balcony that overlooked the breadth of the Tigre River. The High Wing sat atop the centermost tower of the castillion; four others rose from each bank of the river. Their tower was the tallest rising from the river itself, commanding a sweeping view down the waterway. The city spread to either side, sparkling with lamps and torches in the night.
Dart saw none of it. For the hundredth time since Lord Chrism had departed, her mind’s eye played out the murder of Master Willym. She had glanced up just as the bolt had sliced through the old man’s neck, whistling past her ear.
A bolt meant for her.
Lord Chrism had briefly explained the conclusion drawn by the Watchers of the Court, those men and women blessed with unending sight, tasked with storing all they saw, becoming walking libraries of events frozen forever in their minds. They were rare folk, Graced in the womb with alchemies of air and fire, leaving them weak of limb, requiring air-driven mekanicals to support them. Some said they could speak to each other through their eyes alone.
Dart had spotted one hovering at the back of Tigre Hall, in the shadows, eyes bright with inner fire.
Two others had been present. They had conferred. The bolt was seen leaving the shadowed assassin’s crossbow by one, while another witnessed Master Willym bending toward Dart a fraction of a heartbeat later.
Dart remembered the old man’s words: There’s nothing to fear here.
He was so very wrong.
It was that bit of reassurance that cost Willym his life, bending over her at the wrong moment. If he hadn’t, he would be alive now, and she would have taken the bolt to her left eye. So said the Watchers, playing the alternate scene out in their minds.
As the shock of this fully struck her, Matron Shashyl had come knocking at her door with the promised pot of willow bark tea. Lord Chrism finally seemed to note Dart’s distress and excused himself, leaving her in the matron’s care.
Shashyl had remained with Dart while she drank her tea. She had slipped a small bit of folded paper from a pocket and mixed its contents in the steaming cup. “Valerian root,” she said as she tapped the teaspoon. “I sometimes take it to sleep when my old joints are protesting the cold nights.”
Dart had taken two cups before the steeped water turned tepid and the taste bitter. But at least her limbs finally stopped shaking. The matron had walked Dart to the back room and put her to rest in a canopied bed of carved myrrwood. Before she knew it, she was pillowed in down and wrapped in layers of silk and velvet.
With promises that she would sleep, Dart thanked Matron Shashyl. The old woman had looked down upon her with concerned eyes, kissed her on the forehead, mumbled “poor child,” and departed.
Dart had tried to sleep, but no amount of powdered root could settle her fears. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw sprays of blood, shadowed figures with daggers blackened with Dark Grace; even Healer Paltry’s face floated before her. In all the bloodshed, she had forgotten about his appearance at the ceremony. Her worry brought it back afresh. At every turn, danger threatened. Punishment, banishment, and now the threat of murder from a new quarter.
But was it new? Could Healer Paltry have had a hand in the plot? To silence the girl who knew too much? Or was it the dark figure from the gardens? Had he recognized her as she fled down the twisting paths?
Finally, apprehension forced her from bed. Pupp followed groggily as she paced the length of her bedchamber, wrapped in a thick robe, praying for dawn to arrive, to burn away this long night.
It must not be far off.
Perhaps it was near enough to risk waking Laurelle.
Worry eased with this possibility. Perhaps she could even sleep if she shared her blankets with Laurelle. If only for this one night..
Desire became action.
Dart cinched her robe tighter, praying it wasn’t unseemly to wander the High Wing in only robe and slippers. But then again, she didn’t plan on being seen. Surely the remaining Hands were soundly asleep.
She crossed through her rooms, which included a bathing chamber, privy, and a tiny dining alcove. It felt good to be moving. She reached the entry hall, gathered her key from the table beside the door, and took hold of the door latch. She hesitated, then bent an ear against the door. She listened for any voices, any noises from beyond.
All silent.
She continued her attention for several breaths. Satisfied, she tested the latch and crept the door open. She peeked out. The central brazier continued to cast a warm glow down the hall. No one was in sight.
Dart eased the door open fully. No alarm was raised beyond the hammering of her own heart. She leaned out and peered in both directions.
Empty.
She hurried out into the hall and whispered across the tapestried rug on her slippers. She circled past the glowing brazier, followed by an irritable Pupp, his coat dull with exasperation. She fled to the second door past the brazier. The wall lanterns had been turned down by a maid or guard to the merest flicker. Still, Dart felt exposed standing beside the door.
She tapped lightly, hoping to wake only Laurelle. Her first attempt was no more than a brush of knuckle on wood. She barely heard the rap herself. She tried again with a tad more vigor. The knocking was loud to her own ears, but it earned no response.
Please, Laurelle, hear me…
She struck the door again. Three sharp raps. She ducked, hunching close to the door.
Please…
A soft sound answered her, sounding like the mild protest of a cat roused from a warm spot on a windowsill. Dart knocked again, more softly.
“Who’s there?” a voice asked shyly from beyond the closed door.
Dart’s lips brushed the wood as she answered. “Laurelle, it’s me.”
The sound of a latch being thrown rang out-it came not from Laurelle’s door, but from down the hall.
Dart ducked close to the floor, her heart fluttering to a stop. Beyond the brazier, light spilled into the hallway as a door opened. A figure stepped into the hall, features cloaked in shadow. One of the other Hands.
“Is that you, Dart?” Laurelle called quietly at her ear.
She could not answer. The frantic beating of raven’s wings filled her ears. She was again in the dark rookery, alone with a dark intruder. Fists clenched, fingernails digging into palms. No, no… this is not the rookery.
Dart tapped again on Laurelle’s door, no more than the scratching of a mouse. Still, the stranger seemed to hear her and stepped in her direction. Features pushed into the brazier’s glow, revealing themselves.
No…
Dart heard the lock release at her side. The door eased open. Laurelle’s hearth had died to embers. No light flowed out.
Dart fell through the opening. Laurelle’s mouth formed an O of surprise, but Dart silenced her with a finger to her lips and a hiss of warning. She pushed the door closed with the tiniest click of the latch, grateful to whoever oiled the hinges. She leaned against the frame, close to tears.
Laurelle dropped to her knees beside Dart. “What’s wrong?” she whispered.
Dart shook her head, trying to cast out the image. The figure in the hall. Lanky black hair split by a white lightning bolt. It was the murderer from the gardens, the one who had slain the woman named Jacinta.
He was a Hand of Chrism.
11
Across the dark seas, the corsairs bore down on them. Five in all. Sails abloom and lit by fire lamps in the rigging. They rode across the midnight waters like a storm of flaming clouds.
“Mayhap they’ll miss us in the dark,” Rogger whispered from his perch atop the Fin. To steady himself, the
