A couple of days later, Dara pulls her aside at the dining hall. :Sorry, I keep forgetting to ask you - Melody mentioned you'd be willing to examine the Changecreature's remains, the one that attacked the princess? Said you might have some relevant background in recognizing whether it's a mage-construct or natural: 

:I can give it a shot, yeah:

Once they're both done eating, Dara walks her over to the Healers' stillroom, which has its own separate entrance in back. It's also currently very cold. 

:To preserve the, er, samples they keep here: Dara explains. :Oh, and I suppose it saves on firewood. The creature is here: 

The body on the table is long and black, like a snake or eel, coiled up in endless loops; at its widest girth, it's about as big across as a toddler's waist. Its head rests at one end of the table: jaws unnaturally long as though stretched, far too many teeth in rows, bulging yellow eyes gone dull and milky in death. A slit in its underside marks where, presumably, the Healers went in to examine its internal organs. The spots of dried blood on the table are an appalling shade of blue-green. 

Aza looks it over. Eventually she reports that she has no reason to believe that a person made it but given her previous exposure to people-made organisms that mostly means that Urtho didn't make it, which they knew.

Dara sighs and thanks her and walks her back to the guest-wing. 

Jisa has been appallingly busy; Azabel's seen her only in snatches at the dining hall.

The next day, though, she raises a Gate on the permanent terminus and brings over almost sixty mages from White Winds. 

:- Azabel? I'm sorry, I – I asked Gervase, they...haven't seen or heard anything from, er, your friends: 

:I figured, but thank you:

:Anyway, we just got a lot more hands to help with weatherworking, but they'll need training. And talismans, for the vrondi. Have you done much artifact-work? Sandra can make them but I'm no good at it: 

:I've taken artifacts classes:

:Well, maybe you can sit down with Sandra and see if you're up for making them too– oh, sorry, need to go–: And she breaks off. 

The rest of that day is a lot more hectic, as the Heralds try to wrap sixty new foreign mages into their existing structure and plans; Sandra drags Azabel into the artifact-work and figures out which pieces she can delegate. At least the weather-magic has more coverage, now, to make up for the Gate. 

Dara Mindspeaks her the next morning. :Azabel? If you've got a minute, there's something we could use your input on: 

:What is it?:

:Leareth just sent us a message. Claiming the attacks weren't his doing: 

:That's... interesting... is there some meeting I should be showing up to about it?:

:Right now it's just me and Treven staring at it - if you want to come join us, it's the same meeting room -: 

She flashes a mental image to Azabel; it's in the core wing of the Palace, where she's by now spent a fair amount of time doing mage-work maintenance with Kilchas or Sandra. 

When she arrives, the letter is on the table between the two of them. Dara nudges it closer to her, and translates in Mindspeech since Azabel hasn't had that much time yet to learn the Valdemaran script. 

...

A message for King Randale of Valdemar. I have observed the redeployment on your Border, and my spies have ascertained that there was an attack in Haven which resulted in the death of a Herald-Mage. I cannot blame you for ascribing it to my work, nor for the precautions you take, and yet I would swear to you, by every star in the sky, that I was not responsible. I have made no decision to betray your Kingdom, and it seems likely that some third power wishes ruin on both of us.

I am aware that it is difficult to prove a negative. However, you will have noticed that the strategic purpose of this attack is unclear, and, as I hope you have reason to believe, I am a careful man and would not act rashly. I can offer you this: my word that I will not interpret your troop movements as a hostile move, but rather a sensible precaution, and that I will not move my own troops while I await your reply. I grant you also the included documents, which I hope you will take as the offers of good faith that I intend.

The signature at the bottom, though, is perfectly legible to Azabel; it's the Kaled'a'in word for 'the night sky'. 

:Well: she says, :he - he always thought stars were important, that's not just a random thing to swear by:

:No, I know - he told Vanyel...: 

Treven fidgets, unhappily. :I realize you only knew a - a different Ma'ar, and thousands of years ago, but.... If you had to bet on it, how likely would you think it is that he's lying?: 

:I'd bet he's not. But I wouldn't go all in on it, not - two thousand years later:

Treven sighs heavily. :That makes sense. Thank you for your advice: 

A second later he and Dara are deep in what's clearly a private Mindspeech conversation; apparently even Dara is tired and distracted enough to forget about walking Azabel out. 

She can find her way on her own.

The rest of that day is just as hectic. At this point, the Heralds seem to have entirely gotten used to Azabel's presence, and keep throwing tasks at her. 

Tran Mindspeaks her in the late afternoon, exhausted and harried. :Sorry, are you busy? I just got a note, apparently a couple of the White Winds mages want your help with something - they're using one of the outlying Work Rooms, would you have time to head over there and sort it out?: 

:Uh, sure: And she heads Work Roomward.

The days are short, and it's already almost sunset; the weather-working is falling behind again, after half a dozen military-logistics-related Gates over the course of the day, and the sky is a tangle of dark grey clouds. The path is mostly clear, but has enough thawed-and-refrozen lumps of slush and patches of slippery ice that Azabel needs to pay a lot of attention to her feet. 

The person lurking in one of the little gardens is out of sight behind a stone bench and a bush, and incredibly well shielded, invisible to mage-sight and Thoughtsensing, and blurred out even to Mindhealing Sight.

Which is why Azabel has approximately no warning as he rises to his feet and his hands flash into motion. Something slams into the physical-level of her shielding, from the talisman that Ma'ar gave her, and splinters it - 

- and then, within about half a second, a perfectly-aimed, completely non-magical dart finds the side of her neck, penetrating deep enough to sting if not to cause serious injury - 

And the world starts to fade.