Laurelle paused, half turning. Her eyes brightened with recognition. "Rogger!"

The gaunt man's eyes found her. And something glinted in his eye. A warning. As good as a finger to her lips.

Laurelle had barely noted the knight at the man's sidea"but now she glanced back and stared more intently. She opened her mouth, closed it, touched her hair. She was hiding something, something about the cloaked figure.

Brant eyed the knight more closely as he swept up to them.

"Ser Knight," Laurelle said, a bit stiffly. "We are on our way to speak to Castellan Vail. On matters of some importance. Would you be gracious enough to escort us?"

He bowed his head, swept through them, and headed up without a word.

Liannora plainly found some offense at his silence, especially as he displaced her glorious Sten as their protector. But she remained quiet.

They climbed the last three levels in strained awkwardness. At last, they vacated the stairs for a wide hall. Here the roof's arched supports stretched taller than on other floors. The knight led them forward.

They passed a wide door flanked by shadowknights. The Warden's Eyrie. Their guide failed to nod toward his brethren, even turning his face slightly away. Brant wondered at it, but then they reached another tall door. It had to be the castellan's hermitage.

He knocked.

Laurelle stepped up to him, half-blocking the way. "I believe the castellan wishes to see only myself and Master Brant here."

Liannora overheard. "If Master Brant is to attend Castellan Vail, then I should be present as senior Hand to Lord Jessup."

The knight studied Liannora over his black masklin. The door opened behind him, limning him in firelight. His voice was a low growl, thick with command. "You will be summoned at the castellan's pleasure. Until then, you will wait without."

The gaunt man named Rogger pushed through the doorway, but not before making a bit of sweetbrittle appear in his fingertips and offering it to the mouse-haired maid who bowed at the door.

"Sweet for the sweetest," he said.

The knight bustled the rest of them inside. Before the door closed, Brant captured the look of raw fury in Liannora's face. To climb so far, only to be thwarted at the very last step. He knew there would be a cost to all this, but he didn't have time to worry about such matters.

Especially as the knight shook back his cloak's hood and shed his masklin. Brant recognized the face with a startled shock.

The castellan, wearing a matching cloak, appeared from a back chamber and hurried forward. She confirmed Brant's appraisal. "Tylarawhere have you been?"

Brant gaped at the man. Tylar ser Noche. Here was the Godslayeraand regent of Chrismferry. In disguise. But why?

"The storm," the castellan said. "Gerrod believes there is something wrong with it."

Tylar nodded. "We're under siege. Eylan has been stolen by seersong. But worst yet, the hand that drives the storma""

Laurelle cut him off, her voice strident with worry. "Dart is in danger!"

They all glanced to her.

"She's been captured by the warden's men. She is to be soothed as we speak!"

Her words drew glances all around, but their eyes settled on Brant. He felt like an intruder, as if he had walked into a private tryst.

Rogger was the only one wearing an amused expression. "It seems we all bring such happy tidings. What about you, young man?"

He blinked, unsure where to start. "Ia"I bring a message from Tracker Lorr. Something foul hides in the bowels of Tashijana"and has begun to rise."

The thin man sighed with a shake of his head and mumbled under his breath. "So much for glad tidings this day."

Tylar stepped closer. Brant had to resist stepping away. The man seemed a thundercloud clenched in a cloak. "Tell us of this danger."

Brant quickly retold his tale, starting from his discovery of Dart being attacked and ending with the wyld tracker setting off to discover more about what lurked beneath Tashijan.

"Danger from without and within," Kathryn said.

"It must be the Cabal," Tylar said. "Seeking to strike at the heart of the First Land. As Tashijan stands, so does Myrillia."

"We must rally the towers." Kathryn headed toward the door. "The warden must be informed of the threat. He's down in the adjudicators' chamber, attending the soothings."

"Darta"" Laurelle reminded everyone.

Kathryn nodded. She had not forgotten. "We can use the crisis to help delay her soothing. Even Argent will set aside such matters when all of Tashijan is at risk."

Rogger scratched his beard with a single finger. "If we're not too late alreadya"

Brant followed the others, wondering if the strange man was referring to Darta"or to all of Tashijan.

Dart stood under guard at the edge of the adjudicators' chamber, under an arched threshold, awaiting her summons. She had a clear view into the oval rooma"and of her accuser.

Squire Pyllor sat atop a wooden chair, painted crimson. It stood in the room's center. Before him rose the high bench of the adjudicators, those men and women who settled matters of dispute and justice for Tashijan. It filled the back half of the oval chamber, while behind him rose three sets of tiered seats. But most of those seats were empty.

Not so the high bench.

Warden Fields sat in the centermost seat, flanked by a pair of adjudicators, an elderly man and a younger woman, dressed in gray suits, with the silver rings of their station adorning each finger and ear.

Behind Pyllor stood a figure cowled in a bloodred robe, a soothmancer. A second of his caste knelt nearby, dribbling drops of fiery alchemy into a silver bowl. The first mancer had his fingers spread, touching Pyllor at forehead, temple, and angle of jaw.

Dart read the pain from the squint in Pyllor's eyes and the thin stretch of his lips as he answered the questions. The soothmancer, his fingertips anointed in the alchemy, read the truth of his words. Dart had never been soothed before, but she had heard tales of the flaming touch of the mancer's alchemies, born from the blood of gods rich in the aspect of fire. It burnt away all deceptions.

"And you intended great harm to the page?" the elderly adjudicator said.

Pyllor trembled under the mancer's touch. His severed arm was bound to his chest and wrapped in numbing salves. But the pain of telling the truth could not be so easily numbed.

"We only wanted to scare her," Pyllor mumbled through a gasp.

A small shake from the soothmancer dismissed his words.

"Do not make us ask you again," Warden Fields said gruffly. "Out with it. The entire story."

Pyllor squirmed. "We were only looking for a bit of mischief. It was the ale. We drank too much. Talked too boldly. Dared too fiercely. We went out looking for mischiefanot truly expecting to find it. Thenathen Page Hothbrin appeared. I owed her."

"For what?" asked the woman in gray. Her eyes were flint and steel.

"Swordmaster Yuril took me to task for being too hard on her during sword practice. Shamed me."

"So you sought to do the same to Page Hothbrin."

Pyllor attempted to hide his face, but his head was firmly gripped by the soothmancer behind him. "Yes."

Under further inquiry, he went on to describe her abduction and the aftermath of his attempted attack. Though Dart had come too late to hear the other two squires' stories, most of what Pyllor related seemed only to corroborate the others' statements.

She found her knees trembling with the telling. Circumstance and chance more than malicious forethought had brought her here. Now she was moments from being exposed, her secrets laid bare before the burning touch of the soothmancers.

"Describe this daemon who took your arm."

"Ita"it came out of the darkness. Fiery and fierce. It struck me and knocked me back. I didn't see it well. Bloodred eyesa"that's all I saw." Pyllor shook his head, almost dislodging the soothmancer.

Dart knew Pyllor had been panicked, in tears, eyes squeezed closed at the end. Even now terror seemed to leach away any further details.

"Calm yourself," the elderly adjudicator said with a tempered measure of compassion.

The three at the high bench leaned together, heads bowed in private.

Dart missed most of their words. Only a brief snippet reached her from the younger adjudicator. "Their stories stand togetherabut they strike out wildly when it comes to this daemon."

Finally they broke their conversation with a glance toward Dart. From their eyes, she knew they would seek those answers from her.

"That will be all," Argent said to Pyllor. Fury hardened the edges of his words. "You are dismissed. Your punishment will be settled and exacted later."

Pyllor was released. He was led to the side tiers by another knight in full cloak and masklin. Pyllor glanced toward her, then quickly away. She was shocked by the fear that shone in his facea"fear of her.

Then her name was called.

"Page Hothbrin," the elderly adjudicator summoned. "Approach the bench to be soothed."

Ushered by two knights, Dart stepped from under the arched threshold and out into the center of the room. The soothmancer, who had been judging Pyllor, knelt beside the silver bowl on the floor and dipped his fingers into the alchemy, readying for Dart's inquisition.

She was led to the chair and sat. She gripped the hard edges of her seat to keep from shaking. The source of all this discoursea"Puppa"circled and circled the chair. He sensed her consternation but plainly did not know where to direct his wrath.

"Are you ready?"

She had no choice but to acquiesce. She nodded, not trusting her voice.

The adjudicators motioned in unison to the soothmancer. He rose from his bowl of alchemies and stepped behind Dart.

"We will know the truth about this daemon," Argent warned, his one eye bearing down on her. There was a measure of calculation in his gaze.

From the corner of her eyes, Dart watched the blood-tipped fingers of the soothmancer rise on either side of her head. They glowed with fiery Grace. Dart attempted to brace herself, not quite knowing how to gird against what was to come.

"Stop!" a shout burst out behind her.

Too late.

Wet fingers touched hera"at forehead, temple, and throat.

Dart could not turn. Fire locked her in place, burning and probing through her skin toward the core of her being. Still, she recognized Castellan Vail's voice. Relief flowed through her.

"Tashijan is under attack!" Kathryn called firmly as she stepped into Dart's view.

Before anyone could react, the soothmancer behind Dart suddenly screamed, a bloodcurdling cry that burst from the man as if from his very bones. His hand fell away from Dart, freeing her. He stumbled to the side, holding out his arms.

Smoke curled from his fingertips, each digit burnt away to the first knuckle.

The stench of cooked flesh swelled out.

Seeking relief, the soothmancer sank to his knees and plunged his seared fingers into the alchemy in the silver bowl. The blood in its basin ignited as if oil had been set aflame. The fiery conflagration coiled up the mancer's arms, turning robe to ash, searing skin and hair beneath.

Betrayed by his own alchemy, the man fell back into a contorted sprawl, writhing on the stone.

At the high bench, the adjudicators were all on their feet.

Cries echoed around the room.

Dart noted Kathryn's worried expression. Behind her, Brant stood with Laurelle, each with a look of dismay.

A voice boomed with authority, cutting through the growing mayhem. Warden Fields stood with an arm pointed at Dart. "Daemoness!" he cried to the guards, to the knights of the Fiery Cross. "Slay her!"

9.

A MEASURE OF DARK GRACE.

ABANDONING THE UPPER CITADEL, TYLAR CROSSED DOWN into the subterranean lair of the masters. Here the oil lamps affixed to the walls were stationed farther apart, some gone dark, unwelcoming to all but the studious masters who found little cheer in anything but their studies. Tylar did not mind. He drew power from the deeper shadows, swelling the Grace in his borrowed cloak. Below the Citadel, the crowd on the stairs also thinned rapidly.

Rogger matched Tylar's more hurried pace.

Kathryn had sent the pair below to discover what new threat lay within the cellars of Tashijan and to alert the masters to the danger in their midst. But Tylar also knew she had suggested this mission for a more expedient reason: to keep Argent and Tylar apart. She had to rally Tashijan and draw attention away from Dart. With little love lost between regent and warden, Tylar's presence would only antagonize. So Tylar had not argued. He had seen the number of cloaks bearing the sigil of the Fiery Cross. They would need Argent's full support if they were to raise Tashijan's defenses to their full. And Tylar had no doubt that every cloak and sword would be needed.

Both above and below.

Tylar left the stairs and headed toward the quarters of their one ally here. Gerrod Rothkild. The bronze-armored master knew these levels better than any. But Tylar sought Gerrod for another purpose, too. According to Kathryn, he had been studying the cursed rogue skull and examining its traces of seersong, a measure of dark Grace still locked within the bones. If they were to withstand the threat hidden out in the storm, knowledge could prove mightier than any diamond-pommeled sword.

But as he turned a corner, Tylar saw he was not the only one seeking Gerrod's attention this night. The master's door lay open ahead. Firelight shone into the dark hallway, bathing two figures.

Master Hesharian stood with a thinner figure in a master's robes.