Hinterland

A SCRATCH AT THE WINDOW

“Are all the townsfolk secure?” Kathryn asked.

Keeper Ryngold nodded. “We’ve turned the Grand Court into a makeshift inn. The accommodations in the amphitheater will be nothing more than a stone bed and a blanket, but it’s warm and out of the winds.”

They spoke in private outside the door to a gathering room midlevel in Stormwatch. She heard the murmur of voices beyond the door. She was to meet this morning with representatives of the retinues from the various realms. It was her current role here in Tashijan. No more than innkeeper, settling disputes and addressing concerns of those under their roof.

Warden Fields had even banned her from the strategies in the fieldroom. If you see little reason to keep me abreast of your plots and plans, then there is little reason for me to do the same. Normally a castellan could not be so easily cast aside. As they usually arose out of the Council of Masters to fill that high seat, a castellan had the backing of all the masters with their alchemies and knowledge. No warden would dare treat a castellan so dismissively.

But Kathryn did not have the support of the Council of Masters. If anything, she had gained their enmity as well. Especially Master Hesharian. He had been more purple of face than even Argent, and had offered no objection to her being shut out of the fieldroom.

Still, it could have been worse. She could have been locked up for treason. After Tylar and the others departed by flippercraft, she had stood behind her decision. If the storm gods wanted the Godslayer, then better Tylar be sent away. His flight might draw off attention. She justified her secrecy by relating what Tylar had found in their cellars, evidence of some collusion between Tashijan and the daemon army below. It was beyond mere chance that Mirra nabbed the skull shortly after those in the fieldroom learned of its existence. Even Argent had glanced around the table then. He was no fool.

So she managed to keep herself free of bars and locks.

But little else.

In fact, she had been the last to learn about the emptying of the town that huddled outside Tashijan. Argent had sent a good portion of his knightly force beyond the walls to shepherd the people inside. The townsfolk swelled into Tashijan with stories of the storm closing down upon their homes, whispers of strange beasts seen behind swirls of snow, of bodies found frozen and ripped.

Upon hearing this, Kathryn had gone under cloak to see for herself. The storm had tightened down upon the shield walls of Tashijan, swallowing up the outer village. There was a savagery and fury in the winds, almost tasted on the tongue. And despite the additional burden and loss of life, the raging uplifted her spirits.

The anger here could mean only one thing: Tylar and the others had escaped. The storm god tore into the town in his fury, closing tighter around Tashijan.

But so far that was the only change. Over the past three days, the siege had stretched with a deceptive calm. Argent had fires blazing again throughout the lower levels of the tower. He had even bricked up the tunnel behind the Shield Gong in the Grand Court as it stretched down into the Masterlevels. Yet there had been no further move by Mirra.

It was as if both sides were holding their breath, preparing for a final assault. But how would it strike? In what form? Or would they be merely starved out? Pondering this worry…

“How are we doing on food and fresh water?” she asked the keeper of the towers.

“Lucky the warden had planned a grand series of feasts for the regent’s knighting,” Keeper Ryngold said with a tired grin. “Our ice lockers and foodstores were heavily fortified prior to the attack. We’ll make do for the moment, but the townsfolk will stretch us thin.”

“We’ll have to manage.”

“Of course,” he said with a nod to the door, “you’ll have to convince our esteemed guests inside there that the heft and variety of their meal boards may be less than they are accustomed to enjoying.”

She sighed. “I’ll do my best.”

With a slight bow, Keeper Ryngold departed. She watched him move down the hall, admiring the man’s fortitude. In many ways, here was the true warden of the towers.

And at least he was still speaking with her.

She turned back to the door, took hold of the latch and her patience, and pushed into the crowd inside. The gathering room was one of the teaching halls, lined by two long tables, with an elevated stage at the front. Lamps flickered along the walls.

She spotted Delia near the front of one table and nodded. Kathryn still felt a certain discomfort around the younger woman, still picturing the stolen kiss with Tylar. She knew such resentments were petty and unfair, and over the past days, they had begun to fade as the two women were forced to work closely alongside each other. Delia had proven herself as adept as Keeper Ryngold in maintaining some degree of control over the various households of the gods. Kathryn had come to rely on her calmness in the face of strife, on her evenhanded decisions. She was surprised how relieved she was to find Delia already at work today. It was good to have one ally.

There certainly were enough here with complaints.

The leader of the disgruntled fronted the second table: the lithe, snow blond Hand from Oldenbrook. Alongside her sat a swarthy slug in purple, the sole Hand dispatched from neighboring Foulsham Dell. Despite their plain dislike for one another-and more disparate appearance and manner-they had joined forces to plague Kathryn for the past two days.

Filling the rest of the boards, divided almost equally into the two camps, were the other heads of the retinues trapped at Tashijan. With Delia sat the representatives from Mistdale, Snowfox River, Crooked Wood, Fitz Crossing, and surprisingly the embittered crook-backed Hand from Moor Eld. The other table bore the hard faces from Akkabak Harbor, Five Forks, Wintering Isles, and Martyrstone.

Liannora rose to her feet before Kathryn even reached the teaching dais. “Thank you for attending to our grievances.”

Kathryn mounted the single step to the raised stage. She ignored the woman.

“Castellan Vail,” Liannora continued, “we understand the dangers that have beset Tashijan, and we all here want to help in any manner we can. Toward that end, what we propose-”

“Propose?” Kathryn snapped as she turned. “What I propose, with all respect, Mistress Liannora, is that you take your seat. This meeting was not called to listen to your arguments but for you all to better understand the plight of your situation. While Tashijan values your knowledge and skills in regards to handling humours, there are no gods here. It is skill with sword, or mastery of alchemy, that is most needed.”

Liannora’s features brittled even harder. She kept her feet. Perhaps for no other reason than that she might snap in half if she sat. “Warden Fields has given me his word that we would be heard here.” She glanced down her table. “Is that not so?”

Murmurs of agreement acknowledged the same.

So the woman had been a plague not only upon Kathryn. Argent must have been equally assaulted, but the warden had somewhere to push the complaints-back at Kathryn.

“What is it that you propose, then, Mistress Liannora?”

“We believe that as representatives of gods that bless the First Land and its distinguished neighbors we should be more involved with the defenses here. Not left to languish in our rooms. We have no desire to hide, or worse yet, run from our duty to Myrillia…like craven cowards.”

She stressed this last word. Kathryn had heard the same word being spread by the Fiery Cross. Tylar’s flight from Tashijan was seen by many as abandonment, or worse yet, outright spinelessness. It was plain on which side of the fence Liannora had decided to stand. The woman had an uncanny ability to sense the flows of power and to bend them to her advantage. Kathryn remembered her earlier flatteries; those had turned to insolence at about the same time Kathryn had been banned from the fieldroom. Liannora had recognized the ascendancy of the Fiery Cross and sided with their arguments and slights.

“I have yet to hear your proposal,” Kathryn said. “Do you wish to take up swords yourself and defend the stairs?”

Liannora dismissed her words with a flutter of an arm. “Certainly not. Our strengths lie in our keen experience and expertise. We would wish no more than to be ready with a suggestion, to act as counsel to those that wage our defenses. To be represented and involved in the stratagems.”

Kathryn’s brow crinkled.

“I’ve discussed it with my fellow Hands,” Liannora continued, nodding to her table. “And we think it only best that we cast stones amongst ourselves and proffer one of our own to join those in the fieldroom who truly defend these towers.”

A slight cocking of the woman’s eyebrow accentuated the insult, directed at both Kathryn and the departed regent.

Kathryn did not rise to the bait. Instead, she found herself bemused by the woman’s posturing. Delia had warned her about the Hand, cautioned against underestimating her cunning and lust for power. If Argent had been born a woman, here he would stand.

Kathryn lifted her hand yet again. “I encourage you to cast your stones. I think it wise that you select one amongst you to represent all. It would certainly expedite matters of communication.”

Liannora bowed her head, accepting the compliment with poised humility.

“But,” Kathryn went on. “The warden certainly would not allow any but the heads of Tashijan to attend his meetings in the fieldroom.”

Kathryn offered a look of apology. Let Argent deal with the woman if her ire was piqued.

“Oh,” Liannora said, straightening with an arch glint in her eye, “I’ve already discussed the matter with Warden Fields. He concurs and invites our participation.”

Kathryn gaped for a moment, taken aback. Why would Argent allow-? Then she knew. What better way to further humiliate Kathryn? To be banished while the likes of Liannora were allowed entry.

Liannora stepped into her silence, addressing the others. “So with all in agreement, we will cast stones.” She glanced to Kathryn. “If you’d be so kind as to count the tally, it would be most appreciated.”

Kathryn had no choice but to concede, having been artfully manipulated into this position.

The Hand from Foulsham Dell stood up, clearing phlegm from his throat with a grousing hack. He teetered slightly on his heels, plainly soused. His purple cloak and shirt must have been selected to hide the spill of wine down his paunch of a belly.

“I think there can be no doubt who should represent us.” He bowed with exaggerated flourish. “Mistress Liannora has shown herself to be of ample skill and of quick mind. Hear, hear!” He called to his table, raising an imaginary goblet. “Bring on the stones!”

At the other table, Porace Neel of Moor Eld gained his feet with a groan, supporting the crook in his back. “And I propose Mistress Delia. All know her and hold her in genuine esteem. She is wiser than the whole lot of us.”

A few at her table rapped knuckles on the board, agreeing.

Not so at Liannora’s table.

“I’m sure Mistress Delia would prefer to avoid such a burden,” Liannora said. “All know the tension between warden and daughter. And dare I say, we must acknowledge here that Mistress Delia is not in fact the handservant of a god, but only a man.”

Delia stood. “For the good of Tashijan, I am more than willing to set aside such tensions.”

“And as we had all gathered here to honor that man,” Kathryn added, “to acknowledge his rightful place as both knight and regent, I certainly don’t think we can cast Mistress Delia in a lesser light.”

Liannora stared at Kathryn and read her resolve.

The woman dipped her chin. “Of course.”

With only the two names proffered, it did not take long to cast stones. Each Hand placed a stone into the bag: white for Liannora, black for Delia.

The bag was brought to Kathryn. In short order she tallied the count and announced the result. “We have an equal number of stones for each.”

Liannora hid her disappointment behind pursed lips. Delia merely kept her arms crossed.

“Are there any here who would wish to change the cast of their stones?” Kathryn asked.

No hands were raised.

“Then I see no other recourse as castellan of Tashijan than to declare it an even match. Since the warden has so wisely chosen to expand his council, then what better way to acknowledge his wisdom than to send him two from our assembly? Mistress Liannora and Mistress Delia.”

Liannora wore a momentary expression of irritation, but the look swept away just as quickly, replaced with a feigned smile of acceptance as the others congratulated her.

Delia met Kathryn’s eye, offering her own smile. For days, they had been cut out of the strategies waged in the fieldroom. Now Argent had unwittingly opened the door again.

After all the well wishes had been passed around, the Hands departed to spread the word among the others. Delia paused to touch Kathryn’s arm.

“I will pass on your greetings to my father.”

“Please do.”

Liannora waited at the door, plainly wishing to speak with Delia. If there were any match for that woman, it was Delia. Kathryn waited until the room was empty to step out into the hall.

She found a welcome figure waiting, leaned against a wall. Another of their dejected party. Master Hesharian had had her friend officially sanctioned for his participation in the subterfuge atop Stormwatch. She was surprised to find him here.

“Gerrod?”

He straightened and fell in step beside her. “I heard word of the ploy being set up here. Master Hesharian was never one to keep silent with his gossip-especially if it involved the humiliation of another. And I still have secret allies among his inner circle. Oh, you should have heard what was said when it was discovered that not only had Tylar escaped but he had taken their only weapon against seersong.”

“I can imagine.”

Gerrod accompanied her toward the stair. She could hear the smile hidden behind his helmet. “Master Orquell came near to throttling his benefactor when he heard about the skull vanishing with Tylar.”

“We had no choice,” Kathryn mumbled, suddenly tired. It was a long climb back up to her hermitage.

With his usual acuity, Gerrod sensed her exhaustion and grew silent, offering her nothing more than his company as they climbed together. She appreciated it.

Still, as she wound her way up, her worries mounted with each step, stacked one atop the other. Eventually they toppled out. “What if he can’t find the rogues? Maybe it was a mistake…?”

“Hush. Such thoughts will only drive you into a state of inaction. We did what was necessary. If Tylar escaped the storm, word of our plight has spread. We must do our best to maintain here.”

“So we wait, hoping for rescue.” She shook her head. “I still wish there was something beyond our defenses we could bolster.”

“Keeping alive may prove fight enough from here. Our best offense was in breaking Tylar free to seek the rogues.”

Kathryn was reassured by his confidence in their decision, but little settled. Perhaps her dissatisfaction had more to do with being banished from the inner council of Tashijan. At least a small victory had been won this morning. With Delia admitted to the fieldroom, Kathryn would be kept better abreast of Argent’s plans and defenses.

At last, they reached the level of her hermitage. She would break her fast with Gerrod, then proceed with her day.

As she pushed into the hermitage, her maid Penni greeted her in her usual flustered manner. She had the hearth glowing with low flames. A small table had been spread with marbled breads, hard cheeses, and jams. Kathryn thanked the maid, then dismissed her. She knew that Gerrod preferred to keep his countenance hidden in his bronze armor unless alone with her.

Once Penni vanished down the back door, Kathryn turned to find Gerrod standing, almost shyly, only a few steps from the door.

“We won’t be disturbed,” she assured him and waved to the low table with the morning fare.

One arm slowly raised. His voice echoed hollowly out of his helmet. “Kathryn…”

Gerrod’s arm stiffened with a grinding creak. She stepped toward him.

“Can’t move…” he said, strained. “Mekanicals freezing up.”

She remembered when his armor had last grown sluggish. When he’d been exposed to the sapping of the storm, the Grace drained from his armor’s alchemies.

She heard a scratching behind her.

Twisting around, she drew her sword and pointed it toward the far drapes. The flames in the hearth damped to embers, then even the red coals dimmed. Cold spread across the room.

A long, skittering scrape sounded against the windows, dry branches on glass.

Gerrod groaned behind her, stiff in his armor. “Run…”

Laurelle wrinkled her nose. She found that Kytt carried a distinct odor about him. A musk, like a boy after a heavy run, only cleaner, with a slightly woody scent. She stood beside the young wyld tracker as he listened at the door. They were holed up in Brant’s room, listening for noises out in the hallway.

Kytt had taken to sleeping here, watching over the cubbies.

Barrin lolled beside the hearth, all but blocking the glow with his bulk. The two wolfkits wrestled across the breadth of his form, worming under legs, over haunches, growling and nipping at each other. They still used a pair of the giant’s boots as dens at night and had shredded one of Brant’s shirts as bedding.

They had seemed to settle well into the space.

But that was about to change.

Laurelle had come every morning and night for the past three days, slipping out of her halls and down to where the Oldenbrook retinue made their home. As the towers grew more crowded, this level was also shared by the four men from Akkabak Harbor, home of the Gray Traders. Freck-twist, the god of that realm, tolerated only men as his Hands. He had little regard for women in his realm, seeing them as little more than broodmares. His Hands also gleaned that same sentiment, as if burnt into them by his Grace.

She heard them pass by the door, grumbling under their breath. She heard Delia’s name, but she could make out little else. Then they were gone. Laurelle suspected Kytt heard every word as clear as if they were in the room.

“Is it safe?” Laurelle asked.

Kytt held up a hand. She noted that his fingernails were short, but filed to clawed points. In fact, Kytt seemed all sharp edges: tips of ears that poked slightly through his dark hair, the pointed squint of his eyes, even the hint of wolfish teeth when he allowed a shadow of a shy smile to form.

Then Laurelle heard it, too. The approach of two others. She was able to make out their words, spoken with little regard to who might hear, so confident in their positions that they did not bother to blunt their rudeness.

“I can’t believe the regent’s sellwench squirmed her way into my shadow,” Liannora hissed. “She’s certain to be favored by the warden, what with her being Fields’s daughter. I’ll be ignored.”

Her companion consoled her. “Who can ignore you? You shine brighter than the sun when you enter a room.”

“Oh, Sten, you can be so simple sometimes. I see how the warden watches her when that grubbing Hand isn’t looking. There’s no outshining family.” Liannora sniffed with disdain. “If only she stepped down or was made to step down…”

Sten’s voice lowered to a whisper, but by now they were passing the door to Brant’s room. “Missteps do happen. It is easy to trip on a stair. To break a leg…or even a neck.”

Liannora responded in equally low tones, but by then they had moved on down the hall. A bit of laughter carried back, then after another moment, silence.

Laurelle pulled her ear from the door. “Kytt, did you hear what that ice queen said? Were they merely speaking tall or were they serious?”

Kytt shook his head. “Even my ears are only so sharp. Her lips must have been at his ear.”

“I must find Delia.”

“What about the cubbies?” he asked.

She nodded. “We’ll move them first. Like we were planning. Then I’ll seek out Delia and warn her.”

Kytt strode toward the cubbies, sensing her urgency. “You take the boy. I’ll take the girl.”

Laurelle nodded. They had a pair of roughspun carryalls, meant to sling babies across a woman’s chest. They would each take one whelping. The plan was to abscond with the wolf cubbies and carry them up to Lorr’s abandoned rooms. Kytt had heard talk among the Oldenbrook guards that some harm was intended them, and as the wyld tracker was not of their realm, he had no real authority to stop them. The wolves remained the retinue’s property.

So the plan was to get them somewhere safe.

But thievery was beyond either of their skills. They didn’t know how anyone from Oldenbrook might respond, so they intended to make the move without any eyes about. The cubbies had escaped once already. It would be easy to explain away another disappearance.

Laurelle gathered up her carryall and lured the smaller of the two cubbies, the boy, notable for the extra white on the tips of his black ears, with a piece of dried mutton. She had the cubbie quickly bundled and contentedly chewing the salted meat. A low growling flowed as she slung the carryall over one shoulder and cradled the wolf across her chest.

Kytt had his cubbie, too. He held her back from the door, leaned his ear, listened for another couple of breaths, then nodded.

Barrin was already on his paws, ready to follow.

Kytt opened the door and led the way out. Laurelle followed. The bullhound padded after them.

The hallway was empty, except for one of the knights at the level’s landing. They moved quickly. A door opened behind them. Voices carried. Guards.

Ducking down, hidden by the bulk of the bullhound, Laurelle heard Sten, captain of the guard, call brusquely toward them. “Who goes there?”

Kytt shrugged off his carryall and slid it over to Laurelle. He motioned for her to continue. Barrin’s form filled the hall. With care, she should be able to reach the stairs without the guards seeing her.

She squeezed Kytt’s hand, then sidled low to the floor, close to one wall. Kytt straightened behind her, edged past Barrin, and signaled by hand for the bullhound to keep his place.

The wyld tracker called to the guards. “It is only I,” he said, though surely the guards knew Kytt. Who else traveled with a bullhound? Plainly they only sought amusement by hassling the young tracker.

Laurelle reached the stairs, laden with two squirming cubbies, both arguing in low growls through the roughspun at one another. She thanked the gods of the aether that neither of the two barked. The knight at the landing glanced to her above his masklin. She nodded and slipped around to the stairs.

Behind her, Kytt spoke with exaggerated loudness. “I was just seeing to the cubbies. Making sure they had fresh milk and feed.”

“A duty you won’t need much longer,” one of the guards said.

Laughter followed Laurelle out to the stair.

“Especially with the regent turning arse-end and running,” another said. “No need any longer for two cubbies.”

“And Liannora definitely could use a warm muff to match her new cloak.”

“Now that’s a muff I wouldn’t mind slippin’ a hand into,” one whispered.

“Don’t let Sten hear you say that.”

More rough laughter chased Laurelle round the stairs. She climbed, her heart thumping and a fire building in her chest.

“Off with you, then,” the guards barked to Kytt. “Before that dog of yours shites all over our hall.”

“Or he does!” his companion said. “Look at that nose on the boy. I wonder if trackers use it to sniff each other’s arses.”

Kytt appeared below, rounding up with Barrin. His face blushed through his tanned skin. He quickly joined her and accepted his burden back. Together, they climbed the seven levels to the floor where Lorr kept his rooms.

In short order, they had the cubbies behind doors and a fire burning in the cold hearth, and Barrin was again sprawled and already snoring.

“I should be returning to my rooms.” Laurelle rose from where she had been scratching one of the whelpings on the belly.

“They are calm with you,” Kytt said, nodding to the cubbie.

She warmed more than she should have at his generous word. “Dribbling milk over my fingers for the past three mornings and nights was what truly won them over. We had a houndskeep back…back home in Weldon Springs. That’s off near Chagda Falls.”

“I know where Weldon Springs lies,” he mumbled.

“Of course you do.” She shook her head at herself. Kytt’s own realm, Idlewyld, lay on the opposite coast of the Fifth Land from Weldon.

“Rich country,” he said. “Well-forested.”

“My father owns a thousand tracks. He baited bears and boars with the hounds. I used to sneak off to play with their cubbies.”

Laurelle shied away from that memory. She had mostly snuck off silently to the cubbies when her father had been beating her mother. Her family did not speak of such matters. Bruises and welts were hid under powder or behind lace.

Laurelle brushed a hand through her hair. “I should find Delia. Real or not, she should know of the threat we overheard.”

Kytt stepped to the door. “I will accompany you back to your floor.”

“I know my way.”

“Of course you do,” he said, mimicking back her own words from a moment ago.

She glanced to him and noted a ghost of a smile. She returned the same. It was rare to hear any ribbing from the young man.

“Best you have an escort.” He grumbled a bit, glancing away as shyness overcame him again. “Barrin can watch over the little ones.”

“Thank you. I would appreciate that.”

Laurelle gathered her things and the two set out. Lorr’s floor was only two above hers. The walk was shorter than she would have preferred. She even found her steps slowing. Too soon, they reached the level that housed Chrismferry’s Hands.

The hall was empty, all locked away or about their own concerns. The diminutive Master Munchcryden, the regent’s Hand of yellow bile, had a preference for wagered games, whether played with die or board, while the shaven-headed twins, Master Tre and his sister Fairland, seldom left their rooms, preferring the company of books and private reflection.

But such privacies were harder to come by now.

The warden could not indulge an entire floor for the regent’s company any longer. Especially with Tylar fled. The vacant rooms had been filled with a goodly number of the masters who had been chased out of their subterranean levels. The halls now reeked of strange alchemies, and the occasional muffled blast would echo down the hall from some combination gone bad.

Laurelle led the way. Her room was not far off the landing. It was a small blessing, as the deeper halls were clogged even heavier with alchemical vapors, but it meant stepping away from Kytt sooner than she would have liked.

“I’ll see you at the seventh evening bell,” Laurelle said as they neared her door.

“The whelpings always enjoy your visits.”

“Just the whelpings?” She lifted an eyebrow.

Kytt shuffled his feet-but he was saved from answering by a sharp outburst off by the stairs.

“The skull is gone! Why do you harp so on the matter?”

It was Master Hesharian.

Laurelle quickly freed her key and unlocked her door. Kytt stared back at the stairs. Once her door was open, she tugged the tracker inside with her. She leaned the door closed, but she kept a crack open to peer out.

Master Hesharian entered the hall with his usual dog in tow, the milky-eyed ancient master.

“Leave it go, Orquell,” the head of the Council groused. “My midmorning meal awaits, and I’d prefer my breads were still warm.”

A reedy voice argued. “But I spoke with Master Rothkild. He related how he had cored samples from the skull. Even a tooth. He had them stored within glass flutes in alchemical baths.”

“And I heard the same. He insists the mixtures had rendered any Grace down to dregs. Nothing that could prove useful.”

“Master Rothkild does not have my experience with Dark Grace. There is much I can discern if I could retrieve those bits of bone.”

“The warden will not allow another trip down to the Masterlevels. Whatever lurks below remains quiet, and he wisely does not wish to stir it anew. With the regent gone, there may be a chance the storm will blow away and afterward our levels could be cleansed with fire. Then you can collect those bits of skull.” Hesharian sniffed. “So let the matter die for now. I’ve my meal to attend and am near to famished.”

The pair passed Laurelle’s room. Master Orquell glanced in their direction as he passed. She and Kytt pulled back. Neither wanted that gaze to discover them hiding and spying.

“Then I’ll leave you to your meal,” Orquell said. “There is a matter I wish to attend anyway.”

“Very good. You attend. I’ll see you in the fieldroom at the next bell.”

They continued down the hall.

Laurelle met Kytt’s eye. “Can you track that one?”

“Who?”

“Master Orquell. I’d like to see what he’s about when he’s not in Hesharian’s shadow. It is seldom the two are apart. This may be our only opportunity.”

Kytt looked hesitant.

Laurelle pulled her door wider. “It will not take long. You heard. No more than a bell. Then Orquell will need to return to the maps and plottings in the fieldroom, falling once again into Hesharian’s shadow. As privy as that new master is to what is discussed in that room, I’d like to see what matters he attends when alone.”

Kytt nodded reluctantly.

Laurelle waited until the two masters were out of sight, then led Kytt back into the hall. Together they headed off after their prey. With Kytt’s keen senses, they could keep well back. They passed Hesharian’s room. His voice carried out, haranguing some scullery about the state of his jam.

They continued past.

At a crossing of passageways, Kytt stopped and sniffed. Laurelle did the same, but all she smelled was burnt alchemies. They stung her nose, and she felt sorry for Kytt.

But he did not complain-though his eyes watered slightly. He pointed the correct path, and they continued their hunt.

Master Orquell’s pace was surprisingly fast for one of his age and thinness of limb. He led them on a crisscrossing trail into the dustier regions of the level. The ceiling lowered and bits of fractured stone littered the floor. As this level had been intended only for Tylar’s retinue, the underfolk had not cleared these back spaces very well.

Laurelle began to grow concerned as the path grew more abandoned. Rooms here were not habitable without the shoring of rafters. The path grew darker, lined by doors rotted and crooked-hinged. Off in corners, she caught glimpses of tiny red eyes and heard the telltale scurry of small claws.

She began to wonder at the wisdom of this adventure. She had believed the warden had all of Tashijan ablaze, placing much security in the abundant flames. But now they had ventured beyond lamp and torch.

Her feet slowed.

Now it was Kytt’s determination that dragged her forward, their roles reversed. He straightened from examining a scuff in the dust and waved her to follow.

Turning a corner, they saw flickering light, fiery and welcome.

Kytt warned her to proceed cautiously. He pointed to his eyes, then down to his footprints in the dust. He wanted her to step where he stepped, so as not to alert their quarry.

But as they slipped closer, it was plain that Master Orquell was lost to all but the flames he had stoked in a cold hearth in an empty room. From down the hallway, they caught glimpses of him through a broken door, limned in firelight, features aglow.

He sat on his knees, rocking back and forth.

One arm reached out and sprinkled something across the flames. Sparks flew higher and a sound escaped with them, not unlike the flutter of a raven’s wings. Laurelle wrinkled her nose at the stench of the smoke in the hall. She caught a whiff of something rotted and foul behind the woodsmoke. Perhaps brimstone.

Then Orquell’s voice reached her as he rocked.

“Your will is my own, mistress. Show me what I must see.”

Laurelle shifted. Orquell leaned near the flames, close enough that she was surprised the old man’s eyes didn’t boil in their sockets. He stared long-then a keening wail escaped his throat.

“No…”

She reached out and found Kytt’s hand. He clasped hers tight.

Orquell finally rocked back away from the fire again, almost falling in a panicked scramble. He tossed a fistful of something at the fire, and the flames instantly doused.

As darkness fell, a few last words were whispered.

“I will do your bidding, mistress. I am in all ways your servant.”

Kytt edged Laurelle back with him, still holding her hand. They retreated, stepping carefully. Now it was their turn to flee. Kytt guided them unerringly and swiftly. Once well enough away, certain they were out of earshot, Laurelle slowed him.

“We must not let the master out of sight when he’s away from Hesharian. I’ll inform Delia. She’ll get word to the castellan.” Laurelle’s confidence grew as they returned to the well-lit passages. “We’ll have to dog his steps. Watch him after he leaves the fieldroom.”

Kytt nodded.

There was no need to argue.

Both could guess the mistress to whom the master bowed as a servant.

The witch below.

Mirra.

Kathryn faced the window with her sword. Behind the heavy drapery that closed off her balcony, the scratching had gone silent. She heard Gerrod strain, fighting his locked armor, its alchemies bled of Grace.

“Go,” he said between gritted teeth. “Leave me here.”

Cold permeated the entire room now, misting white her heated breath, freezing her cheeks. The hearth’s embers had gone black.

Then glass tinkled, breaking and falling from paned frames. The drapes billowed toward her as a fierce gust swirled into the room through the broken window. Cold enough to make Kathryn gasp.

Backing a step to guard Gerrod, she drank the shadows. Her cloak swept to either side, its edges blurring with the darkness. She wrapped the power through her, making the flow of time slow.

Past the billow of the drapery, the balcony was shadowed by the towers that framed the courtyard. The sun had risen to a gray slate morning, casting enough light to reveal a dark shape outside her window.

Then the drapes fell again.

Behind them, wood cracked with a loud snap of latch and lintel. The bottom hem of the drapery stirred in the breezes, then flapped wide. Through the part, it crept into her chambers.

It came low, naked, knuckling down on one arm, cocking one eye toward her, then the other. It bore wings like a bat, skeletal and sinewy. It was bare of any hair or fur, except for a thin mane trailing from crown down the spine of its back. Its manhood hung limp and hairless.

“Wind wraith,” Gerrod said behind her.

Except Kathryn knew this was no mere Grace-bred man. He had been ilked, too. More beast than man any longer. Drool seeped from its snarled lips. Nostrils pinched open and closed.

Eyes found her buried in the shadows and fixed to her.

In the gloom of her chambers, with all flames guttered, she recognized the glint of Grace, but not the purity to which she was accustomed, more an oily gleam.

Kathryn prepared to dispatch the creature. How many more were out there? She had to keep Gerrod protected. But the wraith approached no closer. It hissed at her, still crouched low, in some bestial parody of a bow.

Then it spoke-something she had believed was beyond the ilk-beast’s ability. Its voice trilled out its throat, mouth barely moving, sounds shaped from somewhere beyond lips and tongue.

“Castellllan Vaillll…”

She stiffened, sensing a dark intelligence in her presence.

“Come. To parlllley. In town. Blllackhorse tavernhouse. In one belllll.”

Kathryn found her own voice, ringing it clear. “Who requests this parley?”

“Lord Ullllf willlls you to speak to him.” The creature shifted to its other knuckle, cocking its other eye toward her. “Onllly you. Come alllone.”

Despite the terror of the moment and the twisted messenger, Kathryn could not keep a spark of curiosity from flaring. Still, she was no fool.

As if sensing her hesitation, the creature bowed its head. “No harm willll come.” It sank away, pushing back through drape and broken glass.

Then was gone.

The drapes fluttered as it took wing from her balcony.

She waited a full breath in the dark, cold room. Finally she straightened, but she did not sheath her blade. She swung to her door, sidestepping Gerrod.

“No, Kathryn,” he moaned in his frozen suit, his voice echoing in his helmet.

“I must go,” she said, both apologetic and certain. “I will send word to Master Fayle. To replenish the air in your alchemies. It won’t be long.”

She pulled her door open and slid out. She considered the rashness of her decision, but she did not dismiss it. She had waited for days, been cast aside by Argent, and bided her time while the tower dallied with its defenses. Something more needed to be done. Even if it meant putting one’s own neck on the block.

“Kathryn!” Gerrod called to her, hollow and angry. “It’s a-”

She snapped the door closed, but not before hearing his last word. Though it failed to sway her, she did not doubt it.

“-trap!”