stretched an arm toward her, palm up.
Dart stared at it dumbly.
He waited, fingers outstretched, pleading in his eyes.
Dart rested her hand in his. Fingers closed around hers. His hand felt like any other. Warm, slightly moist. There was still a bit of dirt from the gardens in the cuticles.
Beneath them, Pupp lifted his nose, as if awaiting a treat to fall.
Chrism finally spoke. “I did not ask Willym to step down from my side. He insisted, as did my Huri.” His voice caught in his throat, thickening with emotion. “A dark time is upon us, and as Willym was wont to say ‘A God is only as strong as his Hands.’ He and Huri knew it was time to step aside for those stronger and younger. We had hot debates on this very subject.”
Dart could not imagine anyone arguing with a god, not even one of his own handservants.
“But Willym was right… if only a tad too slow in convincing me. We had thought we had time to train you, to ready you for the war to come.”
“War?” Dart eked out.
He waved away her question. “Dark happenings have been cropping up in the lonely corners of Myrillia: a rash of plagues, ravings among lesser gods, stirrings in the hinterlands. But still, we had thought to have more time. Then Meeryn was slain most brutally…”
Dart, like all others across Chrismferry, had heard of the tragedy down in the Summering Isles, half a world away: an assassin blessed in Dark Graces had slain the Brightness of the Isles. Like the murderer here, he had also escaped. Her heart beat faster in her chest. Could there be a connection?
“Our enemies grow bolder, showing their true face,” Chrism continued. “There can be no mistaking that a great war looms, one that will sweep all of Myrillia. But I never thought it would strike here so soon, in the very heart of the Nine Lands. And at such cost.” A tear rolled down one cheek.
“But why murder Master Willym?” Dart asked.
Lord Chrism’s hand gripped hers almost painfully. His long gaze focused fully upon her. Only now did she notice the ancient hidden behind the young. “Don’t you know?”
Dart shook her head, beginning to tremble.
“It was not dear Willym who was the target of the assassin,” Chrism said. “It was you.”
Dart waited for dawn. It refused to come. Standing at her bedroom window, she stared out past her private
