A sigh answered him. “But have we done the child any kindness?”
The man stared down at Dart, his eyes aglow with Grace above his masklin. “These are not kind times,” he said sadly. “And the worst is yet to come. If what we dread comes to pass…”
“I know… I know… but it seems such a large burden for one so small.”
The man grunted. “Sacrifices must be made by all. You saved her from the knife, now you must leave her hidden and unnoticed, a buried key.”
The woman rocked the baby. As Dart felt her dream self grow droopy, one tiny hand rose to nuzzle her thumb. She struggled to listen, to hold the threads of her dream.
They proved too fragile, more light than substance.
Words began to dissolve. Images, too. Her blood… the headmistress whispered as the boat and sea grew darker.
The knight’s words faded. It will take corruption to fight corruption.
Will she be strong enough…?
She must be.
Oh, Ser Henri, what have we done?
There was no answer, only darkness and quiet as true sleep carried her deeper, both babe and girl, beyond dreams, beyond words.
Dart woke with sunrise. Her tongue felt thick, and her head addled. The light through the drapery felt brittle and sharpened to points. She sat up, thirsty, her stomach churning. Had she drunk too much wine?
She shoved her feet free of the bedclothes and stood unsteadily.
Pupp poked his bronze nose from under the bed, blinked at her, then retreated back into the darkness. He seemed no more pleased with the morning.
Dart crossed to the privy, unsure if her stomach would hold. Every joint ached as she pumped cold water into the carved marble basin. She soaked a cloth and pressed it to her face. The icy chill quickly cooled the slight fever to her skin, her head ached less, and her stomach settled.
Echoes of the night’s dream played in her head. A vague remembrance of a boat ride, the headmistress, and a Shadowknight. They had been talking about her, a babe. Any meaning had been clouded, snatches of a conversation, more inference than communication. Chrism’s words returned instead: We must be watchful… all of us.
She knew this to be true.
Dart stepped back to her room. In the light of morning, it was easier to set aside her disturbing dreams.
She crossed to her wardrobe and was struck by an odd odor. She had not noted it before; perhaps she had been too addled. The scent was as faint as a whisper and seemed to fade with every breath she took, making its source difficult to discern. It smelled of sweated horses and the tang of wintersnap.
Halting in the middle of the room, she turned slowly around.
Pupp remained hidden, but his eyes shone from the gloom under her bed. He must have sensed her sudden tension.
Dart moved slowly to one of the four iron braziers that dotted each corner of the room. Each was identical, shaped like a repostilary jar, covered by a tiny grate. She checked the two closest to the window first. Both were cold to the touch.
She moved to the one by the privy. Also cold.
Already the scent faded beyond her senses. Perhaps she had imagined it. Maybe it had been a miasma from her morning illness.
She crossed to the last brazier, by the door. Her fingers brushed its surface.
The iron warmed her cold fingertips. She placed her palm on its side. It was not hot to the touch, but it was not cold either. Whatever small fire had heated the metal had only recently been extinguished.
Bending down, she creaked open the grate and peered inside. The strange scent wafted stronger again, but the brazier was empty, cleaned, and wiped. Yet coals had been burned here. Recently.
Cold dread crept up her spine, drawing her upright.
Pupp slunk from his hiding place and belly crawled to her side.
Someone had been in her rooms last night.
Someone had lit her brazier.
Who… and why?
Perhaps it had only been Matron Shashyl. But she always knocked before entering, announcing herself, awaiting invitation. Though the elderly matron might have a sharp tongue for the newest of Chrism’s Hands, she had always respected their private spaces.
No, someone else had been in here.
Dart knew this with horrified certainty. She glanced around the room, fearful of discovering an extra shadow, a hand clutching a fold of drapery. She took a few shuddering breaths to calm herself. Whoever had been here had cleaned the brazier, covering their steps. They were surely gone again.
Still, Dart found her chest constricting. Whatever security and solace there had been behind the locked doors of her rooms was shattered. She had no safe place to call her own.
She trembled. Tears rose.
Someone had been in here, perhaps standing beside her bed, looking down on her. Why?
She remembered her disturbed slumber, the restless dreams, the morning queasiness. She could only imagine what dark alchemies had been burned on the brazier.
To what end? By whose hand? Or rather which Hand?
Dart pictured the dark eyes of the Hand of black bile, studying her over dinner, watching her. There could be no doubt.
Yaellin de Mar had been in her room.
15
Tylar stared into the small campfire. the tiny hearth smoked more than it flamed, fed with wet wood, but that was all that could be found in the moldering swamps and bogs. The party gathered as best they could around the meager source of heat.
Rogger spit roasted a marsh hare over the pit. Upon the thief’s recommendation, they had built the fire in a shallow pit to shield its sallow flame in the night. He had even caked the rabbit’s skinned flesh with clay to cut down the scent of its sizzling flesh.
Next to him, Delia huddled in a cloak lined with otter fur. She was bone tired, as were they all.
No one spoke. Their small party, led by Krevan and his band of cloaked knights, had ridden all day, then fled all night through the marshes: punting a pair of skiffs, trekking salt flats, crawling through a forest of vines and creepers. They dared not risk the main road through the swamps, a rutted overgrown path that wound around stagnant stretches of water and forded bubbling rivers with bridges of stout oak.
And it was good they had taken Krevan’s advice to abandon the road and seek out old trapper paths and animal trails. Lord Balger had not waited long before sending out his hunters, a mix of his own sworn Shadowknights and swamp trackers. Their pursuit proved dogged.
A full day and night stretched into one endless chase. Krevan set up traps and looped their course to confound pursuit. But the hunters had the advantage: the blessing of the god of the land. They followed with scent hounds Graced in alchemies of air, they bore weapons anointed in fire, and followed in swamp crawlers fueled as much by Balger’s fury as the god’s blood.
With such pursuit, the party had little chance to rest. But with dawn nearing, they were forced to ground, too exhausted to tackle the rolling mounds that marked the borderlands of the accursed Dell.
“What do you suppose is waiting beyond those hills?” Tylar asked.
Krevan shrugged.
