spilling it across the white linen.
A maid quickly scurried forward and dabbed up the pool. The distraction helped divert attention. Other conversations started. Still, one set of eyes remained focused on her.
Yaellin de Mar’s.
“Are you all right?” Laurelle asked.
Dart pushed back her chair. “It’s just the wine. I’m not accustomed to such richness of fare. I think I should retire to my room.”
Laurelle stood, too. “I’ll go with you.”
Mistress Naff lifted her wineglass to them. She was lithe of form and generous of bosom, dressed in a gown of red and brown silks, matching the drape and braid of her hair. Though rich of cloth, it was also somewhat chaste, laced to the neck. Naff was the Hand to Chrism’s seed. It was whispered back at school that some such Hands would occasionally bed their gods to collect the vital humours, but these rumors were mostly told among the boys, amid snickers and rude comments. It was in fact not the manner. Once monthly, a god would spill his seed or her menstral bleeding into a crystal repostilary. Sometimes a Hand would attend, more often they would merely be called in to collect the crystal receptacle afterward. As such rare humours allowed Grace to be blessed upon a living person, they were second only to blood in importance.
Mistress Naff nodded to them. “Sleep well. And welcome to our small family.”
Dart gave a half curtsy. She recognized a certain sadness in Mistress Naff’s eyes. Did she see her own lost youth in their young faces? Mistress Naff had served Lord Chrism for only eight years, but already Grace had aged her countenance with early lines and sags. The humour she served was said to be the hardest burden to bear. Though handled only monthly, its Grace was attuned to living people, wearing its servant more than the others.
The other Hands acknowledged the departing girls with raised glasses, except for Master Pliny, who grunted and lifted a honeycake, dusting crumbs from his full belly.
Here was their new family.
Master Fairland and Mistress Tre stood up, too, and announced their departure. They were the most silent of the Hands, barely speaking, seldom smiling, a twin brother and sister, both chosen at the same time, representing the humours of saliva and phlegm respectively. They kept mostly to themselves, even shaving their dark heads to match, a custom among the steamy jungles of the Fourth Land. They were also the newest Hands, besides Dart and Laurelle, having been chosen three years ago.
The assembly continued to disperse in the wake of Dart and Laurelle’s departure. Dart heard the well wishes and good nights spreading among the others. She glanced over one shoulder as the twin Hands departed toward their neighboring rooms.
In the doorway to the commons, Yaellin de Mar stood, leaning on the frame, his face in shadows. But Dart knew those eyes were on her. Why? He had shown no interest in her before now.
Without a doubt, the damnable story of the illuminaria had piqued some curiosity in him. None of the other Hands had found the story anything but an amusement. Yet Yaellin’s attention pinned her like a crossbow’s bolt. This last thought drew a shiver. A crossbow’s bolt. The murder of Master Willym replayed in her head. It had been a murder meant for her… or rather the position she held, the new Hand of blood. But now Dart wondered. Had it been a more personal attack?
Without turning, she felt Yaellin’s eyes still upon her. What did the breaking of the illuminaria mean? Prior to this moment, she had never properly considered it, too caught up in terror and circumstance since that day. If it had garnered the attention of Yaellin, had it also attracted someone else’s eye, too? Someone with ill intent? She again pictured the blood pouring from Master Willym, his weight falling on her.
Was there more meaning upon that attempt on her life?
She glanced over her shoulder. The doorway to the commons was empty.
Yaellin de Mar was gone.
She knew she would have to watch him more closely.
If she was ever to get any answers…
Sleep came hard. The rich food and wine did not sit well on her worried stomach. Dart listened to each bell’s ringing, until the final bell chimed with the rising of the Mother. The greater moon’s face shone full, bright even through the sheer drapery.
But sleep did finally come… and dreams.
Dart smelled the sea. She was being carried in a woman’s arms, a babe again, her bearer’s bosom pressed tight to her tiny head.
“We cannot wait the tide,” the woman said to another. “They almost caught us in the wood.”
The cloaked figure nodded and led the way down a tiny stone quay. He was dressed all in black, even his boots. As he turned to glance behind, she noted his face was masked.
A Shadowknight.
He crossed to a low skiff with black sails moored at the quay’s end.
The woman hurried after, bouncing Dart in her arms. Moonlight shone on her face: auburn hair tied in a single braid, green eyes crinkled with lines of middle years, her complexion bled of all color. Dart knew the woman from vague memories of her earliest years, but even more from the oiled paintings that hung in the Conclave. It was the former headmistress of the school, the woman who had rescued Dart from the hinterlands.
She reached the skiff and hopped into its bow. “We must be away.”
“What of the others?” the cloaked figure, a man from the timbre of his speech, asked while freeing the mooring lines.
“Gone… oh sweet gods above, all gone…”
He tossed the ropes into the stern and dropped beside the rudder. He yanked the black gloves from his hands and dropped them in the boat’s bottom.
A horrible howl erupted, sounding as near as a stone’s throw. It was all blood and bile.
“They’re here!”
“And we’re away.” The knight waved a hand at the sails, and they filled with winds. The skiff sped across the silver waters of a cove, aiming for the open waters.
The beastly howl chased after them.
The headmistress slunk to the floor of the skiff, cradling Dart in her lap. The swaddling fell open. Dart felt a small tug on her belly. Something fiery rose from the edge of her swaddling, where her navel lay. An ugly face of molten bronze, barely formed, only the pair of fiery eyes, glowing agate stones, were familiar.
Pupp…
He was no bigger than a kitten, curled on her belly. He lay nested around a blackened knot on her belly, the tied stump of her umbilicus. He attempted to suckle it like a nipple, seeking milk. Again she felt that tug at her belly… no, deeper… coming from beyond flesh and bone. Pupp’s form flared brighter. He then settled back to her belly, half-sunken in her flesh, ghostly.
The man spoke as they cleared the cove. “You can still drown the babe. Be done with the abomination.”
A shake of the head. “She is no abomination.”
Dart was collected back to the headmistress’s bosom, her swaddling secured. Neither seemed aware of the suckling Pupp.
“The Cabal wanted her blood,” the headmistress continued. “Rivenscryr must not be forged anew.”
The skiff reached the open waters, now riding smooth swells. Behind them, the howl echoed.
The Shadowknight guided the craft, one hand on the rudder, the other occasionally waved at the sails. Dart noted the black tips of his raised fingers, dark to the first knuckle. Dried blood. A blessing of air alchemies.
“There will be others,” the man intoned.
The woman clutched her tighter. “But they won’t have this one.”
A strong gust filled the sail with a snap of cloth and rope. The boat sped faster. The man glanced back to the receding cliffs of the shoreline, then forward again. “We’re clear. Even their naether-lenses won’t be able to track us.”
The headmistress relaxed, though her hands still trembled. Her next words were a mumble meant only for her own ears. “What have I done?”
The knight heard. “What you had to. You know that, Melinda.”
