The call drew Kathryn’s attention around. One hand still rested on the latch to her new rooms, chambers that once belonged to Mirra but were now hers. She turned to find a stick figure of a man striding down the hall toward her. He was dressed in the blue-and-white of the livery staff; as he neared, Kathryn recognized him as the personal manservant of Warden Fields. The fellow reminded Kathryn of the long-legged mantis bugs that frequented the fields around Tashijan: wide startled eyes, arms always moving, jerky motions of the head.

He offered half a bow as he stopped beside her. “Excuse me, Castellan.”

“What is it, Lowl?”

“Warden Fields requests your immediate presence for a private counsel.”

Kathryn glanced to her door. For the past several days, she had feared and dreaded this summons. Until now, the few occasions when castellan and warden had met were overseen by various knights and masters, when matters of rule and writ had to be decided, matters of succession and appointment delegated. They had yet to meet alone. But at each meeting, Argent had caught her eye, a glint in his own promising further discussions would follow. It was a look laced with menace, almost leering.

And now the summons had finally come.

She glanced down at herself. She was ill suited for such a visit, just back from an early-morning ride, sweat stained and smelling of horse and saddle. “I will see to the warden as soon as I’ve adjusted myself properly.”

Her hand pulled the latch to her door. She would need a few moments to steel herself for the coming meeting with the leader of the Fiery Cross, the man said to have had a hand in the murder of Ser Henri and perhaps Mistress Mirra. The former castellan still remained missing, despite days of searching. Trackers with black ilk-beasts sniffed throughout the Citadel.

“Mistress . . . Castellan, I must insist you come with me now. I’ve been searching for you since the full ring of the Sunrise Bells.”

“Then a few moments more will make no matter, will it not?”

A heavy sigh escaped Lowl. She had not thought such a weighty sound could come from such a thin man. “The news is most urgent.” He glanced up and down the hall, a mantis searching for prey. He leaned closer. Kathryn backed up a step. “It concerns the godslayer.”

Kathryn’s hand fell away from the door latch.

Lowl nodded. “Warden Fields knew you would want to hear the tidings from his own mouth.”

Her heart thudded in her throat, threatening to choke her. If there was fresh word, then Tylar must have been spotted, found, rooted out. And if that were true, he was surely slain. A mighty bounty had been placed upon his head, with or without his body attached; word had been sent by a flock of ravens to all the cities of the Nine Lands, even out into the few semi-tamed areas of the hinterlands.

“What has happened?”

Lowl shook his head. “I’ve perhaps said too much already, but I needed you to understand the urgency and follow me at once.” He turned on a toe and continued back down the hall.

Kathryn was drawn after him. How could she not be?

Lowl led her to the double doors that opened into the Warden’s Eyrie, formerly the abode of good Ser Henri, now the lair of his likely murderer. The manservant tapped the silver knocker on the door. The sound reverberated off Kathryn’s ribs.

The door opened before the echo faded, opened by the hand of the new warden of Tashijan, Argent ser Fields.

Lowl bowed deeply. “Warden, I present Castellan Vail, as you requested.” He sidled back, making room for Kathryn.

Argent filled the doorway, dressed informally: black boots, trousers, gray shirt with silver buttons. His auburn hair had been pulled away from the hard planes of his face and tied up with a spiraling loop of gray leather that matched his shirt. One dark green eye studied her, the other was a blank plate of bone. It was hard to say which was warmer.

Kathryn stepped forward, hands behind her back. “Ser Fields, you summoned me?”

A tired sound met her words—not so much a sigh as an exhalation. “Here in the Eyrie, Argent will suffice. We can forgo the formalities.” He moved aside. “Please come in.”

She passed through the doors, unsure what to expect. She held her breath, eyes alert. She still wore her cloak and sword from her ride—no knight left Tashijan uncovered. She had to restrain herself from pulling up her hood and hooking her masklin in place, an instinctive reaction to threats.

The main chamber was vast with its own terraced balcony overlooking the inner gardens. The view of the giant wyrmwood tree matched her own in the neighboring castellan’s hermitage. The door to the balcony lay open to the morning sunshine, allowing a freshening breeze into the room. The appointments to the chamber were simple yet elegant: tapestries that dated to the founding of Tashijan, goose-down settees and chairs, a tall hearth still aglow from the prior night’s fire. Thick rugs warmed the bare stone, though one had been rolled back in a corner section of the room. There, a stand of swords and staffs stood racked. Plainly it was a small practice space for Argent to keep his skills honed.

Nowhere about the room was there a trace of menace or ill purpose.

Lowl closed the door and crossed to a small table and chair. A bowl of sliced yellow sweetapples and bunched grapes sat beside a copper tray of cheeses and a loaf of bread. The manservant poured two mugs of steaming bitternut from a silver flagon.

Argent nodded to one of the seats. “The stables sent up word of your jaunt. I’d assumed you’d not broken your fast yet this morning. It would be my pleasure to offer you my table.”

“How kind,” she answered, but she made no move toward the spread.

As Lowl stepped aside, Argent turned to his servant. “That will be all, Lowl.”

Lowl bowed himself out, retreating through a side door into the servants’ rooms.

Once the door closed, Argent crossed to the table, speared a slice of apple with a knife, and bit a chunk. He settled to one of the two seats, legs outstretched, relaxed. He stared at her.

Kathryn found the gaze somehow too personal, too intimate. She moved to the table to escape his study. She busied herself with slicing a chunk of bread and smearing a baked cheese onto it. Her eyes focused on her task, she spoke as evenly as she could manage. “Your manservant mentioned some word on Tylar.”

“Yes. He’s been found.”

Kathryn could not stop her shoulders from tightening as she glanced toward the man. His eyes—or rather eye—remained stone. Unreadable. He waited. She met his gaze and held it. She would not give him the pleasure of hearing her ask.

Argent shifted and finally continued. “A Shadowknight out of the Summering Isles led a fleet of corsairs across the Deep, following bits of trail left behind by the godslayer. He was almost caught, engaged by this knight, but escaped in a vessel stolen from Tangle Reef.”

“Tangle Reef? How?” Kathryn settled the knife to the table, ignoring the bread and cheese. Tylar is still alive.

A shrug. “Fyla of the Reef has always been reclusive in her watery realm, suspicious of all. She has refused to communicate, even in this dire matter, withdrawing her realm from habitable seas. But in her wake, large swaths of dead tangleweed, singed and smoldering, foul the seas. Ships report a poisonous stench that kills with a mere breath. There can be no doubt that the realm was attacked most foully and now retreats to lick its wounds.”

“Tylar . . .”

“The godslayer proves his dark bent yet again.” Argent sat straighter, plucking a few grapes from a bunch. “But measures are being taken.”

Kathryn frowned. “Measures?”

He waved away her question with his knife. “I called a council. ’Til then we have more to settle between us. Please sit.”

She remained standing.

“Do you not wish to know why I chose you as castellan?”

Warily, Kathryn obeyed. She sank to the other seat, too curious to refuse. “Why?”

He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Because I need you.”

The earnestness of his words struck through her.

“In the past, you have demonstrated the ability to place the welfare of Tashijan above personal gain or desire. When I was overseer for your betrothed’s adjudication, you set your own heart aside to speak the truth. I watched the pain with which you spoke those damning words of accusation. Yet you did not falter or attempt to obfuscate.”

Kathryn looked down. The pain from that day remained with her. She had sat upon the chair of truth and told all how Tylar had come to bed on the night of the murder of the cobbler’s family covered in blood, smelling of ale and drink. She had already heard testimony about how his sword had been found among the bodies, how Gray Traders, under the cloak of anonymity, had shown records of Tylar’s dealings with them, and how on the night of the murders, a cross-street neighbor to the cobblers had seen a Shadowknight vanish into the night’s gloom.

“Each word you spoke destroyed a small part of you,” Argent said.

Kathryn forced her hands not to touch her belly. The heartache and anguish destroyed more than just her own well-being. She had been with child, Tylar’s child. She had been hoping to tell him the night he vanished, the morning he came home bloody to her sheets. But that moment was lost forever. During and after the trial, heartache wrung her body, finally choking the child from her. She remembered the blood on her hands, staining her sheets again. Strangely, there had been too little pain to take so much from her.

“It is such bravery of spirit that has always stayed with me,” Argent said quietly. “It is such bravery that is needed now, during this dark time.”

“Still, you chose me against tradition. One of the Council of Masters has always sat as castellan.”

“Not always. There has been precedent in the past. During the rule of Warden Gilfoyl, he chose another knight.”

Kathryn knew the story. “The two were lovers.”

“So it was rumored, but the pair did rule Tashijan for two decades, well and with much accomplishment. And prior to that, for the first three centuries, there was no Council of Masters. Tashijan was ruled solely by knights.”

“And is that what you wish again?”

“Of course not. I would not usurp such power. Balance in all things is the best way to govern.”

“So again, why pick me over an equally brave and well-spoken member of the Council of Masters?”

His one eye narrowed. “Because you have no equal, Kathryn ser Vail.”

Again the intensity of his gaze felt a violation. She reached to the mug of bitternut and warmed her palms upon its hot surface.

“I’ve waited a long time to have you at my side.”

Kathryn heard a hint of something deeper, a trace of huskiness in his voice. She remembered the stories of Warden Gilfoyl and his castellan. Leaders and lovers. Did Argent believe they, the two of them . . . ? She shoved such a thought away, repulsed. Instead, one hand reached into a pocket and removed a black stone, her cast ballot. She placed it on the table. Painted on the stone’s surface, the crimson sigil was plain to see, a circle around a slash of crossed lines.

“What of this?” she asked.

Argent leaned forward again. “Ah, yes, the Fiery Cross.”

“So you don’t deny that you are a member of this order?”

“Not at all,” he said. “In fact, I’m the leader and founder.”

Kathryn’s blood went cold. She couldn’t keep the shock from her face.

“But please, don’t mistake the rumors and nighttime tales of the Cross. Such a group never existed. We don’t practice Dark Graces or blood rites. We don’t skulk around hidden chambers. We are merely a faction of knights who wish to see Tashijan function more independently of the rule of gods and men. It is a minor, yet volatile, distinction. Nothing sinister. So we took the old name of the Fiery Cross as our own. The symbol of fire was apt. It is only in flame that something stronger can be forged. And with Myrillia standing at a crossroads in history, choices have to be made. Which path to take? Ser Henri looked to the past, to the old ways. We knew such measures had grown stagnant and that a new path was needed. Ser Henri did not agree.”

Kathryn attempted to hide any reaction to the name of Ser Henri, but something must have shown through.

“No, I did not slay Ser Henri. We had our differences, but as I said, they were political and philosophical. Nothing to shed blood over.”

“And what of Castellan Mirra?”

“Ah, yes, now that is something of a concern.” Argent shook his head sadly. “Ser Henri and I had discussions about her. Few would know, but she has been growing more and more addled of mind and reason. Flights of suspicion that had no thread in reality.”

Kathryn kept her own suspicions silent. He had all the right answers, but were any of them true?

“Myrillia is faced with a dark time. Unrest and menace grow each day. Darkness has even reached Chrismferry, in the form of an assassin who slew one of Lord Chrism’s Hands.”

Kathryn, like all in Tashijan, had heard the bloody story.

“And there can be no doubt where the blame lies,” Argent said, brow tightening.

“Where is that?”

He stabbed a finger to the table. “Here.”

Kathryn glanced sharply at him.

“ ‘As Tashijan stands, so does Myrillia,’ ” he quoted. “And, likewise, as Tashijan ails, so will the Nine Lands. For the past century, the number of Shadowknights has been steadily declining, likewise the number of sons and daughters schooled to be Hands to the gods. Across Myrillia, conclaves have closed or crumbled into ruin. Is it any wonder rot has crept into the rest of the landscape? Ill creatures grow in number. The hinterlands grow wilder and bolder with each passing year. And a daemonic godslayer has risen from our ranks, one of our own fallen. Can one ignore the finger pointed at our very heart? Pointed at Tashijan. We’ve stagnated under the rules and rites of tradition for far too long, grown fatted and lazy. If we are to face the growing dark tide, then we must start here first. The best must lead us. Those who have been tested under fire, whose loyalty and fealty to Tashijan has been forged and honed to a keen edge.”

Argent took a deep breath. “We two—you and I—condemned Tylar. We proved our strength of purpose and focus. He should have been killed. But Ser Henri’s soft intervention and petitions won him a reprieve, allowed him to live. And see what such weakness has sown. A godslayer who threatens all.”

Kathryn found her head spinning from his words.

“I chose you, Kathryn ser Vail, because once again it is up to us to steel our hearts and make the tough choices, to harden Tashijan in a new flame, to face what must be faced without flinching or soft hearts. You have done this in the past. I ask you to take my side and do it again—for all of Myrillia. Can you do this?”

Without willing it, her head nodded. A dark time was indeed upon them. Despite her suspicions, she could not deny Argent’s words. A renewed strength, purpose, and focus were needed to stand against the tide.

“Very good. I knew I chose well. Now we must prepare ourselves for what’s to come. Time closes like a noose.”

Kathryn raised her eyes, confusion plain to read.

“The godslayer must be stopped.”

She found her voice. “How . . . ? I thought he escaped into the Deep.”

Argent nodded. “But we know where he’s heading.”

Kathryn frowned.

“The godslayer is coming here . . . to Tashijan.”

“Impossible!” Perryl declared as he stood by the hearth.

“Why would Tylar be coming here?” Gerrod echoed. He sat in a chair by the window, his bronze armor achingly bright in the light. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. Though his face was hidden, his posture spoke his intense cogitation. “There is no benefit in returning to Tashijan.”

“He’s coming for me,” Kathryn said, biting at the words as they came, repeating what Argent had spoken just two rings of the bells ago. “One of the sailors aboard a ship upon which Tylar had booked passage, a galleon with ties to the Black Flaggers, had spied upon their cabin. He heard their group speak of Tashijan.”

“And you?” Gerrod asked.

Kathryn shook her head. She stopped her pacing and stared out at the bower of wyrmwood beyond her window. The light glowed green through the foliage, a cheery day, one ill suited for the black mood in her heart. “Warden Fields supposes Tylar is returning to Tashijan because of me. To risk such a dangerous course, a strong desire must be driving him.”

“Desire for what?” Gerrod asked. “To win you back?”

Kathryn turned to the others. “Or for revenge. If anyone hurt him the deepest, it wasn’t the faceless Citadel that sent him into slavery.” Fingers clenched at her side—not in anger, but to hold back the tears that threatened.

Gerrod seemed to sense her distress and straightened in his seat with a whir of his mekanicals. He turned to Perryl. “You met Tylar. Spoke to him. What can you say of his posture concerning Kathryn?”

Perryl looked lost with all that had been spoken here, his amber eyes too young, his beard too thin. He wiped a hand through his blond hair, his gaze sinking to the rugs. “He . . . he wouldn’t let me speak her name.”

“And when he told you this,” Gerrod continued, “was it spoken with sadness or anger?”

Perryl shook his head ever so slightly. “The streets were dark.”

“The manner of a man’s speech does not require lamplight to discern,” Gerrod pressed.

Kathryn knew the young knight’s reticence lay in an attempt to spare her. “Speak plainly, Perryl. It’s important.”

His eyes flicked up to her, then back to the floor. “He was angry. His words laced with fury. He would hear nothing about you.” Perryl glanced fully up at her. Pain and shame mixed in his eyes.

Kathryn took a deep breath. It hurt to hear, but the truth often did.

“So how do we play this?” Gerrod asked. “Do we believe the new warden’s explanations—about his lack of complicity in Ser Henri’s demise and the rather convenient disappearance of your predecessor, Castellan Mirra? Do we cooperate?”

Kathryn moved into the room, stepping out of the sunlight and into shadow. She still wore her shadowcloak, loose over her shoulder, and felt the tickle of its Grace respond to the darkness. “I have no choice. I swore oaths. And until true evidence of Argent’s duplicity reveals itself, I must act accordingly.”

“Ah . . .” Gerrod stood and joined Kathryn as she poured a glass of water from a waiting stand. The armored master touched a point on his breastplate and a small pocket opened. He removed a blackened fold of ermine fur. “Castellan Mirra’s cloak. I’ve tested it with various alchemies. It seems the little maid Penni spoke the truth earlier. It is not any Dark Grace that burned the cloak’s edge, only ordinary fire, most likely from lying too near the hearth.”

Kathryn sipped. “So again, no evidence of misdeed. Nothing to connect to Warden Fields.”

“Perhaps,” Gerrod answered. “But I did discover a trace of blood amid the fur. Too minuscule to see without an alchemist’s lamp.”

“But that could be easily explained away,” Perryl countered, still looking morose from earlier. “It could have come from any scratch or cut.”

“Ah, yes, Ser Corriscan, that might be true if it were human blood.”

Perryl’s brow knit a neat crease. “Are you saying it came from a beast?”

Gerrod shook his head.

Kathryn stepped closer and retrieved the burned bit of fur. The remainder of the ermine garment still hung in her wardrobe on the chance Mirra would return. “If not man or animal, that leaves only . . . ?”

Gerrod nodded. “Blood of a god. The signature of Grace, while faint, was unmistakable.”

Perryl stepped closer. “Which of the gods?”

“Now therein lies the conundrum. Like all alchemists, I have a repostilum, a storehouse of preserved drops of humour from all of the Hundred gods.”

Kathryn nodded. She had been in Gerrod’s study, seen his repostilum, the eight hundred tiny crystal cubes, each no wider than a thumbnail, resting in a special shelving system on the wall. Each crystal die held a droplet of precious humour.

“I tested the signature upon the cloak and found no match among the Hundred.”

Perryl frowned. “Surely a mistake. If the blood didn’t come from the Hundred . . .” His face suddenly paled as understanding dawned.

Kathryn finished his statement. “Then it must’ve come from one of the hinterland rogues.”

Gerrod nodded.

She had to resist flinging the bit of fur from her fingers. Rogue gods were wild creatures of madness and strife. Unsettled to any realm, their humours defied the four defining aspects of fire, water, air, and loam. A mere touch could rave a man’s mind. To traffic in such humours was the blackest of all Graces.

Gerrod took back the scrap of fouled cloak. “There is no danger. The potency of the Grace is long gone, only the signature is left.”

“But what about before?” Kathryn asked. “Argent mentioned Castellan Mirra was showing some evidence of addlement. Supposedly Ser Henri and Ser Fields had even discussed it. Could she have been handling such humours?”

The armored master offered a more dire possibility. “Or the blood could’ve been exposed to her in secret, to weaken the sharpness of her mind.”

“Poisoned by Grace,” Perryl said with a shudder.

Kathryn had trouble fathoming such a horror.

Gerrod held up a hand. “But in truth, I cannot say how the Grace presented itself here. Whether by Castellan Mirra’s own hand or another, further study is needed. I thought to examine the rest of the cloak, to see if any answers could be divined.”

“Of course. It’s in my wardrobe.”

Kathryn crossed to the door leading to her bedroom. As her hand touched the latch, a scuffle sounded beyond the door. She grabbed the handle and jerked the door wide. She found her maid, Penni, scrambling backward out of her way. She carried an armful of folded linen in her arms.

“Mistress . . .” A hurried curtsy helped balance the maid’s load.

“Penni, what are you doing here?” Upon assuming the hermitage, Kathryn had kept Mirra’s maid for her own. “Were you listening upon us?” she asked, her words harsher than she intended, surprised to find the girl in her bedroom. But then again, Penni was always appearing out of nowhere.

“No, mistress, a thousand times no.” She curtsied again, eyes wide with horror. “At least not with good meaning to. I had just finished changing the bed linens to take to the washerwomen when I heard you and Master Rothkild arrive with Ser . . . Ser Perryl.” She glanced sidelong into the room toward the young knight, her eyes shy, clearly enamored. “Mistress Mirra did not like to be walked in upon when speaking with guests. So I waited here until you were finished.”

Kathryn frowned at her own lack of foresight. Knowing such dire matters were to be discussed, she should have thought to make sure no ears were listening. But she was still ill accustomed to having a maid doting about her rooms.

Penni kept her head bowed, hiding her face behind the brown curls escaping her white lace cap. “I beg all your pardons.”

Kathryn reached a hand to console her, but let it drop. “Penni, mayhap it best you went about your chores with the linen.”

“Yes, mistress, right away.” Another curtsy.

She made room for the girl, but Gerrod stopped the maid from escaping. “Hold there, Penni. I would bend your ear a moment longer.”

Penni glanced back to Kathryn, who nodded, then returned her attention to the armored figure. “Yes, Master Rothkild.”

Gerrod motioned for Kathryn to collect the cloak. As she stepped around the corner to reach the wardrobe, she heard his question.

“Penni, you’ve been interviewed about Castellan Mirra’s disappearance, is that not so?”

A silent pause answered him. When Penni spoke next, fear lay thick on her tongue. “Aye. I was put to the chair before the redrobers.”

Soothmancers, Kathryn knew. They were all put to the question. She herself was no exception, having been one of the last to speak with Mirra before she vanished. Kathryn opened the wardrobe, gathered up the ragged ermine cloak, and returned to the room.

Gerrod raised an arm at her appearance, his hand out for the wrap. Kathryn passed it to him.

“Can you tell me, has anyone else handled Mirra’s cloak? Especially in the last quarter moon before your old mistress disappeared.”

Penni scrunched up her face.

Perryl crossed to her, relieved her of the pile of linen wash, and took a seat beside her. He folded his arms atop the pile. “No need to be scared, Penni,” he said with a warm smile.

“You’ve done nothing wrong. But we need to know the answer.”

Penni kept her gaze to the floor. A bit of color flushed her cheeks, and she turned ever so slightly from Perryl, as if he were the sun, too bright to face. “Then I tell you no. Mistress Mirra’s furs were aired out upon the balconies at the end of summer. Otherwise, they are kept in her wardrobe.” She glanced to Kathryn. “Like now.”

“So no one touched them that you know of.”

“No, Master Rothkild.”

During this exchange, Gerrod searched the cloak, one way, then the other. He turned and pointed to an inner pocket. A dab of reddish brown was plain to see along the inner edge as he rolled it back. More blood. The pocket was otherwise empty.

Penni watched his every move, her eyes plainly drawn by the soft wheeze of his mekanicals. Being a good maid, she recognized the stain. She covered her mouth with a tiny hand, making a small sound of distress. “I must soak that in lemon-press. Mistress Mirra will be most upset with me. I thought I had cleaned it more thoroughly.”

Gerrod met Kathryn’s gaze and motioned to the girl with his eyes.

Kathryn dropped to a knee beside her. “Do you know how it became soiled?”

Penni chewed her lower lip. When next she spoke, it was a whisper meant only for Kathryn’s ears. “Mistress Mirra did not want me to speak of it.”

“But now the old castellan is gone, possibly to harm,” Kathryn urged, leaning closer. “If you know something, you must not hide it.”

Penni glanced up at Kathryn, then Gerrod, then back to the rug at her toes. She kept her words hushed. “A man came one night, well after final bells, muddied and unkempt, carrying a rucksack, led by one of the livery stablemen. Mistress Mirra gave the stableman a gold march to keep him quiet. I was sent from the room, too, but not before I saw the stranger remove a rolled length of oilcloth from his rucksack.”

The maid stopped and wrung her hands together at her waist as if kneading dough, clearly consternated.

“And the blood?” Gerrod said softly, his words echoing a bit inside his helmet.

Penni glanced up to Kathryn. “I didn’t mean to watch. I feared for Mistress Mirra’s safety with this stranger, arriving in such an unseemly manner. So I stayed, the door cracked open a finger.”

“It’s all right, Penni. What happened?”

“They whispered together for some time. The man unwrapped the oilcloth to reveal nothing but a bloody swatch of linen. It looked fresh, wet in the hearth light.”

“Either fresh,” Gerrod mumbled, “or the cloth was charmed to keep it so.”

“What then?” Kathryn said to Penni.

“A knock on the door. Hard. Angry. Scared me white. Mistress Mirra hides the bloody snatch in her own pocket. The man rolls the cloth and stuffs it away. The mistress opens the door. It is Ser Henri, right mad and full of flush. I know better than to listen any more. So I sneaks the door closed and hide away.”

“And you heard nothing else?” Gerrod asked as her words ended.

“No, Master Rothkild.”

Gerrod glanced to Kathryn.

Perryl shifted in the chair next to the scared maid. “Penni, do you know anything about this stranger? A name? Where he might have come from?”

“I’d never seen him before. But though he was muddied and sorely kempt, he seemed a high man of some means. He spoke well and his manners were not low.”

“How did he appear?” Kathryn asked.

“He was fair of face . . . not as fair as . . .” Her gaze fluttered toward Perryl. A blush rose on her cheek. “His hair was long to the shoulder, black. I don’t remember his eyes.”

“Any scars? Any marks to distinguish him?” Perryl asked.

Penni thought for a long moment. “No . . . but I heard him speak to the stableman. To ready a fresh horse, a beast blessed in air, a windmare with enough leg to reach Chrismferry in a day.”

Kathryn shared a look with Gerrod. Normally, on horse-back, it would take three days to reach the outskirts of Chrismferry. There was clearly urgency here to employ the speed of a windmare.

“That’s all I know,” Penni finished, almost shaking now.

Kathryn touched her shoulder, causing her to start. “Penni, you’ve done very well. Why don’t you collect the linens and see to the washing.”

She curtsied, relieved. Perryl passed her the pile, earning a bright blush. She fled out the servants’ door.

Perryl waited until the way closed. “So the man was heading to Chrismferry.”

“Or back to Chrismferry,” Gerrod countered.

Kathryn noted Gerrod drawing in on himself, leaning back, folding his arms across his chest. A troubled posture. He stared down at the ermine cloak on his lap.

“What do you make of all this?” Perryl asked.

Gerrod shook his head. It was all the answer they would get out of him for now.

Out in the courtyard, the Sun Tower chimed the sixth bell. Kathryn hadn’t realized how much time had passed. The sun was halfway down the sky. “I have a meeting I must attend,” she mumbled to the others as the bells ceased.

Gerrod glanced her way.

“As I mentioned from the first,” Kathryn answered, “Tylar is coming here. Warden Fields has gathered folk in the field room to oversee the preparations to receive him. I’m to meet with my supposed guardian.”

“A guardian?” Perryl asked. “Do you truly think that’s necessary? I still can’t believe Tylar would harm you.”

Gerrod stirred, standing with a creak. “I don’t trust our good warden is only concerned about his castellan’s security.”

Perryl frowned.

Kathryn understood. “Warden Fields strings a tight net around Tashijan. And I’m to be the bait in the snare. Who I meet will be both guardian and hunter.”

Perryl’s eyes widened, showing too much white. “Who’s been chosen?”

Now it was Kathryn’s turn to frown. “That I don’t know.”

“There is much all of us don’t know.” Gerrod lifted Mirra’s ermine cloak. “I’ll see what I can discern from this, but it would be prudent to see if the stableman who guided our dark stranger up here could be prompted to divulge what was sealed by gold and a promise.”

“I can check the stables,” Perryl offered. “It hasn’t been too long since I was squired down there.”

Kathryn nodded as he made for the door. “Be discreet.”

Gerrod remained behind and fixed her with a stolid stare, his eyes bright through the slit in his helmet. His words softened. “And you be careful. Bait is seldom considered of any value after one sets the hook.”

Kathryn met his gaze. “By sword and cloak, I’ll be careful,” she promised.

Gerrod studied her a moment longer, then turned away. “I suggest you keep both near at hand.”

She rounded the last flight of the central stair and proceeded to the tall doors of the Citadel’s field room. For ages lost to the past, the chamber was used as a place of strategy, planning, and preparation. Over the millennia, the fate of countless hinter-kings and untold armies had been decided behind those doors. Great battles were mapped, wars waged in ink and blood, treaties signed or broken. All of Myrillia had been forged behind those doors.

A pair of Shadowknights, cloaked and hooded, posted the threshold, standing in shallow alcoves. Their forms seemed to flow into the gloom of their niches. The darkness fed their forms, readying them to respond to any threat with the speed borne of Grace. Only the glow of their eyes could be seen above the black of their masklin wraps.

“Castellan Vail,” the closest knight acknowledged with a sweep of cloak. “The warden awaits your presence.”

The other guard opened the door with a surge of darkness.

“Thank you,” Kathryn mumbled. Both were too young, she thought, fresh to their third stripe, too ostentatious with their show of shadowplay, wasting Grace in theatrics.

She stepped into the field room.

The scent of oiled woods and brittle parchment greeted her first—then a familiar booming voice.

“The castellan finally graces us with her presence,” Master Hesharian said. The rotund leader of the Council of Masters stood with four others around a central table.

Despite the chamber’s significance, the field room was cramped and tight. The rear windows, overlooking the tourney grounds, had been shuttered for this meeting, ensuring privacy and forbidding the sun. To either side, the Stacks—giant wooden shelves that stored illuminated maps of all the Nine Lands, even rough sketches of sections of hinterland— lined the walls, buttressed by ladders. The only other significant feature to the room was the massive wyrmwood table. Its patina had blackened from the passing centuries, its surface scarred and pitted.

Kathryn crossed toward the waiting group. “I apologize for my late arrival. Matters of some importance detained me.”

Hesharian raised one brow. “More important than the security of Tashijan?” The large man still resented her assignment as castellan, a post normally held by one of the Council of Masters.

Kathryn ignored his gibe. She nodded to Hesharian’s fellow council members. Master Osk climbed down one of the Stacks’ ladders, burdened with a large map roll. He was as thin as Master Hesharian was vast, a lesser moon before a greater. As always, he kept his eyes pinched as if fearful of being struck. He nodded back at her and turned to the table, exposing the line of tattoos circling the back of his shaved skull.

“A moment, Castellan Vail,” Argent said formally. He accepted the thick parchment from Master Osk, set it on the table, and shoved the roll loose down the table’s length. A schematic of Tashijan revealed itself.

Intrigued, Kathryn stepped to the table.

“It’s been a long time,” Keeper Ryngold greeted her on the right side with a genuine smile. He was the only person present whose head was not adorned by tattooed sigils or stripes of knighthood. Still, he was well respected by all, head of the entire house staff and laborers. If matters of security were to be addressed, he would orchestrate the underfolk of the Citadel.

On her left, she received no greeting and expected none. A knight of few words, Symon ser Jaklar needed no shadowcloak to cast a pall of gloom around him. He strode under thunderclouds even on the brightest days. His hair, shaved to a coarse black stubble, matched his eyes. Formerly squire to Argent, he had continued his duty as knight under the leadership of his former teacher.

Kathryn studied the ancient map of the halls, levels, rooms, and courts of Tashijan. Spread out on the table, the vast Citadel seemed a city unto itself with byways and alleys, crowded places and lonely ones, all centered round the central Stormwatch Tower that stretched as high as the masters’ catacombs delved low. How would they stop one man from breeching the vast domain unseen? It was a daunting challenge, but one the new warden seemed ready to handle, having served in dozens of sieges from both sides of a wall.

Argent placed his palms flat on the parchment. “As I was saying, I know the godslayer is on his way here. Perhaps he’s already in the First Land. But over the centuries, Tashijan has grown lazy with its fortifications, weakened its foundations. We can’t keep the godslayer out.”

“Then what can we do?” Master Hesharian asked.

“We can be smarter. What walls can’t stop, strategy can.” Argent straightened, sweeping his gaze around the room. “We must guide the godslayer to where we want him to go. The best trap is one the victim walks into willingly.”

Hesharian frowned. “And how do you propose to accomplish this?”

“By controlling what he most desires.” Argent’s sweeping gaze settled upon Kathryn.

All eyes turned in her direction.

Argent addressed her directly. “Castellan Vail, I’d like you to meet the man set as your personal guard in the days to come.” He lifted his arm. A signal.

A scrape of boots sounded behind her and to the left. She turned as a tall man stepped from between a set of the Stacks. She had walked right past him without even noticing his presence. But it was not Grace that hid him. He wore no shadowcloak. Instead, the man was outfitted in furred breeches, knee-high brown boots, and a mud-brown half cloak with hood. All looked well worn and scuffed.

A wyld tracker.

But it was not the clothes that identified the man. Wyld trackers were blessed at birth with alchemies of air and loam, making them preternaturally keen to scent trails and changes in winds. This blessing was plainly apparent from the prominent protrusion of nose and jaw. Half muzzled, as it was called, a beastly appearance, made more so by the lack of white to their eyes, leaving them a solid amber.

Argent spoke at the head of the table. “Tracker Lorr has served at my side since before the Bramblebrier Campaign. There is no finer hunter in all of Myrillia.”

He offered a half bow toward the warden, arms crossed. Despite the play at civility here, Kathryn sensed a feral edge to the man. His face bore testimony to past battles, rippled with scars, eyes hard as fieldstones. His lanky brown hair, worn past the shoulder, was shot through with gray. But he showed no signs that age had touched him further. His belts, at waist and crisscrossed over his chest, were decorated with sheathed blades of every shape.

“I’ve informed Tracker Lorr of his duties,” Argent said. “He will not leave your side or your door until the godslayer is subdued.”

Kathryn rounded on the warden. “And when does his duty commence?”

“At this very moment. I thought it best you both become acquainted with your new routines as soon as possible.” His gaze turned to the tracker. “Lorr, are you ready to introduce Castellan Vail to your . . . ah, what do you call them . . . very colorful as I recall? Ah yes, your right and left hands.”

With another half bow, the tracker turned toward the door.

Kathryn hesitated. Was she being dismissed from the meeting already? A hard stare from Argent answered her. Clearly he meant to keep her in the dark on further details. Did he distrust her, think she would betray their secrets to Tylar?

With black clouds about her shoulders, she swung away and followed the tracker. He opened the door and continued through, not bothering to see if she kept pace with him. Perhaps it wasn’t necessary, armed as he was with his Grace-sharpened senses.

Out in the hall, the two young knights stirred as the pair stormed out. Kathryn imagined the tracker was no more keen to be relegated to mere guard than she was to be kept under guard. He continued down the hall, turned down a side passage, and crossed to a barred room.

Turning to her, he spoke for the first time. His voice was surprisingly soft coming from such a gruff exterior. “Best take care a moment. They’re easily spooked.”

He lifted the bar and pulled the door open, blocking the opening with his body.

Kathryn felt something large stir beyond the door. A shift of boulders.

The tracker growled deep in the back of his throat. He kept his post for another long breath. The door bumped as something heaved against it. Lorr reached a hand inside. “There’s a good laddie,” he mumbled in his soft voice. “You, too, you big kank.”

He straightened and opened the door wider, revealing a sight to horrify even the stoutest heart.

Two massive beasts filled the doorway, standing shoulder height, heads as large as shields. A pair of bullhounds. Meaty, thick necked, ropes of drool hanging from slavering lips. Where such humour dripped, stone etched with a poisonous hiss. Out in the field, the drool was used to wear heavy bone while gnawing. The beasts, native to the most remote areas of the hinterlands, were known to bring down giant sarrians and battle the massive myrlions.

“Barrin and Hern,” the tracker said as introduction.

Kathryn could not tell them apart. Both were maned in black, a tad short of shaggy, and striped in thin bands of copper. She backed away as the pair of bullhounds slunk into the hall: snuffling, breaths steaming, crouched low on bellies, stumped tails sticking straight up.

Creatures of black nightmare.

Lorr stood between them. “We’ll keep you safe, Castellan . . . even from a godslayer.”