Kathryn ser Vail stood near the mooring docks that topped the highest tower of Tashijan. Though it was mid-morning, the light remained a twilight gloaming. Black clouds stacked to the horizons on all sides, whipping and rolling in from the seas to the south.

As she waited, cold winds flapped her cloak and tugged at the masklin pinned across her face. As a Shadowknight, she had to keep her face hidden from the laborers here. Her breath blew white into the frigid, thin air. Ice frosted the parapet stones and made the mooring ropes crack as they were run across the stones by line handlers and dockmen.

Clutching her arms around her, she fought to trap the fleeting warmth carried up with her from the bowels of Tashijan. The mooring tower of the Citadel thrust fifty floors into the sky, a thin spire built three millennia ago under the guidance of Warden Bellsephere. Aptly named Stormwatch, it took the humours of a hundred gods to build this one tower.

“There she is!” her companion shouted into the teeth of the wind.

Gerrod Rothkild was encased in bronze from head to toe, oblivious of the wind. He was squat of form, typical for a hill-man from Bitter Heap. But unlike his barbarous, uneducated countrymen, he was of sharp intellect and even sharper wit. Under his helmet, he bore the tattoos of fifteen disciplines, all masterfields. “That tub’d better have a skilled pilot to strike the docks in this gale.”

Kathryn watched the salt-scarred flippercraft lower out of the sea of clouds overhead. It was a wooden whale, blunt at both ends but flaring into a wide keel at the stern. At the prow, a thick window of blessed glass stared down at the mooring docks. Shadowy movement could be seen behind the glass: the ship’s frantic landing crew.

On the port and starboard sides, the score of balancing paddles battled the winds, some turning, others stationary, some extending out from the ship, others retracting. It took an experienced pilot, one ripe with air, to finesse the craft.

“He’s burning blood,” Gerrod commented.

Kathryn saw he was right. From the top of the flippercraft gouts of smoke choked into the skies from the exhaust flue, furthering the craft’s image of a flying whale. “Why does he hazard the storm? Why waste humour on such a risky landing?”

“His need must be urgent,” Gerrod answered gruffly. “And such urgency seldom heralds fair tidings.”

Kathryn suspected the same. Could the news be anything but foul, especially as of late? The sudden death of Ser Henri, the warden of Tashijan, had left a hole in the Order. And like a drain plug pulled from a tub, the warden’s vacancy had created a maelstrom of opposing factions seeking to fill it, whirling and churning the once calm waters.

And now worse tidings still: the slaying of a god. An impossible death. And tied to such a tragedy, a name from her past, a name that both stirred her and quickened a pain long since buried.

She shuddered and concentrated on the skies, pulling her cloak tighter about her shoulders.

Overhead, the ship foundered in the crosswinds that swept around the tower. Its bulk rocked and teetered, lowering toward the waiting mooring cradle, paddles flapping frantically. The stern planks glowed from the overworked aeroskimmers. Kathryn could imagine the mekanism’s brass pipes and mica-glass tubes shining as bright as the sun, channeling and pumping raw humour through its belly, an alchemy of blood from one of the air gods. She watched the tortuous twist of inky smoke from the stern flue.

“It’s madness,” she whispered.

Steel fingers touched her hand. “There must be a reason—” Suddenly those same fingers clamped on her wrist and tugged. “Down!”

Overhead, the ship dropped like a stone. It heeled over on one side, paddles sweeping toward the tower top. The line handlers and dockmen dove and scattered.

Kathryn and Gerrod flattened to the ground.

The flippercraft righted with a scream of wind and crack of wood as one paddle struck a parapet and shattered into splinters. The ship tilted nose first, plunging for a sure crash into the granite mooring cradle.

Then miraculously it bucked up at the last moment, and the ship’s keel slammed roughly but securely into the cradle. The jarring impact popped a few rib planks and a tracery of fractures skittered across the glass eye of the wooden whale.

Immediately the mooring crews were back on their legs, yelling into the winds, tossing ropes and tethers about the grounded flippercraft. A few cheers of appreciation rose from the workers.

Kathryn rolled back to her feet smoothly and quickly, sharing no such appreciation. “Nothing is worth such a risk of vessel and folk.”

The rear hatch of the flippercraft winched open. A single figure leaped out before the hatch even thudded against the stone. He was a swirl of darkness, a shred of shadow cast into the wind.

“I believe that would be young Perryl,” Gerrod said at Kathryn’s side.

Perryl hurried toward them. His eyes were sparks of fury, his manner full of wildness. He reached them as the first mooring line was secure—and didn’t stop.

He offered only one word as he passed: “Below.”

Caught in his wake, Kathryn’s rebuke for his reckless haste died in her throat. She and Gerrod Rothkild followed at his heels. Perryl strode to the tower door and fought the storm winds to open the way. He calmed enough to wave them through first.

Kathryn ducked past the threshold to the stairs beyond. As Gerrod followed, a spat of hail burst out of the sky, pelting stone and wood with balls of ice the size of goose eggs. Yells and shouts echoed. Perryl caught a blow to his cheek, ripping his masklin loose.

He slammed the door and turned to them. His face was deathly pale. “Tylar’s escaped . . . fled . . .”

The silence that followed was punctuated by a barrage of hail against the wooden door, sounding like the strikes of a hundred mailed fists.

Kathryn attempted to digest this information. She unpinned her masklin and shook back her cloak’s hood. She had failed to braid her hair into its usual fiery tail and finger-combed it away from her pale face. Never a beauty, she was still considered fair of feature, though nowadays a certain hard edge frosted her blue eyes. She stared stolidly at Perryl, demanding elaboration.

“A raven reached the flippercraft while I was en route,” Perryl continued. His eyes would not meet Kathryn’s, and his tongue stammered. “Against my orders, the fools attempted to execute Tylar, but he somehow called forth a daemon. Several guards were killed as he fled.”

“A daemon?” Kathryn asked.

“That is all I know. But the message was sealed with the mark of the Order. Darjon ser Hightower. The only Shadowknight to survive the slaughter.” Perryl finally met Kathryn’s eyes. “I didn’t know there were any of Meeryn’s Shadowknights still alive after the attack upon her. Our brother leads a force in pursuit. Word suggests the Black Flaggers abetted Tylar’s escape to the sea.”

Kathryn turned. “Pirates and daemons . . .” As she stood on the steps, time slipped backward. She had watched the man she once loved hauled in chains onto a slave barge, headed across the Deep, a knight no longer, face bared to all, an oath breaker and a murderer. Tylar’s eyes had searched for her on the river docks, but she had remained hidden in the shadows of an alley, ashamed that her own words had doomed him. But she could not lie to the court, not even if soothmancers hadn’t been present. He had to know this. Then he was dragged onto the barge, gone from sight—but not from her heart, never her heart.

“I thought him innocent,” Perryl said from the top of the stairs.

Kathryn started down the stairs. As did I once . . . long ago . . . She cleared her throat. “Castellan Mirra must be informed of all that transpired. She awaits your attendance.” They began the long hike down to the main keep of Tashijan. Ser Henri’s old castellan had assumed the duty of governing the Citadel until this evening’s winnowing, when a new warden would be chosen by a casting of ballot stones.

Gerrod Rothkild kept pace with her down the stairs. His voice was soft, meant for only her ears. “Save judgment for now. Not all is as plain as it first appears, little Kat.”

“Then again, some is,” Kathryn answered. She had to bite back a sharper retort. She knew Gerrod sought only to comfort her. But even Gerrod, with all his mastered disciplines, could not fathom the emotion that welled through her with Perryl’s damning testimony.

It was not despair that filled her—only relief.

Though ashamed, she could not deny it. Tylar was clearly guilty, a godslayer of one of the Blessed Hundred. If he could kill a god now, then oath breaking and murder were not beyond him in the past.

Tears rose. Tylar had to be guilty. Her past words had banished him, broken him. Over these past years, the only way she had survived her betrayal was to place all her faith in the justice of the Order and the Grace of her cloak.

Tylar had to be guilty.

Still, she remembered the touch of his hand on her cheek, the brush of lips on her throat, the whispered words in the dark, dreams and hopes for a future . . . together. A hand found her belly, rested a moment, then fell away, cold. There was one last betrayal even Tylar had never learned.

By all the Graces, he had to be guilty.

Kathryn found herself staring out the window, watching a tiny tick squirrel hopping from limb to limb among the dark, sodden leaves, searching for any nut yet unfallen. But already the spring buds hung from stems, heavy yet still folded. All the nuts had long since fallen. Still, Kathryn appreciated the creature’s dogged determination.

Especially in the rain.

The storm that had swept Perryl here had broken into a steady downpour, falling like a veil across the view.

Off to the side, Perryl continued relating the events and tragedies that had befallen the Summering Isles. Gerrod Rothkild had already left to gather the Council of Masters.

Two steps away, the castellan sat with her back to the window by the room’s hearth, wrapped in an old furred cloak edged in ragged ermine. Her feet rested almost in the hearth’s flames. Some said she was as old as the wyrmwood tree outside her window. But the passing of winters had not dulled her sharp intellect. She stared into the flames, nodding. Occasionally one finger would rise from her armrest with a rare question, asked in a firm, unwavering voice.

The crooked finger lifted again. “Boy, tell me about this Darjon ser Hightower, the one who sent the raven messenger.”

Perryl, clearly irked by the condescending manner of Mirra, glanced to Kathryn, drawing her attention.

Kathryn’s frown deepened, warning him to simply answer her question. One did not cross Castellan Mirra, especially when she was in such a harsh mood. She had almost refused to see them. The death of Ser Henri had struck the old castellan hard. She had retreated to her hermitage, leaving Tashijan to rule itself until the night’s ballot stones were cast and a new warden was chosen.

Perryl continued. “Ser Hightower is well respected, Your Graced. He was second in command at the Summer Mount.”

“Yet he wasn’t at Meeryn’s side when she was murdered.”

“No. Duty had called him to another isle on that dreadful night.”

Mirra nodded, studying the dance of flames in the hearth. “And now he seeks vengeance.”

“He leads a contingent of castillion guards aboard a fleet of corsairs. They scour the southern seas for Tylar’s track. They believe he’s escaped into the Deep.”

Kathryn spoke softly. “If he’s reached the open ocean, then there is no telling where he might head. All the Nine Lands will be open to hide him.”

“But he will be welcome among none of them,” Perryl said. “Word has spread among the Hundred. All the god-realms know of his crime.”

“He could always flee to one of the hinterlands,” Kathryn contended. “He could hide forever in one of those godless lands.”

“Perhaps,” Mirra said. “But even within the hinterlands, there are gods.”

“Mere rogues,” Kathryn answered. “Vile creatures, maddened and raving.”

Mirra stared into the hearth. “Such were our own Hundred . . . before they settled the various realms so many millennia ago.”

Kathryn cocked an eyebrow. What is the castellan implying? There seems some hidden meaning hinted here.

Silence settled around the room.

“Tylar must be found,” the old castellan finally stated, as if she had decided something to herself.

“He will be,” Perryl said. “Already Ser Hightower is closing a net over the southern seas.”

“A net that will surely drown our godslayer,” Mirra said. “That must not happen. He must be protected.”

“Why?” Perryl asked, as surprised as Kathryn.

“Tylar is not guilty,” Mirra said with rasping authority.

Kathryn stepped closer, unable to hide her shock. “I don’t understand. He fled his accusers, he called forth a daemon . . . pirates shield him. Are these the actions of an innocent man?”

Mirra shifted in her seat. Her eyes locked on Kathryn’s. “They are the actions of a man accustomed to betrayal and false accusations.”

Kathryn went cold inside. “What are you saying?”

Mirra settled back to her chair. It was a long time before she spoke, and when she did her tongue was slow with regret. “There are words I fear to share . . . but I see no other course. I am too old for this burden alone. It broke Ser Henri, and he was stronger than I.”

Kathryn crossed gazes with Perryl, but neither spoke, allowing Mirra the space to reveal what troubled her.

The old castellan fixed each of them with her sharp gaze, weighing their resolve. Her eyes settled on Kathryn, softening slightly. “Do you still love him?”

“Who?”

“Your former betrothed.”

Kathryn’s brows pinched. “Tylar . . . I . . . no, of course not. That was buried long ago.”

Mirra turned away and whispered to the flames, “What’s buried is not always lost . . .” She stared into the fire for several breaths before speaking again. “What I tell you next is no kindness. In many ways, it is a cruelty that shames me, and worse still, shames the memory of Ser Henri.”

“Nothing can make me think ill of Ser Henri,” Kathryn said. In many ways, the old warden had been the father she never knew. She had been born to and abandoned by a sell-wench on the streets of Kirkalvan.

Mirra seemed deaf to her. “Shame no longer matters. Time runs too short for pride. I tell you these words now on the eve of the winnowing, on the last day I will wear the emblem of the castellan.” Mirra fingered the diamond seal pinned under her chin. “By midnight, a new warden will be chosen and, as you well know, the outcome is almost certain.”

Though Perryl looked confused, Kathryn understood. As of the past two days, the faction supporting Argent ser Fields had become firmly entrenched in the lead, pinning down a majority through old ties, pacts, and bonds. He was a fit leader and a strong spokesman, having served on many and varied boards. Even Kathryn had chosen to cast her ballot stone in his direction.

“What does any of this have to do with Tylar?”

Mirra’s eyes took on a faraway glaze that was both tired and angry. “Half a decade ago, your betrothed had been a minor piece in a larger game, tossed aside after he was no longer of use. And while Tylar was not entirely blameless for his actions, neither was he guilty of the bloody crimes for which he was accused. He set in motion—blindly though it might have been—a series of events that almost brought down Ser Henri. To preserve the Order of Tashijan, to protect it from darker forces, Tylar had to be sacrificed.”

Kathryn’s legs went weak with her words. As thunder echoed through the castle walls, she found herself leaning on a table for support. “Then the murder of the cobbler’s family . . . ?”

Mirra shook her head. “Their blood does not stain his hands.”

Kathryn felt the room’s walls close in. Darkness oiled the corners of her vision. Innocent . . he was innocent . . .

Mirra sighed. “Now, I don’t understand Tylar’s role in this new gambit. Was it mere chance, a twist of fate, or are there darker currents at play? In any case, it proves even a broken pawn can arise again and shake the board, rattle the play of the game.”

Kathryn shook her head, trying to clear her mind. “What game are you talking about?” Anger flared, hardening her tone. “Tell me!”

Mirra remained unmoved, a stone against Kathryn’s fury. “Even I don’t know all the plots and contrivances. I doubt even Ser Henri knew, and he was the wisest of us all. But he believed the struggle waged behind the walls of Tashijan was only an echo of a larger war brewing outside.”

“Then start here first,” Kathryn said.

“For the past decade, Ser Henri has fought to weed out a secretive faction within the Order. A faction that calls itself the Fiery Cross.”

Kathryn glanced to Perryl, then back to Mirra. Rumors of such a group had been bantered about for as long as Kathryn could remember: secret rites performed in the dead of night, hidden passages and chambers built into the walls, rogue members of the Order practicing the Dark Graces. But it was considered more myth than reality.

Mirra nodded. “They exist and have grown stronger and more open. Their goal: to turn the Order into more than servants to the gods and arbiters of peace. They seek to mold the Shadowknights into a warrior force, mercenaries for hire, assassins for those with enough coin.”

“But that goes against all our oaths,” Perryl said sternly.

“Oaths can be changed,” Mirra answered simply and added cryptically, “as they have been in the distant past.”

Kathryn found her legs and moved to the hearth’s edge, needing the warmth. “And Tylar became embroiled in this struggle?”

“He was caught between the Order and the Cross, blind to the forces around him, and crushed. The murder of the cobbler’s family was laid at his feet, and in order to prove his innocence, Ser Henri would have had to expose agents loyal to him who had infiltrated the Cross, risking even more deaths. So Tylar was sentenced to banishment and slavery. All Ser Henri could do was beseech the overseer of the trial to keep your betrothed from the gallows, sparing his death.”

Kathryn laid a palm on her belly. Not all had been so generously spared . . . She lowered her hand, swallowing down the rage that burned through her. “Then who murdered the cobbler family?”

Mirra’s voice dropped to a whisper. “The same person who murdered Ser Henri.”

Perryl fell back. “It cannot be . . .”

Ser Henri’s death was the cause of much speculation and rumor. His body had been found on the tower stair, his face locked in pain and horror, each finger burned and blackened to the knuckle. But murder? Ser Henri dabbled in alchemies, often dealing with volatile mixtures. An experiment gone awry was the Council of Masters’ judgment on the death, though they still left the inquiry open.

Kathryn bit back her shock, fingers clenching. “Is what you say true?”

The castellan continued her vigil upon the flames. Tears shone in her eyes. “The murder cannot be proven, but I know the truth nonetheless.”

“Who was behind it?” she asked.

Mirra pulled her ermine cloak tighter around her thin form. “It was the head of the Fiery Cross . . . either upon his order or by his own hand. I’m sure of it.”

“And does this monster have a name?”

Again the barely perceptible nod. “Ser Henri had his suspicions, nothing that could be proven.”

Kathryn refused to accept defeat so easily. “Who was it?”

The old castellan’s next words were frail with despair. “The next warden of Tashijan . . . Argent ser Fields.”

He kept his room as orderly as his own mind: a small hearth aglow with coals, plain and heavy woolen drapes over slit windows, and simple furnishings of greenwood and hammered copper. The only adornments were fanciful iron braziers in shapes of woodland creatures—eagle, skreewyrm, wolfkit, and tyger—at each corner of the room, cardinal points of a compass. Even these had their practical uses, simmering now with sweet myrrh to scent the air, though more often they burned rare alchemies to focus the mind and thoughts.

“And that was all Castellan Mirra could tell you?” Gerrod asked.

There was no need to answer. It was the fourth time that question had been asked. But Kathryn nodded anyway.

Gerrod stabbed a fork into a chunk of meat. As usual, he wore his bronze armor, shedding only his helmet, indicating a level of comfort and familiarity with his dining companion. Though no older than Kathryn, he was as bald as his helmet, his scalp tattooed with symbols of his fifteen masterfields. His skin was pale to the point of translucency, even his lips. Only his eyes remained a rich brown, a match to his bronze armor.

The soft whir of his armor’s mekanicals was loud in the silence as he brought the forkful to his lips. The armor sustained his frail form. After showing promise as a boy, he had been ripened with alchemies of air and fire to ready his mind for his studies, but he had been pushed too far. Mastering fifteen disciplines had cost him the strength of bone and muscle, leaving him dependent on the armor to move his limbs.

“I can’t bring this to the Council of Masters,” Gerrod said. “Not without proof. Especially with accusations involving Argent ser Fields.” This last was said with a sad shake of his head. “It seems unbelievable, unfathomable.”

“Castellan Mirra seemed certain of her claim.”

Gerrod’s brow furrowed into pale lines. “And the old castellan definitely is not a person prone to fits of fancy.”

“As it was, she was loath to inform us of even this. She wished to consult with those still loyal to Ser Henri before explaining more. I think she told Perryl and me only because of our ties to . . . to Tylar. She is convinced he is of some importance to the struggles here and abroad. Whether he is a willing player or not, she was not sure.”

Gerrod sighed, wheezing like his armor. “And you’ve taken me into your counsel, spreading the word. Do you think this is wise? I did not know Tylar.”

Kathryn reached forward to touch his bronze hand. “If I can’t trust you, then who within the walls of Tashijan can I trust?”

His metal glove cleaved open like a clam, exposing the skeletal fingers within. She did not flinch from touching them. A small smile formed on his lips. Like all Masters of Discipline, he had forsworn women, but that did not keep him from loving. Kathryn knew his feelings for her and hers for him.

Five years ago, after Tylar’s trial and banishment, something had broken inside Kathryn. She had retreated for a year into the monastic levels of Tashijan, to the underground lair of the masters with its libraries, illuminariums, and alchemy laboratories. There, she lost herself in study and meditation, burying herself under the keep as surely as in a grave.

And she would still be there if it hadn’t been for Gerrod. Newly arrived to Tashijan and blind to her past, his eyes had not looked upon her with accusation for her damning testimony against Tylar, nor did they glance away with sad sympathy for her loss.

Gerrod simply saw her.

Over the next months, he drew her out with his wit and plain wisdoms. You’re too much a flower to hide from the sun . . . leave such places to mold and mushrooms. He helped build back her strength, find her center once again. It was holding this same hand that she left the subterranean levels of the masters and returned to the Order of the Shadowknights above, where she resumed her place as a knight. Though they could never be together, they were forever more than friends.

And it was enough for both of them.

A knock at the door interrupted. Kathryn stood as Gerrod’s armor snapped back over his fingers. “Who is it?” Gerrod called out.

“It’s Perryl, Master Rothkild!”

Kathryn hurried to the door as Gerrod climbed to his feet with a whirring protest from his mekanicals. He snapped his hinged helmet back over his head.

She opened the door, and Perryl hurried in. Like most knights, he had shed his shadowcloak while within the main keep and wore plain black breeches, boots, and a gray shirt, buttoned formally. He had oiled and combed his straw hair straight back as was custom for a Ninthlander. Free of his knight’s wear, Kathryn was shocked by his boyish appearance. It was easy to forget how young he was, so new to the cloak.

“The count is almost finished,” he said in a rush of breath. “They expect to announce the new warden in the next quarter ring.”

“So soon?” Kathryn asked. It was still well from midnight, the expected time for such a pronouncement. All ballot stones had been cast with the ringing of the eighth bell. It should have taken until the middle of the night for all the stones to have been tallied.

“That’s why I hurried here. Word is that the vote was so overwhelming that the outcome was plain from the first spill of the stones.”

Kathryn wore a worried expression. There had been five main candidates for the seat of Tashijan, each represented by a different colored stone: red, green, blue, yellow, and white. During the secret ballot, Kathryn had chosen none of them, selecting instead a black stone, a vote against all the candidates.

“What stone leads?” Gerrod asked, though there could be only one answer.

“White,” Perryl confirmed. “Ser Fields’s color. Word whispering from the council hall is that the other colors were but a few daubs against a sea of white. No count will be necessary to declare the victor.”

“Then it’s over,” Kathryn whispered. She faced the others. “We should bring the news to Castellan Mirra. See what she has to say.”

As a group, they vacated Gerrod’s rooms and climbed out of the Masterlevels buried under the central keep of Tashijan. The floors above, the Citadel as it was called, were the domain of the Order of the Shadowknight. The Citadel and the Masterlevel composed the two halves of Tashijan, one above-ground, the other below. And the loftier the level in the Citadel, the more esteemed the residents. A castellan was second only to the warden. That meant a climb of twenty-two flights to reach Castellan Mirra’s hermitage.

They climbed in silence, lost to their own thoughts and worries. But they were not alone. Young squires and pages sprinted up and down the central staircase as it wound through the heart of the keep, voices sharp with excitement. A few knights marched the same steps, mostly heading down toward the Grand Court. Word of the early pronouncement had spread quickly.

Kathryn nodded to her brothers and sisters as they passed.

“Have you heard?” one called to her. “Argent’s color rides high. Looks like ol’ One Eye will be leading us from here!”

Kathryn attempted a smile, but it felt crooked on her face. Then the other knight was gone, vanishing around a turn of the stairs.

They climbed the rest of the way up to the proper level and crossed down the resident halls of those who ruled Tashijan. By morning, there would be new occupants in all of these rooms as Argent ser Fields picked those who would work beside him. A new warden meant an entire upheaval for those in power. Kathryn glanced to the doorway that led to Ser Henri’s private rooms, the Warden’s Eyrie, as it was called. Soon it, too, would have a new resident, an eagle replaced by a blood vulture.

Perryl reached Castellan Mirra’s door first and knocked. The sound was unnaturally loud in the stone hallway. They waited for a response, but there was none.

“Perhaps she’s already heard,” Gerrod said. “As castellan, she’ll have to make an appearance at the Grand Court when the pronouncement is made.”

“Or perhaps she’s asleep,” Perryl added. “Her hearing is not as keen these last years.”

“Try again,” Kathryn urged.

Gerrod shifted past Perryl and knocked an armored fist on the door. Though he didn’t pound hard, the strike of bronze on wood startled Kathryn with its clangor. Even the stone deaf could not fail to hear his hail.

A small, frightened voice finally sounded from beyond the door. “Who is it?”

Kathryn recognized the shaky tone. It was the scrap of a girl that served as maid to Castellan Mirra. She tried to remember her name and failed. “Child . . . it is Kathryn ser Vail.”

There was a long pause. “Castellan Mirra . . . she’s not in residence.”

Kathryn frowned at her two companions. Perhaps Gerrod was right . . . she’d gone already to the Grand Court.

The maid spoke again. “She’s been gone the long day, since the midday break.”

Kathryn’s lips hardened further, her eyes sparking toward the others. Surely the old castellan would return to her rooms to freshen herself before appearing before the court. The maid’s name snapped into her mind. “Penni, did she say when she would be back?”

“No, ser. I can’t say. I left to fetch some fresh water and hard coal, but when I returned the mistress had already left. I don’t know when to expect her back.”

Kathryn did not trust such strange tidings. Not on this day. “Penni, please let us in. I would rather not discuss this out in the hall.”

Another long pause stretched.

“Penni . . .” Kathryn’s tone grew more firm.

“I’m not supposed to allow anyone in when the mistress is away.”

“It’s important. You know we were speaking with Castellan Mirra only this morning. You know your mistress’s trust in me.”

“Still, I . . . I dare not disobey. The mistress does not like her word to be ignored.”

Kathryn sighed. She couldn’t argue with that. Few disobeyed the old castellan. Her tongue could sting sharper than a whip’s tip.

Perryl stepped closer. “Let me try,” he whispered, then turned to the door. “Penni, it’s Perryl. I’m with Ser Vail and Master Rothkild. You need not fear. On my word and honor, I will assert your honest and firm guardianship of her rooms. But it is of utmost importance that we attempt to find some clue to your mistress’s whereabouts.”

Kathryn glanced to Gerrod and rolled her eyes. Since when had Perryl developed such a sweet tongue? When last they were here, Kathryn had noticed how the maid had glanced from under heavy eyelashes at Perryl before being dismissed. He did strike a strong, willowy figure. Who said a knight’s strength lay only in his cloak?

The door swung slowly open. A small face framed in brown curls tucked under a lace cap peeked out at them. The cheeks reddened as her eyes glanced over them, settled on Perryl, then swept away again.

“Thank you, Penni,” Perryl said with a half bow. “You have done your mistress no disservice.”

She returned his bow and waved them inside.

The hermitage was uncomfortably warm after the unheated halls. The thick drapes had been drawn over the balcony windows, shuttering out the storm and making the room seem smaller. Tiny lamps dotted the room, wicked low to conserve the oil until the castellan’s return.

The wool rug muffled their footsteps. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. The room simply awaited the return of its master.

“Your mistress left no message, no note?” Perryl pressed the maid, whose head remained bowed, hands clasped together at her bosom.

“No, ser.”

Gerrod had crossed to the room’s center and searched slowly, standing in one place. Only his eyes could be seen through his bronzed armor. “The castellan’s cane is still in its stand,” he noted aloud.

Kathryn glanced in the direction he indicated. A tall ebony walking stick, swirled in silver filigree, rested in a brass stand. Castellan Mirra’s legs were not as stout as once they were. She required either a supportive arm or a cane.

The maid stepped forward again, bowing slightly as she spoke. “That is her fancy stick, Master Rothkild. Her regular one is gone from the wardrobe.” She pointed an arm, not looking up.

Kathryn nodded. Castellan Mirra was not one given to show. She usually hobbled on a greenwood stick knobbed in bronze. Kathryn waved a hand, turning away. “That one is used only for ceremonial occasions.”

“Like the passing of wardenship to a new hand,” Perryl said. “Would she not have taken it to the Naming Ceremony?”

Gerrod mumbled inside his helmet, “Unless it was her way to insult the proceedings. A jibe against those who would succeed her.”

Kathryn crossed to the hearth, ruddy with coals. Mirra was supposed to have met with those loyal to Ser Henri and herself, those who had set themselves against the Fiery Cross. Had she met with them? Had they all decided to flee?

Kathryn felt an ache behind her eyes. She was not used to thinking in terms of such intrigues and machinations. She turned from the hearth, her eyes settling on the chair where Mirra had sat earlier. The ermine-edged cloak still lay over its back. Like Mirra herself, it was old, ragged at the edges, but still retained a certain beauty.

She crossed to finger the cloak. As it shifted, an edge unfolded, revealing a blackened and singed corner. She pulled the cloak up and brought the edge up into the light. “Look at this.”

Penni cried out. “Oh, dear! The corner must have been too near the hearth when I freshened the coals! Mistress Mirra will be furious with me!”

As Perryl attempted to calm the maid, Gerrod stepped to Kathryn’s side. His voice was a whisper. “There are ways of telling what sort of fire burned the robe. I can take it to one of the alchemists for study.” He stepped around, blocking the view of Perryl and the maid.

Kathryn slipped a dagger from her belt and cleanly cut away the burned swath. She passed it to Gerrod. It vanished into a compartment in his armor, one of many hiding places on his bronzed form.

Before anything else could be made of the matter, a loud ringing echoed up from below. Slow and ponderous. It was the Shield Gong of the Grand Court, calling all knights and masters of Tashijan to gather.

“The Council of Masters is done with their tallies,” Gerrod said. “It seems a new warden has been chosen.”

Perryl crossed to them. “What now?”

“We join the court,” Kathryn said. “As we must.”

“And Castellan Mirra?” Perryl eyed the empty chair.

Gerrod answered, ever practical, “If she’s still within these walls, she’ll have to respond to the summons.”

That is, if she’s still alive, Kathryn added silently.

Following the ceremony, ale would flow from the top of Stormwatch down to the subterranean bowels of the masters’ dens. Already, servants and maids festooned the passages with flower petals; incense burners smoked cheerily. But before the revelry could begin, there was one last observance to attend.

The Naming Ceremony.

Kathryn worked through the crowd toward the packed entrance. The banter and excited talk had faded to the steady drone of an overturned beehive. The doorway was framed in black onyx stone, surmounted by a massive crystal of dark quartz, representing the black diamond that marked the hilt of every Shadowknight’s sword.

She passed under the arch with Perryl in tow.

Once through, the way opened as the crowds dispersed to the gallery seats. The excited chatter in the outer hallways faded, both from reverence for the chamber and simply because the voices were lost in the vast spaces overhead.

In ancient times, the Grand Court was a natural amphitheater worn into the stone cliffs that towered over the Straits of Parting. It was said that human kings once held court here, before the coming of the gods. As such, the revered place was chosen for the site of Tashijan, hallowed ground where mind and might became one, the Shadowknights embodying the purity of muscle and reflex, the Council of Masters epitomizing all the learned studies and meditations. Over and around this ancient amphitheater, the Citadel of Tashijan had been constructed. The natural granite hollow had been carved into tiered benches with balustrades and stairs leading from one level to another.

Kathryn crossed to the stone railing that circled this level. She stared down toward the floor far below. An arc of eight seats, hewed from the granite itself, stood before a deep central pit, the Hearthstone. Flames licked upward out of this stone well, smoking with alchemies and lighting the seats in a ruddy glow. Various leaders of the Order and Discipline already sat in their seats, leaning toward one another in whispered conversations.

“She’s not here,” Perryl said.

Kathryn’s fingers tightened on the balustrade. Ser Henri’s old seat, the tallest, stood vacant, as did the one to its right, the castellan’s chair.

“What now?”

Kathryn imagined much of the whispering below centered on that empty chair. She searched the lower levels of the court, the tiers reserved for the masters. It did not take long to spot Gerrod down there. His bronze armor stood out among the robes. He was gazing up at Kathryn. He shook his head.

Around the nearer tiers, the various knights, pages, and squires took their seats. As in Tashijan itself, the upper levels were their domain.

“We should get as close as possible,” Perryl said. “Watch for any sign of the castellan.”

Kathryn nodded and led the way down into the thick of her fellow knights. She found two seats just above the masters’ tiers. She hurried to them.

Following their passage, Gerrod climbed upward and traded spaces to occupy a seat directly beneath them. He stood, his head at their toes. “I’ve listened upon the masters and knights. No one knows what keeps Castellan Mirra away. But they’ve agreed they can wait no longer.”

Kathryn glanced behind. Most of the crowd had shuffled in and seats were packed up to the edge of the domed roof. A majority of knights, like Kathryn herself, wore their shadowcloaks, casting vast swaths of darkness over the tiers.

Gerrod continued. “There is no law requiring the castellan to be present at the ceremonies. Most seem settled that she has taken ill. They plan on proceeding as soon as—”

His words were cut off as the deafening reverberation of the Shield Gong echoed off the roof and across the open space, silencing all in a breath. Its voice also traveled along a series of echo tunnels behind the gong, to be heard throughout all of Tashijan, above and below.

“So it begins,” Gerrod mumbled as he took his seat.

Kathryn sat straighter, tense.

The head of the Council of Masters stood from his seat to the left of Ser Henri’s old chair. Master Hesharian was as wide as he was wise, his girth swelling the brown robe of his standing. Firelight shone upon his bald pate, tattooed like Gerrod’s own. He bore eleven disciplines, second only to Gerrod in number.

His voice boomed across the hall, carried upon the natural acoustics of the amphitheater and accentuated by the Graces smoking from the Hearthstone pit. “We are gathered here where ancient kings once stood to carry on the traditions of Tashijan, to raise high one of our own to lead us.”

Murmurs of excitement met his words.

“We stand upon the cusp between the old and the new, the past and the future. As throughout time, stones have been cast and counted.” He nodded to the circle of seats on the lowest level, the Council of Masters, who had tallied the ballots. “And a new warden will rise this night!”

Clapping met his words. Calls for a name were raised as was tradition and spread throughout the galleries. Master Hesharian simply stood, bathed in the cheering and chanting. Finally he raised an arm, and the swell died down.

“A name you ask for! A name you will hear!” He raised his other arm high. “Stand and greet your new warden.”

As one, the crowd gained their feet. Kathryn did so reluctantly.

Master Hesharian searched the tiers, though clearly he had to know where the victor sat. He pointed an arm. “There stands the one cast in stone by your own hands! Warden Argent ser Fields!”

Cheers erupted before the announcement was past Hesharian’s lips. Argent’s name was shouted and chanted. And a few among the crowd, those already into their cups, called out, “One Eye! One Eye! One Eye . . .”

Flogged by the pounding enthusiasm of his brethren, Argent ser Fields climbed down out of the knights’ tiers and past the masters’ levels to finally reach the floor, greeted by hand and a kiss upon each cheek by Master Hesharian. He was led to the center chair. He acknowledged the warm reception humbly and with a generous smile.

Argent ser Fields was two decades older than Kathryn, but he could pass for her younger brother. His deep auburn hair, worn long to the shoulder, bore not a hint of gray. And age had done nothing to his strength or skill. For as long as Kathryn had been at Tashijan, he had not been bested at swords or daggers. But that was only half the man. His face was hard, but more often than not, softened by good humor. He was known to be generous with his well wishes, yet justly firm in rebuke when affronted. As such, he had earned the respect of all, master and knight alike.

The only blemish to his striking figure was the patch worn over his left eye, a small plate of bone taken from the skull of a raving hinter-king, the same fiend who had blinded him during tortures meant to loosen the knight’s tongue. The flaming poker had taken the sight from his eye, but it never weakened his will. Freeing himself, he eventually slew the king and opened the way for victory during the Bramblebrier Campaign.

Kathryn stared at him, wondering if this same hero could truly be the head of the Fiery Cross, Ser Henri’s murderer. She began to wonder if Castellan Mirra was mistaken. Just this morning, Kathryn herself had been planning to cast a white stone in his favor.

Argent ser Fields raised a hand to quiet the crowd, but they were slow to respond. He kept his arm raised, patient, still smiling. Finally the crowd broke to his will, and quiet spread over the hall.

Argent stood straighter, lowering his arm. His smile faded to a more serious and austere countenance. “I accept this mantle with a heavy heart. For it is tragedy that brought me to stand before you, opened this seat that I must take. But take it I will!”

Clapping met his words, but he waved for silence.

“Troubled times face Tashijan, the Nine Lands, and all of Myrillia. Strange and dire tidings rise both from our neighbors and from afar. Rumors of skirmishes and raids along the fringes of the hinterlands. A surge in the practice of Dark Graces. And now one of the Hundred slain in the south.”

Argent shook his head. “We stand at a moment in history like no other. And Tashijan must be the beacon that rallies all. We must be at our strongest, at our most united. We will be the light to lead the way! The flame in the darkness!”

More clapping and cheers met his words. It was what they all wanted to hear, an end of the uncertainty, a firm path to follow.

Still, for Kathryn, those same words trailed an icy path through her: a light to lead the way . . . the flame in the darkness . The imagery was too strong to be mere chance. Were they hints of his ties to the Fiery Cross?

She noted Gerrod glancing back at her. The same worries had not escaped him.

Argent continued, booming over the clapping, “Tashijan will be a new beacon to the future! We cannot, will not fail!”

The crowd stamped boots and pulled swords. Argent’s name was shouted to the roof. He settled back to the seat, hands on the granite armrests. He waited for the crowd to tire itself.

Gerrod twisted toward her. She leaned in closer. “He has won them surely,” Gerrod said. “Both heart and mind. Even if what Castellan Mirra stated is true, there may be nothing we can do about it. It may be too late.”

Kathryn refused to accept that. She stared down at the man sitting in Ser Henri’s seat. Around her, the crowd slowly settled.

Argent remained seated, but he spoke again. “It seems there is an order of duty required of all new wardens. The naming of a new castellan to serve on my right side.”

There was a stirring of surprise through the Council of Masters. Such an important decision was usually made a few days after the Naming Ceremony.

Argent stood again. “We dare not delay. As the chair to my right is currently unoccupied, we should fill it this night, so we can be united from this day forward.”

Kathryn fought a sneer, struggling for a dispassionate expression. She searched the ring of masters. It was tradition for one of the Council to be picked. She wondered which had plied Argent enough to gain this coveted seat. Even Master Hesharian stirred his bulk uneasily. Though he already occupied the seat to Argent’s left, the right held more power.

Argent stared at the empty castellan’s seat for a long moment. “As we face a new time, it is time for a bold move on this first day of my service to Tashijan. We must not be blinded and ruled by the past and its conventions.”

He turned from the chair and faced the Council of Masters and its many hopeful faces. “If we are to be a beacon in the dark days ahead, let us look to a new path to the future.” His eyes drifted upward, past the ring of masters.

Kathryn tensed. What new treachery was afoot?

Argent’s eyes settled, turning her blood to ice. “I name my right hand this night. Rise and join me, my new castellan—Kathryn ser Vail!”

A hushed shock spread through the gallery. Kathryn felt herself falling back into her seat, but Perryl’s hand clutched her elbow, holding her steady.

“I don’t understand,” he whispered as tentative clapping arose and grew firmer. Her name was called out . . . then again and again.

She glanced down at Gerrod. His armored face was unreadable, but his eyes were bright with shock and worry.

She stared back toward the floor. Argent fixed her with a steely, one-eyed stare. There was no enmity there, only open invitation. He lifted his arm and beckoned.

“You must go,” Perryl urged at her shoulder.

Around her, others added the same encouragement, but more exuberantly. Kathryn found herself half-carried down the aisle to the stairs. Perryl followed, sheltering her as best he could. But once they reached the steps, she was on her own.

On numb legs, she mounted the stairs and began the long descent toward the floor. Her welcome among the master’s level was polite, but not nearly as enthusiastic. The castellan position was always filled by one of their members. She felt like some thief slipping through them.

But for the moment, they were the least of her concern. She reached the central floor. She had stood here only twice before: first when she had been granted her cloak and sword, then when she had given testimony against Tylar.

This final memory gave her pause. Did any of this have to do with Tylar, with her connection to him?

Before she could ponder it further, Argent crossed and grasped her hand in his. He leaned in close as if to kiss her, but he merely whispered, “Welcome, Kathryn . . . or should I say, Castellan Vail. It seems we have much to discuss.”

He led her to the seat that neighbored his, still holding her hand. Once in position, he raised their joined arms to the roar of the gathering. She searched for her friends—Perryl and Gerrod. They were lost in the masses. She was alone.

Finally, he allowed her arm to drop, giving her hand a final squeeze. She felt something hard between their palms, something he held. It was left in her grip as his hand slipped from hers.

She stared down at it. It was a balloting stone. A black balloting stone.

Kathryn knew it was the same one she had cast earlier. But in the firelight, she noticed it had been defaced. Upon its dark surface was etched a perfect circle, bisected by two perpendicular lines, all painted a flaming crimson.

The symbol of the Fiery Cross.