In the doorway to the commons, Yaellin de Mar stood, leaning on the frame, his face in shadows. But Dart knew those eyes were on her. Why? He had shown no interest in her before now.
Without a doubt, the damnable story of the illuminaria had piqued some curiosity in him. None of the other Hands had found the story anything but an amusement. Yet Yaellin’s attention pinned her like a crossbow’s bolt. This last thought drew a shiver. A crossbow’s bolt. The murder of Master Willym replayed in her head. It had been a murder meant for her… or rather the position she held, the new Hand of blood. But now Dart wondered. Had it been a more personal attack?
Without turning, she felt Yaellin’s eyes still upon her. What did the breaking of the illuminaria mean? Prior to this moment, she had never properly considered it, too caught up in terror and circumstance since that day. If it had garnered the attention of Yaellin, had it also attracted someone else’s eye, too? Someone with ill intent? She again pictured the blood pouring from Master Willym, his weight falling on her.
Was there more meaning upon that attempt on her life?
She glanced over her shoulder. The doorway to the commons was empty.
Yaellin de Mar was gone.
She knew she would have to watch him more closely.
If she was ever to get any answers…
Sleep came hard. The rich food and wine did not sit well on her worried stomach. Dart listened to each bell’s ringing, until the final bell chimed with the rising of the Mother. The greater moon’s face shone full, bright even through the sheer drapery.
But sleep did finally come… and dreams.
Dart smelled the sea. She was being carried in a woman’s arms, a babe again, her bearer’s bosom pressed tight to her tiny head.
“We cannot wait the tide,” the woman said to another. “They almost caught us in the wood.”
The cloaked figure nodded and led the way down a tiny stone quay. He was dressed all in black, even his boots. As he turned to glance behind, she noted his face was masked.
A Shadowknight.
He crossed to a low skiff with black sails moored at the quay’s end.
The woman hurried after, bouncing Dart in her arms. Moonlight shone on her face: auburn hair tied in a single braid, green eyes crinkled with lines of middle years, her complexion bled of all color. Dart knew the woman from vague memories of her earliest years, but even more from the oiled paintings that hung in the Conclave. It was the former headmistress of the school, the woman who had rescued Dart from the hinterlands.
She reached the skiff and hopped into its bow. “We must be away.”
“What of the others?” the cloaked figure, a man from the timbre of his speech, asked while freeing the mooring lines.
“Gone… oh sweet gods above, all gone…”
He tossed the ropes into the stern and dropped beside the rudder. He yanked the black gloves from his hands and dropped them in the boat’s bottom.
A horrible howl erupted, sounding as near as a stone’s throw. It was all blood and bile.
“They’re here!”
“And we’re away.” The knight waved a hand at the sails, and they filled with winds. The skiff sped across the silver waters of a cove, aiming for the open waters.
The beastly howl chased after them.
The headmistress slunk to the floor of the skiff, cradling Dart in her lap. The swaddling fell open. Dart felt a small tug on her belly. Something fiery rose from the edge of her swaddling, where her navel lay. An ugly face of molten bronze, barely formed, only the pair of fiery eyes, glowing agate stones, were familiar.
Pupp…
He was no bigger than a kitten, curled on her belly. He lay nested around a blackened knot on her belly, the tied stump of her umbilicus. He attempted to suckle it like a nipple, seeking milk. Again she felt that tug at her belly… no, deeper… coming from beyond flesh and bone. Pupp’s form flared brighter. He then settled back to her belly, half-sunken in her flesh, ghostly.
The man spoke as they cleared the cove. “You can still drown the babe. Be done with the abomination.”
A shake of the head. “She is no abomination.”
Dart was collected back to the headmistress’s bosom, her swaddling secured. Neither seemed aware of the suckling Pupp.
“The Cabal wanted her blood,” the headmistress continued. “Rivenscryr must not be forged anew.”
The skiff reached the open waters, now riding smooth swells. Behind them, the howl echoed.
The Shadowknight guided the craft, one hand on the rudder, the other occasionally waved at the sails. Dart noted the black tips of his raised fingers, dark to the first knuckle. Dried blood. A blessing of air alchemies.
“There will be others,” the man intoned.
The woman clutched her tighter. “But they won’t have this one.”
A strong gust filled the sail with a snap of cloth and rope. The boat sped faster. The man glanced back to the receding cliffs of the shoreline, then forward again. “We’re clear. Even their naether-lenses won’t be able to track us.”
The headmistress relaxed, though her hands still trembled. Her next words were a mumble meant only for her own ears. “What have I done?”
The knight heard. “What you had to. You know that, Melinda.”
A sigh answered him. “But have we done the child any kindness?”
The man stared down at Dart, his eyes aglow with Grace above his masklin. “These are not kind times,” he said sadly. “And the worst is yet to come. If what we dread comes to pass…”
“I know… I know… but it seems such a large burden for one so small.”
The man grunted. “Sacrifices must be made by all. You saved her from the knife, now you must leave her hidden and unnoticed, a buried key.”
The woman rocked the baby. As Dart felt her dream self grow droopy, one tiny hand rose to nuzzle her thumb. She struggled to listen, to hold the threads of her dream.
They proved too fragile, more light than substance.
Words began to dissolve. Images, too. Her blood… the headmistress whispered as the boat and sea grew darker.
The knight’s words faded. It will take corruption to fight corruption.
Will she be strong enough…?
She must be.
Oh, Ser Henri, what have we done?
There was no answer, only darkness and quiet as true sleep carried her deeper, both babe and girl, beyond dreams, beyond words.
Dart woke with sunrise. Her tongue felt thick, and her head addled. The light through the drapery felt brittle and sharpened to points. She sat up, thirsty, her stomach churning. Had she drunk too much wine?
She shoved her feet free of the bedclothes and stood unsteadily.
Pupp poked his bronze nose from under the bed, blinked at her, then retreated back into the darkness. He seemed no more pleased with the morning.
Dart crossed to the privy, unsure if her stomach would hold. Every joint ached as she pumped cold water into the carved marble basin. She soaked a cloth and pressed it to her face. The icy chill quickly cooled the slight fever to her skin, her head ached less, and her stomach settled.
Echoes of the night’s dream played in her head. A vague remembrance of a boat ride, the headmistress, and a Shadowknight. They had been talking about her, a babe. Any meaning had been clouded, snatches of a conversation, more inference than communication. Chrism’s words returned instead: We must be watchful… all of us.
She knew this to be true.
Dart stepped back to her room. In the light of morning, it was easier to set aside her disturbing dreams.
She crossed to her wardrobe and was struck by an odd odor. She had not noted it before; perhaps she had been too addled. The scent was as faint as a whisper and seemed to fade with every breath she took, making its source difficult to discern. It smelled of sweated horses and the tang of wintersnap.
Halting in the middle of the room, she turned slowly around.