Dart was the first to spot Laurelle. She covered her mouth in shock and delight. Laurelle stood in the shadow of the elderly, bent form.
“It’s Chrism…” Dart whispered in awe.
Margarite sobbed harder, a bitter sound.
Noting their attention, Laurelle nodded to them and touched the corner of her eye. She was signaling the Grace to which she had been chosen.
“Tears,” Margarite half-wailed, shedding her own for her friend and for her own loss.
It was the best of the secondary quintrangles, an honor for one so young.
Dart simply kept her mouth covered. She allowed the pleasure of the moment to well through her, happy for Laurelle. She read the bright expression of relief on her face and could not help but be delighted.
“All of our sisters should have been here to witness this,” Margarite hissed, grief quickly firing to anger, needing a target.
Dart’s momentary happiness dimmed. Margarite was right. It was a success the entire floor should have shared.
The Oracles began to file out of the room with their charges. Dart noted the bronze boy leaving with the Oracle who represented Jessup of Oldenbrook, a distinguished house of the First Land. The dark boy did not seem to notice her attention, but she followed him with her eyes as he departed. No other thirdfloorers had been chosen.
With her attention focused elsewhere, Dart barely noted the slow, assisted passage of the ancient Oracle. He and his entourage crept past Dart’s station. Laurelle waved to her and Margarite, wisping a kiss in their direction, tears running down her face. But Laurelle’s eyes also spent a long time searching the tiers and benches.
Dart noted her lack of discovery. Her family was not in attendance.
But Dart had her own concerns. With the ceremony over, she had to face the ruins of her own life. How long could she stay hidden here? What of Healer Paltry, lurking in the halls?
The bent-backed Oracle stopped before Dart’s station, leaning heavily on his cane, resting a breath. Servants supported him on both sides. His head swung in her direction, blind and swathed in silk. But Dart sensed him staring at her, like a weight upon her heart.
A crooked finger rose and pointed at her.
Another servant rushed to her side and grabbed her by the shoulder.
Dart pulled away, knowing she had been found out, her inner fears heard by the blind seer. Weak from dread, she did not fight as her arm was yanked forward.
The Oracle stepped heavily toward her, stabbing his hand out at her. She stared wide-eyed, taking in every detaiclass="underline" the yellow nails, the parchment-thin skin, the spiderweb of veins. It was more claw than hand.
A cry built up inside her. All eyes were on her. She would be debased before the entire assembly.
Then a stone dropped into her palm. Reflexively she caught it, closing her fingers. Her arm was released.
Murmurs of shock and surprise echoed from the gallery.
“You are chosen.” The servant at her side spoke solemnly. “Rise and take your place.”
Dart could not. She simply trembled. “I can’t… mistake…” She tried to push the tile back toward the Oracle.
The ancient one ignored her and stepped away.
Laurelle took his place. “Be strong,” she whispered, returning Dart’s words to her. She offered a free hand.
Slowly, on wobbling legs, Dart stood. She slipped around the stoop and stepped to Laurelle’s side.
Margarite looked on, her face aghast and drained of all color.
“What Grace have you won?” Laurelle asked.
Dart numbly glanced to her closed fist. She opened it and stared down at the painted Littick sigiclass="underline"
H
Her hand trembled, almost dropping the slate.
Laurelle steadied her with a hand. “Well?”
Dart could not speak. She showed her tile to Laurelle. The disbelief on the other girl’s face matched her own.
It was the one Grace above all others.
Blood.
5
“I…I don’t know anything,” Tylar moaned, hating himself for the sob that racked through him.
“Again,” commanded the masklin-wrapped Shadowknight.
Tylar no longer had the strength to tense. He heard the crack of the whip, then felt the lancing sting as a long stripe of flesh was sliced to bone. His body jolted against the whipping post. The flesh on his wrists tore against the unforgiving iron. He hung by his manacles, looped over a hook high on the post, his toes brushing the dirt of the courtyard.
He was stripped to a loincloth. Blood ran down the back of his thighs and calves, dripped from his toes. Tears trailed through his sweat. He stared up at the full face of the lesser moon shining down on him.
He had lost count of the strokes. Eighteen lashes? He wasn’t sure. He had slipped away once, the pain driving him into oblivion. But a splash of cold water had mercilessly revived him, along with a crumpled cloth soaked in bitter alchemies shoved under his nose. Apparently it was rude to sleep during one’s own torture.
Dazed, he slumped against the post, lolling in his manacles. Crowds packed the courtyard stands to watch the spectacle. The trio of adjudicators sat in seats, a silver tray of pomegranates and kettle cakes beside them. The red-robed soothmancer stood at their side, arms crossed. At least he had the decency to look sickened. The group of black-draped Hands clotted in one corner, consoling one another in low whispers, barely noting the festivities.
And a festival it was. The balconies and parapets were crowded with lords and ladies of the high city, servants of the castillion, even some drabbed underfolk who must have bribed their way to a viewing seat. Laughter and shouts for more blood rang off the walls. Black ale flowed along with spiced wine. Somewhere a minstrel played bright tunes, while hundreds of bells rang from the lower city.
The Shadowknight, Darjon ser Hightower, leaned closer to his face, one gloved hand resting against the whipping post. “Tell us the truth, and your death will be swift.”
Tylar tasted blood on his tongue as he attempted to speak. “So you keep promising… but here I keep hanging, though I keep telling you the truth.”
The eyes of his torturer narrowed. “We’ve barely begun here. I can make this last more than a single night.”
Tylar closed his eyes. “You want the truth…?” He took a deep breath, though it pained him to do so.
Darjon bent nearer.
Tylar opened his eyes and spat with the last of his strength, catching the knight square in the face. “There is your truth!”
With a roar, the Shadowknight reared back. He waved an arm to the whipmaster.
The crack of flying leather answered, and Tylar was slammed into the post. His back flashed with fire, his agony darkening the world to a pinpoint. He did not fight it, but instead sank away.
Somewhere far off, he heard a shout. “Keep that up, y’art going to kill him.”
Tylar recognized Rogger’s voice. The thief, bound in ropes off in one corner, seemed to be his only defender. Of course, his pleas for clemency might be self-serving. Once Tylar confessed and was killed, Rogger was due to be impaled next to him, both destined to be bits of decoration for Meeryn’s tomb. So the longer Tylar held out, the longer the thief drew breath.
As Tylar drifted farther away, acrid vapors suddenly assaulted his nostrils. He struggled to get away from them, tossing his head. Cold water flooded over him, shivering over his flesh. He gasped as the world shook back into foggy focus.
He saw the healer’s face hovering at the tip of his nose. “Here he comes,” the man said, pulling away the crumple of stinking cloth. He glanced to Darjon at his shoulder. “He’s lost a lot of vital humour, ser. Next time I might not be able to revive him.”
Darjon swore. “The whip’s not loosening this one’s tongue anyway. We’ll try other tortures that aren’t so bloody. Cut him down!”