Dart nicked her thumb with the tip of her dagger. A single drop of blood welled up, crimson and fiery in the firelight. She tilted her thumb and let the drop roll off and splash onto the drab black chunk of stone.
A flash of fire ignited in his palm, but it was not a true flame.
Brant stared at the whetted stone in his palm. It was no longer a drab bit of rock. Dart’s blood had revealed its true heart, reflecting the firelight from its hundred facets.
A perfect black diamond.
Dart’s words echoed.
It’s beautiful…the way it catches every bit of light.
Rogger’s reaction was less prosaic. “Smart bastard. Keorn hid it in plain sight.”
The thief patted Brant on the shoulder. “Well done.”
Brant knew the thief understood immediately. It was Rogger’s own words that had helped Brant begin to suspect earlier. How Chrism had designed the first shadowknight’s sword, a blade with a black diamond on its hilt.
Rogger leaned closer. “Chrism must have fashioned the knight’s sword after Rivenscryr. Or at least how he remembered it.”
“But what about this diamond?” Dart asked. “Why is it not with the sword now?”
“Because Keorn removed it,” Rogger said. “He probably replaced the diamond with a fake, some artifice that looked like it, to fool his father. That was the sword’s flaw. The fake must have been destroyed during the Sundering, but the original diamond, like the sword, came to Myrillia. The sword with Chrism. The heart with Keorn. Two parts of a whole.”
“We must get the diamond to Tylar,” Dart said.
“But how?” Rogger mumbled and nodded out to the darkness.
Brant glanced up.
Others had been drawn by the flame in his palm. At the edge of the firelight, darkness stirred and rustled. Like moth-kins to a flame, the black ghawls had gathered tight around them.
“Can’t go out there,” Rogger said. “And fire’s the only thing keeping them back.”
As if hearing him, the skies opened up.
Rain fell in great large drops-at first lightly, then in a drenching downpour. Behind Brant, the fire sizzled and spat, slowly being doused.
As more rain fell, the ring of firelight began to collapse.
A WITCH’S THRONE
“Why does that skagging hound keep baying?” Argent griped irritably.
Kathryn straightened. She understood what irritated the warden. It sounded as if all of Tashijan were wailing some last death rattle. But inside Kathryn, the howl ignited a deeper anxiety. It took all her will not to despair. She noted Gerrod had stepped closer to her. Though his features remained hidden behind bronze, she knew he shared the same misgiving.
It was Lorr’s bullhound that howled, baying in raw grief.
That could hold only one portent.
Gerrod’s hand found hers atop the table. And though his bronze fingers were cold, she sensed the warmth inside.
“Do not put so much stock in a hound’s grief,” he mumbled through his faceplate. “The reason could be multifold.”
She nodded, little convinced.
To the right, Argent tugged Hesharian’s sleeve. “So when the ice comes, show me where we should place your alchemies.”
“I-I’m not sure.” His face was deathly pale and his breathing wheezed in and out.
Gerrod lifted his hand from hers and stabbed at the map in two places. “Here and here.”
“Thank you, Master Rothkild,” Argent said, with a tired roll of his head away from Hesharian. “How much alchemy will we need?”
“That is a concern,” Gerrod said. “We’ve used up so much bile already.”
Hesharian blurted out, his voice ragged and panicked. “ You used it all up! Helping the regent escape to safety! Leaving all of us to die!”
“That’s enough!” Argent barked. “Either be helpful or be silent!”
Hesharian slunk away from the warden’s words, quite a feat for one so large. He retreated to the wall, where Liannora still stood, back straight, silent, hands folded into her muff. Her only sign of distress was a single long lock of silver hair that straggled across her face. She had yet to fix it back in place.
“When will Ulf attack?” Argent asked. “Night has fallen-and still we stand.”
“It is early,” Gerrod said. “The coldest part of the night is just before dawn. Though he may attack at any time.”
A hurried scuff of boots on stone drew their attention to the door, accompanied by a shout from some knight by the stair. Kathryn’s hand reached for her sword’s hilt.
Then a familiar figure rushed into view, her face pale, her head wrapped in a bloody bandage. She grabbed the frame of the door to hold upright.
“Delia?” Argent said. “What happened to you?”
“The witch is coming!” she gasped out, weaving on her feet, plainly having run here. Fresh blood dribbled down her neck. “She’s hiding in the dark abandon. Somewhere in the first four levels.”
She took a step into the room and almost fell.
Argent came forward and caught her in his arms. He supported her to the table. Once there, she shook free of him, breathing hard, leaning both palms on the table.
“All those levels must be cleared,” she said. “A fiery picket formed.”
Kathryn circled around to join her. “Are you certain Mirra is loose?”
She nodded, still breathing hard. Kathryn read the hard edge to her eyes. She was not delusional from whatever blow she had taken to her head.
Kathryn turned to one of the young squires. He squatted on an upended bucket in a corner by the door. She pointed at him. “Reach the master of the guard below. Do you know him?”
He nodded vigorously.
“Have him clear the lower four levels. Rally at five.” She held up her hand with all her fingers splayed. “Do you understand?”
But the boy was already running out the door.
She returned her attention to the table.
Argent was bent next to his daughter. “Where have you come from? Weren’t you up with the other Hands?” His words were not accusatory, only concerned.
“No…” Delia said. “I went down below. Lured falsely. By a captain of the Oldenbrook guard-”
A new voice cut her off. “Sten?” Liannora staggered forward, speaking for the first time in a long while. Her voice sounded half-crazed. “Where is he? Why isn’t he here?”
Delia seemed to finally note the Oldenbrook’s Hand, dressed in her snowy best. Kathryn noted the flash of fire in Delia’s eyes.
Liannora did not. She came up to Delia, reaching out a hand.
Delia shoved off the table to face her. Kathryn knew something was amiss. Especially when the calm, levelheaded Delia balled up a fist.
“What happened to Sten?”
As answer, Delia swung from the hip and slammed her fist straight into the Hand’s face. Liannora’s head snapped back with a crack of bone. Her body followed, stumbling into one of the mapwork shelves. Her legs went out from under her, and she slumped to the ground, her nose crooked and seeping blood from both sides.
All eyes turned to Delia. Had she been ilked, possessed by some madness?
Delia swiped a loose strand of her hair into place. A bit of color had returned to her cheeks from the effort. Still, she almost fell as she faced them, catching herself with a hand on the table.
“Liannora sent one of her guards to break my neck,” Delia said. “Came near to doing it, if it hadn’t been for Master Orquell.”
The name roused Hesharian. “Did you say Master Orquell?”
Delia ignored him. “But Orquell is not what he appears to be. He is rub-aki.”
“What?” Hesharian yelped. A palm pressed his sweated brow. “Oh, sweet aether, how I treated him-an acolyte of the rub-aki.” He groaned in distress, as if the slight were even more dire than the fall of Tashijan.
Kathryn turned her back on him. “Tell us what happened.”
She did in fast words, concluding with a small bit of hope. “And he burnt Mirra. I don’t know how badly. But hopefully enough to weaken her, perhaps make her act rashly.”