Tylar remembered Rogger’s earlier words about the man. Not every knight breaks his vow… Some simply walk away.
Tylar faced the knight-turned-pirate. “How are you here?”
Krevan shifted, stirring shadows like oil. “We don’t have much time for such tales. Suffice it to say, we will get you to Tashijan. Our cloaks will help hide you. We have horses waiting in Fen Widdlesham.”
Tylar refused to budge. “Why… why are you helping? What has all this to do with errant knights and the Black Flaggers?”
Krevan’s masked features were unreadable, but his words grew frosty. “All of Myrillia is in danger. It has been for a long time, out in the fringes, where few but the low know. I had thought never to don cloak and sword again, but some duties surpass personal desire.”
“What do you mean by-?”
Rogger touched Tylar’s shoulder. “Leave it be for now, Tylar.”
Something silent passed between the elder knight and thief.
“You’ve not told him,” Krevan said.
Rogger shook his head. “It was not my place.”
Eyes narrowed above the masklin, pinching the black stripes tighter. “I bore a name before earning the title Krevan the Merciless. A knight’s name. I was once called Raven ser Kay.”
Tylar glanced to the thief in disbelief, but only found confirmation there. “The Raven Knight?”
Krevan swung away. “We must go.”
“But Raven ser Kay died over three centuries ago,” Tylar mumbled.
Rogger stood at Tylar’s side, watching the knight disappear into shadow. “Yes… yes, he did.”
14
Dart knelt on a small goose-down pillow and slowly unrolled the linen scarf across the stone floor. She then placed the small wyrmwood box onto its center. All the while, she felt the two pairs of eyes scrutinizing her every move.
Matron Shashyl stood with her hands folded behind her back, her lips pursed as she oversaw Dart’s preparation for her first bloodletting.
Lord Chrism merely sat upon a chair, his face turned toward the open window of his chamber. He smelled of hay and freshly turned soil. His hair was oiled and combed straight back, making his green eyes seem larger, shining brighter than the afternoon sunlight.
With trembling fingers, Dart opened the small wyrmwood box. Lord Chrism’s sigil was inlaid in gold on the lid. Inside, brown velvet protected the contents: a line of silver instruments, a ribbon of tightly braided silk, and a fresh repostilary. The crystal receptacle had been blown by the glass artisans only two days previous. Dart had toured the Guild’s shops across the courtyard and watched this very repostilary being crafted.
Her first.
“This will be a full draw,” Matron Shashyl said. “So which lancet will you choose?”
It was not a difficult question. Shashyl had schooled her vigorously over the past two days.
Dart reached and pointed to the leaf-shaped lancet. To create a flow rich enough to fill an empty repostilary to the brim, she would need the largest of the silver blades. It was filigreed with gold inlay, again the sigil of Chrism. Dart knew it was an ancient instrument, dating back to the second millennia following the Sundering. Yet the tool was maintained in such delicate fashion that the silver shone without a single pox of tarnish. Its honed edge looked sharp enough to slice through darkness itself, its tipped point so fine it was hard to discern the end of the lancet without squinting.
“Very good,” the matron said. “Let us not keep our Lord of the loam waiting any longer.”
Chrism sighed with a ghost of a smile, his attention drawn back upon student and teacher. “Mayhap, dear matron, you should leave my Hand and I alone for this first bleeding.”
“But, my Lord, she is-”
The garrulous old woman was silenced with the lifting of a single finger. “She’ll do fine,” Chrism said in consolation. “This is a private time between god and Hand.”
Matron Shashyl quickly bowed, then retreated toward the exit to Lord Chrism’s chambers.
Dart kept her eyes upon the floor, upon the spread of her tools. She found it hard to breathe, as if the air had gone suddenly too thick. Pupp lay on the stones, his stumped tail wagging slowly. His fiery eyes were fixed upon the tools, like a dog eyeing a soupbone. She had warned him off with a firm gesture when she first knelt down.
Chrism stirred in his chair by the window. “As much as the good matron may press upon you the import and weight of your duty, it is truly a matter of no great concern.”
Dart glanced up at him. His eyes shone with emerald Grace, framed in soft brown curls, a slight stubble of beard shadowed his cheeks and chin. She found comfort in the warmth of his soft smile. She remembered his tears on the night of Willym’s murder, shed without collection, a treasure spent in memory of the god’s former servant.
“Every man bleeds,” Chrism said. “A god is no different. I can’t count the times this past winter alone that I’ve pricked a finger while working out in the Eldergarden.”
Dart found such a concept impossible to imagine, but she recalled her first encounter with Chrism among the gardens, mistaking him for some common groundskeep. Looking at him now, she could not fathom how she made such a mistake.
“While my blood may have value in trade and stock, it flows from me like any other man’s. Be not afraid. Master Willym and I were beyond ceremony.”
Chrism rolled back the sleeve and exposed his arm. His skin was tanned the color of red loam, while soft hairs, bleached blond by the same sun that tanned his skin, curled up the length of his forearm. He turned his arm to expose his wrist. Here the skin shone paler, appearing tender, as smooth as a woman’s cheek.
“You must simply stab deep and quick. My beating heart will do the rest of the work.”
Dart nodded. She took up the length of braided silk. Pupp lifted his head, tail wagging more vigorously. She waved him down with her free hand. She did not want him interfering-especially not when blood was involved.
Pupp lowered his head but maintained his vigil.
Dart knelt by Chrism’s chair and tied the ribbon above the god’s elbow. She worked rapidly, having practiced all night. She snugged it, careful not to touch his flesh.
“Tighter,” Chrism said. “You can cinch it more firmly.”
Dart swallowed hard and did as he instructed. The silk pressed deeply into his flesh. For some reason, she had thought a god’s flesh would be more unyielding, more like stone.
“Very good.”
Dart sat back and gently lifted the silver lancet from the scarf. Now came the hard part. To stab the god she served.
“Can you see the vein at the edge of my wrist?” Chrism asked. “Willym preferred that one for a deep bleeding.”
Dart reached up and cradled Chrism’s wrist. His skin was warm, almost hot to the touch.
“A quick jab is all it takes.”
She hesitated.
“Be not afraid.” His voice purred with patience and concern.
Dart bit her lip and drove the point into his flesh and out again. A ruby drop of blood immediately welled upon his pale flesh, a jewel more precious than any mined from the heart of Myrillia. Here was a treasure mined from the heart of a god.
“The glass…” Chrism said with a smile.
Dart stumbled back, realizing she had frozen in place, mesmerized. She reached blindly for the repostilary, knocked it over with her fingertips; its crystal stopper rolled free of the scarf, tinkling on the stones. She grabbed the tiny decanter.
“Calm yourself. There is no hurry.”
Blood welled on the god’s wrist into a pool. Dart held forth the repostilary, needing both hands to hold it steady. Still the crystal receptacle tremored with each beat of her own heart.