“Hold!” a shout answered her. “You’ll rattle the door right off its hinges!”

“What is taking you so long?” Dart squirmed in her new leather boots.

Pupp danced around her, matching her excitement.

Dart smoothed the lay of her velvet brown pants and snowy silk blouse. But it was the cloak she was most proud of. It was as black as any Shadowcloak and hung perfectly to her ankles. It was pinned at her throat by a black diamond.

Laurelle finally opened the door. Dart had to blink, taken aback. Laurelle was resplendent in a silver gown and a tiara of kryst jewels. Each jewel shone brilliantly against the ebony of her friend’s straight locks.

“There’s plenty of time,” Laurelle said, but even her cheeks were flushed.

“But you must be in your seat before the ceremony begins,” Dart said. “The other Hands have already left.”

Dart led the way down the hall to the back stair. The girls hurried, but a firm voice struck out behind them.

“Children! I’ll not have one of you tripping on a gown’s hem or a cloak’s edge. You’ll tumble all the way down to Tigre Hall.”

Dart slowed her step. “Sorry, Matron Shashyl.” She turned and curtsied to the portly woman. Dart had to hide a smile.

Matron Shashyl stepped to the door to the private stair and held it open. “Grace is not only found in humours,” she said sagely, “but also in the bearing of a young woman.”

“Yes, Matron,” Laurelle said with a perfectly serene face.

But once the door closed behind them, Laurelle burst with laughter. They fled down the stairs, as if late for their morning meal. They wound around and around the narrow stairs. Pupp lit the way, racing ahead. They finally reached the bottom and burst into the antechamber.

They almost collided with the bulk of Master Pliny. He had been bent over, securing a bootlace. He straightened, his jowled face flushed. “There you are, Mistress Laurelle. I was to wait for you so we can enter, arm in arm.”

“I’d be honored,” Laurelle said and leaned out an elbow. But she winked past his shoulder to Dart.

Dart hid a giggle behind a fist. The Hands had no recollection of their enthrallment by Chrism. Once the monster had been vanquished, the blaze of fire had died in their eyes, and they had all collapsed. Each slept for a full day, then woke as if from a regular slumber.

But they had all heard the tale afterward.

Each still held a haunted look in the eye.

Guards at the doors, new to their posts, opened the way. The muffled voices of the crowds filling the grand hall rose to a din. Laurelle and Master Pliny set off into the arched chamber.

Dart watched from the doorway. Tigre Hall was in the midst of repair. Temporary planks covered the holes in the floor, but the rush of the river could still be heard below.

Laurelle and Pliny slowly traversed the aisle between the curved benches that fronted the grand dais. The wood smiths had built most of the seating in only the past few days, working through all the bells.

Laurelle finally reached the dais and climbed with Pliny. They each took their seats, filling their proper places as Hands of the realm. Dart glanced to the chair to the immediate right of the center myrrwood throne. It had been her place. Hand of Blood. But another sat there now.

Delia.

It was her right as Meeryn’s original Hand of Blood.

But others were empty. Yet to be filled.

The smile on her lips faded as she remembered Yaellin, fallen to save her. She would honor him as best she could. She reached and clutched the black diamond at her throat.

“There you are,” a firm voice cracked behind her.

Dart jumped and turned. She curtsied again. “Castellan Vail.”

“A page does not curtsy,” Kathryn said sternly. “They bow, first the head, then at the waist.”

Dart licked her lips. She was to leave in the next day or so for Tashijan, to train as a knight. She would serve as page to the castellan herself. The clothes she wore now were reflective of her station. It had taken a bit of convincing to fight for this opportunity.

Tylar and the others had refused at first.

But Dart had not backed down. Yaellin had been both knight and Hand. To honor his sacrifice, she would become the same.

Surprisingly, Kathryn had come to her defense.

“None know the girl there,” the castellan had said. “Only those loyal to us, like Krevan and Gerrod, know the secret of her godhood. Not even Argent is aware. What better place to keep her safe than at the heart of Tashijan, surrounded by knights? And perhaps it’s still best to keep you and Dart apart for now.”

Tylar had finally relented, bowing to the wisdom of it.

So Dart had been bled almost daily by Delia, the new Hand of Blood. Her humour was stored in secret, available for Tylar to ignite Rivenscryr whenever necessary. Dart was no longer needed here, not as Hand, nor as sheath.

Dart attempted to bow now as the castellan directed.

Kathryn watched. “Much better.” Then she leaned down and faced Dart. “Is this something you truly want? To come with me to Tashijan? You are safe here.”

Dart met her gaze. Nowhere was truly safe. She had learned that too well. True security could be found only in one’s own heart. She would learn to defend herself, to find a place for herself.

“I want to be a knight,” Dart said solemnly. “I will be a knight.”

Kathryn stared at her and nodded. “Then come with me.” She crossed to the door. “Stay by my side.”

Dart fell in step with Kathryn as she traversed the hall. Cloaked knights and tattooed masters filled all the benches to the right. It was as if all of Tashijan had come.

Kathryn stepped to the very front bench. She sidled over and sat next to a tall man with a plate of bone over one eye.

“Warden Fields,” Kathryn said icily.

“Castellan Vail,” he answered with as much warmth. His one good eye settled to Dart. Pupp gave the man a wide berth.

“My new page,” Kathryn said and patted the open seat next to her.

The man nodded. His interest glazed over, and he turned away.

Dart fell into her seat, sitting straight, clutching the front edge of the bench.

She stared across to the other side of the hall. Nobles throughout the First Land and beyond had come to attend, as had Hands from realms throughout Myrillia. Each god had sent at least one Hand. Most gods from the First Land had sent all their handservants.

As Dart gawked, she spotted a face staring back at her. Her brow crinkled with recognition. It was one of her fellow thirdfloorers from the Conclave. A dark boy. His bronzed face was easy to pick out among the older, paler Hands of his retinue. She had never learned his name. He had been chosen the same night as Dart and Laurelle, chosen by Jessup of Oldenbrook, a distinguished house of the First Land. But Dart also remembered how he had spoken up for her when the others had ridiculed her.

His eyes met hers. He nodded.

She was surprised to feel heat suffuse her face.

A trumpet sounded, startling her back around.

Drums beat at the rear of the room.

Folk throughout the hall stood. Dart rose with the tide.

Doors opened at the back, and a march of castillion guards entered Tigre Hall. Stepping in beat to the drums, they crossed down the center aisle, taking up stations to either side, forming an alley. Swords were raised, forming an archway.

Another trumpet blasted—and he appeared, stepping into the hall.

Kathryn stiffened at Dart’s side. Tylar strode down the tunnel of swords. His black hair had been oiled straight back. His face had been shaved to polished smoothness. As he marched, his gray eyes shone with the storm inside him. This was not a role he cared to play. He wore a solid outfit of black: boots, pants, shirt, and cloak. The only color was the silver scabbard worn at the waist.

It bore the Godsword.

Rivenscryr.

He marched down the long aisle toward the chair that awaited him. Since that bloody day, ravens had been flying throughout Myrillia. The skies were thick with their wings. Gods were consulted across the Nine Lands. It was decided that Chrismferry could not be left fallow after the slaying of Chrism. It was the city around which all of Myrillia turned.

A regent was needed.

Someone with Grace to share, to keep commerce flowing.

Still bearing Meeryn’s blessings, Tylar had been chosen.

He strode up to the tall myrrwood seat, faced the crowd, and pulled forth Rivenscryr.

He had no choice.

At the end, the godslayer had become a god.

“It’s about time you returned these,” Rogger said and strapped on his belt of daggers. “I expect I’ll be needing them.”

“Are you leaving already?” Tylar asked. “The sun’s almost setting.”

He snugged the belt. “That’s the beginning of a new day for a thief.”

Tylar clapped him on the shoulder. “Watch yourself. Where will you head first?”

Rogger touched the side of his nose. “Perhaps I’d best leave my path unknown for now.”

Tylar nodded. He clasped Rogger in a firm embrace. The thief was heading off to investigate how far the Cabal’s corruption had spread in other god’s households. He would be traveling under the guise of his interrupted pilgrimage. In fact, he wore a fresh brand, Chrism’s sigil, on his backside. “Seemed the best place,” Rogger had commented.

“When will I hear from you?” Tylar asked now as they both separated.

“When you least expect it,” Rogger said with a wink. “I’ll send word through Krevan and the Black Flaggers.”

With a final few words of parting, the two separated. Rogger headed away. Tylar turned to face his next obstacle.

The doors to Chrism’s rooms.

As regent, they were now his rooms. But he was not sure he was ready to step through those doors. He glanced over his shoulder. Beyond the windows, the sun descended into the flow of the Tigre River, painting the skies in rosy hues and violet splashes.

A brilliant sunset.

But Tylar knew most of the beauty came from the pall of smoke that continued to steam from the smoldering myrrwood forest. The fires had yet to die away fully. Deep embers still glowed, buried among the piles of ashes. A forest that lived for four thousand years did not expire easily.

A door closed to the left, drawing his attention.

Kathryn stepped through it. Both of them froze, caught by surprise.

“Kathryn . . .” he finally choked out.

For the past many days, they had been missing each other, each busy with a thousand details and questions, drawn in opposite directions. He fell more and more into his duties here. Her attentions were drawn to Tashijan.

Or was it simply that they were each avoiding the other, unsure what to do? How to face a past . . . and a future?

“I . . . I was just picking up something Dart left in Laurelle’s room.” Kathryn nodded to the room she just left. “We head out for Tashijan in the morning.”

“So soon?” It was like everyone was fleeing from his side.

“There is much to settle at Tashijan,” Kathryn said. “Argent has already headed back. He hurries to firm those still loyal to him. After he passed the soothmancer’s test, clearing his name of any of the bloodiness that occurred at the Citadel, he seeks to reestablish his position.”

“Argent still refuses to step down? Even after he admits to employing a cursed sword?”

Kathryn shook her head. “There is still enough support for him both among the Fiery Cross members and the Council to keep his seat.”

“And what of the Fiery Cross?” Tylar asked. He drew her closer to the golden doors, away from direct sight.

Kathryn frowned. “I don’t know how Argent passed his soothing, but I know what I saw. Perhaps he knows nothing about the dead knight and the bloody sacrifice, but someone in the Fiery Cross does. There is foulness afoot, and I will root it out.”

Tylar’s brow crinkled with concern. Perryl still remained missing, vanished from his room. “And what of Dart? Is it safe to bring her into such a house?”

“I don’t think your house is any safer,” Kathryn said with a glint of irritation. “I’m not sure all the gods are as satisfied as they claim with your regency. And we don’t know where the Cabal will strike next, but your neck is sticking out there.”

Tylar nodded, conceding the point. He had his own house to clean. Stray ilk-beasts were still showing up throughout the city, having escaped to the gardens during the aftermath of the battle. And any face could hide a Cabalist.

“I’ll keep the girl safe,” Kathryn assured him.

Words suddenly died between them. Kathryn seemed to be waiting for something from him. Her eyes drifted down and away.

“I must go,” she finally mumbled.

A part of him wanted to ask her to stay. But how could he? She was needed at Tashijan. There were few over there he could truly trust, and as castellan, she could do the most good. And what could he offer to make her stay? The discomfort between them, born of old bitterness and guilt, only seemed to worsen with time spent in each other’s company.

Neither had the words to heal . . . if it could ever be done.

It was too complicated, too wounded, too bloodied.

He nodded. “Travel safe.”

She hesitated, glancing up at him, a breath away from saying something else.

A neighboring door opened to the right. Delia stepped out. Her eyes widened to find Kathryn and Tylar huddled together.

“Excuse me,” she said shyly.

Delia wore a simple shift of white linen belted at the waist with a black cord, a match to her dark hair. She carried her tools in her hands.

Her eyes found Tylar. “You . . . you mentioned wanting to complete the day’s bloodletting before final bells.”

Tylar stared at her. After watching the shifting shadows of Kathryn’s cloak, Delia seemed somehow crisper, more vivid, and lighter of spirit.

“Of course,” he said. “I had forgotten.”

He glanced to Kathryn. She backed away, turned, and stepped toward the main hallway. But not before he noted the pain in her eyes.

“Kathryn . . .”

She glanced back at him and shook her head.

No more words. They each had their own path to follow from here.

She marched down the hall.

Tylar watched until she vanished out the far door. She was right. He turned to the wide golden doors, grabbed the handle, and shoved into his new chambers.

Here was his path.